A 40k love story

[augustmanifesto]

this story is set on a previously isolated world in the 40k universe being destroyed by some sinister means: exterminatus, warp storms, whatever -- its up to you.

 

I was intending to explore what it may be like to be in a world-ending event. Sorry, copied and pasted from word there may be some formatting errors.

 

First Draft!

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Only in death does duty end. The precept was difficult to forget, the fire in the sky was an omnipresent reminder. A wind started blowing from the east, where the worst of the flames had touched the earth this week.

 

I

 

“Do you think we should move,

boy?” she asked.

“Not until you tell me your

name” said the boy.

The girl smiled but left her reply

wanting.

“I can feel the heat against my cheeks,” he said hurriedly, sweat starting to drip down from his brow, “but I’m not moving until you speak your name.”

A few moments passed. The air became acrid as black-blue smoke drifted in. The girl approached him, smiling slightly. Face to face, she leaned to the left and pressed her skin against his, touching her lips to his cheek. Even as explosions roared in the background, growing ever closer, the boy could hear her breath; the sound of a summer’s

breeze blowing in on a hot night.

And so they ran.

Faster and faster. Farther and farther. They ran past trees, grass, brush, fields and other things soon to be set a blaze. They held hands, as if lovers skipping in a meadow somewhere between a cliché romantic daydream and raw brutality incarnate. And along a thin line they did travel, between the expanding shadow which turned reality a permanent shade of black and a few musical heartbeats.

 

II

 

“There,” the boy exclaimed, “a temple center!” There was a fuel station not far off into the distance, perhaps the only building for miles. An improvised sign on the station bore a shabbily spray painted red heart with a red dot in the

center.

The symbol was first the icon of the resistance when order had collapsed and those living took it upon themselves to defend their world. The icon was subsequently adopted by the militias, a sign of hope and strength. Later, when hope had boiled away and strength had proven far too weak, the white-dotted-heart took on spiritual significance, marking places of divinity for a population which had long since sworn off the belief of ghosts, daemons, gods,

and magic.

The boy and girl approached the worship center. The building was intact, although its windows had been shattered, likely days ago by the high yield detonations in the upper atmosphere

“Nobody has thought to pick this up, then?” the girl said quizzically. She stopped for a second and examined a piece of glass, one that was more jagged than the rest.

Just as she did, a beleaguered looking man standing outside the door took notice. “If the fight is still in you honey, you have no business in there.” The man stumbled slightly, perhaps from drunkenness, before continuing. “If it’s a fight you want, come with me. Me, I got

some fight.”

She ignored him for that was a decision she had already made.

 

III

 

The two entered the worship center. The space had been cleared of the artifices required by its former function and turned into a makeshift refugee camp and holy place; a shrine to a dying race. On one side of the wall were cots and sleeping bags littered with a few personal belongings. Nailed to the opposite wall were hundreds of parchments. Each was written upon. Some were splattered with just a few scribbles. Others were adorned with finely scripted poems and paragraphs.

In the center of the room was small group of survivors sitting in a circle on the floor, perhaps two dozen at most. The group turned their heads to meet the two newcomers. An old man spoke in a soft voice, “join us, children.”

And so the boy and girl sat and joined the circle. The boy looked at the girl nervously. She looked back, also nervous. Their inner animals had been engaged for some time, but while running their fight-or-flight responses were satiated and their minds cleared, freeing higher corners of their consciousness. Though no real security had been attained as they ran, every meter traveled abated their fear. No more. With stillness, the fear returned.

“We were in the middle of

sharing” stated the old man.

“Sharing what?” asked the boy.

“Our beliefs about the world.”

The old man smiled as he spoke.

The boy nodded and the survivors continued around the circle.

“I believe it is spirits,” said one

woman.

“I believe it is God, punishing us for forgetting what sins were,” said an

adolescent.

And then others:

“I believe that…”

“I believe that…”

“…it’s suicide, our minds are

destroying us.”

“…beings from another world.”

“…Magick is returned, and this is its toll until we harness it once more.”

“…Solar flare or gamma ray

burst.”

“…daemons.”

Listening, the boy and girl felt their mien level off. The girl was struck by the red-purple light from the fire flickering through the broken windows. Beautiful. The boy was touched by the calm demeanor of the group, a seeming impossibility at present times. Beautiful.

“And you two?” said the old man.

“What do you believe?”

“I don’t know,” said the boy. “My mother said it was a legend written in a very old book coming to fruition.”

The group nodded.

“What part of the world are we sharing our believes about?” asked the

girl. The group laughed.

“I suppose any part, you’d like”

asked the old man.

“This part,” said the girl. “I like this part.” Everyone smiled, even the boy.

 

IV

 

A quiet settled into the room. It was getting hotter. Slowly a roar was building in the distance, low-pitched like concert of freight trains. Barely audible,

it was more felt than heard.

“well,” said the old man, still in a sweet, soft voice, “I suppose we haven’t much time. Perhaps we should share our fears?” The group nodded. The boy and girl exchanged glances. Each had the distinct impression that the old man had

conducted these meetings before.

Again the group went around the circle. A portly woman directly to the left of the old man went first, “I’m afraid I’ll never see my father again.” The group nodded. Some sighed with

empathy. Some just looked down.

And then the others:

“I’m afraid that…”

“I’m afraid that…”

“…of annihilation, of becoming

nothingness.”

“…we are being exterminated...”

“…of what will happen next.”

