3.0 #Necessity #LionsDen #LogMeOut #PalacePerverts
Location: Ar'Elis, capital of the True Evolutionist Empire, Eastern Continent of Hellifyno.
Corgan let out a shaky breath as his hand hovered over the sleek WeaveWear glasses. He was going back in. It was the last thing that he wanted to do. That place... But he didn't have a choice.
Puck's words hummed across his thoughts.
One last time…
The Fae child had claimed that one final journey had the potential to end the Weave entirely, break the Emperor's power, and free the people.
Then Corgan would be able to step in and take control. Along with his supporters, of course. He relished the thought of restoring the dignity of the True Evolutionists. He would re-forge the Empire and make it stronger than ever before, grounded in the steadfast principles of their order.
But first he had to make one last trip into that tainted place.
The dread was making his stomach churn. He pulled his hand away from the glasses to rub the back of his neck, finding it coated in a mist of nervous sweat.
He hated feeling this way! Fear. How pathetic. As one of the Pure Blood, he should be beyond such weakness. And this wasn't like having nerves on the brink of battle; he was afraid of something that wasn't even real, something that was essentially a game. He had to get control of himself!
Corgan took a deep breath, and then another one, letting forced relaxation and cold logic soothe his panic. But even as he mentally dismissed his distress over this small mission, he couldn’t completely shake the feeling of angst.
How could he forget the sense of helplessness that had fallen over him on his last visit? That darkness, that power, it hadn't just controlled him at the end. He felt--he knew--that it had the power to actually change him, remake him in any form it saw fit. It was almost as if he’d lost himself in there. And now he was going right back in.
He'd checked the Imperial records and the networks he could still gain access to. None of his rights had been revoked and no warrants, secret or public, had been filed in response to his outburst against the Imperial Voice. Maybe that… phenomenon, near the end of their meeting had just been a show a power meant to threaten him, and by proxy his followers, into submission.
Maybe, but he doubted it. They were probably just biding their time so they could take him out quietly during a vulnerable moment. And if the power demonstrated by the Voice was any indication of the control wielded within the Weave by the Imperial Throne, then going back in there was giving them the perfect opportunity to take him out on their terms.
Fuck it.
One last time…
With hasty courage, Corgan finally grasped the WeaveWear glasses and headed toward the common area of his living quarters. In his other hand, he already held the small device that Puck had given to him. The thing was about the size of a copper coin and almost as flat and smooth.
The disc was supposed to interact with the Weave somehow. The boy had tried to explain it, and while Corgan understood the basic idea of a hack job, the former Fae spoke using strange terms and foreign concepts that made him difficult to understand. His lack of understanding was just one of the many faults with this plan.
So why go through with it? Hesitation gripped him once more. He was putting himself, mind and body, directly into the waiting hands of his enemies in their place of greatest strength, and he was doing it all because his half-mad former enemy had told him in vague terms he barely understood that 'it would help.' The plan was foolishness through and through.
But what else could he do? If he remained in the Capital, it wouldn't be long before he was picked off the streets or had his throat slit in the night by Imperial assassins.
At the same time, he couldn't run. The Empire of the True Evolutionists was his home, and the Crowleys were his family, no matter how dysfunctional they had become. They were the only reason he had anything. He had to do whatever was necessary to end this madness.
Even if it involved following the advice of an insane and vindictive child.
Bravado suitably mustered, Corgan gripped both items needed to begin his journey. Hesitating only one moment more, he slowly lowered himself onto the streamlined sofa and balanced his elbows. Stormy blue eyes danced back and forth from one device to the other.
He took another long breath, drawing the real air into his lungs, and then let it slowly stream out as he sank back onto the stiff cushioning of the sofa. Without another moment’s thought, he slipped on the glasses and left reality behind.
Despite the rapid fluttering of his eyes, all he could see at first was darkness. Everywhere, everything, all black and dark and cold. A sudden panic spiked within him.
Something was wrong. Something was off. They know I'm here.
And then he was submersed within the Weave. All feelings of anxiety, fear, or pain shedding as heady intoxicating emotions flooded him. He looked up, eyes wide from the sudden pleasures that washed over him as he basked in the mix of warm exotic colors that painted the sky above him.
