Author: Lurina

048: INTERMISSION ∞ 1 (2) - The Flower That Bloomed Nowhere | Royal Road

<The crowd applauds vigorously as the curtains draw shut once again. A few moments later, they reopen, and once again the DIRECTOR enters from Stage Right, and the PLAYWRIGHT from Stage Left. They both move towards Downstage Center, and bow.>

PLAYWRIGHT: <waving> Thank you, thank you all! I'm so glad that you're all enjoying the show. I'm so immeasurably flattered, truly, I cannot begin to convey--

DIRECTOR: <interjecting, flatly> Don't overdo it.

PLAYWRIGHT: <ignoring him> --how happy and relieved I am that your interest has held thus far! Even in spite all of those slow, meandering dialogue scenes, one after another after another. Even the one moment that started to look like a fight scene just puttered right out without even going anywhere! Personally, I was starting to think it would never end.

DIRECTOR: <with annoyance> No, you weren't. You have the script. You wrote it.

PLAYWRIGHT: <jerking her head towards him, snapping> You know, I hope you understand you're being a real source of negative energy right now. This should be a crowning moment for us, and you're poisoning the atmosphere of the stage. And you know what? I don't appreciate it. It's not cute, and it's not endearing, not one bit. And I'm sure everyone watching this feels the same way.

DIRECTOR: <addressing the audience> I'm so sorry about this, everyone.

PLAYWRIGHT: <jerking her head back, smiling brightly> But anyway! <mischievously> That was quite a turn, eh? ! I bet you didn't see that coming. What a grisly scene! A shocking sight! A blood-bathed banquet of visual viscera! I swear, it's utterly ridiculous that it always takes us so long to get to this point. I mean-- How can you advertise something as a murder mystery, and then expect them to wait so long for the actual murders?

DIRECTOR: At the risk of repeating myself, I'd like to imagine that our audience is sophisticated enough to appreciate the value of careful foreshadowing, as well as being able to enjoy intrigue and plot progression without it involving a body count.

PLAYWRIGHT: <bored> Please, you can stop your signalling. We all understand that you've taken a literary class.

DIRECTOR: <loudly clearing throat> Personally, I still disagree with this decision to disrupt the chronology of the narrative and skip ahead in this manner. While it may feel expedient to you, in the long term, I think it's only going to disrupt people's investment in service of a cheap mechanism to accelerate the pacing. ...well, and to cultivate artificial tension, though frankly there's enough of that already.

PLAYWRIGHT: <rolling her eyes> What absolute poppycock. If it were up to you, there wouldn't be any tension at all, and the whole thing would just be a series of lectures that calmly explain the plot. <huffing> I mean, honestly! It's like they say, isn't it? You can't just hand everything over to the audience. The fun is in tearing it up into little bits first, them having them stitch it all back together!

DIRECTOR: Normally, that's not meant quite so literally. <raising an eyebrow> Regardless, isn't this supposed to be a control scenario? It's not exactly an appropriate twist for you to insert.

PLAYWRIGHT: Oh, I see what's happened now. You think this is my deliberate doing, hm? <scoffing> Well, I shan't deny the happy accident, but I'm certainly not taking any credit. This is a control scenario.

DIRECTOR: <frowning> You mean it's an emergent event...?

PLAYWRIGHT: Precisely! No matter how plain you make the fish tank, so long as the top is open, you can't stop something from jumping out if it has a mind to do so. That's just the nature of animals. <giggling, smugly> In fact, when things go off the rails, I believe that's your responsibility as the executor, if I'm not mistaken.

DIRECTOR: <sighing> ...Let's just get on with this. We've had enough interruptions recently already, and I'm sure no one wants to waste any more time watching us squabble over minutia.

PLAYWRIGHT: So be it. I know a concession of defeat when I see one. <stretching out her arms> Well then, I did that last one, so why don't you go ahead?

<The DIRECTOR grunts, rubbing his eyes. He then turns to speak exclusively to the audience.>

DIRECTOR: Now that we've the stage in the scenario where bodies have begun to appear, there are a few more rules that needs must be established in order to make the experience as fair and straightforward as possible. As your attention will now be drawn more exclusively towards analyzing specific events and sets of circumstances in close detail, so too must limitations be placed on the scope of your thinking, or else render it unconstructive.

PLAYWRIGHT: <quietly> My god, could you put it any more tediously?

