"Upon encounter with a pivotal point in life, an individual typically finds himself or herself burdened with a simultaneous hollowness and overflow of emotion," the boy often thought to himself, "that should be a given". He did not stand out, a simple-looking boy in a dark blue overcoat, and soft features that outlined a completely average face, fringed over by brown hair. The weather had been cold yet he was not dressed warmly.
Distracted, his mind wandered to his mother, who had left not long ago having bid her son farewell in tears. She was getting old now, in her forties probably—he could not be sure, since he never asked—and requested that he move to the city in venture of a great conquest. "The world is not the simple place it once was", she would say, "I don't think I've seen a written book in decades,"
Jaryll wondered if it ever was.
All around him, the few people who walked by had no words in their mouths, only footsteps from their feet. They did not echo or sustain, they simply dissipated instantaneously—like the person who passes by and leaves your thoughts forever; perhaps they never enter at all. Jaryll looked at his watch, impatient yet hesitant. What awaited him in the city? His anxiety cut off any considerations of foresight, yet at this moment the realisation of the impending future struck him like a deer in the headlights. Jaryll's slender fingers clutched his stomach, going white around the knuckles and pink on the edges. It felt as if he was trying to stop his insides from sinking in. The stiff material of his coat bunched into his fist.
In his other hand, there was a suitcase of his belongings. Inside, there were several sets of clothes, shoes, some miscellaneous items unworthy of noting, and a single small book, with a fire motif inscribed into its cover.
*****
The train arrived a little past a minute late. Loud whistling and steam filled the air like a fog, and as the wheels screeched to a halt, Jaryll awoke to a sense of detachment. The train was nearly empty, and for that he was glad. As he sat in the back seat by the window, his fingers tapped on his suitcase that he placed on his lap. He wanted so badly to lay his hand on the leather sleeve of the book, to touch paper with his own fingers, to read the words with his own eyes. But in the corners of the train, surveillance cameras lay in wait, like predators examining their prey. Jaryll sat silent with anticipation; lost in what imminent war he was about to carelessly throw himself into, he could only look on.
The train doors had closed now, and the last passengers were onboard. The seats on the train were arranged such that pairs of rows faced each other. On his left, Jaryll could hear footsteps advancing toward him down the aisle; they didn't sound like the hollow steps of the people he had been amongst at the station, but the steps of someone with conviction.
"Good morning, may I sit here?"
Jaryll turned his attention to the man on his left. It struck him almost instantly, the thought that simply by appearance he could tell that the man in front of him was of a completely different status. He was very tall, with tanned skin and stunningly accentuated features. His dark brown hair was styled sleekly, and solid emerald eyes, which were emphasised by his thinly rimmed spectacles, glared piercingly like daggers—but that was not what intimidated Jaryll. Jaryll's attention lay simply on the fact that he was wearing a very expensive-looking suit—in fact, it was ignorant to say it was expensive-looking, when it clearly did not look like it cost anything less than a million. Cufflinks matched the colour of his eyes. Through muffled thoughts, a single notion made itself evident: surely, Jaryll bit his lip, surely this man is from the city. And by extension, this introduced the possibility that this man was an officer.
"Sure," Jaryll murmured, his eyes averting from the man's. The man sat directly in front of him, asserting his presence such that it demanded notice.
"You've packed lightly. Are you visiting the city?" his deep, sultry voice dug its way into Jaryll's swamp of a mind.
"No, I'm planning to move," he tried to say as little as possible in reply, uncertain of this strange man's intentions.
"Is that so? Got a place sorted out and everything?" the man continued, delivering every word smoothly, "The cost of living in Eritz has really gone up lately, and I hear that there's been a hike in crime,"
"Crime?"
"Yes," the man looked out the window, turning his head such that Jaryll could see six silver rings pierced proudly into his ear, "I heard that the FRU recently busted a library,"
"Oh...that's rather common nowadays, I guess. They're um, pretty good at their job, aren't they?" Jaryll laughed slightly, though inside he felt like the man may as well have been holding a knife to his throat.
The FRU, short for the Fiction Removal Unit—arguably the most vindictive branch of the government, they could be considered a modern secret police. Jaryll could never decide if he was glad or not to be born a non-whisperer. The idea of being able to materialise writing seemed so unreal to people at first, but now it was just a trait of danger. To read and to write were distant dreams that people would not dare let grace their minds, but some just could not let such laws hold them. If they could, the government wouldn't need the FRU, after all. Jaryll began to think back to his mother telling him about how "back in her youth, people did actual drugs".
"I also heard about the assassination of some big-shot, by what everyone's saying to be a group of fictitious hitmen," the man's eyes strayed to a corner.
Jaryll's back stiffened, and his head began to heat up in terror. Behind his eyes, it felt like a dam of molten iron gushing about unnervingly. His tongue went dry, and his pupils darted around, unsure of where to settle themselves.
"Fictitious hitmen, huh? It really seems...like they're starting to get into everything now," his bottom lip quivered. He knew, at any time, that his every facial expression was a dead giveaway; that if the man in front of him was truly an officer, that he was practically dooming himself to a living hell. But he couldn't control himself. The stories he heard about the FRU re-educating offenders gushed into his mind, and Jaryll could feel his head caving in from the pressure.
"I suppose so. Though, that "big-shot" was a bit of an asshole drunk on riches anyway," the man smiled a smile half wicked, half content, "Ah, or so I hear,"
"You say that very casually," the words came out with extreme caution, "Did you know him?"
"What a strange thought process you have. Yes, perhaps you could say that," turning his head slowly to face Jaryll, his eyes those of a scheming man, "I knew him for a few minutes, right before he died,"
Jaryll released the breath he had been holding—whether out of relief or fear, he could not be sure. His lip still quivered.
"Now, now, don't worry. This conversation is completely safe," the man in front of him assured with a smile, "By the way, you can call me Terrence for now,"
Jaryll could see now, that the man's perfection was unreal, an idealised form of handsome exact to a tee. He was a character, someone whispered into creation from mere text. How dangerous, Jaryll began to consider, such people have the capacity of being. You could barely tell that he wasn't just an aristocrat or something from first glance.
"...When a stranger gives an introduction with "you can call me" and "for now" in its contents, it usually implies that that isn't their real name,"
"Well, when a stranger gives an introduction with any kind of structure, it is rude not to reply with your own name,"
"It's um, Jaryll. Christensen,"
"Hm. It seems like Christensen is a pretty common last name. I know a lady with that last name too," Terrence scoffed, "She's a bit of a bitch as well,"
"I can't wait to hear what your real name is,"
"Aren't you full of yourself, now? Just a sec ago you were set to piss yourself thinking I was an officer," he glimpsed at Jaryll, "Come on, don't look at me like that. You're really shit at hiding what you're thinking,"
He sustained an eerie smirk on his face throughout every word, a perfect contrast to whatever he had been saying. Chills raced down Jaryll's spine, just thinking about what kind of a character Terrence really was.
Terrence glanced about the train. So far as people went, nobody was listening in—of course, there was nobody to listen in. Nobody seemed to care, which presented a great merit here. That was, with the exception of the cameras, which were mere onlookers.
