Forgotten, yet I am
Perhaps, or mayhaps, some things will never be;
Deft, silent, bladed by
All that could be, and all that could never be,
Perhaps—perhaps, I think, I've finally died?
----------------------------------------
The stars fractured, their light shattering like the brittle bones of a dying god, scattering across the void in chaotic spirals.
Zark'thul hovered in this place-between-places, a vast, twisted mass of dark tendrils and countless eyes that swirled like a galaxy of their own. Yet, he was lessened, diminished, a mere shadow of the eldritch might that had once devoured suns and drained worlds to husks.
Power, once an infinite wellspring, was now a distant memory—a half-forgotten dream slipping through his grasp. The cosmic battle had torn through dimensions, obliterating stars, and still, it had not been enough.
His strength, so assured, had failed him. His enemies—scattered debris in the vastness of the void—had found a way to bring him down.
Insignificant, lesser beings, bound by the limitations of flesh and time, had dared to defy his dominion, harnessing powers he had never thought to fear.
With an enraged, spectral roar, he lashed out at the absence around him. Memories bled through the spaces between thoughts, the echoes of his ruin mocking him. They had united, those lesser beings, a desperate alliance against his overwhelming force. They had drawn their strength from numbers, from unity—concepts he had long deemed beneath him.
Foolish. He had been so foolish.
Zark'thul's consciousness waned, a vast mind struggling to maintain coherence. His many eyes closed one by one, shutting out the emptiness that surrounded him.
Time and space twisted, their once familiar contours now blurred and nonsensical. There had been a time when he could navigate the labyrinthine currents of reality with ease. Now, he was lost in the very void he had once commanded—a titan brought low by the weight of his own arrogance.
Far beyond the edges of this broken realm, he sensed the presence of the Other—his rival, the one who had orchestrated this downfall. The entity lingered at the edge of existence, a predator patiently watching the last flickers of life fade from its prey.
Despite his diminished state, Zark'thul tried to summon his remaining power, to lash out in a final act of defiance, but the void swallowed his intent.
He was too far gone, too scattered.
What remained of the stars disintegrated, like dying embers losing their hold on illumination, plunging the vast expanse around him into a perpetual darkness. As the final remnants of light flickered out, an icy echo of eternal solitude embraced him. Zark'thul faced the chasm of eternity as an ever-dwindling shadow.
He drifted, an ancient and broken thing, through the ruins of worlds that had once trembled before his might. Pieces of him fell away, lost to the eternity that yawned around him. His essence thinned, stretching like a fading echo.
Gone…
At least, so it seemed.
But as he faded, something stirred at the edges of his awareness.
A whisper, faint but insistent, threading through the void.
A pull.
Somewhere, beyond the veil of this reality, something called to him. It was a soft, persistent note, growing louder with each passing moment.
It was not a sound so much as a sensation, a tugging on the fabric of his being. It drew him towards it, promising refuge. Clinging to this thread, he could sense another place, far from this realm of shattered dreams.
Zark'thul reached for it, not with the power he had once wielded, but with something more desperate, more primal. Perhaps it was hope. Or perhaps it was simply the refusal to disappear into the endless abyss.
His fragmented consciousness strained, straining to grasp this elusive tether.
Slowly, impossibly, his essence coalesced, following the path of this quiet beckoning.
The void shuddered.
And then... nothing.
Darkness...
And a promise that this was not the end. Not yet.
----------------------------------------
Zark'thul's consciousness flickered back into existence, an ember reigniting in the cold darkness. Sensation returned slowly, like a forgotten tune resurfacing after centuries of silence. But something was wrong. Very wrong.
He felt the solid surface beneath him before anything else.
A floor, perhaps? A jarring contrast to the void he had just been lost in. His mind struggled to process the dissonance between what he had once been—an eldritch being existing beyond conventional dimensions—and what he was now. Trapped. Corporeal.
There was weight to him, a heaviness that pressed him down, anchoring him in a way he hadn't felt in eons. His awareness, once so expansive, was confined to this single point of existence.
