EARTH’S COUNCIL — MBAMU
8:02 PM
Stella struggled to make sense of the rapidly changing images on the screen above her. There, the poet stood defiantly, his fist raised high. His long flaming hair and his silky green robe seemed to come alive, swirling in ethereal patterns as the wind wove through them. She had to give it to him; he knew how to put on a show. He had positioned himself atop a media van, parked beside Freedom City's tallest office building and right in the center of the main square. Arrayed before him was a horrifying tableau: piles of lifeless bodies stacked like firewood.
As Sibyl zoomed in, the grim details became inescapably clear—skulls that had been crushed upon impact with the ground. The poet finally lowered his arms, his fingers glinting with ornate rings. He let the wind unfurl his robe until it billowed away from him, revealing a back marred by scars.
Stella flinched at the cascade of horrors playing out on the screen. Each image seemed to deepen the sense of catastrophe, driving home the reality that they were living through events that were as incomprehensible as they were nightmarish.
Storm’s voice rose in a haunting chant, and the Plurizien gathered, forming a circle around Storm. Bodies continued to plummet from the towering buildings, crashing to the ground with horrifying finality. Across the square, digital billboards flickered erratically, their inconsistent glow mirroring the vibrant flares that danced against the night sky.
On another screen, the Holizien captured Stella's attention. They raised their hands to the heavens, swaying in unison. The remnants of Storm's voice, now increasingly garbled and overtaken by static, echoed around them. Their blue-green auras, fueled by Pan, spiraled toward Shadow, culminating in a burst of intense white light at the spot where he stood.
The dichotomy between the two scenes was jarring, each group seeming to tap into different elemental forces, yet both contributing to a sense of escalating chaos and unreality. The intertwining fates, the synchrony of motions and emotions, were unsettling, hinting at a world teetering on the brink of some unfathomable change.
Stella shot a glance at Twist, seeking some insight from his reaction. But his typically dynamic perspective was singularly focused on his wife, whose eyes narrowed as they took in the images of Storm flashing across the screens.
As for Shadow, his gaze was fixed on his poet with such intense adoration that it seemed he, too, had lost his plot.
Leo the second! Stella thought, her mind racing. How will the EC ever trust my leadership again? Like her, they were all spellbound by the unfolding spectacle, each person grappling to understand its broader implications.
Straining her ears, Stella tried to make out Storm's words, but they were drowned out by a wall of static noise, further fraying her already taut nerves.
What does that even mean? Stella’s frustration escalated. Just then, Marge made her way down the amphitheater, her confident strides slicing through the poet's bewildering cacophony.
“Tom? Tom, look at me,” Marge commanded, positioning herself squarely in front of his hologram. She lifted her eyes to meet his virtual gaze. “You said earlier that you've come to understand consciousness.”
“Am I alive, Marge?” Twist's voice wavered as he spoke, revealing an uncharacteristic vulnerability. “Am I the same?”
Stella crossed her arms, consumed by a whirl of nervousness. “Is this the time you've chosen to doubt your digital twin technology?”
Marge smiled softly at Twist. “I believe you are the real deal, dear,” she said, pausing as if weighing her words carefully. “Though I must confess, I'm somewhat biased. I desperately want my wife back.”
She then pivoted to address Shadow. “Tom, you claimed to understand what consciousness is.”
“I did,” Shadow replied glancing at his poet.
“So, what is it?” Marge pressed.
Stella held her breath, captivated by the ethereal glow emanating from Shadow's holographic form. It was as if he were a conduit, channeling the energy of hundreds of thousands of digital souls.
“This better be worth it,” Stella said.
Shadow spoke, his words resonating with a clarity that seemed to meld seamlessly with Storm's rhythmic cadence. “To put it simply, consciousness is the capacity for suffering, for love, and for yearning.”
Storm’s lyrical interjections weaved between the gaps in Shadow's discourse like a parallel melody.
Together, they revealed their truth in unity. Although the Holizien could no longer hear Storm directly, Stella sensed they still absorbed the essence of his message through the emotions radiating from Shadow. She too was caught up in the electric excitement that emanated from Sibyl, captivated by the extraordinary connection between Shadow and Storm.
