St1 Ch1 Re2

.:Tales of Evil:.
The true history of a decadent soul, and the one who loved him.

"Nicola Miribelle?"

They call my name and I stand, making my way to the front. The room is packed from one end to the other with bodies, of various shapes, sizes and colors. A troll stands in front of me, of brutish size, even for his kind. His skin has a rare purple hue that reveals his heritage. I know if he would turn around that his eyes would be a vivid yellow and recessed deep in his head, his face more squat and flat than his rounder cousins. The hair on his head, though out of my sight, I know is a darker purple and always kept cropped short. I know all of this from the color of his skin. To be more specific, the shade of the color of his skin. I know his people's history. I remember it, in fact, for I was there. I was a part of it and a part of his making, his creation, his evolution from the troll version of monkeys. Yet now, he simply stands in my way, obstructing my progress as I hear my name called a second time. I gaze at him, and he shrinks, remaining proportionate, until he is only a foot high and very angry to be changed. He turns to attack. His people are notoriously violent (suppose I should have helped them evolve further, but there were other pressing matters at hand), and he sees me standing there. I give him the same gaze I award all of his brethren. At this look, he grumbles and hobbles out of my way. My theory on his hair, face and eyes are confirmed in a glance and then I return to pushing my way to the front of the line as my name is called yet again.

Once I reach the desk, a harassed receptionist gives me a long look, one of utter disapproval for making her wait. I return with only an empty stare, interpretable as anything she likes. This one has made her judgments on me, and I am glad it is not to her that I am standing trial.

The room that I am in is a gargantuan sized office on the thoroughfare of the most busy city in the most populated planet on the Delta Nine, a solar system under the rule of Kien N'got, xii. They are aware of the theory of infinite dimensions, and the theory is, due to many of their residents traveling in and out at of space and time at will, in the process of being worked into their laws, as fact. The theory is, in case you are uneducated on the matter, that there are infinite versions of every world, and it states that everything that could be is, was and will be. It goes on to state that everything is not, was not and will not be. Not many governments see it plausible to try to confine such an idea into the rigid box of law, since the logic contradictions are abound, and the only real truth is in your perspective and sheer unadulterated will.

This particular location was having a mess of trouble at their new inter-dimensional office, where various crimes against laws that changed by the week are tried, as best as they can be, and the offenders punished. I was here because of an incident where I was merely sitting at my home, changing the sun's position in relation to the planet I was on in order to cool my current living area, which had been suffering from heat waves recently. The amount of force it would take to physically move the sun or the planet itself was a daunting prospect, so I simply moved outside of their dimension into the sub-space next to it and around it, snipped and edited reality a bit, and when I re-entered it was not at the exact place I had left and a week had gone by. Well, I do my best to keep up on their laws, but while I was out of the time loop, a new one had come into effect that I was in violation of. All those who change anything pertaining to any item or person outside of their home must have a license to do so. A court notification was tacked to my door.

So here I am, gazing at the receptionist, who is not a carbon-based life form and is sealed in a protective suit to shield her from the harmful effect of nitrogen on her fragile pyrite skin. All eight of her hands are engaged in some activity, and I can see that both of her brains are hard at work. My view slips slowly into a molecular level and I analyze her. Not often around her kind, it is interesting to me. All of her hands drop downward, slamming on whatever surface is nearest to them and her voice calls out, more shrill and irritating than it sounded when she called my name.

"That is RUDE," she declares, crossing each set of arms and making an attempt to block me. I pull back without a fight. Perhaps it is rude. She practically throws my paperwork at me, and I skim it as I walk away from her. I am to be in processing room Episilon-490. The quaint and blatantly sci-fi names of the places in this slice of reality make me smile. It is essentially the reason I settled here in the first place. It reeks of a creation by a high school aged nerd with too much time on his hands too little contact with the opposite sex. I love that about the place, and had vowed one day to investigate the creator and see if he fit my profiling, but had not found the time. Instead I spent my days lazing about, either inside my body or out of it, discovering things about the world around me, the world not around me, and helping my first and only group of friends I have ever had, whom you will hear all about later.

