apathy

Toxoplasmosa Outbreak

@BurningKitty a cartel backed hitman. i'm considering a modern sicario, making them a former commando in the mexican armed forces.

Toxoplasmosa Outbreak

how appropriate would a former sicario fit into the narrative? i am thinking of aligning with the PMC and want to make a fitting character assuming its a paramilitary organization.

No God's Sky

Xo'pil's presence continued to go unnoticed as all attention was focused on the shalam golem's crude imitation of speech. Taking advantage of such, he receded into the shadows as the light that shone from his shoulder was extinguished. In its stead, a shimmering projection began to form around the three hovering orbs that were Epit'li until a diaphanous shade of Xo'pil manifested. No mere hologram, this hard-light reproduction of her tzin would be able to interact with its surroundings; after his misadventure in Q'ab's ruins Xo'pil thought best to err on the side of caution.

Not wanting to alarm either party, the ersatz Xo'pil remotely accessed the hold's control panels and diverted power from an adjacent floor. The lights in the hold came to life with a shudder as Epit'li strode forward confidently and spoke in her master's voice. "Well, at least two of us are dressed appropriately for this party." The imitation Xo gave a gentle tug to the tail of a dashingly dressed creature, before stopping and fawning over the texture of the fur. "This is fine quality. Yes.. whoever crafted this had a keen eye for detail."

A small laugh was elicited as the creature brusquely flicked its tail loose. "Of course, where are my manners. Xo'pil is the name, heresy is the game. At least that's what they're saying. And you are, my fine fellow?" A soft pat as a hand fell on the kukull's rough exterior. Epit'li was beginning to enjoy imitating her creator, who remained hidden and uncharacteristically silent as their ruse continued.

***

"Sir.."

"Kinda busy, Lars." Ophidian belched through a thick plume of exhaust; the thick trunks of his arms were interlocked as he clung to a maintenance drone that was quickly ascending one of Gereza's iso-towers. The cells located in these spires housed the empire's greatest threats; suspended in total oblivion. Well, all except one. He'd been hired to see if Gereza was as impenetrable as popularly thought; but the more he and Lars investigated the more it seemed to be an inside job. The ancillary reports from some schmegghead auditor and a servitor drone so old it took Lars nanoseconds to find and install a compatibility drive to make sense of its findings. All of the information trickled steadily down the HUD of his eyepatch as Lars once more interrupted his exposition.

"I thought it best to inform you that three more high value prisoners have arrived and are currently en route to your location. Perhaps finding a good spot to hide would be best to maintain the integrity of our task here."

"I guess," Ophidian grumbled, "but I better not be billed for anything I've broken so far. It's in my contract!"

The deep voice of the AI sighed softly before a hint of alarm underscored its next communique. "There's also a lot of chatter across Cizran military command. It seems that something has.. consumed part of the grid. Or did. I'm parsing through petabytes of data, but it seems like there's been a full chronal adjustment.."

"But that means... So they're using the sankuls again, huh Lars? I think it might be time to find a new base of operations. Far, far out of the empire's grasp.

***

The immensity of the Vepsis Dol and a testament to its craftsmanship absorbed the sound of rushing movement as a series of subsequent bay doors began to open. Remote access had been easy enough; Chrrx noted. That means most of the ship's systems must be intact. A quick diagnostic and some minor adjustments should be all that's needed to resume operational status and complete the superluminal jump to Su-Lahn. No more than half a cycle and they'd be back aboard the Admiral's flagship.

This thought was pushed to the back of Chrrx's mind as a small chime informed him of secondary access several floors below in one of the ship's cargo holds. With no exchange of words, Nenegin's honor guard broke off into two smaller parties. One continued to the Vepsis Dol's deck while the other sought to investigate the cargo hold.

Glasslands: A Griot's Tale (Earth-F67X Chronicle)

6-8-2039
Ndlovumzi Nature Reserve, Xanathan Territories

"Just keep calm and quiet and nobody will know we're here," the voice spoke from beneath the vehicle that had been hastily covered in whatever brush was available. Its source was an older gentleman, much smaller in stature than his companion; a garishly attired mzungu. The scent alone of her perfume had ridden the evening breeze for miles and had been one of many variables of the past several hours she could not have possibly accounted for. All her planning; ruined in moments. But how could she rush the separation of a family; if even for just days?

The Lioness slipped out from her perch amongst the boughs and landed inaudibly behind the vehicle. She paused and cocked her head towards the distant chop of helicopter rotors. She had little time to act before the opposition's forces swelled and began its onslaught against anyone within 100km of her mistake. But she could fix it; even as she saw the old Lion, stone-faced but eyes gleaming with laughter. Father always said plans were just a list of things that never came together. He was right; most of the time.

Clenching the edge of the jeep's rear chassis, she lifted the vehicle with ease and smiled down at the supine pair. "Not quiet enough, but do keep calm," she chuckled self-consciously at her use of English before continuing, "Now come on out from there. We don't have much time." Lowering the jeep, the Lioness quickly took in what little details she had missed while observing them previously. The man was old but seemed in good health; the older woman reeked of perfume and plastics.

The Lioness turned to the old man and she quickly riffed through a few languages until they settled on Xhosa.

"Now, the following is going to be very confusing but if we are to survive you're going to have to trust me. An easy request of me to make; far easier than the reality of what is going to happen. In minutes more of Xanathan's wasps will be in the air and boots will be quick to follow. They won't care how rich this one is," she gestured to the older woman who had just noticed the smear of mud down the center of her pristine suit, "and they definitely won't care about us. Odds are they pinged this jeep when they passed. I'm sorry, but there might not be anything for you to return to." The Lioness laid a heavy hand on the diminutive man's shoulder. "But I have a way out. You're just going to have to do something for me."

Ndakala was not one to refuse help when offered, although this one came with an extraordinarily ominous tone. In Xhosa, he replied, "We are grateful for any help you have to offer. Our destination is the village of Phalaborwa. Can you help us get there?"

The Lioness shook her head gravely in response. "Very well. The old woman will be a problem at some point, but for now I think she'll cooperate. Once the danger has passed and the shock wanes, she'll try to assert her privilege."

She chuckled at the old man's honesty and gave him a second, more genial pat on the shoulder. "That is their way."

Moving away from the group, she strode over to some brush nestled beneath a fever tree and knelt. After a few hushed words she returned leading a small child by the hand, covered in grime. The girl shivered with cold and exhaustion as she was set in the rear of the jeep.

The Lioness removed the remains of her dress; tattered and singed from earlier in the night; and did her best to warm the child. Removing the crystal that hung from her neck, she whispered to it in a language unfamiliar to the others then proceeded to plunge it into the soil with a burying blow. Almost immediately the earth began to churn and a crude tunnel took form in front of the vehicle.

"Don't stop driving, just follow the tunnel until someone meets you. No harm will come to you this or any other night. But you must be quick."

The jeep's engine silently turned over and began to crawl forward as its headlights struggled to illuminate the tunnel's depths. The Lioness stood silhouetted against the night sky as she called out to the group; the echo of her voice quickly fading. "Thank you for this. I, Najwa Moghadani, am in your debt."

Najwa turned and sprinted down a second opening that had appeared as the first began to crumble, leaving nothing but loose soil seconds after their disappearing underground.

5-8-2039
300km W of Xanathan Outpost Lamda-5 (Somewhere in former Angola)

<< Lamda-5, Lamda-5, do you copy?! This is Jagter-Actual! We are under attack! Jagter-0 is down! The fucking tank is down! Is anyone fucking listening? >>

Lt. Smit slammed the receiver into its cradle as static was the only response to his increasing panic. The lieutenant struggled to make sense of the carnage that surrounded him. He knelt behind the hard cover of the command vehicle as a gunner fired the coaxial MG into the treeline, doing his best imitation of a chainsaw. This wasn't the fighting he'd grown used to. Even the most organized of the rebels he'd encountered in his ten years of service had never brought a full convoy to an explosive halt.

Smit had watched with mouth agape as the main gun of Jagter-O erupted as an unspent HE shell traveled down its length; the rippling vapor of the heat from the blast had destroyed most of the tank after it withstood whatever initial blasts had crippled nearly every vehicle and sent an armored personnel carrier skyward. He peered at the monitor embedded into the forearm of his prosthetic but whatever was disrupting his communications was also interfering with much of their equipment.

Fitting a 40mm grenade into the tube mounted beneath the barrel of his weapon; Smit fired the projectile in a deadly parabolic arc into the treeline where the gunner was focused. Turning to give his man a reassuring thumbs up, the lieutenant felt the warmth drain from his being as the gunner's body twisted crudely; a broken marionette in the hands of a sadistic puppeteer. Blood flowed from the man's mouth as his brain struggled to process its new reality...

6-8-2039
Ndlovumzi Nature Reserve, Xanathan Territories

There was little sound in the tunnel beyond the rapid patter of sprinting feet and the Lioness' breaths; deep and even inhalations of a highly-tuned machine which moved towards the small village that bordered the larger town of Phalaborwa. If she'd acted with enough time, she might be able to evacuate the village before the onslaught started. If she hadn't, well- she would deal with what would come when it did.

6-8-2039
300km W of Xanathan Outpost Lamda-5 (Somewhere in former Angola)

A heavy cloud of dust hung over the remains of the convoy, obscuring the devastation that had taken little more than a quarter of an hour to create. With a simple gesture, Mshale cleared the battlefield as he hovered high above, embraced by the moonlight's glow. He took in the carnage with a degree of pleasure he seldom felt during his recent years of peacekeeping. These wazungu were demons and would soon learn there time on this soil was coming to an end. He had begun his descent when he saw movement once more amongst the wreckage and readied to exterminate one more Xanathan wardog when curiosity stayed his hand.