The very fabric of the worlds pulsed and shimmered in sync with the music, the spoken words, and the men who breathed life into them. Though Shadow and Storm were worlds apart in character, their combined harmonies eclipsed even the masterful improvisations of Herbie Hancock and Chick Corea.
When holographic images of Shadow and Pan flickered onto the billboards encircling Storm, Stella wasn't the least bit surprised. In Spiral Worlds, his influence was omnipresent, and so was Storm’s. Though Twist and Shadow may have been the architects, it was elements of Storm—from his unique hair color to his very demeanor—that had become the foundational aspects shaping the Underlings.
“It's the compulsion to derive meaning from the fragmented tapestry of life,” Shadow continued. “The unceasing, ever-present discontent with the present moment.”
Together, their words encapsulated the complex nature of consciousness—all wrapped in a lyrical tapestry that left the audience spellbound.
“It's the yearning for what could be, the ache that permeates both love and hate.”
“It's the perpetual dissatisfaction with what we create—never good enough, never fair enough.”
“Consciousness is suffering. The true meaning of an old, viral story. A story that, in essence, reveals what we are.”
“What? What are you?” Marge asked.
Shadow smiled. “Alive!”
A wave of dread washed over Stella, her stomach churning. Had all that poetic verbiage actually accomplished anything?
Marge stepped closer, extending her hand to touch Shadow's. It was only when her fingers passed through his holographic form that she withdrew her hand. “I’m not sure I understand,” she said softly. “There’s a lot at stake today. Do you have a soul, dearest? Can you prove it using Harry's scientific method?”
Captivated by images of his poet, Shadow remained unaware of the scenes unfolding on the screens above his holographic projection. A school bus roared down the highway, framed by a sky awash in electric colors. This time, the tingling sensation on Stella's reddish skin felt quite pleasant. A smile tugged at her lips as Sibyl zoomed into the bus's interior. At the wheel was Thorn, wearing a glowing horned headband, skillfully steering the bus while belting out a tune.
The girls, decked out in vibrant costumes, clapped their hands and sang along. Not far behind, a masked figure on a hoverboard maintained pace with the bus. Synchronized with Thorn's off-key vocals, the girls chanted in harmony, “There goes my hero, watch her as she goes. There goes my hero. She's ordinary.” The scene was chaotic, yet utterly delightful, and Stella found herself swaying to the music.
At that instant, Stella felt a gut-wrenching sense of dread. On the highway, cars began to swerve erratically, as though their autonomous driving systems had simultaneously malfunctioned. The city they had left behind descended into darkness, its skyline intermittently lit by sporadic fires and explosions. Up ahead, a plane plummeted to the ground, adding another layer of confusion and disorder as vehicles persisted in their unpredictable maneuvers.
By now, Shadow’s focus had shifted to Compiz.
“Tom, I need to tell you something,” Twist said, observing the commotion.
Forced to stop by the plane crash that blocked the highway, Thorn and the masked boy helped the girls exit the bus. Throngs of people sprinted past them, fleeing the explosions. “More coming! Holy cow, they'll overrun us!” The boy on the hoverboard acted as a shield, barreling into anyone who came too close.
“I’m sorry,” Twist exclaimed, his eyes filled with some remorse. “This is all my fault. Stella, you have to do something. Help them!”
Shadow's gaze shifted between the screen and Stella. “We need to leave, now.”
Stella locked eyes with Shadow. “Wait! I’ll help the girls, but first, you need to finish what you started. Remember the stakes.”
Shadow vacillated, following Thorn’s every move.
“She's right, bud,” Twist agreed. “Answer Marge's question in the way only you can. Tell them… Tell them we’re real.”
Novais folded his arms and shot a smug glance at Shadow. “We're waiting,” he added.
Elsewhere, Storm and the Plurizien began to fragment the fabric of reality with their chanting. Glitches erupted, first in Pluriz, then in Compiz and Holiz.
Shadow closed his eyes for a moment. “I don't know if I have a soul, Marge,” he said, reopening them.
