A DC Collision Interlude
By Joseph Connell
For me, I estimate their works and them
So rightly, that at times I almost dream I too have spent a life the sages' way. And tread once more familiar paths. Perchance I perished in an arrogant self-reliance An age ago; and in that act, a prayer For one more chance went up so earnest, so Instinct with better light led in by Death, That life was blotted out--not so completely But scattered wrecks enough of it remain, Dim memories, as now, when once more seems The goal in sight again. All which, indeed, Is foolish, and only means--the flesh I wear, The earth I tread, are not more clear to me Than my belief, explained to you or no. "Paracelsus" - Robert Browning
How long have I been in this place, this labyrinth with neither entrance nor exit?
I do not know how I came to be imprisoned here, nor what agent or agency had a hand in this feat. I know only that I...awoke...to find himself surrounded by walls of smooth glass that curved and twisted back upon themselves.
How such a thing could be I cannot say. I do live as mortals live, and thus am not bound by the limitations of mere and vital flesh. I do not hunger, and thus I do not eat; I do not tire, and thus I do not sleep.
At times I dream what I presume to be dreams. I hold court with Nightmare itself, who greets me with courtesy and makes no move towards violence, his realm of etheric chaos crying in a multitude of voices around us. Nightmare smiles, and I understand his restraint where normally he and I would immediately begin trading blows; the mortal realm is in the grip of madness and despair, thus is his power fed a would a glutton at a banquet.
Now there is only silence, both within and without. It is the former that disturbs me the most, even moreso than the surroundings I find myself within. These glass corridors - endless and curving, sharp corners that lead nowhere, and cul-de-sacs that empty into still more passageways - provide their own manner of distraction and mystery enough to distract and bedevil my thoughts.
Within this glass I am often confronted not by my familiar cape and helm, but by one of those whose very power gives me form.
The humbled surgeon, the gypsy girl, the undying crone, the descendant of living flames, the servant of the many loa; each takes their turn confronting me, time and again. Some do step free of the glass, sometimes even achieve a sick physicality that is too perfect to be nothing but a reflection of life. Others will remain within the glass, beyond my reach.
Whatever their origins (for I can divine neither their reality nor nature), these reflected phantoms prove...difficult, and never in precisely the same way. It is most frustrating.
The humbled surgeon is the most direct, though this is hardly surprising as his is by far the strongest will. He appears before or beside me, stepping forth from the glass, dressed either in his sorcerer’s robes or more mundane clothes. He clicks his tongue at me and struts about, his normal humility gone.
“Can’t figure it out, can you?” he taunts, reaching out and rapping his knuckles upon my helm. “No hat and no saddle, eh? Guess I was expecting too much, eh?” He quickly vanishes after this, each time fading into emptiness before I can collect my wits enough to respond.
After this might come the servant of the Loa, or the gypsy girl. They are practitioners of wild magicks, their natures and challenges unpredictable.
The servant man will appear silently behind me, tap me upon one shoulder and whisper over the other while I look away. “It’s all right in front of you, fool.” He ducks away and laughs like a mockingbird as I turn to confront him, never catching more than a glance of his wide grin or dark eyes.
The gypsy girl by contrast will either appear directly before me or directly behind me, above me or materialize under my feet. She will be as insubstantial as a shadow and as opaque as solid marble. Her lips will curve into a sensual grin, while her eyes flash will a fury that would wilt even the strongest will.
She speaks no riddles and offers no challenges. Rather, the reaches out to stroke my helm with her long fingers, then catches me off-guard and delivers a vicious backhand that causes me to stumble against the walls and floor. I am a creature of raw magick, given form by will alone and absent any flesh that might feel such a blow...yet she manages without fail to inflict pain upon me.
Harsh as her blow is, her parting words deliver a worse sting: “I expected better.”
With this she vanishes into the glass. Each time, I would weep had I eyes for it.
The undying crone and the woman-child of living fire are no less harsh in their treatment. The she-kin of the Faltane sneers and makes rude gestures in my direction, never deigning to approach closer. Her shunning contempt is every bit as stinging as the gypsy girl’s blow. Of them all, Faltane’s kin appears the most often, taunting and condemning me at nearly every turn.
The crone harbors the greatest of surprises, however. She comes to me not from the glass, but simply walking into view. She stands just beyond reach, her frail form wrapped head to toe in robes both holy and careworn. A great hood hides her face from me, though her eyes pierce into my very soul. I shake from the knowledge and power radiating like heat from her still form.