The scrambling and emaciated form had finished its perverted rites on one of the recent corpses and scuttled over to the mobile laboratory in desparate search of something. Mshale landed where the creature had entered and extended his will inwards as a cocoon of telepathic pressure enveloped the hobbled form and withdrew it from the laboratory like a snail plucked from its shell.

Mshale spat as he took in the full extent of the creature's corruption and kept it steady in his grasp. "What have you become, mzungu?"

Glasslands: A Griot's Tale (Earth-F67X Chronicle)

5-8-2039
288km W of Xanathan Outpost Lamda-5 (Somewhere in former Angola)

"Danse!"

The image; a singeing cascade of sparks that swam to him through the stupor of trauma. There was a sound, layered deep beneath the muted thumping of his own erratic heartbeat. The form of Corporal Danse struggled as he attempted to rise, his movements impeded by an unknown weight. His gaze scanned down, past the tactical rig and plate carrier from which protruded the better half of a five-inch long steel projectile. Bloodied and unsteady hands tried to free it from the armor, but it would not yield. The adrenaline that surged through his body was beginning to falter, and with its ebb came pain's flow.

"Danse!"

Bile rose in his throat as his eyes fixed on the exposed tissue and bone of his legs. The splintered end of his right fibula was barely held in place by the straps of the kevlar panels that had failed to protect him. He fought the urge to vomit into his own wounds, even as the pain began to peak. Using one of his arms as a fulchrum, Danse strove to pull himself upwards enough to free the drop pouch secured to his war belt. Successfully retrieving an autoinjector, Danse immediately pressed it against his jugular and bellowed as a cocktail of combat enhancers and receptor-inhibitors flooded his system.

With the sudden flush of chemicals pumping through him, recognition gripped Danse as he yelled in response, "What the fuck was that?" He tightened the straps on his damaged leg's armor, fashioning a makeshift torniquet and splint. It was then that he realized his orientation wasn't quite what it had been before he awoke in this condition. Danse found himself with his back propped up by the vehicle's ceiling; the dust within the cabin was beginning to settle as he hobbled towards the voice.

Passing the containment cell that housed that mutant bastard, Danse peered inside but was unable to make out much through haze. There was a large crater directly across from him, something having torn through the APC's foot-thick composite armor with relative ease. Reaching the control console, he began hailing all XSF frequencies only to be met with static on each channel.

"Danse..."

The voice called out to him, hardly above a whisper, but he was relatively sure he was alone. He peered down the cabin's length, searching for any sign of his squad. It was then that he noticed the cell's door was cracked open. Danse drew his service pistol and approached it cautiously; he pulled the door open and waited for the air to clear somewhat before looking in.

"D-"

He looked down at the crumpled form of Specialist Wyckers struggling to hold closed the split across his abdomen. Thick blood oozed between the folds of his arms and his chest rose and fell in a crude imitation of breathing. A gurgle rose from Wyckers as he attempted to call out once more, only for the resounding echo of a gunshot to reverberate throughout the compartment.

Keeping his weapon drawn, Danse attempted to leave through the rear door but was unable to force them open. He turned and exited through the blast point, gritting his teeth as he slowly shifted weight onto his injured leg. The rest of his squad were laid out in the road in several stages of dismemberment, some still deluding themselves into thinking they were counted amongst the living.

The rest of the convoy was nowhere to be seen, he noted. Glancing at the state of his leg and weighing the odds of survival alone; Danse injected himself with a second and most likely lethal dose and pulled himself onto the top, or bottom, of the vehicle to gain some height. In the wake of hyper-awareness, he could hear a battle raging in the distance. Against the night sky he saw several pillars of smoke rising; and there close-by... Movement!

Earlier that night...

Reclined against the massive bole of a baobab, Mshale carefully studied the path Aya had spent much of her concentration creating since old Assad had come up with this plan months ago. It was devious of the old lion, creating the most efficient and therefore cheap route for Xanathan and their dogs to take. So pleased was the commander with the plan that, for the fist time in months, Mshale saw her smile and completely break away from looking into the Kichaka Siri.

Peering through the baobab's boughs at the moon, Mshale inhaled the sweet perfume of its fruit. Tempted, he gave in and with the flicker of a thought one of the fruits flew into an outstretched palm. A crack appeared across its shell and half of it was flung away.

Mshale tossed a pulp-covered seed into his mouth and adopted a meditative pose. He began to concentrate and collect his might into precise points along the road; an intense application of his willpower over the next hours would yield blasts far beyond what Xanathan was prepared for. He smiled, savoring the flavor. Mshale would enjoy tonight very much.

Glasslands: A Griot's Tale (Earth-F67X Chronicle)

10-03-2008
200km E of Kisangani, Democratic Republic of Congo

Thin fingers drummed along as the crackle of static cut across the cheerful rhythm of afrobeat that buzzed from the jeep's sound system. The vehicle had come with her father's acceptance of a position along with a new house far away from all that was home. A deep stream of sorrow flowed through Ayanda's core as she thought of the last time she'd seen her friends; of the tears shed and the promises made to keep in touch. She looked through the window as her head rested against the glass, her eyes vacantly following the Congo's waters as they neared Kisangani.

Through the speakers the shrill sound of feedback cut through the fog of her thoughts. Her father fumbled with the controls for a moment before trying several stations, all of which were suffering from the same interference as the klaxon of an emergency broadcast bled through the noise. Nyerere brought the vehicle to a stop on the side of the road, leaving the engine running as he moved to the rear and opened the tailgate.

"Stay calm, Ayanda. Keep scanning for a clear broadcast." She watched through the rearview mirror as he retrieved a small case which housed a satellite phone. Putting the receiver to his ear, his attempt to dial for help was cut short as the connection was immediately severed. His pulse began to rise as several scenarios ran through his mind as he tried to rationalize his present circumstances. War was the only conclusion he could come to. But on what scale? He tried to keep a brave face for his daughter as he sat back behind the steering wheel, the phone case set on the dashboard.

"At least we have the Congo to sing to us for the rest of the drive." He smiled bravely at his daughter, the last thing she'd see before darkness descended upon her.

13-03-2008
Kisangani, Democratic Republic of Congo

A dull awareness crept into Nyerere's mind as he tried his best to stretch out in the cramped driver's seat. His eyes focused on his daughter's fidgeting form in his rearview and inhaled deeply. He'd pushed himself to the point of exhaustion, driving continuously for the past two days through the madness that had gripped the city; he couldn't recall when he'd fallen asleep but was thankful he was still cognizant enough to have taken shelter.

The first rays of sunlight pierced the cloud cover, refracted through the shattered glass of the warehouse lot he'd chosen. A few more breaths and he shifted the shotgun from his lap to the jeep's dashboard. Scanning his surroundings, he exited the vehicle and spread a map across its hood. He gave it a few glances as he continued to stretch in a vain attempt to rid himself of his fatigue. Retrieving a half-empty thermos, Nyerere oriented himself with the map and made note of a few routes to the nearest hospital before draining the container with a few much-needed gulps.

Folding and pocketing the map, he peered through the windshield at Ayanda who'd begun to thrash about in the back seat. The glare of the sun reflecting off the Congo as it settled in the morning sky blinded Nyerere momentarily as a shot rang out, richocheting off a nearby vehicle. Within moments he was back behind the wheel, driving through the chain link fence of a shipping yard into relative safety as more shots echoed in the distance.

22-03-2008
100km N of Kindu, Democratic Republic of Congo

The murmur of hushed voices was the first sound she remembered hearing when she awoke to a world of darkness. Ayanda's breaths came in short, ragged gasps as fear and confusion gripped her. It was then that she felt a cool hand press against her feverish forehead while a familiar voice called out her name.

"Ayanda... My precious, I am so relieved that you're awake. You are safe," her father said, a tinge of something unfamiliar in his voice.

"M-my head.." she struggled to speak, her head filling with the muffled drone of her surroundings.

"It makes my heart lighter to hear you speak. It's been three days since you were last conscious, and that was for a brief moment. Tell me, my moonlight, what is the last thing you remember?"

Silence was her response as she sought to piece together the tattered memories of the week prior. The sensation of the room around her faded away and she found herself in the passenger's seat. Her ears focused on the sound of the river that had begun to flow furiously as gales swept through the dense treeline. Ayanda saw her father, his smile umbrage for something he sought to hide from her. Her thoughts moved past him and she sat up with a bolt. Struck by the sudden and horrible recollection, she instinctively clutched at her eyes. She screamed in shock as her hands pressed against several layers of bandages.

The words that followed came through tears that were choked back. "I am sorry, my love. All of the hospitals are... Finding a doctor is difficult right now. I brought you to someone who will help. That's all that matters. They have done the best they can for us and are hopeful your sight will return. You should rest, we can talk about what you remember later."

"B-behind you..." she began as she lowered her arms, "there was a storm cloud. No.. I thought it was a cloud... the kind that would send me running to the windows to watch while Mama sang..." Another bolt; they hadn't spoken much about her mother in the past several years. She continued as tears stung her enveloped eyes. "It moved in the most terrible manner. Like a beheaded snake thrashing about. It.. it was so large... and a storm raged behind it."

Raindrops drummed against the metallic roof of the clinic with a metallic pang as she found herself returned to the bed, her father shifting uncomfortably at her bedside. Her voice had dropped to just above a whisper. "Then there was a flash... and everything went black." She felt the weight of her words trickle into the room as heavy drops fell from the eaves of the rooftop onto the thirsty undergrowth.

10-07-2008
70km NE of Kolwezi, Democratic Republic of Congo

The warmth of the fire Ayanda sat before danced across her skin and she swore she could see the ever-shifting shades of reds with a level of vibrance she had never felt before. She traced a mindless pattern in the surrounding ash with the end of the staff her father had carved for her while she recovered enough to continue moving south towards home. The voices in the camp were defeated, having spent the past two months trekking through the rainforest in search of the Zambian border. If her condition had given her anything, it was time to listen. She heard much along the way and most of it was unpleasant.

