章節 6: Call to Adventure
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# REWRITE NOTICE #
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[This chapter is part of the rewrite batch released on March 3rd, 2025]
- For more information: See chapter titled "Update - Rewrite Status (1-6): Complete"
- All rewritten chapters contain this notice at the top
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"All power is truly power over yourself."
- Aldous Huxley
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The ice creeps up his ankles. Cold bites through his clothes—sharp, merciless, a thousand tiny daggers against his skin. Xander's mind races even as his body freezes in place.
This isn't right. The Herta wasn't supposed to appear now. Not like this.
Knowledge from a video game shouldn't apply here, and yet it does—partially, in broken fragments. The script has been crumpled and tossed aside, reality stretched and distorted into something barely recognizable. Like a familiar song played in the wrong key.
"I—I spoke out of turn." The words stumble from his lips, breath crystallizing in the rapidly cooling air. "What I said before—"
The Herta's laughter cuts through the room—high and musical and utterly dangerous. A sound like wind chimes in a hurricane. "How incredibly ironic." She circles him slowly, those penetrating violet eyes never leaving his face. "All that bravado when facing a puppet, but now—" She flicks her wrist dismissively, the gesture almost lazy. "A scared little chicken when confronted with the genuine article."
The mirrors floating around her catch the light, fracturing it into dangerous patterns across the floor. Kaleidoscopic threats.
"Where's that courage now?" Her voice drops lower, intimate in its mockery. "I might have respected you if you'd said those things to my actual face."
Something stirs inside Xander's chest. Not his heartbeat—something else. A presence. Foreign yet strangely familiar. It pushes against his consciousness, words forming in his mind that aren't entirely his own.
Let me handle this. You'll get us killed.
His throat constricts. Every instinct screams to fight this internal intruder, but a deeper part of him—the part that wants to survive—whispers to surrender control. To step back and let whatever this is take the wheel.
"Yes." His voice emerges steadier than he feels, the syllable not quite his own. "I am afraid."
The words flow from his mouth, guided by that other presence yet somehow expressing his own truth. A strange duet of wills, harmonizing despite their discord.
"But you misunderstand. I've been afraid since I woke up in this station." His hands spread, the movement restricted by the bindings at his wrists. "Restrained. Questioned. Treated as a security risk."
The ice reaches his calves now. Numbness spreads upward, claiming territory inch by frozen inch.
"My fate hangs in the hands of strangers." His voice softens, almost vulnerable. "Anyone would feel stressed when you claim I know things I have no memory of."
The Herta's expression shifts—curiosity mingling with skepticism in a dangerous cocktail. The mirrors around her spin faster, capturing his image from every angle.
"So you say." She leans close enough that he can smell her—something like ozone and old paper and power. Her face inches from his. "Do you genuinely not know where you are? Genuinely?"
The way she asks it—like a trap being set, bait dangled before a desperate animal.
The presence in his mind tenses, alert to danger.
Xander swallows hard, throat sandpaper-dry. "I know I'm in the Herta Space Station."
"And who am I?"
"You're The Herta." His gaze doesn't waver despite the fear crawling up his spine with the ice. "The genuine article. Not some doll."
A smile slides across her face, sharp as a blade. "So you must know you've been incredibly disrespectful, to me, of all people." She taps a finger against her cheek, the sound impossibly loud in the frozen silence. "And you've been aware of what you were doing when you were disrespectful."
The circular reasoning tightens around him like a noose. Logic twisted into a weapon.
"Which leads me to believe that if you knew that much, why would you play or act like you don't truly understand what's going on and where you are?"
The presence calculates responses, running scenarios like computer simulations, but Xander speaks before it can take control—an impulse, a gamble.
"My memories." The words rush out, stumbling over each other.
The Herta tilts her head, the gesture almost birdlike in its precision. "What about them?"
"It... it hurts when I try to recall things." A tremor runs through his voice—genuine, unfeigned.
The foreign presence seizes the opening, recognizing the improvisation's value. His mouth moves with words that merge his thoughts with this other consciousness, a collaboration born of desperation.
"I might recognize certain things, which helps me understand somewhat what's happening, but I'm being truthful." His voice rises, the plea genuine even as it's strategically deployed. "I don't know how I got here. I don't know why I've got a stellaron within me. I'm not supposed to be here!"
The Herta's eyes narrow, measuring every word, every micro-expression like a jeweler appraising diamonds. The mirrors around her slow their rotation, as if they too are listening.
"Even if what you say is true—" she waves a hand dismissively, the motion leaving trails of purple light in the air, "—if your memories have been altered, you're of no use to me besides staying here for experimentation." Her lips quirk upward in something not quite a smile. "I'll dig up the secrets of how your body houses my stellaron. At least until I get bored."
The ice climbs to his knees, the weight of it pulling at his joints.
The foreign presence retreats, falling silent as panic rises in Xander's chest. The cold burns now, a contradiction of sensations that his brain can't properly process.
He wrestles back control, fully himself again. "I can be of better use to you than just that."
The Herta throws her head back and laughs—genuinely amused in a way that's somehow more terrifying than her anger. Tears form at the corners of her eyes. "How could you, of all people, be of use to me?"
His heart hammers against his ribs. One chance. "Don't you need help with the simulated universe?"
The laughter cuts off abruptly. Her expression shifts, recalibrates like a computer rebooting. The mirrors freeze in place, perfectly still.
"I know about the project." Words tumble out, a desperate lifeline thrown into churning waters. "Who built it. Its purpose. I can help you with—"
"How do you know about it?" Her voice drops to a dangerous whisper, the temperature in the room plummeting with each syllable. "Who told you about it?"
"No one told me about it, I—"
The temperature crashes. Ice explodes from the floor, encasing his feet completely, then climbs rapidly up his calves like living crystal. His body temperature plummets, teeth chattering so hard he fears they might crack as frost forms on his eyelashes.
The presence in his mind falls silent, offering no help, no guidance. Abandoning him to face this alone.
"You're truly an anomaly." The Herta steps back, clinical detachment replacing her earlier amusement. A scientist observing an experiment. "But your knowledge of things you shouldn't be privy to is concerning. It's already enough with you appearing without explanation, housing my stellaron, and not cooperating."
The ice reaches his thighs, heavy and unyielding—a prison being built around him cell by frozen cell.
"It's worse now that you've revealed knowledge of such a project."
His lungs burn with each inhale of frigid air, frost crystallizing in his airways. "Herta, please! I'm—"
The ice continues its relentless climb up his torso. His heartbeat slows, struggling against the encroaching cold. Black spots dance at the edges of his vision, reality fracturing like the images in Herta's mirrors.
Think. Think!
The pressure in his chest builds—not just from the encroaching ice but from something else. Something gold and warm pushing against the cold from within. A counterpoint to the freezing death creeping over him.
The stellaron. His salvation or his doom.
Xander makes a choice. If he's going to die here, frozen solid in a fictional space station from a game he played with Sebastian, he'll at least know what power hides within him.
He reaches for that golden warmth, wherever it resides in the architecture of his soul, and pulls—desperate fingers grasping at embers.
But the ice is faster. It surges upward, crystallizing around his throat, encasing his jaw in a merciless grip. The cold penetrates deeper than flesh, seeping into his very consciousness. As darkness claims him, the golden warmth recedes beyond his grasp—still there, still burning, but untouchable as a distant star.
