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Proctor approached his boss with reluctant urgency. Sir Isaac Newton, seated at a desk cluttered with holographic schematics and ancient alchemical texts, raised his head from his hands. His augmented left ear, sharp as a satellite dish, twitched as it detected his servant’s uneven breathing.

“Speak, Proctor,” Newton commanded, his voice precise, almost mechanical. His organic eye locked onto Proctor while the faint glow of his neural implants danced in the dim light.

Proctor hesitated, wringing his thin hands. Behind Newton, a massive liquid crystal window refracted the amber glow of MMORTIS into shimmering spectrums that painted the room in ghostly colors.

“It’s the survivor, sir. The first man we put into MMORTIS—the one who gave us the key to controlling Thelema.”

“Yes, yes,” Newton replied impatiently, gesturing for him to continue. “What about him?”

“He tried to escape the game world,” Proctor stammered. “He realized there was no exit to the outside. The attempt was streamed live. We suspect English Voodoo. The Cartel… they’re furious.”

Newton leaned back in his chair, his gaze turning toward the glowing prism that hung suspended in the center of the room. Its surface pulsed faintly, each beat a rhythm Newton found hypnotic. He closed his organic eye, letting the hum of his implants resonate with the faint vibrations of the artifact.

“Fools,” Newton muttered. “Do they think a single breach can topple us? The Cartel need not fret.” His fingers traced the edge of the prism, as though drawing power from it.

“They don’t care, sir,” Proctor ventured, his voice trembling. “They want to eliminate the Underclass. No MMORTIS. No players. They believe it’s time for AI to take over.”

Newton’s lips curled into a faint smile. “Ah, the Underclass. They are like lead—dull, inert, without brilliance. Yet lead is the foundation of gold, Proctor. Agape flows only from humanity. AI cannot feel, and therefore it cannot refine Thelema.”

Proctor coughed nervously, his voice dropping. “There’s more. During his escape, the survivor triggered a surge in Agape—a year’s worth in moments.”

Newton froze. The faint whir of his cybernetic systems underscored the heavy silence. “Agape… pure emotional energy. The lifeblood of MMORTIS.” He leaned forward, his augmented ear twitching as though catching some distant signal. “A Magus?”

“We suspect so. He doesn’t know it yet. But… he hasn’t aged a day since we recovered him.”

Newton’s smile deepened, his gaze sharpening. “A Magus or not, this survivor may hold the key to Thelema. The problem becomes the solution.” He turned toward the window, gesturing for Proctor to join him.

“Look,” Newton said, his tone softening to something almost reverent. “Do you see the perfection of it? A world reborn from chaos, refracted through my prism. Some may see a prison; I see efficiency.”

Proctor approached cautiously, suppressing a shudder as his eyes adjusted to the liquid crystal’s glow. Beyond the window lay the sprawling infrastructure of MMORTIS. Pods stretched into the horizon like a sea of stars, each one containing a life suspended in endless digital purgatory.

“Efficiency,” Proctor echoed faintly, though the word caught in his throat. His gaze flicked to Newton, who stood enraptured by the scene.

“The Philosopher’s Stone,” Newton murmured. “Do you know what the alchemists truly sought, Proctor? It was not merely gold. It was perfection. Transcendence. MMORTIS is my Stone, and Agape is the divine fire that transmutes base humanity into pure Thelema.”

Proctor shifted uncomfortably. “And the survivor, sir?”

Newton turned back to him, his organic eye cold and calculating. “Assign our best agent to observe him.”

“Already done, sir. Ana Sognozia.”

Newton’s smile returned. “Ah, the triple agent. Excellent. Wipe his memory. Recreate his reality. And this time, Proctor…”

“Yes, sir?”

“Give him a room with a view.”

Newton returned to the prism, its glow intensifying as his fingers brushed its surface. “Reality, Proctor, is but light bent to our will. And I… I am the lens.” His voice dropped, almost inaudible. “Even shadows obey the laws of light.”

Proctor watched him in uneasy silence, the weight of Newton’s words settling heavily in the air. He dared not speak of the flicker of doubt gnawing at the edges of his mind, the faint sense that this perfect system had a crack, a shadow that Newton’s light could not dissolve. Instead, he bowed slightly and retreated, leaving the man who had transformed the world—and perhaps doomed it—to his alchemical musings.

Behind him, Newton stood, his gaze fixed on the endless rows of pods. To him, they were not prisoners but elements in the grandest experiment of all time.

And in the depths of MMORTIS, the survivor—his Magus, his solution—began to stir.

© Aiwaz 2024