 |
About This Site
Daily Musings
News
News Archive
Site Resources
FAQ
Screenshots
Concept Art
Halo 2 Updates
Interviews
Movies
Music
Miscellaneous
Mailbag
HBO PAL
Game Fun
The Halo Story
Tips and Tricks
Fan Creations
Wallpaper
Misc. Art
Fan Fiction
Comics
Logos
Banners
Press Coverage
Halo Reviews
Halo 2 Previews
Press Scans
Community
HBO Forum
Clan HBO Forum
HBO IRC Channel
Links
Admin
Submissions
FTP Uploads
HTTP Uploads
Contact
|
|
|
The Magic Elevator
Posted By: SeverianofUrth<residentpark@aol.com>
Date: 7 July 2004, 8:58 PM
Read/Post Comments
|
A silver tendril of light hanging from the sky, reaching into the blue sky and the dusky horizon below. Ships flutter by it, past it and around it; they remind me of some flies buzzing eternally by a string of a spider's silk.
My attempt to sound poetic aside, the elevator is beautiful; my waxing rhapsodys above has, I think, described it sufficiently enough for most. It is like silk, but I know that when I get close enough to it it would seem giant to me, and I would stand beneath it like a speck of dust measured against the magnitude of the cosmic universe.
Goddamn it. I'm slipping into the sappy language of failed poets again.
The car drones on and on above the tar road, the black line that leads to the elevator. I am in that car, a bored man of forty seven with a balding head and a sagging belly. I am currently writing on a small recorder, the molecular tape reeling as I speak and rant into the nether- or as in this case, the stuffy car that somehow, after hours of artificial air conditioning, still seems infernally hot.
The Covenant -gods bless the masters- have built that elevator, to better faciliate the tranfer of equipment and soldiers. And so they did, apparently toiling for thirteen days then stopping to let the robotic builders work, and after a month it has been finished and running fully. I know that there is a shimmering layer of plasma shielding around it, to protect against any random, suicidal human attack and the deadlier, the random rock that occasionally sails past it.
It is built of something that looks like a cross between silver and metal, mithril as I first gleefully called it, and molecules-thin bindings of melting plasma, kept in partial stasis by the void -whatever the hell that means- lock it altogether. Trains run up and down on it, purple constructs reminding me of some hellish locomotive in some freakish circus.
And I am on this car, the idiotic A.I pre-programmed to take me there.
I am a quisling- as you idiots, you brave, courageous dumbasses of patriotic nature, call- a ambassador to the Templar Prophetica and other organs of the great war machine that is the Covenant -gods bless the masters- and what you, brother, would call a traitor. And I am to go on this magic ride up the elevator, to meet with whoever rules this part of the machine.
I'm just a man trying to survive.
The car passes inspection, carried out by leering groups of Elites, who bark at you, obviously in contempt. Then the big, hairy monkeys- I mean, the Brutes- come and sniff you over, poke a detector up your ass to see what's there and then sends you over to the next side. And finally, you reach the behemoth that is the Station.
There is a squawk-box there, a black speaker connected to a synthesizer, that barks out the Elites' orders in human speech. It goes,
"MOVE YOU [GARBLE] FILTH."
"UP THE STAIRS, [WARBLE]."
"TO THE RIGHT, [GRUNT BARK HACK COUGH SNARL] EYEBALLING APE."
You get the point. I am herded with kind words to a small box, in which I strip and change into a skinsuit. Then I pad over, all-too conscientious of my drooping belly, into the train.
Then you get doped. Off to the la-la land... Here they come. I'll continue when I get the chance.
There is no beauty within this place. Just a horrible sense of alien-ness that clashes terribly with my own, human, sense of art and beauty.
I reached the ship... I beheld with mine mortal eyes the flowering throne of the Prophet... I pled my case before the lotus-like throne, floating like some eerie specter five feet off the ground as I shoved my face into the soft, yet hard-metal hull. I kow-towed all my worth to them, and yet I do not think they understood my english because they had no translators. I have a sense of ever-approaching doom, a sisth sense that I am awaiting in my cell, awaiting the executioners to drag me away and cut my head, hang my neck then disembowel me on a rack, then boil and burn my remains.
Let the blood spill, then. I am ready.
I still sit here, passing what seems like days and weeks in senseless tupor brought by boredom and restlessness, along with a overwhelming sense of uselessness. I want to cry.
I want to fight! To hold a gun, to roar my hate and anger, and damn be survival!
I'm going mad.
No chewable food. No tasteful food. No human food, just what seems like a bastard child of Slim-Easy&Fast and a hard bar of protein bars. A porridge.
Let me go!
|
