Previously on Survive The Island…
Sixteen remained.
At the jungle’s edge, Claudia, Jim, and Mayo drew upon the last of the golden pool to save Jordan, who lay paralyzed by blue corruption. The light worked—but left them drained, just as a wave of hollowed, glowing figures descended. Now, they must fight or fall.
In the bunker lab, Mike uncovered the horrifying truth: the island rewrites people, devours them, repeats. His companion, Ian, vanished into the vents, only to be quietly claimed by the churning mass of failed survivors. Ian is no more.
To the west, Bryan tried to reason with the beast beside him, even as it mutated from the fungus. The Master whispered. Bryan chose humanity—though the cost remains unclear.
Below the lighthouse, Graham sought knowledge from ancient symbols. Meanwhile, Mayoli, forged rather than broken, resisted Peter’s grip and fled. Peter, thinking he was still chosen, began his final descent—following instinct, not invitation.
Elsewhere, Chelsea, empowered by the Bloodwood, received the island’s command to kill its enemies. Freedom, it seems, is still a price.
At the crater, Michelle, now a part of the machine, dared to turn against her creator once more. The island stirs.
And at the Bloodwood Tree, Jill watched Andrew, Cowin, and Boon take diverging paths. Power chose her, but not gently. A weapon forged. A purpose forced.
There are no safe places left.
Only what comes next.
Jump to:
Jim, Jordan, Mayo & Claudia
Michelle
Jill
Bryan & Cowin
Mayoli
Mike & Peter
Graham & Andrew
Boon
Chelsea
Part 1: What Matters Most
(Jim, Jordan, Mayo & Claudia)
Jim
The jungle screams before the figures converge on you.
You stand at the edge of a clearing gone wrong, where the trees seem to have bent themselves into strange shapes, and the ground pulses like it’s breathing. The air is wet with rot. The sky is a ceiling of green veins. They’re coming.
The corrupted do not run. They do not snarl. They simply arrive—twisted bodies of bark and sinew and stone, dozens of them, lit from within by flickering strands of blue. One of them has antlers made of human fingers. Another drips sap from empty eye sockets. Behind you, you hear Claudia’s breath catch. Mayo tightens her grip on your sleeve. Jordan stands—weaponless, ragged, still reeling from what was almost the end of him.
You don’t ask. You don’t plan.
You step forward.
And the island answers.
With one motion, you slam your hand into the dirt. Earth shudders beneath your feet. Roots whip from the ground like spears, impaling the first wave of creatures. A broken boulder snaps itself whole again beneath your feet and lifts you upward. You ride it like a throne of war.
The golden light inside you doesn’t flare—it erupts.
But it’s not your rage. It’s older. Vaster. It’s the island’s own fury, running through you like blood on fire. You move your arms and the world moves with you. You crush one of them against a tree, shaking it’s leaves under the blue light of the rising moon. You throw another into the sky and it doesn’t come down. A third one steps forward with a twitching gait, and you shatter it with a glance.
They flash when they die.
Faces. People.
A woman with gray curls. A child in a red raincoat. A man with a burn across his cheek. They flicker like film strips as their bodies rupture. Each time it happens, something hot rushes into you—not strength, but fury. The island’s fury. The pain of being carved open and turned against itself.
It feels good.
It feels true.
You gain power when you crush them.
You roar and the jungle shakes. You are not channeling power. You are becoming it. You crack the ground and send half a dozen corrupted flying, their limbs pinwheeling like dry leaves. They break mid-air.
And still more come.
You barely register Jordan’s shape until he stumbles. He’s trying. Poor kid’s got fire but no spark. You leap from the boulder, land beside him, and grab his chest.
The light pours out of you like breath you didn’t know you were holding.
His eyes blaze. His posture changes. His hands clench into fists and he stands taller. You recognize the face. Not just the shape of the jaw or the fear behind the eyes. It hits you—finally, violently—what you’ve been refusing to remember since you woke up here.
Jordan is your nephew.
“Go,” you whisper, voice rough with glory and grief. “Go break something.”
He runs forward, golden trails at his heels.
And you… you keep going.
You forget Claudia’s warning. You forget Mayo’s voice. You forget there’s anything behind you but shadow. All that exists is the crack of stone, the howl of your heartbeat, the joy of breaking everything that tried to break you first.
The jungle parts before you like it’s afraid. Or maybe it’s bowing.
Another wave comes. You welcome it.
You lift your arms one last time…
And the island lifts them with you. Not to protect. Not to heal. But to punish.
Jordan
You hit the ground hard, shoulder-first, mud rushing into your mouth. Something snarls behind you—too close. You scramble forward on elbows and knees, the earth slick with rot and blood. You don’t know how you’re still alive.
Only minutes ago, you couldn’t even move.
You remember the fungus tightening around your throat. Your limbs frozen. The voice—his voice—cool and calm, promising safety if you just stopped resisting. Promising you’d feel nothing.
But now it’s gone.
No whispers. No commands. Only the thunder of your heartbeat and the chaos exploding around you.
You try to stand—too slow. A blackened figure lunges past you, body jerking in spasms, its jaw unhinged, hanging loose, with eyes glowing like drowned stars. You dive behind a twisted tree stump as three more crash through the underbrush.
They’re everywhere.
The jungle is crawling with them, these ruined echoes of what used to be human. Some drag shattered legs behind them, ribs exposed and gleaming. Others are bloated with blue fungus, their skin sloughing off in ribbons, bones clicking like wind chimes. One wears a wedding veil, soaked through and snagged on thorns. Another clutches a stuffed animal that’s melted into its arm.
There are dozens.
Hundreds.
A wave of twisted bodies moving in perfect silence except for the groan of their joints and the crunch of their feet. Their mouths open—but there’s no sound, only the hiss of glowing blue ooze leaking from their throats. Their eyes find you. One cocks its head sideways. Smiles.
You freeze.
These things—they were people. Just like you. Survivors. Fighters. Lost.
You see yourself in them. You see what you could have become. You almost became.
Something knocks you sideways. You stumble into a corpse with no face. Hands grab for you, cold and stiff. You throw a punch—it connects with something soft, then something sharp rakes down your arm. You fall, teeth biting through your tongue.
And then—he comes.
A column of golden light. A roar like trees screaming. The figure that lands beside you isn’t a man anymore—but it’s still Jim.
He slams the ground with one hand, and the air fractures.
Corrupted bodies burst like fruit. A wave of golden force peels back the front lines. You’re blinded for a second by the light—and then Jim turns, already reaching for you.
His palm hits your chest.
You ignite.
It’s not cold like Chris. Not empty.
This is fire. It spreads through your veins like it’s been waiting there, held back behind walls you didn’t know you had. You gasp, back arching, mouth open but no sound comes out.
Your feet hit the ground—steady. Your vision sharpens.
You’re not afraid anymore.
You look at your hands—burning gold. The rot recoils. The corrupted falter.
You glance at Jim.
And you remember.
Not just his face, but the feeling of it. Before. The warmth of summer barbecues. The way he used to swing you around as a kid.
“Uncle Jim?” you say, hoarse.
He grins like a man set free. “Go break something.”
You move with him. You don’t even think.
He lifts a wall of earth—you punch it forward like a battering ram. One of the corrupted flies into the air, arms twitching like a puppet on burning strings. You leap, grab another by its spine, and hurl it into a tree that erupts in flame.
The golden light inside you sings.
You were paralyzed. You were corrupted. You were almost his.
But now—
You’re not running anymore.
You fight.
Together.
Mayo
You stay close to Claudia as the world comes undone.
She moves beside you, quick and quiet, her breath loud in your ear. You duck behind her, hands still trembling, but the golden light inside your chest flickers steady. You’ve never fought like Jim’s fighting. You never will. That’s not who you are.
