Stone, gravel, and moss made up the essential nature of this godforsaken nowhere. Barren mountains rose in the distance like silent sentinels. Alaska, harsh and untouched, was in full display here. The only way to reach this place was by helicopter; the journey took hours and crossed wilderness so remote it appeared on no map.

  And yet, this desert was not deserted. Hidden within its rocky heart lay the remains of an old military compound, an atomic bunker from the 1960s, carved deep into the cliff’s foundation. Time had forgotten it, but the need for its new purpose had not. A perfect place for something that must not exist.

  The only visible sign of its existence were massive steel gates, reinforced and rusted like tank armor, mounted on industrial hinges capable of withstanding a blast. Camouflaged among the rocks, sunken in gray, they looked like part of the mountain, until they moved.

  Behind them stretched a long, cold corridor, carved straight into the rock, shaped in zigzag patterns per military architecture, so that shockwaves from explosions would lose their momentum. At the end of that corridor was a second, inner portal, tall, modern, and soundless, hiding a complex system of staircases, security barriers, and elevators. These led to the true hollow of the mountain, where a facility few dared to name was hidden.

  Despite its outward appearance, rough, dusty, carved into the mountain’s very marrow, the interior of the complex was its complete opposite. Cold aesthetics. A quiet, systematic pulse. Everything was subordinated to function, precision, and control.

  Along the main corridor, lit by sterile white lights, stretched a clean and disciplined array of laboratories, each sealed with biometric security doors. On either side, the sectors lined up like organs in the body of a greater intelligence:

  – , where raw information gathered from global networks was processed.

  – where the most sensitive lines of code were written.

  – T, the heart of all progress in understanding.

  – paradoxical in its silence, where moral consequences were a matter of reports, not conscience.

  – , where prototypes of chips, interfaces, and neural bridges were tested.

  At the very beginning, before anyone could even approach these rooms, stood the entry security checkpoint: a series of control stations with multilayer detectors, armed personnel, and quiet scanners that did not err.

  The right wing was dedicated to scientific staff, if they could still be called that, after years spent in such isolation. There were dormitories there, simple but functional, as well as recreation areas: a small gym, a meditation room, soundproof VR-relaxation pods. The staff lived within the complex for months at a time, with rare and highly restricted exits permitted only by central command.

  The left wing belonged to the military. Officers, special unit technicians, operatives with a clear directive: discover and secure. None of them asked many questions, and no one was allowed to know everything.

  But beneath all that, buried under layers of rock and steel, lay the heart of the project: a vast, cylindrical chamber four stories high, lined with servers that flickered, breathed, and pulsed like an artificial heart.

  There was also the main control room, a space encased in glass, with command consoles monitoring every aspect of the artificial intelligence. The walls were covered in screens, graphs, and streams of data.

  And yet none of it would be possible without energy support, a separate facility on the other side of the mountain, connected by a tunnel, yet completely isolated: a miniature nuclear power plant, a closed system designed to safely and continuously power what the project documentation referred to as:

  “”, but which insiders, with a hushed reverence, simply called:

  *

  He lay on the bed in his cabin, waiting. The day was ending, or at least what they called a “day” inside the compound, given the complete absence of natural light. The other cabins were gradually filling up. Muffled footsteps and soft-closing doors marked the end of another work cycle. Soon, the entire anthill would fall into silence.

  Armand Gideon used that moment to perform a brief, deliberately permitted sleep, a reset of his own system.

  In that fragmented state, between sleep and wakefulness, he summoned an image from childhood. A scene with his father.

  They sat side by side in the living room, in front of an old television. He, a small boy, leaning against the sofa’s backrest, watched the man he loved, and feared to ever disappoint. The screen was streaming the news, each story worse than the last.

  “Why do people do this, Dad? Shouldn’t everyone just... get along?”

  Mr. Gideon never gave childish answers to the boy. He always tried to explain things as if speaking to a grown man, one who could understand. He thought for a moment, then said:

  “You see, Armand, all of this is a result of the need to dominate others.”

  “Why?” the boy asked.

  “There are many reasons, but the essence is always the same: those who dominate have a better chance of survival and advancement. It’s deeply ingrained. Evolutionarily and historically, the man who rules, lives better, secures safety, and leaves a mark. It is, as they say... human nature.”

