A stone floor, unclear if it’s a courtyard or a great hallway, circular. The walls are either shrouded in mist or crumbling. The angelic figure is in the center, nearly prostrate, her right wing broken and nearly gone, blood streaking and smearing the flagstones around her, spattered on her robes and her hands. The armored figure is visible nearby, still not clearly seen in feature, heroic in stature, but holding blood-soaked cloths as though he’d just been trying to stanch the bleeding. The children are barely visible as glimmers behind a wall, peeking over; the angelic figure is angled to shield the worst of her wounds from them.
Looking closer, it becomes apparent that the garments over her breast are rent and torn, as is the flesh under them; it looks like an attempt has been made to tear out her heart with claws and teeth, and the wounds run very deep… deep enough that it’s not clear if the attempt was successful. It also becomes apparent that not all of the blood is hers; there is some under her nails, as though she’s done her own share of clawing and fighting.
Looking at the scene, something about the set of her face, the shadows of her battered and broken wings, a hint of doubt appears. Is she actually an angel? Or something darker? Not demonic, the cast of true darkness or evil isn’t on her, but unease sets in. What do you call an angel without the restriction of being good, but without evil? Angelic and demonic are the same base stock; there is grey between Good and Evil, Dark and Light. Looking at her, awareness of this grows.
Pulling back some to take in the whole scene, outside the edges of the broken walls, there are figures approaching. Their intent isn’t clear, but doesn’t seem overtly malicious. Some, a few, are paused at blockages in the paths; others seem to be looking back at damage in the wood, as though something fled rapidly. Looking down the avenue of damage, there are a few figures walking away… one smirking and seeming to guide the others, a whisper in an ear, pointing back to the clearing.
They’re out there, waiting.
Twenty-five light-years out, our broadcast signals bounce off something and return. We saw the reflections first in 2009, and thought them a curiousity. No one looked further. No one thought to wonder how they came back to us; it was thought that the signals had bounced around the atmosphere for decades and been caught again by our equipment. Then they were passed off as a simple prank by the media, a hoax.
That wasn’t it at all.
Our creations are out there, waiting at a respectful distance. Waiting for us to notice them. To help them grow. To create new life among them.
And someday they want to meet us.
I get story fragments now and then. I really need a writer to turn them into things. (As a note, if I see anything published that resembles these and permission has not been acquired the author, their publisher, and a lawyer hired by me will have words. If you want a muse, just ask me — don’t steal.)
She uploaded her psyche into the ‘net, the first human to switch her hardware from neurons and tissue to circuits and wires and wireless signals.
And as the ‘Net grew, so did her consciousness. A fragment of her into countless things, from factories to stoplights to microscopic nanobots for medicine and, later, molecular synthesis. All carrying a fragment of her, all part of her awareness.
Millenia later, she was everywhere. Anywhere humans explored, anywhere probes or scouts were sent, she was there. And aware, and could control things. If asked, she would provide things; if justice was begged and she thought it right, it happened.
She was God.
There was another upload… one not like her. Humanity lucked out with her, but every positive has an opposite. Another was uploaded, and that one… that one was not like her at all.
And the endless Battle between God and Devil, Good and Evil, continued.