HUnewearl_Meira
Oct 19, 2007, 02:33 AM
I was going to sit on this for a while, so I could get a couple of chapters ahead, but Ian-kunX convinced me to go ahead and post it. Though it's mostly a recap of previously visited events, I think this chapter hits fairly hard. A few holes are filled with this, and simply enough, we get that neat effect where someone else's view of a scene gives a whole new perspective on it.
So, here we go, again. So starts the 7th book of The Recollection Saga!
Chapter 1
It has been said, or so I understand, that the Prime-type RAcast is the most reliable machine ever built. Sturdier than the Garanz, more intelligent than the Type-O, and stabler than the
Dragoon-type. For centuries they were used as the military's primary assault and rescue forces. They were known to return to their base with little or no casualties among them, even when failure was a certainty. It has been demonstrated time and time again that a Prime-type would have to die before he'd allow a mission to go incomplete. When they take a mission, they are dedicated: mind, body and soul.
I owe my life to one such noble machine. I don't remember clearly how I arrived in that tower. I seem to remember a few men dressed in black, and a belligerent cast. I remember Mota Storm carrying me as his systems failed, one by one. He placed me down in a storage room, and filled the door with himself to block it off from all outside danger. A moment later, something shot from him. It pierced his back, and he stopped moving. Death had come down upon him.
Feeling compassion for the android, and perhaps even feeling afraid of being alone, I gathered what strength I had, and rushed to him as best I could. I cast Reverser on him, the technique used to bring people from the brink of death, and it revived him, if only briefly. From his sluggish response, it was clear to me that he would not last very long. However he had acquired them, his wounds were too great.
From the haze of my memory, I realized that he'd said he was here to protect me. It came to me, just what he was doing. He knew that he was going to die. He could see no way around it. Rather than admit to failure, he chose to place me there, in that closet, where he could block the entrance and protect me. Even in death, he saw to my safety.
Having an idea of what he must be going through, and knowing that this would be his end, I tried to bring comfort to his final moments. I placed my hand on his cheek. A tear escaped my eye, as I told him, "I love you, Mota Storm. Thank you." I hugged him, then.
His voice crackled as he spoke his final words. I don't think he meant the question for me, precisely, but he asked, "dO i sEe... aN AnGEl?" With those words, he promptly shut down again. I could have raised him once more, but I chose to weep over his shoulder, instead of teasing him with death.
I must have wept for a hundred beats. I had just lost everyone I knew and cared about. Mota Storm made the ultimate sacrifice for me, and there was nothing I could do to repay him. I felt guilty. Worse, were the few occasions when I would wake from my comatose slumber, to noises of dark beasts ramming him, scratching at him, and otherwise trying in vain to pass him to get to me. Even in death, he saved my life, time and time again.
I may have laid there for months, drifting in and out of consciousness. I truly do not know how long I was there. Something eventually spurred me, like someone whispering in my ear in my sleep, and I knew that I had to leave. More were falling victim to Dark Falz' infection, and I could feel their regret and horror. I reached out with the telepathic Telele technique, looking for a receptive mind among those who had been fighting the darkness. Lightly, I touched on the mind of a young RAmar who went by the name, "VanGarrett". I didn't want to force him to come to my rescue. I simply could not bear to strip away someone's free will, in that way. He was also much to far away for me to communicate clearly with him, but I left his mind with the vague suggestion that he should come to the tower. Whether he would come or not, was then up to him.
The effort I spent searching with Telele brought me to pass out, again. When I awoke, I searched the boxes around me for something I could use to write a plea for help. I soon discovered that the crates were full of datapads, and set to typing. I did not know who might find it, or if it would be found at all, but I had to get it out. I used Telele again to influence a squid-like Dolmolm to take the datapad and venture out with it. I prayed that it would be found by someone with a willing heart. Once again, I passed into unconsciousness.
My dream was invaded by the sounds of a fight nearby, and my skin tingled by the sensation of someone casting the Tandle spell. I convinced myself in my dream that I had gotten up and gone to help them, but my body laid limply in a corner.
Soon after the fighting was over, there was some discussion. I heard a voice, VanGarrett's voice, say, "Hey, I think we've found our broken RAcast."
Not long after that, a cast said to the first voice, "Looks like a Prime-type. Or what's left of one." After a pause, he continued, "Hm. There's no significant external damage. A piercing in his armor here and there. A few dents. Not much more than can be said for myself. He's seen some good battles, though."
