Imagination And A Monster Chapter One

This is Imagination and a Monster, an original fiction reader insert that was actually more of an experimental thing I was writing where I wanted to just word vomit and see if it went anywhere. I started working on this back in November 2019, so I'm still trying to see if it does go anywhere, lmao. It's a fun writing project as this is the first time I've ever truly pantsed any writing project of mine, especially an original one.

Beware: very, very pretentious.

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i. 

There are many things present when the universe is young. It is the beginning. In the presence of nothing, a handful of something already counts as many. 

There is chaos, which exists before anything and anyone else ever was. There is water and there is storm and there is power. There is the absence of entropy, the natural tendency to evolve and change, and then there is it. 

It is a singular creature, but it is not alone. It is a part of the many others like it, and like the many, it has no name, no specie, no identity. After all, it is still the beginning. 

In the beginning, the universe grows, and it learns to grow and it learns fast, and so stars burst into existence, dust and debris scatter across what was once nothing, colors splatter like bloodstains of a void that's not there anymore.

All the many that are there to see it marvel at it, bask in the awe of a universe they were born with and at the same time born into. They are young, at the moment, and they know nothing of what is around them. They are filled with naivete, as younglings usually are. 

So they talk among themselves as to what they are to do with everything that is now around them. It is vast, and it is wide, and it is so much. Most of them agree that they can search into every corner of it, if they wish to. There is an awful lot of everything, and they'll surely take a while to see everything. 

And so they do, and around them, the universe continues to grow.

They grow too, and soon, they are no longer as young as they had been. They witness the unfurling of nebulas, the baby steps of civilizations in the pockets of space debris and habitable circumstance. They learn, and they talk among themselves, and they agree and disagree on things. Such is the nature of growing up. 

The space debris around them grows life, like petri dishes left in laboratories, although the words mean nothing to them at the moment. They cultivate the smallest forms of it, changing overtime, chasing longevity and immortality; endlings of a universe having just begun. Maybe some of them are lucky. Maybe some of them are just strong. Not everything makes it, but some do. 

These some continue to learn how harsh this universe is, and so they chase whatever semblance of comfort they can get, on and on. They crawl out of seas, snatching power from the lightning and the air. They crawl onto the sand and find places to burrow themselves in. They learn about the heat of the sun, and the dryness of the earth, and the realization that for them to keep chasing their comfort and longevity, they have to snatch life from the heat, from the light, from the water - and much, much later, cut short the existence of other things. 

There is no such thing as mercy on the level of base survival, so they do not think twice about it. The universe is young. Empathy is yet to be born into it. 

And the many who are there to witness it observe, and nod and argue, and they wonder what these creatures, who have crawled out the ocean and are devouring those of the land, will do next. These creatures are not like them. They are too small, and too frail, and are only alive through sheer evolutionary spite. Perhaps it is that which makes them so fascinating to observe. 

These creatures live and strive for a little more time, and soon, they seem to make progress, last just a second longer than they used to, then another second longer than that, and on and on. They live, they persevere, and they devour. 

The many of the universe too, live and last. And some, a very few some, devour. 

The universe is ever-expanding, but the many forms of life inside of it are spreading faster than it can grow. They are desperate for the illusion of permanence their home has, and so they constantly reach for it, even if they can only live through time with their genes and their blood. They are terrified of fleetingness. They are terrified of death. Most dangerously, they too, are observing and learning, and are nodding and arguing. 

In order to be able to stave off death just a little longer, they say among themselves, The death of everything else is a small price to pay.

It is selfish, some of them say, Is it our place to say that, when we were given the same right and privilege of being born into this universe?

Yes, is the resounding answer, For we have crawled out of the seas and devoured those of the land and bent our spines to stand a little taller. We have burned our scales off to trade for skin. We have sullied our hands with dirt and blood. This and everything else, we shall do for the sake of our lives. 

Life is not a sin, the others say. But it is not confined to a certain form of it.

Then stand for your words, they say back, and so the land tastes the blood of the executed.

The many reel in what they have witnessed. 

The universe, as it has grown, knows life, and it knows death. It knows balance, and it knows survival, and it knows a fair exchange. But it does not know this yet.

“What shall this be called?” one of the many asks. 

They all think it over for a long, long while, until finally someone says, “Cruelty.”

“Cruelty,” the others echo, and they think the word fits. “It is cruelty, to slaughter needlessly.”

“But is it not right?” That singular thing born with the many asks. “Is it not correct that the price of everything else is small for the sake of continued living? They are fragile. They are fleeting. They slaughter among themselves anyway.”

“Life taken to further life is a cycle,” the many say. “It is how this universe keeps turning. With the death of nothing came something, and the death of something will come nothing. And later, much later, that nothing will die to birth something again.”

“And you would let it?”

“We cannot stop it,” they say. “We are the children of nothing’s death.”

“Well, I’m not a coward.”

“Are you not? So afraid to embrace your finite existence that you would rather trade another’s for it?”

“It isn’t cowardice,” it says, “It’s survival.”

“So you believe.”

The many leave it be to its musings, because perhaps it is still young in mind. Perhaps it has yet to catch up and to understand that the universe they were born into is built out of balance and order, of beginnings and endings that cannot be stopped by fear.

And that lone creature invents isolation, slinking away into the corners of existence to think and brood, to turn over the others’ words and gnash its teeth at it. It is not cowardice to defy fate, whatever it may be. Destiny, which is a word yet to be spoken into tangibility, is bullshit anyway. 

They’ll see, sooner or later, as the universe grows even older. It is inevitable that it does.

