The Melting Mind of One Fictum Ernest

Cycle 6 + 7

Cycle 6: One Difficult Individual

I quickly spat out the blood I had regenerated inside, and well I was close to drowning my airway got it's act together. With some semblance of composure, I call to Issigmth.

"I can never seem to get the hang of dying, got any pointers?"

"Die." This time I didn't even see how I died, just a quick snippet of hellish agony and then a little but of nothing.

Cycle 7: Oh... That Was Quick

I am quicker at spitting the blood out this time (please stop antagonising the flesh planet) Naja groaned.

"I'm thinking" (you gonna think it to death?) "could you at least pretend to not be an asshole."

It can die, but how, Old age, food poisoning? I struggle to truly articulate the ways in which I am obscenely ill-suited to be dealing with this cosmic bullshit.

"immortality is not as useful after- "ca-chunk, after stalling out a few times my brain finally starts up and I piece together some obvious strands of information that were sort of just hanging out for a while. "my soul..." (your soul?) the unnamed one seemed to like my train of thought with whatever series of noises it made. I fall to my knees and wet my hands in my pooling blood (and he's lost it) "Naja can you free hand an enneagram, I need it big" (yeah, I can, but why?) "I'm gonna win, now have some faith" after some stammered resistance Naja relents and a swarm of insects flood the blood vessels in my arm, Naja stamps nine points into the stone floor before scooping up some more blood (ugh... this is disgusting) with a an impossibly steady hand Naja draws three interlaced, equilateral triangles. "that's good" (wanna see a trapezoid as well?) Control returns to me, and a gentle ache replaces the numb stinging.

"what are you doing corpse" Issigmth produced a noise, which waivered across my entire perceptible range and beyond, I had no hope of attributing a motive to it, but context led me to believe it was a scoff. My grin was that of a lunatic, and my cackling response made me seem no more sane.

"well- you have just been such-" I blow a kiss "-a great host that I simply must pay you back INFINITY-FOLD!" I stand proud in the enneagram's centre; I whip out my gun and thumb back the hammer focusing on the hatched texture to steady my nerves while I raise it to my temple. My trigger finger won't budge, it felt cold (Fictum, what the fuck are you doing) despite word choice Herod seemed more exasperated than anything "well I appreciate the concern, kindly piss off Herod" the cold is melding with a stinging from within my arm that lowers the revolver from my head (no Ernest, this is our body as much as yours so due me the basic courtesy of telling me the bloody plan) I hate it when they're right, even if it's just a little bit correct.

"are you now grasping your insignificance?" Issigmth rung out in a million whispers, I ignore it.

"do you remember the thing that broke my- our leg" (vividly) Naja did not emanate patience "they said my soul would have killed them" I steady my breathing, or at least I try "why would the same not apply here? Y'know you fill a ballon it pop" (or it expands) "nothing holds infinity" (it is uncertain, but such measures seem unavoidable) there is something deep in my sub-conscious, a need grafted to my soul and it speaks up on a level beyond conviction, "Issigmth must die" it need not be stated because everyone of us knew it was as true for the need of food and water, maybe more so.

"are you done grovelling?" every word of Issigmth sentence bore enough raw power to imply raw authority, but my hands do not purely shake with terror because I am furious. the only objective on my mind is revenge, don't know what for and don't particularly care. With control over my trigger finger, I blew out my brain, but before I did, I was given the beautiful sceptical of every writhing face on the cosmic pound of flesh turn to abject horror, and it just felt right.