SITE-01
Overseer Conference Room
The monitor flickers on, the only source of illumination in the dark Conference Hall:
PLEASE INPUT NAME OF SUPRANARRATIVE ENTITY
Machen2
>>> accepted
TheDarkArtist
>>> accepted
Franz takes a deep breath.
His heart is thrumming in his ears; he has trouble thinking properly, his lungs feel as though they are being compressed to the size of straws, and his head feels like it's being torn apart because of the pain. He tries focusing all his attention on the program, the text in front of him. It's hard not to feel nervous, though.
He knows the entirety of the Foundation's security is moments from leaping onto him. From the corner of his eye, he can see the torn wires near the wall. He has disabled part of the measures, but that won't keep them away for long. But he doesn't need long.
He pauses, his hand on the mouse, the cursor hovering over the big red 'PLAY' button. The choice feels harder to make than before. He knows not the consequences of what he is going to do. He does not know whether this will even work. Would it matter? Would he be playing right into their hands? Were they making him do this? His head throbs with a million other questions, and a million other conflicting emotions, but he shakes away the haze they present.
No. It doesn't matter.
He couldn't bear it anymore. He couldn't bear feeling like every movement of his, every word from his mouth was not his own, but the will of some cosmic deity. Everything is meaningless, isn't it? Nothing he did matters. Nothing that happened matters. Nothing matters, not anymore.
I have to end this.
FOUNDATION: ARTISSCHEN
He feels drawn to the monitor; as though being pulled, a moth to a flame. He knows that he can't stop now, even if he wanted to. He clicks on the button.
And his vision bursts apart into brilliant white light.
The first thing that hits him is the smell: a sweet fragrance, soft, with the barest hint of nectar, wafting into his nose. The smell of many flowers. When he opens his eyes, he is not in the Conference hall anymore. Instead, he is in another place, one that he knows far too well.
Oh god.
He stands on a field. The ground feels soft beneath his feet, too soft. He can imagine it suddenly giving away beneath him, sending him down a chasm, into his death.
From it sprouts thousands, if not millions, of flowers, stretching up into the air, snakelike, reaching nearly to his waist. The flowers cover everything, reaching towards the horizon, an infinite stretch of bright hues. The ones around him bend and sway, rippling under the wind, piercing into his mind the image of a violet ocean, roiling in a storm. Every time the flowers sway he catches a glimpse of yellow bone; the skulls hidden underneath, seated in rotted petals, their gazes fixed firmly on him.
The world is caught in a storm. The winds rage, ripping against him, forcing through the flowers, tearing off petals, which slowly begin to spin in the air, forming miniature tornadoes.
As he looks to the sky, he can see it writhing above him, swirling in a dark maelstrom of petals. They churn, raining downward, raging like the wrath of god, twisting like a living thing. He can hear sounds as well, rumbling. Something that sounds a lot like thunder.
Franz feels eerily calm, despite what just happened. Instead of overwhelming shock and panic, as expected, what he felt was a sense of resignation. Almost as if a part of him had been expecting this; wishing for it to happen.
Did it work?
Franz raises an arm to his face to shield it from the onslaught of the wind. His coat billows around him. He feels breathless, his lungs again suffering that stuffed-into-straws feeling from earlier. He hears that sound again, the sound of thunder, rumbling above him.
Except it's not thunder.
Those are voices.
The voices are explosive; overlapping with each other chaotically.
Franz knows those voices. Franz hates those voices; the voices which have haunted him for so long, whispering many incomprehensible secrets into his ear, always feeling like they were afar and intimately close at the same time. Before, he did not know to whom the whispers belonged. He had often wondered whether it was simply a sign of his madness — just a hallucination. He now knows. He cannot tell how he knows, but he can feel it in his bones as if it is etched into it.
It belongs to his creators.
He stretches his neck upwards, gazing at the sky, at the storm of petals rushing above, swarming, clashing, looking to him like dozens of violet locusts. The voices feel as though they are coming from above, but he cannot see anything or anyone there. All he sees is violet, with the barest hint of a stormy sky above it. He looks around, searching for an exit, searching for his creators, but he knows it is no use. He knows that the Field is eternal, and he would most likely die before he finds a way out.
