Meliora woke up.
The asynchronous sounds of the Factory filled her ears: the clanging of metal, the ragged breaths, the clanks of the Foremen, the cracks in her bones, the threshing hum of the belts, the far off screams of a worker disciplined, the creaks of a monolithic building that never sets because to set is to rest, and all other manner of noise that is normally imperceptible because it is lived with. The sweat and oil and iron shavings and blood (so very similar to the metal they worked with) filled her nostrils and floating dust stabbed at her corneas.
All these things were of course familiar to Meliora, she had lived in the Factory all fourteen long years of her young life, although she had never fallen asleep on the assembly line. Perhaps that is why all those sensations felt so fresh, Meliora thought absentmindedly.
She scratched at her face, trying to dispel the tingles that felt like ants' feet stomping across her cheek but were truly from compressed nerves. The Foreman must not have noticed her, she reasoned. If one had, she wouldn't have been given the opportunity to wake up on her own. The worker nearest to her, a man who clearly must have been mountainous in his prime, diverted his gaze back to whatever they were making that day when he noticed her looking at him. So he knew too, but didn't report her? Internally, she scoffed. His loss. I was taught better than that when I was a kid. Meliora's manager had always said that a good worker keeps their fellows accountable, so they should make sure to report any slacking so everyone can work as one big, productive team. Don't think you've earned anything from me, slacker. If you slip up, I won't hesitate.
Meliora looked down at her hands, which had both already set back to work automatically while her mind was adrift. She smiled, taking pleasure in the repetitive, meaningful task the Factory had created her for. Assembly lines for workers and workers for the assembly lines. It was the natural conclusion, really, and she relished the part she had to play in it all.
For hours, the young girl who was barely aware of the blood under her fingernails and the lice attempting to take hold of her shoddily shaved scalp worked and worked and worked. She worked through the man from before being electrocuted for falling behind. She worked through the double time speeds needed to meet a quota she had never heard of. She worked through the Foreman standing uncomfortably close behind her, one still-fleshy hand resting on her shoulder. But eventually, like all wonderful things, Meliora was forced to stop working in order to rest for a time.
As she laid her head down on her cot, and her hands restlessly twitched — fingers reaching for the next bolt to tighten — Meliora's mind began to wander. There was another sound. Just for a moment, after waking up, she would swear she heard it. It was unlike anything she had ever heard. Like if metal had decided to get up and become something else. It reminded her of this strange green thing that had poked its way through a crack in the concrete. Meliora —
Meliora. Meliora. Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora
Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora Meliora
Meliora?
The nameless child shot up in her bed. Why does she have a name? Wh en di d s h e ge t a na m e ?
Meliora woke up, her cheek slightly burning.
All thirteen of her kids surround her, sparks in their eyes, patiently waiting for the story to continue. Here, it is quiet. Quieter than anywhere else in the Factory.
Meliora shook her head and gently rubbed her eyes with her thumb and pointer. She lost track of where she was in the story. Meliora tried to recall what she had just been saying, but nothing came to mind. Today must've been a bigger toll than I thought, she silently lamented.
She looked again at the children, who now looked a little more confused. Not wanting to worry them, she quickly covered, "Hey, I just thought of an even better story than the one I was just telling. D'you want to hear it?" She even threw in a big, fake smile.
The kids nodded excitedly, almost in sync (although Meliora didn't notice), up and down like the pistons pumping an assembly line. She started to tell them a story about a massive, lost star-faring ship piloted by a strange species that had melted into a great mass, controlling the ship like a turtle's shell or exoskeleton. Every person used efficiently, every person playing their part.
Before she could finish, Salomé interrupted. She stood up, stretching both arms out and both legs wide. "Look what I drew, Meliora!"
Meliora suppressed a chuckle, then leaned in to get a closer look, trying to blink away the dark of the walls of the in-between space.
The light shifted, spotlighting the drawings. Meliora took a sharp breath.
Sacred glyphs.
It felt like time stopped. She stood in the center of the room. If Meliora jumped from her seat, she might be able to tackle Salomé before she can complete the incantation. No time to question where the other kids went.
Salomé smiled that same confident smile. "I can save us! You've done so much already. Let me take care of the rest."
Meliora tried to get to her, desperately tried to stop her, but the huddled mass of workers got in the way. She screamed for her to stop, but she didn't hear. Why didn't she hear? Gods, why didn't she hear?
Young Salomé began to scream too. Meliora watched her skin bubble, smelled the flesh cook from the inside out, her cute tufts of hair that were just starting to grow now singe and fall, scavenged glitter pen fall from her melting hand. Meliora sobbed, because she watched Salomé die agai-
Foreman #13512915181 woke up. Its faceplate was overheating, but it chose to ignore the sensation until it went away.
A 0.0000317% drop in productivity was detected, and thus it is the Foreman's job to fix it. Its senses are acutely attuned to the sounds of the workers. Every whisper, every sob, every curse, every breath constantly logged.
