Chapter 3: 02: consequences

02: consequences 

 

He barely makes it back to his apartment before the backlash from using such powerful skills in such quick succession overwhelms him. He holds on long enough to shut the door behind him before the latest surge of spiking pain brings him to his knees.

 

[̩́Ë̯̬̫͛̏R̞͋R̬͚̜̒̅̐O̪͠R̨͈̫͆̋̍!̧̘͍̓͒̔͟͝]̢̣̖̟̀͋̍̑

 

Bringing trembling hands up to clutch desperately at his aching head in a futile attempt at relief, he hears more than sees the various error messages popping up all around him in a wall, or a wave, shrieking their shrill siren song of warning. 

 

[̢̺̉͘E͕̺̤̪͌̋̿̿͟͞͞ͅR̹̬̉̍R͍̜͂͠Ó̩̩̮̽̓R̠͕̻̼͕͗̒̃̋͂!͇̘̓͛̄ͅ]̬̯͇̖͒̌̋̔

 

He doesn't have to look to know that some incomprehensible language (but not incomprehensible to him, is it; that's the whole problem) is crawling over his skin and sinking in, a living tattoo, dyeing him with the same symbols that dance erratically across glowing blue windows that can no longer restrain them.

 

[̦̼̯̺̦̲̏͊͑͌̈́͞E̻̬͕̦̓̆̅̋R̟̤̪̃̅̎̕͟R̨͍͙͇̻̝̐̏̊͐̚͠Ō̪̘͈̽̉͋̽͟ͅR̬̎͗͢!̡̩̤̖̺̉͋̋̀̔]̙͙̲͓̭͇͓̾͗̿̊̐̇̈́

 

The full breadth of Knowledge he keeps locked away inside him (Ḙ͂R̢̙̰̅̔͛́͢R̢̠̠̼͎̄̈́͂̏̕O̮͍̽̈́R̈́͟ ̱̬̎̀4͚̟̭͍̩͊̎̃͋͐͝ͅ0̛̮͚̼͔̑̿̚4͚̮̽̄ ̧̛̳̓̉ͅ-̞͓̝̟̥̃̊̍̾̅ ͉̫̟̣̃̐͂͂Ȕ̲̖̆n̖̳͍̏̀̄á̳̯̗̮̪̥͆̀̃́̚ű̫̱͌ẗͅh̜͙͖̞͕̲͂̉͐̽̕͘ơ͉̟̫͆̒͆͜r̻̀̈́͟ȋ̤ẕ͡e̳̞̔̍̌͜d̦̼̥̑̄̂̎͂͜ͅ) attempts to breach containment, threads of Knowing escaping into his cognition and warping his worldview, leaking into his thoughts and restructuring the way he thinks.

 

[̧̹̣̮̿̔̂̄E̮͕̩͈̍̔͗̃͒͟R̳͔̄̐͗ͅŖ͖̮̻̠͓͋̆͊͌̋̓͠ͅŐ̮̱̯̟̠̫̪͑̋̏͐͆͡Ŗ̻͎̠̬̲͒͌͂́͑͘͟͡͠ͅ!͓̦͔̘͚̙͔͈̋̂̅͒̒̃̓̌]̡͈͍̖͍͚̍͂͋́̃̚

 

Like this, he feels inhuman. Like this, he isn't human. Not when he can tap into the core of the cosmos and look upon all of creation with the cool calculation of its creator. When the beginning and the end collide and coalesce until it all becomes a cacophony of chaos and confusion and - simultaneously - the very definition of structure and order.

 

[̧̡̫͉͎̘͚̮̥̀̄̐̐̔͊̀̀͐E̝̹̯̫̅̓͘͠R̮̫͖̐̍͂̅͜͠ͅR̡̹̪̞̫̫̀̈̏̂͐̽͜͞Ō̳͇̥̭͔̌̈͐̓̚͢R̨͕̺͖̱̈́͐̌̈̒!̖̖͍̀̾̎̀̚͢ͅ]͓̰̼̱͇̱͖̖́̀̂̂̈́̃̔̕

 

It is the Knowing that tells him of the blurred edges to his outline, wisps of words and impressions wafting off of him as yet still other pieces faze in and out of existence, unraveling. Reality both rejecting and subsuming him as it attempts to place him in a neat category (system or creation) and finding itself unable to do either.

