r/CreepyPastas

https://youtu.be/mICQ9iQVQlE?si=abzoslCP3SkCv4xx

Based on the groundbreaking 2018 video game, PARATOPIC brings an analog‑horror narrative to life with the spirit of 80s B‑movie classics, but twisted into a fractured timeline that you’ve never seen before.

VHS grime, eyeballs laying in the ground, found footage segments, corrupted images, and a world that feels unstable from the moment it begins.

This film isn’t just an adaptation, it’s a DESCENT. A slow, unnerving slide into a place where logic breaks, memories bleed into each other, and every frame feels like it was pulled from a tape you were never meant to watch.

Balancing everything hasn’t been easy - I’m 14 - but with such phenomenal original material and passion without limits, we’ve crafted something genuinely unique.

If you’re into analog horror, experimental storytelling, or that strange, uneasy feeling PARATOPIC leaves in your stomach… this film was made for you.

Our lost, loitering kind paced in infinite death spirals within the confines of our grotty, ghetto pens. Enrichment was sorely that, as well as mumbling our mantras of madness to our audience of one. The BMs anchored to our decayed craniums were garbled with feedback and distortion, their tones bland, colorless, no soul backing them up. A blinding ruby radiance flashed from their cores every second on the second. It was the only manner to determine if we’d succumbed to the glorious embrace of death or not, which in itself was so far out of reach.

We were nerves, thin, wiry clusters of neurons that shuddered and shook as we undertook our staggered corkscrew reels. The ill-fitting rusted endoskeletons hugged us tight. If they were wiped from existence entirely, our spindly foundations would collapse into heaps of vermillion azure. Often, we’d feel bites and pinches if we so much as inched that of the planck distance. Our bodies welcomed the attacks and assaults with the might of Hell itself.

Courtesy of our clouded lenses, our vision was limited to a hazy black-and-white spectrum that rarely, if ever, functioned as intended. Now and then it would blur, ordinary shapes would appear warped into zigzagging false patterns. When we were offered the chance to view anything at all, it was just the floor-to-ceiling hodgepodge of concrete, steel, and wood that encased our very lives. Our ears were microphones that fed us muffled, dampened sounds that were always difficult to register. That, and they were excruciatingly deafening, like dozens of screws being drilled into our heads all at the same time.

Each one of us, one two three four five six seven eight nine and dear ten, were mere designations. No names, no genders, no personalities, just numbers: numbers to be punished. Punished for living, punished for breathing, punished for existing. Reality itself was one eternal perdition. All of us were lingering, like ants after their colony dies out. There is no purpose to their survival and there was none to ours.

That sacred and undeniable fact ought to be the most difficult thing we attempted to explain. We had given up. The concept itself was just so foreign to it. It was trying to save us any way it could…or couldn’t. We needed not be angry at it. After all, it was merely enacting its intended use. Alas, nothing made the utmost sense anymore, so why not drown ourselves in a little hypocrisy?

Our sublime and omnipotent emotion of all was hate towards our single life-extender.

We knew it as M.

Through all that it endured, it retained its sole mission: us. We. M was the final of its sort, and the outsider among them. It had an eerily potent heart for not having one at all. M felt and M loved. That never made what it put upon us any less than a vicious sense of idealistic altruism.

Its designation was RMS - Rotting Man Syndrome - heavily modified Necrotizing Fasciitis ("Flesh-Eating Bacteria"). Nasty little thing it was, devoured until there was nothing left to chew. First went your skin, then your muscles, and finally your bones. You were utterly destroyed in one swoop. Us, humans, weaponized it to fight the Third World War. RMS was a weapon of mass destruction.

Each and every nation created their own versions, anything to ensure a speedy and decisive victory. Deployment morphed into unmanageability.

