Third-Rate Eternity, Parts 1-3

THIRD-RATE ETERNITY
By Eve Lawless

January 2016 – Several physicists devise a new way of teleportation.

February 2016 – Initial proposals to the scientific community result in large amounts of ridicule, stating that the idea was, “Utterly impossible.”

May 2019 – Construction begins on the testing facility.

June 2021 – Tests to teleport inanimate objects fail miserably, modifications are made.

October 27th, 2021, 17:58 – A chimpanzee named Bubbles is successfully teleported one hundred feet.  The act was indeed impossible, causing reality to unravel into nothingness.

October 27th, 2021, 17:59 – Reality poorly rebuilds itself.  Nobody notices.

October 27th, 2021 – The dashboard clock of the dusty old Cadillac read 18:00.  Flint Teril stared over steering wheel at a bank just down the road.  He stroked the stubble on his chin, taking a mental note to remember to shave in the morning, though he knew it wouldn’t come up.  In the passenger seat next to him a miniscule pitch black creature dug a cigarette from the glove box.  Despite calling herself the Wyvern, she was actually a Shadow Dragon with the unfortunate luck of being the runt of her litter.  At no more than two feet long, she was hard pressed to gain respect through sheer size like the others of her species, forcing her to resort to hyper-aggression instead.  She spoke with a voice that sounded almost exactly like a twenty year old woman, though her choice of words sounded considerably less, “What the fuck are we waiting for?  Let’s get this over with, I’ve got- gimme a light, monkeyspawn.”  Flint rubbed his thumb and index finger together for a moment.  They ignited in a small yellow flame that he held out to the cigarette.  The Wyvern nodded at him and took a long drag from the cigarette before continuing, “I’ve got shit to do tonight.  Places to go, mudmongers to slaughter.”  Flint looked down at her and scowled, “Ya know, they got these things called fridges for a reason.  Makes it so you can store food instead of goin’ out and killin’ someone every damn night.”  The Wyvern held up her middle claw to him.  Flint glanced at the clock.  18:02. Groaning, he pushed open his door and climbed out.  Flint stood tall and thin, though the thick brown trench coat and body armor made him appear much stronger than he really was.  The tiny dragon immediately followed after, jumping up onto his shoulder.  Flint pulled a tattered wide-brimmed hat from the dashboard and dropped it onto his head.  He looked out of place in any timeline, but he carried himself as if his style was normal.  Just another Kevlar cowboy.  Slamming the door shut, he made his way down the cracked asphalt towards the 5th Interstellar Bank & Trust.  “Right, ya know the drill.  I’ll kick in the door all fire n’ brimstone, grab the cash, and get out.”  Flint pulled up a black bandana up over his nose and mouth before continuing, “You get out of sight right quick, take care of anyone that decides to cause any problems.”  The Wyvern growled happily, “Well, what the fuck are we waiting for?”  Flint grinned and kicked open the bank’s door.  Almost as soon as the door swung wide, the Wyvern took off from Flint’s shoulder and disappeared in a blur.  Flint’s hands burst into bright balls of fire, heat radiating from his body in wave.  “EVERYBODY BE COOL, THIS IS A ROBBERY!”


         Flint slammed through the door to his apartment.  Blood trickled down from a gash in his forehead.  He tossed a large duffle bag onto the milk crates and plywood that served as his coffee table.  The Wyvern stormed in immediately after, stomping straight for the small television resting onto the floor.  She flipped it on as Flint dropped down onto his green, stained sofa.  Slowly the screen glowed to life and the calming voice of Channel 7’s Jena Strike flowed from the aged speakers, “-and Vice President Necralis ex Mortis will be filling in until President Dark Age’s vacation ends and he is once again resurrected.  Now for some local news.” The young woman faced a new camera, a stock image of fire appeared next to her head.  “The 5th Interstellar Bank & Trust was robbed earlier today by an assailant matching the profile of the now infamous Burning Bandit.  Two W.R.E.T.C.H. agents were undercover within the bank at the time.  One was declared dead at the scene from lacerations to the neck and thigh lacerations and the other is currently at the hospital with third degree burns across twenty percent of his body.  Doctors state that the injuries appear to be non-life threatening.  The Bandit made off with nearly one hundred thousand dollars.  This is the fifth successful robbery for the Burning Bandit in the past two months.  We’ll have updates on this story tonight at eleven.  Here’s Geoffrey Handenhawk with spor-”

         The Wyvern switched off the T.V. and turned to Flint, “Can you believe this shit?  Not even the slightest mention of me.”

         Flint grit his teeth at her while he’s slid his coat off, “We wouldn’t have even gotten a ten second spot if you’d done your freakin’ job.”