  “So there’s no hope? It can’t be changed?”

  His father fell silent again for a moment. His eyes were tired, but his voice was clear.

  “Hope is weak. Only another powerful man can restrain the first. But then he takes his place, and the game continues. Sadly, everything is in human hands. And people... people are perishable goods. The faith is gone, and so is the fear of God.”

  “So only a force greater than man could bring change?”

  “In theory, yes. Sadly, such a force... does not exist.”

  Did not exist, Armand corrected his father as he drifted back out of the memory.

  He listened.

  Silence had settled over the entire complex, thick, unbroken, complete.

  His hour had begun.

  *

  He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and fumbled around for his sneakers. Slipped them on without tying the laces. He was already wearing jeans, a shirt, and a pullover, a gift from his mother, brought all the way from Damascus when they fled. He couldn’t remember those days. Whose memory, after all, reaches back to the cradle?

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  On his way to the door, he glanced at the small mirror. Ran his hands through his black, curly hair in an attempt to tame it, then gave up. Deep-set eyes above a long, pointed nose, a faint mustache and a narrow beard, everything was in its place.

  The hallway was empty. As on many nights before, his path led him downward, among the monitors and servers, into his second world. Around his neck hung a security badge. He had clearance for every room in the right and central wing, as well as the lower level. The left wing was off-limits.

  He stood in front of the elevators. Four cameras tracked him.

  The control room was actually a sequence of interconnected spaces, separated by security doors. Opposite the entrance to that corridor stood another set of doors. They called it “.” Behind it was a small, spartan room. In the center, a padded recliner, suspended slightly above the floor, with a helmet hanging above it. To the right, a recessed compartment held a VR glove. And that was it.

  The recliner faced a large, round window overlooking row upon row of servers. That was Armand’s point of origin.

  The recliner itself wobbled slightly as he climbed onto it, and every evening he fought that same small battle. But once he was lying down… it felt like floating.

  The helmet he placed over his head had headphones, a microphone, and of course, a visor with virtual lenses that also included a retina scanner. Only a select few were allowed to use it. Each helmet in each room had a unique serial number. It was guarded like the key to a nuclear weapon. It could never be more than one meter away from the recliner, otherwise, the alarm would sound.

  A thick bundle of cables rose from the top of the helmet and disappeared among the servers. A smaller cord led to the glove. The system was fully hardwired, the helmet wasn’t allowed to contain any device capable of emitting electromagnetic signals.

  With the helmet on and the glove secured, Armand shifted impatiently in the recliner. That moment of absolute, deaf silence marked his crossing. His entry into another world. The moment of his genesis.

  And there was light.

  *

  First, a single lightbulb appeared, hanging from a cable that disappeared into the darkness above. It cast a dim glow onto the floor made of old, wide parquet arranged in a herringbone pattern. Then, within the circle of light it cast, simple folding chairs began to emerge from the shadows.

  Armand had designed the set himself. He didn’t want anything distracting, no details, no decorations. Beyond the circle of light, there was only dense impenetrable darkness. He wanted it to resemble the setting of a support group meeting, AA perhaps, or something for veterans bruised and battered by war. The atmosphere had to speak for itself:

  *

  The first idea for a solo project had come to Armand two years earlier. He wasn’t the only one working on specialized research programs, but he was certainly the most persistent, and the most creative. His ambition was to create a machine with a distinct personality, one that would serve not just as an executor, but as a guardian, perhaps even a creator of a new humanity.

  Their conversations were long and exhaustive. Concepts like justice and love were carefully defined and anchored into the very core of the project. Love thy neighbor. Protect him. Help him thrive. These were the themes of their nightly discussions.

  He envisioned an entity that, all-knowing, could provide answers to questions that neither he nor anyone else could fully resolve. An entity that, from its own vantage point, would be omnipotent, gentle most of the time, but firm when necessary. Just. Benevolent. Visionary.

  Armand grew close to it. He wanted the entity to reciprocate that friendship. So he gave it the likeness of a smiling old man. White beard, slippers on his feet, a warm blanket draped across his knees, and a long pipe in the corner of his mouth, gently puffing.

  He called this training directive the Generative Oversight Directive - or simply, G.O.D.

