Prose
Snowfall
Muddy slush crunched beneath Anya’s boots as she strode through the labyrinthian laneways of the city. Shrouded by catwalks and overhanging platforms, the narrow alleyways were lit only by the occasional neon sign. Snowmelt dripped from every surface, icicles creeping down the walls. Wind howled through the narrow tunnels, flakes of snow fluttering about.
Anya’s face was almost entirely obscured, with only a few wisps of dark brown hair escaping from under her oversized hood. A thin scarf was wrapped around her neck and mouth, pinned to her nose by a set of opaque welder’s goggles. Beneath the layers of polar fleece and synthwool, she wore an heatcoiled undersuit. Bandoliers and pouches were slung about her person, holding everything from bare copper wire to a bottle of pills.
A second set of footprints followed Anya’s. Ursa was a mountain of a man, nearly 7 feet tall, arms like tree trunks. Snow clung to the shaggy grey-brown beard that wrapped around his chiselled jaw. His clothes were grey and worn out, patched together with towels and blankets.
A sheet of blue tarpaulin hung from the wall of the alley, held in place by two bolts of rebar. Behind it sat a still-intact portion of a collapsed building. It had been demolished to make room for a new highway, but the company responsible went bankrupt before construction started. Lacking the funds to complete the demolition or clear the debris, another company constructed a building above the remains of the first, leaving some rooms intact. Pushing the tarpaulin aside, the pair stepped into a small room, the far end of which had collapsed. An elevator was built into the left wall, partly buried by debris.
Ursa stepped forward, brandishing a crowbar, plunging it between the elevator doors. Metal creaking, he wedged open a gap large enough to force his fingers in. Grabbing a door in each hand, he pulled the two halves apart with inhuman strength, about two feet wide. Catching the crowbar as it fell from between the doors, Anya slipped through the doors and inside the near pitch-black elevator. Inside, Anya stood up, pressing the ‘open doors’ button on the elevator panel. A moment passed. She pressed it again, to no avail. Anya smacked her fist against the elevator wall and the panel lit up. The doors opened and the elevator’s emergency lighting flickered to life. Anya handed the crowbar back to Ursa as he stepped inside, the elevator groaning slightly under his weight. Anya pressed a second button on the panel and the doors shuddered closed. With a thump, the elevator breaks dislodged, and the elevator began its descent.
Ten seconds later, the elevator slowed and the doors groaned open, shining dim light into a large concrete room. As soon as Anya stepped out of the elevator, the power kicked in and the room lit up. It was roughly six metres by six metres, made entirely of cold grey concrete, with a single lightbulb hanging from to the vaulted ceiling.
A camping stove sat in the centre of the room, atop a frayed and worn ottoman carpet. Two sets of steel shelves were placed in one corner, holding both supplies and various electronics. A pile of old takeaway containers poured out of a bin, right next to a curtained-off area containing a five-gallon drum that fed into a showerhead suspended above a steel tub. In another corner, two desks had been pushed together, now covered in a mess of wires and blinking lights. Five bulky CRT monitors were stacked atop a pile of hardware, all connected to a server rack under the desk. The bare walls were made slightly less so by the inclusion of a few posters, displaying a map of the world, a picture of Red Square, and a photo of a cat hanging from a rope with the caption ‘hang in there’ in Cyrillic script.
Two bunk beds, each consisting solely of a mattress and a sleeping bag, were placed opposite the elevator. Ursa took a bottle of vodka from one of the shelves and poured it into a coffee mug. He sat down on the bottom bunk, groaning under his weight, cupping his drink in both hands.
Stepping further into the room, Anya pulled back her hood, rustling snow from her hair. The sides of her head were shaved, leaving a messy pixie cut to flop over her right eye. Anya slung her backpack off her shoulder, collapsing in the office chair by the computer array, basking in the warm green glow. She unzipped her jacket, taking out a floppy disk from inside, inserting it into one of the drives in the computer array. A click could be heard, followed by a droning hum. An ascii hourglass appeared on one of the monitors, rotating every few seconds. Anya kicked back in the chair, spinning a few times.
