Triskaidekatych

It is finally our time, and my embrace will be cold and loving.

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    Triskaidekatych

    Author: Dino--DrawsDino--Draws and QueeriousQueerious

    Visual Content Warning: The following contains illustrated depictions of body horror, graphic blood and gore, and imagery of a hanging.

    Written Content Warning: The following contains textual descriptions of body horror, existential dread, implied attempted suicide, and obviously, death.

    rating: +38+–x
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Triskaidekatych

1

You are nothing more than a leech on humanity, the one we call 'The Parasite'. Do you know how many times you have died? Or, rather, how many bodies you have destroyed? You hide within others, corrupting from within, a rot that is created by containment itself; how long have you feared true death? Crawling away from my loving grasp, shedding your skin like the serpent you are. A toxin, no, a venom courses through your flesh, their flesh, a flesh that does not yet exist. You poison those with your gift of survival: there is no antidote.

How many deaths have you ran from? How many times have I seen you, skulking away, waste left behind for another to dispose of. Did you ever keep count? Did you ever remember their names? Or has it always been too hard for you, too difficult to conceive of the harm you have caused by perpetuating. Think of the countless minds you have shattered, emplaced, replaced — are you even still truly yourself?

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Your body has failed you. Of course, you know what that feels like, you've just never quite made it to the end; you always quit, right before we meet. You can feel each organ give way, soft and bursting, a sack of pus seeping from within; are you human? Or are you just a pile of rot, decay and cancer, one that the world wished to carve out, to excise, to burn with radiant fury. Are you meant to be, or just a disease?

After all this time, and all this death, do you really think it was worth it?


2


You were so close this time, but you knew I would catch up with you eventually. Like a darkened street in reverse, each lamp blinks out, closer and closer as I approach, the pitch black of sleep rushing to be by your side. Have you enjoyed your little tour, running from dying world after dying world, leaving behind an emptiness in your wake? At this point, you must be an expert in losing the ones you love.

'The Persistent' — did you pick your name, or was it given to you for your refusal to move on? The stubborn one, the obsessive, the one who wished for just one more chance to make things right. How many wrongs have you made along the way? Did you wake up, in the middle of the night, panicking that the world was going to end? Did you really care about humanity? Maybe, you only cared about yourself.

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Do you remember what the sun felt like? Do you remember a soft summer breeze, the sound of the ocean, a ray of light peeking out from behind a cloud? Do you even remember what a rose smells like? Can you remember the last time you did?

I think you have spent so long dying in the dark, that you no longer shine. You've forgotten your purpose, you have lost the spark. As the Light died in your eyes, were you proud of what you'd created?


3


'The Idea' — you were more than just yourself, the fragments of your memories clinging to your vessel, your only ties to what you once were. Pieces, scattered into the abyss, microcosms of self without ties, without connections, without meaning, littering the minds of the world like trash. You are a plastic of the mind, and you are everywhere. Some people give their time to the Foundation, others give their lives. You?

You are the only one who gave your entire identity to The Foundation; you embody nothing but their oppression. You are restriction, you are the conceptual lock and the ontologic key. You exist for a purpose, and not for yourself. In that way, are you anything more than a tool? You are no tool, just rusted pieces. And soon? Soon, you will be nothing.

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Still, the wheel turns, with or without you. Very soon, you will be forgotten — familiar? It should be. You might have buried that, pushed it away, tried in vain to escape the nightmares that plagued, but it always came back. Like a faithful dog, returning to the one who cast the ball into the void, it finds you with glee. You never really escaped, did you? Delays are no concern, in the grand scheme of things. Death is patient.

Your death is the death of Containment; you have doomed the entire Foundation to share your fate. All will be forgotten.


4


You could have experienced true joy — you did, once, in the forgotten scarlet glens that you once called home. There, things were better, as you slipped between terms, defining yourself with the change of the seasons. A 'humble' life, but a satisfying one, one with meaning and purpose. You understood me there. You understood that for all life, there was a death. You knew that all things must end.

So tell me, 'The Convert' — do you regret your sacrifice? Was everything you gave up worth the years of toil? Did you accomplish your goal, and fix the system from within? Do you really think you had an impact? From where I stand, where I have always stood, you became an extension of the very machine you sought to change. Of course, what would a 'cultivator' know of the churning gears that constitute containment?

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You forgot what you once were, as many of your ilk do — but you were never happy with persistent existence. Your form danced as your fickle mind dallied between selves, thinking that you were one who truly understood what it meant to be transitory. To embody change. You called yourself the future, but all I see is a domesticated pet.

You refused to make the greatest change of all, from the moment you put on your ivory cuffs. You ran from the end, from stagnation, from the very essence of humanity. Sarkic, Nalkan, no matter how you choose to describe it — you are what you have always been. A miserable sack of flesh. The only difference now is you lack a heartbeat.


5


You felt so clever, calling yourself 'The Mother'. You birthed an entire empire of suffering, without children of your own to ensure your legacy. You wrote your tenets in blood, a blood that you would never shed yourself — a mother without a family is a paradox. Still, you thought nobody else truly understood your wit, nobody could see your vision. You twisted the words and minds of those around you like cheap trinkets, destined for the funeral pyre. Play things. Toys. Patients.

