Time Throws Fire
by Ophelia Everfall
Part One | Redux Eterna
Part Two | Polymath Blues
Part Three | The Feather
Part Four | Wizard
Part Five | Coward’s End
Part Six | Whirls of Wind
Content Warning: This is only a story.
Part Three | The Feather
Chapter Twenty-Five
Rory landed with a bang. Newfound semiosis interchanging effortlessly. Poe beside her was of lightest foot. These two would feel Echo there as well; an etheric voice of hope. Something calling them towards this goal.
Oria wasn’t pleased. Nothing had ever been larger and more frayed of conscious disregard—plunged into less honored keeping; her darkest hair was of floof.
“Insects will perish!” She’d shouted from the cathedral’s upper catwalk.
“Get them dogs! Run them down!”
Persephone was everywhere. Everything aboard Sin. Rory’s fields of light force were contained within its darkness. Their focus would see them through. The way they’d think a step ahead, finding some stillness innate, speaking in blinks and statements of silence.
Poe had her new friend the omnitron who’d been procured on the way out, collected by Rory’s fields of stellar white in a sweep of Exile. She’d found Lojack’s name displeasing. It was somehow, “too cool.”
Bein39 was knocking skulls. It liked to collect and order. He was a counter.
The omnitron unit was taking ground on the mass of hypno-gene, chorus locked super soldiers. They’d been equipped with suits of lead but financed, soldiered, thrusting jet streams of explosive rounds. Each had a flair of their own.
“Bein-dog! Watch your ass!” Poe sprouted as the twirling upright centrifuge began a tornado-like spiral with its newly installed and wildly flailing arms and their turbo-fueled ploys for slicing with tumble-gripped blades.
Persephone’s voice bellowed through the swollen chambers of mercy.
“I am here. You are now my subjects, and I will be making you all into little boys. One at a time. Each after next. All will be my playthings of merciless succulence!”
Rory’s head was spinning. Something felt wrong. Clashing’s of forms within her were unbalancing the woman into something beyond. A they-demon they were; melting complete the horrible destruction of Ecatosh’s fiercest beast into a form of perfection.
Oria was touching herself. Looking down from that highest vantage of reach above the altar where she’d shouted. “Whores!”
She knew herself cornered and winked. Then she wynked; Oria was gone.
Hyde threw the Man in Charge to the ground. He’d been unleashed. He felt it flow through his voice—something fiercest of all—hope. That boy was a child. He’d been a wash of pathetic charges towards grounding of a lesser held by one still even below.
Bricks were flying into form. Ryker owned a canister of oligarchical power. It was beyond a name. It was It.
It made itself to stone and thunder and water. Fire or wind or muster for strength. These cubes it threw were corrosive and contained within their iridescent opalescence. They’d eat through anything—work their way into a system—straddle any line of data.
Persephone was wearing her facemask tubed to the ceiling by the hundred. Smallest reticules extending into a legion of tubules heading fore and aft.
Her voice was a god, “Eat choad!”
The Sisters Two were having a moment with each other before battle and it was glorious.
Nothing would stop the escape of these prisoners made boys into men—again realizing their place beyond that of a succulent.
Monarch tore rips through metal and shot fire of white.
Sin was mesh—a hive—grips of gridding pocks—tundra domed in green—oceans hidden in veins connecting them as geometry. Space throughout would be the key to its strength. Rory and Poe’s destruction of its suppressive capabilities the must.
Something hateful was brewing in Rory’s heart. A chance to change or make whole what they saw while tearing fore thrown through time to find this vessel of The Sister’s Two. She was a remaker—the end of another; south to Echo’s north.
Incinerate shards from the petroglyphic and dimensionally layered glasswork of a haven’s dome workings cracked. Something was finally shifting back home inside those machines a woman had spread themself so thin within. The right person was being found to help. Someone was coming back and it was Echo Béleaph.
Awake. Remade. Her pussy was fresh.
She’d teleported herself back a thousand years, plus a few hundred and change, reaching out to a blankness in the middle of time where Leopold discovered the explosion of The Void she’d sent through the Sister’s late-closing porthole.
Her arrival was early—very early. Echo released a shot from her heart and it hit home upon Persephone in their chamber of putrid ‘stank boys.’ She’d seen them into the machine through her own reflection of cosmic connection. There’d never seem to be a chance except the one—so she’d taken it again and again through repetitions of plunderous attack. Each thwarted force of reckoning upon the wide-one would undo some fortune of black.
Bothered not, she’d finally turned to the one true shot. A lost hope of remembrance finally found her own. She would get their ass eventually—as she did—ripping a tear through the fabric of her dress at the midriff and severing a portion of a right cheek.
Yellow would be the imagery if seen on spectrogramic hologriphics—the ploom.
It’s force through time was unknown. The undoing of her booty was pathetic and epic. Something shot out. She’d see an end to Atreya entirely by force of right.
War Cry threw balls of molten magma mercilessly. They were disgusting. Churning heaps of steeled alloy.
Scarlet ran lead. Conrad Undroth had a brother and he was on chase.
Ulysses was seething about Lojack’s disappearance. He’d known the omnitron unit since its inception as a strictly dutiful superior feigning stature for the way it might deflect beatings from its creator.
Elliot Harper’s fists were crimson. He’d been crying and screaming into his pillow. Nothing felt right inside since that night.
Echo was everywhere. She was nothing.
Oria and Persephone were backed down. Brick by Brick the shots were crushing into cyanide. Every landing wore down the women constantly shirking half and withstanding the rest dutifully by means of internal regeneration.
Something was becoming this entire construction of universe. It was beginning again.
The reality through time was one of change in these moments.
Rory never bought more peace in the body of Echo than when they’d helped her from the sleeping chamber. She’d been there throughout. Projected across space to only see glimpses. None of it happened yet.
“When you see something—you can change it.” Was a whisper from her tongue