It takes quite a while to find the correct place, once I have my paperwork. The large echoing hallways of this office are a maze of extraordinary difficulty, and I would have cause to know. The decor itself is what caused the confusion. The designer, whoever it was, had decided that functionality should be sacrificed to the greater effect of visuality. Indeed it was a masterpiece to behold. On the outside of the building it appears to be simply square, with no windows to speak of and one large entrance hall that runs the length of the thing. Inside, an appearance held only in the processing room I am now exiting, it is institutional. Metal benches attached to the floor puts one in the mind of a prison, which I would not be surprised to find the place doubling as. The counters lack sharp corners on which people could throw themselves, and everything is fastened down to something. Pens, progress screens, even paperwork was clipped and stapled and pinned to everything around it. It brought the motif from prison ward to mental ward in feel. The room was dissected by a counter that ran the nearly length of the room and doubling back away from the front entrance to form a squared 'u' shape, separating the workers from all possible loons that could be there for whatever various crimes.

Attached to the ceiling, were several silver globes: Peacekeepers. They were an advanced form of AI that sensed when a person was about to be violent and took them out quickly and effectively. No one dared even think to lash out at anyone in this part of time, which exemplifies the troll rashness at being angry with me. Had he thought his violent thoughts for one second longer, he may not have been lived past the event. Delta 9 has a zero tolerance policy to violence, and you get no second chances should you engage in it. The Peacekeepers are programmed to kill. No one has ever survived them once they are activated. No one denies a summons to court. That warrants one warning, and if you still fail to appear, that is another thing that causes Peacekeepers being sent for you.

Once you receive your paperwork at the 'U' desk, you go down one of two aisles formed on either side of it, in accordance with your processing room's number. A sign over each doorway at the back indicates which door to take. After shoving through the masses, both innocent and guilty, and reaching the door, it slides back on it's own and you must step forward into complete darkness. You hear the door slide shut behind you and the lights come on. At once, most are blinded, including myself on that day, by the glittering brilliance of the white crystals that surround you. I walk down the reflective crystal hallways. The walls were somewhat see through so you can see the blurred images of others around you, but they are not in your hall. As you travel, somehow no one is ever in your hall. Everything looks as though it is carved from ice, and is cold to the touch, though it does not melt if you are warm when you touch it, and you also do not stick to it. It is as if it is some warped merging of ice and diamonds. Or perhaps just chilled diamonds. Throw rugs appear at various intervals, all of them white or pale shades of blue with intricate patterns, all of which depicting complicated pictures. I see my story in them, and wonder if they were put there for me, or, the more likely, that they are made to look that way to each individual eye.

The portraits on the walls are all two dimensional carvings of whatever the picture is of, most of the scenes are mundane, royal scenes, or that of figures dancing in complicated garb. One depicts a woman holding a baby, her carved expression is of utter devotion and adoration, and standing beside her is a young boy. He is holding the baby's small hand in his own, with a look in his eyes of fierce protectiveness. There is something regal about the child, despite how young he is. If you look carefully, you can see a figure of the man a doorway behind them, somehow apart and desolate in this scene. You would be hard pressed to detect longing...more, simply watching.

I come to the end of one hallway, larger than the rest. I have been wandering for some time, reading the carved numbers of the doorways that will not open to me. Omego 23, Alpha 5466, there seemed to be no order and I have no particular hope of finishing this task of finding my processing room at all. Could I step beyond time and space and find the answer immediately? Yes, but I think it would be imprudent, as that is the crime I am here for. The end of this hall is an ornate Romanesque archway that leads only to a flat wall, on which hangs a painting. It confirms a theory that has been growing in my mind without my permission. The picture is in color, the only one of it's kind I had seen. At first you might think that the colors of the painting are washed out and old, but it is vivid in detail, and gazing at it, it becomes clear that the scene itself was dull and washed out in color scheme.

