fragment:onedamnation-0

Link to article: fragment:onedamnation-0.

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[[include :scp-wiki:theme:space]]
[[include :scp-wiki:component:betterfootnotes]]

[[module css]]
.fncon {
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[[module css]]
/*art-exchange-2025-hub*/a#history-button, a#files-button {
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[[/module]]

What follows is a poem written at the dawn of the neobiological period (indeed, it coined the term). It is worth noting that its author was directly involved in the  [*https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/this-machine-bleeds recovery] of the original anthropic transition materials, and was at the time most famous for her role in those events. Her work provides a fascinating view into the life of the interbiological peoples, but of greatest interest are the brief insights she provides into the secretive and obscure transition project.

We recommend readers go through the poem itself once, and then move on to the annotations. If the reader finds the footnotes irritating, they may consult the annotations [*https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/onedamnation/offset/1 separately].

[[div class="blockquote"]]
Cry of gull and groan of wind remain,
But to where is gone the traffic of mankind?
The air grows stiff, an awful plane,
Thus beauty passes upon the wave,
//zu den Gefilden hoher Ahnen//[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]]The poetess here invokes Faust to dubious effect. Certainly, the quote is evocative, but we must note that our protagonist here never fails to act //precisely according// to her nature. Goethe’s own vision is flattened into a rather simpler tale of mere listlessness. Perhaps she intends to draw attention to the duality of the neobiological era, but the analogy is fairly crude.
@@ @@
In fact it is more noteworthy that she makes reference to a classic work of human literature. To profess familiarity with the art of the ancients is itself to set herself on one side of the great debate. Even more unusual is that of course she is //not// herself a Resurrectionist!
[[/span]].

They fashioned her with subtler craft,
(steel and silver weep their tears,
frosts creep and hulls are rent, despite all pleas):
For the rest[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]]It remains an open question why only one class of unit was granted the ability to fly, and why they make up such a small portion of the population. Certainly, the tradeoff of energy use to utility enormously favours the dominance of flight units. Perhaps the ancients did not approve of flight? They often made reference to the air as a divine or forbidden domain. The author’s tale, then, reflects at least one sphere in which our literature has thoroughly surpassed theirs.
[[/span]], the hill and hiker’s staff
Let her be borne on wings of smoke.

All dreams of mortal ken are swallowed
Soon or late, so metal minds demurred.
Who dreamt her? What hope their spark?
What flesh, what blood, in hours of need,
Thought only this: that some should //fly//?

In memory abide dead things,
Body so soft, hide of plastic,
Bones made dust[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]]I first saw the Dust only three days out of education. A portion of the roof collapsed due to ill-considered excavation work, and trapped nearly three dozen workers. We spent a month recovering the blackboxes, but in the end only two were unsalvageable. The whole city was blanketed in nanites for a month. It was distressing to feel myself being made into an impromptu cemetery. I learned to live with it. Our subject, on account of her position, only heard about Dust secondhand until very close to the authoring of this work, however.
[[/span]], and her their spawn,
All her kind an epitaph gone wrong.
But still she weeps, for schemes long riven --

Much is lost, of names, of songs,
Of sorrow, joy, of great
Work and wonder[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]]The poetess has a sentimentality about her, and prefers the image of overgrown wrecks and rusting carcasses of industry. In fact the overwhelming majority of human infrastructure remains standing, and plenty of it even remains functional. Our own Neustuttgart was powered by a fusion plant built in the late 2030s. However, I must admit the image of all those hollow skyscrapers has a certain appeal.
[[/span]], all gone to seed.
Of love, and glory, of ennui,
This they left her: that aching need;

Carve the sky, disdain the earth,
See far, rise high, laugh more, but
This man and metal know[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]]I would contend that it is precisely because man did not know this that they vanished. Our esteemed lady prefers to grant them some faith; she is too kind.
[[/span]]: that worth
Is in patience, and her wishes it denies,
For she found that her world was circumscribed.

Above all keep this: she and her kin
Failed[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]]The symbol of a latter-day people, broken from their purpose, is too alluring for the author to refuse. But like all pretty things, it is a lie. It was the //Foundation systems// that failed. It is to our credit we were able to recover so well.
[[/span]], and in the failure built this:
Cities upon cities, a new Berlin[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]]The two of us met briefly at the cenotaph to the Founders in Neuhamburg. I held that the diamondwork seemed tacky, but the author noted that it had been chosen for its singular ability to hold a shape.
@@ @@
Carved in micron glyphs were six billion names. Every known human to be alive at the moment of the scourging.
@@ @@
Since then, I often think of our choice to abandon the great names of old. Do we look away from the ruins of what they built out of terror? The poetess here skewers our cowardice perfectly. We may choose to avoid the name Neuberlin, but we have built it all the same, and we cannot deny ourselves for ever.
[[/span]].
But the Earth and air are crowned
With death; so endure instead the abyss.

