8 years ago

He followed the Third Agent Mik’vael through the hallway, under the waning lights, passing other Agents by; they nodded to her, and then to him perfunctorily. He kept his eyes focused forward, in the direction of the cafeteria; there he would eat his morning meal. Before they arrived, he would solidify the next step in his personal directives towards becoming Third Agent.

First, he would capture a Scion stronger than Mik'vael, whom he would overcome and present to Morht; second, he would challenge Mik'vael's aegis with his casting of literature; third, he would have purified the world one person more, and risen accordingly.

“Raegoth, you're speaking aloud," Mik'vael told him, and he agreed. It was an affliction of the brilliant to speak one's thoughts to the world. “You're very capable, but I'm not sure if either of us could take a Scion stronger than me. Remember when I met the Furies' leader? The one with red hair, like yours. I couldn't take him, once he put his weapon on fire."

Raegoth looked at the Third Agent’s established implement. It was held well, placed comfortably between Mik’vael’s right arm and hip, swinging gently by her side; the long purple flag kept between forestaff and guard, silver curlings of steel, the old material, resembling feathers around the hilt. He had only faced its wielder during training hours, in the gymnasium; and he knew that both of them knew that the other held back. Later today he would solicit young Artok for more books, perhaps ones that would not break.

“Fire does seem to be the formidable element,” he replied. “You remember that Scion from last week, the techist magnate’s wife––she burned herself in the purifying chamber.”

“I remember,” Mik’vael said. “Isabelle Mott. A formidable Scion, and a skilled techist.”

“Indeed.” Raegoth squinted as the lights ceased to allow for the elevation in ceiling, the rise in breadth as the cafeteria, the place of eating, took their view from them. It had its own lights, a series of wide panels taking rows along the dome; for a dome it was, a sheer trapping of ideology and wills, that Raegoth looked up to for his breakfast. He occasionally forsook the meal, for strengthening that will; but today he was with his superior.

They approached their table, a slow ring of floafas with a wider nexus tube in their center to offer nourishment. Raegoth sighted the First Agent Perry standing some thirty feet away, conversing with the First Agents of the other two Bureaus, all three holding bluesimmers. A rare and extraordinary drink, the only residue of the fifth Sector in the first; it was silver in tone. The First Agent was strong; they said that he was to be promoted, a rare achievement for Agents; Raegoth knew he was still the strongest, and that numbers were mere numbers. A lettering of false truths.

He sat down at a floafa, opposite from Mik’vael.

She reached over to the nexus tube. She had set her aegis against the floafa besides her own, and it sparkled in the morning under the lights. She waited, before a hazelnut jujan rose out of the tube, allowing her to take it. She began peeling off the self-preservation exo. “Aren’t you going to eat?” she asked him. With a soft exclamation, she removed the exo, and it disintegrated.

“Not today.”

“Well, you know we were assigned to the Lowers. A librarian. Probably nothing, but you should eat something,” she said.

“If it is nothing, a mere librarian––” And he thought about throwing tomes. There must be many; and to make full use of the environment, would require energy. Of which he had plenty; but his body could take more. “––A librarian might provide interesting information. Do you have a recommendation, Mik’vael?” he asked her.

Mik’vael smiled, and again sat still for a bit––using her receptor. She hadn’t begun eating her jujan. “Here, Raegoth.”

It was a red crested binelan. He reached over and took it.

He unwrapped it, and watched the exo rejoin the air.

“Thank you, Third Agent.” He began eating, making sure to use his tongue to pick apart the crest from the bine, before delving into the lan. The flavor only then subsidized into the rest of his mouth. It was good.

Sometimes, he reflected, eating breakfast was a good thing for the body. He kept the thought as he continued consuming the red, his superior watching with a smile before beginning her own.

He entered the library, a moderately sized construction headed by a name: PISCES PUBLIC LIBRARY. The entryway was closed, so he broke down the door. He had some few dozen freshly bound books given him by Artok, two days’ work which he’d gladly discard here.

