September 9th, ??14
Dear Diary,
I was born today.
I am writing this because I must.
Because what I have been told to accept is too much for me to manage in my head alone. This diary is my life-line. Or at least would be, if I wasn't dead.
Or was dead? I was dead. I bare the scars of the dead. The cultural and social isolation of the dead. But I breathe and am told I am alive. I think I feel alive, but since I have no memory of being alive my opinion on that matter is highly suspect. I am frankly unsure of what troubles me more: not remembering who I was or having been dead.
Did anyone ever ask the Zombie how he felt?
I was born in the red and green rust-cluttered fields of Old Russia (Was I Russian?). Moments after my re-animation, still wet in its mind-numbing philosophical after-birth, a floating Robot claimed responsibility for my renewed existence told me to run.
Run or Die.
It was almost nonsensical. I was dead. What fear should I have of dying? What is dying anymore? But still I ran. What else could I have done?
"Pick up the gun" my robotic necromancer commanded me.
I picked it up.
"Kill!" he told me.
And I killed.
Were they going to kill me? Was I being hunted? I don't know. The Robot, who told me to call him a "Ghost", said they were called Fallen. That sounds menacing, and they certainly looked menacing, but what was I, if not fallen? In what context was I anything but a monster? I don't know.
He told me to kill.
And I killed.
-A Guardian
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September 10th, ??14
Dear Diary,
I am more isolated then I realized.
There is no loneliness in death. The Earth is nothing more than a 5 billion year old graveyard and the dead keep each other company. Besides, death is only an absence.
I should know.
But now I am alive. And lonely. My Ghost speaks to me at odd moments, dropping hints and giving a sort of vague context to my immediate surroundings, but we don't talk. We don't discuss. At first I thought perhaps it was a program limitation. That when I arrived at the population center where there were more people and more processing power that everything would change.
My Ghost led me a City, to The Last City and dashed whatever hopes I might have had.
I am kept in some sort of subtle quarantine. I am only given the freedom of high, but small tower within the City. There are less than a handful of vendors here who seem conditioned to avoid all meaningful contact with me and the other Guardians.
Oh, I guess I should mention that.
There are other Guardians here. Scores of them, if not more. But, for reasons beyond my understanding, we are all mute. I can not speak with them and they cannot speak to me. I know as I write this, that it makes no sense. If wanted to speak then I would speak. If they could hear then they would hear. But I cannot, and they do not.
I rage within myself to communicate. But all that can manage are a few limited gestures, and I can tell that they suffer the same limitations.
We are each islands atop this tower. Mere feet apart, yet utterly alone.
Through all this I cannot stop asking myself one disturbing question:
Where are the people and why are we not allowed among them?
-A Guardian
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September 11th, ??14
Dear Diary,
I am an instrument of the Traveler.
I had an audience with the Speaker today. He did just as his name implies, and spoke at me. Like all my interactions here it was completely one way. If he's the Speaker, then we Guardians are the Listeners. I just wish we could ask questions (I have managed to find a few deactivated Ghosts laying around, but the information in them is usually limited to only a few vague paragraphs).
The large moon that hangs low over the City is apparently some sort of Space-God known as the Traveler. He created the Ghosts, who are directly responsible for me being brought back to life. What this apparently means is that I am destined to do his/their bidding. The Speaker said the Traveler was responsible for the existence and security of this City, but didn't explain how (I am going to guess through the Ghosts and Guardians). He said that the Traveler was severely damaged in the past, and once more didn't explain how. He said that the "Darkness" followed the Traveler here to destroy it, but didn't explain why.
And finally, he said he was impressed with my ability to kill things and that he'd like to see more of that.
It was a rather brief audience.
-A Guardian.
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September 19th, ??14
Dear Diary,
I am a weapon of the Traveler.
I was born into this world with no memory, no references, no context. Within the first minutes of this new life they gave me a gun and told me kill. And I haven't stopped killing since.
I delved deep into the Lair of the Fallen and Killed their Machine-God. I flew to the Moon and destroyed the alters, relics and monks of a completely alien culture. And then I tunneled to the very heart of the Moon and killed some shackled grotesque giant. That is what haunts me the most.
He was monstrous to look upon, but he was chained and harmless. I eventually, inadvertently, broke his chains as I threw my entire arsenal at his exposed heart and the battle that ensued was no picnic, but still, I fired first. I attacked the helpless, and ultimately, I killed him. I think perhaps he suffered from some sort of mental or physical malady. He had clearly been restrained by his tribe for a reason.
I am stalked by some strange female exo. She is about as vague and difficult to understand as everyone else. But, just like everyone else, she seems impressed by my ability to kill.
So now I am heading to Venus. Because she said I should head to Venus.
No support, no coordination with our assets at the Last City or the Speaker or any other agent of the Traveler. Just me and my ghost, my "little light", off to Venus to face worse things than the chained up disabled relations of strangers.
-a Guardian
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September 20th, ??14
Dear Diary,
Okay. What the #$% is going on.
