Yore

by pseudonym_enjoyer

Summary:

Short "mystery" chapters written to indirectly explore Binah as a character.

Chapter 1: The Box

 A woman kneels on the floor of a spacious dwelling, her hands rummaging through a box filled with indecipherable figurines of tarnishing gold. As she searches, the innumerable manikins contort and dull, shying away from direct observation. Her view catches one, fixing it in place. She grabs at it; it takes the shape of a giant standing guard for its progeny. She holds it in her hands and scours it as its luster fades, her gaze marring it until it dissolves between her fingers and falls to the bottom of the box as a blackened mess. With a vacant face, she reseals the box, graceful hands folding the flaps and taping the seams with care. The box is stored away. She straightens herself, and sits in a vintage rocking chair incapable of the onerous task of its namesake. Her eyes close.
There is a knock at the door to her chamber. "You are admitted," she says.
 A man sidles open the door. His eyes lock with hers; he meets an expression like heat death through eyes that cannot conceal the ardent spark of intelligence. "Yesod is having a gathering, if you'd like to join us for dinner in a few hours. He doesn't expect any pizazz, just some time together."
"Dinner... there is seldom the perfume of prepared food in this place."
"So that means you're interested?"
"I will partake."
"Glad to hear it, ma'am. It's at 4."
He pulls shut the door with care, leaving the room bathed in silence.

---

 Eschewing an early arrival, Binah descends the winding stairs of the Library, physically stepping across the distinction between the blue-haired noble and the hotheaded warrior. Reflective glass and soft blue light transform into a burning gulch set between basins of molten metal. She continues nearly all the way to the ground floor, and walks through an automatic sliding airlock into Yesod's abode. The Patron Librarians gather on the Floor of Technological Sciences; the congregation sits circumjacent to an aluminum table that is already set with plates and utensils. Yesod is elsewhere. The air is rich with the scent of roast chicken. Roland and Netzach have their arms on each other's shoulders already. Chesed and Gebura are talking next to Tiphereth and Hokma. Angela converses with Hod and Malkuth, who holds a book close to her chest.
 Binah sits by the end of the table, leaving a spot at the table's head for somebody else to sit. She prepares herself a cup of tea, and scans the room. There is a grand-looking push door set in the middle of a bookshelf up against the wall. Binah stands and walks over to it, passing through it to reveal an immaculate kitchen, with Yesod and his assistant librarians walking about. The calamity of the actions in the kitchen would be undetectable were one not inside the room: No cacophony, no fumbling, no aggravation is to be found, though the tension in the room is palpable.
"Company is in the other room," Yesod says, his focus on a pan as it steams broccoli.

 Garion stands in front of the stove in her apartment. A child is in the common room, reading Discourse on the Method of Rightly Conducting One's Reason. The curtains are ajar, subduing the wan light of the clouds as it bids to illuminate the rooms so that the juvenile may read. A seasoned steak sizzles over a thin film of butter as the pan sears lines into its flesh. It spits, spurring the sensation of a pinch on Garion's wrist.

"I am aware of that," Binah says.
"Wanted a change of scenery, then?"
"Perchance you are correct. Perchance, also, I am au fait with the culinary practice."
"We don't need any help, but thank you for your concern. We'll be done in here in short time." The broccoli is a healthy green. Yesod shuffles it about with a wooden spoon. "Can I offer you anything?"
"No, thank you. It is pleasant to see a kitchen so unblemished."
Yesod looks at the door. "Kind words."
"I shall take my leave."
She steps back out and returns to her seat at the table. The tea is still hot. Binah raises the teacup to her face and breathes in the essence of the tea before taking a sip.
 Roland and Netzach are deep in conversation; Roland breaks the cap off of a beer bottle as would a barbarian, then offers it to Netzach, before repeating the process for himself. Chesed and Gebura are laughing. Hokma is sharing a bottle of wine with Angela's crowd, inciting her usual chagrin. Tiphereth is standing excluded near Chesed and Gebura, unspeaking. She meets Binah's eye, then juts between the two adults, berating them for making jokes that she doesn't understand.
 The assistant librarians hustle out of the kitchen, each carrying casserole dishes of cooked foods and vegetables. Pots of mashed potatoes, string beans, broccoli, carrots and parsnips; all are present in the hands of each assistant. Another comes out with a large tray with freshly baked bread and butter. Yesod is the last to exit the kitchen, carrying with him two enormous roast chickens and a sauciere of brown gravy. It is all set down on the table.
"Can't say how long it's been since I was treated to something like this," Gebura says.
Yesod gives the details of this masterwork to 9 pairs of uncomprehending ears as he slices the chicken. There is a precise temperature that poultry must reach that is contingent on the type and amount of seasoning used. Potatoes can become gooey if mishandled. String beans develop a squeak if left to absorb too much water.
The monologue slows.
"-Thanks for going through the trouble. Sure smells good," Gebura says.
"Thank you for coming."
The librarians begin to dig in, making plates for themselves according to their tastes. Some pile up a feast for themselves; others make scant servings.
"You know," Netzach starts, "I don't remember you ever coming to my floor to borrow any books on the art of cooking, Yesod."
"That is because I never did such a thing."
"You... already knew how to run a kitchen like this?"
"It is an acquired skill."
The librarians continue eating, talking amongst themselves in low voices.

 The steak is delicious. Garion sits at the countertop. The heat of paprika and the brightness of lemon zest dance around the bold flavors of the ribeye, letting one appreciate the muscle of an animal subjugated for others' benefit. She cuts it down the middle, putting the other half on a plate and balancing it with pasta and vegetables. She calls to the other room, and the child dallies to the counter and sits next to Garion before making a face unbecoming of her future occupation.

 There is a howl of laughter. "AND THEN--" More laughter. "And then he said his wife called him a sex machine. Right? But he goes: Well, her actual words were 'You're a fucking tool, Olivier.' But I knew what she meant." The suited man's face is flushed. His, Netzach and Gebura's faces all contort from the hysterics and merriment that Cityfolk are wont to engage with. The other librarians convene a short distance away, in a ring of chairs around a low table in the center. Binah stands. The other librarians' plates, if not scoured of food, have mere scraps remaining. Binah's retains a full serving. The splash of tea left in her cup no longer lets off any steam.
She pushes her chair in and walks to the other librarians.
"Hi, Binah. We were just talking about doing something fun like this again!" Malkuth says. "Maybe somebody's birthday is coming soon?"
"I don't see a meaning in celebrating birthdays. I organized this event because I feel that there is no longer a need to reject socialization between ourselves. We should be able to see each other in what has become a peaceful afterlife," Yesod says, his eyes turning to Binah now that she is seated.
"An afterlife... that is how you describe our condition, I see."
"Do you disagree?"
"There are a great deal of lenses one could choose to view our state through. An afterlife is quite suitable a comparison, as is a purgatory."
Yesod opens his mouth, looks at the table, then raises his head again. "Let's not digress. I mean to say that we don't need a special occasion to give us an excuse. We can simply pick a time and place. Does anyone else want to host the next event?"
"I would love to. I'm afraid I have some reading to do on the topic of food preparation, though~"
"That will not be a problem, Chesed. Do you know how long you're going to need?"
"A week should be fine~"
The plans are settled. The companions continue on with minor chit-chats, nothing that gets the mind moving.

---

 Binah mounts the staircase alone. "A peaceful afterlife," says an echo. It is an interesting perspective to see the Library as an afterlife. Is it deserved? Can one forfeit such a birthright? Most would say that Evil is the rescinder of that heritage. That a muddied, indefinite concept has that ultimate power. Does a fledgling's self succumb to Evil by burning ants with a magnifying glass? They are too insignificant, too simple, to warrant suchlike. What of an adult's soul? Is that fouled by stomping out the life of a writhing insect? The insect's life is nugatory compared to that of the colossus. But then there are scores of writhing insects, that each aspire to consume more and more until they, too, can be leviathan. Can one that stamps out those insects manifold be justified? Do legions of motes carry the same value as a giant?

 She pulls open the closet door. A terrified urchin, a little blonde, looks up at Garion in horror. Words can't even form on her lips. Tears well in her eyes. She makes that face that all people do. The singular face that tells whoever sees it that they are truly alive, that they are animate. There is not ample time to savor it. The waif is released to the great dark. She must share the same fate as all the others in this facility.

