Via Activa

Posted: March 15th, 2022 | Author: | Filed under: Next Generation | Tags: , , , , , , , | Comments Off on Via Activa

I

Soon he would be back. Tristan’s friends, a face-painted Balobian and a Drecc in baggy pants, wait at the end of the block. The brutalist building where their friend lived made them feel uncomfortable. As if the ancient darkness they claimed to presence were a real, tangible thing and not just the symbol of wonder and contemplation that defined their relation to the world. A black van swerves into the street and parks right outside the entrance to the community housing project where Tristan has entered. The two onlookers observe without uttering a word.

Proceeding across the gate and down the corridor to the right, the suspicious party had just disappeared into the interior of the facility armed with mp-5s, faces masked behind black balaclavas. No message of warning came from his allies to Tristan. The Drecc played nervously with the folding knife in his pocket. “I should have gotten that beretta, those guys looked fuckin’ cool, man.” The Balobian turns to face him squarely, saying, “We must have faith. Let’s sing our song of contemplative devotion.” He pulls out a quartz crystal he always carried with him for similar occasions, and they become one with the world in a process of wonder that distracts them from the hell that awaits Tristan.

He looks on with milky eyes and pathetic sexual longing upon the lithe limbs and figures of active youth in all their sublime glory all the while his allies in the sinister quest awaited him outside. Even though he professes faith towards an ancient wonder through an equally ancient mode of contemplation, Tristan had never quite stopped obsessing over Hentai animation. Massive Heidegger and Arendt tomes lay open, their pages dog-eared and uncted by the slimy overflow of the frequent sessions in which he administered self-love to a doughy body that the opposite sex found repugnant even in its most flattering revelations. The door bursts open, his hand still on his semi-erect member. He screams and tries to run away, his pants sliding down to his ankles. Landing on his face, his fall is accentuated by the sound of exiting flatulence. “STOP, WORM!”, cries the woman in black, her raucous voice cutting through the air like a tactical knife that slices the throat of the failed sinister adherent. She is a masked woman of all-natural large round breasts and surprisingly lean muscular arms. Her voice cuts through the air, seeding the deepest fear into the lore-savvy Niner.

Tristan complies immediately, his body frozen in an evasive maneuver of sorts, never having trained or otherwise prepared himself for a situation of real-life confrontation. From the via contemplativa he had favored, he could purloin no tactic or technique to have trained and to use in the face of decisive action. The woman in black delivers a swift kick with her booted feet to Tristan’s chin. “PREPARE HIM.” She orders, and the two power-lifting women at her sides swiftly strip a crying and already mentally violated Tristam of his soiled clothes. One of the men in balaclavas remains by the door. The other moves the mp-5 to the side and takes out a sturdy black rope.  No measure of faith or wonder could have prepared him for the world, the via activa curb-stomping him like this.

He would remain in this position for quite some time until his formal processing began. Tristan recognized the particular form of treatment now administered to him as inspired by the art of Japanese bondage. His limbs are out of the way and his body is suspended at an appropriate height, and his hind parts are exposed and expanded to maximize convenience in handling. “Who are you and what have I done to you?” he asks, his anus contracting rhythmically as if already expecting what was to come. His inquisitive appellation is answered by a punch to the mouth that fills his digestive tract with iron-flavored blood. The silent male guardian tightens the ropes and stills Tristan the rocking motion induced by the punitive blow.

She would have to show him a thing or two before the re-eduction session is over. The assistants bring in a minimalist black case containing the instrument through which the magistral process of sinister inducement shall take place. It is a lean, metallic cane, designed specifically for this purpose. SWISH, SWISH, SWISH. The Mistress demonstrates her terrifying power as her formidable movements cut through the air. “I AM MISTRESS MARIANA, AND I AM HERE TO FORGE YOU ANEW INTO A SWORD OF DEATH.”

II

Somewhere, a cockerel began to crow, the unknowing herald of a bloody dawn. Hours passed, and Tristan is reawakened for the dozenth time by way of chemical stimulation. His ruined behind and bloodied genitals beyond pain and sensation from the criss-cross offensive delivered by Mistress Mariana.

A flash of purplish light could be seen shining from the face of a demoness. “ARE YOU READY TO TAKE ACTION?”, she finally asks. “WILL YOU COMPLY?”

