EIGHT – Years Gone By
The creature soars through the sky of Tartarus. Its eight foot wing span carries its muscular body smoothly in a downward trajectory. A long and beaky, dull brown snout, housing sharp, pointy teeth, snap open and close emitting a low, shrieking noise. Two, sharp talon-feet dangle below its lean torso. Down it swoops, eyeing its target. It slows, putting on flapping air brakes to land on a man's right shoulder.
The man looks to the creature with a weary smile. "You did good," he says rubbing the warm, crinkly flesh on the creature's bending head.
It clucks and coos at Clark's touch. Its long, snake-like tail with sharp protrusions, flutters upward and around in contentment.
Clark sits upon a large stone. He looks down at his once, black-booted feet, now wet with blood. Not his, or what one would deem as typical blood, this is a viscous, dark brown sludge. His eyes tilt up, acknowledging the sea of charred skeletal skulls and bones that surround him. Many still smoking, a wafting of the dead of the dead lingers that Clark has become familiar with, a smell that is never long in its absence. His weathered, dirty, and also wet fingers tug, scratch his long, thick and unkempt beard. Fingernails, never much to grow, are longer, sharpened. Tufts of hair from his head, dance over steaming eyes that have used its last strong reservoir of heat beams.
It has been one hundred forty-eight years since Clark first arrived in Tartarus. At least, that is his best estimate. There is no sunrise or sunset because there is no sun. Only the constant omnipresent light that never dims. Internally, he has felt each day, for so long without her. Weeks became months. Years. Decades. A century. He thinks of his friends, family back home. Many will have long since died. A painful mourning that rises and recedes.
There are no reflective surfaces in Tartarus. Clark knows not what he looks like now, what nearly three centuries of life has done to him physically. His body is slightly thinner. He feels no wrinkles on his face. No age spots on his skin. Thoughts of his mortality or lack thereof grow in his thoughts with each passing year. In the absence of a yellow sun, his superior powers have begun to wane. He can no longer fly, only jump long distances. His strength and speed have both ebbed, but so far, he has yet to face anything he could not defeat. But it gets harder. His mind is still as sharp as it ever was, while his heart, broken to where it is nearly irreparable.
He feels the nuzzling against his head from his winged companion.
"Yeah, Krypto," he says standing up from the stone. "We continue. But I need some cover. It will come soon. At some point, not now."
Krypto squawks at Clark.
"Yeah, I know," Clark responds. "I know."
Krypto squawks once more and takes off into the sky, never flying very far from Clark's position.
Clark eyes the bodies in his wake. They too, will return soon. He discovered years ago the black streams of light shooting upward into the sky were transports shuttling the essence of those killed anew in Tartarus. The tubes, however, were not sending them upwards, but rather returning them to Tartarus like a respawn function. Upon their return, they were not the same. Any shred of humanity that existed upon their first death on the mortal plane was further stripped away. Their recessed, animalistic physicality was enhanced. Body parts strengthened, configured to create more violence.
Such cycles of absurdity are Clark's past and present existence as he mills through the thousands of still smoking bodies. Fanged, super strong creatures who relentlessly sought to rip him apart. The battle lasted days, his flesh bruised all over, but still was able to resist the sharp teeth and jagged claws. The outcome serves as little comfort, barely a respite, for Clark knows, Tartarus contains greater, even more menacing threats. The ratio of humans to respawned creatures continues to fall in favor of the latter. There is resignation in Clark realizing the dead creatures in his wake will return as part of those greater threats. A matter of dwindling time before something does puncture, does claw through his once, near impenetrable skin.
He re-reels and places Diana's lasso around his bare shoulder. Despite all that it has been through, the rope's sheen and gleam still shine, which is in decided contrast to his black uniform. After considerable wear, tear and accumulation of grime, Clark removed, several years ago, the sleeving up to his shoulders. The boots are now an ashen gray with weathered layers of brown splotches. The remainder of his uniform no longer has a vibrancy, it is a dull, black matte color composed of Kryptonian fabric.
