Generally when Ambrose took over a body, he was overwhelmed by how NOISY life was: the pumping heart, the violent contractions of muscles, the bellows of the lungs. But here? Silence. Warsman was little more than a malicious homunculus, a golem created to be the destroyer of peoples rather than their guardian. But what was the secret to erasing the vile symbols that gave him life?
Now, Ambrose looked out through Warsman’s eyes; Warsman’s voice sounded around him. Ambrose ignored his insults, exerting all his concentration on forcing Warsman to tear himself apart. Wait, what was this? “While you are in there, feel the sensation of killing someone else - know it AS I DO!” A rifle’s sight passed before Ambrose’s eyes. In the crosshairs was a small figure. Ambrose struggled against Warsman for control, but it was too late…
‘NO! He was going to be my sidekick. We were going to have amazing adventures together.’ A montage of what might have been played before Ambrose’s mind’s eye: They would have terrified little old ladies. They would have watched Ghostbusters. They would have had a TV show, ‘My Best Friend is a Poltergeist’. They would have teamed up with Scooby Doo. They would have accidentally summoned the spirit of Peter the Great, and would have had to stop him from crashing all the wheelbarrows in America into hedges. Peter the Great’s fondness for wheelbarrows was one of the few things Ambrose remembered of Russian history. But now…now Ambrose just hoped that the little kid whose name he never knew had gone to a better place. Warsman certainly would not.
The mother’s sorrow was like a million hot needles. Her anger burned. But there was something else there…a desire for revenge. It was electric, and Ambrose felt the strength of vengeance coursing through him. A MOTHER’S need for vengeance no less. There were few forces so strong. Ambrose combined the power with his own sorrow, and knew that he could now do what needed to be done.
Ah, but if the two combatants had known a simple fact, none of this might have happened! If they had merely asked themselves a basic question, i.e., what were human families doing on a Chuck E. Cheese’s in the middle of outer space? Well, the answer was simple: They were not human. Not even close. Biologically they were closest to the monster in John Carpenter’s classic horror film, ‘The Thing’. Shape shifting monstrosities, it took more than a few bullets to kill them…
“Would you like to see more, untermensch?” Warsman said, and Ambrose could hear the self-satisfaction in his voice. “Wagen Sie es nicht mit mir reden Sie demütig Wurm-Esser, Sie Schemel zum Ruhm. Du bist nichts anderes als ein Tier, eine sinnlose Sache, die nichts Besseres, als in den eigenen Schwanz essen kennt. Werde ich euch aus Ihrer Elend,*” Ambrose snarled, taking the knowledge of the language from Warsman’s own mind. His grammar was poor, like something taken from Google Translate, but the meaning was clear. “You call me untermensch, but you have held back the progress of the world for centuries! You slaughter our thinkers, our visionaries, our children! What is lower than that?” Ambrose began to concentrate his power.
Warsman reached for his gun, but Ambrose had no intention of letting him pick it up again. With everything he had, he was going to release a telekinetic blast, bursting Warsman like a rotten bratwurst. Let him have a taste of Hell, it might do him good.
The child began to stir, wiry tentacles emerging from around the bullet hole. His mother had grown dozens of eyes and razor claws. The rest of the people tore themselves from their sanctuary on the ceiling, all undergoing grotesque metamorphoses. They screamed in synch, a chilling sound. Then they waited to see what would unfold.
*"Don't you dare talk to me you lowly worm-eater, you footstool to glory. You're nothing more than a beast, a mindless thing that knows nothing better than to eat its own tail. I will put you out of your misery."