Stop.
A hundred thousand rainbows of light reflecting off the shattered glass in front of you as it falls forever to the bitumen below. The road is cool beneath your bare feet despite the sun overhead, your toes crossing the labyrinthine maze of cracks and fissures in the tarmac. Overhead, the sky glows grey-green, deep clouds boiling over over the horizon and sweeping away the stars.
Go.
You take a step down the road, the stench of burning wood and burning rubber and burning flesh clogging your nose. You look down and see dark blood the colour of fear and war dripping from your stomach. An explosion rocks the world somewhere to your right, but you don't see it. The building ahead of you grows larger and larger until it fills your vision and you find yourself on the front steps, a trail of black wetness marking your path. The revolving glass door is blocked with blood and bodies so you have to use your shoulder to ram your way through, each shove making you cough up a bit more black ichor, the blood of machines and monsters. The room beyond is charred and scarred and occupied by people in body armour pointing their guns at you, fingers squeezing the-
Stop.
Your legs buckle, but you keep your feet. The figure in the middle has their finger firmly pressed down on the trigger, the muzzle of gun flaring brightly as the first of three rounds exits. You walk up to the team of gunners and incapacitate them one by one, saving the middle for last.
Go.
The bullet smashes through the revolving door you were standing in front of five minutes ago, a moment ago. The bodies slump as gravity claims them and you walk on, up the grand staircase. You let your instincts guide you. Your body knows where to go.
A man in a white coat babbles incoherently against a shattered statue, tears streaming down his face. You ignore him, taking the next left. The room is large, but cramped with equipment you don't understand. Harsh metal panels and precisely coloured wires and distorted lenses of glass sit on tables, squat in corners, lounge in any free space. You walk through the room. The instruments are not your concern. The back door opens to a courtyard where formally-dressed men and women scamper frantically around like disturbed ants. One sees you and cries out, raising a handgun and firing-
Stop.
The bullet tears through your hamstring and you fall to the ground, tasting dust and blood and corruption. You stagger to your feet and set to work incapacitating the scientists and engineers, black tears burning a path down your cheeks and into your mouth.
Go.
Sound returns, deafening after the silence. You walk to the enormous metal cube in the middle of the courtyard. As you key in the code (SENTINEL), your fingers slick with blood and death, you catch a glimpse of your reflection, craggy and distorted, a product, a child born of conflict and ingenuity. A panel swings open to your right and you fall to your knees when you try to walk over to it.
Blood leaks from your ears while you retch violently. After a moment, a minute, a lifetime, you regain your feet and stagger over to the panel. You can hear the machine inside the cube whirring as it gradually heats up. The panel is inscribed with symbols and letters you don't understand, but your body does and quickly aligns them. A door opens and the whirring becomes much louder, deepening into a thrum. The machine inside is a beautiful amalgam of sleek design and perfect destruction.
You try to Stop, to give yourself more time, but you feel your insides wrench and twist and something breaks. The machine begins the final stage of firing, the thrum deepening to just below audible, leaving an uncomfortable pressure on your ears. You fall before you can reach the machine and this time you don't think you can rise again. You roll onto your back, looking up at the steadily reddening sky, black blood trickling from your mouth, stomach, leg. Distantly, you can hear shouts, but they are fading, as is the light. For a single moment, the machine cycles back to a high-pitched squeal, and then you
Stop.
A hundred thousand rainbows of light reflecting off the shattered glass in front of you as it falls forever to the bitumen below. The road is cool beneath your bare feet despite the sun overhead, your toes crossing the labyrinthine maze of cracks and fissures in the tarmac. Overhead, the sky glows grey-green, deep clouds boiling over over the horizon and sweeping away the stars.
Go.
You take a step down the road, the stench of burning wood and burning rubber and burning flesh clogging your nose. You look down and see dark blood the colour of fear and war dripping from your stomach. An explosion rocks the world somewhere to your right, but you don't see it. The building ahead of you grows larger and larger until it fills your vision and you find yourself on the front steps, a trail of black wetness marking your path. The revolving glass door is blocked with blood and bodies so you have to use your shoulder to ram your way through, each shove making you cough up a bit more black ichor, the blood of machines and monsters. The room beyond is charred and scarred and occupied by people in body armour pointing their guns at you, fingers squeezing the-
Stop.
Your legs buckle, but you keep your feet. The figure in the middle has their finger firmly pressed down on the trigger, the muzzle of gun flaring brightly as the first of three rounds exits. You walk up to the team of gunners and incapacitate them one by one, saving the middle for last.
Go.
The bullet smashes through the revolving door you were standing in front of five minutes ago, a moment ago. The bodies slump as gravity claims them and you walk on, up the grand staircase. You let your instincts guide you. Your body knows where to go.
A man in a white coat babbles incoherently against a shattered statue, tears streaming down his face. You ignore him, taking the next left. The room is large, but cramped with equipment you don't understand. Harsh metal panels and precisely coloured wires and distorted lenses of glass sit on tables, squat in corners, lounge in any free space. You walk through the room. The instruments are not your concern. The back door opens to a courtyard where formally-dressed men and women scamper frantically around like disturbed ants. One sees you and cries out, raising a handgun and firing-
Stop.
The bullet tears through your hamstring and you fall to the ground, tasting dust and blood and corruption. You stagger to your feet and set to work incapacitating the scientists and engineers, black tears burning a path down your cheeks and into your mouth.
Go.
Sound returns, deafening after the silence. You walk to the enormous metal cube in the middle of the courtyard. As you key in the code (SENTINEL), your fingers slick with blood and death, you catch a glimpse of your reflection, craggy and distorted, a product, a child born of conflict and ingenuity. A panel swings open to your right and you fall to your knees when you try to walk over to it.
Blood leaks from your ears while you retch violently. After a moment, a minute, a lifetime, you regain your feet and stagger over to the panel. You can hear the machine inside the cube whirring as it gradually heats up. The panel is inscribed with symbols and letters you don't understand, but your body does and quickly aligns them. A door opens and the whirring becomes much louder, deepening into a thrum. The machine inside is a beautiful amalgam of sleek design and perfect destruction.
You try to Stop, to give yourself more time, but you feel your insides wrench and twist and something breaks. The machine begins the final stage of firing, the thrum deepening to just below audible, leaving an uncomfortable pressure on your ears. You fall before you can reach the machine and this time you don't think you can rise again. You roll onto your back, looking up at the steadily reddening sky, black blood trickling from your mouth, stomach, leg. Distantly, you can hear shouts, but they are fading, as is the light. For a single moment, the machine cycles back to a high-pitched squeal, and then you
Stop.
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