Yet another deranged product of my twisted mind emerges anew from the cess pool that houses my demented inspiration.
And this IS demented. People who easily become sick or horrifyed shouldn't be reading it.
This is for those of you who like OC and the wonderful, insane comic known as JTHM. If you don't like OC... well, you really don't have to read it, but I would enjoy if you did. No? Well, I tried.
If you don't like JTHM... well, you're saner than I am.
This will be updated extremely sporadically. Meaning that no matter how many times you people beg me for new chapters, I won't put any up until I damn well feel like it (even though reviews are nice and I love them to death. Plus hearing that people want to read more of my stories fill me with fuzzy warmth). This could either mean that I could update twice in the same day, or that I could completely disappear for months on end. Don't worry if that happens, I am phase-like in nature and tend to go through different fics, putting my all into whichever one I have an idea for at the time and leaving the others to rot for a while until I get all I can onto the new one.
Traditional disclaimer moment! I do NOT -do I look like I could come up with this shit?- own JTHM, IFS, Squee, or IZ. I merely enjoy using the characters -Iprobably won'tuse all of them, btw. This is meant to be just JTHM, and IZ would only make a background cameo, if anything- and putting them all through my ingenious little hell. Jhonen created them all, go bother him.
Violence warning! Yeah, there's violence, and a lot of it. What do you seriously expect form anything that's a fanwork of JTHM, really? If you can't take it like I meant it, which is not at all serious and mostly to just express a point, then read that line over again. Yeah, the part where I said 'not at all serious and mostly to just express a point'. Got that? Good.
Now... read or I'll have my army of rabid chipmunks show you the true meaning of pain!
BTW- Nny doesn't even show up until second chap, sorry for those of you who wanted to see him now (puppy eyes)
High in the sky, the sun, which had been thwarted for the entire day, managed to break through the thick gray fluff that was the remains left behind by a vicious storm. As the light touched gently and brightly upon the empty, deserted street, a few stray, waterlogged advertisements flit through the wispy, cold wind, brushing across the pavement slightly as they attempted to lift their papery bodies into the sky towards the distant point of light and the promise of dryness.
The trees, many of their branches strangely bare and tall forms so much like a skeleton as to induce a shiver into even the most hardened of people, bent lightly as the stroke of the breeze played against their limbs, soaking in the stray rays of light as if they would never get the chance to experience it again. A large, ethereal black bird flew from an unknown origin, gracefully alighting on one of the uppermost swaying limbs and preening its feathers for a moment before letting loose a harsh, croaking caw that shattered the silence. Its wings opened with a rustle, and it leapt off the branch, following a curious path towards a gradually rising sound in the distance.
The bird landed on the roof of a large building, cocking its head as it attempted to make sense of the sounds within the brick fortress. It peered down to the ground, the unearthly red eyes taking slight notice of the advertisements blowing along on their lonely way past the thick, arched double doors. As it watched this, the minute hand on the face of a clock sitting just below the avian twitched up another notch. An electric spark from this minuscule movement traveled up a wire that was connected to the clock, reaching a large, domed metal device attached to the face of the wall just beside the ebony form.
The bell exploded with a harsh, clattering ring, and the crow screamed in surprise, flying from its place so fast that several feathers drifted down from where it had been. Far below, dozens of forms erupted from the building, hooting and cheering and droning with loud and rather impolite talk as they scattered, many hopping into several brightly colored cars and driving away and still more breaking off into small groups of friends to head off in any direction possible that wasn't home. The sea of people was perfect in its flow; everyone had a place, and everyone had somewhere to go.
