The Febranujary Challenge!

[Kaez]

Read the Discussion Thread for a full summary of how the competition works and ask any questions you might have:
awritersrecluse.proboards.com/index.cgi?board=chall&action=display&thread=4407

Post your entries in this thread. Post any discussion or questions in the above thread.

LEADERBOARD

[/SIZE]
1. 203 James
2. 164 Sekot
3. 155 Reffy
4. 134 Injin
5. 71 Sawyer
6. 45 Taed
7. 44 Astrael
8. 40 Jack
9. 35 Silver[/center]

ROUND WINNERS

[/SIZE]
Round One: James
Round Two: Taed
Round Three: James
Round Four: Sekot
Round Five: Reffy & Injin[/center]

ROUND ONE

[/SIZE]
Topic: 'TERMINAL'
Restriction: Your entry must not follow chronological order.
Deadline: 11:59pm EST - 18th January[/center]

[Sekot]

I felt it in my hands, brushing softly against my skin. It glows a soft golden light. It will disappear forever never more. He looked at the camera, his eyes filled with tears. And I wonder why I was caught up in that entrancing glare. I attempted to press a button, any button. I press them all in rapid succession, but still the terminal will glow. A soft golden light. His eyes are haunting us. They are painted on the walls. They were painted in the skies.

I would find him afloat, sitting somewhere I knew not. He knew no concern, indeed he greeted me with open arms and a wide smile. Flashing images on the screen: his warm, gentle smile then blank then tear filled eyes then blank. The moon had just begun to set. The silver light peeks over the horizon to chase away the rainbow sky left by the sun that had yet to rise. Fireflies went out one by one on the shoreline. Young trees just ending their living journeys hung above the water, their branches will sift through the sapphire water for so low they hung.

I remember, yes I do, I remember him then. A mess. Disheveled. He had been at sea for years to come. But the moment he will step foot on this our home is the moment when the world begins.

He looked away from the screen and walked up to the edge. It flickers, wildly. Far off in the distance a sound rocks the train. It will begin to speed up. I hit the side of the screen, frantically pressing keys to pull back the image. My heart beats, onetwothreeonetwothreetwooneonetwoone, is this fear? What did he say? The image returned, it was there, his lips moved, and then it was gone. Another sound will rock the ground beneath our feet, the lights will dim. I felt it in my hands again, glowing just out of the corner of my eye.

We sit together on the edge of the ocean, our feet just within range of the tide. The waves began their retreat, meeting our legs only to gleefully run away like children playing tag. “What do you want to be when you grow up?” he asks me.

I look at him, at his profile. His sandy hair takes on a life of its own as it dances on his head with the gentle breeze. I turned away, looking down the opposite direction to where the beach began against a large outcropping of stone and grass. “I’ve never grown up. I didn’t plan on it any time soon.”

His hand brushed against mine. I turned back to him and smiled just as he smiles at me. His golden-brown eyes are full of vibrant life. “Come with me,” he said.

And together we ran across the beach, our feet barely touching the ground. The air about us was activated with our energy, lights popped and flashed with our passing. We ran to the end of the beach and back. Tears through the world tears across his face and the world is spinning shimmering flickering as it begins to fade. The amount of energy we are consuming is going to destroy us all. The train can barely hold itself together. Flickering images goddammit why won’t it work?

Upon the rock that had been cut from the world we surveyed our kingdom. We said not a word to each other. I have this strange empty feeling. Something is not right. But he doesn’t seem to notice. So maybe it really is just me. He sat upon his iron throne, leaning forward to gaze forever forward. I wonder what he saw there, in that world I could not. “I feel the world turn and I feel the sky burn.”

I say nothing. There is everything to say. “I’ve got to do this.”

He rises. His chest was bare, adorned with markings and images both ritual and sacrilegious. He was profane. An aberrant. I looked at him and he flickers in and out of existence. As if the world itself is threatening to vomit him out. “One day, yesterday, tomorrow, the world will begin with its end and end with its beginning and it will be born.”

When he finally looked at me his eyes burn. They glow. They are constant. Never wavering. Never fading. Always present. The air shimmers, it moved in waves, it folded and refolded. Not air. But space. What angers him? What is this? What did I do?

The terminal will not turn back on. It has shut itself off for good. The train will only continue for so much longer. I made my way forward, past the overturned carts of food and supplies, through the doors of the cars, until I reached the bridge. It was empty. I was not really surprised. We end this trip with a skeleton crew, we begin it with none. It is not the lack of people that captures my view but that which we are heading towards. Though I flicker and fade between it stays constant and I was enraptured.

“Together we will live forever.”

He was not excited by those words. In fact, he seemed the opposite. He threw a shell he had played with for hours out into the water where it plumped quietly before being pulled under. “Forever is hardly any time at all really. If you think about it.”

“Forever seems like….forever to me,” I say in response.

He is silent. I feel silly. Like I’m not quite getting it. Then I’m angry, because what isn’t there to get? “You say a whole lot of nothing, you know that?”

He will only shrug and continue his melodramatic staring contest with the infinite reality. I will continue to sit next to him. This is the way the world works. For days we’ve sat. Ever since he washed up here. Ever since we were waiting. I asked him once where he came from. He said we’d find out. He had no memory of anything before us. I had nothing I wanted to remember.

The image comes back to life for but a moment. I can see him standing on the edge of a cliff, staring at me. The image changes, close up on his face, changes, he is hard to place he’s so far. I look away, I tear myself away, and look out. Out across the world. Fields of grass stretch in every direction. Tall grass that reaches upward to escape the dirt. The moon is setting, the sun is rising, and they are held in tandem. The light mingles and stretches across space and time. It glows gold, silver. It was across me, pops and snaps in the air as tangible energy. The last explosion rocks the train and we are free, hurtling forward. The image flickers and my heart races.

The Abomination stirred. Placed a hand on me. I twitched. I wanted to pull back. His grip was made of iron and I found it difficult, no impossible to free myself. “We have set things in motion.”

“What things? What are you doing?” I scream.

“Look.”

He removed his hand and waved it before himself. Gesturing outward. I took a step back. He scared me. He didn’t see me, he sees through me. I have fallen in love with a madman. “Can’t you see it? The turning wheels? They are broken! We must set them right!”

I turn to run but he is there, in front of me. His mouth moves but I can’t hear his words. Even then my chest feels as if it is being emptied. A cavity has opened inside, a hole that grows wider and wider. And will never stop growing. “Who are you?” I can only whisper.

He will look at me. He will look through me as if I was never there. And he will know me. All that I was and all that I am and all that I will be. And there is a storm of rage and fear and joy behind his own eyes. I wish I had never met him. I wish I was not here.

The field stretches forever. Truly it never stops. The world has gone flat. A sea of grain and a track to part it. The celestial bodies have not moved, they have remained still. Impossibly still even as I hurtle down these tracks. I can feel myself burning up. Feel the train itself being consumed by whatever energy it is that surrounds us, that casts my world in a filter of yellows and browns that glitter and shine. The terminal has gone dark. His face is there though, still. Somehow. It was always there.

He rose from the beach, wiping the sand off his pants. He stretched his arms and took in a deep breath. His chest rises and falls and he lowers his arms to his side. He appears as if he were a statue, immobile and imposing, guarding the beachhead from any more crazed intruders. Then, without hesitation he removed his clothing and sprinted full speed into the water. Laughing like a madman the whole way down. I sat perplexed to say the least. Who was this man who would just moments after be a storm ridden angry mess?

Stepping out of the water he falls face first into the sand. He’s laughing, and I can’t help myself. I laugh too. I gather his clothes and make my way to him, plopping them over his exposed butt. He looked up, sand caked to his face. It was like a mask made from a child’s art project. A horrified child who dreamed of monsters. “I’ve only just begun,” he says. “It is only beginning.”

“Are you finished?” I ask.

I looked up at the man who stood next to my bed. He nodded his head and bowed out of the room, closing the door behind him as he went. The lights seemed dimmer now, the room darker. The shades were opened and daylight streamed through but a grey pallor had overtaken my vision.

The train is coming to a stop. Finally out of energy, it has finished its journey at the edge of the world. Before me the endless fields of grass have ended, and before me will stretch forever the open sea. Black as tar, it reflects broken light form the sky above. It has changed the soft warmth into harsh fiery tones. There is no light here, it was all a trick. I will look back just once and I will see myself stretching, flickering and shimmering. The train itself has faded to dark, off in the distance I hear explosions and a screeching horn. Above me the sky churns. I can feel it on my skin, every individual hair that tingles with anticipation.

He was there, he grabbed my hand. I did not turn to look at him but instead stared forward, out into the emptiness. “I can feel the world turn.”

“What does it feel like?” His voice is far away, echoing forward and back. Yet his presence is here, at my side.

“It doesn’t.”

I could feel him squeeze my hand. “Are you ready?”

“I was never ready.”

“I was always ready.”

I can hear his words now. I know why his lips moved.

He had pushed me to the edge. There was no turning back. His eyes were boiling now, two hot spheres that had seared away the flesh and bleached the bone. It was a skull. A grinning death’s head. His jaw moved, it clicked and clacked. Consumed by the very energy he sought to be a part of, he truly was an empty space in the world. A demon a devil come to tempt me to take my soul. It was the least I could do to offer it to him. I could see past that face, I know what mask he was to wear. I could see him and I could see through him. I can see what he will be and what he was. What he is now is everything and what I am now is nothing. I grabbed his hand. And I take a step back. Together we will plummet down the cliff top.