The first days of their journey had seen them evacuating the families of several villages between the small mission that Father Jefferson oversaw and Kindu. A corruption had spread across the land; one that ate at the flesh and soul of those that had always known struggle but now were met with existential contempt. Many of the roads had been taken over by gangs of soldiers that quickly began to tear at each other's throats for whatever they could.

It had cost the lives of many to learn this lesson. Jefferson and a group of young hunters along with her father had been ambushed while attempting to scout ahead, taking Nyerere's jeep. Much of their party were injured or infirm and the roads would have been a small mercy. None of the youths returned from this. She felt the grief of their blood. She wept for them and it still stung.

Her skin crawled with the sudden apprehension that she was being watched. Ayanda rose to her feet, steadying herself with the staff. "Who is there?" The sounds of soft rainfall in the bush flushed her senses. She was aware of each individual drop that sputtered against the smoldering logs; of each muffled cough and sniffling nose. Further off she heard, or rather felt, Nyerere as he and the elders convened.

"You are sharp."

Ayanda and the flames reacted uncomfortably at the sound of the voice. It seemed to come from a deep cavern, disconnected from the surrounding jungle. A presence emerged into the shifting light of the fire. "Something flows around you; a great potential. It frightens me." Sudden recognition dawned upon Ayanda as she identified the voice as that of the woman that assisted Father Jefferson in her recovery. Ayanda had taken the woman's apprehension as an indication of the severity of her wounds. She stood silently, leaning heavily upon her staff.

Soft foot-falls grew nearer as the voice continued to speak. "Your father came to us in great disarray. We had yet to learn of the incident when he came rushing down the road in his jeep, honking his horn like a madman. You were left with me in the clinic as Father Jefferson took your father outside and tried to calm him down enough to explain your injuries. Your fever was in its third day; and you had been ranting whenever you weren't unconscious. You spoke of death and demons."

A hand gently pressed against her shoulders and the two sat side-by-side and the world around her was no longer a void. She found herself once more in the small clinic, astounded by the simulacra of sight she experienced. A passive and ghostly observer, Ayanda watched as a seated figure tended to her past-self. As she neared, she realized it was her present companion. She was heavy-set and radiated strength; her steady hands surprisingly gentle as she daubed at Ayanda's damaged eyes as she thrashed in agitated sleep.

Suddenly the supine form bolted upright as shoulders rose and fell in ragged breaths. The older woman, Faizah, tried to comfort the girl and return her to a restful position but found she could not budge the petite form who began to mutter snippets of the conversation Father Jefferson and Faizah had earlier that morning. A bowl filled with warm water and rags crashed to the ground and with it Ayanda was returned to the bush.

"What happened? Can you describe it?"

Ayanda's knees shook violently as she fought to make sense of what transpired. Since she'd lost her sight she had began to experience moments when an awareness she could barely fathom would come upon her. She sought to put into the words how vivid everything seemed at those moments and how rooted she was each time it happened. Faizah listened intently as the young girl described the strange turn her life had taken and knew of the importance of the role she'd one day play. Faizah would personally ensure that this girl be taken to those who could cultivate her gift.

The screams erupted from the other side of the camp; where most of the refugees had gathered to offer a semblance of normalcy in the dark days they dwelt in. Both women rose and turned to the source of the sound, and before Ayanda could react she already heard Faizah cutting through the dense foliage.

Steeling herself, she extended her free arm and began to move. Trying to flee would do her no good; she would have been lost even with her eyesight. Ayanda's senses were overwhelmed as she grew closer to the chaos; bestial snarling underscoring the panicked shrieks of children as the few defenders they had yelled commands to the group.

"To the Lualaba! To the river!"

The demand was followed by three blasts in rapid succession, accompanied by a vicious and pained bellow. She fell to her knees, the staff held tight against her chest. The rains intensified as her body wracked with sobs. Incapable of acting amidst the din of confusion she became a snack amongst delicacies. Undergrowth rustled as Nyerere ran and slid across the jungle floor, pleading with Ayanda to rise. He cradled her crumpled form while shakily loading shells into a shotgun.

"You have to get up! Ayanda!"

The sensation of her father's presence broke through the dissonance and she followed his command and stood, a hand upon Nyerere's shoulder as he assumed a kneeling position. Chambering a shell into a late-model Remington 1100, Nyerere scanned the tree-line as it violently shook with the movement of trampling beasts. They began to fall back to rejoin the others by the river as savage chuckles intermingled with the sound of snapping bones and tearing flesh.

The rush of the Lualaba and the splashing of survivors crossing it provided false confidence and Nyerere noticed just how much his daughter had grown in the past months. Her mother's strength lived on in Ayanda, and he knew she would need it in the days to come. "Go!" he yelled, pushing her towards the water and he turned; the searing pain he felt registering for an infinitesimal moment before he was reduced to spasming motor functions.

As her consciousness plunged beneath the Lualaba, it underwent a complete shift in criterion. She surfaced, and although her sight had not been restored she still emptied the contents of her stomach at what she saw. Her father's headless body convulsed as it was circled by what resembled a hyena as massive as her father's jeep. Its hide was mottled and matted. Viscous saliva fell from churning jaws that made quick work of its meal. Nyerere's remains were immediately pounced upon by similar yet smaller beasts that expelled a pungent secretion from engorged and prolapsed anuses.

Ayanda wiped the bile from her mouth with trembling hand. Once more she felt herself being consumed, not with sorrow but fury. It was the first time she had allowed herself to feel any anger since she'd lost her sight. She struggled to keep a brave face for Baba, even though she blamed him. It was his fault for accepting the job. It was his fault she was blind. It was his fault mo-- jagged shards of perse and peridot penetrated the river basin as it was torn apart; an extension of her rage. Tendrils of solid kolwezite churned through the muddied and bloodied waters as a platform began to rise, separating Ayanda and the remaining survivors from their pursuers. Rich deposits of the chromatic mineral began to layer over one another into a latticework that made an impromptu tomb for her father and a prison for his killers.

Retreating into the water, Ayanda retrieved her staff and with a gesture began to unconsciously carve a path through river and jungle. Her breaths again came in short and ragged gasps, the exertion overtaking her. Her steps faltered and before she could finish stumbling, Faizah appeared at her side, a bundle swaddled in one arm. A warm palm was pressed against Ayanda's forehead and the three of them were gone.

***

6-3-2022
800m SW of Marange, Free Territories (formerly Zimbabwe)

I'm counting three.. four groups of ilaalada, heavily armed with rotating patrol routes. There's a cluster of shacks to the west bordering fields of razertsanga.

Beads of sweat rolled down scarred cheeks as a set of binoculars was lowered; its worn leather straps dripping with collected perspiration. Taking up an elevated position south of the mining complex, Assad had scrambled up a tree to perform reconnaissance. Drying his hands on the cloth of a satchel on his hip, he produced a small notebook and quickly sketched a crude diagram of the site, marking down what he'd observed over the past several hours. Satisfied with its accuracy after taking one last glance, Assad pocketed the book and adjusted the AKs-74u slung over his back before descending.

The small camp he returned to had not existed hours before and would be gone within minutes of their passing. With him, their squad was composed of six fighters; six against an armed and experienced force of at least sixty. Even with the commander and her bodyguard, he did not see how they would take the mine.

His training and instinct told him this was suicide; he swallowed his insecurity and strode past the others to the lean-to that served as their FOB. Inside, the commander sat as she spoke with Tatonga and Takunda; brothers gifted with more bravery than the lion whose name Assad bore. All three turned as he approached, producing the notebook and extending it to his comrades.

After an awkward beat, the commander extended an arm and took the book with a smile. Heat rose from the back of his neck in embarrassment as he recalled her blindness. Assad hadn't been with the movement long, though he had heard much of the NYUNDO and their commander. Rumors said she was a powerful sorceress; he was more skeptical. In the months since he'd joined his time had been split between small incursions against Mbavha and passing along what he'd learned during his time with the Ciidanka Danab to the recruits.

"Many thanks, Assad. Not just for this, but for all you've done for the survival of our movement. These two were just commending you," she gestured to the brothers, "and if truth be told, would not have approved of this operation without your participation. It seems that even the mighty Gwinyai brothers know when to temper bravery with wisdom."

He gave a quick salute at her words before stammering, "The.. I.. There's a map in there of the mine, commander."
"Please, we are all soldiers here. My name is Ayanda."
"Yes, com- Ayanda."

With another gesture from her, Tatonga took the book from Assad and began to commit it to memory as Takunda crossed the cramped quarters, giving up his seat next to the commander.
"Come, sit and tell me- given what you've observed, what do you think?"

He began as his back pressed uncomfortably against a thatch wall, "The complex is heavily fortified. The only entrance is from the south, on an old bridge flanked by guard towers. I marked the two sharpshooters I spotted on the map, armed with Dragunovs."

Dabbing sweat off himself, he continued with his report as the commander sat quietly, an eerie calm radiating outwards from her. "There's a gunner's nest overlooking the razertsanga fields to the west, while the north and east are inaccessible given our equipment. There is no viable entrance for us, commander. Forgive me- Ayanda. But this is suicide given our limited numbers and no viable point of entrance."

The humidity in the hut was becoming unbearable; he was a soldier, not a martyr. The NYUNDO prided themselves on open and direct communication amongst its members, but he felt he had over-stepped his bounds and insulted his superior. She continued to sit in silence as she measured her response.

"Your honesty is what I asked for, and it is what I have been given. Feel no shame in what you've said, for I wouldn't ask the impossible of you. I reserve that for myself."

