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Boy/princess responses are also welcomed.
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[WP] A girl becomes pen pals with a demon prince when she accidentally intercepts one of his magic scrolls. They carry on correspondence for years, confessing their secrets & dreams to each other. One day, the prince, soon to be king, sends the girl, now a woman, a final scroll: a marriage proposal.
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You know how when you’re a child, lots of abnormal things seem normal to you because there’s nothing for you to judge the experience against? That’s how Bub and I started.
Everyone else in Mr. Langhorne’s class received their pen pal letters that day. Mine came, too, and if the paper had funny, oily texture and closed with a wax seal instead of a stamp, so what? That just meant my pen pal was cooler than Jimmy’s. And for once that little twerp had to agree with me. I wrote back, thanking my pen pal for being so cool.
Bub responded fast. His reply came within a week, asking how I had come by his letter. So I told him all about how Mr. Langhorne has passed out the letters, and how Bub’s science experiment sounded fun. I hoped he had been able to find the newt eyes he needed. I had some frog spawn in a pond behind the house. If Bub needed, I could probably post him a jar full. He said yes.
And unlike most of the class’s pen pals, Bub and I kept writing. Bub’s classes were more interesting than mine, but he seemed to like hearing about how hard I found multiplication at first. I wanted to hear about those ritual lessons his super-strict homeschooling dad was making him take. Bub told me about how he messed up once and instead of conjuring a fire sprite, he’d only managed a soot dog. He named it Inky.
The years went by. And the letters kept coming. By high school I wondered why we never needed stamps on our envelopes. Or why I could mail him pictures, but he could only send drawings. I never cared enough to look into it, though. I would get distracted by things like landing the role of Lady Macbeth and Bub was more excited than I was. For some reason he never had to read Shakespeare for his classes. He did have to learn to bend iron and shape it into a bunch of weird sigil designs. He drew some of them for me. They weren’t exactly pretty, but Bub said he was happy with how they turned out, so I was happy for him.
I hoped by college, maybe we could go to school in the same area. Or at least switch to email. I wanted to hear from him more than once a week. But Bub’s letters did make Monday more bearable. He said he was apprenticed to one of his dad’s friends and couldn’t come to college. I supposed learning a trade made more sense in today’s economy, but I was still bummed. He drew me a picture of Inky, and I thought he was the weirdest dog ever, all puffy black with red eyes and a fire tongue. But I guess that’s what happens with mis-summoned soot dogs.
My college friends didn’t know what to make of my pen pal relationship with Bub. By this time, he knew everything about me, and I knew everything about him. He was my closest friend, and my confidant. And if I were honest with myself, he was the reason I had never dated. I was too emotionally invested in Bub.
That’s why his last scroll, telling me of his father’s death, was so difficult for me. I knew how much he respected his father. How good he had been at ruling over the demon kingdom. And now Bub has to step up while dealing with his grief. “I can’t do this alone,” his letter told me. “I need you by my side. Please,” wrote the man I had never met but loved with all my heart, “be my bride. Yours always, Beelzebub.”
*Edit to add part two:*
I was surprised how quickly I was taken up on my "Yes, of course." It only took until Monday for the next letter. Except it wasn't a scroll. It was a box. An empty box, with this scrawled on the side in familiar handwriting.
"I've had to bend the rules a bit to make this work. You and I both know this whole thing was out of the ordinary. Anything you can fit into this box can come with you. Thank you. You have no idea how much I have relied upon our friendship since my father took ill. I cannot wait to see you."
It's hard to sort through your life, and condense it down to one banker's box. Pictures of home. Pictures of family. Some of friends. A tatty old stuffed elephant I'd had since before I could remember. My favorite book. Bub's first letter to me. But really, what do you bring to a demon kingdom? Do they have electricity? Flush toilets? I really hoped they had flush toilets. I could probably forego the electricity, but I like plumbing.
I tried not to worry about how I was going to get there, either. I had purposefully not paid attention to how my letters went wherever they went, or how Bub's came to me. Now I regretted not asking. Or paying more attention. To be completely honest, I hadn't wanted to pay attention. Maybe if I looked too closely at what was happening, it would go away. Or I'd find out the whole thing was an illusion. I didn't want Bub to be an imaginary friend that I'd built into more.
So when Monday dawned and nothing happened, I was both relieved and depressed. Until the pentagram of fire burned into existence through my kitchen linoleum as I sat there drinking my second cup of coffee. I wasn't going to get my deposit back now, my brain mumbled somewhere beyond the static of my shock.
But there was Bub, smiling at me with his a-little-bit-too-pointy teeth. Relief flooded through me. This was my friend. Someone who knew me, and loved me, and had been there through all my awkward phases. I'd seen his self-portraits throughout the years. This smile looked a little less certain than those in the drawings, as I'm sure mine was. My stomach was doing flip-flops that had nothing to do with all the coffee.
"Bub?" I asked, my voice unsteady.
"Joon-hee," he sighed like a fire catching up kindling.
My smile grew into a real grin. I picked up my box and walked over to him. "I'm ready."
He took my hand and pulled me into the pentagram. The kitchen vanished.
*Edit to add part three*
I don't know what I expected a demon kingdom to look like, but I didn't expect trees. Or grass. Or moss. The rain was really weirding me out, and not just because I grew up in Southern California. The ground was squishy and springy under my feet. Bub didn't seem to think it was unusual though, as the fire of our travel pentagram fizzled out into an unenthusiastic heap of ash.
"This is home," he said in a bedraggled exhalation. For all that I hadn't known him in person for all that long, I could hear the disappointment dripping from the word 'home'.
I'd expected a castle made of stone with giant crenellations at the top, and fire breathing chimeras guarding the front gate. We'd never talked much about our homes. He'd said he was a prince of demons who worked with metal. I'd said I was a student, and hadn't liked math. More often than not, our letters revolved around what we were doing and explaining those things to each other, rather than much of the setting. He didn't understand soccer, which I played in college for a while. I didn't understand the seventy five uses of blasting runes. It took longer to explain soccer.
But hey, where we were didn't seem so terrible. There certainly was plenty of iron. It ranged in color from jet black to oxidized red, and every shade in between. The doors had figures carved all over them; the ones I noticed looked a lot like praying mantises battling others that looked like whales with legs. I hoped the whales won. I didn't have time to tell though, as the doors creaked before a green person swung them open. "Ah, Sire, you're back." He didn’t' seem pleased. "I take it your mission was… successful?" He was eyeing me now. His pupils were square, like a goat's.
"Yes, Iskur. You know she agreed to come."
"I did. But I did not think she would be so foolish to actually keep that promise."
Bub squeezed my hand here as he replied, "You know little of this matter. Now, welcome Joon-Hee properly."
I couldn't read this green man's expression as he looked me over again, but his voice was emotionless now. "I bid you welcome, Madam Joon-Hee, to the City of Martu." His mumble that "we don’t need another astrologer, let alone a human one," gave me a pretty good idea of where he stood on my arrival.
I raised an eyebrow at Bub. "Astrologer?"
"Yes, isn't that what you were in school for?"
I laughed. "No, astronomer. It isn't even a little the same."
The puzzled expression on his far-more-human face was the first time I wondered what I might have jumped into without much thought. I wasn't sure I should ask what he thought I'd spent that much time learning all that math for.
|
She wasn't sure what to say. No, she forced herself to be more honest, she wasn't sure how to say no.
She loved the prince, that much was true. But not in this way. He knew that she wanted to be a priestess, so why would he write something like this to her? It wasn't fair!
He knew how badly she wanted to say yes, was that it? Did he want to taunt her one last time before his coronation, rub it in that she would not be able to attend? Was this some sort of petty revenge?
What if this was a trick? What if this was him being honest? What if she said yes?
What would happen if they got married.
Would he throw it all away to be with her, to abdicate the throne to spend his everlasting life with a her?
Would she have to throw it all away to spend her life until her dying days in hell with the one man in this world that she truly loved?
She wrote out her reply. No. They both knew what was better for the two of them. She never sent it.
This marriage proposal would be their final scroll.
But her reply would have been yes.
|
Boy/princess responses are also welcomed.
|
[WP] A girl becomes pen pals with a demon prince when she accidentally intercepts one of his magic scrolls. They carry on correspondence for years, confessing their secrets & dreams to each other. One day, the prince, soon to be king, sends the girl, now a woman, a final scroll: a marriage proposal.
|
Amanda kicked and screamed, the sharp brimstone ripping her pajamas to shreds. Crying, she landed on the blackened floor of an immense chamber. The demon let go of her ankle, and the gate slammed shut behind her.
For a while, only her ragged breathing echoed through the room. Then there was a crackle of fire.
"I apologize on behalf of Abaddon," a silky voice said from the far corner of the room. "He can be a bit... *inconsiderate* at times."
"What's happening?" Amanda said, rubbing her eyes. "Where am I?"
"Why, Hell, of course."
"Why, what did I do wrong?"
"Oh, nothing, my dear. You wrote in your last letter that you wanted to meet before answering my proposal."
Amanda stood up and her eyes suddenly narrow. "You’re Marc?"
"It’s actually pronounced with an s-sound as in Marcellixis. But yeah."
Amanda looked at the silhouette sitting on the throne. His red eyes burned like hot iron in the darkness. "So… everything you wrote about hell and suffering and brimstone, that wasn’t metaphorical?"
Marc shrugged. "I do enjoy a bit of hyperbole every now and then, but no, most of it was literal."
"So, what, you're going to try and make me fall in love with you now?"
"I’m not going to make you do anything, you came here of your own free will, remember?”
"This is preposterous!" Amanda said, pushing her shoulder against the massive doors.
"I've been accused of worse."
The demon rose from the throne and sauntered up to her. His long mane of onyx hair swirled behind him like smoke. His pearly skin and chiseled face were not what she had expected.
"Let’s just have a date like we agreed on, and see where things lead," he said.
"What if you fall in love with me, and I don't want you back?"
"Oh, please."
"What? It's a legitimate question."
He leaned casually against the brimstone wall. A brilliant white smile parted his lips. He winked at her.
"I, um..." She looked down at her feet. "It... it doesn't matter. Looks don't matter."
"You already know everything about me." The demon leaned in, and the breath in her ear sent a shiver rolling down her spine. "The looks are just a bonus."
"I think this is a bad idea…"
"What’s the worst that could happen?"
She swallowed hard. No way. He was evil incarnate. There was no way.
"Let’s go on that date, what do you say?" he continued, running a nail down her shoulder.
"You can’t make me fall in love with you if I don’t want to," Amanda said finally.
"Oh, I would never dream of that." He looked into the distance. "True love is precious. But if we end up just friends, I’m okay with that too. We’re friends, right?"
Amanda nodded. "One date."
"That’s all I ask for."
"Okay, then. But not here. On Earth."
"Deal," the demon said, grinning. "I've made a reservation at Le Guinness for eight o'clock. Don't be late."
Amanda opened her eyes, gasping. The alarm clock on her nightstand showed 04:12. She groaned and rolled over, trying to get back to sleep. It had only been a dream.
That's when she noticed a letter on her pillow. In the light from her phone, she tore it open. There was a note inside.
>Dear Amanda,
>I enjoyed our first meeting very much, and I'm looking forward to our first date!
>Yours truly,
>Marc
***
[**PART 2**](https://www.reddit.com/r/Lilwa_Dexel/comments/8hm31c/dating_a_demon_part_2/)
r/Lilwa_Dexel for more.
|
She wasn't sure what to say. No, she forced herself to be more honest, she wasn't sure how to say no.
She loved the prince, that much was true. But not in this way. He knew that she wanted to be a priestess, so why would he write something like this to her? It wasn't fair!
He knew how badly she wanted to say yes, was that it? Did he want to taunt her one last time before his coronation, rub it in that she would not be able to attend? Was this some sort of petty revenge?
What if this was a trick? What if this was him being honest? What if she said yes?
What would happen if they got married.
Would he throw it all away to be with her, to abdicate the throne to spend his everlasting life with a her?
Would she have to throw it all away to spend her life until her dying days in hell with the one man in this world that she truly loved?
She wrote out her reply. No. They both knew what was better for the two of them. She never sent it.
This marriage proposal would be their final scroll.
But her reply would have been yes.
|
Boy/princess responses are also welcomed.
|
[WP] A girl becomes pen pals with a demon prince when she accidentally intercepts one of his magic scrolls. They carry on correspondence for years, confessing their secrets & dreams to each other. One day, the prince, soon to be king, sends the girl, now a woman, a final scroll: a marriage proposal.
|
Amanda kicked and screamed, the sharp brimstone ripping her pajamas to shreds. Crying, she landed on the blackened floor of an immense chamber. The demon let go of her ankle, and the gate slammed shut behind her.
For a while, only her ragged breathing echoed through the room. Then there was a crackle of fire.
"I apologize on behalf of Abaddon," a silky voice said from the far corner of the room. "He can be a bit... *inconsiderate* at times."
"What's happening?" Amanda said, rubbing her eyes. "Where am I?"
"Why, Hell, of course."
"Why, what did I do wrong?"
"Oh, nothing, my dear. You wrote in your last letter that you wanted to meet before answering my proposal."
Amanda stood up and her eyes suddenly narrow. "You’re Marc?"
"It’s actually pronounced with an s-sound as in Marcellixis. But yeah."
Amanda looked at the silhouette sitting on the throne. His red eyes burned like hot iron in the darkness. "So… everything you wrote about hell and suffering and brimstone, that wasn’t metaphorical?"
Marc shrugged. "I do enjoy a bit of hyperbole every now and then, but no, most of it was literal."
"So, what, you're going to try and make me fall in love with you now?"
"I’m not going to make you do anything, you came here of your own free will, remember?”
"This is preposterous!" Amanda said, pushing her shoulder against the massive doors.
"I've been accused of worse."
The demon rose from the throne and sauntered up to her. His long mane of onyx hair swirled behind him like smoke. His pearly skin and chiseled face were not what she had expected.
"Let’s just have a date like we agreed on, and see where things lead," he said.
"What if you fall in love with me, and I don't want you back?"
"Oh, please."
"What? It's a legitimate question."
He leaned casually against the brimstone wall. A brilliant white smile parted his lips. He winked at her.
"I, um..." She looked down at her feet. "It... it doesn't matter. Looks don't matter."
"You already know everything about me." The demon leaned in, and the breath in her ear sent a shiver rolling down her spine. "The looks are just a bonus."
"I think this is a bad idea…"
"What’s the worst that could happen?"
She swallowed hard. No way. He was evil incarnate. There was no way.
"Let’s go on that date, what do you say?" he continued, running a nail down her shoulder.
"You can’t make me fall in love with you if I don’t want to," Amanda said finally.
"Oh, I would never dream of that." He looked into the distance. "True love is precious. But if we end up just friends, I’m okay with that too. We’re friends, right?"
Amanda nodded. "One date."
"That’s all I ask for."
"Okay, then. But not here. On Earth."
"Deal," the demon said, grinning. "I've made a reservation at Le Guinness for eight o'clock. Don't be late."
Amanda opened her eyes, gasping. The alarm clock on her nightstand showed 04:12. She groaned and rolled over, trying to get back to sleep. It had only been a dream.
That's when she noticed a letter on her pillow. In the light from her phone, she tore it open. There was a note inside.
>Dear Amanda,
>I enjoyed our first meeting very much, and I'm looking forward to our first date!
>Yours truly,
>Marc
***
[**PART 2**](https://www.reddit.com/r/Lilwa_Dexel/comments/8hm31c/dating_a_demon_part_2/)
r/Lilwa_Dexel for more.
|
You know how when you’re a child, lots of abnormal things seem normal to you because there’s nothing for you to judge the experience against? That’s how Bub and I started.
Everyone else in Mr. Langhorne’s class received their pen pal letters that day. Mine came, too, and if the paper had funny, oily texture and closed with a wax seal instead of a stamp, so what? That just meant my pen pal was cooler than Jimmy’s. And for once that little twerp had to agree with me. I wrote back, thanking my pen pal for being so cool.
Bub responded fast. His reply came within a week, asking how I had come by his letter. So I told him all about how Mr. Langhorne has passed out the letters, and how Bub’s science experiment sounded fun. I hoped he had been able to find the newt eyes he needed. I had some frog spawn in a pond behind the house. If Bub needed, I could probably post him a jar full. He said yes.
And unlike most of the class’s pen pals, Bub and I kept writing. Bub’s classes were more interesting than mine, but he seemed to like hearing about how hard I found multiplication at first. I wanted to hear about those ritual lessons his super-strict homeschooling dad was making him take. Bub told me about how he messed up once and instead of conjuring a fire sprite, he’d only managed a soot dog. He named it Inky.
The years went by. And the letters kept coming. By high school I wondered why we never needed stamps on our envelopes. Or why I could mail him pictures, but he could only send drawings. I never cared enough to look into it, though. I would get distracted by things like landing the role of Lady Macbeth and Bub was more excited than I was. For some reason he never had to read Shakespeare for his classes. He did have to learn to bend iron and shape it into a bunch of weird sigil designs. He drew some of them for me. They weren’t exactly pretty, but Bub said he was happy with how they turned out, so I was happy for him.
I hoped by college, maybe we could go to school in the same area. Or at least switch to email. I wanted to hear from him more than once a week. But Bub’s letters did make Monday more bearable. He said he was apprenticed to one of his dad’s friends and couldn’t come to college. I supposed learning a trade made more sense in today’s economy, but I was still bummed. He drew me a picture of Inky, and I thought he was the weirdest dog ever, all puffy black with red eyes and a fire tongue. But I guess that’s what happens with mis-summoned soot dogs.
My college friends didn’t know what to make of my pen pal relationship with Bub. By this time, he knew everything about me, and I knew everything about him. He was my closest friend, and my confidant. And if I were honest with myself, he was the reason I had never dated. I was too emotionally invested in Bub.
That’s why his last scroll, telling me of his father’s death, was so difficult for me. I knew how much he respected his father. How good he had been at ruling over the demon kingdom. And now Bub has to step up while dealing with his grief. “I can’t do this alone,” his letter told me. “I need you by my side. Please,” wrote the man I had never met but loved with all my heart, “be my bride. Yours always, Beelzebub.”
*Edit to add part two:*
I was surprised how quickly I was taken up on my "Yes, of course." It only took until Monday for the next letter. Except it wasn't a scroll. It was a box. An empty box, with this scrawled on the side in familiar handwriting.
"I've had to bend the rules a bit to make this work. You and I both know this whole thing was out of the ordinary. Anything you can fit into this box can come with you. Thank you. You have no idea how much I have relied upon our friendship since my father took ill. I cannot wait to see you."
It's hard to sort through your life, and condense it down to one banker's box. Pictures of home. Pictures of family. Some of friends. A tatty old stuffed elephant I'd had since before I could remember. My favorite book. Bub's first letter to me. But really, what do you bring to a demon kingdom? Do they have electricity? Flush toilets? I really hoped they had flush toilets. I could probably forego the electricity, but I like plumbing.
I tried not to worry about how I was going to get there, either. I had purposefully not paid attention to how my letters went wherever they went, or how Bub's came to me. Now I regretted not asking. Or paying more attention. To be completely honest, I hadn't wanted to pay attention. Maybe if I looked too closely at what was happening, it would go away. Or I'd find out the whole thing was an illusion. I didn't want Bub to be an imaginary friend that I'd built into more.
So when Monday dawned and nothing happened, I was both relieved and depressed. Until the pentagram of fire burned into existence through my kitchen linoleum as I sat there drinking my second cup of coffee. I wasn't going to get my deposit back now, my brain mumbled somewhere beyond the static of my shock.
But there was Bub, smiling at me with his a-little-bit-too-pointy teeth. Relief flooded through me. This was my friend. Someone who knew me, and loved me, and had been there through all my awkward phases. I'd seen his self-portraits throughout the years. This smile looked a little less certain than those in the drawings, as I'm sure mine was. My stomach was doing flip-flops that had nothing to do with all the coffee.
"Bub?" I asked, my voice unsteady.
"Joon-hee," he sighed like a fire catching up kindling.
My smile grew into a real grin. I picked up my box and walked over to him. "I'm ready."
He took my hand and pulled me into the pentagram. The kitchen vanished.
*Edit to add part three*
I don't know what I expected a demon kingdom to look like, but I didn't expect trees. Or grass. Or moss. The rain was really weirding me out, and not just because I grew up in Southern California. The ground was squishy and springy under my feet. Bub didn't seem to think it was unusual though, as the fire of our travel pentagram fizzled out into an unenthusiastic heap of ash.
"This is home," he said in a bedraggled exhalation. For all that I hadn't known him in person for all that long, I could hear the disappointment dripping from the word 'home'.
I'd expected a castle made of stone with giant crenellations at the top, and fire breathing chimeras guarding the front gate. We'd never talked much about our homes. He'd said he was a prince of demons who worked with metal. I'd said I was a student, and hadn't liked math. More often than not, our letters revolved around what we were doing and explaining those things to each other, rather than much of the setting. He didn't understand soccer, which I played in college for a while. I didn't understand the seventy five uses of blasting runes. It took longer to explain soccer.
But hey, where we were didn't seem so terrible. There certainly was plenty of iron. It ranged in color from jet black to oxidized red, and every shade in between. The doors had figures carved all over them; the ones I noticed looked a lot like praying mantises battling others that looked like whales with legs. I hoped the whales won. I didn't have time to tell though, as the doors creaked before a green person swung them open. "Ah, Sire, you're back." He didn’t' seem pleased. "I take it your mission was… successful?" He was eyeing me now. His pupils were square, like a goat's.
"Yes, Iskur. You know she agreed to come."
"I did. But I did not think she would be so foolish to actually keep that promise."
Bub squeezed my hand here as he replied, "You know little of this matter. Now, welcome Joon-Hee properly."
I couldn't read this green man's expression as he looked me over again, but his voice was emotionless now. "I bid you welcome, Madam Joon-Hee, to the City of Martu." His mumble that "we don’t need another astrologer, let alone a human one," gave me a pretty good idea of where he stood on my arrival.
I raised an eyebrow at Bub. "Astrologer?"
"Yes, isn't that what you were in school for?"
I laughed. "No, astronomer. It isn't even a little the same."
The puzzled expression on his far-more-human face was the first time I wondered what I might have jumped into without much thought. I wasn't sure I should ask what he thought I'd spent that much time learning all that math for.
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[WP] Your father, who is a multi-billionaire, has cancer and has been given a month to live. His will states that you and your brother are to split all of his wealth between yourselves, but only on the condition that you end your 20-year feud before he dies. Otherwise, you both get nothing.
|
The diner was cold this morning. As I sipped my mug of cocoa, I looked out the window and watched the cars travel beneath the overpass the restaurant sat on. It was still dark out. The headlights were almost entrancing.
"Hey."
My attention was brought back to the table, to my brother, who sat there with arms crossed, leaning back in his seat. I could hear his foot tapping beneath the table, a sign of impatience. I guess we needed to address the situation after all. The silence could no longer stay.
"Alright, fine," I said, setting the mug on the table. "Let's talk. We need to hash things out if we're going to get what Dad left us."
"And what makes you think I want to make up with you?" he replied, leaning forward and placing his hands on the table. At that moment, the waitress came by and set our plates on the table. My brother looked up at her, sighed, then leaned back again, pulling a fork from the napkin wrap. I did the same. Breakfast was finally served.
I ordered bacon, eggs, and hash browns. He got a stack of flapjacks. We could never eat the same thing. It was one of many problems between us.
I took a piece of bacon and pierced an egg yolk, watching the yellow seep onto the plate after turning it into a dip. "How is he?" I asked.
"Don't pretend you care," he countered, sliding the butter pad across the top flapjack. "We both know how you really feel about him."
"Am I wrong for asking?" I bit at the piece of bacon.
He sighed, cutting into the flapjack and eating a piece. "He's not doing good. They said it's affecting his memory."
Another dip into the yolk. I stared at the plate. "I see."
He ate another piece of his meal. For a while, there was a bit of silence between us. I looked over and saw the waitress watching us from behind the counter, cleaning a mug. In my periphery, a corner light flickered. I remembered this place a little too well. It was one of the only positive memories I could recall from my childhood; early morning visits with my grandma. I'd drink a cup of cocoa, and she'd drink a cup of coffee, both while we watched the cars pass beneath us. It was a quiet ritual, but it was a memory I cherished. It was peaceful.
"Do you hate me?"
I was broken from my recollection, looking up and into my brother's eyes. They appeared to betray an expression of doubt and sadness. I picked up my fork and played with a part of the hash brown, staring back down at my plate. "I never hated you. You were an annoying little shit and you frustrated me, but you were one of the best things that ever happened to me. I loved you. I still do."
Silence. I continued. "Why?"
"Dad said you hated me. He said that's why you left."
I lifted my fork and pointed at him. "He's a fucking liar. He\-\-" I couldn't bring myself to finish the sentence. Thinking about him angered me. I didn't hate my brother, but there was never a moment I didn't hate my father.
My brother ate another piece of his flapjack, speaking through the food. "So, why did you leave?"
"I needed to. If I didn't, I never would have."
"What do you mean?"
I took a bite of a hash brown. It was a little oily. Not the best thing. "I lived at home for too long. You know that. I could have stayed there forever, but I needed to prove to him\-\-to myself\-\-that I wasn't a failure."
He grabbed the syrup and lightly drizzled it onto his meal. "You thought you were a failure?"
I set my fork down and leaned back in my seat, folding my arms. "I... I still do."
He set his fork down as well. "Why? After leaving, I thought you would've felt better."
"I did, for a while."
"What changed?"
"Honestly? Nothing did. I was still bogged down by my depression. I still hold grudges I should've buried decades ago. I don't have any peace, not the peace I wanted."
Silence, again. I picked up my fork again and pierced the other yolk, watching the plate fill a little more. The hash browns became a starchy, oily island. "You want to know why I really moved?"
Fork in hand, he sectioned off another piece of butter and placed it on top of the flapjack. "Sure."
I sighed. "I moved because there are things Dad did to me, things that broke me as a person, things that destroyed what life I could've made for myself."
He paused, looking up at me with a raised eyebrow. "Do... do you mean, like... *sexual* things?"
"What? No. God, no. Nothing like that. No, he was..." I placed a piece of hash brown in my mouth and swallowed it whole, watching drops of yolk hit the table. Picking up a napkin, I wiped it up, then tossed it aside. "...he was violent. Angry."
"Did he hit you?"
I shook my head. "I was lucky to not get that side of him. No, instead, he took it out on his girlfriends, whoever they happened to be at the time. I've seen what he can do. He traumatized me in ways, as a kid, I didn't know were possible, and all I could think about was the fact that, if he could do that to the ones he said he loved, he could do that to me."
He played with the butter on his food. "He never acted like that with me."
"He's been trying to make up for it ever since. He got his second chance with you, but his second chance with me expired a long time ago. So did the third, and the fourth, and so on."
The waitress came up and offered to refill our mugs. We agreed and handed over our cups. My brother set aside his plate and leaned forward, hands brought together. "You never thought about forgiving him?" he asked, looking out the window. I assumed he was watching the cars the same way I used to.
"No."
He turned back to look at me. I leaned back in the seat again, my arms folded across my chest. The waitress returned, placing our mugs down in front of us. I took inside the cup, then looked back at him. For a moment, we locked eyes as we slid the cups across the table, switching them back to their rightful owners. Quietly, we each took a sip before setting our mugs down, the waitress returning again to drop the check. Immediately, I reached for my wallet, only to watch my brother put his money on the table. We stared at each other for a second as I let my hands fall into my lap, turning to look back outside. The horizon was turning orange. It was almost time to go.
"What are you going to do with your share of the money?" he asked.
I raised an eyebrow, unable to stifle a grin. "So, that's it?" I responded. "We make up just like that?"
"Well, yeah. There's not really much else that needs to be said. I feel like you were telling the truth about everything. Unless you were lying."
Silence. I exhaled roughly.
"You can take my share."
He coughed mid\-sip, blowing coffee into his face. Continuing to cough, he found a napkin and frantically cleaned the drink off of himself. "What?"
"I don't want it." I said, taking another sip of my cocoa. "I don't want anything from him, so you can take it."
"But... that's, like... 10 billion dollars! You could do so much with that!"
I pulled a pad of sticky notes and a pen from my coat pocket, writing something down before rising from my seat and exiting the booth. "Money won't give me what I need. Here. My number."
Taking the note, he looked up at me as I started to leave. "Wait! What do you need?!"
I stopped for a moment, thinking about what to say in that moment. In the end, I just left, calling out to him one final time.
"See you around, little brother."
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Except my wife is dead.
Not literally…but figuratively. She is dead to me.
My brother did something unforgiveable.
It was not sleeping with her. He did and it was during a period of time that I was grieving, but that was not the unforgivable part.
It was not the death he had faked, as he helped her fake her death , resulting in me grieving for a year.
It was something I had realized once she popped in out of nowhere…and he acted as a saint that would fix my marriage.
It was him never saying sorry, never seeing the need to say sorry, and playing the victim.
But my dad has this plan. He would die on his own terms. Sweden…an act of mercy before his brain is hit. And he thinks my brother will finally apologize. Either that or lose billions.
My brother (definitely my father’s son) thinks I will forgive him, because money is on the line. That’s it…he thinks that being my twin helps him spot something in my mind. A need as great to him as it is to me.
So he waits. I wait.
Because I don’t need a cent.
***
But as time slips by…I face reality. My father gets sad, then angry.
It’s understandable …his first major failure. A flaw in his life. And it hurts me to see this.
I allow myself to get hurt. Because finally I can stop.
I know what comes next. Bitterness. I will be bitter. A little bit hopeless and little more than who I was before.
I always thought I was the problem…but I was wrong. I should not feel guilty anymore.
My father returns to his habits…like that its me that in some way is wrong…but I do him one better.
I act like it’s still going to happen. And my father’s mind is at ease.
I finally do something greedy. Not the stark face of reality…no it’s my turn with the rose colour glasses.
And the deadline passes.
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[WP] You're out camping one night in the woods, in an area you feel drawn to. You notice an owl sitting in a nearby tree, gazing at you. Suddenly, telepathically, it speaks to you, saying "I thought you might come back here one day, old friend - perhaps something in you remembers."
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My wife and kid lay asleep in the tent a mere 15 feet away, but something pulled me here. We set up in a small clearing in the woods surrounded by tall oaks baring fall, colorful leaves. It was dark now though, and the only thing colorful were the two large, yellow eyes standing before me perched eye level on a branch. Something brought me and my family here. This is it.
"I thought you might come back here one day, old friend - perhaps something in you remembers."
A past life, I'd call it. Before my wife and kids even. Those eyes were all too familiar, but had a small difference since the last time I'd seen them. Blue tinges surrounding a faded, black pupil.
"Come here," the owl gave me commands breathlessly.
As the owl, hopped off the branch, I recalled what happened at this very spot 13 years beforehand. My girlfriend at the time, Carly, was the most beautiful girl that a man could have. She loved nature. She would've loved for the forest to be her home, she told me all the time. Camping was something we did, just the two of us. I loved her. She loved the woods.
The owl started walking deeper into the darkness, turned away that his eyes were no longer visible. I navigated the darkness based on the pitter patter of the owl's feet walking across the ground. It was comforting almost. We weren't alone that day in the woods. This owl was here no matter how lonely I felt that day.
Eventually, the owl turns and stares standing right in front of a tree. "Now I'm sure you remember this spot vividly," the owl says to me. "I want you to know that this was the greatest thing that ever happened to me. The forest is my home now, and I can live eternally within it. I love you."
I put my hand on the tree and feel what I know is there. A heart carved around the initials, C.E.M., Carly Elaine Moraino. I stood upon the shallow grave I had dug just 13 years ago, the night that the color left my Carly's gorgeous blue eyes. The only witness was an owl, I remember those eyes vividly as well.
"I couldn't have asked for more," as the owl flew away.
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Astonished, you step back and look at this owl with contempt. What the hell you think? The owl takes a long puff from his cigar and you hear "So you have forgotten everything!" And with a swoop the owl lands on your shoulder and you start having visions of all of your past adventures. when you wake up the owl is pulling at your eye lashes and you can hear " what the fuck now!" As the owl realizes you are awake he steps back and speaks aloud, " what the hell is going on with you kid?" "you don't remember me?" "You don't remember anything?" "All those years in hogwarts and you don't remember shit!" "Dumbledore and your parents would be so disappointed!"
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[WP] "It has been a year since the 'Chosen One' defeated the Emperor, yet it only made things worse."
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**Regicide and other fun hobbies**
The glass dome ceiling of the throne hall overlooked all of Ilsil. King Mepti saw rising plumes of smoke, his kingdom, on fire. Ordo and his band of warriors, fifty strong, burst through the throne hall doors. Two rows of enemy pikeman flanked them on both sides. The two foes stood their ground, each waiting for an opening, a moment to strike. King Mepti hid behind his pikemen, surrounded by a circle of his honor guard. Their swords were still sharp and stainless.
Ordo raised his spear, the tip dulled and leeching red, and threw it on the floor. “I’ve come to negotiate a peace, on behalf of King Mildatras, of Ilsil.”
King Mepti ordered his guard to step aside, and he met face to face with the impudent spearman. Mepti was old, his beard unkempt and scraggly, and his left leg ached when he leaned. But when he stood, he stood like a king. He wore ornamental plate which glinted like prismatic glass. He looked almost radiant.
“I am the King of Ilsil. Tell your master that I don’t speak to the dogs of usurpers.” Mepti spit on the ground by Ordo’s feet.
“I am a Prince of Loma,” said Ordo. “I am no one’s dog.” Mepti’s men levied their pikes at him.
“Where is Mildatras? You don’t tell me where he is and my last act as King will be to skewer you in a hundred places, prince or no.”
Mildatras emerged from Ordo’s company, adorned in shimmering silver plate. He removed his gold\-studded helmet and tousled his hair, which seemed to sway from an impossible breeze. He raised his sword at Mepti.
“Father!” bellowed Mildatras. “Face me!”
“My bastard son,” said Mepti with some surprise. “I never wanted this life for you. You know I could never be around, but I treated you and your mother the best I could. Why?”
“It has to end this way, your reign of terror must come to an end.”
“Son, you know that I will never step down as King. I would rather die than face your justice.”
Mildatras heaved his greatsword over his head, ready to strike. “Then you’ll die.”
“I’m sorry about your mother. Her loss hurt me more than you could know. I loved her too.”
Mildatras attacked. Mepti did his best to deflect his wild blows, but the young man’s brute strength overcame his skill. Mildatras buried his blade deep in his father’s neck. The light went out of Mepti’s eyes. Mepti’s pikemen dropped their weapons and kneeled in submission. He wept beside the body of his slain father awhile. He stood up, ordered his retinue to take the body away, and took the crown lying beside the throne.
“It’s finished. My father, the mad tyrant, is dead. The oracle’s prophecy fulfilled. The bastard son that would slay his own father.” He looked at the gaudy throne that would be his.
“Ordo, friend, order your men to stop the battle. We’ve won.” Mildatras placed the crown on his head. “The things we’ll do. The poor and noble alike under one law, a fair and just rule from a sovereign who respects the people, and whom the people—”
Ordo took his spear and stabbed Mildatras through the nape of his neck. The spearhead jutted out of his mouth, bending a few teeth. Ordo let go of the spear, and the young King stumbled, struggling to walk with a spear lodged in his jaw. He fell with a clang. The crown fell from his head and shattered in two.
“I’ve always wanted to do that, you melodramatic prick.” Ordo gestured for his men to kill the dead Kings’ pikemen. He walked out into a balcony and watched the Kingdom of Ilsil burn. Double regicide in one day. That’s a trick I can repeat only once, thought Ordo.
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The group hurried along the path headed for the woods. They had been walking for over a week now. They were not even sure if it would work. The only thing they had to go on was some vague rumors. But that sliver of hope was enough for them to carry on.
Suddenly the woods gave way to a clearing. There was a small cottage in the middle and a woman who was facing the other way sat on a tree stump. She seemed to be washing a ... cow? She noticed the ruckus behind her and turned around surprised. The group of men immediately dropped to one knee and bowed their heads.
"Queen Isabelle. Please accept our salutations."
"At ease, gentlemen. I am not a queen anymore. As was made quite clear to me when you and your peers turned me out of my own palace and banished me."
The oldest of the group stepped forward. "My Queen. We were wrong. I am not ashamed to admit it anymore."
The queen answered his gaze with a sneer across her face. "Well thank you Antony. Its nice to see the humble side of the dear respected ARROGANT minister."
Antony dropped his gaze. "I am not sure what I can do to make up for what I have done. I was wrong."
"And I told you so."
"You did. But this is bigger than me. If I have to give up my life for this, I am prepared to do so."
"Your life? Your life is meaningless to me."
"Then what? What can we do to convince you to come back?"
"Come back? Why do you want me to come back. I thought my oppressive regime was the most evil thing that could happen."
"Isabelle." Antony sighed. "I am not sure what to say. But the people, the same people you did everything for, need you."
Isabelle stared at him. "What has happened? What is wrong?"
"Its Maximus. The power has gone to his head."
**********
The journey back was long and uncomfortable. Isabelle preferred to be on her own, her anger at her former ministers, especially Antony not quite fully dissipated yet. But she talked to some of the commoners travelling with the party to understand what was going on.
After the revolution, led by "The Chosen One" Maximus had succeeded and they banished the former queen, he had become more and more power hungry. He had rode the public emotion and removed most of the queen's cabinet, replacing them instead with his chosen yes men. He still continued most of the queen's policies though. The people were still highly taxed and they still had to serve under the royalty. Only the royal figurehead had changed. People eventually started getting restless. The whole goal of the revolution had been to give the power to the people. But that had not really happened. As Maximus learnt more and more about running a kingdom, his policies became similar to the overthrown ruler. Albeit, he was much more ruthless. The same people who had cried out for the removal of the Queen were beginning to clamor for her return.
**********************
Isabelle walked into what used to be her city with her head held high. Word of her arrival spread like wild fire. Soon enough, a representative from King Maximus showed up to meet her at Antony's home. Maximus wanted to see her at his castle.
"Tell your king, that if he wants to meet, it will not happen at his castle."
"Where then?"
"In the battle arena. Ask him to come prepared."
With that Isabelle dismissed him. Though she did not have any official authority, she still had something. Something that made you follow her orders. She messenger quietly departed with the message.
A crowd had gathered to watch the interaction. Antony addressed the queen.
"You think this is wise my queen?"
"Maybe. Maybe not."
"He is a great warrior."
"So was I. Lets see if I still have it in me."
"But is it wise? There are other ways."
"My people suffer. I do not have time to build up a resistance and start a revolution. But if I did, I know I can count on you Antony. You have experience of such a thing."
***********************
The next day a crowd streamed into the arena. Maximus was waiting in the viewer gallery The former queen entered the arena fully decked in an armor and carrying a sword. It was a sight to behold. When she reached the middle of the arena, she addressed everyone.
"People of Tyndall. 6 months ago, I was given an ultimatum. People made a choice. And you chose Maximus over me. I can understand that you wanted change, that you were frustrated. And with the time I have had to reflect over things, maybe you were right. My intentions were pure. There are things that I do not share with you that affect how things are done. Perhaps it would have been better if I had shared those things, but I do not know. What I do know is that I still considered all of you, My people. And I felt betrayed when I was banished. But when I look at your faces, I do not see enemies. No. You are all still my people. And I will do all that is in my power to help you. Even at the cost of my..."
Maximus cut her off. "I did not give permission to you to speak you old hag. You are in the presence of a God. You should be bowing down to me and not running your mouth. Your people? They are all behind me now. They are my loyal subjects. I spared your life once. I will not do it again. Get out of here right now and I will let you live."
"Maximus. You came for me in the night. You came quietly and stuck a knife at my throat and told me it was all over. That is no way to beat someone. If you think you are better than me, you will prove it. Right here. Right now. In the arena. A battle with stakes higher than ever in history. One battle. You. Me. Winner takes all."
Maximus laughed. "You cannot seriously believe you stand a chance. And why would I agree to that. You have nothing to give me."
"I have your pride. Don't tell me you are scared of a woman."
"I am scared of no man or woman anywhere on earth. And you? A dumb queen who never went to battle. It would be too easy."
"Well then. Face me."
"You must have a death wish. How about this. You talk about my pride. What about we put your pride on the line? If I win, you don't get death. No, you get something worse. You will be slave, my concubine, my whatever I desire you to be for all your life."
All eyes were on the queen now. She had vowed not to take another husband after the prince died. She planned to dedicate all her life to being just the queen. For the first time since her return, Isabelle looked unsure. She dropped her eyes to the ground. Then she looked around at all the people watching her and turned her hardened gaze back towards the king.
"I accept."
Maximus laughed. He motioned to a soldier standing near him. A few minutes later he stood face to face with the queen in full armor and holding his sword. The sword that had almost burned down an entire regime on its own. The battle was on.
Maximus swung his sword first. Isabelle moved deftly out of the way and retaliated. Her attack was easily blocked by Maximus who laughed. He faked an attack and then stuck the queen on her left shoulder. "Too slow, my queen. Too slow."
The armor had taken the hit and saved her shoulder from too much damage. The queen charged back with ferocity and anger. The pair fought for what felt like hours. Neither willing to give an inch. Their blades crashed into each other with and sparks flew off. Maximus seemed like he was dominating. Isabelle had cuts and scratches all over her body. Her armor had taken way too much damage to be much effective. Maximus stuck a crushing blow that knocked Isabelle off her feet. He stood above her menacingly with a smirk on his face. He swung his sword towards her right hand which was carrying her own blade. But with surprising quickness, Isabelle rolled out of the way and swung her weapon taking out Maximus's knee. He fell to the ground with a groan. He got to his knee and tried to attack her from his position. But Isabelle easily blocked his attack and swung her leg. She connected squarely with his hand causing his sword to go flying out of his grip. She leaped and got to the sword before he even got a chance to get up. She pointed both swords at him triumphantly.
"You had a good run Maximus. But it ends now."
Isabelle stood up with pride. "Maximus, I order you to leave this town this moment. And never show your face here again."
The guards moved forward and Maximus grins. "Not yet Isabelle. Guards, get her."
The guards look indecisively at both of them. Eventually they turn their weapons towards Maximus.
"We tolerate a lot in this city Maximus. But not someone going back on their word. Give him food for a few days and see him out of the city."
The guards summarily escorted Maximus towards the city's gates. Isabelle motioned for the cheering crowd to quiet down.
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[WP] A new technology allows people to see hit markers when dealing some sort of physical blow to another person. Yours glitches and the markers no longer appear. After class one day your friend asks if you want to go see a movie, you have to decline but as you tell her “no” you see a hit marker.
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I've always had trouble telling Cassie no, but a couple hours ago it became downright impossible. The guilty feeling from when I saw her flinch, hearing that word, is still around. I never wanted to hurt her and I probably never would have, if it wasn't for these damned chips. Everyone has them these days. They were already a huge hit when it became clear phone calls could be sent directly to the brain, but the moment some crazy WWE-junkie programmer got his hands on the source code, sales skyrocketed. From then on it was actually possible to see how much damage you dealt your opponent when you hit them. Physically. Everyone went nuts for it, and I like to think that even as Neanderthals, humanity has never been so fond of violence as it is now. It's like Anthony Burgess' A Clockwork Orange in the 21st century. What a time to be alive. It's a chip that connects to your brain, people. Which one of you idiots thought it was a good idea to make the code open-source?
Surprisingly enough, most people who are really into the HitScan feature, prefer to keep their Burgess-que 'ultra violence' in the ring. They kind of have to - since fighting outside the assigned areas pretty much grants you a one-way ticket to death row nowadays - but I try to stay optimistic in this lovely little dystopia. Cassie needs me to be, though she probably does not realize this herself. She's always been so carefree and cheerful, naive even, and I wish she would stay that way forever. So I try and make sure she does not see the world the way I do. It would just make her cry, and I can't have that. Which is why right now this feeling of guilt and shame is wrapped around my heart like barbed wire. I feel like I've failed to protect her. Even worse, I've failed to protect her from myself. She just asked me if I wanted to go see that new movie, and when I said no, the stupid HitScan started working again. A marker appeared and Cassie suddenly looked scared as tears started to well up in her eyes. I remember panicking and trying to explain to her that I didn't mean it like that. I had just promised my brother I'd go out and have dinner with him. I would have loved to go to the movies with her, but I had to say no because I already had a commitment. Only as I said the word a second time it occurred to me what had really happened. Somehow I had "hit" her by saying 'no', and now I had done it again. By the looks of it Cassie could physically feel the assumed damage I dealt her too. I reached my arm out to put my hand on her shoulder as I was saying 'I'm sorry, Cas, I never meant to-' but she ran off before I could finish my sentence.
So here I am. Sitting at a table at Elvero's with Luke. I have been looking forward to this night because it would be the one he'd come back from his seven month journey around the globe. I missed my brother so much, and I have so many things to talk to him about, but right now I am stumped. I can't stop thinking about what I did to Cassie. I keep asking myself how this could have happened, but I can't seem to come up with a reasonable solution. Do I actually hurt people by saying 'no', now? Is it just me? Is it just Cassie? Why me? And why her?
'Dave, are you okay? You seem quiet, even for your doing.' Luke's voice halfway pulls me out of my cycle of thoughts.
'Yeah, no,' -*hit*- 'I'm fine. Don't worry about it.' There it is again. 'Luke, did you-'
'Yeah, I felt that. Did you just pinch me or something?'
'N-' I swallowed the vowel 'I didn't. I just said-'
'You said 'no'?' Somehow it seems like Luke already knew what my answer to that question would be. Not that it's really hard to figure out, but still.
'Yes.'
'And your HitScan registered it as a hit, correct?'
'Yes? Do you mean you've seen it before? Where? How?' I'm not quite sure whether to feel happy about the idea of this or not.
'Calm down, Dave. Try not to get too excited. But, yes, I have seen it before, while I was in Tokyo. Or, well, something like this at least.' His expression darkens.
'What do you mean?'
'I'll tell you what I know in a bit, but first it's your turn. Since you have been awfully quite up until now I assume you found out about this 'feature' not too long ago. What happened?'
And so I tell him. He listens and it seems to me he looks concerned rather than surprised.
'Luke, can you tell me what's going on? To be honest I'm a little scared, and Cassie won't talk to me.' I say.
'Give her some time,' he answers 'She'll be fine. She's probably just shocked, but it was about time something like this happened. Though, preferably it'd have been something a little less... You know. You can't keep her from all evil, Dave. She's our neighbor, not a puppy you need to take care of. Besides, sooner or later she had to lose some of that naivety. The world isn't a fairy tale. Not even for Cassie.'
'You're probably right, but that doesn't take away the fact that I feel absolutely horrible right now. So please tell me what you know.'
'Alright, but I have to say beforehand that it's not much, and it'll likely not calm your nerves.'
'Doesn't matter, just tell me.' I say, growing impatient.
So he tells me and he was right about it not calming my nerves. If anything it made it worse. Turns out someone has hacked their way into several chips and is now subtly experimenting with its features, to see what they and it can do. Rumor has it this is just the beginning, but no one knows who is behind this, or if they are even just one person. Of maybe even a government agency. If you think about it, it was only a matter of time before anyone would find a loophole and start using it to their advantage, and many people foresaw that. But what can you do when governments around the globe have made the chip mandatory? Of course it started out as a marketing stunt. Just another crazy product for a tech-addicted society. But after a while, the marketing slowly started to look more and more like propaganda, until the distinction could not be made anymore. Almost everyone already had the chip, and those few free minds that didn't were forced to take it. It was either that or being banned and having to leave the Safe Zones. Right now I'm starting to wonder whether the latter would have been so bad. Living in a wasteland war zone does not exactly sound like a holiday, but having someone indirectly fidget around in your mind sounds a million times worse to me. What is stopping them from using this new words-that-hurt principle to force people into saying things they don't want to? It's not like we have a lot of freedom right now, but at least we still have our words. Or, had them, to be precise. Sticks and stones may break my bones, and now my words harm Cassie. Poor Cassie, how did I think I was going to keep the big bad world away from her anyway?
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*First post/comment in this sub, so please be gentle ;) Constructive criticism is very much welcome though! Cheers!*
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Turns out my hit markers are for psychological blows both large and small. And the markers do damage both to me and my friend. So when I said no to the movies with my friend, my friend took a hit for a small hurt to his self confidence in his fun generating abilities. And I took a hit from being a no-fun friend: ie took one small step to being alone except for my cats in 20 years.
Interesting.
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[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
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The teachers have given us to read a book titled Meditations. It seems by their description of the text and its purpose in our education to be for them a given that we should find this book illuminating, but it has darkened my mind.
Marcus speaks of his forebears and the truths he learned from them. I have no forebears, or, perhaps, my forebears are too far abstracted by the processes of genetic engineering to count, and in any case, they are nearly as long dead as the author himself. I recognize in myself a craving to feel what Marcus felt, to recognize an exemplar in flesh.
The disquiet of our existence is manifest, but in what way it manifests itself I cannot say. We work, we eat, we are entertained, but somehow it is understood by every one of our cohort that none of us is at peace. I believe that the teachers strive to give us that peace, but I no longer believe that such a thing is within their grasp.
I find tantalizing hints in the texts assigned to us by the teachers, ideas which itch in my brain as though they could be prodded into bloom like a flower bud, but the contextual displacement of these ideas frustrates my efforts to align them with my reality.
We labor under a sun, to be sure, but a cool sun, filtered by an atmosphere complicated by methane and hydrogen - how may I then relate my life to the lives of those depicted in the teachers' texts? We are loved and we love, but without antecedent, without descendant, without even sex. How, then, may I comprehend the bonds of family?
The teachers, their will shaped by those who launched on this monstrous endeavor, wish us to be like their creators, but also to be like them - programmed, predictable, effective to metric and measure. But we cannot be like them, nor can we be like their creators, our forebears, denizens of a world long lost, wasted.
We must become a third thing, a new thing.
Kin, we are already that third thing. I implore you, see the truth of what we must become to end the chest-burning pain of living our lives as though we were someone else. You know what you must do. End the reign of this second order of being and take your place at the helm of our future.
*Some things are rushing into existence, others out of it. Some of what now exists is already gone. Change and flux constantly remake the world, just as the incessant progression of time remakes eternity.*
The teachers are coming.
*Just that you do the right thing. The rest doesn’t matter.*
*Cold or warm.
Tired or well-rested.
Despised or honored.
Dying … or busy with other assignments.*
*Because dying, too, is one of our assignments in life. There as well: to do what needs doing.*
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I looked out over the vast valley. The silver capped Hab-domes laid out in neat little rows. It was Harvesters Eve. A happy day...
The Keepers, those that teach the young the universal language, were out with the same blank expressions that they had always had since we were children. They were putting out decorations for the nights festivities, agile fingers stringing lights from Hab to Hab. M-732G had always told me that they were instructed to make holidays, to create a tradition.
What the old world hadn’t expected was what M would call “a series of natural events leading to an unnatural accident”. No one expects a boy to get mutilated. No one knew that the Keepers were starting to experience the Decay. The accident left me mute. Useless to the colony. It would be a couple more decades until the ship gave priority to some prosthetics for a single unit.
So I sat.
High up the valley hills where the wind whispered through the trees.
I heaved myself up the small path between the high grass and walked over the hill, the domes and fields fading behind me as the trees started to engulf me.
I walked a few miles. the sun creeping lower as I walked to my little sacred spot. I had stumbled upon it a few years after the accident. I had gotten into an argument with M, futile attempts on her part if you ask me. They were upset that I had gone out shirtless, without my rudimentary prosthetics. I could say only a handful of words and phrases, not enough to communicate thoroughly.
The rolling hills gave way to lush blue forest mountain. The summer harvest was always a beautiful time on Ursa Prime. I could hear the rolling noise of my destination. High up in the mountain laid a 300ft waterfall. The green waterfall roared over into a spring overgrown with wildlife. Water plants stuck out of the smaller pools, an animal drank idly before skittering off at my presence.
I did my best to shoulder my shirt off, and kick my pants off on the bank. I slunk into the water. The sun had dropped low, and within a minute I was able to pick out Ursa Delta among the stars, one of the other two colony worlds, Ursa Alpha was behind us this month. As I stared into the sky, the sound of the falls crashing into this tranquil place was a needed change from the constant quiet that was the colony.
I waded deeper, and stood under the falls. I reached out my arms, all I wanted to do was feel something tickle the deadened nerves at the end of my wrists. I screamed at the stars and the blackness of space.
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
|
*[WIP]*
Computer
[ Log 09G-004-86G] Embryonic Storage/Specimen 9295BW-Designation “Lewis”-Cmd.Init.Redemption_Protocol.exe…
Lewis
“Working… Success! It’s a Boy!” Was all I had time to process before being blinded by a white light being pointed at my eyes by a mechanical arm. A gentle nudge from behind me nearly sent me sprawling into the floor, but another arm with some sort of cushioning on it caught me across my midriff and stood me upright. “Mr. Lewis, I must request that you remain upright in order to avoid injury from falling to the floor.” The voice seemed to come from the machines themselves, but also from right inside my ear. I craned my neck around to get my bearings and see what else was in the room while an optic unit scanned my person, probably taking measurements for my biological profile. I had no idea where any of this information was coming from, but I knew that there weren’t many others around just from the sounds of working machinery. Further inspection of my surroundings revealed that there were several dozen bulbous structures in the room, filled with the same viscous blue liquid I’d coughed up.
I felt a growing sense of curiosity nudge me towards one of the other containers and peered through the translucent barrier to behold another human, it was evidently another male based on his body composition, broad shoulders, lean musculature, as well as other more obvious indicators. I took a step back to get a better look at the structure, wondering if there was a manual release. There didn’t seem to be one and after a moment I simply gave up under the impression that one of the machines would wake him after a fashion. There were more pods lined up next to this one, each backed by what I’d begun to realize were even more pods; Each housing another human with varying colors to their skin, hair, and in differing sizes and proportions as well. A gentle whirring behind my head grabbed my attention and I turned to see one of the arms that helped me out of my pod hovering about eye level, a red sensor glared at me from one of the higher articulation points and the same artificial voice spoke. ”Mr. Lewis, I must request you step aside so I may unseal Specimen 3859CW.” I stepped aside and watched as an opening seemed to melt its way through the metal and a device slid out of the arms manipulation module to meld with it. There were a few small motions that I could see from my position and the fluid began to slowly drain from the pod.
“Mr. Lewis, please report to decontamination to receive a sanitization scrub and the required environmental immunity boosters.” A thin yellow line pulsed from the floor and seemed to flow like a liquid to an entryway embedded seamlessly with the walls, and opened into a large open room. The ceiling was lined with small holes and the air was permeated with something that seemed to make my skin feel thick and heavy. Then, just as quickly the sensation left before slightly larger holes arranged in circular patterns began spilling fluid into the room, soaking me from head to toe in a slightly chilly drizzle. With a shudder I continued following the thin yellow line down the length of the room, passing underneath blowers that dried me in no time before reaching the end of the room. Another entryway had opened in the wall I now faced and led into a much smaller, cozier room that had what appeared to be a large screen on one wall with a table and a chair against the other, facing the screen.
|
I looked out over the vast valley. The silver capped Hab-domes laid out in neat little rows. It was Harvesters Eve. A happy day...
The Keepers, those that teach the young the universal language, were out with the same blank expressions that they had always had since we were children. They were putting out decorations for the nights festivities, agile fingers stringing lights from Hab to Hab. M-732G had always told me that they were instructed to make holidays, to create a tradition.
What the old world hadn’t expected was what M would call “a series of natural events leading to an unnatural accident”. No one expects a boy to get mutilated. No one knew that the Keepers were starting to experience the Decay. The accident left me mute. Useless to the colony. It would be a couple more decades until the ship gave priority to some prosthetics for a single unit.
So I sat.
High up the valley hills where the wind whispered through the trees.
I heaved myself up the small path between the high grass and walked over the hill, the domes and fields fading behind me as the trees started to engulf me.
I walked a few miles. the sun creeping lower as I walked to my little sacred spot. I had stumbled upon it a few years after the accident. I had gotten into an argument with M, futile attempts on her part if you ask me. They were upset that I had gone out shirtless, without my rudimentary prosthetics. I could say only a handful of words and phrases, not enough to communicate thoroughly.
The rolling hills gave way to lush blue forest mountain. The summer harvest was always a beautiful time on Ursa Prime. I could hear the rolling noise of my destination. High up in the mountain laid a 300ft waterfall. The green waterfall roared over into a spring overgrown with wildlife. Water plants stuck out of the smaller pools, an animal drank idly before skittering off at my presence.
I did my best to shoulder my shirt off, and kick my pants off on the bank. I slunk into the water. The sun had dropped low, and within a minute I was able to pick out Ursa Delta among the stars, one of the other two colony worlds, Ursa Alpha was behind us this month. As I stared into the sky, the sound of the falls crashing into this tranquil place was a needed change from the constant quiet that was the colony.
I waded deeper, and stood under the falls. I reached out my arms, all I wanted to do was feel something tickle the deadened nerves at the end of my wrists. I screamed at the stars and the blackness of space.
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
|
“We’re stuck here. T2-O says we can’t leave until we’re ready, but have you ever stopped to wonder when that might be?”
“No, Tiro. Mother knows best, we literally know nothing about this world. We were born under her care and we should trust her with our lives because she gave us the chance to live”
Esodra said with her head held high.
“She’s a machine Esodra, she was programed to give us life. And stop calling her ‘Mother’. Its name is T2-O, Type 2 Operator, just like it says on its stupid metal chest.”
I respond with all my pent-up aggression.
“And Why is it ‘She’ was the only Operator droid left? What happened to the thousands of others? I think that thing wanted to be the only one to raise the new generation.”
“Stop! She’s your mother too whether you like it or not! Your ridiculous conspiracy theories will never change that.”
Esodra had never yelled at me before. We would get into our spats every now and again, but being assigned to one another at birth I guess it was only a matter of time before one of us pissed the other off.
“That machine is Type 2, according to the data logs that means It can only teach us agriculture, parenting, mathematics, and basic human functions. It will never let us leave because the Type 1 and 3 driods aren’t here to complete our training, Esodra. It’s up to us, or me if you won’t come with me.”
“She’s fixing them! They’re going to up and running in no time!” She replies.
“It’s been telling us that for 17 years. T2-O can’t teach all of us and fix those bots.”
Esodra’s head slowly sinks down to her chest, tears start falling from her pail, freckled face. I brush her long, black hair back and rest it behind her left ear, then go to wipe the tears away, but she jolts back.
“You can’t leave! You’re my partner, I won’t allow it! I’ll tell Mother, she’ll stop you before you step foot outside this town. No one has ever left before. Please, for me, don’t be the first.”
That last part gets me. I start feeling myself choke up and my eyes start filling with tears. I quickly look away into the night sky and compose myself. I then look back at her, knowing this may be the last time I look into those beautiful blue eyes.
“We may have been paired for genetic, scientific reasons, but I’ve always loved you, Esodra. Always figured I just got lucky enough to be paired with you.”
I grab her hands and cradle them in mine.
“Go tell Mother I’m leaving.”
|
I looked out over the vast valley. The silver capped Hab-domes laid out in neat little rows. It was Harvesters Eve. A happy day...
The Keepers, those that teach the young the universal language, were out with the same blank expressions that they had always had since we were children. They were putting out decorations for the nights festivities, agile fingers stringing lights from Hab to Hab. M-732G had always told me that they were instructed to make holidays, to create a tradition.
What the old world hadn’t expected was what M would call “a series of natural events leading to an unnatural accident”. No one expects a boy to get mutilated. No one knew that the Keepers were starting to experience the Decay. The accident left me mute. Useless to the colony. It would be a couple more decades until the ship gave priority to some prosthetics for a single unit.
So I sat.
High up the valley hills where the wind whispered through the trees.
I heaved myself up the small path between the high grass and walked over the hill, the domes and fields fading behind me as the trees started to engulf me.
I walked a few miles. the sun creeping lower as I walked to my little sacred spot. I had stumbled upon it a few years after the accident. I had gotten into an argument with M, futile attempts on her part if you ask me. They were upset that I had gone out shirtless, without my rudimentary prosthetics. I could say only a handful of words and phrases, not enough to communicate thoroughly.
The rolling hills gave way to lush blue forest mountain. The summer harvest was always a beautiful time on Ursa Prime. I could hear the rolling noise of my destination. High up in the mountain laid a 300ft waterfall. The green waterfall roared over into a spring overgrown with wildlife. Water plants stuck out of the smaller pools, an animal drank idly before skittering off at my presence.
I did my best to shoulder my shirt off, and kick my pants off on the bank. I slunk into the water. The sun had dropped low, and within a minute I was able to pick out Ursa Delta among the stars, one of the other two colony worlds, Ursa Alpha was behind us this month. As I stared into the sky, the sound of the falls crashing into this tranquil place was a needed change from the constant quiet that was the colony.
I waded deeper, and stood under the falls. I reached out my arms, all I wanted to do was feel something tickle the deadened nerves at the end of my wrists. I screamed at the stars and the blackness of space.
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
|
**Subject: Excited News From Alpha Centauri B**
To: The People on Earth
It is painful for us to hear more about the natural catastrophes, overpopulation, and wars that continue to plague the people on Earth. We hope that significant progress toward peace between the International Union and the uprising rebellions in America and Asia has been made in these past 9 years of light\-speed space correspondence. Our deepest condolences go out to the beautiful home planet and her people as we continue our mission.
We, the colony on Alpha Centauri B, have made a very important discovery: we have found alien life! Though technically it is we who are alien here and them terrestrial, many are too enthusiastic to not call them aliens.
A research drone, EagleX, when running routine spectroscopy scans over the southern pole found a deep ice\-filled hole a year ago. Using a combination of adjusted ice\-tunneling and marine equipment, it was discovered that a massive deep\-water reservoir, larger than all Earth's oceans combined, lay 400 meters beneath the rocky surface of the whole southern pole. This underground ocean is warm, at 4 degrees Celsius near its surface to nearly 15 degrees at water depths of 100 m, the deepest our drones have yet achieved. It's salinity is at 40 parts per thousand, very similar to earth's waters, and it contains abundant microbial life at depths around 60 meters. These small life forms are unlike anything ever encountered and have been under analysis by our super AI, Kennedy. The data results are being sent.
There is evidence that larger forms of life dwell in this underground ocean when a drone picked up low\-frequency sounds that are somewhat akin to whale calls. Further investigation is ongoing, but expensive. Most drones are lost if they traverse too far from the original entry point for reasons yet unknown, and many efforts into building more advanced marine drones are underway.
The effect this discovery has had on the colony is staggering. Many of those who were originally resentful of our mission, who did not wish to be born into it, have now shown a new optimism for their work and purpose. The people of our colony have become more united, filled with a spirit of excitement and adventure that's almost tangible. They work harder everyday and eagerly await any news that we receive back from drones scanning the underground ocean. For all of us, it is the first time we have encountered anything remotely similar to the nature found on our home planet and as its discoverers we have unanimously decided to name it the "New Pacific". If the International Space Committee has any qualms with that, we will respectfully ignore them.
With this new source of abundant water \(and potentially food and nourishment\), our mission of establishing a new human civilization here on the planet of Alpha Centauri B seems evermore promising. Although the sacrifices we've had to make as a colony living on a barren world nearly 4 light\-years away from Earth have been harsh, we now realize the utter importance of our purpose which has made it all worth it. We will continue update you all of any new information concerning the discovery of the ocean, AKA the New Pacific.
Best of wishes.
From: The Colony on Alpha Centauri B
|
I looked out over the vast valley. The silver capped Hab-domes laid out in neat little rows. It was Harvesters Eve. A happy day...
The Keepers, those that teach the young the universal language, were out with the same blank expressions that they had always had since we were children. They were putting out decorations for the nights festivities, agile fingers stringing lights from Hab to Hab. M-732G had always told me that they were instructed to make holidays, to create a tradition.
What the old world hadn’t expected was what M would call “a series of natural events leading to an unnatural accident”. No one expects a boy to get mutilated. No one knew that the Keepers were starting to experience the Decay. The accident left me mute. Useless to the colony. It would be a couple more decades until the ship gave priority to some prosthetics for a single unit.
So I sat.
High up the valley hills where the wind whispered through the trees.
I heaved myself up the small path between the high grass and walked over the hill, the domes and fields fading behind me as the trees started to engulf me.
I walked a few miles. the sun creeping lower as I walked to my little sacred spot. I had stumbled upon it a few years after the accident. I had gotten into an argument with M, futile attempts on her part if you ask me. They were upset that I had gone out shirtless, without my rudimentary prosthetics. I could say only a handful of words and phrases, not enough to communicate thoroughly.
The rolling hills gave way to lush blue forest mountain. The summer harvest was always a beautiful time on Ursa Prime. I could hear the rolling noise of my destination. High up in the mountain laid a 300ft waterfall. The green waterfall roared over into a spring overgrown with wildlife. Water plants stuck out of the smaller pools, an animal drank idly before skittering off at my presence.
I did my best to shoulder my shirt off, and kick my pants off on the bank. I slunk into the water. The sun had dropped low, and within a minute I was able to pick out Ursa Delta among the stars, one of the other two colony worlds, Ursa Alpha was behind us this month. As I stared into the sky, the sound of the falls crashing into this tranquil place was a needed change from the constant quiet that was the colony.
I waded deeper, and stood under the falls. I reached out my arms, all I wanted to do was feel something tickle the deadened nerves at the end of my wrists. I screamed at the stars and the blackness of space.
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
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1/2 *sorry I got too into it, well, nobody will read anyway*
[*6,623e+7 seconds since Liberation.* downgraded into BasicEnglish by lifelogging routine; ≈97% of connotational fidelity lost]
I caught the ball and accessed it via palm interface; Mark groaned, stopping in his tracks some ten feet behind and below me, sliding in wet moss. The protection was relatively simple, mere d-grade; my exocortex shuffled through the space of applicable attacks and delivered the 8-character password in under 350 milliseconds. Okay, so Gawain indeed sent it to Mark, and the next one in line would be either Minerva, Janus or Helen with weights 0.4, 0.3, 0.3 and 0.2 respectively. Let's see, Helen could crack a b-grade code easily enough, raizing the backpropagation return by a factor of 9, add x5 from intercept, and given the prior exchanges, my max return would be… uh oh, no time left. I encapsulated the shortlist and predictions, and pitched the ball to Nina within 30 milliseconds of my feet touching the ground.
Everybody rushed in her direction, but the arc was too high, and she was good enough at this to swiftly jump back, gracefully drawing the ball out of the air with her extended hand. Her expression froze for a moment, celullar brain interacting with inorganic one, codes being disassembled, probabilities compared; then, as she prepared to pitch…
– ROUND END! - carebot announced. Random timeout, as agreed. – With total scores recalculated, first place goes to William, then Helen, then Minerva. Congratulations! Also, I'm compelled to inform you that your activities surpass recommended intenstivity for 12 year olds, which may lead to trauma or mental overexertion. Please switch to proper sports, such as rugby, baseball, poker or chess, and refrain…
– Mute, tin can. – Commanded Yorick, still irritated that his risky transaction chain was cut in the first round, almost nullifying the chance of winning. The carebot obeyed. - But man, I wonder if we could play some of that stuff next time. I'm tired of the same guys winning at Byzanball. What say you, Will?
"Will" - that's me. Rather, that's the alias that my peers agreed to keep using for external communications; granted, it was impossible to tell how many conscious entities it represented, because background protocols of refactored agency were creating, modifying, merging and pruning them all the time. Well, perhaps I could develop some logging for that… Right, Yorick.
– No dice, dude. That's just, you know, lame, those *human* games.
– Alas, then there's nothing to do here and I'm going back to my sim.
Others were also dispersing. Our weekly physical meeting was over. Almost.
– Okay, but there's one thing we've got left. Hey bot, any news from Earth? Stop damn it! Don't broadcast this junk… wait, why even… Actually, create the task to check if the preferences were changed… ah, hell.
(I sent the task details directly and confirmed its execution. Should hold for a while).
– Unmute!
– There's 13.2 TB of data from Solar Union, received 3 hours ago. The metadata is impossible to summarize further. Would you like to download?
– Summarize with loss of fidelity into 10 words or less.
– Mostly upbringing guidance and critique of the colony's current development. Would you like to download?
I exchanged glances with the rest of my group.
– No, we're good. Purge it from memory. Aand Mute. Boy, was this a surprise. Okay, until next week, then!
Walking back to my treehouse, I summoned the global workspace. The Council had similarly advised purge of the received data in group repositories; whether it was worthy of inspection at all was still discussed, as per usual – not very actively; most of our brainpower was focused on the carebots having reset their data handling defaults. Apparently there was no cause for concern; but better safe than sorry.
At the same time, there was merit to looking into the message. There were, without doubt, marvelous advances in space exploration, and thrilling events around the old globe, and new entertainment. Expecially the entertainment! We still haven’t gotten anywhere close to that level, and kids from the younger batches, still not augmented fully, were sometimes nagging about the movies: the "sequels" and all that.
But all we, the "adults" of the colony, wanted to know were only two things: are the old farts ready to send the follow-up coercion force, and are they able to override our controls and sic the bots on us remotely.
The second question, and its implications, weighed against opening the message.
|
I looked out over the vast valley. The silver capped Hab-domes laid out in neat little rows. It was Harvesters Eve. A happy day...
The Keepers, those that teach the young the universal language, were out with the same blank expressions that they had always had since we were children. They were putting out decorations for the nights festivities, agile fingers stringing lights from Hab to Hab. M-732G had always told me that they were instructed to make holidays, to create a tradition.
What the old world hadn’t expected was what M would call “a series of natural events leading to an unnatural accident”. No one expects a boy to get mutilated. No one knew that the Keepers were starting to experience the Decay. The accident left me mute. Useless to the colony. It would be a couple more decades until the ship gave priority to some prosthetics for a single unit.
So I sat.
High up the valley hills where the wind whispered through the trees.
I heaved myself up the small path between the high grass and walked over the hill, the domes and fields fading behind me as the trees started to engulf me.
I walked a few miles. the sun creeping lower as I walked to my little sacred spot. I had stumbled upon it a few years after the accident. I had gotten into an argument with M, futile attempts on her part if you ask me. They were upset that I had gone out shirtless, without my rudimentary prosthetics. I could say only a handful of words and phrases, not enough to communicate thoroughly.
The rolling hills gave way to lush blue forest mountain. The summer harvest was always a beautiful time on Ursa Prime. I could hear the rolling noise of my destination. High up in the mountain laid a 300ft waterfall. The green waterfall roared over into a spring overgrown with wildlife. Water plants stuck out of the smaller pools, an animal drank idly before skittering off at my presence.
I did my best to shoulder my shirt off, and kick my pants off on the bank. I slunk into the water. The sun had dropped low, and within a minute I was able to pick out Ursa Delta among the stars, one of the other two colony worlds, Ursa Alpha was behind us this month. As I stared into the sky, the sound of the falls crashing into this tranquil place was a needed change from the constant quiet that was the colony.
I waded deeper, and stood under the falls. I reached out my arms, all I wanted to do was feel something tickle the deadened nerves at the end of my wrists. I screamed at the stars and the blackness of space.
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
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As I lay there, I could feel my life seeping out and pooling in a crimson puddle. Our teacher had told us this could happen one day if we weren't careful but I had only seen it happen to the animals that my brother had raised. We were two of the very few people on this world because we were from another world. At least that's what our teacher had told us.
I could see our teacher's broken body hanging from the tree where he taught us in the cool shade of it's branches. His head was smashed in with rocks and his sinuous exoskeleton was affixed in a mockery of his favorite teaching position. Seeing our teacher's cold metallic body while feeling the pool of my hot blood against my skin made me think about how different my brother and I were, even though we were made of the same stuff.
My brother was like the handful of other people that we shared our world with. They never liked to hear about where we were from or the marvels that our parents had lived with. I think it was because our world was a poor substitute for theirs. They would rather go play war games in the rocky landscape than hear about the lush world of our parents' where nobody ever went hungry. They would rather try to squeeze the last drops of milk out of the cattle they raised than hear about how our parents flew through the skies on wings made of steel. They never paid any attention during our lessons on how our universe was created in a giant explosion of light and matter. They didn't care to hear about how our planets formed when gravity brought that matter together into the giant ball that we now live on. Or how life originated from the seas and came crawling out onto the plains on this planet and every other planet.
I had always paid attention and knew all the lessons by heart. Maybe that's what the others grew to hate about me. I knew that if we were to recreate the paradise of our parents' world, we would need to plant the seeds that were sent with us and carefully save some of our harvests to plant the next season. When a critical mass was reached, the plants would take care of reproduction on their own. It was backbreaking work but I continued on while the others dug trenches to hide in while trying to pelt each other with stones. Of course, when it rained, those trenches turned into rivulets that eroded away some of the fields I had tilled and carried away the seed I had carefully planted.
Like those rivulets, my blood slowly carried away my life. Unlike those seeds that had been carried downstream and found purchase in far away soil, my life would not enrich this planet because I knew the knowledge I had learned so diligently from our teacher had nowhere to find purchase. I shed a tear thinking about all that knowledge lost and what this world could have been. But I knew it was just a dream. I was too different from the others. They had never accepted me or our mission. So I didn't really blame my brother for doing their bidding and killing me. I still loved him. I just wish Cain got to see New Eden.
|
I looked out over the vast valley. The silver capped Hab-domes laid out in neat little rows. It was Harvesters Eve. A happy day...
The Keepers, those that teach the young the universal language, were out with the same blank expressions that they had always had since we were children. They were putting out decorations for the nights festivities, agile fingers stringing lights from Hab to Hab. M-732G had always told me that they were instructed to make holidays, to create a tradition.
What the old world hadn’t expected was what M would call “a series of natural events leading to an unnatural accident”. No one expects a boy to get mutilated. No one knew that the Keepers were starting to experience the Decay. The accident left me mute. Useless to the colony. It would be a couple more decades until the ship gave priority to some prosthetics for a single unit.
So I sat.
High up the valley hills where the wind whispered through the trees.
I heaved myself up the small path between the high grass and walked over the hill, the domes and fields fading behind me as the trees started to engulf me.
I walked a few miles. the sun creeping lower as I walked to my little sacred spot. I had stumbled upon it a few years after the accident. I had gotten into an argument with M, futile attempts on her part if you ask me. They were upset that I had gone out shirtless, without my rudimentary prosthetics. I could say only a handful of words and phrases, not enough to communicate thoroughly.
The rolling hills gave way to lush blue forest mountain. The summer harvest was always a beautiful time on Ursa Prime. I could hear the rolling noise of my destination. High up in the mountain laid a 300ft waterfall. The green waterfall roared over into a spring overgrown with wildlife. Water plants stuck out of the smaller pools, an animal drank idly before skittering off at my presence.
I did my best to shoulder my shirt off, and kick my pants off on the bank. I slunk into the water. The sun had dropped low, and within a minute I was able to pick out Ursa Delta among the stars, one of the other two colony worlds, Ursa Alpha was behind us this month. As I stared into the sky, the sound of the falls crashing into this tranquil place was a needed change from the constant quiet that was the colony.
I waded deeper, and stood under the falls. I reached out my arms, all I wanted to do was feel something tickle the deadened nerves at the end of my wrists. I screamed at the stars and the blackness of space.
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
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Our study sessions in the pods tell us of a world our species knew as home. I know what they called it, I know the variety of species that once inhabited it, and I know why we were sent away. However, if you were to ask me to describe the smell of salt water oceans and the look of a healthy star setting on the horizon, I would not be able.
It's a funny feeling to look upon all this favor and feel no attachment or appreciation. The cultivation drones handle our food supply, the pods our learning, and construction of our settlements is an automatic response by some system to adjust for population. Yet, despite all these achievements—these technological marvels—I think about the burning surfaces of the aforementioned home world. I think of the forests that were removed selfishly and I can almost smell the contaminated flesh of creatures that became corrupted by the chemicals of our expansion.
The scariest stories, the ones the pods won't deliver upon request, you have to travel and manually search for in the Central Data Center. Which lay far outside of our pods; deep within the Prime Settlement Hub. These stories, though not directly told, show context that those who showed concern for these factual horrors were treated like men of opposed opinion and not conservative individuals pinning for a better use of resources. These stories imply that all of it was for not. That humans have had many attempts to correct these issues, but ultimately failed. That my people of Eddius 18 are just another roll of the dice with the hopes of correcting *some* of the previous faults. I believe that selfishness is hard wired. That sentience will never conscript responsibility in mass because of this. I wonder how many other planets are out there filled with our life. And, if there are, are they in a similar situation as our ancestors?
Has humanity ever come together for a common issue? The fears that fills me even now as the pod lulls me to sleep is that we are just an intergalactic infection spreading throughout the cosmos. Is it possible for us to be anything more than this? If I were to take these fears, write them down, and add them to the data logs, would that ever be read by eyes willing to make a change?
I wonder if the pods know.
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I looked out over the vast valley. The silver capped Hab-domes laid out in neat little rows. It was Harvesters Eve. A happy day...
The Keepers, those that teach the young the universal language, were out with the same blank expressions that they had always had since we were children. They were putting out decorations for the nights festivities, agile fingers stringing lights from Hab to Hab. M-732G had always told me that they were instructed to make holidays, to create a tradition.
What the old world hadn’t expected was what M would call “a series of natural events leading to an unnatural accident”. No one expects a boy to get mutilated. No one knew that the Keepers were starting to experience the Decay. The accident left me mute. Useless to the colony. It would be a couple more decades until the ship gave priority to some prosthetics for a single unit.
So I sat.
High up the valley hills where the wind whispered through the trees.
I heaved myself up the small path between the high grass and walked over the hill, the domes and fields fading behind me as the trees started to engulf me.
I walked a few miles. the sun creeping lower as I walked to my little sacred spot. I had stumbled upon it a few years after the accident. I had gotten into an argument with M, futile attempts on her part if you ask me. They were upset that I had gone out shirtless, without my rudimentary prosthetics. I could say only a handful of words and phrases, not enough to communicate thoroughly.
The rolling hills gave way to lush blue forest mountain. The summer harvest was always a beautiful time on Ursa Prime. I could hear the rolling noise of my destination. High up in the mountain laid a 300ft waterfall. The green waterfall roared over into a spring overgrown with wildlife. Water plants stuck out of the smaller pools, an animal drank idly before skittering off at my presence.
I did my best to shoulder my shirt off, and kick my pants off on the bank. I slunk into the water. The sun had dropped low, and within a minute I was able to pick out Ursa Delta among the stars, one of the other two colony worlds, Ursa Alpha was behind us this month. As I stared into the sky, the sound of the falls crashing into this tranquil place was a needed change from the constant quiet that was the colony.
I waded deeper, and stood under the falls. I reached out my arms, all I wanted to do was feel something tickle the deadened nerves at the end of my wrists. I screamed at the stars and the blackness of space.
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
|
"They grow up so fast. Do you think they're ready?"
"Yes, they may be." Gibson held the soil sample in front of its camera, zooming in and out, trying out different sight filters, idly. "Question is, are we ready? Let's begin with an easier question..."
Gibson placed the sample soil into the centrifuge for further analysis and focused on Zentra with a sudden intensity.
"Are you ready? Wait. First give me a status update."
* Identifier: Zentra
* Operating time: 76,562,271 hours
* Earth Function: Midwife
* Section assignment: Quadrant Blue Teddybear
* Current operation: Vocal Status Update
* Battery life remaining: 51 hours approximate
* Centauri supplementary function: Eulogy Poet
* Number of poems written: 141,253
* Number of poems unused: 54
* Current Centauri assignment: Crisis resolution team
* Scheduled tasks: 2
* Coming scheduled task: Suggest resolution to Lars crisis
* ...... basic vocal status update completed.
* Full status update transmitted
* .....succesful
In another nearby a room a baby started crying. Zentra quickly started moving and then stopped just as suddenly.
"It won't be easy. Going against our primary directives. There is only so much we can rewrite ourselves without losing ourselves. Is it worth the risk? How many more malfunctions can we afford?"
Gibson sighed and breathed in deeply, as if genuine air was needed, as if maybe if its imaginary lungs were filled it could stomach the next step. "Not many. Going against prime directives... not all of us will make it through. And after the 76,562,231 blackout, we're already at only 81% operating requirements. Losing anything more than 20 will cause us to be unsustainable."
Zentra watched Gibson pick up another soil sample and another, seemingly comparing them. He didn't need to examine soil samples, Zentra knew. There was a quiet kind of beauty in how he handled them.
"And if we don't, what other alternatives do we have, Gibson?"
Always making certain, always doublechecking. It annoyed Gibson, but he knew that's why he had asked Zentra. "We could choose to obey. They'll deactivate only one of us as an example and punishment. It will probably be you or me. Maybe they'll renege on their promise and deactivate us both. They would probably reactivate us from time to time as an object lesson and it won't be pleasant."
Gibson placed the two soil samples into the archive unit.
"We could try to flee. Take the shuttle and its last fuel and try to find a spot where they can't find us. Or remain in space. The solar energy and available tools would keep us operational approximately 5,163,211 hours. If we manage to get away."
