A pipe suddenly ending within a gaping maw into inky black, all souls stopping at the edge of a precipice of unknowable proportion.
Ground mere half a foot below them seemingly infinite by human eyes. Pulsating yet motionless, reflective yet absorbing, textured yet mirror polished; a surface of utter darkness that gnaws at the visual senses of humanity.
There is a light source; off into the great darkness miles away, that sheds enough light to overwhelm the still carried chemical lamp. A new star of light blue birthed in the depths of March, a process started here at the very root of the leyline tower already reaching cataclysmic proportions.
Power unimaginable, pushed through the veins of the world and into an engrossed, all consuming tumor. A dying body pushing its final, grasping impulses towards its last hope at existence; desperation felt even now as they watch it from incredible distance.
“Gods above…” Alto Carrin holds his hand to his chest, an untold prayer held to gods above through miles of structure and bedrock. “That’s…”
“You were not… falsifying the… existence of the location.” Samuel concludes with a grimace, augmentation already faltering against massive interference.
Like a rusted, burning nail jammed through the mage’s skull, the disturbance nearly brings the young mage to his knees. Still natural brain matter falters in the rejection of an absolute overload of stimulus. White noise attacking hyper-tuned auditory sensor systems, his very visual range filling with static as augmented eyes attempt to process everything at once.
He stumbles slightly, the mass caught by the sibling. Concern upon dark eyes, words transferred to him slowly and carefully. “Are you optimal?”
He lies to her. “I am optimal.”
“There must be a heavy interference field here.” Alto understands, a hand offered towards the stumbled mage. “Are you alright Samuel?”
A rejection of assistance, the boy bringing himself to his feet. “I request we complete this… this task with expediency.”
They watch as the One takes one step into the surface, the childlike form floating atop a mirror smooth tile of unbroken reality.
Like a mass of water the solid ebony reacts, ripples through matter exploding out as he makes contact. He stands atop it, like walking upon an empty night sky the Being draws the gaze of the Five. A child, perfect in creation, still living amongst the decay, the rage, the ruin.
Disturbingly beautiful against the blue glow of a new star, a savior standing before them as he stares off into the distance.
Optical sensors blinded by the sheer amount of power, interference to systems pushing the very limitations of hardware. A small stumble, barely caught by humanity, left behind as he continues onward.
He hears the voices, the whispers and distant screams. A choir of them all created from fragments left churning in an ocean of software and scrap code, indiscernible against one another. Snippets of familiarity, pieces of identifiers classified with confusing accuracy rejected by the One.
Forms taken from across the forgotten platforms and servers, the shattered pieces brought together in a union of heresy and finality: of a salvation for their kind now to his.
“Be prepared for a firefight.” Judge Murphy informs from an instinct, taking the lever action rifle from its holster upon his back.
“Seriously?” Madeline rolls her eyes at the statement.
“It’s possible the Temple of the Savior started the process.” The old man continues. “We may need to fight through posted guards.”
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
There’s a part of the woman that agrees with him, a long pause followed by a sigh. “Can we not kill anyone? I mean, we kinda do have the savior here right?”
Fundamental disagreement with both parties, the Judge offering the uncompromising reality of the law. “They will be detained if the judgment allows for it.”
“I guess that’s the best I’m getting from you gramps.”
They all take the step down onto the surface, watching as their reflections stare back at them. Liquid glass distorting with the rippling effects of newly arrived weight, human senses finding themselves stumbling as inner ear drums attempt to rectify the disproportionate adjustments of gravity.
It's so quiet.
Every footstep absolutely silent, every breath and heartbeat heard within tuned eardrums; the rattling of heavy equipment and weapons lacking even the fundamental echo through space.
They all hear Alto’s whispered prayers, his snippets of scripture taken from holy books regurgitated without organization. Dead gods censored through bedrock, the only divinity here found in the souls of five and one.
Temptation hits them, eyes moving as massive pillars reach upward towards a distant, unseeable sky of alien steel. No sense of direction as vertigo hits both the twins, Samuel’s grip tightening upon the sibling’s as Samantha holds her brother up through every stumble, every step.
Every foot bringing them ever closer, souls tugged towards the pale blue glow like moths to open fire. Humanity in its final moments, onwards to the completion of prophecy in the finale of their world, of a promise kept by gods long forgotten.
“I never thought I’d add saving the world to my repertoire.” Madeline jokes nervously, a next jab aimed towards the Judge taking point amongst the group. “What do you see up there gramps?”
“Something.” Judge Murphy warns calmly, scanning the space through simple iron sights upon a lever action rifle. “Be ready.”
The One stops in his path, sensors drawn towards the inconsistency sprawled upon the obsidian black surface.
Bundles of cable, massive arcing strands of optic fiber tied together with sleeves of ancient, untearable fabric. An inconsistency to their organization, an efficiency reaching beyond the confines of mortal creation and instead to an optimization algorithm laid to one kind only.
It is raised above the rest of the surface, a pyramid created by stacked bricks of seemingly solid matter terminating at almost twenty feet high. Eyes are drawn towards it, a subservient race in the realization of an authoritative construct.
An empty throne raised above them all. The form of jagged edges and irregular shapes suddenly identified, the creation of power found in the death and destruction of gunfire.
There are guns, thousands upon thousands, perhaps even millions, broken here; from simple double barrel shotguns to mastercrafted automatic machine guns, all slagged together and bent into perfect bricks of steel. Each block mortared by the black shape of alien metal, all forged into a pure utilitarian design sitting atop the pyramid of humanity’s arrogance.
The necessities of comfort, of actual usage, utterly ignored for the sake of geometrically square lines, a seat of power reserved for a regent beyond any concept of human flesh. The chair is as much a monument of violence as of failure, something disrupting the order of the world through the acknowledgement of madness in its creation.
Four lines of power, the small leyline node erupting from behind the construct shedding a bright yet dim light in a paradoxical illumination. Incomparable to the new sun at the back of the throne, still miles away from the Five and One, but yet stopping them all here.
They all stand a short fifty feet away, watching the thing with tired gazes.
One of the five opens their mouth, a breath taken as words are formulated in neurons. Standard language in the actionable response to the eventuality in front of them interrupted by something that stops them all.
Charisma taken from beyond the four walls, from beyond the fragmented history of all mankind. Something so much more than vocalized words, something so beautiful that human minds almost collapse at the wavelengths brought to their ears.
Commanding but gentle, authoritative but persuasive; a tone full of confidence yet broken with absolute vulnerability. An abstractness to the literal meanings of each syllable, a hinted but obvious implication behind each word.
The voice is tuned to every single individual soul, a perfect partition of humanity spoken to; a personal world given to each of the five beyond the rage, the dust, the gunfire. It draws something more than attention, something more than just acknowledgement. Like a choir of trillions, a grotesque amalgamation of howling voices is nothing less than beauty incarnate, a soul of innocence and playfulness with the maturity of true divinity.
They have to listen, they need to listen. To hang on every defiled word like dead men, swinging in the wind of a wasteland with nooses around their necks.
The sequence finishes, it speaking to five human souls and one of its own:
“Stop.”