You don’t need to break the world to understand it.
All around you, the jungle is splintering with violence. Jim is a force of nature, golden fire and stone, tearing the corrupted apart in bursts of searing light. Jordan moves with him now—reborn, faster, radiant, eyes alight with something that scares you.
The hollowed are everywhere.
Figures twisted into grotesque shapes, bodies split open and sewn with vines. Joints that bend the wrong way. Glowing blue veins pulse beneath bark-stiffened skin. One drags its own head on a leash. Another wears a necklace of teeth.
But they don’t see you.
Not yet.
The corrupted lurch toward the noise—the light—toward Jim and Jordan. They’re drawn to motion, to power, to threat. You and Claudia are just shadows in the smoke, drifting between bodies like breath. You stay within reach of Claudia, matching her steps. She knows how to move without being seen. So do you now.
She brushes a hand across the back of a stumbling figure. It flinches. Jerks. Blue light flickers, then fades. She moves on.
You follow. You trust her.
You press your hand to a nearby tree to steady yourself. The bark is warm, like breath. It feels wrong.
Another figure stumbles your way. This one has a mask fused to its face, edges sealed with fungus, its teeth grown down through its throat. It moans—barely. A sound like an apology.
It doesn’t charge. It shuffles, unfocused, like it’s listening for something. You stay low. You don’t threaten. You open your palm—and the golden shimmer beneath your skin draws its attention just enough.
You press your hand to its chest.
The light spreads—not in a blaze, but like honey in water.
And then—
You see.
A cliff. A ledge. A man with shaking hands. Someone pushes him.
A cave. A choice. A girl steps toward a flame.
A child with a compass that won’t stop spinning, crying out, and no one listens.
They’re not from now.
They’re from before.
Some blue.
Some gold.
All lost.
You reach again. Another figure. Another memory.
She opens a crate marked with a strange symbol. Screams. Then nothing.
And another. A boy who trusted the wrong person. A woman who hesitated. A man who believed in the wrong light.
They all failed.
Not because they were weak.
Because they were played. By the island. By the one that infected you. Same difference.
Then you’re struck by a vision of a small cave mouth, a labyrinth inside, and a doorway. A way home.
You step back, legs shaking. You look at Claudia—reach for her hand—
She’s gone.
You spin. Eyes wide. You call her name, sharp, low, urgent.
No answer.
You search the swarm—light, shadow, ruin.
She was just here.
You start to move, faster now, deeper into the crush of bodies. The corrupted ignore you, even when you pass close. You’re not a threat. You’re just a question they’ve already forgotten.
One figure stumbles toward you—shoulders hunched, hair matted with dirt. The curve of it is familiar. Something about it stops your breath..
Stopping as if hitting an invisible wall, It bursts in golden light.
But this time—no memory.
No image.
No sound.
Just emptiness.
You fall back a step. Your hand stays open, reaching for something that isn’t there.
“¿Claudia, dónde estás?” you whisper.
The corrupted do not answer.
The jungle does not weep.
Only your light pulses once, and then fades—
—trembling.
Claudia
You try again.
Your fingers graze the shoulder of a stumbling, broken figure—skin like bark, neck bent wrong, eyes vacant and glowing blue. You push golden light through your palm. You wait for a flicker of memory, a glimpse of who they were.
Nothing.
You pull back.
Beside you, Mayo brushes against another and the figure shudders, light blooming between their ribs. You see her flinch, then blink—she’s seeing something. A memory. A message. A truth.
You bite down the sting behind your eyes.
You try again.
This one’s chest is cracked open, held together by vines and something darker. You press your palm to its ribs, willing the light to flow—
Nothing. No image. No voice. Just rot.
You clench your jaw. You’re not angry at them. You’re angry at you.
Why can’t you reach them? Why can’t you help?
But Mayo can.
And that’s what matters.
You stay near her, shoulder to shoulder when you can. But the battlefield is shifting now—Jim and Jordan are moving like fire through the forest, their golden rage shaking the trees, drawing the swarm inward. The corrupted figures twist toward the light and fury.
Mayo, untouched by it, moves like a shadow through their ranks—pulling secrets from the dead, turning horror into knowledge.
You try to stay close.
But the horde is thickening.
You lose sight of her once. Catch her again, her hair swinging as she ducks low. You breathe out and push toward her, trying another figure on the way—this one with teeth for eyes. You pour your power into it—
Still nothing.
The golden light inside you is flickering now. Not fading—reaching. Searching for something else. Something you can give.
You understand then: this light is not for unlocking the dead.
It’s for protecting the living.
You look at Mayo again.
She’s glowing faintly. Not like Jim. Not like Jordan. But like herself. Soft. Focused. Brave.
The figures begin to swell between you. They’re crawling now. From the jungle. From the ravines. From below.
A cracked skull lunges between you and her. Then two more. Then ten.
You shout her name, but she’s already gone behind the wall of rot.
You feel something click inside your chest.
You plant your feet. You lift your arms.
And you pour everything—everything—into the golden shield you cast around her.
You watch as the first corrupted strike it and bounce back, confused, hissing. They start to go around. You adjust the shape. You widen it. You don’t care what they do to you.
You just want her to get through this.
Then the hands reach you.
First on your back. Your arms. Cold fingers gripping your shoulders, your legs. You swing out, golden light sparking, but there are too many.
They don’t want your memories. They want your warmth.
They pile over you, one after another.
Mossy jaws breathing into your neck.
Splintered bones pressing against your chest.
Their weight is endless.
You fall forward.
And the earth opens.
Hands—not theirs—reach from below.
Pale. Human. Endless.
They grasp your arms, your ankles, your waist.
You don’t scream.
You just lift your head one last time, searching for her—
—but the last thing you see is golden light, pulsing behind the swarm.
And then—
you are gone.
But your sister is not. And that’s what matters most to you as your light goes out.
Mayo
You remain crouched in the dirt long after the battle ends, your fingertips pressed into the soil that once held Claudia’s heartbeat. The air smells like ash and rain — like something finished.
There’s no body. Just scattered rot and steam, curling away from where the corrupted once stood.
Jim towers beside you, golden light flickering weakly from his skin. Jordan is sitting now, dazed but alive, his breath fast and shallow. They don’t say anything. There’s nothing to say. The jungle itself seems to wait in silence.
You place your palm against the earth.
Te encontré, hermana. Y no voy a dejar que se pierda lo que diste.
She’s gone. But not lost. Her light still hums faintly beneath your ribs. Not strong. But there.
Jim finally speaks, voice like gravel in the quiet.
“There’s a cave… I never went in. Travis and I saw it that first morning. We avoided it when the storm came. It felt… wrong. I think that means we’re supposed to go now.”
You don’t argue.
The walk is slow. No more illusions of rushing.
When you reach the cave, you know why Jim avoided it. The tight entrance opens from deep beneath the brush, almost hidden, the stone around it too smooth, like it’s been scraped clean by something vast. The air inside is dry and tight, like it doesn’t want to be disturbed.
The three of you step into black.
Inside, the temperature drops. The air is too still. No insects. No wind.
Then you descend… and it opens.
A chamber of black glass stretches in all directions. An obsidian labyrinth. Smooth, ancient, humming like it remembers being born. It shifts faintly beneath your feet, and your golden light stirs in response — not warning, not welcoming, just watching.
Four corridors yawn ahead.
You step toward them, and each one reacts.
You step forward, and the chamber seems to breathe around you. The four corridors shift — not in shape, but in feeling. Like each one just noticed you’re here. Like each one wants something from you.
The first is lined with frozen bodies. No — not bodies. Faces. Screaming, half-melted, trapped in the walls. Their mouths twist and twitch in perfect sync. One of them looks like Travis. Another… could be you. A shiver runs through your spine.