Then, a single form walked leisurely from the doors, and the flow was disrupted around it. Bright, flaring orange hair distinguished the anomaly instantly as something that didn't belong in the flow, something that was a clog in the otherwise smoothly flowing machine of sociality. Heavy, thick-soled black boots clomped on the pavement, their silver accents and red grips flashing slightly in the light as their owner stopped, letting the rush of people simply go around. Above those boots, dark jeans of a blue that was very nearly black flared out slightly at the bottom, revealing flashes of violet socks between them and the boots. The dark blue clashed harshly with the blood red shirt, which was overly long but not without a style of its own, and which held no image on the front or back, a fact that was not true for almost every other person that flowed around the recently dismissed school.
Slowly, a pale, almost white hand rose, in its clutches an important looking document upon which one of the black feathers immediately alighted and was just as quickly brushed off with an impatient flick. The other hand never moved, as it was already occupied, as it nearly always was, by the compact silver form of an old but still vital CD player. From this, a long black cord snaked its way up to the ears, which were hidden behind gigantic black and silver headphones. Faintly above the din of the people, the roar of a steady beat could be heard, and the person absentmindedly turned the volume up as their eyes roved over the words printed on the paper.
It was these eyes that distinguished the person more than any other feature, for not only were they set into a permanent, half-lidded glare of hatred and disinterest; they were of a stark, yellow-gold color that was astonishingly bright and frighteningly predatory. Below these eyes, below the almost dainty nose, the thin-lipped mouth turned downwards into a scowl, the eyes narrowing to mere slits and a growl coming from the throat. The paper was slowly crushed between those thin, graceful fingers, crumpling under the steadily increasing and unnecessarily violent pressure.
The girl stopped suddenly, looking at her hand from her narrowed eyes. The paper, once so perfectly black and white, was now stained red by the blood that had welled up from the fingernail-shaped wounds in the palm of her hands. With a disgusted snort, she tossed the paper away, eyes remaining in their threateningly vicious state as she wandered to an old, still partially leafy tree, leaning against its shadowed side and glaring up at the sun that had taken away such a perfectly good storm, then dared to show its face in the sky once more. Slowly, the stragglers from the school filed out, talking and laughing and generally having a good time, paying no mind to the girl that blended with the shade of the tree, her eyes blazing in what seemed to be their own light.
Even with the volume turned all the way up, she couldn't drown out those voices. She grit her teeth as she was forced to listen to the group that passed the tree, their high-pitched laughter grating on her already frayed nerves.
"Oh my Gawd! Can you, like, believe that this is, like, the LAST day of school?" One asked. Obviously this was a group of trendy girls, and the absolutely horrifying mangled mess that was their language made them possible cheerleaders, as well. The girl clenched her fingers, the wounds on her hand beginning to run down her hand to drip small droplets of blood on her shoes. She didn't notice.
"I know! Isn't it just, like, wonderful?" gushed another one.
"Yeah, and the graduation is tonight!" said the third, "That's so, like, awesome! We don't even have to wait a week to get our diplomas!"
"Wonder who the Valedictorian is gonna be?" said the second in a musing tone.
"It could be Derek!" squealed the first.
"Oh my gawd, he is, like, so hot!" they all squealed together, their high-pitched sounds seeming so much like screaming pigs that the girl by the tree expected someone to come investigate why people were murdering pork at any time. Of course, this didn't happen, and to her great relief the voices were soon drowned out by a new, louder track that she liked coming in from her CD player. She unclenched her hands, finally noticing the pain that was emanating from her mangled hand.
She brought the offending limb up to her face, sighing as she looked at it and letting her narrowed glare relax for a moment before she remembered the tittering of the normally mindless girls. With an almost soundless snarl, she pushed off from the tree, looking up at the sun that was still relatively high in the sky and snorting before heading off in a direction that she knew well. Around her there seemed to be a hushed silence, as if even the birds were afraid of sounding their songs in the presence of the girl. She paid no mind to the silence, instead listening to the end of the song, letting her mind drift into the melody and forgetting the events of the day.
