Before their eyes could adjust, the first thing those forsaken ones felt was a sudden sensation of falling.
Like in a dream where the loss of balance forces one to awaken—only to realize they truly were falling.
There was no transition, no bridge between the divine plane, the blinding radiance, and the hard thud of their bodies against the sand.
The "chosen" were greeted by the heat of endless dunes and the familiar blue sky of Earth. No trace of God, nor of the brilliance that had brought them back.
Only a brutal emptiness after that encounter—a silence shattered by gasps, sobs, and torn prayers.
Some rose slowly, dazed, broken, brushing the sand from their clothes. And as they looked toward the horizon, finding no sign of civilization, they all understood the same thing: their Creator hadn't bothered to return them to their places of origin. He had cast them, together, into a forsaken desert of the world.
Something that would soon turn against them—when everyone heard the same innocent question:
"Well… what do we do now?"
Each of them processed that question differently. Some, in the most obvious way, thought about how to escape the desert and return to their homes, to their loved ones…
Others, however, didn't look at the desert, but beyond it. They wondered what they were supposed to do with the truth and the memories they had just been given.
Yet the first answer spoken aloud was a reproach, heavy with bitterness.
"Why did you do something like this?"
"What do you mean?" asked Santiago Ramón y Cajal, brushing the sand from his waistcoat, unable to rid himself of the emptiness left by that encounter.
An old Romani woman, her eyes bloodshot and her face twisted in anguish, cried out:
"To question our Creator! Don't you understand what you've done? You've doomed us all!"
Marie Curie looked at her with disdain.
"We were already doomed." Her voice, cold and rational, clashed with the hysteria around her. "You saw it yourselves, didn't you? God had already decided to… close our chapter."
"Only the sinners!" shouted an archbishop, reducing the rest of humanity to mere unworthy souls as he clutched the jeweled cross in his hands. "We were chosen to ascend, to serve eternally at His side… and now, because of you—because of your arrogance—"
His voice broke in a poisoned pause.
"GOD ABANDONED US ALL!"
And fury took the place of grief.
As a metaphor for his shattered faith, the archbishop lunged forward, brandishing his crucifix like a dagger, intent on staining the sand with the blood of the boy… the one who had dared to question.
Robert didn't move. He watched the man approach with an unsettling calm in his child's body.
The blow never landed. With a swift, precise motion, a young man stepped in, knocking the archbishop down—twisting his arm and slamming him into the ground with an ease learned in another life, another war.
The archbishop struggled, spitting sand and curses.
"You deserve to die for what you've taken from us!"
The young man pressed his head into the dune, smothering his cries in the sand.
"Thank you…" whispered Robert, still without blinking.
"You're welcome," replied a twenty-two-year-old J. R. R. Tolkien, with a faint smile and hollow, lifeless eyes—just like the archbishop's.
Born of the same broken faith… though it had not shattered the future writer as it had shattered the priest.
Watching how that deserved death—the one that might have brought them a sliver of peace—had been denied,
"Pth." The old Romani woman spat into the sand in contempt. "I curse you!" she roared, her wrinkled face twisted with rage. "Even if it's the last thing I do, I'll make you pay for stealing my chance of salvation!"
In that moment, resentment had turned her into what she had once despised most— the very stereotype she had spent her life fighting against, ironically, with kindness.
Her words spread like a cursed echo, infecting the broken believers. Their sobs faded, replaced by burning, resentful stares that fixed upon the others with a feverish gleam.
'Of course… you're probably worse than whatever's waiting for us' thought Albert, knowing there was no point arguing—he could already see the madness reflected in their eyes.
United only by spite, one of them, unable to remain any longer beside those who had doomed them, began to walk off in a random direction… and the rest followed.
Tolkien rose from the ground, stepping away from the archbishop. The latter, after one last look—searing the faces of the others into his memory—joined the broken wanderers.
Watching them leave, little Robert turned to those who still had a fragment of reason left.
"We should get moving too."
"All right…" said Albert, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "But before we wander aimlessly… does anyone have any idea where we are?"
At that moment, the very man whom chance had chosen for Einstein to test his hypothesis upon — Muhammad Iqbal — broke his silence.
He had remained apart from the argument, scribbling in his notebook every divine rune he had managed to memorize.
When he finally finished, he drew a deep breath and, after gazing at the familiar barren landscape, smiled.
"My friends… welcome to the Sahara Desert."
Raising a hand toward the horizon, he added, "Allow me to be your guide."
-
After endless hours of walking through the desert, the group finally spotted a small village as the sun began to sink beyond the dunes.
The villagers received the sixty strangers with wary eyes. Yet they did not hesitate to help, guiding them to the largest house where they were offered water, food, and shelter.