"Back at the last station, I killed that camera; should give us an adequate blind spot to let us do some talking. So," he lowered his voice to a whisper, "let's talk a bit about that book of yours,"
Camera shutters went off, plastic bags rustled, and men spoke under their breath. A man in his late fifties, in the black uniform of the FRU, surveyed the site with utmost scrutiny. On his lapel there was a pin, and beneath it there was a badge that read "OFFICER J. TERRIS". He did not have a very strong presence, nor did he seem very energetic. He shone a flashlight into the paralysed eyes of the corpse, recording all his assessments in a small notebook he kept in his breast pocket. He replaced the book carefully, tucking the short red pencil behind his right ear.
With a gloved hand, he began to pull away each of the victim's fingers. There was a book clutched within the hand, its light blue spine scored with white tears from clearly frequent reading, and small curves imprinted across the sleeve from gripping. Terris deposited the book into a small plastic bag, and stood up.
"Please, have this sent to the forensics lab at HQ. Dust it for prints and try to determine who the writer is," he handed the bag over to another officer nearby, "You might need the body for further investigations as well, but I have a feeling it's those NSF writers again,"
A soft "yes, sir," followed as the evidence was stored away. Terris removed his glove, and turned around to see his son arriving with files in his hand.
"Oh, Lark. Are those the documents I requested for? Junos let you have them?" Terris' son did not look much like him, but they were identifiably related at least. They were both strawberry blonde, himself a bit more on the brown side, but he was rather short compared to his son.
"Oh, yeah. Chief said she was happy to see us producing such great results lately, all thanks to you of course. So she said I could go to the evidence room and get the files. The really basic stuff is written out this time, like his name and details, but only the case report is on an audio file. I grabbed a reader too, so we can listen to them in the car," he smiled, handing over the files.
"Mm, that's how older files used to be. It's a bit more efficient if you ask me. I hate needing to listen to those files on repeat," Terris opened the file, glancing over it. He thought about Chief Officer Junos' praise that Lark had mentioned.
"C'mon dad, you know how strict the government is nowadays. Only the bare minimum gets to touch paper. Can't risk slipping any reading material in now, can we?" he joked, but seeing his father's solid expression sobered him back up.
Lark saw the evidence being stored from the site, but the body was still lying there.
"Did you finish your analysis already? Tell me 'bout the guy," he tapped his father's shoulder.
"Victim name, Peter Maron; cause of death, fiction overdose; time of death, approximately 2AM last night. He was supposedly a wealthy man, but his business went south recently after his business partner fled the country with his money—apparently, he's been in hot water ever since. Judging by the stupid grin on his face and the nail marks all over the book, it was probably one of those NSFW books,"
"NSFW?"
"N for Neo-realistic, S for Sexual, F for Fantasy, W for Writing, or writer," Terris replied, "Really, you should know this, son. It's one of the most common types of illegal books,"
"A-Ah, haha..." Lark cleared his throat, "Anyway, a fiction overdose? The other officers were saying that he got induced to death,"
"A cheap addict like him? No whisperer would have the time,"
"It might've been a writer hiring a whisperer. Like, Peter here's been addicted for a while and couldn't pay up with his poor business situation, and ran off with the book. He might've had death induced into him," Lark suggested with a shrug, knowing whatever theory he had was probably wrong. The small talk was entertaining anyway, not like he got to speak to his father like this very often.
"You're forgetting to look at the evidence, Lark. His facial expression and the fact that he still had the book on him proves it. You wouldn't be grinning like that if a guy induced you with some excruciating death, would you? The news might make it seem like otherwise, but between us officers—there aren't as many whisperers around as you might think. Besides," Terris slipped out a small disc and closed the file, "if a writer needs to, they'll slip them a book with some pages missing and the guy will be as good as done. You're right about one thing though, I'm willing to bet that Mr. Maron was having trouble with his librarians,"
"Yeah..."
Lark glanced again at the corpse sprawled out on the ground. When a person read, their conscience detached from their body and began living the book as a reality. It ended when the book finished, but it was easy to get hooked on sensations. To be any kind of person you wanted, to sleep with any kind of person you wanted, to live any kind of dream you wanted—it all sounded blissful, but the more a person read, the more out of tune their conscience became. Chief Officer Junos had told him before how her mother was like a living cadaver: walking aimlessly around the house, always slow to react to anything, high off of reading some fiction all the time. It didn't take long before she was detained.
Of course, if the book never ended, the person would be stuck in a comatose state forever. They'd end up getting taken back to the FRU and killed; it didn't really matter how, not like they'd even feel anything if their eyeballs were getting gouged out anyway. Lark hadn't been working with the FRU for very long, but he was familiar with its punishments.
"Lark, you've got that reader?"
"What? Oh, um, yeah," he produced it from the bag he was carrying and handed it to Terris, "Here,"
"Alright. Let's go,"
3: Chapter 3Three people strode into the dark alleyway, allowing their pronounced footsteps to echo prominently through the path.
One was a tall man with light yellowish eyes, and soft, charming features that cast pale shadows onto his even paler skin. His apathetic expression carried a lifeless tone that seemed to bleed into his platinum blonde hair, which was styled neatly back. He had a lean, muscular figure, clothed by a white dress shirt and a light brown coat and trousers. His name was Aer.
The other two were his sisters, Ignis and Aqua. Ignis had wild amber hair, slicked back into a braid on the left and tied into a dishevelled flaming mass in the back. Her skin was rather tan, and glistened as if in light, even though it was as dark as night all around them. Bright, burning, red irises lay set into her eyes like brilliant rubies, while a red dress tugged around her curvaceous figure.
"Why are we going to Zenya and Vaughn's library? We just finished our last job for them, and Ellen didn't give us any new assignments," Ignis asked.
"They invited us over to chat about some matters. Mr. Cheval said it was important," Aer replied.
"Some matters, huh? That sounds ominous,"
"I'm sure it's just a normal request,"
The other sister had a beautiful gentle face and kind blue eyes, with the sort of perfect complexion that any woman would kill for. An unrealistically ice-blue shade of hair cascaded down her shoulders, and her slender body was dressed in pure white. She didn't wear any shoes.
"What is Terra doing again?" Aqua turned gracefully to face her siblings, stepping along sideways now, "It's not normal to go out escorting new members or whatever, right? What's so special about this new boy?"
"Ellen said something like, 'he isn't just joining one faction' or something, and during the meeting she volunteered to make sure he stayed safe throughout the trip here. Alice sent him a book, see," Ignis responded, "So this is one we can't risk letting the officers touch,"
"Weird, though, isn't it? Why couldn't one of our existing members take the messenger job? If it's for safe communication, an existing member would have qualifications of loyalty," Aer glanced up, tilting his head at an angle. His indifference carried into a voice of dry, cold timbre.
"According to Ellen, the other houses at the meeting thought that having someone who was already in a faction may have allowed for things like prejudice. Since we stopped taking in human members, and this guy was so dead desperate to join us, they said he was perfect,"
"The kid's just lucky though, if you ask me," Aqua's eyes rolled, "He should be glad that we were willing to even accept him,"
The three of them stopped.
"Ladies, we have arrived,"
In bright gold letters on stone, the words 'SCARLET LETTER' read on the small plaque on the ground, hidden beneath a thick coat of gravel. It was so people wouldn't read it—but those who were in the know didn't need to anyway. The deceptively plain, mould-eaten, wooden door blended in with the rest of the alley; amongst all its other small nooks and crannies, it was a very ideal guise. Aer knocked on the door twice, creating a quiet hollow noise. A bright violet eye peered through the small peephole at the very top.
