Warp: The Hell at Home - Part 1

Life, Failure / Mishap

Warp struggles with the ghosts of his past, even as he prepares to deal with the demons of his present.

Written by Chris Knight   Frank was sitting in his living room, or at least, he thought he was. Something wasn’t quite right about it—there was an ethereal quality that put him ill at ease. His attention was diverted by the sound of a familiar meow. He turned, and where he should have seen the dark shape of Charcoal, he saw the flash of something silver dart away.   “Sliver?” he asked, dumbfounded, as he rose.   He followed the shape, the corridors of his home bending and elongating as he did so. The strange twists prevented him from making any real headway, giving him only fleeting glimpses as he turned round corners and passed through doorways.   He turned another corner, and the corridor became nothing more than a single strip of pale concrete surrounded by darkness. At its end sat Sliver, just as he remembered her.   “What are you doing here, girl?” he asked softly, kneeling down to coax her to him. But she remained still, the deep blue of her eyes seeming to bore into him—almost accusingly.   “She’s here to remind you,” came a voice that made Frank’s chest clench.   He knew that rich Dublin purr only too well. He turned to face the scowling figure of Maeve O'Leary, clad in her brown and green suit—the one she’d worn as the Earthmother all those years ago. Her eyes pierced straight through him, causing something inside him to recoil in shame.   “After all, it’s your fault she’s dead, isn’t it?” she continued, voice laced with scorn. “Just as it’s your fault I’m dead.” As she spoke, she seemed to flicker; her once clean suit was now dripping with blood, running down her face and matting her copper-orange hair.   She slowly advanced toward him, and he fell back reflexively, scrambling to retreat from the vengeful specter.   “But it wasn’t enough that you killed me, was it?” she said, anger and pain suffusing her very being. “You had to kill her too? She was only twelve years old!” she shouted, causing Frank to flinch, unable to look her in the eye any longer.   “I’m sorry,” he said, voice quivering. It sounded pathetic, even to him.   “Sorry?!” she asked incredulously. “You think sorry can make up for what you did?”   Frank looked up, then recoiled, eyes wide. She had changed again. This time, a length of rebar was jutting from just between her breasts, lodged—he knew—in her heart. She was standing right in front of him, though he hadn’t seen her move.   She grabbed hold of him, her grip stronger than any metal, and pulled him toward her. He gasped, chest exploding with pain as he felt the bar sink into him, deeper and deeper. The pain grew with each passing moment until he was certain he would pass out, but he didn’t—he couldn’t. Instead, he was forced to endure the same pain he knew she had experienced that day. Her arms locked around his back as their chests finally touched, and she began to squeeze.   “Please,” he managed to gasp.   Suddenly, he dropped forward, and the pain began to fade away as he gasped in relief—only for that relief to die in his throat when he heard a new, though no less familiar, voice.   “It’s no less than you deserve,” said the voice. “You’re a monster.”   He looked up into the angry eyes of a small girl, and tears began to run down his face as he nodded.   “I know,” he said miserably.   “You think running around in a suit of armor, beating up criminals will somehow redeem you?” came the Earthmother’s voice again, this time from directly behind him. He didn’t move.   “I just want to do some good,” he said, his voice thick.   “You’re wasting your time,” she said softly, leaning near his head. “You’re nothing more than a murderer, and that’s all you’ll ever be remembered for.”   He made to stand, to run, to try and escape, hands reaching out for something to pull him up and forward. They found something soft and warm. He looked up again, staring once again into those small, angry eyes—eyes now equal parts anger, fear, and pain—as his hands closed around the throat of little Isabelle O’Leary.   He tried to let go, tried to pull away, but his hands seemed to have a will of their own, and they held fast, squeezing tighter as he struggled. All the while, Isabelle stared him down, her face beginning to turn red, then quickly purple, as his grip tightened further.   Tears were running freely down both their faces, one fighting to release his grip, the other seeming resigned to her fate. He watched her mouth move, unable to look away, as she spelled out, “Monster”—just as he felt, as much as he heard, her neck snap.   He flew bolt upright, heart beating furiously, his breathing labored as he returned fully to the waking world. He flexed his hands, trying to rid himself of the still-vivid feeling, tears pouring down his face.   He felt Charcoal nuzzle up against him then, mewling in a concerned tone, his large brown eyes gazing up at him reassuringly.   Frank wiped at his eyes before reaching down and stroking Charcoal’s head gratefully, his breathing and his heart rate returning to something approaching normal, adrenaline still pumping through his system.   He looked up and out his bedroom window. The sun had barely begun to rise, but he knew he wouldn’t get any more sleep. He rose, grabbed his phone from the bedside table, then made his way to the kitchen to make himself and Charcoal some breakfast.   After he’d finished his bacon and egg sandwich, and Charcoal was happily tucking into his plate of breakfast salmon, Frank quickly flicked through his phone and shot off a quick message to Rue.