 The door to the Inner Chamber of Philosophy glides open without a creak. A woman enters in solitude, kneels on the floor, and opens a box filled with figurines of lackluster gold. As she reaches into the box, the figurines melt away from her hands, a fluid pool that parts like an opened scar. One does not melt. She picks it up, and looks it over. Its every detail is lucid; its hundred snake heads twist into hexagons as they spew glittering flame, the plume of its spiked coat occluding its vision and channeling its ire only to where the fur allows. A plaque on its base reads:

"Typhon."

 She turns it in her grip before placing the statue gently back into the box. As she pulls her hands away, the shining liquid falls back into place, dissolves the unaccompanied figure, and again congeals into edgeless effigies. Neither wistfulness nor mirth occupies her face as she closes the box with care and stows it away, completing the ritual that no one else may see.

Chapter 2: Tailors

Summary:

The Judges look down on the commonfolk.

 Countless people have met the void trying to sidestep what culminates from their past. That such comes to be is a law of nature, a universal truth. Yet, the cosmos does not permit guarantees. Indeed, all of the certainties that humanity discovers are violated eventually. Is it egoism to assert oneself to be the exception to the rule? Perhaps so. A select few denizens of the City are exceptional, after all. How many are so extraordinary to refute the order of things?
 Binah is sitting in a lavish chair that would serve the eye better than the bones. There is no furniture on the entrance floor that is meant to be used for comfort. The memory of death and desperation percolates from the veneer of the Foyer's décor, leaving neither Angela nor the Librarians to use the space without a reason.
It's beautiful.
 The Assistant Librarians of the Floor of Philosophy have earned their freedom. They are not denied a guarded slumber, yet they do not take it. They have a right to reject it; none of them turned their face from their duties. If they wish to socialize and celebrate, they may do just so. It is not the case that any din would render An Arbiter incapable of composing her thoughts, although it is much easier to deliberate in the absence of sound, in a place like this.
 Silence booms through the Foyer in a haphazard sprint; notwithstanding the defiance of his title, he glues his chest to the lobby door. He pulls out a pair of binoculars and scans his surroundings through the glass.
"Ah-ha!"
He throws the door open and runs outside, his legs' attempts to stomp on the sand yielding soft patters that fade with his presumed distance from the Library. Binah shuts her reading material around her finger and watches the door. Sprinklings of sand and dust slip through the entrance at the wind's command. Angela now stands at the base of the stairway, looking out the front door. Both women are wearing the same face as the footsteps return, the ruckus ramping up until Roland occupies the doorway. He steps in without shutting the door, clutching a rare artifact. He looks at Binah, then at Angela. He laughs. Two pairs of eyes focus on his loaded fist. He opens his hand, revealing the treasure for all to see.

Binah returns to her reading.

 She reopens The Two Selves: Their Metaphysical Commitments and Functional Independence, releasing her squeezed extremity from the paper. The bygone author’s perspective on self-reflection is of particular value, obvious as it is; one’s ability to understand oneself is limited by that which their mind retains. A human’s temperament is shaped by experience and their environs; it is tied to these factors, but the given form does not immediately go away when the person is removed from stimulation. A foreigner does not forgo their accent the instant that they change habitations; a Backstreets dweller takes years to abandon even half of their weariness. Personality, then, is an indicator of one’s past; perhaps for some, it is the only one that is still scrutable.
"I told you there would be one here! See?"
"You stared out the window with binoculars for two hours so you could retrieve a napkin."
"You said 'Oh, they wouldn't do that, it's not a good business venture, Roland,' but I have proof right here that I was right!"
"You called for my attention and said it was urgent in order to show me a napkin."
Roland straightens himself. "Think about it from another angle, ma’am. It’s a HamHamPangPang napkin -- there is a branch in the Outskirts! Of all places!"
"You don't know that. It could have blown over here from the City or what's left of the L Corp Nest."
"Ah, you just don't want to be wrong!"
Angela sighs, and then she is gone. Roland chuckles, and starts on his way to his floor with light steps, never abandoning his inspection of the napkin.
 Binah rights her head, and looks beyond the vacant staircase at which her eyes point. A grown man was driven giddy by the prospect of access to his favorite comfort food, exuding glee for the hope of satisfying a material craving. The whole concept is alien; that people should be so vulnerable to a potential lure, or so enthralled by wanton desire, is a curiosity of human nature. Yet there exist people who do not behave akin; Binah is evidence thereof. Are there those that are born without this affinity for covetous impulsiveness? Are there those for which this trait is taken from them, drained from them along with their humanity? If both are possible, then to which stratum does the gaunt woman belong?
 It is not caducity that has burned her memories to consumption. The Wing owner that used the mind of Garion to evade The Head was imprecise. In an attempt to pull only one string from a spider web, his probing severed connections and termini unrelated to his goal. Rendered inaccessible are treasured memories of last words, of challenges, of immortal phrases and speeches for later contemplation and reuse. Even the untouched recollections are blurred by the loss of their neighbors in her brain. A slurry of remembrances, melted and disfigured, meld together; any attempt to retrieve what lies in the past results in an indecipherable liquid slew. There are lingering things of import that poke forth sporadically, but none answer the questions Binah asks of herself. Perhaps that was not the first time she had been molded to a fitting form; perhaps her memory was just another aspect of her mind that could serve as a plaything for beings that had the upper hand. Her own childhood is absent; only the abyssal feeling of emptiness, and some of the thoughts that came as consequences, are left of the years which were pivotal in creating her. Were her early years blank due to circumstance? Did the Head seek to create An Arbiter by torturing it out of her? Was it part of Ayin's careless assault? All paths are valid; an answer is impossible.
 Roland walks back across Binah's view with the napkin bibbed around his collar. He wrests the front door to the Library shut, and spins on his heels to go back upstairs. Binah stands at this interruption, then trails behind him on the steps, before turning to follow her own path, returning to the Floor of Philosophy.
 It only takes four voices to make a floor of the Library sound full. The Assistant Librarians gather around a small table meant to be used for teatime, playing cards and joking amidst themselves. Binah observes their chatter from afar.
"You're a jackass, James," one says. It's not a true statement. All of the Assistants are sharp and diligent.
"You're just mad that you can't figure out how to win," James replies. The back-and-forth continues, empty banter that carries no information with it: the acting principle is to form a rapport, a camaraderie that is ultimately dangerous to their minds when it is someday shattered by loss. Binah searches for a book with a new perspective as the laughing and carrying on intensifies. There is a thud, and the sound of cracking ceramic.
"I'm good!" calls a voice.
"You absolutely trashed your pants, though!"
"Yeah, whatever. Someone here's gotta be good at tailoring."

 Garion stands with her hands at her sides, watching her project try to subdue its prancing toward the academy. It is not unrealistic to presume that a youth can walk without strutting about; after all, Garion never had trouble with that. The child falls to the ground, an expected outcome given her behavior. She sits up. The asphalt had no qualms gouging a hole through her dress. She turns and makes a face, grossly exaggerating her current state, before standing and limping to Garion.
 It is now necessary for Garion to find a tailor, which means fruitless discussion with a Nester. None of those lesser nobles ever seem to be alive; even the most brilliant Corporation employees are driftwood in the tide of the day's events. They cannot set their eye upon anything but what is put before them by superiors. Those that would relegate themselves to a simpler career than office work are even more mentally destitute. Tailoring requires no brilliance, no split-second decision making, no higher function. It is laced with tedium. Repetitive tasks, problems with plain solutions and prosaic implementations. Tailors act nervous at the sight of a client, scampering to another room once they receive their charge like starved animals given a morsel, desperate to escape the view of their customer. If the robotic clothiers of Hao's Workshop could weave pure gold into dresses fit for an Arbiter, then there would be no reason to ever give a tailor the time of day. Alas, not every menial vocation can yet be replaced.
"Mother..." the child starts.
Garion looks at the girl whose outstretched arms threaten to envelop her lower frame, whose two glistening dark eyes struggle to stay inside her skull.
"Because of your actions, I must take that dress to a tailor when you are finished today."
"Is... there another for me to wear, Mother? It is not apt for one to be seen like this. The others will see me..."
"Astute observations. Memories of doleful consequences linger. Henceforth, you will walk as a woman should."
The dress's assailant pushes her head into Garion's stomach, squeezing the woman's core with her reach.
"Mother, it hurts."
"You will be late if you malinger any further."
The tiny grasp unclenches, and the youth slumps away from Garion. She turns and walks with newfound poise toward the door, exhaling through gritted teeth each time she uses her leg.

