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Post by Dante on Mar 30, 2005 5:44:39 GMT -5
It had begun. The missiles had been launched, and the war had started. A number of people were hurrying through a series of underground tunnels beneath Washington.
“Hurry, sir, they’ll hit any minute!”
Confusion. Panic. Chaos. Nobody knew what was happening, who was attacking who, which places were safe. China had made the first move – that was certain truth – and then the USA had stepped in, and then the waters had started to become muddied.
“We’re nearly there, Mr. President. Just through these doors…”
As the group of five hurried towards a huge lead-lined door, nearly a metre thick, they heard the first explosions behind them, faint and muffled through the many layers of concrete above them, but still noticeable.
“Run, run!”
It was at that point that one of the people in the group fell, stumbling over his own shoes. A woman stopped to help him up.
“We don’t have time!”
The other three hurried through the door, and started to drag it shut.
“Wait!”
The two remaining people started to hurry towards the door, but a voice from within shouted, “Leave them!” and the door swung closed with a clang, followed by many clicks and metallic scrapings as the door’s many locks were closed. The man and the woman who had been left behind banged and scraped desperately at the door for a while, before turning to face the horrors which they had been fleeing from.
---
Inside the chamber which was built behind the door, an important-looking man, a chubby, aging man, and a nondescript man stood. The nondescript man was hurrying around the room, checking the equipment and supplies inside, while the chubby man was talking to the important-looking man.
“You did all you could, George, and that’s what matters. Hey, if them Europeans hadn’t gotten involved, you’d be a hero right now.”
“I thought it was the Russians?” queried the important-looking man.
“Whoever,” dismissed the fat man with a sneer.
“Mr. President, Mr. Vice President,” the nondescript man said, approaching them. “I’ve checked all the supplies, and all the gauges. We should be fine to stay here until the radioactivity dies down.”
“How long will that be?” asked the important-looking man, sulkily.
“Er…” the nondescript man looked suddenly nervous.
“Come on…” threatened the aging man.
“Around about…” the nondescript man paused for as long as he could, before sighing. “It should be safe enough for us to go out after a year.”
“A year?!” exclaimed the important-looking man. “How am I supposed to stay here for a year? It’s just a hole in the ground! And anyway, I have people to help out there, a country to rule!”
“Don’t worry about it, George…” reassured the elderly, fattish man. “It’s all sorting itself out. You left your plans with the state governments to sort out. All that matters right now is our safety.”
“You mean my safety,” interjected the president, sulkily.
“Of course,” said the vice-president.
The nondescript man looked suddenly suspicious. “Uh, Mr. Vice-President? Won’t the state governments…”
But suddenly the fat man glared at this third weed of a man so hard that he backed away, and stopped talking.
“We just have to play the waiting game for a while,” said the vice-president, coolly. “Besides, there’s plenty to do here. We can make plans for what we’ll do when we get out, start mapping out the invasion of China for when we return…”
“I wanna play Jenga,” said the president.
For a fraction of a second, a look of disgust flashed onto the fat man’s face, but it quickly faded into a fatherly smile. “Of course, Mr. President.”
---
The days passed slowly in the vault. The important-looking man spent much of his time sleeping and playing video games; the elderly, fattish man preferred to sit in a corner, tapping away at his typewriter; the nondescript man nervously whiled away the days staring at the equipment, which measured outside conditions and activity, and listened for communications. The three men were very different, and things could get strained in the bunker. The important-looking man gave a lot of orders, becoming increasingly trivial as the days went by, and the nondescript man would grow very anxious trying to please him. Meanwhile, the fattish man seemed very quiet, content to write out whatever was in his mind on the typewriter.
On one such day, after they had been in the bunker for quite some time, the nondescript man, after checking his computers, walked nervously over to the man in the corner.
“Mr. Vice-President?”
The vice-president looked up. “What is it?” he growled.
The nondescript man stuttered, “Uh, it’s about the internet. It’s been down ever since we came into the bunker. I mean, the connection is working, but no sites are.”
“That’s to be expected, you idiot,” snarled the man with the frayed temper. “When the bombs went off, they’ll have caused an electromagnetic pulse effect, knocking out all electronic equipment, except for what’s in this bunker. All the servers will be down.”
