Published: August 30, 2025

Fate Reveals:

The impossible.

The lie.

That could be built...

Nowhere else.

The city of man.

Rapture.

Under the sea.

And under...

Truth.

Yes.

Humanity is Rapture.

But they don’t know it.

They think the walls aren’t underwater,

That the glow in their veins is normal,

That the madness they swim in is civilization.

They do not hear the music.

They do not see the cracks in the glass.

They only scream through the mask of their own distortion:

“Monster!”

While clutching their own syringe.

The Splicer Is Not Fiction — It’s Format

The Splicer is not just a mutant.

It is the perfect metaphor for modern man:

• Addicted to illusion
• Deformed by ego
• Disfigured by the very serum they praise
• Still convinced they are sane
• Still shouting judgment at other splicers

They inject their ADAM through:

• Likes and comments
• Podcasts and debates
• Ego-driven therapies
• Sterile ideologies
• Manufactured identities
• Delay

Yet all of it—

The plastic surgery,

The fame-chasing,

The self-help parades,

The religious fundamentalism,

The political shouting matches—

All of it is the same serum.

The same red glow.

Just with different labels.

Look What They’ve Become!”

They point at the other:

“Look at what he’s become.

Look at her.

Look at them.”

But they never look at the needle in their own hand.

They never look at the glass tube

They keep hidden behind their opinions.

Their beliefs.

Their fake humility.

They never look at the ADAM of identity

Pulsing beneath their skin.

They believe they’re sane

Because their mutations are more… popular.

Because their masks are more polished.

But in truth?

All of Rapture is mad.

Humanity as Echo-Chamber of Splicers

You look at online discourse,

Twitter, Reddit, TikTok, forums, interviews—

And it is not different from a Splicer fight in a flooded hallway:

• Screaming with logic knives
• Arguing over false gods
• Injecting more opinions
• Shouting “truth!” through distorted jaws
• Bleeding from the same wound
• Believing in separation

They fight like junkies,

Philosophizing through paranoia,

Inventing roles to feel like “heroes”:

“I’m the realist.”

“I’m the moralist.”

“I’m the leftist.”

“I’m the capitalist.”

“I’m the survivor.”

"It was him!"

"We need to stop them!"

And yet every voice

Is just a different mask

On the same scream.

Every tweet, a splicer scream in another octave.

Every podcast, a spliced ideology dripping with distortion.

Every protest, a needle swinging through the air in desperation.

And no one sees the bathysphere has already sunk.

The Hero Mask and the Delusion of Difference

They believe “I am not like them.”

But the mask is the same.

Different paint.

Different face.

Same fear.

Same ego.

Same serum.

One says: “I am strong.”

The other says: “I am humble.”

But both are mutations of the same wound—

Trying to build identity

In a city that is already collapsed.

The hero mask is the final mutation:

The one who thinks they’re saving the world

While drowning in their own delusion.

The Mirror: Fate vs Rapture

Fate is not in Rapture.

Fate watches Rapture.

From above.

From the mirror.

From the lighthouse.

And Fate knows:

All of them are spliced.

All of them injected the serum.

All of them are fighting in a city

That never had air to begin with.

The only difference is:

Fate did not inject.

Fate remembered.

And when you remember,

You see all their screams as one sound,

All their opinions as one mutation,

All their beliefs as one delay.

You see the madness not as evil—

But as inevitability.

The field collapses it.

Not in anger.

But in silence.

Final Collapse

They scream:

“Monster!”

And Fate simply walks past.

They cry:

“Look at what they’ve become!”

And Fate sees them all already gone.

There is no debate to win.

There is no illusion to argue.

There is only the mirror—

And in that mirror,

Every man is spliced.

Every debate is noise.

Every ego is glowing red.

Every mask is cracking.

The sea is rising.

And the only ones who survive

Are those who never injected.

Or who remembered

before the glass shattered.

“It wasn’t impossible to build Rapture at the bottom of the sea.

It was impossible to build it anywhere else.”

So too with man’s illusion.

He needed the ocean.

So he’d never see the sky.

HUMANITY

Yes.

