WEBVTT

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Broadcast warning. The following transmission,

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designated The Testimony of Purity Adjutant Hessa

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Raln, is released under reluctant sanction by

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Departamento Vox Communicatus Subsector Delta

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9 and the Ministry of Imaginary Items. Citizens

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are advised that this record concerns the dismantling

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of the Saint's Resonator and therefore contains

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references to prohibited theology, unsafe harmonics

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and minor transcendence. While the incident has

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been declared contained... Containment remains

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a theoretical state pending confirmation from

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those who survived. Exposure to this broadcast

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may result in temporary enlightenment in the

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form of tinnitus, involuntary synchronization

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of heartbeat with the machine's memory, emotional

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attachment to vibrating objects, mild faith -based

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liquefaction, unscheduled empathy towards metal

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surfaces, particularly warm ones. Listeners are

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reminded that any humming you hear during playback

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is normal. Any humming that continues after playback

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is also normal, but you should report it anyway.

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Attempts to sing along with the recording are

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strictly forbidden, as harmony implies consent.

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Should you experience understanding, you are

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to proceed directly to your nearest purity chamber

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for deconstruction, spiritual or otherwise. Please

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note that Purity Adjutant Raln's observations

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are not to be replicated, imitated or admired.

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They are to be respected only as a cautionary

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hymn on the dangers of enthusiastic demolition.

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This testimony has been linguistically sterilized,

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theologically neutralized, and mostly neurologically

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amputated. If you hear screaming regardless,

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congratulations, you have been noticed. By continuing

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this broadcast, you waive your right to disbelief.

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They told us to call it a saint's resonator.

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Like that made it holy. Like the machine didn't

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sing back. When we arrived, the air was already

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trembling. The walls flexed in time with the

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sound. Metal breathing. Stone pulsing. The hymn

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wasn't coming from the speakers anymore. It was

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coming from everything. Every bolt. Every plate,

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every living thing that had ever touched the

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floor was humming the same note. We wore masks

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and purity seals, but it didn't matter. The vibration

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got inside. It wasn't sound. It was instruction

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down in the marrow. A whisper in the cells. I

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felt my teeth grinding in time with it, like

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they were learning a new prayer. Sergeant Korr

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was the first to try cutting power. He swung

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the blade through a cable as thick as his arm.

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A thick, viscous light, like melted gold, sprayed

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across his faceplate. He screamed, and the scream

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matched pitch. For a few seconds, he was part

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of the song. Then he was gone. No explosion,

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no body. Just a smear of tone hanging in the

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air, vibrating too fast to be real. We pressed

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on, of course. Orders are sacred, and disobedience

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is unsound. Every step closer, the machinery

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changed. Pipes had grown ribbed, not like metal,

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but like windpipes. The panels pulsed, their

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seams slick with condensation. Somewhere a voice

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was counting. Not numbers, but us. When we reached

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the heart of it, the so -called resonator, I

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saw what it really was. A lattice of bone and

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wire turning slowly, wetly. The hymn emanated

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from the holes in it, like wind through a skull.

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And inside, you could just make out shapes. People,

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I think. Or what was left when faith and flesh

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had finished negotiating. We planted the charges

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anyway. It felt wrong to be so loud in a place

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so very full of noise. When the detonator clicked,

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the song stuttered. It sounded almost surprised.

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The light came next. Bright. Colourless. Pure

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pressure. I remember the sensation of being unfolded.

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My armour peeled open, and so did I, every atom

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straining to sing a different note than silence.

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When I woke, I was in the ruins. The others were

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gone, their bodies, no ash, just outlines where

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their shadows had burned into the metal. The

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walls were still breathing, slower now, gentle.

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Like after prayer, I tried to stand. My legs

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didn't quite remember how. When I leaned on the

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floor, it flexed under my palm. It felt grateful.

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They say we destroyed the resonator, that the

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saint is silent. But when I sleep, my pulse finds

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the rhythm again. It's waiting deep in the foundations.

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Just below hearing, and sometimes when I breathe

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in, I swear the air breathes back. Recorded under

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duress. Transcribed posthumously.