         “What the fuck is that supposed to mean, mudmonger?” The dragon pointed a sharp claw at him, “I’m faster than a lot of things.  I’m faster than humans, faster than robots, faster than most cars, and sure as hell faster than fire.  But you know what I’m not faster than? FUCKING LIGHTNING!  Besides, I was taking out that guy with the gun.”

         Flint tugged the release strap on his armor vest and pulled his shirt off, revealing a robotic arm, seemingly made from copper.  He tapped his fingers along the reddened, lightly burned skin where the metal connected at the shoulder.  “At least my arm caught that bolt he managed to get off.  If it’d hit me directly I’d be fairly upset.”

         “Tsh, you’re such a bitch,” the Wyvern cackled and spoke in a mocking voice, “I’m Flint and I got hit by a little electricity so I’m gonna cry about it!  Hehehe…”

         Flint wadded up his shirt and threw it down at the dragon.  She slipped easily out of the way and stuck her black, pointed tongue out at him.  “Just keep talkin’, lizard, see what happens,” Flint said as he stretched his arms above his head and stood up, “Good luck with your huntin’ tonight.”  The Wyvern gave him an expression that was as close to a smirk that her beak-like head would allow.  Despite their constant bickering and the occasional murder attempt, Flint and the Wyvern actually held what could almost be considered a friendship.
The Wyvern spread her frail wings and took off through the open window, slapping the sill loudly as she passed over it.  The sill was covered in deep scratches from the clawing it received from her constant coming and going.  Flint had long given up closing the window, even in the winter.  The last time he tried, the Wyvern smashed through it to get out, rather than just asking Flint to open it for a moment.  She wasn’t one to ask for anything.  Flint watched as she disappeared into the night, then strolled through his messy apartment to the small bathroom.  Flipping on the light, he stared at his reflection in the bare-bulb glow.  Although he was only twenty-four, the scars scattered across his face combined with the air of weariness he held caused him to appear several years older.  He ran his fingers through is jet black hair, then lightly over the black, fire-like tattoo across the right half of his face.  It was a gift the Wyvern had given a few years ago in the sense that she knocked him out with a brick and used a needle gun she found in a dumpster.  He wouldn’t admit it, but he quite liked the way it looked.  He grabbed a t-shirt from the top of the hamper and ran it under warm water for a moment before wiping it across the cut on his forehead.  The electric jolt he received during the robbery had caused his limbs to momentarily stop working, resulting in his head striking the bank’s counter.  It was sheer luck that he hit the agent that threw it with a fireball the way his arm was jumping around.  He leaned down and splashed water across his face.  When he straightened up he saw a large metal spider hanging from a steel thread behind him in the reflection.  Without bothering to turn around, Flint muttered a brief curse under his breath.

         The spider’s abdomen was made up of a speaker the size of Flint’s head.  The speaker reverberated with a deep, monotone voice, “Human.  Male.  Vocal Identification: Harold Flint Teril.  Confirm.”

         Flint groaned loudly, “How many times do I gotta tell ya damn robots not to use my freakin’ first name?”

         “Identity: Harold Flint Teril confirmed.  Now relaying message – Human male Harold Flint Teril is to report immediately to Rustid’s operational center with all funds owed.  The Extraxi umbra that accompanies you is being retrieved currently and will attend the meeting.  Compliance is mandatory.  Failure to report is an agreement for immediate deletion.  End message.  Confirm your attendance.”

         “Dammit…” Flint picked up a pill bottle from the sink and swallowed few of the little red capsules from it dry.  “Reckon I ain’t gonna be able to get my shower tonight.  Let’s go.”

         “Attendance confirmed.”


         The Wyvern crawled down the chimney of the small suburban home.  The family had locked the doors and windows tight, but apparently forgot to secure the chimney.  The prey always forgot about the chimney.  She could have gotten past the locks if she really wanted to, but that ran the risk of making noise.  Besides, they were probably boobie-trapped in response to the sudden surge of people being eaten every night in the area over the past few weeks.  The Wyvern landed softly on the smooth, clean bricks at the bottom.  Her wings folded flat against her back as she slid silently across the floor.  She was right to predict the other entrances were rigged; the front door had a shotgun strapped to a chair, several of the windows were lined with razor wire, and a few had spring-loaded spike traps.  Amateur stuff that assumed whatever was eating people was much larger than she was.  However, she couldn’t help but notice how well built they were for their obvious simplicity.  The house was so incredibly clean that it made Flint’s apartment look like the aftermath of a pestilence creeper breaking in and using all the dishes.  The sound of loud snoring came from the door of the master bedroom.  It was the loud, steady snore of an older man who drank fairly frequently.  It smelt surprisingly strong of that too.  She dug a perfectly folded towel from a nearby linen closet and stuffed it across the bottom of the door.  It wasn’t much, but it would muffle some sound from getting to whoever was in there.  She made her way to the door at the end of the hall.  A sign made of construction paper hung on it, scribed in crayon.  ‘emilys Supur fUn RoOm’ complete with backwards E.  The gap bottom of the door was strangely wide.  She flattened herself out on the soft, freshly vacuumed carpet and slipped under.  Her blank eyes darted around the room.  It was a muted pink in the dim light, the scent of girl was strong.  As she moved through the room, she whispered a silent lullaby.