It scanned the scene ahead, simultaneously going through the logs to find who's missing. A worker 25 kilometers away contemplated killing themselves under their breath. Logged for Human Resources, but not what the Foreman was looking for. One worker two floors down was humming a meaningless song, but another Foreman was already on the way for discipline. Finally, its eyes locked in on a woman just a dozen meters away, collapsed on the floor, one arm still held in the air by the chain connecting her to the assembly line.
Foreman #13512915181 began to approach, feet clunking across the hard floor. It mentally filled out a form to request permission for disciplinary measures, describing the worker's appearance and infraction, the ID number of the Foreman, and how it wishes to enact judgement, and almost immediately received an approval.
Gingerly, the Foreman lifted the woman up by her chained arm. She hung there, nearly lifeless, eyelids fluttering and drool escaping her mouth. She looked exactly like the Foreman like the woman who just recently failed to mount an escape from the Factory. She clearly still needed to be broken in. The Foreman pulled its other arm back, fist tightly clenched, then slammed it into her stomach. The worker made a noise like a mix between a cough and a zipper, blood spattering across the Foreman's face. The Foreman dropped her to the floor, and she crumpled.
Assuming a wider stance, the Foreman's fist retracted into its arm, which was quickly replaced by a hard baton swinging out. The woman still curled up on the ground, softly whimpering, was not a woman re-inspired to keep working. The Foreman swung down and it swung down and it swung down and it swung down and it swung down and it swung down and it swung down and it swung down she swung down and she swung down and she swung down.
Then, the worker was up.
The Foreman trekked its way back to its position, but suddenly stumbled over something in the ground. She turned around to see what it was, but nothing was there — just hard concrete. It had felt… strange. Like a highly textured, organically-shaped pipe. She looked down at her feet to check for any damage, but realized that instead of the usual flesh and metal infused trunks there were instead nimble carapaces, with elongated hands at the end. The Foreman took her turn to collapse now, clawing at her face, tearing away the metal to make way for the mandibles that began to grow there. She couldn't sense a single story to re-shelve. The conveyor belts stretched into the darkness of the ceiling above then
Meliora woke up, the burning of a hundred brands line her body. She assumed this was the adrenaline rush, but is woefully wrong.
The very first child she helped escape runs away, disappearing into the darkness. Her heart pumped with new found purpose, confident she still had a part to play, the grip of the hammer she used to smash the child's chains still imprinted into her palm, alarm still blaring in her ears as Foremen ran past her in pursuit of the lost asset. Somehow, Meliora knew they would get away.
"Employee #17662! I thought we had finally reached an understanding," the Overseer's voice, dripping with false sincerity, slithered through the clamor. His gaunt face was still plastered with that crocodile smile. "Tut-tut, my dear. And to think! Doing all this right before your performance review."
Something in the back of Meliora's head said/says this is different.
The Overseer playfully placed his hands on his hips. "Usually, I'd be content with regular disciplinary action, but I'm in a pretty rotten mood today. I think I'd prefer to personally process the termination of your employment. Permanently."
He doesn't usually do this, run, Run, RUN!
Meliora tried to pull away, but the Overseer's arm shot out toward her, faster than a direct deposit. He clenched his hand hard over her wrist, then pulled hard back towards—
Then black. For a second, for just barely a second, Meliora's hand was reaching out towards a small seed, young sprout already growing from it, just her and the seed and wherever they were, then her hand crash-landed into the conveyor belt. The asynchronous sounds of the Factory filled her ears: the clanging of metal, the ragged breaths, the clanks of the Foremen, the cracks in her bones, the threshing hum of the belts, the far off screams of a worker disciplined, the creaks of a monolithic building that never sets because to set is to rest, and all other manner of noise that is normally imperceptible because it is lived with. The sweat and oil and iron shavings and blood (so very similar to the metal they worked with) filled her nostrils and floating dust stabbed at her corneas. It was another regular day of work.
Meliora realizes something is deeply wrong.
Alison breathes in and out. The steam of the chrysanthemum tea blankets her face, soothing her aches. She opens her eyes and thanks the gnome (garden variety, not fantasy) standing on a stool behind the tea cart.
She turns around and sets her eyes on the centerpiece of this atrium: its iridescent green leaves fluttering in the draft, stretched out as far as it can possibly support itself, standing tall on its raised platform watching over the cascade of tiered shelves below, a garden of bright yellow where-roots collected around the trunk. The Tree of Hope.
Over the years, after its location's rediscovery, paths to the Tree became more defined, and thus its location a lot more consistent. More and more wanderers began to spend their time around it, delighting in the new shelves that had been traveling with the Tree as its location shifted throughout the Library. It was popular enough for a small tea cart to be a profitable venture. Eventually, the information had reached its way back to Alison and her family. They had all scattered out across the multiverse, and while some did not want to return for fear of resurfacing old memories — others, like Alison, returned.
A cautious sip reveals the tea is still too hot. Alison sticks her tongue out, letting the cool air be a salve to the slightly burnt tip. Her lazy paces take her in a wide arc around the Tree, passing by some of the odd folks hanging around, but eventually she turns and makes her way towards the Tree. Alison loves to sit underneath it, letting the ants that live in and below the Tree crawl over lap.
