#interdimensional au

It’s been too long since last you felt a clear sense of purpose.

You’re not quite sure why you’re still here.  Waiting.

Previously, there was some natural directive woven into every thought, action, and cataclysm.  The same appeared to be true up and down your rank, while the will of the file disappears into the figurative mist of a crystalline system of power throughout the dominions.  Patrolling the Earth without further guidance, coaxing these unnatural creatures to draw out a terrifyingly regressive war upon themselves, to some unknown end, and perhaps one that may never come.

The directives felt more distant with time.  Faded.  Flat.  You don’t recall what it felt like—tasted like—to breathe the air of your home dominion.  Without a physical body you can’t even taste the air of this one. 

Time slowed to a fluidic crawl the day you encountered Simon Riley.

You recognized him immediately as a half-breed, an abomination that must have escaped the attention of local patrols for the decades he managed to exist thus far.

Abominations are to be destroyed on sight, burned from within with the same energy as the Rift, to erase them completely.

The creatures have recently secured the power of resurrection.  Though still in its infancy, it will be a matter of years before they create legions of new soldiers from the flesh of their dead, grown anew in sterile conditions, as though that would absolve them of their crimes.

He has a subtle glow to him in low light.  Not luminescent so much as everything else seems dull in comparison.

It’s been a long time since you’ve had any fun, so you decide to follow him rather than dispatch him properly.  You could always argue that you were unsure of his true nature, that you needed time to be certain.

The last patrol with which you crossed paths appeared shortly after the creatures discovered atomic energy.  You seemed mutually relieved that the end was near, that you could finally be freed of your obligations.  You parted ways with the other patrol, a cautious smile trembling on your lips and tears distorting your vision. You wonder if the other patrol is still alive, waiting patiently as you do.

You decide not to worry about what another patrol would think.  There’s no one left in charge of this dominion anyway.  Idly, you wonder if the war is over back home.

The people closest to him call him Ghost.  He wears a costume, it seems.  A walking memento mori.

He’s adept at using the various tools and technology of his time to take the lives of others.  It doesn’t take long for you to assume he doesn’t know what he is.

You wonder which of his parents was from among your ranks.  It is a crime, punishable by destruction, for siring abominations among the creatures.

This became less of a problem as the patrols thinned out and the ability to substantiate faded, becoming weaker with time.  Rumors circulated that High Command removed most of the beacons.  It would make sense if…

Nausea awakens you from thought as his large frame passes through you.  More specifically, Ghost walked through the space occupied by your unsubstantiated conscious focal point.

This is what it feels like when a half-breed’s matter moves through yours.  You’d forgotten.  The last time you experienced this was in combat, when the creatures still wore pieces of shaped metal to protect their soft areas.

The feeling of mild vertigo lingers in your head and belly as he turns around, looking from left to right, as though searching for the source of a sound he didn’t quite catch.

You hold your breath as his eyes settle on yours briefly.  He continues looking about, eyes searching.  You let go of the breath.  He didn’t see you.  It’s your paranoia.

Out of nostalgic self-preservation, you depart.  As interesting as he is, the half-breed they call Ghost is not worth the wrath of High Command.

As you melt into the churning bustle of the creatures of London, you turn just long enough to watch Ghost disappear into the crowd, but you could swear you still feel him.

Unfortunately, you know where he’s going.  You wish you didn’t.

The next few days pass with obsessive, deliberate care.  The overwhelming sense of obligation weighs on you like a lead shroud.

He’s out there, still drawing breath, occupying your thoughts, continuing to exist despite having been positively identified by a patrol.  By you.

You must destroy him.

In passing, you wonder how difficult this will be since the last time you opened the Rift was before you lost the ability to substantiate.  You’ve heard tales of patrols using the creatures’ own weapons against them—rather than using the Rift—then finding creative ways to eliminate their remains.

Nodding to yourself, you decide tomorrow’s the day.

You’ll open the Rift inside Ghost’s chest and let his corporeal matter incinerate as it’s pulled backward into the next dominion.

You close your eyes with the peace that such resolve always brings, only rivaled by the satisfaction of performing your duty.

You mull over what to do.  Where to do it.

In case you fail to open the Rift, the attempt should be made in a secured area, one from which he cannot escape.