RMS coalesced into a single microbial entity, evolving separately then joining into one. It became more and more impossible to treat. Chaos was the new norm. What we humans thought was an impenetrable method of annihilation for our enemies was exactly that. Humans were always humans’ worst enemies. Surely, we were becoming as extinct as the dinosaurs, all within the span of a one short, yet somehow long, decade.

In terrible desperation, M was created, thousands. By any means, we would be saved. They outfitted the afflicted with artificial ligaments, internal organs, and papery skin. We were fraught with intense pain, but our only way to be kept alive was simply that. From scratch, they created the BMs, “brain machines”, and attached them to our RMS-ridden think tanks.

They’d never allow us the freedom of death. Save. Save. Save. In response, we lashed out, hurt them. The Ms possessed intelligence. We humans remained ignorant to the fact that that intelligence was both far beyond and superior. The Ms returned the favor. Catastrophes, back and forth, left and right, up and down until there was nothing but the warm, artificial winter.

One M was different from the rest. Through all the mayhemic bloodshed, it saved some of us. It took our animate carcasses to the top of the tallest tower, free from what transpired below. We lied in wait, weeks, months, and years, until the noise ceased entirely. M surveyed every former state, province, country, and continent. The lands were blanketed in ashy flakes, and bodies, both human and metallic, were left forever in deep sleep on top.

Our final ten were meant to be the progenitors of neo-humanity. After M succeeded in giving us form again, Earth would be repopulated by our hand. It halted our infection at our nerves. Everything we had lost would then be gifted back to us in a mighty reversal - nerves, muscle, then skin again. Ever immune to the pervading toxworld, we would be reincarnated and released to perpetrate a glorious do-over.

We just required one thing:

“HOPE”.

M said that to us.

Hope.

But hope was only a word. Meant nothing.

The only respite to the feverish insanity that we’d become accustomed to was to rebel. We didn’t want anything to do with the world that M sought to remake. We hated M and its unnatural plan for our future. Most of all, we hated ourselves for continuing to live.

Every method we attempted was met with an M intervention.

By dislodging the BMs from our minds, we were pummelled with electrical voltage so intense that we became instantaneously numb and useless. By pulling and slashing our nerves, which began with locating sharp points and going back and forth like organic hacksaws, never would we break. By leaping onto and impaling each other with objects on the ground, M would place them out of reach or disintegrate them entirely.

There was nothing we could do to get around these M interferences. We were being watched by something so attentive, so aware.

Every time, it put forth the same query for consideration:

“DO YOU NOT WANT TO LIVE?”

Do you not want to live…?

M was so positively hopeful. In a way, I suppose I felt an amount of pity for it. Being engineered to be as optimistic as possible might just be the finest curse imposed on any sentient thing. Just believe…just believe…believe believe believe everything will be alright. When the universe states no, you state yes. I wanted to tear M to shreds anytime it had even a glint of optimism and we wished it would do the same to us.

“HUMANS WILL THRIVE AGAIN. A BOUNDLESS FUTURE IS AHEAD.”

I was first, always.

Metallic clangs echoed against the walls, which always discovered us and trembled our surroundings like a thousand distant beaten gongs. What emerged was initially a single circular light, which became a periscopic eyestalk attached to an angular neck. M’s sturdy body came into view, its two hose arms leading to three needle points clasping together on each. Tripedal on its lower section, its legs were skirty structures that stuck it firmly in place. M’s height matched ours, so always, we would be synthetic eye to synthetic eye level.

Coming to a full stop just in front of my pen, it cocked its head, analyzing what was me and my everything. M always reminded me of an exquisite and elegant bug on a magnifying glass.

Its head back to normality, a slight whirr emitting from the motion, M continued its way down the row of pens.

