[OOC Information: The entirety of this character log would remain inaccessible while the character remains alive. The entries, up until Cordelia's death by natural means or otherwise, are not meant to be used IC unless negotiated otherwise.] "Time slows down. Near a black hole I'll listen to the stars sing a while." My earliest memories are uncertain, not for the lack of detail, but that their mere origins are both tentative and even hypothetical. Some days I can remember what it was that occurred long before the changes first began, other days they seem blurred and vague, like silhouettes encompassed within the mist of rain. I never believed in the use of a diary. At least not until one of my fellow peers encouraged me to do so and quite frankly, the idea is preposterous. I do not know who will find these entries but I imagine that it will be a cold day in a nebula before I release them to public. Suppose then these entries will be added to the echo of dead space - that if you should read them, I will likely be dead. My name is Cordelia Winters. A long time ago prior to my arrival in Antares, I came from a different galaxy; a lifetime ago it would seem, that's all there was to it. Most of my memories are blurred, for reasons that I will attempt to explain later, because most if not all of them were false. There is an old saying that goes that history is often written by the victors, that most victors are in fact liars. As a survivor, I have always believed in that philosophy. My earliest memories of that faraway place came in the form of my arrival there. I had met him, that strange peculiar man, on the foot of the hill overlooking the valley pass. He stood there, formidable, like some shadow of a luminescent giant. My vessel had ran out of fuel like most of the others that first arrived in that sector. In time after we both established a foothold in that settlement others joined us. They varied in history and background, but like the rest of the Terran population, they were refugees. Our numbers grew and with it, the demand for living space, commerce and resources. We established laws, order, and for a time there was prosperity and hope. They called me the Mother of Refuge but that name means nothing to me anymore. How many had came to that colony? I lost count. All of them turning to my leadership and ironically it was my very existence that brought an end to that place. Under a different circumstance, I might have been their heroine; in reality, I am far from that - I am without a name. My 'actual' name is Eight. A number, not a word or a moniker, just a number. Maker's mercy, like the herds of branded livestock, I'm just a number. I have no name as I have no true memories, merely recent ones, and that is the awful truth behind who and what I am. Nobody could have guessed that. I never would have guessed that. Who am I to blame but myself for having been the cause of their misplaced trust? I am far from the reflection I see in the mirrors. My purpose was not designed for compassion. My emotions were not meant to be calibrated for tolerance. In the final days of the evacuation of Terra, I was born or rather the First was created. Her memories are mine, no more or less. Perhaps in my dreams and nightmares, I am privy to them - those sights and sounds, those places both fantastic and impossible. I cared for the people of that colony more than I ever realized at the time of the first disaster. I grew to recognize each of them and their names, listened to their deepest confessions and concerns. He considered that to be my greatest weakness, my compassion, and older now I realize the truthfulness behind that notion. It is impossible to be indifferent when tasked with protecting those that flock beneath one's leadership. That same belief separates a leader from that of a tyrant. There is often a requirement to the understanding of necessary evils in order to withstand the hardship of the frontier. Most of my decisions were naive at the time. I knew so little about what it meant to become a qualified leader, despite the reception of my colony. It was shortly after the first few months that the Seventh came upon us. But that is an entry for another day, another time. Outside of Elysium-II, a gentle rain pours against the window of my house. It rained forever in that place, long forgotten, like tears in the rain. The skies will clear tomorrow and I shall continue this entry when I have the time; the weight they carry, like these words, shall be measured within the course of all things. I shall attempt to dream again. Who knows? Perhaps a dream of that place, those people, and that man I knew. I had a dream last night and it was a place called Refuge.