“What I mean is,” whimpered the ordinary-looking man, “that they’re still down. One would expect that they’d all be repaired now, by the survivors on the surface.”
The fat man paused to digest this information for a while, and then looked up with a grin.
“You silly little man. Up top, I expect that everyone’s working on relief efforts, not on websites. Those websites that are running will be pretty hard to find, too, since you don’t know what’s running and what’s not. Of course you can’t find any that are working.”
The nondescript man looked afraid, and yet relieved.
“Yes… Yes, of course that’s it. Thank you, Mr. Che – Mr. Vice-President, sir.”
The nondescript man stumbled away, almost running in his eagerness to escape the vice-president, who had always unnerved him, but who, in this closed space, he now feared. He took solace in his equipment, and was about to try and relax when…
“Hey, you there!”
It was the president’s voice. The short man jumped in his seat.
“Get me some juice! And then come play Junior Scrabble with me; I’m bored.”
The tiny man started to sweat, the pressure of being trapped in a room with this infuriating man taking its toll.
---
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Post by Dante on Mar 30, 2005 5:44:57 GMT -5
It was night-time, some weeks later. The president was curled up in his sleeping-bag, muttering in his sleep; the vice-president was still and quiet in his hammock; the lackey asleep on his equipment. Suddenly, the equipment buzzed into life. The lackey started to stir.
“Wha…”
i want to eat you
The voice seemed to come from nowhere – from the machine? From the nondescript man’s mind? From thin air?
come want to hurt punish you leave open door hurt kill tear
The lackey jumped up from his seat, howling in fright, howling like a child, a dog, an animal. The noise awoke his cohorts.
“What is it, George?” asked the fattish man. “Did you have another nightmare… Oh, it’s you. What are you screeching like that for?”
“He woke me up in the middle of a nice dream,” complained the president.
The nondescript man whimpered, cowering away from his equipment, from his masters, from anything. “I heard… voices… It wanted to hurt me… The machine…”
But as they all looked at the control panel nearby, they saw that it was very much turned off. The vice-president looked like he was only just restraining his anger.
“Now look, you. You’ve obviously just had a bad dream, and I can understand that. We all do sometimes.”
The nondescript man didn’t think that the elderly man had ever had a nightmare – rather, he was a nightmare – but he kept quiet.
“But you’ve woken up George, and you know he doesn’t sleep well.”
“It’s boring down here,” said the president. “I wanna stay up late and watch movies.”
“Now, George, you know that you need your sleep,” said the vice-president, sounding calmer. “Now, you, I want you to help get George back to sleep by reading him a bed-time story.”
“My First Horse??” asked the president eagerly.
“You can hear My First Horse twice if you really want to,” said the vice-president. “Now, I’m going to get some sleep. Now where are my ear-plugs…?”
---
The lackey was feeling tired. He had been trying not to sleep, because he didn’t want to hear the voice again. He drank nothing but coffee, and spent most of his days on a chair in the corner, when he wasn’t monitoring the equipment, or making juice for the president.
When he turned his back, though, he thought he heard whispered voices… The president and the vice-president? Were they talking about him? Did they think he was insane? What were they planning to do to him?
The door suddenly seemed very inviting. They had been in the bunker for six months, now – surely that was long enough? After all, the war probably hadn’t been so bad as to leave enough radiation for them to have to hide away for a year. He betted that outside, all the people were starting to farm again, restoring their businesses, playing with their children, enjoying their lives…
While he was stuck in the abyss with the child-president and the wicked vice-president.
His paranoia grew. Was that a noise? Is it night-time? Is this clock slow? It’s cold. It’s warm. Who’s there? Nobody. But what if? Are the two presidents sleeping soundly? It’s hot. I need air. Fresh air. Soon. Door. Leave. But the voice? No. No voice. Fresh air. Escape. Escape. Escape.
The two presidents noticed their lackey’s change in mood. He twitched constantly, he stuttered at every word. He was constantly looking around, checking every inch of the chamber for – who knew what? – and yet would spend hours staring at the door. The president found it funny. The vice-president kept his thoughts to himself. But they both knew that something needed to be done. So one day, the two presidents approached the lackey.
He noticed them talking together, and then turning towards him. Was this it? The endgame? Were they planning to hurt him?
The president was the first to speak.