Fragments of reality pieced themselves together, the void bleeding into shapes and colors.
He opened his eyes, though even the act of doing so felt wrong.
Vision, when it came, was blurry at first—flat, three-dimensional, lacking the full spectrum of sight he had once possessed. It took a moment before the world sharpened, and even then, it felt off, as though he were seeing through a filter.
A gray, rectangular space slowly materialized around him.
No, not a space. A room.
The walls were featureless, save for the lines where they met the floor and ceiling, forming neat, geometric boundaries. The floor beneath him was similarly unremarkable, smooth, and uniform in its design. The only thing that stood out was a series of symbols etched into the ceiling.
They had no meaning to him, yet something about them was vaguely familiar.
He shifted, and the feeling of smooth fabric—cold and impersonal—greeted his skin.
Skin?
He looked down, and for a moment, his mind recoiled. This wasn't his body. He remembered his body—a terrifying edifice of chaos, writhing with abyssal tendrils and countless, cyclopean eyes that saw all the realities, not just the mundane one he was apparently now trapped in. This? This was far from that.
This... thing, this pathetic excuse for a form, was an insult to everything he had once been.
He ran his fingers—fingers, not tendrils—across his skin, trying to comprehend the sensation. It was soft, pliant, and utterly inadequate. What form was this?
Within the deluge of his haphazard thoughts, it came to him: it was a human body. He recognized it from those distant, insignificant worlds he had once subsumed.
Human.
The word slid into his mind unbidden, a distant memory of a race he had once encountered, long before his fall. He had fought them—dismissed them as weak, inconsequential. But they had fought with a tenacity that had amused him at the time. It had been... entertaining. But ultimately, they had fallen, just like the rest.
And now... now, he found himself in one of their bodies.
How? Why?
Was this a mockery? Some cruel joke played by the universe, forcing him into the very form he had once looked down upon?
He raised one of his hands, turning it slowly, studying it as if he could will it to change, to morph back into something that made sense. But nothing happened. His flesh remained unchanged, stubbornly clinging to its frail, imperfect form.
A prison.
This body—this human body—was a prison... but it still housed his intellect, his cosmic knowledge, his memories. He was more than this meager cage. His memories would lead him to answers. All he had to do was trace them back, but there was an impenetrable fog at the edge of his recall, shrouding all beyond...
There were clothes on him—a simple, black business suit. The fabric was smooth and well-tailored, but it felt strange against his skin, too confining. His hands found the edge of the shirt collar, tugging at it as if that would make it more bearable. It didn't.
He gritted his teeth, pushing himself up from the floor, forcing his feeble limbs to move. It took more effort than he expected, and even then, it was an unsteady movement, his muscles unfamiliar with the task. But he managed to stand.
The room stretched out in front of him, an empty, hollow shell. There was nowhere to go. He stumbled forward, his legs—his human legs—carrying him toward the wall.
It took several moments before he managed to find a rhythm, and even then, the whole experience felt unnatural, unbalanced. Each step had a weight to it that hadn't existed before. A gravity. A solidity. It shouldn't have been strange, but it was.
There was a desk in the center of the room, sleek and minimalist, with two chairs positioned on either side. A large window dominated one wall, revealing a view of an expansive cityscape. Skyscrapers stretched up toward the sky, their glass facades reflecting the light of a pale sun.
Finally, he reached the wall, placing one palm flat against the surface. It was solid—solid like so much of this new existence. He closed his eyes, trying to feel for any weakness, any crevice or fault that he could exploit.
Nothing.
"Where... am I?" Zark'thul's voice rasped out, low and strained.
It wasn't the voice he remembered, not the commanding, eldritch tone he had once used to instill fear and awe in lesser beings. Now, his voice was small, contained, and utterly inadequate.
As if in response to his question, the door on the far side of the room slid open with a soft hiss, and a figure stepped inside.
A human woman—or at least, she appeared to be.
