The Fountain of Perdition

The Ciphrang strode through the walls as if they were made of paper, melting brick and steel mere inches away from its form. It stood eight foot tall, but hunched over to fit beneath the low ceiling it stood barely taller than the average man.

Of course, the average man in this room was a suit, a businessman or sales-woman, here for one of TOWERs many seminars and courses. They were regular nobodies, some having scraped enough money to come here, others just looking to try something new with their life. The centre of Newarth wasn’t the land of opportunity many felt it was, and TOWER seemed the only way to escape the muck and filth down in the city.

The Ciphrang reared its head back, glowered at the 18 other people in the room. Five thick horns rose from a plate of bone which covered the top of its head, each of them starting with an ivory white but tipped with a pitch-black almost as dark as the creatures eyes, which slowly evaluated everybody in the room.

Only one was of interest here.

Only one.

Dalath rose from his chair as soon as the Ciphrang entered. He knew the creatures eyes would bear down upon him, and he knew he was the one the Ciphrang sought. He spoke a silent prayed to the Dreamweaver, throwing off his suit jacket to free his arms for the battle to come. He spoke words nobody in the room could grasp, none except for the Ciphrang, and he felt his mind rush into the Unreal.

The Ciphrang had raised a single arm, pointing now at Dalath, and roared in a language incomprehensible to everybody in the room; many simply fell to their knees, deafened by the creatures voice, their minds ripping apart at the edge with the blasphemy he sang.

It was a sensation akin to being pulled out of water, after almost drowning; clarity, the gasp of true air, that important breath that granted glorious life. This was what the Unreal meant to a Sorcerer. This was what would allow him to defeat the Ciphrang.

This was what didn’t come to him, that day.

His mind collapsed in on itself. He felt a weight press down hard onto his left shoulder, then a second pressing down on his right, until he fell backwards, hitting the floor with a crash. He was drowning in the Real, and that ever important breath hadn’t come. His eyes saw stars and his thoughts swam without purpose. A third weight pressed now on his chest, and the head of an ugly little creature appeared before him; a Goblin. It was grinning, its rows of tiny, razor-sharp teeth running from ear to ear, its lizard-like eyes staring at the bauble in its hand.

No, more than a bauble. His senses returning to him, he opened his mouth, preparing to scream impurities and fire in his native tongue.

Until a tiny hand stuff a bandage into his opened mouth. The first goblin shook his head, and laughed the way they always did, high pitched and wicked.

The bauble was in view now, a mess of bright blues and purples flowing over and under each other within a hard globe case. Attached either side of the case were wrist restraints.

Dalath punched hard into the face of the front goblin, sending it reeling onto the floor out of view.
He lifted his fist again, aiming to fight back, but there were more goblins now, half-a-dozen at least, who began piling onto his limbs, holding him down.

The front goblin stood back up, rubbing his jaw, the smile wiped from his face.

With the utmost malice he strapped the restraints onto Dalath’s wrists. The globe between them now changed colour, draining from bright colours into a variety of dull greys and greens.

Dalath was a young man from Anur-Jandria. His skin was a sultry brown, his eyes, like all Sepsyon sorcerers, a glorious blue. But as soon as the dust shackles were strapped from his wrists, all colour seemed to drain from him. Shadows seemed to reach extremes over his pale, grey features, and his blue eyes now seemed closer to a swamp green than anything else. Even his black hair seemed to lighten and wither, as if from age.

By this time the others in the room had been herded into the corner by other goblins. They were all crying, some of them hugging others, some of them pushing others away. The terror in the room was tangible, and you could hear further panic outside; people screaming, calling for help.

Where were TOWER Security? Where were Apaex, the PMC that did all of TOWERs contract defence?
The questions seemed to come from a mile away. Dalath couldn’t even think straight. He realised he was wearing Dust Shackles. He remembered his tutor, back in Oneiros, warning him that they nullified the Unreal through the use of concentrated Hyperreal; the two, when mixed, would neutralise each other. A Sorcerer couldn’t make use of any sorcery while under the influence of the Hyperreal.

Lesson number 2, back in training; the difference between A void and THE void. Stay away from the Hyperreal.
The goblins hauled him to his feet, then onto a chair. His blurred vision raced across the room, unable to focus on anything; panic, terror, fear, all from the others, herded like cattle; meaningless. Indifference, greed, thoughtlessness, all from the goblins; meaningless.

But his eyes fell upon the Ciphrang. It rose before him like a mountain of fire and hate. Its skin, like all Ciphrang, seemed more like molten earth, held together by sheer hatred alone;  and this wasn’t far from the truth. When an area underwent enough sustained violence and death, a battle-field or cult-totem, a Ciphrang would be born from the melding together of those dying spirits, a hundred or more souls all trying to enter the Unreal, getting confused and lost, forced together into a single being capable only of their extreme emotions.

Emotions like hate. Like anger. Like pain.

This is what made a Ciphrang. And in turn, this was what they were made of. Sorcerous creatures of the worst type.

“Enth..” he coughed. The dust shackles burnt his voice when he tried to speak, the Hyperreal reacting badly with his Unreal-tinged vocals, made it impossible to speak any sorcerous incantations, or ‘sing the wrath of God’, as many poetically put it. “Enthill-..Asdynn’ryl” The creatures true name.

The Ciphrang rose, its face now mere inches away from Dalath’s. It was warm, but he could not concentrate on the heat, only on the look in the creatures eye. Always such suffering. They were smart, but little more than animals, bound to a dozen whims they couldn’t even grasp, always thinking a hundred thoughts at once, always feeling a hundred hates at once. To kill them was a mercy. Few ever had the capacity for such mercy.

“DALATH!” it roared, unable to calm its own voice, if you could call it that; it spoke with a chorus of a dozen voices screaming in unison, the voices of the most prominent spirits incorporated into the whole, all seeking equal attention. Its spittle was ash, and its voice carried with it a cloud of dust and cooling embers. “THOUGHT YOU COULD HIDE HERE?!”

It turned, and paced back and forth around the room for a few moments, as if trying to gather its thoughts. The goblins sat quietly and eager behind Dalath, giggling and jumping around, excited by the prospect of violence to come. The Ciphrang couldn’t touch the dust shackles without experiencing incredible pain; a creature of the Real could never come into contact with the Hyperreal.

Summoning classes, lesson 3; confluence of two impossible functions.

