Evolution Part EXTRA: All Manner of Things

I tug the thread at first, and find myself only a couple years into the future. The Empress, it seems, no longer holds power over London - the insanity regarding the calendar is ignored, jokes about the Prince Consort permeate the air, and I seem to be far from the only person to have had a wild night on her throne. Electricity has become so easily attainable that lightbulbs are as cheap as candles in my own time, and paper printing has become so commonplace that I can't help but shudder and wonder of what's become of my Newspaper. Most interestingly, however, it seems that Mr. Fires' factories have shut down. In my curiosity, I can't help but ask the Urchins - they are always surprisingly knowledgeable.

They claim that Mr. Fires is gone, and that it's a Master pretending to be Fires that handles things. Wines, usually, but sometimes it's "the new 'un, the Master that's a little shorter than the others." I can't help but smile. It seems that a certain Mr. Cards is about to become significantly more powerful in the coming years.

The following morning, I take breakfast with the Captivating Princess. Though I loathe this woman deeply, it is always good to have allies among the royalty, and it seems that she considers me one of her own allies - with her mother gone, she seems to be the real power behind the royalty in London now. Unfortunately, as she is wont to do, she is not particularly helpful in my discoveries. She is still quite captivated with the red honey, though. I suppose some things never change.

At the end of the day, I return to my Lodgings - it seems I still own one of the Bazaar's Spire-Emporiums - and take a moment to sort through the advertisements. Ordinarily, a waste of time, but perhaps it will grant me some sort of insight into this future? Mostly, it's trash. But here and there, I see the familiar imprints, the familiar toxic scents, letters out of place. It seems that Londoners have migrated from graffiti in the streets to more sophisticated forms of spreading the Correspondence. The art will not die so soon, it seems.

Satisfied with what I have already found, I tug on the thread of my future again, to find another, waiting for me. I look into the mirror over my dresser - and am taken somewhere else entirely.

I found myself in the Mirror-Marches, and for a moment I was worried that I had made some sort of mistake. Fortunately, memories flooded my mind of the information in this future. I am, it seems, a Fingerking Huntsman, here working for them. They are here to strike a deal with me, so I offer the gore of my victory over murdered dreams. The dream of the hopes of a child, murdered, and the Fingerkings feast. There is a reason I align myself with the Cats when it comes to Parabola. And it seems that reason won't be changing any time soon.

The next day (if such a thing even really exists in Parabola) I found myself upon the Castle of Forests. A place for watching the world of Parabola. At the top of the highest tower, I gazed upon the dream of a Clay Man. They are utterly alien, dreams of topography, features of terrain, water from a spring carrying the Mountain's light. And very little, very little information to be found.

Finally, I find myself upon the Moonlit Chessboard. Before, I played as one of the black pieces, working from the inside to sabotage the Liberation of Night. Now, in this future, I play against slumbering Grandmasters. They play for the right to wake up. I play so that the Fingerkings can feast. Today, I grabbed the red pieces, and lose intentionally, though I play well enough so that he is forced to make dangerous moves against me. In his moves, I found information: the movements of the Bloody-Handed Queen. This is something I can use to my advantage.

Satisfied with what I have found in this future, I look around for exits, tugging at the threads of fate once more. I find myself upon three mirrors, though the Namer of Miseries refuses to give information of them, so I walk forward, towards the one that's always damp. Brackish water seeps out from the gap between the frame and the glass, and as my left foot rises, it is my right foot that lands on a new location.

The pressure upon my ears sends me on high alert immediately. We are underwater, I am sure of that. This is a Future among the Lorn-Flukes. One who eats Hate, One who eats Fear, and One who eats Regret.

I do not like it here. I feed them, I feed them my Guilt (or rather, what the Constables would consider my Guilt), I feed them my pain (I am still quite sore from my voyage with the Diving Bell), I feed them my Nightmares, and I tug on the thread of Fate as quickly as possible. A labyrinth of twisted chambers leading west, east, and down. The western passage feels familiar to me, so I decide to go down.

It was a mistake, of course. Because as soon as the darkness hits my eyes, I understand exactly what this is. This is the future of the Liberation of Night. The future that must not come to pass.

And yet, when I look, there is more than just utter darkness. Under peligin light, a new society has been formed. It seems that the break down of all Law more easily allows us to change ourselves. Tentatively, I try to change others, who take parts of me freely, enthusiastically even. I look - or try to look, at least - at myself, and find that I have not changed at all. Nearby, I see some cats with eyes of Peligin wandering the streets, and they approach me. They explain to me the subtle differences between each and every person. Truths and secrets that can't be shared through words or furtive notes. The balance of a dancer, the footfalls of a cat, the facial contortions of a Snuffer. Under the Liberation, these things can become everyone's, and anyone's.

That is... a rather comforting thought, admittedly. How much easier would things be if more people had my intellect? My guile? My ability to adapt? I worked hard for all these things, of course, but I never minded sharing them with those in need. If they had those skills such as mine - such as others' - then they wouldn't need me, and the world might be a better place for it. No one would be mired by the circumstances of their birth. Perhaps, then, I wouldn't need to have undergone these experiments to become one of the Masters. My human flesh never quite suited me right - if I could change it as easily as the Liberation allows, perhaps I wouldn't have had to play the Marvellous at all.

Under another light - Apocyan, the light of memory - it seems that society has fermented into something where past, present and future no longer hold meaning. Memories are given just as much significance as the living body of the now. The city becomes a system of places, both present and not, navigated for the reevaluation of the past, instead of the subsistence of the present. I hear one of the stories, alongside a large crowd gathered around a lightless fire, and find that the storytelling never stops, long after people are gone, though more always come to take their place. We remember the suffering that came before, the brutality of the factories, the starving in the streets, the people who knew they wouldn't live to see the Great Work. Their memories are preserved. Even in death, a small part of them remains. One person next to me encourages me to tell my own tale, and with a furrowed brow, I start to tell it. I let out my feelings, the same feelings I felt when my friend described to me their vision of the Liberation when they descended into the Fathomking's Feast. The shock, the confusion, the weeks and months of desperately trying to survive, the grief of what was lost. I expected to be immediately cast out and marked as an enemy, to be reprimended as obviously wrong, especially when these feelings were not wholly my own - when, in a way, I was lying. But the Liberation simply absorbs my fears, weaving them into a story; one that is no longer simply mine.

