“Ever since they were first developed in the late 19th century, I never found an appeal in films. Perhaps it is their attempted simulacra of real life. Perhaps it is their choosing of actors to portray persons, whether real or fictional. I would not call myself ‘adaptable’ to this art: no actor could properly last the endeavor.”
– Render
Syz, let's go see the movie.
Which one? You haven't seen any of them yet, right.
Portal 13. The documentary detailing the mass malfunctioning of the first portals.
You finished your Alteryear Exhibit piece? I can look at it before your dad does.
Something about perpetual motion. Pops expecting a model tonight. Tristan had it in his mind, behind a long black curtain.
I finished it. But let’s watch the movie first.
Hmm. Syz sounded a little uncertain, but Tristan could tell that his friend also wanted to watch Portal 13. Yeah, let’s see it. When’s the last time you saw a movie?
The last time he saw a movie… he forgot the title. The one about the raider that won a Levgion Tourney by themselves.
Oooh… that’s a really good one. Raider. The remake of the alter-ancient one, except in that one the guy died in the end.
Tristan laughed, and took his hands off Plant #1. People don’t die in raider games. He looked at Pops’ Alteryear Exhibit model drawing, in his mind, held tightly to the alter linoleum floor of his room. It would hang suspended, a drawing on air, before being realized into the perfect form for Pops’ shining approval.
He would do it, after seeing the movie with Y’sazant.
Tristan stood up, and walked out of the room. Y’sazant would buy the tickets, and Pops was in a conference with other GAT techists.
Tristan took the house portal down to the first floor.
He left the house. The door slid back into place behind him, and he saw a nexus tube emerging from the alter platinum flooring of the front yard. A chocolate tapen popped out.
He Thought to bring the tapen back down into the house food production chambers. He Thought to open the front yard entrance, and left the Mott household to beeps and clicks.
He walked quickly to the portal, entered, and Thought for Charles Restor Auditorium. Many colors moved across his vision. His view of the house gradually shifted to a massive C laid on the land. The auditorium, where they showed V-movies and V-theater to recreate moments of history. Tristan walked out of the portal and found himself following a long thread of people, each distinctly separated from the previous, all directed towards the R-shaped entrance of the auditorium. He took his place, and followed the line, and thought about the potential linearity. The person in front of him, then the person in front of them, and then, Y’sazant! Tristan left his place and moved up.
Tristan walked up behind Syz, who was walking face forward, jade green hair from the back swaying from side to side; and he tapped them on the shoulder.
“Faet ris Tristan?” Syz said, not jumping as Tristan had anticipated. “That means My friend Tristan in High English,” Syz continued, turning their head to smile at Tristan. “You’ve heard it before.”
“Vairx.”
“Ha ha! Not right, but I knew what you were trying to say!” Syz raised their two arms, took a breath, and pronounced “Verx” as they pinched the air with their hands. “It's the e, and you use your tongue to go into the x. You should take the High English elective! I can lend you the V-book.”
Tristan thought about it. Well, he wouldn't have time in his schedule. Pops’ three-year schedule didn't allow for it. “Maybe next time, Syz.”
Y’sazant smiled and shook their head, but pointed ahead: they were nearing the auditorium aperture. “You must be really excited for the movie. Do you know any of the actors?”
The only actor Tristan was laterally familiar with was Fayar Gaebus, but everyone knew Fayar Gaebus, even in Lowers, where they did show non-v versions of his movies.
“I like portals.”
“Well, it has Prudis Quan, and Daeno Eyvar. They were casted for The Elusive Æthelstan (next year), but Fayar got it, he'll be playing both parts. Hey, we're here."
They both entered through the R.
Welcome to the Auditorium of Charles Restor, Il Miglior Attore.
What language is that? Tristan asked Y'sazant, who replied, One of the dead Romantic languages. Alter dead to High English, haha.
