Anamnesis: Queen of the Apocalypse - Chapter 5

Freefall. Three, four—numbers of meters to the floor. Trundle, the ground taunts, frail, and enthrall you by the round cycle of awe-exuded intolerance you couldn’t see before.

The ever feeling of dying is what might have you’re currently experiencing right now. The thread has not been woven exponentially as you clench your consciousness together as hard as you can.

“Man, dying again is not cool at all.”

An absent spiritual state is high on death’s door.

Your thoughts of living in the moment force your eyes to open till the very end, accelerating more as you dive headfirst in the air, feeling alive yet near grave. Unbeknownst to the lady of death, all of your determination then wavers after you see a figure who radiates pink substances reaching for you at high velocity.

Ironically, you can’t believe what might happen next, closing your eyes as you can fulfill your promise.

Maybe nothing hasn’t changed at all.

And then when you open your eyes again, all of your burdens disappear. As the generic hero from the tv shows you used to watch comes at the last moment, on their way to the rescue.

In amaze, you rest your body and soul as your partner catches and embraces you within her arm in mid-air. You could see her stiff neck with many pink veins overflowing. What is she feeling right now is still a mystery, but you trust the one who carries you out of the danger, the feeling might be mutual. She looks so dignified, courageous, and bigger now, you can’t help but feel small with how your current physical self feels like.

Leap after leap, both of you manage to escape from the dangerous gas in the proximity.

Safe is what you’re feeling.

Until you remember that this bastard almost killed you many times in such a short span.

“Sweetie, you’re now a huggable little cinnamon. So small it was possible for me to princess-carry you.” She let out a chuckle, “How is the ride?”

“How is the ride, you ask?”

With every bit of strength, you accumulate all of it into a single kick straight to her chin.

Expelling yourself from each other, rolling and coating every fiber of your skins with a grainy objectively bitter substitute that already makes up the 98% of the desert, into your temporary sugar-coating phase like a damn sushi master who’s finishing their dragon rolls.

Let alone standing up, you could only muster to reangle your neck as every bit of strength you consume is all gone to the possibly broken neck of a person that you wish to eat shit.

It was worth it.

“Bloody hell!” She agitatedly shouts.

Instead of trying to conserve all of your whack-a-doodle dire needs of carbohydrates, you dart your gaze to the rascal although still lying on the ground, and reply gently, “Bloody hell!? You’re the bloody hell! Trusting you will end in a bloody bath and I’m in a perpetual hell!”

Surprisingly, she seems to have more fortitude than you think. Maybe the damage was minimal with your current child-like physical playful kick. You’re a little bit disappointed.

Little by little, she sluggishly walks up to you, throwing off her mask like it has served its true purpose.

“I could just easily protect both of us till the very end, but I’m still curious so I want to prove my prediction, hahaha.” She says as the blood drools from her mouth.

“By almost killing me.”

“Hah! Not exactly, I killed you many times. I failed, it took four hundred forty four tries to make this outcome.”

You gaze straight into her exhausted face, furrowing your left eyebrow with disgusted lips which might actually be an expression of a machine that does not compute—if you are one.

She continues, “A deal is a deal and I’m not a deal breaker, unlike you. Or should I say, the old you.”

She finally stands firmly before you, reaching out her hand once again. Closing her gentle pink eyes, she tightly smiles, “The name’s Chronos. Your trusted lil’ reliable companion, but alas, memories might not last, yet I wish to start anew, so shall we? Dear partner.”

The hand attached to your torso won’t budge an inch. You can only admire her and the view of a heavenly battle in the background with few humanoid figures razing the sky as the flares and shockwaves are distributed throughout the vicinity.

You can’t help but smile, you really want to accept her hand but you can only do it verbally.

“I might not be your real partner.”

Yet she still acknowledges you.

You don’t realize it but you stutter in embarrassment “If you really accept a deadweight like me, then I wouldn’t mind.”

“Cute.”

“Hmm?”

“Nothing!”

A huge explosion can be perceived like the first rocket launching ever done by a certain aeronautics and space administration in some apes’ world trying their clumsy hands to reach the moon. In this case it ends up becoming a clear destructive phenomenon timed magnificently as the sun rises from the grand yellow east, greeting all miserable life with warmth, and one of them is you.

Chronos whines, “Uhm, my hand is getting a lil’ bit cramps here.” As her hand is still waiting for your reply.

“Oh right, you can keep your hand of yours. Just let me be here to enjoy the sunlight.”

“You’re not a plant.”

She throws you her first layers of clothing, the fabric is surprisingly rather hard and bendy stiff instead of flexible, giving you some shock of pain to some of your burnt skin.

Chronos throws her gaze away from you, “At least hide your skin like a proper lady, as I don’t want to be called a predator—and let’s move to somewhere safe, those battle-maniacs behind me are rather rough when things get heated.”

“Now?”

“You don’t want some chunks of the calamity’s body parts flying right into your head, don’t you?”

“I thought it was obvious that I can’t even move an inch of my leg—”

A chunk the size of your palm from the Timoreia’s body part strikes you down from the sky, hitting your forehead at rather dangerous speed, and knocking you unconscious.

The reality shifts into a perpetual darkness left and right as far as you can see. It is the familiar void you make friends with, right after your deathbed. In front of you stand a reflection of someone, possibly yourself. Shutting down her eyes, she has a petite grey fresh exterior, a rather fluffy long silver hair that entices you to cuddle it until you realize your whole control of your physical appearance is close to none.

You can only stare.

What is the reason for all of this event? Why are you even forced to dwell within this body? What happened to the real owner?

So many questions yet too little hint for the answer.

Just before you can piece all of the puzzle together, a bright light greets your retinas as you tries to shield it with your hands, only to notice your left wrist is currently attached with a small tube, like an IV drips infusion from a see-through liquid pack. Your right wrist meanwhile is being infused with a rather unfamiliar blue liquid on the hanged pack.

Although extremely annoying, your eyes slowly get accustomed to the bright source of light from the ceiling.

Knocking can be heard.

The door opens, revealing a familiar figure with a neck-length wavy pink hair. She’s still wearing her operational apparel ready like there is no tomorrow. It might be only a few days from the last dumpster fire.

“You’re in a coma for two whole weeks.” Chronos says without further ado, as if she reads your mind.

“Urgh.”

Behind her appears another person, a rather tall and curvy short haired blonde with a long-eared owl’s feature sticking to the sides from her head, she wears seemingly informal clothing with no equipment for fighting whatsoever. The only problem you have with this person is the fact that she glares at you like you’ve killed her family and stole her purse. A rather stiff and scary expression for someone as attractive as her. Menacingly, she then approaches you.

“Long Leggy, what is a green apple muffin to you?”

“What!?” You instantly reply in panic, sounding like an aggravating person rather than a scared one.

“Ah, so she really lost her memories.” The blonde says.

Chronos meanwhile is rummaging through her backpacks in the background, “Told ya.”

“W-who are you!? What do you want from me!?”

“Relax, sweetie. Thuljas’ default expression is always like that from the day she was born.”

Thuljas turns her neck in a sharp turn inhumanely facing Chronos, “Refer me by my codename, Compose.”

“Right, right, Ms. Bleeding from Rain.”

Thuljas only monotonically replies, like she’s already got used to the possibly repeated bullshit, “It’s Rainbleed, Oh, Ms. Unsympathetic.”

“I’m utterly confused.” You say.

“Ah my apologies.” She eerily snaps back her neck and glares at you, her smile contradicts her sharp glare that can turn people to feel guilty the moment their eyes meet. “Seeing your condition, I must bring you the bad news.”