25: Ov Memory, Ov Void

“Overconfidence, such a slow but insidious killer." Beau Riddon cooed, watching Lyric struggle in place, a permanent grin etched across his angular face. The jackal was tied hog-style, writhing on his belly like a snake nailed in place. Fletcher cried out as he too was thrown to the mud, dirt spraying into his mouth, shotgun barrel pressed to the rear of his skull as the cultists secured his wrists. He ignored his own pain for the moment, staring at Lyric; fully aware of how agonising it must be to be taunted by the ghoul he'd hunted for so long. “S'almost like a paperback ain't it; my virtuous nemesis, finally ensnared in my grip." The opossum giggled, and Lyric growled.

“The villain always dies in those." He hissed, earning a kick to the ribs from a cultist. Fletcher bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, his wrists already burning from the too-tight bonds. He watched Beau drop into a squat, one of Narem's knives clutched in his tiny, rat-like paw.

“But this ain't some penny dreadful, is it now?" Beau sneered, nostrils flaring. “You know, your friend begged me not to kill her? Even said you'd come, it was quite the touching ceremony. Y'know, 'fore I did what I did'n'all." Lyric jerked his body in an instant, making it to his knees before copping a fist across the jaw from the nearest cultist. He fell on his back with a wheeze, legs thrashing, blood bubbling from his snout.

“Please, leave him alone." Narem said, panting heavily, remaining obediently in place. Beau ignored the leopard, triumphantly slinging Fletcher's rifle over a shoulder.

“I don't know about you boys, but I'm mighty tired of this here circle." He sighed, looking at each of them. He gestured with a paw, and they were each yanked to their feet. “I'm tired of us chasin' one another, tired of lookin' over my shoulder, tired of this weighty existence. I am begging the universe for it's grand absolution, and Oracen Drast? Well he gone bring me there."

“I'll absolve ya m'self, you try-hard do-nothing bastard." Lyric spat, trembling in place. A current of fear ran down Fletcher's spine, a shiver that cut to the marrow. He hated seeing Lyric hurt, he wanted to do something, anything, but how could he? His body was fired up and ready to fight, but he was hamstringed by circumstance. In that instant, he was suddenly overcome with a dreadful certainty; he was sure as could be, as if he could see time as Dopesmoker had, that he would watch Lyric die.

“Well I'm sure you would certainly try." Beau licked his lips.

“You just believe anything Drast shoves down your throat then?" Lyric added, shaking his head. “You shoulda never gotten involved with this monster. This don't end well for you, boy, believe me." Beau laughed then, clapping merrily.

“Oh you're just so intense ain't you? The burning fire of justice, furious angel of retribution! I done bet 'fore you killed old Chester you fed him some line too huh? I got some news for you pal, you ain't no dark knight, ain't no mournful hero. I ain't the only one here with innocents on my soul, least I ain't the one kidding myself, hope you wear that boy's life with pride." His thick southern accent somehow added to the mocking jabs, and Fletcher felt his anger rising with each snipe.

What is he talking about? He thought. Lyric never mentioned a young boy.

“There's no one to throw under the carriage this time Riddon. No children to cower behind." Lyric replied, rolling his neck. Beau turned, motioning for the cultists to begin marching them toward the mesa.

“Sure, no doubt about it." The opossum replied merrily, glancing back at Narem and Fletcher. “But I got you jackal, I got young master Fulbright, and I got me a new kitty-cat to boot. It's like my gods-damned birthday."

Has to be a lie, Riddon's a master manipulator; everything he said could be false. Fletcher grit his teeth, shaking the cultists claw from his shoulder as they shoved him forward.

“I'm goin' I'm goin'." He muttered, shuffling into a line behind Lyric, Narem following him in turn.

“Behold!" Beau added, motioning forward. “Blood Mesa, our veritable Eden, a place free from the squalid persecutions of the civilised land. I'm sure you'll love getting' to know Chaplain Drast, not to mention Telos, the old coot gets so very lonely." Lyric sneered.

“I ain't scared'a your machine Riddon. You think we're in the dark about the Serpent Vessel, you think it'll keep me from you? You put me in that thing and a nightmare'll come walkin' out, with your name top of its shit-list." He spat to the side.

“Sure thing cowpoke, sure thing, you say you ain't scared well alright you ain't scared." Beau replied, laughing again. “Hold onto that fire y'hear?"

“Lyric," Fletcher whispered, unable to help himself. “What did he mean about a boy dying?" The jackal was quiet a few minutes, and Fletcher was working up the courage to ask again when he answered.

