[i][b]—— Earth-F67X: the Kithless[/b][/i]

A year prior, it seemed to Czes that the world was on the brink of disaster or transformation; perhaps, simultaneously, both. Now, on that day's anniversary, known world-wide as NOW dayy, he isn't sure whether Earth and its survivors are capable of transcendental metamorphosis. A sigh, too weary and ancient for his eternally young body, trapped in awkward prepubescence, emanates from either side of his concentration-pursed lips. There's just too much hate in the world. Too much hate and too much history for it to be erased.

[i]"You know,"[/i] Lionel starts to say, [i]"You don't have to --"[/i]
 
Czes cuts him off, [i]"My mind is made up."[/i]

Clasping his hands behind him, the immortal gazes at the paintings in precise presentation behind transteel plates in his yacht's gallery and can't help but feel insignificant. No matter how perfect his preservation of these original works, it is only a matter of time -- a flicker in the panoply of the [i]Verse [/i]-- before they diminish to dust. Modena, Beksiński, and Canetto were masters of their craft, yet their names now manifest only on the tongues of critics. In another thousand years, those artists might not at all be mentioned. He certainly does not intend to remain, even if it is for the noble purpose of passing on history. As for the Abditory and the Comte Foundation, that burden now belongs to a newly-installed board of directors.

[i]"So long as it isn't merely for my sake. I could easily walk through one of those portals,"[/i] Lionel insists as they move up toward the deck.

[i]"You can and you will, but I couldn't; not easily, that is,"[/i] Czes argues, [i]"I'd feel defenseless. Besides, while there is no guarantee the HKT and their ilk can't reach you there, you'll be much safer. How many assassination attempts have you endured, to the point where you're taking refuge here with me? Nine in the last year, all because of who you are and what you advocate."[/i]

Lionel bites his tongue. Despite his Terran origins, he is human.  

Czes nods a cordial goodbye. 

Lionel steps off the gangway, walks down the dock, and heads to the portal. Strange, its isolation on an island in the Maldives. Almost as though Ximbic-8 predicted this moment. Czes watches in silence as his friend and confidant vanishes through a shimmer of cerulean, the last vestige of his presence a few footprints in the sand.

After a few moments of contemplation, he decides it is time. Unlike his friend, Czes cannot lay his trauma to rest and enter defenseless a largely foreign world. Which is why mecha are such wonderful things. One for just this occasion stands ready on the deck. The wind of this world and its sunlight graces his flesh one last time, then he enters the machine. That feeling of safety envelopes him. No offensive capabilities and smaller than usual to fit through the portal to the alien world of Ximbic-8, he feels its strength all the same. At a mere eight feet tall, solar-refractive actuators cover its spherical core, allowing it to morph and reflect any shape and pattern. Today, its programming dictates the appearance of a large silver wolf. Before him, a HUD lights up. Ahead is a glowing archway that leads to a place where his billions in wealth will neither influence others nor protect him. If the machine fails, he will be dependent on his wits and, he worries, once more his immortality. 

A knot forms in his belly as, through his neural link, he urges the mech forward. The alabaster frame of the arch blurs into his periphery and then, suddenly, Earth-F67X is elsewhere.

Forever, he realizes.