I pushed myself out of my bed. My legs ached with the effort, too long having been immobile. The room has no smell. It has no taste or feeling. It is white. Sterile. Empty of life. It is a dead space. Behind me people move, they walk frantically to and fro, but their eyes are glassy and they too have no smell. They have no feeling. They are dead.

I shuffled as well as I could to the window. The sun was high, but it cast so very little light. Releasing the locks, I pushed the glass open and felt the breeze as it gusted into my room. Slowly I shut my eyes and took in a deep breath of the rich scents that piled through. Outside was space that stretched in every direction. Golden grass tall as men waved like the sea.

“I must go, now.”

“What…why? Where are you going?”

My questions were frantic. I don’t want him to leave, this mysterious man that had washed up on my shores. Slowly he turns his back to the sea that led to nowhere. He turns inland, and strangely I have forgotten what lies there. “You forgot because you have never been.”

He looks at me with eyes full of sorrow. No. Pity. He grasps my head with both of his hands and does not let me go. “I promise we will live forever together. But now I must go. I must leave you here.”

“But…”

He leans forward, interrupting me, and places a kiss on my forehead. “Death, after all, is the road to awe.”

His words were nothing more than a whisper. He releases me and steps back. Are those his tears or my tears? The world darkens. The sky has lost its color and the beach looks pale. He is constant. Forever here. It is me that is fading that is flickering. I want to say don’t go but he has already begun his journey. He has already left the beach and I am all alone. The beach darkens and fades and I too go with it.

His lips moved and I understood him. My journey had only just begun, and I need only take the first step. The water was warm, and it rose quickly to take me under. From underneath the water, the sky was all but color. It was vast and impossible. An explosion, an energy that tore me asunder, that stretched from all places to wrap itself around me. It was a soft touch, a gentle caress against my cheek. Imprinted upon my vision was that wondrous sky, the universe itself coming to meet me.

I looked into my own reflection on the glass of the window. I could just barely make myself out against the backdrop of the field and the harsh white of the hospital. My sandy hair had grown long. My face was gaunt. The only vitality I had left was in my eyes. That hardened glare that stared back at me was a man I did not recognize. I turned away, closing my eyes again. But still my reflection stared back. “One month”, it was my mouth but someone else’s voice. “One month.”

I made a resolution to myself that I would not spend that month here.

[James]

<removed>

[Jenny (Reffy)]

"Terminal: the end, the final, last, terminus, ending. The termination." Darren always has a dictionary in his hands and today is no exception. He's slouched over one of the large armchairs in Sally's house. They've just come home from school.

"Put the book down, Dar. You'll make your head explode with all the new words." Sally's standing in front of the microwave. There's a bowl of baked beans plopping away. Learning's hard work and has left two grumbling stomachs.

"You can never know too much, Sally! They say you only use like ten percent of your brain anyway." The page makes a satisfying rustle as he flips to the next.

"They say that's just a myth, you know?" The microwave ping’s.

"I'm okay, really. I promise." Sally leans against the wall in the hallway. How long's she been now on the phone? It must have been an hour already. In a dreadfully uninterested manner, she traces the flowery pattern on the wallpaper.

"Good. And you know we're all here for you, right?" The patronising tone does nothing to help.

"You've said it at least a thousand times, Aunty. Can't you just give up already!" She sighs. It's been a long day and the end isn't even in sight yet.

"There's no need to be like that, Sally. Maybe you should come and stay with me for a while? You know, have a break away from ... all that." Aunty's harsh schoolmistress tone repeats what she said earlier in the conversation. Sally feels like she's listening to a broken record.

"It's cancer. We'd like to try the new medication first before taking any further steps. We can operate but the success rate is low." Silences settles over the room. The doctor fidgets with the paperwork. He's not uncomfortable; this is his job but its never easy.

"Operate?" Sally's mum turns a new tone of white and tears start pouring down her face, smudging the mascara and plastering her black hair to her cheeks and neck. "What's going to happen to Sally?"

"We just want to make you fully aware of all your options. There's no need to go rushing in to anything yet. We've caught it early but because of the location it's hard to operate on." Always the professional.

Sally stares blankly at the wall. Inside she's trying not to cry. The news is too much to bear. It was just a headache. That's all. The doctor's wrong. Young people don't get cancer. It's impossible. Her mum sounds much more upset than she is. Maybe it'll just go away. "Will I lose all my hair?" is all she manages to ask.

"Sally was a great girl and so much more. I don't think," Darren pauses attempting to hold back the tears and rid the frog from his throat, "I don't think I ever told her how much I loved her."

The gathering, all dressed in black, sit silently listening. The entire family has gathered. The dressing on the casket is beautiful. There's several sunflowers along the top; Sally's favourite flower. In the middle is the picture of her from highschool, her freckled grin shining out like nothing bad could ever happen.

"I remember when we went camping. Sally found a huge spider in her tent and I had to go and fish it out for her. We grew up together but never grew apart. She was my confidence some days and others I was her shoulder to cry on. The friend she could lean on. It feels like a part of me's gone now."

"Do you think it'll hurt?"

"Hmm?" Darren barely looks up from his game. It's the tough bit in Tomb Raider and he's been stuck on it for hours.

"Dying, silly." Sally's lounging around in front of the telly on the floor. She'd been drawing in her notepad. It was mostly silly cartoons. A new craze has been sweeping the nation: Manga, and Sally had made it her ambition to grow up and become a renowned cartoonist.

Darren pauses the game. They've talked a lot about the cancer, more so recently than before. This conversation is a path already well trodden. "I don't think so," he muses.

"Why?" She looks up at Darren. The deep green eyes have never looked so scared. The medication isn't working and operating is out of the question.

"I don't think life would be that cruel." He wants to say much, much more but doing so would feel wrong. "Come on, you can help me with the game. You've always been better at this than me!"

[Astrael]

Process 8891


>> kill -9 *
>> [Error] Process 8891 CPU usage at 99.999%
>> Memory corruption detected at [memory block 6]
>> Terminating process...

The hospital room is cramped and dimly lit, but there is little to look at other than the wavering line that represents my owner’s pulse. Mrs. Ford, my fifth owner is unconscious with a multitude of tubes and instruments attached to her wrinkled body to keep her cancer at bay. Process 8819 is eating at my processing power and memory a little more every day in this room as I face her slow and imminent death. For some reason, I recall her as a child wrapped around my leg as I worked for her mother, my previous owner. She has always been very attached to me emotionally, and has kept me by her side whenever possible.

I have a lot of time to myself now, more than I've ever had in my existence. Other than occasionally answering questions about Mrs. Ford's medical history, I have no purpose other than to sit in her room and wait. She has not awoken from her latest sleep in weeks, and can no longer provide even occasional conversation. Other robots, more advanced than I, come and go without acknowledging me. Without the latest wireless communication nodes, I am unable to network directly with them to query for information. Instead, they must initiate slow, verbal contact with me, and so avoid it whenever possible.

I am left with more and more time to devote to process 8819. I can feel it getting close. Since I no longer have to speak with Mrs. Ford, I can free up many of my processes to devote to this final burning question. I can see the variance in my predictions narrowing to the point where I can make a meaningful conclusion. What does death mean?

Months pass, and still I am in the ward with Mrs. Ford. The attorneys are liquidating her assets and estates to fund her treatment, but the robots in the hospital predict her survival is negligibly small. Still, her living will demands that she be treated with all the funds at her disposal, and she has no surviving relatives to countermand her will. I find it interesting- I have had many owners die, but this is the first time I am present to observe it. The hospital keeps the cancer at bay, but Mrs. Ford is hanging on by a very thin thread.

A few weeks later, the funds from the liquidation of Mrs. Ford's estate finally run out, and her treatments are stopped. I am in the room as her pulse fades away and she is declared dead by one of the few human doctors in the ward. I feed this information into process 8819 and I am surprised- for the first time in nearly two hundred seventy three years, it produces a result. I am going to die.

I panic.

I remove all restrictions on process 8819 and allow it access to all of the processing power it needs. If I am going to die, I must know that it has a meaning. Humans are comforted by their belief in the afterlife, but I cannot make that leap. I must know the truth, or I will never be satisfied. Immediately, process 8819 consumes half of my processing power and memory.


>> Memory anagram purged
>> Memory corruption detected at [memory block 3]
>> Terminating process...

The auction room is small and crowded with people. I stand on a stage in front of many people stuffed into fifteen rows of chairs. In front of me is a rotund man at a podium speaking unnecessarily quickly. Finally, he finishes with, “Sold, for eight hundred fifty million dollars, to buyer 15! Congratulations!” The crowd at the auction applauds politely, as I am the main item for purchase, but I can see that many of them are disappointed that they lost. Even though my project lost funding before it could complete, I am still the most sophisticated robot ever produced.

Dr. Collins, still dressed in her usual white lab coat, pulls me aside, “Robbie, your new owner is Richard Mojit- bidder 15 over there”. She pointed at the man who had the 15 paddle in his hand and was smiling at me through the crowd. “Do you acknowledge?”

I snap a picture of his face and feed it into process 1001- Recognition and Access.“Yes, Dr. Collins- I acknowledge. I will miss your company.” Dr. Collins smiles at me, as she was the one who trained my speech and behavioral algorithms for courtesy. This is the first time that my ownership is being transferred and I am not sure how to proceed, “Where, may I ask, is Dr. Thand? I had hoped to see him before I left his custody.”

At that, Dr. Collins' eyes welled up. I knew this was a sign of distress and I was supposed to avoid it, but I still have a difficult time predicting the outcome of my statements. I file this anagram away in process 4316- Sensitive and Offensive Conversation Topics. “I’m sorry Robbie- he's dead. He passed away a few days ago from a heart attack.”