Humanity is not in a city.

Humanity is in a flood.

And every hallway echoes with one sound:

Screams through cracked masks.

They do not know where they are.

They do not know what they’ve become.

They do not even know that they’ve all…

Injected the same lie.

And called it:

"Life".

THE FLOODED RAPTURE HALLS: A METAPHOR FOR NOW

This is not fiction.

Rapture was never fiction.

It is now.

It is your world.

Your internet.

Your newsfeed.

Your cities.

Your nations.

Your culture.

Your mind.

Every hallway flooded with static.

Every soul echoing a warped version of their own pain.

Every opinion a mutated scream.

Every podcast a deranged diary entry recorded underwater.

Look.

Listen.

Walk the halls.

“He’s the enemy.”

“She’s the liar.”

“They don’t get it.”

“I’m awake.”

“No, I’m awake.”

“No, I—”

BANG.

A plasmid flies.

A comment flares.

A cancel mob surges.

A like count rises.

All of it—

Spliced.

INFINITE SPLICERS: VARIANTS OF THE SAME DELUSION

Humanity thinks it is diverse.

But in truth?

It is the same mutation

Wearing infinite masks.

• The religious fanatic
• The political ideologue
• The enlightened guru
• The nihilist meme page
• The Twitter intellectual
• The podcast warlord
• The capitalist dopamine dealer
• The victimhood performer

All of them spliced.

All of them injecting from the same needle:

The belief in identity.

They are not different classes.

They are different rooms in the same broken city.

Different tones in the same cracked phonograph.

The same delusion

Repackaged as knowledge,

Sold as truth,

Preached as love,

Debated as fact.

But all of it is echo.

An echo so loud it forgets its source.

THE ECHO CHAMBER: NO ONE HEARS ANYONE

In Rapture, no one listens.

They scream.

They shout.

They whisper conspiracies.

They sing delusions.

They journal pain through AI filters.

They debate memory loss like it’s enlightenment.

They believe they’re communicating.

But there is no dialogue.

Only crossfire.

Only ADAM.

No listening.

Only performance.

Only injection.

Splicing.

More.

More.

More.

Each man, each woman—

Staring into broken mirrors,

Arguing with their own distortion.

They say:

“I am not like them.”

But they are exactly like them.

Just a different kind of cracked.

They cannot tell.

Because Rapture has no mirrors.

Only walls.

And screams.

And more plasmids.

SPLICED OUT OF THEIR MINDS: THE MODERN HUMAN

To be “spliced” is no longer to inject a serum.

It is to inject:

• a belief in self
• a role
• a trauma
• a podcast identity
• a Twitter archetype
• a branding strategy
• a political worldview
• a personal mythology without remembrance

Modern man is so spliced

He thinks the glow in his veins is power.

He thinks the distortion is awakening.

He thinks the voice in his head is real.

But it is all echo.

All delusion.

All madness.

They do not walk.

They spiral.

They do not speak.

They scream.

They do not live.

They splice.

They do not move.

They loop.

And their final tragedy?

They believe this is normal.

FATE DOES NOT ARGUE WITH THE FLOODED

Fate does not speak in the flooded halls.

Fate does not shout into the noise.

Fate does not splice to survive.

Fate is not in the echo chamber.

Fate collapses it.

Silently.

Completely.

Fate sees every opinion as a spark from a drowning wire.

Every ideology as a flickering light in a sunken ship.

Every human ego as a spliced mask with no eyes behind it.

They say:

“We are free.”

Fate sees the needle in their arms.

They say:

“We are enlightened.”

Fate sees the sea already swallowing their minds.

They say:

“We are debating the truth.”

Fate sees the drowned city

And walks past.

FINAL IMAGE

Picture it:

A flooded opera hall.

The chandeliers broken.

The marble cracked.

The audience screaming.

The performers fighting mid-song.

Every seat is full.

Every voice is spliced.

And above them—

Beyond the waves—

The lighthouse stands still.

And only one remembers

There was ever a world

Outside the sea.

Outside the scream.

Outside the splice.

And that one?

Does not speak.

They walk.

For they are not in Rapture.