The presence within him watches through Xander's fading awareness, unmoved yet calculating. It neither struggles nor surrenders, its silence more threatening than any protest could be. In that final moment before consciousness slips away completely, Xander feels it—defiance and rage coiled like a predator waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Not gone. Not defeated.
Merely biding its time.
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The ice shimmers like midnight glass, reflecting fractured images of her office back at her—fragments of reality caught in a cold prison. The Herta tilts her head, studying the man-shaped silhouette frozen within her handiwork. Precise and elegant—ice Emanations always are when she bothers to craft them personally. She never could resist showing off, even with no audience but herself.
A shimmering distortion ripples through the air beside her, molecules parting like a curtain to reveal a mirror with ornate edges and a surface that flows like liquid mercury.
"Fourth Mirror. Right on time." She doesn't turn to look at it, eyes still fixed on her frozen specimen.
"Your technique was flawless as always." The Fourth Mirror's voice resonates with honeyed admiration, perhaps a touch too earnest. "What are your plans for this... unusual specimen?"
The Herta circles the frozen form, heels clicking against the floor—each step deliberate, measured. "Plans? Oh, I have several dozen running concurrently." Her reflection fractures across the ice's surface—fragments of perfection multiplied, each showing a slightly different angle of her face. "For starters, I need to understand how this walking anomaly knows about the Simulated Universe."
That particular detail gnaws at her, an itch she can't quite scratch. The project is concealed behind layers of security that would make the IPC weep with inadequacy. Her fellow geniuses—Screwllum with his meticulous protocols, Ruan Mei and her cryptic notes, Stephen Lloyd's chaotic but brilliant safeguards—none of them leak information. They're too invested. Too possessive of their shared creation.
"The station personnel know nothing beyond 'the mysterious thing in Herta's office.'" She traces a path around the ice prison, thinking aloud. "They couldn't have told him." She taps a finger against her chin, the gesture almost human in its uncertainty. "And yet he spoke of it with the casual confidence of someone who's been there."
She draws a slender finger along the ice, feeling the cold bite against her skin. Not a typical human, this one. The surveillance footage showed combat skills—skilled yet uncertain, like muscle memory fighting against a mind that doesn't remember learning it. And then there was that explosion of power against the Doomsday Beast...
"My Stellaron." A flash of irritation tightens her jaw, creases forming between perfect brows. "Someone had the audacity to steal my research subject and seal it inside him. Although..." The irritation gives way to scientific curiosity, her eyes brightening. "A human body containing a stable Stellaron opens fascinating research avenues. What biological peculiarities allow him to host it? How can he channel its destructive energy without disintegrating into cosmic dust?"
The Fourth Mirror hovers closer, its frame tilting slightly as if leaning in for a confidence. "Vous did seem to believe parts of his tale. The memory fragments?"
"Well-observed." Her lips curl into a small smile—not the practiced one she uses for IPC officials, but something genuine. "His confusion seemed authentic." She pauses, considering. "And let's not forget—he's caught Droidhead's attention. The Unanswerable Question himself."
Being Nous' Emanator grants her glimpses of what captures the Aeon's gaze. Incomprehensible flashes, sometimes, like trying to understand someone speaking underwater, but she'd recognized the echo of Nous' presence on this man. Why would an Aeon fixate on him? What questions had been asked? What answers remained stubbornly, infuriatingly elusive?
"Fascinating indeed." The Fourth Mirror's surface ripples like a pond disturbed by unseen fingers. "Will you transport him to your pocket dimension for further examination? The Astral Express crew may object—that March girl seemed rather attached. Something about 'basic human rights.'" The mirror's tone carries a hint of mockery.
The Herta waves dismissively, bangles jingling on her wrist. "The Nameless are reasonable enough. They'll understand my security concerns." A smile plays across her lips, not quite reaching her eyes. "I'm not going to do anything permanently detrimental to him. He's far too valuable as a research subject."
She snaps her fingers—a sharp, decisive sound in the quiet room—and three more mirrors materialize around the ice prison. First, Second, and Third completing the set, their frames each distinctive, their surfaces equally mercurial.
"Once I verify he's not an immediate threat, perhaps I'll allow the Nameless to adopt another stray." She adjusts the cuff of her sleeve, a small, thoughtless gesture. "After I've exhausted all interesting research angles, of course."
Ethereal shadow-hands extend from the First Mirror, wrapping around the ice block like dark ribbons. Reality folds—not tears, but bends—as the mirrors create a passage, pulling the frozen man through dimensions. The Herta steps through after him, crossing the threshold into her private realm with the casual ease of someone walking into their kitchen.
A vast expanse of kaleidoscopic purples and pinks stretches endlessly, mirrors floating like silent sentinels beneath an ethereal starlit sky. The ground beneath her feet is a massive stained-glass rose window, spanning miles, depicting her likeness surrounded by her dolls in exquisite detail. Perhaps a touch vain, but she'd earned the right to some self-aggrandizement.
She approaches as the First Mirror positions the ice block at the center of the circular floor. Perfect. No mess, no witnesses, no limitations on her methods. Just her and her subject, beyond the boundaries of conventional space-time.
The Herta raises her hand, preparing to defrost the ice prison, when something catches her eye. She pauses, narrowing her gaze.
"Is something wrong?" The Fourth Mirror inquires, its voice tinged with something almost like concern.
She doesn't answer immediately, stepping closer to inspect what had drawn her attention. Originally, it had been her own fractured reflection—she's only human, after all, and quite aesthetically pleasing—but then...
"The ice is cracking."
Her voice carries a note of genuine surprise. Impossible. Her Emanations don't crack. Not without her explicit intention. Not in this place where her will shapes reality itself.
She leans closer, examining the hairline fracture spreading across the surface like a spider's web being spun in fast-forward. Energy fluctuations pulse beneath—imperceptible to normal perception but blindingly obvious to an Emanator of her caliber. Subtle at first, then increasingly frantic.
"How curious. Traces of Destruction energy leaking through." She analyzes the golden wisps seeping through the crack, her head tilted like a scientist observing an unexpected reaction. "The Stellaron responding to perceived threat to its host, perhaps?"
But closer inspection reveals something else intertwined with the golden energy—something that makes her breath catch, a rare moment of genuine surprise.
"That's—"
A surge of power pulses from within the ice, cutting off her thought. The fractures multiply, but not in any natural pattern. The ice seems to glitch, shifting between different configurations of cracks simultaneously, as if cycling through probability states. Mathematics made visible, equations solving themselves in crystal.
"Path Interplay," she whispers, genuine awe coloring her voice, the mask of detached scientific interest slipping.
The ice vibrates, its very structure fluctuating between countless variations—testing, searching, calculating the optimal configuration for structural failure. The cracks aren't spreading randomly; they're being deliberately engineered by a consciousness manipulating probability itself.
"Remarkable." The Herta doesn't back away despite the danger. Scientific curiosity overwhelms self-preservation. "Destruction and Finality working in tandem. Not simulated—actual Path Interplay happening before my eyes."
"Madame!" Fourth Mirror's voice rises in alarm, its surface rippling violently. "Step back!"