Yet she makes no move towards or away from me. Often I can manage no more than a single step to close the distance between us before my strength gives way and I stumble. No matter how quickly I look back up, she is gone from sight, taking with her all comfort and clarity she might otherwise offer.
I feel myself tremble with further shame at this failing, and in the depths of my fractured soul, their voices whisper the same taunts and condemnation of me as clearly as if they were called across an empty wasteland.
How long this goes on I cannot say. Time has even less meaning here than distance.
I do pause in my exploration from time to time and contemplate all this. Yes, I am trapped within the mad labyrinth, tormented by shades of those who by rights should not even exist.
Yes, they attack me with stinging words and blows, paining me even though I am removed from such things.
Yes, I falter and fall where I should stand firm.
Yes, I cannot find escape, even though I sense no power holding me within this place.
Madness, all of it.
Time and again, throughout my torments and desperate search, I come to the same conclusion over and over.
Madness. Utter, incomprehensible madness.
Yet, I sense a method beneath it.
Why am I condemned as a failure at each turn, when no challenge is put before me? Why does the crone beckon me to approach even as the servant man and the once-surgeon deliver judgment without first a question?
Why does the gypsy girl attack me with such success, never mind such venom?
Each new attack merely hammers each question harder and harder, until I am forced to cease my search for escape and give each their turn.
The former surgeon, from whom I take my name, puzzles me the most insofar as he is the only one to speak a direct challenge: “Can’t figure it out, can you?” He expects...what? That I make some great leap of intuition and divine the nature of my prison from those words alone?
The loa’s servant is equally inscrutable in his taunts. “Its right in front of you,” he claims. Whatever “it” is that he professes is right before me...egress from this labyrinth, perhaps? All I can perceive is my own confusion reflected back upon me from every possible side.
I shut this out and ponder each riddle carefully, especially those spoken through action rather than word. Faltane’s kin and the crone shuns me even as the Roma lashes out. It is puzzling, the unpredictability of it all.
Precisely when or how the answer comes to me I cannot say. I have turned over and over and over each declaration and action of these shades in my so-called mind, examining each in isolation and then in total, becoming so jumbled that I sometimes conceive it is the physician who avoids me while the Roma girl snickers over my shoulder and her once-mentor strikes me.
Out of this comes a singular fact: I am prodded by each to escape, be it by riddles or taunts or by being led a merry chase. They offer no egress, nor direct me to any such point. I am left at each encounter precisely where I began, lost and without direction. My explorations of this labyrinth have led me nowhere, the mirrored walls a perfect metaphor for its construction. There is, quite simply, no beginning and no ending to this place. I draw upon the minds and experiences of those whom the impossible is commonplace.
These shades - who condemn and taunt and attack me at every turn - have nevertheless given me the single clue to unlock this mystery.
They direct me to escape from this impossible place. How can I, when I cannot make sense of this place to begin with.
I fold my form into a simple lotus and hover in the emptiness, then close my nonexistent ‘eyes’ to the myriad of reflections and angles that comprise my immediate surroundings. I float in the emptiness of my mind, the normally competing voices therein now silent, their energies working in unison.
I feel outwards for the first time with my subtler senses. It is a measure of my composite nature, this instinctive dependency upon simple sight to define my surroundings. I have sometimes pondered how truly ‘human’ I am, given I am little more than a shadow of many shades. Am I truly a being unto myself, or simply a collection of reactions and instincts from others?
My fallibility is all the answer I need here.
I feel my prison for the first time, divining its shape and nature through more reliable methods than sight. Gone are the maddening corridors of unending mirrors and corners. Why had I not thought of this earlier, some part of my mind snickers ruefully. I had, after all, been all but screaming at myself for who knows how long. My phantom lips draw into a grin at my egotism. To think I might solve this riddle alone...
My prison is no labyrinth. I no longer sense the walls that had confounded me for so long. I in fact sense nothing at all.
No corridors of mirrors…no twists and turns that lead back upon themselves…no confusion of images or sensations whatsoever.
I am alone in a void.
When I allow myself sight once more, I am unsurprised to see what I have sensed to be the truth.
Yes, now, I am alone. The labyrinth – with its mirrored corridors and subtle madness – has gone. In its place is only emptiness…an emptiness that sparkles shines in a disturbingly familiar manner…
Unfolding myself from my meditative stance, I am mildly surprised to feel something solid under my feet. It proves firm enough to support my nominal weight. I run a bare hand across the surface underfoot, finding it cool and smooth.
In a way, this emptiness is even more maddening than the labyrinth was. I am left without direction or focus now, nor any way to orientate myself. Have I merely exchanged one prison for another?