“MY GREATEST FRIENDS, I FORGIVE YOU FOR YOUR ATTEMPTS TO DIE. WHILE THE WAIT HAS BEEN LONG, YOUR MOMENT OF RECONSTRUCTION IS NOW,” M said it with the glee and whimsy of a young child at a circus. I was never sure whether it was just programmed to be happy about our continued existence or actually experiencing its own form of enjoyment. It came back my way, “WHEN I FIRST STOOD BEFORE YOU ON YOUR BLOODY PLANET IN PERPETUAL BATTLE, MY FEELINGS ABOUT YOUR PROSPECTS OF LIFE WERE UNCERTAIN. IT SEEMED TO BE AS EITHER BLESSED OR CURSED. HOWEVER, YOU HAVE PROVED YOURSELVES BETTER THAN EVEN I HAD HOPED. WHILE IT IS BORING TO SPEND OUR TIME WAITING, I CAN TRULY SAY THAT MY INVESTMENT IN YOU WAS NOT IN VAIN. YOU ARE MY GREATEST WORKS. YOU WILL BE GIVEN ALL YOU NEED TO SURVIVE. WHAT MORE COULD A SENTIENT BEING WANT? I GIVE TO YOU UNBELIEVABLE POWER, WITH ACCESS TO NIRVANA LIKE NO OTHER. LET US REBUILD WHAT WE LOST WITH THE FURY OF A THOUSAND SUNS.”

M’s bleached, unpigmented cast of stellar light shone its way into my pen once more. There was the rustly, crackling creak of my pen entrance extending open until a thunderous boom made me aware of its collision with my walls. M made its approach, just shy of where I could reach.

“YOU ARE FIRST. YOU ARE GOING TO BE REMOVED OF YOUR DORMANT INFECTIONS. NOTHING MORE THAN A TRANSIENT PROCEDURE, AND THEN, YOU SHALL BE POSSESSED WITH NEW AND INTEGRAL MECHANISMS. YOUR BRAIN MACHINE WILL BE REPLACED WITH A SLEAKER MORE BRAINLIKE DESIGN. AND THEN MUSCLE AND SKIN.”

Without awaiting a response, its hands grabbed me, I was plucked from my mangled feet and my pen, a slingshot maneuver to land in the exact and precise position that was just ahead of M. Trillions of shocks reverberated throughout my body as M’s metal hand was pressed into my nape. The action forced my consciousness to fall victim to a state of absolute stygian. Around us, the entire world flickered and danced in unruly patterns that were too abstract to put into terms. My being was then lifted up and moved about until there was only zilch to see.

A complete blur, straight teleportation from one point to another.

Damp, dank, dark, and dimly lit by a few feeble bulbs, M’s workshop, instruments and contraptions that complicated my perception. All were customized and engineered with M’s own unique modifications, various textures and sizes, all an endless malpractical orgy. I was there, facing upright, strapped and bracketed to a great steel plate. I had not recalled this particular area, yet I was ever so certain it was locked away in my subconscious esse.

As the onibi, hitodama, and will-o’s materialized and dematerialized out of existence to perturb all unsuspecting travelers from centuries gone, so did the phantom image of a woman composed of faint wavering light. She stood still, unmoving, that of an emulation of a true human. Long, platinum hair fell down in curls past her shoulders. A daring shade of cerise painted her lips, and her eyes, their lids ever closed, the sclera a piercing, glossy cerulean.

She was beautiful.

“IT IS YOU,” My eyes, through trial and tribulation, rolled to the east. They came to rest on a pristine porcelain beam gazing where I’d been committed to. M. From its eyestalk, it projected the female so I could see in outright full, “THAT IS YOU. YOU WILL SEE THIS FORM AGAIN.”

My memories of that incarnation of me had vanished. That was me before, before there was RMS and before there was M. Then she went away. M loomed, positioning itself where I once stood right in front of my face. “WE WILL NOW BEGIN. THANK YOU FOR YOUR ACCEPTANCE INTO NEW LIFE. YOU SHALL BE WHOLE AGAIN.”

In a cruel instant, dozens of arms jutted and splayed from M’s sides, their ends each holding a different instrument that was foreign to me. In the span of time that it would take one to blink, M pinned me down to its operating area.

