O' Polaria, bury my body, sing me a song.

Somewhere, far, far away is a time where a better, safer path was possible. That’s the thought of most lancers-in-training, and for those ready for arbitration, that path is far away indeed. But they’re damn proud of that, most of them—that they’re the few in the cosmos willing to risk it all for the chance to become a lancer. They’re proud that they’ll rise above the soft, spoon-fed bourgeois of the colonized worlds and save everyone’s asses when it hits the fan. Or not, they’re a disparate bunch after all.

12-073-4546. A serial number, written on the back of a small identification card, which a trainee stares at blankly. The first number, 12, identifies him: a lancer about to enter his final trial. The second identifies what arbitration group he’s in, 73, and the third identifies the current solar cycle: 4546 cycles after the Deluge. The card doesn’t feel real through the thick, composite-alloy gauntlets he’s wearing. His bulky hardsuit makes it seem as if he’s more of a medieval knight than futuristic soldier, the armor being fitted specifically to handle the pressure of the deep ocean, requiring a heavier frame.

The trainee lightly taps his armor with his fingers, anxious and eager for what’s ahead. His head is tucked down, his face masked by a featureless pilot helmet with no callsign, no designation—such personalization is reserved only for trainees who survive. He sits among other pilots in a sort of waiting room: the transport cabin of an Interplanetary Shipping gunship. Gunship is an improper term though, this vehicle hasn’t seen combat for a long time, its guns having been stripped of it for use as a transport vehicle.

Others sit around him, disassociating themselves or idly chatting. Though, most aren’t wearing their helmets like he is. He doesn’t mind though. It keeps them from talking to him. Another figure boards the ship, the last of the ascetics. The ship door begins to close, and "12" lets outs a sigh as the ship begins to take off.

Sixteen are aboard, not including the flight crew. Most are human, though, four apperatums are among them. Of the sixteen, six will return on this gunship. Only death awaits the rest. Those statistics are a miracle, really. Just a few centuries ago only three or four usually survived, and occasionally nowadays as much as half of a group will emerge as lancers. Advancements in underwater diving technology as well as refinement of the training process has eliminated unnecessary deaths in the process.

Regardless, arbitration remains what is always has been: a bloodbath. Those who take on the journey are well aware of the process' fatality--most say goodbye to their families once they begin training. And yet, for the entirety of post-Deluge civilization, the process has gone unquestioned. Humanity, Apperata, both understand the weight of what lancers have a chance at grasping: divinity. And, in a world where its so incredibly easy to blend into the background, forgotten and unobserved, that chance at becoming a holy warrior, an emissary between god and mortality--such has been regarded as worth the spilt blood. To wield the ability to change the course of history for entire planets, dueling other divine warriors withing mechanized chassis in the skies above them--most would give up everything for the chance. And because of that, those who die in the process are regarded as noble sacrifices, but simply another part of the game.

This world, however, has a slightly higher average rate of survival. Usually 40-45% survive arbitration on Sirius-b thanks to its shallower oceans--a gift that makes it a popular final destination for would-be lancers. "12", though, doesn't appreciate the scenery to say the least. Unlike many of those in the gunship alongside him, this isn't his homeworld. It isn't even close, some seven or more light-years away from a system forgotten after the desolation brought by the Synthesis War. Seven or more light-years away from anyone who knows him, of the few that exist after everything that's happened.

He's going to die here. Alone, in an unmarked grave at the bottom of the ocean. No one will remember his name. Actually, they will, just by his new name: 12-073-4546, remembered by some IPS itinerary somewhere. A noble fate, truly. Whatever, it doesn't matter. Death will come, soft in the depths, or long in the stars.

A rumbling of static bellows from an intercom in the transport cabin. The poor sound system makes the man behind the transmitter incredibly loud. The officer yells anyway. A tired, soldierly voice bellows:

"Alright acolytes, I hope your sorry asses have kept up with your daily prayers: it's time. In half an hour you'll fall to the depths with the hope that one of Numen is an asshole just like you. Sixteen Numen for sixteen lancers-to-be, at least, in a more perfect world. Most of you won't make it. So do your last minute sacrifices, give it all up to some freak in the blink-space, whatever makes you feel better. When we arrive on the platform, take of your helmets and I'll come around to collect your information and ensure you're cleared to jump. May the Arbiters' will align in your favor."

The rest of the trip is spent in silence. Eventually, the sputtering of the ship's engine starts to slow: they're landing. As the transport bay doors open, the gates of heaven and hell appear before them. A circular platform on the open ocean. Nothing appears on the horizon other than the endless seas, rocking the platform back and forth. Countless have dove from this silicon circle, and countless have never returned. The optimistic call this place the stairway to heaven, while the more nihilistic simply call it the graveyard of dreams. Take in the salty ocean air, it might be the last memory you have of the surface world.

