"They say that as if we depended on the Commonwealth for survival," Trance Gemini murmured to herself. She was hanging upside down by her purple tail in a little garden alcove on Scholar's Drift, home to a ridiculously eclectic library of odds and ends and ancient books and missives.
Ulatempa's "Elegy for the Commonwealth" was excellent poetry, but it was woefully lacking in certain particulars of reality despite the rave reviews one of her fellow stars had given it.
The heavens burned before the Nietzscheans revolted. The stars didn't cry out; they lit the novas in the cosmos to consume the initial wave of the Spirit of the Abyss. He sent out planet-eaters and devourers of flesh, and the suns reacted with fire and shifting realities, avatars moved into place to find the one that would defeat him utterly.
And under the ashes of infinity, Hope, scarred and bleeding, breathed its last.
"So now the Commonwealth is hope, is it?" Trance closed the book and dropped from the tree branch she'd hung from. She had stolen a treasure with this book, worth a great deal, and that a candidate to hold the very Engine of Creation had an eye on.
She glanced into the twisting futures ahead of her.
"I'll sell you the book."
"Adventure? Let me come with you."
"I suppose we could use a good thief."
"And welcome aboard, your purpleness."
"Harper." The candidate will smack the backside of her future friend's head.
The Engine is a backup plan, but a good one. It was always their failsafe. And somehow, this Beka Valentine holds the key to reaching the one—a Nietzschean, a human; it's too far ahead and still uncertain. Trance spins around on her heel until she's pointed in the right direction, the Beka direction, and moves forward with a smile.
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timeasmymeasure
Andromeda Fill: What is Hope?
Date: 2015-07-20 04:45 pm (UTC)"They say that as if we depended on the Commonwealth for survival," Trance Gemini murmured to herself. She was hanging upside down by her purple tail in a little garden alcove on Scholar's Drift, home to a ridiculously eclectic library of odds and ends and ancient books and missives.
Ulatempa's "Elegy for the Commonwealth" was excellent poetry, but it was woefully lacking in certain particulars of reality despite the rave reviews one of her fellow stars had given it.
The heavens burned before the Nietzscheans revolted. The stars didn't cry out; they lit the novas in the cosmos to consume the initial wave of the Spirit of the Abyss. He sent out planet-eaters and devourers of flesh, and the suns reacted with fire and shifting realities, avatars moved into place to find the one that would defeat him utterly.
And under the ashes of infinity,
Hope, scarred and bleeding,
breathed its last.
"So now the Commonwealth is hope, is it?" Trance closed the book and dropped from the tree branch she'd hung from. She had stolen a treasure with this book, worth a great deal, and that a candidate to hold the very Engine of Creation had an eye on.
She glanced into the twisting futures ahead of her.
"I'll sell you the book."
"Adventure? Let me come with you."
"I suppose we could use a good thief."
"And welcome aboard, your purpleness."
"Harper." The candidate will smack the backside of her future friend's head.
The Engine is a backup plan, but a good one. It was always their failsafe. And somehow, this Beka Valentine holds the key to reaching the one—a Nietzschean, a human; it's too far ahead and still uncertain. Trance spins around on her heel until she's pointed in the right direction, the Beka direction, and moves forward with a smile.