They say this place was City, once.
The tall obelisks of twisted steel, crumbling concrete, and shattered glass. They were filled with people from ground to sky. Some were things called... Offices. The people inside them wore special vestaments, and performed feats of math on boxes of stolen lightening. Others, Apartments. Thousands of souls in little rooms, all living together, watching light streamed to them on looking glasses and cooking long-frozen food in tiny forges. Between them, those blackstone rivers, were streets -
Metal cubes born aloft on congealed treeblood and nourished on ancestors' bones, larger than our Hummingbirds, louder, crasser. They flew along the blackstone rivers in packs, and had shrill horns to blare at each other on violent whims. It sounded like a terrifying time. A time of noise and chaos. Stories about this City are scarce, now, and many years have passed since that time. The canopy of our Citadel now protects us. The roots, torn through the stone and metal foundation the City rest on, shore us.
This place may have been City once. Now, it is Wildark. Now it is Home.
~
Reports of a - John, am I seeing this right? A large - pillar of wood. A pillar of wood has erupted through the ground in the middle of Noridge Park. The initial reaction was one of reserved panic - people claiming it was likely a ruptured gass line unearthing buried roots or refuse, but looking at it now, John -
It's alive. It's moving. That does not look like a root at all. That - it's like it's growing larger, and curling around itself, and -
More tendrils have been spotted growing through the Garrison Freeway. Multiple accidents -
Seemingly across the entire city. From our helicopters, you can see them almost curl up directly - and I mean this, directly at the edge. If you were to look on a map -
Crackling in the air, roots glowing -
Leaves overhead, covering the sky -
Smell of ozone -
Sound of tearing -
Silence.
Dead air.
Broadcast over.
~
What's outside the Wildark?
Forests. Big forests with trees almost as tall as the Citadel. Monsters - that hunt people! They - they have sharp teeth, and sharp claws, and they do things to try and trick you, like talk like a person or make the forest look like home. And - other things, too.
Like what?
I don't know. They look like - they look like the old places, around here. We're not supposed to go into them.
Not at all?
Well - most of us aren't. The Expedition Corps can.
Do you want to join the Expedition Corps?
...maybe. Bobby says I'd be better working in Maintenance, but that sounds gross. But - going outside is also a little scary, too.
Because of the monsters.
That, and, well. A lot of people don't come back.
~
Overhead, the bronze and iron Hummingbird flitted across the sky, metal wings whirring so fast they looked like two bright plumes of smoke. Perched above, a figure, dressed from head to toe in an armored uniform. Resting against their shoulder, a long, thin gunlance, bayonet gleaming in the sun. They paused by the balcony of a crumbling tower, eyes scanning the ground below, before flitting off to scout another sector.
"Relax."
"It's hard to relax with those damned insects whizzing about."
"He was only a Blue. They don't know what to look for. You think the Greens would let them in on it?"
"Listen. Expedition Corps or not, the Mayor's definitely called for a manhunt, and need I remind you, they know what we look like?"
The two figures hunched in what had once been an alleyway, hidden behind a rusting dumpster. Nearby, a chainlink fence, long-since liberated of most of the 'chainlink' part, rattled feebly in the wind. These were words good people of Wildark didn't know. These were words of the Old World.
"Know or not, he didn't see us. Did you bring the case?"
The one figure, a tall, pale man with bright orange hair and an even brighter baldspot, leaned forward.
The other figure, a woman with dark skin and so much frizzy hair that it doubtless made the balding man jealous, leaned back. She frowned, then nodded.
"I have it. Here," she said, rummaging through her bag. She pulled out a small metal briefcase. Shiny. Untarnished. Perfectly preserved. On its side, more etched than painted, read a word.
Gehenna.
The balding man stared at it like he was looking a child dying of cancer - sympathetic, shocked, and a bit in denial.
"It's all there?"
"Yeah."
"...can you tell me where you found it?"
The woman started to nod, then shook her head.
"Thirty miles from the rootwall. Beyond that, I -" she began, before the man cut her off.
"Don't want to take any risks. No, I know. Just bringing this was a risk enough." The man reached for the case, touching it tentatively. The woman held it out for him. He took it. "So, it was true, then?"
The woman nodded.
