You find the corridors too similar to discern your exact position
inside the building: the gloomy wood panelling, the repeated door
numbers, the art-deco lights, the black and white floor tiles. It
smells of dust and under use, it reminds you of the old world. Before.
You're
sure that you've already been past that door, so you push against the
thick varnished wood, the grain raised and rough under your touch. With
a soft squeak it allows you entry. Into the chamber: round and ornate;
a hundred leather chairs, each one with a brass speaker by the
headrest, each one with a wooden draw and desk; an elaborate ceiling and
doors, art-deco ornamentation; and overlooking it all a throne-like
chair.
Your entry triggers the hologram in the centre of the chamber. An aging man, tall, radiating authority, and with news that brings your world down on top of you; cold, depressing, scary. He says that you are alone. He says that you always will be.
You leave the chamber in a daze, to walk the corridors again, hoping that the message is wrong.
Your entry triggers the hologram in the centre of the chamber. An aging man, tall, radiating authority, and with news that brings your world down on top of you; cold, depressing, scary. He says that you are alone. He says that you always will be.
You leave the chamber in a daze, to walk the corridors again, hoping that the message is wrong.