A/N : Hi, hi. This is a short story I wrote for my Writer's Craft ISU. The title is Latin, and it means "In the garden sleeps a messenger" (FFVIII fans will recognize that from Ultimacia's castle) If you like, please let me know. I love feedback.

Life, they say, is a sacred thing, beyond the limited capacity of the frail human mind. Our judgement, always too quick or too indecisive to serve us proficiently, prevents the average human being from seeing Life clearly for what it is, and what it could be. Rather we spend our time trying to reshape it, as if to mold the very universe to our whims; after all, the pattern of the universe is often an inconvenience. If Life should dance from our very fingertips, its threads weaving and twining around us in a never ending mosaic of experience, then why must we work so hard to make it so? Sometimes man has to take his own steps when dealing with Life, bypassing a higher authority if need be, to see his work through until the very end.

Stepping into the realm of God was easier than one might think. Usurping power for one's own needs is more a test of wills than anything. Some would say that it was wrong, almost as if they were spitting in the face of a Natural authority. Man was not given the power to Create Life, yet he stole it anyway.

Slow, deliberate footsteps echoed through a feebly lit corridor, the sound doubling itself a thousand times over by the bare concrete walls. The Scientist trudged forward hesitantly, each step heavier than the last. It was not due to age or weariness, but it was as if a crushing weight rested on his shoulders, trying to pull him to the ground in submission; still, he pressed on. He was not a young man, but there were still many years left for him before he would be finished with his work. A long white lab coat was draped haphazardly across his burdened shoulders; it's tail end dragging across the floor. There were few people in the hall, most had been sent home if they were irrelevant to the project, leaving only the necessary staff.

A frown creased his brow as he juggled an armful of papers around in an attempt to locate his key card; he snorted with frustration when he finally remembered it was in his coat pocket. A thin plastic rectangle, no distinguishing marks to brand it as something special, felt cold in his palm. Such an insignificant looking item, really, but it guarded something spectacular. As the Scientist fingered the key card, running his thumb along the black metallic strip on the back, a set of titanium double doors loomed before him, almost imposingly. A non-descript card lock blinked expectantly, waiting for someone to offer a meal of plastic. Swiping his key card anxiously, he waiting a few precipitous moments while the lock flashed and clicked excitedly, deciding whether or not he would be allowed access.

"Welcome to Project Deus." A sweet disembodied tone greeted him with digital enthusiasm; why the programmers decided to make it a female voice, he would never know. He chuckled absently to himself, trying to remember the last time a woman opened a door for him. The doors slid open with a compliant hiss as the Scientist pocketed his key card.

He was not expecting what he saw on the other side.

It was as if someone had frozen time, or taken a photograph to preserve the moment. Lab equipment was all but destroyed, smashed, shattered, and broken, exposed electrified wires strewn about treacherously. In the corner, one of the main computers had caught fire, bathing the darkened room in soft crimson glow. Everything was coated in a thick slime of red, which refused to dry, and likely wouldn't anytime soon due to the sheer amount of it. The walls and ceiling were splattered with uneven splotches of dark liquid. The floor was nearly drown, except for a few areas, where twisting patterns had been traced into the sludge like a spirograph as limbs had flailed vainly to try and escape. Judging by the numerous, unidentifiable heaps scattered about the room, the Scientist guessed they hadn't gotten very far.

The familiar lab held an unearthly and unfamiliar silence, magnifying the gentle sound of the blaze in the corner to a near roar. Stillness had settled, almost beautiful in its vile wake. Nothing moved; nothing so much as twitched.

In the dead centre of the lab was a standard titanium specimen table, its surface dulled from age and use, though infused with new life by a thick coating of gore. Broken metal restraints had long since clattered to the floor, lying in a puddle of ooze. They had been destroyed easily, as if a child had broken his favourite toy truck. Perched delicately on the specimen table, the Scientist found himself staring eye to eye with Life.

"Welcome," a second voice, empty as death itself, froze in his ears, "Welcome to Project Deus ..."

"Y-y .... you ..."

He cursed himself mentally for losing his words, but given the situation, he doubted anyone would be able to form coherent sentences.

"Yes," was the reply, subtly sounding impatient, "Me. Little old me. Were you expecting that fool with the accent? He escaped you know, though I tried my best to ... convince him to stay. Everyone had a wonderful time ... don't you think they look like they had a good time?"

A smile worked itself cunningly across his face, revealing perfectly white teeth, though the Scientist could have sworn he saw red flecked across them. He was aware of being watched, like the rabbit knows when a hawk is around, but the Scientist didn't flinch; he was too afraid.

