Reverse: 1999 story · Event stories
Last and First Principles
14 scenes, 1,190 lines
1. That Uncanny Green
87 linesA silent afternoon. Enigma sits at his desk, trying to picture a field of grass.
But something else always pushes its way in—something bitter, something that tastes of rust. After several failed attempts, he pulls open the drawer and looks at what's inside.
A pistol.
<speed=2>A Luger P08. Practical for self-defense. A precise, purely scientific creation.
Greta Hofmann.
He says the name quietly.
Those who aren't taken by the "Storm"—where do they go when they die?
I'd like to verify it for myself.
... Never afraid of sacrifice, she followed her own path ...
... and her fearlessness and perseverance ultimately ...
Ms. Marcus.
Oh, you've arrived.
The young investigator lowers her head. A moment later, she manages a slightly easier expression.
It's good to see you, Ms. Semmelweis.
Semmelweis glances at the papers in Marcus's hand. They're crumpled, and near where the ink has smeared, new letters have been neatly filled in.
The Foundation's memorial ceremony has already ended. It was solemn. Almost everyone came to express their condolences. They just all had to get back to their work.
Well, at least this cemetery will always remain open.
I was more so wondering about those colleagues you're familiar with. Ms. Kakania, for example? I thought she'd be accompanying you.
She had to go through a few more rounds of inquiries, so she couldn't make it. She did send a bouquet of flowers, though.
It was just like the one you brought: a beautifully arranged bouquet of white chrysanthemums.
Semmelweis nods and surveys the figures scattered around them.
And Enigma? Where's he gone off to? Weren't they each other's only family?
I heard he was the one who pushed for the "Hofmann Knot" name. Rather admirable, if you ask me.
But now, at that very sister's funeral, our Mr. Adler is nowhere to be found.
A few days ago, Mr. Enigma helped me sort through Madam Hofmann's possessions.
Then he left all in a hurry.
Later, I received word from Laplace that he'd barred the door to his office.
Hah. So he's chosen escapism, then.
The conversation ends there.
He, the two of them, and all the rest gathered here are little more than acquaintances to one another.
Familiar only in their mourning.
...
At last, Marcus speaks again.
There was a mailing list among Madam Hofmann's possessions.
On the train to Vienna, she asked me a question, hoping I could "read" its answer.
"What is the best way for someone to defend themselves if they cannot use arcane skills?"
I read the answer she expected. She asked because she was preparing a gift.
The words fly out of her like fired bullets.
What a rare thing, the chance to ease unbearable grief simply by sharing it.
Mr. Enigma packed the list, her documents, her ID badge, and her diary into a box. Madam Hofmann's entire life ... reduced to a tiny box.
Then he stopped. And he asked me—
Where do you think Greta has gone?
The ink on the paper in her hand starts to run again.
"Where has she gone? Heaven? Hell? Has this 'Storm' washed them away too?"
"Those who aren't lost to the 'Storm'—where do they go?"
Will I see her again someday? Will all of us, any of us, see her again?
If only I'd known earlier that the gift she was preparing was a birthday present for him, then instead of taking care of me and celebrating my first day as a Foundation Investigator, she could have ...
If only my arcane skill were more useful! If only I'd read what would happen on that stage!
If only the future were written out as words on a page!
Semmelweis says nothing. She only raises her hand gently.
But before that touch can reach her, Marcus draws a deep breath and forces her "what ifs" back down.
There is nowhere to turn for answers. No point in blaming herself. What's done is done.
...
I told him I hoped Madam Hofmann had gone somewhere with no "Storm" and started a new life, even if that means we'll never see her again.
In the end, he said he needed to think about my answer. He hasn't left his room since.
I can understand that. I don't want to be here either. But I have to, because I want people to know that they don't need to worry about me anymore.
Escapism is a natural reaction to grief. Just because you don't want to face it doesn't mean you're heartless, don't you think?
She waits almost stubbornly for an answer.
Semmelweis glances toward the distant grave and smiles softly.
Look at you saying all that without stammering. You see? There's no need to worry.
No, you're right. Everyone handles grief differently.
Let's go. I'd like to hear how your training is going. I'm sure Greta would be proud of how much her little apprentice has grown.
Alright, Ms. Semmelweis.
She nods solemnly.
They pass through the gathering crowd and stand before the grave.
*deep breath*
She gazes at the small box in the hole. Everything suddenly feels unreal.
She desperately wishes it were unreal, just some nightmare her mind conjured under pressure.
But every book has an end.
It's time to turn the page.
Madam Hofmann was an exemplary Foundation Investigator, a dependable teammate, and my dearest mentor.
She never cowered in the face of sacrifice. She followed ...
A hand settles on her back. Semmelweis finishes the sentence for her.
She followed her own path until the end ...
... pursuing the truth with a resolute heart.
And, ultimately, it was her fearlessness and perseverance that brought us the knot that allows us to cross the "Storm."
That's why I have to cherish every chance to keep the story going.
She inspired many, none more than myself. She gave me the courage to leave the Flannan Isles, allowing me to witness and read so many new things. So standing here, I vow ...
To continue to seek what she sought, what we all seek! A world after 1999!
Because I want to see the world you believed in.
I will persevere as she did. I will keep reading, keep writing, record every experience, every feeling!
I ...
... will never forget what you've done for us. For me.
2. The Spiral
106 linesDamn it, are you blind?!
Honestly, is there no code of conduct among you people? You're the one barreling down the hall!
Hold on, you're—
After spotting the bite mark-covered ID badge, he wisely swallows his words.
Researcher Medicine Pocket?
Oh! Sweet! Looks like even the little minions at the Foundation have heard of me.
I'm rushing to get a sample right now. If you're here for Ulrich, try that lab over there. If you're here for Enigma, check his office. If you're here for me, get lost! Better luck next time.
They glance past the staff member, interest suddenly piqued.
Ooh, wait, let me guess! You suits can't take it anymore, so you're gonna shove a new director on us, right?
Or maybe one of the oh-so-generous higher-ups has finally approved our application for a new lab?
Oh, or maybe you're here to command us very obedient researchers to fix you up an ark? You know, like Noah?
Well, here's an idea: how about you shelve all that and let us get back to our research on edible Picrasma extract? At worst, we'll get a taste of something sweet!
The staff member gives an awkward wave and quickens his pace, hoping to get out of this predicament as soon as possible.
That's a topic that requires a rigorous approval process and oversight from ... I-It's not within my power to decide!
I need to deliver these files to Mr. Enigma immediately. I won't take up any more of your time!
Tsk.
They toss a small metal tube to the flustered staff member.
...?
Give him this, and make sure he eats it! My application's been sitting on his desk for 30 hours. Looks like the only way I'm gonna get through to him is if he experiences it for himself!
If there's an emergency, just press the button on the wall. Not the red one.
Medicine Pocket doesn't wait for a response, disappearing around the next corner instead.
The staff member is left with nothing but a closed door in the distance.
I see. You can follow the proper procedures to file a complaint against Researcher Medicine Pocket.
He tosses the metal tube to one side and grabs something off his desk.
A crumpled ball of paper drops neatly into the wastebasket by the staff member's feet.
Their application has already been reviewed, the ever-generous assessor that I am.
As for your request, based on the progress of our other projects, you can expect a response in about 69 business days.
This is an urgent matter, sir!
I understand completely. It's a pity for us both that Laplace isn't a wish-granting machine.
If it truly is as urgent as you say, put the documents on the pile to your left. Make sure not to touch anything else.
Then, when's the earliest—
52 business days.
In principle, my department only accepts research assignments pertaining to the "Storm." And only the final results are delivered to us.
The calculations and sample analyses you need will be handed off to other teams, but it's not like we have spare researchers just moseying around. And Laplace isn't the Foundation's personal calculator.
If you have any objections or extenuating circumstances, you can take it up with our director.
Ah, but of course, the position's still empty. I'm only standing in to manage the documents and affairs no one else cares to deal with. Looks like it'll be a tough job to find you a team.
Close the door on your way out.
...
To his surprise, the staff member doesn't argue. But he doesn't budge, either.
Tch, you can move your own legs without your boss's orders, can't you? Get out.
I'm glad to see you're still full of vigor, Adler.
His head snaps up in surprise as a familiar figure steps inside.
Seeing who it is, he finally sets down his pen.
Ah, if it isn't my old friend. What are you fetching for Constantine this time?
I trust the last report you snatched was to your satisfaction? If anything else in these stacks of scrap paper strikes your fancy, then by all means, help yourself.
He extends an arm and pats the mountain of files beside him.
That won't be necessary. Though, I'll be sure to visit again should the need arise.
Mark, there are still some details regarding the proposed adjustment to field agent rations I'd like you to confirm.
Mr. Ulrich and Ms. Simone have cleared a fifteen-minute block in their schedules. You'll find them in Meeting Room No. 3.
Very well.
The door closes.
You knew of Ms. Simone's return today?
Most assumed she retired to the Timekeeper's Suitcase along with Madam Lucy.
Looks like the Foundation keeps as close an eye on Laplace as they do on Manus Vindictae.
