Time Throws Fire | Volume Two | Chapter Four
volume two of the second story in The Foundry series
Time Throws Fire | Volume Two
By Ophelia Everfall
Part One - Cosmonaut | ONE | TWO | THREE |
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 FOUR
Nobody noticed the loss of Rory Tyrell’s presence when she’d slipped away from a new wave of initiate’s opening ceremony alone. It was the first ever without an audience—nor a flyover. Those people who’d be their peers had simply met the youths and elders alike.
Each initiate was allowed to speak in the proceedings. Every administrator listened—many taking a chance for following with some affirmation of their own but only if another of their established peers hadn’t spoken the sentiment before. It was better than ever for purpose of true connection between fellows to be, and it had been Poe’s own proclamation which taught towards the ceremony’s beginning that way.
Lauren spoke longest and last and their words would be echoing through Rory’s beleaguered mind while she carved way into that hidden depth of The Foundry’s unmapped lowest level—beyond mostly mechanically and engineering focused or storage-based warehouses.
Christ was a solider of war against the unholy in Earth mythology. Echo had spoken of him often to Rory. Something in it would emerge from time to time in her conscious thoughts unresolved—riddles therein unavailable to grasp.
Upstarts were few like Lauren and their voice seemed to show her a truth of that soul in witness.
“Nothing you can and will say has anything to do with yourselves. You are weak if you believe words carry meaning. Truth is in action—in accountability to yourself alone. Hold fast to what means most and let the rest die. Let yourself live. Be honest and know that I will never take it easy on you—not once.”
They’d clearly spoken in flow beyond mind. Lauren was blank of thought and pounding their words from someplace located within their body. Distance found by the loss in their eyes had been palpable to know themself focused within.
“If you haven’t seen—I own this place. If you don’t know—I’m the champion of all simulations I wish to be. If nobody told you—I killed the devil itself.”
Rory was finding herself curious thinking back towards the youngster for how they spoke of will to break others in that way she did by her own. She’d been amused by it always. To see it actualized and transcending what thought possible from a youngest member of The Foundry was gratifying. She’d felt grateful for the first time since returning from nether.
Incestuous notions within her of corrupting administrative capabilities led to seek a means towards wielding more power. Something had been needed for controlling all that seemed coming in response to their affronting attack upon Elaria now pending.
Every last choice led here in retrospect. Each failure—each fury—each crackling bolt of electric passion laid into the fabric of time had all shown her to find the door. The path began at an entrance to one ancient weapon supply closet utilized by her best friends in times long passed. She’d known that the starting place to seek from by instinct.
Weaving darkness, choices beyond her, following heart’s beat and thinking of Echo for the notion alone, hearing nothing in mind by right of fear found anew, Rory Tyrell was eventually faced by the chair behind that door—her entrance to some form of simulation.
Weeks prior saw her watching back footage from Echo’s run on the gauntlet. That escaping renegade swallowed into The Void by strangest consummation of her light was repeating in dream as well.
Rory hadn’t known why—not at all.
“Mommy’s home.”
Rory’s voice had been cast in whispers to an ear of Elliot Harper through means Bliss was left to choose. The reaction was nigh immediate and petulant.
Thrust Forcer emerged in its newfound glory—reconfigured to stealth—crafted for war—unwitnessed yet in that horror capable by all its making. Ulysses within was mad.
Monarch’s birth of womb was a gift to Rory’s body. She’d be held within the ship of innate intelligence its own, greeted kindly by her Bliss, to know again the meaning of flight; speed bought by force of will made grace to senses and all found lucky enough for witnessing that tremendous spoil to her heart.
Boreál itself found response—a struggle behind it, some shouting and mayhem occluding the statement made as if in haste while taking momentary control over a communication platform. Elliot Harper had been shouting.
“—boy—you all fuck—don’t you think you can take my boy!”
Light-streamed webbings of netheric ether containers were crafting trails of bright white across Boreál’s cosmic fabric at Rory’s behest. The show was beyond that one would know to witness. All her power had proven to sight and scope was bountiful upon her return—studied. What she’d seen in that simulation stowed in The Foundry’s belly had been a secret to her newly developed plan of sorts.
She saw heaven. Rory found the people of Atreya’s new home.
It was all she’d need—conviction. She wanted nothing more than to teach of ways to hold others in practical need and something would show itself more than ever in face of all witnessed in system; the secret to holding that personally.
Rory was to be fury and always. She’d not let horror rest unpunished.