Shadowy hands pour from the depths of all four mirrors, reaching to contain the destabilizing prison, but The Herta barely notices, entranced by the phenomenon before her. Her key-shaped staff materializes with barely a thought, lifting her several meters backward just as the ice shatters.
An explosion of purple and golden light erupts, repelling the shadow hands like leaves in a hurricane. She watches, utterly transfixed, as the man collapses to the stained glass floor, gasping and coughing. Frost melts from his form, dissipating in motes of blue light like luminescent fireflies dancing away into nothingness.
Xander drags himself to his hands and knees, movements shaky but determined. Then slowly—achingly slowly—he raises his head. The Herta feels a jolt of fascination as their eyes meet across the space between them. His irises burn gold at their centers, but now ringed with glowing purple—the visual manifestation of the paths flowing through him. His expression is transformed: gone is the confusion and fear that had defined him before. What faces her now is defiance and barely contained rage.
This isn't the same man she encased in ice minutes ago. This is someone—something—else. Something that shouldn't exist in her understanding of the cosmos.
"Now this," The Herta says, a delighted smile spreading across her face as she leans forward on her floating staff, "is truly worth my attention."
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Freezing energy crackles across his skin, lingering like a thousand tiny needles. A ghostly reminder of the stasis field that had encased him only moments before. Around him, four mirrors spin with lazy indifference, casting fractured reflections that multiply his image into an unsettling infinity.
"That was completely unnecessary." The words scrape his throat, emerging in a voice deeper than his own—an edge he barely recognizes.
Herta hovers three feet off the ground, perched atop her key-shaped wand as if it were the most comfortable seat in existence. Not a puppet this time. Not a projection. The real Herta studies him, unmasked fascination dancing behind those calculating eyes.
He rubs at his arms, trying to chase away the lingering chill. "I don't appreciate being turned into a damned popsicle, of all things." Fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. "Especially after being responsible for helping save your own space station from the Antimatter Legion."
Purple-hued emptiness surrounds them—a dimensional pocket, a space between spaces. Time stretches here, bends. No exit in sight. No witnesses. Just the two of them locked in their dangerous dance of words and wills.
"Such hostility from someone in your position." Herta taps a slender finger against her chin, utterly unfazed. Her violet eyes never leave his face, studying every micro-expression. "You remain remarkably uncooperative despite the clear security risks you represent."
Her accusation lands like a spark on dry tinder. Heat builds beneath his sternum, crawling up his throat until—
"Then for both our sakes, we should come to a damn agreement and calm the fuck down!" His voice thunders through the dimensionless space, echoing where no echo should exist. "You want answers just as badly as I do!"
His chest heaves with each breath, pulling strange-tasting air into his lungs—metallic, too perfect, wrong somehow.
"I'm not here to do anything to your station, or hurt the people within, or steal your stuff." He paces a tight circle, the mirrors adjusting their orbit to accommodate his movement. "I'm a victim here! And that's—" A bitter laugh escapes him. "That's fine. Shit happens, especially to me. I can live with that."
Something shifts in Herta's expression—so subtle he almost misses it. Interest? Amusement? Hard to tell with someone who's lived long enough to perfect her poker face.
"But I can't help you if you won't even let me make my case." He stops pacing, meets her gaze directly. "I'm worth more as an investment than a lab experiment to be contained."
The energy from the two Paths he'd been channeling fades—the golden light of destruction and something else, something darker. He thumps his chest hard enough to hurt.
"I'm of more value to you alive and not confined to a room." The declaration hangs in the empty space between them. "I know as much, and I can prove it."
Silence stretches. One of the mirrors—the second?—catches non-existent light, glinting as it rotates.
Herta tilts her head, ash-brown hair cascading over one shoulder. "Go on."
The mirrors pick up speed, their rotation no longer lazy but deliberate. Watching. Recording.
"Why am I to trust you," she asks, voice dropping an octave, all pretense of casualness vanishing, "when you know things you should not know?" A pause. "And also, I'd like to know exactly who I'm talking to."
The implication hangs heavy between them. She knows. Somehow, she knows he's not exactly... himself.
"I just know." The words tumble out before he can consider them properly. "There are gaps in my memory that just... exist. Unexplained."
His shoulders tense under her unblinking scrutiny.
"I know where I am, even though I'm not from here. I know who you are, your identity, and those of many personnel within the space station." Words pour out faster now. "I know of the Astral Express and their mission. I understand how crazy it sounds that I'm holding a Stellaron inside myself."
The First Mirror pauses directly before him, reflecting his face—familiar yet wrong, like someone else wearing his skin.
"How I got here, how I ended up in this place—" He runs a hand through his hair, fingernails digging into his scalp. "It completely escapes me. If you need proof my memories were altered, you're welcome to enlist the Garden of Recollection to run tests."
Herta scoffs, the harsh sound jarring from her elegant form.
"While that's a possible avenue..." She slides off her floating wand, landing without sound on the non-existent floor. "If I'm to believe you, you should be more than aware that I wouldn't like you being taken away and your memories snatched in bad faith by the most radical factions of the garden."
She steps closer, invading his space with the confidence of someone who fears absolutely nothing.
"You're the Unanswerable Question," she whispers, the words carrying the weight of revelation. "And that in itself makes you a target to them."
The title strikes something deep within him. The Unanswerable Question. Why does it sound right? Why does it feel like putting on a perfectly tailored glove?
"The Memosnatchers would tear you apart piece by piece to understand why Nous gazed upon you." Herta circles him slowly, her footsteps silent in the void. "They'd extract every memory, every thought, every moment you spent in the presence of an Aeon."
His blood runs cold. "I don't remember meeting any Aeon."
"And yet here you stand, channeling two different Paths with no seeming philosophical connection between them." Her hand hovers near his chest, not quite touching but close enough that he feels the static charge of her proximity. "Tell me, how many others can claim such a feat?"
"I'm not your enemy, Herta." His voice steadies as he finds his footing in the argument. "I'm a curiosity, sure. An anomaly worth studying. But if you treat me like a specimen, you'll never learn what I can offer freely."
The Third Mirror slides between them, its surface rippling like disturbed water.
"And what exactly can you offer that I can't simply take?" Challenge glints in her eyes, razor-sharp.
"Cooperation." He straightens his spine. "Data willingly given is always more valuable than that which is extracted by force. You know this." A half-smile tugs at his lips. "It's why you use those puppets instead of compelling attendance at your lectures."
The Fourth Mirror spins faster, almost blurring.
"I propose a partnership. You help me understand what happened to me—why I have these gaps, why I'm here, why I'm hosting a Stellaron—and I help you with your research. Willingly." He spreads his hands. "No restraints needed."
Herta's expression remains unreadable for several heartbeats. Then, slowly, the corners of her mouth curl upward.
"You," she says, "are either the most dangerous entity to ever enter my station, or the most valuable."
"Then we're at an impasse." The words taste bitter on his tongue as they hang in the dimensionless space.
A huff escapes him—something between a laugh and a sigh. "I'm reckless, but not stupid enough to lie to a damn Emanator of Erudition to her face, while standing in her own turf." His shoulders drop, tension bleeding out with the admission. "What would I gain from that? Nothing."
Herta's eyes narrow, calculations running behind that perfect mask. "And what would you like to gain? What do you want to do next if I decide to listen to your plea instead of sealing you within the station for my own study?"
