Rows of hooded figures filled pearl-white pews, packed shoulder to shoulder inside a vast chapel held up by thick, dark pillars.
The air was stuffy and warm, filled with the smell of old stone and burning wax from the torches that lit up the walls.
High-set windows showed nothing but the deep night outside.
The gray hoods of the figures rose to sharp points, all bent in the same direction.
At the front, the High Cleric lay prostrated on the stone floor. His long, shrouding robes swallowed him whole, and his folded hands pressed against the floor before his bowed head.
He faced the towering statue at the altar: a monstrous, sooty-black goat crowned with long alabaster horns that curved back like twin, perfect scimitars. The carved eyes of the statue seemed empty.
Just then, the Cleric's voice rose in an empathetic, weary plea, "Should the Will be denied the peak of the climb… may He bless the Godless Souls!"
"MAY HE BLESS THE GODLESS SOULS!" a thousand voices answered as one.
"Should the curse consume our years and birth…" The Cleric shouted louder now, "…may He bless the Godless Souls!"
"MAY HE BLESS THE GODLESS SOULS!"
Slowly, heavily, the High Cleric began to rise.
Standing straight, he spread his arms wide in reverence to the Black Goat.
A different priest silently placed a heavy, ceremonial knife into his open hand.
The High Cleric lifted the knife high, then leveled its tip toward the altar. His other palm pressed flat against the stone before him. His voice cracked into a searing roar, "Let us put our faith to test!"
A chilling sound traveled the length of the chapel, the slick, synchronous release of a thousand blades from their sheaths. Left hands anchored themselves against the pearl-white wood of the pews.
The Cleric looked up. He met the statue's void-like, permanent gaze.
"Oh Great One! Authorize another cycle!"
He struck.
No flinch. The knife tore through the flesh of his palm, lodging deep into the altar stone.
The cascade followed instantly. Every blade fell and split flesh. Blood atomized into a fine spray, staining the pristine marble seats. Crimson quickly pooled, forming rivulets that sought the lowest point. It ran, thin and bright red, collecting in streams. The streams moved, pulling across the stone floor, drawn by the altar.
The Black Goat drank. Its surface, already coal-black, darkened further as arterial veins of flesh red spread upward from the point of contact.
Then, the idol's eyes—those blank, stone sockets—ignited.
…
Ragnar picked up his sweat towel and with a jolt of pain got up from the power lifting bench he'd been using for the first time in his life.
His personal trainer clapped him on the back, "Good job today, Ragnar. If you keep it up, you're gonna see results quickly. Don't forget to get the right amount of protein. I recommend Skyr or Greek yoghurts, no need to buy powder."
The man was fairly muscular, with kind eyes and a welcoming smile.
Ragnar had decided to start a routine at the gym this week. He was finishing his engineering degree in informatics this month and felt like he'd have more time for himself now.
Finished with his routine, he headed to the showers, peeling off his sweaty shirt. His frail frame was visible in the mirror, his stomach showing a skinny-man six-pack.
He looked closer at his reflection before stepping in. His features were soft, and his light blue eyes held a surprisingly gentle look, contrasting slightly with the raw, exposed physique. He was undeniably good-looking, but in a quiet, unassuming way.
Under the hot water, he let his neck-length blonde hair hang loose.
After he finished, he toweled off, gathered his hair into a tight man-bun and put on a change of clean clothes.
Leaving the gym he headed back to the dorms. It was the middle of June, but living in Canada, the temperature was mild, refreshing, especially after a cold shower.
His face didn't look so much refreshed though; he hadn't been able to relax since a long time.
Finishing an engineering degree wasn't really going to bring weight off his shoulders.
He was deep in student debt, and the job market was pretty much dead.
Since young he planned to have a easy life as a programmer and yet he ended up needing to work 8 hours a day at a local pizzeria while studying for his finals.
It was year 2030.
In the late 2020s, a new era of automation overtook everything. As AI technology rapidly improved, the IT sector was hit the hardest. The monster they had created had turned on them.
A year ago, a great strike took place, with millions of people from various industries demanding change.
Lost in thought, Ragnar rounded a corner and walked past a brightly lit government voting advertisement plastered to the side of a bus stop shelter. A woman with neon green hair smiled widely from the poster beneath a banner that read: "A Fair Share For Everyone: VOTE YES."
Ragnar barely spared her a glance.
As his muscles tightened from the workout, a complaint was already running through his head.
'The government is supposed to help those who lost their jobs in the IT sector, but what about those who never had a job in the first place?'
He knew there was nothing he could do. With a few internships and personal projects, he wasn't the least qualified among the graduates, but it didn't seem to matter.
He had sent out dozens of job applications, receiving mostly rejections.
Once, he made it past the first round of interviews, only to lose the position to someone with several years of experience.
Even worse, many of the job postings were fake. Companies listed them to gather resumes and use them to train their AI models.
As he neared the dorms, he gave a few of the students he knew a nod.
"Raggy!" A tall guy with a fresh, if slightly crooked, fade haircut approached him, holding out his fist.
He was Liam, a student of the same faculty, Ragnar's junior. He was impossible to miss in his blaring yellow jacket.
Ragnar met the bump with a grin. "Hey, Liam. You good?"
"Just heading to the final."
"Which final?"
"Prof. Bluebaum's subject."
"Oh, that's a meatgrinder."
"Yea, I heard… alright I need to go."
"Good luck then. See you."
Arriving at the dorms, Ragnar pushed through the heavy glass doors. "Good evening, Ms. Reyes," he called out to the reception desk.