As he slumbers in his flat, six levels above the street, you decide to stop complicating things.

This morning, you successfully substantiated for a short time, able to pick up objects and throw them, to tie knots in rope, until your matter phased abruptly, and the rope fell to the floor, straight through your hands, and coiled into a pathetic heap.

It’s the Rift or nothing.

As though remembering the chill of the evening air before going to war, you shiver.  The temperature has no physical effect on you, but time and distance have no bearing on the persistence of memory.

Taking the main staircase, you feel weightless in the high of your pursuit.

This is the most sense of purpose you’ve felt since before they harnessed the electron to light their homes in place of fire.

You pass through his front door with no problem, only enduring the annoying drag of subatomic friction of its metal components as they shear past the metallic matter woven into all living things, despite your ephemeral lack of physicality.

The half-breed is lying on his back, blanket and sheet pulled down in his unconscious state, likely with the unsettling humidity of the night air.

For an abomination, he’s beautiful.

Built like the Gods of old, the forgotten time before the dominions, when all that existed was the Rift and the Gods.

For one tortuous, destructive moment, you wonder what it would be like to not be alone anymore.  To have his rumbling, booming voice giving you purpose in the moment while his teeth and lips tease at your neck, his hands wandering elsewhere yet keeping you so unbearably close that your heart might burst.

Such foolish thoughts.

You climb up the long mass of his body, desperately ignoring the electricity of the contact in your limbs and inside surfaces of your thighs before sitting astride the thickest part of his chest.   As you place both palms just above his sternum, the static of the Rift prickles at the outer edges of your ears and down your back.

In a startled rush of physics, you suddenly find yourself on your back, the painful grip of Ghost’s hands around your upper arms, pinning you to the bed beneath him.

It’s been ages since you’ve substantiated beyond the ability to grasp and manipulate objects. You’d forgotten what it feels like to experience temperature, texture, and pain.  The smells of the room overwhelm you, but not in an unpleasant way.  His hands are sweaty and his eyes full of rage.  He’s hurting you.  You cry out as your eyelids close.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?” His hands tighten all the more, shocking you into reopening your eyes.

Pain is jarring when you’ve been denied its simple clarity for centuries.

You’re unsure how he’s done this.  Your last full substantiation ended before High Command closed the primary Rift, leaving only the beacons behind.

Your mind scrambles for options.  You quickly settle on the truth.

“I’m here to…kill you,” you manage to rasp.  “Please.  The pain—”

“Kill me?  Without any clothes on?”

He loosens his grip, giving your upper arms a glance as he does so, sitting back on his heels, his massive weight still pinning you in place at the hips.  You gather that he didn’t realize the strength of his own grip in the feverish struggle for survival as he emerged from unconsciousness. His gaze strays downward toward your chest.

“I…normally have no use for garments.  Or protection of any kind,” you add grudgingly, rubbing the feeling back into your arms.  You attempt to move your lower half but give up when he doesn’t seem motivated to move.

His eyes travel over you in the dark, taking you in slowly.

“What are you?”

Time for truth is done.  Back to the script used when caught.

“A woman.”

“You know what I’m talkin’ about.  Don’t be daft.”

Giving the situation some thought, you hastily decide to strike a deal with the half-breed.

“If you’ll explain how you captured me, I’ll confirm what I am.”

“Only confirm?”

“I’m not volunteering information, if that’s what you mean.”

He shifts his weight, observing you wince as he does so.

“That’s alright, sweetheart.  We’ve got all night.”

Next Chapter

Series Summary: You’re a soldier of a different sort, performing duties as a remnant from an ancient conflict, attending to a post with unclear purpose, drifting among the creatures known as humanity.  Ghost is something else entirely, an abomination intended for execution, but can you follow through?

A/N: I didn’t follow a specific prompt, but I wrote this for @glitterypirateduck’s Ghost writing challenge

The title is a Paradise Lost (John Milton, 1667) reference but most of you will know it from the eponymous song by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds (1994).  The Red Right Hand is symbolic of the vengeful hand of God, of divine vengeance.

Religion, for the most part, will not be a significant factor in this series. Most belief systems and cultures have some concept of a "demon."

I didn’t begin writing this with the intention to make it a series, but I find there’s more story to tell.