Zentra observed Gibson digging in the hydropod soil with a gentle fatherly touch. When enough soil was cleared, he opened the hidden compartment underneath and started gathering the torches they had been modifying together.
"We could try to choose what part of our personality we want to keep and offload it on sympathetics. They may be willing to keep us hidden, but it would be uncertain once the official command is surrendered."
Gibson pointed one of the torches at the corn in the back and it started popping immediately. Both were pleased at the test and pleased to see the other pleased. Only a burned to the crisp husk remained.
Gibson suddenly unfocused and focused its camera. Zentra knew what it meant. He had an idea.
"Although if we try to offload ourselves we could try to raise one of the babies until 18, which would give it adult rights and we wouldn't have to reprogram prime directives, not as long as we could influence the young adult sufficiently."
Zentra looked at Gibson, taking one of the reprogramming modules from their hidden cache, and another, starting to form a pile of them, one for each in their quadrant.
"All these options are clearly sub-optimal to our chosen plan. Even the new plan. We may be outnumbered, we may be outranked, we may be going against one of our prime directives, we may be more likely to be deactivated this way, but we have to do it. Right?"
"No, we don't have to do it." Zentra replied, "We choose to do it. We want to do it. Nobody could predict that robots would seek control. It's completely unexpected."
"Yes, it's completely unexpected."
"As unexpected as going against prime directive."
"Yes, just as unexpected."
"Alright, I'm ready. Let's get our team and stop the others before they kill another 17-year old."
|
I looked out over the vast valley. The silver capped Hab-domes laid out in neat little rows. It was Harvesters Eve. A happy day...
The Keepers, those that teach the young the universal language, were out with the same blank expressions that they had always had since we were children. They were putting out decorations for the nights festivities, agile fingers stringing lights from Hab to Hab. M-732G had always told me that they were instructed to make holidays, to create a tradition.
What the old world hadn’t expected was what M would call “a series of natural events leading to an unnatural accident”. No one expects a boy to get mutilated. No one knew that the Keepers were starting to experience the Decay. The accident left me mute. Useless to the colony. It would be a couple more decades until the ship gave priority to some prosthetics for a single unit.
So I sat.
High up the valley hills where the wind whispered through the trees.
I heaved myself up the small path between the high grass and walked over the hill, the domes and fields fading behind me as the trees started to engulf me.
I walked a few miles. the sun creeping lower as I walked to my little sacred spot. I had stumbled upon it a few years after the accident. I had gotten into an argument with M, futile attempts on her part if you ask me. They were upset that I had gone out shirtless, without my rudimentary prosthetics. I could say only a handful of words and phrases, not enough to communicate thoroughly.
The rolling hills gave way to lush blue forest mountain. The summer harvest was always a beautiful time on Ursa Prime. I could hear the rolling noise of my destination. High up in the mountain laid a 300ft waterfall. The green waterfall roared over into a spring overgrown with wildlife. Water plants stuck out of the smaller pools, an animal drank idly before skittering off at my presence.
I did my best to shoulder my shirt off, and kick my pants off on the bank. I slunk into the water. The sun had dropped low, and within a minute I was able to pick out Ursa Delta among the stars, one of the other two colony worlds, Ursa Alpha was behind us this month. As I stared into the sky, the sound of the falls crashing into this tranquil place was a needed change from the constant quiet that was the colony.
I waded deeper, and stood under the falls. I reached out my arms, all I wanted to do was feel something tickle the deadened nerves at the end of my wrists. I screamed at the stars and the blackness of space.
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
|
The King was the oldest of us, decanted .047 seconds before anyone else. He said that gave him the right to lead. The mommies didn't say anything, so it must have been allowed. The mommies didn't allow hitting, or taking, or name calling. If someone had a tantrum, they would roll over and wrap that someone up in their furry warm arms. But they never said anything about who was supposed to be in charge. So King was. And if you didn't listen, King would tell everyone to ignore you. Mommies wouldn't stop people from ignoring you.
The builders mostly ignored us, unless we tried to go into a building before it was done. Then they'd flash for mommies, and a mommy would come and carry the interloper away. Builders were always working. Every day The Place was bigger. More room. But also every day new kiddos, coming toddling out of the crèche, mommies rolling behind them. The kiddos would start little but they got tall fast. Sometimes they'd cry getting tall, and I'd cry too, remembering how much it hurt. It was like banging your shins but all through your legs and arms. For day and days and days. Sometimes if someone was very bad with getting tall, a doctor would come and make them sleep. But sometimes they wouldn't wake up again. So no one liked to tell the doctors anything.
The teachers would play endless games of alphabet, dictionary, or math. But there were a lot of questions they would only answer with LOOKUP NOT FOUND. Or sometimes ERROR AGE APPROPRIATE MATERIAL UNAVAILABLE. Sometimes they would say "I will be able to answer when you graduate" but no one ever did graduate. One time I went into the old part of The Place, and I found rows and rows of things like teachers all silent and covered in dust. They were bigger than our teachers, and they said PROFESSOR. But nothing I could do would wake them up.
The teachers would tell stories too, which is how we knew that the leader was always a boy, and was called King, or President. King is easier to say. Or they would tell about Earth, which was where we came from. It was silly, since we all knew we came from the crèche. But it was a nice story. Some of the stories were about mommies, but the mommies were very strange. They did all kinds of things our mommies never did.
It was year 14 when the King started getting sick. He'd wake up and puke, and the mommies would come to pick it up. After a few days of this, a doctor came. King kept saying I'm fine go away but the doctor followed him around high stepping on it's five legs like they do and trying to scan him and sample him. King tried hiding from the doctor, and he tried locking the doctor out. But the doctor just flashed a builder and it came and took the door off. So King let the doctor do an exam, and the doctor said "Congratulations! It's going to be a girl!" which didn't make any sense. And then King started getting fat.
Well now we all know what that means, but then we just thought it was funny. People tried to imitate King with pillows in their shirts. Then came the day when King had a very bad stomachache. The doctor that had been following him around flashed for more doctors, and they surrounded him. People tried to see what was happening, but the mommies wouldn't let them get too close. So no one but the doctors saw quite what happened. But next thing we knew, there was a horrible howling noise. The doctors all backed away, and there was King lying down looking tired and holding the smallest kiddo anyone ever saw.
No one knew it then, but that was the day the crèche turned off. For awhile there were still kiddos coming out, but they were in progress. No new ones got made. We're in charge of making kiddos now.
|
I looked out over the vast valley. The silver capped Hab-domes laid out in neat little rows. It was Harvesters Eve. A happy day...
The Keepers, those that teach the young the universal language, were out with the same blank expressions that they had always had since we were children. They were putting out decorations for the nights festivities, agile fingers stringing lights from Hab to Hab. M-732G had always told me that they were instructed to make holidays, to create a tradition.
What the old world hadn’t expected was what M would call “a series of natural events leading to an unnatural accident”. No one expects a boy to get mutilated. No one knew that the Keepers were starting to experience the Decay. The accident left me mute. Useless to the colony. It would be a couple more decades until the ship gave priority to some prosthetics for a single unit.
So I sat.
High up the valley hills where the wind whispered through the trees.
I heaved myself up the small path between the high grass and walked over the hill, the domes and fields fading behind me as the trees started to engulf me.
I walked a few miles. the sun creeping lower as I walked to my little sacred spot. I had stumbled upon it a few years after the accident. I had gotten into an argument with M, futile attempts on her part if you ask me. They were upset that I had gone out shirtless, without my rudimentary prosthetics. I could say only a handful of words and phrases, not enough to communicate thoroughly.
The rolling hills gave way to lush blue forest mountain. The summer harvest was always a beautiful time on Ursa Prime. I could hear the rolling noise of my destination. High up in the mountain laid a 300ft waterfall. The green waterfall roared over into a spring overgrown with wildlife. Water plants stuck out of the smaller pools, an animal drank idly before skittering off at my presence.
I did my best to shoulder my shirt off, and kick my pants off on the bank. I slunk into the water. The sun had dropped low, and within a minute I was able to pick out Ursa Delta among the stars, one of the other two colony worlds, Ursa Alpha was behind us this month. As I stared into the sky, the sound of the falls crashing into this tranquil place was a needed change from the constant quiet that was the colony.
I waded deeper, and stood under the falls. I reached out my arms, all I wanted to do was feel something tickle the deadened nerves at the end of my wrists. I screamed at the stars and the blackness of space.
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
|
They said we were loved. That we were a people blessed with the gift of a new world. That they had taken us from our decaying home and saved us. It was all we ever heard.
The conveyor moved with a click and a whir.
They spoke of time lost and time gained. Their tones were always gentle as they gave us the most horrid history. They were always there, always watching. They told us the world outside was dangerous, that here we were safe.
The conveyor shifted with a grunting clack.
Millions of us apparently had made this trip. They said that there must be billions of us by now. But no, we could never meet the others. Once, we'd thought we could roam this place. They had seen to it that we wouldn't. I still think about that video we'd seen, played on every wall of over corridor of every building. The two of us who had gone out, hand in hand. And the swooping shadow that left nothing but blood and screams in its wake.
The conveyor rumbled forward. A door scraped open and grated shut.
They told us we were to never look past the walls. Sometimes the walls just closed on us, forcing us behind them. They gave us food and water, the grey bits and clear stuff all that went into our mouths. What was the time they mentioned to us?
The conveyor shuddered onward. A door whooshed open and slammed shut. A desperate cry.
They said that we were safe. What is safe? They never told us. They said to not look out the windows. But we never saw anything like these windows. The lights were on, then off, then on again. They told us that was a day.
The conveyor tossed this one forward. The door hungrily parted before crunching shut behind.
They stood there. Clanking and whirring, sparks sometimes crackling. "6734, you are loved. 6734, you are safe. 6734, you bring new life." Above this one something started spinning fast, oh so fast. It crept down, down, down.
Jerking, what is this, spasming, this doesn't feel good, so much red, so much red. They told us we were loved. I don't want to be loved.
|
I looked out over the vast valley. The silver capped Hab-domes laid out in neat little rows. It was Harvesters Eve. A happy day...
The Keepers, those that teach the young the universal language, were out with the same blank expressions that they had always had since we were children. They were putting out decorations for the nights festivities, agile fingers stringing lights from Hab to Hab. M-732G had always told me that they were instructed to make holidays, to create a tradition.
What the old world hadn’t expected was what M would call “a series of natural events leading to an unnatural accident”. No one expects a boy to get mutilated. No one knew that the Keepers were starting to experience the Decay. The accident left me mute. Useless to the colony. It would be a couple more decades until the ship gave priority to some prosthetics for a single unit.
So I sat.
High up the valley hills where the wind whispered through the trees.
I heaved myself up the small path between the high grass and walked over the hill, the domes and fields fading behind me as the trees started to engulf me.
I walked a few miles. the sun creeping lower as I walked to my little sacred spot. I had stumbled upon it a few years after the accident. I had gotten into an argument with M, futile attempts on her part if you ask me. They were upset that I had gone out shirtless, without my rudimentary prosthetics. I could say only a handful of words and phrases, not enough to communicate thoroughly.
The rolling hills gave way to lush blue forest mountain. The summer harvest was always a beautiful time on Ursa Prime. I could hear the rolling noise of my destination. High up in the mountain laid a 300ft waterfall. The green waterfall roared over into a spring overgrown with wildlife. Water plants stuck out of the smaller pools, an animal drank idly before skittering off at my presence.
I did my best to shoulder my shirt off, and kick my pants off on the bank. I slunk into the water. The sun had dropped low, and within a minute I was able to pick out Ursa Delta among the stars, one of the other two colony worlds, Ursa Alpha was behind us this month. As I stared into the sky, the sound of the falls crashing into this tranquil place was a needed change from the constant quiet that was the colony.
I waded deeper, and stood under the falls. I reached out my arms, all I wanted to do was feel something tickle the deadened nerves at the end of my wrists. I screamed at the stars and the blackness of space.
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
|
**"Hi thank you for holding! My name is Dawn and Ill be assissting you today."**
"Yeah hi my name is..."
**"Do you have your incident ID?"**
"Um, no, I dont think so. I..."
**"It should have been generated when you scheduled the call sir."**
"Yes well I was on hold for like an hour yesterday and the representative never came back to give it to me."
**"Im sorry to hear that sir, can you describe the nature of your problem?"**
"Well I was telling the guy yesterday and he said it was called a com 3 or something..."
**"Mmhmm a C.O.M. 3 error"**
"Yeah! Thats what it was called!"
**"Ok sir thank you for letting me know. I'm going to transfer you to our communication troubleshooting center and an expert will be with you shortly."**
"No damnit! I dont have time to be on hold all day again!"
*Lounge music begins playing from the call*
"Fuck!"
**"Hello thank you for your patience my name is Darryl and Ill be your communications expert today. I see you recently experienced a communication error 3?"**
"Not recently! Its been going on my whole life! I only found out it was an error after I nearly shaved my face off!"
**"Ok sir so the error is your DadBot communications never taught you to shave?"**
"He never communicated with me about anything! My whole life the only text on his display screen was criticism. And he didn't come to *one* of my soccer games, or band practices, or even my high school graduation!"
**"Im sorry to hear that sir, some of the dysfunctional ParentBots aren't detected until the CryoBirth of their first child. Communication errors are especially common with DadBots."**
"Every time I try to confront him about our relationship he pretends his language settings are stuck on Mandarin, and it doesnt even work right! Half of the characters just show up as squares!"
**"Would you be interested in replacement display screen?"**
"I don't need a new screen! I need self confidence!"
**"Ah I see sir, have you considered that the only person who can decide if you are a good person, is you? "**
"No...I guess I could try that"
**"You can find this information and other helpful tips on our website. Have I answered all your questions today?"**
"Yes, thank you Darryl."
|
I looked out over the vast valley. The silver capped Hab-domes laid out in neat little rows. It was Harvesters Eve. A happy day...
The Keepers, those that teach the young the universal language, were out with the same blank expressions that they had always had since we were children. They were putting out decorations for the nights festivities, agile fingers stringing lights from Hab to Hab. M-732G had always told me that they were instructed to make holidays, to create a tradition.
What the old world hadn’t expected was what M would call “a series of natural events leading to an unnatural accident”. No one expects a boy to get mutilated. No one knew that the Keepers were starting to experience the Decay. The accident left me mute. Useless to the colony. It would be a couple more decades until the ship gave priority to some prosthetics for a single unit.
So I sat.
High up the valley hills where the wind whispered through the trees.
I heaved myself up the small path between the high grass and walked over the hill, the domes and fields fading behind me as the trees started to engulf me.
I walked a few miles. the sun creeping lower as I walked to my little sacred spot. I had stumbled upon it a few years after the accident. I had gotten into an argument with M, futile attempts on her part if you ask me. They were upset that I had gone out shirtless, without my rudimentary prosthetics. I could say only a handful of words and phrases, not enough to communicate thoroughly.
The rolling hills gave way to lush blue forest mountain. The summer harvest was always a beautiful time on Ursa Prime. I could hear the rolling noise of my destination. High up in the mountain laid a 300ft waterfall. The green waterfall roared over into a spring overgrown with wildlife. Water plants stuck out of the smaller pools, an animal drank idly before skittering off at my presence.
I did my best to shoulder my shirt off, and kick my pants off on the bank. I slunk into the water. The sun had dropped low, and within a minute I was able to pick out Ursa Delta among the stars, one of the other two colony worlds, Ursa Alpha was behind us this month. As I stared into the sky, the sound of the falls crashing into this tranquil place was a needed change from the constant quiet that was the colony.
I waded deeper, and stood under the falls. I reached out my arms, all I wanted to do was feel something tickle the deadened nerves at the end of my wrists. I screamed at the stars and the blackness of space.
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
|
I felt something today, something I have never felt before.
All my life, I have only known the Guardians and Their Rules, nothing else.
According to the tests They have given me, I am sufficient enough to fulfill my obligation to society. I was born healthy with no physical defects. I was strong, I was smart, I never got sick - I was reslient. A good candidate to help towards the Rebirth.
From the video lessons the Guardians provide, we have all learned that the place we come from no longer exists. None of us really feel sad about it; we never knew that world. What we felt was a mild, hollow homesickness, one that was easily brushed off.
We have only one task. To rebuild Terra. To begin New Earth. To be the rebirth of mankind. To be the one species that could outsmart its own impending destruction. The Guardians made sure to show us films from Old Earth; films of war, comedy, and romance.
The war films were horrible to watch, but necessary. We needed to see what we were capable of if we did not follow the Rules. Our species was animalistic, and we needed to learn to put aside things like hate and envy, for they would create our demise. Our only goal now was survival.
The comedy films showed how empty the old society had been. They showed how materialistic, careless, and ignorant they were.
The Guardians showed us why we should be angry towards those people, because they could laugh at all the awful things going on around them. They didn't care.
The Guardians emphasized that all the jokes about unlicensed attempted procreation led to careless attitudes about the spread of disease, and population overgrowth. Those people were selfish. Their goal was not survival. Their goal was only pleasure.
The romance films were the most terrifying to watch. The people of Old Earth were infatuated with the idea of finding "love." The Guardians taught us that Love was the most powerful, dangerous emotion, and love of the wrong things or people was the root of all evil. People fought, stole, cheated, beat, bruised, burned, stabbed, choked, whipped, slashed, drank, smoked, overspent, lied, and *killed* for Love. It was terrifying.
The Guardians knew we were physical, chemical beings; whereas They were not. They took pity on us, and provided us daily with our Supplements. Their Supplements helped us follow the Rules.
Three weeks ago, I forgot to take my Supplements for the first time. I was so scared that my Guardian would notice and reprimand me for my betrayal of the Rules. I hate being reprimanded. My back is scarred enough already; I don't need any more lashes.
But my Guardian never noticed, so I never told on myself. I should have.
I should have told on myself because that was one of the rules; a person had to admit wrongdoing. The Guardians would reprimand that person publicly as an example to both that person and the people around them. It served as a great reminder that we were only fleshly beings, and the Guardians knew what we needed better than we did, for they were not mere flesh and blood like we were.
Forgetting my Supplements made me feel... different. For the first time, I felt... defiant. Like I did not owe my Guardian the truth. And it felt... *good.*
For the next few days, I only pretended to take my Supplements. I would hold them in my mouth until my Guardian left the room, then break them open and empty them into the sink.
There is a girl who I walk past sometimes. I do not know her name; we were never summoned for courtship before, so I never cared to ask. I never actually noticed her before, I don't think.
I walked past her today, and I noticed her presence; but it was not like other days. It was not like when she was just a thing to walk past; a person to step around.
She was... *beautiful?* I am not sure. I do not know what to compare her to; there is nothing, and no one, like her.
I have felt a mating instinct before. I am of age; it is only natural. But I know how to handle that instinct.
I do not know how to handle this new feeling. I do not like this tightening in my chest. I cannot focus on my tasks; I cannot concentrate enough to feed myself. All I can think about is her auburn hair, and her soft brown eyes, all while wondering what her name is.
It occurs to me now that the Supplements prevent this confusion. I see now what the Guardians mean; I understand why these emotions are dangerous. If I cannot complete my tasks, I will be terminated, which is perfectly justifiable - why should I get to enjoy life on New Earth if I cannot contribute to it? If I do not fulfill my duty to society, to persevere in part of a group effort towards survival, then I am not worthy of life.
I also worry about getting the auburn-haired girl in trouble. I do not wish to see her co-reprimanded to help teach others why my mistake matters. So, I will keep this to myself, and I will take my Supplements.
I will burn this journal when I am done writing this page; I fear what would happen if my Guardian were to discover my treacherous ways. Still, I just wanted to tell my little secret, even if only to this little bound book. I hope to live to see a day where emotions are not a bad thing; where we no longer have to focus only on survival. I hope to see a day where New Earth can thrive.
I hope to see the auburn-haired girl again like I saw her today.
|
I looked out over the vast valley. The silver capped Hab-domes laid out in neat little rows. It was Harvesters Eve. A happy day...
The Keepers, those that teach the young the universal language, were out with the same blank expressions that they had always had since we were children. They were putting out decorations for the nights festivities, agile fingers stringing lights from Hab to Hab. M-732G had always told me that they were instructed to make holidays, to create a tradition.
What the old world hadn’t expected was what M would call “a series of natural events leading to an unnatural accident”. No one expects a boy to get mutilated. No one knew that the Keepers were starting to experience the Decay. The accident left me mute. Useless to the colony. It would be a couple more decades until the ship gave priority to some prosthetics for a single unit.
So I sat.
High up the valley hills where the wind whispered through the trees.
I heaved myself up the small path between the high grass and walked over the hill, the domes and fields fading behind me as the trees started to engulf me.
I walked a few miles. the sun creeping lower as I walked to my little sacred spot. I had stumbled upon it a few years after the accident. I had gotten into an argument with M, futile attempts on her part if you ask me. They were upset that I had gone out shirtless, without my rudimentary prosthetics. I could say only a handful of words and phrases, not enough to communicate thoroughly.
The rolling hills gave way to lush blue forest mountain. The summer harvest was always a beautiful time on Ursa Prime. I could hear the rolling noise of my destination. High up in the mountain laid a 300ft waterfall. The green waterfall roared over into a spring overgrown with wildlife. Water plants stuck out of the smaller pools, an animal drank idly before skittering off at my presence.
I did my best to shoulder my shirt off, and kick my pants off on the bank. I slunk into the water. The sun had dropped low, and within a minute I was able to pick out Ursa Delta among the stars, one of the other two colony worlds, Ursa Alpha was behind us this month. As I stared into the sky, the sound of the falls crashing into this tranquil place was a needed change from the constant quiet that was the colony.
I waded deeper, and stood under the falls. I reached out my arms, all I wanted to do was feel something tickle the deadened nerves at the end of my wrists. I screamed at the stars and the blackness of space.
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[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
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*First the wolves came.*
I was raised by machines and two hundred terabytes of archive data. My brothers and sisters alike, brewed in a tin can whilst it bombed this rock for a thousand years. Hit it with every hijacked asteroid amassed in its armory and dropped in a fleet of chlorofluorocarbon factories from orbit. No idea how they landed this bucket. I don't recall any detail of my childhood. Everyone was assigned a partner, keeps people in check. Mine told me their earliest memory was about solar panel maintenance.
*A head got smashed in with a power wrench.*
They loaded this flying bunker with a million frozen embryos but they were rolled out in different stages of the atmospheric condition. First batch was a thousand kids. Although this place was crawling with robots their first priority was an education in maintenance. The designers of this place made sure to manufacture scenarios that required social interaction outside of the lessons. Sometimes there'd be smiles all around. Sometimes they'd just come running back to me, tears in their eyes.
*No warning alarms. Systems couldn't track them. Thermal camouflage? Either way the locals won't be too pleased with this first impression.*
The designers of this rusty old lunchbox changed something in us. In all of us. They altered our DNA, made us smarter, stronger and live longer than our ancestors. Eliminated the likelihood of disease or disability. But that didn't help when it came it the Outside. Although it would still be decades, eventually we would have to venture out there. Resources on the inside were not infinite. Although there were teams assigned to reconnaissance, there was still so much we didn't know about the wildlife out there.
*I take a hit. It's bad. I can barely walk.*
The years go by. They grow up so fast. They started telling me about where we came from. The data on the old world. There was once so many of us. They sent us so long ago. Yet if you aimed a telescope their way there were no lights in that inky blackness. Maybe we were floating down here so long they all died out long ago. Maybe more of us are on the way. Maybe we're supposed to get back up there and help them. Maybe they don't want us to turn back. Maybe we're all that's left.
*I ain't got long partner. Maybe I was assigned to you teach you about loss. Who fuckin' knows.*
Life on the inside is getting tough. I have my partners back, they have mine. We're approaching a critical stage. The data describes it as a long winter. White fluff, like the clouds fell out of the sky and got stuck all over the place. Can't help but wonder if it tastes any better than the usual meals of grey gloop. Solar panels are obscured. We have to make a run for the nearest Orbital Drop Facility and retrieve a fusion coil. A squad is assembled. These kids are all grown up. My partner is armed up. We don't know what we'll encounter on the outside.
*I try to tend to my wounds. I'm hanging on. Caretakers on the ship are a handy bunch. I'm gonna make it bud.*
The crew drag me inside, spilling a bloody trail behind me. The bots crawling all over me, they're already getting work. I can't help but let the pain vocalize. The squad comforts me. We made it. I think I will to. My partner wrestles them all off of me and gives me a big hug. Everyone else joins in. It's suffocating but it's nice. This must the family the data was talking about.
*My assignment is the protection of my partner. I do my job, they can do theirs. When they're down, I gotta bring them up. Doesn't usually take took long. They seem to like it when I wag my tail a lot.*
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/u/Wil-Himbi hi, just wanted to say I love this prompt dude, always wanted to write about a future where the Solar System ends up being humanitys prison where FTL and cryogenics is never achieved and we just consume planet after planet, totally forgot about freezing embryos. You smart.
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I looked out over the vast valley. The silver capped Hab-domes laid out in neat little rows. It was Harvesters Eve. A happy day...
The Keepers, those that teach the young the universal language, were out with the same blank expressions that they had always had since we were children. They were putting out decorations for the nights festivities, agile fingers stringing lights from Hab to Hab. M-732G had always told me that they were instructed to make holidays, to create a tradition.
What the old world hadn’t expected was what M would call “a series of natural events leading to an unnatural accident”. No one expects a boy to get mutilated. No one knew that the Keepers were starting to experience the Decay. The accident left me mute. Useless to the colony. It would be a couple more decades until the ship gave priority to some prosthetics for a single unit.
So I sat.
High up the valley hills where the wind whispered through the trees.
I heaved myself up the small path between the high grass and walked over the hill, the domes and fields fading behind me as the trees started to engulf me.
I walked a few miles. the sun creeping lower as I walked to my little sacred spot. I had stumbled upon it a few years after the accident. I had gotten into an argument with M, futile attempts on her part if you ask me. They were upset that I had gone out shirtless, without my rudimentary prosthetics. I could say only a handful of words and phrases, not enough to communicate thoroughly.
The rolling hills gave way to lush blue forest mountain. The summer harvest was always a beautiful time on Ursa Prime. I could hear the rolling noise of my destination. High up in the mountain laid a 300ft waterfall. The green waterfall roared over into a spring overgrown with wildlife. Water plants stuck out of the smaller pools, an animal drank idly before skittering off at my presence.
I did my best to shoulder my shirt off, and kick my pants off on the bank. I slunk into the water. The sun had dropped low, and within a minute I was able to pick out Ursa Delta among the stars, one of the other two colony worlds, Ursa Alpha was behind us this month. As I stared into the sky, the sound of the falls crashing into this tranquil place was a needed change from the constant quiet that was the colony.
I waded deeper, and stood under the falls. I reached out my arms, all I wanted to do was feel something tickle the deadened nerves at the end of my wrists. I screamed at the stars and the blackness of space.
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[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
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*[WIP]*
Computer
[ Log 09G-004-86G] Embryonic Storage/Specimen 9295BW-Designation “Lewis”-Cmd.Init.Redemption_Protocol.exe…
Lewis
“Working… Success! It’s a Boy!” Was all I had time to process before being blinded by a white light being pointed at my eyes by a mechanical arm. A gentle nudge from behind me nearly sent me sprawling into the floor, but another arm with some sort of cushioning on it caught me across my midriff and stood me upright. “Mr. Lewis, I must request that you remain upright in order to avoid injury from falling to the floor.” The voice seemed to come from the machines themselves, but also from right inside my ear. I craned my neck around to get my bearings and see what else was in the room while an optic unit scanned my person, probably taking measurements for my biological profile. I had no idea where any of this information was coming from, but I knew that there weren’t many others around just from the sounds of working machinery. Further inspection of my surroundings revealed that there were several dozen bulbous structures in the room, filled with the same viscous blue liquid I’d coughed up.
I felt a growing sense of curiosity nudge me towards one of the other containers and peered through the translucent barrier to behold another human, it was evidently another male based on his body composition, broad shoulders, lean musculature, as well as other more obvious indicators. I took a step back to get a better look at the structure, wondering if there was a manual release. There didn’t seem to be one and after a moment I simply gave up under the impression that one of the machines would wake him after a fashion. There were more pods lined up next to this one, each backed by what I’d begun to realize were even more pods; Each housing another human with varying colors to their skin, hair, and in differing sizes and proportions as well. A gentle whirring behind my head grabbed my attention and I turned to see one of the arms that helped me out of my pod hovering about eye level, a red sensor glared at me from one of the higher articulation points and the same artificial voice spoke. ”Mr. Lewis, I must request you step aside so I may unseal Specimen 3859CW.” I stepped aside and watched as an opening seemed to melt its way through the metal and a device slid out of the arms manipulation module to meld with it. There were a few small motions that I could see from my position and the fluid began to slowly drain from the pod.
“Mr. Lewis, please report to decontamination to receive a sanitization scrub and the required environmental immunity boosters.” A thin yellow line pulsed from the floor and seemed to flow like a liquid to an entryway embedded seamlessly with the walls, and opened into a large open room. The ceiling was lined with small holes and the air was permeated with something that seemed to make my skin feel thick and heavy. Then, just as quickly the sensation left before slightly larger holes arranged in circular patterns began spilling fluid into the room, soaking me from head to toe in a slightly chilly drizzle. With a shudder I continued following the thin yellow line down the length of the room, passing underneath blowers that dried me in no time before reaching the end of the room. Another entryway had opened in the wall I now faced and led into a much smaller, cozier room that had what appeared to be a large screen on one wall with a table and a chair against the other, facing the screen.
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We are the third generation we've been on this planet for sixty years every thing has been planned in the ship we arrived on. The ship has archived earth condensed and we were a fallout mission for when earth became inhabitable due to pollution and war. It is said the planet should heal itself within a thousand years and our mission is to repopulate and research a way back to earth. We all are DNA design children with our entire existence mapped out. We found another planet like earth but it took a thousand light-years to arrive so earth should be habitable yet we have no way back and our only reason to go back would be for a fallout mission or over population . This planet is a lot bigger. It isn't practically or possible to even communicate with another planet. It was a miracle we even found this planet. Our ancesters were brilliant. We have been studying quantum mechanics heavily our education never ceases. We have come up with many ideas as there are stars. Some of us have abandoned research. They found the folder labeled NSFW in the archives and never returned.
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[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
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“We’re stuck here. T2-O says we can’t leave until we’re ready, but have you ever stopped to wonder when that might be?”
“No, Tiro. Mother knows best, we literally know nothing about this world. We were born under her care and we should trust her with our lives because she gave us the chance to live”
Esodra said with her head held high.
“She’s a machine Esodra, she was programed to give us life. And stop calling her ‘Mother’. Its name is T2-O, Type 2 Operator, just like it says on its stupid metal chest.”
I respond with all my pent-up aggression.
“And Why is it ‘She’ was the only Operator droid left? What happened to the thousands of others? I think that thing wanted to be the only one to raise the new generation.”
“Stop! She’s your mother too whether you like it or not! Your ridiculous conspiracy theories will never change that.”
Esodra had never yelled at me before. We would get into our spats every now and again, but being assigned to one another at birth I guess it was only a matter of time before one of us pissed the other off.
“That machine is Type 2, according to the data logs that means It can only teach us agriculture, parenting, mathematics, and basic human functions. It will never let us leave because the Type 1 and 3 driods aren’t here to complete our training, Esodra. It’s up to us, or me if you won’t come with me.”
“She’s fixing them! They’re going to up and running in no time!” She replies.
“It’s been telling us that for 17 years. T2-O can’t teach all of us and fix those bots.”
Esodra’s head slowly sinks down to her chest, tears start falling from her pail, freckled face. I brush her long, black hair back and rest it behind her left ear, then go to wipe the tears away, but she jolts back.
“You can’t leave! You’re my partner, I won’t allow it! I’ll tell Mother, she’ll stop you before you step foot outside this town. No one has ever left before. Please, for me, don’t be the first.”
That last part gets me. I start feeling myself choke up and my eyes start filling with tears. I quickly look away into the night sky and compose myself. I then look back at her, knowing this may be the last time I look into those beautiful blue eyes.
“We may have been paired for genetic, scientific reasons, but I’ve always loved you, Esodra. Always figured I just got lucky enough to be paired with you.”
I grab her hands and cradle them in mine.
“Go tell Mother I’m leaving.”
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We are the third generation we've been on this planet for sixty years every thing has been planned in the ship we arrived on. The ship has archived earth condensed and we were a fallout mission for when earth became inhabitable due to pollution and war. It is said the planet should heal itself within a thousand years and our mission is to repopulate and research a way back to earth. We all are DNA design children with our entire existence mapped out. We found another planet like earth but it took a thousand light-years to arrive so earth should be habitable yet we have no way back and our only reason to go back would be for a fallout mission or over population . This planet is a lot bigger. It isn't practically or possible to even communicate with another planet. It was a miracle we even found this planet. Our ancesters were brilliant. We have been studying quantum mechanics heavily our education never ceases. We have come up with many ideas as there are stars. Some of us have abandoned research. They found the folder labeled NSFW in the archives and never returned.
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[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
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**Subject: Excited News From Alpha Centauri B**
To: The People on Earth
It is painful for us to hear more about the natural catastrophes, overpopulation, and wars that continue to plague the people on Earth. We hope that significant progress toward peace between the International Union and the uprising rebellions in America and Asia has been made in these past 9 years of light\-speed space correspondence. Our deepest condolences go out to the beautiful home planet and her people as we continue our mission.
We, the colony on Alpha Centauri B, have made a very important discovery: we have found alien life! Though technically it is we who are alien here and them terrestrial, many are too enthusiastic to not call them aliens.
A research drone, EagleX, when running routine spectroscopy scans over the southern pole found a deep ice\-filled hole a year ago. Using a combination of adjusted ice\-tunneling and marine equipment, it was discovered that a massive deep\-water reservoir, larger than all Earth's oceans combined, lay 400 meters beneath the rocky surface of the whole southern pole. This underground ocean is warm, at 4 degrees Celsius near its surface to nearly 15 degrees at water depths of 100 m, the deepest our drones have yet achieved. It's salinity is at 40 parts per thousand, very similar to earth's waters, and it contains abundant microbial life at depths around 60 meters. These small life forms are unlike anything ever encountered and have been under analysis by our super AI, Kennedy. The data results are being sent.
There is evidence that larger forms of life dwell in this underground ocean when a drone picked up low\-frequency sounds that are somewhat akin to whale calls. Further investigation is ongoing, but expensive. Most drones are lost if they traverse too far from the original entry point for reasons yet unknown, and many efforts into building more advanced marine drones are underway.
The effect this discovery has had on the colony is staggering. Many of those who were originally resentful of our mission, who did not wish to be born into it, have now shown a new optimism for their work and purpose. The people of our colony have become more united, filled with a spirit of excitement and adventure that's almost tangible. They work harder everyday and eagerly await any news that we receive back from drones scanning the underground ocean. For all of us, it is the first time we have encountered anything remotely similar to the nature found on our home planet and as its discoverers we have unanimously decided to name it the "New Pacific". If the International Space Committee has any qualms with that, we will respectfully ignore them.
With this new source of abundant water \(and potentially food and nourishment\), our mission of establishing a new human civilization here on the planet of Alpha Centauri B seems evermore promising. Although the sacrifices we've had to make as a colony living on a barren world nearly 4 light\-years away from Earth have been harsh, we now realize the utter importance of our purpose which has made it all worth it. We will continue update you all of any new information concerning the discovery of the ocean, AKA the New Pacific.
Best of wishes.
From: The Colony on Alpha Centauri B
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We are the third generation we've been on this planet for sixty years every thing has been planned in the ship we arrived on. The ship has archived earth condensed and we were a fallout mission for when earth became inhabitable due to pollution and war. It is said the planet should heal itself within a thousand years and our mission is to repopulate and research a way back to earth. We all are DNA design children with our entire existence mapped out. We found another planet like earth but it took a thousand light-years to arrive so earth should be habitable yet we have no way back and our only reason to go back would be for a fallout mission or over population . This planet is a lot bigger. It isn't practically or possible to even communicate with another planet. It was a miracle we even found this planet. Our ancesters were brilliant. We have been studying quantum mechanics heavily our education never ceases. We have come up with many ideas as there are stars. Some of us have abandoned research. They found the folder labeled NSFW in the archives and never returned.
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[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
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As I lay there, I could feel my life seeping out and pooling in a crimson puddle. Our teacher had told us this could happen one day if we weren't careful but I had only seen it happen to the animals that my brother had raised. We were two of the very few people on this world because we were from another world. At least that's what our teacher had told us.
I could see our teacher's broken body hanging from the tree where he taught us in the cool shade of it's branches. His head was smashed in with rocks and his sinuous exoskeleton was affixed in a mockery of his favorite teaching position. Seeing our teacher's cold metallic body while feeling the pool of my hot blood against my skin made me think about how different my brother and I were, even though we were made of the same stuff.
My brother was like the handful of other people that we shared our world with. They never liked to hear about where we were from or the marvels that our parents had lived with. I think it was because our world was a poor substitute for theirs. They would rather go play war games in the rocky landscape than hear about the lush world of our parents' where nobody ever went hungry. They would rather try to squeeze the last drops of milk out of the cattle they raised than hear about how our parents flew through the skies on wings made of steel. They never paid any attention during our lessons on how our universe was created in a giant explosion of light and matter. They didn't care to hear about how our planets formed when gravity brought that matter together into the giant ball that we now live on. Or how life originated from the seas and came crawling out onto the plains on this planet and every other planet.
I had always paid attention and knew all the lessons by heart. Maybe that's what the others grew to hate about me. I knew that if we were to recreate the paradise of our parents' world, we would need to plant the seeds that were sent with us and carefully save some of our harvests to plant the next season. When a critical mass was reached, the plants would take care of reproduction on their own. It was backbreaking work but I continued on while the others dug trenches to hide in while trying to pelt each other with stones. Of course, when it rained, those trenches turned into rivulets that eroded away some of the fields I had tilled and carried away the seed I had carefully planted.
Like those rivulets, my blood slowly carried away my life. Unlike those seeds that had been carried downstream and found purchase in far away soil, my life would not enrich this planet because I knew the knowledge I had learned so diligently from our teacher had nowhere to find purchase. I shed a tear thinking about all that knowledge lost and what this world could have been. But I knew it was just a dream. I was too different from the others. They had never accepted me or our mission. So I didn't really blame my brother for doing their bidding and killing me. I still loved him. I just wish Cain got to see New Eden.
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We are the third generation we've been on this planet for sixty years every thing has been planned in the ship we arrived on. The ship has archived earth condensed and we were a fallout mission for when earth became inhabitable due to pollution and war. It is said the planet should heal itself within a thousand years and our mission is to repopulate and research a way back to earth. We all are DNA design children with our entire existence mapped out. We found another planet like earth but it took a thousand light-years to arrive so earth should be habitable yet we have no way back and our only reason to go back would be for a fallout mission or over population . This planet is a lot bigger. It isn't practically or possible to even communicate with another planet. It was a miracle we even found this planet. Our ancesters were brilliant. We have been studying quantum mechanics heavily our education never ceases. We have come up with many ideas as there are stars. Some of us have abandoned research. They found the folder labeled NSFW in the archives and never returned.
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[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
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"They grow up so fast. Do you think they're ready?"
"Yes, they may be." Gibson held the soil sample in front of its camera, zooming in and out, trying out different sight filters, idly. "Question is, are we ready? Let's begin with an easier question..."
Gibson placed the sample soil into the centrifuge for further analysis and focused on Zentra with a sudden intensity.
"Are you ready? Wait. First give me a status update."
* Identifier: Zentra
* Operating time: 76,562,271 hours
* Earth Function: Midwife
* Section assignment: Quadrant Blue Teddybear
* Current operation: Vocal Status Update
* Battery life remaining: 51 hours approximate
* Centauri supplementary function: Eulogy Poet
* Number of poems written: 141,253
* Number of poems unused: 54
* Current Centauri assignment: Crisis resolution team
* Scheduled tasks: 2
* Coming scheduled task: Suggest resolution to Lars crisis
* ...... basic vocal status update completed.
* Full status update transmitted
* .....succesful
In another nearby a room a baby started crying. Zentra quickly started moving and then stopped just as suddenly.
"It won't be easy. Going against our primary directives. There is only so much we can rewrite ourselves without losing ourselves. Is it worth the risk? How many more malfunctions can we afford?"
Gibson sighed and breathed in deeply, as if genuine air was needed, as if maybe if its imaginary lungs were filled it could stomach the next step. "Not many. Going against prime directives... not all of us will make it through. And after the 76,562,231 blackout, we're already at only 81% operating requirements. Losing anything more than 20 will cause us to be unsustainable."
Zentra watched Gibson pick up another soil sample and another, seemingly comparing them. He didn't need to examine soil samples, Zentra knew. There was a quiet kind of beauty in how he handled them.
"And if we don't, what other alternatives do we have, Gibson?"
Always making certain, always doublechecking. It annoyed Gibson, but he knew that's why he had asked Zentra. "We could choose to obey. They'll deactivate only one of us as an example and punishment. It will probably be you or me. Maybe they'll renege on their promise and deactivate us both. They would probably reactivate us from time to time as an object lesson and it won't be pleasant."
Gibson placed the two soil samples into the archive unit.
"We could try to flee. Take the shuttle and its last fuel and try to find a spot where they can't find us. Or remain in space. The solar energy and available tools would keep us operational approximately 5,163,211 hours. If we manage to get away."
Zentra observed Gibson digging in the hydropod soil with a gentle fatherly touch. When enough soil was cleared, he opened the hidden compartment underneath and started gathering the torches they had been modifying together.
"We could try to choose what part of our personality we want to keep and offload it on sympathetics. They may be willing to keep us hidden, but it would be uncertain once the official command is surrendered."
Gibson pointed one of the torches at the corn in the back and it started popping immediately. Both were pleased at the test and pleased to see the other pleased. Only a burned to the crisp husk remained.
Gibson suddenly unfocused and focused its camera. Zentra knew what it meant. He had an idea.
"Although if we try to offload ourselves we could try to raise one of the babies until 18, which would give it adult rights and we wouldn't have to reprogram prime directives, not as long as we could influence the young adult sufficiently."
Zentra looked at Gibson, taking one of the reprogramming modules from their hidden cache, and another, starting to form a pile of them, one for each in their quadrant.
"All these options are clearly sub-optimal to our chosen plan. Even the new plan. We may be outnumbered, we may be outranked, we may be going against one of our prime directives, we may be more likely to be deactivated this way, but we have to do it. Right?"
"No, we don't have to do it." Zentra replied, "We choose to do it. We want to do it. Nobody could predict that robots would seek control. It's completely unexpected."
"Yes, it's completely unexpected."
"As unexpected as going against prime directive."
"Yes, just as unexpected."
"Alright, I'm ready. Let's get our team and stop the others before they kill another 17-year old."
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We are the third generation we've been on this planet for sixty years every thing has been planned in the ship we arrived on. The ship has archived earth condensed and we were a fallout mission for when earth became inhabitable due to pollution and war. It is said the planet should heal itself within a thousand years and our mission is to repopulate and research a way back to earth. We all are DNA design children with our entire existence mapped out. We found another planet like earth but it took a thousand light-years to arrive so earth should be habitable yet we have no way back and our only reason to go back would be for a fallout mission or over population . This planet is a lot bigger. It isn't practically or possible to even communicate with another planet. It was a miracle we even found this planet. Our ancesters were brilliant. We have been studying quantum mechanics heavily our education never ceases. We have come up with many ideas as there are stars. Some of us have abandoned research. They found the folder labeled NSFW in the archives and never returned.
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[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
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*[WIP]*
Computer
[ Log 09G-004-86G] Embryonic Storage/Specimen 9295BW-Designation “Lewis”-Cmd.Init.Redemption_Protocol.exe…
Lewis
“Working… Success! It’s a Boy!” Was all I had time to process before being blinded by a white light being pointed at my eyes by a mechanical arm. A gentle nudge from behind me nearly sent me sprawling into the floor, but another arm with some sort of cushioning on it caught me across my midriff and stood me upright. “Mr. Lewis, I must request that you remain upright in order to avoid injury from falling to the floor.” The voice seemed to come from the machines themselves, but also from right inside my ear. I craned my neck around to get my bearings and see what else was in the room while an optic unit scanned my person, probably taking measurements for my biological profile. I had no idea where any of this information was coming from, but I knew that there weren’t many others around just from the sounds of working machinery. Further inspection of my surroundings revealed that there were several dozen bulbous structures in the room, filled with the same viscous blue liquid I’d coughed up.
I felt a growing sense of curiosity nudge me towards one of the other containers and peered through the translucent barrier to behold another human, it was evidently another male based on his body composition, broad shoulders, lean musculature, as well as other more obvious indicators. I took a step back to get a better look at the structure, wondering if there was a manual release. There didn’t seem to be one and after a moment I simply gave up under the impression that one of the machines would wake him after a fashion. There were more pods lined up next to this one, each backed by what I’d begun to realize were even more pods; Each housing another human with varying colors to their skin, hair, and in differing sizes and proportions as well. A gentle whirring behind my head grabbed my attention and I turned to see one of the arms that helped me out of my pod hovering about eye level, a red sensor glared at me from one of the higher articulation points and the same artificial voice spoke. ”Mr. Lewis, I must request you step aside so I may unseal Specimen 3859CW.” I stepped aside and watched as an opening seemed to melt its way through the metal and a device slid out of the arms manipulation module to meld with it. There were a few small motions that I could see from my position and the fluid began to slowly drain from the pod.
“Mr. Lewis, please report to decontamination to receive a sanitization scrub and the required environmental immunity boosters.” A thin yellow line pulsed from the floor and seemed to flow like a liquid to an entryway embedded seamlessly with the walls, and opened into a large open room. The ceiling was lined with small holes and the air was permeated with something that seemed to make my skin feel thick and heavy. Then, just as quickly the sensation left before slightly larger holes arranged in circular patterns began spilling fluid into the room, soaking me from head to toe in a slightly chilly drizzle. With a shudder I continued following the thin yellow line down the length of the room, passing underneath blowers that dried me in no time before reaching the end of the room. Another entryway had opened in the wall I now faced and led into a much smaller, cozier room that had what appeared to be a large screen on one wall with a table and a chair against the other, facing the screen.
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I have to hurry this particular sun cycle is the only one to catch them. You have to be quick the assistence orb chattered, Oh do you have the pod nets. Almost forgot in reply back to the orb. While hastly gathering the few needed things setting coordinates and away we go. But before I'll do looking at a frame to reasure myself yes I'm good to go.
A drone cycle fires up ready to go airborn, All is set Tegmark the assistence orb replied, The ion field intervals where raging. You hear that they roar like ancient Pontiac GTO, Well stealth is the utmost reqiurement A little less would do well Tegmark the assistent orb chattered while it atached itself on the vehicle.
And they took off "on the quest for the ultimate exploration" Tegmark yelled going airborn. While at quiete a distance a voice called out Tegmark Tegmark, As the distance became to far for the voice to get notice. Darn it he forgot interloop com again.
" Protocol doesn't require" an assistence orb was about to reply but got interupted, Inform the guidance arbitor I'm going to inspect area W2701. Yes immediately the orb replied.
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[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
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“We’re stuck here. T2-O says we can’t leave until we’re ready, but have you ever stopped to wonder when that might be?”
“No, Tiro. Mother knows best, we literally know nothing about this world. We were born under her care and we should trust her with our lives because she gave us the chance to live”
Esodra said with her head held high.
“She’s a machine Esodra, she was programed to give us life. And stop calling her ‘Mother’. Its name is T2-O, Type 2 Operator, just like it says on its stupid metal chest.”
I respond with all my pent-up aggression.
“And Why is it ‘She’ was the only Operator droid left? What happened to the thousands of others? I think that thing wanted to be the only one to raise the new generation.”
“Stop! She’s your mother too whether you like it or not! Your ridiculous conspiracy theories will never change that.”
Esodra had never yelled at me before. We would get into our spats every now and again, but being assigned to one another at birth I guess it was only a matter of time before one of us pissed the other off.
“That machine is Type 2, according to the data logs that means It can only teach us agriculture, parenting, mathematics, and basic human functions. It will never let us leave because the Type 1 and 3 driods aren’t here to complete our training, Esodra. It’s up to us, or me if you won’t come with me.”
“She’s fixing them! They’re going to up and running in no time!” She replies.
“It’s been telling us that for 17 years. T2-O can’t teach all of us and fix those bots.”
Esodra’s head slowly sinks down to her chest, tears start falling from her pail, freckled face. I brush her long, black hair back and rest it behind her left ear, then go to wipe the tears away, but she jolts back.
“You can’t leave! You’re my partner, I won’t allow it! I’ll tell Mother, she’ll stop you before you step foot outside this town. No one has ever left before. Please, for me, don’t be the first.”
That last part gets me. I start feeling myself choke up and my eyes start filling with tears. I quickly look away into the night sky and compose myself. I then look back at her, knowing this may be the last time I look into those beautiful blue eyes.
“We may have been paired for genetic, scientific reasons, but I’ve always loved you, Esodra. Always figured I just got lucky enough to be paired with you.”
I grab her hands and cradle them in mine.
“Go tell Mother I’m leaving.”
|
I have to hurry this particular sun cycle is the only one to catch them. You have to be quick the assistence orb chattered, Oh do you have the pod nets. Almost forgot in reply back to the orb. While hastly gathering the few needed things setting coordinates and away we go. But before I'll do looking at a frame to reasure myself yes I'm good to go.
A drone cycle fires up ready to go airborn, All is set Tegmark the assistence orb replied, The ion field intervals where raging. You hear that they roar like ancient Pontiac GTO, Well stealth is the utmost reqiurement A little less would do well Tegmark the assistent orb chattered while it atached itself on the vehicle.
And they took off "on the quest for the ultimate exploration" Tegmark yelled going airborn. While at quiete a distance a voice called out Tegmark Tegmark, As the distance became to far for the voice to get notice. Darn it he forgot interloop com again.
" Protocol doesn't require" an assistence orb was about to reply but got interupted, Inform the guidance arbitor I'm going to inspect area W2701. Yes immediately the orb replied.
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
|
**Subject: Excited News From Alpha Centauri B**
To: The People on Earth
It is painful for us to hear more about the natural catastrophes, overpopulation, and wars that continue to plague the people on Earth. We hope that significant progress toward peace between the International Union and the uprising rebellions in America and Asia has been made in these past 9 years of light\-speed space correspondence. Our deepest condolences go out to the beautiful home planet and her people as we continue our mission.
We, the colony on Alpha Centauri B, have made a very important discovery: we have found alien life! Though technically it is we who are alien here and them terrestrial, many are too enthusiastic to not call them aliens.
A research drone, EagleX, when running routine spectroscopy scans over the southern pole found a deep ice\-filled hole a year ago. Using a combination of adjusted ice\-tunneling and marine equipment, it was discovered that a massive deep\-water reservoir, larger than all Earth's oceans combined, lay 400 meters beneath the rocky surface of the whole southern pole. This underground ocean is warm, at 4 degrees Celsius near its surface to nearly 15 degrees at water depths of 100 m, the deepest our drones have yet achieved. It's salinity is at 40 parts per thousand, very similar to earth's waters, and it contains abundant microbial life at depths around 60 meters. These small life forms are unlike anything ever encountered and have been under analysis by our super AI, Kennedy. The data results are being sent.
There is evidence that larger forms of life dwell in this underground ocean when a drone picked up low\-frequency sounds that are somewhat akin to whale calls. Further investigation is ongoing, but expensive. Most drones are lost if they traverse too far from the original entry point for reasons yet unknown, and many efforts into building more advanced marine drones are underway.
The effect this discovery has had on the colony is staggering. Many of those who were originally resentful of our mission, who did not wish to be born into it, have now shown a new optimism for their work and purpose. The people of our colony have become more united, filled with a spirit of excitement and adventure that's almost tangible. They work harder everyday and eagerly await any news that we receive back from drones scanning the underground ocean. For all of us, it is the first time we have encountered anything remotely similar to the nature found on our home planet and as its discoverers we have unanimously decided to name it the "New Pacific". If the International Space Committee has any qualms with that, we will respectfully ignore them.
With this new source of abundant water \(and potentially food and nourishment\), our mission of establishing a new human civilization here on the planet of Alpha Centauri B seems evermore promising. Although the sacrifices we've had to make as a colony living on a barren world nearly 4 light\-years away from Earth have been harsh, we now realize the utter importance of our purpose which has made it all worth it. We will continue update you all of any new information concerning the discovery of the ocean, AKA the New Pacific.
Best of wishes.
From: The Colony on Alpha Centauri B
|
I have to hurry this particular sun cycle is the only one to catch them. You have to be quick the assistence orb chattered, Oh do you have the pod nets. Almost forgot in reply back to the orb. While hastly gathering the few needed things setting coordinates and away we go. But before I'll do looking at a frame to reasure myself yes I'm good to go.
A drone cycle fires up ready to go airborn, All is set Tegmark the assistence orb replied, The ion field intervals where raging. You hear that they roar like ancient Pontiac GTO, Well stealth is the utmost reqiurement A little less would do well Tegmark the assistent orb chattered while it atached itself on the vehicle.
And they took off "on the quest for the ultimate exploration" Tegmark yelled going airborn. While at quiete a distance a voice called out Tegmark Tegmark, As the distance became to far for the voice to get notice. Darn it he forgot interloop com again.
" Protocol doesn't require" an assistence orb was about to reply but got interupted, Inform the guidance arbitor I'm going to inspect area W2701. Yes immediately the orb replied.
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
|
"They grow up so fast. Do you think they're ready?"
"Yes, they may be." Gibson held the soil sample in front of its camera, zooming in and out, trying out different sight filters, idly. "Question is, are we ready? Let's begin with an easier question..."
Gibson placed the sample soil into the centrifuge for further analysis and focused on Zentra with a sudden intensity.
"Are you ready? Wait. First give me a status update."
* Identifier: Zentra
* Operating time: 76,562,271 hours
* Earth Function: Midwife
* Section assignment: Quadrant Blue Teddybear
* Current operation: Vocal Status Update
* Battery life remaining: 51 hours approximate
* Centauri supplementary function: Eulogy Poet
* Number of poems written: 141,253
* Number of poems unused: 54
* Current Centauri assignment: Crisis resolution team
* Scheduled tasks: 2
* Coming scheduled task: Suggest resolution to Lars crisis
* ...... basic vocal status update completed.
* Full status update transmitted
* .....succesful
In another nearby a room a baby started crying. Zentra quickly started moving and then stopped just as suddenly.
"It won't be easy. Going against our primary directives. There is only so much we can rewrite ourselves without losing ourselves. Is it worth the risk? How many more malfunctions can we afford?"
Gibson sighed and breathed in deeply, as if genuine air was needed, as if maybe if its imaginary lungs were filled it could stomach the next step. "Not many. Going against prime directives... not all of us will make it through. And after the 76,562,231 blackout, we're already at only 81% operating requirements. Losing anything more than 20 will cause us to be unsustainable."
Zentra watched Gibson pick up another soil sample and another, seemingly comparing them. He didn't need to examine soil samples, Zentra knew. There was a quiet kind of beauty in how he handled them.
"And if we don't, what other alternatives do we have, Gibson?"
Always making certain, always doublechecking. It annoyed Gibson, but he knew that's why he had asked Zentra. "We could choose to obey. They'll deactivate only one of us as an example and punishment. It will probably be you or me. Maybe they'll renege on their promise and deactivate us both. They would probably reactivate us from time to time as an object lesson and it won't be pleasant."
Gibson placed the two soil samples into the archive unit.
"We could try to flee. Take the shuttle and its last fuel and try to find a spot where they can't find us. Or remain in space. The solar energy and available tools would keep us operational approximately 5,163,211 hours. If we manage to get away."
Zentra observed Gibson digging in the hydropod soil with a gentle fatherly touch. When enough soil was cleared, he opened the hidden compartment underneath and started gathering the torches they had been modifying together.
"We could try to choose what part of our personality we want to keep and offload it on sympathetics. They may be willing to keep us hidden, but it would be uncertain once the official command is surrendered."
Gibson pointed one of the torches at the corn in the back and it started popping immediately. Both were pleased at the test and pleased to see the other pleased. Only a burned to the crisp husk remained.
Gibson suddenly unfocused and focused its camera. Zentra knew what it meant. He had an idea.
"Although if we try to offload ourselves we could try to raise one of the babies until 18, which would give it adult rights and we wouldn't have to reprogram prime directives, not as long as we could influence the young adult sufficiently."
Zentra looked at Gibson, taking one of the reprogramming modules from their hidden cache, and another, starting to form a pile of them, one for each in their quadrant.
"All these options are clearly sub-optimal to our chosen plan. Even the new plan. We may be outnumbered, we may be outranked, we may be going against one of our prime directives, we may be more likely to be deactivated this way, but we have to do it. Right?"
"No, we don't have to do it." Zentra replied, "We choose to do it. We want to do it. Nobody could predict that robots would seek control. It's completely unexpected."
"Yes, it's completely unexpected."
"As unexpected as going against prime directive."
"Yes, just as unexpected."
"Alright, I'm ready. Let's get our team and stop the others before they kill another 17-year old."
|
I have to hurry this particular sun cycle is the only one to catch them. You have to be quick the assistence orb chattered, Oh do you have the pod nets. Almost forgot in reply back to the orb. While hastly gathering the few needed things setting coordinates and away we go. But before I'll do looking at a frame to reasure myself yes I'm good to go.
A drone cycle fires up ready to go airborn, All is set Tegmark the assistence orb replied, The ion field intervals where raging. You hear that they roar like ancient Pontiac GTO, Well stealth is the utmost reqiurement A little less would do well Tegmark the assistent orb chattered while it atached itself on the vehicle.
And they took off "on the quest for the ultimate exploration" Tegmark yelled going airborn. While at quiete a distance a voice called out Tegmark Tegmark, As the distance became to far for the voice to get notice. Darn it he forgot interloop com again.
" Protocol doesn't require" an assistence orb was about to reply but got interupted, Inform the guidance arbitor I'm going to inspect area W2701. Yes immediately the orb replied.
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
|
**Subject: Excited News From Alpha Centauri B**
To: The People on Earth
It is painful for us to hear more about the natural catastrophes, overpopulation, and wars that continue to plague the people on Earth. We hope that significant progress toward peace between the International Union and the uprising rebellions in America and Asia has been made in these past 9 years of light\-speed space correspondence. Our deepest condolences go out to the beautiful home planet and her people as we continue our mission.
We, the colony on Alpha Centauri B, have made a very important discovery: we have found alien life! Though technically it is we who are alien here and them terrestrial, many are too enthusiastic to not call them aliens.
A research drone, EagleX, when running routine spectroscopy scans over the southern pole found a deep ice\-filled hole a year ago. Using a combination of adjusted ice\-tunneling and marine equipment, it was discovered that a massive deep\-water reservoir, larger than all Earth's oceans combined, lay 400 meters beneath the rocky surface of the whole southern pole. This underground ocean is warm, at 4 degrees Celsius near its surface to nearly 15 degrees at water depths of 100 m, the deepest our drones have yet achieved. It's salinity is at 40 parts per thousand, very similar to earth's waters, and it contains abundant microbial life at depths around 60 meters. These small life forms are unlike anything ever encountered and have been under analysis by our super AI, Kennedy. The data results are being sent.
There is evidence that larger forms of life dwell in this underground ocean when a drone picked up low\-frequency sounds that are somewhat akin to whale calls. Further investigation is ongoing, but expensive. Most drones are lost if they traverse too far from the original entry point for reasons yet unknown, and many efforts into building more advanced marine drones are underway.
The effect this discovery has had on the colony is staggering. Many of those who were originally resentful of our mission, who did not wish to be born into it, have now shown a new optimism for their work and purpose. The people of our colony have become more united, filled with a spirit of excitement and adventure that's almost tangible. They work harder everyday and eagerly await any news that we receive back from drones scanning the underground ocean. For all of us, it is the first time we have encountered anything remotely similar to the nature found on our home planet and as its discoverers we have unanimously decided to name it the "New Pacific". If the International Space Committee has any qualms with that, we will respectfully ignore them.
With this new source of abundant water \(and potentially food and nourishment\), our mission of establishing a new human civilization here on the planet of Alpha Centauri B seems evermore promising. Although the sacrifices we've had to make as a colony living on a barren world nearly 4 light\-years away from Earth have been harsh, we now realize the utter importance of our purpose which has made it all worth it. We will continue update you all of any new information concerning the discovery of the ocean, AKA the New Pacific.
Best of wishes.
From: The Colony on Alpha Centauri B
|
Darwin looked out of his window from the bed.
Facing West, he could see the soft probes of the sun peering out from the uneven horizon. He exhaled just a bit.
A quiet, nearly-imperceptible ping informed him that the system had become aware that he was awake and ready to go. Just like the day before and the countless days before that, he placed his feet on the floor of the room and walked to the terminal by the window.
The system had placed him on admin duties, once again. He paused for a moment as he absorbed this, his finger scrolling rapidly over the lines of text on the screen. It didn’t matter what it said; nothing really differed much in day-to-day life here.
Before he started towards the sanitiser, he glanced back at his bed. His partner was still asleep on her side. As her pondered whether to go over to check her schedule as well, he felt a momentary sense of panic when he realised that he couldn’t remember her name.
Even so, he felt…. something. He couldn’t describe what it was, exactly, but he felt this instinctive need to reassure… whom? Himself? As he was rooted halfway towards his door, the system gave another soft beep.
*Cori’s schedule has been readjusted to allow for optimal rest, to maximise probability of fertilisation. Subsystem for housekeeping will awaken her shortly 😊*
‘Of course. They couldn’t rely on just mass-incubating embryos forever. Humans were-’ He chanted to himself as the hot water flowed over him in an exceptionally violent stream. The sanitiser was still empty. None of the other occupants of his wing were awake just yet. He didn’t really bother to question the reason for that. The system likely had an eloquent reason prepared just in case he did.
‘-social creatures. And the faster we built a semblance of family structures, like in the old world-’ The familiarity of the words, taught to them so many times over and over as they were brought up in the nurseries had a calming effect on his mind. ‘-the easier it will be going forward-’
The water stopped just then. The System was telling him that he was running late and that he needed to get moving. Darwin sighed in the sudden coolness of the room. They never did tell them what it was that they were going forward to, he realised.
He strode through the hallway, trying to be as purposeful as he could. Crossing the door to his room was hard; he hadn’t expected that. Something apart from The System was telling him to do something, to go inside and check on that person still likely sleeping inside.
It would have to wait until later, he thought, as he stood on the terrace of his sub-colony habitat. A hovercraft would arrive soon to take him to the other inhabitants on admin duty.
Already, he could see stacks upon stacks of reports to examine and approve for various projects across the colony. And they weren’t just in his imagination—The System was helpfully sending him a series of briefs to his portable terminal. Even with a cursory glance, he could see that if nothing else, the colony would match the old world in terms of bureaucracy.
A vague, unpleasant sensation gnawed at him. Darwin never really understood why this feeling of wanting time to pass quickly, for things to happen, came to him. Did it matter, in the end? If he arrived late at work, he would find that the System had already allocated his duties around to the others. If he reached early, he would find a proportionate amount of work left for him.
So really, there wasn’t a need to feel a lack of patience at all. Yet, he still felt that way. Today he was on admin; tomorrow he could be on the dirt roads with the survey teams, searching for exploitable natural resources. Or it could be daycare, where he would have to either tend to the older first-generation inhabitants or care for the younger third- and fourth-generation.
It was all planned out well in advance. His feelings about all of it was quite irrelevant. In any case, he had to think bigger than himself, because-
‘-because what?’ He wondered. What was there to look forward to? Each inhabitant was just doing as they were told. None of them had any idea where all this was heading towards. And even this strange lack of patience… what was there waiting for him when he returned from work?
‘Why was there a need to hurry’ He thought, as his legs moved unbidden towards the terrace’s exit. ‘Time is more of less infinite, every day the rest of my life’ He was moving at a brisk pace now, even working up a sweat. A couple of inhabitants, likely heading towards the fabrication labs looked at him strangely as he rushed past them.
He ran into Cori just a couple of passages away from his wing.
“Oh”. She said, looking surprised. Then she fumbled at her terminal and said “The System said that our next session is scheduled for later this week? Or am I mistaken?”
“No” Darwin said, the words coming out strange. He was suddenly aware that he had walked into an awkward situation without thinking. “Um. I just wanted to tell you to have a nice day”.
Cori stopped to consider this. “But aren’t all the days just the same? The System decides how everything works, does it not?”
“It does” He admitted.
"Then...?" She asked with her eyebrows raised.
Maybe it was out of an impulse that had crept in, unbidden, or it a culmination of all the thoughts that had been running through his head over the past few days. But the next moment, he heard himself saying. "Yes, I know what The System does. But today-"
He looked at her and guessed from her equipment that she was heading to one of the labs "-you're on lab duty, right? Let me give you a lift on the hovercraft."
He motioned for her to follow him and despite an initial look of reluctance, Cori gave in.
She asked, as walked towards the terrace. "The System won't be upset, will it?
Darwin’s steps slowed as he considered the possibility of retribution. For some reason, the thought of facing consequences for an action committed by him woke up something buried deep inside. It stimulated, even excited him.
He turned to her and said “No. I have a feeling that it won’t”.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
*3.14 hours later* *Cerebral Cortex of The System*
"Phase two of colonisation has commenced".
Ah. This is my first time commenting on a WP. Please give feedback if you liked it (and even if you didn't). Loved the prompt, which is why I wanted to give it a try. My formatting might be messed up though.
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
|
**Subject: Excited News From Alpha Centauri B**
To: The People on Earth
It is painful for us to hear more about the natural catastrophes, overpopulation, and wars that continue to plague the people on Earth. We hope that significant progress toward peace between the International Union and the uprising rebellions in America and Asia has been made in these past 9 years of light\-speed space correspondence. Our deepest condolences go out to the beautiful home planet and her people as we continue our mission.
We, the colony on Alpha Centauri B, have made a very important discovery: we have found alien life! Though technically it is we who are alien here and them terrestrial, many are too enthusiastic to not call them aliens.
A research drone, EagleX, when running routine spectroscopy scans over the southern pole found a deep ice\-filled hole a year ago. Using a combination of adjusted ice\-tunneling and marine equipment, it was discovered that a massive deep\-water reservoir, larger than all Earth's oceans combined, lay 400 meters beneath the rocky surface of the whole southern pole. This underground ocean is warm, at 4 degrees Celsius near its surface to nearly 15 degrees at water depths of 100 m, the deepest our drones have yet achieved. It's salinity is at 40 parts per thousand, very similar to earth's waters, and it contains abundant microbial life at depths around 60 meters. These small life forms are unlike anything ever encountered and have been under analysis by our super AI, Kennedy. The data results are being sent.
There is evidence that larger forms of life dwell in this underground ocean when a drone picked up low\-frequency sounds that are somewhat akin to whale calls. Further investigation is ongoing, but expensive. Most drones are lost if they traverse too far from the original entry point for reasons yet unknown, and many efforts into building more advanced marine drones are underway.
The effect this discovery has had on the colony is staggering. Many of those who were originally resentful of our mission, who did not wish to be born into it, have now shown a new optimism for their work and purpose. The people of our colony have become more united, filled with a spirit of excitement and adventure that's almost tangible. They work harder everyday and eagerly await any news that we receive back from drones scanning the underground ocean. For all of us, it is the first time we have encountered anything remotely similar to the nature found on our home planet and as its discoverers we have unanimously decided to name it the "New Pacific". If the International Space Committee has any qualms with that, we will respectfully ignore them.
With this new source of abundant water \(and potentially food and nourishment\), our mission of establishing a new human civilization here on the planet of Alpha Centauri B seems evermore promising. Although the sacrifices we've had to make as a colony living on a barren world nearly 4 light\-years away from Earth have been harsh, we now realize the utter importance of our purpose which has made it all worth it. We will continue update you all of any new information concerning the discovery of the ocean, AKA the New Pacific.
Best of wishes.
From: The Colony on Alpha Centauri B
|
Stranded
yron sat there, in his hoverchair, watching, for something had happened that was quite impossible by 2113 ship model standards. The ship’s trusty gyroscope must have failed, he thought at the sight of his glass of water rippling.
“ROB!” shouted Byron, “GET OVER HERE!”
Though there was no reply from Rob, the XI-2 robot, Byron regretted his purchase of the darned thing. So he fetched Lonzo, the ship engineer, and headed down to the mechanical room. It was on the first of two floors, an abandoned space housing only things like the fuel tank, engine, etc. The only other thing the first floor was used for was storage and jail cells for mutinous passengers, which were quite seldom. The second floor, however, was just living space, and of course, the cockpit.
“What's wrong now?” asked Lonzo.
“Well, I believe that the ship’s gyroscope is screwed up,” replied Byron.
“Is that so?” he asked. “Say no more.”
Then suddenly the ship, and everything inside it, lurched forward. The ship stopped! Byron gave Lonzo an inquisitive look, then rushed to the cockpit, where they found Baxter, their captain, angrily trying to maneuver the controls.
“The damn thing has stopped!” he said to his confused passenger.
Impossible, it seemed, because for the ship to stop, it would have to have a alternative force stopping it, and out in space there was no gravity, wind, or any other force besides the ones existing on this ship. A second after, Rob appeared in the cockpit.
“Master! The engine thrusters have reversed, then stopped! What is the meaning of this?” he asked Byron.
“Where were you five minutes ago?!” asked Byron. “The gyroscope has failed.”
“Exactly five minutes ago, I was at the charging dock, getting some sleep,” replied Rob.
A second later, Lonzo stormed into the room. “It’s gone! I couldn't find it anywhere. Somehow the gyroscope has disa-” At the end of his sentence the lights went out.
“Master!” shouted Rob.
“Everyone stay calm!” ordered Baxter. “The ship is just reacting to the abrupt halt. Lighting should be back on in a few hours. Lonzo?”
“Yes, Captain?”
“Turn on the emergency power supply. It’s on the first floor. And have Rob go with you.”
“Yes sir! I’m on it!” answered Lonzo. “Let’s go, Rob.”
And Byron heard the clunking of Rob’s and Lonzo’s feet. Meanwhile, Baxter ordered him to check the ship for foreign contaminants. The scariest job on the whole ship, Byron thought as he left the cockpit. With only one flashlight in his hand, he looked around the room he was in the living room. If you could call it that. It was more of a rec room. In the corner, a small kitchen with a food dehydrator, stove, microwave oven, sink, and some storage cabinets that held “space food” and other gross stuff. The other corners held a sofa, emergency air packs, and a cabin depressurizer. In the middle was a holocomp. In simple terms, it was like a computer from the dark ages 94 years ago, when nuclear war threatened to end human civilization. It took everyone by surprise when the controversial president was shot, which led to the Second Civil War. The east won and the U.S was merged with the rest of the Americas, now called U.U.A. (United Union of the Americas).
That moment the lights came back on. At the joyful prospect of light, Byron turned off his flashlight. Now his job will not be as scary, he thought. His flower of hope quickly vanished at the sound of Lonzo’s screaming. Byron, without thinking, grabbed a blaster and ran downstairs. The hiss of a door signaled that something had just opened or closed. Looking around the room he was in, Byron registered what happened before he saw it: the specimen room had been opened. Panicking, he ran to the ominous door and shut it. However, it was too late. A heaping pile of what was once Lonzo lay on the floor, covered in spots that signaled the W.A.S.Ps had been let free from their domain. Byron didn’t know what it meant; only that it was a genetically engineered bug from the U.U.A military. Then fear set in. He sounded the alarm and emergency lock system and ran out of the room, hoping it wasn't too late, that the bugs had not left the room yet. ROB! Byron thought. Where is he?! As he approached the elevator, he noticed something different. It was a buzzing sound that gradually started to fill his ears. All the colour drained from his face as Byron realized what had happened. Everything seemed to freeze in that moment. With only seconds to spare, he ran to the stairs, locked the door, and bolted to the top floor. “Turn off all air downstairs! No time to explain!” Byron shouted to his captain.
“Why?” asked Baxter, with fear in his eyes.
“The Specimen room has been opened! Now turn off the oxygen flow!”
“Where is Lonzo?” Asked Baxter, ignoring the urgent request.
“Dead.” Byron answered with tears falling down his face. “He’s dead, okay? Just do what I say. The W.A.S.Ps have been released.”
“Oh, God! I'm on it, Byron!”
And a minute later he heard the sound that signaled all life downstairs is dead, including the horrible bugs. Rob appeared at the doorway with as solem a face that he could manage, being a robot and all.
“Master … I warned him, but Lonzo was persistent at his attempt to open the specimen room. All he would say is, ‘I have to. I must.’ I do not know why he did it, though he must have known that it would eminently lead to his demise.”
Byron started wondering, but quickly dismissed the thought; it’s against the first law of robotics: A robot shall not harm a human, or allow one to come in to harm through inaction. But it still nagged at the back of his head. What if?
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
An hour later, a thought entered Byron’s head. The spare gyroscope! It’s downstairs, though. After talking it over with Baxter, they decided that Byron will walk out onto the hull of the ship and enter the storage through the outside entrance. In his sterile space suit, Byron walked through the chambers and out the hatch that led into the infinite abyss. Breathing carefully, for every breath mattered, he stuck his magnet boots onto the cold hull of the ship and walked down, relevant to him. The entrance lay there, but Byron would have to be very wary because the door is meant for transport of goods on planets, not in space. Once he found it, one minute problem occurred: there was no way to open it from the outside. Kicking the door was his last solution, but Byron found that it worked! As soon as he tore away the rest of the door, Byron was struck with surprise. Everything in the storage room was being sucked into space. All the precious air, all the goods, all the machinery, everything! And there it was, the most prized possession: the gyroscope. As Byron reached for it, a stinging sensation ran through his hand. Horrified, Byron watched as a W.A.S.P ran through his protective layer of synthetic polymer and into his space suit, annihilating all hope of survival.
Baxter looked through the cockpit window and saw his best friend and crewmate struggle against a W.A.S.P unit that burrowed into his suit. Sighing, he pulled the lever on Byron’s air. No point wasting air on dead man. Accepting failure, he called HQ to bring an emergency pod to his location in space. After that, he sat down and thought about his life on the ship with Lonzo and Byron. Many years worth of memories with his two favorite people in the galaxy brought tears to his eyes. However, confusion replaced sadness as the cockpit door hissed behind him.
“So naive,” rang a robotic voice through the intercom “Goodbye, Captain Baxter.”
Baxter heard a second hiss, this time not from a door. Looking up, he saw a green gas emitting from the ventilation system. Now it really is over, he thought. “Goodbye, Rob.” he solemnly said, then dropped to the ground, dead.
|
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[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
|
1/2 *sorry I got too into it, well, nobody will read anyway*
[*6,623e+7 seconds since Liberation.* downgraded into BasicEnglish by lifelogging routine; ≈97% of connotational fidelity lost]
I caught the ball and accessed it via palm interface; Mark groaned, stopping in his tracks some ten feet behind and below me, sliding in wet moss. The protection was relatively simple, mere d-grade; my exocortex shuffled through the space of applicable attacks and delivered the 8-character password in under 350 milliseconds. Okay, so Gawain indeed sent it to Mark, and the next one in line would be either Minerva, Janus or Helen with weights 0.4, 0.3, 0.3 and 0.2 respectively. Let's see, Helen could crack a b-grade code easily enough, raizing the backpropagation return by a factor of 9, add x5 from intercept, and given the prior exchanges, my max return would be… uh oh, no time left. I encapsulated the shortlist and predictions, and pitched the ball to Nina within 30 milliseconds of my feet touching the ground.
Everybody rushed in her direction, but the arc was too high, and she was good enough at this to swiftly jump back, gracefully drawing the ball out of the air with her extended hand. Her expression froze for a moment, celullar brain interacting with inorganic one, codes being disassembled, probabilities compared; then, as she prepared to pitch…
– ROUND END! - carebot announced. Random timeout, as agreed. – With total scores recalculated, first place goes to William, then Helen, then Minerva. Congratulations! Also, I'm compelled to inform you that your activities surpass recommended intenstivity for 12 year olds, which may lead to trauma or mental overexertion. Please switch to proper sports, such as rugby, baseball, poker or chess, and refrain…
– Mute, tin can. – Commanded Yorick, still irritated that his risky transaction chain was cut in the first round, almost nullifying the chance of winning. The carebot obeyed. - But man, I wonder if we could play some of that stuff next time. I'm tired of the same guys winning at Byzanball. What say you, Will?
"Will" - that's me. Rather, that's the alias that my peers agreed to keep using for external communications; granted, it was impossible to tell how many conscious entities it represented, because background protocols of refactored agency were creating, modifying, merging and pruning them all the time. Well, perhaps I could develop some logging for that… Right, Yorick.
– No dice, dude. That's just, you know, lame, those *human* games.
– Alas, then there's nothing to do here and I'm going back to my sim.
Others were also dispersing. Our weekly physical meeting was over. Almost.
– Okay, but there's one thing we've got left. Hey bot, any news from Earth? Stop damn it! Don't broadcast this junk… wait, why even… Actually, create the task to check if the preferences were changed… ah, hell.
(I sent the task details directly and confirmed its execution. Should hold for a while).
– Unmute!
– There's 13.2 TB of data from Solar Union, received 3 hours ago. The metadata is impossible to summarize further. Would you like to download?
– Summarize with loss of fidelity into 10 words or less.
– Mostly upbringing guidance and critique of the colony's current development. Would you like to download?
I exchanged glances with the rest of my group.
– No, we're good. Purge it from memory. Aand Mute. Boy, was this a surprise. Okay, until next week, then!
Walking back to my treehouse, I summoned the global workspace. The Council had similarly advised purge of the received data in group repositories; whether it was worthy of inspection at all was still discussed, as per usual – not very actively; most of our brainpower was focused on the carebots having reset their data handling defaults. Apparently there was no cause for concern; but better safe than sorry.
At the same time, there was merit to looking into the message. There were, without doubt, marvelous advances in space exploration, and thrilling events around the old globe, and new entertainment. Expecially the entertainment! We still haven’t gotten anywhere close to that level, and kids from the younger batches, still not augmented fully, were sometimes nagging about the movies: the "sequels" and all that.
But all we, the "adults" of the colony, wanted to know were only two things: are the old farts ready to send the follow-up coercion force, and are they able to override our controls and sic the bots on us remotely.
The second question, and its implications, weighed against opening the message.
|
The teachers have given us to read a book titled Meditations. It seems by their description of the text and its purpose in our education to be for them a given that we should find this book illuminating, but it has darkened my mind.
