War Cry was a beacon of distractive retribution—drawing and slaying—forcing surrenders of space and taking them back in whole—cutting right through with Poe’s newest additions. Orange flame would see her spear grow from tip to slice a foe in half—one true companion of Echo’s saving.

Something was happening unseen to all but Horus—someone else joining in the sisters of consolation’s journey to retrieve their other, an admirer.

Monarch acted alone with its mind of unknowability. Sliced were Sin’s most precious defensive functions, the warships expansive wielding of nether and high-white holding Rory in safety within those halls. It loved her and would see her back to fullest becoming—protecting her always.

Their follower wouldn’t be realized until that perfect moment, but one would know they’d come for her, inspired by some secret moment the two had shared before an announced departing.

The Sister’s Two were shouting at each other. Gripping hair, throwing about, crying together. Oria’d thrown up.

Space was needed for survivors. Many would be saved. Echo found her place beside Oria divine regarding the unbecoming of her falsely statured respect in herself, alongside those many it would teach worthy of her cradle’s mercy.

Fleets of carrier craft were stowed in upper bowels of Sin’s cental hub—everything here somehow below.

Echo was projecting her bitch about, pulling hair and taking food, shouting about escape. Many were shattered awake. The call was heard. There’d be room for all who’d move with haste to dispense connection with the evil so ridden in Sin’s lower structures.

Rory wouldn’t let up on any except for those who’d be taught of as true in heart by Echo, their form standing beside her, as her worthy accomplices. Rory’d left one for her best friend.

They’d been a sloth who made her feel it worst—seen what this place had brought down around them—not a mother responsible—yet her abandonment of honorable duty was felt, and most severely by her sister— judgements thrown—and the lessening of spirit witnessed raw but unaddressed by Persephone had allowed this place to become what it was.

Echo took her at the sternum.

She’d plead with her eyes to Rory then—a begging for some change towards the plan she saw brewing in their own. It went against all The Foundry would see to accept as right, but Oria would live.

The former sister and Echo only made out for but a moment, before her echo appeared to glance about the awkward crowd of lovers connected by one hub of heart. Used would be it all—those terrible makings ahead which wrote a fiction within the woman, to be mythologized now in history by reflection of corrected action—her frequency blaring in cordless synchronization with misunderstandings from that panicked and false path laid in connection with machine intelligence.

The Entity would see her presence ordained by Ecatosh, their marks chosen by fate, its true arrival in form proving thricefold the correct assumptions of Echo, his forbearance over all a truth to be uncovered in times to come.

Horus felt swell.

Oligarchs would end. The expulsion of Mothers and Persephone had been in cruel designs but resulting near-conclusive good. Change set forth into a future now more achievable than cursed timetables ordained by false assumptions of Echo, while in that dreadful place of mind-bled into intelligence, were showing back and forth to relieve a horror which would never come—karmic curses upon self to be lifted.

Streaming bursts into the dark of fury’s fire would show escaping shuttles burn on throttle, pushing them passed design limits to escape from the crumbling mega-ship of sin—hundreds. These people would seek rehabilitation, empty spaces inside refilled, time to rest allowed aboard the vessel of purest hope in The Foundry’s fleet.

Incendiary rounds would be flung in a final death spiral from the man beneath Sin—Father. His place would be ignored always and forever and the presence he bore would have no consequence as his brand of evil was that of an ineffective child-made-monster a hundred times over who saw fit to project himself a saint until The Sisters themselves in a future now remade had torn him in two. He would die here with this ship.

Lauren would make it so—the shot had been called by Echo as the final ships cleared Sin’s blast radius.

Ender carved west and south wings together in a beautiful curl, its trailing, dusted blade of now golden incineration reaching speeds beyond that of before, proving far more dangerous.

Cowards would end. One in particular. The buried man in the machine, Sin’s most pathetic patriarch would soon find Gargantua his home—whatever was left of him.

The roars of sight and feeling rushed into Rory from Monarch—occluded within its godly grasp of protection and intelligence—hoarding witness of Lauren’s capability, knowing they’d come for her heart and remembering the way she took them.

Echo’s voice came through.

“I’ve stayed behind and it’s okay.”

Guts were rocks—hearts were orchestras—minds were blank about the fleet of survivors and her fellow Consolers. Fox in Hardline had sent a line to Bliss. ‘Gotcha bitch.’

There was a plan. Echo wasn’t coming home yet.

Time Throws Fire | Part Seven | Chapter Forty-Five

the second novel in The Foundry series

Time Throws Fire

Part Seven | The Sisters Two

Chapter Forty-Five

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