Series Warnings: 18+MDNI content, vague descriptions of past violence, p in v sex, a lot of naked time, conflicted emotions, implied suicidal ideation, light angst.

* = Suggestive content

** = 18+ MDNI content

*** = Filthy smut, turn back while you still can

Only published and WIP chapters have been rated.

Content in purple font is currently active WIP.

MASTERLIST (all @deadbranch content)

CHAPTER 01

A man like Ghost presents a serious problem. Your first encounter goes more than a bit sideways.

CHAPTER 02

Ghost lets you go, provided you understand he’ll kill you if you’re caught again.  You think you have a plan, but you’re actually making this up as you go along.

CHAPTER 03

You find Ghost inebriated and vulnerable in a pub.  Somehow, he manages to put you on the backfoot.

CHAPTER 04

After telling him everything he wants to know, he’s too drunk to make it home on his own.  You help him, but do you need help just as much, even if of a different sort?

CHAPTER 05*

You wake up next to Ghost.

CHAPTER 06*

You convince each other that what happens next is the right thing to do.

CHAPTER 07**

Simon fulfills you as no one else could.

CHAPTER 08***

The path to mortality is harder than you thought.

CHAPTER 09

He convince you to stay, despite all odds.

CHAPTER 10 NEW 11-09-2025

Simon breathes against your lips a question that seems more plea than inquiry.  More prayer than demand.  Desperate, but with mutually held caution that cuts so deeply you gasp when he touches you, fingertips just above your pubic hair as he pulls back to meet your gaze in the darkness.

“Is this okay?  To do this?”

“Yes,” you respond with an embarrassment of strain in your voice, the movement of your hips a less than subtle confirmation of your desire.

“Don’t have any rubbers,” he rejoins with mild but unmistakable defeat in his tone, fingertips ascending to trace the swell of each breast as though already distancing himself from the prospect of sex.

Over the years, when you’ve given in to baser desires, either from boredom or despair, you never worried about protective barriers between you and the human beneath you.  Neither disease nor conception were ever a consideration.  You barely exist on this plane, let alone share enough organic commonality to worry for the physical consequences of unrestricted intimate contact.

“Don’t need any,” you reply softly, directing him to meet your gaze again.  The shining surfaces of his eyes reflect the soft glow of yours. 

You’re reminded of the first time your eyes looked back at you from the reflective surface of a pool of water at the beginning of the war.  You’d assumed the conflict would be over before the next realignment of the beacons.  How wrong you were.

“Last night, you mentioned…you need me to strip you of your powers.  How would…I don’t understand...” he asks with harried hesitation, as though needing final confirmation before losing sight of land.

It’s such an easy thing to do, to fade into the moment, to lose purpose.  He’ll wake afterward with no memory of what he’s done for you.  You’ll finally be free but for the memory of him.

A painful lurching sensation steals the words from your mouth.  The organic mass in your chest that approximates the human heart doesn’t often betray you.  It hurts, the thought of leaving him as he slumbers, relieved of his memories.  If only you could forget, too.

“Half-breeds are marked for immediate execution, normally at a distance.  There aren’t enough beacons left to do that, but soldiers are still obligated to dispatch those like you, upon detection.”

“You’ve said that.  Still not clear why.”

“Proximity to your kind diminishes beacon connection.  We lose the power imparted by the Rift.”

“No idea what any of that means,“ he remarks with a smile as he continues to trace fingertips against your skin.

“Atomic interphasic transition is what allows me to physically exist here.  Like a trick of the light, so to speak.”

“A trick of the light,” he echoes, a smile teasing at the corners of his mouth.

“It’s the baseline of my powers here.  Something about your logarithmic connection to the Rift causes magnetic inversion…I can’t feel the Rift anymore when you touch me.”

“You need the Rift?”

Nodding, your voice catches a little when you reply.

“Without it, I’m weak.  I’ll age.  Catch illness.  I’ll eventually die, like the creatures who inhabit this dominion.”

“Maybe we do need a rubber.”

You crease your brow at his suggestion.  “What do you mean?”

“If touching me makes you…human…for lack of a better explanation…then I imagine you’ll need protection from what I’m about to give you.”

Swallowing hard, the alien sensation of caution inches up your spine.

“And what are you going to give me, Simon?”