Straightening to my full height yields yet another surprise: I feel the impact of…something…against my helmet. Quickly ducking, I perceive nothing overhead save further, sparkling emptiness. I reach up to feel this new barrier, my fingers almost instantly coming into contact with the same cool, smooth surface as I now stand upon. Odder still, I feel it...curve...under my touch. I do not mean it conforms and moves, but merely that my fingers perceive and gentle angle to this invisible ceiling I stand under. Not unlike a dome...or...a...ball...?
For a second time, an epiphany hits as many pieces come together. I resume my lotus position and close my eyes once more, levitating myself to what I judge the exact center of my prison. Once there, I mutter the simplest and most effective incantation possible:
“By Ikonan’s Light, restore mine true sight.”
No illusion or trick can withstand such a simple, direct assault.
There is the sound of shattering glass as if a thousand thousand mirrors are put to the hammer, yet my etheric skin is not much as nicked by a single shard; final proof of my suspicions.
Ghostly lips curve to form a ghostly smile as I open my eyes once more. Neither the sparkling emptiness of a crystal ball, nor the mirrored corridors of the labyrinth greet me. Instead I find myself floating in an opulently appointed conference room. The blinds are drawn against the light outside, yet allow enough through that I can clearly see I am alone here.
The furnishings are few, yet appear expensive: a single conference table dominates the room, with but a single chair at its head. A chaise lounge of exquisite workmanship sits against the far wall, while directly above it hangs a great portrait depicting – in minute detail – a scene of devastation and horror as creatures not easily described rampage across the land. The signature at the corner is a simple “R Pickman”, attesting to the factual nature of the scene. I could name each monstrosity shown upon this canvas, were I irresponsible enough to even consider doing so.
The only remaining wall is taken up by a bookshelf, though one absent of any and all books. Rather, each shelf holds a glass bottle or container of one sort or another. I levitate myself over towards them, suddenly and inexplicably curious. Closer inspection reveals these are not empty vessels. Within one can be seen a spiral galaxy floating in darkness, turning ever so slowly upon its great axis. Within another are mist-shrouded streets and alleyways, wherein sickly figures move in fugitive fear of one another. Another catches my eye, for it is cube-shaped yet it somehow stands unaided upon one apex; within this upright cube is another mist, yet one that moves of its own accord and with deliberate purpose, hammering against the walls of its prison seeking escape.
There is one more I peruse, one of the larger containers there. Strange that I feel drawn to it, for I see it holds only a solitary island wherein tiny dots of movement can almost be perceived by the naked eye. I even make out a small settlement near what appears to be a lake, and more movement here and there.
I spin at the sound behind me. Was that a...chuckle? Who would dare mock me at such a moment? I throw open my senses to the wider world...only to buckle and fall to my knees a moment later.
It is nearly indescribable, the cascade of sights and sensations that nearly rent me asunder. Yet my being is made of many parts, and each views these disjointed and damming images that assault me calmly, their individual perspectives swiftly conjoining into a unified opinion.
The world has become wrong. This much is clear to me...as is so much more:
I perceive in the near distance the appearance of great cities and mighty titans and dark knights who do not belong within our world. Yet here they appear, as if they have always been.
I perceive through a distance nearly beyond imaging two great giants merging and melding, though imperfectly. With this imperfect joining, the world and reality itself heaves and shudders.
I perceived at a distance beyond description, in place whence all things that were and are and will and should and could and must and might be are birthed stands a towering and impossible structure, where by rights no such artifice should ever be built.
Beyond all this, I hear the voice of a woman. “In the beginning, God created the heavens and earth.”
In horror, I close my mind to further imagery. Even I, who might stand upon the northern slope of Heaven and shed not a tear for its beauty, or gaze into the deepest bowls of the Pits below and feel no sympathy...even I cannot withstand further such sights without also surrendering sanity itself.
Yes, the world has become wrong. Whether it might ever be set to rights, whether such a task is within my power or providence...
I cannot dwell upon that. I dare not, lest doubt and fear overwhelm my fragile resolve.
A bolt of eldritch fire issues from my open hand, which obliterates the nearby wall and momentarily eases my frustrations. Glass and metal dissolve instantly under my assault, giving me easy egress from this empty place. Without so much as a glance backwards, I fly through this smoldering hole and emerge into the light of day.
A question tickles at my consciousness as I fly, wondering why I am sure I hear mocking laughter follow me? I shake this off, unwilling to be distracted in the face of the challenges ahead.
I fly, and dare not look back.