DIRECTOR: This will require the introduction of a few more rules. Allow me to begin explaining them.

<Once again, the black board is returned to Upstage Center by the stagehands, who quickly depart. Words of white chalk begin to form on it from nowhere.>

6. ONCE IDENTIFIED BY THE PROTAGONIST, ALL CORPSES SHOWN ARE GUARANTEED TO BE BOTH HUMAN REMAINS, AND DEAD

DIRECTOR: This one is straightforward enough that it mostly speaks for itself. More or less, it means that the main character - the 'detective', at this point, if you like - can be trusted absolutely not to either mistakenly declare a living person as dead, or mistake something that is not a human cadaver for one. This omits the potential for 'playing dead' and 'decoy body' tricks in most circumstances.

PLAYWRIGHT: <placing a hand on her hip> I mean, we are dealing with a cast of almost entirely medical professionals, aren't we? It's not as if you pull off one of those 'oh, the doctor was just lying the whole time!' type of twists when everyone is a doctor, at least not without it feeling profoundly silly. Better to just put the possibility to rest! Take it behind the shed, before it shits on the carpet!

DIRECTOR: <tersely> A few definitions must be established, however. Critical here is the concept of 'identified by the protagonist'. To be as clear as possible, this means a scenario where said protagonist has been able to see it closely and clearly for a sufficient amount of time to make their judgement. So if a body is only seen briefly, or in dim lighting, then no such identification can take place.

PLAYWRIGHT: But however will they tell one situation from another, I wonder? You can't expect people to make such a fuzzy judgement by the seat of their pants.

DIRECTOR: <blunt> That's already been established. When a body is identified, the description of it will be written in blood red, like so. Once that occurs, there is no room for mistakes. ...However. It must be noted that 'identified' does not mean 'identified as a specific person'. It means that it is a body. Any other conclusions made by the detective should be considered merely circumstantial.

PLAYWRIGHT: Ah, but don't you think that rather neuters the premise, considering what we've witnessed thus far? <holding up a finger> After all, wasn't it demonstrated back in Chapter 36 that a single individual can, in fact, have multiple bodies...? Why-- With that detail, what's to stop everyone from having piles of disposable ones just rearing to go, rendering 'discovering' about as meaningful as finding your hairbrush underneath the sofa?

DIRECTOR: You know, I really wish you'd keep the theatrics to the performance itself. <sighing> This is where we must veer somewhat into philosophy. If we consider the essence of humanity to lie within the brain - within consciousness - then by definition, something can only be 'identified as a human body if it possesses one. So discoveries of non-functioning 'proxy bodies', or rather ones not inhabited by a consciousness, will not be reported in red lettering.

PLAYWRIGHT: I see, I see! <slyly> I certainly can't conceive of how that could ever be employed unfairly.

DIRECTOR: <annoyed, clicking tongue> As a final point of clarity, a lack of confirmed identification could not be seen as absolute proof that what is being seen is not a legitimate human body. One cannot confirm a negative, and there may be other circumstances in play. With that all established...

7. IF ATTEMPTED, THE PROTAGONIST CAN BE TRUSTED TO IDENTIFY ANY CONCEALED EXITS FROM A CLOSED SPACE

PLAYWRIGHT: Ohoh. This one is an old classic, isn't it? There's neither an older, nor a cheaper trick in the book than secret passages and trap doors when it comes to a mystery. <holding a hand to her heart> Just imagine! The killer ruthlessly cuts down their quarry, only to tug on a nearby torch, causing the stone wall upon which it placed to swing wide! And then they enter, vanishing from the scene like a ghost. The perfect crime!

DIRECTOR: But not, unfortunately, a very realistic one. <sighing> That last one might've turned out a little more complicated than anticipated, but this rule really is simple. To prevent a ridiculous situation where no 'closed room' can ever be trusted and a phantom killer could easily hop from place, making deductions pointless, a limitation on their application must imposed. Hence, the rule - no potential escape route, no matter how well hidden, will ever go unnoticed if they choose to look.

PLAYWRIGHT: Even if it's magic?

DIRECTOR: <flatly> Yes, even if it's magic.

PLAYWRIGHT: Mm, but what if they don't look, though.

DIRECTOR: That's the sole exception, though in my opinion, even that is an unnecessary loophole. <sighing> But yes, if a lack of time or some other factor prevents close examination of an area, then it is permitted for a hidden passage to exist without the audience being informed. That said, there will be another rule which will restrict that somewhat later on. So don't get too comfortable with it.

