Folie et Déraison
Chapter
So the platonic year
Whirls out new right and wrong,
Whirls in the old instead;
All men are dancers and their tread
Goes to the barbarous clangour of a gong.
W.B. Yeats—Nineteen Hundred and Nineteen
It’s the final days of March, and the daylight hours in Ushuaia are shrinking away.
Past the busy season, the city is faded and quiet. At this moment, in a café at the end of the world, conversation and laughter are sealed within an airtight glass dome.
Recoleta :
- “A few years ago, I worked as a forest ranger at a campsite in Cuernavaca. There, I met a Mexican surrealist poet.”
- “He was especially grateful that I was there. Some animals had wandered into the campground, and I drove them off for him. It wasn’t a big deal, really.”
- “As a token of gratitude, he elucidated this strange story to me—one that happened in a Sonoran Desert town called Amalfitano back in 1975.”
- “The people there adhered to a most unorthodox belief, which centered on the Die of Babylon.”
- “One day, a researcher with a suitcase arrived in town. She came to study their local customs—an unsurprising reason for a learned intellectual to appear in a remote desert settlement.”
(Cafe, Ushuaia)
Recoleta :
- “But little did she know, this dusty old town and its peculiar custom would lead her down an entirely unexpected path—”
Young Woman :
- Hold on. Sorry to interrupt, Recoleta. Does this researcher have a name?
- She could be Nora, Joanna, or Teresa. Any name really. I feel like you want people focusing on the story, not keeping track of who’s who.
Confusion and shock intertwine on the storyteller’s face.
Recoleta :
- Errr, thank you for your advice.
- But she isn’t a Nora, or a Joanna, or a Teresa. She’s just herself.
- A Paracausality Researcher.
Young Man :
- Hahahaha! You see that look? She’s halfway to eating you alive!
- Face it, María. She wouldn’t be the freak we know if she listened to anyone.
Recoleta :
- Ah, alright! So you didn’t like the opening, fine. I’ll come up with something new.
- Maybe I’ll start with a bit of exposition on the Die of Babylon? Beginning with its origins as a secret relic created by an Aztec priest imprisoned by the Conquistadors—
The mysterious die’s origins never get a continuation, as her story is interrupted a second time.
Young Woman :
- I don’t know if that’s going to do much, sister. I’m beginning to think we’ll never figure out what you’re trying to say with this novel.
- And, well, and this isn’t your fault.
Young Man :
- Ay, goodness! Just tell her, María. We’re going back to Buenos Aires!
Recoleta :
- Back to Buenos Aires? All of a sudden, just like that?
- Pancho, María, what’s going on? Did I do something wrong during our travels?
The startled storyteller eyes her companions of the last two months, searching for reasons.
Recoleta :
- Ah, yes, I know what it is. I’ve bored you with my constant rambling over this novel.
Young Woman :
- No, Recoleta. It’s got nothing to do with your novel.
Young Man :
- Don’t you get it? We’re flat broke!
- Why do you think we’re stuck here scrubbing tables?
The man slams his damp washcloth on the table to emphasize his point. His voice breaks the illusion of silence in the café.
Recoleta :
- Because we can’t pay for all the mate we’ve been drinking.
Young Man :
- That wasn’t a question, Recoleta. We’ve crossed the continent, crashed the readings of all those “prestigious poets,” and lived the way a real artist should. And, I admit it, it’s been just as amazing as you promised.
- But we can’t go on living like this.
Young Woman :
- You know that we both care about you. And we believe in your novel, too.
- I’d be lying if I said this journey meant nothing to me. Getting to ride around the continent on a motorcycle like Che Guevara himself? I never could have imagined I’d get the chance to go on an adventure like this. We got to live the dream!
Young Man :
- A real dream, except for those days when the motorcycle broke down. Though that was a real tribute to Che’s journey too.
Young Woman :
- Don’t tease, Pancho.
- Recoleta, since you invited us to join the visceral realists, we’ve both found amazing new ways to channel our inner poetry.
- Even though I still don’t understand what in the world you’re trying to say with your novel, or for that matter, what visceral realism actually is.