Time-bending robot-aliens on tropical Venus?
I really wish they'd tell me what year it is, or at least how long I have been dead. Because despite having no memory of my past life, I obviously retain past knowledge (otherwise I would have had to relearn how to walk and speak again), and part of that knowledge includes a radically different picture of Venus.
Guess I should just accept it.
My exo girlfriend told me these robot-aliens are so evil that they "despise other evil". That statement makes no objective sense. but it makes me wonder; are we the evil it hates? Does it hate the Traveler and his murderous army of the undead? I haven't seen a single civilian anywhere. I haven't see a single innocent human, awoken or exo who I am charged with protecting. I just travel the Solar System leaving a trail of dead in my wake. I am barely a week old and I have murdered tens of thousands.
They gave me a gun and they told me to kill.
-a Guardian
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
September 21st, ??14
Dear Diary,
I went to Mars today.
There is a civilization here of intelligent advanced aliens. They don't appear to have taken Mars from us, instead it seems they came here after it was nothing but ruins. I thought, perhaps, we could talk with them. They are fighting the Vex, same as us. There isn't any immediate reason why our goals could not align.
Even my xenophobic Ghost appeared initially agree that armed confrontation was not a forgone conclusion. But then I landed on Mars and fell right back into my modes operandi.
Rather then open any sort of diplomatic channel we broke into the first Alien ran installation we could find. We hacked into their system and overrode their security codes. When a fast-reaction force responded to this network assault; I killed them all.
I kept killing. I killed the little ones, I killed the big ones, I killed the ones with shields and the ones with jump-jets. Hundreds of them lay dead beneath my shadow.
I killed my way through them and to the Black Garden. I no longer even attempt to make sense of what is going on around me. It is too much. I was before time, or after time, or in an alternate dimension or a mote of dust or something. It doesn't matter. It doesn't change anything.
There were flowers and killer-robots and a giant beating heart and I killed them all. I don't know why. It didn't seem to make any difference when I left the pocket dimension. But it doesn't matter, I don't even try to understand anymore. I know all I need to know. I should have known it all along. It was so obvious.
I died and now I am in hell.
But I think I know a way out.
They gave me a gun and they told me to kill.
And I killed. And I killed. And I killed.
I should have listened. I killed the wrong things. I aimed the gun the wrong way.
They gave me a gun and told me to kill. That is the way out. Not at the enemy's head, but my own.
And now I kill. One. Last. Time.
-a Killer
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
September 22st, ??14
Dear Diary,
I was born today.
Dear Diary,
I was born today.
I am writing this because I must.
Because what I have been told to accept is too much for me to manage in my head alone. This diary is my life-line. Or at least would be, if I wasn't dead.
Or was dead? I was dead. I bare the scars of the dead. The cultural and social isolation of the dead. But I breathe and am told I am alive. I think I feel alive, but since I have no memory of being alive my opinion on that matter is highly suspect. I am frankly unsure of what troubles me more: not remembering who I was or having been dead.
Did anyone ever ask the Zombie how he felt?
I was born in the red and green rust-cluttered fields of Old Russia (Was I Russian?). Moments after my re-animation, still wet in its mind-numbing philosophical after-birth, a floating Robot claimed responsibility for my renewed existence told me to run.
Run or Die.
It was almost nonsensical. I was dead. What fear should I have of dying? What is dying anymore? But still I ran. What else could I have done?
"Pick up the gun" my robotic necromancer commanded me.
I picked it up.
"Kill!" he told me.
And I killed.
Were they going to kill me? Was I being hunted? I don't know. The Robot, who told me to call him a "Ghost", said they were called Fallen. That sounds menacing, and they certainly looked menacing, but what was I, if not fallen? In what context was I anything but a monster? I don't know.
He told me to kill.
And I killed.
-A Guardian
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
September 10th, ??14
Dear Diary,
I am more isolated then I realized.
There is no loneliness in death. The Earth is nothing more than a 5 billion year old graveyard and the dead keep each other company. Besides, death is only an absence.
I should know.
But now I am alive. And lonely. My Ghost speaks to me at odd moments, dropping hints and giving a sort of vague context to my immediate surroundings, but we don't talk. We don't discuss. At first I thought perhaps it was a program limitation. That when I arrived at the population center where there were more people and more processing power that everything would change.
My Ghost led me a City, to The Last City and dashed whatever hopes I might have had.
I am kept in some sort of subtle quarantine. I am only given the freedom of high, but small tower within the City. There are less than a handful of vendors here who seem conditioned to avoid all meaningful contact with me and the other Guardians.
Oh, I guess I should mention that.
There are other Guardians here. Scores of them, if not more. But, for reasons beyond my understanding, we are all mute. I can not speak with them and they cannot speak to me. I know as I write this, that it makes no sense. If wanted to speak then I would speak. If they could hear then they would hear. But I cannot, and they do not.
I rage within myself to communicate. But all that can manage are a few limited gestures, and I can tell that they suffer the same limitations.