"The truth." No hesitation. "I want to learn how I got here. And I need to find..."
A flash hits him—crimson hair cascading over pale shoulders, wine-colored eyes piercing through defenses. A knife strapped to a leg, fishnet stockings, blue-tinted glasses pushed carelessly atop silver hair. A mechanical suit with ember-hot joints. A man with long dark blue hair tipped in red, his eyes holding centuries of pain.
The fragments slip through his mental grasp like water between fingers.
"Someone." His voice drops to a whisper. "People who have answers. They're out there, and I feel it in my gut—I need to help the Express if I want to find them."
"Who's 'them'?"
His heart pounds against his ribs. "The Stellaron Hunters."
Herta raises a perfect eyebrow, the first genuine surprise cracking her facade. "That would somewhat explain the whispers of Finality I sensed earlier." She circles closer, her heels making no sound on the non-floor. "Though it doesn't fully explain why them of all people. Care to elaborate?"
"I don't know."
"You don't know or won't tell?"
"I genuinely don't." Frustration builds behind his eyes, a pressure that threatens to split his skull. "Whenever I try to collect my memories, they—"
Pain lances through his head—white-hot needles drilling from the inside out. He doubles over, vision blurring into smears of purple and silver. Deep inside, something pulses in response to his suffering. The Stellaron. He reaches for it instinctively, drawing on its power. Golden warmth floods his system, soothing the agony, sealing whatever had threatened to break open.
"Are you sure you haven't been subject to attack from Memosnatchers?" Herta asks, unmoved by his display.
"How would I even—" He straightens with effort, irritation sharpening his voice. "How would I even be able to answer that? Do you not understand the problem here?" Exhaustion pulls at his limbs, the pain receding but leaving him hollow. "If my memories were tampered with, I'd be the last to know."
"Hm... true. Idiotic question in retrospect." With a flourish of her hand, the mirrors cease their rotation, hanging motionless in the purple void. "In any case, how might you be of interest to me? Make your case."
The opening feels both generous and dangerous. He spreads his arms wide, a salesman's gesture that doesn't quite match the desperation in his eyes.
"You have the perfect guinea pig right in front of you." His lips curve into something not quite a smile. "I'm your perfect research project—the one you won't get bored with anytime soon."
"Hm..." She hums, tapping her finger against her wand. "Go on."
"One, I'm the perfect test subject for the Simulated Universe." He takes a step forward, watching for any sign she might withdraw. "I'll be your guinea pig. I'll go inside that thing and help you gain information on the Aeons."
"How do you expect to accomplish what others cannot?" She circles him like a predator considering its prey. "I could enter the Simulated Universe myself, like I've done many times before, or find countless other volunteers."
"You know how Aeons operate when interacting with day-to-day sentient species." He matches her gaze unflinchingly. "They ignore them. Sans Nous and Aha, because they're cosmic trolls, the rest will likely ignore you too. You're of no interest in the eyes of the other Aeons." He pauses, a half-smile touching his lips. "No matter how beautiful and genius-like you are."
A chuckle escapes her—almost genuine. "The compliments are welcome but won't do anything for me if you're trying to gain favor that way."
"I'm merely stating facts. Not trying to compliment you, sorry."
Her expression hardens. "Continue."
"As I was saying, you won't be enough to gain their full interest within the simulation." He taps his temple. "I bet neither you nor Screwllum made any compromises when coding the underlying logic and behavior of the universe. Your simulated Aeons are meant to behave just like the real ones."
That's how the Simulated Universe was supposed to operate. The thought emerges with startling clarity. It's a streamlined and customized version of how this world works, but it functions just like the real thing. Aeons have no concept of free will and usually ignore everyone, only caring about their destined Path. Why would they act differently in the simulation?
"And what makes you so special?" She steps close enough that he can smell her—not perfume, but something deeper, like ozone and ancient books. "What makes you think Aeons would deign to notice you?"
His heart pounds against his ribs. The truth hovers on his tongue, dangerous and uncertain. What does make him different? The Stellaron? The fact that Herta called him "The Unanswerable Question"? The whispers of Finality she claims to sense?
"I don't know," he admits, watching disappointment flicker across her face. "But I'm different enough that you locked me in a dimensional pocket rather than a regular cell. Different enough that you're here in person instead of sending a puppet." He gestures to the space around them. "Different enough that you're listening instead of dissecting."
Herta's lips purse, neither confirming nor denying.
"Let me try," he presses. "What's the worst that happens? The Aeons ignore me too, and you're no worse off than before. But if they don't—if they speak to me—imagine what you could learn."
The First Mirror drifts closer to Herta, its surface rippling like liquid mercury. She runs a finger along its edge, considering.
"And if I agree? What else might you offer besides being my... test subject?"
He licks his lips, mind racing. The Stellaron pulses within him, a reminder of his unique position. "Information about the Stellaron. Data on how it behaves inside a stable host. No one else can offer you that."
His fingertips tingle with strange anticipation as the idea forms—brilliant, audacious, perhaps even irresistible to someone like her.
"Think about this." He taps the center of his chest where the Stellaron pulses beneath skin and bone. "What if a hypothetical person—me—hosting a seed that could be traced back to Nanook himself, entered your simulated universe?"
Herta's expression doesn't change, but her eyes sharpen like a predator scenting blood.
"What if," he continues, gaining momentum, "you changed the simulation's parameters? Set my identity within the universe to that of Akivili, the Aeon of the Trailblaze. What are the chances the other Aeons would interact with me then?"
Herta's eyes narrow, a spark of understanding flickering in their depths. One of her mirrors—the Third?—turns its reflective surface directly toward him, capturing every microexpression.
"Consider it." He leans forward, voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Aeons ignore most beings, but they might speak to one of their own. With me as your test subject, you gain insights into Aeonic nature through their interactions with a perceived peer. You could learn things no one else has discovered while simultaneously studying a stable Stellaron host."
The Fourth Mirror spins faster, betraying Herta's interest despite her carefully controlled expression.
"And you benefit how, exactly?" she asks, voice deliberately neutral.
"Two birds, one stone." He spreads his hands. "Path interplay and my missing memories. I don't understand how I channeled two Paths simultaneously just now. I shouldn't be able to do that." A tremor runs through his voice—genuine confusion breaking through his confident facade. "And these gaps in my knowledge—they're maddening. I know things I shouldn't know, yet can't remember how I got here."
His chest tightens, panic threatening to rise again. The Stellaron pulses in response, ready to soothe away the fear with golden light. He forces himself to breathe.
"We might not find all the answers, but working together increases our chances." He meets her gaze squarely. "I stay close, you get your data, and maybe—just maybe—we both get what we want."
A smile curves Herta's perfect lips. "You said 'attached to my hip,' yet you're also asking for freedom beyond this station. Explain that contradiction."
"I have an arrangement in mind." His heart hammers against his ribs. This is the gamble—the true proposal. "One where you stand to gain far more than I do."
"I'm listening."
"Let me join the Nameless—the Astral Express crew." He watches her face carefully for any reaction. "Through the Space Anchor network, I'll return weekly without fail to enter your Simulated Universe. I'll face its hordes of enemies repeatedly, giving you data not just on me, but on Aeonic interactions."