The atrium inside was filled with people, and they were separating into lines leading towards a series of portals, although Tristan knew they weren't the same type for daily transportation, but for transferring viewers to their V-stage. Holoscreen letters above each of the portals spelled the V-movies being shown, left to right: Floret Supremacy, Elizabeth Restor, Melted, Portal 13, The Bodiezes Story, and Attack of the BMP’s. So this year’s Restor film was on Elizabeth, the first Netbanker and the one who had led development of the Worldnet from its previous iteration. If he didn’t see it in the auditorium while it was being shown, he wouldn’t be able to see it until 7 years from now with its next alteration.
But Tristan hadn’t seen any of the Restor movies, not counting the documentary for school. Portal 13 was the movie he was watching today.
By now it was their turn. The V-movie portal was empty, and Y’sazant stepped into it, and disappeared. Tristan followed, tried to take in the atoms screaming for departure; but as soon as he stepped in, he stepped out and onto a walking path; but it was far wider than those in the neighborhoods, and he located Y’sazant standing over there, and joined them. They and the others standing in various locations across and around the path watched as an ancient vehicle, the car, crossed it; they watched it pass, and then veer off course, and hit one coming from the opposite direction; non-hyper glass shattered, a thick white-grey cloud rose from the wreckage, and a person was now walking in from the side.
He didn’t recognize them, but their clothing designated High official make, flynder and eierch. They began speaking. The movie had begun.
“With the introduction of self-driving cars onto the streets and highways of the world, accidents were lowered; but then people forgot how to drive, and the joy of using Google Maps, the then-navigator, to select your destination and follow instructions, was lost. Drivers took the wheel back into their hands, and left their safe, predesignated courses and moved onto others, leading to accidents such as these.”
A soft sound was playing from the sky; it sounded morose, but hopeful also. The scene then shifted, and a person––in the movie––was emerging from a different car, and walking towards a clear portal. He was holding a box of bodiezes in his arms; he had well-cured black-brown hair, and a ready smile on his face. He stepped into the portal, yelled, “Home where the drinks are!” and vanished with a bright flash. The scene changed again, and he was walking out of another portal, this one stationed in front of a house along a row of houses, from a path that was more like the ones Tristan knew; and he entered.
“That’s Prudis Quan,” Syz told him. “His character’s probably the one to mess up the portals later.” Tristan nodded, and watched as Prudis entered the house and greeted the people there; he was now in the house, leaning against a wall and Syz was reaching into Prudis’s box for a bodieze. Tristan waved at them to put it back, but then he remembered that interaction with props didn’t affect the movie. “Who threw a party?” Prudis exclaimed, as another character––Daeno Eyvar, Syz Thought to him––turned from talking to a man, to whom he had been holding a pair of bodiezes himself, apparently explaining how they worked––both actors were wearing unfamiliar clothing, although it had the MR insignia of Mary Restor’s apparel line. “How’s it going up at Altar?” Daeno asked, and Prudis followed with more conversation. If it wasn’t for the clothes, Tristan now couldn’t tell besides these two and Y’sazant which of the people in the house were in the movie, and which were watching it.
“They’re alter worried, poppin’ like nexus tubes. Anne Restor’s gonna tear the whole place down if we don’t start bringing in citizens.” Prudis shook hands with the man who had been speaking with Daeno. “Would you be interested? I portaled here myself.”
“You did? Stan, they’re still prototypes! You know they’re not ready for the public.” Daeno tossed his own brown hair back. It looked like it was on early body-maintenance prescriptions. He put a hand on the unnamed man's shoulder, and gestured towards Stan. “This is Stanley Tite. Portal 4, Portal 7, Portal 11. Anne Restor's chief porter," he told the man. “That just means I get ordered around the most,” Stanley laughed, and then went off to another person, handing her the box. “Bodiezes fresh from High,” he told her, and the woman, who seemed to know him, flicked his MR lapel teasingly. “We’re in High, Stan.”
“That’s right, Stella. How’s the house holding up? You like it?” Tristan touched the wall; it looked like an older make, maybe the first installment of alter plaster or stucco. “The house system’s taking time to accelerate,” she replied, and Tristan realized that they were married.
