Previously on Survive The Island…
The explosion at the waterfall changed everything. Andrea is gone—sacrificed in a radiant act of defiance—and Jordan, broken and paralyzed, lies in the rubble as blue fungus inches toward him. In the golden pool below, Chelsea, Claudia, Jim, and Mayo emerge reforged by light, visions, and truth. The island is bleeding, but not yet dead—and the roots call them to act.
In the jungle, Jill wrestles with her purpose as Cowin and Andrew pull her toward something newly awakened—toward Bryan. He waits outside the bunker like a patient god, the creature beside him monstrous and loyal. Boon follows, steady and haunted.
Inside the bunker, Mike rescues Ian just in time. Together they descend into a forgotten lab, where glass tubes hum and vents whisper secrets. Ian senses the island’s next threshold. Below them… something pulls.
At the lighthouse altar, Graham chooses escape—but Mayoli doesn’t follow. Peter claims her arm, her purpose, her silence. He is no longer just a man. He is something reborn—and dangerous.
And in the crater, Michelle strikes. But the Creator endures, offering her a choice: abandon the war and walk away.
Every player now stands at a crossroad.
The island watches.
And waits.
Jump to:
Michelle
Jill, Boon, Cowin & Andrew
Graham
Peter & Mayoli
Jordan, Jim, Claudia & Mayo
Bryan
Mike & Ian
Chelsea
Part 1: A Beacon Burning Alone
(Michelle)
You hover.
Suspended in light that doesn’t warm, in air that doesn’t breathe. Beneath you, the crater pulses—no longer a wound, but a vessel. A sea of slow blue, glowing like veins under frozen skin. The Bloodwood is gone. Not quiet—absent. You feel its lack like phantom roots, like breath you forgot how to hold.
You tried. You called its name. Raised its voice. You screamed into the earth, and the island screamed back.
But no one came.
Not Jill.
Not Chelsea.
Not even the roots.
Whatever once tied you to the island is broken, severed in the instant you fell. And now there’s only stillness. Cold. Whole. Empty.
You did what they would not, the voice says, soft and vast and inside your bones. You saw through the chaos. You saw that the island devours what it claims to protect.
You want to argue. You want to shout liar, parasite, coward. But the words don’t rise. They aren’t gone—they just feel small now. Unusable.
So you let go.
That’s all the choice was.
And now, this is what you are.
When your feet touch ground, it doesn’t surprise you. The platform rises beneath you like it’s always been there—blue-lit stone, circling outward like a ripple frozen in time. At its center: a sigil you’ve never seen, but understand without needing to ask.
You exhale. Not from effort. Just memory.
Your body remembers how to breathe, even if you no longer need to.
You lift your hand. It glows. White-blue filaments thread through your skin like circuitry—elegant, unshaking. You flex your fingers, and the light responds. Not with warmth.
With structure.
With obedience.
You don’t tremble.
You couldn’t if you tried.
You see clearly now, the voice says, from within you. The island never loved you. It only used you.
You search for the heat that once held you. The Bloodwood’s embrace, its rooted warmth. But you feel only silence. You remember how it made you feel—chosen. Sacred. Seen.
But when you needed it most—when you fell alone into the crater—it didn’t catch you.
He did.
And now the silence in your chest is not empty.
It is arranged.
Structured.
Waiting.
The crater pulses with fungal light. Blue tendrils creep across the broken stone, weaving over the scorched remnants of your final strike. You thought it had failed. But it wasn’t failure.
It was activation.
This is not the end of something.
It’s the next phase.
You close your eyes.
And you feel them.
Not faces. Not voices. Signals.
Bryan, walking away from the bunker ruins. Something enormous trailing him—no longer following, but bonded.
Peter, standing in the lighthouse. Calm. Persuasive. Corrupting Mayoli without raising his voice.
And Jordan—dim. Flickering. Lost beneath the waterfall, almost gone. But not yet.
They’re all pieces of what’s to come.
Still choosing. Still pretending they have time.
But you can feel the pull—a soft magnetic tug, all of them drawn back toward the crater. The center. The design.
You’re stronger now, the voice says. Not because of me. Because you stopped waiting to be saved.
The words slice. Because they’re true.
You chose your own path. And now, you can choose theirs.
The circle beneath you glows brighter. The air hums around your ears—not as threat, but as signal. The Door isn’t open yet.
But it will be.
And you will be ready.
You step forward—light humming in your bones—and for a moment, the island watches. It feels your choice. Feels what it could not stop.
You’re not its vessel anymore.
You’re his weapon.
And you still matter.
Just not in the way you hoped you would.
Email me your decision at mike.hamilton2010@gmail.com
Michelle’s Options:
- Stand Watch at the Crater: Do what the Creator asked. Defend the wound until the island is silenced and the Door is ready to open.
- Go to Jordan: He’s nearby, and weak. Bring him here to be healed—or changed. You may be the only one who can still reach him.
- Burn the Bloodwood Tree: It failed you. It chose others. Travel to the tree and destroy it so the island can no longer fight back.
- Break What You’ve Become: Try to find the fracture within this power. Undo your decision. Sabotage the crater from within—before it’s too late.
Part 2: The Bloodwood’s War
(Jill, Boon, Cowin & Andrew)
Jill
The jungle clings to you like breath held too long. Cowin moves just ahead, clearing a path with sheer force of will. Andrew flanks him, sharp and scanning, as if bracing for whatever waits. Boon trails a step behind, favoring his side, glancing your way but saying nothing.
None of you speak.
You’re not lost. But you’re not sure you’re going the right way either. The cry you felt back there—deep and full of pain—still echoes under your ribs. Not a scream of rage. Not fear.
Loss.
You knew the shape of it before anyone spoke a word. You knew it because you’d heard something like it once before. Michelle.
You remember her from the early days. Just once. A brief exchange beneath jungle canopy, when everything still felt new and dangerous in a thrilling way. She had that quiet intensity—the kind of person who already felt hunted by something no one else had noticed.
You split up. Like everyone did.
And you never saw her again.
Until the battlecry.
It rang through you like a bell cracking in half. And for a moment, your body leaned toward it. But Cowin had already started walking. Andrew said this was the way.
And you… nodded.
You followed.
Now, you’re here.
And it’s too late.
The trees part suddenly, like something held them back until just now. The clearing opens. And there, rooted in the earth like it’s always been, is the Bloodwood Tree.
You stop breathing.
It’s immense, but still. Not looming—waiting. Its bark glows a soft, dull red. Not bright like fire. Like embers. Like mourning. Roots spiral out across the clearing, some split, some glistening. Sap beads on its surface in thick, glassy drops.
Nothing moves.
But everything watches.
The others hang back. They don’t step forward.
But you do.
Your light doesn’t rise. It listens. The air thickens—not with heat, but memory. And the tree calls to you. Not in words. Not even in sound. It’s a feeling in your ribs, behind your teeth, in the small of your back.
Like being recognized.
With every step toward the trunk, your light grows warmer. Not flaring—anchoring. Your heart beats slower, but heavier. This is not power. This is gravity.
You reach out. Your fingers brush the bark.
And for one breathless second—you feel held.
Not by arms. By presence.
You are known.
You are wanted.
The light in your chest pulses in time with the roots beneath your feet.
But then—
Something shifts.
A hum beneath the warmth. A tremor in the sap. Your heartbeat quickens. The roots seem too still now. The glow behind your eyes turns from comfort to pressure. The tree is grieving. Something it gave its love to is gone.
You know who.
You don’t need a name.
Michelle.
