palephilosopherautomaton

[palephilosopherautomaton]

Chapter 8 — The Interrogation

They came for her at 7:00 a.m., just as the first light broke over the desert. Two guards, clean-shaven, unreadable, knocked once and entered before she answered. They didn’t cuff her, didn’t speak. They simply escorted her in silence through the sterile corridors.

Evelyn didn’t ask where they were taking her.

She already knew.

Dr. Voss’s office was colder than the rest of the facility, the air filtered to artificial perfection. His desk gleamed with surgical precision — no papers, no clutter, just a single glass of water and a file folder with her name printed across the tab.

He looked up as she entered. Marlow Briggs stood near the far wall, arms folded, his suit too crisp for the setting.

“Miss Carroway,” Voss said smoothly, “please, have a seat.”

She didn’t move.

Briggs gestured to the chair. “Indulge us.”

She sat, back straight, hands folded in her lap.

Voss opened the file.

“I’m disappointed,” he said, almost sincerely. “You accessed a restricted media archive. You damaged federal equipment. You’ve conducted unauthorized psychological inquiries on classified subjects. And you’ve stolen internal documentation.”

“Would you like the rest of the list?” Evelyn said. “Because it’s longer than that.”

Briggs smiled faintly. “Confidence. That’s good. It’s often the last defense.”

He placed a second file beside the first. This one was thicker. Worn at the corners.

“This,” he said, tapping it, “is yours.”

She glanced at the label: CARROWAY, E. — PSYCH PROFILE.

Inside: surveillance transcripts. Notes she had written. Playback logs. Her private annotations on Leonard’s journal — circled, timestamped.

“You’ve been watching me since I got here,” she said.

“Of course,” Voss replied. “We watch everyone. Especially when contamination becomes likely.”

“Contamination?” she repeated.

“Pattern exposure,” Briggs said. “Cognitive destabilization through symbolic resonance. It’s rare. But not unheard of. Your brother exhibited advanced symptoms.”

Voss steepled his fingers. “Auditory hallucinations. Visual distortions. Dissociative thought loops. Belief in external agency.”

“You mean the thing in the room,” Evelyn said. “The thing you built the machine to contact.”

Neither man flinched.

Briggs walked behind her now, slowly, like a lawyer circling a witness.

“You’ve been having the same symptoms, haven’t you?” he asked.

“I’ve been having the truth,” Evelyn said. “And it’s louder than both of you.”

Voss leaned forward slightly. “We’re giving you an option. We can begin treatment. Observation. Nothing invasive, at first. Just rest. Monitoring.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then we place you under protective hold. Non-voluntary.”

Evelyn stared at them both.

“You need me now,” she said. “Because Leonard wasn’t just a subject. He was a firewall. And now he’s gone.”

Voss’s expression didn’t change.

Briggs’s smile slipped just a little.

“You don’t even know what’s coming,” she added quietly. “But he did.”

Silence filled the room like smoke.

Then Voss nodded to the guards.

“You’ll be returned to quarters. For now.”

Thorne waited in the observation lounge outside the office. He watched as Evelyn was led away without resisting, her face unreadable.

He stepped in as the door clicked shut.

“You’re pushing her,” he said.

“She’s unraveling,” Voss replied, rising to pour himself water. “The contagion spreads quickly in certain cognitive types.”

“You always said it couldn’t spread.”

Voss sipped. “I was wrong.”

Thorne’s voice lowered. “Leonard. Is he alive?”

Voss stared into his glass.

“He’s beyond life in the biological sense. But yes. He’s still… aware.”

“Where?”

“Integrated. Into the interface field.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Voss finally looked at him.

“He sees what we can’t. What we weren’t meant to see.”

Thorne turned to leave. “Then maybe we were never meant to build that machine.”

Voss said nothing.

Back in her room, Evelyn sat beneath the humming light and spread her notes across the bed.

Symbols. Dates. Sketches. The journals. Her memory of Leonard’s voice. The pulses. The cold.

She connected the threads again and again, looking for something she missed.

But it wasn’t new information she needed.

It was him.

Not a recording. Not a warning.

Leonard himself.

Whatever he had become.

Wherever they were hiding him.

She stared at the center of her map — Leonard’s name in a black circle.

And underlined the phrase she’d heard in the tape:

“I’m not alone.”

[palephilosopherautomaton]

Chapter 7 — The Broken Tape

The surveillance room smelled of dust and heat — a forgotten nerve center tucked behind Ashfield’s power array. Rows of old monitors buzzed softly, most dark, some flickering in monochrome silence. A single technician nodded absently as Thorne waved him away with authority.

“This console isn’t linked to the central network anymore,” Thorne said. “They think it’s obsolete.”

He flipped a switch. A dull green glow came to life across the bank of screens.

Evelyn stood beside him, her arms folded tightly across her chest. “We’re looking for the Tuning Room. Leonard’s last sessions.”

Thorne keyed in a date — May 3rd — then cross-referenced it with the equipment logs.

One monitor sparked to life.

There he was.

Leonard sat in the middle of the Tuning Room, surrounded by machines that no longer made sense — strange coils, rotating prisms, a low-frequency pulse mapped across an oscilloscope. He looked exhausted. Pale. Wired with sensors. A tech stood just outside the frame, adjusting dials.

Then something strange.

Leonard turned his head. Toward the far corner of the room. There was no one there.

But he spoke anyway.

“Did you see it?” he asked. His voice was barely audible.

Thorne increased the volume.

There was a long pause.

Then — something responded.

Not words. Not a voice exactly. But a response — faint, unnatural, not from the microphones. A layered static, pulsing in rhythm. Almost like breathing, but mechanical. Intentional.

Evelyn stepped closer to the screen.

“Play it again,” she said.

Thorne rewound.

This time she saw it: a slight distortion in the corner Leonard spoke to. A blur. A shimmer, like heat on metal.

“He wasn’t hallucinating,” she whispered. “It was real. The machine brought it in.”

Thorne stared silently at the screen.

He didn’t argue.

Late that night, Evelyn crept through the maintenance corridor toward the A/V cabinet. The badge Thorne gave her buzzed weakly at the lock — three seconds of hesitation before the light turned green.

The cabinet room was cramped, lined with unmarked boxes and dusty playback devices. In the back, behind a rack of outdated intercom reels, she found it.

A reel labeled in faded black ink: L.C. Session — Raw Master

Her fingers ran across the surface. But when she lifted it, she saw the damage — the reel had been sliced. A jagged break cleaved the magnetic tape like a surgical wound.

She cursed under her breath.

Still, she took it.

Back in the Data Wing, Evelyn sat beneath a flickering desk lamp with splicing tape and magnifying glass in hand.

She worked for nearly an hour, piecing the reel together, aligning the threads. The sound would be messy, distorted. But maybe it would be enough.

She fed the reel into the playback machine.

Crackling static.

Then Leonard’s voice.

“Testing resonance modulation set D… no subject present… solo trial. If anything happens, log this: Voss is lying.”

The tape stuttered.

“They think I’m weakening. I’m not. I’m listening.”

