<i><<type 65ms start 1s>>for we have been cast aside, made hopeless in our search. if you still draw breath, will you tell me you're still out there, somewhere?
would you call us home, at last?<</type>></i><<nobr>><<cont append>><<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|frontmatter]]</div>
</div><</nobr>>
<</cont>><</nobr>>For all the strategy, planning, preparation, and politics involving in ending the world -- you never thought that it would actually happen. Nobody did. The doomsday clock skipped a couple of seconds, a minute, struck midnight in late summer and then -- the world was over. Ended in a heartbeat. It must have been strange -- to sit in a bunker and think little of pressing the button. Detached, soulless, watching bright red dots fade out on the screen. Hearing muffled sirens, feeling the shaking of the ground so far above. The screams are silent.
That, however, is not how the world ended. It died slowly, agonizingly, bleeding out from centuries of misuse and abuse. Poison that leeched into the ground, skies choked with toxic smog, the cancerous growth of the Dead Lands. Where nothing grows and the laws of nature are refracted upon themselves, bent to the guiding hand of the shepherds and devotees of that land, acolytes inhuman -- save for the fact that they were, once.
When they -- the nebulous <i>they</i> that places equal blame on Corporation and Union alike, though one is surely more guilty than the other, not that it matters much -- finally dropped the weapons, there was nothing left to win. Nothing worth fighting over: war for the sake of war, death for the sake of dying, of killing. Needless killing; it is the nature of organic life to destroy others, the nature of organic life to destroy itself.
Those that still walk these lands in-between are testaments to a different nature. One to survive.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|frontier radio 01]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><style>
#header {display:none;}
#passages {width: 500vw;margin:0;margin-left:7.5vh;overflow:hidden;scrollbar-width:none;font-family:var(--monofont);transition:0s;padding:0;}
::-webkit-scrollbar {width:0px;}
.passage {text-align:center;transition:0s;margin-left:20vh;}
#passages a:before {content: none;}
#story {margin-left:0;}
h1 {text-align:center;margin-top:25vh;color:var(--white);}
@media screen and (max-width: 800px) {#story {margin:0;}}
</style>
<center><h1>00: a fading of the light<<set $gamechapter to "00: a fading of the light">><<set $transct += 1>><<set $cardct += 1>></h1><<cont>><<goto "00 afotl 01">><</cont>></center><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>It has grown too quiet. Far too quiet. The wind doesn't rush through the jagged rocks and twisted metal, the eagle doesn't cry out high overhead. Not even the haunting static, nor the low mechanical hum remains. In this canyon, walls of glass and stone and shattered metal, no sound enters. No sound escapes. No screams of the dying, just the silence of those long dead. Long dead. Like you.
Bleeding out slowly, propped up against a red boulder. Impaled, dark metal driven into muscle, sinew, bone. Impaled, dark metal driven into stone. A warning. A reminder, a message. For whom, you can't quite remember. Maybe you? <i>Don't kill the messenger,</i> they preach, a warning to those who would bloody their hands on the innocent and blameless -- and yet, here you are.
Your assailant's face is a long since faded memory, blurry shadows for eyes, a harsh line for lips. Your assailant's body lingers at the corners of your vision, all mountainous shoulders and strong hands. Your assailant's words are but an echo at the back of your mind, spoken in some deep, guttural language. Not angry at you. No, this was not an act of rage, not an act of anger but of pity, a merciful killing. Pity on their face and in their hands as they drew out your blade. Pity as fingers wrapped around your throat and dimmed the light in your eyes.
The sun is setting, the walls of the canyon catching the desperate fingers of light. Glass and metal and red rock, all stained golden by the last rays. You shiver in the descending darkness. The light will not reach you here. Shadow and blood stain red to black.
You won't make it through the night.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>>The realization strikes you, hard, burying itself alongside the cold spike in your chest. Fear settles its cold hands around your throat, desperation sinks its fiery claws into your brain. You are afraid, so very afraid, afraid of dying, of fading away into nothingness, to be eternally helpless, adrift in the empty you fear comes after -- a primal, ancient fear. A primal, ancient fear you pushed down and down, a pit in your stomach that rises like sickness, a cold lump in your throat. And you are brought back by the fires of desperation, by feverish pain pulling you back to this uncaring reality, pinned to a rock and still begging you rise, get up, fight another day.
You have always fought -- it was what you were best at, facing odds unimaginable and squaring your shoulders and setting your jaw and preparing to fight, regardless. You have to fight now when it matters most, fight to see another day with every fiber of your being. Your feet scrabble on the ground -- the only sound in this accursed valley -- as you struggle to rise, pushing up until your feet rest beneath you to kneel exhausted on the rock. Your slack grip on the spear loosening and loosening until it falls away. An empty claw of a hand, wounded, useless. Like you. The dying light graces your dying face, a stripe of golden hope. Until it too fades, leaving you alone. In the dark. Far above, the almost-vultures circle, their cry beckoning to the others. You scream back.
You scream, breaking the silence of a billion dead. You scream, the agony of a thousand past lives that will die with you, their stories yet untold. You scream for the war you fought in the deepest recesses of your mind, and for the war you fought with your broken body and bloody fists, the war that was lost both times, because you are here -- impaled upon your own weapon, pinned like an insect to a rusty boulder in the ruins of a city past -- and not out <i>there</i>.
You scream, voice echoing into a symphony of suffering in the tight walls of the canyon. Until it carries no longer, cries strangled by blood and viscera. You can do nothing but cry now, tears streaking your face. This is the end. There will be nothing else. This is the end.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|00 afotl 02][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>>You're dying. It is entirely inevitable now, a strange acknowledgement, as hollow and futile as the rising of your chest. You're dying, and choosing to prolong the process by reaching for the end of the spear. You raise one defiant, mangled hand -- and one empty sleeve. A strangled sound, a bitten-back scream of shock escapes your lips.
You're dying. Faster now. Your vision blurs, the world spins as your fingers catch the end of the spear. As you pull with all your might, jaw slack, eyes glossy with a slithering pain of dislodgement. Hand over hand, inch by inch. The end draws nearer and nearer and you drag yourself closer to it still. Hand over hand. Inch by inch.
And you are free, lurching forward as your chest clenches around the emptiness where once there was a spear, where once was your heart. You are free, and it is too late now; nothing short of a miracle will help you, save you. Your ribs ache as you fight for shallow, metallic breaths. You lie on your back between the cool stone and tapestry of stars. The sky is dark, but not the sickly gray-green so commonly found where heavens and earth are poisoned. Midnight blue and clear, stunningly so; a billion stars blink in and out of existence, fade at the hazy border of the almost-full moon. A tear rolls down your cheek as the bright moon is interrupted -- the shadows of the high-circling almost-vultures who grow impatient with your antics. Who wait for you to die so that they might unmake you.
They won't have to wait long, you fear. Feeling is fleeting in your limbs, melting away from your hand in a rush of flame followed by cold, the long lines of remaining nerves burnt up in a flash. You drift away from your body, watch as your life seeps out onto the stone. A blank stare, eyelids flickering but never closing. Blood bubbling in a froth on your lips with every shallow breath, the fragment-ends of broken ribs heaving with every shuddering draw of air. You tug at the empty sleeve, clutch desperately the cold, rubbery fingers of the curled hand, make every attempt to claw your way back into your body. You press the empty hand to your cheek, your mouth. It's so cold. You're so cold. You're so small, so useless, so far gone.
So far gone. Somewhere else entirely, somewhere better, you hope. Anywhere but here. Not now, any time but now. But then, the vague <i>then</i> of any time past, then, when you were someone, anyone different.
<<nobr>><div class = choices>
<div class = choice-item> [[the blue skies.|00 afotl 03][$choice to 1]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[the burning fields.|00 afotl 03][$choice to 2]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[no. none of this. not now. not again.|00 afotl 03][$choice to 3]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<if $choice is 1>><span class = flashback>The skies were as blue as a robin's eggs. And just as delicate. The land used to be plentiful, rolling green hills under the blazing sun. The days were longer and hotter then, an eternal summer. You sat under that lonesome tree, waiting, watching. She's late, as usual. But the ripple of the corn in the distance betrays her approach.
Under that hot sun, under that lonely tree, you sat. A patch of cool shade, where the ground was mossy and soft, where nothing existed but the conversations you had. About nothing at first, the day's activities, your mutual friends, what you thought you were going to do for school. And then, the questions you had to ask. About the Corporation buying up the land and the farmers alike. About the war between the Union and the Corporation. About her sick brother, about your missing mother.
Under that hot sun, under that lonely tree, you sat. In silence. You were old enough for the draft. You were old enough for the Corporation to claim you. And she was too. And this summer was your last for school and you had no plans but tending to the fields until the fields failed or the Corporation bought them up. And even that looked doubtful, with the way your father talked to hers, the way that the fields burnt more than they were harvested, with the way that the scientists on the TV preached about the coming apocalypse, centuries in the making, a culmination of fate and foolishness unto this one moment of revelation.
No future, then. The same realization she must have had. A pact made with linked pinkies. Stick together -- no matter what. Tend the fields together until the draft called. And then what?
Run.
And if it were the Corporation come calling instead, offering a contract for a future?
Run.
Run until the sun burns away the fields, run until the sky shatters and the ground falls away and there is nowhere left to run.
And then what?
And then you'd have each other. And the end of the world wouldn't be so bad.</span><<elseif $choice is 2>><span class = flashback>One, two, three, four. Jackboots on cobblestone, the echoes of war in a small town.
One. Two. Three. Four. Combat boots in blood soaked mud, the images of war burnt as photo negatives into your mind.
One, two, three, four. Catching your breath between footfalls, counting your paces. Charging headlong as tracers illuminating the heavens. The walled city lies ahead, bolts of plasma and burning metal raining down from the concentric rings. The sky itself on fire. You are tasked with breaching the walls, climbing the tower before it is too late. This is the directive they imparted upon you. Breach the walls. Climb the tower. Die trying.
Death is the only constant on this battlefield. A bolt strikes the ground up ahead, sending debris and soldiers flying, all the same to you. All the same in the end. Hot metal showers the front of your column and by the cry of the commanders and whistles you advance, desperately avoiding confronting what it is you trod on. You advance, your mission burning in the back of your mind. Breach the walls. Climb the tower. Cut the head off the beast, slay the great dragon of the Corporation, end this war. Be the hero.
Or die trying. A bolt strikes the ground ahead. The ground splits asunder with a static roar, white hot pain searing a blinding scar into your being. The ground splits asunder, dragging you down with it. Down into darkness.
The world fades in and out of existence, gray and black and horrible murky red. <i>Get up</i>, something in your head screams, as loud as the shells that whistle overhead. The dull blue eyes that stare back at you and the trembling hands that hold you and the culmination of dead-dying weight that smothers you plead otherwise -- <i>stay</i>, they beg. <i>Here in the dark, it is safe. Let the earth cover us over,</i> they whisper between the screams of the shells and the dying, indistinguishable from one another. The hands on your chest pull tight at the webbing of your vest. The same whispered words, quietly plead.
<i>Please, I don't want to die here.</i>
And their cries grow more pitiful -- they beg for water, for their mother's arms, for the honor of living another day, seeing another sunrise. They sob, cling to your chest, pray for deliverance. You draw the heavy revolver from its holster on your hip. Clear the barrel. Pull back the hammer, a hollow click as the cylinder slides into place. Deliverance at the brake of a muzzle, deliverance at the break of dawn. The dull blue eyes stare up at you, bloodshot and pleading. The yawning abyss in the side of their head answers their prayers.
You stand. The mission awaits, still. Now is not the time to give up. You shed the webbing belt and rucksack, your vest and helmet, your blood soaked gloves and saturated jacket. You're hurt. Badly. But there is no time for self-pity as the world around you burns; you inhale and taste flame on your tongue, the air itself is alight. One, you find your footing. Two, you grit your teeth. Three, you limp forward. Four. You will die trying.
The sky shakes, the guns on their battlements falling still and quiet. The sky shakes. Forward. All eyes but yours on the heavens. Dawn is breaking too soon. Far too soon. And in a single moment there is a streak of pure jet black, followed by a tremendous light, the skies extinguished as a wave of sound like thunder or crashing tide strikes you.
You fall. There is nothing else you can do. You could die, you suppose. There will be time enough for that.</span><<elseif $choice is 3>><span class = flashback>One. Two. Three. Four. Your hands are busy, gently intertwining the dandelions into a crown.</span>
No. There is no time for memories. You don't <i>want</i> to remember. Logically, you know this is the final signifier of death, review of memory, the last fading moments of brain activity. Illogically, you hope that what you recall here -- bittersweet or horrific, both burnt with equal heavy importance into your retinas and the deepest recesses of your memory -- will be forgotten, and you will follow suit. Forgotten.
<span class = flashback>The yawning abyss in the side of their head answered their prayers; all good things must come to an end. Nothing good to be found amongst the ruins, only shattered glass and twisted metal and blackened bone and spilled blood. All things must come to an end. The fires went out and you remained.</span>
No. There is no time for memories, blurred and hollow, distant projections of vivid life looping senselessly, confused and chaotic, twisting as neurons cry out and fall still and quiet.
<span class = flashback>Your heavy hands are interlinked with hers, calloused and cruel unlike the delicate fingers that curl their way into the webbing of your vest, white-knuckled, bruise-stained. Even then, her golden eyes smiled, though the sadness remained. Glassy blue stared back, burst capillaries and the graying oxidation of brain matter, a pungent taste at the back of your throat, iron and something else, something worse.</span>
No. Your limbic system fails you, the primordial, still-creature, desperate parts of your brain betray you. The memories come faster now, more broken, more confused.
<span class = flashback>Cold metal in your hand, on your hand, as iron seeks iron and the revolver inhales flame and exhales smoke and steel. The skull shatters in the dappling of light through waxy green leaves, staining her skin in shades of gold and yours in shades of guilt. She laughs high and light like the rising sun like the cries of lonesome birds like the screams of dying men and the shells, indistinguishable. She laughs high and light like the rising sun as dawn is coming, too soon, far too soon, far too soon; the sky is fire and it is not the sun that rises but</span><</if>>
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|00 afotl 04]]</div>
</div><</nobr>>A sudden flash, something searingly bright, drags you back to the cooling desert sand. A glow from somewhere deep behind your eyes, overtaking every figment of your being until there is nothing left but this hollow idea of you and the light. Like the last rays of the setting sun, like the detonation of a bomb.
And then nothing, nothing but a roaring silence that settles to a whisper, to the beating of a distant heart.
And then nothing at all.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|frontier radio 02]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><i><<type 65ms start 1s>>and i have wandered far. as have you, carried apart in the tides. i wait for you now, at the shoreline. i long for the day you will return to me.
let the pull of the moon guide you home.<</type>></i><<nobr>><<cont append>><<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|01-01 iyslf start]]</div>
</div><</nobr>>
<</cont>><</nobr>><style>
#header {display:none;}
#passages {width: 500vw;margin:0;margin-left:7.5vh;overflow:hidden;scrollbar-width:none;font-family:var(--monofont);transition:0s;padding:0;}
::-webkit-scrollbar {width:0px;}
.passage {text-align:center;transition:0s;margin-left:20vh;}
#passages a:before {content: none;}
#story {margin-left:0;}
h1 {text-align:center;margin-top:25vh;color:var(--white);}
@media screen and (max-width: 800px) {#story {margin:0;}}
</style>
<center><h1>01: if you should lie fallen
<span class = flashback>01-01: amongst ruin</span><<set $gamechapter to "01: if you should lie fallen">></h1><<cont>><<goto "01-01 iyslf 01">><</cont>></center><<notify>>New transmissions available.<</notify>>Sits on a high perch above the city, or what's left of it. <span class = ghost>Like a bird</span>, it thinks, like the many things that claim the sky as home. Who fly; it stretches its arms and imagines the rippling of feathers in the wind, the slick oil-spill black of the almost-vultures whose prey is not prey, but what is left. What is left.
Left after the city began to fall, in the literal sense. It did not understand until the storm was upon them, a hurricane of hubris to think the desert could be conquered, to think itself safe here. Glass rain, a thunder from deep below, a rising tide. First, salt water welling from fault lines. Then the earth itself. Sand flows like water when properly disturbed and this, this was a proper disturbance. It did not understand until the storm was upon them and buildings opened, petals of flowers in the early morning or the skin of fruit, wrenched back to reveal steel skeletons. Buildings thrown like leaves on the wind, screams above the thunder, rent metal, people, all the same in the end: debris. Debris, a wall of stone rising, rising, rising too fast to run or hide. Left, standing in the street and finding the arms of someone it wished now were unfamiliar, forgotten, a tight embrace and a hand covering its eyes and the muffled sob as the shadow overtook them both and then
It stretches its arms and imagines the rippling of feathers in the wind. Vultures and their equivalencies. Skin torn by glass or knives or beaks or claws, bodies picked over for valuables, dead currencies and precious metals, tendon and organ. Didn't matter. Neither death nor scavenger cares to make distinctions of that which they steal from. Death is death. Silence is silence. It woke up and the city was silent, it woke up and understood what it was to be silent. It woke up and begged the walls of its tomb for response. The silent, dead city was its response. With bitten tongue, a vow was made. Silence for silence, the last thing it said an apology.
<span class = ghost>I'm sorry.</span>
And then nothing. Never again.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|01-01 iyslf 02]]</div>
</div><</nobr>>Sits on a high perch above the city. <span class = ghost>I'm sorry</span>, it thinks, watching the dark-uniformed almost-soldiers lead the hooded not-yet-corpse into the ruins.
Part of it aches; return to the depths, follow the soldiers, plunge deep underground, know again what lies there. Like the first time, when it took its guilt and hate and fear to die in the place that should have killed it. When it found the memorial to those that perished there, to the broken families, to the destruction that fell from the sky and ruptured the earth, to the emptiness it left. Almost an apology, almost personal, to see the stark-metal pillar sunk into the clay.
An apology made like prayer; <span class = ghost>I'm sorry.</span>
Part of it aches; return to the depths, knowing what happens in those tunnels. Twists and turns leading deeper and deeper and deeper into the labyrinth, onwards and onwards, to what waits at the bottom. A minotaur of sorts, an amalgamation of things possessing danger and intrigue alike. The soldiers take their prey to that thing, that horrible thing, their service the same as that mythological ball of string. But not one of the people they bring is that chosen demigod, not one is the champion they seek, capable of the task that lurks for them. So the soldiers lead them back up, to meet their fate another way.
Beautiful and repulsive, dangerous and yet a kind of safety, certain uncertainty in being led past the places where the ground falls away to nothingness and the chasm looms deep and inviting. Places where the ceiling descends and to proceed one must crawl, lowly in the dirt, each breath drawing the tunnels a little tighter. Places where pale green crystals of accumulated uranium and iridescent corite collect, where one's mouth fills with the taste of bitter metal as the Geiger counters scream, where reminders of what was before hang motionless from the collapsed roofs, stalactites dripping salty water. Human things, shattered pipes and waterfalls and skeletal cairns, half-erected guardrails of repurposed scaffolding, catacombs built to house a shameful past, to wipe away any wrongdoing. A mass grave, making what lies at the bottom a headstone. Monument, it knows it by. Monument to the lost souls who haunt the underground. A simple thing, a silver pillar buried deep. Nigh impossible to reach, and harder to return to. A monument to the dead, where only the dead may see it.
Or those who have nothing to live for, like the thing that longs a return to the tunnels. To find it again, that same thing that the uniformed soldiers seek. Their purpose, not fate or glory but duty. Their duty. Half-buried at the base of Memorial is a silver box. Locked, hidden, purposefully exposed. But not unlocked. Never unlocked. A mechanical thing that tastes like static on its teeth, something with many organs beneath the thin silvery scale-skin. It projects a flickering hologram of a keyboard, and the answer to a question. It tried to unlock the box, tried until hunger threatened to tear it apart, until thirst drove the animal parts of it to desperation. And though it hurt to do so, it buried the box again.
<<nobr>><div class = choices>
<div class = choice-item> [[Hurt like memory remembered.|01-01 iyslf 03][$choice to 1]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[Hurt like wound reopened.|01-01 iyslf 03][$choice to 2]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[Hurt like knowing, like being.|01-01 iyslf 03][$choice to 3]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<if $choice is 1>>Hurts like the memory that once was the city, punching through the mountains like a jagged spire, reminder of home but different, its inverse. Home resembled the ruins, the inverse of the skyward-stretching city. Home is unimportant. Existence was found elsewhere. Home was forgotten. Needed to be. Longed often for the forests of towering Thorns that hum like a choir. Longed often for something that could not exist here, the thing that gives life to the spores seeded in the earth, commands them to rise when the conditions are right. Germination, the whispering gills of mushrooms and a creeping moss borne by radiation. Living-dead things that grew to cover the earth.
Concentric walls and their beautiful rings, felled storytelling trees. An artificial plateau, a false mesa. Busy streets, hive of activity, cacophony of voices that ring and echo in clamorous song. Beautiful artificiality. It longed for real, for something it could have, something it could hold. Like the bread it stole from the small shop on the corner, like the space it stole in the back alley where it could eat without being seen, a trespasser cautious beyond caution. Wasn't supposed to be there, constant reminders of hood and mask and the shame for which it buried its face in its hands. Wasn't supposed to be there, secret paths that took it out of sight and earshot of the proper residents. Wasn't supposed to be there. Lonely. Watching from afar -- children played in the streets as cars flew by, open markets occupied by weary-eyed vendors and sharp-tongued buyers. It did not speak. Did not play with the other children, did not try its luck in the markets. It did nothing but watch, dreamt of the brush of hand against theirs. Lonely.
It wasn't supposed to be there. Maybe things would have been different if it weren't there. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Maybe if it hadn't tried to help, maybe if it hadn't spent those days searching the wreckage, maybe if it had saved them. Maybe, maybe, maybe. A thousand questions. And one terrible, terrible answer.
<span class = ghost>I'm sorry.</span><<elseif $choice is 2>>Hurts like the wounds. No stranger to hurt. No stranger to damage, to field medicine. To limping off to some dark, quiet space to tend to wounds or die in peace. Partial, temporary deaths, the slip-under and wait, until the blood in its veins reawakens and with ragged breath it sees another dawn. It hurts. Knows about the many ways to hurt, not just blood loss from punctures or slashes, but internal wounds, invisible ones. Crushed bone that twists back into the half-correct shape. Things broken inside, bile-blood sick. The world ringing like struck metal, fracturing into spirals of light, stumbling about with head in hands. Hurt heart, scorching tears in eyes as a lump like impalement, like lead slug, worms its way through its chest. Worse. When it becomes a ghost adrift in a world of tangible things.
It is tangible. Likes to be reminded of it, likes it too much sometimes. Enough to do horrible, horrible, horrible things to verify its existence, hurt and wounded both. Unafraid of either; to be real is reward enough to justify the means of getting there. The infliction of pain is both an art and a cruelty carrying hidden a horrible, horrible, horrible reality. It is not invulnerable. Not immortal. It bleeds. It will face real death, eventually.
It knows its face already. Has looked it in the eye, wept for their pitiful existence. For something with no will to exist, to live, it begged all the same. It was a mistake, wasn't supposed to end like this. Not like this. The soldiers had chased it through the ruins and they were too far and there was too much between it and them for their weapons to be lethal. It thought itself safe until it turned a wrong corner and the other man got the worst of it, his body bursting like overripe, putrid fruit. But it still felt the slug tear through its body, learnt what cavitation means to the body, collapsed awkward and held in what once composed it until it was sure it could bleed no more. A single puncture in the front, a fast-draining wound. And the empty-carcass-rupture of its back. Last words between half-regurgitated innards.
<span class = ghost>I'm sorry.</span><<elseif $choice is 3>>Hurts. Hurts in a way, deep and profound, escaping the too-simple words of the language it stole from humans, escaping all but the thunder-strike language it once sung to the winds. Words it cannot speak again. Hurts like knowing it cannot say it. It has hurt much in its short life, known wounds and heartbreak and loss and fear and rage. Has learned many, many lessons. Taught one thing, over and over and over again. It does not belong. It does not belong.
It does not belong. Not human, not human enough. Has lived amongst them long enough, has touched their skin and beheld their strange beauty, has listened to their languages, to their songs. Not human, something near, something adjacent. Bleeds the same red, same bones that crack under weight and force. Can die like a human, drawn out and terrible, clinging to life with desperate fingers. Can suffer like a human -- delirious from heat, exhausted from cold. Needs still to hunt and eat, needs water and clean air and protection from the sun and a hand to hold. A hand to hold, slipping through fingers like dying rays of the sun. Denial, not human enough.
Belonging then, to nature, to the portion devoted to the new perversions of creation. A thing not quite human but human enough. Human enough to be aware, to know. It will one day die, will fade away into the vast nothing. Human enough to fight, to defy nature and the end of all things. To love the world that has time and time and time again given it nothing. To turn its face skywards, to ask the heavens not to save it, but instead to give it just another day to atone. To love those who would hate it, had they known of its deception. It was a human thing to search the ruins. It was a human thing to mourn the dead. It was a human thing to want to join them.
<span class = ghost>I'm sorry.</span><</if>>
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>>Apology inadequate. Try again. Try again. Try again.
Better to have to be forgiven than to have had to beg permission. No masters, better to do than to die. Lingers on the non-choice, watching the maw of the ruins. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting. The sun dips below the horizon and the soldiers have not yet returned. Better that way. Desert nights are cold and harsh, no place for humans, a time when things wander and hunt. Like it, and quite unlike it.
Tonight, one prey is being stalked. The ruins, more alive than the soldiers will ever know. The city buried breathes with the wind, bleeds oil, weeps salt water. Ruinous bones of twisted, stained metal, a colossal ribcage for a heart that beats ever so slowly. Can taste it, feel it, hear it. A pulse. Hot metal, burning soil. Reaches for it, can tell the soldiers near. A pulse. It can feel what lies below. Reaches for it, met with groan of metal strain. Pain.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 3>>Closer, electricity tingles on its skin, shower of sparks, lightning. Reaches further.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 4>>Closer, focusing its senses down to a point, watchful eye of hawk, fleeting gaze of prey. Reaches further.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 5>>Closer, radiation heavy and bitter in its mouth, acrid like vomit, like metal, like poison. Bites its tongue until it tastes blood. Reaches further.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 6>>Closer. A pulse. Hot metal, burning soil. Soldiers near. A pulse. Groan of metal strain escaping its lips. One and the same.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 7>>closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and closer and
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|frontier radio 03][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<notify>>New transmissions available.<</notify>><span class = ghost>Closer.</span>
Shudders as a wave of exhaustion sweeps its body, sweaty and clammy and cold. Reaches for near empty canteen with shaky hands. Raises the mask to drink, to gasp air, to pant like an overheating beast. Every movement imprecise, either shaky or sluggish. In no condition to hunt tonight. Has enough food, though the thought of eating wracks it with nausea. Everything does, every slight movement bringing sweeping fire to its veins, every sensation too bright or loud or otherwise overwhelming. Except for that horrible, horrible, horrible sixth sense, the one that know what the soldiers have, deep underground.
That sense alone is content and comfortable, warmth in the chest, tingling fingertips, hum near the base of the skull. Knows what eyes cannot see, feels what body refuses to recognize. Perfect, in the eyes of nature, a way to see and hear without seeing and hearing, feeling the signature of heartbeats and thoughts, every little change in electrical charge that causes nerve to fire. Precognition, faster on the draw. Tracking, watching the flickering thoughts of prey fluctuate across the wastes. And something else, something learned in its years around humans -- discernment. Truth and lie, clear as day and night. Intention betrayed by their own beating hearts.
Not without fault. Takes too much to use constantly. Radiation sends it into a panic, overwhelmed with conflicting feelings, maelstrom of information that shrieks and whispers messages of danger, danger, danger. Can look too far, too deep, push beyond biological hard-limits. Same outcome, left a shaking, sweating, disoriented mess. Sometimes worthwhile. Price worth paying for what the soldiers have, deep below the surface. For it to be carried in human hands again. They will wait there until morning, take the day's hike when light trickles down to them. And when they return -- it will be waiting.
For now, it will rest.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>>Dawn breaks slowly, a strange day, a cloudy day. Bad things happen when storm clouds gather, bad things happen on red-gloom mornings. It wakes to a world bathed in shades of crimson, dull and foreboding. It knows what will happen when the soldiers reach the surface. Only fitting that daybreak should be bloody.
It takes until midday for the party to emerge from the entrance. The clouds and mist have burnt off, they return to full daylight, all is revealed in the light of day. Five went below, four returned, their hooded captive amongst them. This is typical, it knows. The soldiers like to return their prey to the surface, they delight in what happens next. It is better for this to be in the daylight, better not to dirty the mausoleum with unworthy dead.
Knows what will happen next, waits for the sacrifice to begin, for the soldiers to satiate their bloodlust and vent their frustrations. Consideration, how like the beasts they hunt; driven to hurt out of fury or jealousy or fear or simple, unyielding hunger. Moves carefully towards the soldiers, fluid as water, silent as the shadow it casts. Unlikely the soldiers would see it to begin with, minds humming with rich desire and bitter hate and a sick feeling between acid and morbid curiosity. Closer still, sliding behind a pillar in the shade of a crumpled building. Waits, daring not to look. Has seen enough barbarism for many, many, many lifetimes. Will wait until the soldiers are long gone. Will take only what it needs, vulture of its own volition.
Something is different today. No violence, not yet. Questions. Metallic, helmet-modulated voices berate another, quieter voice. So it slinks deeper into the ruins, searching for vantage, sightline, an opportune overlook. Listening.
"Listen, I swear I didn't know. I swear to <i>god</i>, I know nothing, I just -"
It skitters up a beam, hauls itself over a ledge, navigates through a web of wires. Anything to hear what has caused this pause in violence. Damned curiosity.
The mechanical voice snarls. "I don't give a fuck what you know. Open the box, or die. It's that simple."
Vantage lies ahead, window frame left in cratered wall, across a precarious floor. Voices linger there, amplified by the hollow of ruins providing cover enough to listen in peace. It edges across exposed beam, weaves through floor tiles that threaten collapse, avalanche awaiting even the slightest provocation. Sixth sense ticks like a Geiger counter. <span class = ghost>Closer</span>, it whispers. And the wretched creature that sensation is tied to obeys, peering over the window frame.
"How was I supposed to know?" Pleads the hooded figure, shrill with desperation, clutching the metal box to their chest, ungloved fingers white-knuckled. Idol with burning halo of radiation, cursed treasure, elusive prize -- pressed into their ribs. "I don't know where this came from, I don't know anything about it. I was just following an old lead on these ruins, I swear, I swear it!"
The hooded human lies. One of the uniformed soldiers with a glimmering set of metallic arms knows it too. Raises a long rifle, electric nerves begging to pull the trigger, end the life of the whimpering figure on the ground with a kick of recoil, burst of flame. Rage taints the edges of the soldier's silhouette, a flickering premonition of what could be.
"Don't lie to me!" Metal-armed soldier barks. "It recognized you, Ranger, and you'll fucking open it!" Ranger pauses. Too long. "Now! I gave you an order, open the box, open it before I splatter you all over these goddamned ruins you fucking-"
"I don't know how, you have to help me, I don't know anything! I swear, I swear it on my fucking life, I don't know, please!" Ranger interrupts, terror strong enough to taste, enough feel in radiating waves. Same as the metal-armed soldier's frustration. It knows what happens next, flinching away. Crunch of metal against bone accompanied by a sobbing howl. Almost catches Ranger's gaze, Ranger staring skywards, searching for salvation that will not come. Hood falling back from raven-dark hair, face shattered like canyon-ruin. Gash under tear-filled eyes and crushed-swelling nose; fallout from metal-armed soldier's explosive outburst. Tears and blood mix, oil and water, tracing tracks down their cheeks and neck. Falling as heavy rain onto the box in their lap.
Metal-armed soldier takes a fistful of Ranger's hair, yanks their attention back to the box. Waves it in their face, smashes it into their face, bloodies both further. "See this?" they hiss, "You're going to open this. Or I'll use it to open your worthless fucking skull. Do you understand me?" Metal-armed soldier releases Ranger, who slumps against the wall, making no indication that they understood or could follow the orders. The glimmering metal arms are raised again, aiming another strike at the cowering Ranger. It knows what happens next.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 3>>It knows what happens next and is caught off-guard when it does not happen. No strike falls. Rifle held by a man with no helmet, late addition to the group. Familiar face, leader of the pack, strong in will, strong in body, one of the great lumbering beasts of the plains made into a man. Carries a shotgun, sawed off, prefers to use his fists. It knows as much from experience. He bellows at the metal-armed soldier, raises a fist like a bolt of lightning, like a loaded gun. Metal-armed soldier sneers something, leader-soldier strikes them down with a blow that could shatter rock.
Leader-soldier is just, merciful. It is mercy to kneel by the side of the beaten Ranger, to carefully press fingers to their wound and place a hand on their shoulder. Asks a question, receives an answer lost to the wind. Fatherly, smiles. Fatherly, if a father were to execute his child. A second question, unanswered. Measure of reassurance, promise of a quick death. Hand on chest, on belt. Drawing a short, leaf-shaped blade, halfway between knife and sword. Hefts the weapon, tests balance and weight, the mark of a man who has done this before. It knows what happens next. A flick of his wrist and a blur of motion, glint of sun on metal. Dark steel grown rapidly into long-handled spear. A strange weapon for a human to carry, strange weapon for a Ranger to carry. Not a human thing or a Ranger thing. Living steel belongs to the <i>other</i>, belongs to the likes of the creature that curls its lip in derision, watching sparks leap from the edge of the spearhead as it is dragged against the ground. Grows angry, angry like the metal-armed soldier, who has stirred once more, sheepishly returning to their ranks.
Murderers. Thieves. Vultures. All of them, every last one. Leader-soldier does what he is authorized to, motions to the other soldiers. They haul the Ranger to their feet, drag their uncooperative dead weight away.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 4>>It knows what happens next. Soldiers sate their bloodlust, begin to wait for another victim. Has seen many hapless travelers descend into the ruins. Has seen many return empty-handed. Has seen many parties return without their prey. Has heard all manner of pleas and apologies and last words. Many like the Ranger who are accused, who beg and tear at themselves in search of forgiveness and do not find it, at least, not amongst the ranks of black-clad soldiers. The Ranger limps between two soldiers, pleading and begging again, promising with desperate lies that they can open the box, or they will find someone to open the box, anything. They know what happens next.
It follows. Mantles the window frame, creeps across a ledge to where red rock meets warped glass, geometric against organic in a clash of broken landscapes. Careful and swift, a graceful beast of the wilds crawling along the edge of an artificial cliff. Perches once more at the end of a newly carved inlet, secluded, littered with a recent rockfall. The dying place. Bone mixed with rock, darker reddish stains on the red-orange stone. The soldiers gather, murder of crows, to tear at their hunted prey. Ranger is thrown backwards, falling in heavy heap in the sand. Struggles to stand, driven backwards, pushed down until they rest against a boulder with gleaming blade tucked under chin. Looking to skies and past, to the heavens for some divine intervention. Makes eye contact instead, begs for aid it cannot render.
And the soldiers have decided that they are tired of their prey. Metal-armed soldier takes the honors and removes their blade from the Ranger's neck, raising it high. Ceremony, revenge, punishment, glinting in the light of the sun as it turns away, presses palms over its eyes until spots swim in the hazy dark. Sound is enough, the hiss of the knife's edge through the air, the heavy impact, damp and damning. The Ranger's screams, the screams, the howling wounded animal whose cries echo. Horrible, horrible, horrible echoes that ring off the walls of the canyon. Until there is a silence, an end as sudden and violent as the beginning. Someone speaks, deep and raspy and guttural, one of the many languages of the deep wilds, a familiar saying to that which waits. A prayer for the dead. Ranger apologizes, one last time. Final words spent on begging forgiveness. The sound of a brief struggle, of metal against stone, a singular weak cry.
Silence.
Leader-soldier issues a singular, simple order. Leave. And the soldiers begrudgingly follow.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|01-01 iyslf 05][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>>Ranger is not yet dead when the soldiers return. They laugh and mock the figure slumped against the boulder, pinned in place like an insect on display. A different type of memorial. Not to death, but to the act of killing, the act of dying. A dishonorable fate, made more so by the way the soldiers alight upon the damned Ranger. Like the vultures that circle overhead, like the thing that watches from the top of the cliff. Waiting for there to be silence and stillness before descending, not keen to fight nor be forced to take the Ranger's life out of pity. Not keen for the Ranger to know what it would do to them. A violation of morality; do not desecrate the honorable dead, do not disturb where they lie. And a deep-felt want, the way it longs for living steel, its birthright. The Ranger, it tells itself, could not have been honorable. The vultures descend closer. If they were, then they would have been executed in the same way as the others; inhabiting a niche in the tomb below or torn to pieces on the rocks above. It smiles like its hungry brethren, flexes talons into fists. No honor in wielding stolen weapons, no honor in begging for their life, no honor in being recognized by the grave, by the silver box. Feathers rustle in the breeze, vultures diving into the empty inlet.
It follows more slowly, bird of a feather. The soldiers -- like the vultures they imitate -- have taken their gruesome trophies. The silver box. The Ranger's metallic right arm, leaving an empty socket and leaking hydraulic fluid. A metal band with red fabric tied around it. Weapons and rations and even layers of the Ranger's clothing. Thieves unlike the more perfect creatures they cannot be, fail to replicate. They have taken all they desire, left much to be picked through; meat left on the bones for more desperate and resourceful scavengers. Bleak, grisly desperation, the acrid taste of blood in the air as it descends. Bones. Remnants. The Ranger.
The Ranger who stirs, somehow still alive, somehow clinging to life and consciousness like they cling to the end of the spear. Defying death in each reddening breath, in the depths of empty eyes. Somehow raising their head and gaze, staring at it once more. Hollow. Reaches out with ruined hand, fingers painted in shades of crimson turning black with oxidation and passing shadows.
"Just let me die. Please. Kill me." Delirious. Bubbles of pinkish foam on their lips. Slurred speech, slurred thoughts. A slowing heart. Muddled pain that arcs through every synapse. Each breath nearing their last. Every movement nearing their last. Every word nearing their last. “Help me or kill me, please. Don't just stand there. Don't just leave me like this.”
But it can do nothing but watch. The Ranger grows more desperate. Furious. Their thoughts blur together, body crying out for an arm that does not lie in its sleeve, blood continuing in a deluge from wounds and slack mouth. Dying. Slow but certain. They whisper to the figure who stands above them, shades them in their horrible wingspan.
"Do something. Please. Don't leave me. Don't leave me like this."
<<nobr>><div class = choices>
<div class = choice-item> [[Leave|01-01 iyslf 06][$choice to 1]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[Stay|01-01 iyslf 06][$choice to 2]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[...|01-01 iyslf 06][$choice to 3]]
</div><</nobr>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<if $choice is 1>>It finds itself frozen. Can do nothing to help it, though they beg. Could not summon the strength to kill them, though they beg. Cannot stand to watch them die, could not comfort them in any way that matters. The Ranger will die. It is certain of that. The body does not lie. Better to let them fade away in peace than to intervene and hasten the inevitable painfully.
Bows its head, hoping no tears fall from the mask. Turns its back, chokes on a sob. And begins to walk away. The Ranger cries out, a final plea. It pauses. Behind the mask, a river of tears. It must go. It must. It has made its choice.
“No! Don't -- don't leave me here! Please, please, please, don't leave…”
It leaves with a heavy heart.<<elseif $choice is 2>>To remove the spear would be a painful death. Quicker than the slow bleed, but agony, unimaginable agony. It does not have the heart nor stomach to kill the Ranger. Nor does it have the ability or intention to save them. Instead, it approaches the Ranger. Reaches for their outstretched hand, lets them pull it closer. Kneels by their pinned body, bites back tears. Ranger rests their sweat-drenched head on its shoulder, tightens the grip of the cold and clammy hand interlined with its. Broken. Useless. Some show of sympathy or empathy, empty, just as empty as the drained Ranger.
Their breath slows. Their eyes close. Slipping in and out of consciousness. Always coming back to this place.
“I'm dying, aren't I?” Weak, their chest barely rising. “This is it, isn't it?”
The body does not lie. It knows, knows all too well. Knot in chest, mess of tangled emotion, tears welling through bitten tongue and clenched jaw. Hopes the mask will hide them. Ranger slips under again, their embrace tightening vice-like before falling away. It says a soundless prayer for easy passage, releases the clasped hand to fall limply by their side. It kneels there a moment longer, feels the life ebb from the Ranger until it too is convinced of its own death.
It finds the courage, the heart. And walks away.<<elseif $choice is 3>>It find itself frozen. Can do nothing to help, though they beg. Could not summon the strength to kill them, though they beg. And it cannot turn away. Cannot even blink, standing empty-handed, transfixed. The Ranger struggles, fingers unable to close enough to grasp the spear, hand too slick with blood to hold on even if they could. Fighting pointlessly until the end, crying out in rage or frustration, bare foot and metal prosthetic unable to find solid footing in the loose dirt. Begging.
The begging, the begging, the begging.
"Please, help me. Please, please, you can't just leave me here. Help me, please. Or kill me, just kill me. Don't leave me like this."
It cannot help them, can do nothing to save them, nothing meaningful. Cannot comfort them in a way that matters. Feels the Ranger fading before it. Knows that their fight is futile. The Ranger raises their face skyward, defiant. For the last time, before the darkness overtakes them.
Under the mask, hot tears. Anger, frustration, helplessness. Sorrow. Turning its back. Walking away.<</if>>
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>>Windswept with emotions, sandstorm of conflicting thoughts. Fury. Grief.
Emptiness.
Like watching the city die, all over again.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 3>>It is unsure of what to do. Or what to think. The wait is over. The box has been taken to the surface. The box can be opened. The one person who can open it -- dead. Or, as good as dead. A slow fate. Unnecessary, cruel, wrong. The soldiers who took their life also took the box. They will open it, by force or by trickery.
A logical conclusion; it cannot allow the vultures to steal another part of the Ranger.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 4>>A logical conclusion. Kill the soldiers. Return the box. Bury the dead. And try, try, try to move on.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 5>>A logical conclusion. Find them. Kill them.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|01-01 iyslf 07][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>>Finding the soldiers was not difficult. Knows the city far better than them. Lives amongst the ruins, makes the effort to know them as it knows itself. Speaks the same language as the swaying metal and unyielding stone. Soldiers are trespassers. Desecrators who ruin the sanctity of this place with their unnecessary dead. Tonight, it avenges those lost, strikes down the soldiers in the name of a human it knows only by a title. Only by their blood and slowing heart. Not dead yet. Can still feel their murmur in its mind, opposed starkly by the racing thoughts and frantic heartbeats of the soldiers, heightened by adrenaline and the sick pits of satisfaction in their guts. All but begging to be found. All but begging to be silenced.
A precarious perch, high above the camp, a ladder of twisted metal that used to be a transmission tower. Watching smoke curl from the coals of a fire far below. The soldiers pacing off the dregs of fight-or-flight as the sun descends in the west. Four soldiers and their leader. Soon to be corpses.
The thought of violence turns its stomach, makes it sick and shaky. Thought of violence sends pangs of doubt through its mind, a remembered whisper, stories about how even the most powerful are ruined by the pursuit of violence. Reminded that violence makes it powerful, that it is far strong than any human could dream of. That -- if it wishes -- it bears fangs, claws, wings, that it is not bound by their rules of morality and mutual combat. That this is right, that this is just, that this is necessary, regardless. The soldiers have taken unnecessary lives. It will restore natural order.
<<nobr>><div class = choices>
<div class = choice-item> [[It is in the mood for revenge. It will ensure that it will be the last thing each soldier sees.|01-01 iyslf 08.1 var 1]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[It hunts carefully tonight. Death from the shadows, death from above.|01-01 iyslf 08.1 var 2]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>It unslings the bow and sets down the quiver. Tonight's battle will be too close for either to be effective. Flexes hands and wishes for talons, for raking claws, for something other than ragged nailbeds and the faded lines of tattoo and scar. Empty wishes; it rewraps knuckles and forearms, preparation for the impact of balled fists against flesh and bone, for blocking strikes that would fell any human. It draws two crude knives, scrap steel sharpened meticulously, the handles wrapped in cord. Weapons enough for tonight. And so it descends silently, scrambling from rock to ruin and finally down to the dusty ground. First target in sight, a lone soldier at the edge of the circle.
Swift, silent, no more than a shadow upon the ground. Unseen -- though not for long. Its presence will be known, this will be the first and only soldier taken by surprise. Acts deftly, wraps arm around the soldier's chest, pushing away the rifle slung there. Lashes upwards with the knife, a single wound under the jaw, a burst of liquid iron, a gurgling cry. Dead weight, collapsing quietly, twitching away the last moments of their life. It breaks the circle then. Silhouetted against the campfire, glowing in the fading light. Hooded and masked, eyes reflective of the flickering flames. A living ghost, a specter, a harbinger of death. Tastes the fear in the air, revels in it as it paces a wide circle around the fire. Soldiers keep their distances, pushing back into the descending dark. Three soldiers and their leader, compelled to attack out of fear and procedure, self defense and dogma.
Death walks amongst them. Death has come to take them.
The boldest amongst them gives in to the raging of their thoughts, steps in front of the others. Shouts a threat to mask the terror in their eyes. Raises a pistol and knife, wrists stacked, the way they were trained, the way that procedure dictates. Advances, too quickly, too carelessly. Neither the un-aimed round nor the wild swing of the knife meet their target, sidestepped and slipped. It lunges for their throat, wrestles them to the ground. A single deft movement with soldier's head clenched vicelike between arm and body, dispatched without sound, feeling their fear lurch into oblivion.
Left now with two soldiers and their leader. Unfazed by the bloodshed before them, advancing together, rifles raised. It freezes. Bombarded with blurry memories of the chase through the ruins, the explosion of light, of pain, the realization of bullet fragments burrowing flaming paths through its body. Cannot succumb. Must find a way past or through, must finish what they started. It ignores the calls to surrender, to lay down the knives and face death with some semblance of peace.
It lunges for the leader-soldier instead, throwing every ounce of its being into his standstill weight, grappling with him, tearing at him as they fall. A plume of heat and smoke as they plunge into the fire. Fights off the frenzy of burning, of the soldier on fire atop it, pulls him closer and closer, digs into his back as the flames surge higher, unbearably, suffocatingly hot, blazing coals searing imprints into its back. Feels the dulled impact of each round fired into his back. A trickle of blood nearly evaporated as his jaw slackens and he gasps final smoky breaths. Friendly fire, accidental traitors.
It rises from the flames a phoenix.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>>Two soldiers. No leader. Raised rifles, hiding behind their weapons, pretending as if they would be safe, as if it were some measure of protection. It is but a blur, setting upon the closer of the two, a shot ringing out as the muzzle of the rifle is pointed skyward. Two more rounds, striking nothing but empty air, drowning out the panicked shouts of the soldier. It winds closely around the soldier, a fist-full of their uniform, forearm across throat, hostage, daring the other to betray them like they had betrayed their leader. The other soldier waits, considers. Finger on the trigger. Rifle raised. Every impulse crying out to pull the trigger. They wait instead.
It grows impatient. A fatal mistake.
Strikes precisely, knows where the armor is and is not, where it is thin for movement, where the body is most susceptible to damage, where the body is most delicate. Deliberate in execution, first the place between shoulder and arm and vest to double them, fatal, though not immediately so. Followed by an overhead strike to where collar separates back from spine. Dead soldier, dead weight falling.
Turns to face the final target, the final soldier. And stares directly into the black maw of a rifle barrel.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|01-01 iyslf 08.2 var 1][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>>Expects death, a burst of light and then empty. Is met instead with a hollow click.
Misfire.
It stares at the metal-armed soldier. Waits for the shot that never rings out.
The metal-armed soldier stares at it. Waits for the masked thing to strike it down. Finds the lack of violence unsatisfactory, finger twitching on trigger.
<<nobr>><div class = choices>
<div class = choice-item> [[It does not flinch. Does not shy away. It has forgotten what a good fight feels like.|01-01 iyslf 08.3 var 1]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[It regrets fighting like this, regrets killing like this. Will do what is necessary, no more.|01-01 iyslf 08.4 var 1]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[It can show no mercy for this soldier.|01-01 iyslf 08.5][$ghost_wounded to true]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>Excitement thrums a frantic heartbeat in its chest. A soaring feeling, adrenaline rush, barely composed thoughts, less thoughts and more action, raw action, begging for blood. It shakes, itching for a fight. Finds composure enough to bow as the soldier discards their rifle and flexes metal fists, lowering into a fighting stance.
It lunges at the soldier. The soldier lunges at it. A deadly dance in the firelight. Ducks a hook hurled at its head, closes distance with a jab at the soldier's body, one that catches their shoulder, stings like punching stone. In an instant a different plan formed, grappling and dragging them away from the light, avoiding an onslaught of close elbows and uppercuts. Winds a hand into their vest, pulls the solder whose fingers catch on the edge of its mask, threatens to tear it from its jaw, pressure that would sooner snap its neck and rip away the flesh and bone.
Panic, twisting away and hooking a leg behind that of the soldiers. Falling, crashing down on the soldier whose would-be-fatal grip is forgotten. Astride the soldier, it rains down blow after blow, fists clenched, feeling glass and plastic begins to crack under the weight of each strike. The soldier endures, lying still.
A moments pause, hand on chest, fist raised. A moment's consideration.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>>A mistake.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 3>>The soldier surges back to life. Wields a rock the size of their fist like a club. Stone scrapes metal in a shower of sparks and the sound of breaking bones. Panic, fury, blindness. In the darkness, the certainty of a broken nose. Scrambling away, desperate flight inhibited by the blood pouring through the eyeholes of the mask and falling to the sand, leaving a trail of murky red as it crawls, searching deliriously for anything that could save them.
Its hand is greeted by a still warm body, one with the rough-hewn handles of its knife embedded deeply within. Gloves slick with sweat or blood or both, unable to get a grip. At the edge of its senses, the soldier picks up their rifle, their heartbeat loud and fast and erratic. It looks up through a haze of red to see the all-too-familiar muzzle of a rifle.
Met again with a hollow click.
Misfire.
No salvation, the suddenness of the soldier's fury and the strong hands that grab it, drag it backwards off the corpse. A frantic upwards kick, the almost melodic sound of breaking glass, the million new edges all catching the firelight. Buys a brief moment of time as the metal-armed soldier roars in pain and it crawls again towards their dead comrade. A fingertip grasp on the knife. An impossibly heavy weight on its back, tightness around its throat. Sling of the rifle clenched in metal hands, pulled tighter, tighter, tighter.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 4>>The world starts to fade. Darker. Quieter. More frantic. Blurry shadows.
Tighter.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 5>>The world is far away now. Murky depths, a mounting terror. Bleak numbness
Tighter.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 6>>The grip on the knife fading, fast as the light, fast as its consciousness. A final blind strike, a desperate swing.
One that connects, alleviates some of the pressure on its throat. Swings again and again and again until the weight on its back hangs limply. Heavily. And breath and thought come flooding back; it gasps for air, the only sound in this accursed valley, that and the steady drip of blood through the mask to the sand below. Lowers its head to the sand, closes its eyes. Finds a moment of rest before rolling the dead weight from its back and standing, surveying the carnage.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|01-01 iyslf 09 var 1][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>It doesn't like to kill. Not like this. Does not like to intentionally hurt humans. To hunt them. This was necessary, it promised itself. Was enough to stay detached, efficient, unfeeling. And now -- it is none of those things, finding it difficult to justify the carnage in its wake. Knows that the soldier wants them to fight, to descend to their level, ruled by fear and hate and bloodlust. Refuses the notion, boiling below the surface, placid as the soldier circles slowly, a deadly dance in the firelight. Refuses the notion, the want to bare teeth and clams, to go after them like the animal it is.
Refuses, remembers the taste of iron and the sickness that follows, retching in the sand and spitting flesh. Days of hunger for something horrible, a thirst it refuses to slake. Will not be the animal it is, will not partake of flesh or blood. Will not kill, not like this. There are few options left, fewer amongst them merciful. The discarded rifle may have jammed on the soldier. All it would need to do is buy time enough to clear the chamber, to fire a single bullet. End the fight quickly, the nightmare quickly.
The soldier refutes their plans, their desires. Wants a fight. Brings a fight. It stands too still in their approach, makes mistake after mistake after mistake in the name of control, always control, always trying to stay in control, trying to walk away and walk away with some semblance of humanity left. Strange, it thinks as the breath leaves its lungs, that this is what it means to be human, to suffer and to want to. Retreats and denies, thrumming adrenaline excitement in its chest, a soaring cry to escalate in violence. Denies, denies, denies. The ringing in its ears, uppercut grazing the bottom of the mask, ringing like struck metal, like lightning striking shallow water. Retaliates with weak shove followed by a heavier push kick. Wanting, needing distance and time. Distance the soldier is loathe to maintain, wading back in again with a hook that strips the hood from its head. Time it does not have, lashing blows absorbed as if they did not connect, their own heavy swings finding only air. A mistake, overextended, ducking and seeing too late the knee that rises to connect with its face.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>>A clash of metal against metal, mechanical leg into the mask of living steel. A wave of blinding pain it knows accompanies a shattered nose. Falls, left to scramble on the ground, searching frantically for the weapon in the dirt. Blind with blood, eyes filled with tears, the world blurry and hazy, feeling for the rifle and finding it, fingers caught on the sling. Raises it to fire at the soldier.
Met instead with a hollow click.
Misfire. Again.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 3>>Uses the rifle instead as a club, swinging the stock upwards towards the soldier's face. Connects. Shatters the visor of the helmet, staggers the soldier who backs away with hands to face, bellowing with rage as the glass falls away, a glimmering cascade in the firelight. Eyes wide with horror. But an opening enough to do what must be done. Removes the magazine, strikes it against the earth. Racks the charging handle. Drives the bolt home.
Raises the rifle again.
Pulls the trigger.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 4>>The rifle kicks hard into its shoulder, deafens it with the roar of gunfire, overwhelming its finetuned senses.