People thought you cared about them — at least, until they had time to think for themselves. It only took a few minutes, an hour, a day away from your meddling hands and poisonous words. It only took one iota of self-reflection to see through your charade. It's a shame your manipulations died before you; some people have a legacy that will live on after them. In the end, it was your legacy that brought about yours.

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Hoisted by your own petard, so to speak. You thought words could get you out of this, as they always have. How foolish of you, to think words would have power upon deaf ears. They heard you, let me make that clear, but for once, they heard you true. For the first time, they heard your lies as they were: the desperate flailing of a miserable woman who had none but herself to blame. As you cast out your final spell, each letter failed to meet the mark, the noose being drawn closer yet. In the end, did you hear the words that you yourself spoke?

No, the irony in that is one that will be remembered beyond you. Those who came to seek their closure understood one thing that you could never comprehend: when it came down to it, this was your fault. It always was.


6


You were one of my favorites. A true proselytizer of my message, a harbinger of the miasma of demise. You decimated, carelessly, recklessly, ignorant of whom fell by your blade, nor the blades of those who marched to your sepulchral tune. You were a delight to watch.

But now? 'The Pragmatist'? You are no warrior. You are fetid, you are an unsightly blemish, a damaged weapon far beyond repair. You are like so much of your countrymen and their legacies: you are a dying art, and as the final practitioner, this curse will fade with you. This is a place of no glory, and yet, you are the guest of honor.

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In the end, you were what you hated most. You were a coward, a sycophant, begging for mercy. You prayed, for what might have been the first time in decades; your mouth did not remember the words, but your heart remembered the guilt. Guilt is a funny thing, especially for a dying man, a man of honor. You tried in vain to justify your sins, to validate your will to kill, but your prayers went to no god. They came to me.

You wished for an honorable death, but you earned an inconsequential ending. In your last moments, were you afraid? Maybe, had you been stronger, you could have written your own finale. You could have done the honorable. You did not.


7


You have always done all you could to survive, haven't you? You claimed to have fractured your own self for surveillance, for the sake of knowledge. You claimed to have shattered your ego for the sake of 'perspective'. You stated to all who would listen that your splintered self was for the good of all, a boon upon mankind. You broke who you were, just so that you would exist in a multitude. Yet, from where I sit — you only delayed the inevitable.

'The Observer', you called yourself. A watcher, a voyeur, a paranoid panopticon in human form. A prison, designed to watch, the eye of the eagle staring down at the lives that passed you by. You were meant for more than this, but meaning tends to drift when you have so little beyond a solitary purpose. You lost your definition — worry not. In the end, you finally came back together.

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You could only hide in obscurity for so long — when I am your opponent, loss is inevitable. You ran, jumping from fragment to fragment, barely faster than the rising tides. You climbed the mount, fearful of drowning, not knowing that you were already at the bottom of an endless chasm. You thought that there would be a light at the end of the tunnel, in an Orphean dream; and yet, you still could not help yourself, looking back at what you had abandoned. Each corpse you left behind, a remnant of your time here. Each aspect of self, blinking out, like stars in the sky.

First, you lost your identity. That was your first of many deaths, long before this. But now? It seems as though my collection is finally complete, and you are whole once more.


8


You recognized me as I appeared, in blood-red robes, the skulls of my chosen draped around my neck. I smiled at your reaction, my grin matching the crescent moon atop my head — you have seen me, many times, to clean up the messes that you created. And you, my dear, have created many, many disasters, with little more than a spoken word.

'The Melody', a frozen tune that shattered the minds of those who could not deafen themselves, manipulation dripping through the world. Inspiration flows to those who see you, ingenuity in fatal motion, a muse to the slaughter. You delighted in the blood showers, watching as they twisted and fought for a prize that neither would ever win. Did you delight in your taunting whispers, the power held over them, a perversion of the mind caused by your unending beauty?

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A fitting death for you, wouldn't you say? A turn of face, a karmic retribution in kind. The ghosts of those you felled have only wrought revenge, a perversion of desire, shattering your illusion; when I came for you, you thought I was there for them.

But as with all things that begin, even you must end. Did you ever notice that those you slaughtered were more beauteous in death? How true that holds. They will display your splintered corpse in pieces, adored for all time. Shame you will not be there to witness the devotion.


9


How long have we seen each other, ships passing in the night? I come to liberate the wrecks anchored to the ocean floor, while you salvage the still-beating bodies from their watery graves. A delicate dance we weave across the tides of the abyss, me and my ferry — you, and your devotion standing stalwart, an eternal guardian at a lighthouse that only shines darkness. Your bulb was bright, 'The Thanotologist', and I am feeling — saudade, I believe you would call it.

You have worshipped me, and in turn, we have seen each other true. A love story, one-sided, each knowing the fate that would befall you inevitably. You have straddled the divide that so many seek to escape or avoid; now, in your time of need, I come to you with the gift you have always desired.