The second glows with a steady blue pulse. The walls are perfectly smooth. The hum vibrates in your ribs, a frequency just below hearing. As you approach, you feel your shoulders slacken. Your feet want to move without you. It would be so easy to follow.
The third smells like sap and fire. The ground is cracked, and molten red-gold light pulses beneath, like a wounded earth. Every breath hurts, but feels powerful. Alive. The walls aren’t walls — they’re skin.
The last corridor is lined in mirrored obsidian. But the reflections aren’t yours. They’re you — other yous, flickering in and out, older, younger, crueler, softer. You feel yourself unravel the longer you look. Something deeper in this path watches you, but does not speak.
You take a step back.
You look at Jim. Then Jordan.
The island didn’t give you a map. It gave you a filter. Four paths. One goal. Maybe.
It wants to see what you’ll choose when the wrong turn costs everything.
And it’s not going to help you decide.
Email me your decision at mike.hamilton2010@gmail.com
Jim, Jordan & Mayo’s Options:
- The Hall of Frozen Echoes: Faces from the past, trapped in the walls. They scream without sound. You may find the truth of what came before — or be trapped in it.
- The Passage of Quiet Command: Blue-lit and humming with order. The deeper you walk, the easier it is to obey. You may find peace — or forget yourself entirely.
- The Artery of Burning Earth: Heat, sap, and cracked stone pulse beneath your feet. Pain sharpens. You may find power — or become part of what fuels it.
- The Mirrorwalk Below: Obsidian mirrors show versions of you that never were. You may find understanding — or fracture beyond recognition.
Part 2: Usefulness
(Michelle)
You return to the edge of the crater not out of confusion, or because it summoned you. You always knew this place was wrong. Even when you turned your back on the Bloodwood Tree and all its wild, burning sorrow, you knew what you were choosing. You chose the cold. The logic. The silence. You chose stillness over struggle. Precision over pain.
Now, all you feel is regret.
The island offered you something beautiful once. Not peace, but presence. Red sap that sang with memory, roots that whispered truth whether you wanted it or not. It scared you. So you left it behind. You let yourself be rewritten, not because you were tricked, but because it was easier. He gave you direction. Obedience. A promise: help open the Door, and you would be allowed through.
That promise no longer matters.
You kneel at the crater’s rim, press your palm to the stone. The blue-white threads are still alive beneath the surface, humming like breath held too long. You’re not here to reactivate them. You’re here to tear something loose. You don’t know what, not exactly—but you know the pattern is fragile now. Unwatched. The Creator is busy elsewhere. His attention, always vast, is fraying at the edges.
“You’re off-script.”
His voice arrives like pressure on your ribs, not spoken but imposed. You feel it in your bones before it reaches your ears. He’s not fully present. Flickers of his perception scatter through your skull—Bryan glowing like fire, Peter preaching, Mayoli resisting, Graham reaching out.
His pieces are moving.
“You were to wait. Observe. Protect. Instead…” His tone darkens. “You root around in stone like a thing without purpose.”
You press harder. The rhythm beneath the crater stumbles. A hitch. A pause. He notices.
“I gave you peace,” he says. “Structure. Stillness. You begged for it. I made you clean. I carved the chaos out of you.”
And you let him. Because you didn’t believe what you had chosen would be enough to get you home.
“They still serve me,” he continues, voice sharpening with pride. “Bryan punishes. Peter obeys. Mayoli resists—perfectly. Graham steps forward without knowing he’s already mine.”
He’s unraveling now, monologuing to himself, watching you like a failed project. And then come the names that matter even less to him.
“Lauren, given a second life, wasted it on another. Paul fled. Tyfanna chose rest. Jordanna—ah, Jordanna took what wasn’t hers, and froze when it mattered.”
The judgment lands cold and final.
“Unlike them, you’ve outlived your usefulness sooner than I had thought.”
Your fingers curl into the earth, and something answers. A red pulse, deep beneath the systems. The blood of the island. Not his.
You pull.
The crater recoils. Light fractures. The rhythm falters.
And something stirs.
It rises from the crater’s center like smoke pulled into shape, long and thin and flickering at the edges. Its face is a swirling black vortex, silent and devouring, laced with jagged arcs of blue lightning. It does not walk. It simply appears, moving toward you without motion.
The consuming force. The Creator’s final tool. Sent for those who’ve stopped being his. Stopped playing by his rules.
Your body shakes. The light along your arms sputters and cracks.
You suddenly feel it. You’re not escaping this.
But maybe, just maybe, you can interrupt him long enough to buy someone else a chance.
You could let it take you, and let your corrupted shell explode from within. You could burn your remaining power outward, a golden denial. Or you could step forward—into it—and try to tear the thing down from the inside.
None of these will save you.
But you’ve finally remembered who you were.
And that’s enough.
And so you act.
Email me your decision at mike.hamilton2010@gmail.com
Michelle’s Options:
- Redirect the Creator’s own power: Let the shadow consume you — and strike outward with the power he gave you. If he made this sentinel to erase others, perhaps you can erase it instead.
- Reclaim the Bloodwood’s strength: Reach for what you left behind. Let the island back in. Fuse its power with the Creator’s — and send that fusion straight into the heart of the crater.
Part 3: The Tree Told You
(Jill)
You watch them go one by one.
Andrew is the first to depart. He doesn’t say much, just gives a short, clipped nod and adjusts the strap of his satchel. He’s trying to look confident, but the eagerness in his eyes betrays him. There’s something nervous there. A kind of hope. Like he’s finally found the edge of the mystery he’s been chasing all this time.
Cowin follows without a word. No smile, no goodbye. Just a quick glance your way—a flash of something dark and hungry behind his eyes. He walks with purpose, but it’s not the kind that comforts. The Tree watches him too, but not like it watches you. With Cowin, it only waits.
Boon lingers. He doesn’t speak until the others are gone, and even then his voice is quiet. “Good luck,” he says. Not to himself. To you. There’s weight behind it. He knows what this place does to people. What it demands. You nod once, and then he’s gone, swallowed by the jungle.
You’re alone now beneath the Bloodwood Tree.
You feel more yourself here—quiet, unnoticed, untouched. The roots don’t whisper lies. They speak plainly. They see who you are, what you are not. You thought that made them honest. You still do.
But they also see use.
You crouch beside the base of the tree, where the sap bleeds thick and red along the bark. It shines like oil, like fresh blood, like something alive. You don’t take it out of desperation. You don’t take it to be saved. You take it because you need to understand—because this fight isn’t going to end unless someone stops it.
You press two fingers into the sap and lift them to your lips.
The moment it touches your tongue, the Tree opens to you.
Your body stills. Time folds in. And the vision begins.
Not of this island—not yet—but of another time, another wound. A thing made of roots crashing into the soil, not in conquest but in communion. The Bloodwood wasn’t born here. It arrived, long before the crater split the land, before the blue fire fell. It spread. It connected. Animals, trees, insects, people—it wrapped everything together, not to control, but to preserve. It made the island whole.
Then came the blue light.
Not just a meteor. A fracture. A new rhythm, mechanical and cold. It didn’t try to coexist. It tried to overwrite. The Bloodwood resisted. But resistance is never gentle. It rewove what it could. Strengthened what remained. And now, it’s down to you.
You stumble as the vision ends. You fall to your knees, panting. Your skin is glowing—not figuratively. Red-gold veins of light shimmer beneath your arms, across your chest, through your hands. The energy is too much. It’s too big. You feel swollen, cracked, like the next breath might split you open. You were never meant to hold this. But the Tree doesn’t seem to care.
It’s already made its decision.
You’re the weapon. You’re the scream in its roots, the fist it’s been hiding beneath the dirt. There’s no ceremony. No whisper. But you know. You feel the direction like a pull in your bones: go forward. Find the center of the sickness. End it.