"Can I help you?" a voice slithered through.
With a devilish grin, Aqua squealed, "Ah! He's the one, officer! He's the writer I told you about—"
In an instant, the door slammed open, revealing a short but wide corridor, bordered with darkly tinted mirror. At the front, with his hand furiously gripping the doorknob was Zenya Noir.
"Ugh, if not for the fact that you guys are our most trusted hitmen, I'd fucking hate your guts," he hissed.
"Ugh, if not for the fact that you guys have one of the highest earning libraries on the black market," Aqua sang in a disdainful falsetto, "Yeah, I'd hate your stupid guts too,"
"Don't take it personally, Mr. Noir; she loves it here," Aer commented.
"Well, don't just stand there looking stupid and attracting officers, come on in," Zenya sighed, opening the door a wider in invitation, as they all began to step through the corridor.
Now, their footsteps were completely silent. They did not speak, simply look straight ahead and walk onward. At the near end of the corridor was a thick red curtain, masking the face of a concealed underworld that seeped out the paper-thin seams where the curtains failed to touch. What lay behind the enigmatic façade was of no surprise to the siblings. They had visited Zenya and Vaughn's library many times, collaborating frequently for protection racketeering services in return for good sums of money. As one of the highest earning sexual fantasy libraries in Eritz, their client-and-service-provider connection didn't take long to grow into a friendship.
Zenya's hooked cane seized one edge of the crimson curtain and, in a single swift motion, whipped it to a side.
*****
Behind the ripples of cloth, Zenya and Vaughn's library took the form of a glittering black-and-gold house with intimate pink lighting. A grandiose bar with shining glass bottles of every type of liquor imaginable proudly decorated a good section of the ground floor, and if not for the fact that the entire place reeked of sin, it was easy to pass off simply as a very ominous-looking hotel. In the common area, there was a two-layered glass wall suspended behind a luxurious gold counter, between the layers in which where book covers were displayed. The covers themselves had no titles or images, simply information on the types of experiences and durations of each book's contents.
The counter had a rose-pink tinted glass countertop, upon which the name of the library—SCARLET LETTER—was engraved. A flight of carpeted stairs led to the second floor, where rows of rooms went for as long as the eyes could see.
"Where's Vaughn? He said he wanted to meet us," Ignis surveyed the lobby.
"He's walking down the corridor, he's almost at the stairs" Aer pointed a thumb in perfect time, as the dark-skinned man dressed in full black descended from the upper floor.
"Vaughn, you didn't tell me you invited Ellen's Quartet over," Zenya walked over to meet him halfway.
"Ah, it must have slipped my mind; sorry, sweetheart, it was on sudden notice," Vaughn rested his arm on Zenya's shoulder, gently stroking his blonde hair. Turning to the three siblings, he continued, "I need to speak with you. All the customers are occupied at the moment so we can go talk in the back room," he gestured toward a door beside the main counter, this one with a particularly ornate frame.
Zenya turned to Vaughn with an uneasy expression. "Oh," he said softly, "That's what it is,". They all began to head towards the back room.
4: Chapter 4"Flame factions?"
Jaryll let his voice slip out a bit louder than he would have felt safe with, and immediately regret it. He lowered his head, looking aside and covering his mouth with his hand.
"It's just supposed to be FLME, but 'flame' rolls off as a word much nicer," Terrence twirled his finger.
"Well, that explains the cover then. I always thought factions stayed independently active on the black market,"
"I'd call you out on stereotyping if it weren't true for the most part. But to keep the fictitious underworld running, the best writers have to meet up, keep the strings pulled and make sure the puppets are dancing smoothly. They sort out what to do with their factions, and for the most part, stay out of each others' way,"
"Hey, this book," Jaryll whispered, "what's in it?"
Terrence raised his eyebrows, slightly surprised.
"You mean you haven't read it?" he asked.
"All I did was listen to the disc. I," a brief pause interjected the words, "The kinds of things you hear about on the news, puts you off a bit, y'know?"
"On the contrary—no, I don't,"
"...Oh. All the overdose death cases and terrible stuff with fiction doesn't get to you, does it?" Jaryll's words had lost its notes of caution.
"No," Terrence sounded slightly irritated now, glaring through the glass of the window, his smile fading.
Outside, the early days of winter were showings its presence, as a thin duvet of white embraced the tranquil scenery. The foliage was nearly devoid of its preceding autumnal hues; even though the icy cold had begun to bite away at the now stark and barren trees, light reds and oranges still peeked feebly out the snow. "Considering how well this train is insulated, I'm sure that I'm the only one feeling cold now," Terrence thought to himself. A sense of stubbornness and superiority compelled him to set whatever Jaryll might have been thinking right.
"...No—as in to say, it's like asking a murderer if they're afraid of blood," the solid emerald eyes glared at Jaryll now, and the eerie smile returned to his lips. He went on, "That's literally what you just asked me,"
Jaryll was unsure if responding would've made him seem ignorant, though he couldn't imagine that actually ignoring him would've made him seem less so. Thinking back to the book, he decided to enquire further about the strange, dangerous world he was now destined to traverse.
"How many factions are there in Eritz?" he asked.
"It varies, really. Typically, it's only writers with the ability to whisper that run factions, so the double coincidence isn't too easy to come by. The few novices who think they can manage, having just run a library, are nothing short of dense. The FRU catches them every day: factions with writers who can't write proficiently enough, or writer-whisperer partnerships with incompatible writing styles. The Flame factions operate on a much higher, much more organised level—composed only of those with the two overlapping skills. It would be superbly disadvantageous to allow even one of us to get apprehended,"
Hearing this, a sudden unease and alarm occupied Jaryll's thoughts. He had thought previously that joining the struggling side of controversial social warfare would've been a mindless rebellion against the government. Not without penalty, of course, but he recognised now how it was little like a ruthless tug-of-war, and much more akin to that of a convoluted game of chess. He had long admired the world of the fictitious, not bound by the strictness and order, but not by complete hellish chaos either. It was a beautifully graceful line where freedom thrived and creativity flourished. The whimsicality of it all seemed so perfect that, the danger and hazard behind it came off just as unreal. Yet now, he had to face it. His dream of running from the government's iron grip was soon to be realised, but could he handle it?
Suddenly it felt like everything was caving in, and no amount of gripping or clutching or grabbing could stop it. But beneath the emotional disarray, Jaryll was glad. Admiration struck his heart, thinking about the legendary writers Terrence had been talking about. All the terror and burden was flooding in, but he was willing to embrace it. Of course, it wasn't like he had the luxury of turning back anymore.
Looking about, Terrence was silent now, sitting very still with his arms crossed and head down. What had previously been white-peaked mountains outside was now transforming into sleek, mirror-like buildings. Just as the wildness of fiction was illusory, so was the air of perfection that the landscape exuded, with its angular, monochromatic skyline. The cold foliage was miniscule in the distance, far behind them.
Static went off through the speakers on the train, and a barely audible voice spoke:
"Attention all passengers, we will be arriving in Eritz City shortly. Please ensure to bring all your belongings with you when exiting the train,"
Swallowing suddenly became difficult.