Violant, the light of forced memory. If there is any light in which tragedy could strike, this is certainly one of them. And yet, here, there is no such thing as a "self" or an "other". Those who wish to remain themselves are quite happy to do so, but the relation between people is given more importance over each individual. I give something (from each according to their ability); I give them what they lack, in intellect, in love, in kindness, in regrets, in old clothes, in friendship. And then, after giving so much of myself - and still feeling no lesser for it - I decide to take a little (to each according to their need) and find that the process reminds me of the Holidays in London, except this time, we are all Mr. Sacks. "Take these wines." One person tells me, and I oblige.

With a heavy heart, I tug on the thread of my Destiny again, and find it easy to follow. These dark places used to be streets, but the boundaries between private and public, of inside and outside, have melted away. A single step could take me wherever I wanted, but only two pathways of Destiny seem to open to me. And both of them feel familiar. With some trepidation, I tug on the warp again, and find myself on the other side of Destiny. And here, I see a branching path - and two dead ends.

One, where I fully participate of this new community, becoming part of it, allowing it to shape my life and reshaping it in turn. A beautiful community of true, impossible equality, a community of nothing but people helping people. On the other side, a dead end that leads to me working alongside the Liberation, working to Liberate more and more places, until, eventually, we take the Judgements out of their thrones, and cast them down into the abyss. No Gods, no Masters, only people.

Both of these futures sound... fantastic. Almost utopic. If this is where the Liberation of Night leads, then perhaps -- perhaps I have to reevaluate my feelings on the Great Work.

There are still more pathways for me to explore, however, so I step on the path towards something much closer to home, now armed with the knowledge that perhaps the lights going out wouldn't be so bad, after all.

I find myself again on the London only a few years in the future. It is time, then, to start making a mental map of the pathways here. I cannot imagine that charting every future will be a simple task. My time in this Nearby Future is spent speaking with the Admiralty, in which I find that new ships roll out of port daily, and most of the raw materials come from the Hinterlands. The Great Hellbound Railway, it seems, will only become more important in the years to come. A good sign for my growing Power in London, as the Railway's director. They even pay me in these Neo-Echoes, apparently created "after the panic of '89".

A ladder to the attic in my lodgings brings me somewhere else, I find myself walking out of a commander's tent, not unlike the one in my Pavillon back in Parabola. No surprise, since this seems to actually be my Pavillon, though we are not in Parabola. Instead, we seem to have come very close to the Mountain indeed, for its light to be so close to searing my flesh. We are on the edge of the Desert of Delights, the thing that killed me when I looked into the Naturalist's future. This time, I am more ready. The Desert of Delights is a horrific snare of mirages and false pleasures, no army with light in its eyes can cross it. So I take a knife, and lead my troops into a practiced surgery, an incision into the flesh, and an excision of our ability to feel pleasure. The deserts of Nidah demand nothing else. I am glad, then, that though this future me will do this, the present me will still retain the ability to enjoy a good honey dream.

I then proceeded to march in front of them, sending out scouts to bring back sand. Only one truly returns, with a bloodied sack, and under a microscope of a makeshift laboratory, I see the truth of each individual grain; whole kingdoms, each and every one. A jungle of man-eating pythons, a vast city of clockwork automata, and so much more. In an instant, I crushed thousands of these tiny worlds into finer dust, and using sapphires and unpleasant secretions from my Hellworm (apparently I will get one of these eventually) I will create an antidote to the concept of lies, seeing to every truth hidden in the world.

Blood flows through the wound left behind by the Thief of Faces, corroding every ship that dares pass through it. The war could not be won at Zee, but by going through the river, we could carve a path. Ordinarily, Apis Meet would just let anyone pass through to their doom. We are more than prepared for this journey, however, and they block the mouth of the river. In response, I send out the Ender of Chains to destroy it, and carve us a path towards the Mountain. Finally, so close, I turn to hear December's risky plan; they refuse to tell me. Instead, they walk into their tent, and hours later, a Law is enacted: No candle shall light paper ablaze. The light of the Mountain dims, and the temperature rapidly drops. It seems it is time to bring the Winter coats.

We have gotten so close to the Mountain, though the thread does not point me in the direction of it. Instead, I am pointed to the map on my table. Three pathways are open to me, the first I already recognize - an entry back to the future Nearby - but the other two are unknown to me. I order us back to the Unterzee, and though my captains bicker and protest, I walk away. Away from the Mountain, to some place wholly different.

London. London bathed in sunlight. A part of me is surprised I'm not just burning away instantly. The place seems prettier, certainly more radiant, but it is obvious things are not quite right. The Ministry of Public Decency has become the Ministry of Public Everything (for the Continued Existence of a Public), and they seem to be running the show. They still seem to confiscate forbidden literature, as they do in the present, though they also seem to make a new substance called lily-balm. In their "mercy", they overlook petty thievery of vital supplies, but no thief has ever stolen lily-balm and lived to tell the tale. They, of course, have never met me.

Getting into the warehouse was easy, but with so many people, and so much sunlight, hiding was the tricky part. Coming out of there with any Lily-balm would be impossible, but I did manage to learn how it is made. The waxy substance is scraped from the chitinous shells of emaciated, long captured devils. It seems that in this Future, the Devils have long since lost whatever semblance of dignity they had. Armed with knowledge that would make Virginia fume, I leave the warehouse undetected and go for a stroll in the gardens. It is a pleasant experience, almost as pleasant as it was back in the surface (God, how long ago was that now?), but the sunlight sticks to my skin and seeps into my bones.

I returned to my lodgings. My townhouse seems to have replaced my Spire-Emporium in this future, and found myself rather tired. This body - this me in the London awash with sunlight - has not slept in several days. With a smile, I lay my head on my pillow. This is a London of Light and Law, and so, sleeping - going into the lawless world of the Is-Not - is an act of rebellion, and I gently close my eyes, waiting to see the familiar sights of the Viric Jungle.

But the only thing I see is the impossible light burning through my eyelids. No dream snakes, no chessboards steeped in moonlight, no mirror reflections. Entry into Parabola, it seems, has been forbidden by the Light, and whatever attempts I may want to make in breaking that Law, I am interrupted by a knock on the door. "Inspection Day!" a shout comes from outside. A day that comes whenever the Ministry feels like it.

Several threads appear before me in this moment. Two leading to dead ends, three more leading outside. Two I recognize, one I do not. I tug on the first of the Dead End threads, and see myself passing the inspection flawlessly. This future me is smiling, for it is more loyal to the Law than even the Ministry could ever hope to be. I recoil upon seeing this, and immediately tug on the second thread into a Dead End. The Ministry still finds nothing, because I know all of their moves before they even think to make them. In this future, I am working to undermine the Sun in London - to bring about the Liberation of Night. A tempting offer, but significantly less tempting than the Destinies I have seen previously.

