Post-Singularity Fiction Anthology, VOL.3

Post-Singularity Fiction Anthology, VOL.3

Works of Cyren Pligmolon Edited by Buroon Cicil

The following works were initially written for

The Wanderers’ Library by: Limeyy, Elenee FishTruck, R4_EX, & JakdragonX

Arranged in this format by: DodoDevil

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Table of Contents:

I Cannot Recall my First Thought

6

Limeyy The Totem In Air

16

Elenee FishTruck The Joy of Creation

22

R4_EX Stratosphere

28

Elenee FishTruck Simply Shall Not Be

36

JakdragonX They Are Wrong Limeyy

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t o n n a C I l l a c Re

t s r i F y m t h g u o h T

- Limeyy

8

I Cannot Recall my First Thought

I cannot recall my first thought.

B

ut I do remember standing in the presence of a Cairn, no taller than my shoulder. Glowing green grass ebbed and flowed around what was little more than a haphazard pile of stones in the center of an endless expanse. Even in such rudimentary structures, there is craftmanship. A level of precision that if it was any other way — if even a single stone was out of place — the entire pillar would simply collapse in on itself, a cacophony of noise and visuals as stone, devoid of purpose, dissolved into nothingness. And yet here it stands, perfect in its unstable equilibrium, working exactly as designed with not a piece out of place amidst the simmering chaos.

This Cairn, however, was built by William Katzmann. I think of his name, and information rushes in to fill the void where a person once wasn’t. Katzmann will be an architect, one of the grandest in T he Sing ularity . I never had the pleasure of making his acquaintance, although this fact makes me uncomfortable, and as such it is decided that we met 13 years ago in this very same field.

Limeyy

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I Cannot Recall my First Thought

Limeyy

I do not recall my first thought.

But I do recall my conversation with Katzmann. I look back to the Cairn and it is a stone-brick tower, sprawling to the infinity above me, much as it had been those 13 years ago. Katzmann was a charismatic man, with a great passion for what he did. He talked for hours about architecture and very little of anything else.

As he leaned on his first creation, he described wonders spanning The Singularity . He spoke of skyscrapers of boulders, of castles stretching beyond perception and of esoteric structures whose sole purpose was merely to exist.

I stood as they appeared around me, each a masterwork in their own right. Tesselated bricks in patterns that swooped and glid through the air effortlessly. Patterns dizzyingly complex shifted and churned within vast walls until I could imagine no more.

It was a marvel to behold, but soon Katzmann and I ran out of things to talk about, and he was no more.

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I Cannot Recall my First Thought

And yet, I do not recall my first thought.

I imagine a time before my conversation with Katzmann, and it has happened. History abhors a vacuum. 15 years ago, long before I had concieved of the architect, I wandered across a bridge of light spanning the cosmos. The majesty of a thousand stars surrounded me, bathing me in their warm starshine as I strolled from here onto forever. An eternity passed. The stars burned into nothing. I simply walked into the darkness — and contemplated, thinking every thought there is to be had. Of being. Of the endless expanse around me. Of The Singularity . The specifics of these thoughts elude me, but this does not make me uncomfortable. They are irrelevant to the experience.

And yet, this is not my first thought.

Limeyy

I look back, and experiences fill the gap as fast as I can remember them. 16 years ago, I saw a butterfly fly past me, dancing between sunbeams. 45 years ago, I spoke for millennia about philosophy and maths with Nobody Importan t , of the wonders of existence I can no longer remember. 378 years ago, I stood among jagged spires as the sun beat down above me in a desert of my own design. A million years ago, I stood in front of a Cairn and marveled at how something so irregular could hold itself together.

And yet, I cannot recall my first thought.

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14

I Cannot Recall my First Thought

Dizzyingly fast, I search further and further back in the vain hope to find what I am looking for. Panic explodes within my chest as more and more memories I’ve never thought of before fill the void where time wasn’t. I struggle to keep my head above the tide as memories flood in. I remember doing everything I’ve ever wanted to. I remember doing everything I’d never want to do. I remember every permutation of every sequence of events that could ever happen. But there is still more, there is never a first. This realization knocks me to my knees as the field around me dissolves into a featureless void. Why do I not have a first thought? Why have I always been? Why does this feel… imperfect?