Mik’vael was behind him, and he heard the sheek of her aegis against the concrete steps walking up to the fallen glass, the tink tink of her aegis sweeping across the shards. Invisible sound, not deafening, emerged from his V-storage of thirty tomes. Some alarm tenors disrupted the silence, and he caught a wisp of librarian running between the preliminary aisles. He discerned their voices, and counted two presently, two librarians to discover the descendant among them.

“Mik’vael, how will we determine the descendant’s identity?” he asked, removing one book, untitled, unnamed. They were all blank, as requested of Artok, who’d know better than to disparage their superior’s chosen implement. “Shall we take them all?”

“Raegoth, that’s funny. We could get away with it. Do you think it’s a good idea though?” came her reply, and he had to agree. It was a privilege of the Agents to put all in the chamber, for the process gave no change to those with clear identities. It was the most efficient method, one that Director Morht would espouse. But that would require more books, and he desired their endurance for more battles, ones testing his desire to overtake the Third Agent.

“Met with fire, the cave bear will bring out the ice,” he said, referring to the tendency of descendants, which when cornered, would churn their meager sport of Gene, often proving no more than a spark or glimmer of the power. Often no power at all. He almost desired the presence of the Furies, or their leader, for if they had presented due obstacle to the Third, they would provide him a good ladder of his own. He pushed forward the first aisle, which began the rally of dominoes.

“I never read much as a teenager,” Mik’vael said. “That was my sister’s activity.”

“Your sister is not relevant to our duty, Mik’vael,” he responded, citing the first librarian clearly, who was looking at them with either horror or shock, likely both, as he fumbled for his telephone. An archaic device, and one designated for Lowers, even archaic for this place; oh, it was a smartphone after all, wrung out of his pocket. Raegoth reached him before he could dial, and clapped him silently with the spine. “That’s one,” he stated.

“Two from me,” Mik’vael said, holding up two more librarians with her aegis, gently lifting them from their collars with the front end. “Neither has shown their trait. Same with yours?”

“The same.”

“Well, let’s keep going, then.” She gestured to the west, past the smorgasbord of fallen aisles, to the next set. Some frantic teenagers and adults, gathering up their books, were hastening towards the door named EXIT in the back. “You’ll get the upper floor,” she said as she pointed to the staircase in the east with her free hand.

“Affirmed,” Raegoth replied. He approached the stairs, and walked. His steps did not make a sound, and as he passed by a frightened citizen whom he clapped, he focused his navigation on the area of the second floor. A wider array of aisles, both tall and short, desks with computers for studying until closing; the walls filled with maps, diagrams of the human body, various banners for holding programs with the surrounding city. He did forget on occasion that the Lowers had its own, vibrant society; just with the technology contained. Rather hectoring.

The few remaining library-goers, upon seeing him, or perhaps hearing the fire alarm that had begun to go off, scattered, some taking weak refuge behind bookcases and others rushing into closed rooms, likely a restroom here, a study room there. He could see them through the glass window of the study room, trying to hide beneath the table. They did train their people to take such measures in the event of an outsider.

One person did not hide, but rather put their book down and, after removing a deck of cards from his shirt pocket, opened the box and began stacking the cards. He had disordered blonde hair speckled with black. As Raegoth approached, he read the book's title: God of Three Faces. The reader did not look fazed, only bent on creating his card tower; Raegoth wondered if he was the librarian.

Smack. A book bounced off his shoulder. Raegoth turned to see who had thrown it; and a spray of black hair disappeared behind a low bookshelf, to his northeast. Ah, they were fighting. Librarians who were willing to throw books: he liked that idea.

“Scrawl." A look to his left, on his shoulder, and there was a golden duckling. The extinct animal, or goblin in miniature, or something in between. It was not real. He swept it off, and it became a card, the 4 of clubs, slipping gently to the floor. Thack. A chair had struck his upraised arm, held by the reader. They were corroborating! So librarians did have mettle in them. This one was a Scion.

Tear. Raegoth dropped the broken card tower onto the desk surface, and threw the chair aside. The Scion librarian jumped back, and reached into his front shirt pocket. He pulled out a card and flipped it towards Raegoth, and as he watched the nine of spades it expanded, stretching itself along the paper or plastic, and smoothly changing color became a large orange fruit of some kind with legs and a sprawling grin, and it attempted to attach its spindly legs to his face. Raegoth tore them off, and smashed the pumpkin into the card, taking its fluttering fall to the floor after the other. The librarian stepped back more, shouting “Whist! Do the kaze!” speaking an ancient word, one in the language once named Japanese; and the black-haired girl leaped out from behind the nearest bookcase and sprinted towards him. She was eight or nine. Sigh.