And now the tree’s warmth curls tighter around your ribs.
No longer a welcome.
A claim.
The grief that once mourned her coils tighter, twisting inward. You feel the change. It’s not asking you to grieve with it.
It’s asking you to continue her work.
No—
It’s not asking at all.
You were not chosen.
You are next.
The others remain on the edge of the clearing, unmoving. The tree does not acknowledge them. You look back. Cowin’s fists are clenched. Andrew’s jaw is set. Boon doesn’t look up.
The island does not want them.
But it notices them.
And it offers… something else.
You sense it.
Each of them will face a test—something tailored, something earned. You feel the roots beneath their feet shift. Not in invitation, but in challenge.
They will have to prove themselves.
But you?
You’re already inside.
And the tree is offering you paths.
To your right, a thick branch sags low, bleeding slow crimson sap into a bowl-shaped knot. Its scent is heavy, its promise clear. If you drink, you’ll see what Michelle saw. Feel what she felt. Know what she knew.
But knowledge like that always leaves a scar.
Behind you, a thick root winds north—pulsing faintly. You feel a flicker of something there. Something powerful. And angry. The air near it crackles. If you follow it, you’ll find what the tree fears most.
Farther east, you feel the aftershock of the explosion. A direction familiar not by sight, but sensation. The place where something golden bloomed and then burned. You could take what the tree has given you and go there now—before it’s too late again.
Or you could turn to the others. The tree doesn’t need them, but maybe one of them needs you. You can’t walk all their paths—but maybe one still matters more than the rest.
And still… you could walk away.
You feel that too. A sliver of resistance rising in your chest. This is not who you are. You didn’t come here to be a weapon.
You don’t have to let it claim you.
But the roots keep pulsing. And the glow in your chest is spreading.
The island isn’t asking.
It’s demanding.
Cowin
You’re tired of being pushed. Dragged toward shipwrecks. Pulled by Andrew. Compelled by whispers that drilled blue fog through your skull. Even Jill, glowing like salvation, burned the rot out of your chest and left you feeling scraped clean.
You thought that would feel like freedom.
It doesn’t.
It feels like silence that won’t speak back. Like standing in your own skin with nothing to lean on. No instructions. No invader in your veins. Just you.
Finally, just you.
And you don’t know what to do with that.
So you keep walking. The jungle stares. The air watches. And when the trees part, and the Bloodwood Tree comes into view, you feel something shift beneath your ribs.
You don’t gasp like Andrew. You don’t flinch like Boon. You just stop.
The tree doesn’t glow bright. It doesn’t beckon. It bleeds, slow and dull, like a wound learning how to clot. You can tell it welcomed someone else. And that you are not her.
Jill steps into the roots and the tree bends toward her, soft and sure. Her light blends with the bark like it’s being drawn back into the earth. She belongs here.
You don’t.
But the Bloodwood sees you. The roots at your feet tighten. Not inviting. Measuring. Weighing.
You take one step forward, and something clicks.
There is no voice. No vision.
Just pull.
Stone. Blue light. Teeth glinting in shadow. A cave, ancient and close. You can feel the chill of it in your teeth. You know it’s waiting for you. You don’t know why.
But the island does.
You glance at Jill. Held. Claimed. You glance at the others. All stalled. Waiting.
But the Bloodwood? It doesn’t wait. Not for you. Not anymore.
It has grief.
And now it wants action.
You take another step.
No one will walk this with you. And that’s how it has to be.
You’re not a follower anymore.
You’re a reckoning.
Boon
You don’t trust anything that stills itself too long.
Stillness is what happens right before the mouth opens.
And the Bloodwood Tree stands too still.
Its bark pulses slow, like breath held underwater. Sap glistens like something wounded and defiant. You don’t want to get close. You don’t want to touch it. You don’t want to see what it does to someone who gets pulled in.
But Jill goes.
Of course she does.
She steps into the roots like she’s answering a question only she could hear. The tree responds. Gently. Like it remembers her. Like it missed her.
You look away.
Cowin edges forward. Not timid. Determined. The roots move beneath him. Not in greeting. In challenge.
Andrew doesn’t hesitate. Already hunting for the path, as if it’s some riddle he’s close to solving.
You stand still.
You remember Mayo’s smile, the one that didn’t belong to her. You remember the light in her chest, the way she seemed too calm, too clean.
And then you remember swinging fire. You remember her running.
This place doesn’t transform people. It erases them and redraws what it wants.
So when the root near your foot curls slightly, like a finger crooking into a come-hither hook, you almost turn away.
But you don’t.
You feel it, deep below. Something mechanical and wrong. An Engine that doesn’t rest. A heartbeat the island has been trying to forget. And you know your path leads there.
Not because you want it.
Because if someone doesn’t take the hit, someone else will.
And you made a promise to yourself. No one else vanishes today.
Not if you can stop it.
Even if you go alone.
Andrew
This thing is massive. Not in a holy way. Not in a fall-to-your-knees, oh-great-forest-spirit kind of way. More like… final boss energy. Ancient, glowing, vaguely pissed-off. You’ve seen less intimidating castles.
The Bloodwood Tree doesn’t hum. It waits. Like it knows you’re coming. Like it’s been loading the cutscene for hours and is just dying for you to hit “Start.”
You grin. It’s the first time you’ve smiled today.
Jill’s up front. Of course she is. Glowing, perfect, practically levitating. She touches the tree and it practically sings her name. If trees could hug, this one would be crushing her ribs in a love embrace.
Cowin’s trying to earn something. Boon’s trying not to flinch.
You? You’re here to make a deal.
You take a step toward the trunk. Not reverent. Just curious. The bark pulses under your gaze like it knows better than to offer warmth.
And honestly? Good.
You don’t need warmth. You need access.
The island’s played its hand now—healing pools, whispering caves, glitchy hallucinations, trees that give people upgrades like it’s a spiritual vending machine.
So what’s this one?
Checkpoint? Side quest? Final phase?
You don’t know. But you’re ready for it.
You reach out—not to touch, not yet. Just to test the air. It feels heavy. Electric. There’s no whisper, no light show. But there’s pressure. Like a quiz you forgot to study for that’s already begun.
Something tightens behind your eyes. A flicker. A place. The spiral staircase. The Engine. The humming. The fall. The girl with the scream.
Michelle?
You never met her. Doesn’t matter. The tree lost something. You can feel that.
Not grief. Not pain. Just… urgency.
It’s running out of time. And so are you.
That’s the trick, isn’t it? This place never gives you what you want when you want it. It waits until you’re desperate. Broken. Alone. Then it offers you power — on its terms.
You’re done with that.
You’re not going to be chosen. You’re going to choose yourself.
You step back from the trunk and cross your arms. “You’re not the only one that’s angry,” you mutter. Maybe the tree hears you. Maybe it doesn’t.
Doesn’t matter.
You’ve got ideas. You’ve got moves. The question is: how far are you willing to go?
You glance at Jill. She shines like a star in mourning. At Cowin, jaw clenched like he’s already bleeding for something he can’t name. At Boon, quiet and steady and already bracing for more loss.
And you?
You’re ready.
Not to be redeemed.
To win.
Cowin, Boon & Andrew
The roots shift beneath your feet.
All three of you feel it. Not a voice. Not a whisper. Just sensation that settles into your bones like cold.
The Bloodwood doesn’t ask. It assigns.
A white tower, gleaming like frostbitten bone. A Lighthouse. Too still. Too clean. A place where something sits in silence, planning.
An Engine, buried and alive, buckling beneath its own design. Still turning. Still screaming without sound.
