A Soulgem Darkly (And What He Found There)

Interval 01: Extraneous

I knew my day was going to hell when the RPG came floating through the Burger Suplex.

I looked up in time to see it emerge from behind a businessman’s briefcase, floating spigot-first and spinning the wrong way as always. It drifted over my table, almost brushing my half-eaten Elbow Drop before passing through the opposite window near the bicycle rack. It flew straight and true for the road, and I felt irritated, but not surprised when it slid neatly into the side-window of a battered black-and-white Crown Vic and vanished.

The ex-copper car compounded the driver's name, a double irony worthy of the entire clown troupe. That was Santa Destroy in a fucking nutshell, really; symbols of order trailing chaos, men biting dogs being wagged by their own tails, the Dream dictating reality. It's all upside down here, where the women glow and men plunder, and it's usually a cage match between Metal Gear and Pecos Bill that sends one running for cover.

And by Christ, was it getting old.

I stuffed the Elbow Drop in my mouth, silently weeping for the glory of salty greasy splendor I hadn't time to savor and chewed quick. It wasn't wise to fill my stomach more – vomit-chan brought the gnarly shit,claymation-tier, but I was hungry. I was draining my Dr. Pepper when the first one appeared, fluttering its garishly-colored way down the center of the road. Two more had passed by the time I shouldered the door open, scarfing my fries with both hands. The midsummer air was still suffocatingly hot, even with the long slanting rays of the Californian sun slipping away towards dusk. Thermals shimmered in the golden light as they rose from the worn asphalt ribbon arrowing westward, translucent technicolor phantoms rising in the Vic's wake. The car slowed and turned out of sight, but the ephemeral butterflies remained, growing more flesh than phantasm by the second in the failing light, their wings wafting in a wind that wasn't there. The prowling Vic's throaty growl died, leaving only the suffuse, grating thrum of cicada song. I hesitated at the curb, staring down the shimmering blacktop with its flanking phantoms, and considered going back for a refill.

A shadow flitted across the road; defying the sun angle. I knew it well; the long body, the pencil-thin swept wings, patiently orbiting.

Figured.

Fucking figured.

I pegged my empty cup at the trash can by the door and stepped onto the sweltering asphalt. The spots on every phantasmal wing rotated to study me; a gauntlet of ghostly eyes to follow my tread into the sunset. I finished my fries languidly, chucking the crumpled sleeve at the peanut gallery when I was done. They were the first thing in this town to give me a second glance - and I didn't like it.

Off the asphalt, into the dirt access roads where sparse desert grass grew about abandoned loading docks; harboring cicadas who's song rebounded from cinderblock walls till my skull seemed to thrum in resonance. Ever-fleshier phantoms fluttered over rooftops and wound 'round power lines, leading me to the Vic two blocks down, parked under a streetlamp that buzzed and ticked feebly, trying to light as the burnt orange sky darkened towards night. I strained to sift the tick-tocks of a cooling engine out of the buzzing din, checked both ways, and slipped onto a side-street proper.

Faded aluminum storage sheds flanked a road terminating at the towering slabs of large loading doors over which smokestacks towered, their metal-clad tops glinting with the very last rays of a sinking sun. The dark ribbon of road was eroded 'bout the edges by drifting desert sands that swallowed my footsteps. The fast-fading skyglow fuzzed every shadow, blurring boundries between objects till they seemed to flow into one another, smears of suggestion on an unfinished canvas. Only the butterflies stood out, their garish colors making their lines distinct against the blur; creating a lane that guided my eyes to the scarf, swaying slightly with its owners steps - black and white distinct against all the shades of grey.

The smokestacks were rearing overhead, huge fingers clawing at the dark purple sky when that light glinted at me, two long rows of insectoid eyes shifting to stare my way. I stepped behind the stripped hulk of a forklift, peering through the cab's wire-mesh cage that smeared my face's outline into the shadows.

The scarf had stilled.

My eyes caught the burnished gleam of brass winking from something small; then a pinkish-pale luminance like the moon just after sunset. She was facing down the street, eyes focused on the glowing light in her palm. Her red sweatshirt and auburn hair absorbed the gentle luminance, leaving only her silhouette.

After a few fruitless seconds of concentrating, she looked up, scanning the shadowed street. She looked familiar; another young face with old eyes. Her lips parted as a half-formed challenge circled in her mind... and faded with the light as she slowly closed her hand over the gem. She looked small amidst the hulking shadows; searching the dark anxiously for an alien presence. She broke the spell abruptly, spinning curtly on her heel and drawing her magic over her like a cape as she slid from sight. Her peers were confirmed absent, and anyone else...

Well, they were just a normie with a death wish.

Interval 02: When It Rains (Indoors)

My day went to hell when the rainstorm swept through the factory.

I was three steps shy of my target when it hit; the dull roar of raindrops hammering against the cluttered factory floor below and echoing back to the vaulted ceiling above. The faint silhouette before me blurred into the black as sheets of water doused the faint sky-glow of Destroy proper filtering through the distant windows. I heard the squeak of shoe soles on steel and lunged, planting my shoulder in his midsection. The fucking shotgun went off in my ear as we went down, the barrel warm in my hands as I ripped it from his grip and brought the stock down on something that shattered with that special heartbreaking tinkle expensive electronics make when you drop them.

That's about when some asshole on the catwalk opposite spotted me. I heard the first slug whistle past my ear, the sharp report crashing around the huge building. I rolled off the catwalk, gripping the rain-slick lip with one hand and getting my feet beneath me before dropping blind into the dark, terror surging through me for a long second before my sneakers found something blessedly flat; the top of a story-tall machine tool. I lunged sideways, knowing the asshole was already drawing a fresh bead when the air itself exploded.

