Seeker?
The door fully extends.
It reveals a dark red room with dim lights all over. The walls were painted in carnage of war and misery. It screams, warning anybody who dares to enter. Bloody fog emits from the floor. Its radiance welcomes chaos into its domain.
Kaya steps back. She activates her eyes and the amber tint is engulfed by crimson.
Suddenly, a shock enters her iris. It feels like something gouged into it. She grunted, rubbing her eyes. Immediately, she can feel that they were bloodshot.
What is this room? How is that . . . possible?
Malik quickly goes in.
"Wait, Malik!" Kaya yells, but it doesn't matter.
Hesitantly, she enters the room with more questions. Interrupting her train of thought, she is mesmerized by the allure. Though terrifying, she cannot bare the thought of even looking away.
Except there is no furniture. No bed. No emotions.
Looking to the left, she sees Malik staring at an old CRT TV on a stand. He steps away from it, not understanding it.
Backing up, until he accidentally turns on a light, lighting the room in its blood-red glory.
. . .
A box lies in front of the stand, begging to be opened. A shaking hand unveils it. He opens it like a Christmas present, only to find a beating heart.
Documents, photos, medical files, a Microdrive, and letters lay alongside a VHS, once hidden. The VHS sat there, awaiting.
Taped up, labeled only: "MALIK V. // ARCHIVAL"
He observes it, wiping the dust off. Frowning, he feels like his worst thoughts are being played out right in front of him.
Then, he turns on the TV behind the box. A blue screen. A white flicker of static. Sliding in the VHS, it feels agonizing to watch it slide in slowly.
The tape on the TV has a title in white background with bold black text: "CYRUSCAM_2712.BAT"
Abruptly, It begins . . .
A screen blinks to life, Cyrus's old camera. HUD flickers, timestamped, grainy, marine-grade but forgotten.
Bold text flickers vibrantly, lighting up the whole room.
"YOU KILLED THEM BAYONET!"
. . .
In the corner of the grainy screen, a date can be noted.
5/31/3000 - 6:44 AM
The screen flashes a phrase from the HUD logs.
It's tagged: "_BAYONET_ (ACTIVE)"
The camera scans the desk where Cyrus sat. He writes something, visibly distressed.
"Mashia, if you're alive when this gets to Mala, don't follow their orders. They did it before. They'll do it again. Be honest, do the Sklaves even care about us anymore?"
He flips to another page.
"Anyways, something's wrong with the boy, he killed one of my own long ago. I don't think he's human. But . . . he's beautiful. Elegant. And that scares me. I think they'll try to kill him before they let him grow."
Vos sighs. He crumples the pages. He stares out, as a young boy enters the room with a bright smile.
. . .
6/2/3000 - 4:44 PM
It's attached to the front of the familiar kitchen, displaying the full deck.
A dark storm cries as a familiar crew walks around the ship, unbothered.
Audibly, Cyrus is heard speaking to someone offscreen.
"Mashia, I tried to tell you. That mission was suicide. And you're not a 'Replicant'. You are a man."
Nothing can be heard. The audio cuts out after.
The camera shakes.
. . .
12/5/3000 - 8:44 PM
A black table with eight people around it. Laughing.
One plays a soothing song on an old guitar.
It cuts. Static floods the camera.
A roar can be heard, it shakes the TV.
The song can be heard no longer.
Screams.
Metal rips like cloth.
. . .
Fate.
It emerges from black, making it impossible to see it all.
The screen shatters into static.
From the hall, Cyrus and a young boy rush to the main deck.
A small young boy with long brown hair steps forward.
He sees the ship cut in half.
Entrails of dark red blood seep through bodies.
People squished like nothing. A graveyard.
The boy screams. He pounds the metal on the floor, screaming. It turns to a screech from the audio.
Roaring, the leviathan moves until-
The boy disappears. He vanishes in a blur.
Cut.
. . .
He's crying. Screaming. Holding a hand that isn't his, in a pool of blood littered with guts and intestines, leaking sea beast remains.
The leviathan's corpse, barely visible . . . dismembered.
Vos, in the corner of the camera, kneels, shaking, mouthing a prayer with no sound.
. . .