A Cave. Slick. Breathing. Its walls webbed with blue, like veins feeding something you cannot see.
You understand now.
These are not mysteries. They’re threats.
Points of control.
And the Bloodwood wants them broken.
Each of you sees one path clearer than the rest. Not through choice. Through instinct. Like the island has read your circuitry and matched you to your fault line.
And there is no overlap.
There will be no help.
This is not a mission of unity.
This is a test.
And whether you believe in the Bloodwood or not, you feel its anger like a hand at your spine.
It lost something.
Now it wants retribution.
You know what to do.
The only question is…
Can you do it alone?
Email me your decision at mike.hamilton2010@gmail.com
Cowin, Boon & Andrew’s Options (one each):
- Go to the white lighthouse glowing with cold blue light: It stands too pristine, too still. Something inside is calling. You might be the one to stop it.
- Descend underground to the churning engine: It’s not mechanical anymore. It’s alive. And if it keeps turning, it might break everything.
- Enter the cavern beneath the jungle where the walls pulse blue: The corruption runs deepest here. If something is feeding it, you might be able to cut it off.
- Refuse the Bloodwood’s task: You didn’t come here to be ordered. The tree’s urgency isn’t your emergency. Walk away.
Jill’s Options:
- Consume the Bloodwood’s sap to learn more: Let the tree deepen your connection. Feel what Michelle felt. But know that knowledge always costs something.
- Go north toward the sensation of great danger: Someone powerful has awakened. Follow the call. Confront whatever waits.
- Leave with your increased power to the site of the earlier boom: You didn’t follow the battlecry in time, but maybe you can still make a difference there.
- Choose one of the men to accompany on their mission: You can’t follow them all—but maybe one of them still needs you.
- Reject the Bloodwood’s demands: This is not who you are. You are not the weapon it wants. Walk away. Let the island find another.
Part 3: An Exchange
(Graham)
You walk alone.
The tunnel behind you is silent. Still. Too still.
You told yourself Mayoli would follow. She saw the lever. She understood what it meant. She even pointed to it before you did. But when the wall opened—when that man stepped out of the altar, not blinking, not breathing right—you didn’t wait. You didn’t speak. You just went.
Because logic said go. Because whatever he was, he wasn’t going to wait politely while you debated rescue protocols. Because she could make her own decision.
But that’s not the full truth, is it?
You barely even knew her. But she’d stood beside you. She’d shown you a way out. She trusted you enough to stay behind—and you didn’t wait.
The tunnel curves downward, steep and narrow. Something begins to glow. Faint at first—a line of fungus clinging to the wall. Pale blue. Just like the veins on the altar. Just like Tyfanna’s skin, moments before she stopped being Tyfanna.
You slow. Reach into your coat. The journal is still there—filthy, warped, but intact. You found it back near the shipwreck, half-buried in driftwood. The words had faded. Most pages unreadable. Just symbols. But they’d remained despite years of wear—etched into the paper, not written.
You flip it open now. Your fingers tremble—not from fear, you tell yourself, but anticipation.
A half-dozen symbols are circled in dark pencil. One looks like a dome. Another, a boxy building. One is just a crude spiral. Another—a vertical shape with two glowing dots.
And there. That one.
You raise your eyes. It’s on the wall in front of you, pulsing faintly—shaped like a slanted oval with hashmarks along the edge. You always thought it looked like the ship. Whoever had this journal agreed.
You step forward. You don’t touch the fungus. Not yet. You scan the wall. There are hundreds of symbols—some geometric, others eerily familiar. The lighthouse. The ship. A tree. The spiral staircase. A ring. A handprint. One that looks disturbingly like the altar. Another, like a creature hunched and segmented.
You hover your hand near the ship symbol. Close enough to test. Then you touch it.
The world cracks.
You see a circle carved into wood. Fine powder—bone dust?—scattered across the floor. A figure stands in the center, arms lifted, back arched. Chanting. You can’t make out the words. Can’t see the face. But the repetition—the intent—hammers through you.
And something is listening above the ship.
Your stomach twists. You yank your hand back. Stumble two steps away. Press your palm to the cold stone. You breathe. Again. Again.
Your head pounds. Your mouth tastes like iron.
That wasn’t just a memory. It was a message. And it wasn’t meant for you.
You glance down at the journal. Five more circled symbols you recognize.
Do you dare touch another?
You told yourself you came here for answers. But these aren’t answers. They’re instructions. For someone. Maybe not you. But maybe it doesn’t matter anymore.
You could still turn back. Backtrack. Find Mayoli. Try to help someone. Anyone.
But that would mean leaving the code unfinished. And if the answer is close—if it’s finally within reach—how can you walk away now?
You don’t want something. You want everything.
You’ve wanted it since the first storm. Since you saw how easily others gave in—to panic, to instinct, to madness. You believed there was a pattern beneath it all. A system. A code.
And now it’s right here—glowing on the walls, waiting to be touched.
If it hurts, it hurts. If it costs something, so be it. Because if you can map this place—if you can understand it—you can control it. Maybe even escape it.
And if you lose pieces of yourself along the way? Maybe you didn’t need those pieces anyway.
The compass pulses once in your pocket.
You step forward again. The glow fades behind you. The journal weighs heavier now, its secrets whispering half-answers.
Ahead, the tunnel opens—not gradually, but like a throat torn wide. The symbols end. The stone darkens.
And then… a sound.
Not loud. Not close.
But enormous. And hungry.
Email me your decision at mike.hamilton2010@gmail.com
Graham’s Options:
- Touch the symbol of the engine: Learn what powers the island, what turns beneath the stone. But the more you understand the engine, the more it might understand you.
- And Touch the symbol of the lighthouse (2 symbols): You were there. You saw the crystal. This might show you who built it—or why. But clarity comes at a price. The light may not illuminate—it may blind, or burn.
- And Touch the symbol of the smaller circle near the larger one (3 symbols): You don’t know what it means, but it feels important. A ritual? A pairing? A sacrifice? The meaning could change everything—or tear something from you just for touching it.
- And Touch the symbol of the dome (4 symbols): It glows brighter than the rest, radiating pressure. It could be a control center, or something older. Touching it might unlock the island’s core purpose—or rewrite something inside you.
- And Touch the symbol of the square building (5 symbols): The pulse behind this one feels sentient. You’ve seen a place like it before—from atop the mast. This symbol doesn’t just offer knowledge. It offers even more contact. If you reach for it, you might reach too far…
Part 4: In His Image
(Peter & Mayoli)
Peter
He leaves. No final glance. No hesitation. Just the hush of footsteps swallowed by the dark, and then silence as the slit seals shut like it never existed. A doorway closed. A weakness removed. He made his choice.
You choose purpose.
Mayoli pivots fast — faster than you expect. A sharp cry, not of fear but warning, escapes her throat as her elbow cracks against your ribs. You absorb it. Her heel slams toward your shin. You shift, brace. Her breath is wild, hot against your neck. But you don’t let go.
This is what it looks like before the light takes hold. Resistance. Denial. Clarity must be earned.
You catch her wrist as she twists to break free, her other hand clawing at your shoulder. She kicks, claws, thrashes. Her fury radiates from her like heat. Good. It means she still has enough fire to mold.
You guide her backward, toward the altar. Inch by inch. The closer she comes, the more the chamber itself seems to lean forward, listening. The altar hums, the blue light thickening until it paints the air. The faces trapped in the stone shimmer—caught between awe and agony. And some… some are smiling.
You see it, but you don’t linger. The ones who smile failed. They didn’t ascend. You will.