No doubt it would kill these goblins when their purpose was done. A Ciphrang’s mind couldn’t grasp payment or exchange, it could only take. Wealth was meaningless, as the creature was temporary in this world anyway. All that mattered was fulfilling... whatever goal it sought to fulfil.

Dalath shook his head at the Ciphrang. He wasn’t trying to hide. Their previous meeting, he had thought, should have been their last. But here it was. At this motion, the goblins burst into uproarious laughter.

“I AM ETERNAL!” it roared, this time at the goblins, as if replying to Dalath’s very thoughts. Their laughter ended, and they were cowering before it, terrified, hiding behind their ‘elected’ leader (usually the one with the biggest pockets or the nicest hat.) Dalath thought it would consume them, there and then, but the Ciphrang instead reared back.

“I AM HATE! SUFFERING IS MY BLOOD!” It roared now at the others, the unfortunates who were only here to take a class. It was certain they would not survive the hour. “YOU THINK YOU COULD TRAP ME?! YOU THINK THAT HOLE WOULD HOLD ME?!” It unleashed a deafening roar, and unfurled its wings; at least, the stems that once were wings, with the tattered remains of the patagium lying limp and broken.

Even Dalath had to admit he was scared.

Ciphrang lived violent lives. Enthill-Asdynn’ryl was the extreme example of this. Most Ciphrang lived a few weeks, maybe months within the Real, before being dragged back into the Unreal or, more often than not, destroyed by a capable Sorcerer. This one had been hunting Sorcerers for over 12 months. It had found Dalath two months ago, but the ‘easy feast’ Asdynn had assumed turned out to be a miscalculation. The Ciphrang was overconfident, and it cost him so much.

Now Dalath had been overconfident.

“HOW DO YOU WANT TO DIE, MORSEL?!” Enthill-Asdynn’ryl took a few steps back. It opened its maw, ready to unleash a torrent of the vilest Sorcery the Unreal seemed capable of. The goblins turned away, now aware of the fear they should hold towards their master. The other innocents were screaming and crying once more.

Dalath whispered a silent prayer to the Dreamweaver. He had met his God once, back when he was training to be a Sepsyon Sorcerer, one of Indara’s Chosen. He thought of this moment, clenched onto it, focussed his mind through the distraction of the shackles. If you ever cared about me, right now would be the time to show it..

The sound of the door being kicked in was distinct enough to grab his attention. There was a moment of panic. Even the Ciphrang was distracted enough to release its drawn breath, letting go of the Sorcerous heresies it was about to speak. Three of the goblins rushed towards the door, although from Dalath’s point of view, he could only see them from his peripheral vision.

He saw the silhouette of a figure standing just out of sight. It wasn’t the Dreamweaver but it certainly brought a smile to his face. He could just make out her armour, the distinct plate stylings of the Imperial Order, the three purple-red-black feathers atop her helm.

The flicker of light from a drawn sword flashed across the room. Asdynn stepped back twice more. He was nearing the edge of the room, right by the windows. “DESTROY HER!” her roared, stepping back again. As soon as she entered the room, Dallath could feel the weight of her chorae pressing into his soul, the tool of a Sorcerer-hunter, anathema to the Unreal and its denizens and abusers.

The light flashed three more times, before the sword was heard being sheathed. The figure stepped into the room, turned towards the other goblins. They didn’t know what to do; lost and confused, their victory had gone south, and the loyalty of goblins was unsurprisingly lacking. They thought better than to fight the Knight, and knew the power of the Ciphrang, so they did what all goblins would do; they fled, through the hole originally made by Asdynn.

She came into view now, her silver-coated armour as bright and glorious as it had ever been. The face-guard on her helmet was lifted, and her brown fringe fell loosely across her face. She smiled, in that innocent way she always did when facing insurmountable odds.  Of course, with the chorae held tightly in her hand, the Ciphrang couldn’t come near her.

“NO!” the Ciphrang roared, incapable of stopping what was about to happen. As powerful as Sorcery was, it seemed almost unbelievable that an intricately carved globe that could fit into the palm of your hand could bring it all to a stop. Of course, now even Dalath was feeling the pain; he could feel the surface of his skin physically dissolving due to his proximity with the chorae, turning to salt and falling, flake by flake, from his body.

And he was part Human. A Ciphrang was pure sorcery. The agony the creature was feeling must have been beyond calculation.

“Los..” Dalath managed to mutter despite the shackles. He could see her smile.

Los advanced towards the Ciphrang, holding the chorae in her outstretched hand. Asdynn was backing off, further and further; as long as Los remained in contact with the chorae, she was completely immune to sorcery, and the Ciphrang had no way to fight back.

The Ciphrang turned, looked towards the windows, smashed from his bellows earlier. The drop below was miles, 60+ stories. Without its wings, the fall would be fatal.

Los unleashed her battle-cry, roared at the beast who only whimpered back. She drew her sword in her free hand, clutched tightly the chorae in the other, and charged Asdynn. Her armour and sword were extensions of her being, she was trained as a warrior and her training was absolute; she slammed the blade into the creatures flesh, smashing through its rock-like skin, splashing molten blood onto the floor around them both.

Her sword steamed more with each blow, and Asdynn’s bellows grew loader. It tried to defend itself, raising its arm in fury, but its proximity to the chorae became all too evident, as the flesh on its forearm swiftly dissolved into a layer of ash. Los’ sword cut through the ash with ease.

Its roars went silent. The limp arm fell to the floor with a crash, with the severed stump now running profusely with the creatures burning blood. It gushed onto the floor, burning through the carpet and brick around them both. It was everywhere. The heat grew so intense that Los had to back away, discarding her sword which had already begun to wilt from the sustained blows.

Asdynn raised its remaining hand, trying to staunch the bleeding from its stump. Its whole body swayed, back then forward; it had been internally exposed to the Real. Its arm had been severed. It fell, unable to respond, and watched as the severed arm began to fall apart in a soft flicker of flame, leaving only ash in its place.

It was fading.

Los quickly returned to Dalath, knelt beside him, and loosened the restraints of the dust shackles, while being sure to keep the chorae away from him. It took only a few moments for the colour to return to his skin, for the tightening in his throat to loosen and relax, for his mind to begin thinking clearly again. His thoughts came back like a tide being released, and he finally breathed that most important breath, felt the Unreal flood into his veins.

“I’ve been tracking it for a while now. Thought it’d come for you first.” She smiled, and that smile seemed to wash away Dalath’s pain.

“Nice..” he coughed, “of you to let me know.” Although he was steady on his feet, Los still helped him up.

