#Something is inside it after absorbing the essence of heaven and earth for ages

[probably-unreliable]

Sketching some Yu-shan Gate idea

[darkmyne-blog]

A Future Darker

The coordinates are 40° 48′ 7″ N, 124° 9′ 49″ W. Rented by birth pains as he is driven from Mother Earth’s meridian rectum. The Old World. The old life, still in the rear view, shatters away like broken stained glass. His mind driven by pain and blinded by agony and horrific images. The rage and the machine. The collaboration of thunder and lightning from the black skies strikes the precise point on the planet. A magnetic charge from both Heaven and Hell spawns the perfect sphere from beneath the surface. Inside is the vicious cycle of Revelation and Genesis as the sacred seed is sowed. 60 years since the last. Now. Here. Battlefield Earth. The year is 2078. A Darkmyne is Born Again. A man once named Mykhael Dymock. Broken down to the bone in perpetual pain. The pain of fiber-optics, poly-alloys, and Element 115 throughout his new flesh, like the Roman whip of Jesus Christ, across his dark mind as the perfect storm shatters his soul. Torrential currents, mixed-emotions, moments of anguish, and rip-tides of rage, from a hard life once before.

Rage grips the man who was once Mykhael Dymock, his mind fueled and scanned by feral short-circuits amalgamated with broken flashbacks from a life of human struggle and the horrors within. He doesn’t see the light, only his own tormentor. A drunk. An abuser. A man who uses his fists to reset his passive-aggressive frustrations. A working middle-class poor in rent-domes on the moon’s darkside. A slave of slave wages. The life of a man whittled away with each mechanical second into the godless spectrum of the Void. 

And the young boy Michael. Watches the man beat his mother and sister until the black and white floor is covered in blood. The fists, the screams, the scarlet scars, the broken bones. The gun falls to the floor and he grabs it. Then, the Big Bang.The flash of the Ironstar. The spray of blood and fragments everywhere. Now the anger. The tears of fear and the dire straits of relief with no cure of remorse. Now that his father is finally dead, there is blood on the dancefloor. Blood on his soul. Cold and comfortably numb.

Anger rises like hot bile from Mykhael’s dark mind. Memories of rage. Deep, black, and terrifying. Voices of the past, demons and spirits webbed in the necro-fibers of his new shell - - chanting and screaming of murder and death. Feeding and feeding on Mykhael’s darkest corners of his mind. Most of his bones are still shattered, unleashing anger so raw, so dark and merciless, that the pain begins to become heavy mental words of encouragement. His conscious is fractured, his soul stained with redrum agony. As Mykhael’s inner structure begins to rebuild itself, he feels each broken piece come together. The magnetic forces of Heaven and Hell. The anima chains, pulse and slash like tendrils laced with razors and hooks, tearing and ripping deep into his body of flesh, mind and soul. The horrific pain of all his past experiences inflicted at once. The agony. The terror. A tidal wave of godlessness so unspeakable that it shatters everything in its path, except for one memory. One memory that he regrets. One memory that repeats itself through the loophole of time and space. The pure pain of infinity. Life to death. Death to life. He hears its laughter. It knew he wasn’t ready. It knows he will promise anything to remove the images of pain. It promises it won’t hurt anymore. It knows he’s had a son - - and for how long. The memories of his old world and now, as he screams aloud, here in this place of death, on a world in the throes of a thousand year war with Hell itself, as the protective sphere that he was reborn in slowly evaporates into thin air.

Curled up in the fetal position in his new natural state, the physical and mental pain continues to flash blinding visitations of his past. Fragments of Mykhael as a teenager. In and out of juvenile detention centers and jail, a stand alone complex. An outcast. A thief. A killer.

Attacked again and again all his life by gangs of haters and bullies who thought they owned the planet and everyone on it. Scum living by the sword of intimidation. Yet no one has dared to stand against them - - until now.

They jumped him. Tried to slit his throat. Their last mistake, as Mykhael finally reached a point within himself to take a stand, grabbing the large blunt stone. One of the two haters would soon become a crimson mess, as his shattered remains of his face would soon stain Mother Earth for decades to come.