5: Chapter 5Kina Junos was the chief officer of the FRU. Just hearing her name struck intimidation into the hearts of anyone who knew anything about her. As a matter of fact, the only thing anyone outside of the FRU did know about her—besides that she was the Chief Officer—was that she was extremely vindictive, and by extension, very good at her job. Her knowledge of and experience with criminal organisations and fictitious activity was formidable; her superb success in tearing down libraries and factions, as well as her outstanding arrest rate of writers and whisperers, stood simply as the foundation for her superiority. Junos lacked no leadership skills. Many believed she lacked nothing.
Striding down the corridors of the FRU headquarters, many officers went out of their way to address her. It wasn't out of fear, like the public, but out of respect. The younger officers were practically indoctrinated upon arrival to think, "This is what being a true leader means". Terris stepped out of the forensics lab, hands filled with photographic results from an autopsy. From behind him, Lark stepped ahead.
"Good afternoon, Chief Officer!" he greeted enthusiastically. Junos looked at him, her grey eyes unresponsively glancing over Lark.
"Officer Terris," she addressed his father, "I understand that you have a case related to the library we've been investigating,"
"Yes, that's right,"
Terris was not fond of Junos. He had worked with the FRU for years, even before Junos became chief officer. It was back in the early days, when her father—a man of equal malice and hatred for the fictitious, Chief Officer Steffan Junos—had just come to power as the leader of the FRU, in the days where many found themselves at a loss with the new laws of the government.
"When a writer is arrested, their characters will be stripped of any abilities and rewritten as regular individuals, and allowed to live with society should they be deemed fit to do so, as regulated by the necessary assessments,"
Before, when the idea of equality still resonated within this slaughterhouse of a society, people did not hate the fictitious as they did now. Both sides simply kept their heads down, ignorant of one another. But with the power to humanise these characters in the hands of the writers, the laws of the government and the laws of the people were incompatible. Writers had not designed their characters to be capable enough for the real world. The wildness of imagination had no need for it. Worse yet, the FRU could not enforce that the de-written characters had been completely humanised. No matter how real, they were still empty shells, simply made to act like everyone else.
There came a period of forced genocide, that the government simply sold to the public as "euthanasia", that needing to destroy the writers' books and the lives of everything that had been created was necessary. That prompted the first revolution.
"Lark, could you leave us to talk, please?" Terris nodded his head aside, indicating for his son to depart.
"No problem. I'll be in the investigations department," he left swiftly down the corridor.
"Officer Terris, how are the investigations with the homicide coming along?" Junos was at perfect eye level with him, but it always felt as if she were raised far higher up, looking down at everyone she spoke to in contempt. He detested those cold, grey eyes.
"Homicide? The investigation showed that the victim died of fiction overdose, Chief,"
"Initial investigation, Mr. Terris, which tends to have its errors. Since it was linked to the library, I took it upon myself to look further into the case," from her pocket, she produced a USB drive and presented it to him, "I don't blame you for thinking it was overdose, since he was on the brink of it, but he only showed signs of being induced post-mortem. The real cause of death was asphyxiation, and I must say that these hitmen were most certainly fictitious if they were capable of holding his expression and masking any signs of cyanosis,"
Terris maintained eye contact, taking the USB drive, saying nothing. He ignored everything she said, thinking only of her tone; her tone of complete and utter disgust and disdain in every word she spoke. He could hear it crystal clear, even though anyone else wouldn't have had noticed a thing.
"I hope that this aids the progress of your investigation," Junos walked promptly away, the sound of every step irking Terris more and more. Her fake wishes stung like a waterfall of salt on an open wound across the entire body.
Terris continued to stand in silence. He valued his job. He had wanted to be a police officer in his youth, but this unexpected turn of events was what he had come to settle with. He thought about Junos' heartless eyes again, remembering how Lark admired this monster of a woman as though she were a god. Knowing the truth behind her only made him resent her more, but he could do nothing.
Even holding one of Junos' greatest secrets—and she, his—he could not hope to do more than stand, and keep looking up.
6: Chapter 6It was nearing the later parts of the afternoon now, and Alice stood at the top of the stairwell looking down at the people racing around downstairs. The elaborate crimson carpet bisected the titanic hall, which's floor had an elegant beige and black checkerboard of marble tiles, seamed with silver accents that looked no thicker than strands of hair from where she was standing.
The frantic-looking people were making preparations for a socialite gathering later that evening, where all her mother's rich friends and father's snobbish business partners would be gathered to converse about their upper-class matters. "My profits this quarter have risen by almost twenty percent, amazing isn't it?" and "Oh, do you like this necklace? My husband bought it for me just last week!", they were all phrases she had grown up hearing. Her sister Alexis would be there, but so would someone else.
"Sulfus is going to be here," she muttered under her breath, her teeth clutching tightly onto her lip.
Even as the daughter of the privileged and esteemed Christensen family, not a soul would've dared to even suspect that the youngest daughter of the family was, in fact, the greatest writer in Eritz. The most adept of the Literary Masters, they called it. She was the de facto leader of the Four Literary Masters of Eritz, the FLME. Thinking about the well-off upper class that would flood the hall when the party started made her cringe. She hated being amongst the wealthy. "Dim-witted, boorish, narrow-minded bastards," she thought, "every last one of them,"
The only exception was Mr. Sulfus Devin: a dashingly handsome yet mysterious socialite, beloved by all, as wealthy as he was generous (superbly, in both cases), and most importantly, fictitious. But of course, nobody knew about that last part. Nobody really needed to. Alice had written him, and he was her pride and joy, the realest character to live—complete, even, with the ability to die.
Alice didn't believe in using great shows of power and publicity to overthrow the FRU's propaganda. Small, rebellious factions that held riots disappeared off the face of the earth the very next day; there was never any mention of ever having been an uprising. She knew that the public would continue to live in fear and ignorance, terrified not of the fictitious, but of the fearsome regime Kina Junos had built. Being raised around the high and mighty, she used her power to integrate the fictitious into high society, unknowingly letting them accept their human sides, hiding their fictitious faces. She hoped that a kind, reputable person would override any social stigma, fictitious or not. Later, she'd begin to see her theory in action.
A majestic grandfather's clock stood adjacent to her. Glancing at its polished face, she decided it was time to leave now. There was somewhere more important to be.
7: Chapter 7The city was just as cold as the country, but for a different reason. Loud whistling and steam filled the air like a fog again, and as the wheels screeched to a halt, Jaryll fiddled with his thumbs uncertainly.
"Ah, we're here. Welcome to Eritz, Mr. Christensen," Terrence simpered.
Nobody had ever called him Mr. Christensen before; it felt very odd. He looked up at Terrence, who had now removed his spectacles and ruffled his hair to a more roguish style. The brightness of his eyes made themselves more prominent than ever.
"What are you doing, Terrence?" Jaryll enquired, looking puzzled and slightly embarrassed. His eyes darted around, hoping nobody would turn to see them. Terrence removed his blazer and rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt.
"Dressing all dapper isn't like me at all. It's important to have a few images that you can rely on, but I prefer to look more natural whenever possible," Terrence opened the suitcase that Jaryll never noticed he had, and stored away whatever he had taken off. "Natural", he says, Jaryll murmured to himself.