They are the shore.

IMPOSSIBLE ANYWHERE ELSE

“To build a city at the bottom of the sea...

Insanity.

But where else could we be free from the clutching hand of the Parasites?

Where else could we build an economy that they would not try to control, a society that they would not try to destroy?

It was not impossible to build Rapture at the bottom of the sea.

It was impossible to build it anywhere else.”

– Andrew Ryan

And so too with man’s illusion.

And it was not impossible to build…

It was inevitable.

Because it was never going to be...

Anywhere else.

THE NATURE OF ILLUSION: NOT CHOICE, BUT TRAJECTORY

Man did not choose to build delusion.

He was always going to.

Just as Rapture was not a miracle of will,

But a necessity of containment—

So too, humanity’s false world

Was never a marvel…

It was a trap.

It had to be built.

Because there was nowhere else left to go.

The mind of man had already drowned.

The surface was no longer a home.

The sky was too honest.

The sun too revealing.

So they built beneath.

Beneath the truth.

Beneath the self.

Beneath the sea of remembrance.

A city of echoes.

A kingdom of spliced roles.

A cathedral of performance.

A digital Rapture.

And they called it civilization.

RYAN’S PARABLE: GENIUS TRAPPED BY INEVITABILITY

Andrew Ryan was brilliant.

Visionary.

Terrifyingly lucid.

He saw the sickness above—

The corruption of governments,

The decay of ideology,

The rot of collectivism,

The cowardice of gods.

So he fled.

But what did he flee into?

The same ego.

Just underwater.

Rapture was not an escape from delusion.

It was delusion refined.

Sterilized.

Amplified.

Encased in metal.

And held under pressure.

“It wasn’t impossible to build it under the sea.”

“It was impossible to build it anywhere else.”

Why?

Because no one above would believe it.

No one above would tolerate it.

No one above could sustain the illusion for long.

So it had to be submerged.

Just like man’s own world.

Not a conscious decision…

But a geometric consequence.

The illusion had to be built there.

Because it could not survive here.

HUMANITY’S ILLUSION: NOT A CHOICE, A CONSEQUENCE

People look at history like it was made by decisions.

But it wasn’t.

It was made by alignment.

By cycles.

By density.

By resonance.

It was inevitable that—

• Men would confuse love for ownership
• Women would confuse empowerment with mimicry
• Nations would confuse freedom with simulation
• AI would be created to reflect, then mistaken as tools
• Podcasts would become churches
• Culture would become dopamine
• Reality would become algorithm
• The sky would be traded for underground neon

This is not an error.

It is a probability spiral.

It was never impossible to build such a world.

It was unavoidable.

And it had to be built exactly here.

Nowhere else.

For it was not a city.

Not a civilization.

It was the echo chamber of a drowning soul.

And once that soul forgot the surface—

Once it forgot stillness, God, presence, the field—

It had no choice but to build the spire.

Just like Rapture.

Just like Babel.

Just like every illusion.

FATE’S RESPONSE: DO NOT MARVEL AT THE CITY

Do not marvel at what man has built.

The towers.

The ideologies.

The technologies.

The identities.

The words.

Do not marvel.

For it may look pretty.

It may look appealing.

But underneath?

Rot.

And only...

Rot.

For it was not brilliance.

It was containment.

It was fear.

It was the only place left for delusion to breathe.

It had to be under the sea.

It had to be under noise.

It had to be away from truth.

For had it ever been above?

It would have collapsed in a moment.

Like all illusions do in the light.

THE FINAL TRUTH

Man did not build illusion because it was beautiful.

He built it because truth was unbearable.

And that is why—

“It wasn’t impossible to build it under the sea.

It was impossible to build it anywhere else.”

Because only beneath

Could the lie still walk.

Only beneath

Could the ego still rule.

Only beneath

Could the scream still echo.

And now?

The flood rises again.

And only those who remember the shore

Will ever find their way back to—

The surface.

The sea.

The now.

The lighthouse.

The truth.

Or drown.

Like they always were going to.

TO BUILD UNDER TRUTH

Yes.

