011 Turak 91277
Kairfell: Capital City.
Clouds shaped like tuft pillows glide slowly across the sky, releasing a light and warm deluge. It cleanses the land of silver and crystalline edifices, leaving behind a world baptized and re-birthed by its liquid grace. Intara stares idly out of the expansive window that showcases the ever-glistening metropolis, absentmindedly tracing the bumpy texture of her Deverra. Sparks of mottled ember kindled on the back of her neck; fiery tendrils lashed on her skin. Her given identity borne on her flesh. It has been there for as long as she can remember, but still, it feels unfamiliar.
She remembers the solar day that she first attended the Conservatory, a head shorter than she is now. She recalls her mother's anxious fingers fussing about her uniform, ensuring that no fault could be found. But her father's words still echo indelibly into the far depths of her mind, seared into her memory.
He told her, and it sounded like a warning, that the world beyond their home was less broad-minded and inquisitive than she was. That, in the teaching chamber, she should always listen avidly and that her attention should be unquestionable. She should do as she was told, the same way her peers did. And most importantly, above all else, she should never ask questions.
"Intara, your transport is on route."
Her frustration simmers at a low constant heat. "I do not wish to go," she mutters.
"And I do not wish to have the same conversation with you every solar day, but here we are."
Her expression deadpans. "I am serious. You have no idea what it is like," she says, tugging at the end of the long-sleeve uniform. "… Mind numbing."
"Mind numbing?"
"Mind numbing," she confirms.
Clearing her throat, she mimics the automated voice of the AI program and precisely recites a passage. "Our benevolent Prious and the others that form the Intergalactic Interplanetary Alliance are working tirelessly to cease the senseless slaughter."
Then, she perks up and feigns a surprised look. "Oh, and how can I forget?" She flops a flimsy arm across her chest. "Praise Prious."
"Have care how you speak, to speak ill of the Prious is unwise. That includes mockery. Your transport is on route, you must go."
She huffs and folds her arms obstinately.
"Cruxiaus never has a problem doing what he is told. You should take his lead and do the same."
Intara rises abruptly without another word. She rounds the divan and walks briskly to the seal door, as if hoping to escape the eternal shadow of her brother's brightness.
***
The battle of sovereignty forged an era of peace in a time where war was waged in the cosmos. The valour of the Bellatoris defended its realm from the terrorism that was impinged on the Capitis realms by its most fearsome foe; a world that only knows violence and only desires bloodshed. Gyon.
A world that fostered its deep-seated hatred for the Priosess, corrupting the hearts of its inhabitants. Relentless in sowing dissent, it turned even the grateful against the Priostry, who had once cared for them, transforming resource-deprived realms into flourishing spheres of self-sufficiency.
The slanderous propaganda spawned the rise of rebellion. Gyon, who raised its mantle of terror after the battle of sovereignty. And with it, they formed their own treacherous and sinister alliance. The S.F. A
To this solar day, the S.F.A remains as the biggest threat to galactic amity.
Our benevolent Prious and the others that form the Intergalactic Interplanetary Alliance are working tirelessly to cease the senseless slaughter.
The valiant Prious of Kairfell will not stop until the cosmos is at peace once again.
Praise Prious.
"Praise Prious!"
"Praise Prious!"
The teaching chamber fills with the robust chants of the progenies. The volumetric projection of the holographic screen fizzles out and a cybernetic hologram materializes into virtual existence. An extension of advanced artificial intelligence that allows for two-way interaction—the Docent.
"As the Bellators risk their lives to protect us, we honor their sacrifice by upholding our civic duty as exemplary citizens of Kairfell—adhering to the laws of our realm and faithfully following the will of our Prious."
The other progenies are deathly still as they digest the teachings that are given every solar day for every progeny. To mould the pliable minds of the youth into what Kairfell wants them to be, programming their thinking and configuring their perception of what is good and what is not. Raising up the progenies to be faithful and unwavering beings that will religiously serve The Order.
A soulless veneer cloaks the chamber walls, a dismal hue devoid of character, exuding an aura of sterile monotony. The only semblance of life comes from the profuse bands of light encircling the interior, their luminescent glow casting an artificial sheen that pulses with cold precision. The light neither warms nor comforts; it merely exists, a stark contrast to the lifelessness it illuminates. All of their heads are inclined as their eyes hypnotically follow the pacing hologram. But one sits with her head bowed and her gaze tied to her lap. Amongst the other proselytized progenies that remain perpetually immersed.
The one sits, twiddling her fingers.
"Our obligation is in service to Kairfell and our Prious so that we may be an example to other worlds and insubordinate spheres alike, to show that we can all live together in harmony despite our differences."
