“𝙽𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚜, 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚠𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚕𝚎𝚏𝚝 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍;𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙, 𝚍𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝙰𝚗𝚍 𝚢𝚎𝚝, 𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚐𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐. 𝚃𝚘 𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚠𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚋𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚊𝚕 𝚜𝚒𝚗. 𝙰 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚒𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚋𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏. 𝚃𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚐 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙, 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚗𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚎 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝, 𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚛 𝚊 𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍."
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𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐑𝐄: Speculative Fiction • Sci-Fi • Mystery
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𝐏𝐎𝐕: Third Person, Rotating timeline/Flashbacks
𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐓𝐔𝐒: Drafting; 83k/???
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𝐓𝐖: DEATH, ISOLATION, FIREARMS, WAR, CULTS, SUICIDAL IDEATION, DRUGS, ALCOHOL
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𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒: CIRCUMSTANTIAL MORALITY , NOSTALGIA, ISOLATION, REVENGE
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Beneath the ocean lies a purgatory– A space suspended from time itself.
Like a vacuum, it’s pull never ceases.
Whales, ships, aircraft, humans; it’s not picky, and never to be satisfied. Within this space is a tapestry of time gone by, a soldier from a bygone war alive and well, resting easy with a new-found friend from fifty years ahead. Women in bustled skirts chatting with ladies in slacks—men in primitive robes chortling alongside men in suits and hats.
The day is never ending— the light blinding; the only escape is a trench.
Women who arrive gravid never to give birth, wounds never to heal.
The trapped never age, and their diseases will never take lives—trapped eternally within the purgatories of good heath and sound mind.
Should someone be dead on arrival, they only sport a glassy stare, all dazed and stagnant.
When hunger won’t come and the drowsy pull of sleep never beckons, what makes a human?
When stripped of your autonomous desires, what is it that you really want?
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𝐄𝐗𝐂𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐓𝐒: “With eyes clenched tight in preparation for the stark, harsh rays of the atmosphere above, she took the same blind step she had taken a million times before. A light, neutral and inoffensive fluorescence, blinded her at every sense but sight. Through its plainness it seemed to mock and jeer and whisper ‘yes, it is all a cruel joke.’The brilliance of her new environment never failed to force her jaw into a tight contraction. Once she had met the surface, she stomped down the hatch that served as her front door. The metallic slam reverberated through the air, and she seized that moment to take her surroundings in again. With an exhale, she looked over the vast nothingness that surrounded her, a mass of refracted light and debris polka-dotted about the land. At times, a new vessel would be lodged near her home. Other times, fly away cargo would make it’s final stop near her steps. The remnants of such were strewn across her ‘yard’ with their sole purpose”
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“How she hated him, the mere thought of him guaranteed a little grimace, though she had never really noticed– A subconscious tic that she couldn’t shake off. Percebes. The name alone stood to highlight what she hated most– The undeserved confidence only a coddled, primitive “academic” could harbor. A word taken from her language– Percebes– Barnacle. Dim enough to think it meant anything but the word itself, he rode haughty on the thought that it served to make him look ponderous–Like a philosopher. A double entendre that was only as shallow as his façade of intellect, he assumed it’s meaning to reach great epiphany, to understand life itself. In reality, it merely questioned his understanding alone. She couldn’t help but marvel in the ignorance. In her frustration, Agnes kicked up some loose ‘sand’, nearly forcing herself to trip. She groaned and grit her teeth. “Ought to get myself a cane." Indeed, the pain was becoming harder and harder to manage. When a ship is attacked at multiple points, it has no choice other than to buckle. She hadn’t been sure what more could be done about it, however. She figured she’d been here years, but there’s no smoking gun on that fact: Just little tells, the things that felt correct. _ To hell with the uncertainty.”_
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𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐂𝐄𝐁𝐄𝐒– Sunken down via charter plane while on vacation, Percebes found himself engulfed in a canyon of light. On the land above, his would call him a “garbage head”; experimenting with any kind of drug that would alter his psyche. He fancies himself a natural leader with a talent for persuasion, and his visions help him pull in new followers. He leads the Cult of the Overseer, and controls their commune: Babylon. In exchange for secured trenches that offer a break from the unending daylight, his followers obey his every command and listen eagerly to his sermons. It’s not as if they have a choice, however. When you live in Babylon, the speakers will play his scripture during “Living Hours” Percebes always wears a diver’s helmet encrusted with coral, tin foil and other stray debris he’s found. He’s wrapped in a cloak made from an ornate tapestry and silk robes, and has bangles of keys around his wrist. They open every door in his commune.
𝐂𝐀𝐏𝐓. 𝐅𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐒– A charming, roguish air-captain, responsible for manning the Virga SGF-06, an experimental aircraft. As much as he’d like to insist otherwise, he’s considered the best pilot of his time. He prides himself on competency, and a killer knack to separate work from play. Unfortunately for Fontes, he was on the flight that never came back. A man of many vices, he just can’t seem to understand why he can’t get over his old haunts. Gambling, drinking or women, he won’t discriminate against his poison of the night. For the past few years, guilt ate at him daily, but it'd always been easier to pretend like it hadn’t been. He’s quick witted, and always eager to find a way to bounce out of an uncomfortable situation, even if it means a few white lies here or there. Accompanied by Pablo And Lucia, the three of them were the only ones to survive the crash. At heart he feels like he should be lucky, but the fact of the matter is, he wish he’d gone down with the rest of the cabin. Or does he? A man of many mysteries! Captain Fontes wears his tan aerial uniform, a thin block of braids and ribbons to signify his status. He hates wearing the gloves, though. Somehow it never feels correct to have a barrier between his flesh and whatever it is he’s working on.