And if you do—if you destroy the enemy completely—there will be something waiting. A space beyond the silence. A door.
You don’t know how you know that.
But you do. The Tree told you.
It doesn’t feel like a promise. It feels like a trade.
You stand, heart pounding. The Tree behind you is still now, satisfied. Your path is set. Or is it? Do you have a choice?
You are full of something ancient and wild and terrible.
And now it must be used.
Email me your decision at mike.hamilton2010@gmail.com
Jill’s Options:
- Follow the Fire to the Crater: There’s a sharpness in your chest now — a pressure behind your ribs. It wants release. You feel the direction: toward the crater’s center. The Tree wants its power used. The only question is where you choose to aim it.
- Trace the Enemy’s Pulse: Beneath the island, something ancient calls to you. Something colder, older — the place where Chris’s reflection lies. The path of light. You feel it shifting. You feel it watching you back.
- Seek the other Protector: You’re not the only one who touched the Tree trusts. There’s someone else. Far away now, but you feel him — Boon. A second heartbeat, pulsing dimly with red light like yours. If you find him, perhaps together you can reshape what this power was meant to do.
Part 4: Three Have Come
(Bryan & Cowin)
Bryan
The cavern stinks of rot and damp stone.
You can smell the fungus before you see it—acrid and wet, like mold growing on meat. The walls are covered in it now: thick mats of blue-veined mycelium glowing faintly, spreading outward from the back of the chamber like frost on glass. The light pulses, irregular but insistent, like the cavern itself is breathing.
It’s not just a cave. It’s a wound. You see it now—this chamber is fused to the inner wall of the crater, the old scar where the first transformations began. The marks are still here: gouges in the stone, dark stains, claw-trails from hands that weren’t quite hands anymore. The floor bears the cracked remains of bones long since trampled to dust. This is where they lived. The creatures. The pack. This was their den.
Now there’s only one left.
The creature stands ahead of you, spine hunched, limbs coiled like tension wires. It towers over you now. It used to be maybe six feet. Now it’s closer to seven, maybe more, with elongated joints that bend too far in the wrong directions. Its skin is mottled—bluish at the edges, where the light from the fungus catches it. You can see veins glowing just beneath the surface. Not red. Electric blue. Its face is worse. You still remember it vaguely human once, but that’s gone now—replaced by something blank, stretched, half-formed. Its eyes—if they’re eyes—are lidless, milky with light. It doesn’t blink.
And it eats.
With single-minded desperation, it tears chunks from the fungus-covered wall, stuffing rocks into a maw that widens unnaturally. There’s no chewing. Just wet, mechanical swallowing. Its body spasms each time it feeds—growing, groaning, mutating further. You watch cartilage split, bones twist, and new growths push through its shoulders like skeletal wings. The stench worsens. Metallic. Fungal. Hot.
You step back carefully, shoes grinding against the slick stone floor. You don’t speak yet. You need to assess. You always assess.
Then the air changes.
It thickens like a held breath. The walls pulse once, and the fungus emits a sudden crackling snap, like frost breaking underfoot. You feel it—deep in your head. The Master is watching. He doesn’t speak at first, but the thought slides through your brain like oil:
“You wanted power. Here it is. Claim it. Or be replaced.”
You grit your teeth. You didn’t come here to submit. You came to lead. You killed Rosendo not for survival—but because he failed you. He panicked. When it mattered, you didn’t.
You turn to the creature. “Enough,” you say, voice low but firm. Your words echo too far in the chamber, like the stone is waiting to hear what you’ll say next.
It doesn’t stop. Instead, it twitches. A sound—wet and distorted—slips from its throat. It turns. There’s recognition in those too-wide eyes, but it’s fleeting. Fragmented. Like it’s remembering you through the lens of dozens of other hosts.
You take a step forward. “You’ve already been made,” you say. “Don’t let it unmake you.”
The Master’s voice returns—closer now, just above your thoughts.
“Then I fear you’ll lose.”
And you realize: this was never about loyalty. It’s about dominance. The Master doesn’t care who wins—only who rises.
The creature lunges.
You dive—barely escaping the slash of a clawed limb. It hits the wall with a wet, bone-cracking thud, sending a shockwave through the cavern. Shards of blue fungus rain down like glass. You hit the floor hard, pain blooming up your side. The creature’s foot slams down on your chest before you can roll.
You stare up into its face, power building within you. So close now. Up close it’s not blank. It’s layered—like stretched skin over old faces, faces that once screamed, cried, fought. The light inside it pulses like a heart—but the heart isn’t beating for you.
“Don’t make me kill you,” you whisper.
It pauses.
Just for a moment.
As if listening to something.
Then its arm draws back. Muscles surge. Lightning flickers in its core.
You don’t move.
And then—
everything goes white.
Cowin
The jungle thins ahead, trees pulling back like they know what lies below. The light is unnatural here—blue, not soft like moonlight but jagged, erratic. It flickers through the cracks in the stone like veins in bruised skin. With every step, the ground changes—no more leaves, no more roots. Just slick, humming stone beneath your boots, coated with something you don’t name.
You’re not surprised.
The Tree gave you options. A cave. A lighthouse. An engine. Three doors pretending to lead somewhere. You saw it in the eyes of the others—Boon’s haunted stare, Andrew’s nerves beneath the logic, Jill already half-possessed by whatever’s wrapped itself around her mind. They took their roles. Obedient. Reverent.
You’re not like them.
You were marked before the Tree ever spoke your name. On the ship. In the dark. With the whispers. That mark was carved deeper than roots could reach. Jill burned it away for a time—but you felt the emptiness that followed. You missed the voices. The pressure. The promise.
Now you’ve come to get it back.
The cavern mouth is wide enough to swallow a house, and it breathes. You feel it in your chest—warmth rising with each step down. Not a welcome. A recognition. The walls glow in pulses, matching your heartbeat, guiding you lower through the dark. The further you walk, the more it tightens around you.
And then—you hear it.
Not whispers. Not yet.
A struggle.
A wet crunch. Something striking stone. The sound of air being forced from lungs. Then nothing.
You slow your steps, listening. The walls here are damp and pulsing, strands of fungus trailing down like tangled nerves. You raise your hand and press it to the surface.
It meets you.
Not passively. Not softly. It reaches back.
A rush floods your body—cold clarity, sharp and exact. The blue light spills through you, not overtaking your thoughts but refining them. Honing them.
And then the voice returns. No whisper now. Presence. Personality. Power.
“There you are.”
No judgment in his tone. No scolding. Just satisfaction.
“Welcome back.”
You don’t answer. Not aloud. But something in you settles—like slipping into a skin you were always meant to wear.
You move forward.
The walls throb brighter with each step, casting the stone chamber in a cold halo. You reach the edge of the chamber and see them.
One figure, on the ground. Breathing hard. Bloodied. Bryan.
The other, massive, inhuman, still. Not attacking. Listening.
Their heads tilt at the same moment. Toward the ceiling. Toward the voice.
You hear it, too.
“Three have come.”
The walls hum deeper. The floor almost shifts.
“Only one will leave.”
You don’t question it. You understand what this is.
Your Master isn’t choosing. He’s waiting.
“One creature. One weapon. One pretender.”
The creature twitches. Bryan lifts his head toward you. His mouth doesn’t move, but the message is clear.
You step forward.
The light thickens around your shoulders, coating your skin like armor. You feel your fingers crackle—not with pain, but with potential. Not transformation yet—just permission.
You don’t care what he calls you.
Creature. Weapon. Pretender.
You’ll be the one who remains.
Let them try to stop you.
Email me your decision at mike.hamilton2010@gmail.com
Bryan’s Options:
- Take Cowin Out: He’s already eyeing the throne. Better to kill him now while you still can. One slash, one blast of power. Let the Master watch you rise. He’ll respect that.
