It was hard.
In his last few years as a professional, he had handled large projects with hundreds of variables. But this was a monster far beyond any of that. It was like he was doing the jobs of tens of departments and Fundamentalists all by himself.
He completed the tasks of a Tubular Fundamentalist, Whistlemeister, Steamwright, Valve keeper, Fuse Handler, Calibration clerk, Coolant chemist, Bellows operator, Pressure regulator, Modulation Maestro, and maybe a few more—all at once.
Initially, he meticulously fine-tuned each alteration down to the smallest detail. That was, until Esther's impatient shout forced him to pick up the pace. As he gained a bit of familiarity, he soon discovered a rhythm—a cadence that allowed him to engage multiple keys on that otherworldly piano simultaneously without many missteps.
He started with domains he was expert in, but the blue sand in the hourglass she had imagined on top of the piano trickled down a little too fast for his liking. So he branched out and tuned whatever he encountered.
There was no way he was proficient at all the aforementioned tasks, so he did what he was best at. Finding a balance. He fixed and created changes in the settings of the station to the point where it was a good enough estimation.
When he was out of his depth, he guessed. Assigned whatever made the most sense. And to be fair, this Vision that Esther was operating was far more 'magical' than he gave it credit for. Some of his changes made no physical sense, but she always managed to find a 'personality' for the device such that the contraptions themselves agreed with the change.
Esther knew what she was doing. She guided his fingers to the keys that represented the desired part of the station and smoothed his jumbled orders into something that made sense to the entity—adapting to everything he managed to throw at it.
However, it wasn't all smooth sailing.
The whole station mimicked and radiated Esther's nervousness, and it didn't help. He was already feeling it through their direct connection—more anxiety from all the personalities in the station only served to crack him down further.
He had never even met this Apostle, but a dreadful picture had taken root in his mind.
However, besides the nervousness, there was hope in those same strands. Hope that things will work out.
Vern could feel it, too. The process was on the brink of completion. They had already finished modifying the station for their specific needs. On Esther's demands, he had ensured the output sound would be modulated to cover maximum distance, not to be more coherent.
Apparently, her mother wasn't a walking decoder of Steamscript sounds. Who could've guessed? That was to say, they didn't need their message to make sense. It just had to reach its destination. Esther was confident that her mother could easily trace back the source of the sound stream from that.
This was great news. He had been worried about the time it'd take the Station Clerks of Northern Senn Empire to forward the message to her mother. This completely solved that problem.
To make it easier for their recipient to find the source, he had gone above and beyond, setting up the whistles so that they relayed the message as a stream that emitted continuously—not something sent in one short burst.
He had done the math.
Northern Senn Empire was about an overnight trip away by train, which equated to something around five hundred Kilometers. With the accelerated speed of sound paired with its concentration and specifically chosen height in the air, it shouldn't take more than three minutes for their message to reach its destination in the worst case.
This estimate assumed that Esther wasn't doing something special to the signal on her own end, which she obviously did, but she wasn't willing to tell him anything about it. It was apparently some family secret that made this whole unorthodox communication even possible.
Still, he had made sure to let the backup generator churn just enough power to keep up the whistle for that long with a little to spare in case of unexpected delays.
Only if there was actual steam coming into the station instead of this makeshift energy generated out of forced mechanical movements, he thought. He could have overloaded the whistles to transmit the message even faster.
But he shook his head. These were the limitations he had to work with. No amount of hoping or pleading would change that. So he continued to perform a piece on the piano with her palms on top of his, the melody giving this all a passionate atmosphere.
The preparations were almost complete. The pressure in some of the chambers just had to reach a threshold before they were ready to send off the signal. He had taken care of most things.
"Just a little more." she said, her voice lethargic.
He interrupted her with a shake of his head, "Shh."
She was getting wearier by the second, and any kind of communication was detrimental. This had really taken a toll on her. She almost seemed as tired as she was when he had first met her just a while ago—worse even.