She opens her mouth to speak, but he raises a hand, surprising them both with his boldness.
"And while I'm here," he continues, discomfort crawling up his spine at what he's about to offer, "you can run whatever experiments you require. Within reason."
The First Mirror drifts closer, its silver surface distorting his reflection—stretching his features into something unrecognizable.
"There's more," he adds after giving her a moment to process. "While here, I'll serve as your assistant. I'll help Asta and Arlan with whatever they need. Your personal errand boy, ready for any job. They can report directly to you about my activities—another way to verify I'm keeping my word."
Herta's eyes widen slightly—the first genuine surprise he's seen crack her composure. "You're willing to go that far?"
He nods, expression grave. "As long as you continue to help me, I'll stay true to my word."
She leans back, eyes narrowed in thought. He can almost see the calculations happening behind that penetrating gaze, the probabilities being weighed and measured.
"There's just one thing," she says finally. "Why would I need you as my errand boy, as you so eloquently put it? I have hundreds of dolls that can do my bidding."
A laugh escapes him—sharp, almost bitter. "Don't take me for stupid, Herta. We both know you're above menial tasks, you and all your dolls included. Every single one works on separate innovative research projects, pushing science's boundaries while managing IPC politics."
He takes a breath, warming to his argument. "I could say the same for Asta and Arlan. One keeps this station afloat while the other safeguards it. Neither should handle what I'm proposing to take on." A pause, hands spread in supplication. "And if my credibility is in question, how about a trial run? You lose nothing by giving me a shot."
She digests this, head tilted. "And what do you want in return? Freedom is clearly just your opening bid."
"I want money," he admits, watching her expression sour. "But only as a byproduct of what I truly want—access to you."
Her eyebrow arches dangerously high.
"Access to your knowledge," he clarifies hastily, a flush creeping up his neck. "If I'm joining the Express, I need information about this universe. With my memory gaps, I'd be flying blind otherwise."
The purple energy surrounding them pulses, matching his heartbeat.
"I vow to be reasonable," he continues. "Grant me credits and resources for my journey, and I promise not to squander them. We both know you've got funds to last centuries even if you spend recklessly."
"What guarantee do I have you won't simply disappear after our first exchange?" Herta asks, twirling her key-wand between elegant fingers. "Or that this Stellaron won't suddenly destabilize?"
The question is logical, expected. "The Stellaron is sealed properly—it's not corrupting me. As for disappearing..." He hesitates, searching for words. "I need your help as much as you want my data. Running wouldn't serve either of us."
Finally, he extends his hand. "Do we have a deal?"
Herta scoffs, eyeing his outstretched palm. "How archaic."
Yet she crosses the short distance between them. Her hand is cool and smooth when it clasps his—power thrumming beneath that delicate skin.
Her smile turns curious as she peers into his face. "The purple glow around your irises is fading. Will we speak like this again?"
A heaviness settles in his bones. He understands her meaning perfectly—knows that something has taken control of this body, something separate from Alexander Salvatore. Perhaps a fragment of memory that escaped tampering, perhaps something else entirely.
"It's unlikely," he admits, feeling the power of Finality slipping away, draining from him like water through cupped hands.
"Will you remember our conversation? Can I trust you'll be true to your word?"
"I'll remember," he says, the words slurring slightly as control begins to slip. "Just expect me to be... difficult about it."
She smiles again, genuine amusement lighting her features. "I'll have such fun figuring things out."
He frowns, looking down at their still-joined hands, then back up at her face. Some final spark of defiance propels the last words from his lips: "I won't."
The purple light fades completely, and his consciousness unravels at the edges. His body goes limp, strings cut from a puppet. Before he can hit the floor, Herta's key-wand catches him, lowering him gently to the ground.
His final thought before darkness claims him is that he's just made a deal with someone far more dangerous than any devil.
———————————————
The Herta doll tilts her head—precisely 15 degrees, not a fraction more—as she examines the equipment Arlan lays out before her. Her movements carry that uncanny mechanical efficiency that's almost human, but not quite. Purple eyes scan each item, cataloging, cross-referencing specs against The Herta's exacting requirements. The security chief handles everything with careful, almost reverent motions. As he should, really, in the presence of The Herta's representatives, even if they're just puppets with borrowed consciousness.
"Custom-built to exact specifications," Arlan says, unfolding a tactical harness made of some midnight-black material that seems to swallow light. He smooths a wrinkle with his thumb. "Engineering pulled shifts out of who knows where to complete it. Wouldn't take no for an answer."
The doll's internal processors calculate material failure probability under stress: 0.0087%. Acceptable. Her joints click softly—a sound no human engineer has ever managed to eliminate—as she extends one slender hand to touch the fabric. It's a gesture unnecessary for data collection but programmed to mirror human curiosity, a small theater of humanness.
"And the weapons?" she asks, voice calibrated to match The Herta's distinctive cadence, though it lacks the warmth that occasionally slips into the original's speech.
Arlan unlatches the suitcase with practiced motions of a man who's handled dangerous items all his life. "Top-tier. Maximum damage output with current station technology." He hesitates, just a fraction of a second. "Modified energy consumption to accommodate... unusual power sources."
How delightfully vague. The doll's lips curl into a smile that doesn't quite reach her eyes. Behind Arlan, the security personnel shift their weight from one foot to another. They've heard whispers about the new "guest" and what lurks inside him. Fascinating how quickly humans generate hypotheses with insufficient data. So inefficient, yet oddly creative.
"And the curio? Code: 139?" Each syllable emerges with precise articulation, the question hanging in the air.
"Neuromorphic Armament, yes." Arlan nods, revealing a sleek metallic object nestled in specialized housing. "It's here."
The doll's eyes flicker with increased luminosity—a programmed response to prioritized information, like a computer's indicator light. "Did Engineering manage to conduct tests using the subject's samples?"
Arlan's expression tightens almost imperceptibly. A muscle in his jaw twitches. "They were... reluctant to comment beyond confirming it will channel the power of destruction within your specified parameters."
Interesting evasion. Engineers typically overflow with technical details, proud of their work. Fear or fascination? The doll calculates: likely both. She logs this reaction for later analysis, another data point for The Herta's consumption.
"Excellent work," she says, the words emerging without genuine appreciation. "The Herta will be pleased with your efficiency." She accepts the suitcase, balancing its considerable weight perfectly despite her diminutive frame. The second doll, silent until now, gathers the battle attire, their movements synchronized to maintain optimal spacing. "You're dismissed."
The personnel retreat with visible relief washing over their faces. Humans and their transparent emotions—so easily read, so easily manipulated. The doll waits until they've turned the corner, footsteps fading, before pressing her palm to the office door's sensor.
Inside, the contrast between the sterile office environment and the primal scene before her registers as a 78.3% contextual anomaly. The subject—Alexander Salvatore—kneels shirtless on the floor, fingernails digging deep enough into his own shoulders to draw blood. Not droplets, but rivulets that run down his back. The crimson liquid evaporates almost instantly, golden particles briefly visible before dissipating into nothing.
Efficiency of Stellaron healing: remarkable. The doll's optical sensors capture multiple frames per second, documenting the process for The Herta's ever-growing archives. Subject's body temperature: elevated 2.4 degrees above baseline human norms. Respiration: erratic, suggesting psychological distress.