Her movements were precise, almost too precise, as if every step had been calculated to the millimeter. Long green hair flowed down her back, swaying slightly with each movement. Her attire was a crisp, black business suit, similar to Zark'thul's but notably less simple.
But it was the limbs that caught his attention. They were jointed, segmented—like a puppet. And her eyes—green, matching her hair—had an intensity, a sharpness that made him take notice.
An android, an automaton, or something beyond such mere descriptions...
She entered the room with measured steps, the sound of her heels clicking against the polished floor.
"Welcome," she said, her tone polite but detached as if she were reading from a script. "You must be Zark'thul. I've been expecting you."
----------------------------------------
Zark'thul studied her, taking in every detail. This... humanoid automaton. She seemed to know him, or at least knew of him. But what did she want?
She crossed the room with an unhurried grace, coming to a stop in front of the desk.
"Please, have a seat," she said, gesturing to one of the chairs. "We have much to discuss."
"Who are you?" Zark'thul asked, his voice coming out rougher than he intended.
"My name is Elspeth," she replied, inclining her head slightly in a gesture that could have been interpreted as a bow. "I am here to assist you in your transition and to evaluate your suitability for the position of CEO."
"The position of what?"
Her head tilted in a show of patience that could only be as mechanical as her body. "Please, sit down."
He glowered at her. His wrath had not been diluted, even if his power had been. "What is this place?"
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"This place?" She paused, her eyes seeming to focus on something beyond the walls of the room. "You may refer to this place as The Tower. We've been waiting for someone like you."
The Tower... What did that mean? Was he still within the void? Or had he found his way into some other reality, some other dimension?
"Am I in a physical place? An ethereal one? Or both? A pocket dimension? What is this Tower? Is this... some kind of prison?"
"No." Her tone was even, almost clinical. "You've been given another chance, Zark'thul. A chance to restore your power. To grow beyond what you once were."
Another chance? What did she mean by that? Was this place some sort of haven for fallen eldritch beings? It didn't seem likely, considering the nature of this body he had awoken in.
He looked at the woman—no, the machine—with renewed suspicion.
"If not a prison, then what is this place? What do you intend for me to do?" he asked, his words carrying a weight of authority he did not fully feel.
Elspeth took a seat at the desk, folding her hands neatly in front of her. "Please, sit," she said, indicating the chair opposite her.
Reluctantly, Zark'thul approached the desk, pulling out the chair and lowering himself into it. Even such a mundane movement felt odd, the new sensations of gravity and momentum disrupting the smoothness of the gesture. But he did his best to appear unaffected, leveling an even gaze at Elspeth.
"Now then," Elspeth began, her green eyes meeting his. "You have been chosen to serve as CEO of the company within the Tower. It is a position of great importance, and one that requires a... unique individual."
He quirked a brow at that. "CEO?"
"Yes," she confirmed, nodding once. "Chief Executive Officer. The Tower has designated you for the position. In simple terms, you are to assume a leadership role for the operations that occur within the Tower, overseeing a staff of employees and undertaking initiatives of strategic importance. The position comes with considerable resources and support."
The word "chosen" grated at him. Chosen? Or taken?
"What exactly do you expect from me?" Zark'thul asked, trying to keep his tone level. "And why should I accept?"
A hint of a smile tugged at the corner of Elspeth's lips. "You may reject this offer, if you wish. But I believe you will find it... favorable."
Zark'thul watched her, the calculating mind behind his new, human eyes trying to untangle the threads of her words. Favorable. There had to be a reason for that.
He had encountered beings like her before—automatons, constructs of intelligence wrapped in an obedient shell. But this one was different. Her demeanor was deliberate, refined, as though she held knowledge just beyond his reach. And yet, there was a purposefulness to her, a deliberate control in her words and actions that told him she wasn't simply following a script.
He narrowed his eyes, leaning back in the chair, testing its comfort.
The human body still felt strange, confined by bone and sinew that couldn't hold a fraction of the power he once wielded. But this discomfort also kept him grounded, focused. He needed to know what had become of him—why this place had chosen him, and why she stood before him like an executor ready to deliver judgment.