Corgan blinked and almost sighed as he gazed about. He found that buildings had sprouted all around him, colorful and alluring. In every direction, signs of promise were plastered above doorways, tugging subtly at his senses. The atmosphere was a contrast of calm and exhilaration contending in a dynamic tension that made the air feel alive with electricity.
But beyond the instant pleasure and the enticing visual display, he could feel something very wrong. He always felt it when he came here. It was growing stronger.
He was standing in a place that was similar to the Imperial Capital, and yet very different. The clean lines, uniform hues, and crisp edges of the great city were distorted in the Weave, replaced with vivid, eye blinding colors and bright neon lights flashing from every surface. Structures curved and wavered, walls bent and twisted, and even the winding streets trembled and oozed in places.
Most people avoided the semi-permanent landmark of the city around the Emperor's personal Weave grounds. However, some found the presence of power arousing.
Corgan was disgusted by them, but not as much as he was with the Emperor himself. Making such a spectacle of his "Pleasure Palace" encouraged nothing but indolence and perversion.
As he moved quickly through the twisting streets, his assessment of those people was reinforced. They strode about in gaudy, fantastic virtual versions of themselves, giggling and groping at one another openly like animals between their trips into one of the many recreation halls.
Others preferred more violent pursuits; small battles, gang beatings, open rape, and torture could often be seen depending on which way he looked. For the most part, he looked down.
Disgusting.
The further he travelled into the city, the worse it got. In this place you could often tell when someone else was 'real' and not just a replicant AI, especially if they rarely came to the Weave. Corgan's reluctance to enter this fake world made him a beacon to the sick souls of the city, many of whom relished the idea of being able to kill or fuck someone so close to reality.
They started closing in on him. Massive gaudy men and glaring multicolored women, their avatars flashing and shifting enough to almost make him nauseous. But the things they asked of him were even worse...
He wanted to bolt. He wanted to run. He wanted to just log out.
Instead, he disarmed them, turning them down with well-practiced, falsely friendly smiles and even the occasional convincing laugh, a promise of ‘next time’ paired with a provocative wink. It made him feel slimy, but it helped avoid a scene.
The craven creatures eventually fell back from him with reluctance. There was little they could do. Consent of the User was one of the few rules in the Weave.
And if they hadn't backed down, he could have shown them some of the perks of having the last name Crowley.
Perhaps it made sense that travel would be restricted in this area for all except those in the Emperor's "tru
sted circle." But still, to make him, one of the Pure Blood, walk through this depraved place just to reach his administrative headquarters was simply one more insult heaped upon the pile that already rested across his back.
Of course, the Emperor would never have called Corgan here. He probably wasn't even supposed to know the Executive function that lay beneath the Pleasure Palace's facade.
He didn't belong here. He wasn't wanted here.
This was a death trap.
He hurried on, Puck’s promises replaying in his mind like a mantra. If memory served, his destination shouldn’t be much further ahead, though the twists and turns in this damn Weave city were difficult to navigate, often changing suddenly, necessitating creative improvisations. Where was he now?
He turned a corner and suddenly, finally, found himself facing the Emperor’s Pleasure Palace. A massive, multicolored building, it matched the other strange structures in the city, although it dwarfed them in size, scope, and imagination. As he approached, he could just barely make out two figures standing before the gate, their features hazy against the undulating walls behind them.
Guards? Wasn't that a little redundant here? He could already feel the code sensors raking through his essence. They would do a far better job of protecting that part of the Emperor which indulged his petty pleasures in the Weave than any pair of human eyes. But as he grew closer, he could see that these men were attired in soldier's garb. Strange.
If Corgan had been of lesser Blood, he wouldn't have even made it this far. Instead he would have been stopped blocks away by a loud audible warning, repeated once, followed by a series of sharp jolts of pain which would increase rapidly in intensity with each step.
If that hadn't halted him, it would have been followed by total code paralysis, a lockdown on his entry port, and immediate download into a question hub while they sent troops to recover his body in the real world.