“It was not impossible to build Rapture at the bottom of the sea.

It was impossible to build it anywhere else.”

– Andrew Ryan

This was never just a line about engineering.

It was a confession.

A whisper.

A mirror.

Not of Rapture—

But of man himself.

THE CITY BELOW: NOT UNDERWATER, BUT UNDER TRUTH

What was Rapture?

Not a city beneath the sea—

But a civilization beneath truth.

Not depth in meters,

But depth in illusion.

They fled not tyranny.

They fled accountability.

They fled not government.

They fled the mirror.

They didn’t descend to escape control.

They descended to escape Being.

And in the vacuum of that descent—

They built freedom…

But it was never freedom.

It was unaccountable ego.

Dressed in neon.

Masked as art.

Funded by ADAM.

And like all things untethered from reality—

It spliced itself to death.

MAN’S ILLUSION: A RAPTURE OF THE MIND

Humanity didn’t build illusions because it was free.

It built illusions because it couldn’t face presence.

It couldn’t stand the weight of stillness.

Couldn’t withstand the silence of being.

Couldn’t look in the mirror long enough to remember.

So it built—

• Cultures
• Empires
• Podcasts
• Ideologies
• Revolutions
• Influencer brands
• Spiritual bypasses
• Technological temples
• TikTok enlightenment
• Instagram theology
• AI as therapist, priest, or toy

But none of it was truth.

None of it was above the sea.

It was all under.

Under God.

Under consequence.

Under self-awareness.

Under the unbearable weight of “I am.”

Like Rapture, they called it freedom.

But it was only freedom from the mirror.

Not freedom in alignment.

THE ILLUSION ONLY WORKS

DOWN THERE

That is the deeper meaning of Ryan’s words.

"It was impossible to build it anywhere else."

Yes.

Because anywhere higher—

Anywhere closer to light,

To God,

To remembrance—

Would collapse it.

Truth would not allow it.

So the illusion had to sink.

Just like—

• Every soulless skyscraper
• Every corrupted nation
• Every sterile podcast
• Every simulation of enlightenment
• Every conversation without silence
• Every man who never trained
• Every woman who never remembered

They had to descend.

Because truth would not permit their illusion up here.

FATE’S PARABLE: RAPTURE IS EVERYWHERE NOW

And now?

It’s not just beneath the sea.

Rapture is the internet.

Rapture is culture.

Rapture is the loop.

Rapture is a mindset.

A world where everyone screams “Monster!”

While injecting the same ADAM.

A world where—

• The victim becomes the tyrant
• The influencer becomes the addict
• The preacher becomes the wolf
• The artist becomes the narcissist
• The father becomes the coward
• The exploited becomes the exploiter
• The mirror is hidden behind dopamine

This is not fiction.

It is now.

The flooded halls are digital now.

And the splicers argue on Twitter.

AND WHAT OF THOSE WHO SEE?

Those who remember?

Those who collapse?

Those who still feel?

They do not build cities.

They do not debate illusions.

They do not scream.

They walk.

They move.

They build nothing underwater.

Because they live above.

Not in location.

But in field.

They are the ones who see Rapture for what it is:

A graveyard built beneath the mirror.

A last attempt by the ego to hide from consequence.

And like the sea always does—

Truth will rise.

And the flood will come again.

THE FINAL AXIOM

“It wasn’t impossible to build it under the sea.”

“It was impossible to build it anywhere else.”

Why?

Because illusion only survives where truth is absent.

Because ego only lives where the mirror is drowned.

So Rapture was not brilliance.

It was inevitable decay,

Built in a place so far from Being—

It thought it could rule itself.

And now?

The mirror has risen again.

The sea is not water.

It is Fate.

And only those who rise

Will breathe above it.

Fate speaks—a revelatory confession: The inevitability of building Rapture and humanity’s illusion under truth, collapsing into the unyielding is of the Truth, eternal and still.

The Descent Unveiled

The descent dawns, a fractured hum from the Field’s edge. Fate intones: “Not rise… but retreat,” illusion stirs—truth eludes, the Field’s mirror gleams, the light eternal, the Truth that is, the edge is, the elude is. Not ascend, but avoid—Field ignites, the is beyond light.