Recoleta :
- María, Pancho …
Young Woman :
- You told us not to worry about the definitions, to feel and to live in our words. We did just as you said, and it felt great! But …
She looks out at Ushuaia, feeling a chill.
Snow falls from the dimming sky. The season is shifting. Soon, gray and white will blanket the colorful houses of this desolate land.
Young Woman :
- Now the winter chill is setting in, and the only thing you seem to care about is that little fictional town.
Recoleta :
- …
The storyteller sinks back against their accusations, searching for words.
Recoleta :
- I appreciate your honesty, friends. I was worried the problem was much worse than all that!
- Winter here isn’t as dreadful as you think, and I know just the place to keep us warm!
- It was 1520. Arcanist Ferdinand Magellan sailed across unfamiliar waters under orders from the Spanish crown.
- Over the vast gray sea, he saw spots of light in the distance—an island. He named it Tierra del Fuego.
- For the next 400 years, Ushuaia faithfully served its role at the end of the world: it became the continent’s penal colony, and its largest building even served as a prison!
- Many arcanists were exiled there. By the turn of the century, the arcanist hunt had reached its peak, and the Comala Sanatorium was built.
- Well, as you may already know, at that time, most arcanists were believed to be victims of madness.
- The sanatorium was their “Ship of Fools.” However, as people began to realize that arcanist blood wasn’t a guarantee of madness, fewer and fewer were imprisoned there. By 1947, it was officially closed.
- Until the 1970s, when a group of people from the National Foucault Studies Association returned to the island with new ideas for the location.
- They spoke in abstract terms and opaque theories that no one could understand. They rebuilt this place and gave it a new name.
- After a long period of construction, the Comala Sanatorium became a prison once more, one designed to hold arcanist criminals.
- They were taken from the streets and the psychiatric clinics, from secret societies, and rebel groups. Any arcanists deemed mentally or socially unfit would be locked away there.
- This association claimed the inmates would receive the best treatment, and they would fully “recover” before being returned to society.
- A prison, a medical lab, a sanatorium—call it whatever you want. That is what Comala is today.
- And we could spend the whole winter there. It’d probably be the easiest winter we’ve ever had. All that it requires is a little bit of acting.
- It won’t be hard to pass ourselves off as a bunch of unstable crackpots. A touch of madness comes parceled with the gifts of being an arcanist!
Young Man :
- That’s your “brilliant idea”? To get us locked up in an asylum?
- You understand we’d be prisoners there, don’t you? It’s not like we’d get to put our feet up and relax by a fire!
Her increasingly agitated companion turns his head aside, catching the faint outline of a patrolling gendarme through the frosted window.
Young Man :
- You wanna go to jail? Well, see that man over there? Go greet him with a punch to the jaw, then you’ll be set for the whole winter.
Recoleta :
- Hmm. It sounds like a good idea.
Young Woman :
- Recoleta, please! We’re not messing with the gendarme.
- We’re going to my Aunt Julia’s. She said she can take us in at her vineyard up north near the capital. But it’s harvest season. They could use all the help they can get.
- We’ll return to Ushuaia next year, or when the winter has passed. It’ll still be great!
Recoleta’s expression is as cold as the mate tea on the table.
Recoleta :
- I hear you, friends.
- But respectfully, I must turn down your offer.
- This has been more than just a road trip for me.
- I know sticking around here for the winter won’t be easy. But this could be my last chance. What if things change again? I can’t just wait for spring.
Young Woman :
- Recoleta …
Young Man :
- What did I tell you, María? She never listens. Wasting your breath!
- Goodbye, Recoleta. I don’t think we’ll meet again—
Pancho’s apologetic words freeze in his mouth.
Young Man :
- S**t! Those gendarmes are looking straight at us!
Recoleta :
- What?!
The café door swings open.
A gust of cold air and dampness sweeps through the room. Recoleta’s hair stands on end with the chill as she turns to face the door.
Gendarme :
- Stop right there! You three match the descriptions of some intruders at the Poetry Meeting in Pioneer Street!
Recoleta plans a response, only to hear the scrambling sounds of her companions bolting away out the back door.
Recoleta :
- Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse.
(Battle)
…
(Street, Ushuaia)
The gendarmes are left behind in the cold, but the flustered young writer still dares not stop running.
