Author's Note: Fine, I admit it - I love the ISOs. I love their entire ideology, the thought of beings, quote "profoundly naïve and unimaginably wise" out there; or, you know, in there, rather. That said, Quorra is a fascinating character and I've been yearning to explore her story in greater detail for some time now (well, a few days. What, the thing is new!). Heavily inspired by the trailer for Within Temptation's new album "The Unforgiving" (as you can probably tell); I even borrowed some lines. Don't worry, however! I intend to give them back in perfect state, promise. :)
English is not my native language, blah blah blah.. Man, this is getting old. I wish a day when I would feel confident enough to not have to repeat this would come.
Prologue: Quorra's Epitaph
She has been called many names since the day of her birth, and remembers most of them. With their arrival, they called her upgrade, seer, miracle. During their lifetime, things have assumed many new shapes and forms, absorbing the feelings and thoughts of others, the names changing with them; then, they called her foreigner, alien, stranger. She has lived to witness lands and cities rise and fall, spoken to numerous distinct forms of life, seen them shatter… and come back together again. At the beginning of the Purge, more changes occured, putting a cross on her shoulders. She became an imperfection, a threat, a menace, rejected and forced to live a life of hiding and shame, those whom she had deemed allies turning their back on all misunderstood. And, ages later, the last known titles emerged from waves of the narrow-minded society driven by need for order and stability, brining up words almost forgotten to mark the almost forgotten; myth, legend, spirit. Words necessary to name a kind which has, in fact, never changed. They were the gods humanity had wished for. They were the embodiment of the unknown. They were the ultimate salvation, and damnation, of the system, respected, feared and banished. One day, the last soul who still has little knowledge of ages long past will perish, and there will no longer be words to describe what will have passed. When that day comes, the Unnamed will come to existence. But there are still many stories to be lived through and told before it happens.
Some might call it a curse, a life like hers. Others a blessing. It's certainly a lonely life, but a fulfilling one at best.
The resting icosahedrons watch patiently from a distance, judging with a stone cold face as first words start to form in her mind and then sublime into the air. She speaks with the charming grace of a poet; a skilled raconteur, breathing heart and soul into the sentences, while remaining calm herself, almost at peace, only a few wrong, absent-minded looks giving away the feelings behind the facade. It almost seems as if she were telling this story for the billionth time, while in fact, it hasn't seen the world yet at all, with no one else to remember and pass it on.
"Forgive me, sir, but I am unsure as to where to begin."
"There is a lot to tell, that much I realize. Nevertheless, we have way more time than we need. Let's start from the beginning."