A pause. Then, so softly she almost missed it:

“Eve… if you’re hearing this…”

Evelyn sat upright.

“…I’m already gone. But I’m not alone.”

The tape whined. A high-pitched shriek slipped through the speakers.

Then it came.

Not a word. Not a language.

A second voice layered beneath his.

It wasn’t human. It thought. Its cadence wasn’t emotional — it was analytical. Probing. A presence buried under white noise and pain.

Her chest tightened. Her hands trembled.

The lights above her flared white.

Then the machine popped, sparking from the reel head.

Evelyn staggered backward as smoke rose from the console.

Her ears rang. Blood from her nose hit the floor in small red drops.

The door burst open.

Thorne rushed in, grabbing her by the shoulders.

“What the hell happened?!”

She didn’t answer immediately.

She looked at him, eyes wide, voice low.

“He didn’t run. He was trying to stop it.”

Thorne didn’t speak.

But in his eyes, she saw it: recognition.

And fear.

Leonard wasn’t a victim.

He was a barricade.

And the barricade was broken.

[palephilosopherautomaton]

Chapter 6 — The Apparition

The sound woke her.

A soft mechanical stutter — like a rotary dial trying to turn through molasses. Then a pause. Then again:

Tap…tap-tap…tap…tap-tap.

Evelyn sat up in bed, pulse rising. The light over her desk flickered. Her breath misted in the air — the room had gone cold, unnaturally so, as though something had exhaled into it from far away.

The sound continued, weaving through the silence like thread.

She rose slowly, eyes fixed on the far corner of the room.

There was something there.

Not a shadow. Not light. Something in between. A shape — faint, flickering like static, as if not fully formed. No face. No motion.

Just watching.

Her hand fumbled for the flashlight beside her bed. The beam cut across the room in a jittering arc.

The corner was empty.

No sound. No cold. Just the soft whine of the fluorescent light.

But Evelyn didn’t sleep the rest of the night.

She found Thorne in the comms room the next morning, overseeing a technician adjusting a bank of static-filled monitors. She pulled him aside without a word.

“I saw it,” she said.

He didn’t ask what.

“Corner of my room. Cold. Flickering. Same sound from the tape.”

“You dreamt it.”

“I wasn’t asleep.”

Thorne’s jaw tightened. Then he nodded once.

“Come with me.”

The room was buried in the far west wing of Ashfield, behind two sealed bulkheads and a door labeled only: RESTRICTED: VIBRATORY TESTING – LEVEL 4.

Inside, Evelyn was met with strange geometry.

A circular chamber lined with dampening foam. Four angular machines sat like shrines in the corners — wire coils, tuning forks the size of oil drums, triangular antenna arrays pointing inward like a trap designed for gods.

“This is where it started,” Thorne said. “The ‘lucid interface’ trials.”

“What does that mean?”

“Making dreams visible. Translatable. They used white noise, frequency pulses, isolation tanks. Early subjects saw nothing. But Subject 6…”

He paused.

“...responded to signals before we played them. Like he was hearing something else entirely.”

“And Leonard?”

“He volunteered to test the feedback machine. Said he wanted to understand the pattern.”

Thorne stepped toward one of the machines and tapped a worn switch. It flickered to life, a soft hum rising into the air.

Evelyn flinched — she heard it immediately. That same pulse.

Tap…tap-tap…

Her chest tightened.

“He said the signal wasn’t just data,” she whispered. “He said it was a door.”

Thorne looked at her. “That’s why they shut this wing down.”

They found the journals in a sealed locker in one of the sub-basement storage rooms. The drawer was lined with lead sheeting, like someone was trying to keep whatever was inside in — or whatever was out from getting close.

The notebooks were standard-issue, leather-bound, government-stamped. But the contents were not.

The early entries were clean, technical — Leonard’s usual style.

Subject 3 showed increased REM density under compound C. Light distortion reported during tank immersion.

Then, slowly, the tone changed.

Dreams echo across days. A hallway I haven’t seen yet. A door without a handle.

Then, sketches.

Dozens of them.

A figure, always just outside the frame. Sometimes tall, sometimes wide. Never fully shaped. As if Leonard couldn’t draw it without losing its meaning.

On the margins of several pages, the same phrase repeated:

“It watches through the wire.”

Evelyn’s fingers moved over the ink as if it might still be warm.

In the final journal, his handwriting had begun to shift — jittery, cramped, paranoid.

It doesn’t come from the signals. The signals are its doorway.

That afternoon, Evelyn sat in the cafeteria staring at her tray of untouched food. The clatter of cutlery and murmurs of conversation faded behind the sound in her ears — low and rhythmic.

Tap…tap-tap…

She blinked.

Across from her, where no one had been seated a second ago, sat it.

No face. No eyes. But she felt them. Every part of her felt them.

It tilted its head as if examining her.

The buzz in her skull sharpened.

Then—

A metal tray crashed to the floor nearby. Someone swore.

The moment shattered.

She was alone.

Sweat poured down her spine. Her pulse roared in her ears. She rose, unsteady, and stumbled toward the hall.

It was in her now. The pattern. The door.

And something — whatever had taken Leonard, whatever had reached through the signal to Subject 6 — was looking back through her.

[palephilosopherautomaton]

Chapter 5 — The Test Subjects

Thorne was waiting by the outer barracks fence at dawn, arms crossed, the rising sun casting long shadows across the dust-caked gravel. Evelyn approached in silence, a bundle of nerves tucked behind a mask of control.

“I read the file,” she said.

“I figured.”

“He’s here.”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m going down there.”

Thorne looked past her, scanning the yard for eavesdroppers. “If you go down, there’s no walking away clean. Not for either of us.”

“I’m already in it.”

He exhaled. Reached into his jacket. Produced a temporary security badge. It was worn and laminated, like it had changed hands too many times.

“Two hours. After that, it flags in the system.”

She took it.

“Elevator in Building C,” he added. “Far corner, behind the machine shop. It’s not on the standard maps.”

They rode the freight elevator in silence, the industrial hum rising around them like a chorus of warnings.

Evelyn gripped the handrail as the walls blurred past. The floor numbers didn’t descend normally — they flickered: 3…2…B1…B2…then blank, then a cold clang as they passed into darkness.

By the time they stopped, the air felt thicker. Older. Tainted by things that didn’t belong in light.

Sublevel 6 wasn’t dead — but it had been abandoned by anything that made noise.

The corridor lights flickered irregularly. Water dripped somewhere. The walls bore stains — age, perhaps. Perhaps not.

They moved through a security checkpoint unmanned but still operational. Thorne swiped the badge. A green light flashed. The doors opened with a sound like a breath being drawn.

“This way,” he said quietly.

The corridor opened into what looked like a medical observation wing — but stripped of its sterilized pretense.

Six small glass-windowed rooms lined one wall. Inside each: a person. A patient. A subject.

Room 1 — a woman no older than thirty, bald, rocking slowly in her chair, tapping her finger against her knee in steady rhythm. Evelyn recognized it.

Morse code.

Room 2 — a man lying on the floor, face turned to the wall, whispering something under his breath.

She leaned closer.

“Carroway… Carroway… Carroway…”

Leonard’s name.