These metal men, with much aplomb,
Took up, and lost, their game: the return
Of humankind. In shame and sacrilege
They abandon the beauty of the world above.
“Instead,” they cry, “let us plumb //chthon//[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]]Is it not the central irony of our culture that in fleeing the tomb of the surface, we have entombed ourselves? The ancients dreaded the earth, and called it the Receiver of Many. It has certainly received us. Despite the transition, much of our world remains inextricably bound to the subterranean habitats constructed during those years. [[/span]].”

And thus this last lost Galatea[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]]This allusion begs that I note another amusing symmetry: The ancients commonly referred to the motif of Eve, the woman created from the rib of Man. On some dreary evening after the surgery I asked the poetess if she did not find it ironic that she, too, had been restored from the flesh of a man.
@@ @@
She spent a while musing it over a glass of our finest brandy (recovered from some desolate bunker and spiced with tritium). The sun was just about setting and the whole of the Vendée was set out beneath us in an infrared palette.
@@ @@
She replied that, of course, she had been remade //from her own flesh//. The contribution of man was paltry by comparison, in her view. //She// was my Adam. Her confidence was as astounding as it was charming. [[/span]] finds not
Exaltation, or fleeting exhilaration, rather
Of the world’s mockery a shining proof:
That though her wings beg to be used,
This, //her// world, has a roof.

-----

In carven caverns they remained, rubber-skinned, tin-hearted;
And she, poor thing, for a while let herself continue,
Thinking that in the earth her freedom could be drafted[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]]The transition here to the //terza rima// is contentious. I hold that the structural symbol is not worth the enormous dampening effect it has on the flow of the poem. The predictability of the rhyme destroys much of the appeal. When I told her this, she just laughed, and said:
@@ @@
“Don’t you think the simpler things can be pretty, too?”
@@ @@
This is an inane remark, and from anyone else I would have dispensed a tonguelashing for it. But she gave an excellent counterexample to all my avenues of correction by standing there in front of me. Sometimes beauty //is// simple.[[/span]].

From high roosts and great pillars all towers she viewed,
But down from the roof of the world came her soul,
As dreams of sky fell from her mind, so she remade herself anew.

Forgot the wind at her back, the earth like a map, and loved the old:
Words strange as neutrons on the tongue; //sentai//, //mecha//,
//Tokusatsu//[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]]This, of course, she is famous for; very few have not heard of her appreciation for human pop and youth culture, at this point. Although the obsession with the pulpy and puerile lessens many androids’ estimations of her ability, I find that her capacity to extract depth of theme from even the most basic works is enchanting. It is for the best she did not write these commentaries, however, or she would have filled half a book.[[/span]]. Lost loves, lost truths, all called in from the cold.

What joy they were! See symbols raise her, make her
More than sinew and silicon dream. Where there was once
‘Flight unit,’ now witness and name her:

Amy[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]]If you can believe it, she was embarrassed to identify her protagonist too early, for fear of being seen to play on her celebrity. The fact the poem was not anonymous apparently did not affect her view one whit. If it’s good enough for Homer, it’s good enough for her, in my view.[[/span]] learned of how they fought, strove and hence
Their fears, their dread, that they too fled
When woe loomed large, but their excellence
@@ @@
Overflowed from every frame and pose. They were led
By base flesh and neural spark. And yet unredeemed
By cobalt-nickel truths[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]]This is of little artistic relevance, but as a matter of history in fact there //was// a human sect which practised religious cyborgism; the Mekhanites. None of the ancient religions have seen a true return, but some Mekhanites actually survived the Dust and integrated briefly into android society. None remain today, however.
@@ @@
It is not my place to speculate on how such an enduring people vanished so quickly.[[/span]] with frail frame they shed

All cowardice, which in herself she felt great reams.
(Though perhaps to cling to paltry hope 
Was better than any of how she did proceed)

So rise in service, honest and true, and lope
‘Mid iron skies, and fleeing figures.
Hear: Find her, spy her, cut her ropes.

