There goes Lady Fate, donned in solar sparks and her lace corset whose overt promiscuity catches the attention of one unsuspecting astronaut– his helm fogs as he exhales, his breath crude and lascivious. Even Neptune’s eyes themselves glitter wetly with passion as she struts towards Polaris in her pinprick stilettos.
She adjusts her stance accordingly:
I. Purse lips into a smoulder (might as well look pretty while ya get the job done.)
II. Aim for the desired target (that there’s the bull’s eye.)
III. Wreak havoc just as any Fate is meant to do. (But, of course.)
She picks up her staff and fires.
The universe tremors in an unbridled spiral of colour and chaos as the planets d a r t about like billiards, colliding/|\with/|\ the/|\ stars
who, in the midst of the madness, d i v e r g e and c r* o* s s for fear of being vanquished.
A cluster of mismatched constellations and forsaken cosmic particles settle into a state of mutual negligence and destruction. And, together, they liquefy into a festering pool of molten silver.
Lady Fate grins– yes, she has the stars right where she wants them now– and, in a final act of defiance, she strikes against the earth and watches with satisfaction as it hurtles towards the silver and sinks down into the molten like an eight ball. (And everyone knows it’s Game Over once you’ve sunk the eight ball).
From where she stands– bent over Polaris in seductive pretentiousness — she relishes in the screams of some wretched lover– the first to ever be betrayed by the stars.