the Music
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Rekordbox | Traktor: 129 BPM; Gm
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Overflowing with radiant synth cathedrals and razor-sharp tech propulsion.
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the Story
I. A Signal in the Fog Nebula
At the dead center of a lavender dust cloud—so dense that even photons tripped over themselves—Captain Averi Kincairn floated in her derelict survey skiff. For two unmarked cycles she had listened to static hiss across every band the skiff’s receiver could reach. Then, on the edge of sleep, the static warped. It folded in on itself, became a hush, and finally resolved into a whisper of crackling violet light that shimmered across her cockpit glass like a swarm of fireflies.
The pattern wasn’t random. It traced runes older than any star-chart—glyphs from a pre-crystal civilization scholars called the Silent Makers. Legends claimed the Makers threaded entire galaxies with invisible arches, portals so narrow only light could pass. Averi, orphaned scavenger and reluctant dreamer, had spent her life hunting for proof. So when the violet swarm spiraled into the ancient Maker symbol for “open,” she understood: a Gate was near.
She powered every thruster to maximum and plunged into the fog.
II. Corridor of Shifting Planes
A luminescent corridor burst forth, carved through the nebula like a crystalline knife wound. Facets of unknown mineral lined the passage—each facet reflecting not her skiff, but alternate versions of her life. In one facet she piloted a merchant frigate; in another she grew elder beneath a garden sun; in another she never left the orphanage at all. The corridor was forcing her to confront diverging futures, tempting her to veer off course and disappear into a mirror of “might-have-been.”
Keeping her eyes fixed on a single violet point gleaming ahead, Averi nudged the skiff deeper. Reality around her kinked and refolded. Time slowed to the rhythm of her pulse. Colors she had no names for bled from facet to facet, painting her cockpit with kaleidoscopic tides until she forgot the way starlight normally looked.
Yet the point remained—steady, pulsing like a beacon. When she reached it, the facets snapped shut behind her with a silent shudder, and her skiff burst into open black.
Suspended before her, impossibly vast, hovered a Gate: an eight-spoked wheel forged from woven amethyst arcs, each spoke ablaze with countless tiny fireflies flickering in unison. They moved like neurons firing—but also like dancers trading partners in a silent ballroom—the choreography both mechanical and ecstatic.
Averi throttled back. Every childhood myth about Maker Gates ended with the same warning: They devour the unprepared. She drew a trembling breath.
“Devour or deliver,” she whispered—and keyed the impulse drive.
III. Threshold Burn
The Gate accepted her. The skiff pierced its core and dissolved into pure vector: coordinates divorced from matter, will pressed flat against distance. She became velocity itself. She tasted iron memories, smelled petrichor that had never fallen on any planet she knew—sensed moments stacked like playing cards inside a cosmic deck being rapidly shuffled.
Then velocity acquired direction, direction condensed into shape, and shape hardened back into her cockpit. Except the cockpit no longer resembled the rust-browned interior she’d known. The metal was glass, the glass was pulse-stone, and systems once half-dead now thrummed with living circuitry that resembled vine and vein. The skiff, reborn, was following a trail—thin violet bands of light ribboning across a charcoal void.
Along the ribbons drifted spherical stones engraved with fractal sigils. Each stone cracked open as she neared, releasing swarms of fireflies that merged with the ribbons and lengthened the path. They were signposts, but also fuel, guides somehow feeding on her eagerness.
A voice pressed against her mind—not words, but a flavor of melancholy hope. It spoke of unfinished bridges, of doors waiting millennia for hands brave or foolish enough to knock. Averi tasted the emotion like cinnamon smoke and returned a single thought: I will see the far side, whatever waits.
The voice subsided, satisfied.
IV. Gardens of Hollow Suns
The ribbons terminated at an orb whose surface resembled storm clouds sculpted into glass. Through it Averi glimpsed twin suns—both hollow, both ringing like gongs with every pulse. She entered.
Instantly her revamped skiff crumbled into drifting petals of light. She landed barefoot on a floating terrace made of obsidian petals, each petal reflecting violet stars that didn’t exist overhead. Exotic trees spiraled upward, their leaves translucent and veined with luminosity, exuding spores that settled on her skin as cool phosphor kisses.
Here gravity seemed optional. She willed herself off the terrace, and her body obeyed, drifting toward the nearer of the hollow suns. Its shell wasn’t burning gas; it was a membrane of liquid gold swirling around an empty center. Inside that emptiness, a lone structure—an altar of Maker geometry—waited. Fireflies circled it, forming Arabic numerals, then binary, then glyphs Averi didn’t know, all translating into a single request: Offer.