 Binah outstretches her arm, and mends the Assistant's pants with a clandestine flux of Light. The card game continues, its participants ignorant of the service that was just rendered. Binah walks to her chamber to repose.

Chapter 3: Perception

Summary:

That which is arises from that which is not.

That which was, too, will rise.

 

Concrete burns as a futile shriek reaches
out for deaf ears. Through no fault of the quick
are they met with their fates; only leeches
triumph in this grim choreography.

Steel splinters and crumbles as the bastard
tramples upon aspirations. No man
can possibly circumvent this haggard
engine of destruction and weariness.

Those who would appeal to the kindnesses
of the human heart act to provoke this
parishioner of the emptiest faith
to give the petitioner mindlessness: 
a cadaver awaiting a grave. It's
made them in its image, naught but a wraith.

---

 All of the Patrons are on Malkuth's floor, sitting around a long seminar table, discussing something of little import. Binah is piecing together the thought processes of an enigma. Those who think but do not speak have fascinating modi operandi.
Angela sighs. Roland tries to lighten the mood with a joke; he is met with the minimum amount of laughter in response. Binah stops focusing on her reading material for a moment as Yesod speaks.
"What I am concerned about is the fact that we have an Abnormality loose in the Library. We have no information about it, and it came to be without being extracted. I cannot find information on the Abnormality as I would have done years ago. We do not have the same methods available."
"Then let's talk about what we do know about it. I can't just sense it in the Library like I usually can with things. We will need a dossier. Who has a clear enough account to describe it?" Angela asks.
Roland clears his throat. He sits back in his chair once the attention turns to him.
The Patrons shift in their seats. Binah returns to reading, going through the book out-of-order, as it has lengthy references and addenda:

 

Speaking is eminent in human behavior; those who think, speak. Hence only man can pull definite aspects of the senses he perceives, sort them, and designate them in language. It is in this manner that humanity shows its power of cognition; intrinsically, it is the capacity to arrange conceptions. This is what results in man's dominance over the animal. The animal is unthinking, and therefore unspeaking.
What is seared in recollection as a result of experience is indeed pictorial, but it must be stressed that these pictures are not only that of the thought, but also of the self's endeavor to perceive. The mind grasps at the thought, and with it, finds expression.
Without this process, the idea itself would not be maintainable; from birth, it would be smothered, drowned out by the present experience, and the continuation of the day would overwhelm man; he would be a slave to his senses.

Memory, then, only contains the mind's comprehension of events.

"Okay, who has an unclear account?"
"I think it was watching me," Netzach says. "Just from, like, the corner of the room. It doesn't have eyes but I felt like it looked at me when I looked at it."
Angela sighs. "What did it look like?"
"Just a sloppy goo or something. Like, the size of a little person."
"Does everybody agree?"
"Um..."
Angela looks up from the paper. She straightens herself in her chair.
Hod compiles her words. "I thought it sparkled a little bit, and it might have left a trail behind when it left my room, but I was too scared to get up and investigate."
Utterly fascinating: one of the Musicians of Bremen used to read both Spinoza and Comte. How did the beliefs that they read influence their own views?
"That thing definitely was trying to turn into something," Gebura says. "I thought it might have looked familiar. I couldn't get a good enough look, though."
"What else was it doing?"
"Just sitting there when I was about to fall asleep."
"Did it appear at a different time for anybody else?"
"...so it did not," Angela says. "Alright. Why?" 
Yesod draws a sharp breath. "Speculation is at the cost of life."
"...Fine. We will move on. The algorithm that designates Abnormalities gives it the name T-06-118, but in the absence of the instrumentation of the Lobotomy Corporation facility, it may be unable to do its job correctly. We will keep the name for now until we have reason to change it."
How much of that Musician's reading was to absorb contrasting views? There were commonalities between the authors, as well. Perhaps they found something else about the two interesting. They carried with them the dual beliefs that "freedom" as a concept is meaningless, and that prophecy is impossible. Holding these in simultaneity may be a consequence of the amalgamation of minds; it may also be the cognitive dissonance of insanity and feverish rationale.
The needless conversation continues.
"...Binah," Angela asks. "Do you know anything about this Abnormality?"
"I now know that which people have enumerated here."
Angela loads an unenthused face. "You did not see it? You had no part in extracting it?"
"You want my affirmation of statements you have already deduced to be factual. You have it."
"So it appeared to everybody but you and Hokma just before they fell asleep."
"It must not have stirred me."
Hokma looks up after being mentioned. "I would not have been able to see it."
"Why not?" Roland asks. Hokma gives him a stern look.
Angela shuts her eyes and directs the discussion elseways.
"Do we have any knowledge of its intentions?"
"It had a tortured quality to it," Netzach says.
"Yeah, I felt that too," says Malkuth.
"M-Me too."
"I don't know what you guys are talking about," Roland starts. "It was creepy and weird for sure, but I think you are all putting emotions on a blob that can't feel anything."
The blue-haired noble smiles. "I wouldn't say it can't feel anything just yet~"
Yesod writes down the content of the conversation for reference while Angela continues to push for details.
The topic of discussion will not change. Binah excuses herself.

---

 Binah enters the Floor of Social Sciences. She walks by the shelves until she finds the section she needs: Factors Affecting Social Behavior, Genetic. Chesed's Assistants never care about unreported borrowings; perhaps they keep track well enough that they do not need the formality of checking out. More likely, however, is that they are envenomed by the brew he lets them imbibe, and are unable to function as they should.
She lifts a book and walks out with it.
 Upon return to her own place of belonging, she returns the book she had been reading to an Assistant, who makes haste to restore it to its rightful position.
 She sits at her table, making the usual blend. It is difficult to explore new varieties of tea from within the Library when so few Cityfolk bother to do as much; perhaps there is merit in perusing the Floor of Natural Sciences. Binah may have to make her own apparatus and create new species; what a droll notion. There do exist more interesting occupations, but none within reach now that conversation has become stale, and the Library lacks conflict. Abnormalities are uninteresting; they perceive those that react to them. An Arbiter is invisible to them, and combat is enjoyable only when the adversary puts up a fight. 

 There is nothing applicable to be found in the leather-bound book of blue. It offers no revelation, as negation is unprovable. A pity.

She spends the rest of the day in isolation.

Chapter 4: Night Crawler

Summary:

Beware the beast in black.

 The day is as uninspiring as is typical. Garion enters an office. Perhaps her request has been decided on; there is no predicting the outcome, but there is also no reason for its rejection in her mind. It is in the preliminary stage; she has not made a particular choice. A choice may not even be allowed, as there are too many deciding variables that are unavailable at this time.

She approaches a clerk. "Mail."

"You've got... one thing."

He hands Garion a list, then immediately returns to his computer.

She reads:

No.	Academics	Fitness	Preparedness	Demerits
...	...	...	...	...
74228	99%	100%	100%	Unspecified condition.
74285	100%	100%	99%	Living relatives.
74346	100%	100%	100%	N/A
74368	100%	99%	100%	N/A
74425	100%	98%	100%	N/A
74484	100%	100%	100%	Living relatives.
...	...	...	...	...

She chooses the best candidate.

---

 Garion is walking to an interrogation room. The hallway is bleak; everything is made of cement and metal. The lighting is cold. She carries upon a hanger in her right hand a coat with elaborate electrum decorations: some parts of the coat, like the hexagonal tessellation, mimic Garion's; others were additions made by the tailor, like the pattern of fleurs-de-lis that adorns the seams.

 She is let into the room, and places the hanger on a hook on the back of the door. She sits at a table, across from a young girl with long, smooth, black hair. The child's eyes are a swallowing void, colorless and perceptive. Garion stares her down. Her gaze is met.

She speaks. "Are you adaptable enough to live in a different environment?"

"Indeed. I am most resilient."

"Do you know who I am?"

The fledgling's eyes scan Garion, darting to every part of her. She doesn't return her eyes to meet Garion's, which prompts a smirk.

 An Arbiter requests the paperwork that needs filled. She lives alone in District 1. She accepts responsibility for the child. She accepts the liability of the child's welfare. She is aware that she will be subject to additional surveillance. She will supply the child's needs. She is aware that these terms can be amended at any time.

