Book I: The Remnant of Gregory Fischer, Chapter I
--- Gregory Fischer ---
Deciding that this wasn’t the weirdest interview he’d been through given his current profession, he looked the books over once more while re-reading the titles in what he knew was chronological order. (The Flames of War… No, don’t want anything to do with that again. Smoke of War… I… I don’t think I want to know how much they know about that…)
Which left him with the third and final book, the one that he knew represented the current state of his life, (Ashes of War, the Remnant of Gregory Fischer…)
The moment he took the book off the pillar, the other two books disappeared in a brief flash of light, so small that he’d think it a trick of his mind if he didn’t know better.
He looked around the empty library before sighing as he realized this ‘test’ wouldn’t be over until he actually read the book he’d chosen.
With no small amount of reluctance he opened the book’s cover before it sprung open on its own, numerous pages flipping across, far more than could actually be contained in a book that could fit in one hand. As these pages flipped with an ever growing speed, some of them managed to escape their bindings and flutter through the air, soon followed by more and more until he was completely surrounded by a veritable storm of paper flying through the air.
“Once upon a time, there was a soldier named Gregory Fischer.” An echoing voice said, the paper parting just enough to show a picture of him in his brown uniform saluting.
“Who’s there?!” He yelled over the fluttering paper as the picture flew away.
“Gregory was a good little soldier who followed orders, no matter how much he hated them.” The voice continued as the paper parted once more to show him standing over a street littered in bodies flames eating away at the edge.
“Who the fuck are you?!” He cried, his mind unable to help but wonder if this was all some elaborate set-up of some kind. Pay back for the things he’d done, the things he regretted.
“Until he was given an order he couldn’t follow.” The pages parted once more to show him holding a file in his hand with a terrified look as he stood in front of a smiling man in a suit.
A chill went down his spine as he realized what this was about.
“So he didn’t.” The voice declared as it showed him burning the file from before.
“I didn’t.” He admitted, steeling himself. “And I don’t regret it!” (If they’re coming for me because of that… then I’ll deal with it.)
“The men he viewed as his brothers abandoned him for failing to follow his duty…” The voice continued uncaring for his words as it showed him sitting in a canteen by himself, a clear gap between him and everyone else.
“What… what’s the point of this?!” He asked the voice.
“Shame filled him… Not because of the order he rejected, but because of all those he didn’t…” An image of him clutching his head while surrounded by smoke appeared, the smoke parting just long enough to see things he’d rather not remember.
“Why are you doing this?!” He pleaded, closing his eyes as he couldn’t bear to see anymore reminders of his sins.
“Unable to do the job he was made for, they threw him out onto the streets… A broken burned out husk of the man he once was…”
“Shut up, shut up. Shut up!” He begged, eyes shut to hold in the tears and hands over his ears to block out the words.
“This is where our story will begin.”
His eyes shot open as he glared upwards, “What sto-ry…”
(W-what?) He blinked, finding himself back in his room, the library and the pages from before nowhere to be seen. (Was… was that all just a nightmare?)
He shifted before frowning as he realized he was still dressed in his clothes, clothes he could not fall asleep in since the collar would always choke him, reminding him of when- (Don’t think about it.)
On guard he took a look around his room before finding several oddities, the most notable being how his walls were made of blank white pages. (No, that’s not right… The pages have something written on them…)
He got up from his bed and made his way to the wall where he ran his fingers over the pages and noted how the script, while visible enough to see, looked as if it had been written and then erased. The words too faded for him to actually make anything out.
“I’m still in the library…” He realized with a frown before taking another look around.
The book was on his bed.
He swallowed down his apprehensions before making his way over and cautiously inspected the only real clue to whatever was happening to him. (The name ‘s changed…)
Instead of reading ‘Ashes of War, The Remnant of Gregory Fischer’ the book’s title had changed to ‘Gregory Fischer, The Black Briar Librarian’.
“Not if this is what I’m going to be dealing with.” He scoffed, hoping the voice or whoever was running this shit show heard him.
Knowing that there was only one way forward (since they didn’t give me a door out of this room) he picked up the book.
Not quite trusting the book, he opened the cover fully ready to throw the book away from him, but unlike what he expected, this book did not force itself open and start spewing another storm of script into the air.
The only thing he found behind the cover was a dedication of sorts.
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
(For Gregory Fischer, The Man Who Burned So Others Wouldn’t Have To.)
The scars on his arm ached, as he felt something in those words…
“So that’s what this is…” He huffed, not sure how he felt about… any of this.
Instead of dealing with any of that, he ignored the knot in his chest and turned the page to the table of contents.
The table of contents was divided into five sections: Synopsis, Current Story, Volumes Collected, Personal Library, and Working Draft. Under each of these sections were several more chapters, though the actual names of said chapters were illegibly written in a script that almost seemed to move across the page. The exception being Ashes of War under Working Draft.
(Okay… Now the question is what any of this means…)
He flipped a few pages, landing himself in the Synopsis where-
(A scream tore loose from his throat, almost as loud as the roar of the flame that devoured his arm.)
(Smoke flooded his lungs, choking him with every breath as he stumbled ever forward in pursuit of his goal.)
(All around him ashes floated through the air, painting the world gray as they left him alone with the dead.)
-he slammed the book shut, his heart pounding against his ribcage as if were trying to flee from the memories that had just been forced out from the depths of his mind.
Desperate hands searched his pockets for his cigarette, before pulling one out and lighting it with a panicking fervor for any relief from the panic that consumed him.