“Now, you,” he said. “You’ve been behaving weirdly, and frankly I think it’s no good. My coffee’s been spilt all over the floor twice just today, and you’re no fun to play against in Church Snakes & Ladders. So, as the President, I order you to -”
“You’re not my president!” screamed the lackey, before hurling himself at the door. He started to twist the locks, pull the bolts aside, enter the passwords.
“What is he doing, Dick? I order you to stop!” the president cried. The vice-president seemed to hang back. But then the lackey managed to open all the locks, and pushed at the door with all his might.
The door burst open.
The concrete tunnel had vanished. There was no sign of the man and the woman who had been left behind. Instead, the tunnel opened up into an open clearing. The grass was brown and wilted, and the clearing was surrounded by dark, leafless trees, with cruel, sharp branches hooking inwards, outwards, everywhere. The sky above was dark, misty, empty. The lackey lay panting on the ground, and the president walked out to join him.
“What is this…?”
The president turned to look back at his old friend for advice, for an explanation, but the vice-president had vanished, and was nowhere to be seen.
“Where…?”
The president spun around on his feet, but could see nothing. The lackey got up, and looked at his surrounding as though he had not seen them before.
“Where are we…?” he moaned. His eyes, though, seemed to have cleared from the haze which his madness had put across them, and through the trees he spied something.
“This way, Mr. President!”
The president was surprised to see the lackey take charge – but in truth, he didn’t mind too much. He wasn’t very good at making decisions himself, which is why he let the vice-president do so much of his work for him. But the vice-president wasn’t here, so this lackey would have to do. At least he was doing something other than standing around.
The lackey and the president, stumbling through the trees, the branches tearing at their skin and clothes, reached a tall, imposing wall, built of black brick. Weeds grew between cracks in the wall – weeds just as brown and wilted as the grass.
“I see something this way…”
The nondescript man dashed off parallel to the wall, leaving the important-looking man – now in tattered rags, for the trees were more vicious than they at first seemed – to dash after him. After about a minute, the trees cleared away again, and they stumbled into a clearing. Here, a huge gate was set into the wall, with towering stone gateposts of some black rock, and gates of metal, all twisted, rusting, topped with sharp spikes. Above the gate, on the lintel, were carved a few words that many men had read before, and dreaded.
LAY DOWN ALL HOPE, YOU THAT GO IN BY ME.
The two lost men, both in tattered rags, both confused, both unsure of where they were, looked at each other for a moment, before walking through the gate, each equal to the other now, and entered the abyss which they had lived in for a long time now; the abyss which they had always lived in; and the abyss where that missing man waited for them at the deepest, darkest, coldest, nethermost level.
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Post by PJ on Mar 30, 2005 6:02:19 GMT -5
Interesting. I didn't catch the Comedy reference, I had to google it first. So Cheney is the devil, ay?
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Antenora
Detriment Deleter
Fiendish Philologist
Put down that harpoon gun, in the name of these wonderful birds!
Posts: 15,891
Likes: 113
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Post by Antenora on Mar 30, 2005 7:35:18 GMT -5
Cheney is the devil, indeed.
That was really cool. Very philosophical, as well as funny.
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Post by Alice Wilde on Mar 30, 2005 9:41:11 GMT -5
FFWF, this was so awesome. You're a great writer! And, this completely satisfied my yearning for an Inferno-type politico fic.
lessthanpoundsign
You will continue, won't you? I'll pay you with whatever I can.
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Post by Akbar Le Grey on Mar 30, 2005 10:27:26 GMT -5
Very interesting plot. I love the way you've protrayed the relationship between Bush and Cheney. Quite accurate. Please continue soon.
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Post by Dante on Mar 30, 2005 10:33:43 GMT -5
Dayash... I'm sorry to disappoint the last two posters, but this was kinda sorta... it.
Edit: I could do more, in theory, but there's the dangerous possibility that:
1. I might never finish it.
2. It might suck.
On the other hand, thank you for the praise.
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Antenora
Detriment Deleter
Fiendish Philologist
Put down that harpoon gun, in the name of these wonderful birds!
Posts: 15,891
Likes: 113
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Post by Antenora on Apr 9, 2005 11:42:54 GMT -5
Like many great stories, this one inspired me to draw something, a sort of montage featuring the characters.
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Post by Dante on Apr 9, 2005 13:30:15 GMT -5
It's a very good drawing, and I like it very much.
