1.02 – Trance


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


    “It shouldn’tst more than a few minutes,” Elder Britt said. “It’ll feel longer, but only in your head. When youe back, take as long as you need topose 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 unlockingplete—everyone would be lined up, ready to congratte Natalie.


    She’d attended a number of unlockings on the other side of this event. Some people walked out ted after their unlocking, some relieved, and once—Daisy Spruill—sheet-white, which Natalie still didn’t have an exnation for. She’d gotten exactly the ss 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 ss windows, providing just enough illumination to not bump into the pews as she walked down the aisle.


    She stepped onto the tform, 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 secondter; 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 ents traced her body like artfully ced 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 simrity—the facade of being a human. She wore an expression ofplete detachment, her cobalt irises—the same color as her ents—seeming to gaze through Natalie rather than at her.


    Despite her nakedness, her body was smooth andcking 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 toe 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’de 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 sphemous 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 ced 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 sses were offered. Natalie had a fair enough idea what to expect.


    A ck void sprawled around her. She stood on a surface that resembled a ck 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.


    She didn’t spend long marveling over the oddity of her environment. She had more important things to focus on.


    “Do you know why you’re here?” the automaton asked, coolly. Her voice was as impassive as her expression, and only slightly less unsettling.


    Natalie had always been irreverent, by nature. Frequently, she failed to find solemness fitting to situations that deserved it. Here, though, she didn’t need to bite down on a sarcastic reply—it didn’t even rise up. Having a conversation with a maybe-god, and the determiner of the rest of her life, pulled a grave demeanor out of anyone, she guessed.


    “Yeah,” she said. “You, uh, hand out sses.”


    The Bestower’s lips quirked, and another shiver went down Natalie’s spine at seeing amusement curl—the barest hint—on the automaton’s face. People didn’t talk about The Bestower much, and when they did, it was with more or less what Natalie herself was feeling: distinct unease.


    “Hand out sses,” she—they?—echoed. “Mm. More or less.” She seemed amused by how Natalie had put it.


    The Bestower approached Natalie. An arm’s length away, she tilted her head and inspected her. Natalie had no idea what judgments she made. Could this creature read Natalie’s thoughts? Nothing indicated that she could, but the paranoid idea stuck.


    “Well,” The Bestower finally said. “Are you ready?”


    Natalie nodded, the creature’s scrutinizing inspection of her having left her wordless.


    The Bestower stepped to Natalie’s side, then raised a hand in a slow, assured motion. It reminded Natalie of the way Elder Britt might gesture for a congregation to rise.


    A pir sprouted from the ssy ck water, in pace with The Bestower’s hand, sending ripples shooting across the ne. They bounced harmlessly off Natalie’s shoes. Natalie watched the pir rise, fascinated.


    “I’m afraid I have little variance for you today,” The Bestower said. “You gave me little leeway.”


    Gave? It was an interesting way to phrase it, but Natalie didn’t think a question-and-answer was on the table.


    “First. The Berserker.” The pir finished taking shape, resolving to a plinth with a finely carved great-axe hovering a few inches above it. The plinth, and the axe itself, was the same smooth gray, hewn from the same stone. It rotated in a slow circle, showcasing the entirety of the carving. “A warrior who channels their fury into powerful, relentless attacks. A berserker has incredible offensive potential, but at the cost of defensiveness, and clear-sightedness.”


    The Bestower spoke the words in a nk tone. Not bored, but removed, as if she were avoiding inflecting her voice in any particr way, as to keep from influencing Natalie’s decision.


    As for Natalie’s thoughts on the offered ss … it was, as she’d known it would be—as everyone had known it would be—a melee-type fighter ss.


    There was a lot to think about when it came to deciding which of the three choices she would pick. This was, without exaggeration, one of the most important decisions she’d ever make. But she would rather know all of her choices before she got into the weeds. She would avoid puzzling over each as they came. She wanted the whole picture, first.


    The Bestower must’ve sensed this through Natalie’s nod, so she moved on.


    The second pir sprouted. “The Juggernaut.” The pir was the same as the previous, but the symbol was different: this time, a one-handed hammer, and behind it, a tower shield. Like the axe, it rotated in the air, slowly. “A heavily armored fighter, able to endure immense punishment. The cornerstone of a party, and a master of arms.”


    The Bestower waited for Natalie to take in her words, then nod. She raised her hand onest time, summoning thest of Natalie’s choices.


    “Finally,” she said. “The Adept.” A carving of a fist floated above the plinth. “A student of martial prowess, with power and agility in equal measure. Weave through attacks while delivering your own. Independent, graceful, and deadly.”


    <em>Graceful? </em>Natalie thought. That wasn’t a word she’d use for herself. But not all sses were a one-for-one. Some deviated from what ‘fit’ with a person … sometimes by a significant amount.


    Natalie looked at the three options provided to her. They were, more or less, what she’d expected. Even the adept didn’t stray from her current fighting style to a meaningful degree.


    Bizarrely, she was disappointed. The choices were underwhelming. Which didn’t make sense; sses were what you made of them. And none of the options seemed bad to begin with. Stock-standard options. The kind found in adventuring parties across the world.


    “Or,” The Bestower said. “I could offer you something else.”