A low-level cloud found by itself or part of a larger formation

Savior created phoenixes in their own image, and in the image of a phoenix they created them. They created the fire that burned them. They made of the sky their palette, and fire streaked through it.

Savior went on through the clouds of the second Sector with a smile on their face. Without knowing, their face kept changing; at once that of a burner, or second a wandering boy, third the face of Hector who was smiling. The spirit that remained within this vessel, the blue of Hector, remained unknowing but happy, as they flew together over the strata.

The cloud strata themselves remained indifferent. The clens that swam through them, keeping them buoyant for human stride, screamed in their own way as the foot of fire walked over them.

The clens kept screaming.

Savior refused and rejected the Harmonizers and Toners and Mordants. They sent their named weapons against Savior and Savior sent them down to the charred earth. The sky became rent by illusory flame as the evas above were shocked with races of red and orange and a searing identity. The sky was hot.

At some time, the Paradisiac named K Jeong came through a rent in the sky. K Jeong came through that opening, tiny horn-wings erupted from the head like antlers or sea anemone, dancing through the emptiness of cloud, creating colors in the contrail that gave the clens caesura in their screaming. They stopped to stare and their screams became sibilant, soothing awes and O’s and for the three Mordants that survived this fiery display, it was not the fire they remembered, it was not the cupidinous cherub that dripped delight through the sky, it was the heavenly chorus of the clens within the warm watershed dens of the evas. They nearly purred.

K Jeong drifted down.

“I know you’ll use your power to take back anything,” K Jeong said. “You can fly. Very few even of H‘trae can do that. But rue the day you go back too far.”

Savior listened and made one last image; they watched the last Harmonizer, its note following it as a separate trail of orange; the two trails eventually joined into a final tear burning down through the clouds.

They paused on the cloud-surface, their taloned feet creating tiny crisps of miasmas on the eva, keeping them afloat. They turned to the Paradisiac named K Jeong.

“These are the guardians of this Sector,” K Jeong said. “Those who choose a tone, grow a weapon from a single clen, and choose a key. None of them are Scions, or Descended as they call them here.”

“All of them are orange,” Savior said in response. “We made shapes.”

K Jeong’s pink-turpentine curls shook in laughter. “Emphasizing the word doesn’t make it endowed. Everything is a shape, but not everything—” and here the Paradisiac put a hand forward, and it glowed—“is a shape,” shay said, hseir true pronouns briefly piercing the existence, and K Jeong relaxed the right hand, which had been very near to creating a world. But of course ‘world’ not in the way you might understand; but ‘world’ as a demeanor of understanding.

Savior flapped.

Savior flapped, returning to the present; they squawked in surprise.

“You can stop me,” they uttered.

“I may praise Meraki and Sappho per diem. But I have been practicing the colors beyond the eighth rainbow. Remember, Savior. Remember the past, which is your future. ‘Memory forgotten, even for a moment, is still a color of time.’

“He is still here!”

K Jeong laughed, trying to reference the last panel in One Piece; Savior sadly did not get the joke.

“You can continue creating your own image, Savior. But it is not yours. Merely drafts. The sky is your atelier. Shapes. Colors. Feelings. Gather this all together, and Art. But it’s so hard! And you can grow!”

Savior nodded.

“When can we stop listening?” they asked instead.

“I know, it’s all been diegetic,” K Jeong replied. “Just don’t kill too many. In fact, the porter Qumulo might arrive anytime soon. You should not meet her in your current state; I think you would die. Her bind will eat anything.”

Savior tried to think of their future; of creating power systems with K Jeong in Sector II. Of understanding further the shape of this world.

But they could not. They could only go back to the past.

“We have to leave,” they said instead.

“Where will you three go?” K Jeong inquired.

The first, Revé, said:

Hector smiled blue.

Reify screamed.

Speed 5 Mobility 4 Range 3 Weight 2 Gyro 1. This should work. I launch the APB up and about. Siara comes from two launchpads away, matching my sets to her 5-dot. She flips and rolls the APB up and about herself, floating it through the air as she keeps the ball within her circ.

