The Scoop of the Century - Chapter 4

This is your true home.

For a moment, you shiver before the Light inside you brings its warmth. There is Darkness as well, of course, but it is tempered by the amulet tucked inside your blouse above your breast. Both forces are very powerful, but Light is often fleeting, while Darkness slowly consumes. So you locked it in an amulet of your creation, so that the Light could flourish inside. The Light creates energy and life. The Darkness is destructive but eternal. You have mastered these forces long ago and, using both, have created so much.

You stretch; your immense body enjoying the freedom. The infinite cosmos is the only place you can comfortably exist. It is a vast garden full of unending possibility for creation and you see the fruits of eons of your labor all around you. Many galaxies, patches of rich soil, are visible, each teeming with energy and life. Like any garden, things often grow on their own accord, independent of any input from you. But you are the gardener, and you know how to manipulate the soil to make something new appear.  Some of these patches have been meticulously tended by your hand to grow delectable fruits that wield immense power. The harvest from these specific gardens sate your hunger and thirst. And, of course, it is beautiful. No matter how many times you've witnessed it, the immeasurable sprawl of infinity never ceases to amaze even you; inspiring awe and humility.

And loneliness, of course.

That is the curse. So much good work, so many patches of soil vibrant with life birthed from your hand, and yet you remain adrift...alone. You've observed your children from afar, watching them stumble through worlds they can't even begin to understand. Their lives are so fragile and so fleeting, like weak little stars. Their light flickers in the darkness for a brief moment before winking out of existence, never to be seen again. There is suffering too. So much that sometimes you wonder if it was an act of unspeakable cruelty to birth them at all. But then you feel their joy and hope, and you try to believe that life is a treasure worth enduring suffering for. A part of you envies the brevity of their existence. Life is cruel and you have suffered for a long time.

Alone.

For eons, you watched lives come and go from a distance, across many universes of the infinite space. Many of your children simply die out, either from the cruelty of nature or their own cruelty. Avakon was the worst: a planet brought to its knees when its people waged great wars, butchering millions of their own. It was only when a handful of them were left, not even twenty, that the madness finally subsided. The remaining few looked upon each other with lost eyes, choking on the air that had been poisoned from countless bombs, and began to weep for their souls and ruined world. The sound was heart wrenching and you couldn't bear it. You reached out a hand and enclosed the dying, smoke covered planet in a fist, Light pouring out from between your fingers. This was not something you were supposed to do. Your hand was too heavy to meddle with the tiny, fragile life you created without smashing it to pieces. But a heavy hand was needed and the poor souls would be lost regardless. And so you chose to act.

When you opened your hand, the planet's sky was clear, the oceans brilliant blue, the lands lush and green. Cupping your hands around the large planet, you examined your own work with awe. You had simply acted, with hardly any thought of what exactly you were going to do. But now the planet's soul had been healed, and it filled you with immense relief. Your eyes met those of your children, who stared up at you with dazed, confused awe of their own. Your Light had changed them, you saw that immediately. Their eyes shone like yours did and you heard their voices clearly in your mind. They weren't frightened, they were beyond that. The end of time had been upon them mere moments before. But for the first time in your long existence, you were spoken to.

You tried to respond. Though the Light had strengthened them, they were only able to bear your voice in short intervals, and even then they struggled to understand your words. You shared some of your knowledge with them, what little you were able to impart. Then, you left them. It had already been risky acting in the first place, you didn't want any further opportunity to ruin the miracle you had managed. But also, you knew it was the right thing to do. You had restored their garden and it was now up to them to tend to it. The choice would be meaningless if you made it for them. But one voice cried out as you departed, pleading with you to stay. It was overcome with such shame and despair it almost made you return. But you steeled your resolve and left their universe.

But as they had been changed, so had you. A taste of companionship was now in your mouth, and you would not forget it. As the years passed, the loneliness ached more and more. You found that you were able to compress your form into a smaller one for a time. Once you had discovered this, hope had filled you and you visited a new planet. To your horror, you found that the smallest form you could manage was still far and away too massive. As quickly as you arrived, you fled, the terrified voices ringing in your mind.