She signs her name. The child's name is already filled out: Zena. She writes the date.

Garion turns in the paperwork, takes the hanger off the door, and extends her arm toward the girl.

"This is for you. Come."

"Thank you."

The child drops out of her seat and walks to Garion. She takes the coat from the hanger and puts it on. It fits. She looks out the door, a mote of energy in her eyes.

---

 It would be an error to let the experiment continue life with such an unsophisticated hairstyle. Garion passes by a hairdresser's shop with the child while on the way to her apartment. She stops walking and looks inside. A short line of Nesters are seated by the front, waiting their turn. She puts her hand on the fledgling's back, and guides her through the door. She walks to the counter; the other clientele shy away from the order they had formed. The stylist looks up from the seated woman whose hair she is cutting, and freezes. Garion looks at her, and makes a hand gesture at the countertop without moving her arm. The stylist runs to the counter.

It takes a few attempts before she can form a complete sentence.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am, I didn't see you! What- um, what can I do for you?"

"I'm not fond of the long hair on this one. Let her keep the locks in the front, and the bangs. Cut the rest to the shoulders."

"Of course! I can- I can do that!"

She shoos the client with an incomplete haircut away, and seats the child in her place.

"Are you comfortable, is this alright?"

Zena turns her eyes to the gibbering lunatic. "Yes."

She manages an acceptable haircut; it satisfies the requirements, and the child gives approval with her silence.

 Garion has to ask what the usual compensation for the stylist's services are in order to pay her. It turns out to be necessary to verbally beat pricing information out of some Nesters, as they think it is a courtesy to lie and say that they would carry out a task for An Arbiter for free. It should not be constant that the Cityfolk are commanded to do such menial things; constant intimidation of the commoners will only hurt one's image. Sage wisdom holds that rulers should be both loved and feared; it is better to be feared only when it is not possible to be both.

They walk out of the building; Garion looks over the child once more. She takes her home.

---

 Garion turns the key, and with it, the doorknob. She flicks on the lights to reveal the whole of a lavish and expensive apartment. The common room has a seated window. The walls are unpainted and naked. A loaded bookshelf is the only item of furniture that is not a chair or table.

"It's so spacious," the child says.

"If that is how you see it-"

"It is wonderful."

 Garion turns and looks into the black eyes of the youth. She sees a stare to match her own. The child's demeanor is already suitable for a career which she will not begin for another decade. The interrupting behavior which is prompted by excitability can be discussed later; what is more important is the mien that has been imposed on one so early in life. There is much to glean from this unwitting little source of information.

"Go ahead."

The girl places her bag down, then walks into the middle of the common room with her hands clasped together. She turns to face An Arbiter. Garion returns her gaze.

"Where shall I put my belongings?"

 Her bag is picked up and carried over to the room on the right of the hall. The child follows. Garion opens the door and dumps out the few possessions that were permitted of a learning Arbiter onto the bed. The room is empty; it has a bed and a dresser in it, with a small mirror leaned against the wall atop the bureau. There are no paintings or photos anywhere.

Zena climbs onto the bed. She pushes her hand against the surface and watches as her hand pushes into the mattress. She seems to be entertained by the ordinary springiness. She looks up at Garion after a moment's delay.

She musters two words: "Thank you."

---

 Someone's up. Doesn't sound good. It's not morning. Guess it's worth figuring out.

Nobody's got lights on anywhere, and it's pretty calm. Doesn't sound like anything's happening anymore, which is suspicious. Did someone fall out of bed? Couldn't have.

Oh, it's this thing.

 Just outside Gebura's Inner Chamber, that messed up blob is just standing there. It doesn't have eyes but it might as well. It can just make you feel like it knows who you are. She looks at it, even into it; all she can see is heat death.

It rolls towards her, but she knows better than to let it touch her. She draws Mimicry. It keeps coming, so she points her sword at it. That doesn't stop it; it must be stupid. Just doesn't care. But you shouldn't underestimate an enemy that you don't know yet.

 

It wants to fight, or it wants... something. Gebura holds her ground. She pokes it with her sword, and it's not even hurt. In the blink of an eye, it's sliding up the sword, coiling along it. It touches her hand, and that's all it takes. Gebura is pulled inside of it like some sort of vacuum.

 

 Everything settles in a flash, and Gebura opens her eyes. The ceiling is pitch black and low. The floor has a weak gleam of light. The inside is much bigger than expected; as far as the eye can see, there are black marble pedestals in disarray. A flickering ornate candle of black wax sits on every pillar; there's a name on each one, too. They've all got deep yellow ribbons all over them, forming some different kind of pattern on each. She walks along the rows until one catches her attention. It seems to stick out, but there's no way to tell why. Its label says "Tyr." Its flame flickers like fire does, but it seems to wick itself towards her when it does, like it's reaching over to her. She puts her hand out to pick it up. Her palm finds it, and instantly her right arm is consumed with pain; everything from the hand to the elbow is wracked with a ripping sensation. She shakes her grip off of the candle.

 In the distance, there is a figure standing. It's watching her. Its face has no eyes or nose, though its wafer-thin lips imitate a smile. It picks up a candle, brings it to its face, and blows. Instead of the flame being extinguished, the figure disappears into smoke.

The ground starts to shake. Gebura's forearm is still throbbing. It seems like the ceiling could fall.

 The floor is reacting; it starts to swallow Gebura from below. She reaches for her sword, but starts to fall into the floor faster than gravity would pull her. She drops all the way through, and is ejected from the Abnormality, back into the Floor of Language. The Abnormality dissolves into the platform it sits on, leaving her unharmed.

---

 Binah awakens in the night; the bed is too hot, though there has never been a temperature control problem in the Library before. Dreams are not oft worth the analysis; in some cases this rule is inapplicable, and one such case is now. It is infrequent that dreams are so vivid; one has to wonder if these were pure fiction. Some dreams come from a place other than confabulation, but it is impossible to tell for sure if that is the case when one is bereft of memory. If there is meaning to these dreams, then they have value. The younger Arbiter has never been the topic of dreams before; at least, that is the case according to Binah's memory. To put emphasis on the meaning of a dream that cannot be confirmed to be truth is to place a bet; it would be wiser to consider the information that can be retrieved without taking action. The child had an affliction in these dreams, an affliction which Garion shared; though, it never went away for An Arbiter. The dream can't be based in reality, as it would otherwise imply that the mentee will have found a solution to an insoluble problem: numbness.

 It is only a few hours until the others rise for the day. Yesterday's morrow can start early; all reflection is easier with a warm beverage.

Chapter 5: Treehouse

Summary:

Thank goodness for distractions. It isn't good to unshackle the mind.

 It seems that the Librarians are too fearful to remain in their own Chambers. They have gathered together on the Floor of History in search of distraction. Naturally, they have little interest in occupying themselves by exploring questions that would be interesting to a developed mind; all that can be done is to sit and await their decision. They have discussed competing in sports, sparring in halfhearted combat, book clubs, and sculpting; each proposition was preferable for only one or two Librarians. No consensus is yet made.
"We could find something to do outside," Malkuth offers.
"Doubtful," the Viper shoots back.
"It's worth exploring! There's lots to do, like... um..."
"An excellent idea."
"...We could build a giant treehouse!"
Roland smiles. "I'm not saying that it couldn't be fun, but why a treehouse?"
"Because it would be outside, and not too far away, and it would probably take a few hours, and somebody could have use for it!"
The suited man laughs. "Tiphereth, maybe--"
"--First coloring books, now a treehouse‽ I'm not some simple kid! None of you Upper Departments seem to get that!"
"Ah, sorry miss," he says, with teeth betraying a banterous smile. She simmers, but her face divulges an interest.
"Let's just try it!" Malkuth starts the walk to the main entrance. "We would do a better job planning it if we were looking at the Library from outside!"
The Librarians follow. While the activity itself is not at all captivating, there is something entertaining about the problem solving processes that different brains go through. Binah joins them. There may be some miraculous excitement to come from this activity, if circumstance allows.

Upon a day without the warming light
of Sol, the monster rises sans alert.
A healthy town of ants aspire to win
the favor only gods bestow to those
above contempt. The hopes of hearts of wish-
ful souls, of minds of spiteful physickers
alike conspire to cure the only form
of pest upon them still. Destroyed become
awakeners of Typhon as is law.
He watches silently, the emptiness
escaping not the thoughts of torment's birth.
When joyful bells excite the town of hu-
bris, celebrating their achievement loud,

Lo, he metes subjugation.