In Tartarus, water either does not exist or Clark has yet to find it. He quickly determined the vast, black body of water he deemed an ocean upon his arrival was not water. It was a compound of which he was unfamiliar. The liquid is heavy, at least fifteen times more than water. It reminds him of the Earth element, Mercury. The way it slugs and rolls slowly upon the skin. Its black color never lightens, not even when there are but a few drops on the palm of his hand. No translucency, just a deep darkness not even super vision powers can penetrate. He has never taken any inside his mouth or nose. Indirectly, this brought forth an issue. On arrival to Tartarus, Clark believed the search for Diana would not be a long endeavor. He gave little thought to the need for water or food. Yet, as those first days turned into weeks, Clark's outlook decidedly changed.
A strange thing began to occur.
Clark not only required food and water, but also sleep. He settled into a pattern of staying awake for twenty-four hours, then sleeping for five hours. A month after his arrival, his concern for food and water became a full-fledged worry. And then it happened. He awoke to find a package next to him. It was neatly wrapped in a resilient, cloth-like material. No heat from the ground surface radiated through the material. The package was both, warm and cool to the touch. Inside was food, mostly meats, fruits and nuts, and a container of fresh water. Clark scoured the area, and found no evidence of anyone, anything having been there while he slept. His first thought, it was a sick game being played by Hades. Or Zeus.
Clark stayed awake for two weeks thereafter. No package. He then pretended to be asleep. No package. His body ultimately demanded true sleep. And so he fell into a long slumber, awaking to find a package. One that would arrive again, every ten days or so. Even after Krypto's arrival, the chirpy companion never made an alarming noise when the package was left. Clark, like many things experienced in Tartarus, eventually accepted the absurdity and moved forward.
Clark hears a hissing sound from behind followed by a familiar screech. He turns to see Krypto beheading a still alive creature that was closing in on his position. Clark chides himself for becoming lost in thought, which occurs more frequently with the passing time. The prize for this latest brain fog is drip flying, blood sludge upon his body. He nods to Krypto who soars high up into the sky. Clark does a full turn reconnaissance making sure there are no additional threats. Looking back up to Krypto, Clark salutes a thank you. The fresh blood hanging from his arm becomes hypnotic, leading him to further mental distraction and dark thoughts. The most familiar one being whether humanity is lost in Tartarus. His humanity. It is a loss weighted down by a hopelessness that never ceases to fester, spread and bloom.
"They will join you in the sun," he muses with cynicism, looking up to the sunless sky.
Jor-El's words float in Clark's mind, not finding stable purchase. His biological father seemingly recognized a noble spirit, seeking to fly, but it is dormant. Gone, Clark fears. He wipes away the creature's splattered blood from his chest. His hand lingers upon the El House's symbol of hope, which is now barely recognizable under the grime, wear and tear. Clark sighs seeing before him not only the piles of mangled and nearly vaporized bodies, but also the faces of his parents. Their voices question him to show empathy to these fallen, but Clark struggles to feel any such emotion. Their fate, he deems, was sealed from once upon time lives of evil, cruelty and pain inflicted upon others. Fates justly deserved in the hell that is Tartarus.
Clark expected and still does expect at any moment to see Hitler and the Nazi super brothers, Glass and Gunter. He has not during all of these years, nor has he seen anyone else that he remembers in his previous life. There are only the respawns. The thirty-six humans he did meet were killed again soon after their Tartarus arrival. All swarmed by bigger and faster nightmares. Clark could only hold off so many. The irony, of course, those humans would return in deadlier version of themselves.
Krypto's powerful, flapping wings are heard from above. A rare, genuine smile wears easy on Clark's face as he still wonders if Krypto was once a human, now respawned many times over, into this current incarnation. A creature that for some unknown reason chooses to ally itself with an alien invader.
Machinations of petty gods Clark concludes.
Clark moves beyond the bodies, to an open flat land area of dirt, and nothing but dirt. He digs a hole in the ground, scooping out the dry soil until the hole is at least twenty feet deep. He looks to the ever distant horizon. He no longer spends considerable thought to whether Tartarus is a finite geographical existence or a realm of infinite area. The Earth's circumference is twenty-five thousand miles. In Tartarus, he has traveled well beyond that distance from the black ocean. And every day, there is no Northern Star to guide him, but there is the tall, black structure he saw that first day. It still stands in the distance, mocking him. No closer he gets, despite moving towards it every day.
