Throwback Thursday: Concept Magnus Scene
This is an early sketch when I was
feeling my way around the characters of Genesis Dissentire, probably from about four or five years ago? It was specifically meant to
show General Hasson's character, and what kind of a villain he was at the time.
Needless to say, Hasson's character has changed dramatically since this
sketch...
Oedipus Waley was dragged down the identical hallways and up (or was it
down?) four turbolifts before his captors brought him to the large
chamber. The lieutenant punched a number in the pad by the door, which
opened like a mouth into blackness.
“Why’s it dark?” Waley queried timorously. The lieutenant turned a mocking sneer on him.
“Are you afraid of the dark, Waley?”
Waley decided not to answer this question and instead allowed himself to be led into the darkness and deposited in what he guessed was the middle of the room. He figured that his captors had their visors switched to night vision, or else they were as blind as he was. One of the two guards who handled him stepped back while the other fingered Waley’s armcuffs. Waley jerked as the cuffs become overwhelmingly heavy and hauled him to the floor, contacting the marbled surface with an echoing crack. The cuffs were magnetized to the ground because the gravity had been increased on them. Waley shifted in place on his knees as the footsteps of the three men began to recede.
“Where are you going?”
The lieutenant’s sardonic tones drifted from a small square of light that had opened up in the darkness.
“Out for a walk. You’re not our problem anymore.”
Waley was on edge for the next hour or so. He kept twitching and swinging his head around at the slightest imaginary sound he heard. The lieutenant had been right about one thing: Waley did not particularly like the dark. He drifted off to sleep after nervous fits involving screaming at nothing in particular and wriggling vainly against his bonds, only to be awakened by his own fear. Waley didn’t know how long he had been in the chamber. It could have been mere hours, but the darkness made it seem like days. It was after one of his hysterics that he finally heard something that was not a product of his imagination. The rhythmic clack of boot heels on flooring.
“Hello? Who’s there?”
“My name is of no concern to you, Mr. Waley.”
The voice was harsh, cold in nature; evidence that whoever it belonged to had been through much, had fought his way past trials, and was still alive to bear witness. The boot heels clicked closer towards Waley, who was trying desperately to determine where they were coming from, until they stopped in front of him, giving Waley a start. He strained his eyes against the pitch vainly, his heart hammering a rapid, even beat that sounded like drums in his ears.
“I’m sorry for the lack of light, but that’s the way I always see things. I find that I enjoy these sessions better when my subjects share in my—disability,” the voice said darkly. A jolt of pure fear stiffened Waley. This was most undoubtedly General Magnus Hasson, Ducard’s right hand man and rumored to be his personal assassin. Waley jumped, chaffing his restraints when something touched his face. The thing separated itself into five individual, equally sized objects—fingers—that probed his features. Waley clenched his eyes shut as the gloved hand made its way up his face. The fingers danced over his mouth, almost excitedly.
“This is your mouth, right?”
Waley didn’t respond. He was too busy forcing his mouth into an impenetrable thin line. The gloved hand ran up and down his mouth before retreating. Waley almost breathed a sigh of relief before he felt a blinding pain rip into his jaw. He let out a cry, but quickly regretted doing so. The gloved fingers shot into his mouth, near his throat, causing Waley to gag. There was a click, like a container being opened, and a wriggling, wet noise came close to his head. Waley broke into a nervous sweat and struggled to move his head away, a sickening feeling permeating throughout him. The hand held tight, keeping Waley’s head in place.
“This,” Hasson began, “is a parasite. Now, this particular parasite is none other than the infamous Genesii Thought Killer. You’ve no doubt heard of them—it’s common for parents to tell their children that the Thought Killer has crawled into their ears and caused them to become forgetful. The actual process is more graphic. The Genesii Thought Killer enters your body through your mouth, nose, or ear and bores its way to your brain, where it slowly eats away at your mind. You will first experience major memory gaps, then the inability to understand how to speak or what is being said to you. Next, you will loose control of your sight, and finally, the breakdown of unconscious actions and processes before the worm consumes your cerebellum”—Hasson’s tone shifted to that of morbid amusement—“The fun part is when you forget how to breathe.”
Waley squirmed harder against the hand in his mouth and the armcuffs keeping him bolted to the floor when something small, warm, and slippery was thrust down his throat. His first reaction was to retch, but he never got the chance to. Hasson removed his hand from Waley’s mouth and forced it closed, tilting his head backwards with a firm grip so that the wriggling mass tumbled down into his esophagus. Waley cringed, dry heaving before he finally swallowed. Hasson kept his head up for a minute or so before letting go and stepping back.