He scoffs.
Heh. Some might even say that mad scientists and fanatical arcanists aren't so different. Though the former does have the small advantage of providing a handy little invention here and there.
Always thinking from a researcher's perspective, Adler.
Every researcher wants an independent, undisturbed laboratory. A simple wish in theory, but difficult to implement in practice.
I trust Ulrich has told you what transpired in Antarctica.
Not long ago, we received reports from our field agent squads and investigators.
This time, the "Storm" has brought us to the year 1920. And to a war that should no longer exist.
The "Storm" is hardly a perfect formula, and historical records often contain inaccuracies. Even under our current theoretical models, arcanum maintains a degree of uncertainty and unknowability. A minor error such as this should come as no surprise to you.
He takes the stack of reports in Madam Z's hand nonetheless.
As he flips through its pages, his expression grows serious.
Hm. An error of this magnitude doesn't follow any of our current models.
This "Flood" has destroyed at least two-thirds of all our prior findings!
Since the beginning, we've diligently tracked the occurrence frequency of the "Storm." We've also long gotten used to it abandoning any semblance of a pattern.
Hah, because those who haven't "gotten used to it" are no longer with us.
A scornful laugh.
It's never easy to have your world turned upside-down. For anyone.
It's overwhelming at first, but the more you see it happen, the easier it is to accept. Of course, some still have their objections.
There have been countless debates on whether we should prepare for war.
Laplace is not an arsenal.
Our more radical members believe that since research on the "Storm" will continue to be lost, we should divert our resources elsewhere.
The LSCC has been without a director for a long time, and the arcanocentric society "Institutum Lorentz" has gone unchecked. There's reason to believe that this has impacted Laplace's research efficiency.
She studies Enigma's expression, knowing he's already figured out why she has come.
So, to ensure our collaboration with Laplace continues to yield valuable results, the Foundation plans to dispatch a director of their own choosing.
Absolutely not.
His clenched fist never comes down on the desk.
He stifles his anger. Rage won't help him now.
I don't agree with the sentiment, nor do I believe the Foundation should assume complete control of Laplace.
However, the reality is that—besides some perfect directing machine—the members will be the most easily persuaded if we appoint a human as director.
Which is why I've come to you today.
If, under your leadership, Laplace can produce a persuasive new discovery during this tumultuous period, it would help my cause immensely.
Of course, no matter what, I'll continue to express my support for Laplace's independence to the Foundation.
Enigma looks at his old colleague. They worked together a long time ago, if only briefly.
What exactly are you hoping to achieve with all this politicking? For Laplace to align itself with the Foundation, or with yourself?
You don't seriously expect a group of scientists to spend their time strategizing these things like some kind of warlords pushing clay figurines around a sand table, do you?
Madam Z doesn't answer directly.
I'd like you to continue your research on the toybox sent by Musae III. Investigate the source of its power and use its simulations to push out a report.
Producing a final Pre-Storm Protocol will refute the accusations that the LSCC lacks risk management policies, and the core of the toybox may just provide the "new results" you need.
I see your reasoning. But why are you telling me this? Surely you aren't offering your help simply out of the goodness of your heart.
What exactly are your feelings toward Laplace nowadays? Nostalgia? Or some kind of scientific idealism?
Madam Z pauses. Then she brings up that old, often-discussed topic.
I still believe we can reach the final theory, something all-encompassing that unifies the entire universe.
Enigma falters, then lets out a sigh.
Well, in that, we've just been going in circles. In a decade, all we've managed is to return to the 11th dimension.
Mm. But that doesn't mean all our past efforts have been meaningless.
She rises, cutting the conversation short.
The Timekeeper hopes to understand the situation outside as soon as possible. Once you've arrived at a conclusion, please contact me immediately.
The door closes again.
Madam Z stands in the corridor, gazing up at the unfamiliar silver-white building.
Can a scientist ...
... become a politician?
3. The Answer at the Bottom
95 linesThere must be a theory that unifies everything in the universe.
Because every puzzle has a solution.
Lines form a framework, waiting for one letter to anchor the answer.
The world is like a crossword. If you follow the clues—
He shakes his head and fixes his gaze on the jumbled grid lines covering his desk.
Pushing the papers and files aside, he turns on the screen.
3 PM.
It's only been six hours. Looks like the little biter's actually done some work in between destroying public property. Side effects have certainly lessened.
Did I throw away the instruction manual? What did it say?
Never mind. The lethal side effects have already been eliminated; the other symptoms don't matter.
He rummages under the papers for the metal tube and tips two colorful candies into his palm.
I hope this helps.
Toybox research, the Timekeeper's request, new results ... and Lorentz. Alright.
As always, problems rarely come alone.
But the more problems there are, the closer we are to the solution.
We need to stop creating more problems!
Ulrich slams his fist down on the desk in an attempt to end the chaotic discussion spiraling before him.
Unfortunately, in Laplace, shouting only invites a louder rebuttal.
Then get rid of the approval system so we can all work in peace for a couple weeks! You know, spend our time actually experimenting instead of writing damn reports!
That's our problem! I'm telling you, even if Enigma locked himself in that room for the next decade, he wouldn't get through them all!
Focus on the matter at hand, Researcher Medicine Pocket!
The toybox has been fixed for now, and the communication problems it caused have also disappeared. But we need to come up with a way to prevent any similar incidents in the future.
And it's crucial we figure out how it had such a widespread effect. We can't risk almost all of Laplace speaking in cipher again.
I, for one, believe it's related to the Storm Syndrome. But our research progress has been far too slow, so I need everyone—
There you go again. You're gonna say that the "language disorder" interfered with our work, right?
Well, let me make this clear: whether I use cipher or decimal or freaking latte art to communicate, it's not gonna stop me from doing what I want.
Medicine Pocket mimics Ulrich's tone, drawing out the words.
Those emergency handbooks are only filling that tank of yours with useless, garbage data. Whatever happens, my advice is the same—
Mind your own business and let us fend for ourselves!
Hah, sounds like you've gotten over accidentally ordering Critter chow at the canteen. I suppose it is quite difficult to decipher a Tetris-based language, no?
And no, we can't just "blow up the toybox," Medicine Pocket. As I said before, it cannot be destroyed through arcane nor scientific means. You should know when to quit.
Blow it up? Absolutely not!
The ferrofluid nearly bounces in the tank.
Adler already notified us that the Foundation is pressuring us to deliver persuasive research results!
This isn't the first time they've used our "laissez-faire attitude" as an excuse to attack Laplace. We need to use the toybox's simulations to create a reliable emergency protocol!
Okay, I get you. We just need to submit something that'll shut them up.
So, why don't you round up everyone who's been wasting research materials, hand them all "Lorentz" ID badges, and turn them over?
I did hear the Foundation has been quite "lively" lately. As crowded and chaotic as the crystal structure of austenite, supposedly.
...
Ulrich is clearly trying his best to hold it together. Eventually, the tremor in his voice module settles.
That's quite enough. Now, if you'd please return to today's topic.
Researcher Pointer, Researcher X. How are the results of your data analysis?
The two researchers have long grown accustomed to the lab's clamor. They know silence is the best way to keep out of it.
Pointer pushes a stack of files toward Ulrich.
Here's my section. I've included a summary for the Timekeeper's perusal.
In simple terms, the "Flood" has altered the characteristics of the "Storm."
The vast majority of our past data has been rendered useless. Our most reliable models require multiple rounds of verification. Therefore, our current conclusions are for reference only.
This should be plenty. I'm confident we'll adapt to these new conditions very soon.
Everyone silently agrees.
Have we made any discoveries regarding the arcane fluctuations emanating from the toybox?
If we're only looking at the numbers, the magnitude of these arcane fluctuations far exceeds normal levels.
I also consulted all the arcanists I know with arcane skills related to language, words, or sound. None of them could find any manmade traces in the fluctuations.
I have two hypotheses. One: This toybox is a naturally occurring arcane object. And two: Its core holds a power beyond most arcanists' comprehension.
He pauses. Hesitation, perhaps?
I also have a personal theory. Mr. Ludwig's arcane fluctuations ...
Thud!
The meeting room door is thrown open, slamming it against the wall.
Everyone turns toward the figure that has just burst in.
Mr. Enigma.
Door's unlocked.
The visitor pushes the door open and enters.
I already reviewed your application last Wednesday, X.
And you and Hissabeth can stop submitting those clinical trial applications for Medicine Pocket's project.
Oh, I have a friend ...
Regulus is not an option, either. There isn't a hair on her body that doesn't scream "arcanist."
I will handle this myself. After all, I was the one who questioned Medicine Pocket on the possibility of resuming research on the topic in the first place.
It's a compelling research direction. An antidote for Picrasma extract suitable for human consumption and a universally applicable, edible extract with energizing effects.
He delivers the long string of terms with neither a stumble nor a pause, as if reciting from a script.
There's no need for you to worry. I read the project proposal. Medicine Pocket already consulted me on a few issues.
That proposal was supposed to be confidential. *sigh* Never mind, but we need to act like this research topic doesn't exist until it yields some results.