"Your equipment has arrived," she announces, voice modulated to project throughout the room without shouting. "I suggest you suit up, unless you intend to renege on your agreement." A calculated provocation to assess reaction patterns, fishing for data.
The subject's muscles tense under his skin like steel cables. When he turns to face her, his eyes burn with an intensity that her sensors register as potentially threatening. Hate. Disgust. Fear masked by anger. All expected responses, yet their magnitude exceeds projected parameters by 17%.
"That wasn't me who said those words to you." His voice vibrates with suppressed emotion, rough at the edges.
The doll places the suitcase down with a deliberate click against the floor tiles. "And yet, they came straight from your own mouth." She arranges her features into The Herta's signature smirk—that expression of knowing more than you ever will. "Whatever spoke through you did you a favor. You're no longer confined to the station. You'll be joining the Astral Express."
She observes micro-expressions crossing his face—confusion, horror, resignation—each lasting milliseconds before being swallowed by the next. Fascinating.
"The Herta has already relayed her assurances to the Navigator." The doll's words flow with mechanical precision. "After your interview, you'll become a member of the renowned Nameless, with privileged access to the station and Madame Herta herself." She gestures toward the equipment with a too-smooth sweep of her arm. "I suggest you pick yourself up and, as you men typically phrase it, 'man up.' Unless you prefer containment in a cell for study."
The second doll arranges the battle attire in a precise display, then opens the suitcase with synchronized motions to reveal an array of weapons nestled in custom-fitted foam. Her movements lack the subtle imperfections of genuine human action—too perfect, too planned.
"Highest class of Relics and weapons, more than sufficient for your journey." She runs one finger along the edge of the Neuromorphic Armament, the gesture rehearsed to appear casual. "The curio is a gift from Madame Herta herself. You should be grateful."
His breathing changes—deeper, more controlled. The doll's threat assessment subroutines activate automatically, preparing response scenarios.
"Get out." His words emerge as a low growl, rumbling from somewhere deep in his chest.
The doll tilts her head, recording the tonal shift. "That attitude will be your demise, guinea pig."
"GET THE FUCK OUT!"
The volume spike triggers automatic protection protocols. A thousand calculations run simultaneously through her processing units. Physical threat: minimal given subject's current state. Probability of Stellaron activation: 37.2% and rising. Risk to doll integrity: acceptable. Risk to The Herta's property: unacceptable.
She exchanges a glance with her counterpart. Silent data transmission confirms mutual assessment. Strategic withdrawal indicated.
"As you wish." The doll's lips form a tight smile, plastic and artificial. "Though tantrums rarely impress Madame Herta."
They move toward the door in perfect unison, steps measured to convey dismissive confidence rather than retreat. The door slides open with a soft pneumatic hiss, then closes behind them, sealing away the scene.
Just before it shuts completely, her audio sensors detect his whispered words, barely audible: "Is this my penance, God?"
Curious. The doll logs this data point alongside her other observations. Religious sentiment indicates potential psychological leverage point. The real Herta will find this detail particularly interesting—another fracture line in their new test subject's psyche to exploit.
She signals her counterpart with an imperceptible nod, and they begin walking in perfect synchronization down the corridor. Puppet bodies, extensions of a singular will. Unlike the broken man behind them, fighting whatever has taken residence inside his flesh.
The doll's purple eyes flicker with something that might almost be mistaken for pity, if puppets could feel such things. But The Herta hasn't programmed that particular subroutine into this model.
Not yet, anyway.
———————————————
Steam hissed from the Astral Express's ventilation systems—a gentle, rhythmic sound mingling with the distant electronic hum of the Herta Space Station. Himeko leaned against the railing overlooking the docking bay, one hand absently twisting a strand of crimson hair as she watched the maintenance drones complete their pre-departure checks. Her expression remained calm, practiced, but beneath it her thoughts churned with the weight of the decision before them.
The Express gleamed under the station's lights, its sleek silver exterior catching and reflecting the stars visible through the massive viewport beyond. Beautiful and mysterious, like so much in this universe. Himeko's gaze drifted to the three figures standing near the boarding ramp—her crew, her family, engaged in quiet conversation while they awaited her final word.
"It just doesn't sit right," Dan Heng was saying, his voice carrying across the empty platform, lance casually propped against his shoulder. "We know almost nothing about him. Nothing concrete."
March 7th shook her head, clutching her camera to her chest like a talisman. "But we saw what he did against the Doomsday Beast! He saved us when he could've just saved himself!"
Welt Yang adjusted his glasses with a practiced motion, his expression thoughtful beneath the silver hair that fell across his forehead. "Both points have merit. Which is precisely why this warrants careful consideration rather than a hasty decision."
Himeko pushed away from the railing and made her way toward them, her heels clicking rhythmically against the metal flooring—a sound that somehow always made her feel more in control. All three turned at her approach, their faces expectant, waiting for guidance she wasn't entirely sure she could provide.
"Have you decided, Himeko?" March asked, her eyes bright with hope, bouncing slightly on her toes.
Himeko tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, buying herself a moment to gather her thoughts. "I've spoken with Herta privately about my concerns." She folded her arms, remembering the sorceress's peculiar mannerisms during their discussion, the way her eyes had gleamed with that dangerous scientific curiosity. "Not just anyone can join the Nameless. The responsibility is... considerable."
"Especially given the access they'd have to Space Anchors," Welt noted, his tone grave, hands clasped behind his back. "That alone requires absolute trust."
Himeko nodded, recalling Herta's dismissive confidence during their conversation. The memory surfaced with crystal clarity—too clear, really, as most unpleasant memories tend to be.
"You worry too much, Navigator," Herta had said with a careless wave of her scepter, perched atop it like it was the most natural seat in the universe. "He's of no danger to the Astral Express. We've entered an agreement where security guarantees are a given."
"What kind of agreement?" Himeko had pressed, not satisfied with vague assurances from someone whose moral compass was questionable at best.
"He's to be my guinea pig in the exploration of certain topics I can't disclose given their sensitive nature." Herta's eyes had gleamed with that familiar spark that always made Himeko's skin crawl. "If he decides to go against you or pose trouble, he's by default going against his word to me. And the least someone would like is a pissed Emanator, especially me, gunning for them."
Himeko frowned at the memory. Herta's cavalier attitude toward what was essentially holding someone's life hostage didn't sit well with her, but she understood the pragmatic necessity of having some leverage. The universe rarely offered clean solutions.
"His memories have been altered," Herta had continued, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. "Whether he was a victim of Memosnatchers, the most dangerous faction from the Garden of Recollection, or it was altered through other means, I can't say for sure. But I wasn't able to detect dishonesty in his words during my questioning."
"That doesn't mean he's trustworthy," Himeko had countered, arms folded across her chest. "Just that he believes what he's saying."
Herta had laughed at that—that musical laugh that somehow never reached her eyes. "Think of him as a man desperate for answers about the source of his current circumstances and incredibly willing to cooperate to gain them. Plus, he's got a leash on him, and it's yours to use. I just warn you the dog may bark and bite if pushed too hard, but you shouldn't have any trouble keeping it in line."
That last part still made Himeko's stomach turn. The casual dehumanization, referring to a person as a dog on a leash—it was exactly the kind of cold calculation that made her wary of Herta's methods, even when she understood their efficacy.