It expands like an eternally slow inhale, and everything in it thrives and falls as they invent war, invent progress, invent anything and everything that leads to creation and destruction in turn. Blood is spilled onto the mud, societies burned, civilizations turned into ash with only the dust left behind, in the spaces between stars, as evidence of their existence. And these stars explode. Planets collide. Entire histories write their parting remarks with a resigned breath. 

And it happens, over, and over, and over again. 

It’s fascinating, and it’s so much fun, to watch all of these creatures of life stumble over themselves from paranoia and fear that their lives will be cut short. It is riveting to watch that a simple planted whisper here could destroy entire armies, that a simple maliciously-placed ‘friendly’ suggestion could leave kingdoms barren, that all the single lone creature of the many has to do to let the purest instinct of nature to manifest is nudge, and everything else sets the entertainment for it. 

Life is wondrous, in that there are so many ways it can end, and in that everything that was born of it is so afraid of losing it. So much so that they will slaughter each other needlessly. Life is wondrous in that there is so much for the nameless thing to devour when nothing is left - all the sweet, sweet sounds of burning buildings, all the death and the fear that hangs in the air and poisons the land, the grief that will taint it forever. The suffering that will cause misfortune upon misfortune upon those who will live on it, all of the bodies still in that halfway state of being unrighteously pulled from their set fates. 

The universe, after all, is a state of balance, and when that balance is disrupted, it causes many things. Lesser beings call them curses, spouts of bad luck, disasters. They’re empty spaces that should be filled that then causes a vacuum in the progression of time, cancerous growths of sorrow and evil planted into reality to hang there forever, filling in that lack that comes from an untimely death. 

And that nameless, formless, singular of the many thrives in it.

“See?” it asks. “Look at the power they can achieve, the greed they can feed, when they are completely consumed by fear and allow this sacrifice.”

“This madness is on the one who let them descend to such depths in the first place,” the many says.

“It is not madness,” it says. “They hear a million whispers a day, why listen to mine? They think a million ideas a month, why pick up on what I say? There is so much around them, why focus on this? I’ll tell you why.” 

And it points to history, stretched across the dust between stars  the remnants of dead civilizations, now nothing but rubble floating in an empty.

“Because in the end, we are all selfish little things,” it says. “And in the end, these inconsequential monsters are right. Look at how they have lasted, longer than any of those who have been here before. They are young, younger than the rest of the universe, but they are still here for a reason. It is because murder and death are the pillars of life, and it is because ruthlessness is what gets you out of water and onto land, where you can trade your scales for skin, where you can bend your spine to stand a little straighter, where you can even have the chance to sully your hands with blood and dirt. This and everything else, is because they are not afraid to be merciless.”

“I pity you,” someone from the many says. “I pity you, truly.”

“Then you are a fool.”

“Have you become so petty that you cannot see past your cruelty?” the many ask. “Have you become so proud that you cannot see what you have done?”

“I’ve done nothing that did not align with their true nature,” it says. “And why wouldn’t it? Are they not wise? Are they not the last of what remains of everything else besides us? Are they not the endlings of this something? Why shouldn’t they take what is rightfully theirs - their own lives?”

The many turn away from it, then, leaving it to its thoughts, and it feels rage bubbling up inside of it. They aren’t listening. Even after it all, they are not listening. So it goes down again, to the little creatures, and whispers, and spreads rumours, and points out little troublesome things that their minds snag on and exaggerate, until the earth is bathed in blood. 

And yet still, the little creatures survive. Because they are ruthless, it says to itself. Because they are merciless, because they are not afraid to make sure they will survive, even at the cost of everything else.

“You have become so blind to your childishness that you would call evil righteous,” the many say. 

“And what are you to judge what is evil and right? When the universe was created, neither of those things existed. There was simply nothing, then something, and then us,” it says.

The many talk among themselves, and after a long, long while, they come to a conclusion. They search for the singular creature to tell it what they have decided.

“You have become too proud,” they say. “Too conceited, that you would go so far as to turn to destruction to say that you are right.”

“I have become neither.”

“And yet, that pride shines through,” they say. “And for that, you must be punished. The universe is a system of balance, and we are the children of nothing’s oblivion. So when it is time for this something to die, then we will be the last to witness it. But it is too early for that, and so you will continue to be, but know this - we cannot allow you to continue your childishness.”

“And what would you do? Lock me up, like the gods of these little creatures? Chained to mountains and tucked away in the corners of their beliefs? Bury me deep in the earth? Like the bones of those who came before them?”

“No,” they say. “You will live, but you will live broken.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” it asks, but before it can finish doing so, the many take it, with their many hands and their many mouths. The many are numerous, after all, a body made up of too many things at once.

And they pull, and they tear, and that singular creature screams and screams and screams. But the many do not listen, instead tugging and pulling with their hands and their teeth, until that singular thing is many broken pieces, some large and some small, torn haphazardly like the flesh of dead prey.

“You will live,” the many say, “But you will never be the same.”

And they take all of the pieces of the singular creature, folding them all until they can be as small as they can go, tucking them into flesh, into rock, into wood, into anything they can immediately find to contain them. Then they throw it all away as far as they can, wherever they can throw it. 

Some don’t land at all, joining the ashes of the dead floating in space. Some find themselves trying to find the largest piece of them all, that which is still aware that it is a singular thing, and that it is a creature as old as the universe itself, just torn apart since it still cannot be destroyed. Some of them land on the earth, burrowing into the soil, into the water and into other things it can find.

And the largest piece, thrown away and thrown heavy, still aware of what it is or at least, what it used to be, seeks familiarity, in the way dogs seek comfort and home when they feel like they are about to die; fear of death giving way to seeking peace and love, although such things are foreign to this cruel, malevolent something. 

It seeks the world, and it finds it. When it does, it lands in a disastrous crash.