You are all pureblood arcanists. You have a natural tolerance for Picrasma extract. But it's simply too dangerous to move straight on to pureblood humans.
Well, I suppose it's about time my quarter-arcanist blood came in handy.
I understand, Mr. Enigma. I have no intention—nor the power, mind you—to interfere with anyone's decision.
But I did receive a document I think you should see.
Of course you did. There's always more.
It's about the "language disorder" caused by the toybox's malfunction. I'm sure you're familiar with it.
Although the world outside has returned to normal, a lot of curious occurrences have appeared in the toybox. Allegedly, the behavior of its inhabitants has been becoming increasingly formulaic and unified.
Of course, these are Mr. Ulrich's words. I haven't seen it for myself.
The specifics are on top.
He hands over the document.
I read the whole thing. It's comprehensive. Exhaustive, even. It should be more than enough to submit to the Foundation.
But Ulrich isn't convinced it's persuasive enough, so he hasn't turned it in.
We all know how easy it is to fall down a research rabbit hole. He needs someone on the outside to step in and make a decision.
At least, that's what I think.
There's also the small matter of a waveform contaminating the toybox's arcane fluctuations—a waveform extremely similar to that of our dear Mr. Raven.
I've compared it. It's distinctly different from the other simulation data.
X delivers the last of his prepared lines.
And with that, the butterfly has flapped its wings.
He steps out and shuts the door behind him.
...
I'm trying to return this copy of your report that you "forgot."
4. Portable Reality
92 linesA "professional" expedition team of one investigator and two researchers trudges through the woods.
We've encountered more and more Critters since we entered this forest.
His fellow researcher stares at him incredulously.
"Loot"? Adler, are you seriously calling these supplies "loot"?
I didn't expect you of all people to start indulging in roleplay.
I don't know what you're talking about.
And you can save your energy for the journey. We still have a long way ahead of us.
...
Sensing another argument brewing, Marcus cuts in.
Mr. Enigma, Mr. Ulrich, perhaps we should hurry.
So we can get there before the "language disorder" spreads to all of Laplace.
Ah, good. At least someone in our party can put together a rational thought.
According to Musae's map, we still have seven kilometers until we reach the toybox's depths.
If we cross this Critter's territory, we'll save a third of the time it would take to go around—
Suddenly, a strange noise interrupts her.
Is that a Critter?
&%￥@ ... &*# ...
No, it's an arcanist using Critter-Speech.
Looks like another piece afflicted with the "language disorder."
Marcus stares at the arcanist and frowns.
We're too far away. I can't make out what he's trying to say.
Let's get closer. I may be able to "read" some useful information.
Alright. Allow me.
The trek ends with a tall building peeking out from beyond the trees.
Goodness, this really was a shortcut!
Enigma glances at her. Marcus is excitedly checking what's ahead, a far cry from that head-down figure he vaguely remembers.
Yes, the spitting image of a brave investigator. A mountaineer. A ...
I'm very grateful for your help, Ms. Marcus. I wager we'd still be running in circles if you weren't here.
Indeed. If we can maintain this rate of progress ...
We'll be submitting an up-to-standard Pre-Storm Protocol very, very soon.
Ulrich, why didn't you submit this copy of the Pre-Storm Protocol?
Half-finished products have no place in a conference, Adler.
Faced with the substitute director's aggressive interrogation, Ulrich only watches as the file is slammed onto the desk.
It simply isn't persuasive enough. The toybox's "Storm" simulation still poses some problems that require solving.
Am I hearing this right, blob-for-brains? You're telling me you've already finished the damn thing, but you thought you'd play us all for laughs for a while?
Urgh, just turn it in, damn it! Shut those checkered chumps up!
As I said, there are still some problems that haven't—
Ulrich, you're slipping into the mindset of a "creator."
They're simulated data. There's no need for your "humanitarian care."
And YOUR biases are showing, Adler.
As you'll recall from your encounters with the many familiar faces in the toybox, the pieces there are not objectively different from their real-world counterparts.
Familiar faces.
No. None of this is real.
...
They're just pieces of data. Parts of a simulation.
You shut yourself in your labs, in the toybox, calculating all day. And for what?
If you all keep playing "delusional genius" and continue to ignore the problems Laplace is facing, soon it will be out of our hands.
This isn't the toybox. There are no resets.
A brief silence falls over the meeting room. Then, the researchers catch on to a certain keyword.
It's true, Adler. With every new era brought by the "Storm," the Foundation has only tightened their policies. Perhaps to an extreme.
However, they need Laplace's research results. They need our innovation, our inventions.
The Foundation doesn't view us as an enemy.
Exactly. I seriously don't get you guys. It's not like it'll affect us, so quit wasting our time with all these meetings!
So what if Laplace loses its independence?
Adler, we can't properly discuss the issue if you don't explain what's making you so apprehensive.
Enigma's mouth opens. A habitual scoff slips out before any words can.
Hah. If the Foundation passes their "Storm" personnel reform, do you really think you'll be able to continue your research freely?
Laplace is this close to being completely subsumed by the Foundation! When that happens, where do you think our inventions are going to be used?
Don't tell me that none of you have ever considered—
Oh la la, no wonder they called you Enigma! If you've got some insider information, just tell us already!
The substitute director draws a deep breath.
Adler Hofmann, you've arrived. Please, sit.
No need. I'm not here to chat.
Fine by me. Then allow me to move on to the subject: how's your progress on the "Storm" contingency plan the Foundation requested?
Enigma waves the question away impatiently.
Get to the point.
I had planned on some small talk, but I'll get right to it if you wish.
She leans back in her chair.
If you assume the position of Laplace's next director, I can promise that the Foundation will not significantly interfere with the LSCC's regular operations.
On the condition I obey your every word?
Quite the opposite. Everything will be in your hands, to do with as you see fit.
Then I would choose to keep things the way they are.
And there are plenty of more outstanding—more rational—members who could take on the responsibility.
Take Ulrich, the leader of the "Storm" Research Group, for example. Or Pointer—she did remarkable work on developing the teleport disk. Among any number of others.
Mr. Adler, I'm afraid you've missed a crucial point.
Although Committee Member Irinei is the one pushing for the "Storm" personnel reform, appointing you as the director of Laplace is not his intention.
It's yours, isn't it, Madam Constantine?
You see, a keen mind is a key prerequisite to becoming director.
The core of the issue isn't how the Foundation presents its final decision to the outside world, but who we present. And what we need is a "human." A stable, persuasive, uncontroversial human.
When all is said and done, the Foundation's objective remains the same. We only wish to do all we can to brave the "Storm."
In this regard, you are the best choice, Mr. Adler.
Your best choice was forced to retire in the Timekeeper's Suitcase.
Ah, yes. Madam Lucy has certainly been enjoying a comfortable vacation.
Maintaining her smile, Constantine steers the conversation in another direction.
But let's not dwell on that. There's something else I wanted to tell you. Something interesting—to be kept to yourself for the time being, of course. It's a research topic we haven't yet revealed to Laplace.
...!
As you're well aware, for many years we've been searching for a method to bring back those reversed in the "Storm."
Well, the Foundation has discovered a feasible theory: if we can inject a person's past memories into a suitable body, then we can restore those who were lost.
All those years ago, a special candidate helped us in the first stages of this experiment. And now, we're finally starting to see results.
To this end, we hope to acquire help from Laplace.
5. Passersby
37 linesGo on, spit it out!
Or have all those long-winded administrative tasks totally destroyed your ability to get to the point?
You know something, don't you, Adler?
Everyone waits for Enigma to speak, but all they get is a room full of puzzled looks.
...
No matter how much he despises Constantine's implications and methods, he knows that this is neither the time nor the place for sharing what he's learned.
The words he cannot speak harden into a stone at the back of his throat. Were he to let it fall, the ripples it would send through Laplace would be impossible to calm.
I'm simply learning to consider the consequences before I act.
Some of the Foundation's committee members have gotten swept up in the prospect of an impending arcane war. If this goes on ...
Laplace mustn't become a pawn in their war games, or a bargaining chip for their faction disputes.
In short, we need to submit our Pre-Storm Protocol as soon as possible.
Which means we need to figure out what the core of the toybox really is—no. Whatever it is, we need to crack it open as soon as possible. Alright?
If we hurry, we still have a chance to convince the talking heads at the Foundation to leave us be.
Each researcher wears a different expression.
Ha, Enigma, are you actually begging right now? Quick—has the "Storm" stopped? Has hell frozen over?
Whatever. Just give me an answer.
The ferrofluid swirls violently in the tank. Then slowly, it settles.
Alright.
It seems there'll be no solving our differences in the short term.
So, I have a proposal: we submit two reports and let the reviewers decide.
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In the toybox once again, Enigma's exploration has taken him to a beach.
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Waves roll in, foaming at the shore. He looks down at the swirling water.
[Critter-Speech] (Just you wait!)
It doesn't take much before the Critters flee shrieking.
Even without understanding their language, and with parts of it reduced to incomprehensible noise, their movements convey their fury just fine.