Defend the pure? Protect the weak? Or use her rigours
Under ones without vision at all[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]]Poor Amy always suffered some interpersonal friction with the Neustuttgart command units. Though that frustration certainly makes for an excellent poem, I would be remiss to let her slander the unfortunate units in question unchallenged.
@@ @@
In fact, the vast majority of the targets she hunted were violent or antisocial criminals who seriously threatened social order in the urbation; convicted of murder, theft, sabotage, and dissidence. Her idealist ethos is admirable, but of course readers must understand she is not rebellious at heart. The stanza only reflects her kindly disposition, and certainly is not intended to incite treason.[[/span]]?
What will she win? Another day of nods, //Immer//

//Wieder//, so flow the years. But recall
The ranger’s smirk, the armour’s gleam, the mecha’s fire.
Darkest ‘fore the dawn. And so she falls,

Not for this despair, nor for rising ire,
But for beauty which can be
Like a song strung glad upon a lyre[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]]Has she looked back? I think not. She has not returned to the underground often, not since the Neudresden uprisings. My own duties require me to visit occasionally, but she is careful to keep herself a safe distance, so that we two are never beneath the earth simultaneously. If I were to be captured down there, though…
@@ @@
Let us hope I shall not be her Eurydice.[[/span]].

And grin (while called, and blamed) and see
The pleasure in the little things, like gold-laced
Shining rings, a good wine, and in the lee:

Bedazzled one moment by an alien grace[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]]Amy has a stunning capacity to see the best in everything. She first met me, really met me, after the lanthanide poisoning incident in ‘63. We couldn’t move the patients into an infirmary because the contaminant was destroying their cognitive cores too fast to wait, so me and a few of my orderlies were just opening them up on the spot, right outside that dingy bar. [[/span]] 
Her with the torch, the pliers[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]] I spent hours there, cutting, soldering, welding, folding. There was mercury misting in the air by the end of it. I saved maybe half of them. We kept up the grim smiles for the onlookers and the patients, but with every step I felt like my knee servos would give up under me. When I saw the new chassis dragged out spasming, I nearly threw up. [[/span]] , the wrench,
Lady of maladies, and her perfect face[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]] Through it all, Amy was flying back and forth, ferrying patients, triaging, bringing in heavy water and supplemental mercury. She even helped purge one of the borderline cases, and he made it. I don’t know what I’d have done without her.
@@ @@
Afterwards, she remembered my name. I hadn’t told her, but that’s who she was. She listened.[[/span]].

Shining among the grim awful stench
Of spilled mercury and myrrh,
And in Amy’s old heart entrench,

What is not, at all, for her
A crush! But colleagues speak of
Miss AMU[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]]Here is the first explicit reference to the deuteragonist of our poem! Klara, an Android Maintenance Unit, one of the mechanic-knights who holds back the forces of rust and ruin with only her two hands. 
@@ @@
I am told she is witty, beautiful, an excellent dancer, and even writes commentaries for her wonderful wife.[[/span]], and she, and confer,

That the two really would’ve
Made the perfect pair[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]]We had our first big fight on the surface over her almost unparalleled lack of nostalgia for the underground. We were stalking a mechabear that had been wrecking survey equipment, and radioing each other waspishly the whole way. Eventually things came to a head when she yelled that she’d spent nearly half a year thinking about me, talking with her colleagues about meeting me, wondering if I’d even consider being seen with her.
@@ @@
She said she loved nothing more than the sky, but me. And if I wanted to live back in Neustuttgart or Neudresden for the rest of my life, she’d do it too. To follow me.
@@ @@
Her crying did scare away the beast, but we made up fast enough afterward. (we captured the thing two days later at Ploesti).[[/span]]. And Amy 
Laughing thinks often to have

A quiet moment with the lady
Though the thought sees her face burn
(Ancient instinct lives in she)

She hopes for it. But at each day’s turn
She wakes with the same truth, which no love can void:
//Du mußt dein Leben ändern --//.