Clark drops down into his makeshift vertical tube. The space is large enough for him to lie down. The light does not reach him, leaving him in darkness. There is no vegetation in the dirt, no insects. No life but him. Just as his eyelids begin to sleep flicker, he sees Krypto hovering above.
He also hears familiar, booming footsteps. They grow louder as Clark's eyelids close down. The earlier battle weighs on him, his body drained. He acquiesces.
He dreams of her while the ground around him vibrates.
She lets the freshly cut flowers drop onto the table. Queen Hippolyta accelerates, unsheathing a dagger. Space is quickly traversed across her large hall room. A male figure, his back to her, stands just outside an outdoor terrace entranceway. She leaps as he turns with a smirk on his bearded face. Her body goes low, knees contacting, sliding across the marble floor as she covers the remaining distance. The queen of the Amazons rises, bringing the sharp blade millimeters from the intruder's neck.
"A futile gesture, don't you think?" Zeus questions, smiling down at Hippolyta.
"Perhaps," she agrees not relinquishing her position. "But satisfying, nevertheless."
Zeus removes the weapon from her grasp with blurring hand movement. He turns and walks out further onto the terrace, laying the dagger down upon an outer hand railing. The god of sky and thunder stands rigid, looking out to the violently churning sea. His brother, Poseidon is very much aware of his return to the mortal plane. Hippolyta too, takes notice of the loud waves crashing against the stones far below.
"What is it you want?" she asks.
Zeus does not respond, does not move.
Hippolyta stands without fear, but also with no viable plan of action. The god of all gods visiting her on Themyscira does not bode well. She absently touches the additional weapons kept on her person at all times. Her hearing picks up the sound of falling feet from inside her home. They are moving quickly with minimal sound, impressive enough to make Hippolyta smile. She turns to see Phillipus and a party of Amazons with weapons brandished for battle. They carry not only swords, spears and bows, but also hi-tech weaponry courtesy of Star Labs.
Hippolyta had been adamant about having zero man-made weaponry or technology on Themyscira. Clark was not a proponent of doling out weapons. The culmination of several events, however, changed both of their minds. The chaos brought forth by Steppenwolfe, the Brainiac war, and Clark's departure from Earth. Clark trusted Hippolyta without reservation to protect his adopted home world should any threat came during his absence.
Hippolyta is fully aware of the weapons capabilities, but she doubts, even with its combined might, that would be enough to stop, even slow down Zeus. She is not ready to take that chance. She raises her hand to Phillipus, motioning her to stop. Hippolyta waves them off, to Phillipus' consternation. Phillipus hesitates, but only for a moment before following the order. She hand signals her sisters out, who leave just as silently as they arrived. Phillipus shares a concerned look with her queen before departing.
Hippolyta bites softly down on her upper lip, and walks further out onto the terrace.
"You are as beautiful as the moment I gave you Diana," Zeus says looking out into the high sun.
"And you are still as duplicitous," Hippolyta responds, moving next to him. "You've come to torment me."
In all directions, she and Zeus see Amazons. They await their queen's signal. A signal that will not come. Hippolyta loves them dearly for their allegiance. Loyalty and strength. She will not foolishly order them to attack a god who could destroy them all in a matter of seconds.
"Have I now?" Zeus says making eye contact with Hippolyta. "For what reason?"
Hippolyta blows a hateful smile. "Gloat. Threaten. Both."
"Neither," he says. "We. We, being all whom you worship, will be returning to a more practical, sensible approach. An approach, more direct relationship with the mortals. As such it will be, the Amazons will take a pronounced role in man's world affairs. Proxies, if you will, for me. For those times I would rather not get my hands dirty. Or even worse, bored. Or as I also realize, annoyed by petulance."
"Petulance describes it well," Hippolyta dryly asserts. "At your beck and call, Lord Zeus."
"Is that an agreement or do I hear question in your voice?" he asks. "Or maybe you seek to ridicule. You do realize you exists at my pleasure? I have not called for favor since I created Themyscira for the Amazons. Or do you forget?"
"I do not," Hippolyta replies. "Has Ares returned?"
"Not yet," Zeus says.