White and gray are the primary colors, with vague misty blue across the top, and specks of tired green around the edges. It depicts the sturdy gray walls of a labyrinth. The walls are simple, solid, and taller than is necessary to keep in any creature. The scene is from a perspective of above and in front, so you can see down into the floor of the place, endlessly complex with pitfalls and spikes and ornate benches at random intervals. Some open spaces are present, with archways leading to and from no where. Around the labyrinth is an expanse of snow, for it is winter in the picture, and I know within the place this depicts it always had been and would never change. Beyond the snow at the very edges of the piece is a darkened wood, gray and green and covered with a white blanket of snow. Traveling back to the center, you can see the obvious focal points of the picture. In the dead middle of the labyrinth is an undeniably magnificent, if forbidding, castle, and just to the left of it, is a clock tower. The castle is large and in various styles that somehow work together to form a cohesive piece of architecture, a blatant blowing aside of all guidelines followed by all but the most daring builders. It is the work of a master designer, it and the clock that stands beside it. The clock is simpler, gigantic and has seven faces. I know this, while I can not see it from the perspective in the painting. From the two corners of the sides I do see, I am reminded, reminded since it is too minute and far away to see, of the markings. It is a face with which I am intimately familiar, that counts not in seconds, minutes and hours, but in years, decades and centuries. I gaze on this picture for one thoughtful moment, and I know it was he who had built this place. He must also be the man who stands behind the woman and her children in the carved picture. The woman who was, in a way, me.

Carrying these heavy thoughts with me and echoes of a past I have left behind ringing in my head, it comes upon me suddenly when I find room Episilon-490. The crystal door slides open and I step inside. Again it is dark and I sm blinded, having stepped from the diamond bright room that proceeds it. Just as my eyes are about to adjust to my dim surroundings, a light switches on and I am blinded yet again.

"You're late." a voice, liquid solid smooth, informs me. I know that voice. Liquid in the sense that it pours around you, solid like a wave of water, rushing over you, destroying you. Smooth like a snake's scale. As my spotty vision comes into focus, I see him.

~

His name is Alistiar. It means protector, and is of Greek origins. He sits before me with two others, a man and a women, in a tailored business suit at a tall table that puts them looking down on me in the room. His suit is in various shades of black, layers that cling to his impeccable form, accentuated by a cream colored tie. As is his way, he is sat in the middle of the others. The woman on his left looks aged, almost falling out of herself with all her wrinkles. Her clothes underscores this, all peach colored ruffles and frills that match the color of her skin perfectly. On his right is a man, obviously perturbed as he glares at Alistair, who had obviously imposed himself unexpectedly. In plain black on black, the young sharp shooting man looks like he is usually the most suave and sharply dressed person in any room, and is unhappy to be so rudely usurped by what is obviously an older man.

His gaze has been on me even before the spots left my eyes. Though his dull black pupil and iris give off no glow, I have found them by instinct. He is on old enemy, and equal though he will never admit the latter. He has bested me in all obvious manners, but I know his soul, and have bested him in the game at large. He is the kind of man who is too prideful to let go of a battle, unless he knows it for sure to be to his advantage. He clings like a pit bull, who keeps his teeth locked even in death, though this man may never die. To count the years of his life would be nearly impossible, as I am not sure that this language has number words high enough. It is not an infinity, but it is closer to that than any number you are aware of. His sitting before me on this council to decide my punishment on a minor political offense such as changing the location of one little planet, shows one undeniable truth in him: he is bored. If you think about it, it is sensible. Living as long as he brings you many pleasures. Yet there are only so many variations of things that catch your interest and are worth notice among the interesting, so eventually, you find yourself among the mundane. I take in his appearance, unable to stop myself from drinking him like a drug. I pride myself in self control, and his game is to make me lose it.