All while not making physical contact. These professional players have a wonderful way with the ball. Fazzid’s insistence on saying “alter plastic ball” every time, physically or TM. My small holoscreen shows the pass number at 1. I swerve by the launchpads and spring my own. Go around the round corner to meet 2 of the oncoming players, trying to block me from receiving Siara’s next pass which curls up and over their heads and caught by Gulla.

High above us all is Bodi Ayer, standing as he usually does on a launchpad inverted on its side. Watching the game below. He does it every game or at least the ones he plays. I do not think he knows how disturbed I am by it.

“I’m preparing us for Governor’s Arena,” he always says.

“I’m on Dayten,” I announce to Gulla as she nods and feints, twice, her mid-length brown hair nearly brushing the players’ on her, before summoning, jumping off a launchpad, tipping the ball up with the side of her racket, and practically in the same turn dashing it back to me. “Not yet,” she responds with that knowing smile. She’s only slightly annoying, but still very much more experienced at this than I.

And she’s nowhere near their best player.

I try doing what Gulla just did but Dayten takes it, using the handle of his racket, spinning off his palm to then bounce it off into the sky. Alter, he’s good for someone in Preuni! He snickers as he uses his free hand to point down, I look but there’s nothing there, we’re falling to the ground, time is slowing down, I glance back up but the ball is gone.

There—and it is spirited away by a full trio of tryout players, moving the small flash of white among them, either they are vying for the highest passes or pure domination of the APB. One of them, I forget their name but they had been at the coffee with their teammates a month—no, two—ago, swerves and swivels, their feet a hazy cacophony of flashing ankle and shoe, and Gulla besides me shakes her head.

“Lacon. They’re pretty good,” she says in clear admiration. She hadn’t shown it that day I stormed their practice by launchpad; she still isn’t showing it now. Two months and I’m still just as unpracticed as I was the day I threw my set into a Lowers river and watched it swim with the piranhas. Gulla slaps me on the back with her racket and heads off towards Lacon; true, I’d been at the Beacon’s every practice since that day, but it’s been over thirty days. Dayten’s spintop, that only moderately troubling High hairstyle consisting of only the surfaces of various High delicacies, formed in their shapes, on the top of the head. I see it now. I’m rushing forward, feeling an energy in my legs keening forth, as I mount launchpad to launchpad and move across. Dayten sees me, and right before I summon a launchpad to block him—

He tosses his racket.

My eyes urge to follow but I won’t fall for it. Dayten spins smoothly off to his right to avoid the circle of gold tossed in front of him. He spins again to avoid—nothing but I’d been considering another—and falling into his grip is the racket, and suddenly the ball hurtles out of the sky again and he nets it. The lightspin.

Dayten laughs. “Yeah, that was easy,” he says as he nearly, automatically, immediately, casts the ball away. My racket sheens through the space that arc had just left.

I chance a glance. Dayten’s right index and middle fingers. They’re trembling.

Thought—passing—Dayten 45 / Melea 14. Low. This is—

Go faster. Bodi Ayer. Team Thought-feed but addressed to all. Addressed to the tyros. Addressed only to d’Voris.

Born Melea. Changed to Malae. Slightly older sister went to Sector and then almost immediately went straight to rank five in the First Bureau. Climbed steadily to rank three. With Agent Harriet’s promotion to rank two. At the same time the slightly younger d’Voris said goodbye to their parents and after meeting Valha’ya Glorae joined the Furies. After three days of challenging Nodari and three nights with Valha’ya could not partner either of them. Two years later she rejected partnership with Lucas Kotaro, and in his immense dismay he so shortly left. Five years after that the Furies pulled apart by Jaceus.

I’m accelerating now.

The players before me are jumping back and forth. They’re springing off the launchpads like the ancient springbok or, with wings on their nonexistent helmets they’d be Valkyrie. Rackets flash in the midnight sun. Our heavy auditorium above us imposes. Heavy ramparts and seating surrounds. A beat begins to ring in the team-feed. No, it was always beating. A heart made of metal. Full metal. I’m feeling it in my legs.

I jump forward.

