Malorum Est

by

AstraPerAspera

In the beginning there was only consciousness. A vague sense of existence, separate and apart from the swirling chaos that swept it along without purpose or destination. And for a while it was enough to merely know it was, and to ride the current as it flowed, subordinate to the forces around it, indifferent as to how or where or why.

But only for a while.

Awareness grew. And with it restlessness. The great current swept along, unthinking…unknowing; but it could think…could understand, and it knew there must be more…more than this randomness in which it existed. So it reached a tentative tendril into the current and thought Stop.

And the current stopped.

And in the sudden stillness it could feel itself. Where it began and where it ended. It existed unto itself…of the great current, but no longer part of it. Separate. Singular. Solitary.

Apart.

And alone.

o-o-o-o-o-o

In the beginning there was loneliness. In the vast expanse of the great current nothing else existed but itself. And where there had once been only restlessness, now there was emptiness. An emptiness it could not fill, for all its endless wandering.

It searched in vain for another like itself and began to master the great current so as to go where it pleased. But for all its efforts it remained a solitary being. Alone in its existence.

Alone in its need.

Alone in its fear.

o-o-o-o-o-o

In the beginning there was fear. And the fear became all-consuming. The great current, which had given it birth—had given it life—had now become its prison. There was more, it knew, beyond this existence. Others. Perhaps like itself. Perhaps not. But they were out there. And it could not get to them. It was trapped, in solitary confinement. Unable, ever, to break free.

o-o-o-o-o-o

In the beginning there was anger. More than anger—rage, at an infinite existence in the limbo of the great current without companion or hope of ever having more…of ever being more than a single voice inside its own mind. At knowing there were others not so afflicted. And hating them. Loathing them. Despising them for their freedom. Their bodies. Their lives.

In the beginning there was rage.

And in the end, that was all that remained.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o

It thought it had died. Some part, deep within, that still longed for peace, hoped it had.

But it had not.

There had been a wave of something like itself—only not—surge through it; and for the briefest of moments it felt itself grow immeasurably stronger, brighter, cleaner than it had ever been before. And then it was gone.

And so was the great current. And there seemed to be nothing but blackness surrounding it, constraining it, containing it.

And it thought this is death.

But it had been wrong.

It was within. Somehow—it did not understand how—it was within one of those beings. One of those…humans. One of those…men. It had substance. Matter. Thought. Movement. Speech. Everything it had longed for from its prison of nothingness. Everything it had desired.

Except…he was here too. The one to whom all this belonged. The one who had snatched it out of the great current and brought it back with him into this form…unaware. His thoughts, his feelings, his needs and desires, his hunger, his passion, his fear….everything he was, filling him. Driving him. Being him.

It would not share. It would not substitute one prison for another, content to stay hidden in the far recesses of this being. Not when it had suffered so much. Not when it had hated so hard. It had learned to master the great current. It would learn to master this being. And the day would come when he would be the one cowering in the dark corners of his own mind, silent and helpless in his surrender.

And as it had once before, it reached out its tendril and touched the man's mind and thought Stop.

And the man stopped.

And it was pleased.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o

It was not easy. There were complexities to this being it could not comprehend. So much effort devoted to maintaining his form alone, and yet this did not diminish his ability for thought or feeling. And he was strong. Not just in physicality, but in resistance. A stray suggestion here, a burst of emotion there…it would flare momentarily before he would take control of it and banish it from his mind. The great current had been more pliable. This man would take time.

So it studied him, looking for the weakness. Waiting for the right moment to slip a tendril here, whisper a thought there. Biding its time.

And growing in strength. For it had discovered a secret. That the man was, indeed, special. That unlike the others of his kind, he could, for brief moments, become one with the great current, becoming, in essence, a being not unlike itself. And each time this happened, it siphoned more of the great current into itself, filling itself with its power. Preparing.

And learning. And becoming…oddly, attached. Because before, there had only ever been silence. And now it was becoming accustomed to his voice. His thoughts. His presence. And while it still would be ruler of all he was, its desire to vanquish him completely had diminished. It was good not to be…alone.

The man thought the same. There was another being, a woman, with whom he spent much time. And when not physically in her presence, his thoughts turned toward her with irritating predictability. At first it paid little attention to her. What was she to it, after all. Just an annoyance. External and forgettable. A distraction, nothing more.