 The sun shines brightly in the Outskirts, letting only faint wisps of clouds breeze across the firmament. A zephyr makes the battering heat bearable. The Librarians decide upon a spot to place the construction. Roland gets materials and tools; Netzach draws plans with Malkuth.
Binah copies her ordinary tea table and chairs to the outside world. She conjures a parasol to pierce the terrain. She has no need to fret about damage done by the rays that strike her, but she does find it decidedly unpleasant. No blend of tea is perfect for such an occasion as this. Any will suffice.
 There has never been a need to observe menial labor before; it is still unnecessary, but now it is a source of entertainment. The children of the Tree will start bickering. The woman puts a palm upon the side of her teacup to lift it; it is still scorching hot. She is unfazed. She takes a sip.
"Um... are you sure you know how to use those saws and nailguns?"
Roland looks the cowlicked girl in the face; she breaks eye contact immediately.
"Ah, Miss -- if I said yes, would you feel better?"
"N-not really when you put it that way..."
His face gets cocky; he prepares a response. The blue-haired ignoble gives Roland a light punch to the shoulder.
"We'll be careful~"
Hod walks away from the tools, and cringes as if she is anticipating the sound their operation will make.
The first page is ready. The men already butt heads as they all try to view the material at once, like an excess of puppies around a food bowl.
 What is it about these projects that constitutes enjoyment? Physical labor releases endorphins, no doubt; though, there must be more to it to motivate the Patron Librarian of Religion to participate. A sense of duty, perhaps. Civics is muddied and vague outside of unquestionable despotism. Further still is it complicated by the attempt to apply it to a society consisting merely of a few score. Or is it a sentimental attachment? Though the youngest said that she wanted no such thing, the excuse would persist as a motivational force. Hokma would do such and so.
 The black-clad man is pushing boards across a table saw, using both the miter gauge and rip fence. Ah, bliss. One needs no experience to understand the potential hazard in trapping a piece of wood against the side of a spinning blade. The danger should be pointed out by a concerned and caring individual; it is most unfortunate that they are all busy with their own tasks. Alas, nothing will forfend the inexorable. The sun shines, the wind blows.
 Supports are cantilevered against the trunk and nailed in, then cut to be made level. When resource supply is quasi-infinite, there is nothing wrong with doing as much. Gebura hangs from a high branch and catches the long joists that are passed to her, before lifting them with one hand and nailing them together with the supports to set up the floor. The corps is harmonious; each fits into a role to suit their strengths and weaknesses without issue. Perhaps the true purpose of the Library is to mold its Sephirah into some concept of a more perfect form. The Corporation already made the first stride, forcing each of the Sephirot to adapt and develop. All found a part of themselves that needed modification; Binah is no exception. There was wrath that threatened to pour from her vitiated, bastard form; within her, a fury that had been a part of Garion's egotistical sense of self sputtered and blazed. That ego caused problems, did things that could not be taken back. It must remain stowed forever until it fades.
 There is the sound of somebody being punched in the chest, and Roland shouts. His voice is more frightened than pained; Binah turns her head to look at him again. He shuts off the saw. What a shame it is that she missed the event; he must have let a piece get stuck while the saw was running, whereupon the spinning blade fired it back at him. Binah smiles. Angela makes haste to his side.
"You shouldn't be using that if you don't know how to."
"Come on, I made one mistake, and learned from it."
Angela sighs. "You could get hurt. Will you just be careful?"
He will.
She groans. "Don't just dismiss it like that!"
"Fiiine, I will be careful. I'm careful-ing right now."
"That saw could cut you in half," the frustrated machine says. She walks away from him.

A bleeding body's cleaved in twain. The snakes
of fury writhe and lash at dying men;
the flame and ashes dance upon a grave.
Disgust is all that occupies the mind
of Typhon, though the face betrays it not.
The weak and helpless cries of gnats that dreamt
up fantasies of triumph over plague
resound throughout the town. A mocking quip's
the final sound allowed to reach their ears.

All the fools and failures try to reason;
Typhon finds amusement there. He never
cares to hear the explanation. Insects
all deserve the same: an end to writhing.

Lo, he metes desolation.

 Quite surprising it is that no argument has broken out between the Librarians. The base of the first floor is now sturdy enough to support weight, and its walls are being squared. The young girl has climbed into the construction that she didn't want, bringing a book with her. The others have to ask her to move on occasion, in order to work with a surface or stud that she obstructs. She stands now for that reason; she is within the aperture of a window. Her eyes find Binah's, and she stares for a moment before the red-haired brute taps her shoulder and walks her out of view.
 The frames of man-made structures humorously resemble cages. There is no value in the argument that the apparent parallel has significance, but the similitude is present; people seal themselves behind bars and walls to feel comfort. All animals must feel safe in their confinement. Yet, an unwelcome internment is viewed as being subject to a gaoler, and incites vengeance. In any group of impounded beings, there must be at least one that finds its situation to be undesirable. There should be one in the Library, yet the Librarians and Assistants all seem to enjoy their circumstances. Perchance, then, the jailbreak will not be of a being employed in the Tree.
 Binah must have a reputation of being froward. The others stopped to eat their lunch and enjoy refreshments under the shade of the treehouse; none came to sit in any of the other chairs under her umbrella. Occasional looks sent her way were inquisitive, but not beckoning. It may simply be that they await an invitation to converse with her. The Patron of General Works has made his thoughts clear in the past, and the timid Patron will always be fearful of Binah. Surely the rest harbor no impassable gripes. No matter; Binah will have to bring reading material on future occasions. There is old literature with a similar theme to the organization and essence of the Department Heads-come-Librarians. It would make for fascination to see if the owner of the defunct Wing used those concepts as inspiration.
 The project comes to a close; some remain outside until the sun threatens to set, while others repose the moment their task is completed. Binah is not the last to return to her Inner Chamber; Hokma, Tiphereth, and Angela remain outdoors, chatting together in the finished treehouse. She destroys her furniture of Light, and ascends the stairs, lamenting the draining effects of outdoor warmth on the body; the day's activity was tiresome, and now she must climb nearly ten stories of stairs. Each produces an ache more irksome than the last; at the end of the journey, there is a searing heat felt in each joint of the skeleton. She finishes the walk to her quarters, and goes straight to rest.
Her mind wanders. The others must have wanted participation from An Arbiter in the plans of the day. They will come to terms. 
It does not take long for Binah to drift off to sleep.

Such quietus that fervid rancor spreads!
Hexagonal in form, the serpents spew
a venom so the "innocent" lament.
The warrior-elect of puny men
provides protection; final stands of weak,
defeated, microscopic vermin serve
as entertainment. Typhon bites the ear
to singe the mind, to crush morale, but cor-
nered animals of dying towns will fight
until the bitter end. The hubris lives
within the monster's wicked soul: the scorn
he harbors blinded him, and makes him think
his pride is in the others' minds -- the Fool!

Lo, he meets expiration.

Chapter 6: Catering

Summary:

He has /one/ skill.