With another press of the key on the piano, he synergized with one of the typewriters. Its purpose was to write 'Help, Mother' onto the recording pipes. Its personality was adamant, too. Even if Esther's mother could not decode the text, they still had to initiate the transmission of the message somewhere.
Soon, he felt the pneumatic tubes record these keystrokes and forward them to the encoder that warped it into something illegible before it coursed through one of the channels in the pipes. Cogs spun into life, gears meshed and unmeshed, directing the air's flow through convoluted pipes. Here, a series of modulators received the obscure sequence in a chamber arrayed with dials and meters.
Vern couldn't see it, but he sensed it—the ethereal tangle of air, steam, and signal twisting together, guided by invisible hands of calibrated machinery. Each turn of a gear and each flick of a valve seemed a purposeful gesture, steering the chaos toward order.
The hum of energy generators pulsed in the background, a heartbeat that gave life to the entire system. As the message moved, a choir of Steamscript whistles began to warm, the steam within them simmering, poised for utterance. Gauges marked the climb of pressure, needles dancing in anticipation.
The message, now a coded symphony of sound, erupted through vents, cascading upwards into a labyrinthine network of bronze pipes that stretched across the station's height. Finally, with a release as controlled as it was powerful, the northern Steamscript whistle unleashed with purpose.
WENGGGG
It was out there—borne upon the wind, carried by the ether, awaiting a listening ear.
The palms that were gently guiding him until now clutched his hands harder than ever as she shouted with unmarked joy in her voice, "Vern! WE DID IT! It actually worked! How long—"
But her words cut off in the middle as he felt a weight settle down on his shoulder.
.
.
.
Even her mental image had collapsed on him. She really had overdone herself.
"Yes, we did," he murmured back.
He was still doubtful about their chances, but it was starting to look promising. If Esther's confidence wasn't unfounded, they just had to survive the next few minutes, and all the problems would soon solve themselves. The corner of his lips curled upwards as he looked at her beautiful face in his peripheral vision.
The blue glow reflecting off of her red hair gave her face a complex shade that suited her soft features. A little too beautiful. A little too—
TANGG
Esther jolted awake as a pained expression quickly overshadowed her surprise.
This wasn't a sound from one of the Station's components. It was from the piano. The piano, which had one of its strings snapped.
TANGGG
Before he could react, the discordant sound rang again—matched by the snapping of another string.
He inhaled a sharp breath, suppressing the acute pain that emerged out of nowhere.
"Ahh," a groan escaped her mouth as she leaned onto the piano, gasping for breath.
This was getting worse. Something was wrong with the piano.
No. Not the piano. It is the Essence Strands. Did she lose control of them due to fatigue?
But her face was visibly perplexed while being in equal parts pain. She wasn't expecting this at all. Then, what was going on?
TANGG
Another strand flew out of the piano and rebounded with great strength as it soon disintegrated into nothingness. That 'vein' was lost.
He barely controlled himself and managed to not squeeze her palms back from the pain that erupted out of nowhere in his head.
Something was wrong.
More and more strands began to wobble as another one bit the dust, almost making him see dark with the sharp stabbing ache it brought him.
Esther wasn't doing any better. Her groans were only getting worse, and she began to convulse.
Fuck. Blast it all. Why now?
He had to do something.
Patting her back like he had seen some doctors do to their patients in pain, he urged, "Esther, we need to leave!"
She responded violently, "No! If I—we don't defend these strands, we're doomed. Someone is envisioning changes in the station, and most strands are only holding up because we're Observing them actively. We—AHHH!"
"UGH!!"
TANGGG
TANG
TANGG
Another bunch of strands fractured abruptly as both of them screamed.
.
.
.
No. This wasn't sustainable.
"Esther. If we stay in here, we'll die from the pain alone. Please, let's just exit. We have already sent the message. It's time to go—these strands don't need to persist."
"No! You don't understand. They're attacking the station, and we'll be buried alive if it collapses on us. Holding onto these strands is our best bet at avoiding that. We're—UHH! AHH!" her hoarse screams were soon drowned out by the dissonant snaps as, one after another, the keys on the piano dimmed—losing their blue glow.