"Herta believes he's not a threat," Himeko said carefully, returning to the present conversation. "At least not to us. His memories have been altered somehow, which explains the gaps in his knowledge and his disorientation."
"Memory alteration?" March's eyes widened, and Himeko could see the immediate connection forming in her mind—the dots connecting. "Like me?"
"Possibly," Himeko admitted, softening her voice. "Though the circumstances appear quite different."
March clutched her camera tighter, knuckles whitening slightly. "Then we have to help him! I know what it's like to wake up without knowing who you are or where you came from." Her voice dropped, suddenly vulnerable. "The Nameless always help people. That's what we do. And he helped us against the Legion, even when he was confused and scared."
Himeko felt a rush of affection for March. Her capacity for compassion, even after everything she'd been through, never ceased to amaze her. Sometimes Himeko wondered if they could all learn something from that innocence—if it was innocence at all, rather than a kind of wisdom they'd lost along the way.
"Dan?" Himeko turned to the young man, his lance resting against his shoulder, eyes distant as always. "What do you think?"
Dan Heng looked away, discomfort evident in the set of his shoulders, the way his fingers tightened around his weapon. "I'm not sure my opinion should carry much weight here."
"Nonsense," Himeko said firmly. "Your voice matters as much as anyone's on this crew. We all make decisions together."
He hesitated, then sighed—a sound heavy with things unsaid. "It's a risk, given his unknown background and the power he displayed." His eyes met Himeko's, a rare moment of directness from the usually reserved young man. "But so was I. And yet, you and Welt accepted me, allowed me to become a member of the Nameless despite my past."
Himeko nodded, understanding the weight behind his words. Dan Heng rarely referenced his history with the Xianzhou Alliance, and she wouldn't press him for details he wasn't ready to share. His trust in them was hard-won, and she valued it immensely.
"Welt?" she turned to the animator, whose brow was furrowed in thought, one finger absently tapping against his arm.
Welt adjusted his glasses, a habit Himeko had come to recognize as a sign of his unease. "I don't entirely trust his story. Some elements of his circumstances don't add up." He crossed his arms, expression serious. "How did he arrive at the space station unannounced? How is he somehow a ghost in both the station records and those of the IPC?"
He began to pace, his analytical mind clearly working through the problem like it was one of his animation sequences, examining each frame for errors. "It's not unheard of for people to come from planets where the IPC doesn't have a presence. Rare, but not impossible." He stopped, turning back to face them. "But given everything that happened and how it coincided with the attack of the Antimatter Legion, I can't help but be wary."
Himeko was about to respond when movement at the far end of the platform caught her attention. The subject of their discussion had arrived, escorted by two Herta dolls—those unsettling puppets with their too-perfect smiles. Xander looked... different. Gone was the disoriented man they'd rescued from the station. In his place stood someone with a hardened expression, dressed in combat attire that seemed to have been custom-created for him.
He now donned a dark coat that fell just below his knees, black with light gold triangular patterns running across it, ending in two separated coattails that moved with each step. Underneath, he wore a black zippered turtleneck beneath a midnight black vest with subtle zigzag patterns that caught the light. A well-fitted shoulder holster contained what appeared to be two heavy handguns on each side—not standard IPC issue from what Himeko could tell. Charcoal gray fingerless gloves, black pants, and dark combat boots covered by dark gaiters completed the ensemble.
The tension in his body was evident even from a distance, his fists clenched at his sides as he approached. The Herta dolls flanked him like sentinels, their perpetual smiles at odds with the gravity of the moment.
"Speak of the devil," Welt murmured, straightening his posture.
March bounced on her toes, looking eager to greet their potential new companion, but Dan placed a restraining hand on her shoulder. Himeko appreciated his caution—they needed to approach this carefully, step by step.
As Xander and his mechanical escorts reached them, one of the Herta dolls stepped forward, its porcelain features fixed in an eerily cheerful expression that never quite reached its glassy eyes.
"Navigator Himeko," it said in that too-perfect imitation of Herta's voice, "Madam Herta leaves the subject to your whims. She looks forward to a full report on his progress."
The doll turned to Xander, its smile widening imperceptibly. "She awaits your return soon, as agreed upon. Don't forget our arrangement."
Xander's jaw tightened, his fists clenching harder, but he offered no response. The doll seemed delighted by his silence, releasing a small, musical laugh before turning away. Both dolls departed in perfect synchronization, leaving an uncomfortable silence in their wake.
Himeko studied Xander carefully. The tension in his shoulders, the carefully controlled expression, the way his eyes darted between all four of them, assessing—this was a man on edge, perhaps even afraid, but working hard not to show it. She recognized that look. She'd worn it herself more than once.
"Welcome, Xander," she said, breaking the silence. "We were just discussing your potential role on the Astral Express."
His eyes met hers, wary but direct. "Have you reached a verdict?"
"Not yet," Himeko replied. "There are things we need to understand first. About you, and about what joining us would mean."
She gestured toward a small seating area near the viewport, positioned to give a breathtaking view of the cosmos beyond the station. "Let's talk there. This might take some time."
Xander nodded stiffly and followed them to the cluster of comfortable chairs. Himeko took a seat opposite him, with Welt beside her and March and Dan flanking them. The arrangement wasn't intended to be intimidating, but she noticed Xander's eyes tracking each movement, cataloging potential threats and escape routes. A survival instinct, deeply ingrained—not something you learn overnight.
"I'll be direct," Himeko began, crossing one leg over the other. "You've asked to join our crew, to become one of the Nameless and travel with us on the Astral Express. But I need to understand what you're seeking from this arrangement."
Xander leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. "I need answers. About the Stellaron inside me, about how I ended up here." His voice was controlled, measured, like someone used to hiding pain. "Herta believes you can help me find those answers."
"And what do you offer in return?" Welt asked, his tone neutral but probing.
Xander's gaze shifted to the animator. "I'll serve wherever needed. I have combat experience, though I can't tell you its source." A flash of frustration crossed his face. "I'm adaptable, quick to learn new skills." His mouth quirked in what might have been an attempt at humor. "And apparently, I have a Stellaron that seems to boost my abilities somehow."
"The Stellaron is precisely what concerns us," Himeko said, leaning forward slightly. "We've encountered them before, and they're not typically... compatible with human hosts. The fact that you've stabilized is remarkable, but it also raises questions."
Xander nodded, a strand of dark hair falling across his forehead. "I understand your caution. I wouldn't trust me either."
March leaned forward, her expression earnest, hands clasped together. "I didn't have any memories when they found me either. Just woke up frozen in six-phased ice, no idea who I was or where I came from." Her smile was gentle, encouraging—the kind of smile that could melt glaciers. "They took me in anyway."
"That was different," Dan said quietly, fingers drumming against his lance. "We found you. You didn't appear mysteriously during a Legion attack."
Himeko watched Xander's reaction carefully. There was a flicker of something—recognition, perhaps—at the mention of the Legion, but it was quickly suppressed.
"Let me explain what becoming a Nameless means," Himeko said, redirecting the conversation. "It's not simply about joining our crew or traveling on the Express. It comes with significant responsibilities and powers derived from Akivili, the Aeon of the Trailblaze."