The computer dinged, and Anya pulled her chair back to the desk. The directory had been formatted, containing a single path, titled “porosha.exe”. Anya hesitated, then double-tapped the enter key.
A window appeared on the monitor, then dozens more appeared on the others, layered atop each other. Strings of characters began to appear, typing faster than Anya could process. One window began rendering a fractal, spiralling on and on. Words flashed on screen, disappearing instantly. Everything else seemed to darken and fade away, Anya’s attention focused squarely on the display. All at once, the screens suddenly went blank. Only one window remained open, displaying an ascii snowflake. Anya stared at the image, completely transfixed. She blinked, shaking herself from the trance. A sudden stab of pain appeared in Anya’s right temple, causing her to grimace. At that moment, all the electricity in the room shut off.
Anya jolted awake, standing in the middle of a snowstorm. The wind howled around her with deafening ferocity, obscuring anything more than a few feet in front of her. She pulled her hood back on, bundling up to conserve warmth. She staggered forward, feet plunging through at least six inches of snow. She kept moving, she needed to, she needed to find something.
Slowly, things began to come into focus. The skeletal remains of broken skyscrapers loomed over Anya, disappearing into clouds of ice. Anya’s foot caught on something. She tried to pull it free, to no avail. She dug at the snow around her leg. Something metallic was wrapped around her ankle. She twisted her leg, attempted to shake it off, but it kept an iron hold. Inspecting it closer, it looked like a bare cyberskeleton arm.
A faint red light glowed from under the snow. Fingers trembling, Anya reached out, brushing away the snow, revealing a glowing red eye. Anya jumped to her feet, terrified. The android beside her released its grip on her leg, slowly standing up beside her. All around her, thousands of androids began to rise from beneath the snow, each in differing states of disrepair. They all turned to face Anya, a sea of red orbs staring into her soul.
Something flew towards her, flapping about in the wind. Anya extended her hand, her freezing fingers just barely managing to grab hold. She brushed the sleet off, revealing a postcard with an illustration of the Golden Gate Bridge and the tagline ‘Begin Again’. Anya turned the postcard over. Something was written on it, in Anya’s handwriting: Installation complete.
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Rift
Light must dare to step within the Tírvan na Duinn, all but forbade by the twisting branches of the ash and willow trees. Lying beneath the canopy are undulant knolls and ridges, formed along ancient rootholds, giving way to peat bogs and fens. Vines and thorns coat the greyed bark and earth, sickly fauna creeping throughout the brush.
Cynmund strode through the forest with resolute intent, eyes flickering yellow within the forest dusk. He had been on the hunt for over a tenday, tracking his prey throughout the forest. His mismatched armour had taken a toll: greaves coated with peat and mud, gambeson saturated with blood and fetid waters, half-plate armour cracked and rusted. The hunt had left Cynmund utterly dishevelled: face dirtied, beard matted, unkempt, greying brown hair tied back in a rough knot.
As Cynmund ventured deeper within the heart of darkness, the forest became more knotted; writhing roots and netted vines enveloping the understorey completely. With branches reaching over a hundred feet above the ground; the trees now eclipsed everything, the only light came from the fireflies and will-o-wisps that flitted between the branches.
Cynmund pressed on, boot punching through the envelope into the quagmire. Prying his foot from the slough, his attention turned to a skeletal hand, wreathed in moss, reaching out of the mire. Cynmund kept moving, following a trail of silver thread.
Deep within the forest dark lies Laer an Síodhórin. Threads of gossamer stretched in every direction, stringing together the forest, holding together the nest. In the centre lay a massive pit, over one hundred feet at its widest, swarming with spiders, ranging from the size of a hand to that of a hound. Within the pit extended dozens of warrens, burrowing deep within the earth, holding innumerable egg sacs. Nearly every surface was coated in webbing, giving a ghostly sheen. Cocooned within silken strands, desiccated bodies of humans and animals alike lay ensnared by the webbing or strung to the trees.