"Esther, shut up! I might be able to handle it for a while, but you're in no condition. Let's get out."
"But—"
"Esther! Trust me. We have bigger problems outside than to handle this."
"…"
Willing for the imaginary world to fade, he waited. Just when he was ready to switch his approach and try coaxing her instead, the piano disappeared, and he felt all his senses turn empty for a second.
In the next instant, he felt warmth on his hand. The real kind.
Opening his eyes, he first settled the enervated Esther to the back of her chair. She took deep breaths, massaging her forehead.
But Vern was already onto his next move. He quickly surveyed his surroundings and wasn't surprised to see the battered and disarrayed state of the room. What did surprise him, however, was the three bloody or charred bodies scattered around the room.
Holding his hand over his nose, he thought, Were these the Apostles?
.
.
.
No, that can't be. There is no way Ambrose alone, or even with Cera—with or without her new powers could have taken down someone even Esther was afraid of.
They had to be the Apostle's underlings or something. It was great that Ambrose and Cera handled them, or he wouldn't have even flinched before his neck was chopped off cleanly.
But then he noticed something weird. Neither of his two companions were looking at him. They were facing away—focused on something above them.
"Cera, Ambrose, what is happening?"
When they didn't respond, Vern followed their gaze and looked up at the maze of gears, his eyes narrowing on a strange atmospheric disturbance above him. In the dark ceiling, a golden glow appeared.
The glowing machinery's constant clanking and hissing slowed, then gradually quieted to a surreal silence. Even the air felt still, as if the very particles had ceased their restless dance.
Through the station's thick concrete and metal layers, a golden light began to pierce—a light that didn't obey the laws of architecture or material. It was a concentrated beam, a cylinder of illumination that broke through the floors and the walls.
The light expanded, and for a moment, Vern felt as though he was standing at the bottom of an impossibly long well, the walls of which were vanishing in slow spirals.
The machinery in this newly carved tunnel didn't just break or shatter; it seemed to unravel, its constituent parts drifting away like dandelion seeds in the wind. Steel turned to mist, bolts, and nuts floating upward like wayward balloons. The destructive process was eerily quiet, leaving a straight line of emptiness that connected Vern directly to the source of the light above.
Hovering at the other end of this emptiness was a figure, majestic in a way Vern had never before witnessed. An intricately designed clergy robe framed his form, punctuated by ethereal runes. A soft halo hovered above his head, its radiant glow contrasting sharply with the absolute, unsettling quiet he had imposed on their world.
Vern felt his breath catch in his throat. It was as if the man's presence alone emanated some kind of pressure, denying him free thought.
What was he supposed to do now? It hadn't been enough time for Esther's mother to get their message, and she herself was still out cold.
That's when a booming voice resounded, "Foolish child. No one is coming to save you. Surrender yourself, or I'll unravel your very Essence. A shattered vessel has its uses, too, you know?"
Vern's heart sank as he sensed the meaning of his words. Did the trans—
Then suddenly, the radiant man waved his hand, and multiple golden lights appeared on the ceiling. To Vern's chagrin, one of the lights was actually right above the insensate Esther.
Hastily dragging her chair out of the path of the light, he witnessed the same process yet again. The steel beams creaked under the forced yet natural transformation as everything gave way for the holes, and Esther convulsed out of nowhere, pain clear in her unconscious visage as her body shook with light tremors.
This process is destroying her strands and somehow causing a backlash. Is she connected to the strands even outside Thought Synergy?
This…
He didn't understand. He couldn't fathom how these two completely disparate schools of thought interacted—Lightvein and this Golden unraveling.
Above, the station peeled away like wet paper, layer by layer, revealing a sky he didn't recognize. There, a golden hemispherical canopy blocked out the stars beyond.
But there was a peculiar point in the golden dome. Radiant particles congregated around it as golden ripples exploded out of the center incessantly.
This…
The hollow echo of his heartbeat drowned out Esther's soft moans of pain as he clenched his fists so hard his nails dug into the flesh. They were doomed.
This golden dome was…blocking their distress signal.
