BLOCK ONE.
Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.
Time
Is Was
Will be
Broken.
The city of Azolia.
The city streets bustled with the population as they went about their day-to-day lives. Mundanity in a strange world. Stores were either already open or opening and plying their trades as people wandered the streets. “Get your bread here,” someone called out in the distance. Walkways were out of time, in some place’s cobblestones, others tarmacked and in a few only plain rubble and mud, but people were so used to the inconsistencies they ignored the changes in the environment. Things many would have found unusual were just a part of everyday life in the city; this, it should be said, is true of all cities in every world; people quickly get used to what they know, the unusual soon becomes the norm. The ginormous steps that circled the population were another of those things that largely went ignored. Life was hard enough for many, without worrying about that which could not be changed. Buildings that could have been very modern sit happily next to ones that would not have been out of place in the distant past. The patrons, oblivious to it all, it was just ‘what they knew.’ Many hate change; most adapt quickly.
The lab was locked up tightly so that only he, and nothing else could enter or exit. It was a way from the main city, so no cries could be heard for bread, or the nattering of the dwellers. The lab… one of the last of its kind had been a project grown over decades and built to the specs he had been given. The few who knew presumed it was his lab, and he was happy for them to continue thinking that; why spoil a lie with the truth. It was against the rules, frowned upon, but not illegal. Advancements in technology were always welcomed, no matter how backwards the population are governed. He was not a scientist, but he had one of their traits, he could never leave things alone; he had to know; he needed to explore the unknowns. The unknown had always left hm feeling unfulfilled; once an idea had been planted, he needed to let it grow. He had to let it root and prosper. The room was sterile and with minimal movement, it was as if the lab was holding its breath and waited for the experiment to commence. Soundproofed and without windows, everything lay silent and dead before ‘Doctor’ Peterson flicked the switch. It’s alive! He was not even a real doctor; he just liked the title. Who was going to stop him? Nobody gave a shit these days. The idea had come when he was a young man, now approaching his seventies; he hoped to realise what he thought of as his vision, finally. It had not all been plain sailing, of course; each failure had led him to this point. Each malfunction was another step along the pathway to success. You fall but continue onwards. The breaking of time had driven him quite mad, as it had many others. He always thought of it as his idea, and not their idea; such was the narcissism of his madness.
The schism on the wall of the lab had existed long before the building was built; impossibilities are common in this land. A paper-thin black crack in the very fabric of existence that – it was believed – had been caused by the breakage from the After to the Now-World. A tear in the framework of reality that had existed, perhaps, forever but was only visible now. Schisms are scattered throughout the land, but this one, he had all to himself. And they whisper. Like the Devil on your shoulder, or the monologue in your head, they have all kinds of ideas. Whispering ideas…
Alice looked through the chain-link fence at the expanse beyond the city. She pulled the coat’s hood over her head and covered her shoulder-length red hair, the green jacket offered minimal protection from the elements, but she hoped it would provide a little cover from prying eyes. The city loomed behind her; its skyline jiggled and jagged like staircases, with the peak being the church of the Balethion in the cities centre. The church was once a world she had almost fallen into, as she was a witch herself, but she had been expelled at the before finished her academic life. It is neither a curse nor a blessing to be a witch, but the church of the Balethion can make it feel so. Those they liked thought it a blessing, others a curse. Witches are gifted with the power of the elements, but usually only one; Alice thought she could control them all. “Preposterous,” Madame Debera Carmichael, her mistress, had said. “My dear, if one could control them all, then one could potentially be the most dangerous witch in creation,” she had continued dismissively. That voice in her head whispered sweetly.
The Dark Brain: This sounds good. The most powerful in the world? Why would we not want that? Think about it Alice, what fun we could have. The world, Alice, it could be ours.
Alice had grown annoyed at the contradictions of it all and made sure they all knew. The Madames, Aunts, Mothers, and even her Sisters had looked down on her after that. The staff, because some of them had that ‘what if’ moment, others just thought she was different, and because of that she was to be avoided. Not one of the ‘cool’ girls as it were. But there was a problem: they had all felt it in her. There was a strangeness about the girl that they all sensed but couldn’t know why. The Witches, capable of great things, could feel that Alice was different. Pulling from the world’s atoms, they could make and touch the whole of the Now. The whole of existence passed through them when they flowed, but with Alice, they felt something they couldn’t explain. She felt… ordinary, but they knew that she was not. “There’s no doubt that she is a gifted witch,” Madame Carmichael said, “spirited but gifted.” The other two witches nodded in agreement.
“I feel the fires burning within her,” Madame Sarah Fernsby said.
“I feel the water, but it is turbulent, like a violent ocean at night,” Madame Amber Edevane added.
BLOCK TWO.
A New World.
The Broken Dawn woke, as she frequently did, with a thumping headache. She often did because she got bored, and when she got bored, she drank. The rocks of memory smashed against one another as she considered moving and sitting on the edge of the four-poster bed, playing tunes of the night before, of many nights before. Each raindrop that hit the window of her house sounded louder than the last. She’d always been an early riser; as dawn breaks, Dawn wakes, someone used to say, she’s forgotten whom. But, on days such as this, the more regular ones, she wished she could stay in bed. In fact, she would, why shouldn’t she? She’d nothing to get up for; what was to stop her remaining under her red duvet? Well, the light of dawn stopped her from staying wrapped under the duvet, that, and her bladder. Bastard bladder.