He needed more information, needed to know exactly what he was getting himself into.
"Go on," he said. "Convince me."
The barest hint of a smile brushed Elspeth's face—artificial, like everything else about her.
"You are not the first to awaken here, Zark'thul. But you are among a very select few chosen for this role. The Tower requires leadership, someone capable of handling its complexities, managing its inhabitants, and expanding its influence."
"And why me?" Zark'thul's gaze drilled into hers, though the act of intimidation felt hollow now, lacking the eldritch force he once commanded. "You said I was chosen. By who? And why this... human form?"
"That's difficult to explain." Elspeth paused, tilting her head slightly in what might have been a gesture of acknowledgment. "You were selected because you possess the necessary qualities—the ambition, the resourcefulness, and the raw power—necessary to steer the course of the Tower.
"As for the form... that's part of the arrangement. All who enter the Tower take a human form. You'll find that it's a remarkably adaptable race, and a fitting vessel for those with the right mindset."
Her explanation offered no comfort, only more questions.
A fitting vessel? Did that mean this human body held some kind of latent potential? The notion was preposterous—there had always been a stark divide between physical form and intellect. To suggest that these creatures had the capacity to evolve beyond their limits, to become something greater... it was absurd.
She lifted a hand, waving it in a slow, deliberate arc. As her metallic fingers danced through the air, a holographic image shimmered into existence above the table. It revealed a vast structure, rising endlessly into the distance.
"The Tower exists in a state of multi-dimensional flux. It stands apart from traditional concepts of time and space, acting as a nexus of overlapping realities and dimensions. You and I are currently within an admin area of the Tower—an exclusive space afforded to CEOs and their secretaries."
"A nexus," he echoed, his gaze fixating on the holographic depiction of the Tower.
She inclined her head. "A nexus that intersects a vast array of different worlds and planes of existence, many of which harbor immense power and resources, as well as considerable dangers."
There was a short pause, then she resumed. "Its physical appearance is variable, shifting to reflect the perceptions and expectations of those who see it. For many, it manifests as a literal tower, drawing inspiration from what its visitors and employees would find most palatable, but its form can alter to match the understanding of those who observe it."
His fingers traced the lines of the desk, feeling the subtle, artificial grain beneath his fingertips. "So... it's mimicking this because it's what humans are familiar with—an office, a corporate hierarchy?"
"A crude, and yet surprisingly accurate, understanding of the Tower." She let that hang for a moment.
She was stalling. Or... no. It was a show. Whatever she was, she seemed to take pleasure in their dance.
As an eldritch being, his presence within this physical domain—such as it was—ought to have been causing it to come undone. The fabric of space should have been tearing around him.
And yet... it wasn't.
He no longer felt the well of power within him. No longer felt the tectonic draw of his mass subsuming all in his path. Not even a ripple.
Elspeth continued, unperturbed by Zark'thul's silence. "The Tower requires a guiding hand—someone to lead, to grow, to shape it in accordance with its vision. And you, Zark'thul, have the potential to do that. Your defeat... unfortunate as it was... presented an opportunity. An opening to fill a necessary void, if you will."
"Opportunity." The word tumbled out of him, his distaste for this human tongue now evident in his sneer. "What opportunity could you possibly see in the aftermath of my destruction?"
"Reclamation," she answered smoothly. "Restoration. You may not see it now, but the Tower operates beyond what you perceive as loss. It deals in value, Zark'thul. And you, despite your current state, are valuable."
His eyes darkened, a shadow of his past rage flaring, before his senses settled back to the limited acuity of this frail form. He pushed forward, his words pressing for answers. "And how do you measure that value? What worth do you see in the shards of what I once was?"
"Resilience," Elspeth continued, her fingers steepling beneath her chin. "Adaptability. Your ability to rise above what binds you... we seek these qualities. You are more than this flesh you wear, Zark'thul. More than what has been taken from you."
She seemed to regard him for a moment. "As an eldritch being, part of what made you who you are is lost to you in this form. But even more so, you will gain back something that you previously lost."