“FASTER, TYROS!” comes Siara’s shout, and we jerk forward. Dayten. Lacon. Melea. Sinder. Tori’e. Via. Bodi’s clear, mellow laugh rings above. A shutter of golden rings coalesces in the distance. Three: I find myself ignoring the runs to the Beacon players and approaching the Golden Seats trinity. They’re high and clear as the sun, overbright, over-illuminating the emptiness of space whence they came.

Via comes to a stop, using three successive launchpads to whittle down to land on the steel grass. Bouncing lightly off their blades she stares firmly. She’s the only one with me; the others are vying their rackets. Trying to get on the team. But, apparently my relative is a Governor and that’s the only reason I’m still here. It wasn’t the legs at all or the additional training that I’d taken individually with each of the Beacon players. That’s only because if I don’t join I’d have to seek my sister out.

A former Fury joining the Agents… Laudable.

The first Golden Seat, some below the two others, emits golden shoes—they appear upwards as holograms. They’re tipped in silver and a filament of jade. It’s hair; and soon the rest forms upwards the Governor, her hair reaching down to her left shoe in green in one streamlined braid; her eyes likewise are encircled in a green-black and she looks at me with what seems to be a passing interest. It’s a hologram suit, although the clothes remind me of what they wear in Lowers and call high-waist jeans; I can feel those eyes.

The other two have envisioned into presence. Second Governor is a tree. I didn’t ask if it was. But it is.

Governor three smiles, and let’s leave it at that. Wait, who am I talking to?

I yank off my receptor and look at Via; she’s trying to break her racket, slapping it again and again on the hard blades of steel grass.

I pull her shoulder to stop her; she does, and a color seems to return to her eyes when they meet mine.

Plick. A thud and slight pain; I instinctively grab what just hit me, turn, see Bodi, some twenty meters off, balancing his racket on his palm. It is turning. He waves with his other and beckons for us to come over; as soon as I halve the distance, I launch the ball back at him, and he dodges easily.

I glance back; the three Governors are rising, and only their launchpad bottoms are visible as they crest the space that defines the arena. They’re very near the top.

“Bodi Ayer, what was that,” I ask.

Whatever it is he’s doing with the racket and the ball, I’m ignoring it. He doesn’t impress me anymore.

“You can’t go near them,” he says. He’s looking at Via. Via is shaking her head, trying to look up at the lights, squinting and shading her eyes with her hand. “That’s why they have to come by launchpad. Golden Rules 2 and 4.”

The first time that a Governor comes to a Beacons practice and the first time that anyone is saying anything to this. I shake my head. This is different.

“They have hologram suits. They’re wearing them right now,” I say.

“It’s different when you go to them,” he says. “When it’s not sanctioned. I keep saying this. They don’t teach the Golden Rules right in preuni, not even here in High.”

Having not gone to university I cannot disagree with him.

“I see,” I respond. “Vie, are you ok?” I ask her.

She nods. “I only saw the girl. Long green hair. You?”

“Her and the tree. I didn’t ask if it was a tree. But it was.”

“Is it?”

“I think so.”

“I see.”

The three of us stand there for a few seconds.

“Hologram suits, right.” Vie laughs shakily. I laugh alongside. But I really did see a tree, even though I’d never asked. It was a tree and there wasn’t anything offbeat. No face drawn or even cyber branches. Just a tree. But it had been devouring me, my appearance, the individual auburn flakes that used to be my hair.

I touch it. It’s still there. Nearly black.

Passing—rank. Melea 5 with 14. Oh, the lob at Bodi hadn’t counted; of course, as he hadn’t caught it. I shake my head. I leave my thoughts and leave the two other raider players behind on the hard field of jade. I conjure up a storm of heavy APBs and send them flying at the other players. Because it is Governor’s Arena and by Golden Line, I can bring new alter plastic balls into an ongoing game. I summon a group, a meandering ocean’s surface, of circle launchpads. I step onto them as I go. As I pass underneath Bodi’s launchpad from the sky I glance up and see it empty. The shriveling parcels of light fan out from my footsteps. My feet ring with a newfound knowledge, impenetrable but not equally untrue. Because I had just seen my oldest sister, Majine La’go Voraëson, and I can feel the golden ichor running in my knees. I am a Governor by gene.