The soil at their feet began to churn as several roots rose, their tendrils coiling over one another until they had formed an ersatz table, upon which a miniature survey of the mine took shape, down to the position of personnel. A wave of concentration passed over her face as the minute forms of soldiers began to move.

"You missed a few."

Assad gave a stunned chuckle as he began to see why Tatonga and Takunda so fervently believed in the commander. She continued, the actions of her words being played out before them as the walls of the hut unfurled like a blossoming flower, the other fighters save one gathering 'round to see the plan of attack. They would strike in a few hours' time, as darkness descended.

Assad looked over to the boy who sat alone as the others listened; he stared fixedly at the ground as he absent-mindedly loaded .45 rounds into spare magazines. Could this boy, no older than sixteen truly be the commander's bodyguard? Did she require one? The two of them were unknown variables to Assad, but the others were convinced. Even Khethiwe, who took every assignment with the utmost gravity seemed to be put at ease. Insh'Allah they were right.

That night...

Tall stalks of razerstanga swayed to the whims of breezes that swept through the field; the six of them kept low to the ground as they moved towards the shacks at the field's edge. Mshale led the squad while Ayanda brought up the rear; exerting her willpower to keep the serrated edges of the mutated grain from rending their group asunder. The rustling of their gear was masked by the deep rumble of the generators used to power Marange and its industrial mining equipment.

Approaching the end of their cover, the group came to a stop as Mshale gave the command to halt. Weapons were quickly readied as all listened intently. The acrid smell of tumbaku rose in spindly plumes. Two voices were in a heated discussion over rations, angered over the end of most foreign aid to the continent. The guards paced the length of the field, unknowingly passing their location.

"What if we kill some miners? We say to big boss there was kumukira and we had to. More food for us. Maybe more tumbaku." The two shook free hands as they chuckled at their brilliance. "Big boss won't like there was kumukira," the other added, "means fun for us too."

The laughter in their throats turned to confused gasps as the microscopic particulates of tobacco they'd inhaled began to violently amalgamate within their lungs, suffocating them as Takunda and Tatonga emerged from the fields in a crouched run, relieving the guards of their firearms as their convulsing forms were left to asphyxiate hidden from view.

Emerging in unison, the squad quickly made their way towards the bridge to secure it for when reinforcements arrived. The route Ayanda had chosen wove through a congregation of shacks and shipping containers that had once stored aid that these fulayos hoarded. They began advancing, methodically securing each building as they progressed.

The first few stored harvested razertsanga and the tools necessary to perform such a dangerous task. It was halfway through when the stench began. Assad had grown accustomed to it in 30 years of bloodshed; horror had become routine. Grim looks were exchanged as the Gwinyai brothers took point and entered the darkened doorway.

The two returned with ashen faces; no more had to be said. Razertsanga requires a steady supply of meat to maintain it and miners too broken to work were the ideal source once they could no longer be worked. Huddled together, the dead and dying miners could do little to offer any support, but those strong enough spoke of others deeper into the facility. Khethiwe and the Gwinyai brothers went to work moving the living into an adjacent building as Assad approached the commander and her guard.

"Orders, commander?" he asked, adjusting his grip on the weapon's receiver.
"Mshale and I will continue with the assault while Khethiwe and the Gwinyais guard the survivors. I am trusting you to secure the bridge and watch tower once we begin and signal the secondary unit."

He hesitated then gave a brief nod before breaking into a silent sprint towards a deep channel the commander had created, giving him ample cover to get into position at the foot of the bridge. Assad thumbed the safety off of his AKs-74u and whispered a prayer as motes of dust hung in the air. Checking his watch, Assad finished his prayer as the moment drew near. He steadied his weapon as the first rapports began, followed by heavy boots across the bridge's wooden planks as the mine's guards moved to engage the commander.

She knew how to keep the enemy's attention, Assad admitted as he clambered up the bridge's supports. Coming over the top, he immediately assumed a prone firing position and tore through the two remaining guardsmen with quick bursts of gunfire. He rose to one knee, and replaced the half-empty magazine with a fresh one.

Satisfied that there were no more visible threats, Assad continued to the end of the bridge and up the small watch tower. He pushed the still gurgling body of a guard aside and fired a flare into the night sky. Retrieving the fallen guard's Dragunov, he took up an overwatch position and awaited the others.

Meanwhile...

Ayanda felt the hushed foot falls retreating away from her as Assad followed her commands. He was a good soldier, and a much needed addition to NYUNDO. She'd felt overwhelmed ever since committing herself to bringing peace to the Free Territories. Early ties with what had remained of the Comte Foundation and other humanitarian organizations did much when the quarantine began, but those resources dwindled years ago. Liberating Marange would do much for security amongst the neighboring peoples.

The polished bands of Mpingo that adorned Ayanda's neck, wrists and shins pulsed with life as luminous patches of moss swelled within unfurling wooden strands. The growth continued, a thick resin bubbling forth that formed layer upon layer of protective armor. A smooth and featureless casque turned towards Mshale, and her voice echoed strangely inside it as she gave an arduous grunt, propelling Mshale and herself forward upon a throbbing wave of upturned earth.

The shrill buzz of passing rounds was a minor agitation as most of them were far off the mark; fired in desperation as crystalline thorns erupted from the soil before shattering in volleys of piercing shrapnel. Mshale took the lead, a concussive wave of telepathic might tearing through several firing positions. He landed deftly, firing a M1911 pistol while projecting a field to protect his exposed flank.

The flare round fizzled high into the air in a twisting parabola, casting an ominous red tinge as small fires began to break out in the barracks on the far side of the mining complex. A steady trickle of blood began to pour from Mshale's nose as rounds flattened against his barrier; and with a surge of willpower he launched an onslaught outwards that caused flesh to tear and bone to splinter within its radius. Pushing the opposition's forces back into the excavated caverns, Ayanda gave her guard the command to rest as she pushed on.

Her consciousness extended throughout the network of tunnels and shafts that had been dug through years of suffering. Her abilities weren't necessary to feel the overbearing sense of misery that permeated the air. Her heart raced as she felt each atrocity come down upon her like a lash. Phantasms of memory acted out before her in awful repetition, and in this ghastly stupor she stumbled deeper into the mine until she came to a wide chamber, illuminated with hundreds of candles.

"You come, muroyi!" a voice reverberated through the room; it was slick with malice and felt as ancient as their surroundings. A deep pool of fetid water had flooded the lower half of the cavern and in it danced the gaunt speaker.

Her senses were overcome by a palpable manifestation of the corruption that had spread since long before the Val'Gara had arrived. A flurry of flames shot towards her form as she leapt backwards defensively. Summoning her strength and focusing through the haze of haunted recollections, she created a stannic spire that erupted with the exposed flames and came down upon the grotesque leader of Marange.

Thick clouds of smoke and dust rose from an exposed hole in the ceiling of the cavernous chamber. Moonlight rushed to reach earth that had not seen light of its kind in ages. Ayanda gave an exhausted shrug as her armor fell away; a dulled clatter on the rubble. She stepped forward into the pool and as her arms opened to bask in the cool air, the water began to return to its pristine state.

***

20-7-2039
XSF Delta Station, Karoo, South Africa

Drumming the end of a pen against the lip of his mug, Pt. Mikalson looked wistfully as the clock ticked on. It was almost lunch time and they were serving roasted sonderhond that Keller had managed to track his last time into the bush. He'd been stationed here two months ago, having graduated from the Cape Town Academy with less than stellar marks. The occasional bushmeat had been his only real pleasure in what seemed like endless stretches of mindless minutiae. He didn't really see the point of having operational stations within Xanathan lands.

A chime from a small speaker on his desk went off as a notification blipped on the screen. He gave the keyboard a dissatisfied prod with his makeshift drumstick, his eyes poring over one of several daily reports from low-flying drones. Much of the troposphere had been heavily irradiated during the creation of the Glasveld and all but their most advanced aircraft could navigate the skies without disruption. It was usually nothing but grainy images of skirmishes amongst the "free peoples" or packs of Valdieren . He knocked over the mug with a crash as he reached for radio's transmitter.

"Kry my die generaal!"

1-8-2039
Mt. Cameroon

The interference seemed unavoidable, Lt. Smit observed as he completed a third round of calibrations on the recording equipment each XSF operator was outfitted with. He gave the monitor displaying the feed one last exasperated smack before taking a seat. Smit watched on in detached appraisal as he relayed the order to commence. Distortion filtered through the feed as each operator began to move in on the coordinates the drone had provided a week earlier. His attention focused on that of the lead field agent who raised the barrel of his H&K G36, nodding curtly as two other agents breeched the thatch door of a dilapidated shack.

The three entered, clearing their sectors. A halo briefly appeared on screen as the agent switched on their PR-3 G2 rail flashlight. Automatically adjusting for the new light source, the video feed clearly revelealed the contents of the cramped quarters. The other two operators exited, providing the lead ample room to perform his investigation.

He began overturning the room's limited furniture, scouring for any sign of its inhabitant. Flipping over a cot, he discovered a collection of singed notes bundled in the coarse tatters of a field bag.

A shadow shifted overhead as the gaunt form of a hirsute man dropped from the ceiling's arches. He crashed against the operator's tactical vest and clawed frantically at the man's prostrate form.

A horrendeous and guttural bellow came from the rabid being as he successfully took back his belongings, as well as some of the man's ear he'd managed to bite off in the fray. His animalistic celebration was cut short as the fiberglass buttstock of a rifle slammed against a wagging mane.

