#greg powell

inktober #18 - cram

art by @not-the-blue

Uhhh,,, had to make a fake promo picture for a comic for my EPQ,,,,, heres an I robot one ft. a wildly book-inaccurate Donovan

Powell looked at his hand on the metal chair-arm and said with frozen calm, “Feel the wall, Mike.” Donovan did, and said, “You can feel it shake, Greg.” Even the  stars seemed blurred. From somewhere came the  vague impression of a huge machine gathering power with the walls, storing upenergy for a mighty leap, throbbing its way up the scales of strength. It came with a suddenness and a stab of pain. Powell stiffened, and half-jerked from his  chair.  His  sight caught Donovan and  blanked out  while Donovan’s thin shout whimpered and died in his ears. Something writhed within him and struggled against a growing blanket of ice, that thickened. Something broke loose and whirled in a blaze of flickering light and pain. It fell – and whirled and fell headlong into silence! It was death! It  was  a  world of  no  motion  and  no  sensation. A  world of  dim, unsensing consciousness; a consciousness of darkness and of silence and of formless struggle. Most of all a consciousness of eternity. He was a tiny white thread of ego – cold and afraid.Then the words came, unctuous and sonorous, thundering over him in afoam of sound: “Does your  coffin  fit  differently lately? Why not  try  Morbid M.Cadaver’s  extensible caskets? They are  scientifically designed  to  fit  the natural curves of  the  body,  and  are  enriched with Vitamin B1.  UseCadaver’s caskets for comfort. Remember – you’re – going – to – be – dead– a – long – long – time!” It  wasn’t  quite sound, but  whatever it  was, it  died  away in  an  oilyrumbling whisper. The white thread that might have been Powell heaved uselessly at the insubstantial eons of time that existed all about him – and collapsed upon itself as the piercing shriek of a hundred million ghosts of a hundred million soprano voices rose to a crescendo of melody: “I’ll be glad when you’re dead, you rascal, you. “I’ll be glad when you’re dead, you rascal, you. “I’ll be glad–” It rose up a spiral stairway of violent sound into the keening supersonics that passed hearing, and then beyond–The white thread quivered with a pulsating pang. It strained quietly–The  voices were ordinary –  and  many.  It  was  a  crowd speaking; as wirling mob that  swept through and  past  and  over him  with a  rapid, headlong motion, that left drifting tatters of words behind them. “What did they getcha for, boy? Y’look banged up–” “–A hot fire, I guess, but I got a case–” “–I’ve made Paradise, but old St. Pete–” “Naaah, I got a pull with the boy. Had dealings with him–" “Hey, Sam, come this way–” “Ja get a mouthpiece? Beelzebub says–” “–Going on, my good imp? My appointment is with Sa–” And above it all the original stentorian roar, that plunged across all: “HURRY!  HURRY!  HURRY!!!  Stir  your bones, and  don’t  keep us waiting – there are many more in line. Have your certificates ready, andmake sure Peter’s release is stamped across it. See if you are at the proper entrance gate. There will be plenty of fire for all. Hey, you – YOU DOWN THERE. TAKE YOUR PLACE IN LINE OR–” The  white thread that  was  Powell groveled backward before the advancing shout,  and  felt  the  sharp stab  of  the  pointing finger.  It  all exploded into a rainbow of sound that dripped its fragments onto an aching brain. Powell was in the chair, again. He felt himself shaking. Donovan’s eyes were opening into two large popping bowls of glazedblue. “Greg,” he whispered in what was almost a sob. “Were you dead?” “I... felt dead.” He did not recognize his own croak. Donovan was obviously making a bad failure of his attempt to stand up, “Are we alive now? Or is there more?” “I...  feel  alive.” It  was  the  same hoarseness.

[id: a digital “ink” drawing of greg powell and mike donovan from i, robot. they’re standing back to back, both looking worried and over their shoulders at each other. mike, with bright hair, freckles and a sweater vest, is holding a stick of some sort. powell’s tie is moving with him. he’s wearing a suit and has curly hair. underneath them it says, in order of size (descending height): “I, robot!” “isaac asimov” “art by asya baruch” ] 

ER 4.12 Sharp Relief