Memories of a Bloody Past

Here I am, at my desk, my antique ink pen scribbling furiously, yet neatly, across one of the many pages I plan to fill before my tale is over. Mine is a dark tale, one not to be taken lightly, but as a lesson. A lesson in life: it will test your beliefs, your strength and courage, even how far you are willing to go to save yourself. Life leaves scars. Scars on your body, and on your mind. I have had more than my fair share of them. I have seen things no being should ever have to see. I have committed acts that have made me question my very morality. My scars run so deep, they give me nightmares. Countless nightmares. Dreams of blood. Dreams of death. Dreams of fire. Dreams of war. But no scar runs as deep as the one I carry every day.

It clads my body in cold metal. It burrows deep into my bones. It even invades my skull, beneath the tissue of my cerebrum like a ghastly parasite I must contend with. However, I owe it my life. Several times over, as a matter of fact. Should I not have obtained it, these words you see would never have existed. Instead, I may be lying somewhere in a gutter, throat slashed and perhaps nothing but dust. Neither would I have never been able to write again. How could I have without fingers? I have none, at least none that are made from flesh and blood. Mine are fashioned from black metal and hydraulic oil, more reliable and far sturdier than any organic substitute.

Neither am I fully human. No, those days are long behind me. Now, I am something known as an Equestrian Pony, by what is left of mankind. Not the flashiest, what with my grim visage and all, but one of the most unique. I have retained much of my human DNA structure, but it is now unimportant: I can never be human again. Not in reality, at least. In my dreams, perhaps, but lately those have taken a turn for the worst, and I wish to avoid recalling them. To do so could drive me insane, and I am already on a knife-edge as it is.

Before I continue, there is history that must be shared if you are to understand my tale. These entire works take place 10 years ago, or for those who read this late, 2143 AD, Earth time. I was 23 back then, still human, and with emerald eyes not much different to the ones I have now. I had sharpish features and a slim physique that was better put to use with a gun than fighting hand-to-hand.

54 years ago, in 2089, humans had created something known only as the Prototype. The structure itself was incredible. Thousands and thousands of tonnes of titanium, silicon and even synthetic metals were used in its construction. Most of it wasn’t even interconnected: the central three-clawed spire levitated above the ground, leviathan-sized antigravity links holding it in place. The spire was surrounded by a series of rings, acting as focusing lenses for the massive amounts of energy it channeled. Underneath it lay a smooth metal concave in the earth, six more spires built on the edge at regular intervals. Each of those was powered by the largest fusion reactors ever conceived, along with an AI control Core that could only be operated by six genetically key-coded humans. These humans had weekly genetic alterations formulated by the collective AI of the six Cores, continuously updating their DNA, which made it impossible for clones to infiltrate the facility without being torn into atoms by the defences first.

Though originally intended to solve the world’s energy and resource crisis by synthesising the required material, it was later found it had the potential to do much, much more. It could analyse the processes inside a self-created, stable black hole through monitoring wireless probes. It could rip fusion fuel and even energy from stars thousands of light years away. And if it was needed, it could also become a weapon of mass destruction, tearing holes in space and time and channelling the full fury of a star upon an asteroid that very nearly hit Earth in 2092.

But, like all good things, it was not to last. Using the Prototype to experiment with separate dimensions was... Dangerous, to say the least. But attempting to bring something from that dimension back to Earth? Something was bound to go wrong, which it did, of course. Yet the magnitude of the backlash was completely unexpected. The entire facility disappeared into oblivion in 2096.

The portal collapsed with such violence it released a shockwave of cosmic radiation across the globe with catastrophic results. Devices shorted out, the circuits fried and digital data scrambled by the electromagnetic forces, plunging the planet into darkness. The whole atmosphere was chemically recombined, becoming a mix of toxic gases as atoms changed their structure and becoming other elements. The change was so sudden the air higher up reached temperatures of over 5000°C due to intense friction.

The blast itself was even more deadly: people who got lucky were disintegrated on the spot by the shockwave. Others were not so fortunate, slowly torn apart as the radiation ravaged their bodies, twisting them into all sorts of horrific forms, before finally killing them in a grisly explosion that sent gore flying through the air. Plants fared no better: they just died, simply shrivelling away, becoming nothing more than tufts of dead matter here and there, with any trees still standing blackened and stunted. The cataclysm changed everything. Humanity was unable to recover: approximately 97% of all life on the planet died in a matter of minutes. Not days, not hours, minutes. More died in the aftermath, the entire Earth going haywire, spewing magma from under our feet and tearing the ground apart from brutal earthquakes that demolished almost anything left standing. Even our atmosphere turned upon us: molten metal rained from the sky as oxygen became iron and nitrogen became lead in a merciless torrent of death.

After all that, were the Gods done with their punishment? Were we finally to be left to dwindle away in peace? No. They weren’t done with us yet; for soon after we received some unwelcome guests.

At first, we only caught glimpses of them: fuzzy, cloaked beings, almost like living shadows. Their eyes were white and blank, able to paralyse you at a glance. The rest of their face, assuming they even had one, was kept hidden. Their screams struck fear into even the most courageous of people, an unearthly, wailing shriek which nearly deafened you it was so loud. Their touch was the most unnerving thing about them, though: they aged nearly everything they came into contact with by thousands of years in mere seconds. Some people were found dead in their homes, only the skeletons remaining, and even those were beginning to crumble into dust. People were terrified of them, and soon enough their fearsome reputation earned a name for themselves: the Flow.

Eventually, as it was, there were only a few hundred million of us left. By that time, we had resigned ourselves to our fate, except a select few who still fought on believing we could rise again if we fought for that chance. A bright, beckoning light in the darkness of reality. I was one such person. Me and a band of fellow comrades left our families, gathered our arms and set off to make things right.

Too long have I carried this burden. Too long has it ravaged my dreams, waking me in the dark hours of the morning, my body weak and feverish from the nightmares that plague me. Now there shall be no more stalling, no more reluctance: this is my tale, and to be free to live my life once more, I must write it down, for me and for all who wish to read this.

But be warned, reader: this is no mere autobiography. It is a tale of fear, courage and death. And it starts with the day I was running for my life.