The woman was absorbed in a Korean soap opera, but looked up and smiled widely. "Ragnar! Thank you again for fixing the TV. I swear the management will never get us a new one…"
"No problem at all. Maybe I should stop fixing it so they finally have a reason to buy a change." he said while walking up the stairs.
Up in his room, he sat down at his desk and scrolled through his social media feed.
The latest obsession was the increasing number of strange, alien vehicle sightings.
More and more of these reports were popping up on official radars. Governments had even started to come out with statements, some officials confirming they had evidence of extraterrestrial contact.
Of course, Ragnar was certain that it was all fake. With how advanced AI generation had become, it was borderline impossible to tell the difference between a random, baseless video and something that might contain a sliver of truth.
He even watched a video a few days back claiming that the development of AI was somehow connected to the surge in alien sightings. Perhaps some beings noticed that humans were developing this technology and got interested in us, or wanted to stop us.
Scrolling further, he saw another video with a thumbnail showing a bizarre diagram and the headline, "How Aliens Use Us as Vessels."
Ragnar sighed and closed the app. 'I need to stop watching this stuff before my algorithm breaks. Pretty soon, I'll be getting nothing but alien videos.'
Just then, he received a message from his friend, Arlo.
'-Going to Orange in a sec with a few guys, wanna come?-'
Orange was a popular club where students went to party, or maybe it was more appropriate to call it a rave.
Ragnar stared at the notification, thinking he should probably put in a few more hours on algorithm tasks.
'Ah… in a few years, what will be the things that I remember fondly? Algorithm tasks or a night out with friends?' a simple thought was all the convincing he needed.
He changed into a nice flannel shirt and a fresh pair of shorts, then headed out.
A few minutes later he arrived at a bus stop. A few people were sitting there, glued to their phones. The only person not staring at a screen was the friend he came to meet.
Arlo was a complete opposite of Ragnar—a massive 6'5" guy with big muscles and short dark hair. He was a poetry student, which, to Ragnar, seemed like a much better decision made than IT.
Reaching him, Ragnar grabbed his hand. "Hey. What's up?"
"Nothing much." Arlo replied, "are you going to drink?"
"Oh man… after the last time?"
"Last time?" Arlo had a genuinely confused expression.
"Of course… you don't even remember. Accounting for the fact that more liquid comes out of your mouth than in, you must have drunk a shit ton. How can you hit on girls when you're this drunk?"
"Who said I'm trying to hit on girls?"
"Give me another reason for you to study poetry… you said you wanted to join the military, is poetry going to save your life there?" Ragnar said, looking around. "Where are the others?"
"They said they'll be waiting at the club. I think Derec and his girl are going by car."
A minute later, the bus drove up, its suspension groaning as Arlo stepped on.
They took a four-seater, sitting across each other. Arlo relaxed into the seat, then took out a vape and took a puff.
"Flavor?" Ragnar asked.
"Blueberry bubblegum," Arlo said, holding it out. "Wanna try?"
"No thanks. You know I quit."
"Right." Arlo put the vape away. "So how's your job hunt going?"
"Ah… did you need to go there? It's not going well. I might just join the military with you at this pace."
Arlo gave Ragnar a surprised, and maybe a bit of an expectant look. "That's a new one."
"I even got a membership at the gym."
"Oh? That's good, even if you don't enlist."
As the bus drove onto the old Rome bridge, Ragnar pulled out his phone.
He sighed as he opened his email. He'd been checking it obsessively, hoping for a glimmer of hope from one of the dozens of applications he'd sent out.
He tapped on the inbox, scrolling down, and then stopped. A new email, with a subject line from a company he'd applied to.
"Oh, maybe there's some hope for me," he said, more to himself than to Arlo.
Instead of a typical corporate template, the message opened like a full, standalone web page within his email client—an immediate red flag. He quickly ran a system check. Nothing flagged. The page was clean, just odd.
The text was simple and centered.
"Good evening Ragnar Vault Noir, we are happy to inform you that you have been chosen out of many candidates to be the Representative."
[May luck be with you.]
He stared at the screen confused.
"What is it?" Arlo spoke up, seeing Ragnar's strange reaction.
"Nothing. It's some scam. I'm just not sure how am I getting scammed."
PANG!
Just then, all the passenger heard something. It was a deep, metallic groan, louder and slower than the usual traffic noise. The bus shuddered, and the suspension whined in protest.
A few people glanced up from their screens.
"What the Hellington! Why are we stopping?!" A man in the front row, wearing a cheap, stained tracksuit and a face full of attitude, shouted out loud.
A moment later, the sound came again—this time a high, tearing shriek.
Up ahead, brake lights flashed violently. Cars were stopping, some drivers wildly trying to reverse into the narrow lane.
"What is happening?" Arlo muttered, leaning forward.
Then the panic fully broke. A few passengers in the front row stood up, shouting something unintelligible, then people began to scream.
CRACK!
The bus tilted sharply to the front. Ragnar grabbed the metal pole beside him. Bodies slammed into one another. Phones, water bottles, and bags flew through the air, hitting the roof and the heads of the passengers.
Ragnar saw Arlo instinctively grab the metal rail above his seat, in shock but managing to hold on.
The screams got cut short by a sickening CRUNCH as the first passengers were brutally slammed through the safety glass.
The bus plunged, nosediving into the chasm. Ragnar was slammed against the back of the seat, his teeth rattling, but he clenched the pole for all his life was worth.
Through the cracked front windshield, he saw bodies and the icy black water rushing up to meet them.
Then, out of the blackness below, a deep, swirling crimson poured out.
It pooled and spread, a searing red portal.
The vehicle hit the rift. Everything went silent, and the lights went out.