Evelyn’s breath caught in her throat.

Thorne spoke behind her. “Most of them were civilian volunteers. Students, ex-military, even a few scientists. The incentives were generous. Most never made it past Phase Two.”

“What’s Phase Two?”

He didn’t answer.

Room 4 — a child’s drawing taped to the wall, dozens of eyes scrawled across it, each staring in a different direction.

The final room stood apart from the rest.

Metal shielding had been added to the glass. Red warning tape sealed the doorframe. In block letters:

SUBJECT 6 – DO NOT ENGAGE.

“This one caused the shutdown,” Thorne said. “Not officially, of course. But no new recruits have been brought in since.”

“Let me talk to him.”

“Absolutely not.”

Evelyn turned to face him. “He knows Leonard. I heard it in the recording.”

“He’s unpredictable.”

“So am I.”

Thorne swore under his breath, then keyed in the override code.

“You get two minutes.”

The room was dim. No furniture. Just a padded floor, a single light above. Subject 6 sat cross-legged in the far corner, hands folded neatly in his lap.

He looked up as they entered. His eyes locked on Evelyn instantly.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said. His voice was clear, lucid. Too lucid.

“Do you know Leonard Carroway?” she asked.

He tilted his head.

“I know what he heard. I know what he let in.”

Evelyn stepped closer. “He sent a message. A tape. He said it wasn’t just in his head anymore.”

The man smiled faintly.

“It never is.”

He rose, slowly. Thin. Bones like scaffolding beneath his skin. But every movement deliberate.

“He said there was a pattern.”

“There’s always a pattern,” Subject 6 said. “And now it has your voice too.”

Evelyn’s throat tightened.

“You said Leonard let something in. What is it?”

He stepped close to the glass, eyes burning with strange clarity.

“He opened the wrong door.”

The lights flickered.

Then pulsed.

And suddenly, alarms shrieked across the corridor.

Red lights spun overhead. A siren burst into the air like something screaming.

“Security breach,” Thorne hissed, grabbing Evelyn’s arm. “We have to go.”

She turned back toward the glass — Subject 6 stood perfectly still, grinning.

Just before the chamber door locked, he whispered:

“You’re next. The pattern found you too.”

They emerged into the upper compound to find armed guards scrambling past, radios crackling.

Evelyn said nothing.

But she could feel it — something had shifted again. The walls no longer felt solid. The lights too bright. The hum behind the walls louder now, more alive.

The deeper she dug, the less Ashfield felt like a facility.

And more like a trap.

[palephilosopherautomaton]

Chapter 4 — The Unwilling Ally

The flashlight beam cut again across the Data Wing’s archive room, stopping just shy of Evelyn’s coat. She held her breath, tucked between two rows of metal drawers, the tape reel clutched tightly beneath her arm.

Footsteps shifted. Then silence.

A voice muttered something into a radio — garbled through static.

Evelyn waited. One minute. Two.

A door creaked open, then shut.

She moved.

Quick, silent steps across the cold floor. Out a side access door she’d memorized earlier. Down the emergency stairwell, into darkness. No cameras here — Thorne had said so.

Back in her quarters, she slid the bolt across the door, turned on the desk lamp, and sat. Only then did she exhale.

She took out the reel and threaded it through the portable recorder again. As Leonard’s voice emerged, she scribbled notes onto a blank notepad — every phrase, every pause.

But this time, she caught something new. Faint. Beneath his words.

A sound. Repeating.

Tap…tap-tap…tap…tap-tap.

Not quite rhythm. Not quite random. Like code. Like something trying to speak.

She rewound the section and played it again. Slower.

There it was — behind Leonard’s voice, behind the fear.

She closed her eyes and listened, and for the first time, she understood what he meant.

The machine wouldn’t shut off.

The next morning, Evelyn entered the mess hall late and found the air thicker than usual. Soldiers kept their voices low. Staff moved faster, stiffer.

Something had shifted.

She spotted the reason near the coffee station: a man in a navy-blue suit, not uniformed, not civilian. Hair slicked back, shoes too polished for desert terrain. A silk pocket square. A newspaper folded neatly under his arm.

Marlow Briggs.

He spotted her before she turned away.

“Miss Carroway.” He smiled like a man greeting an old friend. “Might I join you?”

She said nothing. But didn’t stop him.

He sat down across from her, placing the paper between them like a centerpiece.

“You must be finding things… a touch dull here,” he said pleasantly.

“I’ve had worse,” Evelyn said.

“I’ve read some of your work. Thorough. Tenacious. A little loud for my taste, but… admirable.”

She looked him over. “What are you?”

He chuckled. “Just a man trying to keep the trains running on time.”

“No ID badge. No rank insignia.”

“I’m not here to carry a rifle. I’m here to observe. And to smooth out the bumps.”

Evelyn said nothing.

Briggs leaned in slightly, lowering his voice.

“You’re not the first family member to come knocking. Most accept the standard answers. You, on the other hand… You’ve made quite the impression.”

“I’m not here to impress anyone.”

“No,” he said, studying her. “You’re here to expose someone. That’s what you do, isn’t it? Dig and peel and print?”

He tapped a finger lightly on the table.

“Here’s a thought, Miss Carroway. Suppose you left. Tonight. No fanfare. I have a contact in Santa Fe. A train ticket, first class. You’d be out of New Mexico by dawn.”

Evelyn raised an eyebrow. “And why would I do that?”

He smiled wider. “Because sometimes, the story isn’t worth the ending.”

She leaned closer. “Is that a threat?”

“No,” he said softly. “It’s a kindness. Rare one, these days.”

Then he stood, collected his paper, and walked away.

Evelyn found Thorne behind the motor pool building, shirt sleeves rolled up, elbow-deep in the engine of a disabled jeep. Sweat streaked his temples. A wrench clanged into the dirt as he looked up.

“Busy morning?” she asked.

“Depends on who’s asking.”

She pulled the tape reel from her coat and held it up.

He froze.

“Where’d you get that?”

“I went looking. Like Leonard said to.”

She stepped closer. “He knew something was wrong. He said something was leaking through — not dreams. Not hallucinations. Something real.”

Thorne looked away. “You shouldn’t have heard that.”

“But I did. And now I can’t un-hear it.”

He wiped his hands on a rag. “Leonard started saying things no one could explain. Talking about resonance, harmonic disruption, feedback loops in consciousness.”

“Did the project start with drugs?”

“Drugs. Sleep deprivation. Isolation chambers. Then came Subject 6.”

“What happened to them?”

Thorne hesitated. “We lost track of which thoughts were theirs. Or ours. They started… mimicking things. Information they’d never been given. Leonard called it ‘transference without proximity.’”

“That’s not science,” Evelyn said. “That’s something else.”

“It’s classified,” Thorne said sharply. Then softer: “And we’re in over our heads.”

That night, Evelyn found something slipped under her door.

A manila envelope. No name.

Inside: a single file marked PROJECT HORIZON — Level 5 Access.

Most of the pages were blacked out, but one stood out:

Carroway, Leonard — Subject 0 — Status: Contained. Location: Sublevel 6.