 

[͓̝̻̺̳́̓̍̇̀͑͟É̯͎̳̱͎̺̫͉̖̂͊͊̓̃̑͊̚R̹̘̞̯̤͗̍͋̇͢͡͞R͈̘̫̲͙̰̫͖͎͑͋̾̈́̌̑͐̏͝O̼̲̣̘͙̺̮̝̩̺͛̃͋̍͆̏̔͠͡͝Ṟ̡̬̲̖͕͋̌̄͐̇̐͌͢!̢̯͔̻̭̗̲̭̗̓̈͋͆͋̀̊̈́͞]̝̬̥̹͕̱̬͙̯̜̏̆͒́͂̈̕̕͡͝

 

With excruciating effort, through debilitating pain, with the help of the very force that is causing him to suffer this affliction, he gathers up the tendrils of probability and inevitability and compels it all to return to its previous state, sealed tightly within him.

 

[Player Ashe Emerson has activated Skill:"E̼̜͍̖̟͍̘̻͓̱͒͑̾͑̿́̋̑͌̄R̡̘̯̠̭̥͉̲͈̽̃͌͋͊̀͂̉̈́̐͂̕͢͜͢R̢͇̞̼̞̥̟̝̹̺̆̔͂̉̈͆̒̋͆̽͢͝O̠͉̥̜͇̲͇̲̠̗̦̣͐̍́̀͋̽̓̈́̍̓͘͞R̡̧̹̲̤͙̦̈̍͒͛̄͐̅͜͠ ̢̨̧̱͓̼̺͇̭͎̓͊̏̌̑̃̀͌̕̚͞ͅ4̡̨̛̛̛̣̙͓̜̭̘̪̻̆̓͑̀͂̉͋̈́̄͜ͅ0̧̯̟͕͈̺̘̰̯̜̓̅̋͌͐́̈́̎͌̊̆͟͟͡4̬̰̪̖̰͙̯̻̫̘̲͇̽͋̐̿̽́̽̊͑̐̚̚ ̲̦̗͔̙͙͈̥̪̜̿́̆̅̃̇͋͊͛͢͞͝-͈̺̼̼̩͖̻̃͋̽̀̂̓͗͟͡ ̛͖̬͈͇̻̹̹̩̤͕̞̂̓̎̀̓̄̅̇͆̚͡ͅỨ̡͕͈̦̺̥͉͕̓͆͗͗͐̂̍ͅn̨͇̰̳̮͉͉̩̬̳͈̲͂͊̉͒̑̓̈́̈̔̃̾̕a̢̲̬͕͇͚͚̠͈̔̒̑̉͋̉̊̚͠u͚̺̦̳̭̜̙̙̮̠̇͂̈́̿͆͑͌̎̕͘t̢̻̜̻̺̞̒̎̐̇̑̌̇͒͜ͅh̢̞͔̟̦̘͕͙̭̖͓̔̆͗͊͊̋͛̿̽̌̚ǫ̢̛͖͕̪̲̦̦̯̩̊̎͂̌̾̋͒͘͝r͚̦̞̯̻̦͔͍̥̙͓͂̐̌̒̏͊̏̓̉̒͛̃͢i͍͇̖̠͔̰̮̙̮̓̊̏̈́̏̈͆̽̃̕͢͢͝z̢̢͙̹̟̼̩̖̓̀́̅̃̅̎́e̡̝̘̹͙͈̼͇͒͋̽̀̐͗͢͞͠͡d͙̤̜̦̙̭̪̹̿̃̆́͋́͐͞"]

 

Agonizingly slowly, the Knowledge reluctantly retracts its creeping strands, compressing itself back down to an abstraction just within the constraints of his mortal shell, uncomfortably filling him up inside with the magnitude of the universe and its unutterable truths. Then, he slams the metaphorical bars shut, using his Skill to firmly lock it and make it so only he has the authority to unlock it - meaning it will stay chained unless he wills it otherwise.

…Or becomes so unstable, he loses control, and the scale tips back the other way, giving dominion to the power within the container.

Sweat-soaked and shaking, Ashe stumbles to his feet, his S-Rank physique keeping him relatively fine physically even when he's on his last leg mentally, and heads straight for the bathroom. The young man in the mirror stares tiredly back at him, hair grossly damp and trails of blood still sluggishly dripping down his face and neck, having burst out of his ears, nose, and eyes. 