Guards were an ineffective tool in the Weave. Maybe all of the time spent in this place was starting to addle the Emperor's mind? Could he be losing the ability to discern reality from Weaveality? Maybe he could use that to his advantage.
Corgan was shaken from plotting when closing distance brought recognition to the faces of the "guards" watching the Pleasure Palace.
It was the Emperor himself. They both were!
No, they had to be clones. Zain would never let himself be seen in public dressed in the garb of a common soldier.
What was the meaning of all of this?
With his arrogant upturned nose temporarily lowered in shock, he took a moment to take in the scene more carefully, noticing that there was a third figure prone on the ground between the two men. His neck appeared to be tied down to some sort of large wooden block.
Seeing that they had his attention, the Imperial clones smiled, one waving at Corgan before beckoning to him with a crooked finger. The other grinned and kneeled down by the prone figure, pulling his head back against the bonds so that he was clearly visible.
It was Corgan's own face. Bruised and dirty, yes, but he clearly recognized the features he saw in the mirror each morning.
This had to be a trick. He didn't have any clones, that was unseemly. At least none that he knew about... No, far more likely that this was just some sick trick. You could make anything in the Weave, even a dummy body for cheap theatrics.
He couldn't let this get to him. So instead, he put his nose back up in the air and let his disdain for the scene play out as arrogant dismissal. They wanted to toy with him? Well, good. That meant that they underestimated him.
Growing closer, one of the clone guards called out to him in an eerily familiar voice. "Unauthorized personal cloning is strictly prohibited by order of Imperial Decree. The penalty for transgressors is death."
Corgan ignored him. He wasn't responsible for that clone, or whatever it was. Instead, he concentrated on the gates which stood ajar just beyond the morbid gathering. He would have to pass right by them to gain entrance, but they wouldn't impede his way, and if he could just fix his gaze forward he wouldn't give them the satisfaction of a reaction.
Just a few feet from his goal, a flash of motion instinctually drew his eyes back to the scene. He was just in time to see one of the clones swing a large curved sword through the air, bringing it down on the back of the prone man's neck; Corgan's own head, or an exact facsimile of it, slaking downwards at the force of the blow.
The Corgan clone's body spasmed in pain as blood and gore spurted from the gaping wound that left its skull dangling from its throat by cords of flesh and broken spine. A hissing groan of agony rattled from the dying figure’s body, choked by gushing blood.
Coated in specks of still spurting life, the two Imperial replicas started laughing. The armed man raised his sword again, bringing it down in a cruel flash to sever the last connections of flesh and bone, sending the skull rattling to the stony ground.
The head rolled once, twice, and when it came to a stop, Corgan saw his own familiar eyes in the dying man's face blink a few times in rapid panic before draining into a lifeless stare.
It was an unsettling sight, one that was designed to intimidate him, and it had worked. He felt a lance of primal terror arcing through him, but he fought that down and instead forced himself to make a dramatic show of rolling his eyes. He even managed a scoff, though it was slight and hoarse.
"Like I've never seen an execution before. Amateurs. You should have had the head off in one blow. Especially in this place." He hoped that his voice was steadier than it felt, but it ddn't matter. The bloody theatrics had reached their conclusion and the men made no move to intercept him. So, a few footsteps later, he was past the display of gore and intimidation and had made his way through the open gateway.
Inside, he was instantly enveloped in a feeling of salacious scandal, alluring sensations seeming to seep from the very air. A heady musk of ethereal lust lapped at his senses in waves of ghostly touches. His eyes grew hazy as the rich mix of pleasure and lust settled over him.
And then, a bevy of nearly naked whores began to make their way towards him.
He almost gave in, falling into the soft arms of a pair of perfectly shaped vixens with promising smiles and beckoning waves. Before he knew it, one was slipping her palm up the inside of his shirt, while the other was grasping at the clasp of his pants; but then he noticed something sinister.
That darkness, that cloying feeling that tainted every sector of the Weave, it was stronger here. Like a shadow watching him, closing in around him.