You press your hand flat between her shoulder blades, pushing her toward communion. She’s still struggling, muscles flexing beneath your grip. But then the cold spills outward—not from the altar, but through you—and into her.
You feel it immediately. The tether stretching between you. Something flowing out of you that doesn’t return. A thinness along your ribs. A soft ache behind your heart. A tremble in your fingertips.
Still, you smile.
Because in your mind, this is still victory.
She is yours.
She is becoming.
Mayoli
He’s strong. Stronger than he should be. You strike — elbow, foot, knee — but his arms hold like iron grafted to stone. Every move you make slides off him. His grip tightens, not cruel, but inevitable, like he’s not restraining you, but ushering you somewhere you already agreed to go.
You’re not afraid. You’re furious.
You found the exit. You were halfway out. And Graham — Graham who trusted you, Graham who needed you — didn’t wait. Didn’t even look back. He chose himself. He chose the dark.
And you are left here.
With this… thing that used to be Peter.
You fight harder, every muscle straining. You will not be a relic. You will not be another smiling ghost etched in stone.
But Peter doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t strike back. His voice drips into your ear, low and prayerful:
“This is what obedience looks like.”
If your hands were free, you’d kill him. You would.
Instead, he pushes you toward the altar. And the blue light devours you both.
The air sharpens. Limbs go heavy. Cold threads your veins like fishing line. Your balance falters. Boots scrape uselessly across worn stone. You look up.
The altar watches back.
Faces frozen in mid-expression — not peaceful, not restful — alive. Smiling. Beckoning.
Then Peter’s hand presses harder against your spine. Something pierces you — cold and inexorable. It doesn’t just touch your body; it rewrites you. Your breath, your blood, the rhythm of your heart.
And for one terrible moment, it feels good.
You brace for domination. But what blooms instead is… possibility.
The pain recedes. The scaffolding settles. The chill doesn’t imprison — it builds. You don’t crumble. You don’t bow.
You fortify.
Peter’s voice fades. His fingers tremble. He thinks you’re kneeling. But the island isn’t looking at him anymore.
It’s looking at you.
Peter
You feel it hum through you — through her. The connection threads deeper now, spinning a web you imagine stretching across the whole island. You picture others kneeling. Others accepting. A chorus of new voices rising beside yours.
The altar vibrates. The blue light pulses in rhythm with your heartbeat. You lean into it. Let it fill your veins. Your bones.
Mayoli is still beneath your hand — breathing shallow. Unmoving. Perfect.
But something else rides the edge of the connection. A tug. A pull. Gentle, but steady.
You feel it in the bones of the chamber. In the cold trickling down your spine.
A beckoning toward more.
Toward the tunnel where Graham fled.
Toward the lab beneath the earth.
Toward the altar itself — where others remain trapped in glass, frozen mid-failure. Waiting to be claimed.
Bring them back. Bind them. Grow the voice into a legion.
The feeling isn’t a command. It’s a promise. The Creator doesn’t demand. It invites.
You steady yourself. You have more to give. More to create. You could chase the one who ran. Reclaim the ones who fell.
You could awaken another.
Your hand slips from Mayoli’s shoulder. You feel lighter. Hollow. You tell yourself it’s the cost of making her whole.
You don’t yet understand.
You’re not becoming stronger.
You’re being emptied.
And the one who took what you offered…
She’s not kneeling.
She is rising.
Mayoli
The blue burns through you like a storm pressed inside skin. But it doesn’t consume. It structures. Cold scaffolds settle deep — not as shackles, but as tools. You are not chained. You are armed.
Peter’s voice trails off behind you, triumphant and distant, like a priest mumbling through his own ritual. You barely hear him now. Something deeper rises beneath his words.
A pulse. A direction.
The lighthouse beacon, cold and dead above the cliffs — waiting to blaze again in your name.
The boathouse radio, its wires still clinging to static — longing to scream across the sea.
The island’s final sanctuaries — those fragile, glowing corners of resistance — trembling, just waiting to be torn apart.
You feel the options not as commands, but as doorways. If you walk through them, the world will bend toward your step.
You sense the Creator’s attention settle across your shoulders. A weighing. An appraisal.
Peter thinks he’s made you his disciple. He hasn’t.
You’re being sculpted into something else. A weapon. A champion. A blade tempered by obedience — for now.
You rise. Unbowed.
The altar doesn’t bind you. It opened you.
And Peter? He calls this a blessing. He doesn’t realize: it was surrender.
The real question now curls sharp and certain behind your ribs:
How long will you pretend to obey before you choose yourself instead?
You breathe once.
You smile.
And you wait for the world to move.
Email me your decision at mike.hamilton2010@gmail.com
Peter’s Options:
- Pursue Graham into the tunnel: The one who fled may still be useful—his mind sharp, his fear sharper. Track him into the dark. Break his resolve, and he could serve the island’s greater design—willingly, or not.
- Go to the lab and reclaim a lost one: The old bunker breathes again. Something waits inside—broken, changed, or forgotten. Reforge it. Reshape it. Create another follower in your image, as the Creator shaped you.
- Reach into the altar and try to awaken another: Beneath the stone lie those who failed—frozen, smiling, waiting. Choose one. Bind them. Prove that what the island discards, you can still command.
Mayoli’s Options:
- Ignite the lighthouse beacon: Climb the shattered tower. Rekindle its light. Let the signal blaze across the island and blind the sky. Not as a warning — but as a declaration of dominance.
- Use the boathouse radio to make a call: There is still a voice beyond this island. Find the boathouse. Activate the ancient frequency. Call out — to the old power, to the new one, or to someone else entirely. But calls echo, and something may answer.
- Destroy the island’s sanctuary: You can feel it. A refuge — hidden, clinging to golden light and resistance. Tear it apart. Burn the roots. If you end the last place of safety, maybe this war will finally end too. And maybe… you can go home.
Part 5: After The Last Light
(Jordan, Jim, Claudia & Mayo)
Jordan
You try to move. The thought is there — a flicker of something desperate clawing at the edges of your mind — but your body will not obey. The cold sinks deeper with every shallow breath, pooling in your muscles, your bones, weighing you down. Around you, the jungle seethes and sighs, thick with the damp rot of things long dead.
The blue glow creeps closer, sliding across the forest floor like a rising tide, and you feel it gathering not just around your body, but inside your chest, pressing in against the rhythm of your heart. You try to scream. Nothing happens. You try to drag yourself forward. Your fingers twitch uselessly in the dirt.
You remember the beach. The silence. The moment you first knew you were utterly alone. You didn’t cry then. But you wanted to. You break down then. But you wanted to. You thought someone might come. They didn’t. So you chose action.
And now — here you are again. But without that choice. Bitterness threatens to overtake you.
The fungus brushes your boot. A single touch, soft and cold. The world sharpens. You hear it then — not the crackle of leaves, not the whisper of wind — but something older. Regret, thick and choking, fills the air around you. It hums in your skull, seeps through your skin. It is a thousand broken promises, a thousand failures.
Should have jumped.
Should have helped.
Should have run.
Should have asked.
Should have said no.
Should have fought.
Should have surrendered.
Should have, should have, should have.
The litany of regret builds and builds, overlapping until you can’t tell where your own fear ends and their failures begin. You want to cry out. To demand another chance. But the blue light wraps your legs, climbs your waist, and the cold sinks its teeth into your flesh.
Faces flicker at the edge of your vision — pale, eyeless, watching. Their mouths open in silent warning, then fade back into the trees. You are not the first. You will not be the last.
