Broadcast warning. The following transmission,
designated The Testimony of Purity Adjutant Hessa
Raln, is released under reluctant sanction by
Departamento Vox Communicatus Subsector Delta
9 and the Ministry of Imaginary Items. Citizens
are advised that this record concerns the dismantling
of the Saint's Resonator and therefore contains
references to prohibited theology, unsafe harmonics
and minor transcendence. While the incident has
been declared contained... Containment remains
a theoretical state pending confirmation from
those who survived. Exposure to this broadcast
may result in temporary enlightenment in the
form of tinnitus, involuntary synchronization
of heartbeat with the machine's memory, emotional
attachment to vibrating objects, mild faith -based
liquefaction, unscheduled empathy towards metal
surfaces, particularly warm ones. Listeners are
reminded that any humming you hear during playback
is normal. Any humming that continues after playback
is also normal, but you should report it anyway.
Attempts to sing along with the recording are
strictly forbidden, as harmony implies consent.
Should you experience understanding, you are
to proceed directly to your nearest purity chamber
for deconstruction, spiritual or otherwise. Please
note that Purity Adjutant Raln's observations
are not to be replicated, imitated or admired.
They are to be respected only as a cautionary
hymn on the dangers of enthusiastic demolition.
This testimony has been linguistically sterilized,
theologically neutralized, and mostly neurologically
amputated. If you hear screaming regardless,
congratulations, you have been noticed. By continuing
this broadcast, you waive your right to disbelief.
They told us to call it a saint's resonator.
Like that made it holy. Like the machine didn't
sing back. When we arrived, the air was already
trembling. The walls flexed in time with the
sound. Metal breathing. Stone pulsing. The hymn
wasn't coming from the speakers anymore. It was
coming from everything. Every bolt. Every plate,
every living thing that had ever touched the
floor was humming the same note. We wore masks
and purity seals, but it didn't matter. The vibration
got inside. It wasn't sound. It was instruction
down in the marrow. A whisper in the cells. I
felt my teeth grinding in time with it, like
they were learning a new prayer. Sergeant Korr
was the first to try cutting power. He swung
the blade through a cable as thick as his arm.
A thick, viscous light, like melted gold, sprayed
across his faceplate. He screamed, and the scream
matched pitch. For a few seconds, he was part
of the song. Then he was gone. No explosion,
no body. Just a smear of tone hanging in the
air, vibrating too fast to be real. We pressed
on, of course. Orders are sacred, and disobedience
is unsound. Every step closer, the machinery
changed. Pipes had grown ribbed, not like metal,
but like windpipes. The panels pulsed, their
seams slick with condensation. Somewhere a voice
was counting. Not numbers, but us. When we reached
the heart of it, the so -called resonator, I
saw what it really was. A lattice of bone and
wire turning slowly, wetly. The hymn emanated
from the holes in it, like wind through a skull.
And inside, you could just make out shapes. People,
I think. Or what was left when faith and flesh
had finished negotiating. We planted the charges
anyway. It felt wrong to be so loud in a place
so very full of noise. When the detonator clicked,
the song stuttered. It sounded almost surprised.
The light came next. Bright. Colourless. Pure
pressure. I remember the sensation of being unfolded.
My armour peeled open, and so did I, every atom
straining to sing a different note than silence.
When I woke, I was in the ruins. The others were
gone, their bodies, no ash, just outlines where
their shadows had burned into the metal. The
walls were still breathing, slower now, gentle.
Like after prayer, I tried to stand. My legs
didn't quite remember how. When I leaned on the
floor, it flexed under my palm. It felt grateful.
They say we destroyed the resonator, that the
saint is silent. But when I sleep, my pulse finds
the rhythm again. It's waiting deep in the foundations.
Just below hearing, and sometimes when I breathe
in, I swear the air breathes back. Recorded under
duress. Transcribed posthumously.