The ship rattles. Its tentacles toss the massive weight back into space as suddenly as it first attacked it. Within the ship’s hull, the captain’s corpse lies among the limp bodies of his crew. The remaining orphans of the nine galaxies restrain the murderer's acquaintance. They will torture them. They will kick and scream and beg for mercy, and then, if they haven’t died from their injuries or taken their own life, they will join me in my cell.
The cell where I wait in my lonesome darkness, optics depleted of power, remaining joints depleted of power, sensory systems running on backup power. All these injuries force me to do nothing but linger in thought of what I have become and of what I and my people have been stripped of. The only peace I have is in knowing that I can no longer feel the physical aspects of my pain.
I am a Mystic of the Machinists.
And I am Rusting.
Drift now with me.
Into my tomb.
Yes, you.
You who have now entered my cell. You who knew the murderer. You, who were tortured and left to rot just as I was. You can sense my metal, can’t you? You can feel me before you even know I’m here. I speak to you now as you say the litany of our people. The litany of life. “There is no life here,” I say as you prattle on about life being all.
“You’re them?” You mutter in the darkness, closing in on me, and though I cannot see you, I feel your bloodied fingers of flesh move on my corroding metal.
“I was searching for you, Mystic.” Your voice chokes with emotion.
“Did you open that portal?” Such immediate questions you ask of me, young one.
“No, that was not me; my magic is limited now.” More emotion floods you.
You are disappointed that I do not know what you speak of.
You grip me tighter.
“Tell me, sibling, how have you found yourself in a human body?”
You tell me your story. You tell me that you are a Smith and a relatively young one at that. You tell me of imprisonment, consciousness transfer, a planet of eternal rain, and your journey through its landscape. You tell me of using your blood to defend yourself before you escaped in a rusting ship, the metal of which told you of its own story until it was killed by the rock that brought you here, which you label as Granix, your friend. You also tell me of the Scorched Archer, Nadeden, the human capable of horrific violence that could rival even the greatest weapons and warriors.
Then you tell me who it is she hunts. “The creator of the Rusting. He who unknowingly destroyed our people. He who did this to me. The Emperor of the Division of Humanity. He is this Gelmida Atheneum you speak of?” I ask knowing you’ll respond with nothing more than a
“Yes.”
“Good.” I mutter, “Let the humans kill each other.”
This comment does more than just anger you; it appalls you. It shakes your beliefs. It shakes what defines you.
“How can you say that? We’re pacifists!”
If I could laugh, I would. “Oh my dear Smith, how naive you are. Our compassion and our mercy are only deserving of our own people. That litany you repeated. Life is precious, life is all, I shall not raise my hand. I would weep for the dead if I had tears to shed. Tell me, does it mention exactly what life in particular is precious?”
“No.” You say.
“And does it say that you should never raise your hand to anyone ever? Even if they brought death upon you?”
“No.” You say.
“And can we weep for the dead who are unknown to us? Should we grieve those we’ve never even met? Who aren’t even Machinists?”
Something is building in you. Something is changing in you. I presume you’re thinking of a response. It is taking you quite a while to do this. Are you in denial, my Smith? “It doesn’t,” You finally answer, “But that doesn’t mean I still won’t do it. All life is precious, Mystic.”
You believe the lie. Countless bodies litter the galaxy, and countless more are slaughtered every second, yet you somehow believe this. Famine, War, Disease, the Rusting, and even the natural process of aging all work their way through the galaxy, and somehow you believe this. You have been tortured, beaten, abused, imprisoned, threatened to be slain, been kicked to death's door, and somehow you believe this. You believe the lie.
“Why?” I must ask while shifting all my power to my optics to behold you. Perhaps in viewing your face, I can better understand why it is you pursue such delirium. My optics flicker to life, straining as they gaze upon you. Your ghostly white flesh is coated with dirt, scuffed with marks and bruises, stained with mud, and drenched in blood, even though your eyes are already darkened with paint. I can still see the swelling of black eyes and the broken nose lying between them. Your lip is swollen, mucus leaks down it, meeting the red of your life as you answer me, “Why not?”
You say it with a smile. A comfortable, innocent, welcoming smile that could illuminate the all-consuming void of shadows that overtake this room. And with that smile, for just one flickering moment, I too wish to believe your lie.
That moment passes, and your smile fails to chase off the shadows. “You’re insane,” I say, “Your kindness is going to get you killed, it nearly did today.”
You relax yourself, leaning against a wall with your hands resting on my decaying body. “You’re right on that end, but despite it all, I’m still here. I’d rather die kind than live violently. I’ve seen how tortured Nadeden is, how she’s haunted both by her past and herself, not to mention everything around her. It’s a lot like how I feel. I feel more than just pity for her, though. She saved me. I want to save her, too. I want her to be happy. I want you to be happy too, Mystic.”
You have not once removed your hand from my rusting skin.
“Then let me tell you my story.” I say, “And then perhaps you may change your mind.”
You lean back as I begin, ”Despite the vacuum of space, the Rusting managed to travel to the Forge. It first took the ground on which we walk, then the places we call home, and finally, ourselves. Metal corpses overtook metal streets and metal fields on a metal planet. Slowly rusting, slowly corroding, slowly being destroyed, slowly dying, slowly screaming in agony, slowly begging for mercy, slowly growing silent, slowly watching as those around us died. The Forge was split right down the middle in the most literal sense.”
Your human body shakes, and you finally remove your hand from me, shivering as you mutter about how “That can’t be true. No, it can’t all be gone, can it?” In a cold, lingering silence, you find the answer for yourself.
I continue, “I left not of my own volition but because I simply drifted out of orbit, separating from the corpses that surround our home. I traveled through the stars, slipping in and out of consciousness. In those meek flickers of thought, it occurred to me that even without oxygen, my body continued to rust. It was then that I finally realized that the Rusting was no natural occurrence. Whether it had been manufactured or summoned, I still do not know. I soon found myself in this asteroid field, where I met your stone friend Granix. I was only able to inform them on the basics of my peril before these organics dragged me here. Dragged me here to punish me. Just as they have punished you and will continue to do so.”
“Punish me?” You quiveringly ask, “Why?”
“Because you are not them.” Your face falls into your hands at my response.
You whisper out that “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” before growing silent.
What a sad thing you are, my Smith. As you sit here with me in the dark, lingering in thought of what you have become now that you have no more reason to be hopeful or kind. Now that you have been stripped of all that makes you what you are. No more peaceful thoughts enter your mind, as you now feel all the pain around you.
You are here alone with me in this darkness as I rust, my Smith.
Drift now with me.
Into my tomb.