Attached: a grainy photo of a secure chamber deep beneath Ashfield.

And a note, handwritten in blue ink:

You want answers. You’ll need clearance. And I’m not the only one watching you.

No signature. But Evelyn knew the handwriting.

Thorne.

She stared at the words for a long time, her pulse a steady drumbeat in her ears.

Leonard wasn’t gone.

He was here.

Beneath her feet.

Still alive.

[palephilosopherautomaton]

Chapter 3 — The Missing File

The cafeteria at Ashfield Station was as joyless as the rest of the facility — long metal tables, precisely spaced trays, colorless walls that might once have been beige or gray but now looked like fatigue. Even the food was monochrome: gray meat, beige bread, a spoonful of something green pretending to be a vegetable.

Evelyn sat alone at the end of one table, barely touching her food, eyes flicking toward the far side of the room where Major Thorne ate with slow deliberation. He hadn’t looked at her since entering.

She waited until he stood, his tray empty, and walked toward the back corridor.

Then she rose and followed.

She caught up to him just as he turned a corner.

“I need five minutes,” she said lowly.

He didn’t stop. “Keep walking.”

She followed beside him, matching his pace. “You said Leonard stopped trusting this place.”

“I said he changed,” Thorne replied, keeping his eyes forward.

“What does that mean?”

He exhaled through his nose, a sound more frustration than sigh. “It means he started asking questions he shouldn’t have. Then one day he signed a transfer order. Voluntary reassignment.”

“You believe that?”

“I believe nothing here is voluntary.”

They turned another corner into an empty stretch of corridor. He stopped by a door and held it open for her — a storage room, unmonitored.

She stepped in. He followed, closing the door softly.

“He told me he was recording everything,” she said.

Thorne nodded once. “He kept a separate audio log. They found it. Reclassified the whole set.”

“Where is it?”

“You won’t get access.”

“I don’t need permission,” Evelyn said. “I just need to know where to look.”

He hesitated. Then said, “Data Wing. Sublevel Two. They store all analog archives on magnetic. Cassette and reel.”

She took a breath. “Do you know the clearance code?”

He gave her a look. “You’re not hearing me.”

“I am,” she said. “You’re just not used to people listening.”

A moment passed. Something softened — not sympathy exactly, but concession. He handed her a folded slip of paper. “This won’t last long. Security rotates weekly.”

She tucked it into her coat. “What was he like? Right before he disappeared.”

Thorne looked at the floor. “Tired. Like something was taking more from him than sleep could give back.”

Then he opened the door and walked away.

That afternoon, Evelyn returned to the archives. She stood at the desk, watching the technician leaf through redacted folders like they were grocery receipts.

“I want to see everything,” she said.

“You were given full civilian clearance,” the man replied without looking up.

“I think a file was removed.”

“That’s not possible.”

“I found a file code: ‘11B-Audio.’ It’s not in the folder.”

He paused, then tapped at a terminal.

His brow twitched.

“It was reclassified.”

“When?”

“May fifth. Level Four clearance. Above mine.”

“Who has Level Four?”

The technician glanced up at her now, the blank mask of protocol slipping just slightly.

“Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Evelyn spent the evening shadowing a cleaning crew assigned to the Data Wing. She noted which doors required what clearance, where the camera blind spots were, and when the guards rotated. A clipboard left unattended on a hook gave her what she needed: a provisional access card tucked into a sleeve pocket.

By 0200 hours, the hallway outside Data Storage was silent. The overhead lights hummed. The keypad blinked red.

Evelyn swiped the stolen card.

It clicked green.

She slipped inside.

The room smelled like cold metal and dust. Rows of filing drawers and media cabinets lined the walls, all numbered in stenciled white paint. A reel-to-reel machine sat against one wall like a mechanical sentinel from another age.

She scanned the drawers until she found it.

11B — Cassette/Analog Logs

She pulled it open. Her fingers moved quickly — LC, LC, LC…

There.

L.C. — FINAL SESSION.

Her hands shook slightly as she slid the reel free. She fed it into the playback machine, looping the magnetic tape through the reels. The device came to life with a warm electric crackle. She adjusted the volume and pressed play.

For a moment, nothing.

Then — Leonard’s voice.

Distorted slightly by the age of the tape. Quieter than she remembered. Ragged. On the edge.

"—if someone finds this, don’t trust the logs. They’ve been altered. The data doesn’t match what we saw in the room. Not after Subject 6."

A pause.

A breath.

"The drugs aren’t the problem. It’s the room. Something’s wrong with the resonance. With the patterns. I don’t know if they’re affecting our brains or pulling something out of them."

Crackle.

"I stopped dreaming in words. It’s… images now. Loud. Constant. Like the machine won’t turn off even when I’m awake."

A long silence.

Then, softer:

"I thought I could fix it. But I think I’ve already changed. If you’re hearing this… shut it down. Please. Shut it—"

The tape clicked.

Silence.

Then—

A metallic creak. Behind her.

Evelyn froze.

She turned the volume dial down, breath held.

Footsteps. Soft, slow. Coming from the far side of the archive room.

She backed toward the rows of cabinets, silent as she could, tucking the reel into her coat.

The footsteps paused.

A flashlight beam cut across the room, just missing her.

A voice: “Who's in here?”

She slipped into the shadows between drawers, heart pounding, Leonard’s words still echoing in her head.

Shut it down.

[palephilosopherautomaton]

Chapter 2 — The Compound

The door to Evelyn’s quarters closed with a soft hiss behind her. A key turned in the lock — quietly, efficiently — as though to maintain the illusion that she wasn’t a prisoner.

The room was clean. Stark. Every edge and surface looked designed to deny comfort. A steel-framed cot with white sheets. A narrow desk bolted to the wall. No personal items. No windows. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead with a faint, maddening flicker. Somewhere within the walls, she could hear a low hum, like power lines humming underwater. It made her temples ache.

She dropped her suitcase on the bed and stood still for a moment, taking it all in. The silence here didn’t feel like solitude — it felt curated. Designed. The kind of silence that watches you.

A small chime sounded above the door.

Then a voice, female, detached and almost pleasant: “You are scheduled to meet with Dr. Harlan Voss at 0930 hours. Please remain in your quarters until then.”

Evelyn looked up at the hidden speaker and said nothing.

She sat on the edge of the bed and waited. The room gave nothing back — no scent, no warmth, no sound but that quiet electrical hum threading through the walls like a pulse.

At exactly 9:30, the door opened without a knock.

A tall man in a tan uniform gestured silently. Evelyn followed.

The halls were dim and identical — all concrete and angles, colorless and humming. Guards stood at intersections like statues. No one spoke. The deeper they went, the more the air changed — dry, still, artificial.

She was led to a long corridor lined with floor-to-ceiling glass. A single man stood waiting at the far end.

Dr. Harlan Voss.

He turned as they approached, hands clasped neatly behind his back, white lab coat immaculate.

“Miss Carroway,” he said smoothly. “Welcome to Ashfield Station.”

He extended his hand. She shook it reluctantly — his grip was dry, precise.

“I’m sure you have questions,” he said. “Let’s talk.”

