Author: Anonymous

Date: November 7th, 4679

Subject: "Glassy Eyes"

I have heard tales of the planet Gaia, a world apparently once a hotbed of life. Ancient, towering forest-swamps whipped by mighty winds under a baking sun, perhaps not paradise, but greater than its current state. Separated from its star, it knows heat only from furnaces and engines that churn on to ward off the encroaching void of space. It seems such a fate has been bestowed upon us without warning. The atmosphere falls in great chunks of ice and the sizzling pitter-patter of some unnatural precipitation has begun to come down in an imitation of hail, only for the radiation from the bombs to cycle the liquid into the sky so it may fall again. Yes, for reasons beyond me, there were great bombs that fell from above and caused me many a nasty burn, but I have since recovered from my injuries. I was more concerned for the generators that had been sabotaged by the blasts. Perhaps against better judgement, I made a journey back to the city in search of replacement parts in insulated stashes. Unlike the discord that had dominated my last trip here, the streets were silent and dead. I had on my person at least nine layers and the chill still numbed my arms and legs. It was no wonder the chaos had stopped.

Everything useful had been stripped from their original locations long ago, transported to hidden caches I assumed were controlled by roving gangs and impromptu militias. Coming across one such cache, several bodies lay huddled together. I recognized the icons on their clothes, an old street gang that thought itself to embody pride and brotherhood even as it dealt in bullets and substance. A pitiful empire, not even granted last rites under the eternal night. The most I could do was make use of their remaining property that had thankfully been untouched by the electromagnetic pulse, so at least their contributions would not be in vain. Before me were several overwhelmed heating units, various cans of food, and a crude attempt at rigging a nuclear generator together. Where did they even get fissile material from? Not to worry though, for the remains of this mess were sufficient to repair my own generator even if its mode of power generation differed. I carried these materials back much the same way I did when I first left the city on the eve of the last dusk. A part of me feared another encounter with that foul beast who stole from me my grip and blood, but the nothingness that came put me at ease.

The generator's material had begun to grow brittle from the cold, so I constructed a sarcophagus of scrap metal around the device to trap what heat it would later emit. I clarify that this generator functioned by the gravitational pull of my planet's moon, and if the device was still functional prior to the bombs, then there is evidently still a moon. The repair process proved extremely difficult due to the environment and my admittedly limited knowledge of these devices. I was not looking for a great generator, but rather a good enough one. Hours of trial and error followed until a severe electric shock to my alien finger signaled that the generator was restored. The shock penetrated through my layers and burned me worse than the bombs, I was lucky to be alive! I don't recall what profane curses I muttered in that moment, but at least power was restored to my humble abode.

With power now restored, I could now repair my radio equipment to perhaps find out why in the world the bombs even needed to be deployed to begin with. Having learned from my mistakes with the generator, the process of resurrecting the radio was easier and faster, and I was not electrocuted this time either. I was even able to tune in to a channel of static. And another one, and so on. Nobody was broadcasting anything, until I heard a loud voice and fast music from my speakers: a car commercial was being played. A car commercial? The only useful part of a car out here is its engine to generate power and carbon monoxide to kill myself with. Clearly this was either part of an automated system or somebody was fucking around. Either way, its more amusing than static, so I sought to fill my days listening to ads for entertainment. I was destined to experience advertisement until the cold outside causes the walls to go brittle and fall apart, taking me out of my miserable existence. 

I spent a good day like this, listening to repeated paid sponsorships of this radio station, occasionally interrupted by a terrible attempt at a love song. How naive. I entertained the idea of tracing the origin of the broadcast, but I would much rather they come here to pick me up because I cannot be bothered to go outside anymore. But I must say, I was not actually expecting anyone to come. The temperature outside read -58 degrees Celsius, and the snow was piling down to be hardened into thick ice. Yet clear as day, I heard a knock on the door, so I readied a club just in case and slowly peered out. The young man before me was glassy eyed, his skin was pale and his lips had faded into his face as though buried under snow. He was not unlike the corpses of those gang members I came across recently, a man this close to death deserved somewhere to rest, so I let the ghost in and directed him to the cushions I use as a couch. I don't exactly know what he came here for because he did not say a word, but the poor sod had clearly seen better days. 

I inspected his extremities for frostbite and found only the early stages of it, which perplexed me as this man had clearly been outside in inadequate gear for quite some time. His core body temperature was... room temperature? I had invited an actual walking corpse into my living room, functioning only on pure muscle memory like some extreme form of rigor mortis. But as the de facto man of the house, it was my responsibility to give this strange boy some sort of care for his woes. He ignored any offered canned goods, shook his head when showed hot water or tea, and only settled for a cup of cold water. He was certainly off his rocker, but I suppose zombies don't think right. After many minutes of awkward silence, he finally started muttering about the "mark of the beast". When I asked him to elaborate, he gestured to what remained of my alien fingers and suddenly I knew what he was talking about. It seems whatever stole from my hand stole yet more from my esteemed guest. He told me about a man who romped across the snowy fields, a man brimming with many fingers, many eyeballs, many wings, looking and gazing everywhere at once. Most importantly, he told me this man was free to do as he pleased, the chains of biology broken off. He says the free take as they please, and that nothing can stop them. 

After a while, he got up and said it was time for him to move on. He thanked me for my hospitality and simply walked out the door with no regard for his condition or the terrible state of the weather. I peeked outside and saw him walk twenty paces into the dead, frozen woods, where he collapsed on the ground. I rushed out as quickly as I could to help him, but there was no body. All that remained was the imprint right where he disappeared, just like a ghost. This did not sit right with me, but it was bitterly cold outside and he had clearly already transcended flesh to be so careless. I shut and locked my door, went to my radio station, and once more the sound of Caucasian female pop filled my ears. I knew that whatever fate awaited me could not be worse than whatever had happened to the man who spoke of Freedom and vanished without a trace.

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