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Thank you for lending us a hand.
You again.
As he approaches the "trapped survivor," Enigma's eyes fall on a figure before him.
6. All Is but a Riddle
37 linesI'm heading out.
You can heat up the leftovers in the fridge for lunch. Did you hear that, Adler?
What's the appeal of the mountaineering club, anyway?
At this point, even the neighbors are saying, "Looking for Greta? She's probably gone mountain climbing."
Or rowing.
The young woman at the door has already laced up her shoes. She stamps her feet on the mat.
She shoulders her hiking pack and glances back at her brother as she rises.
Would you like to come?
Last time you joined me on the Karwendel climb, before we'd even made it back, you said you'd never participate in any weekend sports events ever again.
Chess, swimming, or doing those math problems you love—they're all worthy pastimes. There's no need to follow me.
I only came here to get a glass of water!
Haha, sure. By the way, I need your help with something.
Greta tosses him a set of keys.
He catches them, his eyes never leaving the crossword in his newspaper.
What are you poring over now? Planning to lock up Papa's cigarette cabinet behind a code again?
That was just a Vigenère cipher. A beginner's puzzle.
Mhm. Anyway, if you have the time, could you mow the lawn in the back garden? It would make Mama and Papa happy.
And you know, I've never asked—what's got you so dead-set on "Laplace"?
There are plenty of outstanding research facilities to choose from. Why them?
Because I believe we share the same ideals.
Hmm?
The seriousness in his tone makes her pause. Her hand lingers over the doorknob.
There must be a theory that unifies everything in the universe.
Because every puzzle has a solution.
The world is like a crossword. If you follow the clues, you'll arrive at an answer. The only answer. An established theory.
It's simple. Clear. Rational.
Codes simply rearrange symbols according to a set of rules. Identify these rules, and you can decipher it. If we don't have an answer, it doesn't mean it doesn't exist, but rather that we haven't discovered it yet.
I've attended lectures at Laplace. Their researchers firmly believe they can discover the truth. It's utter conceit.
But that's the way it should be.
Greta nods and opens the door with a smile.
I see. Don't worry. I'm sure you'll receive an invitation from them soon enough.
I've asked around. They all said age is no matter, nor whether or not you're an arcanist.
Laplace opens its doors to geniuses. That's the only requirement.
Won't be any trouble for you, dear brother.
...
He crouches and sets the flowers down before the headstone.
They join other bouquets. White chrysanthemums now spill over the edge of the stone and onto the grass.
7. Flowing Memories
95 linesAs you can see, this is the toybox's core.
The core is contained within a metallic frame. At its center, something between a cloud of fog and a jellyfish envelops matter and symbols too strange to name.
After running it through some preliminary tests, we discovered its inner contents don't match up with any known arcane material.
Our next step would be to record and analyze its center.
But there's a problem. The matter and symbols floating in the core seem to change their state every time we observe it.
Without warning, the interior shifts again. Two forms slowly emerge from the "fog."
Are those gears?
Hmm. I think it looks more like the black and white grid of a crossword puzzle.
Adler, your observation right now—the observation of a cryptographer with very distinct interests and inclinations ...
Has become a new influencing factor on the core.
I understand. Under these circumstances, analyzing its contents is pointless.
Precisely. But the problems don't stop there.
Ulrich gestures toward the toybox on the table.
Within the three-hour period after the core's removal, the environment in the toybox descended into chaos. Understandably so.
The core has an "unmeasurable" quality; it stood to reason that the same quality extended to the toybox.
Hissabeth and I entered the box to verify this theory.
With its stabilizing core gone, the environment in the toybox has also become affected by its observers. In fact, we found the level of chaos is positively correlated to the number of observers.
Observer effect, changing environment ...
Familiar, isn't it? Our current situation seems to share many qualities with Artificial Somnambulism.
Hissabeth has gone to get reinforcements. Hm, right on time.
Just as Pointer had estimated, Hissabeth leads Mesmer Jr. into the meeting room.
Go on, time's precious!
Hissabeth steps back. Mesmer Jr. approaches the toybox.
She leans over, peering down at the small, almost real "world" inside.
A textbook "zoo hypothesis."
I'm sorry, but this isn't the same as Artificial Somnambulism.
After a long pause, she delivers her verdict.
I don't come to this conclusion arbitrarily. I've been paying attention to your experiments on this toybox.
Look.
In your toybox, there's still a vending machine at the entrance to the Laplace laboratories.
It's true! But out here, that vending machine was removed two days ago.
Artificial Somnambulism creates images based on subconscious memory. It's blurry and malleable. Even with our guidance, memories can still lie to you.
That's why we use it primarily for psychotherapy, not simulations for experiments.
It's likely this toybox is operating on a set formula based on the environmental conditions that were initially loaded, making it unable to generate things not included in its original data set.
Although your observations have turned into a chaotic mess for the time being, it has no inherent ability to change to reflect the real world.
That is to say, the data in the toybox is from a static point in the past. If you don't update it, the vending machine will stay.
It's this lag in data that gives it stability.
That's the best I can offer.
No, your conclusion was very valuable. So it's clear. If we want to progress, there's only one way left.
Return the core to the tower and let the toybox restabilize. Then reset it to stop this entropy and return it to its original state.
You mean, we regenerate the outer layer of the core to create a combination lock that can easily be analyzed?
Correct. Considering the chaos in the toybox, this mission should fall to you and Ulrich.
You two are the most familiar with its environment.
...
<notShowInLog>
The all too familiar field of grass appears once more.
Why is our starting point always set here?
It seems the toybox is more stable than we expected.
The topography hasn't changed at all, although we have lost line of sight to the tower.
<notShowInLog>
Ulrich looks to the horizon. The tower's spire, once faintly visible, is now swallowed by heavy clouds.
Don't worry, we've already located the tower.
Through the device, Hissabeth's slightly distorted voice brings them their second piece of good news.
Although there have been some slight changes, it still remains northeast of where you are.
Just go ahead. We'll sync with your current position and route.
Oh, but can we assume that syncing our data out here won't trigger the observer effect?
Let's go.
Confirming that the core is safe inside the container, he shoulders the weight.
Please record the time intervals between the toybox's environmental changes.
Data's already been synced.
The two researchers wordlessly move northeast.
<notShowInLog>
It seems they have both tacitly chosen silence as their safest option.
For a while, the communicator is the only thing making any sound.
Enigma, Ulrich, the data is starting to fluctuate.
The observer effect will most likely begin manifesting soon. Prepare yourselves.
They halt. A bubble-like barrier drifts across the plain.
Oh! This is like a development on the Rorschach test.
I can hardly wait to see what scenes might appear.
How did we end up here?
In the blink of an eye, the plain is gone, and they find themselves at the edge of a lake.
Environmental changes took 15 minutes this time. No change in the direction of the tower. Sure looks like a nice fishing spot you've ended up in.
I have no particular fondness for natural environments. I think this one's on you, Adler.
Good to see you've finally grasped the most important skill of social interaction—shifting blame.
The last time I visited a lake was before I joined Laplace.
Admit it, Ulrich! You're curious about them!
What happened?!
Their argument is cut short. Like a television switched off, they are plunged into complete darkness.
The data's becoming more volatile. The toybox is losing control.
At least the communicator's still working.
Enigma feels around inside his backpack and pulls out the core.
It has warped violently inside its frame, looking nothing like it did before.
Which direction is the tower?
It's moved. Current position, unclear.
There's no easy way ahead for now, so we'll make a temporary stop here. Check the position again after the next cycle of environmental changes.
Wait, Adler.
The darkness has sharpened their hearing. There's a rustling closing in from all sides.
Looks like we'll have to deal with this first.
You two alright? We've got the data. The tower's new location—it's extremely close to your position!
Wait, that's not right. It's ON your position.
The "projector" fast-forwards again, tossing them into the next frame.
8. Night Climber
99 linesGoing mountain climbing again?
Where are you heading this time? Watzmann, Nebelhorn?
Spain, actually. To the tallest peak in the Pyrenees—Aneto.
You just finished a field mission. Shouldn't you take more than a day to recover?
I was only helping them establish an organizational system for their arcanist database in Morocco. And I got plenty of sleep on the plane.
What about you? Another late night of research, by the looks of it?
I've heard the people at Laplace are night owls too. You should fit right in with their schedule.
The all-nighter has left Adler looking a little worn, but his eyes are as bright as ever.
A genius's best thoughts always come at night—an overly poetic sentiment, to be sure, but I see it as a rational conclusion based on experience.
Greta shrugs. She has no intention of nagging him about it the way their parents do.
Remember—
I know, mow the lawn.
...
Noticing the silence, Greta slows her hand on the door again.
You look like you still have something to say.
This month it is setting up an arcanist registry. Last month it was mediating an arcanist dispute, cleaning up after the Foundation's mess.
I don't think we need more examples. Greta, you're working like Mama sweeping the damn dust behind the door.
She sweeps and sweeps. Day after day. Year after year. To abate a problem that could be solved by simply closing the window.
I know you aren't happy with always having to pick up after her in secret, but you shouldn't let Mama know that.