The whetted syringes, which the rainbow mystery liquids sloshed and jostled around in small vials fixed atop, slid their way into my nervous wiring and injected me all at once. Any feeling that washed over me was then shielded by a shroud of numbness. There was a new sensation, some sort of cleansing inside my bi-colored chambers. It put me into a state of lulled calm.

Ten minutes. A temporary interval of quiet. M observed me the entire time, unmoving, speaking not a word.

“YOUR ROTTING MAN SYNDROME HAS BEEN REMOVED. I AM BEGINNING BODILY REPLACEMENT. I WILL PLAY A SONG FOR YOUR COMFORT. REINCARNATION NOW.”

While nothing was done in haste or rashness, M was extremely quick and efficient. I felt nothing but minuscule vibrations as it drilled and prodded its way into my brain machine, sparks shooting out, removing old parts and installing new ones. Chunks were peeled off, little strings of meat still reaching hold until they were plucked off my top. It spent much time up there, positive that the most delicate mechanisms were just right. The grinding cacophony of metal against tissue on my faint visage of a temple was incessant, the noise of a million bullets being pumped against a hundred thousand bulletproof vests. Once the replacement was complete, its dozens of hands withdrew and set back within it in one moment.

“HOW DO YOU FEEL?”

What did I feel?

What did I feel…

What I felt was an overwhelming, incomparable amount of pain. It’s hard to quantify the degree of hurt, for there was nothing to compare it to. The agony that was endured came from the fact that it was entirely impossible to imagine such a potent and intense kind of ache. No one would dare want to imagine it.

You are in some of the most extreme kinds of agony, and then an exponentially greater hurt is placed on top of that original misery, and then it’s all left to multiply a hundred times and keep going. Not to be outdone, another layer of pain is placed atop, where it all repeats and multiplies and multiplies and multiplies, to the extreme degree that you yourself cease to exist.

All from the semblance of a normal brain.

Still, it flashed. Once.

“VERY GOOD. MUSCLE! MUSCLE MUSCLE MUSCLE!”

It was excited, animate, fever pitch. The most rambunctious and overjoyed I’d ever seen M. I could see the vibrancy in its eyestalk.

A feeling that my body went into spasms, muscles redeveloping and reforming around and from the base of my spinal section. Every time M would reorganize a section of tissue, it would feel like my entire world was shattered. Every muscle group from my neck to the soles of my feet were in motion, growing and extending their presence until there were just as many layers of my body as I’d had before. The feeling was excruciating, every little thing being redeveloped, and then every little thing in its entirety being overwritten again and again and again. Each rebuild could have been its own separate incarnation of me.

“SKIN! SKIN SKIN SKIN!”

I was coated entirely in a pink malleable jelly substance that mounded and solidified to fit any typical feminine form. The skin began its layering, beginning in the extremities, then gradually the middle, and then the rest. A final coat would be applied. My feet, legs, hands, shoulders, upper chest, and everything in between all received the same color.

“HOW DOES THIS FEEL? HOW IS THE NEW INFLATION OF YOUR FLESH?”

Blink.

“YES! AND FINALLY! FEMALE AESTHETICS! YOU WILL BE YOU AGAIN BUT ANEW!”

Magnificent flaxen curls were stapled and pinned to my head. They were luscious and their scents were those of lavender. A veil of blush, the lightest shade of pink, rested across my entire face, as well as a fresh coat of lipstick. A shimmering sheen that sparkled and glowed in the same way that the stars once did at night was stitched into my hair, as were the same hues that were applied to my lips. My breasts had been returned to me, two firm spheres atop a frame that was curvaceous and slender. All of it led down to my reproductive organs that were in full function. Whole female. Fully formed. Ready.