Nope, it’s no good, she thought and sat upright a little too quickly. Like marbles in a bag, the rocks started to clatter again, this time in her stomach, and she took a moment to let them settle before placing her foot on the floor. Shivering as her foot touched the ground, and a trickle of the cold iced its way up and along her body. Today’s floor was wooden, and she played with the grooves with her little toe, and nail, as she acclimatised. One day, stone, another wooden, often carpeted; she never knew what to expect, and she had no idea why it kept happening, only that it did. It wasn’t just the floor that often changed; it was the whole house; in truth, she’d long given up caring about it. Why worry about what you can’t control? Besides all that, she had other things on her mind, like, for example, her bladder. Bastard thing.
Alice stood atop the flight of stairs as the city vanished from the world. Black flames erupted from the church of the Balethion. Massive, huge, enormous flames engulfed the city in seconds. Alice watched, hardly believing her own eyes as it raced quickly covering everything in the city; like rocket fuel burning at triple speed, it sprang from building to building in less than the quickest blink of an eye. Great plumes of smoke raised up and into the sky, then folded back down on themselves, and the city vanished leaving only a crater of what once was. Alice gasped as it was removed from the world leaving nothing in its place. It happened so quickly that she barely had time to register as her feelings changed from joy to fascination and, finally, guilt at the thought that she was happy. Happy at the whole thing being gone. Bollocks to them all. Even now all these years later she still blamed the city, and everyone in it, for her father’s murder. She watched as the time aftershock hit the city and tossed her up into the air. She had no time to react; even had she time, where could she have gone? You can’t outrun a shockwave. it was a time echo; she knew that she had read about them, but to experience one for herself was something quite frightening. She didn’t have time to think, she closed her eyes as her body was jettisoned upwards and away from the steps; suspended outside of time, so she didn’t fall. Time has been as stable as ever she thought as she hung in the air; what had changed. The ripples of the aftershock continued outwards and behind her into the barren lands; trees, hedgerows, bushes, and other greeneries sprouted from nothing, growing in an instant from an unseen seed to the height of any church. This was happening behind Alice, what she could see was the weathering and aging of the stone steps, and the wildlife taking back what was once its own as the crater started to populate with trees and other life. She found herself thinking how much nicer it looked; the city skyline gone and replaced by greenery.
The Brain of Peace: What’s not to like? I’ll take green over most humans.
She thought of the innocents again, her guilt returned.
The Brain of War: Casualties of war! Shit happens.
But, were they innocent? She was snapped from the idea by a man appearing atop the steps, standing exactly where Alice had been only seconds earlier.
BLOCK THREE.
Known as Hell; it was a place that nobody wanted to end up; even the Devil themselves would have walked away from this hole. The logic to this one was known, and it was simple: If the volcano erupted, who the fuck cares about a load of prisoners? The people of the city? Well, they decided to live there… Politics can also be brutal; keep your friends close, but your politicians further away.
Stonework makes the entrance into Aurora; a corridor that was an uninviting as any haunted house. Stones wet and covered with a thin slime, the mortar joints growing mildew and a slight rotten stench filled the air. The fresh air afraid to walk these walls. Welcoming, it was not. This was not a place you’d want to end up. Further along, the first set of bars, and the guards. Given willingly by their parents, volunteered if you like, before they were old enough to understand, once grown and trained they ran the jail in any manner they see fit. It had been propagandised; to have one’s child taken for the guard training of Aurora was a great privilege. ‘Your child’s an Aurora guard,’ they would marvel, ‘wow, what an honour,’ they exclaimed. What did the children think? Well, they were not asked of course; it was all a big adventure. ‘Ya can make another kid,’ some would say, ‘but you’ll never get the riches you want if ya say no.’ That, of course, was the crux of the matter, the parents were well looked after; they would become local heroes who had sacrificed a child to protect the city, true patriots! These were the parents who helped to save our city, they should be adored. It was never about patriotism or being adored, it was, as always about money. All sins may be deadly, but greed is the one people truly obsess over. You may think that few would take up this offer, but you’d be wrong. When you have nothing, something is everything. Politics is brutal.
Trained from a young age, those that pass all the tests would be ‘awakened.’ Male or female they have their genitals mutilated to stop breeding; eyelids removed; a small tube sprayed the eye when needed for moisture. The idea being that they were always watching; you were never given a moment without being surveyed, always watching; always hearing. Speak no evil around these folks. The few who have visited without becoming ‘guests,’ those deemed worthy of entering and seeing things for themselves never notice the one thing that makes this different from many other prisons; it’s incredibly quiet.
Prisoners were beaten for talking; battered for coughing and hammered for snoring. These have been known to be literal. Two guards in the guardroom watch a series of TV screens; many old and tattered from years of use, but a few are newer. The female one pointed at a screen; her colleague took in what she is looking at without saying a word. On the display there was a room with a row of TV’s that looked far more modern than the ones they possessed; the room appeared empty. Nobody outside of themselves could have any idea of what they were seeing or thinking.