The interstice
Copper and tin. The cobblestone streets lay empty, slick with oil and blood. Bronze loudspeakers blared overhead. Above the city of Verdannia, as if railways ran through the air itself, clockwork automatons clattered and clicked, moving at a near-imperceptible speed, flitting through the sky, leaving small contrails. Great beasts of cogs and coils—locomotives with steam vents hissing from their brass-plated frames—singed the smog-choked air as they streaked by at hypersonic speeds. I'd never seen anything like it before.
As I looked around, aristocrats strolled by, canes resting in their palms, the handles made of gold—not pure, for it was too soft—but the shafts carved from dark wood. Streetlights flickered with a mystical flame, pure orange, dark-tinted orange.
"A core. It's what makes it possible. In the heart of The entire country lies a core run on nuclear fusion. A mini sun."
I looked down toward the ground, the voracious weather clinging to my hat and suit. The sun blotted out by ink.
Then the train slunk by before me, its soft hum pulling me forward toward Verdannia.
Orin rides a train towards Verdannia
There was not a chuk, nor a choo—just a soft hum as the fleeting train carriage jostled along, images flashing past like stop-motion film. The bioluminescence of the village shimmered, twinkling in my eyes, shadowed by a large mound of rock rearing its head—stealing my gaze with its lush, viridescent forests. All of it, eventually converging toward the epicenter of the supercontinent: Verdannia.
"The weather's lovely today, ain't it?"
An old man, looking about seventy, unfurled a newspaper—or at least something resembling one. It was scant, dilapidated, and riddled with holes. Perhaps he was grasping for nostalgia. Or maybe regaining it. Quite tragic, really, what age does to a man…
I nodded slightly, smiling just enough to seem friendly.
"Yes. Yes, it is."
"There's something lovely about looking out at the countryside. Can you see the trees? The sky? The grass? We view it, but we never truly see it. Not for its beauty."
He turned toward the window, pulling out a chocolate bar. After a pause, he glanced at me—offering a piece with his eyes.
I nodded again. He snapped off a chunk. Dark fragments crumbled onto his long brown coat.
"Quaint," he muttered, looking back outside.
"There's something familiar about you. You've never quite been lighted by discourse, have you?"
"Where does that come from?" I asked.
He beamed. His smile was crooked, but warm—familiar. The kind you share with a close relative.
"Well, what's your name?" he asked, as if probing for clues.
I tilted my head—slightly, diagonally.
For a moment, the hum of the train grew sharper. The rhythmic clacking grew louder. The old man turned from the window and looked straight at me. I looked down, almost in shame. His posture straightened.
"I'm sorry. So sorry," he said.
He continued to stare, eyes trembling slightly, then faltering.
"What for?" I asked.
He blinked. His gaze drifted up, into the ceiling.
"The Nuremberg Experiment. Have you ever heard of it?"
"Not really—no." I replied.
"I used to be a soldier. Something happened. Something big. Millions of soldiers gone. An entire city erased. I believe they call it the Emperor's final judgement."
Then he paused. Looked directly at me, his gaze protruding my mind.
"No man should have that much power," he murmured under his breath before continuing.
"I'd earned myself a bit of a title. I was a medic. But on that day, I couldn't save anyone—except eight children. The details are classified. Hushed down. It was unethical—no, it was anti-ethical. It started as an orphanage, but below it... they were trying to create a perfect being. No flaws. No hesitation. Just action. It was fantasy.
At first it was small-scale. Then it spiraled.
But they found something. Whatever it was... the details are hidden– and
honestly, I don't remember much from the war anyway. Twenty years of my time in the war—gone, just like that. But one memory stuck with me."
He paused, snapping another piece of chocolate; this time looking outside. A stop motion footage flashing within his pupils. It wasn't a reflection of the outside, but a reflection of his thoughts.
"I met a man—your age. Kind, at first. He had this air to him. Drew me in. Handsome, like a morning star. A falling one. Blond hair, blue eyes. But I could feel it. Something greater. Something deeper. An evil that couldn't be explained—too large to name.
I thought I was evil. But this man? He was something else entirely.
He was smart, methodical—a leader. But not a follower. Not even a creator. But he was also a watcher. But always from the shadows, despite his beaming countenance.
I could see through it.
He wasn't happy. He wasn't whole.
He wasn't real.
From that day, I began to wonder—Are monsters born or made. It was something primordial. A gentleman. A devil."
He exhaled slowly.
"If I had kept searching for answers... I think I would've gone missing.
Maybe he would've been the one to kill me.
Truth is, I've been looking for someone to tell this to.
Maybe it'll help you. Maybe not.
You look like I did, when I was still searching. Either that—or I just dumped my worries on a stranger."
He chuckled, a little self-aware.
There was a silence. I didn't know what to say. He'd clearly carried this with him for years. Maybe decades.
I smiled. This time, it was genuine.
"Perhaps you have."