"Concern wears on your face," Hippolyta observes. "Will he return?"
"Assuredly," Zeus responds. "Gods always do."
"But?" Hippolyta questions.
"Discussions not for you," Zeus says, raising himself up a few inches off the terrace's surface.
Hippolyta steels herself. "You know my quarrel with you," she says looking up to Zeus as he purposely positions himself where his head eclipses the sun. "Where is my daughter?"
"Our daughter," Zeus corrects. "Tartarus."
"And what has she done in this life to warrant such a punishment?" Hippolyta demands.
"Hubris," Zeus says.
"Hubris?" Hippolyta questions. "Towards what?"
"Her place," Zeus states. "She thought herself, and the so-called Superman, to be above the gods. She, and he, are not. A painful lesson to be learned, by them both in Tartarus."
"You know that Clark is there," Hippolyta observes. "Diana's death pleased you, to set this in motion."
Zeus turns, further floating upward from the terrace. He turns back to Hippolyta.
"Please, would be the wrong word," he says. "For she is still my daughter."
Hippolyta laughs. "Such a father you are," she replies. "You wanted Diana and Clark out of the way. There will be no one here to stop you with this narcissism."
Zeus, in a flash, swoops down within several inches of Hippolyta. His eyes crackle with lightning.
"Mind your tongue," he says. "Tartarus is an expeditious, clean solution. Hades is quite confident these skies, land will never again be roamed by Diana. Or Clark Kent. I reintroduce myself to Gaea very soon. Without complications."
"You expect them to love you," Hippolyta says. "They will not. They will be suspicious. Fearful."
Hippolyta smiles, turns her head away from Zeus. "You don't know them very well," she says.
"I, do not need to know mortals very well at all," Zeus says. "They will subjugate."
"I am not talking about man," Hippolyta says. "Diana, my daughter and Clark, my son.
"Son?" Zeus questions with an arched eyebrow. "The Kryptonian?"
"An oath I swore to his mother of Gaea," Hippolyta responds. "You may be confident in your brother, but I am more certain that my children will return."
"Affinity, for a man," Zeus blows, floating back up and away. "You, and your Amazons will seek to thwart my return."
Hippolyta controls the seething fury within her. She looks out to the beauty that is Themyscira. Her warriors. Her island kingdom that she wonders anew whether isolation has left them weaker.
"And we would not be successful," Hippolyta says.
"Hubris did not fall off the tree of Hippolyta, I see," Zeus states.
"It's the god in her," Hippolyta replies.
"Indeed," Zeus says. "Do my bidding."
"I will not kill them in your name," she says. "Nor will any Amazon."
Zeus comes down to Hippolyta. He gently strokes her face. Hippolyta meets his eyes without hesitation, without fear.
"Should I ask you to kill," Zeus says. "You will kill. Should I ask you to lay with me, you will lay with me. Should I ask you to throw yourself off this structure, you will do so."
He brings his face closer to hers. His lips next to her left ear. "Do. You. Understand?"
Hippolyta feels the throbbing of her heart, she wanting to grab Zeus by the head, and twisting it off. Throwing it into the Aegean Sea.
"I would so dislike putting our relationship on, on a consequential foundation," he whispers.
"I understand," Hippolyta says, wondering what Zeus' true intentions are for having the Amazons in his fold.
He places his arm around her shoulders. He smiles in all of the Amazons' directions.
"This will be glory," the king of gods says. "Again and forever."
Her balled fist enters its mouth, exiting through the back of a spiny neck. She shakes violently the large eight-legged creature from her right arm and hand. The beast falls to the stony surface with a thud, its dark red blood pooling in several spots.
"That should be the last one, Empress," the wiry man states.
Despite she and her outfit being covered with parts of the beast's remains, the woman uses her long, black cape to wipe the excess stock from her arms and torso. She wears a skin tight, black outfit covering her entire body up to the neck, her cape attaches to the clothing's steel-like buttons positioned over her shoulder blades. A similarly designed metal choker wears around her neck. Black, textured boots cradle upward the top of her calves. A belt around her waist serves as a holder of several bladed weapons.
She touches her cheek, smearing and removing drops of more blood.
"So it would seem," she replies with indifference.