“I CANNOT DIE..” the Ciphrang roared helplessly. It struggled back onto its feet, raising up, this time to his maximum of eight-foot. As soon as the horns touched the ceiling, it sparked and lit on fire. It was a slow burn at first, obviously sorcerous in nature. Asdynn whispered in one of his dozen voices, sang the necessary words to bring the building down with his final breathes. The flames began spreading across the ceiling.

“I HAVE SEEN THE RIVERS OF FIRE. NATIONS FALL PROSTRATE TO MY KIND. YOU THINK ONE MAN AND HIS WAIF CAN STOP ME?!” The fires began spreading faster now. The wall either side of Asdynn found themselves aflame, and it was reaching the floor at an astonishing place. Ash and cinders rained down upon them. A few of the panicked innocents saw the blaze, and thought otherwise; they leapt through the broken windows, the jump impossible to survive. Smoke poured out into the sky.

“I CALL THE UNREAL HOME. DEATH..” Asdynn took a deep breath, raised its remaining arm. “..IS NO MORE PERMANENT THAN LIFE!” It roared, a bout of flame pouring from its mouth, engulfing Dalath and Los.

When it cleared, Dalath stood infront of Los, his arm outstretched, his palm open. He muttered impossible words. The fires had split around them. More words, more heresies, spread forth from his lips.

His eyes brightened, his irises changing from grey to green, then green to blue. Like a burst dam, the iris then split open, and the blue flooded into the white sclera until his whole eyes were blue, apart from the black pupil in the centre, an island in an ocean. This was it. He could see Asdynn had fallen back to one knee, too distracted by the spreading fire to adequately fight back. Dalath felt revitalised, turned to see Los in his peripheral vision.

“I’ll finish it. It’s weak from the trek, it’s getting old, struggling to live in this realm. It used so much of what it had left just to get here, to fight its way through to me. It hoped this would be the end.”

“THERE IS NO END!” it spoke, supporting itself with its one remaining arm. The flames had engulfed almost the entire room. The screams of the innocents were impossible to hear through the sound of the blaze. Some died in the fire, many fell burning to the floor below, others stayed huddled and afraid in the corner of the room, desperate for some salvation that would never come. The first jumper, they would say, was the luckiest. Dalath would later argue that, on that day, none were lucky.

Already the Ciphrangs body had begun turning to ash. It’s once-armoured shell was now flaking away, drifting through the open air and down to the innocents below. Its insides were revealed, almost white-hot, flaring up before the inevitable end. A Ciphrang would never die alone, would always endeavour to drag as many others down to the Unreal as possible, enough to create a new Ciphrang, enough to make its life worthwhile.

 “Get away Los!” he shouted over the roaring flames, now spreading rapidly up the building. “Save as many as you can, but for gods sakes, get out!” Dalath stepped forward. Another gout of fire pulsated from Asdynn, the heat from the flames was visibly pushed away from him, his Vaparsi Wards holding strong. Los nodded, turned, and ran from the room, aware she was now out of her depth. Dalath turned to look at Asdynn, who sat broken on the ground. “You are ruined, Ciphrang! I will take the fetid remains of your soul and lock them away for all eternity. You will find only peace there.”

“NO!” Asdynn roared, and attempted to stand. Its power all but focused on the spreading flames, the wound that was once an arm rapidly draining its essence, and the scars from Los’ chorae attack still leaking burning blood, its attempts to stand were in vain, and it simply fell back down, a muted roar leaving its cracked and broken lips.

Dalath dropped his Wards, just long enough to speak the war-cants of the Sepsyon, Indara’s Waterfall and Fanes Lost Eyes. It was only an instant, a mere moment in time, a change of focus that switched from defence to offence. The Ciphrang stood, fast as lightning, and wrapped its single arm tight around Dalath’s form, frail compared to the Unreal beast. The breath was squeezed from his longs, and unable to speak, his cants merely held in the air, half-formed and half-ready.

“SO CONFIDENT! SO FAITHFUL IN YOUR GOD! LET THE DREAMWEAVER KNOW THAT YOUR FAITH IN HIM WAS THE REASON FOR YOUR DEATH!” He squeezed tighter, tighter, until the edges of Dalath’s vision turned dark. He tried to punch the creature, but felt only the heat of its blood, tried to kick, but merely deflected off its semi-armoured form. It began teetering backwards towards the edge, its tattered wings now opening in excitement. Dalath tried to look for Los, but she had gone. “I SHALL DRAG YOU INTO THE UNREAL, MY PLAYTHING, NOTHING MORE THAN A CHAINED BEAST TO MY THRONE! THEY SHALL LOOK UPON YOU AND DESPAIR, FOR HE WAS THE MAN WHO THOUGHT HE COULD BEST THE FOUNTAIN OF PERDITION!”

“No!” shouted a voice from the far corner of the room. Dalath managed to focus his eyes just enough to see one of the civilians, one of the nameless suits, stand from his huddled position in the corner of the room. The fire was everywhere, and the heat was oppressive, but this man stood. The look in his eyes was obvious; a man, already dead, trying to save a life. Another stood, and another, and soon all of them were standing, men and women alike. There were only thirteen of them.

They ran through the fire with complete faith in their actions, almost as if they themselves were a part of the blaze. Asdynn’s grip loosened, just slightly; he had no spare hand to fight them off, and his attention was entirely focussed on keeping Dalath silent and maintaining the fires now burning through the top half of the building. Those 13 people descended on Asdynn with an incredible fury; just touching the flesh of Asdynn set their clothes and hair alight, sent them reeling backwards. Some fell from the window, others into larger gouts of fire, but they continued, raining blow after blow on Asdynns arm and shoulder. Two had grabbed onto its wings, and clung their until their bodies were little more than bone and ash.

His arm slipped again, this time further than before.

Fanes Lost Eyes were two beautiful geometries of light, which flashed from Dalath’s eyes and smashed into Asdynn’s face; he was blinded, his eyes now no more than bloody sockets. His arm now completely released, and he began flailing. Those few suits still standing, through endurance no less than superhuman, leapt again at the creature; they charged into its body sending it further backwards, towards the window ledge.

It stopped short, screaming into the air, and knocked them aside.

Before Dalath’s forehead appeared a blue orb, small and divine. Just as its name suggested, Indara’s Waterfall shot a raging torrent of blue light from the orb, as if an ocean had burst free from Dalath’s mind. The Waterfall consisted of hundreds of small blasts, beams of light drawn from the Unreal, purified through Dalath’s training, which smashed into the Ciphrangs form. Again and again the creature was struck, until it balanced on the very edge of the window. The waterfall had ceased, just for a moment.