Another voice commented, "This guy wasn't kaputi'd. Actually, judging from the smell, and ash around the piercings, I'd say that he burned out..."
The voice I believed to be VanGarrett's then interrupted to say, "Guys, I know the RAcast is interesting, as you're both mechanically inclined, but look at this." They had found me, by this point. In my dream, I was hugging them all.
The cast with them tried to pull Mota Storm out of the way, but couldn't seem to do it. "Geez," he said, "I can't move this guy. I've been told that Prime-types are heavy, but I had no idea they were this bad."
"You'll have to work out the easiest way to do it, then," said VanGarrett. "Crankshaft," he continued, "You're into mechanical physics. Got any advice?"
The voice I then presumed to be Crankshaft's answered, "The best piece of advice I can ever give you in my life time or yours, is to avoid drinking with Dux, if you get really bad hang overs."
A woman's voice chimed in, "That's not exactly applicable to our situation, Crankshaft!" This lead into some discussion as to how to most easily move Mota Storm out of the way. My dream lead me away from that discussion, and I wouldn't have understood it very well, even if I had been awake. Crankshaft worked out how to move my protector, and the cast, who turned out to be named Zeirom, performed the task.
VanGarrett picked me up, and commented to the others, "I wish we had something to wrap her in. We really shouldn't let her stay like this." By 'this', he meant my nakedness. I had paid little thought to it, but my clothes were torn and bloody; unwearable.
To VanGarrett's surprise, Zeirom said he had a towel, so they wrapped me in that. It smelled of oils used in machines, but it was pleasantly soft and warm. I laid limply across his arms.
I'm not clear on what occurred from that point. I drifted deeper, away from consciousness. I heard a few voices; a stand-off-ish exchange of words with someone across the room. When that ended, I was passed again, this time, I believe, to Crankshaft. There were sounds of gunshots, and the group began to back away from an approaching enemy.
I felt my body filling with photon energy, at that point. It's an awkward experience. It's not unusual for a person, especially a Newman like myself, to gradually charge with that energy that makes technique usage possible, but it's very unusual for it to occur fast enough to feel it. Even for a Newman, like myself. A vague sensation, like a whisper in my ear, told me to wake up. My eyes opened to see four, soldier-like creatures carrying scythes, and without the slightest thought regarding what I was doing, I cast a light element technique at them. I honestly do not know what the technique was, but it glided over the surface of the ground, and ripped the creatures apart. This attack completely drained that swelling of energy within me, and once again, I passed out.
When next my eyes opened, they took in the visage of a beautiful, blond woman. She was fairly short, and I soon discovered that she was standing on a stool to be able to see me from above. She wore a nice, yellow dress, and a matching hat. One of Ragol's moons glowed in the window directly behind her, giving her the appearance of having a halo.
In my weary and slightly confused condition, I worried that I might have died. "Who," I began to ask, but stuttered as I sorted the sentence out in my mind, "Who are you?"
The woman answered me, saying, "My name is Laya. My friends and I received your letter, and brought you to this hospital."
"You saved me," I remembered out loud. My tired gaze drifted around the room. I saw a tall, black-painted RAcast with a wide, flat head, who I presumed was Zeirom. Then I saw a very tall Newman with long, spiked, cyan-colored hair, who I assumed to be Crankshaft. Near him stood a medium-height, brown-haired RAmar with a goatee and a modest belly. I suspected that he might be VanGarrett. To his left, stood another RAmar, however, slightly taller, also wearing a goatee. He was in discernibly better shape than his friend, and the long hair dangling over his headband made a favorable impression on me.
When I realized that Mota Storm was nowhere to be seen, I jerked myself up abruptly, and asked, "Where is Mota Storm?? Did you bring Mota Storm??" I looked at Zeirom hopefully.
The slightly shorter, chubbier RAmar stepped toward me and answered, "I presume you're referring to the RAcast that was with you. Regrettably, we were ill equipped to bring him back. We're planning to make a return trip for him, however." His tone was very precise. I could tell from his eyes, which were a deep blue, fading to a brighter blue toward his pupils, that he'd meant the statement to be comforting, but it came out somewhat harshly. Not in a defensive way, but very matter-of-fact and purely informative. He was definitely the RAmar I'd heard before.
The other RAmar stepped forward to match VanGarrett. Truly, the two of them must have made a carefully and strategically matched team, from the difference in their words. "Yeah," he said, "Don't worry your pretty little head. We'll bring your friend back." He gave me a reassuring look. Everything about his statement, the words, the tone that delivered them, and the expression that accompanied them, all these things put my concerns to some ease.
