The apocalypse ended not with a bang, but with a sigh. A collective exhalation as the strange energies that had defined an era, the powers that had elevated people to near-gods and monsters to nightmares, simply… vanished. Three days. It had only been three days since the inexplicable cessation, since every, every enhanced being, every creature touched by the apocalypse's unnatural energies, had been stripped bare, reduced to the fragile baseline of mundane humanity.
They called it a celebration. A retreat. The nine members of the Anipoethel's core, Automata's most trusted, his inner circle, had suggested this secluded mountain peak. A place to consolidate, to plan the future of the country of Nisenstin now that the long chaos was seemingly over, the supernatural threats silenced. His cousin, sharp-eyed and pragmatic. His childhood friend, whose loyalty he'd never questioned across decades. His middle school companion, a steady presence through innumerable crises. The others, veterans, faces etched with the shared experiences of over twenty years of battle, their survival a testament to their skill and dedication. He had trusted them. Implicitly.
The mountain air was thin and crisp as evening approached. They feasted simply, a fire crackling against the growing chill. Laughter echoed, sounding strangely thin in the vast emptiness. Then, the wine. He took a customary sip, a gesture of shared relief and victory. But something was wrong. Not the taste, but a creeping numbness, an alien lethargy spreading through his limbs. A drug. Sophisticated, tasteless, odourless. Designed for a system no longer protected by innate resistances or supernatural senses.
Paralysis claimed him swiftly. He remained conscious, a silent observer trapped within his own skull. He could feel the rough texture of the ground as they dragged him, hear the crunch of gravel, see the shifting expressions on their faces as the camaraderie dissolved like smoke.
His cousin was the first to speak, the familiar voice now warped by a sneering malice Automata had never conceived. "How does it feel, Automata? You kind-ass bastard. Always the righteous leader, always so composed." He sauntered closer, his shadow falling over Automata's prone form. He reached down, not to help, but to casually, possessively, grabbed the butt of Automata's childhood friend who stood watching as she spoke "look at him how weak he is now, hehehehe it was too easy".
his cousin continued, "Always wanted to beat you to death, you know. But you were too strong before"
Metal rods glinted in the firelight. Simple, brutal tools for a simplified world.
The first blow landed on his ribs with a sickening thud that resonated deep in his chest. Pain, raw and unfiltered by any defensive ability, exploded through his senses. He watched, locked in his paralyzed body, as they took turns. His middle school friend, face contorted in exertion and something that might have been exhilaration. The veterans, their faces grimly focused, methodically breaking him down. Each impact was a fresh agony, a reminder of his complete powerlessness.
"All your influence, Automata," one grunted, swinging the rod like a club, "all that wealth, the control over Anipoethel, the respect of the country… it's ours now. We decided. Nisenstin needs our leadership."
"Don't worry," another added, his voice smooth, almost reasonable, "we'll take excellent care of your legacy. We'll build upon it. Improve it."
Then her voice, the sound more painful than any physical blow. His childhood friend. Laughter, high and sharp, echoed off the rocks. "Hahahaha! Look at him! Pathetic! Can't even twitch! The great Automata, brought low by a bit of drugged wine and nine determined 'allies'. What a miserable, fitting end."
So, this was always the plan. The realization was a shard of ice in his mind. The years of shared battles, the trust forged in life-or-death situations, the bonds he thought unbreakable… all a long con. A meticulously crafted stage play waiting only for this – the vanishing of the powers, the moment of universal weakness – for the final act. They feared my strength. They coveted my position. They waited for the moment the playing field was leveled. The drug, this remote peak, the timing… it wasn't spontaneous. It was calculated. How? How did I not see the signs? Too focused on the external threats, perhaps. Too trusting of those within. The pain was a raging sea, threatening to drown his consciousness, but the cold burn of betrayal was a sharper agony. He couldn't even flinch.
They were brutally efficient. When they finished, satisfied with their work, they left him. Not dead, not yet. Just broken. A shattered effigy of his former self, sprawled on the cold stone as the sun finally dipped below the horizon, abandoning the peak to the encroaching night.
---
Sunset bled into twilight. The last warmth leeched from his skin, replaced by a deep, penetrating cold. High, thin clouds streaked the darkening sky like strands of grey hair. The wind, sharper now, relentless, bit into his exposed flesh, finding every raw nerve, every open wound. He lay unmoving, not by choice, but by the dictates of shattered vertebrae and severed nerves.
His world was reduced to the patch of rock beneath him, the vast indifferent sky above, and the fixed, sideways view afforded by his one remaining eye. The left socket was a mess of gore and splintered bone. His left leg, a phantom limb aching with an absence that felt more real than the pain. Blood had crusted in some places, sluggishly seeped from others. He was naked, stripped of dignity as well as power. His ears, though torn, still functioned.
They brought him the sounds of his own funeral.
The amplified voice boomed up from the valley city, cradled between mountain walls, its southern pass a dark slash leading to the unseen world beyond.
«REPORTING: The Anipoethel is live. We have an important announcement.»
The city below ignited, a sudden bloom of neon against the deep velvet of night. Towers scraped the sky. The Central Spire, that monument to his own past influence, dominated all, its ten facets blazing.
Nine faces appeared, colossal on the screens. Them. Their faces were studies in curated sorrow. Practiced frowns, glistening eyes. One wept openly, a masterful performance.
The eighth facet remained stark. Just his name, AUTOMATA, in blazing crimson. And beneath it, an image of the smiling ghost in the black suit. His official portrait.
Their voices, dripping synthetic grief, echoed across the mountains. "...today, we have lost Automata... our 8th member... creator..."
"...tragic accident in Sevensky... even technology couldn't save him... only his ashes remained..."
"...amazing person... civilization... remembered eternally..." The hollow words filled the night air.
Then, the sky itself became their propaganda screen with the technology of 2108. Holograms shimmered, vast and bright – fragments of his life. Public triumphs. Carefully chosen moments of 'leadership'. His existence, edited and repackaged into a safe, posthumous legend.
He watched the city mourn. He could picture the crowds gathered in squares, heads bowed. The official statements. The feigned shock and sadness filtering through the populace. Children perhaps crying for the hero 'Automata', a figure already receding into myth. A civic duty of grief, performed for the nine architects of his demise.
My funeral. Staged by my murderers. Watched by me myself.
The city lights began to swim, blurring at the edges of his vision. The cold was bone-deep now, an invasive numbness spreading from his extremities. bodily functions shutting down
as he remembered
"Trust is a coin spent on barren ground, where roots of loyalty are rarely found. If power sleeps, shadows creep, as hidden wolves their harvest reap."
A single, errant drop of moisture tracked down his cheek as he thought in his mind
"only if there was a second chance".
A physiological spasm? The last futile protest of a dying body? Or the distilled essence of cold, hard rage? It ceased to matter.
Darkness flooded his remaining sight, absolute and irreversible.
it was the so-called Destiny, DEATH.