Until she stumbles on a patch of wet and mushy snow.
Recoleta :
- Oh! Thank God. I think I lost them.
Vertin :
- Are you alright?
Recoleta :
- Ah, thank you.
- Better to kiss the ground than kiss the gendarme’s boots, if one must choose.
- Wait a second. Dores? Is that you?
- Funny how life moves in circles and puts an old friend in my path! How have you been? Are you paying another visit to Comala?
Vertin :
- Dores?
A name falls from the sky—offered by a girl who has just face-planted and cannot see the figure before her.
Sonetto :
- Timekeeper, could she mean our Dr. Dores?
Recoleta :
- Emm. Was I mistaken?
She wipes the snow from her face. Still dizzy, she makes out the stranger before her.
As her vision clears, it becomes apparent that fate is not a perfect loop. At least, the person holding the suitcase in front of her is not the same woman she met before.
Recoleta :
- How strange. I’ve never seen two people so alike.
- But please, forgive me. It’s been a long day.
Vertin :
- No need to apologize. In fact, the person you just mentioned sounds like someone we’re looking for.
- Could you tell me where you last saw her?
Recoleta :
- Sure, I—*sneeze*—excuse me.
- You’re not from around here, are you? Your accents and those clothes give you away.
- Come with me. I know a warmer place to talk.
Sonetto :
- According to these news reports from Ushuaia, there was an arcane attack on the pier about a week ago. All the ships in the port were destroyed.
- Could Manus Vindictae be responsible for this, or perhaps the Zeno rebels?
Vertin :
- Hard to say. But things have been suspiciously quiet these past few days.
- I had been hoping we’d find some clues here in Ushuaia after we lost track of the Manus in the “Free Breeze” shipwreck.
- They would’ve gone to ground, somewhere remote and off the radar. Indeed, it’s possible they’ve already left Ushuaia.
- For whatever reason, it seems they haven’t been pushing for the “Storm” to happen quite as eagerly as before.
- I have a strange feeling about it all. They’re definitely up to something.
- For now, it seems our new friend’s story lines up with the intel from Moth. It seems the Zeno rebels really did bring Dr. Dores here. We should see if there’s anything more she can tell us.
Sonetto :
- Timekeeper …
The chief assistant hesitates.
Sonetto :
- The Foundation doesn’t have any intelligence on Tierra del Fuego. If the Manus really are here …
- Then, we’ll be on our own. The closest Foundation Branch is in Buenos Aires, 3200 km away.
She reflects without words, a reminder that the chaos caused by Igor’s rebellion is still fresh.
Vertin :
- Careful and well-considered as ever, Sonetto. It’s possible they’ve already infiltrated Ushuaia, just as they did in Chisos.
- But the Zeno rebels may still be holding Dores. We can’t just wait around. I’m afraid we’ll have to take the risk.
- Ushuaia’s not very big. If Manus Vindictae is here, we’ll notice. Stay sharp.
Sonetto :
- Understood, Timekeeper.
- I’ll keep an eye out for them and for Dr. Dores.
After a chaotic “hunt and escape,” the café regains its usual peace.
The gendarmes are gone, and so too are Recoleta’s companions.
Recoleta :
- My friends … They’re really gone.
- “Goodbye, Recoleta. I don’t think we’ll meet again—” So that’s all I get?
- We could’ve exchanged some farewell poems, read them out loud like we used to, and shed a few bitter tears over our heartfelt goodbyes.
- But you know what they say: “Goodbyes are only a senseless feast of unhappiness.”
Vertin :
- Pardon?
Recoleta :
- Oh, it’s nothing. Never mind. Please, sit down. And could we get a pot of mate with mint, please?
Sonetto :
- Thank you.
Recoleta watches with interest as the two girls take the offered cups of tea.
Recoleta :
- So, you’re looking for Dores?
- I can tell she’s important to you from your look.
Vertin :
- Correct. Is there anything more you could tell us about the day you met her?
Recoleta :
- Of course. It was one of those gray, overcast afternoons …
- I had just turned onto Calle Bolivar when I ran into this blind woman on my way to the post office.