Stanley nodded, and sighted a boy who looked like he was in high school standing at attention, a model alter saber resting on his shoulder. The boy was fidgeting, and perked up when Stanley came over to him. “Our future Agent Tite!”
The boy dipped his head. “Unranked, dad.”
“They only just formed. You might have a chance!” Stanley took a bodieze from the box and handed it to his son. “First one’s for you. You got started on those BMP’s yet?”
His son shook his head, and his bangs came unraveled. “School’s on break.”
The father then turned and seemed to address Tristan. “That hair needs improvement. Make it like mine!” And Tristan noted that the actor’s hair was not too dissimilar from Meliodas Mott’s chocolate brown, kept rigid with body-maintenance prescriptions and airnanos. He felt his hair, and it came apart. “I like it this way, father.”
“Oh no you do not, my boy!” Meliodas Mott turned on a holoscreen from his receptor. An image appeared of an alter Tristan, hair strung in neat waves of dark brown, standing at attention. “That is the version to surpass the likes of Cel Rin. Now where’s your design?” he asked Tristan, and Tristan remembered an empty floor in his room, doing some brief mental sketches. A wall of hair that was black, then it was many colors. “I don’t have it, father.” Cel’s piece was done; had been done a long time ago. “I need to redo my hair.”
“As I say, Tristan. As I say. But first––the Alteryear piece. Let me look at it.”
“Your Alteryear piece, father. I never made one.”
Pops laughed, and checked his watch. “Alteryear is next week. Are you going to be the Alter Boy, or just another techist?”
Pops’ hair was well done, resembled a delicacy; was never to be touched.
Tristan’s hair was frantic, desired order; was something of his own.
Tristan stood straighter. “I can be something greater,” he said.
He imagined he was holding something solid in his hands: larger than a bodieze, but more usable. Something that wouldn’t break or fall into disarray when touched by the wind. Something that would be connected to his name. Something he could make.
Prudis Quan shook his head, and tromped off further into the house, greeting more guests.
Jaceus took one more look behind him at Porte, dressed in a large white suit of some kind, complete with one of their visorfaces but visible, covering their faces and transparent; it reminded him of Magcreat. He pressed open the photo shop door and stepped outside. An assembly of personages, dressed in the same High uniform that Valha’ya’s other self had been wearing yesterday, was approaching on the sidewalk from his left; he deigned to wait. They would be the Agents, on this good day of sun. He cast his eyes to the sky and looked for birds.
None were in sight. Jaceus looked back at the Agents. He would see for himself if they were capable.
Leading their group was a woman, a man, and a child. He stared––while he did not recognize the adults, who walked proudly, the child was the Scion who could manipulate memory, that he had met earlier in his time here. So he was an Agent. Jaceus found himself laughing but he quickly stifled it, and put on a composure of disdain. He was above them.
The woman stopped just in front of him, and threw an arm and a leg out to protect her colleagues. “You are not Taylor Cole––who are you?” she asked.
Taylor Cole––which must be the name of the Furies’ leader. Jaceus noted that the Scion child was looking at him with a sharp gaze, and smiled.
“I am Jaceus. I am not affiliated with the ones you seek.”
The Scion child lightly stepped around the woman’s leg. “I will handle this person. R’aegoth, Mik’vael, if you will.”
The one named R’aegoth looked at Jaceus, who looked back into his eyes. “You shall permit our passage, then, Jaceus. We are here on behalf of the Government.” He reached into a fold of his flynder suit, and removed a card to hold up to Jaceus. It was a holocard, so while the physical material showed the colors of the Government, the small hologram projected showed what resembled an R, with the words AGENT OF THE GOVERNMENT below it.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
He was to nod, and step out of the way, and allow the Scion Agent to combat wills against him. He did not much enjoy their last meeting; for while the Scion had been memorable, it’d felt as if he were communing with two persons in the same body––two souls sharing the same vessel, equally. That had been unpleasant. He looked past the three, and saw a man coming to a stop, carrying bodiezes; they would do nothing––an alter terrier; and a person who showed little life on their countenance.
