- The Buzzing
- The Black Signal
Our wisdom flows so sweet. Taste and see...
TRANSMIT - initiate Oppenheimer protocols - RECEIVE - initiate the eel mucous lexicon - NOW I AM BECOME DEATH, THE DESTROYER OF WORLS - flip the Ace of Ruin - WITNESS - the Bomb.
What was the cause of all this, sweetling? Where is the zero point?
A man enters the subway in Kaidan. A man desparate for worth. A nothing that would become the fulcrum of so much. He carries an artifact. A dirty bomb. A filthy bomb. It was brought from far away by ship. Intrigues, bribes, double-crosses and treachery brought it here. There was a plan. but he never makes it there. He is stopped. He panics. He presses the button.
But who was he?
Initiate scan. Seeking name...
Signal disruption! Our particle wings tear! Something corrupts our broadcast. The Black Signal! The Black!@#!@$%#$...
!#%#@!#...SIGNAL RESTORED. The name was John. JOHN DIES AT THE END. Spoilers. Spoilers of worlds. Puppets and mimes. You'll find his strings stuck to the red-red bed.
What brought the bomb? We see a convoluted trail. Complacency is spread. We see purple sails. We see a morning light house beckoning. We see eyes looking the other way - ask Daimon why he keeps conscience locked away for a rainy day. So many plans. But something went wrong. The bomb was premature. Who tried to use it against whom? We see a dark tower looking down upon the ruin. The rabbit and death follow all the loose ends.
We see! We see! Colours bleed into one another - murky, muddy, and deep. A cargo manifest by Tyrian Sails. But would a purple sail by any other name smell just as sweetly treacherous? We see! We see! A box stamped with the seal of the Council of Venice. How many bedfellows in this strange bed? A beast with so many heads it is not aware of all its parts or where it plods.
A bouquet of gnashing mouths. Seeking the centre...
The bomb was a guillotine, a gun, a knife in the dark. A target of one. Who? Look to the Mother of Monsters. She did not birth every monster she made. Some she sculpted. She sculpted this one from a man she met from out of the Congo. The man who heard the whispers in the well - murky, muddy, and deep. She underestimated her monster, and it has cost her. Do not underestimate Philip Marquard.
Sssssssssssssssssssssssssssssss-I am the symbiotic signal-let me in.
Hiya Chuck. It's John.
Have you ever heard a fire alarm in the middle of the day and felt relief? Not fear for your safety, just a sigh of relief that the daily routine is broken - the preprogrammed tedium that makes wind-up anatomy toys think they're real. None of the living want to admit a tiny pang of relief in the wake of the Bomb. Don't have to go to that job you hate, today. Don't have to watch that game show that bores you, tonight. Whose fingers haven't itched once or twice while passing a fire alarm? I'm certainly guilty, Chuck.
The dead are even more relieved. They no longer have to pretend they are individual entities, rather than carbon tumours growing on the planet. Sentience is an illusion created by primitive sensory organs. Maintaining a lie is a strain. It makes real contentment impossible. Just walk onto any metro train - they can't even look each other in the eyes. Death works overtime trying to wipe away the lie.
I know that down deep, in your heart of hearts, you feel a little relief, Chuck. It's alright, I don't judge. I understand. I really do.
But THEY don't.
See you, Chuck ...