“Now, we wait. The whole process will be over within forty-eight hours, relatively quick. Enjoy your final hours, Mr. Waley, at least, while you can remember.”
Waley sagged, emitting a pathetic whimper. Hasson turned on his heel and left.
“Why’s it dark?” Waley queried timorously. The lieutenant turned a mocking sneer on him.
“Are you afraid of the dark, Waley?”
Waley decided not to answer this question and instead allowed himself to be led into the darkness and deposited in what he guessed was the middle of the room. He figured that his captors had their visors switched to night vision, or else they were as blind as he was. One of the two guards who handled him stepped back while the other fingered Waley’s armcuffs. Waley jerked as the cuffs become overwhelmingly heavy and hauled him to the floor, contacting the marbled surface with an echoing crack. The cuffs were magnetized to the ground because the gravity had been increased on them. Waley shifted in place on his knees as the footsteps of the three men began to recede.
“Where are you going?”
The lieutenant’s sardonic tones drifted from a small square of light that had opened up in the darkness.
“Out for a walk. You’re not our problem anymore.”
Waley was on edge for the next hour or so. He kept twitching and swinging his head around at the slightest imaginary sound he heard. The lieutenant had been right about one thing: Waley did not particularly like the dark. He drifted off to sleep after nervous fits involving screaming at nothing in particular and wriggling vainly against his bonds, only to be awakened by his own fear. Waley didn’t know how long he had been in the chamber. It could have been mere hours, but the darkness made it seem like days. It was after one of his hysterics that he finally heard something that was not a product of his imagination. The rhythmic clack of boot heels on flooring.
“Hello? Who’s there?”
“My name is of no concern to you, Mr. Waley.”
The voice was harsh, cold in nature; evidence that whoever it belonged to had been through much, had fought his way past trials, and was still alive to bear witness. The boot heels clicked closer towards Waley, who was trying desperately to determine where they were coming from, until they stopped in front of him, giving Waley a start. He strained his eyes against the pitch vainly, his heart hammering a rapid, even beat that sounded like drums in his ears.
“I’m sorry for the lack of light, but that’s the way I always see things. I find that I enjoy these sessions better when my subjects share in my—disability,” the voice said darkly. A jolt of pure fear stiffened Waley. This was most undoubtedly General Magnus Hasson, Ducard’s right hand man and rumored to be his personal assassin. Waley jumped, chaffing his restraints when something touched his face. The thing separated itself into five individual, equally sized objects—fingers—that probed his features. Waley clenched his eyes shut as the gloved hand made its way up his face. The fingers danced over his mouth, almost excitedly.
“This is your mouth, right?”
Waley didn’t respond. He was too busy forcing his mouth into an impenetrable thin line. The gloved hand ran up and down his mouth before retreating. Waley almost breathed a sigh of relief before he felt a blinding pain rip into his jaw. He let out a cry, but quickly regretted doing so. The gloved fingers shot into his mouth, near his throat, causing Waley to gag. There was a click, like a container being opened, and a wriggling, wet noise came close to his head. Waley broke into a nervous sweat and struggled to move his head away, a sickening feeling permeating throughout him. The hand held tight, keeping Waley’s head in place.
“This,” Hasson began, “is a parasite. Now, this particular parasite is none other than the infamous Genesii Thought Killer. You’ve no doubt heard of them—it’s common for parents to tell their children that the Thought Killer has crawled into their ears and caused them to become forgetful. The actual process is more graphic. The Genesii Thought Killer enters your body through your mouth, nose, or ear and bores its way to your brain, where it slowly eats away at your mind. You will first experience major memory gaps, then the inability to understand how to speak or what is being said to you. Next, you will loose control of your sight, and finally, the breakdown of unconscious actions and processes before the worm consumes your cerebellum”—Hasson’s tone shifted to that of morbid amusement—“The fun part is when you forget how to breathe.”
Waley squirmed harder against the hand in his mouth and the armcuffs keeping him bolted to the floor when something small, warm, and slippery was thrust down his throat. His first reaction was to retch, but he never got the chance to. Hasson removed his hand from Waley’s mouth and forced it closed, tilting his head backwards with a firm grip so that the wriggling mass tumbled down into his esophagus. Waley cringed, dry heaving before he finally swallowed. Hasson kept his head up for a minute or so before letting go and stepping back.
“Now, we wait. The whole process will be over within forty-eight hours, relatively quick. Enjoy your final hours, Mr. Waley, at least, while you can remember.”
Waley sagged, emitting a pathetic whimper. Hasson turned on his heel and left.
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