Trace Taylor couldn’t lie and claim that she wasn’t a little bit upset. She had just found out that Samuel Diaz— the man who asked her out on a date— didn’t do so because he was interested in her. He had ulterior motives: he wanted her to speak with someone.
Sure, it was not just any ordinary individual. If the redhead was in her right state of mind, she’d realise just how big of a deal this was. Unfortunately, she was still hung up over the fact that Sam tricked her. She crossed her arms and scowled.
“Noah Hawthorne wants to speak with me?” she repeated after Sam. “And that’s why you asked me out. I see.”
He nodded. “Yeah— there’s no need to be worried, though. He doesn’t mean any harm, I swear.”
“Right.”
“He just wants to talk to you. It’s nothing malicious, at all.” He waved a hand off, still trying to placate her. “You believe me, don’t you?”
“I do,” Trace said, voice curt.
Sam hesitated. “Then… why are you giving me that look?”
“It’s nothing.” She stood up, letting out an annoyed sigh. “Where’s your Supreme Leader? Let’s just get this over with.”
“Uh, alright.” He led the way, and she followed.
Sam offered to take her hand, but she didn’t even look at him as exited the so-called café. He blinked, and Jackie whistled as they passed by the kitchen.
“Boy, he’s in trouble.”
“I know, right?” Nathan said, nodding.
“Good job, bro,” Darius called out. “Way to screw things up.”
Sam glanced between them, clearing not understanding what was going on.
“What?”
Trace rolled her eyes and hurried him up. “Come on. Let’s just get this over with.”
* * *
[Why are you upset, Trace Taylor?] Ex’s voice echoed in the redhead’s mind as she stood in a lift with Sam.
Why am I upset? I don’t know, maybe it’s a little bit upsetting for my first ever date to be with a guy who isn’t even interested in me. She cast an annoyed sidelong glance at the man.
Her AI was still puzzled. [I was under the impression that you were disinterested in pursuing a romantic relationship with Samuel Diaz.]
Trace pursed her lips. That was kind of true— although, the thing was, she wasn’t unwilling to give it a try. Maybe her first impressions of Sam were completely wrong. They could’ve very much complemented each other as a couple. Far more than as mere friends.
However, now that she understood Sam held no interest in her, that was off the table. And that was upsetting.
“Maybe I’m just a little selfish, alright? But I actually thought…” she sighed.
“Did you say something, Trace?” Sam turned to her, raising a brow as the elevator’s lights blinked. The door opened, and she shook her head.
“No, I did not.”
“Alright. If you’ll just follow me, our boss should be in the room at the end.”
They started down the corridor, now at the top floor of this skyscraper. If Trace hadn’t been nervous, and now annoyed, she’d be more amazed by the fact that the Precursors of Peace had managed to generate enough power to maintain an entire thirty-storeyed building.
[After some consideration,] Ex said abruptly, [I have concluded that you are distracted.]
You think? She mentally groaned, but the AI continued.
[I advise that you take precautions before meeting with this Noah Hawthorne, Trace Taylor.]
The redhead blinked. Precautions?
[I understand that you trust Samuel Diaz as your friend and consider him a candidate as a procreation companion.]
Gross. Please don’t ever say it like that, ever again.
[However, based on our experiences and the information we have gathered of the organisation he works for thus far, the Precursors of Peace is still somewhat of a threat. You cannot let your guard down, not especially around their leader.]
I… knew that.
[You were aware; however, you are now distracted. As your artificial intelligence unit, it is my job to assist you in such matters and regain focus in what is of true import. Trace Taylor, be wary of Noah Hawthorne,] the AI finished.
Trace fidgeted, her skin crawling like insects were making a nest on her skin. She shuddered violently, and Sam frowned.
“Is something wrong, Trace?”
“N-no,” she managed to get out. Her hand drifted to her weapon at her side— of course she still brought it. Even if it had initially been a date, she was aware she had to always be prepared. “I’m fine. Let’s just get this over with.”
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Sam creased a brow but didn’t say anything. He stopped by the double doors at the end of the hallway. It wasn’t some grand or majestic doorway made out of rich mahogany or gilded in gold. It was a simple, clean glass door that led into an office.
On the other side, there was a wooden desk with a sliding desk facing away from Trace. She suspected that was where Noah Hawthorne was sitting, waiting to make his grand reveal when she entered the room. Gulping, she nodded at Sam, and he pushed it open.
“Supreme Leader,” he greeted as he walked in. “I have brought the guest you requested.”
Trace slowly shuffled her way in, trying to keep her cool while being wary of her surroundings. There was no response to Sam’s greeting, and instantly, she was on alert. Either something happened to Noah Hawthorne, or this was a trap.
Her eyes rapidly darted around the room as a pit opened in her stomach. This unease crept up on her— a prickling feeling that chilled her bone. She licked her dry lips, turning to Sam.
“Is—” she started, but a voice spoke over her.
“Please. Bring her here.”
Sam blinked, looking around for the source of the voice. Trace followed his gaze and found a man standing by the left wall overlooking a large portrait. It was a familiar painting— one that most people would recognise. It portrayed a man lying in a garden, reaching out with a finger for an opposing, heavenly figure.
Noah Hawthorne stood before the painting, admiring in with his hands on a cane. He didn’t look as old as she imagined him to be; she’d always thought he was a sixty-year-old man who’d be balding from the top. While he was still relatively older than her, he couldn’t have been more than fifty— a middle-aged man who still had a head full of hair, albeit greying.