Does not need sight nor hearing nor even touch to know the soldier lies dead. Can tell from the faintest trickles of electrical activity -- fluttering of a heart like fledgling wings, final firings of synapses artificial and not, thoughts stained dark like the blossoming wound in their chest. The body does not lie. The soldier is dead.
It is consumed by a wave of disgust and regret, staring at the carnage before it.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|01-01 iyslf 09 var 1][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>It feels nothing. Nothing but anger, staring at the soldier and discarding its weapons. Soldier panics, pulls the trigger again and again and again, click and misfire, click and misfire, click and misfire. They grow angry, gesture rudely to the thing seething with rage and still undecided on the application thereof that stands before them. Discards their rifle into the dirt, flexes metal fists. Dares it to come close, spits crude epithets into the dirt; come and see, they beg, see what fury, what hate the dead-dying murdered Ranger saw. Soldier draws again the short, hooked knife.
A fight worth dying in; the knife sings through the air in a deadly hymn. Whistling emptiness; the slashes catch nothing but air, send the soldier deeper into their own rage, cursing the ghost and promising that when they catch it -- because they will -- the Ranger's fate will be mercy in comparison. It grows enraged in turn, taunts the soldier, advances with hands down, all but begs them to send it to its promised death.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>>It is after a few rounds of this -- dodge and re-dodge, mocking the soldier's reach, dancing away to repeat the process again -- that it grows tired of the game, tired of the soldier's blind fury that yields no results, spills no blood. Decides on action, catches the next wild swing of the knife, fingers wrapped around the arm that wields it, twisting it in a vice-grip away from itself. Feels the strain of servo motor and delicate chain linkage against its grasp, relishes the soldier's sudden and apparent weakness, the scent and taste of their mounting panic. Pulls it closer, stares into the hazy outline of eyes through the glow of their helmet visor. Is sent reeling by the soldier's first real attack, a headbutt that cracks glass and plastic, sends static-unconscious panic-pain across every observable facet of the soldier. Sends a similar sickening wave of pain through its face; the broken-bone ache and sudden tear-blindness of a shattered nose.
But it is the one left standing. Stumbles backwards a few unsteady steps, but stands, still. Stands over the soldier as they tear the helm from their head, try to collect themself; overwhelmed by damage reports, terror, pain. Stands over them and stares into a human face streaked with blood descending from their hairline and pallid with exertion, scarred and muddy and a mask of emotion. Rage. Fear. They spit blood and curses in the dirt, try to drag themself away as it advances.
It descends on the soldier swiftly, like the almost-vultures that will feast on their corpse, the almost vultures that circle overhead already; ever-watchful, an omen. Soldier begs, still retreating, still too dazed to stand, not dazed enough to surrender. A human thing, to shy away from death, to fight inevitability. A human thing, to seek revenge. A human thing, to delight in killing.
Towers over the soldier now, grinning wickedly. Delight in opposition to their terror as it plants a foot on the chest of the soldier, slowly shifting its weight until the gasping grows weak, until the groan of windpipe under its shoe hits a note that threatens collapse and the soldier finds what they were searching for in the dirt and
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 3>>It is falling before it understands what transpired. Hooked knife sunk deep into its thigh and stumbling, tearing it away in a spray of iron-blood. Finds its voice, howls like a wounded animal, wails into the unyielding soil, clutches at the wounded limb. All thoughts of murder and revenge abandoned, replaced with horror, with blind-sweeping agony.
Something grabs it by the shoulders, winds a hand into its mantle, shoves it further into the dirt. Weight of soldier on its chest, determined to hang on, to crush the life from its body or align themself better for the kill, the gore-slick knife held high as it thrashes against their grasp, screaming, screaming, screaming, something inhuman and terrible as the knife is brought closer and closer and closer and it knows it must act.
Too afraid of dying; it must act. Watches and waits and knows it will only have one chance and waits and steels itself to grab the blade as it is plunged towards it. Twists artificial hand and arm inwards, ignores the sudden and desperate pain of the edge in its hands, turning the blade away, fighting momentum. A snap of linkages and it finds itself wielding the hooked blade and before the soldier can attempt to wrest it from its grasp -- a battle it cannot win, not again -- it plunges the knife into the soldier's chest.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 4>>The soldier looks at it, at the knife buried to handle in their chest, to it again. Utters one, singular, pleading word.
It does not let go. Tightens its fingers around the handle, shoves the soldier away, lets the falling weight unsheathe the blade and follows them down. Straddles the soldier's chest, pushes aside the weakened hand that would deny it its rightful execution. Buries the knife again again again again until, until the raised hand falls, until the grasp on its gear slackens, until the uniform is slick with blood, black stained darker with red that lifts as it raises itself from the soldier, red that drips from the gloves it wears and the face hidden behind the mask. Pinkish foam bubbles on the lips of the soldier; they take one final, shallow breath and do not exhale.
And it is over at last.
It is over.
It all but falls off the soldier, takes one-two-three bent-double, limping steps. Collapses to lie corpse-still, just another body in the hardpacked dirt. One that looks up to face the fading golden skies, heaves deep breaths through the taste of iron that trickles down its throat. One that watches the almost-vultures that will begin their slow descent soon, will feast come morning. Will gorge themselves on the carnage it brought here, Ranger and soldiers alike. It will be gone, come morning, borne aloft on wings of its own.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|01-01 iyslf 09 var 2][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>It won't take the risk of getting close. Not yet. Still too many soldiers, too many guns. The memory of hot metal tearing a hole through its side, of blood soaking into the earth, seeding the barren soil with things that could not grow flowers, fragments of ribs and the contents of its abdomen. Pain like the fire that flickers far below, growing and shrinking but still hot, still burning. Always burning.
And so it takes the bow from the sling worn on its side. Runs fingers across the coarse wire string, taut enough to play like one of the instruments, all those years ago, the people who sat on street corners and the sunken foyers of businesses, whose music brought life to the blocks of hazy traffic. No music tonight. Silence, if it can preserve it. At most -- the whistle of an arrow, the sound of impact. Not a sound from those under sights. It adjusts the quiver, loosens the straps so it falls from the small of its back to its hip. More immediate, meant for speed. It will not have much time. Draws an arrow, inspects it for fault; each arrow is reused if it can retrieve its ammunition. Simple and timeless, cylindrical scrap steel, a barbed head that does more damage when dragged from inevitable wound. A simple innovation, grooves ground in the arrowhead and shaft alike to bleed whatever prey falls to it. Leaves animals stunned, and then dead. They do not often try to pull the arrow from the wound. Not like people do, people who grasp their hands around the delicate feather fletching and stain it with their bloody-getting-bloodier hands, people who fight and fight and fight until they are exhausted and mad from blood loss and it is then that they succumb, having made a mess of themself, having robbed themself of any dignity or honor.
To combat this, it has made the arrows just as much overkill as the bow is, has learnt precision and ruthlessness. It takes an inhuman arm to draw the bow, it takes an inhuman eye to hunt with as much detachedness as it does. Hunts for sustenance or defense, or <i>this</i>, whatever <i>this</i> is. It doesn't matter, it tells itself. It will hunt. The prey will fall. It will take its trophies. It will leave the bodies as offering to nature, as penance.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>>It closes range, snaking its way down the rockfall to the edge of camp. Steadies itself, nocks an arrow, raises the bow. Slow. Steady, steady, steady. Wanting to connect with the first shot, <i>needing</i> to connects with the first shot. Draws, a familiar heat of effort across shoulders and chest, the string inching nearer to its masked face. Takes in a sharp breath. Holds. And releases.
The first soldier dies without time for response; the arrow shatters their helmet and their hands leap up to their face and they are gone. Shock, unconscious reflex, and then emptiness. The soldiers have seen one of their own fall, know now that they are prey. Their fear is incandescent. They do not yet know their predator, just that they lie under sights, that they too could fall. One soldier crouches over the fresh kill.
The crouched soldier is foolish, not stupid. It has not relocated enough. The soldier looks up, sees the glow of eyes, recognizes what walks amongst them. Recognizes it as death itself, as their mythical reaper, as some forgotten hunter of man. They stand slowly, stare into its eyes as one would try to back down a feline or canid predator, dare it to strike, reaching for a pistol on their belt. Like routine, memory carved into muscle, it too draws, never once breaking eye contact. Nocks an arrow. Draws. Fires. The soldier stumbles backwards, slumped unceremoniously, left to bleed in the dirt.
And the ghost moves again to haunt the remaining soldiers.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 3>>Creeps like some animal away from the firelight, following the smoke. Shrouded, it stands, takes aim at the leader-soldier's unmasked face. Stares into those widened, fear-desperate eyes. Looks for something he will never see, his fear hanging heavily in the air, sweet upon its tongue. Wastes his final moments looking up to the stars as if he knows he is doomed, under sights and moments from death. The third arrow is loosed without consideration of his final wishes, becoming in an instant lethal. Left with one eye, staring up at the stars, filled with their light.
Two soldiers. Too close; if one falls the other will see it and its hunt will end in a hail of gunfire, it cannot kill both with one arrow, there are a thousand different things that could go wrong and leave it like the soldiers whose blood stains the earth. Decisions made from a hiding place, the bow returned to its sling, a particularly sturdy arrow chosen for a makeshift knife. Moves quickly from its hide; the soldier's search narrows, their training leads them closer to the thing clung to the shadow's edge, lying in wait. It needs one to look its way, to approach so that it may take the life from its eyes.
It catches the faint glow of a visor. Information enough, sight enough for the ghost. Lunges, disarms the soldier, takes them as shield and hostage to face the other, armed with long rifle. They consider for a moment the target, the hostage, the hostage-taker. Chooses their odds well, fires three rounds into the soldier's chest. Sets panic in its veins; was not an expected outcome, one of the bullets grazed the side of its no-longer immaterial form, it is in danger. It is in danger. It must act quickly; the soldier aims again. It must act quickly, it drops the dead man and in the eternity it takes for the corpse to fall, it draws again. Bow from hip, arrow from throat, nock, aim, draw.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|01-01 iyslf 08.2 var 2][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>>It faces the black maw of the rifle. Does not fire. Stares into the single, soulless dead eye of the barrel.
Does not fire.
Nor does the metal armed soldier.
<<nobr>><div class = choices>
<div class = choice-item> [[It needs range. It needs a clean kill.|01-01 iyslf 08.6 var 2]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[Standoffs like this are a test of nerve. It does not flinch.|01-01 iyslf 08.7 var 2]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[It can show no mercy for this soldier.|01-01 iyslf 08.5][$ghost_wounded to true]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>It has a marked advantage over the soldier. All it would need to do is release the bowstring. And the soldier knows this. Discards their rifle, holds up hands in surrender, kneels. Says nothing, looks expectantly at the thing that ever so slightly backs off the draw. It will not kill an enemy that surrenders, they know. Even one like this, even one that deserves death. It nods to the soldier. The soldier nods back, the tension held across their shoulders and down spine released with a modulated exhale. It feels their relief as its own.
Leaves a parting gift, takes the formerly nocked arrow between gloved fingers and hurls it like a dark into the dirt between the soldier's knees. Points at it. Hopes the soldier understands. Hopes they know they are not safe. It turns, watches with sixth sense cast, waits for the soldier to move from where the arrow was planted. Walks away. Gains range. Waits.
The soldier moves slowly. Thinks it will not notice them reaching for the rifle, will not hear the slight rasp of metal on metal, the release of the spring as the magazine is removed to clear the chamber. Pretends not to know, fingering the wire-taut bowstring and beginning to draw a final arrow.
The soldier has by now loaded the magazine, pulled the charging handle back, has shouldered the rifle and found their sights and courage. They bark an order -- surrender or die. A last-ditch effort at survival, cautioning that their patience is growing thin, posturing to hide the fear that courses their veins. They tell it to turn with hands raised. That this is its last chance.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>>It obliges. Turns, hands raised to draw the bow, aims faster than the soldier would have hope of matching. Looses an arrow at full strength as the soldier's unaimed shot misses, whistling off into the darkening skies.
The soldier recoils as the weapon misfires into the dirt once more, the half-kneeling rifleman's stance buckled at the knees as they sprawl awkwardly. Stands over them, frozen in morbid curiosity as the soldier struggles, tugging at the arrow that has found its way to its intended home between two ribs, digging deeper with every struggling movement, each shallower breath.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 3>>It thinks for a second about distance, about closing it, about comforting the soldier who is not long for the world. Kneels by their side, reaches for the arrow and metal hands, expects for there to be a kindness, an acceptance. Does not anticipate the fury with which the soldier seizes it, winds hands into its mantle, pulls it close enough to see through the helmet visor, begs it to look at them. Curses it with blood strangled words, with tear tracks, does not let it pull away; instead daring it to look into those already-dead eyes as they pull their head back and taunt, insult, make a final attempt at injury.
The impact of helmet against mask is bone-crushing. Enough to shatter the glass of the visor, for the soldier to let go at last, metal fingers exploring in delirious awe the thousand new jewel-bright facets of the jagged edge, their face a bloody shine in the firelight. Enough to send it reeling, hands pressed to the mask, clutching at the broken nose that streams, trying to wipe away tears, to find some feeling of victory in the pain. The soldier laughs to see it struggle, bleary and panicked. The soldier laughs until it is no longer a laugh but a rattle, a strangled, gurgling noise; drowned in their own viscera they heave a final red-damp breath and are gone.
It leaves the soldier with the ghost of a laugh still on their lips. Leaves them for the vultures.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|01-01 iyslf 09 var 1][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>> It waits.
The soldier waits.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>>An unspoken agreement in the silence. A duel, as the sun sets. A test of nerve.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 3>>Spreads its senses wide, searches the soldier for any indication it will pull the trigger, natural and artificial nerve intertwined to form a single signal, screaming, screaming, screaming to pull the trigger, pull the trigger, pull the trigger. Steady breaths, unblinking eyes. Waiting.
A second longer, a second longer, it stands, perfectly still. Does not let the drawn arrow waver, not an inch nor a fraction thereof. Waits. Ignores the ache traveling from fingertip to shoulder, the strain that burns across its chest and back. Waits, a second longer.
Feels the soldier catch their breath, still their racing heart. Blink, clear their eyes, begin the slow-quick trigger pull.
Looses the arrow as gunfire erupts.
Hits the ground just as heavily as the soldier. Thinks, for a fading moment, that it should have fired sooner. That this will be some way to die, a second too slow on the draw.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 4>>It wakes in pain. Face down in the hard-packed earth, stained murky with blood. Its blood. Its head hurts, hanging heavy from its neck as it sits. All concussion-bright and too loud, all accompanied with the ache of a shattered nose, eyes swollen to just slits, lips split and outlined in blood. Thankful for the mask; it could be worse, it knows. It wakes -- albeit in pain -- it at least wakes.
Unlike the soldier. Face down, slumped awkwardly on rocks some distance away. It pieces together their final moments as they succumbed slowly, wandering nearly-dead dazed with hands pressed to chest, the razor-point arrow emerging from the heavy fabric of their armored vest, having pierced armor and rib and heart, the already lethal trajectory deflected by the spine, shattering shoulder blade instead. Finding its final resting place, fletching flush with the chest, arrowhead rising triumphant from the back. It takes back the arrow, inspects the soldier, lets the dead weight fall onto the earth, the shattered visor, the blood-slick uniform, the mess that used to be a person and now is not.
It leaves them to the vultures.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|01-01 iyslf 09 var 1][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>>It peels the mask from its face. Breathes deep, revels in the cool night on its skin, in the sun setting, in the silence of the coming night.
Silence broken by a single, horrible scream.
It remembers in that moment, freed from the throes of fight adrenaline, what it was here to do. Moves quickly, frantically, turns over corpses, rifles through the storage containers, digs at disturbed earth, tears apart the encampment once again, searching.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|01-01 iyslf 10]]</div>
</div><</nobr>>It peels the mask from its face. Revels briefly in the cool night on its skin, in the setting of the sun. Briefly. It cannot afford to leave the wound untreated.
Deep, and fortunately clean, edges that align well, despite the depth, despite the angle. Weeps bloody tears still, did not strike artery, will not be a quick death. Considers, for a moment, stitches -- dragging needle and thread through skin. Held together at the seams. Is reminded that the necessary supplies lie in the pack atop the hill. Knows it cannot reach them until it can stand to bear weight on the leg. Options of second and last resort, crawling across hard-pack earth, leaving a coagulating trail in its wake. Ransacking soldiers for medical supplies, tearing at the packaged sterile gauze with sharp teeth, carefully daubing the wound in antiseptic, wrapping the wound in a stark white bandage, gritting teeth and biting tongue as not to scream again.
Whimpers and groans instead, like the hurt animal it is, sprawls on its back with arms spread wide in the sand, takes deep panting breaths. The only sound in the now-quiet camp. Until the scream. Not its. Not its voice but another familiar one.
It remembers, in that moment, freed from the throes of fight adrenaline and wound-panic, what it was here to do. Staggers upright, moves quickly, frantically -- ignoring the cries from the wounded leg -- turns over corpses, rifles through the storage containers, digs at disturbed earth, tears apart the encampment once again, searching.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|01-01 iyslf 10]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>And nestled in wadded fabric shoved into a soldier-corpse's rucksack -- it finds <i>it</i>. The thing that was worth this killing, this death, these wounds. The silvery box, still sealed tight. It wonders what lies inside, what mysteries there are to uncover, questions to answer -- could be treasure like an oyster pearl, something valuable, something that makes the ache of shattered nose and killing-sickness validated. Could be nothing at all. Something it would not understand, could not understand.
It understands that the box will not yield to it, knows the box will not divulge its contents so readily, so easily. Not their burden. Not their destiny. Both of those belong to the Ranger, whose thoughts are but the murmur of a snowmelt stream felt through the earth, the trickle of blood across rough stone, slowing and slowing and slowing and stopping.
Stopping.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>>Ranger. Oh, poor Ranger.
Gone.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 3>><span class = ghost>I'm sorry.</span>
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 4>>It holds the box in gloved hands, smears blood across the surface.
All for nothing.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 5>>It falls to its knees. Stares up at the sky, searching for answers, and finding only the circling almost-vultures. An answer in their own right.
This life of call and response, action and reaction, is a cautious one. A dangerous one. Asks a wordless question; it cannot find a voice nor the words. A scream like that of the Ranger, hopeless and empty, muffled by the palm it presses to its mouth. Did they too look to the circling birds and decide on defiance, spear in chest, surrounded by ruin, did they look up and find the answer they sought? What question did they ask, to find in themself the courage or stubbornness or the desperation to fight? Did they know it was futile? Did it change anything for them? Had it been it, pinned to the rock and slowly dying -- would it have found the same, would it have fought? Pointless questions. Stupid questions, bitter tears that it dismisses, wiping eyes with grimy hands. The answer is this: it would not matter, it would be dead and gone, dead and gone like the Ranger with birds looming overhead, waiting to make a meal of the fallen mercenary, uncaring of what is just or deserved. Pure in that way; wanting only to stave off hunger, to slake thirst. In the way it is not; clutching pieces of the corpse, already desecrated.
It cannot carry the Ranger's burden, cannot hold onto that thing which denied them and cost them their life, the thing it feels resentment towards, cursing the metal. Cursing the hands that hold it.
More questions, futile, aching. Would it have been too hard for the box to have opened? To have surrendered its contents, to have given one person -- just one, just this one -- a happy ending?
Not that it deserves a happy ending. Not that it thinks it could have one. It has long been a hunter and scavenger, like the now-corpse-soldiers in the dirt and the almost-vultures that begin their slow-spiraling descent towards them. It was before that witness, bystander to the unmaking of the land. Left to mourn alone, digging graves with bare hands in red earth.
And gravedigger again to the Ranger.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 6>>The Ranger lies some distance away from the spear that once impaled them; their desperation for freedom is a story told in the marks scraped into the stone beneath their feet, in the bloodied hand, in the way they lie curled around the wound but staring up, up towards the midnight blue skies. Skies clear of the sickly greenness of pollution, a beautiful night to die under a moon half-covered in shadow, the faint starlight interrupted by the silhouettes of the passing birds. The body is light in its arms as it carries it to rest, rest at last. Descends into the catacombs, where no scavenger will dare traverse, no soldier will longer linger. Carries them to a quiet place by one of the many waterfalls, an alcove in which they will hold tight that silvery box and act as guardian to this place, as a once-living tombstone, a deterrent to those who might go looking in this place, no place of honor, for treasure or death.
It is so. In a small cave behind a slow waterfall, the body of the Ranger is laid to rest. Propped upright, glassy eyes closed, silvery box placed in their lap and the remaining hand rested atop the lid. It could mistake the expression on their face for one of peace. It wants to. It does not often make mistakes. It wants to. It would be a kindness to have made a mistake, a contrast to the drying blood.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 7>>But it is so. It returns to the surface, pulls the spear from the stone, lays claim once again to the living steel, its birthright. Takes the artificial arm wrenched from socket, a morbid form of payment, but payment enough. Something with which to bargain; it imagines the food and water and clothing and anything else it could want or stand to gain from trading the limb. A pang of guilt; excitement at the prospect of bartering a scavenged corpse. And a reminder; it too is a scavenger. Better to fill its belly this way, bloodless, mostly guiltless.
Mostly.
It looks back over its shoulder, one last time. The half-collapsed entrance to the bitter mausoleum, the profaned grave; the place it left behind. Moss covered headstones in the back alley with its deep shade, the weeping drip of water that fostered the growth of fine phyllode foliage, as delicate of a balance as existence can be. Fed by what lies beneath the collapsed kitchen, those who no longer occupy the table, still set as if it could return, go home one last time.
And it turns. Leaves home, the only home it had ever known. Had ever loved. Promises it will not return this time. Does not cry. Does not. Does. Pretends the tears are from the broken-bone ache of shattered nose and the other wounds it has collected. Not from the emptiness, not from holding its own hand and pretending as if it were another's, not from names missing from its vocabulary, not from the anguished days of collapse, laying draped over a still chest and pretending as if a heart still beat.
It cannot return. There is nothing to return to; a collapsed kitchen and graves are no home. They were, once. That's why it hurts. That's why it set the table every night for the first year, visited and revisited afterwards, just to peer through the window or carefully drag out its chair and sit. To preserve the ritual for as long as it can bear; four mismatched chairs and four chipped plates and four folded cloth napkins and four sets of silverware, a table set with all the accompaniments of dinner. And the unaccompanied ghost who sits across from emptiness and stares at its reflection in the empty plate. Wishes for the clamor of a kitchen set in liveliness, a nudge at its arm and the bright-eyed smiles of those who gathered, who broke bread and shared in kindness, passed dishes and let their hands linger when they brushed, found no discomfort in its existence.
It found them there. Where they always were. Where they always will be.
Moss covered headstones.
<span class = ghost>I'm sorry.</span>
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|frontier radio 04][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<notify>>New transmissions available.<</notify>>Water. Falling water.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>>Warmth, the sun on your face.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 3>>The sun. Falling water. You made it through the night. You made it. But this is not where you perished. This place is strange. Flashes of the catacombs, what hell lies far below, the tunnels and low arches and caverns and pitfalls.
And the tombstone at the very bottom, silver and shimmering in the shafts of light that dared the depths. You were made to kneel before the obelisk, a gaudy thing inscribed with a message of forgiveness, a monument to the sin and folly of man. A prayer for forgiveness of your own, that this would be the end of the journey. You were made to dig until your hand was raw, clawing your way through sharp rock and gravel and hard-packed soil that tore at your fingernails and chipped away at the remaining paint of your artificial hand, your tears wetting the soil, the heavy muzzle of a soldiers rifle jabbed into your neck as they screamed at you to dig. They howled at you like a pack of wild dogs, venom in their voices, eager for you to get on with it. Dig, dig, dig until your arms are exhausted and your fingers bleed and the tears that fall are no longer of fear but of bitter hate; for every second you tear at the earth like some lowly beast and stare into the claw marks at the base of the obelisk above, your hate grows deeper. As does your understanding. This is the end of your journey.
You thought you were digging your grave.
You knew you were digging your grave when you pulled it from the earth.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 4>>The silver box.
The silver box that rests under your swollen and bruised hand, stiff with still-open wounds, caked in dirt and tracked with blood.
You've been looking for this for such a long time. The part of you that still grieves, still holds out such a determined hope that even staring death in the face -- you found a way to deny it. You, a liar who said they could not open the box, though they knew the creation of the box-device so intimately that just holding it felt like a homecoming.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 5>>And to your touch it yields, at long last. The projections and holograms a decoy for the true nature of the box, which opens slow and from the center, a smooth mechanism beneath a false lid, opened by just the brush of your fingers. Like one of the wildflowers that blossoms in sequence, ingenuity borrowed from nature, a kind of homage, something you would know and appreciate, familiar patterns shown to familiar hands. Petals peel back to reveal a tangled wire interior, one that hums with an energy you feel in your teeth, power for the mechanical systems that whir and raise a small glass lens to the center of the open petals.
Another set of clicks and a hum. A hologram, flickering blue. Wavy lines, grainy image, an adjustment of the recorder, a faint voice.
The woman's voice is vaguely familiar. The woman's shape is vaguely familiar. Details that resolve themselves with static and flickering.
No. It can't be. No. This can't be happening.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 6>>No.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 7>>No.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 8>>You stare into the hologram. She speaks.
“Hello, Swann. If you're listening to this, I'm sorry.” She takes a deep breath. “I'm sorry. If you're listening to this, then I'm dead, or worse.”
You slam the box closed. No.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 9>>No.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|01-01 iyslf 12][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>This can't be. She can't be gone. This can't have been for nothing. The sound of your sobs is swallowed by the roar of the waterfall.
Though it pains you, you know that you must open the box again. To see her face and hear her voice again, at the very least.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>>“Hello, Swann. If you're listening to this, I'm sorry.” She takes a deep breath. “I'm sorry. If you're listening to this, then I'm dead, or worse. I know this is going to be a lot for you. It's not your fault. This is just how it ended, there was nothing you could have done to change it.”
Tears roll down your grimy face. She looks at peace, at least. You can take comfort in that, you think.
“I don't even know if you're still out there. I think this is me hoping that I'll find you. You don't know how badly I miss you. I want to tell you so much, but-” She glances over her shoulder. “I'm running out of time.” Her voice catches in her throat, distressed and hoarse. “Swann… oh, Swann, I'm afraid. I've done something terrible.”
There is a loud noise off camera, the sound of metal on hollow metal, a rumble like thunder, just as ominous. She lunges closer to the camera, wiping tears from her face. Her next words are whispered, barely audible over the static of the recording.
“I need you. Go east, to Bastion. There are labs beneath the spire. You're looking for Bishop Aguilar and Samuel Priest. They will help you. Tell them that Archangel sent you.” She holds the camera close to her face, so that it is all you see as the recording ends. “I love you endlessly, Swann.”
The recording stops with the sound of metal breaking, with her looking up suddenly, and the box closing. A brief flicker of darkness and static and a single panicked cry and then -
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 3>>And then it's over and a cheap, tinny voice asks if you'd like to replay the recording, and you close the box and pretend as if you didn't just watch her final moments. Pretend as if you didn't just watch the one person you've been looking for all these years die.
Pretend like this isn't the end, like the one thing you had lived for, all these years, all this damage, your death and resurrection, the arm torn from the socket and leg lost somewhere in the desert, the scars and broken bones and broken heart -- all of it for nothing.
Nothing at all.
If you had a voice in your ragged throat, you would have screamed.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|01-01 iyslf 13][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>>You stagger to your feet, feeling the leg drag beneath you, poorly calibrated. Probably damaged. You look no further than the boots and socks both stolen from your corpse. The one hand you have left, occupied by the accursed box, aids not the balance that wavers on the precarious ledges as you limp your way to the surface. Wincing with each step, sharp rock digging into the flesh of your sole.
The sunlight is the most glorious thing you've ever seen and pure agony both, burning your vision white. You stumble and limp forward, shielding your eyes with the scraps of your shirt left. Eyes that water long after you've acclimated to the light, or maybe you're still just crying. Probably that, the blurry ruins passing in a haze, picking your way out of the labyrinthine remnants of the city, heat mirages from the stark asphalt adding to the dreamlike state.
One step forward. One step at a time.
<<nobr>><div class = choices>
<div class = choice-item> [[Like when you were hunted.|01-01 iyslf 14][$choice to 1]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[Like when you were wounded.|01-01 iyslf 14][$choice to 2]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[Like when you were lost.|01-01 iyslf 14][$choice to 3]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<if $choice is 1>><span class = flashback><i>Run</i> is the resounding cry, the one single word shouted above the chaos. <i>Run</i>. Run for your life. And you careen through the night, feeling the ground tremble beneath you, reminded of the city struck down with fire from on high, a plume of light and heat like the concentrated rising of the sun, scorched soil, warm rains. A warning unheeded; you watched as the city was annihilated, you did not heed the warning, waited too long to run. But you are running now -- there are fates worse than the end of days.
Something follows through the pitch blackness, through the starless night. Something that does not understand the hunger it feels, something that does not wish to know, only wishes to gorge itself on tender flesh. You cannot see it, can barely hear it -- but you can <i>feel</i> it near, taste the rotted-flesh stench of it, wince as your teeth are set on edge by leeched radiation.
Run.
There are many strange things in these wilds -- beautiful and horrible, new and tremendously old. Things that are a hybrid of all. Amalgamations, perfection sought in new and terrible life as nature folds mutagenic upon itself; a kaleidoscope, a many-mirrored reflection of the base pairs of life. Fractal patterns of creation, destruction, recombination. Run; lest you join the amalgamations, made hostile in existence by the fact that is not whole, cannot be whole, exists as fractured components of a whole that all desire to sink teeth into something like you. To learn you, to make you and it whole, to evolve further upon consumption. Sating hunger and curiosity alike.
Run -- for if should it catch you, it will devour you, add you to the aggregated tangle of limbs and fangs and eyes, make you another mind for the shambling hive.
But your legs are burning, your chest is burning -- each shortened, panting breath draws flame into your lungs and distributes it to the rest of your aching body; it is as though lines of hot molten metal are trickling down your abdomen into the muscles of your leg. The chase has slowed -- you have but a second to glance over your shoulder and take as deep a breath as you can muster and instead you feel ill. Because an unfortunate member of your party has also slowed or been tripped and the amalgamation is upon them, faster than you can imagine. And you cannot turn away as they are torn limb from limb in the pale green glow of the lures. You cannot turn away, frozen in horror as your mouth fills with sour bile and you beg yourself not to vomit, not from the exertion nor the gruesome spectacle before you, all flashes of bioluminescence and gnashing teeth.
And just as swiftly as it had begun -- it stops. One of the many eyes -- not compound but close enough, adapted for hunting on nights like this, when the moon hides and those foolish enough to dare the wastes venture forth -- snaps to you. There are fates worse than the end of days.
And so you run once more.</span><<elseif $choice is 2>><span class = flashback>Forward. Please, just one step forward. One more step forward.
The leg, if you can still call it that, if it serves that purpose any longer, all but drags, limp in its socket. Makes you feel sick every time you place weight on it, makes you want to fall unconscious and die unceremoniously, let go at last. The fever -- from the infection that boils in your veins, leaves streaky bursts of bruise from the wound upward, dark lines of poisoned blood the consistency of sludge that ooze and drip down your calf -- leaves the world dim at the edges, spotted with blotches of nothingness where your vision has begun to fail. Reality has begun to fail; real and non-quite-real meld and twist together, paint the landscape in hues of confusion.
Forward. Please, please, just one step forward. One more step forward.
You have long since forgotten where you are going, where you were going. Might have had a purpose once, but your thoughts blur together now, congeal into blurry, blind panic, dissolve into haze. You have long since forgotten how you were injured. It was a single moment of lightning-bright fear, running for your life and being struck by something, a lash of pain and then -- this.
Forward.
Please. You plead with yourself, beg the broken bones that screech under the weight you bear, the weight you carry. Just one more step, just one more, you beseech of yourself as the partially severed muscle separates, fiber by fiber, as blood or pus or some awful amalgamation of both runs down your unbandaged leg like the tears down your cheek, as your skin sloughs off to reveal the dead and putrefying layers beneath. As you limp closer and closer to death.
But you don't <i>want</i> to die. It would be a comfort, true. It would be a release, true -- you would be as free as the vultures that would surely consume your corpse. It would be a betrayal, though, to just give up like that. To quit, to lay down and die after all these years, all these miles. You're on your feet still because you're looking for someone, looking for something. A friend. A home. Love, love, as stupid as it sounds, enough to bring a huffed laugh to your lips. Love. You'd do anything to see her face again. You'd do anything to sit next to her beneath the lonely tree in the fields of flame. Love. Maybe that's why you didn't die in that accursed mountain pass, maybe that's why you didn't die when the sky fell.
Maybe that's why you won't die here.
One more step forward.</span><<elseif $choice is 3>><span class = flashback>The wind howled at your back as the blizzard threatened to sweep you off your feet, and you were well and truly lost.
Lost and alone, so very alone as the world grows colder. Shivering, limping, arms wrapped around yourself in a desperate embrace, all frozen muscle and involuntary tears that turn to ice on your cheek, the path before you somehow both dark and light through your frozen eyelashes. A brief respite found as you close your eyes, wish they could stay closed. Snowblind and beginning to panic, you slog through the storm over broken asphalt.
When the storm first set upon you, you had followed a light, brilliant red, like taillights through the snow. You followed the sparse road signs and mile markers towards a city with an unfamiliar name, one you had not heard in years, a myth even in your youth but tangible, real, refuge. Faded Union signage reflected the red light, collected ice and shimmered with a pale iridescence, the letters and numbers ever-changing.
Lost and alone, so very alone as you grow tired. Exhausted legs that burn despite the cold. Numb, damp hand and foot, their mechanical counterparts weighed down with a glaze of ice. You won't go on much further. You simply cannot. The red light has all but died out, lost in the snow or never there to begin with; a hypothermia hallucination. You've long since abandoned the highway to chase it, took an unnumbered exit that turned to gravel and provided neither relief nor return to the highways. You've lost count of the mile markers passed. Empty, dead fields ringed with deep snowdrift ditches beckon you.
You'd like to sleep, you think. It would be so simple, to lie down and wake up in the morning and try again. The snow has only grown more fierce, a persistent assault; the wind bites, tears at your clothes as sleet scratches at every bit of exposed skin, the storm threatening to tear you limb from limb, to scatter you to the corners of the earth. The snow alone is a comfort; a promise of cold peace.
Lost and alone, so very alone. Here, beneath a bent road sign, a cracked concrete tube not yet filled with snow calls your name. Tells you to take a rest, to grant your aching body some reprieve, to close your eyes and drift away, that it will protect you, keep you safe until the morning when you can chase the red light again. And who would you be, not to listen, not to take the hospitality it provides? Your first steps off the roadway are uncertain, punching through knee-deep snow crusted with ice, lurching your way towards your grave salvation.
You are frozen in your tracks by a sudden light that turns the snow crimson. Behind you, above you, surrounding you, bathing you in sudden warmth. A slow blink, hazards or lapses in charge, blindness brought on by the worsening gales or the beginning of the end. And above it all, a voice. Just loud enough over the wind.
"Not a step further! You ain't gonna make it out here, stranger!"
Truth, as bitter as the cold. Divine intervention in the form of a figure in a heavy coat, propping open the passenger side door of an idling truck, their gloved hand extended to you. The cold promises that you would be safer in the snow, that this is too good to be true, something invented, something imagined. And your maybe-savior interjects, drowns out the whistling gales.
"Don't you listen to it, stranger! Strange lands call for strange folks and uncommon kindness -- I ain't leaving you out here. C'mon, get in -- we're going home!"
Strange lands call for a strange trust, and surely, there are stranger ways to die than being guided out of the snow and to the pearly gates by a man in a rusted-out pickup truck. But you're going home. He said you're going home. You're going home, at last.</span><</if>>
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>>And your tired legs have carried you to the edge of the ruins, and you have no idea what time of day it is because your watch is broken, hands missing, save for the second that ticks away as you watch it. And the sun is no help, beating down on you until you are blind once again. Deafened by the silence, bowed by the sudden weight of your exhaustion.
Here you stand. Alone in the bright world.
Go east, to Bastion. Find Bishop, find Priest. Tell them the Archangel sent you. A prayer, you think, with all the deacons of this strange new religion mentioned by name. A prayer heavy on your tongue. Tastes like radiation, bile, blood, regret.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 3>>Here you stand. Alone in the bright world.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 4>>Well and truly alone.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 5>>You're not sure how long you waited there, whether you stood or simply collapsed, whether your wait was peaceful -- the only sound the constant ticking of the second hand on your broken watch or something more violent -- pacing and throwing rocks at already broken windows and screaming with a broken voice.
You're not sure how long you waited there, at the end of the world. But you set off into the wastes, with the slowly sinking sun at your back.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|frontier radio 05][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<notify>>New transmissions available.<</notify>><span class = flashback>"Wake up, Kane."</span>
"Fuck. You." The dead mercenary mutters into the earth, answering aloud the voice they know is carried solely by the parasitic wiring attached to their auditory nerve. A would-be-pleasant voice, the cool, unaccented tones of a woman who probably died a long goddamn time ago.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>><span class = flashback>"Your tone is unnecessary, Kane."</span>
The dead mercenary rolls over, facing the sun, already setting. They cough and splutter, clots of acrid iron blood, dirt in their mouth and cobwebs on their tongue. Miserable, reminded, not allowed to forget as their stomach turns and acid overwhelms the taste of metal.
"Let me die, Eve."
<span class = flashback>"With all due respect, which is none, I cannot. You are my duty, my burden. I would say I'm sorry, Kane, but I'm not."</span>
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 3>>The dead-now-living mercenary sits up, anger bristling at the edge of their senses, cutting through the pangs of pain that punctuate the movement. They don't even think to survey their wounds, knowing each is still deep, still oozes blood. The borrowed uniform is stiff and dirty with it.
"I wouldn't be a burden if I was dead."
Eve doesn't answer. Kane isn't surprised.
<<if $ghostwounded is false>>Their vision clears slowly, indistinct light and shadow resolving into shape and detail, blinking glass from their eyes. Testing the dexterity of each of the metal fingers in prying the broken helm off, cheap plastic and shoddy carbon-fiber snapping in their grasp. Sweat-damp and blood matted hair, released from the confines of the helmet, hangs in foul smelling curtains around their face. The briefest of thoughts -- of taking a knife to the mess -- are silenced by Eve.<<elseif $ghostwounded is true>>Their vision clears slowly, indistinct light and shadow resolving into shape and detail, blinking glass from their eyes. Though they know they will feel nothing, they touch the aching of their brow, inspect the almost-fresh blood that collects on the metallic fingertips. Runs the artificial hands through the sweat-damp and blood matted hair that hangs in foul smelling curtains around their face. The briefest of thoughts -- of taking a knife to the mess -- are silenced by Eve.<</if>>
That's her job, after all. Protect her burden. Life more precious than comfort, than the wishes of the dead-now-living mercenary.
They are a tired thing, called only by a name they despise. Not themself anymore. Hurts, sometimes. This line of questioning is typically dampened by Eve. Shouldn't take long for traitorous thoughts to be swept under a comfortable haze. Hormones or drugs or just the automated blur that their burden imposes. Not sure how the mechanism works, exactly.
Not sure how they came back this time.
Not sure if they want to be back, this time.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|01-01 iyslf 16][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>><span class = flashback>"Kane, we have no orders, and no contract. What would you like to do? And don't say die."</span>
<<nobr>><div class = choices>
<div class = choice-item> [[Find who did this. Kill them.|01-01 iyslf 17]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> <<linkreplace "Go home.">> [[Find who did this. Kill them.|01-01 iyslf 17]]<</linkreplace>></div>
<div class = choice-item> <<linkreplace "Give up. Die.">>[[Find who did this. Kill them.|01-01 iyslf 17]]<</linkreplace>></div>
</div><</nobr>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>"I think we should kill the son-of-a-bitch that did this to us, Eve."
Not their thoughts. The part of Kane that has been all but programmed to cooperate with Eve, dopamine seeking, approval seeking. Knowing she dispenses enough endorphins to make agreeance feel good.
She whispers to them, cooed approval that makes the dead-now-living mercenary's spine tingle.
<span class = flashback>"I think we should kill them too, Kane."</span>
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>>The metal-armed and now-former soldier hauls themself to their feet. Tests the other augmented limbs, finds them satisfactory, if a bit slow. Rigor mortis, though not technically a problem for the artificial muscle and tendon, is still a bitch for the rest of the body to deal with. No amount of stretching takes the stiffness from the body, not fully, not ever.
What is already dead may not die. A dead man hunts a ghost. Hopes that when they find it -- because they will -- the dead will kill the dead, vengeance for the ghost of a mercenary.
Or maybe, the dead-now-living mercenary will die, won't come back. A hope for a real death, at long last.
Kane doesn't tell Eve that last part.
Somehow, they think she already knows.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|frontier radio 06][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<notify>>New transmissions available.<</notify>>The first night passes without the realization of night.
The second is agony.
You think, as the sun rises, you will not see a third.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>>The world has fallen away.
You know nothing but the hazy sun, the frigid nights, the blistering days. Nothing but desert soils, hot sand and loose pebbles beneath your bare feet, the trail you leave, struggling further.
You sought the highways at first. The road signs with their bleached and cracked numbers and names, countless miles that mean nothing to you. How far you have come, how far you must go. Nothing. The asphalt left scorching blistered sores and sticky patches of tar, scalded your hand, your face when you fell. Made it impossible to push yourself up, stole the breath from your lungs, the strength from your arm, from your exhausted, ungainly legs. It went on forever, a crackling ribbon of darkness with a mirrored image rising from its surface, stretching the path further.
It was pure alleviation when you abandoned it. Took an exit, plunged down a dusty dirt road, rolled over an embankment. Laid there for some time, you think. Maybe you wandered further. Night had come and gone, and the day had dissolved again; the sun painted the sky a soft shade of red. The second sunset, you think. You came to stand, to stare into the endless light. Bask in the fading warmth, chase it as it sinks, as it is swallowed by the mountains and mesas. Chase it, let your legs carry you through the darkness, feel the sores open, feel the damage the sun has wrought upon your face and shoulders, the slowly closing wounds that burn like everything else.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 3>><span class = flashback>How long must you have laid there, for the mud to have held your embrace? How long -- for when you rose, it still clung to you, hesitant to relinquish you, you who left an imprint. Left a cavity, a broken heart to be filled by the rain.</span>
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 4>><span class = flashback>Rain.
Rain.
Rain?</span>
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 5>><span class = flashback>The skies are black. As dark as night -- no -- darker, somehow. The watch on your broken wrist says noon. Or midnight.
The mud is black. As dark as night, as the skies, maybe darker. Pulls at you with every step, begs you to return, to join your comrades in the ruins, sings a lullaby and promises eternal rest. And every time you would deny it, it grows more inviting. Promises it will be there, always, for when you are tired of fighting, tired of slogging on, weighed down heavy by war and the weapons thereof.
To survive is to lighten your burdens, to abandon the albatross of your guilt, the noose tied around your neck. The physical things, a physical lightening of your frame, to make traversal of the material and immaterial easier. The things you carry discarded, one at a time.
First: the rifle, thrown from its sling. Never shouldered, never fired. A weight of failure, of failed missions, of forced marches, of confusion and raised bayonets, drills to teach the precise ways in which it was acceptable to take life, taken at last from your shoulders, sinking.
Second: the torn overshirt, soaked through, rain, mud. Blood. Yours, perhaps. Blood lost, wasted on the dirt. Wasted on you. The rain is cold on your skin. Soothes the burns you've suffered to ignore.
Third: the helmet -- not yours, yours didn't have a blurry photo of a young man carefully, securely tucked into the lining, you think -- this helmet you had collected again in your concussion dulled delirium, a manner of near-futile protection from the metal and fire that rained from the sky.
Finally: the revolver, the killing thing falling from your fingers at last, its weight no longer a comfort, no longer a manner of protection, but a statement of damnation, spelled out letter for letter in the dried blood on the muzzle; you have taken a life. All the better for it to be greedily consumed by the earth. A grave that you will not share, sinking as you crawl onward. Made worse by the rain.</span>
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 6>><span class = flashback>Rain.
Rain.
When was the last time you had seen rain?</span>
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 7>><span class = flashback>How long must it had been, for you to have turned your face gleefully to the sky, for you to have reveled in every drop that leaves a sooty trace down your bare skin, rain as black as the skies, but rain nonetheless. Nonetheless. How long?
Years, maybe. Lost track of time, of distance. A long time, then, since you sat under a tree thousands of miles away, the tree where you made a single promise with linked fingers -- run until the sky shatters, until the ground falls away.
Until the end of the world.
This is the end, is it not? The skies are as black as the soil, the ground has disappeared beneath your feet, running as freely as a river in flood, you stand alone in a flat plain where once stood a city, smote from the skies by lightning, alone.
Completely and utterly alone.
And the end of the world is worse than you could have ever imagined, alone in a vast scorched plain, some undeserved purgatory, as empty as the void left by her.</span>
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 8>>Maybe that's why you woke.
The first time, in that midnight field.
This time, with a hole where your heart should be.
Maybe that's why the sun rises again.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 9>>The world is white. Pure, solid white. Skies the same as the soil, the same and yet opposite of the first waking. Worse, you think, your eyes burning, laboring to find a single detail that is not you. Better for all to be dark; the whiteness burns even through your swollen-shut eyes.
You squint out at the empty. Find just that, empty. Some strange, lonesome purgatory, death and rebirth into this strange realm. Turning back reveals more of the same, just empty white, and the dark marks of your footprints, rust-colored soil, deep-sinking impressions that mar the cracked surface. And the dark shadow that seems to follow you, a specter of your guilt, the albatross again, or perhaps more fittingly, a vulture.
Warm water laps at your ankles. The ground is soft, and yet sharp where the water wanes shallow, crystals digging into your bare foot. A shore of sorts. No real horizon over the glassy sea, just the vague impression of something, far in the distance. A flat-topped mesa, or jagged mountains, or a city dominated by a spire, changing every time you blink, as liquid as the thick, heavy water that fills each footprint.
Further and further, the water thinning, the land growing brighter, brighter, brighter. A thin, liquid membrane mirroring the sky, a mirage of blurred heat and kaleidoscope sun, the ripples that herald your approach catching its rays, sending shimmering fractals of light in fantastic patterns that swim across your vision, burn spots, images, memories into your retinas.
Further and further, and you can see no longer; blinded, the scrap of fabric tied over your eyes some relief, though tears still track down your cheeks. Further and further, trusting each step to lead you true, lead forward into the the sun that beats down upon your back, weighs crushingly upon you, you and your burden, whose weight you have not forgotten in your hand, held aloft, held secure as not to let the water touch it, to protect it, to keep the only living memory you have of her alive.
Find her, she who declares herself as Archangel, who you knew instead as a bird of a feather.
Find her, she who claimed in her final message that she misses you. That she was afraid, that she had done something horrible, that she loves you endlessly.
A bird of a feather, seeking one another in the same promised perpetuity. Not love, maybe, but conviction nonetheless. A promise to uphold.
Conviction enough to press the last recording of her to the hole where your heart should be. Enough to hold it aloft with overstrained arm, to protect it as you collapse.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 10>><span class = flashback>The midnight-dark field whispered to you. Asked you to fall again, to slip under again, never to surface.
You fell many times.
Felt the whisper plead and beg, promise kind things, reassuring things, impossible things.
Thus, each and every time, you managed to stand. Deny, rise, fight again. Though your limbs were leaden, though your bones were broken, though every muscle, tendon, ligament ached, burned, tore and reknit wrong, though you wandered through a misty haze of confusion, of agony, you managed to stand. This would not be how your story ends, drowned in the mud with grief and want still in your heart.
You rose many times.
Felt the strain of your body. The desire to fall again, the desire to rise again.</span>
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|01-01 iyslf 19][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>>And here and now, you feel no such desire.
The water is warm, amniotic, welcoming. As much a homecoming as holding the silver box, the silver box you hold aloft still with twisted, weakening arm, exhausted muscle crying out, threatening failure, combustion, collapse. The water is comfortable, after the gelid nights and torrid days. A peaceful shoal, shallow and salty, just as mirror-bright, enough for you to catch a glimpse of your reflection before the quiet undulations of your breath in the surface banish it once more.
<<nobr>><div class = choices>
<div class = choice-item> [[A dead man, living once more.|01-01 iyslf 20][$gender to "male"]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[A dead woman, living once more.|01-01 iyslf 20][$gender to "female"]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[A dead person, living once more.|01-01 iyslf 20][$gender to "nonbinary"]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<nobr>><<if $gender is "female">>
<<SetPronouns "f">>
<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>
<<SetPronouns "b">>
<<else>>
<<SetPronouns>>
<</if>><</nobr>>A dead $person, living once more.
Not for long. These gentle waves will carry you away.
You're fine with that, you think.
The salt burns in your wounds; you leech blood that dyes the current a pale pink, and you wonder how you could even be alive after all you have endured, how you could have made it all this way-- just to fall again. The sentiment of a past that feels a thousand years away, midnight fields of woe, the battle cries, the fight that has long since left your body. That hopeless war to stand. To rise. To fight.
A laugh that bubbles on your lips, how foolish, how foolish of you to think you could fight this.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>>The final act of surrender, the arm failing at long last, the box falling at long last.
Caught, before it can touch the water.
Something blots out the sun, shields you. Holds your arm, holds the box, holds hope in gloved hands.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 3>>It had followed the Ranger from the ruins. Had seen a shambling, slow moving figure, and assumed failure on its part, that one of the soldiers had been stunned, not dead, that its senses were somehow wrong, that it would get to hunt again.
It recoiled upon recognition of the single arm, the empty eyes, the bloody face of the Ranger, who collapsed, who sobbed, who stood at the edge of the ruins and fought with frenzied mind the fear of loss, time and time again. Who stared off into the wilds and left the ruins behind. Seeking to meet <<if $gender is "male">>his<<elseif $gender is "female">>her<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>their<</if>> fate another way, silver box clutched in hand.
A hunt of a different kind, two nights, three days. Following just out of sight with silent steps, a guardian angel, a watchful ghost. Found itself here, on the mirror-salt flats. A strange place, an otherworldly place, two dark dots in slow pursuit across a sea of blinding white. It watched $HimHer fall, watched $HimHer struggle, mourning the absence of the arm that hangs guiltily off the pack it carries.
It watched the Ranger stand, stagger, fall again. Waited for the inevitable rise.
Waited.
Waited.
And, out of grief or consignation to duty or something else, something it would not know nor dare speak the name of, it decided to help. To keep the silver box aloft, delicate electronics saved from the embrace of the waves that its owner had met.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|01-01 iyslf 21][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>>The figure takes the box from you, tenderly. Unbinds your eyes, just as carefully. Wants you to see. Shows you the box, shows you an open, empty hand. Places the box somewhere out of your sight, rolls you from your empty-socketed side, sits you up, crouches with you in the shoals.
Is silent, watching carefully from behind a mask tracked with blood. Says nothing, blinks slowly, bright eyes practically glowing in the shade of their hood.
You remember them. The figure from the ruins, the one without a face, without a voice. Without the conscience to help you.
<<nobr>><div class = choices>
<div class = choice-item> [[Why are they here?|01-01 iyslf 22][$choice to 1]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[Why didn't they help you?|01-01 iyslf 22][$choice to 2]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[Who are they?|01-01 iyslf 22][$choice to 3]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<if $choice is 1>>"Why are you here?" You croak out in confusion, words thick and heavy on your swollen tongue. The figure says nothing. "Do you understand me?"
The figure nods.
"Then -- why are you here?" The initial line of questioning, again.
They wait, cock their head to the side. Consider you with the soulless gaps in their mask. A flurry of movement, exaggerated for your swollen eyes. Gesture towards themself, tapping fingers against their chest. Palms down, sweeping outwards. Tapping their brow with the fingertips of a cupped hand.<<elseif $choice is 2>>"Why didn't you help me? In the ruins, you-- you could have saved me." There is still anger left in your tone, though the words are thick and heavy on your swollen tongue. The figure says nothing. "Answer me. Please." You pause, tears welling, of anger, of frustration, of pure futile emotion. "Please."
The figure waits. Considers you for a moment with the soulless gaps in the mask. Shows you their hands, held with palms facing you. Nods. Then pinches index and thumb together, turns palms down, sweeps outwards with spread hands.<<elseif $choice is 3>>"Who are you?" You stumble over your words, thick and heavy on your swollen tongue. The figure says nothing. "Do you understand me?"
The figure nods. Holds up a finger when you open your mouth to speak again. Gestures towards itself, tapping fingertips against its chest. Waits. Considers you with the empty, soulless gaps in their mask. Brings fists together, spreads their hands, sweeps outwards, palms up.<</if>>
They speak without voice. One of the languages of the wilds.
A fist on their upturned palm, thumb raised. Tapping twice.
They do not wait for your response, returning the box to your hand, closing your fingers around it. A pat on the back of your hand for assurance. A measure of insurance, a loop fashioned of cord, around your wrist, around the box. To never have it waver far from your fingertips. Your dead weight lifted from the water, strength that does not match the slight build of the nameless, silent figure. Thrown across their shoulders, hanging detritus swaying with each step, <<if $ghostwounded is true>>the pattern of slightly limping strides rocking you back into unconsciousness.<<elseif $ghostwounded is false>>long strides that carry you gently back to unconsciousness.<</if>>
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>>It does not know if Ranger understood it.
Does not know if $HeShe <<if ($gender is "male") or ($gender is "female")>>knows<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>knows<</if>> that it cares. Enough to follow, enough to drive off the things that would hunt it in the night, enough to have found $HimHer, time and time again. A strange way to ask for forgiveness, an indebtedness borne of failure. Cannot fail $HimHer again. Will not fail $HimHer again.
It will carry Ranger east.
To a town it knows, town whose name is eponymous for what it is. It will leave the Ranger, in the center of the town, where the crossroads meet. Will watch, for some time. Make sure $HeShe <<if $gender is 'nonbinary'>>are<<elseif $gender is not 'nonbinary'>>is<</if>> recovered, <<if $gender is 'nonbinary'>>are<<elseif $gender is not "nonbinary">>is<</if>> saved.
