ALIEN: RAGNAROK intro thing

Thirty-one permanent dreamers.

To some, this choice of description would have proved problematic in several respects. Primarily it would have been regarded as semantically inaccurate, for these were not the dreamers themselves, but merely representations of them; the stone blocks, of varying sizes and mineral compositions, bore no physical resemblance to those whose lives and memories they symbolised. The choice of the word “permanent” might also have been seen as insensitive, and it could have been argued that a more poetic word like “timeless” or eternal” would be more suitable. And the complete phrase, an unusual euphemism to describe what was essentially a graveyard, could easily have been criticised for its unhelpful opacity.

As it was, though, there was nobody there to complain. Nothing but the gentle evening winds, and the accompanying slow sway of grasses and cypress trees, could possibly disturb the formation of slabs that stood on this high outcrop.

The largest slab, in the center of the arrangement, had been there far longer than the others, although its lifespan was in turn miniscule compared to that of its surroundings. Years of wind and rain had weathered its stone surface, and the ornate lettering carved into it was rough around the edges, but it was otherwise essentially legible. Legible, at least, to those who were familiar with the Latin alphabet in the first place.

ELIZABETH SHAW

The original inhabitants of this place, those whose physiology and language and culture were so strikingly different to those now commemorated in the little garden, would have been unable to read the name, even if they had still been around to see it. But they too were gone, victims of their own destructive hubris, now represented only by the shrivelled and charred husks of their corpses. They were visible even from the high vantage point of the funerary promontory: an endless sea of carbonated statues stretching far into the distance, cowering and writhing and crying for redemption that would not and could not come.

The other memorials had all been placed either side of Shaw's, and were arranged in two rows that extended all the way to the far ends of the natural balcony. The writing on these slabs was clearer and bolder, a sharp and inentional contrast to the Roman bent of Shaw's engraving. Like hers, each tablet had been inscribed with a single full name. Unlike hers, each name was also accompanied by a distinctive emblem. The emblems on the graves to the left of Shaw's were simple and geometric, whilst the ones to the right were more ornate and detailed; both styles were broadly redolent of the winged sun symbol of ancient Egypt.

A fitting comparison, perhaps, since the architecture of the grand city surrounding the cemetery was also remniscient of that of the great Egyptian metropoli. Or those of Greece, Sumer, the Roman Empire, or any one of the grand civilisations of Earth's distant past that had soared and declined, leaving nothing but ruins in their wake. But the remniscience was merely superficial, for this civilisation was not of Earthly provenance. There were similarities – a central temple with a rotunda not unlike the Pantheon of Rome, statuary that recalled ancient Greece – but subtle differences made themselves known at every juncture, particularly in the proportions of the buildings. This was a city for giants.

But of course, yet again, there was nobody to appreciate these differences. Neither the permanent dreamers of the graves nor those of the streets would be able to remark upon such indulgent comparisons. This city was, for all intents and purposes, dead. Only winds, grasses and cypresses, swaying and rustling as they had for centuries past. The natural order of things.

And then a crack, a boom, and a return.

-

He was stationed in one of the temple's many dusty catacombs when it happened. It was a space that, as far as he could tell, had been used as a historical reliquary by its first inhabitants. Then, for a single decade, it had served a far more malicious purpose. But now the old arcane artifacts had been returned to their rightful places, and those later blasphemies had been disposed of. The only truly new additions were reams of papers, recovered from elsewhere in the temple and the surrounding city; they were stacked high on the tables and floors, covered in arcane hieroglyphs and strange technical diagrams.

Some were annotated, in something close enough to ink for a hypothetical (human) observer to mistakenly identify it as such. The annotations were neat and precise, written in the exact same hand as that on the supplementary gravestones upstairs, and they were in English.

He was halfway through a new annotation – his 821st by his count - when the shockwave reached the catacomb. Both the sound and the physical vibration were minute enough, dampened as they were by the thick stone ceiling of the underground room, that a human would barely have noticed them.

But he was not human, and he was not a living being. He was more and he was less.

Immediately he stopped writing, lowered his pen-analogue to the surface of the table, and looked up, observing a small cloud of dust falling slowly from the ceiling. Impulses and connections flared inside him as he colluded and analysed. The magitude of the rumble corresponded with his long-finalised advance predictions for the shockwave generated by a certain event, an event with enormous ramifications and an uncertain outcome. Any predictions beyond that would have been the product of speculation, something he was wary of doing when faced with an uncertain scenario and a complete lack of empirical evidence. But this distinctive shockwave was evidence enough for him to join the dots.

“The prodigal sons.”

Walter stood up and left the catacomb, holstering a salvaged human-made pistol with his one good hand on the way out. When one's duty was on the line, it always paid to prepare for the worst.

-

Outside, soaring low over the city's central plaza and its dessicated inhabitants, was a ship. Its asymmetrical horseshoe shape and intricately notched surface were instantly familiar to Walter, who was observing the proceedings from a safe distance. He noted that the vessel was smaller than those of this kind he had seen; indeed, some of the differences in its design seemed to account for this being merely a scouting or transport ship, rather than a bomber or warship. The main difference, of course, was that this one was functional; he had only ever seen destroyed or otherwise nonfunctional Engineer ships before.

The ship descended lower and lower, until it was hovering just a few feet off the ground. From a slit underneath its – for want of a better word - highly anatomical entrance, a long flat ramp slowly extended. At this distance Walter noted that the patterns on its surface were very similar to those on the surface of the ship it originated from. The ramp continued to extend until it hit the ground – and, as far as Walter could tell, merged with it. Indeed, from this distance there seemed to be no noticeable boundary between the gangway's biomechanoid surface and the rough gravel of the plaza. This was not an error in his programming, nor a mechanical fault in his visual sensors. This was simply an observation of that which had not been observed before, of technological prowess far beyond that which he had seen in his operational history.