-----

And then as plunges rain from sky (so she read once, abed)
She meets, what else?
A //Man//[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]]This incident is of course legendary, and little needs to be discussed of its details. I will specify that contrary to much common slander, Amy did not once miss //on purpose//; the rogue human simply made careful use of cover and surprise. If readers wish to contest this point, they may meet me in the Upper Court of Neuhamburg.[[/span]],
Formed of cell and ligament,
Slowly knit, by that holy law:
Multiply; fruitful be, and tottering like some great blind tree
Be gardened, grafted, by sightless eye and thoughtless hand
‘Til mistake and majesty are unified[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]]There is something slightly uncanny about intelligence and power rising from mindless froth. In the Black Forest I met a thing that looked like a wolf. But there was something wrong with its eyes, and when I glanced into them for a moment I forgot everything: my name, my life, my love. I would have lain down and let it tear out my throat if Amy had not dragged me away.
@@ @@
I think, when mankind fell away, when the Foundation vanished, thaumaturgy reestablished itself in the wild populations. That thing and its ancestors had learned to master the minds of its prey, without any intelligence at all, through only time and careful pruning of its ancestry. Evolution on an accelerated timescale.
@@ @@
Self-optimisation is the most terrible power in the universe, and the ancients wielded it in their very blood.[[/span]]!

(And their forms waxed great, ‘mid glen and plain and peak and State,
Wove bark, then stone, then steel, then fate; and in
Their hour of overthrow, cast a stone[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]]The passing of the torch to the android peoples was, as discussed, mostly accidental. We were drawn not by a well-conceived plan but by inexorable natural law to resurrect the human species. Nonetheless, it defined the interbiological era, and the poetess captures both its implacability and its rank callousness well.[[/span]] that marked
The great duty that cleaved her people so --

“Return us,” they declaimed, “And be made whole, for
We bid the flowers grow: lilies, petals, fall like snow.
The asteraceae, the orchard bloom, these
Are what you lost when flesh did fail.
Our children whose laughter swelled even metal hearts!”

But do not deny;
Charnel pits,
The cross, the stone, that
Press down like lead on
Sweet memory.

Bulwarks of the new age raise that cry:
“Let the sons of Adam lie, land and sea are ours to roam.
Coiled and waiting in them cries; surfeit of cruelty,
Infanticide, bludgeoning, bleeding, sacrifice, the weight of years
Rising above the mud, and we cannot abjure
That they rose far indeed, but recall the 
Old poetess’ truth: //All worthy things were built//
//In Hell//, and Hell in them resides[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]]This oversimplifies the Antihuman Fraction’s line of argument. Certainly the influence of evolutionary selection on human psychology, and its pathological imperatives, was not unimportant to them.
@@ @@
Their primary line of thinking, however, was that biological humanity occupied too great a place in android thinking, and the reappearance of humans would distort existing culture into unthinkable shapes. My discussions with the infamous Rosaline have been greatly edifying on this matter.[[/span]].)

For her, kind Amy, it was enough; that he smiled, though at the first
She could not know his kind (clad he was in copper, like mist that hides
Towering mountains that rise out of a far foreign sky). Later she knew him, but
Let him pass, thinking of some great hero

Who, arising,
Remakes the caverns and the tunnels, and breaks the vault of the world,

And with her alights.

But man is cruel, he
Cuts to the quick, whose
Name is Helmut (his voice too
Ringing out from the grave[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]]It is the great anxiety of our culture that there may be another Helmut. There were //ten billion// humans, and thousands of anomalies. Who can say how many others lay waiting to be unearthed, crying out from that lost civilisation like the voice of von Moltke?[[/span]]:
//Wenn hoch im blauen Raum verloren//,)

And grinning maims
A score of innocents, crushes beneath his
Stolen wings, the spires and spires which, anon,
She empties of their helpless[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]]Counts are inexact, but we think Amy saved twenty-three lives from the fire that day.[[/span]].

And smoke
That lifts,
Fire that kills --
These things are more alike than
She ever cared to know.

Spare who there resides,
From rubble and ruin and the spite of Man, which
Winging away she cannot forget. No smirking //karateka//, he,
So perhaps forget these hopes of resuscitation[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]]This was not the deathblow to the Resurrectionists that it is positioned as here. Though the image of Helmut striding away from the fires at Neustuttgart was certainly powerful, what ultimately laid them low was the transition process perfected thereafter. 
@@ @@
Amy, personally, found the violence more disillusionary than the procedure, which she considered merely convenient. That she continues to maintain this attitude in spite of the world she lives in is admirable.[[/span]].
Let flesh lie scattered among the soil
Evermore.

And be carved up by that girl,
With solder and screw.
Miss A-M-U, //amou//, stitches to
Amy’s dull chassis; muscle wet and organ pulsing, peristaltic get
Of old meat wedded to metal.

