Klaxons spoke in wordless horror, echoing, blasting trumpets – as though a herald of the gods strode into the room, triumphant. Triumphant, terrified, an attempt to project its dread.
Soon I would become one of them – an immortal, a hero. Hesitant, determined. Fighting back the dribbling touch of rising fear. They were infectious, those strident, plaintive voices. Palpable, terror became a presence in the room, but already I could feel the warmth of a golden blessing, could feel the radiant glow of a god’s hand. A caress behind the fist of chaos.
I was to become immortal!
For years I gazed on those heavenly idols who filled my dreams, my most fervent imaginings. A procession of heroes – I discovered the lowest common denominator, a single factor.
Or so I thought.
Of course I regret it now – the mistakes I made, not my devotions. My actions, not my dreams. But how was I to know?
Security was pathetic, to say the least. Pathetic, to an eleven year old raised on a steady diet of ultra-realistic first-person shooters.
I held it in my hands, the weight of it, the forbidden beauty of it. I knew, finally then, that my moment had come. Spider Man, the Incredible Hulk, Dr Manhattan. The common factor? Exposure to radiation, whether through spider-bite or a single, massive assault.
I held the core in my shaking fingers, pushing it deeper and deeper into the pile. The klaxons faded, and the demon’s touch feels like the most gentle goddess.
The wasting death of cancer was my reward – my cells are mutating, growing, ever expanding. Conquering my immune system.