Raegoth combined shin Japan forekick for the card dealer and whipped his fist across the girl's nose, which cracked and, rubbing the blood off, she stumbled and headed towards him again. Resilient.

Smash. He broke the girl's right arm this time, and she fell backwards, almost doing a somersault. By now he had given the other enough time to send a third apparition, a jack of diamonds, which became a bird all in black with a sturdy beak and torrenting wings; it hurled towards him, cawing and cawing. “Mat! Mat!” it screamed, before he tore its wings apart.

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Shatter. The sound of glass from above, and he saw the girl’s eyes gleam from where she lay sprawled against a globe of the earth. He had broken a leg as well. The first descendant was shuffling his cards, sifting through them in a frenzy; both seeming to be anticipating something; he noted that a high schooler, a girl with a light yellow ponytail, had her phone out, and was hurriedly writing things down as she watched from two aisles away. And behind that other bookcase, untoppled, stood a man of about thirty, just emerging from an occupied study room; he was holding one of their fire extinguishers.

“You know, I liked this place,” the card shuffler stated, from where he leaned against a bookcase; the act reminded Raegoth of someone named blue, but he shook off the thought. He was still shuffling. “Free bathrooms, well suited for pretending we aren't a rebel organization, histories of card games, backup cards with all the paper––I thought Vegas was coming.”

“Miss Glorae had a gala up at High, Taylor,” the blonde intern said, sparing a look at Raegoth. “She couldn't avoid this one. Rocket's coming.”

Taylor, the card thrower, nodded. He seemed to be disappointed. Raegoth had to agree. Anyone named after an object immediately lacked sufficient powers over their identity. “I know! He always comes late. Was breaking the roof your idea, Whist?” he directed towards the girl, who was beginning to stand, as if her two limbs had recovered.

Whist shook her head. “Rocket.” Still breaking from above; skylights, or what the Lowers called solar panels, crested the roof of the building. A poor plan; it would only wreak disaster for these ill-sorted Scions and their allies; he thought they were the Furies, although he’d thought they would be more identifiable.

Rumble. A crack appeared in the ceiling above; no one was in the vicinity now beyond the Furies, and the Agent sent for a librarian. He wondered if the Director had known, perhaps by that newcomer ranked Agent, Glid Tort, who’d chosen the appellation of ‘Joe’ as an Agent, currently ranked ninth already; and merely for his soft awareness. Yes, with those abilities they had located Scions, but Joe was presumptuous enough to continue his academics, small-minded as they were. Raegoth cared little for the child and more on the subject of fury represented here; if ‘Rocket’ was their leader, then this was the day to renew all names indeed.

He discarded the one named Taylor, making sure to land them at a bookcase; the bookcase shuddered and the cards fell in drifts. He moved over to the one not identified yet, and noted that she had a card hanging from her neck reading LIBRARY INTERN indeed. He did not strangle her, but struck her shoulders hard enough that she too fell. Now. The descendant who could stand. Ah, she was gripped around his shoulders, attempting suffocation; he tore her off as he had his name. Ah, she was gripped around his own shoulders, attempting suffocation; he tore her off like a piece of paper flung by strong shadows of the sun.

“Whist, you okay?” asked Cardboy, and Whist was careening her shoulders back, pawing at the nearby bookcase for support; he had broken her spine this time; she was wincing. Sigh. Was it the prerogative of Agents to inform the ones who, because of what they were born with, could dare to withstand all the technology developed by their Governors? Cardgirl was not standing back up; she was unconscious, but not feeling pain. Canisterman was still standing behind that other bookcase; if this was their headquarters, then Mik’vael would surely be handling the rest below, besides the one named Glorae or Vegas. She sounded capable; and a High resident as well. He would remember that name for later.

Only four young descendants here. He almost forgave them.