Maybe then, it will shed the chains of guilt. Will disappear into the wilds again. Find purpose again.
Maybe it will stay.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 3>>Three nights pass before it reaches the town.
Finds it at midday, taking an exit marked with symbols it recognizes only as the beacon to lead them onward, unknowing of the original message. A language strange and foreign. Follows the cracked-road-path. A language it knows much better. Reaches the town at some midnight-dark hour, when all is blanketed in shadow. To be seen in light would be death, it thinks. Better for it to be this way, it thinks.
Laid gently in the crossroads, at the center of town is the Ranger. On <<if $gender is "male">>his<<elseif $gender is "female">>her<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>their<</if>> back, looking up to the skies, chest barely rising, barely falling. Eyes fluttering, covered and bound again by the ghost that stages <<if $gender is "male">>his<<elseif $gender is "female">>her<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>their<</if>> body a second time. Not a grave this time, it hopes. Not a grave, placing the metal box on <<if $gender is "male">>his<<elseif $gender is "female">>her<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>their<</if>> chest, still tied to hand, the hand it places atop the box not a grave but a beacon.
Someone will see. Someone will save $HimHer.
The ghost leaves. Does not go far. Feels its heart ache as it turns its back.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 4>>The gunslinger watches from the open window, straddling the frame, one leg dangling out into open air.
A strange, ritualistic thing, the limp figure being posed in the center of town. Being left there. The apparition of the perpetrator disappearing into the night shortly after, fading out of view near the outskirts of town.
The gunslinger dresses quickly, throws a jacket and boots on over the open shirt and unbuttoned pants. Doesn't even think to grab their gun belt until they've already stumbled out the door of their room, until they're already down the stairs and out of the saloon entirely, standing in the street, searching for the corpse on the ground.
They stand over the body in the street. An empty socket, a silver box corded to the remaining wrist. Eyes bound, barefoot, in torn, salt encrusted clothes. Horribly, horribly wounded, open, slashing wounds and a yawning hole in <<if $gender is "male">>his<<elseif $gender is "female">>her<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>their<</if>> chest. A brutal way to die -- except the open chest rises and falls.
It reminds them of a legend made familiar to them, the tall tales, the traveler's stories of a one-armed Ranger who was relentless, a near invulnerable revenant, crawling <<if $gender is "male">>his<<elseif $gender is "female">>her<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>their<</if>> way from a shallow grave in the Dead Lands to wander the northern wastes and the ranges of the East, searching for something.
It seems this Ranger has found death. If not here in the street, then later, at the end of their six-shooter. They resign the Ranger to that fate, lighting a cigarette and smiling.
It's not every day a mark falls into their hands. Not like this.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|frontier radio 07][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>><i><<type 65ms start 1s>>and the mathematicians, the physicists, the great thinking minds, in their quest to quantify this world, have established universal constants.
things that do not waver like -
the earth orbits the sun. the speed of light in a vacuum is two hundred and ninety-nine million, seven hundred and ninety-two thousand, four hundred fifty eight meters per second. it takes eight minutes for light from the sun to reach the earth. the moon orbits the earth. gravity's pull is nine point eight meters per second per second downward. terminal velocity is reached when gravity overcomes resistance.
you always return.
<</type>></i><<nobr>><<cont append>><<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|01-02 iyslf start]]</div>
</div><</nobr>>
<</cont>><</nobr>><style>
#header {display:none;}
#passages {width: 500vw;margin:0;margin-left:7.5vh;overflow:hidden;scrollbar-width:none;font-family:var(--monofont);transition:0s;padding:0;}
::-webkit-scrollbar {width:0px;}
.passage {text-align:center;transition:0s;margin-left:20vh;}
#passages a:before {content: none;}
#story {margin-left:0;}
h1 {text-align:center;margin-top:25vh;color:var(--white);}
@media screen and (max-width: 800px) {#story {margin:0;}}
</style>
<center><h1>01: if you should lie fallen
<span class = flashback>01-02: high noon</span><<set $gamechapter to "01-02: high noon">></h1><<cont>><<goto "01-02 iyslf 01">><</cont>></center><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<notify>>New transmissions available.<</notify>>Pale sunlight filters through the gauzy curtains.
You're awake. Again.
You're alive. Again. Daybreak heralds survival, a chance to try again. To move forward. One more day. One more step. Closer, perhaps. Closer, you hope, though you cannot seem to shake the feeling that you're only growing more distant with each passing sunrise. That every step you take will carry you further away. That your purpose has been lost to the tides, to the time.
That this was a lost cause; there was no point to waking, no point to fighting, no point to wandering far into the depths of the wilds, no point in chasing the voice of dead woman who speaks in riddles, dubs herself 'Archangel'.
No longer a bird of a feather, bearing instead beautiful and terrible wings of destiny with which she elevates herself, exalts herself. Flies too close to the sun. Cries out your name as she falls.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>>Daybreak heralds survival, a chance to try again. You wake far from the waterfall cave, far from the amniotic-empty plain, far from the scorched-sinking earth, far from black rain and mirrored sun.
Pale sunlight filters through the gauzy curtains.
A quiet room, peeling walls painted in dull beige. A slight breeze stirring through the ever-so-slightly opened windows. A clock, whose hour hand is broken, counts the minutes past an unknown hour, counts the seconds that tick away. Watching time that never passes, and slips through your fingers all the same. A different kind of purgatory, a peaceful one, one that lacks the raw desolation of the previous realms. A different kind of purgatory, but one that is no less a place of limbo, graying sheets, broken clock, gauzy curtains, antique medical equipment, languid rays from the sun drifting through heat-warped glass.
No less a place of limbo, scorch marks on the ceiling. Fine dust that catches the light as you shift, disturbing the silence, casting a stone into the pond.
Ripples, the folds in the bandages that wrap your chest. Stillness, the dregs of death in your bones, a lingering stiffness to the muscles, a sudden awareness of the ghost of the arm, missing from its mechanical socket. Blinking away unconsciousness, seeking clarity.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 3>>Clarity is this -- you are not alone in this world-between-worlds. There is another who lies in a similar bunk, draped in dark fabric, wrist handcuffed to the bedframe, raised arm with curled fingers, almost beckoning. Not a guardian, but a prisoner whose chest rises and falls slowly, who waits for the resolution of this world as you do.
You fear, if fear is the right word, if it is not pity you feel for the chained figure, that they would not understand as you do, what clarity is. That the manacle on their wrist prevents resolution. That this shadowed accompaniment is no vulture-savior, the mark on the horizon that drew closer as you faltered.
Clarity is this -- you were not chained. Your salvation is in waking. Not in waiting to be set free. Master of your own destiny and handcuffed all the same, imprisoned by the will of a dead woman, by the simple metal box that brought you all this way.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 4>>The metal box. The haze clears from your mind, the lifting of the veil, your singular purpose reignited.
And it is nowhere to be found.
No, no, no no no -- you can't have lost it. You can't have. You can't have come all this way to have lost it here, here and now.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 5>>You stagger through this new purgatory. Each step faltering, beset by the failing mechanics of the false leg. By the way death's biological veil still clings, a thin sheen on your skin, sluggish blood in your veins, clumsy limbs, clumsy thoughts.
The meager things you brought with you into this world are piled neatly on a chair, near the foot of the bed. The clothes, though ragged, laundered and clean. The simple iron loop with its equally simple wrap of red linen. The long, tattered cloak, the thinning fabric adorned with patterns you've long forgotten the meaning to.
There is no metal box, though you search, and search again, inspecting each garment, as if it were hiding in some deep pocket, as if it were caught in a fold of the cloak.
Your search turns out a note on crisply folded, pure white paper. Red ink, still drying.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 6>><i>Ranger,
I know who you are. I have what you're looking for. I can help you, Ranger. You need only help me.
Come and find me. I'll be in the saloon, waiting.
-E. Sharpe</i>
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 7>>They can help you.
You need only help them.
You have little choice in this matter.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 8>>You dress hurriedly, cursing the lack of an arm, the lack of shoes, the holes in your clothing, the things that were taken, the things that were lost. The aching ghost of an arm whose nerves still fire, close the immaterial hand around something that is not grasped by metal fingers, is not moved by the electrical impulse that ends and begins in the empty socket where a shoulder should be.
In the smoke stained mirror, you are but a ghost of your former self. A ghost of the <<if $gender is "male">>man<<elseif $gender is "female">>woman<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>person<</if>> that set out into the wastes all those years ago. The hood covers your teary eyes, the cloak the lost arm, the stained gash in your shirt. The one that would match the stolen spearhead, the one that aches still, covered in bandages and yet utterly empty.
The hole where your heart should be.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 9>>You did not look back as you left the world between worlds, you think. No sidelong glances, no longing, not like the ruins, not your first and perhaps not your last grave. Maybe you left this place in peace.
Perhaps, you looked back. Perhaps, the chained figure rattled the handcuffed wrist, groaned something indistinct and yet something that you knew to be a cry for help. Perhaps, his deep voice startled you, perhaps the strength with which he shook his prison scared you, perhaps you left this place in fear.
It matters not.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 10>>You stand alone in the bright world, on cracked asphalt, under a cloudless sky, under a blazing sun.
The town is a small one, a collection of buildings gathered round a crossroads. No more than twelve or thirteen, no less than nine or ten. Buildings that bear the marks of a fire. Like the heat cracked mirror, like the wavy windows, like the soot on the ceiling. Like broken-teeth fenceposts that lead out into thinning fields, husks and shoots resting, decaying atop black soil. Like the cracks in the concrete that grow many-headed flowers in the colors of a blaze, reds and oranges and yellows.
Buildings with their char-colored siding, their metal patches for rain that will never come, leaning inwards to the street, eavesdropping on the travelers who pass. The few who would dare a journey, would choose a life on the roads.
As if summoned by your recollection, a small group passes slow. People in heavy cloaks, leading things that look like horses with heavy saddlebags, eyes cast to the concrete. Travelers who don't stop, don't even look up, don't even acknowledge the stranger who stands in the middle of the street, who watches them as if they are the only thing in this world. The caravan parts like water around you.
A veiled woman with blue eyes, as startlingly blue as the cloudless sky and just as empty, watches from atop a beast. Holds two fingers up to her cheek. Points behind her with the raised fingers.
The group passes, a dream, a heat-mirage. Leaves only the noise of hooves on pavement, the slight clatter of metal, the shuffling of footsteps.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|01-02 iyslf 02][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>>You wander into the saloon, the neon sign outside long empty, but still promising haven; the horses hitched to the post demonstrating use. *The Nomad's Respite*, it calls itself, in a hand lettered proclamation hung above the door, harvested from the remnants of a road sign.
The door is cracked, creaks as you open it. The dark greets you, shuttered and boarded windows through which only meager light dares crawl through. A quiet place, a radio playing somewhere, the gentle lull of conversations, a place you're not entirely convinced is real, the almost-transparent ranch-hands in their dusty word clothes barely giving you second glance from food or drink as you stand in the doorway.
"Now, don't just stand there, stranger -- come and get yourself something to drink."
Behind the bar, illuminated by lanterns and electric lights that hum, practically sing, is a stout man in a plaid shirt, sleeves cuffed over broad forearms, apron wrapped around his waist. He gestures at an empty barstool, nods. Turns his back to put away the glass he cleans offhandedly with a stained white rag.
Waits for you to take the proffered seat, turning only after you do. He sighs, shoulders slumping. "This one'll be on me."
The barkeep reaches under the bar, retrieves a pair of small glasses. Fumbles briefly with a bottle of clear liquor, pouring a shaky-handed shot. The other, he fills with water from a tap. He presents both, sliding them over the worn-smooth wood of the bartop. They come to a dead stop before you, sloshing, but not a single drop spilling.
"Well. You look awful good for a dead $person."
<<nobr>><div class = choices>
<div class = choice-item> [[Nice to meet you too.|01-02 iyslf 03][$choice to 1]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[Spare the pleasantries.|01-02 iyslf 03][$choice to 2]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[Thanks.|01-02 iyslf 03][$choice to 3]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<if $choice is 1>>"Nice to meet you too, I suppose."
He chuckles. "Trip back from the grave treated you well, I see."
You nod.<<elseif $choice is 2>>"Spare me the pleasantries. Please."
He raises his hands, bows his head, feigns hurt or surrender. "Alright, alright. I get it. You're a busy $person, just come back from the grave."
You nod, impatiently.<<elseif $choice is 3>>"Thank you?"
He smiles slightly. "Ain't no need for that. Glad you crawled out of that grave of yours."
You return his slight smile.<</if>>
"From the way Margo put it, I was sorta figuring the only greeting I'd ever give you would be reading the fuckin' 'Eulogy For The Unknown', if you'd be as so kind to forgive me and my manners, grave-walker." He leans on the bartop. "Name's Jordan Murphy. Folks 'round here call me Murph. And you're folks 'round here now, so you'll call me Murph."
<<nobr>><div class = choices>
<div class = choice-item> [[Where is "here"?|01-02 iyslf 04.1]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[Bartender, gravedigger -- what else does he do?|01-02 iyslf 04.2]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[Why "Murph"?|01-02 iyslf 04.3]]</div>
</div><</nobr>>"Where is <i>here</i>, exactly?" The first question across your lips. The necessary one, the one that will tell you how far you have come, how far you must go.
"Hope. That's the name of this place." Murph smiles, but it doesn't feel genuine. A grimace of pain, wearing a disguise. "When there were still states in the Union, we'd be in Utah. Right near the border with Colorado, as the crow flies."
Your shoulder slumps. The answer you were expecting. Far from your destination, far from any hope of easy passage. You'd never heard of Hope, save for rumors. None that interested you enough to carry you here, none that led to a contract with the town. The one rumor you know carries the weight of dead men. Does not need confirmation; you've seen for yourself. And still, you find yourself asking.
"Did the town burn?"
"Everything burns, grave-walker. Wildfire's inevitable out here. And sometimes, things need to burn before they can grow."
The rumors you'd heard of Hope were not of wildfire. Murph's grimace-smile returns.
<<nobr>><div class = choices>
<<if not hasVisited('01-02 iyslf 04.2')>><div class = choice-item> [[Bartender, gravedigger -- what else does he do?|01-02 iyslf 04.2]]</div><</if>>
<<if not hasVisited('01-02 iyslf 04.3')>><div class = choice-item> [[Why "Murph"?|01-02 iyslf 04.3]]</div><</if>>
<div class = choice-item> [[Enough questions.|01-02 iyslf 05]]</div>
</div><</nobr>>"So -- you tend bar, read eulogies -- what else? If you can forgive my curiosity, that is."
"I am a man of many talents, grave-walker. Carpenter and builder, too, though Cam often helps me with that. Know enough medicine to help Margo, and I help Heather with whatever she could need."
"The others are..?" You trail off.
"Haven't met none of them yet?" He raises an eyebrow. "Shit. Margo's gonna be pissed."
Murph laughs. "Lord, I don't know how you escaped our doctor, Margo, or her wife -- our deputy -- Cam. Heather though..." He sighs. "Heather... Heather just does what she pleases, and we all love her for it. I love her for it, at least. Easy to escape her though, on account of her being blind as a bat."
Names thrown about like you would know them. Like you should know them, consider yourself lucky, consider yourself saved, an escapee of deputy and doctor. Lucky to end up here, where a warm-voiced man serves you shots and tells you about the graves he's dug.
<<nobr>><div class = choices>
<<if not hasVisited('01-02 iyslf 04.1')>><div class = choice-item> [[Where is "here"?|01-02 iyslf 04.1]]</div><</if>>
<<if not hasVisited('01-02 iyslf 04.3')>><div class = choice-item> [[Why "Murph"?|01-02 iyslf 04.3]]</div><</if>>
<div class = choice-item> [[Enough questions.|01-02 iyslf 05]]</div>
</div><</nobr>>"If you don't mind my asking, why do the folks here call you Murph?"
Murph chuckles. "Same reason folks took to calling Margo and Cam their names. Ain't any disrespect on their parts. Sometimes, the power of a name is just what you make of it. And names change. People change." He looks straight through you. "The world changes. Forces our hand. You weren't the same person, nine years ago, were you? I think I'd recognize the man they called 'Murphy' just as you'd recognize the world before the end."
He speaks of the end, the apocalypse, the fall -- as if it were some lost friend. As if all that were lost was time, as if the old could return tomorrow, wipe away the new; and he would be the first to embrace it.
<<nobr>><div class = choices>
<<if not hasVisited('01-02 iyslf 04.1')>><div class = choice-item> [[Where is "here"?|01-02 iyslf 04.1]]</div><</if>>
<<if not hasVisited('01-02 iyslf 04.2')>><div class = choice-item> [[Bartender, gravedigger -- what else does he do?|01-02 iyslf 04.2]]</div><</if>>
<div class = choice-item> [[Enough questions.|01-02 iyslf 05]]</div>
</div><</nobr>>He gestures to you, open palm, fingers spread wide. All that remain, anyways. No left ring finger, a scarred nub in its place. He closes his fist at your glance, jaw shifting. "I never did learn your name, grave-walker. And I've told you mine, so you owe me the common courtesy of telling me yours."
Your name is Swann. That was the name you carried with you, the one on the faded patch, pinned to the chest of your father's jacket, the one he painted on the mailbox, adorned with your handprint, his and yours and your mother's.
You chose a different name as a young $person. One that fit your tongue, one that lacks the taste of guilt, of regret, of ties familial, discarded.
Your name is <<textbox "$name" "">>
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|01-02 iyslf 06]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<nobr>><<if ($name is 'eris') or ($name is 'Eris')>><span class = flashback>66 65 61 72 6c 65 73 73 20 6c 65 61 64 65 72 2c 20 66 65 61 72 20 74 68 65 20 6c 6f 76 65 20 69 6e 20 79 6f 75 72 20 68 65 61 72 74 2c 20 74 68 65 20 64 61 72 6b 6e 65 73 73 20 69 6e 20 79 6f 75 72 20 65 79 65 73 2c 20 74 68 65 20 77 6f 75 6e 64 73 20 69 6e 20 79 6f 75 72 20 73 6b 69 6e 2e 20 6f 68 2c 20 6c 69 67 68 74 2d 62 72 69 6e 67 65 72 2c 20 74 68 65 20 67 68 6f 73 74 73 20 6f 66 20 79 6f 75 72 20 70 61 73 74 20 77 69 6c 6c 20 6e 6f 74 20 62 65 20 6b 69 6e 64 20 74 6f 20 79 6f 75 2e</span><<elseif ($name is 'alexandra') or ($name is 'Alexandra')>><span class = flashback>77 6f 75 6c 64 2d 62 65 20 6d 75 74 69 6e 65 65 72 2c 20 73 74 61 79 20 79 6f 75 72 20 68 61 6e 64 2e 20 64 6f 20 6e 6f 74 20 73 70 69 6e 20 74 68 65 20 63 79 6c 69 6e 64 65 72 20 79 65 74 2e 20 73 68 65 20 6c 6f 76 65 73 20 79 6f 75 2c 20 73 68 65 20 6c 6f 76 65 73 20 79 6f 75 20 73 74 69 6c 6c 2e 20 73 68 65 20 77 69 6c 6c 20 6c 6f 76 65 20 79 6f 75 20 75 6e 74 69 6c 20 74 68 65 20 73 74 61 72 73 20 66 61 6c 6c 20 66 72 6f 6d 20 74 68 65 20 73 6b 79 2e</span><<elseif ($name is 'hector') or ($name is 'Hector')>><span class = flashback>6d 61 6e 20 6f 66 20 6d 61 6e 79 20 77 6f 72 6c 64 73 2c 20 6c 6f 76 65 20 61 6c 6c 20 74 68 61 74 20 69 73 20 67 69 76 65 6e 20 74 6f 20 79 6f 75 2e 20 72 65 61 63 68 20 6e 6f 74 20 66 6f 72 20 77 68 61 74 20 63 61 6e 6e 6f 74 20 62 65 20 79 6f 75 72 73 2e 20 73 65 65 6b 20 76 69 72 74 75 65 2c 20 6e 6f 74 20 74 75 72 6d 6f 69 6c 2e 20 6e 6f 74 20 72 65 76 65 6e 67 65 2e</span><<elseif ($name is 'natalie') or ($name is 'Natalie')>><span class = flashback>68 65 61 6c 65 72 2c 20 68 6f 77 20 62 6c 6f 6f 64 79 20 61 72 65 20 79 6f 75 72 20 68 61 6e 64 73 3f 20 77 65 72 65 20 74 68 65 20 77 6f 75 6e 64 73 20 73 65 6c 66 20 69 6e 66 6c 69 63 74 65 64 3f 20 64 6f 65 73 20 69 74 20 66 65 65 6c 20 67 6f 6f 64 2c 20 74 6f 20 68 75 72 74 3f 20 64 6f 20 79 6f 75 20 6c 69 6b 65 20 74 6f 20 68 75 72 74 3f 20 77 68 6f 20 77 69 6c 6c 20 66 69 78 20 79 6f 75 3f 20 77 68 6f 20 77 69 6c 6c 20 73 61 76 65 20 79 6f 75 3f</span><<elseif ($name is 'jun') or ($name is 'Jun')>><span class = flashback>63 6f 6e 66 6c 69 63 74 65 64 20 6f 6e 65 2c 20 64 69 76 69 73 69 6f 6e 20 77 69 6c 6c 20 6b 69 6c 6c 20 79 6f 75 2e 20 69 74 20 77 69 6c 6c 20 73 61 76 65 20 79 6f 75 2e 20 79 6f 75 20 63 61 6e 6e 6f 74 20 65 78 69 73 74 20 6c 69 6b 65 20 74 68 69 73 2e 20 6f 6e 65 20 63 61 6e 6e 6f 74 20 65 78 69 73 74 20 77 69 74 68 6f 75 74 20 74 68 65 20 6f 74 68 65 72 2e 20 61 6e 64 20 62 6f 74 68 20 77 69 6c 6c 20 72 61 7a 65 20 79 6f 75 2e</span><<elseif ($name is 'jayden') or ($name is 'Jayden')>><span class = flashback>77 6f 75 6e 64 65 64 20 6f 6e 65 2c 20 64 6f 20 6e 6f 74 20 77 65 65 70 20 66 6f 72 20 74 68 6f 73 65 20 79 6f 75 20 63 61 6e 6e 6f 74 20 73 61 76 65 2e 20 79 6f 75 72 20 62 72 6f 77 20 68 61 73 20 62 65 65 6e 20 62 72 6f 6b 65 6e 2c 20 79 6f 75 72 20 6b 6e 65 65 20 62 65 6e 74 2e 20 74 68 65 20 70 72 69 63 65 20 6f 66 20 79 6f 75 72 20 6c 6f 79 61 6c 74 79 20 69 73 20 74 68 69 6e 2d 76 65 69 6c 65 64 20 70 65 61 63 65 2e 20 69 73 20 79 6f 75 72 20 62 6c 6f 6f 64 2e</span><<elseif ($name is 'tycho') or ($name is 'Tycho')>><span class = flashback>68 65 61 72 74 6c 65 73 73 20 6f 6e 65 2c 20 68 6f 77 20 64 6f 65 73 20 72 65 76 65 6e 67 65 20 66 65 65 6c 3f 20 77 61 73 20 69 74 20 77 6f 72 74 68 20 69 73 3f 20 64 6f 65 73 20 69 74 20 73 61 74 69 73 66 79 20 79 6f 75 2c 20 64 6f 65 73 20 69 74 20 62 72 69 6e 67 20 61 20 73 6d 69 6c 65 20 74 6f 20 79 6f 75 72 20 6c 69 70 73 3f 20 64 6f 20 79 6f 75 20 61 63 68 65 20 66 6f 72 20 77 68 61 74 20 63 6f 75 6c 64 20 68 61 76 65 20 62 65 65 6e 3f</span><<elseif ($name is 'antares') or ($name is 'Antares')>><span class = flashback>6c 6f 73 74 20 6f 6e 65 2c 20 68 6f 77 20 62 65 61 75 74 69 66 75 6c 20 61 72 65 20 74 68 65 20 73 74 61 72 73 3f 20 6d 6f 72 65 20 6f 72 20 6c 65 73 73 20 74 68 61 6e 20 74 68 65 20 73 74 61 69 6e 65 64 20 67 6c 61 73 73 2c 20 62 72 6f 6b 65 6e 20 6f 6e 20 74 68 65 20 64 61 69 73 3f 20 6d 6f 72 65 20 6f 66 20 6c 65 73 73 20 74 68 61 6e 20 74 68 65 20 76 61 63 75 75 6d 20 6f 66 20 73 70 61 63 65 3f 20 6d 6f 72 65 20 6f 72 20 6c 65 73 73 20 74 68 61 6e 20 79 6f 75 72 20 65 6e 74 72 61 69 6c 73 20 6f 6e 20 74 68 65 20 61 6c 74 61 72 3f 20 77 68 61 74 20 77 6f 75 6c 64 20 62 65 20 77 6f 72 73 65 2d 20 62 6c 69 6e 64 6e 65 73 73 20 6f 72 20 66 61 69 74 68 6c 65 73 73 6e 65 73 73 3f</span><<elseif ($name is 'rigel') or ($name is 'Rigel')>><span class = flashback>63 72 75 65 6c 20 6f 6e 65 2c 20 77 61 73 20 69 74 20 77 6f 72 74 68 20 69 74 3f 20 79 6f 75 20 61 6c 77 61 79 73 20 61 63 63 6f 6d 70 6c 69 73 68 20 79 6f 75 72 20 6d 69 73 73 69 6f 6e 2e 20 61 6c 77 61 79 73 2e 20 79 6f 75 20 73 68 6f 75 6c 64 20 68 61 76 65 20 77 61 6c 6b 65 64 20 61 77 61 79 2e 20 79 6f 75 20 63 6f 75 6c 64 20 68 61 76 65 2e 20 61 6e 64 20 79 65 74 2c 20 79 6f 75 20 70 75 6c 6c 65 64 20 74 68 65 20 74 72 69 67 67 65 72 2e</span><<elseif ($name is 'cygnus') or ($name is 'Cygnus')>><span class = flashback>64 65 61 64 20 6d 61 6e 2c 20 79 6f 75 72 20 68 65 61 72 74 20 77 61 73 20 74 6f 6f 20 63 6f 6c 64 20 66 6f 72 20 74 68 69 73 20 77 6f 72 6c 64 2e 20 74 72 75 73 74 20 6e 6f 62 6f 64 79 2c 20 66 65 61 72 20 6e 6f 74 68 69 6e 67 2e 20 72 65 61 70 20 77 68 61 74 20 79 6f 75 20 73 6f 77 2e 20 61 20 73 68 61 6c 6c 6f 77 2c 20 75 6e 6d 61 72 6b 65 64 20 67 72 61 76 65 2e 20 61 20 6e 61 6d 65 20 73 74 72 75 63 6b 20 66 72 6f 6d 20 68 69 73 74 6f 72 79 2e</span><<elseif ($name is 'elizabeth') or ($name is 'Elizabeth')>><span class = flashback>64 65 61 64 20 77 6f 6d 61 6e 2c 20 79 6f 75 72 20 68 65 61 72 74 20 77 61 73 20 74 6f 6f 20 6b 69 6e 64 20 66 6f 72 20 74 68 69 73 20 77 6f 72 6c 64 2e 20 6c 6f 76 65 2c 20 70 75 72 65 20 61 6e 64 20 73 69 6d 70 6c 65 2c 20 70 72 65 73 73 65 64 20 69 6e 74 6f 20 74 68 65 20 73 68 61 70 65 20 6f 66 20 61 20 77 65 61 70 6f 6e 2e 20 6e 6f 74 20 65 6e 6f 75 67 68 20 74 6f 20 73 61 76 65 20 79 6f 75 2c 20 69 6e 20 74 68 65 20 65 6e 64 2e 20 6e 6f 74 68 69 6e 67 20 63 6f 75 6c 64 20 73 61 76 65 20 79 6f 75 2e</span><<elseif ($name is 'nadine') or ($name is 'Nadine')>><span class = flashback>73 6f 6c 64 69 65 72 2c 20 69 74 20 77 6f 75 6c 64 20 62 65 20 62 65 73 74 20 74 6f 20 77 61 6c 6b 20 61 77 61 79 2e 20 74 68 65 20 64 65 61 64 20 6d 65 6e 20 68 61 76 65 20 6e 6f 20 77 69 73 64 6f 6d 20 66 6f 72 20 79 6f 75 2e 20 74 68 65 20 66 6c 61 67 20 69 73 20 61 20 73 79 6d 62 6f 6c 20 61 73 20 65 6d 70 74 79 20 61 73 20 74 68 65 20 62 61 72 72 65 6c 20 6f 66 20 61 20 72 69 66 6c 65 2e 20 62 6f 74 68 20 6b 69 6c 6c 2e</span><<elseif ($name is 'corey') or ($name is 'Corey')>><span class = flashback>72 65 76 65 6e 61 6e 74 2c 20 69 74 20 77 6f 75 6c 64 20 62 65 20 62 65 73 74 20 74 6f 20 77 61 6c 6b 20 61 77 61 79 2e 20 6c 69 66 65 20 69 73 20 70 72 65 63 69 6f 75 73 2d 20 61 6e 64 20 79 6f 75 20 68 61 76 65 20 62 65 65 6e 20 61 66 66 6f 72 64 65 64 20 73 6f 6d 65 74 68 69 6e 67 20 70 72 69 63 65 6c 65 73 73 2e 20 73 65 63 6f 6e 64 20 63 68 61 6e 63 65 73 20 61 72 65 20 72 61 72 65 2e 20 6e 6f 20 64 65 62 74 73 2c 20 6e 6f 20 64 65 62 74 20 63 6f 6c 6c 65 63 74 6f 72 73 2e</span><<elseif ($name is 'rasmus') or ($name is 'Rasmus')>><span class = flashback>6d 6f 6e 73 74 65 72 2c 20 69 74 20 77 6f 75 6c 64 20 62 65 20 62 65 73 74 20 74 6f 20 77 61 6c 6b 20 61 77 61 79 2e 20 73 68 6f 72 74 63 68 61 6e 67 65 64 20 70 72 6f 6d 69 73 65 73 20 6f 66 20 6a 75 73 74 69 63 65 2c 20 64 65 76 6f 6c 76 69 6e 67 20 69 6e 74 6f 20 62 6c 6f 6f 64 2e 20 64 6f 65 73 20 69 74 20 66 65 65 6c 20 67 6f 6f 64 2c 20 74 6f 20 67 69 76 65 20 69 6e 20 74 6f 20 79 6f 75 72 20 6e 61 74 75 72 65 3f 20 74 6f 20 6b 69 6c 6c 3f</span><<elseif ($name is 'brigid') or ($name is 'Brigid')>><span class = flashback>69 6d 70 6f 73 74 65 72 2c 20 64 6f 70 70 65 6c 67 61 6e 67 65 72 2c 20 79 6f 75 20 61 72 65 20 6e 6f 74 20 6d 65 2e 20 69 20 61 6d 20 61 6c 6f 6e 65 20 69 6e 20 74 68 69 73 20 61 63 74 20 6f 66 20 63 72 65 61 74 69 6f 6e 2e 20 68 6f 77 20 6c 6f 6e 65 6c 79 2c 20 68 6f 77 20 69 6e 74 6f 78 69 63 61 74 69 6e 67 2c 20 74 6f 20 64 69 72 65 63 74 20 61 20 75 6e 69 76 65 72 73 65 2e 20 79 6f 75 20 64 6f 6e 27 74 20 73 65 65 20 79 65 74 2e 20 79 6f 75 20 77 69 6c 6c 2e</span><</if>><</nobr>>One more question. This one yours.
"Are the drinks for me?"
"Yes, and no. It's a lesson, grave-walker." He swaps the glasses, one for another in an elaborate dance. Raises one to the light, returns it to the bar-top. "You know what alcohol is, right?" He doesn't wait for an answer; leaving you quite certain this question was never meant for an answer, aside from the one he chooses to deliver. "Poison. Tears through the liver, clouds the brain. And water -" He selects a glass without consideration. Raises it once more. "Gives life. Sustains it. Flushes poison out of the system, lets crops grow, brings hope."
You take the other glass. Hold it aloft, hand shaking.
"Looks the same, don't it? You won't know 'till it's down your throat. And by then -- how much will it matter?"
He raises the glass to his lips, nods for you to do the same. He drinks. As do you.
<<nobr>><div class = choices>
<div class = choice-item> [[It burns like fire.|01-02 iyslf 07][$choice to 1]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[It soothes your parched throat.|01-02 iyslf 07][$choice to 2]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<if $choice is 1>>The stories they tell of Hope are stories of fire. Of soldiers in the night, wielding torches. It burned.
You burn.
Every drop in the glass is liquid flame, is unimaginable heat, brings tears to your eyes and a scorching heat to your mouth. Swallow, hard. Ignore the flames you have set. Ignore the wildfire that rages through your body, a kindling blaze across your chest, ignore the bile that rises from your stomach, tells you to purge the poison from your body. Refuse it. Ignore it. Fight the fires, shake your head like a dog or a madman, dare not make a sound.
He watches you the entire time. Does not take his eyes from you, the expression found within unreadable. Could be pity. Could be amusement. Could be nothing, nothing as you finally succumb, choke and cough, lower your flaming head to the coolness of the bar, shove the glass away with open hand, hear it tip, roll away, fall. Hear it shatter on the floor. Hear nothing but your gasping breaths, nothing but his voice high above.<<elseif $choice is 2>>Water, in this wasteland, in this desert, in this cruel world, is a precious thing. Is a hopeful thing.
Is a kind thing, the cool droplet tracing a path down your chin, the slight dampness on your chapped lips, and the clarity of water, water, water over your dry tongue, down your parched throat. Enough water to leave you practically begging for more, enough to whet your thirst, enough to make you understand the battles, the death that runs the temperamental springs and seasonal oases red with blood, the ones not poisoned, the ones not stalked, the ones not claimed. For water, for relief, violence seems cheap. For water, for life, a deal in death seems all the more reasonable.
"It's wonderful, isn't it?"
You nod, wild eyed, frantic. He takes the glass from you. Does not refill it.<</if>>
"Remember, Swann. Poison or water. Your choice."
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>>"And, speaking of choices -- if you're to stay, you ought to know," he says, voice soft at first, hardening to reveal an angry edge, a venomous bite. "There's someone you ought to steer clear of. Calls themself Eli Sharpe -- and they're poison incarnate. They'd preach salvation and deliver damnation in the same goddamned sentence. For the sake of all that remains, stay away."
The empty feeling returns.
"They left me a note. They have something of mine."
Murph leans forward on the bar, hangs his head between outstretched arms. Speaks to the barmats in little more than a furious whisper. "Lord, the audacity of that coward..."
You would laugh, if it were not dread that gathers on your tongue instead of humor.
"They've got a booth they've been hangin' 'round in the back corner. No doubt in my mind you'll find them there." He adds, rather disconcertingly -- "It was nice meeting you, <<name>> Swann. You make it out of there before they draw iron, and the next round'll be on me. Otherwise -- well. There's a grave and eulogy waitin' for you."
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 3>>The empty feeling digs deeper, settles uncomfortably in your chest. Strangulation, a pleading existence dimming, fading with each shallow breath.
The same as knowing you were going to die, clinging to the end of a spear. The same as clawing through hard-packed earth, digging your grave. The same as hearing her voice, her final, desperate screams. The same as the sunrise in the desert, the worlds-between-worlds. The same as the hole in your chest, where your heart should be. The same as the caravan rider's eyes. The same as the glass on the bartop.
Empty. Empty, all empty.
Just waiting to die. Or, meeting it willingly. Decisions unmade, pushed from empty choice to empty choice. Perhaps it's destiny that carries you forward, this fate written in the alignment of the stars. Maybe determination, brute force of will. Maybe just a run of bad luck, victim of circumstance far beyond your control.
Empty, nonetheless.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|01-02 iyslf 08][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>>The back of the saloon is all but abandoned, dimly lit, bare lightbulbs supplemented with clouded lanterns. A black-clad figure sprawls across the bench of a booth, resting a spurred boot on the cracked vinyl cushion.
A single eye, just as black, leers at you through the smoke-haze of a cigarette, snubbed out in a chipped ashtray. They incline their head, point to the bench across from them, prop themself up to rest an elbow on the table.
A bored drawl, an authoritative command. A single word.
"Sit."
<<nobr>><div class = choices>
<div class = choice-item> [[Sit|01-02 iyslf 09][$choice to 1]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[No.|01-02 iyslf 09][$choice to 2]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<if $choice is 1>>You sit on edge, listen to the slight crinkle of vinyl. To the sound of your frantic heartbeat, pounding alarm bells in your ears.
"Good <<if $gender is "male">>boy<<elseif $gender is "female">>girl<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>job<</if>>. You're making it awful easy for me." Sharpe patronizes with a sharp grin.<<elseif $choice is 2>>You stand. Remain standing. Look them in the eye, defiant. Hope the look on your face conveys the annoyance, the indignance. Who are they to order you around? To take what you have fought for, have died for. To hold her hostage, to patronize with a scrawled deal, to make you search for them, to think they control you with thinly veiled threat.
The bored drawl transforms, drops to a hiss, a sentence of vitriol spat like venom. "I told you to sit. And I ain't someone to be fucked with. Sit."
"Or?" You sneer in return, towering over the reclining figure. "What're you going to do about it?"
Something flashes, a glimpse of silver, the scales of a fish, a bolt of lightning. A six-shooter, raised just out of holster. A glare, reflected in the dead black eye. You sit on edge, listen to the slight crinkle of vinyl. To the sound of your furious heartbeat, pounding a war drum in your ears.
"Good <<if $gender is "male">>boy<<elseif $gender is "female">>girl<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>job<</if>>. See what happens when we listen to instructions?" Sharpe condescends to you, a grin as brilliant as the silver of their pistol.<</if>>
"I got your note." All you can think to say. The brute's smirk widens.
"Well, Ranger, you ain't as inconspicuous as you think you are. Ain't many 'round these parts with one arm, one leg, and the look of someone who's seen the very depths of the Dead Lands." Your lip curls in derision, eyes narrowing. A long time since someone's seen straight through you, taken down the walls, turned you transparent, reached for your gutstrings and pulled. The Dead Lands they dare mention. "Don't think I don't know who you are. Ain't many who'd even dare go into that place. Even fewer who return."
They continue, leaning over the table, ensuring every word that trickles over their lips reaches your ears, words that move as slow as honey and are nowhere near as sweet, carefully chosen darts lacking haste, lacking urgency. Knowing they have a captive audience. "You weren't a bad Ranger, Ranger. I heard all the rumors. A biomech who traded information for the jobs nobody else would take. What horrible things have you done, Ranger? How much blood is on those hands of yours? How many lives did you take out there, in the lonely high desert, in the forests of Thorns?"
<<nobr>><div class = choices>
<div class = choice-item> [[Your hands are clean.|01-02 iyslf 10][($choice to 1) , ($MC_pacifist to true)]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[Only those unavoidable, only those necessary.|01-02 iyslf 10][($choice to 2) , ($MC_survivor to true)]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[Your hands are bloody. And you like it that way.|01-02 iyslf 10][($choice to 3) , ($MC_killer to true)]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<if $choice is 1>>Your hands are clean.
A lie. A comfortable one to tell yourself. A desperate one to tell yourself. One borne of necessity, of conscience wounded, weighed down, dragged under the current. You remember.
You can never forget. The hands woven into the webbing of the soaked gear. The dull blue eyes that stared at you. The begging, the whimpering, the repeated sentiment, over and over and over and over and over again. The prayers, the pleading, the bargaining, underlaid with a single phrase. White-phosphorous burnt memories in negative, left their imprints to be filled with blood and remembrance. A simple sentiment. A broken promise.
<i>I don't want to die here.</i>
Gunpowder burnt memories -- you killed them. It was mercy, you promise yourself. Not the calculated act you know it to be. Methodical, step by step by step. You cleared the barrel. Pulled back the hammer. Listened to the cylinder slide into place. Pulled the trigger. You pulled the trigger.
You take a steadying breath. Lie through your teeth with enough conviction to raise the dead. To strike the image of the yawning abyss from your mind, to silence the ringing of the gunshot, terribly clear, even in hazy memory.
"My hands are clean, Sharpe."
The single eye flashes dangerously. "You take me for a fool, if you expect me to believe your hands are clean, Ranger."
"You're no fool. I'm no killer."
You spread your fingers wide, palm up. Questioning and accepting all the same. A symbolic thing, as if the blood you claim not to have spilt would drip from between your fingers. <<elseif $choice is 2>>The only lives you took were the ones that were necessary.
That's what you tell yourself, at least. Contract required it -- <i>kill the man who did this, make him pay, make him bleed. Hunt him through the night, crush his skull, spill his blood and leave him to the sun, to the scavengers.</i> Contract required it -- <i>be a hangman in a black mask, try to ignore the kicking and screaming, the dragging of feet and promises of reformation that still turned your stomach, sent pangs of something that could be sympathy through your heart. Throwing rope over tree branches, sturdy knots, shaky hands. An offering, left to the wind.</i> Contract required it, the stranded traveler who didn't fight. Didn't want vengeance, didn't need justice, didn't look at you with eyes alight and demand blood shed as the price for blood spilt. Was found like this, in some lonely gravel wash, bleeding, broken, baking in the sun, delirious on their deathbed, dying slowly, one drop at a time. A contract in name only, in interlinked fingers, in the promise it would be easier on your conscience for it to be this way. An act of mercy. A life taken, nonetheless.
You are, without a doubt, a killer. Never out of fury. Or guilt. Or terror. Or jealousy. Never any emotion. Perhaps, that makes it worse.
"I never took an unnecessary life. Never."
"Do you tell yourself that to excuse your actions, Ranger? Does it ease your soul? Does it let you sleep at night? " The single eye narrows, contemptuous.
"Can you say your hands are clean, Sharpe?" you retort, a flicker of anger long absent. Absent, at least, for each kill.<<elseif $choice is 3>>You oft think yourself a monster. Think of the pain you caused, the way control would slip from your fingers, slowly at first, then quicker, quicker, quicker, until you paint the world a hazy red, blind rage, all-consuming bloodlust. And yet you, monster, find satisfaction in killing. Indulging yourself in slick crimson daydreams, in the feeling of parting flesh and breaking bone. Cries of mercy falling on deaf ears, the screams symphonic, a frenzied crescendo that ends, every time, in silence.
Silence, the like of which Sharpe faces you with. You've killed for silence. You've killed for less.
Once, you killed a man in a field of wildflowers. Not sure of the why. All you remember is the how. How you threw him to the ground. How you raised a stone, again, again, again. His blood was more red than even the most fluorescent amongst the blossoms. You remember how the ground lapped at it. How the flowers ate him, long before the vultures could.
Intoxicated, adrenalized, you address Sharpe. "There is nothing more surreal than taking a life. I remember each and every kill, I wonder every who will be the next, I dream of it." The look on Sharpe's face is one of utter horror. "Does that answer your question, Sharpe? Have you heard enough? Should I regale you with tales of my exploits, do I need to tell you about each of the dead?"
"You're a monster."
You cannot help the smile on your face.
"I know."
This being your nature, your destiny, your closest kept secret, your deepest fear, your most shameful desire. All that is you. All that is not.<</if>>
"Do you know who I am, Ranger? What I have done?"
You don't. Nor do you care. A long-winded exposition, a villain's monologue, something that twists and coils, a snake rearing to strike and yet waiting, fangs bared. Posturing, intimidation lost on you.
"I founded the goddamn Rangers." Sharpe places an iron ring on the table, the same as yours, railroad spike forged into an incomplete loop. The mark of a Ranger, the presentation thereof a contract in of itself, a marker that promises aid, assistance, protection in return for suitable pay. Anything that could be traded, equipment, shelter, food, water. Other, more taboo things.
"I'm going to kill every last son-of-a-bitch who carried an iron ring. Who ever dared call themself Ranger."
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|01-02 iyslf 11][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>>Your heart drops in your chest.
What will happen next is this -- they will stand, and tear aside their poncho, revealing the weapon at their hip. Iron will clear leather, and you will be dead before you can flinch, before you hear the gunshot, your skull shattered and lying on the table, the gunslinger having taken their mark.
They move slowly. Draw out the pistol. Silver. Gleaming. Engraved crudely. You do not flinch. You cannot, steeled, teeth gritted, the muscles of your neck and jaw clenched lest a sound escape to indicate the fear that courses through your veins.
The revolver is placed on the table between you.
The barrel has been proffered towards you, glaring at you, with a single, soulless black eye. Not at all dissimilar to the gaze of the gunslinger.
"Your salvation rests in my hands, Ranger. I can put you down, or I can set you free. You will help me -- atone for your sins, be washed clean of the blood on your hands -- or I will bury you in a shallow grave."
<<nobr>><div class = choices>
<div class = choice-item> [[You would rather die.|01-02 iyslf 12][$choice to 1]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[You cannot be killed.|01-02 iyslf 12][$choice to 2]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[You must atone.|01-02 iyslf 12][$choice to 3]]</div>
<<if $MC_pacifist is true>><div class = choice-item> [[You have nothing to atone for.|01-02 iyslf 12][$choice to 4]]</div><</if>>
<<if $MC_killer is true>><div class = choice-item> You have nothing to atone for.</div><</if>>
</div><</nobr>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<if $choice is 1>>"Bury me somewhere nice, Sharpe. I would rather die."
The gunslinger narrows their eye, reaches for the pistol. "Insolent fool," they hiss, and your frustration turns to fear. "Did you think I was bluffing? I'll bury you beneath the hanging tree."
"I'm not afraid of you, nor your empty threats. Tell me what you want, or pick up that pistol and pull the fucking trigger already."
"Ride with me, Ranger, to a town called Red Rock, tomorrow morning. I will show you what it means to carry that title of Ranger. I will show you what hell our kind has wrought." It is not a suggestion. It is an order, a contract. Who would you be but a hypocrite, not to take a contract? You rise, watching that dead eye follow you. They seem not to mind that you tower over them, letting your shadow fall across their face. A smile breaks across their lips, a mania in the remaining eye. "Be of good courage, Ranger. The Lord will provide."
Sincerity like thin ice. As fractious and temperamental, melting away with every second you maintain the stare. Daring you to do something, say something, provoke the final cracks, fall through and find at last the depths of their coldness.<<elseif $choice is 2>>"Bury me shallow, Sharpe. I'll come back, I'll haunt you until it's your turn to die."
"They did say you crawled from the grave once already." Their voice is starkly emotionless. Measured, like they're trying to assure themself. "But those are rumors, and rumors alone. Do you take me for a fool, Ranger? Nobody can escape death."
"Are you going to risk it, then?" Your bravado underlined by fear, you press further. "Could you stand the thought, hunted by your own prey?"
The gunslinger takes the pistol in hand, your heart gutters to a stop as time does. Their thumb pulls back the hammer, a click that silences the saloon. A moment frozen, the barrel cold against your forehead. Still, you stare. Still, you dare.
"Go on. Tell me what you want from me. Or just get it over with and pull the fucking trigger."
The pistol does not waver from your brow.
"A contract, Ranger. You ride with me to Red Rock, tomorrow morning. You see what it means to carry that title of Ranger. You will see what hell our kind has wrought."
A contract. One you cannot refuse, not with iron pressed to your skull. Acceptance is survival. Refusal is finding out if you truly cannot be killed. One more contract. You rise, let the barrel fall from your brow, hovering about the hole where your heart should be, watching that dead eye follow you. They seem not to mind that you tower over them, letting your shadow fall across their face. A smile breaks across their lips, a mania in the remaining eye. They've won.
"Be of good courage, Ranger. The Lord will provide." A mockery, sweet honey on their lips concealing the threat of a bee sting.<<elseif $choice is 3>>"And what does atonement look like, Sharpe? Will you have me spill blood, dirty my hands further?" You do not perhaps believe you have committed a mortal sin, but the prospect of meeting your maker by way of bullet, does not appeal to you.
"I would not ask you to take another life. I ask only that you witness what hell your kind has wrought. If you truthfully wish for atonement, then we ride for Red Rock tomorrow." A contract, plain and simple. Who would you be but a hypocrite, a coward, not to take a contract? You rise, watching that dead eye follow you. They seem not to mind that you tower over them, letting your shadow fall across their face. A smile breaks across their lips, a mania in the remaining eye. "Be of good courage, Ranger. The Lord will provide."
Sincerity like thin ice. As fractious and temperamental, melting away with every second you maintain the stare. Daring you to do something, say something, provoke the final cracks, fall through and find at last the depths of their coldness.<<elseif $choice is 4>>"I have no need to atone, Sharpe. My hands are clean. I have told you once, and I will tell you again."
"You ain't a saint or paragon, Ranger. There are sins in your past, and I will find them. You will atone."
"What salvation can you provide? You say that need help, help in what? Am I to clear my conscience by spilling blood? Would you make me a sinner?"
The gunslinger pauses. Considers, for a second, the weight of your words. The implication. The cost. "Ride with me, Ranger, to a town called Red Rock, tomorrow morning. I will show you what it means to carry that title of Ranger. I will show you what hell our kind has wrought."
It is not a suggestion. It is an order, a contract. Who would you be but a hypocrite and coward, not to take a contract? You rise, watching that dead eye follow you. They seem not to mind that you tower over them, letting your shadow fall across their face. A smile breaks across their lips, a mania in the remaining eye. "Be of good courage, Ranger. The Lord will provide."
Sincerity like thin ice. As fractious and temperamental, melting away with every second you maintain the stare. Daring you to do something, say something, provoke the final cracks, fall through and find at last the depths of their coldness.<</if>>
You turn your back on the gunslinger, make your way back over to where Murph tends bar.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>>"Well, you ain't dead. Suppose that means I owe you a drink." The bartender busies himself with a pair of glasses. He does not pour alcohol, but water instead. Clean, clear water. Something hopeful, something like mercy. "Don't think you need nor want liquor after talking to that son-of-a-bitch." He explains, by way of shrug. "What'd they even have to say? Nothing pleasant, I'd be willin' to bet."
Your shoulder slumps. "They gave me a contract. I'm leaving tomorrow morning for Red Rock."
"Shit, Swann." The barkeep hands you the glass of water. "That's an omen if I've ever heard one."
The now familiar lurch of fear. Staring down death again, again, again. Wondering when it'll catch up, for good. Whether you've run out of second chances. The water, at least, is cool on your tongue. Is a comfort, this gift of water, the traditional gift given to the condemned and dying soldier, who, in their delirium wants only a drink with which to quench their thirst and assuage their fear. A remembered wish, a prayer, begging only to see the sun rise, only to survive to the next day. You will see the sun rise, of that you are guaranteed in contract. You are assured of nothing else.
Murph refills the glass you nudge across the bar. Presses a key into your palm upon returning it.
"You owe us nothing, Ranger. For as long as you're here, you're welcome to stay. Let us be a better home than the grave, at least."
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 3>>The room is not one of luxury. A bed in a corner with a nightstand beside, a meager wardrobe, a desk. Yellowed wallpaper peels up in the corners, the walls bear long, slashing scars and bruised dents, a thin smudge of soot in the cracks and crevices, in the seams of the walls and the joints of the hardwood floors adding to the evidence confirming the rumors surrounding the town. Your heat-warped window is thrown open from the sash, the coolness of the night breeze feels a comfort not unlike like the water upon your sunburnt face.
The room is not one of luxury, and yet, you feel like a monarch. You have slept on hard-packed dirt and loose sands, slumped over a saddle and swaying amongst the cargo of a caravan. You have laid to rest on fire-warmed rock and found no sleep under a vast tapestry of stars, you have huddled with others on a broad beach and listened to the crashing of waves, fearing the encroachment of Pacific tides. You have shared meals with rulers of self-proclaimed nations, you have shared drinks of tinny canteen water with dying men. You have lived under many names and many titles, none more close nor precious than the one that will get you killed, <i>Ranger</i>, whose conditions you break tonight, taking this room without payment or the assurance thereof. Nothing has ever felt better than crawling into the bed made up, not for you, but for the promise of people like you, adrift.
You sleep like a dead $person.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|frontier radio 08][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<notify>>New transmissions available.<</notify>>There were gifts left for you at the foot of your bed when you awoke, some time long before the sun could have its first inkling of rising. A jacket, faded reddish brown, something civilian and ancient, many pocketed and reinforced in black, slippery fabric at shoulders and elbows. A single boot, miraculously the both the right size and foot. The metal replacement goes uncovered, your pants leg rolled to hide only the socket, having long since learned that more harm comes of concealing the replacement. Transparency, the yellowed ivory of the leg's cladding contrasted with the belted cloak to hide the empty sleeve, opacity. You ache still for the electrical impulse of artificial fingers.
A third, more miraculous gift awaited outside. Horses, a boon for your aching legs. You are given the reins to a horse as dark as the dying skies, one that tugs at the last semblance of your control, yearns to break free, to run. It reminds you with a shake of its head how easily it could do so, far stronger than the façade of control held in your flimsy hand. The gunslinger circles their pale ghost of a horse, pointing forwards and whistling sharply, spurring their horse into motion. You follow them deeper into the night.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>>The sun takes its time in rising beside you, a glowing red disk peering through the dawn haze. Casts long, harsh shadows, dusk lingering in the folds of your cloak and under the the gunslinger's wide-brimmed hat, casting the images of horse and rider alike upon the reddish ground.
You ride for a time in silence. The landscape passes slowly; red earth and the rising of rock into flat-topped mesas that reach for skies as pale blue and delicate as a bird's egg. No clouds. Clouds have long since become an omen; something is changing, often for the worse. When clouds gather, rain is to come. Rain, glorious rain, that which raises crops, fosters the growth of things wild and grotesque, floods the gullies and washes and runs like rivulets of blood across the asphalt remnants. When clouds gather, the otherwise brilliant sun falls under shadow, casts a gloom over the surreal landscape. Night comes too early; beckoning, daring those nocturnal, those desperate almost-persons, those haunted beasts of the wilds who prowl the shade to come out sooner, to see the light, to hunt the things that rely on safety of day.