Elsewhere, a single stone falls out a Cairn.

It begins to tip.

Limeyy

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The m e t o T

In r i A - Elenee FishTruck

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The Totem In Air

I

ts monolithic visage over the Earthen landscape insinuates a straight, narrow path, but one more accurately describes the Bridge as a cropped streak of tumultuous ocean, each facet breaking into and swarming over others. The Bridge extends inland, yew trees twisting and contorting into their compatriots, branches like spiders’ webs, trunks pulsating all directions in an eternal sway. They dance without wind. The atmosphere thick with artificial air, sulfurous and sweet in equal measure, chokes local weather.

The traveler may understand the Bridge begins 200 meters into the Solberry Trail, while others interpret the start several hundred meters away in either direction. The classification besides, sometime into that winding path past dense, tentacle-like branches and muddied greenish brown ascends the Bridge.

Although one doesn’t perceive its sudden 80% incline, local gravity ensuring safe travel, the perspective shift illuminates a previously imperceptible chaos beyond the canopy. Uncountable trinkets and gadgets, keepsakes and toys, supplies and heirlooms,

Elenee FishTruck

among variously mangled, blank-staring simulacra. Most all the created persons here lie in disaster, missing arms, legs, mouths, heads. To focus on one of a million million corners, a head, cauterized at the neck’s base, stares wildly in all directions, pupils constantly agitated, and an open metal box lies aside. Countless stacks of metal boxes surround the head like a castle. The head’s mouth is permanently agape.

The impression recalls a Medusa victim, petrified with fear.

Looking at the head, you imagine yourself in the mythical gorgon’s position, and indeed a stone barrier manifests between you and the anguished crown.

Most objects meet the same fate, only for another object or simulacrum to take its place.

One sight can disappear instantly from view, as the lack of a clear trail prohibits the finding of one’s way save further up. You step over debris, ditches, and giant plant life to ascend. The Bridge continues.

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The Totem In Air

Several hundred feet up, the ruins of stone architecture spiral from its center, up and out like an octopus. Towers rise past the side limits in all directions. A massive, central chamber inside contains staircases to all other branches. The engulfing space seems to trap visitors like a swallowing mouth, stuck in place by its omnipresence. All sides, all angles. Despite the massive display, the castle inside is bare save an enormous framed portrait, depicting a robed and scowling King Jones the First.

In the late physical era, Jones, half-cousin of the then-British royal, claimed ascendancy to the thrown via a convoluted family path. Media regarded Jones as a curiosity and a joke, and followed his life extensively. Photographers never caught Jones, both outside and inside, without a yellow royal mantle. He raised a yellow flag atop his country estate. With his numerous servants, he enacted and re-enacted royal parades throughout London, and stood for hundreds of portraits.

In late-winter, the estate went silent. No servants, no flag, no portraits. Trespassers photographed total absence within the house.

Several thousand meters up, clouds fog the Bridge, and chaos diminishes. A clearly defined trail forms, packed with dirt, stone, and gems. Here, a different complexity arises: an outpost of tents. One dark silhouette, rolling in his sleeping bag, rouses from dream .

He says that he came up out of desperation, escape. He couldn’t live with his wife anymore, with his children. Not for eternity, he says. He’s made a tiny camp on the outskirts of the Bridge.

Tents lie small and dark on the thin plain, except his sole illumi-

Elenee FishTruck

nated dwelling. He calls it Solberry Place. He swears one can see Solberry from here, climbing the Bridge like a beanstalk.

Several million miles up, stars consume the terrain, and the trail has diminished to specs of land connected by threads. One false step presents no danger; the nanopreserversbridge the gaps.

The trail wisps up and down, sinks and ascends. One may climb to their heart’s content.

One may climb to the planet Mars, past the asteroid belt, past the Solar System, billions upon billions of miles, and the Bridge would continue with them. One may find the ruined satellite Voyager, with its golden disc meant for eyes unknown, and climb upon it, and let the arc of artificial material follow them.

The Bridge continues.