Her large and slightly blood stained boots hit the pavement with a disturbing lack of sound, her stride long and purposeful as the track continued on. She didn't even have to look at the streets, or take notice of the surroundings. Her feet knew the way to where she was going well enough, by now. She had been taking this same road every day she could for years, always the same way. The people on her path never bothered her, nor did she give them a reason to. In all the years she had come through, she had never spoken to one person that passed her, had never even given any hint that she had seen them at all.
But she saw it all. It was part of her training, after all, to see all without giving any hint that she was watching. It had been easy enough for her to master it.
Filthy waste, she thought absentmindedly as she passed a woman that was yelling at her young son with no mind to his frightened trembling, disgusting creatures. Why was the earth cursed to harbor such refuse as this? Seeing the infestation sickens me to no end…
Finally, her destination came into sight, and she cut her thoughts short as she gazed in some semblance of respect at the old, broken down building. The walls, ancient and chipped so much that the surface was transformed into a demented jigsaw mosaic of irregular tiles and missing pieces. The windows, once holding glass but no longer, were boarded up tightly, with a few stripes of graffiti here and there splashing color on the wood. It was the door that was the most normal of all, tall and straight and made of a thick steel, the window on the front –glass still miraculously intact- covered and protected by an iron mesh. The decrepit path leading up to the building had entire panels of pavement missing, and only a few sparse weeds were struggling to grow in the grayish dirt near the walls, pushing up from the flakes of stone that had come off from the surface.
Above the door, hanging on by only the most strained of nails, was a large, faded wooden sign that read 'Hector's Weapon's Galore'.
The door creaked ominously as she pushed it open, the hinges old and almost rusted away completely. The inside of the building gave much the same atmosphere as the outside; a single, dim and flickering light bulb illuminated the rows and rows of cracked glass cases feebly, and the floor was dusty and covered in the corpses of various insects. Yet even this dim atmosphere could not dull the glint of the dozens of weapons in the cases, and their cold steel edges glinted brightly and ominously behind the walls of their individual prisons, patiently awaiting the day when they would burst out and be used. The blades practically begged for bloodshed, and it was a call that the girl regretted not answering. They were all so beautiful…
"I almost thought that you might not come today, Oracle," rasped a harsh, croaking voice that seemed distinctly like a toad. The girl's eyes flicked upwards towards the counter, seeing the dark silhouette of a bent, ancient man sitting there, large eyeglasses flashing in the reflection of the light, "I'm glad you have."
"Why, old man?" Oracle asked, her voice hard and nearly emotionless despite its soft tone, "Today is just another day for a lesson. I was hoping I could use the Glaive again."
"So you shall, girl," the old man said, glasses flashing as he lifted up a moderately large, wicked looking weapon. The blades were curved in opposite directions, so that the entire weapon was reminiscent of a letter S in shape. The shaft between the two blades was short, only about the width of a hand, and in the low light its true color was impossible to distinguish, though like all the blades in the shop it shone with a life and beauty all its own
The man tossed it at the girl, and her hand whipped out with ease, firmly grasping the shaft and pulling the weapon towards her. Carefully she took her CD player and clipped it onto her belt so that she could get a full look at the object. Bloodstained fingers ran lovingly over the edges of the blades, putting just enough pressure to feel the sharpness but not be cut. Quickly, though, Oracle pulled her fingers back, looking in mild surprise at the ends of her digits that were bleeding in small, clean lines. The blades were sharper than she had thought, sharper than those of any weapon she had before used in this place.
"This is new," she commented impassively.
"It is yours," the man said. Oracle looked up suspiciously, and the man let a small chuckle escape him, making his shadow shake slightly. He stood, and his gray, wrinkled features came into the light slightly before he retreated back further into the shadows, "Come with me. There is more."
Oracle followed the shadow deeper into the dark depths of the weapons shop, her tread as silent as the atmosphere around them; the only sound in the silence the old man's ragged breathing and his shuffling step. There was a sudden rattling of keys, and a scream of tortured metal as another, older door was opened.