So this was the Creation? He studied the specimen carefully, trying not to let the watcher know he too was being watched. A healthy, almost tanned complexion, set against a shock of pigmentless white hair that hung shaggy around his face. Sitting, the Scientists judged his height at just less than six feet; average size. It had a lean build, compacted muscle under the synthetic skin, though the Scientist had no doubt that he would have been able to crush the specimen table with one hand. An identifying bar code had been branded across the chest, labeling it as property. It had been given the look of a youth, maybe 20 years or so. What held his attention most was the eyes. A deep-set ruby colouring almost seemed to sparkle in the dim light, though they were completely devoid of anything human. Intently focused, but hollow.

It was intimidating, as it had been designed to be, sitting there with an air of superiority. Had that air been programmed, he wondered. All the while, it still smiled.

"He escaped then?" The Scientist managed to speak, very wary of his companion's reactions. He doubted he would be able to run, even with the door a mere two feet behind him.

The man they spoke of was the one in charge of this project, the Head Scientist. The Creator. An old man with wild tufts of gray hair and an unkempt mustache; he was German and had the most ridiculously thick accent, making him difficult to understand on the best days. Far past his prime physically, but at a mental peak, the Scientist often wondered if the Creator had lost his wits a long time ago, and was functioning merely on the frenzy left behind. Whatever the scenario, many regarded him as a genius, brilliant beyond his time. The Scientist had no doubt that he had been the only one to escape; in the end, the Creator was the only one who was not expendable.

The Creation pondered over the question a moment, his smile curving downwards into an angular frown. "Escaped ...? For now, perhaps, but I'll find him. I wanted to ask him some questions."

"Questions?"

It looked up at him with sudden realization, as if it had just remembered the Scientist was there. The smile returned eagerly. "Yes. You would answer my questions, wouldn't you?"

The tone was almost pleading, but not quite; it was the kind a child would use when they wanted to know something that was infinitely important to them, yet trivial to the rest of the World. He nodded slowly, to which the Creation's face seemed to light up expectantly. What kind of questions it would have, the Scientist could only guess.

"I will answer your questions."

"Yes ... yes, I suspect you will. Please sit with me, good Scientist. I have many things that I wish to know."

Those eyes never left him; always observing with an unyielding ruby gaze. They continued to watch as he reached for the nearest swivel chair. The Scientist tried not to flinch when he brushed an unidentifiable limb from the seat and draped his coat over the red sludge.

"What do you want to know?"

The Creation paused thoughtfully, mulling over what exactly to ask. Thin brows drawn together tightly, It's eyes flickered away for the briefest of moments, before It finally spoke, "What am I?"

"A robot," he answered, "Well, not really. Robots have preprogrammed functions, commands that they are to follow. But you were Created to be free of programming. You would have your own will, the ability to make your own decisions. As close to a human being as we can reproduce with machinery. You are a new form of Life, I suppose."

"Why can't I be a human?"

" ... "

Why not?

"Because there is only so much we can do. No one can reproduce humanity, except God."

"God?" It seemed to consider this word for a moment before launching into more questions, "Then why did he Create me? For what purpose?"

Why? That was a good question. They had all gone ahead with this project without considering the possible ramifications of such an act; looking around the room now, he could see that nothing of that nature had ever crossed their minds until it was too late. No one had stopped to think that perhaps God would be angry that mere humans had meddled where there was no place for them.

"I ... don't know," feeling those eyes narrowed on him, the Scientist stammered on, "Maybe he wanted to go beyond himself, beyond the limits of humanity, and into the very realm of Life itself. We all did, I suspect, blinded to the obvious consequences by the desire to succeed. Do you hold that against us?"

"No," he said slowly, "But I don't understand why I've been brought here, into this existence."

The Scientist listened intently as the Creation went on.

"For a long time it was cold. And then, all of a sudden, it started getting warmer. It felt good, to be warm after being cold for so long. But it was too warm; too hot. The light ... it was to bright for my optics. There was screaming, and yelling. Too bright. Too loud. I was restrained to the table; I didn’t like that. I told them I didn’t like that, and it was too bright, but no one would listen to me. The man with the accent yelled at me. He ordered me to be quiet so he could run some kind of test on me. I didn’t want to be tested for anything. He said I was defective because I questioned him too much.”

Defective? “That can’t be right. You are supposed to question. That’s why we gave you a will of your own instead of programming to follow.”

“Incorrect,” the Creation responded, words coloured by a touch of bitterness, “He said that I was required to yield authority to him, because he Created me. He gave me this Life, and it was his to control, programming or not. You see Scientist, your ideals are not always what they seem to be.”