The gunslinger is surely one of those hunters, you think. <<if $MC_killer is true>>As are you.<<elseif $MC_pacifist is true>>And you, you are prey.<<elseif $MC_survivor>>You know their type, waiting. Always waiting.<</if>>>> The sun's rising serves to clear away the shadows, sweeping them aside to reveal the stalker a few paces back, the one remaining patch of shade sat atop an all-white near-horse. A creature -- something subtly and almost insidiously removed from the animal it once was -- that carries the same omen as the black-clad gunman, as roiling clouds. Not that creatures altered by the relentless passage of time and the mysterious nature of the wastes are any stranger to you; the empty shoulder socket aches at the thought.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 3>>Atop your own beast of burden, something that the light has revealed in time to be a near-horse the same as the gunslinger's, the journey is achingly slow. Hardly a trot; terrified to spur your horse faster with the reins clutched, white-knuckled, in your remaining hand, trusting neither the metal foot in the stirrups nor your balance. The gunslinger whistles twice, slow, short noises that linger in the hot air.
You slow your horse, allowing Sharpe to catch up, matching your pace with reins resting lazily on their lap. The pistol holstered on their waist glimmers, shifting in and out of shadow beneath the poncho. In the light, it becomes apparent how well armed they are. A pistol on their hip, and a leather-sheathed knife on the other, a shotgun wrapped in cloth and carried across the back of their saddle. Expecting resistance, to have to fight, to have to kill. Either that or paranoid, the black eye glinting like the barrel of one of their guns beneath the broad brim of their hat.
"You ain't much of a rider, are you, Ranger?"
"I walked." You've no time to suffer fools nor state the obvious.
"With one leg?"
"Yes. Is there a part of 'I walked' that doesn't make sense to you, Sharpe?"
"Ain't the Ranger way, to take something ain't paid for, huh?"
A line of questioning that could turn dangerous. A response, careful. Testing deep waters, praying you won't get pulled under by the current.
"It was the rules. Not even my own code. Rules are rules. Repay everything. Leave no debts."
"Every $person has debts."
"I don't. I did my job well, did it right." Anger prickles the back of your neck. "And that means if you're not lying about founding the Rangers, you did a shit job at the job you created."
"Insolent." Sharpe hisses at you. "Show some goddamn respect."
You halt your horse.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|01-02 iyslf 14][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>>A standoff begins to rear its ugly head as Sharpe overshoots, turns back. They tip the hat skyward so that you may see their face, see the anger worn there, the glare that could kill. The other hand reaches for the gun belt, that which will kill. Bated breath like the slowing of the whistling winds, slowing until all lies still. Waiting. You know how this will end, the threat the same as the one made in the saloon.
Voices break the stillness before gunfire can.
<<if $MC_killer is true>>"You asked me if I were a killer -- is that the debt you speak of? I, a killer, a monster, I am indebted to no-one. I don't need to be, I buried my debts in the shallow grave you threatened me with. What's your penance, if every $person has sinned? You are a killer, as am I. A monster, as am I. How dare you act high and mighty atop your white horse and neglect to mention how it is you repent, if at all?"<<elseif $MC_survivor is true>>"You asked me if I were a killer -- is that the debt you speak of? My hands are clean, with or without your validation; I have taken no lives, I carry no burden nor omen through this world. What's your penance, if every $person has sinned? You have spoken of killing as if you know it intimately, murderer, what else is there for <i>you</i> to atone for? How dare you act high and mighty atop your white horse and neglect to mention how it is you repent, if at all?"<<elseif $MC_pacifist is true>>"You asked me if I were a killer -- is that the debt you speak of? I have long cleared my debts, the weight of the dead is no albatross nor noose around my neck. What's your penance, if every $person has sinned as we have? What is there for <i>you</i> to atone for? How dare you act high and mighty atop your white horse and neglect to mention how it is you repent, if at all?"<</if>>
Sharpe huffs, spurring their near-horse back to a trot. You, incensed, gain ground until you ride alongside them once more. They regard the landscape unemotionally, rolling emptiness bordered by towering cliffs and pockmarked with ancient rises of rock shaped by water, wind, human hands.
"Let me tell you a story, Ranger."
<<nobr>><div class = choices>
<div class = choice-item> [[Listen.|01-02 iyslf 15.1]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[Don't|01-02 iyslf 15]]</div>
</div><</nobr>>You've no interest in stories -- much less whatever tall tale the gunslinger has in store for you. And so, you just shake your head, let the silence persist. A huff from the gunslinger -- something you could interpret roughly as annoyed acceptance -- is all you'll get. With a grimace they spur their horse forwards, leaving you in the dust.
The landscape is entirely yours then; you need not share in the majesty of the dawning day. You need not share in the strangeness of this land, land that is nearly familiar and yet -- there are perhaps parts of this place that have not been seen by human eyes, will never be seen by humans. Perhaps there is a beauty in that simple construct -- perhaps you are the first to gaze upon this rock, to observe the striations and layers in the cliffs, the faintest records of when there were once seas here, where coast turned to estuary and then wetland and then to jungle roamed by creatures you would not understand, as alien to you in their un-fossilized remnant form as you -- upright mammal, fragile and redundant in construction -- would be to them. You could very well be the last human eye to gaze upon this place, your feet could be the last feet to walk this passage; Sharpe took you a ways away from anything you might call a road, following instead a path carved by some long-forgotten denizen of the high desert. There is some solace in that, you think as pillars rise from the loose soil and patches of scrub, as boulders the size of cars dot the land between these islands and columns of larger rock, as you pass ephemeral streambeds of tumbled gravel waiting for rains that will never come. Perhaps this place has changed or been changed, perhaps humans in their fruitless obsession found that this land had not yet been deflowered, not yet been conquered, not yet been plundered -- perhaps they carved out the valuable minerals just beyond the rises and beneath the shifting soils and left the land barren; a flower bearing no fruit, a womb bearing no child. Perhaps the stain from the south -- that great technological marvel, that great corrupting force, that most beautiful putrescence -- the most distant hints of the scourged Dead Lands have reached this place. When summer comes again and the storms return -- if they ever return -- perhaps the wildflowers in the stony hollows will fluoresce in the night, perhaps they will grow fangs and tear at the many-legged amalgamations of jack-rabbits and desert amphibians that smile at lonely travelers like you, travelers in kind, looking for more of their kind, like seeking like, like always seeking like.
You turn your gaze away from the earth. That, for all your father's insistence and your mother's gentle chiding, was never your domain. By the time it was yours, the soil was all but used up; it was a miracle that a single seed took, and you in all your stubborn might would labor to raise a field of miracles. And when they -- <i>they</i> meaning the powers that be, the indistinct government men in their cheap gray suits who turned up their noses at the state of your house, what with its sagging porch and bowed eaves, men who had never for a day in their lives fought for anything -- when they would ask, you would burn the fields. Burn that which you worked so hard to create, torchlight dripping down your arm like the gasoline on your hands, like the tears on your cheeks. What they asked of creation was thus demanded of destruction. This transitive property works on people too, you learned. They took your father long before he was your father, made him what he was -- a scared man running forever, the hollow eyed ghost of the woodshop who shied away from fire, who wore his army jacket full of holes every day in a habitual return to the only thing he knew better than the sandy soil. They took your mother. The garden grew better after she was gone. And the petrichor scent of disturbed earth always would make you sick. Always. Kneeling before the obelisk, your stomach turned with each clawed handful of dirt you exhumed. Your hands -- the one imagined, the one real -- ache at the memory, the scrape of your fingernails against the surface of the metal box. The hole in your chest where once there was a heart aches at the final, singular confirmation that they had taken one last thing from you. Something you can't dig a grave for. Something you refuse to dig a grave for.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|frontier radio 09]]</div>
</div><</nobr>>The Ranger gestures with outstretched hand for Sharpe to speak. And the gunslinger requires but a second to gather their thoughts. Chooses the story they want to tell, truth, bent to the will of the liar who cares little for anything other than the lie they have come to love.
They take one deep breath, and start from the very beginning.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|01-02 iyslf 15.2]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><span class = flashback>Nigh on three decades ago, long before the end of the world and yet perhaps at its beginning, there was a child born into a world coming to a close. A fitting fate. Their world would be one that blossomed in the spire-city, one dressed in black ties and silk, adorned with gold and encrusted in gemstones. Their world would be one of perverse politics, yellow journalism and rotten elites, one where business could be dealt above or below the card table, livelihoods played as betting chips, fortunes won and lost on red and black. This world was one they would never inherit.
They were intended only as heir, as a method and manner of securing legacy, cementing a surname amongst the echelons of the upper caste. Their life was lived detached, distant -- youth suppressed for the sake of education in theoretical matters as well as the proper manners of a dying world, pomp and circumstance and the power of name and blood, the shares and market they would inherit someday, when mother and father were dead and cold and gone. Living for an eventuality. Living for the end of the world. A lonely existence.
A lonely existence turned desperate.
<i>Look at me,</i> said the child. <i>Have I done something wrong?</i> asked the child. <i>Am I not enough, can't I make you happy?</i> begged the child.
A lonely existence; nearly two decades spent living in the shadows, spent holding up with world, Atlas' misery imposed upon the small being who cowers at a raised voice, flinches at a raised hand. Who failed to hold the world, who failed. Who was brought into the light unwillingly, sat in a courtroom. <i>Could you blame them, for lashing out? Could you blame them, for what they did?</i> The accusations carried the shame of generations, a dark mark on the family history, a footnote to the name. A guilty plea. A way of surrendering. They were brought to the prison without handcuffs, long since having lost the will to argue or fight or run.</span>
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>><span class = flashback>Three years, they spent in that prison. There was an agreement made, the crooked warden taking court mandate as suggestion, palms greased with their father's money. There was an agreement made, hard labor and punitive measures waived in exchange for silence. And so the prisoner disappeared, muzzled and hid away in solitary confinement, their name struck from every record. A charge of the state, a matter of money changing hands, a princely sum paid for the now-inmate to have never existed at all.
Three years, they rotted behind bars, stalking the gray cube of the solitary cell, growing ever-more lean and cruel and desperate. And one day, just before the end, the payments stopped. The door opened. They were released into general population, having forgotten what is is to be a person.
It was here that they learned violence, a dazed wanderer traversing a new world, silent and scared. It made them a target, singled out amongst the criminals, debtors and societal rejects. It was here they learned violence, pushed further and further until they discovered their capacity for bloodshed, striking the man down, dragged from his body by the guards, mouth bloody, eyes wild.
Whispers followed them then. An almost-child who all but killed a kingpin. Defectors promised their loyalty, newly minted brawlers lent their fists, white-collar criminals supplied their intelligence and smooth talking. Almost overnight, they were a growing power, the guards themselves shrinking at their presence.
There was a facsimile of a coronation, a raised chalice, a broken crown for the prisoner-king.</span>
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|01-02 iyslf 15.3][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Bullshit.|01-02 iyslf 15.2.1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>>"Bullshit."
Sharpe bites their tongue, bites back their anger with it. Tries to keep their voice steady, tries to keep their cool, and fails, completely and utterly. They wheel their horse around, hooves kicking up dirt as the procession halts. The Ranger does not shrink at Sharpe's anger. Does not look away at all, narrows <<if $gender is "male">>his<<elseif $gender is "female">>her<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>their<</if>> eyes and furrows <<if $gender is "male">>his<<elseif $gender is "female">>her<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>their<</if>> brow. Sets <<if $gender is "male">>his<<elseif $gender is "female">>her<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>their<</if>> jaw in conviction, squared and defiant shoulders. <<HeShe>> <<if $gender is "male" or $gender is "female">>nudges<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>nudge<</if>> their horse nearer to Sharpe.
"What'd you say to me, Ranger? If you ain't a coward, you'll say it again. Like you mean it."
"You heard me loud and clear, Sharpe." <<HeShe>> <<if $gender is "male" or $gender is "female">>uses<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>use<</if>> their name like a curse, a high form of loathsome mockery. "You heard me the first time, and you don't like hearing the truth. I know when someone lies to me. And everything you just said was a lie. You profess to have been a 'prisoner-king' -- and I know you now only as a murderer and liar."
The words strike some dark part of Sharpe's soul. Something latent, something lurking, something that came to be when they curled up into a pitiful ball at the base of a solitary cell and turned their face to the sky and died. Something that crawled into the uninhabited corpse. Murderer, the title apt but brutal, lacking context, lacking any of the nuance they could carefully craft. Liar, the title sour on their tongue. There is much they could say to that; anger brisling like the tail of a cat scorned.
They say nothing.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|frontier radio 09]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<unset $PassageNo>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><span class = flashback>Three years had passed from the day they were locked away, and they had become a brutalized thing. They bore ink and scars now, they presented a nigh impenetrable façade to the world, one of fearless and ruthless determination, of domination, of a lust for power. But in their nightmares, they never escaped; they were struck down in the night, they were small and scared and voiceless once again. Something had to be done, their paranoia growing to become unbearable. Something had to be done.
They sought out the original opposition once again. The mountain of the man who had seen easy prey, a scared child. The one who had a bite-mark scar. This time, not-yet-Sharpe would be successful. This time, not-yet-Sharpe killed him.
And so, the world began to end. In the literal sense. Bastion was spared, they were told, but they were far from Bastion, far from safe haven. When the walls fell, chaos reigned over the prisoner king and all were free.
Free.
When unfiltered sunlight first hit their eyes they recoiled, cast their eyes upon the ground, lest the sky blind them. Free and without guidance, they set off, neither prisoner nor king but wanderer. Not a single living thing dared disturb the silence of their pilgrimage as they followed capillary side roads until they united into an artery of rough asphalt. Nothing but a speck of bright orange in a sea of scorched pavement and the husks of cars. Made small again. They walked until they were sure their legs would fall off, following the artery back to the heart, the stopped heart.
The city they found was completely and utterly annihilated.
The city they found belonged only to the dead, strewn with the remnants of what used to be life. Skeletons of buildings, skeletons of inhabitants, a grotesque nesting doll wherein charred bone coexisted with heat-twisted metal, and the deeper one delved, the more horrors they were likely to encounter. They stole clothes off a corpse, dressed themself in the spoils of the ended world. <i>I'm sorry,</i> they whispered to the unhearing ears and empty eyes, <i>you would understand,</i> they pleaded, holding the cold hand in theirs. They apologized profusely, understanding no part of the sickness they felt in their bones nor the tears that fell down their grimy cheeks. They left the city, crying still.</span>
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>><span class = flashback>The city and outlying suburbs -- then and perhaps still bitterly haunted by the stubborn ghosts of those who had occupied it prior -- eventually gave way to frontier, to achingly empty lands divided by barbed wire fences and unmaintained roads. The path forward was all they had. They would continue on, to where the end of the world meant nothing; life would continue as it always had, business would continue as it always had, all that there ever was or ever will be will continue. As it always had. Men of this frontier were barons owning the remnants of the world, populating it with beasts still pure of the stain of the lands far south.
One such man found them, hired them, sent them to the fields to learn the ways of the land, to care for the vast herd spread along the sunset ranges. A prisoner of a different kind, debt and circumstance. Escape would have been as easy as hopping a fence, but they stayed, entrapped by the name the baron lorded over them in a fervor like that of intoxication; how horribly wonderful it was that one of <i>their</i> name would serve <i>him</i>, recalling with grandiosity the tithes paid to the great looming shadow of their father. They were summoned to the sprawling mansion for this particular brand of shame, dirty and exhausted and paraded like a prize in front of the other barons and baronesses. <i>Look at it,</i> these lords would say, <i>you're a long way from home now, child. Mother and Father don't have your back anymore, do they?</i>
They bowed their head in humiliation, they met no man's eyes. Injury grew into anger, pacing the barbed wire on starless nights, shivering against the cold. Days spent without the presence of a single soul, spent planning, spent plotting. Days that stretched into weeks. Weeks that stretched into months, bitterness cultivated in the accumulation of snow and the calluses of work-worn hands. The way pain became almost savory, fists clenched around wraps of barbed wire, fists that wept bloody tears.
They would shed their own blood until the scars were enough to convince them. They walked through the front doors of the manor with a garrote of thorns dug into their palms. It was a horrible way to die. A slow way to die, blue-purple and bloody and every frantic oxygen-desperate movement deepening the wounds until he simply stopped. Until he was dead weight and relinquished to the marble of the foyer as they took inventory of the luxury they were once accustomed to. They took much; a fine hat, a rich red linen cloak, a dark leather gun belt and engraved silver revolver, mirror bright and marred with bloody fingerprints. They left little; three rounds fired into the body as measure of assurance, a trail of soiled footprints and falling droplets of blood -- their own or their kill's, it mattered little then.
And into the night, they disappeared. Took one final act of revenge, the herd led single-file through the narrow gap of fence posts missing their barriers. Four hundred strong, with a single horseman trailing. Reins in bandaged hands, they headed east, into the sunrise.</span>
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|01-02 iyslf 15.4][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Bullshit.|01-02 iyslf 15.3.1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>>"Bullshit."
Sharpe bites their tongue, bites back their anger with it. Tries to keep their voice steady, tries to keep their cool, and fails, completely and utterly. They wheel their horse around, hooves kicking up dirt as the procession halts. The Ranger does not shrink at Sharpe's anger. Does not look away at all, narrows <<if $gender is "male">>his<<elseif $gender is "female">>her<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>their<</if>> eyes and furrows <<if $gender is "male">>his<<elseif $gender is "female">>her<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>their<</if>> brow. Sets <<if $gender is "male">>his<<elseif $gender is "female">>her<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>their<</if>> jaw in conviction, squared and defiant shoulders. $HeShe <<if ($gender is "male") or ($gender is "female")>>nudges<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">> nudge<</if>> <<if $gender is "male">>his<<elseif $gender is "female">>her<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>their<</if>> horse nearer to Sharpe.
"What'd you say to me, Ranger? If you ain't a coward, you'll say it again. Like you mean it."
<<if $MC_killer is true>>"Don't lie to me, Sharpe. You heard me. You're a terrible liar -- and though you brandish that pistol like the killer you undoubtedly are, I don't think you understand the lie you spoke. Tell me, Sharpe, what does it feel like to crush a man's trachea? What noise do they make as they take their last breaths? How much blood rushes to their waxen face, how much blood is on yours -- does it come clean with any sense of ease? Do you still see the visage in the mirror -- do those blood-filled eyes haunt you, can you hear them still, the begging, the gasping, the final words? Did it feel good? Did you like it? Are you lying to me?"
Sharpe cannot find words; searching and finding only the image of a broken-neck corpse on the ground, only the shaking of their own hands and the delicateness with which they had touched their bare throat, had held their breath and waited for him to move, their eyes wide with terror. The realization.
The Ranger laughs, the stomach-turning cackle of a scavenger bird. And Sharpe maintains their silence, spurring their horse onwards. Out of eyeshot, a gentle press of gloved fingers to their throat. A recollection. Silence.<<elseif $MC_survivor is true>>"Don't lie to me, Sharpe. Just don't. I've known these wastes as long as you have, I've done things that you can't begin to imagine. And I know you're lying."
Sharpe's lip curls into a snarl; they begin to defend themself without plan or words. The Ranger speaks over them, alight with some indiscernible emotion.
"You killed a man, you killed a damn baron -- I'm not sure if I should be congratulating you or executing you. There are consequences, Sharpe, and you seemed not to face a single one. Everything -- despite all the death and destruction that surrounds you -- everything seems to turn out in your favor. So either the dice are weighted, rigged in your favor -- or you're lying to me. What's the real truth? Who helped you -- is this divine intervention, is there someone else pulling the strings? Who saved you, Sharpe? Did you kill them, too?"
Sharpe falls silent, spurring their horse onwards. Out of eyeshot, a tear falls, wiped from their cheek with a scarred hand. <<elseif $MC_pacifist>>"You're a terrible liar, Sharpe. You make me sick."
Sharpe's lip curls into a snarl; they begin to defend themself without plan or words. The Ranger silences them, bowing their head and quietly laughing.
"You're a killer, I've got no doubt of that. But I ask, are you lying to yourself? Are you truly heartless? Are you truly so far gone now that you would forget the child in the cell who didn't know what they did wrong, the scared survivor apologizing to the corpse they took clothes from, the lonesome cowboy who took the herd lest they languish and die without their care? Is their memory truly forgotten, have you buried who really lies behind that frightening visage? Are you still just as scared now as you were then, with barbed wire wound into your palms?
Sharpe maintains their silence, spurring their horse onwards. Out of eyeshot, a tear falls, wiped from their cheek with a scarred hand.<</if>>
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|frontier radio 09]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<unset $PassageNo>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><span class = flashback>There can be nothing without consequence. This being the most fundamental principle governing man. A concept found in the biological sciences and the mathematical ones, found in law and economics and the social sciences. Action-reaction, opportunity cost, crime and punishment; nothing exists in a vacuum. Nothing.
A powerful man was slaughtered in his own home, his herd stolen. Someone had to pay. The estate provided for a new service of the lawless frontier -- bounty hunting. Guilds of these hunters competed for the attention of the baron's mistress in vain, seeking to win her favor and the contract -- the more fanciful amongst these hunters saw it as an opportunity to take the lands left in her name, to conquer this woman of the civilized frontier. One of these hunters prevailed, only one. His name was -- is -- Clayton Benning.
Benning, the gruff sheriff's deputy turned bounty hunter by the world's end. The man who went from upholding the law along the frontier to creating his own code. The man who cast a long shadow, who held in contempt all living things that dared stray out of line. And the man who was tasked with finding them, with hunting them, with returning the herd and proof enough that the outlaw had been disposed of.
They did not yet know that such a man hunted them. They did know that they could not run forever, could not hide forever, could not do anything but face the consequences. Sleepless nights and long days spent waiting, watching the horizon for a fellow horseman riding furiously out of the morning's shade or the glowing embrace of the setting sun, one who would not speak but instead raise a rifle to end their life.
There can be nothing without consequence.
Seven days, they rode, always looking back over their shoulder. Seven days, at at noon on the seventh, there was a blur on the horizon. A mirage drawing nearer. They stared at it, delirious in their saddle, praying this to be a hallucination or waking nightmare, for the sound of hooves at full gallop to be nothing but their ears deceiving them. Seven days, and over the horizon came a man on a reddish horse, a grim rider who hailed briefly and unslung a rifle. And the outlaw panicked, horse rearing, herd abandoned, pulling hard at the reins and spurring furiously their mount into action. They broke hard across the back of the herd, which served now as impediment, a wall against their escape. From their ill-fitting belt they drew the stolen pistol, turned back and flinched at the crack of gunfire and the screaming trajectory of a bullet just feet from their face.
And gun in hand, they veered away, ducking close along the neck of their horse, tears streaming unbidden, their malice abandoned and replaced with terror, desperation. And exhausted, their mount began to slow. They'd run out of time, at last. Ran for seven days and found nothing but their own death. Some quarter-mile from the edge of the herd, they stopped to meet their fate. At last.
There can be nothing without consequence.</span>
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>><span class = flashback>There can be nothing without consequence.
<i>Please!</i> They cried, knowing the bounty hunter would neither hear nor care. <i>Please, I'll do anything, anything at all! Just don't kill me -- please.</i>
The pursuer had slowed their horse. Halted it, squaring his shoulders and shouldering his rifle one last time. And the outlaw knew then that this would be where they die, some empty field of some empty quarter, as small and insignificant a thing as the life they had lived.
<i>Please,</i> they whispered, utterly desperate in their conviction. <i>I don't want to die.</i>
The stranger put his rifle away, dismounted his horse. Walked through the waist high grain, trailing a triggerman's gloved hand through the yellowing leaves. He was soft spoken and yet, every word carried with it the air of practiced, imperious command. He swept his hat from his brow to reveal a face weathered by the sun; he looked up at the outlaw who pointed a pistol shakily at him, he stared down the barrel and still spoke gently.
<i>Good Lord, kid. Don't you know what you've gotten yourself into?</i> He said, gesturing at the outlaw clinging to their pride and horse with stubborn abandon. <i>Get down and put away the gun, and we can talk. I ain't in the business of killing without reason.</i>
Tears brimmed over in the outlaw's eyes, a sob stifled with the back of their hand. They did precisely what they'd been told to, holstered the pistol awkwardly and half slid, half fell from their mount to stand small before the bounty hunter.
<i>Why'd you do it, son?</i>
A simple question. And, blubbering, the outlaw had told him everything. Everything, from the small child who stood in the towering shadows of soulless elders to the young person who had killed, died, and been reborn in a prison cell to the thief alone in the city of the dead to the murderer who stood before them now, palms presented upright, hands torn apart with the fervor of their escape, their zeal for a life that was then surely coming to an end. They sobbed, prayed that each tear might buy them salvation.
<i>They paid me to kill you. You know that, don't you?</i> The bounty hunter's voice was quiet. Surprisingly gentle. He placed a hand on their shoulder, shook them slightly. <i>Son, they hired me to put a bullet in you and -- I can't do that. You remind me too much of someone I knew.</i>
Relief. The breaking of the sun over the horizon.
<i>It don't mean you're off the hook. Not at all. If you want to keep your life, you'll do as I say. Do you understand? Do we have a deal?</i>
The outlaw's voice had trembled. <i>I understand. We've got a deal.</i>
The bounty hunted donned his hat, smiling in the shade of the brim, furrowed brow softening. <i>I need only a few things from you.</i> He counted on his fingers. <i>One, half this herd needs to be returned to the mistress -- two hundred heads. Two, some kind of proof you are -- quote, unquote -- dead, anything will do. Three, you need to change your name. Four -</i> he sighed heavily. <i>Four. I need you to promise you'll never speak of this again. Never. For all intents and purposes, you died here. Can you do that for me?</i>
<i>I promise,</i> said the outlaw. <i>I promise I won't speak of this. I'll give back half the herd and find a way to prove I'm dead and I'll change my name. I won't say a word. I promise.</i>
<i>It's a pleasure to work with you, then. The name's Clayton Benning. What's yours, son?</i>
The outlaw considered -- perhaps did not consider long enough, perhaps they should have chosen differently, perhaps they should have stayed quiet. But the outlaw spoke, extended a bloody hand to shake the gloved one. The outlaw spoke, and in that moment, all that was before ceased to be.
<i>My name is Eli Sharpe,</i> they said. And so it was.</span>
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|01-02 iyslf 15.5][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Bullshit.|01-02 iyslf 15.4.1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>>"Bullshit."
Sharpe bites their tongue, bites back their anger with it. Tries to keep their voice steady, tries to keep their cool, and fails, completely and utterly. They wheel their horse around, hooves kicking up dirt as the procession halts. The Ranger does not shrink at Sharpe's anger. Does not look away at all, narrows <<if $gender is "male">>his<<elseif $gender is "female">>her<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>their<</if>> eyes and furrows <<if $gender is "male">>his<<elseif $gender is "female">>her<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>their<</if>> brow. Sets <<if $gender is "male">>his<<elseif $gender is "female">>her<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>their<</if>> jaw in conviction, squared and defiant shoulders. $HeShe <<if ($gender is "male") or ($gender is "female")>>nudges<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">> nudge<</if>> <<if $gender is "male">>his<<elseif $gender is "female">>her<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>their<</if>> horse nearer to Sharpe.
"What'd you say to me, Ranger? If you ain't a coward, you'll say it again. Like you mean it."
"Is this one of your characters, Sharpe? Did you invent this mysterious 'Benning' as justification for your ways?"
Sharpe clenches their fists on the reins until the leather threatens to cut glove and palm alike.
"Sore spot? Whatever happened to him -- was he one of the Rangers you killed?" The smile on <<if $gender is "male">>his<<elseif $gender is "female">>her<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>their<</if>> lips tells Sharpe all they need to know -- that $HeShe <<if ($gender is "male") or ($gender is "female")>>delights<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>delight<</if>> in this torment of the gunslinger, that this is some sick thrill, to ask questions and watch Sharpe squirm.
They huff and spur their horse faster, hoping the distance will silence the Ranger. Memories flash across Sharpe's thoughts, as if they can escape their guilt, as if they could be absolved of their pain, as if they can forget their intentions. Memories with the trappings of a fever dream, his hand on Sharpe's shoulder, gruff congratulations. A moment of pride. Sitting across from him at a campfire as he maintained his camera, as he took careful photos, talked about composition and lighting and all the wonderful things there were in the world to capture. To hold. He carried a wounded Sharpe away from the edge of the collapsing world, he ruffled their hair as they stood in a field of grain, he reminded them gently of purpose and task. He encouraged them, raise the pistol.
Strike him down.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|frontier radio 09]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<unset $PassageNo>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<nobr>><<set $gunslinger_story1 to random(1, 6)>><<set $gunslinger_story2 to random(1, 6)>><<if ($gunslinger_story2 == $gunslinger_story1)>>
<<set _array to [1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6]>>
<<run _array.delete($gunslinger_story1)>>
<<set $gunslinger_story2 to either(_array)>><</if>><</nobr>><span class = flashback>And so it was, newly christened, the outlaw and lawman set off into the frontier. Returned first to the accursed ranch, disguised carefully beneath the brim of Benning's hat and a bandana. And then, almost joyously, they departed, headed onwards and outwards to where the land turns wild once again.
The frontier is a place of change. The nature of things are altered, warped by time and distance and the forces of biology running free, free at last from the firm hand of human mastery. For a time, the highways were all but paths of gold, safe haven, easy passage from one place or life to the next. The world sought to reclaim all evidence of inhabitation, and those who remained sought to preserve what little they had maintained control of, what little they had eked out. And the first new war would be fought between the forces that be and the ones who dared the frontiers, would be fought on every front, with all serving as combatants, willing or unwilling, losing their innocence with the passage of time and the things that became necessary for survival.
The frontier is a place of change. Sharpe changed far more than their name. Years, they wandered alongside Benning, who served as mentor and father, who taught them the lay of the land, the way the world works where there is no law to govern men and the only morals are the self-serving acts of those righteous and proud and foolish. Foolish enough to stand against the dying of the light, to brandish their fists or pistols with pride, to call chivalry by a different name, to spit blood and teeth into the dirt and get up, get up, get up time and time again in the name of honor or ego or duty. A foolish thing, and a hardy thing -- hands cupped around the flame of the lighter, the glow of a lantern through sideways rain, ice that cracks like cannon reports and shouted reassurances from shore, the offering of an extended hand to the person laying on the ground, thrown from horseback and broken in will and body -- a necessary thing, to be hopeful.
They went where jobs took them, let the wind carry them from town to town. Bounty hunters they were, and hunt, they did.
<<if $gunslinger_story1 is 1>>The hunt took them once to the lands of the rugged north, Montana, where the snow drifts are deep and the mountains gray, where the firs draw blood and hunger for more, where the summers have become further and further apart and the winters grow ever more brutal, the cloudlessness of the wasteland replaced with slate skies and a distinct lack of sun. In this dark, cold land, they sought a wanted man, missing amongst the endless wilderness. The mountains beckoned, the valleys called, the length of the winter night grew unbearable until the sun's refusal to rise and pierce the clouds bordered on insanity. And though the land was inhospitable, the people were not -- Sharpe, silver tongued and charming, found warmth in many a night passed in the arms of another. This nocturnal revelry was not without risk -- there were isolated compounds high in the hills that looked unfavorably upon their escapades. Sharpe found themself there one day, searched first for information and then for something to make their time worthwhile. And they found trouble instead. They had lain with a priest, confessed to unholy things, prayed for a particular kind of salvation. Instead, they were captured, knocked unconscious and bound in ropes. They woke as they were being dragged to the gallows with cries of sinner and adulterer, a crowd gone mad with near-feral bloodlust. Had it not been for incompetence and the intervention of Benning, Sharpe would have met their maker. For, in the fervor of fury ordained by a distant god, the noose was tied incorrectly; Sharpe fell from the platform and hung without fractured neck, strangling slowly and wearing out wrists and voice in frantic efforts to escape, begging mercy, praying for salvation. Benning was almost too late; he had searched far and wide for his young accomplice and found only the gallows crowd hurling stones. He had ridden through the crowd and threatened the black-clad executioners with his long rifle. He had taken justice into his own hands, scattered the crowed with a crack of thunderous gunfire, hacked the rope from around Sharpe's neck, and carried the stricken mercenary away, far away from the land of eternal winter. Benning asked no questions. Sharpe hid the scars as best they could.<<elseif $gunslinger_story1 is 2>>The hunt took them once to Nevada, land of vast blankness, the empty desert made harsher by the loss of clouds and the wilting of plants, by the slow creep of the Dead Lands west and north. A land where water is king, more valuable than blood, more precious than life. Caravans traversed the midnight-dark highways under cover of night, hunkering beside the crackling asphalt in the scorching heat of the long days. Sharpe, in a stroke of fate and run of bad luck, had found themself amongst these lonely processions traveling west. Sharpe, in the inevitability of this land, had found themself approaching madness, driven half-insane by sun and temperature, bleak days crating an all-consuming anger. Rations, in particular drew their ire. They were here to guard the water, they were protecting it from the greed of the world and those who stalked it. They -- meaning the desert rat crew that led the massive tank carried on the butchered chassis-wagon -- they should have been <i>grateful</i> for their protector. And instead, they laughed at the gunslinger's requests for more water than the ration -- a single pitiful canteen per day. In the breadth of daylight, the lamented their foul luck, staring achingly at the precious cargo, at each of the travelers who were permitted to take what they wanted, take all they could, take what would sustain them. And there was nothing to sustain Sharpe, nothing but anger, nothing but want. And there was a day where their resolve had grown so thin that they acted at last upon it. The traveler had approached, and asked for water. Sharpe had obliged them. Sharpe had followed them. Shot them dead, stood over the corpse and realized that in their fury, they had miscalculated. Water seeped onto the desert floor. Blood leeched into water, metallic on Sharpe's tongue and yet no less sweet. Sharpe drank greedily, let blood-water fill their mouth and spill from between their lips, let the desert claim the remnants when they had at last taken their fill.<<elseif $gunslinger_story1 is 3>>The hunt took them once to the blistered lands near Bastion, a risky job, a job taken alone and with full faith. A job taken with the knowledge that they might not return, might never return. With Benning's blessing and a crew of mercenaries all their own, they set off. Their prey was was a convoy of Contingency supplies. Things that were unknown to nearly all wastelanders, things they alone knew, having once been of that place. The spire city cast a long shadow, and Sharpe and their crew laid in its shade, watched from a crater's rim as the slow-moving group of vehicles departed. The convoy was limited in speed by the shell-shattered roads they traversed, by the pace of the unmounted soldiers who marched alongside the armored trucks, two squads per. And thus, the swiftness of the pursuers would prevail. Some miles into the plains, when the convoy stopped to give the biomechanical soldiers some semblance of rest, the mercenaries rose from the land. The fighting was swift. The fighting was unbelievably bloody, a running gun battle devolving quickly into a slogging, brutal bout of melee combat. When the soldiers had at last fallen, half of the mercenaries remained, empty eyed and exhausted, desperate for orders. They were to crack the hard shells of the convoy, reap what spoils lie within. Sharpe had watched as these spoils were brought out, clamshell cases filled with padding. Filled with tiny glass vials of blue liquid. The frustration of life lost, of blood spilled, was turned on the meager spoils, was turned on Sharpe. How dare they get friends and siblings killed for <i>this</i>, whatever <i>this</i> may be? And thus, the first case was dumped, glass shattering against the bloody pavement. Sharpe had pled, their cries ignored as crate after crate was ruined, shattered upon the ground. They knew the contents of the crates well. Panacea. Universal cure, beautiful and terrible, horribly costly to develop and produce, the darkest, most immoral facets of science made physical. More valuable than anything they could imagine or invent. More valuable than life itself, more valuable than all the lives sacrificed for the creation thereof. Sharpe wanted it. Needed it. They could sell it, could hoard it, could rule with it, could make themself a god with it. A single vial survived the massacre. Not a single mercenary did. Sharpe returned with a lie on their lips and the lonely vial of pale blue liquid tucked into their bandolier. <<elseif $gunslinger_story1 is 4>>The hunt took them once to the flat-barren lands of Iowa. It was supposed to be a simple job, providing protection for a town, building community in the physical and literal sense. A job that carried undercurrents of something much larger, a conspiracy that ate at the town and their neighbors, a little civil war brewing. Tensions that grew and grew until something had to be done. There was a meeting. A fateful meeting, where in hushed tones, grievances were aired, accusations were made. A plan was made. Tempers flared under torchlight. A dozen townspeople marched through the night, accompanied by half their number more mercenaries. Sharpe was amongst them. It was here, when the cold war fought in silence erupted suddenly, loudly; gunfire cracking like thin ice underfoot in the late winter air. It was here, huddled behind a too-thin picket fence, that Sharpe realized they cared not whether the town lived nor died, whether or not it would claw out the eyes of the other, whether or not it would feast on the carrion left behind. They wished only for the fighting to be over swiftly; and thus, they had holstered their pistol and taken off into the night. Coward, not hero, an agent of chaos, an instigator. If it were destruction the town desired, than it was destruction that the town shall receive. There was a way to make the fighting stop, to have the men in their town colors band together or scatter into the night like insects, like the pathetic vermin they were, like they still likely are. Sharpe lit a torch, held it aloft, walked along the muddy, snowbank lined main street, leered as their own garish reflection in the shop windows, smiled to the see the horror on the faces of those who would scamper away from the flame. They walked to the edge of town, to where the harvest was kept. The silo caught in mere seconds, the dampness of the spring thaw overwhelmed, engulfed entirely. And the world went back to stillness, went back to silence. Sharpe watched the outlines of desperate men dance in the fire, reveled in its warmth, in the peace won without firing a single shot.<<elseif $gunslinger_story1 is 5>><i>Dies irae</i>. Days of wrath. Two months of carnage, a bloody streak left across the breadth of the wasteland. The sway of the caravans and the endless monotony of the miles sought to drive them insane, the ache in their bones from the pack slung across their back and distance traversed on foot made them restless in their fury. They paced like a caged animal, lashed out at anyone who dared come close. Towns, gentle oases dotting the empty lands, became an opportunity to loose the rage that ate at their heart. It was death they sought, and it was death they inflicted. They carried with them an air of irreverence; they would place bets and take names, they would flirt and insult -- they would gather the scorn of the town and revel in the infamy, cherishing the lingering glances, the shoves and whispers. They would wait for the town to elect a champion to face them. It would start like this: they would finally say something, do something, to push the town over the edge. An advance or a suggestion or a threat, it mattered not -- aggression would become action, and there would be a singular outlet. A duel -- held in highest regard by the bounty hunter. Just them and their wits against the draw of another -- they neither needed nor desired a second. It was a culmination of fury, rage unleashed at last. A binary outcome -- live or die. Kill or be killed. It went like this. The duelists would stand ten paces apart, and wait for the draw -- for the seething in their veins to coalesce into calmness, to give them a second of clarity. Turn and draw, these in the same movement. Aim -- this in but a fraction of a second that lasts all too long. Don't flinch. The other duelist would stare. Will stare, each and every time, eyes wide and white, terrified. They probably looked the same, scared or insane, blood boiling over, adrenaline frothing beneath their skin. Don't flinch. If you flinch, you die -- that's what Benning said to them. Said that if they wished to be a violent man, then they must back up words with the action. A finger on the trigger. Fire. Sharpe would watch the other duelist drop, every time. Thirteen met their fate this way, laying in the dust of some desperately remote main street. And with their wrath abated, Sharpe would turn their back. Prayed nobody would see the tears that fell.<<elseif $gunslinger_story1 is 6>>The hunt took them to the coasts of California, hunting for something lost to the waves and cliffs. A job they were forbidden to take alone; they and Benning would be paired with two other hunters. Two more perfect hunters. They were introduced to their counterparts by the prospectors -- the four would serve as scouts to the pseudoscientists, and four strapping mercenaries would be guards to prospector and scientist alike. They were not told that this would be the company the would have to keep. They were told they would be working alone or in a small party, not an expedition nearly twenty strong. Benning held constant, held his tongue when addressing their new bosses or their unwelcome partners. Sharpe was forbidden from speaking -- they could not speak without the acrid leeching of anger tainting their words. Something like sickness consumed them, rising in their chest until it took away their breath, clouded their thoughts when they looked upon them. They, who in the firelight looked equal parts dangerous and beautiful. They, who complimented each other perfectly, who leaned upon on each other with an ease that said what they would not, partners in every aspect of life. One -- the outspoken one, tall and dark haired with skin like unfired clay -- would start a sentence, and the other -- the reserved one, short and all but translucent with a smattering of freckles and a shaved head -- would finish it, carrying with them even a similarity in body language. A language that went unspoken, gestures that could be as small as a change in expression, as a shift of weight from one foot to the other -- and the other half would respond in turn. Sharpe was good at what they did, Benning more so. But they did not move with the same unity of purpose, they lacked efficiency, lost in bickering and falling ever more behind the other pair. And thus, they split up. The other team found the wreckage first. They sent up their flares, and Benning and Shape barreled down the embankment to the shore to meet them. It was there on the narrowing beach, under the stark illumination of a star-burst flare, that Sharpe could no longer swallow their envy. The tall one said something about a race, their tone playful, an invitation for mockery. The short one laughed. Benning, ever the diplomat, held his tongue, though his fists tightened and his expression soured. One whispered to the other, smiled with sharp teeth up at the hunters. Benning placed a hand on the shoulder of Sharpe, made a muttered request. <i>Make it quick</i>, he said, and raised his flare. The prospectors followed the light of the flares under careful watch of their detail. The prospectors found only one set of hunters. <</if>>
<<if $gunslinger_story2 is 1>>The hunt took them once to the lands of the rugged north, Montana, where the snow drifts are deep and the mountains gray, where the firs draw blood and hunger for more, where the summers have become further and further apart and the winters grow ever more brutal, the cloudlessness of the wasteland replaced with slate skies and a distinct lack of sun. In this dark, cold land, they sought a wanted man, missing amongst the endless wilderness. The mountains beckoned, the valleys called, the length of the winter night grew unbearable until the sun's refusal to rise and pierce the clouds bordered on insanity. And though the land was inhospitable, the people were not -- Sharpe, silver tongued and charming, found warmth in many a night passed in the arms of another. This nocturnal revelry was not without risk -- there were isolated compounds high in the hills that looked unfavorably upon their escapades. Sharpe found themself there one day, searched first for information and then for something to make their time worthwhile. And they found trouble instead. They had lain with a priest, confessed to unholy things, prayed for a particular kind of salvation. Instead, they were captured, knocked unconscious and bound in ropes. They woke as they were being dragged to the gallows with cries of sinner and adulterer, a crowd gone mad with near-feral bloodlust. Had it not been for incompetence and the intervention of Benning, Sharpe would have met their maker. For, in the fervor of fury ordained by a distant god, the noose was tied incorrectly; Sharpe fell from the platform and hung without fractured neck, strangling slowly and wearing out wrists and voice in frantic efforts to escape, begging mercy, praying for salvation. Benning was almost too late; he had searched far and wide for his young accomplice and found only the gallows crowd hurling stones. He had ridden through the crowd and threatened the black-clad executioners with his long rifle. He had taken justice into his own hands, scattered the crowed with a crack of thunderous gunfire, hacked the rope from around Sharpe's neck, and carried the stricken mercenary away, far away from the land of eternal winter. Benning asked no questions. Sharpe hid the scars as best they could.<<elseif $gunslinger_story2 is 2>>The hunt took them once to Nevada, land of vast blankness, the empty desert made harsher by the loss of clouds and the wilting of plants, by the slow creep of the Dead Lands west and north. A land where water is king, more valuable than blood, more precious than life. Caravans traversed the midnight-dark highways under cover of night, hunkering beside the crackling asphalt in the scorching heat of the long days. Sharpe, in a stroke of fate and run of bad luck, had found themself amongst these lonely processions traveling west. Sharpe, in the inevitability of this land, had found themself approaching madness, driven half-insane by sun and temperature, bleak days crating an all-consuming anger. Rations, in particular drew their ire. They were here to guard the water, they were protecting it from the greed of the world and those who stalked it. They -- meaning the desert rat crew that led the massive tank carried on the butchered chassis-wagon -- they should have been <i>grateful</i> for their protector. And instead, they laughed at the gunslinger's requests for more water than the ration -- a single pitiful canteen per day. In the breadth of daylight, the lamented their foul luck, staring achingly at the precious cargo, at each of the travelers who were permitted to take what they wanted, take all they could, take what would sustain them. And there was nothing to sustain Sharpe, nothing but anger, nothing but want. And there was a day where their resolve had grown so thin that they acted at last upon it. The traveler had approached, and asked for water. Sharpe had obliged them. Sharpe had followed them. Shot them dead, stood over the corpse and realized that in their fury, they had miscalculated. Water seeped onto the desert floor. Blood leeched into water, metallic on Sharpe's tongue and yet no less sweet. Sharpe drank greedily, let blood-water fill their mouth and spill from between their lips, let the desert claim the remnants when they had at last taken their fill.<<elseif $gunslinger_story2 is 3>>The hunt took them once to the blistered lands near Bastion, a risky job, a job taken alone and with full faith. A job taken with the knowledge that they might not return, might never return. With Benning's blessing and a crew of mercenaries all their own, they set off. Their prey was was a convoy of Contingency supplies. Things that were unknown to nearly all wastelanders, things they alone knew, having once been of that place. The spire city cast a long shadow, and Sharpe and their crew laid in its shade, watched from a crater's rim as the slow-moving group of vehicles departed. The convoy was limited in speed by the shell-shattered roads they traversed, by the pace of the unmounted soldiers who marched alongside the armored trucks, two squads per. And thus, the swiftness of the pursuers would prevail. Some miles into the plains, when the convoy stopped to give the biomechanical soldiers some semblance of rest, the mercenaries rose from the land. The fighting was swift. The fighting was unbelievably bloody, a running gun battle devolving quickly into a slogging, brutal bout of melee combat. When the soldiers had at last fallen, half of the mercenaries remained, empty eyed and exhausted, desperate for orders. They were to crack the hard shells of the convoy, reap what spoils lie within. Sharpe had watched as these spoils were brought out, clamshell cases filled with padding. Filled with tiny glass vials of blue liquid. The frustration of life lost, of blood spilled, was turned on the meager spoils, was turned on Sharpe. How dare they get friends and siblings killed for <i>this</i>, whatever <i>this</i> may be? And thus, the first case was dumped, glass shattering against the bloody pavement. Sharpe had pled, their cries ignored as crate after crate was ruined, shattered upon the ground. They knew the contents of the crates well. Panacea. Universal cure, beautiful and terrible, horribly costly to develop and produce, the darkest, most immoral facets of science made physical. More valuable than anything they could imagine or invent. More valuable than life itself, more valuable than all the lives sacrificed for the creation thereof. Sharpe wanted it. Needed it. They could sell it, could hoard it, could rule with it, could make themself a god with it. A single vial survived the massacre. Not a single mercenary did. Sharpe returned with a lie on their lips and the lonely vial of pale blue liquid tucked into their bandolier. <<elseif $gunslinger_story2 is 4>>The hunt took them once to the flat-barren lands of Iowa. It was supposed to be a simple job, providing protection for a town, building community in the physical and literal sense. A job that carried undercurrents of something much larger, a conspiracy that ate at the town and their neighbors, a little civil war brewing. Tensions that grew and grew until something had to be done. There was a meeting. A fateful meeting, where in hushed tones, grievances were aired, accusations were made. A plan was made. Tempers flared under torchlight. A dozen townspeople marched through the night, accompanied by half their number more mercenaries. Sharpe was amongst them. It was here, when the cold war fought in silence erupted suddenly, loudly; gunfire cracking like thin ice underfoot in the late winter air. It was here, huddled behind a too-thin picket fence, that Sharpe realized they cared not whether the town lived nor died, whether or not it would claw out the eyes of the other, whether or not it would feast on the carrion left behind. They wished only for the fighting to be over swiftly; and thus, they had holstered their pistol and taken off into the night. Coward, not hero, an agent of chaos, an instigator. If it were destruction the town desired, than it was destruction that the town shall receive. There was a way to make the fighting stop, to have the men in their town colors band together or scatter into the night like insects, like the pathetic vermin they were, like they still likely are. Sharpe lit a torch, held it aloft, walked along the muddy, snowbank lined main street, leered as their own garish reflection in the shop windows, smiled to the see the horror on the faces of those who would scamper away from the flame. They walked to the edge of town, to where the harvest was kept. The silo caught in mere seconds, the dampness of the spring thaw overwhelmed, engulfed entirely. And the world went back to stillness, went back to silence. Sharpe watched the outlines of desperate men dance in the fire, reveled in its warmth, in the peace won without firing a single shot. <<elseif $gunslinger_story2 is 5>><i>Dies irae</i>. Days of wrath. Two months of carnage, a bloody streak left across the breadth of the wasteland. The sway of the caravans and the endless monotony of the miles sought to drive them insane, the ache in their bones from the pack slung across their back and distance traversed on foot made them restless in their fury. They paced like a caged animal, lashed out at anyone who dared come close. Towns, gentle oases dotting the empty lands, became an opportunity to loose the rage that ate at their heart. It was death they sought, and it was death they inflicted. They carried with them an air of irreverence; they would place bets and take names, they would flirt and insult -- they would gather the scorn of the town and revel in the infamy, cherishing the lingering glances, the shoves and whispers. They would wait for the town to elect a champion to face them. It would start like this: they would finally say something, do something, to push the town over the edge. An advance or a suggestion or a threat, it mattered not -- aggression would become action, and there would be a singular outlet. A duel -- held in highest regard by the bounty hunter. Just them and their wits against the draw of another -- they neither needed nor desired a second. It was a culmination of fury, rage unleashed at last. A binary outcome -- live or die. Kill or be killed. It went like this. The duelists would stand ten paces apart, and wait for the draw -- for the seething in their veins to coalesce into calmness, to give them a second of clarity. Turn and draw, these in the same movement. Aim -- this in but a fraction of a second that lasts all too long. Don't flinch. The other duelist would stare. Will stare, each and every time, eyes wide and white, terrified. They probably looked the same, scared or insane, blood boiling over, adrenaline frothing beneath their skin. Don't flinch. If you flinch, you die -- that's what Benning said to them. Said that if they wished to be a violent man, then they must back up words with the action. A finger on the trigger. Fire. Sharpe would watch the other duelist drop, every time. Thirteen met their fate this way, laying in the dust of some desperately remote main street. And with their wrath abated, Sharpe would turn their back. Prayed nobody would see the tears that fell.<<elseif $gunslinger_story2 is 6>>The hunt took them to the coasts of California, hunting for something lost to the waves and cliffs. A job they were forbidden to take alone; they and Benning would be paired with two other hunters. Two more perfect hunters. They were introduced to their counterparts by the prospectors -- the four would serve as scouts to the pseudoscientists, and four strapping mercenaries would be guards to prospector and scientist alike. They were not told that this would be the company the would have to keep. They were told they would be working alone or in a small party, not an expedition nearly twenty strong. Benning held constant, held his tongue when addressing their new bosses or their unwelcome partners. Sharpe was forbidden from speaking -- they could not speak without the acrid leeching of anger tainting their words. Something like sickness consumed them, rising in their chest until it took away their breath, clouded their thoughts when they looked upon them. They, who in the firelight looked equal parts dangerous and beautiful. They, who complimented each other perfectly, who leaned upon on each other with an ease that said what they would not, partners in every aspect of life. One -- the outspoken one, tall and dark haired with skin like unfired clay -- would start a sentence, and the other -- the reserved one, short and all but translucent with a smattering of freckles and a shaved head -- would finish it, carrying with them even a similarity in body language. A language that went unspoken, gestures that could be as small as a change in expression, as a shift of weight from one foot to the other -- and the other half would respond in turn. Sharpe was good at what they did, Benning more so. But they did not move with the same unity of purpose, they lacked efficiency, lost in bickering and falling ever more behind the other pair. And thus, they split up. The other team found the wreckage first. They sent up their flares, and Benning and Shape barreled down the embankment to the shore to meet them. It was there on the narrowing beach, under the stark illumination of a star-burst flare, that Sharpe could no longer swallow their envy. The tall one said something about a race, their tone playful, an invitation for mockery. The short one laughed. Benning, ever the diplomat, held his tongue, though his fists tightened and his expression soured. One whispered to the other, smiled with sharp teeth up at the hunters. Benning placed a hand on the shoulder of Sharpe, made a muttered request. <i>Make it quick</i>, he said, and raised his flare. The prospectors followed the light of the flares under careful watch of their detail. The prospectors found only one set of hunters. <</if>></span>
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>><span class = flashback>And, for all the sins of the wasteland, there were none greater than pride. None -- though Wrath may spill blood as freely as Gluttony wastes water, though the spirit of cooperation is darkened by Envy and betrayed by Lust -- none carry with them the corruption inherent to Pride. Pride birthed the Rangers, the most undeniable evil of the wasteland, coalitions of men bound by such extinct concepts as <i>duty</i> or <i>honor</i>. No honor can be found among thieves and murderers; no honor can be found amongst the Rangers.
There were three who helmed the fated organization, the should-have-been-aborted venture born of a standoff in the pits of despair themself, somewhere in the reclaimed East. Where, in the guttering light of a lantern that stole hungrily the air from their lungs, amongst the cracking timbers and rising flood, Sharpe made a deal with the devil. Two hunters they were, and their mark that fled them across a continent, across the Mississippi, and into the depths of the Appalachians. A fortnight they had chased her, until at last, she plunged into the hellish depths. And they, in their prideful duty -- had followed. Down they went, until the depths crushed them and the light of the swaying lantern was all that led the way. Down they went, into the belly of the beast, into empty caverns of earth with their seams of long-exhausted mineral, down, down, down, until their skin was coated with black dust and their breath came in ragged coughing heaves. Down they went, until the ground cracked beneath their feet and water welled from the fissures. And they followed the trickle of sooty water down, down until it became a waterfall, down to where a cistern carved by the strength of the flow was split by the surging banks of an underground river, swollen with the confluence of a storm. And on the banks of this River Styx, their target endeavored to pass into the land of the dead.