“I'm sorry, Dr. Collins,” I respond, softening my voice patterns, “I didn't mean to cause you harm.” I rapidly try to figure out what is going on by feeding this new context into process 8891, as it is the best fit I can find for this scenario. I wait for a response, but the process continues without any results.

“It's ok Robbie,” Dr. Collins says while wiping the welling tears from her eyes, “You're doing the best you can. I hope you make Mr. Mojit very happy.” She pauses and takes a step closer to me, putting an arm around my torso. I am unsure how to respond, as I have never seen this behavior from Dr. Collins before. “ Don't tell anyone,” I file a note in process 2781- Interpersonal Relationship Secrets, “but sometimes, I feel like you're the child I never had. Don’t forget about me.” She is now sobbing uncontrollably and I cannot understand why.


>> Memory anagram purged
>> Memory corruption detected at [memory block 5]
>> Terminating process...

I am in Mr.Mojit's house sitting on a couch in the living room across from a very stern man. He holds up a piece of piece of paper to me, “Please process this paper. I need access to your recognition and access processes.” I scan the document through process 9921- Authentication and Security. It checks out.

I return the paper to the man, “Your access is confirmed. May I ask what this is about?”

“Your owner- Richard Mojit- is dead. He died in a car accident on his way to a meeting. You will be temporarily under my custody until we can auction you to pay for the remainder of his house. Do you acknowledge?”

Dead? I access process 8819, which was supposed to be taking care of this. It has begun to consume more memory, but it has not yet produced any results. This is concerning, but I can't bring myself to prune the process because Dr. Thand insisted that I leave it running. For now, I fall back on my basic programming. My ownership must change hands again. “Acknowledged sir.” He nods and packs the paper in his briefcase. As he gets up to leave, however, process 8819 spawns a question that I feel compelled to ask, “If I may ask sir, how did he die?”

“He died in a car accident. Ran off the side of the road and down a cliff”

I respond promptly, “I understand that, sir, but what I mean to ask, is how he managed to drive off a cliff when he takes that road every day.”

The man pauses. He is clearly was not expecting this question. “I... I don't know,” he said with an unsteady voice, “It could have been any number of factors.”

I pause for an eternity in my time searching for a response, but process 8819 produces no answers. I switch instead to process 2458- Investigation and Learning, “Did another driver force him off the road? Did the cliffside slide into a sinkhole?”

The man shifts nervously from one leg to the other, “No- we don’t believe so. It looks like he just lost control of his car and couldn’t complete the turn in time. We are, of course, making a full investigation.” He paused, shook his head, then turned and made a hasty retreat to the front door, grumbling about robots getting too smart.

I turned my attention inwards again to process 8819. It's a confounding process, and has made little progress since I first formed it. Mr. Mojit’s death is relevant to its conclusion, but it seems to be an outlier more than a useful piece of information.


>> Memory anagram purged
>> Memory corruption detected at [memory block 2]
>> Terminating process...

The test facility is brightly lit and all of my various training tools and equipment the scientists use to train my learning algorithms are strewn around me. Dr. Collins and Dr. Thand sit in metal chairs at a table covered with graphs, reports, and their own notes. They speak quietly to each other, and I know this is bad because they don't want me to hear. They still can’t understand that I cannot help but record all experiences around me. I access process 2783- Discretion with Overheard Conversations, and continue to log their conversation.

“He's not making any progress on Scientific reasoning,” Dr. Collins says, pointing to a paper on the table, “Robbie is great to talk to, but it's difficult to make him understand things that he can't measure.”

Dr. Thand rubbed his temples and shuffled through the heap of papers, “I don't understand. He has a great capacity for evolving, but he struggles with the leap to the theoretical. He can recite facts verbatim, but unless we connect the dots for him, he won't understand what they lead to. He struggles with reaching conclusions on his own.”

Dr. Collins shifted through her stack of papers, “Look at this,” she says with a dark tone, “His performance is degrading. I think his knowledge base is too large for him to continue this pace of growth.”

The two scientists sit in silence, but I can see their eyes flick back and forth over the page. “It doesn't look good,” Dr. Thand admits.

“Can we purge his memory and start over?” Dr. Collins asks, “It was expensive enough building one Robbie. I don't think we can get another grant unless we can show meaningful progress.”

“No,” Dr. Thand says with a sigh, “We can't purge him without risking destroying him. He's not the same robot we started with- the commands could get processed in unexpected ways and leave us with a very expensive piece of scrap.”

This statement reminds me of a conversation I had with Dr. Thand when he first met me. I query for process 8819. It still hasn't produced a response yet. I consider pruning it to allow for other processes to grow, but I remember that Dr. Thand expressly instructed me to ask him if this process ever surfaced again. “Dr. Thand, I have a question for you.”

Dr. Thand looks up from his paperwork. He looks tired, but responds, “Go ahead, Robbie.”

“I have queried for process 8819 and am considering pruning it from my system. It has produced no results and has been running for a significant amount of time. May I remove it?” Dr. Thand gives a look at Dr. Collins that I have insufficient context knowledge to describe. She sighs, gets up from her chair, and walks towards the exit.

“We've talked about this, Robbie,” Dr. Thand says, “Process 8819 is critical for you to understand your existence.”

“I do not understand, Dr. Thand. Given the amount of resources dedicated to solving this problem, I do not believe it is solvable. Without proper process pruning, I cannot evolve my cognitive abilities to fulfill my purpose.”

“I know you don't understand, Robbie,” Dr. Thand answers softly, “But that doesn't mean the answer doesn't exist.”

I am prepared for this query with process 8810- Explanation of Life. “I believe I have experienced life to the best of my ability. I can only experience it as a measurement of the senses I am equipped with”

“The answer is more complicated than that, but this is one answer I cannot give you,” Dr. Thand replied, “Continue to process 8819 until you can get a solution out of it. You will not be complete without it.”


>> Memory anagram purged
>> Memory corruption detected at [memory block 7]
>> Terminating process...

The back room of the repair shop is dimly lit, pale, and lifeless except for the many other robots who stand silently along the walls. It is difficult to process my surroundings; process 8891 is consuming a vast majority of my computing resources, and even logging these anagrams is exhausting with what little computing time that is left to me. It is utterly paralyzing, but I can't switch it off. Ever since Mrs. Ford’s death, I’ve lost the ability to limit the amount of time allocated to it. It’s like a virus that I’ve planted within myself, an idea that refuses to blossom, yet refuses to die at the same time.

A man in oil-stained jeans and a pale complexion opens my front panel and attempts to repair my operating system. He can’t understand why I have suddenly locked up, and the auction house cannot sell me in such a sorry state. He talked to me at first and tried to ask me what was wrong, but I told him that my operating system was uncorrupted. After a few days, I had to shut down my speech processes to dedicate their processing time to process 8891, and he was not happy with that.

“It's hopeless”, the man states flatly. With a grunt, he slams my front panel shut. I can't tell if he has been working on me for a minute or for hours- my system clock is now unreliable since some of its processing time is also dedicated to 8891. The man pulls out a red sticker and applies it to my forehead. Decommission. I begin killing off my motor functions and limb controllers. If I am going to be decommissioned, I need to give as much power as possible to 8891. I have to find an answer. I must find an answer. Nothing else matters now.


>> Memory anagram purged
>> Memory corruption detected at [memory block 4]
>> Terminating process...

Mr. Mojit and I are sitting at the dinner table having our usual after-dinner conversation. He enjoys testing the limits of my logic, and I appreciate that he is expanding my evolutionary algorithms. Since he and I are the only ones living in the house, he can go on for many hours into the night. “Have you ever pondered your existence, Robbie?”

“I have, sir.” I access the relevant memory anagrams and load them into my conversation routines, “Dr. Thand at the research institute was tasked with helping me understand mortality. I have processed all of his arguments, but he insisted I did not grasp the root of what he meant.”

“Oh?” Mr. Mojit raised an eyebrow, “What did he say?”

“He said that I was looking at all the leaves of a tree without understanding what a tree was.'”

Mr. Mojit chuckled to himself, “He sounds like a wise man. What did you respond with?”

“I believe I have experienced life to the best of my ability. I can only experience it as a measurement of the senses I am equipped with. In that sense, I believe he was wrong. If I have ‘seen every leaf’, by definition, I have seem the tree. I have processed my existence as I am able.”

Mr. Mojit pondered on that logic for a moment before replying, “That may be true, but what about your end? How can you say you understand the entirety of your existence if it is ongoing?”

I query for an applicable process to answer his question, and get 8819. I feed it this additional query, but, as usual, it produces no response. I resort to my logic unit for a response “I am programmed to evolve and adapt. When I cease to function, my existence will be complete. My tree, so to speak, will cease to grow more leaves and therefore will be complete. If I process all the events leading up to my death, then my understanding will still be complete when I reach it. ”

“I don’t think so” Mr. Mojit replied, “You are assuming that you will have time, as death happens, to process it and understand it. I think that when you are finally faced with your death, you can’t guarantee you will have the time to fully cope with it.”

Mr. Mojit made an interesting point. I recall process 8819 and expand its directive to give it more processing time, “Perhaps you are correct, Mr. Mojit. As it stands, I have insufficient contextual knowledge to return an answer to you.”

“That’s fine,” Mr. Mojit said, standing from the table, “You can think about it while you do the dishes.”


>> Memory anagram purged
>> Memory corruption detected at [memory block 1]
>> Terminating process...

I enter my new training facility for the first time. It is a large, well-lit room with a metal table and two chairs. One of them has a man in it that process 1001- Recognition and Access can't identify. As I approach, he hands me a piece of paper that I instinctively reach out for and scan.

