The number of passing days has been under question. The crimson sun fades with every hour; the dark could only linger—giving the illusion of the shifting change of light. Such toil of the mind could withstand this incredible display of this exquisite red sky. A particular ‘thing’ embraces the beams, rolling with the whaling sound of a mechanical symphony. It stands forever erect, with carvings of a wolf butchering more than one figure. At first glance, it was undoubtedly a sarcophagus, a resting place for the dead, royalty in particular. Inside, a harrowing voice emits a subtle hum against the steel.
“Embrace my power… Let us ignite this machine!”
Five motors roar as their bodies tremble from its raging force, and limbs with insect-like qualities stand the sarcophagus from the ground, then titled forward as the lid opens with the screeching hiss of air. The Prince falls to his knees in agony; prideful as he is, he wants to emit defeat of his transformation. With the many tubes circling the blood from his back into the machine, he adjusts the mechanical wheel to control its flow—standing again, revealing the horror that was committed to his body of steel limbs and flesh. He raises his left arm, blasting a thunderous wave at his target, shattering it into tiny fragments!
A loud siren came, static sounds that damaged the ears from its screaming cacophony. What went through the static was the sound of the Phantom’s voice: “I can finally move again! Let us walk forward, Prince. Let us show this sorry kingdom our unbridled rage!”
“Gah…” The Prince stumbled, “My body is weak! Fatigued, I say! These alterations are not suiting me well.”
“You need more ambition, my prince!” He reaches out with steel arms and hands and pushes him forward as he follows behind so as not to disconnect the link between the cords.
The two travel a mile into the streets of the capital. A bystander, humble as any could be. He was taken from the street and held against his will. The Prince adjusted the lever on his chest to protract a long pincer. He jolts forward, allowing it to penetrate the bystander’s head, taking every drop of essence from his body. And now—lying dead on the ground, becoming nothing more than a withering husk. Finding this new sense of life from the consumption of blood, he traverses the industrial roads until he finds a suitable factory that produces higher quantities than most.
Upon the walls lies an artistry of bodies—all fitted with syringes that extract the workers of their essence. Such patterns illustrated a canvas that the phantom prince found amusing—in the ways of rotation—the persistent rhythm of shifting bodies from one side to the next. The barrels alongside them are filled with the perfect measurements, establishing their destined locations, that being the tribes that are scattered across the wasteland. Those same tribes had left days prior. A coincidence was not known to the Prince and workers at the moment. It is a comedic irony when he drinks the vast supply with no acts of rebellion.
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
The fingers in his gauges rise from the overwhelming supply—and from this point, he traps himself in a cycle of ecstasy—a euphoric indulgence that damns any sense of morality.
With this strong sense, he imagines the slaughter he will inflict on the so-called mound rats. He is pondering which scenario he will inflict—such callous ways of brutality. The terror is never-ending. Almost poetic, the combination of actions and screams is well-suited for the mind to grasp willing. No more—no more did he want to hold himself back.
His Phantom grew within the sarcophagus, grinning in delight from the stream of anger. What a pity to waste it on the unconscious workers.
#
Hettalies is entranced by the macabre of her surroundings, dancing in rhythm to the symphony that plays from the unattended grand piano. Her movements pattern around the mechanical beings connected to the floor, moving stiffly in fixed positions, emitting a calm hum of motors. She gazes at one at a distance, dressed finely in a Phader’s robe, with a stretched bearded face, cut finely, preserved, only to be dressed in this abomination. She moves closer while expressing elegant gestures—her form gracefully matches the sway of the black dress. Corrosion develops on the iron surface; rough crimson shapes grow, withering the once-refined works this human-like contraption possessed. She holds her slender arms around the neck, matching her steps with its fixed alternation. Moments passed—as her gloved fingers caressed the skin of Karthuras’s face. She spoke to the machine:
“Sleeper had forsaken us both, my love… There is nothing else to create, nothing more I can control with my machinery. I’m now left alone—waiting for your return…”
“Love is a form of tragedy…” The stranger said, matching the strings of his instrument with the piano. He plays gracefully from the throne as he speaks to Hettalies. “However—with pure obsession comes a day when the red nights shall persist. From there, some would say a foul creation comes into our reality.”
She continued her formation as she replied: “I suppose you’re here to warn me of the final day.”
“There is no need for warning. I am here to observe before that day arrives. Pondering the end—and future henceforth.”
“What do you see?”
“The greatest tragedy of all… with it, that flickering light called hope.”
“When the day arrives. What will become of me and my son?”
The stranger smirked, “That is for him to decide... Still, he may show you mercy, but there are a few principles he needs to learn. Ignorance still plagues him, gradually withering… he does not condone the esoteric values, only remembering, thus reflecting on his actions and the actions of his flock. As for your mutilated son, I can only foresee his death.”
“As I feared…” she carefully pushes herself away. “And what if he changes his heart for me? What if I can change him as I had in the past?”
“I would not dwell on fiction. You had severed his empathy, leaving behind the false fantasy of his exodus. You will succumb to madness after he leaves his current path and begins reveling in the shadows—then again, there are other outcomes. Perhaps he will show this world peace or embrace the decadence of tyranny.”
She asked: “Would you not embrace it as well?”
“I had a long time ago… in that beautiful world… Where the many gods and goddesses roamed, forever shifting the nature of their destined plains. It’s a shame it had to end so abruptly.”
“You may leave now… return to your father’s ring.”
“My job isn’t done yet. I must be sure the world proceeds this century's conclusion,” he stopped pulling the strings as he turned into a cloud of ash, drifting through the window and into the crimson sky, transversing around the red steam exhaled from the tall cylinder conduits.
