« Office of the Director - Academy HQ, Academia »
Heavy like rain-soaked air, the curse of time asserts its dominance anew. Darkness and solitude reign supreme. A blanket of silence eclipses the low thud of heartbeat, already laboured and hollow. One isolated soul lingers at the juncture of sleep, anticipating that moment of surrender where consciousness collapses into empty space. His imagined dreamscapes pale into insignificance as it happens again; the midnight claws of that nightmare snatching him up at the very last instance. Once again it claims him.
Storm clouds illuminate the sky as white-hot lightning strikes ground zero, shattering the impact site with a brazen contempt for the laws of physics. Gathering itself in a sentient blur of blackness chaos swirls and roils, infecting everything it touches. The air sizzles hot, electric and dangerous whilst a source of incandescent light glows ahead – a colossal orb of crystal glass. There's a crack so loud it feels like the whole planet splitting asunder and then the pillar supporting Cocoon disintegrates.
Even in this hellish nightmare he cries out in anguish because he knows that Fang and Vanille are gone, crushed to dust beneath countless tonnes of artificial paradise they'd sacrificed themselves to save. Cocoon falls and fragments; the fate of all life sealed upon its collision course with Gran Pulse.
Director Hope Estheim recoils at the precise moment a torrent of debris eviscerates him, tearing his subconsciousness out of sleep's illusion and throwing him back into the real world. Once the burst of adrenaline dissipates he's left in an anxious state with cold dread lancing through his heart. As if nightly insomnia isn't troubling enough, the Oracle Drive's foreboding prophecy haunts every waking moment. He can't entertain a single shred of apathy if that future is to be avoided.
Mildly alarmed at how distant he feels, Hope sighs exhaustedly and runs a hand through his hair. Those halcyon days of lucid thought and reasonable working hours lie centuries away now, unfamiliar like a fantasy of someone else's life. Cutting-edge science had brought him here, but at what cost? Feeling the onset of a powerful migraine, Hope isn't sure there's an answer to that question. He feels much closer to the half millennium he'd skipped as opposed to his actual age of twenty-nine.
Sparing a cursory glance at his lunch – a long-abandoned sandwich of limp lettuce and waxy cheese – Hope rises out of his office chair and stretches, every muscle aching after being sprawled in that awkward position. Behind his desk lies a wall of ceiling-high windows and beyond that, Academia replete with darkness. Since the installation of new Cocoon's core reactors had commenced, the metropolis had been gripped by an energy crisis. Power outages and frequent brownouts now cripple its infrastructure at all times of day, adversely changing life for Academia's ever-growing population.
To counter the predicament, the Academy's Council of Governance had issued an edict effective immediately : all commercial and residential power would be turned off at night in order to better expedite work on new Cocoon. Medical facilities and other such vital services are exempt and, whilst citizens occasionally complain at the inconvenience, everyone accept the measure in return for surviving an apocalypse. Or at least earning the chance to.
Hope Estheim, lead researcher in charge of teams Alpha through Theta and honorary member of the Council, turns to face the city. He knows it's out there, blanketed by darkness and yet stippled with the occasional glow of a beacon's light, hiding like some colossal photophobic being. Against a night sky peppered in stardust, Academia's silhouette of jagged shapes lies abyssal black and vapid – an unnatural mountain range fringing the horizon.
Slumbering like so many of its citizens should at this late hour, their technological might counts for nothing without electricity. Holo-arcades and advertising boards, transportation networks and illuminated walkways; coffee makers, toaster ovens and thawing refrigerators – all of them dormant and awaiting the hum of power generators switched back on at dawn.
Placing his right palm flat against the glass window, Hope sighs deeply. He feels like a personification of Academia right now – dark and barren; a living microcosm of the city he loves so unconditionally. No doubt people would find that one fact endearing; the unerring devotion of their Director, even on a barely conscious level. The vast majority are content to accept his outward personality, sculpted into something professional and reliable for their benefit. Pitiable few care enough about the man himself, stored away behind that artificial front. And absolutely no-one is aware of Hope's existential solitude – that deep and profound loneliness soaking into his soul at times just like this.
For a dedicated scientist intent on saving people, there is no time for a social life. Where his colleagues have friends or a loving family, spouses, children and significant others, Hope is alone in that respect. Sometimes he feels like a living relic; anachronistic to Academia in time's odd displacement. For all intents and purposes, he's an artefact of an older time come to rescue the future. That he operates without anyone suspecting his true sadness is only natural. The Academy had taught him how to conceal all of that, after all.
Pushing aside the negative mien, Director Estheim stares out over the metropolis. His head aches with a sleep-deprived migraine and everything inside is turned to gelatinous mush that screams out with any sudden movement. Slowly, as if seeking a suitable distraction, Hope's fingers trace a route across the window over Academia's distinctive landmarks.
As he reaches the Orenji café – one of the city's best-kept secrets – he smiles softly and turns around, dropping exhaustedly into the desk chair. What he wouldn't give for a flask of steaming freshly-ground coffee and a hazelnut cream pastry, delicious until the very last crumbly flake. Of course, had it been a daytime hour and had he not been spearheading several initiatives to halt an apocalypse, warring with habitual insomnia and overseeing a city on standby power, Hope would have happily walked the half mile over there. Perhaps it'd clear his mind a little too.