- To be exact, I didn’t run into her. She called to me. It felt like a sacred moment in time, like something unworldly. I just stood there, frozen, as she walked up and fixed a loose thread on my sweater.
- I stared at her until my fingers went numb and the letter almost slipped out of my hand.
Dores :
- Miss, could you tell me what’s in that direction?
Recoleta :
- I followed her hand as she pointed forward. Strangely, even though I could see she was blind, I had a feeling that she knew exactly where she was pointing and where she intended to go.
- That’s the way to Comala Prison, madam.
- Is that where you’re headed? I could walk you there, if you’d like.
Dores :
- Thank you, Miss. But I think I’ve found my way.
Recoleta :
- She held a typewriter. How ironic that God would give her at once both books and night.
- I’m Recoleta. What may I call you, Ms. …?
Dores :
- …?
Recoleta :
- I hope you don’t mind me asking, madam. I didn’t mean to pry.
- It’s only that I have to know. You’re a writer too, aren’t you? I’ve been working on a novel, and for some reason, I have this feeling you could be a character in it!
- Forgive me. I’m just so excited! I really want to remember this moment. Please, may I have your name? Or whatever you’d like me to call you?
Dores :
- Heh heh.
Recoleta :
- I don’t think I’ll ever forget her smile. It was soft, kind, almost merciful, and oddly, it felt so ancient.
Dores :
- No offense taken, Ms. Recoleta. But first, I have a question for you.
- What does literature mean to you?
Recoleta :
- Sorry?
- What a question it was! I wasn’t expecting anything like it!
Dores :
- You’re a writer, are you not? And one, I sense, with purpose. Tell me—where does such powerful motivation come from?
Recoleta :
- Actually, well, I’m not sure, madam.
- I have my pursuits and questions, but literature is neither the goal nor the answer to them. Literature is … Well, it’s just literature.
- I suppose if I had to define it, I’d say it’s a tool, a kindling for fire, or a lens to see through, a means to explore and raise questions from different angles and express our perspectives.
Dores :
- And what an interesting perspective you’ve expressed. I see.
- But how does literature make you feel?
Recoleta :
- As though I’m a kid looking through a kaleidoscope for the first time.
- Well, maybe that’s not the best way to put it. Perhaps something a little more subtle.
- Just when I was looking for the right word, she turned away with a little wave, heading toward the prison, her feet crunching over the fine snow.
- So, she must’ve gone to the prison!
Vertin :
- When did all of this happen?
Recoleta :
- About three days ago. I remember the sun came out for a while that day, and the streets were glistening with melting snow.
- You’ve heard of Comala Prison, haven’t you?
Word by word, the question turns from an implication into a declaration.
Sonetto :
- Three days ago? Then we may be able to catch up with her there, Timekeeper.
Vertin :
- You’re right. We need to get there as soon as we can.
Recoleta :
- Whoa. Amazing! So decisive, assertive—a true show of character!
- You must be the very archetype of a charismatic leader!
- What’s left to say? Whenever the protagonist has what they want fall into their laps, we’re all quick to complain about lazy writers using “deus ex machina” to keep the story together. So let’s not dwell on it.
She reconciles this observation with a silent nod to an unseen author.
Recoleta :
- But anything can happen in a place like Ushuaia. It’s a city where the day may only last four hours and the streets are full of exiled arcanists.
Vertin :
- We appreciate your help, Ms. …
Recoleta :
- Recoleta. Please, think nothing of it.
Vertin :
- Ms. Recoleta, I’m Vertin, and this is Sonetto. We’re investigators from the St. Pavlov Foundation.
Sonetto :
- Pleasure to meet you.
Recoleta :
- Likewise, likewise! Glad that I could help. But listen, ladies.
The girl winks playfully.
Recoleta :
- Everything happens for a reason, and now it’s becoming clear. You’re going to Comala Prison, and so am I.
- Maybe it’s fate that brought us together.
Vertin :
- What’s your business there, if you don’t mind our asking?
Recoleta :
- Oh, it’s a … writer’s mission. But anyway, we’re friends now.
- If you’re going to Comala, you’ll need someone who knows the way.
(Comala Prison Perimeter)
The gray riverbed winds through the frostbitten earth, disappearing into the distant horizon.