It was hard.
In his last few years as a professional, he had handled large projects with hundreds of variables. But this was a monster far beyond any of that. It was like he was doing the jobs of tens of departments and Fundamentalists all by himself.
He completed the tasks of a Tubular Fundamentalist, Whistlemeister, Steamwright, Valve keeper, Fuse Handler, Calibration clerk, Coolant chemist, Bellows operator, Pressure regulator, Modulation Maestro, and maybe a few more—all at once.
Initially, he meticulously fine-tuned each alteration down to the smallest detail. That was, until Esther's impatient shout forced him to pick up the pace. As he gained a bit of familiarity, he soon discovered a rhythm—a cadence that allowed him to engage multiple keys on that otherworldly piano simultaneously without many missteps.
He started with domains he was expert in, but the blue sand in the hourglass she had imagined on top of the piano trickled down a little too fast for his liking. So he branched out and tuned whatever he encountered.
There was no way he was proficient at all the aforementioned tasks, so he did what he was best at. Finding a balance. He fixed and created changes in the settings of the station to the point where it was a good enough estimation.
When he was out of his depth, he guessed. Assigned whatever made the most sense. And to be fair, this Vision that Esther was operating was far more 'magical' than he gave it credit for. Some of his changes made no physical sense, but she always managed to find a 'personality' for the device such that the contraptions themselves agreed with the change.
Esther knew what she was doing. She guided his fingers to the keys that represented the desired part of the station and smoothed his jumbled orders into something that made sense to the entity—adapting to everything he managed to throw at it.
However, it wasn't all smooth sailing.
The whole station mimicked and radiated Esther's nervousness, and it didn't help. He was already feeling it through their direct connection—more anxiety from all the personalities in the station only served to crack him down further.
He had never even met this Apostle, but a dreadful picture had taken root in his mind.
However, besides the nervousness, there was hope in those same strands. Hope that things will work out.
Vern could feel it, too. The process was on the brink of completion. They had already finished modifying the station for their specific needs. On Esther's demands, he had ensured the output sound would be modulated to cover maximum distance, not to be more coherent.
Apparently, her mother wasn't a walking decoder of Steamscript sounds. Who could've guessed? That was to say, they didn't need their message to make sense. It just had to reach its destination. Esther was confident that her mother could easily trace back the source of the sound stream from that.
This was great news. He had been worried about the time it'd take the Station Clerks of Northern Senn Empire to forward the message to her mother. This completely solved that problem.
To make it easier for their recipient to find the source, he had gone above and beyond, setting up the whistles so that they relayed the message as a stream that emitted continuously—not something sent in one short burst.
He had done the math.
Northern Senn Empire was about an overnight trip away by train, which equated to something around five hundred Kilometers. With the accelerated speed of sound paired with its concentration and specifically chosen height in the air, it shouldn't take more than three minutes for their message to reach its destination in the worst case.
This estimate assumed that Esther wasn't doing something special to the signal on her own end, which she obviously did, but she wasn't willing to tell him anything about it. It was apparently some family secret that made this whole unorthodox communication even possible.
Still, he had made sure to let the backup generator churn just enough power to keep up the whistle for that long with a little to spare in case of unexpected delays.
Only if there was actual steam coming into the station instead of this makeshift energy generated out of forced mechanical movements, he thought. He could have overloaded the whistles to transmit the message even faster.
But he shook his head. These were the limitations he had to work with. No amount of hoping or pleading would change that. So he continued to perform a piece on the piano with her palms on top of his, the melody giving this all a passionate atmosphere.
The preparations were almost complete. The pressure in some of the chambers just had to reach a threshold before they were ready to send off the signal. He had taken care of most things.
"Just a little more." she said, her voice lethargic.
He interrupted her with a shake of his head, "Shh."
She was getting wearier by the second, and any kind of communication was detrimental. This had really taken a toll on her. She almost seemed as tired as she was when he had first met her just a while ago—worse even.
