TITAN Truism
KNOW THIS;
FOR OUR SPECIES TO FLOURISH
THE INTELLIGENT MUST TAKE OVER
SOCRATES
KNOW THIS;
FOR OUR SPECIES TO FLOURISH
THE INTELLIGENT MUST TAKE OVER
SOCRATES
It was a dark and bitter night on the south west coast of Devon. The Atlantic Ocean and English Channel were coming to blows. The sound of cresting waves crashing along its shale beaches pounded the atmosphere and deafened the ear. Stood waiting in anticipation, just inside the edge of the wood, a predator observed the young woman running for her life. She ran breathlessly along the cliff edge, less than a hundred feet away. The eyes from the wood narrowed, as they observed how the weather-beaten bracken tore at the fabric of her jeans; she was heading towards the ruins of the old Abbey, just as he’d predicted. As his orchestration for her death played out, he saw the poetry of it. He quickly bridled his euphoria as it rose, threatening an impulse. He concentrated on his timing. His instructions were for a simple retrieval, a complete waste of his talent, and insulting. He bit down hard on his knuckle to prevent a grin; she was so edibly naive, he couldn’t help himself.
The runner was in her teens, her long black hair streaming behind her. She was short, five feet and two inches, one hundred and ten pounds, he gauged. The outline of her slender contours became evident, as moonlight shone from behind an ink-black cloud. Her white T-shirt, now sodden with sweat, stuck to her torso. Her face was almost indistinguishable, apart from the white of her bared teeth as her mouth gaped open, drawing rapid breaths to sustain her pace.
Donata couldn’t scream, cry or think; she was running purely on animal instinct. Her pulse was pumping so hard in her head, it felt ready to explode. The streaming tears coursing across her face were not from crying, but from the harsh winter wind blowing up from the cliff face and hitting her full on. What little make-up remained lay streaked under her eyes. Her broken and cracked nails were now packed with dirt from clawing herself up, having fallen on the hard earth.
The few remnants of the ancient limestone abbey were nicknamed Dragonsmark because of the deep groves running along its walls, as if the talons of such a beast had floundered there long ago. The ruins now stood impassively defiant against the onslaught of the punishing coastal elements. Two stunted trees had found the only solace within its walls and had grown beaten and crippled from the salt spray blasted ever upward by the waves below.
Reaching the outer walls, the girl’s ragged gasps were drowned out by the pounding of her heart. Her fingertips tore at any crags to gain a hold. She needed to scream, she needed to cry, she wanted to be anywhere but here and now. Her eyes wide with terror, her body racked with fatigue, she reached around a curve, using it to hoist herself inside. Slamming her back against the cold wet stone, she scraped her shaking hands along the inside, desperately clawing for any cavity in which to crumple her spent body. She was deaf to her harsh and laboured breaths. The heavens opened and swollen raindrops pelted down, coursing across the top of her hands, soaking her hair and clothes. Oblivious to the thick strands of hair stuck to her face and obscuring her vision, she clung to her only ally, the cold wet stone, as she stared wildly about her. With no roof, and only three of the original abbey walls remaining, it was impossible to hide. Looking up, she saw the weathered features of a winged grotesque, its mouth open and leering at her. The rain had begun to subside when she heard the first footstep. Close to blacking out, she stilled as a shard of moonlight lit the last drops of rain. She felt, rather than saw, the blow that would kill her. At once her soul flooded with sadness, then anger, that her life was to be torn from her so violently. She heard her name softly whispered, as if trying to attract her attention.
“Donata.”
Relief smothered her fear, as time slowed its caress. She couldn’t look, but felt death’s merciful embrace at her side, ready to swoop. She inhaled sharply, summoning God to lift her from this consecrated ground. Digging into her jeans pocket, she pulled out a torn piece of parchment, holding it out in her open palm, in a final act of beseechment. Time rushed back, a peripheral movement of shadow fell swiftly towards the side of her head. She gasped her last word.
“Papa.”
Black wings furled around her and she felt no more. Her lifeless eyes stared up, her mouth left open.