Her pure, natural face is as beautiful as it has ever shone. Enchanting and alluring quickly comes to mind, but it is a pretense to the person she has become in Tartarus. Light that once seemingly shined, sparkled from her brown eyes has since dimmed to a resolute harshness. Lips that were so quick to smile are now more apt to tense and curl in driven determination. Not for peace. Not for love. But for control.
Her hair, much longer than it has ever been, is roped in several places as it dangles past her waist.
"They tried to hide him, but I now know where Typhon is," she states, eyes glazing over as she looks in the man's direction.
In Tartarus, the passage of time is omnipresent, a sensation instilled in all of the condemned. Their minds and bodies feeling the days, months and years passing. Time for the Empress has also become a mental exercise of trying, but not being able to remember the totality of her mortal plane existence. Memories of events, people from when she was alive have mostly faded, lost to a mental wall of blurs and erasure blobs that shows no yield. A loneliness lords over her that is momentarily gone when a figure appears and just as quickly, disappears from her mind's eye. It is of a man she now sees only in shadows and silhouettes. In those fleeting moments, her body aches with remembering, his hand cupping her face, kissing her lips; her face against his bare chest. Their arms, legs, bodies interwind in ecstasy.
And then it is gone. She so hates these episodes, which occur frequently. Not just the sense of lost love, but also the loss of the man himself; another sliver of detail about him fades away to be lost forever. The Empress steadies herself because these moments bring not only mental anguish, but also physical pain.
"Empress?" the man inquires. "You need a moment."
Her facial expression is dismissive. "I was saying?"
"You mentioned its name," the man says. "Was that wise? Ears are everywhere."
"How is it, that I know the arrogance of the gods," the Empress says. "Should they know what I know, it will not change anything because they will always believe in their omnipotence."
"Wouldn't they be correct in that assessment?" the man asks.
The Empress interlocks her hands, playing with her fingers. "We will see."
"What now?" the man asks realizing his error in questioning her.
"Tartarus One," the Empress answers. "I know Typhon's location, the well will show me the passage."
"You command millions," the man states. "Will you bring them?"
"I've spent three hundred years bringing them under my command," the Empress says. "This is that moment."
"Yes, Empress," the man replies. "The possibility of leaving Tartarus. Something I stopped imagining before you found me. Three hundred years, but a drop in a large vessel for the time I have been here. To believe, an end may be near. It excites me."
"You are an anomaly, Altan, to have kept your original form so long," she replies. "The weariness will always weigh, but it is now a means to a soon-to-be end. The gods taunt us all in Tartarus. Our true names unknown to us. Those we knew in life, before. They carve out just enough remembrances to make it a maddening torture. Losses, we covet answers to that do not come. The warm sun. The beautiful lands I flew over. Seas I swam. I remember that?! And not those I knew? Had to have known? My world, as if I were but a stranger looking upon it all. Never to know who I was. I remember…croissants."
"Number one thousand or so," Altan wearily smiles.
She sighs. "I've gone down this diatribe road before."
"One or two times, Empress," Altan jokingly assures. "You are close. You will have your answers. Your revenge. Hades puts more obstructions in your path, but you have conquered all. He fears you."
She turns with a side-eye to the man she came across over two centuries ago. "Does he?" she asks.
"He has not been seen since you wounded him," Altan states.
"Wound is an overstatement," she corrects. "Stunned, if anything."
"And yet he has not returned," Altan says.
The Empress snorts. "Gods," she proclaims. "They have us remember them. Their actions, even lack of action, serve some point. They seek my pain knowing they put me here. They fail to realize my anger. It burns. They will experience pain before this is ended. Let us return."
The Empress begins to turn, but she falls to her knees, clutching her head.
"Damn," she blows. Her forehead clunks against the crumbly, rocky ground. Her tightly furrowed brow and closed eyes fail to shut down the lacing torture racking her body.
"Carry it through, Empress," she barely hears Altan, his hand grazing her shoulder.