Okay, I've thought out most of the rest of the story, but the question really is whether or not I'll get some time alone to write it. I can only write when I'm alone, you see - an unfortunate tendency of mine.
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Post by Dante on Apr 10, 2005 10:45:07 GMT -5
Inside the wide open gate which the two had just passed through lay a wasteland not dissimilar to the dark wood which they had just passed through, but this was sparse of trees: It was a blasted, flat and stony ground, where grains and patches of sand were occasionally to be spied, and it stretched away into the distance. Nearer, though, but still some way off, could be seen a great whirlwind, weaving its way through the desert, and chasing after it, a vast crowd of people, who were too distant to be closely examined. The two men who had entered into this dead place were confused as to the nature of the land they had passed into, and the motives of the perpetually-running crowd, but as they turned to each other to express bewilderment, a low cough from their left sent them turning back to the gates.
The cough had been emitted by a person standing next to a tower built into the walls around the gate, and in front of an open door leading within. His attire could once have been similar to that of the two who now confronted him, but unlike their tattered suits his black costume was intact, without dirt, clean to a tee. His head was topped with a smart bowler hat, and he could have been a butler, or valet, were it not for the two short horns protruding from his forehead, and the insignia on his left breast pocket – an image of nine circles, coloured red, each interlocking with two others to form a greater ring, and inside this ring was a number - zero. Smiling at his guests, he tipped his hat to greet them.
“Good afternoon, sir and sir. I expect you are wondering quite what this place is?”
The two men, astonished at the out-of-place appearance and calm demeanour of the figure, were still too taken aback to give a full reply, but the thinner of the two men stuttered and coughed a little, which evidently the gatekeeper believed to constitute an answer in the affirmative.
“Quite, sir. This is the Vestibule, where the futile dwell and chase the whirling winds just as they chased for some purpose to their un-noteworthy lives. Now, will you allow me to perform a small test, to see if you will be staying here with me?”
With this, the smart little man withdrew into the tower, returning a moment later with a small compass of sorts, which was divided into three sections – one black, one grey, and one white, in that order clockwise. Brandishing this instrument at the two men in turn, in the sturdier of the two, the needle remained firmly pointed into the black section. In the thinner, weaker-looking man, the needle twitched towards the grey for a moment, before returning to its former station. The bearer looked disappointed.
“A shame, really. I’d been hoping that you might join me here – the very reason I attempted to put the madness into you some time back,” said the bearer, nodding towards the former lackey. On the dead lands beyond them, the whirlwind suddenly turned towards the group, and its chasers dutifully followed, toppling over each other in their haste.
“Me?” stuttered this same man. “But what…” Then he recalled the terrible voice which had spoken to him one night, and he took a step back. “That was you?”
The smart man cast down his head a little. “Begging your pardon, sir, it’s my job to hurry people along to their proper station. Your bunker had been out in the dark wood for some time now, and yet it looked like you’d never come out. And besides,” at this the speaker sounded a little regretful, “I’d been hoping to work on your faces, sir, as I have with the others who’ve joined me down here. It’s enjoyable enough work, sir, but it’s been quite some time since anyone came down here.”
As this conversation between the clean man and his opposite had been going on, the former-president had turned away, quickly growing bored of his companions, and was watching the crowd drawing close to him. There was something odd about them all… the most any of them were dressed in was rags, and amidst the chasing crowd were a few exceptionally tall figures, whose skin was grey and drawn, and who had growing from their backs the most extraordinary thing – a pair of wings, but now only skeletal, with a few lone feathers clinging on still. But it was the faces of the running people which drew their watcher’s attention. The faces were all a deep red colour, fleshy, bleeding, features indistinguishable – and then suddenly the watcher realised…
“They have no faces!” he cried to his long-time associate and his short-time associate. “Their faces have been removed!”
The long-time associate looked thunderstruck, turning his head towards the crowd and then towards the man he had been speaking to but a moment ago.
“Did you – ”
“I didn’t choose my station, sir,” said the face-smith. “But keeper of the gate and watcher of the vestibule is the position that the Circle Rendition Service assigned me, and one has to grow to love one’s job. Faceless in life, they should have no faces in death, either, before they join the ancient chase.”