Ignoring the ravenous growl in his stomach, Hope instead concentrates on working once more, wincing as the desk light's ungentle radiance scintillates into being. Neatly arranged over the tabletop are various blueprints, design documents and official requests for funding. Choosing one at random, Hope sees that it's Delta team's proposal for a new reactor they're calling the 'Axion Centrifuge'. Noticing the resonant core is to be pure dark matter, Hope's eyebrows arch up in surprise. He hadn't been aware that any of his research teams had gotten so desperate as to factor near-mythical materials into their schematics, so that's a concerning development. Are Academy scientists grasping at straws now?
Palming at his aching forehead, Hope checks the maths and finds it to be surprisingly robust. If Delta can actually find any dark matter, it'd be worth a try, he mulls silently. I'll requisition another team for that and they can work with Gamma in the meantime. A scientific breakthrough would do wonders for morale though, Academia's and my own. Signing his name to a further dozen requests and stacking the remainder neatly, Hope rubs both eyes with forefinger and thumb before letting out an exhausted sigh. If only he could sleep without seeing that horrific nightmare thrust upon him, over and again.
Rousing the panoramic viewscreen atop his desk from standby mode, Hope brings up the surveillance array and navigates over to Hanger #13. Slicing across the screen is a section of new Cocoon's outer shell being grafted onto another. Groups of white-coated Academy scientists and engineers anxiously crowd around diagnostic consoles and watch from the sidelines. It's a procedure the Director has overseen many times himself in the past, stringent in demanding the piezoelectric bonds are calibrated a minimum of three times. Despite the frantic race against time's curse, there's no room for complacency.
Hope navigates through each of the hanger cameras, eventually satisfied that everything is proceeding on schedule and, out of random curiosity, he switches over to a different section of the building. AMP Lab #02 is operational and yet completely devoid of personnel. Right in the centre of the video feed is an oversize AMP portal, evidently active since its inner surface is rippling black akin to liquid midnight.
Promptly irritated and concerned in equal measure, Hope frowns. By stringent Academy regulations none of the Antimatter Manipulation Principal labs should be unattended when equipment is live. Not only is it an irresponsible waste of energy but also highly dangerous. Complacency around those sub-space portals could all too easily end in disaster. Pulling up the comm system, Hope patches through to AMP Lab #02 and waits patiently. No-one answers.
"Professor Schuyler?" he asks out loud, hearing a reflection of his own voice through the feed. "This is Director Estheim. Please respond." Nothing. The lack of sound and movement disturbs Hope greatly but then a shadow skitters across the screen and lurches out of sight. He gasps. Perhaps now his mind is playing tricks, hallucinating due to lack of adequate sleep and nourishment. Hope puts a hand to his forehead and tries to think clearly, unable to ignore the concurrent dread slithering through his innards. None of this makes logical sense. Of course, the only real solution is to investigate in person.
Constructed wholly out of chrome and tinted glass panels, AMP Lab #02 is indeed deserted when Director Estheim arrives there. Taking one tentative step over the threshold, he notes an acrid scent of ozone in the air and a low barely audible hum reverberating throughout the room. Almost innocently the active portal shimmers and shines in liquid swells, like a black hole neatly contained within adamantite struts.
Cautiously, Hope approaches and checks the requisite terminal, currently showing a critical error status. Since AMP portals are chiefly used to transport cargo over long distances, by nature they require a grid reference in longitude and latitude – a fixed point upon Pulse to which they'll open out onto. This particular portal's terminal has a null destination and yet it's functional; the sub-space tunnel is stable and active.
Riding a wave of nausea, Hope perceives his migraine amplifying exponentially. Planting one hand on a desk to steady himself, he retrieves the Crystarium out of his satchel with the other, feeling weaker with every passing moment. Reacting to the ambient light levels, his flat-panel device darkens to an opaque shade of obsidian and silently awaits instruction, automatically connecting to the lab's other, more immovable technologies. With practised ease, Hope's fingers glide over the Crystarium's surface and he begins an area-wide diagnostic, pausing briefly in the room's unsettling ambience before sliding the device back into his satchel.
Hope exhaustedly gazes down at his hand splayed against the chromium tabletop, watching it tremble as he tries to form cohesive thought. Fatigue gnaws throughout every inch of his fractured constitution. One deep steadying breath later and vibrations begin to shudder upwards through his arm; so powerful that Hope can feel them reverberating throughout his entire body. Awareness splinters into blind confusion. Heartbeat dulls to an empty repetitive throb with no meaning. Displacement overcomes Hope as the room shakes and overhead lights fail. And then he's suddenly unstable on his feet, groping around for something – anything – to hold onto.
The first sensation Director Hope Estheim receives in the lucid blackness is being struck on the head with a heavy object. And the second, just as he's fading into unconsciousness, is a hand propelling him forwards. Right to where the portal should be.