"Every last word."
The tall obelisks of twisted steel, crumbling concrete, and shattered glass. They were filled with people from ground to sky. Some were things called... Offices. The people inside them wore special vestaments, and performed feats of math on boxes of stolen lightening. Others, Apartments. Thousands of souls in little rooms, all living together, watching light streamed to them on looking glasses and cooking long-frozen food in tiny forges. Between them, those blackstone rivers, were streets -
Metal cubes born aloft on congealed treeblood and nourished on ancestors' bones, larger than our Hummingbirds, louder, crasser. They flew along the blackstone rivers in packs, and had shrill horns to blare at each other on violent whims. It sounded like a terrifying time. A time of noise and chaos. Stories about this City are scarce, now, and many years have passed since that time. The canopy of our Citadel now protects us. The roots, torn through the stone and metal foundation the City rest on, shore us.
This place may have been City once. Now, it is Wildark. Now it is Home.
~
Reports of a - John, am I seeing this right? A large - pillar of wood. A pillar of wood has erupted through the ground in the middle of Noridge Park. The initial reaction was one of reserved panic - people claiming it was likely a ruptured gass line unearthing buried roots or refuse, but looking at it now, John -
It's alive. It's moving. That does not look like a root at all. That - it's like it's growing larger, and curling around itself, and -
More tendrils have been spotted growing through the Garrison Freeway. Multiple accidents -
Seemingly across the entire city. From our helicopters, you can see them almost curl up directly - and I mean this, directly at the edge. If you were to look on a map -
Crackling in the air, roots glowing -
Leaves overhead, covering the sky -
Smell of ozone -
Sound of tearing -
Silence.
Dead air.
Broadcast over.
~
What's outside the Wildark?
Forests. Big forests with trees almost as tall as the Citadel. Monsters - that hunt people! They - they have sharp teeth, and sharp claws, and they do things to try and trick you, like talk like a person or make the forest look like home. And - other things, too.
Like what?
I don't know. They look like - they look like the old places, around here. We're not supposed to go into them.
Not at all?
Well - most of us aren't. The Expedition Corps can.
Do you want to join the Expedition Corps?
...maybe. Bobby says I'd be better working in Maintenance, but that sounds gross. But - going outside is also a little scary, too.
Because of the monsters.
That, and, well. A lot of people don't come back.
~
Overhead, the bronze and iron Hummingbird flitted across the sky, metal wings whirring so fast they looked like two bright plumes of smoke. Perched above, a figure, dressed from head to toe in an armored uniform. Resting against their shoulder, a long, thin gunlance, bayonet gleaming in the sun. They paused by the balcony of a crumbling tower, eyes scanning the ground below, before flitting off to scout another sector.
"Relax."
"It's hard to relax with those damned insects whizzing about."
"He was only a Blue. They don't know what to look for. You think the Greens would let them in on it?"
"Listen. Expedition Corps or not, the Mayor's definitely called for a manhunt, and need I remind you, they know what we look like?"
The two figures hunched in what had once been an alleyway, hidden behind a rusting dumpster. Nearby, a chainlink fence, long-since liberated of most of the 'chainlink' part, rattled feebly in the wind. These were words good people of Wildark didn't know. These were words of the Old World.
"Know or not, he didn't see us. Did you bring the case?"
The one figure, a tall, pale man with bright orange hair and an even brighter baldspot, leaned forward.
The other figure, a woman with dark skin and so much frizzy hair that it doubtless made the balding man jealous, leaned back. She frowned, then nodded.
"I have it. Here," she said, rummaging through her bag. She pulled out a small metal briefcase. Shiny. Untarnished. Perfectly preserved. On its side, more etched than painted, read a word.
Gehenna.
The balding man stared at it like he was looking a child dying of cancer - sympathetic, shocked, and a bit in denial.
"It's all there?"
"Yeah."
"...can you tell me where you found it?"
The woman started to nod, then shook her head.
"Thirty miles from the rootwall. Beyond that, I -" she began, before the man cut her off.
"Don't want to take any risks. No, I know. Just bringing this was a risk enough." The man reached for the case, touching it tentatively. The woman held it out for him. He took it. "So, it was true, then?"
The woman nodded.
"Every last word."
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