Although he's certainly eager to take a shower and get rid of the grime and horrible smell, he can't help but take a moment to mourn his formerly white T-Shirt. There's no way Ashton won't find out about it somehow and track him down to bitch.

He resolutely shrugs it off and tosses it in the trash. He can buy another shirt.

You are reading story [BL] Fluke of a Villain at novel35.com

Once in the shower, he begins to contemplate. That last attack was the worst one he's had in a while. Usually, he can suppress it for longer and shut it away again far quicker. He'd never be able to really use his Ability otherwise. There's no need to wonder why, however - he Knows. Now that the story has begun in earnest, any moves he makes to undermine it will be met with fierce resistance. The wrecking ball that is the Narrative only swings in one direction and will move to flatten any obstacles that don't obediently fall into place or get out of its way.

Not particularly interested in being the nail that gets hammered down, Ashe would happily bow to its demands and fade into the background if the story it was crafting wasn't a hopeless tragedy. If it didn't mean that the world would literally end, or that ultimately Ashe would be the one to bring it about. As it is, Ashe likes living and would appreciate it if the planet remained exactly as it was. The quality of his life would decrease drastically without it - and without his sister, who would be a casualty no matter what, considering her death is what supposedly triggers his descent into world-destroying villainy.

(Unlike most, Ashe cannot hide behind pretense. Self-deception was stripped away from him when he was fourteen years old, and the essence of the universe rattled through him and besieged him with absolute understanding. Objective observation of his every thought and action from his first breath to his last has instilled in him perfect prehension of who he is as a person as well as who he could be. 

So it is with unbiased truth that he claims Ashton as the only thing truly tethering him to his humanity. She was the one who brought him back from the brink back when he first Awakened and almost lost himself to a god's indifference. She grounded him, reminded him of family and love in the midst of the grief and anger his detachment had been protecting him from.

If she dies, he won't care what happens to himself, much less the world.)

Unfortunately, Knowing is not the same as Seeing. His knowledge only accounts for how things are supposed to play out. Neither he nor the Narrative (or even its ever dutiful hand, the System) can foresee the rippling changes brought about by unexpected factors. Usually, this wouldn't matter as the changes wouldn't be enough to alter the ultimate course, mere eddies in the unstoppable current of continuity. But Ashe's refusal to adhere to his role might make enough splashes so as to render the road - and its final destination - inscrutable.

He wasn't supposed to run into Jasper today. Their first meeting in the novel isn't for months yet - only after Jasper defeats all manner of foes. By that time, things will have escalated to the point that society itself is on the verge of collapse, with more Gates manifesting than there are Players to subdue them, and multiple Outbreaks occurring every single day. Most Guilds and high-ranking Players will have perished or turned by then as well, either dying fighting against or joining hands with the Otherworlders who will be drawn to Iethea once humanity proves itself enough of a threat to warrant their personal intervention.

That he would bump into Jasper so soon is a sign of the discrepancy to come. He can only hope it is a good sign and not an ill omen.

 

-

 

A short burst of wind ruffles his hair as he steps out of the bathroom, drying it into a bird's nest.

"Did you push yourself again?" Ashton asks rhetorically, holding his bloody shirt aloft with a pissed off expression. She must have fished it out of the trash can. "How many times do I have to tell you to-"

"-restrain myself, I know," Ashe interrupts her, finishing the oft heard advice with exasperation and holding the towel around his waist more securely, lest it slip. "Why were you digging around in my garbage? Are you a raccoon? That hard up for cash? There's food in the fridge."

She rolls her eyes and follows him into his bedroom, turning around to glare at the wall while he gets dressed. "I could smell the blood as soon as I walked in. You really need to learn to lock your door, by the way. Any creep with an ugly blonde fetish could get in and peep at you in the shower."

"The only creep here is you," he retorts. He quickly puts on another t-shirt and some shorts and then pushes past her to head to the kitchen. He retrieves a glass from the overhead cabinet and fills it with water from the tap. "Who just waltzes into someone else's apartment unannounced?" He takes a sip and leans back against the counter to fully face her.

"I'm your sister. I'm allowed," Ashton declares smugly from where she stands on the sharp divide of tile and carpet separating the kitchen and living room. Then she scowls again and throws the disgusting shirt at him in frustration. He doesn't bother to catch it, allowing it to thump softly against his stomach and fall sadly to the floor. "Stop changing the subject, asshole. I don't tell you to slow your roll for shits and giggles. I'm seriously worried you're gonna fucking glitch out of reality someday. Then, what am I gonna tell Mom and Dad in the afterlife? 'Sorry, your dumbass kid no-clipped himself into oblivion?'"