"Come on, we're running late,"
The two of them stepped off the train. The station here looked very high-end, almost new, even though it had been here for twelve years now. The floor was pristine, pearly white, the sky was a clear powder blue, and everyone walked perfunctorily, as if on pre-determined routes. Jaryll couldn't help but feel lost and out of place. They began to walk away from the terminal, down a flight of stairs, and out the station. Terrence walked with complete confidence, unaffected by the hundreds of real people around him. Jaryll's eyes followed him constantly, wondering if it was a result of his experience that allowed him to blend in, or if it was his writer's skill, or if it simply was that hard to tell real and fictitious apart. Maybe it was all three, he concluded.
Jaryll seized Terrence's elbow. He had tried to stop or slow Terrence down, but Terrence effortlessly dragged Jaryll along, forcing him to continue walking.
"Where are we going?" he whispered urgently into his ear.
"Do you really think that out in the open with hundreds of people around us is the absolute best time to be asking me this question right now?" Terrence replied nonchalantly.
Jaryll grit his teeth. They walked through several alleys, between several tall buildings, each one with less people around than the last, and each one a bit more remote than the last. The streets were made of very even, grey stone. On the tar roads, there were not many cars driving around. So much about the city confused Jaryll; it seemed so common and faultless that it was hard to imagine, that beneath everything there was a kind of wild chaotic war happening behind the scenes. Everything looked very average.
Before he realised, the two of them were walking amongst some inconspicuous back alleyways. The ground here was rougher, and the tall buildings cast ominous shadows around them. Jaryll looked up. Gargantuan, concrete walls surrounded them in a maze of alleys. The end of their path turned right into a secluded lane, and ended.
"What's this?" Jaryll folded his arms, hunching as he examined his unpromising surroundings.
"This, is where you finally get to see me do my thing," Terrence smiled, but then paused, "Mm, it's just occurred to me, you still haven't read the book Alice sent you,"
"This? Who's Alice?" Jaryll produced the book from his bag.
"Never mind—I doubt it's going to be immediately important. But anyway, you'll get to meet her soon. Alice, I mean,"
Facing toward the open end of the alley, Terrence gestured his hand in a single punch-like motion. The edges of the stone walls protruded out, and then what Jaryll could barely identify to be words flashed past in a split second, morphing to form a solid stone partition in the exact style, colour and material of the existing ones—all within a fraction of a blink of an eye. He stood still, paralysed by awe and admiration from the spectacle he had just witnessed. The new wall continued from the other seamlessly, trapping the two of them in a rectangular space.
"...That was amazing," he managed to squeeze the words out of his lips, holding back the immaturity to place his hand on the wall and give it a knock or two.
"What? Oh, you'll get used to it, but thanks anyway," Terrence chuckled. Jaryll looked at him with dilated eyes, a half grin growing across his face.
"It's Terra now, by the way," Terrence turned on his heel, walking toward the opposite wall of the space.
"Terra?"
"My real name, the one my writer gave me. Well—I guess she gave us all our human names too, but Terra's what I go by. It's a little less instinctive to respond to 'Terrence',"
The dead end had now dissipated into nothingness, and the floor slid open to reveal metal bars that formed a ladder leading downward to an underground passageway.
"Down there...?" Jaryll pointed.
"After you. Or if it makes you feel any better, I'll go first,"
"...Please,"
Venturing deeper in, Jaryll could hear the wall building back up behind them and the floor moving back, the tunnel gradually becoming consumed by shadow. A rush of excitement and jitteriness coursed through his veins, neutralising the still-resonating unease just a little bit. It all felt like his fantasies were coming true—albeit not like how he had imagined, but it was exhilarating to see it in action nonetheless. He questioned how such a phenomenal ability had the capacity to become society's greatest controversy, and what was probably the most illegal thing ever.
They reached the bottom rather abruptly, and if not for Terra, Jaryll wouldn't have been able to tell the floor from the darkness around him. He stumbled around, rather forlorn in his blindness as he felt around for his bearings.
"We wouldn't happen to need to go through this entire place in the dark, would we?"
"That's the way it is," Terra sighed, "Nah, just kidding. You don't have to look so upset,"
With a click from the flipping of a light switch, a long series of hallways were illuminated before them. Dim, white lights hung from the ceiling and the walls were light blue. It smelled very metallic. They began walking, as Terra led.
"Is this the secret passage to one of the faction's houses?" Jaryll heard his voice echo off the walls.
"No. We'd have been infiltrated easily if this was our only defense," Terra pointed ahead, "This is a series of hidden hallways I built beneath a large corporate building. It's a pharmaceuticals company called VL Pharmaceuticals, and their head scientist happens to be a man who goes by Caine Devin,"
"Caine Devin?"
Jaryll contained his exclamation. He had heard both those names many times on the news, famous for their medical discoveries and breakthroughs. Mr. Devin was famous for being a young genius in pharmaceutical chemistry. Considering his widespread fame, Jaryll shuddered, thinking of all the other secrets that the city contained beneath it. One came to mind.
"Wait, so his brother, the socialite—"
"Yeah, he's fictitious too,"
A brief silence of contemplation passed. The reality of the world of fiction settled in his mind, adding even more dimension to his understanding of it.
"So you were saying about this building, where are we?"
"I was saying, that if just having an underground passage was sufficient, the FRU wouldn't be able to arrest anyone. However, they do have a very convenient tendency to ignore whatever the real people are doing. Since it's a huge, reputable corporation that's run by real people, the FRU has no business being anywhere around here. That, and there's no way to get in here without my help. A sledgehammer couldn't make a scratch on those walls," Terra boasted.
"So you made all this?" Jaryll looked around, bewildered.
"Well, I'm the only character from the Flame that controls earth. Fantasy has its perks, after all. Saves time trying to get people to build stuff,"
"You must be a pretty important character, huh?"
Terra burst into laughter, "Me? I—"
He wanted to continue, "I may be a Flame character, it's my writer who has the rank," but he didn't know why. A mild feeling of dissatisfaction and uncertainty bit at him, but he couldn't place his finger on what was wrong.
"Yeah, I guess so," he resumed, sustaining a weak, heartless chuckle.
"Is something the matter?"
"The matter? Yeah, we need to start walking faster,"
"And where exactly are we headed? It's just a long bunch of hallways,"
"A library. It's one of the Flame libraries. They're all pretty small, but they're hidden in very obscure locations—essentially, it's an empty cube surrounded by soil. This one is the HQ,"
A library. Again, the nervousness that had been chewing away at him was starting to cut through to Jaryll. He had never read, even though he had taught himself to by listening to audio books and reading signboards. Every day, he'd hear news of people reading too much fiction, then they'd keel over and die right in the middle of a street. The book he was still holding had to be read eventually, but Jaryll continued to ignore it. Now, he was going to be surrounded by them. It sounded stupid, really, afraid of piles of paper, but the things they could do and the people who made them—so little was ever said or heard about them, that the imagination filled in all the gaps with the very worst the government had to say.
They eventually came to an elevator. Its doors were the same colour as the walls, and to the right there were two buttons with arrows for up and down. Terra pressed the down button, which lit up with a faint red light. They stood there, waiting for the elevator to arrive while subtle mechanical whirring became background noise.
"I thought it'd be more...high-tech than this," Jaryll coughed awkwardly.
"What did you expect, retinal scanners and handprints?" Terra glared.