<i>Stop,</i> they had cried, reaching pointlessly for her as a sodden Benning shouldered his rifle. <i>Wait,</i> they had begged, speaking to Benning and the woman alike, the woman who had simply turned and laughed, slipping into the crashing water. <i>We don't wish death upon you,</i> they shouted, <i>Come with us -- come see the sun one last time, come live another day. Mercy waits at the surface. Justice waits at the surface. You don't have to die like this.</i>
And she responded: <i> What if I were to drown? Would you chase my body down the river, would you deign to drag a corpse up from the depths with you? Would you rather just pull the trigger yourself? They'll hang me -- I'll die anyways. What difference does it make to you?</i>
Sharpe said nothing. Sharpe waded into the water, breathtakingly cold and dark as the soot on their skin, swift and strong and threatening with each step to sweep them under.
<i>Would you drown yourself, for the sake of your ego?</i> She asked softly. In the low lamplight, she appeared as a spectre would, pale and haunted and ethereal. <i>Could you find it in yourself to walk away?</i>
<i>No,</i> Sharpe had said. <i>I'd sooner die than give up. I have a duty. I have a purpose -- I gave my word.</i>
<i>A duty to what?</i> She questioned as the the water grew higher, the light raised higher in turn. The air was heavy, humid, suffocating. The shore Benning stood on was sinking. They were running out of time. Out of breath. <i>What is your purpose, hunter? What is the value of your word? Do you serve something greater that yourself? Could you?</i>
Sharpe had no answer. Not one they could speak.
<i>There is still good out there,</i> she said. <i>You are better than this. We -</i> she took Sharpe's hand, pulled them a step further into the deluge. <i>We are better than this. We can be better than this,</i> she promised as the lantern sputtered, as the tide pulled harder. <i>We need not drown. Promise me that you will return us to the surface, that you will hear what I have to say. That your pride will not be the death of us both.</i></span>
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|01-02 iyslf 15.6][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Bullshit.|01-02 iyslf 15.5.1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>>"Bullshit."
Sharpe bites their tongue, bites back their anger with it. Tries to keep their voice steady, tries to keep their cool, and fails, completely and utterly. They wheel their horse around, hooves kicking up dirt as the procession halts. The Ranger does not shrink at Sharpe's anger. Does not look away at all, narrows <<if $gender is "male">>his<<elseif $gender is "female">>her<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>their<</if>> eyes and furrows <<if $gender is "male">>his<<elseif $gender is "female">>her<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>their<</if>> brow. Sets <<if $gender is "male">>his<<elseif $gender is "female">>her<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>their<</if>> jaw in conviction, squared and defiant shoulders. $HeShe <<if ($gender is "male") or ($gender is "female")>>nudges<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">> nudge<</if>> <<if $gender is "male">>his<<elseif $gender is "female">>her<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>their<</if>> horse nearer to Sharpe.
"What'd you say to me, Ranger? If you ain't a coward, you'll say it again. Like you mean it."
<<if $MC_killer is true>>"How'd you kill her, Sharpe?"
In that moment, Eli Sharpe cannot speak. Cannot breathe. Just barely exists. Is small again, is so, so horribly empty. The waves bob gently at their waist, they trail their hands through the water adorned with pinkish foam and recoil at the touch of waxy-cold skin on their skin. At Ophelia Foster's dead hands.
"Was it deserved?" <<HeShe>> <<if ($gender is "male") or ($gender is "female")>>asks<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">> ask<</if>>, twisting the knife further. "Was it good?" The Ranger laughs, the stomach-turning cackle of a scavenger bird.
Memories flash across Sharpe's thoughts as they wheel their horse around and ride furiously, as if they can escape their guilt, as if it absolves them of their pain. Memories with all the trappings of a nightmare, the way her body collapsed with blood streaming from her temple. The way she barely fought until she was submerged in the salt water, the way she fought until there was nothing left to fight for, they way she left furrowed gouges in Sharpe's forearms, left a stinging emptiness. An emptiness not unlike that of her lungs, before the water rushed in to fill the void, leaving the gunslinger as cold and dead as the hand they took in theirs one last time.<</if>><<if $MC_survivor is true>> "You're a damn good storyteller, Sharpe. Seven deadly sins, pride cometh before the fall, all that kind of shit." The Ranger pauses. "But it's all bullshit, ain't it?"
Dread weighs impossibly heavy in Sharpe's gut. They open their mouth to speak and their heart plummets, bile rising in throat. The Ranger shakes <<if $gender is "male">>his<<elseif $gender is "female">>her<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>their<</if>> head, silences them before they can get a word in edgewise.
"Sounds like you had a rough go of it, if I'm being honest. Sounds like you caused problems for the hell of it. Sounds like you got what you deserved -- like you cheated death, maybe a couple of times too many." Something in the Ranger's tone is ominous. A threat. A promise. Something about the gleam in <<if $gender is "male">>his<<elseif $gender is "female">>her<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>their<</if>> eye, the sudden arrogance.
"Are you threatening me?" They ask. A measure of insurance, assurance. Testing the waters.
"I always pay my debts, Sharpe. No loose ends, save for the obvious. Can you say the same? Is this just another loose thread?"<</if>><<if $MC_pacifist is true>>"Did you believe any of it?" The Ranger stares into Sharpe's one eye. "When she told you that you were better, did you believe it? Those stories -- was your conviction, was your morality truly that strong in each of those moments? Were you just trying to survive? Or do you truly think that you have sinned, and thus must atone?"
Sharpe stutters. The Ranger continues.
"There's blood on your hands, Sharpe. Not a single question of that. So it makes sense that you don't believe me when I say my hands are clean -- I know now that it's because you can't imagine a world where surviving doesn't mean killing. Would you have taken life had it not been necessary? Had this world not forced your hand, would you have been a killer? Was she right?"
The gunslinger turns their horse forward again, refusing to acknowledge the Ranger, who is surely following. They could cry, they think; emotion swells to strangle them, to drown them. They won't. They can't. They've shed enough tears over the corpse of Ophelia Foster already.<</if>>
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|frontier radio 09]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<unset $PassageNo>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><span class = flashback>Rangers they were, lonesome drifters on the wind, convicted by a higher purpose, bound to the honor they wore as nigh-impervious armor, carried as swift and shining sword. Rangers they were, few at first -- three judges, three kings. Ophelia Foster, the lantern-bearer, the speaker of the dead, the broker. Clayton Benning, the man of law, of reason, of justice imagined, fair and stern. And Eli Sharpe -- a wild card, reckless and violent, the presiding executioner. Others joined them, ones whose names were lost to the sun and dust, ones who met their fate in shallow graves or persisted as desert flowers do, hardy and strong. Rangers they were, hunters and helpers and hangmen alike.
Rangers they were, a flexible, fluid organization capable of any necessary adaptation, save for one. The innermost ring -- Sharpe and Benning and Foster -- inseparable, always; where went one, went all. And though they stood at the helm, they too partook in the menial tasks and noble quests alike, just as any and every other who carried an iron ring. Rangers they were, and they never refused a job.
Never. Not once, and especially not one like this.
They had ridden horses beside the tracks for four days -- out into the lonely high desert, to where the train would slow along gradual curves, enough to be boarded. They were to breach a specific railcar and secure the contents, free it from the rest of the train and wait. There would be no questions asked, they were assured. The associates would come with their king's ransom, with their princely sum, and that would be the end. Would have been the end.
For four days, Sharpe had ridden with joy in their heart and a smile on their face. A raw thrill as they pushed the front of the pack, looked over their shoulder to see Benning and Foster as they gained ground, their assembled crew a dark shadow at their heels. Twenty mercenaries, men and women hardened by what they had done, what they were about to do. Over their shoulder, Benning had raised a fist, shouted something. The signal. Sharpe spurred their horse faster, faster, faster, rose in the stirrups to reach for the train. A handle was their target, and though it took standing in the saddle to reach -- they caught it. They caught it and were torn bodily from their mount, veering riderless into the desert as Sharpe laughed furiously, enveloped by cloak and adrenaline. Atop the train, they fulfilled their next obligation -- securing ropes so that others would not have to make the same daring leap, so that there would be some semblance of security, a preventative measure against the swaying of the train. And shortly, others joined them -- Benning and Foster and the rest, who moved in a crouch along the spine, who counted cars, who searched for the target amongst them.
They found it, half a dozen cars ahead.
They, meaning Sharpe and unfortunate nameless souls -- two who carried a battering ram and four others armed with automatic rifles and heavy plated armor -- climbed down to the space between cars. As the ram rung off the heavy hatch, again, again, again, Sharpe looked up, to where Benning and Foster looked on, nodded reassuringly. The echoes of empty steel were that of the peel of a funeral bell, again, again, again, until Sharpe was deafened, until they felt it in their bones. Until it lingered, walking into the empty car. The solid metal vault bore nothing but empty cages, nothing but an unlocked door that led to the next car. Sharpe and their shadows advanced. Another empty vault-car. Another. In the fourth rail car, they found a heavy darkness. An empty darkness, the dim beams of flashlights lost in the haze that rippled with each bated breath. Sharpe brushed against something. Something that grabbed them, something they twisted away from as it lashed at them, struck with a lancing pain from temple to cheek, struck with an immediate and sickening blindness. Sharpe screamed, shrill and horrible as the lights roared to life. Sharpe screamed as men in black set upon them -- meaning the boarding party and Sharpe alike -- with knives and hatchets. Screamed as their comrades were felled nearly instantaneously, all but turned inside out. Sharpe was lucky. Sharpe staggered away with hand pressed to face, covered in blood, so much of it not their own. The men in black drew guns. The survivors fled, Sharpe at the head of the pack, as they careened off of walls, subject to the inertia of the train, subject to their terror, subject to their wavering vision and burning lungs.
Sharpe was faster than the others, unburdened by armor. They cleared the first car and heard the executions of their comrades. They leapt to the second car and were struck, fell heavy against the wall, left a bloody smear. They laid there for a second that seemed to last an eternity, open mouthed with blood pooling beneath their chin. They were struck and knew their executioners drew nearer. They somehow stood. Somehow lurched forward, somehow lunged to the next car where they were struck again. And again.
They knew then that they would die; they cried Benning's name, Foster's name, for help, for anyone to save them, for anything to save them. They might have prayed. And still -- nobody answered. Nobody came. Sharpe crawled forwards as far as their weakened arms could take them, forwards towards their comrades, towards salvation, towards anything but death, anything but the gunshots echoing in the cars behind them. Forwards, hand over hand, a slick trail of gore left in their wake, forwards, until their arms gave out and they could no longer feel their legs. Forwards, until the thin beam of until sun cast between cars struck their face, and they looked upwards. Benning stared down at them, Foster stared down at them. The look on their faces was something nigh incomprehensible -- like nothing before, like nothing since. They looked down upon the blinded, bloodied Sharpe, upon someone who pled for them to do something, to do anything. To save them.
<i>Please,</i> they screamed. <i>Please save me, please -- don't leave me!</i>
The Rangers looked Sharpe in the eyes and did nothing. The Rangers fled. The Rangers left one of their own behind. The Rangers left Sharpe behind.</span>
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>><span class = flashback>Sharpe died in the desert, beside a set of train tracks.
It was a strange thing. Their body laid disjointed in the sand and grit, and Sharpe sat beside it, hunched with arms wrapped around knees. They waited for it to wake as one might wait for a traveling companion or a lover to rise in the dim morning. They waited three nights and three days, watched the sun rise and paint the skies in pinks and oranges, watched the long pale blue of the day, watched the sun set and the midnight-dark of the deep untainted skies prevail. They laid under the vast tapestry-blanket of stars, turned their face to the distant points of light and noted only half as many as before. They wandered when they had the strength, saw things beautiful and bizarre alike, saw the new majesty of the awoken world, and longed for nothing more than to return, if only to wander forever. And on the dawn of the fourth day, they woke in the body beside the tracks.
They did not know what compelled them to return. Perhaps it was the relentless beat of the sun upon them, perhaps it were the wind that whispered in their ears, begged them to rise. Perhaps it were the earth herself who gave them the strength to open heavy eyelids, to stand, to limp off into the desert. By some miracle, their horse joined them, nuzzled at their shoulder and sunk low enough for the stricken Sharpe to ride precariously hunched over the saddle. They trusted it to take them somewhere safe. Anywhere but here. They lost track of the days, got lost in their thoughts. There was a time Benning had promised to Sharpe that he wouldn't abandon them -- swore with his right hand to God that they would not be as Abraham and Isaac, that every one of his values and morals forbade him from turning his back on Sharpe. That he had made that mistake once. That he had lost a son already and he would not lose another -- so help him God -- he could not lose the person who owed him their life, their gun hand, their immortal soul. And yet -- he did. He saw them, blind and scared. He heard them call his name, call for his help. He gazed upon his son and yet left them to die. All of them did -- not a single Ranger moved to help them on the train, not a single Ranger deigned to even make an attempt to collect their lonely corpse. By Benning's own rules, he was no longer a righteous man. None of the Rangers were.
They left Sharpe to die.
And thus, every Ranger must die in atonement.</span>
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|01-02 iyslf 15.7][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>><span class = flashback>The first Ranger to die was Ophelia Foster.
She drowned. Or, more accurately, Sharpe drowned her. Held her under the water until she stopped fighting and then a minute longer. There, waist deep in the frigid ocean, amongst the dark waves that lapped at the shore in their steady rhythm, one after the other after the other -- there, they realized at last the enormity of their burden. It was a fitting end. That was the lie Sharpe told themself as they staggered away, as they collapsed where tide met sand. That was the lie they repeated though they sobbed, choked, howled, pressed their face into the earth and screamed. That was the lie they repeated as they laid there, sodden and broken, until the sun rose again, until they could convince themself they were worthy of seeing the light.
They learned that killing Rangers was easy. They learned to give them a choice -- execution or atonement -- a choice that would always have the same outcome. They killed many Rangers. Some notable and brutal, lieutenants who fought tooth and nail, succumbed with defiance still on lips stained with aspirated blood. Some achingly pitiful, mercy at last for conscript-Rangers who had lived lives of servitude and survival, had crawled on hands and knees. Who begged them not to end their life, who insisted they still had a chance. Sharpe killed them all. Sharpe killed them all, all until there were only three left. Their first attempt on Clayton Benning's life nearly cost them their own.
They had followed a tip west, towards the fathomless Pacific, that same sea they looked upon with nothing but regret, nothing but anguish. It was here, in a town upon a cliff crumbling into the sea, it was here with the Earth shaking beneath their feet -- that they made their stand. They, Death on their pale horse, rode upon the ruddy horseman of War, brought with them a fury unseen since false gods smote mortals with lightning. They could not best him -- though they fought with all their might, with all the strength they could summon. They fought him to a standstill. Weapons raised, they walked out into the storm-lashed street.
<i>You don't have to do this, son,</i> Benning had said. <i>I didn't have a choice. I was going to come back for you, always. I promised as much.</i>
<i>Liar!</i> Sharpe screamed to the wind, to the fading idea of a father who stood before them, bleeding. Who holstered his pistol and closed his eyes.
<i>Come home, son. Can't you see you've been blinded?</i> The liar begged. Begged. Begged. He <i>begged</i> Sharpe.
And when Sharpe drew on him, he was faster to his weapon. Eyes closed, his aim was truer. Shape stumbled to the edge of world and stared into the watery abyss, endeavored to fall, to drown as Foster had. And Benning, despite his wounds, despite the breaking of his heart, still stopped them. Caught the thinning red linen cloak, dragged them away from the edge, embraced them. Carried them like one would carry a child, held despite protest in his arms. He said nothing, eyes filled with tears, eyes filled with blood. He said nothing, just put Sharpe down on the pavement. He said nothing, just turned his back again. Just walked away again.
Sharpe laid there in the rain with a smarting wound in their side as the world collapsed around them. There were three Rangers as the sun rose that morning. There were three Rangers as the sun set that evening. There would be three Rangers, until Sharpe could best Benning, until Sharpe could dare the Dead Lands, until Sharpe could conquer themself. Only three Rangers were left. Only three -- and then what?
Would they be free?</span>
And thus, Sharpe finishes their story with stormy face and a tone carrying all the ferocity of a windstorm. They sit atop their horse and wait for you to say something, anything at all.
<<nobr>><div class = choices>
<div class = choice-item> [[Say nothing.|01-02 iyslf 15.8][$choice to 1]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[They're a damn good storyteller.|01-02 iyslf 15.8][$choice to 2]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[They're a liar.|01-02 iyslf 15.8][$choice to 3]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<if $choice is 1>> Sharpe waits, jutting their chin in defiance -- daring you to question the validity of their tale without speaking a single word. You don't. You won't, you refuse to stoop to their level; there is victory to be won in the questioning of their thoughts, their motives. If this is a game, then you will play it well. If this is not a game -- if this is truly them bearing their heart on their sleeve to you, if each and every one of their words carries with it the burden of truth -- then your silence is appropriate still. A silent jury, speaking neither conviction nor acquittance. Sharpe waits, until is becomes obvious neither you nor them will give an inch. They roll their eye, and once again you depart, having dueled them to stalemate.<<elseif $choice is 2>>You smile as Sharpe gives you a pointed glare, a challenge, daring you to question the validity of their tale. And you can -- you are all too willing to best them at their own game -- because you know what you heard is in part lies, exaggeration, bait for a folk story waiting to be established.
"You're a damn good storyteller, Sharpe," you say, your grin broadening at their discomfort -- perhaps not your intended consequence but a consequence nonetheless. "How much is embellished? How much is truth? How much is a red-letter lie?"
Sharpe goes pale, as pale as a sheet, as pale as a ghost. They open their mouth to speak and flounder, finding not a single word, not even a single pitiful sound. You shake your head, silencing them before they can gain enough footing to get a word in edgewise.
"Sounds like you had a rough go of it, if I'm being honest. Sounds like you caused problems for the hell of it. Sounds like you got what you deserved.-- like you cheated death, maybe a couple of times too many." Each word is a blatant threat. A heavy-handed promise. They may be a storyteller, they may be a liar. But they will not best you -- nor will they get to walk away unchallenged, as they have surely grown accustomed to. They cannot resort to violence, here and now, lest they brand themself hypocrite. A dangerous game.
"Are you threatening me?" They ask. A measure of insurance, assurance. Testing the waters. Sinking.
"I always pay my debts, Sharpe. No loose ends, save for the obvious. Can you say the same? Is this just another loose thread? Will your story unravel at the seams, if I pull a little harder?"<<elseif $choice is 3>>You smile as Sharpe gives you a pointed glare, a challenge, daring you to question the validity of their tale. And you can -- you are all too willing to best them at their own game -- because you know what you heard is entirely a lie.
"Don't lie to me, Sharpe. Just don't. I've known these wastes as long as you have, I've done things that you can't begin to imagine. And I know you're lying."
Sharpe's lip curls into a snarl; they begin to defend themself without plan or words. But you, alight with some new courage, some new fervor that burns a hole in your thoughts, speak over them.
"You have take so many lives, you have taken the natural order and bent it to your whims. There are consequences, Sharpe, and you seemed not to face a single one. Until now. Until you lost that damn eye. And even then, everything -- despite all the death and destruction that surrounds you -- everything seems to turn out in your favor. Are you that shortsighted, are you truly that blind, to think that I would not see that either the dice are weighted, rigged in your favor -- or you're lying to me? What's the real truth? Who helped you -- is this divine intervention, is there someone else pulling the strings? Who saved you, Sharpe? Did you kill them, too? There aren't any Rangers left to save you, but that was never the point, was it?"
Sharpe goes pale, as pale as a sheet, as pale as a ghost. They open their mouth to speak and flounder, finding not a single word, not even a single pitiful sound.
"Do you intend to die with this lie on your lips? Do you intend for the Rangers to fade into one of your tall tales? What lie will you tell about my death? What lie will you tell about yours?"<</if>>
The journey passes slowly in uncomfortable silence, all red-orange rock and pale desert scrub, desolate emptiness as far as the eye can see. A land that lacks the vibrance of story, perhaps. Perhaps you find yourself too reliable of a narrator, perhaps this would all be more exciting if it were not either aching apathy or soul-crushing dread that met any thought of your destination.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|frontier radio 09]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<notify>>New transmissions available.<</notify>>Red Rock is an unassuming place. The name neatly sums up all the town -- boulders that appear as if they were touched by flame and kept the only the colors rest in the vaguest reminiscences of rockfall, a sheer cliff of stone rises high to serve as backdrop for the barely-town that exists in its shadow. Meager farms grow at the margins, fields run fallow in the late summer, soils as red as the stone, the dregs of harvest still in the tilled rows. Sleepy buildings gather around the road Sharpe turns down, sleepy houses that seem to perk up at the presence of a gunman on a pale horse and their trailing shadow. Every sound echoes in the still air, hooves on concrete, Sharpe's whispered monologue -- the same indistinct words over and over again. A prayer, you think, something for courage, something for strength. You stop at the intersection of two roads, the only two roads. Your presence has drawn a crowd leaning from porches and bannisters, peering from shuttered windows, wary-eyed and mistrustful, hands on holsters.
"I've got no quarrel with you." Sharpe promises, their voice commanding, their presence atop their near-horse more so. "Tell me where Clayton Benning is. Tell me where he is, and nobody else will be harmed, I swear it." Sharpe promises, and not a soul dares speak. Not even the threat of the silver pistol raised high into the air, pointed in turn at each of the bolder residents who creep out into the streets can coax a voice from the gathered crowd.
<i>"Where is he?"</i> They roar -- and a chorus of their own cry is all that answers.
And it is then that gunfire cracks like a whip, rings like thunder across the breadth of the street. Sharpe's horse rears, and in the late morning sun and the shade of the mesas they are for a brief moment a mighty horseman from Revelations -- that pale rider, Death, whose cloak billows to blot out the sun, who carries not a sword but promises their domain all the same, for none can conquer Death, try as they might. Gunfire rings out like thunder and you and Shape find yourself alone in the street; the town has retreated, made themselves scarce in the chaos. And tempting Death is a graying man with long rifle shouldered and smoking, standing with his back to the sun.
"I know why you're here, Eli. I ain't goin' quietly. But you can at least do me the common decency of telling me why you're going to kill me, this time."
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|01-02 iyslf 17]]</div>
</div><</nobr>>Clayton Benning's living room is a small, dusty space. The sun filters through planked windows in hazy beams, casting long, thin shadows across the dim room. The rest of the house appears almost the same, creaking floorboards and dated furnishings; the reek of nostalgia for a time that died long before the end of the world -- the faded couch and the inoperable lamps and cracked visage of a television tucked away in a cabinet with crooked doors. Benning gestures for you and Sharpe to sit, and the gunslinger refuses. Following their lead, you remain standing, moving to cross your arms and wincing at the emptiness that arises. The tall man shakes his head and slouches into the couch, rifle across his lap.
"The prodigal son returns, at long last." Benning drawls, fiddling with the rifle's action. "And you've brought company, too, left me havin' to mind my manners. This your <<if $gender is "male">>boyfriend<<elseif $gender is "female">>girlfriend<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>partner<</if>>? Your accomplice? Your next victim?"
"<<if $gender is "male">>He's<<elseif $gender is "female">>She's<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>They're<</if>> the last of the Rangers, you and me and $HimHer. <<if $gender is "male">>He'll<<elseif $gender is "female">>She'll<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>They'll<</if>> be my witness, <<if $gender is "male">>he'll<<elseif $gender is "female">>she'll<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>they'll<</if>> be my executioner, <<if $gender is "male">>he'll<<elseif $gender is "female">>she'll<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>they'll<</if>> be anything I ask of $HimHer. That's <<if $gender is "male">>his<<elseif $gender is "female">>her<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>their<</if>> contract, that's the Ranger way, remember?" Sharpe elaborates, shifting side to side, avoiding you at all cost. "There won't be any Rangers left after today. That, I can promise you."
Benning's head falls back onto the cushions, defeated or exasperated or something else, something he hides well. "That makes this murder-suicide then. Son -"
The gunslinger's anger is swift, biting. They interrupt Benning. "I'm not your son. I am nobody's <i>son</i>."
"You might as well have been!" Benning retorts. "I loved you like you were my son, Eli. Like you were my own, like you were my flesh and blood. It hurts me to see you like this, scarred to hell and wearing a gun belt and eyepatch. It hurts me when you speak of these things -- execution, revenge, all that horseshit. I already lost a son, Eli. I won't lose another. I won't lose you again."
The gunslinger's one eye is watery with tears. Maybe it's the dust. Maybe it's the silver-haired man on the couch whose mannerisms they mirror exactly, who claims them as a son of his own, who declared with fervor in his voice that he would not lose another child.
"Why'd you leave me to die, Clay? Why didn't you come back for me?"
The man on the couch tenses, his mouth a thin line. "You ain't going to like my answer, but I did what was best for the group. I had to make a decision, son. That's just how it is in this world, we make difficult decisions, and we hurt people with every choice we make. Now or further down the line, it don't matter. Someone still gets hurt. I had to make a decision, and either way, there'd be death. Either I'd have to sacrifice the future, the Rangers -- all of 'em -- or I'd have to sacrifice you."
"And you chose to sacrifice me." Sharpe's voice trembles. "You decided that I'd have to die. You promised me that you wouldn't leave me. You promised!"
"I know, son. I know. But it was a numbers game, and I promise I didn't make the choice lightly." Benning pauses. "I know you're angry but -- anger ain't going to get you nowhere no more. This was years ago -- hell, Oregon was years ago. And you didn't even give me a chance to talk then, asked me no questions before you started shooting." He raises a hand to his cheek, where a thick scar interrupts his beard, raises his hand enough so that the sleeve falls from forearm, where further scars interrupt crude, colorful tattoos. "You took your pound of flesh, and I thought it was put to rest. But here you are, still on the warpath."
"I can't <i>rest</i>, Clay, knowing there are still Rangers out there." Sharpe shakes their head as their voice grows taut like a rope under stress, beginning to fray at the seams. "I know what I did ain't right, I know there are folks out there in shallow graves who didn't deserve it, maybe, but I can't sleep at night otherwise. I can't, I can't, I can't. Everything we did, everyone we hurt -- it haunts me. It <i>haunts</i> me. How does it not haunt you?"
"If I said I didn't see ghosts I'd be lying. But the only ghost I see now is the one standing in front of me." Something shifts in Benning's tone. Something calculated, something sinister. "The Lord has forgiven me, and though I will never see salvation -- you and I are both far too gone for that -- I have found peace in this life. And I'll be <i>damned</i> if I let you take that from me. I prayed for a son, and the Lord gave me you. I prayed for a way out of the life of sin I lived -- and the Lord took you. You're a goddamned ghost now, Eli. An' I ain't about to waste my life on chasin' ghosts. I ain't about to waste my life and bloody my hands over pointless fuckin' revenge. I ain't the one who won't let go of the past. It's the past, son. You need to move on."
Sharpe draws. Benning stares blankly at the gun pointed at his face. He does not flinch.
"Go ahead, son. Kill me. Shoot me down here and now and see how you feel, knowin' I only ever asked for peace."
<<nobr>><div class = choices>
<<if ($MC_killer is true) or ($MC_survivor is true)>><div class = choice-item> [[Just get it over with.|01-02 iyslf 18][$choice to 1]]</div><</if>>
<<if ($MC_pacifist is true) or ($MC_survivor is true)>><div class = choice-item> [[This isn't going to solve anything.|01-02 iyslf 18][$choice to 2]]</div><</if>>
<<if ($MC_pacifist is true) or ($MC_survivor is true)>><div class = choice-item> [[Say nothing.|01-02 iyslf 18][$choice to 3]]</div><</if>>
<<if $MC_pacifist is true>><div class = choice-item><span class = redtext>Just get it over with.</span></div><</if>>
<<if $MC_killer is true>><div class = choice-item><span class = redtext>This isn't going to solve anything.</span></div><</if>>
</div><</nobr>><<if $choice is 1>>"Just do it already, Sharpe." You're sick of this, sick of the little conversations and asides, the endless game that Sharpe plays. If their intentions are true, if their intentions are not tainted by the snake before you, then they should just pull the trigger and be rid of him. "If you can't do it -- if you won't do it -- I will. You need only give me your gun."
"You ain't got any skin in this, Ranger. This ain't your fight and you don't want it to be." Benning warns, condescending to you.
Sharpe agrees, hissing a warning of their own, though their attention never once wavers from Benning. "Watch your damn tongue. This is my fate, not yours."
"You're a coward. You keep hesitating when you're already guilty, you're already damned, you're already a killer," you retort "What's one more Ranger?"
The gunslinger lashes out at you, a blur of silver metal you realize after it's already struck you as being their pistol. The cold barrel presses against the underside of your chin as you reel backwards, caught by their fist wound into your jacket. "You're right," they threaten, "What's one more Ranger?"
You smile. "Why don't you, then?"
Sharpe relinquishes you, holstering their pistol. "Clayton Benning, I'm giving you a chance to die with honor. I hereby challenge you to a duel. Meet me at noon on the main street. Give this story an ending."<<elseif $choice is 2>>You step between Sharpe and Benning. The gun is leveled at you now, and somehow, you feel no fear. You feel nothing at all.
"Benning is <i>right</i>, Sharpe. Killing him doesn't solve anything. Revenge won't fix you, won't save you."
The gunslinger bristles with anger, approaches you to lay hands on you, to press the cold pistol barrel to the underside of your chin. "This isn't your choice to make, Ranger. I hold your contract -- and you're too damn loyal to another's word to do anything but back down. So I'm giving you a choice now, Ranger, one you <i>can</i> make. Back down. Or you'll never see that damned silver box again."
The emptiness in your chest subsides, consumed by anger. They dared. They dared threaten the one thing you have left in this world, dangle it out in front of you like prize or bait. They have bought your silence. They have bought your complacency. Sharpe smiles as you back away, a wounded dog with tail tucked between its legs, a shamed child hiding their face. They holster their pistol and adjust their cloak before addressing the man on the couch, who watched the entire exchange with a bemused expression, one that melts away as Sharpe begins to speak.
"Clayton Benning, I'm giving you a chance to die with honor. I hereby challenge you to a duel. Meet me at noon on the main street. Give this story an ending."<<elseif $choice is 3>>This is neither your place nor your fight. You are bound to inaction, to watching as Sharpe's gun hand trembles with each passing second, watching and waiting for them to get it over with -- to redecorate the room with Benning's innards -- or to balk -- to do nothing at all, to stand there and cry. The gunslingers waits. Hesitates. Benning remains unblinking, unfazed.
Sharpe's voice breaks, wavers like the pistol they hold aloft. But they summon courage enough to speak, enough to put away the pistol, to give a moment's thought to what they claim to want.
"Clayton Benning, I'm giving you a chance to die with honor. I hereby challenge you to a duel. Meet me at noon on the main street. Give this story an ending."<</if>>
Benning laughs, a deep sound, one backed with wracking coughs. He looks Sharpe in the face and laughs. "Did you not hear a single fuckin' word I just said? I ain't fighting you."
"Yes, Clay, yes, you're going to duel me, you're going to go out to main street and you'll take your place and I'll take mine and someone will die." Sharpe's voice is high. Manic. "You don't get to say <i>no</i>. Nobody gets to just <i>walk away</i>. Nobody. Not any of our lieutenants, not any of our friends, not even goddamn Ophelia Foster. This is how it works, this is how it's always worked. You have to die, I have to kill you, don't you understand?"
The rifle clatters to the floor as Benning stands, towering over the frozen gunslinger. For the first time, you think they're afraid; Benning is a thunderstorm, nebulous and yet all too direct in his rage. Sharpe is the epicenter, a lightning rod, a target. "Keep her name off your goddamn tongue. I hear a single mention of her, and I'll dig your grave my fuckin' self." He snarls, his voice quiet, too quiet.
"Do you know how she died, Clay?" The gunslinger taunts, singsong. "I bashed her over the head with a rock and dragged her out to sea. I drowned your beloved Ophelia with my own two hands, I -"
Sharpe is cut off by an almighty blow, an open-handed strike that sends them reeling into the wall behind them. Benning stands over them, eyes ablaze, fists balled. "I told you to keep her name out of your mouth. I told you, and <i>still</i> you decided to try your fuckin' luck." He pauses, flexes his hands. "If this is what you want, then this is what you'll get. I ain't never going to regret somethin' more than killing you. I ain't ever going to live it down, but you've left me no choice. I'll put you down like the rabid dog you are. Do you understand me?"
The gunslinger says nothing.
"<i>Do you understand me?</i>" Benning thunders, dragging Sharpe back to their feet, shaking them. "Look me in the goddamned eyes and tell me you understand the consequences of your actions! Say fuckin' something, that you acknowledge that you and you alone have signed your own damn death sentence. You want your duel? You'll fuckin' have it. You happy? You fuckin' proud of yourself?"
Sharpe says something strangled, something that abates Benning's fury enough to release them.
"Get out. Come back at noon, when you're ready to die."
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|01-02 iyslf 19]]</div>
</div><</nobr>>You sit with a teary-eyed Sharpe on the steps to the porch of some abandoned house at the edge of town. They consult a pocket watch periodically for the time, watching each and every precious second slip away. They look defeated, a mask of bruises spreading across their struck cheek. They look like they're already picturing themself dead in the street.
"You didn't tell me he was your-"
"He wasn't my father," Sharpe mutters, wiping their swelling eye on the frayed edge of their cloak. "He wasn't my father, no, but his voice and word were that of the Lord, and if they were not, then He has kept his silence well."
You nod. Sit without a single word next to your would-be-murderer, the doomed executioner in the divine silence that follows. Watch the way their hands shake as they take out the watch again, count the minutes and seconds left under their breath. The shakiness that persists as they draw out a crumpled carton of cigarettes, taking one for themself, and then proffering you cigarette and lighter alike.
<<nobr>><div class = choices>
<div class = choice-item> [[Take the cigarette.|01-02 iyslf 20][$choice to 1]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[Take the lighter for them.|01-02 iyslf 20][$choice to 2]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[Decline.|01-02 iyslf 20][$choice to 3]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<if $choice is 1>>You take the cigarette from their trembling hands and place it between your lips, let them lean forward, almost into you. Close enough to where you could reach and touch their bruise-stained cheek. You flick the lighter and they guard the flame carefully from the wind, the light catching on every facet of their face, on the little glimmering tracks where tears have fallen. The moment fades with the retreating flame; they lean away, taking the lighter with them. The smoke always smelled bittersweet to you, memories of your own father's almost forgotten woodshop, sawdust and tobacco mixing until you cannot smell one without remembering the other, suffocatingly heavy on your lips. You take a few drags, let the taste linger on your tongue alongside the memories.<<elseif $choice is 2>>You don't smoke. But the way they proffer you the lighter is almost chivalrous, an odd sort of vulnerability. You take the lighter from their trembling hands, let them lean forward, almost into you. Close enough to where you could reach and touch their bruise-stained cheek. You flick the lighter and they guard the flame carefully from the wind, the light catching on every aspect of their face, the rough inlaid edges of the scar, the little glimmering tracks where tears have fallen. The moment fades with the retreating flame, but they remain. They nod shortly, a curt method of thanks. And they close your hand around the lighter cautiously, their rough palms intentionally gentle. Proof that they can do more than hurt, perhaps. Proof that they are not the brute the patched eye and scuffed cheek make them out to be, perhaps. Perhaps it means nothing at all, perhaps this is some last will and testament, some final stand, some funerary rite.<<elseif $choice is 3>>You don't smoke. Nor do you feel enough towards Sharpe to where their gesture is anything but empty, anything but meaningless. They shrug, placing the cigarette between their lips and leaning forward to light it, shielding the flame from the wind before shaking out the flame and repocketing the dull metal lighter. A few shuddering breaths, smoke trailing from their mouth. A familiar scent, an acrid one, one with a connotation; your own father's almost forgotten woodshop, sawdust and tobacco mixing until you cannot smell one without remembering the other, suffocatingly heavy in your lungs. Strange memories, bittersweet at best. It'd be best not to dwell on it.<</if>>
"When you say <i>was</i>, Sharpe -"
"I mean that one or both or all us will be dead. Will cease to be at noon. Just a couple of minutes now, might as well start thinking in the past tense, you know?" Sharpe runs their hands over their face, pushes the brim of their hat up, up until it falls from their head and rolls on the porch. "What was it like? To die for real."
<<nobr>><div class = choices>
<div class = choice-item> [[Like letting go.|01-02 iyslf 21][$choice to 1]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[Like bliss.|01-02 iyslf 21][$choice to 2]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[Like terror.|01-02 iyslf 21][$choice to 3]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[Like nothing. Or everything.|01-02 iyslf 21][$choice to 4]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<if $choice is 1>>There's no words you could have for it. It was distant, it was cold, it was terror and relief all in one. It was letting go, like sand slipping though your fingers, like water rolling down your face. It was letting go, you think, making a fist. Tightening it -- until your knuckles show white through the skin, until the wounds threaten separation, until the fresh skin cracks and thin almost-blood oozes down the back of your hand, until your fingernails carve half-moon paths in your palm. Sharpe catches your gaze, looks between the closed fist and your closed mouth and understands, understands as you spread your fingers slowly.
There are no words, no right explanation, no true description. "Letting go. It's just a matter of letting go." They just barely whisper.<<elseif $choice is 2>>"Peace," you whisper hoarsely. "It was peace, at long last. Quiet, still. Nothing hurt, not anymore. Like waking up and hearing a conversation from the other room, except it was people who should be dead. People who I knew were dead and waiting for me. I wanted to join them, wanted nothing more," Your voice sticks in your throat as you bite back the swell of emotion. You remember her voice. Her laugh. "I didn't, evidently. They'll still be waiting, I think."
You think they tear up again, though they turn from you, press a hand to their face. A moment of silence, of reflection, of horrible, horrible memory before they nod, as steady as they can manage. "It'll be okay. It'll all be okay."
"It'll be okay," you assure them, knowing your words are hollow.<<elseif $choice is 3>>"Terror," you whisper hoarsely. "It was nothing but terror, that's all I can remember. Everything was gone, everything so quiet, so still. Every sensation was gone, I was numb and it was dark and I was so, so terribly alone."
Their body goes rigid, they lean heavily on their knees, knuckles white through their skin as they clutch their legs. They hang their head and you think, behind the cover of their arms and the eyepatch, they cry again. There is nothing you could say to comfort them; every word would ring hollow in the face of eternal darkness, empty destruction.<<elseif $choice is 4>>There's no words you could have for it. Instead, you gesture with empty hand. Death was. It just <i>was</i>. Like nothing you ever knew and very nearly nostalgic. Warm and comforting -- your childhood bedroom, your parent's laughter from the other room, the warmth of the winter sun through the window -- and terrifyingly empty and vast. Like staring at the night sky. Like having your face pressed into the earth. Like the heat at the very heart of a wildfire, like the cold of the drowning depths of the sea. Like the embrace of a lover. Like the spear driven between ribs.
You think they understand. You hope they understand. Your gaze lingers on theirs. Their chin trembles with a stifled sob.<</if>>
Sharpe checks their watch. You're out of time. They snub out their cigarette and collect their hat and stand. Square their shoulders, set their jaw, adjust their cloak. Discard the final evidence that they are afraid -- were afraid -- of what is to come. Together, you walk to where they tied up the horses, watch as they slide the shotgun out of its bindings behind the saddle. They inspect it carefully, load shells into the tube, rack the action. Watch as they realize you can't shoot a shotgun, not with one arm. It remains loaded and live, though returned cautiously to its hiding place. Sharpe leans their face into the side of their horse, takes a heavy breath. Reaching into a saddlebag, they take out a decrepit pistol. Stained with blood and caked in sand and dirt, you doubt it'd fire. But they draw back the slide, load a magazine, and press it into your palm.
"Foster's," they say, eyes trained on the weapon still, as if you'd use it on them, here and now. As if you would add to the legacy left in its wake. "If I live, I want it back. If I lose but I'm not dead -- shoot me. Put me out of my misery before Benning can. Anything after that is your fate, and yours alone -- but if I can, I ask only one thing of you. Make sure there aren't any more Rangers."
They do not wait for any confirmation; a mutual understanding. No more Rangers. In Benning's words -- murder-suicide. You step out in the street, maintain your distance from Sharpe, who moves like a sleepwalker, sluggish, placid. The sun is directly overhead. You stand in no shadows.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>>It waits in the shadows. It always does; this is their home, this is where they belong, the places where there is no chance that they are seen, no chance that they are known. They will reveal themself in time. When it becomes necessary in the course of events to intervene. It deemed this necessary, had followed the pair of riders into the desert at dawn, had stretched their legs and found themself capable of keeping pace with the horses, reveled in the rush of wind over un-masked face. It had found anonymity in the crowd, had witnessed the argument from a distant window. Had watched the outcome, had weighed the odds. A father and son march to kill themselves over the sun-bleached corpse of pride. Its Ranger has been condemned to watch. Its Ranger has been condemned to walk away or turn the gun on <<if $gender is "male">>himself<<elseif $gender is "female">>herself<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>themself<</if>>. That outcome is unacceptable. It cannot allow the Ranger to come to harm.
From the quiver, it selects an arrow.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 3>>The town of Red Rock does not know what hell descends upon them, watching from behind closed doors and cracked windows. You and Sharpe stand alone in the street, staring at the ripple of the asphalt, at the mesa rising high above the town. Your isolation is short-lived, however. Benning walks down the centerline of the road. Your heart pounds in your chest -- Sharpe seems to fair little better, their breathing growing frantic, their hands twitching.
He has forgone his long rifle for a revolver at his hip, decorated in gold to oppose Sharpe's silvery weapon. He has forgone any semblance of the peaceful life of substance he supposedly lived for a gunman's livery -- a broad-brimmed hat, a military jacket, a triggerman's gloves. Relics of a bygone age. And if here were any doubts to his identity, they have long since dissipated; he carries an iron ring on his gun belt, he carries a dignity, an air of earned superiority. You understand, you think, in the briefest of exchanges -- the ceremonial approach and challenge -- why Sharpe is the way they are. That, despite their insistence, son follows in the footsteps of the father.
They turn their backs on one another. You remain, facing no opposing second. Take your own steps back as they pace away, standing at the midpoint, watching both Sharpe and Benning. Waiting.
Waiting.
<<if $MC_killer is true>>You consider the pistol you have unconsciously unholstered. Their backs are turned. The magazine is full. The safety is off. Almost unwillingly, you raise the pistol. Like a compulsion. Like this is how the duel was meant to be resolved, with your divine intervention, <i>deus ex machina</i>. You consider the pistol that belongs -- belonged -- to a dead woman, consider what it means for it to be in this state still, what it means that you hold it, that it has not sunk to the bottom of the sea to be forgotten. A trophy. Or a brand. Your aim drifts to Sharpe -- there would be some not-insignificant satisfaction found in gunning them down. Some part of you thinks it would feel good, to watch their body drop to the street, empty. Instead, you take aim at the back of Clayton Benning's head. <<elseif $MC_survivor is true>>You have never dueled someone before. You have not succumbed to rage in this way, never sunk low enough to prolong death like this, to make others witness or complicit in your personal hatred. You refuse it even now, though your hand is drawn to the pistol grip. Though you take it into your hands, and consider, for a second of undeniable satisfaction, how it might feel to end the duel before it even begins. How easy it would be to write this off as circumstance, your conscience unweighted and your life removed from the balance of Sharpe's gamble. You could walk away unscathed. All it would require is a moment of anger, a moment of bloodshed.<<elseif $MC_pacifist is true>>You realize -- watching father and son square off in the center of some distant dead-end town -- the same thing you realized so very long ago, when you, naïve to the new world, took your first Ranger contract and found that violence was cheap, that lives were just bargaining chips. That murder-for-hire was the backbone of the wastes with revenge as currency. That revenge is pointless, that blood only ever begets more blood, that the sun rises and the cycle starts again, that as long as there are people in the world -- one will want another dead. And you cannot pretend to be above it -- some part of you aches, thinking of the way your first thoughts upon waking, upon opening the box and seeing her face, upon hearing her voice -- were of revenge. Of burning Bastion to the ground, of breaking the promise you made to a corpse in the mud. Your palm rests on the pistol grip. The temptation lingers, ever so slightly, a taint bitter to your tongue. You could unholster it. You could end the duel before it even begins.<</if>>
Benning turns to face Sharpe. Sharpe turns to face Benning.
Waiting.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 4>>Waiting. It is patient. It has always been patient. Waited for the silver box to reach the surface. Outlasted the metal-armed soldier. Waited for the Ranger, who clutches a pistol now. It can taste <<if $gender is "male">>his<<elseif $gender is "female">>her<<elseif $gender is "nonbinary">>their<</if>> fear, heavy, acrid. Waiting.
It knows it cannot wait longer. It draws back the bow string. Takes one steadying breath.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 5>>Clayton Benning has spent his life killing men. First as a lawman, cursed with the burden of -- admittedly rightfully deserved -- villainy. He'd shot suspects down in the street and felt nothing but recoil. When the end came, he found his skills translated well enough. He was meant for this life, maybe. He was a monster, maybe. <i>This is justice,</i> he thinks. <i>Anything less would be injustice, anything less would be like spitting in the face of Ophelia's memory, hers and everyone else's, everyone Eli took too soon from this world,</i> he assures himself. He made this monster in his own image -- and though he cannot unmake them, cannot undo the suffering they caused -- he can put an end to their rampage. Put an end to them.
It will be over in just a second. A second that will last too long, a second that currently lasts too long, your hand starting to grow slick with sweat on the pistol grip, your aim dutifully leveled at the pavement in front of you. <i>It will be over in just a second,</i> you reassure yourself. For better or for worse, it will at least be over. You watch both duelists, waiting for the single flicker in movement that will spell doom for one or both.
Eli Sharpe is scared; they have not a single thought, save for terror. They have run from death for a long, long time. They have felt the cold terror of its embrace once, albeit briefly. They know this time, they will not be as lucky; death has finally caught up to its pale imitator, death waits in the chamber of Benning's gun. There is a certain morbid irony in this being their last duel -- the student having come full circle with the teacher now under sights. They will be punished for this form of insolence, they know. Playing games with their life, gambling on a dead man's hand. Sharpe must be faster on the draw, more precise in their aim. They must look death in the eye and be unflinching. A binary outcome. Live or die. Kill or be killed.
And instead, they wait. You wait. He waits.
It does not wait. No. It feels the slightest of shifts in the duelist's balance, the sudden tensioning of muscles, the firing of nerves as hand reaches for gun. The way the revolver is found perfectly in hand, the way the weapon is drawn, upwards and outwards to clear leather while the other gunslinger fumbles, hesitates. Doomed. Too slow. Dead, dead, dead, if this were any normal duel.
It releases the bowstring.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|01-02 iyslf 22][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>>An arrow whistles through Clayton Benning's chest.
You stand in the street as Benning falls. An arrow in and then through his chest. Falling still and heavy, without a single shot fired, without breaking the silence. Sharpe stands stunned, frozen, gun still in holster as Benning's blood stains the street. You should do something. You need to do something, do anything. The gunslinger staggers forwards, as if they too were struck. They fall to their knees. They scream, clutching their chest, they scream, loud and terrible and echoing off the cliffs until the town carries no sound but their banshee's howl.
Petrified, you can do nothing but serve as witness. Sharpe inches their way towards the corpse, and high above, a shadow detaches itself from a rooftop, leaping soundlessly to the pavement. It moves like liquid made living, an unnatural fluidity to its traversal. It stands over the corpse. It stands over Sharpe, casts its glowing gaze at you. You recognize them -- the vulture, your savior from the ruins. The new and sudden object of Sharpe's fury. They -- meaning the swift shadow -- collect the arrow and whirl about just in time for the gunslinger's wildly aimed shot to miss the place where their head was just a moment earlier. And in retaliation, they lunge at the gunslinger, brandishing the arrow like a knife. Broken from your fugue by the imminent threat of violence, you lurch to interrupt the fight as it begins.
You seize Sharpe's arm, twist it skyward as they squeeze the trigger, a second round echoing off into the blue noon sky as you tumble to the pavement with them. The revolver clatters away across the ground, you see briefly that the shadow picks it up before a fist catches you in the chest. Mercifully, they cease their barrage of wild, fruitless punches that hit nothing else, nothing but air. They stop fighting, fall forward to lean against your empty shoulder. To wrap trembling arms around you, to cry into your chest, completely and utterly defeated.
"I'm sorry, Swann." Sharpe's voice is thin, hoarse. Muffled in the fabric of your cloak and still distinctly sorrowful. "I'm so goddamned sorry, I swear it. It wasn't supposed to end like this, I'm sorry."
The barrel of a gun nudges the back of your head. The shadow reconsiders, draws back the hammer, and takes aim at Sharpe.
"Stop." You croak, hoping they understand you, enough to give pause, to hesitate further. "You don't want to do that, I promise."
Your statement is entirely a warning; Sharpe's motivations become evident as their hands search your waist for the pistol, Foster's pistol. With one arm, you are powerless to stop them as they rise with pistol in hand to seize the shadow, wrap an arm around their throat and press the gun to their temple. The shade holds out the arrow, a gruesome peace offering, coated from point to fletching in slick red gore. They let it fall, wincing at the noise it makes. They let it fall, freeing their hands to sign. To make a plea to you.
<span class = ghost>"Help me,"</span> they ask, their signs sloppy, panicked, missing the context of expressions. <span class = ghost>"Help me, I helped you -- I saved them, I mean no harm, I mean no harm, I mean no harm. Promise."</span>
Sharpe tightens their grip and the shade pries at their forearm to no avail. "Tell me what they're saying, Ranger. Now. Give me one reason not to kill this fuckin' <i>thing</i>."
<<nobr>><div class = choices>
<div class = choice-item> [[They saved your life.|01-02 iyslf 23][$choice to 1]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[They saved Sharpe's life.|01-02 iyslf 23][$choice to 2]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<if $choice is 1>>"I owe them my life, Sharpe," you say cautiously. You do not add -- <i>you owe them your life, too</i> -- though the thought rises to your tongue. "They're the one who rescued me, they're the one who brought me to Hope. That silver box <i>you</i> owe me -- you can thank them for that too. You can thank them for every little goddamn thing you've dragged me into these last two days. Everything."
Sharpe's lips draw into a thin line, as if they were going to say something rash before biting it back, settling on something sanitized. "How do you expect me to trust them? <i>How?</i> After -- "
"Because if they wanted you dead, you'd be laying in the street too!" You jab a finger towards the corpse, an edge of indignance creeping into your voice. "<i>That</i> could have been you, but you are alive, and if you want to stay that way, you'll listen to me and let go."<<elseif $choice is 2>>"Because you'd be dead, if it wasn't for them," you say bluntly, malice hiding beneath your tongue. "You hesitated on the draw. I saw it, they saw it. You wouldn't have killed Benning -- you couldn't have. You would never be able to -- willing or not. I see through you. You'd be dead in that street without them."
Sharpe's hand shakes. They bite their cheek, shift from side to side. "Liar," they stutter. "I would've... I could've."
"And you didn't. They did." Sharpe falters. You jab a finger towards the corpse, an edge of indignance creeping into your voice. "<i>That</i> could have been you, but you are alive, and if you want to stay that way, you'll listen to me and let go."<</if>>
Sharpe's finger wraps around the trigger, they squeeze their eye shut, they grit their teeth and release the shade. Still, they hold the pistol aloft, frozen in that moment of hesitation. At the edges of your vision, the town begins to gather again, opening doors and windows, unfriendly eyes narrowing ; their lawman dead in the street, the murderer and accomplices standing over the corpse and squabbling. Three cannot best fifty; the growing crowd knows this, their murmurs growing in number and intonation until the street is alive with the sound of a swarm.
"We need to leave," you caution. "Sooner, rather than later."
Benning's funerary rites are brief and paranoid. Sharpe kneels beside the body, head bowed. A prayer, perhaps. Or just saying goodbye, their hand splayed across his chest before they strip him of his gun belt and gun alike, before they remove something that hung around his neck, donning and concealing it from your prying eyes. Maybe this is how they say goodbye, eye squeezed shut, face to the heavens. Maybe this is how they say goodbye, turning their back on the corpse and walking away, down the street to where Benning once lived.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>>The living room is just as still, just as emptily nostalgic, just as haunting as the first time you stood in it. The shadow did not follow you and Sharpe past the porch, shaking their head rapidly, signing their refusal repeatedly, frantically. You ducked in after the gunslinger, if only to look around one more time. Floorboards creak under your feet, little plumes of dust rise with each item you move. You come to a wall covered in framed photographs. A young man, a young man and a woman. Children. A hazy ceremony and handwritten text, a caption bleeding through the yellowed paper. All you can read is the date, some five years before the apocalypse. Beneath, half a dozen landscapes of all sorts, beaches and mountains and forests and the surrounding desert, freckled with sunspots. Further down the wall, another woman, a different one with a rifle across her lap and a distant smile. A young person in a cowboy's garb, laughing from atop a horse. More of them, a collection of armed men walking down a road, the young cowboy asleep in ruins, the woman tending to horses. An older man who set up the camera across the living room and sat on the couch with two others. The woman. The young person. A family photo. You leave the house, sick to your stomach. The stranger on the porch gives you a knowing look from behind the mask.
Sharpe joins you, some minutes later. They carry Benning's rifle -- the rifle from the photo -- slung across their back and a second gun belt and pistol, gold to the original silver. They hang their head, and gesture for you to follow. Behind the house is a small fenced-in pasture occupied by a horse as fiery red as the rock. Sharpe click their tongue, and the creature responds, allowing Sharpe to prepare it with all the necessary accompaniments for riding. Evidently, then, they have plans for what must have once been Benning's horse; they lead it by hand to where the near-horses are tied, the beast gently nuzzling at Sharpe's cloak as they walk.
Three horses and three riders stand ready to depart for Hope. Sharpe checks over everything they brought, everything they took. Benning's rifle, Foster's pistol, everything. The stranger stares longingly at the midnight-dark near-horse you rode this morning, extending a cautious hand to brush fingertips against its coat. They make a small, excited noise when it does not shy away, face you and the gunslinger with a smile you can all but see through their mask. They sign a flurry of indistinguishable questions.
"Are they coming with, then?" Sharpe asks.
"We don't have a choice, do we?" You say quietly. "We both owe them. And Rangers always repay their debts."
Sharpe curses under their breath.