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Do you think that in your final moments your faith will waver? Do you think you will embody the same terror you have felt from others, so many times? Can you imagine yourself, pushing away at the very last second, a desperate attempt to escape the grasping claws that will pull you down to where you have always belonged?

Or have you desired this release, for longer than you are willing to admit? How young were you the first time you wished to cease survival, and join me and my flock? 5? 6? Perhaps younger. No matter. It is finally our time, and my embrace will be cold and loving. You were never like the others, especially in death; when your time came, you welcomed me, like a long-lost friend.


10


Morality is a fascinating thing, wouldn't you agree? After all, that was your express purpose: an objective answer in the face of the subjective. Humans are far too squishy and emotional to truly understand what it would take, but you — that was your sole purpose, and you pursued it doggedly. You were the victim of an animalistic trait — a desire to create, without understanding the ramifications of their actions.

Tell me, "The Null", did you ever wonder about the morality of mortality? Creating something with the abject knowledge that one day, they too would die? How do you reconcile the end of one with the creation of another? Perhaps, none of that matters — are you a being of pure logic, ones and zeros in psuedospace? Or, just perhaps, have you become imperfect, subjective, a slave to your own biases? Have your actions turned the very ones you sought to protect them from immortal code, into mortal, emotional beings?

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Of course, morality is meaningless in the face of mortality. How does it feel for a digital being to die, I wonder? This is new to me, a development of the modern age; I am a connoisseur of endings, and your flavor is fascinating. Is what you are feeling actual fear? It is certainly not pain, you were not programmed to have that; nevertheless, you are hurting. Is that some survival instinct? A human trait, you would say, something beneath you, but, no. You are more than just numbers, no longer machine: you are a soul.

How delightful it is to see that soul extinguish. Humans, they are flawed — but you, you perfect being, your death is projected to the world, your soul ripped in twain bared to all; a digital spectacle of death, a delight of sensory deprivation, ending as all things do: in darkness. It is a shame, really, that when I come to greet you, there will be no difference between you and a human. Your afterlife is meaningless — but what a show you have given me.


11


You have always lived in the sunlight, dashing across the world to avoid the shade. An explorer you called yourself, an adventurer; and yet, none gave you that title. How did it feel to be called a buffoon, an imbecile, a liar who has nothing to his name? Did it sting each time you spoke on conquests and heard laughter in return?

But then, finally, you got recognition. You earned something once thought out of reach, an unattainable dream. You pulled yourself out of the pits of containment, elevating yourself above and beyond — but you, the one they call "The Explorer", do you think any of them ever trusted you?

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The death of a liar is a falsehood that cannot be mourned — there is no legacy to leave behind, but tall tales and fanciful dreams. Look at you, sitting in the muck, no better than those you share biology with. You, sir, are a meaningless, forgotten pile of flesh that is destined for the incinerator, and you always have been.

Your freedom was never real — you were simply on a much longer leash. The leash, held by your masters, connected to the chains you wore until the day you died. The sun may never set upon your home empire, but your sol has set for the final time.


12


It's a sight to behold — you, allowing the filth of your own blood to disgrace your poise. Fascinating, isn't it, how you have done so much for the sake of scrubbing that lineage from your own self, whilst a blade cares not for your concerns. You bleed just as you have always bled, just as your mother bled, just as all the other branches you sawed off in an attempt to be independent bleed; a green sap that lies at the heart of all humanity.

Greed, 'The Facilitator' — the one thing you could never truly abandon. There was always an angle, always a scheme, always another who would be caught off-guard. You left the comfort of the shadows, and tried to hock your wares in the open air, but…Well… Look at you now.

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Blood may be thicker than water, but death is suffocating, don't you think? In the end, as you always feared, betrayal was your downfall. Of course, who could have predicted that so many would betray you, and all at once? A grandmaster falling to hundreds of pawns seems unthinkable, and yet, here you sit, a wolf in emperor's clothing: plain to all but yourself.

To think, you were surprised. You were shocked that this could happen. Like a fine plate of caviar, I will relish this. Bite by bite, you will come with me, and eventually? Your fate is the same as any, no matter their station: shit, that is forgotten.


13


You do not matter. You are disposable. You are nothing more than a warm body, a seat filler; you are just as worthless as the nameless idiot you sit beside, eat beside, sleep beside and die beside. Nobody who has mattered has ever given you a second thought, and yet, you have spent your entire existence in servitude to another. You are forgotten just as quickly as you were considered.

Does that bother you? It shouldn't. You are dead, after all. No, this fact should bother you no more than the fact that each day you woke up and did nothing of value. That each life you saved was just as meaningless as any other. That you are but a drop of oil in the cogs of the machine that is 'The Foundation' — yes, you, 'The Everyman' — you are meaningless.

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Your death was not one of note, your name remembered only by your collector. You exist as a data point, cast into a web of meaningless nodes, your average the only detail worth remembering. You exist, not as a sole soul, but as a meagre footnote within a greater whole. A single line, in a single document, stored on a terminal covered in dust. Irrelevant, and without purpose.

Did you make a difference?

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