"Well when you put it like that..."
"Lesson number one on fictitious people for you, Jaryll," there was a soft ding as the elevator arrived and the doors slid smoothly open, "Characters don't have any biometric data,"
"Oh," he paused, not exactly due to some great astonishment, but to pace out his answer, "Why is that?"
They had stepped inside now. The inside of the elevator was completely different from the bland corridors. A beautiful design of uneven stripes with varnished wood and mirrors decorated the walls, and the floor had a thick green carpet. Terra leaned heavily against the back of the elevator.
"We're about to meet the Flame writers now. If you're so curious, I'm sure they'd be more than happy to answer," Terra simpered.
After a prolonged stillness, the slight shakes of the elevator halted, and another ding preceded the elevator doors sliding open again. In front of them, the view of the library slowly widened from a thin line to a full panorama. The green carpet extended into the centre of the library, where a solid oak table was positioned—and at the table, there sat four people.
8: Chapter 8The back room of the Scarlet Letter Library was a relatively large space, with several red velvet divans and matching ottomans. Inside, the smell of cigarette smoke lingered with touches of perfume, and there was a writing desk in the corner. A coffee table sat in the centre.
"So, Mr. Cheval, Mr. Noir," Aer took a seat and looked at each man as he addressed them, "What matters did you wish to address?"
The couple sat side by side on the divan, Vaughn's hand on Zenya's knee. A cloud of distress hung over them, both continuing to glance at each other in concern.
"As you know, we've been running this library together with extreme discretion for the past four years," Vaughn began, "not only because of the illegal nature of our work, but because my husband is a whisperer,"
"Yes, that's right. You've been hiring us for protection racketeering since your books are of such high value," Ignis replied.
"What's the big problem, exactly?" Aqua tapped her finger against the coffee table impatiently, "Are you going to tell us some bad news now?"
"How perceptive, Aqua," Zenya muttered.
"Mm, yeah, you wish your characters had half my wits in anything that wasn't sex," she teased.
Zenya gave a brisk groan, denying her any amusement. He and his husband wore grave expressions on their faces, eliminating whatever notes of comedy could have been had in the face of, what everyone in the room had recognised to be, a substantially more serious and immediate threat.
"...I see, so it is a big problem," Aqua grimaced, wishing now that she had not let her mouth run.
"There have been rumours from our regular clients, saying that the FRU is starting to catch on to our library. We're worried that the man you killed on such short notice may have been a bit too much of a hint—that, and Junos is somehow pulling miracles in her forensics lab. They've been onto us for a while with no success, but with this sudden change of plot, there's a chance that if we continue operations..."
Vaughn's voice tapered off. The words he spoke left an unsavoury aftertaste in his mouth, the same kind of after effect it had on his heart. He held his head in frustration; then, he turned to Zenya, an unsteady hand reaching for his and giving it a meaningful squeeze. Both their eyes were equally fretful and grief-filled, their glances reciprocating feelings of regret and acceptance. The siblings remained speechless—too afraid to disturb the fragility and tenderness being shared between the two writers.
"That if you continue...hey, what are you trying to say?" Aqua nearly wanted to exclaimed, appalled by what Vaughn was insinuating, "What do you mean, you're closing down Scarlet Letter?"
"I-I see the situation, but this seems quite drastic. Aer, say something—" Ignis insisted.
"Mr. Noir, Mr. Cheval, do you deem with utmost certainty that ceasing operations is the most favourable course of action?"
"Please, everyone, calm down," Vaughn held up his hand, distressed by the siblings' reactions. Zenya and Vaughn had expected to encounter some discord upon mentioning the matter. "We have to cease operations for now; our future grows ever unpredictable. That is exactly why I called for you,"
"We've been friends for a while now, so we figured we ought to tell you guys; for business, if anything. But in short," Zenya gave a sorrowful half-smile, "our love affair with literature has arrived at its bitter last pages. We'll come to bid our friendship adieu as well,"
There was a long pause, as everyone let the discomfort of reality sink in.
"If it truly must be done," Aer sighed, "The outcomes I predict are not disastrous for our relation,"
"Mm," Ignis' poignant expression slowly formed the words, "Y'know, it's not the end of the world. You can abandon your minor affairs and dedicate yourselves to each other—ah, with the millions and millions of dollars you haven't paid us with, of course,"
"Honestly Zenya, the way you talk is like giving away the fact that you're a writer," Aqua tried to mock, still half-heartedly, "Our love affair with literature, huh? Don't make me laugh, as if I'd ever be done making fun of you,"
The unexpected yet forced optimism seemed to wash away some of the harsh truth they were being confronted with—even though everyone in the room remained in denial of the that truth. Distasteful sentiments evolved to a more subtle, palatable bitter-sweetness. Their sanguine remarks replaced the dull atmosphere of the back room with a more hopeful resolution. Zenya and Vaughn let the illusion of safety entertain them a bit, neglecting the sullenness of the situation.
"Mm, to truly abandon the literary world may prove rather difficult for you with regards to our relationship, sirs," Aer added.
"Maybe so," Zenya spoke melancholically, "Maybe so,"
9: Chapter 9Jaryll took a seat at the end of the table, slowly assessing the other attendants. Two were male, the other two female, and two of them looked vaguely like brother and sister, though he couldn't be certain. Terra strode up to one of the women, the older one of the two.
"Mission complete, I've brought Mr. Jaryll Christensen here to the Flame library in Eritz, completely undetected and all in one piece," he gave Jaryll a firm pat on the back. His hand was very solid and stiff, not at all like flesh and bone.
"Mm, and a job well done, too," the woman nodded, "Right, let's commence the meeting. Terra, stand guard by the door, would 'ya?"
"Sure thing, Ellen,"
She dismissed him with a wave of the hand, turning back to the table as he stood by the elevator they had emerged from. "So she must be his writer," Jaryll concluded. He considered the time she must have spent, writing and detailing each word, sentence and paragraph. Terra represented the living culmination of her literary work. His mind wandered, looking at the other writers, wondering what kinds of characters they had, and estimating the hours they spent pouring their creative genius into them.
"You must be very tired and equally as surprised," one of the men spoke to him. He was rather elderly, probably nearing his seventies, with thin creases and wrinkles tracing out a portrait of old age, and voice that sounded very mild and gentle.
"I-I'd agree to the latter more than anything," Jaryll's own voice shook with a mixture of anticipation and tension, all amounting to sheer anxiety, "Are you all writers?"
"Well of course," the younger girl's voice intruded, "Naturally, you're looking at the best of the best—we're Eritz's Literary Masters. Right, Leon?"
There was an uncomfortable silence accompanying her unanticipated burst of fervour. She was staring at the young man Jaryll had suspected to be her brother: they both had the same silver hair and dark ochre eyes, albeit the girl's seemed more unnaturally vibrant. After a while, her lips coiled into an irritated scowl, as she scoffed and began to pout angrily. Leon glanced up, rather lost.
"Hm? Oh, uh, yeah. Literature things. Sure, whatever," Leon fumbled tersely, only briefly pulling his focus away from what he had been holding in his hand before resuming his position. A strange shock struck Jaryll, as the realisation that Leon was writing dawned on him; though by this point, he didn't know why he should have found it by any means surprising.