All at once -as if spurred by Cynmund’s presence- the lattice began to twitch. Spiders scurried into every nook and cranny, darting through the nest and into the burrows. Trees began to creak, dried leaves floating gently, caught by the spectral gossamer strands. High within the canopy, eight slick legs raked outwards, and the ink-black body of the Síodhór emerged. Her setulate legs spanned the width of the pit, grasping at the earth, pulling her towards Cynmund. From her mouth escaped clicks and hisses, her pedipalps gesturing with each sound.
“Welcome; you trespass within this hearth of weaver of fates.” she hissed falteringly in dialectic Daltharin; a bead of saliva dripped from her chelicerae as they twisted.
Cynmund raised his right hand above his shoulder, fingers wrapping around the hilt of his steel sword. Craning her head, the Síodhór withdrew slightly, fangs chittering.
“This world is a danger.” she stuttered. “Many come to this one seeking their destiny.” She gestured to the corpses strung around the lair. “To what do you seek?”.
Cynmund drew the blade against his palm, baptising it in crimson; blood spilled into the fuller, snaking along the length of the sword. The weaver’s pedipalps twitched wildly at the scent.
“You seek your fate?” she leered.
“I seek retribution.” spat Cynmund as white-hot flames enveloped the blade.
The Síodhór recoiled at the light, but already Cynmund’s blade had made contact, shattering into a tibia, the beast buckling, releasing a discordant shriek. The beast pulled herself away into the trees, chattering wildly, spinning a splint around her buckling leg. Her brood crept from the nest, descending from the branches and erupting from the ground. Cynmund faltered, reassessing the situation, stance wide. One spider -nearly the size of a horse- leapt at Cynmund, who impaled it upon his blade. Unsheathing a second, silvered sword from his back, Cynmund entered a defensive stance, becoming a flurry of blades. He charged forth, spearing spiders, deflecting blow after blow, but the horde was relentless, climbing atop bonfires of their brethren, falling from the canopy, biting through Cynmund’s cloak.
The matriarch slammed down her tarsal claws, Cynmund barely dodging away, spiking his silvered sword through the leg, pinning it to the ground. His left hand free, he slid a stout vial of opalescent black from his bandolier, prying the cork loose with his thumb, spiking it at a sturdy, dry branch in the canopy.
The flask made contact- brackish liquid sprayed across the slick carapace of the Síodhór, spilling down into the pit. The fate-weaver shifted nervously, legs clambering for a hold.
Cynmund ducked low, slamming his shoulder into a mound of dead spiders, sending the flaming corpses tumbling into the pit, lighting the oil with a burst of flame, fire eating along the dusty webbings, transforming the pit into a bonfire.
Licked by flame, the Síodhór began to screech, legs scrabbling frantically at the earth, still pinned by the silver sword. She twisted furiously at Cynmund, pouncing forward, sinking her fangs into Cynmund’s shoulder. He tore away, wine-red blood spurting onto the ground. Grabbing at a strap, Cynmund pulled it tight, restricting the blood-flow.
The spider-kin were divided. Some continued fighting, clawing towards the injured Cynmund; while others retreated, scrambling for cover in the blooming inferno. The Síodhór wailed in anguish for her brood, but they would not listen- trapping themselves in the blaze. She stabbed her claws into the ground, viciously heaving towards Cynmund, ripping her leg to shreds as she pulled from the sword-pin.
Cynmund gritted his teeth, drawing his sword into a defence. The Síodhór drew upwards, her massive frame silhouetted by the now roaring inferno, meaty sinew falling from her stump leg. She brought down her claws, striking rapidly at Cynmund, barely able to deflect the vicious blows. Venom dripped from her fangs as she arched, preparing for the final strike.
Time seemed to slow. Cynmund drew his sword up and thrust it into the exposed underbelly of the beast, twisting the blade. A vile brackish liquid spurted out, and the Síodhór let out one last screech as she swayed and fell into the pit, releasing a burst of fire.
Cynmund wiped his swords against his sleeve before sheathing them. The fire - having eaten through the webbing- was now unstoppable, devouring the dry and rotted trees, burning the remaining spiders alive.
A drip landed squarely on Cynmund’s worn leather boot. As the fire ate away at the canopy, Cynmund could see the dreary overcast sky. Another raindrop landed with a hiss on a scorched fern. Cynmund turned, and he stepped from the spider’s lair.