Ok, I'm back with some fragments...
Guido swallowed hard, his throat dry as the ancient scrolls stacked in the corner. The cardinal’s stare felt like it could bore through the stone walls of the Vatican itself. He adjusted his glasses, stalling for a moment to gather his courage. The air in the chamber was thick with the weight of centuries, and the flickering torchlight cast shadows that seemed to writhe like the very souls they were debating.
"Your Eminence," Guido began, his voice trembling but resolute, "I’m not saying this to blaspheme. The evidence, the texts we uncovered in the Qumran caves, the forbidden codices from Alexandria, they all point to the same conclusion. The soul isn’t divine. It’s... a mechanism. A self-perpetuating entity, yes, but not one of God's making. The Source, as the texts call it, is a cosmic opportunist. It's been hitching rides on humanity since the first spark of consciousness, latching onto newborns as the dying exhale their last breath. It's not salvation. It's survival."
The cardinal's face darkened, his fingers tightening around the ornate cross hanging from his neck. "You dare suggest that our sacred doctrine, the very foundation of the Church, is a lie? That the soul’s journey is not toward God but some... parasitic cycle? Have you lost your mind or rather, your Soul!?"
Guido leaned forward, his academic fervor overriding his fear. "Not a lie, Your Eminence, but a misinterpretation. The Source doesn’t care about morality or divinity. It’s a force, like gravity or time. The codices describe it as a 'weaver of shells', binding itself to flesh to persist. Every miracle, every vision of the divine, it’s just the Source's way of ensuring we keep breeding, keep dying, keep giving it new hosts. The history of humanity isn’t a march toward redemption; it’s a farm for this thing."
The cardinal stood abruptly, his robes swishing like a storm cloud. "Heresy!" he spat, his voice echoing off the damp stone. "You think you can unravel two thousand years of faith with your dusty books and wild ass theories? The Church has crushed greater minds than yours for less."
Guido’s heart pounded, but he pressed on, his voice steadying. "Then why hide the codices? Why bury them in vaults no one can access? If I’m wrong, let the world see them. Let scholars debate. If the soul is truly divine, the truth will hold."
The cardinal’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Guido thought he saw something flicker in them, not anger, but fear. The old man turned toward the chamber’s only exit, a heavy iron door engraved with symbols Guido didn’t recognize. "You will speak of this to no one", the cardinal said, his voice low and dangerous. "The codices will remain where they are. And you, Dr. Guido Rossi, will leave Rome. Tonight or else."
Guido blinked, stunned. "You’re exiling me? For asking questions?"
The cardinal paused at the door, his hand on the rusted latch. He didn’t turn around. "Questions like yours don’t lead to answers, Doctor. They lead to chaos. And the Church has enough of that already." With a creaky groan, the door swung open, revealing a spiral staircase that vanished into darkness. "Go. Before The Source finds you."
Guido sat frozen as the cardinal’s footsteps faded. The Source. The way the cardinal said it, with a reverence that bordered on dread, sent a chill down his spine. He glanced at the scrolls, their edges curling like the fingers of something ancient and awake. The chamber felt smaller now, the air heavier, as if the shadows themselves were listening.
He grabbed his satchel, stuffing in his notes and a single photograph of the codex’s most damning page, the one depicting a figure, neither man nor god, with tendrils stretching into a sea of screaming faces. As he stumbled toward the door, a faint whisper brushed his ear, not in Italian or Latin, but in a tongue he couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t a word, but a feeling: hunger.
Guido ran up the stairs, the Vatican’s underbelly closing behind him like a tomb. He didn’t stop until he reached the moonlit streets of Rome, his breath ragged. The city hummed with life, tourists laughing, scooters buzzing, priests hurrying through the night. But Guido saw it differently now. Every face, every fleeting glance, was a mask for something older, something ravenous.
He boarded a train to nowhere, clutching his satchel as the lights of Rome faded. The codices were still locked away, but their truth was out, carried in the mind of a man who knew too much. And somewhere, in the space between life and death, The Source stirred, its endless cycle unbroken, waiting for the next soul to claim.
Years later, a new cardinal would sit in that same chamber, reading a report about a disgraced scholar found dead in a remote village, his body unmarked but his eyes wide with absolute terror of grimace. The cardinal would burn the report, whispering a prayer not to God, but to something else. And the scrolls would remain silent, their secrets safe...for now.