"Pay attention, Leon—this is really important," the excited girl stressed, though to no avail.
"Now, now, settle down everyone. We're making a bad impression. Leon, please refrain from writing while we're having meetings. As for you, Alice, kindly keep outbursts to a minimum during discussions," the elderly man's gentleness relieved the situation. His name was Luca Lundberh.
"Tch, you talk like you're the boss, old man," Alice fell back into her seat, frowning, "Oh, my bad—and here I was thinking that I'm the top writer,"
Luca kept his facial expression very still, turning to look at the girl. His face didn't change, yet Jaryll could tell that there was danger flashing in his amiable eyes.
"So you're Alice," Jaryll turned to the girl. She didn't look much younger than him—only three years or so, he reckoned. Upon a closer inspection, she seemed very pretty, and he suddenly felt bashful for speaking to her so hastily.
"That's right: Alice Fischer, fiction-writing extraordinaire, the highest ranking Literary Master and de facto leader of the Flame, faction head of the Wolves of Fenrir," she extended her hand to Jaryll, needing to stand up a bit to reach him. He held it for a shake, and then paused.
"Fischer? I thought your name was Christensen too,"
He could see her eyes squinting in annoyance, her grip tightening as she flinched at the sound of the name 'Christensen'.
"Really hittin' the red flag there, newbie," Ellen tapped Jaryll's arm, "How stupid, she obviously introduced herself already, right? Take a hint,"
Jaryll removed his hand from Alice's hold, pocketing it submissively. Ellen's cynicism reminded him of Terra's remarks. The apple did not fall far from the figurative tree, he supposed, in more regards than one. He glanced back at Alice, hoping that he had not completely sabotaged his future in the city by offending her; seeing her eyes cast to a corner as she furrowed her brows and bit her lip, however, did nothing to nurture this hope.
Her sarcastic voice continued, "Did you tell him, Terra?"
"Not like it's a big deal, right? Since when did anyone call you Ms. Fischer or Ms. Christensen anyway, Alice?" he countered coolly.
"Alright now, settle down you lot—"
Amidst the quarrel, cluttered impressions formed in Jaryll's mind. These were the kings and queens—the Kina Junos-es, if you would—of the fictitious underworld: a haughty, energetic girl; a docile, elderly man with unspoken hints of danger; a bitter, facetious woman whose personality echoed into her creations; and a blunt, tepid young man. They were the impenetrable force that lay out of the FRU's nearly omnipotent rule. In fact, they were the only thing standing between the FRU and the destruction of fiction. He had a kind of blind respect formed for them, a respect that he didn't quite know what to do with now. Perhaps this eccentricity and chaos was, in truth, the necessary establishment for an effective resistance against a vicious, rigid dictatorship. Through significant effort, he quelled his bafflement.
The kick, however, was the fact that he was about to become part of this. His appeal to be their human medium of communication ensured close contact with all of them. He wondered if he should have started to regret it.
10: Chapter 10She looked him down, scrutinising his poor attire. His dark cobalt overcoat was tattered, needing a wash probably, and it was much too big for his small frame. It hung on his hunched shoulders miserably. Deciding that aggravation wasn't the wisest card to be playing at this point, Alice folded her arms.
"Let it be. Yeah, it's legally Alice Christensen. It's a common name," in Alice's mind, she considered the effects that would come if she were to drop a hint regarding her social standing. It could have made her seem too overbearing at this point, but the effect of knowing how closely the real and fictitious associate, considering the impact of her reputation, had a substantial chance of enforcing the greatness of fiction in his mind. "Don't get the wrong idea though—judging by your attire, it's evident that we're worlds apart by more means that one,"
"Honestly, Alice; what sort of manners do they teach you up there with the first-rates? To berate is a poor use of well-guised boastfulness, and to boast is a poor use of a well-earned reputation," Luca tutted disapprovingly, shaking his head. He had identified Alice's intention to introduce her grand plan, and seamlessly corroborated the point. He was not second in command without good reason.
Jaryll raised his eyebrows, but not any objections. Alice recognised his lack of confidence: the unmistakable look of 'wishing he hadn't heard that but knowing that it was true anyway'. She glanced at Leon from the corner of her eye, who had now stopped writing. Their actions were not simply disorganised outbursts of randomness, but they could all tell that Jaryll was still blind to this fact.
"You're getting sidetracked. I'm kinda sick of this, too," Leon placed his book and pen on the table, speaking with much more tact than his initially weak comments, "Jaryll, you've applied for a very risky job in a very dire time. You realise this, and in spite of the..."less-than-reliable" impressions we've given you in the past ten or so minutes, you're still adamant. I, as well as the rest of us—well, I hope we're rather in agreement about this anyway, or this'd be embarrassing—feel that some elaboration is in order,"
They all distinguished a face of disbelief as Jaryll's eyes dilated and his mouth opened a tad, not quite convinced that it was an elaborate ruse. For the past two and a half years or so, the Flame houses agreed that as a result of Kina Junos' rise to power, that it was no longer safe to accept human members into factions factoring in the risk of a spy. The present members were few and sworn to secrecy—in Ellen's faction, they partook in illegal activity; while Leon and Alice's factions worked to extend fictitious influence and sway public opinions against propaganda. Prior to Jaryll's arrival, they had all agreed to act with extremities of personality to examine his reactions. It was a reliability test in the form of a well-executed scheme.
"E-Excuse me?" Jaryll could barely stutter.
"Don't sound too surprised now," Luca chuckled, "Certainly you didn't expect such direct, crude tantrums now, did you?" His voice went unexpectedly soft, fringing on deadly, "We're Eritz's Literary Masters. It is not without some format that we elect to allow someone common to join our side, particularly so in such a severe time of mistrust,"
"Sheesh, relax. Our point just was to see if you had any weird reactions. You were totally caught off guard, so that's peachy-perfect. An FRU spy would've been examinin' us left and right to analyse behavourial patterns—so obviously, we had to act up a bit," Ellen rolled her eyes, her pessimism extending forevermore. In spite of what she had just said, there was a general unspoken consensus that Ellen's temperament was barely exaggerated in comparison to her typical personality.
"Ah, I see. That's very cunning of you," his reply began to form, "Sorry, but if I may ask—um, that is, with a genuine reply now—could we discuss the terms of my..."occupation"?" the quote on quote was gestured.
The feeling of surprise previously thrust upon Jaryll had now drifted on to the writers now—reason being, their actions had not so much as fazed him. Approving glances were exchanged between them. The confidence of trust started to sprout, convinced of his promise. Jaryll's awkward yet absolute keenness was an immense merit, despite seeming to him like just a pathetic attempt to steer the topic of conversation.
"Alright, I have a question for you. Where does your motivation lie?" Alice's piercing voice now found subtlety with an added curiosity and interest, "What is making you so sure that you want this? You're a completely average individual, from the countryside devoid of fictitious crimes and mass intervention. You even mentioned the dedications to your mother when you had the audacity to approach one of my faction members outside a library. To be succinct, I demand that you elucidate this mystery that is your dedication to us,"
For the next few seconds, there was nothing but an unusually dense quietness befalling the library. Jaryll's eyes dropped to watch his fingers twisting between each other, as the writers sustained their intent glares of anticipation.
"Well?" Terra interrupted.
"Alice," Jaryll spoke, not shifting his vision at all.
