From blood-shed 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.
Does our suffering end when we perish?
Life is punished by the burden of wake.
Apparently, bringing life into this world is a fated death sentence.
One can be killed before being born, predetermined by who carries them.
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, its inevitable.
Blissful, right?
It's all up to belief.
So why fear it? Maybe the values we hold, but what determines what marks as valuable?
As I piece together the scrambled, all-white puzzle, I realized there is no order.
The question only arises to me: Why do people value suffering, adversity, and loneliness?
Many developed minds feel disconnected most because they perceive the world in a different light than others, thus displaying the colors of our world.
Nobody will ever know what it means to be an individual.
The world breathes around the glowing text of the notebook.
However; in an unequivocal manner, our emotions are obsolete. Useless, but true to one.
But one can never understand the futility of being us. A singularity faced against indifference.
One shared ideology tells this: 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.
They wish their misery concluded.
They let nature guide their darkness.
But why keep going? They complain, yet they still live. Why?
It would be hypocritical of me to say that since I am ignorant to my own complaining at times
In their conscious world of personalized despair, they think whatever they want about me.
If that's how they choose to live, then so be it.
I understand I'm defeated. I've lost again.
They cry, but . . . I think it's okay.
It's consoling to lose.
To bear scars of true loss is oddly comforting.
But dying, I can't say it doesn't scare me, it does fascinate me.
I laugh at people's agony.
Whether luck, karma, or any factor, its determined.
I wouldn't blame anyone laughing at me in pain, dying, dying . . .
For this is my destiny, right?
All for an ignorant empire that prioritizes selfish needs.
The Messengers of Mala.
These realms. That 'tree' reaching 'paradise'.
The wind howled across the scorched dunes, ripping the last page from Mashia's journal.
A crater smolders, releasing ash.
"Another page gone."
In the back of his platoon buggy, he strides in the melting desert with three other soldiers.
"Say, General Mashia, why do you write so much?" asked a fellow soldier with dark green hair and light oak-wood-like eyes with tan skin.
"It helps me think Farhan." asserted Mashia, wearing a conventional green soldier hat with medium-long black hair, above yellow-golden eyes with a slight hint of green within them, on top of noticeable dark shadows, eyebags of a nocturnal.
"I see, Mr. Writer!" He exclaimed.
Farhan is fairly average-looking, but charismatic.
However, under the veil of cheerfulness hid an unhinged entity.
Character of a child, yet the ferocity of a bear.
What does he value so dear in an occupation that allows murder without repercussion?
Whatever it is, its commendable.
The dune buggy rocked through sinking sand, as if it would fall into an underworld.
"Nasir, where we headed?" Farhan questioned with light in his eyes.
Driving while smoking a cigarette—Nasir, who looked to be in his early 30's paused.
"Tent. Everyone's there."
Looking at the rearview mirror, four dune buggies followed behind it.
Next to Nasir, a soldier waved to him to take a pause to refill the tank.
Water-powered cars, huh. Interesting.
He hit the brake and signaled to hurry.
Vehicles of silver and cerulean glimmers passed by swiftly, fading into sandstorms beholding maroon rocky tunnels, leaving behind the lead of the pack.
Refilling the tank was taking a cycle.
Emptying it, dropping the bottle on the sand, hiding beneath sandy veils.
"Hurry up next time," Nasir stated while lighting another cigarette.
The car started roaring like a tyrannosaurus as it revved like thunder.
Passing storms, then the tunnel the previous cars went through, pressures had raised.
"Something's up," Nasir observed the tent ahead the tunnel.
Treading tires drift across, making a quick halt.
Nasir's short dyed-blond hair with rough-dark skin stood out in the bright light above.
We call it a light, some call it the sun.
Mashia wrote in his notebook, the ink surfing the tender motions of his fingers. His cursive calligraphy displayed years of writing.
"Y'all see it there?" Nasir pointed.
The three men glanced at it, "I smell something wrong, like rotting. Be on guard."