On the open terrace, beneath a twilight that painted the adobe walls in shades of crimson, Marie Curie watched the children playing in the fading light — her gaze distant, dimmed.
She looked at the men and women who had welcomed them, living in a peace born of ignorance — a peace unreachable for those who knew the truth.
Then, the first voices began to rise on the terrace — and hers was the first.
"We should be able to do something," she said softly, her voice barely more than a thread. "We can't just return to our lives as if nothing had happened."
"For some, that would be easier than for others…" murmured Alan Turing, forty years old trapped in the body of a two-year-old, as he tried to stand. He wobbled, then had to steady himself with his small hands on the rough carpet to avoid falling.
As he stood again, cheeks flushed under the weight of so many eyes, the child spoke once more — imagining, for a fleeting second, how it would feel to face his parents and tell them the truth:
"And what do you suggest? Tell the masses? No one would believe us. They'd call us insane — or worse, possessed."
"What for?" interrupted a not-so-small Enrico Fermi, crossing his arms. "Even if they believed us, panic would spread. And panic devours reason. And reason is the only thing we have left now that heaven has turned its back on us."
"If we do nothing, there'll be panic anyway," replied Father Georges Lemaître, watching the fear reflected on every face — his own included — betrayed by the trembling of his hand.
"Maybe we should all go to the government together?" suggested the self-taught mathematical genius Srinivasa Ramanujan, only thirty-two in his twenty-seven-year-old body. "After all, the truths we carry within will mean nothing unless someone with power listens."
That suggestion made those who had once worked for the government — and knew how it operated — exchange uneasy looks.
"Governments are made of politicians," said Otto dryly. "And politicians will do anything to stay in power… even refuse to act until it's far too late."
Robert, who hadn't stopped thinking since that innocent question was asked, finally spoke.
"That's why it has to be us who prepare… no — who prepare the world."
"How? Even if we're a motley crew of talents, I don't see many politicians among us,"Turing added with irony that didn't quite fit his childlike body. "Why is it, I wonder, that God didn't choose a single one?"
"We don't need them," Robert replied. "We have something far better."
Most of the chosen ones — especially those present — were geniuses in one way or another, whether social or intellectual. It didn't take them long to understand what he meant.
"Our memories of the future," said Santiago.
"If we use them wisely," continued Robert, "we won't need the help or approval of any government."
"Hey, hey… you're not planning to control the world, are you?" quipped Bertrand Russell, the British philosopher, raising an eyebrow with a half-forced smile.
If anyone else had said such a thing, he wouldn't even have bothered to answer. But that child — and "father" at the same time — sent a chill down his spine.
"Given what we're up against," replied the boy in his cowboy pajamas, his eyes fixed on the horizon glowing red, "I don't think this is something a handful of individuals can stop. If we want even the slightest chance of survival, it has to be a collective effort — the whole species. So yes… I do want to control the world. In a way."
For Robert, realizing that they were worth no more than a chair struck him differently than the others.
Where others' faith or hope had crumbled, his instead...
'If our lives were worth nothing… then…' It made him realize the futility of guilt—the useless remorse he had carried for decades.
Like a creation casting off the moral chains imposed by its indifferent creator, Oppenheimer allowed himself to see the world stripped bare: no redemptions, no condemnations, only a cold, merciless clarity.
In the dense silence, when no one else could offer a better plan, someone who had remained detached from it all—absent ever since the light had torn him from the hotel room where he lived after losing everything—finally stirred.
But it was neither fear nor despair for humanity's fate that brought him back. To his eccentric mind, such things scarcely mattered. He remained silent the way Muhammad did when inscribing each divine symbol in his small notebook.
Nikola Tesla needed more time—time to etch into his mind and soul every frequency, every note of that exotic energy from the divine dimension, which he was certain was singing to him, yearning for him to unveil its celestial secrets.
He, who had already planned to use his knowledge of the future to steal inventions and fund his new research, saw nothing wrong with the idea and simply said:
"I'm going to need a lot of money."
Robert smiled at the answer. Turning to the rest of the Forsaken, a dangerous gleam flickered in his eyes as he asked:
"So then… who else is willing to help us rebel against the designs of our foolish creator? To fight for the survival of our species?"
Just as the gypsy's curse had poisoned her own group, Robert's defiance intoxicated his.
One by one, regardless of the age of the bodies they inhabited, they rose and met his gaze with that same perilous glint—the one that had already condemned them—before nodding in silent resolve.
And from that moment on, that is how they acted.
When the sun sank below the dunes, they devoted the entire night to outlining a plan:
Which inventions—and in what order—could grant them the greatest wealth and influence.
Which yet-unborn talents should be protected or recruited.
