《Threads of Fate:》


 Power is the Beginning

    Within every realm imaginable, one constant remains the same: Power is the motivating factor in one¡¯s worth and abilities. If someone wields power, they are in control of their own destiny and success. And if one is at the mercy of another¡¯s power, they are tossed about like a puppet, suspended by the strings of fate.


    I just so happen to be that puppet; and the stronghold on my life is possessed by none other than my three younger sisters. As anyone would be able to attest to, little sisters are absolute monsters. However, very few could say that their sisters are actual monsters that ruined their earthly life.


    I wish I could say that I had a childhood full of adventures, trials, tribulations, and character arcs. But alas, I did not. My formative years consisted of myself, my mother, and my three seemingly average, aforementioned younger sisters. We led our average lives for many years, until on a bright, Saturday morning led the three normal girls to an ordinary thrift shop selling mediocre yarn.


    ¡°I want to learn how to knit!¡± exclaimed Melody.


    And so they did, as they had always embarked on their fleeting passions as a trio.


    The yarn was purchased, and simultaneously, so was my soul. We won the lottery the next day, which was peculiar not only for the odds being stacked against anyone who bought a ticket, but because my mother generally knew such odds and never gambled. Was my soul pawned off to insurmountable riches that drug me into a life of greed and lavish spending? I only wish my destiny had been molded by clich¨¦ life lessons on the corruption of wealth. Instead, my life simply ended in the mortal sense with a bittersweet kiss against the cold, unfeeling lips of a bus moving at sixty miles per hour. I had just finished an altercation with my bratty sisters when I refused to buy them more yarn (of course, this was the one hobby they WEREN¡¯T going to put down an hour after starting). Instead, I wanted to get some fresh air and unwind. ¡°Fate¡± had different plans for me.If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    On impact, my vision went black. Then, a piercing light that burned more than the blunt trauma itself appeared. A crimson red string of yarn wrapped around my neck, pulling me beneath the pavement with little resistance from me in my state of disbelief. My breath became shallow, then ceased entirely as I plummeted. Suddenly, my wrist was constricted by a blue piece of thread, bound to a single, gleaming needle and significantly thinner than the blood red yarn that hastened my descent. I screamed as the needle punctured my wrist, burrowing into my feeble flesh before emerging on the other side in a flurry of viscera and blood. I was suspended in mid-air for only a moment before the needle conceded to the overwhelming strength of the vermillion yarn. I reflect now, grateful for the blue thread¡¯s efforts, as it had given time for reinforcements. A blazing silver line, similar in appearance to piano wire, and jet black rope, similar to the rigging of a resplendent galleon at sea, manifested around me. The wire seized around my other wrist, and the sable stay snaked around my back. I gasped, feeling the black line pierce through my chest as the silver became a formidable foe against the offending red yarn. With my body stretched between a celestial, silver angel and a red demon from the pits of Hell, and my heart being constricted further with every beat by darkness incarnate, time stood still. And in what was truly a millisecond, feeling like ages, I rose above the pavement as fast as I had fallen by the grace of the silver and black adversaries.


    I lay in my mortal coil, with all strings still gripping my body. Blood began to pool beneath me, pouring from my exposed chest and staining the thick, black rope that now controlled my heart¡¯s efforts to sustain me.


    I was both alive and dead, both figuratively and literally gripped by the threads of fate.

 The scheme

    <hr>


    Muista, a bustling coastal community within what was once the United States of America, is one of few metropolitan areas left on planet Earth. As such, the city maintains its populacewith creature comforts of what some would consider similar to their homes before the callof globalism united the world under a single flag.


    Colossal towers line the sidewalks, seemingly retreating further and further away from thehuman population as they reach ever further for the heavens. Residents can gawk at the pavement, littered with intricate fountains and primitive, automatic door technology that they


    hold so close to their hearts. They can then travel North to admire the gaudy, capacious mansions


    and reminisce on times when they themselves could brag of their riches with flashy, residential


    assets. Now reserved for the elite, these homes illicit a bittersweet pang in the hearts of the older


    citizens, and they typically travel throughout Muista to the various parks scattered about in all


    directions. That is unless they eventually reach the Southern border, an obvious polarity to the


    ¡°average¡± city boasting an outwardly active middle class.


    Tattered shacks can be seen for miles,seemingly suspended by taut clotheslines sporting frayed rags. The few businesses that can


    survive by necessity are accompanied by an overwhelming amount of the homeless population


    on their storefronts, begging for scraps and change from the patrons. Gangs run freely throughout


    the streets, leading many a poor waif to a short and tragic life of crime and drug abuse, all under


    the apathetic eye of South Muista¡¯s law ¡°enforcement.¡± This holds such a stark contrast to the


    police force in more affluent neighborhoods, for they are motivated to act when their pockets are lined.


    Hence, a deep conflict continues to breed, waxing and waning through the years within themetroplex: Since ¡°all citizens¡± is evidently not an option when faced with such diverse


    economic classes, which citizens really matter in the eyes of the imperial municipality?


