grievinglands
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Book 6: Chapter 1 - New Objectives (RAW)
🕑 Added 2025-05-05 09:17:57 +0000 UTCFormally known as the Communications Nexus, the Com-Net was originally devised as a fail-safe infrastructure to preserve information exchange during the late Collapse Era. In theory, it was to be decentralized, resilient, and self-correcting—a network to outlast nations.
Following the Fall, however, Com-Net devolved into something far less noble. It survived, yes—but only in fragments. Its towers and relay nodes, many buried beneath the bones of cities, still function—sporadically, unpredictably. As a result, the Com-Net became a patchwork of overlapping truths, rumors, propaganda, local broadcasts, and ancient AIs still chasing obsolete orders.
In the Outer Sectors, where governance is fractured and power comes in flux, access to the Com-Net is rare, expensive, and filtered through layers of subversive encryption and folk-hacked nodes. Yet it remains the lifeline of civilization—carrying data, myth, surveillance, and sometimes hope.
People consult it as they would an oracle, curse it like an old god, or feed it like a beast. The young know it only as truth-adjacent. The wise know it lies more often than not.
- Compiled by the GAI [General Artificial Intelligence] of the Archivists Guild.
Once again, I plunged into the bowels of poverty—not the rag-and-bone shanties of a more ancient time, but the sleek, system-sanctioned squalor of an “advanced” society similar to my own. The twenty-storey block loomed like a concrete ulcer, its access pad scarred by knife-lines and scorched by distrust. Crude glyphs and gang tags bled across the walls, neon-bright under a failing streetlamp.
The girl Sol stabbed a code into the keylock—her “hab-unit,” she insisted, though the word felt like marketing gloss on a rusted can—and the door grudgingly unlocked with a wet, metallic cough. As it cracked open, something low and quick skittered across my boot: a six-legged rat, tail twice its body length, bony growths over its fur. It vanished down a vent before I could draw breath. A reminder, if I needed one, that the evolution of dark things adapts fastest where hope runs slowest.
Sol colored in embarrassment. “Sorry about that. Thought we killed their nests just last week. ‘Vaders been messing with even the Lifescript of vermin.”
“It matters not to me, girl. I have seen much worse,” I replied with an indifferent shrug.
Her brow creased. “You know, I’ve said it before, but you've got to stop calling me, girl.”
I lifted my visor and gave her a knowing grin. “Very well, Solarin Varnell.”
“Did I tell you my name? You got a Justicar scanner or something?”
“Let us just go inside first. I will explain as best as I can there.”
Inside, the apartment surprised me with its order. The place was kept well; what little she possessed was polished and squared away, every surface wiped, every cheap heirloom positioned like a stand-in for dignity. Yet no amount of polish could mask the deeper decay—pipes echoing with rot, air ducts stained with black.
From one of the bedrooms drifted the rasp of someone’s breathing, each inhalation strangled by invisible fingers. Walls cracked in spiderweb patterns around us, as though the entire building were one tug from collapse. Even in the relative neatness of that small space, the larger ruin outside pressed in, pushing against the windows, seeping through the grout and girders, humming in the flicker of weak fluorescent tubes.
Still, this was a home kept clean by love, nested inside a dying shell. And here I was, amid peeling paint and polluted air, while Sol checked in on the other resident of this place. The stale tang of chemical disinfectant battled the sweeter, coppery undertone of Slumrot, a lung-eating sickness that pinned the old woman to her cot.
“Sit down a moment,” Sol said, directing me toward a scattering of threadbare cushions around a scarred low table. “I’ve got to check on my gran.”
Lowering myself in my Adamantine suit was a trial of creaking joints and protesting straps, but I managed an approximation of comfort before Sol returned. She stopped short, eyes wide.
“You’re keeping the Nex suit on? While we eat? … Never mind.” With a little grunt, she set down a dented tray bearing three squat cans, each decorated with fading fruit decals.
The gesture cost her. Shoulders tense, she cracked the lids as though unveiling royal delicacies. “Thanks for saving me and all. We’ll, uh… have to square it with Gracious later.”
By any civilised measure, it was a pauper’s meal, yet to Sol it looked to be a feast. I scooped syrup-slick fruit with a tarnished spoon; the first taste was honeyed, but a sharp tang knifed through the sweetness a heartbeat later. I emptied the tin.