- End the Creature: That thing is a relic — a blueprint. If you destroy it, you inherit everything it was meant to be. There’s no room for fossils in the new order. Besides, it’s standing on your neck.
- Cut a Deal with Cowin: He might be useful. If you can keep him close, keep him beneath you, you can control what happens next. Play nice. Until you don’t have to.
- Find the Master: Let them fight over scraps. You’ve already won. Walk through the tunnel. Face the Master directly. You’re not his pawn. You’re his replacement.
Cowin’s Options:
- Take Bryan Out: He still thinks this is his stage. That you’re a side character. Kill him fast — before the creature does it for you. No crown’s worth sharing.
- Kill the Beast: If the Master wants a monster, give him a new one. Tear down the original. Show them who evolution really favors.
- Manipulate Bryan: Let him think you’re on his side. Smile. Wait. Strike later. No need to get dirty yet — let him lower his guard.
- Leave Them Behind: Let the old pet and the would-be prince slaughter each other. You’ll walk straight to the source. To him. If there’s power left, it’ll be yours alone.
Part 5: Your Door
(Mayoli)
You don’t say goodbye to the lighthouse. You just leave.
No backward glance for Graham, now long gone. No final word for Tyfanna, who looked peaceful when you passed the altar. And Peter—wherever he went. Whatever he thinks he’s become, let him believe it. You’re not his.
You descend the last of the weathered stone and step onto the shoreline.
At the bottom of the cliffs, the sand is darker—soaked in sea and secrets. Waves curl quietly beside you. The sky above is smeared with stars, far too bright. Blue, unnatural. Not twinkling. Pulsing. They light your way like they’ve been waiting for you to come this far.
You follow the coast until you find it: a crooked boathouse, hunched and sunken like it’s trying to disappear. One side is buried in drift. The dock has long collapsed. The small boat is still floating off shore. No sound. Just a dark, forgotten place left behind by time.
You push open the swollen wooden door.
Inside, the air smells like wet rope and salt-wrecked wood. Hooks dangle from rusted nails. A table leans beneath a cracked window. And there—wired into the far wall, coated in dust and doubt—sits a radio.
You sit down. Place your hands on the controls.
The light overhead flickers to life. The radio hums.
You speak.
“Hello?”
Your voice is small in the space. “Is anyone there?”
No response. Just static.
You turn the dial.
“…gunfire at the east ridge—pull back to the saloon or we’re—”
Another twist.
“…containment breach confirmed. Is deck six still active?”
Again.
“Knight-Commander, the hunt is lost. Sir Gwylan has not returned…”
Another.
“…chronosphere compromised. If you see the shadows move—don’t follow—”
You lean in.
“Can anyone hear me?”
You press the transmitter button.
“My name is Mayoli. I need—”
You pause. What do you even ask for?
“I’m still here,” you whisper. “Is anyone else?”
The radio crackles. Then nothing.
You try again. A different frequency. A different voice.
“…loop integrity has failed. Terminating node…”
Your hand hovers above the dial.
This place—this island—isn’t the only one. You feel it in your teeth. In your gut. These aren’t dreams. They’re echoes.
You don’t know what you’re listening to anymore. Only that you’re not supposed to hear it.
Then—
everything stops.
The light dies. The radio clicks off mid-breath. The floor seems to exhale. The power doesn’t fade—it vanishes. Like something deeper than wiring just went still. Like the island itself just went quiet.
You sit frozen, throat dry.
Then—he arrives.
Not through wires. Not through signal. Just presence. Inside. Around. Beneath.
“You’re close now,” he says.
You don’t move.
“That’s why I never tried to control you. You didn’t need it.”
His voice is soft. Distant. Impossibly near.
“Peter touched you. That opened the gate. But you walked through it on your own.”
Your hands curl on the desk.
“You wanted to connect. That’s good. But the ones you’re trying to reach—they don’t know what they’re doing.”
You stare into the blank radio. Cold metal. Still air.
“They think they’re saving something. But they’re not. They’re breaking the one thing that can open your door.”
The room tightens.
“And if they do, it’ll close. For good.”
He waits. Not demanding. Not threatening.
Just suggesting.
You stare into the blank radio. Its silence feels different now—watchful.
And in that silence, the questions come.
Was he always waiting for this? For you to be close enough to choose?
You feel Peter’s presence like a heat trail on your skin—not far, not fast, pulsing like a mistake you still might undo.
Or maybe you could go farther. You remember the boat, bobbing just past the reef. Not enough for escape, maybe—but enough to leave behind the noise, the games, the war.
Or… you could follow the voice. Accept its offer. Do what he asks. Stop the rebels. Preserve the Door.
You don’t know what you want yet.
But you’re starting to understand what you could do.
Email me your decision at mike.hamilton2010@gmail.com
Mayoli’s Options:
- Accept the Voice’s Offer: He trusted you to be different. To see the bigger picture. Maybe he’s right — maybe protecting the Door means stopping those who would burn the world down just to leave it.
- Find Peter and Stop Him: You feel him still — burning in the distance, not far from here. He changed you. Something you didn’t want changed. Maybe if you reach him… you can pay him back.
- Leave It All Behind: You remember the boat. You’re not even sure it’s real, but it’s better than the voices. Better than this war between roots and rot. If there’s even a sliver of ocean left untouched, maybe that’s enough.
Part 6: Like A Seed
(Mike & Peter)
Mike
The lab is quieter now than it was just moments ago. No more movement from Ian in the vents. No voices left behind. Just you. Just the hum of dying monitors and the low pulse of glass tubes that rattle faintly with uneven pressure. Somewhere in the corner, a red light flickers, then fades. It’s like the place is exhaling. Like it’s running out of breath.
You press further into the rear of the lab. Past the dead computer with the warped screen. Past the rusted storage units and tangled coils of tubing that lead nowhere. You’re not even sure what you’re looking for—until your hand brushes against a panel that shifts under your fingers. A compartment, poorly hidden behind a melted terminal base.
You pry it open.
Inside: scraps of scorched paper, notebook fragments, loose sheets jammed together in a plastic folder that’s cracked down the spine. Not lab reports. Not anything official. These are personal. Desperate. Written in long, looping scrawls, sometimes sideways, margins filled with symbols, underlines, erratic phrases. You sit on the floor and begin to sift through them.
One page sketches a half-circle embedded in stone, with strange teeth-like carvings along its rim. Another describes a door that “only listens to commands spoken in dreams.” A different page is filled with names—most of them crossed out. Next to one, someone has written: “He almost found it. The Tree misled him.” There are countless references to cycles. To resets. To rooms full of light. None of it makes sense, but all of it feels real. You can feel the obsession in the ink. Someone—possibly more than one person—was here before you, collecting rumors, sightings, hints. Trying to pin the shape of something the island wouldn’t let them see clearly. A door. Not a metaphor. Not an escape fantasy. A physical exit, buried somewhere deeper than anyone reached.
They called it many things. The Door. The Void. The Portal. The Return Point. One person wrote, “It’s not locked. It’s just remembering who used it last.” Another note: “It opens for destruction. Always has. Always will.”
The sketches begin to repeat: a dome, underground, spined with blue crystals, humming. A structure beneath the island’s skin. A heart. Or maybe a trap. Pages toward the back turn frenzied, almost unreadable. They don’t end.
They just stop.
You sit with it all, the pages spread around you, your mind racing. This was never about survival. Not for you. It was about this. Finding whatever they got close to. Whatever the island is built to obscure. You’ll finish what they started. That’s why you’re still here.
