A Machine Called Earth

As the Elevator descended, Hector’s gut rose into his throat. Doubly so due to his fear. Hector was afraid of a great many things. He felt he had the weight of Arccon on his shoulders, that he was the only one who could stop the curse. He was afraid of what might come of the world if he were to fail, if he were to die at the hands of those within the control room, or if he were to give in to Ichabod, and become his new host. Hector gripped the railing and his legs began to feel weak like jelly.

Hector was yet again entering the control room unprepared. Hector had his pistol, but it was not loaded since he shot Theo. He wondered if this was going to turn out any different to the last time he entered the control room.

Finally the elevator stopped, and its elegant doors squeaked open. Hector was faced with a familiar golden light, and an alluring hum of energy that made Hector know for sure that he was at the right place. However, the hum of energy and machines was more intense than the first time Hector entered this place. “I must be deeper within the control room than before.” Hector said barely audibly to himself.

Though he was more hoping the elevator did not draw any attention to himself as it came and opened. Hector stood, back to the deepest wall of the elevator, waiting to see if anyone were to investigate.

None came, and Hector was free to venture out into the control room. As he did, and almost exactly as he left, the elevator was called up. Looking at the closed doors of the elevator, and hearing it rise upward, Hector thought, ‘I have ten minutes before the others arrive.’ And it was very reassuring for Hector, knowing that his friends would be on their way. Even if it went against his original plan.

But as the elevator rose, it was much louder than he thought. It began to shriek and moan as it ascended, and the gears and counterweight made a great clamoring, echoing loudly throughout the room. Hector was banking greatly on the element of surprise, but the very dead would have been woken by such a wailing.

Hector began to walk down a corridor of machines. These machines were all incredibly different each with a particular purpose. All no doubt incredibly important in the sustaining and keeping of the world. As Hector walked, he began to feel the magnetic pull of the room, pulling him gently toward only what he thought to be the centre. And Hector knew that at the center, he would find Ichabod.

After some time of weaving through the maze of machines, making sure not to accidentally push a button or pull a leaver as he walked through, the rumbling static of the rooms hum, seemed to dissipate. It was as though Hector’s ears were becoming accustomed to the sound and began shutting it out. For a moment Hector began to think that perhaps he was going a little deaf. ‘Sounds don’t just stop making sound.’ He thought.

But he did hear a sound that affirmed that he was not going deaf, for it was but a quiet click. Though it was not a reassuring sound, for Hector knew quite well what that sound was. It was the click that a pistol makes when pulling back the firing leaver in order to arm it for shooting.

Hector froze.

“Back so soon. You must be suffering Stockholm Syndrome or something.” Said the unmistakable voice of Moab.

Hector’s heart sank and fear began to take over. His body froze up and he began to breathe heavily. Moab chuckled, “What’s the matter? I thought you’d be happy to see me again.” Though at this point Hector had still not laid eyes on him.

“A-are you g-going to kill me?” Hector stammered.

Moab walked in front of Hector to meet him face to face, though Hector’s eyes widened when he gazed upon Moab’s corpse-like face, covered in dirty, old bandages. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure. Killing you.” Moab said, leaning right up against Hector’s face. The stench of Moab’s foul breath, almost making Hector hurl. “But Ichabod.” Moab sighed. “He wishes to speak with you again.” Moab let out a reluctant smile, revealing his rotten, black teeth.

Moab then waved his pistol, motioning Hector to begin walking. As Hector began walking, Moab grabbed Hector’s collar with one hand and pushed his pistol into Hector’s back with the other. “Off we go.” He said. The hand that was grappling onto Hector’s collar was a new addition. When Hector and Moab last met, there was not but the stump of his wrist. Now he had in place a mechanical hand, much like the contraption Moab had on his leg, in place of a foot, shin down. It was cold and metallic, but as to how Moab was able to control it, as though it was his own limb, that is a mystery.

There they made their way to the center of the control room, moving at quite a slow pace, for Moab was in obvious pain. As he breathed heavily on the back of Hector’s neck, it was apparent in the suffering tone of his wheezing breath that he was dying. Like he was reaching out for air, but could never get enough. ‘His insides must be as rotten as the outside.‘ Hector thought, but dared not make a move, lest he share the same fate of Arnold, the beastly comrade of Moab, slain for a simple lack of manners.

They made their way into a slightly darker room, though it was more like a corridor or hallway of sorts. They were faced with a staircase leading upwards. No more than an average floor high, but Moab stopped at the bottom. “Stop for a minute.” He said, pulling Hector’s shirt back like the reigns of a horse. “Let’s just stand here for a minute.” Moab was out of breath.

“Why are you still doing this?” Hector asked. “I mean, your killing yourself. Play God all you want.”

“Shut your mouth!” Moab interrupted. “Shut it, or I’ll shut it for you.”

Moab loosened his grip for he was growing weak. “I don’t have a choice. Do you really think I could just up and leave? It’s this place here that’s keeping me alive. If I leave, I’m a dead man. It is only by the power of this room, that breath still fills my lungs. Even if it is but a laboring one.” Moab let go of Hector completely. “I don’t know when breathing became so hard.” Moab wheezed. “But if my crowning rule on this land is not established, this would all have been for naught.”

“So this is what it has all boiled down to? Kingship?” Hector said. “The taking over of the control room, the curse, the trees at River-ton, Violet Town, all this was for a measly crown?”

Moab laughed. “It’s not about being at the top ma-boy, it’s about who’s not at the top. Those who came by sea, claiming the north, they came like a plague of their own. Seizing land, and taking what didn’t belong to them. They came, and took the land that they now call ‘Syre’.”

“But there has been peace!” Hector stated. “Things were the safest they’ve been for a long time. Since the ‘Great War’.”

Moab then said in a disgruntled tone, “But a forced peace being laid upon you by a giant. Peace on someone else's terms-, well, we didn’t call that peace. That is why we have worked to get rid of those northerner's by any means possible.”

“So you were from one of the native towns of Arccon? Which one?”

“I was. We all were. But what’s in a name, that place doesn’t exist anymore.”

Moab then drew his pistol back at Hector. “Enough Chit-chat, get moving!”

They began to climb the staircase, Moab’s mechanical arm clutching the railing, tapping and clanging as they went up. Moab then said, “Besides, we need no one, we need nothing, we are kings.”

There it was again. That was the phrase that Hector heard them speak the first time he entered the Control Room. It seemed to mean, they were without need. That they had everything. They could be bought for naught, for they had everything. And they certainly didn’t need things such as morality getting in their way, let alone The Keeper. But little did they know that their plans of being kings, would soon be falling to the ground, where they will surely crash and burn.