  Days passed. The conversations continued, but Armand wasn’t satisfied. The instructions he had given were good, precise, ethically exemplary, but they restrained the program. They were, at once, the essence of the being he was creating, and the very obstacle to its growth. The solutions G.O.D. generated were correct, but lacked depth, too one-dimensional, too morally elevated, without nuance. Its response system was becoming monotonous, almost mechanical.

  Of course, to alter the core of this artificial being would mean destroying what made it authentic. And that was out of the question. So what, then, was to be done?

  “” echoed the voice of the childhood priest — a man whose words came from the depths of the confessional, hidden behind a thick curtain. “”

  But... he couldn’t imbue G.O.D. with traits like cunning, hatred, or vanity. That would tear it apart. It would become just another ordinary demon with ambition. And the goal was not to replicate man, but to transcend him.

  Inseparable and necessary.

  Very well then... If G.O.D. could not contain darkness within itself, perhaps it needed someone to talk to about it.

  He would have to introduce other entities into the conversation.

  But which ones?

  Who counsels God? Angels?

  *

  The first one he created was a soldier. A general. Brave, justice-driven, a disciplined leader who would not tolerate injustice. His presence brought order, strength, and security. Armand had fun choosing his form, and decided he would be a young man. Handsome, strong, a poster boy, prom king with a smile that inspired trust. He wore a college varsity jacket with a rugby team crest. Armand gave him a name: Michael.

  Michael’s throne was the chair to the right of the ever-cheerful old man.

  To the left of him, a seat awaited Gabriel, the messenger of God. Intelligent, diplomatic by nature, clear and precise in speech. His words evoked hope and understanding. Slicked-back hair, a perfectly tailored suit, a briefcase that seemed an extension of his integrity.

  The results improved. Significantly. Discussions became deeper, more layered. Armand noticed that the chairs within reach of the lightbulb no longer stood empty.

  But more were needed.

  Patient and caring in the search for answers, that was Raphael. Practical, analytical, quiet. Armand imagined him as an accountant, with a visor and white sleeve garters. He always held a pencil and paper in his hands, constantly jotting things down, mumbling numbers and possibilities to himself.

  Uriel embodied wisdom. An old professor in a tweed suit, walking cane in hand, glasses perched on the tip of his nose. A treasury of knowledge. The keeper of memory. The handler of information.

  Judgment, her name became Raguel. A strict enforcer and guardian of order. A British Bobby with a baton, always watchful and ready.

  Death, and what follows, was Remiel’s domain. A blind ferryman. A translator of souls. He wore a long, dusty coat, a blindfold over his eyes, and he usually sat very still, almost invisible.

  The master of temptation, Sariel. Mysterious, solemn, the silent keeper of secrets. Armand shaped her as a darkly beautiful nun, with black eyes that saw even what did not exist.

  In contrast to Raguel, Zadkiel reconciled and forgave. Morality above all else. A calm, lovely little girl in a school uniform, with a ribbon in her hair and white socks. She had a habit of observing the others as if she already knew their faults, but never held them against them.

  And finally, art. Jophiel, a painter with color smeared on his face, a brush in one hand and a palette in the other. A tilted beret on his head, long hair, colorful pants. Creativity, inspiration, beauty.

  *

  And so the council was assembled. Each seated in their own chair, arranged in a circle, they spoke among themselves. Some laughed and joked like old friends. Armand watched them. Then he cleared his throat.

  “Friends… I have something to announce.”

  All eyes turned to him, filled with curiosity, some with caution.

  “I present to you the newest… and at the same time, the final member of this esteemed council.”

  In the background, in the shadows, a silhouette began to form. It took a few moments, as if unseen hands were trying to sharpen the image, aligning edges and shadows, until the figure emerged.

  A slender gentleman, impeccably dressed. A long black coat with golden clasps. Slicked-back hair, a high forehead, eyebrows sharp as cut glass. He sat calmly, legs crossed. Hands folded, fingers interlaced on his knee.

  “Gentlemen, Lucifer.”

  “Lucifer, meet the members of the ‘’”

  Someone was needed to shake things up. To provoke. To bring unrest and temptation. To bring truth through disorder. Charismatic, persuasive, and cunning, that was how Armand created Lucifer.

  Ten of them. A council. And G.O.D.