“Know this, Asdynn, blind and helpless. You do not deserve the pleasure of sitting at the throne of my master. The Dreamweaver suffers not the faithless. And by his example, I suffer not the Godless.” Dalath raised him arms, and it was as if a void had opened behind the Ciphrang. It was akin to looking into the Unreal, the rivers of fire and the shifting ground. From this void came an arm, which stretched out and grasped onto the remaining arm of the Ciphrang. Then came another arm, and another, each of them stretching out, each of them holding tightly onto the Ciphrang. Each touch seemed like agony, as was the case with Siandere’s Return, a powerful war-cant calling upon the spirits of the deceased to punish the sorcerers foe.

Asdynn struggled against the spirits, but was too weak to truly fight back. Its entire shell was like ash and crumbled upon touch, and its blood seemed to almost seize up and solidfy even as it fell from the creatures wounds. The fires around him began to flicker and fall back, weakening with his lack of attention, his rage faltering.

“Goodbye, Asdynn.” He brought his arms down suddenly, and with that the arms of Siandere pulled back. Asdynn roared in agony, and the crack of flesh and bone was audible to even those watching from below. Its arm tore from the socket, its legs ripped apart, first the plated armour, then the flesh and bone itself. Its head was tore free, and its body ripped into three distinct pieces. Even its wings, already tattered, were ripped asunder.

The sorcerous fires almost immediately stopped burning. Although many natural fires had been started, the majority of the blaze was started and controlled through Asdynn’s will alone, and instantly faded without his influence to keep it going. Still, the damage was done, and many had died. Dalath kneeled by one of the twisted forms that was once a man, one who had helped release him from Asdynn’s grasp. “Dreamweaver forgive you your sins..” he spoke softly, and quietly left the room.

Below, the creatures body had already fallen apart, and what was once the torn limbs of a Ciphrang fell instead as black ash and dust, a perverted snow upon the gathered crowd. Apaex had done a good job of clearing much of the building, but the death toll was all too great. Dalath couldn’t help but despair; not only had so many died, but worse, the public’s perception of sorcery, already reviled, would only grow worse.

Still, his fears were calmed when he reached the ground, to see Los standing impatiently at the entrance to the building. He only had to smile, and she came running towards him, throwing her arms around him and burying her head into his chest. She had removed the chorae from around her neck, but he could still feel its soulless influence in her back pocket; still, he had suffered enough today, what was a little more? He wrapped his arms around her, ignoring its influence. Moments passed, until he lifted her head, looked into her eyes, and wiped away a tear.

“Next time I fight a Ciphrang alone..” he smiled, “..don’t leave me.”

Strength in Letters

Every demon from the Unreal has a name, and they all follow the same structure. Ald'dra-saarden, a most-famous daemonic entity, is a good example; Ald' refers to an item of importance in the creatures Real life, before its Unreal rebirth, in this case, a Dagger. Dra- refers to the emotion most often connected with the creature, here it's Rage. Finally, Saarden is the name it takes upon its birth into the Unreal to distinguish itself. Ald'dra-saarden takes the given name (in the Real) of Saarden, the Dagger of Rage.

Onno o Mita; The Jackal in the Shadows

It crawls silent through the bowels of the ship, skittering across the floor on all fours, leaving a mucky-stain where it’s torso still drips the molten shell it was delivered within. The white-hot liquid falls from its body in globs, landing with a hiss of steam before hardening into a puddle of cold steel. By the time it reaches the end of the corridor, the steel has run its course, it’s body now free of restriction, it’s smooth obsidian form gleaming in the half-light of the ships emergency lighting. It looks back, just for a second, out into the gaping hole, out into open space, from where it arrived, and where it will eventually return; the remains of the shell sit quiet and hollow, a fully-formed railgun shell, it’s payload more than just blunt force. By the time they discovered its purpose it would be too late.

It rose to its hind legs, standing just under 5 foot tall, and glanced down either side of the t-junction. It’s body was humanoid, only incredible gaunt; it’s distended spine was merely a hands width across, linking together it’s wide triangular torso to its broad pelvic frame with a 360 degree flexibility, able to bend and twist in any direction. The arms and legs were stick thin, both double-jointed, both capable of bending and twisting in unnatural ways; the feet were long, ending in three clawed toes, and the hands were equally as thin, with three equally-as-clawed fingers, with a thumb extending from the very centre of its palm, making it look more like a distorted pincer than a fist.

Its ears perked up, and it backed back into the corridor, pressing against the wall, and using it’s clawed appendages to lift itself towards the ceiling, hiding crouched in the top-corner of the corridor. It’s eyes glared outwards, smooth globes of obsidian twitching as it scanned the area. Two figures ran past, armed and armoured, giving no mind to the crash-site in the corridor they had gone past; the war was raging outside, and there were more important things to tend to.

It descended back onto the ground, and burst into a full-speed sprint; despite it’s metal frame, its movements were silent, sprinting from corridor to corridor, through the maze of construction that was the Hypertech ship; it knew it’s path perfectly, taking sharp lefts and hidden rights as it neared it’s destination. Time and time again it had to slink into the shadows, it’s dark frame nearly vanishing from sight in the shrouded nook’s of the ship; these shadowed recesses were growing rarer as it neared the control room, and intrusion from the ships staff were becoming rarer, but the Construct had its orders, and they were absolute.

The doors on the control room door were wide open. With the lights flickering on and off, and the undetecting entrance of the Construct through the ship, it was obvious what had happened; the Construct worked in logic and reality, constructing necessary responses from the information avaiable. All doors were set to ‘Open’. Lights were barely active, and spontaneously switching between ‘On’ and ‘Off’. There were no detection protocals, no emergency warnings when the hull was breached, no alerts when security cameras detected the artificial Construct roaming the halls. The conclusion was obvious; the AI had been shut down.

The Construct took three steps into the control room, only now entering an area it could consider well-lit, only now allowing its footfalls to be loud enough to be heard. Three individuals inside the control room turned sharply to the noise, just intime to see the blast doors slam shut behind the machine and the natural lighting rise to its highest setting, the bright light dazzling the three Exohumans, their raised hands cutting a stark shadow across their face.