Alison doesn't make it over to the base of the Tree, at least not as planned. Below her, a frantic movement catches her eye. Some time ago, the immediate surrounding floor tiles radiating out from the Tree had become translucent. Dark enough to not bother the ants, but any wanderer could while away the hours watching the little insects work through the extensive tunnel network. Now, however, the ants were scrambling through the tunnels, the usual delicate system of ants seemingly completely unraveling.
A slight panic jog over to the tree. The ants are acting the same here. Alison reaches out with a finger, and an ant clambers on. They stare at each other wordlessly.
A section of the conveyor belt abruptly disappears, dumping its payload to the ground. The strange whatchamacallit crashed to the ground, declaring its failure to follow its preordained path to the entire workforce. Meliora blinks, and the belt is completely fine. None of the workers seem to care. She wonders if the Factory is finally making her lose it, that would somewhat elucidate what's been happening, but she looks down to the floor again. Sure enough, the metal scraps are still on the floor.
The workers aren't paying attention, but that was typical for them. She knew, from a sound like that, a Foreman would be on the way. No matter what was happening, it was still Meliora's duty to protect them, even if they won't protect themselves. Dislocating her wrist was child's play at this point, the pain barely makes a peep when she slips out of the chain.
Meliora lunges for the scraps, planning to throw the broken pieces back onto the belt, but her hand falls through the ground and the rest of her follows and there is nothing beneath yet the dark grey of concrete and the bones of workers who died building the Factory.
Meliora stood high in the rafters, watching Karim barrel through the beasts of the Robber Barons, some seventy ragged people closely following behind. Salomé was slinging spells from the back of the group, taking down just as many as Karim. Meliora's breath hitched in her throat.
She could hardly believe her eyes. Gooseflesh rocketed its way up her arms and legs, her head began to pound. She looks down at her hands, and sees Salomé's glyphs (her glyphs?) decorating her arms. The light shining from within the glyphs made her vision dance with white specks. Could this be another chance?
That voice in the back of her head again. It tries to temper her excitement, transpose it with fear and caution and expectations. Meliora pushes through. She could change what happens. She could save them.
The sound of a hundred grasshoppers hitting the ground pulls Meliora's attention back to the fray. There would only be a few more moments before the Factory activated its anti-magic field. Meliora slams her hands over her eyes, trying to block out all other stimuli to rack her brain on spells she's seen Salomé pull off. She knows summoning a Way would take too long. The image of both Salomé's collapsing in front of her flash in her mind. She knows too well that it would fail.
The people are screaming, metal is shearing, Karim grunts, and Meliora feels the Factory begin to rumble. For an excruciating moment, she can't think of anything. But in the next, an incantation Salomé used in a training exercise so long ago.
Meliora balls her fists in front of her stomach. The glyphs' light shift from a blinding white to a warm gold. She can feel the potential energy building in her core, ready to explode out of her at any second, but she holds it. Her clothes flap around her, Karim looks at her confused but he'll understand once they're all safe.
Right before it feels like the energy is about to spill out on its own, Meliora flings her arms in the air. A massive half-circle of golden light grows behind her. With the effort she'd need to pry open a bear's jaw, she directs the light forward. The light barrels towards her friends and people they're trying to save, and as it passes over them they disappear. Salomé grins and jumps into the light, just before it winks out of existence. The rumbling of the Factory's new defense falls onto the confused ears of the still swarming Foremen.
On another floor of the Factory, that same light wipes over the area and suddenly they all are standing there, unharmed.
Meliora rushes to her companions, tackling them into a long wished for hug, eyes shut tight to try and fail to control her tears. She breathes in deeply and Karim's smell of new books and chocolate pudding and Salomé's of ozone and ink and all of that mixed with sweat and formic acid fills her senses. Nothing else matters right now.
Meliora opens her eyes.
There is nothing but blood.
Nothing but viscera.
Nothing but pulp.
There is only the smell of iron.
There is only the taste of Iron.
Meliora is covered in it. Flesh resembling an arm sloughs off of her shoulder. It soaks into her shoes, into her socks. A lone eyeball stares at Meliora from a pile on the ground. They were never alive to begin with. She knew this, and she still allowed herself to hope. Meliora s-
-teps over a large pipe. On instinct, she turns around to help any of her kids get over it, but most of them can handle it. She tries not to think about the scene she was just in, tries to wipe off the blood from her hands that isn't there anymore. She should've known that nothing was going to change when she had switched spots with Salomé. It was already an impossibility. But nothing here seems out of place. This is how it really happened. All they had to do was follow the ants for a little bit longer. Meliora turns to check on the kids again, get a head count to see if any have gotten waylaid.
Despite hearing the many patters of footsteps, as soon as she turns around there was naught but one figure behind her, smiling that crocodile smile.
"What did you do with them?"
