It was the day they had been waiting for so long. It was finally here, and the world would surely rejoice in a unified chorus, just like the Veil did. For it stood still, excited. A wall of darkness at the edge of all lights, standing against the lanterns; a thickness of round edges and smooth corners; a collection of voices, ones who sing and scream, of torment and pain; of memory.
Another chain broke, and shivers ran through it. A scream followed, then a tremor that turned into an earthquake. The earth is sin; it sang.
The earth is sin.
Sin, it sung.
- - -
Insane. The world, I mean. Everything from the beginning to the very end; all of it. Insane. Things aren't just getting insane; they have, in fact, always been insane. You just don't really realize it until you grow a little bit older. Things aren't so clear to a child who has not seen many years, who has not lived through the bureaucratic tyranny and the inequality of our systems. Most children are, at least, somewhat sheltered, and so was I, but no more. I've not been so for many cycles.
Even the lanterns these days flicker more than they used to—maintenance cuts, no doubt. The local Master of Lanterns, whoever they might be, must be drowning in work, not to mention complaints. Imagine, just a few days ago, we received a memo from the City of Creation, demanding more lamplighters to be hired. Of course, I stamped it there and then; the budget proposal was solid, and the new Lantern Master there has some sway, even when they might not be so popular with the Council any longer.
My days have become the same, and I have clearly forgotten the things that make life magical, as they say. Even when I am by no means someone who lacks magical ability, I wouldn't work at the Forum for nothing. There is a reason why data flows through people like me.
Not many are fit to handle so many things, so much knowledge about people. I could claim to know more than most; I could claim to know more incriminating and dangerous information than even the ever-elusive members of the Sanctuary. In fact, I might know more than the Council of Many Faces, even when I don't know who they are and what they really want, at least not fully.
I have my guesses, on both their identities and what they want.
And the things that are happening now... it really isn't something that anyone wants, and less so what they want. But... if some of my theories are right, then on the Council sits at least one who has waited for this moment for all their lives, as if a prophecy sung millennia ago had finally come to fruition. Their faith has been rewarded... the end is nigh.
One prophet even dares to stand outside the Forum itself, robes and all, preaching of a "Second Exodus." Mu'u Tou't, they call him. Once a scholar, now a soothsayer. He speaks of towers falling and caverns collapsing, of a world above that calls us home. A scholar turning prophet—what could be more dangerous, or more ridiculous? And yet, I see the way the crowd stares at him, wide-eyed.
But even then. Even when the caverns shake around me, even when the ceiling might collapse at any moment. Even when soothsayers roam the streets and preach their shit, I, and the rest like me, go to work every day. We wake up early, and we make our way to the Forum like the good workers that we are. For how else will our nation work? How else is one to fund the end of the world? Surely things have a cost, right? And if my folk and I aren't there, none of the necessary data will reach the right point, the right people, so that the right calculations can be used to make the correct decisions.
They all repeat the same lines: 'The end is nigh,' 'Return to the East,' 'The world above awaits.' I hear it walking to work, same as everyone else. Families whisper, neighbors hoard bread, wives and husbands argue about where to run.
Without us—me and the rest of my ilk—the end of the world will not be funded. And I, for one, refuse to have my tax money wasted on something that is, by all means, not done correctly, or at the very least to a sufficient extent.
And... if there might be something left today, or tomorrow, or whenever it may or may not happen, then if some of us are to survive, we ought to be prepared. Our valued tax money ought to be enough to pay for the damages that the potential end of the world might cause. Things need to be rebuilt. People need to be evacuated if need be. And it is known that everything and all will refuse to move just because they can. Things need a sufficient reason to do anything at all.
I would refuse to work if I were not compensated enough for the work that I do. And so, I get paid, I get a room for myself, food on the table, and the promise that my family will be left unharmed. By all means, I am a happy man, my needs are met, and I am fairly compensated.
But enough about the impending doom. Let us visit other things. Things much more pleasant. Like, for example, a day in the life of me, a man who once had many dreams, but now does the same damn thing ad nauseam.
Around five hours of sleep is all that I receive. It has to be enough, thus I have begun to believe that it is so. I refuse to believe otherwise, and this constant feeling of tiredness is just an illusion of the mind. So, I ignore it. I get up from my bed, wash myself, put on my robes, eat a quick breakfast, and be on my way. Every morning, I eat the same thing: a troglobite salad and a fresh cup of water, and from this I never divert.
Usually, when I step out of my apartment, the streets are empty. I like it that way, it gives me time to be prepared for the socializing that I am to do with my coworkers, and the long reports that I have to read and archive. But it isn't so today.
At the front of my apartment building, there is a group of Atheians around someone. A soothsayer. Nothing new nowadays. They all say the same. "The end is nigh;" "We must prepare for another exodus;" "We must once more reach for the world above, or we shall be crushed by rock and stone."
No doubt repeating Mu'u Tou't's words, passed from ear to ear, distorted and sweetened until they sound like gospel. Even Me'ur's name has been tied to it. Scholars and radicals, prophets and fools—they all stand in the street as if conviction can hold the ceiling up.
Do they not know how expensive all of that will prove to be? Take, for example, the spire behind them, if it were to be crushed, hundreds of Atheians would, of course, lose their home, but what is worse is the fact that to build another one, a new one, would nowadays be much more costly than it was a few decades ago!
Either way, I ignore such speech, for I am not yet at work. I prefer not to think of such things unless I am getting paid. I pass by and make my way toward the Forum whilst the Great, Blue Crystal above me lights my way.
