In Eden's Shadow

by Amanda Churi

  A blast of green blew away her hijab, exploding against the Haxor’s forehead. The veil flailed around her face and shuddered down to her neck, revealing a sea of long white waves and a green gem embedded within her skull, eyes of the same color smirking at the blasted soldier.

  Murderous green sparks seeped through his skin and then bone, quickly fixing the fluid in his brain as he shot back through the air with arms spread wide, tearing the environment into a cascade of sand before it disappeared into the air just like everything else.

  As the perverted soldier indented the far wall, the woman rounded on the easiest of the prey. The child, not knowing what to do, screamed; he held his hands protectively to his face, staggering back with wailing lungs.

  “Oh, shut up!” the woman screamed, lunging forward with hand outstretched. The young soldier grunted in surprise as her lean fingers furiously clasped his wrist, and with an outraged yank, she twisted it a complete one-eighty.

  No scream had the chance to escape him; her knee had already jolted up, destroying his elbow and shattering the bone from thereon down. A leg flew, swiping him out from under and bringing him to the floor. Her heel stomped down on his other elbow, breaking that arm too, and then she wound up her foot for an almighty kick, busting his kneecap. In an instant, the screams came back; he was panting, sweating, screaming, crying as every pain receptor in his body melted. He tried to rock himself, tried to calm down, but his breaths were far too fast; his lungs were pounding, his mouth was foaming, and his eyes were bulging as she stood over him with a dark body, only jewel and eyes alight.

  The woman snickered, brushing aside her bangs to get a perfect shot of her target. “I wasn’t part of the memory, you asswipe. I’m surprised that the difference in clothing didn’t hint that to you—oh, wait, no, why would I be shocked? Your brains are the size of shriveled peas!”

  The boy continued to shake and cry. The woman leaned closer to taunt him. “Oh… But, of course…” she lisped, lightly touching the child’s nose. He busted out a shriek at the top of his convulsing lungs, but she did not draw back, looming dangerously close—enough to bite. “I forgot… You don’t know what peas are.”

  Her spine rebounded, taking the flaming woman with it. The child stifled a single cry before he continued, but the woman had already turned away, approaching the more diabolical of the two.

  A heap of time-locked bone was all that remained of him. The Haxor’s eyes could move, but the mouth had been sealed. His crooked, damaged spine slumped forward while all four of his limbs rested lifelessly beside him. There was not a thing he could do besides helplessly watch as her bare feet drew closer. She moved slowly, purposely swaying the most sensual parts of her body while the last functioning pieces of the shattered Memory Box gasped, pushing out a handful of desperate, dying sparks before darkness permanently descended. “Puny mortal… Do you know what that was?”

  He physically couldn’t answer. His eyes fell on her propped up breasts as she bent down, resting a hand on his stomach and feeling his heartbeat unwillingly slow down. “That was what my father gave me,” she whispered in his ear. “That’s what he gave his child… The child who happens to be your fucking queen: the real heir to the throne!”

  Her fist condensed, a shield of green light encasing her knuckles. She pushed down slightly harder, but the man merely groaned, unable to voice the terror running wild inside. “You are the lowest of shit, you know that? I am baffled just looking at you, thinking that morons like yourselves destroyed everything I held near and dear. Well, I have one thing to say to that.”

  With a violent cry and a push of rue, his pupils violently expanded; an agonizing, murderous groan seeped out of his gritted teeth as blood splattered beneath his chin. A sickening squish echoed through the room, the queen’s crazed laughter quickly drowning out the sound of revealed, moist flesh. She twisted her submerged hand, playfully fluttering her fingers against his innards before moving on to twirl his intestines. She poked his stomach, explored the ruptured capillary beds with a teasing nail, and even reached up into the upper cavities of his chest before curling her fingers under his ribs. A devilish grin cracked her lips wide as their eyes met; the soldier’s glazing eyes begged for mercy, his means of pleading being the single pop of a blood bubble on his stiff tongue.

  But that would never do it for her.

