I woke in the late afternoon and was shambling into the lounge room when a huge barbed psychic harpoon tore through the wall, winged Jenny who was reclining on the couch, and buried itself deep in the opposite wall - where the surrounding brickwork changed in its nature to become a form of highly reflective crystal. The Slammerkin were silent, their vile scaled bodies huddled together in fear.
The air became dishwater, the surfaces around me softened, beginning the process of decay. The Deadly Spores were in the room - and in overwhelming force. A blitzkrieg so powerful there was nothing to be done but ride it out.
The crystalline substance was propagating, cracking along the fault lines, disgorging more crystal. Rays of light lanced randomly about the room, in searing colours from an impossible spectrum, seeking non-spore substance, seeking flesh.
Already, Jenny was speaking in an aberrant voice, of things she would not have thought to say prior to the attack. Wearisome things. Ghastly things painted to entice.
Myself, I could not speak, and impotently shook my head from side to side. All efforts resulted in an involuntary spastic flailing that left me weaker and further disassociated. I reached deep into myself for the power to resist, but found nothing. I was buffeted on an angry tide of those most deadly spores, the elite among their kind, the long-range infiltrators, called by some The Nebula.
We were locked in a crystal prison. I watched with resignation as the walls made popping and fizzing noises, briefly became glass, and then were lined with dripping hexagons, honeycomb, each cell oozing a viscous tan fluid sweeter than the mind could bear.
And I gorged on that irresistible slime, forgetting the sweet lies coming like a black stream from Jenny's mouth, forgetting myself, and my purposes.
Few can prevail against such an onslaught, but fortunately its very ferocity seemed to drain - at least temporarily - the distributed power of the Deadly Spores. There was, thankfully, time after that to regroup.
The following day, we participated in a small war council. Organised resistance to the Spores is rare. There are larger entities claiming to address the problem, but on the ground it is almost always a personal thing. Soldiers must fight alone, and are often too psychically compromised to risk friendly contact. Their tactics, also, are often too private to divulge.
But from time to time there are small, brief gatherings where intelligence may be shared, strategies evolved and heads bent in desperate prayer.
We left the council and lay together for a time listening to the new P J Harvey album, White Chalk. It seemed like we had made it through.
For one day, I continued to believe that we had survived the attack unmarred, but tonight I saw dark clouds in Jenny's eyes and a cold alien wisdom directing her desires.
The air became dishwater, the surfaces around me softened, beginning the process of decay. The Deadly Spores were in the room - and in overwhelming force. A blitzkrieg so powerful there was nothing to be done but ride it out.
The crystalline substance was propagating, cracking along the fault lines, disgorging more crystal. Rays of light lanced randomly about the room, in searing colours from an impossible spectrum, seeking non-spore substance, seeking flesh.
Already, Jenny was speaking in an aberrant voice, of things she would not have thought to say prior to the attack. Wearisome things. Ghastly things painted to entice.
Myself, I could not speak, and impotently shook my head from side to side. All efforts resulted in an involuntary spastic flailing that left me weaker and further disassociated. I reached deep into myself for the power to resist, but found nothing. I was buffeted on an angry tide of those most deadly spores, the elite among their kind, the long-range infiltrators, called by some The Nebula.
We were locked in a crystal prison. I watched with resignation as the walls made popping and fizzing noises, briefly became glass, and then were lined with dripping hexagons, honeycomb, each cell oozing a viscous tan fluid sweeter than the mind could bear.
And I gorged on that irresistible slime, forgetting the sweet lies coming like a black stream from Jenny's mouth, forgetting myself, and my purposes.
Few can prevail against such an onslaught, but fortunately its very ferocity seemed to drain - at least temporarily - the distributed power of the Deadly Spores. There was, thankfully, time after that to regroup.
The following day, we participated in a small war council. Organised resistance to the Spores is rare. There are larger entities claiming to address the problem, but on the ground it is almost always a personal thing. Soldiers must fight alone, and are often too psychically compromised to risk friendly contact. Their tactics, also, are often too private to divulge.
But from time to time there are small, brief gatherings where intelligence may be shared, strategies evolved and heads bent in desperate prayer.
We left the council and lay together for a time listening to the new P J Harvey album, White Chalk. It seemed like we had made it through.
For one day, I continued to believe that we had survived the attack unmarred, but tonight I saw dark clouds in Jenny's eyes and a cold alien wisdom directing her desires.