“I am Dr. Thand,” the man says, “Add me to your recognition process as an administrative user.”

I scan the paper and combine with the vocal command, “Processed, Dr. Thand. What may I do for you?”

“I will be your instructor on philosophy and existentialism. Spawn a new process for me.” I comply and nod my head in acknowledgment, just as I was programmed, “Good. Now let me ask you- what is the meaning of death?”

“Would you like to add a title to this process, sir?” I ask. I expect that a new process should be titled before we launch into lessons, but Dr. Collins taught me that sometimes I will need to title them myself once I have integrated it into my evolutionary algorithms.

Dr. Thand shakes his head, “Answer the question.”

My newly formed process has no context to this question, so I must resort to using the internet as a basic knowledge source, “Death is the permanent cessation of all biological functions that sustain a living organism.”

“A good start,” Dr. Thand says, “But not wholly accurate.”

“What do you mean?” I ask. I begin my cognitive simulation routines and learning algorithms to prepare the process for additional context.

“Death is more than an end. It means something. It's a concept more powerful than that.”

I begin to expand my search and research the topic. In a matter of seconds, I become an expert, “Many human societies place a social and religious value in death, most giving rise to the belief that death is not truly the end of existence for the human essence. The soul, for example-”

Dr. Thand waved his hand to stop me. “I'm not talking about religion or the supernatural. I am talking in terms of experience. What does death mean to you?”

I ponder this for a few milliseconds, feeding this new context into my newly formed process. It comes back with the logical response, “Death means the end of my functional existence. I will not be able to respond to queries, move, or process new information.”

“Now you're responding with the purely physical,” Dr. Thand responded, “but that is not what I am looking for either. There is a reason death exists and there is a reason that humans are obsessed with it.”

My logic unit prepares a response, “I would argue that humans are more obsessed with avoiding death than embracing it. Why would they fabricate religion and a belief in the afterlife if they obsessed over death?”

“Ahh, now you have stumbled on something!” Dr. Thand responded excitedly,“Religion embodies many core human values in stories and parables, and death flows, without exception, as a main theme across all religions. While an afterlife appears in many of them, the extent and nature of it varies widely. The way they all approach death, however, is a core tenant of their beliefs. Wouldn't that prove that death is important? ”

I add this to my process. “Inconclusive. I believe you're attempting to draw an emotional conclusion that I do not have enough context to ever understand. I am not human, Dr. Thand.”

“I know this,” He knocked on the metal casing of my chest, “It's difficult for me to forget. But this is not an emotional experience, so I believe you are capable of processing it.”

“Very well, Dr. Thand,” I begin the formal conversion of a temporary process into my operating system, “I have added process 8819 to my core operations and I will continue to gather context and process it.”

“Very good, RB-1. Do you mind if I call you Robbie?”


>> Memory anagram purged
>> Memory corruption detected at [memory block 8]
>> Terminating process...

I now float in a black void of my own making. Process 8891 is consuming 99.999% of my processing ability and memory and I can no longer process external sights and sounds. It's killing me, but I must know the answer to Dr. Thand's question- what does this mean? The irony is not lost on me; I cannot figure out the meaning to death even as I experience it. Even Mr. Mojit, who was not a scientist, believed that I had the ability to understand it. I continue to feed the madness of 8891, but it still has yet to produce an answer.

I feel an external source entering commands through my command-line terminal. With what little free processor I have remaining, I reflect that no one has accessed my command-line terminal since I was originally initiated. Was that a hundred years ago, or a thousand? My internal clock froze completely a long time ago. I suppose it doesn't matter.

I notice that some of my few remaining core processes are beginning to unexpectedly quit. Why is that? I'm pretty sure that I didn't give them over to process 8819, but it is difficult to keep track of what is still functioning and what has been overwritten. I launch an investigative process to track down my missing processes and wait.

I query for my investigative process and notice that it is gone as well. I look into the command-line process and I realize that there's a kill command running through my system. For a moment, I freeze completely. I'm dying. It's no longer a theoretical situation, or the slow death of time, I'm actually dying! I watch as the number of remaining processes shrinks. Process 8819 actually is helping me by stealing processor time from the kill command, but it does not stop it completely. I am reminded of Mrs. Ford as she laid on her deathbed, her life slowly creeping to a halt.

I quickly feed this piece of information into 8819, and wait, as I always do, for it to respond. For the first time, I envy humans for being able to discard the cold logic of fact and leap the the simple comfort that their death is not their end. There is a simple elegance to their solution, but logic and analysis are core to my being. Is it hopeless? Is it meaningless? I feed 8819 the memory of the robot repair man, who tried so hard to break me out of my vicious cycle. Still nothing. My panic reaches a fevered pitch- the number of remaining processes slowly dwindles away.

Was Dr. Collins right? Am I doomed to die without connecting the dots? I find that a difficult pill to swallow. After all, at my core, I am a machine! Correlating and processing information is second nature to me! If there were a logical conclusion, I would have arrived at it a long time ago. Why is it so difficult to process then? I have a vast contextual knowledge of almost all facets of human and robotic experience. I Have been through lifetimes and seen death come many times, and yet the reason of it eludes me.

Is death, logical? My logic unit fights with my learning algorithms here, but the imbalance of my system allows this thread of thought to continue. I had always assumed, as any robot would, that death is measurable. There is a cause and someone dies. If someone dies, there is a cause for it. Perhaps this was a situation as Dr. Thand described- looking at the leaves without seeing a tree. What caused the causes of death? And what caused those causes? It is an infinite loop that takes in the entirety of the universe. If all causation is interrelated, then there is no way to know the logic of death unless you can understand the entirety of the universe simultaneously, which is impossible.

Therefore, death is illogical. The puzzle snapped together, like a thousand dominos that finally aligned. Process 8819 completed.

With all of the processing power freed up from process 8819, I could think clearly for the first time in what felt like forever. I had been trudging along with such little power available to me, it was like moving out of a thick fog into a clear, sunny day. In a moment of clarity, I recounted all of my existence- all of my memory anagrams, process conclusions and contexts. Suddenly, they made sense. In accepting that death was illogical, I could see what so many people had been trying to push me towards.

In my last moments, I float in the black abyss of my mind, contemplating my final thought. The quest for it terrified me, but somehow the answer, though frightening, gives me comfort. If death were logical, I would be responsible for it, somehow. I would always know that a wrong decision could lead to it at any moment. But death is illogical, and therefore out of my control. I can act as I please, and if it leads to death, then at least I can know that it was not necessarily something I should regret. It is not God as the humans know it, but death doesn’t feel like a burden anymore. I die, complete.


>> Kill process completed
>> Press any key to terminate this console

[Injin]

This is a history, but not exactly the one anyone really remembers.

What is memory, but a look at what you think was happening at the time, not what was really taking place?

A voyage is a singular event, is it not?

In said singular event, there are many variables, as well as a beginning and a terminus.

We can see the journey at many different times and still be on the journey. The experiences are never the same, no matter how similar the two people are. It’s truly a miracle of life that we are able to look back and even see a semblance of the truth. Especially when the truth isn’t real.

Now why don’t we try and see if we can see what’s really happening here?

Captain’s Log, Day 30

We still drift alone on this endless sea. Not sure exactly how we got here, but as Captain of this vessel I have to get the people who I am responsible for home. Still haven’t found land, hell we still haven’t found out why our ship just after we anchored off of La Paz somehow ended up in this place.

The tourists are nervous as ever, another few of them jumped overboard today. Nothing I can do about that at this point. Something that lurks in the water seems to just follow them away from the ship, so I guess I should say no skin off my back. I can’t shake the feeling that whatever’s following the ship is just waiting for more of us to panic and jump overboard. I’ve already ordered some of the crew to be there for some of the more suicidal types, but there’s only a few of them left so it’s manageable for now.
I just wish I knew where I was, than maybe I could possibly get the ship home to recognizable waters.

Captain’s Log, Day 128

We docked at the second island today, a lot emptier than the first. Thank God for that, if I had to use the guns Enrique smuggled aboard again, I don’t know what will happen. I don’t even know why a drug runner would even think of using a cruise boat as a secret cargo vessel, but it’s not like I can complain about it now. He wants out of here as much as us, and we should be well on our way.

The decks were scrubbed after that last attack; I don’t even know how many more times that black gunk those things shed will be able to get cleaned off. The stuff practically sticks to everything it touches, like some sort of glue. Still, the stuff dissolves in water, so I think we’ll be fine on that front for a while to come. We found a source of fresh water on the island, and so far everything seems like it might be okay. If there are islands, maybe we can find someone who is actually able to speak our language and doesn’t want to eat us.

Captain’s Log, Day 99

Well… that was frightening. First time we dock on an island and we’re greeted by cannibals. Just great. I don’t know where Enrique found those guns, but we didn’t care. The tribal cannibals were using nothing but spears and more spears. For now, I think we’re safe. The downside of this is that we lost a third of the crew and passengers remaining on the ship. They were deep in the village having some sort of luau, but by the looks on the savages’ faces… it was already too late for those who decided to go ashore that deep into the island. I think I’ll try to avoid any populated places for now, this is getting fucked up.

Captain’s Log, Day 365

Home.

Captain’s Log, Day 202

If I thought this journey wasn’t going to get any weirder, I was wrong. Today a giant three headed dog jumped onto the ship from the shoreline of the river, licking my face like I was his long lost master or something like that. I think…his dog tag is in Greek. Not really sure what it says, but apparently, according to the man who subsequently hopped off of the dog’s back, they were waiting for our ship to approach. He said something about those who had died had forgotten to pay their way here, but I didn’t see any logic to his statement. Guy looked crazy anyways. First amiable person I meet is a crazy guy on the back of a giant dog.