The trainees assemble around the platform. "12" stares at his surroundings, and all doubt dissolves away into the endless waters below. It doesn't matter what happens, there's no turning back now. He takes off his helmet, waiting in line for the officer to receive him.

"12" has a jagged, angular face that speaks to his youth. He can't be older than twenty solar cycles, potentially even younger. However, the pigments illustrating his face paint a different story in regards to his age. This man has been through hell. From the deep scarring across his face to the deep, tired circles under his eyes--that much is clear. Long, unkept black hair lets down from his head, greasy and tangled from the claustrophobic helmet. What's most striking though, is his eyes. The sclera of his eyes are a deep, pitch black, with no veins visible. Peering into his eyes, one sees only the pale white of his iris surrounded by an all-encompassing void.

He reaches into the helmet and retrieves a single, self-lighting cigarette. A shrill gasp escapes the ignition mechanism as "12" lights it and puts it up to his mouth. A poor choice, perhaps, given the risk of death by asphyxiation in the deep ocean, but a choice made nonetheless.

The officer makes his way around the platform before approaching "12". He looks down at a small tablet as he begins: "First I need your name and planet of-" The officer cuts himself off as he looks into the trainee's eyes. "Woah, freakshow, are you sure you've gone through all the proper medical screening? I can't let you go if you haven't."

"12" lets out a deep sigh, looking away into the distance as he answers. "If any doctor can cure this, it's news to me." He takes a long drag off his cigarette. "On the way here I was augmented with a Smith-Shimano psycho-ocular implant to alleviate my blindness. I can see roughly as well as you can, just... differently. So unless you know any Solarians, I think I've received all the medical attention I can get."

The officer stares, processing, before inputting a number of responses on his tablet. Based on the amount of time he spends--there are some further questions he chose not to ask. The officer continues on: "Alright, back at the beginning, then. Name and planet of origin?" "Rishal Levy," A meaningless name. "from Eirene-B." He takes another drag off his cigarette before adding: "Thoroughly depopulated in the last decade."

The ocean seems rather still this afternoon. It makes little difference to the treachery of the deep, though. The officer continues: "Do you have any family or other emergency contacts you-" "No." The sharp response of a question asked--and answered--too many times. The officer lets out an exasperated sigh as he moves on: "Have you, or will you be cloned in case of death during Arbitration?" "No." Not uncommon, especially among the poor, like Rishal. If anything, that's the greatest concern in regards to the ethics of Arbitration: that the rich are allowed multiple chances, while the poor, who can't afford cloning, are allowed only one.

"Alright, final question. Should you be forsaken by the Arbiters, what are you last words?" Rishal looks in the distance, taking a long drag off their cigarette. Unblinking, blackened eyes stare, monolithic towards the sea around them. "O' Polaria, bury my body, sing me a song."

It all fades away into the water below, the sound of sixteen reverberating splashes is silenced in an instant as Rishal dives into the depths below. And, just like that, time seems to freeze. For the next hour (or perhaps more), nothing is felt other than the increasing pressure from the depths as the sixteen all sink into the deep, slowly drifting away until each is alone in the abyss.

The hardsuit is a marvel of modern bio-engineering. Not only does it protect the wearer from the harshness of space, but it also serves as a bulwark against thermal and atmospheric hazards, making it equipped perfectly to handle the deep ocean (as was it's original intent). This comes at the cost of a sort of sensory numbness for the wearer, especially in times such as Arbitration. At any moment, Rishal thinks, he could have passed on into nothingness--and he wouldn't know the difference. All he can know or feel is his own thoughts, nothing else exists in his perception--all else is simply an infinite black void. His impaired vision is his only hope, that there might be something else out there other than himself, out of reach due to his blindness.

And yet, just in time to disrupt the spiral into disassociation, the slightest reverberation is felt through the water. Rishal looks below, to where it was felt, where a particle of light screams against the void. The particle expands, becoming a line. Then, bending to form a curve. Eight, nine, ten curves form up around it, the beams of glowing blue dancing together in unison. They arise to the same level as Rishal wrapping around him in a prison of luminance. As they enter the gaze of the prisoner, though, the lights enter the third dimension and reveal themselves as the massive bioluminescent tentacles of an Arbiter.

Its nature revealed, the Arbiter tightens their tentacles around Rishal, squeezing their hardsuit in a cramped, but gentle hold. They lower their body to eye-level with their captive. Rishal stares into the void, trying to make out their shape through the haze. The Arbiter's body seems to be phasing in an out of reality, becoming simple and geometric, then ephemeral and luminescent, then merely a ripple in the void. The black, oily texture of their skin makes them indecipherable amongst the void of the abyssal sea--the only evidence of their existence the dancing set of lines that are now coiled around the acolyte.

