Afterworld

[Kauket]

...writing session...

...W#it#ng N#ur#l En#ry: fi##lj#urney##.6 - "E#sing T##sions Pt. ####"

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>... Drifting...
>... I saw a figure. A shadowy one.
>... A man.
>... Slowly coming into view.
>... Wait. Is that.

...FATAL ERROR: Host suspended.

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The madness endured for what appeared to be an eternity. The endless twists and turns of corridors, evolving, changing, churning around, would go on for all time, no matter how much one would wonder. Giving in to the mind games, Raven slumbered down, surrendering to fatigue, as they drifted away into a cumbersome rest of defeat as her unstable mind collapsed in on itself. For a fleeting moment, the illusion broke, as a brief notice of a caraspace of glass and metal was presented infront of her, before drifting into an involuntary rest.

The virtual world they resided in was a masterful coy of prying into one's inner psyche, though to say who was truly playing the game here had yet remained to be seen. With a fine push here, and a gentle nudge there, even the enigmatic observer indulged on some playful entertainment, studying the buttons they could press within free realm from fatal consequences. Yet, it was not the only sole factor. The Technocrats have been utilizing the virtual world to similarly study the subject, tweaking elements discreetly to invoke psychological morphing. But in this instance, they found the anomaly of the looping hallways to be an unusual error, a fault in the prediction or an unknown external influence. The program was pulled, paused, invoking the user into stasis as the program was tweaked.

Stiffling within her forced rest, there was a brief moment of confusion within Revenant, a sort of lethargic deja vu within the blank landscape of an endless void, encapsulated within a dream she was forced into. The error of the looping environment was amended, the false reality ensued again, with the subject waking up on the floor.

It was cold. Very cold. Far colder than initially presented in the first iteration of the experiment. Upon awakening, it was notable to Revenant that the environment presented itself to be a little more stable. Albeit, more dimmer in shade. It was like a terrible nightmare, the after effects of groggily waking up lingered as she observed around the corridor she found herself in. With a sigh, the world continued on, pushing herself up and gradually waltzing off to the Hawfinch. Interestingly, the items within the ship had re-arranged itself, yet it was not taken note of and simply disregarded as another mind trick, focusing on the intent to return to the frozen world. Home.

...


Time moved on within the virtual, unbeknownst to her yet a certain awareness of oddities remained. Liberty maintaining cohesion, the repetitive social conversations with her new found friends, the lack of chaos with a human touch. Day after day. Night after night. The wheel of repetition moved on and on, the same old awakenings in the Spire, the same old slumber by the chief security, Ornis, as they lazily watched the security feed. It was a mad loop of drab living. No unusualities. Too much sense. The same soulless machination of danger or flight. Not a single individual with any quirks or deviations.

Revenant found herself days later, conversing with Vincent Abrams in a cordial manner in the Hudson system, speaking regarding about planning a hang out. A certain element of awkwardness was still present with both of them, the reality presented sincerity in the expressions, keeping true to the real world, more than enough to continue the facade. Yet, fond talks became sour quickly, as the casual chat was disturbed by a mirage of vessels, shimmering into existance not too far off from the Research Station, decloaking with belligerent intent, their motion sweeping towards the facility.

The situation became blurred, another vessel decloaked behind the two, panic and chaos had ensued as the scenario unfolded. Not only did the Order come to attack, but so did the elusive Sentinels. Yet, something regarding them looked wrong. Distorted. Akin to molded dark glass with lightened tips as opposed to the usual illuminating warm glow.

Nevertheless, the disorientating madness progressed, for the illusive warship behind her crumbled apart before she could identify it. Confusion and disorientation amiss, only one thing was certain. Vincent was connected to this, for he was both their target, the glue that held the psychdelic chaos of gunfire that surrounded them. A moment of calm only to be disrupted by insincere madness of conflict unfolding within mere minutes, was truly abnormal to her.

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