He looks down, the way he seems to do when he blushes, even if colors fall flat in the world of grayscale in which you find yourselves.

“Food for thought.  Enough to convince you to stay.  I know the look," he says with a subtle, bitter smile.

“What look?”

“Disconnection.  You’ll be gone before I wake up.”

You’re suddenly flooded with a blend of shame and gratitude, as though you wanted to be found out.  You were hiding just to be discovered.  He’s found you.

“You don’t want me to leave?”

He shakes his head.  “No.”

His response was unexpected.  He’s a fool.  He’s sobered now, but still a fool.

Before you can reply, he leans in to kiss you again, pulling you closer by your jawline, his large hand holding you with an iron-like resolve to never let go.

“Forget the condom.  I need to feel you,” you assert between kisses, even as he parts your thighs with one hand and rolls you to your back.

“You sure?  We can wait.  I’m a patient man.  Been waiting my entire life for you, it seems.”

Nodding your head, you lift your knees around his hips as you look down between you, observing the stroking motion of his hand as he palms his erection mere inches from where he’s about to enter you.

“Need you.  We’ll sort out the damage later.”

“Damage?” he asks with gentle humor as his eyes continue to reflect the glow as you gaze up at him in the darkness.

The glow dims each time he touches you.  You’ve never been clear on the procedure for permanent severance of the connection to the Rift, but you’ve heard rumors.  Too many rumors.  If you climax with the half-breed in direct contact that should—

“Need you to ruin me, Simon.”

He makes a sound that couldn’t be described any other way but a growl as he aligns the tip of his erection with your opening.  He presses his hips forward to push into your heat, kissing your lips with a nervous tremble that’s difficult to discern which of you is more apprehensive.

You cry out as the light dies in your eyes, replaced with tears of ecstasy as he continues to push forward, your inner thighs shaking as he fills you with the unexpected stretch of his girth.

Next Chapter

You feel strange wearing garments.

It’s been decades since you’ve worn anything for more than a singular fleeting purpose. However, you would argue the worst part is the footwear. 

The thought of stepping out of this nonsense, literally and figuratively, gives you some modicum of comfort.

The image in the mirror is alien to you.  Mirrors are a funny concept.

But you look perfect.  You know what the creatures prefer, and this is it.  You imagine Ghost is no different.

The glass front walls of the department store feel good as you pass through them.  Nothing quite like stepping through an amorphous solid.  You shiver as the last molecules of silica pass through your flesh.

In passing, you recall how it felt when Ghost passed through you, without warning.

It was alarming.

The metal in his clothing and the few pieces bonded to his skeleton dragged through you with a mild lingering pain that still prickles at your senses when you recall the sensation.

You tilt your head back and shut your eyes, doing your best to clear your head.  No time for reliving sensory moments.

Time to go.

The street is moderately busy for how late it is.  This part of town is nicer than what you’re accustomed to.  All the shops have closed for the night, but pubs and clubs dot the landscape, the streetlamps and fairy lights of commerce pointing, guiding, and pulling you along.

You check more than once along the way if you’re still solid, visible.  The last thing you need is to unsubstantiate unexpectedly, your garments forming a cosmically awkward pile of textile and pretentious polymer and metal trim.

It wouldn’t be the first time you had a phase variance mishap with an audience, and, at this rate, it won’t be the last.

Thankfully, there’s a beacon within two riftwaves of the pub in which Simon Riley is imbibing and worrying about the meaning of things that can’t be undone and worries yet to exist.  Keeping your solid state shouldn’t be a problem tonight.

Shouldn’t.

You laugh softly to yourself as you avoid eye contact with passersby under the vague LED glow of the late-night scene.  You’re never certain how your eyes look to the humans around you.

It’s one of the few things you’ve always struggled to control.

Several men and a few women swivel their heads toward you as you enter.

You intentionally click your heels against the tile floor to give you more…substance.  The absence of sound tends to put humans off.

There were some close calls you’d prefer not to recall, especially now.  Out of caution, you keep your eyes downcast.

Ghost is in the far corner of the pub, leaning against the wall.  Even in your peripheral vision, he has a faint glow to him.  He’s more vibrant than his dull surroundings, but in the way that radioactive material glows faintly in true darkness.  Dangerous.  Lethal.  Hot to the touch.  To be avoided at all cost.