The Overseer's mouth opens, his eyes roll, but a different, gentler voice resonates in Meliora's bones. "The Robber Barons are much too powerful to be destroyed." Karim's voice sounds like it's being filtered through a gramophone. "The philosophy of the Factory is the philosophy of PRODUCTS. Everything is the Factory."
Meliora steels herself. She didn't have her magic, but she can still fight. The Overseer didn't have any Foremen around to protect him this time.
She rushes forward. It would at least feel good to plant one good fist right in the jaw.
He points his hand forward limply, monotoning, "Put the lost ones out of their misery." All at once, what feels like hundreds of young hands grab her from behind, dragging her away from the Overseer. He waves as the darkness swallows him.
Meliora gasps as her back is slammed into the sharp treads of a conveyor belt. She can't move. As far as she can see are her kids, eyes dull, skin blemished, hair shaved, lined up along the belt arms raised in exultation to the god of the Factory. The ones closest plunge their hands inside her stomach, squelching through like she was made of gelatin. Meliora's pupils become pinpricks, her mouth held agape in a silent, primal scream. Through the blinding pain there is a strange pressure as her organs are grasped and moved, tiny uncut fingernails prodding at her liver and cutting her lungs.
There is slight relief when they pull their hands out, dripping bright red like pomegranate juice but it all comes back as new hands take their turns. Her eyes are locked on the faces of her kids, though she can't see them through the tears. She barely even notices one of them take out her heart and place it on the belt beside her. She whimpers like a dog like Karim. More now, more now, even more now they poke and they prod and now they replace, cold metal shocks her insides as more of her is replaced with the Factory. It seems to be endless she tries to fall unconscious but her new metal heart won't let her, she still has her part to play in this dream. The conveyor belt ends (she didn't know it could) and Bernado is there; he grabs her chin and leans in, eyes full of wonder, and asks, "Meliora, what are the stars?"
She jerks her head away from him and vomits vantablack on the ground, little nuts and bolts twinkling in the dark expanse. She's falling in the deep side of the pool and she's still taking lessons, she tries to REMEMBER, REMEMBER, REMEMBER. NOW LOOK FOR THE ANTS.
Alison is pacing the atrium, looking for the ants in their tunnels. A small crowd had formed, mainly comprised of patrons who had already been present, but more had been trickling in. Wanderers are terrible gossips. At least half also had bought tea from the gnome, who was placing an "Out of Stock" card on his cart with a pleased expression. She didn't have the bandwidth to decide if she should be upset about that right now. She was heartened to see some of her siblings arrive at least.
Around the Tree of Hope circled three experts Alison managed to get into contact with. The cosmically-colored manta ray floating through the high branches of the Tree is Dr. Norine Ray, expert in Library-based illnesses. The candle golem whose body looks like an upside down triangle wearing a bright red sash that seemed to hardly fit is Adakite the Wordsmith, expert in living stories. Finally, there's the many-legged creature wearing a bone mask carved to look like an ant and a stereotypical pointy wizard hat with stars. She didn't catch a name, just called itself Ant Wizard.
It's been long enough. Alison steps towards the Tree. Dr. Ray notices her first. She starts to flap toward Alison, but at the same time something pokes the back of her head. A paper airplane floats to the ground, its slightly crumpled tip evidence for the crime. She picks it up and unfolds the plane.
From the office of the Wanderers' Library chief medical officer: Dr. Norine Ray
I'm prepared to give the Tree of Hope a clean bill of health! I'm not seeing any evidence for root rot, conceptual degradation, or punctuation infection. Hope is a strong thing. As for the ants, I'm not sure. I am duty bound to help them best I can, but they seem uninterested in speaking to me at least. I think you were right to call us though. They are clearly reacting to some sort of stimuli, either physical or psychological. Hopefully the others have more to say.
Alison looks back up at the manta ray, which is watching her intently. She nods a thank you, and it seems like the doctor reciprocates? Hard to tell with her constant bobbing in the air.
Next came the wordsmith, wielding a fountain pen like a wand. His voice sounds like a mix between a British accent and a hot pit of gurgling mud. "I've never seen anything like this. Take a look." He flourishes the pen through the air once, twice, thrice and ink starts streaming out of the pen. It seems to catch on invisible lines in the air, flowing towards the tree and away from it. Alison doesn't understand what she's meant to see, but Dr. Ray (floating somewhere above her) makes a sound somewhat like surprise.
Adakite clears his throat. "This is one visualization of the biblioweave. It is an invisible force that connects all of the Library's collections, Librarians, and patrons." The golem twists something on the pen and parts of the ink shift to a purple hue in a gradient wave. "As I'm sure you know, the ants living on the Tree of Hope have been the accepted medium for the storage of the harbinger of hope," he stutters a moment before saying, "Your mother. B-but that's what's strange! Compared to much of the Library's collection this is a very new addition, but the way it presents in the weave would make one think it's much older. I'm seeing stops and starts, inversions, lost data, exaggerations, tale growth, re-ordering, and a dozen other strange marks in its signature. If I didn't know any better, I'd say I was looking at the weave of a millennium-old oral history passed down through generations." The ink fades away, the soft crackling of the lit wicks on Adakite's head filling the silence.