I awoke to the sound of birds. They were singing outside my window. It was a pleasant, noninvasive tone with its own lilts and changes, even though I had heard it every morning I awoke in the Agency. Something told me I’d awoken in a different place, many times before; and the memory of Vander, having reviewed it, could only come to the one conclusion that, assuming his words had been correct, had founded the Agency, and known Van since its beginning. These implications were not some I chose to illuminate to my fellow Agents, especially after our debacle with C. P., mistakenly accused, they were not Scion. N’ziet refused to believe the connection and while it was true that a non-Scion could still infiltrate the Agency with antagonistic purposes, the possibility was slight, and so Vander and the rest of us agreed to leave C. P. in the ranks, on the condition that they would not continue to challenge higher-ranked Agents. I knew that N’ziet had been eager to face them, already disappointed with his mistaken assumptions of C. P.’s philosophical inclinations, but Felton has been happy training Bola, and so the Philosopher was now adhered to a new trainee, or subordinate, however one saw it.

And so we had not found the person(s) behind the death of Dube Dube, but Lind and even Istria had been adamant, and further inquiry would only bereave us of efforts spent towards our shared cause. There was still of course the final illumination, one I was still pondering each morning I arose, the new memory, of being in the purification chamber myself, and presumably the purified Gene in the chamber besides me, of my being Scion.

I moved my feet up and down onto the floor. Today was the seventh day since the inception of these thoughts and still I repeated them as often as I heard the birds. I knew that as I stood and walked over to the window, this routine too was the same. I opened the window with my hands and attempted to replicate the avian call, but to no avail, and the singing stopped, and I closed the window.

I now put on my receptor, from the desk beside my bed. I was still not accustomed to wearing one, and communicating with it, and as I wore it a slew of words threw me into a wordless daze, some from N’ziet bemoaning his position, nearly begging me to talk to the Director to allow C. P. to challenge him, for he could not challenge a lower-ranked Agent, words from Felton in the manner of bark, words from C. P. wishing me a good morning. That was a greeting we still used. I took my time responding to them all.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

Dressing into the uniform, bearing my epithet in the Agency’s font, as it has in the past seven days, taken significantly less time. While I had not decided to begin using body-maintenance prescriptions like the rest, I now permitted airnanos to betide my hair, whose red locks made fair combat with their miniature buzzing as they amplified, repaired, and ultimately coerced it into shape.

I now looked at myself in the long mirror that stood where Rocket’s bed had been. I used to refer to him by ‘Hector’ to the others, but, Sara in particular had decided to neglect conversation towards that prancing memory, and this new name had appeared in mine along with the others after the name of orange rippled into its fabric.

I appeared suitable for the day’s work. I once recited poems sua sponte.

Opening my door and heading into the hallway, I found several Agents walking through. William was just emerging from her chambers, her own airnanos competing as she simultaneously inspected receptors through her V-locker floating beside her, putting one back in, taking one back out. Agent Xeric sidled along the far wall, where the hallway adjoined the east exit to the grounds, his snow-white hair sparkling in the lay of sunlight. Tay was knocking on the doors of the lower-ranked Agents, passing them by tumultuous after tumultuous knock. All three First Agents were awake.

Tay and I reached each other. “Good morning, Sir Ni’rial,” he said, pausing outside a door, its occupant opening it and greeting their superior. “You know, I can’t stop calling you that. You should’ve told us, that you had a second name all along.”

“Agent Mance is yours,” I said.

“Right! My family is all Governors, but I chose this path. By the way—could you ask Mik’vael if I could borrow her aegis again? I’ve already asked Artok and Danara. That leaves Mik’vael for longest weapon.”

“Of course, First Agent. I will ask her after she returns from the field.”

Tay had finished the doors, and a few half-awake Agents puddled together in the hallway, some in their nightly attire and some in flynder. However, none showed discontentment to the First and Third Agents of their respective Bureaus. “Thank you, I know I didn’t use it that well at Alteryear, but I’m sure I can learn,” he said. He slapped my forearm to indicate his departure.

But I motioned for him to stop.