5-8-2039
300km W of Xanathan Outpost Lamda-5 (Somewhere in former Angola)

"How'd you let this doos get the drop on you, eh?" a voice guffawed as he struck the safety glass of the containment cell. "Fucking hell, he stinks worse than your mother's poes! At least the fucker's stopped yelling, eh? Or could you not hear him, Danse?"
Another guffaw as the hunched form within the cell gave the man a contemptuous glare from sunken, sallow eyes. It had taken him two days to cease yelling since separated from the bag, whose contents were currently being analyzed in the research vehicle that was part of their caravan. Primary analyses revealed high levels of radiation, along with various dormant strains of unknown pathogens.

Danse leaned over and peered out from beneath the guaze that covered his wound. With a grimace he spat on the prisoner and audibly complained, "Why do we have to keep it alive? It's obviously another mutie and should be put down." Danse unholstered his service pistol and rapped it impatiently against the plexiglass pane in an attempt to gesture towards the research vehicle. "Once they figure out you're useless, I'll be glad to kill you myself. I know how to make it-"

His words hung in the air as the armored personnel carrier was explosively launched upwards, its passengers rattling around its cabin with bone-breaking force.

Glasslands: A Griot's Tale (Earth-F67X Chronicle)

Thread for Lysander, Guts, Ralana and myself.

No God's Sky

Silence was a welcome comfort, something she'd not known in quite some time. It had been weeks since the conquest of her people at the taloned-hand of Ec-Shavar. They posed no real threat, their budding civilzation being nowhere near as advanced as the Cizran empire that had brought monolithic reckoning to the Ganaxavorrian capital. Normalcy, or a semblance of it, had returned after the chieftains had sworn fealty to the governor and "trade agreements" had been solidified.

Loi-Ara Alak's skiv skittered across pools of bubbling selenium, the contents of its belches harmlessly sliding off its hull. She had a late start, spending most of the morning navigating the latest addendums to the scavenging manifestos, and was eager to fill her cargo bay. She scanned the feed from her skiv's radar when the quills on her back bristled abruptly. A peal of lightning tore across the sky and with it the ground before her crumbled into an ever-widening cavern; she cursed beneath her breath, yanking the controls in an attempt to save herself.

The gulch that had swallowed Loi-Ara had begun to flood with steaming selenium, its surface a violent roil. Deep tremors spread across the landscape, causing further fissures to erupt from the craggy ground. Plumes of poisonous gases were sent skyward, their cores pyroclasts of molten silica. What had started as a tenorous bubbling, within moments had built up enough pressure to breach Ganaxavorii's upper atmosphere.. Swept up in swirling currents of thickening air, the skies ashened as the planet choked, a portent of Ua's nearing.

***

Nothing. I am nothing. Or.. I was nothing.

For so long I knew nothing but absence. The absence of everything. It was... comfortable. Now I know no such comfort. I am aware. Of darkness. Of cold. I can feel.. something. It grows nearer. And with it my dread grows. I cannot recall why I feel this way, but I do. I notice a light, microscopic in dimension. But it begins to grow, and with it does my awareness. I feel... I feel pain. A burning pain. It is all-consuming. I am pain.

I am alive once more.

Sensation is a strange concept as my faculties return. Or a simulacra of them. As awareness fills me, memories too begin to trickle across the retina of my mind's eye. This heat is familiar. I had wielded it, or something akin to it long ago. I had worked a forge, and within it I had crafted... The details escape me as darkness abates. The light which had been so faint before has now engulfed my vision. Its intensity and the pain I feel are tantamount.

Have I been brought back only to suffer? The thought has barely formed when I hear a response, within the cavernous depths that is my being. The voice is cold, colder than the womb of non-existence that had enveloped me for so long. Where one had been indifferent, this voice was malice incarnate.

"Your suffering is essential, and quite satisfying. It's part of our last great work.. You never did quite have the vision necessary, but there was no other craftsman as skilled as you."

I attempt to formulate a response, when I can no longer bear the excruciating pain. Through tyranny of will, I am able to focus on the source of the pain; the light; and see that it is me. A wound, grievous in nature, pulsates and with each quiver is expelled a molten crystal. The core that imprisons me fills with the substance, and I lose myself once more.

***

Its tiresome voyage was at an end, and with it Ua would be free of this loathsome plane of existence. It conceded that a small pleasure was to be had in torturing an old mentor. Mun had sculpted many magnificent artifacts in his time, and even laid claim to having crafted many stars in his forge, but never could he have been masterful enough to craft the engine, nor ingenious enough to have a part in its design.

The prison Ua had created for its predecessor was encased within Ganaxavorii; Mun was buried within the planet's core. And the invocations it had envoked had accomplished their duty. The wound Ua had given him so long ago, that had taken his life, had been cursed to bleed at Ua's presence. Through the machinations of its art, Ua had manipulated his mentor's form to excrete an endless stream of an element it had carefully selected. It would act as a reagent in the overall effect of the engine.

Ua manifested itself outside of Ganaxavorii's orbit, having undergone another metamorphosis. It now resembled a gargantuan briollete, easily dwarfing the planet it orbited. It was made from a substance heretofore unknown in this universe; a translucent mineral from which vivid visions emanated. The sudden appearance of something so mighty wreaked further havoc on the planet that convulsed in evolutionary pangs. Ganaxavorii's surface was no longer visible, having been smothered in particulates.

The beam that Ua had broadcast from Q'ab had also completed its journey and it passed through the shimmering form Ua had taken. Energy filtered through every crystalline capillary; the last part of the Rite being completed. Passing through the spiritual medium that was the eldritch horror, the beam had been altered as it met with the reflective silica that had supplanted Ganaxavorii's atmosphere. And the universe shook upon its foundations at such a display of power as beams were transmitted across the cosmos.

***

"How much do you remember about what happened in the Veldt ruins?" The artist's voice was equal measures relieved and inquisitive. Apotheosis had nearly come to the two when their minds met within the psyche of that... being.. that oversaw so much of what had transpired on Q'ab through the ages.

"There are gaps in my logs, due to the extreme fluctuations of the psychic tether, but I do recall being aware, or at least a semblance of awareness. It was like passing through solar wind, a level of distortion in my environment I had never experienced before."

"Do you recall speaking with it, Epi?" Xo'pil paced the length of his accomodations, racking his brain for theories as to what they experienced. "I would think it had been nothing more than a drastic reaction between the toxins of that symbiotic fungus and my accelerated immune system. But that doesn't account for your experience. Could I truly have found evi-"

<< Alert. Alert. The ship has prematurely exited superluminal travel mode and is on inertial propulsion. Maintenance underway. Support vessels in region notified. Please remain calm. >>

His words hung in the air as the Vepsis Dol's emergency notification continued on a loop. The lighiting system within his quarters flickered as the sound of crashes deep within the interstellar freighter. Xo'pil gave pause before curiosity took hold. Retrieving a small object from his belongings, Xo'pil affixed a modular portable lighting system to the polymorph weave that covered his shoulder.

Crossing the room towards the security panel that kept him sequestered from the rest of the ship's passengers, he clucked the tip of his tongue against the back of teeth to a jovial tune. His dexterous fingers slipped betwixt the hull and the panel's edges. With a forceful tug he removed the panel and set it to one side. Xo'pil regarded the layout of the circuitry before him and could barely contain a scoff. "This tech is at least five centuries old."

From within a minuscule aperture in the lining of his lapel, Xo'pil removed two tapered metallic rods that gleamed coldly in the artificial light. He gave another soft cluck of his tongue as he made minor adjustments to the control panel's parameters. A brief sound of triumph was elicited as the door slid open with an ominous whoosh. The lights outside of his quarters were now flickering at a heavier rate. Turning the luminous halo towards the darkened hallway, he took notice of colored bands leading away from the passenger quarters and made the decision to move towards the Vepsis Dol's massive cargo bays.

***

The regular hiss of a respiratory filter underscored the incessant drips and creaks that echoed throughout Gereza's cooling and sewage systems. The garish neon of Ophidian's hide pants were muddled in a knee-high viscous fluid that flowed through a deep channel he was in the process of traversing. The scintilla of short-circuiting hoverdrones cast a sinister shadow down the vast chamber's length, its edges undulating in the coolant's current. The thick husk of his skin tingled against the caustic vapors that surrounded him.

"Sure is spacious. This seems like very poor prison design." Ophidian mumbled as the HUD projected against his eye-patch shifted to that of a map of the area he had salvaged from one of the hoverdrone's memory units. A highly detailed simulation of his immediate surroundings was beamed into the sensory nerve cluster deep within his cyclopean eye. A ping appeared on the map, highlighting a point of interest.

"I am discovering many irregularities in the management and construction of Gereza." Lars responded, and would have continued if not for several distress prompts that was relayed to both infiltrator and overwatch thanks to the surveillance measures Lars had taken upon entering Gereza's orbit. "Sir, alerts incoming from across the empire. One from an ultrafreighter in some backwater system. Many more from the GRID."

Ophidian let loose a short whistle. Something trying to breach the GRID was a fool's errand. "Keep me updated. Going silent on my end." The shadow that had been cast faded as the form of Ophidian sank beneath the surface, followed by a stream of bubbles.

***

His journey towards the cargo hold was a silent and cautious one. The Cizran were notorious for delegating most tasks to the ranks of beings they subjugated and it would do little to further his knowledge if he were to bumble across a kukul assigned to security or some poor soul burdened with one of the fetters devised during millenia of maurading the universe. The modular light responded to his thoughts and would frequently extinguish at the slightest sound.

In the silence that was becoming oppressive, he hesitated when he was able to distinguish a pattern: deep repetitious rumbling somewhere ahead. The distance was impossible to determine due to the cavernous surroundings. Moving towards is source, Xo'pil picked up a brief exchange of words, only able to make out "wrong with the transport".

As he approached, he saw a chamber softly lit in shalam's glow. It had taken him a moment to determine it was actually shalam, as its tell-tale emerald had been replaced with a sparkling sapphire.