The Docent drones on unabatingly, time-worn words spoken in new ways. Then, it states something that causes that one progeny to slowly lift her head and finally look into the unblinking eyes of the lifelike hologram.
"The members of the SFA instill fear and spew threats of violence, driven solely by their desire to dismantle our lawful institutions and annihilate our way of life."
"Why?"
As the question slips involuntarily from the progeny's lips, it cuts through the air like an icy plume, sending a hostile chill across the chamber. The words seem to solidify the atmosphere with a silence so thick and charged, it feels almost tangible—like the biting winds of the frost season, freezing everything in its wake.
The Docent pauses and stares penetratingly at the brazen progeny.
A frigid interval of silence ensues.
The AI hologram scrutinizes her with a gaze that is both cold and methodical, its digital eyes piercing through the dimly lit room. Every nuance of her expression is analyzed with mechanical precision, as if the very essence of her being is being dissected by an invisible algorithm. The hologram's impassive demeanor radiates an unsettling chill, as if it were an entity devoid of empathy, operating solely on streams of data and calculated judgments.
The AI hologram scrutinizes her with a gaze that is both cold and methodical, its digital eyes piercing through the dimly lit room. Every nuance of her expression is analyzed with mechanical precision, as if the very essence of her being is being dissected by an invisible algorithm. The hologram's impassive demeanor, an entity devoid of empathy, operating solely on streams of data and calculated judgments.
Instant regret wracks her body. She inhales deeply and an arid breath dries the inside of her mouth. Why did I say that? Why did I question that? For so long she had successfully mastered the skill of keeping her thoughts to where they belong. In her mind, safe and unheard. Her father had counselled her that silence is to be her companion and obedience, her superior. Then all will be well with her.
The progenies that surround her, seated on rows of backless benches; some gawk, others glare at her as if she had committed an act of treason. Treachery to think that she can contest the cycles' worth of teachings and wisdom that are now being imparted onto them.
The Docent, blinks its eyes twice in rapid succession, an artificial mimicry of human gesture. Her head tilts slightly to one side, a gesture of curiosity rendered with unnerving precision, as her expression takes on an intense, almost ravenous quality. It's clear she's engaged in a silent dialogue with an unseen entity. After a prolonged pause, she refocuses her attention, her virtual eyes locking onto Intara. The atmosphere thickens with an eerie tension as the hologram's gaze seems to pierce through the layers of reality itself.
She smiles broadly and says, "Intara, the Headmaster would like to see you."
The teaching chamber teems with mute aversion, tautened by tension's grip, tightened so much, it threatens to sunder. No progeny has ever seen or has been summoned to the Headmaster's bureau. Since before, it was never necessary. Until now.
The seal door swipes to the side, exposing a Cursor that stands just behind the entryway. Uniformed in his all-white attire. Intara rises to her feet slowly and proceeds to exit her aisle, then makes her way to the wide centre that divides the room in half. Departing the chamber, the door slides back to a close, leaving behind her calm.
The Cursor strides ahead in his immaculate all-white garments, a vision of futuristic austerity. A sleek, advanced firearm is holstered at his side, its design both intimidating and refined, hinting at its formidable capabilities. He leads with a commanding presence, his measured steps precise and deliberate, maintaining a disciplined two-step distance ahead of Intara.
As he marches, Intara's nerves are frayed to the point of razor-sharpness, each pulse of her anxiety slicing through the rigid tension that has settled like a vise in her chest. Her apprehension feels almost tangible, a stark contrast to the cold efficiency of the Cursor's stride. The gap between them seems to stretch with every step, amplifying the relentless intensity of her unease. Her eyes inspect the weapon strapped to his waist, leaving her to wonder why Cursors need to be armed. Cursors are merely the watchers of progenies.
But why must they be armed?
The 'sensible' side of her claims that it is merely for their safety, in the event of a potential attack. The other side of her still remains unconvinced.
Despite having to attend the Conservatory every solar day. Where the Cursor is directing her is to a place that she has never been or even seen. The Conservatory is a multi-storey infrastructure, all levels of teaching chambers, brimming with progenies.
Down the eclectic hallway, vacant and still, seal doors mirroring each other on opposite sides. Other Cursors patrol the corridors, watching vigilantly, as if waiting for something to happen. The lack of sound makes her hyper-aware of even the muffled words through the sealed doors, spoken by other AI holograms. With tentative fingers, she pulls at her high band collar, suddenly feeling strangled by it.
Eventually, they reach the Headmaster's bureau. Glossy white double doors that stand between her and her foreseeable retribution. The Cursor stops, steps aside, and looks down at the round-eyed progeny. With a jerk of his head, he signals to the doors.