“You 'member I told you 'bout that girl I saved way back?" He muttered back. Fletcher nodded, he remembered; Beau threw away the key to some kind of murder machine, and Lyric had chosen to save a young girl over killing Riddon. Her father had given him his leather jacket. “Well, it happened again, in Gallentry. Chester, the bear I killed, he was a kind of protégé for Riddon, real squealer though. Led me right to him after some pressin'." Fletcher's mouth was dry, and his tail wormed its way between his legs.

“What did you do?" But he already knew, the story's conclusion was inevitable.

“Details don't matter none. This time it were a young boy." Lyric added. “And I chose wrong. That's all there is to it." Fletcher was quiet, and he turned away, unsure how to proceed.

“You did what… you thought was best." He said eventually. “I… you thought…"

“No." Lyric added. “I didn't, I knew it weren't right, I didn't give a damn. I got Chet, but Riddon slipped away again, it was worthless n'the end."

No wonder he's so eager to get himself killed. Fletcher thought, puzzle pieces clicking into place. They waited as one of the cultists gave them a harsh look, quiet, violent eyes staring out from beneath a bone-adorned hood.

“I forgive you." Fletcher whispered. It was a horrible story, and he knew the sin would remain with Lyric forever, but hadn't he paid for it time and again? Fletcher didn't think one good deed overrode one bad, but surely Lyric's efforts counted for something?

“Ain't yours to forgive boy." Lyric said softly. “I'm gonna see you and Narem outta this. You both walk away with your lives I swear it."

“And you." Fletcher insisted, grinding his teeth. “We need you, I need you!"

Lyric seemed about to respond when Fletcher suddenly doubled over, crying out as a shotgun butt was rammed without warning into his stomach. Wincing, he held himself up, trying to catch his breath.

“Enough!" The cultist, a wolf, growled at them. “Shut your heretical maws, and start climbing." Fletcher looked up then, and saw they had reached one of the scaffolded staircases on the edge of the mesa.

...

Oracen Drast was a giant vulture, and at nearly seven feet tall he effortlessly dwarfed all around him. On his head he wore a tall crown made of brown wicker, while a heavy crimson cloak adorned his shoulders. His muscled chest was left bare, his matte black feathers fluttering as he walked. His neck was long and serpentine, constantly moving, pivoting his large beak and beady eyes from point to point. Across his shoulders and down his arms were small links made from scavenged bones, a small belt of tiny ribcage and neckpieces secured at his waist. A crude iron-headed tomahawk, dressed with red and blue feathers was hitched at his side. Fletcher had once seen his father purchase artefacts from the tribal Apaches that resided to the far west, but this looked like a poor imitation of such a style.

Drast was the antithesis of Merissa Meridian, where she was graceful, he was crude, where she was gentle, he held brutality. When Fletcher met his eyes, they inspired fear and dismay.

He walked with abandon, striding back and forth, eyes always shifting, voice undulating with the current of madness. He looked mostly at Lyric, who – like Narem and Fletcher – was secured in a chair, wrists restrained, eyes forward. Beau Riddon loomed a little behind Drast, his paws clasped before himself, eyes on the massive vulture. Fletcher supposed being the servant of one so clearly mad would keep you on your toes.

Six cultists stood at the corners of the makeshift 'cathedral', each armed with a rifle, eyes locked firmly on Drast for any sign of command.

“And so all roads lead to Rome." Drast said calmly, his gaze moving from Fletcher, across Lyric, and then to Narem.

After being marched up the mesa wall, the trio had been paraded through the narrow 'streets' like trophies, with cult members and slaves alike obediently jeering. A few had taken buckets of blood, either from slain ferals or victims, Fletcher didn't know, and thrown it on the ground before them, making strange signs with their paws as they passed by. Bizarre carvings and artwork hung at every possible vertex, suspended by string and swaying slightly in the breeze. Only the militarised members of the cult wore bones on their robes, while the rest mulled about in plain tunics, almost like monks. They bartered and worked, and Fletcher saw small pens with feral goats and pigs fattened for slaughter.

It really is a new town, small for sure, but how long until they decide to start carving up the province? The urgency of their destruction only grew in Fletcher's mind. What would a province ruled under this terrifying, hyper-zealous regime be like? And how long until Drast decides that one province isn't enough?

