Was
Chapter 1
Michael Sevlos sits very still. His lower back and elbows ache. His feet; the furthest pinch of his toenails, twitch under the strained hug of tight leather. Draped round his thick shoulders are the remnants of what used to be known as ‘a coat’. It is brown and dirty yellow, a little bit like the standing pillar of heat that spikes every so few hours, up there in the green sky. He inhales a heavy draft through his impaled nose, dreading to exhale under the already defined pain. His eyes watch the steady reflection, bulging and receding at each movement. The crusty metal hinges steadily, its stability only promised by a standing meshed grate. He coughs. Michael coughs too.
He gingerly reaches out and grabs the black and moldy handle. It feels soft and smooth under his calloused hand; like a tickle. The reflection looms nearer. He spits and rubs on the surface with the edge of a torn fabric that hangs loosely over the metal grate. The surface shines a little better. He smiles, or at least, he tries to. The man in the kettle isn’t as ugly as he previously was.
A gentle creak behind him bathes Michael in abundant alertness.
He sits verily still, praying to his Wood God that he wouldn’t need to use the last bullet.
Joints aching, he turns. His fingers glide past the colt and find the broken lance strapped to his thigh; they tighten round the wooden grip.
His eyes land on a girl dressed in dirty purple. She sees him too.
He exhales. She moves towards him. Fast.
Time almost stands still in the three seconds he takes to push the blade through her skull. The faint squelch of blood, bone and brain melding with his blade is familiar. The girl drops to her knees, red and pink oozing down her temples. Michael uses the wiping fabric, pats her on the head with it, and releases his hold.
She did not scream. They never do.
He finds his footing and gazes round, stretching his vision as far as his augmented eyes could. The domicile he stumbled upon, what they called ‘houses’ centuries ago, heaves noiselessly. The winds outside feverishly rush past the plastered walls. Dust and sparkles are all he sees through the musty windows. He treads back to the metal stool, tired. Pained.
The colt can only be used once. The Blood Oaths made sure of that. He sighs and stares at the dead girl’s meat, still oozing on the decrepit floor. Michael stretches his back once more. He sees the second thick rope; dry and crusty up to the finger-like edges. Quietly, purposefully, he grabs the body hanging from it and pulls it down. The pool of blood seeps close to his worn boots. He doesn’t care. It must be done.
Minutes later, the bodies of Julia Sevlos and Amelia Sevlos, wife and daughter of Michael Sevlos, hang side by side. He looks upon them, the final bridges to past memories too dangerous to remember. Michael walks away, his lance regenerated, his colt safe.
The storm outside subsides. The sky turns green once more. His journey to the capital Elar resumes. Michael straightens his back under the unkind sun and watches the vast plains of sand, green poisonous algae and faded memories in silence. He coughs once more and spits in respect, tightens his belt and calls upon a wormhole from thin air. It appears behind him and engulfs him entirely.
Back in the place that was once a home, the surface of the shiny kettle reflects the truth; two lengths of rope from the ceiling, dangling empty in the spare nothingness.
The year is 3159 P.A. Earth is no more.