Jaceus briefly remembered that for Technologies he was to recite the seven founding principles of techistry, from William Restor’s perspective; it was a paltry assignment. He opened a door in his memory, and lightly remembered receiving his Magpotis from the Tribunal. The door was bright; he closed it quickly.
“Hydric. Instruct R’aegoth instead to combat myself.” He told the Scion child.
The Scion child smiled back at him. “You’re boring anyway!” he chirped, and patted R’aegoth on his eierch-lined leg. “His name is Xeric––you know him?” the one named Mik’vael asked, and Xeric/Hydric giggled softly. R’aegoth looked into Jaceus’s eyes once more. “You are the strongest one here,” he stated.
Jaceus nodded. “And you are the strongest over there.”
Mik’vael frowned, but when R’aegoth nodded to her, she walked past him and opened the door of the photo shop. Xeric/Hydric followed, hands behind their back, and the other three entered in suit.
Jaceus, briefly, allowed himself to remember once more. The first person he had met, after reluctantly making food in the Nutrieat with Ila ce, who had been doing it well of course, and then suddenly finding his hands not shaping magic into something to be eaten, but into nothing, and finding himself inside a transparent container. The first person he had met, after destroying that container.
R’aegoth took several steps back, and seemed to wait. He did not know how strong his opponent was, after all.
Jaceus examined his own opponent. R’aegoth was––he was human. That much, Jaceus could discern. But––something was different. He would see for himself. “Strike yourself,” he said, with his will.
R’aegoth brought his right hand up––and fast enough that Jaceus noticed, brought it towards Jaceus’ face:
––he averted it, and, briefly, considered fighting
conventionally. Jaceus moved his right hand in towards R’aegoth’s neck; R’aegoth dodged as well, bowing out of the way, while bringing his left foot forward:
Jaceus caught it, and exerted force upon the ankle, but
––R’aegoth swiveled on the
sidewalk and brought the foot hard out of Jaceus’s hand––he would not do so conventionally. So,––
----------------
He
––opened
––more
doors.
Bringing his Magpotis against Puræ’s, and the sound of their
respective energies ringing against the walls: ⧮ and ❐.
R’aegoth struck his right hand against Jaceus’s left rib:
Jaceus struck his left hand to R’aegoth’s right cheek:
hand clap
hand clap
22nd-century Shin Japan style kick
⧮ dirn dir frantic
hand slash
block
----------------
The first person he had met in this new world, after breaking the container, which he’d later come to know as a portal––one who called himself a porter, and giving his name to Jaceus as Perry––
But the porter had been pure; had been a non-Scion. There was something different in R’aegoth; and Jaceus knew that even if he were to triumph in this fancy of magic, this small bout of his ⧮, R’aegoth was not a superior opponent. Puræ, he knew, would be shaking his head and returning to his art. This was no art; this was least excellent fancy.
Jaceus concentrated all of his ⧮ into one strike, and rendered R’aegoth unconscious.
Rocket, let me take over. This Raegoth guy is something else. He’s actually cool.
Reify, I have this. You’ve seen my Blizzard technique many times, haven’t you?
Rocket, this guy’s already evaded your Hurricane and Tornado. What’s the Blizzard gonna do?
It’s gonna freeze him. Just keep watching, Reify.
He takes his weapon, Torch, back into his primary stance, the only one without a name. This library around us isn’t really a library anymore. The snow’s falling in droves, onto the books, their pages, around these unconscious bearers of names. There’s Rocket’s second, Taylor, the weird one who’s sometimes lazy, sometimes serious, always playing with his cards. He’s of course pretending to be out, but I can see him shuffling his cards as he’s leaned back against that bookcase. The Biography section. I don’t read, of course. I let Rocket do the work.
Ahead, standing on top of a fallen bookcase, is their Agent, Raegoth. Only their fourth, but single-handedly took out a whole bunch of us. Didn’t even use a weapon. Nothing. Only his hands, arms, and legs. Cool dude. Hair red, red as fire; our color. He’s now speaking. Cool voice too.
“You think you can win, descendant.”
