Eat, sleep, shit — I lost track of home many times I repeated this pattern.

There was no point of reference with which to measure time; the sun rose and fell beyond my sight and no trace of its splendor pierced the walls of my prison. The minutes conspired, disappearing into a vast sea of uncertainty that filled the time between the mundane moments of my life.

On one such day, or perhaps night, I awoke to a meal of water held in a metal carafe and a bar of some kind of brown-grey substance, both served on a red, ceramic plate. It was expected, and it didn’t taste nearly as bad as it looked, but I couldn’t bring myself to move.

What was the point?

Why did they even bother feeding me if they were going to leave me here to rot? Sebbit must have a use for me. He had at least taken some pains to keep me alive, why else feed me? The captain didn’t seem like the type to expend resources without a purpose. Had I been judged already, condemned to rot in forgotten solitude?

I whispered to myself, but no one answered.

I had tried finding the place, the Mindscape, that the Fisher had shown me. He had claimed it was a part of my own mind, so I theorized I should be able to enter it again. Despite having no lack of quiet or time with which to practice, my meditations were either useless or faded into restless sleep. The bird never answered my pleas for help — it was dead or lost. Or perhaps it had forgotten me as well?

Could they keep me like this forever? Sebbit didn’t seem the type to murder me out of hand, but I had no idea what system of laws and justice he followed. I only knew he would follow them, likely to the letter with machine-like efficiency and lack of empathy.

I remembered something my father had once told me, “true justice is free of mercy.” It was a comforting thought until one ran up against that justice.

I would have to hope that Peacekeeper law — or Hegemonic law, I wasn’t sure on the exact relationship between the two — would grant me some version of basic ‘human’ rights. I suppose the term would need to be updated.

In the meantime, I waited.

In my moments of clarity, I kept my mind active by reviewing the events of the past weeks. I would replay images, and dwell on my mistakes. I had more of them than I care to admit. My memory was still sharp, much sharper than it had been before the system had enhanced it — though not to the superhuman level I had recently grown used to.

I wasn’t sure if this meant that I still had some bonus from the system, or if there were other explanations. The Fisher seemed an obvious suspect … or at least a source of information. I had never imagined I would desire the unsettling creature’s company. Hell, I’d even overlook its riddles and alliteration … well, to a point anyway.

Were my abilities truly gone? Perhaps I was only blind to them or they had been countered by some temporary effect. I decided to test my physical capabilities to get some form of baseline. I wasn’t a gym rat before Eldritch Night, but I tried to keep in shape and knew I could pop of forty pushups without much problem. I just had to test to see if I was stronger.

… 82 … 83.

I collapsed onto the hard floor with a sheen of sweat flowing over my back. I grabbed the tray, finishing the water before I had made it back to the cold slab I used as a bed and chair.

I was much stronger than I remembered, but not unreasonably so. I’d been through enough in the past few weeks that I was probably in much better shape. Combine that with the system healing me and keeping me healthy, and it’s possible my natural muscle fibers had grown quite a bit stronger — even without system enhancements.

The test might have been inconclusive, but exercise at least gave me a purpose. I needed a goal to focus myself towards, something to keep my mind from deteriorating further.

From then on, my every waking moment was spent alternating between calisthenics and meditations. Only rarely would I fall into fits of talking to myself or calling out for the Fisher. Sometimes I would shout at the walls or bargain with myself in quiet whispers. At other times, I would sit in meditation, despite having no real sense of how to do so.

During one particularly bad night, I dreamt that Liv visited me. She stood over my bed, smiling as she gazed down at me. As she left, I sat up and caught a glimpse of her turning her head. The right side of her face had been burned horribly, now nothing but scar tissue resembling melted wax.

“Liv,” I yelled, but found myself staring at an empty grey wall.

I had other dreams, but none so vivid. I found meditation before sleep helped to calm me and kept the worst of the dreams at bay. I also kept the hope that I could find escape — even if it was into my own mind. It hadn’t born fruit yet, but I did find the practice surprisingly comforting. It brought me to the realization that what I desired was control, even over myself.

The promise of the Mindscape was false. It was a plaything, something I could mold to my own desires but that had no power in the real world. Sleep would elude me, I realized. Already, my mind was spinning with conflicting emotions and speculation.

The Fisher might be gone. I need to …

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I was startled from my thoughts; the hissing of pressurized air being released was accompanied by the clicking of metal gears grinding against each other. The door of my prison cell slid open, disappearing into a recess in the wall. Within the doorframe stood a tall silhouette backed by dull blue light.

There had been no warning, and at first, my mind didn’t register the event. This couldn’t be real. Had that door ever opened? Could it?

But then it hit me; sweet, unfiltered air filled my cell. It was slightly cooler outside the room and the breeze this created felt like silk against my face. I breathed in deeply before looking up.

“You’re not who I was expecting,” I said. “Go away.”

“And who, exactly, were you expecting?”

Catayla was wearing a new uniform, this one completely white and without any armored plates. The full body jumpsuit had no adornments except for a single circular patch on the left shoulder — three interlocking gold lines atop a cluster of leaves affixed to a blue-green background.

She had no weapons, but she was carrying a small tray covered with a white cloth.

“I’m not sure,” I answered. “Someone I didn’t want to throttle for selling me out and leading me into a trap, perhaps?”

