The Mercenaries’ Tale – 1.00 Things Happen
THE MERCENARIES’ TALE
-Sean.
Things happen.
It is not a particularly eloquent phrase, neither is it one that is particularly thought out. It might be the summary of musings from a drunk, whimsical from the ambience brought to the mind via their coveted idol alcohol, or the dismissal of a philosopher distraught by the passing of Father Time’s majestic sweeping of his hand over the constant evolution of passing. Or it might just be a hack author reaching for an “artsy” beginning to a book.
Nevertheless, things happen.
It might be Once Upon a Time, or a Long Time Ago in a Galaxy Far Away, a Thousand Moons into the Future, or even an omnipotent celestial guardian creating existence1. No matter where you begin, it always focuses on one fact; things happen. Or have happened. Or will happen, but now we are becoming temporal in our abstract delectation of ponderings, because the underlying point has been stated, that things happen.
Sometimes, they are not supposed to. At all. An aberrant anomaly that has long outlived its intended purpose within a cosmic system should be considered something highly dangerous. Worlds move on, but galaxies do not, and thus we must regard the sudden developments of a dead planetoid to be utterly suspicious.
Previously, it had remained excruciatingly dormant, sat motionless in the vacuum of existence; a superficial blemish on the canvas of black2 that makes up the heavy vastness primitively dubbed ‘space’ by humanity. It remained as an unwelcome guest might at a party that has long since been phased out by the host, not quite getting the hint from the subtle being that is the universe that it would like it to leave existence sometime soon, if it would be okay, there’s no rush but it should really get to bed soon and would like to lock up before it does, no rush though, honest, please do take your time and feel free to take some cake before you leave, we have doggy bags. Because if a soulless entity such as space could talk, it would be well-mannered and polite, since it’s far too old and learned not to be.
The planetoid, if you could even call the little spit of mass that, was an otherwise unremarkable cluster of shiny black rock squatting amongst an unimpressive selection of stars echoing the flashes of brilliance that were, by this point, long dead. This part of the galaxy was dying, one could say, given the empty nothingness that was slowly consuming the space around the planetoid. It appeared that something else, something sentient on a terrifying level, had a different plan.
From a niche within the planetoid, a small green light emanated from a chamber long forgotten by its creators, representing the awakening of something that should have remained dead and buried. Within two days, it would be the only light within a deceased, decayed part of the galaxy. No matter how polite or well-mannered, if the universe could sigh with undertones of annoyance, now would be a time for it to do so.
“Fuck me, this is getting a bit too bloody deep for my liking. You know, if I’d have known that all of this was gonna happen then I never would’ve taken the Salmanic job in the first place.”
Post by Sean Patrick Payne | October 9, 2013 at 9:40 pm | The Mercenaries' Tale | No comment
Tags: The Spire