Arousal died suddenly, replaced with dread and determination as he struggled to untangle himself from the growing group of lusting sycophants that had gathered around him. They pouted and persisted, but he didn't care, shoving them off roughly as he headed for an open hallway. Now that he recognized the place and its inhabitants as fake, the subtle trick of the Arousal Weave had lost its potency.
Corgan found himself in a long, twisting hallway. In the absence of the rush of pleasures and sensations, that feeling of wrongness, of being watched, grew more palpable.
They were definitely tracking him. Every object, real or created, was tracked within the Weave, and his very presence would have set off sensors in the code that would have alerted guards both within the network and out there in reality. Those thugs at the gate wouldn't even have to report him.
They knew he was here. His only chance was that they might not care. If he was deemed insignificant enough, his presence wouldn't be brought to the attention of upper level officials. They might think he was just availing himself of the Pleasure Palace facade that was his right by blood, or maybe they would think he looked to seek favor with the Emperor by taking part in his sick Weave games.
It was a slim chance, and one that grew thinner by the moment. He picked up his pace, hurrying down the twisting hall, his booted feet silent on the red velvet beneath them.
Puck had somehow been specific about the presence of this hall, but after
that his instructions had grown vague. "Necessity will be your guide," he'd said. Bunch of silly Fae nonsense. What Corgan needed right now was some sort of sign, something to tell him what the hell he was supposed to do next. Should he just drop the device on the floor and be done with it?
That's when he noticed the door. It didn't appear; it had always been there. He must have just missed it rushing by in his hurry. It was a simple wooden portal, set into the marble of the wall in the hall. His hand stretched out reflexively for the handle, then stopped.
Dare he go about opening strange doors in this dangerous place? Who knew what might be on the other side?
Then he brushed those thoughts aside as foolish. Whatever lay beyond the door was as safe as standing here. Space didn't matter within the Weave, it was only symbolic. His life was a fragile candle that could be snuffed out on a whim, as long as he remained in the damned place.
"I guess necessity will be my guide, again," he muttered to himself, reaching out and opening the door.
Strange how that mad child’s words seemed to have such a dominant hold on his mind.
Beyond, he found a place of flickering lights and flashing images. Stepping in, he let the door slip quietly closed behind him, and was immersed in a world of screens. Thousands of bright monitors lined the walls from floor to ceiling and then ran in rows that seemed to stretch outwards from his location for an eternity in every direction.
Stepping closer to the wall, Corgan stared at the myriad array of images that was displayed before him. Each screen held a different fantastic scene; some heart achingly beautiful, others vile, violent, and horrific.
One monitor showed an explosion of colors, a great array of hues blasting and floating and flying through the air in glowing gushes of living dimensional artistry.
On another screen right next to the first, he saw a group of monstrous demons tearing a woman to pieces as they raped her bloody corpse again and again.
Still another showed a winged being of pure energy singing a song so lovely that, if he had lingered to listen, it might have moved him to tears.
He could see the screens changing perspective at random intervals, sometimes showing strange events from the eyes of the beholder, then switching to a bird’s eye view of the main participant. Each scene was fantastic, every one topping than the next; some in the most disturbing ways possible, while others were visions of inspiration and wonder.
These were the people in the Weave.
We're being watched.
What was most disturbing of all was that occasionally the screens would flash, giving him a glimpse of the ghosting echo of a complex binary program code. He wasn't a programmer, but he had a dark feeling that he knew what that was.
Soul code. The personality source of every person who interacted with the Weave. There were supposed to be double-blind measures in place to prevent it from being exposed, but would the current Emperor allow himself to be constrained by pronouncements given by his predecessor?
With a growing sense of paranoia, Corgan fished the small metal disc from his pocket. Puck had told him he would know the right place when he saw it. Well, there was nothing right about this place, but he somehow knew it was where he had to be.
Placing the device gently into the palm of his opposite hand, he contemplated it for a moment. What was he supposed to do now?
Almost instantly, the device sprung to life! Eight spindly legs grew from its body as its flat form puffed out into the bulbous shape of a tiny silver spider. The metallic arachnid looked up at Corgan, contemplating him with thoughtful pinprick eyes.