From the top of the gantry a small group of humanoid figures emerged in single file. They walked down the ramp, slowly, cautiously, seemingly surveying the environment around them. From his distant vantage point Walter calculated that they were each around ten feet tall, give or take; this eliminated any lingering suspicions that they were human. Whether they were the same exact caste, or even species, as those who had once inhabited this planet – the so-called Engineers – Walter did not know. But he concluded that the similarities in proportion and vessel, as well as their arrival here in the first place, were enough to consider them part of the same general culture.

The first two figures to emerge were clad in ornate, skeletal pressure suits. Insectile plating lined their chests and limbs, and their faces were obscured by vaguely elephantine helmets. These suits were familiar to Walter, having seen them in the disabled vessels around the city and its environs; this was the first time he had seen them worn, however, and he noted that movement in them seemed effortless and uncumbersome.

He was less familiar with the tubular, glistening devices the suited figures wielded in each of their hands. From the way they brandished them as they descended the gangplank, it was highly likely they were weapons of some sort.

Following this advance guard were a further three figures, of similar height but wearing vastly different clothing. Their outfits consisted of simple hooded cloaks, woven of some rough fabric, leaving everything but their faces covered. Those faces were pale and marblesque, with classical proportions and dark eyes. At this point it would have been unwise to make immediate assumptions about their emotional states, but the stern expressions the priests wore gave Walter the impression that they were not happy.

The sixth figure was one that Walter did not recognise.

It – he - wore a cloak, just like the monkish Engineers in front wore, albiet more ornately decorated and frilled. But the cloak was hoodless, exposing a striking biomechanoid crown, which was as seamlessly melded with the bald head as the gangplank was with the gravel. The broad, skeletal headpiece tapered off into two sharp points, with spinal piping and exposed ribbing on both sides. The overall effect was one of both ceremony and intimidation, a perfect halfway point between a pope and a drill instructor. Indeed, from the figure's powerful walk and chiselled countenance alone, Walter got the impression that this was a general, or some other high ranking official; someone used to getting what he wanted, at whatever cost.

Behind the general were two more priestlike not-men in robes, and behind them a further pair of  armed and suited guards. The complete contingent of nine descended the gangway in silence, observing the surrounding desolation.

It was only when the second priest reached the surface of the plaza that the party's silent protocol was broken; he collapsed on his knees with a pitiful deep cry, arms limp by his side. Walter knew that the pathogen that had caused this disaster had long since fallen dormant, so this reaction was not one of physical pain; most likely this was just his own emotional response to witnessing the aftermath of a genocide first hand. This was all but confirmed when he let off another wail, grasping handfuls of dirty soil in his hands and letting them fall through his fingers.

By now the entire bevy of Engineers had reached the end of the ramp and were now on terra firma. Their sense of stoicism seemed to be slipping, for Walter could now hear the soft cries of the other priests, as well as grunted phrases – possible swearwords - from the guards. Even the general, whose face up until now had remained stern, looked anguished and close to tears.

Enough procrastinating. Now was the moment.

Walter strode out of the shadow of the temple, into the pink evening sunlight, and descended the long staircase leading down to the plaza. The steps, designed as they were for the longer legs of the Engineers, would have been punishing to descend for humans; they of course presented no such obstacle for the infinitely resilient Walter. Once on the ground proper, he continued his fast walk, weaving a path through the empty spaces between the dessicated bodies. He could easily have jumped over some of them and made the journey quicker, but such a gesture could have been interpreted as disrespectful, and he knew that first impressions were everything.

They saw him later than he thought they would; presumably they were too caught up in their grieving to immediatley notice his arrival. Nevertheless, he was still quite some distance away from the landing party when the guards spotted him, immediately raising their weapons. Conversely Walter raised his arms, in what he hoped would be seen as an acknowledgement of non-hostility. He was just a few meters away from the group, who by now were all staring at him, when he stopped; after a few seconds of careful consideration, he opened his mouth, and spoke.

“Welcome home. I'm so sorry.”

Reconstructing the written language of the Engineers had been hard enough, with the lack of comparative material for any terrestrial languages being a particular hurdle; it had been even harder to reconstruct their spoken language. Nevertheless, he had managed to establish the basic linguistic components of the tongue, and a vocabulary (painstakingly interpreted from ancient security recordings found on disabled ships) had been logged into his memory banks as well. There was no accounting for whether these Engineers would understand his words. All he knew was that this was the medium most likely to ensure some kind of reciprical communication, and all he could do was wait for their response.

The kneeling priest, who had been supplicating on the ground all this time, stood up upon hearing those words. Whether he recognised the sentence or was just reacting to the unfamiliar voice, Walter could not tell. Either way, he was alarmed to see the priest suddenly lunge towards him, another braying cry escaping his lips. Walter took a pace back, hand on holster, ready to intervene should the situation turn violent.

It was the general, instead, who intervened. With a single effortless step forward, he grasped the distraught priest's shoulders and restrained him, gently pulling him back from the fray.

“Patience,” the general whispered.

Walter felt relieved, if such an emotion could possibly apply to something with a mind of noughts and ones. He was relieved that violence would not be the rule of the evening, and relieved that he perfectly understood the general's spoken phrase – the intonation was subtly different to the one he had learned, but the phrasing was identical. His arduous research had paid off.

Now the general was turning to Walter and kneeling down so their heads were level. He spoke again, hushed and quiet, but unmistakeably deep. There was restrained power in his voice, and once more, Walter understood.

“Tell me what happened here.”