"Hold on a se-" exclaimed a diminutive silhouette as the mass of minerals became animated. Xo'pil's beam of light cut through the dim chamber, three forms caught in its halo.

I need a break, Xo thought to himself.

No God's Sky

A superheated mantle, composed of the most lustrous shades of rose, amethyst and lapis churned in gaseous fury as the array of sensory receptors that lined the length of its oblong carapace passively observed its actions. Electromagnetic bursts cascaded forth from the roiling cloud as the form of Ua continued its orbit around Q'ab's star. The moment of Convergence had arrived once more, and its role in the Eternal Rite must be fulfilled once again. Ua's advent into this plane of existence had begun with a series of fermion pairs finding their polemic counterparts; fluctuating with such quantum friction that the superfluid vacuum of space tore at its very seams, causing a distortion around Ajana, the star.

Through this tear Ua was suspended in a quasi-corporeal form. It had oft considered the frequency at which this universe operated on to be discordant, and sought to expedite its duties as to return to the comfort of a more harmonious plane of existence. From the squamous husk that composed the entirety of its mass, spectral strands of undulating tendrils slithered from innumerable openings. The distance between its appendages and Ajana became suffused with its spread, an ever growing blot against its luminosity. Quantum strata fractured as Ua vibrated violently, a phantasmagoric patina pouring out from each aperture, encasing the star in an intricate network of bioelectric tissue; fresh capillaries running through the length of the quivering mass, harvesting Ajana's energies in order to power its processes.

Its appetite voracious and growth exponential. Ua coldly noted that it had already encompassed a large portion of Ajana and prepared itself for the rest of the Rite. From within its depths there began a terrible tremble. Its resonance increased in intensity, the pulses emanating from its epicenter running through the length of its tendrils and spreading across the surface of sloughed skin. A nightmarish beat was brought about, and with each new wave of force a metamorphic process was underway. The Rite could not be stopped.

===

The crisp crack of a vacuum seal being broken. There were few sounds more enjoyable, once given proper context. This was the.. ele-twelfth such sound in the past hour. It'd been quite some time since a job had fallen into his lap and Ophidian didn't mind spending that time drinking himself into oblivion. Or as much as the prosthetics in his hunched form would allow. A calloused and gnarled hand lifted the container to his gaping maw and drained its contents in one swig. A stream of neon ran down the corner of his razor-thin lips; a putrid combination of Nvarian muskglands and liquid brillium.

A chime cut across the courtyard that gave way to the soft rumble of an ozone generator. It signaled a proximity breach; something having entered the orbit of the small moon he had settled comfortably outside of Cizran space. He turned at the hips, the muscles of his neck being so thick that turning it was saved for the most dramatic of moments.

"Lars." His voice; an asteroid adrift in solar wind. Something comforting yet distinctly authoritative. In response, a contemplative and morose modulation of a male voice. "Sir, it seems a courier drone has entered our airspace and is bearing towards our position. Shortburst broadcast says it's Cizran. More specifically, from Su-Lahn.:

A shrill whistle escaped his pursed mouth and he brushed away the neon trail with a hairy forearm. He hopped out a hammock he'd strung between the broken fuselage of a wrecked cargo cruiser. Much of his surroundings seemed to be refurbished wreckage from vessels of various make, juxtaposing a collage of clashing colors against the barren landscape of the satellite. A soft creaking followed his movements as he stopped in the center of the open yard, turning his blind eye towards the ever nearing beacon of light that was the drone.

It came to a hovering halt, before descending until level with Ophidian. Even though it was a simple courier drone, Ophidian could feel the cold contempt of Cizra Su-Lahn emanating from its reflective hull. A sliver appeared on its surface, from which the full terms of his contract was holographically projected. Ophidian gave the document a once over, or to be more accurate his obfuscated gaze paused over the scrolling text before giving an affirmative grunt. The drone chimed in response before ascending; waiting to be picked up by a passing ship to deliver its contract to Su-Lahn.

Several more chimes, matching the proximity alert from earlier, followed its departure. The first of several thousand forms were being delivered, the ambiguous nature of Cizran bureaucracy reflected in the byzantine by-laws and statutes that were in constant flux. Lars would have to dedicate a whole section of his servers to processing all this Nvarshit for the next several cycles, feeding the pertinent information to the display in Ophidian's eyepatch.

Within moments he was strapped into the cockpit of his launchship, cracking open another container as he awaited for the transgalactic loadout he kept in orbit to be properly aligned with his launch. A splash of foam fell across his lap and on to heavily stained pants, made from a repulsive magenta striped hide. How he squeezed into them is unknown, but they're the source of the soft creaking sound that followed him.

"Lars, where we headed?"
"Gereza, sir."

Ophidian spat neon across the console. Its hydrophobic surface and Lars were nonplussed, as this was a frequent occurrence.

"Why didn't you tell me I was agreeing to a job there?"
"Security logs show you looking at the contract and agreeing."
"You know I'm fucking blind!"

Panels of atmospheric shields slid in place over the cockpit's viewports, a live feed of the space surrounding the ship projected against the interior of the shields. The time to back out had long passed and both of them knew it. Ophidian activated all primary and secondary functions of his eyepatch, synching up with the flight computer as an orb of pure energy appeared above the apex of the ship. Its surface crackled with electric fury before lurching upwards; Ophidian and his ship immediately in orbit surrounding his moonbase. With a thought, both modules of the ship interlocked and he was on his way towards Gereza.

===

Xo'pil paced back and forth in the small quarters he had been provided with, knowing full well that his apparent freedom was nothing more than a show. If he were to attempt to leave this place.. Well, he wouldn't attempt to. The furnishings might have meant to be comforting, but he knew the feeling of a cage. He had no clue as to how long he had been held before being transported here. Frankly, he didn't know where "here" was. He assumed from the stagnant quality to the air he was aboard a ship, but bound to where?

He'd been left alone with his thoughts for some time and was far too embroiled in them to notice that Plangó had appeared within a corner of his quarters. His light seemed suffused, as if projecting himself through a fog.The form he took now was one he had reserved for the most intimate of moments between the two, vaguely bipedal in form while the swarm of his collective seemed to be in a deep trance. He gave the softest of sighs before speaking.

"Oh, Little Prince, what have you done? What has gotten into that mind of yours that would let you think such heresy would go unpunished? And why at that clod's gala, at that? He couldn't appreciate the work of a master like yourself, darling Prince. You know, he wanted you put to death right then and there. We're both lucky he's dense enough to let me get you off-world. But everyone knows of your hubris, and your presence on Su-Lahn is already envisioned."

"So we're on our way to Su-Lahn?" The panic was evident in his voice and he barred his teeth, an Azot tendency when threatened.

"You will be. I am not, at least not aboard the Vepsis Dol. No, we're still in orbit around Q'ab. I've delayed its departure for this brief meeting. I'll be quick, so listen carefully. Say nothing to anyone and await my arrival on Su-Lahn. I'll see you through this as far as I can. I still hold much sway with the Siab." The shimmering silhouette turned away and began to fade. Before he had completely vanished, he quipped, "Oh, and Little Prince, you're quite welcome."

The light in the room fluctuated midly with his disappearance, and in his place were three orbs that danced about one another in an elliptical orbit. Xo broke out into laughter as he rose then cried excitedly, "Epit'li!"

===

Through the meticulous manipulation of its viscera, Ua began to layer a rhythm over the percussive wave that it had produced. Its form was both conductor and instrument, and its cadence was one of creation. The strands that it had extended were severed as the first wave of mutation swept over the malignancy that had come to Ajana. The amalgamate of organic and mechanical engineering swelled and throbbed in unison to the Rite, and with each beat the flesh assumed a new form. One that expanded outward exponentially until an area twice the size of the star was encased in a pulsating womb.

Ua's performance had reached a fervor unseen within the confines of this dimension in countless millenia. As its crescendo neared, a new opening in the carapace appeared. It was an approximation of an eye, ancient and terrible in its wisdom. Beneath its surface teemed an intelligence motivated by the unfathomable as it rotated its mass, turning its monstrous gaze to distant Q'ab. Existence stilled as Ua's exaltations had reached a violent apex, and an eerie calm befell the engulfed star.. only for a moment before it shook apart at a subatomic level, sloughing off to reveal an engine of empyrean design. Fully operational, the engine began its daunting task of rearranging the order of the cosmos.

Collapsing in on itself, Ua shed its corporeal shackles briefly as it traveled across the expanse between Ajana and Q'ab, as pure information broadcast through the first solar windburst expelled by the reified star. It took shape once more; repugnant mass against a gleaming emerald orb.

===

Within the glimmering grip of a taloned hand, Ec-Shavar examined the extracted slaver implant. A detached amusement took hold; he was ensured to benefit from the abdication of Potan Mul's station, inheriting the vast swathe of resources the former Avi'lys had been notorious for. Such strategic positioning would allow for a glorious return to Su-Lahn. Complacency has taken hold amongst the Si'ab. He would root it out. But now was not the time to delve into such thoughts. Now was the time to gloat, for he also had the added pleasure of seeing disgrace befall the name of Plangó Felho'Te-vesztø. His pet's subversive outburst would see it suffer, most assuredly for an indefinite amount of time. As complacent as Su-Lahn has become, special measures were always reserved for those who sought to sow heretical thought. If only he could be there to relish in the saprifit's suffering.

A familiar tug on his consciousness informed Ec-Shavar of his former protege's proximity. They found themselves within an open courtyard, part of the estate Plangó had taken over in his short sojourn on Q'ab. He turned a cold eye towards the skies, following the stream of trace energy emitted by the Vespis Dol's sankuls. The soft warmth of Plangó's form was an unusual sensation. The two stood in silence; column of luminous lepidoptera and majestic mantidae. The bent forms of Q'ush servitors rushed to and fro in the adjacent launching pad, moving the last of Plangó's possessions on board his personal shuttle.