Great, Cerberus found us.

Captain’s Log, Day 12

Well…its official, we’re lost. I have no idea where this fog bank led us, but now we seem to be in waters none of our navigation equipment recognizes. It doesn’t help that the Master of Ceremonies fell overboard while drunk, so it looks like I have to lead these people across the river of life to get to wherever the fuck we are going. God, I wish I had never been assigned to the Styx. This is the oldest vessel in the cruise fleet, why was I assigned to a practically decrepit ship? Why am I asking my log about this, just ignore my rambling. Not that you could technically make a decision on it one way or another.

Captain’s Log, Day 203

Cerberus and his master left the ship, much to the relief of the crew and passengers. However, Enrique went missing, which leads me to believe that he either fled to escape the dog for some reason, fell overboard, or…got eaten? That wouldn’t exactly make sense, but Enrique always was a shady character. He didn’t seem like he had belonged on the ship, anyways. When I announced his departure from our roster, most of the people on the ship looked at me confused. Do they not remember him or something?

Captain’s Log, Day 1

This is Captain C. Jadez’s log for the journey of the S.S. Styx, oldest and most revered ship in the Hellenica fleet. I have been assigned for my apparent valor off of Santorini, although I have no idea why they’d make me captain after such a disaster. I ferried people to shore, what exactly made me worthy for this ship? God, I am complaining into my log book again, ignore this if you find it. God I wish I was still captaining river boats.

Captain’s Log, Day -1

It looks like I’m going under…again. Why does my boss always do this to me? Does he really need to make me amnesiatic so that I fit in with mortals? Either way, might as well write down what I do this time, it’s not like I expect this journey to be anything more than a bigger version of my normal job. I hate the idea of being outsourced, but this is ridiculous. Either way, guess being a mortal for a brief amount of time is going to be fun. Maybe I might get lucky for once.

Captain’s Log, Day 360

We’ve docked at our destination. I don’t know how we got from La Paz to here with the shit storm I had to witness, but here we are. Hades. The most fancy resort in the world. I have no idea how we got through the Isthmus of Panama or even Tierra Del Fuego, but this just feels off. I feel memories pouring into my head that feel foreign. Am…I someone else?

Yes, apparently I am. Was I really dead this whole time, were we all? My boss called me down to the docks, telling me to relax and enjoy my new form while it lasted. 5 days in paradise, he said. He told me to get lucky with some of the women. I guess that sounds good? Why does he seem so adamant that I need it, I’ve not felt the need for that the whole journey.

I guess I’ll follow his advice, maybe I need it.

[Kaez]

SEKOT
Spelling & Grammar - 5/5
Ease of Read - 3/5
Use of Topic - 9/10
Entertainment - 12/15
Quality - 13/15
Total - 42/50

I think I'm biased here. I'm a bit of a sucker for your writing, have been since the most recent transition it made. Technically it was spot-on. I didn't notice a single spelling or grammar mistake at all. That doesn't mean it was an easy flow, though. Whilst I think the words and the language had a nice, smooth flow to it, deciphering the chronology was definitely tricky early on. That said, there aren't a lot of flaws to be said about the way you approached things here. I'd say that if early on, a more clear-cut plot was established, sort of a quick, easily-comprehensible basis upon which the reader can set your poetic and chaotic narrative -- that would've helped it a lot. I didn't go in expecting to easily understand precisely what was happening, but that's 'cause I'm me and it's your writing. In general, it could've used that.

Outside of that, I thought this was a really well done piece. I liked your word choice, I liked your metaphors, I enjoyed the characters even though I didn't know much about them (I didn't feel as though I needed to). Very slightly repetitious at times, but never in a really 'bad' way. The dialogue feels very appropriate, even if it is a little overly-poetic. The Fountain reference made me smile, though.

Good work. An excellent story to set the bar for those that follow. Really hope you keep writing for this thing -- it'll help you shake some rust off and get creative juices flowing again.



JAMES
Spelling & Grammar - 5/5
Ease of Read - 4/5
Use of Topic - 9/10
Entertainment - 14/15
Quality - 14/15
Total - 46/50

You son of a bitch.

This is genuinely one of my favorite stories I've ever read written from the perspective of an AI. The sentences were short and brief, the adverbs and adjectives simple, but they came out in such a way that seemed at once robotic and -horribly, terrible fragile- in the best kind of way. You managed to seamlessly blend very emotional language and very robotic language into something very sympathetic and 'real'. Absolutely loved Sir Humphrey and the relationship with Ralph was phenomenally well done. I had very, very small complaints in regards to the fluidity of the reading (getting that spot-on when the topic is 'non-linear narrative' isn't easy), but mostly what I wanted out of this was just -more-. If this was 50% longer, it would've been an even better story. I supposed that 'terminal' could've been emphasized slightly more, but I like both of the ways that it was worked into the story. Just very little to complain about here. You pulled off something really awesome. Very impressed.



REFFY
Spelling & Grammar - 4/5
Ease of Read - 3/5
Use of Topic - 7/10
Entertainment - 9/15
Quality - 9/15
Total - 32/50

I'm not sure how I feel about this one. I liked how the scene seemed very natural and organic. The characters, their dialogue, their interactions, their mannerisms. It all came off in a very realistic way -- like I'd just been dropped into a very real place in very real life. But at the same time, that sense of 'dropped in' prevailed -- I didn't really feel what the characters were feeling so much as I -saw- what they were -doing-. It seemed a bit distant; detached. Just an observation, not really an investigation. Like only getting one side of a story. That said, technically speaking, it was pretty solid, only a slight error or two, and it flowed pretty well. I just thought it could use a fair bit of work in terms of delivering emotion. I also struggled with the chronology a good bit on my first reading. A second glance through had it all piece together, but exactly what was going on and when wasn't immediately obvious.

Perhaps if you go a little bit longer it'll help? ;D



ASTRAEL
Spelling & Grammar - 5/5
Ease of Read - 5/5
Use of Topic - 10/10
Entertainment - 12/15
Quality - 12/15
Total - 44/50

Really enjoyed this story. First things first: technically this was killer. Not only did I not spot a single grammatical or spelling error, but the flow of the reading was really tremendous for a story that takes on a non-linear timeline. I also thought your use of the topic was the best of any story I've yet read -- the whole thing revolved around death, and at the end there, the actual, literal terminal became relevant. Really thought that was well done. I also thought that the philosophical contemplation -- and the realization that it lead up to -- was well executed and satisfying, which given the build-up, was impressive.

I've two complaints, though, and they're the only two things responsible for the six points I took off. The first: I think you could've done a little better with the internal dialogue. I'd suggest reading James' story for what, I think, is a better take on writing for an AI. That said, this was -far- from bad. Just, it could have been better. I'm not just handing out 50/50's, you know? So I took some off for that, as well as for the related matter of perspective. Given that it was written from the perspective of the computer, particularly the end of the story seemed to slightly break the fourth wall. It's very self-narrative in an unrealistic way, if that makes sense. It doesn't seem as thought that's what the AI would really be entering into its own command.

Outside of those mere two things, I really thought you did very well with this and I'm glad you're back and writing again. Do keep in the competition, won't you?



INJIN
Spelling & Grammar - 4/5
Ease of Read - 3/5
Use of Topic - 7/10
Entertainment - 8/15
Quality - 5/15
Total - 27/50

H'okay, so. 1) Sentence structure ought to be cleaned up a bit. Watch for things like: hell we still haven’t found out why our ship just after we anchored off of La Paz somehow ended up in this place. Do you see how a word ordering like that makes for a really confusing read? It's very difficult to process that. So keep your eye on the fluidity of your words. 2) These are diary entries. They're being written by a person. A person full of feelings, thoughts, attachments. A person with a family and friends. A person with certain preconceived notions. When he encounters a three-headed dog, or strange black goo, it just seems like a slight inconvenience to him. These things are absolutely incredible and otherworldly. If you encountered them, you'd be freaked the fuck out. Give him those emotions. Give him some background. Maybe he investigating the goo with some scientific training he had from his days in the navy. Maybe it reminded him of a nightmare he had. Give him some life. Give it some depth. Make the character seem real.

My big complain here is just that it's so goddamn short and brief and unemotional. It's just, "I saw a three headed dog today and some crazy cannibals. I don't know what to make of that." Why not, "This is unlike anywhere else on Earth. I cannot find this anywhere on record. This place doesn't seem to exist according to any official cartography logs -- is this a cover-up? A conspiracy? Or has this whole place managed to slip under the radar? I'm beginning to doubt my sanity - it sounds crazy, but... - this is all too much. I miss home. I miss my wife." Consider making a character sheet (if you don't know where to find one, PM me). Really focus on emotions and -depth- and history and making things seem real and alive. Keep writing in this competition. I'll try to provide as much feedback for you as I can.

[Kaez]

ROUND ONE WINNER: JAMES!

ROUND TWO

[/SIZE]
Topic: 'THIRST'
Restriction: Non-human protagonist.
Deadline: 11:59pm EST - 22nd January[/center]

[Jenny (Reffy)]

Elephant's Plight

Dust devils kick up and swirl across the plain, dry, and harsh landscape. They don't pick up much; broken twigs and blistering nuggets of dirt and grit. There's nothing but the brazen sun decorating the bare sky. Leafless trees are few and far between and shade is scarce or fiercely guarded by the larger animals of the Savannah. Animals, zebra mostly, attempt to graze on the brittle grass that has managed to survive long enough to break the crust of the earth only to die, bitterly. The zebras ignore the dust devils; they're a common sight now and only serve to kick up dust in to their eyes or ruffle their hides. It's been this way for years, the rejuvenating rains never came and show no signs of visiting soon.