The Empress' back violently juts up and down. Her thoughts collide with scattered emotions, bombarding every pocket in her mind. Loss feeds from within her. Images flicker throughout, spastic recollections. It is him, the one she can still feel. Somehow. The particulars of his face are unknown to her, imprisoned from her memories. Yet. Yet, she feels the details of his death, numerous times. Over and over again in her past life. He suffocates high above the Earth atmosphere. His body emaciated to the point of being unrecognizable. Dies at the hands of a monster that brings doom. Dies protecting her. The moving, chaotic images do not stop. She hears his pain in unrivaled yells. His body tears apart. Her body tears from within. His hands, always reach out to her, pleads for her aid. And every time, it ends with his cold voice, "You let me die."
The Empress slowly opens her eyes, staring at the ground. Her body heaving trying to regain its balance. She feels a hand on her shoulder.
"Empress?" she hears.
"I. Am fine," she breathes watching strands of her spit hanging, attaching to the ground.
Her pain, experienced thousands of times in Tartarus, chips further away at her soul. She can no longer envision the man's shape.
A loud blare of competing, incoming noises erupt from behind the Empress and Altan.
The Empress and Altan are on a rocky ledge overlooking a vast gorge that runs seemingly forever in either direction. There is nothing below but darkness, a black fog swirling and bubbling several meters below the ledge. On the other side of their positions is another mountain range running parallel with the gorge. Creatures seem to inhabit pockets throughout. The mountain peaks shoot upward, forming triangular, ragged spikes against the reddish sky.
The Empress stands from her momentary distress, turning from the gorge to see a massive cluster of figures moving quickly towards her position. Hundreds she estimates. They are filtering through a tall and wide carved opening within a mountainous wall.
The human-like figures are feral, mongrel; completely disheveled, dirty and naked. Their hair is long, thick and glistens with sweat and filth. They wear no protection on their feet from the punishing ground. Genitals are covered by large swaths of hair. They all carry sharp, makeshift weapons. Some have hefty stones in both hands.
The Empress spies beyond the initial wave of humans, another contingent; these are multi-respawned creatures. They are taller and bigger. Some with rows of sharp teeth, others with long, curved fangs. Some with boney spikes upon the entirety of their bodies. Others with serrated, sharp tails. She stands firm a few feet from the ledge's edge. Altan steps closer to her side while tightly gripping a long, serrated knife.
The crowd of humans forms a half circle wall, twenty to thirty bodies deep, around the duo. The respawns hang back, slowly bobbing back and forth in place.
The Empress looks to the fallen beast at her feet. Its blood has started to coagulate. She slowly drops down, swipes her gloved hand through a swath of the thick fluid. Her blood heavy fingers slide across her cheeks, under her eyes. The fluid lingers on her face, to slowly move downward to her chin and neck. She smiles, observing how transfixed the humans are by her actions. They become silent, no loud body movement. She welcomes this, as most are unable to look her directly in the eyes. She returns any stares, boring through them with a cold detachment that makes them hesitate, maybe even to rethink their motivation for confrontation.
There is one, who is not deterred. He steps forward from the crowd.
"You killed the sacred," the large man accuses in a Chinese dialect the Empress recognizes.
"I did," the Empress says responding in his language.
"And one of its children," the man says pointing to the beast laying dead next to the Empress.
"I did," she answers.
"And you defile it further by wearing its blood as trophy," the man says as a hesitant, murmuring agreement travels throughout the crowd.
"Defile," Diana repeats, her fingers begin flexing in and out. "I've come for what I needed. I will depart."
"I, we cannot allow such an affront to pass," the dirtied, bearded face man states.
The Empress smiles. "Of course not," she says. "I give you one chance, but only one. Turn and return from where you came. This part of Tartarus. Now known as Tartarus thirty-two, is under my domain. I do not ask for obedience. I demand it. You give it, or you die. And you come back. And I will kill you again. Again and again until you understand. I am your Empress. And when I call upon you, you will come and obey."
The Empress walks slowly towards the man who is unsure, his face perplexed by the sheer arrogance before him.
"Now," she continues. "I have gone through this quite a few times. Your mind, what's left. Your body, not strong enough, will cry out to attack me. You and your front line appear to have died, maybe only once here in Tartarus. The return process is always quite painful, I hear. And the next mutation you go through. I assume you want nothing to do with that because it appears, you haven't killed each other that many times."
She gets within a couple of feet.