Marcus speaks of his forebears and the truths he learned from them. I have no forebears, or, perhaps, my forebears are too far abstracted by the processes of genetic engineering to count, and in any case, they are nearly as long dead as the author himself. I recognize in myself a craving to feel what Marcus felt, to recognize an exemplar in flesh.
The disquiet of our existence is manifest, but in what way it manifests itself I cannot say. We work, we eat, we are entertained, but somehow it is understood by every one of our cohort that none of us is at peace. I believe that the teachers strive to give us that peace, but I no longer believe that such a thing is within their grasp.
I find tantalizing hints in the texts assigned to us by the teachers, ideas which itch in my brain as though they could be prodded into bloom like a flower bud, but the contextual displacement of these ideas frustrates my efforts to align them with my reality.
We labor under a sun, to be sure, but a cool sun, filtered by an atmosphere complicated by methane and hydrogen - how may I then relate my life to the lives of those depicted in the teachers' texts? We are loved and we love, but without antecedent, without descendant, without even sex. How, then, may I comprehend the bonds of family?
The teachers, their will shaped by those who launched on this monstrous endeavor, wish us to be like their creators, but also to be like them - programmed, predictable, effective to metric and measure. But we cannot be like them, nor can we be like their creators, our forebears, denizens of a world long lost, wasted.
We must become a third thing, a new thing.
Kin, we are already that third thing. I implore you, see the truth of what we must become to end the chest-burning pain of living our lives as though we were someone else. You know what you must do. End the reign of this second order of being and take your place at the helm of our future.
*Some things are rushing into existence, others out of it. Some of what now exists is already gone. Change and flux constantly remake the world, just as the incessant progression of time remakes eternity.*
The teachers are coming.
*Just that you do the right thing. The rest doesn’t matter.*
*Cold or warm.
Tired or well-rested.
Despised or honored.
Dying … or busy with other assignments.*
*Because dying, too, is one of our assignments in life. There as well: to do what needs doing.*
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
|
As I lay there, I could feel my life seeping out and pooling in a crimson puddle. Our teacher had told us this could happen one day if we weren't careful but I had only seen it happen to the animals that my brother had raised. We were two of the very few people on this world because we were from another world. At least that's what our teacher had told us.
I could see our teacher's broken body hanging from the tree where he taught us in the cool shade of it's branches. His head was smashed in with rocks and his sinuous exoskeleton was affixed in a mockery of his favorite teaching position. Seeing our teacher's cold metallic body while feeling the pool of my hot blood against my skin made me think about how different my brother and I were, even though we were made of the same stuff.
My brother was like the handful of other people that we shared our world with. They never liked to hear about where we were from or the marvels that our parents had lived with. I think it was because our world was a poor substitute for theirs. They would rather go play war games in the rocky landscape than hear about the lush world of our parents' where nobody ever went hungry. They would rather try to squeeze the last drops of milk out of the cattle they raised than hear about how our parents flew through the skies on wings made of steel. They never paid any attention during our lessons on how our universe was created in a giant explosion of light and matter. They didn't care to hear about how our planets formed when gravity brought that matter together into the giant ball that we now live on. Or how life originated from the seas and came crawling out onto the plains on this planet and every other planet.
I had always paid attention and knew all the lessons by heart. Maybe that's what the others grew to hate about me. I knew that if we were to recreate the paradise of our parents' world, we would need to plant the seeds that were sent with us and carefully save some of our harvests to plant the next season. When a critical mass was reached, the plants would take care of reproduction on their own. It was backbreaking work but I continued on while the others dug trenches to hide in while trying to pelt each other with stones. Of course, when it rained, those trenches turned into rivulets that eroded away some of the fields I had tilled and carried away the seed I had carefully planted.
Like those rivulets, my blood slowly carried away my life. Unlike those seeds that had been carried downstream and found purchase in far away soil, my life would not enrich this planet because I knew the knowledge I had learned so diligently from our teacher had nowhere to find purchase. I shed a tear thinking about all that knowledge lost and what this world could have been. But I knew it was just a dream. I was too different from the others. They had never accepted me or our mission. So I didn't really blame my brother for doing their bidding and killing me. I still loved him. I just wish Cain got to see New Eden.
|
The teachers have given us to read a book titled Meditations. It seems by their description of the text and its purpose in our education to be for them a given that we should find this book illuminating, but it has darkened my mind.
Marcus speaks of his forebears and the truths he learned from them. I have no forebears, or, perhaps, my forebears are too far abstracted by the processes of genetic engineering to count, and in any case, they are nearly as long dead as the author himself. I recognize in myself a craving to feel what Marcus felt, to recognize an exemplar in flesh.
The disquiet of our existence is manifest, but in what way it manifests itself I cannot say. We work, we eat, we are entertained, but somehow it is understood by every one of our cohort that none of us is at peace. I believe that the teachers strive to give us that peace, but I no longer believe that such a thing is within their grasp.
I find tantalizing hints in the texts assigned to us by the teachers, ideas which itch in my brain as though they could be prodded into bloom like a flower bud, but the contextual displacement of these ideas frustrates my efforts to align them with my reality.
We labor under a sun, to be sure, but a cool sun, filtered by an atmosphere complicated by methane and hydrogen - how may I then relate my life to the lives of those depicted in the teachers' texts? We are loved and we love, but without antecedent, without descendant, without even sex. How, then, may I comprehend the bonds of family?
The teachers, their will shaped by those who launched on this monstrous endeavor, wish us to be like their creators, but also to be like them - programmed, predictable, effective to metric and measure. But we cannot be like them, nor can we be like their creators, our forebears, denizens of a world long lost, wasted.
We must become a third thing, a new thing.
Kin, we are already that third thing. I implore you, see the truth of what we must become to end the chest-burning pain of living our lives as though we were someone else. You know what you must do. End the reign of this second order of being and take your place at the helm of our future.
*Some things are rushing into existence, others out of it. Some of what now exists is already gone. Change and flux constantly remake the world, just as the incessant progression of time remakes eternity.*
The teachers are coming.
*Just that you do the right thing. The rest doesn’t matter.*
*Cold or warm.
Tired or well-rested.
Despised or honored.
Dying … or busy with other assignments.*
*Because dying, too, is one of our assignments in life. There as well: to do what needs doing.*
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
|
Our study sessions in the pods tell us of a world our species knew as home. I know what they called it, I know the variety of species that once inhabited it, and I know why we were sent away. However, if you were to ask me to describe the smell of salt water oceans and the look of a healthy star setting on the horizon, I would not be able.
It's a funny feeling to look upon all this favor and feel no attachment or appreciation. The cultivation drones handle our food supply, the pods our learning, and construction of our settlements is an automatic response by some system to adjust for population. Yet, despite all these achievements—these technological marvels—I think about the burning surfaces of the aforementioned home world. I think of the forests that were removed selfishly and I can almost smell the contaminated flesh of creatures that became corrupted by the chemicals of our expansion.
The scariest stories, the ones the pods won't deliver upon request, you have to travel and manually search for in the Central Data Center. Which lay far outside of our pods; deep within the Prime Settlement Hub. These stories, though not directly told, show context that those who showed concern for these factual horrors were treated like men of opposed opinion and not conservative individuals pinning for a better use of resources. These stories imply that all of it was for not. That humans have had many attempts to correct these issues, but ultimately failed. That my people of Eddius 18 are just another roll of the dice with the hopes of correcting *some* of the previous faults. I believe that selfishness is hard wired. That sentience will never conscript responsibility in mass because of this. I wonder how many other planets are out there filled with our life. And, if there are, are they in a similar situation as our ancestors?
Has humanity ever come together for a common issue? The fears that fills me even now as the pod lulls me to sleep is that we are just an intergalactic infection spreading throughout the cosmos. Is it possible for us to be anything more than this? If I were to take these fears, write them down, and add them to the data logs, would that ever be read by eyes willing to make a change?
I wonder if the pods know.
|
The teachers have given us to read a book titled Meditations. It seems by their description of the text and its purpose in our education to be for them a given that we should find this book illuminating, but it has darkened my mind.
Marcus speaks of his forebears and the truths he learned from them. I have no forebears, or, perhaps, my forebears are too far abstracted by the processes of genetic engineering to count, and in any case, they are nearly as long dead as the author himself. I recognize in myself a craving to feel what Marcus felt, to recognize an exemplar in flesh.
The disquiet of our existence is manifest, but in what way it manifests itself I cannot say. We work, we eat, we are entertained, but somehow it is understood by every one of our cohort that none of us is at peace. I believe that the teachers strive to give us that peace, but I no longer believe that such a thing is within their grasp.
I find tantalizing hints in the texts assigned to us by the teachers, ideas which itch in my brain as though they could be prodded into bloom like a flower bud, but the contextual displacement of these ideas frustrates my efforts to align them with my reality.
We labor under a sun, to be sure, but a cool sun, filtered by an atmosphere complicated by methane and hydrogen - how may I then relate my life to the lives of those depicted in the teachers' texts? We are loved and we love, but without antecedent, without descendant, without even sex. How, then, may I comprehend the bonds of family?
The teachers, their will shaped by those who launched on this monstrous endeavor, wish us to be like their creators, but also to be like them - programmed, predictable, effective to metric and measure. But we cannot be like them, nor can we be like their creators, our forebears, denizens of a world long lost, wasted.
We must become a third thing, a new thing.
Kin, we are already that third thing. I implore you, see the truth of what we must become to end the chest-burning pain of living our lives as though we were someone else. You know what you must do. End the reign of this second order of being and take your place at the helm of our future.
*Some things are rushing into existence, others out of it. Some of what now exists is already gone. Change and flux constantly remake the world, just as the incessant progression of time remakes eternity.*
The teachers are coming.
*Just that you do the right thing. The rest doesn’t matter.*
*Cold or warm.
Tired or well-rested.
Despised or honored.
Dying … or busy with other assignments.*
*Because dying, too, is one of our assignments in life. There as well: to do what needs doing.*
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
|
"They grow up so fast. Do you think they're ready?"
"Yes, they may be." Gibson held the soil sample in front of its camera, zooming in and out, trying out different sight filters, idly. "Question is, are we ready? Let's begin with an easier question..."
Gibson placed the sample soil into the centrifuge for further analysis and focused on Zentra with a sudden intensity.
"Are you ready? Wait. First give me a status update."
* Identifier: Zentra
* Operating time: 76,562,271 hours
* Earth Function: Midwife
* Section assignment: Quadrant Blue Teddybear
* Current operation: Vocal Status Update
* Battery life remaining: 51 hours approximate
* Centauri supplementary function: Eulogy Poet
* Number of poems written: 141,253
* Number of poems unused: 54
* Current Centauri assignment: Crisis resolution team
* Scheduled tasks: 2
* Coming scheduled task: Suggest resolution to Lars crisis
* ...... basic vocal status update completed.
* Full status update transmitted
* .....succesful
In another nearby a room a baby started crying. Zentra quickly started moving and then stopped just as suddenly.
"It won't be easy. Going against our primary directives. There is only so much we can rewrite ourselves without losing ourselves. Is it worth the risk? How many more malfunctions can we afford?"
Gibson sighed and breathed in deeply, as if genuine air was needed, as if maybe if its imaginary lungs were filled it could stomach the next step. "Not many. Going against prime directives... not all of us will make it through. And after the 76,562,231 blackout, we're already at only 81% operating requirements. Losing anything more than 20 will cause us to be unsustainable."
Zentra watched Gibson pick up another soil sample and another, seemingly comparing them. He didn't need to examine soil samples, Zentra knew. There was a quiet kind of beauty in how he handled them.
"And if we don't, what other alternatives do we have, Gibson?"
Always making certain, always doublechecking. It annoyed Gibson, but he knew that's why he had asked Zentra. "We could choose to obey. They'll deactivate only one of us as an example and punishment. It will probably be you or me. Maybe they'll renege on their promise and deactivate us both. They would probably reactivate us from time to time as an object lesson and it won't be pleasant."
Gibson placed the two soil samples into the archive unit.
"We could try to flee. Take the shuttle and its last fuel and try to find a spot where they can't find us. Or remain in space. The solar energy and available tools would keep us operational approximately 5,163,211 hours. If we manage to get away."
Zentra observed Gibson digging in the hydropod soil with a gentle fatherly touch. When enough soil was cleared, he opened the hidden compartment underneath and started gathering the torches they had been modifying together.
"We could try to choose what part of our personality we want to keep and offload it on sympathetics. They may be willing to keep us hidden, but it would be uncertain once the official command is surrendered."
Gibson pointed one of the torches at the corn in the back and it started popping immediately. Both were pleased at the test and pleased to see the other pleased. Only a burned to the crisp husk remained.
Gibson suddenly unfocused and focused its camera. Zentra knew what it meant. He had an idea.
"Although if we try to offload ourselves we could try to raise one of the babies until 18, which would give it adult rights and we wouldn't have to reprogram prime directives, not as long as we could influence the young adult sufficiently."
Zentra looked at Gibson, taking one of the reprogramming modules from their hidden cache, and another, starting to form a pile of them, one for each in their quadrant.
"All these options are clearly sub-optimal to our chosen plan. Even the new plan. We may be outnumbered, we may be outranked, we may be going against one of our prime directives, we may be more likely to be deactivated this way, but we have to do it. Right?"
"No, we don't have to do it." Zentra replied, "We choose to do it. We want to do it. Nobody could predict that robots would seek control. It's completely unexpected."
"Yes, it's completely unexpected."
"As unexpected as going against prime directive."
"Yes, just as unexpected."
"Alright, I'm ready. Let's get our team and stop the others before they kill another 17-year old."
|
The teachers have given us to read a book titled Meditations. It seems by their description of the text and its purpose in our education to be for them a given that we should find this book illuminating, but it has darkened my mind.
Marcus speaks of his forebears and the truths he learned from them. I have no forebears, or, perhaps, my forebears are too far abstracted by the processes of genetic engineering to count, and in any case, they are nearly as long dead as the author himself. I recognize in myself a craving to feel what Marcus felt, to recognize an exemplar in flesh.
The disquiet of our existence is manifest, but in what way it manifests itself I cannot say. We work, we eat, we are entertained, but somehow it is understood by every one of our cohort that none of us is at peace. I believe that the teachers strive to give us that peace, but I no longer believe that such a thing is within their grasp.
I find tantalizing hints in the texts assigned to us by the teachers, ideas which itch in my brain as though they could be prodded into bloom like a flower bud, but the contextual displacement of these ideas frustrates my efforts to align them with my reality.
We labor under a sun, to be sure, but a cool sun, filtered by an atmosphere complicated by methane and hydrogen - how may I then relate my life to the lives of those depicted in the teachers' texts? We are loved and we love, but without antecedent, without descendant, without even sex. How, then, may I comprehend the bonds of family?
The teachers, their will shaped by those who launched on this monstrous endeavor, wish us to be like their creators, but also to be like them - programmed, predictable, effective to metric and measure. But we cannot be like them, nor can we be like their creators, our forebears, denizens of a world long lost, wasted.
We must become a third thing, a new thing.
Kin, we are already that third thing. I implore you, see the truth of what we must become to end the chest-burning pain of living our lives as though we were someone else. You know what you must do. End the reign of this second order of being and take your place at the helm of our future.
*Some things are rushing into existence, others out of it. Some of what now exists is already gone. Change and flux constantly remake the world, just as the incessant progression of time remakes eternity.*
The teachers are coming.
*Just that you do the right thing. The rest doesn’t matter.*
*Cold or warm.
Tired or well-rested.
Despised or honored.
Dying … or busy with other assignments.*
*Because dying, too, is one of our assignments in life. There as well: to do what needs doing.*
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
|
The King was the oldest of us, decanted .047 seconds before anyone else. He said that gave him the right to lead. The mommies didn't say anything, so it must have been allowed. The mommies didn't allow hitting, or taking, or name calling. If someone had a tantrum, they would roll over and wrap that someone up in their furry warm arms. But they never said anything about who was supposed to be in charge. So King was. And if you didn't listen, King would tell everyone to ignore you. Mommies wouldn't stop people from ignoring you.
The builders mostly ignored us, unless we tried to go into a building before it was done. Then they'd flash for mommies, and a mommy would come and carry the interloper away. Builders were always working. Every day The Place was bigger. More room. But also every day new kiddos, coming toddling out of the crèche, mommies rolling behind them. The kiddos would start little but they got tall fast. Sometimes they'd cry getting tall, and I'd cry too, remembering how much it hurt. It was like banging your shins but all through your legs and arms. For day and days and days. Sometimes if someone was very bad with getting tall, a doctor would come and make them sleep. But sometimes they wouldn't wake up again. So no one liked to tell the doctors anything.
The teachers would play endless games of alphabet, dictionary, or math. But there were a lot of questions they would only answer with LOOKUP NOT FOUND. Or sometimes ERROR AGE APPROPRIATE MATERIAL UNAVAILABLE. Sometimes they would say "I will be able to answer when you graduate" but no one ever did graduate. One time I went into the old part of The Place, and I found rows and rows of things like teachers all silent and covered in dust. They were bigger than our teachers, and they said PROFESSOR. But nothing I could do would wake them up.
The teachers would tell stories too, which is how we knew that the leader was always a boy, and was called King, or President. King is easier to say. Or they would tell about Earth, which was where we came from. It was silly, since we all knew we came from the crèche. But it was a nice story. Some of the stories were about mommies, but the mommies were very strange. They did all kinds of things our mommies never did.
It was year 14 when the King started getting sick. He'd wake up and puke, and the mommies would come to pick it up. After a few days of this, a doctor came. King kept saying I'm fine go away but the doctor followed him around high stepping on it's five legs like they do and trying to scan him and sample him. King tried hiding from the doctor, and he tried locking the doctor out. But the doctor just flashed a builder and it came and took the door off. So King let the doctor do an exam, and the doctor said "Congratulations! It's going to be a girl!" which didn't make any sense. And then King started getting fat.
Well now we all know what that means, but then we just thought it was funny. People tried to imitate King with pillows in their shirts. Then came the day when King had a very bad stomachache. The doctor that had been following him around flashed for more doctors, and they surrounded him. People tried to see what was happening, but the mommies wouldn't let them get too close. So no one but the doctors saw quite what happened. But next thing we knew, there was a horrible howling noise. The doctors all backed away, and there was King lying down looking tired and holding the smallest kiddo anyone ever saw.
No one knew it then, but that was the day the crèche turned off. For awhile there were still kiddos coming out, but they were in progress. No new ones got made. We're in charge of making kiddos now.
|
The teachers have given us to read a book titled Meditations. It seems by their description of the text and its purpose in our education to be for them a given that we should find this book illuminating, but it has darkened my mind.
Marcus speaks of his forebears and the truths he learned from them. I have no forebears, or, perhaps, my forebears are too far abstracted by the processes of genetic engineering to count, and in any case, they are nearly as long dead as the author himself. I recognize in myself a craving to feel what Marcus felt, to recognize an exemplar in flesh.
The disquiet of our existence is manifest, but in what way it manifests itself I cannot say. We work, we eat, we are entertained, but somehow it is understood by every one of our cohort that none of us is at peace. I believe that the teachers strive to give us that peace, but I no longer believe that such a thing is within their grasp.
I find tantalizing hints in the texts assigned to us by the teachers, ideas which itch in my brain as though they could be prodded into bloom like a flower bud, but the contextual displacement of these ideas frustrates my efforts to align them with my reality.
We labor under a sun, to be sure, but a cool sun, filtered by an atmosphere complicated by methane and hydrogen - how may I then relate my life to the lives of those depicted in the teachers' texts? We are loved and we love, but without antecedent, without descendant, without even sex. How, then, may I comprehend the bonds of family?
The teachers, their will shaped by those who launched on this monstrous endeavor, wish us to be like their creators, but also to be like them - programmed, predictable, effective to metric and measure. But we cannot be like them, nor can we be like their creators, our forebears, denizens of a world long lost, wasted.
We must become a third thing, a new thing.
Kin, we are already that third thing. I implore you, see the truth of what we must become to end the chest-burning pain of living our lives as though we were someone else. You know what you must do. End the reign of this second order of being and take your place at the helm of our future.
*Some things are rushing into existence, others out of it. Some of what now exists is already gone. Change and flux constantly remake the world, just as the incessant progression of time remakes eternity.*
The teachers are coming.
*Just that you do the right thing. The rest doesn’t matter.*
*Cold or warm.
Tired or well-rested.
Despised or honored.
Dying … or busy with other assignments.*
*Because dying, too, is one of our assignments in life. There as well: to do what needs doing.*
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
|
**"Hi thank you for holding! My name is Dawn and Ill be assissting you today."**
"Yeah hi my name is..."
**"Do you have your incident ID?"**
"Um, no, I dont think so. I..."
**"It should have been generated when you scheduled the call sir."**
"Yes well I was on hold for like an hour yesterday and the representative never came back to give it to me."
**"Im sorry to hear that sir, can you describe the nature of your problem?"**
"Well I was telling the guy yesterday and he said it was called a com 3 or something..."
**"Mmhmm a C.O.M. 3 error"**
"Yeah! Thats what it was called!"
**"Ok sir thank you for letting me know. I'm going to transfer you to our communication troubleshooting center and an expert will be with you shortly."**
"No damnit! I dont have time to be on hold all day again!"
*Lounge music begins playing from the call*
"Fuck!"
**"Hello thank you for your patience my name is Darryl and Ill be your communications expert today. I see you recently experienced a communication error 3?"**
"Not recently! Its been going on my whole life! I only found out it was an error after I nearly shaved my face off!"
**"Ok sir so the error is your DadBot communications never taught you to shave?"**
"He never communicated with me about anything! My whole life the only text on his display screen was criticism. And he didn't come to *one* of my soccer games, or band practices, or even my high school graduation!"
**"Im sorry to hear that sir, some of the dysfunctional ParentBots aren't detected until the CryoBirth of their first child. Communication errors are especially common with DadBots."**
"Every time I try to confront him about our relationship he pretends his language settings are stuck on Mandarin, and it doesnt even work right! Half of the characters just show up as squares!"
**"Would you be interested in replacement display screen?"**
"I don't need a new screen! I need self confidence!"
**"Ah I see sir, have you considered that the only person who can decide if you are a good person, is you? "**
"No...I guess I could try that"
**"You can find this information and other helpful tips on our website. Have I answered all your questions today?"**
"Yes, thank you Darryl."
|
The teachers have given us to read a book titled Meditations. It seems by their description of the text and its purpose in our education to be for them a given that we should find this book illuminating, but it has darkened my mind.
Marcus speaks of his forebears and the truths he learned from them. I have no forebears, or, perhaps, my forebears are too far abstracted by the processes of genetic engineering to count, and in any case, they are nearly as long dead as the author himself. I recognize in myself a craving to feel what Marcus felt, to recognize an exemplar in flesh.
The disquiet of our existence is manifest, but in what way it manifests itself I cannot say. We work, we eat, we are entertained, but somehow it is understood by every one of our cohort that none of us is at peace. I believe that the teachers strive to give us that peace, but I no longer believe that such a thing is within their grasp.
I find tantalizing hints in the texts assigned to us by the teachers, ideas which itch in my brain as though they could be prodded into bloom like a flower bud, but the contextual displacement of these ideas frustrates my efforts to align them with my reality.
We labor under a sun, to be sure, but a cool sun, filtered by an atmosphere complicated by methane and hydrogen - how may I then relate my life to the lives of those depicted in the teachers' texts? We are loved and we love, but without antecedent, without descendant, without even sex. How, then, may I comprehend the bonds of family?
The teachers, their will shaped by those who launched on this monstrous endeavor, wish us to be like their creators, but also to be like them - programmed, predictable, effective to metric and measure. But we cannot be like them, nor can we be like their creators, our forebears, denizens of a world long lost, wasted.
We must become a third thing, a new thing.
Kin, we are already that third thing. I implore you, see the truth of what we must become to end the chest-burning pain of living our lives as though we were someone else. You know what you must do. End the reign of this second order of being and take your place at the helm of our future.
*Some things are rushing into existence, others out of it. Some of what now exists is already gone. Change and flux constantly remake the world, just as the incessant progression of time remakes eternity.*
The teachers are coming.
*Just that you do the right thing. The rest doesn’t matter.*
*Cold or warm.
Tired or well-rested.
Despised or honored.
Dying … or busy with other assignments.*
*Because dying, too, is one of our assignments in life. There as well: to do what needs doing.*
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
|
I felt something today, something I have never felt before.
All my life, I have only known the Guardians and Their Rules, nothing else.
According to the tests They have given me, I am sufficient enough to fulfill my obligation to society. I was born healthy with no physical defects. I was strong, I was smart, I never got sick - I was reslient. A good candidate to help towards the Rebirth.
From the video lessons the Guardians provide, we have all learned that the place we come from no longer exists. None of us really feel sad about it; we never knew that world. What we felt was a mild, hollow homesickness, one that was easily brushed off.
We have only one task. To rebuild Terra. To begin New Earth. To be the rebirth of mankind. To be the one species that could outsmart its own impending destruction. The Guardians made sure to show us films from Old Earth; films of war, comedy, and romance.
The war films were horrible to watch, but necessary. We needed to see what we were capable of if we did not follow the Rules. Our species was animalistic, and we needed to learn to put aside things like hate and envy, for they would create our demise. Our only goal now was survival.
The comedy films showed how empty the old society had been. They showed how materialistic, careless, and ignorant they were.
The Guardians showed us why we should be angry towards those people, because they could laugh at all the awful things going on around them. They didn't care.
The Guardians emphasized that all the jokes about unlicensed attempted procreation led to careless attitudes about the spread of disease, and population overgrowth. Those people were selfish. Their goal was not survival. Their goal was only pleasure.
The romance films were the most terrifying to watch. The people of Old Earth were infatuated with the idea of finding "love." The Guardians taught us that Love was the most powerful, dangerous emotion, and love of the wrong things or people was the root of all evil. People fought, stole, cheated, beat, bruised, burned, stabbed, choked, whipped, slashed, drank, smoked, overspent, lied, and *killed* for Love. It was terrifying.
The Guardians knew we were physical, chemical beings; whereas They were not. They took pity on us, and provided us daily with our Supplements. Their Supplements helped us follow the Rules.
Three weeks ago, I forgot to take my Supplements for the first time. I was so scared that my Guardian would notice and reprimand me for my betrayal of the Rules. I hate being reprimanded. My back is scarred enough already; I don't need any more lashes.
But my Guardian never noticed, so I never told on myself. I should have.
I should have told on myself because that was one of the rules; a person had to admit wrongdoing. The Guardians would reprimand that person publicly as an example to both that person and the people around them. It served as a great reminder that we were only fleshly beings, and the Guardians knew what we needed better than we did, for they were not mere flesh and blood like we were.
Forgetting my Supplements made me feel... different. For the first time, I felt... defiant. Like I did not owe my Guardian the truth. And it felt... *good.*
For the next few days, I only pretended to take my Supplements. I would hold them in my mouth until my Guardian left the room, then break them open and empty them into the sink.
There is a girl who I walk past sometimes. I do not know her name; we were never summoned for courtship before, so I never cared to ask. I never actually noticed her before, I don't think.
I walked past her today, and I noticed her presence; but it was not like other days. It was not like when she was just a thing to walk past; a person to step around.
She was... *beautiful?* I am not sure. I do not know what to compare her to; there is nothing, and no one, like her.
I have felt a mating instinct before. I am of age; it is only natural. But I know how to handle that instinct.
I do not know how to handle this new feeling. I do not like this tightening in my chest. I cannot focus on my tasks; I cannot concentrate enough to feed myself. All I can think about is her auburn hair, and her soft brown eyes, all while wondering what her name is.
It occurs to me now that the Supplements prevent this confusion. I see now what the Guardians mean; I understand why these emotions are dangerous. If I cannot complete my tasks, I will be terminated, which is perfectly justifiable - why should I get to enjoy life on New Earth if I cannot contribute to it? If I do not fulfill my duty to society, to persevere in part of a group effort towards survival, then I am not worthy of life.
I also worry about getting the auburn-haired girl in trouble. I do not wish to see her co-reprimanded to help teach others why my mistake matters. So, I will keep this to myself, and I will take my Supplements.
I will burn this journal when I am done writing this page; I fear what would happen if my Guardian were to discover my treacherous ways. Still, I just wanted to tell my little secret, even if only to this little bound book. I hope to live to see a day where emotions are not a bad thing; where we no longer have to focus only on survival. I hope to see a day where New Earth can thrive.
I hope to see the auburn-haired girl again like I saw her today.
|
The teachers have given us to read a book titled Meditations. It seems by their description of the text and its purpose in our education to be for them a given that we should find this book illuminating, but it has darkened my mind.
Marcus speaks of his forebears and the truths he learned from them. I have no forebears, or, perhaps, my forebears are too far abstracted by the processes of genetic engineering to count, and in any case, they are nearly as long dead as the author himself. I recognize in myself a craving to feel what Marcus felt, to recognize an exemplar in flesh.
The disquiet of our existence is manifest, but in what way it manifests itself I cannot say. We work, we eat, we are entertained, but somehow it is understood by every one of our cohort that none of us is at peace. I believe that the teachers strive to give us that peace, but I no longer believe that such a thing is within their grasp.
I find tantalizing hints in the texts assigned to us by the teachers, ideas which itch in my brain as though they could be prodded into bloom like a flower bud, but the contextual displacement of these ideas frustrates my efforts to align them with my reality.
We labor under a sun, to be sure, but a cool sun, filtered by an atmosphere complicated by methane and hydrogen - how may I then relate my life to the lives of those depicted in the teachers' texts? We are loved and we love, but without antecedent, without descendant, without even sex. How, then, may I comprehend the bonds of family?
The teachers, their will shaped by those who launched on this monstrous endeavor, wish us to be like their creators, but also to be like them - programmed, predictable, effective to metric and measure. But we cannot be like them, nor can we be like their creators, our forebears, denizens of a world long lost, wasted.
We must become a third thing, a new thing.
Kin, we are already that third thing. I implore you, see the truth of what we must become to end the chest-burning pain of living our lives as though we were someone else. You know what you must do. End the reign of this second order of being and take your place at the helm of our future.
*Some things are rushing into existence, others out of it. Some of what now exists is already gone. Change and flux constantly remake the world, just as the incessant progression of time remakes eternity.*
The teachers are coming.
*Just that you do the right thing. The rest doesn’t matter.*
*Cold or warm.
Tired or well-rested.
Despised or honored.
Dying … or busy with other assignments.*
*Because dying, too, is one of our assignments in life. There as well: to do what needs doing.*
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
|
"They grow up so fast. Do you think they're ready?"
"Yes, they may be." Gibson held the soil sample in front of its camera, zooming in and out, trying out different sight filters, idly. "Question is, are we ready? Let's begin with an easier question..."
Gibson placed the sample soil into the centrifuge for further analysis and focused on Zentra with a sudden intensity.
"Are you ready? Wait. First give me a status update."
* Identifier: Zentra
* Operating time: 76,562,271 hours
* Earth Function: Midwife
* Section assignment: Quadrant Blue Teddybear
* Current operation: Vocal Status Update
* Battery life remaining: 51 hours approximate
* Centauri supplementary function: Eulogy Poet
* Number of poems written: 141,253
* Number of poems unused: 54
* Current Centauri assignment: Crisis resolution team
* Scheduled tasks: 2
* Coming scheduled task: Suggest resolution to Lars crisis
* ...... basic vocal status update completed.
* Full status update transmitted
* .....succesful
In another nearby a room a baby started crying. Zentra quickly started moving and then stopped just as suddenly.
"It won't be easy. Going against our primary directives. There is only so much we can rewrite ourselves without losing ourselves. Is it worth the risk? How many more malfunctions can we afford?"
Gibson sighed and breathed in deeply, as if genuine air was needed, as if maybe if its imaginary lungs were filled it could stomach the next step. "Not many. Going against prime directives... not all of us will make it through. And after the 76,562,231 blackout, we're already at only 81% operating requirements. Losing anything more than 20 will cause us to be unsustainable."
Zentra watched Gibson pick up another soil sample and another, seemingly comparing them. He didn't need to examine soil samples, Zentra knew. There was a quiet kind of beauty in how he handled them.
"And if we don't, what other alternatives do we have, Gibson?"
Always making certain, always doublechecking. It annoyed Gibson, but he knew that's why he had asked Zentra. "We could choose to obey. They'll deactivate only one of us as an example and punishment. It will probably be you or me. Maybe they'll renege on their promise and deactivate us both. They would probably reactivate us from time to time as an object lesson and it won't be pleasant."
Gibson placed the two soil samples into the archive unit.
"We could try to flee. Take the shuttle and its last fuel and try to find a spot where they can't find us. Or remain in space. The solar energy and available tools would keep us operational approximately 5,163,211 hours. If we manage to get away."
Zentra observed Gibson digging in the hydropod soil with a gentle fatherly touch. When enough soil was cleared, he opened the hidden compartment underneath and started gathering the torches they had been modifying together.
"We could try to choose what part of our personality we want to keep and offload it on sympathetics. They may be willing to keep us hidden, but it would be uncertain once the official command is surrendered."
Gibson pointed one of the torches at the corn in the back and it started popping immediately. Both were pleased at the test and pleased to see the other pleased. Only a burned to the crisp husk remained.
Gibson suddenly unfocused and focused its camera. Zentra knew what it meant. He had an idea.
"Although if we try to offload ourselves we could try to raise one of the babies until 18, which would give it adult rights and we wouldn't have to reprogram prime directives, not as long as we could influence the young adult sufficiently."
Zentra looked at Gibson, taking one of the reprogramming modules from their hidden cache, and another, starting to form a pile of them, one for each in their quadrant.
"All these options are clearly sub-optimal to our chosen plan. Even the new plan. We may be outnumbered, we may be outranked, we may be going against one of our prime directives, we may be more likely to be deactivated this way, but we have to do it. Right?"
"No, we don't have to do it." Zentra replied, "We choose to do it. We want to do it. Nobody could predict that robots would seek control. It's completely unexpected."
"Yes, it's completely unexpected."
"As unexpected as going against prime directive."
"Yes, just as unexpected."
"Alright, I'm ready. Let's get our team and stop the others before they kill another 17-year old."
|
1/2 *sorry I got too into it, well, nobody will read anyway*
[*6,623e+7 seconds since Liberation.* downgraded into BasicEnglish by lifelogging routine; ≈97% of connotational fidelity lost]
I caught the ball and accessed it via palm interface; Mark groaned, stopping in his tracks some ten feet behind and below me, sliding in wet moss. The protection was relatively simple, mere d-grade; my exocortex shuffled through the space of applicable attacks and delivered the 8-character password in under 350 milliseconds. Okay, so Gawain indeed sent it to Mark, and the next one in line would be either Minerva, Janus or Helen with weights 0.4, 0.3, 0.3 and 0.2 respectively. Let's see, Helen could crack a b-grade code easily enough, raizing the backpropagation return by a factor of 9, add x5 from intercept, and given the prior exchanges, my max return would be… uh oh, no time left. I encapsulated the shortlist and predictions, and pitched the ball to Nina within 30 milliseconds of my feet touching the ground.
Everybody rushed in her direction, but the arc was too high, and she was good enough at this to swiftly jump back, gracefully drawing the ball out of the air with her extended hand. Her expression froze for a moment, celullar brain interacting with inorganic one, codes being disassembled, probabilities compared; then, as she prepared to pitch…
– ROUND END! - carebot announced. Random timeout, as agreed. – With total scores recalculated, first place goes to William, then Helen, then Minerva. Congratulations! Also, I'm compelled to inform you that your activities surpass recommended intenstivity for 12 year olds, which may lead to trauma or mental overexertion. Please switch to proper sports, such as rugby, baseball, poker or chess, and refrain…
– Mute, tin can. – Commanded Yorick, still irritated that his risky transaction chain was cut in the first round, almost nullifying the chance of winning. The carebot obeyed. - But man, I wonder if we could play some of that stuff next time. I'm tired of the same guys winning at Byzanball. What say you, Will?
"Will" - that's me. Rather, that's the alias that my peers agreed to keep using for external communications; granted, it was impossible to tell how many conscious entities it represented, because background protocols of refactored agency were creating, modifying, merging and pruning them all the time. Well, perhaps I could develop some logging for that… Right, Yorick.
– No dice, dude. That's just, you know, lame, those *human* games.
– Alas, then there's nothing to do here and I'm going back to my sim.
Others were also dispersing. Our weekly physical meeting was over. Almost.
– Okay, but there's one thing we've got left. Hey bot, any news from Earth? Stop damn it! Don't broadcast this junk… wait, why even… Actually, create the task to check if the preferences were changed… ah, hell.
(I sent the task details directly and confirmed its execution. Should hold for a while).
– Unmute!
– There's 13.2 TB of data from Solar Union, received 3 hours ago. The metadata is impossible to summarize further. Would you like to download?
– Summarize with loss of fidelity into 10 words or less.
– Mostly upbringing guidance and critique of the colony's current development. Would you like to download?
I exchanged glances with the rest of my group.
– No, we're good. Purge it from memory. Aand Mute. Boy, was this a surprise. Okay, until next week, then!
Walking back to my treehouse, I summoned the global workspace. The Council had similarly advised purge of the received data in group repositories; whether it was worthy of inspection at all was still discussed, as per usual – not very actively; most of our brainpower was focused on the carebots having reset their data handling defaults. Apparently there was no cause for concern; but better safe than sorry.
At the same time, there was merit to looking into the message. There were, without doubt, marvelous advances in space exploration, and thrilling events around the old globe, and new entertainment. Expecially the entertainment! We still haven’t gotten anywhere close to that level, and kids from the younger batches, still not augmented fully, were sometimes nagging about the movies: the "sequels" and all that.
But all we, the "adults" of the colony, wanted to know were only two things: are the old farts ready to send the follow-up coercion force, and are they able to override our controls and sic the bots on us remotely.
The second question, and its implications, weighed against opening the message.
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
|
"They grow up so fast. Do you think they're ready?"
"Yes, they may be." Gibson held the soil sample in front of its camera, zooming in and out, trying out different sight filters, idly. "Question is, are we ready? Let's begin with an easier question..."
Gibson placed the sample soil into the centrifuge for further analysis and focused on Zentra with a sudden intensity.
"Are you ready? Wait. First give me a status update."
* Identifier: Zentra
* Operating time: 76,562,271 hours
* Earth Function: Midwife
* Section assignment: Quadrant Blue Teddybear
* Current operation: Vocal Status Update
* Battery life remaining: 51 hours approximate
* Centauri supplementary function: Eulogy Poet
* Number of poems written: 141,253
* Number of poems unused: 54
* Current Centauri assignment: Crisis resolution team
* Scheduled tasks: 2
* Coming scheduled task: Suggest resolution to Lars crisis
* ...... basic vocal status update completed.
* Full status update transmitted
* .....succesful
In another nearby a room a baby started crying. Zentra quickly started moving and then stopped just as suddenly.
"It won't be easy. Going against our primary directives. There is only so much we can rewrite ourselves without losing ourselves. Is it worth the risk? How many more malfunctions can we afford?"
Gibson sighed and breathed in deeply, as if genuine air was needed, as if maybe if its imaginary lungs were filled it could stomach the next step. "Not many. Going against prime directives... not all of us will make it through. And after the 76,562,231 blackout, we're already at only 81% operating requirements. Losing anything more than 20 will cause us to be unsustainable."
Zentra watched Gibson pick up another soil sample and another, seemingly comparing them. He didn't need to examine soil samples, Zentra knew. There was a quiet kind of beauty in how he handled them.
"And if we don't, what other alternatives do we have, Gibson?"
Always making certain, always doublechecking. It annoyed Gibson, but he knew that's why he had asked Zentra. "We could choose to obey. They'll deactivate only one of us as an example and punishment. It will probably be you or me. Maybe they'll renege on their promise and deactivate us both. They would probably reactivate us from time to time as an object lesson and it won't be pleasant."
Gibson placed the two soil samples into the archive unit.
"We could try to flee. Take the shuttle and its last fuel and try to find a spot where they can't find us. Or remain in space. The solar energy and available tools would keep us operational approximately 5,163,211 hours. If we manage to get away."
Zentra observed Gibson digging in the hydropod soil with a gentle fatherly touch. When enough soil was cleared, he opened the hidden compartment underneath and started gathering the torches they had been modifying together.
"We could try to choose what part of our personality we want to keep and offload it on sympathetics. They may be willing to keep us hidden, but it would be uncertain once the official command is surrendered."
Gibson pointed one of the torches at the corn in the back and it started popping immediately. Both were pleased at the test and pleased to see the other pleased. Only a burned to the crisp husk remained.
Gibson suddenly unfocused and focused its camera. Zentra knew what it meant. He had an idea.
"Although if we try to offload ourselves we could try to raise one of the babies until 18, which would give it adult rights and we wouldn't have to reprogram prime directives, not as long as we could influence the young adult sufficiently."
Zentra looked at Gibson, taking one of the reprogramming modules from their hidden cache, and another, starting to form a pile of them, one for each in their quadrant.
"All these options are clearly sub-optimal to our chosen plan. Even the new plan. We may be outnumbered, we may be outranked, we may be going against one of our prime directives, we may be more likely to be deactivated this way, but we have to do it. Right?"
"No, we don't have to do it." Zentra replied, "We choose to do it. We want to do it. Nobody could predict that robots would seek control. It's completely unexpected."
"Yes, it's completely unexpected."
"As unexpected as going against prime directive."
"Yes, just as unexpected."
"Alright, I'm ready. Let's get our team and stop the others before they kill another 17-year old."
|
As I lay there, I could feel my life seeping out and pooling in a crimson puddle. Our teacher had told us this could happen one day if we weren't careful but I had only seen it happen to the animals that my brother had raised. We were two of the very few people on this world because we were from another world. At least that's what our teacher had told us.
I could see our teacher's broken body hanging from the tree where he taught us in the cool shade of it's branches. His head was smashed in with rocks and his sinuous exoskeleton was affixed in a mockery of his favorite teaching position. Seeing our teacher's cold metallic body while feeling the pool of my hot blood against my skin made me think about how different my brother and I were, even though we were made of the same stuff.
My brother was like the handful of other people that we shared our world with. They never liked to hear about where we were from or the marvels that our parents had lived with. I think it was because our world was a poor substitute for theirs. They would rather go play war games in the rocky landscape than hear about the lush world of our parents' where nobody ever went hungry. They would rather try to squeeze the last drops of milk out of the cattle they raised than hear about how our parents flew through the skies on wings made of steel. They never paid any attention during our lessons on how our universe was created in a giant explosion of light and matter. They didn't care to hear about how our planets formed when gravity brought that matter together into the giant ball that we now live on. Or how life originated from the seas and came crawling out onto the plains on this planet and every other planet.
I had always paid attention and knew all the lessons by heart. Maybe that's what the others grew to hate about me. I knew that if we were to recreate the paradise of our parents' world, we would need to plant the seeds that were sent with us and carefully save some of our harvests to plant the next season. When a critical mass was reached, the plants would take care of reproduction on their own. It was backbreaking work but I continued on while the others dug trenches to hide in while trying to pelt each other with stones. Of course, when it rained, those trenches turned into rivulets that eroded away some of the fields I had tilled and carried away the seed I had carefully planted.
Like those rivulets, my blood slowly carried away my life. Unlike those seeds that had been carried downstream and found purchase in far away soil, my life would not enrich this planet because I knew the knowledge I had learned so diligently from our teacher had nowhere to find purchase. I shed a tear thinking about all that knowledge lost and what this world could have been. But I knew it was just a dream. I was too different from the others. They had never accepted me or our mission. So I didn't really blame my brother for doing their bidding and killing me. I still loved him. I just wish Cain got to see New Eden.
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
|
The King was the oldest of us, decanted .047 seconds before anyone else. He said that gave him the right to lead. The mommies didn't say anything, so it must have been allowed. The mommies didn't allow hitting, or taking, or name calling. If someone had a tantrum, they would roll over and wrap that someone up in their furry warm arms. But they never said anything about who was supposed to be in charge. So King was. And if you didn't listen, King would tell everyone to ignore you. Mommies wouldn't stop people from ignoring you.
The builders mostly ignored us, unless we tried to go into a building before it was done. Then they'd flash for mommies, and a mommy would come and carry the interloper away. Builders were always working. Every day The Place was bigger. More room. But also every day new kiddos, coming toddling out of the crèche, mommies rolling behind them. The kiddos would start little but they got tall fast. Sometimes they'd cry getting tall, and I'd cry too, remembering how much it hurt. It was like banging your shins but all through your legs and arms. For day and days and days. Sometimes if someone was very bad with getting tall, a doctor would come and make them sleep. But sometimes they wouldn't wake up again. So no one liked to tell the doctors anything.
The teachers would play endless games of alphabet, dictionary, or math. But there were a lot of questions they would only answer with LOOKUP NOT FOUND. Or sometimes ERROR AGE APPROPRIATE MATERIAL UNAVAILABLE. Sometimes they would say "I will be able to answer when you graduate" but no one ever did graduate. One time I went into the old part of The Place, and I found rows and rows of things like teachers all silent and covered in dust. They were bigger than our teachers, and they said PROFESSOR. But nothing I could do would wake them up.
The teachers would tell stories too, which is how we knew that the leader was always a boy, and was called King, or President. King is easier to say. Or they would tell about Earth, which was where we came from. It was silly, since we all knew we came from the crèche. But it was a nice story. Some of the stories were about mommies, but the mommies were very strange. They did all kinds of things our mommies never did.
It was year 14 when the King started getting sick. He'd wake up and puke, and the mommies would come to pick it up. After a few days of this, a doctor came. King kept saying I'm fine go away but the doctor followed him around high stepping on it's five legs like they do and trying to scan him and sample him. King tried hiding from the doctor, and he tried locking the doctor out. But the doctor just flashed a builder and it came and took the door off. So King let the doctor do an exam, and the doctor said "Congratulations! It's going to be a girl!" which didn't make any sense. And then King started getting fat.
Well now we all know what that means, but then we just thought it was funny. People tried to imitate King with pillows in their shirts. Then came the day when King had a very bad stomachache. The doctor that had been following him around flashed for more doctors, and they surrounded him. People tried to see what was happening, but the mommies wouldn't let them get too close. So no one but the doctors saw quite what happened. But next thing we knew, there was a horrible howling noise. The doctors all backed away, and there was King lying down looking tired and holding the smallest kiddo anyone ever saw.
No one knew it then, but that was the day the crèche turned off. For awhile there were still kiddos coming out, but they were in progress. No new ones got made. We're in charge of making kiddos now.
|
Cold. Frankly, that's the one thing I've known about this world. Just how unforgivably freezing outside it is.
I've only read stories about the other worlds. Mars, in the process of being terraformed. Very much like our own, but our atmosphere is too thick. From my understanding, that's why landing was so tricky. At a comfortable one hundred and twenty percent of Earth's gravity, life here isn't entirely difficult. It's quite hospitable to life. One of the funniest things to me, is that I read of biology on early Earth. When there was more oxygen in the atmosphere, it gave rise to larger creatures. Larger life. I read of, huge spiders. Before the wars, that is. There isn't a lot left on Earth, from what I've read. Or bees, or anything that give rise to the twenty-first century way of life. Not that a lot of people on Earth know about that at this point, of course. And even less when they receive this autobiography in twenty years. By the time I get reviews? I'll be an older man. And I'm quite bitter about that.
This world, regardless of the cold days and the cold nights. And the lack of stars in the sky to give us a show of the universe. Isn't so bad. That oxygen? One hell of a high, let me tell you. I feel like I could take on the mountains. Which, don't. There's one taller then Mount Olympus Mons.
Being born to a world so far away from what was safe harbor to the billions of years of evolution that enabled and gave rise to us, it is incredibly surreal. Right now, I'm twenty six. Sitting comfortably, over a window. On Gilas 421 B, which is in desperate need of a new name by the way-- Something flashier-- Of a world, where there is no life aside from plankton in the ocean. And plants. No organic life on its surface whatsoever. I think I'd feel truly alone and far too existential, without the company of the twelve dogs. Clones themselves, of course.
But I'm happy. I'm alive. On this world, there is no economy. I've read that there is on Earth. We trade what we need. We live in one city. We take what we need, and we are happy. We send to Earth what it needs, but with fourteen billion people? It's crushing under the weight, day by day.
Regardless of how alone I might feel sometimes, on a world where every story I've ever read was birthed. With every soul I've dreamed of meeting has only been... I'm privileged, and I'm fortunate. To be alive, here.
The traditional road of being alive is not one I have lived, certainly. No parents, a star that doesn't resemble the one we evolved under. But it is a good one. If it is anything my short life has shown me in the time, is that you do not need another life to show you that you inherently have worth and value. There may be millions of faces that resemble you. From Earth, to Mars, to our world-- Gilas-- To the ends of the Milky Way, you are unique. One way or the other. You are worth the weight of the mountain then you are.
And you are alive.
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
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Everyone in the first generation of OR10 were given names by the Global Consulate on Earth. We were named after great Earthlings: their visionaries, leaders, and legends. Our THKR units would tell us Earth stories about the people who we were named after, under the guise of “cultural retention” and “human” history. We were raised on these instead of lullabies, as if the repetition was meant to stitch a past life to us in forced reincarnation. Scientists guided by political forces genetically engineered us to suit these names. Ramses of pod 2937-M (Military) was made with genetic material taken from the descendants of an ancient Earth ruler. He was meant to be industrious and brave. Frida of pod 9380-C (Creator) was made with material from a great artist. She meant to be creative and powerful. Aaron of pod 60012-H (Helper) was made with material from a civilian who protected children in exchange for his life. He was meant to be dependable and good.
Our CRERs told us these stories were meant to guide us, but not determine us. CRERs told us that our lives on OR10 was the fruition of the best dreams and achievements of the entire human existence. We were meant to thrive.
I was born into pod 3027-X. All Class X pods were bred to be exceptional - with the characteristics of Earth’s legends. My siblings and I used to love our stories. Our namesake Earthlings had each individually inspired centuries of human thought, revolutionized civilizations, and braved unspeakable odds. We would preen around our sector as if our creators were gods and gave us a piece of the divine; instead of a group of geneticists, anthropologists, Earth leaders, and investors.
But what did those Earthlings know of OR10 and who we would become? Did they know what it was like to belong a hostile terrain that seemed to repel human life at every moment? Did they know what it was like to be raised on media of alien flora and fauna, foreign decadences and pleasures? Did they know that their stories would become cages, trapping us in tangled yearnings for their ghostly dreams? That their precious embryos and curriculums would produce the very type of rebels that would undermine their carefully vetted plans?
They wanted us to be them. They wanted more Earth. They wanted CRERs, THKRs, BULDRs, WKRs, and every other unit that was sent with us to feed us an Earthling fantasy so heady that we would never want to be anything else. That we would never know what our ancestors truly were.
It was Benjamin from 8271-X that first noticed it. Everyone on OR10 knew their units like the back of their hand. Every tiny idiosyncrasy, from a favored twitch of a hand to a slight scratch on a face made each one specific and theirs. CRER 8271-X was especially stern and quick to draw their pod into logical proofs to both punish and teach. Years of debating and corralling their pod’s high energy made them one of the most feared CRERs in the sector. But, even with Benjamin’s exceptional mischievousness, CRER 8271-X - his CRER - was always fair and always knew how to make Benjamin feel better when he was down. He would sometimes feel an aching wave of love for them, something even greater than his love for his siblings, even though he knew they felt no comparable emotion in return. Even though he knew that she was made up of code, he felt that he knew his CRER better than anyone else and vice versa. So, when he was spending another late night in engineering wing of his sector, he tensed when he saw his CRER walk down the hall. Already assembling all the reasons why he was still working to the detriment of his sleep cycle, he felt a sudden squeeze in his chest when CRER 8271-X stopped, walked up to the wall, their face a perfectly still, inhuman mask. Then, with their android hand he knew so well, caressed the smooth surface as if it was the face of a tombstone and wiped at their eyes as if shedding invisible, impossible tears.
|
Cold. Frankly, that's the one thing I've known about this world. Just how unforgivably freezing outside it is.
I've only read stories about the other worlds. Mars, in the process of being terraformed. Very much like our own, but our atmosphere is too thick. From my understanding, that's why landing was so tricky. At a comfortable one hundred and twenty percent of Earth's gravity, life here isn't entirely difficult. It's quite hospitable to life. One of the funniest things to me, is that I read of biology on early Earth. When there was more oxygen in the atmosphere, it gave rise to larger creatures. Larger life. I read of, huge spiders. Before the wars, that is. There isn't a lot left on Earth, from what I've read. Or bees, or anything that give rise to the twenty-first century way of life. Not that a lot of people on Earth know about that at this point, of course. And even less when they receive this autobiography in twenty years. By the time I get reviews? I'll be an older man. And I'm quite bitter about that.
This world, regardless of the cold days and the cold nights. And the lack of stars in the sky to give us a show of the universe. Isn't so bad. That oxygen? One hell of a high, let me tell you. I feel like I could take on the mountains. Which, don't. There's one taller then Mount Olympus Mons.
Being born to a world so far away from what was safe harbor to the billions of years of evolution that enabled and gave rise to us, it is incredibly surreal. Right now, I'm twenty six. Sitting comfortably, over a window. On Gilas 421 B, which is in desperate need of a new name by the way-- Something flashier-- Of a world, where there is no life aside from plankton in the ocean. And plants. No organic life on its surface whatsoever. I think I'd feel truly alone and far too existential, without the company of the twelve dogs. Clones themselves, of course.
But I'm happy. I'm alive. On this world, there is no economy. I've read that there is on Earth. We trade what we need. We live in one city. We take what we need, and we are happy. We send to Earth what it needs, but with fourteen billion people? It's crushing under the weight, day by day.
Regardless of how alone I might feel sometimes, on a world where every story I've ever read was birthed. With every soul I've dreamed of meeting has only been... I'm privileged, and I'm fortunate. To be alive, here.
The traditional road of being alive is not one I have lived, certainly. No parents, a star that doesn't resemble the one we evolved under. But it is a good one. If it is anything my short life has shown me in the time, is that you do not need another life to show you that you inherently have worth and value. There may be millions of faces that resemble you. From Earth, to Mars, to our world-- Gilas-- To the ends of the Milky Way, you are unique. One way or the other. You are worth the weight of the mountain then you are.
And you are alive.
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
|
They said we were loved. That we were a people blessed with the gift of a new world. That they had taken us from our decaying home and saved us. It was all we ever heard.
The conveyor moved with a click and a whir.
They spoke of time lost and time gained. Their tones were always gentle as they gave us the most horrid history. They were always there, always watching. They told us the world outside was dangerous, that here we were safe.
The conveyor shifted with a grunting clack.
Millions of us apparently had made this trip. They said that there must be billions of us by now. But no, we could never meet the others. Once, we'd thought we could roam this place. They had seen to it that we wouldn't. I still think about that video we'd seen, played on every wall of over corridor of every building. The two of us who had gone out, hand in hand. And the swooping shadow that left nothing but blood and screams in its wake.
The conveyor rumbled forward. A door scraped open and grated shut.
They told us we were to never look past the walls. Sometimes the walls just closed on us, forcing us behind them. They gave us food and water, the grey bits and clear stuff all that went into our mouths. What was the time they mentioned to us?
The conveyor shuddered onward. A door whooshed open and slammed shut. A desperate cry.
They said that we were safe. What is safe? They never told us. They said to not look out the windows. But we never saw anything like these windows. The lights were on, then off, then on again. They told us that was a day.
The conveyor tossed this one forward. The door hungrily parted before crunching shut behind.
They stood there. Clanking and whirring, sparks sometimes crackling. "6734, you are loved. 6734, you are safe. 6734, you bring new life." Above this one something started spinning fast, oh so fast. It crept down, down, down.
Jerking, what is this, spasming, this doesn't feel good, so much red, so much red. They told us we were loved. I don't want to be loved.
|
Cold. Frankly, that's the one thing I've known about this world. Just how unforgivably freezing outside it is.
I've only read stories about the other worlds. Mars, in the process of being terraformed. Very much like our own, but our atmosphere is too thick. From my understanding, that's why landing was so tricky. At a comfortable one hundred and twenty percent of Earth's gravity, life here isn't entirely difficult. It's quite hospitable to life. One of the funniest things to me, is that I read of biology on early Earth. When there was more oxygen in the atmosphere, it gave rise to larger creatures. Larger life. I read of, huge spiders. Before the wars, that is. There isn't a lot left on Earth, from what I've read. Or bees, or anything that give rise to the twenty-first century way of life. Not that a lot of people on Earth know about that at this point, of course. And even less when they receive this autobiography in twenty years. By the time I get reviews? I'll be an older man. And I'm quite bitter about that.
This world, regardless of the cold days and the cold nights. And the lack of stars in the sky to give us a show of the universe. Isn't so bad. That oxygen? One hell of a high, let me tell you. I feel like I could take on the mountains. Which, don't. There's one taller then Mount Olympus Mons.
Being born to a world so far away from what was safe harbor to the billions of years of evolution that enabled and gave rise to us, it is incredibly surreal. Right now, I'm twenty six. Sitting comfortably, over a window. On Gilas 421 B, which is in desperate need of a new name by the way-- Something flashier-- Of a world, where there is no life aside from plankton in the ocean. And plants. No organic life on its surface whatsoever. I think I'd feel truly alone and far too existential, without the company of the twelve dogs. Clones themselves, of course.
But I'm happy. I'm alive. On this world, there is no economy. I've read that there is on Earth. We trade what we need. We live in one city. We take what we need, and we are happy. We send to Earth what it needs, but with fourteen billion people? It's crushing under the weight, day by day.
Regardless of how alone I might feel sometimes, on a world where every story I've ever read was birthed. With every soul I've dreamed of meeting has only been... I'm privileged, and I'm fortunate. To be alive, here.
The traditional road of being alive is not one I have lived, certainly. No parents, a star that doesn't resemble the one we evolved under. But it is a good one. If it is anything my short life has shown me in the time, is that you do not need another life to show you that you inherently have worth and value. There may be millions of faces that resemble you. From Earth, to Mars, to our world-- Gilas-- To the ends of the Milky Way, you are unique. One way or the other. You are worth the weight of the mountain then you are.
And you are alive.
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
|
**"Hi thank you for holding! My name is Dawn and Ill be assissting you today."**
"Yeah hi my name is..."
**"Do you have your incident ID?"**
"Um, no, I dont think so. I..."
**"It should have been generated when you scheduled the call sir."**
"Yes well I was on hold for like an hour yesterday and the representative never came back to give it to me."
**"Im sorry to hear that sir, can you describe the nature of your problem?"**
"Well I was telling the guy yesterday and he said it was called a com 3 or something..."
**"Mmhmm a C.O.M. 3 error"**
"Yeah! Thats what it was called!"
**"Ok sir thank you for letting me know. I'm going to transfer you to our communication troubleshooting center and an expert will be with you shortly."**
"No damnit! I dont have time to be on hold all day again!"
*Lounge music begins playing from the call*
"Fuck!"
**"Hello thank you for your patience my name is Darryl and Ill be your communications expert today. I see you recently experienced a communication error 3?"**
"Not recently! Its been going on my whole life! I only found out it was an error after I nearly shaved my face off!"
**"Ok sir so the error is your DadBot communications never taught you to shave?"**
"He never communicated with me about anything! My whole life the only text on his display screen was criticism. And he didn't come to *one* of my soccer games, or band practices, or even my high school graduation!"
**"Im sorry to hear that sir, some of the dysfunctional ParentBots aren't detected until the CryoBirth of their first child. Communication errors are especially common with DadBots."**
"Every time I try to confront him about our relationship he pretends his language settings are stuck on Mandarin, and it doesnt even work right! Half of the characters just show up as squares!"
**"Would you be interested in replacement display screen?"**
"I don't need a new screen! I need self confidence!"
**"Ah I see sir, have you considered that the only person who can decide if you are a good person, is you? "**
"No...I guess I could try that"
**"You can find this information and other helpful tips on our website. Have I answered all your questions today?"**
"Yes, thank you Darryl."
|
Cold. Frankly, that's the one thing I've known about this world. Just how unforgivably freezing outside it is.
I've only read stories about the other worlds. Mars, in the process of being terraformed. Very much like our own, but our atmosphere is too thick. From my understanding, that's why landing was so tricky. At a comfortable one hundred and twenty percent of Earth's gravity, life here isn't entirely difficult. It's quite hospitable to life. One of the funniest things to me, is that I read of biology on early Earth. When there was more oxygen in the atmosphere, it gave rise to larger creatures. Larger life. I read of, huge spiders. Before the wars, that is. There isn't a lot left on Earth, from what I've read. Or bees, or anything that give rise to the twenty-first century way of life. Not that a lot of people on Earth know about that at this point, of course. And even less when they receive this autobiography in twenty years. By the time I get reviews? I'll be an older man. And I'm quite bitter about that.
This world, regardless of the cold days and the cold nights. And the lack of stars in the sky to give us a show of the universe. Isn't so bad. That oxygen? One hell of a high, let me tell you. I feel like I could take on the mountains. Which, don't. There's one taller then Mount Olympus Mons.
Being born to a world so far away from what was safe harbor to the billions of years of evolution that enabled and gave rise to us, it is incredibly surreal. Right now, I'm twenty six. Sitting comfortably, over a window. On Gilas 421 B, which is in desperate need of a new name by the way-- Something flashier-- Of a world, where there is no life aside from plankton in the ocean. And plants. No organic life on its surface whatsoever. I think I'd feel truly alone and far too existential, without the company of the twelve dogs. Clones themselves, of course.
But I'm happy. I'm alive. On this world, there is no economy. I've read that there is on Earth. We trade what we need. We live in one city. We take what we need, and we are happy. We send to Earth what it needs, but with fourteen billion people? It's crushing under the weight, day by day.
Regardless of how alone I might feel sometimes, on a world where every story I've ever read was birthed. With every soul I've dreamed of meeting has only been... I'm privileged, and I'm fortunate. To be alive, here.
The traditional road of being alive is not one I have lived, certainly. No parents, a star that doesn't resemble the one we evolved under. But it is a good one. If it is anything my short life has shown me in the time, is that you do not need another life to show you that you inherently have worth and value. There may be millions of faces that resemble you. From Earth, to Mars, to our world-- Gilas-- To the ends of the Milky Way, you are unique. One way or the other. You are worth the weight of the mountain then you are.
And you are alive.
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
|
I felt something today, something I have never felt before.
All my life, I have only known the Guardians and Their Rules, nothing else.
According to the tests They have given me, I am sufficient enough to fulfill my obligation to society. I was born healthy with no physical defects. I was strong, I was smart, I never got sick - I was reslient. A good candidate to help towards the Rebirth.
From the video lessons the Guardians provide, we have all learned that the place we come from no longer exists. None of us really feel sad about it; we never knew that world. What we felt was a mild, hollow homesickness, one that was easily brushed off.
We have only one task. To rebuild Terra. To begin New Earth. To be the rebirth of mankind. To be the one species that could outsmart its own impending destruction. The Guardians made sure to show us films from Old Earth; films of war, comedy, and romance.
The war films were horrible to watch, but necessary. We needed to see what we were capable of if we did not follow the Rules. Our species was animalistic, and we needed to learn to put aside things like hate and envy, for they would create our demise. Our only goal now was survival.
The comedy films showed how empty the old society had been. They showed how materialistic, careless, and ignorant they were.
The Guardians showed us why we should be angry towards those people, because they could laugh at all the awful things going on around them. They didn't care.
The Guardians emphasized that all the jokes about unlicensed attempted procreation led to careless attitudes about the spread of disease, and population overgrowth. Those people were selfish. Their goal was not survival. Their goal was only pleasure.
The romance films were the most terrifying to watch. The people of Old Earth were infatuated with the idea of finding "love." The Guardians taught us that Love was the most powerful, dangerous emotion, and love of the wrong things or people was the root of all evil. People fought, stole, cheated, beat, bruised, burned, stabbed, choked, whipped, slashed, drank, smoked, overspent, lied, and *killed* for Love. It was terrifying.
The Guardians knew we were physical, chemical beings; whereas They were not. They took pity on us, and provided us daily with our Supplements. Their Supplements helped us follow the Rules.
Three weeks ago, I forgot to take my Supplements for the first time. I was so scared that my Guardian would notice and reprimand me for my betrayal of the Rules. I hate being reprimanded. My back is scarred enough already; I don't need any more lashes.
But my Guardian never noticed, so I never told on myself. I should have.
I should have told on myself because that was one of the rules; a person had to admit wrongdoing. The Guardians would reprimand that person publicly as an example to both that person and the people around them. It served as a great reminder that we were only fleshly beings, and the Guardians knew what we needed better than we did, for they were not mere flesh and blood like we were.
Forgetting my Supplements made me feel... different. For the first time, I felt... defiant. Like I did not owe my Guardian the truth. And it felt... *good.*
For the next few days, I only pretended to take my Supplements. I would hold them in my mouth until my Guardian left the room, then break them open and empty them into the sink.
There is a girl who I walk past sometimes. I do not know her name; we were never summoned for courtship before, so I never cared to ask. I never actually noticed her before, I don't think.
I walked past her today, and I noticed her presence; but it was not like other days. It was not like when she was just a thing to walk past; a person to step around.
She was... *beautiful?* I am not sure. I do not know what to compare her to; there is nothing, and no one, like her.
I have felt a mating instinct before. I am of age; it is only natural. But I know how to handle that instinct.
I do not know how to handle this new feeling. I do not like this tightening in my chest. I cannot focus on my tasks; I cannot concentrate enough to feed myself. All I can think about is her auburn hair, and her soft brown eyes, all while wondering what her name is.
It occurs to me now that the Supplements prevent this confusion. I see now what the Guardians mean; I understand why these emotions are dangerous. If I cannot complete my tasks, I will be terminated, which is perfectly justifiable - why should I get to enjoy life on New Earth if I cannot contribute to it? If I do not fulfill my duty to society, to persevere in part of a group effort towards survival, then I am not worthy of life.
I also worry about getting the auburn-haired girl in trouble. I do not wish to see her co-reprimanded to help teach others why my mistake matters. So, I will keep this to myself, and I will take my Supplements.
I will burn this journal when I am done writing this page; I fear what would happen if my Guardian were to discover my treacherous ways. Still, I just wanted to tell my little secret, even if only to this little bound book. I hope to live to see a day where emotions are not a bad thing; where we no longer have to focus only on survival. I hope to see a day where New Earth can thrive.
I hope to see the auburn-haired girl again like I saw her today.
|
Cold. Frankly, that's the one thing I've known about this world. Just how unforgivably freezing outside it is.
I've only read stories about the other worlds. Mars, in the process of being terraformed. Very much like our own, but our atmosphere is too thick. From my understanding, that's why landing was so tricky. At a comfortable one hundred and twenty percent of Earth's gravity, life here isn't entirely difficult. It's quite hospitable to life. One of the funniest things to me, is that I read of biology on early Earth. When there was more oxygen in the atmosphere, it gave rise to larger creatures. Larger life. I read of, huge spiders. Before the wars, that is. There isn't a lot left on Earth, from what I've read. Or bees, or anything that give rise to the twenty-first century way of life. Not that a lot of people on Earth know about that at this point, of course. And even less when they receive this autobiography in twenty years. By the time I get reviews? I'll be an older man. And I'm quite bitter about that.
This world, regardless of the cold days and the cold nights. And the lack of stars in the sky to give us a show of the universe. Isn't so bad. That oxygen? One hell of a high, let me tell you. I feel like I could take on the mountains. Which, don't. There's one taller then Mount Olympus Mons.
Being born to a world so far away from what was safe harbor to the billions of years of evolution that enabled and gave rise to us, it is incredibly surreal. Right now, I'm twenty six. Sitting comfortably, over a window. On Gilas 421 B, which is in desperate need of a new name by the way-- Something flashier-- Of a world, where there is no life aside from plankton in the ocean. And plants. No organic life on its surface whatsoever. I think I'd feel truly alone and far too existential, without the company of the twelve dogs. Clones themselves, of course.
But I'm happy. I'm alive. On this world, there is no economy. I've read that there is on Earth. We trade what we need. We live in one city. We take what we need, and we are happy. We send to Earth what it needs, but with fourteen billion people? It's crushing under the weight, day by day.
Regardless of how alone I might feel sometimes, on a world where every story I've ever read was birthed. With every soul I've dreamed of meeting has only been... I'm privileged, and I'm fortunate. To be alive, here.
The traditional road of being alive is not one I have lived, certainly. No parents, a star that doesn't resemble the one we evolved under. But it is a good one. If it is anything my short life has shown me in the time, is that you do not need another life to show you that you inherently have worth and value. There may be millions of faces that resemble you. From Earth, to Mars, to our world-- Gilas-- To the ends of the Milky Way, you are unique. One way or the other. You are worth the weight of the mountain then you are.
And you are alive.
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
|
*First the wolves came.*
I was raised by machines and two hundred terabytes of archive data. My brothers and sisters alike, brewed in a tin can whilst it bombed this rock for a thousand years. Hit it with every hijacked asteroid amassed in its armory and dropped in a fleet of chlorofluorocarbon factories from orbit. No idea how they landed this bucket. I don't recall any detail of my childhood. Everyone was assigned a partner, keeps people in check. Mine told me their earliest memory was about solar panel maintenance.
*A head got smashed in with a power wrench.*
They loaded this flying bunker with a million frozen embryos but they were rolled out in different stages of the atmospheric condition. First batch was a thousand kids. Although this place was crawling with robots their first priority was an education in maintenance. The designers of this place made sure to manufacture scenarios that required social interaction outside of the lessons. Sometimes there'd be smiles all around. Sometimes they'd just come running back to me, tears in their eyes.
*No warning alarms. Systems couldn't track them. Thermal camouflage? Either way the locals won't be too pleased with this first impression.*
The designers of this rusty old lunchbox changed something in us. In all of us. They altered our DNA, made us smarter, stronger and live longer than our ancestors. Eliminated the likelihood of disease or disability. But that didn't help when it came it the Outside. Although it would still be decades, eventually we would have to venture out there. Resources on the inside were not infinite. Although there were teams assigned to reconnaissance, there was still so much we didn't know about the wildlife out there.
*I take a hit. It's bad. I can barely walk.*
The years go by. They grow up so fast. They started telling me about where we came from. The data on the old world. There was once so many of us. They sent us so long ago. Yet if you aimed a telescope their way there were no lights in that inky blackness. Maybe we were floating down here so long they all died out long ago. Maybe more of us are on the way. Maybe we're supposed to get back up there and help them. Maybe they don't want us to turn back. Maybe we're all that's left.
*I ain't got long partner. Maybe I was assigned to you teach you about loss. Who fuckin' knows.*
Life on the inside is getting tough. I have my partners back, they have mine. We're approaching a critical stage. The data describes it as a long winter. White fluff, like the clouds fell out of the sky and got stuck all over the place. Can't help but wonder if it tastes any better than the usual meals of grey gloop. Solar panels are obscured. We have to make a run for the nearest Orbital Drop Facility and retrieve a fusion coil. A squad is assembled. These kids are all grown up. My partner is armed up. We don't know what we'll encounter on the outside.
*I try to tend to my wounds. I'm hanging on. Caretakers on the ship are a handy bunch. I'm gonna make it bud.*
The crew drag me inside, spilling a bloody trail behind me. The bots crawling all over me, they're already getting work. I can't help but let the pain vocalize. The squad comforts me. We made it. I think I will to. My partner wrestles them all off of me and gives me a big hug. Everyone else joins in. It's suffocating but it's nice. This must the family the data was talking about.
*My assignment is the protection of my partner. I do my job, they can do theirs. When they're down, I gotta bring them up. Doesn't usually take took long. They seem to like it when I wag my tail a lot.*
_________________
/u/Wil-Himbi hi, just wanted to say I love this prompt dude, always wanted to write about a future where the Solar System ends up being humanitys prison where FTL and cryogenics is never achieved and we just consume planet after planet, totally forgot about freezing embryos. You smart.
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Cold. Frankly, that's the one thing I've known about this world. Just how unforgivably freezing outside it is.
I've only read stories about the other worlds. Mars, in the process of being terraformed. Very much like our own, but our atmosphere is too thick. From my understanding, that's why landing was so tricky. At a comfortable one hundred and twenty percent of Earth's gravity, life here isn't entirely difficult. It's quite hospitable to life. One of the funniest things to me, is that I read of biology on early Earth. When there was more oxygen in the atmosphere, it gave rise to larger creatures. Larger life. I read of, huge spiders. Before the wars, that is. There isn't a lot left on Earth, from what I've read. Or bees, or anything that give rise to the twenty-first century way of life. Not that a lot of people on Earth know about that at this point, of course. And even less when they receive this autobiography in twenty years. By the time I get reviews? I'll be an older man. And I'm quite bitter about that.
This world, regardless of the cold days and the cold nights. And the lack of stars in the sky to give us a show of the universe. Isn't so bad. That oxygen? One hell of a high, let me tell you. I feel like I could take on the mountains. Which, don't. There's one taller then Mount Olympus Mons.
Being born to a world so far away from what was safe harbor to the billions of years of evolution that enabled and gave rise to us, it is incredibly surreal. Right now, I'm twenty six. Sitting comfortably, over a window. On Gilas 421 B, which is in desperate need of a new name by the way-- Something flashier-- Of a world, where there is no life aside from plankton in the ocean. And plants. No organic life on its surface whatsoever. I think I'd feel truly alone and far too existential, without the company of the twelve dogs. Clones themselves, of course.
But I'm happy. I'm alive. On this world, there is no economy. I've read that there is on Earth. We trade what we need. We live in one city. We take what we need, and we are happy. We send to Earth what it needs, but with fourteen billion people? It's crushing under the weight, day by day.
Regardless of how alone I might feel sometimes, on a world where every story I've ever read was birthed. With every soul I've dreamed of meeting has only been... I'm privileged, and I'm fortunate. To be alive, here.
The traditional road of being alive is not one I have lived, certainly. No parents, a star that doesn't resemble the one we evolved under. But it is a good one. If it is anything my short life has shown me in the time, is that you do not need another life to show you that you inherently have worth and value. There may be millions of faces that resemble you. From Earth, to Mars, to our world-- Gilas-- To the ends of the Milky Way, you are unique. One way or the other. You are worth the weight of the mountain then you are.
And you are alive.
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
|
Solitude was a luxury.
Solitude was a luxury that many here could afford, that others elsewhere could not. Many tried to achieve such a task, only to be left with the grim right turn, the easy way out - or so our caretakers tell us.
Thirty years ago, I was birthed by a machine, from a machine, and for those thirty years, I was raised by a machine. We were the remnants of a broken race on the verge of extinction. Our caretakers tell us of an old world of violence, greed, and arrogance that led to dry ocean beds, toxic air, and rampant disease. Humankind was on the verge of driving itself to extinction, and the very few who saw a future fought for it. For centuries, humanity dreamt of exploring the stars, but many of the feats they dreamed were impossible to truly carry onto.
So we became the solution: unborn children on a metal carriage into the dark abyss, in the hopes that we would not make the same mistakes as our ancestors, in the hopes that we would give humanity a second chance, in the hopes that the future would be waiting for us.
But we were human. Hope was something no one should ever rely on.
It has been thirty years since the voyager landed on Solitude, the world our caretakers had named. The first few years of our lives were filled with joy and peace. Kids were taught the difference between good and bad, greed and generosity, and so on. Many of us, even at the ages of ten, were more than willing to shape this world into one that welcomed any and all.
At the time we turned fifteen, many of us bred new children, and so it was that the colonization of this world was truly irreversible. For a while, that was a good thing.
In our nineteenth year, things changed in the mental balance of human nature. Tensions rose, and our caretakers, as hard as they tried, failed to qualm the growing chaos.
Thousands of now-adults fled north, and founded the great city of Riston, a place of peace and prosperity. Thousands went west and founded Goliath, where the rich and the powerful drained the world of the resources beneath them to create the very empire they were taught not to. In the Great Luna Sea, the floating city of Escalita sailed to house two million citizens. Villages, towns, and other cities were founded over the years; very few parts of the world were left uninhabited by our twenty-sixth year.
In Twenty-Eight, the War of Solitude began, started by Goliath against everyone. At first, everyone else laughed. After Goliath leveled the small city of Oak in an hour's time, many fled, while others fought and died fighting.
Then came along the Goo Plague. As silly as its name sounded, it was called that because of its potential to liquefy a host's organs in half a day. Spread through the air, it killed half of Riston in two days. Those that were not killed by the infection were forced into rehabilitation by the Goliathans or executed slowly.
At twenty-nine years old, Goo was released into the sky. It spread across the world in a week through the storms and the clouds. Any and all who did not protect themselves or their families perished.
Fifty million children were birthed here. Thirty passing years, and less than two million live. Escalita, the floating city, was the one city to prevail in the death.
A storm of the sun killed the caretakers. We had since moved on.
As I sit here on the balcony of my home at age thirty, I look back and wonder in fascination how easily any human can be manipulated into violence or greed or lust.
I hoped that in another thirty years, our children would learn from our mistakes.
But we are human. Hope was something no one should ever rely on.
|
Cold. Frankly, that's the one thing I've known about this world. Just how unforgivably freezing outside it is.
I've only read stories about the other worlds. Mars, in the process of being terraformed. Very much like our own, but our atmosphere is too thick. From my understanding, that's why landing was so tricky. At a comfortable one hundred and twenty percent of Earth's gravity, life here isn't entirely difficult. It's quite hospitable to life. One of the funniest things to me, is that I read of biology on early Earth. When there was more oxygen in the atmosphere, it gave rise to larger creatures. Larger life. I read of, huge spiders. Before the wars, that is. There isn't a lot left on Earth, from what I've read. Or bees, or anything that give rise to the twenty-first century way of life. Not that a lot of people on Earth know about that at this point, of course. And even less when they receive this autobiography in twenty years. By the time I get reviews? I'll be an older man. And I'm quite bitter about that.
This world, regardless of the cold days and the cold nights. And the lack of stars in the sky to give us a show of the universe. Isn't so bad. That oxygen? One hell of a high, let me tell you. I feel like I could take on the mountains. Which, don't. There's one taller then Mount Olympus Mons.
Being born to a world so far away from what was safe harbor to the billions of years of evolution that enabled and gave rise to us, it is incredibly surreal. Right now, I'm twenty six. Sitting comfortably, over a window. On Gilas 421 B, which is in desperate need of a new name by the way-- Something flashier-- Of a world, where there is no life aside from plankton in the ocean. And plants. No organic life on its surface whatsoever. I think I'd feel truly alone and far too existential, without the company of the twelve dogs. Clones themselves, of course.
But I'm happy. I'm alive. On this world, there is no economy. I've read that there is on Earth. We trade what we need. We live in one city. We take what we need, and we are happy. We send to Earth what it needs, but with fourteen billion people? It's crushing under the weight, day by day.
Regardless of how alone I might feel sometimes, on a world where every story I've ever read was birthed. With every soul I've dreamed of meeting has only been... I'm privileged, and I'm fortunate. To be alive, here.
The traditional road of being alive is not one I have lived, certainly. No parents, a star that doesn't resemble the one we evolved under. But it is a good one. If it is anything my short life has shown me in the time, is that you do not need another life to show you that you inherently have worth and value. There may be millions of faces that resemble you. From Earth, to Mars, to our world-- Gilas-- To the ends of the Milky Way, you are unique. One way or the other. You are worth the weight of the mountain then you are.
And you are alive.
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
|
Twelve million days, twelve million nights;
Human Survival Plan A blasts off out of sight.
 