Zeirom spoke next, in a well-meaning, but grim tone, similar to VanGarrett's. "Mota Storm was in fairly bad condition," he explained, "I'm not so certain he can be repaired without replacing some major parts. We may be able to help him, but again, he was in pretty bad shape."
I looked down at my sheets, remembering his noble actions. Vague memories of him defending me drifted through my mind. I remembered him deliberately catching photon bullets on his armor while preventing men from kidnapping me. He fought creatures, both in my defense and also for food. Most vividly, I remembered him holding himself over me, as broken chunks of concrete fell on top of us, shielding me from certain death. I realized I was crying when I felt a tear drop from my chin, and saw it land on the bedding, absorbed instantly into the soft cloth. "He did it for me," I confessed.
Zeirom leaned toward me. An expressive, if ineffective gesture, as he was a good portion across the room from me. "What'd he do?" he asked.
"He gave his life," I explained, "For me." Some of his words floated across my mind, and I continued, "He used to say," I paused to choke on my tears, and went on, "Those who can be repaired must give their all, for those who cannot." It was not an exact quote, but it was near to his saying. "I think he may have given a bit more than he could spare."
I realized that VanGarrett had a bit of a slouch, as he straightened up, which slightly closed the difference in height between he and his friend. "He will have to be honored," he announced. His slight slouch gradually returned as he added, "And rebuilt. If possible."
I smiled and nodded in grateful response. He then asked me an inevitable question. "So, who are you, anyway?" I suppose that to him, I was just some mysterious young woman.
I pondered considerately on this question. I could not remember who I was. Laya had moved away from me by this time, and I looked out the window she'd been standing in front of. I looked passed the purple moon of Ragol, and took in the soft, gentle light of a bright star, twinkling in the black of the sky. A name came to me, like a whisper in my ear, and I finally answered, "My name is Allanque. I can tell you that much. Much more, I really don't know. I know it's not helpful, but something happened, though I don't know what, exactly. I do recall that Mota Storm was keeping a live log of what was happening, so maybe we can find out more from him."
HuBBsDoctor looked thoughtfully at VanGarrett, and commented, "The doctor said she could leave, tomorrow morning. They wanted to keep her under observation, until then."
VanGarrett nodded in response. "Right," he agreed, then started building his schedule in his head. He suggested, "In the mean time, we can gather the equipment we'll need to get him out of there." Supposing that he may have overstepped his authority, he looked to me and continued, "That is, of course, if you're up to it, Allanque."
I agreed, eagerly, "Yes, absolutely! I'd go right now, if I could." This reaction came with a failed attempt to sit up without the support of the pillows behind me. The unexpected weight of my body caused me to realize precisely why the doctors wanted me to stay over night. I really was exhausted.
Laya sincerely placed her hand on my wrist, and smiling pleasantly, she said, "We should go, now. You need to rest."
"Thank you, Laya," I said. I reciprocated her smile with on of my own, then offered the same to the others. They each gave their parting words, and left. VanGarrett gave me a very casual salute before he turned and walked out the door, while Crankshaft performed a more exaggerated gesture that I am not prepared to describe.
Before he proceeded down the hall, HuBBsDoctor turned and stuck his head back in the door, so he could tell me, "We'll see you tomorrow morning, then, Allanque. Have a good night's rest!"
I waved, and then he was gone. I relaxed into the bed, and drifted back into sleep; back into dream.
I dreamed about an Angel, battling with the Darkness. It was an on-going fight, in which the Darkness would introduce despair to a populace, and I would combat it, by providing futile bits of hope, so that the people could continue their resolve to fight. It was very much a war; no matter how vigorous my efforts, the Darkness continued unrelentingly, to ruin as many lives as it could.
I looked, and saw that a Demon had a hand directly in the pot, manipulating its contents as it saw fit. The pot, or at least its contents, were what we'd been fighting over the whole time, but as things tend to do in dreams, it didn't manifest in that form until that moment. It was a place that was mostly closed off, but narrowly accessible from outside. Those inside mostly could not see out, but could gaze in wonder at what they might see, directly above them.
I became frustrated, and decided that I would need to match the Darkness' efforts. I reached in, myself, to push my enemy aside, and attempt to repair the damage. The act seemed to have the feel of something new and dangerous to me, as though I were breaking some sort of precept, or maybe even just a firm habit. There was a very good reason why I hadn't done it before, but blinded by my need to stop the Darkness, I did it, anyway.