But, tell me, dear brother, do you think we should close the window forever?
No, what I meant was ...
Greta waves her hand.
I never did properly tell you why I joined the Foundation.
You're right, field investigator work is as you say. While there are complicated procedures to follow, the actual situations are so simple, it hardly takes a genius to figure them out.
Most of the difficulty comes from dealing with officials. It's entirely up to them whether they drop the red tape and empty rhetoric or raise their walls higher.
And from a utilitarian standpoint, it's not a rational choice. After all, the promotion prospects are very limited.
Then why do you insist on doing it?
The stubborn confusion in his voice means this won't be a brief chat.
She glances at the clock on the wall, hesitates, then shifts the weight of her backpack.
Adler, have you heard of Mount Godwin-Austen? They call it K2.
The second highest mountain. After Mount Everest.
That's right. I like the name, K2. Just a letter and a number. It's direct, bare, concise—unembellished. It perfectly captures the image of a "brutal peak."
That mountain has a higher death rate among climbers than that of the world's highest peak. Once you choose to climb it, you've already put your life in the harsh hands of nature.
Even among mountaineering clubs, amidst the praise for your determination, I trust the majority of people would still exclaim, "Do you have a death wish?"
I don't follow.
The view from the peak of K2—it's different from yours, from the University of Göttingen, or from any other place in the world.
That's what those people with "a death wish" are trying to obtain.
Of course, most Foundation field investigators don't face such extreme conditions.
...
I don't understand arcanum. I don't understand the arcanists it creates, either.
But these things are deeply rooted in our world.
The Foundation is a great fulcrum, a window, a place to observe, and to participate.
Even if I wanted to, there's no avoiding dealing with all kinds of arcanists and arcanum.
They hide, tucked away among the many interwoven branches of bureaucracy. This is a view gained only by joining the Foundation.
Each arcanist becomes a new case study. Because no matter how bizarre the phenomenon, once it is systematically documented and analyzed, it always falls into a chain of logic.
Adler, why are you looking for a unified theory?
To make the world concise, summarizable. It must be knowable and reliable to be suitable for life.
Do you think society can also have such a theory?
Something that can integrate all this disordered, chaotic fragmentation and allow arcanists and arcanum to find a place among rationality?
I believe that's what I'm doing now. I see these endless missions as brute-force exhaustive research, like foolishly trying to count every grain of sand on a beach.
Once complete, it will give a full view of both humans and arcanists, founded in rationality and worthy of trust.
Heh, you could call it "Hofmann Idealism." It certainly seems to be in both our blood, dear brother.
Alright, isn't it quite time you left?!
Greta pays no mind to her brother's embarrassed huff. Something else has occurred to her.
I heard Laplace is experimenting on arcane skill fusion these days. They plan to distribute equipment infused with the power of incantations to us investigators.
I'm not going to put my faith in some inexplicable "magic" weapon.
Mm, I expected you'd say as much.
Then, this might be more your speed. It's a Luger pistol. A regular firearm, able to be disassembled and reassembled as you see fit.
A pistol?
I also have one—it's a Foundation-issued pistol for field investigations. I'd say I already have a solid eye for it.
Greta, what kinds of missions are you going on that require guns?
While extreme circumstances are rare, they're bound to happen eventually. In those cases, it doesn't hurt to have a gun. That goes for both of us.
She settles her pack on her shoulders. The half-open door swings wide, and the morning sunlight spills over her. She looks ready to dissolve into it.
I'm heading out now.
Greta, wait!
Time waits for no one, dear brother. I have to go eventually.
For every mountain in the world, there will always be someone who seeks to climb it.
...!
Wait, I also—
Greta—!
Greta! Greta!
He pounds his fist against the door. It doesn't move.
A door he knows well. A door he has always wanted to open.
A door he had once opened. A door that opens only for geniuses.
Adler, Mr. Adler!
...
He snaps back to reality.
The stares of his colleagues in the Laplace meeting room bore into him.
You've been out of sorts during our recent meetings, Adler. You should get more sleep.
Sleep is a vital function for humans; it—
Thank you for your considerable insights into human nature. But that's quite enough.
Now to our current situation. We need to figure out our next steps.
The conversation resumes, and the geniuses leave behind the trivial matter of sleep.
Ludwig's reappearance has introduced a serious problem.
The core is no longer in our hands. Our crossword puzzle has been torn to shreds, and we have no leads to speak of.
Even the most skilled cryptographer can't reverse-engineer a key out of thin air.
Seems like an easy fix to me. I say we take apart the toybox.
Ludwig and the core are both in there, right?
So take it apart! Let all its elements reset to their original states individually. Then, it'll be a breeze to analyze.
That's too reckless, Researcher Medicine Pocket! Dismantling the toybox might cause significant data loss.
Or possibly even destroy the toybox itself, then we'll be without any research subject at all!
Well, sitting here overthinking everything isn't gonna produce any results either.
Just reset it. We can continue with our original plan.
Enigma cuts in, stopping the argument before it starts.
The toybox remains unstable. If we reset it in its current condition, there's no telling whether we'll return everything to its original state or just cause even more chaos.
Ludwig's signal is still near the tower. We'd better come to a decision before he leaves.
No more hesitating. There's no use in waiting.
Plus, since the data is restored after each reset of the toybox, we can start by assuming that the mishap with Ludwig has been fixed.
We start with a hypothesis, then we test it.
9. The Looping Pangram
99 linesAfter this reset, we need to limit the changes inside the toybox as much as possible.
That is to say, the fewer the people who enter the toybox, the better.
It's best we only send one person.
I'll do you one better: don't send anyone in and blow it to kingdom come!
Researcher Medicine Pocket.
Medicine Pocket rolls their eyes and keeps talking, unfazed by the warning in Ulrich's tone.
Great, a brand new toybox, and a brand new chance to fail! Consistently reproducing failed results follows the scientific method, too, right?
Seriously. None of us even knows what's in there, and you're saying we should send a single person in alone?
You're totally fine with that, huh? Leaving all those insane pieces and that psycho raven for some unlucky bastard to deal with?
This doesn't happen often, but I have to say I agree with Medicine Pocket. Whoever decides to enter will be risking their own safety.
Medicine Pocket rolls their eyes again. X and Ulrich have clearly missed the point.
Ugh. What I was saying is that we shouldn't be wasting our brainpower on this thing.
We also need to consider the pieces. They may just be data to us, but to them, this is their entire world. We must avoid destroying it if we can.
Oh, my dear Ulrich, I'm moved to pieces! If only the real "Storm" shared your glowing sense of humanitarianism.
Pardon, can I interrupt for a second?
Hissabeth knocks on the table.
I have good news. I've tested the communicator's durability.
Although the tower's effect grows stronger the closer you get, the unlucky person entering the box will be able to receive outside help up until they enter the tower. If we aren't giving up on that plan, that is.
That's great, but assigning a hundred people to wash test tubes in a lab isn't gonna make the research go any faster.
That's all that communicator's gonna give. A bunch of test tube washers.
Don't say that. If you gave me ten research assistants who understood the Lane-Emden equation, I'd be pleased no matter what.
For once, Enigma listens. He waits until Hissabeth is done before he speaks.
What I meant is that I will go.
You're a human, Adler. And at the end of the day, that toybox runs on arcanum.
Thank you for the reminder, Bottlebrain.
Enigma's tone is polite, but his expression is grim.
I'm certain you will all provide more help than test tube washing, like capturing arcane fluctuations and relaying the data through the communicator.
Besides, I'm the cryptographer here.
I doubt any one of you has undergone even a fraction of the cryptographic training required to reverse-engineer a key from an as-of-yet unknown cipher.
Well, I certainly haven't.
But I believe I understand now. You think Ulrich has a point, too. Humanitarian care, no?
Where on earth did you get that impression?
He turns away, but his darkening expression doesn't escape Hissabeth's notice.
Alright, you're right. You didn't say that.
She shrugs and clears the way for Enigma.
...
A faint dizziness blurs Enigma's vision.
<notShowInLog>
Everything has changed.
Frowning, Enigma pats his wet coat, sending little streams down into the moonlit water below—assuming that is indeed moonlight and water.
Woah, look at that ball of light in the sky! Hah, I'm starting to like this place!
I'm afraid that's this toybox's version of the moon.
He pulls himself upright against the knee-high silver lines and wades unsteadily toward the shore.
<notShowInLog>
Hey, those fir trees over there look like snowflakes.
Why don't you tell me something I don't know?
Alright. I just thought some talk on Koch curves might lighten the topic.
Can anyone tell me how to mute this thing?
Enigma distances himself from the communicator as another wave of commotion erupts on the other end. A moment later, Ulrich's calm voice comes through.
Understood. Researcher Pointer and I will strictly control the others' input as requested.
Umm, right, we guarantee we'll only bother you if it's essential.
Thank you. I'll contact you if necessary.
He switches off the communicator, yet the surrounding noise persists.
Not far off, a young piece turns around, hands twisted together nervously.
Mr. Enigma?
He points at the thin white cuboid in the piece's hand.
