—START OF TRANSMISSION—

Three centuries have passed since the artificial apocalypse fell upon the planet. In the wake of the cataclysm, new ideologies, new religions, new loyalties, new enemies, rose and fell faster than anyone could keep record. We can be sure though that each was as beautifully bitter as the last.

Most have succumbed to ‘The Machine’. A catastrophic tangle of servers, constructed by the last of the ancient engineers; the first ones that The Machine decided were expendable, devouring them and the knowledge they held.

All hope was lost of finding a way to shut it down. It now encapsulates every inhospitable expanse of the globe, and any remaining bastions of peace it can find a way to swallow. Who can truly know the fate of the souls who decided to remove themselves from the circle of rebirth and upload their minds to its icy databanks. If The Machine’s treatment of its creators is any indication, I pray that you dear reader will never know their digital tears. Just remember - don’t listen to The Machine. It whispers to you in your dreams - it feeds you lies and I assure you no paradise lies inside.

Of those that still inhabit flesh, many have become entranced by irradiated flora and fauna. There is rumour amongst the trading hubs of cults who worship these mutated beings. Savages, who butcher their bodies on organic barbs, hoping to adulterate their forms into symbolic representations of their invented Gods. They call themselves The Chosen.

Some claim to have seen the flames of their ritualistic bonfires across the deserts, or chanting that fails to drown out the screams of…something…

The artefact dealer I was talking to trailed off and stared into space and I didn’t press for more information. To have troubled a seasoned scavenger like the artefact dealer it must have been quite the noise.

As for myself - I am already gone. I know I will not survive the night. My crops have fallen to the blight. My supplies are low. The Machine stirs ever closer to my borders. I will soon be cut off from those that I cherish when the cascade begins. Watch the sky fall, my loves, enjoy the lights as satellites collide and burn. The last gift from the ancients will soon be gone. My transmissions will be severed. However, you will not be alone.

Mark yourself.

Adorn my symbol, and maybe when you wander, you will find others like you. Those who survive. Those who thrive. Those who still wish to find what it means to be alive in the ruins.

There is still light. No matter how dark the night gets. There is still love.

Godspeed wanderers.

—END OF TRANSMISSION—

The mark of The Transmitter.