El Baúl de los Sueños

In those last minutes of my life, butchers were knee-deep in human blood. Well, I shouldn't call them butchers I guess, as they were licensed doctors with degrees, PhDs and whatever. But by then they had stopped saving lives and were just killing everyone in order to upload their cortical stack data quickly into the system's matrix and beam it into orbit, into one of the dozens of ship and habitats that were accelerating away from the hell that Earth had become.  I have to admit, I wasn't much better. Exhaustion had long ago beaten me and I was just going through the motions like an automaton: reload, aim, fire. Only thing that kept me going were the drugs pumping in my veins, whose security limiters had been disabled long ago by my own muse. After all, this was a one-way ticket with no coming back or happy ending, so I might as well burn 'til the end. Outside the compound's walls, the TITANs were throwing everything at us: infinite amounts of machines, hundreds of ...

It was called the GateDrive, just a small locale where we gathered, though we called it the Drive. It had previously been owned by the triads but Yoeong-Sun had won it at a poker table and, unexpectedly, the triads had kept their side of the bargain. Of course, they collected their "rent money" from time to time, but didn't intrude in the business much more than that, and we were glad for it. Back then, the Drive was a little more than a lounge for the local neighborhood people, west of Downtown. A small neighborhood for people working in minor corporations, with a lot of poverty and a good dose of gang problems, BTLs and drugs. I guess that paying the rent money to the triads was worth it, as the gangs never bothered us much in the Drive. But beyond that façade, it had one particular detail that standed out: a serious connection to the Matrix.

It all has been taken away, after all. All hope, all path, all memories have vanished as they always do under blood and fire. Steel reigns free, and I am again what I have always been: a dead man. All is lost, but if this is to be the final chapter of this story, I should start with the beginning.  They came at night. Keryth leading them, said they wanted to meet and talk. I welcomed the four of them with peace and hospitality, opening the door to the meeting room. But it was not to be. My disposure to talk with the northerners was met with brutality. Hildegard and Murdach hadn't come to talk, they had come to destroy and so they started detonating bombs in our workspace. I went down, alone, unarmed, unarmored, to see what could be done, and I was met with Hildegard's spear.

Shadows, here and everywhere, that is all that is left. A place like this, where life can be valued in gold and steel, where even those that shouldn't have to fight. Just like in the Old Hag, isn't it right? Wherever you may go, it's still a matter of who pays who for revenge, power, ambition or any other reason. And you don't care if we fight and die, do you Aquilonia? You don't care about my death here, but you don't care about the death of your merchants and generals, whores and knights, it doesn't matter. We're all just pigs headed to the slaughter, and here more than anywhere else, where we can die dozens of times.

Following the ancient tradition of the Centuria, the beacon has been lit to guide our way back home. Until the time when we may again walk the Halls of the Dead, it will burn day and night, remembering us that war is not all there is. Because that is our world once again. The powerful march to battle for freedom, richness, lands or other reasons. We're just the pawns in their boards, and we know it. But their gold will enter our pockets and, with it, we once again fight for ourselves. Not for their ideals or glory, but for our own wealth and wellbeing. And in this case, we may even get the chance to protect and aid those we appreciate. A good thing for a change.

Tarantia the Old, capitol of Aquilonia, center of the world. A city of marvel and wonder, blessed by the gods, ruled with power and intelligence... but also, a den o depravation, of corruption, of cold blooded murder and despair. That's the city I was born to, son to a whore and her pimp that never cared for me, fathered by the shadows in the streets and the shady deals in the corners. Educated by bludgeons and threats. 

To describe something, that's easy. You focus on it, like there's nothing else in the world, capture it in the eye of your mind. What does it look like? How does it taste? What sounds does it make? All that assembles inside you, like a pale reflection of your perception, like the a candle capturing the sunlight. But it works.

I know what you see when you look at me. You see a mass murderer, a killer, a fanatic for an idea you don't understand completely. You see a brute that only thinks about destroying anything she doesn't comprehend. You think I've lost it, that I'm not worth it. You'd like to go back to your Gardener and find subtle ways to solve problems... to find a soft way, a road we can use to teach our problems to live with us.