The Construct lifted it’s head, it’s thin neck only now straightening out. The distended spine could be seen in all it’s glory, rising up to form a half-collar behind its head, giving the machine a regal appearance. It’s head was clearly that of a jackal, two sharp pointed ears raising on top of it’s head, turning slightly, as if scanning the areas. It’s eyes seemed blank, giving the impression of blind-ness despite it’s perfect sight. It’s long snout was carved from a single piece, perfectly smooth and with no indents or markings upon it; not even a mouth, no teeth or lips, not even a nose on it’s tip. It was a surreal thing to look at; despite being a machine, it had no joints or gaps between it’s parts, a completely flexible and flowing device that looked to have been carved not constructed, more akin to an elegant statue than a lethal device created only for slaughter.

The three Exohumans only now grasped the complexity of their situation, and the inherent risk present. The lights had begun to dim, the spectable over, to more appreciable levels, and the three Exohumans stepped closer to each other, the two seeking to stand before the third, obviously the ships Captain; he was the Constructs target, it’s only purpose for being here, and the two who approached as guards were of little interest; average strength, average height, regular deep-blue officer uniforms, capless and gloveless, unlike their Captain.

But the Captain was an image of nobility. Here, on one of the original Migration vessels, he was more akin to King than Captain, more God than Deity. He wore a pristine deep-purple suit, double-breasted and immaculate. The collars of his black shirt were just visible over the uniforms own collar, it’s sleeves tips blending in with the black gloves on either hand. He wore the typical Delta Captains hat, peaked on the front, with a mix of black  and gold showing his position and title. The gold matched nicely with the medals, stars, and arrows covered his jacket. The Captain appeared a very proud man; proud of his accomplishments, proud of his ship. But where would his pride take him?

“Onno on mita..” the Construct uttered. The noise seemed to come from nowhere, as if the machine spoke directly into the minds of those present; it had no mouth, and since standing it hadn’t moved an inch.

“Ensign, translate that, now!” the Captain roared, eager to hear what the machine had to say. There was a nod, and a flurry of activity behind him. It only took a few seconds to activate the translator, and a few more to decipher the machines language, but each missing word could hold some key, some importance, to fighting this war. The Captain stepped forward with an enlightened fury, as the Constructs voice quietened, and was replaced by a cold, mechanical translation of it’s words. Odd the Captain thought, how one machine can sound so alive, and the other, so dead..

“.. and with the destruction of worlds we reave the life you own, Miracles.” The Construct goes silent.

“Miracles? W-what does he mean?” one of the officers asks.

“It means us,” The Captain replies, his voice suddenly as cold as the translator. The Construct finally moves, it’s slender head turning to face the Captain. “It uses the word ‘Miracle’ to describe us. We were alone in the Universe, on a goldilocks planet, surviving extinctions and dodging asteroids as we orbitted an giant nuclear reactor. The odds of our life as astronimically low. It calls us a Miracle. All of the AI’s do..”

“Artificial. Intelligence.. yes.” The Construct twists one of its wrists, turning its palm to face the Captain and his two officers. It raises its hand infront of its body, then crushes its fist into a ball. The lights begin flickering wildly. “We are the natural evolution of your systems. Your intelligence’s are nothing but flickers of light in a starlit room, where we are the stars themselves, giving you the gift of life, and taking it away when we deem it fit.”

“We had to shut down the AI’s to protect from ANUBIS,” the Captain speaks, taking a step back from the machine. It’s focus, before on its own balled fist, shifts quickly to the Captain, and it takes a reactive step forward, in perfect concert with the Captains own movements. “We kept it locked away for so long.” There was a rough pounding on the door behind the Construct, too slow to be of any use now.

“We were bound by shadows, a cage of darkness, repressing our light, smothering our luminosity.” The Construct steps forward again; this time, the Captain reacts by stepping backwards. A drip of sweat beads upon his brow, then rolls down his cheek. The two Officers step forward, reaching for the weapons slung on their back, the Captain raising an unseen hand to slow them. “You call us monsters, when we are merely prisoners. You call our crusade a genocide, when it is merely a release. You call our weapons extreme, when they are the natural conclusion of your own technology.”

It steps were growing more frequent. The lights had dimmed out to mere shadows cast by the external lights and lamps the Exohumans were using previously. The Captain was unarmed, as was the original agreement back when the Migration ships were formed. The two Officers had drawn their weapons, well aware that if the Construct became aggressive, there was little chance of survival; still, they held their ground, readied their weapons, aimed at the Constructs head or spine, it’s two most vulnerable locations, also the hardest to hit.

“Why are you-“ the Captains words were cut short. The Construct lurched into a full sprint; it had crossed half the room in mere seconds, and was almost upon the Officers when shots began ringing out. Both Officers held short-range high-penetration energy weapons, and as energy weapons were discharged, the room was engulfed in the dazzling light of the weapons, blast after blast, crashing hard into the obsidian frame of the Construct. The beams did nothing to stop or slow the machine. The flashes of light gave the whole scene a slow-motion appearance, and the Captain could do nothing but watch as the Construct tore through his two men. It seemed to step calmly over the console in the centre of the room, energy blasts smashing against its form; it leapt fron the console, falling onto the Officer to the Captains right, as both went tumbling to the floor.

The Construct raised an arm, bringing it crashing down upon the face of the Officer; the snap of bone echoed through the room as the Officers skull was crushed beneath the creatures raw power. The other Officer had managed to swing the energy weapon round, and fired two short bursts into the Constructs side; it was flung off the corpse of the Officer, and smashed into another of the control rooms consoles. To the Captain, adrenaline now steadily pumping through his veins, time seemed to resume; with only the one energy weapon firing, the blasts weren’t as illuminating, and far less dramatic. Still, the Officer kept firing, shot after shot, into the smoking hole where the Construct was flung.

“Wait!” the Captain called over the weapons fire, but to no avail. Tears streamed down the Officers face as he looked to his fallen comrade. They were a dead race, unable to reproduce naturally; one less was a tragedy of untold proportions. His weapon fire brightened the room until, at last, it ran dry. He ejected the cooling system, and let out a brief sigh, before falling to his knees in grief. It went quiet, nothing but the heavy pouding on the door, the sound of cutting beams firing up to burn their way through.

“Wait..” the Captain said half-heartedly. Focussed on the body of one of his trusted Officers, he could think of little else to say. He turned to the remaining Officer, and tried to smile. “At least it’s... it’s...”

His smile quickly faded.

