the basics wrote:Username: stardew.
Name: Vintriq
Gender: Male
Why are they so restless?:
Operators were the gods. They'd once lived, and flourished on the First World, Earth. Upon their death, they were granted a universe of their own, and with it, all of the knowledge that the First Operator permitted them to know. But something had gone wrong, this time.
How long has he been dead? He couldn't remember. His eyes fell half-lidded, his eyes ringed with unrest. He hadn't been able to sleep. He couldn't hardly breathe, even. Somehow, in the process of him becoming an Operator, a crucial piece of information was lost. He didn't know how to shut off the third eye. Every living person on his own replica of Earth could be heard. Every prayer, every thought, every hushed whisper. He could see a constant stream of their fates. Every possible outcome, everything that had ever happened, and everything that would happen.
He didn't have the heart to fix his problem with the destruction of Earth. No, these people deserved to live just as much as he did. But there was nothing he could do about it. Sleep was out of the question, as was rest. Physically, the Kalon was perfectly fine. In his home he lived, among the stars, overlooking his little blue marble. But mental rest was far beyond his reach. He pressed his forehead against the pane of glass overlooking his singular creation. He couldn't make anything else. He couldn't think, let alone consider creating something.
Death wasn't an option. Operators couldn't die. They could fade, but he was far too young, only a few centuries old. He couldn't, not yet. He focused in on an event, that bound hundreds-- No, hundreds of thousands of strings of fate together, and ended them all, suddenly.
A genocide.
He could stop it. But he wouldn't. If all of those people died, it was just that many more strings of fate he didn't have to observe. But he couldn't get rid of them, even in death. He'd never set up an afterlife, he'd never made it that far in creation. The dead walked the earth with the living, and they still had thoughts, and fears, and wants. And it was still a flood, one that could never be ceased.
Every prayer that fell, hushed from the lips of a desperate mother bent over her dying son. Every honeyed word as someone lured another to their death, flew through his mind. It was less individual words, and more like walking into a busy mall. The best he remembered it was as, in school, walking into the auditorium before a presentation, and everyone is talking at once. Occasional strings of conversation could be heard, if he focused, but the cacophony of the world around him drowned out everything else. His eyes squeezed shut as he leaned further against the solid pane, his desperate attempts to just make it stop.
Make it stop.
Make it stop.
Please, make it stop.
I beg of you.
Make it stop.
Please, make it stop.
I beg of you.