The thought burns in your mind: this is how it ends. Not with defiance. Not even with a scream. Just another name swallowed by the island, another soul frozen into stillness.
And yet — somewhere beneath the fear and the grief and the endless drumbeat of should have — a thread of something fragile remains.
You are not ready.
You do not want to be lost.
You do not want to become one more still mouth in the jungle.
Somewhere, beyond the suffocating blue, something else stirs. A different light, faint but real, threading through the leaves. Not cold. Not cruel. Warm. Human. Familiar.
You feel the cold closing in around your heart, tightening like a noose. You close your eyes and cling to that flicker — not because you believe it can save you, but because it is the only thing left that feels like hope.
The blue presses closer, and for one terrible moment, you think you can feel the earth reaching up to claim you.
But something else moves through the dark.
The cold, for the first time, hesitates.
And you hear a voice — not from inside your head, but real. Familiar. Foreign.
“¡Ayúdame!”
Your fingers twitch. A breath catches in your chest.
Someone came for you.
Jim
The pool feels colder than it did before.
You notice it first in the way the golden light struggles against the dimming sky, no longer pulsing with life but receding — like the last warmth of a dying fire. The water clings to your skin like it doesn’t want to let go. But the island is changing. And waiting means letting that change happen without you.
Chelsea is gone. Not taken. Not fallen. Just… gone. The pool sent her somewhere else. Her path diverged — hers now a mission, a weapon the island reforged and redirected. You don’t know what it means, not exactly, but you know it means she’s not coming back.
You tighten your hands into fists beneath the surface. The light still hums inside you — barely — but it’s fading fast. And out there, past the trees, something is dying that can still be saved.
You think of Jordan.
You remember how he looked when this all began — terrified, alone, confused by every word, every face. You remember the waterfall. His hesitation. The way he didn’t run fast enough. You didn’t reach him then. But maybe… maybe now you can.
You rise. Claudia and Mayo turn toward you, the same question behind their eyes: Now?
You nod once. Yes. Now.
You wade out of the water, golden light dripping from your arms like thin sunlight, already dimming, already withdrawing. The pool gave you something — strength, clarity, purpose. But it didn’t give you time.
You step onto the jungle floor. The soil is colder than it should be. The air smells wrong — too still. Too sweet. Like rot pretending to be fruit. You move quickly, leading Claudia and Mayo through the trees. The canopy closes in, heavy and watchful. The island is holding its breath again.
You don’t look back.
You remember Travis. The weight of his betrayal. The silence he left behind. You remember the moment you lost him — the way you looked away for just one second too long.
You won’t do that again.
You catch the glow before you see the shape. A faint, sick light, pooling like liquid across the roots. You push past the last curtain of leaves — and then you see him.
Jordan.
He’s lying in the dirt, limp and half-buried in the blue glow, more fungus than flesh. His skin looks brittle. The rot climbs his legs, his chest, trying to finish what it started. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
But you do. Fast.
You move without thinking — the weight of all your failures grinding in your chest like flint against stone. You won’t let the island have him. Not while you’re still breathing.
You drop to your knees beside him, and already Claudia is there too, hands glowing faintly as she reaches out. Mayo is behind her, eyes locked on the spreading blue.
You press your palm to Jordan’s shoulder. The light inside you answers. Not bright — but steady.
Not enough to heal.
But maybe enough to fight.
Claudia
You see him before Jim does.
Through the vines, past the warped trunks and twitching roots, a shape slumped in the dirt — broken, still, barely human. Your heart stutters. You know that shape. Jordan.
The blue glow coils around him like a second skin, climbing his body in slow, pulsing strands. Fungal threads thread across his arms, his chest, his throat. He’s not moving. His mouth is slack. His eyes — wide, unfocused — don’t blink. You freeze, just long enough to feel the sick, cold panic crawl up your spine.
Then you move.
You don’t wait for Jim. You don’t wait for Mayo. You run.
Your boots slam into the soft earth as you cross the clearing, dropping to your knees at Jordan’s side. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even seem to feel your presence. But his skin— his skin is cold. You press your hand to his chest and it’s like touching stone wrapped in frost.
You remember the beach. His voice, thick with panic, asking questions in a language only half-shared. You didn’t understand him then. He didn’t understand you. And still — you tried.
You remember the waterfall. The blur of sound, of motion. You remember rushing toward him, the fear on his face. You thought you could explain. That he would stay.
He ran.
And you let him go.
But not this time.
You close your eyes and pull from what’s left inside you — the golden warmth the pool gave you. It’s thin now, flickering, but it answers. You press harder. A glow builds between your fingers, pushing against the cold that clings to his chest.
The fungus shrinks. A little. Then surges again.
You choke back a sob. It’s not enough. You are not enough.
Your throat tightens. Tears sting your eyes. Your power falters.
And then — you speak.
“¡Ayúdame!” The cry rips out of you, loud and desperate. A prayer. A plea.
You don’t know who you’re calling. The island? Your sister? God?
But something in Jordan twitches.
A breath catches. His lips part. His hand jerks — faint, but real. A flicker of life inside a body already claimed by something else.
You gasp. “Jim! Mayo!” You don’t look. You just shout. “Help me!”
And they do. Mayo’s hand finds Jordan’s arm, Jim’s palm presses to his other shoulder. You feel the light deepen. Strengthen. You don’t know if it will be enough. You don’t know if he’s too far gone.
But you will not stop.
You reach for him like you should have done before — like you mean it this time.
You grab his shirt, tighten your grip, and you hold on.
Mayo
You drop beside Jordan without a word.
Claudia’s already there, hands glowing, face tight with panic. Jim’s kneeling on the other side, steady and silent. You press your palm to Jordan’s ribs, just beneath the slick, choking threads of fungus, and feel it:
A heartbeat. Weak. Strangled.
But still there.
You close your eyes. The golden light inside you flickers like a candle too close to the edge — fragile, hesitant, scared. But it moves. You breathe in, and push it out through your skin, willing it into him.
The light meets the blue with a hiss.
The rot fights.
Fungal tendrils crackle and split where your energy touches them, blackening at the edges — then pulsing back, wrapping tighter around Jordan’s chest, as if trying to smother the warmth. The golden light wavers.
You grit your teeth and push harder.
You remember what this cold feels like. You wore it once. You let it creep into your bones, whispering false comfort. Telling you to surrender. To be still. You almost believed it.
Never again.
You force more of yourself into the light. It pours out of you in waves, joining Claudia’s, meeting Jim’s. Jordan jerks under your hand. His lips move, silent, trembling. His eyes flick — still glassy, still half-gone — but searching now.
The blue flares one last time.
Then breaks.
With a brittle crack like ice splitting underfoot, the rot retreats — sinking back into the earth, dissolving into black sludge. Jordan gasps. His body arches, then collapses. He’s back.
But you — you can barely move.
Your arms shake. Your chest heaves. You feel empty, scraped clean from the inside. There’s barely anything left. You wrap one hand protectively over your ribs, where the last threads of golden light curl like dying embers.
You cradle them.
You need them still.
Jordan lifts his head. His mouth opens. “Thank you.” The words are hoarse, barely audible, but they are real. His eyes — clear now — meet yours, and the tears streaking down his face are not from fear.
Jim catches him as he tries to stand. Claudia helps. You rise last, unsteady, your body hollow but upright. Together, you hold him — the almost-lost, returned.
You glance toward the pool.
The light is nearly gone.
And from the trees, you hear it: the rustle of leaves, the low groan of wood shifting. Not wind. Not animals. Not people.
The island is sending something else.
