One Last Chance

A thousand dead ends. Every lead pulls you deeper into the Hell you have made for yourself. The fires rise and you desperately pour fuel on them.

A thousand cycles of this. Your laboratory in disarray, each scattered tool the remains of another failure past. You'll clean it up and begin it all again. You'll wash the blood from your hands only to drench them again, and again, and again. Right?

A thousand souls your guinea pigs. A sickening energy clings to the walls that even your magic cannot cleanse. The shadows of your catacombs deepen and the heat of your lights dim with every soul come and gone. Your servants plunge their bygone shells into the ichor, because otherwise they'll begin to stir within hours of their deaths. There is nothing left to try.

The spectre of that which you've dreaded most is here. You kneel before the tanks, eyes dull and sunken with sorrow as you stare into the floor. Is your devotion absolute? Are all of the souls you've destroyed nothing but a sunk cost?

What will it take for you to finally cut your losses?

Fear?

You rise to your feet, looking up at the shadows of your family in the glow of the tanks. You draw a deep and trembling breath, the scent of rot that you catch being your first step. The Astral world begins to creep into the scene, vicious deep-violet briar with dark red thorns scaling the walls and tangling your workbenches. The roof gapes to the dull shine of Erriyt, baring your work station to the judgment of the sky. Your family's vessels fall away, leaving only their forms, dangling in the air above you in council.

Scuds of silver clouds catch the moonlight, rushing by with the wind billowing over the plains. As far as the eye can see, the land is scarred by the horrors that've taken place here, the spirit-grass choked under invasive vines and brambles and no Anima in sight. It is no wonder the trees died away last winter and never recovered. Tears begin to roll down your face, shame twisting your heart into knots. You proceed.

The magic begins to wash in around you. Dizzying shades form a thick fog that unwinds into distinct threads, all pulling past each other in all directions, with a moment's inspection. The Channels bare themselves to you. They run slow, thick with negative animus that makes the air stingingly cold. The imprint of your family's tanks overwhelms their silhouettes, the intense magic used to keep them stable all but blinding to behold. You can barely breathe, terror choking you. You proceed.

The light of the channels is smothered as a chilling, depthless smog rolls in. The spirit-grass vanishes underfoot, leaving you floating unsteadily in the dark. The darkness at once whelms you and leaves you feeling exposed, the smog quickly becoming so uniform that the world around you is little more than a roiling void. You glimpse forms in the Deep, hints of horrors unknown and best left that way cresting the waves of smog and disappearing again.

"I know you are here," you say, quiet and shaking. "Face me! I'm tired of running from you! I'm tired of being watched! This ends here, and it ends now!"

A pair of eyes appear in the Deep ahead of you, white, perfectly circular, and shimmering with a sickening non-light. Your eyes go wide, horror dawning in your mind as you recognize it.

It takes a few steps, its pace picking up into a sprint as it dashes out of the smog toward you, its needle-like blade poised for the strike. You clench your fist, one foot sliding back and a hand jutting forward as the other reels back, and you stand your ground. You stare it down as its gnarled husk comes into view, nightmarish energy trailing behind its broken crown. Your lips pull back into a scowl, your face burns with tears, and your synapses boil as it nears. It jaunts forward...

Its needle pierces your heart. Your palm crashes through its chest.

In that moment, your eyes lock, the Angel stunned. Its hand trembling around the handle of its weapon, it finally looks down to see you rip its soul from its chest, clutching a ball of twisting wrong-light. Its fingers slip free of its blade, and you see the fear in its eyes as it takes two stumbling steps back and falls into the smog, its piercing shriek making your eyes shake in your skull...

...

You open your eyes, kneeling before the tanks once more. You look down to see your dress soaking in your blood, seeping from the hole in your chest. And then... to the little ball of prismatic un-light that you cradle in your lap, burning in your grip. You lift the soul, unfurling it into strands of unfamiliar magic that nonetheless seem to follow your command, and winding those strands around your fingers. You press your hand to your chest, drawing that magic into yourself and watching the wound begin to knit itself shut.

This... this is it.

Your eyes widen. You stand, holding onto your salvation for dear life. For a thousand years you have toiled, all in service of this. All for this moment. You reach out, taking command of the artifice in the room with a simple gesture. Ancient gears grind to life in the walls, shaking off a millenium of rust. The room quakes and the tanks begin to lower from their pedestals, sinking down to the floor. Slowly and haltingly, the glass doors of the tanks begin to open, releasing a rush of potent magic that courses across the floor and past your feet.

The blinding magic clears, and your vision focuses again, and... you freeze.

The tanks are empty.