Good evening, citizens, and congratulations on
surviving long enough to qualify for tourism.
Today's journey takes us through the residential
sanctum of Delta 19, where the spirit of community
remains strong, despite the absence of power,
food, and general continuity of existence. Please
ensure your respirators are sealed, your optimism
is stowed, and your documents of identity are
notarized against moisture. The Departmento takes
no responsibility for any permanent relocations
of flesh. We now hand over to Tourism Servitor
001 who will guide you on your journey through
the habitation zones. Please remember that Tourism
Servitor 001 is a legacy unit, assembled from
pre -Gloriana schematics and whatever limbs were
available at the time of construction. It may
pause unexpectedly, gesture at things that no
longer exist, or attempts to describe scenic
vistas that have since been reclassified as structural
hazards. Should the servitor begin weeping hydraulic
fluid, this is not a malfunction, it is part
of the immersive cultural experience. Enjoy your
tour, and please refrain from screaming. Tourism
Servitor 001 interprets vocal distress as positive
feedback. The first steps into Delta 19 used
to be triumphant. An introduction to a bustling
subsector full of life, commerce, and the occasional
sanctioned riot. Now, it feels more like stepping
into the mouth of something old and tired. The
devotional posters along the walls are curling
like dying leaves. Their adhesive has long since
given up. But the slogans underneath still try
their best to evangelise through sheer stubbornness.
Be thankful for what sustains you, even if it
used to be someone else. Hunger means the Emperor
is sculpting you. Some whisper audibly when the
recycled air blows past, as if trying to guilt
trip you from beyond their own expiry date. Bending
shrines line the walkway every ten metres. Many
of them stuck mid -blessing. They shudder to
life when you approach, offering their wares
with the enthusiasm of a dying priest giving
one last sermon. Available items include devotional
fluids, guaranteed 13 % liquid, pre -tuned sustenance
paste, spit variety, assorted, holy crunches,
now with reduced crunch. Prices shift depending
on whether the facial recognition system decides
you're a citizen, a heretic, or miscellaneous
biomass. The machine's camera lens twitches left
and right, narrowing on your eyes like it's trying
to decide if you're worthy of carbohydrates.
A sign above the thoroughfare flickers. Welcome
to Delta 19. Please maintain resignation. Let
us continue, because what else is left to do?
If warmth could be made from bureaucracy and
desperation, this corridor into the basic habitation
zone would be a furnace. Instead, it's a dim
tunnel of patched walls and thin hopes. The walls
are layered with tin sheets, rags, scripture
scraps, and improvised insulation made from shredded
work forms. Entire decades of rejected requests,
maintenance logs, and denial notices glued together
into something almost homelike. Doorways are
marked with names. Some are painted with shaky,
loving strokes. Some are carved with whatever
sharp thing was on a hand. Others are written
directly into the air by residents muttering
them aloud. because all available services have
already been claimed. An elderly resident sits
on a crate, her skin the colour of old parchment.
She waves cheerfully, though her hand trembles
like it's trying to leave without her. She offers
a cup of something dark and steaming. It's brewed
from condensation mopped off pipes and candle
soot scraped off walls. You will decline. She
will nod with a weary smile. No one ever drinks
it twice. In the distance, faint voices rise
and fall, children chanting in perfect, exhausted
unison. Listen closely. That's the children reciting
their daily ration pitches. For each verse, they
get one calorie. They recite as though the words
themselves add nutrition. Let us move on before
they reach the fasting hymns. Once, this was
the bathhouse. A place where workers rinsed off
the filth of duty. or at least redistributed
it more evenly. Now it's a devotional pool, where
despair floats thicker than the scum on the surface.
Grey water fills the central basin. Bits of broken
icons drift on top, bobbing like tiny, soggy
martyrs. Pilgrims come here seeking cleansing,
enlightenment, or simply a place to cry where
their tears won't be noticeable. The reflections
in the water have developed a habit of behaving
independently. Look into the pool. Blink. Sometimes
the reflection blinks back with a different expression
entirely. A soft smile. A sympathetic grimace.
A you -tried -your -best pout. Locals call this
phenomenon the mirror's forgiveness. One pilgrim
swears their reflection patted them on the shoulder
once. Another claim theirs mouthed the words,
run. Nobody knows whether this was encouragement
or a threat. Above the basin hangs a civic motto
in flickering Lumen script. Cleanliness is loyalty.