Nasir stopped the car, opened his glove compartment all with an eye scan. It slid open, revealing a plasma rifle in form of a handgun named Volvern.
It looked like it could shoot vortexes.
Nasir walked out as the rest stayed on watch.
The abandoned cars were empty. All of them.
The tent whispered in rattles.
Walking, Stepping, and Tip-toeing.
No matter how quiet the walk, not one word could be audible.
Nasir held the Volvern near his chest, breathing heavily.
Blood boils quicker than the highest peak of a dune.
Creeping, the sand hugged the feet of Nasir. It knew better.
Mercy is not in the vocabulary of life.
It's merely a cope for the mercilessness of life.
A joke and a pretender frolicking in an anguish of lies.
Visibly a military olive green, the tent flowed with twirling wind like a musical.
Rot.
A smell of rot; like strong cheese that was pungent after molding.
Gagging—Nasir quickly flipped open the foul tent—
Melted gum.
Everyone in the tent had melted.
Liquid.
Their remains looked like a humanoid sleeping bag filled with bloody toothpaste.
It reeked.
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 like pool noodles pointed to the middle, where bodies were stacked amongst each other like they melted quarreling.
Strawberry ice cream coated with ketchup, shrouded in bones, organs, foam, grey matter, blood-stained military uniforms, entrails, saliva, vomit, and pure animosity for life. A hate crime to life.
Flowers grew out the corpses—
A gift of sadism.
Empty syringes lay near golden drops of their leftover medication.
What deity could allow this? Clearly, not a just one.
Nasir stepped back, pupils dilated in pure astonishment.
Mashia, watching afar, looked at the carnage of clothes, fluids, and bones conjoined.
Holy sh*t.
The sand warned him.
His fingers began shedding skin as he ran.
"CALL THE MESSENGERS! CALL THE MESSENGERS! ABORT!" Nasir yelped and squealed as he rushed and sat back into the car.
"Sh*t, SH*T!" 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?!" The passenger soldier stated.
"THE PLATOON HAS DIED! THEY MELTED INTO PUDDLES! HELLO?!" Nasir barked.
. . .
It's pointless.
There is no rescue. No fairy tale.
Driving, the car sped past the tunnel immeasurably.
"Why. WHY DON'T THEY ANSWER?!" He yelled.
The soldier looked down.
Holding a locket, showing a woman wearing a straw-hat with a white dress, standing with a little girl wearing overalls, both having bright brown hair.
Nasir calmed, then looked at the soldier whilst frowning, "Don't worry—Kadir, you'll see them. Best to stay calm now."
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.
"Farhan, what are you doing?" Mashia blurted.
"Praying to Zaleth, sir," Farhan said steadily, displaying faint instability.
He values praying. If that's what he believes, then I hope it may help despite cataclysm.
Were the soldiers meant to die?
I feel as if I'm way too calm. Five platoons; four people each. Commander; two priests awaited at the tent. Nineteen dead. . .
Another tragedy the Messengers will brush under rugs.
"GRAHH!" Nasir lost temper again, as nobody answered the intercom.
The sun began to set, ignorantly.
What can it do except watch?
Time's ticking.
Nasir's arm starts to—
Crumble.
"MY ARM!! GAH!" 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 a faucet out the open wound.
"NO, NO! IT'S THE SKLAVES! THEY DID THIS!"
Ferugenstahl's crest of Sklaves sparked, a mockery of Mala.
The Messengers of Mala treasure the gift of life, but the Sklaves of Ferugenstahl spend it like currency as a means to their only treasure—subjugation.
Kadir grabbed the black-iron first aid kit from below, wrapping bandages on Nasir's melted arm, like hot wax dripping.
"Get a syringe to stop it, 'cause I'm f**kin' DECOMPOSING!!" he yelled, 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 Nasir with the antidote of miracles of a dull-golden hue.
An arm for the price of life.
What is going on?
Nasir groaned.
Putting a cigarette in his mouth.
"Light it, Kadir," he insisted as Kadir flicked the lighter, sparking the tobacco.