A neat yet dilapidated circular complex stands alone beneath the snow-capped mountains, as if abandoned by God, humanity, and ghosts alike.
Outside the fence, three uninvited guests discuss their plan to get inside.
Recoleta :
- Behold! Comala Prison! It’s the biggest building around. When the sun comes out, it looks like a rusty button stitched into the earth.
- Everyone tries not to pay attention to it, but it’s undoubtedly one of the most important places in town. This way, careful, we’re heading uphill—Oops!
The young writer begins to slip again. She is prevented only by Sonetto’s quick reflexes.
Recoleta :
- Phew! Thanks. So, my new friends! You’re from that St. Palomino’s …
Sonetto :
- St. Pavlov Foundation.
- And Vertin is the Timekeeper there.
Recoleta :
- Ah, very impressive! Sounds all official and polished! Then, I take it you’ve already got a way into the prison?
The gate presents an unwelcoming face to the world.
Sonetto :
- I’ll draft a letter to headquarters right away. Once they approve it, they’ll notify the local branch in Buenos Aires. From there, they’ll need to inform the Argentine government,
- who will then issue us a permit.
Recoleta :
- Excellent! Looks like our bureaucrats still have some worth. No offense intended, of course.
Sonetto :
- Since we’re pressed for time, I believe we can ask that headquarters give high priority to our request. If all goes well, we should have the permit in about a month.
Recoleta :
- Ah. How, how expedient of them! But you know what? Maybe we shouldn’t bother all those hard-working government officials with these trifling matters after all.
She instantly returns to her previous judgment.
Recoleta :
- I have a simpler solution that suits the urgency of our cause!
Sonetto :
- That sounds great. Oh! Umm, where are you going, Ms. Recoleta?
Before anyone can stop her, the young writer hurls herself up the wall, scaling the side with the sort of skill that immediately suggests she’s done this before.
Recoleta :
- To the other side of the wall, of course! From Guadalajara to Ushuaia, there has yet to be a wall that could stop me!
- Come on, ladies of the Foundation! Sonetto, take my hand!
Sonetto looks utterly flustered.
Sonetto :
- Ms. Recoleta, please! A reckless act like that could have serious consequences! Please come back down!
- In fact, while the details of our mission are classified, I should warn you, it may be dangerous, and we cannot guarantee your safety once we’re inside. Perhaps it’s in your best interest to return to town.
Recoleta :
- What? That is definitely not in my best interest!
- What sort of pusillanimous coward would I be if I just abandoned my fated companions here? Of course, I’m going in with you, or rather, you’re coming with me!
Vertin :
- Please get down, Ms. Recoleta. Someone’s coming our way.
From the other side of the prison fence, a predator’s gaze locks onto the figure perched on the wall.
??? :
- Stop right there! What do you think you’re doing?!
Recoleta :
- Damn! It’s her again. The jailer of Comala!
Sonetto :
- Did she say jailer or jaguar?
(Battle)
…
Jailer :
- Ms. Recoleta. Haven’t I made myself clear? I don’t want to see you here again.
Recoleta :
- Jailer! We meet again! What a delightful encounter on such a—
A sudden gust of cold wind interrupts her.
Recoleta :
- —lovely day!
Jailer :
- Would you please just leave this place alone?
- I’ll never understand why a promising young woman like you keeps snooping around a prison.
- I can’t make this any clearer: trying to break into Comala will do nothing to get you inside, but it will get you into a world of trouble with the gendarmes.
- So, will you stop these senseless break-in attempts?
- Comala Prison is only accessible to academic researchers and journalists, and even they must have official credentials in order to enter.
Recoleta :
- Isn’t there any other way to pay a visit? I truly do need to get in there.
She racks her brain for a plausible excuse.
Vertin :
- Sorry to interrupt, but did you just say “official credentials”?
Jailer :
- Yes, you heard me right. And you are?
Vertin :
- I’m the Timekeeper of the St. Pavlov Foundation.
- My assistant and I are here to visit Comala Prison on official orders from the Foundation. Here, this is my ID.
Sonetto :
- …
At the thought of lying, Sonetto’s lips fail to open for even a squeak. She goes flush red with embarrassment.
