“Are they dry yet?” The woman continues off her greeting, a distance between the groups allowing for a much softer tone from point blank range. “Cause it’s gettin’ COLD down here.”
“They are not.” Samantha pauses, an agreement found between the two with a disappointed tone.
Outer layers of clothing hung surrounding the fire; dried against the heat emanating from the relit chemical flame. A casual site of rest in the midst of abandonment, the gigantic cylindrical construct slick with now drying moisture from catastrophic events prior.
Samuel asks the question, his curiosity overbearing against the true nature of the Being standing at the edge of the circle. “What was the purpose of this facility?”
An inquisition directed at him, the childlike body switches positions to turn towards the young mage. Ambiguity passing a set threshold, the Being’s response found within a specification of answer scale. “Is your question regarding the definition of the tertiary sump facility, or its original purpose within the infrastructure of this geological area?”
The words are only processed by the insane intellect of an augmented brain, a haphazard education found in the mass consumption of perfectly memorized media taken from sources across the Southlands.
Samuel gives his own knowledge; derived from a storied book on civil engineering theory. “Sump pumps act as components of industrial processes involving the management of large volumes of liquids. Was this facility of similar purpose?”
A classification accuracy score barely hitting halfway, the Being forumates a reactionary correction to the answer before another interruption by Madeline McCormick. “Wait, was there a way to get this water back up to the surface?”
“Assuming it has not already been drained.” Samuel negatively rates. “Such an amount would have provided immense economic disruption to current water distribution markets.”
“Yeah, but imagine you could get filthy rich off of it all.” Madeline imagines, narrowing her eyes as she spots the boy begin to formulate a retort. “And don’t lecture me with supply schedules Samuel, please I understand how economics work.”
He doesn’t make the connection, similar topics separated within the perfectly siloed aisles of information stored within augmentation. “Such an amount will shift the economic supply curve significantly.”
“That’s what I’m talking about.” Madeline informs with rolling eyes. “Basically the same thing. Though, with that amount of water down this far? It's gonna be eating up transportation fees fast; so probably not the best business plan, actually. If anything, it's gonna make tons of cash the first few weeks when you go through the first quarter mile or something, and then you’ll be hemorrhaging it all for the rest.”
Samuel narrows his eyes at the business proposal, a meditation once again disturbed by the woman. “This speculation is a waste of mental resources.”
“I talk when I’m nervous ok?” Madeline admits. “Seriously, is nobody else just brimming with anticipation for the thing we’re about to do?”
They are all consumed by tiredness; a poor night’s rest and day’s travel in the dungeons of March sapping away energy from conscious thought processes. Only human; vulnerability to a universe pulling upon frail biology.
Alto Carrin’s prayer ended incomplete, his own mind left wandering on the edges of meditation. Now in the depths of their world, at the very border of the known creation and at the apex of hope; the young man simply doubts.
He’s back in the halls, back amongst the eternal burning candles and scripture. An education based upon the holy words of gods above, his own forking path defined by the resultance now unfound. Divines unable to keep one soul alive for three days, the unanswered prayer now the forefront of the singular question.
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The weapon remains; remembrance of home beyond Salvation.
Six cylinders for six life taking rounds, two filled in the preparation for absolute death. A silvered barrel crafted by ancient gunsmiths long forgotten; their own handiwork now used for its final purpose. And yet, its wielder falters.
Judge Murphy remains focused on his own armaments; the twined shapes of lever action rifle and single action revolver highlighted against the glowing flame of the chemical fire. A sidearm’s form firing the vicious .45 caliber cartridge against the unjust, a backup plan towards the actualized weapon of the law itself. The Lawbringer carefully inspected for damage; the sensitive wooden construction of its buttstock and handguards demanding absolute perfect discipline in its maintenance.
The concept is toyed within the mind of the Judge, the abyssal black receiver of the weapon seemingly absorbing all sources of illumination. Something more to its construction, the Being in their midst almost confirming its divine origin with its words of absolute certainty.
There are two fragments in Centralis; another absolute truth made known to the old man.
He ignores the contradiction, instead focusing towards a plan of action. Justice to be dispensed towards the Lawless form across from him; a future task at the end of a more pressing objective. The Federation stands, even here in the depths of March; even against the power of a so-called god.
Samuel and Samantha are the subset of two within a collective of five; a pair of fates tied together within a hostile world. Every single one amongst them confirmed with a basic hostility as the twisari comes to an unworded agreement: the termination of all if required.
Souls left adrift amongst an ocean of sand and fate, the world of dust and rage irrevocably forging a bond built atop blood. Existence carved through in every minute, every hour, every calorie; no life too small to take against the simple continuation of life.
Samuel keeps watch to his best ability; his own passive augmentation somehow betrays him in the depths of steel and structure. A sensation beginning amongst aural sensors, one voice humming in the great distance slowly joined by an imperceivable choir. Below the wavelengths of human hearing, able to be perceived by him alone.
It’s just noise, interference from something reverberating down the massive hallway providing power untouchable. Implanted machinery within the small body tuned like a lighting rod in a sand storm; the reception of it all folding together to a mild headache beginning within his frontal cortex. Focus broken momentarily, control nearly lost in just a millisecond lapse in thought.
He keeps it under control, barely.
The sense perks Samantha’s instinct, a form quickly turning towards her sibling. The girl lost in the universe alongside him, deep concern flashing across a thin face in the detection of an amissed physicality. Dark eyes gathering the flow of firelight, one question transferred completely instinctively through pulled lips across her face. She watches as he squirms in his seat, a deep breath taken against the pulse of the world before he returns her look.
Samantha’s entire world blinks, a short nod upon his face a confirmation of his optimality against events to come. The simple sense of flesh; of sight and observation detects the lie, the doubt. A preparation for their own survival cemented in just half a second of acknowledgement, a termination of all other life confirmed by two souls.
Madeline McCormick just lets her question rot in the silence, a social charisma simply letting the words die in darkness. She’s left staring at each of the foreign faces, an insight unaimed as she attempts to absorb the atmosphere of the simple campsite. Of four others beyond her, each left to their own mental devices, each finding their own place in a dying world.
She’s alone, left in Centralis.
She is the terminus of the planned future, a value laid beyond any sum of monetary cash or bullet.
The great halls of the great city; the highest strata defined by endless cocktail parties, economic exchanges, and political assassination. Nobody truly safe even within armored halls of art and status, the roar of gunfire too familiar alongside the cold steel of hidden blades and the sweet nectar of poison. One lynchpin for the dynasty, somewhere beyond the shadows of the great five leyline towers.
A hunt bringing to bear the wealth of the Federation, all for just one individual amongst the dust and steel of guns and bullets. One million dollars, paid towards some distant commission for the purposes of her retrieval by unscrupulous hands.
At least she has a destiny now, a purpose beyond the glory and fame of the criminal element underneath the most insane of individuals; a guaranteed death in the depths of the world alongside comrades of evil creation.
All heralded by the One.