Time Throws Fire | Volume Two | Chapter Two
volume two of the second story in The Foundry series
Time Throws Fire | Volume Two
By Ophelia Everfall
Part One - Cosmonaut | ONE |
Part Two - Holy Fire Priestess
Part Three - Get Guts
Part Four - Demon
Part Five - Synecdoche’s Synapse
Part Six - Viscera Rising
Part Seven - Exile
Part Eight - Semblance
Part Nine - Threnody of Lojack
Part Ten - Time Throws Fire
PART ONE | COSMONAUT
CHAPTER TWO
Simulations swayed less for satisfying challenges sought amongst pilots of seniority within Foundry ranks.
Focus on readiness for unexpected responses from Elaria’s homestar fleet was paramount—discovery missions for scouting its flagship Exile crucial—efforts harnessing the continued dissolution of their captain Elliot Harper fortuitous—forging suffering inside Empress Lithia some goal—protecting from attacks of the renegade Thrust Forcer of Ulysses’ now undying rage necessity—everyone failing to avoid Lauren’s inescapable ego factual—blatant appearances of Rory Tyrell’s unquenchable thirst for violence emerging quietly—Poe Halroth’s shining love for all with Lojack so often by her side the hub of hearth—Leopold Nettle’s desire for carving more time getting pegged by Jocé Remance whilst moored and absorbed in The Foundry’s upper administrative capacities known—Coral Namsake’s developing and nigh unending love for Demi Annexa witnessed by all—Orator Coriseau’s newfound engagement with Ekara Oaksmith and pending nuptials an excitement—Yars and Hatchet’s secret makings only rumor—disappearances of Ashe and Alan emerging simultaneously left without resource for investigation—Ryker and Hyde reforming constructive synchronicity in joint holding of Iris Lirafleur showed a container of healing most fruitful—Logan’s time spent between the cares of Rory, Ryker, Oria, and Poe alike were of heartful boon but stained in some reflection of holding by everyone at The Foundry; connective tissue of conscious thought shared between and echoed about, that notion repeated.
‘Where did Echo go?’
Jocé had Ryker on the ropes. She wasn’t letting up despite his bleeding.
Three jabs had his guard high and she took a knee to his mid. Breath left and shouts held in air from an audience of peers.
Demi yelled towards her friend in control, “Take his nuts!”
Ryker responded in corrective action of immediacy, some advantage borne from that shock to Jocé’s ears he’d not the will to acknowledge consciously himself, sidestepping her hooking swipe, finding flow rediscovered, birthing sight of instinct to strike he’d take.
Gloves were thin. Chins were thick. The night had gone long. Demi wasn’t ready.
An uppercut snuck past her guard into the lower portion of softness below her chin’s plate. It’s impact shattered bone to splinters. She’d fallen back in a stumble.
His footing regained had Ryker stepping forward.
Jocé Remance was stunned—choking. Something was wrong. Blood was spat. Cries were heard. Ryker wasn’t okay. Leopold would be in silence beside her in shortest time. Demi Annexa would never regret words exulted through jest more.
Not another punch would be thrown in that recently constructed fighting ring, not ever. It would be unbuilt entirely. Leopold would see to it himself.
Backrooms found themselves broad and empty aboard Exile. Their many layers of matrixed corridors fore and aft, of reach and depth, were riddled with chambers and stairwells, schoolyards and opera houses, environmental stations and water recycling plants, barracks and dining halls of varying fittings to stature—all founding towards accesses, forming portals which led behind walls and into tunnels of weavings unknown.
Exile was an ancient, its construction a holy undertaking for the people of Vermillion. At the center of it all was Glowing Tree—one epically scoped level below Hope Spring.
Elliot Harper would see themself King. The name had a ring to it.
Punching up was every high-borne person’s right by his estimation, and he was royalty, so that will to command would be shown by force for all lesser people surrounding such lineage of latent superiority perceived by the boy within himself.