There was a pregnant pause before she finished.
"Choice."
Elspeth rose from her chair, pacing around the room with a measured grace. "Once, you were a creature of pure force, the embodiment of destruction. And yet, your defeat was not dictated by some cosmic law, nor was it a foregone conclusion. You chose to take paths that inevitably led to your downfall. Such are the consequences of unbound power.
"You became arrogant, reckless. You underestimated the importance of subtlety, of alliances, of leveraging resources. Had you chosen differently, perhaps we would not be having this conversation."
Zark'thul watched her move, trying to gauge her intentions. Was she threatening him? Taunting him?
His eyes tracked her movements, noting how her every gesture was precise, calculated. "I find it hard to believe that choice is such a high priority when I did not choose to be here, to be like this."
"There's a distinction between having choices and being given a choice." Elspeth stopped, meeting his gaze. "Your fall was a product of your decisions, a cascade of consequences that you triggered through your actions. In that respect, you've learned a lesson. It's not about avoiding all choices—it's about choosing wisely. For example, choosing to take this offer."
"This... CEO role."
She nodded. "In this Tower, you have the chance to rewrite your trajectory. To understand what it means to think beyond immediate gains, to perceive the bigger picture. As a CEO, you will learn to balance the scales of power and responsibility.
"You will master the art of delegation, of diplomacy. And in return, you will become something more than what you once were—something that might even surpass the might you have lost."
There was that unsettling sensation again, prickling at the edges of his awareness. Something in her words hinted at more.
"What you present..." he paused, finding the right word in this alien tongue. "It seems like an ultimatum. My fall has broken me, weakened me. Without my true form, I am..." He faltered, unable to vocalize what he already knew—powerless.
Elspeth moved closer, the click of her heels sharp against the silence that hung between them.
"There is no ultimatum here, Zark'thul. No trick, no catch. This is an opportunity. A choice, freely given. Whether you take it or not, it is yours to decide."
Her gaze pinned him in place, as if seeing through the fragile human exterior to the ancient essence still lurking within. "You are not here to be controlled, manipulated. You are here to lead, to create something from what you once so readily destroyed. Do not confuse a chance for redemption with a forced destiny."
He looked up at her. "Let us suppose I accept this role. What will be required of me?"
"You will oversee the operation of the Tower's most crucial assets—the Agents," she explained. "You will provide them with direction, assigning them to various directives issued. They will handle any and all challenges faced in this role, both within and outside of the Tower. Through successful completion of these directives, you will regain your strength, restoring your previous power and rising through the ranks of the Tower, unlocking more floors, each offering more trials, more rewards... more of what was lost to you."
"Agents?" He mulled over the term, struggling to place the context. "Servants?"
"More than that." Elspeth resumed her pacing, her hands clasped behind her back. "Think of them as employees in your company. You lead them, guide them, and ensure they perform to the best of their ability, maximizing the efficiency of the operation."
Leadership?
Zark'thul had never considered himself a leader, not in the way these creatures thought of it.
A hive mind with his will guiding the drones that served to propagate him, yes. But that required little in the way of structure or cooperation. It was obedience without question, servitude without alternative. It was not guidance but direction. Simple urges sent along their psychic pathways had been sufficient. Certainly not anything that could be construed as leadership.
And now, after his fall, to be put in this position felt like an insult. To suggest he could work alongside others—mortals, no less—was an affront to his pride.
Yet...
He looked at his hands—human hands—still alien to him, still wrong. But somewhere deep in the back of his mind, there was an echo of understanding. The humans he had encountered before, so united in their desperate attempt to resist him, had demonstrated a kind of coordination that went beyond the mere herd-like behaviors of most species.
There was a resilience there, a shared strength, that even in his dominant power had seemed... familiar. Perhaps there was more to them than he had ever realized. Or, more likely, it was a quirk of this strange body, clouding his mind with these foolish thoughts.
He dismissed the idea as quickly as it had come, shaking his head in response to Elspeth's watchful gaze.