  “FUCK YOU!” Her biceps flexed as she snapped the secured rib in two and thrust it into his tissue. “FUCK! YOU!”—and one at a time, the same profane phrase with every act of hate, she snapped his ribs down, breaking them clean off.

  His jaw unhitched itself, the blood forcing its way out and flooding his neck in thick, painful waves. She would yank her stained hand out of his gut and then slam it back down again and again, over and over, sometimes with a fistful of flesh and other times with a knife of bone.

  But she never coughed. She never blinked, even with blood hitting her face. She only laughed and smiled, stabbing and tearing apart the body stroke after stroke until her muscles began to tremor—but by then, the only thing that kept the soldier’s insides from spilling out was the metal coffin he had been murdered in.

  Upon realizing the man was dead, her chuckles died away—a whimper took its place, almost upset that her fun had ended so soon. Covered in blood, she reluctantly rose, looking back at the spared soldier.

  Many brutal killings had left him speechless, but this made him silent despite his shattered bones; not even tears ran, settling where they were in hopes that the queen could not see him.

  She snorted, spitting a glob of foreign blood back into the cavity of its original owner. “You know, I do feel a tad of sympathy for you, but just a tad. You’re still a good-for-nothing menace to my success.”

  He wanted to say something. He wanted to resume screaming, to yell at her, but he couldn’t do it. She was so calm in spite of the murder, having snapped from insane to mundane with the flick of a switch. Speaking… Was that the best decision?

  He couldn’t resist despite the danger. “You’re… Time…”

  “Pinion of Time,” she corrected with a wink. “Time is my bitch, just like you.” Ignoring the crippled minor, she glided over the floor and toward her open doors. She stopped before the busted hinges that loosely held the multicolored glass panes. A lone finger stroked the slick surface, a streak of dark blood coloring the selected panels as she took slow, deep breaths.

  The soldier continued to cower in the background, watching the sadistic queen. He needed to do something, he needed to. But his leg and arms were beyond functioning.

  Taking a deep breath, he reached for the cuff on his wrist with his nose. He had to alert the others before it was too late.

  “Oh, my babies… I’m so sorry.” Pinion spread her arms wide, closing the unstable doors and hugging their injured selves. “I’m so sorry… To have done what I did. Please… Do not forgive me, but at least tolerate me… Accept this altered form… Fight back with me, and do what we were meant to do eight hundred years ago.”

  …Doors…? the child thought, straining his neck toward his cuff as he watched the ruthless opponent rub her fingers back and forth across the glass, trying to comfort the inanimate objects. She isn’t only dangerous, but she’s delusional… Schizophrenic or something. Treating toys as people and people as toys. How—?

  “Lovely last analysis.”

  The child inhaled sharply. His nose never found the alarm before a spinning sword of glass found his throat.

  Pinion had not moved, but the doors had, as did the sloppily severed head that flew off the boy’s spine and toppled onto the floor.

  Pinion scoffed, marching over to the decapitated child to retrieve her weapon. The hinges where the doors once hung were bare—in fact, the doors were no more; instead, Pinion now wielded two wide, magically enhanced, stained glass swords. One edge was a thick strip of metal that once attached itself to the scars on Pinion’s back, and connected to it was a multitude of jagged, semi-intact glass feath
ers. They rippled with fine particles of light straight from a prism, but the edges of their reaches were spoiled, contaminated with the same green corruption that claimed Pinion centuries ago.

  Her chucked sword had settled a short distance from her fresh trophy. With a grunt of satisfaction, she picked up her weaponized wing, raising a brow to the child’s horrified face that remained fixed on his assailant. “Schizophrenic is not the word to describe my character. Perhaps we, the ‘delusional,’ are actually the enlightened.”

  She stared at his lost head for a moment more, almost wanting an answer, but of course, she got none.

  She sighed, quickly scanning her decimated room. Nothing was worth salvaging. There was nothing left that her heart longed for, nothing but those precious untouched vines and seedlings. She couldn’t risk taking them without stealing their miraculous life in the process, but even here amongst the enemy… That brute bore them no harm.