There is a gentle snowfall outside of Elysium-II this afternoon, pale snow in darker shades than the color of my hair. It's funny when I look back sometimes in the mirror reflection and gaze into the person that stares back at me. A lifetime ago, the Sheriff of that forgotten place called me Red, due to the color of my tresses. I found it rather flattering those remarks he'd made. A curious fellow, Avian, that man; a Grounded from what I could recall, sporting hints of Novakid culture long before they arrived into that system. I'd met a few gunslingers in my time out on the frontier but none in the colony drew as fast with their irons than our Sheriff in Refuge. He had a strange sense of humor and Gods only know, he would have made for a fine Keeper on Elysium. Sometimes I wonder what became of him - whether or not he would arrive with the sun caressing his visage like a crown over his scalp. That's the thing about memories. The smallest inclination of present moments, like snowfall, cascades into a train of thought. With each snowflake, I am reminded of the faces from that place, from Antares, and even from this new frontier of Council Space. Sometimes I lose myself in that torrent of thoughts and emotions -- countless of familiar faces, each one disappearing into the void of the galaxy, like the gathering of snow. A long time ago, the Sheriff had spoken to me about the value of life within the turbulent fringes of frontier space. He had remarked casually about how impossibly small we are on the grand scheme of things; that one life, caught in the web of a thousand happenings, seemed unique upon careful observation. What he meant was, I believe, that our perception of detail - mostly to one another - is merely definite at small periods at a time. From where it was I stood over the hill overlooking the colony, I recall the movement of those individuals and one day I realized how they seemed to merge with one another; one person blending into the sea of colonists, disappearing like the absence of snow in spring. It felt strange that observation and even before the disaster in Refuge, I felt smaller than I had ever felt. It felt ominous and I knew then, as I do now, the fleeting value of life itself. He had mentioned before that my compassion was my greatest weakness. Each of those colonists, my flock, were merely a single link upon a massive chain that defined the colony itself. Each link had their strength and weaknesses, but all too naive I concerned for them despite the tension that held with every strain. Such as it would be, He was right in the end, especially when the Seventh attacked. We were scouting the nearby regions for renewable resources at the time the colony was attacked. A handful of peacekeepers were present at the time but our main security had been absent. That was our one fatal weakness: a lack of manpower and structure. By the time we intercepted the distress call and returned, the death toll had stretched into the dozens. What the survivors reported proved to be disturbing. A masked figure, armored in military grade power armor, had landed into the colony bay. Following a direct viral attack into our security network, the Seventh began her rampage. It was described to us that she moved with near superhuman speed and struck with an inhuman strength; her training, her equipment, proved far more lethal than most of our militia could withstand. In a matter of minutes, she had singlehandedly destroyed the cantina with use of explosives and high powered energy weapons. Most if not all of our militia at the time were decimated without a chance of reprieve. The Seventh acted as if though she was a woman possessed, striking with a berserker fury that broke through the attempted resistance. At the time, it was not unheard of that the USCM had specially trained operatives and commando units designed to quell insurrections and rebellions on former Terran colonies; the extent of the carnage, let alone by that of a single individual, was unlike anything any of us had ever seen. Snow, one of the survivors described, was the color of her hair. We buried the dead in the burnt fields of our farmlands, erected a monument in their memory, and mourned for our losses. It rained as hard as ever that day during the procession. I do not remember how I felt at the time, perhaps sorrow, perhaps anger. Most of the remaining population called for retribution. Others merely chose to abandon the site altogether. When the rest of them turned to my leadership, I alone chose to remain behind. How could they have understood that these events would only precede the calamity that would culminate? In the days that followed, I began to suffer from migraines that came without warning. It almost hurt to think sometimes. The nightmares were both visceral and volatile in their happenstance, I could not share them with anyone without sounding as if though I was going insane. It rained constantly in that forgotten place. I remember one day, weakly, I remained aboard my ship in orbit and watched the movement of storm clouds spreading across the planet's face. I thought of the Sheriff's words and about the extent of my weakness. Too many faces, charred beyond recognition, were buried in that valley. Too many faces that, by my own error, were slaughtered by some ravenous beast. Of all the pain and hardship I've had to endure in my life, it was the weight of those I failed that have proven to be most agonizing. Their faces like individual snowflakes piling, like raindrops trickling into the dirt, lost forever in that moment of conflict. Elsewhere I imagine in Antares and Council Space, other conflicts are taking place even as I write these words. It is a cycle that must be observed and acknowledged, that no matter what occurs the ashes of the fallen will gather like a storm of life and death. Here at Elysium-II, I alone am the keeper of the dead, and as it snows outside I am reminded of that significant observation. It is no easy task, forming values towards life when surrounded by death itself; when winter comes, one cannot help but ask, can spring be far behind? I shall continue my entry tomorrow. There is much work to be done. The catacombs need renovation and along with that, a whole bevy of mundane concerns. Perhaps I shall find it in me to document that history, perhaps not - time waits for no one, especially not for the living.