What would go on behind those closed doors? Tritan’s allies could only speculate. They had heard the cries of despair after coming back with cups of coffee and cookies to satiate their sinister appetite. They were entranced. They could not leave and betray their friend and ally, but at the same time, uploading amateur music to Bandcamp and selling dope had in no way been training for this situation. Something else they were not aware of also held them in place. The dark grasp of an ectoplasmic claw that extended at the end of a filament originating in the mind of the Mistress envelopes them and lulls them into the sleep of prey.

The officer says: ‘Bend him over the bed, so I can see what exactly this little pet is made of.’ The lean, semi-emaciated, but ridiculously strong female acolytes move Tristan into position as the balaclava-clad man proceeds to take out his throbbing member in order to deliver a lesson that promises to penetrate deeper into the Niner. Tristan has an attack of hysteria, defecating profusely once more. His assailants laugh, wondering where all this is coming from considering the quantity of effluvia already having exited from this contemplative one.

He was intimating but not telling and even so, he may have already said too much. Nevertheless, Tristan tries to reason with them by scavenging his intellectual studies to their utmost potency. “In my fallible opinion —” His own screams interrupt this empty soliloquy as his sphincters give way to this assault on his sanity, and the solid rod of meat finds its way deep into his bowels. The cultists hold him, and the rhythmic reinforcement following the compass of the thrusts begins: VIA ACTIVA, VIA ACTIVA, VIA ACTIVA. On and on to the end of the dark night of his soul.

With the hands of the genuine cultists still upon him, touching, caressing, sweetly soothing in emotional bonding and with the arcane, tonal qualities of the soft music played by others of their number in the air, praises to their goddess, Tristan finds himself drifting into a deep, deep slumber.

III

The beating lasted longer than she had premeditated. And the ritual violation that was administered as a last resort as per protocol had somewhat delayed their schedule. The team exits the facility with tactical efficiency, the engine of the black van is on before they reach it, but the Mistress and the female acolytes remain outside. The shock troops, the guardians, quickly move in and close the door of the van.

Mariana looks up at the sky, and extends her arms towards Tristan’s friends as the acolytes walk quickly towards them, showing impossible white legs under the sway of their robes. A mental prison rises around them, they are pulled by the power beyond the Moon, beyond Jupiter as they understand it. Still they salivate, and the van has come to a stop behind them. Adherents in balaclavas jump out of the nondescript vehicle, and by the time the Drecc and the Balobian are aware enough to turn their heads around, the butts of the mp-5s are already in full motion toward their skulls.

A pale moon shone above, pale and ghostly. The Mistress observes as the robed acolytes castrate the two individuals and placing the severed genitals in a portable brazier quickly produced from the van and its fire adeptly started. The shirts of the sacrificial victims are taken off and upon their flesh are carved a series of horrific sigils unknown in ONA circles, never written down in books, unexisting in digital representation, and transmitted only during live operations that were veritable ordeals of strength and commitment.

Screams erupt from the mouths of the Drecc and the Balobian. To bring to an end the swift yet intense ceremony, the still conscious yet highly traumatized victims of the contemplative way are dragged to the corner on the sidewalk. Their heads are methodically and without delay placed on the curb. The Mistress smiles, and upon a signal from her hand, the two female acolytes emit a steady screech that places the brains of the vaguely conscious awareness of the two victims into a predetermined frequency, and the boots of the armed men come down hard on their skulls, spreading grey matter, blood and bone in a mathematical projection over the concrete.

Tristan began to cackle involuntarily as he felt the dark effluvion entering his body even as it exited the maltreated cadavers where the raw energy had been wasted. An ancient evil possessed him in that moment. Tristan was no longer that pathetic husk pouring over the dusty tomes of vacuous minds intent on finding solace for their inadequacy-in-the-world. “FEED, MY CHILD. FEED AND BE REBORN”

The future manifestation, the culmination of a monstrous transformation, one that would see Tristan shed the emasculating chains of vain scholarship in favor of putting boots on the ground to carry out definitive action. His relation to the world changed. His faith was no more. There was only the nuclear goddess that now held his soul in a vice-grip so cold his anxiety, his weakness, his confusion, his need for contemplation, faith, and wonder decidedly extinguished. Now, a muscular beast prowled the world, reaching the highest peaks of attainment with single-minded enthusiasm and devotion for the single-point of darkness beyond all words. Only the way of action can lead him to the top, to the culmination of all he can be. In his cleansed mind, one message remains: VIA ACTIVA! VIA ACTIVA! VIA ACTIVA!

 

Clarice

Nexion of Ur

Patagonia

In a coded show of allegiance.