"I do not need to lead lesser beings," he replied, his voice tight with disdain. "My power—"
"Your power is diminished," Elspeth said, cutting him off. "Your essence is fractured. If you wish to regain what you once were, this is the path." She stopped in front of a window, looking out at the city beyond. "But the choice, as I said, is yours."
Choice. She kept coming back to that word. For a being who had always existed outside the bounds of choice, who had always simply done, the concept was... novel. Unsettling.
Zark'thul felt a glimmer of something foreign stir within him—a flicker of an unfamiliar emotion. Doubt. For the first time in his ancient existence, he paused, considering. This offer—if that's what it was—presented a path back to his former self, a way to return to his full power. But it also meant stooping to the level of these insignificant creatures, working with them, leading them.
It rankled him, grated against his very nature.
He was an eldritch being, beyond the trivialities of the physical world. To descend to the level of these frail, emotional creatures—to be reduced to their tactics and methodologies—was as degrading as it was unthinkable.
And yet... the call of his lost power was strong. The urge to reclaim what had been torn from him, what had made him a terror to countless dimensions, was irresistible. His memories, fragmentary as they were, still burned with the knowledge of what he had been, of the untold realities he had laid to waste. To be that again... it was a temptation he could not ignore.
"Fine," Zark'thul said, the word leaving his mouth before he even realized it. "I'll play along. But understand this—I won't be taken advantage of. I will regain my power, and when I do, I will make this Tower my own."
Elspeth pivoted back to face him. To his surprise, she simply nodded.
"Of course," she said. "I expected no less from you."
She walked back to the desk, opened a drawer, and withdrew a stack of paperwork. Placing them in front of Zark'thul, she set a pen atop the documents. "This agreement outlines the terms of your employment. Once you sign it, you'll be officially accepted as the CEO of the company within the Tower. Your power—and your journey to reclaim it—will then truly begin."
He leaned forward, hesitating as he eyed the pen. It looked so innocuous, a slender instrument designed for mortal hands.
"The power of a simple signature has often been underestimated," she continued. "Take your time, if you wish. This contract is, after all, of great significance to both you and the Tower."
Zark'thul pushed aside a sudden, deep-seated revulsion as he read through the contents. Knowledge of human script came to him, unbidden, another legacy of the fragments of their world that had merged with his essence. The contract was written in a simple, linear, legalese script, but somehow still understandable to him.
He reached the last page. There, the lettering spelled out:
EMPLOYEE: ZARK'THUL
RANK: CEO
TERMS OF EMPLOYMENT:
• EXECUTIVE AUTHORITY OVER TOWER INHABITANTS
• RESPONSIBILITY FOR COMPLETING DIRECTIVES AND VENTURES
• ACCESS TO RESOURCES AS PROVIDED BY THE TOWER
• PROGRESSION IN POWER AND STATUS DEPENDENT ON PERFORMANCE AND ACCOMPLISHMENTS
• REWARD BASED ON PERFORMANCE, EFFICIENCY, AND ASSET MANAGEMENT
IN SIGNED AGREEMENT, I, ZARK'THUL, VOLUNTARILY UNDERTAKE THIS ROLE WITH FULL KNOWLEDGE OF ITS RESPONSIBILITIES.
Witnessed and ratified by the Tower.
Signature__________
Zark'thul ran his finger along the edge of the page, the symbolism not lost on him. He paused at the bottom, where his signature—a primitive series of characters—would bind him to the terms.
"Choice..." he murmured.
Plucking the pen from the desk with newfound resolve, he drew the series of symbols that inexplicably expressed his name. When he lifted the pen, the ink shifted and congealed, forming the same glowing symbol he had seen in his mind, now etched indelibly into the document.
He found the display rather tasteless, but it seemed important to this Tower. This body.
A second later, the documents disappeared in a flash of light.
"Excellent," Elspeth said, her fingers intertwining in a gesture of satisfaction. "The paperwork has been filed, and the transition is complete. Now then, I believe you have an orientation to attend."