“We became alchemical gods. Our transmutative success had rendered us evolved. Our evolution had rendered us dangerous. For as we all know – the gods are fickle things.” ~The Memoirs of Doctor Earnest P. Mallory

I didn’t know what else to do. I didn’t have a choice.

I pulled the lever with all my might – full well knowing there was no going back.

As the lever gave, the crunching of metal and shattering of glass created a deafening roar of explosive destruction. A din of chaos against a stormy greyscale horizon erupted as I watched the massive residential section of the rig buckle and slide from the platform, beginning it’s fatal descent to the icy waters below. The sound was horrific and awful. I had never experienced such destruction before, and though the sound of grinding beams clearly dominated the soundscape as the levels imploded upon each other, I imagined I heard a chorus of terror ringing from the confused patients of the residential ward as their lives were violently ripped from them. They had no clue, and they had no chance.

My heart began to race and my mind to panic as my limbs grew anemic and useless. My soul shattered into a thousand fragments – one for each of those helpless patients. My legs grew weak, and my body grew heavy with horror. I toppled to my knees, placing my right palm to the glass wall next to the lever – as if I was somehow reaching out to them – my mind desperate to think that maybe someone, somehow had survived. It was a ridiculous thought, but my conscience had to try. Even if by some miracle someone did survive, they would be a monster now. That’s why I had to do this. I didn’t have a choice.

In a moment, the rest of this rig would begin it’s decent into the ocean, and we’d all be trapped. Even me. But somehow that seemed better than having to face myself everyday for the rest of my life, knowing what I had become capable of – knowing I was responsible for this colossal display of wholesale destruction. This was too much, and it had to end.

~j.d.schofield