Guido swallowed hard, his throat dry as the ancient scrolls stacked in the corner. The cardinal’s stare felt like it could bore through the stone walls of the Vatican itself. He adjusted his glasses, stalling for a moment to gather his courage. The air in the chamber was thick with the weight of centuries, and the flickering torchlight cast shadows that seemed to writhe like the very souls they were debating.
"Your Eminence," Guido began, his voice trembling but resolute, "I’m not saying this to blaspheme. The evidence, the texts we uncovered in the Qumran caves, the forbidden codices from Alexandria, they all point to the same conclusion. The soul isn’t divine. It’s... a mechanism. A self-perpetuating entity, yes, but not one of God's making. The Source, as the texts call it, is a cosmic opportunist. It's been hitching rides on humanity since the first spark of consciousness, latching onto newborns as the dying exhale their last breath. It's not salvation. It's survival."
The cardinal's face darkened, his fingers tightening around the ornate cross hanging from his neck. "You dare suggest that our sacred doctrine, the very foundation of the Church, is a lie? That the soul’s journey is not toward God but some... parasitic cycle? Have you lost your mind or rather, your Soul!?"
Guido leaned forward, his academic fervor overriding his fear. "Not a lie, Your Eminence, but a misinterpretation. The Source doesn’t care about morality or divinity. It’s a force, like gravity or time. The codices describe it as a 'weaver of shells', binding itself to flesh to persist. Every miracle, every vision of the divine, it’s just the Source's way of ensuring we keep breeding, keep dying, keep giving it new hosts. The history of humanity isn’t a march toward redemption; it’s a farm for this thing."
The cardinal stood abruptly, his robes swishing like a storm cloud. "Heresy!" he spat, his voice echoing off the damp stone. "You think you can unravel two thousand years of faith with your dusty books and wild ass theories? The Church has crushed greater minds than yours for less."
Guido’s heart pounded, but he pressed on, his voice steadying. "Then why hide the codices? Why bury them in vaults no one can access? If I’m wrong, let the world see them. Let scholars debate. If the soul is truly divine, the truth will hold."
The cardinal’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Guido thought he saw something flicker in them, not anger, but fear. The old man turned toward the chamber’s only exit, a heavy iron door engraved with symbols Guido didn’t recognize. "You will speak of this to no one", the cardinal said, his voice low and dangerous. "The codices will remain where they are. And you, Dr. Guido Rossi, will leave Rome. Tonight or else."
Guido blinked, stunned. "You’re exiling me? For asking questions?"
The cardinal paused at the door, his hand on the rusted latch. He didn’t turn around. "Questions like yours don’t lead to answers, Doctor. They lead to chaos. And the Church has enough of that already." With a creaky groan, the door swung open, revealing a spiral staircase that vanished into darkness. "Go. Before The Source finds you."
Guido sat frozen as the cardinal’s footsteps faded. The Source. The way the cardinal said it, with a reverence that bordered on dread, sent a chill down his spine. He glanced at the scrolls, their edges curling like the fingers of something ancient and awake. The chamber felt smaller now, the air heavier, as if the shadows themselves were listening.
He grabbed his satchel, stuffing in his notes and a single photograph of the codex’s most damning page, the one depicting a figure, neither man nor god, with tendrils stretching into a sea of screaming faces. As he stumbled toward the door, a faint whisper brushed his ear, not in Italian or Latin, but in a tongue he couldn’t quite place. It wasn’t a word, but a feeling: hunger.
Guido ran up the stairs, the Vatican’s underbelly closing behind him like a tomb. He didn’t stop until he reached the moonlit streets of Rome, his breath ragged. The city hummed with life, tourists laughing, scooters buzzing, priests hurrying through the night. But Guido saw it differently now. Every face, every fleeting glance, was a mask for something older, something ravenous.
He boarded a train to nowhere, clutching his satchel as the lights of Rome faded. The codices were still locked away, but their truth was out, carried in the mind of a man who knew too much. And somewhere, in the space between life and death, The Source stirred, its endless cycle unbroken, waiting for the next soul to claim.
Years later, a new cardinal would sit in that same chamber, reading a report about a disgraced scholar found dead in a remote village, his body unmarked but his eyes wide with absolute terror of grimace. The cardinal would burn the report, whispering a prayer not to God, but to something else. And the scrolls would remain silent, their secrets safe...for now.
"It is hard to imagine a more stupid or more dangerous way of making decisions than by putting those decisions in the hands of people who pay no price for being wrong." – Thomas Sowell