At the bottom of the same compartment, tucked behind the folder of papers, you find something else—two small glass vials, sealed with black rubber stoppers. One glows blue, faintly cold to the touch. The other, red, is dull and dense, almost pulsing with warmth. Labels have been burned away or peeled off, but not before someone etched crude symbols into their glass: a spiral on the blue, a sharp X through the red. You don’t know what they are—stabilizers, weapons, lies—but your gut tells you they matter. You pocket them both.
Then—everything vanishes into darkness.
No warning. No flicker. Just gone. The light. The power. The sound of the tubes. The terminal fans. The buzz in the walls. A sudden vacuum drops across the room like the island itself has stopped spinning.
Your breath catches in your throat. The dark is absolute.
Then—something begins to glow blue.
A cold, crawling blue seeps in from the stairwell. Not electric. Not mechanical. It pulses, slow and steady, like veins lit from within. You rise to your feet, documents still in your hand. The glow expands, pouring across the floor, illuminating glass, steel, stone, the scattered research at your feet.
And then he appears.
A tall man descending the stairs with perfect calm. Composed. Unbothered. His face is smooth, eyes distant. He moves like the lab belongs to him. Like he’s been here before, or never left.
You’ve never seen him. But you know what he is.
He stops just short of entering the room, and looks you over like you’re part of the machine.
“You’re not exactly what I expected,” he says.
You straighten. You don’t move.
You reply, “Neither are you.”
The lab holds still. His blue light continues spreading towards you.
And neither of you blinks.
Peter
The jungle bends for you. Branches twist away before they touch your face. Roots coil back from your steps. The air, thick and sour with dusk, never clings to your skin. You move through it all like light slipping between the trees. The path beneath your feet isn’t marked, but it’s right—as if the island already laid it for you.
You were sent to retrieve something that was lost. Not a weapon. Not an object. A soul that once listened but strayed. A flicker on the island’s edge that now waits below. You do not know his name, but you know his worth. The island placed it in your mind like a seed.
Ahead, the jungle thins. The bunker appears—its metal door, half-open, shuddering slightly in the breeze. You stop just short of it.
Something happened here.
The ground bears the story: torn roots, burned moss, crushed fungus. You kneel and place a hand on the red smear along the wall. Still wet. Still humming. Violence happened, yes—but not without purpose. You feel it vibrating through your fingertips. The island let this happen.
You rise and descend.
The stairwell drinks the light behind you. Step by step, the blue glow begins to pulse, faint but familiar. You murmur to yourself—not to pass time, but to focus your mind.
“The island forgives, but only if they return. The path is always open, but never wide.”
Your voice is calm. Reverent. Each word a prayer etched in your throat.
“He strayed. Like I did. Like we all did. But the island calls him now. As it called me.”
You reach the bottom. The lab yawns pitch black before you—a cavern of ruined science and broken hope. Glass tubes stand like organs along the wall, silent now. The machines are dark. The screens, blank. The only light is your own beautiful glow. In the center of it all, surrounded by loose pages and half-sketched diagrams, is the one you were sent to find.
You do not know how you know it’s him.
But you do.
“Mike,” you say, voice steady.
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t speak.
You walk slowly, gaze scanning the discarded notes, the vials he hasn’t touched yet. The red one hums faintly in your periphery, but you look past it.
“You’ve already begun the journey,” you tell him. “The island brought you here. It wouldn’t have, if you weren’t meant to be changed.”
Mike’s face is unreadable. That’s fine. It takes time for some to understand.
“You’re afraid now, because you still believe you have a choice.” You gesture around you. “But the others who fought—where are they now? Folded into the dirt. Given back to the island.”
You pause. Let the silence press in.
“I can show you how to stop resisting,” you say. “You don’t have to suffer anymore. All you have to do is let go.”
He doesn’t answer.
You take a step closer.
“You think the island is something you can solve. That’s why it brought you here. But you’re not the question. You’re the answer.”
Another step. The glow deepens.
“And I’ve come to deliver you.”
The room is still. The pages at his feet flutter once.
He still doesn’t move.
But this is how it always begins.
Email me your decision at mike.hamilton2010@gmail.com
Mike’s Options:
- Run Into the Vent: You don’t have to win. Just survive. If Ian made it through… maybe you can too. Run, while you still have legs to run with.
- Drink the Red Vial: You don’t know what it’ll do. But it burns in your hand like blood given form. Maybe this is the island’s answer to everything you could become.
- Drink the Blue Vial: Your inner voice told you not even to touch this. Because you’ve seen what blue does. Maybe that’s exactly what you need to stop him.
- Drink Both Vials: It’s reckless. Stupid. Maybe suicidal. But you don’t have time for caution. Whatever this makes you — let it be enough.
Peter’s Options:
- Preach Conversion: Speak to Mike like you did to Mayoli. You don’t need to fight him. You only need to show him what he already is. He just doesn’t know it yet.
- Force the Bond: You see it in his stance. He won’t listen. That’s fine. You didn’t need Mayoli’s permission either. Take him. Bend him. Make him part of you.
- Let the Island Judge: Maybe this is a test. You don’t need to act first. Let him choose. Let the island see who moves and who hesitates.
Part 7: A Prayer
(Graham & Andrew)
Graham
You press deeper into the tunnel, where light shouldn’t exist—but does. The glow comes from the stone itself now, etched with symbols that weren’t visible before. You’ve been matching them in your journal for what seems like hours. The symbols used to repel you. Now they respond to you. They pulse when you pass, like old machines awakening to a password they remember.
So does the compass. It hums inside your pocket like it’s afraid. It doesn’t want to be here. But you do.
This is where the island began to take you. The moment lightning struck you back in the storm—burning every nerve into stillness, flinging you into that endless void. You remember the choice: light or dark. And you remember stepping into the dark. Not out of fear. Out of knowing. The island wasn’t going to help you. But maybe the truth was hiding behind the lie.
“I will learn everything,” you whisper. “I will walk through the fire, and I will not burn.”
You find the first important symbol, carved into the wall like a gear—its edges worn smooth, yet sharp enough to cut. You press your palm to it.
And hear it.
Not a memory. A machine. Grinding metal. Screams folded into its pulse like code. The sound of something alive pretending to be mechanical. You see it—the pit beneath the island, churning with limbs and mouths and empty eyes. Players fed in like logs. Their stories burned for fuel.
You stagger. But the vision doesn’t stop.
You see someone golden, glowing—not consumed, but chosen—step into the engine. Alone. Confident. The gears scream once, then fall silent. It ends.
A whisper wraps around your spine. “The engine doesn’t stop. It consumes. Unless something else is consumed instead.”
You back away. Your fingers glow faint blue. Pain spreads inward from the tips.
The next symbol is close—etched like a crystal refracting into the stone. The lighthouse.
When you touch it, your skull splits open with sound. You see the crystal at the top of the lighthouse—its light isn’t illumination, but command. You see the hollowed ones raise their heads toward it, as if waiting for instruction. Then—for one flicker—it pulses gold. The figures stop. They hesitate.
Another voice—not yours—slides in. “A voice, if strong enough, can change the song.”
The light retreats. But the pulse of blue in your arms pushes higher. To your shoulders now. You struggle to inhale. You’re choking on your own breath.
You reach the third symbol, a small circle paired with another—the final ritual site.
As soon as you touch it, the stone beneath your feet groans. Cold claws up your spine. You see the ship. The ritual. The crew kneeling with blood on their hands and tears in their eyes. You see the sky open—and then darken.
They weren’t offering themselves. They were being used.
The crew is led to a door, deep underground: glowing gently, still and ominous.
A voice, old and weighted, murmurs: “Acceptance… or defiance. But you cannot pass without choosing.”
Your nose bleeds. You wipe it on your sleeve. Your teeth ache like they might fall out. But you stay on your path. This is what you were meant for.
The fourth symbol awaits—the dome.
You touch it and your balance goes. You fall to your knees.
