Been Around the Block
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It was over for him the instant he was struck down. The imperial guardsman was defeated, utterly broken. He lay on his back, staring up at the sky, trying to fathom his senses. To the guardsmen's eyes, his world was being wrenched open, its blood spilling everywhere. The sky was made of fire, with pieces of metal choking the atmosphere, the black dust of destruction suffocating everything. Arches of golden flames spat at each other, shapes of all sizes and colors screamed or moaned past. To his ears the screams of materials destroying one another was a brilliant, unending complex of chaotic noise. The most intricate song he'd ever heard and feared. The guardsman had a thought that wasn't quite high enough for him to see, wasn't big enough for him to register it's point of origin, wasn't clear enough to see it's purpose in his total thought matrix.
"Nihil - nothing."
The guardsman's world was being ripped wide open, and now it was being spat upon... laughed at. Completely mocked. His world was being mocked like it was a cosmic size joke. His life was being ridiculed.
"Nihilist. Annihilist."
Suddenly a face of malice stabbed into his view, in front of the sky of death. The mocker, the messenger, or something. The guardsman was really starting to lose his mind.
"Annihilation of a nation, your generation."
The voice was coming from that face. The guardsman's mind twitched reflexively trying to get a thought across his body - to reach for his gun, his last hope. But before the guardsman could initiate the procedure, a boot slammed down onto his throat. The leg of that face...
The cultist dug his boot into the guardsman's throat, then pivoted on that leg and delivered kicks to the guardsmen's ribs from his other boot. Another heretic snatched the guardsman's side arm from it's holster, then stood back and walked away. The guardsman was defeated, paralyzed. Before the guardsman could even think, the cultists struck out at all angles.
"Annihilation - to make into nothing."
The guardsman again felt that elusive thought in the back of his mind, but this time he got it. It was a sense of nothingness, for his whole life. His whole life was for nothing. His prayers were never truly answered. He'd been lied to, he had been tricked by an evil, an evil far worse than this cultist who was now pulverizing him. This cultist, who he had seen shove the end of a cross so far up another guardsman's donkey-cave that it stuck out his mouth, than planted the cross into the soil alongside other guardsman impaled by traffic signs, flag poles, etc. Despite this savagery, the cultist was not even CLOSE to being as evil as the evil that which had enslaved the guardsman, and all of the guardsman's planet and people.
"Say goodbye to your grip on reality - though you barely even grasped reality, let alone grip it with strength!"
The Cultist lifted his boot off of the guardsman's throat. The wicked grin on the cultist's face shot out a gaze that pierced right through the guardsman's soul. The guardsman always had his suspicion, but now he knew, by the way his world fell - he knew that HE was his own god, and that he was capable of creating entire worlds. Or at least capable of ripping apart some other world's sky - which was way cooler than scrubbing floors all day and praying to some fething CORPSE, ON A PLANET THAT IS SO FAR AWAY FROM HIS OWN HE'LL PROBABLY NEVER EVEN SEE IT- RRRRRRRRRRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGE!-
"All your systems are destroyed by us!"
Even under the strict living procedures and forced systems of habitat, the Guardsman had experienced what he believes is termed "psychic" activity within himself and with the rest of the world surrounding him - he had glimpsed it. But was damn near close to being killed for it by snooty republicans. Now, the guardsman could see it clearly - millions of other people unleashing their own psychic desires... He was losing track of his thoughts quickly, but for the first time goals were being solidified - he wanted OUT! FREEDOM. His urges now took the fore.
"Annihilation = feth yeah! And feth you."
The cultist raised his axe, than slammed it down into the guardsman's chest. But the guardsman was strong. He was yearning to see more of the psyche. Having shed all his previous indoctrination, the guardsman poured out the beginnings of his own psychic renaissance. He dared to quest through his surroundings. Using the last of his strength, he headed for the cultist's mind, the cultist's soul.