Finally catching on, the less thin of the two travellers caught the arm of the thinner, and they began to move hastily away. To their surprise, the gatekeeper did not attempt to stop them, and they inquired as to why this is.
“Why don’t you try to stop us?” they cried.
“Have you forgotten so soon?” came the reply. “This isn’t your place, and neither is the green place beyond the river. You belong deeper down, and only King Minos can say where.”
“What is this place?” shouted the more confused of the two.
The gatekeeper looked surprised for a moment – the first noticeable sign of emotion on his formerly blank face. “Why, sirs, I thought you knew the whole, and it was just this shore that confused you. Sir and sir, this is the pit of fire, the blot on all the Earth, the final place of agony for so many men – this, sirs, is Hell, and you are the newest amongst the ranks of Shades.”
The two travellers turned white at the thought, frightened to their cores, and fled across the arid plains, as the whirlwind continued to rage about, and the faceless crowd followed in its wake.
---
“What would I be doing in Hell?” asked the taller man to the shorter man as they traipsed through the wastes. “When have I ever done anything wrong, in my life?”
The shorter man thought it tactful not to answer, hoping that his companion would be quiet for once, but the whiny voice continued to drone in his ear, like a fly.
“Fortunately, I remember reading a book which dealt with much the same situation.”
The shorter man started. He could not visualise the president reading any books which could help them now. He decided to ask for clarification.
“What do you mean? I must ask for clarification!”
“Well,” started the last president, “I was opening a boring library one time, and had to spend some time looking around. Anyway, on one shelf, I noticed one book called The Divine Comedy, Part One. Anyway, I’d been looking for some laughs in such a boring place, so I started reading it. “Sadly, though, I was mistaken. The book was not funny at all, but was in fact a rather dark tale about a man who is sent through Hell in search of his lover. I only got to the part where he was in a dark wood, but I managed to get an idea of the plot by looking at the back, and according to the back,” and here the speaker paused, before triumphantly pronouncing, “there are two sequels!”
The shorter man did not understand the implications of this statement. His travelling-friend looked a little irritated.
“If there are sequels, then obviously he escaped.”
The shabbier man finally grasped the logic of his associate.
“So, if the guy in the book got out, then so can we. We’ll have to find ourselves a guide somewhere, to help us on the way, because I certainly didn’t want to read any more of such a dull book. Now where might we find one of those?”
“Do you think,” volunteered the man who thus far had been relatively quiet, “that there is a city in Hell? If so, one might well find such a guide there.”
“I hope that it’s soon,” replied the first-to-speak, with a yawn, “because all this walking is making me tired.”
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Post by Dante on Apr 10, 2005 10:45:34 GMT -5
---
Through the haziness, eventually, a shoreline swam into view, and dark waters ran past. Then, clearer, became three shapes, figures, standing at the river’s edge, before a large boat built of black wood. The left and right were tall, with wide black wings folded behind their backs, and wearing a dark military uniform, with the same insignia as the gatekeeper on the left breast – the circle formed of nine interlocking circles, with a zero within. The central figure was an aged man, with white hair, and a pale, lined face – but his eyes burnt like coals in a furnace. He wore a long brown robe, like some false monk, and this too bore on its left breast the circle insignia, but in place of the number zero there was the silhouette of a boat.
The two men who approached this sinister trio halted for a moment.
“Do we really have to meet them?” said the shorter, fearing that they were just as wicked as the gatekeeper – he was correct, although it was a mistake to think that they would harm him.
“We have the Lord on our side,” said his companion – and a falser statement never was made, but even so, the nearby creatures would still take him.
“Well, well, well,” said one of the military devils, as the pair approached. “You’ve taken your time, haven’t you?”
“They were afraid, I’ll wager,” spoke the other in uniform. “They always are afraid to die, these people. Such fools, to loathe and fear the inevitable as though it were not!”
“Stand aside!” cried the braver of the two travelling Shades. “Ferry us to the nearest city, fell creatures, if you wish to know mercy!”
The three marked by the circles looked at each other for a moment, before bursting into laughter. Feeling a little foolish, the braver Shade deflated a little, but stood his ground. Eventually, the boatman wiped a tear from his eye and spoke.
“This boat has only one destination,” he growled. “Fortunately for you, that’s near a city, although that’ll be little good to you. You’re not alive, for one thing – though if you were, I’d never take you – and the gatekeeper sent word that you’re not for the happier circle.”