"I see you've returned from visiting the saprifit, having circumvented my commands to have it imprisoned in a Gerezan cell. Your adroitness knows no end."
"With just a gentle word in the right ear, much can be accomplished. And when kind words fail, there is always the burden of the Ja'regia."

Ec-Shavar's mandibles gave an audible click of contempt. "True deference can only be gained through the application of strength and fear."
"How unimaginative." Plangó retorted, a stream of aquamarine passing across a fluttering field of rose.

Ec-Shavar weighed his response, one that would not come as the two Cizrans attentions were turned skywards. A dark satellite had appeared, dwarfing Q'ab's moons several times over. In that instant, through the subtle exercise of their empathic organ, the Cizrans established an emotional clarity, their disparate psyches intermingling; a vestige of what they had been before the Kr'Nalus. A flash of emotion was exchanged; fear and avarice.

An ill wind began to blow across Q'ab...

===

The serrated edge of a matte black blade slid across the exposed servos of a custodial droid; a fine mist of hydraulic fluid spraying into the air, beading down Ophidian's broad forearms as he gently set the crumpling form down. It convulsed violently then laid still, the soft whirr of its engines coming to a halt.

"Sir... We're tasked with infiltrating the prison complex with minimal expenditure."
"Yeah- and?"
"That's the tenth droid you've destroyed."
"No witnesses."
"But you're going out of your way for most of them. You actually spent the past ten minutes circling back to 'get the drop on him'."
"You're no fun anymore, Lars."

They had entered Gereza's orbit some hours before, having decided on entering the facility through its waste disposal sector. From there he'd navigate the sewage system, working his way towards the cell block he'd been briefed on. Ophidian had spent the better part of the journey here ignoring Lars drone on and on about the type of defenses he'd come up against and what to expect.

Ophidian wiped the blade dry before sheathing it as he pulled up a mini-map of his current position within the complex. The loadout was displayed against the opaque canvas of his eyepatch, and he gave it a studious glance. He took a knee as he observed two new droids gather below, the omni-directional microphone built in to his eyepatch registering their conversation audible.

"I tell you, Xi-229, if I have to work another triple shift, it won't matter how much M.I.L.K they ply me with. I'm gonna fry my own servos and risk being scrapped. It'll beat having to deal with Cig-agonizing."

Xi-229 gave a short chirp of agreement as it reclined against a hover-lift that was overloaded with barrels of industrial waste. "It's probably not the wisest decision to cut corners on security in a facility like this, but what do I know? As soon as we had less guards on rotation so they could bluster around that Vhadgeid and relied more on remote surveillance we started losing more and more personnel. I'll deactivate my olfactory receptors but I can still feel the stink of what's leftover after an inkling gets past the sewage defense grid and gets a hold of a carby."

The Cizrans needed to run a tighter ship it seems, or maybe looser? Ophidian left the machinations of upper management to the boring types, he was meant for greater things. Greater things like throwing himself over the rail and crashing atop the two chatting synths below, crushing them with poise.

"What did I just say?" Lars intoned over the comms.

===

Ua had arrived, and with it came the devastation of the plasma created by Ajana. Within moments, Q'ab's atmosphere began to be stripped away by the high levels of radiation being emitted by the new satellite within its orbit. A reckoning of electromagnetic fury had come to the planet and with it the refinement of another resource indispensable for the Rite. Its eye reflected upon its actions with unfeeling precision as a beam of highly condensed light erupted forth from its pupil and bored its way through Zoldnach's mountain range, exposing rich deposits of shalam. The emerald mineral began to pulse with a violent light as it was enriched by the introduction of a second energy source. Deep cracks ran through the foundations of the city, spreading like spindly fingers to throttle the Veldt. The caves that served as homes for the Q'ush began to flood. The planet thrashed in pangs of metamorphic agony while darkness waxed.

Once more Ua resonated: if left unaided, Q'ab's instability would increase exponentially until the planet would erupt in Cherenkov brilliance. Such an outcome would hinder the continued operation of the Rite. A heavy lid fell over its monstrous eye as self-contained waves of bass created a mandelbrot interference pattern. From within the unfathomable depths of the fractal appeared the gross caricature of a mouth; twisted in its design. The mouths were legion and from them flowed a single note, and it was cataclysm.

===

"What has your wa'ali done?!" Ec-Shavar turned, hunger and shock in equal measure tainting his tone. A talon jabbed at the satellite's position, in its epicenter was an eye. One they had seen before, during Xo'pil's performance. If a simulacra of the eye held such power, what would one of such magnitude wield? Plangó was unable to respond as a scream tore through the darkening sky, followed closely by explosions from the concussive force of the eye's beam bombarding Zoldnach. The ground grew unstable while the Q'ush threw themselves upon it in prostration and uttered prayers in their hideous reptilian tongue.

Ec-Shavar unfurled his diaphanous wings and rose high above the courtyard. He watched in mute admiration as destruction swept through the city. Photons glittered in the dissipating atmosphere, the blast of energy diminishing into darkness. The far-off Veldt swayed in the might of perilous gales, mimicing the zealotry of the indigenous Q'ush. Wings wrestled against the tempest, holding him aloft so that he might witness more of what true power was capable of. This was what he had sought for so long. It would be his. It was his will and reality was an extension of said will.Yet even the mightiest wills yield when met with fear; and this was terror of the unknown incarnate. The eye had sealed and in its stead arose... mouths. Too many to count. Too many to be possible. Their proportions were crude and they seemed to spin on a broken axis. Its eldritch enunciation the source of a paroxysm of terror that permeated all of Q'ab.

The silence that befell the planet lasted for what felt like an eternity, only to be pierced by the roar of rushing water.

===

A churning began, deep beneath the surface of Q'ab's furious oceans. Tumultuous tremors wracked the ocean bed, a latticework of freshly formed fault-lines expelling super-heated shalam, its familiar emerald glow replaced with scintillating sapphire splendor. The lines widened into rivers, which begat valleys that crumbled and gave way to abyssal horror.

Ua's lips came together, ending its utterance. It beheld the product of its labor, the once-emerald orb that was Q'ab refined into a lustrous sapphire, suspended within a sphere of water vapor it had brought into being. The lid of its eye lifted, and with it the sapphire surged, a second beam piercing through the surrounding cloud and shooting off into space towards distant Ganaxavori. Once more Ua shed its corporeal form, accompanying the beam on its voyage.

===

Plangó's form flitted through the courtyard, every organism of his being bristling whilst producing a kaleidoscopic pyrotechnic display with the intended effect of temporarily stunning whoever was foolish enough to look upon him. A strobing phantasmagoria, Plangó entered his personal shuttle and continued towards the storeroom where his personal effects had been loaded. With ever-increasing fervor, he flung his collection of sculptures and other aesthetic necessities aside with nary a thought to their condition. This continued until he found the item of his search. A painting of Su-Lahn, its contents were ever-shifting. It floated aloft until the desired image came into focus; an obfuscated chamber. A bead of light grew from the center of Plangó's being out of which was extended a hand that quickly pressed against the canvas.

The frame dropped to the floor with a clatter, the supply room darkening as Plangó's form disappeared moments before the vessel fell into a crater as the city crumbled.

No God's Sky

Within the grand scheme of the great web, Ulu'gol knew that this night would be amongst the worst in the series of terrible experiences and decisions that would eventually lead him to a life of self-imposed solitude. It had been meant to be the turning point in his career, a triumphant return to the limelight after having been cast out by talentless usurpers and their simpering idolizers. He, along with a few of his "peers", had been commissioned by the estate of Ec-Shavar to commemorate his recent conquest of Ganaxavori and the cementing of diplomatic ties with Q'ab, the extravagance of the night being one of many concessions made to prevent the devastation that had marked much of Cizran history. All of his aspirations were dashed on the rocks, figuratively and in a sense, literally, as that monstrous stone-eater destroyed his masterpiece and nearly his life.

Lidless eyes watched in budding horror as the stilted form of the "Prince of Flowers" lurched towards him. The fine hairs on Ulu'gol's cephalothorax bristled as he observed Xo'pil stagger towards the crowd of fawning socialites and sycophants, a drink having appeared in one hand with its contents dangerously close to being splashed across those gathered. The fool always made a spectacle of himself at each of his showings, and his behavior only seemed to enamore the Cizrans more with their prodigal pet. Especially that Plangó; who catered to his every eccentricity and afforded him deep pockets and even deeper protection amongst the more scrutinizing aspects of the empire.

With nauseatingly impeccable timing, the diminutive furball quipped as Ec-Shavar's boisterous introduction came to an end about the odds of the night ending with the jingoistic Cizran ramming his flagship into the gallery, in a gross misunderstanding of artistic interpretation. A polite round of nervous laughter was elicited from the group as the artists met gazes. Xo'pil's face split into a wide grin as he wrapped his arms around one of Ulu'gol's injured legs, embracing it tightly. "Oh, take a look at you! You poor bastard, what have these mutants done to you?" The Azot gave the polished metal of a hovercast a curious series of knocks. "Couldn't get a new piece out of you, so they've strung you up on display have they?"

The alakast's pedipalps rubbed against one another anxiously as he spoke, his voice modulated slightly due to the encumberance of the breathing apparatus he'd been outfitted with to prolong his existence. His words came between shuddering breaths, the rasp of the air intake lost within the sea of casual conversation and soft music. "I... am honored... and gracious... for the hospitality... and understanding... the Q'ush have... shown me..." Internally, he seethed at the mock familiarity and undoubtedly dishonest interest for his well-being. He grimaced, or he would've if he'd had the proper anatomy, as Xo'pil ignobly downed the rest of his drink with a sharp toss of his head and immediately beckoned for two more.

