Martyr
The world will be delivered by us
This story was written for Flash Fiction February by Bradley Ramsey.
If you want to read more of my writings, please read my published books: The Seekers: Soul-Ties, Kirin, and Perrin Peters. And if you don’t want to buy my books but still want to support me, I’m on Patreon. And if you prefer one-time payments, you can Buy Me A Pizza or a Coffee.
Content warning:
Death and destruction on a universe scale
Ritualistic piles of corpses.
No matter how much I struggle, trying to rip myself free, it’s futile. A group of punishers holds me tight while another punisher puts the Devourer on me. As soon as the “suit” touches my skin, it grows teeth that pierce my flesh. A squeal of pain only makes my struggle more energetic, yet I cannot shake off the punishers. The Devourer tasted my blood now, and it goes rampant. No longer does the punisher need to put it on me, for this living, breathing “suit” does what it was made for and envelops my whole body as I shriek and yelp from pain.
Finally, it’s over. The snow-white suit has devoured my skin, replacing it with itself. Even if I could remove it, I would bleed out to death. The punishers are gone, for I no longer can disobey the orders. Well, I can try, but my skin would still make my body do what they want.
They. The ones who caught me. The ones who accused me of great crimes.
Nay! My work was important and pure. The universe is ending, and the pyres of flesh are the only way to stop the apocalypse. The prophecy has been foretold, and I am its humble servant. Yet those fools chose to fight the aliens rather than follow my lead. They call the aliens “invaders.” They think they’re here to conquer, but I alone know the truth! There will be no conquest, only destruction.
Defeated, I await my fate in this small, dark room, marred by my blood, listening to the cries of other so-called martyrs who will be forced to fight by their devourers. I await my fate, knowing that there’s no hope now for anyone.
~*~
Accompanied by a platoon of martyrs, my small space fighter zooms towards some planet whose orbit is to be my grave. Big and small yellow spots cover the planet, slowly growing bigger and brighter, as the planet itself burns, surrounded by a swarm of black dots that rain bombs on it. My hands, holding the controls, do their own thing, and my fighter starts spewing blaster fire at the invaders. As a portion of the swarm breaks away from the planet and starts raining fire towards us, my legs also do their thing, maneuvering the craft at such velocities that I wouldn’t perceive a thing without the suit.
My body fights and fights, as I’m surrounded by the colorful cacophony of death, counting seconds until an alien’s blast finally connects with my fight—
Boom!
Everything shakes, and I zoom towards the planet uncontrollably. Everything goes yellow, then white, as I enter the atmosphere and become a fireball. The vibrations grow and grow until all goes black before my eyes. Am I finally dead? Am I still falling?
Boom!
Something yanks at me. Cold water starts filling the cabin. The suit orients itself and rips me out of the wet grave.
How the fuck am I still alive?
The suit gives me no answer, swimming towards the burning shore faster than a motorboat. The fire is higher than me, and it is everywhere, producing black smoke that obscures the battle among the stars. Producing so much searing heat that I must already be dead. Yet, the suit doesn’t care about the expectations of pesky humans. It is yearning for a fight, just like I once yearned to save the world.
The Devourer propels me forward, finding its way in between the fires. Here they are, the aliens, running from one house to another on their fifty legs, holding flamethrowers in their six hands, torching the neighborhood.
Rrrrraaawwrrrrr!
A primal, high-pitched cry unwillingly leaves my lips as my suit dives into the black swarm. It leaps and leaps, tearing the aliens into pieces with my hands, stomping them with my legs, and ripping them open with my mouth. The taste of alien meat and blood makes me puke violently in mid-air, but the suit doesn’t care about me feeling like spitting my spleen out. It keeps going and going, dodging enemy fire, and it keeps on killing.
Somehow, I survive. The burning neighborhood is littered with black, mutilated corpses of these centipede-like creatures. But this victory is tiny, for there are billions more out there on this planet alone. I look at the fire, smoke, blood, viscera, death, and destruction around me, and somehow, I feel like I’m home.
“Listen,” I address the suit in my thoughts. “If it’s all the same to you, let’s make the pyres.”
And the suit agrees, finally giving me the reins. Feeling free at last, I breathe deeply, spit out the last bits of my vomit, and let myself loose.
Just like I used to put corpses of children at the bottom, I first pile up corpses of aliens with green eyes. Just like I used to put the corpses of women in the middle, I do the same with brown-eyed aliens. Just like I used to put the corpses of men at the very top, letting their penises dangle in the wind, I put the yellow-eyed aliens at the top.
Finding a working flamethrower proves to be easier than figuring out how to make it work, but I manage and set the pyre of flesh ablaze.
As I take a few steps back to enjoy the sight of my deed, I feel a change. The Devourer is purring like a big cat, sending streams of hot happiness down my veins.
Maybe I got the prophecy wrong? Maybe the pyres of flesh were never supposed to deliver the universe from the brink of death and to set it free? Maybe I was the world the prophecy talked about?
“Can we go home now?” I ask the suit, and just like I expected, it says yes.
I’m the suit now, but the suit is also me. And we shall make glorious things together. Gory, despicable, wicked, glorious things! The world will not be devoured by aliens. It will be delivered by us.
The End
Anton Anderson, 2026
Nice! I like the idea of a living exosuit.