Involuntary Pedagogic Fantasy - Thread 20 Soltindir !4rqjPmV6PI 2009/04/16 (Thu) 13:58 No. 84430 ▼ File 123989030285.jpg - (103.70KB, 500x375 , the scene unfolds.jpg)
Muninn! You choose Muninn, memory. Have to remember.
"Good choice." The voice says. "Maybe you're not a completely hopeless case after all."
That fucking voice. You know it, you're so sure of it, but the insanity of the dream warps it too much, makes it sound like the voice of a demon whispering madness in your ears. You remember that voice, you remember it so well, so clearly.
"Well then, memory."
Your vision starts to clear, or rather it starts to make sense of the nothingness all around you. Shapes begin to take form, unblurring themselves into trees and ground, smashed cars, bodies and shredded concrete, the sky above a huge blanket of tormented rolling storm clouds. Sound slowly returns, like waves of thunder and static crashing over your ears. The smell of mud, petrol, fire and blood fills your nose, making you gag. You try to move, to feel, but you can't.
"Memory is an imperfect thing." The voice says, somehow sad, somehow amused.
For a moment you see the scene in perfect focus, paused, as if you were right there on the ground but also looking at it from the air. A stretch of forest road, lined by trees, just before a tunnel. Tiny figures stopped in the act of running, flames suspended like orange ramparts of light, arcing bullets mid-flight, a single falling grenade hanging in the air like an overripe pineapple.
"We never remember ourselves as we truly were."
In the centre of it all, unmoving and strange in the silence of paused time, is you.
"Memory distorts our self-image."
You look closer, fascinated by yourself. It is you, but different. Two antler-like horns sprout from your head, gleaming in the firelight like twin spears of bone. You're dressed in bloodstained and tattered clothes, your hands cut and bruised. You look more serious, more determined, mouth open wide in a scream of rage and defiance. Somehow fake, like a layer of bravado and false courage plastered over fear and cowardice.
"Not as you truly were." The voice says. "But actions speak louder than words."
Time resumes in a rush of noise and motion. Screams, orders being shouted, smoke and fire and death and you at the apex of it all. You're not in control, memory taking over your muscles, making you catch the falling grenade before it hits the ground. You hurl it back at the soldiers who threw it, putting so much power in your arm that the grenade embeds itself in the road before exploding, showering you with bits of tarmac.
"Fall back!" A shout from the men all around you, somebody in charge pulling them back before you throw another car at them. You rip a door off the nearest car and send it spinning into the back of a retreating soldier for good measure, roaring your anger.
A last smattering of bullets pings off the ground at your feet. They're afraid to aim properly, after what you did with the last man who actually managed to hit you. A few soldiers huddle in the entrance to the tunnel, spreading out when you notice them, all too aware that you could simply bowl them over with a tree if they bunch up like that. You grin, starting towards the tunnel. She's on the other side, they're using her as bait.
"Now!"
You spin around at the voice, to the sight of two men standing on the overturned tank. One of them, draws a bead on you with a spotting device, red point on your chest. The other holds the long tube of a missile launcher. The whoosh and concussive thump comes a split-second later.
"Memory is never exact." The mysterious voice says. "Muninn is more fickle than you might think."
You remember ...
[ ] Catching the missile.
[ ] Running.
[ ] Throwing something to intercept it.