He lay back to rest.
Groaning.
The cigarette in his mouth stopped, releasing a haze of smoke into the air.
The group sighed in relief.
"What the hell was that?"
"I believe it's rumored of the toxin that Sklaves spread to Mala and Zi Jin Zheng, because we lack immunity to it. Luckily, we had some syringes."
Mashia interrupted, "I saw him only enter. Wouldn't that mean it's airborne, because he hadn't touched anything, no?"
"I guess so. We have vials for all of us here. But how did all those people die like that?"
" They probably ambushed by sneaking, then draining out the antidote to a point where they fought like dogs for the last drops from the looks of it . . . That would've been us."
"I believe you, General."
"But would they—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, looking up.
Continuing, "They must be laughing now. They could've released more since they know we're limited here." He sighed in disdain.
"Quite intuitive. . ." Farhan murmured.
Silence.
Pure silence, except for roaring winds of the desert, pointing, and laughing.
It knows its horrors.
A minute, then another.
Nasir was still asleep.
A rattle. . . screeching louder than winds.
'Asleep', you say?
Don't be rash.
Nasir wasn't conscious. Panic surfaced again, shredding any peace.
Like rattlesnakes, it kept on. . . then stopped, leaving only ambience.
"Nasir?! Nasir!" Kadir screamed.
Locking their eyes on the man, they realized it was too late. He was dead.
But there was something more. . . Adrenaline kicked in.
Nasir's dead hair slowly sank into gray hues.
"What the hell?? He might've bled out, but that's not normal!"
Kadir slammed the car multiple times.
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
Anger doesn't bring your problems to conclusion, my friend.
The absurdity has me in state where I refuse to remember this, like my brain decides to delete them like files. Nothing I can say will help.
Farhan broke composure. "Dear Lord Zaleth, WHAT ARE WE GONNA DO!!??" he yelled like a dying goat.
Mashia exited the car, looking at the unforgiving sky.
That death felt fake, so surreal . . . Somehow, its real, too real.
Did the lord let this happen?
Farhan asked, yet what answered? This makes it all the more difficult to get a grip.
If this 'Zaleth' doesn't follow his own rules of subsiding wicked life as faith tells, and instead condemns those crimes far lighter than his, then he must beg me forgiveness.
A faint laugh escaped Mashia's lips.
Am I enjoying this? No, not now.
Among these realms, we are physically the weakest, even though we're intelligent, how can we throw away wisdom and act like brutes at moments of despair?
Are we inferior?
We must be claw our way to tranquility.
How ignorant of me to even ponder the idea that the Lord, these realms, and the order of the cosmos owe me an explanation of why.
How foolish of me.
The Messengers always saw us as replaceable . . . that's why Mala's motto is 'Function defines worth. We do not build. We return.' Even now, I wonder if they sent us here to provoke Ferugenstahl.
They replace us . . .
I should've seen it.
The light stays, but I'm falling.
What is consoling me?
Am I going to melt? Oh well . . .
Faint cries heard from behind the car.
Mourning.
How sad.
I can't move, but maybe I don't want to anymore.
Stuck in a desert with despondency, it's nice to rest.
"MASHIA!" screamed a familiar voice.
Farhan.
Mashia got up like a statue that laid dormant, then opening the door.
"He's unresponsive!" screamed Farhan.
"Quickly, inject 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, I'll get out."
Both men got Kadir's body out of his seat and laid him in the back.
They injected each other with the golden miracle, then Farhan sat next to Mashia.
The sun still glimmered, hope?
"We must leave. There's still hope, right?" Farhan insisted.
"The car requires the eye-scan of an alive Nasir. Right now, there's nothing. . . but hope the Messengers listens to our cries," Mashia replied.
They both exhaled, Farhan's heart rate rising exponentially.
A hair fell from his head.
Gray?
Mashia noticed, skeptical, "How old are you, Lieutenant?"
"Nineteen, General. I'm the same age as you."
"Hmm. Try to calm down."
