From blood-shed and cries in ubiquitous oceans . . . deserts awaken.
Three-thousand cycles.
Hand-written, rich text glides across soft parchment paper. Ink-stained fingers. The edges of a leathery notebook flutter in the wind. They read a plethora of thoughts, ideas, and memories.
Life is punished by the burden of wake.
Does our suffering end when we perish?
Born with an internal clock that beats, which determines our lifespan depending on the quality of the hands.
Calling each year 'cycles' out of pure pretentiousness. Once the clockwise cycle is interrupted, 'paradise' arrives.
It's funny . . . two spinning hands predetermine our livelihood.
After all, it's inevitable.
So why fear it? Maybe the values we hold, but what determines what marks as valuable? Why do people value suffering, adversity, and loneliness?
The constant denial we live in shrouds the unavoidable demise in our being.Yet it's beautiful, where do we go?
I've met my fair share of people, more likely than not, they hold disdain, grudges even, for life. But why keep going? They complain, yet they still live.
It would be hypocritical of me, since I am ignorant to my own complaining at times. In their conscious world of personalized despair, they think whatever they want. They cry, but . . . to bear scars of true loss is oddly comforting.
I laugh at people's agony. I wouldn't blame anyone laughing at me in pain, dying, dying . . .
For this is my destiny, right? All for an ignorant empire.
The Messengers of Mala. These realms. That 'tree' reaching 'paradise'.
Is it even real?
. . .
The world breathes around the notebook.
The wind howled across the scorched dunes, ripping the page from Mashia's journal.
A crater smolders, releasing ash.
"Another page gone."
In the back of his platoon buggy, he strides with three other soldiers.
"Say, General Mashia, why do you write so much?" asked a fellow soldier with dark green hair.
"It helps me think, Farhan," asserted Mashia.
He wears a soldier hat with medium-long black hair, above yellow-green eyes on top of noticeable dark shadows.
"I see, Mr. Writer!" he exclaimed.
Farhan is fairly charismatic. However, under the veil of cheerfulness hid an unhinged entity.
What does he value so dear in an occupation that allows murder without repercussion?
"Nasir, where we headed?" Farhan questioned curiously.
Driving while smoking a cigarette—Nasir, who looked to be in his early 30s, paused.
"Tent. Everyone's there."
Looking at the rearview mirror, four dune buggies followed behind it.
Next to him, a soldier named Kadir waved to him to take a pause to refill the tank.
He hit the brake and signaled to hurry.
Vehicles faded into sandstorms beholding rocky tunnels, leaving them behind.
Refilling the tank was taking a cycle. Emptying it, dropping the bottle on the sand, hiding beneath sandy veils.
Water-powered cars, huh. Interesting.
"Hurry up next time," Nasir stated while lighting another cigarette.
The car started roaring as it revved again.
Passing storms, then the tunnel the previous cars went through, pressures had raised.
"Something's up," Nasir observed ahead.
Treading tires drift across, making a quick halt.
Nasir's rough complexion stood out in the bright light above. Some call it the light, some call it the sun.
Nasir pointed, "I smell something wrong, like rotting. Be on guard."
He stopped the car, the glove compartment slid open with a scan, revealing a plasma rifle in form of a handgun named Volvern. It looked like it could shoot vortexes.
He walked out, holding it in hand.
The abandoned cars were empty, and the tent whispered in rattles.
Walking. Stepping. Tip-toeing. No matter how quiet the walk, not one sound was audible.
Nasir held the Volvern near his chest, breathing heavily.
Blood boils, creeping, the sand hugged the feet of Nasir.
It knew better.
The tent flowed with twirling wind like a musical.
. . .
Rot.
A smell of rot emanated.
Gagging—Nasir quickly flipped open the foul tent—
Everyone in the tent had molted. Liquid.
Gray eyes open, staring at the ceiling; what the hell could they have seen?
Some with their eyes oozing out, their faces disfigured, skulls visible, scattered among collages of bodily fluids meshed together.
Intestines laid out where bodies were stacked like they molted quarreling.
It was shrouded in bones, organs, foam, grey matter, blood-stained military uniforms, entrails, saliva, and vomit.
Flowers grew out the corpses—empty syringes and black boxes lay near golden drops.
Nasir stepped back, pupils dilated in pure astonishment. Then, he began to run back to the car.
His fingers began shedding skin as he ran.
Mashia, watching afar, looked at the carnage of clothes, fluids, and bones conjoined.
. . .
"Call the messengers! Abort!" Nasir yelped and squealed as he rushed and sat back into the car.
He yelled, jamming the key into the car. Drifting to a sharp right, the buggy rode faster than the wind. It could not out-speed death, however.
"This is JI-341! JI-341! Copy?!" Kadir stated.
"The platoon has died!" Nasir barked on top of him.
. . .
It's pointless. There is no rescue.
Driving, the car sped past the tunnel immeasurably.
"Why. Why don't they answer?!" Nasir yelled.
Kadir looked down. Holding a locket, showing a woman standing with a little girl.
Nasir calmed, "Don't worry, you'll see them."
Mashia eavesdropped.
