Ω TEN THOUSAND YEARS OF TRANSHUMAN STRUGGLE Ω

[Merlinsclaw]

"THE END IS MERELY THE BEGINNING!"
"THE THRONE SHALL BE RETRIEVED. THE EMPIRE SECURED."

​

The sun had nearly finished its fall over the horizon.
Bruce leaned over his chair, flicking on a small oil lamp.
It wasn't like he needed it though: The Angels had ensured that many years ago.
But this was his ritual. He'd done it every night for three years religiously.

His fingers rubbed over the light blue cover: "Transhuman Society and its Future."
He flipped into the first page. Destrade's signature.

Bruce would read through the words of Adeline Ravoux each night.
Symbology, hints, hidden messages, clues. Each time searching for something new.
The Order, the Angels, Hoffmann, the Emergents.
All of it meaningless.
There was only the empty throne.
This was Bruce's never ending quest.
This was his never ending war.

...

Again. Again. Again. The scream, the void, the body.

"YOU NEED ME!"





​

 

[Verräterpackaging]

Spoiler: Old songs

"THE MISSION IS ALL THAT MATTERS."
"THOSE LOST WILL BE RECOVERED. THOSE THAT BETRAYED US EXPUNGED."
​

And as Bruce would read, another man was sure to look into the past.
Sitting at his desk, he looked over his papers, the music playing in the background.
That was his ritual for all those years since. And instead of a book, it was a collection of files.
There was no religion. No faith to be found. Only the Mission mattered.

On his papers, there was the name Ravoux. Then Hoffmann. Then Sargent.
Following that, he reached for his pen, starting to write notes to the side. A few - of many.

If he would remember him? If he could see it coming?
If he would see the irony? If he could see beyond his world?
Does it matter?

The eyes in the dark always watched.
And they remember what others did forget.

" ALL SECRETS SHALL BE SEEN."​

 

[Merlinsclaw]

BLOOD
SHALL
NEVER
DEFEAT
IRON
​

DECEMBER 2019. 2:37 AM. CITY 17
Xavier March hacked and wheezed; smoke billowed from every direction, boards cracked and collapsed, the inferno roared all around him.
His feet labored, dragging his body through the inferno. He marched forward and further; resisting each and every burn and scream to flee.
Finally, March pulled himself through a collapsed doorway- amidst the debris laid a charred and barely alive Militiaman. A beam collapsed nearby as March pulled him up.
March alone pulled his fellow man from the brink. By the time he'd made his way to the yard the entire building was engulfed. There'd be no other survivors.
Minutes passed; the Militiamen gathered strength outside. Burns, scars, gunshots, and explosions. The Humanists - the anarchists - had done a number on them.
As Civil Protection arrived, the survivors of The Order would parade back to the Palace; medals, congratulations, and a handshake from Ravoux were in order.

JULY 2023. 2:37 AM. BUCHAREST
Bruce Sargent jolted from his bed in a cold sweat. Another nightmare about the piss can raids.
Bruce's lifeless eyes peered over towards the clock and then the door to his safehouse.
His lips smacked, flesh met nail, and then a grumble escaped him as he rose.
Bruce's 'bad' hand checked each of the 4 locks on his door, then the blinds and the window, and then all of them again.
After he was finally satisficed with the results, Bruce pulled a small journal near.
Dated, July 26th. Bruce penned: 'NICULEASCU DEAD. THE ORDER RISES AGAIN. THE AMBITION OF AN EMPIRE WILL BE REALIZED."
Alone with little light, Bruce's great scheme began again.


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