“Your hospitality is received,” I declared, wiping the spoon clean. “As your guest, I owe a gift or service.”
Her cheeks flushed. “You don’t owe me anything, Gilgamesh. You’ve done enough.”
Hopelessness clung to this place like soot, and I would not add another layer. Honour, or perhaps vanity, demanded I repay her. Whether this world was an illusion or not, the impulse stood.
“Take me to your grandmother.”
Sol blinked. “You a doctor? Autodocs couldn’t do a thing. No kit here in ‘23 but rust and prayer.”
“I am more than just a doctor. I am Judgement and Light made manifest.” The truth of it rang in my chest.
She squinted. “Anyone ever tell you you talk weird?”
“Often. Now—shall I save her or not?”
“If you’re lying I’ll… I’ll probably just cry,” she muttered. “You’re not charging, are you?”
“A service for a service,” I said.
Instinctively, she folded her arms across her chest. I snorted. “Hardly that kind of service. I need information, nothing indecent. By my hand, she will be saved.”
A long breath, then a nod. “Alright. Can’t hurt to try, can it?”
She led me into a dim side room. The air had the underlying scent of approaching death. On a sagging cot lay a woman whittled to bone, each inhalation a ragged battle. Clouded eyes turned to Sol; lips moved, but no sound escaped.
Sol knelt, threading her fingers through the frail hand. “Gran, this man, Gilgamesh, says he can help. Is that alright?”
The old woman managed the barest incline of her head, hope flickering like a candle in a storm in her weary eyes. There was also fear
Sol grandmother’s labored breaths rattled like loose screws in a dying engine. I knelt beside the cot and pressed my palm, Adamantine plate cold and black, against her sternum.
“By the light of Heaven and the breath of the gods, let this curse of the flesh be undone. By my hand, balance returns. Shulmu Rabu,” I murmured the full chant of the spell, shaping the syllables with the weight of ancient authority. The spell did not erupt so much as unfold, a song made up of petals of light blooming from the sigil etched upon my gauntlet. Gold, true and pure, spooled into the cramped room. It seeped through fabric and skin, infiltrating marrow and memory alike.
A spell of the maximum level, perfect and complete, the light of it thickened, becoming strands, then ropes, then braids of star-bright filament that plunged into the grandmother’s wasting frame. The light cured everything: alien spores clinging to alveoli, microfractures spider-webbing porous bones, arrhythmic sparks misfiring along a frayed nervous lattice. A thousand and one faults—one for every battle the old woman’s body was fighting. The magic hunted each flaw with the sword of forgiveness, seized them, and cut them out.
Brown motes—disease made visible by my mandate of the Divine—boiled up through her pores, sizzling into nothingness where they met the golden light.
Under the shimmering lattice, flesh reknit itself. Hollow cheeks rose, smoothing into more gentle planes as the ravage of time was fought back; brittle nails became stronger; lungs expanded without the whistle of fluid; heartbeats steadied into a steady drumline. Even the cataract haze withdrew from her irises, revealing brown flecked with daring amber.
I kept the channel open—an artery of the Holy—and the price bit deep, taking from me more than it gave. Every second siphoned my reserves, but I was gifted with strength enough to see this miracle through. To break the balance unfinished would be the greatest of sins.
When the holy light finally faded, the old woman’s chest rose and fell with a rhythm that belonged to the hale and whole. Color, actual color, warmed her skin. She blinked, wetness glimmering in eyes no longer clouded. “Solarin?” Her voice cracked, fragile but unmistakably alive.
Sol made a small, strangled sound, more animal than human, and collapsed onto the small bed. She threw her arms around her grandmother, and the two clutched each other as though the world still intended to shake them apart. Tears spilled, caught in the glow of the room’s weak light sticks.
I rose slowly, the absence of Mana filling me with a new hunger, but I forced a smile. With only the Mana potions in my bag, I had to be careful how I spent my energies in this Trial.
“It is done,” I said with no small amount of satisfaction
Sol looked up, cheeks slick, disbelief warring with joy. “You—you fixed her. Sharks, you actually—”
Her grandmother stroked Sol’s hair with fingers that no longer trembled. “Hush, child. Let the man speak. But first, my thanks to you, stranger.”