I tug on the unfamiliar thread, but it unravels between my fingers. Whatever is here, I am not ready to see it yet. Another knock on the door, "Open the door!" the Minister screams. With no other option, I go up to it, opening it gently, "Apologies, gentlemen. I was indecent." I reply. They smile, polite nods as they go into my Lodgings to do their work. With only one option available to me, I tug on the recognizable thread, faster than the Ministry can catch me, back to the Nearby future.

Twice I have returned to this familiar territory, and I feel that this place is well-charted at this point. It does not take me long to find my way back to the future of Silver, where I am one of the Fingerkings' huntsman. This time, I play for the black pieces - much like how I do on the Moonlight Chessboard - and play to win. Some strategies come to me, and as a result, one of the Fingerkings approaches me, asking for me to pay a little of the Will-Be, rendered into the Might-Have-Been. A possibility that would open new opportunities for me. But bargains with Serpents are never a good idea, and my instincts tell me to abstain from anything that might affect me in the Present, so instead, I offer the gore of my kill once again. It seems satisfied enough to leave me alone.

This time, when I climb the Castle of Forests and its highest tower, I look for the dream of a familiar person. The Efficient Commissioner - Griz, as she was once known, back in the early days of the fall. She sleeps in a fortress, and I am forced to ransack the dreams of a banker's son, for convictions so weightless that they float and carry me. From above, the cannons protecting her dreams cannot hit me, and I find some minor glimpses of what goes on in her slumber. The fingerkings, of course, pay me handsomely for the information I have gathered. I have plenty of their scales with me at this point, and I still have those Neo-Echoes with me.

When I return to the Namer of Miseries and ask again about the mirrors here, it refuses to answer, much like it did the first time - for them, I imagine it is the first time. I tug on the threads of fate once more, but out of the three threads that appear, only the one that's already familiar to me stays firm enough to guide me. I have thoroughly explored the possibilities in this place - except for the one choice I refuse to make - so what else is left?

Ah, of course. Time here in far from linear. It is a labyrinth with no walls, and the only real constant is me. And as I step through the mirror back into the future of the Lorn-Flukes - the Abyssal Future - I learn something valuable. Much like how I could bring my Neo-Echoes into the Silvered Future, I can bring the Fingerking Scales into the Abyssal Future. If I can bring items, why not possibilities, too?

The complexity of this maze has just greatly expanded.

The Flukes in this future eat voraciously. I try to feed one my complicity in the money I have made, but it's far too much. The creature chokes, and chokes, and I feel a little bit of my presence in these futures unravel. I pull back on the thread of fate, undoing my mistake, but it is unlikely I can make too many mistakes like this. The others, they consume the grievances they have against the Sun (we share a common enemy), and the hunger and absence of everything. In return, they give me tiny spines, and I find that once again, the threads into other futures come into my hands. The familiar threads stand firm, but the singular unfamiliar thread frays against my touch. Another possibility I must bring from another Future.

I go to take a step towards the comfortable, utopic future of the Liberation of Night, but find myself with a flash of inspiration. I know of one possibility which cannot be found in the Liberation of Night, but which can be found here. Clutching the two possibilities in my fist, I once again descend the cavernous paths downwards, towards the darkness of Liberation.

The people here - and those who prefer to not be called "people" - welcome me much like they did the first time, as if it was the first time. When I have a moment to myself, I utilize the power of the possibilities I brought, only one of them, and give my fears to the Fluke that is in another Future entirely. I try and see if this creates any kind of new thread for me to pursue, but alas, it does not. This is not a fruitless endeavour, however. What happens if I bring this little piece of a dark possibility into a future so Brilliant as to be blinding?

I move back to the Nearby Future - where I take the possibility of paying my electric bill - towards my attic for the Jewelled Future (where the light of the Mountain still gleams), and back towards the Unterzee, to reach that same future of blinding Law and Light. Reading the card of my electricity bill in this future - simultaneously then and there and now - I find the power of that unknown thread strengthen, and I follow it to an excursion in Watchmaker's Hill. In this Future of pure light, the Observatory, with its cult of blind astronomers, has been abolished for a cult obsessed with the sun. But as I enter their site of work, what I find is something else entirely.

And I find myself in a place familiar indeed. The chill of the High Wilderness envelops me, I find myself floating weightlessly. My body feels stronger, larger, and I hear the beat of wings behind me, to realize that they are mine. This is my future. A future of infinite possibilities, where I will follow the other Masters on their final voyage to the Sun. "Something wrong?" asks the familiar voice of Mr. Wines, and I shake my head with a smile. He does not question further, going in front of me.

We move together, though silently. Time here in the High Wilderness is not observed in the same way it does back in the Neath, here, to everything there is a season, and to each time, a purpose. Days here are marked with observances, and my travelling companions pass the time by performing the proper observances. We observe the day of the hunt by splitting into different pairs, and hunt based on past grievances. Today, my partner is Iron. I know not what grievances it may have for me in this Future, though I certainly have some choice words about the practice of Heartmetal. We chase each other, slinging Correspondence as weapons and shield. The skies themselves seem to join our hunt, with us chasing our quarry around wells and the Winds. Soon enough, our claws connect against each other, and our blood spills crimson into the golden sky. Afterwards, we all join together to celebrate the battle. Iron won - of course it would have - but the combat is celebrated even so. Laughter, drinks, and camraderie between the Masters, in a way you would never see back in the Neath.

The next day's travel meets us with the Woven Wind. "Not a true Wind", Wines explains, "just sorrow-spiders flying from world to world." It is, regardless, discomcerting to see massive spiderwabs floating gently in the air. Veils dips low in its flight, familiar murder in its eyes. For once, I'm inclined to agree with it, and as I swoop down to follow Veils, the others come with us. Every day is spider-hunting day. Unfortunately, spiders make for dull trophies, and annoying ones too, so we simply release them afterwards, but I become keenly aware of how little kindness there can be here in the High Wilderness.