I'm quite young for a general. It may be my connections—my skills, no clue. All I know is that I slaved for this position, only to die like a stray dog here.
A suicide mission?
Were we sacrifices to test waters in provoking other realms?
Laughter escaped Mashia's dry lips, robbed of moisture by heat.
"Hah. HAAHAHA AAHAHAHAAAA!!!" He stared at the sun.
"General Mashia?" Farhan timidly shook him.
Halting, "I'm sorry."
A rattle awoke.
No. Not again.
Kadir lay there.
Lifeless?
In hope, Farhan checked for a pulse.
Eyes were gray, face melting unrecognizable, legs had become liquid. Another tragedy.
He was rotting.
I liked Kadir, did he deserve such a fate? I met his family, they were . . . nice.
"How!? HOW!? WE INJECTED HIM AND EVERYONE ELSE!" Farhan screamed.
He grabbed his hair, trying to rip it out.
Mashia stared as Farhan broke down, mentally and physically.
His skin. . . the skin on his arms is flaking off.
"Wait, Lieutenant Farhan! Stop! Look at your arms!" He barked.
Farhan froze and looked.
"It looks like it's too late," he whispered.
They both stared with emotionless expressions.
"Tell me, Mashia. How are you not melting? You act like you're above us. How'd you know stress is a catalyst?"
His eyes widening, seeing the accusation Farhan was building.
"Why—How do you know so much, huh?! They're dead, and you're so calm, you ANIMAL!!"
Farhan's mouth foamed.
Like them, piled atop another, fought and released foam. He looked ready to die fighting too.
A wild animal. He tensed.
Is his brain melting too? I have to stay calm. Otherwise, I might be a goner. All I did was speculate that the virus transmits via cortisol receptors a minute ago.
"You work for them, don't you?"
"Huh?"
"You work for the Sklaves! You led us into this! You're no human. . . You're SADISTIC!"
Although I disliked them, I hated the Messengers more. Both have their heads up their asses, all talk, letting others do the work. What does this say about them?
"GRAHHH! AHAHRAHA!" Farhan roared, clawing his hands as he decayed faster, unstable.
He toppled onto Mashia like a cryptid, tearing his army uniform like butter, exposing bruises from previous combat, slashing his face with bloody nails that left crimson fingerprints.
"Stop it. STOP!" Mashia growled, trying to remain composed while being mangled.
If I must end his misery, I will.
Mashia grabbed the deformed Farhan's neck. His face began melting like chocolate, dripping onto him.
Mashia slammed Farhan's head, continuously.
He's still breathing.
I will eat your last breath. . .
Mashia giggled, like a jester.
Do I enjoy this? I liked Farhan, yet this rush of dopamine makes me want more.
It's wrong, but I have to put him down.
My blood's rushing. I don't like the idea of dying last, but oh well.
I stand in the crossfire of it all.
Farhan's hair turned fully gray, nearly white, falling out.
Farhan resisted yet Mashia exerted all bodyweight into crushing his decaying throat, focusing on the grip of his hands.
He scratched at his arms until a-
SNAP!
Blood flowed from his mouth like a river.
The General fell, collapsing to the ground like a titan meeting the floor.
"That felt- different. Do I enjoy this? W-why?"
"Goodness gracious. They're all dead."
Violet hour hangs gracefully.
Somethings wrong.
I feel someone. . . I can hear them creep forward, condemning me with every light step.
The presence suffocates me, agonizingly.
Eyes closed, embracing the soft wind, the beach-like odor. There's no sound, not a rustle or gust.
"What?" Mashia says, glancing surreal sceneries.
Nobody's here. I could've sworn. Is my brain- decomposing too?
My humanity is slipping, my knowledge, my memories..
My ideas I write. I'm starting to forget.
Bit by bit, deconstructing.
Humming in spite, insulting.
Stronger winds begin chanting a hymn for fallen.
All corpses melted as night fell.
Cooling temperatures. A violet tone illuminated a once-orange desert.
Flowers emerged from car's corpses: violets, lilies, tulips, and roses.