“…of death.” As the circle spoke,

each statement was a different modulation on this reply. Death. Even those which said nothing or merely sobbed seemed to be screaming “Death! I am afraid of death!”

Those were the two certainties

that filled the room: death and fear.

Once more the circle came to the boy and girl. The girl said nothing. Her face betrayed no expression. After a second or two she turned to the boy, still expressionless, and held his hand.

The boy smiled.

The group remained silent for a moment, reverently waiting to make sure the boy and girl had nothing to say. They

did not.

 

V

 

The distant roar was louder now. One or two of the survivors pressed their hands to their chest, as if to determine which was more powerful, the beating of their heart or the low rumble-vibrations

of the world ending.

All eyes turned to the old man. He smiled once more, but the keen observer could see that this time it took more effort than before.

“I think now we have come to our conclusion just in time.” The group listened intently as the man spoke. A Deep blue haze drifted into the room, bruising the air. Light from the purple-red fire snuck through the smoke just as the aurora borealis might have torn through a thundercloud in some

imaginary scene.

“Only in death does duty end,” He said. The phrase had mobilized the militias and been the mantra of the resistance. But those petty things were no more. Now, the phrase referred not to a martial duty, but to a more basic responsibility. “We have shared our beliefs about the world.” His face remained calm but his voice became strained. “We have shared our fears.” His voice cracked and his face twisted. “Our duty is now what it has always been: to follow our conscious through the waters of reality, however perilous.” The old man began distributing parchment and ink pens. “let your conscious guide you now.”

Two strips of parchment came to the boy and girl. Pen in hand, the boy turned to the nearest survivor. “What are

these for?” He asked.

“For your final record of yourself, brother,” replied the survivor, himself not much older than the boy. Registering the boy’s confused look, the survivor explained further. “To record your will that guides your final deeds, along with whatever other sentiments you like. It is the record of your conscious.”

“But who will read it?” asked the

boy.

The survivor shrugged. “Perhaps the universe will bear witness, brother.” There was a brief pause, “Or perhaps

not.”

The boy gripped the pen like a drowning man would a life preserver. He searched his mind of what to record. Nothing. He searched harder. Nothing. His mien heated and tears fell. What to

write? Was he truly emptiness waiting to be annihilated?

“It won’t save you,” said the girl. The boy looked at her teary-eyed. “Whatever you write, it won’t save you. Nothing will.” Her soul was still as she spoke.

The boys psyche approached a desperate edge. On the one side was madness; on the other, something else entirely. Something ineffable.

 

VI

 

As cracks developed deep inside the boy’s mind, the other survivors wrote diligently. Some wept, some prayed, some were silent, but all took care in their labor. The first of them finished. Then the second. Third. Fourth. Two more. Then a family of four. Then another. All nailed their parchments to the wall with the others.

Meanwhile, the boy took on a pale complexion. A cold sweat dripped down his face. The air was growing hotter now, almost burning. The formerly distant roar grew near and the survivors who wished to communicate were forced to yell into one another’s ears to be heard.

There were only moments, now.

The boy watched the family of four go to the far wall where they held each other. The daughter pressed her face into her mother’s chest. The son sat on his fathers lap.

Two men walked out the front door and greeted what waited.

A small group approached the old man. Words were exchanged, but neither the girl nor boy could make out what. The group formed a line, closed their eyes and opened their mouths as the man placed tiny objects on their tongues. They clenched their jaws shut and passed through the back exist. The door was double-wide and, upon being opened, the boy could see a field littered with human bodies. The group wandered amongst the dead, each person alternating their gaze between the sky and the lifeless field beneath, ostensibly unsure which was more disturbing. And then they fell limp one by one.

The old man hesitated for a moment. His eyes paced back and forth in his skull. After a few long seconds his pupils came to rest and he turned around to face the wall of parchment. He examined one, then another and another. He was reading. With his back to the boy and girl, they were unsure if he was still smiling. The girl hoped so. The boy had no intelligible thought.

The boy looked down at his parchment and scribbled furiously.

The girl looked down at his work. While just repeating the same word, the boy’s duress was such that she could barely make out even that:

“No.” Over and over Again. “No, No, No, No…”

 

VII

 

The smoke entirely filled the room now, thick as soup. Visibility was nil. And then the light returned. First it was a faint glow of purple-red tones trying to infiltrate the iris of each survivor once more. The glow grew brighter until the smoke was rendered near-transparent in hellish rainbow hues.

The boy was still writing.

The roar grew to an impossible height. Right as the eardrums of the survivors reached the point of bursting did the deep sound of exploding air cease entirely. And no sooner did the roar end than a crescendo of madness-made-audible took its place.

The boy was still writing. The girl touched his shoulder but he shrugged off her hand. He was in a fetal position now. She tried again and was rebuffed once more.

The air was burning now. Things started to burn in the distance. Out of the corner of her eye, the girl saw a fire wall racing towards the worship center like a wave. Trees, grass, brush, and fields exploded in flames and turned to ash. She paid no attention.

The girl grabbed the boy’s face, forcing it to look upward. She interrupted his madness for just the briefest of instances, but that was enough. She handed to him her parchment and he dropped his own to receive it. The boy raised to his knees and looked at the paper he held in his hands. It was but one word, but he seemed content to read it over and over. And so he did until the girl, also on her knees, delicately placed her finger on his chin and lifted his face to her. Their eyes met and the two smiled into each other.

The boy did not bother to look away as reality cannibalized itself.