The room beyond was lit much as the first had been, but it was much larger and clearer, with the middle being a flat area with a large circle inscribed on the floor in faded white paint. Along the wall, in unbroken, pristine cases, were several examples of ancient weapons, many from a time far before even the old man's day. These weapons; Oracle could almost hear their stories as they cried them out, cried of times of glory and bloodshed and fallen warriors and a brutality like none ever seen before. They called to her inner animal, brought out her true soul and accepted it for what it was, embraced her in a vicious song of death and redemption.
"Here," the old man said harshly, breaking her thoughts and turning her attention to an old case near the back. He pulled out a strange weapon, one that she had only heard of before and never actually seen.
The plain shaft was long, almost as long as a full-grown person was tall, and made of a substance that looked like metal, but didn't shine at all. In fact, it seemed to absorb the light completely into a blackness deeper than night. At the very end of the weapon, sweeping gracefully to either side in a perfect, lethal arc, was a single curved blade, tapered to a point on both ends and looking much like the sweeping wings of the manta ray. The blades glinted in the low light, and suddenly the girl saw that they were made of pure obsidian, and honed to alarming sharpness.
The blade spoke to her of thousands of battles, of thousands of lives taken by its own form. It sang of the glory of feeling its edges sink deep into the vitals of another, cutting off life, rending the soul in two.
"A Pendulum Scythe," the old man said matter-of-factly, "especially rare these days…" those spectacles eyes rose to meet hers, and Oracle nodded slowly in agreement with the unspoken request. She knew this day was coming, in fact had felt it fast approaching for a long while now.
The old man took his place on the other side of the faded circle, and Oracle pulled out her newly made Glaive, twirling it leisurely in her fingers as a fitting track began playing through her headphones.
I'm feeling crossed
I take it inside
Burn up the pain
My thoughts are strange
Just like the things
I used to love
Just like the tree that fell
I heard it
If art is still inside
I feel it
Suddenly, he was moving, moving much faster than a man of his considerable age should ever have been able to, and the pendulum blade whistled through the air, its joy at impending bloodshed clear. Oracle jumped back, narrowly avoiding a slash to her midsection that would have instantly gutted her right then and there. With a growl she bared her teeth in a challenging gesture, flipping her Glaive up to parry the returning sweep and grunting as the force of the ancient weapon bearing down upon her made her feet slide back slightly on the dusty, termite eaten floor. Sparks flew from the clash, framing her intensely concentrated face in the fireflies of conflict.
I wanna bleed
Show the world all that I have inside
I wanna scream
Let the blood flow that keeps me alive
Oracle twisted the glaive, forcing the scythe blade up and away from her as she darted in, aiming a fatal strike directly at the man's gut. Suddenly, her blades were knocked aside by another blade, a long dagger, to be precise, and she was forced to retreat as the pendulum began to advance in a way that would block off escape.
Fuck! She thought, I should've known he'd have more than one blade!
Take all these strings
They call my veins
Wrap them around
Every fucking thing
Presence of people I wanna bleed
Not for me
Well I must remain in tune
Forever
My love is music
I will marry melody
Show the world all that I have inside
I wanna scream
Let the blood flow that keeps me alive
Oracle narrowed her eyes as a long, wide slash caught her a glancing blow in the arm, causing a long and bloody gash to open up. Fortunately, it wasn't deep, nor was it too serious or painful. She surprised the old man by following the sweeping swing of his scythe, knocking away his second blade and seriously wounding his upper arm with the razor-sharp edges of the glaive. The dagger hit the floor with a sharp clunk from his nerveless fingers, and Oracle ducked and rolled away as the scythe came around again in a powerful return sweep. It very nearly caught the wire that connected her headphones to her CD player, and she snarled openly at that, her back arching up like an angered cat and her eyes narrowing dangerously as the wind from the near-miss ruffled her hair. The next strike of the pendulum she parried easily, and her arm darted out like lightning, catching the plain black shaft and jerking it back out of the old man's grasp. The ancient weapon gave a cry of despair as it clattered to the floor behind the girl, and the old man fumbled for the dagger on the floor, one arm flapping useless against his side and a flower of red slowly spreading on his shirt shoulder.