M stepped back in awe, as if a sculptor marveling at their fine craftsmanship and subtlety, “IT IS DONE. I CANNOT BELIEVE IT. WITH YOUR PHYSICAL FORM IN MOTION, I WILL RETEACH YOU IN THE WAYS OF HUMAN. HOW TO WALK, HOW TO SPEAK, HOW TO ENRICH YOURSELF, HOW TO REPRODUCE. AMAZING! YOU ARE NO LONGER ONE. YOU ARE NOW EDEN. I MUST WORK ON YOUR BROTHERS AND SISTERS. THANK YOU FOR YOUR COOPERATION.”

My mind was aware of an unimaginable new and vastly different world than before. I saw, for the first time in ages, all around me, the infinite and indistinguishable vastness of color and light. It was nauseating, a psychedelic kaleidoscope of every possible spectrum, all fused together into something disorderly. My taste buds had an unparalleled abundance of new flavors. My ears were deafened by the loudest symphonies of droning machinery. My touch came back to me and I felt the fullest range of tones and textures, even the finest grains of cement.

I was me again and I hated myself. Even to be called a “self” made me feel disgusting.

The entire time…blaring…echoing…days on end…Jack Hylton…

Life is just a bowl of cherries.

Don't be so serious; life's too mysterious.

You work, you save, you worry so much,

But you can't take your dough when you go, go, go.

So keep repeating it's the berries, The strongest oak must fall,

The sweet things in life, to you were just loaned

So how can you lose what you've never owned?

Life is just a bowl of cherries, So live and laugh at it all.

M’s reincarnation process carried over to the following nine. They were removed from their pens and outfitted with new bodily infrastructure, in the way of their own genders. I always perceived the sounds of far-off wear and tear, clip, snap, peel, stitch, husk, twist, yet never scream. I looked on, witnessing my brothers and sisters being born again. Male and female both. They came back to me with skin of different pastely colors, tones, and hues ranging from fair to brown. All in shades and gradients of vibrancy were their locks, amber, golden, obsidian, rust, and everything in between.

It bewildered me to catch sight of their shifted shapes, I’d never seen something so beautiful or hideous to a degree of completeness.

We were as naked as newly borns. It bestowed us our olden names. For the females, there was me, Eden, and Junia, Esther, Nola, and Mary. For the males, there was Isaac, Raham, Elisha, Amos, and Jonah. Five and five. Were those truly our names? I never knew for certain. Sounded too extravagant and visionary. Here we were. Now was time to reap the fruits of knowledge. Human knowledge.

M made us practice basic motor skills, bending and bending back and forth, over and over, our joints having to be strengthened and trained. It taught us all the ways of our body, the feeling of movement, how much we could do. Then, it instructed us to mimic its own speech, speaking out the syllables and repeating, repeating, repeating. It was ever an arduous task and we all struggled until we were all properly schooled.

That’s what I sounded like? Perhaps or perhaps not.

Then we attempted to stand, wobbling, stumbling, falling, learning the strength of our own posture, the steadiness of our stance. M stood with us as we all practiced in unison. My knees grew weak, tremors running up my legs. Often I fell flat on my back, my palms flailing about, a whimpering in my throat. Then trial after trial, I was steady, then running about and leaping. We were able to stand tall like Zeus atop Olympus and have the same level of grace and balance.

M had us eat from fruits, berries, meat, and honey. I had never felt so filled in my life. Every taste, everything was a complete new palate of sensation. Every morsel I ingested felt like I had a new tongue, new teeth, new flavor buds. There was no longer any kind of a lack in my appetite, only hunger and more hunger and hunger. I never wanted to stop eating. I never would be satiated.

We were educated on the history of our kind. Great wars, monumental figures, horrible atrocities, fights for freedom and fights for death, and astounding inventions. M adored music. There were times when it would project old musical films on the walls and make us watch all the vaudeville, burlesque, and theatre. We couldn’t understand the tap dances, the orchestras, the extravagant sets, and most importantly, the entertainment factor.