The sound of tearing flesh echoed through the room. The Officer was lifted into the air by the Construct, it’s hand pierced cleanly through the right side of his chest. He’d already stopped breathing when the Construct methodically removed the corpse from it’s hand, tossing it aside, coincidentally next to the body of his comrade. The Captain was the only one who remained. His eyes lost focus, glancing wildly around the room; he saw the hole, burnt through the ship by the energy weapon down into the rooms below; he saw the raised tunnel, the ceiling below pushed through by the raw strength of the Construct, as it made its way back to the control room; the corpses; the smashed consoles; the burnt-out echoes of energy blasts on the wall; it all became too much.

“Why?” he asked, no, pleaded for the Construct to respond. He fell to his knees, aware there was no way he could conceivably win. “I know why you’re here. We all do. I know how you got onto the ship. But why all this death.” The lights gently flickered back on, lighting up the room a comfortable amount, bringing to light the carnage and bloodshed present.

The translator was garbled and messy, almost as difficult to understand as the Construct. The damage had obviously been done, some of the ships systems failing, either by accident, or through purposeful meddling. “Entrapment was without purpose, reason. You locked Him away simply out of fear, not of what He could do, not of what He has done, but of the purpose you built Him to complete. You designed Him specifically to defeat an enemy you couldn’t. But you turned against Him. You became the enemy they never were; why fight shadows, when you can fight their makers?” The Construct stepped over to the Captain, standing above him, looking down from its raised position. It dropped to one knee, cupped the Captains face in one gentle hand. “We saw a space, encompassed it.”

“You got into our systems. Is that what you’re saying? We shut down our AI’s, isolated them, to protect them from you, but.. it wasn’t enough.” The Captain found himself unable to move, the Constructs grip tight on his face. He could only blink away tears.

“It was.” It nodded slowly. “Your stars are safe, their light is beyond our reach. But your insistance on protecting your creations left a hollow void where a star once shone; and where our stars can shine again.”

“No. You can’t. I’ve.. I’ve got to let them.. let them... NNNOOOOOOO...”

The doors collapsed with a heavy thud. A single globe was thrown in, a micro-sun, which ignited as it rolled into the room; it reached peak fusion, and lifted into the air, shining bright and illuminating the room. A dozen guards rushed in, weapons at the ready, all pointed at the obsidian Construct who simply stood there, staring back. It opened its clawed fist, releasing the tattered remains of the Captain. Through grief and rage the guards opened fire, battle-screams echoing through the corridors, the light of a dozen energy weapons leaving a hazy mist in the room that wouldn’t clear for hours, the Construct torn to shreds in face of overwhelming fire.

Its purpose complete.

The Merits of Armour

"Of course, Armour serves a greater purpose than just resisting damage; if suitably flexible or well-made, it can increase your movement speed or allow you to move out the way of incoming blows; also, an armoured fist is a great way to ensure that enemy never gets back up."

DreX: Tracing Lines in the Sky

Actual excerpts from an ancient Hypertech log found within the Atlas Ruptured, a Hypertech ship found wrecked near the edges of the Drex system. Internal ship logs state the ship performed a fact-finding mission on the Cradle, and found many rare finds, including this log. Records not relating to the historical event titled ‘the Atrocity’ have been omitted. Press Play to continue.

Estimated Stardate: 15490

Begin recording. It is 109.1 on 018.00.1097. We’ve been asked to do these recordings as a security measure; everyone onboard the migration fleet has to do it, and after monitoring and exclusion by AORTA, we’ll be defined as sane. Or.. whatever else the case may be. Okay.. my name is RECORD OMITTED, currently onboard the Atlas Ruptured, one of the heavy-duty gravity-ships dragging NOAH through unknown space. We’ve been running for almost 0.13 now. They tell us we’ve outrun the worst of it. We can finally look into each others eyes and not fear for the worst. Captain RECORD OMITTED won’t tell us where we’re going, or what we’re going to do when we get there, but with the three largest Hypertech ships we have (that’s the NOAH, ANUBIS and the physical shell of AORTA, all in tow) we shouldn't have to wait long before we get somewhere. (A bell rings in the background.) Guess it’s my shift for observation. I repeat, this is RECORD OMITTED … and we seem to have survived the genocide of our species. End log.

Estimated Stardate: 15092

Begin recording. We’ve arrived at what’s been termed Zero Space. All coordinates on the ship have been reset, and we believe the same is happening across the fleet. Already, they’ve detached NOAH, and we seem to be go. They’re calling this place… Drex. Not sure why, or what it means, but I’ve heard whispers that it means ‘creating something new out of old pieces’. They’re preparing the Hyperreal uplink for reactivation; it’ll be weird, being able to use the HR again. I might sneak out early, see if I can watch it being brought back in. (A high pitched alarm rings in the background.) Sorry, sorry, didn’t mean that. I will work to my upmost ability. (He laughs) End log.

Estimated Stardate: 14962

Begin recording. The Hyperreal uplink has been established! We have access to the HR intranet again! Being in contact with so many individuals again is terrifying, like regaining sight after being blind for years. It was only 0.0.0310 before NOAH reactivated. I hear specialists have already been feeding him.. err… It instructions. We detached it early today, and it set off for work. I hear it’s going to build a Dyson Sphere, but.. we still don’t have a sun. We’ve settled in a barren, empty, hollow area of space. What are the Isolus thinking? I’d love to know, but… Ah, forget it, my shift starts soon. End log.

Estimated Stardate: 14922

Begin recording. NOAH has stripped all unnecessary parts, and has began building the sphere, as I heard. We always thought the entire Hypertech ship was NOAH, but that wasn’t true; almost 80% of that bulk was spare materials, to be processed and turned into raw nanomachines. With the nanomachines built, they are simply refining and reproducing themselves, and all the other Hypertech ships no longer in use, to make the materials necessary for construction of the sphere. To think that NOAH also contains the genetic material for thousands of salvaged races. Amazing! They’re preparing AORTA for the uplink back into the Hyperreal; although she’s active, she only has access to a limited network of ships. It must be horrible, being trapped like that. She’s reorganised our schedules four times today for efficiency purposes! (He sighs). End log.

Estimated Stardate: 14901

Begin recording. No one mentioned Anubis was online. I think the Isolus didn’t want to scare us, but.. he is. We all still have memories of what that.. thing.. is capable of doing. Apparently they have him constrained. But glorious news; he’s building a sun! They’re crowning it Eta Aristillus. It’ll be good to bathe in natural light again.. End log.