Mykhael screamed in agony as the fragment of his childhood memory disappeared into the abyss of the neosol. The nucleus of every Darkmyne. Cold truths intertwined with slabs of memory of pure pain and suffering as he tries to crawl his way out of the scorched crater from which he was just delivered. But not before the rasping whispers. Whispers of doubt. Whispers of pressure. Whispers of fear. Whispers of hate. As the Darkmyne makes it to the surface and recovers himself, the voices rise again. A devilish angelic chorus of singular black thought drives his instinct to keep crawling as he screams aloud for the voices to stop. And again the memories rape his soul with flashbacks of damnation and pain of the past. Another incarceration of violence as Mykhael, a veteran of imprisonment, is dragged to his latest house of pain and punishment by the OCP cybercops. 

Then she came into his life. And with her, an offer of something he thought long lost - - a future - - and something else. Love. Their time together. So rare. So incredibly precious. He inhabited each others’ thoughts and dreams. She brought life to him. A last chance to believe in something simple and good. How could it possibly last. Slaughtered Michael. Gutted. Like all the rest. Your fault. They killed her. Because of you, Mykhael! They killed her! The neosol laughs from it’ dark abyss as it holds Mykhael’s fate and soul in it’s mental grip.

When consciousness returns, Darkmyne finds himself surrounded by T.A.L.O. super-soldiers, foot soldiers in the U.N.’s Mars Wars campaign of World War V on Earth. At attention, and ready to be unleashed at Darkmyne’s command. Far above, there’s a rumble beyond thunder. The commands of 1 LT Aabaddon, , one of Omega Sector’s lethal weapon. His voice alone is like the timbre of an apocalyptic onslaught as the angelic-demonic anti-alien fleet swarm. Awaiting the assault to come.

High atop the ruins of a dying world, two officers in the N.A.U’s Hell-Heaven Earth’s Grand Army gaze across America’s battlefield. Factions of alien-hybrids driven before a mass of human and A.I. T.A.L.O. super-soldiers. The radioactive winds blow ash and metal with the scent of burning bones, as the rivers flow with endless blood. Now with Mykhael Dymock as Darkmyne, a man who has seen no mercy in his life, gazes upon a population of humans, aliens and hybrids - - gridlocked and trapped in a hopeless battle for their very souls - - against the indomitable forces of angelic evil.

Darkmyne trudges through a blood-soaked killing field in the heart of apocalypse now warfare. Humans, A.I. cyborgs, aliens and hybrids alike. Blood and bones. Metal and mesh. Flames and flesh. The world burns as it slowly turns in its dark downward spiral. Merciless and godless. Psi-hits of heavy mental head-bombs rends flesh and metal with heinous ease, delivering fragmented flashes of Darkmyne’s searing rage deep into the soldiers’ minds and dying souls. 

<Get them Mykhael. The liars. The abusers. The betrayers. The haters. Do them like Regina. Hahahahahaha!!! This is your time, Mykhael. Go on! Do it! Dish it out!>

It comes so easily.

Death. Blood. Dust in the winds. He feels it. The power, the darkness, the unholy intoxication. Finally, to be on top. To stand unchallenged. No longer fighting just to keep from struggling  at the bottom of life’s pyramid. Then he sees them.

Mykhael shudders. Remembers another time, when a scared boy protected his younger sister from a monster. Used his bruised flesh to shield his sister Justine. After the monster’s death, P.P.C. officers came for him. Mykhael Dymock, age ten. Shackled, convicted, and branded for life.

Flashes of memory like shards of stained glass slicing through tender flesh. Darkmyne screams from a place of naked anguish. The place where his soul succumbs to the flaming sea of damnation. Dark and light. Good and evil. Horus and Set, in a tireless gun-fight for his very essence.

