Descension

CHAPTER 12

Thunder screams from the sky as lightning cascades through clouds of ice and ash, the rhythm of drums beating in sync with Ben's heartbeat and footsteps. He runs through burning acid rain and radioactive dust kicked up by the shadows of men mutilated by fire. It's all red. Red from blood, red from flame, red from Omnium. Ben runs faster, faster than he should be able to. He looks down at his feet: mechanical. From his feet and up to his legs, his hips, his torso, his chest, neck, shoulders, arms, and hands are plated in steel and chrome. With every breath in, there is a click of gears. His eyes turn smoothly without a flicker.

Running upstream through droves of carbon people fleeing from home, Ben forces his way through his faceless family, their skin, now a shell of obsidian, flaking off when he brushes against them. They feel no pain. Ben runs faster and faster, his body a bright shining silver against the rust colored smoke filling the air. He sees it before him now: Omnicore. No longer the provisional statement of modern advancements and an ascended society, but a skeleton of frames and pipes clambering out of a burning abysm. This is it. The reactor had imploded and given birth to a new world. Ben strides forward to the edge of the chasm and leaps, spreading his arms out, flying into the descent. He feels no pain.

Ben groans softly at the beam of light that had shifted over his shut eyes, stirring him from sleep. He turns his face into the pillow beneath his head, sheltering his eyes from the golden, glistening ray. The sound of birdsong and water streaming somewhere nearby soothes Ben back into the comfort of near-sleep. He allows himself to fade in and out for a while, dreamless and dark. It isn't until the sound of voices and smell of food interrupts this cycle that, when Ben opens his eyes, they focus.

He arches his back and extends his arms and legs in a long, satisfying stretch, sighing as he relaxes his muscles once more. He throws off the thick, fuzzy blanket he had been given, then sets it back into place and smooths it out over the sofa. He stretches his arms and back out one more time, rolling his shoulders before turning around to the coffee table to grab his glasses, patting the unfamiliar surface until he finds them. He settles them on his face, blinking a few times to help his vision adjust, his brows raising in surprise at his now clear surroundings. Right. I'm here. Joaquin and Dannika.

Ben picks the clothes he had been lent up off the floor, throwing on the top and pants. He ruffles his hair before turning towards the garage, closing his eyes, and taking in a deep breath. Scents of rainwater, dimming embers from barrel fires, and breakfast fill the air. Ben steps out from behind the curtains of the doorway.

"Morning," Dannika says to him, picking up a small bowl of soup and taking a sip.

Joaquin stands up and grabs a pillow for Ben, setting it on the floor at the head of the table. "We brought the whole pantry out," Joaquin says.

'The whole pantry' isn't much. Ben's brows quirk slightly, wondering if perhaps they were joking. Despite that, they had still managed to scrap together enough for the three of them. Eggs, rice, miso soup, and an old tin pot of tea.

Dannika pours Ben a cup of the tea. "Help yourself."

Ben immediately begins to pile his plate with as much food as he possibly could, digging in without even setting his dish down on the table. After a whole minute of uninterrupted devouring, Ben bashfully looks up from his plate.

"Sorry," he mumbles after swallowing.

"For what?" Joaquin asks around a mouthful of food.

Dannika shakes her head. "You haven't eaten well for a while. Don't apologize."

Ben considers her words for a moment, then gives a silent thanks with a bow of his head before continuing to consume.

They eat together, Joaquin and Dannika's conversation muffling out into nothing as Ben falls into a trance of shoveling food into his mouth, his mind wandering as his body turns to autopilot. The echoes of screams and blaster bolts consume Ben's senses. Grotesque images of bloodied faces imprint on his mind's eye; he's unable to shake them, the visions only growing clearer as he closes his eyes. He drops his bowl to the table and leans over, pressing his forehead into his palm, cold sweat dripping from his hairline. He grits his teeth as bile rises in his throat. The solace he once felt in killing the Ordership soldiers now makes him sick. How could that have been me? I'm not a murderer... that isn't me!