  No, she reminded herself harshly. It’s not true. The Proxez care for none but themselves. What piece of code in their shit-brained heads thinks that I will fall for—?

  Pinion turned to the empty doorframe with an abrupt pause.

  She did not move, quieting her breathing and ignoring her pounding heart as the selected area of space claimed her attention. She stared at it so long that the surrounding environment began to fade and darken, slightly illuminating where her focus lay. Her body had never been so still, but her mind was frighteningly quick; she mapped out her base in her head, staring at the open doorway with shoulders slowly hunching and hackles rising.

  A sprint broke her body before he had the chance, shooting her toward the open corridor as a pair of red eyes met her head-on. She did not scream or call out—not even attack. Only a steaming huff left her nostrils, her crystallized swords pulled in as she tore forward head-down.

  “WIMP!” The red from Typo’s eyes exploded, temporarily revealing his ghostly self in the form of a bloody silhouette. His arms shot above his head, a ball of shadows immediately coming to.

  “LIKEWISE!” A river of blue flushed her out, shooting from the roots of her hair to her feet. His eyes frightfully expanded as Pinion raced through his vaporous body, but she never raised her weapons—not even her head. She shoved both her anger and thirst for blood down into the pit of her chest, never looking back as her mystical body flew through the stone tunnels.

  No one besides Typo saw her as she bolted through the dark halls. The tunnels that she had made her home for years were no longer under her name—nothing was. She only stayed behind because she was compelled to: she wanted to see exactly what they were finding so that she could know how to counter them; she sought to study their weaknesses firsthand so that she could exploit them.

  …But what was most important to her fickle soul was just the sentimental value of this place… Sure, getting the upper hand was of the utmost importance, but she needed to say goodbye to the scarce pieces of her life that she held dear, and she did that for nobody but herself. She only hoped that her judgment call would come out to be the wiser decision in the end… And Typo on her tail, tearing after her through the night and roaring like an animal definitely made her question her choice.

  But she didn’t have time to fight—she was caught and needed to go.

  A flood of light from fractured white tiles came over her as she entered the center of the base. Her enemy was all about, but even so, she ground her teeth into her bottom lip, stealthily dashing in and out of all available space while keeping her large swords to her chest. They will have done away with the trackers, she surmised quickly. I need to clear the base another way, and fast.

  “GET HER, YOU IDIOTS!” Typo screamed, his black boots obliterating the tiles as he pushed his ghastly body to the limit. “GET THE QUEEN!”

  To the Haxors, Typo was chasing air. Awkward glances were exchanged between them; Pinion even saw one subtlety twirl the air beside his temple. She could take that psychopathic moron one-on-one no problem, but she knew it wouldn’t be a duel—it never was. He was dirty, just like his master, and he would pull whatever strings necessary to destroy her.

  Numbing, petrifying pain tore into her hip, throwing Pinion into the rubble and sending her skidding. She whipped out her arms in surprise, trying to stop herself with her wings—trying to dismiss her cramping, convulsing side—but all in vain. A wall collided with her spine and ended her travels, leaving her out of breath and stamina. She raised her head in a daze, putting her fervent coughs and throbbing circulatory system on a different channel at the sight of Typo and his Elites, who stalked forward in a deadly arc.

  Stupid… Pixie dust Elites… she cursed silently, picking herself up with her wings. Her bare feet weakly slid into position, her blades crossing protectively before her. Her nausea caused her invisibility to falter, and like a ghost, she came to their eyes, appearing right before those who could not see her prior.

  The Haxors hustled forward to back up their superiors, guns raised and crackling with instant, unjustified anger. Still, the rate at which they advanced was slower than usual, uncertain what to expect from such an infamous threat.

  “We’ve squared off once too often,” Typo noted dryly. He stopped at the head of his ranks and threw his hand up beside his face, halting his men. “Time to change this pattern.”

  Pinion smiled, licking her bloody lips and running her tongue over her teeth to tint them red. “I wouldn’t call this a pattern—more like a series of unfortunate events.”

  Typo returned her smirk, smugly glancing at her battered hip. Her dress bore two large, bloody gashes; feeble webs of ice traveled out of the open wound and up her pure skin, cracking it. “A series for you, obviously.”