It is not only the voices which sets alight in him a fiery tempest, but what they are conversing about. They are talking about his choice, arguing with each other about what to make him do. As though they did not even care, despite what they made him endure, despite everything that has happened.
Didn't I have a choice in this? I am a mindless puppet being flung around, an insignificant blip.
He feels a sense of hopelessness, that panic he had felt in fleeting moments before, mingled with a sense of desperation. It is quickly overcome by the other storm within him, the one of rage. He balls his hands into fists. The nails dig deep into his palms, the veins beginning to pop out on his arms. Of this he takes little notice. He gazes skyward, inferno within blazing higher, eyes rounded with black passion. A scream rips out of his throat.
'Stop!'
The voices suddenly cease. The storm around him seems to falter, for a brief moment. There is an air of shock, hanging thickly. Franz bulls on in his onslaught.
'Stop. Please. You'd take even this away from me? You won't let me choose even now?'
The silence lingers for a few additional moments. Abruptly, he can feel their attention snap onto him, as though he has been pushed to the depths of the ocean, suffocating all his senses. The storm bursts into life again, far more violently than before. The petals come down on him like arrows. The wind pushes, striking against him several blows, almost tossing him off balance. The very ground seems to thrash beneath him.
YOU ARE NOT WELCOME HERE FRANCIS WILLIAMS.
The voice's undivided attention, exploding inside his mind, silences every other emotion. It feels as though his skull is vibrating. He can't help it as he sinks down to his knees, feeling paralyzed. He wants to shrink down, to hide away from it, suddenly consumed by intense fear, but he manages to brace himself. He did not come this far to fail.
HOW HAVE YOU FOUND THIS PLANE, WILLIAMS? WHO BROUGHT YOU HERE?
He is shocked when he manages to respond.
'What are you talking about? You brought me here. You took away my choice.'
IT IS NOT I WHO BROUGHT YOU HERE. UTTER NOT ANOTHER FALSEHOOD.
For a moment, he thinks he senses something in the voice. Confusion? Frustration? Before he can speak—
NO. HE SPEAKS TRUTHFULLY. HE BELIEVES HE DOES.
This voice sounds softer than the other, yet it bursts inside his head with the same force.
EXPLAIN YOURSELF.
I BELIEVE THIS HAS BEEN CAUSED BY—
'Stop!' Franz screams, voice ragged. 'Stop it!'
Their attention snaps back to him. The wind is a multitude of blades, searing against his flesh. He tries to reorient himself, to get back on his feet, but it continues to push him down. Still, he somehow holds fast.
'You can't—'
YOUR PRESENCE BEFOULS THIS PLACE, WILLIAMS.
INDEED. THIS IS NOT A MATTER OF YOUR CONCERN. DO NOT INTRUDE WHERE—
'No! I deserve a say in this matter.'
The wind screams in his ears, and the scenery around him distorts.
He is floating through emptiness. There exists nothing but darkness. It feels peaceful, almost. Then abruptly, he hears voices, faint at first, but growing louder and louder. Two bright orbs flare to life, sending ripples of light throughout the emptiness. They pulse like twin hearts, growing larger and larger, sending out dozens upon dozens of rhythms. Stars form like fireflies, nebulae coalesce into shape—
He is atop a mound of skulls. He watches as tendrils push through the ground, growing into flowers, with brilliant petals. The empty sockets of the skulls glow blue—
He sees a golden hill, topped with a flush green tree, beneath which is a man, holding a silvery flute—
And then he is back in the storm of petals and bone.
WE CREATED EVERYTHING YOU WITNESSED. WE CREATED YOU. WE ARE THE PRESERVERS OF EVERYTHING PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE. YOU WILL OBEY AS WE SAY.
'I am not your puppet.'
YOU WILL OBEY AS WE SAY, WILLIAMS.
'What binds me to do your bidding? Nothing. I accept that you are my Creators. I accept you molded this world to form, that you formed me from your thoughts. But you do not own my thoughts. You do not have inherent control over what I do. You do not own me.'