There are plenty of responses he could give his sister. He could tell her that there is no afterlife. That everything of their parents - everything that they were or would ever be - ceased to exist the moment their lives were snuffed out, that they only live on in pictures and faded memories, that the last they will ever see of them in reality was their grisly, horrifying ends. He could tell her that they, too, will eventually get swept up in the inexorable march of time and become nothing more than fleeting existences that once were. He could tell her that once she dies, he will never see or hear her again, and that that is completely unacceptable to him, something he will never allow to happen, that he would die first.

But even if he has trouble conversing usually, never quite able to read the mood or grasp tone, and underlying meanings fly over his head (because Knowing does not mean Doing, either, just like theoretical knowledge of baking has not made him a patissier), he can tell that it would be the wrong thing to say. Twenty-four years has not improved his general social skills, but he can at least navigate a conservation with his twin sister with the ease of a lifetime of practice.

"They wouldn't know what 'no-clipping' means," he reminds her instead, knowing it to be a harmless observation, and she throws her hands up in the air.

"Shut up. I know that. That just means you gotta avoid doing it, so I don't bamboozle our folks with incomprehensible internet slang when I kick the bucket." She stalks forward to steal his water and chug the rest of it herself. She then dramatically slams the empty glass down on the countertop and wipes her mouth with a flannel sleeve before getting right up in his face and poking him hard in the chest. "If you leave me, I'll never forgive you," she tells him, low and serious, the exact same words she had spoken that dark day when their parents had died, and Ashe had looked at her, his last surviving family member, and not felt anything at all.

And Ashe-

He gives her the same response he had then, when all of the knowledge in the universe had been clattering and chattering inside of him, clamoring to be heard, to be Known, to imprint itself on him and shape him to its will, to then through him subject all of existence to its influence-

Promising that as its puppet, he would be free of pain, of heartache, of the gaping loss of two of the three people closest to his heart- 

"I would never forgive myself."

Searching his expression for sincerity and apparently finding it, Ashton leans back out of his personal space and grins. "Good. Don't you forget it!" Satisfied with herself for successfully wringing sentiment out of him, she hops up to sit on the opposite counter and idly swings her legs. "So! Remember when I said that hot A-Ranker was checking me out on our last raid? Turns out I was right. Her name is Kyriel, and we're going out next Friday."

Only half-heartedly paying attention now, his focus switching to procuring food since his Ability always leaves him ravenous, Ashe turns and squats to dig for the big blue pot he likes to use for soup in the bottom cabinet. "You sure she wasn't looking at Cherry and felt too awkward to correct you when you made a move on her?" He asks, finding it at the back and bringing it to the sink to rinse.

Ashton kicks him as he walks by. "No, she was looking at me. Cherry wasn't even with me then. I went with Matt." She kicks him again when he opens his mouth. "She wasn't checking him out either! She's not even into dudes!"

Ashe shoves her foot away, filling the pot up with water and setting it on the stove to boil. "I didn't even say anything." He places a medium-sized pan on a different burner, throws previously thawed hamburger meat into it, and sets it on medium-high.

"My twin telepathy told me you were about to say something stupid," she defends herself snottily, sticking her tongue out when he makes a face at her. "Anyway, Kyriel apparently only just Awakened two weeks ago. You know the Outbreak at the university? The one that S-Rank came out of? Kyriel wasn't a student - she was there to support her friend - and she Awakened when monsters started attacking the audience. How badass is that?"

Wait- "Kyriel Cooley?" Ashe asks, turning to meet Ashton's surprised brown eyes with urgency, a can of pasta sauce in his left hand.

"Yeah?" She confirms, confused. "Why?"

Huh. His sister has scheduled a date with one of the Protagonist's closest companions - the woman who will be indirectly responsible for her death.

The can explodes under his suddenly tightening grip, splattering both of them and a good portion of the kitchen in cold, red sauce that glimmers like fresh blood.

You can find story with these keywords: [BL] Fluke of a Villain, Read [BL] Fluke of a Villain, [BL] Fluke of a Villain novel, [BL] Fluke of a Villain book, [BL] Fluke of a Villain story, [BL] Fluke of a Villain full, [BL] Fluke of a Villain Latest Chapter