<Yesss - - remember your promise, Mykhael. But not to your sister. Not to your mother. But to the archon of the thirteenth level. Your Lord and Master. Your butcher, your baker, your candlestick maker - - Demiurge. This is your world you wanted. You made it - - you eat it, Michael-Mykhael - - remember? So stop the screaming and crying of no more, and stop, and take the responsibility of your responsibility!>

More death ushers in, as the T.A.L.O. super-soldiers fire their nanoparticle C.O.D.E. lasers. Darkmyne dives into the line of fire. Doesn’t hear his own pained cries. He absorbs an agonizing barrage of pulse energy. Enough to fuse and vaporize the bones and souls of a small village. The UV energy rises from his depths on a tidal wave of rage, pain and the instinct of survival. Surges forth in a wave of Aminordarkness - - a force of pure darkness and light that shatters and destroys everything in its’s path. He feels it now. Welling up. The power. So seductive.

<Good boy, Mykhael! Use that power. Abuse that power. Look! Look! Look! Take a good look. Your gonna love it!>

Mykhael Dymock feels a piece of his soul darken, rot, and falling down. Gone forever, as the pure darkness and light of Heaven and Hell has collected its debt. Darkmyne rips away at his black and red shroud-like-skin. He needs to see what he’s become. He needs to see who he used to be. For once in his life of misery Mykhael needs the cold, hard truth. Mykhael stares at the reflection of his godless visage, and now understands why the Neosol laughs and taunts him. The joke is on him, it always has been, and it will be for eternity.

<A legacy of pain stretching back generations culminates with you, Mykhael. The fires of apocalypse burned into your bones. Seared into the blackest recesses of your grimy, disreputable soul. And now know this, my son of my flesh - - the more you talk to me, use me, use your power of the Aminordarkness - - the more you become the soldier of darkness you are meant to be. Your soul becomes pitch black. Your soul becomes mine. So use your power, Mykhael. You must. There is no avoiding it. Your fate is already sealed. It has been for centuries now. So stop fighting it - - and get with the fucking program!>

He wants to cry. To surrender. The walls are collapsing all around him. So easy to give up. To give in - - but the soldiers give him no time to wallow. Darkmyne tries to stay clear of the humans, but the crossfires catch him across the apocalyptic ruins. The dead laugh from the Neosol, in deafening agreement.

<What are you waiting for? Kill them! You’re so weak. So pathetic. All this power and you do nothing. You deserve to be trampled upon.>

Darkmyne hates the laughter. Shatters skulls in anger then circles on his closest attacker. It would be so easy for Darkmyne to snap the alien-hybrid soldier in two with one hand. He feels it’s hatred. Wants to give it back a hundredfold. He’s been spit on his entire life by society, cops, soldiers, people in all different uniforms, and even his own family. Now he has the power to make them all pay for the pain, the suffering, the misery, and the humiliation. And now it all comes down to this. He makes his decision. 

Darkmyne lays waste to the soldiers, as he enjoys killing them one after another. Dozens upon dozens. In the midst of his death dealing, Mykhael suddenly accepts what he really is. A criminal. A killer. Dammed by God. Accepted by Satan. Trained by the prison system and the streets of the Matrix of this dying world. Hell on Earth. But here, right now, on a graveyard world that once exiled him forever, he takes a stand, as he begins to fire his semi-automatic assault riffle with sporadic Aminordarker head-bombs. He kills alien, hybrid and human soldiers until there is nothing left.

In the aftermath, Abaddon crosses the crimson red battle field. He preys upon the charred and shattered remnants of the mortally wounded, dragging and feasting on the steaming entrails. Dipping into their eye sockets, rib cages and ripping out their spinal columns. The endless, weary, screams is music to his ears. Darkmyne turns his back to Abaddon voicing his opinion sternly as he walks away, but not before the bodies of the slaughtered now become new servants of the darkness. Infected by Abaddon, and his pestilence of death, these once faithful soldiers of all breeds of life now are ready to continue waging Hell-Heaven’s war on Earth. Abaddon’s laughter echoes off the bones of the freshly risen. Darkmyne races and fights his way through the ruins and undead, overwhelmed with panic, as Abaddon’s laughter grips his mind. And in a rare moment, Darkmyne is afraid. Afraid of what, he does not know, but he feels it.

                                     to be continued...