He inhaled deeply, the cherry burning bright before exhaling a cloud as dark as his terror.
Once he felt something halfway resembling calm -a state that took him at least five more sticks- he turned his attention back to the (dangerous) book he’d left on the book. Its closed cover innocently gazing up at him.
He stared back at the book until his latest cigarette was nothing but ash, before with shaking hands he opened the book once more and stared at the word Synopsis.
It took but a moment for him to realize what Synopsis really meant, (the Synopsis of Gregory Fischer… My… My entire life…)
He may’ve only seen a few brief glimpses of his past, but they were in such clarity it was as if he was reliving those moments. (Whatever magic makes this place up… It’s compressed my entire life into a single book…)
Frightful eyes read over the table of contents with far more reverence, realizing that the page numbers for each section were made of the same moving script that made up the illegible chapter names.
Taking a gamble, he put his thumb half way down the book before focusing on Current Story and flipping the book open once more.
He couldn’t help but flinch, expecting another deluge of traumatic memories as the book’s contents were forced upon his mortal mind.
When no such trauma came forth he took a cautious look at the page he’d opened and found a detailed pen sketch of himself sitting at a desk while reading his book. Opposite this was more of the eldritch script from before, only this time he could parse through some of the contents as he read over what looked like a list of some kind counting or describing something.
Given how his name was written across the bottom of the pen portrait he had a fairly decent idea what these things were in reference to, even if he had to guess what some of these words meant due to the eldritch magic plucking the closest word from his mind rather than explaining them.
(“Species: Human, Genre: Sci-fi/Fantasy, Classification: Cyberpunk/Practitioner/Scrapper, Derivative Addendum: None.”) He wasn’t entirely sure what all of that meant, but from what he could understand it was all sort of fitting with what he knew about himself.
At the very least it was significantly easier to understand than everything else on the page as words were replaced with symbols that he could vaguely recognize. (Slash, Blunt, Pierce, Mind, Spirit, Fire, Ice, Electric, Light, and Darkness… With a skull over Mind, a shield over Fire and Ice, and an equal sign over everything else… So Mind is bad while Fire and Ice protect and everything else is even?)
That didn’t seem quite right, even if he could see an angle where he understood it.
Beneath that odd assortment of symbols were a number of small squares, most of which were empty but a handful of which had small ink sketches similar to his own alongside what he was fairly certain was a page number in whatever eldritch script this book was using.
He focused on the first symbol and flipped the pages, figuring the book would open to it just as it had to whatever this overview of himself constituted.
When the pages stopped he found himself staring at another pen drawn image that he vaguely recognized as himself -if with the details blurred- performing a rather straightforward punch.
On the opposite side was even more eldritch writing, though far less detailed and with far less information than the one that had been focused on his entirety. (“Opening Strike. Cost: 1 Blank Page. Blunt Melee. An opening strike to unleash greater combos, the foundation of something greater for all martial artists. A Quick Read for Scrappers, Bruisers, and Infiltrators.”)
After reading that he reexamined the picture, before recognizing that the image was of the exact same punch his style of fighting used to engage his opponent while still being capable of flowing into any other set of strikes.
(So… the book is also dissecting my abilities?) He frowned before flipping back to the Current Story and seeing that he only seemed to have five as far as the book was concerned. Which was all kinds of wrong given how he had learned, developed, and mastered his style of fighting during the war.
Just to prove that point he set the book back on his bed before attempting one of his more advanced combos and promptly stumbling through the final few motions. “Okay… maybe I’m a little rustier than I thought…”
He was sure his ‘work’ had kept his edge from dulling, (then again most of my jobs are pretty straightforward… Never need to bring out anything really fancy…)
With a frown his eyes glanced back at the book and the few skills he had that it recognized, before clenching his fists. He wasn’t a prideful man by any measure, often thinking worse of himself than anyone else, but…
He let out a sigh, not entirely sure what the point of all this was. He already knew he was nothing more than a remnant of what he once was. (Isn’t that what the first book underlined?)
Deciding dwelling on his failings wasn’t going to get him out of wherever he was he went back to inspecting the other sections of the book, only to find both Volumes Collected and Personal Library to be empty.
The final section, the one labeled Working Draft, however had what could best be described as a brainstorming page with a central circle where ‘Ashes of War’ was written with a number of circles branching off from it.
Above this central circle was one labeled Prologue and focusing on it caused him to remember the words the voice had told him during the storm of pages with perfect clarity as well as the images he’d seen. An effect very similar to when he’d tried to read his own Synopsis if not quite as powerful.
Three other circles broke off from the central concept, each one with a few other words connected to them but rendered illegible due to the way the eldritch script moved across the page. These circles were labeled Act 1: Depression, Act 2: Opportunity, and Act 3: Rekindling.
A series of events that made him more confident in his guess at just what the person orchestrating all of this wanted from him.
He took another look around the copy of his room, fully aware that he was currently trapped in ‘Act 1’ and if he wanted out of this place he’d have to work his way through all three acts somehow. (But how?)
If he had to actually overcome his depression, then he might as well roll over and die given how long he’d been battling that particular demon with no success.
A loud thunk drew his attention behind him, where he found a small black pen colliding with his boot.
With a frown he plucked the writing instrument from the ground before looking between it and the book in his hand. Namely the handful of blank spaces that remained untouched in spite of all the eldritch script dancing across the page.
“This… is either a really good or a really bad idea…”