The dream lost coherency, from there. What else may have transpired, I cannot recall. I woke up, feeling rested, and I was ready for VanGarrett and HuBBsDoctor to arrive, so we could go and get Mota Storm.
So, here we go, again. So starts the 7th book of The Recollection Saga!
Chapter 1
It has been said, or so I understand, that the Prime-type RAcast is the most reliable machine ever built. Sturdier than the Garanz, more intelligent than the Type-O, and stabler than the
Dragoon-type. For centuries they were used as the military's primary assault and rescue forces. They were known to return to their base with little or no casualties among them, even when failure was a certainty. It has been demonstrated time and time again that a Prime-type would have to die before he'd allow a mission to go incomplete. When they take a mission, they are dedicated: mind, body and soul.
I owe my life to one such noble machine. I don't remember clearly how I arrived in that tower. I seem to remember a few men dressed in black, and a belligerent cast. I remember Mota Storm carrying me as his systems failed, one by one. He placed me down in a storage room, and filled the door with himself to block it off from all outside danger. A moment later, something shot from him. It pierced his back, and he stopped moving. Death had come down upon him.
Feeling compassion for the android, and perhaps even feeling afraid of being alone, I gathered what strength I had, and rushed to him as best I could. I cast Reverser on him, the technique used to bring people from the brink of death, and it revived him, if only briefly. From his sluggish response, it was clear to me that he would not last very long. However he had acquired them, his wounds were too great.
From the haze of my memory, I realized that he'd said he was here to protect me. It came to me, just what he was doing. He knew that he was going to die. He could see no way around it. Rather than admit to failure, he chose to place me there, in that closet, where he could block the entrance and protect me. Even in death, he saw to my safety.
Having an idea of what he must be going through, and knowing that this would be his end, I tried to bring comfort to his final moments. I placed my hand on his cheek. A tear escaped my eye, as I told him, "I love you, Mota Storm. Thank you." I hugged him, then.
His voice crackled as he spoke his final words. I don't think he meant the question for me, precisely, but he asked, "dO i sEe... aN AnGEl?" With those words, he promptly shut down again. I could have raised him once more, but I chose to weep over his shoulder, instead of teasing him with death.
I must have wept for a hundred beats. I had just lost everyone I knew and cared about. Mota Storm made the ultimate sacrifice for me, and there was nothing I could do to repay him. I felt guilty. Worse, were the few occasions when I would wake from my comatose slumber, to noises of dark beasts ramming him, scratching at him, and otherwise trying in vain to pass him to get to me. Even in death, he saved my life, time and time again.
I may have laid there for months, drifting in and out of consciousness. I truly do not know how long I was there. Something eventually spurred me, like someone whispering in my ear in my sleep, and I knew that I had to leave. More were falling victim to Dark Falz' infection, and I could feel their regret and horror. I reached out with the telepathic Telele technique, looking for a receptive mind among those who had been fighting the darkness. Lightly, I touched on the mind of a young RAmar who went by the name, "VanGarrett". I didn't want to force him to come to my rescue. I simply could not bear to strip away someone's free will, in that way. He was also much to far away for me to communicate clearly with him, but I left his mind with the vague suggestion that he should come to the tower. Whether he would come or not, was then up to him.
The effort I spent searching with Telele brought me to pass out, again. When I awoke, I searched the boxes around me for something I could use to write a plea for help. I soon discovered that the crates were full of datapads, and set to typing. I did not know who might find it, or if it would be found at all, but I had to get it out. I used Telele again to influence a squid-like Dolmolm to take the datapad and venture out with it. I prayed that it would be found by someone with a willing heart. Once again, I passed into unconsciousness.
My dream was invaded by the sounds of a fight nearby, and my skin tingled by the sensation of someone casting the Tandle spell. I convinced myself in my dream that I had gotten up and gone to help them, but my body laid limply in a corner.
Soon after the fighting was over, there was some discussion. I heard a voice, VanGarrett's voice, say, "Hey, I think we've found our broken RAcast."
Not long after that, a cast said to the first voice, "Looks like a Prime-type. Or what's left of one." After a pause, he continued, "Hm. There's no significant external damage. A piercing in his armor here and there. A few dents. Not much more than can be said for myself. He's seen some good battles, though."
Another voice commented, "This guy wasn't kaputi'd. Actually, judging from the smell, and ash around the piercings, I'd say that he burned out..."
The voice I believed to be VanGarrett's then interrupted to say, "Guys, I know the RAcast is interesting, as you're both mechanically inclined, but look at this." They had found me, by this point. In my dream, I was hugging them all.