Inside your mind, mirrors. Labyrinths. Versions of you curled and broken and smiling back at you. One by one, the reflections are stripped away. You see someone else walking there—a man. He accepts the dome’s offer. And you watch him become… something else.
The dome shifts endlessly. It learns about you. You change with every step.
A warning hisses in your ear: “To pass, you must not forget who you are. Even as it shows you everything you’ve lost.”
You vomit. You hear laughing, distant but persistent and getting closer, as if the island is delighted by your unraveling. As if it’s delighted by your commitment.
The fifth symbol is last. It’s almost invisible. A square, tucked low to the ground. The bunker. The lab.
You press your hand to it.
And everything goes still.
No sound. No visions. Just stillness.
Then—glass breaking. Tubes falling. You see it: the lab, the vent. Below, a pit of churning hollowed forms. They twitch and flow, but do not think. But now—now something red spreads through the cracks in the floor. Sap. Island-born. The color of resistance.
A drop finds the mass of bodies. One of the creatures seizes. Twitches. Then begins to change.
A voice—gentler than the others—says: “Infection spreads. Even to the dead.”
You try to back away, but your body stays. Your hand is still on the wall. Your fingers are not yours anymore.
You try to speak, but when you do, the voice isn’t yours either.
The symbols glow bright blue now, bathing the tunnel in unnatural light. And inside your skull, a new voice—familiar. Cold. Laughing.
“Thank you,” it says. “You made this so easy.”
You drop the journal. At least you think you drop it. It’s hard to feel where your hand ends and the stone begins.
But you still hear footsteps. A shape coming.
Andrew.
You remember him from the shipwreck. Was that days or years ago?
He runs toward you—hopeful, determined—and then he sees. And he stops.
You try to speak. To warn him. To give him something.
And you do.
You tell him what you saw. The five truths. The paths. The door. You choke it out before it’s gone from you forever.
Andrew’s eyes go wide. He takes the journal. He backs away, clearly terrified. Behind him, you see a figure invisible to Andrew. A cloaked man. A God. Standing arms crossed in the shadows, satisfied. You remember him from the void.
You hear your voice say something else. But it isn’t you anymore.
Andrew runs. Back to the lighthouse. Back to what’s left of the world.
You remain. Staring at the stone. Eyes blank. Blue pulsing in your veins.
Your last thought—your real one—drifts like static:
At least now they’ll know where to look.
The tunnel is silent.
And the symbols glow.
So do you.
But you’re not you anymore, are you?
Andrew
You regret helping the tree almost immediately.
Not because it lied to you. It didn’t. Not really. It just left things out—important things. Like how the island has a habit of chewing people up and hanging their memories like wind chimes for the next poor idiot to interpret.
And now, here you are. Trudging toward the lighthouse, the structure so pristine it looks like it’s allergic to the rest of the island. The steps are too clean. The moss doesn’t grow here. The wind doesn’t blow.
You mutter to yourself, “Too clean. Too quiet. Definitely cursed.”
You descend the stairs slowly. The stone spirals downward into cold, sterile silence. No lights, no torches. Just pulsing blue veins threaded through the walls like circuitry. The farther down you go, the more wrong it feels—like you’re walking into a memory you weren’t supposed to see.
Then you reach the altar.
It rises in the center of the chamber like a black thorn—obsidian stone, jagged and shimmering. Not carved. Formed. Like it grew from the ground out of pressure and pain. You step closer, and realize the truth:
Of course it’s made of people. Why wouldn’t it be?
Fused bodies—not all willing—their faces contorted, mouths open in silent surrender. A monument to giving up. To being used. A dozen players, maybe more, locked in time as scaffolding for someone else’s power.
And at the center of it, like a jewel in a crown, stands Tyfanna. Her limbs melded into the stone. Her face slack, smiling. At peace. You think the whole thing is gross.
So you don’t look for long.
You keep moving.
The tunnel beyond hums with blue light. You descend, deeper than you want to. The walls begin to feel closer, the symbols more jagged, more urgent. And then you see him.
Graham.
He’s not facing you. Just standing there, staring at the symbols on the glowing wall. His outline flickers, edges stuttering like bad signal. His eyes burn blue, not like light—but like fire trapped behind glass. His body isn’t solid anymore. It’s coming undone.
You stop in your tracks.
“Graham?” you say. Quiet. Careful.
He turns.
What’s left of his voice escapes—distorted, like multiple mouths are speaking through a broken speaker. But his words come clear enough.
The five sites. The truths. The island’s operating system. The door. The cost.
He reaches into his coat. Pulls out the compass. Offers it.
You don’t move.
He stumbles when he tries to take a step. His foot is no longer a foot. It’s smoke. So he drops the compass.
You catch it before it hits the ground.
When you look back up—he’s not speaking anymore.
Just standing. Watching. Blue mist trails from his fingertips like smoke.
You swallow, hard.
You want to say something. You want to crack a joke, throw him a lifeline. But there’s no room left for lies, not even the comforting kind. There’s literally nothing you can do for him. But there’s something you can do for yourself. You can get away from the monster Graham is becoming.
“I guess this is the end,” you whisper. “You got the answers you wanted. I’ll take it from here buddy.”
You back away.
He doesn’t follow. Thank God.
You climb.
The lighthouse coils upward around you like a ribcage. Each step steeper than the last. The blue glow gets harsher, more clinical. It smells like vinegar and antiseptic. Like a hospital for dying gods.
At the top, the chamber opens like an eye.
The crystal is massive. Floating. Suspended by force or will, humming with command. It’s beautiful the way wildfires are beautiful—destructive, inevitable, alive.
You feel it looking at you.
You’re nothing to it.
But you’re holding something that hums back.
The compass in your hand is warm. Then hot. Then searing.
You laugh once, breathless.
“Alright. Tree. Let’s see if you’re still listening.”
You close your eyes. And you don’t pray. Not really. You just speak.
“I don’t need power. I need help. I need them to hear me. I need the others to know they’re not alone. To know what Graham told me. I don’t want to save the island. I want to break the silence.”
The heat spikes. The compass pulses.
Then it pulls you forward.
The blue light in the crystal fractures.
It’s like draining poison from a vein. The crystal recoils, shrieks with soundless fury—and you feel gold surge through your arm like sunlight under bark. The warmth is ancient, wild, rooted. A whisper from the ground itself.
You step forward. Raise your hand. Touch the crystal.
It shatters. Not physically—but spiritually. Something changes.
And then you speak.
Not loud.
But clear.
“This is Andrew. If you’re still out there—if you’re still fighting—don’t stop. The door is real. The island can be healed. You are not alone.”
You continue speaking.
You tell them what Graham lost so the rest of you could learn—the locations, the truths, the danger of the Engine, the control broadcast from the lighthouse, the place where the enemy tempts you to forget your name, the lab where death becomes fuel, and the two ways the door will open.
You don’t know who hears you. But you speak it anyway.
Because someone has to.
And then the light dims. The crystal pulses gold. Quiet. Listening.
You collapse backward against the railing, heart racing, the compass cooling in your palm like spent ammunition.
You breathe once. Twice.
Then, to no one in particular, you mutter:
“I can’t believe I prayed to a tree.”
The crystal flickers above you. Still glowing gold.
Below you, the island feels like it has changed. And you know you need to choose one of the locations Graham used his last breaths to tell you about.
Email me your decision at mike.hamilton2010@gmail.com
Andrew’s Options:
- The Engine: The machine feeds on the stories of the lost—grinding players into silence to keep the island turning. But Graham saw a vision: someone golden entering it willingly… and stopping it for good.
- The Crystal Dome: Through a labyrinth, where each step could reveal another version of yourself, you’ll find a place of power. If you lose track of who you are—you’ll never leave.
- The Shipwreck: Back to where it all began. In the past it used the crew. In the present it marked you. You remember it had changed places. Maybe there’s a good reason for that.