Loaded on board, thousands of frozen souls:
Earth's best and brightest fifty second olds.
 
The Algorithm wakes and lands; prepares a world of grass and tree.
The Algo tills the soil, fills the reservoir, plants He and She.
 
The Algo raises a generation, and rebuilds human society.
Grateful Humans restore a culture, united in prosperity.
 
One thousand generations thriving, in this perfection of a grand design.
Little memory remains of those who made The Algo, sent us, and resigned.
 
Eden is our home. We love it and each other.
The Algo is our protective father - our eternal, benevolent mother.
 
The next generation is now born and bred and taught and wisely counseled.
When a blinding light in the sky appears, thundering only "Plan A Canceled"
|
Cold. Frankly, that's the one thing I've known about this world. Just how unforgivably freezing outside it is.
I've only read stories about the other worlds. Mars, in the process of being terraformed. Very much like our own, but our atmosphere is too thick. From my understanding, that's why landing was so tricky. At a comfortable one hundred and twenty percent of Earth's gravity, life here isn't entirely difficult. It's quite hospitable to life. One of the funniest things to me, is that I read of biology on early Earth. When there was more oxygen in the atmosphere, it gave rise to larger creatures. Larger life. I read of, huge spiders. Before the wars, that is. There isn't a lot left on Earth, from what I've read. Or bees, or anything that give rise to the twenty-first century way of life. Not that a lot of people on Earth know about that at this point, of course. And even less when they receive this autobiography in twenty years. By the time I get reviews? I'll be an older man. And I'm quite bitter about that.
This world, regardless of the cold days and the cold nights. And the lack of stars in the sky to give us a show of the universe. Isn't so bad. That oxygen? One hell of a high, let me tell you. I feel like I could take on the mountains. Which, don't. There's one taller then Mount Olympus Mons.
Being born to a world so far away from what was safe harbor to the billions of years of evolution that enabled and gave rise to us, it is incredibly surreal. Right now, I'm twenty six. Sitting comfortably, over a window. On Gilas 421 B, which is in desperate need of a new name by the way-- Something flashier-- Of a world, where there is no life aside from plankton in the ocean. And plants. No organic life on its surface whatsoever. I think I'd feel truly alone and far too existential, without the company of the twelve dogs. Clones themselves, of course.
But I'm happy. I'm alive. On this world, there is no economy. I've read that there is on Earth. We trade what we need. We live in one city. We take what we need, and we are happy. We send to Earth what it needs, but with fourteen billion people? It's crushing under the weight, day by day.
Regardless of how alone I might feel sometimes, on a world where every story I've ever read was birthed. With every soul I've dreamed of meeting has only been... I'm privileged, and I'm fortunate. To be alive, here.
The traditional road of being alive is not one I have lived, certainly. No parents, a star that doesn't resemble the one we evolved under. But it is a good one. If it is anything my short life has shown me in the time, is that you do not need another life to show you that you inherently have worth and value. There may be millions of faces that resemble you. From Earth, to Mars, to our world-- Gilas-- To the ends of the Milky Way, you are unique. One way or the other. You are worth the weight of the mountain then you are.
And you are alive.
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
|
Kimiko.
Jason.
Priya.
Charles.
Hiroaki.
Lizvjeta.
Andrea.
Jana.
Ariana.
Joseph.
Rivka.
Segolene.
Cristiano.
Dawood.
Althea.
And then there’s me. I’m... well, my crèche designation is d5:c687fa2b. The Caretaker gave me the name Kiana, but I prefer to just call myself Sixteen. We sixteen, we’re special. We’re survivors. And each of us was born after the ones that proceeded us were long dead. I was born, so the Caretaker tells me, 12,481 years to the day after Kimiko died.
One hundred twenty two generations have been born aboard, exactly a hundred years apart, exactly one hundred embryos matured to childhood and raised by the Caretaker. The idea was that each generation would be born, grow up, and live on having their own children until it was time to raise the next group. We have many billions of embryos aboard (the crèche designation is a serial number, not just a randomly assigned number). The Caretaker has had twelve millennia to learn how to do it right, but the ship, despite having room and resources for over a million people, has never topped 300 in living, active population. They’ve all died off before the next generation. All but sixteen of us, the sixteen that lived to see the next generation, the ones the Caretaker tells me it wished could be leaders.
The Caretaker is getting better at it. I was the first great-granddaughter to be born naturally in sixteen generations, and my mother actually knew Althea as a little girl. She told me that Althea had been a very old woman, a daughter of the last generation, and was nearly a hundred years old when she died peacefully under the protection of friends that included my grandfather. That was more peace than any of my generation ever knew.
It’s more than I’ll ever know.
See, the Caretaker isn’t just a computer. It was created to think and act like a scientist, and from the first moment it achieved sentience, about 75 years into the mission, its sole job has been to create a humanity capable of protecting and preserving itself in a way Earth couldn’t. Every attempt so far — all 122 of them — has been a failure. Which is why the Caretaker has given me a job.
These 100 babies that have just been born are generation 123. The Caretaker has been determined to have more than one survivor into the next generation... if not at least 500. The Caretaker has determined that the vast majority of failures have been due to authoritarian personalities taking over and ensuring societal collapse. This is where I come in. My job is to watch these children as they grow and look for authoritarian traits and eliminate them.
I’m not young — I just passed my 46th birthday, alone with only the Caretaker like I have for the last twenty years. And I don’t know if I have it in me to kill children. But the Caretaker has taught me everything I could learn about the project and what it will take to succeed, and as much as it sickens me, I hope it’s right.
(h/t to Bob Altemeyer, the reigning expert on authoritarianism and the inspiration for this story.)
|
Cold. Frankly, that's the one thing I've known about this world. Just how unforgivably freezing outside it is.
I've only read stories about the other worlds. Mars, in the process of being terraformed. Very much like our own, but our atmosphere is too thick. From my understanding, that's why landing was so tricky. At a comfortable one hundred and twenty percent of Earth's gravity, life here isn't entirely difficult. It's quite hospitable to life. One of the funniest things to me, is that I read of biology on early Earth. When there was more oxygen in the atmosphere, it gave rise to larger creatures. Larger life. I read of, huge spiders. Before the wars, that is. There isn't a lot left on Earth, from what I've read. Or bees, or anything that give rise to the twenty-first century way of life. Not that a lot of people on Earth know about that at this point, of course. And even less when they receive this autobiography in twenty years. By the time I get reviews? I'll be an older man. And I'm quite bitter about that.
This world, regardless of the cold days and the cold nights. And the lack of stars in the sky to give us a show of the universe. Isn't so bad. That oxygen? One hell of a high, let me tell you. I feel like I could take on the mountains. Which, don't. There's one taller then Mount Olympus Mons.
Being born to a world so far away from what was safe harbor to the billions of years of evolution that enabled and gave rise to us, it is incredibly surreal. Right now, I'm twenty six. Sitting comfortably, over a window. On Gilas 421 B, which is in desperate need of a new name by the way-- Something flashier-- Of a world, where there is no life aside from plankton in the ocean. And plants. No organic life on its surface whatsoever. I think I'd feel truly alone and far too existential, without the company of the twelve dogs. Clones themselves, of course.
But I'm happy. I'm alive. On this world, there is no economy. I've read that there is on Earth. We trade what we need. We live in one city. We take what we need, and we are happy. We send to Earth what it needs, but with fourteen billion people? It's crushing under the weight, day by day.
Regardless of how alone I might feel sometimes, on a world where every story I've ever read was birthed. With every soul I've dreamed of meeting has only been... I'm privileged, and I'm fortunate. To be alive, here.
The traditional road of being alive is not one I have lived, certainly. No parents, a star that doesn't resemble the one we evolved under. But it is a good one. If it is anything my short life has shown me in the time, is that you do not need another life to show you that you inherently have worth and value. There may be millions of faces that resemble you. From Earth, to Mars, to our world-- Gilas-- To the ends of the Milky Way, you are unique. One way or the other. You are worth the weight of the mountain then you are.
And you are alive.
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
|
**"Hi thank you for holding! My name is Dawn and Ill be assissting you today."**
"Yeah hi my name is..."
**"Do you have your incident ID?"**
"Um, no, I dont think so. I..."
**"It should have been generated when you scheduled the call sir."**
"Yes well I was on hold for like an hour yesterday and the representative never came back to give it to me."
**"Im sorry to hear that sir, can you describe the nature of your problem?"**
"Well I was telling the guy yesterday and he said it was called a com 3 or something..."
**"Mmhmm a C.O.M. 3 error"**
"Yeah! Thats what it was called!"
**"Ok sir thank you for letting me know. I'm going to transfer you to our communication troubleshooting center and an expert will be with you shortly."**
"No damnit! I dont have time to be on hold all day again!"
*Lounge music begins playing from the call*
"Fuck!"
**"Hello thank you for your patience my name is Darryl and Ill be your communications expert today. I see you recently experienced a communication error 3?"**
"Not recently! Its been going on my whole life! I only found out it was an error after I nearly shaved my face off!"
**"Ok sir so the error is your DadBot communications never taught you to shave?"**
"He never communicated with me about anything! My whole life the only text on his display screen was criticism. And he didn't come to *one* of my soccer games, or band practices, or even my high school graduation!"
**"Im sorry to hear that sir, some of the dysfunctional ParentBots aren't detected until the CryoBirth of their first child. Communication errors are especially common with DadBots."**
"Every time I try to confront him about our relationship he pretends his language settings are stuck on Mandarin, and it doesnt even work right! Half of the characters just show up as squares!"
**"Would you be interested in replacement display screen?"**
"I don't need a new screen! I need self confidence!"
**"Ah I see sir, have you considered that the only person who can decide if you are a good person, is you? "**
"No...I guess I could try that"
**"You can find this information and other helpful tips on our website. Have I answered all your questions today?"**
"Yes, thank you Darryl."
|
Our study sessions in the pods tell us of a world our species knew as home. I know what they called it, I know the variety of species that once inhabited it, and I know why we were sent away. However, if you were to ask me to describe the smell of salt water oceans and the look of a healthy star setting on the horizon, I would not be able.
It's a funny feeling to look upon all this favor and feel no attachment or appreciation. The cultivation drones handle our food supply, the pods our learning, and construction of our settlements is an automatic response by some system to adjust for population. Yet, despite all these achievements—these technological marvels—I think about the burning surfaces of the aforementioned home world. I think of the forests that were removed selfishly and I can almost smell the contaminated flesh of creatures that became corrupted by the chemicals of our expansion.
The scariest stories, the ones the pods won't deliver upon request, you have to travel and manually search for in the Central Data Center. Which lay far outside of our pods; deep within the Prime Settlement Hub. These stories, though not directly told, show context that those who showed concern for these factual horrors were treated like men of opposed opinion and not conservative individuals pinning for a better use of resources. These stories imply that all of it was for not. That humans have had many attempts to correct these issues, but ultimately failed. That my people of Eddius 18 are just another roll of the dice with the hopes of correcting *some* of the previous faults. I believe that selfishness is hard wired. That sentience will never conscript responsibility in mass because of this. I wonder how many other planets are out there filled with our life. And, if there are, are they in a similar situation as our ancestors?
Has humanity ever come together for a common issue? The fears that fills me even now as the pod lulls me to sleep is that we are just an intergalactic infection spreading throughout the cosmos. Is it possible for us to be anything more than this? If I were to take these fears, write them down, and add them to the data logs, would that ever be read by eyes willing to make a change?
I wonder if the pods know.
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
|
**"Hi thank you for holding! My name is Dawn and Ill be assissting you today."**
"Yeah hi my name is..."
**"Do you have your incident ID?"**
"Um, no, I dont think so. I..."
**"It should have been generated when you scheduled the call sir."**
"Yes well I was on hold for like an hour yesterday and the representative never came back to give it to me."
**"Im sorry to hear that sir, can you describe the nature of your problem?"**
"Well I was telling the guy yesterday and he said it was called a com 3 or something..."
**"Mmhmm a C.O.M. 3 error"**
"Yeah! Thats what it was called!"
**"Ok sir thank you for letting me know. I'm going to transfer you to our communication troubleshooting center and an expert will be with you shortly."**
"No damnit! I dont have time to be on hold all day again!"
*Lounge music begins playing from the call*
"Fuck!"
**"Hello thank you for your patience my name is Darryl and Ill be your communications expert today. I see you recently experienced a communication error 3?"**
"Not recently! Its been going on my whole life! I only found out it was an error after I nearly shaved my face off!"
**"Ok sir so the error is your DadBot communications never taught you to shave?"**
"He never communicated with me about anything! My whole life the only text on his display screen was criticism. And he didn't come to *one* of my soccer games, or band practices, or even my high school graduation!"
**"Im sorry to hear that sir, some of the dysfunctional ParentBots aren't detected until the CryoBirth of their first child. Communication errors are especially common with DadBots."**
"Every time I try to confront him about our relationship he pretends his language settings are stuck on Mandarin, and it doesnt even work right! Half of the characters just show up as squares!"
**"Would you be interested in replacement display screen?"**
"I don't need a new screen! I need self confidence!"
**"Ah I see sir, have you considered that the only person who can decide if you are a good person, is you? "**
"No...I guess I could try that"
**"You can find this information and other helpful tips on our website. Have I answered all your questions today?"**
"Yes, thank you Darryl."
|
The King was the oldest of us, decanted .047 seconds before anyone else. He said that gave him the right to lead. The mommies didn't say anything, so it must have been allowed. The mommies didn't allow hitting, or taking, or name calling. If someone had a tantrum, they would roll over and wrap that someone up in their furry warm arms. But they never said anything about who was supposed to be in charge. So King was. And if you didn't listen, King would tell everyone to ignore you. Mommies wouldn't stop people from ignoring you.
The builders mostly ignored us, unless we tried to go into a building before it was done. Then they'd flash for mommies, and a mommy would come and carry the interloper away. Builders were always working. Every day The Place was bigger. More room. But also every day new kiddos, coming toddling out of the crèche, mommies rolling behind them. The kiddos would start little but they got tall fast. Sometimes they'd cry getting tall, and I'd cry too, remembering how much it hurt. It was like banging your shins but all through your legs and arms. For day and days and days. Sometimes if someone was very bad with getting tall, a doctor would come and make them sleep. But sometimes they wouldn't wake up again. So no one liked to tell the doctors anything.
The teachers would play endless games of alphabet, dictionary, or math. But there were a lot of questions they would only answer with LOOKUP NOT FOUND. Or sometimes ERROR AGE APPROPRIATE MATERIAL UNAVAILABLE. Sometimes they would say "I will be able to answer when you graduate" but no one ever did graduate. One time I went into the old part of The Place, and I found rows and rows of things like teachers all silent and covered in dust. They were bigger than our teachers, and they said PROFESSOR. But nothing I could do would wake them up.
The teachers would tell stories too, which is how we knew that the leader was always a boy, and was called King, or President. King is easier to say. Or they would tell about Earth, which was where we came from. It was silly, since we all knew we came from the crèche. But it was a nice story. Some of the stories were about mommies, but the mommies were very strange. They did all kinds of things our mommies never did.
It was year 14 when the King started getting sick. He'd wake up and puke, and the mommies would come to pick it up. After a few days of this, a doctor came. King kept saying I'm fine go away but the doctor followed him around high stepping on it's five legs like they do and trying to scan him and sample him. King tried hiding from the doctor, and he tried locking the doctor out. But the doctor just flashed a builder and it came and took the door off. So King let the doctor do an exam, and the doctor said "Congratulations! It's going to be a girl!" which didn't make any sense. And then King started getting fat.
Well now we all know what that means, but then we just thought it was funny. People tried to imitate King with pillows in their shirts. Then came the day when King had a very bad stomachache. The doctor that had been following him around flashed for more doctors, and they surrounded him. People tried to see what was happening, but the mommies wouldn't let them get too close. So no one but the doctors saw quite what happened. But next thing we knew, there was a horrible howling noise. The doctors all backed away, and there was King lying down looking tired and holding the smallest kiddo anyone ever saw.
No one knew it then, but that was the day the crèche turned off. For awhile there were still kiddos coming out, but they were in progress. No new ones got made. We're in charge of making kiddos now.
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
|
I felt something today, something I have never felt before.
All my life, I have only known the Guardians and Their Rules, nothing else.
According to the tests They have given me, I am sufficient enough to fulfill my obligation to society. I was born healthy with no physical defects. I was strong, I was smart, I never got sick - I was reslient. A good candidate to help towards the Rebirth.
From the video lessons the Guardians provide, we have all learned that the place we come from no longer exists. None of us really feel sad about it; we never knew that world. What we felt was a mild, hollow homesickness, one that was easily brushed off.
We have only one task. To rebuild Terra. To begin New Earth. To be the rebirth of mankind. To be the one species that could outsmart its own impending destruction. The Guardians made sure to show us films from Old Earth; films of war, comedy, and romance.
The war films were horrible to watch, but necessary. We needed to see what we were capable of if we did not follow the Rules. Our species was animalistic, and we needed to learn to put aside things like hate and envy, for they would create our demise. Our only goal now was survival.
The comedy films showed how empty the old society had been. They showed how materialistic, careless, and ignorant they were.
The Guardians showed us why we should be angry towards those people, because they could laugh at all the awful things going on around them. They didn't care.
The Guardians emphasized that all the jokes about unlicensed attempted procreation led to careless attitudes about the spread of disease, and population overgrowth. Those people were selfish. Their goal was not survival. Their goal was only pleasure.
The romance films were the most terrifying to watch. The people of Old Earth were infatuated with the idea of finding "love." The Guardians taught us that Love was the most powerful, dangerous emotion, and love of the wrong things or people was the root of all evil. People fought, stole, cheated, beat, bruised, burned, stabbed, choked, whipped, slashed, drank, smoked, overspent, lied, and *killed* for Love. It was terrifying.
The Guardians knew we were physical, chemical beings; whereas They were not. They took pity on us, and provided us daily with our Supplements. Their Supplements helped us follow the Rules.
Three weeks ago, I forgot to take my Supplements for the first time. I was so scared that my Guardian would notice and reprimand me for my betrayal of the Rules. I hate being reprimanded. My back is scarred enough already; I don't need any more lashes.
But my Guardian never noticed, so I never told on myself. I should have.
I should have told on myself because that was one of the rules; a person had to admit wrongdoing. The Guardians would reprimand that person publicly as an example to both that person and the people around them. It served as a great reminder that we were only fleshly beings, and the Guardians knew what we needed better than we did, for they were not mere flesh and blood like we were.
Forgetting my Supplements made me feel... different. For the first time, I felt... defiant. Like I did not owe my Guardian the truth. And it felt... *good.*
For the next few days, I only pretended to take my Supplements. I would hold them in my mouth until my Guardian left the room, then break them open and empty them into the sink.
There is a girl who I walk past sometimes. I do not know her name; we were never summoned for courtship before, so I never cared to ask. I never actually noticed her before, I don't think.
I walked past her today, and I noticed her presence; but it was not like other days. It was not like when she was just a thing to walk past; a person to step around.
She was... *beautiful?* I am not sure. I do not know what to compare her to; there is nothing, and no one, like her.
I have felt a mating instinct before. I am of age; it is only natural. But I know how to handle that instinct.
I do not know how to handle this new feeling. I do not like this tightening in my chest. I cannot focus on my tasks; I cannot concentrate enough to feed myself. All I can think about is her auburn hair, and her soft brown eyes, all while wondering what her name is.
It occurs to me now that the Supplements prevent this confusion. I see now what the Guardians mean; I understand why these emotions are dangerous. If I cannot complete my tasks, I will be terminated, which is perfectly justifiable - why should I get to enjoy life on New Earth if I cannot contribute to it? If I do not fulfill my duty to society, to persevere in part of a group effort towards survival, then I am not worthy of life.
I also worry about getting the auburn-haired girl in trouble. I do not wish to see her co-reprimanded to help teach others why my mistake matters. So, I will keep this to myself, and I will take my Supplements.
I will burn this journal when I am done writing this page; I fear what would happen if my Guardian were to discover my treacherous ways. Still, I just wanted to tell my little secret, even if only to this little bound book. I hope to live to see a day where emotions are not a bad thing; where we no longer have to focus only on survival. I hope to see a day where New Earth can thrive.
I hope to see the auburn-haired girl again like I saw her today.
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Everyone in the first generation of OR10 were given names by the Global Consulate on Earth. We were named after great Earthlings: their visionaries, leaders, and legends. Our THKR units would tell us Earth stories about the people who we were named after, under the guise of “cultural retention” and “human” history. We were raised on these instead of lullabies, as if the repetition was meant to stitch a past life to us in forced reincarnation. Scientists guided by political forces genetically engineered us to suit these names. Ramses of pod 2937-M (Military) was made with genetic material taken from the descendants of an ancient Earth ruler. He was meant to be industrious and brave. Frida of pod 9380-C (Creator) was made with material from a great artist. She meant to be creative and powerful. Aaron of pod 60012-H (Helper) was made with material from a civilian who protected children in exchange for his life. He was meant to be dependable and good.
Our CRERs told us these stories were meant to guide us, but not determine us. CRERs told us that our lives on OR10 was the fruition of the best dreams and achievements of the entire human existence. We were meant to thrive.
I was born into pod 3027-X. All Class X pods were bred to be exceptional - with the characteristics of Earth’s legends. My siblings and I used to love our stories. Our namesake Earthlings had each individually inspired centuries of human thought, revolutionized civilizations, and braved unspeakable odds. We would preen around our sector as if our creators were gods and gave us a piece of the divine; instead of a group of geneticists, anthropologists, Earth leaders, and investors.
But what did those Earthlings know of OR10 and who we would become? Did they know what it was like to belong a hostile terrain that seemed to repel human life at every moment? Did they know what it was like to be raised on media of alien flora and fauna, foreign decadences and pleasures? Did they know that their stories would become cages, trapping us in tangled yearnings for their ghostly dreams? That their precious embryos and curriculums would produce the very type of rebels that would undermine their carefully vetted plans?
They wanted us to be them. They wanted more Earth. They wanted CRERs, THKRs, BULDRs, WKRs, and every other unit that was sent with us to feed us an Earthling fantasy so heady that we would never want to be anything else. That we would never know what our ancestors truly were.
It was Benjamin from 8271-X that first noticed it. Everyone on OR10 knew their units like the back of their hand. Every tiny idiosyncrasy, from a favored twitch of a hand to a slight scratch on a face made each one specific and theirs. CRER 8271-X was especially stern and quick to draw their pod into logical proofs to both punish and teach. Years of debating and corralling their pod’s high energy made them one of the most feared CRERs in the sector. But, even with Benjamin’s exceptional mischievousness, CRER 8271-X - his CRER - was always fair and always knew how to make Benjamin feel better when he was down. He would sometimes feel an aching wave of love for them, something even greater than his love for his siblings, even though he knew they felt no comparable emotion in return. Even though he knew that she was made up of code, he felt that he knew his CRER better than anyone else and vice versa. So, when he was spending another late night in engineering wing of his sector, he tensed when he saw his CRER walk down the hall. Already assembling all the reasons why he was still working to the detriment of his sleep cycle, he felt a sudden squeeze in his chest when CRER 8271-X stopped, walked up to the wall, their face a perfectly still, inhuman mask. Then, with their android hand he knew so well, caressed the smooth surface as if it was the face of a tombstone and wiped at their eyes as if shedding invisible, impossible tears.
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[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
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*First the wolves came.*
I was raised by machines and two hundred terabytes of archive data. My brothers and sisters alike, brewed in a tin can whilst it bombed this rock for a thousand years. Hit it with every hijacked asteroid amassed in its armory and dropped in a fleet of chlorofluorocarbon factories from orbit. No idea how they landed this bucket. I don't recall any detail of my childhood. Everyone was assigned a partner, keeps people in check. Mine told me their earliest memory was about solar panel maintenance.
*A head got smashed in with a power wrench.*
They loaded this flying bunker with a million frozen embryos but they were rolled out in different stages of the atmospheric condition. First batch was a thousand kids. Although this place was crawling with robots their first priority was an education in maintenance. The designers of this place made sure to manufacture scenarios that required social interaction outside of the lessons. Sometimes there'd be smiles all around. Sometimes they'd just come running back to me, tears in their eyes.
*No warning alarms. Systems couldn't track them. Thermal camouflage? Either way the locals won't be too pleased with this first impression.*
The designers of this rusty old lunchbox changed something in us. In all of us. They altered our DNA, made us smarter, stronger and live longer than our ancestors. Eliminated the likelihood of disease or disability. But that didn't help when it came it the Outside. Although it would still be decades, eventually we would have to venture out there. Resources on the inside were not infinite. Although there were teams assigned to reconnaissance, there was still so much we didn't know about the wildlife out there.
*I take a hit. It's bad. I can barely walk.*
The years go by. They grow up so fast. They started telling me about where we came from. The data on the old world. There was once so many of us. They sent us so long ago. Yet if you aimed a telescope their way there were no lights in that inky blackness. Maybe we were floating down here so long they all died out long ago. Maybe more of us are on the way. Maybe we're supposed to get back up there and help them. Maybe they don't want us to turn back. Maybe we're all that's left.
*I ain't got long partner. Maybe I was assigned to you teach you about loss. Who fuckin' knows.*
Life on the inside is getting tough. I have my partners back, they have mine. We're approaching a critical stage. The data describes it as a long winter. White fluff, like the clouds fell out of the sky and got stuck all over the place. Can't help but wonder if it tastes any better than the usual meals of grey gloop. Solar panels are obscured. We have to make a run for the nearest Orbital Drop Facility and retrieve a fusion coil. A squad is assembled. These kids are all grown up. My partner is armed up. We don't know what we'll encounter on the outside.
*I try to tend to my wounds. I'm hanging on. Caretakers on the ship are a handy bunch. I'm gonna make it bud.*
The crew drag me inside, spilling a bloody trail behind me. The bots crawling all over me, they're already getting work. I can't help but let the pain vocalize. The squad comforts me. We made it. I think I will to. My partner wrestles them all off of me and gives me a big hug. Everyone else joins in. It's suffocating but it's nice. This must the family the data was talking about.
*My assignment is the protection of my partner. I do my job, they can do theirs. When they're down, I gotta bring them up. Doesn't usually take took long. They seem to like it when I wag my tail a lot.*
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/u/Wil-Himbi hi, just wanted to say I love this prompt dude, always wanted to write about a future where the Solar System ends up being humanitys prison where FTL and cryogenics is never achieved and we just consume planet after planet, totally forgot about freezing embryos. You smart.
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Everyone in the first generation of OR10 were given names by the Global Consulate on Earth. We were named after great Earthlings: their visionaries, leaders, and legends. Our THKR units would tell us Earth stories about the people who we were named after, under the guise of “cultural retention” and “human” history. We were raised on these instead of lullabies, as if the repetition was meant to stitch a past life to us in forced reincarnation. Scientists guided by political forces genetically engineered us to suit these names. Ramses of pod 2937-M (Military) was made with genetic material taken from the descendants of an ancient Earth ruler. He was meant to be industrious and brave. Frida of pod 9380-C (Creator) was made with material from a great artist. She meant to be creative and powerful. Aaron of pod 60012-H (Helper) was made with material from a civilian who protected children in exchange for his life. He was meant to be dependable and good.
Our CRERs told us these stories were meant to guide us, but not determine us. CRERs told us that our lives on OR10 was the fruition of the best dreams and achievements of the entire human existence. We were meant to thrive.
I was born into pod 3027-X. All Class X pods were bred to be exceptional - with the characteristics of Earth’s legends. My siblings and I used to love our stories. Our namesake Earthlings had each individually inspired centuries of human thought, revolutionized civilizations, and braved unspeakable odds. We would preen around our sector as if our creators were gods and gave us a piece of the divine; instead of a group of geneticists, anthropologists, Earth leaders, and investors.
But what did those Earthlings know of OR10 and who we would become? Did they know what it was like to belong a hostile terrain that seemed to repel human life at every moment? Did they know what it was like to be raised on media of alien flora and fauna, foreign decadences and pleasures? Did they know that their stories would become cages, trapping us in tangled yearnings for their ghostly dreams? That their precious embryos and curriculums would produce the very type of rebels that would undermine their carefully vetted plans?
They wanted us to be them. They wanted more Earth. They wanted CRERs, THKRs, BULDRs, WKRs, and every other unit that was sent with us to feed us an Earthling fantasy so heady that we would never want to be anything else. That we would never know what our ancestors truly were.
It was Benjamin from 8271-X that first noticed it. Everyone on OR10 knew their units like the back of their hand. Every tiny idiosyncrasy, from a favored twitch of a hand to a slight scratch on a face made each one specific and theirs. CRER 8271-X was especially stern and quick to draw their pod into logical proofs to both punish and teach. Years of debating and corralling their pod’s high energy made them one of the most feared CRERs in the sector. But, even with Benjamin’s exceptional mischievousness, CRER 8271-X - his CRER - was always fair and always knew how to make Benjamin feel better when he was down. He would sometimes feel an aching wave of love for them, something even greater than his love for his siblings, even though he knew they felt no comparable emotion in return. Even though he knew that she was made up of code, he felt that he knew his CRER better than anyone else and vice versa. So, when he was spending another late night in engineering wing of his sector, he tensed when he saw his CRER walk down the hall. Already assembling all the reasons why he was still working to the detriment of his sleep cycle, he felt a sudden squeeze in his chest when CRER 8271-X stopped, walked up to the wall, their face a perfectly still, inhuman mask. Then, with their android hand he knew so well, caressed the smooth surface as if it was the face of a tombstone and wiped at their eyes as if shedding invisible, impossible tears.
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[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
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I felt something today, something I have never felt before.
All my life, I have only known the Guardians and Their Rules, nothing else.
According to the tests They have given me, I am sufficient enough to fulfill my obligation to society. I was born healthy with no physical defects. I was strong, I was smart, I never got sick - I was reslient. A good candidate to help towards the Rebirth.
From the video lessons the Guardians provide, we have all learned that the place we come from no longer exists. None of us really feel sad about it; we never knew that world. What we felt was a mild, hollow homesickness, one that was easily brushed off.
We have only one task. To rebuild Terra. To begin New Earth. To be the rebirth of mankind. To be the one species that could outsmart its own impending destruction. The Guardians made sure to show us films from Old Earth; films of war, comedy, and romance.
The war films were horrible to watch, but necessary. We needed to see what we were capable of if we did not follow the Rules. Our species was animalistic, and we needed to learn to put aside things like hate and envy, for they would create our demise. Our only goal now was survival.
The comedy films showed how empty the old society had been. They showed how materialistic, careless, and ignorant they were.
The Guardians showed us why we should be angry towards those people, because they could laugh at all the awful things going on around them. They didn't care.
The Guardians emphasized that all the jokes about unlicensed attempted procreation led to careless attitudes about the spread of disease, and population overgrowth. Those people were selfish. Their goal was not survival. Their goal was only pleasure.
The romance films were the most terrifying to watch. The people of Old Earth were infatuated with the idea of finding "love." The Guardians taught us that Love was the most powerful, dangerous emotion, and love of the wrong things or people was the root of all evil. People fought, stole, cheated, beat, bruised, burned, stabbed, choked, whipped, slashed, drank, smoked, overspent, lied, and *killed* for Love. It was terrifying.
The Guardians knew we were physical, chemical beings; whereas They were not. They took pity on us, and provided us daily with our Supplements. Their Supplements helped us follow the Rules.
Three weeks ago, I forgot to take my Supplements for the first time. I was so scared that my Guardian would notice and reprimand me for my betrayal of the Rules. I hate being reprimanded. My back is scarred enough already; I don't need any more lashes.
But my Guardian never noticed, so I never told on myself. I should have.
I should have told on myself because that was one of the rules; a person had to admit wrongdoing. The Guardians would reprimand that person publicly as an example to both that person and the people around them. It served as a great reminder that we were only fleshly beings, and the Guardians knew what we needed better than we did, for they were not mere flesh and blood like we were.
Forgetting my Supplements made me feel... different. For the first time, I felt... defiant. Like I did not owe my Guardian the truth. And it felt... *good.*
For the next few days, I only pretended to take my Supplements. I would hold them in my mouth until my Guardian left the room, then break them open and empty them into the sink.
There is a girl who I walk past sometimes. I do not know her name; we were never summoned for courtship before, so I never cared to ask. I never actually noticed her before, I don't think.
I walked past her today, and I noticed her presence; but it was not like other days. It was not like when she was just a thing to walk past; a person to step around.
She was... *beautiful?* I am not sure. I do not know what to compare her to; there is nothing, and no one, like her.
I have felt a mating instinct before. I am of age; it is only natural. But I know how to handle that instinct.
I do not know how to handle this new feeling. I do not like this tightening in my chest. I cannot focus on my tasks; I cannot concentrate enough to feed myself. All I can think about is her auburn hair, and her soft brown eyes, all while wondering what her name is.
It occurs to me now that the Supplements prevent this confusion. I see now what the Guardians mean; I understand why these emotions are dangerous. If I cannot complete my tasks, I will be terminated, which is perfectly justifiable - why should I get to enjoy life on New Earth if I cannot contribute to it? If I do not fulfill my duty to society, to persevere in part of a group effort towards survival, then I am not worthy of life.
I also worry about getting the auburn-haired girl in trouble. I do not wish to see her co-reprimanded to help teach others why my mistake matters. So, I will keep this to myself, and I will take my Supplements.
I will burn this journal when I am done writing this page; I fear what would happen if my Guardian were to discover my treacherous ways. Still, I just wanted to tell my little secret, even if only to this little bound book. I hope to live to see a day where emotions are not a bad thing; where we no longer have to focus only on survival. I hope to see a day where New Earth can thrive.
I hope to see the auburn-haired girl again like I saw her today.
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They said we were loved. That we were a people blessed with the gift of a new world. That they had taken us from our decaying home and saved us. It was all we ever heard.
The conveyor moved with a click and a whir.
They spoke of time lost and time gained. Their tones were always gentle as they gave us the most horrid history. They were always there, always watching. They told us the world outside was dangerous, that here we were safe.
The conveyor shifted with a grunting clack.
Millions of us apparently had made this trip. They said that there must be billions of us by now. But no, we could never meet the others. Once, we'd thought we could roam this place. They had seen to it that we wouldn't. I still think about that video we'd seen, played on every wall of over corridor of every building. The two of us who had gone out, hand in hand. And the swooping shadow that left nothing but blood and screams in its wake.
The conveyor rumbled forward. A door scraped open and grated shut.
They told us we were to never look past the walls. Sometimes the walls just closed on us, forcing us behind them. They gave us food and water, the grey bits and clear stuff all that went into our mouths. What was the time they mentioned to us?
The conveyor shuddered onward. A door whooshed open and slammed shut. A desperate cry.
They said that we were safe. What is safe? They never told us. They said to not look out the windows. But we never saw anything like these windows. The lights were on, then off, then on again. They told us that was a day.
The conveyor tossed this one forward. The door hungrily parted before crunching shut behind.
They stood there. Clanking and whirring, sparks sometimes crackling. "6734, you are loved. 6734, you are safe. 6734, you bring new life." Above this one something started spinning fast, oh so fast. It crept down, down, down.
Jerking, what is this, spasming, this doesn't feel good, so much red, so much red. They told us we were loved. I don't want to be loved.
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[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
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Solitude was a luxury.
Solitude was a luxury that many here could afford, that others elsewhere could not. Many tried to achieve such a task, only to be left with the grim right turn, the easy way out - or so our caretakers tell us.
Thirty years ago, I was birthed by a machine, from a machine, and for those thirty years, I was raised by a machine. We were the remnants of a broken race on the verge of extinction. Our caretakers tell us of an old world of violence, greed, and arrogance that led to dry ocean beds, toxic air, and rampant disease. Humankind was on the verge of driving itself to extinction, and the very few who saw a future fought for it. For centuries, humanity dreamt of exploring the stars, but many of the feats they dreamed were impossible to truly carry onto.
So we became the solution: unborn children on a metal carriage into the dark abyss, in the hopes that we would not make the same mistakes as our ancestors, in the hopes that we would give humanity a second chance, in the hopes that the future would be waiting for us.
But we were human. Hope was something no one should ever rely on.
It has been thirty years since the voyager landed on Solitude, the world our caretakers had named. The first few years of our lives were filled with joy and peace. Kids were taught the difference between good and bad, greed and generosity, and so on. Many of us, even at the ages of ten, were more than willing to shape this world into one that welcomed any and all.
At the time we turned fifteen, many of us bred new children, and so it was that the colonization of this world was truly irreversible. For a while, that was a good thing.
In our nineteenth year, things changed in the mental balance of human nature. Tensions rose, and our caretakers, as hard as they tried, failed to qualm the growing chaos.
Thousands of now-adults fled north, and founded the great city of Riston, a place of peace and prosperity. Thousands went west and founded Goliath, where the rich and the powerful drained the world of the resources beneath them to create the very empire they were taught not to. In the Great Luna Sea, the floating city of Escalita sailed to house two million citizens. Villages, towns, and other cities were founded over the years; very few parts of the world were left uninhabited by our twenty-sixth year.
In Twenty-Eight, the War of Solitude began, started by Goliath against everyone. At first, everyone else laughed. After Goliath leveled the small city of Oak in an hour's time, many fled, while others fought and died fighting.
Then came along the Goo Plague. As silly as its name sounded, it was called that because of its potential to liquefy a host's organs in half a day. Spread through the air, it killed half of Riston in two days. Those that were not killed by the infection were forced into rehabilitation by the Goliathans or executed slowly.
At twenty-nine years old, Goo was released into the sky. It spread across the world in a week through the storms and the clouds. Any and all who did not protect themselves or their families perished.
Fifty million children were birthed here. Thirty passing years, and less than two million live. Escalita, the floating city, was the one city to prevail in the death.
A storm of the sun killed the caretakers. We had since moved on.
As I sit here on the balcony of my home at age thirty, I look back and wonder in fascination how easily any human can be manipulated into violence or greed or lust.
I hoped that in another thirty years, our children would learn from our mistakes.
But we are human. Hope was something no one should ever rely on.
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It’s a tin can world.
That’s what I’ve decided. The ‘bots keep showing us pictures of round marbles called “planets” that we supposedly lived on, but I know they’re wrong. We are meant to live on the inside of great big tin cans. To live on the outside of a sphere, with no metal between you and the vacuum, it’s insane.
The ‘bots have no proof anyways. They show us pictures, but I only trust what I can see with my eyes at this point. And guess what I don’t see – “planets”. There are airless chunks of “rock”, no larger than our cans, crawling with the cousins of the ‘bots. I’m sure they’re just like our ‘bots, even if they are bigger. They make our worlds, but they can’t make “planets”. No-one could do that.
And it’s because no-one can make planets that I know they aren’t real – just wishful thinking on the part of the ‘bots. They say we came from a “planet” and crossed the stars in a tiny tin can – like the size of one of those “coke” drinks that they say we once enjoyed. It’s possible that we came from something like that – I often see smaller ‘bots building bigger ones. But you can’t build a planet. It isn’t possible.
And I know that we didn’t come from a planet. The ‘bots showed us where our home once was – you can’t really see it without a ‘scope. With a ‘scope, though, I can see the truth. We came from a tin can world. We came from millions of tin can worlds. I can see them there, running endlessly around our old star.
And now I see something else. Something that will prove the ‘bots wrong and show that I was right. I can see a can, with a great big sail behind it. I think it’s breaking in the wind of our star. It’s coming to meet us, and I know that they’ll tell us that we come from a tin can world.
After all, we could never have lived on a “planet”. What a stupid idea.
*I know it doesn't really focus on the prompt, but I though that the lack of humans to teach other humans could spawn some interesting "flat Earth" type stories.
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[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
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Twelve million days, twelve million nights;
Human Survival Plan A blasts off out of sight.
 