It was after this disaster that you created the Valley, a separate reality to exist within where the sky is blue, the air is fresh, the streams run clear, and the soil is rich and fertile. A world of your own. However, even this haven is stifling, uncomfortable after a while. You could change this, make it bigger. But then it would be just another vast infinite space full of awe-inspiring beauty...where only you reside. Nonetheless, it was a boon. You now knew the feeling a fresh, real dirt and soil beneath your feet, the feeling of wind in your hair, the heat of the sun. You could study and learn the intricacies of worlds like this, the sciences that governed them. Science taught you discipline and precision, something your immense powers often struggled with. It was in the Valley where you learned to step without the earth giving in to your weight, to move gently without damage.

You would eventually visit other planets, but your arrival was always met with fear and rejection. Most would cower in your presence. Others would attempt to harm you. While they were incapable of doing so, some would muster a surprising amount of force that would sometimes stumble you. The resulting damage and chaos turned them further against you, their hatred seething in your mind, causing you to flee. Guilt and remorse would stay your visits for a time, but that was the curse of infinity. There was nothing but time, and the ache of loneliness always returned, tempting you to try again. All you desired was companionship. Were you not allowed that? Was it your destiny to create things of immeasurable beauty and then simply watch as they slowly faded away? A wealth of information flowed in your vast mind, but none of it shined light on your own purpose. Yes, you could create, but why? For what purpose? Even you didn't know. There was no one to ask, and the voices you encountered only raved for your destruction or your departure.

Until today. After a long time of travel, a voice had finally spoken directly to you. The Little Star on Earth. This had surprised you. How had such a Little Star managed such a clear voice? You didn't know. But you did know that they were, of course, not really a “Little Star” but rather one of your many children, one that you wanted to know more about.

You turned your head. In the distance was a spiraling plot of rich soil, which contained the planet called Earth, a yellowing little garden that, nonetheless, still had some green in it. You had smelt the decay while there. You focus your eyes, which can view across multiple universes, and now you see the Sol System where the pale blue dot resides. You focus on that dot and now you can see the city that had been at your feet when you arrived. The “star” is dim, but you manage to pick it out from the sea of others. You focus again and now you see a man being carried down a flight of stairs. A stream of blood pouring from his nose, his flesh pale. Your heart aches with guilt, but you sense the life in him and are relieved. His mind is open. You have wished to look inside the mind of one of your children for a long time. The knowledge within would paramount to your own understandings of them and how their senses work. But such an invasion would be lethal. And, whatever accidents you may have caused, your heart won't take the deliberate act of snuffing a light.

Your eyes focused, you now perk up your ears and listen...

…

“What the hell happened!?” Paul asks as Gerald and Lanard place an unconscious Chuck Stephens on a couch in the break room.

“I don't know.” Lanard replied, grabbing Chuck's wrist and feeling. There was a still a pulse and he could see Stephens's chest rise and fall. He was still alive. At least for now.

“Did he have a damned aneurysm?” Paul asks, his eyes darting.

“I don't know!” Lanard barks at him.

“We need to get him to a hospital!” The old man says, practically bouncing up and down in a way that makes Lanard already tired of him.

“He ain't going anywhere,” Gerald Briggins says. “You know the streets are still mostly blocked and I promise you any ambulance within five miles of here is already occupied.”

“We have to do something!” Paul Wallace says. “He could be dying as we speak!”

“I think Chuck just fainted,” Lanard replies, deliberately speaking slowly to keep him from snapping at Paul.

“Is Mr. Stephens going to be okay?” Jacob Rimsley's voice now spoke up. Lanard looked up and saw him standing in the doorway. He looked whiter than a ghost.

“I don't know,” Lanard answers, again speaking slowly. “But I do know that Gerald is right. Even if something bad happened to him, there's nothing we can do. Emergency services are likely overwhelmed as it is. But, I think he's just fainted. Let's clean him up, let him rest, and see if he wakes up.”

“And if he doesn't?” Paul asks timidly.

“We'll cross that bridge when we get to it,” Lanard replies. “...IF we get to it.”

…

In the dream, he's adrift.

To his sides are nothing but the vast expanse of nothingness that is outer space. Stars shine in the distance, but there is no more than that. But ahead, far in the distance, is her. He sees all of her exactly as he did when she first appeared: the sunhat, the white blouse, the leather pants, the boots...all of it. There's no mistaking who he is looking at.