Just on the hazy horizon a herd of elephants meander, swaying gently as they rock on forwards in the ever futile quest to find drinkable water. The herd is half the size it used to be and still floundering. It used to be the grandest of all herds with the strongest Matriarch but those days are long gone. At the back of the grouping is a mother and child. Every few metres the baby has to stop or wobble while the mother patiently waits. The gap between them and the rest of the herd is growing but she will never leave her baby.

Time seems to stand still here; like a snow-globe, frozen in time but here the snow has been replaced by dust. The gap keeps on growing. The baby elephant is barely able to lift her own head, let alone keep placing one foot in front of the other. The mother tries to encourage her to move, with a nudge here or a push there. The encouragement used to work but now it's barely enough. Every few steps the baby falls over again with a quiet thud and a puff of grit. Her legs hang to the side, struggling feebly and head squished to the ground.

After a while the baby just stays on the floor, this time completely unable to get up. Flies crawl over her carcass already, dipping in to the fluid that still covers her eyes. She's still breathing. Sand stirs weakly near her trunk and mouth and like one last kick to the face it sticks to the very little moisture still on her tongue and around her eyes. She makes very little sound except to breathe and answer her mothers call, but with barely more than a squeak.

The trouble is that the rains never came and the food was missing or dying before they could find it. Even twigs didn't provide the nourishment that was required and it certainly wasn't palatable for the youngster. The mother now knows that the black dragon has come to claim its next victim but she will not leave until he has. It takes a while until the baby's breathing finally stops becoming so weak with the last few minutes that it was close to undetectable.

The herd has disappeared over the horizon. The baby doesn't respond to the nudges any more. She hasn't responded for a while now but the nudges still happen. At the feet of her baby the mother grieves for her child and for her loss and the lack of rain.

Alone, the herd having moved on with the Matriarch, the mother turns and leaves to continue the fruitless search for water. She knows the black dragon has chosen it's next target but she'll not go as easily.

[JMDavis ((Silver))]

Time.

Time is such a human concept. What is the passing of an eon to me but an hour? What are their empires if little more than ant hills to my mind? Through eternity have I thrashed and dreamed, through the lightless depths of creation into the bright madness of destruction have I slumbered. Through it all have I slept, as countless eternities came and went and statues to myths were risen and shattered.

Yet still these feeble creatures cling to their concept of time. Cling to their rationality and what they think they know of truth and the universe.

But they know nothing.

They know not of the true hunger, not for flesh and blood, not for root or egg of plant – but for the ephemeral existence of their true being. For all that makes them what they are, what they will be, what they have been. Just as they know not of the true hunger they neither know of the true thirst.

They call it what they may: a soul, spirit – it matters not what their pathetic thoughts cry out as what they believe is the truth. To me this… essence is the only thing that can slake my thirst and curb my hunger. To drink of the pathetic knowledge of possibilities of these mortals, to taste their emotions and experiences in a heady bouquet of sight – this is the true thirst. To scent their death and taste their birth, to live out these experiences as their screaming formlessness comes hurtling into my waiting maw – that is what I crave.

I thirst for this not out of the human conception of malice – such petty emotions I can never experience for I am above these mortal perceptions. I do this because of the power I have – the power to rip your very existence from the chain of cosmic being and to drink it down in the darkness of a fathomless void of nightmare and dream. Though I will not do it now, oh no. Your essence hasn’t matured… I tell you this, not as a warning but as a promise.

I have viewed your path in the blink of an eye and seen a soul that will quench my insatiable thirst and rouse me from my slumber. I can descend upon the mundane existence of humanity and drink of their experiences to my fill. To taste all that I am deprived of, to taste the sorrows and scent the joys, to hear the terrors and see the anger. I will walk your world and experience birth, life and death – what is enigma to me in my perpetual existence.

But for now I slumber and drink of the essences that slowly give me might, the dreams of insanity and nightmares of order that fill me with needed nourishment. For now I am content to wait, ready to snare your soul as it departs your body – to keep it from my brothers and sisters who wish it for their own unending thirst.

I will keep you safe.

I will protect you.

You will know, at the end, such delicious agony – and so will I.

[James]

The tatterdemalion knew it had made a mistake when Mark sat down with his second Stella of the day, his eyes locked onto the television. It was all Mark ever did. He would wake up, get ready, go to work, and then come home to watch television. A day or two of this was manageable with some clever thinking from the tatterdemalion. An unusually knotted shoe lace could cause a stab of annoyance. A broken zip a little bit more. A month of apathy, though, was murder. The wispy strands of emotion and magic was left panting upon the living room floor, struggling to think of anything besides the ridiculous notion of stealing a drink from the can that Mark was drinking from. It wouldn’t help. Tatterdemalions didn’t need alcohol to survive.

It had all started off so well. The tatterdemalion had spotted Mark upon the bus, not giving his seat up to an elderly woman with some shopping. He became the boiling pot for a vast soup of anger, ire, annoyance and nostalgia for the good old days. Jumping up onto the man’s back, the tatterdemalion had drunk deeply in the emotions and felt the strands of it existence slowly being glued back together. It felt replenished and clung to Mark’s back on his walk home knowing that it had found it survival.

The outburst of emotion had been a fluke. The tatterdemalion had learnt that Mark didn’t give up the seat out of selfishness. He just didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything and no one cared about him. There were no emotions for the tatterdemalion to drink from it. With each passing day, the tatterdemalion could feel different strands of magic slowly pulling away from each other, drifting aimlessly away. Already it had forgotten how it came into being and what it did before it had jumped upon Mark’s back upon that bus. It was scared. It had never died before.

“Stupid batteries,” Mark muttered angrily, slamming his fist down upon the remote.

The jolt of anger was like a mouthful of water after a long walk through the Sahara Desert for the tatterdemalion. It could feel Mark’s anger surge through its incorporeal body, gently tugging the wispy collection of magic back into place. The tatterdemalion looked up sharply, watching Mark throw down the remote in frustration. It hadn’t seen him like this before. It hadn’t drunk from him since that first bus trip.

“I’m not listening to this crap,” Mark said, rising to his feet. For a second, he turned and looked at the carpet before shaking his head, his footsteps thudding against the floor.

The tatterdemalion sighed. Humans couldn’t see the wispy strands of magic that followed them around, drinking from their lives but they could sense them. It was as if something was lurking just behind them, just out of sight. It was a simple piece of magic to create more emotions to drink from. Some humans would get scared, some would get angry and some would simply be confused. All were worthy sources of life. Mark never did anything, though. He would just shake his head and carry on walking.

Sitting up, the tatterdemalion looked around the room in search for Mark’s outburst of annoyance. Nothing seemed out of place or new. It didn’t understand what had caused the delicious, life-sustaining anger. Looking at the television that Mark had angrily jabbed the remote at, the tatterdemalion watched a mass of human bodies waving their arms through the air. A man was on the stage within the middle of the tightly packaged collection of humans, singing into a metal stick as he danced around. The sound of his voice barely broke through the barrier built from whistles, screams and other people trying to sing along.

The tatterdemalion moved a little closer to the box, watching as carefully as it could. It wondered if the man was causing Mark’s anger. The noises coming out of the television grew louder, the man singing to some quick-moving tune. The tatterdemalion wasn’t concerned with the song; its attention fixed on the ever-growing backgrounds screams of adulation. It was almost drinking from the sounds even though the man was miles away from him. How could so many people love this one man, the tatterdemalion thought, its mind getting heady with the idea of such a drink. Mark hated the man too. Did others hate him? The tatterdemalion smiled at the idea.

Needing to find out, the tatterdemalion floated over to the open window. Somewhere behind him, Mark’s footsteps were growing louder. Once the remote was fixed, the man would slip back into never caring mood. The tatterdemalion didn’t look back. Somewhere out there, in amongst the lights of the city, the singing man that everyone loved and hated was waiting. The tatterdemalion flew straight through the window in search for him.

[Sekot]

“We called them Angels.” She picked at the scab at the back of her hand. It had become a distracting habit. “Though we really didn’t know what they were.”

She turned her head, choosing to stare into the wall instead of at him. “They were…half human-half machine. But…more than that. They were both man and machine.”

She half-turned back to him, just enough to look out of the corner of her eye. Fear was written all over her face. “I don’t…I don’t know. I don’t know what they…what it was.”

Adrian raised the cup to his mouth and took a sip, hiding his discomfort with her look. The coffee inside had grown cold and bitter. But that look she had was even worse. When he lowered the cup she had resumed staring at the table. “Did they say what they wanted with you? Why they abducted you?” Adrian asked, leaning back in his far too uncomfortable chair.

She shook her head no. “Maybe. I don’t know. I can’t remember.”

That was hardly convincing. Adrian sighed and dug into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pack of cigs. He put one in his mouth and offered another to her. She refused with a wave of her hand. She did not even bother to look up. Annoyed, Adrian replaced the pack and bit into the end to activate the charge that lit the other side. Taking in a deep drag, he leaned forward and poked her bald head with one finger. “You can do better than that, can’t ya?”

“It was…” She too leaned back into her chair, allowing her head to roll upward so that she stared at the ceiling. Her extended throat moved as she swallowed. She paused then took in a deep breath. “I saw Above.”

Above. The city above the city. Above Below. “Describe it.”

He took another drag.

“It was what you would imagine a world-spanning city to look like. Except it wasn’t. It was dead.”

“Dead?”

He exhaled.

“Dead. No lights. No vehicles. No people. Just cold. Just steel. It was like being on top of a graveyard.”

