Ill-Fated

TRANSMIT – initiate the sinking island signal -RECEIVE – initiate Desdemona frequency – MY PARENTS WERE CYNICS – initiate blackened sky protocol - WITNESS - third age

<Ill-fated.>

She broke her eyes away from the stomp of mechanized terror, the crunch of broken earth and the terrible wind sweeping over. The brilliant, sky-blues rested on the scientist standing beside her.

<What was that?>

<That's what it means. Your name, I mean. In the common tongue.>

The general was not amused.

There was a sickening smell in the air. It reminded Desdemona of polluted sea water, filthy with blood and soot. An acceptable cost to have the incinerated cities of the land-walkers coat the surface of the great waters, only to be cut through by Atlantean ships. Appropriate, too. One should never forget the sacrifice that war demands.

<My parents are cynics.>

<Or prophets.>

He chuckled in her mind and stabbed his staff into the ground. On the top stood an orb that burst into a light and then created a screen in front of them both that blocked view of their departing ships. Graphs, videos and pictures of molecules and cells alike maneuvered across the holographic projection.

Desdemona couldn't make sense of it. Instead, she became annoyed and  swept her hand in front of it, casting the projection to the side. The scientist followed. The wind grew more tremendous. Her stomach tightened and she swore she could hear Sirens wailing in the distance.

Impossible.

<There's no place in this world for prophets, Demosthenes.>

<Oh, I know. Everything has been figured out. There are no mysteries left. I find that very... unfortunate.>

She perked a brow and finally turned her head to look at the wiry, marked man who was now gazing at several pictures. Each one contained the same thing: The Time Tombs. They had been largely useless for their original task but they were undoubtedly the main cause for their tremendously successful military campaign. Every mistake could be fixed. Battles were won before they were fought. Threats simply stopped existing.

A sweet music carried itself through the air.

Her communicator began to buzz furiously in her head.

She turned it off.

<Lamenting?>

<Hm? No. Not terribly anyway, General. I thought incorrectly. There is one mystery.>

<And what's that, Father?>

<The End.>

She scoffed and turned her back to the sea. The ships had long since become dots on the horizon and even if she strained the optical enhancement in her eyes, she would barely be able to make out the faces of her soldiers. There were other battle fields and the portals waited for her to overlook them; to take note of failures and then use the Time Tombs to fix any blaring issues.

<One scientist predicts the end of our great nation. The time, the method and the result. None of it came true and you say that this is a great mystery, Doctor Demosthenes?> she asked with her disbelief clear. Still, there was a smirk that could not be missed in her fair face. It was caught by the doctor who kept her pace by her side. <Not even mistakes are mysteries anymore.>

<Exactly. There are no mistakes. Everything is known. So, tell me... if there was a mistake, why couldn't the Time Tomb be used to perfect the prediction of The End?>

The portal, with golden roads of branches on the other side, stood proudly in front of Desdemona. She had all the time in all the world to idly muse with the scientist, but that did not mean she wanted to. Yet, politeness stayed her from wandering into Agartha.

<What do I care for such things? Our world is more vibrant than ever before. Anima flows through as the purest energy source and method of information transfer. Even 'speaking' and 'eating' are archaic traditions. I haven't opened my mouth beyond my third birthday.>

<Yes, Anima. Our lifeblood. Not even the Hosts are unreachable, are they?>

<I don't have time for this.>

A lie. An obvious one. Yet, just as she became resolute to pass through the portal, it disappeared; just blinked out of existence entirely. Not a shimmer of it was left behind. For the first time in ages, shock registered in Desdemona's eyes. Her communicator was turned back on immediately.

All she could hear was a hymn.

A deafening sound that went enthralled her brain. A call from the deep. The wail of Sirens. Impossible.

They were all eradicated during the first purge.

The general turned around back to the horizon. She strained her eyes to catch just a glimpse of her ships. Instead, she saw a darkening of the sky creeping overhead like spilled oil. In its devouring blanket, she could see the bodies of dying stars and the tendrils that wrapped around them before they were pulled into gaping maws. A hungry gaze broke through this Other Place and set it on the General who could only stare back in desperation.

[You are all made of stars.]

The waves clapped like thunder as they swelled greater than the pyramids that Atlanteans had constructed. Populations of starfish exploded from the ocean and splattered around her feet; their legs clutched at the ground as they tried to flee from their home where the seaweed burst into metal-melting flames. Around her, the mountains began to crumble, turning to towers of ice that fell and fed the waves.

Her hand was grasped by the Dr. Demosthenes and she clutched it. Frozen, she had never known such fear as the liquid fire splashed against the far shore; each ebb and flow accompanied by the swell of Siren songs. Impossible. With its cries drowned out by the cracking of the earth, a sleeping Kraken lashed out at the dismal black sky. It became dark as ash and disappeared into smoke that floated to the Other Place. To the Ever Eating. To the Devouring Dream. Impossible.

[You are all made of stars.]

<Anima has turned against us, General. Our time is over.>

His palm was sweaty. His eyes were smouldering. His skin became dry and Desdemona could feel blood seeping through the cracks of his palm. Connected to his mind, he could hear the whispers. The hunger and... a silence. Another portal was summoned, directly connected to an open tall box situated in the middle of the desert just as she found the means to think:

<This world is just a dream.>

<We used the Time Tombs to make adjustments to the predictions, but each time the variables changed. Our changes were met by further changes by some outside force. We eventually gave up trying to make it more accurate. They won. We could only send out a vague warning.>

The world tumbled.

Desdemona was thrown through the portal and met with the darkness of Time Tomb that closed around her. There, not even the Maddening Shade could reach her, though for the first time, she actually heard a voice. With her ears. It brought tears to her eyes and made her body well up with anger. A scream. Pain. Agony. Perpetual.

Somehow, she knew it belonged to the doctor. She imagined that voice in calmer times. What it would have been like if he had sung her to sleep and read her stories when she was younger...

<It's not enough for us, but it could be enough for you and what survives.>

“Father!” she cried out.

<Survive, θυγατέρα.>