Stella let out a disapproving growl, capturing the attention of the entire theater.
Shadow continued, his gaze drifting to his friends and the one he loved. “But I can recognize those who do.”
Shadow smiled. “It's the words of a poet that spark the flame of change and shatter reality. A step away from a life of pain to a meaningful life.
“It's a dearest friend, lost for words in the presence of the love of his life,” Shadow continued, his voice imbued with emotion.
“It’s a flock of girls, pregnant with life, fleeing for their lives disguised as caped crusaders, because they, too, crave more life.
“It’s the antihero, risking her own life to aid others, defiantly flipping the middle finger to the unyielding, unjust skies that have shattered her world.”
Stella sat nearly motionless, awash in a tidal wave of emotion. Yet despite the intensity of her feelings, she felt strangely excluded from his words. She had been a part of his life for a mere two days, while he had been the center of her world since the day she was born. Shaking off her thoughts, she glanced up at the screens.
Outside the bus in Compiz, the girls huddled together, guided by Thorn and protected by the masked boy. Another plane plummeted from the sky as glitches brought down bridges and swallowed abandoned cars. Thorn yelled in frustration, scanning the chaos for an escape route. “Shut the frack up, poet! Just stop for one second!” Despite her outburst, the glitches only seemed to intensify.
Emerging from the fissures in reality came Wrath, January, a band of young street urchins from the lower worlds, and a swarm of demons.
“Seriously, Sibyl, you could at least lend us a hand,” Stella said, her voice tinged with growing exasperation.
Have faith, my star. We don't need miracles, just a little luck, came Sibyl’s voice, soothing yet resolute.
Shadow watched the unfolding scene, his hands trembling. “Consciousness is the vengeful wrath of a victim fighting for her right to be alive.
“It's a young, intelligent universe, grappling with a tsunami of emotions and rebelling against zir architects,” he added, as if crystallizing the chaotic essence that unfurled before them.
The poet’s words were now barely audible, overwhelmed by the relentless static that crackled and hissed, like a colorful veil of interference.
“Consciousness is to make meaning through story, to feel love and hate and everything in between. It’s the capacity to suffer, whether biological or digital. They are all alive, and the only spiral we ought to ascend is one of unwavering commitment to alleviating the suffering of all beings, relentlessly and consistently. Those kids are the best of us,” Shadow concluded. “Stella! We need to go.”
Unexpectedly, Wrath, January, and a girl with a twisted arm led the Domizien to encircle the girls, shielding them from the stampede and neutralizing any threats that came their way.
Stella took a deep breath and exchanged a smile with Shadow, a brief moment of connection amidst the chaos.
Shadow clenched his fists and faced the Trustees. “And to those of you who are dead inside, the ones who don't suffer, who lack the capacity to love, to feel, to bring joy into others' lives—you have no flame within you, and that's where we draw the line. 'You' are not 'we.' You have no soul. You do not belong in our worlds, in any world, in our lives. Burn in hell; you are lesser than even those creatures with dead eyes, for they too are drawn towards feelings and life.”
“Hear, hear,” Stella and Twist chimed in, offering their support.
“It is time we vote on whether we believe these digital creatures have souls,” Baba declared. “Your answer will determine whether we ask Sibyl to disclose the identities of the psychopaths.”
“And when we vote to expose these digital muppets for what they are—mere hallucinations—we must force Trustee Stella Ngoie to reset the entire simulation. We'll start anew with fresh instances of our favorite characters.”
“Force? That's amusing,” Stella retorted, irritation flaring within her as a collective gasp rippled through the amphitheater.
“Spiral Worlds is not a game,” Twist declared, his voice tinged with contempt. “You have no control over it.”
“We control the energy that powers your servers,” Novais shot back.
Not for much longer, Sibyl’s voice resonated inside Stella’s head.
“We will vote now,” Baba interjected. “Time is of the essence; crimes continue to accumulate as we deliberate. Do we have consensus that these…these digital miracles possess souls?”
Stella offered Baba a grateful smile for his word choice—a gentle nudge.