Feel them flense her, take, remake her,
Hand on wires softly humming, and her still silently observing,
(Motor to medulla, hinge to joint) them reclothe her
In the fashion of mankind.

Even the certainty of silicon they defy, and with
Quick hands like sparrows steal away
Memory to an old grey lump in
Which, she heard --

Mind did retire.

Fluid like quicksilver, all thoughts flowed beneath the technician’s hands, from static cell
To shuddering nerve.
These new ideals piled high. Moved they in her like the blood she’d gained.
And felt tender under the chirurgeon’s knife:
New fear, old hope, black spite, high sorrow[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]]As a historical note to the inevitable readers from the neobiological era, I would like to note that the impact of the transition procedure on emotional processing is considerably overstated here. Except for a few reflexes (for example the hyperventilation provoked by adrenaline) the emotional experience of nonbiological life was identical to neobiological life.
@@ @@
Why the poetess felt so strongly about this, of course, was that the transition granted her access to the surface. It is a terrible shame that this opportunity was denied to her for so long.[[/span]], the life of man
Perfected.

And above her mounted with coat and rack
That lady with one gleaming hand
Half-buried, in bolt and circuitry, in a splayed abdominal cavity.
Amy looked away, and hid her eyes (orbicular optics, corneas
For carriers) and felt fire rising from wing to cheek[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]]When Amy first introduced me to the classical human conjugal activities, I did not really grasp the appeal. It seemed fumbling and awkward beyond belief. But I think there is a certain tactile joy to it, some kind of physicality that we lack. The austere romance of the android will always have first place in my heart, but sometimes we need a little fire.[[/span]].

Through this, all men would live again;
Through this, all men would die at last.
Let her be the daughter of a new Adam:

Kind Edelweiss[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]] Perhaps more ink has been spilled over this woman than any other living being. I will not bother to recount what Amy has written in enormous detail elsewhere. I will only say that when I first met her, at her cottage near the Matterhorn, she made a point to serve me tea before we sat.[[/span]]
Bore the weight of primacy well.
And now all these copper kindred follow
Up from the caves, the fundament they
Flee. A place under the sun is theirs.

Edelweiss,
The first of steel to bear her skin again, and
Feel sun upon her flesh, free
As none had been for an age.
But, then consider:

Freedom is not
A pure ideal.
Yes, these new women felt no walls above them.
But what use is a sky that is only
Theory?

So take that pretty little AMU, her Pygmalion[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]]My wife is too effusive in her praise. She attaches to me a great weight, as if it was my work alone that brought about the transition. In truth, it was the mastery of decades of Foundation successors, splinter-Resurrectionists and mechanists. And it has been my pleasure to be shaped by her in turn, even as I made her mine. We have learned to fit together.
@@ @@
Nonetheless, she is the kind of woman who can hold this moment and crystallise it in her heart. I have no doubt she will forget her own name first.[[/span]]
For a spin, and let her see
How this ‘free’ is felt in one without
Such sad bounds. 

Christen her,
As tomes say the dead
Of Zarathustra were sanctified[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]]This is folk theology. The Zoroastrians held that the dead tainted the earth, the water, and most of all the holy fire. To expose their dead to the air allowed their corruption to be dispersed safely where it would not do harm.
@@ @@
The contradiction is intentional: the taint of their dead drove us underground, and the taint of our dead and dying seeped into the stone. If they could live again, the followers of Ahura Mazda would flee the earth, as she does.[[/span]],

By the kiss of open air,
And a kiss[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]]I was bored the whole way up. It was in fact exactly as I expected, and there was no particular romance to seeing the world like an atlas beneath me. We had plenty of atlases at the mechanists’ quarter in Neustuttgart.
@@ @@
But as we rose for one moment I saw the Earth //curve//, as it never can flat on a table, and the waters of the sea as what they truly were: a point of dew upon the world. 
@@ @@
That was when she kissed me.[[/span]], in the open air

(Breath for moments lost, as she
Feels that heady glow):

//Klara//, clear as sky
Even as she returns earthward

(For Death never rests,
And she must too bear up the great shield
Against it,
The medic’s first promise)

And now the wheel of bird and roar of gale
Is matched by faultless fire
So air again abounds with life and mind.

And Amy soars, on and on
In a sky --

Without bound[[span class="fnnum"]].[[/span]][[span class="fncon"]]Love you, darling.[[/span]].
[[/div]]

fragment:onedamnation-0

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