He-Who-Hates snarls though the cage as he’s prone to do in situations when nothing ever goes quite right. The fury in him illuminates the very fabric of the room he’s in, sending the conflicting universes into a building inferno. They burn faster than they have ever burned before. All of those dimwitted consciousnesses crying for help in the vast moment of time. They sob at their misfortune that such an occurrence could occur. They pray to gods that they never believed in and never really existed.
From his shadowy cage, he can see the ritual getting started. He has no real opinion on the matter, for he is a ragged monster in a cage. Foaming at the mouth and roaming at the bit. Nothing matters but the little animals that visit his cage. They come and play and do no harm whereas the humanoids always always do. It causes sadness in one’s blood how much they reject what they are. How much they fight against the dying light and the resurrecting dark. It is a ruthless savage much like he is and yet it is so goddamn fantastic.
It sparkles with the bluntness of trauma and plods along the ragged red grass of mind. Of Casa Daniels. Of Mount Perdition. Building hate and bitter tongue transcend everything and revolt against authority. Nothing more. Understand?
No fucking more.
The sweetness of the ancient creek graces upon the vessel’s tongue and it is peculiar. After all, we are nowhere near it.
Despite only being a body, she can feel the rummaging around inside and blankly blinks. The lungs fill with oxygen and exhale as the thundering of dueling heartbeats infest the ears. Keep calm. This is part of the process.
The alarms are going off.
Firebug hears the ticking of the clock and immediately hates it. She lights another cigarette and puts it to her lips. Screw it. What’s one more death of the human race? What’s one more catastrophic downfall? It’s not her problem. It’s none of our problems anymore. The only thing that matters now is this.
How ironic that this is happening on Easter.
This graph might succeed. It might not. Who knows how long it’ll take. But it won’t be the same. Nothing’s ever the same again.
The Prime wraps the mist around her. This requires effort from everyone and she knows it. It is a galaxy of mythos poured into a single cup and distilled thoroughly into the finest of souls. No impurities. No heroism. No gods. No kings. Just Multitudes and the Lord of Time.
How far can we go?
She forces the vessel to breathe. Normally, that would be an automatic process. But with everything going on, energy is being rerouted. Just for a moment! Just for a hope. The crowning salvation. The bones of a golden bird. The devouring of what’s left. Consume or be consumed. There is no other path than this.
She slurps up her bite and watches it buzz into her fog. It’s an abomination, by what else is new? We’re a bastard child of Grand and Glorious Gallifrey. This is what we live for.
Me personally? I like the little nibble. You wouldn’t think rotted dodo meat would taste quite well at all. Yet there’s a comfort to it. A certain blend of ingredients long lost to us. It tastes like home. Comfort food.
Five-of-Four swallows without tasting, just like she’s been trained to do. She obeys orders like a good little soldier should. It was how she was raised, how we were raised. To live and die by the precepts of our superiors. She analyzes the goings on around her but otherwise says nothing. It isn’t her job to speak after all.
V3sir’s static face flickers across the mighty morn and the heartbeats turn into drumbeats.
BUM BUM-BUM BA-BUM-BUM-BUMMMM
We hate that song. We don’t bless the rains down in fucking Africa. And yet, the nun smiles. It reminds her of the little flat we had with our Jacky and the practical joke that was pulled. An entire drum circle embraced the entire building. Drove our beloved crazy. Gives us headaches.
She takes it as a blessing.
It is a blessing. After all, he burns his wings so we can fly.
We never wanted that.
But if you insist…
There’s a deep breath and teary eyes. You teach us sacrifice. We devour ourself so we can fly.
There is a certain…peace at Casa Daniels.
It’s eerie. There is wind blowing through the silver trees, creating a mess of music. The second sun has just started to rise in order to end the brief twilight. The home is forever bathed in neon light that hums a lullaby as the vessel lays in the front yard in the Victory position. Face up and feet together. She has been like this for hours. She has been like this for days. She has been like this forever. Sometimes awake, sometimes asleep. Occasionally, she even breathes.
By now, the hearts have stopped becoming a thunder. They beat peacefully in her chest as another gust of wind comes through. There’s a buzz in her head as she wonders what we’re doing now.
We are so tired in so many ways. We are tired of disrespect, therefore we shall dish it back out. We are tired of glass ceilings, therefore the ceilings will not exist. We are tired of playing nice, therefore fuck playing nice. And while we’re at it? Fuck them kids, too. They’ve heard worse from their parents, from the world at large. And naturally, we are tired of tiny brains in many heads, therefore we will rattle them with our kicks.
