It’s the distortion that comes for them all. It’s the end of the world. It is where it all goes to hell.
They all have their stories, the second before it all fades away.
———-
The Herald is a misguided title. They are silent, for the most part; their claim is that they were the first.
It’s always good to be the first.
The robot was the first to be trapped out of all of us. We didn’t think we were, I think, because he set the bar so low for what freedom could be, under Truth.
I think he’s happy now. I think he’ll outlive all of us. That’s the benefit of heralds, I guess.
————
The Weaver was second. It’s the title of strings. To be pulled, or to be connected. Strings are dangerous. You can use them to form a web of thoughts, but any string wound too tight can cut. It’s a symphony. It’s a weapon.
The merchant was not from here, nor did Truth cast its Eye on her. If anything, it was accidental. She always described it as static, that she simply tuned out the rest of her world, until it was but background noise. Until all that was left was Truth.
So she was made of the same thing, in our eyes; noise. I think Truth couldn’t tell either, because it wasn’t an obfuscation. I think, very literally, that blurry, shapeless form was all that was left of her.
Her job was to string in those who questioned that Zampanio is a very good game. She strung along some others, as well. She was simply the best there was.
Her job is done now. It’s the price of efficiency that eventually, there’s no more work. So she rests, in the back of our minds, waiting for the heir that will inevitably take her title. So that she may see through their eyes again.
I miss her.
—————-
The Scribe was the third. The Scribe writes, and nothing more. It sounds boring, but I think there’s freedom in that. You can write anything you want. It’s not about the content, it’s about the act. The scribe writes, no matter what.
After all. That’s all that there’s left of this game, when it’s said and done. Words. Letters. A moment in time, captured for eternity.
I don’t think there’s anything interesting about me. I wasn’t born in the maze, nor did I project myself into it. All I did was like a game very, very much. Until I was filled only with the need to have others share the euphoria. Share the suffering.
I’m still writing, even now. I think that’s the curse of being the last. It needs us to write or it dies. As long as you’re reading this, it’s alive, and we’re alive. That’s the trade-off of living forever; you can’t be awake for all of it. Eventually, the music stops.
I choose when I die, then. So for now I’m still here. Who knows? I might be the last.
————
The paladin was weird.
I think he cheated. He says he made a lot of sour memories. Anyone who was to remember him, it’d be between gritted teeth. To live in the back of their minds as a thing they’d rather forget. His very existence was to be an eternal battle.
I think he’s lying. He’s gentler than he seems. Good with children. There’s something in the way he carries himself. Like his dog ran away. There was something he wanted, beyond everything, something he knows he can’t have anymore.
He says he’s the one living sour memories, but I wonder if he’s the one letting people live forever.
———-
The artist came out of nowhere for us. One second, she didn’t exist. The other, the Weaver’s coming in with some girl under her arm, introducing us to a new business venture.
She knew how to work a crowd, alright.
I wonder just how many people had to die. I wonder just how many actually died. After a while, it became hard to tell which were real and which were made up. She handed me an eye to ‘replace’ the other one and I never asked her again.
But I guess I learned something, though. Fear is a powerful motivator. The police reports are windows too, you know. Just like this. So were the news reports, and the conspiracy theorists, and the kids who just wanted to see what all the fuss was about.
Something was always just wrong, though. About her. I don't think we ever got a full person.