PLAYWRIGHT: That's saying a tad bit too much, don't you think? <tapping her foot> In any event, is that everything?

DIRECTOR: No, though I'm not surprised you forgot this part, since you were off in your own little world when it was last being discussed. <glancing downward> You certainly are getting excited.

PLAYWRIGHT: Well, it's an exciting moment, isn't it? After all, this is to be our last hurrah! Our last performance of this production, post-penultimate! Our final finale, our climax of conclusions--

DIRECTOR: <sighing> Yes, yes, I understand. Let me get through this quickly, then. <once again, addressing the audience> You may be wondering why we skipped a rule, from 4 to 6. This is because, while it would have been awkward to start with, this final addition is somewhat related to rule 4, in that it concerns narrative perspectives other than the protagonist.

DIRECTOR: From now onward, scenes will occasionally be shown from two additional viewpoints: either other characters, or an omni-present third person perspective. As a result, their reliability must be established.

5. PERSPECTIVES OTHER THAN THE PROTAGONIST, BOTH FIRST AND THIRD PERSON, CAN ONLY BE CONSIDERED RELIABLE IF SPECIFICALLY DEFINED AS SUCH BEFOREHAND

PLAYWRIGHT: Oh, right, right! <clapping her hands together> This is one about how anything shown that doesn't come from the eyes of the reliable narrator is all just rubbish, and ought to be ignored, isn't it?

DIRECTOR: That's an incredibly reductive way to look at it. Something isn't going to be shown at all if it has no value to the narrative. You of all people should be aware of that.

PLAYWRIGHT: Well, I suppose that sort of thing might be good for flavor. Not much use for solving the mystery, though. I mean, you'll just get misled! Like an idiot!

DIRECTOR: <rubbing his brow> It's as though I can feel my life draining out of my body the longer I spend on stage... But yes, to be clear it means that nothing that isn't specifically identified as reliable cannot be taken as factual. Anything further than that is up the judgement of the one witnessing it, and when the source is clear, how much trust they-- <pointing to the audience> -- are willing to afford.

PLAYWRIGHT: And heed my advice, friends: That should be none at all! If you can one piece of advice, it's this. <pointing to her own face> Trust only what you can see with your own two eyes! Anyone else who tries to spin you a second-hand narrative? They have an agenda, no question. <pausing> ...well, except for what I'm saying to you right now. You should trust that.

DIRECTOR: Deeply insightful. <digressing> In any case, reliable scenes shall be denoted by beginning with the first word highlighted in purple. They can be taken as literal, just as much as those delivered by Utsushikome in the regular narrative... But don't expect to see that particularly often.

PLAYWRIGHT: That's it, then? We're done?

DIRECTOR: Yes, we've finished.

PLAYWRIGHT: <shifting up and down on the spot> Oooh, I'm so excited! We're so close to the good part! I hope you enjoy it, everyone-- Even if this is our final showing, I assure you that I've skimped no effort in creating a tale that shall shake you to your very bones!

DIRECTOR: That's enough, I think. <lowering his head> Bones or not, we both with you the very best of luck.

PLAYWRIGHT: Pay close attention, alright? Don't let me feel like my work is going to waste!

DIRECTOR: <muttering> Afraid that might be a little unavoidable, at this point...

<The audience applauds as the DIRECTOR bows and the PLAYWRIGHT waves eagerly, before exiting at Stage Left and Stage Right respectively. A few moments later, the CHORUS returns from Stage Left, moving to Downstage Center. The spotlight falls upon her, and she begins reading from her script.>

CHORUS: The battle draws now to its climax, the arms of both sides brought to bear. But though it appears the time to strike, in truth, it is already too late. The opportunity to turn the tide has passed unnoticed, and the outcome to follow has already been predetermined. The noose of fate tightens sharply.

CHORUS: All that remains to be done now is to observe the tragedy unfold, and to aspire to some catharsis in understanding. And if that catharsis can be reached, to wonder at the folly of man, who ever engineers his own suffering.

CHORUS: Or else to pray for a miracle, that might offer atonement for all sins, of mortal and immortal alike...

CHORUS: We hope you are enjoying the story.

