Quote:
You feel sick looking at the door, and yet you cannot avoid it. Your head pounds, your heart aches, and despite being in a dream and being now aware of it, you cannot look away. A part of you already knows, that this is the end of your journey. You never woke up from your dreams because at this point, you cannot.
Your hand touches the doorknob and memories flash in your mind. Your life before this happened. Your life after the incident. Each and every day, from being found in one of the factions, from being recognized, from struggling to survive to now. The bandits, the casino, the fog, the strange dream and mist that overwhelmed you. You knew the moment you were Infected that this day would come and you fully accept what is in front of you.
The virus has already consumed you. You are ready to die. This was-
*
Your consciousness stirs, and yet it doesn't. You are no longer singular. This was what happened those before you, as their bodies simply became empty vessels devoid of mind.
You understand this because you are the virus. You view your eyes through the network of the entire virus itself, through the strange and abstract.
It is knowledge, it is creation. You are a legacy.
As this final awakening immerses you, you become complacent. Perhaps you had once been given a name, but that name is irrelevant now. This virus is a gathering of memories. Your existence has become a collection.
No.
Your legacy is a gift. You infect those remaining.
No, this is not what-.
You harvest. You feed. You gather.
This is not what you are. You were once-
This world is your vessel. The memories fuel your legacy.
You are not creation, you cannot be, there is still so much that-
- cannot be contained because your memories are not complete.
You feel a strange sensation, like tearing apart from something-
- And then you are freed. At first, it feels like you are waking up, until you realize you still no longer have form. Where your body is, what you have become, it scares you, not being essentially human. Will you ever return to what you were before? Is it already too late?
You search around frantically, fueled only by the memories and emotions you call your own you create a shape from the thousands of vines around you. You see for the first time where you are, in some strange, long corridor entire covered in green. A few vines dutifully obey you, and they coil around your lack of form and give you shape, limited only by your imagination. It is by far human, but you can move again, you have substance. Perhaps it is best that you cannot see yourself, only what is around you.
You struggle to keep control of what is essentially just vines, to keep them together and cohesive, to stumble forwards and find what remains of your true body. As you do so, you encounter something else. It is not by chance.
It is a face, and the vines slowly consume it. For a minute, you are hopeful. For a moment, you hope this is your own body, and then you realize it is something else. You recognize it, because you saw this form through your dream.
This is the one that rescued you from the highway, the nightmare. You watched it all, through your dream, and now you remember it. You remember that they were here to save you. Guilt sweeps through you, and then a curiosity.
You brush the vines around them, a favour for a favour. The vines upon contact, disappear, obligingly. Gently, as gently as you can, you carry your rescuer away from the corridor, from the chambers. The vines retract on each side. You move further and further away, and you reach a set of stairs - they do not stop you as you descend, away, far, far away from the center of Creation. The further you separate, the more you unravel, losing bits and pieces of yourself. You cannot go much further.
At the very base of the stairs you see it - the exit to the building. You are barely hanging on, just a very, very small piece of you gathered together still in coils. Fog seeps in the entrance of the building, and through the glass window you make out shadowed shapes but the feel uncontaminated. Slowly, you extend the bare pieces of yourself towards the shapes with your rescuer. The shadows see them, you recognize them as allies of your rescuer. They carry them away, just as you are forced to retreat. You return back up the stairs, before you lose your substance entirely again.
A favour for a favour.
As you return up the stairs, you gather the final pieces of yourself. This is what remains, the rest is already a part of Creation. You will never be able to leave the center, eventually you will become the legacy again. Other shapes lumber around you, and as you make contact, just a brush of vines against each other, you understand they are like you. They are just a series of memories waiting to be completed.
For now though, your time is not up yet. You still have a moment to share memories with others, and to place your final pieces of memories. While you are still here, while you exist, you are still yourself.
Your hand touches the doorknob and memories flash in your mind. Your life before this happened. Your life after the incident. Each and every day, from being found in one of the factions, from being recognized, from struggling to survive to now. The bandits, the casino, the fog, the strange dream and mist that overwhelmed you. You knew the moment you were Infected that this day would come and you fully accept what is in front of you.
The virus has already consumed you. You are ready to die. This was-
*
Your consciousness stirs, and yet it doesn't. You are no longer singular. This was what happened those before you, as their bodies simply became empty vessels devoid of mind.
You understand this because you are the virus. You view your eyes through the network of the entire virus itself, through the strange and abstract.
It is knowledge, it is creation. You are a legacy.
As this final awakening immerses you, you become complacent. Perhaps you had once been given a name, but that name is irrelevant now. This virus is a gathering of memories. Your existence has become a collection.
No.
Your legacy is a gift. You infect those remaining.
No, this is not what-.
You harvest. You feed. You gather.
This is not what you are. You were once-
This world is your vessel. The memories fuel your legacy.
You are not creation, you cannot be, there is still so much that-
- cannot be contained because your memories are not complete.
You feel a strange sensation, like tearing apart from something-
- And then you are freed. At first, it feels like you are waking up, until you realize you still no longer have form. Where your body is, what you have become, it scares you, not being essentially human. Will you ever return to what you were before? Is it already too late?
You search around frantically, fueled only by the memories and emotions you call your own you create a shape from the thousands of vines around you. You see for the first time where you are, in some strange, long corridor entire covered in green. A few vines dutifully obey you, and they coil around your lack of form and give you shape, limited only by your imagination. It is by far human, but you can move again, you have substance. Perhaps it is best that you cannot see yourself, only what is around you.
You struggle to keep control of what is essentially just vines, to keep them together and cohesive, to stumble forwards and find what remains of your true body. As you do so, you encounter something else. It is not by chance.
It is a face, and the vines slowly consume it. For a minute, you are hopeful. For a moment, you hope this is your own body, and then you realize it is something else. You recognize it, because you saw this form through your dream.
This is the one that rescued you from the highway, the nightmare. You watched it all, through your dream, and now you remember it. You remember that they were here to save you. Guilt sweeps through you, and then a curiosity.
You brush the vines around them, a favour for a favour. The vines upon contact, disappear, obligingly. Gently, as gently as you can, you carry your rescuer away from the corridor, from the chambers. The vines retract on each side. You move further and further away, and you reach a set of stairs - they do not stop you as you descend, away, far, far away from the center of Creation. The further you separate, the more you unravel, losing bits and pieces of yourself. You cannot go much further.
At the very base of the stairs you see it - the exit to the building. You are barely hanging on, just a very, very small piece of you gathered together still in coils. Fog seeps in the entrance of the building, and through the glass window you make out shadowed shapes but the feel uncontaminated. Slowly, you extend the bare pieces of yourself towards the shapes with your rescuer. The shadows see them, you recognize them as allies of your rescuer. They carry them away, just as you are forced to retreat. You return back up the stairs, before you lose your substance entirely again.
A favour for a favour.
As you return up the stairs, you gather the final pieces of yourself. This is what remains, the rest is already a part of Creation. You will never be able to leave the center, eventually you will become the legacy again. Other shapes lumber around you, and as you make contact, just a brush of vines against each other, you understand they are like you. They are just a series of memories waiting to be completed.
For now though, your time is not up yet. You still have a moment to share memories with others, and to place your final pieces of memories. While you are still here, while you exist, you are still yourself.