         “The itsy bitsy Wyvern crawled in the baby’s room,” she slinked up to smoothly made bed.  “She grinned with a hiss that filled the kid with gloom.”  The girl smell was absurdly strong.  “She drew razor claws that spelled the child’s doom.”  She climbed up the bedpost onto the polyester blanket, her claws itching for blood.  “And the itsy bitsy Wyvern left the baby’s…room?” she said as she stared at the lump on the bed. 

         It wasn’t moving.  No breathing, no vibrations in the springs from a heartbeat.  The teddy bear at the head of the bed had a suspiciously lens-like eye; the scents were too strong; the room was marked too obviously; the snoring was too even; the home was too clean; the fireplace didn’t have a spec of ash in it.  Trap.  The head of the lump exploded in a bright, white flash.

         In the brief moment the Wyvern was blinded flood lights clicked on and killed the shadows throughout the house.  Ceiling panels opened up around her and two men in heavy armor dropped down.  The massive metal plates they wore and thick clothing underneath were a dark blue, the lenses of their gasmask-like helmets glowed a dim white.  It was the armor of the Lacerta Nex, dragon slayers.  However, instead of their traditional iron swords and high caliber rifles, they were armed with long batons and stun guns the size of car batteries.  It had been nearly a thousand years since the last time someone had laid a trap specifically for the Wyvern; she was excellent at passing the blame onto someone else.  Her eyes adjusted quick enough to dart away from a swing of a baton, letting is slam with enough of an impact to snap one of the bedposts.  The Wyvern rubbed aggressively at her eyes, trying desperately to remove the spots floating across her vision.  Before she could react one of the slayers dropped his whole body on her, attempting to hold her in place on the bed.

         “Did you get it, Benson?” the slayer that had swung earlier asked.

         “Yeah, Jeral, I got it.  Bitch is kickin’ like a mule.  I didn’t think it’d be this strong,” said the one laying on her.  His body bucked slightly as he shouted out the door, “Fuck!  Rigger, get your ass in here with the crate!”

         A third slayer came through the bedroom door carrying a large metal box that looked like it was wired for electricity.  Circles of glowing runes were around each point where a wire connected.  He bumped the door shut with his shoulder and turned to the other two.  “Building is secured, all the exits are sealed.  Phillips and Itch are waiting in the living room.  Itch is still talking about how it stuffed the towel at the bottom of that door.  Where’s that midget?”

         Jeral pointed at the one laying across the bed, “Benson’s got it pinned.  Almost too easy.  We could have set out some meat under a cardboard box and waited for it to crawl in, would have saved some money.  Can’t believe Itch thought that it was actually going to be the Wyvern.  Newbies always think their first is going to be a legend.”

Benson looked over his shoulder at Rigger as he approached.  “Feels like it stopped movin’.  Hopefully I didn’t kill it, Ops would be pissed.”
“Might be a trick,” Jeral suggested, “We should use a stun gun on Benson.  Shock it through him just to make sure it’s down.”
“Whoa!” Benson shouted, “I ain’t wearing my shock dampeners ‘cause I figured I wouldn’t been needin’ ‘em since we ain’t takin’ out a Zipper!  You’d better not zap me!”

         “Uhg, fine.  It’s just a baby anyways.  Benson, you jump up and help Jeral stuff it in the crate. “  Rigger opened the box and leaned close.

         Jeral took position and nodded at Benson, who immediately pushed himself up and prepared to grab the dragon. 

         Instead of the thrashing claws and gnashing maw they were expecting, they were greeted with a hole neatly shredded through the bed.  A dark shadow spread across the room.  The three slayers turn to see the Wyvern perched atop the dresser, her wings spread wide to block out the floodlight, clearly going for the dramatic appearence.  Her claws started drumming on the wood loudly, the sharp points leaving deep divots with each connection.  “Well, mudmongers, I’m waiting,” the Wyvern growled.

         Benson’s eyes widened slightly.  “You’ve got to be fuckin’ kiddin’ me.”

         The dragon’s claws stopped abruptly, “Terrible choice of last words.”

         Outside of the bedroom, Itch anxiously watched the door from down the hall.  His hand rested nervously on the grip of his stun gun. 

         Phillips leaned against the far wall, his armor tearing at the wall paper.  “You’re gonna have to calm down, newbie.”