We are each islands atop this tower. Mere feet apart, yet utterly alone.
Through all this I cannot stop asking myself one disturbing question:
Where are the people and why are we not allowed among them?
-A Guardian
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
September 11th, ??14
Dear Diary,
I am an instrument of the Traveler.
I had an audience with the Speaker today. He did just as his name implies, and spoke at me. Like all my interactions here it was completely one way. If he's the Speaker, then we Guardians are the Listeners. I just wish we could ask questions (I have managed to find a few deactivated Ghosts laying around, but the information in them is usually limited to only a few vague paragraphs).
The large moon that hangs low over the City is apparently some sort of Space-God known as the Traveler. He created the Ghosts, who are directly responsible for me being brought back to life. What this apparently means is that I am destined to do his/their bidding. The Speaker said the Traveler was responsible for the existence and security of this City, but didn't explain how (I am going to guess through the Ghosts and Guardians). He said that the Traveler was severely damaged in the past, and once more didn't explain how. He said that the "Darkness" followed the Traveler here to destroy it, but didn't explain why.
And finally, he said he was impressed with my ability to kill things and that he'd like to see more of that.
It was a rather brief audience.
-A Guardian.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
September 19th, ??14
Dear Diary,
I am a weapon of the Traveler.
I was born into this world with no memory, no references, no context. Within the first minutes of this new life they gave me a gun and told me kill. And I haven't stopped killing since.
I delved deep into the Lair of the Fallen and Killed their Machine-God. I flew to the Moon and destroyed the alters, relics and monks of a completely alien culture. And then I tunneled to the very heart of the Moon and killed some shackled grotesque giant. That is what haunts me the most.
He was monstrous to look upon, but he was chained and harmless. I eventually, inadvertently, broke his chains as I threw my entire arsenal at his exposed heart and the battle that ensued was no picnic, but still, I fired first. I attacked the helpless, and ultimately, I killed him. I think perhaps he suffered from some sort of mental or physical malady. He had clearly been restrained by his tribe for a reason.
I am stalked by some strange female exo. She is about as vague and difficult to understand as everyone else. But, just like everyone else, she seems impressed by my ability to kill.
So now I am heading to Venus. Because she said I should head to Venus.
No support, no coordination with our assets at the Last City or the Speaker or any other agent of the Traveler. Just me and my ghost, my "little light", off to Venus to face worse things than the chained up disabled relations of strangers.
-a Guardian
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
September 20th, ??14
Dear Diary,
Okay. What the #$% is going on.
Time-bending robot-aliens on tropical Venus?
I really wish they'd tell me what year it is, or at least how long I have been dead. Because despite having no memory of my past life, I obviously retain past knowledge (otherwise I would have had to relearn how to walk and speak again), and part of that knowledge includes a radically different picture of Venus.
Guess I should just accept it.
My exo girlfriend told me these robot-aliens are so evil that they "despise other evil". That statement makes no objective sense. but it makes me wonder; are we the evil it hates? Does it hate the Traveler and his murderous army of the undead? I haven't seen a single civilian anywhere. I haven't see a single innocent human, awoken or exo who I am charged with protecting. I just travel the Solar System leaving a trail of dead in my wake. I am barely a week old and I have murdered tens of thousands.
They gave me a gun and they told me to kill.
-a Guardian
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
September 21st, ??14
Dear Diary,
I went to Mars today.
There is a civilization here of intelligent advanced aliens. They don't appear to have taken Mars from us, instead it seems they came here after it was nothing but ruins. I thought, perhaps, we could talk with them. They are fighting the Vex, same as us. There isn't any immediate reason why our goals could not align.
Even my xenophobic Ghost appeared initially agree that armed confrontation was not a forgone conclusion. But then I landed on Mars and fell right back into my modes operandi.
Rather then open any sort of diplomatic channel we broke into the first Alien ran installation we could find. We hacked into their system and overrode their security codes. When a fast-reaction force responded to this network assault; I killed them all.
I kept killing. I killed the little ones, I killed the big ones, I killed the ones with shields and the ones with jump-jets. Hundreds of them lay dead beneath my shadow.
I killed my way through them and to the Black Garden. I no longer even attempt to make sense of what is going on around me. It is too much. I was before time, or after time, or in an alternate dimension or a mote of dust or something. It doesn't matter. It doesn't change anything.
There were flowers and killer-robots and a giant beating heart and I killed them all. I don't know why. It didn't seem to make any difference when I left the pocket dimension. But it doesn't matter, I don't even try to understand anymore. I know all I need to know. I should have known it all along. It was so obvious.
I died and now I am in hell.
But I think I know a way out.
They gave me a gun and they told me to kill.
And I killed. And I killed. And I killed.
I should have listened. I killed the wrong things. I aimed the gun the wrong way.
They gave me a gun and told me to kill. That is the way out. Not at the enemy's head, but my own.
And now I kill. One. Last. Time.
-a Killer
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
September 22st, ??14
Dear Diary,
I was born today.