I inclined my head. “A simple thing. I will allow you a moment together. We must talk later, Solarin.”
“Anything,” Sol whispered, voice thick. “Gran, she’s really alright.”
I straightened, the weight of the Adamantine suit suddenly seeming to press upon me light a mountain. Beyond the doorway, the evils of the world still festered, but inside this room, for a heartbeat, the universe realigned itself. I could not fix every problem I saw, for that way lies only sadness, but I could do something about what I saw before me. This was not a matter of kindness or doing good, on even a basic human level. No, this was about imparting the power I wielded and controlling this world to regain a portion of my agency.
***
Solarin returned to what I had dubbed the “living room” of their hab unit after a few long minutes. Gratitude, no matter the scale of the miracle I had given, was something I was slowly learning to be short-lived. If I wanted answers, now was the time to press for them.
“Sorry,” she said, brushing a hand through her hair. “I think Gran’s going to need a bit to recover from the recovery… if that makes any sense?”
I just nodded and waited as she sat opposite me at the low table, legs crossed, back straight.
“First, let me thank you for helping Gran,” she said. “So… what is it you want to know?”
“Well, everything,” I replied. “But first—what do you know about Boss creatures? I need to find one.”
“Boss creatures? That’s an interesting turn of phrase.” She tilted her head. “Well… I guess Gracious Jobe could count as one. He rules all of Sector 23. But why do you need to find a Boss?”
I shook my head. “No. A Boss would be more powerful. Gracious Jobe is just a petty tyrant. Nothing more. I would know it if I saw one; the voices would sing to me their truth. Tell me—who is the most powerful person or creature here?”
“Here, as in this city?” Sol echoed. “Well, there’s Apex. He’s a 10th-Circle Meta. Basically a god, more or less. Rumor on the Com-Net says he’s the son of our glorious leader. You can see him flying sometimes, up in the sky, fighting off the flying ’Vaders. We call them Drags around here… What do you call them, where you’re from?”
“Drags?”
“Dragons,” she clarified. “On account of how they breathe all sorts of stuff. Flying lizards. But basically, Titan-class aliens from the Impact.”
“I have only ever encountered an Earth Dragon,” I said. “Never one of wind and sky. How would one best such a Skylord?”
Her eyes widened. “You can’t be serious. First of all, you’d need to fly, obviously. Then there’s the breath attack… and even the small ones are the size of a large rail transport. Scaly things. Terrify almost everyone, even the high-level Metas.”
She paused, eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “That thing you did for Gran… you’ve gotta be at least a 4th or 5th-Circle Meta. But healing like that? That was probably Overtech nonsense. Not even the strongest Esps can pull that off. And your Nex suit… didn’t hear a hum. It’s unpowered, right?”
“My armor is just that—simple armor,” I lied. It was far from simple. “I need to kill one. I think.”
“How is it possible for you to move in that? And, that’s… well, quite a task,” she said slowly, blinking. “But… why?”
“So I can return to my world,” I said plainly.
She stared. “What do you mean, your world? You an alien or something? You look like a standard human to me. Even a Pureblood. I mean, some of the Archeo-Historia Techs used to say we traveled the stars before the Fall, but no one believes them. No one ever came back. But if you’ve got Overtech, well… that explains a lot.”
My expression darkened. “Not an alien. I am as human as you. That much, I can swear by all that is true. So, tell me, how do I meet this Apex?”
“He lives in the Inner,” Sol said. “You need a Credit Score of over 100,000 just to get in there.”
She hesitated, then added, “Or… a Heroic Recommendation. That’s what Velocity Rush was after. What all the so-called ‘Heroes’ out here in the Sectors want. Just the government outsourcing justice.”
I laughed—a low, throaty sound. The lines of the game were clear now. The objectives, unmistakable. I needed access to this place called the Inner. And to get there, I needed either raw money… or to build up reputation points.
Sol looked at me as if I were mad.
And, honestly, I was not quite sure she was quite wrong. This Trail of the Goddess was madness heaped upon madness. Who could blame me for going a little crazy?
Comments
Mesa
genre change!
Joao Lua Candido e Sarmento
Ahhh, thats the good stuff
Saber Saurus
True Gil! Just a little crazy! Going from 100% to 101%, just a little increase!