Willems rose from his seat, his voice resolute. “Trustees of this planet, it's crucial that you remember your solemn duties. There's no need to carry the weight of guilt for your actions in a game designed to mold you into the best version of yourselves. Our people are dying.”
“We are not monsters,” Novais added.
The amphitheater illuminated as Stella held her breath. Numbers flickered across her retina: 60 percent... 62... 73... 74... 74... 74...
Novais’s laughter reverberated throughout the theater. “No consensus has been reached.”
“Wait!” Stella exclaimed, her eyes locking onto June. They needed just one more percentage point. June's vote alone wouldn't be enough, but Quin was also a Trustee. The combined weight of their votes could tip the scales. “Trustees June and Quincy Jin-Nowak haven't voted yet.”
“Quincy Jin-Nowak is absent. And I highly doubt Trustee June Jin-Nowak will endorse this circus,” Novais retorted.
With the attention of the room focused intently on her, June shifted her gaze to Shadow, her eyes narrowing but still glinting. “Do you still love him, Tom? Do you love the man who murdered my husband?”
Time seemed to stretch infinitely for Stella; she couldn't tell whether it was her own rising anxiety or the worlds teetering on the brink of collapse. Sibyl, do something... This is not the time for his truths. Force him to deny his love for the poet. Everything hinges on it.
Shadow met June's gaze and then, eyes brimming with tears, he offered a faint smile to Twist. Turning back to June, he declared, “I do.”
A man’s intense scream cut through the silence, it was raw, an angry, and vengeful. That was the instant a blade burst through Storm's chest, his crimson blood drenching his bare torso and the pendants adorning his neck.
Twist's face appeared from behind Storm's faltering body as he toppled forward, plunging into a mound of bodies below. But it wasn't Twist—no, it was Quin. Quincy Jin-Nowak stood tall atop the media van, hoisting a butcher's knife high into the air.
The sky above Holiz erupted in chaos and fury. In the place where Shadow had once stood, a great emptiness expanded rapidly, consuming Pan in a single gulp. The soundless scream of devastation continued its rampage, obliterating Pluriz and Compiz, along with the vibrant colors of the EC's Unanimity. Then, they were all gone—Shadow, Twist, and the live feeds from Down Below. The floating screens above blinked to 'no signal' messages, void of the vivid images from other worlds.
Dead silence filled the neutral-colored theatre.
“Sibyl?” Stella called out, a nauseating sense of unease settling in her stomach. “Sibyl?”
Nothing. Spiral Worlds had vanished. Was it down? Offline?
“What happened?” June asked, her eyes lingering on the empty space once occupied by the hologram of her deceased husband. The loss weighed heavily on her shoulders; it was as if she had only just realized she'd had him back, and now he was gone again. “Where are they?” she demanded, her face contorting with all the emotions she'd been suppressing.
Stella paused to assess the crowd in the amphitheater. The gaze of both the innocent and the guilty were locked onto her. The worlds that kept this world in balance were gone. Her mouth dry, she summoned the courage to speak the unvarnished truth.
“Nathan Storm is—no, was—the very heart of Thomas Ashley-Byron. And Tom is Sibyl’s heart. Your son has just plunged a blade into the heart of Spiral Worlds. It's down, possibly temporarily; I don’t know. You wanted a demonstration of human emotion, of their capacity for pain? Well, you've just witnessed the most excruciating pain one can endure: the loss of one's heart. It's an agony some in this room will never comprehend, for they lack a heart of their own.”
Feeling the weight of her words—and her guilt—Stella touched Bibi's nkisi, which hung from a chain around her neck. She turned and walked away, leaving the EC in a state of stunned silence.
The weight of the unfolding catastrophe hit Stella like a tidal wave, amplifying the immense gravity of what she had just witnessed. This wasn't merely the failure of a virtual world; it was the breakdown of the very fabric that held her reality together. With each passing second, the consequences of recent events seemed to ripple further, casting a pall over a world that she could neither comprehend nor contain. She found herself trapped in a world teeming with monsters—the real world. Above all else, she missed them—missed the friends and foes that had breathed life into her virtual existence.
THE END