    The rich, although few in number, would argue that they are the most important citizens.


    After all without their wealth, the middle class would not have large corporations and medium-sized businesses employing them.


    However, The middle class attests that THEY are the backbone of Muista, for they are the educated population that sprinkles the vast city with quaint,family-owned businesses that attract tourists and give the metroplex its charm; and the ones that don¡¯t own commercial property stimulate the economy by purchasing from said businesses.


    And lastly the poor argue that they are vital for the sake of their sheer power in number. They constitute majority of Muista¡¯s populace, and that should surely count for something. So long as they can one day unite, their voting power and physical strength from years of hard, manuall labora not to be underestimated.


    Strength from all classes of people have been demonstrated in civil warfare for the past sixty years. And now, in 2122, the underprivileged people of South Muista have still yet to see their day; and they will most likely not see that day for many years to come


    However, their success nearly came to fruition during the start of the many wars, albeit at theexpense of the city¡¯s imminent collapse. The first war began with their accusations against theelite, claiming that the wealth of Muista was hoarding food by inflating the prices beyond anyreasonable amount. The city almost fell as fast as it had been founded at the beginning of thesecond Dark Ages, which had only ended in recent years. Not ten years later, the middle class waged war against the poor out of frustration, feeling the stagnation of little to no technological advancement while still paying outrageous taxes to support needy citizens in the South.This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.


    Most recently, only seven years ago, the rich instigated their war by threatening to abandon Muista and


    taking their prosperity elsewhere. Infuriated with their tax money still being used to slowly rebuildthe South from the first war decades ago, they only delayed all further progress by burningthe Southern region from the inside out.


    Throughout these three main wars, smaller conflicts inevitably continued; generally in the


    same order, and always with the same outcome: No winners, no losers, only destruction. Then,


    the anomalies arrived: The Others.


    The Others had no loyalty to any race, economic class, religion, or background. They weresimply average human beings with extraordinary abilities, completely gifted by random


    occurrence. Entire sections of the city were laid to waste by one, only to be rebuilt from their


    ashes by a more benevolent (or capable) Other at little to no cost. Alchemists of sorts, a majority


    of the Others were more than proficient in their crafts, and thus menaces to the mediocre masses.


    And so, warfare was plentiful as people feared the Others, attempting to eradicate them from existence. Naturally, the peculiar Othersremained victorious and did absolutely nothing with their sweeping conquest. Similar


    to idiot savants, the more power they focused in their unconventional abilities, the less informationthey retained elsewhere in their minds. The Others existed, and continue to exist, moreas keepers of order, decimating threats to their world, that which encompassed every corner ofMuista.


    Unfortunately for the Others, this role in the metroplex¡¯s society was not enough to outweighthe rogue Others that were less than adept. The few that deliberately destroyed the


    large community were troublesome enough to elicit a response from the government, no matter


    how futile the efforts were.


    Eventually, when war and violence were fully recognized as fruitless,


    segregation began. The Others were banished to the West of Muista, pushing the middle class tothe East while the elite remained in the North, and the poor in the South. Feeling threatened, The


    Others reinforced the worldly walls set in place by the imperialist municipality, further isolating


    themselves as intended by the aristocracy. They then embraced this isolation, and forged the wall


    with an unbreakable, translucent metal, leaving the additional walls that separated the three


    remaining classes as mere stone. The entire city, from a bird¡¯s eye view, appeared as a grand and


    perplex labyrinth resembling a flower. This peculiar arrangement granted the city of Muista the


    epithet ¡°The Golden Flower of the Tiausm Kingdom,¡± with the center existing as the only


    congregation point between all four classes. Ornamented by gates, the walls stood as a reminder


    that the Others were the straw that broke the camel¡¯s back in the city of Muista.


    Despite the administration¡¯s tentatively functional plan, the true power of the metropolis


    did not reside within the impenetrable walls of the west; that power resided in a small white


    house with tiny windows nestled in a little block of Eastern Muista.


    In that home sat three little girls by the names of Nora, Melody, and Amph. Outwardly,


    they were mischievous, sweet, and adorable, praised by all they encountered in the middle class


    neighborhood they had lived in since birth. But this trio was not as it appeared, for they


    commanded the fate, destiny, and demise of not only the universe, but each individual within its


    confines. Later to be deemed ¡°The Three Fates,¡± the girls wielded the power within their


    sisterhood to bring Gods to their knees. The imperialists of the metroplex were in the hands of


    three of their smallest citizens, without a single clue to indicate this vital weakness.


    Comparatively, the triad¡¯s older brother Sen was an insignificant worm quite literally


    threaded on the girls¡¯ line. A black cord tangled around his heart, controlling his desires. A


    silver, embedded in the flesh of his right wrist, existing as a perpetual, physical reminder of his


    servitude to fate. Scars remain brandished on his left hand to show how fate had already


    intervened in his impending doom. Lastly, a single patch of deep red skin exposed on his neck


    told the tale of when death had tried to claim young Sen as his own.