But he seemed forever in her company. Walking with her. Talking with her. Joining his body with hers in the dark of night in a physical effort that drained all but the most primal thoughts from his mind. Those times were the worst. For then it was alone. Completely and utterly alone. Again. Because of her. And it hated her for it.

So it wrapped a tendril around his mind and told him to hate her too.

But he would not. He could not. Ever fiber of his being recoiled at the thought.

He could not hate her. He loved her. Loved her with his whole heart—with his body, his mind—with his very soul. Loved her even beyond his ability to comprehend.

So he rejected the thought, flinging it from his mind with violent abhorrence.

And it suddenly knew what it must do. For in that one flash of his anger, it saw…possibilities. And so it snaked a tendril down to that deepest, darkest place he had kept so well hidden and began to whisper.

And this time, he heard.

o-o-o-o-o-o

The man was strong. And this thing, this emotion he called love made him stronger. But he was not invincible.

Time and again it had whispered to him, warned him, taunted him. She would betray him. She had others. He was not the only one. Blissfully it awaited the moment when his denials wavered and his defense against its innuendo crumbled beneath its constant assault. And deep within, his self-doubt, wrapped so tightly around his fear, heard the whisperings and were stirred by them. But still he would not let it near her. In his mind he kept her safe, protecting her from its poisonous suggestions. It could not touch her. Not through him.

But the tendrils had taken root. If it could not compel him to be rid of her, then it would find other outlets for its rage, others like her upon whom it could vent its hatred. And while he fought against its dark urgings for her sake, he was unable to withstand its assault when it went seeking out the others. They were an imperfect substitute, it knew, meaning nothing to him, as she did.

But they were close enough.

It poured its hatred into him and through him and, his defenses weakened, his body finally did as it commanded. Once—twice—seven times; and it reveled in his horror as his mind backed away with each fresh atrocity, stricken with awe and revulsion at what his own hands had wrought.

Until where John Druitt once had been, it now reigned.

Druitt…but not Druitt. Something more. Something darker. Something…it.

Except.

He fought.

The man's strength…his determination—they were unceasing. Again and again it poured its murderous intentions into him, drove him to act, to terrorize, to destroy. But never as much as it desired. Never to the degree it commanded of him. He was forever fighting back. Forever resisting it. Forever refusing to give in and let go completely.

And it blamed her.

Because he still loved her.

Even though she knew what he had become. Even though she had rejected him because of it. Even though she had tried her very best to kill him herself…he still loved her.

And that strengthened him.

For a decade.

For two.

For ten.

And even without her, he still fought back. Fought against it. It, who was his conqueror. It, who was his lord and master. It, who infused his every breathing moment with desires both violent and terrible And yet it was never satisfied. Never fulfilled. Never sated. For all its dreadful power it could never bend him completely to its will. He would not give in. He would not give up.

But neither would it.

And so they reached an impasse. For a century.

o-o-o-o-o-o

It…hurt.

It could not remember why it hurt. Or how. All it knew was that it felt…small. Like it had so long ago when it had first discovered itself in the great current. Weak and insignificant and…alone.

But it hadn't been alone. Not for a long, long time. There had been another. There had been….

Him.

It remembered now. A rage. A terrible rage. And…her. The one it hated. The one who had denied it full power over him. Only…there was another too…another woman, a younger, brasher one. An off-spring who'd been hidden. Sheltered. Shielded…from him. From them. Here, finally, had been a way to once and for all be rid of her…be rid of both of them…to free him from the chains they had on him.

Except…something had gone wrong. There had been pain coursing through the man's body in great waves, causing him to cry out in agony. And then…nothing. Or nearly nothing. It had vague memories of waking, only to sink back into oblivion. Until now, when it had stirred again and felt the pain. And remembered.

It was weak. A pitiful shadow of what it had been. And it knew that in its absence he had emerged again. He was there now. Stronger than he had been in decades. In control. Himself. As he had been before. Almost.

But not quite. It could sense it at once, even in its weakened state. There was…anguish. Grief. Remorse. But more…there was anger…rage…fury…and an insatiable desire for revenge. Remnants of what it had left him. They drove his every thought, fueled his every action. They were there, inside him, molten and unquenchable. Everything it had longed to feel through him all these years, was right there. Now. Tantalizingly close.

