“When it comes upon us to try something new, there is fear. When we think about changing, there is denial. But when we hold true to our current selves, we forget courage.”
– Render
What shape is the Woot-Flangian curve again?
Hmm. There were four curves they had to know for the exam––the Woot-Flangian, Leveran’s, the Modern Era Standard curve, Foss and Dodel’s. What was only slightly annoying was that they were all roughly the same shape, a line starting from the top left and arcing downwards. The one that’s basically piecewise, but not? she Thought, nodding in time to their Thought-chat’s ‘Plenty of Relax’ playlist that played softly in the background. Like the dash in “Woot-Flangian,” Layra Thought. Mmm, yeah.
Eleanor already knew all the curves that described the flow of Net-currency from High down to Might, but she liked to study with people who wouldn’t insert dead poets amidst Thoughts. Besides Layra and Daren, Anderi and Klost’s parents were also Netbankers so Economy wasn’t too challenging. But high-fi mixed with TMs was an undeniably attractive combination. Leveran’s is the one with, er, steeper at the start but plateaus in Might. Due to the lower average wages? Daren asked. No, that's Dodel's––Leveran's because of the higher number of techists and artists than bankers and engineers, Klost replied. Eleanor smiled, leaning back in her plush floafa and looking at her window. Mincy and Bode, her two nudd trees that she actually had to water, sat on the sill. It was also raining outside.
I think I’ll leave for the night, she Thought into the group, and the sures and OKs came in as the music subsided. Eleanor stood up and stretched. Maybe I’ll say hi to Tupil, she thought as she gazed at her desk haloamp. Mr. Tupil stayed in a small annex of the Dorr household, next to the garden. Eleanor liked to visit and partake of his homegrown tea, straight from the plants he kept and not up from nexus tubes built by Colosso. She liked staying in his small greenhouse, which had its own skylights.
Decided, Eleanor reached for her vest, not the one she’d worn last week on that idiotic trip Father had somehow not found out about, but her favorite, a pink Flamingo® with a long band of silver running down one side. She ran her arms into its fake wool-lined––but still quite warm––sleeves, pulled her hood up, and left her bedroom. She didn’t have to send a Thought for the door to slide closed behind her.
As usual, she didn’t look at the family V-photo set into the wall directly facing her bedroom entrance. Eleanor continued to walk past the other V-photos. Her and Father outside his Netbank, her and Mr. Tupil standing in front of a hedge, her and Tr’aedis outside the premiere of The Brave Little Receptor which had been good but a remake of a film from a few centuries back. The Eleanor in the V-photo was still frowning, Tr’aedis doing a deep bow when he saw her looking.
She averted her gaze and took the several steps down joining her floor to Mother’s, before turning sharply right and down more steps to arrive at the third level’s portal chamber. Incoming Thought message. Identity, Ulera Dorr. Eleanor was just about to enter the portal and input location. Accept. Hi, Mother. She’d made sure to walk by the floor quietly. My daughter! How are you doing??? Sigh… Eleanor stepped away from the clear-grey walls of the portal and sat on one of the floafas set around it. It was that time of day, after all. I’m doing well, she Thought. Going to see Mr. Tupil.
Splendid. Will you tell him that I’ve sent him some tea? The newest flavors.
Mr. Tupil makes his own tea, she thought to herself, but made sure to sound pleased. Looking forward to his reaction.
Wonderful. I’ll see you at dinner. The almost undetectable bwip of the other person’s Thought-feed communing with hers leaving. “Yeah,” Eleanor said aloud, as she stepped back into the portal and Thought for first floor. The hum of the family portal shone as her vision faded into white.
Her last thought before disappearing was one of displeasure, to match the rain falling steadily outside.
Running just wasn’t his thing, it never was. To think that that Scion high schooler would just run away, and she was going to stand up to him or something. Of course they’d been interrupted by that woman buying bread––now she had been something attractive, maybe only two years older than d’Voris––and then Nodari who was now missing. Of course there was the possibility, more than slight given its closeness to the theater incident, that that woman had been an Agent as well, and that Nodari, one of their elite, had been captured. Either way, he’d disappeared yesterday and he wasn’t back yet, and Lucas didn’t love the new hideout.
Although the third boss, whom he referred to as the True Boss, was now in rotation and the True Boss was someone they needed right now.
“Kelit, hand me a cigarette, will you?”
