Chapter 1.1 : 2055, the 999th

The book had no title.

Bound in a deep, almost burnt leather its spine reinforced with metallic cables etched in a ghostlike script of forgotten civilizations. My fingers meekly crawled along the indentations left by crownholders, outlaws, makers and shadows. The book smelled old, of dust, of empires in dried ink that had outlived its authors.

Now, it belonged to me. A curse no easier avoided than conquered, to be blessed with the galaxy’s knowledge upon death’s door.

A molten ribbon of blood oozed from my side, somewhere between my soup of broken ribs, it all feels too numb to be sure. My mouth tasted the tang of copper, mingling with the acrid scent of rusted steel and damp decay. It’s surprising to think that although shredded skin and smouldering metal sprawled all around me, the broken observatory once known to be the 8th Wonder of the World hadn’t lost any of its mystery and luster now that was shattered and tattooed in red death.

The battlefield burned in silence, with flames from the crumpled, gigantic machines, humanity’s latest in technological marvel – mechs. The introduction of these new death dealers into warfare fundamentally shifted the balance of power, not just on the battlefield, but across the entire globe. Skyscraper in size, piloted by highly trained soldiers, the use of mechs parasitically syphoned the planet’s natural resources to fuel their hazardous power supply, creating a division between those that wanted to save Earth and those that chose to abandon it.

That’s all irrelevant now, I’m dying.

As the flashing red and green neon lights flickered relentlessly from broken war machines over the mangled bodies, a muffled voice calls out to me from the hazy distance. I can’t tell who it is, but only two people would be here after all this bloodied mayhem, my savior or my executioner. Everyone I knew in this life is here, in this warzone, dead. I decided, when I took this gig, to see it through – it’s time to meet my fate.

My muscles feel like frayed wires but my grip tightens around the book’s spine. I wouldn't make it out of here, but this book would. I can barely open my eyes through the crimson veil of warm blood leaking from my forehead, grinding my teeth as I strain every ounce of strength my body muster, through the shattered glass piercing my palms and useless, broken leg. Before I realize, a shadow detached from the darkness, fluid as spilled ink, my future now stands before me as a pair of spectres salivating over their latest meal.

Then a voice, sharp as a knife’s edge.

“You fought well.”

I am silent, not by choice but because it’s taking everything in me not to pass out from just standing upwards.

The two speak to one another in a peculiar language I’ve never heard before and can barely hear with my vision is a complete static wash and the deafening ringing in my ears. If I am to survive I need to say something, anything.

“This book is..”

Before I could finish, a swallowing blackness consumes my every sense.

Atop a mountain’s peak, a battlefield burned in the distance, and the stars continued their slow, indifferent dance.

It freezing, my breathing feels as ragged as ever. I open my eyes to the metronomic sound of a heart rate monitor, an old one. As I scan the room slowly, a figure eerily manifests seemingly out of thin air. It’s difficult to make out shapes, my eyes pulsing to the point of bursting, I soon make out the features of a short person clad in very warm clothing.

Wrapped in layers of oversized clothing, each piece a little too big, a little too loose, but practical. A thick, weather-worn parka, faded from years of use, its sleeves rolled up at the cuffs, revealing frayed denim sleeves underneath. Beneath that, a worn-out hoodie, the drawstrings threaded and trailing loosely. Their pants, baggy and held up by a worn belt, had slits near the knees where the fabric had started to tear. This person stood comfortably in their clunky and well-worn boots.

“You still fight.”

My eyes dart back to see the face of this bitter voice and I was started to see a young girl.

The chill didn’t seem to touch her, though the red of her nose and the flush of her cheeks betrayed the severity of the cold. Despite it all, her expression was one of quiet resolve—like a force of nature, untamed by anything, especially the frigid air that surrounded her.

She kneels beside me, with bandages and ointment in one hand, pressing with the other to my wound. I hiss at the pressure but say nothing. She lifts my broken armor plate for a better view and I see the look on her face, I have maybe minutes left to live. We exchange glances and both know it’s pointless.

She brings my warm cup of water to drink, and helps me drink it. I’ve lived a cold, wicked life and in all my years a child is the third person to ever show me any goodwill.

I catch her gaze flick to the book then back to my wound. Ah yes the book. Realization dawned on me like the first light of a doomed sun.

I nodded, the motion sluggish, heavy, toward the book resting on the wooden table next to me.

Her fingers hesitated before brushing against the cover, the briefest touch, as if afraid it would burn her.

I wish I could’ve had more time, for the hidden treasures, for my story to be inscribed, for the answers held within the book.

The child claims my once held curse in front of me. It is hers now.

Her eyes widened, something unspoken catching in her throat. But the world was slipping away from me, dark tendrils curling at the edges of my vision, pulling me into the void.

With my final breath.

“The universe would bend for its owner. The history we’ve known, the present we endure, and the future wars to come.”

The last thing I see is her expression – not that of innocence, but of someone with a life of unburdening.

Then, silence.