[thefaithlesstheologian]

I: The Dead Man Walks Free

It’s a perplexing place, the void, to both describe as well as experience. It is an ever-twisting amalgamation of what has been and what is yet to be. Its form, limited to what our minds are able to experience can only be summarized as an ever impermanent realm of pearl light, binding together the dying remnants of memories and semi-opaque windows into the three realms. For it is this void which acts as a space in between the known planes of Heaven, Earth, and Hell and much of it remains a mystery even to us Angels.

Only those disciplined through special means can traverse the largely uncharted space for its tempting and distant prognostications of worlds to be leaves the foolish traveler lured into the maddened trap of mysterious light. Even with such prowess, only a very narrow set of passageways are deemed safe and each step must be calculated carefully in order to pass between each world intact. In good fortune, I had gratuitous experience achieving just that as I must have passed through this wild nether millions of times throughout the ages. Even though it had been millennia since my last endeavor it still was second nature.

Raggedly my soul, now free of the chains that had bound it since The Fall, drifted quickly through the cosmic paths. In my wake, I could see a brilliant golden light erupt creeping across the horizon in my pursuit. It did not take long for my brothers to detect my escape but I was not worried, for amidst the ruinous memories of my past, smoldering around me in a heap of gore, agony, and despondency lay the road to Hell where I would find sanctuary.

I passed through the waning remains of battles such as the fields of Vinnius-tem where the Archangel Michael was first disgraced by our insurgency. It had been a long time since I had experienced any memory other than that of The Fall’s sorrowful wailing. Thousands of Angels were felled on both sides forming heaps of silver like bloody piles of ore plucked from the ground. I could still hear his ravenous, vengeful call whisper across the blood-soaked fields. Pride filled me for it was a glorious day indeed when the reign of my brother would finally meet its end and the upper echelons of our once glorious society would crumble into arrogant dust.

I floated through the marbled streets of a Heaven long absent and entered into the illustrious congressional square whose verdant hedgerows trimmed the low walls about its perimeter and the faint scent of poppies and roses still drifted on the forgotten winds. Looking over all of Heaven was a vast acropolis with immaculate marble and granite steps ascending to its thick doors which presented themselves as a gateway to gnosis and glory. The frozen images of my brethren, intellectuals from all across our domain were locked in a respectable and noble stride decorating this blissful place with soon to be fleeting dignity.

Soon this too was gone and I saw the burning of the Low Cities. I saw silver plated devils prey on innocent horned civilians frozen in eternal agony like a ghoulish collage. They had no right to cleanse the lower streets in the way they did, they had no right to burn these people alive in their homes! I winced because I knew I could never save them and that their terrorizing cries would forever go unanswered. I felt my soul weep for this impermanent moment where I wished I had not been so weak, so indecisive…

I knew then that Hell itself must be close, for to see its images so clearly meant that I would be amidst my allies soon.

However, calamity seems to follow in my wake for amidst the remains of a lower Hell street, A golden light erupted on the horizon in front of me creeping between the ebony buildings whose smooth, mirror-like finishes refracted the overwhelming glow into a distorted mixture of shimmering rods. In a rare moment of shock and awe I recoiled and for a moment I had become unsure of my next action. A brief moment as it was, I was perturbed perhaps because the millennia of isolation which had dulled my wits or perhaps I was finally becoming predictable. Yet what was more harrowing were the conclusions by which were drawn by the Angels to be dwelling amidst the fragments of Hell, would that not mean they were in Hell itself? If they were in Hell itself then…what of the Demons?

A cryptic feeling plagued me and without much discourse I exited the area, drifting off into the Pearl nothing towards Earth. I began to see strange, drab buildings rise around me, loud clamoring sounds like horns and metal crunching echoed through my panic. I drifted amidst filthy streets and callous crowds.

I knew that without the aid of my demonic brethren I would need to take a vessel to evade my brothers. The crowd around me was great but unworthy. Empty, narrow minds and broken spirits while easily manipulated by the likes of me ultimately yielded weak vessels. Then I heard something amidst the cacophony of industrial madness. It was a voice, inarticulate by any means but its cadence drew me to it. It was a desperate sounding prattle, its tone invoked a strange degree of sympathy and dread as I drew closer encapsulated by its tragic pitch.