“Wait, First Agent. I can ask the Second Agent now.” I entered the Thought-feed inside the receptor and found Second Agent, Mik’vael Voraëson. I sent her briefly Agent Tay requests use of your aegis and opened my eyes to find Tay smiling. The pillars of his mouth shone. “Took you long enough, Raegoth,” he said. “You know we’ve been using those since the 2100s.” His own receptor, pale white, hung over his right ear. I supposed he always had it. But only now, or rather only in the past seven days, I noticed. “But you’ve been here far less than that.”

I decided not to enlighten the First Agent on where that statement fell. “Shall we go to eat.”

“Of course, I’m busy. So after finishing up our orientation of the new unranked members—”

Tay paused mid-step and did a complete swivel to face me.

“Raegoth, did you just offer to eat? On your own?”

“I believe I did. I have to eat, and you have not?” I returned.

Tay stared at me. Then he smiled again. Then he laughed, a clear rumble that sounded of lightning, the kind that the clouds used to conceal within their overhanging frames.

The First Agent threw back his head and gave a whoop. “Years! Everyone! Raegoth is eating with us!” He returned to the doors, and swiftly executed a dance-rhythm hitting the doors along the hallway running past them. This time, the Agents who emerged were in uniform; and I recognized Agents Istria, Kay, and Artok, with Lind following behind them, transporting Artok’s Weapon between his legs. “It’s too early, Tay,” he was saying.

But not too early for philosophy, I thought. Surely the TOOTIMETOOTIMETOOTIME would join us, their new epithet, composed of N’ziet, Felton, and Bola. However, that Agency’s name only united when all three wore each a third of the same uniform. Or Sara, who still hadn’t joined me on assignment, saying she still was unprepared. She likely danced in the pouring Glass at this moment. I greeted the Second, Fourth, Tenth, and Seventh Agents of the Second Bureau, shaking each of their hands with rigor. Artok’s were still glistening with sweat.

“Let’s gooo,” Istria said; she paused and put a finger on her lips. “Wait. Let me get my V-locker,” she said. “I left it inside.”

“And I thought Raegoth was the only obtuse one,” Lind replied. His superior glanced at him; he changed his pace to walk behind me. “I meant, he is the only one, of course, you were joking, Second Agent,” he said.

“I was, haha,” she said, putting an arm around his shoulders. “C’mon, Seventh isn’t too far away.” She edged him forward until the two of them met again at the front of our group.

I turned to my right. Artok walked, their sibilant legs making smooth pavement; not carrying their Weapon of twenty feet, they carried more distance, I felt.

“You seem to have slept well,” I offered.

Artok’s cheeks twitched. “Thanks, Raegoth.” They moved to join Istria and Lind, taking Lind by the arm. An informal wrestling match ensued. I found myself rooting soon for the one in the middle, his arms being wrested like a toddler tousled between playland stuffed mascots. Or more specifically, R3-MD and Felton. I laughed.

The three paused in their judo, and Tay threw up an arm, indicating all of us to stop.

Lind sighed with relief. “I need binelan,” he said.

“Raegoth laughed. It’s time to purify him,” Tay said, and now Istria was laughing, joined by Kay and even Artok. Kay, walking to my left, glanced at me and, seeing what nonplussed look endued, shook her head. “Tay, we’re almost there,” she said, and it was true, the hallway had ceased to run, and we were rounding the far corner and entering the Agency commissary.

Agents were everywhere. An ordinary sight. Tay located an empty table, one of the round ones with summoning seats and a wide, smooth surface. Istria had paused the wrestling match for now, ruffling Lind’s maroon hair before choosing a spot and bringing a seat up from the Agency nexus tubes that formed, their own domain beneath the edifice.

Lind moved away from his superior, summoning his own seat besides Artok’s. Only then did he pull Artok’s Weapon out from beneath his legs, leaning it against the table. Seemingly in sync, the two summoned slats of coffee from their V-lockers, and the rest of us paused for a few seconds in our musical chairs (with seats for everybody) to watch the vases fill with the same, full red.

We sat down. “So as I was saying, there’s no need to try the coffee rotators, we can guarantee red, here,” Artok told their companion. Lind was already halfway through his vase but nodded. “Remind me tonight,” he said, causing Artok to choke on their coffee, spilling it into the air, into the still-open V-locker; a splash of red remained there, hanging like a floating petal, and Tay’s lightning chortle emanated again; Istria smiled and, sitting to my right, quickly reached over and with her fingers dabbed up all of the liquid; well, nearly. She licked it off her fingers.