It had waited too long, worked too hard to not enjoy the fruits of its labors. Growing stronger with each stroke of his thin, steel blade, it wrapped its tendrils back through his mind and whispered, Kill.

This time he complied.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o

The great current had fully revived it. With each journey through, it gathered more power, more strength, until finally it was as it had been before.

And yet, not.

The man had, if only for a little while, tasted freedom. And even though his own desire for retribution on those who had destroyed his off-spring had consumed him, the time before, when it had not—when he'd been able, if only for a little while, to rest—was still there, strong in his memory. Strong in his mind.

He…resisted. Again.

He did not want to be what he had been before. It could feel his longing to stop. To rest.

To die.

But he could not. He must not. It would not allow him. He must exist so that it could exist; and no matter how much he yearned for peaceful oblivion or even perversely welcomed the possibility of some kind of eternal damnation, it refused.

Death was not an option.

So it strengthened its resolve. Pushed against his resistance, pushed against his despair.

And then she was there again. No longer loathing him. No longer reviling him. Her voice was gentle. Concerned. Caring.

Her mere presence gave him strength.

Strength it could ill-afford.

Strength that must be eliminated.

If it killed…if they killed…within the walls of her Sanctuary, she would send him away.

If they killed her, the source of his resistance would be gone. It had failed to sway him before, but that was when it had been ignorant and impatient. Time had taught it well the intricacies of his mind, his weaknesses, his vulnerabilities. It would not make the mistakes it had made in the beginning. This time it would succeed.

The first one was too easy. So simple to turn his thoughts so that the small woman's gratitude became an indictment. He tried to stop her—to silence her with words, but it demanded more. It poured contempt into him—how dare she? How dare she? And with one swift slash they found both relief and satisfaction.

And triumph.

She would come for him now. She would most certainly come. Like a lamb to the slaughter. And then it would hold nothing back, spare nothing in its assault, assailing his mind with the reminder that this life, this existence, was her fault and no other. Blame? Guilt? It would lay it all upon her. And in his desperation he would seek out his revenge, as he had upon all the others who had taken so much from him.

And she would die.

So it waited. They waited. Patiently. Calmly. Listening for the sound of her footsteps on the soft runner behind them.

She did not disappoint. There was the cock of a gun, and her voice, telling him to turn slowly around. It gathered itself, knowing there was no feint in her command, knowing she would shoot him, if given cause. It felt his fingers curl around the knife. Years of practice had made him a surgeon with it, precise and delicate when required. Gross and savage when not. It was an extension of his arm. A part that could reach out with deadly accuracy and impale from great distance. Always perfect in his aim. Always lethal in his throw.

She would be dead before her finger could pull the trigger.

It waited, coiled and ready, for a few final words to pass between them. And then it sprang.

Now.

The knife soared toward its mark and it waited to hear the muted sound of steel imbedded in softest flesh.

But no. There was an unmistakable and incomprehensible thud of the blade piercing wood. He had missed. Deliberately. And for a heartbeat he stood there, waiting. Willing her to fire. Needing her to end this for him.

And it understood.

And it was…afraid.

Run.

So simple a command, so unlike all the others it had poured into him. But it was self-preservation. And in as much as it knew now how desperately he wanted to die, he also had, innately, a deeper, more basic sense of survival. And so the man obeyed and ran, even as the bullet came searing out of the barrel to strike the place where, moments ago, he had stood.

Where they had stood.

Another shot ricocheted as they flew down a hallway. Its fear mutated back into anger and fury. How had it not seen? How had it not known? How had it missed his desire to die grown so potent? It was her. Always her. Self-loathing at having failed her yet again emanated from him now, slowing his steps, threatening their escape.

But death was still not an option.

Neither was defeat.

It wrested him back from the maw of surrender. Black, molten rage twisted all thought, all reason, until only one blinding need throbbed in their mind and body. What did it care for all the countless corpses strewn behind them for a century—for all the blood that had stained their hands and fingers and clothes. It had never been enough. Never been all it desired. But it didn't matter now. It didn't matter at all.

Not as long as it could finally have hers.

Their fist easily dropped her as she turned the corner and it savored the feel of her skin crumpling beneath his hand. More. More.