Through the prison fence, the jailer examines the pair as she takes the ID in her sizeable paws.
It is at least a very presentable-looking card, boldly stamped with the seal of the St. Pavlov Foundation.
Jailer :
- This is indeed legitimate.
She murmurs.
Jailer :
- Welcome to Comala Prison.
- Apologies for my earlier behavior. It’s been a while since we’ve had any official visitors.
Day after day, the Paracausality Researcher hid away in the wilderness outside the town of Amalfitano studying the data she had collected.
One evening at dusk, a voice called out from outside her cave. She put down the equipment and her tapes and stepped outside. A man stood curiously at her door.
“What are you doing here?” he asked, raising both eyebrows. “Nothing ever happens in Amalfitano these days.”
The local introduced himself as the Bank Clerk. He had probably the most amiable face around—bright eyes, lifted cheeks, a soft jawline. It was a face beaming with hope.
The Researcher showed him the spectrums she’d been compiling. “I’ve been collecting stories about the Die,” she explained. “Perhaps they hold the key to explaining the randomness that fate displays.”
“Ah, that does intrigue me so!” the Bank Clerk replied briskly, “I’d love to hear all about it. But I have to go. I mustn’t be late to the Dune Piscator’s funeral.” And with that, he left.
Three days later, the same footsteps returned to her cave.
“You’re back! How have you been? Did you make it to the funeral?” She asked.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he replied tersely. “I’m not the man you think I am.” His face was drained and gaunt, his eyes sunken deep into hollow sockets. It was as if every spark of life had been drawn out of him, leaving only an empty husk.
The Researcher insisted she wasn’t mistaken. “I know people by their deeper nature, down to the synchronicity of their spectrums. I’ve never been wrong before.”
“Whatever you say.” The man muttered roughly. “I don’t understand anything of your high-minded ideas. Just let me go. It’s been a long day out there fishing, and all I want now is to collapse on my rickety bed.” He trudged off with footsteps that sounded exactly like those of the Bank Clerk’s.
Jailer :
- As you might have noticed, Ms. Vertin, this facility isn’t just a prison. It’s also a research center.
- Its full name is “the Panopticon of Comala.” It was established by the Foucault Association in 1975.
- We’ve hosted workshops, academic sessions, and even lectures about the Panopticon. You may even have seen some reports about it.
- Experts of psychoanalysis and scholars from various fields have come here to exchange ideas and seek collaboration in their studies.
- In many ways, the Panopticon is unlike any other prison you’ve seen before.
Vertin :
- I see. No wonder Ms. Recoleta has gone to such lengths to become a part of it.
- Actually, my assistant and I are here to inquire about a prisoner named Dores. Does that name sound familiar?
(Corridor, Comala Prison)
Jailer :
- Not that I recall. Could she have used a different name? What does she look like?
Vertin :
- Hmm. She’d have arrived here about three days ago. It’s also possible that she came as a visitor, not a prisoner.
- She’s a blind woman who always carries an old typewriter.
- She used to be a doctor at the São Paulo Veterans’ Residence in Brazil.
- And on the subject of different names, she once wrote for UTTU under the name “Urd.”
Jailer :
- I don’t think I’ve seen anyone fitting that description. And as I said, we haven’t had any visitors in some time. Certainly not in the last three days.
Recoleta :
- But I did see her! I saw her walking towards Comala Prison!
Jailer :
- Someone must have mixed up their memories. Simply put, I don’t recall seeing anyone by that name or with that description here.
Vertin :
- I see. Thank you, Miss. Perhaps we made a mistake.
Sensing that her current line of questioning is going nowhere, she shifts toward a different topic.
Vertin :
- Ms. Recoleta, you’ve gone to great lengths to get into the Panopticon. Would you mind telling us why?
Recoleta :
- Finally! I’ve been waiting for you to ask!
- I’m here to find my pen pal in Comala!
Vertin :
- You have a pen pal … in here?
Recoleta :
- Yes. Six months ago, I went to a book exhibition in Guadalajara and came across the contact details of a few writers. I sent them my novel and asked for feedback.
- Looking back, it was a bit forward. But nothing unheard of between writers. A lot of friendships start through letters, you see.
- And Aleph wrote back.