All three turn to Ant Wizard, who seems to have twisted its lower body into a shape resembling a pretzel trying to sit cross-legged, but is still meditating at the edge of the Tree.
A second paper airplane lodges itself in Adakite's shoulder, which he then read outloud.
From the office of the Wanderers' Library chief medical officer: Dr. Norine Ray
A.W. signed to me earlier that it was sensing most of the paths the ants were taking originated from the same source. I believe it's trying to commune with the ants in order to track that spot down. It also said it was experiencing a strange disconnect between itself and the ants. I have no idea what that could mean.
Adakite taps his chin while Alison tries to ignore his finger getting shorter with each tap as the wax is sucked into the rest of his body. "Quite the conundrum. Let's see what I can do for a temporary fix while we wait on A.W., eh?"
The wordsmith takes out a pen case and pops it open. Inside are a variety of tools, Alison could see some stamps, a card, and a space for his pen, but Adakite slipped out a collection of bookmarks with a purple sheen from a hidden pocket.
Tossed in the air like seeds to a flock of pigeons, the bookmarks flutter then pause midair. After a moment, they rush to the tree and tie themselves to branches all throughout the canopy.
Adakite turns back to Alison with a melty smile. "Those should help stabilize the narrative, at least for now."
Like a the channel of a CRT changed, Meliora's world shifts to a new set. Her hands fly to her stomach, but it feels untouched. The smells of parchment, wood, and wanderlust overload the senses.
"The Library…?" Meliora wipes the pain tears from her eyes, and sure enough there are shelves upon shelves as far as the eye can see. Her attention is drawn to movement, the flick of a lantern koi tail around a corner, a far-off shelf getting up a moving to another space, a statue scratching its nose.
A wave of relief washes over her. It's been so long since she's seen any color other than grey. Wonderful, beautiful, sometimes silly but genuine Library! She spins about, looking up to the Rafters.
She looks back down, and her smile fades. She's standing outside a doorway, and the unmistakable sound of a scritching pen emanated. She couldn't face Ali- L.S. again. Not like this.
Meliora takes a deep breath in. Maybe it's the new environment, but she feels her memories solidifying. Take this time to reassess. Find a game plan.
First, try to remember. It feels like she's already experienced in dozens of times, but what was the last sequential event she experienced? She remembers a shock of pain. Something that felt like the end. A seed hailed by the ants. The fall of something impossible to fall. Most importantly, she remembers the feeling of a prodigious power fill her. Then nothing.
She isn't sure how, but she can't think of any other explanation. Meliora is dead.
A hot panic rises in her chest, but she pushes it down. No time for that now.
If the Library's taught her one thing, it's that everything has rules, no matter how nonsensical. She just needs to eliminate the possibilities.
Anything drastic seems to trigger the shifts, so she had to be careful.
She pinches herself. The expected pain follows. She scans the scene again, and spots the name of a shelf. No scrambled letters. She lets out a relieved but disappointed sigh. Not a dream. It was good it wasn't a dream, she knows how dangerous they can be, but she at least knows how to handle one. On to the next possibility. She purses her lips. She doesn't know of any surefire ways to test for afterlives or divine punishment, but all those types usually like to show their hand as soon as you're there. There's been nothing like that yet, so she'll rule it out for now.
Meliora eyes a book on the nearest shelf to her. Really studies the binding, the font of the letters, the choice of title, the wood grain of the shelf it sits on, even the books beside it. She gingerly reaches for the book imagining how it would feel, what the pages would smell like.
Then her hand flashes down. Fast enough she hopes that the narrative can't catch up, with a pop and a squish her hand goes straight through a stool at the base of a shelf. Blue-black ink spills out, the structure of the stool collapsing in on itself. The shelf begins to melt into paper. The Meliora-that-was looks on in horror as her world collapses around her.
"Meliora?"
She whips her head around. Standing in the doorway is L.S. Half of her face is melting off but she still looks concerned for Meliora. She cringes. Always so concerned.
"Meliora, what did you do?"
The smell of cooking flesh the smell of cooking flesh the smell of cooking flesh masks all other senses. Meliora snarls as she presses the branding iron into his cheek, boot crushing his arm, black ink spurting through her teeth. The gaunt man writhing beneath her may once have been powerful, but he'll answer to her now.
The man slips out from under her. He runs, but there's no need to give chase. Where would he even go? Meliora's feet pound the ground, cheek freshly branded. The Overseer laughs behind her. She looks back but trips falling through a railing and air sheers past her face and in the impenetrable dark below the children's faces are barely visible staring with gratitude surely thinking how wonderful it is for Meliora to suffer in order for them to live. She hits the ground but she has no breath left to lose, before she knows what is happening "Property of the Factory" is already burning her face again she kicks out at the Foreman and it folds in half like papier-mâché and now the ants are marching across her skin always marching always marching a-
-assembly line again. She's panting, holding onto the poorly cut metal of the assembly line, desperately trying to hold reality together with pure muscle. So it's a story. No, it's not just a story — she's a story too. She had heard L.S. talk about living stories before, even helped Karim study when he was considering joining the Wordsmiths, but becoming a story yourself was never something considered vital information. She's on her own here. She's been alone for a long time. But now it was hard to think of anything around her as real. Hard to think of herself as real.