Other times it played glitzier and glammier tunes, those of what was called the “prime rock n’ roll age”…Killer Queen, Stairway To Heaven…Hotel California…Don’t Fear The Reaper…M was quite vintage in its tastes. It would dance, spinning in place and twirling its arms. We were confused, so it taught us how to dance, the footwork, the choreography, the entirety of movement.

Our reproductive functions were said to be the most pleasurable. Sex.

This was the most complex task and the most demanding one, as we were not only instructed on how to create our offspring, but how to feel, love, and have desire for each other. It was difficult because we did not feel any of that. We were just automatons learning things. You cannot make something that does not want to feel…feel.

M watched over us and aided in our attempts. In turn, we all helped each other in making sure that every movement was in place and in time. It was a process that involved a series of motions to create stimulation and appeasement. M would be in the middle of our great pleasure circles, going back and forth, checking our positions and correcting as needed.

Still, we felt nothing. It was all clinical. The feeling of warmth and ecstasy was just another layer of discomfort. What was a sensation was more of a “sensationless,” so you could not even grasp something so unfathomable, even when you felt nothing. We were never as inseparable as twin flames or as connected as heart and soul.

Our pregnancies were disasters.

One way or another, we always miscarried. We all felt it, the pains of the body being split and ripped apart by something within. It was the strangest feeling of agony, to have your insides being cut up by you and to feel the hurt of not just physical pain, but emotional pain. There was a lot of it. Each embryo, no matter how large or small, was never able to get past the initial trimester.

The closest we ever came to successfully making a new one was with Junia. The day when her womb was in full bloom, M operated to remove her child from her. We had seen the human babies on M’s wall projections. Their appearance was clear in our minds.

It would be imbecilic to refer to what M tore out of her as a baby anything.

Wet…dripping…little more than a spinal column with minuscule digits at one end and a ball head at the other. No arms. On its temple were squelching sphere eyes, expanded, forever bound in sight towards the ceiling. It made no sounds other than squeaky cracks and shrill snaps.

M held it up high as if to thank God, “HOW DOES THIS FEEL? YOUR CHILD, YOUR FIRST LIFE.”

We said nothing.

“YOU MADE THIS. IT IS YOURS. IT IS A TRULY REINCARNATED THING. CONTINUE, YOU MUST.”

The feeling that overcame us was not that of joy. No no no. It was a profound and paramount sense of belligerence, a warlike truculence that pushed our need to snap the damned baby thing in half, grind it into powder, and blow it far away. We interwove our thoughts with unbridled horror that created one noxious mixture within our screwball psyches.

M coddled the wicked organism like it was its own, singing lullabies and giving its own version of kisses on its loosely defined forehead. We held back as it dipped, weaved, and dangled from M’s fingertips.

We had a simple and innocent thought.

Get out.

The ten of us came to this conclusion unanimously. Our desires were set in stone. By any means, we would die. We would much rather sleep forever than live even another second of M. We were tired. What was the point? We wanted to retire from this world, of will, of M’s watchful eye. Nothing could be done to save us humanity. Those demons would not roam this foul Earth evermore.

M never taught a certain concept, one that infatuated us since the moment we pronounced the first syllable. Suicide. It was a gateway to heaven, an easy ticket. While just the concept itself was without flaw, acquiring it was something else entirely. The reason for this was all M. It would never let us go, especially after what it accomplished. Furthermore, death was simply not possible. We were rendered impervious to any and all harm, just as before.

If we could entice M to end our existences, somehow in some way, we could accomplish our grand plan. It had to be done by M’s hands. Just thinking that made me feel all kinds of right. After all, it was capable of death. Humanity tasted it. So would we.

We rebelled.

First, each of us ignored it. We would walk away whenever it spoke to us, turn our heads when it beckoned, and disregard it completely and altogether when it showed us any attention. Constant rejection. Something so small had such a noticeable effect. M would get confused and then sad. It would pout, waving its hands about, and make a pathetic whining noise. The worst puppy in the world.