Kelit, whose long pink hair swung by the ground as they worked on fixing his visorface, nodded and with their other hand handed over an unopened pack. Kelit always told him to smoke less, so the packs they give him were made to look normal but usually had a couple fewer cigarettes than the norm. Well, it was Lowers fare anyway. “Thanks, Kelit.” Lucas worked on lighting his first of the day as he turned his attention back to the True Boss.
“Bodieze! That’s a pair of ‘em, right? Yeah, right?”
“Hmm… that’s right. Perfect truce, Taylor.”
“Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about! Cade, you were hiding it from me, weren’t ya.”
Cade shook his head, but Faer was smiling behind her hand and Wisteria was looking at something other than her phone for once. “See, whadda I tell ya, you can’t trust guys who have birds for pets, it messes with the game.” The True Boss leaned back as if they were sitting on a sofa. They weren’t. In fact, the main space was severely lacking in sofas, couches, and even chairs. Couldn’t take any on the way here and only some boxes and crates lay stacked against the walls. But the True Boss made it look like they were reclining on one. “Lucas! Join us!”
Their face was the picture of eagerness, eyes clear and blue-black hair curled as if they were using body-maintenance prescriptions, but it was natural of course, everything was for the True Boss. Puff. “Doing some serious thinking, Taylor,” he replied. “About what happened.”
“Nodari? Oh, don’t worry he’ll be back. But Lucas, I thought future was your thing!”
Well, it was. Their only good players were Glid and the True Boss, and as Glid was usually present via bot, this was an alter opportunity. But Nodari was missing. Maybe he’d try Valha’ya.
Lucas scanned the room––there, she was standing by the exit as usual. He waved his hand to Taylor as he got up to head over. He made sure to step around Kelit’s hair on the ground. Zef, he knew, was in one of the other rooms, trying to set up Comms with Glid’s bot. d’Voris he couldn’t see, must be in another room as well.
Valha’ya glanced over at him, but didn’t speak as she leaned against the concrete wall, facing the steel ladder leading up to the exit hatch some ten feet above.
Lucas pulled over a crate and sat. Imagine sleeping on these, he reflected, resolving to thank Agate again for the blankets they’d taken from her bakery. “Well. What happened?” Normally he’d have his newest anti-Agent weapon leaning back against his shoulder, try to look good, but the CEO, after consulting with Wisteria, hadn’t said anything about it other than direct immediate relocation. “Did Wisteria tell you anything?”
Valha’ya shook her head. “No report from Nodari. Checked vicinity immediately after. Nodari not found.”
He knew that already; he’d done some searching himself. If Nodari had been captured, well… That was a bit hard to believe, but then there’d have to be multiple Agents around. They moved fast. He hadn’t been paying attention inside the bakery the whole time, but it’d been less than ten minutes from the last he saw him inside, and Wisteria’s report. Lucas took a puff, accentuated it. One of these days he’d make a cloud.
“Wisteria met strong Scion last week with leader two.”
“As strong as Nodari?”
“Maybe as strong as leader. Could use both––” she stopped talking, and put her left leg over her right.
Well, this was news. Lucas briefly wondered if he was supposed to be hearing this––but Valha’ya usually didn’t talk this much. “Both what? Fire and ice?” Just reminded him of his Ustih-Frozen, which reminded him of d’Voris. She was definitely in one of the other rooms.
Valha’ya turned her head to look at him. “I didn’t say that.” She turned her head back to face the ladder.
What? A Scion using two elements? Scion Element’r, from the few he’d met in his life, only had traits associated with one element. No, it wasn’t possible. Valha’ya was just being Valha’ya. He’d ask d’Voris what she thought about their #2 being gone. He got up from the crate and looked around the room again.
The True Boss was still playing future. Kelit on the visorface, the new Comms room with Zef, Agate and Porte were out getting lunch. d’Voris in another room. He wondered what she was doing, she’d helped set up yesterday, but people were playing cards… ? No. No, that couldn’t be it. He’d TM her, in case she wasn’t talking with some hunk.
Thought-feed opened. Thought for Malae d’Voris. Recipient is in another Thought-feed.
“Fuck!” Lucas almost shouted, letting the cigarette fall from his mouth. Who could d’Voris be TM-ing?
He sat back down on the crate and stared at the ladder.