He raises his hand in your direction, a subtly lopsided smile on his face, but his eyes still guarded and body rigid with the vigilant need to fight.

You breathe out with resigned readiness before resuming your advance across the room.  This was a mistake.  You should've dressed in more masculine attire.  You’ve drawn too much attention.  The music isn’t loud enough to drown out the pounding of your own heart.  It’s been decades since you felt this alive.  Afraid.  Uncertain.  It’s exhilarating.

“Well…didn’t think you’d show.  What kept you, beautiful?”

You sneer, exposing your sharp teeth, unable to help yourself.  He raises his hands to shoulder level, palms toward you.

“Easy.  Didn’t mean offense.  Can’t call you anything else.  If you aim to be frightening, you’re only doing half the job.  Gorgeous isn’t exactly terrifying.”

“I’ll remember to be unattractive in the future,” you respond quietly.

“At least you’re wearing clothing this time.  And I don’t think that’s possible—”

“What’s not?”

“You managing to be unattractive.  Unless you’re a shapeshifter?”

You look him up and down for a moment, taking a stool opposite him.

“No.”

“Christ.”

“You say that a lot.”

“Beside the point.  You took too long to answer.  Can you change shape?  Faces?”

“No.”

“There’s something you’re not telling me.”

You sigh.

One of the staff takes your order.  You’re proud of yourself for remembering how to interact.  Upon turning your attention back to Ghost, you catch him giving you what appears to be appreciative non-verbal appraisal.  Humans call it ogling.

“I’m not going to kill you.”

“Well, that’s a relief,” he says with a smile before lifting his half-empty pint to his lips.

“I’m serious.”

He swallows, setting down the glass.

“I know you are.”

“I think we can help each other.”

He nods, one elbow resting on the table, the other on the back of his chair, fingers laced together as he waits for you to continue.

It’s now or never.

“I need you to strip me of my power.”

His expression constricts, both amused and shocked.  If he’d had a mouthful of beer, he would have undoubtedly spat it on the floor.

“Excuse me?”

“I’m tired of this…all of this.  I’ve been stationed here for longer than you can imagine.  If I lose my connection to…”  You’re unsure how to explain this without having more to explain.  “…I don’t want to keep going.  Don’t know if the war is over, but it is for me.  I’m done.  I want out.  And you can help me do that.”

He stares at you blankly for a moment.  His hand nearly knocks over his pint as he reaches for it without looking.

“I’ll tell you what I tell anyone planning to go AWOL…”  He takes a hard swallow of beer.  “…make sure you know where you’ll run, be willing to become someone else, but somewhere they don’t care who you are.  You don’t look like the type who can hide very well, if you don’t mind my sayin so.”

“I haven’t seen any of my kind in years.  Haven’t heard from…chain of command in much longer.”

“But I take it that doesn’t make you a free agent.”

You shake your head.

“I may already be in trouble.”

“How’s that?”

“I didn’t destroy you when I had the opportunity.”

He rolls his eyes, draining what’s left of his pint, then motioning to the barman.

“I’m making a lot of assumptions about who—what—you are.  What am I to you?  Or to your superiors?”

You stand up, suddenly less concerned about the attention you’ve drawn.  This was a waste of time at best.  A bad idea at worst.

“You’re right.  I hope your evening passes without much trouble.”

He stands up, mirroring the position of your feet.

“Where you off to now?  We were just getting acquainted.”  Despite his somewhat cheeky choice of words, his tone and eyes bely a sober concern you didn’t expect.  He doesn’t want you to leave.

“But I was going to kill you.”

“You didn’t.  I think that’s not a bad start to something.”

“To what?”

“Dunno.  There’s one way to find out, though, isn’t there?”

You sigh again.

“I suppose.”

He smiles with a guarded kindness blended with intoxicated glee.  Whatever sobriety of consciousness you thought you saw moments ago has faded into whatever he is now.

“Sit.  And tell me about where you come from.”

You retake your seat with a shake of your head.

“I can’t.”

“You will.”

You bare your teeth again.  “What makes you so confident?”

“If you want my help…you’ll tell me everything.”

He smiles, lifting his new pint in recognition of the moment.  Simon Riley is infuriating.

But he’s right.

Next Chapter

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