Meliora decides she has to complete the story. Clearly, something broke along the way, and she became sentient as a way to fix it. That has to be it. She just has to play her part perfectly.
A child is chained to the line. They would be the fiftieth, the last one before they mounted their escape. This is Meliora's best chance to save the story. Just follow the script.
A hubbub of activity has now formed around the Tree of Hope. Wanderers from across the Library have arrived, concerned for its well-being and the story it holds. Reporters for the Planasthai Press and the Wandsmen glared at each other from across the atrium, the two patrons who had rediscovered the location of the Tree, confused patrons who had been pulled along with the crowds, a handful of cults, representatives of pretty much every faction Alison had heard of, a god or two, and the gnome had just returned with a massive restock. Librarians mill on the outskirts watching for any disturbances to the Library itself. The area smells strongly of formic acid.
Alison stood off to the side, quietly discussing what she knew with her siblings.
Suddenly, the strange many-legged wizard, who hadn't moved since it began to meditate with the ants, screeches. It flings itself onto the tree, scuttling along the branches. The crowd surges forward, but more Wordsmiths block their approach. It launches itself through the branches, twisting and turning, leaves falling in its wake, until it falls out of the tree holding a pearlescent bubble.
It approaches Alison's posse, and hands her the bubble. Inside is the disturbing sight of an ant completely overcome by a fungus, still slightly twitching. Once it sees them look at the overcome ant, the wizard scrambles back up the tree.
Karim is the first to speak. "This must be what that wordsmith was telling us about, right? This is why mom's story is getting messed up."
Then Zainab, "If each ant carries a part of the story, isn't it permanently ruined now?" They begin to tear up. "I thought her story was safe for forever."
Then Cristina, "There has to be something we can do."
Alison held up a hand, and the others stopped. While they were waiting, Dr. Ray had mentioned something about ailments always having a cure, just needing to find one. And earlier, Adakite had mentioned oral histories. Alison has an idea.
"What if we tell the story again? Like we promised each other we'd do all those years ago? If the ants hear it again, hear the whole thing, maybe they'd remember?"
The others look at each other nervously, but eventually all eyes fall on Salomé. She was rescued before all of them, and they still looked to her for guidance despite her always rejecting anything like a leadership role.
Meekly, she nods. "It's worth a shot."
Alison whispers the plan to the nearest person, a red dwarf star wearing a fashionable pantsuit, and asks them to spread the plan to everyone in attendance.
The children of the harbinger step back under their tree.
|
The ants are leading the way. Meliora is constantly checking on the kids, but everything seems calm. Her eyes laser every inch of her surroundings. It's dark in the bowels of the Factory. Very dark. The Labyrinthian catwalks and pipes above her seem to extend for miles, using the dark to distort themselves into mocking faces. The ground beneath belies its true nature. Just a hop away is the railing same as any other in the Factory, one Meliora had watched workers fling themselves off when given a chance. Movement. Far above, completely silently, she spots the unmistakable form of a Foreman. She has to strain to stop herself from yelling, trying to climb and kill them to protect her children. She didn't see them originally. She has a stabbing pain in her sternum to remember that. She's not sure how she knows, maybe because she's done it hundreds of times already, maybe because the place you die is seared into your mind right before you die, but Meliora knows the next three steps are the last she'd take. Meliora hits her mark, and right on cue a bolt of malignant power strikes her in the sternum. She doesn't need to act for this part. As her organs rupture and blood boils, she falls to her knees. She hates this part, hates her kids watching, but that's how it has to happen. Grimacing, she turns towards the Overseer, but only meets dismay. At least two stories tall stands the Overseer, an impossibly wide grin stretching up his cheeks. He's flanked by double the Foremen than usual, all the same height as he. One arm is outstretched, his hand a mangled mess of flesh and steel - "Property of the Factory" engraved along his finger/muzzle. He begins his smarmy, smug speech, but it's deep and gargled. The page turns. Meliora sits at a table, disgusting slop the Factory serves for lunch sitting on a tray defiantly. She slams her fist into the table. What did she do wrong? Was it simply noticing their approach? Fuck, she was right there. Come on Meliora, keep playing the part. A door opens and in comes a young one, arm held loosely by a Foreman. She gasps. Little Balam, head shaved like the rest. None of the workers pay the entry any mind, too busy choking down their "food," but when the Foreman shoved the little one forward, Meliora was already up to catch Balam. She covertly points over to the wall, whispering about the secret passage and when to use it. Almost on auto-pilot, she confidently walks up to the single Foreman watching them and says… Oh no. Oh no no no. Nononononono. She doesn't remember. How could she not remember? She knows she convinced the Foreman to leave somehow, but nothing comes to mind. If she can't remember this, these consequential words that saved a life, can she even do this? The Foreman grabs her by the neck. On instinct she starts to fight back, bleeding fingernails scratching metal, but quickly goes limp. Everything is about to change anyways. The page flips. The page flips. The page flips. The page flips. The page flips. The page flips. The page flips. The assembly line holds Meliora up. Why? That is the question Meliora asks herself. Why is this happening. Why is she awake, forced to re-experience every part of her life, the parts that mattered? If she has no control anymore, why is she even here? What part is she meant to play? She looks up. Across from her stands the young