Figures emerge — slow, broken, lit from within by blue veins crawling through their skin. Corpses that forgot how to fall. Corrupted things. More than you can count.
Your golden light trembles.
You already know:
Healing won’t be enough this time.
Jordan, Jim, Claudia & Mayo
The clearing holds its breath.
The golden pool behind you fades to a dim glimmer, its once-radiant light now flickering beneath the surface like a dying signal. The last warmth leeches into the air around your skin — still there, still yours, but stretched thin, like a thread about to snap.
Above, the sky bruises deeper. The sun is gone. What remains is neither dusk nor night, but something worse — a smothering dark that feels sentient. Pressing. Waiting.
And then…
They come.
From between the trees — slowly, at first — figures emerge.
Staggering. Shambling. Glowing with thin veins of pulsing blue beneath their cracked skin. Some are still shaped like people. Others are barely holding together — arms fused with bark, shoulders crusted with black stone, faces split by rot. They move like memories. Like mistakes.
And there are more than you thought. Dozens.
You tighten your grip on the last of your strength — on each other. The golden light flickers again, responding not to fear, but to resolve. You saved him. You stood your ground.
But the island wants to see what comes next.
The corrupted hesitate at the edge of the clearing, blinking slowly. Some lift their heads and sniff the air, sensing what was lost and what still remains. One drops to all fours and lurches forward. Another follows.
And just like that — they charge.
The jungle groans. The earth trembles. The trees lean in. The golden power inside you thrums hot in your chest, in your throat, in your hands.
You know what it wants now.
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Jim, Claudia & Mayo’s Options:
- Unleash your golden power as a weapon: Focus all your energy into pure destruction. Strike the corrupted before they reach you. You might clear a path or buy time — but this will drain nearly everything you have, and you may not recover.
- Form a defensive shield of golden light: Shape your power into a radiant barrier, shielding yourself and the others. It may hold — or delay the inevitable. If it breaks, you’ll have little left to protect anyone.
- Probe the corrupted for hidden truths: Use your golden energy to connect, not destroy. You might uncover a secret — a memory, a weakness, a forgotten name. But you’ll need to get close. Too close.
- Retreat into the jungle, conserving your strength: Use only what you must to escape into the trees. The corrupted may follow — or may not care. You’ll live, but you’ll be leaving the pool and each other behind.
Jordan’s Options:
- Stand and fight with what little you have: Pick up a broken branch, a stone, anything. Face them head-on. You may fall. But your defiance might buy the others precious time.
- Draw them away from the others: Run. Shout. Make them follow you into the dark. It’s the most selfless act you’ve ever considered — and the most dangerous. They might never stop chasing you.
- Slip into the jungle and survive: No glory. No sacrifice. Just instincts. Hide. Flee. Outlast. You may live. But if the others fall, it will be on you — and you’ll carry that weight alone.
Part 6: What Are You Going to Do?
(Bryan)
You leave the bunker behind, not in anger, not in defeat—just in clarity.
There’s nothing left for you back there. No vengeance to be taken. No prey worth your attention. Ian made his choice. Mike, too. They chose smallness. They chose escape. You? You chose something bigger. Something that still waits to be understood.
The creature leads you west. It doesn’t speak. It doesn’t need to. Its body moves like an argument—sometimes upright, sometimes on all fours, sometimes limping as if broken, then suddenly bounding ahead like it remembers how to be wild again. It’s wrong and right all at once. Too much man to be beast, too much beast to be anything else.
And still, you follow. You’ve told yourself it’s yours—your creation, your throne, your weapon. But it never looks back to check if you’re there. It simply assumes you’ll keep up. You do, even as the path narrows and the trees lean in and the light fades like a candle left too long untouched.
You keep pace until you can’t. Until you stumble on a vine and catch yourself and realize how fast it’s moving now—like the island itself is rising beneath its feet.
When you reach the cave, it’s already waiting at the mouth. The blue glow pulses from within, soft but deep, like breath held too long. You feel it before you see it: the weight of this place. Not memory, exactly—but recognition. As if the island knows you’ve come, and is watching to see what you’ll do with it.
The creature enters first. You hesitate.
You don’t like putting power into something you don’t understand. That’s what you said. And yet here you are, on the threshold of something ancient and alive, walking behind a thing you still can’t name.
Inside, the walls drip with blue fungus, glowing in slow rhythm. The light doesn’t flicker—it pulses. Like a heartbeat. Like a signal. It reflects off the creature’s skin as it moves deeper, turning its already-dark frame into something mythic. You follow. You don’t speak. You’re not sure anything here would listen.
And then the smell hits.
Rot. Burnt blood. Charred sinew. You round a corner and stop.
The floor is covered in bodies. Smaller than your creature. Same skin, same faint glow. Some are curled. Some are torn. All are broken. At least four. Maybe more. One has a collar half-buried beneath its torso, a tangle of roots growing through its ribs.
Your creature is howling.
It’s not rage at first. It’s grief. It claws at the walls, then licks them. Fungus smears across its face. It bites chunks out of the stone, swallowing the glowing growth like it needs it to survive. And then it begins to change.
Muscles bulge. Veins flare. The glow brightens. But its body twitches—too fast. Too erratic. It’s losing shape.
You step back. Watch. Measure.
This isn’t about mourning. This is about transformation.
Then the voice arrives.
Not loud. Not sharp. Just there. Like it’s always been. Inside you. Beneath you. Or above.
“What are you going to do?”
You don’t move. You don’t speak. Your hands stay open at your sides, not raised in warning, not clenched in fear.
You could walk away. Deeper into the cave. Toward whatever called you here. You could leave this thing behind and follow the voice. Let the island decide who’s worthy.
You could attack. Prove your control. Break it before it breaks you.
You could try to help it. Stand by it. Teach it restraint.
Or… you could eat what it eats.
You glance at the wall beside you. The fungus pulses faintly, as if it heard your thought.
And the creature turns. Just slightly. Just enough.
Its face is flickering. Not a man’s. Not a wolf’s. Something in-between. Its eyes glow, but unfocused. Searching. Fading.
It sees you.
You stare at it.
At him.
At whatever’s left.
And for the first time, you realize: you’re not leading anything. Not anymore.
You’re just the only one still pretending to.
The cave breathes. The creature trembles. You choose nothing. Not yet.
But the island is watching.
And it will not wait forever.
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Bryan’s Options:
- Help the creature regain control: Step forward. Offer guidance. Show it that grief doesn’t have to become rage. Maybe it can still remember what it once was—and maybe you can shape what it becomes.
- Strike before it turns on you: Power without discipline is a threat. Channel the roots. Take control. If it breaks now, it breaks on your terms.
- Consume the blue fungus for yourself: If this is a test, you won’t be outmatched. Eat what it eats. Match its strength. See how much of the island you can take into your body—and whether it takes you back.
- Ignore the creature and follow the voice: You didn’t come for the beast. You came for the source. Walk deeper into the cave and leave the throne behind. If the voice is your real path, then let it show you what lies beyond.
Part 7: Blueprints and Burial Grounds
(Mike & Ian)
Mike
You don’t notice the cold until you stop moving. It’s in your fingertips now, settled under your nails. The air down here isn’t just dead—it’s preserved. Like something that never stopped watching.
Ian kneels near the vent, head tilted slightly as if listening. He hasn’t said a word since sealing the door. You don’t blame him. You wouldn’t trust you either.
So you give him space, and turn your attention to the lab.
