The scribes over at The Collective have not sat still, not that they have any choice. By their very nature, they are obligated to write and so they have. Below are the latest log entries from five more scribes.

The Journal of Yempick Mingal

“I tried to remember something today. A simple thing. A memory just for memory’s sake. I tried to recall the gentle stroke of a summer breeze on my skin. And I almost had it. Almost. But just as my imaginary zephyr curled itself around my body, just as the hairs stood up on the back of my neck, the room darkened and the ventilation fans juddered and ground to a halt. Within a handful of heartbeats, every breath became a struggle.

My chest heaved but it was no use. My lungs burned. A film of sweat coated my brow, trickled down to sting the corners of my eyes. A wave of cold panic surged through me.

But it wasn’t the sudden lack of good air that chilled me to the core. It was something worse than that. Much worse.

I was alone.”

You can read the rest here

Personal log of Noel, disciple of Methuselah

“Oh, the irony of it.

The Collective fail-safe failed, and in ways that no one had anticipated. Of course, they didn’t. Why would the makers of the god-machine worry at all about what the minor characters in our files eat? After all, we aren’t called to change the appetites of the minor characters, only the main characters’ appetites. That’s why we have their files.

These characters aren’t really characters. They are humans, with souls. But since we are given a file about them and since we are to rewrite their lives for the god-machine, they are no more than characters to us.

And the Collective, the god-machine only concerns itself about what the characters in our file do. Each file comes with a security code for that character. We are to program character corrections into each person. The files tell us what corrections to put into their stories. The security code stops us from adding any correction that isn’t in the file. These inputs change them from bad people to good people. We even tell them what foods they are allowed to like.

We no longer eat. Not in a way that our creations would understand. We make up the tastes we want to experience before we take each bite. We set our intentions and voila! We taste beef or a crust of piping hot bakery bread or one of the bitter-sweet spirits from the worlds in the outer regions of the universe.”

You can read the rest here.

Log Entry 00000001 — JM Yellek, Arthropodical Age 16113

“When the pod cracked, I slipped out abdomen first, my legs reaching above me, the gelatinous fluid spilling out below, forming a shallow pool.

I landed easily in the pool, the surface of the dreamscape canvas before me, the transparent jelly still sticking to my body. I scratched away the jelly with my legs. Light flickered dimly around the hovel, revealing prismatic walls as smooth as glass that enclosed the octagonal canvas. From the walls, a thin ledge jutted out like a walkway surrounding the canvas. The ledge formed a larger, circular space where I had landed.

Strings of pods dangled like fruit far above, glowing faintly, spreading ovals of light that morphed and elongated against the smooth walls. All around the God Machine hummed with a whir like a million wings. The vibrations of cracking pods and spilling jelly mixed with the humming as others birthed forth in their own hovels all around me. I felt them skittering across the dreamscape canvases. I felt them, sensed them, all intent on forming the dreams and fantasies required by story, required by all the tales of time.”

You can read the rest here.

The following is an excerpt from the diary of Jetsam Ranter.

“I think I’m going crazy.

No, really, I’m actually losing my mind. I guess that’s to be expected when you spend decades hooked up to a machine that makes your every thought a reality, but I guess I was just kind of hoping for something . . . well, something less horrific.

I wish I could be more specific, but thinking in concrete terms is far too dangerous. Anything I might describe or visualize could take form, and in my current state of agitation and panic, I’d hate to see what shape my thoughts might take.

That’s the funny thing about all of this. There was a time when I had dreams I would have given anything to bring to fruition. Now it’s as easy as thinking them, and there they are. Hell, the only thing I can’t make real is removing myself from this unholy machine.

I’ve tried to think my way out of it—believe me, I’ve tried—but it’s smart. If I picture it exploding, or breaking down, it will project those wishes onto others, deflecting them. It’s even worse if I try to see myself dying or vanishing or . . . or I don’t know.”

You can read the rest here.

Jiao Deg Me

Log Entry 0001

“I don’t know how long I’ve been here. There are so many memories in my head, I don’t know which are my own or those I have created. The only thing I know for sure is my name. I remembered it the last time I woke. It flowed over me like the Embrosis flows through me.

I remember a white room. It was almost too bright to keep your eyes open for long. Around it was seats, I don’t remember how many. People were hooked up to something. The seats? That doesn’t seem right. In the center of the room was a massive object.

I can’t remember what it is. How long have I been here? I open my eyes and close them almost immediately. The horror in front of me just too much to take in at once. Did they move me? I opened my eyes and looked just at my seat. It seemed to be the same one, but it was no longer white.

I caught a glimpse of my hand. Why was it purple? A flash of memory came to me. My own? Bright green-skinned people. Were they my people, or one of the many I had created over the years? Did it matter now?”

You can read the rest here.

As you’ll note, each scribe’s experience is different. Their realities subjectively opposite and as diverse as the planets and galaxies in our universe. Each one tethered to the god-machine, enslaved and forced to feed a supernatural entity with data so it may create life.

So what happens if that data becomes corrupted? What manner of creation will the god-machine spawn as a result?

Enjoy!

Woelf