“That’s not exactly how it happened, Finn. I had a job to do, and you were only a small part of that. Did you think we were friends? Even if we were, did you think I would betray my own people?”

“I thought we were a team,” I said. “I trusted you. I chose to trust you despite having every reason not to. I risked my life fighting beside you, so yes — I thought we were friends.”

This seemed to affect her, and she stared at me silently for a few moments before continuing.

“Finn —”.

“Look, let’s forget it. We’re not a team, you were only following orders. I get it. You’re a soldier. Just tell me why you’re here.”

Catayla walked over and took a seat on the cold slab that had failed in every way to resemble a bed or a comfortable place to sit. I kept her gaze as I stood, my legs popping from having been forced into an uncomfortable position for way too long.

“Do you know why I’m here…” she motioning for me to wait when I tried to interrupt. “Please, just listen for a moment? We suspect that you were involved with a group of cultists, traitors that have infiltrated and sabotaged your world.”

“Is this because of the Eye?” I asked. “Sebbit knew I lied about it, I get it. Is that really enough of a reason to keep me in solitary confinement for weeks?”

“Six days, Finn,” she said. “It’s only been six days, and we needed that time to finish our investigation. If you cooperate I believe Se… Captain Xern, will be lenient on you.”

“Six? … that can’t. And the others? Tiller, is he okay? Bridgette and Worthy — did everyone make it over the river?”

“Tiller is here, we’ve built a base out of an abandoned Naval vessel,” Catayla said. “The others all survived and have been returned to the human settlement, New Charleston.”

“Thank you, I’m glad you helped them. Is Tiller a prisoner too, can I see him?”

“No,” she shook her head. “He’s not a prisoner, but he doesn’t have free reign of the facility, either. He insists on talking with you, but command, Captain Xern, has decided that all interactions with you are to be limited.”

“Are you going to tell me why you’re here, then? There isn’t much I can tell you. I’ve only been part of one ‘cult’ and I doubt you’d be interested in anything that went on at St. Mary’s.”

“We know. We’ve been tracking and recording you since even before I gave you the disk. We don’t suspect you are in league with the Separatists, but you are connected somehow. You likely had contact with them shortly before the system’s intervention.”

“Separatists?” I asked. “That sounds an awful lot like an internal matter. Something I, or anyone from Earth, would have nothing to do with.”

“Eat,” she said. She uncovered the tray, revealing a small loaf of bread, a few red berries, and a glass of a golden-brown liquid. “Afterwards, you can tell me everything you know, and we’ll both have to trust that my superiors will know what to do.”

“Is that…” I asked while staring at the tray.

“Sweet tea,” she answered. “Tiller mentioned it was something of a favorite of yours.”

“Well, you catch more bees with carrots … Or was it the stick?”

***

The door slid closed behind Catayla, leaving me alone once more.

I thought back over our conversation. We had spoken for several hours, and I’d held almost nothing back. The only secret I’d kept to myself was the existence of the mental space that the Fisher occupied, and its ability to speak with me there.

I had told Catayla everything that had happened since seeing the burning eye. I told her about waking up unharmed in a puddle of my own blood all the way up to my battle with the Tartarus Grass. She already knew most of it, but she still made me recount every second of it in clear detail.

She hadn’t answered any of my questions about the cultists or Separatists, but I was somehow certain that they were connected. Had someone I knew played a role in the end of the world? Was it more than random chance?

The thought scared me more than I can explain. If the event that had destroyed Charleston was not random chance, but instead something engineered, then the implications were terrifying. It could happen anywhere, anytime.

Could eldritch abominations and planet-devouring Elder Gods simply be summoned like an Uber? Why would such beings even care about what lowly humans did? We were nothing but ants fighting over a pebble in their eyes.

The Fisher was proof that I shared some connection to those events, and Catyala had asked me about him several times. She seemed particularly concerned with how we communicated and if I shared its memories.

We also spent at least an hour going over my actions on the days leading up to Eldritch Night, but I couldn’t imagine how anyone I knew could be part of some intergalactic cult. Troy couldn’t be bothered to get up early for church, and my family? Way to conservative to get involved in anything that didn’t involve Jesus and flag waving.

The most interesting part of my conversation with Catayla was not anything she said, but something I discovered on my own. During the entire interrogation, the cell door had remained open, no doubt a tactic to make me feel more relaxed. Not only did this allow the sweet smell of fresh air into my room but it also brought with it small amounts of something else.

I could no longer see it, but I recognized the familiar texture. It was faint, almost non-existent, but it was there. I focused, finding small traces of the energy everywhere. It was in the air, and in the food I ate. It clung to Catayla in a thin sheen that was gradually thinning as she absorbed the energy.

I breathed it in and I could feel it invigorating me. It was a subtle change, but very real. I reached out and gathered as much of the energy as I could, being certain not to touch the small amount surrounding Catayla.

I had no reason to think she would detect the change, but I had no idea what skills or technology the Peacekeepers had. I kept this process up for the rest of the conversation, slowly gathering trickles of the black-red energy into my closed hand.

When Catayla had finally left, the door closing with the hiss of pneumatics and grinding steel, I held out my fist and slowly unfolded trembling fingers. Resting in the center of my palm was a small sphere no larger than a marble — a marble made of pure eldritch energy.