They stepped into a side office — all brushed steel and minimal furnishings. No papers on the desk. No clock. Just two chairs and a manila folder.

“Your brother was with us as part of a classified research initiative,” Voss began, settling in across from her. “He was an exceptional mind. Dedicated. Methodical. He made meaningful contributions.”

“Where is he?” Evelyn asked.

Voss gave the faintest of smiles. “Transferred. Several weeks ago. To an adjacent facility, further south.”

“That’s convenient.”

“Not convenient, Miss Carroway. Necessary. The work is sensitive. Movement is controlled.”

“I want to speak with him.”

Voss folded his hands. “I’m afraid that won’t be possible. He is in deep operational isolation.”

She leaned forward. “Did he ask to be transferred?”

“Volunteered, in fact. His work led him to… deeper lines of inquiry. He was quite committed to the project’s success.”

“I want proof he’s alive.”

A pause. A flicker in Voss’s expression — not hesitation, exactly. More like the careful pause of someone calculating risk.

“You’ll be granted supervised access to his documentation,” he said. “Much of it is classified. But we believe in transparency, to the extent allowed. For family.”

Evelyn’s fists tightened in her lap. “And what exactly was the project?”

He smiled again, thin and sharp.

“The enhancement of cognitive capability. Emotional regulation. Weaponization of psychological resilience. Human adaptability.”

He said it like it was a pharmaceutical pitch.

Evelyn stared at him. “You mean mind control.”

Voss didn’t blink. “We prefer not to use Hollywood language.”

Before she could reply, the manila folder was slid across the table.

“You’ll be escorted to the archive room. A copy of Leonard’s cleared work is available there.”

“And if I’m not satisfied?”

His smile didn’t change. “I imagine you won’t be.”

The archive room was colder than the rest of the compound. Rows of metal shelves, locked drawers, and dim overhead bulbs gave it the feel of a subterranean morgue.

A young officer — no name tag — opened a drawer and handed her a thick folder marked CARROWAY, L. — LEVEL 2 ACCESS ONLY.

She sat at the central table under the eye of two cameras and began reading.

The files were a tangle of terminology — “Stimulus Induced Hyperlucidity,” “Controlled Disinhibition Loops,” “Cross-Subject Memory Migration” — jargon crafted to dazzle and obscure. Page after page of dry notes, trial summaries, subject assessments, all in Leonard’s meticulous handwriting.

Then, near the back of the file, something handwritten in the margin caught her eye.

It was scrawled beside a chart detailing “subject responsiveness” under heavy chemical exposure.

“V = wrong. Not ethical. Record everything.”

Her fingers traced the letters slowly.

Buried behind the last page was something else — a torn strip of a cassette label, half-missing, but still legible:

“L.C. – 11B”

She glanced at the officer standing near the door. He wasn’t watching closely.

With a smooth motion, she slid the label into her coat sleeve.

That night, Evelyn waited until the corridor lights dimmed — a signal, perhaps, that “day” was done, though time here felt warped.

She opened her door quietly and stepped into the hallway.

The compound was silent. Her shoes echoed faintly against the polished floor. She passed several unmarked doors, some with keypads, others with slots beneath them like old asylum rooms.

A sharp voice cut through the stillness.

“Miss Carroway.”

She turned. A tall, broad-shouldered man stood under a flickering ceiling light — uniformed, a major’s insignia at his collar. Early forties. Square jaw. Lined eyes.

Major William Thorne.

“You’re not permitted outside quarters after lights-down,” he said, walking toward her with slow, deliberate steps.

“I’m looking for the ladies’ room,” she said flatly.

His mouth twitched, almost imperceptibly.

“This isn’t a hotel, ma’am.”

“You knew my brother,” she said suddenly.

Thorne’s face didn’t change. But his stride paused — just for a breath.

“Didn’t you?” she pressed.

He looked past her down the corridor. “You need to go back to your room.”

“Leonard trusted someone here,” she said. “I think it was you.”

He met her eyes then — not coldly, but with something else behind them. Resignation, maybe. Weariness. Or regret.

“I don’t know what your brother thought,” Thorne said quietly. “But he stopped trusting this place. That much is true.”

Then he turned and walked away.

Evelyn watched until he disappeared around a corner.

And for the first time since arriving at Ashfield, she felt something else creep into her chest alongside the fear.

A crack.

A possibility.

[palephilosopherautomaton]

THE ASHFIELD EXPERIMENT

Chapter 1 — The Summons

The rain had begun sometime after midnight. It painted the Chicago streets into long ribbons of smeared light, blurring the neon and headlights into ghostly streaks across Evelyn Carroway’s apartment window. The steady hiss from the radiator barely cut through the silence inside her tiny second-floor flat. A single bulb hung above the small kitchen table, casting her typewriter and scattered clippings into sharp relief.

The article she’d just finished — another piece exposing backroom deals in the city’s sanitation department — lay untouched beside her untouched coffee. She should have felt something. Satisfaction, at least. But the only thing she felt was the numb weight that had settled over her weeks ago. The letters had stopped coming.

Then came the knock.

Three quick, sharp raps at the door.

She stiffened, eyes flicking to the clock: 12:22 a.m.

It wasn’t a neighbor — not at this hour. The landlord never knocked. Police? She doubted it.

She rose, her bare feet cold against the linoleum, and approached the door carefully. Through the peephole, a man in a gray overcoat and fedora stood still, a small parcel tucked beneath his arm.

“Miss Carroway?” His voice was calm, even polite. “Special delivery. Requires signature.”

Evelyn narrowed her eyes. “Who sent it?”

“Just need your signature, ma’am.”

The man’s expression remained blank — not impatient, not curious. Trained.

She hesitated, then reluctantly slid the chain free and opened the door just wide enough to take the clipboard. She scrawled her name and took the package.

The man nodded, tipped his hat slightly, and turned, his polished shoes clacking down the stairs. She watched until his silhouette disappeared into the rainy dark.

The package was thin and square, wrapped in plain brown paper. No return address. She locked the door, drew the curtains, and placed it carefully on the kitchen table. With deliberate fingers, she peeled away the paper, revealing a manila envelope. Inside: a single photograph.

Her breath hitched.

Leonard.

He stood in front of a squat, featureless concrete building — a compound, surrounded by barbed wire fencing, a radio tower looming behind him against an empty sky. His uniform was military-issue, but she knew he wasn’t military. His head was slightly turned, as though he wasn’t aware the photograph was being taken.

In one corner, stamped in block letters: ASHFIELD STATION. Beneath it, scrawled in red ink: May 3, 1952.

Her hands shook slightly as she pulled out a second item — a small, stiff piece of cardstock with five words typed neatly across its center:

He’s in danger. Come quickly. But trust no one.

The radiator hissed louder, or maybe it only felt that way. The rain whispered against the window as Evelyn sat back slowly, her heart pounding harder now.

Leonard.

She hadn’t heard from him in months. Not since the letters stopped. Not since that last conversation when he’d stood in this very room, trying to explain the inexplicable. She remembered the way he fidgeted with his tie, as if the government uniform still didn’t fit quite right.