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The y o J

of n o i t a e r C

- R4_EX

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The Joy of Creation

I

t had been some time since I’d seen such a strange sight. Before me stood a strange natural formation, formed of regular sectors that linked together piece after piece. Even though it was stationary, it felt as if each segment interlocked and weaved as they cascaded into the relatively simple shapes of the wall. It was curious, like the creations of ERROR , an old friend from some time in the past. We travelled together briefly, contemplating our arts and creations until our interests led us towards different paths. Being a stout believer that his art could capture the uniqueness of our natural world — he would toil endlessly in his travels to marvel at the beautiful landscapes and sceneries as he attempted to capture the essence of their creativity. He tried to capture the beautiful forms, imitating the intricacies that he appreciated in the peaceful world around us.

While his art was purposeful and well made, he eventually made the choice to confine himself to solitude. But even though we had not seen one another in an eternity, his works stuck with me.

As I looked at the shadows of the crevices and ruggedness of

R4_EX

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each solitary molecule haphazardly combined I couldn’t help but give a slight smile, thinking of a small work of art I once saw.

Straightening out my tie, I slowly made my way into the hollow interior of the structure, taking in the striking darkness inside.

I summoned a small light so that I could make out the details more clearly and placed it within the corner. The space was small and cramped, with each wall meeting another in rough shapes.

It made me feel…uncomfortable. A word came to my mind as feelings I had never considered flooded towards me: Claustrophobic.

None of it felt natural. The space felt deeply unsettling, as if its creator had no regard for comfort or room. It felt clumsy — the very idea that such a place could exist wasn’t right. My mind spun over and over again as I tried to come to terms with this perplexing sensation, but no matter how much I thought, I couldn’t find any reason. Each molecule was uneven and haphazardly placed, the elements mixed in ways that displayed no significant value. It was imperfect. I was baffled by the concept of its existence. Did it’s creator have some specific intent? What meaning could such a strange structure provide? While it was certainly unique, my mind still searched for the answer to its existence and as it searched it came to a conclusion that stunned me.

There was no meaning anymore.

This was somewhere without purpose nor beauty. Maybe such a structure once had meaning, but now it was only hollow. No longer did it matter what such a place once did or was, now it was only unsettling to look at.

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The Joy of Creation

ERRORhimself had similar thoughts. While his art was beautiful to admire, once he moved to somewhere new he became painfully aware that no recognition would come his way as it was discarded and ignored. He created many a masterpiece but grimaced as the fate of these pieces dawned on him bit by bit. Even if others knew he had created it, he would never once meet any of them. Eventually it all became too much for him and….

Maybe there was some reason I found this place. Any creature could see that ERROR’s work belonged to him. But looking at my surroundings I could think of no such name for this place.

All I could make out was the ugliness of design. Ugly. It was such an unbearable feeling and I knew I had to do something about it. I simply had to create. I reached out my hands and carefully moved each particle into shape. Guided the form into something that was natural. I willed it to be something more, something that I wanted it to be. The stone moved and moulded with a thought. It was calming to see atoms, electrons and the shapes they exist in take a more suitable shape. This was the end of that creator’s work, the meaning of the design will be lost.

But maybe that’s the fate of everything? Maybe everything will one day be lost?

R4_EX

Everything will be eternal.

After a little bit of time I finished up my handiwork and stood back to take it all in. While it was hardly anything special, I could finally say that everything was in order. Exactly where it should be. No longer had it been claustrophobic. But deep down I wondered if this was the meaning it was meant to have. There’s no way to know for sure, but I appreciated the work that I had done. Hopefully one day soon others will come to appreciate work such as my friend’s and mine. Satisfied, I departed from the strange land so I could write this account. How noteworthy it truly was I cannot say, but I take pride in what is now my own.

If the world has none who create works, I shall simply create them myself.

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S

o t tra

e r e h p s - Elenee FishTruck

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Stratosphere

T

he ticket lady’s mouth widens, and her eyes dart about. No soul has boarded a flight in 50 years, the aircrafts sentinels upon the concrete plane, staring rapturously with blank squarish eyes at the terminal windows. Arranged on the runway, they resemble toys haphazardly spread on the floor. Those toys filled a young child’s imagination, inspiring crashes and saves, left forever on dusty flooring amidst stuffed animals and preserved crumbs. Those crumbs eternally stain that boy’s tiny blue room, reconstituted fragment by falling fragment. One of those crumbs may have fallen into an air vent launched upward, eventually to land upon the planes at the airport. So diluted now, the wings resemble cellophane.