They never looked as good in life as they did in death, he concluded. Tipping his head to one side, he lifted his right leg, carefully placing his brown leather brogue upon her chest. Adjusting his heel slightly, he dug it in, until it met the resistance of her breast bone. Simultaneously, shifting his weight, his lips thinned as he stood up, bearing all his weight on the one foot. He pushed down with force, resulting in a resounding crack, as his foot sank into her chest, expelling the remaining air and causing her vocal chords to emit a posthumous groan. Satisfied, he stepped back down. He wiped the blood from the edge of his shoe across her hair, before reaching down to remove the parchment from her hand.
The runner was in her teens, her long black hair streaming behind her. She was short, five feet and two inches, one hundred and ten pounds, he gauged. The outline of her slender contours became evident, as moonlight shone from behind an ink-black cloud. Her white T-shirt, now sodden with sweat, stuck to her torso. Her face was almost indistinguishable, apart from the white of her bared teeth as her mouth gaped open, drawing rapid breaths to sustain her pace.
Donata couldn’t scream, cry or think; she was running purely on animal instinct. Her pulse was pumping so hard in her head, it felt ready to explode. The streaming tears coursing across her face were not from crying, but from the harsh winter wind blowing up from the cliff face and hitting her full on. What little make-up remained lay streaked under her eyes. Her broken and cracked nails were now packed with dirt from clawing herself up, having fallen on the hard earth.
The few remnants of the ancient limestone abbey were nicknamed Dragonsmark because of the deep groves running along its walls, as if the talons of such a beast had floundered there long ago. The ruins now stood impassively defiant against the onslaught of the punishing coastal elements. Two stunted trees had found the only solace within its walls and had grown beaten and crippled from the salt spray blasted ever upward by the waves below.
Reaching the outer walls, the girl’s ragged gasps were drowned out by the pounding of her heart. Her fingertips tore at any crags to gain a hold. She needed to scream, she needed to cry, she wanted to be anywhere but here and now. Her eyes wide with terror, her body racked with fatigue, she reached around a curve, using it to hoist herself inside. Slamming her back against the cold wet stone, she scraped her shaking hands along the inside, desperately clawing for any cavity in which to crumple her spent body. She was deaf to her harsh and laboured breaths. The heavens opened and swollen raindrops pelted down, coursing across the top of her hands, soaking her hair and clothes. Oblivious to the thick strands of hair stuck to her face and obscuring her vision, she clung to her only ally, the cold wet stone, as she stared wildly about her. With no roof, and only three of the original abbey walls remaining, it was impossible to hide. Looking up, she saw the weathered features of a winged grotesque, its mouth open and leering at her. The rain had begun to subside when she heard the first footstep. Close to blacking out, she stilled as a shard of moonlight lit the last drops of rain. She felt, rather than saw, the blow that would kill her. At once her soul flooded with sadness, then anger, that her life was to be torn from her so violently. She heard her name softly whispered, as if trying to attract her attention.
“Donata.”
Relief smothered her fear, as time slowed its caress. She couldn’t look, but felt death’s merciful embrace at her side, ready to swoop. She inhaled sharply, summoning God to lift her from this consecrated ground. Digging into her jeans pocket, she pulled out a torn piece of parchment, holding it out in her open palm, in a final act of beseechment. Time rushed back, a peripheral movement of shadow fell swiftly towards the side of her head. She gasped her last word.
“Papa.”
Black wings furled around her and she felt no more. Her lifeless eyes stared up, her mouth left open.
They never looked as good in life as they did in death, he concluded. Tipping his head to one side, he lifted his right leg, carefully placing his brown leather brogue upon her chest. Adjusting his heel slightly, he dug it in, until it met the resistance of her breast bone. Simultaneously, shifting his weight, his lips thinned as he stood up, bearing all his weight on the one foot. He pushed down with force, resulting in a resounding crack, as his foot sank into her chest, expelling the remaining air and causing her vocal chords to emit a posthumous groan. Satisfied, he stepped back down. He wiped the blood from the edge of his shoe across her hair, before reaching down to remove the parchment from her hand.
