dawnroselyn
New member
Barely the outlines of the man's steepled fingers and distinctive antique steel frame glasses pierced the gloom of the darkened office. Only his eyes betrayed the light - unblinking, piercing, and incisive, they greedily consumed every pixel coming across the remote feed. A flashbulb of bluish brightness caught the lines of his face - scarred, tired, and worn by time as the space station featured in the telemetry recording collapsed in on itself and imploded.
"It's done, then? You've confirmed it? his gravelly voice pierced the silence.
"Yes, director. The last data frame of the telemetry confirmed a 100% quantum binding." A younger voice now.
"And they do not suspect? We went to a great deal of expense to arrange this pairing."
"Unavoidable, sir. We tried conditioning, implants... everything we could think of, but the pairing could only have worked if it were taken voluntarily. I'm afraid this was the only way."
The director’s breath caught in his throat for just a moment—imperceptibly, to anyone who didn’t know the man as intimately as his silence.
“Then it’s real,” he murmured, folding his fingers in contemplation. “Two deviants, bound across the Unity. An impossibility until now. A myth, even to the old ones. And we made it real.”
“No, sir. They did.”
That earned the young analyst a glance—just the flicker of an eye behind the antique frames. Not disapproval, but the kind of analytic silence that measured words like weights on a scale. Eventually, the director gave a soft grunt. Not quite assent, but not denial either.
“I suppose you’re right,” he admitted. “But still. We built the maze. We lit the path. They simply walked it.”
The room was silent again, save for the soft whir of cooling fans and the occasional electronic blink from the now-paused feed. The image on screen was frozen: the precise moment the station collapsed in on itself, folding inward like an origami swan returning to a single sheet of paper.
“They believe it was chance,” the director continued. “A shared moment. Destiny, even. But it was the Watchtower that steered them—subtly, carefully—toward convergence. We gave them something no deviant has had since the first breach: consequences. Someone who remembers.”
“And what now, sir?” the analyst asked, quietly. “Do we... monitor them?”
The director’s smile was humorless.
“Of course we monitor them. But we do not interfere. For the first time in recorded deviant history, two have chosen each other over a solitary eternity. We don’t dare touch that. Not yet.”
“But if they suspect...”
“Then we pray they understand. We didn’t bind them out of malice or control. We did it because the alternative was the Hunter. The Emissary. The entropy of immortal minds collapsing in on themselves, universe after universe. This was the only cure we’ve ever found that took hold.”
He stood, slowly, his worn silhouette outlined by the screen’s ghostlight.
“They think they’re free now,” he said, almost wistfully. “And maybe they are. But they’re also more important than they know. They are the seed crystal in the void. The first gravitational pair around which meaning might finally condense.”
He turned away, hands behind his back.
“Let them have this cycle,” he whispered. “Let them love. Let them believe it was their idea.”
And then, quietly, almost too softly to hear:
“God help us all if we’re wrong.”
"It's done, then? You've confirmed it? his gravelly voice pierced the silence.
"Yes, director. The last data frame of the telemetry confirmed a 100% quantum binding." A younger voice now.
"And they do not suspect? We went to a great deal of expense to arrange this pairing."
"Unavoidable, sir. We tried conditioning, implants... everything we could think of, but the pairing could only have worked if it were taken voluntarily. I'm afraid this was the only way."
The director’s breath caught in his throat for just a moment—imperceptibly, to anyone who didn’t know the man as intimately as his silence.
“Then it’s real,” he murmured, folding his fingers in contemplation. “Two deviants, bound across the Unity. An impossibility until now. A myth, even to the old ones. And we made it real.”
“No, sir. They did.”
That earned the young analyst a glance—just the flicker of an eye behind the antique frames. Not disapproval, but the kind of analytic silence that measured words like weights on a scale. Eventually, the director gave a soft grunt. Not quite assent, but not denial either.
“I suppose you’re right,” he admitted. “But still. We built the maze. We lit the path. They simply walked it.”
The room was silent again, save for the soft whir of cooling fans and the occasional electronic blink from the now-paused feed. The image on screen was frozen: the precise moment the station collapsed in on itself, folding inward like an origami swan returning to a single sheet of paper.
“They believe it was chance,” the director continued. “A shared moment. Destiny, even. But it was the Watchtower that steered them—subtly, carefully—toward convergence. We gave them something no deviant has had since the first breach: consequences. Someone who remembers.”
“And what now, sir?” the analyst asked, quietly. “Do we... monitor them?”
The director’s smile was humorless.
“Of course we monitor them. But we do not interfere. For the first time in recorded deviant history, two have chosen each other over a solitary eternity. We don’t dare touch that. Not yet.”
“But if they suspect...”
“Then we pray they understand. We didn’t bind them out of malice or control. We did it because the alternative was the Hunter. The Emissary. The entropy of immortal minds collapsing in on themselves, universe after universe. This was the only cure we’ve ever found that took hold.”
He stood, slowly, his worn silhouette outlined by the screen’s ghostlight.
“They think they’re free now,” he said, almost wistfully. “And maybe they are. But they’re also more important than they know. They are the seed crystal in the void. The first gravitational pair around which meaning might finally condense.”
He turned away, hands behind his back.
“Let them have this cycle,” he whispered. “Let them love. Let them believe it was their idea.”
And then, quietly, almost too softly to hear:
“God help us all if we’re wrong.”