Loyalty is sterile. The final word sparks, sputters,
and occasionally reads as fragile. Which is surprisingly
accurate. A notice at the exit cheerfully adds,
Do not drink the reflection water, even if it
hurts. Welcome, visitor, to nutrient distribution
point 19b. Once a bustling artery of survival,
now a shrine to dietary disappointment. Before
the great logistical reassessment, which had
nothing to do with logistics and even less with
assessment, citizens lined up here in orderly
desperation to receive their allotted sustenance.
The counter is staffed, if that is the correct
verb, by a single hovering cranium mech. whose
ladle attachment has fused into a permanent downward
stroop, as though ashamed. Its Vox Grill emits
a looping apology in a tone that suggests it
regrets everything, including its own construction.
Rations unavailable. Please practice restraint.
Whether the message is meant to soothe, chastise,
or simply mock the hungry is unclear. Around
the serving station, the walls are decorated
with layers of tally marks, some neat, some frantic,
and a worrying number accompanied by small bite
impressions. Scholars have debated whether the
marks denote days since the last delivery, or
how many people snapped before the others did.
The air carries the faint, sweet, sour scent
of old protein slurry, the kind that tastes like
sadness. but keeps you upright. Above the exit
hangs a civic motto in peeling block letters.
Let us leave quickly. The cranium mech may attempt
to give you samples. Now. These were once the
pride of Delta 19. The luxury habitation decks,
boasting faux windows, gravity stabilizers, and
views of filtered smog. Now they are partially
open to the elements, courtesy of catastrophic
structural humility. Please follow me closely.
The floor plan has migrated over time, with staircases
dangling in airy spirals, bulkheads yawning open.
like unamused mouths, and support beams maintaining
a polite but uncertain relationship with physics.
Wind whistles down the long corridors, accompanied
by the delicate twinkling of devotional wind
bones. Residents tie them wherever they can,
on railings, cables, exposed piping, believing
the chimes distract predatory spirits, tax collectors.
and occasionally their own thoughts. Visitors
often describe the atmosphere as peaceful, but
only if they ignore the occasional sound of distant
crashing, brief screams, or the concluding thud
of someone discovering gravity is still functional.
Inside one former family hab, a faded mural remains.
It depicts a cheerful family unit smiling with
uniform optimism. Some contemporary resident
has carefully added extra mouths to each figure,
perhaps to update them for modern theological
standards. Now, let us descend. If you have fingers,
please keep them out of the mechanism. Deep beneath
Delta 19, Below the habdecks, past the pipes
that sigh and the vents that mutter, lies the
old box repeater, once the beating heart of local
communication. Now it is a shrine, a relic, and
a questionable confidant. The machine hums with
a sluggish, almost living rhythm. Its battered
casing is coated in melted wax, handwritten prayer
slips, and an unsettling number of human teeth.
Locals claim the teeth improve reception. Outsiders
suspect they merely improve ambience. Occasionally,
when the machine stirs, it releases fragments
of ancient announcements. Citizens are reminded
that hunger is not a sin, but a test. Please
remain indoors during spiritual readjustment.
All praise to the Animus machine. Some say the
Vox is haunted by old administrators. Others
say it simply remembers too much. But most speak
of its primary gift. If you whisper your name
into the grill, And wait. Really wait. It will
murmur back what you are destined to become.
Sometimes the answer is mundane. Sometimes prophetic.
Occasionally, it is a sound best left untranscribed.
Locals affectionately call it the Kindly Mouth,
though none can explain why the name makes everyone
shiver slightly. And that concludes our walking
tour of Delta 19, a shining example of perseverance
through resource misallocation and selective
empathy. The Departamento Vox Communicatus thanks
you for your attention, your silence and your
willingness to absorb trauma as tourism. Should
you encounter any residents still capable of
speech, do not engage in barter, prayer or mutual
recognition. Remember, Empathy spreads faster
than fire. Until next time, keep your respirators
tight, your paperwork tighter, and your faith
digestible. This is Vox Sanctum signing off.
May your footsteps echo in compliance. Ave Imperator.
Host Servitor 241 was played by Richard Roberts.
Tourism Servitor 001 was played by Mandy Rose.
Vox Sanctum Gloriana is an Evil Lighthouse production.