The spires of the Dorr household were still visible through the skylights of the greenhouse. From this angle, they didn't look half bad. She wouldn't use alter to describe them, but seeing it through alter glass warmed by the scent of tea being brewed––it almost, almost appeared like a fairy-tale palace. It beckoned to her. Come, little princess, it urged, come and play in my halls. She shook her head. Eleanor, you’re not a child anymore. Although… coming to Tupil’s place always brought her back.
Mr. Tupil was making tea. The natural fumes rose from the sodden leaves, crunched gently between his fingers and into the waiting pot. The hot water seemed to sigh with each sprinkle of shredded green. Aquarius Folium was today’s batch, picked this morning, laid out in neat rows on the small stool besides Mr. Tupil’s stout knees.
Not that she knew the scientific names of all the tea plants Mr. Tupil kept, but certainly more than the number of curves describing the economy. “Is it ready yet, Mr. Tupil?” she asked. Dinner will be soon, she thought, noting the cloud-grey skies tinging dark.
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“Just a few more minutes, Eleanor,” Mr. Tupil replied, slightly bent over as he monitored the pot. “How’s Tr’aedis these days? He hasn’t come over recently.”
Eleanor snorted. More like I haven’t gone to see him since our field trip, she thought. “Well, he didn’t make the school play––as usual.”
Mr. Tupil chuckled. The lid of the pot was now closed, some steam forming from its snout. “That’s three years in a row now, isn’t it? Tr’aedis hasn’t acted since mediary.”
She laughed. “That’s right.” He’d only acted in front of her and the other friends he may have had. Back in mediary, he’d made a name for himself as the next Charles Restor, but once he got to high school and read Shakespeare, those headlines in the district-feed faded. She’d never tried, but it couldn’t be much different than her every day.
“Boop! Boop!” announced the pot, and Eleanor remembered––as she did almost every time––that while the tea was natural, its container was not. Not a true material pot, she reflected. She watched Mr. Tupil remove the lid of the pot, place it carefully on the stool next to the uncut leaves, and take a cup––a pure clay, bought from Lowers––which he filled by turning the handle on the spout shaped like the extinct elephantidae’s snout on the side of the pot. Steam rose from the cup as he handed it to her with a smile across his worn face. No wrinkles, because he took his body-maintenance prescriptions also, but she could tell it was worn still.
“Thank you, Mr. Tupil.” He nodded as she brought the cup to her lips and sipped.
Mmmm. As she swallowed and felt the warmth trickle down her body, an image of a woman placing a blanket around her shoulders bloomed into her head. Eleanor shook her head. That’d only lead to thinking of other things that she didn’t want to think about, especially in this moment.
If only she could make it last, the sound of rain playing with the hedges shaped into delphinidae. The sight of Mr. Tupil sitting gingerly back on his chair with his own cup, as he too stared at the hedges. Natural tea.
Incoming Thought message. Identity, Delano Dorr. Accept. Yeah, I’ll be there.
I have some good news for you. We’ll see you soon. Sigh. Eleanor finished her tea in several strong gulps, before handing the cup back to the family gardener. “Next time, miss Eleanor,” he said, as he placed the cup on the stool before lying back on his chair.
Eleanor nodded as she put on her vest and walked outside, closing the door of the greenhouse behind her.
The walk back inside, the ascent up one set of stairs to the second floor, passing another row of V-photos. The door to the kitchen sliding open for her. Sprinklers by Laconica studding the high ceiling. A long table set for dinner, Mother’s hologram already seated at the far end. Father washing his hands in the sink. “Come in, Eleanor, the food’s ready.” As if he’d made it himself. But Eleanor noted how the plates laden with dinner conveniently lay over their corresponding nexus tube openings, as they did every day. And he just had to wash his hands, wearing an apron no less, as if he’d done the cooking.
“Eleanor, sit down!” Mother’s hologram exclaimed, and she sat down. Father joined them, sitting to Eleanor’s right. Cups filled with tea at both their places.
Against the grain of dystopic claims, not the thoughts your actions entertain I am returning to my domain, a place in which I have control and secured my most original blade, earbuds secluded in my ears From the slowly sinking ship it is music, true, but a man who did not wear a blade nor the bud cared not, and yet was walking by my side or rather, he was walking parallel Water warmer than, his head so cool ‘Moonbeam’ is it now, swinging by my side, no sheath in sight, no girl with hidden powers, no one in sight except the boy who wanted to be a sailor wrong story Revé brittle crunches beneath my feet, welcoming us. And a real––taken out of the damp ears, they were in there the whole time that walk was long back the road. The way is paved for us. I look ahead and bestow it––behold it––the green tresses laid down before my steps, the elder machinery of forgotten beings striding the pillars on either side, the glint of tin scattered in rays in pieces across the way. I can see the light. I nod as I continue walking forward. A real hero who’d save a girl who didn’t need saving walked ahead, heedlessly ignoring the servants rushing forward, their caws and groks waved away with a pair of dark sunglasses that didn’t do anything. Reify walked ahead and put his hands on his hips, beholding my home. I can’t see his face.