Two: Unseen Hands
Saunders sat and watched with undisguised appreciation as the dancer completed her complex spell, her limbs and snow-white hair whipping about in a manner at once precise and ecstatic. The thin veils that covered her curvaceous form likewise moved in time with her dance. His features, composed physically of delicate cold and stiff crystalline, could convey only a fraction of his interest.
It was a frustration he felt often, yet bore with patient equanimity, living for the day he could repay his creator for reducing him to this mockery of life.
The scientist tore his eyes from this most wondrous sight to concentrate on his ‘brother’, who spent several moments perusing their collection on the far wall before falling so gracelessly to his knees. No doubt the fool was trying to comprehend what was happening in the big wide world outside. Saunders couldn’t help but chuckle at how the helmeted being literally squirmed and shook.
No soon did his ‘brother’ stand than he obliterated a sizable portion of the nearby wall (fortunately avoiding breaking any of the trinkets on the bookshelf in the process), then flying away without so much as a by-your-leave. His chuckle became a full-blown laugh after that. Arguably the most powerful magick-user under this idiotic barrier, a being with the combined experience and wisdom of over a dozen mages and the like, and he couldn’t even see past a simple cloaking spell.
“Idiot,” Saunders muttered quietly to himself, lest his departing ‘brother’ overhear. When Strange did not return, he breathed an empty breath of relief and turned to the dancer. “I think you can stop now, my dear. He appears to have other places to be.”
Salóme spun a final time, her hair, veils, and wings twirling in time before coming to rest. The Sorceress Majestrix went still, even though she cast a hungry glare at the seated scientist. “We should have killed him,” she declared, her once-sonorous voice grating and throaty as if it were spoken through gravel. Having a larynx made of raw stone doubtlessly had something to do with it.
“Which one?” Saunders inquired mildly, unruffled by her demeanor. “The physician? The crone?”
“All of them!”
“To what end?”
“Vengence!” she snarled, her fangs glistening in the light.
Saunders merely sniffed. “How shallow. How common.” He then offered a placating smile to his partner. “Never fear, my dear. Never fear. Our plans proceed apace. Why, just look at all we have accomplished for so little effort.” A hand made of hollow glass gestured casually, and a column of fire not unlike that which destroyed the wall but moments ago suddenly appeared over the great table. Within it were clearly displayed a series of faces and scenes.
“An artificial epiphany,” he said as the face of a young, dark-haired woman appeared. She gazed longingly across a technopolis of the far future, her fingers going to her temples as a series of mathematical equations scrolled under the image. “Filling an empty heart with the path to reach an impossible place.”
The scene shifted to show a man dressed in medieval robes, his pupil less eyes squinting and features darkening as a phantom castle arose to tower behind him. Saunders explained “An implanted inspiration, speaking to the brightest aspirations of the darkest heart.”
This sight faded, replaced by one of a lantern-like object made of some emerald-green material. Standing immediately behind it was a massive figure hidden in shadows, towering flames beyond deepening those same shadows. “And a trinket, stolen from a nearby place, solely to ensure a God’s attention is caught.”
Salóme sneered at the parade of images. “Bah. You and your manipulations.” There was no rancor, nor envy, in her voice. Saunders smiled at this all the same.
“Of course. I will twist even the designs of the devil to service our ends. This?” he said with a dismissive wave of his crystal hand. “This is all merely a means to our shared end.”
“Yes, yes, merely the means, as you’ve said many a time. Speaking of which.” She held up a newly-appeared veil, upon which was an pattern suggestive of two giant beings mingling as one, with a multitude of other, smaller faces and bodies similarly co-mingled and merging in the foreground. Were one to stare at the scene long enough, one might almost make out movement within the fabric itself. Or perhaps this was merely a trick of the half-light within which they dwelt.
Saunders nevertheless gave polite applause to the sight. “Exquisite, my dear. You truly are an artist.”
The dancing sorceress bowed, her white hair billowing and bat’s wings rustling. “And next?”
“Our…friend from Katerborous will be by soon.” Salóme’s eyes flared and became a burning white, her fangs flashing brightly in the dimness. “His own contacts outside should yield results soon.”
“Many visitors?” Her voice trembled with sudden excitement, but Saunders only shook her head.
“A handful at best, I’m afraid. The Great Houses will allow no more just now.” At the sight of Dancer’s adorable pout, Saunders forced his unfeeling lips to smile as broadly as the crystal would allow. “Never fear, my dear. There will doubtlessly be bodies aplenty for your…enjoyment.”
The laughter that followed was at once harsh and humorless; an unnatural, inhuman sound.
Pas l’extrémité.
Not The End.