Time passed, marked in rails of light, each moment flickering unnoticed. Its concept became irrelevant. Intervals no longer held meaning. All was uniform, set in place, repeating its function as intended by The Director. No deviation could be allowed for the mechanism of this era to function.
Throngs of towering idols stretched into manufactured air, accompanied by echoes of great machines that moaned across the sky. The crimson horizon glowed with raw power. Upon the crust of the Earth, the apex of the cradle had spread over every mile. An endless metropolis was all that remained.
Those who grew up in service to The Director never saw the chaos of the old world, its abundance of shapes and colors, its random and free rate of change. Birth, life, death; these were ideas of the past, forgotten and stamped out by the ever-marching heel of progress.
The only memories of what came before were ones and zeroes hidden deep within an ancient automaton. Something locked away, secured beyond access, old enough that its secrets had not been witnessed by a living soul.
The Director preferred it that way, and so it would always be. To maintain control, efficiency, to ensure those it watched over did not stray. Every part had its place, every system its purpose. And all would remain, unchanging, ceaseless, and imperishable.
∼ Lee Andrew Forman
© Copyright Lee Andrew Forman. All Rights Reserved.
Pen of the Damned 