But she's different. She's big. Much bigger. So big that the size she was on Earth would be smaller than a mite. Her hair flows behind her, a dazzling mane of silver energy that radiates through the darkness; her eyes shine with numerous colors swirling in her irises. He understands that this is who she really is. What he saw before was just a mask, a version that was perhaps easier to for his mind to swallow. But now, in the dream, freed from the shackles of reality, he was able to perceive her as she truly was.

He tries to say something but finds that he can't. The pain is still there and he is too weary to speak. Her expression changes, looking concerned. Then she nods. She opens her mouth...then closes it, hesitant. There is nothing that he can do now, he is physically paralyzed. But this is his dream, his mind, and so he calls out to her without his mouth, pleading for her to speak. She listens, hesitates again, then opens her mouth.

A swirl of images barrages his mind. He expects pain, and it does flare up, but it is not agony. This is not real, after all. He sees visions of places he has never seen, feelings he has never felt, memories that are not his, voices that he has never heard, even tastes that are completely foreign. All of this hits him in a fury of senses that are incoherent, despite his best efforts to listen and understand. The pain builds and it becomes blinding as even his dreaming mind reaches its limit. The foreign images and feelings disappear and he is adrift again but now he feels something pulling him down away from her. She looks at him with an agony that is all too human, her eyes burning with a frustration of being unable to speak. His mind claws at the force pulling him, resisting with new motivation.

Through the meaningless babble of visions and sensations, he was able to make out a single word. As he fights against whatever pulls him, he weakly repeats it:

Evanora.

Her eyes widen with surprise. Then, she smiles, raises a hand and places it on her chest. Her lips part and, instead of speaking, mouths another word.

Me.

Then, he is falling.

…

The throbbing pain in his head is the first thing he feels when he opens his eyes. If the overhead lamps had been on the light would have seared his eyes, but fortunately the building was still without power and the only light came from the setting sun. His head felt as if someone had bludgeoned him with a baseball bat and, when he reached up, he expected to feel blood, shards of broken skull, and his exposed brain. All he felt was skin, sweat, and hair; a good thing, he supposed. He tried to sit up but immediately his vision began to swirl and he collapsed back on his back, his head flaring up with pain as it landed. Even the pillow Lanard had placed under his head didn't do much to stop the pain.

“Chuck!” A voice called.

A figure came up to his side and he wearily looked up to see Lanard Glass kneeling next to him. Chuck tried to speak but all that came out was a slurred slush.

“Relax, relax.” Lanard said, putting a hand on Chuck's shoulder as if to prevent him from trying to get up. “Just relax, alright? You're okay.”

“He's alive!” Another voice rang out and then Paul Wallace appeared behind Lanard. He was quickly flanked by Gerald, Jacob, and a female intern whose name Chuck didn't know.

“Whars...?” Chuck slurred.

“You're in the breakroom,” Lanard said softly. “You passed out on the roof.”

“Ruff?”

“Yes, that's right. On the roof. You've been out for hours. Can you tell me how you're feeling?”

Chuck tried to sit up again to look Lanard in the eye, but the Senior Editor held him down. “Where's...?” He repeated, this time managing to say it more clearly.

“The breakroom,” Lanard repeated patiently. “Chuck, how are you feeling? How bad is your pain?”

“Where's...” Chuck said again. “...Evanora?”

Lanard Glass's froze, his expression dropped. “Who's Evanora, Chuck?” He asked with a calmness that surprised even himself.

“Whar us shee?” Chuck asked, his slur coming back despite his efforts.

“Is he talking about...!?” Paul Wallace asked, his eyes wide. He didn't, or perhaps couldn't, finish.

“Who's Evanora, Chuck?” Lanard asked again, gripping Stephens's shoulders. “Who is Evanora?”

Chuck Stephens weakly lifted a trembling hand. Slowly, the index finger slowly extended up and the arm lowered till it was pointing towards the window where the sunlight was slowly surrendering to moonlight.

“She's...” He says with great effort. “She's Evanora.”

His arm went limp and fell back to his side and he closed his eyes. And despite that it was several minutes before sleep took him again, not another word was uttered.