By now everyone had summoned a drink, a dish, or both. I watched as the exon over my flavola pander, which prior to the Agency’s founding might have been called a false tuna salad sandwich, slipped off. The shining pink of the pander glistened, and as I watched my hands placed it into my mouth, enabling mastication. The front molars and incisors collaborated to digest.

“It’s pretty good, I think,” Kay remarked. “I normally take binelan cut or forster, but I’ll get flavola today, Raegoth.” She looked down to the nexus tube besides her, between us; quickly the pink and tan item shot up, and she took it. Her own chewing fairly mimicked my own; but before I could remark, my peripheral vision caught several more.

Agents N’ziet and C. P. themselves came low over the table, designating seats. The table kept its shape; but somehow, there were more chairs available.

“I am not, I told you several times,” the latter said, moving to sit between Tay and Istria. “I was once interested in the current thought. But names are all that matter.”

“With yours, I’m sure,” Tay said, placing an arm out onto the table; his fingers twitched, in the direction of Z Equals X Squared Plus Y Squared, laid out in its full length of a dark green.

N’ziet shook his head.

C. P. did not guard their device, and Tay’s fingers encroached. Soon the green and greener lay intertwined between the knuckles, playing a soft duet of forest, and a thin, woven image – like the hunter concealed among the grasses, peering through their gaps – peered into my mind once more, that of a man aged, white hair that trembled into silver, taking down thoughts in a weather-worn notebook; sitting by a river, the light that rimmed down from the sky showing his wide-brimmed hat and the smile, the arms that once knew industry, now experiencing liberation.

He looked up; seeing me, he waved the hand not holding a pencil, for me to come and see his progress.

“Henry,” I said, as I walked over. The grass was hardy, and smooth.

“Tay, your, your hand is doubled, you have ten fingers on it,” Kay was saying, laughing as she almost spurted out the confection of a thousand ingredients. I closed off the image, and witnessed Tay holding a five-pieced weapon, one piece in between each pair of fingers, with the fifth dangling off of the thumb. There were no strings attached; C. P. was merely looking on. Their black eyes did not gleam.

“This is why I use large weapons only,” Tay said. He held his hand out to the Eighth Agent; who with a single, successive motion of their left hand, removed and reconnected the letters. Or, the pieces. I was sure that the name had changed.

Agent Lind gave a long, flat sigh that was rather like the elephant’s. Another ancient memory dared to resurge, but I quelled it by focusing on the Seventh Agent’s thin, but tightly fixed, maroon hair strands.

“It feels very weird,” he said; he was now on his third vase. “It feels like I’m in a dream. All these Agents, sitting here gathered together, and Raegoth the alter one is sitting here with us.

“It’s never happened,” he said. He reached into his V-locker and the invisible space between it and his waiting palm became inundated with binelan shards.

“You’re right,” I said. “Even when I first joined, I would only ever sit with my subordinate, or my superior; until I became the Fourth Agent, under Mik’vael.”

Artok shook their head vertically. “I made your Censorships back then,” they said. “Lots and lots and lots of books you’d throw around. You didn’t need them.”

Because I’d read them all.

“Because they were empty,” I said in response. “Tenth Agent, you never gave me an actual book.”

I looked to N’ziet the Philosopher, who had been seemingly trying to count the number of hairs on his subordinate’s head, now planted his eyes on Artok’s.

“Agreed, Raegoth,” he said. “A book is not a book until it’s read.”

A book is not a book unless it’s written, was what I had been expecting; but, I supposed, books without words, only pages, were neither.

“I hate reading,” Tay said.

Istria’s plate was bare. “That wasn’t bad,” she said, nudging Kay’s shoulder; the Fourth Agent shook her head horizontally, but was smiling the same. “Agent Tay, you don’t like any of the forms,” she told him, “but maybe you’d like visionices, they’re kind of interesting,” she said.

“I hate reading,” Tay said. “Raegoth, it was wonderful, truly! To see you eat with us.”

“That was one good sandwich,” I said.