Betrayed. That's how I felt. Betrayed by my own brain, who had started to eat itself. And the doctor's tranquil grin made it no easier to shake the feeling. -Hedion University is at the head of research into Kasioper's Syndrome right now thanks to the sponsorship of some very wealthy pod pilots that are affected by it. But you have to understand, it's a very rare disease, and thus investigation is progressing slowly.- Yes, I understood that, even before speaking to him. We all know what Kasioper is: the boogeyman, the monster under the bed, the end of all hope. Every person that became a pod pilot after age 30 had a small percentage of possibilities to be affected by it. Maybe one in a thousand, maybe less. And I had been the one to draw the long straw.

One came from the right and a burst made him explode in a smoke of red blood. The second was following him and tried to take cover behind a small barrier, but suffered the same fate. On the left, two targets took position behind a small wall, but a grenade from the grenade launcher took care of them. Barely five second had passed, according to his cybernetic clock.

I look at myself in the mirror, but can't recognize the image it brings back. Where I have long dark hair, I can only see the baldness of his skull; I have a well rounded beard, and yet his grin is barely covered by a two day lack of self-attention; if my eyes are dark and determined, his are icy blue and fully demented; he also lacks the tattoo in my face and my implants, his own hidden from sight inside his brain. And yet, he is my mirrored image.

This is the link to the forum thread where the "Who Am I?" story is being played. Being a collaborative effort among several players, Sepherim's part is only one of the voices, but it's an interesting different take on his story. And it's great to see so many players writing together a story that no one really knows where it's going as it unfolds.

The boarding bay was full of people and equipment going from one place to another, like a busy hive full of working ants. And, in the middle of all that, Trevor Humedd hugged his family as tightly as he could, like he wanted to take their breaths away. Tears flowed from their cheeks, golden drops in the dim lights of the station. Around them, two dozen families were going through the same ordeal of farewells, while the loading crew moved supply crates, machinery and weaponry ready in the last minute.

The two men sat before each other, silently, staring into the other's eyes with caution. None of them belonged in that run down orbital tavern, so people around them kept an eye on what they did, curious. One was clearly too rich to come to such a place: his belly was full, he had big double chin and enough fat in his face to partially hide his eyes. Though his clothes were common and unsurprising, on a close look they were clearly made exclusively for him by a personal tailor. He had a large cigarette in his left hand, one that puffed out small clouds of flavored smoke into the air around him. Vanilla maybe. His hair had once been black, but what was left of it was now mostly white, like a dove hanging over his head. His age surely showed he was a respectable man, probably some kind of politician or member of the Empire's employees. Though those never came down here.

The stars shone one last time in my eyes. The force of the solar winds pushed me and caressed me one last time. The strong pull of the thrusters, so intimately controlled and known that they seemed like my own legs, directed me to the Amarr station where I would dock for the last time. As the docking procedures advanced, I couldn't help but recall all that had happened in this three long years. The found, the lost, the friends, the enemies. The success. The failure. The Ordo and the Brothers and Sisters in it.

Accessing video feed from the internal servers of the Theology Council... File 213697 located: declarations on the sainthood of St. Kierandross... Choosing Main Session: 23rd of August, year 23013... Opening file...

They say that, at the Beginning of Time, God was alone in the emptiness of space. Alone and solitary, without light, sound, joy or fear. Empty, even though he was full. He was the whole potential, but no reality, a list of possibilities yet to define. hey say he created the universe, and istory started, so far away from the Eve Cluster that it's almost inimaginable. What the legend doesn't say is How he did it.

The arrow flew from his bow, straight into the the side of the biggest of the Picts's heads. He knew Picts respected strength, and so the biggest would probably be their leader... and a lucky shot was all that was needed to start the battle. But as the rest of the Centuria led the charge, he knew it was too late for whoever the woman had been.

It was a North-West wind forest of Aquilonia. From somewhere far could be heard the voice of fast river. Millika took a flask and opened it expecting to feel a drop of fresh water on her tongue but... it was empty. - Fine, the river is not far. – Mumbled the woman and walked in the direction of the water sound. The way was long and not as easy as she though. First of all the forest here was very dark and lush with tall roots, lianas hanging from the trees and in some places very tall grass. The light barely reached through the leaves.

The small man had approached Sepherim as he walked in the market, looking at the multiple objects in it and hearing his usual news feeds from the comm unit. Marbius Ardishapur. That was his name, and he was an influential member inside the imperial Academy, with both ties to the Emperor Family and the Ardishapur Family. An important political pilot, and rumours pointed to something deeper even. He handed Sepherim a small datanote and headed back into the crowd.