Three riders depart for Hope, praying that if they ride fast enough, the bloody tides of morning will not catch them.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[End.|END][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>><<set $gamechapter to "errant freqencies">><<unset $PassageNo>><h4><i>errant frequencies</i></h4>a collection of stories from the wastes. new perspectives on an ever-changing world. memories of lives that will be lost to the passage of time, and the decay of wavelengths.
behold, listener, the tales of those dead.
<<nobr>><div class = choices>
<div class = choice-item> [[00: Five Minutes Until Midnight|fmum start]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> <span class = redtext>01: High Octane</span></div>
<div class = choice-item> [[02: Dead Gods|dg start]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> <span class = redtext>03: The Nomads</span></div>
<div class = choice-item> <span class = redtext>04: When The Skies Sung</span></div>
<div class = choice-item> <span class = redtext>05: Hunger</span></div>
<div class = choice-item> <span class = redtext>06: The Duel</span></div>
<div class = choice-item> <span class = redtext>07: Fields Aflame</span></div>
<div class = choice-item> <span class = redtext>08: The Cyclist</span></div>
<div class = choice-item><<link "Return." $return>><<set $gamechapter to "...">><</link>></div>
</div><</nobr>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<set $gamechapter to "five minutes until midnight">>It's the last day of summer. A scorching day, with the blistering sun lording over empty skies. It would have been a beautiful day, save for the threat that loomed overhead. Today would be the last day of summer. Today would be the last day of recorded history.
The threat was made in the morning-- carried over every airwave, every frequency, found its way to broadcast on every television screen, plastered across every news outlet, occupying every inch of former advertising space. The threat was made in the morning, at six AM, sharp. It was ignored, at first. Threats like this were made every day. Union said they could end the Corporation with one grandiose strike, and the Corporation dared them to do so-- and so the sieges began.
And the sieges had run too long-- that is what the Corporation said. The sieges of their walled cities had lasted too long, and their people-- their innocents-- were suffering. The Union had ignored the first threat, had issued their own empty ultimatum in kind.
The broadcasts came out with twelve hours remaining. A clock had started. Counting down behind the man in the dark blue suit, reading a script from a piece of paper. Twelve hours remaining. He spoke monotonously, lacking emotion, save for the slight tremble of his voice, reading the final statement.
He read:
<span class = flashback>If the Union siege of Corporation cities is not lifted by midnight, there will be nothing left to besiege. There will be nothing worth fighting over. There will be no armies, no nations, no Corporation, no Union. The Corporation has been planning for this day, and has prepared a course of action. The Corporation is reasonable. The Corporation is issuing this message so that the citizens may know that when the end comes, it was no fault of their own, but rather, the fault of their governance. The Corporation will not surrender their cities, but is willing to come to an agreement with the Union. The agreement will end the fighting. The Union will have until midnight-- twelve hours-- to respond.
The Corporation asks that the Union makes the right choice, for the sake of the world.</span>
The news anchor stares blankly into the camera. The feed stops, replaced with a countdown.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>>Eleven hours and fifty-five minutes have passed. There has been no news.
The colonel has been checking his messages every two minutes, on the minute, for the last eleven hours and fifty-three minutes. Two minutes ago, the phone rang. The antique thing, the gaudy thing, the wildly inefficient thing, a relic of the bright red telephones trope in every good military thriller about the end of the world. A thing so out of place in the sleek, tech-filled room, that it perpetually drew the eye.
Either that, or the colonel had always anticipated this being the end of things.
The phone rang three times before he picked it up. The first time-- he stared incredulously. The second, he reached out for the cheap plastic and found himself unable to even touch it. The third, he felt a tear run down his cheek.
He answered it on the fourth ring as if it were any other call for orders. Rank, name, station. One of the dozen cheerful greetings he'd prepared as standard operating procedure. The voice on the other end was grim. Blunt. Emotionless, until the signoff. The slightest hint of fear, between the static. A <i>thank you</i> for his service to the Corporation.
The receiver clicks. The colonel hangs up the phone.
He's sure there's a dozen other similar calls being made right now. Maybe that should reassure him, maybe that should add to his conviction, maybe that should damn him. His orders are to end the world. To carry out the sole purpose of this bunker, somewhere deep beneath the frozen soil of the far north, far detached from any of the actual fighting. This bunker, this safe haven, will not survive. That was the intent, to cause enough damage so that the surface becomes inhospitable, targeted strikes at the most populous centers, and then a second wave of tactical targets. Insurance, a measure of preventing contingency plans.
There is a safe under the desk that the colonel slumps over. In the solitude of his office, he can afford the risk of tears. When he removes the keyring from the safe, there can be tears no longer; he cannot afford to be seen like this, he must save face, he cannot face his skeleton crew like this. Alongside the keys, there is a sealed envelope with pre-planned speech. A script for ending the world.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 3>>Tonight, he will not be reading it. He's prepared his own; speaking from the depths of his damned soul, from the blackened recesses of his heart, from the final dying embers of his conscience.
No tears. Wiped away with a sharp-creased uniform sleeve. No tears, shoving open the door to his office with a creak, enough to turn heads. Enough for the room to be called to attention with a thin, distant voice. The room is quiet, so, so quiet. The wafer-thin, sallow faces that have not seen the sun in years are illuminated garishly in the dark by the glow of the terminal screens, by the mass of displays he will give his final address in front of. A distinct sense of shame sweeps the colonel as he takes his ceremonial place at the front of the room.
The clock behind him, the countdown from the news, ticks away slowly. He stands illuminated by it, backlit, casting a long, dark shadow. Fitting, he thinks, that this should be the stage for the man who would end the world.
Five minutes until midnight. The clock ticks down slowly.
"Colonel, sir, what are our orders?" A timid voice from the gathered technicians.
"It has been an-" His voice catches in his throat. He refuses the sob that rises. No tears. "It has been an honor, but I'm afraid that this is the end of the line. We have received orders."
Failure. A tear falls as he takes a shuddering breath.
"This will be our last set of orders." The silence in the room is a tangible thing, suffocating, heavy handed, oppressive. "There has been no de-escalation. Operation Dead Man's Hand is a-go, and the appropriate networks and stations have been activated. Including ours." He struggles with the next words. The statement of purpose, of intent. "We are going to end the world."
He closes his eyes. Expects uproar, expects anything other than the continued silence he is met with. No protest. No bold traitors who would dare to stop him, who would speak to the inkling of regret that stays his hand for the time being. Acceptance, and the silent plea for someone to say something, anything to interrupt, to question the orders, to stop him, please, stop him.
"I cannot, in good conscience, say that I do not regret these orders. This is not an easy task, but it is the necessary one. We have orders. May God have mercy on our souls."
And so, the colonel turns his back on the room. Faces, with all the courage he can muster, his console-- the aptly named "doomsday station". An almost comical thing, the same tackiness as the bright red telephone on its hooks, a simple podium with a glowing red button under a little glass case, unlocked with a series of keys. The whispering of a silent prayer, for a key not to turn. For him to strike the button and for nothing to happen. Futile. Each key slots, turns with a click that seems to echo. The little glass case opens.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 4>>He waits, hovering over the red button.
The end of the world rests at his fingertips.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Press the button.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 5>>The colonel presses the button.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 6>>And the room goes dark.
Consoles off, screens off, pitch black, save for the the pale glow of emergency lights.
The main screen reignites with a secondary countdown. This one, to impact.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|fmum 1][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<set $gamechapter to "four minutes until midnight">>Eleven hours and fifty-six minutes have passed. There are no new orders.
The old soldier sits against the sandbag emplacement. Not the front lines, but near enough. Not a safe haven, but near enough. Counting down the minutes. There'll be another siege, come midnight. Minutes remain, until the Corporation's bluff is called and they'll charge headlong towards the walls.
The new unit is young. Hasn't seen combat yet. Reinforcements fresh off the train, just this morning. Cannon fodder. Young soldiers, no, not even soldiers, just children playing war. The old soldier isn't much older and yet-- the fresh-faced and wide-eyed conscripts they stare at aren't adults. Sixteen, the youngest, wearing ill-fitting fatigues and clutching an oversized rifle to their chest. Eighteen, their oldest, their de facto leader, a quiet, determined young woman who'd asked the old soldier where to report to in hushed tones.
The old soldier had just laughed, jabbed a thumb over their shoulder at the towering spire-city.
"City. Or hell. Whichever comes first."
And the young soldier had just stared at them. Said nothing, tears brimming.
The old soldier responded in turn with silence. Closed their eyes, as to avoid the stare. Closed their eyes, as not to cry in kind.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>>"Old" is relative out here, wherever here is. A system, not based on age. Rookies come in from the trains. In the event that you survive a attack, you're no longer a rookie. Survive two, and you're seasoned. Three, and you're old. Nobody's dragged themself back from a fourth assault. Not that it matters to the old soldier. Tonight will be the last attack.
The final day was spent searching for the young soldiers. In the early afternoon, they had found them, huddling together in a sandy pit, stacked like cordwood or corpses, interlinked fingers, heads on shoulders. Comforting gestures, arms around comrades, faces buried in gear, anything to touch, to hold, to know. Like the embraces of the field; shell-shocked husks of soldiers clinging to one another in smoking craters, overzealous medics draped over their casualties in a desperate attempt to protect someone already gone. Something like ceremony, something like ritual, to find another and hold on, just hold on, hold on, please, until the end. A ward against danger, against death, against fear.
Things they'll know soon enough.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 3>>A reminder of the contrast to the congregated youth. Perhaps striking, perhaps intimidating, standing atop the ridge, a dark figure silhouetted against the cloudless sky. Perhaps pitiful, a wretched thing, reeking to the heavens and dressed in a dead man's clothes, fatigued fatigues soiled by the contents of their previous inhabitant; a pitiful thing, spliced together by ragged stitching, scarred fabric that matches the rest of their countenance. A grim representation of the war; a faceless soldier walking dazed and wounded, staring out at the battlefield with glossy-dead eyes. Longing for it. Waiting for it.
They had gathered the group. Herded them to the emplacement. Waited. Their charges found homes in niches in the embankment or slumped in the mud. Still holding on-- to hope, to one another, to their rifles.
Four minutes. The young woman-- their leader-- sits beside the old soldier, a mirror to their hunched posture.
"I'm sorry." The old soldier removes their helmet, placing it carefully at their feet. The thousand yard stare returns, gazing deep into the shadow cast by the rumpled liner of the helm, at the creased and faded and stained photograph secured tenderly by a worn strap-- the last artifact that had faded as the ink did. "I know what it's like. I've been out there. I was you, once."
The young soldier's gaze catches on the photo in the helmet.
"How long have you been here?"
The old soldier shrugs. They'd like to say they lost count a long time ago, but they know. A different measure of time, living assault to assault. One, eyes wide with hope, returning on a stretcher, silent, haunted. Assaults came and went, the tent filled and emptied, fellow ghosts who stared at the canvas roof and waited. Two, worse, howling incoherence, wresting the medic's bloody hands from the wound and begging to be let go. Blurred days, gauze and soft voices; unkind specters. Three, alone and scared, limping towards the lights under cover of night. Last man standing, more time lost to the empty.
"Three assaults."
"Will there be a fourth?"
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 4>>Four minutes. Fourth assault. The old soldier finds nothing but silence. Four minutes. Less now. Less with every second spent in silence, counting down in an ever quickening spiral.
The young soldier reaches tentatively for the old. Wraps her fingers around the old soldier's empty hand. A soft, small palm, un-weathered, un-scarred. Not the filthy, bandaged hand of the soldier with rough palm and cracked fingernails and calluses and cuts. A slight squeeze, returned. An answer unspoken and yet understood.
"Is it scary?"
The old soldier looks at the new, sees only a reflection of themself.
"Yes."
"Will we die?"
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|fmum 2][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>>The old soldier looks at the photograph in the helmet, a life lost, long ago. The shadows of two people with arms wrapped around the other, a tight, desperate embrace, a plea not to let go, a moment frozen in time, adorned with a scrawled note, bleeding through the photo paper.
"We all do."
"Does it hurt?"
<<nobr>><div class = choices>
<div class = choice-item> [[Yes.|fmum 3]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[No.|fmum 3]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<set $gamechapter to "three minutes until midnight">>Eleven hours and fifty seven minutes have passed. There has been no ceasefire.
The dead soldier waits. Knows they are dead already. Waits, still, for something to change.
If it were any other night, it would have been beautiful. The empty skies had collected clouds by the time the sun had begun to set, meager, and yet enough for the brilliant light that streamed through to have been diffuse, enough to have painted the battlements in shades of gold. And the sky itself had been a thousand different colors. Rich goldenrod, pinks, reds, purples, fading to a deep, clear blue as the sun sunk and the clouds dispersed again.
The dead soldier had watched from their perch, legs dangling over the wall into oblivion, arms draped over the barrels of their emplacement. It was always a good spot to watch the sunset, despite the presence of the mounted gun. It was such a beautiful sunset, almost worthy of being their last.
The stars rose, not long after. A moonless night, dark enough to see the majesty of the stars. The broad belt comprising the spiral arms of the Milky Way, the patterns of the constellations whose names and structures they'd all but memorized. Such a beautiful night to die.
The dead soldier had paced the solitary emplacement all day. Stared the isolation of the little outcropping in the face, tried not to think about the implications of being alone. Of being the only one left alive. There were two other dead soldiers, once. They had common names and common faces, they had common interests and common fears. They would have liked to see the sunset. The young man on the crew had recorded each, scrawling notes in a cheap journal. And there'd be the furious flipping of pages, comparison to his time at the coast, and a final declaration; nothing would ever be as beautiful as his beloved Pacific. They would have liked to see the stars. The older woman on the crew used to teach them how to find the patterns on long watches, a relic of her past, a lecturer whose interests lie beyond the solar system. She had pointed out Cassiopeia and Orion, painted their myths across the stars; broad sweeping gestures and rich words that leapt and crackled like electricity, breathed life into the distant points of light.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>>A crater is all that's left of them. Crater and broken rampart. The dead soldier was lucky, the doctors said. Somehow a survivor; Icarus soaring on his burning wings, borne aloft by someone else's ambition. Falling, falling forever and ever. Waking in a hospital.
The dead soldier was unlucky, they think. Somehow a survivor, with the water fast approaching, their reflection-- flaming wings and tears of wax, a rain of feathers-- picturesque. A final sunset, a blaze of star-bright glory, falling, falling forever and ever. Waking in a hospital. Climbing the tower again, to man the gun alone.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 3>>The dead soldier mans the gun. That is their purpose, that is their directive, that is their doctrine, that is their duty.
The dead soldier doesn't want to have killed anyone. To not have-- to have missed with every shot-- would be statistical aberration; their chances of innocence waning with every second they spent aiming down the sights. They fire and fire and fire, squeezing the triggers until the shaking makes their hands and arms numb, raking the ground far below with brilliant laser tracers, raining fire and plasma into the roaring masses that charge the walls. There is no confirmation that they hit their targets. There does not need to be.
The other dead soldiers did not have the same purpose. The other dead soldiers followed different doctrines. The other dead soldiers were not as complicit. The young man, strapping and broad-shouldered, loaded the ammunition. He would do no more, refusing to lay a single finger on the guns, giving them a wide berth and glare even in moments of peace. The older woman, melancholy and mature, was their commander, and the eyes of the dead soldier. She wore the radio at her hip and headphones tucked under her helmet, she relayed orders and guided the dead soldier with a hand on the shoulder when the flash of the muzzle and clamor rendered them blind and deaf. Sometimes, the radio would buzz and she would listen, listen and consider. Listen, consider, and relay no orders.
Without them, the battlement was silent.
Without them, the dead soldier is silent.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 4>>There was no reason to fight, otherwise. Ideals of the Corporation long since lost-- chasing endless greed, abandonment of connection or knowledge in favor of the temporary and material.
No reason to keep fighting, save for the smile of the older woman, the commander who laughingly promised she'd adopt the two younger soldiers, that she'd make them dinners and introduce them to her family as family. No reason to keep fighting, save for the laugh of the younger man, dispatched into the city with a mocking salute at the behest of their commander to find something rationed, rare, or illegal to share with the crew. No reason to keep fighting, save for the dead soldier's own quiet joy, the comparison of sunsets and stories of distant lands and rolling waves, a new constellation in the waning summer sky and the grand myth that accompanied it. No reason to keep fighting, save for the quiet moments, sat together at the edge of the city, edge of oblivion, watching time pass slowly.
No reason to keep fighting. The threat that arrived this morning, carried on the airwaves, was a relief.
The dead soldier knows that they'll rejoin their crew tonight.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|fmum 4][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>>Three minutes until midnight, and the orders have finally been called in. The dead soldier lurches from their memories, an unceremonious return to the emplacement.
Three minutes until midnight, and the soldier mans their weapon, ammunition loaded, more within arm's reach. They cannot carry the crates as far as the dead man could, cannot heft the heavy linked bolts of shells over a shoulder and run from safe ground to emplacement. Thus, they bear the risk like the weight on their shoulders, a belt of ammunition draped across their back, snaking its way to press heavily against their chest. The promise and fear of the unstable materiel, praying that if a spark ignited a loose round, they would feel nothing.
Three minutes until midnight and the dead soldier mans their weapon with the heavy radio weighing down their belt. The orders will come directly to them now, borne on the airwaves into the black box and carried up the wire into the headphones, too large for them, worn awkwardly under the helmet.
Three minutes until midnight, and the dead soldier mans their weapon. The orders are relayed, simple orders, simple in their sadness, simple in their hopelessness. Wait. Wait for the assault, for the rising of the flare in the east. Fire. Fire until the emplacement is no longer viable.
Thus, a last stand. Perched atop the battlements; an emplacement long since unviable. No point in firing, the dead soldier knows. Last stand. The radio falls heavily, the ammunition shrugged from shoulders more so. Headphones and helmet and heavy armor shed as the dead soldier abandons their position, unviable. They clamber to the very edge of the battlement, to where the warm, gentle breeze tugs at their clothes and promises, sweetly, that the fall will be just as gentle. They stare out, over the starry field, to the burning horizon; the war machine of the Union gathering one last time. Another headlong charge at the wall, thousands upon thousands of dead soldiers making a final stand.
A final stand. For what?
<<nobr>><div class = choices>
<div class = choice-item> [[Country.|fmum 5]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[Doctrine.|fmum 5]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[Duty.|fmum 5]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[Peace.|fmum 5]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[Nothing.|fmum 5]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<set $gamechapter to "two minutes until midnight">>Eleven hours and fifty-eight minutes have passed. There is no solace.
She had waited quietly through the day. Took off work in the morning; informed of their understanding in a tone that lacked condescension, could be twisted in to something that might even resemble sympathy. Despite everything, the city was its usual self, the commotion of the streets drifting lazily upwards on the summer's breeze. Despite everything, there was a sense of normalcy, still work to be done, still money to be made, still livelihoods to earn. And instead, she waits-- assuredly not alone in her dereliction of duty but, in the moment, it felt a supremely solitary act of defiance. She'd pried a window open, reveled in the un-recycled air, taking deep breaths of particulate haze, borne aloft on sunbeams. She'd unplugged the phone, bathed in the silence and solitude, not knowing, not speaking, not existing to anyone but herself.
Strange, that she should feel almost relieved. That the end of the world should be so peaceful.
When the sun set, the relief died with the light.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>>The usual clamor of the night, the second rush hour, the roar of nightlife-- dampened and waning with curfew and a looming sense of dread, but still present, always present-- is now absent.
The city is silent.
The city is completely and utterly silent.
There are no cars on the streets, nor people on the sidewalks. The neon-lit billboards have changed their broadcast, colorful advertisement replaced with a singular, ominous thing. A countdown. White numbers against a black screen. An hour. Less.
And there is something about the profound darkness, something about the stark silence and the simplicity of the message, seconds passing without remorse; the passage of time as ruthless as ever, that strikes her. Minutes pass as she watches, just watches. And, as one does when presented with a new and frightening reality, or has finally reached the point at which their current situation is bearable no longer, she knows she must do something. She must. Cannot wait here, cannot watch as seconds tick away, until the promise of doomsday is fulfilled.
She paces for some time. Half an hour remains, less now, that she thinks to look out the window. Knowing she wastes seconds that are now even more impossible to get back. She summons all her courage, laughs under her breath at the thought; that this should be the thing that requires courage, that this should be the bravest thing she could possibly do with oblivion looming, twenty minutes, less. Her hands tremble as she plugs in the phone, as she checks her messages.
There are three new messages. Just three. Only three. Strange, that she should feel almost relieved.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 3>>The first message is from a friend.
When had they last spoken? When had they had the time?
Everything about the message hurts. Aches. Something long absent, something that could have been, should have been, might have been, if only there were more time. If only there were more time, if only there was less distance, if only. If only. The implication of the message is the aching of a broken heart, the desperation of one who has felt the weight of the end of the world, who knows that this will be their only chance to clear their conscience. The voice wavers. Their voice wavers and fades in and out of the static, a whisper, a sob.
They say this:
<span class = flashback> I know we haven't talked in a while. Not since-- well. You know.</span>
They laugh. A suppressed version of the joy they used to wear. A sad, nervous thing, followed by a sniffle, by the sound of them moving about the apartment. She knows they wandered during the phone call, she knows exactly what expression they wore, the same one they always did as they tried not to cry, pretended not to hurt when they were in fact deeply wounded. Just trying to stay composed long enough to say something. She knows.
<span class = flashback>Fuck! I'm crying, I'm really crying over this, I really am. Well. Where do I begin? I love you. There, I said it, again. Sorry about the first time, I'm sorry-- no, I really do mean it. You know how it is. You grow up with someone-- get to know them as they get to know themself, and-</span>
They shift, remove the receiver from their face as they stifle a sob. Returning with a weak, nasally voice. Crying. Her own feelings swell in response, harder and harder to deny as they continue.
<span class = flashback>We were gonna take on the world together, remember? I'm sorry I fucked it up, me and my big feelings. I'm sorry, I really am. But how could I not love you, not when you promised me that we'd get out of this city, on that night we went to go watch the stars on that rooftop? How could I not love you, when you'd held me after that homewrecking son-of-a-bitch broke up with me, how could I not love you when you showed up at my door to check on me after I missed work that one week, how could I not love you for all there was, all our promises, all our little imperfections? How could I not love you? I know that you didn't feel the same way, and that was okay but I can't ever not think about what could have been. And now, the world is ending-- actually fucking ending-- and I didn't have the guts to say this, until the eleventh hour and the fiftieth fucking minute.
I love you. If the world is kind, maybe I'll see you again, somehow, somewhere. If not-- I loved you always.</span>
The call does not end, not immediately. The receiver is thrown, clatters against the tile. They scream distantly, pain, anger, something borne of grief unimaginable, something that wavers with the static and echoes in the cheap speakers. Tears tracks down her cheek. The message ends. The message asks to play again. Again. Again. Each and every haunting word, listened to ad nauseam until the sickness consumes her, and she must move on, lest the words wound her, lest the scream drive her to insanity. I loved you always, the resignation, I loved you always, the despondence, I loved you always. The emptiness. I loved you always.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 4>>The second message is from a lover.
The second message brings a hollowness to her thoughts. Regret. A bitterness that lodges in her throat and threatens to bring more tears, a pit of lead in her stomach, a noose around her neck. Regret, though it was nobody's fault, really. Time, distance, a thousand cracks spiderwebbed across the perfect surface, the clasped hand slowly slipping through hers until only the memory of fingertips remains. An indistinct haze, where once there was a person, where there should still be a person. Table set for two. Lingering duplicates, the indentation beside her in the bed.
She says this:
<span class = flashback>I'm probably the last person you want to hear from right now. I'm not going to beg us to get back together one last time, don't worry. I'm not that kind of person, and I don't think you're all too desperate either.</span>
She sighs.
<span class = flashback>God, I know it's stupid, to call up your ex-girlfriend as the world is about to end. There's a joke about stereotypes somewhere in this mess. You've probably turned off your phone, you probably won't even listen to this-- I know you well enough, still. But-- and I'm sorry for getting all sappy-- I wanted to say goodbye, I think. I wanted to thank you, I think. I know things didn't really end that well. You went your way, I went mine, and we both pretty much pretend this never happened. And it's cliché to say that I thought about you a lot-- that I still think about us, but there's really no point in lying. World's ending.</span>
A long pause. She expects tears, tears to match her own. And deep down, she knows that there will be none. She was always good about that, remaining levelheaded. Emotion was never a strong suit, for better or worse. Usually worse.
<span class = flashback>Thank you. For all the moments we had, the spontaneous trips and the nights in, the dinner nights where we made something that inevitably came out a little wrong and the improvised breakfast dates in our pajamas. Thank you for the things you taught me, I still use-- used, now I suppose-- your recipes and put my hair up in the way you showed me that one time before you cut it all off, the little trick to get windows open and how you used to cuff pants when they were too long for you. I see you in everything and everywhere, you've gone on, and sometimes-- more often than I think I could ever admit-- you're still here beside me.
You're a good woman. You made me a better woman. I don't believe in fate or coincidence or anything like that, you know that. And now is-- now is-- no time to start. But I think we met for a reason. I think we fell in love for a reason. I think we moved on for a reason. And I'm sorry I couldn't give you more, or be there when you needed it. And I'm sorry that this is truly how this ends, with a phone call at the end of the world.
That's closure, I suppose. I'll miss you. I'm so lucky to have known you.</span>
The message ends. She wishes she could be as emotionless, could have spoken with such clarity and brevity, in a tone that never wavered and yet betrayed the intentionality of each carefully chosen word. Like reading from an outline, something she knew was rehearsed, delivered as an orator would stand before a crowd. And yet-- pillow talk, a confession for a dimly-lit room, a final and beautiful thing. <i>No tears</i>; she used to say, would wipe her cheek with a thumb and kiss her forehead. No tears.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 5>>The third message is from family.
A sinking feeling, seeing that there was even a message sent. She listens to only the opening line; a voice so familiar it might as well be her own. Empty sentiment, words plucked from a cheap sympathy card, a script that lacked nuance and familiarity alike. The perpetual reminder as to why she blocked the number, anger rearing its head to combat disgust, to shove aside something that could have once been regret, something that lost potency with the distance she placed between them, with the passage of time. Blood means nothing, her surname a reminder, not a reassurance. Forgotten and foregone ties, the new life she had tried to make for herself and herself alone.
They're probably safe, somewhere out in the middle of nowhere, where the threat of the apocalypse came and went like the prediction of weather, something to play as background noise over the old TV, something to be ignored. Too far from the city to care much. Except their daughter lived in that spire-city-- and though they hadn't spoken in years, though their last conversation was filled with rage, with venom, with promises to leave and never return-- they still thought to call.
They called and left empty words.
Hollow sentimentality. Broken picture frames on the mantle, the same eyes staring blankly out of every photo in the yellowing albums. A mouthful of clumsy words, her mother's voice her own. Programmed. Dutiful. Piety to the decaying shrine of family.
<span class = flashback>We love you.</span>
She does not listen to the message again. Deletes it, for good measure. Chokes on a sob, returning the phone to its dock. Slumps against the cabinet and relishes the coolness of the floor. Waiting, head in hands, for the end.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|fmum 6][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>>Two minutes remain. Just two. Less, now. Less with every second she waits.
She has to say something.
What should a final text read? Should she call, instead? Could she even find the words, would her message mean anything past her lips, would raw emotion suffice to take the place of some false eloquence, would it even make a difference? Should she leave the messages alone-- better to die alone and quiet, without the burden of guilt or regret-- would she instead regret not saying anything at all? Should she forgo reaching out, should her final words be spoken aloud to herself, a final composition, a makeshift obituary or eulogy or suicide note? Should she pray? Is there a god who would listen? Is there anyone who would listen? Anyone at all?
<<nobr>><div class = choices>
<div class = choice-item> [[Speak.|fmum 7]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[Speak not.|fmum 7]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<set $gamechapter to "one minute until midnight">>Eleven hours and fifty-nine minutes have passed. There is no hope.
In their final minutes, the people have taken to the streets. They are doomed, they are doomed, they are doomed and they know this; there has been no communication, no reconciliation. The threats have been at long last realized, and they understand now that they are to be the sacrificial lamb, the price of a conflict fought over wasted resources and pointless pride. They are doomed and they have shattered law and curfew to flood each street, to occupy the city that will become their grave, a desire to meet death on their own terms, staring upwards to the empty sky. They occupy each street, collect in the parks and green spaces, far from the battlements that still roar in their futile defense against an equally helpless opponent, a bloody stalemate to be resolved with the singular act of destruction promised by the broadcast.
The city has come alive in its final minutes. Its citizens set the skies ringing with song, with cheers, with lamentation, cries of defiance, of acceptance, calls to get it over with, to break the siege, to set them free, to witness oblivion, to pass on at last, violently, beautifully. The city has come alive in its final minutes, the people drowning out the guns, reveling in their final breaths.
The city is alive, and fighting itself. Enforcement, poor imitations of the soldiers sent to die, goons and thugs playing at hero, cowards hiding behind black-carapace armor and shields. Turning against their fellows, just as doomed and yet marching against a backdrop of sirens and flashing lights.
<i>Disperse</i>, those uniformed call. <i>Go back to your homes. Leave this place. Be anywhere but here.</i> The crowd jeers in return, alive, alive at last, in their final moments, alive as the seconds tick away high above. Those uniformed move closer, shout over their bullhorns, threats of death, of the battlements being turned inwards, to clear the streets, to wipe out those who dare stand one final time in the face of the end. A collective anger, a crowd consensus, go down swinging, turning their fury towards the forces gathered against them as the seconds tick away.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>>One minute until midnight, and the man lies in the street. Amongst the first, the front lines, the very edge of the swirling maelstrom, amongst the first to fall. Struck down. He's probably dying.
He'd no intentions of fighting. Nobody did. He'd been lured to the streets by the commotion, a thousand voices becoming one, paths of unruly light, cries to join those reveling reaching the highest levels of the skyscrapers. Still dressed in work clothes; corporatism waits for no man, nor any apocalypse, dragged into the fray by many hands, passed from arm to arm, flotsam in the cascading flood making its way through the streets until they reached a vast intersection, a crossroads devoid of cars. And the crowd had stilled there, turned their faces towards the billboards, their neon advertisement replaced with a countdown. Five minutes. Four. He had stood and watched it, seconds passing into minutes lost, stood silently in a sea of noise, jostled by those who pass, those searching for familiar faces and voices in the crowd.
He'd no intentions of fighting. But when the enforcers had come, clad in their glittering black-carapace armor and armed-<i>armed</i>-- against the congregation of doomed souls, waiting only for the end, looking only for comfort, connection, reassurance, camaraderie-- he had linked arms with new friends and allies. One of the first and foremost, marching forward as the loudspeakers bark orders and threats, promised escalations of violence. Forward, bowing his head as the torrents from the cannons lashed his skin, tore at his clothes. Forward, though the rubberized bullets had cut and bruised him, brought him to his knees. Forward, lifted by brothers and sisters, arm in broken arm, a desperate sense of belonging with strangers on all sides and a countdown to oblivion overshadowing all. Final acts of fearless defiance, knowing all will cease to be.
The lines were broken, finally, by gunfire. The city turned on itself.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 3>>His hand had slipped through another's. The world was so far and yet too close, sirens and flashing lights and staccato bursts of muzzle flashes, the reports of rifles and shouted orders, screams, the collection and dispersion of the crowd, falling bodies, fallen bodies. Amongst them, him. His hand had slipped through another's, he had turn tail and run, pressing into the crowd, shouldered aside, falling, another faceless body trampled.
Somehow, he had crawled back to his feet, bloodied and breathless, dazed and searching for something to hold on to.
He's probably dying.
Somehow alone, staggering, a ghost adrift through the crowd. Finding a quiet place, somewhere to lie down, somewhere to rest his head. The ground is damp, still-hot asphalt covered in a sheet of what's probably water. Probably. He's probably dying. His hair sticks to his aching head, his shirt clings to his skin, and when he raises his hands to the light of the countdown on the far-away billboard, he cannot tell whether blood or water drips from his fingers.
One minute. Less. Less and less. It's quieter now, he notes. Forty. Dimmer now, the display fading, numbers blurring and refocusing. Thirty. The possibility crosses his mind, that he might not even be around long enough to see the countdown hit zero. To witness the end. Fifteen. It's hard to keep his eyes open.
Maybe it'd be better this way.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|fmum 8][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<set $gamechapter to "midnight">>Midnight.
Twelve hours have passed. There is no time.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>>The colonel cries. Most everyone does. The technicians have been dismissed, and still remain at their stations, bound by duty or curiosity or hopelessness. Some amongst them remain stoic, bite back their tears, attempt to comfort those who wear their emotions openly, fierce embraces, paired shadows in the darkness, their whispered reassurances deafening in the silence of the room.
The colonel kneels. As if in prayer. Some of the whispers are prayers. The colonel does not pray; and is yet prostrated before the doomsday console, staring up at the screen, ticking away the final seconds. The truth is this. Military targets are first, a measure of insurance, a way of preventing contingency plans-- there will be no second strike capability, this technology will be rendered useless, unrecoverable by future scavengers, future survivors, if there are any, if there can be any. The truth is this. The clock will hit zero, and this bunker will cease to exist.
The colonel will cease to exist.
The world will cease to exist.
The clock ticks down the final seconds. Five seconds. Four. Three. Two. One. Zero.
Far above, the earth rumbles. Thunder. Earthquake. The end. Someone screams.
The colonel closes his eyes.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 3>>The old soldier is interrupted by the sound of the call. A whistle, earsplitting, piercing. Chilling. They haul themselves to their feet, offer a hand to the conscript they sit beside.
"Is it time?" The new soldier asks.
"Yes. It's time to go."
"Are we coming with you?"
The old soldier nods, choking down the terror in their throat. Over the wall is a now active battlefield; hostile ground and sky, metal and death. And here, here lie the willing dead, the meager squad clinging to the side of the sandbag emplacement. The guns in the spire-city have started, tearing through the closest of the duty stations. The young soldiers look to them with wide eyes. Awaiting their baptism by fire, awaiting orders.
"We wait for the flare. That's our signal. All you're going to do is run. Run to the next emplacement, run towards the city. Just run. Someone else will give you orders if you make it to the next line."
"What about you?"
The old soldier smiles sadly. Truth, reminder; nobody has returned from a fourth assault.
Like the sunrise come too soon, a red flare rises in the east. The whistle sounds again. The old soldier raises their fist to the sky. The new soldiers spill over the top of the emplacement, a first and last charge. And the old soldier hesitates. The screaming has started, the response to the guns; bravery and valor and hopeless emotion and unimaginable suffering. Dirt flies over the top of the sandbag wall, the guns having found targets in the back waves. Having found the new soldiers.
The world is crimson. Harsh red, the flare still burning in the sky, stark shadows interrupted by the fire raining down from the walls of the spire-city. The old soldier stands alone, a conspicuous target amongst the thousands upon thousands of others who run, move like a tide, move like a single organism, a thing with a singular mind, a singular purpose, forward, forward, forward until they are felled or find haven, until the orders ring out again, and again the creature rises to dash itself against the walls of the city.
The old soldier does not run. Does not join the flood. A slow advance, a determined one, staring upwards, to where the tip of the spire breaks the clouds, to where the clouds themself break again, the sky rent open by a brilliant flash of light, by the ignition of the air, by sunrise come too soon.
A tear rolls down the old soldier's cheek.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 4>>The flare rises in the east. It is answered by the deadly luminescence of the spire-city. A thousand blazing emplacements, training their terrible gazes at the seas below, the roar of crashing waves of dead soldiers and the thunder of their war machines. An enormity of sound that does not reach the ears of the dead soldier perched on the battlements. They wait. A second longer, a second longer, the tips of their boots already hanging over oblivion, their weight shifting with the outstretching of their arms; the subconscious allure of falling, of their fate being certain, merciful, their fate being one decided and defined in their own right.
There is no guarantee.
They have fallen once already, with the wind tugging at their clothes and whispering sweet nothings into their ear, carrying them off to rest upon an impact they never felt. They have fallen once already, unwillingly returned, a mournful ghost amongst the ranks of the dead.
There is no guarantee.
The dead soldier looks to the skies. To where the stars are fading, fading fast with a lightness that comes from above, the air growing hot, like the rising of the sun in the morning, the realized wrath of the vast emptiness of desert sands.
And the dead soldier knows then, that they will die. A choice, the first, the last, the only, with the wind whispering a frantic reminder of what they were doing, a plea to seize their own fate, for the first time, for the last time. The rebuttal from the skies, growing ever more scorching: this won't matter, nothing will matter, nothing has ever mattered. A mockery of the wind, of the brave, foolish, human notion that it matters, the manner of one's death.
With wings outstretched, Icarus leaps.
The sun itself reaches out to brush against the feathers. To cradle the falling soldier as they plummet, slipping through the fingers of the lamenting winds, who cannot carry the voices of the dead and expect to speak anything but sorrow. Final words, apologies and prayers and murmuration of awe and fear and a single common thread, desolation.
And silence.
Complete and utter silence. The dead soldier is somewhere amongst the silence. Broken wings. Charred, sun-touched skin. Ash carried away by the wind.
The stars have all but gone, have fallen from the sky and razed the earth and left nothing but silence.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 5>>It's over. Or, rather, it will all be over soon. She knows this, she stole a glance at the countdown outside. A minute. Less. It'll all be over, and there's nothing she can do, nothing but accept it, painful as it may be.
Nothing she says will matter.
Nothing she does will matter.
And so, she lies on the floor, staring numbly at the ceiling. Considers, for a single second, a second wasted with indecision, picking herself up, summoning courage as she rises, enough to lift the receiver, enough to key in a number, enough to call back. To say something, say anything at all. To leave a message that will have nobody to receive it, nobody left to hear it.
And, despite her best efforts, she cannot rise. This, then, will be her fate.
She says this:
<span class = flashback>I am not afraid. The world is ending, and I don't think I'm scared. I have lived for this long, I have survived sieges and embargos, I have found friendships that led me to starry nights above the clouds, I have loved with reckless abandon and left my imprint on the world, I have become something far greater than the circumstances of my birth. I have lived for this long, and there is so much I would like to see. There is so much I would like to do.</span>
She pauses. Remembers the face of her friend and their laughter. Remembers her lover's words-- <i>don't cry</i>-- wipes the tears from her own cheek.
<span class = flashback>But this is how it ends. I'll be okay. I'll see my friends again, I'll find love again, maybe I'll even have a family, someday. I'll be okay. It'll all be okay.</span>
She whispers as the sun rises outside the window. At long last, the story coming to a close, time enough for final words.
<span class = flashback>I'll be okay. It'll be okay. It'll be okay.</span>
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 6>>The dying man closes his eyes. A long blink, he tells himself. Just resting his eyes, he tells himself. Like trying not to fall asleep again in the morning. Something mundane like that. Not like dying, no, he's not dying, not here, not like this, not yet.
The countdown-billboards still burn somewhere distant, their brilliance persisting even through closed eyelids. Seconds left. The dying man opens his eyes. One last time.
<i>Five.</i> He takes a deep breath, deep as he can manage. Coughs, something wet and terrible on his tongue and lips, a sharpness that wasn't there before, lodged somewhere deep between his ribs. The end is nigh. <i>Four.</i> Numb, a strangeness; can't feel his legs anymore. Can't sit up. Can barely raise his arms. The end is nigh. <i>Three.</i> It's all so far away. It's all so far away and he's scared. The end is nigh. <i>Two.</i> There is a rumble. From the earth, from the sky. The air grows hot. The end is nigh. <i>One.</i>
There is a light. A sunrise. He cannot raise a hand to block the light. The dying man closes his eyes.
Zero.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 7>><<set $gamechapter to "one minute past midnight">>
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 8>><<set $gamechapter to "two minutes past midnight">>
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Return.|errfreqmenu][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<set $gamechapter to "dead gods">><<type 15ms skipkey " ">><span class =redtext>49 20 4d 45 54 20 41 20 54 52 41 56 45 4c 45 52 20 46 52 4f 4d 20 41 4e 20 41 4e 54 49 51 55 45 20 4c 41 4e 44 20 57 48 4f 20 53 41 49 44 3a 0d 0a 54 57 4f 20 56 41 53 54 20 41 4e 44 20 54 52 55 4e 4b 4c 45 53 53 20 4c 45 47 53 20 4f 46 20 53 54 4f 4e 45 20 53 54 41 4e 44 20 49 4e 20 54 48 45 20 44 45 53 45 52 54 2e 0d 0a 4e 45 41 52 20 54 48 45 4d 20 4f 4e 20 54 48 45 20 53 41 4e 44 2c 20 48 41 4c 46 20 53 55 4e 4b 2c 20 41 20 53 48 41 54 54 45 52 45 44 20 56 49 53 41 47 45 20 4c 49 45 53 2c 20 0d 0a 57 48 4f 53 45 20 46 52 4f 57 4e 20 41 4e 44 20 57 52 49 4e 4b 4c 45 44 20 4c 49 50 20 41 4e 44 20 53 4e 45 45 52 20 4f 46 20 43 4f 4c 44 20 43 4f 4d 4d 41 4e 44 0d 0a 54 45 4c 4c 20 54 48 41 54 20 49 54 53 20 53 43 55 4c 50 54 4f 52 20 57 45 4c 4c 20 54 48 4f 53 45 20 50 41 53 53 49 4f 4e 53 20 52 45 41 44 0d 0a 57 48 49 43 48 20 59 45 54 20 53 55 52 56 49 56 45 2c 20 53 54 41 4d 50 45 44 20 4f 4e 20 54 48 45 53 45 20 4c 49 46 45 4c 45 53 53 20 54 48 49 4e 47 53 0d 0a 54 48 45 20 48 41 4e 44 20 54 48 41 54 20 4d 4f 43 4b 45 44 20 54 48 45 4d 20 41 4e 44 20 54 48 45 20 48 45 41 52 54 20 54 48 41 54 20 46 45 44 2e 0d 0a 41 4e 44 20 4f 4e 20 54 48 45 20 50 45 44 45 53 54 41 4c 20 54 48 45 53 45 20 57 4f 52 44 53 20 41 50 50 45 41 52 3a 0d 0a 4d 59 20 4e 41 4d 45 20 49 53 20 4f 5a 59 4d 41 4e 44 49 41 53 2c 20 4b 49 4e 47 20 4f 46 20 4b 49 4e 47 53 0d 0a 4c 4f 4f 4b 20 55 50 4f 4e 20 4d 59 20 57 4f 52 4b 53 2c 20 59 45 20 4d 49 47 48 54 59 2c 20 41 4e 44 20 44 45 53 50 41 49 52 2e 0d 0a 4e 4f 54 48 49 4e 47 20 42 45 53 49 44 45 20 52 45 4d 41 49 4e 53 20 0d 0a 52 4f 55 4e 44 20 54 48 45 20 44 45 43 41 59 20 4f 46 20 54 48 41 54 20 43 4f 4c 4f 53 53 41 4c 20 57 52 45 43 4b 2c 20 42 4f 55 4e 44 4c 45 53 53 20 41 4e 44 20 42 41 52 45 2c 20 0d 0a 54 48 45 20 4c 4f 4e 45 20 41 4e 44 20 4c 45 56 45 4c 20 53 41 4e 44 53 20 53 54 52 45 54 43 48 20 46 41 52 20 41 57 41 59 2e
</span><</type>><<nobr>><<cont append>><<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[50 72 6f 63 65 65 64 2e|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</cont>><</nobr>><<case 2>><span class = ghost>"Do you love me?"</span> They had asked, sprawled across the tent floor.
<span class = ghost>"As the sun loves the moon,"</span> they had replied. <span class = ghost>"As the sea loves the shores."</span>
<span class = ghost>"Is it enough?"</span> They had replied, the taste of the traveler still on their lips.
<span class = ghost>"No."</span> Another kiss. Another. Breath taut on their tongue.
<span class = ghost>"Never?"
"Never."</span><<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 3>>There was a storm that morning. The sun refused to break the clouds, stained them poison green instead. There was a storm that morning; lightning shattered across the sky and made the earth taste of ozone and electricity. Rain fell like tears, molten, toxic, hateful. They buried them that evening.<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 4>>Traveler, poor loathsome traveler. Lost and found, a wayfaring stranger bound to their companion, a traveler just the same. Names forgotten, names unneeded.
Nameless. Blameless.
In a murder of crows, a congregation of vultures, they find themself with clean hands. They are not a murderer. It was not a life they took. This new world has changed many things; they have seen death for the first time, have smelt it, have felt it under their fingernails and between their teeth. Closer, more intimate than the news camera, more immediate than the pooling gore at the bottom of the foxhole dug into some half-abandoned Great Plains battlefield. The war did not break them. This new world has not broken them. Not yet. They still have some semblance of purpose, remembering their childhood dream between night terrors.
All they ever wanted was to see the world. That was all. That was all they ever wanted.
First, in the throes of youthful arrogance, they sought everything beautiful, everything they could possibly grasp in grubby fists. They sobered with age, with the way the world forced itself upon them, rifle in hands, blood in mouth. Their world shrunk with the campaigning of armies, with the way war machines tore at their beloved earth. As the polar ice melted, as economies and governments crumbled into the rising sea, as pandemic left the world that much more feverish. As humans, in their desperate attempts to preserve and conquer the world, left it that much less beautiful.
When they were shipped home from some not-so-distant battlefield, they thought there would be nothing left to see. Nothing left to see, nothing they want to see; they had seen too much, they would sooner claw their eyes from their sockets than be forced to gaze upon the ruined earth once more. Nothing worth seeing. They'd be lucky to leave their state. They'd be lucky to leave their city. Their neighborhood. Their house. Their bed.
Their world was four walls on a bad day. Four walls and the person they shared them with on a good day. The only good thing they ever had, the person they told their dreams and fears to, the person they found at the bottom of that foxhole, the person who never left their side.
Blameless. In a congregation of vultures, a swarm of flies gathered over carrion, they find themself with clean hands. They are not a murderer; it was mercy, it was divine, it was an act of God. This new world has changed many things. They pray, no more death. No more war. No more storm clouds, gathering on the horizon. This new world has changed many things. There is no answer. There never was one to begin with.
All they ever wanted was to see the world. Tears clouded their eyes like the green-stained thunderheads. That was all. That was all they ever wanted.<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 5>><span class = ghost>"Do you love me?"</span> They asked from the bed, staring up at the ceiling, cracked. Rotting. Falling apart. Breathing with the wind.
There is no answer. There never was one to begin with.<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 6>>They call the lands south of Colorado and west of Texas the Dead Lands. They -- meaning not the traveler, the traveler has no name for the Dead Lands, nor will they ever. The land did not earn the name needlessly; there was some accident, some mutagenic agent released, nuclear or biological or chemical. Nothing survived. Nothing can survive.
Five years after the Corporation acknowledged the nuclear poisoning of the land, they did something about it. Something being nothing; a thick concrete cap to seal the poisoned soil in was proposed but never constructed. The Corporation and Union were content to mark the edges with chain-link fences that rotted from the soil up, and leave it to its desolation. To warn and caution those who near with horror stories and doctored images and dense medical documentation of the dangers of this new and horrible land. But curiosity is the curse of humanity; it polluted Eve and thus formed the root of all suffering, it promises with beckoning fingers and dulcet tones that the answers you desire are but a single leap of faith away. Seeking Eden, people traversed the Dead Lands willingly. They settled in the contaminated zone, built towns and churches. They sought the heart of darkness, descending into the mines and missile silos to find faith, a guiding light.
Fifty years later, when it was evident that the non-solution of social deterrence had failed, the Thorns were planted.
They are a wonderous thing, these Thorns. Living steel. Self-replicating nuclear deterrence architecture. New and glorious idols for worship. The soil hums where they have been planted -- the seekers harmonize with closed eyes and lengths of tungsten, feeling for the seed in the reverberations. A dangerous thing; each seeker needs to be light on the feet and fast; they walk a minefield primed for detonation. The metal is a wonderous thing, well worth the risk. Scientifically, the seeds respond to radiation with a chemical reaction -- one that causes rapid replication and reshaping of metalloid alloys. The seekers hold in their blackening fingertips control rods from now-ancient reactors. To walk the Thorn fields is like playing Russian roulette with all the chambers loaded.
There are no gods in the Dead Lands. The seekers pray to the soil, the zealots to the Thorns, the common pilgrim to anything that might listen. <<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 7>>There are no gods in the Dead Lands. None survive.<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 8>><span class = ghost>"Do you love me?"</span> They screamed at the sky.
There is no answer. How could there be? There was never one to begin with.
They have killed their gods. They -- meaning not the traveler, the traveler still thinks themself innocent. They, being the heartless Corporation and to a lesser degree the blind Union, they are the ones responsible. They dropped telephone-pole sized rods of tungsten and graphite on every population center. Everywhere that could fight or scream or bleed.
They are not a murderer. In a swarm of flies gathered over carrion, the maggots burrowed into the rancid flesh, they find themself with clean hands. They are not a murderer; they were once a soldier but a soldier and a murderer are two different things, they tell themself. It was not lives they took, the enemy were the enemy and nothing more, neither human nor even living. They wept for the corpses left in the fields. They wept for the corpses to come. They prayed for forgiveness, for their conviction to be true. This is their god, conviction. They have not killed it yet.
<span class = ghost>"Where will we go?"</span> They asked the warmth pressed into the space where neck meets shoulder.
<span class = ghost>"Far enough,"</span> they responded. <span class = ghost>"You wanted to see the world, remember?"</span>
<span class = ghost>"What of the world is left to see?"</span> They inquired mournfully. <span class = ghost>"We have killed it."</span>
<span class = ghost>"Perhaps we have,"</span> they whispered, their lips brushing pulse. <span class = ghost>"Perhaps it left a beautiful corpse."</span>
<span class = ghost>"And what if we find only desolation?"</span> They ignored the insistence of teeth at their throat. <span class = ghost>"What if there is nothing out there but death?"
"Then I would ask only to die in your arms."</span><<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 9>>They left at dawn, three days after the world had ended. Walked a fortnight with a heavy pack on their back, the aching first a comfort, then a burden. They had turned over their questions in their hand like a stone; if it were material, they would have worn it smooth under nervous fingers. They had not spoken them aloud again, they couldn't bear to. Could neither stomach nor fathom an answer. What would they say? What <i>could</i> they? And so it ate them alive, leeched away until the gilded layer had dissipated and left stark lead underneath. Heavy, toxic lead, sinking and sinking.
A fortnight they had walked with heavy pack upon their shoulders. The land turned slowly. Golden wheatfields left to spoil in the late summer sun to empty, barren land lacking color and life. Land that bore only dust. They were alone, two travelers neither human nor even living, dust amongst dust. The wind carried them further, borne aloft on gusts that reeked of death, tasted like bitter bile, empty-stomach vomit, guilt. The sky grew dense with ash, suffocating, strangulation like a hand wrapped around throat. Like murder.
They are not a murderer. It was not a life they took. It was mercy. It was holy devotion. It was conviction. The angel with a dirty face looks back over the shoulder of the cloak they split for the aching buds of growing wings, their pack long abandoned, borne upon the shoulders of the traveler. They look back and it is mercy in the softness of their brow. They offer an alabaster hand made rough with calluses. It was mercy. They are not a murderer.
They wept in the dark, cocooned in the angel's grasp. Praying for metamorphosis, for divinity, for mercy, cloaked in their wings, held away from the world. The stars strangled by the ashen skies, the only light that of their haloed brow. They wept in the light, sleepless as though the sun itself shone in their eyes.
A fortnight they had walked with heavy packs upon their shoulders. Their body grew tired, spirit worn through like the holes accumulating in their clothing. They learnt a new hunger, something more than company, something more than their dwindling supplies. They learnt a new hunger; a murder of crows, congregation of vultures, swarm of flies, maggots in the flesh, their own flesh, carrion. The corpse of the world gnawed to the bone, the marrow spoiled. The dust-choked land stretched on, the dust-choked travelers learning well its body.
<span class = ghost>"Where are we going?"</span> They pleaded weakly, clung to their chest. <span class = ghost>"Please, tell me. Tell me that there is a destination. That there is a purpose."</span>
<span class = ghost>"Is this not what you wanted?"</span> They accused. <span class = ghost>"I am showing you the world. This is what is left."</span>
<span class = ghost>"Do you love me?"</span> They blurted.
There is no answer.<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|dg 1][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>>Things that enter the Dead Lands are changed. The most fundamental of these changes is termination. To put it simply -- a living thing enters the Dead Lands and dies. Total cessation of life functions. Irreversible, inevitable death.
Nature is a god that does not die. It grows and changes, reduces in size, experiences fluctuations in population and viability. Even when it is reduced to nothing, ashes and cinders, bare rock -- something yet survives. Lichens colonize stone, work with the abiotic forces of the weather to create soil, to build a new community, a new environment for the enterprising and hardy species of plant that find themselves pioneering amongst the naked outcroppings. This process can take years. Decades. Centuries. Millennia. But the land is always reborn, eventually.
The Dead Lands, perhaps a little ironically, are not devoid of life. Plants still take root in the thin soil, animals still traverse their native ranges, unknowing of the disaster and subsequent contamination. They subject themselves in fractured populations to the whims of genetic flow.
Evolution does not happen within one individual, perhaps the most misunderstood concept in the common understanding of genetics. Mutations -- either spontaneous errors arising in the duplication stage of cellular reproduction, or induced by the presence of a mutagenic factor -- accumulate in individuals, and if -- and only if -- they are beneficial and heritable, they are passed down to the next generation of individuals. And then, if the mutation is still beneficial and heritable -- increasing longevity or reproductive success -- it is passed down another generation. Again and again, this process continues, genetic drift slowly influencing populations until they do not in the slightest resemble either the population they descended from or the populations that exist outside of the isolation of the Dead Lands.
The land itself is a kind of graveyard. Like whalefall, the corpse of the Old World come crashing down to be consumed by things that once existed out of sight and mind, things that came to be because of the presence of these nutrient rich gifts. Evolution accelerated, the pace of existence hastened, hurried by opportunity. Humans -- people -- became scavengers. No longer the masters of a world they barely understood, reduced to shadows traversing gloom-stricken ruins.
Some humans changed. Their bodies were more receptive to developing beneficial mutations, or they already carried these latent genetic gifts -- and they were capable and able and willing to pass the mutation-gift along to the next generation. By the time of the end of the world, four generations had been born of these changed humans.