My electronic earbuds muted the deafening report, but the shockwave thumped through my chest like a hammerblow as my vision shattered into delphinium shards, fading slowly towards the afterimage of a jagged line of light. I pumped a fresh shell into the action and threw myself prone, knowing my attacker's NVGs would already be readjusting to the ambient light - if he could find me through the downpour. Cold rain trickled down my spine and hammered its chill into my skull as I peered down the glossy ribbon of blued steel into the darkness.

He fired again, another slug skipping off steel to my left, far too close. The afterimage of his muzzle-flash lit silhouette blazed bright in my mind as I pinned it beneath the bright wink of the beadsight and fired; then rolled right and shimmed backwards as I pumped another shell into the action, heart hammering and hair on end - but all I heard was the final, brief clatter of his rifle hitting the concrete floor below.

My toes found a narrow maintenance stairway a long thirty seconds later, and within a minute I was huddled in a filthy, oily alcove beneath the hulking apparatus as I listened to the shouts and screams and gurgles of whatever poor bastards had crossed the Eighth this month. I plucked the earbuds out - they were only amplifying the incessant deluge's drumbeat, which was why vomit-chan dropped it in the first place. Her caution was well-placed - they clearly knew she was coming. No matter how subtle the Callidius, a 12 gauge slug to the skull will slow their roll right fucking quick.

Which was why I was here in the first place - in Santa Destroy, a better, bolder class of killer was only a phone call away. I steadied my breathing and focused my thoughts, feeling outward through the darkness for the foe harbingered by the JSOW. They would be subtle and quick, ghosting through the dark downpour like a gliding owl. Tension trickled down my spine as I strained to hear the stealthy surresations of stalking enemies through the downpour. Some furtive rustle sent the punp-action to my shoulder, squeezing in a stale breath as I took up the trigger-slack and sighted in on a flashing neon parrot.

A flashing fucking neon parrot.

It ambled over the floor aimlessly, occasionally flapping its wings to hop over unseen obstacles. Its bright blue belly strobed green, rubescent face pulsing yellow. The parrot's lurid light lingered not upon the floor nor fuzzed as it shone through the sheeting rain; 'twas a luminance all its own, a vision more vivid than reality. Next game the gyrating worm, twisting across the factory floor in flashes of purple and lime-green - then the angled face, luminous neon eyes shifting to and fro.

I watched the parade of neon nightmares gamboling through the rainstorm drenching the interior of a building in the Californian desert and decided that I really, really hated that double-braided dyke.

I fell into train, sliding between a pinball machine with eyes and a curly-cue shaped fellow, stepping around the unseen debris indicated by undulations in their line. Through the dark factory I stalked, stealthy progress presaged by my neon honor guard. The rain was slackening, begging a slower, softer pace - but the colorful conga-line would not be delayed. Ahead they faded from sight as they phased through a wall. I approached cautiously, shotgun at low ready as I reached out to probe the barrier with the muzzle.

And then it hit me.

My consciousness floated airily above reality for a second before tearing back in with awful impetus. The sallow light of a sodium lamp shone through the open doorway before me, casting a sulfurous halo around my attacker as he wound up a double-handed overhead blow, the hilt of his golf club deforming the rictus grin of his rubber horse mask.

Fuck this town.

Interval 03: Enter The Nightmare

As I lay on a filthy floor with a horse-masked murderer winding up to cave me in with a golf club, I decided that Stanford could suck a fat one.

I swept the shotgun overhead in time to block the crushing swing, the golf club hooking the weapon and ripping it from my grasp. I rolled away and twirled to my feet as the follow-up rebounded from the concrete floor with a sharp crack. My spring-loaded baton snapped open with a snick as horsemask waded in once more, twisting his hips into his next swing. It smashed into my double-handed block, releasing the baton's business end when he yanked again, letting the club slide up the shaft and into my waiting palm. I stepped in, snapping out a swift blow from the elbow that he caught on his hunched shoulder, sparing his neck. I felt the club slip and sprang back as a long blade leaped from his jacket, club clattering to the concrete as our weapons clashed. He caught my counterblow on his blade, grabbing my baton with his free hand. Mine smacked into his wrist as his blade flashed towards my face, arresting the slash.

We strained for a long heartbeat in the black, trying to overpower one another - then he heaved upwards, trying to roll over me like a wave. I bent beneath his bulk, and just before I buckled I slammed my knee into his belly and sent him sailing overhead. Scarcely did my shoulders scrape concrete before I flipped over and scuttled forward, baton cocked overhead to smash anything that moved. The trap sprung, my work was done - but now I was righteously pissed off.

I slithered through the gloom a few more yards, sliding my feet silently through shallow puddles as the rain drizzled out, but found nothing. The gale-force was gone, taking the rain with him.

Wendy left a few minutes later, wringing out her scarf with a sigh as I crouched behind a control console. The exterior door wheezed shut on a weary piston, the muted click of the latch lost in the echoes of drips falling into puddles throughout the building. It was a cave now, concealed, cavernous and quartering only corpses.

I cleared out before the cleanup crew arrived, squelching my way through the sand drifting against the curbs. The steady sonorous wind sang its way through the sagging sheds and slipped under my shirt, sending shivers up my spine. I stepped quickly, seeking the sallow light of sodium lamps or deeper shade, anywhere that moonlight shadows couldn't stalk. I wanted to flash my plastic at the Plastic and plaster over this whole fucking night - without company.

I'd almost gained the streetlights when I heard a soft susurration clashing with the cicadasong. I twirled, baton snapping open-

-but nothing came.

"I hope you fucking eggheads are right," I bitched to a brick wall as I slammed my baton against it to collapse the shaft. "Because I don't know how much more of this shit I can take."