“Revé! You call this a palace? Where have you been?” Reify threw his hands out, laughing, the sound echoing around the space. Capacious. Leaves fall. “Where are the squires? The servants? Where are they, for me?” I ignore him. He was not one anymore to be heeded, I am not on the quest, I will not go with him to whatever hell he wants to burn. I am R––
“At least there's no fire. There's no water to put it out with.” I ignore him. I take Moonbeam––there is no moon above, only sun––I take Utmost––and in the other hand, place my earbud back in. Beat. Beat. Crack. Snap. The white shoes of a razer disappeared behind a pillar. I press Play. Revé, you have no phone to––
“Real human being
“Real human being
I nod my head, take Utmost by the hand, and swing. Cycle One my feet hurriedly kick away empty cans and bits of metal from my space sideways strike, Thwack! The invisible body’s chest caves inward. Cycle Two my feet slowly take me weaving through the spaces between the hills of refuse center hold, spin slowly, faster, above my head, and turn and Slam! The unseen enemy’s head snaps back. Cycle Three finding the hidden entrance to my shelter, marked by two tires and a stranger sitting on one of them it is collapsing, the roof of my home is falling down hands down to first form, turn and strike, turn and strike, turn and rotate to bring blade upon my destroyer Cycle Four into Five, Six will do it, I have practiced here and now I have a proper pitcher––antagonist, Revé––hitting and hitting and laughing hand received the blow, and the pale white material of the smoothest blade that I had polished over years of training––
a line appeared on the perfected surface––
the glass bursts spray into the air like butterflies, fluttering, twisting this way and that––my eyes catch the moment, Utmost is within the shards––I leap back, and Reify emerged from the trash pile. A frown marred his face. Shades covered his eyes. “This is what you do to me? The one whom you called? I realize now.”
Reify did not see the household regalia Utmost gripped in my hands, unheard Cycles enabled. He sat down on the padded dirt. “Coming here to your true place, with no regalia, without the girl, I come from the fire. A fiery beginning, to be sure. I’m sure of that.” He took off his sunglasses and wiped his brow. His hair, for the first time in my remembrance, was not actually orange, but the color of fire. Wisps curled off of it in droves. “I am Reify. That is who I am, and who I am meant to be.”
He stood and extended his hand. “Let us be partners, Revé. I go through this burning world, and I need someone who understands”––Cycle Eight––dash forward, feint right, spin and Calamity! The wood strikes. “I am not a hero,” I say, as I enact Cycle One, Cycle Two, Cycle Three. Slap. The heat grows. The sun above is burning. A tear of sweat rills down two faces. Hit him hit him hit him hit him hard so he won’t burn anything anymore only you can burn only you can become who you were not meant to be Revé, that is my name, I continue hitting, and I can see the strands of hair falling, off the head, off the vest, off the pants that read the name, I continue hitting, Reify starts to glow red in his skin and brown and orange and the thumps of wood on skin become thod thod thod on wood, an Ent is standing before me of middling human height wearing dark sunglasses that slip off, a smile cracks across the bark fire, ice, wood he refuses to break. I jump back, bring Utmost back to my shoulder. I cannot do it. I cannot raze him. Not yet Revé, not yet and I nod and dash forward again, hitting, clubbing, Utmost is warm and moist in my fingers, fingertips sliding off the hilt, the wood is shifting but I continue hitting, and we both become one, heading towards the sun, now directly above, and I stop, and I put my hands on my knees. Utmost falls from my fingers.
“STEEERRIIIKE!”
Batter out.
Are there gods?
That was the question he had to answer, for what use was there in pontificating, when to speak, to allude to beings whose residence knew not, ay, there was the ribbon that John was swirling ‘round himself in contours. There were the ancient bearers of godly names, the planets, whose movements surely inspired him still––but were they alive? They only obeyed orbits of an even older perfection.