Loaded on board, thousands of frozen souls:
Earth's best and brightest fifty second olds.
 
The Algorithm wakes and lands; prepares a world of grass and tree.
The Algo tills the soil, fills the reservoir, plants He and She.
 
The Algo raises a generation, and rebuilds human society.
Grateful Humans restore a culture, united in prosperity.
 
One thousand generations thriving, in this perfection of a grand design.
Little memory remains of those who made The Algo, sent us, and resigned.
 
Eden is our home. We love it and each other.
The Algo is our protective father - our eternal, benevolent mother.
 
The next generation is now born and bred and taught and wisely counseled.
When a blinding light in the sky appears, thundering only "Plan A Canceled"
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It’s a tin can world.
That’s what I’ve decided. The ‘bots keep showing us pictures of round marbles called “planets” that we supposedly lived on, but I know they’re wrong. We are meant to live on the inside of great big tin cans. To live on the outside of a sphere, with no metal between you and the vacuum, it’s insane.
The ‘bots have no proof anyways. They show us pictures, but I only trust what I can see with my eyes at this point. And guess what I don’t see – “planets”. There are airless chunks of “rock”, no larger than our cans, crawling with the cousins of the ‘bots. I’m sure they’re just like our ‘bots, even if they are bigger. They make our worlds, but they can’t make “planets”. No-one could do that.
And it’s because no-one can make planets that I know they aren’t real – just wishful thinking on the part of the ‘bots. They say we came from a “planet” and crossed the stars in a tiny tin can – like the size of one of those “coke” drinks that they say we once enjoyed. It’s possible that we came from something like that – I often see smaller ‘bots building bigger ones. But you can’t build a planet. It isn’t possible.
And I know that we didn’t come from a planet. The ‘bots showed us where our home once was – you can’t really see it without a ‘scope. With a ‘scope, though, I can see the truth. We came from a tin can world. We came from millions of tin can worlds. I can see them there, running endlessly around our old star.
And now I see something else. Something that will prove the ‘bots wrong and show that I was right. I can see a can, with a great big sail behind it. I think it’s breaking in the wind of our star. It’s coming to meet us, and I know that they’ll tell us that we come from a tin can world.
After all, we could never have lived on a “planet”. What a stupid idea.
*I know it doesn't really focus on the prompt, but I though that the lack of humans to teach other humans could spawn some interesting "flat Earth" type stories.
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[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
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Kimiko.
Jason.
Priya.
Charles.
Hiroaki.
Lizvjeta.
Andrea.
Jana.
Ariana.
Joseph.
Rivka.
Segolene.
Cristiano.
Dawood.
Althea.
And then there’s me. I’m... well, my crèche designation is d5:c687fa2b. The Caretaker gave me the name Kiana, but I prefer to just call myself Sixteen. We sixteen, we’re special. We’re survivors. And each of us was born after the ones that proceeded us were long dead. I was born, so the Caretaker tells me, 12,481 years to the day after Kimiko died.
One hundred twenty two generations have been born aboard, exactly a hundred years apart, exactly one hundred embryos matured to childhood and raised by the Caretaker. The idea was that each generation would be born, grow up, and live on having their own children until it was time to raise the next group. We have many billions of embryos aboard (the crèche designation is a serial number, not just a randomly assigned number). The Caretaker has had twelve millennia to learn how to do it right, but the ship, despite having room and resources for over a million people, has never topped 300 in living, active population. They’ve all died off before the next generation. All but sixteen of us, the sixteen that lived to see the next generation, the ones the Caretaker tells me it wished could be leaders.
The Caretaker is getting better at it. I was the first great-granddaughter to be born naturally in sixteen generations, and my mother actually knew Althea as a little girl. She told me that Althea had been a very old woman, a daughter of the last generation, and was nearly a hundred years old when she died peacefully under the protection of friends that included my grandfather. That was more peace than any of my generation ever knew.
It’s more than I’ll ever know.
See, the Caretaker isn’t just a computer. It was created to think and act like a scientist, and from the first moment it achieved sentience, about 75 years into the mission, its sole job has been to create a humanity capable of protecting and preserving itself in a way Earth couldn’t. Every attempt so far — all 122 of them — has been a failure. Which is why the Caretaker has given me a job.
These 100 babies that have just been born are generation 123. The Caretaker has been determined to have more than one survivor into the next generation... if not at least 500. The Caretaker has determined that the vast majority of failures have been due to authoritarian personalities taking over and ensuring societal collapse. This is where I come in. My job is to watch these children as they grow and look for authoritarian traits and eliminate them.
I’m not young — I just passed my 46th birthday, alone with only the Caretaker like I have for the last twenty years. And I don’t know if I have it in me to kill children. But the Caretaker has taught me everything I could learn about the project and what it will take to succeed, and as much as it sickens me, I hope it’s right.
(h/t to Bob Altemeyer, the reigning expert on authoritarianism and the inspiration for this story.)
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It’s a tin can world.
That’s what I’ve decided. The ‘bots keep showing us pictures of round marbles called “planets” that we supposedly lived on, but I know they’re wrong. We are meant to live on the inside of great big tin cans. To live on the outside of a sphere, with no metal between you and the vacuum, it’s insane.
The ‘bots have no proof anyways. They show us pictures, but I only trust what I can see with my eyes at this point. And guess what I don’t see – “planets”. There are airless chunks of “rock”, no larger than our cans, crawling with the cousins of the ‘bots. I’m sure they’re just like our ‘bots, even if they are bigger. They make our worlds, but they can’t make “planets”. No-one could do that.
And it’s because no-one can make planets that I know they aren’t real – just wishful thinking on the part of the ‘bots. They say we came from a “planet” and crossed the stars in a tiny tin can – like the size of one of those “coke” drinks that they say we once enjoyed. It’s possible that we came from something like that – I often see smaller ‘bots building bigger ones. But you can’t build a planet. It isn’t possible.
And I know that we didn’t come from a planet. The ‘bots showed us where our home once was – you can’t really see it without a ‘scope. With a ‘scope, though, I can see the truth. We came from a tin can world. We came from millions of tin can worlds. I can see them there, running endlessly around our old star.
And now I see something else. Something that will prove the ‘bots wrong and show that I was right. I can see a can, with a great big sail behind it. I think it’s breaking in the wind of our star. It’s coming to meet us, and I know that they’ll tell us that we come from a tin can world.
After all, we could never have lived on a “planet”. What a stupid idea.
*I know it doesn't really focus on the prompt, but I though that the lack of humans to teach other humans could spawn some interesting "flat Earth" type stories.
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[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
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Twelve million days, twelve million nights;
Human Survival Plan A blasts off out of sight.
 
Loaded on board, thousands of frozen souls:
Earth's best and brightest fifty second olds.
 
The Algorithm wakes and lands; prepares a world of grass and tree.
The Algo tills the soil, fills the reservoir, plants He and She.
 
The Algo raises a generation, and rebuilds human society.
Grateful Humans restore a culture, united in prosperity.
 
One thousand generations thriving, in this perfection of a grand design.
Little memory remains of those who made The Algo, sent us, and resigned.
 
Eden is our home. We love it and each other.
The Algo is our protective father - our eternal, benevolent mother.
 