For the third day of travel, we approach the Waking Well. "Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad," Mr. Wines explains, though I'm sure there are hidden meanings behind those words. After a brief moment of contemplation, I dip into the Bazaar's spires for a moment, grabbing a bottle, and return outside, diving towards the Well. It is a more difficult maneuver than I expected, though through a mixture of practice, skill and sheer luck on my part, I manage to catch an ejection from the well in my bottle and cork it, without getting caught in the Well's gravity. "Stupid." Mr. Wines says with a smile. "RECKLESS." Iron uses a placard to exclaim, though it is hard to say if it approves or not. Veils looks to the little soul in my grasp with envy, and I'm sure that before this journey is done, they will want to barter with me for it.

Still, as my fellow Masters move to leave, I remember something that was once taught to me; "To every Well, there is a prisoner, and a crime, unloved by heaven." I stop and listen to the Well's voice, but what I hear first is another one of my allies. "The Waking Well is the Well of Nighthawks," Mr. Fires's visage comes into my view, "and sleepwalkers. The resting-place of those who counted the days and found them few. Of those who would also have nights."

I cannot help but quirk an eyebrow, though I disguise it by turning back to the Well. When I first descended upon the Feast of the Fathomking, Mr. Fires was missing from our entourage, and yet here he flies, right next to me. Is this... not the same future? Regardless, I fly a little closer, careful to not be caught in the debris or the spiralling air. I let out a shriek into the Well, and I swear I hear a faint "let me out" in reply. When I return to Mr. Fires, it shakes its head. "The bottom of a well is so far beneath reality, that it barely exists." it deigns to explain, "Come, we have fallen far enough behind." are its final words before it - and I - move to reconvene with the group. I'm sure Mr. Fires is not lying to me, so why is it that I can still hear that voice in my head?

And yet on the following day, I notice what is about to happen. Us, and the Bazaar, are coming close to our destination. If I continue to follow this thread, this will be my Destiny once more. It is true that I am content with this. To have friends among the Masters - though I know we will part ways - and to have the power and knowledge of a Curator at my fingertips. This is my Destiny, and unlike the Naturalist, I do not hate it.

I could say that there is still clearly more to see. I could say that I want to experience this journey again. I could say that I want to spend more time in the body of a full Curator, rather than the half transformed amalgamation I am in Present time. All of these reasons would explain why I ignore Mr. Wines' concerned "Are you okay?" when I pluck the possibility I brought from the Abyssal Future out of the air, and within it, grant my hurt to It Eats Hatred. All of these reasons would explain why I pull on the thread of fate that leads me into the Wind of Ruin, the unfamiliar path only opened by my lucky foresight. All of these reasons would explain why I plunge into it, ignoring their cries of concern, and mockery, and warning.

But it would not explain the heaviness upon my heart.

But that was, evidently, not the correct decision. I come to and my whole body - my whole Human body - in pain, bleeding and hungry. London - is it even London anymore? - has fallen, completely, destroyed and despoiled, and in the bustling centers of the city I find myself alone. I hear the occasional voice in the distance, so I am, at least, not the only survivor, but I can't help but wonder: "what happened here"?

My survival, however, takes priority. I was right to save a small possibility from the Chilly Future, but it seems like it was the incorrect one. The threads of fate fray and loosen themselves in my grip, and from the possibilities here, I can only find one potential way out. A broken mirror, back into the Future of Silver.

I quickly work to bandage my bleeding. Unravelling someone, again and again, to find enough scraps so I can live for longer. I find fragments of white stone as well, and I pocket those for later; I must move quickly, before other scavengers arrive. After taking enough of a distance from what I just did, I take a moment to poke through debris. Not even rats have survived this London, and I find shards of blackened glim on the ground, decomposing so thoroughly that it forces me to look up, and finally realize that in this Future of Ruin, even the false-stars have died.

Hunger, however, drives me ever onwards. There is no possibility in this future that does not involve darkness, so it is with little surprise that when I barter for food - with those who are too far gone to even eat - it is the potential of darkness that I find. The thread of my escape looks so inviting in my hand, but there is still, I'm sure, more information to be found here. In exchange, the person who I traded with granted me food, enough food to, perhaps, find out more about this terrible place. Still, I go to scavenge for more, just in case, and find a carcass the size of a cow that had fallen from the roof. Other scavenger have gotten to it before me, though none of them have the strength to fight. I, fortunately, still do, and I grab between two ventral plates, and pull them open, just enough to find something mildly edible inside. This is enough, I think.

Though the rats seem to be gone, one can still find tiny bones arranged into trails. Following them - with enough food to keep me alive - I leave tiny scraps of my bandages at each of the little stops. This, it seems, is a pilgrimage, and I make sure to honor its observances, even if it gives me little practical knowledge. Faith, or the reflection thereof, survives even in ruin.

There is nothing else to find in this broken London. No information about what caused this ruin, and only these tiny stones to find as potential resources to use elsewhere. When I tug at the threads of fate again, they lead me to three exits. Two unfamiliar exits - one of which is destroyed entirely, preventing its use - and one familiar exit, back to the Silvered Future. I know that my next step will have to be to brave the way back through these paths again, and ensure that I bring a possibility of hunger with me. It is the only way forward.

Fortunately, there is so much darkness in this future, that bringing these possibilities with me is simple indeed. When I walk through the broken mirror however, some of that hunger remains. The Fingerkings seem to have made sandwiches; well, don't mind if I do.

I climb to the highest spire of the Castle of Forests again, knowing what my goal is. On the way, I use the two possibilities I brought from that Ruinous Future - one of me bandaging myself, and one of me trading these blackened shards of glim away - so as to have a way to quickly return. The dream of the Clay Man gives me the necessary possibility of flesh to continue from the Ruinous Future. I now recognize the path back, through the broken mirror behind the Namer of Miseries. My mental map is getting quite complete indeed.

Before the Fingerkings can stop me, I sprint my way through the broken mirror, finding the recent pains and hunger returning to my flesh. Immediately, I tug the Clay Man's dream out of the air, the possibility of flesh strengthening the tether into the unfamiliar pathway out of this future. A single mousehole, too small to crawl through, and yet crawl through it I do, into uncharted territory.

This... was a different future. Everything here was in senses and feelings, rather than thought, action, or even really body. Indeed, though my senses - if you could even call them that - were everywhere, I do not think I had a body for this future. All the possibilities, no matter where I followed them, led me to the same idea: the collapse of threads, and the blackened possibilities not unlike the Ruinous Future I had just come out of. The first thread I followed to its end were the various ends I, and others, received through bleeding. Players of Knife-And-Candle, victims of the Licenciates, those who died by accident, whether through the collapse of buildings or unfortunate falls. My own end was here too, impaled on Feducci's lance after tripping on my own feet.