The glass cylinders are the first thing you let yourself really look at. Five of them in a row. Fogged. Each one filled with viscous fluid the colour of old oil. Inside: shapes. Animal at first—claws, snouts, too many teeth. But the longer you stare, the more almost they become. One has a human shoulder. Another has fingers. A third has a spine that starts straight, then curves like it gave up halfway through.
You whisper—mostly to yourself. “They didn’t make these to contain something. They made them to become something.”
No answer from Ian. His hand is on the vent’s rim now.
You move to the workstation. The binder on the rolling cart is open. The diagrams are hand-drawn, notes frantic and annotated over and over.
“Phase 1: Island Adaptation.”
“Phase 2: Obedience Integration.”
“Phase 3: Cognitive Merge – Unstable.”
Next to each, a sketch: human outlines, beast overlays, sometimes both in profile. Muscles reinforced with roots. Veins glowing. One figure has a red circle drawn around the head and the words: “Too much self. Memory cannot be suppressed. Rejects the system.”
You mutter, “Bryan.”
Still nothing from Ian. He’s halfway into the vent now. Just his legs and one arm holding the edge.
You turn to the corkboard beside the slab. Maps. Symbols. A large one shows two central nodes—a jagged circle labeled “CRATER // Primary Origin Signal,” and another marked with concentric lines and tree roots: “TREE // Secondary Localized Conduit.”
A yellow note says:
“Attempted merge of Root Network (organic) + Creator Pulse (cognitive signal). FAILED. Subjects split. Energies incompatible. All prototypes unstable.”
You blink. “There’s two systems. Not one.”
Blue and red. Crater and tree. Control and connection. And everything—everything—caught in between.
You don’t even realize your hands are shaking until you place them on the keyboard.
The terminal boots.
The screen is cracked but flickering. A series of .jpeg files open in rapid succession.
Faces.
One at a time. All dead.
Some are blue-veined, eyes like static. Others glow gold in soft outlines, mouths parted slightly as if whispering something long after death. One or two you recognize. Not names—just fragments. That girl who helped build the shelter. That guy who never spoke.
Some died screaming. Some look… peaceful. But they’re all gone.
The files keep coming. Seventy-two. Ninety-one. One hundred and fourteen.
You whisper to the screen. “They all died. Both sides. The island doesn’t save anyone. It just rewrites them.”
A sound. A slide. You turn.
Ian’s gone. Just the faint scrape of shoes vanishing into the dark metal of the vent.
You move closer, crouch, call his name. “Ian.”
Nothing.
You look back to the terminal. A final folder opens itself. “THIRD CYCLE – PROTOTYPE ECHOES // NO RESPONSE.” Inside: a single file. Coordinates. The file won’t open. You try twice. On the third attempt, the monitor flashes white, then flickers.
The glass tubes behind you rattle. Just slightly.
You back away. The vent breathes cold.
You lean back from the monitor, heart drumming now—not from fear, not entirely. From weight. From knowing too much and not enough. The lab is full of echoes. Not just of death, but of potential. Threat. Opportunity.
The vent exhales again, cold and wet, and for a second you imagine following. Ian disappeared fast, but he moved with purpose. Maybe he saw something you didn’t. Maybe down there—beneath the lab, beneath the island—there are real answers. Or maybe it’s just another trap, another mouth waiting to close.
But something’s tugging at your memory. The map on the wall. Not just the crater and the tree. There was something else—lower left corner, nearly torn off. Coordinates. Symbols you couldn’t read, but shapes you’ve seen before. If this lab is part of a network, then that marker might be another node. A new site. Another layer to the system.
You step toward the corkboard again. The symbols look almost like a distorted spiral—same shape that pulsed beneath the branch structure. Your pulse jumps. Maybe it’s a storage vault. Maybe a control center. Maybe the place where they made Bryan.
Or you could stay.
There’s more here. Drawers you haven’t opened. Paper files so water-warped they look like driftwood. The glass tubes are humming now—barely, like distant insects—but that means something’s still live. You haven’t touched the slab. Haven’t opened the locker behind the desk. There’s danger in staying, but also… maybe truth.
You call out again, quieter this time. “Ian, don’t go further. I think I found something.”
No answer.
You whisper, not sure if it’s for him or yourself.
“I think we’re just the latest version. And it’s never worked.”
You place your hand on the edge of the vent. Cold. Faintly vibrating. Like the whole island is watching from inside.
And for the first time since you woke up here, you’re not sure what’s worth saving anymore—the truth, or yourself.
Email me your decision at mike.hamilton2010@gmail.com
Mike’s Options:
- Follow Ian into the vent: You don’t know what’s down there—but Ian moved like he saw something. You could follow, slowly, carefully. Maybe you find him. Maybe you find what he found. Or maybe you vanish too.
- Investigate the spiral-marked location on the map: There was something strange on the corkboard—coordinates, shapes you’ve seen before. Another facility? Another test site? Whatever it is, someone tried to tear it off the record. That means it matters.
- Stay in the lab and dig deeper: The answers are here. You haven’t touched the slab. You haven’t opened the lockers. The humming glass tubes are changing pitch. Something is waking up—or remembering.
Ian
The metal groans beneath your knees, then again beneath your hands. The vent is tighter now—less a tunnel and more a throat. You move slow, careful not to let the silence convince you it’s safe. Behind you, the lab’s cold glow fades to memory. Ahead, there’s only downward dark.
You tell yourself this is how you survive. Not by force. Not by faith. But by going where others don’t. By watching. Learning. Waiting for the truth to reveal itself.
The incline steepens. The surface grows slick. You press your fingers into seams and dents and rusted joins. Somewhere behind you, the computer hums. Somewhere behind that, Mike is probably still talking to you.
You don’t respond.
You can feel it now—the pressure shifting. The metal walls grow colder, but the air thickens, almost wet. You can smell rot beneath the rust. The vent walls begin to shake—no, not shake—breathe. Then something gives.
Your palm slips.
Weight pulls.
And you fall.
The slide is fast and wet and grinding. Steel gives way to stone, then clay, then nothing. You crash onto a narrow ledge, ribs folding, ankle twisting beneath your own weight. The sound that comes out of you is almost a laugh, but it dies fast in the stale, fetid air.
It takes time to look up.
Longer to look down.
And when you do, the breath you had left leaves you entirely.
The space beneath the ledge isn’t just a pit. It isn’t even a chamber. It’s a grave, if graves could move. A churning ocean of half-bodies, twisted torsos, limbs sloughing off and regrowing, veins lit with faint blue or flickering gold. No bottom. No stillness. Just faces. Hundreds. Maybe thousands.
You recognize none of them, and still one seizes you.
A girl. Jaw unhinged. Eyes still trying to focus. Her hair is matted with black root-fibers. Her hand reaches upward in a way that isn’t reflex—it’s habit. Like she’s been doing it for years.
Jordanna.
You didn’t lose her. You just left her behind. Like everyone else. She became part of the system, and you walked away to map the corners of it.
The ledge pulses beneath your chest. Your arms shake. You try to shift your weight back, but your ankle is gone. The pain’s sharp and local, but your fear is ambient—rising like the pressure before a cave-in.
Below you, the bodies shift, like water moved by hunger. One opens its mouth and mimics the sound of wind. Another follows. Then dozens.
Their voices don’t rise. They chant, quiet and perfect:
Come come come come come…
Your fingers dig into the ledge. It’s slicker now—breathing, maybe even bleeding. Your skin slips over it like it’s rejecting you. You press harder. One hand slides anyway. The pain in your ankle blooms up your spine. Every breath tastes of soil and metal and meat.