I looked around at them all and saw their smiles; well, in the majority, as C. P. rarely did, and Artok was continuing their discussion on books with N’ziet via receptor. Christmas lights.

“Mik’vael should’ve come,” Kay said. “But, we’re all so busy.” She gave the First Agent a glance; he gave a quick nod. “We have to debrief our own subordinates,” she said, and moved around me to exchange a few words more with Istria.

“Amazing binelan,” Lind said, his maroon curls deeply ruffled by many hands; he gave me a wink, and N’ziet, coughing and harrumphing, was getting up and leaving; he hadn’t eaten, other than spate of libertine discussion. Artok laid a hand briefly on Lind’s shoulder. Istria steered Lind away, poking his back; and then, I was alone. I watched Tay stride away, greeting other Agents, for a while; I sat there at the white table, and sometimes admired its lines of pearl. There were so many of them. And yet, while the surface of the table remained pure from afar, only by looking up close could I truly admire it.

I turned my head and looked around the Agency.

As she walked over the clouds, Skylark felt something nearly shudder beneath her feet; it felt like the cloud was shaking, and as they walked further along, she saw that the green swirls were becoming less frequent, and at some point Jaceus told them all to pause, and knelt to put his hands into the cloud again, and the green swirls returned. Like before, she paid as close attention as she could, to his hands and to his face—but she didn’t see that glow she’d seen back at his house, just his hands put into the foamy mixture, and maybe she thought she saw water slaking off his hands, but the cloud-stuff around them received the green material once more, and he stood again. She was slightly disappointed.

She also thought she heard something whenever Jaceus did that, but maybe it was her imagination.

“The clens think you’re interesting,” the guy named Calamus said, striding in front; Skylark now began to make out what looked like a series of launchpads like they used in raider games, almost hidden by the thin air, each of them containing a portal on it; six of them in all.

“Clens must be in the clouds,” Mr. T said; the girl named Ultramarine nodded. “Your clouds might even have them too, if not as developed,” she said back, kicking up poofs of cloud with her feet as she walked. “Yes, that’s right,” she said to her weapon, which hummed. “They came from weather control. It would take more than five songs to explain their biology, especially to Sector I folk who don’t have names by droplet.”

“What is a name by droplet?” Skylark asked. She tried to keep up; but it was taking all of her effort to keep telling herself that it was just walking on grass, walking on those small green bioterra shards, as if she was walking in the sky on a giant Exhibit just for them… oh! It was hard, but she kept her eyes focused on the back of Jaceus, who was walking with confidence.

“It’s—” Ultramarine began to say, but Calamus reached back with his own weapon, now it was in his hand, and put one of its wings to Ultramarine’s mouth; she stopped. “I don’t know I think we should keep it simple,” he told Skylark, giving a half-wide grin that looked more like a sneer. “Sorry, Ultra,” he told his companion, taking off the wing, and then the weapon was gone from his hand again. Just like that.

Wait.

“I thought yours was ‘below,’” Skylark said. Behind her, she felt Luke and Agate stop walking.

“I lied,” Calamus said.

Skylark stopped; okay, so he still had his weapon, and they were weapons after all. Ultramarine was still in front of her; motionless, except for her hair which swung in the wind.

“Well, I did say ‘somewhere down below,’ and that was true. You alter people wouldn’t know what ‘below’ really means. Ha, ha, Jaceus, we’re not going to use our binds against you,” Calamus continued saying. But Skylark saw that Jaceus’ shoulders were tensing, his long golden hair also moving slowly.

“Topos, you’re making them all caesura,” Ultramarine told him, throwing her arms out; almost as if she was shielding Skylark from the guy with the silver circle on his shirt. “Jaceus, don’t do anything, we’ve already disturbed the clens,” she said.

At that moment, the small sound was emanating again from the cloud beneath her feet; Skylark realized that it sounded like screaming… or cheering.

“Only them,” Topos said; “don’t call me by my name by droplet,” he said to his companion, and he put his arms around Ultramarine. But it wasn’t quite a hug. It felt like the opposite, or they did hugs differently in Sector II, they were almost to where they were keeping Cerise. Skylark thought they really didn’t know anything about a full, entire other Sector. It was different. No wonder the Government didn’t allow citizens to go here.