"You wouldn't believe the work I'm doing, Eve," he had said, a guarded excitement in his voice. "Then tell me," she’d pressed. "Tell me something real, Leonard. Something honest." "I can't. You know I can't."

Their words had sharpened, brittle and cold. She hated that they parted that way. And now this.

A chill climbed her spine. She glanced again at the photo. The building behind him looked remote, desolate. And whatever Ashfield Station was, it wasn’t on any map she knew.

Her fingers clenched around the photo as resolve pushed through the rising fear.

She would not lose him. Not again.

She closed her suitcase with a snap.

The train to New Mexico left early. Evelyn barely had time to scribble a note for her editor, vague and noncommittal, before rushing through the dim streets toward Union Station. The cold drizzle had turned to fog by the time she boarded, and Chicago faded behind her like a fading memory.

Inside the sleeper car, she sat stiff-backed beneath the dim wall lamp, her fingers tracing the edges of the envelope now safely tucked inside her coat pocket. She couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t stop her mind from sifting through Leonard’s letters — now scattered like puzzle pieces she should’ve noticed before.

"Breakthroughs," he’d written. "Frontiers we never dreamed of."

He mentioned "behavioral frontiers." "Cognitive expansions." Hints of something bigger than psychological studies. And always veiled references to national importance.

She stared out the window as the train barreled westward through the black emptiness. Telephone poles whipped past like metronomes counting down to something unseen. The soft creaks of the carriage blended with the rumble of the tracks. She was alone with the growing sense that she was hurtling toward something far worse than she could imagine.

By late afternoon, two days later, the train slowed to a crawl. The barren desert sprawled in every direction, featureless except for a single platform where a man in uniform waited beside an olive-green military jeep.

Evelyn stepped off onto the platform. The dry heat wrapped around her like a heavy curtain.

The soldier barely looked at her. “Miss Carroway?”

“Yes.”

“Your transport.”

He didn’t offer to take her bag. Just turned and climbed behind the wheel. She followed, clutching her suitcase tighter.

The jeep rumbled down a narrow road cutting into the emptiness. For miles, there was nothing but rust-colored scrub and bleached rock. No towns. No farms. Just emptiness.

Then, rising out of the horizon like some concrete wound carved into the desert floor, Ashfield Station emerged.

A high perimeter fence surrounded rows of squat, windowless buildings. Observation towers marked the corners. A cluster of large radio antennas tilted skyward. Guards moved like shadows behind the wire.

As the jeep passed through the outer gate, Evelyn felt the invisible weight press heavier against her chest. This was no ordinary government facility. This was a place meant to be hidden.

The jeep came to a halt before a low concrete building. A guard opened the door and gestured for her to enter.

Inside, the cool air smelled faintly of ammonia and metal. Bare fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. A man in a crisp brown suit approached with a practiced smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Miss Carroway. Welcome to Ashfield. I trust your trip was smooth?”

“Where’s my brother?” she asked, her voice even.

The man’s smile grew slightly. “Of course. We’ll get you settled in first. Your accommodations are prepared. I’m sure you’ll find everything comfortable.”

He gestured toward a waiting attendant.

Evelyn’s jaw tightened, but she followed. She’d come this far. She wouldn’t leave without answers.

But as the steel doors closed behind her, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she had just stepped into a cage.

[palephilosopherautomaton]

1952. The Cold War is heating up. In the desert, something far colder is happening.

When journalist Evelyn Carroway receives a cryptic letter about her brother’s sudden disappearance, she travels to a secret government facility hidden deep in the New Mexico desert. What she finds at Ashfield Station is far more disturbing than she imagined: a covert experiment pushing the limits of the human mind — and tearing it apart.

Her brother, a brilliant government psychologist, was involved in classified trials blending hypnosis, LSD, and psychic manipulation. Now he's missing, and everyone at Ashfield insists he never existed. As Evelyn peels back layers of lies, she forms a tense alliance with Major William Thorne, a military officer plagued by his own doubts.

Every question she asks pulls her deeper into a web of control, paranoia, and unspeakable horror. Surveillance is everywhere. Whispers of telepathic soldiers, human test subjects, and fatal "accidents" grow louder. And behind it all is the cold, unblinking mind of Dr. Harlan Voss — a man who believes ethics are merely obstacles to progress.

Evelyn’s only hope is to find her brother before Ashfield’s darkest secret consumes them both.

In a world where reality can be rewritten, trust is the first casualty.

[palephilosopherautomaton]

"This is an ancient craft, older than timekeeping itself. You cannot learn it by...what did you call it?"

"YouTube."

The old man's face wrinkled even deeper, as though the very word offended the marrow of his bones. His long, bark-like fingers tightened around the gnarled staff he leaned on, its tip sunk into the mossy floor of the grove.

"You seek to understand the stitching of souls, the whispering of forgotten names, the binding of breath and shadow. This knowledge is not hidden in glowing screens and idiot laughter."

He stepped closer, and the air grew heavier, as though centuries pressed down with his every step.

"It is not watched. It is endured. Earned. Paid for in flesh, in silence, in the refusal to turn away when your reflection cries for mercy."

The younger man shifted awkwardly, his phone still half-raised in one hand, the blue glow of the screen a faint, sickly halo against the trees.

"But there's this one channel," he muttered. "Elder_LoreCraft99. Got, like, six million subs."

The old man didn’t blink. He simply said, "Then let him raise the dead. We’ll see how long his likes keep him warm when the veil breaks."

A gust of wind snuffed the grove's light, and with it, the illusion of safety.

"This is an ancient craft, older than timekeeping itself. You cannot learn it by...what did you call it?"

"YouTube."

[palephilosopherautomaton]

The boulder was warm. Not from the sun, which had bled away behind the hills, but from whatever had died too near it. The cloaked man crouched low, adjusting the talisman between his fingers, muttering an incantation under his breath. A soft pulse answered—he’d see everything, as long as the charm held. But that was all it could do. No shielding. No rescue.

The girl stepped into the ring.

She didn’t need to speak to summon them. They came anyway, pulled from the edge of the clearing where they’d been waiting—those shapes hulking in shadow, each wrong in some intimate, deliberate way. One’s arms were too long, wrapped thrice around its own torso like a lover. Another dragged a cage behind it filled with wet whispers. And a third, tall and elegant, moved like spilled ink, limbs unfolding in jagged angles.

They took positions around her, forming a crooked circle, broken in geometry but not in intent. Rituals didn’t need symmetry when the power came from pain.

“I hope you’re paying attention,” she said, without turning around. Her voice echoed far louder than it should have, slipping through the trees like a razor.

“I am,” the man murmured.

One of the creatures dropped to all fours and shrieked—not a sound of rage or fear, but of anticipation. The others responded in kind, a symphony of eager violence that vibrated the bones of the earth. Sparks erupted where they stood. The ground hissed.

The girl raised her hand. Not in defense. In invitation.

From the opposite side of the clearing, something stirred. Not one of hers. Not yet.

It slouched into view—massive, draped in sinew and iron, a construct of war and wrath. Its face was stitched from a dozen others. It bore weapons that were part of its body: rusted, screaming things that twitched when it moved.