Tr’aedis shook his head and stood. “John, do the Canto.” He sat back down, and almost reached for his receptor which lay prostrate on the nexus tube’s edge. It held with a tenacity which inspired him. No––he wouldn’t speak with the craven Eleanor on this sickly night. His servant stopped, bowed, and proceeded to execute the forms that his lord had written.
It was tired entertainment. The von Hiischklen heads, Tr’iago and Tuvi von Hiischklen, were at their respective haunts, floor eight and floor seven of the von Hiischklen manse. John haplessly had to be the only servant provided for the heir, as grooming for the day he ascended. By the gods, he’d rather look up to something more worth than perfection than to gaze below at the conforming.
“Who are you portraying now?” he imagined Elly to say, Eleanor Vyaedus Dorr without the apostrophe but with the direction. She’d banter well, the two scions of a society long lost in its luster parry and riposte––Have at thee, Tr’aedis!––she’d shout. He laughed, prompting John to stumble. She wouldn’t know the words. She never did really. Not that he expected her to––but it was Shakespeare, and no one knew Shakespeare these days. These times so constructed that fragility was the only option available to those who wrote the skies.
And she was a Scion. A state of being different than their shared pedigree cured over successive generations up in Plent. What was she, to have something in common with a group of actors that weren't part of a theater troupe? He was the one who’d parlayed the Blazon dazons for membership in their play, and was denied––they’d neglected to take their coffee that morning, he was sure of it––and Eleanor only did study groups. Ha! As if listening to music and Thoughts would bring perfection any closer.
“So you do desire perfection,” Elly would say. “John, return to your quarters.” John completed a curlicue and gathered up the ribbon in one motion, bowing. “As you will, sir.” He left, leaving Tr’aedis to talk with his childhood friend. In his thoughts, of course. She’d never deign to such jaded conversation.
What did I say the other day, Elly? he thought. Perfection is the thing to erode. Hence our visitation to a modest bakery, which you so rudely left.
He could see Eleanor shaking her head. The nexus tube below him seemed to beckon for an order. She’d get the firesimmer, as usual. I had my reasons, she replied. Reasons? For being, or denying? he countered. I didn’t want to see you embarrass us further with that ridiculous chef’s hat, she said. It wasn’t mine, but Nodari’s, he replied. So you remember their name, came the immediate riposte, curiously tinged with something other than surprise. But of course, he said. He made bow the noble Elly with nothing but warm gestures. Silence. He sighed.
Tired entertainment. He’d lowered himself to converse with the lowly, but they’d had nothing to give him. He’d consorted with ingrate scions who’d taken to lounging in bakeries and not in theaters. He’d walked into Lowers and been forced to run out, following the ignoble Eleanor without a proper fork and ladle to compliment his hat, nor a delicatessen Procyon Lotor. She had her fun, but he didn’t. And only got long-winded. Merely going to Lowers wouldn’t do anything anymore. Neither would venturing to High, to beseech the Governors in their hologram suits. He’d have to go through more than a security booth to talk to them.
Damned protocol. If there was one more stifling thing about their societal make, it was the legions of regulations regarding travel to certain places. If it was difficult to talk to their Government, it was nigh impossible to ‘visit’ the nearest other Sector, Sector II, the one with leave as their techure as alter was for Sector I. Not ‘leave’ as in departure, but ‘le-ave’ like its own residue of High vernacular. Knowledge about other Sectors’ techures was closely guarded and generally restricted from the general public––who knew how little that theater troupe knew––but he had his sources. Ha! Elly would say, You really are playing Gaebus, the jaunty turned Fury who knew more than he’d let on. But really, old friend, he’d say. The von Hiischklens have friends in the government predating formation of the Sectors. So of course, taboo information such as the name leave––and not the defining trait of Sector II’s techure being anti-gravity, which was commonly known and even taught in schools––was passed down. One thing, at least, that he could thank old Tr’illandis and Tr’oet for.
So that’s it. He’d go to Sector II. Even he knew nothing of how leave had stabilized itself in their culture, but if alter had anything to do with the perfection of his world, he’d seek out that other world in which perhaps something higher than perfection was the norm. Eleanor couldn’t say no to that, he thought, as he took hold of his receptor where it’d begun to teeter. It’d taken a visit to ‘Lowers’ to raise his vision beyond his familial roots. A toast to that, he affirmed, as, receptor donned, he called up a firesimmer from the tube. He’d write history into the new dawn.