Chapter 1: Prelude to Apocrypha
Silence simmered, patiently blanketing the forest in its enveloping clutch as the sun settled on the oceanic horizon. Under the void of midnight, beneath the starry sky and under the moon's nocturnal gaze, the forest slowly sprung to life.
Life.
Mankind knew little of life. For all their accomplishments and might, it understood very little of what it meant to be alive. Beyond the horizon, man lay siege to man. Unkempt violence, rooted deep within the primordial bloodlust that every sentient organism sheathed, claimed the life of every man, woman, and child. It fulfilled them in ways inexpressible to the laws that governed nature. It drove them as much as it enslaved them.
But here, man came shackled and enslaved to the lush jungles. The gods of this realm could not comprehend why such beasts would return, for there was little of interest here. But mankind could not help itself. Like the tales of old, they had to open the box as they had already done before. They had to let loose the unspeakable horrors, screaming skies, and the unfathomable anguish. They could not help themselves. So much was to be earned, and so much more was to be lost. But not every ailing malice emerged from the box. The last thing sat stirring in the abyssal confines of the tomb was hope. Hope, weighed so heavy a burden and a blessing on the shoulders of humanity – arousing their curiosity, feasting on their animosity, guiding them forward amidst the warp spawned darkness that threatened their existence – that they caved in to its cravings.
So they came, blindingly beckoned forth by the ethereal light of hope. And when they knocked, the gods of this realm answered.
The man sat idly in his chair, admiring the leaves of a flowering plant before him. The wonders of the natural world had so much to offer, but nothing that was abreast of his knowledge. He stared affixed on the organism. He knew its molecular structure, it's components, its anatomy, and its origins better than any human on the planet. Of course he would, he thought to himself. After all, he made it.
Karacosis wutansis. Wu's Flower. The paragon of evolution sat before his very eyes, the power to create life was in his very own palm. Doctor Henry Wu smiled at that thought. The pinnacle of his experiments was within his grasp and it felt beautiful, no – not beautiful – powerful. To think that his ambitious perseverance, his very sweat and blood, could yield such beautiful results was overwhelming. It made him briefly think of all the spite, the scientific controversy, attempting to jab at his discoveries. They could not understand. All they could achieve was to hinder the very foundations upon which the same scientists endeavored to pursue. Progress. Here he was, the Prometheus of the scientific community, and they dare make a mockery of him? The flame of life was his to wield, its secrets kept within the box he called his mind, a limitless realm always one step ahead.
Wu's flower perched there, unknowingly the genesis of something far more foul and violent. It watched as Wu delicately uncoiled his grasp around it's stem and the omniscient ethereal presence of his fingertips slithered away. Something beckoned to him. Something that sat on his shoulders in the guise of a blessing. Wu had to go. Back to where all this started once again.
Hammond's Hope they called it.