  “Heh, possibly, but from those overpowered Elites—not you. Your age is finally catching up with you.”

  A single eye twitched irritably. “Oh, but does it matter who draws your blood?” Typo resumed walking forward with his army in tow. Pinion slightly drew back, almost forcing her eyes in separate directions to keep watch on every enemy present. He paused a handful of strides away from her, halting his soldiers again. “Pinion, do me a favor and listen, would you?”

  The audacity of his proposition shoved her irises back together. “Listen? To what?”

  “Me, for once—us.” He removed his fedora, respectfully placing it over his breast while the aura within his dastardly eyes dimmed. “Please, stop fighting. Even with your ignorant-self having rejected every meeting, there is no way you do not yet understand that Gannon envisions a second utopia. We fight you because you resist his wishes; we kill only those who will not submit. If you will push aside emotions and rely on rationale, using your strength to restore this world instead of harm it further, we will make a ceasefire right here, right now.”

  What a crock of shit… Gritting her teeth, she lifted both swords, aiming them at the toxic demon. “In layman’s terms, you’re asking us to surrender.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “And I’ll be honest, not all of your soldiers could be kept alive—not many at all—but at least some instead of none. Humans broke this world, and the more you fight, the harder you are making it to mend. We won’t harm those who we do not need to, and we would never destroy such innocent nature. It was a mistake of past Reveres, and Gannon has all intents to fix it—to fix it all. Stop resisting and let it happen.”

  The angel scoffed. “I don’t think you could sound more ridiculous if you tried… Every time you attempt to bargain with me, your claims only become more and more ludicrous. And this. You’ve all really outdone yourselves.”

  Typo’s boiling fist clamped down on his fedora, the queen pushing his cordiality closer to the edge. “Humans are the sin of this world! You, as an angel, me as a demon, we both see it! But even so, they are still a beautiful species that just happen to be bent on following the heart instead of the brain… If we could just fix that one quirk—if you would just let us—!”

  “Shut. Up. I will never listen to someone as cold and
bloodthirsty as you, no matter the reasoning.”

  “And you are any different? Death is part of the circle! You kill us for your own gains—and in desperate times, when you can’t snag a piece from us, don’t think we don’t know that you cannibalize those on the surface too! You kill to live—we all do!”

  “I do because I have no choice! But I’m not the one who made us resort to such barbarity, now am I?!”

  Typo’s eyes flattened. He resituated his hat where it rightfully belonged. “You act as though you’re above all sin—you, a fallen angel, of all things, who did so of her own free will.” He raised his hand, readying his soldiers. “You’re no leader if you lie to your own comrades and shield them from the truth. I suggest that you reconsider your ways; otherwise, it won’t be us who bring you down.”

  “I have no need to tread with caution,” she reminded him, smirking despite the circumstances. “I am protecting my soldiers from the lies that Gannon used to fill all your heads. It doesn’t matter how tightly you pin me—how close anyone comes. I will always squirm away.” Gracefully, she touched the sky with her long arms, twisting her lustrous blades so that their flat faces stared off the soldiers. “Like so.”

  Her swords angrily fanned out, returning to treacherous wings as she shoved them forward, releasing a long, wide crescent of green, destructive light. Many didn’t even have time to hit the ground before they were taken apart; most were launched back by the slabs of meat that used to be their comrades, but a scarce few on the front-lines avoided her attack, charging once the strike had passed beyond their reach.

  A laugh was her only response. Closing her eyes and succumbing to transparency once more, she gracefully fell back toward the wall as a phantom.

  Typo dove toward her as a cloud of black before she could cleanly pass through, snatching Pinion by her injured waist. His claws sank into her exposed flesh, drawing more blood as he half-dragged her out of the stone.

  Pinion’s heels filled with a potent green aura; Typo’s hold only remained a heartbeat more before he was launched back by a beam of green light that created a gaping rift in his dastardly chest. Ignoring the spreading pain, Pinion kicked her legs over her head, somersaulting into the wall.