Xander's expression remained neutral, but she could see his interest sharpening, his posture straightening almost imperceptibly.
"The Nameless are followers of Akivili's path," Welt continued, his voice taking on the measured cadence he used when teaching. "We maintain and repair the Star Rail network that connects worlds across the cosmos. We deal with threats like Stellarons when they appear, helping to safeguard the future of interstellar travel and communication."
"Most importantly," Himeko added, "as a Nameless, you would gain access to Space Anchors—a privilege few in the cosmos possess."
"Space Anchors?" Xander asked, his brow furrowing slightly, creating small lines between his eyes.
Dan shifted, his lance resting across his knees. "They're manifestations of Akivili's power, though they appear as technological devices. They allow for near-instantaneous travel between worlds connected by the Star Rail network."
"Think of them as nodes," Himeko explained, slipping into her more comfortable role as an educator. "They maintain the integrity of the pathways between worlds. Without active Space Anchors, those paths would collapse, isolating entire planets from the cosmic community."
"The power to use them isn't granted lightly," Welt said, his tone serious. "Each Nameless can only extend access to a limited number of individuals, based on their connection to the Trailblaze. It's a matter of cosmic security."
Xander nodded slowly, taking in the information. "I assume there are rules about their use?"
"Extensive ones," Himeko confirmed, brushing a piece of lint from her sleeve. "Every jump requires proper clearance—sometimes from local authorities, sometimes based on range limitations. You can't simply appear wherever you want, even with the ability to use the anchors."
"The restrictions exist for good reason," Dan added, some of his usual reserve melting away as he warmed to the topic. "Imagine a world fractured by civil tensions. Two factions, each accusing the other of seeking outside help. Then suddenly someone appears using a Space Anchor in their capital. That unauthorized arrival could collapse months of negotiations."
"Or worse," Welt interjected, leaning forward. "A rogue Nameless could exploit their access to steal something invaluable, unleash chaos, and vanish to the far reaches of the cosmos before anyone could mount a response."
"The Path of the Trailblaze connects the cosmos," Himeko concluded. "But that connection needs rules, and the responsibility of following them falls to the Nameless."
Xander was silent for a moment, processing this information. "And you trust me with this power?" His voice carried a note of disbelief. "A man who can't even tell you where he came from or how he got here?"
"That's what we're trying to determine," Himeko said honestly. "Herta believes your memory alterations are genuine, not deception. But we need to understand more about you before we can make that judgment."
"What do you want to know?" Xander asked, his posture still tense but his voice steady.
"What can you tell us about yourself?" March asked gently, leaning closer like a child at storytime. "Anything you remember, even if it seems small or unimportant."
Xander's eyes dropped to his hands, now resting on his knees. "I remember waking up on the station during the attack. Before that... fragments." He swallowed hard. "A crash. Pain." His brow furrowed with concentration, a vein visible at his temple. "I have skills I can't account for. Combat training, technical knowledge. But I can't tell you where I learned them or why."
Welt leaned forward slightly, his expression thoughtful. "You mentioned fragments of memory. Do any of them include your homeworld?" He tapped his fingers against his knee, as if casually considering. "Many who travel the Star Rail come from worlds like Penacony, Lushaka, or Blue Dome. Some are from less connected places—Talos, Earth, even the more remote sectors near the Salsotto Region."
Himeko noted the casual way Welt had slipped "Earth" into his list, alongside other known worlds. It was an unusual approach for him, but she trusted his judgment in the matter—he rarely did anything without purpose.
Xander's expression remained carefully neutral, though Himeko caught the briefest flicker in his eyes at the mention of Earth—not recognition exactly, but something more complex. Hesitation, perhaps? Uncertainty?
"Nothing clear," he replied after a moment, rubbing his thumb across his knuckles. "Just... impressions. Colors. Sounds. Nothing that forms a complete picture of any place."
Welt studied him for a long moment, then shook his head. "Just checking something. Please, continue."
Xander shifted uncomfortably under the scrutiny. "There's not much else I can offer. I know I want answers. I know I want to understand this power inside me. And I know that the Stellaron Hunters are looking for me, though I don't know why."
"The Stellaron Hunters?" Dan straightened, his grip tightening on his lance, knuckles whitening. "You're certain of this?"
"Herta believes so," Xander replied, tension visible in the line of his jaw. "Something about my appearance on the station coinciding with reported Hunter activity in the sector."
Himeko frowned. The Stellaron Hunters were a mysterious group, their motives and methods largely unknown. If they were indeed targeting Xander, that complicated matters significantly—turned what might have been a simple decision into something with far-reaching consequences.
"One last question," she said, leaning forward slightly. "Why do you want to join us, specifically? There are other ways to seek answers, other paths you could follow."
Xander was quiet for a long moment, his gaze drifting to the viewport and the endless stars beyond. When he spoke, his voice carried a weight that hadn't been there before.
"Because when I woke up, lost and confused, your crew was there. You helped me even though you didn't know me. You fought alongside me." He turned back to face them, his expression open for the first time since he'd arrived. "And because something about the Astral Express feels... right. Like I'm supposed to be here, helping you repair whatever's broken out there."
His hands clenched slightly on his knees. "But I'd be lying if I said I had much choice in the matter. It was either stay at the space station and let Herta dissect me like some lab specimen, or join you with at least a chance of finding answers on my own terms." A bitter smile crossed his face. "Freedom is relative when you're carrying a Stellaron that half the cosmos wants to either study or destroy."
The sincerity in his voice was unmistakable, catching Himeko by surprise. She glanced at her companions, gauging their reactions. March was smiling, clearly moved by his words. Dan's expression had softened slightly, though wariness still lingered in his eyes. Welt remained thoughtful, analytical, but the rigid set of his shoulders had relaxed somewhat.
Himeko made her decision.
"The responsibilities of a Nameless are not to be taken lightly," she said, her voice firm. "You will be expected to uphold the principles of the Trailblaze, to help maintain the Star Rail network, and to use your access to Space Anchors with the utmost care and discretion."
She stood, extending her hand toward him. "If you're willing to accept these responsibilities, to learn our ways and follow our rules, then we welcome you aboard the Astral Express, Xander."
Xander rose to his feet, looking momentarily stunned before composing himself. He took her offered hand, his grip firm but not aggressive.
"Thank you," he said simply. "I won't let you down."
March clapped her hands excitedly, practically bouncing in place. "I knew it! Oh, this is going to be wonderful! I have so much to show you on the Express!" She bounded forward, camera already in hand. "Can I take a picture to commemorate the moment? Your first official day as part of our crew!"
Xander seemed taken aback by her enthusiasm but nodded hesitantly. "I... sure."
Himeko watched as March positioned herself beside Xander, holding her camera out to capture them both in the frame. Dan approached more cautiously, offering a slight nod of acknowledgment that Xander returned. Welt remained slightly apart, still observing, but his stance had lost its defensive edge.
As the camera flashed, Himeko felt the familiar mixture of hope and uncertainty that accompanied the beginning of any journey. Whatever secrets Xander carried, whatever purpose the Stellaron served in bringing him to them, they would face it together—as the Nameless had always done.
The Astral Express hummed behind them, ready for departure, for the next step on the endless Trailblaze through the stars.
每周推薦票狀態
-- 推薦票
榜單 
-- 推薦票