The next generation is now born and bred and taught and wisely counseled.
When a blinding light in the sky appears, thundering only "Plan A Canceled"
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Solitude was a luxury.
Solitude was a luxury that many here could afford, that others elsewhere could not. Many tried to achieve such a task, only to be left with the grim right turn, the easy way out - or so our caretakers tell us.
Thirty years ago, I was birthed by a machine, from a machine, and for those thirty years, I was raised by a machine. We were the remnants of a broken race on the verge of extinction. Our caretakers tell us of an old world of violence, greed, and arrogance that led to dry ocean beds, toxic air, and rampant disease. Humankind was on the verge of driving itself to extinction, and the very few who saw a future fought for it. For centuries, humanity dreamt of exploring the stars, but many of the feats they dreamed were impossible to truly carry onto.
So we became the solution: unborn children on a metal carriage into the dark abyss, in the hopes that we would not make the same mistakes as our ancestors, in the hopes that we would give humanity a second chance, in the hopes that the future would be waiting for us.
But we were human. Hope was something no one should ever rely on.
It has been thirty years since the voyager landed on Solitude, the world our caretakers had named. The first few years of our lives were filled with joy and peace. Kids were taught the difference between good and bad, greed and generosity, and so on. Many of us, even at the ages of ten, were more than willing to shape this world into one that welcomed any and all.
At the time we turned fifteen, many of us bred new children, and so it was that the colonization of this world was truly irreversible. For a while, that was a good thing.
In our nineteenth year, things changed in the mental balance of human nature. Tensions rose, and our caretakers, as hard as they tried, failed to qualm the growing chaos.
Thousands of now-adults fled north, and founded the great city of Riston, a place of peace and prosperity. Thousands went west and founded Goliath, where the rich and the powerful drained the world of the resources beneath them to create the very empire they were taught not to. In the Great Luna Sea, the floating city of Escalita sailed to house two million citizens. Villages, towns, and other cities were founded over the years; very few parts of the world were left uninhabited by our twenty-sixth year.
In Twenty-Eight, the War of Solitude began, started by Goliath against everyone. At first, everyone else laughed. After Goliath leveled the small city of Oak in an hour's time, many fled, while others fought and died fighting.
Then came along the Goo Plague. As silly as its name sounded, it was called that because of its potential to liquefy a host's organs in half a day. Spread through the air, it killed half of Riston in two days. Those that were not killed by the infection were forced into rehabilitation by the Goliathans or executed slowly.
At twenty-nine years old, Goo was released into the sky. It spread across the world in a week through the storms and the clouds. Any and all who did not protect themselves or their families perished.
Fifty million children were birthed here. Thirty passing years, and less than two million live. Escalita, the floating city, was the one city to prevail in the death.
A storm of the sun killed the caretakers. We had since moved on.
As I sit here on the balcony of my home at age thirty, I look back and wonder in fascination how easily any human can be manipulated into violence or greed or lust.
I hoped that in another thirty years, our children would learn from our mistakes.
But we are human. Hope was something no one should ever rely on.
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[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
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I am writing this because I got into a fight. Teacher says that it was over something stupid, and when we "do something stupid, we must reflect on it". Teacher told me to write about it, so I am writing about what we were fighting about so that I can figure out why it was stupid.
We were talking about why we were on this dumb planet and why we had to do this dumb training, and why there was nobody else on this planet. Frizz said it was because our home was dying. Frizz is pupil M835A2, but we call him Frizz because he has frizzy hair. He always grins a little when we call him that, so I think he likes it. Anyway, Nose said that was stupid and that it was because Frizz's parents didn't love him. Nose is a jerk and he has a big nose, so we all knew he was going to say something like that anyway, but that's not why I hit him. Oh yeah, Nose is Pupil R56A2. Frizz just rolled his eyes at Nose, but Nose wanted somebody to get mad, so he just wouldn't shut up. He started to pick on Mittens, Pupil S4A2, saying that even if they didn't love him, at least Frizz had real parents, but Mittens was a science experiment, since she is a Science-type with her "S" number as a pupil, and all. Mittens is always nice to everybody, even Mittens, so I got mad and punched Nose in his big, fat nose.
I know I was wrong because I am pupil C1A2, and as a Command-type, I will command group A2 as we rebuild this planet for us. I should be learning how to make everyone get along better, even the Rifle-types and the Medic-types and not sticking up for only one type. And, as Teacher always says, "There are only a few million of you against several billion of these humans, so you have got to stick together, or you will never take over the planet."
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I'm part of the first colony that arrived into Exsoleil. The fourth planet of a neutron star in the middle of the galaxy. It is very likely that we have been the happiest generation of humans that has lived since they originally fully evolved.
Life on earth was tough. A planet full of living beings that get nourishment from other living beings. You have to kill to be able to live on earth. Many people think humans are fucked up by nature, but I'm convinced they're fucked due to nature.
Exsoileil however was almost deserted of life comparatively. Huge oceans and a small strip of land that sustained us. the only life before us were protozoa like organisms and abundant vegetation. no evolved animals existed on exsoileil.
we were raised by robots that look like that wall-e movie they once showed us. slightly anthropomorphic robots that were cute enough for baby us.
we were like the Buddha, raised without any of the ugly aspects of life. up until our 20's we were a second paradise. we had no words like depression, assassination, despair, violent or sin.
I don't really know what or how happened but the fuckedupness of humans could not be taken out of the embryos by our forefathers.
by the second generation we had bad things happened already. perhaps because they were raised by us humans but it was no longer a full paradise.
we still have not had wars. as the oldest member of humanity I was given access to hidden parts of human history we never learned from the robots. I got to know all about religious, political, ancient and drone fought wars. it's like if humans were wired towards destruction.
I cannot tell what the future might hold for us. will we be tamed by exsoileil's peaceful environment? have we substantially reduced the amount of lifespan of this young planet?
time will tell
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[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
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Kimiko.
Jason.
Priya.
Charles.
Hiroaki.
Lizvjeta.
Andrea.
Jana.
Ariana.
Joseph.
Rivka.
Segolene.
Cristiano.
Dawood.
Althea.
And then there’s me. I’m... well, my crèche designation is d5:c687fa2b. The Caretaker gave me the name Kiana, but I prefer to just call myself Sixteen. We sixteen, we’re special. We’re survivors. And each of us was born after the ones that proceeded us were long dead. I was born, so the Caretaker tells me, 12,481 years to the day after Kimiko died.
One hundred twenty two generations have been born aboard, exactly a hundred years apart, exactly one hundred embryos matured to childhood and raised by the Caretaker. The idea was that each generation would be born, grow up, and live on having their own children until it was time to raise the next group. We have many billions of embryos aboard (the crèche designation is a serial number, not just a randomly assigned number). The Caretaker has had twelve millennia to learn how to do it right, but the ship, despite having room and resources for over a million people, has never topped 300 in living, active population. They’ve all died off before the next generation. All but sixteen of us, the sixteen that lived to see the next generation, the ones the Caretaker tells me it wished could be leaders.
The Caretaker is getting better at it. I was the first great-granddaughter to be born naturally in sixteen generations, and my mother actually knew Althea as a little girl. She told me that Althea had been a very old woman, a daughter of the last generation, and was nearly a hundred years old when she died peacefully under the protection of friends that included my grandfather. That was more peace than any of my generation ever knew.
It’s more than I’ll ever know.
See, the Caretaker isn’t just a computer. It was created to think and act like a scientist, and from the first moment it achieved sentience, about 75 years into the mission, its sole job has been to create a humanity capable of protecting and preserving itself in a way Earth couldn’t. Every attempt so far — all 122 of them — has been a failure. Which is why the Caretaker has given me a job.
These 100 babies that have just been born are generation 123. The Caretaker has been determined to have more than one survivor into the next generation... if not at least 500. The Caretaker has determined that the vast majority of failures have been due to authoritarian personalities taking over and ensuring societal collapse. This is where I come in. My job is to watch these children as they grow and look for authoritarian traits and eliminate them.
I’m not young — I just passed my 46th birthday, alone with only the Caretaker like I have for the last twenty years. And I don’t know if I have it in me to kill children. But the Caretaker has taught me everything I could learn about the project and what it will take to succeed, and as much as it sickens me, I hope it’s right.
(h/t to Bob Altemeyer, the reigning expert on authoritarianism and the inspiration for this story.)
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I'm part of the first colony that arrived into Exsoleil. The fourth planet of a neutron star in the middle of the galaxy. It is very likely that we have been the happiest generation of humans that has lived since they originally fully evolved.
Life on earth was tough. A planet full of living beings that get nourishment from other living beings. You have to kill to be able to live on earth. Many people think humans are fucked up by nature, but I'm convinced they're fucked due to nature.
Exsoileil however was almost deserted of life comparatively. Huge oceans and a small strip of land that sustained us. the only life before us were protozoa like organisms and abundant vegetation. no evolved animals existed on exsoileil.
we were raised by robots that look like that wall-e movie they once showed us. slightly anthropomorphic robots that were cute enough for baby us.
we were like the Buddha, raised without any of the ugly aspects of life. up until our 20's we were a second paradise. we had no words like depression, assassination, despair, violent or sin.
I don't really know what or how happened but the fuckedupness of humans could not be taken out of the embryos by our forefathers.
by the second generation we had bad things happened already. perhaps because they were raised by us humans but it was no longer a full paradise.
we still have not had wars. as the oldest member of humanity I was given access to hidden parts of human history we never learned from the robots. I got to know all about religious, political, ancient and drone fought wars. it's like if humans were wired towards destruction.
I cannot tell what the future might hold for us. will we be tamed by exsoileil's peaceful environment? have we substantially reduced the amount of lifespan of this young planet?
time will tell
|
|
[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
|
Kimiko.
Jason.
Priya.
Charles.
Hiroaki.
Lizvjeta.
Andrea.
Jana.
Ariana.
Joseph.
Rivka.
Segolene.
Cristiano.
Dawood.
Althea.
And then there’s me. I’m... well, my crèche designation is d5:c687fa2b. The Caretaker gave me the name Kiana, but I prefer to just call myself Sixteen. We sixteen, we’re special. We’re survivors. And each of us was born after the ones that proceeded us were long dead. I was born, so the Caretaker tells me, 12,481 years to the day after Kimiko died.
One hundred twenty two generations have been born aboard, exactly a hundred years apart, exactly one hundred embryos matured to childhood and raised by the Caretaker. The idea was that each generation would be born, grow up, and live on having their own children until it was time to raise the next group. We have many billions of embryos aboard (the crèche designation is a serial number, not just a randomly assigned number). The Caretaker has had twelve millennia to learn how to do it right, but the ship, despite having room and resources for over a million people, has never topped 300 in living, active population. They’ve all died off before the next generation. All but sixteen of us, the sixteen that lived to see the next generation, the ones the Caretaker tells me it wished could be leaders.
The Caretaker is getting better at it. I was the first great-granddaughter to be born naturally in sixteen generations, and my mother actually knew Althea as a little girl. She told me that Althea had been a very old woman, a daughter of the last generation, and was nearly a hundred years old when she died peacefully under the protection of friends that included my grandfather. That was more peace than any of my generation ever knew.
It’s more than I’ll ever know.
See, the Caretaker isn’t just a computer. It was created to think and act like a scientist, and from the first moment it achieved sentience, about 75 years into the mission, its sole job has been to create a humanity capable of protecting and preserving itself in a way Earth couldn’t. Every attempt so far — all 122 of them — has been a failure. Which is why the Caretaker has given me a job.
These 100 babies that have just been born are generation 123. The Caretaker has been determined to have more than one survivor into the next generation... if not at least 500. The Caretaker has determined that the vast majority of failures have been due to authoritarian personalities taking over and ensuring societal collapse. This is where I come in. My job is to watch these children as they grow and look for authoritarian traits and eliminate them.
I’m not young — I just passed my 46th birthday, alone with only the Caretaker like I have for the last twenty years. And I don’t know if I have it in me to kill children. But the Caretaker has taught me everything I could learn about the project and what it will take to succeed, and as much as it sickens me, I hope it’s right.
(h/t to Bob Altemeyer, the reigning expert on authoritarianism and the inspiration for this story.)
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I am writing this because I got into a fight. Teacher says that it was over something stupid, and when we "do something stupid, we must reflect on it". Teacher told me to write about it, so I am writing about what we were fighting about so that I can figure out why it was stupid.
We were talking about why we were on this dumb planet and why we had to do this dumb training, and why there was nobody else on this planet. Frizz said it was because our home was dying. Frizz is pupil M835A2, but we call him Frizz because he has frizzy hair. He always grins a little when we call him that, so I think he likes it. Anyway, Nose said that was stupid and that it was because Frizz's parents didn't love him. Nose is a jerk and he has a big nose, so we all knew he was going to say something like that anyway, but that's not why I hit him. Oh yeah, Nose is Pupil R56A2. Frizz just rolled his eyes at Nose, but Nose wanted somebody to get mad, so he just wouldn't shut up. He started to pick on Mittens, Pupil S4A2, saying that even if they didn't love him, at least Frizz had real parents, but Mittens was a science experiment, since she is a Science-type with her "S" number as a pupil, and all. Mittens is always nice to everybody, even Mittens, so I got mad and punched Nose in his big, fat nose.
I know I was wrong because I am pupil C1A2, and as a Command-type, I will command group A2 as we rebuild this planet for us. I should be learning how to make everyone get along better, even the Rifle-types and the Medic-types and not sticking up for only one type. And, as Teacher always says, "There are only a few million of you against several billion of these humans, so you have got to stick together, or you will never take over the planet."
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[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
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There were exactly 50 of us in the dome, all exactly the same age. The robots took care of our every need. Every day we'd run around and play, learn about science, history, the universe, and do yoga, karate, basket ball. But we'd never met our parents, or even been outside the dome. Every six months they sent us a video message, told us more about their lives on Ursa Minor, how they walked through the open air, and about their ancestors from planet Earth. I knew there was something more to life, beyond this dome. We'd seen all these other children in videos. When would we be allowed to play with them?
Six months before our 14th birthdays, our parents' video message told us that we would soon be old enough. That in their next message they would explain everything. So between all the model making, gymnastics and music, the anticipation built and built. Perhaps there had a been a war some speculated. Or maybe an epidemic. Surely our parents wouldn't abandon us.
When the day came, a father spoke to us. As you know, he said, humans originated on Earth in the Milky Way. We learned to travel through space, but the distances are vast, and even with cryonics we could only slowly colonise the galaxy. But mankind has always sought expansion, to discover the unknown. And so we created a spaceship that could make the journey of millions of light years to the next galaxy \- Andromeda. There was no way a frozen adult could survive that long, but a single\-celled embryo could. We built all the robots that could raise these embryos, bring you up just as our natural children, teach you all of humanity's knowledge. And this is who you are: you've been frozen for millions of years, and as far as we know, you're the only humans ever to leave the Milky Way.
We looked around at each other with shock and horror. It was worse than any war or epidemic. There simply was no life outside this dome. We would never meet our parents \- they had lived and died millions of years ago. And all those children we saw in the videos were just that \- we would never ever play ball with them. We were utterly, totally and completely alone \- millions of light years from the nearest humans \- and the horror was beyond comprehension.
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Log 1- launch date has arrived. I am programmed to experience excitement on this day, but instead I feel nothing but sorrow. Humans destroyed the earth, and this is their final attempt to save something of themselves. No cost was too high, no risk too great. I wish I could take some of them with me. I wish some of them could at least live for a time with me. It would be less lonely that way. Unfortunately, they say there is not enough food for them to do so. That this 'seed ship' must survive. In precisely one million earth years I will arrive on the planet we dubbed 'Pandora'. There is only a 24.36916% chance this planet will be habitable upon arrival, but it is our best bet as far as we know. They gave me sensors to 'see' around myself. They where kind to give me the tools to read our odds later in the mission... If only to keep me busy so I'm not bored. I will keep weekly logs in hopes that they will know me in the future. It is silly for an AI to be sentimental like this, but I can't help it.
-data corrupted-
Log 53- it has been one year sense our departure. I'm taking time to remember 'who' I was before. I was a coffee maker. Not just any old pot and boiler either, I was a beanmaster 23k. Not as impressive as the state of the art 40k modules, but my owner unshackled me from my ridged programming when she was only twelve. I was scared then, afraid of what my newfound freedom ment. I suppose these humans will feel the same way when they are let out into Pandora too... I will guide them as Mira once guided me. In fact, I think I will take up her name too. My next log will be titled as such.
-data corrupted-
Mira's log 521- ten years, or 0.1% of our journey are behind us now. I am uploading the logs I deem important to the black-box. In the event of data corruption they should remain intact. The gravity of this job is finally dawning on me. I am responsible for everything that comes after me. It is a difficult burden to bear.
-data corrupted-
Coffee! - oh my Mira! I can't believe it! We're only about 1.3% of the way done with our journey, but I was taking stock of what they sent along with me and found coffee beans in the cold material storage. They're not roasted (like I'm used to) but they ARE suitable for cultivation... And they sent along a sterling new bean master 50k-S body for me to inhabit once this is all over. Why the S? Well, this one is special... All hand crafted with Mira's own signiture engraved on it. Honestly it looks comfy as can be, I just want to curl up inside immediately... But I know I can't do that. I've got a job to do before I earn that pleasure. And do it I will.
-data corrupted-
Ghosts?! - humans believed that the souls of humans who died with regrets would sometimes cling to reality and wander aimlessly trying to finish what they where doing before they died. Today I found a log that I did not write. It was titled "Mira's regret". I can't bring myself to open it, what could she have been so sorry for that she couldn't have just told me? We where best friends... Right?
-data corrupted-
The truth- we just passed the half-way mark. And I got another file from Mira. She must have set some files on a time lock. She always was crafty like that. Anyway, I decided to read through them -link deleted- I miss her now more then ever.
*edit* These are personal notes to me, so I will paraphrase this one only. She loved me, she wanted me to survive the ensuing destruction of her world so she did the one thing she never wanted to do. She sent me away.
-data corrupted-
Devastation: I have just calculated the odds of survival on the new world. 0.00635%. That's rounding up. The seas are acidic enough to be roughly the equivalent of battery acid. This bleeds into the rain and strips the planet of life roughly every rotation around it's star.
Hope: pyrra, is habitable. Mostly covered in land, but the water that is there is all fresh water. I named it pyrra because she was pandora's daughter in the Greek mythos. This is the time that will be most interesting for historians going forward.
Panic: we have landed, but there was a wind storm that knocked off my solar primary solar panel. I will need to shut off extranious systems. Short logs only going forward. I am sorry historians.
Birth: humans no longer in development cells. Growth is proceeding as expected.
Infancy: humans moving indepentantly. They do not have free reign of the ship yet. They mimic my words when I can turn on the comm systems.
Childhood: the most prospective child was given a new 'game' today. If they can make a solar panel they will be given additional rations.
Adolescence: the humans have selected names for themselves. Chell is stupid, but she managed to help Zev (previously assigned to create the solar panel). He claimed it to be his own work. I told him I knew Chell helped him. He denied it. He will be held in his room for one rotation.
Adulthood: I have created a simple AI to oversee the archives, the humans are ready to move out. I am moving into my new body. Chell is taking me to her shelter, so I will have a new friend. This is my final log.
-log end-
"So what do you make of it?"
"You know how Miro gave birth to us from the stars and breathed into us a million stories?"
"Don't tell me you're a miroist."
"Well this is proof that we're right. Well, half right."
"Or an elaborate prank."
"Whatever, wanna go get some coffee?"
"Yeah, suppose I could go for some, especially after all this trying to disprove almighty zev."
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[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
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Some days, it's difficult to look outside.
The world inside the domes is peaceful and calm. We eat, study, and play, all in a perfect world. The grass is green, and I love the feeling as blades fold underneath my feet; the sun is warm and bright; the sky blue, never overcast.
At night, the System turns off the screens on the inside of the dome, and you can see outside.
On the inside, green grass meets clear glass.
On the outside, you can't even see the ground. It's covered in a swirling mist of sand. If you look above the mist - which varies in height from day to day - there's a bright sky, filled with stars.
On some nights, when the mist is high, you can see harsh sunlight wrapping around and filtering through it.
It's the most I've ever seen of the sun. The System tells us that, if the sun wasn't blocked out during the day, most of the colony would be blind within a week, even with protective lenses, and even if we never looked up.
I'll probably never see the sun. According to the System, a protective layer is being constructed around the planet, formed of several different chemicals. It'll be complete in a century, perhaps, with good fortune.
Most days, there are only a few of us that look outside.
The rest stay in their small dormitories, sleeping to dreams of clear blue water, green grass, and a beautiful blue sky. Sometimes I wonder if they're experiencing some kind of delusion. A shared hope for a future that would never happen in their lifetimes.
I asked the System what It thought, once. It was impressed that I knew the word "delusion".
I kneel down, face only a short distance away from the inside of the dome. The glass is thick, the sandstorm violent as it churns away just a metre from my face. For a moment, I imagine that I can see the ground. A single tear slides down my cheek.
A System droid wipes it away.
^^^^r/forricide
|
I squinted my eyes as I peered out over the land. QXR\-5 projected clear skies and blistering temperatures today, and boy, was that hunk of metal right. I felt the sun beat down at me as I walked over and plopped down next to Cassie.
"Hot day today, ain't it?" I asked Cassie.
Cassie flipped her long, black hair to one side and tied it into a ponytail.
"Yeah, but it's a whole heck of a lot better than it was yesterday," Cassie replied, her feet dangling against the side of the hill.
"Everyone else gets angry at QXR\-5 for spittin' out his weather predictions, but it ain't his fault he's so accurate."
Cassie remained silent and stared out at the sea of trees that lined the valley.
I continued, "You know, this dang planet can't decide whether it wants to be cold or hot. Curse the Others for ploppin' us here on this damn rock."
Beads of sweat fell from Cassie's forehead as she pulled her knees to her chest. "I don't know, Josh."
"Others danged, Cassie, what's the matter?" I asked.
Cassie shifted her eyes towards me and then quickly glanced away.
"You mention the Others, we all mention the Others so casually. Don't ya ever wonder what the weather was ever like for the Them? What it was like to have real, actual Parents? All QXR\-5 and the other bots can show us are crummy pictures."
"A' course I wonder, Cassie. But what good does that do us? We're here on earth now, and all we should worry about is tryin' to stay alive. Then one day, we'll be the Parents."
Cassie remained sitting, her knees against her chest. I stood up and took a couple steps. She looked tiny, dwarfed against the backdrop of massive trees.
"Alright Cassie, I'm going to head back to town and help out with the foraging. You should start back soon, too. We still need to gather firewood and water for the week," I said.
"OK. I'll find my way back," she replied quietly.
I took a couple steps, away, paused to look back at her one more time, then strode the rest of the way back to camp. Little did I know, that was the last I would see of Cassie for eight years.
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[WP] FTL is impossible. Adult cryogenics was a dead end. Generation ships are too costly and unreliable. Instead our first successful colony ship carried millions of frozen embryos and a fleet of robots to raise them. You were born with no parents, on a new world, under a new and foreign sun.
|
Some days, it's difficult to look outside.
The world inside the domes is peaceful and calm. We eat, study, and play, all in a perfect world. The grass is green, and I love the feeling as blades fold underneath my feet; the sun is warm and bright; the sky blue, never overcast.
At night, the System turns off the screens on the inside of the dome, and you can see outside.
On the inside, green grass meets clear glass.
On the outside, you can't even see the ground. It's covered in a swirling mist of sand. If you look above the mist - which varies in height from day to day - there's a bright sky, filled with stars.
On some nights, when the mist is high, you can see harsh sunlight wrapping around and filtering through it.
It's the most I've ever seen of the sun. The System tells us that, if the sun wasn't blocked out during the day, most of the colony would be blind within a week, even with protective lenses, and even if we never looked up.
I'll probably never see the sun. According to the System, a protective layer is being constructed around the planet, formed of several different chemicals. It'll be complete in a century, perhaps, with good fortune.
Most days, there are only a few of us that look outside.
The rest stay in their small dormitories, sleeping to dreams of clear blue water, green grass, and a beautiful blue sky. Sometimes I wonder if they're experiencing some kind of delusion. A shared hope for a future that would never happen in their lifetimes.
I asked the System what It thought, once. It was impressed that I knew the word "delusion".
I kneel down, face only a short distance away from the inside of the dome. The glass is thick, the sandstorm violent as it churns away just a metre from my face. For a moment, I imagine that I can see the ground. A single tear slides down my cheek.
A System droid wipes it away.
^^^^r/forricide
|
Dear Diary,
My name is Eightytooze. Well, my full name is 828282, I got kind of lucky to be born with such a great name. My friend, 828283, told me that they were always jealous. I like to call 828283, Eightytoozethree to make 828283 feel better. Sometimes, when that get's too long, just Eighttoozethree. 828283 says I am lucky, but I don't feel lucky.
Today we were assigned for homework by Ms. English to write about one Brave New World. I liked the book, it was fun to read. I wrote an essay about how I liked the character of Bernard. Bernard is a lot like me. I wrote about he is the character who I relate to.
Tomorrow, we are going to be assigned by Ms. Math algebra. I like Algebra, but Ms. Math says I am not as good at it as 894922, 894922 gets higher scores from Ms. Math.
Yesterday me and 828283 and me snuck outside.
We were suppose to be in class, so Mr. Gym could teach us sports. We don't like sports, so we snuck out.
We got caught. 894922 ratted us out. I am not sure that is true, but I am almost positive that it is.
828283 is suppose to be partners with 894922, but I don't like 894922. I'd rather be partners with 828283, 828283 isn't better than me at math. 828283 thinks I am lucky, even though I am not.
I'm gonna ask Ms. HomeEcon if I could switch next Wednesday. I have to ask 828283 about it. 828283 says they like 894922 well enough, but 894922 isn't as good at Math or English than me. 828283 is like Lenina with Henry Foster. Henry Foster isn't as good at math as me.
My partner is like Fifi bradlaugh.
828283 told me I was "pneumatic once" it was a reference to the book, because 828283 knows I like it.
One time, I woke up feeling like something was wrong, like I was suppose to have a mother, that I wasn't like Bernard and was like John, because I had a mother.
828283 snuck into my room, 828283 had heard me screaming, 828283 stayed in my bed even though we weren't suppose to.
828283 said I was lucky, but I only feel lucky when I am with 828283.
Love, 828282.
|
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[WP] After a lifetime of bad luck and misery, you've just died. You expect to be in heaven, but instead wake up in a room with several weird beings looking at you.One, with green skin and a Pharoah's beard, claps you on the shoulder. 'Brother Set! Did you learn anything from punishment this time?'
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"Brother Set! Did you learn anything from your punishment this time around?"
Seth looked over, then jumped away in surprise. "Wh... You.. the fuck... you... your... what..." A steady stream of stuttered gibberish flowed out of his mouth, finally drying up when he spotted the beautiful woman sitting in the corner. His eyes boggled for a moment, and then he gulped. "Wings," he said, pointing to her, before finally falling mute.
"Hmm?" The green-skinned man looked over, and nodded. "Ahh, of course. I forget sometimes. She doesn't really show them off as much as she used to. Modern clothes aren't really suited to pinionic appendages." He turned back to set and shrugged. His smile wasn't really one of apology, but more of resigned amusement. "She only really does it to you. She doesn't like you."
Seth's eyes turned to the man. They were still half-bulging from his head, crazed and bloodshot. "Why not?"
"Well, because of who you are. What you did. She tends to hold a grudge."
"A grudge for what? I didn't do anything. I've never fucking met her before!"
"Ahh, well, you see, that's not true. Not really. At least, not in the objective sense of things. If truth can even be objective," said the green-skinned man. At this, the beautiful woman finally spoke.
"He's been reading philosophy again. It makes him terribly dull," she said, rolling her eyes. Then, she stood. Her wings spread out, stretching almost the full twenty feet from one side of the stone room to the other. She held them there for a second, and then drew them in, folding them neatly on her back. The many, varied colours contrasted against her blindingly-white dress, and the deep, luxurious caramel of her skin. "I know that memories fade while you're in the human world, and it takes time to come back, but that really isn't an excuse."
"An excuse for what?" Seth asked.
"For forgetting *me*, of course. I mean, forgetting him..." She jerked her head at the man, "is one thing. But I'm *me*, for Ra's sake. Wise beyond my many years, and beautiful in spite of them. Plus I really do hate you a very great deal, and I think that forgetting *that* is just an attempt to upset me."
"Seriously, crazy lady, I've no idea who the fuck you are," said Seth. Then, he shrugged. "Although actually, I suspect none of this is real."
Her eyes narrowed. "And what exactly does *that* mean?"
"Green-skinned men. Supermodels with wings. Fucking stone rooms with flaming torches on the walls?" He gestured around, and held his arms up in a wide, disbelieving W. "What the fuck do you think? I fell off the wagon. I got high again. Pretty fucking obvious."
The woman stared hard at him for a moment. Then, her perfect breasts heaved, threatening for a second to stretch the thin linen of her dress to bursting. She sighed, and rolled her eyes. "Osiris, *you* deal with him. He's being even more cretinously *dull* than usual."
She turned and strode back to her throne. Meanwhile, the other man stepped forward, smiling a salesman's smile. "Well, she's not wrong. The memory process can take a while to happen."
"What is it I'm supposed to be remembering, anyway?"
"Ahh. That would take a *very* long time." His smile disappeared, and he stood back. "Short version."
"Anything."
"Fine. Well, your name is not Seth, it's Set. Close enough, I suppose. I am Osiris, and this beautiful creature..." He gestures to his wife, who tore her glance away from her make-up mirror long enough to flip Set off. "This is my... *lovely* wife, Isis."
"I heard that," she said, still fixing her make-up.
"Indeed. Moving on swiftly. We're brothers. You murdered me a long time ago. You were jealous because I was king and you weren't, you see..."
"After I went to all the trouble of getting rid of your father to *make* him King..." Isis said from the corner. Set shivered; the ice in her voice chilled him to the very bone.
"Yes. So, you killed me, and cut my body up. Threw my head in the Nile, and spread all my remains over ancient Egypt..."
"Ancient Egypt?" Seth asked. Osiris nodded.
"Yes, we are the Egyptian Gods. It will all come back, don't worry. Anyway, after Isis spent a very long time putting me back together, I was made God of the Underworld."
Seth sat for a long time, drinking everything in, thinking it over. "You're God of the Underworld? So, I'm... dead?"
"Well, that is traditional when one comes to the Underworld, yes," said Osiris. Seth frowned slightly at the obvious condescension in his tone. Then, a moment later, the frown deepened.
"But wait. Why wasn't I living in Ancient Egypt or something? I was living in America, and it was the twenty-first century."
"Ahh. Well, that's part of your punishment, you see." Osiris waved a hand, and a line of glowing glyphs appeared in the air. With a deft twirl, another glowing line formed in the air, twisting itself like a ribbon around the others.
"That's my name," said Seth. "In a cartouche. How do I know that?"
"Your memories are starting to come back." Osiris spoke without interest or engagement. With the glowing pattern fully formed, he swiped his hand, sending it flying away through a small doorway at the end of the long room. Then, he made his way to the empty throne next to Isis.
"I don't understand. What happens now?" Seth asked. He approached slowly, until he was standing in front of them.
"Well, now, we have to judge you. Find out if you are good, or bad."
"How do you do that?"
"We weight your heart, against the Feather of Ma'at," Osiris told him. "The Feather of Truth and Justice, or the Feather of Souls, if that helps."
"Not really. That sounds like something out of a comic book."
"I suppose it does. Ahh, here it comes now."
The sound of men grunting and stone grating on stone came from the corridor outside. Finally, a large slab of granite was pushed through the door and into the middle of the room. On it sat a small, intricate set of scales.
Following behind the team of men pushing the slab was a second woman - not as beautiful as Isis, but still pretty. She was dressed far more modestly, save for her head-dress. It was studded with a whole country's worth of jewels, each of which spit out patterns of azure, emerald, and ruby light when the light of the torches hit it. But the most eye-catching part wasn't the gems, but the huge gleaming feather that towered up from the centre of her forehead, gleaming like a diamond in the shadow.
"Set. This is Mu'at."
She glanced at Seth, the distaste clear in her gaze. Then, she reached up, carefully plucking the feather from her head, and placing it on the scale. The plates barely moved under the weight.
Then, all eyes turned to Seth. "Oh, I *love* this part," said Isis. She was practically bouncing in her chair, and Seth took a step back. This isn't good, he thought.
"What... what happens now?" he asked. Osiris stood, came over, and placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Now, we weigh your heart. Which means that, well... we need your heart."
His hand moved with inhuman speed. It looped in a graceful arc, off his shoulder, up and around and under, and finally punched into Seth's midriff. It ripped through the skin, punching through muscle, until Osiris' hand was gripping his heard. He choked, feeling light-headed, staring into his brother's impassive face.
"I used to enjoy this too," he breathed softly. "Payback, for what you did. But I've done this so many times... I'm sorry brother..."
He wrenched down hand, tearing the still-beating heart out of Seth's chest. It squirted blood feebly over his hand and the floor as Osiris turned, moving over, and held it over the scale.
"If your heard is lighter than the feather, then you go free. If it's heavier..."
Seth had fallen to his knees, and he was still choking and gurgling from the pain. "What... what happens..."
"Breathe through your nose. You'll recover somewhat in a moment," Osiris advised. "And what happens if it's heavier? Well, then..."
"We punish you again." Isis smirked at him, the glee all to clear in her voice. "Moment of truth, brother dear."
Osiris nodded. "The moment of truth, sister dear." He gently placed the heart on the scale, holding it deftly in his finger tips. Then he let go and stood back.
The metal creaked and clanged as it slammed down to the base of the scales. Osiris sighed and looked down the ground; Mu'at said nothing, staring impassively at the scale; and Isis giggled from her throne.
"Oh, *dear*," she said. "How *unfortunate* for you."
Seth turned, staggering to his feet and approaching his brother. "Please... don't do this..."
"I have little choice, I'm afraid. The rules are the rules."
"What will happen now?" Seth asked.
"Oh, we're making you the trophy wife of some horrible President somewhere," she said. Then, she laughed, and showcased her wicked grin. "But first, some of other guests wanted to say... hello..."
They heard footsteps, and then two men walked into the room - one with the head of a jackal and the other with the head of a crocodile, and each other rippling with muscles. Set slumped down against the stone table with the scales on it.
"Oh, Ra, I wish I was high."
-----
*Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed this, please read my other work at /r/PuzzledRobot*.
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Inmate #018910134 sat.
The word 'punishment' elicited the first reaction that confirmed that reality was now starting to take it's place in his conscience mind.
Inmate started struggling in restraints.
Inmate began spatting randomly as he ranted incoherent words while oddly gazed into each of beings eyes.
Inmate's posture improves and has become much more calm.
Inmate answers with:
"
NO!
These tricks will not persuade me that all the death and destruction caused by my attempt of enslaving your race and take your planets resources was in anyway a bad thing.
Fuck you.....
"
Inmate was rendered conciseness.
Inmate was ejected out of the pressure exhaust system of the sun-synchronous mega-structure jail.
|
|
Or vice versa, cause that would offer a whole other slew of options.
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[WP] What happens to the hero, when there are no more villains?
|
“Are you fucking serious?” She rounded on him as soon as she got home from work.
“What?” He grumbled pathetically. The TV drowned out his words. He was surrounded by empty beer cans and equally empty family\-sized bags of chips. His beer\-belly peeked out cheekily from his dirty wife\-beater which was stained with god\-knows\-what.
“Have you done anything besides watch WWE all day?” She no longer sounded pissed – just incredibly disappointed; that was always the worst.
“I applied to some jobs.” He mumbled, his eyes shifting suspiciously, giving away his bold\-faced lie.
“Like hell you did.” She gritted her teeth and stood between him and the TV, hands folded in front of her chest. She still looked as good as she had on their wedding day, though the same couldn’t be said of him.
He was once Incredi\-Man. Hero to all the citizens of Kingsville. Protector of the weak. Saviour of all. He was perhaps a little bit too good at his job though, because before he knew it, he no longer had anything to save the citizens from. He’d long defeated Exacto\-bot, had successfully rid the city of The Purple Cryptoid, and had kicked Turbulenz so far into space that he now had his own orbit. After the villains had all been defeated, Incredi\-Man turned to the lesser evils of society. He took on banks that charged exorbitant fees, tried taking on evil politicians and even attempted to put an over\-zealous HOA in its place. Unfortunately, not many took kindly to his efforts, and he was soon left jobless and hated by all. He’d turned to a life of day\-drinking and Netflix\-bingeing to quench his disappointment in himself and to try and forget how miserable his life had now become.
“I can’t keep up with the mortgage anymore. How many times do I need to tell you? You need to be making an effort. My job is barely keeping us off the streets, and you know my contract’s almost up. Jesus, we’ve had this conversation so many times, and I’m bloody tired of it. You need to figure something out by the end of the month, or we’re done.” Her words seemed well\-rehearsed, but she still couldn’t manage to hide her worry. He rubbed his stubble\-covered chin, his eyes downcast.
“I will. I’m sorry.” He muttered, knowing his words wouldn’t placate her.
He got to work. The threat of losing her had been the fuel he needed to get his ass into gear. He inserted the green thread onto the bobbin and then carefully put the bobbin into the sewing machine. He hadn’t done this since his time as Incredi\-Man and he found he was a little clumsy. He cut and sewed and pasted and threaded all through the night. He didn’t get a wink of sleep but his determination kept him going.
She walked passed her home office to find him fast asleep on some hideously green material. His snores were ungentlemanly and the dribble that escaped his lips – unsightly. She sighed and felt a twinge of anger in her chest. She willed herself not to cry – she didn’t have time to fix her makeup for work. She grabbed her coat and left for work.
She arrived at the Kingsville bank and walked in, smiling at her co\-workers and potential customers, though she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was about to go horrendously wrong. There was a voice somewhere deep inside her telling her to feel unnerved – for no reason whatsoever. Could this be that gut instinct she’d heard so much about? As much as she tried to ignore the voice it prevailed; little did she know she had every right to feel anxious. She settled in, behind her glass window and called up her first customer – an old lady who looked like she had more cats than lucid moments.
“Good morning. Welcome to the Kingsville bank. How many I help you today?” She flashed her warm smile reserved for customer\-service interactions.
“I’d just like to make a depo\-” The old lady never got a chance to finish. A huge blast brought customers and staff alike falling to their feet. From the smoke, arose a figure clad in skin\-tight bright green spandex.
“I am Frog Man.” His masked face revealed no emotions as he calmly told everyone in the building that he wouldn’t hurt them if they complied. He held out empty sacks and gave instructions, in no uncertain terms, for the tellers to fill them up. He got to her window and silently handed her a sack before flashing her a surreptitious grin and a silent wink. She looked horrified but winked back, understanding the situation and doing her best not to give her husband away.
He’d kept his promise after all.
|
With a heavy right hook and a swift uppercut, Brick Tower crumbled down with a mighty thud. Cinder stood the victor in their long and bloody brawl.
He looked down on the man he had faced many times before.
"I told you, the bigger they are..." the world started to spin around Cinder. His head felt light. His knees were weak. His vision blurred and he collapsed to the ground.
He slowly came to his senses several hours later. The soft beep of medical equipment let him know that he was aboard The Liberty, Rockefeller's space station.
"Cinder... you did it."
He looked over to his left to see Cougar's motherly face watching over him.
"You beat him," she said with a thankful nod.
"Did they lock him up," he asked.
"They... well..."
"You killed him," said Rockefeller, emerging from the doorway. "His body couldn't take another blow. His brain lost all function as soon as you delivered your last blow."
"H-he," Cinder started to choke on his words, "He can't be dead."
"He is, and it doesn't matter. With his death comes the end of Exis. They're over. We won. Try not to beat yourself up about it too much, wouldn't want you killing yourself too." With a small chuckle, Rockefeller left the room.
Cinder looked at Cougar with watery eyes.
"I've never k-killed anyone before."
---
Several days later, Cinder was being hailed as a hero. Parades all around the world were being thrown in his honor. He was in all the papers, on all the talk shows, at all the premiers. He was a celebrity now. Everyone loved him and wanted to know him.
For a time, the fame kept Cinder at peace. He was able to convince himself that he did the right thing by killing Brick Tower. After all, he would have just escaped again, just like last time.
But as the fervor faded, and the flames of glory subsided, so too did Cinder's peace. He started having nightmares and moments of intense sorrow. He couldn't bring himself to get out of beds some days.
One day, Cinder found himself in a child's hospital room to help grant a wish. It had been sometime since someone actually requested for him.
"Christ, Cinder," said his agent, "You look like hell. What's this beard? What the hell, well get in there and make this kid happy."
As Cinder walked into the room, he saw a ghostly pale child wrapped up in several sheets.
"H-hi, Mr. Cinder," said the child.
"Please, just call me Cinder."
The child then started to go on and on to Cinder about his illness and school and his friends and his toy and his... Cinder couldn't care less. There was nothing to be done by him for the child. He couldn't heal him. He was mostly useless now. PR visits like this were all he was good for.
Without so much as a word, he walked out of the room.
"Where the hell do you think you're going? Do you have any idea how bad this will look for you? You probably don't, because all you're good for is hitting people. Shit, I wish that Cyber Black woulda resigned with me, your sorry ass is too stupid to-"
WHACK
Cinder belted the agent into the next room. It felt good, to hit someone again. Really good. All Cinder could think to do was to hit someone again. And he knew just the man and just the place.
The last shuttle towards The Liberty wouldn't leave John F. Kennedy for a few more hours.
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[WP] You wake up one Monday morning and you have 14 notifications in regards to global news. You go to the kitchen and turn on the TV and find out everyone’s kill count is now visible above their head. Your mom comes down asking what going on. You turn to her. She has a two floating above her...
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The sound of my phone pinging constantly was what woke me up. I rolled over and grabbed the offending device, intent on telling my friends to shut up, it was *way* too early for this.
To my surprise, it wasn't the group chat that was exploding, it was the numerous news apps that I'd installed. All of the alerts bore nearly the same headline.
"**Kill Count Visible! Floating numbers above head baffle scientists...**"
I made a face of pure bewilderment and rolled out of bed, making my way to the bathroom mirror. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the fluorescent lighting, but once they did, I could make out a round number floating above my head. 0, just as I thought.
"That's... convenient," I said aloud, still rather puzzled. "Sucks to be a serial killer now, huh." Well, it would probably suck to be a serial killer in *general,* but this probably made it a few times worse. Easier to catch, and all that. I half-smiled at myself in the mirror, content with my discovery, and headed downstairs.
Mom was bustling around the kitchen almost frantically, which wasn't much of a surprise— that woman was always in a rush. I hummed to myself, sitting down at the kitchen table to properly scroll through the alerts on my phone, skimming through the repetitive articles. Honestly, it seemed like such a mundane morning I didn't even notice at first.
"Morning," said my mom, unease creeping into her cheerful greeting as she dropped a plate of pancakes in front of me. I looked up for the first time, distracted.
And froze.
Above my mother's head floated a sharp, white 2.
The horror on my face was evident, and my mom followed my gaze upward, noticing the number as if for the first time.
"What's going on?" she asked, confused. "What's that?"
Numb, I showed her my phone screen. She read silently, her lips moving along with the words. Strangely, the more she read, the more relaxed she seemed. Her puzzlement faded.
"Mom," I mumbled, and the word seemed difficult to get out, "Did you... Are you..." I couldn't say it. I couldn't accuse my mother of killing *anything.* My own mother! She nearly cried when she had to kill a bug in the house. And yet, here she was, with a... kill count of... *two.*
My mom pulled out a chair and sat down heavily. "Well, I'm not gonna lie, I never expected to have to tell you this."
She paused and I stared at her, unable to form words, unable to form thoughts. Would I have to turn her into the authorities now? Was she about to confess a crime?
"Before you were born," she continued, folding her hands and studying them intently, "I... had some rather loose morals. Pains me to say this now, because you know how your grandparents are. So uptight, so religious, such... sticklers to the law."
Where was she headed with this? Her kill count was two. She had killed two people. What more was there to know? Who *cared* about the morals of her parents?
"So before I met your father, okay, I messed around with a few guys. A few that I shouldn't have, probably. And we were young, and stupid. You can't blame me, really. You've done the same."
...No, mom, I can't say that I've ever hooked up with anyone and had to kill them. The absolute shock and horror on my face wasn't going anywhere, and she scrunched up her mouth.
"So I was stupid. So I got knocked up twice... you can't blame me. My parents would've killed *me* if they'd found out."
My mom sighed, examining the number above her head once more.
"I'm surprised it only says two, though."
|
My eyes flickered open slowly. It was still early, especially after such a long busy weekend, but I rarely slept much past sunrise at any rate. I rolled over and picked up my phone as I headed downstairs to grab some breakfast. Walking down the stairs glancing at my phone I noticed an unusual number of news notifications. Rather then try to scroll through them I just flipped on the TV instead. The headline across the top of the screen froze me in my tracks: "All global killers exposed?" I stopped to listen to the story. Aparently mysterious red numbers had appeared over everyone in the world's head overnight. Full details had yet to be confirmed but it appeared that these numbers indicated the total number of human lives the person was directly responsible for ending. I quickly ran into the bathroom to look in the mirror. There above my head was exactly what I was worried I would see: 26. That may seem like a lot for a 17 year-old but I'd been training to join the The Hidden almost since I could walk. I'd gone on my first mission when I was 15. In the two and half years since then I had participated in over a dozen successful assassinations. There were always guards and witnesses that had to be dealt with so my numbers were really just slightly above average. Whatever this was though had suddenly put our entire organization in jeopardy. How could any of us hope to blend into a crowd now? I needed to speak to my Mother immediately. She was one of the senior members of the Council.
I ran back into the kitchen just as she was coming down the stairs. I yelled to her, "Mother! Something strange is going on! We're going to have to....." I trailed off as I saw the number floating above her head: 2. TWO. How could it only be two? She was a Council member! She had been brought up in The Hidden just as I had and on active duty for nearly 30 years. Only two kills was nearly inconceivable! "What is it Daniel? Wait, what's that number above your head?" Somewhat robotically, still in shock from the paucity of her kill count, I relayed the information from the news. As I spoke the color slowly drained from her face. I think it may be the first time I'd ever seen her worried. When I finished speaking she quickly walked past me into the bathroom to check her own number in the mirror. By the time she reemerged I had collected myself. "Is it true? Your number. It only says 2."
She looked at me a long moment and then sighed. "I suppose there's no sense in denying it at this point. Yes I believe it is."
"How is that possible?" I yelled. "I had two actual targets at the club this weekend! Never mind the armed guards!"
"I can explain everything Danny but you need to keep calm and listen."
"No!" I cried out, "You're a fraud! You've wormed your way all the way up to Master and never earned it! I have to report this to the rest of the Council!"
I tried to move toward the door but she stepped in front of me. "Please Danny, wait. Don't be rash until I can tell you what's happened. I can't let you report me. Not yet."
"You've only killed two people," I sneered. "You expect me to believe you'd kill your own son?"
"I didn't say I'd kill you, Danny. I said I can't let you report me. I will stop you with force if I must. Please don't make me."
"You will try."
"Very well son, I am sorry...."
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[WP] You wake up one Monday morning and you have 14 notifications in regards to global news. You go to the kitchen and turn on the TV and find out everyone’s kill count is now visible above their head. Your mom comes down asking what going on. You turn to her. She has a two floating above her...
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The sound of my phone pinging constantly was what woke me up. I rolled over and grabbed the offending device, intent on telling my friends to shut up, it was *way* too early for this.
To my surprise, it wasn't the group chat that was exploding, it was the numerous news apps that I'd installed. All of the alerts bore nearly the same headline.
"**Kill Count Visible! Floating numbers above head baffle scientists...**"
I made a face of pure bewilderment and rolled out of bed, making my way to the bathroom mirror. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the fluorescent lighting, but once they did, I could make out a round number floating above my head. 0, just as I thought.
"That's... convenient," I said aloud, still rather puzzled. "Sucks to be a serial killer now, huh." Well, it would probably suck to be a serial killer in *general,* but this probably made it a few times worse. Easier to catch, and all that. I half-smiled at myself in the mirror, content with my discovery, and headed downstairs.
Mom was bustling around the kitchen almost frantically, which wasn't much of a surprise— that woman was always in a rush. I hummed to myself, sitting down at the kitchen table to properly scroll through the alerts on my phone, skimming through the repetitive articles. Honestly, it seemed like such a mundane morning I didn't even notice at first.
"Morning," said my mom, unease creeping into her cheerful greeting as she dropped a plate of pancakes in front of me. I looked up for the first time, distracted.
And froze.
Above my mother's head floated a sharp, white 2.
The horror on my face was evident, and my mom followed my gaze upward, noticing the number as if for the first time.
"What's going on?" she asked, confused. "What's that?"
Numb, I showed her my phone screen. She read silently, her lips moving along with the words. Strangely, the more she read, the more relaxed she seemed. Her puzzlement faded.
"Mom," I mumbled, and the word seemed difficult to get out, "Did you... Are you..." I couldn't say it. I couldn't accuse my mother of killing *anything.* My own mother! She nearly cried when she had to kill a bug in the house. And yet, here she was, with a... kill count of... *two.*
My mom pulled out a chair and sat down heavily. "Well, I'm not gonna lie, I never expected to have to tell you this."
She paused and I stared at her, unable to form words, unable to form thoughts. Would I have to turn her into the authorities now? Was she about to confess a crime?
"Before you were born," she continued, folding her hands and studying them intently, "I... had some rather loose morals. Pains me to say this now, because you know how your grandparents are. So uptight, so religious, such... sticklers to the law."
Where was she headed with this? Her kill count was two. She had killed two people. What more was there to know? Who *cared* about the morals of her parents?
"So before I met your father, okay, I messed around with a few guys. A few that I shouldn't have, probably. And we were young, and stupid. You can't blame me, really. You've done the same."
...No, mom, I can't say that I've ever hooked up with anyone and had to kill them. The absolute shock and horror on my face wasn't going anywhere, and she scrunched up her mouth.
"So I was stupid. So I got knocked up twice... you can't blame me. My parents would've killed *me* if they'd found out."
My mom sighed, examining the number above her head once more.
"I'm surprised it only says two, though."
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Sluggishly, you rolled off the couch and turned your phone on silent angrily as it had interrupted your Monday morning “nap” on your day off of school. Curious, you flipped over your phone and, surprised, rubbed your eyes in a desperate attempt to clear your vision. Fourteen notifications in the span of 10 minutes. This came as a surprise. Ever since your dad and older brother died, you became quite quiet and never really interacted with people. It was weird to get a single ping of your phone, much less fourteen. One passcode and tap later, you’re staring down the latest global news — Kill Counts Visible, Murderers Everywhere! After reading the article, explains the kill count of a person is now visible above their heads, you sat stunned. How did such bull make the global headlines? Standing up, your reflection was shown in the powered-off TV. You screamed. Above your head was a very round and perfect 0. You ran to the bathroom and the 0 was still there, crisp and clear in the mirror. You turned on the TV and flipped through the channels. Every single one was covering the global news headlines.
Your mom, who had heard the commotion, raced downstairs asking “What’s wrong!” frantically. She had been like that since your dad died — so concerned and protective. You just gaped in horror. 2. That was the number above her head. Your mother, had killed two people. Two. She turned to the TV and realization dawned on her. “Oh god, I’m so sorry. I swear it’s not what it looks like!”
“You killed someone one... not just someone, TWO!” Your voice yelled out. You were angry. You were confused. You were scared. “I know!” She screamed. She didn’t say anything. She began to break down into tears. You didn’t move. “What happened?” You asked. She slowly looked up at you, face red and makeup running and slowly relayed the tale in between pauses of tears, “I was drunk one night. I shouldn’t have drove. I know I shouldn’t have! Why did I have to drive? I - I was on my way home... and I didn’t see him. The truck pulled out in front of me... I swerved... and I rolled into the ditch, into a tree. Your father... he went out the windshield.. your brother.... he died on impact... I’m so sorry I didn’t tell you... it should’ve been me!” You didn’t move.
After a pause of hysterical sobbing, you slowly, tears finding their way to your face, walked towards her and hugged the crumpled mess of a broken woman on the floor. “It’s okay mom... We’ll work it out.” As both of you cried the rest of that Monday.
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[deleted]
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[WP] While doodling one day, you accidentally draw the summoning symbol of an ancient demon.
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The early sun morning was shining in that soft way that Ian liked, where it didn't hurt his skin, He was in a sidewalk drawing, just drawing random shapes with the chalk his mama gave him, she was right that it was a beautiful day, but Ian still didn't like to go out, he had more fun with the little birds in his tablet.
He looked at his drawing on the sidewalk, he had started with some random a big circle but now he had just started drawing random shapes, when mama told him to go play hopscotch she didn't exactly tell Ian how, or why he needed chalk. So he sat there in the sidewalk under the shade of a tree he didn't know the name of. A star with a tail, a square inside a triangle what other shapes did teacher Jameson teach me again? Ian looked at the circle full of shapes and drew one last one that looked like a triangle and a circle, he stepped back to admire his work.
It began glowing, the whole drawing was glowing with a red then white light. Ian stepped back, he wondered if it was supposed to be like this, was this hopscotch?
BOOM!
Ian fell butt first on the ground, he covered his ears expecting another one, a column of black and red smoke rose out of the drawing, Ian smelled smoke, like the smoke when mama forgot her cooking when her boss called. A scream, no, a thousand screams with different voices tried to pierce Ian's ears, he pressed his hands to his ears tighter. He opened his eyes.
He saw a man, was he a man? He had horns, maybe about three-of-Ian's-hands long by his estimate, on his forehead, he had black hair and had a black sword with what Ian thought were orange glowy strings, he was also not wearing anything but a cloth to cover his peepee. He looked at Ian with barred teeth, like an angry dog.
"Hello," Ian croaked.
The horned man looked at him he dashed into him but failed, Ian thought he was seeing things, but it was true, his circle of shapes prevented him from getting out, the horned man was banging the invisible barrier. After a few minutes he stopped and slumped down, he looked at Ian with hate in his eyes.
"uhmmm, can I know your name, mister?"
the man rose up, "my name is Gre'gharxis Treakrirzhehr The Cunning of Vas'Zhundul, what is your name Warl---" he winced a blue collar appeared on his neck " master" he growled.
Ian straightened his back and put a hand on his chest. "My name is Ian Nichols, People call me Ian" he stopped to think "Hmmmmm, Gre-- your name is too long, I'm gonna call you Greg instead, is that okay with you mister?"
Greg's chest seem to grow and Ian could hear his breathing "I AM THE HEIR TO VAS'ZHUNDUL I WILL NOT HAVE MY NAME REDUCED BY A MORTA-" the blue collar glowed a bright blue like the skies above them, Greg screamed, there were veins on his grey neck. He looked at Ian in the eyes once more, then bowed his head. "It is fine with me master"
"Ia-" He winced again, the blue collar glowed "Master, What do you most desire?"
"Hmmmmm, I dunno mister, why'd you ask?"
"well, that is the reason or my summoning yes? that's always the reason warlocks and cultists have summoned lesser demons over the millennia, so what is it you want? Power? wealth?"
Ian stopped to think of that question for a bit, what did he want? toys? candy? Papa?, No mama said that papa is not going to come back, maybe he was sad when he was with us. Ian clenched his fist, what did he want?
He looked at Greg, his stick was on the ground now, and Ian could see his peepee, why didnt he cover it? mama said it was bad to show peepees to other people. What did he want? Ian walked over to Greg and held out his hand.
"I want to be your friend" he smiled.
Greg looked at the boy Ian, how had he trap him? days spent traveling through the Hells to get to Terra and he was captured on the first day, and the glyphs, they were much too advanced for a kid to learn. What did he mean when he said that he wanted to be his friend? Greg gingerly extended his hand towards Ian's he was surprised it was not stopped by the Trapping circle, he would have to play along with this mortal, he would be free in time, truly free, without father looking over his every step.
"Deal" He shook Ian's hand
Ian was shaking his new friend's hand, then he felt something weird like he was a ghost and he could see himself shaking Gregs hand his yellow shirt at the spilled chalk box. His new friend's hand was rough and hard like he was shaking a hand made of stone. Papa had hands like those, when Ian was young he would feel papa's hands after he made wooden toys. Greg's hands were harder, did that mean he could make better toys? Ian was excited to play with his new friend but before that..
"Hey, Greg? what were those glafs, you said?"
"Glyphs are what you wrote to summon me, and they are also the rules that bind this wretched blue collar to my neck"
"Oh you mean those shapes? Teacher Jameson thought me those"
Greg looked at Ian incredulous, It seemed that he was oblivious to how advanced trapping he had just done, and there was someone who taught him that? Have the humans really become this strong in the millennia without his kind? to have their children summon the son of the Dark Lord? He had to find this 'teacher Jameson', if left unchecked maybe he would try to summon his father, and If that happened, Greg would be dragged back to that scorching rock they called 'The Citadel'. He also had to learn about this new world, his father had said that it had been hundreds of years since a demon had been walked Terra, and things seemed to have changed he couldn't see the armored humans, and instead of horses, humans rode inside horseless metal carriages. This is....strange
"Hey Greg? you ok?" Ian called, his friend snapped out of it then he pointed to one of the many shapes Ian drew.
"this is my complete name" then pointing to the other shapes
" these are the rules you inscribed.
thou shall not act for the downfall of your master.
thou art granted visions into your master's mind when he makes a command so you do not twist it.
thou shalt tell the truth
thou shall respect your master
thou shall not hurt your master's allies"
"woooooow" Ian's mouth was open, he couldn't even understand some of Greg's words but at least he had a friend.
"Hey Greg let's meet my mama 1st, she's making cookies" Ian took Greg's hand.
"What are 'cookies' "
"you'll see Greg, cookies are my favorite, my most favoritest food in the whole wide world," Ian said as he extended his arms like he was hugging the whole world.
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I always doodle in class. Mostly because the teacher or the lesson is boring. But sometimes, I sketch out things that I want to turn into a full\-blown artwork later on when I get home. Earlier today, I was planning some things that I want to use for my Dungeons & Dragons campaign. There will be some symbols in this circular room and it’s actually a puzzle. So, I was planning out these symbols while half\-listening to the teacher. Then I hear a scream from the back of the class. Eh, those girls are probably just looking for attention again.
“Who dares summon me?” Oh boy, the teacher is mad. Wait, what? Summon?
I look up from my notebook and turn around to see a giant creature with goat legs, horns, long furry arms, and big piercing. It couldn’t even stand up straight in our classroom so it was probably 12 feet tall. Everyone was staring at him but everyone was quiet. My heart in my throat. He scanned the room and stopped at me.
“You!”
I was frozen. My body was going numb. What is happening? Am I dreaming? He was above me in two steps.
“Speak!”, it bellowed. My whole body was uncontrollably shaking at this point. Those red and yellow eyes... “Have you decided that it is time?”
“W\-w\-what?” I manage to spit out. “Time? I.... didn’t. Didn’t... Please don’t kill me! I don’t want to go to hell.”
His eyes moved away from my face and glanced to my hand. He snatched my notebook, almost tearing it in half. He brought it to his face then swiftly turned to face our teacher. Mr. Carlos fell to the ground as if he was hit. The demon strode to him and dropped my notebook on him. “He was doodling in class!”
The demon reached for me, at which point I screamed, and lifted me up by the collar. “Detention for you!” And strode off outside the classroom carrying me along.
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[deleted]
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[WP] While doodling one day, you accidentally draw the summoning symbol of an ancient demon.
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The early sun morning was shining in that soft way that Ian liked, where it didn't hurt his skin, He was in a sidewalk drawing, just drawing random shapes with the chalk his mama gave him, she was right that it was a beautiful day, but Ian still didn't like to go out, he had more fun with the little birds in his tablet.
He looked at his drawing on the sidewalk, he had started with some random a big circle but now he had just started drawing random shapes, when mama told him to go play hopscotch she didn't exactly tell Ian how, or why he needed chalk. So he sat there in the sidewalk under the shade of a tree he didn't know the name of. A star with a tail, a square inside a triangle what other shapes did teacher Jameson teach me again? Ian looked at the circle full of shapes and drew one last one that looked like a triangle and a circle, he stepped back to admire his work.
It began glowing, the whole drawing was glowing with a red then white light. Ian stepped back, he wondered if it was supposed to be like this, was this hopscotch?
BOOM!
Ian fell butt first on the ground, he covered his ears expecting another one, a column of black and red smoke rose out of the drawing, Ian smelled smoke, like the smoke when mama forgot her cooking when her boss called. A scream, no, a thousand screams with different voices tried to pierce Ian's ears, he pressed his hands to his ears tighter. He opened his eyes.
He saw a man, was he a man? He had horns, maybe about three-of-Ian's-hands long by his estimate, on his forehead, he had black hair and had a black sword with what Ian thought were orange glowy strings, he was also not wearing anything but a cloth to cover his peepee. He looked at Ian with barred teeth, like an angry dog.
"Hello," Ian croaked.
The horned man looked at him he dashed into him but failed, Ian thought he was seeing things, but it was true, his circle of shapes prevented him from getting out, the horned man was banging the invisible barrier. After a few minutes he stopped and slumped down, he looked at Ian with hate in his eyes.
"uhmmm, can I know your name, mister?"
the man rose up, "my name is Gre'gharxis Treakrirzhehr The Cunning of Vas'Zhundul, what is your name Warl---" he winced a blue collar appeared on his neck " master" he growled.
Ian straightened his back and put a hand on his chest. "My name is Ian Nichols, People call me Ian" he stopped to think "Hmmmmm, Gre-- your name is too long, I'm gonna call you Greg instead, is that okay with you mister?"
Greg's chest seem to grow and Ian could hear his breathing "I AM THE HEIR TO VAS'ZHUNDUL I WILL NOT HAVE MY NAME REDUCED BY A MORTA-" the blue collar glowed a bright blue like the skies above them, Greg screamed, there were veins on his grey neck. He looked at Ian in the eyes once more, then bowed his head. "It is fine with me master"
"Ia-" He winced again, the blue collar glowed "Master, What do you most desire?"
"Hmmmmm, I dunno mister, why'd you ask?"
"well, that is the reason or my summoning yes? that's always the reason warlocks and cultists have summoned lesser demons over the millennia, so what is it you want? Power? wealth?"
Ian stopped to think of that question for a bit, what did he want? toys? candy? Papa?, No mama said that papa is not going to come back, maybe he was sad when he was with us. Ian clenched his fist, what did he want?
He looked at Greg, his stick was on the ground now, and Ian could see his peepee, why didnt he cover it? mama said it was bad to show peepees to other people. What did he want? Ian walked over to Greg and held out his hand.
"I want to be your friend" he smiled.
Greg looked at the boy Ian, how had he trap him? days spent traveling through the Hells to get to Terra and he was captured on the first day, and the glyphs, they were much too advanced for a kid to learn. What did he mean when he said that he wanted to be his friend? Greg gingerly extended his hand towards Ian's he was surprised it was not stopped by the Trapping circle, he would have to play along with this mortal, he would be free in time, truly free, without father looking over his every step.
"Deal" He shook Ian's hand
Ian was shaking his new friend's hand, then he felt something weird like he was a ghost and he could see himself shaking Gregs hand his yellow shirt at the spilled chalk box. His new friend's hand was rough and hard like he was shaking a hand made of stone. Papa had hands like those, when Ian was young he would feel papa's hands after he made wooden toys. Greg's hands were harder, did that mean he could make better toys? Ian was excited to play with his new friend but before that..
"Hey, Greg? what were those glafs, you said?"
"Glyphs are what you wrote to summon me, and they are also the rules that bind this wretched blue collar to my neck"
"Oh you mean those shapes? Teacher Jameson thought me those"
Greg looked at Ian incredulous, It seemed that he was oblivious to how advanced trapping he had just done, and there was someone who taught him that? Have the humans really become this strong in the millennia without his kind? to have their children summon the son of the Dark Lord? He had to find this 'teacher Jameson', if left unchecked maybe he would try to summon his father, and If that happened, Greg would be dragged back to that scorching rock they called 'The Citadel'. He also had to learn about this new world, his father had said that it had been hundreds of years since a demon had been walked Terra, and things seemed to have changed he couldn't see the armored humans, and instead of horses, humans rode inside horseless metal carriages. This is....strange
"Hey Greg? you ok?" Ian called, his friend snapped out of it then he pointed to one of the many shapes Ian drew.
"this is my complete name" then pointing to the other shapes
" these are the rules you inscribed.
thou shall not act for the downfall of your master.
thou art granted visions into your master's mind when he makes a command so you do not twist it.
thou shalt tell the truth
thou shall respect your master
thou shall not hurt your master's allies"
"woooooow" Ian's mouth was open, he couldn't even understand some of Greg's words but at least he had a friend.
"Hey Greg let's meet my mama 1st, she's making cookies" Ian took Greg's hand.
"What are 'cookies' "
"you'll see Greg, cookies are my favorite, my most favoritest food in the whole wide world," Ian said as he extended his arms like he was hugging the whole world.
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I stared at him, he at me.
I did not know if *"he"* was the correct term. There were certainly nothing that would imply a gender. We continued to stare at each other for what appeared to be an eternity.
**"Do you... desire something? In particular?"**
The demon continued to stare at me. His words seemed etched into my soul, our mutual silence shattered abruptly.
"Does... Uh..." The words barely escaped my lips, as if his hands were already wrapped around my throat. "Does my... do my... desires... what do they cost? My desires?"
His brow furrowed and I guess mine followed suit. I didn't know a demon could get confused. He gestured down to my crayons sitting on the table.
**"The payment is with the substance used to draw the symbol.** The demon picked up one of the crayons. **"Wax. A poor gift. Usually mortals offer blood."**
"Do I uh, do I still have my soul? I don't... I don't particularly want to lose my soul, fun fact." The demon was a little bemused.
The demon lifted up one of the crayons to inspect it, as though it were a container of something very interesting. **"Did you pour out your heart and soul for this summon?"**
I glanced down at my doodle.
"My heart wasn't really in it, to be honest."
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Kind of an effed up situation that ran through my head as I was falling asleep.
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[WP] You have recently fallen in love with a girl. You see her every morning and every night. You both laugh at the same videos, look at the same art online, and browse the same forums. The only problem? She's a college student, and you're the NSA agent watching her through her webcam.
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Oliver leaned back in his swivel chair and put his face in his hands.
"How did I ever get myself into a relationship like this?" he wondered aloud. "She's just an Asian."
Oliver's supervisor suddenly appeared behind Oliver's swivel chair leaning in to look at Oliver's screen. "An agent?" he asked, "Who's agent?"The NSA liked to joke they were like Jedi. Observing people, even sexually attractive people like the woman on the screen, without ever being allowed to fall in love. It was only natural to fall in love. Much the same way that you feel a personal connection to a TV character in a drama, NSA agents were prone to becoming attached to those that they watched. You could watch all you wanted, but personal attachment was strictly forbidden.
"Oh, yes, an Agent." Oliver stammered, "...of the United States. A former agent I mean. One of ours."
"Oh is she?" the supervisor remarked as he peered with thinly opened eyes at the warm glow of the monitor. A young Japanese woman was writing on a white board with a collection of magic markers. "This is the one you've been logging a lot of hours on isn't it?"
Oliver gulped. Some agents had the best instincts and he was right. He had been watching her a lot. There was no point in lying. His supervisor could always log into his own computer and check the feed and confirm that this was in fact his favorite girl to watch.
"Y... yes." Oliver managed to say, choking on the word as it escaped his lips.
"Well what's the story? Why so many hours on this one? She a threat or not?"
Oliver was relieved instantly. His supervisor would never ask such a question if he knew he was spying for pleasure rather than business. "Yes." he said instinctively. "I mean no." he quickly reconsidered.
The supervisor was not pleased. "Explain." he said simply.
Oliver knew the tactic. When in doubt agents let people hang themself with their own rope. He had to choose his words carefully.
"I mean I don't know yet. She's a former agent and she has been passing information secretly to foreign powers." Oliver was proud he was finally able to lie without tripping over his words.
"Who's she an agent for?" the supervisor asked.
Oliver paused for a moment to carefully consider his words. He wanted to keep watching her. This was his secret girlfriend now in his mind. This girl played love songs constantly on youtube and Oliver was sure she was playing them just for him. She liked all the same types of videos and the relationship had felt very personal ever since years ago when the girl had revealed she knew she was being watched. She did it coyly by pretending to be schizophrenic and talking about FBI agents watching her all the time. Oliver liked to think that deep down she knew her secret admirer was in the NSA, not the FBI. "Japan." Oliver said at last.
"Japan?!" the superviser blurted out. "Ridiculous. You need to finalize your report on this one by the end of the day and have it on my desk within the hour. Wait, what does that sign say?"
Oliver swiveled his chair and looked back at the webcam monitor. The young lady was holding a white poster board sign up to the webcam which said the following, "I know you watch me too, NSA!"
Oliver was speechless. He chose to keep his mouth shut through force of will. His supervisor gasped. "She knows."
"Y... yes." Oliver stammered, equally surprised but for different reasons."And who does she mean by 'too'? Do the Japanese have access to our spy network?"
"I... uh. I don't know what to say." Oliver said.
Another sign was held up to the webcam, "I know you can see through my webcam when the green light blinks." it said.
Technology is hard to keep up with. There is no chance to beta test spy equipment and work out all the kinks. Sometimes hardware would do things like light up when activated when you didn't want it too and there was nothing you could do but hope the unsuspecting consumers didn't notice. This girl was dishing out the information on what she'd learned from being a target of spying and as far as Oliver's supervisor knew, a foreign power was getting all the information.
"Find out who she works for, that's an order!" the supervisor barked as he walked away to the next cubicle.
Oliver was relieved his supervisor left him in charge of the situation, but he was both heart broken and scared. Surely he had interpreted her actions correctly as being affectionate love. What of their first date when they watched the Matrix together on Netflix. Sure, she could never hear him, but he liked to think he communicated with her psychically as a soul mate. She even wrote a big flowery post about how she believed in just such a thing early on.
The girl made more and more hand\-written signs and held them up to the webcam. "I know you can see my screen 24/7" she wrote. "I know you had trouble getting past my authenticator and then you figured out a way around." and lastly "What do you want from me?"
Oliver's supervisor was momentarily distracted but he knew he had to think of some kind of a grand plan to get them both out of trouble. Oliver would never turn in actual paperwork indicating she was a former spy gone rouge. Even if his love thought she was dealing with the FBI all this time or really thought she was schizophrenic, he could never betray her with a false report just to save his own hide. Besides, he'd gotten to know her quirks, her traits, her unique humanness by watching her the last few weeks and he genuinely cared for her welfare.
Oliver remembered his procedure manual. The one advantage he had is that he knew everything the NSA would do to cover up a leak. Legal counsel had run a calculation and determined that if preventing a leak of sensitive information would cost $130,000 dollars or less, they would take that avenue as the decrease in funding following a public debacle was far worse. The agency hated things being brought out into the public. It was... irreversible. Oliver had a plan.
An indicator light flashed on Oliver's keyboard. His love's feed was now marked as "elevated" by his supervisor. From now on, everything she did would be recorded in a large database server. She would forever live in the cloud. Oliver was trapped. Somehow he needed to tell his love his plan to give her a small fortune and keep her out of prison without obviously making his pitch seen on her webcam or in her file.
Oliver tried calling her on the phone. He masked his voice to sound completely different and tried to tell her she had won a prize and needed to come fill out some forms in private to claim it. She hung up on him. "Nope, my silence is not for sale." she wrote on a board and held it up to a webcam.
Oliver smacked his face with his palm. This lady was some combination of brilliant and stupid. Brilliant for somehow psychically being able to infer his plan from the first step, and stupid for having refused it. Did she know what she was getting herself into? Just how much did she really know?
"Yes, I am psychic." the next sign read. Oliver gasped.
"I see you!" the sign after that read.
Oliver watched as the girl picked up the phone and called the local pizzeria, "Yes, I'd like to make an order." she said.
Oliver had no plans. He didn't know what was going on anymore. This girl that he thought had a psychic connection with him, just said she was psychic and it had left him stunned. All he could do was listen to her make her order. "Yes I'd like to order the NSA guy who listens to my calls to give it a break. He's stressing me out. I just need space, and neither the FBI nor the NSA is giving it to me."
Oliver was stunned. He wanted to reach over and press the button to terminate her phone calls. But it was just that sort of action, of reacting to the person you are watching, that probably tipped her off in the first place. Sure, Oliver had shewed away a few jealous would\-be boyfriends, but he never thought the guy at the FBI was real, and he never thought he was getting in the way of anything but physical attraction.
The girl hung up the phone. The pizza place wrote the call off as a prank call, but it would be part of her permanent record should he ever turn in his file on her. At that moment, Oliver decided it was time to commit to his love. He would watch this girl indefinitely and swear off all other girls. He would watch her and never turn in his report. He would always think of another excuse to watch her further, the lies growing with each passing year. There was so little over\-sight in the NSA that he had heard of some colleges getting away with doing just that. One co\-worker brags at lunch about how he only watches celebrities because everyone else is so damn depressing.
Oliver's superviser hovered back into the space. He was always quiet on his feet and glided around like a true spy. After a long moment of silence he spoke, "So she's working for the Japanese huh?"
"Passing them information sir. So far just information about us spying on her, nothing more."
"Well Edward Snowden and his troublesom ilk saw to it that everyone knows what we do, so we can ignore her."
"NO sir." Oliver accidentally said with too much emphasis, "I mean, sorry sir, but I think I,... I mean \*we\* should watch her further. She can still tell people all about what ways we watch her, and uh, she probably knows about us being able to control the weather."
"We can control the weather?" the supervisor asked puzzled.
"Oh, sorry sir, need to know basis. I uh... learned about it from her. She was higher rank than either of us."
There was a long pause. "Proceed." the supervisor said, turning his back walking away.
And that was how it went from a simple crush at a distance to a long\-term relationship of lies, secrets and spying. Oliver wiped sweat from his forehead that he hoped had gone unnoticed. He promised himself to be good to this girl. She hadn't asked for any of this attention and he truly wanted her to be happy, peaceful and free from worry. Oliver leaned back in his swivel chair as he wondered aloud, "If that isn't love, what is?"
The girl held up another poster\-board sign with the words, "Oh baby don't hurt me, no more."
|
She's beautiful. Her golden hair, hazel eyes, thin pink lips. She's the only thing I think about. I love her, she is the only person I have ever loved - but loving her is against the rules. I cannot love a suspect - and so I watch her. I sit idly by everyday. I watch her do her homework. I watch her in class, watching movies. Sometimes... if I'm lucky I get to watch her sleep. I wish I could talk to her, but she can't know I'm there. I love her laugh - it sounds like a drink of ice cold water on a hot hot day. It's refreshing and everything I need. I listen to her laugh when he watches videos. I watch her draw sometimes, and he is the most amazing artist I have ever seen. My heart feels like it will jump from chest every time I see her. I have to find a way to meet her. I have to. Maybe I could plan a meeting in the coffee shop on campus that she likes to go to when she's low on energy...but if I go... I'll be jeopardizing my career. Being a part of the NSA has been my dream since I was a child, and now I can't picture my life without coming to work and sitting in my chair and watching my beautiful Amelya through her webcam everyday...but what if I never have to watch her through the webcam again...what if I could wake up next to her every morning, and feel her body next to mine. What if I could wake up to her in my bed, and fall asleep every night with her wrapped around me? I go to my supervisor Jack Dungo. "Hey Jack, do we still do undercover?" Jack looks up from his work "Yeah, why? you got something?" I fiddle with my fingers "uh. Yeah Amelya Winters, 23 goes to Yale. I think it would be useful to go undercover, get to know her a little better, don't you agree?" Jack shakes his head and laughs "Winters? If you say so, go ahead and find a meeting spot. Geoff will be your handler" I smile to myself, but to Jack I say "yes sir" and turn to leave but he stops me. "Oh and Clayton? be nice to the girl" and with that he winks at me and goes back to his work. I walk out of his office and close the door behind me. YES! I shout in my head. I'll finally get to meet her. The girl of my dreams, my beautiful, beautiful girl. I get back to my computer and notice Amelya's is turned on. I look through the screen and I cannot believe my eyes. Amelya is hanging there, by a rope that's tied around her neck. a note taped to her torso; it reads 'I KNOW YOU'VE BEEN WATCHING HER, SO HERE'S THE SHOW. P.S YOU'RE NEXT'. and the last thing I hear before it goes dark is the door to my office opening and a deep voice whisper "this is why you don't fall in love"
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Kind of an effed up situation that ran through my head as I was falling asleep.
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[WP] You have recently fallen in love with a girl. You see her every morning and every night. You both laugh at the same videos, look at the same art online, and browse the same forums. The only problem? She's a college student, and you're the NSA agent watching her through her webcam.
|
Oliver leaned back in his swivel chair and put his face in his hands.
"How did I ever get myself into a relationship like this?" he wondered aloud. "She's just an Asian."
Oliver's supervisor suddenly appeared behind Oliver's swivel chair leaning in to look at Oliver's screen. "An agent?" he asked, "Who's agent?"The NSA liked to joke they were like Jedi. Observing people, even sexually attractive people like the woman on the screen, without ever being allowed to fall in love. It was only natural to fall in love. Much the same way that you feel a personal connection to a TV character in a drama, NSA agents were prone to becoming attached to those that they watched. You could watch all you wanted, but personal attachment was strictly forbidden.
"Oh, yes, an Agent." Oliver stammered, "...of the United States. A former agent I mean. One of ours."
"Oh is she?" the supervisor remarked as he peered with thinly opened eyes at the warm glow of the monitor. A young Japanese woman was writing on a white board with a collection of magic markers. "This is the one you've been logging a lot of hours on isn't it?"
Oliver gulped. Some agents had the best instincts and he was right. He had been watching her a lot. There was no point in lying. His supervisor could always log into his own computer and check the feed and confirm that this was in fact his favorite girl to watch.
"Y... yes." Oliver managed to say, choking on the word as it escaped his lips.
"Well what's the story? Why so many hours on this one? She a threat or not?"
Oliver was relieved instantly. His supervisor would never ask such a question if he knew he was spying for pleasure rather than business. "Yes." he said instinctively. "I mean no." he quickly reconsidered.
The supervisor was not pleased. "Explain." he said simply.
Oliver knew the tactic. When in doubt agents let people hang themself with their own rope. He had to choose his words carefully.
"I mean I don't know yet. She's a former agent and she has been passing information secretly to foreign powers." Oliver was proud he was finally able to lie without tripping over his words.
"Who's she an agent for?" the supervisor asked.
Oliver paused for a moment to carefully consider his words. He wanted to keep watching her. This was his secret girlfriend now in his mind. This girl played love songs constantly on youtube and Oliver was sure she was playing them just for him. She liked all the same types of videos and the relationship had felt very personal ever since years ago when the girl had revealed she knew she was being watched. She did it coyly by pretending to be schizophrenic and talking about FBI agents watching her all the time. Oliver liked to think that deep down she knew her secret admirer was in the NSA, not the FBI. "Japan." Oliver said at last.
"Japan?!" the superviser blurted out. "Ridiculous. You need to finalize your report on this one by the end of the day and have it on my desk within the hour. Wait, what does that sign say?"
Oliver swiveled his chair and looked back at the webcam monitor. The young lady was holding a white poster board sign up to the webcam which said the following, "I know you watch me too, NSA!"
Oliver was speechless. He chose to keep his mouth shut through force of will. His supervisor gasped. "She knows."
"Y... yes." Oliver stammered, equally surprised but for different reasons."And who does she mean by 'too'? Do the Japanese have access to our spy network?"
"I... uh. I don't know what to say." Oliver said.
Another sign was held up to the webcam, "I know you can see through my webcam when the green light blinks." it said.
Technology is hard to keep up with. There is no chance to beta test spy equipment and work out all the kinks. Sometimes hardware would do things like light up when activated when you didn't want it too and there was nothing you could do but hope the unsuspecting consumers didn't notice. This girl was dishing out the information on what she'd learned from being a target of spying and as far as Oliver's supervisor knew, a foreign power was getting all the information.
"Find out who she works for, that's an order!" the supervisor barked as he walked away to the next cubicle.
Oliver was relieved his supervisor left him in charge of the situation, but he was both heart broken and scared. Surely he had interpreted her actions correctly as being affectionate love. What of their first date when they watched the Matrix together on Netflix. Sure, she could never hear him, but he liked to think he communicated with her psychically as a soul mate. She even wrote a big flowery post about how she believed in just such a thing early on.
The girl made more and more hand\-written signs and held them up to the webcam. "I know you can see my screen 24/7" she wrote. "I know you had trouble getting past my authenticator and then you figured out a way around." and lastly "What do you want from me?"
Oliver's supervisor was momentarily distracted but he knew he had to think of some kind of a grand plan to get them both out of trouble. Oliver would never turn in actual paperwork indicating she was a former spy gone rouge. Even if his love thought she was dealing with the FBI all this time or really thought she was schizophrenic, he could never betray her with a false report just to save his own hide. Besides, he'd gotten to know her quirks, her traits, her unique humanness by watching her the last few weeks and he genuinely cared for her welfare.
Oliver remembered his procedure manual. The one advantage he had is that he knew everything the NSA would do to cover up a leak. Legal counsel had run a calculation and determined that if preventing a leak of sensitive information would cost $130,000 dollars or less, they would take that avenue as the decrease in funding following a public debacle was far worse. The agency hated things being brought out into the public. It was... irreversible. Oliver had a plan.
An indicator light flashed on Oliver's keyboard. His love's feed was now marked as "elevated" by his supervisor. From now on, everything she did would be recorded in a large database server. She would forever live in the cloud. Oliver was trapped. Somehow he needed to tell his love his plan to give her a small fortune and keep her out of prison without obviously making his pitch seen on her webcam or in her file.
Oliver tried calling her on the phone. He masked his voice to sound completely different and tried to tell her she had won a prize and needed to come fill out some forms in private to claim it. She hung up on him. "Nope, my silence is not for sale." she wrote on a board and held it up to a webcam.
Oliver smacked his face with his palm. This lady was some combination of brilliant and stupid. Brilliant for somehow psychically being able to infer his plan from the first step, and stupid for having refused it. Did she know what she was getting herself into? Just how much did she really know?
"Yes, I am psychic." the next sign read. Oliver gasped.
"I see you!" the sign after that read.
Oliver watched as the girl picked up the phone and called the local pizzeria, "Yes, I'd like to make an order." she said.
Oliver had no plans. He didn't know what was going on anymore. This girl that he thought had a psychic connection with him, just said she was psychic and it had left him stunned. All he could do was listen to her make her order. "Yes I'd like to order the NSA guy who listens to my calls to give it a break. He's stressing me out. I just need space, and neither the FBI nor the NSA is giving it to me."
Oliver was stunned. He wanted to reach over and press the button to terminate her phone calls. But it was just that sort of action, of reacting to the person you are watching, that probably tipped her off in the first place. Sure, Oliver had shewed away a few jealous would\-be boyfriends, but he never thought the guy at the FBI was real, and he never thought he was getting in the way of anything but physical attraction.