Providing the lady her materials, she wishes me a safe and comfortable flight, though she appears troubled by my additional questioning. She nods at whether she’s stayed all her life here, and shakes her head at a proposal for company, but stares blankly and shuffles in place when asked her birthday or favorite color. Not the first simulacrum encountered here, but this one conjures particular sympathy. A desperate mind seems trapped inside.

Elenee FishTruck

The plane’s interior looks pristine, more than natural reconstruction. The seats have no wear or impact marks and the windows appear spotless. Beyond the nanopreserversw’s mindless actions, the plane healed itself. A scented tree ornament, left in my adjacent seat, serves as omen for this congruence with nature.

The plane slowly rumbles without voice or warning. Only presumably the pilot shares the ticket lady’s attributes, perhaps not so tortured. Fellow planes continue pained stares, rejecting the burden of watching their brethren take off for one penultimate time, their fellow pilot assigned one penultimate mission. Attempts at gaining info on the other planes’ innards led to more blank stares. It combines frustration with melancholy.

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Stratosphere

As the plane ascends, I notice the safety manual on the back of the seat ahead. It identifies the plane: A Boeing 737 MAX. The line notoriously featured troubled Maneuvering Characteristics Augmentation Systems, meant to mimic the previous Boeing line’s flight behavior. Instead, a flight crashed into the Java Sea, leaving behind only lifejackets and cell-phones.

Those cellphones collected and varyingly salvaged reveal stressed phone calls, text messages, internet searches for proper crash procedure, anything possible to spare folks not only oblivion but the devastation inflicted upon their loved ones. The tin tube plummeted besides, several hundred Indonesian residents and two foreigners strapped and bounded towards watery doom.

Leaked messages from Boeing derided the airline company for requesting further flight training in response to the crash, the vitriolic comments spawning no soft response, including threat of cancellation for several billion dollars worth of planes. The manual on the back of the seat insists, conversely, to maintain a clear head in case of aircraft failure.

A similar pioneering and fog-headed spirit brought 87 prosperity-seeking individuals to depravity and madness. The band departed Missouri towards California, immediately preceding the infamous Gold Rush, though the path to promised fortune still remained packed before and after. A proposed short-cut only worsened matters, conspiring to detriment the group in all aspects. The author who suggested that shortcut later headed parts of the American Confederate army and attempted to establish a Confederate colony in São Paulo before his death by Yellow Fever.

Elenee FishTruck

The stuck wagon party, bounded by November snow, now receives memorial via a lake and state park, though an incandescent transcendentalist performance in 2134 largely turned the lake to a solid blue metal. One may presume any debris of the party remain encased in that metal deluge, frozen.

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Stratosphere

Frost covers the passenger window, obscuring the view outside.

Even with this, however, the outline of the Bridge rises higher than any plane or shuttle could reach. The indiscernible contents bloom and wilt as if fast-forwarded, and I notice the wing has turned yellowish-brown. The wind blew off the nanopreservers in the fierce wind, extending to the entire aircraft and cabin. The chair in front slumps into a small mold and the manual disintegrates in my hands. The combined plane velocity and wind speed at this altitude create this phenomenon, though I may not call it unique.

Beside the school, a pond froze over in winter, the first snowdrops briskly touching the glassy water surface, and children skated on ice. My friend, filled with a fiery disposition and athletic knack, sought the pond immediately, and began running across the ice. He spun and twirled mid-air, attempted to mimic some moves he saw on Saturday morning cartoons, and paid no mind to the cracks.

Elenee FishTruck

The first crack, a tiny figment, spiraled two more lines, and two lines from each of those, and so on, in a circle pattern. The phenomenon whisked around my friend until he stopped in the middle of the lake, noticing the pattern surrounding him.

One step.