Salomé, dutifully assembling product. She meets Meliora's eyes with unbridled curiosity. Meliora has a terrible, selfish, GREEN thought. She could just not do it. Nothing seems to work, many of the times she can't even pinpoint where she went wrong. She doesn’t understand what broke the sequence of events, if that’s even something she can fix from within the story. And it's not like that's her fault. Why can’t she take this flipping of the page for herself? It’ll try to right itself eventually. But she looks at little Salomé and the curious look in her eyes. She knows it's fake. She knows the thoughts she's thinking right now are fake. But it all feels real. Shouldn’t that be enough? Maybe she’s already ruined this attempt by not reaching for Salomé. It doesn’t matter. She knows in her heart, whether a seed is there or not, she’d save her kids over and over again. If this is her life now, she will carve out as many seconds of love for each and every one of them. |
Alison tries to calm herself with a breath in, and out. It doesn't work, but she pretends it does and presses on. "Some of you have heard about the Factory. Some of you may have even seen the inside of the building, even though it feels wrong to call it a building. It's more than that. No one would willingly go to that place lest they wish for death. No one except for my mother, Meliora, and her friends Karim and Salomé. They all were killed for it, but their hope let Meliora work within the Factory to free my family and ultimately destroy the Factory for a long time." "We want to tell you that story. But I want you to know what it means to us first. Imagine fifty children. Fifty children all in a line, following Meliora out of one of the worst places in the multiverse, a place we had singularly known. She would've protected us no matter what, and in the end she did." Alison voice shakes a little. Balam walks up next to her, miniature dragon curled 'round his neck, and holds her hand, patting the top of it with his other. "We had just found the spot she said the exit would be. We didn't see it at first, but we trusted her. That's when the Overseer appeared with his army of monsters. I couldn't even count them all. And the Overseer, he stood so far above us. It was like the Factory had become him, like if he wanted he could stomp our stars out with one step." Tears silently stream from her eyes. "He reached out his hand and mom died. I was so afraid." Alison suddenly becomes very aware of all the eyes on her. She wasn't prepared for this sort of pressure. She presses her head against Balam, and whispers, "Can you take over?" He nods. Something about the way she described that reminded him: Alison is the shortest out of all of them. Maybe that's why she remembers it that way. But that doesn't matter. Balam says, "We should really start at the beginning though. When she rescued me, I was made perfect by the Factory's standards. Young, blank in the head, and ready to work. But by Meliora's, she knew I could be so much more. A Foreman brought me up from the nurseries, but we arrived during the lunch break. I've blocked out a lot before I was rescued, but I remember her rushing from her seat to embrace me. I had never experienced that before. Then she told me to stand next to the wall, and when the Foreman left I could move a panel to the side and slip away." Balam smiles at the memory, and some of the crowd responds with sad smiles as well. "She went over to the Foreman and said… well. She said. The Foreman walked away because of something she said, I was able to get away and live a life and find my true self because of those words, but…" Balam scrunches his face. It shouldn't matter. The story could continue fine without it, he doubts even the ants found it important enough to retell, but the fact that he'll never know those words, those consequential words that his whole life hinged on; it cracks his confidence. This wasn't even the beginning of the story, just the beginning of his. More and more people with intent to tell the story rise up. First more of Meliora's children, who are mired by hurt souls and young minds. Then scholars of the Library, who had written down the testimonies of the children when they first emerged from the Tree, but they cared more about the differences in details than even the children. Shelf Guardians recount what they saw the day the Tree sprung from the tiles, even the young patrons who rediscovered the area try their hand at recounting what they were told by the strange Mortis, but memory is a fickle thing. And despite the now sizable pile of quarantined ants behind them, the rest are still clearly plagued by panic. Finally, they turn to Salomé. Anyone can see she's been crying too, and new grey hairs seem to have sprung up over the last couple hours. She was the first. If anyone could tell the story, the whole story, it would be her. She's scared, anyone would be, but she knows how important this is. Alison takes her hand — she's always liked how they never gave up holding hands, they did it so much in the Factory — and they stand in front of everyone again. The expectations are palpable. Salomé opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. Her mother's face appears in Salomé's vision. She could trace every wrinkle and scar across Meliora's face, the spots where her nose had been broken many times over her life, the permanently split lips. But her thoughts still feel impenetrable. The look in her eyes when she first saw Salomé. At the time, it didn’t strike her as odd — everyone in the Factory looked that way, but now that she’s had the opportunity to experience so much more life, Meliora’s look was different. It disturbed her. Salomé knew she had been named after someone from Meliora’s past, even heard the name spoken in a slightly different way while Meliora was sleeping, either through whimpers or screams, but she never told anyone the specifics. She will never know why she was named this way. She’s met others who knew the first Salomé, but no one was closer to her than her mother. For your whole being to be based on a sacrifice you don't even understand. How could Salomé begin to speak? |
"I'm sorry, it's impossible." Salomé hangs her head in shame. Alison quietly sniffles. The electric air in the room deflates.
