P O V

Footage of a cold interrogation room spins with the sound of the reel.  

Steel and welded table, chair bolted, subject chained in the chair.  Overlain and embedded at the top a sound readout of her responses, at the bottom the representation of a lie detector test.

The familiar lines pass across, closeup of her retina next to the audio.  Clearly historical to these tales, but it could be today or tomorrow to us now though advanced.

'MAJ Project Arsinoe'

destroy after view

Another Geneva - Smiles leaning back in the metal chair, "So let's talk about your childhood then."

Subject - "You're kidding.  ...  You're not.  Hey.  The thing is about being immortal is that you forget things.  You have to.  The mind can only store so much memory, and that's one lifetime.

"You have to forget.  Or you will go insane.  We see what happens to those who don't let go.  The sentimental ones.  The ones who hold on to things.  Like childhoods.

 

"So you learn to forget and after a while, you choose what to forget.  Because you can.  So who you are today ... tomorrow ... eventually ... you're going to choose to forget all that, when you decide what you wanna be the day after.

"The mind cannot handle what you are, unless what you are, accepts what the mind, is.  So I can tell you what I've been told.  I can tell you what I tell other people. 

"But since we're telling the truth now, all I can say is that if I chose to forget my childhood there must have been a good reason.  And I trust myself enough to know that it was wise."

~ The Boy ~

A view overseeing Jupiter's shrinking eye and passing along the planets fast and far out to Nibiru, 'Planet X'.  A hypothetical body conspiracies and terrible films alike latched on to, even a couple of good ones.

Came up in Godzilla.  A picture and tone, but if even noticed a few stars behind are blotted and back with the passing of an unseen ship ~

The bones of a dragon with a great tail wrapped around to form a structure with a mist kept close to hide all else.  Approaching closer the tips of that bone become more apparent.

This is Uraeus, slain by Cronus while his army settled it's flesh devouring for generations, building and growing, harvesting rare chemical and mineral to be sold across the galaxy, it became an opulent outpost to hold our system.

Until cleaned to the bone and a hungry people no longer satiated.

Cron then killed by Zeu in times desperate for resource, himself killed by Athena, leaving the keeper of the ship now departing Nibiru's surrounding mist used to hide the docking ring of a tail wrapped round, Apollo.

Killed twice in two timelines, but it's all different now after Arsinoe.  The Pivotal Western, called instead Mishil in A Book of Names, but Bulfinch may have more to say.

 

These ships are the harvested eggs of a greater beast, to which Uraeus is but a whelp.  Cleaned and repurposed for hull, this one above battered in time and left adrift.

Those piloting Apollo's more decorous version are tall with sinewy form, skin wrapped tight around muscle over bone, separating at the upper arms and decorated with hanging ringlets.

Broad eyes set into a head with a heavy aft and thick bones down the back as if born for betrayal.  One could compare them to greys but far more athletic, more natural, as Apollo stalks the bridge with head swaying as if for prey.

Ancient to an ancient people but still young, he has conquered no notable worlds and it is time.  The crew is much younger, their arms barely parted celebrated with a first ring like a thin mustache a boy can barely grow, but does so proudly nonetheless.

He cares for none of them, but each would lay down their life for him and each knows they likely will.  Apollo knows this too, and it pleases him every time he looks down of them.

Blood in the Water

He exits the bridge he entertains the decorous humans.  Business and ass-kissery, he plods through their number.  These humans are not like the ones seen even in these tales, their flesh like ours but wrapped in some cultural strangeness.

It could be said these humans pay homage to these 'gods', but in truth it's opportunity they see.  He walks the carpet to their false smiles head on the neck flowing from one to the other for analysis, he reads them like a computer, a broad hairless brow furrowed over deep black eyes.

A skull which clearly came from a species once brutal, made to be hit and hit hard but with its emotions hang honestly from it like a threat, rare to see one smile.

These human have learned to look him in the eye, not to hide them in their fear as they bow to his scan with an involuntary response to his psychic intrusion to know their intent. 

Some grin a secret between them, merchants nodded back judged well in the purity of their greed, others with something he wants, a high headed look.  Some among them even seem resistant to his looking into their souls.

While most are passed over by this predator in his element, who if stripped down of all trappings would be fit in any wood or jungle without a step, feasting on creatures as the ones before him who call themselves evolved.

One must say of these humans, they are brave to do business here, in full knowledge one of them will be eaten to satiate the trip.  A confidence in reason, in being there at all, because all do know it will only be someone useless.

When in the crowd he catches an eye, that meal is decided.  Perhaps a smile, the room parts.  He takes her by the throat and drags her screaming as the music fades to the end of the arduous walk, he seats himself on his traveling throne and pulls her to his lap.

They watch in excitement, her flailing to flee, her begging to be free as he sinks his teeth in.  Into her fading eyes poisoned as by a snake, he stares.  Yes.  I think it was a smile.

...

Apollo - "Continue."

The music and spinning dancers resume as he begins a screaming feast, fingering and tearing convulsions bring forth her desired chemistry to season the meat.  What she feels and what she does not is unclear, but it's certainly clear that she does feel something.

Voiced over as he feasts, Mary - (From F M K function 3) "What happened to the little boy ?"

The Boy walks from the Midwich Asylum burning, untouched as the slow coming explosions behind overtake him.