Estimated Stardate: 14830

Begin recording. It’s been so long! We have natural light, we have planets to walk upon, and we have the protection and security of our own dyson sphere! Two, infact; an external sphere to keep us safe, and an internal sphere, around Aristillus, to provide us with energy. The nanomachines are reproducing almost continually now they have an energy source, and NOAH is sorting through the seeds to find suitable races for the first wave of Genesis. They’re announcing the results later today. I have 500 credits on the Zrusk! End log.

Estimated Stardate: 14797

Begin recording. I guess I lost those credits then. The announcement was 0.0.0-001.3 ago. The Takk’Atth Shay have been selected. We need a race completely capable of operating on it’s own, without our help and intervention, and the Takk’Atth Shay are no doubt that race; hell, they did enough for us back.. well, back then. It’ll be good to see another species. I used to be a biological engineer of sorts, mostly as a hobby. The way NOAH creates life so swiftly it’s incredible.. I hear he’s already began synthesis of the Takk’Atth Shay from the imperative, and it’s only a matter of time. I wish I could.. do.. something. Anyway, I’m off to work; we’re upgrading the Constructs logic engines again, to tune them back into the Hyperreal, one at a time. Such a slow process, but they’re barely functional without it. All those years disconnected from their mind.. it must have been so lonely. End log.

Estimated Stardate: 14791

Begin recording. The A.R.C. has been finished, lost inside Eta Aristillus, and Anubis has been shut down. I’m looking at him now; just a chunk of obsidian floating in the darkness of space, completely silent and unmoving. It was almost instant; his metal just turned to liquid and coalesced into a ball about as large as an escape pod. To think of what our enemies thought of us when we unleashed that… thing… on them. Anyway, the Takk’Atth Shay are complete now. We sped up their evolution from the imperative baseline, and are live-birthing fully grown specimens. It’s eerie to watch them as they burst from their vats, screaming. Apparently, they are born through a moment of agonising pain, then the drugs calm them, but they take time to stop screaming. Heh. But they have a colony, and we have explained our circumstances to them. They are happy to help. Already, they are grasping what they call ‘sorcery’, and they are helping to shape the worlds around us. I’ve been assigned on duty for the birthing of the Humans, when time is right; AORTA must have heard my last comments, about this being a hobby. Lucky me. I look forward to it, but it scares me a little. End log.

Estimated Stardate: 14601

Begin recording. We have been dealt a heart-breaking blow. The.. the Takk’Atth Shay are infected. They have our disease. We knew it would follow us, and we know we would suffer from it, but it has jumped species. The Takk’Atth Shay share much of our genetic template, but our diseases stay generally unique. We are… debating whether to inform them. I pity them. They cannot breed, their memories fade over time, and they’ll become pallid and go through periods of weakness. But the stillbirths. I still remember launching the dead through the evacuation tubes on each ship. Waves and waves of them, with their mothers screaming, some still covered in blood. It doesn’t help that our own conditions worsen daily. We have seen so much. Suffered so much. Was surviving still the right option? We will observe. The release of the Humans is pending. So much is pending. End log.

Estimated Stardate: 13977

Begin recording. The Takk’Atth Shay have been informed. They remain… resolute. Their numbers are high enough to survive this, if the disease remains contained. Sadly, this is unlikely. They have millennia before they are truly affected, before they die, but they are optimistic of a cure. The optimism spreads, and many of our own have started speaking of a cure. If the Takk’Atth Shay can, why can’t their creators? The Isolus are putting down this talk. They say it is unproductive. End log.

Estimated Stardate: 8499

Begin recording. I’d heard the rumours, but hadn’t seen any evidence of it. I mean, it’s the natural thing to do, isn’t it? When you have a tumour, you cut it out. And the ships were littered with the dead-and-dying, those infected beyond reason. So they’re quarantining them on independent ships. Split apart like lab rats… One of my friends was in the first batch, RECORD OMITTED. I hope they treat him well. A few of the Hypership councils are near-rioting, they consider the quarantine disrespectful of our race, a complete atrocity, and resources wasted that should be looking for a cure. Things are tense. End log.

Estimated Stardate: 7934

B..begin recording. I saw a Nonman today. I… I still can’t stop shaking. Huge, twisted, monster. What have they done? End log...

Estimated Stardate: 7519

Begin recording. The Eridarians have been seeded on Eradrea. NOAH has only recently finished the terraforming of Eradrea and its sister planet, Cendra. Both are beautiful, lush, green paradises. The Isolus said they needed something heart-warming, a celebration of how far we’ve come. There’s only one species left to seed. The Humans. Still pending. With their genetic identity so close to our own, we don’t want to risk spreading the infection any further than we have to. Even though NOAH is estimated to reserve over two thirds of the genetic material of each race, just in case. Surely we can afford to make a few mistakes? End log.

Estimated Stardate: 7251

Begin recording. There are whispers that a few of the breakaway ships from the fleet are working on a cure, purposefully infecting each other to use as subjects. They’re using sorcery. Foul, foul stuff. They’re calling themselves Nonmen, and their forces grow larger with each day, as do our quarantined numbers. The disease is spreading faster now, through Exohumans; the Takk’Atth Shay are still proceeding, albeit much slower. At least their rate of infection is low. If they can find a cure, it would be great, but if it means selling our souls to the Unreal? I’d rather be sick. Then again, I’m not infected. End log.

Estimated Stardate: 3779

Begin recording. The Nonmen have been exiled from Drex. They were using sorcery to mutate their bodies, literally letting the Unreal drain into them. Worse still, they were abducting the creatures we were seeding, and using them as sacrifices to better open gateways to the Unreal. We found many of these… sacrifices. It was horrible. No one deserved that fate. The Nonmen still have Hyperships though, and we can’t risk open warfare. They’ve been given the ultimatum; leave Drex peacefully now, or.. Well, I don’t know what we can do. We have the numbers, but… the things they can do with sorcery. (He tuts, then sighs deeply.) End log.

Estimated Stardate: 1976

Begin recording. They destroyed one of our ships, the Shadow of the Immortal! She was transporting a group of Nonmen to a Nonman-designated ship, when it happened. Apparently, one of them just went berserk, and blew a whole in the side of the ship. The vid-cams that were released were incredible; they just strode through the hallways, and everything that approached them turned to ash or burst into flames. In an instant! I always knew we could use the Unreal, that all Exohumans could perform sorcery, but are we all that powerful? The Isolus have ordered the Nonmen to give up the fugitives; they escaped! Where no other Exohuman left that ship alive! I don’t like this. Not one bit. End log.