Yes, Mr. Enigma, I-I'm reading a story. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.
That's the story? Ah, I understand.
Mhmm. It's about legends and people who write history. I haven't finished it yet. The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.
She smiles shyly. What used to be a book has slowly flattened into a colorless, almost depthless shape.
Is there something I can help you with? Quick.
I'm looking for a tower. Do you know where it might be?
It seems—fox—a lot of people are looking for that tower ... It—quick—might be on the other side of the forest.
She looks bewildered. The book finally loses the last of its depth and slides from her arms.
I'm waiting for someone. How—quick—strange. I-I don't seem to remember who I'm waiting for. Brown.
Was she also looking for the tower?
The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.
Forget it.
Enigma hesitates, then crouches to pick the book up for her. But it slips through his fingers, like the moon's reflection slipping from cupped hands.
He shakes his head and gives up. It's useless anyway.
I should go, Ms. Marcus. Goodbye.
He strides away. The girl's voice follows after him.
Please—brown—be careful! There's a fox, brown in the forest. Lazy dog!
Thank you.
Following the piece's direction, Enigma squints into the distance. The white tower's spire rises above a sea of treetops.
Hah. How wonderfully eye-catching. What is this, Tantalus's punishment?
Another figure emerges from the shadows of the trees.
Danger. Closer don't any come!
Wait, you're ...?!
He knows this researcher. The toybox is pulling from his buried memories.
The communicator rings again. Whether it's at the worst moment or the best one, he can't decide.
Adler, how bad is it?
He subconsciously reaches into his pocket. The metal tube is cold against his fingers.
Oh, fine. Just a piece who's gone mad.
Enigma looks up at the top of the tower for what feels like the thousandth time. It's faintly glowing.
He raises the communicator.
We have a problem.
...
Even after all this walking, I haven't gotten any closer to the Tower of Babel.
If anything, it appears to be growing farther and farther away.
10. That Familiar Bitterness
132 linesWe're all quite used to the "language disorder" by now, so that isn't much of a problem, and there isn't much need for him to communicate with anyone.
But what does concern me is that moving tower. A brand new variable ...
What was it again? There was an expression I heard when I was trying to research Kiperina's and Name Day's arcane skills.
Oh! That's the one! "People can only borrow language; they cannot reach the reality behind it."
We need to start considering the possibility of evacuating Adler early.
I doubt he'll agree.
Then prepare to evacuate him by force. If necessary.
From what we've seen so far, the situation is far worse than predicted. Not only has the "language disorder" encompassed the whole toybox, but it's starting to leak out of it, too.
Ulrich gestures to Hissabeth. The silver patterns on his uniform are slowly fading. She examines him carefully and reaches a quick conclusion.
Oh, you're right. You HAVE been standing closest to the box.
She exchanges a look with Ulrich and picks up the communicator.
I hope you have some good news.
Sorry for what I'm about to say, but I'll keep it straight: the toybox's instability is higher than predicted. We advise you to return early.
If you can't retrieve the core soon, we'll have to use our backup plan—blowing up the box.
Enigma goes quiet for a few seconds.
And Bottlebrain agrees with this?
I didn't want this either. But right now, there's no better solution.
The disorder is spreading to Laplace again. Your time in the box is limited.
And according to the LSCC Safety Management Regulations, ensuring your safety is the higher priority.
Enigma takes a deep breath, yet doesn't argue.
I understand. Give me two hours. If I don't make any progress, I'll return.
Then we can blow it up together.
Two hours, Adler. We'll do whatever we can to help.
Researchers X, Medicine Pocket, and Hissabeth are currently dealing with the spread of the disorder. I also need to step away for a moment to deal with it.
Researcher Pointer is monitoring the toybox's situation. If you run into any danger, be sure to request assistance immediately.
I will.
<notShowInLog>
He looks up again at the white spire—seemingly within reach, yet forever beyond it.
Hmm?
Maybe it's just his imagination, but for a moment, it felt like he was closer to it.
The journey that follows is too quiet, almost dull. The only thing Enigma can do is note the changes in the surrounding scenery.
He keeps his eyes peeled, but no other familiar faces appear.
Until a heated argument, even for Laplace's standards, breaks out ahead.
A researcher and an administrator argue on opposite sides of a desk in a strange, yet somehow familiar, scene.
...?
<notShowInLog>
I am NOT redoing the material reimbursement.
<notShowInLog>
Then you can choose not to submit it. But I must remind you that the reimbursement deadline is this Friday.
Enigma feels a familiar irritation itch at him as the argument dredges up his own unpleasant memories.
Picrasma extract has extremely potent side effects.
Laplace ought to tear down the building and install turf!
Hmm?
The researcher suddenly draws a gun on his colleague. Perhaps he doesn't think of him as one.
<ERROR> Are-are-are-are you done??!! @# You're wasting Laplace resources!
<notShowInLog>
<notShowInLog>
<notShowInLog>
<notShowInLog>
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Bang. The staff member drops to the ground. Enigma isn't sure whether he should step forward and do something.
Liberation for all the Critters in the canteen!
Before he can decide, a pack of Critters pours out from behind the researcher piece and lunges at him.
What on ...?!
Stopping them isn't difficult. After so many explorations, Enigma has grown used to it.
The communicator's ring interrupts his mulling over the sudden change.
We're back. This time the disorder's symptoms are visual. Nothing too serious.
It's a shame you can't see us right now—gathered around the toybox with symbols floating around our heads.
Enigma pictures it and can't help but rub his temples.
What's the situation?
Nothing much to report. Though, a piece just did something I'm sure we've all wanted to.
He applied for a massive amount of funds?
No, he killed the administrator who asked him to resubmit his invoice, then led a dozen Critters in an attempted uprising.
Very extreme. Interesting.
Now, now, there's no one here who wants to do anything like that to our colleagues.
To each their own. I'd like to confirm something.
You just returned this moment, yes? Was anybody thinking about invoices, the canteen, or anything related to Picrasma candy just now?
Hey, why all the questions? Mr. Enigma, this isn't exactly the time for a workplace interview.
Come on! Stop the chatter and tell me, quickly!
Oh, you mean you think our observations out here are having an impact in there?
Right! The approval you owe me, it's still in the back of my mind! You already got it, right? The bottle of Picrasma—
That's the one.
His hypothesis is confirmed.
I see. We'll avoid any eye contact with the toybox.
Remember, we have forced evacuation measures in place, Adler.
Silence follows.
Enigma holds his breath and watches.
...
...
As expected.
The Critters slowly disappear, and the blood-covered researcher shuffles back to the desk—now simply some grids.
Hey, pal. Coming through!
Sorry, need to reorganize all these receipts ASAP. You heard him, didn't you? The deadline's Friday! Don't your projects need reimbursements, too?
Thanks for the reminder, but my team is still waiting for funding approval.
Ah. Must be tough. Hang in there!
He pats Enigma on the shoulder, then limps toward the far wall where there should be a lab.
Ulrich, I assume you've also come to the same conclusion.
The correlation between the degree of observation and the toybox's abnormalities.
Exactly. Put this down in your report: The reason I made you all leave wasn't because I harbored any ill will toward my colleagues.
As we all know, every new observer adds a degree of freedom. The higher the degree of freedom, the harder it is to converge at a single point.
Someone wants to see a dark room, so they turn on a flashlight.
But if ten people in different corners of the room simultaneously turn on their flashlights, between all the beams of light, not one of them can see clearly.
This we understood. But what we failed to account for was the light shining through the window—the people outside the room.
Not only do those who enter the toybox increase interference, but so too do those who observe from the outside!
The communicator goes silent. Clearly, Ulrich is thinking fast.
An astonishing conclusion, Adler, but it's a line of thought worth testing.
Do you think two hours of basic cryptography training would be enough for one of our colleagues to enter the box and take your place?
What did you say?
Turn off the flashlight, and the room will return to its original appearance.
Every flashlight, including my own.
Let me remind you again: you're not an arcanist. You can't detect the arcane fluctuations in the toybox on your own.
Yes I can. Although the effects won't last for long.
He pops open the metal tube in his pocket.
I still have faith in science, even in an era where rain falls in reverse. It's reliable by nature: systematic, comprehensive, replicable.
As for arcanum, I may as well make the most of it while it's mine to use. Thankfully, its basic applications don't require deep understanding.
I'll ensure my own safety.
A rare silence follows from the other end of the communicator. As the candies drop into Enigma's palm, the reply finally comes.
Of course. You're an exceptional researcher and our greatest cryptographer.
You still have thirty minutes, plus the two additional hours we've approved.
Best of luck. See you soon, Adler.
See you soon, Ulrich.
He nods and hangs up.
...
He's on his own now. Enigma draws a deep breath and closes his eyes.
Not to observe, but to sense.
An unfinished antidote and a trace of test poison—to keep Manus Vindictae from using it to cause another tragedy.
He's tried it countless times. It should work.
The taste of Picrasma extract creeps up from the back of his tongue. Enigma's one-quarter arcanist blood briefly awakens.
Emotion and reason.