Seems like my writing wasn't far off from what happened. . .values like his wife, his daughter. What's my value?
Farhan had his hands together, looking downward, mumbling.
"What are you doing?" Mashia asked him.
"Praying to Zaleth, sir," He said steadily, displaying faint instability.
He values praying. If that's what he believes, then I hope it may help despite it all.
Nineteendead. . . another tragedy they'll brush under rugs.
The sun began to set, ignorantly.
Time's ticking.
Nasir's arm starts to—
Crumble.
His arm melted like butter, even parts of the bone. Marks burst open on Nasir's other arm.
Its crest was of a serpent climbing upwards. Blood leaked like a faucet.
"Its the Sklaves!"
Ferugenstahl's crest of Sklaves sparked, a mockery of Mala.
The Messengers of Mala say they treasure life, but the Sklaves of Ferugenstahl spend it like currency.
Kadir grabbed the black-iron first aid kit from below, wrapping bandages on Nasir's melted arm, like hot wax dripping. The box was the same as the empty ones in the massacre.
Nasir grunted, trying to withstand the agony.
An infection?
"Pretty sure the infection melts the cells. It's been studied heavily. This is constantly cell-repairing, balancing it . . ."
Quickly stabbing him with the antidote of a dull-golden hue, Nasir groaned, putting a cigarette in his mouth.
"Light it, Kadir," he insisted as Kadir flicked the lighter, sparking it.
He lay back to rest, and the group sighed in relief.
"What the hell was that?"
"I believe it's rumored of the toxin that Sklaves spread to us, because our realm lacks immunity to it. Luckily, we had syringes."
Mashia interrupted, "I saw him only enter. Wouldn't that mean it's airborne?"
"I guess so. But how did all those people die like that?"
"I'm not sure . . . That would've been us."
"But how would the enemy—how'd they even get here, and have time?" Farhan stressed.
"Killing two birds with one stone. All melted before getting the chance to inject." Mashia said.
Continuing, "They must be laughing now." He sighed.
"Quite intuitive. . ." Farhan murmured.
Silence, except for roaring winds of the desert, pointing, and laughing.
A minute, then another.
Nasir was still asleep.
. . .
Then a sound.
A rattle. . . screeching louder than winds.
Nasir wasn't conscious. Panic surfaced again, shredding any peace.
Like rattlesnakes, it kept on. . . then stopped, leaving only ambience.
"Nasir?!" Kadir shouted.
Locking their eyes him, they realized it was too late.
But there was something more . . .
Nasir's dead hair slowly sank into gray hues.
"What the hell?!" Farhan screamed.
Kadir slammed the car multiple times.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Farhan broke composure. "Dear Lord Zaleth, what are we gonna do?!" He yelled.
Mashia exited the car, looking at the unforgiving sky.
That death felt fake, so surreal . . . Somehow, it's real, too real.
Did the lord let this happen? Farhan asked, yet what answered?
A faint laugh escaped Mashia's lips.
No, not now.
Among these realms, we are the weakest. How can we throw away wisdom and act like brutes at moments of despair?
How ignorant of me to think that the Lord owes me an explanation of why.
They replace us . . . and I never begged the question as to why they gave us the syringes in the first place.
Oh well . . .
Faint cries heard from behind the car.
Mourning.
"Mashia!" screamed a familiar voice.
Farhan.
Mashia got up like a statue that laid dormant, then opened the door.
"He's unresponsive!" screamed Farhan.
"Quickly, inject all of us!" Mashia stated quickly.
Kadir lays unconscious, still breathing, but possibly knocked out from shock.
Farhan checked his pulse. "He's still breathing, just not much . . . lay him here."
Both men laid him in the back.
They injected each other, then Farhan sat next to Mashia.
"There's still hope, right?" Farhan insisted.
"The car requires the eye-scan of an alive Nasir. Right now, there's nothing. . . but to hope they listen to our cries," Mashia replied.
"Why is it like that?" Farhan asked.
"I ask myself that every time." Mashia said.
They both exhaled, Farhan's heart rate rising exponentially.
A hair fell from his head. Gray?
Mashia noticed, "How old are you, Lieutenant?"
"Nineteen, General. I'm the same age as you."
"Try to calm down."
I'm quite young for a general. All I know is that I slaved for this, only to die like a stray dog.
. . .
Laughter escaped Mashia's dry lips, robbed of moisture by heat.
"Hah. Hahahaha!!!" He stared at the sun.
"General Mashia?" Farhan timidly shook him.
Halting, "I'm sorry."
A rattle awoke.
Kadir lay there.
In hope, Farhan checked for a pulse.
Eyes were gray, face melting unrecognizable, legs had become liquid.
I liked Kadir, did he deserve this? I met his family, they were . . . nice.
"How!? We injected everyone!" Farhan screamed.
He grabbed his hair, trying to rip it out.
Mashia stared as Farhan broke down, mentally and physically.
The skin on his arms flakes off.
"Wait, Lieutenant Farhan! Look at your arms!" He barked.
Farhan froze. "It looks like it's too late."
They both stared, silent.
"Tell me, Mashia. How are you not melting? How'd you know stress is a catalyst?"
His eyes widened, seeing the accusation Farhan was building.