 There is a certain belief among the starry-eyed lower management of the latter 22 Corporations in "social responsibility;" they delude themselves to think that individuals must cooperate with each other for the betterment of the society that contains them, and for the benefit of posterity. In the City, such concepts do not survive in the minds of successful individuals. Ideas suchlike cannot be employed in a culture which has enabled humanity to reach its ultimate form; the cunning and the strong are able to exact their desires from the foolish and the weak. This is a mode of improving the population unto itself: the successful are role models, inspiring the quick to mimic their ruthlessness, removing the time wasted on instinctual acts of love and pleasantry; those unsuccessful enough to live in abject squalor do not have the resources to raise children, removing a failing genetic configuration from the City. Mankind is bettered thus; what remains after iteration ad infinitum of this cycle are those of profound inclination to power. Those with such gifts may, with incentives which are oft materialistic, innovate and develop the most brilliant technologies known to man.
 That was, at least, the school of thought once known to be erudite. It may be factual; or, it may be a troth pledged by the Head's agents, a creed to be sworn by in order to ensure fealty to the shaded agenda. The truth of which of these is the case is known to an incorporeal former Wing leader, rather than Binah. Another memory stolen. Reaching into her own mind results in an ephemeral slurry of related thoughts dissolved together. Reality shies away from introspection, leaving only deductive reasoning able to fill the aching void. Is a personality change guaranteed to be resultant in the case of one with partial amnesia? If not, then the rationale of a few days prior is sound; deliberating upon one's perception of the world, and how one chooses to present their conceptualization of their situation to others, is an appropriate way to understand oneself should one become so bereft of recollection. 
 A long since finished cup that once was filled with breakfast tea sits in the center of the small live-edge table that the Patron Librarian of Philosophy is fond of; that same woman sits in a chair at the same place. She has an obligation she agreed to attend; today there shall be the least moving symposium in recent history. It will, at least, provide rudimentary entertainment. Less than half an hour remains until it is set to begin; ordinarily, An Arbiter would avoid a premature arrival. In this circumstance, however, being privy to the clamor that a supposedly calm individual would produce is too difficult to resist. She may be the only one to have known for ages the truth of how the Patron Librarian of the Floor Beneath Philosophy behaves under pressure. 
Binah starts her foray into Chesed's domain. A single flight of stairs is all that separates her from it. She passes through the clean glass doors with a smirk already forming on her face, but conceals it when the Nester turns around and smiles at her, engaged in no preparation at all.
"Binah~ it's good to see you early! Make yourself at home~"
"So I shall." She sits at the edge of a firm-cushioned couch, keeping her back straight rather than relaxing into the furniture.
"I don't suppose you're interested in coffee?"
Binah faces him, cocking her head to the side a bit with a hint of a sardonic smile. She draws out a blink.
"Ah..."  he begins, trailing off. "...ha, okay. It is only polite for me to offer, after all~"
"Your gallantry goes not unnoticed." The faux simper remains, though her eyes are scanning the room for something more interesting than ritual communication. All of this man's displayed possessions are centered around his poison; mugs, grinders, percolators, carafes, presses, and other paraphernalia. Consumption of a product is a point of pride for him. How unstimulating. There is, within vision, no prepared banquet; an arrangement of unset circular tables is placed about the floor, each near to another.
"Glad to hear it."
Binah returns her focus. "You have no intention of cooking or handcrafting a luncheon today."
"Ah~ I considered it; I even researched a little bit. Yesod's skill is truly inspirational. He made his ingredients from Light, and prepared them. But I realized it's okay to skip that step, and use the Light to make the final product~"
"I see."
A feeble smile finds his lips; he takes a sip from his mug as the door opens. Malkuth walks in. She points to the doorstop on the ground while looking at the Floor's Patron, and he nods. She props the door open with it.
"Hi, Chesed!"
The Librarians begin to pour in.

 Garion scoffs. "I have no enthusiasm toward the prospect of traipsing into a room full of tumultuous Nesters with you and your circle for accompaniment."
Two Claws stand beside her, blood and viscera dripping from the appendages made by their Corporation. Though the light has gone out for this facility already, the sun shall soon set on the City proper.
"The night is young, Madam Arbiter! Just a few drinks. It's usually only Wing higher-ups in the VIP rooms anyway, and I think-"
"Is there something within me that you seek to foment? Go to. I have my own matters to engage with that do not involve drinking poison and acting rowdy with blackguards."
She turns her back and heads home on her own. The child will have finished her studies by the time she arrives.

 Everyone is being seated at the round tables; an ordinary banquet -- sandwiches, snack foods, et cetera -- is set out for people to reach for at each table's center, and the Librarians select their meals. Binah takes a seat of her own at a table of five. She does not take anything to eat, instead preparing tea for herself as per usual. Chesed is not at a table. He stands by one of his coffee brewers, overseeing the process of filling a gargantuan carafe so that the Librarians here may drink of it to excess. The host finishes the brewing, and pours each Librarian a cup, garnishing them in differing ways that must be unique to the individual for whom they are meant. He serves the other table first, then the one at which Binah sits.
"...Thanks," Gebura says. Her voice is strong, yet the bags under her eyes would indicate two days of sleep deprivation. 
The other Fixer speaks up a delay after being given his own coffee. "Key to my heart!"
"Oh~ Grown to like coffee that much, have you?"
"What? Oh, yeah, thank you for that too -- But I was talking about the sandwich!"
"Aha. I thought that you might appreciate them~"
"I've only seen one place that makes chili tepin hot sauce with the seeds in. Did you make this?"
"Nope. I got catering!" Chesed cuts off a nervous laugh. His joke is unacknowledged.
"Ah, it's still great though!"
The guests in this Patron's home are too trusting of foreign substances for their own good. Soon, their hands may well develop violent tremors as they jitter about and bounce off the walls, thanks to the bitter toxicant they quaff. Without the developed character of a more elegant liquid vessel for it, caffeine is bound to bring about its unbecoming effects. Pure chaos will erupt.
"Coffee seems to be the focal point of this event," Binah says.
Roland stretches, drawing a breath. "We all need it." His words prompt a tilt of the head from the woman to whom he responds.
"Wouldn't need it if it weren't for you," Gebura growls. The scars on her face threaten to tear anew due to the strain her expression puts on them; the requirement that she look at the Patron of Philosophy seems to be an affront to her. She bites her cigarette; the butt falls off onto her plate, and she spits the rest away to the floor.
"You attribute your enervation to me?"
"You might be the only one that doesn't get it."
"I comprehend entirely what it is that you mean to imply about the occurrences of the past few days. I do not dwell on the thought because it is an untruth."
"That... thing, reeks of you." She hammers a fist onto the wood, and leans in. "Do you think I'm stupid?"
Perhaps so. It would be unwise to affirm that at this moment, however. Binah meets Gebura's stare, goading her on with a hint of a smile.
"I saw what was inside of it. It came after me, just like that! Nothing about it made sense. Reminds me of someone..."
Intriguing. An Abnormality that swallows victims into it, then spits them out without mastication. It does not intend injury?
"But you know what? You know how I know this is just a sick game you're playing? When I was inside it, I saw you. Nothing on your face but that smirk you're making right now. And you just poofed away once you knew I noticed you."
The room is silent. It may have been for a short while. Binah shifts glimpses to the others within eyeshot; none of them make eye contact, instead casting their stares at the ground or the food they hold in their hands. She locks eyes with the hotheaded Patron again.
"Not going to try to defend yourself?"
"You did not stop to think that what you witnessed may only have been your mind's interpretation of the experience. I ask that you do as much."
"What a load of bull-"
"I see that my presence is oppressive to the atmosphere. Allow that I may assuage this malady." 
She rises from her chair and walks back to her own Inner Chamber upstairs, leaving the others to calm the furious animal.

 Garion turns the key to her apartment, stepping inside to find that the child slumbers on her chaise with a book splayed across her. She inches open the door to Zena's room, then pulls the sheets of her bed open. She sidles back out, lifting the youth off of the chair, carrying her to the bed, and folding the covers over her. It will be necessary in the morning to discuss disciplining oneself to stay awake while working. But in this moment, the future Arbiter has given an inspiring idea. The sandman comes now, for both of the inhabitants of this apartment.

 Sitting on the floor by the edge of her bed, a gaunt woman peers into a box of formless void. Statuettes of glittering tar face each other. A monster formed of countless flaming snakes stands off before the one-armed Tyr, who holds his sword with the remaining hand. The fluid that fills the box has an aversion to these two objects, flowing along the walls of the box and coalescing into transient shapes. The plaques of other figurines can be seen in the murk: "Displaced Scion of Doves" tumbles in the imperceptible current, slow enough to be readable. Another -- that of a woman elder holding a golden staff -- congeals. Its damaged label reads "M_g__   _at__." The woman reaches for the idol, and her touch reminds it to behave as a liquid; it melts in her hand, its gold shattering into granules that travel with the flux of the running shade. She seals the box without a word.

Chapter 7: Collapse

Summary:

Source: it came to me in a dream.