As Rishal adjusts to his situation, his desire for a glimpse at the Arbiter's form is answered by the opening of their central eye. It glows a bright blue, just like the tentacles, and is constantly visible through the cephalopod's constantly morphing form. Its pupil expands and contracts, seemingly seeing far beyond the onyx eyes behind the hardsuit. As its gaze claws deeper into the soul, Rishal feels something latch on to his mind--like a cable to an outlet, a lightbulb its socket--and something activates within. A deafening static rings through his brain: the Arbiter is inside his mind, and its beginning to speak. Rishal feels the tentacles wrapping around him, tightening. Death, here it comes: soft in the depths. A gentle strangulation into the dark.

A quivering, screaming sound rips through his ears: a voice.

LITTLE ONE.

The tentacles tighten again. Endorphins are released in Rishal's brain: to ease him into death.

YOU ARE MORE AFRAID THAN YOU WILL ADMIT.

Tighter. Muscles relax, more chemicals are released. No effort is made to resist, after all, it doesn't matter, does it?

DEATH, IT IS TERRIFYING.

Oxygen is trapped in the diver's lungs. Every cell in his body is still.

YET, YOU ARE NOT AFRAID OF DEATH, ARE YOU?

A ripple through the ocular void: Rishal's eyes contract.**

YOU ARE AFRAID OF ITS CONTEXT.

Reminata expands around the imprisoned. What has been becomes what is.

`A maddening howl rips across the tundra. Thousands of voices screaming of enlightment and evolution as bio-mechanical frames flay the countryside in their advance. In an instant, the outer walls are pulverized, the enclave treaded upon. A mother cries. A sister takes flight. A father stands motionless, his hand a bright red, wrapped tightly around a primative sidearm. The cacophony of voices--it's too much.`

WHAT YOU FEAR MOST OF ALL...

`It will all be silenced, though. The End is hovering above. A piercing sounds reverberates from the heavens. An array of countless pillars rain from above, a direct injection of five thousand tons of tungsten to cure a dying world. Screams, then, nothing. A brother coils in fear, and, miraculously, survives.`

IS A DEATH WITHOUT MEANING.

The tentacles relax. Oxygen escapes the man's lungs, then enters again, slowly.

RELAX, LITTLE ONE. YOU WILL DIE MANY TIMES IN THE PATH AHEAD.

The arbiter shifts closer, leaning its eye towards Rishal.

THE PATH WILL WIND AND CURVE, AND MANY CURRENTS WILL PULL AND TEAR AT YOU. PERHAPS ONE WILL RIP YOU AWAY COMPLETELY.

The tentacles no longer wrap around the acolyte. He hasn't noticed. Sensory input has not yet returned to his muscles and tendons.

DO NOT BE AFRAID. THE CURRENT YOU WALK NOW, IT WILL ALWAYS BE WITH YOU. IT FLOWS ALONGSIDE EVERYONE, HIDING AMONG SHADOWS, SLIPPING INTO THE LIMELIGHT FOR MERE MOMENTS. BUT YOU, YOU HAVE HELD IT TIGHTER THAN MOST, FALLEN DEEPER INTO ITS CHASM.

And yet, death has already been assumed by the mind of would-be-lancer. The heart is slowing its march. The abyss is pouring in, colder and colder.

YOU ARE STRONG ENOUGH, CHILD. DEATH IS NOT ENOUGH TO QUIET YOUR SPIRIT.

It's hard to see the eye now, the darkness' vignette consuming more and more. A tentacle is brought to Rishal's helmet and sprays upon it an adhesive ink, drawing an intricate symbol. Indecipherable though, to the blackened eyes within.

YOU WILL CONTINUE ON. YOU WILL FIND THE ANSWER TO YOUR QUESTION: WHAT MEANING LURKS WITHIN DEATH?

It's everywhere now. Blacker and blacker and

Light, blinding. Something is burning through the haze. An angel? No, the rays of something stronger. The sunlight hurts the abyssal eyes. What's that ink blocking it out? Brighter, brighter.

The surface. A hardsuit is carried gently across the waves. The ocean breeze carries mist and memory onto Rishal. Rishal, that was his name. Feeling returns to the muscles. He twitches for a moment, and then crawls through the waves onto that platform once more. A voice rings out:

"Well I'll be damned, freakshow, you survived."

A shock erupts through the legs with each steps. Was it always like this? Rishal limps towards the officer and takes off his helmet.

"Now, who are you?"

Something's there. Something that's supposed to be said. Rishal stands straight up, his eyes drifting towards the man in front of him, at least, where he thinks he is. He can feel it, deep inside his mind: a new, divine truth. He just needs to reach out and...

"Rishal, lancer of the Nihility."