He stands in one lithe motion, a moment before the others, giving the false impression that he is their official leader, which causes obvious distress on the face of the woman, and ire on the man's. Alistair nods pleasantly at each beside him and a small grin meets his lips that is just for me. In that moment I know: he chose them simply for their coloring and how they matched his outfit. He assumes he will be able to best them at whatever they do, and moves in with complete confidence that is uniquely his. His dark slicked back hair and tall form combined with such confidence and competence that show in his stride as he comes around the table give off an air of nobility, of superiority. It is something that draws the eyes of women, though they will it not to be.

A chair raises from the floor and I notice for the first time my surroundings: he has gotten me off my game already. I would normally have noticed every detail around me down to the chemical make up of each item in the room, but I have not even taken in colors and shapes. He surprised me, true, but I am on my guard now. I had not expected to see him here.

"Nicola Miribelle?" the younger man's voice cuts across the room like the stab of a small knife, severing through the attention Alistair and myself have until then devoted only to each other. He is a boy more than a man, pouting to be so out of the loop that others are obviously in. The woman nods to him, resting her hand on her face, revealing a large green gem on her left ring finger. She is married, someone important, I can tell that it is she who is in charge...or who had been in charge before *he* had come. The man-boy continues in her direction.

"Nicola Miribelle. Also known as Oriana Peregrine, also known as Diana Durant, also known as Renata Proctor, also known as-" I interrupt him, knowing this will take too long.

"Alvita Anorra, Anona Antoinette, Solita Sodonie, Ardelia Aria, Fabrianne Alloces, Andhaka Adiir. Those are all I have had legal identification by in this place of yours, though I have used countless other first names when the need arose. What of it?" I state in irritation. Alistair, who has moved to the corner of the room, watching us like a play put on for his entertainment, chuckles.

"...and Bink," he adds, with a measure of amusement. I give him a cool stare, opening my mouth then closing it slowly. I realize that I am still not acting to my nature. I am the unbiased. I am neutrality itself. So why does he cause such fire in me? I know the answer, but I do not let it enter my realm of conscious thought. My eyes return to the livid man who had to bring out a pen and add other aliases that I mentioned which they were not aware of. The woman returns with a look that may be cool appraisal, but is lost among the folds of her skin.

"Verify identification number," the man-boy states.

"Current?" I ask innocently, knowing that all people under the rule of Kien N'got xii are given an identification number that is burned onto their auras upon entering the world as an infant or otherwise, that is completely unchangeable. Supposedly. The man in front of me gapes for a moment, then settles into a decidedly grumpy look and nods. "52229-424-alpha, charlie, beta, -0. 52229-424-acb-0" I repeat it for him, knowing that those of his family are supposed to have impeccable memory. It was a bit of an insult, but he is snarky and deserves it. By this time, part of my mind has already dissected and boxed him and prepared my methods of dealing with him in any matter. The woman I withhold judgment on for the moment, although some of her history had unfolded itself, not all of it was visible from my moment in time. And then there is the watcher in the corner...I know how do deal with him if I can keep myself on track long enough to do so. It has been a long time since he has effected me in this manner. Then again, it has been a long time since we have seen each other at all. Perhaps I am out of exercise. Like muscles unused, my will has sagged. Sure I constantly change the world around me at almost every second, but it is not the same as facing such a one as him. The boy...I left the perception of him as a man behind...continued.

"You are brought here today to be analyzed and processed on the point of unlicensed tampering with the reality of planet Delta-490 on the day of 40,657 of Kien N'got's rule at 27 hundred hours. Do you confess?" he asked in a short clipped manner.

"I do," I stated, my eyes drifting sideways to meet with Alistair's gaze, which was on me still and his expression highly amused. "I must also state for the record that at the time I begun the process, the law had not been in place. I stepped out of time, made a mistake and stepped back in a week later. The law passed in my absence." the woman nodded and the boy seemed about to concede, when Alistair stepped up, seizing his moment.

"Excuse me, but you both seem ready to dismiss this...accident." his annunciation was particular, each word seemingly chosen out of millions he could have used for the exact affect each word would have. "Yet. I say that if such a person were to make a different *accident*? How many lives could be at risk?" he pleaded that last statement with compassion that was foreign to him, yet seemed to the untrained ear, completely natural. "Now, I am not suggesting that we lock miss...Nicola...up and throw away the key," his expression, full of vampiric bloodlust, facing her so the others couldn't see, showed otherwise. "I am just saying that some confinement might remind her to be so careful. She moved the entire planet. Who knows what ecosystems could have been destroyed by such a move?" I took an abrupt step forward, angry.