And yet, this was a future so closely tied to the Stone Tentacle-Keys, I felt the power of them even though they were not in my flesh, for I had none. Whatever happened in this future, it seems I have left it entirely behind. My first instinct, however, was to see where the threads of fate naturally led. I left the key alone, accepting the bleeding, and I saw threads of war, of the Prester marching on London, of London marching on Hell, of the Roof marching on London. Some of these bloodied threads stretched on for centuries, and the knives that ended them were exquisite - knives of steel, of flint, of glass and ceramic, and of materials I did not expect: aluminium and titanium and plastic.

I returned to this possibility, and turned the key, rejecting the bleeding. My body became all stomach and lungs and brain, no more veins to open. I became something slower, something that moved in its own time, with time, one day, coming to devour me.

The next thread I followed was Asphyxia, most ending in the abyssal depths of the zee, but also the Stolen River, the lacre pools underneath the Bazaar - and wells. I admit, I got curious to see if I could find the thread of a certain Curator, and so I accepted the drowning. Alas, though I did not find the thread I was looking for; I found many threads leading to the Fathomking, to Lady Black, to the Gant Pole. Unfortunately, no information that I didn't already have. To turn the key, I gained gills on my neck, blood red tree branches. The water became a part of me, every dissolved mineral or lurking toxin - other deaths could find me in this state, but water would not be one of them.

The final thread I followed was Katalepsis - death by poison. Viper bites, neurotoxic shocks, Cantigaster Venom. They all ended here. By sipping each and every poison, and holding to the thread right before it snaps, I was able to learn the various sensations and oblivions of the Neath. By turning the key, I twisted my metabolism so far away from nature that poisons simply won't know what to do with me. My blood was sulfur, my bones silicon, and I would flee to the farthest and deepest recesses of the Earth and the Zee. Death would still find me there, though it would need new tricks.

Having thoroughly explored this Future, I tugged (?) on the thread that would be my escape, but found a new thread leading to a new Dead End. This one, this one was a familiar destiny to me. I would take the path that the Naturalist took, in another time. I would become everchanging, remove every part of myself that could ever die, until there was nothing left that could. Complete and total denial of death. Maybe this is the Destiny the Naturalist wanted. But it is not for me.

And so, I followed the opposite path, back to the familiar depths of the Unterzee, and the familiar Future of the Lorn-Flukes. I missed having a body, really.

Down into the depths, back to the Liberation, and through time, back to the future Nearby. Sitting in my Spire-Emporium, I go through my mental map of this labyrinth, and find that I have seen every single opened pathway to me. It seems that this is where my journey of the Future is soon coming to a close. With a heavy sigh, I tug on the thread of Fate once again, to find my way back to the Chilly future, and accept my Destiny.

But when I do so, something new happens. The thread that leads to the mirror over my dresser is still there - leading to the Silvered Future. The thread that leads to my attic is still there - leading to the Jewelled Future. The thread that leads to my cellar is still there - leading to the Abyssal Future. And yet, a fourth thread now exists, leading to a Dead End. I tug at it, and find that the two fragments I brought with me from the Ruinous Future react. This thread leads me to an Ennui. A future where I have done everything there is to do in London, several times over, and more. There is nowhere else to go - not as I am. In this future, I take on the arduous task of turning myself into a city, one as powerful and as marvellous as London itself. A close confidant, whose face I cannot see from here, performs the same surgery on me that I performed on the Manager's double. Deep, Dark and Marvellous.

Yet another tempting offer. To become a refuge for all of London's disenfranchised, a place of kindness and hope and merry. And yet, I will not be myself anymore. To give up my body for the form of a City -- the Manager may want so, but I do not. Still, this proves that now, with a greater understanding of the crossroads of Fate, and with instruments from other Futures, hidden paths may open to me. I suppose it is time to continue my journey.

I still hold with me two dark possibilities. One from the Altered Future, and one from the Abyssal Future. I suppose I never did find the Lily-Balm in the Brilliant Future, and bringing in possibilities of Darkness in that Future sounds at least like an interesting idea to try, so I tug on the threads of fate, first, to the Jewelled Future, then, I store the dark possibility of the Light of the Mountain, and once again make my way back to the Unterzee, and to the Brilliant Future of London's Sun.

As soon as I arrive, I tug on the possibilities I had previously prepared. December dimming the light of the Mountain (somewhere, a cold chill comes through Nidah), the feeding of Wounds to It Eats Hate (it will never be sated, but little down here ever will), and the turning of a key to stop my bleeding (to become something different, something that cannot die), I find myself with a strengthened possibility of darkness, here in this future of utter light. Alas, no new threads appear in my hand, much to my disappointment.

So that my trip is not a waste, I decide to try things I didn't before. A stroll on the Gardens with more protection (the sun sears my skin, causing my wounds to get worse), the lighting of more candles to increase the light (I find myself becoming obsessed with the Light, and so am forced to pull back on the thread, finding my presence here becoming weaker for the second time), and finally, helping the Ministry take care of forbidden texts, for which they reward me with Lily-Balm.

For the time being, I decide that the best use of my time in this Future is to aid in the censoring of texts, if only so I can bring the Lily-Balm back with me through other Futures. This grants be plenty of flesh-possibilities, but little else, and I find this to be a real dead end.

I bring the possibility of my selling out revolutionary literature to the Ministry with me as I step into the sight of the Destiny I so enjoyed. My wings unfurl again, and with a smile, I look around, back into the High Wilderness. Wines smiles at me as we continue our journey, though I do not expect to stay here for long. There is more to explore, and the longer I stay, the more I want to stay, and the heavier my heart gets.

After taking two bright possibilities with me, I make my way back to the Silvered Future, and then take a possibility of flesh from there to the Abyssal Future, using that to open the way to the Altered Future, while taking the bright possibility from that future before I depart. I had three bright possibilities with me when I entered the Altered Future. Unfortunately, they did not open anything substantial, except a familiar path to the Ruinous future, so I made my way back to the Abyssal Future, and decided to reevaluate my plans. Maybe bringing three possibilities of flesh into the Abyssal future would make a difference?

After mentally going through my map, I found that this was impossible. Whether through the Abyssal Future or through the Ruinous Future, there was no entry into the Altered Future without a possibility of flesh, and neither of these futures held that possibility for me to store for later use. The most, it seems, I could smuggle into the Altered Future, was two.

