06-27-2014, 03:40 PM
Grace climbs down the spiral staircase that leads to the village proper in a daze. She and Patience moved as fast as possible to put their plan in motion, but it obviously wasn't fast enough. Charred bodies mingle with charred trees and houses. Screams of terror have been replaced with the mourning cries of those left behind. And Grace no longer has something else to focus on. The image of destruction can now be seen and felt and known.
As cruel as it is, as much as part of her fights it, another part busies itself comforting her. These aren't 'real' people. They probably came into being mere days ago. They were created solely to provide 'real' people an experience. They are as ephemeral as dreams. They don't matter as much as those from Denver, the ones who need to live.
It's all just a simulation, right? A fiction.
She doesn't want to think about it too hard, not right now. She doesn't want to shine the light on the truth that all worlds are similarly fictional. Even if Sara and Lita and Hestor and all the rest came into being a week ago with full memories of their lives already intact, how would Grace know if the same hadn't happened to her at some point? Whatever thoughts she has in those directions get batted away, because otherwise she'd have to face the reality of all that death, all that responsibility.
There is no sign of their friend at first. Lena doesn't run out to meet them. But after a few seconds staring in shock at the village, it finally dawns on her. Among the thoughts struggling to reach the surface of awareness is one tiny detail -- she can no longer sense the presence of Lena.
She calls out Lena's name, but then so many other names are being lifted to the sky at the moment, aren't they? Grace hasn't been looking at the bodies. None of them are real, after all. But the loss of Lena's resonance forces her to look -- forces her to consider each face as if they could be a friend.
Panic begins to crest into dread as she wades into the destruction of the village, calling out for Lena with increasing desperation.
Around a bend, Lena lies there, lifeless, serene, frozen, burned to death.
A scream comes from somewhere inside. It sounds like someone is yelling no, but emotion swallows the word, twisting and distorting it into something far more ancient than language.
Around her, dozens of survivors play out the same story, all as real as any.
As cruel as it is, as much as part of her fights it, another part busies itself comforting her. These aren't 'real' people. They probably came into being mere days ago. They were created solely to provide 'real' people an experience. They are as ephemeral as dreams. They don't matter as much as those from Denver, the ones who need to live.
It's all just a simulation, right? A fiction.
She doesn't want to think about it too hard, not right now. She doesn't want to shine the light on the truth that all worlds are similarly fictional. Even if Sara and Lita and Hestor and all the rest came into being a week ago with full memories of their lives already intact, how would Grace know if the same hadn't happened to her at some point? Whatever thoughts she has in those directions get batted away, because otherwise she'd have to face the reality of all that death, all that responsibility.
There is no sign of their friend at first. Lena doesn't run out to meet them. But after a few seconds staring in shock at the village, it finally dawns on her. Among the thoughts struggling to reach the surface of awareness is one tiny detail -- she can no longer sense the presence of Lena.
She calls out Lena's name, but then so many other names are being lifted to the sky at the moment, aren't they? Grace hasn't been looking at the bodies. None of them are real, after all. But the loss of Lena's resonance forces her to look -- forces her to consider each face as if they could be a friend.
Panic begins to crest into dread as she wades into the destruction of the village, calling out for Lena with increasing desperation.
Around a bend, Lena lies there, lifeless, serene, frozen, burned to death.
A scream comes from somewhere inside. It sounds like someone is yelling no, but emotion swallows the word, twisting and distorting it into something far more ancient than language.
Around her, dozens of survivors play out the same story, all as real as any.