"Yes?"
"If I didn't mishear you, you said this: 'the countryside is devoid of fictitious crime'. Is that right?"
"It is,"
"Well, that's true. It's as if this whole commotion with libraries and fiction and reading doesn't even exist out there. I'm lucky that I had the bare resources to learn how to read—even if I've never actually tried it. Safe from me, not a soul I know is bothered about this imminent problem, this looming onslaught that's destined to engulf us all,"
Surprised was an understatement now. In the writers' eyes, he had abandoned his trepidation, speaking of his intentions with utmost honesty, brutality and flair. The rawness of his emotion was captivating. Jaryll didn't blink, but that left the passion in his eyes undisturbed.
He continued, "But there's more to it: the severe lack of intervention has more demerits than you would expect. In Maris, every soul is scraping their way to live through each day, poverty-stricken, starved. The government is so dead set on awarding the rich and crushing the fictitious, that the poor have been pushed to a ledge. When I was younger, the nation was swept with recession—but it was the characters from a faction in the city who came to aid our crisis. Their writer understood the pain we were suffering through. But the FRU came to chase them away, and torture us for any information they may have left,"
Jaryll stood up now, rising to meet the eyes of the mesmerised writers.
"Everyone blamed the fictitious for bringing about chaos in their wake. But I believed that the authorities were the one to blame. Please, I beg of you—let me fight on your side. I know the risks of being captured, and death is not a small odd, but I swear I'll keep my word. So, please—"
"But are you sure you can do it?" Leon's sudden question sliced down Jaryll's hopeful eyes.
"What?"
"He means this: you say you'll keep your word, and that you'll work for us as our communicator, but how qualified are you? To blend in and not draw the attention of the enemy, and your efficiency as a communicator—it's fundamental immediately after your obedience," Ellen explained.
"I—well, it's just—I can, of course—"
In the face of their interrogation, they could see him falling into doubt. His stutters fell short of any reply.
"Stop scaring him now, he's just poured his emotions out to us, everyone," Luca overtook Jaryll's dishevelled response, then to him he spoke, "Jaryll, you've been blessed to see the beauty of fiction while many have only been allowed to see its destruction. However, it is essential that I warn you—by partaking in this war, this pristine picture of our world will inevitably be tarnished by a harsh reality. You may regret it,"
Jaryll sat down now, biting his lip, dousing his apprehension with determination. Alice looked at him, his resolve holding up, even when beginning to be eaten away by fear. She saw his purity as the perfect tool in contrast the vindictiveness the rest of them had been exposed to. "This", she thought, "is what we need, the purity of faith in our world,"
"Knowing this, I'll ask you once. Jaryll Christensen," Alice left her seat, walking toward Jaryll. She clutched his arm, pulling him up to face her directly; bringing the book that was in his hand between them, she asked, "Will you accept the duty to serve as the human communicator and intelligence between the FLME factions, knowing that death is not just a possibility?"
His reply, to the disbelief of everyone present in the library, was almost immediate; his commitment shone through the layers of consternation that they had expected to deter him.
"You can bloody bet I will,"
Terra's stiff, gritty-sounding applause felt warm in such touching context, even though literally, it was devoid of any such tones. The writers smiled, their laughs of surprise and claps of relief making for the minor celebration of Jaryll's blind leap of faith.
11: Chapter 11The working day was cut short, for reasons unknown, though its mystery was not anything unusual. Officers submitted their paperwork and exited the FRU headquarters, the near-synchronised taps of their standard-issue boots loud against the floor tiles. At HQ, there were a hundred or so FRU officers: most were assigned to different precincts all around Eritz, and those in charge were the Deputies, who were directly under the Chief Officer. Between the lower ranking officers and Deputies were the Managing Officers—and while Terris fell under this category, a Managing Officer had no real power or significance in comparison to his subordinates, though the title came with all the downsides of responsibility.
Terris did not usually hang about the main building much. His area was a little distance off in the Arctus Park District, and it took a good fifteen minutes by car to travel between the two places. He appreciated that his area was rather quiet, and that fiction crimes were low; on the other hand, more often than not it made his son wonder whether or not they were doing their jobs right. Junos' suspicions fell under the same shadow.
"Hey, what did the Chief talk to you about?" Lark sounded eager to be privy to his superiors' discourse. They were in the car, on the way back from the main building now.
"Just some details from the case," his father replied.
"I heard her a bit from down the hall. Didn't she call it a homicide? What was that about?" he badgered.
His father grunted, "Further investigations revealed that Mr. Maron was suffocated, and his murderers were likely to be fictitious,"
"Wow, really? The chief really one-upped you there, huh, dad?"
"Mm hm," Terris heaved a heavy sigh, "Things were easier before,"
"Before?" Lark hesitated, "...Oh. With your old partner...?"
Back in the day, when Kina Junos was had just gained her position, Terris had a partner. It was then that they were a formidable duo, their abilities a true model for the young officers of their time. It was arguably because of him that the FRU grew to be the monstrous organisation it was today. This man, Officer Christensen, was an outstanding officer to many, but the higher-ranking officials saw him significant for a different reason: he was a whisperer. When he was discovered, Junos had cut him a deal—he could go on being Terris' partner and an officer if he was able to use his powers to create a method of de-writing characters without their writers. And so he did.
"He was a whisperer, right?" Lark's question struck a minor chord with his father.
"Yes, he was,"
"Is that why he was terminated? That must've been rough, finding out your partner was one of the people you had been arresting. He's lucky for having served with the FRU, or he wouldn't have gotten away with a termination,"
Terris gripped the steering wheel tightly, refusing to respond at first. His own son's bluntness infuriated him, but he could not express his voice of reason regardless how desperately he wanted to do so. It stung even more that that was the lasting impression that still lived with every person who knew about the case.
"Lark," he turned to his son, "Listen. I know how with the kind of work we do, that it's hard to see whisperers in a good light. But you gotta understand that between being a whisperer and being a fiction writer, that one of those is an inevitable and natural trait,"
"What do you mean? Chief says no whisperer can be trusted. Like, if you had the power to materialise anything from writing, would you even hesitate?"
"Yes, I would,"
Terris had stopped the car. They were in the front lot of their usual office, a smaller brown building. Terris placed his hand on his son's, looking him directly in the eye.
"Listen to me. You can't trust everything Chief Junos says. Her word is not law, and it's not always right. Imagine the kind of persecution you would have to go through, if you were a whisperer but never did anything illegal. It'd be torturous," he insisted, hoping to touch whatever humanity had not been corrupted within him.
"If I were a whisperer, I'd turn myself in right away," Lark loosened his hand from his father's grip. He felt uncomfortable, not quite sure where the conversation was going to go. Terris' eyes fell, feeling only disappointment as a result of his son's blindness.
"If you were a whisperer, I'd do my best to protect you, still. Could you say the same for me?"
He exited the car, leaving his ominous words to his son's interpretation. Lark sat, perplexed. Between them, it was common knowledge that his father did not enjoy their work, but it never became a matter disclosed to his fellow officers. There had never been an instance where Terris openly expressed his displeasure to his son, or explicitly spoke against Chief Officer Junos' words. But now, both father and son were faced with simultaneous dilemmas.
Lark stared at his phone screen, wondering if he should call the Chief Officer, but put it down.
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