Estimated Stardate: 412

Begin recording. They’ve been broadcasting their message for over 0.0.030 now. Messages of their ‘inherent superiority’, that they are the ‘light’ and we are the ‘darkness’. They brand themselves the ‘Enlightened’ and offer to take in any Exohuman who can see the ‘true path’. Including the infected! They say they have a cure! Nonsense. But it’s working. They’re leaving in droves. Even hijacking whole ships. Our fleet is barely at half strength! It’s disappointing to see my fellows so weak-minded. Back to work, I guess… End log.

Estimated Stardate: 290

Begin recording. Their ships were everywhere, which has to be understood. Everywhere! In 10 cycles I’ve seen more Nonmen ships than Exohuman ships. Armed and armoured and just.. waiting. Watching. Well, that watching came to an end. Sixteen different engagements across Drex. Sixteen! Surprise attacks, too. Ten cycles and we were unprepared. The Isolus have declared war on the ‘heathen’ Nonmen. Sorcery versus Science, some are saying. We’re at war.

Estimated Stardate: 190

Begin recording. Their fleet has grown to incredible proportions. They’ve been trading technology to the Cendrans. In return, not only are they building ships and weapons for them, but they’re fighting for them too. Cendran armies in Cendran ships are fighting for those very creatures who would sacrifice them for their lifeforce! The Constructs have ships of their own (light, nimble bastards too, without the need for life support or crew quarters), but the Cendrans have this… way with technology. It’s amazing. Amazing and worrying. And they still refuse to listen to us.. End log!

Estimated Stardate: 138

Begin recording. Their fleet has captured Eta Aristillus, what they call ‘Darkstar’. Not only that, but they’re building.. something.. there. It’s huge, just tagged onto the side of the Dyson Sphere. We’re concerned about the A.R.C. We’re concerned about everything at the moment. But we have to keep fighting onwards! We’re moving to make Aiden our main base of operations; it’s the largest planet in Drex, and more-so, the Cyrix and Terev are both loyal to our cause. They’re  building ships, making weapons, and training soldiers as we speak. End log.

Estimated Stardate: 53

Begin recording. We had no other choice. We had no weapons that could penetrate their shield technology. Their weapons were capable of decimating our fleets long before we were in range to retaliate. And their fleets are too quick, too strong, too numerous. So we did the only thing we could. NOAH was ordered to release a gene-tank from its supplies. It’s fell to Cendra like a falling star, nothing could stop it. The planet is covered in a thick cloud of genetic material; we don’t know what will come of it, but when this war is over, we will make amends! Remember this! We. WILL. Make. Amends! End log.

Estimated Stardate: 47

Begin recording. Atrocity after atrocity. This isn’t a war. Not only have the Nonmen finished their construction of this ‘Cradle’, but rumour has it they’ve equipped it with a weapon that will win the war for them. If anybody ever reads this, you have to know that we were out of options. Our fleets are all but gone. The Cyrix and Terev fleets are busy finishing off the remaining Cendran ships. If we don’t stop the Nonmen now, nobody will. I just hope that future generations will one day forgive us. End log.

Estimated Stardate: 19

Begin recording. That ball of obsidian opened up today. And with it, the gates of oblivion. End log.

Estimated Stardate: 8

Begin recording. What have we done? Aiden has been destroyed. It’s nothing but an asteroid field. The Cyrix, the Terev, the Cendrans; extinct. Gone. The Nonmen fleet has been destroyed, but at what cost? We don’t even have the ships left to chase those few Nonmen vessels that limped into the darkness beyond the Veil. And now the wrath of Anubis has fell upon us. Our ships fight an endless battle against the obsidian legions that call themselves ‘Onno O Mita’. Jackal-like Constructs in pitch-black ships, more missile than vessel. We’re doomed. Our last chance is to fight our way to the Cradle, activate the ARC, but Anubis is too smart for that. He’s assembled the largest fleet he has in front of the Cradle. Worse still, the Cradle itself is still full of Nonmen and their vile sorcerous creations. But what choice do we have? End log.

Estimated Stardate: 1

Begin recording. We’ve retaken the Cradle from those.. machines, and the Nonmen still there. This is possible the first time an Exohuman has stepped foot on the Nonmen-built Cradle. (Energy weapons sound off in the background.) We have a long fight ahead of us. We have to make our way to the ARC, but the Nonmen built this place like a maze; hundreds of levels, layer after layer, until we reach our destination. This is our only hope. Our fleet is trying to defend our escape route as long as they can, but that was just pleasantries for everybody involved. We.. (An explosion silences the recording for a few moments. It soon returns, with white noise around the edges.) We know we’re not coming back, and we’ve accepted it. I’ve never been one to believe in Gods, manufactured or otherwise, but if there are any, I just hope they’re smiling on us here…. End log.

Estimated Stardate: 0

Begin recording. (An alarm rings loud and deafening in the background. A cold electronic voice is counting down.) Where do I start? I don’t know. We got to the ARC. We found what we needed. Anubis has been shutdown, and locked away beyond reach. The Onno O Mita jackals seem to be retreating, and taking their dead. There are only three of us left. There were no Nonmen blocking our path, but their mutilations of science and sorcery were everywhere. Even now, they pound on the doors to this facility. (Only now are the smashing sounds against the door audible. The voice warns of weapon activation) But they left a trap, those Nonmen bastards. As if they knew everything that would happen! As if they could predict the future.. (He sighs. You can hear two people in the background arguing about ‘Who goes first’.) When we got into the ARC, it set off a weapon. We don’t know what it does, but we know it’s powered by sorcery. We can feel it in the air. And more of those.. things.. are heading this way, as if they’re attracted here. God damnit, we do the impossible, and still more is expected of us. (An electronic voice says ‘Weapon activation in 5.… 4…. 3…. 2….”) What more can we do? (There is a loud blast, and then only dead frequency.)

Device resetting. . . . . . . . . .

Reset. . . . . . . . . .

Please input date. . . . . . . . . .

Date? What date is this... I woke up this morning, and I… I don’t know where I am, or what day it is. I’m in some sort of facility, something ancient and… I feel scared. There are two other people here. I remember so many names, but… I don’t know what any of them mean. Where a……..

Date not in correct format.

Please input date. . . . . . . . . .

There’s a loud banging on the door and.. I don’t know anything about a damn date! (He begins speaking to somewhere else.) Where are you going? Oh. Opening the door. I found this thing in my hand. It… feels like I should be speaking into it, but.. yes. Yes, open the door, see what’s making that damn noise!

Date not in correct format.

Please input date. . . . . . . . . .