Monarchs long-range go scope caught the glimpse while seeking out her foremost mark—Ulysses. It wasn’t him. It was the demon. Rory knew it by sight allowed. All knew that now. Nothing it did was by mistake. The demon was their angel. Some timeless warship of beyond was here to help and showed its hand to chosen few.
The Entity was pleased.
He was also present—marked by The Foundry when physically in system and never to hide—always lost in the cloudscapes of Chiron’s foreverstorm—not to speak with any but Leopold. What they said he would not tell. She was a ghastly man of beautiful androgyny, The Entity.
Demon’s presence was welcome—seen as fortune. Something good was coming. Rory would find the man-made devil plaguing them all by energy alone. She would seek to end him for all time at its witness.
Thrusting force was discovered by sensors of The Foundry—fed back to Monarch. Ulysses had been busy in watch.
Each piece of The Foundry’s Family Fleet was about action of escapement in exile. Every non-combat ship was taking to long-orbit of Chiron and away from the pending battlespace anticipated by all. That darkened ship of Exile’s making but changed by a monster was hunting.
Rory would show it then. What Monarch had truly been cable of never came less instructed by anything but her gut. She knew limitations broken once first returned. Nothing had believed them so fallible. Nothing within her would understand the means by how it worked. Rory Tyrell simply made it happen.
Blackness formed to womb of nethering dematerialization on command of will through some power known in the moment so connected into Monarch itself. She’d seen everything at spectrums full. It would change her forever. These moments beyond and in that way were remembered. Witness of what might be forgotten through means of inner protection in dreamscapes available and specifically bringing them to a conscious mind embodied would change its perception of reality.
The demon was beautiful. It was everywhere. Instances of its selves seemed to place and unplace simultaneously. Rory simply knew it was of unilinear source and not if each succession was the same in some ladder state of existence.
Thrust Forcer hadn’t been remade enough. Nothing but The Empress could stand against Rory in Boreál. She’d carved it in two and made hasteful remergence into the system by force of right to own that disgusting energy felt by aura within.
Her return to more limited vantage would leave his stealth-bought escape in flight of suit unwitnessed by all. Yet that only hope for Elliot Harper to find sleep apart from dream invading soundscapes was dust, and the heart of a beast sent drifting—invisible to all but his love, whom he’d always project clearest signals of location and intent towards—chasing now after the family of carriers, tugs, haulers and mote boats, freighters and cruisers, lancers and juggernauts—that man Ulysses within the suit would never die by his own estimation. He’d never fail to seek another night beside his Elliot.
Rory returned to find her peers and followers sharded by sighting the gait she’d carry regardless of how beyond them she was.
Lauren had been chosen—taken.
Initiation ceremony afterparty’s always went long. People never held back from exhuming themselves before each other to splendorous disregard of stature for communal graces gifted in deference. Lauren had been wasting all comers within simulations running throughout. These particular festivities had shifted quickly once word of Monarch’s forceful and awareness-blaring release from The Foundry’s hangar had been returned to people therein. Every screen was focused away from simulative videos of geometric splendor. It all happened so fast. To see Rory back in such little time after actions made of near-instantaneous glory which weren’t understood would have them champion to the people.
For her to take Lauren by the collar and drag them with her. To make a show of it and teach of what she’d seen in them through action to her peers a gift that was more than thought out. Rory was genius and knew the results of anything she’d do—more than anyone.
They’d proven worth the risk. Gasps would show unfounded. That old witch Oaksmith’s hurt look was a boon to Rory’s spirit. Poe’s biggest smile had been the gift she’d not understood her weight of excepting by feelings in heart. Lauren’s tactful excellence only proved one thing to Rory in retrospect—they weren’t as good as they’d said, not quite, not yet.
Simulations weren’t owned by them alone. Echo’s top score on The Run would never be beaten.
Nothing but Lauren’s form would teach of this. Nothing inside that boy she saw would make for singing elsewhere but her loins in present. Yet that proved more than worthy of her blessing to their reputation. They were sweet and needed the boost of confidence. Lauren was a lie and Rory found that appealing once seen through. They’d not been exactly what they put out to the public—not at all.
Lauren was precious beneath it all. She’d called him a wimp and he loved it.
After they’d spent the night, once Lauren left and tried playing it off cool and cold, Rory found herself thinking of what Echo told her about them, how Cindra Morrow had regaled at the child they’d been. It was reflection of who they were to who’d they’d be in time, by knowing of the child within, which taught of her love to be found in time with Lauren.
Rory was in.