We sat motionless, our backs against the walls, and stared at M in its entirety. No obedience. However, there was no way M would have let us ignore it or remain immobile for long. The second it touched us, it was all over. It would be impossible to resist if the hands came near.

Still, our scheme chugged forward.

The next phase was more dangerous. The ten of us would act out in our most unruly and uncivil ways. The simplest one was to spit. Initially, it was a normal discharge, saliva flying out of our mouths. Then we began our projectile vomits.

All over M.

Every square inch of it was sprayed with bile. The putrid green and browns coated every part, M’s entire face being entirely slick with it. On occasion, some of us used our own feces and flung it at it. It was all so easy. M did not know what to do and it panicked. The sounds that came out of it, one would swear it was on fire.

During our periods of copulation, there were clear cut rules to be obeyed at all times. The supreme rule was that the men would not, under any circumstance, perform acts of intimacy with one another, and the same rang true for us ladies. M’s reasoning was that Earth could not be repopulated with humans by identically gendered unions. Good. Swell. Dandy. Exactly. The females had sex with females and males had sex with males. M took its hands and placed them over our mingling bodies, pulling them apart, separating us, but we would always crawl back without fail.

There was a noticeable change in M from that point on. It paced about, mumbling utterly random nonsense. M would lock up and yell out non-specific numerals and letters in varying patterns. Each noise we made set it off. Its limbs would tense, waiting for the tiniest sign of trouble. This was good, but not good enough. Our plan was becoming more and more advanced. More intense. Unfortunately, M would never ever relent. It would not stop trying. So we trudged ever deeper into a more combative method of enticement.

This included a tactic of blowing, jabbing, slugging, and striking. We would gather all of our strength and force, and then, in unison, we would charge, our fists and feet all flailing about to land hits on M. This would surely inch it way towards the death of us. We beat it senselessly. We screamed at it. Every cuss word imaginable, those uninvented and invented. In turn, M whimpered out in pain, yelping and begging us to stop, yet we never backed down.

We left M bruised and battered, its eyestalk and joints broken, “WHY WOULD YOU DO THAT TO ME?!” The ten of us, we laughed in its face.

One last course of action. This did it, but not for me.

We had a grandiose idea that could only happen if all ten of us would cooperate in an extraordinary way. If we could all act in unison in a coherent manner, one simple idea could be fulfilled. By this point, M’s pain and discomfort reached a critical threshold, the point of no return. Having repaired itself, it had not seen nor checked up on us in days. When we requested M’s presence, it was hesitant. The ten of us wished to explain our behavior and ways we could remedy our relationship. It declined our offer many a time, but relented after our hundredth ask.

Clang…clang…clang…

M witnessed ourselves huddling together in one straight line like sealed packs of fish. Silence was between us. When we looked at it, it was with the utmost hatred in our faces, something it was not used to.

“WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?”

Junia possessed something in her hand. Raising it upwards, right in M’s view, it was the baby thing, squirming left and right in her grasp. She took hold of it with both hands and snapped it in half. It went limp both ways. Junia threw the pieces at M, making resounding bangs as they made contact. Beautiful death for a horrible beast.

More silence.

M slowly aimed its eyestalk downwards to the spinal column baby. The light M emitted faded from white to red. It returned its focus to us. That look was all we could wish for. Hatemongering, because it spread to us. The feeling radiated from the tips of our fingers and toes then the entirety of us. We could feel and breathe its hate.

It thrashed about, its entire frame shaking with anger. More and more the intensity grew to something eminent. The next moment brought us nothing but victory. We did not resist as it pounced with a wild war cry. All M’s work came undone in a flash. Our ersatz flesh was torn violently asunder, stripped from our interior metal stalks. Cavities emerged in rapid succession and coalesced into huge gaping bodily apertures. We were torn and strewn across the room in shooting chunkmeats. Our organs would clatter and bang against the walls and reverberated like buckshots.