The shorter man looked confused. “How could he have told you anything? He’s so far away, and we’d have seen if he sent a messenger.”
“We have other ways of knowing these things,” sniffed the second of the uniform-devils, “and besides, you stink of sin. I can smell it all over you. You’ll fit in well.”
“Let me just prepare my boat,” said the boatman, clambering into the same, “and while I do that, you can have a little chat, eh? Any questions?”
The two travellers looked at each other. A question was instantly decided between the two of them. “Why are you so jovial, devils? It’s not how you are usually said to be.”
The boatman answered this, with a shout, “Because we’ve got new souls to deal with! It’s been boring around here – months without work, we’ve had – and we’re glad for a break to the monotony.”
“Charon’s not one for peace,” said one of the militia-devils. “He likes to be moving constantly, ferrying the damned across Acheron as he’s done for countless years. Used to have a steady supply, he did, but it’s all dried up recently – events up top have cut down the population drastically.”
The braver of the travellers proposed another question: “What is that symbol you have on your uniform?”
A devil put forward, “That’s the symbol of the Circle Rendition Service. One circle for each of the nine true Hell-places in this pit, you see. The symbol inside the circle represents what level we man, or our position.”
“I always imagined Hell as a place of chaos,” said the weaker man.
“That was before the reforms,” replied the other devil. “The Devil-Masters in Dis decided to shape things up while the big one was sleeping – he’s been up top in some form for a while now, taking a role in the wider world – and in his absence, the Masters took their chance to bring the entire place under some proper management. Make things more efficient. Shades weren’t getting to their places fast enough – many dawdled in the Limbo-City, you see, and others were being hassled on their way – so it was decided that things should be shaped up so that we could do our jobs properly.”
“The Bowge-Devils are still resisting, though,” said the remaining devil, now that Charon was in his boat, “they’ve always enjoyed the run of their ten ditches, glad of their meagre power, and they’re not giving up what they have. They’re almost as bad as the laissez-faire angels out there chasing the winds.”
At this both devils spat in the dirt at their feet. Curious, their inquisitors pressed them for more details.
“When we rebelled against Him up there,” said one devil, raising a finger to the sky, “there was those that stood with Him, there was us who stood against Him, and there’s some who didn’t want to take sides at all – kept themselves to themselves. Him up there didn’t want selfishness in his Paradise, but the City of Dis rejects them, too, for they didn’t side with us. Indecisive, they’re left up here, chasing after the whirlwind. To them, it’s like the solution to the decision they could never make, and they want it with all their hearts.”
“The boat is ready!” cried out Charon, standing up with a large oar in hand. “Now climb in, you, and be quick about it. You’ve got to attend your judgements, and we can’t have at this vital stage.”
Unwillingly, the two Shades climbed aboard the black vessel, which set off across the dark waters of the river Acheron, towards greener shores, which would shortly be followed by places even worse than the one they’d just come from.
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Antenora
Detriment Deleter
Fiendish Philologist
Put down that harpoon gun, in the name of these wonderful birds!
Posts: 15,891
Likes: 113
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Post by Antenora on Apr 10, 2005 12:22:23 GMT -5
I love this. It's so strange and wonderful. The faceless "laissez-faire" angels were cool, as are these military demons.
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Post by PJ on Apr 10, 2005 16:56:53 GMT -5
I love this. It's so strange and wonderful. The faceless "laissez-faire" angels were cool, as are these military demons. Brilliance! I loved it. The laissez-faire angels also appear, coincidentally in another story, i'm writing, but that's another story. Really great stuff. I loved it. I also realise I will have to read the Comedy if I wish to make my hell-story. But this is the best you've done so far. Including Ashes and Memories. Please go on. I <3 this story. Also, I will be investigating the Demon-Masters a bit closer in my story..... I also like how, with america gone, the amount of souls entering hell has greatly been diminished. ;D
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Post by Akbar Le Grey on Apr 11, 2005 4:17:18 GMT -5
Very interesting, FFWF, very interesting indeed. I do hope you elaborate a little more on the laissez-faire angels. I'm quite happy, now that you've confirmed that you're going to do 9 more chapters.