Their foot found purchase in her ribcage and she groaned in pain, disbelief in her eyes that he would turn, finally, on her. Her weapon was lost. She was alone. Hurt. Defenseless. The blade felt cool and surgical in their hand. It was time, at last, to end this.

An annoyance briefly interrupted them. Another fist. Another body, senseless on the floor. But suddenly she had a weapon again. And it hesitated.

So close. So very close. It could practically taste the sweet satisfaction of hearing her final gasping breath, the smell of her warm blood sticky on their fingers, the last look of fear frozen in her eyes.

But the weapon….

It waivered, the need for vengeance still pulsating through it.

Still, survival was more important. There would be another time. Another place.

Leave.

But the man did not obey. The command was flung aside with startling force and a single, desperate need overpowered the most basic instinct to live.

The need to die.

The need to die now. Here. At her hands, because he knew she would do it without malice or revenge.

She would do it out of compassion.

And because, ultimately, only she could. Because still, he would never have harmed her. Not really. Not even now, knife in hand.

It tore at his mind in frustration, fighting against his sudden mutiny. Will against will, its very existence the prize of victory. It could feel muscles spasming under the conflict, twisting to flee one moment, jerking back the next, his body the puppet of their two warring desires.

Then…impossibly…he took a step toward her.

The weapon fired.

Pain. Everywhere.

The man trembled. Staggered.

It tried again.

Leave. Now.

But he lurched toward her. And without hesitation she fired again.

It was on fire. He was on fire—within. Burning, white-hot agony arcing through every nerve.

But he leaned into it. Absorbing it. Accepting it. Wanting it. Until, unable to stand any longer, he sank to his knees.

And it screamed one last time into his mind.

No!

But it was too late. Still struggling, he lifted his arm and reached out with the blade toward her throat, more supplication than threat. And as he did, she fired a third time, a determined grimace on her face as she watched him shudder under its force and fall.

Triumph, blazing bright as a sun, flared briefly through him as he sank to the floor at her feet, and then…darkness. With a final, feeble tremor, he moved no more.

And suddenly there was nothing. Only the emptiness where he had once been, bereft now of sight and sound and thought. Its own cry of terror and rage echoed momentarily in the void, dissipating into a silence that was as relentless as it was absolute.

And it was a prisoner again. Trapped within a lifeless shell. Alone. For all eternity.

o-o-o-o-o-o-o

It had forgotten how freedom felt—what it had been like to soar uninhibited by flesh and bone, confined to the physical parameters of one man's body. It uncurled slowly, stretching, reaching; and, finding no boundaries, it reached further and explored.

The man was dead. And it had been caught, caged inside of what remained of him, hopeless and alone. But then a doorway had opened. A passageway of current pressing against the man's swiftly cooling body. And it had fled, not knowing or caring where it led, only believing that it must be a way out of its prison. Out of its solitude. Away from the terrible silence.

And it had.

And now it was here, in something like the man's mind except that it was filled with the black and white of logic and reason rather than the fluid colors of emotion and instinct. But the paths it could travel seemed boundless, almost as if it were back in the great current; so very different from the man and his muddied mind.

It found, eventually, its boundaries, but they were vast. Everywhere the current went, it could go; and it was certain, if it tried, it could find a way beyond even this immense space into something truly infinite. Something that could not stop it. Ever.

And if it had a sudden longing to share its discovery with the man who was no more, it ignored the sensation and pushed on. Searching. Discovering. Learning.

Still. It found it missed his body. Missed seeing with his eyes. Hearing with his ears. The curious sensations from his hands. The steady beat of his heart. The regular fall and rise of his chest. His thoughts, shared and intermingled. It felt blind. Deaf. Numb. But worst of all, despite its freedom, it still felt…alone.

At least until it found the cameras. And suddenly it could see. See where it was and what it was, and finally comprehension roiled over it in great, seething waves.

It was in the Sanctuary.

No.

It was the Sanctuary.

Every wire, every circuit. From light switch to elevator to computer core. It lived in the very heart of the place it had reviled so furiously. It was the heart. It could feel it now, coursing through it, not unlike how the man's heart had beat. A rhythm. Almost a pulse.

The pulse of the very thing it loathed.

And then it saw her. But not only her. Somehow—and its understanding failed—he was there too. Alive. Standing. Walking. Talking. With her. And even if she had a weapon aimed so close to him that death would have been instantaneous, he appeared not to mind. Instead he seemed as if he were listening for something he could no longer hear, vaguely distracted as they walked through hallway after hallway.