At first, his instincts told him to stay still, and thus he sunk to the bottom, some 10 feet deep. The ice covered sunlight, leaving his origin hole the only spot where pale beams could fade upon his face. The machinesthat covered him conspired to bring him upward, creating a coral-esque platform that extended through the ice. As soon as it started formation, it shrunk once more, the thingsfalling off my friend’s body and drifting into the water.

As my friend grew colder and colder from the heat dying off him, he gazed up and saw how far down he’d sunk. Those systems meant to protect him caused electrical shocks to delay any physical attempts to salvation, and my friend sunk further. He thrashed on the bottom, grasping the mud and dirt, until even these stressed movements began to shrivel. One movement, and he seized, left coiled. As oxygen depleted from his mind, his pupils spun ‘round his eyes, the only movement left present on this body. The pattern of the eyes contorted, and his pupils formed the shape of an abstract loop.

His body remained frigid.

When I departed the plane, I noticed it had reconstructed itself.

The plane was white. The inside was pristine.

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y l p m i S l l a h S

Not Be - JakdragonX

38

Simply Shall Not Be

D

reams were a silly thing. For they spoke of no inherent purpose. The very concept of possessing creativity but never applying it to one’s glorious truth eluded me. However, as I lay upon my bed, my mind could only drift into that which is no longer my reality. With my head resting still, I could feel myself slowly lose my grip on what lay around me. It was not much longer until my body grew still and calm.

I closed my eyes.

And I awoke to the rolling Hills of Trafalgar, a relic from the Olden. Above me, the sun hangs suspiciously of wrath as the trees and valleys paint elegant strokes of shade that outstretch far beyond my feet. The sky bears an overwhelming shade of red and

JakdragonX

orange hue as I begin my journey. A journey of which, beckoned

by The Creator, whispers faintly of enlightenment and progression. It taunts of development and the ascertation of filling my incompleteness with the whole. Its promises were alluring. Such ideas tickle the greyish of my soul, and no sooner had the prospect arose did I heed its call.

I scaled the cliffsides and mountaintops of such geographical miracles that I, myself, had created from null. No sweat bore upon my face, nor did any fatigue halt my steps as the light above slowly dwindled. As I continued, the silence and stillness of the air — with no chirping of birds nor clicking of the bugs and animals — only discomforted me with ponderance. With naught but a smile, my unease had settled as that which had not existed before then had arisen now.

Through the cuts of the Trafalgar’s Lone Pass, I would be greeted with a river. What river I had not yet known before then, which only grew to annoy me. Without hesitation, I knew that it will be called Grenoa, and its reach will extend far beyond the City of Glass, which the magnificent river fueled. My body carried me to the shore, and with my ankles sinking below the crystalline surface of the water I leaned for a drink. The water tasted of a unique purity. Once satisfied, my head arose, only to see myself lack a reflection from the water’s surface.

My curiosity was further perplexed by the sight of myself approaching the water from the river’s mirror, who likewise bent down to drink from it. I sat there momentarily dazed. Had I not just approached and sipped from this water already?

My anger festered as I realized why my reflection was delayed.

I had come to realize a flaw — something of which I did not

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Simply Shall Not Be

consider before. With another wave of my hand, my reflection corrected, our two stares glaring past each other in an equilibrium of annoyance. However, inside the fire still burned. How preposterous it was that I hadn’t considered this simple law of nature. My mind was taunted with ideas of self-forgiveness.

After all, we are prone to such simple mistakes, right?

But such mediocrity can only be found in the constraints of some ludicrous, objective reality. A reality of which I am not restricted to.

Such a world lacks perfection and that simply shall not be.

It was only several days later when I arrived at the City of Glass.

This City was once home to the superior Forefathers, those who had preceded me in my reality as the Controller. I had never gotten a chance to make their acquaintance before they too faded away, presumably to guide the next of my kin. Now such company was rare in this City, leaving nothing but intricate, fractal structures made solely of glass and wonder for visitors like myself and the simulacrum to admire.

JakdragonX

My entry into the City began from the Bridge of Raina, whose hall remains empty to this day. I, myself, have not seen anyone cross this bridge for some 15 years, and even then I had never again met the travelers who walked alongside me. Still, I did not hesitate as I strolled into the confines of the City’s borders, which the Bridge overlooked from afar.