6/2/3010 - 4:44 PM
Corrupt, the video crumbles in flashing lights.
An injured Malik stands alone on a charred, rusty, bloody ship deck.
He is surrounded by twisted corpses of familiar faces, and holds a long bayonet.
Kaya's necklace hangs from his palm, broken.
He screams into a sky with no lights. Something huge falls from above, cutting the feed.
It returns.
The sea is black.
Many bright lights are visible.
End.
. . .
The VHS pops out the player, falling to the floor.
"That's tomorrow . . ." Malik mumbles.
He stumbles back, trying to stand up.
Then, he remembers. He remembers it all. The blade, the crew, the lies, and the truth.
It engulfs him, until he feels something emerge within himself. It didn't feel strange, it felt like he had only gained something he once lost.
His heart beats like drums. His cortisol spikes. His chest burns with darkness.
A black energy seeps out. He foams at the mouth, black.
The energy grows a white outline.
Kaya rushes to him from afar, entering the domain of horror. She instinctively uses her amber eyes. Deep down, she knows it cannot do much to help.
Maybe her pain will be worth it in the end, if it means he can be okay.
Despite the pressure, she remembers his smile, and his laugh.
A gouging force crushes her, but she persists.
"Malik! Snap out of it!" She forcefully yells.
She shakes him violently, lightly slapping his face.
Red tears drag down her face.
Malik's heart pulses along with the room, briefly.
". . . I deserve this." He says, weakly.
". . . End me."
Kaya opens her mouth, unable to speak.
Suddenly, his body convulses.
A jagged spiral of ink-black crawls across his body, scarring it. It pulsed like a living brand with a life of its own.
Malik's nails dig into his palms, and blood seeps through.
Kaya hyperventilates, she compresses his chest as his body goes manic.
Then . . . a halt.
A breath of ambience.
. . .
Something whispers deeply, backwards into the room.
"Your path is borrowed. Return it at once."
It continues, "Now suffer . . . to live."
It came from his lips.
His head violently shakes.
"You! Its always you!"
Kaya beats his chest. "Malik! Stop—!"
Her eyes harshly bleed as she compresses his chest.
Drops of blood fall onto him.
Her vision becomes blurry, and her muscles tighten, but she doesn't stop.
Malik's eyes leak tears, yet no sound escapes his lips anymore.
His fingers twitch, and his body is numb to movement, but he feels it.
He feels every compression, every push, every drop of blood.
. . .
All of a sudden, he gains control again.
Or does he?
Noticing her efforts, he grabs her by the neck, and slams her to the floor.
She chokes, but doesn't resist.
Her red tears become clear.
Malik stares into her eyes, and backs away.
Staring at his nail-dug palms, he howls.
He processed what he had just done.
Ashamed, he turns his back to her.
He attempts to dig into his temples.
His fingers break through the skin.
He yells in agony, then—
Snap!
. . . .
Nothing. There's nothing anymore.
Nothing, but a white light covers his vision. Everything bursts in black undying flames. Ablaze they go, memories.
Something pierces his eardrums like needles stuck deep into his brain and twisted clockwise.
And then—
. . .
Silence.
He wakes up.
A tall black room.
Malik opens his eyes and sees the wall, a giant mirror shrouding the wall.
He leans closer to it, sees his grey eyes. One pupil is spiraling in a cyclone.
He pulls his white T-shirt open, and sees that his skin faintly glows with an unfamiliar sigil mark branded across many scars.
He remembers the black spirals that formed, and this is the aftermath.
Malik speaks to his new self in the mirror.
"They knew. Cyrus. My crew. 'The Messengers.'" Malik twitched.
"They made me forget. Now I am alone." A single black tear ran down his face.
He stares into his reflection, and it shatters at the sight of him.
He looks down, staring at his nail-dug palms, they bleed black blood.
"Nothing makes sense anymore." He utters.
. . .
Then, a voice: "You don't kill. You send."
White robes brush the floor. A tall figure stands in front of Malik. Its face is covered by a mask.
"Who are you?"
"Voice of thee."
Malik laughs. He cackles.
His vision blurs. He sees yesterday, now, and tomorrow.
"Meridian," Malik says.
He repeats: "Meridian."
"Meridian."
. . . .