"What is the purpose of life when I am inevitably going to fall victim to the treacherous concept of emotions? I am not special, nor do I possess anything that will stop this eventuality from occurring. We, the poor humans that society considers worthless and outcasts, are sent to the Dust Flats to serve in servitude, never amounting to anything. How awful would it be to live my entire life like that?" Aeven thought aloud. He sat across from nobody…
Nobody?... No, it was somebody. It was someone only he could see. Someone he had been fond of. Someone he had created in his mind to help cope with the depressing and devastating state of the world, a state that affected everyone. It didn't matter if you were king, peasant, rich or poor, influential or not. This "person" was an alternative version of him who spoke the truth. The truth Aeven was afraid to confront, no matter how harsh reality was. Aeven, on the other hand, the real physical version of himself, not the figments of his imagination, was the polar opposite. He loved to lie and exaggerate stories to fill that vast void that saturated inside everyone.
"I need to connect with humans. What's it called? Fried chips? French dips? Friendchips? Friendships!. Yeah that! Ow, my throat… " he said, his voice parched.
All his life, since the inception of the state of consciousness befell upon him much like the rest of humanity, A tiny fragment of corruption had been hidden deep within everyone's souls… It lurked, waiting, never to be found until… It happened.
The world had ended three decades ago. Humanity just hasn't stopped dying yet.
Three decades ago… That was all it took for the corruption of the soul to leave its mark on the world, no end of its epidemic in sight. Three decades ago, when the first Sentient Gate tore open, causing calamity never seen before, and the vile, treacherous creatures began their harvest…
Seeking to quench his parched throat, Aeven headed towards a cafe. On his way, he glanced at posters plastered on brick walls. One to his right read, "Help fight to reclaim the old world from the Sentient Creatures." Another to his left urged, "Join the Soulbearers to fight against the Sentient Gates." These posters were both by the government and the Houses seeking to fight back against the Sentient creatures.
"Fools," he muttered, indifference hardening his face. "Who would ever join the Soulbearers in combating the creatures who spawn from emotions? It's a death sentence."
...
"Ah, so bitter and stale, so expensive!" Aeven drank greedily, savoring every second of the authentic coffee he had saved just enough to buy. Long ago, he understood the fundamentals of politics and the mortality of his life; he had vowed to spend his money at any chance he got. The stark difference between a slum rascal, much like himself, and the life of luxury brats in the Vibrant Rise was black and white.
'Ungrateful, Vibrant Rise brats,' he murmured in his head.
"Quite hypocritical," The voice echoed in Aevens' mind, sharp and unwavering, like the tip of an arrow piercing skin, penetrating through the haze of self-pity. It was Nobody, or rather the somebody only he could perceive, that unflinching mirror of his soul. The alter ego didn't whisper comforts; it spat truths raw and unrelenting, dragging Aevens' deception into light.
Aeven paused mid-sip, the bitter coffee suddenly tasting like ash on his tongue. He glanced around the cafe, half expecting judgmental eyes from the other patrons, fellow outcasts nursing their own meager rations, but no, no one paid him any mind. They were all too wrapped up in their own voids.
"Hypocritical? Me?" Aeven muttered under his breath, trying to sound defiant, but the words came out feebly, like a child's protest.
The voice laughed, a hollow, echoing sound that reverberated only in his skull. "Oh, spare me the theatrics, Aeven. You're sitting here, slurping down this overpriced sludge like it's from the gods, savoring every drop as if it's your last. And yet, you sneer at the 'Vibrant Rise brats' for their luxuries? What makes you any different? You've scraped and saved for this one fleeting moment of indulgence, hoarding your scraps like a dragon on its pile, all while preaching about the corruption in everyone's soul. But look at you drowning in the same greed, the same desperation to feel something, anything, beyond the dust and decay."
Aeven, grip tightened on the chipped mug, his knuckles whitening. He wanted to argue, say something, spin one of his elaborate tales about how this coffee was a rebellion, a spit in the eye of the system that condemned him to the Dust Flats. But the voice pressed on relentlessly.
"You're no better than them, up there in their gleaming towers. They chase their highs with endless credits and synthetic joys, you chase yours with this bitter brew and your little fantasies. We all carry that fragment of corruption, remember? The one you love to wax poetic about? It's not hiding in the shadows anymore; it's right here, in your veins, making you envy what you claim to despise. You call them ungrateful, but you're the one murmuring curses while clutching your prize like a lifeline. Its life's purpose is to fall victim to emotions, as you so dramatically proclaim, then why not embrace it? Or are you just too afraid to admit that your 'vast void' is just an excuse to wallow, to avoid connection with those 'poor humans' you pity so much?"
The cafe's dim lights flickered, casting long shadows across the scarred wooden table. Aeven set the mug down, his thirst quenched but his mind churning. The voice had struck true. As it always did, peeling back the layers of his lies. Outside, the world continued its slow death– three decades of rot, with no end in sight. But inside, in the fractured chambers of his thoughts, the battle raged on. How awful indeed, to live a life like that… but perhaps even more awful to see it for what it truly was.
He stood to leave, the weight of the truth a physical anchor. As he pushed his chair back, the air in the corner of the cafe shimmered. For less than a second, the wall behind a sleeping patron wavered, like heat haze on a summer road, and a low, almost inaudible hum vibrated through the soles of his shoes. It was the same sound from the old news reports. The sound of reality groaning.
Then, it was gone. The wall was just a wall. The hum was just a memory.
But Aeven had seen it. He had felt it. The corruption wasn't just in the soul. It was in the world, waiting for a crack to form. And in a city drowning in despair, cracks were everywhere.