"Why—How do you know so much, huh?! They're dead, and you're so calm. You're an animal!"
Farhan's mouth foamed. A wild animal.
Is his brain melting too? All I did was speculate that the virus transmits by stress.
"You work for them, don't you?"
. . .
"You work for the Sklaves! You led us into this! You're no human. . ."
"Grah!" Farhan roared, clawing his hands as he decayed.
He toppled onto Mashia like a cryptid, tearing his uniform, exposing bruises, and slashing his face with bloody nails.
"Stop it. Stop!" Mashia growled.
If I must end his misery, I will.
I will enjoy watching your last breath. . .
He grabbed the deformed Farhan's neck. His face began melting like chocolate, dripping onto him.
He slammed his head, continuously.
Mashia giggled, like a jester.
Do I enjoy this? I liked Farhan, yet this rush makes me want more.
I don't like the idea of dying last, but oh well.
. . .
Farhan's hair turned fully gray, nearly white, falling out.
He resisted yet Mashia exerted all bodyweight, focusing on the grip of his hands.
He scratched until a—
SNAP!
Blood flowed from his mouth like a river.
The General fell, collapsing to the ground.
"That felt- different. Do I enjoy this? W-why?"
He looks around.
". . . Goodness gracious."
Violet hour hangs gracefully.
Something's wrong.
I feel someone. . . condemning me with every light step.
The presence suffocates me, agonizingly.
Wit his eyes closed, he embraces the soft wind.
Nobody's here.I could've sworn.Is my brain—decomposing too?
My humanity is slipping, my knowledge, my memories . . .
Bit by bit, deconstructing.
Humming in spite, insulting.
Stronger winds begin chanting a hymn.
Flowers emerged from the car's corpses: violets, lilies, tulips, and roses.
They had something to live for. Family, people, hobbies, faith, enjoyments. What's my value?
Wrinkles streamed as a grin creaked across Mashia's face.
"Ha! Hahahahahahaha!!!" Cackling, he laughed for eternity.
Was it shock? Despair? Enjoyment?
His laughter became an indistinct, drowning sound.
Drowning, drowning in euphoria of pessimism.
Something hit the floor.
Skin?
Creak. Sound of bones cracking emerged.
Impossibly, the beast awoke.
"Mashia, k-kill me. It hurts. Why am I alive? How am I..."
I can't help but empathize.
Mashia stood, blood trickling as he leaned forward. He grabbed the Volvern from the front seat.
"Please . . . just do it, General . . ."
Mashia tensed his arms, shaking.
If this is his wish, I must comply.
With one last gaze, picturing Farhan an hour ago, then the animal below him.
He charged it, swaying in the air to stabilize the burst.
"Forgive me, Lieutenant. I hope 'paradise' is waiting."
. . .
BOOM!
The shot cracked a deafening flock of thunderstorms.
A mixture of viridescent cyan, along black slivers, condensed into rays of concussive matter.
Farhan's head inflated. Flowers burst from his eyeballs, and his gray hair flew. It fell like rain.
Smoke clouded, fogging the mist of the dead.
Blood cascaded in clusters, forming rivers across.
Faint grazing of cloth and steps vibrated, but too far to render.
His fingertips began rapidly melting.
I never knew it would hurt this badly, like flaying my skin from the inside out.
It blazes me from my very core.
Is this my punishment? For letting this happen so lightly?
I accept this, but why am I resisting?
Like a vampire under the sun, Mashia melted faster, nearly blooming.
Decaying, decaying, body began to molt, then everything went numb.
I can't move.
I reap what I sow.
He let go . . . drifting in the dry desert.
Unexpectedly, his hair turned light gray in a blink.
His notebook in the car seat fluttered open to the last page he wrote.
Opening one eye, he reached up; crawling sluggishly.
Nearly touching the blooming corpse of Kadir, he grabbed it successfully, then reaching for the pen in his pocket weakly.
Writing, fragile, decaying arms trembled, and it felt uncomfortable grasping the pen with his fingertips.
His vision blurred writing gibberish on paper. A symbol? A word? It's unintelligible.
One by one, like flowers in a field, picked off.
The sound of bones dissolving, flesh melting, skin peeling; it's endearing to him.
His vision warped, breaths shallow, skin folding.
Was this 'paradise'?
He looked up.
Lights. So many colors. An abstract painting that couldn't be grasped, only seen.
Is this what 'they' see? What's their name?
Grinning, he slowly shut his creased eyes, eyelids crusted with ash, sand, and blood.
His back ruptured a blood eagle, exposing decaying lungs that breathed slowly.
His organs liquefied.
Exhaling softly, he embraced it.
Then—
A shadow emerged from smoky fog, revealing a colorful sky with nameless lights.
A priest in white robes with a black scarf appeared. An unkempt ponytail of white, blondish-orange, and black danced behind him, strands flying on his well-structured face like he stole a tiger's fur and wore it.
Holding a blue cooler dripping with condensation, he tossed it on the soft desert.
Wearing black sunglasses and had two half-faded scars driving up the corners of his jaw. he knelt down.
"You're not done yet . . . the desert never lets you go out so easily."