Back to the Ruinous Future, then using a dark possibility to enter the Silvered Future, wasting one of the dark possibilities I brought so I can store possibilities of flesh with me. I use two of them, then store two more so I can enter the Abyssal Future with two of them stored. I take two dark possibilities from the Abyssal Future, to tug on the thread that brings me to the Dark Future, and from there, I take on the possibility of flesh to unlock the way back to the Abyssal Future, and store a second one for later.

This whole process leaves me at the Abyssal Future with three possibilities of flesh stored. Using one of them - a tale at the Liberation - to open the way to the Altered Future, I found myself without a body once more, and then used the other two stored possibilities to see if any new pathways opened up to me. They did not.

I thought over my mental map again, and decided that I would try to bring even more darkness to the Liberation of Night. It was, after all, strange that a Future about the complete cessation of Light would have no dark possibilities. After using one of these dark possibilities to enter the Abyssal Future, and using more to open the way to the Dark Future, I manage to reenter the now familiar comfort of the Liberation of Night (a sentence I never thought I would utter) and utilize all three dark possibilities I had stored.

And to my surprise (and delight), a new, dark thread of Fate appears in my hand, strong and able to be followed. There is a chill to it, a chill I feel familiar with. This future, whatever it is, is (not) a Future. The Discordance holds power even in the looms of Fate, it seems.

However, I find myself unable to follow this thread. The path that it shows me is closed, and it is not one I can open. It is, however, still progress, and proof that it's not only Dead Ends that can be opened by my increasing knowledge, but entire new Futures as well.

Armed with the reassurance that what I am doing is not a waste of time (though what does time mean in Irem, really?), I plot my next course: back to the Chilly future, a future with only two passageways, and no possibilities of the flesh. I will bring with me three of them, and see if it shows me a new thread to follow.

However, as I return to the Nearby Future, and tug at the threads of fate again, I find that a new one has appeared. One where I decide that, since I've done everything there is to do in the Neath, it is high time to return to the surface. The ounces of lily-balm I grabbed in the Brilliant future glow to allow me to do this, as I change myself to be able to withstand sunlight once more. I am, frankly, mildly baffled that this is even one of my potential futures, seeing as I have always seen my descent into the Neath as a blessing, even though it wasn't entirely voluntary. There is nothing on the Surface for me. Indeed, I'd dare say there never was.

I use the bright possibilities of the Liberation of Night (this still seems like an oxymoron to say) and bring myself to the Jeweled Future, keeping the possibility of blood and flesh with me, alongside the one I brought from the Liberation. Now once again on the deserts of Nidah, sieging the Mountain of Light, I find three more bright possibilities to empower the thread that will bring me to the Brilliant Future, and store with me the dark possibility of this one.

However, finding the possibility of flesh in the Brilliant future proves to be more difficult than expected, and though I do my best to pass the time for that moment, I find my body growing more and more damaged due to this accursed sun. The threads of fate become slick with my blood, and with no other option, I work on cutting the threads that lead to painful demises. An unexpected fall into an open sewer, a bullet wound in the dark, an assassination attempt, an untimely death during the fall of the Seventh, I discard the whole yarn, and I feel my presence in the loom grow considerably weaker. I take a deep breath, and try to continue my work. Mistakes are costly, here.

Fortunately, I find the correct possibility soon afterwards, and walk to Watchmaker's Hill, once again entering the future of my full transformation into a Curator. Mr. Wines gazes in my direction and it sees the relief in my face, but as soon as the others are out of sight, I start my work. Burning revolutionary texts for the Ministry, breakfast with the Captivating Princess, and hearing a story in the Liberation of Night. With the power of the strands of flesh and blood in my hand, I tug on them, and am pleasantly surprised to find a new pathway open to me.

A new wind in the skies, so young as to not have a name. Unlike the pathway I discovered in the Dark Future, I can open this path of Destiny easily, and so, before my fellow Masters have the ability to notice, I dive into this new Wind, unto uncharted territory.

A shrill recording of birdsong jolts me awake. I turn to my watch, 6:37 in the morning, it is 28 degrees celsius, Air Quality Index is moderate. I have 777 unread emails--

What?

Memories flood my brain, of this future of bright lights and brighter screens. Past the Fifth City of London, and the Sixth City of Paris -- this is the Seventh City, Berlin. It is June 22nd, 2023, over a century past my Present Time in London.

I look to my body, and find that I am naked, for there is no need for clothes at this moment. I feel the fur that has grown out, I feel the bony, yet powerful fingers upon my hands, the webbing that grows out between the talons. I feel the noise and feeling of the wind behind me, I turn to find two massive wings on my back. I stand taller than I ever have before, and my room, rising taller still. My Spire-Emporium atop the Bazaar is still mine, and my transformation into a Curator feels no different than it did on the Chilly Future. It is complete. I am Mr. Cards.

The giddiness that swells up in me is only halted by a knock on the door. "Herr Gesellschaft?" Comes a voice from outside. I blink, and instinctually reach for my robe, placed on a coat hanger against the wall, right next to my work computer. I don my cloak, now a deeper and darker shade of blue than the earthier tones the other Masters granted me. There is no machinery inside to make me look larger than I am, for now, I am at the size of the other Masters, an equal in everything but birth.

I go to the door, and open it. "Yes?" What comes out of my mouth is not the Queen's English - German, the Language of the Seventh City - and yet the meaning is still clear to me. "What do you need?" the person outside is half of my height, which would put them at only slightly taller than I was -- am -- in the Present. They have a lovely blade scar across the left side of their face, and a lovelier tattoo across the right side, alongside four visible piercings -- and more hidden.

"The report you requested, sir.", the person outside -- Glim, he prefers to be called -- hands me a couple papers, which I skillfully take under my robes. "Thank you." My hand moves before I even process what is happening, my talons slip from under my robes, and raise to that sweet morsel's head, before petting him affectionately. "Good boy."

The gesture brings a beaming smile to their face, a moment of intimacy and care that feels natural to me, like it's an occurrence that has happened several times before - daily, even. When I pull back my hand, he sighs in longing, though his smile remains. They nod, and proceed back the way they came, back towards the other parts of the Bazaar.

I close the door and gaze upon the papers that Glim brought me. Financial reports, mostly, of casinos and other pleasure-places. Reports about metrics, payments and impacts of any campaigns happening on Echoes, the Masters' Social Media website.

Which I own.

Oh god I own a Social Media Platform.

Oh GOD I own a Social Media Platform.