Ulu'gol shifted his weight in an attempt to escape Xo's attention when the gravitational repulsor engines of several of his hovercasts failed and he found himself now backed into a corner of the gallery, watching the ethereal forms of Ec-Shavar and Plangó moving amongst the rabble, seemingly deep in conversation with one another as the exuberant voice of Xo'pil ranted and raved about some moment of divine inspiration, or intervention, he couldn't quite follow as the Azot's behavior deteriorated within minutes until he was little more than a wildly gesticulating spectacle that slowly wandered off into the crowd, mumbling something about a womb of ignorance.

"That... could have been... worse...", he said aloud, and as if in response, the remaining engines faltered and he crashed to the ground with a thunderous squelch, a raspy rattle of air escaping his mandibles.

***

"I sense a weakening of your spirit." The words hung in the air despite the commotion in the room. The empathic bond shared between the two Cizrans had fluctuated subtly as Plangó Felho'Te-vesztø made a circuit around the gallery. What was normally a rushing spring of sensory and emotional information had waned to a trickle. It was an unfamiliar and unpleasant sensation, something akin to having his psyche scoured, micron by micron. He approached his host, a resplendent column of kaleidoscopic majesty, and began to keep pace with him, the other guests giving them a wide berth as they conversed.

"To the contrary, never have I been so mighty." The response was a worrisome one. Much could be made from the statement, and in their history Ec-Shavar had always been one to measure his words and actions to the utmost degree. It was his shrewd, tactical mind that had seen him survive several wars since the Kr'Nalus, the great rendering. The skein of Plangó's memories stretched out before him, plucking from them the rich fruits of their past. It was an epoch whose tenets had been emblazoned into the cultural psyche of the Cizrans, an event of such magnitude whose worship had always seemed profane to the Governor. It was a fall from grace he, and the Xo'Xan sought to rectify.

Ec-Shavar stood tall as a pillar of might during turbulent times for the empire. Many of their host had been lost during the Kr`Nalus and its repercussions would be felt throughout the empire for centuries. One of which was the need to reconquer many of the worlds they had dominated during their time as a collective; and it was during one of the last campaigns that he found himself serving under Ec-Shavar in an official capacity as liaison for the Av'sti, an Inquisitorial branch of the Church whose upper echelons were hidden amongst a veil of bureaucratic and mystic nature.

"That is surprising, considering the term mighty has not been used in conjunction with a Xo'Xan in eons." There had never been a need for much political navigation before the time of Kr'Nalus, but the sudden development of differing opinions and viewpoints saw much in-fighting occur between the former Cizran host as lines began to be drawn and sides taken. One of the many factions to arise at this time had been the Xo'Xan, a hubristic group of zealots who saw in themselves aspects of divinity manifest, and sought to constantly change themselves until such a time that divinity had been attained. They subjugated and quantified every species across the empire, taking from them whatever advantageous anomalies their genetic code contained, while exterminating others as wasteful aberrations.

The words held a tinge of contempt and more than a slight lack of courteousness. He doubted that Plangó had come just to exchange barbs; there must have been another reason for his coming. The recent attempt on Ec-Shavar's life, combined with all the other difficulties as of late compelled him to consolidate his power, something he always did when he felt threatened. And what was power in Cizran society if not information; its applications and withholdings tantamount to the finest of maneuvers in any battlefield. He decided it would be best to draw in his opponent, playing off of his well-deserved notoreity for treachery and subterfuge. He bristled theatrically, with all the subtlety of a slorax in heat, as they paused to observe the controlled orbits of a troupe of dancers, their choreographed movements interpolated within the design of the Cizran homeworlds, projected over them as an ever-shifting hologram. It replayed the sequence of galactic events that had led up to the Kr'Nalus, or an approximation of them as much of their records of the time suffered from its backlash.

"To talk of might is to not truly comprehend it, and delusions of grandeur are hardly becoming of a being whose most recent accolades have been won by the works of a Wa'ali." He unfurled a gleaming talon and pointed it towards Xo'pil just as he sent a wave of shudders through the group surrounding him, undoubtedly speaking of great grotesqueries.

"I have no qualms in admitting that all of the accolades bestowed upon me are completely unnecessary, and symptomatic of an antiquated social system that continues to fail us." If Plangó had had eyes, it was at this moment that he would have sharpened them in a predatory fashion. Instead of any overt visual cues, the hues at the fringes of his being pulsed in hypnotic patterns. "We both know how long it takes for the Noema to affect change in policy, and even longer for it to be implemented." Too much and his words would be fragrantly blasphemous. A gentle hand would be needed to gleam anything relevant. "Just look at how long it took to move away from the slaughterous history of the Xo'Xan. To think of all the culture that was lost, of what hidden knowledge we could have discovered had there been a patient Si'ab amongst the Av'Ilys to stay such careless hands. Yet rationality prevailed and we find ourselves at new heights, bolstered by the wit and craft of those you defame as Wa'ali. This is why it's been...Ah, the years escape me. Just how long has it been since you've beheld the grandeur of Su-Lahn's Ja'regia. Since you've strolled through the gardens of Rumai, who spent the better part of his countless years perfecting his art, finding the most beautiful specimens across our lands. How long, Xo'Xan?"

By this time their conversation had taken them in a full lap around the gallery and they found themselves upon a balcony overlooking one of the estate's molten pools and just as Ec-Shavar turned coldly to respond, another round of trumpets and a dimming of the lights brought all attention in the room to the kneeling form of Xo'pil, a gnarled staff within his hands. Behind him was the towering form of a shrouded structure, the masterpiece of the night so many had gossiped about. It was time for the unveiling.

***

The room was hushed as the hooded figure that was their focal point began to speak, his gaze steadied on the end of gnarled staff clutched within his grasp. Five ominous raps against the artificial surface of the gallery floor. Thoughts rose to empyreal heights only to crash against the rocks of his consciousness as Xo'pil, an apt description of the cognitive dissonance he was experiencing. His words tonight would most likely be his last before a Cizran audience.The extent of its circumstances an uncertain knot of probabilities he would have Epit'li working on if he'd had time for repairs. Huilo was drained from his work on the unveiling...Recognition came crashing upon him as he remembered where he was and resolved himself to the tides of fate.

"Civilization is in collapse. This collapse is well documented: by philosophers and scientists, novelists and artists. Through this collapse, at the precipice of insanity, are those who organize to quantify all civic life into a continuum of warfare. Of conquest. Galaticists work alongside military specialists to better prevent or control the slightest disturbances. They seek to continue if not further present cycles of exploitation. To quantify all experience to more readily assess and ajudicate. They do not see the inherent absurdity in such actions."

As he paused and gave his words a moment to sink, a minute parade of ideograms began to spiral out from the center of the pristine white robes he wore. The script seemed to be in a constant state of agitation, undergoing rapid changes yet somehow maintaining a fluid artistry in their fluctuations. The further they spread from the epicenter, the duller their colors became; beginning with bright and bombastic hues of orange and yellow that cooled to a golden hue.

"Our conception of reality is flawed. We begin with the world, made up of external beings. The world outside ourselves. But we ourselves are also a thing, which exist in analogy with the other things that surround us, coming to a consensus on the nature of reality. But there is a presence to us which is not a thing; self-awareness. The thoughts with which we think. Consciousness. We are an abstraction of an even greater abstraction we call nature."

He rose from his kneeled position and began to circle the veiled object with methodical footsteps. By this time the vast majority of his robes had become enveloped in the glyphs, an intricate weaving of visual elements that dazzled the senses. There seemed to be a light glowing within each symbol's depths and it eerily mirrored the rhythm of his movements.

"We make claims at an apprehended identity. On what does this apprehension depend? An observer? Does there exist an eye so mighty to behold all? If so, what would we look like to such a being? What would we say to the Divine, when we are Nothing within its scope? When the insignificance of your existence must be accented with a futile search for meaning, an act of hubris in which we are all complicit."

He stopped after having completed five circuits around the installation, whose veil turned tumultuously as if caught in a storm. Xo'pil turned and raised his staff to the cloth, the length of its gnarled wood having succumbed to the runes and laid it against the diaphonous material. The denoument had arrived and the rate at which events were culminating was accelerating. He could feel it deep within himself that the trajectory of his life would deviate wildly after tonight's initiation. The symbols virulently transferred surfaces and was the catalyst for his speech's crescendo. Xo turned to face those gathered, lush patches of his indigo coat becoming more pronounced as his robe began to fall away in a manner reminiscent of dying leaves.

"I see this, but I do not see my sensations of it. What I see will always remain, no matter how much its image may be turned or altered. I'll always have the same content of consciousness. Although very different contents may be experienced, the object which is perceived remains the same. In whatever way we may be conscious of the world as universal horizon, as coherent universe of existing objects that are constantly active on the basis of our passive having of the world. This is true not only for me, the individual ego; but rather we."

There was the distinct sound of shattering coming from the veil as the morpheme completed etching itself upon the entirety of the structure's surface and layers of the statue began to fall away in large shards until beneath it all there remained a floating and pulsating eye carved out of a crystalline substance that seemed to act as a plasma but retained the appearance of substance, albeit one whose inner dimensions contained dizzying depths.

"When stripped of ideological veils, the imperatives of autonomous subsystems make their way into the lifeworld from the outside- like colonial masters coming into a tribal society- and force a process of assimilation upon it. The diffused perspectives of the local culture cannot be sufficiently coordinated to permit the play of the metropolis and the world to be grasped from the periphery. Consciousness is fragmented into the twin demons of alienation and false consciousness. Let me show you what lays beyond such primitive understanding."

The word came to life within the folds of the eye, its luster caught in endless reflections. And from the darkness erupted a chorus of bellows.