It was a simple thing to approach and kick the dagger away, and as the man gave a small gasp of defeat Oracle used the blade of the glaive to lift his head up, the spectacled eyes meeting her own, cold gaze.
"You've done well," he rasped, "I have nothing more to teach you."
Won't you let me take you I need music
For a ride
You can stop the world
Try to change my mind
Won't you let me show you
How it feels
You can stop the world
But you won't change me
I need music
I need music to set me free
To let me bleed
"Then you know what I'll do now," Oracle said flatly, her eyes blazing as she glared in a mix of disgust and respect at the old man. He had taught her well, almost too well. She was lucky to have found such a useful tool to help her with her mission so early in her life, otherwise she would have had to wait for a much longer time to start her work. Even so, he was weak, he was pitiful… he was expendable. The man nodded as much as the blade under his throat would allow.
"This place is yours," he said quietly, his raspy voice strained but soft at the same time, "I wish you luck."
"Luck has nothing to do with it, old man," Oracle snorted, "But thank you for the thought."
With that, she shoved her arm forward, and the razor-sharp end of the blade, the edge that had been crying to taste life ever since she had first held it, sliced into the old man's neck cleanly. Blood sprayed over her arm in a crimson torrent, staining the pale rose of her skin much like the artist splatters paint on a clean tapestry. Oracle watched impassively as the man's head lolled back, the extremity almost rolling clean off the torso if it hadn't been held on the neck by a thin strip of flesh and the unbroken spinal column.
"Might makes right," she whispered stonily, repeating the last line of her personal mantra and the driving force behind her mission.
She stepped back, ripping the joyfully singing blade out of the neck and frowning as the lifeless corpse fell forward, hitting the floor before her with a wet thump as a steadily growing pool of red appeared around it. She looked at it for a moment, and then tranquilly walked over to the other weapons, picking them up off the floor and bringing them with her to a hidden corner of the training room, where a large sink was set into the wall with several buffing cloths set around it on hooks and a chair to sit in placed in front of it. The girl calmly used the buffing cloths to clean off the blades of the various weapons, afterwards standing and striding to set each object in its respective place. She gazed appraisingly at the other weapons, gauging each one in its turn as she walked around the training room –her new training room- careful not to step in any of the growling puddles of blood spreading across the floor.
Smart old man, she thought as she saw the hidden channels in the floor directing the liquid down into a drain near the sink corner. The room would be simple to clean after she disposed of the body; all she would need to do was hose it down and it would be as it was before, if a bit less dusty.
As she walked past the place where the pendulum scythe rested, however, another glint of metal caught her eye. She moved to look at it, running her fingers over the glass and murmuring to herself past the music blaring through her headphones. The glaive resting in her left hand practically shivered as this new weapon sang its own song of death, a beautifully intricate and alluring melody that could not be drowned out by the music of her headphones.
Oracle walked back to the mangled corpse, curling her lip in disgust at the reminder of the man's weakness as she took the keys out of the pocket, kicking the body and ignoring the everlasting stare of those milky, lifeless eyes before walking back to the case without a backward glance. The keys, dripping with freshly spilled blood, clicked into the lock, and Oracle threw the panel open, revealing the dangerous-looking 'gauntlet'. She lifted it lovingly from the display, fitting it on her left arm and flexing her fingers.
It was as if it was meant for her to find.