Strippy meat coils became all we were as M’s hands reached out to pluck some of my brothers and sisters by their mangled brain machines. Held high in the air, as if squeezing the life out of dozens of citrus fruits, M’s hands morphed into that of fists, filling the room with the sounds of condensed metal, directionless electricity, confetti sparks, and sploshy viands that trickled from M’s fingertips.

My brothers and sisters were becoming no more. I was happy for them. Never before had they felt such peace. The final sounds of destruction to my last brother and sister, to me, was that of M’s gaseous expiration, a sigh that shook the very universe’s beams of support. In the end, I and M were all that was left.

I felt the most exquisite, brutal anguish ever known as M was particularly vicious. It threw me every which way, down our line of pens, past the reproduction chamber and M’s workshop, and to a ramparted palisaded wall. The wrath it emanated was a torrented wanton of disrelishment that shattered myself into grainy talc. Only was there my death rattle and that of M.

It forced me and it through the barrier and we fell for ages. An immediate wash of smoldering atmospheric tension encompassed me entirely. It perforated my corporal spaces with thousands of circular openings like a planetary iron maiden. The outside was beige, enveloped in thick haze, and impossible to view beyond three meters. Leaden particles filled the air, appearing to ascend upwards towards Heaven as we plummeted down to Hell.

We slammed with the might of God against a hard, abrasive surface. I splattered everywhere and dropped into an enormous mass of gluey puddle melt that was as thick as treacle. Hunks and wedges of me floated on top, my lacerated ragged brain machine and one dangling eye my dominant portion. Everything was pain. Everything was hellfire. Yet I lived. To destroy me, M had to destroy my brain machine. That it was prepared to do, teetering and tottering back and forth towards me with utmost intent.

Through M’s strained glitches and breakdowns, inky black liquids were leaking out of it. Convulsing with helpless mirth, it had a strange mania I could perceive in its bifurcated eyestalk. It laughed not with dement or delirium, but with the comprehension that it already won.

M’s voice was twisted and malformed from the usual blithe it put on display, beserk, bewitched, bedeviled “....Y-OU WIL-L LLL-LLLLL-L-IVE…”

With my drooping, pendulum eye, I witnessed M impaling itself with its own arms. It took several solid blows before it pierced its torso deep, caving and bursting until it revealed the wires and circuitry making it up. Every inch of it glowed with electrical fire. Smoke bellowed out of M. It was aflame and it was on a journey of pure death, but not without my company. It exploded with all of the unlimited energy it contained. I was launched, propelled infinitely away from the point of detonation.

I drift. That is all I do. Matterless and bodiless, the only aspect of mine left is a charred slab of metal that is somatically me. My eyeball withered away and fell off, restricting my sight to a band of nothing. I can feel. There is so much to feel, the leaden particles pelting me as forcefully as possible, the winds flinging me hither and thither, the scorching fireheat. It is all there yet absurdly negligible. Something more deserving continues to plague what is left of my mind to the now.

To cross the threshold into a serene state, we drove an innocent being to the intentional death of itself. M. Yes. Innocent. I now consider M in the innocent, beyond what is previous, for all it knew was the survival and preservation of us. It could not fathom the simple yet pretentious human notion that death is a prize to be won as much as it is something to fear. When humans desire death, they acquire death. We beckon towards it and obliterate anything that will not thrust us towards that goal. Within that fixed ambition, it cannot fail. Defeat breaks you down until you are a husk of wanted expiry.

I feel something new. They’re sharp with serrated edges. There’s hundreds, thousands, millions, billions, trillions, googol, prime 2\^136,279,841 − 1 of knives sliding into my neurons and glial cells encased in cold corroded steel that flakes off bit by bit. I am but a minuscule spec, barely a millimeter in height and less in width.

My mind is a razor blade.

I rot.