As the Butterfly Soars

Author: Korsavius

Original post: https://backstage.eve-inspiracy.com/index.php?topic=7234.0

Author’s Note: How far would you go to protect your way of life? Your passion? Your love? One Gallentean living in Solitude learns how far he would go.

Warning: Graphic imagery ahead.

Entry for the Amore Tank Your Hearts in the Short Story category.

Dahak Hinj hums to the tune of the classical music playing in the background. His face denotes a sense of effortless mastery over the brush in his hand. The stained glass window up and behind him allows a perfect God ray to shine delicately on the canvas he works on. The brush and the paint are his orchestra, and he the maestro. A swirl here and a stroke there. The image comes together. As if breathing the art to life, he sighs as he adds the final touch. Voilà!

The colors and outlines coalesce into the shape of a butterfly. This one rests delicately on a scarlet flower. Its azure wings are mottled with blots of black in symmetrical form. The butterfly’s curiously long and curled antennae fork out atop its head. Like a gentle fairy enchanting a magical forest, this butterfly brings this flower to life. It looks as if it is ready to soar at any moment, eager to gift other flowers with its magic.

Hinj takes the canvas and sets it beside a whole collection of other artwork - all of them butterflies of various forms and colors. As he sets the finished canvas down, he picks up a blank one nearby. He holds the blank canvas directly in front with outstretched arms. The two engage in a dazzling tango. The music tempo guides two the along. Right foot, left foot, twirl. The pair dance around the lonely easel. As if with reluctance, Hinj bestows his partner to the easel. Something is not quite right. Hinj remains standing in front of the easel and canvas with a puzzled gaze. Ahah! A gentle push to the right and it all aligns. Perfection.

With effortless poise, he twirls joyfully back once. As he finishes the twirl, he pulls ruby-red rose from his chest pocket and places it between his teeth. Hinj bows and extends his arms up and behind him in dramatic fashion. He rises and places the precious rose in an empty dull teal vase resting on a pedestal beside the easel. Satisfied, he nods and bids farewell to the duo for now. Au revoir.

The maestro-artist exits his studio. He secures the entrance with an overzealous security system. Hinj whistles casually as he strolls down a dirt path towards his armory. Hinj owns a secluded estate on Eggheron VII. The humble yellow sun shines gently to reveal his armory adjacent to his art studio; an open firing range lies beside the armory, and his home lies a distance across from the studio. Seemingly endless waves of green grass sway to and fro in every direction radiating outward from Hinj’s estate. There is only one road connecting his estate to a highway a great distance off, which eventually leads to a city a couple hours drive away. So, truthfully, the security system for the art studio seems unnecessary. However, the tendrils of paranoia have entrenched themselves deep within Hinj’s mind. A recent influx of immigrants onto Eggheron VII has spurred the irrationality dwelling inside him. Over the years, immigrants from less well-off colonies and areas in the Federation have been trickling into Solitude. The solitary and frontier-esque nature of the region has appealed to many immigrants who hope to establish decent lives with proper work and dedication. Some long-time residents of the region, like Hinj, have been less than welcoming to these new faces. And certainly a grand artist such as himself cannot even come close to risking his beautiful collection being stolen from greedy new settlers.

He spends the rest of the evening doing target practice on the firing range.

~-> | <-~

“These cretins don’t know true beauty”, Hinj hisses with anger and disgust. He sighs in frustration and stomps out of the art gallery. How could they even display such tripe on their walls? This is an outrage!

The art collector shrugs her shoulders, and tends to the artwork she purchased from immigrant artists.

This has never happened before. Hinj’s artwork is not his main source of income. His art is his soul. His soul is his art. Both are exquisite and beautiful. They deserve attention. It seems unfathomable to Hinj that his art is being overshadowed by the pitiful pieces of strangers to this land. It is unacceptable, and he will not stand for it. Something has to be done.

As he walks among the streets of the city, Hinj cannot help but cringe in disgust whenever an immigrant walks near him. He feels surrounded and overwhelmed. The tendrils tighten their grasp. His beloved home is being overrun by outsiders who do not deserve to be here. Slowly but surely they will take his home and make it theirs. These thoughts are dreadful. He quickly makes his way to his vehicle, and speeds off out of the city.

Cruising down the countryside which remains largely untouched by the immigrants, he feels his speeding thoughts ease slowly. He’d normally spend the afternoon day in his studio creating another masterpiece, but he has to let off some steam. Hinj selects his most personalized rifle and spends the time at the firing range instead. He brings with him a case of ammunition he crafted himself. Carefully, and with a delicate touch, he loads the rifle. Like his art, each bullet is a piece of his soul. Each shot is like a piece of him. The rifle and bullets ravage the targets set up by his drones. He revels in their beautiful destruction. With the emptying of each handcrafted cartridge comes an ethereal and exotic scent. Gunpowder smoke mixed with the aroma of fresh flower petals. The scent is intoxicating.

He gazes into the open field for a long time. What is a violent and tumultuous scene appears eloquent and majestic to him. Even with the destructive nature of weapons, the maestro-artist is able to craft beautiful artwork - as only he could.