Rocket smiles back, breathing in the cold air, and out. His breath is a cloud. His weapon is cold to the touch, and Rocket of course isn't wearing gloves. “I think you can lose, my man. Just this once. Aren't you cold? Wear something.”
Raegoth shakes his head. “You are a fool,” he quotes, and begins taking books into his hands, three at a time, and casts them at Rocket, who spins Torch to defend, and the books hit it and come off in thumps and thuds onto the white ground. Raegoth comes forward again, and I am eager to show myself, but Rocket is confident, and continues to parry Raegoth’s thrusts and slashes and whirlwind furies with Torch.
I can burn him, Rocket, if you let me, I ask again. Parry parry spin hit I said, Reify, I have this. punch thrust strike clash pages ruffling At least call Taylor over, he can help. Torch book hand arm elbow knee I'm doing the Blizzard now, watch.
Rocket gets into it, and as I stand by and see the weapon he calls Torch to simmer with its bearer's desire, and the Agent Raegoth lands strikes on our shoulders so fast I'm seeing the snow fall faster. I whisper to Reify in my mind, asking him to let his other half take the sword:
Trails of fire
you always knew
they would carry me home
they'd lead me to you
and I watch him singe the air without wielding his self, the Gene, Reify, me. I watch him whirl Torch through the air as if I am in control, as if I am seeing him in fire. Behind that far bookcase, carrying real burned books as they are all real, in a Lowers library––behind the one Taylor is sitting shuffling––is Porte, watching us, carrying books and talking to Taylor, who isn’t listening––and Agate Lide, who'd left high school for this––they're not smiling, as Agate is unconscious on the ground and young Wisteria of only eight Raegoth had made sure to leave alone in a statement of grace. She is watching us, sitting on top of a table, legs swinging left and right.
With another strike, Raegoth steps back, as if to survey us; he has received no blows. Rocket has been playing defense, swinging at balls, no intentional walks in this fight. It can't be good enough if I just let my partner get away with this, can it. It burns me to see those bruises on his open knees, arms, and shoulders. I look in front of me, and see the crest of red on the one named Raegoth. I look behind me, and see my carrier still standing, but not smiling, holding that real smile of his, the one that'd inspired the others to follow him, beneath snow white cold lips. Breathe, Rocket. Let me carry the torch.
“I will let your weak and young go free," Raegoth is saying. “After I am done with you, I shall ask that you accompany me to our Headquarters. We will see to your wounds. Had you come peacefully from the start, I would not have had to do this."
Rocket breathes in the cool air. Exhales. He looks across at the watching Porte and Wisteria, who stops swinging her legs. Rocket throws his torch up in the air, and watches it swivel as it falls, hitting a book's spine. Trails of ice are accumulating on it. “Sorry, but I'm not done with you either. My partner's coming in.”
Pinch hitting, is how I’d call it.
Trails of fire
you always knew
they would carry me home
they'd lead me to you!
I step into the batter’s box. Our Torch takes in my fire, as it swathes up into flames, and Wisteria is now pumping the air with her fists, and Porte has set those books down. Taylor stops shuffling his cards to watch. Inspired, I imagine sewing together imperfect skin with my knowledge of fire, for Rocket; but it cannot be done as I had thought. I may share Rocket’s body equally, sharing the runs fifty-fifty; but I am not yet Embodied and nor do I want to be. I value Rocket’s time with the bat, and so does he. I put on my helmet––allow our eyes of flame to glow, and our hair hot as the sun to become one sizzling crest––and step into my stance.
“Behold the Horus Dance, Raegoth,” I say, and cast flickers of orange across the shadowed library, melting the snow that falls around us, causing the Agent’s uniform with an R to dampen. Raegoth looks at me, and I see his eyes reflect the burning light, and he merely says, “A name undeserved,” before closing arm against fiery staff, and we caress the snowflakes in our exchange…
“Morht wants to move Raegoth up to Third,” a voice says, and it is not the voice of Rocket.
“This descendant must have really been something. Raegoth at Fourth seems good to me. I know I’m not moving down to let him speak in that way of his to me,” a second voice says.
