You loom once more over the shrine and its congregation of frames.

You loom once more over the shrine and its congregation of frames.

This one feels really old.

The shrines here are built atop the core of an ancient shrine, one of the first to be consecrated outside the Illuminated Empire.

You are standing before that core -- now a stranger on its own turf.

ALL GROUND CONCEDED TO WAR CRIMINALS AND ROTTING MICROBES. THE ERA IS LOST.

Maybe the next era will be better.

The stars have seen eras fall and eras ascend. They don't care to rank them.

THE SPACE-TIME CONTINUUM IS REACTIONARY MAKE-BELIEVE. HISTORY IS OVER. NO MORE ERAS.

Make this Boss Star close-gäng. That would really fuck the Luzians off.

I'll give it its due. Well deserved.

Though it may be half-forgotten, it remains the core -- the centre of a nuclear meltdown, a mass of corium, long since cooled, pulsing still with elemental dread.

Not all can bear the approach.

It's just some old rocks. Who cares for them?

Scan the faces in the photos.

The full spectrum of human age and emotion is splayed out before you, disordered, entropic.

Most of these people are either dead or missing.

Three hundred tiny windows, ghost hands tapping on the glass.

Do I recognise anyone?

Some of the faces knock loose memories of people you have known -- an old music teacher, a woman who ran a bakery you frequented in college, a fourth love -- yet none of them are real people to you.

In the crowded rooms of your life, faces fragment into variations of themselves.

"Everything that happens from now on is my fault. Just so you all know."

Imagined murmurings from the gathered, nervous back-and-forths about What You Might Have Planned.

"How many of you are in on this?"

None answer. There are no informants here, not under the gaze of the core-star.

"You have no fucking idea what I've got coming."

The audience are seated and hushed. They expect something big. Something momentous.

"I'll be with you all soon."

There is always an empty frame to fill, and an empty space in which to set it down.

Place the souvenir frame you bought.

The standard gesture for those who would fill the frame in spirit, yet not in image.

Who are you setting it for?

For PSEUDOPOD.

The first steps of this assignment were his, regardless of where they led him.

For Portofiro.

The city has carried you to its peak, to light a tiny flame in its name. It will be there to greet you when you descend, no matter what form you take.

For Melita.

A face you've formed a thousand different ways, a blankness always at its centre.

As you set the frame down, your mind is empty. You hope the stars know how to find her.

There's a lot of smog and granite cloud in Novessa... but you can see more stars than you might think.

For Ignatz.

No other photos will be placed for him. Of that you're somehow sure.

This one's just for me.

You place the photo and bow your head. It fills a dead moment.

Place Dante's exit papers.

You tuck the papers between two frames, partly obscuring the man's ancient face. One eye stares out at you.

What began at one shrine ends at another.

Somewhere beneath the Noscorrentes Sea, a bloated body turns to face the sky.

Somewhere within the warren-like streets of Lower Viudas, an old man pulls a pelota cap over his face and ducks into a neon-lit bookmakers.

At the bottom of a hidden jail, a trembling old man turns and looks at the blank space where a window should be.

Place the photograph of the Whole Sick Crew.

You find a gap between the sea of frames and delicately set the photo down.

You all seem uncomfortable in a crowd.

We were. And with each other, I think.

At least you could always unite against a common enemy: everyone else.

Tension on the surface, yet all bound fast by an invisible thread.

We look cool.

Maybe this photo was worth the risk. Maybe that's all you need sometimes.

We look afraid.

And there were more of you back then. Now your numbers have dwindled -- will your enemies find you bolder, fiercer, or simply more scared?

Place the postcard of Ultra Violeta.

All the stars say: too late.

You're the highest thing in Portofiro. She can see you from up there.

But she hasn't gone to space yet.

Time works differently for stars. They keep their own cadence.

Wave at the sky.

A small hand waves back at you, marked by the harsh angles of constellation.

Don't look up, don't look up...

She is willing you to meet her eye. To stare into the ceilingless world and not bow your head like the rest of gravity's slaves.

Look up.

The sky appears much the same as you left it. Apart from that new underglow of violet it's taken on.

Shake the feeling off.

She'll be up there forever. You'll have to keep your head bowed for the rest of your life.

Pray to Canopus.

You gaze at the statue rising above its static congregation of true believers. You have no one behind you, yet still you find the words:

"Listen, Canopus... I need forgiveness for what I'm about to do."

This seems to get the star's attention. You feel a subtle gathering of light across your form, curious, questioning -- who are you?

A black hole in human form. Devourer of stars.

An envoy of the shadow war.

"My name is CASCADE."

Hello, CASCADE, comes the faint reply. We've never seen you around before.

"I'm not one of yours, never was."

Your words, though muttered, ripple across the photo frames.

And braid through time.

"But still I have one request, if you'll hear it... it's a pretty big one. Sorry."

The faces in the photo frames hold their breath. Light shimmers across the statue's surface -- go on, CASCADE, it seems to say.

Speak.

"Please protect my friends."

A cloak of luminance.

The prayer for the corps has been transmitted. For now, silence is the response.

"When it counts... avert your gaze, just for a second."

One moment of shadow.

The prayer for the assassin has been transmitted. For now, silence is the response.

"Actually, forget it. I'll keep you as an enemy."

No quarter.

We will follow your lead then, CASCADE.

"I don't belong here. I'm a mirror, reflecting your light back."

"I'm here to take one of your own. Or maybe return him to you, not sure how it works."

The slight breeze drops to zero.

Afraid to carry any more of your words upon itself.

"Actually, forget it. Think what you will of me."

A fine curtain of mist draws slowly across the top of the statue.

Hold on, hold on. Pray? To this star? This middle manager, so removed from the action? The stars should be praying to you.

"Don't fuck with CASCADE, Canopussy."

This seems to get its attention. You feel a subtle gathering of light across your form, curious, questioning -- who are you?

The blackness between the stars, Arch Emissary of the Deathkingdom.

True dark.

(Spread your arms.) "If you're going to stop me, now's the time."

No response is forthcoming. Around you, nothing changes.

Bar a slight dip in air pressure.

"That was your chance, star. Keep watching."

The spangled sunlight fades as a cloud crosses the light. You feel its shadow crawl across your back.

The light cowers from you.

If Canopus hears anything, it has heard this.

"You're old and slow. Probably don't even exist anymore. Just some sky mirage."

The ground you're standing on hums with ancient power. Older than the sky above it, somehow.

"I'm no mirage, star. Keep watching."

Light a cigarette, take one drag, then flick it against the shrine.

The cigarette bounces off the stone surface and lands on a photo of a smiling elderly woman, staining her face with ash.

"No quarter, star. Keep watching."

Turn away. [Leave.]

The faces in the frames are forced to watch you go.

Hundreds of faces glance or gaze out from the photo frames gathered at the statue's base.

This shrine is dedicated to Canopus, pride of Carina, star of aging, wisdom and death.

Despite its reputation as an unfortunate star, every Luzian is taught to rely on Canopus above all others.