With another press of the key on the piano, he synergized with one of the typewriters. Its purpose was to write 'Help, Mother' onto the recording pipes. Its personality was adamant, too. Even if Esther's mother could not decode the text, they still had to initiate the transmission of the message somewhere.
Soon, he felt the pneumatic tubes record these keystrokes and forward them to the encoder that warped it into something illegible before it coursed through one of the channels in the pipes. Cogs spun into life, gears meshed and unmeshed, directing the air's flow through convoluted pipes. Here, a series of modulators received the obscure sequence in a chamber arrayed with dials and meters.
Vern couldn't see it, but he sensed it—the ethereal tangle of air, steam, and signal twisting together, guided by invisible hands of calibrated machinery. Each turn of a gear and each flick of a valve seemed a purposeful gesture, steering the chaos toward order.
The hum of energy generators pulsed in the background, a heartbeat that gave life to the entire system. As the message moved, a choir of Steamscript whistles began to warm, the steam within them simmering, poised for utterance. Gauges marked the climb of pressure, needles dancing in anticipation.
The message, now a coded symphony of sound, erupted through vents, cascading upwards into a labyrinthine network of bronze pipes that stretched across the station's height. Finally, with a release as controlled as it was powerful, the northern Steamscript whistle unleashed with purpose.
WENGGGG
It was out there—borne upon the wind, carried by the ether, awaiting a listening ear.
The palms that were gently guiding him until now clutched his hands harder than ever as she shouted with unmarked joy in her voice, "Vern! WE DID IT! It actually worked! How long—"
But her words cut off in the middle as he felt a weight settle down on his shoulder.
.
.
.
Even her mental image had collapsed on him. She really had overdone herself.
"Yes, we did," he murmured back.
He was still doubtful about their chances, but it was starting to look promising. If Esther's confidence wasn't unfounded, they just had to survive the next few minutes, and all the problems would soon solve themselves. The corner of his lips curled upwards as he looked at her beautiful face in his peripheral vision.
The blue glow reflecting off of her red hair gave her face a complex shade that suited her soft features. A little too beautiful. A little too—
TANGG
Esther jolted awake as a pained expression quickly overshadowed her surprise.
This wasn't a sound from one of the Station's components. It was from the piano. The piano, which had one of its strings snapped.
TANGGG
Before he could react, the discordant sound rang again—matched by the snapping of another string.
He inhaled a sharp breath, suppressing the acute pain that emerged out of nowhere.
"Ahh," a groan escaped her mouth as she leaned onto the piano, gasping for breath.
This was getting worse. Something was wrong with the piano.
No. Not the piano. It is the Essence Strands. Did she lose control of them due to fatigue?
But her face was visibly perplexed while being in equal parts pain. She wasn't expecting this at all. Then, what was going on?
TANGG
Another strand flew out of the piano and rebounded with great strength as it soon disintegrated into nothingness. That 'vein' was lost.
He barely controlled himself and managed to not squeeze her palms back from the pain that erupted out of nowhere in his head.
Something was wrong.
More and more strands began to wobble as another one bit the dust, almost making him see dark with the sharp stabbing ache it brought him.
Esther wasn't doing any better. Her groans were only getting worse, and she began to convulse.
Fuck. Blast it all. Why now?
He had to do something.
Patting her back like he had seen some doctors do to their patients in pain, he urged, "Esther, we need to leave!"
She responded violently, "No! If I—we don't defend these strands, we're doomed. Someone is envisioning changes in the station, and most strands are only holding up because we're Observing them actively. We—AHHH!"
"UGH!!"
TANGGG
TANG
TANGG
Another bunch of strands fractured abruptly as both of them screamed.
.
.
.
No. This wasn't sustainable.
"Esther. If we stay in here, we'll die from the pain alone. Please, let's just exit. We have already sent the message. It's time to go—these strands don't need to persist."
"No! You don't understand. They're attacking the station, and we'll be buried alive if it collapses on us. Holding onto these strands is our best bet at avoiding that. We're—UHH! AHH!" her hoarse screams were soon drowned out by the dissonant snaps as, one after another, the keys on the piano dimmed—losing their blue glow.