He waited for the ceiling to come down; and it did, the crack streaming across plaster and stucco to become a gaping aperture, through which came down a man with a sword. Raegoth avoided it well enough; but, it was a fine implement. Shaped not like the traditional swords of the old countries, nor the contemporary imitations, re-stylings after certain architectures; but it was not an alter saber either, for those were not swords at all. Mere tools of the government. Here was a blade; here was a knife of dreams; here was a pure extension—even beyond the imagined extension prescribed by the many schools—a real extension of the wielder’s name.

Raegoth watched the sword come by, and as he avoided it—well! This one was not slow—he understood the object to be a means of restraint and less power; as the one named Rocket came after him, brow affirmed—perhaps because of his fallen comrades—Raegoth denied that precept. The man was merely swinging; and while he thought he heard ‘hurricane’ uttered several times, there was no hurricane participating. Although, through the opening in the ceiling, snow was beginning to fall.

“Wisteria! How many times were you hit?” the other yelled, maneuvering their movements across the room, and into a relatively open area. Protecting his inferiors; laudable.

Laughable. But Raegoth did not laugh.

“—four, my back” came the reply. So Whist was an appellation.

“Blast it, Wisteria! Agate, I told you to give me the location in advance!” Rocket yelled. As expected, the other girl did not respond. “Damn it, Agate! Damn it guys!” Rocket whispered, “Tornado” and his moves grew faster. “Rocket, this is our place, you know where it is,” Taylor said, and Raegoth watched as the snow accumulated on the sword, only to be whisked off just as quickly by its arcs. “Say something, Porte!” was the next phrase, and the fourth descendant remained stuck behind his bookcase, still bearing the Lowers tool. “Heroes arrive late! I’m doing my job here!” Rocket pronounced, and Raegoth laughed. So he was supposed to be their leader; their first. Was it all going to conclude right here? After barely a show of fury from the leader who had—I couldn’t take him, once he put his weapon on fire—but there was hope yet.

Raegoth knew he could stop the blade, but he enjoyed watching its movements, so he ascended backwards to the top of a fallen bookcase. Only one foot above the floor; a paltry pedestal. He cleared his throat; he had been using it well enough the past few minutes.

“Scions! I am Raegoth,” he said, and was surprised to see Rocket steady his swings, and stand by. “I’m Rocket,” Rocket said, in between breaths that sprouted clouds; the air was growing colder. Mik’vael would be joining them soon enough.

“I am the Fourth Agent of your government,” he continued. “My superior, the Third Agent, will be arriving shortly. If it is up to her, we will purify all of you. I am aware that your Rocket here—”

“You will never!” the young girl screamed, but her voice was hoarser now. She was still trying to bend her back forward.

“I am aware that Rocket has the coverage of fire; I would like for him to show me, before I at least continue my occupation; I am not the leader of my own organization, perhaps you have heard of one Harriet, or Perry—they are, I must say, real threats—”

“Not I, Agent, not necessarily,” Rocket was saying, and Raegoth saw that Taylor was cocking his head to listen more closely; but Rocket held his sword at his shoulder. “I mean, yes, I have the coverage of fire. How about I use it when you start using your weapon?”

“If another’s coming, maybe we should run,” Porte asked, and Rocket slapped his swordtip on the floor with a shtick. “I am your leader, I have forgotten the option of running long ago,” he responded, and now Wisteria was perhaps smiling, and struggling to get on top of the bookcase. Taylor was re-shuffling his deck. “Flare, Reify,” Rocket murmured, softly enough that only Raegoth could hear; a new name to know. Another descendant to come through the roof? He inhaled deeply from the cooling atmosphere; exhaled.

“You think you can win, descendant.” Flare. A keyword to empower himself in dire straits? Raegoth opened his V-storage, and removed the first volley; from the continued relative silence below, Mik’vael was likely facing no difficulty. He would join her thereafter, and challenge her directly. She would not be exhausted from battle, while he would have exerted his arms, only trifling. He would become Third Agent after humoring these children.