<She once again lowers the script, bows rigidly, and moves to exit Stage Left. The audience applauds as the lights dim and the curtain draws shut.>

Late Second Day

It was late into the afternoon, and Nindar of Inadu, coordinator of the Exemplary Acolyte's Class, was marking papers in the study at the back of his home. He smiled to himself as he worked, though the expression was distant, resigned.

Nindar was an old man, and had experienced a very long career, the majority of which had been spent in education. When he'd been very young, a literal child, He'd dreamed of becoming an explorer. Of traveling to distant planes or other, imagined spaces he'd read in stories or misunderstood from his lessons, and discovering wonderful things utterly beyond the scope of his mundane life.

But as he grew a little older and he shed his innocence, his manner of thinking changed, and he instead aspired to be a marine for the Ysaran navy. Some part of his original motive was still there; he loved traveling, the ocean, and the visceral thrill of a fight, where everything was spontaneous. But he'd also decided that, fundamentally, he preferred following orders to thinking entirely for himself. As the world had opened up to him and become so much more complicated, he'd begun to find the only times he felt free to live in the moment was when he wasn't overburdened with responsibility.

He knew now reality of something like being an explorer was divorced from the fantasy; you couldn't just go where you wanted. You'd always be making decisions, dealing with other people or the world around you, struggling in one way or another...

When war had broken out, it'd seemed at the time like his time had finally arrived. But though the youngest of many children, he'd been born into an influential Ysaran family, and they'd done everything in their power to keep him from enlisting, regardless of his opinion on the subject. Thus, over the next few years, he'd watched friend after friend disappear to pursue what had been his own dream, many of which hadn't even wanted to.

It was in those years, filled with the uncomplicated bitterness and resentment that can only truly be experienced by the youthful, that he'd found his way to teaching. Wanting to spite his parents by pursuing anything other than a business education, he'd volunteered part-time in the physical education department of a local secondary school. Though he'd only taken the job on a temporary basis - he'd planned to eventually join the local police department, but they'd halted hiring for the time being as resources were diverted towards the front lines - and at the urging of a friend, he'd found himself surprised by how good he was with children, and how much he liked the consistency of it.

Coming in every week, working down the schedule of classes. Evaluating the students performances, giving advice. Breaking up their predictable little conflicts. Talking with the other teachers...

Before he knew it, his position had become a full time one, and then, when the school had become short-staffed, a mixed one where he was also teaching biology on the side, a subject he'd partially pursued in university based purely on having graded well for it.

It was there that, for the first time in his life, he'd marked papers.

It'd been many, many decades now since it'd been a the primary part of his workload, having discovered that the higher in education one traveled, the less the job became about technical work, and more it became a fuzzy, ill-defined role of talking to people and managing individuals. But as strange as it was - as much as it contradicted the opinions of his peers - he'd found anything he enjoyed quite as much. There was something so peaceful, so certain about it.

It didn't matter if it was simple sheets of check-boxes, essays, or anything in between. Going over the work piece by piece, knowing the points that needed to be hit to raise the numbers. The almost mechanical quality to it all, the way it turned complex pieces of writing into something that could be evaluated so simply, judged in absolute terms with a solitary number.

It was only much later in his life that Nindar had come to understand quite what sort of person he'd evolved into, growing up. The reason he delighted in both this, and in his earlier aspiration of being a soldier, fighting grand battles on far-away seas.

It was because what he found comforting, the circumstance which he felt the most easily actualized... Was to immersion in absolute system. To be entombed in a box of absolute principles, where the walls smothered him.

Perhaps some part of himself, the fleeting remnant of the child who had fantasized of grand adventures, had felt disgusted at that understanding. The way its fiery dream of freedom had been twisted and changed by contact with reality, until it began to resemble the very opposite. Where the only escape was an absolute prison.

Perhaps that was what had drawn him, in the end, towards the Order of the Universal Panacea.

A knock came suddenly at the door, and his fragile smile vanished at once. He stood up and walked down the hall. Then, taking a moment to verify their identity through the peephole, unhooked the lock and opened the door for the person outside.

It was another man dressed in an unremarkable brown tunic, who would have been utterly unremarkable, were he not wearing a mask instead of a veil. He gave a nod as he entered, and the two of them walked back down.

"Did it go well?" Nindar asked, taking a turn into the kitchen.

The man snorted. "As unsentimental as ever, I see."

"I merely don't want to mince words. We don't have a lot of time to begin with, and I wish to maximize it if there's something I need to consider." He threw open a cabinet, revealing an extensive set of pristine but uniform glasses. "You'll have something to drink?"