The cast with them tried to pull Mota Storm out of the way, but couldn't seem to do it. "Geez," he said, "I can't move this guy. I've been told that Prime-types are heavy, but I had no idea they were this bad."
"You'll have to work out the easiest way to do it, then," said VanGarrett. "Crankshaft," he continued, "You're into mechanical physics. Got any advice?"
The voice I then presumed to be Crankshaft's answered, "The best piece of advice I can ever give you in my life time or yours, is to avoid drinking with Dux, if you get really bad hang overs."
A woman's voice chimed in, "That's not exactly applicable to our situation, Crankshaft!" This lead into some discussion as to how to most easily move Mota Storm out of the way. My dream lead me away from that discussion, and I wouldn't have understood it very well, even if I had been awake. Crankshaft worked out how to move my protector, and the cast, who turned out to be named Zeirom, performed the task.
VanGarrett picked me up, and commented to the others, "I wish we had something to wrap her in. We really shouldn't let her stay like this." By 'this', he meant my nakedness. I had paid little thought to it, but my clothes were torn and bloody; unwearable.
To VanGarrett's surprise, Zeirom said he had a towel, so they wrapped me in that. It smelled of oils used in machines, but it was pleasantly soft and warm. I laid limply across his arms.
I'm not clear on what occurred from that point. I drifted deeper, away from consciousness. I heard a few voices; a stand-off-ish exchange of words with someone across the room. When that ended, I was passed again, this time, I believe, to Crankshaft. There were sounds of gunshots, and the group began to back away from an approaching enemy.
I felt my body filling with photon energy, at that point. It's an awkward experience. It's not unusual for a person, especially a Newman like myself, to gradually charge with that energy that makes technique usage possible, but it's very unusual for it to occur fast enough to feel it. Even for a Newman, like myself. A vague sensation, like a whisper in my ear, told me to wake up. My eyes opened to see four, soldier-like creatures carrying scythes, and without the slightest thought regarding what I was doing, I cast a light element technique at them. I honestly do not know what the technique was, but it glided over the surface of the ground, and ripped the creatures apart. This attack completely drained that swelling of energy within me, and once again, I passed out.
When next my eyes opened, they took in the visage of a beautiful, blond woman. She was fairly short, and I soon discovered that she was standing on a stool to be able to see me from above. She wore a nice, yellow dress, and a matching hat. One of Ragol's moons glowed in the window directly behind her, giving her the appearance of having a halo.
In my weary and slightly confused condition, I worried that I might have died. "Who," I began to ask, but stuttered as I sorted the sentence out in my mind, "Who are you?"
The woman answered me, saying, "My name is Laya. My friends and I received your letter, and brought you to this hospital."
"You saved me," I remembered out loud. My tired gaze drifted around the room. I saw a tall, black-painted RAcast with a wide, flat head, who I presumed was Zeirom. Then I saw a very tall Newman with long, spiked, cyan-colored hair, who I assumed to be Crankshaft. Near him stood a medium-height, brown-haired RAmar with a goatee and a modest belly. I suspected that he might be VanGarrett. To his left, stood another RAmar, however, slightly taller, also wearing a goatee. He was in discernibly better shape than his friend, and the long hair dangling over his headband made a favorable impression on me.
When I realized that Mota Storm was nowhere to be seen, I jerked myself up abruptly, and asked, "Where is Mota Storm?? Did you bring Mota Storm??" I looked at Zeirom hopefully.
The slightly shorter, chubbier RAmar stepped toward me and answered, "I presume you're referring to the RAcast that was with you. Regrettably, we were ill equipped to bring him back. We're planning to make a return trip for him, however." His tone was very precise. I could tell from his eyes, which were a deep blue, fading to a brighter blue toward his pupils, that he'd meant the statement to be comforting, but it came out somewhat harshly. Not in a defensive way, but very matter-of-fact and purely informative. He was definitely the RAmar I'd heard before.
The other RAmar stepped forward to match VanGarrett. Truly, the two of them must have made a carefully and strategically matched team, from the difference in their words. "Yeah," he said, "Don't worry your pretty little head. We'll bring your friend back." He gave me a reassuring look. Everything about his statement, the words, the tone that delivered them, and the expression that accompanied them, all these things put my concerns to some ease.
Zeirom spoke next, in a well-meaning, but grim tone, similar to VanGarrett's. "Mota Storm was in fairly bad condition," he explained, "I'm not so certain he can be repaired without replacing some major parts. We may be able to help him, but again, he was in pretty bad shape."
