The Moon Is Down
Theme #13: Freedom | PMd1: Space | Angst | 880 words | Dan P., Clockwork
The skies are black. Where did the stars go?
-x-
The last thing he sees is a bright, swirling light, sucking him down, down into the cold metallic depths of his old self's ancient-but-not thermos. All he knows after that is that it's dark, and it's cramped, and that sometimes he hears voices. Once, he tried to escape, tried to reform his essence into something that was not this weak and useless mist. He succeeded, but not for long - long enough for some of his wrath to return and for him to make a dent, he thinks.
How long ago was that? Moments, months, millennia - more? There is no time, here down in the deepest darkness. There aren't even the dimmest of stars for him to count the years by, and on some level he yearns for them. He remembers - faintly, fuzzily - when he was young and not long on Earth, and yet so ardently wished to leave it. He does not remember much of his time Before, but that passion for the stars still remains, and he cherishes it. He was not allowed to keep much else besides it, and the anger and the pain.
In those ten years Since, he has rampaged and destroyed all over the globe - he is very well-travelled. He is dimly aware that upon going so far from home, you are meant to come back with vivid, happy memories and souvenirs or something, yet all that he brought home was a few new stains on his jumpsuit and a few months' worth of blurry, red-tinged memory.
Except one. One trip, one journey that has been burned into his mind since the night it happened.
He'd been flying back from South America, only passing through; the destruction beneath him reminded him of how he'd already come this way. He'd happened to look up, at some point over the Atacama Desert, and he'd almost dropped out of the sky, hit with the full force of his old self's love of the beyond. He'd alighted on some tall rock formation, and stared in wonder at the bright band of light spanning the wide, wide sky as memories returned to him, as faint and vague as if viewed through frosted glass - yes, he thought, that is the Milky Way, and over there the Southern Cross… He remembers that, oh, this is that Atacama - one place on Earth he had wanted to visit since he was six years old.
That night shines brighter in his mind than any other, and in this lightless place, he clings to it. Perhaps, one day, he will see them again.
And then, and then there is a voice, from outside. Loud, compared to how quiet his universe has become. The thermos is moved - it has been moved many times before, but he thinks that some time has passed since the last. And suddenly there is light - blinding bright, searing his very being with its intensity. He cringes away, clutches at the few dim shadows that remain, and hears a voice, louder than a thunderclap, address him.
"Daniel," it says, and it sounds like how he would imagine the Voice of God. Well, perhaps not; he would not have pictured the Almighty so tired or exasperated. "Daniel," it says, "I do not have all day. You will come out now, or I will take my leave. Goodness knows I deserve it."
He hesitates but a moment before allowing his gaseous shape to float freely out of the thermos and reform. He blinks, once, twice, three times, but remains near-blinded by Clockwork's white glow. Darkness surrounds them; the old ghost is the only source of light he can see.
"I trust you remember me," says the Master of Time, and the prisoner nods slowly; he is not sure how to speak anymore. "Good, good. And I suppose you must be wondering why you have been released?" Another nod. The violet-robed ghost hums lightly before continuing. "I told you - the other you - that you would not be imprisoned forever, and if the result of that was a brighter future for humankind, then so be it - but I do not lie. You are free to go, Daniel, though I do not think you will enjoy it." He smiles, a bitter, twisted smile that make the freedman shudder. He has done a lot in his life to merit such a sentiment, but never has the realisation that he has enemies ever worried him so. He is, after all, indestructible - no bullet or tank or nuclear missile could take him down, and, oh, have they tried. But that smile - that tiny, insignificant smile - is what makes him quake in his boots, because he is, after all, indestructible.
Clockwork spares the other ghost one last glance, and vanishes; the former prisoner gets the impression that he will never see the Master of Time again. He looks around uneasily, willing his night vision to return now that the brilliantly glowing ghost is gone.
Time passes - a moment, a month, a millennium, or more - and still his eyes do not clear. He can tell from the lack of gravity and from the temperature that he is in space, but the skies are black, and remain so resolutely. He wonders, neither for the last time nor the first, Where did the stars go?