"Tell me," she says lowering her voice for only the man to hear, as she looks to the respawns. "Do they control you, or you control them?"
The primitive man hesitates, leaving Diana to lightly snort. "I see," she observes. "Maybe, I should be talking to one of them. They still show signs of intelligence?"
The wild man, Diana's height, but much thicker, arches his back up, puffing his chest out. His right hand grips tighter his weapon handle.
"So be it," Diana says as she turns to Altan. "Open the gate."
"It will take time," he says.
"I know," she says. "Just do it."
Altan takes a look at the undulating crowd, growing bolder with each second. He turns away from them, and steps closer to the ridge's edge.
"What is he doing?!" the wild man demands, his spit landing upon the Empress' uniform.
She remains silent.
"Kill them!" the wild man orders. "Now!"
The almost humans swarm upon the Empress' position. She grabs the wild man by the sides of his face, she twists with such force, his body jerks violently one way while his head remains motionless in the Empress' hands. She lets go, and the wild man's dead body falls to the ground.
Her speed is blinding as she rams into the throng of attackers, bodies are sent flying high upward, crashing either back down into the hard ground or into each other. Many more are sent plummeting into the gorge's abyss. Blood splashes and sprays in all directions as the Empress makes sure to never stray far from Altan's position. The almost humans continue to surge, the Empress feels and allows the warrior in her to completely take over. An eager, wanting smile wears on her face as she rips bodies asunder.
The respawns start filtering through the crowd towards her. She hears their loud breathing. Some, emitting a piercing hiss as their nails extend into claws.
"Ready, Empress!" Altan yells to the Empress.
She hears him, but she does not listen. A blood fever takes hold of her. The respawns are coordinated as five launch at her simultaneously. She allows them to land upon her, their claws dig into her body as she disappears under their considerable mass. Their wide, clapping mouths of razor sharp teeth seek purchase on her body. Their mistake is all of them seeking the same Empress body part, her upper torso and neck. She grabs two of the creatures' throats with either hand. She squeezes until feeling the spinal column attached to their heads. Warm liquid pours down her arms. She removes her hands, swinging her arms outward. The other creatures upon her go hurtling away.
The horde of respawns waste no time in sending more. But they are too slow. Their fighting has no skill or efficiency. The Empress moves like a dancer, hits like a hammer. Five creatures fall. Seconds later, twenty more are dispatched. The whirling that is the Empress continues for several minutes. A tornado of destruction that is fury unleashed, but controlled in its attacks. She finally turns to Altan, who is shouting her name. The respawns are dead for now. The remaining humans bow before the Empress. She surveys them and the area.
"Spread my name!" she yells out in Chinese dialect. "Let it carry amongst the winds of this realm! My benevolence in allowing you to continue as you are! My punishment should you not understand who rules this realm! Leave! Go! Let them know! Say my name!"
Several of the humans say her name softly.
"Louder!" the Empress demands.
"Empress! Empress!" they all begin screaming.
The almost humans do not look up while still chanting. They turn and move out from the mountain opening they first entered.
The Empress stands, drenched from head to toe in blood and muck. She turns to Altan, and leaps high up, landing with a weighted thunk several feet from him. His composure is tested as blood pelts over him. He remains silent, in awe and stark raving fright of the power before him. The Empress looks to an area several yards in space off from the ridge. A tear exists in the open air, large enough for she and Altan to move through. The opening pulses in and out, in rhythm with black light waves fluctuating outward in all directions.
"Ready?" the Empress asks.
"Yes," he replies.
The Empress picks the man up, carrying him under her arm like a cord of wood. She jumps through the tear. They disappear, as does the tear.
The Empress' feet land on hard ground. She sets the man down.
"Still the greatest thing I've ever seen in Tartarus," the man says while removing pieces of bloody flesh off him. "Current company excepted."
The Empress sighs. She looks at the very tall, black structure of Tartarus One. An obelisk shaped construction, thousands of feet in height. Completely smooth, no indentations. Nearly half a mile in circumference.
"Come, we have work to do," she says walking to the structure, in which an opening appears on its wall as her approach gets closer.
The Empress and Altan walk through, a bright light comes from within and out through the rectangular opening.
The opening reseals behind them.