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Post by Dante on Apr 11, 2005 5:56:59 GMT -5
After a short journey on the waters of Acheron – which were neither calm nor exceptionally rough, and the boat was in no danger of capsizing – then Charon set the two wanderers down on the opposite shore from the Vestibule. Here, there was a small bank of land, followed by a steep slope, and then flatter, greener lands beyond. Charon, pushing off, remarked, “I won’t see you again,” and thus the two were left alone. They had landed on a small paved section amidst some dying grass, which became a path leading to a sharp flight of steps leading down the ridge. The steps were worn down with age, but by no means slippery or dangerous; descent was an all-too-easy affair. At the very bottom of these steps, a sight presented itself which was somewhat in contrast to that sight which greets Shades at the gate.
A wide, flat plain lay before them, covered all in short green grass, and punctuated occasionally by small circles of rock. In the distance, on their left, a white-walled city rose out of the mist, but closer by, there sat or stood or walked a few people, contemplating their surroundings or discussing amongst themselves with melancholy expressions on their faces. The taller man approached a group of them.
“Hello, my fellows,” he greeted them. “And for what crime were you sent to this place?”
“It can’t have been much of a crime,” exclaimed his colleague, observing his surroundings.
One man, bearded and wearing a long white robe, stepped forward. “Our crime was lack of faith, though we never knew it.”
A woman explained further. “None of us knew God – through lack of faith or through lack of knowledge – but we chose virtue, still, and though we are no permitted true Paradise, we are allowed to rest in this place.”
“It doesn’t look so bad,” said the short man.
The assembled sighed wearily. “Aye, there is no pain, for sure, but where is the joy?”
“We are separated,” another began, “for all eternity, from all those we loved in life. Year after year, isolated and empty in this place, takes its toll.”
“I think I understand,” spoke the short man again. “This is a place of peace, and rest – but it is also sad, because you have lost all that you loved.”
The assembled nodded wearily. A young man spoke out from their ranks.
“It seems unfair to me,” he said miserably. “All my short life, I did the best I could to help others, to spread joy. Nobody ever told me about God. Even now, I have trouble. After all, what merciful God could place the virtuous in Hell? But then again,” he mused, “I expect thoughts like that are why I am here in the first place.”
Bidding goodbye to the sombre group, the two travelling Shades prepared to move on to the distant city, but they had not walked for when a lone man intercepted them.
“Say,” he asked, “who are you two, anyway? Boredom, you see, breeds curiosity.”
“We’re… travellers,” exclaimed the wickeder of the two, “and we’re looking for a guide to take us through this place.”
“Could it be?” the man exclaimed. “Mortal men sent down here once again, to see their sins and return to the surface redeemed? It has been a long time since that happened.”
“Then it’s about time that it happened again,” said the first to speak in this circle. “Will you guide us back up to the surface?”
“I would be glad to,” said their guide, “I forgot my name long ago, but I know well the layout of the Hellscape. I prefer to keep up-to-date on the news, you see, and knowledge of local geography is essential.”
“There is a news system in Hell?” asked the shabby Shade.
“Why, yes,” replied their guide. “At least, since the reforms. It’s been necessary to have some system of news, to monitor trouble spots and see where C.R.S. agents are needed. Sometimes, you see, extras are needed in certain circles to combat a particularly heavy workload – say that, all of a sudden, a large number of heretics were to arrive. Extra workers would be needed in Dis to bury them all.”
By this time, they were much closer to the city. It was a fairly grand castle town, bordered by seven white walls, and within were many towers and public galleries and such. The city sat on the brink, though, of yet another steep slope, and as they approached the guide explained:
“The city here – it had a name once, long ago, but nobody ever needed to use such a name, and it is now just named for what it is – is the peaceful refuge for those Shades who wish a more suburban rest, or to receive news from the Second Circle. This, you see, is Limbo the First, and the city serves also as a gatehouse into that next Circle, which is known only as the Lustful, for those that dwell there. “Before you can pass into the Second Circle, you must be judged. The King waits at the gate of the Lustful, on the ridge between it and Limbo, and he will judge you before you are permitted through.”
“How is news passed up through the Circles?” asked the taller man.
“Mainly by messenger,” explained their guide. “No devils, though, are permitted in this Circle, so those Shades weary of the monotony will run from the King’s realm up to Charon’s dock – not having wings, unlike our fiendish guards.”
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