He’d been relegated—defaced by both his Queen and Empress Lithia alike. They’d eyes everywhere. Nobody approved of his friend. The way Ulysses’ clanking metal armor of such overwrought decadence clashed with the serenity of Exile was something their populace found entirely unnerving. Reactions in need of response had him taking shots of social boldness he thought may be appreciated.
Elliot tried being honest.
Now banished from sight of Empress Lithia. Allowed only to sleep aboard Thrust Forcer with his buddy, or at the elevated foot of his Queen’s most occupied bed, he’d been staying awake on stims for cycles on cycles.
One favorite backroom had been found—held his own—untouched for such time. He’d brought a chair.
That darkened epicenter of its cavernous void would seem a womb his own soul. Bobbing back and forth to keep his vitals from drooping and the looming security squad from tracking his heart rate by blip to drag Elliot for sleeping at one of his signified arrangements, having previously been kept up forcibly until Queen found an appropriate grouping of godlike caricatures to accommodate, he hadn’t been feeling the best.
A journal laid upon his tightly locked knees would show the page nearly complete with a single repeated statement of interior crafting of intents.
‘THEY HAVE MY BOY.’
Elliot finished with finality, allowing himself a relaxing breath, that perfect moment of release. He’d flipped to the next page and began to write.
One line after another was filled again. Elliot would solidify his focus of manifestation. Each stroke of bespokely crafted penmanship would prove to eek some bit of wisdom stoked purpose to page. The word was different—only that name.
‘LOJACK.’
Fourteen fell to six and Iris was taking Demi from behind for one less. Three shots above their upper wheel well had Demi’s car spinning. Burning fumes expelled. Simulated rubber melted. A cliff edge would see them absolving into Crater’s namesake.
Beneath suspensions of dust strewn air was the cut of land centered within its canyon’s enormous breadth, a battlefield of motors and mechanical guts. Customization taught itself required by culture for all Foundry makings, that had seen too much balancing done within the simulation after Leopold first introduced it—his first uniquely singular creation reeked of showing off and was a hit amongst his peers for its evenhanded competitiveness. Crater was the top broadcast.
Missile hits and artillery impacts—laser blasts and force bursts—defensive shields and afterburners—landmines and spiked strips—all was made to bring destruction into Leopold’s derby of survival.
Brutality was a discovery remade in mind for all who felt the force of impact while steering these driverless simulations. Participants were become of their vehicles wholistically.
It hurt. This was designed. No one would be harmed in ways which weren’t of teaching. Limits were chosen and moldable to the user. Everyone was taking it all. Everyone wanted blood—to taste it. Everyone wanted Elliot Harper dead.
Yars took his front scoop beneath Poe’s rear end and flung her topways, asunder, tumbling thrice to crash atop and bleed fuel to earth. Another cast the blast which saw her to dust. Drifting in that final, evaporative expulsion of remainder, as would all, to become fabric which others would drive upon to destroy each other once settled.
Four were left and Hyde would stand against an affront upon everyone’s best friend. Poe’s big heart had been protected consciously by all until the two who’d seen her done. She was suffering at loss of Echo and people were aware. Even Yars had been hesitant to play his part.
Flame was a streaming device of mollification. Hyde took it in all directions, wielding available energy reserves to unique making, constraining infernos how he'd feel compelled—long thin blasts of distant shot, widest sprays of coursing spread, rotating spheres of orbiting protection could all be made and more.
One thrown containment of completeness from his furnace-power would catch fleeting glance of Yars’ shield-paneling, enough to stutter speed and spin his craft to side. Iris finished him there with a rocket-powered, re-enforced front-shield driven plow of his frame off the cliff edge nearest, while steering clear only in time to take another perfectly aimed blast from their fiercest competitor.
She’d flipped in air, barrel rolls bought, tumbling sideways after her previous mark and peer of nearing ends.
Only Hyde and Lojack were left.
The man had no chance. With thoughts of facing down that one alone who’d dispatched so many and with such ruthless cunning, Hyde drove right off an edge into the depths of Canyon by choice of deference.