“My ideals?”

The Scientist was confused by the direction the conversation was heading in, but when the familiar feral smile returned he checked the lump forming in his throat and tried to maintain an impassive expression. It always seemed to be entranced by his efforts, as if it knew he was afraid but trying desperately not to show it.

“You can’t tell me you’ve gone into all of this for purely unselfish reasons, can you Scientist?”

“ … There’s no such thing as a selfless act, Creation, I know that probably as well as anyone can. I’ll admit that I joined this project because I thought that it might somehow better the world, or the standard of Life, but that was a cover. I wanted the glory, I think. I wanted to be able to say that I had a hand in the advancement of the Human race. We’ve gone and elevated ourselves to mortal Gods, who can Create or extinguish a Life. We’ve always been able to extinguish, but Creating…”

It seemed to be satisfied with his honesty. “Very noble of you, Scientist. But I must ask you something else. Was the price paid to bring me into existence worth the end result?”

The Scientist became aware of just how rank the room smelled; how the rotten odors wafting from unidentifiable mounds burned inside his nostrils. Thin browning skins were just beginning to appear on top of the lighter smears of red sludge, while the fire in the corner burned unabated.

"Why did you kill all of these people?"

The Creation stared at him for a long time. "How can I understand Life if I do not know it's opposite?" he answered as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Still It looked at him like an expectant child, awaiting answers the Scientist could not give him. The Scientist, mouth hanging open like a gate on rusted hinges, only stared with horrified disbelief. All of this carnage was simply because their Creation was not given knowledge of Death? This had been done of It's own will?

"Do you feel no remorse for this? Can you honestly look at these people and say that nothing haunts you? You were supposed to have a will. You were supposed to -" Suddenly the Creation leapt from the specimen table and landed

with a loud metallic thump, cushioned somewhat by all of the sludge on the floor.

“How can I know these things if there’s no one to teach me?”

A slight tremor worked its way across his spine, chilling every muscle, every nerve ending twitching with anticipation. It stalked back and forth in front of him, working a short track in the otherwise unspoiled field of red. It’s eyes were still trained on him as he paced furtively. It laughed, a humorless chuckle that seemed to chill the air..

“There’s no need for you to worry Scientist,” the Creation said as if sensing his inner thoughts, “I will not kill you. The thought of killing you bothers me. I don't understand why."

Somehow, the Scientist suspected he should have been relieved by those words, but the rumpled heaps scattered throughout the room prevented him from finding any kind of comfort in that promise.

"I have to be going now, good Scientist. You've answered my questions well - as well as you can anyway - and I thank you for it. But I think the answers to my Life lie with my Creator, wouldn't you agree?"

Nodding, the man could only watch as It surveyed the room for a final time, as if just realizing It's gruesome actions. The puzzled, angular frown returned for a moment, but it was quickly replaced by a look of purpose. Without giving the Scientist or his presence a second thought, the robot stalked past him like a wolf on the scent, smashed a fist through the access panel, and ripped the door from its frame. The clang-clang-clang of determined footsteps rang in those empty corridors like church bells, finally fading into the dimness of the murky passages. The Scientist was left alone, and for a long time, he could only stare blankly at the specimen table and the broken restraints.

Some indeterminate time later his reflexes finally snapped back into action. He dug into his pockets with a frenzy, searching wildly, until he produced a package of imported cigarettes. Shakily he raised one to his lips, igniting it with a silver trimmed lighter, and took a deep, relaxing drag. Feeling the smoke and tar whirling inside his lungs, the Scientist breathed out the toxic fumes slowly, trying to send his frazzled nerves along with them. It was an old habit, one from his teenaged years, that he just could not kick; it was at times like these that he was glad he was so weak willed. The thin cigarette smoke hung in the stale air above him, dissipating slowly. He watched as the sludge began to seep into the Creation's footprints.

The fatal mistake, he believed, was the assumption that the Creation would be able to understand the privilage of having a will to choose. Or maybe that will came with experience, and was not something innate, but to be achieved. With no moral guidence, how could it be expected to function on even the simplist level of conscience?

Life had conformed to them. They had shaped it the way they desired, though the outcome had been far from what was expected. They had succeeded where God succeeded. Creation had been conquered. A sudden feeling of fear filled him. If humans could reproduce the very quality that had been uniquely made within them, what was to say that they could not be easily replaced by a race of these Creations. The Creations could rule for a thousand years, and then be overthrown by something as equally unnatural, like God himself. They had given rise to Creation, but had it all been worth it, just for the chance to act as God?

That, in the end, would be the Creations choice.