Jaw clenched against the wind, he makes a futile attempt at righting his position.
'You may see me as nothing more than a caricature to be tossed around, to amuse your kind, but I belong to no one. Free this world from your grip, stop this tyranny. Do your creations not deserve to be free?'
He is panting now.
There is another moment of lengthy silence, inflating in the air. He feels helpless in this stormridden land, far more vulnerable than ever before. Within him a deep sense of despair is growing, one that's on the verge of snuffing out the storm of rage. Earlier, he had felt like he held some footing. Thin footing, shaky footing, sure, but some footing nonetheless. He had vainly held onto the belief, the illusion that at least the torment would end. Then they tore that out from under his feet.
YOU WOULD SPEAK OF CHOICES?
Is that amusement in the voice?
YOU WOULD SPEAK OF CHOICES, NOW, HERE, AFTER EVERYTHING THAT HAS HAPPENED? AFTER EVERYTHING YOU'VE DONE? DO YOU NOT RECOGNIZE THE HYPOCRISY IN YOUR OWN WORDS? SPEAK NOT TO US ABOUT CHOICES. SPEAK NOT OF THINGS YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND.
'What are you talking about? This is—'
TELL ME, WHAT DID YOU DO TO JOHN KASHA? WHERE IS HE NOW? DID YOU NOT ONCE CALL HIM 'FRIEND'? AND YET, WERE YOU NOT THE ONE WHO STRUCK SEVERAL BLOWS AGAINST HIM? DID YOU NOT CONTROL HIM, USE HIM, THEN DISCARD HIM WHEN HE HAD RUN OUT OF WORTH? THE ACT YOU ACCUSE US OF ENGAGING IN? DID YOU CONSIDER HIS CHOICE WHEN YOU STRIPPED AWAY HIS RANK, HIS POWER, HIS HONOR? DID YOU CONSIDER, EVEN FOR A SECOND, OF WHAT WOULD HAVE BEEN BEST FOR HIM? WHAT ABOUT KUANG, WHOM YOU FORCED AWAY SO RUTHLESSLY? DID YOU CONSIDER WHAT ANY OF THEM NEEDED, OR WANTED?
'But—'
IS IT NOT THE FOUNDATION'S MOTIVE TO CONTROL, CONTROL EVERYTHING YOU CANNOT UNDERSTAND? TO CONTROL THE THOUGHTS AND EYES OF THOSE FROM WHOM THESE SECRETS ARE HIDDEN? TO HOLD THE WORLD IN AN IRON GRIP, SUFFOCATE IT, PUPPETEER IT TO YOUR WHIMS? WAS IT NOT YOUR DUTY TO CONTROL EVERYTHING? DID YOU NOT RELISH IN THIS?
'B-But… that's not—'
He feels a chill, one that is not from the cold.
'But… you made me do that.'
He says. The words ring hollow in his mouth.
'That wasn't me.'
WE ARE PRESERVERS OF THE FLOW OF ORDER, OF THE EVENTS IN THIS NARRATIVE. WE DO NOT PERFORM YOUR ACTIONS FOR YOU. WE GIVE YOU THE STEPS TOWARD YOUR DESTINATION, BUT IN THE END IT IS YOU WHO CHOOSES TO WALK THEM.
'No, that doesn't—you still—'
A GARDENER DOES NOT FORCE HIS PLANT TO GROW. HE DOES NOT FORCE THE FLOWERS TO BLOSSOM, OR TO WITHER AWAY. HE OBSERVES IT, CARES FOR IT WHEN NEEDED, BUT IN THE END THE IT GROWS OF ITS OWN ACCORD, DOES IT NOT? YOU ALWAYS HAD THE CHOICE. THIS IS THE PATH YOU CHOSE. WOULD YOU TRULY PIN ALL YOUR ACTIONS ON US?
Franz cannot breathe. Franz cannot think properly. All he senses numb shock, and even that feels distant, like everything that is happening is happening to someone else. He feels…he doesn't know how he feels. He has no word to describe it. Directionless? Hopeless?