Despite his younger looks, he certainly dressed like he belonged to another time long gone. He wore regal robes— clothing that was out-of-this-century. The kind a king might’ve worn during the Renaissance. It made Trace feel uneasy.
She wasn’t sure what to do, but Sam ushered her forward. She stopped right behind him, shifting uncomfortably and unsure of what to say. Her mouth bobbed open and close like a fish out of water as she tried to find the right words.
“I— erm, it’s a pleasure… I mean, hi? …” she finally settled on a normal greeting. There was no need to be so formal, especially since she wasn’t a member of the Precursors of Peace.
Thankfully, Noah didn’t seem offended by it. “This painting. Tell me, do you know what it is?”
Trace blinked. She looked up at the painting, first at the man with a chiseled body, then at the figure on the other side. Behind them was a spread of lush nature— vibrant colours splattered together to create a teeming paradise.
“I think it’s called The Creation of Adam… or something like that.” She’d read it up online. It wasn’t anything she learned in class— she was simply fascinated with art at one point in her life. Whether it was a fad or something else didn’t matter, it helped her study up a bit on the history of famous art pieces and the style behind them. “It’s a mural painted on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in Vatican City. The technique used to make it is called fresco, I believe. Made by none other than Michelangelo himself.”
Noah craned his head fractionally. “You are well read. Interesting.”
What’s that supposed to mean? She just waved a hand off, feigning modesty. “Most people go through a Wikipedia crawl or two these days. I’d be surprised if most people didn’t know what this piece is called, at least.”
“You speak truth,” he said, placing a hand on the recreation of the mural. “It is a beautiful piece of art. One that has received undeserved adulation throughout history.”
“Erm, undeserved adulation?”
Noah’s eyes fluttered shut as he raised a trembling hand to the portrait. “Genesis 2:7. And the Lord made Man from the dust of the ground,” he recited from memory. “That is the scene which this painting wishes to capture.”
Trace’s eyes grew wide as a ripping sound echoed in the room. The Supreme Leader of the Precursors of Peace tore up the replication of the artwork with unbridled rage.
“This is merely a false retelling of what happened. The description of humankind’s birth is grossly embellished. We are made from dust. Be it space dust or dust of the Earth, it matters not. There was no extravagance to our creation. Such a perverted iconography. It is no wonder that this piece of art is lauded, for it appeals to the inherently selfi-centred nature of our species, hoping to portray us as special. As unique.”
His hands shook as he tightly gripped onto a ripped piece of the painting. With a heavy sigh, he tossed it aside and hobbled over to his desk.
“We humans are not above any others,” he continued. “Not animals. And certainly not aliens. This Neo Genesis has shown just as much. We are but dust in the grand scheme of history. Of the universe. And now, of the multiverse.”
Trace followed him as he rambled on, speaking more to himself than he was to her.
Ex… is this man alright?
[Negative,] the AI said. [It appears that he may be mentally unhinged.]
Cool, so it’s not just me.
[Affirmative. It is possible that he may be a supervillain.]
Oh, that’s what you’re talking about. Well, Trace wouldn’t be too surprised if it turned out that Noah was a part-time serial killer, but she also couldn’t lie and say that she had initially held the wrong opinion of him.
As someone who called himself the Supreme Leader of the Precursors of Peace, she’d originally believed he was a megalomaniac of sorts. Some kind of narcissist who thought highly of himself. But judging by his rant, he didn’t think too highly of any human, period.
“This pretentiousness of humankind is what will inevitably lead to our destruction,” Noah said, settling into his seat. “Even after the Esvol revealed themselves to us, the traditional institutions of the world refused to adapt. The President of the United States desperately clung to his seat of power, even as hundreds of monsters fell on the White House, and his soldiers abandoned him. It is his folly that led to his own demise.”
“Wait, the President is dead?” Trace stared at Noah in disbelief. “How?”
“Eaten by a three-horned landshark,” Sam chimed in. “Happened a few weeks back. Just after the power grid went down here.”
“Fucking hell.” She massaged her temples. “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”
The young man shrugged slightly. “Didn’t think it mattered.”
Noah shook his head. “Pointless. There is no victory in fighting against this changing world. Just as the animals do, we must adapt. For we are but animals that can speak. Our only option forward is coming to terms with our new world.”
Trace listened to him drone on, almost losing his purpose. She didn’t want to interrupt him, but eventually she felt the need to interject.
“I… appreciate your insight, erm, sir,” she spoke over him. “However, may I ask why you wished to speak with me?”
His face went blank, and she thought he spontaneously died of a heart attack.
“Noah? … “ she asked.
Then, he blinked and returned to reality. “It is true that I have a matter to speak with you about. A matter of significance that requires your presence.”
“R-right.”
Trace was growing more nervous by the second. She had considered all the possibilities why Noah would want to see her. It was never good. Either he wanted to get rid of her since she was the de-facto protector of their neighbouring commune, or he was going to use her to get to Adair Russell. Either way, she was prepared to bolt at any moment.
But, surprisingly, Noah wasn’t there for either of those reasons. Unfortunately, she wished that her original fears had been the case, because this was far worse.
Leaning forward, the Supreme Leader of the Precursors of Peace laid his shivering hands on the table and peered into the redhead.
“I understand you have had an encounter with a Bne Worldeater,” he said. “Now, I would like to know more about your sapient AI.”
Erm… WH— she started.
[—AT?!] Ex finished.