Which strategic technologies should be brought forth ahead of their time.
While the engineers and scientists compiled their lists,the psychologists, philosophers, and now theologians began dissecting the errors of God—
The One who, knowingly or not, had granted them their two greatest advantages: the memory of the future, and the understanding of every language they heard.
They debated every word He had spoken, every gesture of His shifting form, striving to separate myth from reality—crafting the psychological profile of a creator both perfectionist and imperfect.
Trying to conceive His limits, His capabilities… and perhaps, His weaknesses.
Not out of vengeance or spite, but in order to extrapolate them to His Opposite—and prepare for His coming.
When the sun rose again, what had begun as a group bound by fear and circumstance had transformed into a brotherhood with a clear purpose of action.
A brotherhood founded upon a single, solemn vow: the survival of humankind.
Thanks to their varied nationalities, the Brotherhood extended its influence to every corner of the world. They reached out to governments, academies, and corporations, weaving an invisible network that transcended borders and flags.
Using fragments of their memories of the future, they anticipated discoveries, founded impossible industries, and sowed the seeds of a new age. Within mere years, progress accelerated as never before: cities blazed with light, communications expanded, and science seemed to multiply upon itself.
Humanity lived through a brief dawn—a golden age in which factories could barely keep pace, work was abundant, and the economy flowed with unprecedented vigor. It was as if the entire world had awoken from a long slumber.
But beneath that feverish prosperity, a greater purpose lay hidden. Guided by the Brotherhood's discreet "recommendations," governments kept the engines of war running. Not a single furnace was extinguished, not a single assembly line stopped; the war had not ended—it had merely changed its face.
For five years, humanity advanced by decades. Yet all those efforts proved almost meaningless when the true purpose of the monoliths was revealed— and the Void finally unveiled itself to mankind.
It was then that we understood a terrifying truth: no matter how much time we had, how many weapons we forged, or how many soldiers we trained— we were not prepared.
And we never would be.
-
June 6th, 1920
Six months after the appearance of the monoliths.
Three quarters of humankind had perished. The great cities—London, Paris, New York, Beijing… every heart of the world—were consumed in fire and blood.
Amid the chaos, Amelia Kean, a woman who had spent the last five years with her heart clenched tight, now lay among the dusty remnants of what had once been her small neighborhood. Her face, pale and hardened, bore a grief so deep it seemed to have transcended tears.
Her husband, Thomas, had died defending their own when the armies fell. Her youngest son, Arthur, only eight years old, had witnessed everything. When he saw that creature devour his father, his mind shattered. That same night, as Amelia and her eldest son slept in tears beneath the ruins, Arthur slipped away… and never returned.
At dawn, they found his body—mangled and half-devoured—just a few streets away.
Since then, only she and Alfie, her twelve-year-old son, remained.
In the distance, purple lights stained the night sky with an unnatural glow, revealing just how far the corruption of the monoliths had spread across the earth and the heavens.
It was an undeniable sign: God had forsaken them… and Hell had claimed what was left.
Amelia struggled to breathe.
"Never stop…" she whispered, each word searing her lungs. "Survive… no matter what. If you don't… the memory of your father… your brother… and me… will fade away… I'm sorry… for making you live th—"She couldn't finish.
Her last breath slipped away in a trembling sigh. Her body—nearly drained of blood—lay still, impaled upon a rusted iron beam jutting out from the rubble.
Alfie looked at her with dry, hollow eyes, unable to shed another tear. He nodded silently at her unfinished words, closed her cold, stiff eyelids, and covered her with a blanket soaked in her own blood—the same one he had used to keep her warm.
He found comfort, at least, in a single thought: She hadn't been devoured. She had died by something human. Something he could understand.
He covered her with debris, trying to preserve what remained of her, and rose to fulfill his promise.
He survived as long as he could. He became a scavenger, a shadow among corpses, a rat among the ruins. He slept in sewers, in the wreckage—ate whatever he found… and, when it came to it, did far worse things to stay alive.
Weeks passed. Then a month. Each day more desperate than the last.
Until, on the seventh day of the seventh month…
When the memory of his family was about to fade—devoured by the same writhing tentacles and fanged nightmare that had slain his father—
A golden light flooded the earth. A pure energy surged across the land like a heartbeat of creation, incinerating the Void as it swept through, as though it were its very antithesis.
The creature about to devour him froze.
For an instant, Alfie felt the embrace of his mother once more, as the beast that had ensnared him released its grip and screamed in agony, burning in golden fire.
The Void howled and recoiled. The purple sky began to clear, and the active monoliths—along with the open wounds they had torn in reality—started to close.
God had given humanity a second chance.
Or at least… that was what the survivors were told—by the only organization that had endured the coming of the Void.