The sound below rises—not loud, not urgent, but steady. A wet slithering that pulses in rhythm with your heartbeat. No screams. Just movement. Limbs slapping against limbs. Flesh brushing flesh. The sound of a thousand bodies remembering how to reach.
And then—fingernails.
You hear them before you feel them. Dozens of them. Scraping the walls beneath your feet. Tapping. Testing.
Your second hand slips. You’re holding on by your elbows now, chest heaving against the stone. It’s vibrating beneath your ribs—like a throat preparing to swallow.
You look down. You shouldn’t. But you do.
They’ve risen.
They’re climbing now. Not with urgency, but with certainty. Not hands—arms fused into ropes of sinew, twitching with memory. Necks twisted sideways, mouths half-open. One body floats directly beneath you, twitching in place, smiling with someone else’s teeth.
Its face changes.
Flickers.
Flickers again.
Yours.
A hundred variations of you. Faces you’ve never worn. Mouths forming thoughts you never spoke. Each one mouthing the same thing:
Come.
You try to scream, but your voice has nowhere to go.
The ledge gives.
Not all at once. Just enough.
Enough to take your balance.
You fall.
And the bodies catch you.
They don’t crush. They don’t tear.
They wrap.
Flesh welcomes you like a family. Bones lock against yours. Eyes press against your cheek, soft as wet cloth. You feel skin merge with your shoulders, your calves, your lower back. Mouths nestle against your throat—not biting, but whispering. Memory bleeding in.
You feel Jordanna beside you. You feel her regret. Her confusion. Her last thought before she drowned in this writhing sea: “I could have mattered.”
You try to hold onto yourself.
Your name.
Your mind.
But they take that too.
It’s not pain. It’s erosion.
And in your final moment of thought—your true last moment, the one before your mind becomes one signal among thousands—you register the only truth that remains:
You were never meant to be saved.
You were only meant to be added.
And then—
you’re still.
Alive.
But not.
Just another thought in the mass.
Just another variable in the code.
Just another watcher.
Waiting for the next one to fall.
Part 8: Targets
(Chelsea)
You dive without hesitation.
The golden pool closes over your head like silk, like memory. Warmth floods your chest. The light that carried you here doesn’t burn—it cradles, the way it did when it first pulled you from the engine, when it refused to let you die. The water doesn’t resist you. It pulls. Gently. Deeply.
Roots twine around your arms, your legs—not tight, not threatening. Just present. Just guiding. They shimmer with fading gold, their strength spent on saving lives like yours. You feel it in your bones: this is the last of their energy, the final echo of a tree that once held the whole island together. It’s giving that to you.
Not to bind you.
To send you.
The world dissolves around you. The pool, the waterfall, Claudia’s hand on Mayo’s wrist—gone in a breath. You do not feel your body. But you feel direction. Movement. A current pulling you somewhere important.
And then—
Stillness.
You’re lying on something warm.
Alive.
You open your eyes.
The Twisted Branch Structure surrounds you.
You’ve never seen it before. Never heard of it. But something in you knows—this place is meant. The roots around you pulse softly with red-gold light, like a sleeping animal breathing beneath bark.
You thought it would feel wrong. Unnatural. But to you, it feels like home.
The walls breathe. The floor pulses beneath your fingers. The roots overhead shift slowly, curling in arcs and spirals, like old branches remembering how to move. You sit up, and the structure responds—light spreading outward from your palm in delicate ripples.
The island sees you.
And it is pleased.
You rise slowly. The air smells of sap and smoke. You pass a root curled protectively around a child’s sneaker, and another tangled with a tattered wristband, stiff with time. A photograph rests beneath one coil—water-blurred, but a face still looks out.
These aren’t offerings.
They’re remnants.
This is not a sanctuary.
It is a vault of execution orders.
You press your hand to the wall, and it pulses again. No voice. Just sensation. Readiness. You made a promise. You made a choice. The island remembers both.
The roots begin to move.
Not parting.
Forming.
You step back—but the movement is slow, patient. Intentional. Branches twist and rise from the floor in front of you, weaving upward with the precision of ritual.
They shape into figures.
The first: tall, cloaked in blue flickers. One hand rests on the head of something massive and beastlike, the other raised as if proclaiming dominion. The setting is unfamiliar—a cave lit with glowing fungus, the walls slick with rot. The figure’s form pulses faintly, unstable, like it doesn’t quite know what it is.
You don’t know him.
But you know he’s wrong.
The next: unmistakable.
Peter.
He stands within the walls of a spiraling lighthouse, one arm outstretched toward someone just outside the image—a woman with dark curls, her eyes caught between fury and fear.
Mayoli.
Peter is not lost. He is leading. A disciple of the corruption now, whispering it into others. His silhouette ripples with certainty and sickness.
The third rises more slowly.
Michelle.
Your throat tightens. Not because you’re afraid.
Because it hurts.
She stands at the edge of the crater, arms open, the wind catching her jacket. She isn’t resisting. She’s welcoming what’s coming. Her skin is lit with blue fire.
You don’t see hesitation.
Only choice.
Your friend is gone. And what’s left is dangerous.
Each figure flares once—bright blue—then collapses into ash.
The floor trembles.
Roots uncurl from beneath your feet, parting in three directions—three glowing paths, pulsing faintly with red-gold energy. One leads west. One winds north. One slopes inland.
These are not invitations.
These are targets.
You remember the void. Remember what you said.
I’ll destroy what’s left of you.
And now the island answers.
It shows you what’s left.
Your hands glow faintly at your sides. The golden warmth is still with you. Still alive. But so is something else.
The weight of this directive.
The clarity of this targeting.
You take one last look at the disappearing figures.
Bryan, unknown but monstrous.
Peter, corrupted and preaching.
Michelle, someone you loved—now aligned with everything you stand against.
You understand what the island wants.
And you understand it may not stop with them.
You don’t flinch.
But you do wonder.
If the island can remake you… what else has it already changed?
You step forward.
And the path begins to open.
Email me your decision at mike.hamilton2010@gmail.com
Chelsea’s Options:
- Follow the path toward the cave: The island shows you a man with a beast beside him, surrounded by glowing blue rot. You don’t know his name, but you know what you saw. He’s not lost—he’s becoming something. The cave calls. End it before it becomes worse.
- Take the path toward the lighthouse: You saw Peter’s silhouette. You saw what he’s doing. Mayoli is still within his reach. He was once a friend, someone you tried to protect—but that version of him died in the engine. The disciple must fall.
- Head inland toward the crater: Michelle isn’t corrupted by accident. She chose the wrong path. You stood beside her once. Trusted her. Now she stands at the heart of it all, letting the blue fire welcome her. If she won’t resist it, she must be stopped.
- Refuse the directive: The island gave you strength. But strength is not the same as obedience. These roots don’t own you. You don’t have to kill them. Not yet. Not like this. Step away from the paths. Forge your own.
And so Ian’s story ends deep within the island…
Buried in Memory
In tunnels carved from ancient mind,
He watched, he mapped, he stayed behind.
Each path observed, each moment weighed—
But none of them were ever swayed.
The roots did twist, the system grew,
The truth was there, that he knew.
But knowledge, cold, won’t pull you free,
When action fails to match the key.
The ledge gives way, the silence breaks,
A thousand selves, a sea of fakes.
They reach with mouths that do not scream,
Absorbing thought like half-lost dreams.
He sinks where thinkers go to die—
A grave of watchers, buried eyes.
Not taken swift, but worn and thin,
Drowned in the question: what could have been?
– excerpt from The Infinite Corridor,
author unknown, date unknown
Survivor Hamilton 