The spider sprang into action, its newly formed legs crouching to let it leap from his palm, flinging itself toward the nearest screen. There, thin legs scrambled for a moment to find purchase on smooth horizontal glass, but it swiftly found a hold and shot off, racing across the monitors.
Stop! Or… Wait up, at least!” As tiny as it was, the little creature was still quick, forcing Corgan to chase after it as the spider danced past scenes of beauty and horror, fantasy and depravity, until finally it stopped on the single screen in the room of endless infinite rows that didn't show anything at all. It stood blank, black, and empty.
Across the darkness, the spider began to tap out a complex pattern, its spindly legs working in tandem to create a sort of rigid rhythm. As it did so, equations flashed across what had been a dead screen only moments before, appearing in blasts of light and fading away moments later.
Finally, after what could have been an eternity or a moment, the spider turned its tiny face to Corgan and raised a single arm as if in salute. Not knowing what to do he nodded back respectfully, though he felt foolish showing respect to an insect. And a mechanical one at that.
The silver spider turned to the blank monitor, and, using its two forelegs, began to tear a hole in the empty screen. That was not to say that it smashed or broke the glass; rather, it literally tore the reality where the screen was, ripping through the fabric of the Weave itself. In the gap beyond, Corgan could see nothing but pure emptiness, a wound in existence.
Without further fanfare, the tiny spider slipped into that hole that it had made and vanished.
With the distraction of the creepy but spectacular little critter gone, Corgan suddenly took stock of his surroundings and realized something was very wrong. That cloying darkness... when had it grown so close? He could feel a presence looming over him, reaching towards him, into him.
He had to get out. His job was done, now it was time to escape. But where? All around him the darkness was growing thicker and more palpable, making his thoughts and movements sluggish. The once endless rows were closing in on him. The flickering screens flashed angrily and started going dead, blanking out one by one, the illumination fading around him.
Fuck, what did that mean?
But in a distant, detached part of his mind, he knew what it meant. They had his soul code. They could reprogram him, turn him into anything they wanted. He could almost feel it happening already, that malevolent presence stretching its fingers into his being, altering a little piece here, changing a little piece there. A soothing litany of Imperial praises were whispering him into a lull.
Your soul ends, in every other timeline…
No! He had to fight it. To be turned into a mindless tool, that was worse than death. There had to be some way to escape.
Even in the darkness and the fog of the presence, he could still make out one thing. It was an emptiness so profound that it defied visual representation. That tear in the Weave that the spider had made.
He had no idea where it led. The implications of falling into that emptiness were disturbing, but as he felt his will to resist being rapidly reprogrammed he made up his mind. Anything was better than this.
Rising shakily to his feet - when had he fallen? - Corgan took a wobbly step towards the gap, then a second, feeling his strength draining away.
Maybe it wouldn't be so bad to bend knee before Emperor Zain.
That thought fueled him with rage and self-loathing, and he hurtled his body at the empty void. Stretching his avatar form so that it grew long and thin, he pushed himself through the tiny hole like thread diving through the eye of a pin; and then, he was gone.
The Presence, dark and cloying, vanished instantly. But Corgan had no respite to enjoy his escape as a million flashing possibilities suddenly began to crash against his conscious mind. He saw countless lives, endless scenarios, strange universes, and twisted dimensions, and they all came at him with a rapidity that threatened to drive him insane.
He began to scream, but the noise was drowned out by endless wars, songs, moans, and cries, roars and death throes, the wailing of the sick, and the crying of new born babes. Everything that could ever exist, that had ever existed, and that would ever exist all beat against his perceptions, shattering his mind until he was nothing but a ravening soul hurtling through the infinite.
It ended up being the words of that
strange Fae boy that finally led him from the insanity of that infinity.
"Necessity will be your guide."
As he was buffeting and breaking and being rebuilt against the rocky shores of infinite possibility, Corgan's drive, his desires, still fueled him. And so, despite the damage and the disorientation, he moved slowly but surely across everything and nothing, forging his way toward the circumstances he needed, until finally he fell back out into the real world, whatever that meant to him, in exactly the perfect spot.