Meanwhile, behind the facade of this innocent-looking flea market booth, something malicious crossed dimensions. An alien, nigh unknowable presence passed through the Furore, and it thought alien thoughts. Sort of.
It is difficult to ascribe something like consciousness to an ancient, unfathomable horror that predates the existence of existence in this universe. There is certainly a kind of intent there, but it is less of a goal-oriented plan of action than, say, an all-consuming hunger. Imagine an omnipresent, omnipotent, and omnimalignant virus, and you might have a vague approximation of its state of being; smallpox, with the power of a god.
Of course, thinking, as you would understand it, is not necessarily outside of its ability. It just never really came up before. When your primary mode of communication is violent assimilation, the finer subtleties of discourse can seem a tad superfluous. It is, and that which is not, becomes.
Imagine, then, the sudden shock of being given access to an exciting new realm of savory flesh, only to find that things are… different somehow. Everything is just a little off, and despite your best efforts, your tried-and-true methods of brand expansion just aren’t working. For the first time since time was even a thing, you’ve hit a speed bump.
To get an idea of how this might feel, let’s pretend you are part of a group of DEA agents, raiding a vile narcotics den at four in the morning. You’ve planned out your strategy, you have the manpower, you have the weaponry, and you have the element of surprise. You. Are. Ready. So, you follow the playbook you’ve laid out, you bust down the front door, and you engage the enemy with the dual wings of justice and sobriety at your back.
But you don’t find the enemy.
In fact, you don’t find drug dealers at all. You find a dimly lit living room full of DEA agents, relaxing on the couch. And they aren’t just any agents, but they’re you and your fellow agents. You’re all sitting there on the couch, in a smoky room, and you’re all high as fuck. So now, not only are you confronted with this ontological impossibility, but you are suddenly experiencing yourself seeing yourself seeing yourself. Your consciousness exists in two places at once, both confused, both trying to reconcile what is happening, and one of those versions is really, really high.
Quite understandably, you freak the fuck out.
This is not an ideal situation for a human being to be in. It is even less so for an otherworldly eldritch abomination. For an entity that has never experienced shock, shock itself is appalling. Being appalled is itself appalling. And to be assaulted by these new sensations while simultaneously being, for the first time, drunk is downright horrifying.
The Negation Furore, meant to act as a doorway through which this all-powerful being might travel, is a delicate, perfectly balanced instrument. It was created with a singular purpose, and each wretched piece is necessary in order for it to function. If, however, something is added to the Furore at its moment of activation, the consequences could be both severe and unpredictable. If that addition happens to come in the form of a half-empty bottle of Pabst Blue Ribbon, then the emerging aspect of abomination will find that it has passed through a prism of 4.74 percent alcohol by volume.
It will be intoxicated at a cellular level. And from there, things get weird.
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