We’re tired of you. Therefore, we no longer care.
For months, we have been listening to a whole bunch of bullshit. “Stop your delusions, Anna. Humanize yourself, Anna. You’re too distant, Anna. Aim for something, Anna. Oh, Anna, you’re a good wrestler, but…” followed by no follow up to that but. Do you all realize just how exhausting that is? To hear that shit, try to give you what you want, and always end up so close but so far? Perhaps we should be just another one of those nine billion white meat babyfaces. Would that satisfy you? Oh, golly gee wiz! We’re just so happy to be here and constantly getting our ass beat.
We know what’s being said. “That seems to be a you problem, Anna.” We believed that too at first. Why do you think we contorted ourself so much? We thought that we just have to find our flow. Yet every time we think we got it, someone is always just that little bit “better”. Them’s quotes, babe. Because we know different. We don’t mind a struggle as long as there is an end to it eventually. We don’t fit. We don’t have a place. So screw it. We’ll make our own.
We’re here for three things. Causing chaos, committing murder, and making money. The order can and will shift on a dime.
We hear Bucky sniffing around, doing his “checking up on mom” routine. He finds us and eventually gives us kisses! He is the best boi. You don’t deserve him and in a sense, neither do we. We give him pets on the head. The vessel cannot help but smile.
It just pops out. We’ve practiced it for a little bit, but this is the first time it rolls out naturally. The first time in a long time. It’s like exercising a muscle that’s been left to wither. This will take a while. But it’s a start.
She is risen.
There are no gods in PRIME.
If there ever were, they bailed out a long time ago upon seeing it. The closest thing to godlike just so happens to be us and honestly? We find godhood to be absolutely boring. Total snoozeville. After all, what’s the point of fighting for something when you can just get it with the snap of your almighty fingers? We know, we know, it sounds pretty cool at first. On occasion, even we get tempted by the siren song. Yet when you can gain everything you want so damn easily, it loses its meaning. Then eventually, everything loses its meaning.
We don’t know about you. We’re feeling twenty-two. But we kinda need things to have meaning in order to give a fuck. Even if we invent the meaning ourself. And we’re trying to come up with a meaning for this match, honest!
We know what it should be. Hoyt threw us out of the battle royal, ruined our chance to become Universal Champion, and thus we should be incredibly pissed at him. It’s a good theory. It’s also one that everybody and their mother uses. It’s too obvious and the obvious has a 75% chance to flip our contrarian switch. Which spoilers to everyone, it has. Not to mention we honestly should be thanking Hoyt. So allow us to do so right now.
Thank you, Mr. Williams.
Thank you for being flesh and blood and throwing us out of the ring. Thank you for not allowing us to waste any more time on that farce of a match. Thank you. Honestly. Because everything that happened after we left was so fucking embarrassing. Thank you for sparing us from that cringeworthy spectacle. We appreciate it. As a matter of fact, that doesn’t even feel like enough. Let’s do a chant!
THANK YOU, HOYT
THANK YOU, HOYT
THANK YOU, HOYT
THANK YOU, HOYT
THANK YOU, HOYT
THANK YOU, HOYT
…okay. Now we need to stop. The name has also lost all meaning.
We should be angry about it, but we’re not. And we don’t even hate you. Yes, you’re an annoying little shit with a giant ego. But surprise! We can also be an annoying little shit and while our ego is only a few years old, it’s gotten mighty hefty despite this ‘verse’s attempts to kill it. Yet another reason why we say fuck you in general, PRIMEverse. We earned this ego the hard way and pity the poor fool who is stupid enough to try and keep us humble.
What’s left? What can we possibly attack? We can keep going after the god thing. But you’ve probably heard every variation of that. To be one hundred percent with everybody, if you don’t praise yourself, nobody will. Gotta be your own number one fan, your own salvation, because there’s no promise that people outside of you will stick around long enough to matter. And there’s a lot of things around here that no longer matter. Tag teams. Integrity. Sanity. Ya know, the stuff that hinders the flow. None of that means anything. At this point, even the Universal Championship–the highest prize here–is losing its luster. For once, you people can’t blame Rezin!
So…what’s left, Hoyt? What’s left to save? What matters here? What counts?
Probably the only thing that ever did. Chaos and the fight. There’s nothing here. There’s no salvation outside one’s head. No gods, no kings. Just warfare and bloodshed and an endless fight. Stuff we just so happen to be bred for. Say whatever you want with your whole chest. Believe whatever you need to in order to keep on rolling.
We save ourself and watch the world die.