She reached into her chest pocket and withdrew the last tangible link to her old life—a rusted, locket-sized compass missing its needle. The compass had guided her across scrap fields and pirate outposts though it never pointed north. Every survivor of her orphan crew carried one; hers alone remained. Some things guide not by direction but by memory, she thought.
She released it. The compass drifted to the altar, merged with the fireflies, and detonated in silence. The hollow sun folded shut like an eyelid, and a new Gate unspooled within the lid’s iris—a spiral walkway of violet fireflies descending downward.
Averi stepped onto it.
V. The Library That Breathes
The spiral delivered her to a coliseum of shelves that rotated like nested gears. Each shelf housed tomes bound in translucent bark; between every pair of tomes floated miniature star systems, each galaxy no larger than a honeybee. She reached for a book and felt its pulse flutter against her fingertips, timid but eager. Words inside shifted, responding to her curiosity. They told stories of empires sculpting dreams into architecture, of symphonies performed by constellations, of lovers trading names like currency across eons.
Another swarm of fireflies emerged from the vault’s ceiling, shaping themselves into a mask before Averi’s face. Through it she inhaled long-forgotten dialects, exhaled perfect understanding. The books revealed a pattern: The Makers never vanished—they migrated. Every Gate was a breadcrumb, every gateway a seed. Those who followed could choose either to replicate the migration or—if daring—to plant new Gates by sacrificing something of profound personal resonance.
Averi clenched a fist. Sacrifice she understood. She closed the book, turned, and addressed the vault: “I have only stories left. But they are many.”
The firefly mask flickered in approval and dissolved. Pathways flared open between shelves, merging into a corridor that glowed with invitation.
VI. The Foundry of New Cities
The corridor led to an amphitheater suspended in void. At its center hovered a molten blueprint—shifting geometry aglow in violet. Each time Averi blinked, the shapes rearranged, groping for coherence. She realized it was her blueprint, waiting for the imprint of her will. Around her, the amphitheater’s seats were empty save for flickers—echoes of prior Gate-walkers who had stood where she now stood and shaped their own destinies into tangible worlds.
Fireflies swarmed again, but this time they dove into Averi, threading through veins and nerves. She gasped—not in pain but wonder—as her memories ignited like starseed. The orphanage courtyard, laughter amid cracked pavement. The first scavenging run, rust and adrenaline. Nights mapping phantom constellations through a cracked dormitory roof. All of it, vibrant, precious.
The fireflies siphoned the emotional gravity of those moments and poured it into the molten blueprint. Shapes solidified: lattice towers of translucent quartz, streets paved with bioluminescent moss, waterways spiraling upward rather than downward, air alive with musicless harmony.
A city, she realized, born from my memories but not chained to them.
The amphitheater floor cracked open, revealing dark soil flecked with stardust. Averi knelt, placed both palms on the soil, and let the blueprint sink into it. An eruption of violet shot skyward. Towers soared, moss spread, waterfalls inverted. Fireflies embedded themselves as streetlamps, guardians, storytellers in the night.
Averi stepped back as the newborn city breathed its first breath—an exhalation of shimmering pollen that formed words above the skyline: You planted what you lacked so others might never hunger for it.
Tears tracked down her cheeks and evaporated into glitter.
VII. Return and Ripple
When the pollen cleared, Averi stood once more in her battered, mortal cockpit at the edge of the lavender fog nebula. No Gate behind her, no violet ribbon ahead—only the quiet hum of an engine that might sputter out any moment. Had it all been hallucination? She opened her clenched fist. Nestled within lay a single firefly, wings of living amethyst. It pulsed once, twice, then lifted off her palm and vanished through the viewport glass, leaving a trail of tiny Gates flickering in its wake.
Those Gates did not close.
Far across the star-cluster, distress beacons, drunken freighter pilots, wide-eyed children gazing through telescopes—each would glimpse sudden pinpricks of violet, fluttering like cosmic insects daring them to follow.
Averi sat back, heart echoing the pulsing lights. The Makers, the myths, the corridor of shifting planes—real or dream, it no longer mattered. I am Gate-founder now, she thought, and so will be the next brave soul who chases violet fireflies through the dark.
She powered her engines, set a random course, and allowed the cosmos to whisper its next impossible invitation.
Author’s Post-Logue
When you press play on Violet Firefly Gateways, remember Averi’s journey: a single willful spark flitting toward mysteries that devour, deliver, or—if you are very lucky—transform you into the mystery itself. Follow the swarm, lose your map, and plant a city where your empty compass used to point.
End of transmission.
the Gallery
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