They sent no missionaries, they made no attempts at conversion. They did not want all to change, understanding this gift was theirs and theirs alone. The only newcomers were those who set off on pilgrimages into the Dead Lands, suicide or a test of faith or both. Most did not last long. Most added to the graveyard, were consumed by the land. Those who made it, who were found, who were rescued and adopted, assimilated, became strangers in a strange land, outsiders amongst outsiders. Those who made it were those who could change, adapt. Those who made it were changed irreversibly. <<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 2>>They had walked for so long that nothing else seemed to exist. The sun would rise, they would crawl from the tent and pack it, they would walk. The land of ash had become a land of sand, shifting in dunes that grew to consume all that was here before. The grit found its way into everything, every fold of clothing, inch of exposed skin, every pore. It permeated their very being; from dust they were created and to dust they will return. Sooner, rather than later. They are not a murderer. Not yet.
The dunes had risen mountainous to blot out the sky. They had half-digested a city, left the ruins of fallen buildings to be eroded by sun and wind, the corpse of some strange once-slumbering giant, slain and forgotten. The carrion did not feed a community of scavengers; it was a warning like those found outside the Dead Lands, stray no further, this is no place of honor, there is nothing of value or importance here. It was empty, save for the travelers. It was silent, save for what remained of their voices, and the whispers of the wind, greeting them. They crossed the broad sternum highway, descended the twist of rib side street, found their way onto the flat empty lot of shoulder blade, settled along the jutting processes of a spine, made their encampment where once spinal cord crawled between vertebrae. All was still. All was quiet. It was a strange thing, the world tinted in tones of sepia, the sun obscured by the rising sand and dust that heralded their arrival.
It was a strange thing. Too quiet. Too still.
They had departed from the tent, left their love behind with the assurance that they would return. They had no plans as such. The dunes beckoned, each cracked line of the road seemed to promise something unknowable. <i>Follow me,</i> they said. <i>The storm will not hurt you.</i> And it was then that a slow, warm wind at their back turned their gaze. Over their shoulder, the haze thickened into thunderous shadow, a towering wall of darkness that crackled in staticky rage, briefly luminescent with charged particles erupting into lightning. Promises forgotten in the lashing gusts of shattered glass, suffocating and lacerating both. They ran. Ran as fast as their legs could carry them, back to the tent, back to what they had left behind.
They crashed into the tent with as much force as the storm did, moments later.
Found there with open arms, their love. Their conviction. Prayer, prostrated upon their knees, a deluge of language begging any and every god, dead and living, for a life they had thought to end before this divine intervention. Intonations of prayer met with substance, their arms wrapped around the backs of the angel's thighs, staring up as they tangled their fingers in their hair, an unknowable look upon their dirty face. This, their god. Flesh and desperation and conviction. Angel's wings, wrapped around the frailty of their love.
<span class = ghost>"Follow me,"</span> they implored. <span class = ghost>"The storm will not hurt us."</span>
They had screamed in response.<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 3>>Oh, traveler. Poor, loathsome traveler. Lost and found, a wayfaring stranger bound to their companion, a traveler just the same. And travelers no longer. They stood rooted in the storm, knowing then that they could never leave; they would never want to. But they were right. They were right, and the storm was beautiful. Together, hand in dirty hand, unscathed as the world tore itself apart before them. The twist of organs as they are torn from the bloated-body carrion to be unmade, the knit-pressed edge of stitches in skin as it is remade, clasped hands and the parting of lips; emergent light and oppressive shadow as the maelstrom made and unmade as only a god could. Visions of the city at full resplendence followed by the revelation of the storm-swept corpse. Fingers trailed through the wind, the settling of particulate matter gently upon their hand, dust that glittered like shards of a shattered mirror. A choice offered, to make or unmake. A choice made. All was luminous, despite the clouds as dark as sunbaked asphalt or blood under midnight skies. All was luminous, the dipping of their haloed brow as they stooped to embrace them.
Oh, poor loathsome traveler. Not-yet murderer, spitting image to some god of death, a false prophet defiant of nature. They were right, and the storm was beautiful, beyond belief. Beyond conviction. And so this becomes a new, learned nature, their skin bioluminescent, lightning trapped beneath wind-worn flesh. This becomes a new, learned hunger; a murder of crows, congregation of vultures, swarm of flies, maggots in the flesh, their own flesh, carrion. The corpse of the world gnawed to the bone, the marrow spoiled. The corpse theirs for the taking, a body learned well, a body taken with new eagerness, with new hunger. Hatred or love overcome by <i>want</i>. Parted lips like wounds.
<span class = ghost>"Do you love me?"</span> They had asked, sprawled across the tent floor.
<span class = ghost>"As the sun loves the moon,"</span> they had replied. <span class = ghost>"As the sea loves the shores."</span>
<span class = ghost>"Is it enough?"</span> They had replied, the taste of the traveler still on their lips.
<span class = ghost>"No."</span> Another kiss. Another. Breath taut on their tongue.
<span class = ghost>"Never?"</span> They traced their fingers down their back, feeling for where the wings melded into the wind-scarred shoulder blades.
<span class = ghost>"Never,"</span> they said, feeling the lines of their throat grow tight under their hands. The world held its breath. <span class = ghost>"Nothing is ever <i>enough</i>."</span>
<span class = ghost>"I could give you the world,"</span> they promised with a hoarse laugh, extending an arm and shifting their hips, pulling at the unwilling traveler. <span class = ghost>"Would that be enough?"</span>
<span class = ghost>"I could kill you,"</span> they promised in kind, tightening their grasp. <span class = ghost>"Would that be enough?"</span>
<span class = ghost>"Yes,"</span> they whispered, their lips turning blue, face reddening. <span class = ghost>"Yes, it would be."</span> There were tears in their eyes. There was desperation in their voice. <span class = ghost>"Could you really kill me? Could you live with the blood on your hands?"</span>
<span class = ghost>"I am hoping. I will pray to a dead god if I must."</span><<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><<case 4>>There was a storm that morning. The sun refused to break the clouds, stained them poison green instead. There was a storm that morning, lightning shattered across the sky and made the earth taste of ozone and electricity. Rain fell like tears, molten, toxic, hateful. They buried what was left of them that evening.
In a murder of crows, a congregation of vultures, they find themself with a dirtied mouth. They are not a murderer. It was not a life they took. They repeat this conviction until they are red in the face, their lips turning blue. They believe it no more than in the first utterance, hands still tight around their throat. This new world has changed many things; they have seen death for the first time, have smelt it, have felt it under their fingernails and between their teeth. Closer, more intimate as they straddled them, pinned them with their weight and false pretenses, more immediate than the fervor with which they worked so that the meat would not have a chance to spoil, rich entrails and tender flesh. It was a holy thing; blood and body and devotion, devotion unimaginable, enough to overcome the unthinkable. Enough to unmake them, a final grace of wanting, lips and teeth upon the pallor of their skin.
They are not a murderer. It was not a life they took. This new world has changed many things -- and yet, some things cannot be changed; the angel with a bloody face walks beside them still, leaving no footprints in the endless dunes.
<span class = ghost>"Were your prayers answered?"</span> They ask. <span class = ghost>"Do you love me?"</span>
The traveler turns to them, lowers their hood to reveal the alabaster skin stained with bruises. They have long forgotten the way their skin felt. The way it tasted.
<span class = ghost>"No,"</span> they whisper, their lips cracked over with dried blood. <span class = ghost>"Not enough."</span>
<span class = ghost>"Why?"</span> They implore, voice choked. <span class = ghost>"Is this world of ours not enough? Have you seen enough?"</span>
<span class = ghost>"Yes,"</span> they reply. There are tears in their eyes. <span class = ghost>"There is nothing left in this world."</span>
<span class = ghost>"Nothing but me,"</span> they correct with a smile, the same smile they wore through every kiss, save for the last.
<span class = ghost>"Nothing but us,"</span> the traveler murmurs into the empty night, hoping someone, anyone will hear.<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Return.|errfreqmenu][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</switch>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<type 15ms skipkey " ">><span class =redtext>49 20 63 61 6c 6c 20 75 70 6f 6e 20 79 6f 75 2c 20 77 69 6e 64 20 69 6e 20 74 68 65 20 77 69 72 65 73 2c 20 62 65 61 72 20 6d 79 20 6d 65 73 73 61 67 65 2e 20 54 68 65 72 65 20 69 73 20 6c 69 66 65 20 6c 65 66 74 20 69 6e 20 74 68 65 73 65 20 6c 61 6e 64 73 2e 20 54 68 65 72 65 20 61 72 65 20 70 6f 65 74 73 20 77 68 6f 20 73 70 65 61 6b 20 73 74 69 6c 6c 20 77 69 74 68 20 74 68 65 69 72 20 73 69 6c 76 65 72 65 64 20 77 6f 72 64 73 2e 20 54 68 65 72 65 20 69 73 20 68 6f 70 65 2c 20 74 6f 20 62 65 20 62 6f 72 6e 20 77 69 74 68 20 74 68 65 20 73 70 72 6f 75 74 69 6e 67 20 6f 66 20 73 65 65 64 73 2c 20 77 69 74 68 20 74 68 65 20 6a 6f 69 6e 69 6e 67 20 6f 66 20 68 61 6e 64 73 2e
49 20 61 6d 20 6f 6e 65 20 6f 66 20 74 68 65 6d 2e 20 50 6f 65 74 2c 20 73 65 65 64 2c 20 6f 75 74 73 74 72 65 74 63 68 65 64 20 68 61 6e 64 2e
49 20 64 6f 20 6e 6f 74 20 77 69 73 68 20 74 6f 20 62 65 20 61 6c 6f 6e 65 20 61 6e 79 20 6c 6f 6e 67 65 72 2e
4c 6f 76 65 2c 20 63 61 72 72 79 20 6d 79 20 77 6f 72 64 73 2c 20 61 73 20 66 61 72 20 61 73 20 74 68 69 73 20 6c 6f 6e 65 6c 79 20 74 6f 77 65 72 20 63 61 73 74 73 20 69 74 73 20 72 65 61 63 68 2e
4c 65 74 20 65 61 63 68 20 6c 69 6e 65 20 62 65 20 61 20 72 65 6d 69 6e 64 65 72 2c 20 74 68 65 72 65 20 61 72 65 20 62 65 61 75 74 69 66 75 6c 20 74 68 69 6e 67 73 20 6c 65 66 74 2e
0d 0a</span><</type>><<nobr>><<cont append>><<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[50 72 6f 63 65 65 64 2e|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</cont>><</nobr>><<case 2>><<type 15ms skipkey " ">><span class = bluetext>4f 75 74 73 69 64 65 72 2c 20 62 65 20 77 61 72 6e 65 64 2e 20 54 68 65 72 65 20 61 72 65 20 73 74 69 6c 6c 20 70 65 6f 70 6c 65 20 77 68 6f 20 75 73 65 20 74 68 65 73 65 20 6c 69 6e 65 73 2e 20 59 6f 75 20 68 61 76 65 20 73 74 75 6d 62 6c 65 64 20 61 63 72 6f 73 73 20 73 6f 6d 65 74 68 69 6e 67 20 74 68 61 74 20 79 6f 75 20 64 6f 20 6e 6f 74 20 66 75 6c 6c 79 20 75 6e 64 65 72 73 74 61 6e 64 20 79 65 74 2d 20 61 6e 64 20 49 27 6d 20 61 66 72 61 69 64 20 79 6f 75 27 72 65 20 70 75 74 74 69 6e 67 20 79 6f 75 72 73 65 6c 66 20 69 6e 20 64 61 6e 67 65 72 2e
54 68 65 73 65 20 6c 69 6e 65 73 20 61 72 65 20 6e 6f 74 20 73 61 66 65 2e 20 4e 6f 74 20 73 65 63 75 72 65 2e 20 54 68 65 79 20 61 72 65 20 6b 65 70 74 20 63 6c 65 61 72 20 74 6f 20 72 65 6c 61 79 20 69 6d 70 6f 72 74 61 6e 74 20 69 6e 66 6f 72 6d 61 74 69 6f 6e 2c 20 74 68 65 79 20 77 65 72 65 20 75 73 65 64 20 6f 6e 63 65 20 74 6f 20 63 6f 6d 6d 75 6e 69 63 61 74 65 20 64 6f 6f 6d 73 64 61 79 2e 20 54 68 69 73 20 69 73 20 6e 6f 74 20 74 68 65 20 70 6c 61 63 65 20 66 6f 72 20 74 68 65 20 68 6f 70 65 6c 65 73 73 20 66 6f 6f 6c 27 73 20 6c 6f 76 65 20 70 6f 65 74 72 79 2e
59 6f 75 27 6c 6c 20 62 72 69 6e 67 20 64 65 61 74 68 20 74 6f 20 79 6f 75 72 20 64 6f 6f 72 73 74 65 70 2c 20 70 6f 65 74 2e
46 6f 72 20 79 6f 75 72 20 73 61 66 65 74 79 2d 20 70 6c 65 61 73 65 20 64 69 73 63 6f 6e 74 69 6e 75 65 20 75 73 65 20 6f 66 20 79 6f 75 72 20 74 72 61 6e 73 6d 69 73 73 69 6f 6e 20 65 71 75 69 70 6d 65 6e 74 2e
0d 0a</span><</type>><<nobr>><<cont append>><<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[50 72 6f 63 65 65 64 2e|00 afotl start][$PassageNo = 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</cont>><</nobr>><</switch>><<set $gamechapter to "...">><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<type 15ms skipkey " ">><span class = redtext>49 20 68 61 76 65 20 6c 65 61 72 6e 65 64 2c 20 69 6e 20 61 6c 6c 20 74 68 65 20 79 65 61 72 73 20 49 20 68 61 76 65 20 77 61 6c 6b 65 64 20 74 68 69 73 20 45 61 72 74 68 2c 20 62 65 66 6f 72 65 20 61 6e 64 20 61 66 74 65 72 20 69 74 73 20 73 63 6f 72 63 68 69 6e 67 2c 20 74 68 61 74 20 74 68 65 72 65 20 69 73 20 74 72 75 6c 79 20 6e 6f 74 68 69 6e 67 20 74 6f 20 66 65 61 72 2e
4e 61 74 75 72 65 20 64 6f 65 73 20 6e 6f 74 20 62 65 6e 64 20 69 74 73 20 6b 6e 65 65 2e 20 49 74 20 63 61 6e 6e 6f 74 20 62 65 20 63 6f 6e 74 72 6f 6c 6c 65 64 2c 20 61 6e 64 20 74 68 75 73 20 63 61 6e 6e 6f 74 20 62 65 20 66 65 61 72 65 64 2e 20 53 75 63 68 20 77 65 72 65 20 74 68 65 20 73 69 6e 73 20 6f 66 20 6f 75 72 20 66 6f 72 65 66 61 74 68 65 72 73 2c 20 65 61 63 68 20 6d 61 6e 20 74 68 69 6e 6b 69 6e 67 20 68 65 20 77 6f 75 6c 64 20 62 65 20 74 68 65 20 66 69 72 73 74 20 74 6f 20 6d 61 73 74 65 72 20 74 68 65 20 66 6f 72 63 65 73 20 6f 66 20 6f 75 72 20 77 6f 72 6c 64 2e
4d 61 6e 20 68 61 73 20 74 72 69 65 64 20 74 6f 20 73 74 6f 6f 70 20 61 6e 64 20 73 69 6c 65 6e 63 65 20 6d 65 2c 20 74 69 6d 65 20 61 6e 64 20 74 69 6d 65 20 61 67 61 69 6e 2e 20 49 20 63 61 6e 6e 6f 74 20 62 65 20 63 6f 6e 74 72 6f 6c 6c 65 64 2c 20 61 6e 64 20 74 68 75 73 2c 20 49 20 61 6d 20 6e 61 74 75 72 65 2e 20 49 20 77 69 6c 6c 20 6e 6f 74 20 62 65 20 73 69 6c 65 6e 74 2e 20 49 20 61 6d 20 74 68 65 20 74 68 75 6e 64 65 72 73 74 6f 72 6d 20 61 6e 64 20 74 68 65 20 77 69 6e 64 2c 20 74 68 65 20 72 61 69 6e 20 61 6e 64 20 74 68 65 20 66 6c 6f 6f 64 73 2e
49 20 61 6d 20 61 73 20 66 72 65 65 20 61 73 20 74 68 65 20 62 69 72 64 73 2c 20 49 20 73 6f 61 72 2c 20 65 6c 61 74 65 64 20 74 6f 20 68 65 61 72 20 61 6e 6f 74 68 65 72 27 73 20 76 6f 69 63 65 2e 20 41 6e 64 20 74 68 6f 75 67 68 20 79 6f 75 20 6f 66 66 65 72 20 63 61 75 74 69 6f 6e 2c 20 49 20 6d 75 73 74 20 72 65 66 75 73 65 2e
49 20 63 61 6c 6c 20 75 70 6f 6e 20 79 6f 75 2c 20 77 68 69 73 70 65 72 20 69 6e 20 74 68 65 20 77 69 72 65 73 2e 20 53 70 65 61 6b 20 66 72 65 65 6c 79 2c 20 77 69 74 68 6f 75 74 20 66 65 61 72 2e 20 52 61 69 73 65 20 79 6f 75 72 20 76 6f 69 63 65 20 74 6f 20 74 68 65 20 77 69 6e 64 2c 20 74 6f 20 74 68 65 20 74 68 75 6e 64 65 72 2c 20 6d 65 65 74 20 6d 65 20 77 68 65 72 65 20 74 68 65 20 62 69 72 64 73 20 63 69 72 63 6c 65 2c 20 68 69 67 68 20 61 62 6f 76 65 2e
0d 0a</span><</type>><<nobr>><<cont append>><<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[50 72 6f 63 65 65 64 2e|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</cont>><</nobr>><<case 2>><<type 15ms skipkey " ">><span class = bluetext>59 6f 75 27 72 65 20 62 6f 6c 64 2e 20 49 27 6c 6c 20 67 69 76 65 20 79 6f 75 20 74 68 61 74 20 6d 75 63 68 2e
4d 61 79 62 65 20 73 74 75 70 69 64 2e 20 4d 61 79 62 65 20 49 27 6d 20 6a 75 73 74 20 61 73 20 73 74 75 70 69 64 20 66 6f 72 20 72 65 73 70 6f 6e 64 69 6e 67 2e
49 20 68 61 76 65 20 61 20 6c 6f 74 20 6f 66 20 71 75 65 73 74 69 6f 6e 73 20 66 6f 72 20 79 6f 75 2c 20 70 6f 65 74 2e 20 49 20 64 6f 6e 27 74 20 74 68 69 6e 6b 20 49 20 63 6f 75 6c 64 20 70 75 74 20 69 6e 74 6f 20 77 6f 72 64 73 20 74 68 65 20 73 74 72 61 6e 67 65 6e 65 73 73 20 6f 66 20 79 6f 75 72 20 73 75 64 64 65 6e 20 63 6f 72 72 65 73 70 6f 6e 64 65 6e 63 65 2e
57 68 6f 20 61 72 65 20 79 6f 75 3f 20 48 6f 77 27 64 20 79 6f 75 20 6b 6e 6f 77 20 74 6f 20 73 65 6e 64 20 74 68 65 20 6d 65 73 73 61 67 65 73 3f 20 57 68 79 20 74 68 65 20 70 6f 65 74 69 63 20 63 61 64 65 6e 63 65 2c 20 77 68 79 20 6e 6f 74 20 6a 75 73 74 20 73 74 61 74 65 20 74 68 65 20 6f 62 76 69 6f 75 73 2c 20 77 68 79 20 6d 61 6b 65 20 6d 65 20 64 69 67 20 74 68 72 6f 75 67 68 20 79 6f 75 72 20 77 6f 72 64 73 20 61 6e 64 20 73 6f 72 74 20 6d 65 61 6e 69 6e 67 20 6d 79 73 65 6c 66 3f
49 73 20 74 68 69 73 20 63 6f 64 65 3f 20 53 6f 6d 65 20 63 6f 6e 73 70 69 72 61 63 79 3f 20 41 72 65 20 74 68 65 72 65 20 6f 74 68 65 72 73 20 6c 69 6b 65 20 79 6f 75 2c 20 70 6f 65 74 2c 20 77 68 6f 20 66 69 6c 6c 20 74 68 65 20 6c 6f 6e 67 2d 64 65 61 64 20 61 69 72 77 61 79 73 20 77 69 74 68 20 6e 65 77 20 77 6f 72 64 73 3f
57 68 61 74 27 73 20 79 6f 75 72 20 73 74 6f 72 79 3f
0d 0a</span><</type>><<nobr>><<cont append>><<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[50 72 6f 63 65 65 64 2e|01-01 iyslf frontmatter][($PassageNo = 1) , ($transct += 1) , ($cardct += 1)]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</cont>><</nobr>><</switch>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<set $gamechapter to "...">><<type 15ms skipkey " ">><span class = redtext>49 20 61 6d 20 65 76 65 72 79 20 6c 69 76 69 6e 67 20 73 6f 75 6c 20 6c 65 66 74 20 69 6e 20 74 68 69 73 20 77 6f 72 6c 64 2c 20 74 68 65 69 72 20 63 6f 6c 6c 65 63 74 69 76 65 20 63 72 69 65 73 2c 20 74 68 65 20 6d 75 72 6d 75 72 20 6f 66 20 74 68 65 20 77 61 6b 69 6e 67 20 65 61 72 74 68 2e 20 54 68 65 20 77 69 6c 6c 20 6f 66 20 6d 61 6e 20 74 6f 20 63 72 65 61 74 65 2c 20 74 6f 20 6c 6f 76 65 20 61 6e 64 20 66 69 6e 64 20 70 75 72 70 6f 73 65 20 69 6e 20 74 68 65 20 72 75 69 6e 73 2e
49 20 63 6c 61 77 65 64 20 6d 79 20 77 61 79 20 66 72 6f 6d 20 74 68 65 20 72 65 6d 6e 61 6e 74 73 20 6f 66 20 74 68 65 20 6f 6c 64 20 77 6f 72 6c 64 2e 20 49 20 61 77 6f 6b 65 20 73 6f 6d 65 77 68 65 72 65 20 64 65 65 70 20 69 6e 74 6f 20 74 68 65 20 6e 65 77 20 66 6f 72 65 73 74 73 3b 20 49 20 66 6f 75 6e 64 20 6d 79 73 65 6c 66 20 69 6e 20 61 20 63 6c 65 61 72 69 6e 67 2c 20 61 6d 69 64 73 74 20 77 72 65 63 6b 61 67 65 2c 20 66 69 6e 61 6c 20 74 72 61 6e 73 6d 69 73 73 69 6f 6e 20 73 74 69 6c 6c 20 70 6c 61 79 69 6e 67 2e 20 49 20 63 61 6c 6c 65 64 20 69 74 20 70 72 6f 70 68 65 63 79 2e 20 49 20 6c 65 74 20 69 74 20 62 65 20 6d 79 20 70 75 72 70 6f 73 65 2e 20 49 20 68 61 76 65 20 63 61 72 72 69 65 64 20 74 61 70 65 73 20 61 6e 64 20 63 6f 64 65 62 6f 6f 6b 73 3b 20 49 20 63 61 72 72 69 65 64 20 74 68 65 6d 20 77 68 65 6e 20 49 20 77 61 73 20 62 75 74 20 61 20 6d 61 6e 2c 20 61 6e 64 20 6d 79 20 70 75 72 70 6f 73 65 20 77 61 73 20 77 61 72 2c 20 72 75 69 6e 2c 20 69 6e 6a 75 72 79 2e</span><</type>><<nobr>><<cont append>><<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[50 72 6f 63 65 65 64 2e|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</cont>><</nobr>><<case 2>><<type 15ms skipkey " ">><span class = redtext>49 20 77 72 6f 74 65 20 74 68 65 6e 2c 20 6f 66 20 63 6f 75 72 73 65 2e 20 4f 70 65 72 61 74 69 6f 6e 61 6c 20 64 6f 63 75 6d 65 6e 74 73 2c 20 61 66 74 65 72 20 61 63 74 69 6f 6e 20 70 61 70 65 72 77 6f 72 6b 2e 20 49 20 74 68 6f 75 67 68 74 20 6d 79 73 65 6c 66 20 6e 6f 74 68 69 6e 67 20 67 72 65 61 74 65 72 20 74 68 61 6e 20 61 20 73 69 67 6e 61 74 75 72 65 20 6f 6e 20 61 20 64 6f 74 74 65 64 20 6c 69 6e 65 2e
54 68 69 73 20 74 6f 77 65 72 2c 20 6f 70 65 72 61 74 6f 72 2c 20 69 73 20 61 20 67 69 66 74 2e 20 4d 79 20 74 72 61 76 65 6c 73 20 68 61 76 65 20 74 61 6b 65 6e 20 6d 65 20 66 61 72 20 66 72 6f 6d 20 74 68 61 74 20 66 6f 72 65 73 74 2c 20 66 72 6f 6d 20 74 68 65 20 63 72 61 73 68 2c 20 66 72 6f 6d 20 74 68 65 20 65 6e 64 2e 20 49 20 6e 6f 20 6c 6f 6e 67 65 72 20 62 75 72 6e 20 62 6f 6f 6b 73 20 61 6e 64 20 64 72 6f 70 20 62 6f 6d 62 73 2e 20 49 20 77 69 6c 6c 20 77 72 69 74 65 2c 20 49 20 77 69 6c 6c 20 63 72 65 61 74 65 20 66 72 6f 6d 20 77 68 65 72 65 20 49 20 64 65 73 74 72 6f 79 65 64 2e
49 20 61 6d 20 70 61 72 74 20 6f 66 20 6e 6f 20 63 6f 6e 73 70 69 72 61 63 79 2e 20 49 20 68 61 76 65 20 73 65 65 6e 20 66 65 77 20 66 61 63 65 73 20 69 6e 20 6d 79 20 77 61 6e 64 65 72 69 6e 67 73 2e 20 49 20 68 61 76 65 20 68 65 61 72 64 20 66 65 77 20 76 6f 69 63 65 73 2c 20 73 61 76 65 20 66 6f 72 20 79 6f 75 72 73 2c 20 6f 70 65 72 61 74 6f 72 2e 20 59 6f 75 20 77 68 6f 20 68 61 73 20 64 75 62 62 65 64 20 6d 65 20 22 6f 75 74 73 69 64 65 72 22 20 61 6e 64 20 22 70 6f 65 74 22 2e
44 6f 65 73 20 74 68 65 20 74 69 74 6c 65 20 66 65 65 6c 20 61 73 20 67 6f 6f 64 20 6f 6e 20 79 6f 75 72 20 74 6f 6e 67 75 65 20 61 73 20 69 74 20 64 6f 65 73 20 6d 69 6e 65 3f
0d 0a</span><</type>><<nobr>><<cont append>><<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[50 72 6f 63 65 65 64 2e|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</cont>><</nobr>><<case 3>><<type 15ms skipkey " ">><span class = bluetext>59 6f 75 20 63 61 6c 6c 20 6d 65 20 22 6f 70 65 72 61 74 6f 72 22 2c 20 70 6f 65 74 2e 20 4d 79 20 74 69 74 6c 65 20 69 73 20 61 73 20 61 70 74 20 61 73 20 79 6f 75 72 73 2e 20 49 20 6f 62 73 65 72 76 65 2e
49 27 76 65 20 68 65 61 72 64 20 74 6f 6f 20 6d 61 6e 79 20 66 69 6e 61 6c 20 62 72 6f 61 64 63 61 73 74 73 2e 20 49 20 64 6f 6e 27 74 20 6d 65 61 6e 20 74 6f 20 73 63 61 72 65 20 79 6f 75 2e 20 42 75 74 20 74 68 69 73 20 69 73 20 74 68 65 20 74 72 75 74 68 2e
54 68 65 72 65 20 68 61 76 65 20 62 65 65 6e 20 6f 74 68 65 72 73 20 6c 69 6b 65 20 79 6f 75 2c 20 70 6f 65 74 2e 20 59 6f 75 20 61 72 65 20 74 68 65 20 66 69 72 73 74 20 76 6f 69 63 65 20 49 20 68 61 76 65 20 68 65 61 72 64 20 69 6e 20 61 20 6c 6f 6e 67 20 74 69 6d 65 2e 20 54 68 65 20 6f 74 68 65 72 73 20 64 6f 6e 27 74 20 6c 61 73 74 20 6c 6f 6e 67 20 61 66 74 65 72 20 74 68 65 69 72 20 66 69 72 73 74 20 74 72 61 6e 73 6d 69 73 73 69 6f 6e 2e</span><</type>><<nobr>><<cont append>><<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[50 72 6f 63 65 65 64 2e|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</cont>><</nobr>><<case 4>><<type 15ms skipkey " ">><span class = bluetext>54 68 65 79 20 74 72 61 63 6b 20 74 68 65 20 73 69 67 6e 61 6c 2e 20 54 68 65 79 20 73 65 6e 64 20 74 68 65 69 72 20 6d 65 6e 20 69 6e 20 62 6c 61 63 6b 2e 20 49 20 6c 69 73 74 65 6e 2c 20 49 20 73 74 61 79 20 71 75 69 65 74 2c 20 49 20 64 6f 6e 27 74 20 6d 61 6b 65 20 61 20 73 69 6e 67 6c 65 20 73 6f 75 6e 64 2d 20 6e 6f 74 68 69 6e 67 20 74 68 61 74 20 63 6f 75 6c 64 20 62 65 20 74 72 61 6e 73 63 72 69 62 65 64 2e 20 49 20 77 61 69 74 20 66 6f 72 20 74 68 65 20 70 72 69 6e 74 6f 75 74 73 20 61 74 20 6d 79 20 73 74 61 74 69 6f 6e 2e 20 54 68 65 20 69 6e 63 6f 6d 69 6e 67 20 74 72 61 6e 73 6d 69 73 73 69 6f 6e 2c 20 74 68 65 20 63 68 61 6f 73 2c 20 74 72 61 6e 73 63 72 69 62 65 64 20 69 6e 20 74 68 65 69 72 20 6e 65 61 74 20 6c 69 74 74 6c 65 20 70 61 69 72 73 20 61 6e 64 20 74 68 65 6e 20 74 68 61 74 20 64 61 6d 6e 65 64 20 74 68 69 6e 67 2c 20 73 69 67 6e 61 6c 20 74 65 72 6d 69 6e 61 74 65 64 2e
49 74 27 73 20 74 68 72 65 65 20 6c 6f 6e 67 20 74 6f 6e 65 73 2c 20 61 6e 64 20 74 68 65 6e 20 73 74 61 74 69 63 2e 20 49 20 6d 6f 76 65 20 6f 6e 20 74 6f 20 74 68 65 20 6e 65 78 74 2e
49 20 68 61 76 65 20 6e 65 76 65 72 20 77 61 74 63 68 65 64 20 73 6f 6d 65 6f 6e 65 20 64 69 65 2e 20 49 20 68 61 76 65 20 6e 65 76 65 72 20 6b 69 6c 6c 65 64 20 61 6e 79 6f 6e 65 2c 20 49 20 74 68 69 6e 6b 2e
49 20 74 68 69 6e 6b 20 74 68 65 72 65 27 73 20 62 6c 6f 6f 64 20 6f 6e 20 6d 79 20 68 61 6e 64 73 20 73 74 69 6c 6c 2c 20 70 6f 65 74 2e
0d 0a</span><</type>><<nobr>><<cont append>><<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[50 72 6f 63 65 65 64 2e|01-01 iyslf 04][($PassageNo = 1) , ($transct += 1) , ($gamechapter to "01-01 if you should lie fallen")]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</cont>><</nobr>><</switch>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<set $gamechapter to "...">><<type 15ms skipkey " ">><span class = redtext>4e 6f 20 73 6f 75 6c 20 69 73 20 62 6c 61 6d 65 6c 65 73 73 2c 20 6f 70 65 72 61 74 6f 72 2e 20 54 68 65 72 65 20 69 73 20 6e 6f 74 20 6f 6e 65 20 70 65 72 73 6f 6e 20 6c 65 66 74 20 77 68 6f 73 65 20 68 61 6e 64 73 20 61 72 65 20 63 6c 65 61 6e 2e
44 6f 20 6e 6f 74 20 74 61 6b 65 20 74 68 69 73 20 61 73 20 61 20 6d 65 61 73 75 72 65 20 6f 66 20 67 75 69 6c 74 2c 20 66 72 69 65 6e 64 2e 20 44 6f 20 6e 6f 74 20 64 65 73 70 61 69 72 2c 20 64 6f 20 6e 6f 74 20 6c 65 74 20 74 68 69 73 20 62 65 20 61 20 64 65 66 65 61 74 2e 20 54 68 65 72 65 20 61 72 65 20 6e 6f 20 63 6c 65 61 6e 20 68 61 6e 64 73 2c 20 79 65 73 2c 20 62 75 74 20 74 68 65 72 65 20 69 73 20 73 6f 6d 65 74 68 69 6e 67 20 74 6f 20 62 65 20 73 61 69 64 20 66 6f 72 20 72 65 61 63 68 69 6e 67 20 6f 75 74 2c 20 64 65 73 70 69 74 65 20 74 68 65 20 62 6c 6f 6f 64 20 6f 6e 20 79 6f 75 72 20 66 69 6e 67 65 72 73 2e
46 69 6e 64 20 68 6f 70 65 2c 20 66 69 6e 64 20 73 74 72 65 6e 67 74 68 20 69 6e 20 74 68 61 74 2e 20 59 6f 75 20 63 61 6e 6e 6f 74 20 74 72 75 6c 79 20 62 65 20 66 72 65 65 20 6f 66 20 74 68 65 20 62 75 72 64 65 6e 20 79 6f 75 72 20 6e 61 74 69 6f 6e 20 70 6c 61 63 65 73 20 75 70 6f 6e 20 79 6f 75 2c 20 74 68 65 20 66 6c 61 67 20 79 6f 75 20 77 65 61 72 20 6f 6e 20 79 6f 75 72 20 62 61 63 6b 2e 20 42 75 74 20 79 6f 75 20 63 61 6e 20 64 6f 20 62 65 74 74 65 72 2e
49 20 6b 6e 6f 77 20 79 6f 75 20 63 61 6e 2e
59 6f 75 20 68 61 76 65 20 73 68 6f 77 6e 20 6d 65 20 61 73 20 6d 75 63 68 2c 20 6f 70 65 72 61 74 6f 72 2e
0d 0a</span><</type>><<nobr>><<cont append>><<nobr>><div class = proceed><div class = proceed-item> [[50 72 6f 63 65 65 64 2e|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div><</nobr>><</cont>><</nobr>><<case 2>><<type 15ms skipkey " ">><span class = bluetext>50 6f 65 74 2c 20 79 6f 75 20 61 72 65 20 77 69 73 65 20 62 65 79 6f 6e 64 20 79 6f 75 72 20 79 65 61 72 73 2e 20 49 20 74 68 69 6e 6b 2e 20 49 20 6b 6e 6f 77 20 6e 65 78 74 20 74 6f 20 6e 6f 74 68 69 6e 67 20 61 62 6f 75 74 20 79 6f 75 2c 20 6f 74 68 65 72 20 74 68 61 6e 20 77 68 61 74 20 49 20 63 61 6e 20 67 75 65 73 73 2e
59 6f 75 20 77 65 72 65 20 61 20 73 6f 6c 64 69 65 72 2c 20 79 6f 75 20 66 6f 75 67 68 74 20 69 6e 20 74 68 65 20 57 61 72 2c 20 79 6f 75 20 77 65 72 65 20 69 6e 20 61 20 70 6c 61 6e 65 20 63 72 61 73 68 2e 20 59 6f 75 20 77 65 72 65 20 22 6f 6e 63 65 20 61 20 6d 61 6e 22 2e 20 59 6f 75 20 73 70 65 61 6b 20 61 62 6f 75 74 20 61 20 6e 61 74 69 6f 6e 2c 20 61 6e 64 20 74 68 65 20 66 6c 61 67 20 6f 6e 20 6d 79 20 62 61 63 6b 2c 20 61 6e 64 20 49 20 6b 6e 6f 77 20 6e 6f 77 20 74 68 61 74 20 79 6f 75 20 77 65 72 65 20 55 6e 69 6f 6e 2c 20 77 68 65 6e 20 74 68 65 72 65 20 73 74 69 6c 6c 20 77 61 73 20 61 20 55 6e 69 6f 6e 2e
49 20 77 61 73 20 43 6f 72 70 6f 72 61 74 69 6f 6e 2e 20 4e 6f 77 20 43 6f 6e 74 69 6e 67 65 6e 63 79 2e 20 54 68 6f 75 67 68 20 49 20 74 68 69 6e 6b 20 79 6f 75 20 63 6f 75 6c 64 20 68 61 76 65 20 67 75 65 73 73 65 64 20 74 68 61 74 20 62 79 20 6d 79 20 63 61 6c 6c 73 69 67 6e 2c 20 62 79 20 6d 79 20 6c 6f 63 61 74 69 6f 6e 2c 20 62 79 20 6d 79 20 77 61 72 6e 69 6e 67 2e 20 49 20 68 61 76 65 20 6e 65 76 65 72 20 62 65 6c 6f 6e 67 65 64 20 74 6f 20 61 20 6e 61 74 69 6f 6e 2e 20 49 20 68 61 76 65 20 6e 65 76 65 72 20 63 61 72 72 69 65 64 20 61 20 66 6c 61 67 2e
53 74 69 6c 6c 2c 20 79 6f 75 27 72 65 20 74 61 6c 6b 69 6e 67 20 61 62 6f 75 74 20 74 72 65 61 73 6f 6e 2c 20 70 6f 65 74 2e 20 59 6f 75 72 20 73 75 67 67 65 73 74 69 6f 6e 20 69 73 20 62 65 74 72 61 79 61 6c 2e
41 6e 64 20 49 20 61 64 6d 69 74 2c 20 70 6f 65 74 2d 20 69 73 6e 27 74 20 74 68 69 73 20 77 68 61 74 20 49 27 76 65 20 62 65 65 6e 20 64 6f 69 6e 67 20 74 68 69 73 20 77 68 6f 6c 65 20 74 69 6d 65 3f 2e
4d 79 20 64 75 74 79 20 69 73 20 74 6f 20 72 65 70 6f 72 74 20 72 6f 67 75 65 20 73 74 61 74 69 6f 6e 73 2e 20 41 6e 64 20 49 20 68 61 76 65 20 62 65 63 6f 6d 65 20 6f 6e 65 2c 20 66 6f 72 20 74 68 65 20 73 61 6b 65 20 6f 66 20 79 6f 75 72 20 77 6f 72 64 73 2e
0d 0a</span><</type>><<nobr>><<cont append>><<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[50 72 6f 63 65 65 64 2e|01-01 iyslf 11][($PassageNo = 1) , ($transct += 1) , ($cardct += 1) , ($gamechapter to "01-01 if you should lie fallen")]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</cont>><</nobr>><</switch>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<set $gamechapter to "...">><<type 15ms skipkey " ">><span class = redtext>49 20 66 69 6e 64 20 6d 79 73 65 6c 66 20 73 70 65 65 63 68 6c 65 73 73 2c 20 6f 70 65 72 61 74 6f 72 2e 20 49 20 77 6f 6e 64 65 72 2c 20 68 6f 77 20 64 65 73 70 65 72 61 74 65 2c 20 68 6f 77 20 6c 6f 6e 65 6c 79 20 6f 6e 65 20 6d 75 73 74 20 62 65 2e 20 49 66 20 79 6f 75 20 77 69 6c 6c 20 66 6f 72 67 69 76 65 20 6d 79 20 64 69 73 62 65 6c 69 65 66 2c 20 61 6e 64 20 74 68 65 20 63 75 72 72 65 6e 74 20 6f 66 20 63 79 6e 69 63 69 73 6d 20 74 68 61 74 20 61 74 74 61 63 68 65 73 20 69 74 73 65 6c 66 2c 20 70 61 72 61 73 69 74 65 2e 20 49 66 20 79 6f 75 20 77 69 6c 6c 20 66 6f 72 67 69 76 65 20 6d 79 20 61 73 73 75 6d 70 74 69 6f 6e 2d 20 49 20 77 69 6c 6c 20 73 70 65 61 6b 20 66 72 65 65 6c 79 2e
59 6f 75 20 68 61 76 65 20 73 65 65 6e 20 6f 74 68 65 72 73 2c 20 74 68 65 20 73 61 6d 65 20 61 73 20 49 2d 20 70 6f 65 74 73 20 6f 66 20 74 68 65 20 77 61 76 65 73 2c 20 77 69 6e 64 73 20 69 6e 20 74 68 65 20 77 69 72 65 73 2c 20 61 20 77 68 69 73 70 65 72 20 69 6e 20 74 68 65 20 71 75 69 65 74 2d 20 79 6f 75 20 68 61 76 65 20 73 65 65 6e 20 6f 74 68 65 72 73 2e 20 59 6f 75 20 6b 6e 6f 77 20 6f 74 68 65 72 73 2c 20 79 6f 75 72 20 6e 75 6d 62 65 72 65 64 20 62 72 6f 74 68 65 72 73 20 61 6e 64 20 73 69 73 74 65 72 73 2c 20 77 68 6f 20 62 65 61 72 20 6e 61 6d 65 73 20 66 6f 75 6e 64 20 69 6e 20 61 6e 63 69 65 6e 74 20 6d 79 74 68 6f 6c 6f 67 69 65 73 2c 20 61 6e 64 20 74 68 65 20 6e 61 6d 65 73 20 6f 66 20 61 6e 69 6d 61 6c 73 20 6c 6f 6e 67 20 65 78 74 69 6e 63 74 2c 20 77 68 6f 20 63 61 72 72 79 20 6e 69 63 6b 6e 61 6d 65 73 20 61 6d 6f 6e 67 73 74 20 74 68 65 20 77 69 6c 64 20 6d 65 6e 20 6f 66 20 74 68 65 20 66 72 6f 6e 74 69 65 72 2c 20 74 68 69 6e 67 73 20 6d 65 61 6e 74 20 74 6f 20 64 65 72 69 64 65 2c 20 74 6f 20 69 6e 73 75 6c 74 2c 20 74 68 69 6e 67 73 20 6c 69 6b 65 20 22 6d 75 72 64 65 72 65 72 2e 22 2c 20 74 68 69 6e 67 73 20 6c 69 6b 65 20 22 76 75 6c 74 75 72 65 22 2c 20 74 68 69 6e 67 73 20 6c 69 6b 65 20 22 6f 6d 65 6e 22 20 61 6e 64 20 22 63 75 72 73 65 22 2e
59 6f 75 20 68 61 76 65 20 73 65 65 6e 20 6f 74 68 65 72 73 2e 20 44 69 64 20 79 6f 75 20 77 61 72 6e 20 74 68 65 6d 20 61 73 20 79 6f 75 20 77 61 72 6e 65 64 20 6d 65 3f 20 59 6f 75 20 68 61 76 65 20 73 70 6f 6b 65 6e 20 77 69 74 68 20 6f 74 68 65 72 73 2c 20 79 6f 75 20 68 61 76 65 20 68 65 61 72 64 20 74 68 65 69 72 20 73 69 67 6e 61 6c 73 20 67 6f 20 64 61 72 6b 2e</span><</type>><<nobr>><<cont append>><<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[50 72 6f 63 65 65 64 2e|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</cont>><</nobr>><<case 2>><<type 15ms skipkey " ">><span class = redtext>49 20 77 6f 6e 64 65 72 2c 20 69 73 20 74 68 69 73 20 77 68 79 20 79 6f 75 20 68 61 76 65 20 74 6f 6c 64 20 6d 65 20 6f 66 20 79 6f 75 72 20 67 75 69 6c 74 2c 20 6f 66 20 74 68 65 20 62 6c 6f 6f 64 20 6f 6e 20 79 6f 75 72 20 68 61 6e 64 73 3f 20 59 6f 75 20 68 61 76 65 20 73 70 6f 6b 65 6e 20 77 69 74 68 20 6f 74 68 65 72 73 2e 20 49 20 68 61 76 65 20 79 65 74 20 74 6f 20 66 69 6e 64 20 61 6e 6f 74 68 65 72 20 76 6f 69 63 65 20 6f 6e 20 74 68 65 73 65 20 77 61 76 65 73 2c 20 73 61 76 65 20 66 6f 72 20 79 6f 75 72 20 52 65 6d 6e 61 6e 74 20 70 72 6f 70 61 67 61 6e 64 61 20 61 6e 64 20 74 68 65 20 66 72 6f 6e 74 69 65 72 73 6d 65 6e 2d 20 74 69 6d 69 64 2c 20 70 72 61 63 74 69 63 61 6c 20 66 6f 6c 6b 20 77 68 6f 20 62 72 6f 61 64 63 61 73 74 20 77 65 61 74 68 65 72 20 61 6e 64 20 74 72 61 64 65 20 69 6e 20 68 75 73 68 65 64 20 74 6f 6e 65 73 2c 20 68 61 76 65 20 79 65 74 20 74 6f 20 62 65 20 73 69 6c 65 6e 63 65 64 20 65 6e 74 69 72 65 6c 79 20 62 75 74 20 64 6f 20 6e 6f 74 20 72 65 73 70 6f 6e 64 20 74 6f 20 74 68 6f 73 65 20 64 65 73 70 65 72 61 74 65 2c 20 79 6f 75 20 61 6e 64 20 6d 65 2c 20 64 6f 20 6e 6f 74 20 72 65 73 70 6f 6e 64 20 6f 6e 6c 79 20 62 72 6f 61 64 63 61 73 74 20 75 6e 74 69 6c 20 74 68 65 79 20 62 6c 69 6e 6b 20 6f 75 74 20 6f 66 20 65 78 69 73 74 65 6e 63 65 2c 20 6f 6e 65 20 62 79 20 6f 6e 65 2e
49 20 68 61 76 65 20 79 65 74 20 74 6f 20 68 65 61 72 20 61 6e 6f 74 68 65 72 20 76 6f 69 63 65 20 6c 69 6b 65 20 6d 69 6e 65 2e 20 4f 6e 65 20 77 68 6f 20 73 70 65 61 6b 73 20 69 6e 20 72 65 74 75 72 6e 2e 20 4e 6f 6e 65 20 62 75 74 20 79 6f 75 20 61 6e 64 20 79 6f 75 72 20 6e 75 6d 62 65 72 65 64 20 73 69 62 6c 69 6e 67 73 2c 20 79 6f 75 20 77 68 6f 20 77 61 72 6e 20 61 6e 64 20 74 68 72 65 61 74 65 6e 2c 20 61 75 67 75 72 73 2c 20 6f 6d 65 6e 73 2c 20 63 75 72 73 65 73 2e
57 68 61 74 20 6f 66 20 74 68 65 20 64 65 61 64 20 70 72 6f 70 68 65 74 73 20 61 6e 64 20 70 6f 65 74 73 3f
44 69 64 20 74 68 65 79 20 74 72 75 73 74 20 79 6f 75 2c 20 62 65 66 6f 72 65 20 79 6f 75 20 63 6f 6e 64 65 6d 6e 65 64 20 74 68 65 6d 20 74 6f 20 74 68 65 69 72 20 66 61 74 65 73 3f
0d 0a</span><</type>><<nobr>><<cont append>><<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[50 72 6f 63 65 65 64 2e|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</cont>><</nobr>><<case 3>><<type 15ms skipkey " ">><span class = bluetext>0d 0a
0d 0a
0d 0a</span><</type>><<nobr>><<cont append>><<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[50 72 6f 63 65 65 64 2e|01-01 iyslf 15][($PassageNo = 1) , ($transct += 1) , ($gamechapter to "01-01 if you should lie fallen")]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</cont>><</nobr>><</switch>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<set $gamechapter to "...">><<type 15ms skipkey " ">><span class = redtext>4f 70 65 72 61 74 6f 72 3f
46 6f 72 67 69 76 65 20 6d 65 2c 20 70 6c 65 61 73 65 2e 20 49 20 66 65 61 72 20 49 20 68 61 76 65 20 73 70 6f 6b 65 6e 20 74 6f 6f 20 72 61 73 68 6c 79 2c 20 74 6f 6f 20 68 61 72 73 68 6c 79 2e 20 49 20 66 65 61 72 20 49 20 68 61 76 65 20 77 6f 75 6e 64 65 64 20 77 69 74 68 20 6d 79 20 63 79 6e 69 63 69 73 6d 2c 20 77 69 74 68 20 6d 79 20 6d 69 73 74 72 75 73 74 2e 20 49 20 61 6d 20 6e 6f 74 20 6f 6e 65 20 74 6f 20 62 65 6c 69 65 76 65 20 74 68 61 74 20 79 6f 75 20 63 61 6e 6e 6f 74 20 62 65 20 63 68 61 6e 67 65 64 2c 20 66 6f 72 20 49 20 68 61 76 65 20 63 68 61 6e 67 65 64 2e 20 49 20 73 70 6f 6b 65 20 70 6c 61 69 6e 6c 79 20 6f 66 20 69 74 2c 20 49 20 65 6e 74 72 75 73 74 65 64 20 79 6f 75 20 77 69 74 68 20 69 74 2c 20 49 20 62 6f 72 65 20 6d 79 20 73 6f 75 6c 20 74 6f 20 79 6f 75 20 69 6e 20 6f 75 72 20 6e 65 61 74 20 70 61 69 72 69 6e 67 73 20 6f 66 20 6e 75 6d 62 65 72 73 2e 20 49 74 20 77 61 73 20 66 6f 6f 6c 69 73 68 20 6f 66 20 6d 65 20 74 6f 20 61 73 73 75 6d 65 2c 20 69 74 20 77 61 73 20 63 72 75 65 6c 20 6f 66 20 6d 65 20 74 6f 20 61 73 73 75 6d 65 2c 20 74 6f 20 61 63 63 75 73 65 2c 20 74 6f 20 73 65 65 6b 20 77 6f 75 6e 64 73 20 77 69 74 68 20 61 20 62 61 72 62 65 64 20 74 6f 6e 67 75 65 2c 20 77 69 74 68 20 76 65 6e 6f 6d 20 69 6e 20 6d 79 20 73 70 69 74 2c 20 49 20 61 6d 20 73 6f 72 72 79 2e
49 20 61 6d 20 77 65 6c 6c 20 61 6e 64 20 74 72 75 6c 79 20 73 6f 72 72 79 2c 20 4f 70 65 72 61 74 6f 72 2e 20 49 20 73 70 65 61 6b 20 6e 6f 77 20 77 69 74 68 20 6e 6f 20 69 6c 6c 2d 69 6e 74 65 6e 74 2e 20 49 20 62 65 6c 69 65 76 65 20 79 6f 75 2e</span><</type>><<nobr>><<cont append>><<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[50 72 6f 63 65 65 64 2e|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</cont>><</nobr>><<case 2>><<type 15ms skipkey " ">><span class = redtext>4d 79 20 72 6f 67 75 65 20 6f 70 65 72 61 74 6f 72 2c 20 49 20 77 69 73 68 20 79 6f 75 20 73 61 66 65 74 79 2e 20 49 66 20 79 6f 75 20 61 72 65 20 74 72 75 65 20 74 6f 20 79 6f 75 72 20 77 6f 72 64 2c 20 74 68 65 6e 20 49 20 68 61 76 65 20 70 75 74 20 79 6f 75 20 69 6e 20 61 73 20 67 72 61 76 65 20 61 20 64 61 6e 67 65 72 20 61 73 20 49 20 6d 79 73 65 6c 66 20 75 6e 64 65 72 74 61 6b 65 2e 20 49 66 20 49 20 68 61 76 65 20 77 6f 75 6e 64 65 64 20 79 6f 75 2c 20 69 66 20 49 20 68 61 76 65 20 6b 69 6c 6c 65 64 20 79 6f 75 2c 20 69 66 20 49 20 68 61 76 65 20 63 6f 6d 70 72 6f 6d 69 73 65 64 20 79 6f 75 2c 20 64 72 69 76 65 6e 20 79 6f 75 20 6f 75 74 20 69 6e 74 6f 20 74 68 65 20 77 69 6c 64 73 2c 20 74 68 65 6e 20 49 20 73 68 61 6c 6c 20 6e 65 76 65 72 20 73 70 65 61 6b 20 61 67 61 69 6e 20 69 6e 20 61 74 6f 6e 65 6d 65 6e 74 2e 20 49 20 77 6f 75 6c 64 20 6c 61 6d 65 6e 74 20 61 73 20 74 68 65 20 62 69 72 64 73 20 64 6f 2c 20 49 20 77 6f 75 6c 64 20 63 72 79 20 74 6f 20 74 68 65 20 68 65 61 76 65 6e 73 2c 20 74 6f 20 74 68 65 20 75 6e 68 65 61 72 69 6e 67 20 73 6b 79 2c 20 68 6f 77 20 63 72 75 65 6c 2c 20 68 6f 77 20 63 72 75 65 6c 20 61 20 66 61 74 65 2e 20 49 20 77 6f 75 6c 64 20 64 61 73 68 20 6d 79 20 65 71 75 69 70 6d 65 6e 74 20 75 70 6f 6e 20 74 68 65 20 72 6f 63 6b 73 2c 20 49 20 77 6f 75 6c 64 20 73 65 74 20 6f 66 66 20 6f 6e 65 20 66 69 6e 61 6c 20 74 69 6d 65 20 77 69 74 68 20 6e 61 72 79 20 61 20 76 6f 69 63 65 20 61 6e 64 20 77 6f 75 6c 64 20 6e 65 76 65 72 20 73 70 65 61 6b 20 61 67 61 69 6e 2c 20 6c 65 73 74 20 49 20 68 75 72 74 20 61 6e 6f 74 68 65 72 2e
4f 70 65 72 61 74 6f 72 2c 20 69 66 20 79 6f 75 20 63 61 6e 20 66 6f 72 67 69 76 65 20 6d 65 2c 20 73 70 65 61 6b 20 61 67 61 69 6e 2e 20 4c 65 74 20 74 68 65 20 73 6f 75 6e 64 20 6f 66 20 79 6f 75 72 20 76 6f 69 63 65 20 65 61 73 65 20 6d 79 20 61 63 68 69 6e 67 20 73 6f 75 6c 2e
0d 0a</span><</type>><<nobr>><<cont append>><<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[50 72 6f 63 65 65 64 2e|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</cont>><</nobr>><<case 3>><<type 15ms skipkey " ">><span class = bluetext>0d 0a
0d 0a
0d 0a</span><</type>><<nobr>><<cont append>><<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[50 72 6f 63 65 65 64 2e|01-01 iyslf 18][($PassageNo = 1) , ($transct += 1) , ($gamechapter to "01-01 if you should lie fallen")]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</cont>><</nobr>><</switch>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<set $gamechapter to "...">><<type 15ms skipkey " ">><span class = redtext>4f 70 65 72 61 74 6f 72 2c 20 70 6c 65 61 73 65 2e
49 20 64 6f 20 6e 6f 74 20 77 69 73 68 20 74 6f 20 62 65 20 61 6c 6f 6e 65 20 61 67 61 69 6e 2e 20 49 20 64 6f 20 6e 6f 74 20 77 69 73 68 20 74 6f 20 62 65 20 6f 75 74 73 69 64 65 72 20 61 67 61 69 6e 2c 20 64 6f 20 6e 6f 74 20 77 69 73 68 20 66 6f 72 20 6d 79 20 77 6f 72 64 73 20 74 6f 20 63 61 72 72 79 20 74 68 72 6f 75 67 68 20 74 68 65 73 65 20 77 69 72 65 73 2c 20 61 6e 64 20 66 69 6e 64 20 6e 6f 62 6f 64 79 2c 20 66 69 6e 64 20 6e 6f 74 68 69 6e 67 2e 20 49 20 68 61 76 65 20 73 74 72 65 74 63 68 65 64 20 6d 79 20 68 61 6e 64 73 20 61 6e 64 20 77 6f 72 64 73 20 74 6f 20 79 6f 75 2c 20 74 6f 20 61 6c 6c 20 74 68 65 20 77 61 73 74 65 73 2c 20 6c 61 69 64 20 6d 79 20 73 6f 75 6c 20 74 6f 20 62 65 61 72 2c 20 49 20 62 65 73 65 65 63 68 20 79 6f 75 2c 20 61 6e 73 77 65 72 2e
50 6c 65 61 73 65 2e
0d 0a</span><</type>><<nobr>><<cont append>><<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[50 72 6f 63 65 65 64 2e|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</cont>><</nobr>><<case 2>><<type 15ms skipkey " ">><span class = bluetext>0d 0a
50 6f 65 74 3f
0d 0a
0d 0a</span><</type>><<nobr>><<cont append>><<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[50 72 6f 63 65 65 64 2e|01-02 iyslf frontmatter][($PassageNo = 1) , ($transct += 1) , ($gamechapter to "CHAPTER")]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</cont>><</nobr>><</switch>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<set $gamechapter to "...">><<type 15ms skipkey " ">><span class = redtext>4f 70 65 72 61 74 6f 72 2c 20 70 6c 65 61 73 65 2e
50 6c 65 61 73 65 2c 20 49 20 62 65 73 65 65 63 68 20 74 68 65 65 2c 20 49 20 70 72 6f 73 74 72 61 74 65 20 6d 79 73 65 6c 66 20 62 65 66 6f 72 65 20 74 68 65 20 68 65 61 76 65 6e 73 2c 20 49 20 62 65 67 2c 20 49 20 70 72 61 79 20 74 6f 20 61 20 67 6f 64 20 77 65 20 68 61 76 65 20 73 74 72 75 63 6b 20 66 72 6f 6d 20 74 68 65 20 73 6b 79 2c 20 6c 65 74 20 79 6f 75 72 20 74 72 61 6e 73 6d 69 73 73 69 6f 6e 20 6e 6f 74 20 62 65 20 66 6c 75 6b 65 20 6f 72 20 65 63 68 6f 2e
50 6c 65 61 73 65 2e</span><</type>><<nobr>><<cont append>><<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[50 72 6f 63 65 65 64 2e|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</cont>><</nobr>><<case 2>><<type 15ms skipkey " ">><span class = redtext>49 20 63 61 6e 6e 6f 74 20 62 65 61 72 20 74 68 65 20 77 65 69 67 68 74 20 61 6c 6f 6e 65 2c 20 49 20 63 61 6e 6e 6f 74 2e 20 49 20 66 65 61 72 20 74 68 65 20 64 61 72 6b 20 61 6e 64 20 74 68 65 20 73 69 6c 65 6e 63 65 20 61 6e 64 20 77 69 73 68 20 6f 6e 6c 79 20 66 6f 72 20 74 68 65 20 73 6f 75 6e 64 20 6f 66 20 79 6f 75 72 20 76 6f 69 63 65 2c 20 66 6f 72 20 74 68 65 20 6d 65 73 73 61 67 65 20 74 6f 6e 65 2c 20 66 6f 72 20 74 68 65 20 72 65 61 73 73 75 72 61 6e 63 65 20 74 68 61 74 20 79 6f 75 72 20 73 70 65 65 63 68 20 62 72 69 6e 67 73 2e 20 49 20 68 61 76 65 20 63 61 72 76 65 64 20 6d 79 20 68 65 61 72 74 20 66 72 6f 6d 20 6d 79 20 63 68 65 73 74 20 61 6e 64 20 67 69 76 65 6e 20 69 74 20 74 6f 20 79 6f 75 2c 20 49 20 73 70 72 65 61 64 20 6d 79 20 62 6c 6f 6f 64 79 20 66 69 6e 67 65 72 73 20 69 6e 20 70 72 61 79 65 72 2e
50 6c 65 61 73 65 2e 20 41 6e 73 77 65 72 20 6d 65 2c 20 69 66 20 79 6f 75 20 68 61 76 65 20 6e 6f 74 20 62 65 65 6e 20 73 74 72 75 63 6b 20 66 72 6f 6d 20 74 68 65 20 66 61 63 65 20 6f 66 20 74 68 69 73 20 65 61 72 74 68 2c 20 69 66 20 49 20 68 61 76 65 20 6e 6f 74 20 77 6f 75 6e 64 65 64 20 79 6f 75 20 73 6f 20 67 72 61 76 65 6c 79 20 74 68 61 74 20 77 65 20 62 6f 74 68 20 6d 69 67 68 74 20 63 65 61 73 65 20 74 6f 20 62 65 2e 20 41 6e 64 20 69 66 20 79 6f 75 20 63 61 6e 6e 6f 74 2c 20 6c 65 74 20 6d 65 20 74 75 72 6e 20 74 68 65 20 69 6e 73 74 72 75 6d 65 6e 74 20 6f 66 20 79 6f 75 72 20 64 65 73 74 72 75 63 74 69 6f 6e 20 75 70 6f 6e 20 6d 79 73 65 6c 66 2c 20 6c 65 74 20 6d 65 20 64 69 65 20 61 6c 6f 6e 67 73 69 64 65 20 79 6f 75 2c 20 73 65 76 65 72 20 74 68 65 73 65 20 77 69 72 65 73 20 61 6e 64 20 73 6c 61 73 68 20 6d 79 20 74 68 72 6f 61 74 2e
0d 0a</span><</type>><<nobr>><<cont append>><<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[50 72 6f 63 65 65 64 2e|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</cont>><</nobr>><<case 3>><<type 15ms skipkey " ">><span class = bluetext>50 6f 65 74 3f
50 6f 65 74 2c 20 61 6d 20 49 20 74 6f 6f 20 6c 61 74 65 3f 20 4d 79 20 66 72 69 65 6e 64 2c 20 49 20 68 61 64 20 74 68 6f 75 67 68 74 20 49 20 77 61 73 20 64 6f 6f 6d 65 64 2c 20 74 68 61 74 20 49 20 68 61 64 20 62 65 65 6e 20 66 6f 75 6e 64 20 6f 75 74 2e 20 49 20 64 69 64 6e 27 74 20 6d 65 61 6e 20 74 6f 20 73 63 61 72 65 20 79 6f 75 2e 20 49 20 64 69 64 6e 27 74 20 77 61 6e 74 20 74 6f 20 73 63 61 72 65 20 79 6f 75 2e 20 49 20 66 6f 72 67 69 76 65 20 79 6f 75 2c 20 61 73 20 49 20 68 61 76 65 6e 27 74 20 62 65 65 6e 20 61 6c 6c 20 74 6f 6f 20 68 6f 6e 65 73 74 20 6e 6f 72 20 74 72 61 6e 73 70 61 72 65 6e 74 2e 20 49 20 75 6e 64 65 72 73 74 61 6e 64 20 74 68 61 74 20 79 6f 75 20 6d 61 79 20 62 65 20 73 63 61 72 65 64 20 6f 66 20 6d 65 2e
