La-Bastille

Verse Zéro - the awakening of the Cid

Verse Zéro – the awakening of the Cid

To die is to live again. And to live again is to die. It is an endless cycle of rebirth. An old cycle of new beginnings and immortal lies. We are but mere pawns of a doomed prophecy, of time’s punishment, and of love’s mischief. Ours is a fate that is repetitive, and constantly replenished. And thy circle can only be broken once you awaken, dear Cid. And I, I have been waiting. And I am dying to meet you, once again.

—Cardinal Neumann, La Bastille 2089 AP

La Darkleth, La Purge 2071 AP

A single leaf is swaying in the air, spinning rapidly.

It appears to be suspended by an invisible thread.

It spins, rotating and whirling, fighting the cool breeze.

The stringy filament that holds the leaf is slowly revealed as a golden radiance shines from the heart of a still pond. The thing that holds the leaf is a lone strand of spider’s web, giving the leaf the illusion that it’s floating in mid-air when it’s not.

The light from underneath the water surfaces, viscously spreading over the stillness of the pond, illuminating the fishes, foliage, and a variety of hidden life.

The dewy, sappy string that holds the leaf starts to sway even more as an iridescent spider climbs it. The spider’s long, sharp legs gather beads of moisture as it trickles down the thread.

The bright golden light shining from beneath the water separates from the pond, glowing with intensity as it steadily floats from the water, drowning the pond’s stillness in its brilliance.

The filament, the thread that holds the leaf, snaps, and the spider is whisked away in the air, bouncing over the round force field of light that has separated from the water.

The force field is a homunculus, like an egg shrouded in light; its shell becoming transparent to reveal a pre-formed infant who appears like a miniature adult.

The newborn jerks, pushing out its arms and legs reflexively as a reaction to the invisible force that is driving air into its lungs. The struggle of coughing out fights with the need to breathe oxygen as the infant’s body thrashes with vigor and life. He takes his first breath of life inside a glowing cocoon of magnificent aura, filling his body with energy to function and come alive.

The baby’s skin has an effervescent glow that is alight from within, almost golden in its complexion. And the same glow spreads like a warm coating of honeyed milk from his head down to his dainty toes.

The aura of light slowly melts away from the shell of his cocoon as portions of his body get exposed to the world. Short follicles of hair the brightest of gold is smoothed over a perfectly-round cranium, making him look like a cherubim with a ring of light around his head. A tiny cherub. With a halo of an angel.

Tears of life seep from his eyes as he opens his vision to the world around him.

His left eye is a radiant emerald green, and his right eye is a vibrant ocean blue.

He cries as he smiles. And the sound he makes travels to the two people nearby.

A couple, wearing old vestments of grays and wool, approach to seek the sound. With careful steps they find the baby, who’s angelic in his vibrancy, unrelenting in his light.

The couple is more enamored than shocked by the sight of the floating baby as they advance, wanting to see.

The woman, who’s past her age to conceive a child with her infertile man, receives the infant like it’s a blessing from above. There is fear in her eyes as she does, but she does not question the form of the baby as it is presented to her. All she cares about is having a child. A beautiful boy. A son she can call her own.

“Ulna, are you sure about this? This infant, this…this apparition…it might be cursed.”

“Orem, we, we are already cursed. This baby…this blessing…is a gift. He needs parents. He needs us.”

Orem lets a moment pass before pulling up his sleeves to cradle the boy in his arms. He already feels paternal towards the boy more than he likes to admit, “But what shall we call him?”

“Cid,” Ulna smiles, “We will call him Cid. He is going to be the be-all and end-all of our lives’ miseries.”

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Present day, La Bastille 2089 AP

La Bastille is a utopia. It is the last remaining capital city of humanity on this small earth.

It is a city constructed with design, functionality, and convenience in mind; surrounded and decorated with technology, computers, and automatons—robots that perform functions of a variety; from cleaning, serving, maintenance, to security—making La Bastille an idyllic place to live.