𝐀𝐆𝐍𝐄𝐒– Agnes wasn’t always so sour; Formerly at the top of her ranks as a naval commander, she found herself wedged between hell itself in her submarine. She’s remained unscathed due to one little trick, the nuclear warhead attached to her machine: Clementine. Buried in her castle of treasures, she takes whatever she can get. She’s sentimental, brash and impatient. Most importantly, she’s feared. She hates Percebes with a passion, and considers herself rational. Her alcoholism has only been encouraged by her isolation, and the effects tend to linger a lot longer due to her new setting–She’s always a little bit tipsy. Her space, little as it may be, also hosts her deceased shipmates. She hasn’t had the nerve to throw them out, no matter how tight her quarters become. Loyal to a fault, she still greets them ‘daily’. Agnes wears a stolen conductor’s cap she looted from a sunken train cart and refuses to take off her uniform. She’s eager to hold onto the little things that remind her of who she used to be. A large scar wraps over herbrow and down her right cheek, completely hiding her eye.
𝐏𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐎– The son to an infamous political zealot, Pablo is what some could call superficial. He’s never known what true sacrifice looks like, and it shows; His rank is paid for by his father, along with his long, tedious schooling. By choice, he had chosen to pave the way for cosmetic surgery, an uncharted sea left behind by other medical professionals in favor of more noble pursuits. By orders, he’d become a medical specialist in his country’s military. Plagued by the shadow his older brother left him, he had big shoes to fill. Ultimately, he only left his family with more tragedy. Not untalented by any means, he actually is quite the surgeon. Despite that, his bedside manner leaves much to be desired. He’s aloof, cold, blunt and overall, posh to a fault. At the end of the day, he’d only enlisted in the military to provide background for a colorful political career, as mapped by his father. Pablo dons a white medical cloak, garrison and a tan standard uniform. His looks are boyish and handsome, and his grooming is immaculate.
𝐋𝐔𝐂𝐈𝐀– A skilled mechanic, this girl makes it her priority to turn lemons into lemonade. Born into poverty in an unforgiving fascist state, Lucia made sure to get one thing under her belt: A trade. She was only so lucky that it ended up becoming her passion. As much as she likes to pretend otherwise, the little things really do pile on. She finds it easier to be productive, and works especially well under stress. Genuinely passionate about aviation and machinery, she finds it easier to work on her projects than talk to acquaintances. Never the less, she’s friendly and personable when need be, and she can always crack a joke. She tries her best to be polite and aware, though sometimes it backfires. She’s not one for glamorous things like cosmetics or jewels, but she can admire beauty when she sees it. A simple woman, she keeps herself tidy but not over-pruned, and hesitates to make herself stick out. She wears her tan uniform, beret and harness, a patch with stripes signifies her status as a specialist.
𝐄𝐕𝐄– Honing poise, grace and beauty, Eve is a trained harpist and fortune reader, or so claimed by percebes, Eve has struggled to feel respect and genuine admiration throughout her life. Now, in this space, she’s managed to find herself a small niche. The only problem is that she has no idea what she’s doing. Spun by the web percebes weaves for her, she has no problem prolonging a grift if it saves her own skin. At the end of the day she gets respect, right? Eve isn’t overly social, but she he has a presence that commands attention from those around her. All her life she’s wanted a power over someone, something that doesn’t just fall on looks, and she’s finally got it; She just has to do Percebes’ dirty work. Though she tries to drown her senses our, a nagging feeling always burns deep in her. Is it guilt? Is it regret? She thinks about it often, and has a diary of these feelings as a result. Who knows what that means for her later, but for now? She’s able to reign her emotions in. She wears her hair in a mess of red curls, and usually wears some elegant gown topped with stonework and beading. She plays harp at the underground pub, but never sticks around for a drink or chat. She always has somewhere she needs to be. •••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• Thanks for reading this bit! I know it was flowery, so I’ll go ahead with a FAQ styled post for the world itself!
Q⃣: Is this hell, is this purgatory? Are they dead? A⃞: Some characters are dead on arrival, but most survive to cross into this plane. It’s not so much death, more like a distilled dimension. They’re dead to anyone above the surface, in the “real world”
Q⃣: `What year is it? A⃞: All of them, and none of them!
Q⃣: Really, what year is it? A⃞ Most of my characters come from a year that can easily be correlated to the 1920s-30s.
Q⃣: Is there a war? A⃞: Several! The primary conflict is a trades war with five of my main character’s home countries, but there are smattering of other conflicts
Q⃣: What about time passed? A⃞: It doesn’t. Think of this place as a perfect time capsule for anything that lands in it. Fruit never rots, natural decomposition or destruction never happens.
Q⃣: Can people die, then? A⃞: Not by natural causes, only if a physical impact is great enough to cut off connection to the brain. They’re functionally brain dead as a result.
Q⃣: If everyone who has landed here has technically always been here, then how do events sequence? A⃞: I like to think of arrivals as continuous pockets being created. Technically, everyone and everything has always been here, but they only manifest in this space when there is a connection. An object physically landing there in it’s first experience, i.e., after the crash, or a human sinking for the first time. If time travel were an element, this would be more of an issue, however, it’s not.
Q⃣: Does everyone speak the same language? A: Technically, no, but for the sake of the story, in this dimension all language is universal. The main commune is called Babylon, of course.
Q⃣ Commune? Is there a cult? A⃞: Yes!