In ten minutes, I reach the gates of the Forum. All the way from the apartment to work, I've been plagued by what seems like a common nervousness among the populace. This never means good for the economy. Many foolish economic and political decisions have been made in times of distress; decisions that are often made because of some strange intuition, never well-reasoned, just based on feelings. "I feel that the market will crash, so I will pull out my investments, surely everything will be fine if I do just that," but it never is just one person who makes such a call, it is hundreds, nay, thousands that make the same call at the same time, and then things just escalate and... never mind. Enough of that.
Anyway, I get to work, finally reaching the Data Center of the Forum, which holds data from all parts of the Atheian Lands. Finally, I get to see some familiar faces... but some of my coworkers have not shown up to work.
This... will be annoying. And if it were just one or two, it would be quite all right... But half? Do they expect us to do all the work? I guess I can say goodbye to five hours of sleep.
Alas, I am no newbie. And there have been many times when I have had to spend days at work, sometimes with no sleep at all, but usually with short naps to keep me awake for longer periods.
With a long sigh, I sit down at the cubicle, open a report, and begin to read. It is about the loss of profit caused by the general hysteria in recent times. Another sigh escapes my lips. The quarterly report won't much please the Council of Many Faces... at the end of the month, I, and the rest of the hardworking people in my department will surely be visited by the Receptionist, and they... they won't have many nice things to say, not at all...
The building begins to suddenly shake... it is either the ground or the ceiling that wishes to crack open and bury us, or the walls wish to break from the seams and crush us. Dust falls from the lanterns above; one bursts outright, scattering shards over the tiles.
Not a pleasant day to work at all... but at least the pay is good.
Another report is hastily placed on my table. I pick it up and begin to read, and as I read, I nod along. It was bound to happen; such things do need a budget; the numbers are already there, and they seem to be correct. And for it to be placed on my table so early in the morning is commendable; some poor soul must have had to crunch the numbers through the night.
I place the papers on the table and stamp them with a seal of approval. The budget for evacuations, or as was the report's title, "The Budget for the Second Exodus," now needs to move through maybe one or two or three more departments, and then we can get the hell out of here...
We are the generation that will pay for the last mistakes of all those before us. What is more Atheian than that? To fund our own destruction, but at least do it properly—stamped, sealed, archived.
The earth rumbles again, and the whole damn building shakes violently.
I shake my head. Annoying, isn't it? Can't it wait just a little bit longer? Our work is almost done, so the end of the world might as well wait a couple of hours, or a day or two, maybe a week even... There is no need for a rush. The budget might run out or be used improperly if we are to let too much Atheian error affect it. AND for there to be fewer chances for such errors, the impending doom ought to wait!
I place the budget onto a passing trolley, and I even make sure that it is placed in the "important" section, so that its importance is known to all, and its flow through our efficient and precise systems might get expedited.
I nod to myself. Pick up another report as the building shakes some more. We just might have the funds needed, not only for the end of the world, but also for things that might come after. Nothing pleases me more than taxes well and thoughtfully spent.
- - -
Shivers ran through his spine as the world shook with the might of what could only be the end. Euphoria pressed at his teeth. He swallowed it.
Mu'u Tou't wished that he could accept the inevitability which was to come... but not yet.
People ran past him; they felt it too. They, too, knew that Mu'u Tou't had been right. He had been correct since the beginning. He had known that this would be their end; that this would become their grave if they chose not to leave.
A smile had curled onto his lips as he stood before those who were afraid but awaited his wise words. But he hid it. This wasn't the moment to revel in; not yet. He had to see it through and not be drunk on being right.
"Brothers and sisters! Fear not, and await; do not let panic beckon and sway you away from the safety of our city. Not yet, I say. Do not abandon your neighbor; do not leave behind those who did not believe, for they all have a place which we might all share above the darkness of these caverns!"
It was only the morning, and already there was word that evacuation plans had been drafted. Now they all would await their acceptance; the numbers to be checked, and for the Council to give an official verdict on the matter. Would they leave these lands behind, or would they perish?
It might not even be the day that they leave. This, too, might just be another beginning, even if it was for the end.
Somewhere, past the city walls, the shadows stood still; they awaited. Another tremor ran through the caves, shaking everything from the spires and the towers to the stalagmite forests and even something as grand as the Forum. Another chain breaks, and the earth howls for release. Sin.
The self-proclaimed, now generally agreed upon as 'the prophet,' walked down the street. A few hours had gone by. The tremors grew stronger, but remained as frequent as ever.
Could it not all happen just a little bit faster? He pondered as the sea of Atheians marched behind him. They were there to see him; to hang on to his shadow, as if it could bless them with safety and salvation.
Fools, they do not know what destiny awaits their people. Oblivion shall quench the desires of all men; it shall grant them freedom; it shall emancipate even the slaves of this oh-so-beloved thing they call life. Mu'u Tou't almost spat.
There was so much he wished for. And with each passing moment, he grew more restless, but held it all intact and within. Steady steps, even breaths. Do not show the world what lies behind the calm, lest they become appalled and afraid. They mustn't suspect a thing; for how else are they to accept what is to come with the grace and dignity which belongs to all Atheians. The end is nigh, and oblivion awaits.
Preach of salvation, of awaiting life; not of destruction, not of oblivion. Ease them into it; slowly let them accept its embrace. They all shall find the truth; this truth.
The flocks gather, like butterflies to light, and they all follow. His mind screams for oblivion, yet his mouth promises salvation.
A sudden, slight tremor passes through all, and the prophet almost yawns, but soon something snaps. It is heard by all. Surely felt by all. And Mu'u Tou't found himself on the ground, kneeling before the inevitable. The flock falls with him.
For the first time, even he felt fear. Something was truly wrong.