A drabble piece I rewrote after literal years. I never posted the original, and I don’t want to. Just enjoy this piece. (691 words)
UMY! Strife and their connection to the city.
The surge jolts the house. The street, neighbourhood. The city. Everything feels it. Twisting, humming, thumping with an old heartbeat. Only those in tune with the special magic if the city, the old ones, and those so deeply embedded in it they have no chance to part from it feel it. But that does not mean not everyone sees it. Street lamps flicker and shut off, the tram lines slowing to a halt as the magic grows in strength, pulling the city into its grasp. The city grows still, every machine, human, and being, holding their breath. Even without a touch of magic in the most simple of the citizens, they know something is different, something is changing.
The city is rewiring itself.
Kirin can feel it in the kitchen. The light bulb bursts and continues to spark as he flicks off the switch. He gazes curiously up at the broken bulb. And it bursts again, already shattered, his eyes are filled with a green so dazzling it digs into mind and tears at it for a moment before it pulls out and back into the wires. It takes him a moment to recognize the humming of the electricity as anything more than that. But it is more. It is not a hum, something new. It starts like a radio being tuned. Spiting bits and pieces of words at him with static in between them. He cannot catch them, they move too fast. Break off too quickly. But they are getting more and more clear. It begins to sound like a record skipping. Repeating, and repeating. Repeating. Still, he cannot catch the words. There is interference in the signal.
His hooves click on the tiled floor as he steps from the kitchen. He makes no noise on the carpeted hallway.
That same green that had shot out at him fills the living room. And his heart stops.
In the living room is William Strife. Hands like claws digging into the arms of the chair they are sat in. Back arches away from the backrest and head tossed back against it. Every muscle tensed. They cannot breathe, their heart has stopped. It is a waking paralysis. They speak, repeating, repeating, repeating. The source of the sound coming from somewhere in their chest, using their throat, like a megaphone, using their voice as if they are nothing more than the soundboard in front of them.
“Our veins become wires. Blood becomes electricity. Acidic, electrical, shiny is our body! Let them be! Let them be! We are wires, electricity and your flashing screens!” The soundboard in front of Strife has sliders moving and dials turning as their voice changes and reverberates. Echoing itself without open space. The words have cleared. Lost the radio static and interference. And it is all coming through Strife. Using their tools and electronics to manipulate their voice and words.
Strife’s laptop has been dropped to the floor at their feet, and Kirin can hear its fan whine and the verbal word processing responding to its witch’s voice. It knows something is wrong, that something is happening. The television is still on. Radiating green, captioning Strife’s words at the bottom of the screen, static-filled. Strife’s phone vibrates, nearly jumping from the armrest it was set on. The screen reads “Incoming Call: Blocked Number.” It twitches off and is bombarded by text messages moments after. Repeating Strife’s words.
“No Fey control. No consort. No gods.” Strife’s head shakes side to side and their body contorts again. Pulling them in on themself. “We rule over the gods. We are the courts.”
The light bulbs in the room blow out scattering glass fragments around the room, embedding in drywall and skin. The television follows the display. The screen blowing out in a single piece, with the insides fizzling and sputtering. Strife’s laptop turns off with the screen going blue, then black. And finally, their phone battery drains to nothing.
Silence fills the room and all light is gone. Even the streetlamps outside have gone out.
And everything comes back, streetlamps, tramcars, internet, cell service, with a sob from Strife’s throat. Sore and used.