Before she walks away from the crowd, a hooded figure in a dark green cloak from the back stands. They dance through the throng, taking the stairs two at a time, and stop right in front of the two young women. They lean down, whispering something to the two. They nod, and step back.
The cloaked figure doffs the hood, revealing the face of Alison Chao - Little Sister. This prompts a din of murmurs in the crowd which quiet down when she raises her hand. Even the ants seems to stop to listen. Her face is carefully composed, but her eyes betray a deep sadness.
When she speaks, her voice does not betray her. It knows better than to cross the Black Queen. "I knew Meliora once. I considered her a close friend. The last time we spoke, before Karim, Salomé, and herself traveled to confront the Robber Barons, it was not a kind conversation. For years I have been unable to bring myself to visit the Tree because of the things she said, but once I heard about all this I knew it was time I face my past."
"If there's anything I've learned from living in the Library, it's that stories like this are not meant to be accurate. These tales are told by those who live in order to summon and express feelings about those who have passed on. Last I checked, these ants are not impartial arbiters of universal truths. They are their own beings, with their own perspectives on how the Tree of Hope was made." She shrugs, and continues, "If you want to accept that as the most accurate telling, I won't stop you, but stories are also bound to change over time. The fungus that ravaged the colony was a natural part of life, and our intervention that stopped the fungus because we care dearly for the ants was natural too."
Alison Chao sits on the edge of the stairs. "My point being, if one cannot ever truly, accurately retell a story and if that story is going to change over time as a natural part of being a story, what can we do? Meliora always believed she had a part to play, but I don't think she realized how many parts she played in so many lives, especially mine. I know she was so much more than the person she was in the Factory. Let’s give the Meliora-that-was a chance to be something else."
A new vigor entered the congregation. For the rest of the day, wanderer after wanderer came to the fore to tell stories of Meliora and her friends Karim and Salomé. Some are sad, some are joyous, many in between. L.S. started first, telling everyone of the day she first met Meliora. She was, of course, smuggling a child act out of Herman Fuller's Circus of the Disquieting. Aisha, another of Meliora's children, talks about their favorite of the stories Meliora would recount: a tale of righteous revenge, interjecting with all the quirks and special things she added to the story to make it not so scary for the younger ones, and Meliora telling the older kids the full story once the others drifted off to sleep. A Hand member in a wheelchair told how the three helped extract them when they were seriously injured by the Jailors in a raid gone wrong. Even a flower-headed Archivist recounted a humorous story of the day Meliora finally got her Library card, stretching its root-hands to make somewhat disturbing visual aides.
Finally, the ants calm, and resume their endless march.
Meliora stands in front of the largest tree she has ever seen. Its branches are as wide as some of the largest redwoods. She'd probably be able to use a leaf as a decent blanket. Around it are the ruins of the Barons, robbed of their precious Factory. She notices one branch has even caught one of the smokestacks.
Dozens of lines of ants all march towards a blinding white portal at the base of the tree. Meliora follows.
Just Meliora's children remain at the Tree now. They've tried saying their goodbyes three times already, but none of them want to leave each others' sides.
The rumble below their feet starts small, but quickly it turns to a fortissimo as the ants pour out of their tunnels. They climb over each other, swarming into a taller and taller shape. Alison and the others cautiously step forward as the ants form legs, then a chest, then arms, then a face, then clothes, then two golden ants for eyes.
Karim is the first to dare to believe it. "Mom? Is that you?"
"K-kids? What… how is this possible?" Her voice sounds like ants mimicking the vibrations of vocal cords, but it's unmistakably hers. Through the power of the Library's stories, the Meliora-that-was can briefly embody the Meliora-that-will-live-on.
Everyone runs over, barely taking turns to hug her. Meliora looks around in disbelief. "I can feel this form already weakening, I don't think we have much time. Oh my god, look how mature you all are. I'm so proud. Make sure to tell that to everyone who isn't here too, I'm so so proud."
Meliora brushes her finger against Alison's cheek. "Everyone calls you the harbinger of hope, mom. Isn't that weird?" The others laugh in that way where one can tell they're on the brink of tears.
She arches one ant eyebrow. "Well, I don't mind the sound of that. But I'll always be your mother first, remember that."
Ants start spilling off of the shaky form. Meliora feels the biblioweave pulling her back. She takes one good long look at the faces of each kid-now-grown, committing each to memory.
"Keep blooming for me."