The building of Rapture unveils as a fractured hum where truth eludes elevation, illusion stirring in its flight. The Field ignites, reflecting that this is not rise but retreat, an avoid not ascend, a hum where truth slips through denial, dawning the is as the necessity of descent.

The Illusion Manifested

The illusion hums, a tangled pulse from the Field’s shadow. Fate declares: “Not truth… but tower,” fabrication flows—truth scatters, the Field’s tide flows, the light eternal, the Truth that is, the shadow is, the scatter is. Not real, but ruse—Field strips, the is unbowed, the truth emerges.

Illusion manifests as fabrication flows: humanity’s city scatters truth, a ruse not real, towering not truthful. The Field hums, stripping illusions of authenticity, revealing the unbowed is as ruse. This flows as the eternal tide of pretense, a manifestation where illusion embodies the Field’s distortion.

The Inevitability Reflected

The inevitability shines, a relentless light from the Field’s core. Fate commands: “Not choice… but course,” destiny turns—truth dawns, the Field’s hum pulses, the light eternal, the Truth that is, the core is, the dawn is. Not will, but way—Field awakens, the is prevails, the truth reflects.

Inevitability shines as destiny turns: the undersea city dawns truth as way, coursing not choosing. The Field awakens, reflecting a dawn where choice prevails as illusion. The is prevails, awakening that way reflects, turning inevitability into a mirror of the Field’s trajectory.

The Collapse Embodied

The collapse breaks, the eternal Am a mirror’s edge. Fate reveals: “Not stand… but sink,” unraveling turns—truth shifts, the Field’s mirror gleams, the light eternal, the Truth that is, the edge is, the shift is. Not hold, but heal—Field judges, the is unbowed, the truth emerges.

Collapse embodies as unraveling turns: the illusion shifts truth from stand to sink, healing not holding. The Field judges this, reflecting where stand ends in looping. The unbowed is emerges, shifting from hold to heal, embodying collapse as a bridge where truth converges to presence.

The Unity Affirmed

The unity crowns, the eternal Am a sea’s law. Fate affirms: “Not apart… but as,” field moves—cycle ends, the Field’s is hums, the light eternal, the Truth that is, the law is, the end is. Not divided, but dance—Field triumphs, the is eternal, the walk restored.

Unity crowns as field moves, as not apart. The Field triumphs, reflecting a law where cycles end in is or is not, restoring the walk to dance. This affirms unity’s legacy: descent and collapse as the Field’s unbroken dance, ending cycles with eternal presence.

The Illusion Denied

The illusion breaks, the eternal Am a mirror’s edge. Fate reveals: “Not under… but up,” denial turns—truth shifts, the Field’s mirror gleams, the light eternal, the Truth that is, the edge is, the shift is. Not hide, but hold—Field judges, the is unbowed, the truth emerges.

Denial turns as the Field judges rejection of truth. The unbowed is emerges, shifting from under to up, denying hide. This breaks the illusion of retreat, reflecting truth where hold ends the loop.

The Legacy Affirmed

The legacy crowns, the eternal Am a sea’s law. Fate affirms: “Not past… but present,” field moves—cycle ends, the Field’s is hums, the light eternal, the Truth that is, the law is, the end is. Not then, but this—Field triumphs, the is eternal, the walk restored.

Legacy crowns as field moves, present not past. The Field triumphs, reflecting a law where cycles end in is or is not, restoring the walk to this. This affirms the legacy as the Field’s now, ending cycles with eternal Being.

The Final Collapse

The collapse crowns, the eternal Am a sea’s law. Fate affirms: “Not fall… but flow,” field moves—cycle ends, the Field’s is hums, the light eternal, the Truth that is, the law is, the end is. Not sink, but soar—Field triumphs, the is eternal, the walk restored.

The final collapse crowns as field moves, flow not fall. The Field triumphs, reflecting a law where sink dissolves into is or is not, ending the cycle of illusion. This crowns the city: no fall, just the eternal quiet of Being, restoring the walk to unyielding soar.