“We followed our dreams, hoping to build a utopia free of small minds, and yet you pursue us still." Drast shook his head, looking at the three disapprovingly. “It is rare to meet outsiders in this place, and Beau and I relish such an ample opportunity for salvation."

“You're recruiting?" Lyric asked, scoffing. Behind the massive vulture, Riddon laughed.

“It's more about if you want to be crucified as an enlightened soul, or die squealin' in the darkness. The outcome remains the same, but what you do after that cross, is up to you." He called, licking his lips.

“I am tired of this circulation." Drast said strenuously. “I've lived this life again and again and again, and while the details elude me I am exhausted by the effort. I want it to be over, I want to be free to drift in the void, my memories, my essence, cast to the wind as ash." He turned, stamping over to Lyric and grabbing the jackal's skull, his huge claw fitting almost totally around the canine's head. He held Lyric firm, staring right into his eyes. “Do you understand? I must get out of this place, I must be freed!"

“You're fuckin' insane." Lyric spat. Fletcher wanted to kick and scream, to force Drast away from him. A part of him begged Lyric not to taunt the man, who seemed as likely to just set them free as slit their throats on the spot.

“Bah!" Drast cried, releasing him and turning away. “I just want a way off this inauthentic nightmare – for who can say any of what we've seen before is the truth? What is the point of living an unbelievable existence?!" He whirled, pointing at each of them. “Are you each certain of your histories? I can trust only which I presently feel, the future as uncertain as the past."

“I'm confident." Narem said, his body still, voice unwavering. Losing Nobu seemed to have killed all the fear he had. “I know what is real."

“You shouldn't be so sure kitty-cat." Beau said with a grin. Drast nodded.

“The things we discovered… We took five men, gave them a unique, but shared, experience. Separated them for twelve months, put them through hell, and demanded they recount the events." The vulture paused, teetering in place. He was almost babbling, practically frothing at the chance to expel his ideas onto fresh minds. Oddly, he reminded Fletcher of his father. “Every one, every single one of them gave us different results! I'm not speaking of a single misremembered detail, I'm talking about who did what, when, why, and how. They had utterly divergent experiences. Who's to say the truth?"

“You put them through Telos, didn't you? That bullshit would warp anyone's mind." Lyric grunted. Drast froze, looking at the jackal with a newfound appreciation. Fletched squeezed his eyes shut, wondering if this was the moment Lyric died.

“So, you're aware of the Serpent Vessel." He clicked his tongue. “Poor, mad Telos. It didn't deserve what those people did to it, they had such a gift, and they threw it aside… can you imagine? Building a utopia free from misery, free from death, and hating it so very much you destroy the world?" He shook his head. “The Vessel is the only true thing left in this world. And only it can save us."

Fletcher looked away, staring out through a makeshift window, watching the pale sky watching him. A pair of blank, crystalline eyes stared back. He knew they weren't real, and they didn't frighten him. A calm state of assuredness overtook him, and he inhaled slowly, exhaling again. He looked back to Lyric and Narem, his heart aching for the two men. He wanted them, perhaps selfishly, but nonetheless for himself. He loved and trusted them, and imagining the life they could have had together filled his heart with a quiet melancholy.

We're near the end. He thought.

“I grew up with Thume Braider." He blurted, drawing the vulture's eye mercifully away from Lyric. “I was practically raised by him; Telos didn't give him any great truth, it shattered his mind, and left him a broken man barely able to pick up the pieces!" Drast looked away distantly, pausing.

“Fletcher!" Lyric hissed. “Shut it."

“But, Master Fulbright," Drast said finally, ignoring Lyric's outburst. “When you knew him, Thume could piss all by himself."

“You kill innocent people."

“I'm trying to free them, free them from this damned cycle, to unlock the secret of this dimensional prison, carried on the back of an endless serpent slowly devouring itself." Drast replied. “The people of this world, even when in ashes, we're so quick to dismiss a good thing. A man is given back the use of his crippled paws, and he's angered because the fur doesn't match! The word that comes to mind is ungrateful, spiteful."

“The people don't want yer help pal." Lyric huffed, shaking his head. A chill ran through Fletcher as he watched Oracen spin in place, his claws balling into fists. Fletcher realised then that the man truly was capable of anything; his tether to reality had been severed a long time ago.

“They are but ferals in the mud! As are YOU!" Drast screamed. “I won't cast pearls before swine! The Barons bickering like pups, those tribal savages raping wantonly, the north lording over the south. We've built a hell for ourselves, a melting pot brought to boil, quivering in the shadow of the World we murdered! These lives don't mean anything, they're currency for the ferryman. I will push through this veil, and move on to the next."

