Calm Before the Storm (1)

Rrrrr— Crack!

Poof!

"Cough! Cough!" 

A cloud of dust burst in Hope's face. 

He waved the fumes aside as he opened another storage box in the cramped attic. It was dark—minus the silver morning shining instead of the moon through the broken roof. The air stagnant and heavy once more smelled of dust and newsprints. All around him was splintered wood and cluttered items of outdated catalogs and flashy booklets that he skimmed through.

He was hoping to find something.

Something at least useful–

"..."

Hope lifted a tiny old seed packet. 

Inside the box were packets listed as plants, vegetables, fruits–

'Orange?'

"..."

'A color is a fruit?'

Hope knew fruits. At least, he thought he did up till now. He tossed them aside as he opened another box marked with faint words: 'seasonal decorations.' Inside were cluttered items of orange and black. Others pale of red and blue.

Then there were some labeled 'Christmas' on them: bulbs, pots, posters etc. 

But instantly memories soon flashed of his mother. Which caused Hope to frown at their intrusion. Again. 

His mother, family, home, kept coming back. Again.

'But why does she keep coming back.'

Although, Hope wasn't sure whether to say he was annoyed or not. Because before, their faces had once faded. Like paint off of aged wood. Or the constant wear of worn fabric. Hope had accepted that it was what it was with time.

But he didn't expect that this place, attic, district, the damn Mirror City would spark more of them. More of her.

Or maybe, they always have been. More than he would have liked to admit. All those times before the curse. He just couldn't pinpoint before to which long-forgotten memory. Now, he could even remember the time himself admitting it was harder to picture them. 

And now. She was everywhere.

It didn't help that his sister took much after her as well.

Shove.

Hope pushed aside the decoration box before reaching for another.

But there his mother still was in his mind. Preparing for that Christmas season. And her giggles echoed like that of the pearly bells she used to wrap around the hallway's door.

'Oh, look! I got two!' His mother's voice rang in his mind.

Hope ignored her and looked through the next box. Though her voice continued to follow.

'You know, there's an old saying–'

'What? What?' Yura's voice chimed.

Hope tore open the next box and peered inside. The memory now forcibly filming over his eyes as he rummaged through.

'Haha.' His mother nuzzled her nose against Yura's. 

They both giggled as if they shared a secret. And Hope stood at the doorway with his hand on the knob. The bell ringing from his entry. 

His mother smiled with those warm eyes of hers as she looked at him. 

'They say that every time a bell rings an angel gets its wings.'

Hope blinked.

"Angel huh."

How ridiculous.

Were angels always related to religion? Hope supposed that would be a 'pious' thing of her. Although not really.

The 'pious' thing he was thinking of was the damn cultists in his First Nightmare-

'Glory to the Beast God-'

'Shut up.'

Hope dismissed the thought before the old man's voice continued any further.

Hope then began pulling out items. Duct tape and old shears. Huh. Useful. Duct tape could be…used for anything. Old shears? 

A sharp object was a sharp object. 

How could he refuse?

Hope collected them into his limp backpack as he rose up slowly and crept across the drift of decorations, paper, and wooden lids that he had messily created. He climbed down the ceiling, the gray morning to his left as he stepped onto the metal crate before jumping down. The ceramic fragments cracked. And pouncing out to meet his feet was his shadow.

The room was just as he remembered last night. Only litten up. Same stripped vines. Metal shelves. Cluttered and broken pots sprawled throughout the room. Dry dirt scattered which mixed in the dusty air.

But that wasn't the only lingering smell.

Rotting flesh hit Hope's nose as a hulking black form rested on the floor with pale eyes and mouth still agape. Purplish guts spilled out its side and black tendrils lined randomly like lost ropes. And there through the torn flesh he made to scavenge for soul shards, a small sneak of white peeked through.

Bone.

"Huh."

An idea crossed Hope's mind at that moment. 

He walked forward and stood over the massive carcass of the Night Hound. Faint memories traced along his arm from where its teeth met. The numbered throbs from each piercing point started to sting. Hope shoved aside the memory as he nudged the head with his shoe. 

It was like prodding a thick tire. 

'This is going to be a first.' Hope nonchalantly thought as he crouched next to it. Reaching behind, he took out from his backpack the old shears he'd found. 

His training all last night was an opportunity to adapt to the shield.

But to forge an extra weapon…wasn't a bad idea either.

Hope blinked as the thick blood clouded his nostrils. He then leaned forward with the shears and–

Stab!

Squilsh–

Warm. The body was still warm as his hands submerged between the folds of flesh. With an attentive hand, as a process formulated in his mind, Hope drew the blade and started the grim work. Slicing horizontally through the thick hide to reveal more of the sinewy muscle beneath. A wet tearing sound emitted. The blood and flesh sloshing around. It wasn't too different from cutting it for soul shards. Only just a bigger and methodical approach. 

Each cut more deliberate than the last.

Slash. Squilsh!

And he cut again.

Slash. Squilsh!

And again.

Slash. Slash. Slash.

And again…

'Almost there.' Hope thought as he tossed flesh aside like the useless seed packets.

Plumps of deep red lying around.

And as he cut deeper, the spine emerged. 

Hope blinked at the sight. 'There you are.'

Series of sharp interlocking bones gleamed in the dim light, his hand tracing the jagged bone. Hope then roughly severed the connections before summoning his shield to break and pull the spine free. He could taste the tang of bitter iron in the air as he grunted with effort. And Snap! Just as he expected from it. A durable and strong structure for a crafted weapon.

"Right–"

Splat.

Hope waved thick scarlet blood off his hands. 

"Still useful. Tsk. Even when dead."

Hope then set aside the spine before turning to the hound's claws.

Twist.

Crack.

Wickedly curved and sharp, Hope carefully pried them off from the massive paws. Each one coming loose with a sickening crack. 

Hope let out a sigh as he finally stood up. 

The contrast of black claws and white jagged bone laid out before him. Aside from the blood stains.

"Hm."

Hope tapped his arm in thought.

He remembered how Sector Two had crafted their crude weapons. So he got the gist of how to prepare it.

"Then first…"

Hope muttered as he rummaged again through his backpack. 

And–

Kcchriiiip!

Hope pulled out a strip of duct tape.

"..."

They used duct tape as well. But would that realistically be enough to hold the items together? Hope paused as his eyes fell on the sinew he had stripped from the creature's body. It was quite rough from when he had severed it from the spine...

Hope tilted his head.

'That could work.'