He counted his books as he approached the Enclave’s portal, uniquely designed for one entrance and exit––that within the Eden Chambers, and the Garden of their words––We now ask that this Gene in front of us be Purified. He was accompanied by Director Morht, who walked with steady tread; the Director’s hair was golden brown. They were heading to his purification; that is, the Furies’ leader. Raegoth knew that an elevation to his name was intended; what other result would stand, for having triumphed over that descendant. Whose ‘Horus Dance’ had done nothing more than attempt to take wing over the tresses of snow.

They entered the portal, Raegoth after Morht. They stepped out into the Chambers, within which were the Agents First through Third, and the Scion named Rocket contained within the purifying portal. “First, Second, Third, good morning,” Morht said, and the three moved to sit themselves on a bench each. Morht followed; and so did he. With their seating arrangement, they were equal; the hierarchy was put aside for this moment.

“There is no need to worry, Agents,” the Director said, and Raegoth nodded. “First Agent Perry, you have been promoted and reassigned; Second Agent Harriet, to First; and Third Agent Mik’vael, you are now the Second. Raegoth will be the Third. I now call you to continue with the Words.” Perry to be reassigned; so he would indeed rise, as the Director stated. Harriet to be the new first; well, they were certainly capable, if the Director deemed it so. They would then partner Mik’vael, leaving himself to find a new partner––

“We now ask that this Gene in front of us be Purified.” Perry’s voice of chrome decor; Harriet’s of faded hazelnuts gathering warmth; Mik’vael’s of a group of cherries dancing; his own of burnished wood.

The one named Rocket was scrambling away at the glass of his portal container, and yelling something; Raegoth could not help but smile, to witness this new becoming of another, for directed revelation. But he then saw the fire emerge from his hands, feet, eyes, and mouth, and onto the walls of the portal––and the portal began to remove itself from existence. From the top down, a hole shimmering from the topmost point, the rest came shimmering down; without light to bear. He expected the Scion to leap out, or Perry to reach for his silver plates; but his three above-ranked Agents stood surprised, and they watched as a living flame pulled itself out of Rocket and seared towards Raegoth. He brushed away the flame, it was mere fire; but a strand of red cast itself to his hair. R’aegoth looked at the one named Hector, who was crying as his hair took upon a shock of blue. It was blue as the sun in midday dreams.

He pitied him; and he did not know why at this time.

It seemed that the fire was dissipated; and Hector was stepping gingerly out of the portal, which was now only a platform resembling the self-scanners. “I don’t know what happened there, but what an orientation,” he was saying. “As part of my promotion departure’s gift,” Perry said. “Real portals can’t break so easily, of course.”

“Of course,” the Director said. “With that, Hector Blue, you are officially relegated Fourth Agent. Your performance in the Examinations was nothing short of brilliance; we hope you serve R’aegoth well in the years to come.”

“I will, sir, I will,” Hector was saying, and R’aegoth shook his head. Something was not right. Who was Hector Blue?

“I will have to see him in the field with my own eyes,” he said, and Mik’vael nodded to him. “We had some great captures, R’aegoth,” she told him, and he shrugged his shoulders. He would have time to surpass her later; while the spacing had been one removed, he had a new problem on his mind. And it was smiling, and coming over to shake his hands.

“I look forward to serving you, R’aegoth!”

Eight Years Later

I rise. The birds of time—heralds of the morning, chorus defining. For all the world knows. My name resisting, duty calling, powers altering.

I am R’aegoth.

Third Agent, First Bureau of Purification, the Agency, Sector I. Today is a day to renew all names, in the world where the children choose.

I stand. My clothes of white remain. I leave the house of rest and face my desk. My room has but two pieces which furnish it: the bed I left, and the desk which is bare. It is of High make, and deep within it lie three objects.

I turn away, and proceed to calisthenics. My morning only begins once my mind and body are united in routine. I descend, first my body, to the floor of my domain; the archimedean enactment of a push-up. I ascend, second my mind, in the proletarian recitation of a poem.

“And the sky, oh glory,

firmament of higher glory,

esteemed azure, high above

pillars of rosan. To seek,

my cruel world below—”

“R’aegoth, pizza time!”

It is indeed my cruel world below. “Pizza” is an archaic term, referring to a staple of common eating from more than a century ago, although I believe it may still be consumed in the Lowers. Why, because it is Hector.