And he managed to catch a glimpse. This cultist was just as simple minded as he was, but at least the cultist knew the truth - that you are your own god.
"But the spice must flow! Particles, I mean. The particles must flow. Whatever, same gak. Anyways, they never stop flowing. Everything always transforms, nothing is truly 'lost'."
As his hold on is body slipped away, as the guardsman's anchor, his vessel, was dieing, he kept pushing his new found sense of 'self', his true essence, his soul. He pushed as hard as he could outwards into everything. With no bias to any particular thought, other than the primal will to survive, and to be, to simply be, to exist - the guardsman began to behold many wonders of reality the likes of which his sense had been shut off from before, before this destruction, this obliteration. Annihilation of the structure whipping him along.
"Your death brings new life..."
It was an overwhelming sensation - that there was so much damage done to the genus that so many things were blocked, deliberately put out of reach. The guardsman soon realized through his near death soul questing that even this cultist was being held back by the immense power he was worshiping.
"... new life TO BE FED ON! AAAAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!! BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!"
A final strike of the axe to the face, and that was that. The guardsman had left his body, and, with renewed vigor, was surfing the waves of the psychic realm. He plunged into the realm of chaos, excited, and hopeful to raise a new form, to get a new anchor- but then he hit a wall. He was stuck. Many things in the background were screaming at him, but they sounded like whispers to him, and there were so many distant thoughts in the back of his essence. But the light show was so distracting, so enthralling... so prevailing. A thought here, someones thought there. More energy. Powerful patterns of energy. If he sharpened his focus, he could almost make out 4 distinct revenues for soul energy to travel on, but all souls were so diverse as to practically be their own entity on their own course. And yet, all was one. He was eyeing the revenues while tasting the emotions of every soul he wanted to. He lost track of his senses. He was part of the sea. Someone else's thought became his own, and vice versa, but it never stopped. The current was so strong, not many could hope to swim through it and catch their breath. A system was in place. Primal energies were being milked to no end. Unnaturally chaotic. And yet... we chose this - WHO SAID THAT?! One minute he was on a planet, the next floating through space between the stars, the next inside lava, or something...
He was lost. Untrained for it, not a chance. His mind having been killed by fear, his body having been trained by fear, his soul having been sucked out through fear to be harvested - his spirit didn't stand a chance.
- - -
"Aaaaand another one bites the DUST! Have fun in the ocean, you scared little BITCH."
The Cultist sparked up a joint, drank in some liquor from his canteen, then snorted from his 'spice' bullet, than retrieved a can of beer from his pack. The sky continued to burn, but the tanks had rolled off into the distance, and all the bodies still standing were friendlies. So it was break time for this savage. The other heretic that had taken the guardsman's pistol walked back over to the rambling cultist, twirling the stolen pistol, chomping a cigar and taking in heroine through an auto inject system strapped to his arm.
"Spice? What the hell are you rambling about? The drug or the thing?"
The cultist drained his beer and then crushed the can on his forehead.
"AAAAAHAHAHAHAHA....."
After the mad cultist stopped laughing, the pistol twirling heretic wiped the spittle off of his visor.
"... and?"
The cultist ripped out the heart from the guardsman's corpse and proceeded to eat it while spewing out inane laughter. Talking while eating completely disgusted the pistol twirling heretic, a fact the hungry cultist new well.
"KEKEKEKEKEKEKEKEKEYEEEEEEEAH, THATS WHAT I'M RAMBLING ABOUT. Call Eric, we need more blow. That little prick, hogging it all. By the way, your sword is broken."
The heretic stopped twirling his pistol and wiped off chunks of human heart from his visor.
"Huh?"
- - - Here you finish it. XD
Does the cultist snatch the heretic's sword and break it? Or was it broken all along? Does a spaceship crash into his sword, and anything else?
I'm suffering major writer's block, need some help please. Also, sorry if this is wrong forum. Not sure where to put this.
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