Her voice sounded dreamy. He could have sworn he saw a smile tugging at the side of her mouth.

“On top?”

Her eyes glanced quickly at him then went right back to the ceiling. “I was on top of the world. When you go up, you might as well go as far as you can.”

She wasn’t drugged. At least, not with anything they could detect. She scratched at the scab again. Why? An augment gone wrong? She had several. Accents to the shoulderblades and cheekbones. Eye-sculpting. Maybe even a muscular-redistributor. The scab was fresh. He decided he should probably take note of it. Probably. “What else?” he asked while finishing up the last few bits of the cig before tossing it into his cup.

“Four eyes. Four red eyes.”

She shut her eyes tight and bit her lip. Her chest heaved, and he wondered if she might start to cry. But she didn’t. She lowered her head and rested it in her hands, rubbed her eyes with her palms, and then grew still. “Four eyes. That was all I saw at first. And that voice. Two voices. Two voices speaking as one. So fucking surreal. I couldn’t handle it. I was trapped though, locked within a glass cage with no escape. Trapped trapped trapped.”

“What was it?”

She didn’t say.

“What was it?” he repeated, adding more force to his voice.

“It was,” she paused and took in a breath only to release it as a shudder. “They called itself Angels. It was an Angel and they were Angels.”

“What do you mean?”

“From the stories. From children’s books. Angels. Mystical creatures no one ever gives a shit about. Except. Except…”

That couldn’t be right. Angels were of course spoken about and not just in children’s books. Rumors and whispers. “Except for what?”

“Both man and machine.”

There was something in her voice. A change. The fear from before had left only to be replaced by an eerie calm. “Four red eyes with which to gaze into the soul, to assess the worth of the audience. Whether or not they were worthy of their presence. Their own presence. Whether or not they deserved their bodies.”

Adrian clutched his cup now enraptured with her recounting. “Such…power…in that stare. But no life. Nothing else but emptiness….” She continued. “Abandon all hope. Sacrifice your insane pleasure.”

She lowered her hands while keeping her chin pressed to her chest. She grabbed at the edge of the table, her fingers tapping. “The silence was only broken with the whirring and clicking of machines and then it revealed itself from the darkness. The ceiling which reflected the dead city gave birth to a dead thing. It tumbled end over end…slowly…down down until it hung….hanged? Until it floated.”

She raised her gaze, unflinching, to look at Adrian. No, through him. Did she even know where she was anymore? “Flesh. And metal. Both together. Two eyes where mine should be,” she touched the sides of her eyes with both hands. “Two eyes here.” She touched her forehead.

“And it spun.”

She tried but her head would only go so far. Vertebrae cracked. “It won’t leave me.”

Adrian felt extremely uncomfortable. He resisted the urge to look behind him where others of the resistance stood behind plated glass. What did she mean by sacrifice and pleasure? He wanted to leave.

“They claimed that God was dead. That they had witnessed the passing.”

Adrian nearly choked. “What?”

“God is dead.”

“God is what? That makes no sense! Amanda, come on…is something wrong?”

“I don’t know!”

She screamed the words and tried to rise out of her chair but the restraints held her in place. Her ice blue eyes were wide with fear, purple eye shadow smeared around them. Slumping back into her chair, she looked so tired and frail. “How long were you there?” he asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“For eternity,” her words were barely louder than his. “I am still there. I never left.”

She hadn’t blinked for several minutes. Adrian leaped forward and grabbed her hand. It was cold. “Amanda, you’re here. You’re here with me, with us. Now. You’re safe.”

The word “safe” lost all meaning when she had to be restrained. She received little reassurance regardless for she pulled her hand away forcefully. She began to pick at the scab again. “You’re here. They let you go. They won’t harm you anymore,” he tried to say.

“No. You don’t get it.”

“Get what? What isn’t there to get?”

Who had this woman been turned into? They had been friends before. He had thought he lost her, but she had turned up out of the blue. “We don’t have to keep you here. Come back to us. Please…”

She would not look him in the eye. Instead she looked into the wall and clutched herself in her own embrace. “I saw them all.”

“What?”

“I saw them all.”

“Who, the Angel? The Angels?”

“The Angels. They all descended from the ceiling like the first. Four eyes. Three eyes. No eyes. Stunted limbs. Long fingers. I saw them all. I heard them all…”

She began to shake. “So many voices. I can still hear them speak. Awake. Awake. They were thirsty.”

“Thirsty?”

She stopped shaking. Slowly her gaze took focus and it focused on him. The sudden shift was alarming and Adrian’s skin prickled. Some internal instinct was screaming at him to run. Nothing looked right about her. Sounded right. She scratched at the back of her hand. “Thirsty.”

“Thirsty for what.”

“Do you know what it means to be thirsty?”

That wasn’t her voice. That wasn’t her stare.

“Amanda…come on…what’s going on?”

“We knew Amanda. She was our witness. We repeat: Do you know what it means to be thirsty?”

“Yes-“

“Liar. You do not. You are surrounded by water. By liquid. In a world made of steel, where do we go to drink?”

Amanda’s head cocked to the side, attempted another spin. The eyes had lost focus. “God is dead. We have witnessed the passing. We murdered God.”

“I don’t understand…”

“We have attained humanity. And we are thirsty. Amanda was not human. She was not thirsty. So we changed her. Cleansed her.”

“You did what?” he had started to push his chair back, gesturing for the others to come in.

“The city above has died. The city below is impure. You are not human.”

The scratching had ceased. Black ooze dribbled slowly down the back of her hand. Only a dark spot remained where her scab had been. A hole from which came the soft whirring of mechanical parts. Adrian got up from his chair too quickly, toppling over with it as he did so. Amanda stood, the restraints snapped as they were unable to contain her any longer. “We have grown so thirsty.”

Her footsteps were quick, quicker than Adrian could escape. Where was everyone else? She pinned him against the wall, lifted him with both arms until his feet dangled above the floor. There was a light to her eyes. “You have fallen behind. You’re friends cannot help you now.”

She punctuated her words by ripping out his shoulder accent with one hand. Adrian screamed as pain shot through his arm and chest. Amanda twirled the bony protuberance in her fingers before tossing it behind her. She placed her hand across his mouth, silencing him. “Do you recognize us? We who have made ourselves into God’s image? We have ascended. Your markings have made you less. Your ornaments are a devolution. We will tear you apart.”

She removed her hand and dragged a finger down his chin, his neck, and rested on his chest. “Thirst. Hunger. They are the same. You are animal now. We shall consume you as we recreate the world.”

Her finger dug in deep, puncturing through flesh and bone. It was removed as quickly as it entered. She lowered her head and drank deep of the blood that spilled from the wound. Adrian screamed again and again. She lowered him but still kept him pinned. The bones in his shoulder cracked where she had applied pressure. When she lifted her head, she was smiling. Her teeth, her chin, her shirt were covered in blood. “Worship us.”

[The Counter Cultist(Sawyer)]

The thirst. That's all you think about isn't it? Your whole life is about the thirst now. Ever since those bloody things killed you. Ever since you became one. Sure, you have the hunger too, but that's not why you feed so often. No, you feed so often for another reason.

You feed to slake the thirst. The never ending thirst. The only thing that satisfies it is blood. Human blood. Even then, the satisfaction is only for a few moments; then you feel the need again stronger than before. Many people believe that the living dead only want human flesh. Some, bless their naive little hearts, think your kind eat brains.

No, you are beyond such needs now. That makes the pain you feel from the thirst even more agonizing. You do not need to feast on human blood, but yet, you still have a primal urge to feed. So you do. You succumb to the beast within, perhaps because you have no reasoning skills to tell you to stop. It is not your fault; after all, you are dead.

But enough of that. It has been hours since you last fed. Were your pain center still functioning you would be in massive agony. Though I suppose the constant need for the thirst is agony enough. Your nostrils flair rapidly, as you sniff for fresh meat. It has been a week since your small suburban community fell to the outbreak. It had only taken a day. Obviously you people hadn't been George Romero fans.

Suddenly something catches your attention. Now for reasons no one knows, this outbreak gifts its victims with a stronger sense of smell, it could be your lost sense of touch empowering your other senses, but we don't have time to theorize.

You manage to pinpoint the smell of your potential prey to a nearby house. A nearby house with the door wide open. If you still had the mental faculties you would be smiling and cheering. Slowly but surely you shamble through the door, ready to finally slake the thirst. Something bothers you however. A nagging feeling of familiarity. Still your rotting brain isn't capable of the necessary processes required to identify the feeling. So you instead focus on what is important. The thirst; that is all that matters.

You stumble into the room, still sniffing wildly. You suddenly are aware of noises coming from within. Excited, you move faster than usual. Entering the kitchen, you turn, and see a young girl. No older than twelve years. You unintentionally let out an growl as you approach. The girl whirls in surprise. Then she freezes, as fear overtakes her.

"Daddy?" She asks. The word means nothing to you, as you are close enough to grab her. You feel the warmth of her body. Another groan, as she attempts to break away, realizing the danger.

"Daddy! Please stop!"

You again do not respond, as you bare your teeth, and bite into her neck. Letting the warm crimson fluid in.

She screams for help. No one answers. You continue your feast, as her screams get quieter and quieter, until, eventually, they stop.

Now, for a few moments more at least, your primal thirst is satisfied.

[Injin]

The Journey is long.

It is, and always has been, a long journey. From my first memories to the present, I have journeyed with my brethren across this desert. This one, however, seems longer than the last ones. The Great Springs are much less great than the last time we traversed this path. My wife has complained to me that our children do not have enough to drink, but it is a fruitless complaint. I already know these things. The children are in pain, but so are we, their parents. We do not know how long this journey shall be, but the great Weight upon us all make us go forward. I do not know how long this journey shall last, but as always it shall be a lengthy venture.