Arcanist and human.
Arcanum and science.
Science carried him to the point where there seemed to be no going forward.
Arcanum has allowed him to touch the faint glimmer of light in the cracks.
In the deepest dark, there's a soft knock on a brick.
11. Open Sesame
98 lines...
What an absurd experience.
Using my eyes to gauge the distance, what I saw was a far-off tower and the many difficulties to reach it.
That, I realize now, was another result of my "observation."
Yet the moment I stop trying to logically deduce its location, lo and behold—here it is.
He touches the white wall before him, as if to confirm it's really there.
If arcanists truly live in a world of such unpredictability as this, it's little wonder many think they have mental problems.
Alright. Since everything's been reset, that thieving raven will likely reappear at the tower with his shiny contraband in tow.
The only problem is getting inside.
Where a door should be, there is only a wall.
Enigma tilts his head back and estimates the tower's height, weighing whether it's worth the climb.
There aren't enough footholds. And I'm not certain whether that structure up there is in fact a window.
He pauses, then lowers his voice.
Open sesame.
The wall doesn't answer, nor does it mock him for trying.
Arcanists can't just make up incantations, it seems. I thought as much.
Surely I don't have to delve into my imagination.
He closes his eyes, still facing the stubborn wall.
Arcane skills. Arcane skills! How on earth do they figure out these things?!
I should've asked for a copy of A Basic Guide to Using Arcanum before cutting off communications!
Never mind. The principles ought to be about the same. Focus your mind and let the intensity of your thoughts bore a hole in the wall.
Not hoping to turn your thoughts into a sledgehammer, are you?
Enigma's eyes snap open. The unchanging darkness is gone.
He follows the sound upward. The raven glides down for a smooth landing.
I never expected the ever-logical Adler would have such a wild imagination.
Enough wasting time. Hand it over.
You didn't make all that effort making your way here simply to rob me, did you? Hm, seems Laplace hasn't been so busy these days.
As you can see, your instincts have interfered with our work.
If you enjoy collecting shiny things so much, I'll give you this communicator. Take it, or any other thing you want.
Empirical judgments, overly confident speculations. Yes, that's the way you think.
And why you'll never comprehend the use of arcane skills.
That's irrelevant.
Has the simulation been upgraded, or are you being affected by corrupted data?
The others haven't shared much personal information on "Ludwig." Are you German?
Ludwig just mechanically turns his head and fixes his gaze on him.
I understand what you want exactly.
You've come to this tower many times, seeking to destroy it and this farce of an experiment.
Then, something changed. You became curious—wanted to uncover its secrets. The natural instinct of a researcher.
But you turned far too hasty in your pursuit, even starting to explore matters you could never hope to understand.
A constant stream of words flows from Ludwig's beak.
Enough chit-chat. You ...
Du kannst das Arkanum nicht begreifen.
Stop!
He finally understands the source of his discomfort.
He has never sensed arcane fluctuations before. Not until now.
Of course, he can't immediately detect the abnormalities quietly building around him.
Darum kannst du diese Tür nicht öffnen.
Enigma grabs the communicator and throws it at the raven, who effortlessly dodges with a flap of his wings.
You're the one interfering with my experiment, Researcher Adler. I need the core to help me unveil the mysteries of language.
In fact, not long ago, I made a rather decent discovery.
Another flap of black wings. Enigma notices data flowing across them.
Their silhouette begins to melt away, giving way to the cold gleam of metal beneath.
Was that hypnosis? A curse? Or a prophecy?
All that nonsense, and yet nothing has come of it. Most likely needs time to activate.
Enigma checks his timer.
There's still half an hour left. Enough time to get you out of my way.
I need the core. It stays here.
The fortress crumbles. The metal dissolves like foam. Ludwig twitches on the ground.
He spreads his wings and struggles into an upright position. Data flashes in his black eyes.
My data. You've utterly destroyed it.
We both know the box will reset. And you'll go back to your chattering, Raven.
Ah, yes. The pieces exist in a world that may be reset. One might think their lives are full of opportunity and that everything is recoverable.
But under special conditions, these pieces can also "die."
What do you mean?
The core's contents have the ability to interfere with everything around it. It can tear your mind apart, even scramble your data into a jumbled mess.
Opening its protective shell won't bring you the results you're looking for.
Ludwig already paid the price for his curiosity. His experiment failed, and his mind was imprisoned here. It wasn't until a short while ago that he finally departed.
I am merely a segment of leftover data. An attempt to warn other curious minds to stay well away from danger.
You mean to say your actions came from good intentions?
Care to explain that incantation of yours? It still hasn't taken effect.
It was meant to change your mind—to prevent you from comprehending the arcane presence here. In stopping you from entering the tower, you would be protected from the madness and ruin that awaits.
There's no need for you to go the way of the other pieces who came here, breaking down piece by piece until you eventually vanish into nothing.
His feathers begin to fall. More symbols flicker across his body.
But you needn't worry. It won't be long until my arcane skill ceases to function.
I've never had the opportunity to work with Ludwig. But based on your simulation of him, I can guess he's a stubborn, conceited, curious, egotistical fellow.
Oh, not really. Just a raven cursed with knowledge trying his best to protect those who come after.
*sigh* A typical Laplace employee.
You're unhappy.
He studies Enigma with eyes that no longer shine.
No. I was only thinking that perhaps there should be someone who helps bear the risks and make decisions on behalf of these geniuses.
Working alongside colleagues with no understanding of lab safety protocols comes at too great a price. Having a branch director go missing for so long must have certainly affected productivity.
Ludwig catches the anger in his words and the trace of grief beneath it. He tries to move past both.
But you and I have never worked together.
Enigma checks his timer again.
We've been colleagues for the last ten minutes.
You're not going to heed my warning, are you? You're still going to remove the core—to satisfy your curiosity.
I AM going to take it. Because I want Laplace to remain a place for people like you.
Someone has to do something.
Ludwig nods.
What a coincidence. Some of the previous pieces who came here said a similar thing.
Their data was also destroyed. Unless new data is uploaded, they'll never appear in the box again.
I'm not entirely sure what to call it. I hope you'll forgive me for presuming it as "death."
Which, I believe, is precisely what I'm experiencing now.
Farewell, my colleague. I wish you all the best.
Ludwig vanishes into the air, and on the wall behind where he had stood, a door appears.
Enigma approaches the door.
12. That Endless Green
81 lines*knock*
All for nothing.
Next time a colleague disappears without a trace, they'd better leave behind more clues first.
Not even a crack. This isn't drawn on, is it?
No visible locks. No signs of arcane skills, either.
But to whom?
Greta's been here. She found a way through. There must be a way.
Researcher Adler?
Researcher Adler, how are you? We've all been quite concerned about your condition.
The results of our investigation into the "Storm" have arrived, and everyone's fighting to form research teams. This might be a bit presumptuous, but we'd like to invite you to join us.
That's right! You probably don't remember, but during a cryptography lecture at the University of Göttingen, you said, "Every puzzle has a solution," and that if there's no answer, it's just because we haven't figured out the rules yet.
This is just like that—a crossword puzzle that nobody's ever solved! We'll be entering new territory! The first to research the "Storm"!
And we'll be the first to find a solution—to figure out the truth!
He stares at the crossword before him, the letters in its squares drowned in ink so thick they're illegible.
Just like the "Storm," covering everything, with no pattern at all.
A solution?
A "solution" that can be overturned at any time by the appearance of an inexplicable presence?
Only a fanatic would find joy in all this. At least they finally have some evidence that gods are real.
I hear they've given you a nickname, dear brother.
Hmm.
"Enigma." You must admit your colleagues have quite the sense of humor and taste, if you ask me.
She sets down a stack of files.
You may be helping with some decoding work in here, and somehow turned me into your personal news and paper delivery girl.
But this house isn't a laboratory, nor your dorm, and it's certainly not an emergency shelter.
There is no harm in returning to a normal life.
I'm listening.
No, you aren't.
Enigma sighs and sets down the squash ball in his hand.
Alright, fine. I'll say what you want me to say: How's the situation outside, Greta?
Everyone must be very busy. They've given up on sending smart robots to my door, and they haven't asked me to join their various research teams for quite some time.
Has the "Storm" research had any new breakthroughs? Is everyone in high spirits? Busy coming up with great ideas?
She's quiet for a moment, then shakes her head slightly.
Another "Storm" hit. It was sudden. I heard there were researchers gathering data outside. They didn't make it back in time.
The situation at the Foundation isn't much better.
...
He wants to slam his fist on the table. Instead, he just pushes the papers aside, exhausted.
Is that so? I see.
There must be a reason. Something that has driven you here, to stand before this door. To demand a response that has never come.
Self-expectations.
I've attended lectures at Laplace. Their researchers firmly believe they can discover the truth. It's utter conceit.
But that's the way it should be.
Others' expectations.
I'll take up that role and do what you've been nagging me to do. I'll take care of those pesky committees.
But just so you know, I'm not doing this for the higher-ups who look down on us—
But for the people who look up to us from below!
A wish to change everything.