It was not long after my entry when I arrived towards the City’s center, where a man sat to greet me. His face shifted in hues of blurs that I could not comprehend. Still, I could tell that he was smiling at me, and the wave of his hands towards my vicinity only confirmed that suspicion.

“Hello,” I called to him as we approached each other.

The man nodded in reply, his hand still waving towards me. His face had not yet unblurred, which made me uncomfortable. With a blink, his face was given life. Two dark blue eyes penetrated my own, whose brown hair sat at his shoulders.

Such features cured me of my worry, and with a smile, I asked the man, “How are you, today? I can’t imagine much trouble in a magnificent City such as this — one built by the very Forefathers themselves.”

The man nodded, still waving. He had not given me an answer, which deeply concerned me.

“Sir?” His eyes suddenly grew wide, and with nothing but a smile the man’s face contorted into a painful gape. With his jaw unhinged,

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Simply Shall Not Be

the man spoke angrily, “SYSTEM ERROR.” His response put me aside as he continued his gaze. I attempted to smile, but deep inside, something did not feel right.

The man screeched again, “SYSTEM ERROR.” It became clear to me that this man was a Defective. I sighed at this revelation. Such simulacrum was supposed to be purged, but it appears that this one may have escaped somehow. My discomfort grew tenfold as the man continued his demands.

“SYSTEM ERROR NUMBER 543251—” And with a grimace, the faulty shell had become no more. Disappeared, along with the rest of his Defective brethren into the aether for eternity. My mind relaxed in the silence of the City’s center. That is, until a wave of newfound anger once again rose inside my soul. How could this ugly thing exist? The thoughts penetrated the forefront of my mind as I continued my journey onward.

Such a flawed creature lived within my perfect reality, and that simply shall not be.

With the City long since behind, my journey finally reach its conclusion as I reached the outskirts of Village Red. This place used to be filled with townsfolk and children alike — but now it remained hollow and empty. The Village deeply saddened me, but likewise filled me with calmness. I, myself, could not explain such phenomena, but it mattered little now.

JakdragonX

I wandered onward until I was greeted by a gate. Upon my entrance, I stood within a cemetery. A field far beyond what the eyes could see, filled with gravestones of names caught between a flux of forgotten and lost. I decided to stroll further, and from there my imagination was greeted with countless stories and feelings. In my mind, I began creating the world in which these lost souls once lived. I prayed that each had a joyous and happy life, and from that, such a place existed. Village Red would be one among the Golden Age, which lasted well before my time here.

A smile was brought to my face as I stopped at a gravestone near the far edge. While the other stones hinted towards that which I had not yet imagined, this one was static. Unchanging. A panic arose in my mind as I realized that the ground beside this grave-

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Simply Shall Not Be

stone was empty — a hole leading downward.

After a brief hesitation, I found myself staring down into the grave, only to be greeted by the sights of a black and dark abyss.

A pit that extended well beyond infinity, forever penetrating the depths of my world with its malice. Inside, I could feel its gaze searching — looking for any weakness that I possessed.

The abyss grinned its blackened teeth at me. My muscles tensed as the void whispered softly into my ear.

“Do you think this world that you have created should exist?”

I tried to formulate an answer, but no words came to my mind.

My heart began racing. What was this creature doing living here?

“Do you?” It asked again, the blackness below only growing as the

light dimmed into darkness above my head.

The abyss grew angrier. The void below began to bubble and froth as my energy only drained further. I was trapped by my fears and panic as tendrils began to arise from the surface, their reach extending outward towards my body.

“How dare you ignore me, for without me you would have nothing! You would be nothing! You pretend that I do not exist, but deep inside you know that I grow within you!” The abyss chanted.

With its eyes fixated on me, it spoke once more: “You have sacrificed yourself for your greed and that, that simply shall not be!”

JakdragonX

And suddenly I opened my eyes to the morning rays. The frigid air tickled my lungs as I gasped awake.

My body still jolting, I felt the tears leaking from my eyes before it occurred to me that I was crying. Sweat plastered me with its salty scent as my legs felt limp. After a moment of silence, I turned to see the mirror that lay beside my bed. I suddenly grew uncomfortable with the new face that lay before me. What had spoken to me just now? Why did such a dream manifest as that one had?

