The sky of impossible colors stretched over a landscape of equally inconceivable machinery.
Artificial structures flooded the heavens in controlled chaos an act of grace and power from something greater. The coarse cold metal of the machines shifted into dark, pitch-like surfaces that gleamed like light itself, crossed by straight, pure lines of color that connected them, as if the entire world were one gigantic circuit board.
The organic fused with the artificial in an expression of art beyond what mortal hands, bound by conflict, could ever conceive.
Red and white flowers bloomed from the buildings in a symphony of impossible hues. Vines floated through the air like profane clouds, and their fruits glowed faintly, resembling fireflies trapped in twilight.
The colossal structures hovered with a slow, deliberate rhythm, as though dancing to an unknown beat.
Their inhabitants moved with the precision of yet another cog in the grand machinery.
Black eyes, cold as dusk, observed the world for what it was to them machines. Hair shifting between the tones of pitch and blood shimmered under that impossible sky. Identical faces, carved from the same mold, carried simple expressions—but pure ones, in their truest sense. Bodies made in the image and likeness of the demiurge who had created them in an act of equality. Their dark, uniform garments still carried the memory of the army they had once been.
But they were not at war. Not lately.
Their new directives were different: to explore the arts, to study the sciences, to forge something beyond battle. Some still trained in the fields, whether with weapons or with the magic their creator had granted them. Others had begun to question the meaning of things. And a few the boldest among them dared to create.
That apparent perfection was achieved by hands that would never consider themselves more than pieces of the grand machine. And yet, that was what made them "happy," according to their creator. What was the point of questioning anything more?
...
Adrian was relaxed for the first time since he had arrived in this world. Most of his problems had been resolved, but that did not mean he had achieved happiness or reached his goals. It only meant that now he could focus on them without the immediate weight of war.
Of course, war research would never stop until the day it truly became impossible to kill him.
On this occasion, he was attending—or rather inaugurating—a grand building that would house all forms of art conceived by his creations: the homunculi. Science, art, martial skill… everything would have a place there. But why spend resources on a seemingly useless structure?
The answer could be summed up in two factors:
First, to encourage the creativity of the homunculi so they could reach true consciousness. Because, in the end, there was nothing sadder than having no one to talk to. Being surrounded only by echoes of oneself might sound like a narcissist's dream, but in practice, it wasn't efficient.
Second, to test whether his creation could generate a proto-culture while remaining within the initial parameters of its design. He didn't want an army of mindless weapons, but warriors capable of understanding more than the value of war. He wanted minds that would explore the laws of the world and create art. He wanted entertainment. He wanted to give them motivation beyond the creed engraved into their souls.
Adrian wanted many things. He did not deny his selfishness he was still human, even if he was now thousands of them in one.
But putting aside his musings, he had to continue with the ceremony he himself had summoned.
He looked at Asherah beside him and gave her a small smile, one of those rare ones that appeared on faces accustomed to minimal emotion. Her attire was far from the dark leather they were used to in the Factory: she wore a white robe adorned with red and gold lines, reminiscent of the Greeks a symbol that something new was beginning. Adrian himself wore the male version of that outfit.
She returned the smile, and he rose from his floating throne high above the structure.
"Today I have gathered you for a purpose beyond orders and efficiency," his voice emerged from space itself. It was neither strong nor weak simply uniform, as it should be for the machine that represented perfection.
"The battle for our right to exist has ended," his measured, clear words carried a cold calm. The rejoicing that followed was just as silent but rippled through all the homunculi like an echo across the network that united them.
"But war has not disappeared. It will not be today or tomorrow, but sooner or later chaos will once again disturb our peace." He raised both hands toward the entire world, and the crowd watched him.
"That is why I want to see how far we will go. I want to see what we will become. I want us to be more than what we are, while we still can."
He concluded his brief speech and returned to his throne. It was then that Asherah took her place before the billions gathered.
"My brothers," she began, her figure projecting holograms that showed the history of the Factory—its wars, its deaths, and its births. "It is a privilege to witness the development we have achieved since our creation."
"But despite everything, we are not and will never be perfect. Perfection is a horizon unreachable for imperfect mortals."
Her words were met with solemn stillness, tinged with bitterness. Perhaps giving her full freedom in her speech hadn't been the best idea, Adrian thought. Yet the truth was, he wanted more than to just hear himself. And in that moment, he saw it—a distinct voice of her own. He couldn't have been prouder.
"We must not lose heart. If we strive to be better than we are today, we may approach, under the guidance of our creator, a reflection of the impossible."
She turned to him, imitating some of his gestures but still marking her individuality. Adrian met her gaze, proud of what he had built. The crowd responded with a controlled fervor, amplified by the network that connected them.
"Our creator has given us this place, even if it is unnecessary for efficiency, even if it is a waste of resources. He has done this so that we may aspire to something greater—to approach the perfection that he embodies."
That final cry of fervor unleashed a chorus of approval, resonating both in the material world and in the mental hive they shared.
"By the grace of the Fabricator, I declare the Palace of Elysium inaugurated. A place where every achievement will be remembered until the end of the Factory."
The proto-emotions of the homunculi vibrated through the network. It was imperfect joy—but it was real.