The game had begun.

The girl grinned.

“Try not to blink,” she whispered, and the first blood spattered the stone beneath her.

"You are here to play, right?"

"Actually I was hoping I could just watch."

"Then you'd better stand back there if you don't want to be killed."

[palephilosopherautomaton]

Title: Last Benediction of the Hollow Saint

The battlefield stank of ash and blood. Smoke curled like serpents through the broken trees, the night sky a gaping maw swallowing stars. The remnants of your party—your friends, your family—lay strewn about, their bodies broken, their souls long fled.

Your arms tremble as you cradle the last of them—Sir Vellan, your shield. His breath rattles like wind through dead reeds. His hand, once strong enough to deflect a troll’s blow, now curls weakly around your blood-slicked wrist.

You press your glowing hand to his chest. “By Aeloria’s grace, be whole again,” you whisper.

Nothing.

The light sputters from your palm like a dying candle. You try again, frantic now. Another spell. Then another. "Aeloria, please." Your voice cracks. "Please—"

But the goddess does not answer.

Sir Vellan exhales one final time, the light in his eyes flickering out. His grip slips from your wrist.

Gone.

You kneel there, fingers shaking above his still chest, bathed in silence… until they begin to laugh.

The enemy—twisted silhouettes in obsidian armor, faceless and unfeeling—surround you like vultures.

“Look at the little healer.” “So noble, so pathetic.” “Couldn’t save a single soul.” “Where’s your goddess now?”

You raise your head slowly.

Your eyes, once gold-lit with holy fire, are black—endless, glassy voids reflecting nothing. Your hands curl into fists, the light abandoning them. No warmth remains. No mercy.

There is no prayer on your lips now. Only silence.

A silence that answers back.

It whispers. It hungers.

The Void hears your grief. Your agony. Your betrayal.

And it offers power.

Not to save.

To undo.

Your holy robes hang like burial shrouds as they blacken and rot, the symbols of Aeloria fading into ash. The staff in your hand cracks, then reforms—not of gold and crystal, but bone and shadow, crowned in a twisting halo of anti-light.

The ground trembles.

Your dead companions stir—not in life, but as extensions of your will, rising in silence with eyes as black as yours. Their flesh ruined, their souls gone… but their loyalty remains.

The enemies recoil. The laughter dies.

Now you speak.

“No more salvation.” “No more light.” “You called me useless.” “Let me show you what the forsaken become.”

You are no longer a cleric. You are the Hollow Saint—vessel of the Void, deliverer of despair.

Your enemies had laughed.

They won’t laugh again.

You were the healer—the last light of your party. But now your final ally dies in your arms, and there’s no one left to save. The enemy jeers, calling you useless. You look up, eyes hollow and black. The light is gone. The Void answers. You're no longer a cleric. You're something far worse.

[palephilosopherautomaton]

Title: The Untouchable

They said I was cursed.

The midwives hissed and crossed themselves when I screamed into the world, the holy wards around the birthing room sizzling to ash the moment they touched my flesh. No soothing light ever mended my scraped knees. No blessed warmth stitched together torn skin. Even healing potions turned sour in my blood.

I was the child that bled and did not stop. The one who fell and carried the scar forever. The cursed. The rejected.

And so, they did. Reject me. Healers called me an abomination. Clerics turned their eyes. No guild, no party, no wandering knight would take me under their wing.

"You’ll die the first time something lands a hit," they said. "You're not worth the risk." "We can’t carry someone who won’t get back up."

So I learned not to fall.

I trained until my bones screamed, until I knew the way every creature moved, the weight behind every swing, the breath before every spell. I studied anatomy not to heal, but to break—how to dislocate with precision, where to cut to end it fast. I studied patterns like religion, memorizing every fight like a sacred text.

Every mistake I paid for in blood, and there was no magic to patch the price.

But that pain taught me something the blessed never understood: fear. Real, cold, unforgiving survival. They fought knowing they'd be healed. I fought knowing I wouldn't.

And in time, I stopped getting hurt.

Now they whisper. "The Untouchable." A ghost in the field. A shadow that never bleeds.

I walk the ruins alone, where others fear to tread. I’ve slain beasts twice my size with nothing but rope and rust. The undead priests of Hollowspire chanted their unholy rites—none lived to finish. In the Arena of Black Glass, ten mercenaries surrounded me, sure of their coin. None touched me. None left breathing.

And when the paladin Lysandros fell to his knees, blade trembling, his golden armor cracked down the chest, he looked up and whispered, “What are you?”

I said nothing. I don't owe the blessed answers.

Now they beg for my help. They offer coin, land, rare artifacts—healing scrolls, as if I’d be so stupid to fall for the insult again.

And I take their contracts. Because every fight is another chance to sharpen the edge, another reminder that I am what they could never become:

Not powerful because of magic. Not brave because of faith. Not skilled because of luck.

But untouchable—because I had no choice.

They call it a curse. Let them.

I call it clarity.

Cursed at birth to reject all healing magic, you were never given the luxury of injury and no party accepted you to join. So you trained harder, fought smarter, dodged everything. You couldn’t afford a single mistake. Now, they whisper your name in awe and fear—the Untouchable.

[palephilosopherautomaton]

Title: Downsizing

"We're sorry." The voice on the other end of the line was sterile, clinical. A woman, perhaps in her mid-thirties, well-trained in the art of not caring. "The Department of Population Sustainability has reviewed your citizen profile. Due to national overcapacity and your projected utility index, you’ve been selected for mandatory termination under the Downsizing Program. It is now your legal obligation to die."

Silence.

Not shock, not even fear—just the kind of silence that fills a room when the impossible is spoken like weather.

Gavin blinked at his reflection in the dark screen of his tablet. The coffee in his mug was still warm. The morning sun filtered in through his blinds, casting golden lines across the carpet. He looked like a man freshly showered, dressed in casual slacks and a button-up, ready to start his day. Not end his life.

"...I—I’m only thirty-eight," he said finally, his voice faint. "I have a job. I pay taxes. I’m healthy."

"All factors have been reviewed, Mr. Halloran," the rep continued, unfazed. "Your career trajectory plateaued at age thirty-four. Your productivity-to-carbon ratio is within the termination threshold. No dependents. No critical social or technical roles. You are, statistically speaking, non-essential."

"Non-essential?" he repeated.

There was a pause, perhaps scripted, perhaps just a breath between rehearsed responses.

"You are required to report to your assigned finalization center within 72 hours. Failure to comply will result in federal enforcement. Your life insurance benefits will only be disbursed to your listed beneficiaries if you comply voluntarily."

"So if I refuse, you send someone to kill me," he said, more to himself than her.

“That is correct, Mr. Halloran. But rest assured, voluntary compliance results in a dignified, painless process and preserves all civic honors and digital legacy access rights.”

The call ended with a soft click.

No protest. No appeals. No offer of therapy. Just logistics.

Gavin sat in the quiet for a long while. Outside, the world moved as always—cars passing, dogs barking, neighbors laughing at something mundane. It was a good neighborhood. He’d worked hard for it. Paid off his student loans. Took extra shifts. Canceled vacations.