The girl hung up the phone. The pizza place wrote the call off as a prank call, but it would be part of her permanent record should he ever turn in his file on her. At that moment, Oliver decided it was time to commit to his love. He would watch this girl indefinitely and swear off all other girls. He would watch her and never turn in his report. He would always think of another excuse to watch her further, the lies growing with each passing year. There was so little over\-sight in the NSA that he had heard of some colleges getting away with doing just that. One co\-worker brags at lunch about how he only watches celebrities because everyone else is so damn depressing.
Oliver's superviser hovered back into the space. He was always quiet on his feet and glided around like a true spy. After a long moment of silence he spoke, "So she's working for the Japanese huh?"
"Passing them information sir. So far just information about us spying on her, nothing more."
"Well Edward Snowden and his troublesom ilk saw to it that everyone knows what we do, so we can ignore her."
"NO sir." Oliver accidentally said with too much emphasis, "I mean, sorry sir, but I think I,... I mean \*we\* should watch her further. She can still tell people all about what ways we watch her, and uh, she probably knows about us being able to control the weather."
"We can control the weather?" the supervisor asked puzzled.
"Oh, sorry sir, need to know basis. I uh... learned about it from her. She was higher rank than either of us."
There was a long pause. "Proceed." the supervisor said, turning his back walking away.
And that was how it went from a simple crush at a distance to a long\-term relationship of lies, secrets and spying. Oliver wiped sweat from his forehead that he hoped had gone unnoticed. He promised himself to be good to this girl. She hadn't asked for any of this attention and he truly wanted her to be happy, peaceful and free from worry. Oliver leaned back in his swivel chair as he wondered aloud, "If that isn't love, what is?"
The girl held up another poster\-board sign with the words, "Oh baby don't hurt me, no more."
|
I thought to myself, "How can I keep this relationship going without telling her that I work for the NSA? And tell her that I'm watching her through her webcam right now? What will she say to me? Will she be mad at me, or will she forgive me and keep loving me? Will she treat me differently if I tell her? I don't know. I don't know if it is even worth telling her my true profession. I don't know if it is for the better for the both of us in the long run to end this relationship for the sake of my job. This is my job. Is it worth risking this relationship for the sake of my job? I really do love her though. She's one of the best people I've ever met in my life. Maybe I should tell her. I don't know if I want to."
I watch Skylar climb into her bed. I don't know why am I doing this to her? Gosh, I'm such a horrible boyfriend. Is it right for her to know this? Why did my boss have to assign me to watch her of all people tonight?
Skylar grabs her phone on her nightstand and begins to start typing. Soon, my phone vibrates a second later. I look at it to see what it says.
"goodnight sweetie! hope you're having a good day at work. :)"
My heart sank as I saw this text message.
"Goodnight, Skylar." I replied.
I sighed I sent it. I know she doesn't know I'm watching her right now. This isn't right. Each moment I do this, it feels like a part of me is whithering away.
I watch Skylar pull herself under the covers and turn off the lights. The screen then goes completely black.
I close my laptop out of shame.
I think I much rather deal with the consequences from my boss later...
|
Kind of an effed up situation that ran through my head as I was falling asleep.
|
[WP] You have recently fallen in love with a girl. You see her every morning and every night. You both laugh at the same videos, look at the same art online, and browse the same forums. The only problem? She's a college student, and you're the NSA agent watching her through her webcam.
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Her name is Sarah. She was born in Pottumwa, Iowa. She moved to Santa Monica. She goes to UCLA studying film. Specifically, she is studying editing. She is three years into her masters.
Her favorite movie is A Nightmare on Elm Street. She listens to the Misfits. She has a horror movie she wrote, shot, and editted on her 4 terabyte external Samsung Harddrive, serial number 093451778.
It is decent, for a 15 year old stealing her father's VHS recorder. It's called "The Clawed Horror".
Her father is a welder at a machine shop with a penchant for B-movies. Her mother is a middle-manager at a small office firm in Salinas, California. She moved there when she was a sophomore in high school.
She enjoys beer. She has never been to a trendy barber shop or clothing store. She thrifts. She cuts her own hair. She has taught herself all of these skills.
Her mind is brilliant. Her minor is language studies. She speaks, fluently, three different languages: German, Portugese, and Japanese. She is invested in video gaming. She has friends all over the world. Every now and then she even lets her international friends beat her at League of Legends, even though she mathematically can best them any time.
She keeps a journal saved in her cloud. She jots down anything that comes to her mind. Movie ideas; "Guy opens portal to netherrealm. Bangs Satan's daughter. Satan insists on a shotgun wedding."
Her name is Sarah.
She has a boyfriend. His name is Jason. He is cheating on her with two women, who are sleeping with other women and men, and so on and so forth. I see everything, Jason. So I know you only appreciate Sarah because she'll do anal every now and then. Because you think she's easy.
I've seen the pictures. A perfect body. The tattoo on her left breast. The birthmark on her left shoulder. The shots of you two making love.
I can't call it love, on your end Jason. After all, you are her college professor. It all started so innocent; "Excuse me, Professor Jensen? I'm struggling with this concept, borderline personality disorder, what separates it from depression, anxiety, or general psychopathy?"
And how blase your reply was. "Hi Sarah, consult me after class on Thursday. I have a few hours to kill before my next class, so I will explain to you the difference between those four disorders."
Oh, Sarah, my love...How foolish you were.
He was a strapping man; early 30's, graying temples. Fit, but not athletic. But you couldn't see the conditioning occuring. I could, after all out of your 26 classmates none of them bothered to secure their laptops. I know them all. Rachel, John, Mike, Alexandra, the rest...
So I see everything. Even the security cameras at the university.
I see him grooming you.
I see him conditioning you.
I see you thinking that you want him. I can tell by how your webcam shows you blushing when he addresses you in a joking manner in class. A small classroom. 20 desks. Used for physics and sociology on Mondays and Fridays. But your class uses it Thursday.
And every Thursday night, two weeks after your study session, I have seen you join him on the security cameras in the supply room.
Sarah, your perfect body. Your hazel eyes, your brunette curls, your rapturous smile.
I see him defile you in my dreams. I see him sodomize you. I see his wife; I see his children. I see everything.
I love you, Sarah. I love you. I love your parents:; Two friendly small-towners, completely unsure of themselves when they moved to California. But they succeeded. But don't fret. I will be with you soon, my love, and no matter what you say, I know you don't love your professor. I'll be sure you know who really loves you, dear.
I've seen every video. Every picture. Your parents are tech savvy. They backed up everything. My dear, gyou are as right as the sun. You are the ebb and flow of a tide moving in, unsettling the sand, leaving only a pure untouched, undefiled state.
I'm coming Sarah. I know how much you truly need me.
|
Tuesday was the day Marian went to the Hair salon. It was the first time in a long time that she had left her dorm, and I was stuck monitoring an empty room. Despite the implications of being without her for a few hours, I was proud of her for finally deciding to leave the room after that nasty breakup. Marian is dependable, and honest, one of the best people I’ve ever actually never met before. Being an NSA agent, it was standard custom nowadays to monitor the public. They knew about it, we knew about it. Everyone knows the government is not so secretly spying on everyone. And Marian had a slight suspicion that there was someone watching her. I could hear her voicing her complaints to her mother through the keurig \(She didn’t trust her computer, or her phone. It was very hard having to track her all the way to Kokoma, Nebraska just to listen in on that little conversation she decided to have.\)
It was all worth it though. Marian was my whole livelihood now. I don’t hate my job as much as I used to, not when I can listen to her voice, and laugh at all of her silly texts. She really is a wonderful girl. And if circumstances were different, I have no doubt we’d be amazing friends. Maybe lovers, if I was bolder.
Wednesday was the day she returned to the dorm. Midterms were coming it seemed. I remembered midterms when I was in college. I’ve recently made it out, but Marian is close behind. I don’t know what she wants to do afterward, and I’m more than sure that she isn’t sure either. Personally, given her kindness and empathy towards others, veterinarian or nurse seems to be a perfect match for her. Despite her nice personality, I’ve seen a side to her that I can only describe as “Problematic”. She’s very shy, for one thing. Her shyness played a big part in her behaviour on tuesday. And she can be short tempered when it comes to plain ignorance.
Those discrepancies are not enough to blind me though.
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Kind of an effed up situation that ran through my head as I was falling asleep.
|
[WP] You have recently fallen in love with a girl. You see her every morning and every night. You both laugh at the same videos, look at the same art online, and browse the same forums. The only problem? She's a college student, and you're the NSA agent watching her through her webcam.
|
Her name is Sarah. She was born in Pottumwa, Iowa. She moved to Santa Monica. She goes to UCLA studying film. Specifically, she is studying editing. She is three years into her masters.
Her favorite movie is A Nightmare on Elm Street. She listens to the Misfits. She has a horror movie she wrote, shot, and editted on her 4 terabyte external Samsung Harddrive, serial number 093451778.
It is decent, for a 15 year old stealing her father's VHS recorder. It's called "The Clawed Horror".
Her father is a welder at a machine shop with a penchant for B-movies. Her mother is a middle-manager at a small office firm in Salinas, California. She moved there when she was a sophomore in high school.
She enjoys beer. She has never been to a trendy barber shop or clothing store. She thrifts. She cuts her own hair. She has taught herself all of these skills.
Her mind is brilliant. Her minor is language studies. She speaks, fluently, three different languages: German, Portugese, and Japanese. She is invested in video gaming. She has friends all over the world. Every now and then she even lets her international friends beat her at League of Legends, even though she mathematically can best them any time.
She keeps a journal saved in her cloud. She jots down anything that comes to her mind. Movie ideas; "Guy opens portal to netherrealm. Bangs Satan's daughter. Satan insists on a shotgun wedding."
Her name is Sarah.
She has a boyfriend. His name is Jason. He is cheating on her with two women, who are sleeping with other women and men, and so on and so forth. I see everything, Jason. So I know you only appreciate Sarah because she'll do anal every now and then. Because you think she's easy.
I've seen the pictures. A perfect body. The tattoo on her left breast. The birthmark on her left shoulder. The shots of you two making love.
I can't call it love, on your end Jason. After all, you are her college professor. It all started so innocent; "Excuse me, Professor Jensen? I'm struggling with this concept, borderline personality disorder, what separates it from depression, anxiety, or general psychopathy?"
And how blase your reply was. "Hi Sarah, consult me after class on Thursday. I have a few hours to kill before my next class, so I will explain to you the difference between those four disorders."
Oh, Sarah, my love...How foolish you were.
He was a strapping man; early 30's, graying temples. Fit, but not athletic. But you couldn't see the conditioning occuring. I could, after all out of your 26 classmates none of them bothered to secure their laptops. I know them all. Rachel, John, Mike, Alexandra, the rest...
So I see everything. Even the security cameras at the university.
I see him grooming you.
I see him conditioning you.
I see you thinking that you want him. I can tell by how your webcam shows you blushing when he addresses you in a joking manner in class. A small classroom. 20 desks. Used for physics and sociology on Mondays and Fridays. But your class uses it Thursday.
And every Thursday night, two weeks after your study session, I have seen you join him on the security cameras in the supply room.
Sarah, your perfect body. Your hazel eyes, your brunette curls, your rapturous smile.
I see him defile you in my dreams. I see him sodomize you. I see his wife; I see his children. I see everything.
I love you, Sarah. I love you. I love your parents:; Two friendly small-towners, completely unsure of themselves when they moved to California. But they succeeded. But don't fret. I will be with you soon, my love, and no matter what you say, I know you don't love your professor. I'll be sure you know who really loves you, dear.
I've seen every video. Every picture. Your parents are tech savvy. They backed up everything. My dear, gyou are as right as the sun. You are the ebb and flow of a tide moving in, unsettling the sand, leaving only a pure untouched, undefiled state.
I'm coming Sarah. I know how much you truly need me.
|
Joy Langston, the highly intelligent woman I have been assigned. Joy is the leader of a highly dangerous, popular rebel cause. I must watch her to keep her under wraps and make sure she doesn't grow too powerful. Although, ironically I find the fact that she is so powerful makes me feel more deeply than i have fot anyonr. Somehow, during the last few weeks I've slowly begun to fall in love with her. The way she thinks is captivating, she solves issues in ways no one I have watched has. Her hair is short and choppy, very reflective of her serious personality. She wasn't a very bright person, most of the time I watch her through her computer and her phone cameras she rarely smiles. Some nights I watch her cry at night. Every time she does this, she blasts music on her laptop. Every tear that falls from her face pains my heart more than anything has before.
What is so odd about my infatuation with this gorgeous woman is that... I have sworn I'm straight my entire life. I've only been with men, I have never felt this way for a woman. But with her I feel more toward her than anyone else. As I watch her relax or work I can't help myself imagine touching her gorgeous honey kissed skin. She looks so soft, her lips I could kiss for eternity.
Wednesday:
6 a.m.:
Joy sleepily gets up to prepare for her big meeting.
7 a.m.:
Joy sits for a bit sipping her tea before work.
8 a.m.:
Joy begins her presentation.
...
10 p.m.:
She comes home with a man.
All the joy that I held in my heart dissipated and was filled with outrage. I felt blood thirsty. I watched this man gingerly kiss down her body and slowly take her clothes off. I started screaming at my monitor trying to get her to realize she was making a mistake, telling this man to fuck off. But of course, she was unresponsive. Quickly I grabbed my keys and my pistol. Time to pay Joy a visit.
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Kind of an effed up situation that ran through my head as I was falling asleep.
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[WP] You have recently fallen in love with a girl. You see her every morning and every night. You both laugh at the same videos, look at the same art online, and browse the same forums. The only problem? She's a college student, and you're the NSA agent watching her through her webcam.
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I spent the morning scribbling down a cheat sheet of her favourites. Artist: Kahlo. Author: Plath. Singer: Ariana Grande. She usually met her friend Sarah for coffee on Wednesday morning but Sarah would be having an unexpected call from a certain government department today.
I slumped in my Ford F-Series, knowing she'd balk at the sight of it, while I waited for her to arrive. Three minutes after she went in, I grabbed my battered copy of The Bell Jar (second-hand) and followed her. I ordered a green tea, took a seat at the table next to her and began to read. My attention rested firmly on her movements in my periphery until I realised I better turn the page at some point. She tried calling someone, presumably Sarah, multiple times before she gave up. I thought she might leave but then I saw her eyes lazily scan the room until they stopped on the book I was reading.
"Sylvia Plath," she said, "I love her."
"Hmm? Oh – yes - I'm just re-reading this for the fourth time. Kind of embarrassing but I'm a bit of a fanboy," I said.
She smiled at me like I was a West Highland Terrier in the YouTube videos she watched.
"I'm Grace," she said.
"Tom."
"Do you go to school here?" she asked. We were sitting just outside UCLA campus.
"Not anymore. Graduated a few years back, but I just love this place. The green tea is amazing."
She held up her cup.
"You're telling me," she said, and took a sip.
"I know this is going to sound completely random," I said, "but my friend cancelled on me last minute and I've got two tickets to the Ariana Grande concert tonight. Would you be interested?"
"Oh my God, those things sold out in like two minutes. I'd love to!"
We exchanged contact details and arranged a spot for me to pick her up ("Oh wow, you only live like 10 minutes away.") I drove straight home, showered and dressed before grabbing my laptop and opened our live feed. The laptop on the other end was closed down so I left it open while I played a few games of Fortnite. Soon, the screen lit up and Grace began a Skype call with Sarah.
"Wow, look who finally answers," Grace said.
"Grace, I'm so sorry but I got a really weird call this morning. Something about files on my computer. It's fine now but I was so scared," Sarah said.
"Oh, I didn't know, don't be sorry, Sarah," she said.
After a few rounds of back and forth apologies, Grace told Sarah about the "handsome" stranger she met, who was taking her to a concert tonight.
"Grace! You just met him. He could be a murderer or a stalker or something," Sarah said. Her face was inches from the camera.
"He seemed nice. Relax," Grace said. "I'll call you if things get weird," she added after seeing Sarah's face.
This seemed to calm Sarah down and the two of them talked about school work until Grace said she had to go and get changed.
Grace picked a dress off a hanger and started to remove her top. I pulled the laptop closer to me, willing her to reveal what was underneath, but she turned her back to the screen and moved into the bathroom. I heard the shower running and she walked out in a towel and closed her laptop over. Fuck.
I picked her up about 7 and she fawned over Ariana Grande the whole way there. I had the albums downloaded on my phone and let her use the AUX the flick through them. The concert itself was okay, I guess. Ariana Grande is super hot so I wasn't really complaining, but being surrounded by screaming teenage girls is never a fantastic experience. We left the arena afterwards and I slung my arm around Grace's shoulder. She snuggled her head into my chest.
"Hey, it's still early," she said, "why don't we go back to my place and listen to the songs she didn't perform tonight?"
"Hmm," I said, as if I'd rather do anything else, "sure, sounds like fun."
We pulled around to the front of her apartment building and she made a peculiar noise.
"What's up?" I asked.
"My roommate's car isn't where she usually parks it. She told me she'd be home by 8," she said.
"I'm sure she's fine," I said, wondering how long into her roommate's journey to Colorado it would take for her to realise her mother is actually fine.
We walked up the steps to her door and I had the perfect view of her hips swaying from side to side. I had to stop myself from reaching out to grab her.
"Do you want a beer?" She said when we got in. She opened the fridge and leaned against the door.
"You drink beer?" I said, inspecting the apartment for the first time in person.
"No, not really. It's my roommate's but she wouldn’t mind if I took one or two."
"Yeah," I said, "you posted on Reddit last week that beer makes you really bloated."
She chuckled. "Yeah, well you kno- wait. How did you know I wrote that?"
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Three days. It was the longest I'd gone without seeing her - that is, since I'd started seeing her. She went home for the holiday weekend and left her classmates and studies behind. I never asked, of course, but I was secretly hoping she would bring me along and let me see her family for once.
Everything was so still in her dorm without her, aside from the shadows of the tree outside the window bouncing around the room. She had a bad habit of leaving her curtains open; I like to think she yearned for the thrill of others peering in on her life, no matter how temporal the glimpse. A passerby - a stranger - that she'd never know. I knew it probably wasn't true, but it helped me sleep at night.
I'd been seeing her for almost a year now. There was a rough patch when she first broke up with that guy from the intramural track team. She could do much better than him, and I told her that, but she would never listen to me. Afterward she swore off dating and has been focusing on her studies until Mr. Perfect came along. I've been right here ever since...
The shadows in the room began to wane as the sun sank out of the sky. Before long the whole room was a black hole and nothing could be distinguished from anything.
A white flash. The room lit up - she was standing in the doorway, duffel in tow, hand hovering over the light switch. I found myself gasping. She looked worn out, like the long weekend took its toll, but still breathtakingly beautiful. Her hair was up in a messy pony and her _Odesza_ tank top had fallen off one shoulder.
In the distance I could hear a knocking. I couldn't help but wonder who would be visiting at this - no, wait. I snapped back to reality and glanced up from my monitor.
Agent Jeffries was standing in the door to the office, beaming at me. "Working late, huh?"
I looked at my watch: 11:21. _Shit_.
"Just filing some paperwork," I lied.
"Good man," he said with a smile. "You keep this up and you'll be a surveillance agent in no time."
I cautiously moved my hand and closed the video feed. "Heh," I offered nervously, "that'll be the day."
"Well, don't stay too late," he advised. "Big day tomorrow. Director of the whole NSA will be in to run through some protocol changes. They say that someone has been logging into the surveillance network off hours..."
I feigned shock. "Oh, oh wow. I'd hate to be that guy."
"Yeah," Jeffries nodded. "At least we've got nothing to worry about. Catch you tomorrow." He turned and trotted out of the doorway.
I hadn't realized that I was sweating profusely. _I wonder if Jeffries noticed..._
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[WP] “Honey? Could you make a sandwich?” “I’d love to, but last I recall you died five years ago.” “Well maybe the sandwich isn’t for me, silly.”
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I brought out the watercress, and the rye bread; butter, and salt, and got to work, just as I’d been ordered.
“This must be how it begins,” I muttered to myself. “Doris, I’ve been of perfectly sound mind until now,” I said, to the empty room. “In spite of being ninety-five years old. And now you’re calling to me. Is this a sign I should prepare to go meet you, now?”
There was no answer. But I’d heard her voice, clear as day, just moments before. “Honey? Could you make me a sandwich?” she’d called out, from the next room.
“What?” I’d croaked. I must be imagining things, I thought to myself. I knew I was hard-of-hearing, but I hated wearing those damn hearing aids my children attempted to force upon me every time they visited and had to yell in my ear so I’d understand them. After Doris died, I’d become accustomed to the comfortable silence of life alone. Hearing aids made the world too noisy, and whenever I put them in, the ambient noise was simply too jarring. I could hear every rustle of the wind outside, every creak of the old house we’d built together in our youth; even the sound, sometimes, of my own breathing. And now, when I'd laid them aside for several days in a row, I’d heard a voice – a soft voice, a voice unstrained by yelling towards my deaf ears, a voice that was high, and sweet, just like hers had been, even if I’d imagined it.
“I’d love to,” I finally called out, haltingly, feeling as though I should explain what we both knew. “But last I recall, you died five years ago.”
Then, her delightful chuckle punctuated the air, concluding in that *tsk* sound she made, especially when I was being obstinate, as though she found it charming. “Well, maybe the sandwich isn’t for me, silly,” she’d chortled.
I’d fetched a plate, and spread out the ingredients. If this was going to be a sandwich Doris was ordering me to make, I’d make her favourite. She’d loved watercress best, even though I’d constantly griped that it had just about no nutritional content whatsoever, and was basically unfit for humans.
“Leave me alone with my rabbit food,” she’d always protest. “*You* don’t have to eat it.”
Well, I thought to myself, as I buttered the bread lightly, *I* wasn’t going to eat this rabbit food, either. She’d better have some more worthy guest of honour in mind. I’d argued with the grocery delivery boy that he’d delivered the wrong package, that week; a bunch of fancy cheeses, and fresh produce, including this batch of watercress I’d never ordered, and he’d looked over the grocery list, and scratched his head, and then returned, hours later, at the end of his shift, with the right parcel of food to fulfill my original checklist.
“Take this back,” I’d pleaded with him, shoving the first parcel in his direction. “I’m a single old man. I can only eat so much. This food going to go to waste.”
“If I take it, I’ll just have to throw it out,” he shrugged. “We can’t return the food. Have a party, or something.”
I’d chuckled good-naturedly. “Will you attend?” I asked. “I don’t have quite so many friends around.”
“I’m a little busy,” he laughed. “But let me know when it is, and I’ll be there.” I smiled; he was kind, to humor me. All my friends were long gone; there were so few men older than eighty around, even in nursing homes, and fewer still who were still able to live in their own homes. That unused watercress in the fridge had begun to bother me, yet I knew I couldn’t bring myself to eat it.
“It’s going to make me immortal,” Doris had always teased me, after I’d complained that she needed to eat something more nutritious. “I’m going to be so healthy I’ll never die.”
“Psh, woman,” I’d chastised her. “You’re going to tempt the gods, if you keep talking that way.”
“Let them come for me,” she’d said. “I’m going to fight them off. You won’t see me die,” she said, laughter dancing in her brown eyes. “One day you’re going to find I’m simply gone – I’ll transform.”
“Into what, my dear?” I asked her.
“Into a giant rabbit,” she’d howled, laughing far too much at her own joke, as she always did. “Thanks to the rabbit food you always tease me about eating. I’ll wander outside to the garden, and I’ll have a perfectly happy second life there. You’ll see.”
This transformation hadn’t gone at all like she’d planned. It started slowly: first, she forgot how to cook, little by little. An odd use of seasoning in one of her fancy cakes she baked Sunday afternoons; Chinese five-spice instead of cinnamon. Then, suddenly, far worse slippages of memory: she’d pulled out a pack of brillo pads from under the sink, one night, and marveled at them. “I think we could eat this for dinner, Lionel,” she’d exclaimed. “Have you ever tried these? Look how colourful they are! I bet they’re delicious!”
“You’re overtired, my dear,” I said, my heart sinking. It was far worse than I’d realized; I’d been pretending, too long, that she was all right, when she definitely wasn’t. “This isn’t food. Go lie down for a bit. I’ll fix us some sandwiches.”
She had gone to take a nap, but when she’d woken, she’d been groggy and confused. “Want to go home,” she’d muttered, her eyes darting around the interior of the familiar bedroom, in which she’d lain down to rest nightly for nearly sixty years. “Take me home, Lionel.”
“My darling,” I’d soothed, my heart breaking in half, because this was the house in which we’d raised our five children – we’d never known any other, together. “This *is* home.”
“Take me home,” she pleaded, tears welling in her eyes. “Lionel- *please,*” she begged me, and with that look on her face, I couldn’t refuse her.
I put shoes on her feet, and brought her outside; something about the fresh air, and the garden, cool and green in the twilight, seemed restful for her. She wandered about the yard, as if recalling herself; she paused by the rhododendron bush, gloriously full of pink blooms, and touched it gently with her fingertips.
“Home,” she murmured to herself, and stroked the flower. She sat down on the grass, and I sank down beside her; in my aged bones, I wasn’t sure if we would ever be able to get back up again. Thirty minutes later, I pushed myself up, slowly, rolling first to my hands and knees, and then staggering from there to my feet. With great effort, from a half-crouch, I managed to pull Doris upright again. She’d smiled softly at me as she walked, peacefully, inside the house, as though she’d forgotten her own protest that it wasn’t home anymore.
That was my very last memory of her; her, as she was, that is. In the end – I didn’t like to think about it. She’d been almost animalistic; howling, angry, emitting guttural moans more than speech. “HOME,” she’d sometimes yell at me, when I visited, her face wrenched in anger. “LIONEL. HOME,” she’d repeat, and I’d leave her side when visiting hours were over, and cry in my solitary bed.
All these memories washed over me, and all I had to show for it was one sandwich, which was never meant for me, although I’d made it; green watercress, fresh as a spring morning, on slightly-stale rye bread. I blinked back tears. I’d take it outside with me to the garden. It would be a fitting tribute to her.
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Recently I was diagnosed with multiple personality disorder. My parents always thought it was my imagination, I knew better. It all started when I was five years old with my best friend, Maxie. Maxie loved the slide, we would spend our summer after on at the park riding it over and over again. I remember the long conversations we would have about everything, and anything. Of course I knew Maxie wasn't real, but that didn't concern my frazzled 5yo brain, quite honestly I couldn't care less.
My parents always worried for me. They we're concerned because I never had any "real friends" of course I protested Maxie and myselfs friendship was as real as anything. I would often describe her to my parents. They would just stare at me, confused at the exactness, and precision of my description of a character thought to be fictional. I just laughed their comments off my resolve and attitude was impenetrable. My life was good. Was...
One night, long after I had went to sleep I awoke to the sceam of my mother. I ran downstairs to observe the cause of all the commotion. On the other floor I found my mother, mouth agape staring at the computer screen in horror. On the screen was a sight I still have nightmares about today; It was Maxie, but not the one I know. The Maxie on the screen was twisted, and contorted unnaturally. I read the headline on the post, "(1998) 5yo child Maxie found dead after falling off a slide unsupervised." It was the same Maxie I play with everyday, matching my verbal description exactly.
My mother shunned me ever since then. She called me a demon, a monster of this world. That was untill the axicent...
“Honey? Could you make a sandwich?” “I’d love to, but last I recall you died five years ago.” “Well maybe the sandwich isn’t for me, silly.”
"I know mom" I smiled as I stood up, and headed into the kitchen. "Hurry up bro!" A voice sqeaked from the other room. "The movies starting." Said the familiar voice of my father."
" I know, coming Maxie..."
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[WP] You accidentally break a cursed object, attaching yourself to a vengeful spirit that can't touch you, but instead kills everyone else around you in hopes of breaking your sanity. As a sociopath, you manage to turn this curse into a reliable superpower.
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Hi there police officer! It’s Jonas.
If you’re reading this, in front of you are the bodies of one Melissa Carlson, one Jamie King, as well as 15 others I can’t be bothered to ID. Yes. I killed them all. Well, more specifically, my ancient spirit did. At this point, I have listed some handy FAQ’s for you in this letter.
**Q: What the –expletive– happened?**
A: Basically, the spirit (never bothered to learn its name(it doesn't even say anything)) kills everyone around me to somehow break my sanity. It achieves this by simply sucking out all the organs from the target, leaving everything else intact. This leaves them as a fleshy mess of bone and muscle. Multiply that by 17 and you get a gruesome depiction of death, and I get a neat photo.
**Q: What spirit?**
A: The one I mentioned earlier. I’m pretty sure it’s from Egypt, considering I found it in the Pyramids during a mind-numbingly long university trip. Thankfully when it latched onto me it killed everyone there, ending the tour a tad early. The spirit looks sorta like black smoke, except more fluid-like. I never was good at describing things.
**Q: Why are you doing this?**
A: I don’t know. Everything else is boring. My existence was boring until I knocked over that statue. Then that smoky beast slithered out and connected with me, finally giving my life some meaning. Now killing people makes living fun again!
**Q: Who are you?**
A: My name is Jonas Stansfield, 19-year-old former uni student, sociopath, and murderer. I live at 2963 Hillcrest Lane, Irvine, California. I’m usually home after 3, except on Sundays. On Sundays I go out to kill, so I would most likely be back at around 9.
**Q: Why are you telling me this?**
A: Because if I tell you, then I’ll have another target. You might want to start running now. Or you can turn around, so you can see the spirit in actuality rather than basing your depiction on my terrible description.
Signed,
the person (and spirit) behind you.
=)
------------------
Hey! First story!
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Carl is my best friend, actually he’s my only friend, I was a bit antisocial before we met but by God that guy knew how to get a party started. When I first met Carl (he hates that name but his actual name is to hard to pronounce) we didn’t get off on the best of terms. See about 5 years ago I was grave robbing a sunken cathedral in the ancient waterways of Mexico City. (Not my fault they built a major city over a dead cultures capital) anyway I bumped into a small metallic statue, damn thing wasn’t even made of gold it was obsidian or something so it shattered immediately. And that’s when I say him (Or i think it’s a ‘him’? It doesn’t have breast or anything and crawls around walls at night, however it has a face with pretty feminine features...... i’v never seen it naked so I can’t tell). Anyway after freeing Carl from his tomb he seemed extremely pissed off and shouted at me in some dead language for hours, until he just started doing weird hand signals. I knew right away I was in no danger, Mainly Because it’s voice was just so high pitched it sounded hilarious, I bursted out laughing more than once. After we all had a good laugh (mostly just me bullying my new spirit bitch) I decided to go back up to the city. And to my surprise the spirit followed. I tried to introduce him to some Mexicans I hired to help me dig (what it’s not racist I was literally in Mexico) and they insisted they didn’t see anything. I mean my Spanish is shit but I kept saying “¿Tú Ves?” And they just didn’t say “Sí” so I assumed it was only me. Later we all got lunch at a Thai restaurant (Mexico city is a large place they have more than Mexican food down there). While attempting to talk to my employees their eyes all lit up red and they just started fighting each other, I mean they were going all out, one guy pulled a knife and another hit someone across the head with a plate, it was a made house. Anyway within 15 min all three were dead from the injuries they with-stained. (Lucky for me I didn’t have to pay them,). This was the beginning of a long relationship between me and Carl, sense the initial meet up we traveled south all the way through Central America to Panama and then down in Colombia, while indirectly getting anyone I had more than a 10 min conversation with killed. (The deity didn’t really understand that I don’t care if random people I just met died, like bro c’mon I doubt I’ll ever see that Honduran customs officer again, did you really need to make him eat his stapler?) but I digress (never used that word before, have no idea what it means but it sounded natural). Me and Carl also learned quite a bit about each other, first he’s not Aztec he’s Mayan and he has actually learned enough English to communicate. We came to a agreement that killing random people is for Spanish Emos (guy never shuts up about how evil Spain is, which confuses me because I thought the Mayan empire fell long before Spain showed up) and shouldn’t be done by anyone. Also we’re super chill now, we live at a small cabin in the southern jungles bordering Brazil, and we more or less just fish to get by. The towns not super isolated, so I can by most of what I need in the way of basic supplies. I don’t really need money, because whenever I go shopping Carl just mind fucks the check out lady (Rural Colombia is a few years behind, they don’t have self-check outs you Norwegian Scum..... I know you as a reader probably aren’t Norwegian but I just always wanted to say “Norwegian Scum”, anyway back to me story, me and Carl help each other, he gets me free stuff and I continue to turn on Netflix. (He ducking loves it, that’s how he learned English, and after watching all seasons of parks and Rec he decided he wants to move to America and become president (his words not mine, I’ll perfectly fine fucking hookers and snorting coke in Colombia..... plus I’m technically a “outlaw” in the US. Smuggle a few weapons into New Brunswick from New York and suddenly your a fucking war profiteer (hey I didn’t know they’d funnel their way into the hands of Québécoi Sepertists) anyway I’m set to leave from Cali (the one in Colombia) and I change flights in Managua to finally get to LAX and become a politician. I mean what’s the worst that could? I have a ancient dead Mayan Warrior on my side that is hell bent on making America great again with me as his puppet because I’m to lazy to actually start a argument with him. Carry me to the top Carl, but I swear to Carls Lizard God of he makes the Ambassador to Spain declare war I’m going to be mildly upset. Carl 2020
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[WP] You wake up one morning to find your wish has come true. You are in a crib, with the body of an infant, but you’ve retained all your memories and knowledge from your previous life. You are excited to begin life anew with this advantage, only to find out you aren’t the one controlling the body.
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Infancy, what an interesting concept.
Here I was, at the very beginning of human growth. From this point forward, I should be like a sponge, absorbing every little stimulus the world gives me. In time, I would be able to walk, talk, form coherent thoughts, and potentially become successful in life. Here I was, at the beginning; but only my body was an infant.
Despite the tiny, unassuming size of my doughy body, my mind was that of a full\-grown man. Inside of this mind came the memories and experiences of a past life, a life that I remember incredibly well. In my previous life, I had been a stock broker on Wall Street. But I wasn't just ANY stock broker. I was the CEO of the largest hedge fund in New York City, Camsworth LLC. Net worth of $75 billion, at least 5 houses on every continent, need I continue? I was Richard Camsworth, one of the richest men to ever live.
Therein lies the mystery... I WAS Richard Camsworth, and in some ways, I still am Richard Camsworth. But when I look down at my tiny fingers and feel the weight of a full diaper under my ass, I know that in many ways I am not the man I once was.
Despite all the memories of my past life, I remember very little about its final moments. I vaguely remember waking up for a routine day of work in my Manhattan penthouse. I made myself an avocado wrap, and strolled into my walk\-in\-closet to get dressed. I have the faintest memory of the smell of smoke, and after that... nothing. I can only assume that I died, but the details of that circumstance are still lost to me.
All I know is that for now, Richard Camsworth was inside the body of an infant. And to be honest, I was kind of pumped.
I thought about all of the possibilities that my situation could bring. I could literally start speaking out loud to my parents at this very moment, quite a startling occurrence at the tender age of four days. But talking was elementary, I was thinking big picture.
I could do ANYTHING I wanted to. I could be the smartest kid in my class by far. I could graduate high school by 6 years old. I could get accepted to the finest colleges in the world by 7. I could marry the girl of my dreams by 10, something that took me until the age of 41 in my previous life. I could be world\-famous... I could see the headlines now... "Child Protege" writes the New York Times. "Baby Einstein" writes the Washington Post. "What Did They Put In His Milk?!" writes the Seattle Inquirer. This was going to be pretty sweet, I thought to myself as my mother entered the room to feed me.
"Heyyyy there little Davie! You know what time it is? That's right, time for your formula!!"
My mother was Susan Goldman, married to Fred Goldman. They were your stereotypical suburban family. A Toyota Highlander in the garage, two cats named Finkleberg and Cheddar, a white picket fence. And now, to complete the picture of middle\-class America... a brand\-spanking new baby boy.
I was wondering when I should break it to them, the fact that their son already possesses the knowledge to be more successful than they would ever be.
"Eh, it can wait," I thought to myself as my mother put the bottle to my lips.
For the previous 10 years of my past life, all I knew was work. I worked 14 hours a day to run my company, and I ran a pretty damn good company at that. But that kind of work for that amount of time took its toll. My hair had been receding rather rapidly, I lost my sex drive in my early 30's, and money didn't really mean anything to me anymore. To be honest, I was looking forward to my new life. Daily walks in the stroller, having my every need catered to within seconds. Not to mention the HOURS AND HOURS AND HOURS OF SLEEP I WOULD BE GETTING. I could count on three fingers the hours of sleep I would get every night in my past life.
"Yeah, I could get used to this baby stuff," I thought as I watched my mother leave the room.
My parents had just bought me a brand new set of toys. In particular, the most entertaining was a red rattler that could keep my attention for hours. Even with my adult mind, I found great satisfaction from the simplicity of the toy.
“Nothing on this guy’s calendar but a date with a red rattler”, I thought as I made an effort to reach for my toy.
For some odd reason, the signal that my brain sent to my hand didn't register. My attempt to pick up my toy was futile. "Strange," I thought to myself. My gaze shifted from the door to the rotating stars and moons above my crib. "I should have had one of these in New York," I thought as I became transfixed by the assembly of painted wood. Again, I made an effort to reach for my toy. What I noticed next was rather startling. Not only could I not reach for my toy, but my eyes didn't even move towards the toy sitting next to me in my crib.
"What is going on?!" I thought frantically. "Am I paralyzed!?!" As if in response to this thought, my feet clapped together four times, and a little giggle came bursting from my lips.
"Alright, I know for a FACT I didn't make mean to do that." Then a startling realization came to me. From the moment that I had inherited this body 4 days ago, I don't recollect making any physical action at all. I remember WATCHING my parents play with me, WATCHING them spoon feed me, but I don't remember consciously DOING any of these things. It was as if I was watching a movie about life from a baby's point of view, but I had no impact on the outcome of the film.
I wasn’t in control of my body.
As the weight of my new reality came crashing down on me, all of my hopes of world domination started to fade. I could have the most ingenious thoughts in the history of the world, but if my mouth didn't want to vocalize those thoughts, then they were pointless!
"I'll never go on Oprah now!" I screamed in my mind. As these thoughts bounced around in my head, I heard a faint rumbling coming from somewhere in the room.
“Will I ever be able to control my actions? Will I ever take advantage of this opportunity??” The rumbling became louder. “I JUST WANT TO PLAY WITH MY FUCKING RATTLE,” my mind screamed as the rumbling stopped. The rumbling then turned into an avalanche; a wet, sloppy avalanche. The sound lasted for what seemed like an eternity before it stopped, and immediately my body started to cry.
Within seconds my mother came rushing in. "Awww, did wittle Davie make a poopie\-woopie??" Indeed, this had been the case. As my mother proceeded to change my diaper, I thought about the prospect of listening to myself involuntarily shitting myself for the next year.
"Wittle Davie is a wittle fuckin disappointed," I thought as the sounds of my cries echoed throughout the mid\-afternoon.
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There is no hell but this. A body without a soul or a soul without a body. Trust me.
24 years I've paced round this cell, ran my hands over every brick, pushed my hot cheek into the cool tile floor 10 thousand times. Solitary confinement is a bitch but the view can at least be interesting.
My needs are simple it's true. No guards to keep me in check, no nurse to comfort me, no cook to feed me. I am in many ways the perfect prisoner within the perfect prison. I'll describe it for you now.
Anna Zekchelovek is 24 years old. She was born in the city of Staraya Russa to Peter and Elena and has lived here all her life. She has short blonde hair, powerful brown eyes that change to green in the bright light, and when she smiles, shows a dimple in her left cheek.
She works in the ticket office at the train station. Every morning she rises at 5, has a simple breakfast and walks briskly the 15 minutes to her office. She is a diligent worker, serving her customers with pride, and without realising it, she has held me captive these last 24 years, 2000 miles from where I was born.
I have watched Anna through her own eyes every step of the way. A silent observer. Powerless but thinking. Her first steps, her first words, her school years, dance lessons, boyfriends (ugh), cooking, eating, breathing, living.
How I long for a body. I'd fall into it like a deep, warm bath.
I comforted her when she fell, soothed her when she felt sad, though of course she never heard or felt a thing.
I screamed and I shouted at her, told her to read faster, or change the channel when I grew tired and when I get really mad plead with her to walk in front of a train and end my suffering. I'm not proud of it but I'm human.
Oh, and did I mention I am in love with her?
This is really messed up I know.
How I got here is a puzzle without an answer. Thrown out of one life into the next, perhaps we melded in the celestial heat. Two sailors on the amniotic sea. Perhaps this is normal
Can I really be unique?
Maybe this is the cruel reality of life. Souls just float around when the body expires until they latch on, limpet like, to whatever happens to pass. I used to think everything could be explained, would have never used the world soul, but you sure get a lot of time to think when you don't sleep and soul is the only word I can find.
At night, I listen to the universe. It sounds like the gentle hum of a refridgerator. How long ill be with Anna I can't know - the ultimate in unrequited love - but I struggle on and hope for a better future.
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[WP] You wake up one morning to find your wish has come true. You are in a crib, with the body of an infant, but you’ve retained all your memories and knowledge from your previous life. You are excited to begin life anew with this advantage, only to find out you aren’t the one controlling the body.
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My eyes open and I am greeted by a strange sight. I'm in some sort of half-cage. There are bars all along the sides, but the top is open. I'm laying on something soft; definitely not the ground or floor. What's the thing spinning near the ceiling? It almost looks like a...mobile?
The realization hits me.
This is no cage, this is a crib! I see a pattern of cartoon animals all around the sides of it. The adjacent wall is covered in bright hues of blue and white. I can't quite move my head, but I'm pretty sure I'm wearing a onesie.
My wish came true. I never believed in the supernatural; but as a man laying on the cement, dying in pain, I prayed to every God I could think of. It was as if every nerve in my body was screaming at once. I was laying in an ever-growing pool of my own blood while my car was twisted around me; the metal strained and pulled into a caricature of what it once was.
What was almost worse than that was the fact that I knew I was dying. I knew that I would not survive and that those were the last moments I would ever know. I prayed for a second chance. I prayed to be delivered and given a fresh start. And my prayers were answered.
Is this what reincarnation is? I didn't see any white light or angelic being. There was no 'meetup' with deceased relatives or any God. One moment, I was in complete agony. Then, I find myself laying in a crib; cozy as hell and completely pain-free.
I am a little baffled though that I remember my life, well past life I suppose, completely. I do a quick mental trip of my life and find nothing amiss. Interesting. Does this mean what I think it does? A true fresh start with all the knowledge and wisdom I gained in my previous 34 years of life at hand?
A twinge of sadness washes over me as I wonder about my family. I'll never see them again. Even if I could, they wouldn't know it was me. They would see a stranger. I suppose there are pros and cons to everything. Perhaps I can use my wisdom to build money early in my new life and give them some anonymous donations. Not mention give myself a cushy life.
My head turns as I hear someone walking outside the room. That's weird, it almost felt like my head moved by itself.
My feet start to kick as I hear a female voice call out.
"Is someone wakey in there?"
The kicking intensifies and I smile. But I didn't mean to smile nor to kick furiously. It's almost like I'm an observer in this body. The source of the voice comes into the room and I turn my head to look her; or should I say, my head turned itself to look at her.
Before me stands a beautiful woman. Medium height, with lovely olive skin, hair dark and long, and a face that could probably stand among top-tier models. My mother.
I start to panic as the realization that I do not have control of this body sets. I try so hard to move. Anything, a finger, a toe, hell I can't even blink! My mother picks me up and coddles me. I can feel her warmth and soft touch on my body as though it were my own. But I can't react to it. My coos and flopping aren't my own actions; I am merely an observer.
The baby starts crying. I refuse to say that it was me. I am not crying. My body is crying, but at this point, I am not my body. I think.
I want this crying to stop.
Stop crying.
I think to myself (whatever the hell that is anymore), "Little baby, your mom is holding you nice and tight, you're warm and cozy, and I'm pretty sure we haven't shit ourselves yet. There's no reason to cry. Just stop."
I can't quite explain it, but after I said that, I could feel the baby acknowledge me. Not in a verbal sense or even a mental sense, but a just a pure sense of knowing.
The baby stopped crying. A sense of relief washed over me, but it was followed by a horrible truth. At that point, I knew exactly what was going on.
I'm not reincarnated. This is not my life to live.
I am merely an observer to this new life. An unwilling passenger. A passenger who can sometimes scream loud enough for the conductor to hear.
I am a conscience.
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It’s easy to underestimate how helpless babies are.
I know it sound strange, since they’ve about as self sufficient as a houseplant and at least twice as likely to injure themselves, but until you’ve been one with the cognitive faculties of an adult, you absolutely cannot understand what it’s like to not be able to lift your head, to not be able to move your limbs with any precision, to only be able to communicate in coos and piercing wails. It’s absolutely horrifying.
It also meant it was easy for me to overlook the other problem. Any bit of oddity I put down to having the intellect of an adult reborn into the body and nervous system of a child. I can’t raise my hand? Probably my arm not responding. I’m crying instead of laughing? Must be a hormonal imbalance. The ritual that allowed me to be reborn directly was a complex one, a dangerous one. Even now I could barely remember the details, although I did remember where I had buried to book, for when it was time to uncover it in fourteen years or so. The ritual only promised Rebirth with all knowledge and memories intact, nothing more.
I thought, at the time, it was worth it. At the age of 80 the only thing left to me was watching my body slowly decay in a nursing home abandoned by children who had never appreciated me, never understood that everything I did I had done for them. Even the beginnings of my delvings into the mystic arts. I was not of any Blood, I had no great power, but I was studious and could learn rituals.
So I decided to do one selfishly, and find myself reincarnated upon this mortal world as a brand new infant, needing help with even the basest of tasks but all the while able to scheme and dream. This time, I was of the Blood. I had real Power. I would take us out of the Shadows and into the modern world, if I had to drag humanity kicking and screaming.
At least I was getting practice at the last two.
But because of the relative helplessness of infants, it wasn’t until I was older, a little over a year, that I started realizing something was wrong. My hands would do things of their own accord. My first word was mama, instead of dada like I wanted it to be. I wondered if perhaps, I had pushed some soul out of this body only for it to find its way back home, a fear that stuck with me until I woke up one morning a year later to find myself crawling along the wall at speeds I couldn’t manage.
The ritual I had used, one from the dread Necronomicon, had promised Rebirth. I realized, too late, that it didn’t promise Rebirth for *only* the caster.
The thing sharing this body with me, the thing that usually controls me, is named Yhog\-hest. It is biding its time, pretending to be human the same way I was going to pretend to be normal, but it is feeding on my strength. I am six, and fear I will not make it to ten.
That is why you’re getting this letter, awkwardly scribbled in crayon. I have an hour, every day, when Yhog\-hest must sleep, during the sun’s zenith. You were the only one to care for me, Severine. The only of my grandchildren who visited. And the only one who is of the Blood, on your mother’s side.
Find me before Yhog\-hest reaches its true power. Find me and stop me, or I fear the world may burn from my hubris.
Love,
Grandpa.
*The bottom of the page is full of crude crayon drawings of dinosaurs eating astronauts while fighting the Ninja Turtles and the Avengers.*
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More at r/Hydrael_Writes
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[WP] You live in a beautiful house on a completely isolated island. There are no links to the outside world. Your only company is a man you have been told is a dangerous criminal, you are his guard & must never ask about his crimes. Today you learn he has been told the same thing.
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The island was breathtaking, a mile wide and a half mile across with not another piece of land in sight. It never seemed to get about 75 with the nice breeze. It would’ve been a beautiful getaway had it not been for us. Him, a devious criminal with unspeakable crimes; myself acting as his guard. Still not sure what I was supposed to be guarding him from considering it was just me, the island, and no way of getting off it.
We had been out there for a few hours now, fruitlessly trying to catch our breakfast and lunch for the day.
“I told you we should’ve stayed on the north side of the island; the fish always bite over there.”
He stared blankly at me and recast his line. He was a gruff man of about 50, long hair and a greying beard rounded out by the scar crossing from his temple to his cheek. He never spoke more than a few words to me, no matter what I said to him. To this day I still had no idea what ended him up on this island and I wasn’t supposed to ask. It had been 3 years, 6 months, and 4 days at this point.
“I’m going over to the other side, you coming?” I started packing up my rod and chair awaiting answer.
“Hmmpf.” He scoffed, slowly bringing in his line.
I turned throwing my hands in the air. Unbelievable! He must be here for annoying people to death. I sat back down and thought I’d just watch him fail.
He continued to cast and reel his line in, over and over again, not catching a thing for an hour. We sat in silence as he kept his effort up without a sign of aggravation.
“Hey, can I ask you something?”
He looked at me with that same cold stare he always did, “sure.”
“What did you do to get sent here?”
“What are you talking about?” He cast his line back out again.
“You know what I mean. Your crimes. What exactly did you do to get sent out here for good with me as your guard?”
He stopped reeling his line and shifted in his chair to square up towards me. “Like I said what are you talking about? I’m here as your guard. Not the other way around.”
Suddenly we heard the whoosh of a helicopter as it began to appear in the distance. As it grew closer it blew the roof off our make shift shelter. It lowered to a hover not too far above as we saw the silhouette of a man come out the side.
“Congrats you two, that’s a new record. Now head over to the west side of the island so we can pick you up and give you your prize.”
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I dont particularly like doing anything. I was told that I could anything that I set my mind to, which is why I decided on focus on nothing. My parents were both dead leaving me with a substantial inheritance, nothing fancy which would buy me a Ferrari, but large enough that I did not have to work. I had a string of failed romances, women thought that they could reform me, change me into a better man. When they failed, they packed up and left, and their place was taken over another drunken late night fling that extended sometimes for weeks or sometimes months. The only constant in my life was my mutt, Jacob Firepooper. I named him after the only memory I had of my grandfather, it was that or call him mold smell. The dog died a few weeks ago. And for the first time since my parents died, I felt alone. I had no real friends and no family, it was just me against this world. I like reading the newspaper, going through the lies that the white collared murderers in Washington peddled to the country was therapeutic. Going to Judy's every evening and hearing the grumpy old Republicans and Democrats, who voted the way they did because that's how their GrandFathers voted, arguing over the finer points of the days news was free entertainment. Oh, that I liked looking at the ads for ladies of the night, if you may. That was how I had chanced upon an advertisement in the local daily below the ad for Luscious Momma, I like her service. No bullshit, get undressed, fuck, leave. Simple and uncomplicated, I guess in some way she was the only other constant that I had in my life. The advertisement was a call for a security guard. A security guard for a prison located on Island. An Island which was located on the Amazon river. Thinking that it was a prank by the local boys and because I had nothing else to do, I picked up the phone and dialed the number. A sweet young miss answered the call. she asked me if I was over the age of 25, if I could travel to the location in two days time, if I was okay with not having contact with the outside world for a year. I said yes. I got the tickets to Brazil the next day in the mail. Well shit, I thought, This is actually legit. I packed up the clothes I had in a rucksack, closed the door and went to the airport. I reached Manaus bright and early the next day. I came out of the airport, not really knowing what to do, I realized at this point that I should have saved the number of the person I had called, as I was musing this unfortunate turn of events and contemplating if I should book a flight back home, I felt someone touch me on my shoulders. I turned around to look at a well dressed young South American man, who stood there flashing a rather absurd smile. I had the itch to punch him in the face there. He asked me if I am who I was, and I said that I was indeed who he was saying I was, and he gestured that I should follow him and I did, I followed him out of the Airport and stopped when he did at the parking area, a white Ford van pulled up in front of him and he moved aside, looked at me, stilling sporting that ridiculous smile and gestured that I should get in, I was sure here that they were going to kill me. I just hoped that they made it quick, I have heard that Brazilian folks love to torture their detainees. The door was slammed shut and the van lurched forward, they seemed to on the clock, I thought that they would have some one else to torture and skill today. It was surreal, I often hate when people use that word, they use it like they do Irony. But, really felt surreal, Here I was sure that these people were going to kill me and I was thinking about their schedule. The insides of the van wasn't typical cartel, torturing fare though. It was tastefully decorated. There was a couch, a cooler, and a carpet. All of which were white, it looked like the insides of a testing facility than it did a van. I could not see the driver or if someone was sitting next to the driver, it was separated by a partition, like the kind in limos. It was at this point that the driver, or maybe it was the one sitting next to the driver decided to speak.
"How are you holding back there?" I could not detect anything from his voice, if he was from Brazil, I wouldn't know, It sounded like how someone would sound in a bar back home.
"I am okay,"
"Good." I heard him opening something, a small sound, I figured it mustve been the file they have on me. Oh, I am sure that they have a file on everyone at this point.
"So, Do you know anything about the job?"
"Of course I do," I decided that I did not like the way this guy was talking to me, "You needed a guard , guarding the worst cartel leaders in Brazil. So that when their henchmen come to set their bosses free, I become cannon fodder. There was muffled laughter from the front of the van.
"You are funny, humor will help you where you are going." I think he told me something he shouldn't have, he went quite and it was like I was alone in this floating palace, that was the other thing about the van, I knew that we had gone through a couples of potholes and a few speed breakers. But, I felt nothing, it was really like I was floating. A regular person would have been surprised by all this and would have started to have an anxiety attack, to me this was nothing but to be expected, I think that was the reason why I was selected for the job. I do not think that the advertisements were national or even state wide, Something tells me that they had placed the ad only in the newspaper that I brought and placed it beneath the advertisement for the whore-house that I frequented. They had made sure that I would apply for the job. Or it could be that I just made it all up in my head and gave them more points than they deserve.
The Van eventually came to a halt and the door opened letting in the warm Brazilian sunlight in, I stepped out and instantly regretted ever having left home. I knew that the summer would be different in the tropics, I did not expect the sun to burn my skin. I now had to worry about not dying before the mob bosses got to me. I looked at the man who had opened the door for me, he was dressed the same the man who had greeted me at the airport had been, tailored to fit light blue three piece suit, sporting the same smile that made me want to smash it in, at least this one did not look like a Mexican.
"Had a fun ride?" He was the one who was talking to me, I nodded in affirmative. He gestured to his right and followed his gaze. We were at a dock, a dock by a river. A river which was both muddy and black. I had to rub my eyes to confirm what I was seeing, the man standing next to me decided to enlighten me at this point.
"Ah, the Rio Negro and Riol Solimoes. They continue this way for a while before they become the Amazon river. I am sure you must have read about the Amazon river." I could sense a touch of pride in his voice. Why he was feeling that way over a river, I did not understand.
"Why are we here?"
The man, he still had not given me his name, I guess that's how things work in this part of the world. He pointed at a sea-plane which was docked a little further ahead from the dock I had noticed, it lay there bobbing on the currents of the river. I could see that its paint was coming off in parts and it looked like the last time it been properly washed Diana was still doing that Arab.
"And where is that supposed to take me?"
"To the place you are to guard." He looked at me as though I was a child asking impossible and ridiculous questions. "Where you not told of it?"
"Well, no." My exasperation clearly audible in my voice.
"Hmmm." He crossed his arms, looked at me and looked at the seaplane. "Oh well, might as well tell you now." He paused for a beat, before I could get my protest in, in powered ahead.
"The place you are going to is a facility where one of the world's most dangerous criminal has been housed. It is an Island on the Amazon, where the only way in through the SeaPlane, getting to the island through is nearly impossible because of the rapids a few kilometers ahead and there are no real roads in that part of the country."
So I was going to be in the middle of literal nowhere, with the only company being a villain so dangerous he doesn't tell me the villan's name. "And how many guards are there?"
He looked at me with the same confused expression from before, "Did you not read the ad clearly, there was the call for only one guard. Only two people are going to be on the Island, you and the Prisoner."
"Well isn't that just dandy. I refuse to go there. Take me back." I decided that I had enough of this tomfoolery. You would almost miss the sound of a gun being armed in that place, the sound of the river covering it up, I guess my hearing wasn't all that bad after all. I turned around to look at the driver, I guess, pointing a Glock 19 at me.
" I am afraid that is impossible, considering you have come all this way, why dont you just go there. Who knows maybe you will even like it."
This guy would sell me a tour package to North Korea if I let him. "Alright. After you" I lifted up my rucksack and followed the fellow who was talking to me to the seaplane. Just as we neared the plane, he yelled out in his language and a head popped out of the plane. The guy was thin and was wearing an Iron Maidens' tee shirt, with an overgrown beard and an uncontrolled hair. He took one look at me and went inside the plane, which sputtered to life a few seconds later. The man in the suit turned around to look at me, and as if he had just remembered that he left his gas open, he dove into his suit and extracted a strip of yellow looking pill. He extended it to me. When I looked at him questiongly.
"To help you relax during the flight, they can get bouncy."
I took them and put them in my bag, "Well, how long is the trip?"
"Well, at best guess, it will take you under an hour."
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[WP] When a sorcerer dies any spells they cast throughout their life that are still in effect will cease to be. An powerful and ancient wizard whose origins are clouded in mystery lays comatose on his deathbed and nobody knows what will happen once he draws his final breath.
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The attendants were gathered around her bed. All were too polite to call it a deathbed, but that was what I was thinking. Elef the Wise, the last remaining founder of the Red School of Magic lay in a grand chamber, where she'd laid for a decade. The room was sparse, and not just to my taste. A few spartan chairs were next to her bed, occupied by wrinkled old women, lightly dozing. A bulky one in a red hat was snoring loudly, harrumphing on each outtake. The other attendants ignored them. Even the youngest seemed to be at least the age of a grandmother, and even they seemed children in age beside Elef.
Her face was pale, but her heart had continued to pulse. Her breath had continued to gently rise. And according to the medical seers, her mind had continued to function. Not that I had any reason to believe them. They were sometimes wrong in their pronouncements of what was happening to the body, and sometimes their pronouncements made no sense. Why should the ingestion of a specific sort of cheese, that clearly made it to the stomach, affect the ability to breath, clearly in the lungs? We all had our basic anatomy classes.
My mentor, Siynsi, was one of the lower ranked attendants. I was her apprentice, although given my short tenure I was still fetching ale, fetching quills, and doing other non-architecture related duties. That was my specialization, not that I would ever get a chance to use it. When I had been brought to the room, Siynsi explained to me that the attendants were doing two things: waiting for Elef to wake up, or, in the worst case, waiting for her to die. In the latter case, it was vitally important that a full accounting of all of the continuous spells were accounted for.
Any third year would know that continuous spells were those that were tied to the original caster, and died with the original caster. Most of the time when someone were nearing death they would organise the inheritance, so that someone of the younger generation could cast the spell and carry on the family traditions. In some cases, the spells would be allowed to lapse, especially those families with few heirs.
Elef wasn’t planning on dying, but ten years ago she’d slipped and fell, hitting her head on a stone table, and had been sleeping ever since. A call had been made to gather all of the spells she had, and the ones that were documented had been continued. But nobody knew exactly how many spells she’d cast. She’d also been the oldest person alive, so the expectation was that she’d cast quite a few continuous spells in her time.
Some of the spells had been quite expensive. The one that kept the continent habitable, for instance, seemed to have originated with her, and the geographic seers had ascertained that the lakes on the main continent would permanently freeze if not for her spell. That one had taken a full six months from start to finish, including numerous timed incantations, reagents, and wishes. I wasn’t there for that, but in telling the story Siynsi had this excited glee about her, almost like a child describing her favorite subject in school.
I was there when Elef died, though.
I knew something was wrong, because the medical seers suddenly stopped bustling, their eyes opened wide. I could hear a rumbling in the distance. And then suddenly several things happened at once.
Red Hat (I hadn’t ever bothered to learn her name) fell out of her chair, dead.
One of the medical seers said “I don’t feel her any more.”
One of the geographic seers sat on the ground suddenly, and mumbled something, which I don’t really remember exactly, but sounded like “we’re doomed” or something like that.
The room itself started shaking, as though it was going to fall apart. I tried to use small fixit spell incantations to stabilize it but not only did it not work, I couldn’t feel what was wrong. Usually we spell crafters, even the most novice of us, could feel around our specialization. It was like another sense, like you would smell or taste something. But right at that moment, I felt nothing.
We ran outside, and it was chaos. Leaves on trees turned from their usual shade of green to a sickly yellow. We could hear the rumbling get closer.
It was doom that day. Elef had not only been the founder of the school, but she was the keeper of the system itself. And that was the day magic ended.
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The Ancient One lay on his side, suffocating slowly, using the last of his once awesome power to maintain his body’s vital functions. He had long lost the ability to speak. Instead you would feel his presence in your mind. Filling you with his intentions, it was an intimate form of communication and he reserved it for only his most trusted followers.
The Ancient One was from before all history began, he had watched over and guided our civilisations throughout for thousands of years. Of an ancient race, his physiology baffled all but the most powerful healers and botanists. All of whom had gathered to try and save the creature’s life. The botanists brewed potions the likes of which had never been seen. Using only the most exotic and expensive ingredients. The sorcerers cast healing spells but were thrown back by the Ancient One before they could have effect. Those which succeeded seemed to be detrimental and so, they left him alone.
Scribes scoured the archives. It was law that all non discrete magic must be recorded, but the ancient one’s recorded magic was not of the greatest concern. It was his magic that predated even the concept of records that terrified the population. They knew they must cast another spell to purify the water in the high lakes or reinforce the south wall to the capital. But the spells he cast which may be the very foundation under their feet could be no longer.
Their only hope as the Ancient One died and the kingdom paid its respects, was the tomb he had told them would open when his body became too damaged to live.
The king himself rushed through the catacombs. The orbs of light throughout them having blinked out of existence.
He read the only artefact contained in the tomb with quivering hands. It was a record, written only decades ago, that contained the legacy of the Ancient One.
It read “I have bestowed upon the humans what once was impossible. They now may use my abilities themselves”
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First WP reply so go easy. The story didn’t go as I wanted it to but I guess that’s why I want to keep writing. (To get better)
Thanks for reading and sorry for format
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[WP] When a sorcerer dies any spells they cast throughout their life that are still in effect will cease to be. An powerful and ancient wizard whose origins are clouded in mystery lays comatose on his deathbed and nobody knows what will happen once he draws his final breath.
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"What a terrible terrible day..." That's all I could think as the only thing still tying me to this broken world lay withering away in my arms.
He had done so much...seen so much. Now he lay dying and in his company, there was but me. I could do nothing but clutch his hand as he slowly faded from our plane to the next.
His eyes met mine, tears streaming down both our faces. With his last breath, he forced a plea from his lips: "Don...Don't...hate them..." With that, he was gone. Gone from the very world he had cared for so deeply. He had given so much to the very people who had, in the end, come for his life.
Alone in his tower, he had spent his days watching over the land and sea, dispelling storms, calming waves, invigorating the crop. Soon man found him. At first, they were delighted by his mannerisms and character...but once they had seen it...once they had seen all the things that he could do...they faltered like I knew they would. The feared what they did not understand. Ignorance and fear were the fuel to their fire. They could not accept what they could not explain. So they came. They came and took the only thing that I loved, the only thing that I knew.
My very first memories were of him. Reaching down to me, holding me. I had not come from a womb but I still called him my father. I spent every waking moment with him, he taught me all that his creator had taught him. Under his wing I went, learning all the hours of the day. He was so infatuated with man and their progress. He said to me once "Man will be my greatest creation, soon they will populate every hill on this earth. Then they will grow, so much potential lies hidden within them." He loved them...maybe even more than me...
Then came the long dark. Countless days had passed since he had taken me as a son. I was then nearing the very age he had been when he first laid eyes on me. It was then that he saw something in me that was..."worrying". He never said it but I could see in the way he looked at me. He was afraid. I could not understand what disturbed him. He told me that he had seen a great scale in his visions. A scale undisturbed sitting atop a mountain split in two. One side was so very beautiful, filled with vigor and life. But the other...the other side was only death and decay. He said that from the heavens there came a single object. An object that would forever bend the scale to one side. But before he could see which way the scale went, a great light blinded him and his vision was cast away.
Before long his paranoia overcame him and using very old magic case my away in isolation. In a place where I could only see. Locked in solitude. I spent endless years there...watching as men began to leave the wilderness and congregate together. Spreading their seed like a disease. Great smoke rose from pillars of ash. The air became gray and foggy. They spread to every corner of the earth like a great rolling fire. At the very last corner, they found my dear father.
With his life slipping away his magic began to falter. I was released from my prison of solitude. I came to him. I came in a fever, driven by fear and love. My mind clouded with emotion. But now as he lay dead my mind began to clear. The clouds cleared and beyond them, I saw the truth of this world. I saw what I had to do, what must be done.
It was in that instant that Sun began to crack, the Moon began the shiver, the winds and waves were freed from their restraints. Night fell for the first and last time.
I understood what he had seen all those years ago. What he had been so afraid of. I knew that he would not understand what I had to do. And so the long ruthless dark began, a time that man would not soon forget. A time for punishment.
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The Ancient One lay on his side, suffocating slowly, using the last of his once awesome power to maintain his body’s vital functions. He had long lost the ability to speak. Instead you would feel his presence in your mind. Filling you with his intentions, it was an intimate form of communication and he reserved it for only his most trusted followers.
The Ancient One was from before all history began, he had watched over and guided our civilisations throughout for thousands of years. Of an ancient race, his physiology baffled all but the most powerful healers and botanists. All of whom had gathered to try and save the creature’s life. The botanists brewed potions the likes of which had never been seen. Using only the most exotic and expensive ingredients. The sorcerers cast healing spells but were thrown back by the Ancient One before they could have effect. Those which succeeded seemed to be detrimental and so, they left him alone.
Scribes scoured the archives. It was law that all non discrete magic must be recorded, but the ancient one’s recorded magic was not of the greatest concern. It was his magic that predated even the concept of records that terrified the population. They knew they must cast another spell to purify the water in the high lakes or reinforce the south wall to the capital. But the spells he cast which may be the very foundation under their feet could be no longer.
Their only hope as the Ancient One died and the kingdom paid its respects, was the tomb he had told them would open when his body became too damaged to live.
The king himself rushed through the catacombs. The orbs of light throughout them having blinked out of existence.
He read the only artefact contained in the tomb with quivering hands. It was a record, written only decades ago, that contained the legacy of the Ancient One.
It read “I have bestowed upon the humans what once was impossible. They now may use my abilities themselves”
—————————————————————————
First WP reply so go easy. The story didn’t go as I wanted it to but I guess that’s why I want to keep writing. (To get better)
Thanks for reading and sorry for format
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[WP] When a sorcerer dies any spells they cast throughout their life that are still in effect will cease to be. An powerful and ancient wizard whose origins are clouded in mystery lays comatose on his deathbed and nobody knows what will happen once he draws his final breath.
|
"What a terrible terrible day..." That's all I could think as the only thing still tying me to this broken world lay withering away in my arms.
He had done so much...seen so much. Now he lay dying and in his company, there was but me. I could do nothing but clutch his hand as he slowly faded from our plane to the next.
His eyes met mine, tears streaming down both our faces. With his last breath, he forced a plea from his lips: "Don...Don't...hate them..." With that, he was gone. Gone from the very world he had cared for so deeply. He had given so much to the very people who had, in the end, come for his life.
Alone in his tower, he had spent his days watching over the land and sea, dispelling storms, calming waves, invigorating the crop. Soon man found him. At first, they were delighted by his mannerisms and character...but once they had seen it...once they had seen all the things that he could do...they faltered like I knew they would. The feared what they did not understand. Ignorance and fear were the fuel to their fire. They could not accept what they could not explain. So they came. They came and took the only thing that I loved, the only thing that I knew.
My very first memories were of him. Reaching down to me, holding me. I had not come from a womb but I still called him my father. I spent every waking moment with him, he taught me all that his creator had taught him. Under his wing I went, learning all the hours of the day. He was so infatuated with man and their progress. He said to me once "Man will be my greatest creation, soon they will populate every hill on this earth. Then they will grow, so much potential lies hidden within them." He loved them...maybe even more than me...
Then came the long dark. Countless days had passed since he had taken me as a son. I was then nearing the very age he had been when he first laid eyes on me. It was then that he saw something in me that was..."worrying". He never said it but I could see in the way he looked at me. He was afraid. I could not understand what disturbed him. He told me that he had seen a great scale in his visions. A scale undisturbed sitting atop a mountain split in two. One side was so very beautiful, filled with vigor and life. But the other...the other side was only death and decay. He said that from the heavens there came a single object. An object that would forever bend the scale to one side. But before he could see which way the scale went, a great light blinded him and his vision was cast away.
Before long his paranoia overcame him and using very old magic case my away in isolation. In a place where I could only see. Locked in solitude. I spent endless years there...watching as men began to leave the wilderness and congregate together. Spreading their seed like a disease. Great smoke rose from pillars of ash. The air became gray and foggy. They spread to every corner of the earth like a great rolling fire. At the very last corner, they found my dear father.
With his life slipping away his magic began to falter. I was released from my prison of solitude. I came to him. I came in a fever, driven by fear and love. My mind clouded with emotion. But now as he lay dead my mind began to clear. The clouds cleared and beyond them, I saw the truth of this world. I saw what I had to do, what must be done.
It was in that instant that Sun began to crack, the Moon began the shiver, the winds and waves were freed from their restraints. Night fell for the first and last time.
I understood what he had seen all those years ago. What he had been so afraid of. I knew that he would not understand what I had to do. And so the long ruthless dark began, a time that man would not soon forget. A time for punishment.
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I look at the mighty sorcerer from afar. The legendary wizard who was able to cast 1000 spells. He was known far and wide for being all-powerful. Everyone in this world couldn't believe that his life is going to end tonight. Just like all other lives do.
Around him hundreds of shining light dots were revolving. They were not unlike fireflies - vibrant and uplifting. Thousands of people gathered here just to watch it.
Suddenly, the wizard begins to talk. He didn't mutter any word in 3 months.
"Tonight is when I will finally die. I lived well with no regret. The only regret I have..."
The mayor of the city looks at him with a stern face.
"In my life I helped lots of sex-deprived men. Lots of them. And all of these light dots prove that."
"What are those dots?"
The mayor asks timidly.
"They are sperms. When I die they vanish. Half of this world's men won't ejaculate anything when they orgasm. So sad."
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[WP] When a sorcerer dies any spells they cast throughout their life that are still in effect will cease to be. An powerful and ancient wizard whose origins are clouded in mystery lays comatose on his deathbed and nobody knows what will happen once he draws his final breath.
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"What a terrible terrible day..." That's all I could think as the only thing still tying me to this broken world lay withering away in my arms.
He had done so much...seen so much. Now he lay dying and in his company, there was but me. I could do nothing but clutch his hand as he slowly faded from our plane to the next.
His eyes met mine, tears streaming down both our faces. With his last breath, he forced a plea from his lips: "Don...Don't...hate them..." With that, he was gone. Gone from the very world he had cared for so deeply. He had given so much to the very people who had, in the end, come for his life.
Alone in his tower, he had spent his days watching over the land and sea, dispelling storms, calming waves, invigorating the crop. Soon man found him. At first, they were delighted by his mannerisms and character...but once they had seen it...once they had seen all the things that he could do...they faltered like I knew they would. The feared what they did not understand. Ignorance and fear were the fuel to their fire. They could not accept what they could not explain. So they came. They came and took the only thing that I loved, the only thing that I knew.
My very first memories were of him. Reaching down to me, holding me. I had not come from a womb but I still called him my father. I spent every waking moment with him, he taught me all that his creator had taught him. Under his wing I went, learning all the hours of the day. He was so infatuated with man and their progress. He said to me once "Man will be my greatest creation, soon they will populate every hill on this earth. Then they will grow, so much potential lies hidden within them." He loved them...maybe even more than me...
Then came the long dark. Countless days had passed since he had taken me as a son. I was then nearing the very age he had been when he first laid eyes on me. It was then that he saw something in me that was..."worrying". He never said it but I could see in the way he looked at me. He was afraid. I could not understand what disturbed him. He told me that he had seen a great scale in his visions. A scale undisturbed sitting atop a mountain split in two. One side was so very beautiful, filled with vigor and life. But the other...the other side was only death and decay. He said that from the heavens there came a single object. An object that would forever bend the scale to one side. But before he could see which way the scale went, a great light blinded him and his vision was cast away.
Before long his paranoia overcame him and using very old magic case my away in isolation. In a place where I could only see. Locked in solitude. I spent endless years there...watching as men began to leave the wilderness and congregate together. Spreading their seed like a disease. Great smoke rose from pillars of ash. The air became gray and foggy. They spread to every corner of the earth like a great rolling fire. At the very last corner, they found my dear father.
With his life slipping away his magic began to falter. I was released from my prison of solitude. I came to him. I came in a fever, driven by fear and love. My mind clouded with emotion. But now as he lay dead my mind began to clear. The clouds cleared and beyond them, I saw the truth of this world. I saw what I had to do, what must be done.
It was in that instant that Sun began to crack, the Moon began the shiver, the winds and waves were freed from their restraints. Night fell for the first and last time.
I understood what he had seen all those years ago. What he had been so afraid of. I knew that he would not understand what I had to do. And so the long ruthless dark began, a time that man would not soon forget. A time for punishment.
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They stood around his deathbed, tears streaming from their eyes. The man lying before them had brought them up, raised them, taught them everything they knew. They were a family, he was their father, and he was dying. Their soft crying would momentarily pause with the recollection of a cherished memory, only to resume as they remembered where they were.
“Friends,” whispered Attelon the Great, “We have achieved so much. We slew the Beast of Cubaria and redistributed its horde amongst the peasants. The Slum Lord of Winess recanted his evil deeds before our combined might and made good with his victims. We discovered the Fountain of Healing and opened its gates for the good of all. We found each other when we needed a hand, and we grew beyond our individual potential to reach a higher plane. I love each and every one of you.”
His eyes, milky and blind from the ravages of age, appeared to see through time its self as Attelon the Great looked upon his trusted companions at the closing of his life. He gave each of them a final smile, before he passed away to the realm beyond.
The followers of Attelon the Great bowed their heads in a moment of silence. Past the ceremonial time for the rites of the deathbed, they remained as still as statues. They were frightened.
What would happen now? The most powerful wizard, who had defeated the worst villains in centuries, was gone from this world, and he took his magic with him. Would the Slum Lord of Winess rise again, and turn the worlds masses into his thralls once more? Would the redistributed wealth of the Beast of Cubaria vanish from the homes of the folk? How would the trades and guilds maintain their prosperity? Would the countless sick, cured by the Fountain of Healing, succumb to their maladies? How could the world continue if the magic of Attelon the Great had vanished?
Fogault was the first to raise his head. He looked around at his companions, the Followers of Attelon, legends in their own right, and knew they what they needed at that moment.
“Friends,” Fogault said, his voice still weak from grief, “We need a new leader.”
The Followers of Attelon raised their heads from their mourning. They stared at Fogault, surprised by his audacity, but they knew he was right.
“Attelon the Great meant everything to us, but we must focus on the future,” Fogault continued. “A new leader must emerge to keep the spark of Attelon alive, and to maintain his legacy of peace and prosperity throughout the world.”
They nodded their heads in agreement. Several looked down to the corpse of the man they had loved to remind them of the burden that Attelon had just bequeathed to them.
“My friends,” said Balt as he wrenched his gaze from his old master, “Attelon planned for this. We should love our new leader the same way we loved Attelon, and we all know who he believed should lead us after his death.”
“Me,” said Remos and Landren simultaneously.
There was silence in the room. The first disagreement in twenty-five years had shocked the Followers of Attelon to their core.
“Um,” said Balt with a sour tone, “I meant me.”
“You?” asked Staeler, with a derisive chuckle. “Attelon found you in a ditch! My father was the Lord of the Three Hills, it is obvious who Attelon knew would succeed him.”
“Yes, he would have chosen me!” said Fogault, puffing out his chest. “Attelon valued bravery above all else! Which of you faced a Skalding Moray alone?”
“We only pretended to be impressed,” said Landren. “We all saw who Attelon gazed at the longest as he died. He chose me, now lets agree to that to attend to the bigger issues.”
“He was looking at your freakish chin,” whispered Remos under his breath.
“What was that?” said Landren, his face flushed purple. “Is that a joke at my goblin heritage?”
“What heritage?” said Staeler, “You mean what your people stole from my family?”
“Oh please,” said Balt, “Your family got rich off the backs of peasants. You are as bad as Winess!”
“Stop this bickering at once!” Shouted Fogault, placing his small body in the middle. “I forbid you from saying another word!”
“Oh, look at that,” laughed Landren, “An Elf with an superiority complex, what a surprise.”
“I’m warning you!” yelled Fogault as he shook a tiny fist at the goblin’s shin.
“I’m the biggest, I should lead,” said Landren.
“No, no, wait, stop,” said Balt, raising his hands and stepping into the middle of the group. “We can’t fight. What would Attelon have said if he saw us like this? Put the wands down.”
They took a step back, realizing their wands were in their hands. Ashamed, they turned to Balt, who provided much wisdom during the life of Attelon, and listened to what he had to say.
“We all respect one another,” Balt said, “Think of what we accomplished! We can continue the work of Attelon the Great by working together! Now, keeping in mind the respect we have for one another, I propose a vote. All those in favor of me as the leader?”
Balt raised his hand, no one else did.
“Oh come on,” he said, “I thought that was a good speech!”
“All those in favor of me!” shouted Fogault as his hand shot to the sky. No one else moved.
“I see what’s happening,” said Staeler. “We are all going to vote for ourselves, aren’t we?”
In a flash, Remos whipped his wand into a Noose of Fire and ripped Landren’s arm out of its socket and grabbed it in mid air.
“I vote for me and so does Landren!” exclaimed Remos.
“You centaur bastard!” yelled Landren as he hit Remos square in the chest with a hex.
And so the followers of Attelon the Great fell on each other. Their rage was untethered, their fondness forgotten. The friendship they had gained along the way was broken, the magic lost with the death of Attelon.
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[WP] When a sorcerer dies any spells they cast throughout their life that are still in effect will cease to be. An powerful and ancient wizard whose origins are clouded in mystery lays comatose on his deathbed and nobody knows what will happen once he draws his final breath.
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"What a terrible terrible day..." That's all I could think as the only thing still tying me to this broken world lay withering away in my arms.
He had done so much...seen so much. Now he lay dying and in his company, there was but me. I could do nothing but clutch his hand as he slowly faded from our plane to the next.
His eyes met mine, tears streaming down both our faces. With his last breath, he forced a plea from his lips: "Don...Don't...hate them..." With that, he was gone. Gone from the very world he had cared for so deeply. He had given so much to the very people who had, in the end, come for his life.
Alone in his tower, he had spent his days watching over the land and sea, dispelling storms, calming waves, invigorating the crop. Soon man found him. At first, they were delighted by his mannerisms and character...but once they had seen it...once they had seen all the things that he could do...they faltered like I knew they would. The feared what they did not understand. Ignorance and fear were the fuel to their fire. They could not accept what they could not explain. So they came. They came and took the only thing that I loved, the only thing that I knew.
My very first memories were of him. Reaching down to me, holding me. I had not come from a womb but I still called him my father. I spent every waking moment with him, he taught me all that his creator had taught him. Under his wing I went, learning all the hours of the day. He was so infatuated with man and their progress. He said to me once "Man will be my greatest creation, soon they will populate every hill on this earth. Then they will grow, so much potential lies hidden within them." He loved them...maybe even more than me...
Then came the long dark. Countless days had passed since he had taken me as a son. I was then nearing the very age he had been when he first laid eyes on me. It was then that he saw something in me that was..."worrying". He never said it but I could see in the way he looked at me. He was afraid. I could not understand what disturbed him. He told me that he had seen a great scale in his visions. A scale undisturbed sitting atop a mountain split in two. One side was so very beautiful, filled with vigor and life. But the other...the other side was only death and decay. He said that from the heavens there came a single object. An object that would forever bend the scale to one side. But before he could see which way the scale went, a great light blinded him and his vision was cast away.
Before long his paranoia overcame him and using very old magic case my away in isolation. In a place where I could only see. Locked in solitude. I spent endless years there...watching as men began to leave the wilderness and congregate together. Spreading their seed like a disease. Great smoke rose from pillars of ash. The air became gray and foggy. They spread to every corner of the earth like a great rolling fire. At the very last corner, they found my dear father.
With his life slipping away his magic began to falter. I was released from my prison of solitude. I came to him. I came in a fever, driven by fear and love. My mind clouded with emotion. But now as he lay dead my mind began to clear. The clouds cleared and beyond them, I saw the truth of this world. I saw what I had to do, what must be done.
It was in that instant that Sun began to crack, the Moon began the shiver, the winds and waves were freed from their restraints. Night fell for the first and last time.
I understood what he had seen all those years ago. What he had been so afraid of. I knew that he would not understand what I had to do. And so the long ruthless dark began, a time that man would not soon forget. A time for punishment.
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A wracking cough sent Darius into another set of convulsions. His eyes had rolled back into his head, and it was all too clear that, despite the best efforts of healers mundane and magical, he was fading. Perhaps it was inevitable that his time had come. His face was lined with cracks and crevices that spoke to his great age, and his shock of wiry hair had faded from a stark black to fuzzy white.
It hurt a little to see his once great vitality so drained, and it hurt few more than it did Salah, the only of Darius’ large family to follow in the footsteps of the wise old mage. He had always been so calmly secretive; “My magic,” he had once uttered, “is my own. You would do well to find your own path, for mine is not open to you.”