 The worst false belief that could be instilled in a person's mind is that what they learn from their senses is concrete. Eyes and ears relay packets of information for the mind to process into observations; bias is therefore immanent. It is fascinating that Gebura believed she had seen Binah inside the Abnormality. Was she inside it, or some sort of pocket dimension that the Abnormality controls? The whole situation is nigh comical: that its origin is still a mystery to the Librarians is amusing; that their fear prevents them from getting rest is icing on the cake. They have dealt with issues suchlike on myriad occasions, and these circumstances have no difference in fundament. A direct inspection of this creature would be most interesting; it is a shame that the Floor of Philosophy is provided no such opportunities. Otherwise, there would be a perspective with more wisdom through which discourse about this Abnormality could take place.
 Tea is best enjoyed with a conundrum about which one can ponder. Exercising the mind is as important to An Arbiter as physical training is to a Fixer. The existential queries that resound in her thoughts are stale by now, inciting a craving for new content. She puts her teacup and saucer back onto the table, and lets her eyes wander; the Floor is spotless as one would expect in the Library. Any lack of cleanliness can simply be willed away as long as doing so does not contradict the desires of the Curator. She rises from her seat, and walks to the edge of the infinite path where knowledge goes to rest. The torn corner of a paper serviette lies on the floor. She holds out her hand as a knowing smirk forms on her face; her palm glows with Light, emitting a radiance that finds the rubbish and gives it a luminance of its own, before fading and singeing away the paper from the floor.
 The Assistants are nowhere to be found. No matter. They are obliged to return by end of day regardless. Binah walks down one of the corridors of bookshelves; no two bookshelves are of equal form, and no two books are of equal size. Each shelf is a few feet apart, leaving space for the walkways to intertwine as needs be. Every mind's contents are unique, including their driving mentalities. Complete works on entire topics in philosophy are isolated from personal philosophies; in this manner, refined books on singular topics can be distilled by the Library, yielding one book optimal for reading to gain a complete vision of a concept. It makes for excellent leisure material. She stops and browses. The Patron of Philosophy selects a particular volume that seems to ooze its murky ink, pulling it from the shelf with an unintended hush. She turns her head to point down the corridor and leers with the beginnings of a smile, then starts her walk back in the other direction. She runs her fingers over its binding; her search for a title is slowing the return to an amble.
 The tea table is not optimal for reading, and although it is tolerable in some situations, a different environment would be most suitable at this moment. Binah walks through the door to the staircase, and starts her descent to the Foyer. As she passes Chesed's floor, voices can be heard from down the stairs:
"Ah, come on, open up! I ran down here for a reason."
Binah smirks. A door unlatches.
"Chill out, I'm exhausted."
"Jeez, that smoke is strong. Even for your place."
"Smoking keeps your eyes open."
"Not in my experience, but I think I'll join you anyway."
The door clicks shut. Binah continues down past the Floor of Language, all the way to the entrance. She takes a seat. She opens the book; in place of a dedication, three tercets in elegant handwriting occupy the first page. 

 

No matter east or west,
every man is in the dark.
The day's light is stricken out
when he elects to rest.
Recollection loses spark;
certainty decays to doubt.
What's within must fade lest
he form a blackened pockmark
and strew contrition about.

 The book has no title, no glossary, no codex. It is plain that it must be one of the aforementioned amalgamated volumes; its topic could be gleaned by reading it whole. The presence of text not emplaced in the style of a machine's output is perhaps its defining feature thus far. Books in this Library are not rented out or given to people who may write in them; the origin of the inspired poem is unclear. She flips through the volume. Every page is solid-filled with murky ink, concealing whatever text may be present or absent. The volume appears to be an aberration of the Library's own design; the construct of EGO is not perfection that is immune to error. The choice to peregrinate with reading material, even singly, is thus shattered.
 Binah shuts the book, and places it on the table with a delicate motion. She leaves a palm on it for a moment as her gaze drifts along the table. The Foyer is as it always is. Its tenor is death. Memories of impending sanguinary conflict float about, as though the expiry of souls and energies within this Tree will always linger. All who have someday left the confines of the Library have experienced their own sepulture; nothing can lift that sea smoke from the Foyer. It is the most peaceful ambience that cannot be found otherwhere. She leans back against the ornate chair; its ergonometric qualities leave much to be desired, though it does not invoke pain outright. Her eyes close.

 Binah stands within a spacious hall, choked by a sable fog. Marauded and disordered pedestals are scattered throughout the dark reaches; such a configuration is not meet for the display of any collection of which one is proud. Decorated plaques and candles sit atop each pedestal, with flames awaiting extinguishment into eternal rest. The entire realm seems to have suffered some calamity that rendered it uninhabitable. The disarray extends to the place's quality of being; intense melancholia transudes every surface. The essence of the City's unbearable condition occupies the air. The miasma of fallen heart and buried humanity weighs down on all it envelops; in ordinary circumstances, this environment would be one in which the Patron thrives. Here, it is impossible to extract amusement from the knowledge that there exists a world so sapped of foundation; the fortune of natural success in a society smothered beneath this cloud means nothing once the blanket adapts to suffocate the gifted as well.
 A man's scream of pain can be heard in the distance; Binah trudges toward it. As she gets nearer to its source, it changes to a gasping. She is close enough for the cause of the noise to be visible through the murk; Roland faces away from her, holding himself in orthostasis only with the assistance of the structure in front of him. He coughs and sputters, one hand leaning on the marble as the other grips his chest. An Arbiter watches without action. Stygian smoke billows from his chest and back; he tries to hold it in with his free hand in agony, before he slumps, falling back from the pillar onto the floor, and dissolving into inky wisps and tendrils as he merges with the atmosphere of the hall. The fog is thickened a mote. 
 Binah walks to the pedestal before which Roland stood. The wax of its candle is pitted and scratched; its fire burns without dance. Its plaque reads "Typhon's End." No smug smile is prompted by the sudden comprehension of this realm's significance. The games of denial and make-pretend must come to a close. Perhaps that is the problem with unveiling oneself, when one was once a despotic ruler; the protection offered by the fear one inspires in others melts away, and leaves one vulnerable. She turns to read the labels upon other pedestals: Tyr; Erebus; Typhon. Typhon's candle is enshrouded in the same black mist that fills the air, albeit the thickness of the covering is enough to appear to be a barrier. Binah holds out a palm to the candle's unique enclosure to touch it; before she can do so, she hears a woman clear her throat. As she rights her head, she sees a figure at the edge of the fog. It wears the unmistakable coat of an Arbiter, though what remains of its face is only a smirk; the rest is concealed by shadow. It bows to her, before stepping backwards into the depths of the darkness. Binah pursues it without disquiet in her steps, but it seems that it does not desire to make another appearance. Its intention was to misdirect, then, or the inverse: to lead. She stops in front of a pedestal with an unlit candle, its emaciated wick consumed away by the longing that saturates every breath in this place. No life remains upon the pedestal whose tarnished inscription is nigh-illegible; with effort, "Magna Mater" can be made out from the eroded and dulled edges engraved in the brass.

"Binah, are you asleep?"
Binah opens her eyes. What a foolish question that is. "I suppose it is a natural sequence of events that should follow if I relax in the absence of stimulus."
"It's nighttime." Angela stands at the base of the stairs. Her arms are crossed and tense, as if to brace herself.
Binah looks to the entrance door and sees the darkness outside. "So it is." She takes the book off of the table. "Then I'll return to rest in less public a place."
 Angela eyes the Patron before shifting her eyes to the ground beneath her, then disappears in an instant. She could have provided transit for the Librarian without effort. Although, walking is not a malison; the time to mull over thoughts will be a boon, at least. Another dream with unprecedented lucidity has struck Binah. Vigil is forced of her eye, even in slumber. Binah gets out of the chair, making a gentle plash as she stands. She looks down. A murky puddle with glittering flecks seeps into the floor all around her, evaporating at her notice.
 The travel up the stairs will mark the day's end. Tomorrow, perhaps, she may inquire the Patron Librarian of General Works about what he was doing earlier in the day, and eke verify his health.

Chapter 8: Blacklisted

Summary:

Others should not be able to join in one's introspection.