And now, what?

He stood, walked to the mirror. He looked… fine. Tired. Maybe a bit worn around the eyes. But wasn’t everyone?

On his tablet, a government notification popped up:

"You have been scheduled for Finalization at Facility 14-B. Check-in window: 6:00AM–9:00AM, June 14, 2025. Failure to appear is a Class A Civic Breach."

A smiley face was included at the bottom. "Thank you for contributing to a sustainable future!"

"We're sorry." The health insurance rep on the phone spoke on the other end with an indifferent tone "Due to our countries laws of Overpopulation, you have been selected for the Downsizing Program. It is now your legal obligation to die."

[palephilosopherautomaton]

He had wrapped the shawl around her shoulders before he could think better of it. The coarse wool, smelling faintly of smoke and salt, looked absurd against the shimmer of her skin—opalescent, like the inside of a shell.

She didn’t thank him. Of course not. Her kind didn't traffic in gratitude. But her hands lingered on the edges of the fabric a moment longer than necessary, fingers moving in slow, uncertain strokes like someone memorizing a foreign texture.

“You’ll ruin your reputation,” she said, glancing at him with those luminous, inhuman eyes. “Giving charity to monsters.”

He shrugged. “I thought monsters didn’t feel the cold.”

“I don’t,” she said, but she held the shawl tighter anyway. Her smile was the curve of a blade. “But sometimes it’s nice to pretend.”

She turned from him then, the wet clatter of her heels echoing on the stone as she stepped toward the edge of the cliff, where the sea waited, black and boundless. The night wind caught the wool and wrapped it around her slender form like a shroud.

And then: “You’ll regret this kindness.”

He didn’t answer.

Because he already did.

Offering a siren clothes might have seemed pointless. Their bodies and their voices is how they hunt. But she had just looked so... scared, and yet excited, just before schooling her expression into her usual disregard. "If you have any to spare," she said, as if it didn't matter. It did.

[palephilosopherautomaton]

Journal Entry of Arlin Dovewick, Apprentice to Archwizard Thalimar the Pale

Third Bell, Stormmonth 27th, Year of the Split Comet

Success! Sweet, steaming, luminous success!

After three cycles of sleepless incantation, and a near miss with a fire imp that thought my robe was a challenge to its pride, I have completed the "Detectus Vitae" spell. A detection incantation designed to reveal the presence of living organisms within a specified radius—initially drafted to hunt cave spiders in the pantry. But what I have found goes beyond any expectation.

When I cast it in the laboratory, the entire room erupted in light.

It was… overwhelming.

The stone floor? A luminous tapestry of crawling threads. The shelves? Teeming jungles of squirming brightness. The cauldron—saints above, I don’t even want to discuss the cauldron.

But there were voids. Patches of utter silence in the symphony of life. Black as death, cold and stark.

Upon closer inspection, these voids matched the surfaces where the bottle of high-grade alchemical ethanol had spilled three nights ago—when Master Thalimar's parrot startled me into dropping it. I'd meant to clean it up, but a banshee in the west wing took precedence.

Those ethanol-streaked spots? Lifeless. Sterile. Not a single spark.

I have discovered a principle that is both horrifying and glorious.

Alcohol kills life—even the tiny, invisible things that the eye cannot see, but the spell most certainly can. I daresay I’ve discovered a secondary use for spirits beyond inebriation and explosion. The realization bloomed in my mind like a sunburst: this is a cleansing agent.

Not a mere solvent. A weapon.

I rushed to scribe the spell’s full results and immediately began dabbing alcohol on every knob, wand, and doorknob in the east wing. Master Thalimar entered the lab shortly thereafter, sniffed, and declared the place “oddly medicinal” before teleporting to the Mage's Guild for his weekly bath in molten gold.

I shall name this process “Lifeflame Purging,” and add it to the apprentice’s sanitation rituals. I’ll recommend monthly applications. Weekly, perhaps, once I’ve convinced the others that invisible lifeforms are real. That’ll be a challenge—Brint doesn’t believe in gravity either.

For now, I return to my notes. If I can enchant the alcohol with a sustaining aura, perhaps I can develop a permanent cleanliness ward. Or better yet—a cleanliness bomb.

Let it be known: today, I cast a life spell and found cleanliness in death.

And I’ll never touch that cauldron again without gloves.

— A. Dovewick “Let no slime survive.”

You are a wizard's apprentice working on a detect life spell. You finish it up and when you cast it you see life on every surface of the laboratory except the surfaces where a bottle of alcohol spilled. You have doubly discovered hand sanitizer and cleanliness.

[palephilosopherautomaton]

Title: The Princess’s Other Tongue

In the realm of Aedelwyn, Princess Seraphina was revered not just for her beauty, but for her poise—an embodiment of grace and serene composure. She walked gardens with gentleness, addressed commoners with humility, and quelled court disputes with the calm elegance of a swan gliding across a still lake.

But even swans, they say, have claws.

It was the third hour of the Council’s morning session, and Lord Varlan—an oily, rotund man with the face of a moldy pear—was still droning on about tariffs and "women not understanding fiscal policy." Seraphina had been sipping tea, fingers delicately wrapped around porcelain, her smile fixed with diplomatic politeness.

Then he said it.

“Leave the coin-counting to the men, dear. Your time is better spent embroidering cushions or petting kittens or whatever it is you skirted creatures do.”

The chamber fell silent. A chill skittered down the spine of every noble present.

Seraphina’s cup clinked softly as she set it down.

She stood.

And smiled.

It was not her usual smile. It was the kind of smile worn by executioners before they ask the condemned if they'd like their last words.

Then she said:

“Lord Varlan, you festering sack of donkey spit—if I wanted the opinion of a gutless, mildew-skulled goat-fondler, I’d rattle a pisspot and hope the echo formed a sentence. But thank you, truly, for reminding us all what it looks like when a maggot learns to talk.”

A gasp. Somewhere, a servant dropped a goblet.

She took a step forward, calm as the sea before a hurricane. Her voice, still sweet, somehow rang with the force of a cathedral bell.

“You simpering, codpiece-stuffed excuse for a nobleman—your head is so far up your own arse, your thoughts echo like prayers in a tomb. By the Saints, I’ve heard sharper reasoning from wine-drunk stableboys wrestling pigs for sport!”

Varlan stammered, reddening like an overripe plum.

“Let me make this clear, you blathering boil on the backside of the crown,” she continued, “If I hear one more word of your pompous, piss-brained misogyny, I will personally have you posted to the Eastern Front with nothing but a chamber pot and a scroll of your own speeches for warmth.”

She turned on her heel. "Meeting adjourned," she added over her shoulder, voice silk-wrapped steel.

The doors slammed behind her, echoing down the marble corridors like a war drum.

The council sat in stunned silence for a full minute.

Then the Chancellor cleared his throat and whispered, “I think we should cancel tomorrow’s hunting trip.”

The normally soft-spoken and kind Princess has a truly awe-inspiring array of swears and insults. Annoy her enough and you will bear witness to the vocabulary of the royal family and a drunk sailor being used in perfect unison.