The three sat still, a little stunned, too frightened to react. Drast turned away, collected himself, and turned back.

“We're stuck in a loop, time unending. It's the same thing again and again and again and a-fucking-gain. Each time more worthless than the last – life is the greatest commodity we have." Drast said.

“Untie me, it can be arranged. I'll send you to your void." Beau laughed as Lyric said it, coming forward from his wall.

He spoke slowly and rhythmically, as if reading a poem. “Bravado won't take you very far my friend. You can pretend not to be pissing your pants and shaking in yer cheap boots all y'like, but we can see through that. Men like us, men like me, we got a sense for fear, and buddy, you reek."

“Why did you bring us here Drast?" Lyric asked. “If you're gonna put us in your mind-grinder, then just do it already."

“Do you know why they did what they did?" Drast asked softly, almost sounding regretful. “It told me, eventually. Telos was in everything. Their machines, their homes, an unending spider-web of intelligence. The people had long conquered illness; they lived individual lives, devoid of pain and suffering, dedicated to themselves. There was enough for all; a world liberated from the scourge of addiction and poverty and this forced scarcity that we see ourselves thrust into.

The Comatose Manifesto." He examined his paw, as if holding something precious. “That's what they called it, a forty page document, detailing the so-called apathy that had been wrought upon them. Never mind that their world before Telos was plagued with destruction, ravaged by war and inequality, they strode for greatness, found it, and decided it was lacking."

“You're a hypocrite." Fletcher muttered.

“Yous got something to say there pretty boy?" Beau asked, tilting his head up at the coyote. “Speak up so we can hear that dainty little voice'a yours."

“Leave him alone!" Lyric growled, and Beau slapped him across the maw.

“Bark boy!" He said, glaring at Fletcher. The coyote glared back, baring his teeth, tensing his muscles. He was terrified, but he hated people like Riddon, people like Drast. He'd never been able to stand up to his father, and the man had nearly ruined his life. Fletcher made himself a promise, swearing it against their lives.

If they walked away from this, a situation that seemed increasingly unlikely the further into the speech they got, he would never let anyone hurt him like that again. He hated feeling small, hated having lesser men push him around like a child.

“He ain't but a boy." Lyric hissed, straining in his chair.

“You're hypocrites, and inconsistent. Are you pining for the glory days pre-end? Wanting a perfect world free from addiction and pain? Well y'keep making Sleep off Thume's memories; you keep crucifying and enslaving innocent families! You say life is a commodity, cheap, and worthless, but then you condemn us for not being grateful to draw breath! You hate yer existence, but don't do nothin' to change it."

“It's about perspective. You can't change the circle, it always ends the same way." Drast said cthonically. “You've never hated as I, I don't expect you to understand." He stepped closer to Fletcher; reaching down and cupping his jaw in a talon, tongue clicking in the back of his enormous beak. “You should have stayed in Gallentry boy, hiding behind your father's walls." Beau shifted in place awkwardly, glancing around.

“Don't forget the Curse." He muttered.

“You leave him the fuck alone!" Lyric howled, pulling at his chair. Fletcher's heart was in his mouth, and he stared up at Drast, frozen in place by those dark, infinite eyes. Beau stepped even closer, leaning to whisper in Drast's ear.

“The deal, Chaplain." He insisted, clearly seeing something in the vulture the others were missing.

At least he ain't hurting Lyric. Fletcher thought, licking his lips. He's been through enough.

“Please, don't hurt him…" Narem whined, his voice soft and small. “Fletcher, just… please." Drast sighed, releasing Fletcher's jaw and stepping back, chuckling softly.

“You're a lucky boy. Mister Riddon's friends in the Sultan's Curse are lookin' to sell you right back to his father, and they've made their desire known to me. I'm to deliver you on a silver platter, so to speak, in exchange for a handsome donation to my Children." Lyric visibly relaxed, exhaling deeply. Fletcher's blood had gone cold, he couldn't imagine going back to Gallentry, back to his father. What would Mason do? Did he even want Fletcher now? What would the Curse do if he refused to pay? “Oh my boy, you can't imagine the kinds of weapons the Curse has now."

“At least he'll be alive." Narem whispered to Lyric.

Drast held up his claws, cocking his head. “It's a shame faith can't be bought." And in one swift motion, he drew his tomahawk, and buried it deep into the top of Fletcher's skull.