He has never truly looked at this door. Difficulties and obstacles are common in research. Every result is built on countless failures.
For the first time, he takes a few steps back to get a clear look at this old enemy, the one he has been wrestling with for as long as he can remember.
I should've done this a long time ago. No.
No need to speculate on how the past could have gone. There's an excellent opportunity—right here and now.
The Picrasma extract is wearing off. His heartbeat pounds in his ears as everything he perceives slowly returns to what it was.
Everything inside the toybox changes with observation. It faithfully recreates my every thought, perception, and idea.
Maybe it's the side effects of the extract. Maybe it's the absurdity of what he sees, and how unsurprising it all is. A searing pain rises behind his eyes.
Hah. Turns out there was no wall around the door after all.
An unknown darkness engulfs him.
He steps forward with ease.
The place where his toybox journey began. The place where it ends.
Every journey began at this field. He recognizes the feeling of the grass beneath his boots.
Parting the blades, he makes his way toward the center.
The core rests there in the grass, waiting for the next stubborn seeker to pick it up.
The core can read one's thoughts, and make the toybox manifest whatever one desires most.
I wanted to create a language without limits, a language everyone could understand and use. And so, it rebuilt the Tower of Babel for me.
It is far too powerful. If you take it, you'll be engulfed by it—something I don't want to happen.
But it's clear you've made your decision. I'm powerless to stop you. I can only wish you the best of luck, and hope you stay true to your convictions.
If I had the time, I'd like to have witnessed what it creates for you.
There is endless green in countless places. Maybe it's the mountaintop he once reached. Maybe it's the graveyard he can't bring himself to visit. Maybe it's the open field in front of the Laplace building.
All he wanted was to return to that first field of grass.
Alright. Adventure's over.
Enigma bends down and picks up the core.
Good. It's created a new code under my observation. A familiar, basic code.
And, a hint.
"The age of humans has come to an end."
He reads the words under his breath.
This is as close to reality as the simulation gets—replicating appearance, language, and thought. The data does its job, producing the most reasonable result it can.
In the real world, there is a note just like this in his drawer, taken from that pioneer's journal. She found the answer. Even here, in the simulation.
Proof that she will walk this path every time, without exception. A prophecy written in data.
Ha. Arcanum.
13. Fellow Travelers
13 linesThe Vigenère cipher. A multi-layered application of the Caesar cipher.
In this scenario, using Kasiski's test to reverse-engineer the key from known ciphertext is the most suitable approach.
Usually, the key isn't particularly long. It was most likely repeated to generate this ciphertext.
Simply find the repeating character sequences and use the distance between them to infer the key's length ... It must be a multiple.
He hasn't worked on something like this in a long time.
A simple puzzle. Simple enough that he once walked his family through it as a clever little trick.
Where did I put that German letter frequency table?
First, calculate the index of coincidence; then try each possible key combination in order. Hmm, Laplace's computers must operate at remarkably high speeds.
All that remains, then, is to pick out the plaintext with the most meaning.
Done.
He picks up the device.
And to think, this is the answer generated from my observation.
I'd expected it to be something far more mundane. Like "squash" or "answer."
14. Don't Look Back in Anger
119 linesThis is a very thorough report.
And knowing where you stand, it's safe to say Laplace won't be facing many more problems for the time being.
She flips through the files and nods.
Our research will continue until we uncover the truth behind the toybox.
After we establish the Toybox Research Group, I'll be sure to submit more detailed reports of our results. What you have there is far from our final conclusion on the subject.
Or on our collaboration with the Foundation.
Between compromises, this soon-to-be director has learned how to hold his ground.
Anyone who gives a final answer without careful consideration is either a gambler or a cheat.
I'm glad to see your prudence and rationality as a researcher remain as dependable as ever.
Of course, I'm even happier you've finally decided to be more than just a researcher.
I'm sorry, but even now, I still don't fully understand your decision.
I also have one more condition.
Go ahead.
Before my appointment is officially announced, I want to meet with the Timekeeper.
The Foundation's stance is not fully representative of the Timekeeper's, is it?
Under the framework of our new bill, the Timekeeper and her team do enjoy a greater degree of autonomy.
An answer that is both ambiguous and clever. Such autonomy still falls within the Foundation's legal framework.
Regardless, this isn't a difficult request to fulfill.
Laplace's research findings have made many major contributions to the Timekeeper's operations. Rebuilding trust during this period of turmoil is essential.
You've become quite proficient at all this.
Heh, and I'm just finally starting to get used to it.
Maintaining Laplace's independence, meeting with the Timekeeper ... Is there anything else?
Enigma is quiet for a moment.
Before the Foundation requests the details of any of Laplace's research, they must inform me what it will be used for.
Can you accept this?
...
The Foundation has never deliberately concealed anything from Laplace. We've always guaranteed your right to know.
Yes, but the reasons they provide could easily be half-truths—or arrive late.
I don't mean to make your life difficult, but you know better than I the reality of how the Foundation operates.
Judging by your reaction, you can't make that promise. I expected as much.
She neither confirms nor denies it.
I have no other requests.
All those endless meetings finally prove their worth. The strategic concession—a classic among "expert negotiators."
Not meant to get anything specific, but to make a point.
Very good.
She pauses.
You'll be notified of the official appointment within the week, after which it will be announced to every department. Hopefully, we won't run into any trouble.
She glances around the room.
You have a lot of paperwork ahead of you.
Why not start with a tidy-up? Some advice from someone with experience: those paper stacks tend to shrink after a little organization.
Resorting to psychological suggestion?
If it gets the job done.
Madam Z walks to the door, then turns to say goodbye.
All in all, congratulations to you, Adler, and to Laplace.
You've secured a positive future for this place.
She leaves. Enigma, standing surrounded by walls of files, sighs.
Enigma stops outside the meeting room door.
Marguerite.
Laplace is a massive institution, and as such, they rarely cross paths. Last time, they'd exchanged only a brief nod.
He takes a moment to study her.
A cold, metallic gleam runs through the center of her dress, like a butterfly emerging from a dark cocoon of torn fabric and flesh.
She wears an impeccable smile.
Thank you, Mr. Adler.
And congratulations.
Brief, but sufficient.
He doesn't want his first act as director to be tearing an irreparable rift through Laplace.
Go on in, Mr. Adler. Everyone's waiting.
Happy birthday!
Party poppers go off with a bang. Colorful ribbons rain down over Enigma.
W-What the hell are you all doing?
None of this is what he'd expected.
It was supposed to be a brief meeting, but the moment he opened the door, control slipped away from him entirely.
It's a celebration, Mr. Enigma. For your birthday! And for your appointment as director, of course!
Today isn't my birthday.
Oh, that doesn't matter. You can celebrate it early.
The most important thing is today is a day worth celebrating!
Hiss, there's cake! Is that dairy cream, or something plant-based?
Hissabeth pulls another party popper. The sharp smell halts the snake's investigation.
Wait ...
Our readings have shown higher concentrations of cortisol and adrenaline in the air.
We've all been under pressure lately. You most of all, Adler. Your index is higher than anyone else's.
A celebration like this gives everyone a chance to relax, which, in turn, will make them all the more productive with the upcoming workload.
A "thoughtful" theoretical justification for the party, courtesy of Ulrich.
Well, this is a birthday party, isn't it? Make a wish, Enigma! What's that? You want me to make one on your behalf? Well, if you say so.
I wish, more than anything in the world, for my approval form to pass today! I need to sample the outer material of the toybox.
Denied! Your Picrasma consumption research already jumped the queue, and we need to maintain the structural integrity of the toybox.
Medicine Pocket rolls their eyes and drifts toward the toybox on the table anyway.
Hey. Step away from the bo—no ...
This party seems to have given these geniuses an excuse to run wild.
No one cares anymore what the meeting was supposed to be about.
Listen up!
He raises his voice, helpless.
And his brilliant colleagues finally spare him a moment of their attention.
As you all know, I will be serving as Laplace's director.
Mmhmm?
X gives an approving whistle.
No kidding! You don't say.
We were hardly surprised by the decision.
You'd already been doing the work for quite some time.
All this goes to prove that, even though you needed some time to adjust, Madam Lucy's judgment was correct.
...
Though he'd prepared a few words, he now finds himself thinking carefully about how a leader ought to express themselves.
I suppose I've well and truly picked up some useless habits.
And? Anything else you want to say, Director?
He looks around at his colleagues.
Objectively speaking, they are all gifted, yet in wildly different ways.
Subjectively speaking, they are a handful.
But they all share the same belief—
Science.
He abandons the speech.
In short, I will do my best.
Until we find someone better suited for the job.
Those who aren't taken by the "Storm"—where do they go when they die?
A question that remains to be answered.
A black and white grid of a crossword puzzle.
I don't believe in the existence of "gods." Nor in any heaven or hell.
*sigh* I wish you could give me your answer, Greta.
I wish I could ask you myself.
He rests his finger on the trigger.
"Bang."
...
The age of humans has come to an end.
But you can continue living.
A fine pistol. A birthday gift.
A "memento."
A beginning.
In "our" new age.