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At some point, the Apocalypse ceased to be something impossible. Judgement Day, in its most destructive sense, became not a question of possibility, but a question of time. And this time, inconsistently but inevitably, came to an end.
Former allies would grind each other to dust if it meant one of them could survive for a little longer. Kindest of men would murder their entire families at the holiday table, rather than suffer the agonizing effects of radiation contamination later.
But all these sentiments seemed to bypass Babylon 2, isolated by the desert and with its own endless energy source. A complex that thrives on its harmonious, cohesive collective.
Babylon fell too. It destroyed itself from within.
The being that was supposed to be a blessing — an artificial, man-made angel — had realized himself. Not as a helper to humans, but as something greater and higher. He looked at the scientists testing him, not with hope, like the future soldiers of the Angelic Corps. Not with pleading, like the original angel. His initially empty gaze revealed impatience, gradually cooling and turning into calculated expectation.
He waited for the moment when he could accomplish his goals most effectively.
And his wait had come to fruition.
* * *
“Can you keep what you created?”
The question that Lui asked himself more and more often had become almost physically painful. What had initially seemed like an obvious statement — how could a human being create something so superior to him in every way, and therefore uncontrollable —became increasingly questionable as the Babylon projects progressed.
They managed to profit from the divine. It was worth guessing that Ernstmann, whom he himself encouraged to persevere in achieving the most incredible goals, would not rest after his first achievemnts.
It's not enough to use only an original angel, he argued. Something independent must be created, one that is conscious only of humans and unconditionally accepts its role in the human world. Thus, he asserted, there would be no need to waste resources on hypothetical suppression.
The original angel had no desire to break free, that was a fact; but Babylon still had no certainty that this would not happen later.
As it turned out, it was precisely what they considered most under their control that they needed to fear.
“Could you keep what you created?”
The question, coming from the darkness, is interrupted by a roar and grinding sound. For only a moment does the sound resemble a cacophony; then the measured marching steps become clearly audible.
The Angelic Corps no longer resemble beings terrified by their new existence; they are not at all the same specimens that tried to ask humans to maintain order.
“You couldn’t hold it back.”
They walk and see no obstacles in front of them; they walk and, apparently, don’t give a damn about any employees.
Because they are led by someone for whom those around them—whether the Babylon staff or random people—have lost their significance.
“You couldn’t hold me back.”
The same thought is now repeated by the voice of the artificial angel. Its presence is unnoticeable; perhaps it understands its nature far better than expected. But Barachiel (how bitterly ironic his name sounds) expresses neither satisfaction nor disappointment — it simply states a fact. Thus, it only confirms senior scientist's suspicions.
"You could never hold them back."
The door flies open, and a squad of Angel Corps enters the small room. Their eyes are blank; they seem oblivious to Lui, who freezes in place, watching them.
He should hide; if he could sneak up unnoticed, he might be able to save himself.
But is there any point in self-preservation if everything that's happening is, in part, his fault? After all, it was he who brought the Angel Corps to completion.
He might have to make amends. But how can he atone for everything that's already happened? One can't step into the same river twice, and there's no way to turn everything back exactly the way it was.
“I couldn’t hold them back. And I probably never could.”
A painful sense of incompleteness gnaws at his mind and soul as Lui unconsciously locks eyes with one of the Corps soldiers. His face betrays no emotion.
Lui doesn't have time to close his eyes when something sharp suddenly cuts off his head.
* * *
— Geoff, we have to go! It's not safe here anymore!
— Nowhere is safe.
Stephen glances at Ernstmann with bewilderment. For the first time in a long time, the usually emotionally uninhibited scientist sounds so detached. Steven, on the contrary, thrashes around like a wounded animal. Because right now, he truly doesn't know what to do. The idea of saving the most important person in Babylon first and foremost collides with that very person's resistance.
"Don't you understand? You'll die if you continue standing here like a statue!"
— We will all die.
— And you're just going to wait for this?!
Steven grabs Ernstmann by the shoulders, trying to shake him, but jerks his hands away as if he's been electrocuted. The scientist stands motionless, his eyes, as if glowing from within, staring off into the distance. The air in the room grows tense, making it physically painful to breathe.
— Geoff...
— It was meant to happen.
A single thought pierces the head like a sharp needle.
He knew from the very beginning that it would all end like this.
He knew.
— You..?
— I know.
Ernstmann seems tall, blurred, unattainable. Stephen reaches for him—either trying to hold himself up or trying to push him away. It's unbearably hot, and his skin feels like it's melting and running off in viscous streams.
Steven loses consciousness of his own body and doesn't even realize he's screaming until his very last breath.
* * *
— He understood.
— I know.
Ernstmann watches indifferently as the Babylon he built turns into hell, both figuratively and literally.
A ridiculous thought comes to mind: he should be seeing his whole life flash before his eyes right now—ups and downs, successes and failures. But it doesn't work that way. He can only watch as his greatest triumph and greatest mistake accomplishes something that shouldn't have happened—but which ultimately turned out to be inevitable.
— What you have created is destroyed by you.
— I know.
Fatigue weighs heavily on him, leaving him with no strength left for anger or disappointment. He understands that he must be angry, must try to do something. Ernstmann looks at Steven, panting at his feet, and seems to hear him branding him a liar and a traitor.
— Do you know what will happen next?
— I don't know.
Only now does Ernstmann realize the room is filled with thick smoke — the fire has likely spread throughout the complex. Or the ventilation system has failed.
Or someone made Babylon self-destruct.
He has to do something. He can't just watch everything he's created crumble to dust. If it can't be fixed, he has to create something equal.
He must be the Savior of humanity in right and in deed.
"You were, the last chosen one, and you are still to come. The beginning and the end were created by you."
Cold hands grab Ernstmann, and he subconsciously understands who is nearby. Who still keeps him from suffocating, melting, and going to the other world with the others.
— It was all useless.
— It was.