Half-Light: Passing the Torch

By AngusEcrivain

An Idiot's Guide to Killing a Golem

Dan grimaced, his body wracked with no small amount of pain. This should really have been of no surprise, for he was definitely getting on a bit. His appearance may well have been that of a caucasian male in his mid-to-late thirties, but chronologically he was older than time itself; there had never been enough candles, nor would there ever be enough created, for it to be possible to celebrate a birthday in the most traditional of fashions.

Rain poured from the sky in torrents, as if every iteration of every deity were communally emptying their bedpans. As silly as that sounded he knew that it could conceivably be the case as he had spent time with a deity or two over the years, in the biblical sense.

The falling water mixed with the blood, his blood, with which his face was coated, and each drop that hit his face stung many an open wound.

"I know for damn sure golems never used to be this fucking hardcore." He muttered the words as he struggled to his feet, his aching body protesting with every single movement. "Time and space, space and time. All of it, and the world I get fucking trapped on suffers frequent demonic incursions. Just my fucking luck."

He was not expecting the creature to reply, it was essentially nothing more than hardened clay with a fire behind its eyes, after all, and was therefore not surprised when no reply was forthcoming.

Dan reached over his right shoulder, and briefly fumbled around in the pocket of temporal energy that resided there. He wasn't entirely sure what he was looking for. The time was, aeons or perhaps weeks past, time held little meaning to a man who had seen the end and the beginning and all in between, after all, that the pocket knew exactly what it was he needed. When he pulled out a pair of hedge trimming shears and flourished them menacingly before realising what, exactly, he held in his hands, he sighed.

"Well, fuck..." For the briefest of moments he pondered, as still the rain siled down and huge rivulets of water ran down his greying, unkempt dreadlocks.

The golem approached, the fire behind its eyes burning more brightly as it called upon more of the magic from which it was created.

Dan, or Sir Daniel James Colt to use his full title, was in no doubt at all that he could not go another round with the creature. Back in the day he'd have kicked it so hard in its clay-moulded nuts that it would have run crying to its clay-moulded momma telling stories of the mean kid who'd stolen its lunch money.

But this wasn't back in the day. This was now.

Still the golem approached, lumbering towards him with hefty, deadly purpose.

Sir Colt reached a decision. He flung the sheers high into the air, waited a few seconds, and leapt after them. He never took his eyes from the golem's eyes, and watched as the creature followed the shears' trajectory closely. Dan then flipped in mid-air. Catching the shears with the full force of his right boot he sent them straight into the golem's eyes, one shear in each.

Immediately the fire behind the creature's eyes went out, extinguished in the most unlikely of ways, and as Dan landed easily, albeit a tad painfully, upon his feet, he swore he heard the creature mutter, "We looked at the stars to see the fire in their eyes..." as it teetered and eventually fell to the ground, whereupon it shattered into thousands of pieces.

The Occasional Hate-Fuck

"The Sun does not abandon the Moon to darkness." Dan inclined his head slightly left as the speaker, a rather attractive redhead, took a seat beside him at the bar.

"Nope, but it sure as fuck gives opportunity for the crazies to come out to play," he replied with a chuckle. "What're you drinking, Clara? More to the point, what the fuck are you doing here?"

"I'm the Clara of this world, not the one you know and hate-fuck on occasion," she replied, directing the bartender to a bottle of whiskey with a deft flick of her wrist. "That being said, if you want to go a round or two..?"

"Pretty sure there are plenty of other werewolf bars you can visit if you wanna' get laid, and besides I'm honestly not even sure I have the energy. So what is it you really want?"

"This world needs protection, more than I'm able to give," she replied with a shrug. "And before you get on your high-horse I'm not asking you to step up. I've no doubt you could serve as that protector, but I can tell just by looking at you that as soon as you find a way back to your own reality you'll be out of here faster than I can crush a man to death with my thighs.

"No. What I want, Sir Colt, is for you to find that protector. For all your faults, and let's be honest there are a metric fucktonne of those, you always seem to manage to get the best out of people. I've seen it first hand, kinda... I mean, I've experienced the memories of seeing it first hand, whether I was actually there or not."

"Wibbly-wobbly timey-wimey?"

"And that's putting it mildly." Clara knocked back her whiskey, and signalled the bartender that he should pour her another.

"Alright, I'll find your protector for old times' sake," said Dan after a few thoughtful moments. "And I might take you up on that offer of a roll in the hay before I yeet my fine arse back to my own reality - assuming I ever do manage to find a way to do that."

Down & Dirty

The world Dan had found himself stranded in was an odd one. It reminded him of the nineteen-eighties of his own reality though with better technology and better music. And the frequent demonic incursions, though that really was nothing new to him at all. On his travels throughout the multiverse he had quickly come to learn that there were very few places where such incursions were not a thing.

And because he had come to learn such a thing, he knew for a fact that he would be able to find someone to act as the protector Clara sought. In fact he would probably be able to find multiple suitable candidates. Whether it was common knowledge or not, there were always people fighting to protect the way of life of more ordinary, less-inclined-to-get-down-and-dirty folks. All he had to do was sit back and wait.

"I'll have a beer," he said to the street vendor, having queued for what felt like several hours. As has already been mentioned though, the passage of time was something that Sir Colt did not experience as others did, so it may well have only been a few moments.

"This is..."

"Oh I know you're selling hotdogs, but something tells me you've got a case of beer hidden away somewhere so go on, be a good boy and help a brother out."

"This is..."

"I really don't want to have to walk down the street to the pub, and..."

"Pretty sure you're barking up the wrong tree, friend." Dan turned at the voice, and found himself standing face-to-face with a man wearing what very much appeared to be a suit of purple spandex. He wore a mask that covered his eyes, too, and a pendant that matched the colour of his suit around his neck. "Leave the nice man alone, and fuck your alcoholic ass off. It's eight in the morning, for fuck's sake."

"It's opening time somewhere," Dan replied with a shrug. "I was wondering if there were any super-powered folks on this world. Lemme guess, the pendant gives you your power?"

"Judging by the look of you, I wouldn't need any powers to kick your ass."

"I don't think we know what kind of enemy we are really dealing with, do we?" Dan chuckled, holding up his hands. "Don't worry kid, I'm not here to fight. In fact I think you're probably exactly who I've been looking for. How about you let me buy you a beer?"

"It's eight in the..."

"I know that, you already said." Dan turned back to the hotdog vendor, who apparently against all odds had, indeed, managed to find a couple of beers. He had even managed to find a bottle opener and had removed the caps. "So you're a superhero?"

"I have powers, I'm not sure I'd call myself a hero."

"As answers go, that's not a bad one at all," he replied, putting an arm around the young man's shoulders. "You should come with me, let me introduce you to Clara."