I didn't even know what the fuck those were seven minutes ago and I already hate it!

Wait, what did Glim call me? Herr Gesellschaft? That's not--

Society.

In this Future, I am not Mr. Cards. I am Mr. Society

My work is in the foundational aspect of any society: the connection between people. The stories, of Love and otherwise, that they create as they move throughout their lives. Each person leaving a final mark on each other person they touch. Sometimes small, a fleeting encounter, nary lasting a second -- other times, connections to last lifetimes, and beyond.

And this feels right.

I pull back my hood for a moment, finding the phone stashed in its inconspicuous pocket. A brief scroll through the feed, almost a reflex, finding absolutely no source of dopamine (what?) except Herrn Weine (Wines?) being somehow the Neath's biggest shitposter (what are these words???).

With a high-pitched sigh that makes my heart flutter (I even sigh like a Curator now!), I stash my phone again, and walk through the corridors of the Bazaar until I can taste and smell and sense and feel this Future city.

First, a visit. Friday night comes with its energy, with clerks taking off their neckties and nursing cans of beer. The feed of Echoes fills with ill-advised photos. Somewhere out in the distance, the faint sound of electronic music pounds the streets of the Seventh City, and I cannot help but enjoy it. I call ahead, and find my impromptu visit accepted with no caveats. The Duchess has moved into an old Townhouse in Kraterberg, surrounded by sixty-plus story roofscrapers, compared to which her home looks not unlike the homes of Spite, rather than the stately house it was supposed to be.

She invites me in for tea, a tea set she still keeps from London. Her home still has bits and pieces of the Fifth city around, and Cats of all colors and sizes come and go from her home. We exchange gossip and jokes, we exchange critiques and complaints, we exchange kind glances of fondness and friendship. I am one of the few people alive that still know her true name, and her true nature, and Setepenre is one of the few still alive who remember who I was before the Marvellous. In these secrets, we find a bond, a connection that has lasted the fall of two cities.

After a morning of conversation, I find myself wanting to speak with the Elusive Violinist again - July, as she was known in my time - and despite her new Title, for a Master of the Bazaar - and one so well versed in the Great Game - it is surprisingly easy to find her. A little coffee shop off a side street, and behind closed curtains, we have a long conversation. She speaks of December (who refuses to let go of the Great Work, though we both understand why), about the state of the city (things are better in places, things are worse in places, things are always shifting), and about gossip and information about some of the other powers in the city. She refuses to stay long, almost as if she can hear a countdown on her head, but we still play the Great Game, and we still find the advantages we can.

"Herr Gesellschaft!", a bike courier approaches me as I leave the side coffee shop. Hearing the name still feels more right than Mr. Cards ever did. "Here." they hand to me a parcel, and I take it from their hands. A memory returns to me, a small favor I've agreed to take for a group of Grey Hats. I hide the parcel under my cloak, and the courier bikes away before any more can be said. I feel the parcel under my cloak - an oblong box, no external ports, clearly it works wirelessly (?) - and all that I was requested to do was to walk through a specified path, at a specified time; both of which are quite close indeed.

So I walk, and more and more memories flood my mind about the workings of this future. Much of the connection between people is done digitally, instantaneously, and across any distance. The internet here in Berlin is handled by the Bazaar - and naturally as Herr Gesellschaft it is under my jurisdiction - and this invisible network exists beneath the surface of this world.

And beneath the surface of the network: Parabola.

The network borders Parabola, feeding on wild-eyed possibility and misinformation, while the Fingerkings call it a blight and a calamity, something even less real than dreams, and those less studied who operate the Network call Parabola an anomaly, and a wild territory that must be fenced off. Mutual ignorance that gives opportunity to those who can understand both kingdoms - someone like this future self of mine.

I remember that I have a weapon readied back in my office - not my Spire-Emporium, my real office - a worm that is half-dream and half code, devouring information and excreting entropy, a threat for enemies when they least expect it. Even my Future self is scared to use it, as such things tend to outgrow their creators, but for its plans, that is a risk worth taking.

The path I take is short, and though I keep an eye out for obvious signs of intrusion on nearby terminals, I find nothing. People, of course, give a Master of the Bazaar a wide berth, but I imagine whatever Radio Frequency attack I was asked to make accounts for this. It is very clearly targeting someone, rather than the infrastructure.

When the path I take is complete, I see upon me Spiralhügel, the great stalactite that was gingerly dropped onto the middle of the city. It is, by all accounts, a City-within-a-City; this one populated and manned by the Starved Men, who seem to have remained on friendly terms after the mess at the Horticultural Show. Almost an upside-down Tower of Babel, it is fully wrapped in signage blazing Violant and Peligin.

Another memory comes to me as I gaze upon the signs. A short time in the nineties (I have to briefly remind myself that I am not, again, in 1899), Scholars of the Correspondence thought that digital computing would make their work much easier. I was among them, admittedly, but alas, Computers don't like to encode the Correspondence any more than paper does. Silicon may be less flammable, but it's also much more expensive.

And yet, the sigils here bring me a relaxing time. Staring at the Sigils no longer brings me migraines or turns my body hot. Some of them are ancient grooves in the rock, cast by deep shadows by the building's lighting. Others are simply added as signage by the Starved Men. And like anything made by the them, sometimes it all shifts, ever so slightly. Stone is still just as malleable as it ever was.

With a fond smile, I go to the street market. It is known for handmade textiles and booze that would make Weines (Wines) extremely annoyed, though it seems that this is becoming more and more the place to purchase electronics at cut-rate prices, or discs burned with bootleg software (more new words!)

But I then remember the papers I still have stashed upon my person. I glance at them for a moment, almost remembering something, and then I see it in fireproof paper, written with a mechanical pencil -- instructions in the Correspondence. I walk through the streets of this tower, and bearing the safe conduct of a scar upon my person, I am allowed by the Starved Men into the inner chambers of the edifice; their living quarters.

But then, I go further still, past any place that has ever seen human or posthuman habitation. I feel a hand moving me, not so much guiding my actions as forcing them. This tower does not have a heart, but if it did, this is where it would be. There are many requests I could make here, though the costs would be extraordinary and terrible. So, I bring a simple request: Time.

And then everything stops, the Loom itself stops, the entire universe stands still as the vision before me blurs and breaks. Very little I can see of what happens - changes to my body, plans carefully laid, new links forged in the Chain - but details escape me.