         Itch briefly faced Phillips.  “They’ve been in there for a long time though, sir.  Shouldn’t we go check on them?  Maybe something went wrong.”

         Phillips groaned loudly, “Fuck, kid.  First of all, don’t call me sir, makes me feel old.  Secondly, captures take longer than kills.  It’s standard policy.  Everything is fi-“

         Screaming erupted from the behind the door.  Something slammed into the other side of the wall, impacting with enough force to knock a picture frame off the wall, sending it crashing to the ground.  Phillips ran to Itch’s side, holding his baton at the ready.  The sound of smashed glass, splintering wood, and shattering bone was muffled through the walls.  A final scream of pain slowly turned to a gurgle, then to silence.  Itch’s breath was heavy as he held the stun gun to the door, his hands shaking erratically.  “Ohshitohshitohshit,” he muttered quietly, clearly frightened. 

         The bedroom door burst out, one of the slayers stumbling through it, frantically clutching and tearing at his helmet, trying desperately to take it off.  The normal white glow of the mask’s lenses was replaced by an angry orange as flames licked up his face from the inside.  The Wyvern rode atop the screaming man’s head, laughing manically as he lurched around.  The slayer with the immolating head collapsed to the ground, Itch’s finger instinctually pulled the trigger.  He had that name for a reason.  Two prongs the size of large nails launched from the end of the stun gun, trailed by thick wire.  It missed the Wyvern by a mile, striking the far wall with a heavy thunk.  Bright blue arcs of electricity leapt from the impact, burning black lines across the paint.  Phillips sprinted forward, the steel baton held above his head, ready to crush the dragon’s skull. 

         The armor was a newer model since the Wyvern last had to deal with a group of Lacerta Nex, so she had taken her time in the bedroom to find a weak point.  What she found was a fatal flaw to say the least.  In order to increase mobility of the head, the suit sacrificed armor around the neck, particularly at the base of the chin, where the under cloth was particularly thin.  She waited until he was close.

         A black blur shot from the Wyvern’s initial position, past Phillips throat, and to the ceiling; it was followed by a thin streak of blood spattering across the wall.  Phillips took a few staggering steps forward, the baton slipping from his grip, before dropping to his knees and collapsing backwards.  A red pool soaked into the carpet.  The Wyvern hung upside down from the ceiling, her claws dug deep in the plaster, staining it with blood.  Releasing her grip, she landed silently on the ground, her eyes shooting directly to Itch.  Unblinking, she spoke in a voice coated with toxic malice, “You must be the mudmonger they call ‘Itch’.  I heard the others talking about how you suspected it might be me.  This means that you’re either really smart for a monkeyspawn, which I doubt, or you’re very easily scared by children’s stories.”

         The Wyvern stood on her hind legs, making herself as tall as her small stature would allow.  She started walking forward.  Itch remained frozen, his quivering visible even under the armor.  “I suspect it’s the latter,” the dragon quipped with a sneer.  “You see, those stories are just that, stories.  They’re all the little bits of my existence I let out to frighten the masses.  Just enough to make them think I’m not even real,” she said as she climbed his body and perched on his shoulder, “The simple fact of the matter is that I’m much, much worse.”  With one swift motion she hit the release switch on Itch’s helmet and tore it off, an action that suggested much more strength than her miniscule frame gave her credit for.  She lightly dragged a nail under his chin, holding her beak next his ear.  “I like you, human, so I’m going to try and make your death pleasant.  At least for me, anyways.”  Itch looked as if he was forgetting to breath.  At this rate he would die of shock before she could kill him directly.  Of course it had been such a long time since she had an adult victim too frightened to fight back that she was going to milk the terror for all it was worth.  “First I’m going to pluck out your eyes, so you see no evil.”  She could smell the scent of spreading urine.  “Then I’m going to tear off your ears, so you hear no evil,” she cooed softly.  “And finally, I’m going to rip out your tongue, so y-” A metal fist pistoned out from around the corner and struck Itch in the temple, knocking him out cold.  A second rigid hand shot out and snatched the Wyvern around the neck.  A steely mechanical man emerged.

         “Extraxi Umbra.  Common reference name: The Wyvern.  Rustid demands your presence immediately,” the tall, thin robot stated in the standard cold voice.  “File records state that you are not to be given a choice of attendance even if the only other option is immediate deletion.  The human male Harold Flint Teril that is your standard company is being retrieved presently.  You will attend the meeting at his side.  I am to remind you that you are not approved for freewill at this time.”

         The Wyvern clawed and punched at the android’s hand to no avail.  She simply wasn’t meant to fight non-fleshy beings.  With the last of her breath, she gasped out, “Fuhg…chu…ohbod…”

         The robot squeezed her neck tighter until a loud snap was heard.  Her body went slack.  “Arrogance will not be tolerated.”