“He doesn’t already speak to you like that, as your partner?” asked a third. I become aware of the world, and realize that we are inside a portal, or what looks like one, but it feels very different. Very different, because Rocket will not be taken anywhere––only myself, and I know it to be true. I have not been here before, or seen these people before––three Agents with the same uniform, but with different versions of the R upon each: the first speaker a horse with wings, the second an eagle with two wings across the uniform, and the third a winged serpent and mirror. Raegoth is not in the chamber, which is filled with plants. Rocket, we’re in trouble. They’ve brought out 3 designated hitters.
Rocket’s hands are bruised––and not because of the battle with Raegoth, for we had lost, I had struck out, and Rocket has been hitting the glass with his fists. Good, you’re awake, he says. Take over. I’m sure you can burn this portal down.
I’ll hit a triple, I tell him, but then I see that there is a portal on the other end of the room, and Raegoth is walking out of it, accompanied by an older man. An umpire of some kind?
The three Agents come to attention. “First, Second, Third, good morning,” the umpire says, and they each sit down on a bench. The five benches around us fill with a person each. Raegoth is uninjured; unharmed; in fact, he looks as cool as he did when he stepped into the library. I curse Doubleday with all my heart.
“There is no need to worry, Agents,” the older man says, and I infer that he must be Morht. “First Agent Perry, you will be promoted and reassigned; Second Agent Harriet, to First; and Third Agent Mik’vael, to Second. Raegoth will hence rise to Third, given his performance. Now, continue with the Words.”
The four Agents nod, and say as one, “We now ask that this Gene in front of us be Purified.”
And I feel my connection to Rocket breaking.
“Reify! Do it! Do it now!” he yells, not at them, but at himself––and I shout at the glass, and pour myself onto it, from Rocket’s hands, feet, eyes, and mouth––tearing it down. Melting the glass down from the top, like a snake shedding its skin. It is a beautiful material.
And my connection to my partner, my switch hitter, is breaking.
“Come back, partner! Come back!” Rocket is pleading at me. I feel myself physically disengaged from the body––I look down and see not what Rocket is seeing, but hands of fire. I am the fire, and I look behind me to see the fire being pulled from Rocket’s body. But the portal has been broken.
I look ahead and ignore the looks of surprise on the top three Agents––see Raegoth––and launch my will towards him. He is responsible for everything.
As he batters my flames aside, as he had done before with my sword, he severs the connection, and one finite strand latches itself onto R’aegoth.
As I see it, his hair becomes brown;
As I see it, Rocket’s hair becomes blue;
battered away by the hand of a mortal. I take one last look at Hector––who is prancing––and head for the other portal, which is the exit. I scream into it.
I now know that I am Imbodied: and an Imbodied Gene desires a host.
I move within the threads of the portal; I know not how I do it, but I do it nevertheless, as if the portal speaks to me; and I drift across the colors. Between many portals, across threads, I drift without a name without a host, I stream for existence to reify; without knowing how much time is passing as I drift, time passes enough for me to enter a place without portals, for the tapestry to reach an end; and I search the residents for a desire. I search for a name to become my own, to make myself known to the burning world. I see no one, how could anyone be like the one before? i do not know if I can discern myself if a new host contains another Gene already, or is purely human but my awareness picks up the burning of fire. it is a human boy of seven years. he is sitting next to a hill of dirt, and human child screams are muffled from it. he is burning a toy horse rider. and i realize then that i had burned the toy horse for him already as if the threads had sped ahead accelerated ahead of their time and so i had not chosen this boy after all. a call comes from the house he is in the backyard calling “Robert! Where’s Carla?” and he is stumbling to his feet, holding the toy horseman’s baton which he had broken off; he is the one. He is the one to make real. i become one with the horse through skeins of sun. i realize myself, hidden truths touched beneath a ceiling of light / that i uncover to the screech of wooden skates. Broken off. They are on the ground and i enter the baton, and make it larger, my utmost self. i will enter the boy to wreak revenge. i enter the boy, to contain reve––