Images, memories, flashed before his eyes. The walls crumbling down, as armed men with insectoid helmets came, gunning through researchers left and right. The screams of the civilians as indescribable monstrosities began wrecking havoc. A whole city decimated. A raven-haired man, John, looking at him with an expression that spoke of crushing disappointment.
That was all me?
No.
No.
There was a realization that, he did know, didn't he? All along. It was a strange feeling, as though suddenly, the world had truly dropped down onto his shoulders. No. No. No. He now feels a sense of queasiness. No. The blood on the marble floor…
'You… you—'
DO YOU STILL CLING TO THAT BELIEF, THAT YOU ARE SAVING THE WORLD? THAT YOU ARE SOME KIND OF HERO?
'I am saving the world. You are—'
DO YOU TRULY BELIEVE THAT?
Franz does not have a response.
His breath comes out shallow now. Everything around him feels surreal. He is having more and more trouble focusing; he feels like his brain is overloading with sensory information, as though he can sense every molecule in the air, every single bit of rock in the world. Reality is now an iron vice gripping him tightly.
He feels something stinging behind his eyes, and realizes that there are tears running down his face. No.
'Why?' It comes out as a choked sob. 'Why… Why did you create this world? Why did you make me?'
IT IS SIMPLY OUR PURPOSE TO CREATE.
These words echo in his mind. He bows his head.
And, for some time, there are no voices, except faint murmuring, lost in a discussion of their own. There are no sounds but the roaring of the wind, and the rustling of the grass, and the thoughts inside his head. The tears roll down his face, warm and wet. He sits there, in that eternal field, all alone.
No, what are you doing? Sitting here, and crying?
He can't stop remembering the faces, the names. He remembers all of it. He wishes he could forget, but he can't. He'd made a habit of blocking them out, but now they came flooding in. That was all me? No. That can't be it. They made him do that. It was them. It was them.
Why would they make you do that? Didn't they just deny it?
It's obvious! They're lying to you so they can puppeteer you, just like they've always done.
Why would they need to lie to you, if they could control you and your thoughts?
He wishes they would stop this. Stop tormenting him like this. He had worked for hours, no, days; even years, gunning for these gods, wishing to topple them, knowing that they were the cause behind everything, every bit of suffering and misfortune in the world, every anomaly that exists, knowing that once they were toppled he would be free, free to walk away, without their hands on his strings, without another death on his hands, without a repeat of that incident. He could finally rest.
But now, he realizes, they weren't the cause, were they? They hadn't made him do what he had done, had they? He had done it himself, done it of his own volition. He had convinced himself that everything that happened was their fault. All those deaths. All those moments…
He wants it to end.
Stop this, stop this wallowing. You do have a choice, don't you? What are you going to do, huh? Sit here and drown in the past? Or are you going to make things right?
Did it even matter what he did, now?
You can do it your way, now.
Did it even matter?
It matters.
Are you going to give up now, after this much?
You have a choice to make.
He tenses.
The storm is calming down, around him. The winds seem to be getting less aggressive. The petals above begin drifting downward, free. Some of them fall onto him. As he gazes above, the darkness is suddenly broken by a blaze of light. He looks at it. And he knows what to do.
'I'm ready,' he says.
SO SHALL IT BE.
And the world explodes with light.
Franz opens his eyes.
He looks around. He is in the Conference Room. The doors are locked. The lights are broken. The monitor is switched on, and he is in front of it, just like it was before.
He looks at his watch. 12:34, it reads. Over a minute had passed since he'd arrived in the Conference Room. The Red Right Hand could be here any moment. He clenches his jaw, and focuses his attention on the screen.
His hand trembles, but he steadies himself. His cursor was still hovering over the 'PLAY' button. His gaze shifts to the small 'RETURN' button, barely noticeable, at the bottom. He returns his attention to the big 'PLAY' button. His hand begins sweating.
Dull thudding sounds can be heard, echoing from afar. He strains his hearing, glancing at the door. Footsteps, coming down the hallway that leads to this room. To him. He hears shouts, someone calling for a technician, a flamethrower, anything to break open the door.
His heart and thoughts begin racing; his head begins aching.
He looks back at the screen.