I looked down at my sheets, remembering his noble actions. Vague memories of him defending me drifted through my mind. I remembered him deliberately catching photon bullets on his armor while preventing men from kidnapping me. He fought creatures, both in my defense and also for food. Most vividly, I remembered him holding himself over me, as broken chunks of concrete fell on top of us, shielding me from certain death. I realized I was crying when I felt a tear drop from my chin, and saw it land on the bedding, absorbed instantly into the soft cloth. "He did it for me," I confessed.
Zeirom leaned toward me. An expressive, if ineffective gesture, as he was a good portion across the room from me. "What'd he do?" he asked.
"He gave his life," I explained, "For me." Some of his words floated across my mind, and I continued, "He used to say," I paused to choke on my tears, and went on, "Those who can be repaired must give their all, for those who cannot." It was not an exact quote, but it was near to his saying. "I think he may have given a bit more than he could spare."
I realized that VanGarrett had a bit of a slouch, as he straightened up, which slightly closed the difference in height between he and his friend. "He will have to be honored," he announced. His slight slouch gradually returned as he added, "And rebuilt. If possible."
I smiled and nodded in grateful response. He then asked me an inevitable question. "So, who are you, anyway?" I suppose that to him, I was just some mysterious young woman.
I pondered considerately on this question. I could not remember who I was. Laya had moved away from me by this time, and I looked out the window she'd been standing in front of. I looked passed the purple moon of Ragol, and took in the soft, gentle light of a bright star, twinkling in the black of the sky. A name came to me, like a whisper in my ear, and I finally answered, "My name is Allanque. I can tell you that much. Much more, I really don't know. I know it's not helpful, but something happened, though I don't know what, exactly. I do recall that Mota Storm was keeping a live log of what was happening, so maybe we can find out more from him."
HuBBsDoctor looked thoughtfully at VanGarrett, and commented, "The doctor said she could leave, tomorrow morning. They wanted to keep her under observation, until then."
VanGarrett nodded in response. "Right," he agreed, then started building his schedule in his head. He suggested, "In the mean time, we can gather the equipment we'll need to get him out of there." Supposing that he may have overstepped his authority, he looked to me and continued, "That is, of course, if you're up to it, Allanque."
I agreed, eagerly, "Yes, absolutely! I'd go right now, if I could." This reaction came with a failed attempt to sit up without the support of the pillows behind me. The unexpected weight of my body caused me to realize precisely why the doctors wanted me to stay over night. I really was exhausted.
Laya sincerely placed her hand on my wrist, and smiling pleasantly, she said, "We should go, now. You need to rest."
"Thank you, Laya," I said. I reciprocated her smile with on of my own, then offered the same to the others. They each gave their parting words, and left. VanGarrett gave me a very casual salute before he turned and walked out the door, while Crankshaft performed a more exaggerated gesture that I am not prepared to describe.
Before he proceeded down the hall, HuBBsDoctor turned and stuck his head back in the door, so he could tell me, "We'll see you tomorrow morning, then, Allanque. Have a good night's rest!"
I waved, and then he was gone. I relaxed into the bed, and drifted back into sleep; back into dream.
I dreamed about an Angel, battling with the Darkness. It was an on-going fight, in which the Darkness would introduce despair to a populace, and I would combat it, by providing futile bits of hope, so that the people could continue their resolve to fight. It was very much a war; no matter how vigorous my efforts, the Darkness continued unrelentingly, to ruin as many lives as it could.
I looked, and saw that a Demon had a hand directly in the pot, manipulating its contents as it saw fit. The pot, or at least its contents, were what we'd been fighting over the whole time, but as things tend to do in dreams, it didn't manifest in that form until that moment. It was a place that was mostly closed off, but narrowly accessible from outside. Those inside mostly could not see out, but could gaze in wonder at what they might see, directly above them.
I became frustrated, and decided that I would need to match the Darkness' efforts. I reached in, myself, to push my enemy aside, and attempt to repair the damage. The act seemed to have the feel of something new and dangerous to me, as though I were breaking some sort of precept, or maybe even just a firm habit. There was a very good reason why I hadn't done it before, but blinded by my need to stop the Darkness, I did it, anyway.
The dream lost coherency, from there. What else may have transpired, I cannot recall. I woke up, feeling rested, and I was ready for VanGarrett and HuBBsDoctor to arrive, so we could go and get Mota Storm.