4c 65 74 20 6d 65 20 61 73 73 75 61 67 65 20 74 68 65 73 65 20 66 65 61 72 73 2e 20 50 6c 65 61 73 65 2c 20 69 66 20 79 6f 75 20 63 61 6e 20 61 63 63 65 70 74 20 6d 79 20 61 70 6f 6c 6f 67 79 2c 20 72 65 73 70 6f 6e 64 2e 20 4c 65 74 20 6d 65 20 68 65 61 72 20 79 6f 75 72 20 76 6f 69 63 65 20 61 67 61 69 6e 2e
0d 0a</span><</type>><<nobr>><<cont append>><<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[50 72 6f 63 65 65 64 2e|01-02 iyslf 13][($PassageNo = 1) , ($transct += 1) , ($cardct += 1) , ($gamechapter to "01-02 if you should lie fallen")]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</cont>><</nobr>><</switch>><<if ndef $PassageNo>><<set $PassageNo = 1>><</if>><<switch $PassageNo>><<case 1>><<set $gamechapter to "...">><<type 15ms skipkey " ">><span class = redtext>4f 70 65 72 61 74 6f 72 2c 20 74 68 65 20 73 6f 75 6e 64 20 6f 66 20 79 6f 75 72 20 76 6f 69 63 65 20 69 73 20 61 20 62 6c 65 73 73 69 6e 67 20 75 70 6f 6e 20 74 68 69 73 20 65 61 72 74 68 2e 20 49 73 20 61 20 62 6f 6f 6e 20 66 72 6f 6d 20 74 68 65 20 67 6f 64 73 2c 20 69 73 20 74 68 65 20 63 6f 6e 64 65 6e 73 61 74 69 6f 6e 20 6f 66 20 63 6c 6f 75 64 73 20 61 6e 64 20 74 68 65 20 66 61 6c 6c 69 6e 67 20 6f 66 20 72 61 69 6e 2e 20 49 73 20 74 68 65 20 62 6c 6f 73 73 6f 6d 69 6e 67 20 6f 66 20 64 65 73 65 72 74 20 66 6c 6f 77 65 72 73 2c 20 61 20 72 61 72 65 20 67 69 66 74 2c 20 61 20 75 6e 69 71 75 65 20 6f 6e 65 20 2d 20 61 20 73 6f 75 6e 64 20 6c 69 6b 65 20 6e 6f 74 68 69 6e 67 20 74 68 61 74 20 68 61 73 20 63 6f 6d 65 20 62 65 66 6f 72 65 20 61 6e 64 20 6e 6f 74 68 69 6e 67 20 74 68 61 74 20 77 69 6c 6c 20 63 6f 6d 65 20 61 66 74 65 72 2e 20 46 72 69 65 6e 64 2c 20 66 6f 72 67 69 76 65 20 6d 65 2e 20 49 20 61 73 6b 20 6f 6e 6c 79 20 74 68 61 74 20 79 6f 75 20 66 6f 72 67 69 76 65 20 6d 65 20 2d 20 66 6f 72 20 49 20 77 61 73 20 63 72 75 65 6c 20 61 6e 64 20 73 77 69 66 74 20 69 6e 20 6d 79 20 6a 75 64 67 6d 65 6e 74 20 6f 66 20 79 6f 75 2e 20 49 20 73 70 6f 6b 65 20 72 61 73 68 6c 79 20 61 6e 64 20 68 61 72 73 68 6c 79 2e 20 49 20 66 65 61 72 20 74 68 61 74 20 49 20 77 6f 75 6e 64 65 64 20 79 6f 75 2e 20 4c 65 74 20 6d 65 20 68 65 61 6c 20 79 6f 75 72 20 77 6f 75 6e 64 73 2c 20 6c 65 74 20 6d 65 20 62 65 20 61 20 63 6f 6d 70 61 73 73 69 6f 6e 61 74 65 20 63 61 72 65 74 61 6b 65 72 20 74 6f 20 74 68 65 20 68 65 61 72 74 68 20 77 65 20 68 61 64 20 73 74 61 72 74 65 64 20 74 6f 20 63 6f 6e 73 74 72 75 63 74 2e
4c 65 74 20 75 73 20 72 65 74 75 72 6e 20 74 6f 20 6f 75 72 20 63 6f 6e 76 65 72 73 61 74 69 6f 6e 2c 20 69 66 20 79 6f 75 20 77 6f 75 6c 64 20 62 65 20 61 73 20 73 6f 20 6b 69 6e 64 20 74 6f 20 61 6c 6c 6f 77 20 69 74 2e
0d 0a</span><</type>><<nobr>><<cont append>><<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[50 72 6f 63 65 65 64 2e|passage()][$PassageNo = $PassageNo + 1]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</cont>><</nobr>><<case 2>><<type 15ms skipkey " ">><span class = bluetext>59 6f 75 20 64 6f 6e 27 74 20 6e 65 65 64 20 74 6f 20 61 70 6f 6c 6f 67 69 7a 65 20 74 6f 20 6d 65 2c 20 50 6f 65 74 2e 20 49 20 67 61 76 65 20 79 6f 75 20 6e 6f 20 72 65 61 73 6f 6e 20 74 6f 20 74 72 75 73 74 20 6d 65 2e 20 4e 6f 6e 65 20 61 74 20 61 6c 6c 2e 20 49 20 64 6f 20 61 70 70 72 65 63 69 61 74 65 20 79 6f 75 20 72 65 74 75 72 6e 69 6e 67 20 6d 79 20 74 72 61 6e 73 6d 69 73 73 69 6f 6e 73 2e 20 54 68 65 72 65 20 77 69 6c 6c 20 62 65 20 73 69 6c 65 6e 63 65 20 61 67 61 69 6e 2c 20 49 27 6d 20 61 66 72 61 69 64 2e 20 42 75 74 20 74 68 61 74 27 73 20 6c 69 66 65 2c 20 69 73 6e 27 74 20 69 74 3f 20 53 6f 6d 65 74 69 6d 65 73 20 74 68 65 20 73 6b 69 65 73 20 61 72 65 20 63 6c 65 61 72 2c 20 73 6f 6d 65 74 69 6d 65 73 20 74 68 65 72 65 27 73 20 72 61 69 6e 2e 20 53 6f 6d 65 74 69 6d 65 73 20 49 20 63 61 6e 20 73 70 65 61 6b 20 66 72 65 65 6c 79 2c 20 63 61 6e 20 73 69 6e 67 20 74 6f 20 74 68 65 20 68 65 61 76 65 6e 73 20 2d 20 61 73 20 79 6f 75 20 77 6f 75 6c 64 20 73 61 79 20 2d 20 61 6e 64 20 63 61 72 65 66 75 6c 6c 79 20 64 72 61 66 74 20 6d 79 20 72 65 70 6c 69 65 73 20 74 6f 20 79 6f 75 2e 20 53 6f 6d 65 74 69 6d 65 73 2c 20 49 20 6d 75 73 74 20 68 6f 6c 64 20 6d 79 20 73 69 6c 65 6e 63 65 2e 20 4b 65 65 70 20 6d 79 20 68 65 61 64 20 64 6f 77 6e 2e
41 6c 6c 20 74 68 69 73 20 74 6f 20 73 61 79 20 2d 20 49 20 6d 69 73 73 65 64 20 79 6f 75 2c 20 49 20 74 68 69 6e 6b 2e
0d 0a</span><</type>><<nobr>><<cont append>><<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[50 72 6f 63 65 65 64 2e|01-02 iyslf 16][($PassageNo = 1) , ($transct += 1) , ($gamechapter to "01-02 if you should lie fallen")]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><</cont>><</nobr>><</switch>><div id="container">
<div id="header" onclick="toggle(this)">
<span id="header-text"></span> <div class="menutoggle"><span id="zero"><i class="fa fa-ellipsis-v" aria-hidden="true"></i> </span> <span id="one" style="bottom:-180px;">
<div class="menu-flex">
</div>
</span></div>
</div>
<div id="story">
<div id="passages">
</div>
</div>
</div>
<script>function toggle() {
var x = document.getElementById("one");
if (!x.style.bottom ||x.style.bottom === '-180px') {
x.style.bottom = '0px';
} else {
x.style.bottom = '-180px';
}
}</script><<replace ".menu-flex">><<include "menu-flex">><</replace>>
<<replace "#header-text">><<include "header-text">><</replace>><script>var myDiv = document.getElementById('passages');
myDiv.scrollTop = 0;</script><<link '<div class="menu-item"><b>00</b> go back</div>'>><<run Engine.backward()>><</link>>
<<link '<div class="menu-item"><b>01</b> transmissions</div>' 'transmissions'>><</link>>
<<link '<div class="menu-item"><b>02</b> errant frequencies</div>' 'errfreqmenu'>><</link>>
<<link '<div class="menu-item"><b>03</b> saves</div>'>><<script>>UI.saves()<</script>><</link>>
<<link '<div class="menu-item"><b>04</b> settings</div>'>><<script>>UI.settings()<</script>><</link>>lost birds / / $gamechapter<!-- HEADER -->
<<set $gamechapter = "...">>
<!-- MC -->
<<set $name = "">>
<<set $gender = "">>
<<set $person = "person">>
<<set $HeShe = "they">>
<<set $HimHer = "them">>
<<set $HisHers = "their">>
<<set $plural = false>>
<<set $MC_killer = false>>
<<set $MC_pacifist = false>>
<!-- HOUSEKEEPING -->
<<set $transct = 0>>
<<set $cardct = 0>>
<<set $ghostwounded = false>>
<<set $choice = 0>>
<<set $hunter_recruit = false>>
<<set $gunslinger_story1 = 0>>
<<set $gunslinger_story2 = 0>><<widget "name">><<print $name.toUpperFirst()>><</widget>>
<<widget "SetPronouns">><<nobr>>
/* Usage... (defaults to male) */
/* for "he": <<SetPronouns>> or <<SetPronouns "m">> */
/* for "she": <<SetPronouns "f">> */
/* for "they": <<SetPronouns "b">> */
<<switch $args[0]>>
<<case "f">>
<<set $HeShe = "she">>
<<set $HimHer = "her">>
<<set $HisHers = "her">>
<<set $person to "woman">>
<<set $plural to "false">>
<<case "b">>
<<set $HeShe = "they">>
<<set $HimHer = "them">>
<<set $HisHers = "their">>
<<set $person to "person">>
<<set $plural to "true">>
<<default>>
<<set $HeShe = "he">>
<<set $HimHer = "him">>
<<set $HisHers = "his">>
<<set $person to "man">>
<<set $plural to "false">>
<</switch>>
<</nobr>><</widget>>
<<widget "HeShe">><<print $HeShe.toUpperFirst()>><</widget>>
<<widget "HimHer">><<print $HimHer.toUpperFirst()>><</widget>>
<<widget "HisHers">><<print $HisHers.toUpperFirst()>><</widget>><style>
#header {display:none;}
#passages {width: 500vw;margin:0;margin-left:7.5vh;overflow:hidden;scrollbar-width:none;font-family:var(--monofont);transition:0s;padding:0;}
::-webkit-scrollbar {width:0px;}
.passage {text-align:center;transition:0s;margin-left:20vh;}
#passages a:before {content: none;}
#story {margin-left:0;}
h1 {text-align:center;margin-top:25vh;color:var(--white);}
@media screen and (max-width: 800px) {#story {margin:0;}}
</style>
<<set $gamechapter to "...">><center><h1>lost birds</h1><<link "New Game" "gamestart">><</link>> | <<if Save.autosave.ok() and Save.autosave.has()>><<link "Resume Game">><<script>>Save.autosave.load()<</script>><</link>> | <</if>> <<link "Load Game">><<run UI.saves()>><</link>> | <<link "Settings">><<run UI.settings()>><</link>> | [[Content Warnings|cw][$chapter to "..."]]</center><<set $gamechapter to "...">><i>lost birds</i> contains sensitive content, suitable for mature (18+) audiences. Please take a moment to review the following list of sensitive content before proceeding.
As of the current update (2.0.2), there are content warnings for:
<i>Main Game</i><ul>
<li>descriptions of blood, injuries, and gore</li>
<li>descriptions of graphic violence</li>
<li>descriptions of altered mental states</li>
<li>implied self-harm</li>
<li>implied suicide</li>
<li>tobacco and alcohol usage</li>
<li>depictions and discussion of familial violence</li>
<li>religious themes</li>
<li>significant usage of profanity</li>
</ul>
<i>Errant Freqencies (short stories)</i>
<ul>
<li>descriptions of blood, injuries, and gore</li>
<li>descriptions of graphic violence</li>
<li>descriptions of altered mental states</li>
<li>suicide</li>
<li>sexual themes</li>
<li>religious themes</li>
<li>implied cannibalism</li>
</ul>
If there is <i>any</i> other content you feel requires a warning, please let me know through any of the contact methods linked in the game page.
<<nobr>><div class = choices>
<div class = choice-item> [[Proceed.|gamestart]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[Return to menu.|home]]</div>
</div><</nobr>><b>END OF CURRENT VERSION</b>
Thank you for playing <i>lost birds</i>.
If you liked the game, consider supporting this project or checking out my other projects through the game's dashboard page, or leaving a rating and comment.
Thank you again --
Grayson.
<<nobr>><div class=proceed>
<div class = proceed-item> [[Proceed.|home][($gamechapter to "...")]]</div>
</div><</nobr>>Frontier Radio is dedicated to recording, maintaining and preserving all outgoing and incoming transmissions from affiliate and rogue stations alike.
We listen to and broadcast these stations in hope that their presence inspires hope across the Frontier, from conversations to music of the old world, and everything in between.
Frontier Radio claims no responsibility for the messages between Station 013 "Operator/Blue" and Unknown Transmitter 22-10-16 "Poet/Red", though their messages have been preserved in this database.
<<nobr>><div class = choices>
<div class = choice-item> [[View transmissions.|transmission list]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> [[View deck.|deck list]]</div>
<div class = choice-item> <<link "Return." $return>><</link>></div>
</div><</nobr>>We at Frontier Radio are just as confused as the average listener. The correspondence between a Bastion Radio operator in a certified station and a rogue station -- in hexadecimal code, no less, is anomalous.
Unknown Transmitter "Red" 22-10-16 is the 'call' code, and is referred to by the name 'poet' in conversation. Their location is unknown, but they are still actively transmitting. Station 013 "Blue" is the 'response' code, and is referred to by the name "operator" in conversation. Their location is known, as they have an official callsign, and operate out of Bastion Radio Station 13. They are still actively transmitting.
For the sake of posterity, conversations have been recorded and transcribed from their original hex below.
<<nobr>><div class = choices>
<<if $transct >= 1>><div class = choice-item><<link "Transmission 01">>
<<popover 'opaque'>>\
<span class = redtext>RED:</span> I call upon you, wind in the wires, bear my message. There is life left in these lands. There are poets who speak still with their silvered words. There is hope, to be born with the sprouting of seeds, with the joining of hands.
<p>I am one of them. Poet, seed, outstretched hand.</p>
<p>I do not wish to be alone any longer.</p>
<p>Love, carry my words, as far as this lonely tower casts its reach.</p>
<p>Let each line be a reminder, there are beautiful things left.</p>
<hr>
<span class = bluetext>BLUE:</span> Outsider, be warned. There are still people who use these lines. You have stumbled across something that you do not fully understand yet -- and I'm afraid you're putting yourself in danger.
<p>These lines are not safe. Not secure. They are kept clear to relay important information, they were used once to communicate doomsday. This is not the place for the hopeless fool's love poetry.</p>
<p>You'll bring death to your doorstep, poet.</p>
<p>For your safety -- please discontinue use of your transmission equipment.</p>
\<</popover>>
<</link>></div><</if>>
<<if $transct >= 2>><div class = choice-item><<link "Transmission 02">>
<<popover 'opaque'>>\
<span class = redtext>RED:</span> I have learned, in all the years I have walked this Earth, before and after its scorching, that there is truly nothing to fear.
<p>Nature does not bend its knee. It cannot be controlled, and thus cannot be feared. Such were the sins of our forefathers, each man thinking he would be the first to master the forces of our world.</p>
<p>Man has tried to stoop and silence me, time and time again. I cannot be controlled, and thus, I am nature. I will not be silent. I am the thunderstorm and the wind, the rain and the floods.</p>
<p>I am as free as the birds, I soar, elated to hear another's voice. And though you offer caution, I must refuse.</p>
<p>I call upon you, whisper in the wires. Speak freely, without fear. Raise your voice to the wind, to the thunder, meet me where the birds circle, high above.</p>
<hr>
<span class = bluetext>BLUE:</span> You're bold. I'll give you that much.
<p>Maybe stupid. Maybe I'm just as stupid for responding.</p>
<p>I have a lot of questions for you, poet. I don't think I could put into words the strangeness of your sudden correspondence.</p>
<p>Who are you? How'd you know to send the messages? Why the poetic cadence, why not just state the obvious, why make me dig through your words and sort meaning myself?</p>
<p>Is this code? Some conspiracy? Are there others like you, poet, who fill the long-dead airways with new words?</p>
<p>What's your story?</p>
\<</popover>>
<</link>></div><</if>>
<<if $transct >= 3>><div class = choice-item><<link "Transmission 03">>
<<popover 'opaque'>>\
<span class = redtext>RED:</span> I am every living soul left in this world, their collective cries, the murmur of the waking earth. The will of man to create, to love and find purpose in the ruins.
<p>I clawed my way from the remnants of the old world. I awoke somewhere deep into the new forests; I found myself in a clearing, amidst wreckage, final transmission still playing. I called it prophecy. I let it be my purpose. I have carried tapes and codebooks; I carried them when I was but a man, and my purpose was war, ruin, injury.</p>
<p>I wrote then, of course. Operational documents, after action paperwork. I thought myself nothing greater than a signature on a dotted line.</p>
<p>This tower, operator, is a gift. My travels have taken me far from that forest, from the crash, from the end. I no longer burn books and drop bombs. I will write, I will create from where I destroyed.</p>
<p>I am part of no conspiracy. I have seen few faces in my wanderings. I have heard few voices, save for yours, operator. You who has dubbed me "outsider" and "poet".</p>
<p>Does the title feel as good on your tongue as it does mine?</p>
<hr>
<span class = bluetext>BLUE:</span> You call me "operator", poet. My title is as apt as yours. I observe.
<p>I've heard too many final broadcasts. I don't mean to scare you. But this is the truth.</p>
<p>There have been others like you, poet. You are the first voice I have heard in a long time. The others don't last long after their first transmission.</p>
<p>They track the signal. They send their men in black. I listen, I stay quiet, I don't make a single sound -- nothing that could be transcribed. I wait for the printouts at my station. The incoming transmission, the chaos, transcribed in their neat little pairs and then that damned thing, signal terminated.</p>
<p>It's three long tones, and then static. I move on to the next.</p>
<p>I have never watched someone die. I have never killed anyone, I think.</p>
<p>I think there's blood on my hands still, poet.</p>
\<</popover>>
<</link>></div><</if>>
<<if $transct >= 4>><div class = choice-item><<link "Transmission 04">>
<<popover 'opaque'>>\
<span class = redtext>RED:</span> No soul is blameless, operator. There is not one person left whose hands are clean.
<p>Do not take this as a measure of guilt, friend. Do not despair, do not let this be a defeat. There are no clean hands, yes, but there is something to be said for reaching out, despite the blood on your fingers.</p>
<p>Find hope, find strength in that. You cannot truly be free of the burden your nation places upon you, the flag you wear on your back. But you can do better.</p>
<p>I know you can.</p>
<p>You have shown me as much, operator.</p>
<hr>
<span class = bluetext>BLUE:</span>Poet, you are wise beyond your years. I think. I know next to nothing about you, other than what I can guess.
<p>You were a soldier, you fought in the War, you were in a plane crash. You were "once a man". You speak about a nation, and the flag on my back, and I know now that you were Union, when there still was a Union.</p>
<p>I was Corporation. Now Contingency. Though I think you could have guessed that by my callsign, by my location, by my warning. I have never belonged to a nation. I have never carried a flag.</p>
<p>Still, you're talking about treason, poet. Your suggestion is betrayal.</p>
<p>And I admit, poet -- isn't this what I've been doing this whole time?</p>
<p>My duty is to report rogue stations. And I have become one, for the sake of your words.</p>
\<</popover>>
<</link>></div><</if>>
<<if $transct >= 5>><div class = choice-item><<link "Transmission 05">>
<<popover 'opaque'>>\
<span class = redtext>RED:</span> I find myself speechless, operator. I wonder, how desperate, how lonely one must be. If you will forgive my disbelief, and the current of cynicism that attaches itself, parasite. If you will forgive my assumption -- I will speak freely.
<p>You have seen others, the same as I -- poets of the waves, winds in the wires, a whisper in the quiet -- you have seen others. You know others, your numbered brothers and sisters, who bear names found in ancient mythologies, and the names of animals long extinct, who carry nicknames amongst the wild men of the frontier, things meant to deride, to insult, things like "murderer.", things like "vulture", things like "omen" and "curse".</p>
<p>You have seen others. Did you warn them as you warned me? You have spoken with others, you have heard their signals go dark.</p>
<p>I wonder, is this why you have told me of your guilt, of the blood on your hands? You have spoken with others. I have yet to find another voice on these waves, save for your Remnant propaganda and the frontiersmen -- timid, practical folk who broadcast weather and trade in hushed tones, have yet to be silenced entirely but do not respond to those desperate, you and me, do not respond, only broadcast until they blink out of existence, one by one.</p>
<p>I have yet to hear another voice like mine. One who speaks in return. None but you and your numbered siblings, you who warn and threaten, augurs, omens, curses.</p>
<p>What of the dead prophets and poets?</p>
<p>Did they trust you, before you condemned them to their fates?</p>
<hr>
<p><span class = bluetext>BLUE:</span><span class = flashback> There is no correspondence. The "end message" button has been pressed thrice, with a three-count period of silence between each.</span></p>
\<</popover>>
<</link>></div><</if>>
<<if $transct >= 6>><div class = choice-item><<link "Transmission 06">>
<<popover 'opaque'>>\
<span class = redtext>RED:</span>Operator?
<p>Forgive me, please. I fear I have spoken too rashly, too harshly. I fear I have wounded with my cynicism, with my mistrust. I am not one to believe that you cannot be changed, for I have changed. I spoke plainly of it, I entrusted you with it, I bore my soul to you in our neat pairings of numbers. It was foolish of me to assume, it was cruel of me to assume, to accuse, to seek wounds with a barbed tongue, with venom in my spit, I am sorry.</p>
<p>I am well and truly sorry, Operator. I speak now with no ill-intent. I believe you.</p>
<p>My rogue operator, I wish you safety. If you are true to your word, then I have put you in as grave a danger as I myself undertake. If I have wounded you, if I have killed you, if I have compromised you, driven you out into the wilds, then I shall never speak again in atonement. I would lament as the birds do, I would cry to the heavens, to the unhearing sky, how cruel, how cruel a fate. I would dash my equipment upon the rocks, I would set off one final time with nary a voice and would never speak again, lest I hurt another.</p>
<p>Operator, if you can forgive me, speak again. Let the sound of your voice ease my aching soul.</p>
<hr>
<p><span class = bluetext>BLUE:</span><span class = flashback> There is no correspondence. The "end message" button has been pressed thrice, with a three-count period of silence between each.</span></p>
\<</popover>>
<</link>></div><</if>>
<<if $transct >= 7>><div class = choice-item><<link "Transmission 07">>
<<popover 'opaque'>>\
<span class = redtext>RED:</span>Operator, please.
<p>I do not wish to be alone again. I do not wish to be outsider again, do not wish for my words to carry through these wires, and find nobody, find nothing. I have stretched my hands and words to you, to all the wastes, laid my soul to bear, I beseech you, answer.</p>
<p>Please.</p>
<hr>
<p><span class = bluetext>BLUE:</span><span class = flashback> The "end message" button is pressed once before text is returned. The text reads:</span></p>
<p>Poet?</p>
<p><span class = flashback>This text is then followed by the "end message" button being pressed twice, with a three-count period of silence between each.</span></p>
\<</popover>>
<</link>></div><</if>>
<<if $transct >= 8>><div class = choice-item><<link "Transmission 08">>
<<popover 'opaque'>>\
<span class = redtext>RED:</span>Operator, please.
<p>Please, I beseech thee, I prostrate myself before the heavens, I beg, I pray to a god we have struck from the sky, let your transmission not be fluke or echo.
<p>Please.</p>
<p>I cannot bear the weight alone, I cannot. I fear the dark and the silence and wish only for the sound of your voice, for the message tone, for the reassurance that your speech brings. I have carved my heart from my chest and given it to you, I spread my bloody fingers in prayer.</p>
<p>Please. Answer me, if you have not been struck from the face of this earth, if I have not wounded you so gravely that we both might cease to be. And if you cannot, let me turn the instrument of your destruction upon myself, let me die alongside you, sever these wires and slash my throat.</p>
<hr>
<p><span class = bluetext>BLUE:</span>Poet?</p>
<p>Poet, am I too late? My friend, I had thought I was doomed, that I had been found out. I didn't mean to scare you. I didn't want to scare you. I forgive you, as I haven't been all too honest nor transparent. I understand that you may be scared of me.</p>
<p>Let me assuage these fears. Please, if you can accept my apology, respond. Let me hear your voice again.</p>
\<</popover>>
<</link>></div><</if>>
<<if $transct >= 9>><div class = choice-item><<link "Transmission 09">>
<<popover 'opaque'>>\
<span class = redtext>RED:</span>Operator, the sound of your voice is a blessing upon this earth. Is a boon from the gods, is the condensation of clouds and the falling of rain. Is the blossoming of desert flowers, a rare gift, a unique one -- a sound like nothing that has come before and nothing that will come after. Friend, forgive me. I ask only that you forgive me -- for I was cruel and swift in my judgment of you. I spoke rashly and harshly. I fear that I wounded you. Let me heal your wounds, let me be a compassionate caretaker to the hearth we had started to construct.
<p>Let us return to our conversation, if you would be as so kind to allow it.</p>
<hr>
<p><span class = bluetext>BLUE:</span>You don't need to apologize to me, Poet. I gave you no reason to trust me. None at all. I do appreciate you returning my transmissions. There will be silence again, I'm afraid. But that's life, isn't it? Sometimes the skies are clear, sometimes there's rain. Sometimes I can speak freely, can sing to the heavens -- as you would say -- and carefully draft my replies to you. Sometimes, I must hold my silence. Keep my head down.</p>
<p>All this to say -- I missed you, I think.</p>
\<</popover>>
<</link>></div><</if>>
<div class = choice-item>[[Return to Frontier Radio.|transmissions]]</div>
<div class = choice-item><<link "Return." $return>><</link>></div>
</div><</nobr>>Frontier Radio has recorded several transmissions from a location near Hope, along the Colorado/Utah border, a station dubbed "Seer". <span class = flashback>(curator's note: is this the same person as poet/red? is this someone else entirely?)</span> A computerized voice reads fortunes, predictions, the weather and occasionally, odd descriptions of tarot cards.
This intern (curator) has gathered and preserved the recordings of the cards, and is slowly building a deck. This intern notes that this project is unmonitored and unfunded, and would appreciate the archive not being reported to their manager at Frontier Radio.
<<nobr>><div class = choices>
<<if $cardct >= 0>><div class = choice-item><<link "00: The Fool">>
<<popover 'opaque'>>\
[00] THE FOOL
<hr>
<p>[00.01] innocence; which you have long since left behind. Once a friend, now, buried shallow in the sand. Bloody hands. Screams in the dark. A fading face, a fear of daybreak.</p>
<p>[00.02] new beginnings; a well rehearsed lie. A fake name and smile. Desperation turned into a weapon, recognition turned into terror. Refusal of the self.</p>
<p>[00.03] free spirit; turning its face to the rain. Gleeful laughter as the storm rises from the reflection. Water on bare skin. A baptism of sorts.</p>
<hr>
<p>[00.01] recklessness; the light failing too fast. A leap of faith, a trust misplaced. Hastily linked hands. Losing your grip.</p>
<p>[00.02] naivete; the extended hand the same as the claws that rake your back. The teeth that nip at your heels the same as the too-bright smile. The venom the same as the honeyed words that led you here.</p>
<hr>
<p><span class = flashback>74 68 65 20 62 65 67 69 6e 6e 69 6e 67 20 6f 66 20 61 20 6a 6f 75 72 6e 65 79 2e 20 74 68 65 20 62 65 67 69 6e 6e 69 6e 67 20 6f 66 20 74 68 65 20 65 6e 64 2e</span></p>
\<</popover>>
<</link>></div><</if>>
<<if $cardct >= 1>><div class = choice-item><<link "01: The Magician">>
<<popover 'opaque'>>\
[01] THE MAGICIAN
<hr>
<p>[01.01] willpower; inch by inch, hand over hand. Forward. Footfall by footfall, the mismatched prints dark blemishes on the mirror flats. Forward, forward until</p>
<p>[01.02] desire; the hunger that leaves your lips bloody. A thirst for life that borders lust. Sink your teeth deep, do not let go, do not let go, lest the emptiness return. Drink deeply, and do not fear the spring, consume until</p>
<p>[01.03] creation; let there be light. I am become Death, destroyer of worlds. An alchemist's dream, lead into gold, a biologist's dream, evolution at the brush of light. A dreamer's dream, a beautiful and terrible idea into a heartbeat that flutters like a bird in your hands, flutters until</p>
<hr>
<p>[01.01] trickery; a knife in the dark. Dark eyes. Heavy hands, a rough palm covering your mouth. A trusted body, a warm heart. Love seeping like blood until</p>
<p>[01.02] manipulation; the marionette and its strings. A noose around your neck and the executioner's orders. Step forward to your fate. Limbs not your own, metal fingers wrapped around your throat. A puppet, a soldier, a fool. Die for your country, kill the enemy, understand nothing and fear even less until</p>
<p>[01.03] illusions; the many-mirrored reflection in the salt sand. The mirage that flickers, the water that eludes your cracked lips. The soft hand on your cheek, the whispered promise. Flashes and shades of the past like the lightning on the long distant horizon. Chase them, these prophecies of memory, until</p>
<hr>
<p><span class = flashback>55 6e 74 69 6c 20 49 20 72 65 74 75 72 6e 2e 20 4c 6f 76 65 2c 20 49 20 62 65 67 2c 20 68 6f 6c 64 20 6e 65 69 74 68 65 72 20 68 6f 70 65 20 6e 6f 72 20 62 72 65 61 74 68 20 66 6f 72 20 6d 65 2d 20 49 20 77 6f 6e e2 80 99 74 20 65 76 65 72 20 63 6f 6d 65 20 68 6f 6d 65 2e</span></p>
\<</popover>>
<</link>></div><</if>>
<<if $cardct >= 2>><div class = choice-item><<link "02: The High Priestess">>
<<popover 'opaque'>>\
[02] THE HIGH PRIESTESS
<hr>
<p>[02.01] the unconscious; that which cannot be known. Dreams and prophecy, the blind woman dealing cards. Oracle, she tells you, is a gift that does not need sight. The Tower. Death. And one more, unfamiliar, a card with no number. She calls it Apocalypse.</p>
<p>[02.02] intuition; the eyes in the back of your head. The scramble to high ground when storm clouds loom. The way the air tastes before rain, ozone and damp earth. Knowing without knowing, a premonition of action, a ghost of the future. A recurring nightmare.</p>
<p>[02.03] spirituality; the prayer you screamed at the sky. The zealots in their hooded robes, who murmur the words burnt into their skin, who dare to traverse the Dead Lands. The pilgrim fallen to their knees before a towering field of thorns, the ground humming with hatred. Gods that died with the people, gods that arose with the land.</p>
<hr>
<p>[02.01] confusion; are you there? Stumbling, falling while standing. Can you hear me? The too-bright sun and the horrible pressure between your ears and the roar of silence and the haze that clouds your memories and thoughts and turns them to questions. Are you there? Can you hear me?</p>
<p>[02.02] superficiality; nothing below the surface. Dreams of oceanic depths, of slipping beneath the waves. Waking in a puddle. Nothing more. Nothing hidden. Nothing left to hide. Trying to drown, deeper, deeper, deeper. Nothing waits at the bottom.</p>
<p>[02.03] dissonance; a tale in two parts. Liar. Truthseeker. Two sides of the same coin. A conflict, both the enemy and the hero, the dragon to be slain and the sword that slays it. You are better than this. Liar. You will survive this. Liar.</p>
<hr>
<p><span class = flashback>[4b 6e 6f 77 20 77 68 61 74 20 63 61 6e 6e 6f 74 20 62 65 20 6b 6e 6f 77 6e 2c 20 73 65 65 20 77 68 61 74 20 63 61 6e 6e 6f 74 20 62 65 20 73 65 65 6e 2c 20 73 70 65 61 6b 20 74 68 65 20 77 6f 72 64 73 20 6c 65 66 74 20 75 6e 73 70 6f 6b 65 6e 2e 20 54 68 65 72 65 2c 20 79 6f 75 20 77 69 6c 6c 20 66 69 6e 64 20 6d 65]</span></p>
\<</popover>>
<</link>></div><</if>>
<<if $cardct >= 3>><div class = choice-item><<link "03: The Empress">>
<<popover 'opaque'>>\
[03] THE EMPRESS
<hr>
<p>[03.01] nature; the way that life rose from the ashes. Not the people. The people had long removed themselves from nature. But the animals, who took on new forms to survive, the plants that grow without seeing the sun, the many, many things that move the earth -- they flourish in the land that denies its most faithless inhabitants.</p>
<p>[03.02] beauty; the way that life rose from the ashes. A fleeting glimpse from across the room, the woman with bright eyes, the man with a kind smile. The way that the sun catches every facet of every surface, turns it to gold. Strong hands and supple frames and the way that the land ripples and almost breathes like a tired lover, beautiful in a way that takes understanding. Beautiful in a way that denies expectation.</p>
<p>[03.03] nurturing; the way that life rose from the ashes. The tired farmer coaxing growth from the soil, praying, begging, lamenting for a harvest. A scientific curiosity for that which grows and flourishes without the careful guiding hand of man. The frontier raising a generation who will dare reclaim it. The Dead Lands giving life to life strange and wild and beautiful all the same.</p>
<hr>
<p>[03.01] negligence; the way that life fell to broken shards. Creation and mastery abandoned, their favor lost on you, who would turn your back on this world and the next. A cruel mother, who dares not touch their child, lest they spoil it. Forget me, forget your promise. Turn your back, I beg.</p>
<p>[03.02] overbearing; the way that life fell to broken shards. A hand too firm on the reins yields naught but a beast that will buck its rider to run free. An eye too watchful breeds resentment and a mastery of living in the shadows. Intensity matched with opposition creates conflict, a plot in the dark. Suffocation, in more ways than one.</p>
<hr>
<p><span class = flashback>[44 6f 6e e2 80 99 74 20 68 75 72 74 20 6d 65 20 70 6c 65 61 73 65 2c 20 49 20 62 65 67 2e 20 54 68 69 73 20 77 6f 72 6c 64 20 68 61 73 20 64 6f 6e 65 20 65 6e 6f 75 67 68 2e 20 49 20 68 61 76 65 20 64 6f 6e 65 20 65 6e 6f 75 67 68 2e]</span></p>
\<</popover>>
<</link>></div><</if>>
<<if $cardct >=4>><div class = choice-item><<link "04: The Emperor">>
<<popover 'opaque'>>\
[04] THE EMPEROR
<hr>
<p>[04.01] authority; the leader of a town that rose from nothing. Judge, a measure of fairness, a proper trial. Jury, a peer of the condemned, one whose opinion is law. And executioner, wielding a long rifle and a length of rope. Lawmaker, spoken word codified into rules and regulations, the power of the process. And lawman, a star pinned to her chest, the promise to protect and serve until her last breath.</p>
<p>[04.02] control; a tight hand on the reins. Power and the understanding that it can be abused. Careful planning, careful execution. A sharp shot, a dead-eyed duelist and hunter of man and beast alike. Knowing when to stop. And when to let go.</p>
<p>[04.03] protection; a final stand. A devotion to the town that she built herself. A devotion to the woman she loves. Firing from the street and rooftop, forced inside by lead hail. And there, where it ended. A human shield against harm. A woman who broke. Scars and a burial.</p>
<hr>
<p>[04.01] tyranny; an iron fist. There were hard decisions to be made. She made them. There were laws to uphold, draconian as they may be. For the greater good, she tells herself. The greater good requires sacrifice, she tells herself. The greater good requires debts to be repaid in blood.</p>
<p>[04.02] coldness; the fear in the dead man's eyes. It takes ruthlessness to survive out here, she knows. Ruthless does not mean cruel, she knows. But it is easy to misconstrue them, that perfect path from start to end, that disregard for the means -- with disdain and wrath. Too easy to slip off the path. Too easy to leave bodies swaying in the wind, to leave her enemies dying, her name the last thing on their lips.</p>
<hr>
<p><span class = flashback>[44 6f 20 6e 6f 74 20 6d 69 73 74 61 6b 65 20 6d 79 20 6b 69 6e 64 6e 65 73 73 20 66 6f 72 20 77 65 61 6b 6e 65 73 73 2e 20 44 6f 20 6e 6f 74 20 6d 69 73 74 61 6b 65 20 6d 79 20 63 72 75 65 6c 74 79 20 66 6f 72 20 69 6e 6a 75 73 74 69 63 65 2e]</span></p>
\<</popover>>
<</link>></div><</if>>
<<if $cardct >=5>><div class = choice-item><<link "05: The Heirophant">>
<<popover 'opaque'>>\
[05] THE HIEROPHANT
<hr>
<p>[05.01] tradition; the tattoos on its body. Warnings. From the homeland, from where the ground is ruptured with a thousand Thorns and the caves beneath hum and sing with metal. The rituals and the sting of a needle in its skin. Black ink, the lines made by the blind elder, following the flow of song and story. The only carrier of those words. The last line of their story.</p>
<p>[05.02] morality; standing over the soldier. Easy to kill. Humans are slower, weaker, less capable. The human soldier raises their hands. It does not kill those who surrender. It does not kill those who fight well. It does not desecrate the dead, nor their burial sites. It does not steal or cheat nor lie. To the fallen soldier, it bows. And then disappears into the night.</p>
<p>[05.03] conformity; green, gray, black. Camouflage. Don't stand out. Standing out is a death sentence. There are things out there that will get you. There are things at home that are worse. Answer the questions. Don't ask questions of your own. Do without thinking. Without questioning. It is better that way. Easier. Safer. Don't you want to be safe?</p>
<hr>
<p>[05.01] rebellion; the gentle hands lowering its hood. A face not too different from its own. They ask its name. It does not know how to speak their language; it does not have a name in their language. From a pocket, a smooth stone, a pale green lichen. Presented with cupped hands. Their face lights up. “Moss!” Yes. That will do.</p>
<p>[05.02] unconventionality; thinking on its feet. Seeing a way forward where others find nothing. A vertical scramble, an attack from below. Hunting in the darkest depths of the night, when nothing else dares. Improvised weapons and combat, using wits to survive better armed foes. Strike and disappear, impossible to find. A ghost walking amongst humans.</p>
<p>[05.03] non-conformity; setting out on its own. Never once fitting in. Too human for the communities amongst the Thorns. And far too alien for the frontier towns. Wandering alone, a home in the ruins that bring them many travelers and foes alike. Blending into the landscape. And sticking out like a sore thumb amongst the people.</p>
<hr>
<p><span class = flashback>[62 61 63 6b 73 20 75 70 20 6c 69 6b 65 20 61 20 68 75 72 74 20 61 6e 69 6d 61 6c 20 73 63 61 72 65 64 20 65 79 65 73 20 61 6e 64 20 68 61 6e 64 73 20 70 72 65 73 73 65 64 20 74 6f 20 66 61 63 65 20 6e 6f 74 20 61 20 73 6f 75 6e 64 20 6e 6f 74 20 61 20 73 69 6e 67 6c 65 20 73 6f 75 6e 64 20 69 74 20 62 65 67 73 20 79 6f 75 20 77 69 74 68 6f 75 74 20 73 70 65 61 6b 69 6e 67 20 77 68 79 20 77 6f 75 6c 64 20 79 6f 75 20 68 75 72 74 20 6d 65 20 69 20 6a 75 73 74 20 77 61 6e 74 65 64 20 61 20 66 61 6d 69 6c 79]</span></p>
\<</popover>>
<</link>></div><</if>>
<<if $cardct >=6>><div class = choice-item><<link "06: The Lovers">>
<<popover 'opaque'>>\
[06] THE LOVERS
<hr>
<p>[06.01] partnership; the way that people come together. Holding hands, the purest form of contact. A handshake, a promise made with intertwined fingers. Wedding rings, and missing ring fingers. Partners, with or without the symbolism.</p>
<p>[06.02] duality; the way that people come together. Opposites attract. The extremes level out, a balance of dark and light, of have and have not. Secrets met with honesty, cruelty met with a warm embrace. Emptiness met with such fulfillment that there cannot be emptiness again. One and the same, one needing the other.</p>
<p>[06.03] love; the way that people come together. The way that in the darkest time, humans will lean on each other. The way that it searched the ruins for the one who graced their lips with a name. The refusal to abandon ceremony, an exchange of rings under a starlit arch. Bad decisions and confusing mornings, the events of the night before a blurry rush of joy.</p>
<hr>
<p>[06.01] disharmony; the way that people fall apart. A power vacuum. A misstep. Crossed boundaries and broken glass. Left to pick up the pieces. And start again. Such is the resilience of love. Such is the danger of love.</p>
<p>[06.02] imbalance; the way that people fall apart. Opposites attract. But they are opposites for a reason. Extremes are still extremes, tendencies written in stone. The secrets prevail, trust broken. Cruelty accepts the embrace of kindness, plants a knife in their heart. And emptiness always returns. Always.</p>
<p>[06.03]; conflict; the way people fall apart. If humans are good at one thing, it is conflict. Wars as large as a continent or capable of engulfing a home, fought with weapons of mass destruction and words. The hurt that comes from laying your heart bare. The hurt that comes from heartbreak. The pain of your most inner self being wounded, left abandoned to die. Mankind is good at hurting. Of that, there is no doubt.</p>
<hr>
<p><span class = flashback>[54 68 69 73 20 66 61 69 6c 75 72 65 2c 20 6e 6f 20 66 61 69 6c 75 72 65 20 66 6f 72 20 6c 6f 76 65 2e]</span></p>
\<</popover>>
<</link>></div><</if>>
<<if $cardct >= 7>><div class = choice-item><<link "07: The Chariot">>
<<popover 'opaque'>>\
[07] THE CHARIOT
<hr>
<p>[07.01] self-discipline; the way he was broken. Bootcamp makes a man out of a boy. Makes a killer out of a man. Teaches not stray too far from the path. Keeps a single track mind, allows you to forget, frees you from morality. He tells himself, good soldiers follow orders. He wants to believe. Those are his orders. A good soldier follows orders.</p>
<p>[07.02] ambition; the praise of the uniformed men. He was a good soldier. Wanted to be the best. They take and take and take and only ever reward you for sinking your teeth in, for drawing blood, for savagery and hatred and the anger that boils in your veins and paints the world in red. He would do whatever they asked, always wanting more. Always. Those are his orders. A good soldier follows orders.</p>
<p>[07.03] determination; the days in the desert. Do good soldiers follow orders? No. A soldier no longer. Threw down his arms. Made his stand. Paid the price. Won't die here. Doesn't want to die here. Forward. Trailing blood across the desert. He has no orders. A good soldier follows orders.</p>
<hr>
<p>[07.01] lack of control; the way he was broken. Already gone. Long gone. So why do you keep hitting him? Orders. Good soldiers follow orders. Failed those orders. So it pays in blood. Raises a fist. Feels his voice break, hears a distant scream. Those are his orders. A free man follows no orders.</p>
<p>[07.02] aggression; the praise of the uniformed men. A bloody grin, bared teeth. Snarled threats, a mist of rage. Get up, he howls at the person on the ground. He wants to fight. He wants to tear them apart, to hear his handler's praise. Get up, he begs. Let me kill you, he begs. Those are his orders. A free man follows no orders.</p>
<p>[07.03] lack of direction; the days in the desert. Doesn't know where he's going. Just patches up the worst of the injuries and tries to walk. One step at a time. One agonizing step at a time. The things in the desert tell him the truth, fill the gaps in his blurry memory. Until his thoughts are the screams of the damned. He has no orders. A free man follows no orders.</p>
<hr>
<p><span class = flashback>[53 6f 6c 64 69 65 72 3f 20 53 6f 6c 64 69 65 72 2c 20 61 72 65 20 79 6f 75 20 74 68 65 72 65 3f 20 57 68 61 74 20 68 61 76 65 20 74 68 65 79 20 64 6f 6e 65 20 74 6f 20 79 6f 75 3f 20 44 6f 20 79 6f 75 20 6b 6e 6f 77 20 77 68 61 74 20 79 6f 75 20 68 61 76 65 20 64 6f 6e 65 3f 20 43 61 6e 20 79 6f 75 20 6c 69 76 65 20 77 69 74 68 20 74 68 65 20 6b 6e 6f 77 6c 65 64 67 65 3f 20 54 68 65 20 63 6f 6e 73 65 71 75 65 6e 63 65 73 3f]</span></p>
\<</popover>>
<</link>></div><</if>>
<div class = choice-item>[[Return to Frontier Radio.|transmissions]]</div>
<div class = choice-item><<link "Return." $return>><</link>></div>
</div><</nobr>>