Chapter 2: Trance

While an unlocking could happen anywhere, it was tradition to be in the church when it arrived. The lectern on the elevated platform in front of the pews had been moved aside, and a single cushion sat, awaiting Natalie.

“It shouldn’t last more than a few minutes,” Elder Britt said. “It’ll feel longer, but only in your head. When you come back, take as long as you need to compose yourself. We’ll all be waiting.”

Oddly enough, Natalie’s nervousness had disappeared the moment the old, bespectacled priest had arrived to drag Natalie away. The festivities were, obviously, not happening with the church itself, but rather, outside. Exactly as he had said, when Natalie swung open the big church doors to leave—her unlocking complete—everyone would be lined up, ready to congratulate Natalie.

She’d attended a number of unlockings on the other side of this event. Some people walked out elated after their unlocking, some relieved, and once—Daisy Spruill—sheet-white, which Natalie still didn’t have an explanation for. She’d gotten exactly the class people had expected, some variation of Baker, so what had that been about?

“Natalie?”

Natalie startled. She realized she hadn’t replied. “Yes, Elder Britt. Thank you.”

An encouraging squeeze on her shoulder, then Elder Britt departed. The empty church echoed with silence. It was odd, being here, alone, in the dark. Moonlight trickled through the big glass windows, providing just enough illumination to not bump into the pews as she walked down the aisle.

She stepped onto the platform, then stared down at the cushion. She was supposed to sit, and wait. Unlockings arrived at midnight, which would be a few minutes from now, and not a second later; if Natalie were standing, she’d fall. If she were seated, her body would keep itself supported through the fugue.

Feeling a bit odd—and the empty, moonlit church making the experience surreal—she sat down and gazed around at the empty pews. Like most churches, Tinford’s construction was the finest of any building nearby. Tinford wasn’t impoverished, but if a person went by the elegance of the ancient church, they’d assume a level of affluence that was incorrect for the middle-of-nowhere town.

She’d been sitting and staring just long enough for her thoughts to wander, when—

Her eyes shot open.

She’d known to expect the sleek metal face, the automaton, but the abrupt transition from real-world to dream-world sent a shiver down her spine.

Natalie studied her visitor.

The automaton’s form was androgynous, like all of theirs were. This one leaned a hint more feminine than masculine. Cobalt blue accents traced her body like artfully placed veins, and two of the same stark lines streaked from her upper cheeks and down, to her chin, imitating thick trails of tears.

There was a stark inhumanity in her form, despite the similarity—the facade of being a human. She wore an expression of complete detachment, her cobalt irises—the same color as her accents—seeming to gaze through Natalie rather than at her.

Despite her nakedness, her body was smooth and lacking faithfulness to human form. Her breasts were rounded, smoothed down, small humps without the expected tips. Even still, it was a more feminine form than most: enough to suggest ‘woman’ rather than ‘man’.

She exuded a sense of cool detachment. The automaton waited patiently for Natalie to come to terms with what she was seeing. It took a second. Natalie had only seen drawings of automatons, before, and never one in person. They were startlingly rare and only found in cities near dungeon entrances. Even then, Aradon, the capital, only had a smattering.

Nobody knew what the automatons were, or how they’d come into existence, much less The Bestower, the assistant who guided all men and women through their unlocking. Some said this automaton—not seemingly a kin to the others, for all her appearance—was a god or goddess taken a familiar form. Not a real automaton at all.

Valhaurian teachings had little to say about The Bestower. That, honestly, was one of the eeriest parts. Official Valhaurian teachings had plenty to say about everything. Too much. Plenty contradicting. But The Bestower? Silence. As if it would be blasphemous to theorize.

“Hello, Natalie.”

The automaton’s voice was devoid of emotion. That, also, wasn’t normal. The automatons who managed the Exchange, for example, were supposedly amiable people ... if they could be called people.

“Uh,” Natalie finally replied. “Hi.”

Natalie was standing. She’d never stood up from the pillow placed down for her in the church, but she was standing anyway. It had been an instant, unsettling transition. She turned in a circle, taking in her surroundings. There was little to remark on. Unlocking ceremonies were hardly new, and they varied little between person to person, besides what classes were offered. Natalie had a fair enough idea what to expect.

A black void sprawled around her. She stood on a surface that resembled a black pond. Tiny ripples radiated out with each shifting of her weight. While the material looked like water ... there was something off about it. And, obviously, water shouldn’t support her.