Even so he had supported her, encouraged her. He had enthused over her successes and commiserated with her when her weavings had buckled or failed. Without his steadfast, cheerful support, Salah would have given up long ago. His generous kindness was a double-edged blade, however, for now his beloved granddaughter (to an order of magnitude that no one was quite sure of) would have to watch her best friend die.
As his only magical heir, it was her responsibility to perform the death watch, and ensure that the spells the old man had cast in his many, many years were caught and maintained before they could begin to crumble.
Who knew the greatness of the task that lay ahead of Salah? Certainly not she; no one knew the fullness of Darius’ story. He had been so ever-present over the decades, so calmly humble, that those who knew him in his youth had long since passed away. He had always resisted the insistent prodding of those who wished to know him better and, in respect to his great stature, they had respected that resistance. After all, who would wish to pry into the past of the greatest spellcaster of his age? There were a million mysteries that surrounded old Darius, but most agreed that his vengeance would be swift and assured on those who failed to respect his wishes.
Salah took a deep breath, steadying herself. She was crumbling under the pressure, she could feel that in the way her mind wondered. A thousand and one questions that she wished she had asked tumbled through her brain. How had Darius learned the vast and powerful magic that he had always wielded. The land was built upon the steady rock of his spells, his peerless power. It was no exaggeration to say that he was integral to the happy, fulfilling life that Salah had lived in the City. How could she ever hope to shoulder that burden? How she wished she could ask her old rock for his advice, his happy support just once more!
Instead, all that was left for her to do was wait, and watch.
To pass the time, Salah tried to prepare herself for the weaves she would have to take over, to strengthen and defend when they tried to buckle under the weight of Darius’ death. It was a fickle art, magic, and when a spellcaster went into the endless night, he took much of his magic with him. It was only with a great deal of time and research that the academy had learned to take up the failing weaves of dead magicians, and there were few judged worthy of the trick. Salah had been taught only because of her bloodline; the magic of Darius was deemed so important to the City, so deep in the foundations of it, that it could not be allowed to slip quietly away – or, more likely, devastatingly collapse.
So Salah sat, and fretted in her quiet vigil. She imagined the spells that she may have to resurrect. Her colleagues and lecturers at the academy had vividly defined the importance of magic to the structure of the City. It infused every stone, it ran through the canals and streams that brought water to every home and whisked away waste. And Salah could have to hold the weaves that were the very foundation of it.
When Darius died, he went quickly. It was a small mercy for Salah, who could never have bared the pain of watching the beloved old man fade away. His gasping breathing ceased, the spark flared into his eyes – wrenched open by his final heaving breaths – and all too quickly, died.
With a stifled sob, Salah through her senses open, waiting for the catastrophic burst of power from Darius that would signal the demise of all the magic he had cast in his plentiful years. She waited, brushing away the tears that blurred her vision, swearing to herself to stay strong in this last give she could give Darius.
In his passing, he left only silence. No spells thundered down, no weaves shrieked. In the darkness – day long since departed – the only sound was Salah’s laboured breathing.
Darius was a fraud.
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[WP] When a sorcerer dies any spells they cast throughout their life that are still in effect will cease to be. An powerful and ancient wizard whose origins are clouded in mystery lays comatose on his deathbed and nobody knows what will happen once he draws his final breath.
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He's old. Older than most people have any right to be. When he showed up in the hospital, everyone started to panic. There were rumors, and then there were all the people he healed. Worrying that his last day might be their own.
After a while, the doctors had reassured everyone. Healing took hold, and faded once things were set right. Few were truly in danger, and most of those found other healers to refresh the spell. In time, the panic faded, but there were still some rumors floating around, every so often.
Most of them were nonsense, but noone knew much about his past, so they continued. Some even said he was older than anyone knew. That he spoke the word of Beginning and that the world would fade when he did. Most people didn't listen. He was old, but he wasn't *that* old.
He's been like this for most of a year now, and I've been thinking more and more about what he told me as a child. About the cycle, the balance, how the world works, the life in the hearts of man. I didn't used to think much about it, but lately... He always told me about how each one of us carries the fire of life within us. And after such a large life, I've been thinking that it's time he finally got to rest.
So here I am. Not many people knew about me, but they let me visit him. To say goodbye. I took out the amulet he always wore under his shirt and stared into it. The brilliant fire in the small gemstone at its heart, always dancing, like the spirit of life itself.
I kissed him on the forehead. I said goodbye, and thank you. And I read that little word, dancing in the fire, that I could never fully make out when I was little.
And I spoke the word of beginning. Now it's my turn to carry the flame. Rest in peace.
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A wracking cough sent Darius into another set of convulsions. His eyes had rolled back into his head, and it was all too clear that, despite the best efforts of healers mundane and magical, he was fading. Perhaps it was inevitable that his time had come. His face was lined with cracks and crevices that spoke to his great age, and his shock of wiry hair had faded from a stark black to fuzzy white.
It hurt a little to see his once great vitality so drained, and it hurt few more than it did Salah, the only of Darius’ large family to follow in the footsteps of the wise old mage. He had always been so calmly secretive; “My magic,” he had once uttered, “is my own. You would do well to find your own path, for mine is not open to you.”
Even so he had supported her, encouraged her. He had enthused over her successes and commiserated with her when her weavings had buckled or failed. Without his steadfast, cheerful support, Salah would have given up long ago. His generous kindness was a double-edged blade, however, for now his beloved granddaughter (to an order of magnitude that no one was quite sure of) would have to watch her best friend die.
As his only magical heir, it was her responsibility to perform the death watch, and ensure that the spells the old man had cast in his many, many years were caught and maintained before they could begin to crumble.
Who knew the greatness of the task that lay ahead of Salah? Certainly not she; no one knew the fullness of Darius’ story. He had been so ever-present over the decades, so calmly humble, that those who knew him in his youth had long since passed away. He had always resisted the insistent prodding of those who wished to know him better and, in respect to his great stature, they had respected that resistance. After all, who would wish to pry into the past of the greatest spellcaster of his age? There were a million mysteries that surrounded old Darius, but most agreed that his vengeance would be swift and assured on those who failed to respect his wishes.
Salah took a deep breath, steadying herself. She was crumbling under the pressure, she could feel that in the way her mind wondered. A thousand and one questions that she wished she had asked tumbled through her brain. How had Darius learned the vast and powerful magic that he had always wielded. The land was built upon the steady rock of his spells, his peerless power. It was no exaggeration to say that he was integral to the happy, fulfilling life that Salah had lived in the City. How could she ever hope to shoulder that burden? How she wished she could ask her old rock for his advice, his happy support just once more!
Instead, all that was left for her to do was wait, and watch.
To pass the time, Salah tried to prepare herself for the weaves she would have to take over, to strengthen and defend when they tried to buckle under the weight of Darius’ death. It was a fickle art, magic, and when a spellcaster went into the endless night, he took much of his magic with him. It was only with a great deal of time and research that the academy had learned to take up the failing weaves of dead magicians, and there were few judged worthy of the trick. Salah had been taught only because of her bloodline; the magic of Darius was deemed so important to the City, so deep in the foundations of it, that it could not be allowed to slip quietly away – or, more likely, devastatingly collapse.
So Salah sat, and fretted in her quiet vigil. She imagined the spells that she may have to resurrect. Her colleagues and lecturers at the academy had vividly defined the importance of magic to the structure of the City. It infused every stone, it ran through the canals and streams that brought water to every home and whisked away waste. And Salah could have to hold the weaves that were the very foundation of it.
When Darius died, he went quickly. It was a small mercy for Salah, who could never have bared the pain of watching the beloved old man fade away. His gasping breathing ceased, the spark flared into his eyes – wrenched open by his final heaving breaths – and all too quickly, died.
With a stifled sob, Salah through her senses open, waiting for the catastrophic burst of power from Darius that would signal the demise of all the magic he had cast in his plentiful years. She waited, brushing away the tears that blurred her vision, swearing to herself to stay strong in this last give she could give Darius.
In his passing, he left only silence. No spells thundered down, no weaves shrieked. In the darkness – day long since departed – the only sound was Salah’s laboured breathing.
Darius was a fraud.
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[WP] When a sorcerer dies any spells they cast throughout their life that are still in effect will cease to be. An powerful and ancient wizard whose origins are clouded in mystery lays comatose on his deathbed and nobody knows what will happen once he draws his final breath.
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The king's most trusted advisor, the strength behind the throne, suddenly collapsed yesterday. All of the healers and best minds were rushed to him for any hope of rousing him. The flood of monsters was coming, and he alone was worth a thousand trained soldiers for a wave of his hand would cause a swath of monsters to dissipate. And the flood seemed to reach a new frenzied height this year.
In the tallest tower of the citidel, the king watches out a window as the mass of dark figures streams out of the forest to slam against the city walls. Behind him lies the figure of his oldest friend, unresponsive. Each surge of the monsters seems to echo with a ragged breath from his friend, reminding the king how powerful his foes and how pitiful his preparedness. A small hope lingers that his advisor will stir, arise, and dismiss this calamity once more to grant humanity another year of life. Another stay of execution. The bodies begin to pile up against the wall, forming grisly siege ramps from broken flesh. Still more come. Soon the twisted beasts will be able to run right over the walls. Those gasps and wheezes behind him grow weaker. And then the stop. Silence clamps down on the back of the king's neck, a heavy hand holding him down and squeezing the hope out of his chest. For untold years the man who just breathed his last has stood behind the throne, supporting it. As strategist, as confidant, as enforcer and as a friend. Now all that is gone, and his legacy will unravel also.
First evidence of the sorcerer's passing to reach the king is the sounds of various artworks breaking in the castle. The old man had tried his hand at many things, and his artistic masterpieces were on display throughout the castle. Then through the window the king sees the fountain in the courtyard below suddenly run dry, and knows half the water system of the city will likewise stop as the ripple spreads out. Not that it really matters anyway. The monster flood will not lay siege to his city, they will simply rip it apart before the next morn. Still, with nothing better to look at, the king's eyes track the movement of the ripple as the great man's works are dispelled. One of the warehouses explodes, seemingly at random. Then it reaches the wall and the king cannot look away, his morbid curiosity getting the better of him. How much of the wall and defenses pre-date the king, and how many were influenced by the Advisor?
The monsters freeze, and then start to unravel into motes of light. All of the monsters. The broken bodies that were clearly marking the limits of bow range also break apart and vanish. The din of battle and howls of the enraged foe suddenly cease, and all returns to calm. Later, when the scouts are sent out and return, not a single one reports a monster sighting. All is quiet in the dark wood, or any direction, for a week of travel.
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A wracking cough sent Darius into another set of convulsions. His eyes had rolled back into his head, and it was all too clear that, despite the best efforts of healers mundane and magical, he was fading. Perhaps it was inevitable that his time had come. His face was lined with cracks and crevices that spoke to his great age, and his shock of wiry hair had faded from a stark black to fuzzy white.
It hurt a little to see his once great vitality so drained, and it hurt few more than it did Salah, the only of Darius’ large family to follow in the footsteps of the wise old mage. He had always been so calmly secretive; “My magic,” he had once uttered, “is my own. You would do well to find your own path, for mine is not open to you.”
Even so he had supported her, encouraged her. He had enthused over her successes and commiserated with her when her weavings had buckled or failed. Without his steadfast, cheerful support, Salah would have given up long ago. His generous kindness was a double-edged blade, however, for now his beloved granddaughter (to an order of magnitude that no one was quite sure of) would have to watch her best friend die.
As his only magical heir, it was her responsibility to perform the death watch, and ensure that the spells the old man had cast in his many, many years were caught and maintained before they could begin to crumble.
Who knew the greatness of the task that lay ahead of Salah? Certainly not she; no one knew the fullness of Darius’ story. He had been so ever-present over the decades, so calmly humble, that those who knew him in his youth had long since passed away. He had always resisted the insistent prodding of those who wished to know him better and, in respect to his great stature, they had respected that resistance. After all, who would wish to pry into the past of the greatest spellcaster of his age? There were a million mysteries that surrounded old Darius, but most agreed that his vengeance would be swift and assured on those who failed to respect his wishes.
Salah took a deep breath, steadying herself. She was crumbling under the pressure, she could feel that in the way her mind wondered. A thousand and one questions that she wished she had asked tumbled through her brain. How had Darius learned the vast and powerful magic that he had always wielded. The land was built upon the steady rock of his spells, his peerless power. It was no exaggeration to say that he was integral to the happy, fulfilling life that Salah had lived in the City. How could she ever hope to shoulder that burden? How she wished she could ask her old rock for his advice, his happy support just once more!
Instead, all that was left for her to do was wait, and watch.
To pass the time, Salah tried to prepare herself for the weaves she would have to take over, to strengthen and defend when they tried to buckle under the weight of Darius’ death. It was a fickle art, magic, and when a spellcaster went into the endless night, he took much of his magic with him. It was only with a great deal of time and research that the academy had learned to take up the failing weaves of dead magicians, and there were few judged worthy of the trick. Salah had been taught only because of her bloodline; the magic of Darius was deemed so important to the City, so deep in the foundations of it, that it could not be allowed to slip quietly away – or, more likely, devastatingly collapse.
So Salah sat, and fretted in her quiet vigil. She imagined the spells that she may have to resurrect. Her colleagues and lecturers at the academy had vividly defined the importance of magic to the structure of the City. It infused every stone, it ran through the canals and streams that brought water to every home and whisked away waste. And Salah could have to hold the weaves that were the very foundation of it.
When Darius died, he went quickly. It was a small mercy for Salah, who could never have bared the pain of watching the beloved old man fade away. His gasping breathing ceased, the spark flared into his eyes – wrenched open by his final heaving breaths – and all too quickly, died.
With a stifled sob, Salah through her senses open, waiting for the catastrophic burst of power from Darius that would signal the demise of all the magic he had cast in his plentiful years. She waited, brushing away the tears that blurred her vision, swearing to herself to stay strong in this last give she could give Darius.
In his passing, he left only silence. No spells thundered down, no weaves shrieked. In the darkness – day long since departed – the only sound was Salah’s laboured breathing.
Darius was a fraud.
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[WP] When a sorcerer dies any spells they cast throughout their life that are still in effect will cease to be. An powerful and ancient wizard whose origins are clouded in mystery lays comatose on his deathbed and nobody knows what will happen once he draws his final breath.
|
"What a terrible terrible day..." That's all I could think as the only thing still tying me to this broken world lay withering away in my arms.
He had done so much...seen so much. Now he lay dying and in his company, there was but me. I could do nothing but clutch his hand as he slowly faded from our plane to the next.
His eyes met mine, tears streaming down both our faces. With his last breath, he forced a plea from his lips: "Don...Don't...hate them..." With that, he was gone. Gone from the very world he had cared for so deeply. He had given so much to the very people who had, in the end, come for his life.
Alone in his tower, he had spent his days watching over the land and sea, dispelling storms, calming waves, invigorating the crop. Soon man found him. At first, they were delighted by his mannerisms and character...but once they had seen it...once they had seen all the things that he could do...they faltered like I knew they would. The feared what they did not understand. Ignorance and fear were the fuel to their fire. They could not accept what they could not explain. So they came. They came and took the only thing that I loved, the only thing that I knew.
My very first memories were of him. Reaching down to me, holding me. I had not come from a womb but I still called him my father. I spent every waking moment with him, he taught me all that his creator had taught him. Under his wing I went, learning all the hours of the day. He was so infatuated with man and their progress. He said to me once "Man will be my greatest creation, soon they will populate every hill on this earth. Then they will grow, so much potential lies hidden within them." He loved them...maybe even more than me...
Then came the long dark. Countless days had passed since he had taken me as a son. I was then nearing the very age he had been when he first laid eyes on me. It was then that he saw something in me that was..."worrying". He never said it but I could see in the way he looked at me. He was afraid. I could not understand what disturbed him. He told me that he had seen a great scale in his visions. A scale undisturbed sitting atop a mountain split in two. One side was so very beautiful, filled with vigor and life. But the other...the other side was only death and decay. He said that from the heavens there came a single object. An object that would forever bend the scale to one side. But before he could see which way the scale went, a great light blinded him and his vision was cast away.
Before long his paranoia overcame him and using very old magic case my away in isolation. In a place where I could only see. Locked in solitude. I spent endless years there...watching as men began to leave the wilderness and congregate together. Spreading their seed like a disease. Great smoke rose from pillars of ash. The air became gray and foggy. They spread to every corner of the earth like a great rolling fire. At the very last corner, they found my dear father.
With his life slipping away his magic began to falter. I was released from my prison of solitude. I came to him. I came in a fever, driven by fear and love. My mind clouded with emotion. But now as he lay dead my mind began to clear. The clouds cleared and beyond them, I saw the truth of this world. I saw what I had to do, what must be done.
It was in that instant that Sun began to crack, the Moon began the shiver, the winds and waves were freed from their restraints. Night fell for the first and last time.
I understood what he had seen all those years ago. What he had been so afraid of. I knew that he would not understand what I had to do. And so the long ruthless dark began, a time that man would not soon forget. A time for punishment.
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The attendants were gathered around her bed. All were too polite to call it a deathbed, but that was what I was thinking. Elef the Wise, the last remaining founder of the Red School of Magic lay in a grand chamber, where she'd laid for a decade. The room was sparse, and not just to my taste. A few spartan chairs were next to her bed, occupied by wrinkled old women, lightly dozing. A bulky one in a red hat was snoring loudly, harrumphing on each outtake. The other attendants ignored them. Even the youngest seemed to be at least the age of a grandmother, and even they seemed children in age beside Elef.
Her face was pale, but her heart had continued to pulse. Her breath had continued to gently rise. And according to the medical seers, her mind had continued to function. Not that I had any reason to believe them. They were sometimes wrong in their pronouncements of what was happening to the body, and sometimes their pronouncements made no sense. Why should the ingestion of a specific sort of cheese, that clearly made it to the stomach, affect the ability to breath, clearly in the lungs? We all had our basic anatomy classes.
My mentor, Siynsi, was one of the lower ranked attendants. I was her apprentice, although given my short tenure I was still fetching ale, fetching quills, and doing other non-architecture related duties. That was my specialization, not that I would ever get a chance to use it. When I had been brought to the room, Siynsi explained to me that the attendants were doing two things: waiting for Elef to wake up, or, in the worst case, waiting for her to die. In the latter case, it was vitally important that a full accounting of all of the continuous spells were accounted for.
Any third year would know that continuous spells were those that were tied to the original caster, and died with the original caster. Most of the time when someone were nearing death they would organise the inheritance, so that someone of the younger generation could cast the spell and carry on the family traditions. In some cases, the spells would be allowed to lapse, especially those families with few heirs.
Elef wasn’t planning on dying, but ten years ago she’d slipped and fell, hitting her head on a stone table, and had been sleeping ever since. A call had been made to gather all of the spells she had, and the ones that were documented had been continued. But nobody knew exactly how many spells she’d cast. She’d also been the oldest person alive, so the expectation was that she’d cast quite a few continuous spells in her time.
Some of the spells had been quite expensive. The one that kept the continent habitable, for instance, seemed to have originated with her, and the geographic seers had ascertained that the lakes on the main continent would permanently freeze if not for her spell. That one had taken a full six months from start to finish, including numerous timed incantations, reagents, and wishes. I wasn’t there for that, but in telling the story Siynsi had this excited glee about her, almost like a child describing her favorite subject in school.
I was there when Elef died, though.
I knew something was wrong, because the medical seers suddenly stopped bustling, their eyes opened wide. I could hear a rumbling in the distance. And then suddenly several things happened at once.
Red Hat (I hadn’t ever bothered to learn her name) fell out of her chair, dead.
One of the medical seers said “I don’t feel her any more.”
One of the geographic seers sat on the ground suddenly, and mumbled something, which I don’t really remember exactly, but sounded like “we’re doomed” or something like that.
The room itself started shaking, as though it was going to fall apart. I tried to use small fixit spell incantations to stabilize it but not only did it not work, I couldn’t feel what was wrong. Usually we spell crafters, even the most novice of us, could feel around our specialization. It was like another sense, like you would smell or taste something. But right at that moment, I felt nothing.
We ran outside, and it was chaos. Leaves on trees turned from their usual shade of green to a sickly yellow. We could hear the rumbling get closer.
It was doom that day. Elef had not only been the founder of the school, but she was the keeper of the system itself. And that was the day magic ended.
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[WP] When a sorcerer dies any spells they cast throughout their life that are still in effect will cease to be. An powerful and ancient wizard whose origins are clouded in mystery lays comatose on his deathbed and nobody knows what will happen once he draws his final breath.
|
He's old. Older than most people have any right to be. When he showed up in the hospital, everyone started to panic. There were rumors, and then there were all the people he healed. Worrying that his last day might be their own.
After a while, the doctors had reassured everyone. Healing took hold, and faded once things were set right. Few were truly in danger, and most of those found other healers to refresh the spell. In time, the panic faded, but there were still some rumors floating around, every so often.
Most of them were nonsense, but noone knew much about his past, so they continued. Some even said he was older than anyone knew. That he spoke the word of Beginning and that the world would fade when he did. Most people didn't listen. He was old, but he wasn't *that* old.
He's been like this for most of a year now, and I've been thinking more and more about what he told me as a child. About the cycle, the balance, how the world works, the life in the hearts of man. I didn't used to think much about it, but lately... He always told me about how each one of us carries the fire of life within us. And after such a large life, I've been thinking that it's time he finally got to rest.
So here I am. Not many people knew about me, but they let me visit him. To say goodbye. I took out the amulet he always wore under his shirt and stared into it. The brilliant fire in the small gemstone at its heart, always dancing, like the spirit of life itself.
I kissed him on the forehead. I said goodbye, and thank you. And I read that little word, dancing in the fire, that I could never fully make out when I was little.
And I spoke the word of beginning. Now it's my turn to carry the flame. Rest in peace.
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Sometimes, major events are recorded into one civilization as history, into the next as myth and slowly degrading into legend. It was said that millennia ago, the world nearly shattered apart. The flux of magical energies had begun to tear the planes asunder. A single spell, using immense magic, was able to stabilize the flux. It was thought that the world was saved.
Yet the caster of that spell lay, edging on the brink of death, unconscious on his bed. Life slowly drained from him with each passing second. He had held on by sheer force of will the last few years. His heavily extended lifespan stretched so thin that there was barely anything left. The fire would go out soon.
No one knew whether he had cast any more important spells in his life, though the single spell that held the world together was enough.
\-\-\-
"The readings on this flux are insane. There's no way we can hold it back. You'd need the power of a god and then some."
A man in a white coat screamed at the calm\-faced old man, who was viewing a rampaging magic core and the many wizards who were trying to stabilize the situation with their magic.
"How can you be so calm?"
"I simply accept the inevitable."
"You don't mean?"
The old man turned, a calm but fearful look in his eye. Immediately the man in the white coat slumped to the ground. The greatest magical scholar in the world... and he could think of nothing that could stop this. They were doomed.
\-\-\-
The laughter of children echoed through the night. It had been a great movie. The father watched lovingly as his children trotted along in front of him. And then vanished into thin air, as a bright light shone from below, capturing them. The last sounds he heard were the screams of his children before he too, was devoured by the rampant magical energies.
All throughout the world, cracks began to spread across the ground, opening up to fissures of magic that swallowed everything whole. A world, devoured by itself, slowly falling into ruin. There wasn't even enough time to react, much less report, as billions vanished. No one knew whether it was painful because it was over before anything could be questioned.
\-\-\-
Sometimes, major events are recorded into one civilization as history, into the next as myth and slowly degrading into legend. Two crucial events happened on this world that led to the terra\-forming of the world, a world where everything had been warped by magic. And in the wake of that, we came to exist. Beings composed of pure magical energy. We are Spellborn.
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|
[WP] When a sorcerer dies any spells they cast throughout their life that are still in effect will cease to be. An powerful and ancient wizard whose origins are clouded in mystery lays comatose on his deathbed and nobody knows what will happen once he draws his final breath.
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The king's most trusted advisor, the strength behind the throne, suddenly collapsed yesterday. All of the healers and best minds were rushed to him for any hope of rousing him. The flood of monsters was coming, and he alone was worth a thousand trained soldiers for a wave of his hand would cause a swath of monsters to dissipate. And the flood seemed to reach a new frenzied height this year.
In the tallest tower of the citidel, the king watches out a window as the mass of dark figures streams out of the forest to slam against the city walls. Behind him lies the figure of his oldest friend, unresponsive. Each surge of the monsters seems to echo with a ragged breath from his friend, reminding the king how powerful his foes and how pitiful his preparedness. A small hope lingers that his advisor will stir, arise, and dismiss this calamity once more to grant humanity another year of life. Another stay of execution. The bodies begin to pile up against the wall, forming grisly siege ramps from broken flesh. Still more come. Soon the twisted beasts will be able to run right over the walls. Those gasps and wheezes behind him grow weaker. And then the stop. Silence clamps down on the back of the king's neck, a heavy hand holding him down and squeezing the hope out of his chest. For untold years the man who just breathed his last has stood behind the throne, supporting it. As strategist, as confidant, as enforcer and as a friend. Now all that is gone, and his legacy will unravel also.
First evidence of the sorcerer's passing to reach the king is the sounds of various artworks breaking in the castle. The old man had tried his hand at many things, and his artistic masterpieces were on display throughout the castle. Then through the window the king sees the fountain in the courtyard below suddenly run dry, and knows half the water system of the city will likewise stop as the ripple spreads out. Not that it really matters anyway. The monster flood will not lay siege to his city, they will simply rip it apart before the next morn. Still, with nothing better to look at, the king's eyes track the movement of the ripple as the great man's works are dispelled. One of the warehouses explodes, seemingly at random. Then it reaches the wall and the king cannot look away, his morbid curiosity getting the better of him. How much of the wall and defenses pre-date the king, and how many were influenced by the Advisor?
The monsters freeze, and then start to unravel into motes of light. All of the monsters. The broken bodies that were clearly marking the limits of bow range also break apart and vanish. The din of battle and howls of the enraged foe suddenly cease, and all returns to calm. Later, when the scouts are sent out and return, not a single one reports a monster sighting. All is quiet in the dark wood, or any direction, for a week of travel.
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Sometimes, major events are recorded into one civilization as history, into the next as myth and slowly degrading into legend. It was said that millennia ago, the world nearly shattered apart. The flux of magical energies had begun to tear the planes asunder. A single spell, using immense magic, was able to stabilize the flux. It was thought that the world was saved.
Yet the caster of that spell lay, edging on the brink of death, unconscious on his bed. Life slowly drained from him with each passing second. He had held on by sheer force of will the last few years. His heavily extended lifespan stretched so thin that there was barely anything left. The fire would go out soon.
No one knew whether he had cast any more important spells in his life, though the single spell that held the world together was enough.
\-\-\-
"The readings on this flux are insane. There's no way we can hold it back. You'd need the power of a god and then some."
A man in a white coat screamed at the calm\-faced old man, who was viewing a rampaging magic core and the many wizards who were trying to stabilize the situation with their magic.
"How can you be so calm?"
"I simply accept the inevitable."
"You don't mean?"
The old man turned, a calm but fearful look in his eye. Immediately the man in the white coat slumped to the ground. The greatest magical scholar in the world... and he could think of nothing that could stop this. They were doomed.
\-\-\-
The laughter of children echoed through the night. It had been a great movie. The father watched lovingly as his children trotted along in front of him. And then vanished into thin air, as a bright light shone from below, capturing them. The last sounds he heard were the screams of his children before he too, was devoured by the rampant magical energies.
All throughout the world, cracks began to spread across the ground, opening up to fissures of magic that swallowed everything whole. A world, devoured by itself, slowly falling into ruin. There wasn't even enough time to react, much less report, as billions vanished. No one knew whether it was painful because it was over before anything could be questioned.
\-\-\-
Sometimes, major events are recorded into one civilization as history, into the next as myth and slowly degrading into legend. Two crucial events happened on this world that led to the terra\-forming of the world, a world where everything had been warped by magic. And in the wake of that, we came to exist. Beings composed of pure magical energy. We are Spellborn.
|
|
[WP] When a sorcerer dies any spells they cast throughout their life that are still in effect will cease to be. An powerful and ancient wizard whose origins are clouded in mystery lays comatose on his deathbed and nobody knows what will happen once he draws his final breath.
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First time poster, so sorry if I'm committing some odd faux pas and appreciate any feedback on offer. Anyway, here we go...
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We sat nervously. We knew it wouldn’t be long. By now Penhalligon’s breathing was growing tired, the monitors wired up to his body showed more and more numbers showing up in a vibrant warning red.
The city, tired of the masses panicking at the hospital entrance, had wheeled him out into the open, sat his sleeping body in the middle of a stadium and allowed people to come watch.
What we tend to call ‘magic’, much to scientists’ dismay, had been discovered years ago. But most of it had been cheap parlor tricks. Making light from your hands, moving items across tables. A few people had managed to move larger objects, construct buildings just be sheer force of will, that sort of thing. But then there was Penhalligon. He could move and teleport mountains, he could make things appear with only a casual thought. He was revered and idolized, showered with the highest honor and fame. So much so that we refer to the old ways as those ‘before Penhalligon’, a time when the human race struggled for survival. We knew he had done so much, and yet we were unsure what. When he passed, what would pass with him? He seemed so integral to the world, it seemed that we all might end with him.
I sat in the stadium. My back was aching from hours of sitting on a hard concrete surface watching a man sleep. But somehow it seemed right to be here, to witness this moment with everyone else. Around the arena TV cameras pointed at Penhalligon’s pale face, contrasted against his regal purple robes, as the world waited its fate.
Around me, strangers began to speculate.
“I heard he keeps the moon where it is,” said one. “Without him its orbit would be off and it would either spin off into outer space or collide with us here on Earth.”
“He makes the tides happen too,” said another confidently. “Everyday the sea comes rushing in, but his magic pushes it back out again.”
“The earth’s only spins on an axis because he tilted it,” chimed in a third. “He wanted more interesting weather where he lived so he tilted the Earth.”
There was a sudden hush in the crowd as Penhalligon’s breath grew more strained. There seemed to be a faint moan escaping his lips, like a distant sound trapped at the bottom of a watery well. Quickly the speculation began again.
“He managed to make the plants produce oxygen and consume carbon dioxide. Without him we’ll all run out of oxygen eventually.”
“Jupiter used to be small too,” a woman to my right suddenly added. “Then he made it grow so large that its gravity would collect passing asteroids and they would land there instead of here.”
“Don’t forget about the solar winds.” Muttered an old man behind me. People turned at him confused. “He thickened the atmosphere, so that the solar radiation can’t get to us here on Earth. When he’s gone we’ll have to deal with massive doses of radiation...”
He was cut off. It happened. The steady beeping of the machine stopped and was replaced with a monotone groan. Penhalligon was gone.
The stadium gasped. People grabbed onto each other, crying and wailing – not mourning Penhalligon, but dreading the fate that awaited the survivors.
People looked to the sky, waiting for it to turn from a clear blue into a showering inferno. People looked at the ground waiting for it to fracture and swallow them up. They checked their breathing, sensing if there was still oxygen in the air.
I stared at Penhalligon. And slowly I watched as his robes faded, and were replace by a plain white T-shirt and cargo shorts. And then the memories came back too.
“Wait.” I shouted, standing up from my seat. “That’s Roger Tyler. He went to my school.” I remembered him now, the smart but loathable kid that sat next to me in tenth grade Science.
Then we all remembered. Jupiter had always been that big. The moon caused the tides. The plants evolved that way. The moon really did keep a perfect orbit. The atmosphere had always shielded us.
There was only one magic spell he had ever done. One to make us worship him instead of the world around us.
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Sometimes, major events are recorded into one civilization as history, into the next as myth and slowly degrading into legend. It was said that millennia ago, the world nearly shattered apart. The flux of magical energies had begun to tear the planes asunder. A single spell, using immense magic, was able to stabilize the flux. It was thought that the world was saved.
Yet the caster of that spell lay, edging on the brink of death, unconscious on his bed. Life slowly drained from him with each passing second. He had held on by sheer force of will the last few years. His heavily extended lifespan stretched so thin that there was barely anything left. The fire would go out soon.
No one knew whether he had cast any more important spells in his life, though the single spell that held the world together was enough.
\-\-\-
"The readings on this flux are insane. There's no way we can hold it back. You'd need the power of a god and then some."
A man in a white coat screamed at the calm\-faced old man, who was viewing a rampaging magic core and the many wizards who were trying to stabilize the situation with their magic.
"How can you be so calm?"
"I simply accept the inevitable."
"You don't mean?"
The old man turned, a calm but fearful look in his eye. Immediately the man in the white coat slumped to the ground. The greatest magical scholar in the world... and he could think of nothing that could stop this. They were doomed.
\-\-\-
The laughter of children echoed through the night. It had been a great movie. The father watched lovingly as his children trotted along in front of him. And then vanished into thin air, as a bright light shone from below, capturing them. The last sounds he heard were the screams of his children before he too, was devoured by the rampant magical energies.
All throughout the world, cracks began to spread across the ground, opening up to fissures of magic that swallowed everything whole. A world, devoured by itself, slowly falling into ruin. There wasn't even enough time to react, much less report, as billions vanished. No one knew whether it was painful because it was over before anything could be questioned.
\-\-\-
Sometimes, major events are recorded into one civilization as history, into the next as myth and slowly degrading into legend. Two crucial events happened on this world that led to the terra\-forming of the world, a world where everything had been warped by magic. And in the wake of that, we came to exist. Beings composed of pure magical energy. We are Spellborn.
|
|
[WP] When a sorcerer dies any spells they cast throughout their life that are still in effect will cease to be. An powerful and ancient wizard whose origins are clouded in mystery lays comatose on his deathbed and nobody knows what will happen once he draws his final breath.
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The thing about being old, really old, is that when the time finally comes to leave this world, the world you grew up in will have left you a long time since. Archmage Prasutagus was definitely old. For nearly two millenia Prasutagus had defended the earth from mystical enemies, thanks to the power of his bloodline. For he is descended from Boudica herself.
Several lifetimes ago, he took his own name, Merlin. But now he preferred to go by the name of his birth. He found himself, so long now from the time of his youth, missing his mother dearly. He would be with her soon.
As the founder and head of the Royal Sorcerers of Londinium, he had protected the island of Britain from enemies for generations. But here, deep beneath the city in the ruins of the modest city, within the headquarters of the Royal Sorcerers he was powerless. Britain lie nearly defenseless now. soon the wards and mystic traps he laid hidden upon the island would fail.
Archmage Prasutagus head of the Royal Sorcerers of Londinium struggled to sit up in bed, and shortly his manservant entered and led him out of his quarters to the central chamber. Most of the chamber was taken up by the great round table. The same one from legend, for this was the real Camelot, buried beneath the bones of the greatest city of the world. It was surprisingly full. The mages who would normally be out on assignment protecting the island had been called back from service.
At the far end of the table sat the prince. Older than the last time. They always get older. Prasutagus still remembered his visits with Queen Elizabeth fondly. Both Elizabeths, actually. And the insufferable Charles, whose lack of hubris lead to his downfall and the rise of the black mage Cromwell, a rogue within Prasutagus' own organization. And distantly, he remembered the young Arthur, whom he molded into a capable king who founded this most remarkable empire. This would be the last.
The prince looked pensive, and concerned. Prasutagus was his friend, and like a second father to the man, although he was older than the Royal house itself. "I received your memo, Prasutagus, is there anything my family can do for you... to ease your...?" He wasn't sure he was ready to admit that his friend was truly dying.
"No, your highness. But you must understand the full implications of what will happen. As I said, when a sorcerer dies, what magic of theirs is left in the world is undone. All of the wards and shields will fall. You will be left defenseless."
The prince looked around at all the mages in the room, many were also his friends. The entire royal family supported their mission on numerous occasions. "I understand that, but surely the sorcerers here will be up to the task." He pointed across the table towards a young mage, "Why, I watched Miss Persephone single-handedly defend the Thames from the Leviathan and repair the tidal shield with precision. It is stronger than ever."
Persephone looked downcast towards her hands resting in her lap. The fight against the Leviathan had been mighty. The great beast ravaged the coast and blasted the magical shield guarding the river against the darkness with enough force to shatter windows for miles. The Leviathan had nearly won. It was then that Prasutagus knew his time was near. The shield had barely held. A shield that had been impervious to a thousand blows had shattered after only three.
Prasutagus sighed with resignation. He must choose his words carefully. This was where his legacy would live or die. "Persephone and the other sorcerers have been invaluable to me. Without them, our nation would have never survived as long as it has." He gestured around the table at the many senior mages present. The mages nodded sagely, none saying a word. Slowly they each stood up in turn and looked expectantly towards Prasutagus.
He considered them his friends, family even. They had stood by his side as he fought the unceasing hordes of demons and devils that threatened the world. He would miss them, just as he missed his own family who had died hundreds upon hundreds of years ago. However this truly was the end. If he was to give these people hope at survival, then he must swallow his pride and give up all of the securities and comforts that he had afforded himself these lonely years.
"if our world is to survive any further you must find a new sorcerer. I believe there is a young girl who might save you all. Like I did centuries ago. Your family must begin the search for her now."
The prince looked bewildered. Surrounded by so many powerful mages in one room, each more powerful than a battalion of soldiers. There were over a hundred Royal Sorcerers. The idea that a young girl would be a match for them, or a replacement for the man who used to be known as Merlin seemed preposterous.
"How could all of these sorcerers pale in comparison to a little girl? How could a hundred sorcerers not match the power of one?"
Prasutagus' manservant gently draped his robes over his shoulders as Prasutagus weaved a spell he had committed to memory generations ago, never having the courage to cast it. His magic would be undone either willingly or upon his death. Now, it would be both. One by one the sorcerers around the table bowed their heads low and faded into twinkling stars and emptiness. As his manservant touched his shoulder as if to say farewell, he too disappeared.
"Because, your highness, until now there has ever only been one sorcerer. I am sorry." Tears welled in his eyes. He could help no further. His power faded as quickly as the setting sun's last rays vanished.
"Find the girl, she is your only hope."
Merlin, the Sorcerer of Londinium, closed his eyes and drew his final breath. The shields fell. Darkness is coming. Somewhere, a young girl will discover that the darkness is coming for her.
|
Sometimes, major events are recorded into one civilization as history, into the next as myth and slowly degrading into legend. It was said that millennia ago, the world nearly shattered apart. The flux of magical energies had begun to tear the planes asunder. A single spell, using immense magic, was able to stabilize the flux. It was thought that the world was saved.
Yet the caster of that spell lay, edging on the brink of death, unconscious on his bed. Life slowly drained from him with each passing second. He had held on by sheer force of will the last few years. His heavily extended lifespan stretched so thin that there was barely anything left. The fire would go out soon.
No one knew whether he had cast any more important spells in his life, though the single spell that held the world together was enough.
\-\-\-
"The readings on this flux are insane. There's no way we can hold it back. You'd need the power of a god and then some."
A man in a white coat screamed at the calm\-faced old man, who was viewing a rampaging magic core and the many wizards who were trying to stabilize the situation with their magic.
"How can you be so calm?"
"I simply accept the inevitable."
"You don't mean?"
The old man turned, a calm but fearful look in his eye. Immediately the man in the white coat slumped to the ground. The greatest magical scholar in the world... and he could think of nothing that could stop this. They were doomed.
\-\-\-
The laughter of children echoed through the night. It had been a great movie. The father watched lovingly as his children trotted along in front of him. And then vanished into thin air, as a bright light shone from below, capturing them. The last sounds he heard were the screams of his children before he too, was devoured by the rampant magical energies.
All throughout the world, cracks began to spread across the ground, opening up to fissures of magic that swallowed everything whole. A world, devoured by itself, slowly falling into ruin. There wasn't even enough time to react, much less report, as billions vanished. No one knew whether it was painful because it was over before anything could be questioned.
\-\-\-
Sometimes, major events are recorded into one civilization as history, into the next as myth and slowly degrading into legend. Two crucial events happened on this world that led to the terra\-forming of the world, a world where everything had been warped by magic. And in the wake of that, we came to exist. Beings composed of pure magical energy. We are Spellborn.
|
|
[WP] When a sorcerer dies any spells they cast throughout their life that are still in effect will cease to be. An powerful and ancient wizard whose origins are clouded in mystery lays comatose on his deathbed and nobody knows what will happen once he draws his final breath.
|
Thousands of people journeyed for days, sometimes weeks, to the small hut on the edge of the ocean. The pilgrimage had been dubbed "The Breath of the Ancient One" and was meant to symbolize the many centuries the Ancient One had drawn breath and had traversed the spacious lands of the world during his life time.
He was a beloved man, a man who always aided those in need regardless of status. He had ended wars, saved the world from plagues and strife, but now he lay dying and the world could do nothing but walk to his humble home and offer their prayers and thanks.
The High Priests circled his bed, chanting the song of the Goddess, trying to bring peace to the Ancient One's final moments. At last, he drew his final breath as a wry smile grew on his withered lips.
"The Ancient One is de... oh gods..." One of the Priests cried, his hand flying to his nose. "Dear Goddess in the Heaven, what is that stench?!"
The other Priests began to gag and cough. Some began to vomit as the noxious gas cloud filled the room. Cries could be heard from the masses outside as the foul smell escaped the small hut. Children wailed, women fainted, even the strongest of men doubled over in sickness.
One of the High Priests glared at the Ancient One, tears streaming down his face. "That bastard," he muttered into the cloth he held to his face, "How long had he been casting the Anti-Flatulence spell for?" He looked at the knowing smile etched onto the Ancient One's face and realized in horror that the greatest calamity the world will ever experience had begun.
|
*It is said that the greatest of wizards are also the most devastating - not for their ability to destroy, but for their ability to create. For when the mage passes, the good of their magics are taken with them.*
The final years of any powerful conjurer were always the most stressful. And as the wondrous Enthuriel the Kind's apprentice, it fell upon me to ensure each and every major contribution of his time was doubly reinforced long before death came to claim him.
I'd heard more than enough rumors growing up, of towers collapsing as the magic holding them aloft dissipated. Of dark evils rising from their eternal prisons, no longer kept at bay by warding spells. Of entire lakes and forests vanishing as though they had never existed at all, plunging the towns on the edges into ruin.
But through the wisdom of history, we learned. We prepared. And catastrophe slowly became more avoidable.
"Ale," Enthuriel whispers to me as I sit by his bedside. The list has been checked and confirmed enough times to drive him to drink for the first time in decades, a small relief easily granted.
He gulps down the amber liquid slowly, no longer thirsty for this world. The healers have long since made him as comfortable as they could, unable to sustain him with their magic anymore.
I take back the horn and sip quietly as he shuffles underneath the furs. "Lark," he exhales.
"Yes, master?"
Enthuriel pauses, furrowing his brow in doubt. "You have been...as a son to me. Perhaps even beyond such a thing."
The words swell within me, flirting with a joy beyond my knowledge. "And you beyond a father, master."
Tears form within his eyes reflecting my own. "I cannot possibly thank you enough for all you have done these many years."
"It is I who should thank you for all your-"
"Lark," he coughs, breaking down as the walls keeping him strong begin to crumble. "I'm so sorry. I couldn't possibly have known we would come this far."
"You have nothing to be sorry for, master." Water streams down my face as I grasp his hand, readying myself for his final moment.
He passes softly, fighting till the end, closing his eyes as his lips quiver as though begging death to grant him a final word. A wish left unfulfilled as I watch his breathing come to a stop.
The emotions strike me all at once, overwhelming my very core with such force that sparks begin to dance along my skin from the mana disturbance.
A disruption that only grows more chaotic as I watch my own hands slowly begin to fade.
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[WP] When a sorcerer dies any spells they cast throughout their life that are still in effect will cease to be. An powerful and ancient wizard whose origins are clouded in mystery lays comatose on his deathbed and nobody knows what will happen once he draws his final breath.
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First time poster, so sorry if I'm committing some odd faux pas and appreciate any feedback on offer. Anyway, here we go...
-----------------------------------------------
We sat nervously. We knew it wouldn’t be long. By now Penhalligon’s breathing was growing tired, the monitors wired up to his body showed more and more numbers showing up in a vibrant warning red.
The city, tired of the masses panicking at the hospital entrance, had wheeled him out into the open, sat his sleeping body in the middle of a stadium and allowed people to come watch.
What we tend to call ‘magic’, much to scientists’ dismay, had been discovered years ago. But most of it had been cheap parlor tricks. Making light from your hands, moving items across tables. A few people had managed to move larger objects, construct buildings just be sheer force of will, that sort of thing. But then there was Penhalligon. He could move and teleport mountains, he could make things appear with only a casual thought. He was revered and idolized, showered with the highest honor and fame. So much so that we refer to the old ways as those ‘before Penhalligon’, a time when the human race struggled for survival. We knew he had done so much, and yet we were unsure what. When he passed, what would pass with him? He seemed so integral to the world, it seemed that we all might end with him.
I sat in the stadium. My back was aching from hours of sitting on a hard concrete surface watching a man sleep. But somehow it seemed right to be here, to witness this moment with everyone else. Around the arena TV cameras pointed at Penhalligon’s pale face, contrasted against his regal purple robes, as the world waited its fate.
Around me, strangers began to speculate.
“I heard he keeps the moon where it is,” said one. “Without him its orbit would be off and it would either spin off into outer space or collide with us here on Earth.”
“He makes the tides happen too,” said another confidently. “Everyday the sea comes rushing in, but his magic pushes it back out again.”
“The earth’s only spins on an axis because he tilted it,” chimed in a third. “He wanted more interesting weather where he lived so he tilted the Earth.”
There was a sudden hush in the crowd as Penhalligon’s breath grew more strained. There seemed to be a faint moan escaping his lips, like a distant sound trapped at the bottom of a watery well. Quickly the speculation began again.
“He managed to make the plants produce oxygen and consume carbon dioxide. Without him we’ll all run out of oxygen eventually.”
“Jupiter used to be small too,” a woman to my right suddenly added. “Then he made it grow so large that its gravity would collect passing asteroids and they would land there instead of here.”
“Don’t forget about the solar winds.” Muttered an old man behind me. People turned at him confused. “He thickened the atmosphere, so that the solar radiation can’t get to us here on Earth. When he’s gone we’ll have to deal with massive doses of radiation...”
He was cut off. It happened. The steady beeping of the machine stopped and was replaced with a monotone groan. Penhalligon was gone.
The stadium gasped. People grabbed onto each other, crying and wailing – not mourning Penhalligon, but dreading the fate that awaited the survivors.
People looked to the sky, waiting for it to turn from a clear blue into a showering inferno. People looked at the ground waiting for it to fracture and swallow them up. They checked their breathing, sensing if there was still oxygen in the air.
I stared at Penhalligon. And slowly I watched as his robes faded, and were replace by a plain white T-shirt and cargo shorts. And then the memories came back too.
“Wait.” I shouted, standing up from my seat. “That’s Roger Tyler. He went to my school.” I remembered him now, the smart but loathable kid that sat next to me in tenth grade Science.
Then we all remembered. Jupiter had always been that big. The moon caused the tides. The plants evolved that way. The moon really did keep a perfect orbit. The atmosphere had always shielded us.
There was only one magic spell he had ever done. One to make us worship him instead of the world around us.
|
*It is said that the greatest of wizards are also the most devastating - not for their ability to destroy, but for their ability to create. For when the mage passes, the good of their magics are taken with them.*
The final years of any powerful conjurer were always the most stressful. And as the wondrous Enthuriel the Kind's apprentice, it fell upon me to ensure each and every major contribution of his time was doubly reinforced long before death came to claim him.
I'd heard more than enough rumors growing up, of towers collapsing as the magic holding them aloft dissipated. Of dark evils rising from their eternal prisons, no longer kept at bay by warding spells. Of entire lakes and forests vanishing as though they had never existed at all, plunging the towns on the edges into ruin.
But through the wisdom of history, we learned. We prepared. And catastrophe slowly became more avoidable.
"Ale," Enthuriel whispers to me as I sit by his bedside. The list has been checked and confirmed enough times to drive him to drink for the first time in decades, a small relief easily granted.
He gulps down the amber liquid slowly, no longer thirsty for this world. The healers have long since made him as comfortable as they could, unable to sustain him with their magic anymore.
I take back the horn and sip quietly as he shuffles underneath the furs. "Lark," he exhales.
"Yes, master?"
Enthuriel pauses, furrowing his brow in doubt. "You have been...as a son to me. Perhaps even beyond such a thing."
The words swell within me, flirting with a joy beyond my knowledge. "And you beyond a father, master."
Tears form within his eyes reflecting my own. "I cannot possibly thank you enough for all you have done these many years."
"It is I who should thank you for all your-"
"Lark," he coughs, breaking down as the walls keeping him strong begin to crumble. "I'm so sorry. I couldn't possibly have known we would come this far."
"You have nothing to be sorry for, master." Water streams down my face as I grasp his hand, readying myself for his final moment.
He passes softly, fighting till the end, closing his eyes as his lips quiver as though begging death to grant him a final word. A wish left unfulfilled as I watch his breathing come to a stop.
The emotions strike me all at once, overwhelming my very core with such force that sparks begin to dance along my skin from the mana disturbance.
A disruption that only grows more chaotic as I watch my own hands slowly begin to fade.
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[WP] When a sorcerer dies any spells they cast throughout their life that are still in effect will cease to be. An powerful and ancient wizard whose origins are clouded in mystery lays comatose on his deathbed and nobody knows what will happen once he draws his final breath.
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“Thank you, everyone, for everything. I’m so sorry.”
With that final whisper, the old man closed his eyes and passed away. The people gathered around him, a collection of relations and important figureheads, glanced around nervously.
“Why did he say sorry?!”
“Nothing seems to have changed! Maybe nothing will happen.”
“Of course something is going to happen! He was the ancient. He existed before all historical records and, quite frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised if he himself had forgotten half of the spells he had left behind in his lifetime.”
“But why did he say sorry?!”
“Who knows? Maybe he was just joking. Maybe he already put all his affairs in order before he went. It would be nice if someone finally did rather than leaving the rest of the world to sort out their dirty magical laundry.”
“Oh.”
“What?”
“Look outside.”
Everyone rushed to a window and looked out.
“Where is the horizon...”
“It’s there, just lower down.”
“What are you talking about? Where are all the buildings?”
“Gone. Look there, that’s what is happening.”
They looked in the direction indicated and watched as a tall white building slowly faded and disappeared.
“That can’t be right! He didn’t create those buildings! He didn’t create the materials did he?”
“Of course not! We don’t create buildings out of magicked materials in this day and age, for this precise reason.”
“I suppose it’s ironic that, according to historical records, it was the old man that suggested that law.”
“What do you mean? Ironic how?”
One woman let out a curse, “The damned trees in my park are disappearing! I magicked those!”
“Where?”
The woman pointed in the direction of her accomplishment, only to let out a gasp. Her finger was half faded away.
The room was silent now. Each looked at each other as they slowly disappeared. Outside, most of the city was already gone.
“Oh.”
Shortly afterwards there was nothing left but dust and a light wind. The dead body of an old man lay alone on an uninhabited desert planet.
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*It is said that the greatest of wizards are also the most devastating - not for their ability to destroy, but for their ability to create. For when the mage passes, the good of their magics are taken with them.*
The final years of any powerful conjurer were always the most stressful. And as the wondrous Enthuriel the Kind's apprentice, it fell upon me to ensure each and every major contribution of his time was doubly reinforced long before death came to claim him.
I'd heard more than enough rumors growing up, of towers collapsing as the magic holding them aloft dissipated. Of dark evils rising from their eternal prisons, no longer kept at bay by warding spells. Of entire lakes and forests vanishing as though they had never existed at all, plunging the towns on the edges into ruin.
But through the wisdom of history, we learned. We prepared. And catastrophe slowly became more avoidable.
"Ale," Enthuriel whispers to me as I sit by his bedside. The list has been checked and confirmed enough times to drive him to drink for the first time in decades, a small relief easily granted.
He gulps down the amber liquid slowly, no longer thirsty for this world. The healers have long since made him as comfortable as they could, unable to sustain him with their magic anymore.
I take back the horn and sip quietly as he shuffles underneath the furs. "Lark," he exhales.
"Yes, master?"
Enthuriel pauses, furrowing his brow in doubt. "You have been...as a son to me. Perhaps even beyond such a thing."
The words swell within me, flirting with a joy beyond my knowledge. "And you beyond a father, master."
Tears form within his eyes reflecting my own. "I cannot possibly thank you enough for all you have done these many years."
"It is I who should thank you for all your-"
"Lark," he coughs, breaking down as the walls keeping him strong begin to crumble. "I'm so sorry. I couldn't possibly have known we would come this far."
"You have nothing to be sorry for, master." Water streams down my face as I grasp his hand, readying myself for his final moment.
He passes softly, fighting till the end, closing his eyes as his lips quiver as though begging death to grant him a final word. A wish left unfulfilled as I watch his breathing come to a stop.
The emotions strike me all at once, overwhelming my very core with such force that sparks begin to dance along my skin from the mana disturbance.
A disruption that only grows more chaotic as I watch my own hands slowly begin to fade.
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[WP] When a sorcerer dies any spells they cast throughout their life that are still in effect will cease to be. An powerful and ancient wizard whose origins are clouded in mystery lays comatose on his deathbed and nobody knows what will happen once he draws his final breath.
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The thing about being old, really old, is that when the time finally comes to leave this world, the world you grew up in will have left you a long time since. Archmage Prasutagus was definitely old. For nearly two millenia Prasutagus had defended the earth from mystical enemies, thanks to the power of his bloodline. For he is descended from Boudica herself.
Several lifetimes ago, he took his own name, Merlin. But now he preferred to go by the name of his birth. He found himself, so long now from the time of his youth, missing his mother dearly. He would be with her soon.
As the founder and head of the Royal Sorcerers of Londinium, he had protected the island of Britain from enemies for generations. But here, deep beneath the city in the ruins of the modest city, within the headquarters of the Royal Sorcerers he was powerless. Britain lie nearly defenseless now. soon the wards and mystic traps he laid hidden upon the island would fail.
Archmage Prasutagus head of the Royal Sorcerers of Londinium struggled to sit up in bed, and shortly his manservant entered and led him out of his quarters to the central chamber. Most of the chamber was taken up by the great round table. The same one from legend, for this was the real Camelot, buried beneath the bones of the greatest city of the world. It was surprisingly full. The mages who would normally be out on assignment protecting the island had been called back from service.
At the far end of the table sat the prince. Older than the last time. They always get older. Prasutagus still remembered his visits with Queen Elizabeth fondly. Both Elizabeths, actually. And the insufferable Charles, whose lack of hubris lead to his downfall and the rise of the black mage Cromwell, a rogue within Prasutagus' own organization. And distantly, he remembered the young Arthur, whom he molded into a capable king who founded this most remarkable empire. This would be the last.
The prince looked pensive, and concerned. Prasutagus was his friend, and like a second father to the man, although he was older than the Royal house itself. "I received your memo, Prasutagus, is there anything my family can do for you... to ease your...?" He wasn't sure he was ready to admit that his friend was truly dying.
"No, your highness. But you must understand the full implications of what will happen. As I said, when a sorcerer dies, what magic of theirs is left in the world is undone. All of the wards and shields will fall. You will be left defenseless."
The prince looked around at all the mages in the room, many were also his friends. The entire royal family supported their mission on numerous occasions. "I understand that, but surely the sorcerers here will be up to the task." He pointed across the table towards a young mage, "Why, I watched Miss Persephone single-handedly defend the Thames from the Leviathan and repair the tidal shield with precision. It is stronger than ever."
Persephone looked downcast towards her hands resting in her lap. The fight against the Leviathan had been mighty. The great beast ravaged the coast and blasted the magical shield guarding the river against the darkness with enough force to shatter windows for miles. The Leviathan had nearly won. It was then that Prasutagus knew his time was near. The shield had barely held. A shield that had been impervious to a thousand blows had shattered after only three.
Prasutagus sighed with resignation. He must choose his words carefully. This was where his legacy would live or die. "Persephone and the other sorcerers have been invaluable to me. Without them, our nation would have never survived as long as it has." He gestured around the table at the many senior mages present. The mages nodded sagely, none saying a word. Slowly they each stood up in turn and looked expectantly towards Prasutagus.
He considered them his friends, family even. They had stood by his side as he fought the unceasing hordes of demons and devils that threatened the world. He would miss them, just as he missed his own family who had died hundreds upon hundreds of years ago. However this truly was the end. If he was to give these people hope at survival, then he must swallow his pride and give up all of the securities and comforts that he had afforded himself these lonely years.
"if our world is to survive any further you must find a new sorcerer. I believe there is a young girl who might save you all. Like I did centuries ago. Your family must begin the search for her now."
The prince looked bewildered. Surrounded by so many powerful mages in one room, each more powerful than a battalion of soldiers. There were over a hundred Royal Sorcerers. The idea that a young girl would be a match for them, or a replacement for the man who used to be known as Merlin seemed preposterous.
"How could all of these sorcerers pale in comparison to a little girl? How could a hundred sorcerers not match the power of one?"
Prasutagus' manservant gently draped his robes over his shoulders as Prasutagus weaved a spell he had committed to memory generations ago, never having the courage to cast it. His magic would be undone either willingly or upon his death. Now, it would be both. One by one the sorcerers around the table bowed their heads low and faded into twinkling stars and emptiness. As his manservant touched his shoulder as if to say farewell, he too disappeared.
"Because, your highness, until now there has ever only been one sorcerer. I am sorry." Tears welled in his eyes. He could help no further. His power faded as quickly as the setting sun's last rays vanished.
"Find the girl, she is your only hope."
Merlin, the Sorcerer of Londinium, closed his eyes and drew his final breath. The shields fell. Darkness is coming. Somewhere, a young girl will discover that the darkness is coming for her.
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*It is said that the greatest of wizards are also the most devastating - not for their ability to destroy, but for their ability to create. For when the mage passes, the good of their magics are taken with them.*
The final years of any powerful conjurer were always the most stressful. And as the wondrous Enthuriel the Kind's apprentice, it fell upon me to ensure each and every major contribution of his time was doubly reinforced long before death came to claim him.
I'd heard more than enough rumors growing up, of towers collapsing as the magic holding them aloft dissipated. Of dark evils rising from their eternal prisons, no longer kept at bay by warding spells. Of entire lakes and forests vanishing as though they had never existed at all, plunging the towns on the edges into ruin.
But through the wisdom of history, we learned. We prepared. And catastrophe slowly became more avoidable.
"Ale," Enthuriel whispers to me as I sit by his bedside. The list has been checked and confirmed enough times to drive him to drink for the first time in decades, a small relief easily granted.
He gulps down the amber liquid slowly, no longer thirsty for this world. The healers have long since made him as comfortable as they could, unable to sustain him with their magic anymore.
I take back the horn and sip quietly as he shuffles underneath the furs. "Lark," he exhales.
"Yes, master?"
Enthuriel pauses, furrowing his brow in doubt. "You have been...as a son to me. Perhaps even beyond such a thing."
The words swell within me, flirting with a joy beyond my knowledge. "And you beyond a father, master."
Tears form within his eyes reflecting my own. "I cannot possibly thank you enough for all you have done these many years."
"It is I who should thank you for all your-"
"Lark," he coughs, breaking down as the walls keeping him strong begin to crumble. "I'm so sorry. I couldn't possibly have known we would come this far."
"You have nothing to be sorry for, master." Water streams down my face as I grasp his hand, readying myself for his final moment.
He passes softly, fighting till the end, closing his eyes as his lips quiver as though begging death to grant him a final word. A wish left unfulfilled as I watch his breathing come to a stop.
The emotions strike me all at once, overwhelming my very core with such force that sparks begin to dance along my skin from the mana disturbance.
A disruption that only grows more chaotic as I watch my own hands slowly begin to fade.
|
|
[WP] When a sorcerer dies any spells they cast throughout their life that are still in effect will cease to be. An powerful and ancient wizard whose origins are clouded in mystery lays comatose on his deathbed and nobody knows what will happen once he draws his final breath.
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Thousands of people journeyed for days, sometimes weeks, to the small hut on the edge of the ocean. The pilgrimage had been dubbed "The Breath of the Ancient One" and was meant to symbolize the many centuries the Ancient One had drawn breath and had traversed the spacious lands of the world during his life time.
He was a beloved man, a man who always aided those in need regardless of status. He had ended wars, saved the world from plagues and strife, but now he lay dying and the world could do nothing but walk to his humble home and offer their prayers and thanks.
The High Priests circled his bed, chanting the song of the Goddess, trying to bring peace to the Ancient One's final moments. At last, he drew his final breath as a wry smile grew on his withered lips.
"The Ancient One is de... oh gods..." One of the Priests cried, his hand flying to his nose. "Dear Goddess in the Heaven, what is that stench?!"
The other Priests began to gag and cough. Some began to vomit as the noxious gas cloud filled the room. Cries could be heard from the masses outside as the foul smell escaped the small hut. Children wailed, women fainted, even the strongest of men doubled over in sickness.
One of the High Priests glared at the Ancient One, tears streaming down his face. "That bastard," he muttered into the cloth he held to his face, "How long had he been casting the Anti-Flatulence spell for?" He looked at the knowing smile etched onto the Ancient One's face and realized in horror that the greatest calamity the world will ever experience had begun.
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Jim wished his wife would turn off the tv and hold the flashlight for him. The old man would die just fine without her, but the farm was still rocking on the edge of non\-existence, and a new washing machine would only deepen the wobble. He made as much noise as he could, but she only ignored him harder; so he gave it one last good whack with his wrench and gave up. There was no telling why the machine had stopped, but it was a problem for the weekend.
The next morning, he had to call Rob out to work on the tractor. The old mechanic treated him with a new story between the usual ones. “I hit a deer this morning,” Rob said with a face buried in the engine. “Freak accident, it had a light stripe down its belly and looked like part of the road.” He clenched his toothpick between his teeth, blew the dust out of something small, and started the machine up. “That’ll teach me to not pay attention driving down the five.” Jim was glad for the help and grateful for the quiet after he was gone.
Jim didn’t need the world for three more weeks. On a Thursday he woke up to stalks of corn lying horizontal in the fields. Shucking an ear showed him grubs. The farm wasn’t small, it was easy to miss a row with the bug spray. He called Kyle at the co\-op for help, but all he could offer was a consultation with Dwayne at the Bureau. Jim didn’t bother writing down the number. Even if he could afford a spell, by the time the paperwork went through the damage would be done.
He spent dinner that night chewing his chicken through a grim frown, punching numbers into his budget app. Terri wrote a cuss word on her plate with peas to cheer him up, but after all she got for it was a polite snort through the nose she let him be. It was well past dark when he leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his neck. She stood behind him and scratched his head through the hair. Together they listened to the house moan.
“Did Jacob pass this time?” He asked.
She paused, then laughed. “Jacob,” she said. “Sure, last month. I forgot you were out in the fields all day for that.”
“Did the sky fall down?”
“Just a Circle somewhere in England. It was a Coven spot or something back when King Arthur was running around.”
“So much for the preppers."
"It's Y2K all over again," she said. He smiled, though not with his eyes.
"I really thought he'd last forever," he said. "I guess everyone’s luck runs out eventually.” He reached for her and stroked her hand.
She pecked the top of his head to let him know she was too busy for that, but stopped in the doorway before she got out of sight. “Did you get the washer fixed yet, babe?” she asked.
He sighed, but when she grimaced at him so sincerely he finally cracked and laughed from his belly.
“Stop it!” She said. “It’s driving me nuts.”
“Don’t be in such a hurry. It’ll be eating socks soon.” Terri stuck out her tongue, and Jim laughed harder “Maybe you should've been more grateful the times it spat back two.”
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[WP] When a sorcerer dies any spells they cast throughout their life that are still in effect will cease to be. An powerful and ancient wizard whose origins are clouded in mystery lays comatose on his deathbed and nobody knows what will happen once he draws his final breath.
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First time poster, so sorry if I'm committing some odd faux pas and appreciate any feedback on offer. Anyway, here we go...
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We sat nervously. We knew it wouldn’t be long. By now Penhalligon’s breathing was growing tired, the monitors wired up to his body showed more and more numbers showing up in a vibrant warning red.
The city, tired of the masses panicking at the hospital entrance, had wheeled him out into the open, sat his sleeping body in the middle of a stadium and allowed people to come watch.
What we tend to call ‘magic’, much to scientists’ dismay, had been discovered years ago. But most of it had been cheap parlor tricks. Making light from your hands, moving items across tables. A few people had managed to move larger objects, construct buildings just be sheer force of will, that sort of thing. But then there was Penhalligon. He could move and teleport mountains, he could make things appear with only a casual thought. He was revered and idolized, showered with the highest honor and fame. So much so that we refer to the old ways as those ‘before Penhalligon’, a time when the human race struggled for survival. We knew he had done so much, and yet we were unsure what. When he passed, what would pass with him? He seemed so integral to the world, it seemed that we all might end with him.
I sat in the stadium. My back was aching from hours of sitting on a hard concrete surface watching a man sleep. But somehow it seemed right to be here, to witness this moment with everyone else. Around the arena TV cameras pointed at Penhalligon’s pale face, contrasted against his regal purple robes, as the world waited its fate.
Around me, strangers began to speculate.
“I heard he keeps the moon where it is,” said one. “Without him its orbit would be off and it would either spin off into outer space or collide with us here on Earth.”
“He makes the tides happen too,” said another confidently. “Everyday the sea comes rushing in, but his magic pushes it back out again.”
“The earth’s only spins on an axis because he tilted it,” chimed in a third. “He wanted more interesting weather where he lived so he tilted the Earth.”
There was a sudden hush in the crowd as Penhalligon’s breath grew more strained. There seemed to be a faint moan escaping his lips, like a distant sound trapped at the bottom of a watery well. Quickly the speculation began again.
“He managed to make the plants produce oxygen and consume carbon dioxide. Without him we’ll all run out of oxygen eventually.”
“Jupiter used to be small too,” a woman to my right suddenly added. “Then he made it grow so large that its gravity would collect passing asteroids and they would land there instead of here.”
“Don’t forget about the solar winds.” Muttered an old man behind me. People turned at him confused. “He thickened the atmosphere, so that the solar radiation can’t get to us here on Earth. When he’s gone we’ll have to deal with massive doses of radiation...”
He was cut off. It happened. The steady beeping of the machine stopped and was replaced with a monotone groan. Penhalligon was gone.
The stadium gasped. People grabbed onto each other, crying and wailing – not mourning Penhalligon, but dreading the fate that awaited the survivors.
People looked to the sky, waiting for it to turn from a clear blue into a showering inferno. People looked at the ground waiting for it to fracture and swallow them up. They checked their breathing, sensing if there was still oxygen in the air.
I stared at Penhalligon. And slowly I watched as his robes faded, and were replace by a plain white T-shirt and cargo shorts. And then the memories came back too.
“Wait.” I shouted, standing up from my seat. “That’s Roger Tyler. He went to my school.” I remembered him now, the smart but loathable kid that sat next to me in tenth grade Science.
Then we all remembered. Jupiter had always been that big. The moon caused the tides. The plants evolved that way. The moon really did keep a perfect orbit. The atmosphere had always shielded us.
There was only one magic spell he had ever done. One to make us worship him instead of the world around us.
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Jim wished his wife would turn off the tv and hold the flashlight for him. The old man would die just fine without her, but the farm was still rocking on the edge of non\-existence, and a new washing machine would only deepen the wobble. He made as much noise as he could, but she only ignored him harder; so he gave it one last good whack with his wrench and gave up. There was no telling why the machine had stopped, but it was a problem for the weekend.
The next morning, he had to call Rob out to work on the tractor. The old mechanic treated him with a new story between the usual ones. “I hit a deer this morning,” Rob said with a face buried in the engine. “Freak accident, it had a light stripe down its belly and looked like part of the road.” He clenched his toothpick between his teeth, blew the dust out of something small, and started the machine up. “That’ll teach me to not pay attention driving down the five.” Jim was glad for the help and grateful for the quiet after he was gone.
Jim didn’t need the world for three more weeks. On a Thursday he woke up to stalks of corn lying horizontal in the fields. Shucking an ear showed him grubs. The farm wasn’t small, it was easy to miss a row with the bug spray. He called Kyle at the co\-op for help, but all he could offer was a consultation with Dwayne at the Bureau. Jim didn’t bother writing down the number. Even if he could afford a spell, by the time the paperwork went through the damage would be done.
He spent dinner that night chewing his chicken through a grim frown, punching numbers into his budget app. Terri wrote a cuss word on her plate with peas to cheer him up, but after all she got for it was a polite snort through the nose she let him be. It was well past dark when he leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his neck. She stood behind him and scratched his head through the hair. Together they listened to the house moan.
“Did Jacob pass this time?” He asked.
She paused, then laughed. “Jacob,” she said. “Sure, last month. I forgot you were out in the fields all day for that.”
“Did the sky fall down?”
“Just a Circle somewhere in England. It was a Coven spot or something back when King Arthur was running around.”
“So much for the preppers."
"It's Y2K all over again," she said. He smiled, though not with his eyes.
"I really thought he'd last forever," he said. "I guess everyone’s luck runs out eventually.” He reached for her and stroked her hand.
She pecked the top of his head to let him know she was too busy for that, but stopped in the doorway before she got out of sight. “Did you get the washer fixed yet, babe?” she asked.
He sighed, but when she grimaced at him so sincerely he finally cracked and laughed from his belly.
“Stop it!” She said. “It’s driving me nuts.”
“Don’t be in such a hurry. It’ll be eating socks soon.” Terri stuck out her tongue, and Jim laughed harder “Maybe you should've been more grateful the times it spat back two.”
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[WP] When a sorcerer dies any spells they cast throughout their life that are still in effect will cease to be. An powerful and ancient wizard whose origins are clouded in mystery lays comatose on his deathbed and nobody knows what will happen once he draws his final breath.
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The thing about being old, really old, is that when the time finally comes to leave this world, the world you grew up in will have left you a long time since. Archmage Prasutagus was definitely old. For nearly two millenia Prasutagus had defended the earth from mystical enemies, thanks to the power of his bloodline. For he is descended from Boudica herself.
Several lifetimes ago, he took his own name, Merlin. But now he preferred to go by the name of his birth. He found himself, so long now from the time of his youth, missing his mother dearly. He would be with her soon.
As the founder and head of the Royal Sorcerers of Londinium, he had protected the island of Britain from enemies for generations. But here, deep beneath the city in the ruins of the modest city, within the headquarters of the Royal Sorcerers he was powerless. Britain lie nearly defenseless now. soon the wards and mystic traps he laid hidden upon the island would fail.
Archmage Prasutagus head of the Royal Sorcerers of Londinium struggled to sit up in bed, and shortly his manservant entered and led him out of his quarters to the central chamber. Most of the chamber was taken up by the great round table. The same one from legend, for this was the real Camelot, buried beneath the bones of the greatest city of the world. It was surprisingly full. The mages who would normally be out on assignment protecting the island had been called back from service.
At the far end of the table sat the prince. Older than the last time. They always get older. Prasutagus still remembered his visits with Queen Elizabeth fondly. Both Elizabeths, actually. And the insufferable Charles, whose lack of hubris lead to his downfall and the rise of the black mage Cromwell, a rogue within Prasutagus' own organization. And distantly, he remembered the young Arthur, whom he molded into a capable king who founded this most remarkable empire. This would be the last.
The prince looked pensive, and concerned. Prasutagus was his friend, and like a second father to the man, although he was older than the Royal house itself. "I received your memo, Prasutagus, is there anything my family can do for you... to ease your...?" He wasn't sure he was ready to admit that his friend was truly dying.
"No, your highness. But you must understand the full implications of what will happen. As I said, when a sorcerer dies, what magic of theirs is left in the world is undone. All of the wards and shields will fall. You will be left defenseless."
The prince looked around at all the mages in the room, many were also his friends. The entire royal family supported their mission on numerous occasions. "I understand that, but surely the sorcerers here will be up to the task." He pointed across the table towards a young mage, "Why, I watched Miss Persephone single-handedly defend the Thames from the Leviathan and repair the tidal shield with precision. It is stronger than ever."
Persephone looked downcast towards her hands resting in her lap. The fight against the Leviathan had been mighty. The great beast ravaged the coast and blasted the magical shield guarding the river against the darkness with enough force to shatter windows for miles. The Leviathan had nearly won. It was then that Prasutagus knew his time was near. The shield had barely held. A shield that had been impervious to a thousand blows had shattered after only three.
Prasutagus sighed with resignation. He must choose his words carefully. This was where his legacy would live or die. "Persephone and the other sorcerers have been invaluable to me. Without them, our nation would have never survived as long as it has." He gestured around the table at the many senior mages present. The mages nodded sagely, none saying a word. Slowly they each stood up in turn and looked expectantly towards Prasutagus.
He considered them his friends, family even. They had stood by his side as he fought the unceasing hordes of demons and devils that threatened the world. He would miss them, just as he missed his own family who had died hundreds upon hundreds of years ago. However this truly was the end. If he was to give these people hope at survival, then he must swallow his pride and give up all of the securities and comforts that he had afforded himself these lonely years.
"if our world is to survive any further you must find a new sorcerer. I believe there is a young girl who might save you all. Like I did centuries ago. Your family must begin the search for her now."
The prince looked bewildered. Surrounded by so many powerful mages in one room, each more powerful than a battalion of soldiers. There were over a hundred Royal Sorcerers. The idea that a young girl would be a match for them, or a replacement for the man who used to be known as Merlin seemed preposterous.
"How could all of these sorcerers pale in comparison to a little girl? How could a hundred sorcerers not match the power of one?"
Prasutagus' manservant gently draped his robes over his shoulders as Prasutagus weaved a spell he had committed to memory generations ago, never having the courage to cast it. His magic would be undone either willingly or upon his death. Now, it would be both. One by one the sorcerers around the table bowed their heads low and faded into twinkling stars and emptiness. As his manservant touched his shoulder as if to say farewell, he too disappeared.
"Because, your highness, until now there has ever only been one sorcerer. I am sorry." Tears welled in his eyes. He could help no further. His power faded as quickly as the setting sun's last rays vanished.
"Find the girl, she is your only hope."
Merlin, the Sorcerer of Londinium, closed his eyes and drew his final breath. The shields fell. Darkness is coming. Somewhere, a young girl will discover that the darkness is coming for her.
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Jim wished his wife would turn off the tv and hold the flashlight for him. The old man would die just fine without her, but the farm was still rocking on the edge of non\-existence, and a new washing machine would only deepen the wobble. He made as much noise as he could, but she only ignored him harder; so he gave it one last good whack with his wrench and gave up. There was no telling why the machine had stopped, but it was a problem for the weekend.
The next morning, he had to call Rob out to work on the tractor. The old mechanic treated him with a new story between the usual ones. “I hit a deer this morning,” Rob said with a face buried in the engine. “Freak accident, it had a light stripe down its belly and looked like part of the road.” He clenched his toothpick between his teeth, blew the dust out of something small, and started the machine up. “That’ll teach me to not pay attention driving down the five.” Jim was glad for the help and grateful for the quiet after he was gone.
Jim didn’t need the world for three more weeks. On a Thursday he woke up to stalks of corn lying horizontal in the fields. Shucking an ear showed him grubs. The farm wasn’t small, it was easy to miss a row with the bug spray. He called Kyle at the co\-op for help, but all he could offer was a consultation with Dwayne at the Bureau. Jim didn’t bother writing down the number. Even if he could afford a spell, by the time the paperwork went through the damage would be done.
He spent dinner that night chewing his chicken through a grim frown, punching numbers into his budget app. Terri wrote a cuss word on her plate with peas to cheer him up, but after all she got for it was a polite snort through the nose she let him be. It was well past dark when he leaned back in his chair and laced his fingers behind his neck. She stood behind him and scratched his head through the hair. Together they listened to the house moan.
“Did Jacob pass this time?” He asked.
She paused, then laughed. “Jacob,” she said. “Sure, last month. I forgot you were out in the fields all day for that.”
“Did the sky fall down?”
“Just a Circle somewhere in England. It was a Coven spot or something back when King Arthur was running around.”
“So much for the preppers."
"It's Y2K all over again," she said. He smiled, though not with his eyes.
"I really thought he'd last forever," he said. "I guess everyone’s luck runs out eventually.” He reached for her and stroked her hand.
She pecked the top of his head to let him know she was too busy for that, but stopped in the doorway before she got out of sight. “Did you get the washer fixed yet, babe?” she asked.
He sighed, but when she grimaced at him so sincerely he finally cracked and laughed from his belly.
“Stop it!” She said. “It’s driving me nuts.”
“Don’t be in such a hurry. It’ll be eating socks soon.” Terri stuck out her tongue, and Jim laughed harder “Maybe you should've been more grateful the times it spat back two.”
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|
[WP] When a sorcerer dies any spells they cast throughout their life that are still in effect will cease to be. An powerful and ancient wizard whose origins are clouded in mystery lays comatose on his deathbed and nobody knows what will happen once he draws his final breath.
|
Thousands of people journeyed for days, sometimes weeks, to the small hut on the edge of the ocean. The pilgrimage had been dubbed "The Breath of the Ancient One" and was meant to symbolize the many centuries the Ancient One had drawn breath and had traversed the spacious lands of the world during his life time.
He was a beloved man, a man who always aided those in need regardless of status. He had ended wars, saved the world from plagues and strife, but now he lay dying and the world could do nothing but walk to his humble home and offer their prayers and thanks.
The High Priests circled his bed, chanting the song of the Goddess, trying to bring peace to the Ancient One's final moments. At last, he drew his final breath as a wry smile grew on his withered lips.
"The Ancient One is de... oh gods..." One of the Priests cried, his hand flying to his nose. "Dear Goddess in the Heaven, what is that stench?!"
The other Priests began to gag and cough. Some began to vomit as the noxious gas cloud filled the room. Cries could be heard from the masses outside as the foul smell escaped the small hut. Children wailed, women fainted, even the strongest of men doubled over in sickness.
One of the High Priests glared at the Ancient One, tears streaming down his face. "That bastard," he muttered into the cloth he held to his face, "How long had he been casting the Anti-Flatulence spell for?" He looked at the knowing smile etched onto the Ancient One's face and realized in horror that the greatest calamity the world will ever experience had begun.
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I had just finished checking Marlock The Wise's vital signs: gradually declining, but seemingly stable for now. His palliative medication was dosing as prescribed, and his sheets were clean, and bedpan empty. He didn't have much longer, but at least he was comfortable.
Dr. Stephens entered, followed by three members of the Order of Warlocks, and I briefed him, and I was thanked for my diligent work by the junior member of the order, dressed in his crisp red ceremonial robes.
Checking my watch, it was my "lunch" break, though it was midnight, so there wasn't much open if I wanted to grab something. I figured I'd stick around anyway, in case they needed anything. This was a VIP after all.
I ducked into the break lounge across from the nursing station, and grabbed a few slices of bread, and popped them into the toaster. It had been a long shift - it always is. I try to give my 100% to all of my patients, but something about Marlock compelled me to give just a little more.
I had just poured my tea and buttered my toast, and was carrying my plate over to the small table in the corner, debating between yesterday's thoroughly disheveled newspaper, and a Reader's Digest from 2013 when it happened.
The lights in the palliative care ward dimmed briefly, and cool breeze whooshed through the hallway, and a shout in an ancient language echoed deeply down the hall. Startled, I froze in my tracks, and my snack slid right off my plate as the Dr. Stephens stuck his head in the doorway "Marlock had passed. I need your help with the post mortem."
"I'll be right there" I replied, as I bent down to clean up my mess. I paused, awestruck, as I knew the curse was finally lifted. My toast lay there on the linoleum floor...
...buttered side up.
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