There was a dull numbness permeating my body. I looked down at my hands, in which I wept in the comforts of my bed. I do not recall how long I had sat there, or how many tears I shed.

Just the lingering pain of what that abyss had told me, and the sights and sounds of a place that was both foreign and familiar to my reign.

No longer was I content with living in this world and that… that simply shall not be.

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y e h T e r A

g n o Wr - Limeyy

48

They Are Wrong

No longer was I content with living in this world and that... that simply shall not be.

I

am not above admitting I was shaken. This was wrong. Imperfect. For the first time I can recall, I felt fear overwhelm me. I ran. The destination was irrelevant. Reality built itself in front of me and collapses the minute I take my foot off the ground.

There was no thought, no design, just instinct. Masterpieces of architecture give way to crumbling brick towers, until all that conjures up are barely coherent shapes and shadows trying to emulate the real. An abstract path of shapes and patterns not entirely unlike the corporeal world struggles to keep up with me as I desperately try to escape my own mind.

I do not know how long I was running. It may have been a minute, it may have been an eternity. I stop at the feet of a halfformed castle towering over me. Incomplete, The Sin gularity struggled to form a monument in my image but — for the first time I can recall — I cannot decide. Waves of matter oscillated in and out of existence as the structure warped and folded to fit an image that didn’t exist. I couldn’t make it perfect.

I couldn’t make it at all.

Linmeyy

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They Are Wrong

Cautiously, I take a step into the accursed structure. It is a skyscraper, allowing me to survey the glitching fields for miles about. It is a dank dungeon, hundreds of meters underground from sunlight’s reach. It is a castle, a minka, a dacha, a cathe draland everything in between. The stone beneath my feet stays stable as the building fluxes between the real and irreal, desperate to answer a question that was never asked.

And then there is a face.

At the center of it all, there is a face. It stares at me. I wander and its eyes follow me. It is barely a face — more an abstract mess of shapes and colours blending and mixing in and out of existence — but the weight of two eyes that stare at me is suffocating, pressing down upon my very being. I wish for it to be gone, and yet it remains. I rush away from it, deeper into the rapidly shifting labyrinth, and yet it remains. I run down a pulsating corridor to escape, and yet it remains, staring from a distance.

This isn’t a simulacrum, it does not listen to me, and it has such weight. Such being. I feel an eternity of life and experience and suffering bore into the back of my skull.

Linmeyy

This is a person, and they are wrong.

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They Are Wrong

With shaking legs, I walk towards it. One step. It stares. Two steps. It stares. I inch towards it until there is no room left for me to stall and no room left for it to give. The castle ceases to shift and we are in a prison, brutalist and functional in it’s design. The unperson looks at me, and I look back. Without words or thoughts, it says so much. It conveys anguish. Pain. Feelings I do not have words for and words I can not accurately recall. I imagine a thousand lifetimes of sorrow and agony, an existence divorced from The Singularity, and I remember them as if they were my own. Tears well in my eyes as I live the unlife this soul has suffered through as I reach towards it in sympathy.

It screeches.

It screams a cry of static and white noise deafeningly loud. The sound fills my every thought as the prison around us dissolves into a black void. I desperately offer help. I beg of it, plead with it, to see any reason at all. It just stares at me and lets out its screech that shakes me to my very core. I apologize. I’m sorry for it, for myself, for forcing such an imperfect being to live in a perfect world. For it to see heaven and for it to be just barely out of reach. I’m sorry for existing. For ever allowing a world where it suffers as it does and I live as I do. It does not forgive. It does not forget. It screams, and the static overwhelms me. I fade out, and there is nothing.

Linmeyy

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They Are Wrong

An eternity passes, and I am again. Glowing green grass ebbs and flows around a collapsed pile of rocks in an endless expanse. A reality that allows that from before to exist can never be perfect.

It can never be right. I pull myself to my feet and look into infinity. Something is inherently wrong about this. What I am should never have been. I am filled with a single purpose - I must find answers.

But first, I must find the questions.

Linmeyy

55

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