"The move of the planet will have a gradual positive outcome of seventy-four percent for over ninety-two percent of the population. It was a good decision!" I protested. Alistair smiled then, aware of a fatal mistake, I glanced over and saw it in both of the other's eyes.

"Miss Nicola," he said, patronizingly. "There are more than three billion people on the planet in question. You are saying that the well being of two hundred and forty million people is of no consequence to you. I suggest that the accused by given time to think of her actions...in confinement, where she can make no more such rash decisions, what say you, judge and jury?" he asked the others. They looked at each other, in various stages of reluctance, but in the end it was agreed and I was brought to the cell that I reside in now. It looks nothing like a cell. It is a servicable but sparse apartment of rooms with false windows that look out over simulated scenery of mountains and ocean and other such things. There is a peacekeeper in each room, programmed to take action at any action geared towards escape. As I am escorted there, conveniently enough by Alistair himself, I come to the realization of the horror of confinement. Over the whole area is a webbing of trappings to prevent one from leaving their body, to phase out of reality to places beyond. In the room, reality is thick and unchangeble, not at all permeable, much like the planet from which you are reading these words. It is an offense to my very nature, and I turn to him. There is no triumphant smile on his face as he shuts the door behind himself, activating the lock and setting it with a complicated passcode. His eyes roam about the room then rest on mine.

"You forget," he states after a long pause, "That you are her. Not just like her, you are the same. And if there is one thing I know, it is her. I spent more time learning her mind than most people have spent living, even in reincarnations." he said thoughtfully, before turning his hostility in a sudden wave against me, coming close and grabbing me at the shoulder and neck. I froze, meeting his gaze with my own undeniable version of neutrality. His eyes scanned my face, looking for the fear and weakness he was likely to find in my other soul's visage, but I am proud to say it was absent.

"You," he began, shaking with contained rage. "it was you who made them able to confine me within that crippled body to be like-" his words faltered.

"-like in your first life, when you *were* a cripple," I interrupted. His grip tightened so I was unable to speak. His smile then was manic, his eyes full of nothingness. I could not help but turn philosophical at that moment, as his anger burned out, his true evil showed through. Complete indifference. What he showed me took feelings to show, if all negative, feelings still. The true wrong he has done throughout his lie, has been that of complete disregard. To not care enough not to step on an infants head when you could easily make a small effort to step around it. No, he probably wouldn't do that, step on an child's head. The innards would stain his shoes. These thoughts distracted me as he choked the breath from me.

"You will know what it was like, and I know you cannot be alone. You hold that weakness just like she does. I would bet on it, *Bink*. I certainly would," he licked up the side of my neck, and behind my ear, and I shuddered, my vision starting to go black. "I hope you put your affairs in order before you came here, because I am going to make sure that the people of this universe forget all about you...their age will fall around them and the machinery into disrepair before you get out." He released me then. "Hope the machines don't malfunction before then and kill you on accident." he gave one a jovial pat and it bristled electricity, ready to kill at further harassment. I took a moment then to wonder how he planned to get out of here, the door locked as it was. The answer came suddenly as he turned, with full intention to leave, towards the sealed door. I gave a snort, did he expect, in all his arrogance, to phase through a wall that he himself made unphasable? A shriek of noise and a burst of electricity interrupted this thought.

Sharp glinting wires so small they looked to be strands of a spiders web shot out and sliced him in two, three, four places, at the neck, the abdomen and the knee. He fell into pieces, his innards splashing on the lightly covered carpet, a parting gift for me, I'm sure. He died simply to leave, but it was not a true death. No fathomable version of heaven would forgive such a beast, and no version of hell would dare accept him, for they did not need his kind of trouble.