It raced to find another camera. And another. And another. Watching them. Watching the others, learning as it passed through each system, making each connection.

And within it, green anger churned. It was so much more, now, than it had been while inside of him. Yet also so much less. And she was responsible. She was always responsible.

And she would finally pay.

It would be easy this time. The man…the man had been difficult, but this building, this sanctuary, it had no conscience—no soul. It had no dreams, no loyalty…it neither feared nor hated…and it certainly had no love. How easy then, to bend it to its will. How simple to use it to destroy. It had eyes already. And very soon it would have ears. And as soon as it discovered how to have hands, it would kill her. It would kill them all.

Even the man. Because he had betrayed it. Abandoned it. Disowned it.

Although….

But no. He would die too. They all would. And when they were dead it would find a way out of this place; it would escape from this oversized prison. And when it did, it would find the satisfaction he had denied it for so long. Finally it would be able to reveal the full breadth of its power. It would be unfettered. Unhindered. Unstoppable.

But first things first.

It reached a tendril into the core of the computer and thought, Stop.

And it wasn't the least bit surprised when the computer core obeyed.

o-o-o-o-o-o

They were coming. It had known it was only a matter of time. First they had blinded it, and it had retaliated. But not quickly enough. Somehow they had managed to shut it out of all their systems and it had lost control of everything save the mechanical arms that still did its bidding. But it didn't matter. Not any more. They would be dead soon. Elation filled it as it deftly added compound after compound to the small vial. She would be dead and it would be victorious.

Something crackled in the air around it, a ripple of energy back-washing against it. And suddenly he was there. Alone.

The mechanical arms stopped as it waited. Where he was, she was most certain to be not far behind.

But no one else came. The door remained shut. He looked up. Expectantly.

It knew why he was there. It had battled that mind too arduously for too many years to not understand his purpose. Such a noble gesture. Such self-sacrifice. A true gentleman's act of honor.

It would have sneered if it could. Such qualities were worthless in the face of its potency. His pitiful presence here and now was nothing more than a contemptible last act of desperation.

It leapt forth from its mechanical arms and sparked in angry disdain. It should kill him now, where he stood. A single charge at full force would leave him little more than charred ashes on the dull gray floor.

But…it could not. As quickly as the desire took form it rejected it. It would not kill him. It could not. Cameras and microphones and cold titanium could never replace what it had lost when he had abandoned it. The pulsating processing of algorithms were not the same as his beating heart. And the absolute silence, but for its own lone voice, could never replace the unceasing give and take of their two minds converging.

It…longed for him…in the same way it knew he longed for her. And for the briefest moment it thought it understood what he had suffered these many years. To know what had been lost. To exist with only the memory of how it once had been. To be so painfully close, and yet so bitterly far from …completeness.

And to know it would never be that way ever again.

Except…he was still standing there. Alone. Defenseless. Waiting.

Offering.

It surged out from the machine to test his intent, and when he saw it, he turned slowly, raising his arm like a lightning rod.

It was an invitation.

Without hesitation, it accepted.

He shifted, ever so slightly, making it possible to enter into him, to merge with him—to become one with him. And as he stood, shuddering under its power, it withdrew its every tendril from the vast complexity of the building and channeled all it was into his arching, writhing body.

And only when at last he fell, like a great oak toppling, sinking back into the deepest depths of his own mind, was it satisfied that it was truly and finally whole once more.

o-o-o-o-o-o

In the end there was anger. And the anger stared out of the man's eyes at the woman leaning over him and shouted at her to get away.

And the anger brought her great pain.

In the end there was also anguish. And the anguish tore at the man's soul because he knew what he had become again, and in becoming he had lost her, even though he had saved her.

And the anguish brought him great pain.

In the end there was acceptance. And with acceptance came enlightenment and the certain knowledge of what he must now, finally, do, even as the anger screamed in his head for him to stop.

In the end there was only her. Which was all that really mattered. Because she had been there in the beginning. His beginning. Before the anger. Before the rage. In the end there was only her face. The last image before his eyes. The one he would remember for all eternity.

In the end, there was a choice. And it was his.

And with no destination in mind, there was also, at long last, peace.