The fingers of the gauntlet were made of interlocking plates, much like armor, but unlike armor these only covered the top of the finger, with small bands like on a ring to keep them in place. These five finger plates all had sharp spikes coming from the top of each joint, and at the end of each finger the metal came forward into a curved point, like the claw of a large cat. These points were sharp, and as Oracle transferred her glaive to her right hand so that she could inspect the glove more closely, the points scratched two bloody lines on the back of her hand. She grunted and ignored it, looking at the back of the gauntlet.
The five fingers and their interlocking plates were all connected to the back of the hand by a series of incredibly strong metal wires, jointed in a complex webwork so that they fit the contours of the hand and moved with them. Connected to this was a band that went around the wrist, able to be opened and closed by a simple lock much like a primitive type of handcuff. Oracle let a smile grace her usually prone lips as she bent her wrist, feeling the metal flex.
But suddenly, a ring from the front alerted her, and she swore softly as she quickly took the keys out of the display case lock and ran out of the room, closing and locking the door behind her and approaching the front desk. There was a dirty, middle-aged man staring at the gun racks, his hand rising thoughtfully to his bearded face as he considered the weapons. Oracle nearly gagged with disgust as she took her place behind the counter, watching the man out of the corner of her eyes.
Such a weak, typical human bastard, she thought with contempt, using firearms takes no talent at all. Just another fucking jock in a world where image is everything. I ought to blow his brains out with the gun he chooses… that'd be fun.
"Hey, girl," the man boomed, looking over to her. Oracle grit her teeth and tried to look attentive; she didn't need any investigations of this place quite yet, not when she just got it, "What happened to Hector? He always works front desk."
"He has some more pressing business, so I'm filling in for him for today," Oracle lied smoothly, fighting to keep her voice pleasant, "What can I help you with, sir?"
"Hmm, that's strange," mused the man, "Well, I'm just looking for a good, solid shot without much hassle, y'know? I mean, my friend's taking me hunting up in the country in a few weeks, and I need to get something quick, preferably at a fair price."
Oracle looked as if she was considering, inwardly cursing in every way she knew how. Another moment of having to listen to, to look at, this ignorant, human-like man and she would do something that she knew would be foolish, at best.
"Hmm, I suggest the custom magnum, sir. It has good range, stays on a straight course, and keeps up a good appearance. It looks much more expensive than it actually is."
The man turned to look, and Oracle concentrated on her already blaring music, calming herself. She didn't need to ruin anything tonight, not when she had had such a good day so far.
"You're right, girl," the man said, surprised, "I'll take it!"
Good, now go away, thought the girl, her still gauntleted hand digging into the wood of the counter. She rang up the price even before the man had walked up to the counter, and had his receipt ready and waiting. As soon as the money was handed over, she practically shoved the piece of paper in his hand.
"Wait, there, don't you want to make sure I'm regis-"
"No, no, I don't have to," said Oracle quickly, "You're all set, sir. Go have fun hunting in a few weeks, and be sure to get some good trophies, okay?"
Because they'll probably be the last one's you'll ever get…
"Okay, if you're sure," the man said uncertainly, "But… since when did Hector get another person to work for him? I thought this was just his business?"
"I'm a student," said Oracle, "He just lets me help out sometimes."
"He teaches?"
God, will he never shut up?
"Weapons and combat," said Oracle with a decidedly forced smile, "Now, I think it's getting late, and I need to close up, so…"
"Oh, right," said the man, walking towards the door. He paused right before he went out, "Have a good evening, girl."
"Thanks," Oracle almost hissed. The door closed, and she quickly flipped the sign in the window from 'open' to 'closed', locking the door with the still bloody keys before she went back to the counter. The orange-haired girl sighed in relief, running a tired hand through her hair, but stopped short as she saw the dark red stains of blood all over her pale arm. She looked down at herself, her eyes growling progressively wider as she realized that she was still covered from head to toe in blood, most of which was not her own. The shadows probably had hidden most of it, but she could never be sure…
"Fuck," she spat.
Song: Bleed
Artist: Cold
Author's personal feelings about the song: I love it like I love peanut butter.