"After the last two days? Saoic whiskey, if you've got it."

"I have some some from the satrapies," he said. "Not sure if it's barley or multi-grain, though."

"Close enough," the man said, sounding relieved.

He lifted up two glasses betwixt his fingers and deposited them on the counter. Then, he opened a second cabinet with a glass exterior, and withdrew a tall, somewhat aged-looking bottle of golden brown fluid, and poured them both two-thirds full. Finally, he opened a box close to the floor and withdrew a tray of ice, breaking off a few half-orbs and letting them fall from his hand into the liquid.

"Come," Nindar said, and ushered the other man out of the kitchen and into his study. Once they'd arrived, he gestured to the seat opposite his desk, and then passed one of the two glasses over before sitting down himself in his heavy leather desk chair. The man raised his mask - revealing a broad but weathered face, with a dark complexion - and took a drink immediately, muttering thanks. Nindar simply watched him.

"You certainly have a lot of books in here," the man said, his eyes wandering from shelf to shelf, pile to pile. "I'd lose my wits from the claustrophobia living in a place like this."

"So," Nindar said, seeming to ignore this comment. "Did it go well?"

"This is actually quite good," the man said, tilting his glass. "What brand is it?"

"Harkhuf, please stop avoiding the point."

The man - Harkhuf - hesitated for a moment, then sighed, making a small smile. "It went well. I escorted them to the entrance of the sanctuary without any difficulty, and received notice that everything is proceeding as planned."

Nindar's whole body sunk a little with relief. "Good. That's excellent," he said. "Then the rest is out of our hands."

"My hands," Harkhuf corrected him, with a subtle gesture from his forefinger. "You still have to make sure that all your potential statements are in order, so you aren't taken off guard."

"I've seen to that already," he replied dismissively. "I'm so used to explaining outlandish things to the board that I could do it in my sleep, at this point." He flicked his eyes upwards, meeting those of the man across from him. "How was Fang?"

Harkhuf shrugged. "They seemed in high enough spirits, considering the circumstances. Though it's not as if I could make an educated judgement. They were at least more talkative than the ones I escorted yesterday, save for the redhead." He clicked his tongue. "Damn, what was her name--"

"Kamrusepa," Nindar said, with a subtle note of regret.

"Yes, that's right." He took another sip. "Of course, it's not as if their mood is going to make much of a difference one way or the other. Just bringing that thing at all is like taking a candle into a room with a gas leak."

"Mm, I'm not so confident," Nindar replied, shaking his head.

"In what regard?"

Nindar considered the question for a moment, idly crossing his legs. "I know the inner circle well. Half of them are probably willing to die before they'd accept any change to their mission, whether in nature or approach." He closed his eyes for a few seconds, turning his face upward. "But should it all come to nothing, I'll at least be able to rest easy in knowing I did my best."

"For humanity?" Harkhuf asked, raising an eyebrow. There was a little amusement in his tone.

Nindar snorted. "Something like that." He finally took a sip from his own class, swirling the ice and savoring the moment.

"We're both only supporting characters in this drama, at most," Harkhuf said, taking another sip. "To imagine too grand a purpose for ourselves would be conceited."

"Even a pawn, should it cross from one end of the board to another, can become a queen, even if it's only for the duration of the game," Nindar replied. "█ █ █ █ █ was fond of that analogy."

The other man hesitated at the mention of the name for a moment, but smiled. "It's a bit of a cliche, isn't it?"

"Well, he was always the type of man to think in terms of stories," Nindar said quietly.

A few moments passed in comfortable silence. Then, as if suddenly detecting a bad small, Harkhuf frowned and wrinkled his nose, sitting up a little and speaking more seriously.

"There was one thing," he said. "Not sure if you'd call it a cause for concern, but..."

Nindar eyed him. "Go on."

"On my way back, I went to the Aetherbridge to pick up a copy of the travel records, just in case this all blows up to the extent that it'll be useful to have a paper trail for the entire sequence of events. I had the registration code for the girl's group already, and Sacnicte gave me the one that belonged to the boys, but..."

He frowned. "But?"

"Well, there must have been some mistake or complication," Harkhuf said. "Because we know, for a fact, that they all arrived. But the records..." He hesitated. "According to them, the boys group isn't registered as having ever boarded the lift at all."

Nindar blinked.