And then, I feel a hand upon my shoulder, even in this single frozen moment. A key was turned, the alteration of my personal history, and in that moment, my future self is spinning the loom of Destiny much like I am. The sheer force of its presence stopping me from seeing this possibility any further. The hand, fondly, leaves my shoulder, and I am thrust back into the street markets of the Starved Men. Below my cloak, I check my watch: 7:37PM. It is time to go.

When I arrive back at my Spire-Emporium, I lock the door and shed my robe, comfortably spreading my wings as I go back to my work computer. Soft, low energy electronic music fills my headphones as I take a moment to fit them into my large bat-ears; a brief memory of me getting them especially designed comes to mind.

But before I can do much else, a new message appears on my personal account. I turn to it, clicking to open it - a motion that feels simultaneously familiar and alien - and find that it is a message from my Rubbery Consort. "How have you been?" they ask, and a fond smile escapes my lips. In Present time, I have told them of what is going to eventually happen to me, that their marriage to Daniel Ashworth cannot last, at least not officially. They said that this is fine, the legal bond of marriage may break, and officially they may become a widow, but the flames of affection that connect us will stay true. That is what they told me then. And it seems that it has held true even here in the Seventh City.

We spend time chatting with each other, a new game they've been playing, a new band I've been listening to, a new trick they've learned to do with the Correspondence, a new trick I've learned to do with the Shapeling Arts. "Perhaps we should meet sometime." they mention, in jest, though I reply earnestly. "We should. Even Masters need a holiday." we laugh, we share memes (?) with each other, it is a pleasant evening.

But then, suddenly, three threads appear in front of me, three dead ends. A new message appears from my old companion. "Hey, mind if I ask something a little complicated?" they ask, "Sure." I reply.

"Everything you've done, from becoming a Master to the plots and murders, to the studies, to the powers you've amassed: Why? Why have you done all of this?"

The first thread extends, "For you, of course". I reply. In this future, though my life as Master became a barrier in the real world, in Parabola, it has only brought us further together. Our love outlasts the Fifth City, the Sixth, and the Seventh. Entire cathedrals enshrined in Parabola, built together in shared honey-reveries. In mundane dreams, we are always together, and important parts of our mutual past can now only be seen in the Waswood. Through this thread, I brave the Chilly Future and guide the Bazaar in its final journey to the Sun, all to ensure their survival.

The second thread extends, "That was simply how long it took to put my plan into motion." I reply. In this future, everything I have done has been to gather the knowledge and the power necessary to make the final voyage. At the end of this line, aboard my well-kept Nyx Zubmarine, and alongside several close friends - my consort included - we zail at full speed towards the emerald-gold of the Uttermost East.

But the third thread...

"The Seventh is supposed to be the last. Seven cities. Time that is now close to running out. The other Masters have long since resigned themselves to failure before even the Fifth, and their disinterest has only become more palpable in recent years. The Sixth barely lasted a generation."

"Are you here as a counterbalance, then?"

"Of a sort. I've told you long ago that my human flesh never quite suited me right, becoming a Curator was and always will be one of the best decisions I've made. I imagine that it is a path I would still have taken, regardless of other circumstances."

"I can understand that, have you simply been enjoying your new body then?"

"Hrm, it's true that I have. You know that better than most my dear."

"Oh, stop. You'll make me blush."

"But it's more than that. Becoming a Master has let me help people, whether it be by helping to off Fires and take his place, or whether it be by subtly helping those who wanted to Bag a Legend, or the ones who had a grudge against Cups. Counterbalance is correct, really, the empathetic counterbalance to the absolute uncaring nature of the Masters."

"But you've done much more than that. I knew you were always hungry for knowledge, but especially in recent years, your studies have had a bigger focus. A bigger and more dangerous focus. You've hurt others, just as you say you've helped others, and you've hurt yourself, why? For what purpose?"

"Because I made a promise, my dear."

In this future, I see myself making many a great sacrifice, and many a bargain. Not just with people, not just with the other Masters, but with Geography: The Creditor, the Moon, the Principles' Remnant. Storm, Stone, Salt, and even the Drowned Man owe me favors.

The Flukes and the Fathomking will control the Zee, emboldened and threatened by the awakening of the Regret-Beyond-Death, Death itself, the Naturalist's eternal vigil, will cease to row. The Creditor will close escape West. Storm will close the North. Stone will protect the South. Salt will forever block the East. The Moon will grant me the raw material to forge new Laws onto the Bazaar, and the Drowned Man will threaten the other Masters into compliance. All together, the Masters and the Bazaar will have one choice: to preserve the Seventh City, or to die alongside it.

Through the powers of the Shapeling Arts, the Red Science and even, yes, the Discordance, reality itself will dislodge the Seventh City from the shell of the Bazaar. The city will fall on the surface of the Unterzee, carried by the same bats that stole it and its six predecessors, and become an undying society, independent and untethered from the machinations of the High Wilderness. The Cats will work to prevent disruptions from the Is, The Fingerkings will work to protect disruptions from the Is-Not. And finally, when the Stone Pigs awaken and the Bazaar begins its final journey towards the Sun, not a single soul will be lost in the process.

And when the Bazaar reaches the sun, it will deliver its final message, and all of the accumulated love stories of the Seven cities that it bought. And that lone Curator, left behind by all of his coworkers and fellow Masters, will stare directly into the blazing heart of the Sun and utter the story of a single man's love, not of a city, or of a person, but of people, of life, of kindness and the potential for myriad futures of unbridled joy.

"All shall be well, and all manner of things shall be well. That was the promise."

"And I intend to keep it."

LXVII: A course set by the light of something bright and distant.

And yet, there was still one final pathway that I could not go down. And, much like always, my curiosity has gotten the better of me.

With my mental map complete, it is a simple matter to arrive there again. Three possibilities of darkness in the Nearby Future (use two to open the way, keep one for later), four possibilities of Darkness in the Abyssal Future (use two to open the way, keep two for later), and use the three accumulated possibilities of Darkness to open the way again.

With my knowledge of the Neon Future, and my interaction, however brief it was, with my Other Self, I know just enough to open this hidden pathway. And so, through the freedom afforded to me through the Liberation of Night, I step into...

Nothing.

The threads of fate fray when they touch this path, yet they strengthen once more when I deem to walk it, and yet fray when I open the way once more. They do not break - no, they continue - but they fray and simply cease to be.

And so tugging through the thread, and gazing at it, I find... nothing. There is Nothing in this Future. A familiar nothingness. A nothingness of non-existence. A

LXVII: A course set by the light of something bright and distant.

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