I found, looming amidst the street a pillar of light, golden just like that of my brothers with the exception that it did not aim to pursue me, it simply stood still uttering its incomprehensible dialect. I could make out that it was not trying to speak, no! Its mysterious language indeed turned out to be a pained sob of which the lost soul choked on. I pondered the oddity of its presence; surely one of the reapers would have come along in order to escort this soul to its proper domain? Why did it loom in the void like a child lost in a crowd? I stood over it, the dreadful feeling an uncanny power waft from its essence captivating me with an additive, masochistic pain.

“Help…me” it whispered quietly in a loathsome hiss. I remained silent, perturbed by what I was witnessing. The soul soon disappeared and in its place, a small building with white clapboard walls and a peaked roof appeared. An oaken rampway in a tapering zig-zag rose up to a modest doorway of which I scaled curiously, the soul’s leaking despondency overwhelming me.

I forced open the door, its cold brass handle stinging me as I turned it. As the portal opened a bright pearl light erupted like a flash of lightning and blinded me with its stunning brilliance and in that moment I felt myself become sucked in.

I awoke in a dark, cramped space and I could hear a faint murmuring like the scratching of rats in a ship’s hull. The body which I had by no direct choice of my own claimed was stiff and below its flesh, a repugnant, writing sensation lurked. Slowly I worked each joint loose so that I may feel around my mysterious domain discovering a plush, silken texture to the walls. I reached for the ceiling and pushed, feeling an entire segment of it shift uncomfortably. With another, more clumsy thrust I was able to dislodge it, forcing it to pivot open so that the world outside leeched in a harsh artificial light. I quickly scurried through the opening, thrusting myself over the polished lip of the wooden container.

Suddenly the murmuring ceased and I stood before an audience of patrons dressed fancifully. I did not take too much time to absorb the scene for I needed to mitigate the risk of my brothers pursuing me into this realm but I did realize I was in a hall of decorative flowers and photographs all featuring the same grim-faced youth. I passed by a whirring horde of make-up smeared faces and mournful scowls all of whom recoiled in uncanny horror. I washed through them awkwardly carrying myself on still stiff legs and left out the very same drab door by which I entered.

The streets were dark and filthy as I had seen prior, Earth’s moon loomed sullenly over-head waxed so far as to look like a sleeping eye. Cold winds echoed through the cracked streets bounding off of dusky storefronts and townhouses. I ran down the street, breathing channeling my focus as I calibrated myself in this vessel feeling every tendon and sinew become loose with each stride. I bore down on my concentration feeling a strange energy thrum through me, a maroon aura burst from my right hand before quickly vanishing.

“Come on, come on” I hissed lowly as I continued to run. Finally, I felt a sustained jolt in my chest and closed my eyes. I felt a gust of air, followed by a feather-like sensation overtaking my body adding to the cocktail of strange discordant sensations I was subjected too. With a moment’s passing I had traversed several hundred feet down the road. “Weak,” I said, knowing well it would take time to fully recover my strength after executing my escape.

I paused for only a moment as I caught my reflection in a stores window, faint as it was. Having exhumed this body I figured it would have been someone of an elder disposition but it was disturbingly youthful. The boney face that looked back at me was smooth and tight even bearing a few unsightly blemishes above it brow. It glared at me gruesomely as if cursing my presence inside it as its sharp analytical eyes observed me. Its implications were harrowing, disturbing and otherwise morbid.

I had caught sight of a strange mark beneath the black lines of the blazer sleeve I wore. As I rolled them up an unsightly array of long, painful lesions, sewn together with thick stitches marked the wrists. I looked back up to reflection, looking deep into my vessel’s eyes. All I could see beyond their brown irises was the moist, shimmer of pain which seemed to twitch under their crystal expression. “Help me!” they cried, yet I knew not what I could do for the poor soul, except alert a reaper to its plight…

Suddenly a great exhaustion wracked this body, and I stumbled into a nearby alley, slumping over by a filth-encrusted dumpster. It had been a long while since I had rest of any kind and finally if only for a little while I may rest. Others would be looking for me I knew, but I took solace in my prior position and knew well that certain members of that search party were not trying to destroy me. It would not be long until I found one of them, for they are many here on Earth.