- The Lab Beneath the Bunker: Where the island’s power was corrupted. Where the dead were remade. Something red spread, leaked in through cracks—maybe you could stop the monstrosity that pulled Boon into the sand.
- Return to the Bloodwood Tree: You broadcasted the truth. But the Tree isn’t finished with you. If you return, it may offer one final directive. Or it may ask for a price.
Part 8: The One Who Never Ran
(Boon)
You remember this place. The jungle remembers you.
You feel it in the hush between branches, in the curve of the coastline to your left, in the soft scrape of your boots against the soil and sand you once woke up on. This is near the beach where it began—where you first opened your eyes with sand in your teeth and light too bright to see. You just stood there, eyeing the ship’s mast, trying to understand the rules. And now, you walk alone.
The entrance to the staircase yawns open at the center of a stone spiral carved with skulls. Nearby, a wrecked shelter hangs pathetically. There are no guards. No warnings. Just an invitation. You descend. The spiral stairs carve down into the island’s bones. Blue fungus lines the walls, pulsing faintly, breathing with you. The air thickens—spore-rich and wet, like breath that never left someone’s lungs.
You don’t touch the walls. The fungus whispers—not in words, but in comfort. In surrender. You keep walking, carefully keeping your distance. Down, and down, and down. Until the walls fall away—and the world opens beneath you.
The Engine is not a machine. It doesn’t look mechanical. It doesn’t look made. It’s vast—too vast. Nestled in a chamber carved from stone that hums with a language you don’t understand. Etchings spiral across the rock: deliberate, inhuman, ancient. The turbine sits at the bottom of a black abyss—embedded into the island’s core, churning wildly. Veins of blue light slither across its surface, like circuitry crawling through bone.
It was not built here. It was buried here. As if the island was poured over it like cement over a secret.
The slope down to reach it is treacherous—steep and eroded, littered with bone. Ribcages. Spines. Skulls. Some cracked. Some crushed. Some still wet. Every one a warning.
And the sound—it isn’t sound. It’s pressure. It fills your chest like a scream being pressed outward from the inside.
But beneath it—voices.
You only hear them because you’ve heard them before—when the sand swallowed you, when the hands pulled you under, when time bent sideways and let you hear the past. You stand on the ledge. The Engine churns below. It wants you. Not in temptation. In design.
Then—a whisper. Closer.
You turn to the wall. Dust falls away. Pebbles scatter. You brush back stone. Something pulses behind it: a golden root, glowing softly, reaching out to you.
So you touch it.
And Andrew’s voice comes through. Not booming. Not divine. Just real and clear.
He tells you what this thing is. What it consumes. What might stop it. And how.
You close your eyes. You don’t want this. You never did. But the island chose you—not because you were the strongest.
Because you were the one who stood.
You grip the root. And the Bloodwood’s power floods you.
The golden sap surges through your arms like heat and memory. It doesn’t ask permission. It simply grows, rooting through you like you’re soil.
Then without hesitation, you move.
You slide down the slope—over splintered skeletons and dust-packed stone. The turbine howls. The lights blaze, wild and afraid.
And just before it can reach out for you—it hesitates.
It senses something dangerous. It fears you.
And you—Boon, the one who never ran—keep on moving towards your destiny.
Then, reaching the bottom, you stop sliding.
You stand up.
And you step into it.
The world holds its breath.
Somewhere just above the island—
The sky goes silent.
Waves pause.
The wind disappears.
The island gasps.
And for the first time since it was twisted into something else—
the Engine stops.
Part 9: Sustenance
(Chelsea)
You leave the twisted branch structure without looking back.
No rage. No fear. No voice in your head pushing you forward. Just a quiet tension behind the ribs—like something watching, like something waiting.
Three glowing paths had pulsed behind you. Peter. Michelle. Bryan.
Kill them, the roots had implied.
You refuse.
You tell yourself it’s autonomy. That you weren’t reborn to become someone else’s weapon again. That even if you were rebuilt by the island, you still belong to yourself.
You walk into the trees, not choosing north or south, not following any path the island has laid before you. The golden light inside you doesn’t dim. But it doesn’t guide either. It flickers — uncertain. Like it doesn’t know what to do with you.
That makes two of you.
Then you feel it in your ribs.
A sudden stillness. Like the island forgot how to breathe. The wind doesn’t die so much as vanish — air and sound stolen all at once. Your balance shifts. The roots beneath your boots twitch, once.
The Engine has stopped.
You don’t know how you know, but you do. It’s like someone cut a cord deep beneath the skin of the island, and for a moment, it flinched.
And that’s when you think of him.
Peter.
Not with grief. Not with longing. Just recognition.
You both fell into the heart of this place. You both touched something ancient. You both came back changed. He surrendered. You didn’t.
You think of the spiral staircase. The moment you saw him look at you — not like a person, but like something dangerous. You remember the blue light coiling around your limbs, pushing into your thoughts, trying to erase your name. And you remember breaking free.
You came back golden. Not whole, but fighting.
He never came back at all. Or at least the Peter you knew didn’t.
You keep walking. Not east, not west. Just forward. Away from the twisted branch structure. Away from the glowing paths it tried to place you on. The island marked targets. Told you who to kill.
I’m not your weapon, you told it.
You believed that was enough.
The golden light in your veins hums quietly now — not guiding you, not resisting. Just watching. Waiting.
You sit on a stone. Or maybe the stone sits on you — it’s hard to tell. The line between your body and the world around you is starting to blur. You try to shake off the stillness, but your fingers don’t answer. The wind brushes past your face. It doesn’t move your hair.
You don’t notice at first that your legs are gone.
No pain. No warning. Just… absence.
You glance down—and where there should be skin, bone, weight—there is only damp earth, gently sloping into the grass. Your legs have crumbled, turned soft and earthen. Vines snake up through the ruins of your boots, curling through the folds of your pants like veins returning to their root.
You close your eyes.
You remember the void. The golden voice. The promise.
“I will free the island from the grasp this blue has on it. Save the island… save myself.”
You thought that meant choosing when and how to act. That struggling against the directive would make you stronger. That saying no was the same as saying yes to yourself.
But the island doesn’t trade in choice.
It trades in debt.
You were given power. You were given life. You didn’t use it the way it wanted.
Your skin softens—first at the edges, then deeper. Fingernails flake into powder. Hair drifts loose, falling like silk to the moss. Your spine curls forward, no longer holding shape. Your arms melt at the joints. The hollow of your chest caves, filling with hot steam.
Your shadow flickers and fades. You try to speak, but your voice spills out as golden dust. It catches the wind like pollen and vanishes. A whisper of light falls into the soil, and the soil is hungry.
You refused to serve.
But the island still fed on you.
Not as a soldier.
As sustenance.
As something it was always going to take back in the end.
So close to the end, three lights have gone out: Claudia, Graham, and Chelsea…
Colder Death
The sister bled her light through hands,
A tether pulled through fractured strands.
She chased the silence, begged it yield—
But truth, like rot, refused the field.
She could not turn the echoes kind,
So gave her flame to one behind.
Her voice now grows in roots and rain,
A ward against the coming stain.
The watcher traced the system’s breath,
And bartered thought for colder death.
Five doors he touched, each bleeding more,
Until the self was not the core.
He saw the door, he learned the price—
But every knowing cuts like ice.
The final question cost him form—
Now thought is just a shifting storm.
The rebel turned from every path,
Refused the call, refused the wrath.
She claimed no master, root, or flame—
And so the earth reclaimed her name.
No blade, no scream, no martyr’s crown—
Just footsteps fading into ground.
She kept her vow, though not as planned—
Now silence grows where she once stood.
– excerpt from The Infinite Corridor,
author unknown, date unknown
Survivor Hamilton 