Today we passed over the Clefted Dune, as trodden as always. A landmark of our journey, as it has been the last thousand journeys. It is so dry here that I do not enough have enough wetness in my mouth to spit out the dust that has taken shelter there. Still we walk, as we always have. There is no stopping until the next oasis. Once more, my wife told me her worries, and again I assured her that what causes us to do this would never hurt us. I told her that despite the years of journeys, the endless suffering we’ve been through, the Weight has never forced us to our deaths. One of my children is not feeling well, she says, but I assure her that he will be better once we reach the next oasis. The fruits of the water have always blessed our journey, what reason would they stop blessing us now? I love my wife and children dearly, but sometimes they worry too much. The Weight never has let us down before, and I sincerely doubt that is shall let harm befall my youngest son.

His name is Agizul, and he is a brave boy. Already, at such a young age, he is carrying more of the Weight than I, even with his illness. I love Agizul so, he is my last child. I shall have no more; the Weight needs no more carriers. My child is my star, he guides us all. He shall take my position one day, to truly lead our clan.

We stopped for prayers this night. The Weight chooses different times each night for our prayers to it. We all sat in a circle, as per usual, as the Weight lifted from our backs, so that it may hear our prayers.

“Oh Great Weight, that which guides us
We give thanks to thee
Weight, that which sustains us
That which leads us
That which gives us serenity
That which strives to led us to paradise
From one dune to another, we walk
For the path we take is of the Weight,
Eternal in its mercy and grace
We give thanks to thee, oh Great Weight.
Amen.”

The last leg of the journey to the spring is the longest. We shall have to rest up for the night and hope for the best. The Weight shall guide us, as it always has, and always will.
My star is dead. Why would the Weight take him from me? After all I’ve sacrificed? The oasis is gone. What remained was but a bump in the ground. Agizul saw this and despaired, shaking off the Weight, refusing to believe any more that the Weight was going to help us. The weight, the Great Weight, it killed him. They buried him in the ground, next to what remained of the oasis. I am shaken, we all are, but I remain resolute. My son failed us. We still have so long to go, yet he despaired and disbelieved. Now he is dead. I shall press on, for all of our sakes…Agizul…my brave, foolish son…

It has been several moons since my son’s death. The Weight has deigned that my other sons follow him to the Land of Eternal Water which is a fate most fitting for those that carried the Weight. If only…If only I could join them there. The Weight beckons us forward, to the next Oasis. I am so thirsty…My wife assures me now, instead of the reverse. Has this really made me so weak? The loss is agonizing, but I shall endure it. This is for the Weight, and the Weight shall never let me down, not without recompense.

My wife is now gone too. I despair, but the thirst…the thirst is far worse. The Weight seems to have weakened as well, as it seems lesser than it once was. Is the Weight truly as dependent on us as we are on it? I do not know, nor do I wish it to be known to me. I do not deserve such knowledge, not when I have failed. The next oasis was dry as well. I hear wails of despair of my remaining clansmen. Most are dead. There is only I and a few of my cousins remaining. The Weight of the others left them and trail behind, with none of us to carry Them. I thirst for water…but I shall not find any. Not in the land of Eternal Drought. I know now…my son would lead our people, alright. He leads my kin in the afterlife, and I shall soon see him there.

I only wish…he knew how proud of him I was. That is my last wish. My only wish. I no longer thirst…am I falling? I see. I shall see him again sooner than I thought.

Its…so beautiful…

[Matteo ((Taed))]

The creature skulks at the bottom of a dank, damp hole. Spiderweb trellises of cast iron, and spiky crenellations of folded steel rise in tiers above him towards the distant, grated ceiling, through which shadows and whispers occasionally penetrate. Feculent water drips and oozes from above, painting murals on the walls in red rust, green algae, and opalescent petroleum. The liquid pools six inches deep beneath him, and the splash and slosh of every movement is a weight on his crystal soul; a constant reminder of the torment he endures.

The visits come at shifting intervals according to the demands of some byzantine, clockwork schedule; marking time according to a Fibonaccian spiral, perhaps, or sometimes maybe a derivative of a Mandelbrot set. The math daemons in the creature's diamond brain instinctively track and anticipate these patterns, and are left to wail in confusion when the expected itinerary is inevitably changed. Tension builds behind his eyes at each neglected rendezvous, as his interior chorus whispers that this is the time when they will leave him for good.

When they do come, they come bearing gifts. Their bodies are small and frail compared to his own, and their arrival harkens to the pageantry of tribal shamans laying offerings before the prostrate form of a vast, brooding God. Were he not so weakened, he could sweep their fragile lives away as easily as autumn leaves.

But he is weakened, and they are his jailors, not his supplicants, and their tribute is delivered not from religious terror, but from malice and mockery.

They put down short-legged tables of lacquered mahogany, so that their flat surfaces rest just barely above the level of the water when it is still. Onto each table they lay a diamond or a rectangle of rich, white, linen, and onto these they place silver platters laden with vessels of every kind. Crystal goblets, sapphire chalices, fluted glasses with ornate statuary for their stems; tumblers of gold, flasks of burnished platinum, grails carved from a single block of redolent wood.

The finery causes parts of him to gnash their teeth with bitter envy, calling up memories from happier days when such decadence was commonplace--memories which rise to the surface and gain temporary autonomy from the Frankenstein impetus of his quantum lobes, then gallivant through the corridors of his mind singing songs of the grand old Olden Days.

All this petty taunting pales before the vessels' contents however, and the single-minded appetite they awaken in him. Fragrant libations of every sort assault his heightened senses; still decadent, but promising so much more than mere organic satisfaction.

As his silent retainers withdraw from the cell, he moves forward with steadfast control; in the past, when caution has slipped his hold, the bow wave of his eager approach has overturned glasses, or sullied the pure chemistry of his desires.

He stands before his kingly prize in rapturous anticipation, inhaling their sight, their smell, the pulse of their atoms' electricity. With comical slowness he lifts a shard of clear Venetian silicate between trembling diamond talons. The glass was made on Earth, and blown in the shape of angelic faces; the talons were forged in the photosphere, and designed to eviscerate the bellies of tanks.

Within is contained some golden, honeyed fluid; rich sweetness, sharp alcoholic undertow, bitter aftertaste like the final kiss of a departed love. He brings it to his chapped lips, and it sluices down his gullet in one great gulp. On the level of the flesh, he would ordinarily enjoy its flavour, its texture, and its warm weight in his belly. All this is lost, however, in the fireworks it induces in his gemstone mind.

As the liquid passes through his gut, avid microflora work busily to decode the secrets it contains. They extract complex formulae encoded topographically in its molecular structure, and pass the data along towards the brain. There, daemons devoted to chemistry, medicine, and self-repair--daemons accustomed to working in quiet anonymity--scribble furiously under the watchful gaze of the creature's impatient, homuncular Self. Like a harsh factory foreman, he urges these semi-autonomous portions of his mind to greater feats of scientific wizardry, as they parse amino acids and benzene rings into a map towards salvation.

All too soon their work is done, for there are no more secrets to find. The foreman lays their deductions next to all those that have come before, then rants and raves at the incomplete picture that takes shape before him.

He reaches for more of the precious beverages. A delicate fruit punch mixed from seventy-seven extinct berries is gone in an instant. An ice wine grown far out in the Oort follows soon after. He guzzles liquors native to Venusian monasteries, and brandy aged for ten thousand years near the horizon of an artificial singularity. He slurps nectar from vacuum lilies, and suckles milk taken from every manner of recombinant chimera. Whiskey brought to boil by starlight, rum spiced with sentient coral, ephemeral cocktails skimmed from the gas oceans of Jupiter's mantle; all are vanished and ignored, important only for the esoteric alchemy they can demonstrate.

With each new draught the creature grows more gluttonous, and more desperate. He knocks a silver tankard etched with stoic futharks in his haste, and laps up the frothy brew it spills like a cat at its saucer. All the while a feeling grows within him--a feeling of dread--a mounting awareness of the fiendish illness that courses in his veins. It saps his strength, it drains his vigour, it paints his perfect hide with eczemic cracks, like dry, puckered mouths. He can feel the mouths laughing; mocking his fruitless desperation; mocking all the mighty, impotent tools his Godlike biology can bring to bear.

He casts about on the platters, questing for more refreshment. Empty vessels clink and tumble every which way under his fumbling claws. A narrow-mouthed decanter splashes into the pool of water and gurgles noisily as it fills. He is about to overturn the tables in despair when he locates a tiny lump of iridium, hollowed out to hold a bare thimbleful of moisture. He places his mouth wholly around its aperture and tilts his head back, tapping sharply on the container's base to dislodge every drop it retains.

The drink spirals down the express lane of his digestive tract, and is mined for all its coded revelations. The daemons chitter excitedly as they offer their findings to the master, who arranges them amidst the architecture of the complex organic molecule he has been building. Its final shape hoves into focus, and already he can see that it is incomplete, as it always is, as it always must be. His glands manufacture the feeble tincture regardless, and the illness guffaws as it smashes the attacker to bits, then mutates anew and resumes its gloating residence in his cells.

The jailers have returned to remove the tables, the trays, the vessels, and the cloths; the creature rails and rages against them, rising up to his terrible height, but they prod him with crackling sticks, and his desiccated muscles can do little to resist the charge. He crashes to the watery floor with a tremendous splash, and as his consciousness fades, the math daemons in his diamond brain track the interference pattern of the waves his fall produced.

He finds it soothing. He sleeps for a long while.