Rapid urbanization has taken place under the leadership of the Academy; a group of scholars and scientists under the guiding hands of Cardinal Neumann, a prophet whose prophecies have made him a driving force of change, and ultimately La Bastille’s ‘all-seeing eye.’

And in this highly automated city, where technology and information are at the forefront, stands what remains of civilization—people of varied cultures and backgrounds.

A hundred floors down is La Purge. A settlement located at the bottom of La Bastille.

Muck, dirt, grime and filth of every variety can be found in La Purge, or the desolate wasteland.

Residents of this city are buried deep in manual labor, taking care of waste management, recycling, segregation, and everything that has to do with keeping La Bastille as clean as it can possibly be.

Hunger, oppression, and desperation put together, is what it feels like to live in La Purge, or the city down below as people call it. Everything that can turn a smile into a frown you will find in its inhospitable environment, where food and water is scarce, resources stunted, just enough to mobilize its deteriorating workforce.

Sadness is like a carpet rolled to every corner, alley, and pavement of La Purge, leaving the area looking gloomy, barren and lifeless.

It is the lowest of the lowland areas; a restricted area, an abandoned zone filled with castoffs of materials flushed from the high-altitude city of La Bastille through sludge-rimmed sewage pipes and gaping holes.

This wasteland is filled with remnants of life from a previous era; from when the world was still called the Earth.

Today, researchers and cautious patrolling guards swarm the site in hopes of finding new discoveries, old adventures, and pleasures of the wicked variety.

La Purge used to be a place by the lifeless sea where crystals and gemstoned rock formations are buried in the sand.

But that was before the archaeologists excavated whatever mineral qualities the soil had left. They quarried and squeezed the land dry of its potential for the vain purpose of their studies and experimentation into fortifying the foundations of La Bastille, or the city in the sky.

There is no sign of life in La Purge. Not even the people living in here can be called alive, for their homes are shrouded by a desolate sky and the view of towering skyscrapers that pierce high into the dismal clouds.

Present day, Le Vestibule, 2089 AP

His omnipresent voice rises behind the ceramic pulpit where he stands.

His open hands rise from his sides as he addresses the communal public.

It may be a part of their religious doctrine, but everyone seated in the long rows of ceramic benches are wearing holy vestments of cream-colored capes and long, draped linens.

“The seed has awakened from its dreamlike stasis. And therefore we shall be born again.”

The voice of Cardinal Neumann resounds to every corner of Le Vestibule, a large dome with a wide expanse of crystalline structure, housing the many people who have come for his blessing.

The Cardinal reads the pamphlets spread before him, yet his own voice dissolves into a series of nonsensical syllables in his head as an unfettered stream of energy pulses in its presence all around him. Like he’s being surrounded by an invisible force field that only he can see, that only he can feel.

He can sense the verve of the energy penetrate his psyche, telling him the presence of a power much stronger than his. He does not let the people know of this, he acts normal as he delivers god’s news. He continues to minister his words and teachings onto the open palms of the outstretched hands that are reaching for his blessing, unknowing of the vision the Cardinal is seeing right before his very eyes.

He can almost see the fluttering glimpses of an image in his peripherals. And what he sees is light emanating from underneath a body of water. This makes the Cardinal smile. He smiles at the vision that only he can see. It makes him leer quietly as he continues with his ceremony.

The Cardinal continues to speak in religious tongue, yet his senses are split between the sensation of being here behind the pulpit and in another place that is sacred and profound. He feels like his body is standing in two places at once—his body behind the pulpit, but his soul floating in mid-air in a place where there’s light emanating from a pond. His spirit watches the spectacle unfold before his mind’s eye. As if he’s living through the life force of another who’s being born again.

His wandering spirit returns and inhabits his body once more, and the feeling of his return comes first before his mind can process the meaning. And by the time he realizes the mysterious presence it’s already too late. He…the boy…the prophecy…is reborn, once again.

He looks up smiling and says, “It’s time. The seed has awakened.”