Farhan.. Nasir.. Kadir.. my platoon.. they had something to live for. Family, people, hobbies, faith, enjoyments. What's my value except ridiculing those below me.
Why don't you take me huh?!
TAKE ME!!
Wrinkles streamed as a grin creaked across Mashia's face.
"Ha! HahaHAHHHAARAAHAGGAHHA GAH GHAHHAHAAA!!!" Cackling like a sly fox, he laughed for eternity.
Was it shock? Despair? Enjoyment? Only an insane man under alluring mauve light.
"Oh, how avoidable this could've been! HAH! WE'RE GUINEA PIGS!! HAHAAGARAHAGAHGARHA!" His laughter became an indistinct, drowning sound.
Drowning, drowning in euphoria of pessimism.
Ecstasy in surrendering.
"A constant cycle of dying," Mashia whispered. "I'm last."
Something hit the floor.
Skin?
My skin's falling.
Creak. Sound of bones cracking emerged from the flowers.
Impossibly, the beast awoke.
I thought I killed him.
"Mashia, k-kill me. It hurts. Why am I alive? How am I..."
I couldn't help but sympathize. The poor guy doesn't deserve this.
Mashia stood, blood trickling, leaning forward, grabbing Volvern from the front seat of the car.
"Please . . . just do it, General . . ."
Mashia tensed his arms, shaking. He never used this caliber of force so unethically.
If this is his wish, I must comply.
He aimed, with one last gaze, picturing Farhan an hour ago, then the monster below him.
He charged the plasma handgun, swaying in the air to stabilize the burst.
"Forgive me, Lieutenant. I hope 'paradise' is waiting."
. . .
The shot cracked a deafening flock of thunderstorms.
A mixture of viridescent cyan, along black slivers, condensed into rays of concussive matter.
Essentially erasing physicality.
Farhan's head inflated. Flowers burst from his eyeballs, and . . .
BOOM!
His gray hair flew, falling like rain.
Smoke clouded heavily, fogging the mist of the dead in the area.
Blood cascaded in clusters, forming rivers across.
Faint grazing of cloth and steps vibrated the ground, but too far to render.
How in the hell.. I got injected with it.. Is this medication part of this suicide mission? Why would our own empire kill its soldiers? IDIOTS!
His fingertips began rapidly melting.
Just an hour ago, heading to the tent.. but I never questioned why.
I never knew it would hurt this badly, like flaying my skin from the inside out, along edges of my skull.
"GAHHHRAAA AAAHH!!!"
It blazes me from my very core.
How did they die so easily? Is this my punishment? For killing, for letting this happen so lightly? Why didn't I hesitate in killing Farhan? WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?!
Am I scared to die? Yes, but I accept death, so why am I resisting? This lord... is trying to teach me a lesson, huh? The last one alive.
Like a vampire under the sun, Mashia melted faster, nearing blooming, a mockery of life itself.
There's nothing good that ever comes out of life, is there?
Decaying, decaying, his arms, legs, chest, back, face, and neck began to crease, melting slightly, leading to agony beyond comprehension.
Pain shocked his nervous system to a cellular level, leaving Markus numb to the sensation.
I can't move.
Fuck.
Just like I wrote. I reap what I sow.
Mashia let go...
Drifting in the dry desert at night's greeting, he lays..
Unexpectedly, his hair turned light gray in a blink as he succumbed.
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.
My notebook.
Reaching for the pen in his pocket weakly, like an elderly artist.
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? Its unintelligible.
One by one, like flowers in a field, his squad mates, picked off like nothing. The sound of bones dissolving, flesh melting, skin peeling; Its endearing to Mashia.
His vision warped like the blast, 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.
No toxin this potent should exist.
It could not be manmade.
Exhaling softly, Mashia let go.
Then—
A shadow emerged from smoky fog, revealing a colorful sky with nameless lights.
A priest in white robes with a black scarf atop them appeared. An unkept 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 as a wig.
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. . . I thought it was over. But the desert never lets, you . . . go out so easily."