"Esther, shut up! I might be able to handle it for a while, but you're in no condition. Let's get out."
"But—"
"Esther! Trust me. We have bigger problems outside than to handle this."
"…"
Willing for the imaginary world to fade, he waited. Just when he was ready to switch his approach and try coaxing her instead, the piano disappeared, and he felt all his senses turn empty for a second.
In the next instant, he felt warmth on his hand. The real kind.
Opening his eyes, he first settled the enervated Esther to the back of her chair. She took deep breaths, massaging her forehead.
But Vern was already onto his next move. He quickly surveyed his surroundings and wasn't surprised to see the battered and disarrayed state of the room. What did surprise him, however, was the three bloody or charred bodies scattered around the room.
Holding his hand over his nose, he thought, Were these the Apostles?
.
.
.
No, that can't be. There is no way Ambrose alone, or even with Cera—with or without her new powers could have taken down someone even Esther was afraid of.
They had to be the Apostle's underlings or something. It was great that Ambrose and Cera handled them, or he wouldn't have even flinched before his neck was chopped off cleanly.
But then he noticed something weird. Neither of his two companions were looking at him. They were facing away—focused on something above them.
"Cera, Ambrose, what is happening?"
When they didn't respond, Vern followed their gaze and looked up at the maze of gears, his eyes narrowing on a strange atmospheric disturbance above him. In the dark ceiling, a golden glow appeared.
The glowing machinery's constant clanking and hissing slowed, then gradually quieted to a surreal silence. Even the air felt still, as if the very particles had ceased their restless dance.
Through the station's thick concrete and metal layers, a golden light began to pierce—a light that didn't obey the laws of architecture or material. It was a concentrated beam, a cylinder of illumination that broke through the floors and the walls.
The light expanded, and for a moment, Vern felt as though he was standing at the bottom of an impossibly long well, the walls of which were vanishing in slow spirals.
The machinery in this newly carved tunnel didn't just break or shatter; it seemed to unravel, its constituent parts drifting away like dandelion seeds in the wind. Steel turned to mist, bolts, and nuts floating upward like wayward balloons. The destructive process was eerily quiet, leaving a straight line of emptiness that connected Vern directly to the source of the light above.
Hovering at the other end of this emptiness was a figure, majestic in a way Vern had never before witnessed. An intricately designed clergy robe framed his form, punctuated by ethereal runes. A soft halo hovered above his head, its radiant glow contrasting sharply with the absolute, unsettling quiet he had imposed on their world.
Vern felt his breath catch in his throat. It was as if the man's presence alone emanated some kind of pressure, denying him free thought.
What was he supposed to do now? It hadn't been enough time for Esther's mother to get their message, and she herself was still out cold.
That's when a booming voice resounded, "Foolish child. No one is coming to save you. Surrender yourself, or I'll unravel your very Essence. A shattered vessel has its uses, too, you know?"
Vern's heart sank as he sensed the meaning of his words. Did the trans—
Then suddenly, the radiant man waved his hand, and multiple golden lights appeared on the ceiling. To Vern's chagrin, one of the lights was actually right above the insensate Esther.
Hastily dragging her chair out of the path of the light, he witnessed the same process yet again. The steel beams creaked under the forced yet natural transformation as everything gave way for the holes, and Esther convulsed out of nowhere, pain clear in her unconscious visage as her body shook with light tremors.
This process is destroying her strands and somehow causing a backlash. Is she connected to the strands even outside Thought Synergy?
This…
He didn't understand. He couldn't fathom how these two completely disparate schools of thought interacted—Lightvein and this Golden unraveling.
Above, the station peeled away like wet paper, layer by layer, revealing a sky he didn't recognize. There, a golden hemispherical canopy blocked out the stars beyond.
But there was a peculiar point in the golden dome. Radiant particles congregated around it as golden ripples exploded out of the center incessantly.
This…
The hollow echo of his heartbeat drowned out Esther's soft moans of pain as he clenched his fists so hard his nails dug into the flesh. They were doomed.
This golden dome was…blocking their distress signal.