Ultramarine and Calamus remained like that for a full minute. Skylark watched them, and Luke walked up to stand beside her.

“What are they doing,” he whispered to her, and she nodded. Ultramarine seemed okay, but Calamus was a little different.

“I don’t know,” she whispered back.

“This would be a pretty good time for me to show you some of my Plans,” Luke continued, “but I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He seemed to be looking at Jaceus’ back also, waiting for something. He then waved over for Agate to come over; she did, holding her arms around herself; it was still somewhat chilly.

The two in front of them finally stepped away from each other, Ultramarine adjusting her flag-shaped hair back into a flat rectangle and Calamus grinning easily.

“C’mon, you alter people, there’s your Rain,” he said, gesturing forth with his right arm; Skylark looked, and suddenly, somehow, all of them were much closer to the launchpads. And the one second from the right was pulsing, a strong purple glow surrounding it, and Skylark saw a face.

It was Cerise’s; it was just hers, nearly floating within the circle of light cast by the launchpad. Like a hologram on top of a self-scanner. Her eyes were closed, and if the circumstances were not what they were, Skylark would’ve sworn that the Scion was merely thinking about—

Mr. Sterne took the front again, and waved for Jaceus to step back; surprisingly, he did, and Mr. T began waving his arms angrily. “That’s not right,” he said; “she’s, she’s not in a hologram, is she? Jaceus, do something,” he urged, but Skylark saw that Jaceus was peering closer at the circle, and Skylark found herself walking up to join him—up close, she could tell—or at least she thought—it wasn’t Cerise’s real face, it was a projection like a hologram, but not.

“Well, that was colorful,” came Cerise’s voice, and Cerise herself stepped out from somewhere.

The girl had changed everything she was wearing into a light, nearly sky-color blue. Skylark quickly checked the circle—but the face was gone, and now a low hum was coming out of it, with a purple symbol now filling the circle.

Like an Alterface, she thought.

“Were you scared, Luke?” Cerise asked, and Luke shook his head, but Skylark could tell that he was holding himself in front of Ultramarine, Calamus, Jaceus, and Cerise Rain.

“You, uh, you scared me for a second there, Calamus,” he then said, but the tall stranger was inspecting the sign, ignoring him. “I thought Jaceus was your leader,” he said, pointing down with one finger, and Ultramarine joined him by the hologram-scanner-circle. “Musical boundary,” she said.

I got it.

“It’s music,” Skylark said. “Everything here is related.”

Cerise smiled.

Agate shook her head, coming over. “That’s what I was thinking. But I couldn’t say it until you just did, Skylark.”

“I as well,” Jaceus said. He turned to Cerise. “What happened here?” he asked.

“I’ve been to other Sectors, so I’ve seen something similar,” she said.

Jaceus waited; so did the others.

I’m hungry, Skylark thought.

Cerise touched the bottom strands of her hair on both sides, and a vivid pink shot up through it, her eyes matching with a darker shade of it. “But I’m clouded trying to explain.

“Was that right?” she said, turning to Calamus.

He gave again his nonchalant grin, and flicked the circle on his shirt.

“Like that refrain, yeah,” he answered. “You guys are hungry, right?”

“For food and explanation,” Sterne replied.

Calamus nodded, and held out his arm; a few seconds later, his winged-weapon returned, a book attached to it by three rings. Calamus gently pried the rings through the book’s body, and seemingly without reference, found a page, which he flipped open. He beckoned for them to come closer.

Table of Language Styles

Calamus/Ultramarine ver.

weather (central) 1

acrobatics 5

cheeses (generally) 7

music 15

quarterbacks (Old Earth) 22

raisin brands (Old Earth) 56

stegosaurus rex baby names 57

Calamus closed the book. “We only do it for visitors from other Sectors. Hope you enjoyed it,” he said, giving Ultramarine a truly amicable nudge on the shoulder, making her smile blue; and just like that, Skylark felt the tension that had been with the group ever since Cerise disappeared, dissipate.

Or evaporate.

Skylark laughed, and noticed that Luke still looked wildly confused. The sight made her laugh even harder.