 All humans take action because they expect an event to take place in exchange. This may be an investment; doing something at one moment with no expectation of immediate return or compensation is as valid a motivation for some situations as instant gratification is for others. Creeds in the days of old would promise everlasting calm and joy to those who did good deeds in their life on Earth, given to them only after they were put to eternal rest. The definition of "good deeds" varied, to the extent that the term became a misnomer in the final era before the surviving population was sequestered into the City. Humans must be selfish. Unfettered selflessness prevents one from becoming powerful enough to make a difference. Nature's design is always demonstrated to approach perfection. An autodidacticism is present in all developing persons; through various natural forms of social conditioning, they will learn how to behave in ways that yield them the most rewards.
 Elevators might be one of the most delightful inventions in the eyes of Corporations. Garion will have to request implantation of W Corp technology someday, when a sufficient bargaining chip presents itself. At the moment there is no such opportunity. At least the Fairies can be used to prevent the hydraulic brakes on the elevator from engaging; at some Nester's behest, it would otherwise stop at a floor and play an advertisement on the control interface. In addition, the doors would open when it reaches the floor of the one who so rudely requested an elevator call. That would be unnecessary. They can wait for the platform to rise all the way to Garion's apartment's level and then return. Without a doubt their fear-stricken reaction to seeing the person within the lift would bar them from entering anyhow; the time would be wasted. 
 The self-propelled ride arrives at its destination. An Arbiter steps into the hallway. Nobody is present. Repose can begin soon; the thought of no longer being upright for the day is an enticement. Her skin is encumbered by blood and heat; the soft fabric of any Arbiter's clothing rejects absorption, leaving her clothing in pristine condition. Her faultless guard does not allow weapons to sully the state of the material. The grisly dance of the day leaves a spattering of failure upon this agent of the Head, but it is not her own: anxious combatants and clerks alike are given a triturated form mere moments after they make the mistake of standing before her. The waltz calls plaintive song out of each who is made to participate. Such dull and lifeless presences, all; the faces they bear during their final trepidation give them that semblance of humanity for which they struggle to grasp during their strife on this Earth. The onus is hers to rectify such wastes of resources. 
 Garion steps into her apartment. The window is open. The fresh, cool air in which she was earlier immersed during her walk home once again finds her. Its contrast with the uncirculated air of a high density living facility brushes across her face. The atmosphere is rarified at the altitude of Garion's abode, just enough to make any breeze more refreshing than it would be if experienced at ground level. There is less light pollution to block out the view of the sky. Though unimpressive, a starry crown upon the fundament is still preferable to a bleak band cinching the horizon. There is no need for expression through opulent lifestyle when the most powerful luxuries are available through simpler means. Perhaps this disguising away of affluence will have an effect on the learner that resides within these rooms. She shuts the door behind her. A spread of books is left on the common room table in a radial fan. A kettle rings its signal. Two little feet drop from a chair that exceeds the height of the child it just held, and the stove's knob clicks. Another click, and the whistling of the kettle spout ceases.
 A day of trifling activities will still tire out any professional; the standing is laborious. Zena hurries around the corner with as much restraint as is to be expected of one her age. She bedevils An Arbiter, throwing her arms around her mentor's waist. Garion puts a palm atop the small head; the back of her hand is sticky with death, tangling with the fledgling's hair in an instant. She frees her hand, then looks down to meet the black stare of her incomplete miniature.
 "I haven't steeped your tea yet, but I've borrowed some collegiate level works from the Academy that you may like,"
 The child will need to wash her hair tonight. There is still ample time in the evening. Hot water relaxes the muscles, and Garion would benefit from the usual evening shower as well. Liberation will flow from a washroom spigot.
 She returns her eyes to Zena's gaze, letting her continue. 
 "...and I have already found sustenance of my own, so you need not cook tonight, Mother."
 The corner of the Arbiter's mouth threatens to pinch into a nascent smile, then stills. What is it this child expects in return? One can presume that the same empty affection shared between parents and real children would suffice. 
 "Thank you, darling."
 The youth takes a sharp breath, eyes widening. Pride cannot be concealed at her age, though her attempt to force the demeanor of An Arbiter upon her own mien nearly found success. Children are so easy, so simple to entertain; perchance all this girl desires in exchange for her behavior is this impossible connection. Is it different from the interaction between any other mother and adopted daughter? With the tangible benefit of seeded loyalty, the child is something other than an elementary source of information. Maintaining the current dynamic is critical, then; this "daughter" must think Garion's treatment of her has been invariant.

---

 Compared to every other entrance to a Floor of the Library, the door to General Works is simple. A man's voice comes from inside, locked in chat, but the door is obstacular to perception; no words can be made of the sounds that pierce it. Binah knocks as a courtesy. The noise stops. Roland cracks open the only egress from his place of residence. He meets the Patron's eyes, and his own narrow for a moment before he restores the façade that every Fixer of his specialty knows to hold. He lets An Arbiter enter.
 "Hello."
 "Wasn't expecting a visit."
 The twisted piles of books that fill the Floor cannot be conceived to be sorted for easy human access. The assortment constitutes either a discard pile or a collection solely for Angela to interact with. Roland raises his brow, widens his eyes, cocks his head, and tightens his lips into a mock smile. His pressing for continuation of speech is an expected display of impatience.
 "It is good to see you well."
 "Ah, yeah. About as good as I can be, all things considered."
 "Well enough to get back to old habits."
 "Old habits, yeah. I guess I've kept my charm and sense of humor, but I haven't had the energy to do any work on account of being tired."
 "You are cognizant that I did not mean it that way."
 His face slacks. "I haven't had a job in a while."
 "A piece of the good-luck charm for which you ran outside last week was littered upon my Floor."
 "Oh, that. I didn't want to embarrass myself and let anybody know what I was curious about. So what, I borrowed a book. Nobody should have to know that I like-"
 "You needed to stifle the sound in the room to borrow a book?"
 "That just happens when I put stuff inside the gloves."
 "I see. That is reasonable. You are skilled at explaining individual discrepancies with lies."
 He fails to contain an exasperated air. "I didn't lie."
 "You did not want anybody to discover your secret appreciation for philosophy, yet you ran straight to the Floor of Language once you received what you claim was your want."
 "The book was stored away, it's not like I brought it to Gebura to show her. I went there for another reason."
 "Your story relies on a form of projection. You presume that my Assistants behave as you allow yours to, milling about instead of finding work. I would have been made aware of any change in inventory upon my return last evening. You took nothing."
 Binah smiles. Roland looks her over, taking a step back; he keeps an arm across his front, prepared.
 "So you had your mind made up yesterday. You sicced that thing on me. We're all just pawns."
 The conclusion is meaningless; the information used to draw it, however, is striking. The connection between the Abnormality and the resident ex-Arbiter can no longer be disregarded. Contained trauma and emotions give rise to these creatures; this one takes after Binah. Her experience with it is not a warped comprehension of events, formed in such a way that reacts to her mind; it has her memories. She saw the workings of the creature for what they were, and so did the man in front of her.
 "That is not the case."
 "Everything about last night just made me feel like you were there."
 "That does not mean that I command this entity's actions."
 "Then prove it."
 "I can not do so without knowing more about this Abnormality, if that is what it is. I do not know its intentions. We must contain it."
 The Fixer squints. Whatever is on his mind will not escape his lips.
 "I'll let the others know. We shouldn't do anything without everybody knowing the plan."
 "If that is your wish." The Keter Assistants' blank stares find their own items of personal entertainment; none speak with each other. There was a conversation taking place before Binah's arrival, with an individual that makes itself hidden now. The number of locations one could stow away are countable. 
 Roland clears his throat. "Ah, I can't get a move on until I walk you out. You could come with me, but I don't think it's needed."
 Spies generally prefer it when their uncorroborated stories have no chaperone; still, he has no reason to trust the other Patron near his quarters, especially not one that can unlatch any lock at will. Neither explanation for his behavior makes itself more lucid than the other.
 "Very well. I bid you adieu."
 "If anything happens to one of us, we'll all know it's because of you, now."
 "I'll see myself out."

---

 The door to Binah's chamber closes. The gaunt woman sits and meditates by reaching into the same box of listless tar as she had on the evening ere yesterday. She stirs the murk with her fingers, prodding and palming at any of the shy miniatures that might remain solid long enough to grasp. She gets a handful of softened gold; as it comes free from the drowning pool, glittering flecks trail behind it and fall off to remain in the shadow. A figurine of a little person lies in her hand, dripping as observation assails it, melting drops back into the box with each passing second. Its plaque reads "Displaced Scion of Doves," though etched into the material of the manikin is the word "Daughter." The coat of rounded spikes that it wears is its only defining detail. The woman lowers the figure into the sea, and it is swallowed whole. The liquid returns to its usual behavior; it darts away from her hands, giving no hope that she may discover something anew.
 Perhaps this mundane day's time would be better spent reading over a cup of tea.