Patches, Pheobe Gainer, Pheonix suffers alone. She weeps as she strips away her memories for the comfort her elders do not provide. But there's nothing for her there. And in the end, that's all she becomes. Nothing. For a split moment. Emptiness. Complete and total in its consumption of her being. There is no screaming, no weeping, no tears—just silence.
In that void, however, there is a spark. A buried memory that smolders and smokes. Patches clings to this spark. The truth that she could never stand.
...a needle stirs you from your sleep...black liquid burns at your veins...for the first time you can think. Reason comes soon after...
"How's the progress, Clark?" Alphira speaks with an upward tilt of her chin. You stare at her, unable to comprehend. You lift your chin up to mirror her. Am I Clark?
"Good. The low exposure levels are introducing some fascinating changes in biology." That must be Clark.
"Any level of sentience?" Alphira paces around your [tube].
"No brain activity whatsoever," Clark reports, he lies! "We've begun installing wetware programming and reinforcing neural pathways for increased proficiency in high mathematics, information gathering -- other standard null imprinting."
"Fantastic. How's its projected loyalty?"
"Almost as high as you wanted without a full imprinting algorithm. We're meeting all set goals, Captain." Clark sounds proud. He begins to ramble about the wetware until Alphira cuts him off.
"How soon can we expect full decanting?"
"Within the month. Maybe next week."
"I want you to push the levels of [Dust] injection higher." Alphira states.
"...I would advise against that. We're keeping brain activity low--"
"Do it. We need results."
Alphira leans in close, revealing a scarred, twisted face. Black eyes stare at you, then widen. "It's staring back. The wretched little thing is staring back."
"What? Impossible. There's no -- shit."
"Terminate it."
"Alphira, it's sentient; doing so would violate my [Gene-wright] oaths."
Willpower rises around her, twisting into the vat -- the fluorocarbons begin to warm in response. You twitch as your nervous system encounters its first real stimulus: pain. The water boils, and it's only by dint of your Ascended biology do you survive her attempt to kill you. Her willpower fades and ebbs. You blink back at her in silence, unable to form the words.
"Decant it. Stick it in cryo. This isn't the weapon I wanted, Clark!" Alphira sounds angry as she glares at you. "It's worthless to me now! Sell or chute it to some backwater...I'm not paying you for this..."
You lay in the twilight. Alone. Half-sleeping. Half-dreaming. You struggle to find a diversion. Struggle to find something to occupy the space you linger in unwillingly. But there is nothing: nothing but the cold, cold embrace of the eternity within cryostasis.
A process begins to run—a half-entity.
"...open it using the interface..."
[Interface.]
"She says to drop it into the Void. It must be worth somethin'. Some dirt or somethin'...it could be her daughter for all we know."
[Void]. [Daughter].
"It's jus' a brain-dead brat Loomed from some backwater DNA...ain't worth shit." They discuss what to do with you -- death, slavery, or 'chuting' until they settle on ignoring Alphira's orders and selling you first chance they get.
[I'm scared.]
[Don't be. I'm here.] You create her from half-thoughts. Memories of old maternal figures from past lives. A personality to nurture and care for you...to provide something. Any type of stimulation in this hellish half-life.
You lay in the twilight, half-sleeping, but you are no longer alone...
You drift through the stolen memories of your elders. Past books in ancient libraries deep beneath the crust of the planet. To a golden palace. Through jungle. Alphira's memories were the clearest. The [Interface] gives you lives worth living by fragmenting the memories of those that came before. She assembles you piece by bloody piece until a personality forms -- a stitch-work creation.
Before she awakens the others--
Alphira stands above you with a transfusion kit. Blood streams from her many savage las-gun ruptures. There is none of that willpower you once saw, [ages] ago. She's weak, but in her eyes burns a horrific madness. She slams the needle into your arm --
You drift in space like the rest of the trash—another eternity. The Interface and Alphira plot together to save themselves. A nudge of hydrogen here. And here. And here. They consume us, our memories, our souls as the planet below grows more prominent over the years. Heat. Then pain. Then silence.
"Don't die on me." Alphias leans over you, speaking to Alphira ages ago. You are dying the same way she once did, but no one cares enough to coach you through it. Through this suffering. You take solace in this stolen memory as your life fades, as your blood flows--
"Keep breathing." Alphias swims into focus. He's wearing his old leather and plate armor from the station. A monogram of a heart sits above one of the plates. He holds Alphira delicately as medics struggle to stop the bleeding. Struggle to stop the advancing Plague from consuming her. "Please. Please. Please... Not you too."
"Sir -- she's dying. There's nothing you can do."
"There's one thing." From the pockets of his armor, he pulls out a black vial full of powdery, black, Dust. "T-try this. We found it on the lower levels."
"Isn't this--?"
"We found two."
"We shouldn't waste it! Elias is a strong warrior -- perhaps he wo--"
"Do it!" Full of righteous anger, Alphias grabs the medic by the throat. "She is my [daughter, lit. 'cell that replicated,' usually concerning adopted, Loomed children]."
A needle tears a hole.
Alphias looms over you -- or is it a medic? Who-- the world swims again -- Envy overwhelms you at Alphira's luck -- You spit a wad of blood into somebody's face. Defiance until the end! Anger at the universe that bore you into these circumstances. Anger at those that came before that did nothing to make your life better.
Patches, the emotions, the fears, the wants, and needs, cradles this spark with reverence. Could she cry, she would. But she has nothing but her grief. And her anger. This is my value. Nothing but a tool. A weapon for a childish goddess. I'm measured by my worth to advance a plan or by my ability to kill. I've stolen sparks of life from others because I have none of my own. I am a void. A null. A non-entity.
This isn't fair! I was born hated by a galaxy -- this hellhole of a planet included. I was born into war and bloodshed and death. But I fought tooth and nail to control my fate! But in the end... it's all for nothing. Every choice I make leads to a defeat, another conflict, more pain, and more loss. Why should I struggle? When gods and demons conspire against me? When I survive one battle only to find another?
ANSWER ME...please...gods above...please...
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Topic: McCreary's Planet -- (FINISHED) (Read 253104 times)