~-> | <-~

Months pass, and Hinj’s distaste for the incoming immigrants festers. The paranoia spawns anxiety as well. He sleeps with difficulty these nights. Everything was fine before these parasites moved in. It seems as though his his way of life, his livelihood, is crumbling around him. He feels helpless to stop the endless tides of change.

He stands in front of the easel and canvas for what feels like an eternity. He leans his head back and holds a fist to his forehead, expiring a sigh. Inspiration within the maestro-artist’s mind has seemingly ceased. This cannot be. I won’t accept this! Hinj dabs the brush in paint and gets to work. A swirl here and a stroke there. An image forms. Beads of sweat start trickling down Hinj’s face. His arm and brush move around in a flurry of motion. To and fro, up and down. Finally, he halts. He takes a step back, panting, to examine the finished work. A twisted smile morphs into a frown as he witnesses the discombobulated image - an unorganized and ungraceful mess by all standards.

Hinj shrieks in anger. He pushes the easel and canvas aside. Their fall passes in slow motion to him. The force of the push breaks the easel as it crashes on the floor, with the canvas tumbling alongside it. Hinj collapses to his knees beside to fallen duo, tears welling in his eyes. He breathes heavily and sobs relentlessly. He balances himself on his fists. The world spins so harshly fast. He tries to calm down.

He wipes his tears away with his arms. Hinj manages to summon the strength to stand up. He leaves the studio promptly, and rushes over to the armory. He picks up his favorite rifle and custom ammo frantically. Hinj rushes so fast that he nearly trips on his way out of the armory heading towards the firing range.

He takes a deep breath, and loads the bullets into the rifle. He gets into position and takes aim at a target across a certain ways. His aim is unstable with his arms trembling so much. The crisp autumn air enters his nostrils, and he exhales deeply. His aim steadies. The bullet exits the rifle at lightning speed. It cuts through the air, the boom shockwave trailing close behind. It penetrates the target dummy dead center in the chest. The dummy’s internal cavity erupts in a beautiful display of shrapnel as the bullet exits the back. Hinj stares at the remains for a long time. He absorbs every detail of the shattered husk. A masterpiece created from a dull dummy. This is so beautiful.

Suddenly, it dawns on him. The maestro-artist knows what he must do.

~-> I <-~

Due to popular demand by many of the immigrants, a large and open park was constructed in downtown of the city. It was heavily frequented by many of them. The warm spring sun welcomes everyone. A gentle breeze guides the leaves of trees into a harmonious rhythm. Migratory butterflies gather by the hundreds, and frolic gleefully amongst the dancing leaves. Children and families gather all around to witness the event. Laughter, chatter, gossip, and other things reverberate throughout the park. It is a peaceful day today.

Hinj gazes down at the assembled crowd below. He has a perfect view on the roof of a medium-rise building. The sight of so many unwelcomed immigrants revolts him. He feels as though he wants to vomit just looking at those disgusting creatures. A butterfly flutters gently onto the guardrail in front of him. His gaze is transfixed onto the docile beauty. It observes him for a few moments then flies away. It is time.

Hinj sets up his position. He grabs a custom cartridge and takes in a deep whiff of the gunpowder and flower petal aromas. A twisted smile curls his thin lips. A rush of joy and excitement swells through his heart - the same joy and excitement he felt when he used to paint. He gets into a crouching position and loads his weapon. A small speaker he brought with him begins playing classical music. The maestro-artist gets to work.

The first target, a mother with a child sitting on her lap, looks like she could use some beautification. Hinj obliges. With a gentle pull of the trigger, he graces her with a piece of him. The lifeless carcass of his target satisfies him. So many people here could use a touch of beauty granted by the master, but he has only so much time. He moves swiftly.

The second target, an elderly gentleman holding a newspaper in hand, looks ripe for some improvement. Another pull of the trigger, another masterpiece created. A rush of blood flows through Hinj. His canvas is coming together quite well.

The next target, a frantically running teenage boy, seems like he could use some help slowing down to admire the work of the great artist. Hinj ensures that he does.

Another target, a wailing child lost and confused, interrupts the melody of Hinj’s music. A handcrafted bullet of beauty silences the annoying child. The music continues, and the bullets keep raining down.

The loud booms excite the assembled butterflies. Swarms of them flutter about in the sky. Hinj halts only for an instant to take in the majestic scene before him. He cannot get distracted, he has more art to produce.

Shot after shot, people below fall down. In total, Hinj counts twenty-three direct hits. Twenty-three immigrant pests that have been graced by the touch of the maestro-artist. He rises to his knees to observe his grand canvas. Hinj smiles. Pools of blood saturate the ground. Twisted and mangled corpses litter the park. A true masterpiece. He is pleased with his work. He loves his art. His time is up, and he quickly gathers his belongings. He hums to the tune of the music as he casually makes his escape.

The immigrants have taken Hinj’s ability to paint with a brush, and so, he shall paint with his rifle instead.