Recoleta produces a thick stack of letters from her coat.
The recipient’s address changes with each letter, reflecting the turbulent lifestyle of the wandering writer, yet the sender’s address is eternally constant—Comala.
Vertin :
- And how much do you know about this pen pal of yours?
Recoleta :
- Oh, well. He calls himself “Aleph,” which is a grammatically masculine word, so—
Vertin :
- So you assume Aleph is a man.
A reasonable suspicion, but in her experience, never a certainty.
Recoleta :
- Yes. He’s probably a poet, a writer, perhaps even an alchemist. He’s one of the brightest people I know. There’s never been a question that he couldn’t answer!
- I’ve asked him about religion, politics, history, potions, even critters in length and breadth. Can you imagine someone who knows all those things and so extensively too?
- And he helped me with my novel. He always seems to know the best ways to bring my characters to life.
- Honestly, he’s so insightful. I’ve begun wondering if he’s omniscient.
- With his help, my story grew richer and fuller, like a well-tended plant. Strangely, I can’t seem to take it any further now. It’s as if the roots have been sapped of their strength.
- I couldn’t understand why. So, I resolved that I would see him in person to find out.
Jailer :
- Again with this story about your uncanny pen pal. I’ve already told you a dozen times.
- It’s all very moving, but it still doesn’t justify your actions.
- Writers experience mental blocks all the time. Yet you don’t see them trying to break into a prison over it.
Vertin :
- She does have a point.
Recoleta :
- Please, Vertin, Jailer! Have a little mercy, will you?
Vertin :
- Hold on. I’ve been meaning to ask—why are you only calling her “Jailer”?
- Don’t you know her name? Or do you just prefer addressing people by their occupation?
Recoleta :
- Oh, about that—
Unexpectedly, it is the jaguar herself that speaks up.
Jailer :
- It’s okay, Ms. Vertin. I don’t mind being called by my job title. I take pride in what I do.
- I’m perfectly fine with just being “the jailer.”
Recoleta :
- Exactly! A researcher is a researcher, and a jailer is a jailer.
Vertin :
- …?
Recoleta :
- Titles and code names often tell us more about people than their ordinary given names, don’t you think? Take Sonetto, for example.
- Your name comes from sonnets, doesn’t it? That great poetic form from Italy.
- Some people mistakenly think Shakespeare invented it; some say it was Petrarca … Though no one really knows when the first sonnet was written.
- Sorry, I’m straying from my point. You’re Italian, aren’t you, Sonetto? Is that your real name, or just a code name? Were your parents poets?
Sonetto :
- Umm. As much as I’d like to be able to answer your question, I never knew my parents.
- My earliest memories were of the School of Primary Defense of Mankind. I’ve lived there since I was a small child.
Recoleta :
- Ah. My apologies. That was thoughtless of me.
Sonetto :
- It’s fine. You meant no ill intent, I’m sure.
- Timekeeper, if Ms. Recoleta was right about Dr. Dores’s whereabouts, perhaps the jailer is keeping things from us, or perhaps Dr. Dores visited the Panopticon without her knowledge. Either way, we need to do some digging here.
Vertin :
- I agree. Let’s see if we can talk to some of the inmates and find out what they know.
As they chat, the corridors—until now endless—reach a terminal point, with voices echoing ahead.
Jailer :
- Ladies, we’re about to enter the main hall of the Panopticon.
- This is one of the places where the inmates spend their recreation time. At this hour, they’re supposed to be in their cells. But what’s all that noise?
The jailer seems to be tense with the apparently unusual amount of noise.
Jailer :
- Ms. Vertin, could you keep an eye on Recoleta if anything happens?
Recoleta tries her best to avoid the hard stare of the feline jailer by blending into the Foundation team.
Vertin :
- Certainly.
Recoleta :
- What do you take me for? I’m not going to run away!
- That’d be a pretty cheesy way to start a story!
Jailer :
- …
- Please just stay close to me.
(Hall of New Encounters)
Sonetto :
- I didn’t expect any of this from what we saw outside.
The mottled yet pristine walls, the still waters, the silent white tower standing within the labyrinth.
Nearby, several prisoners form a circle, some standing, some sitting, engaged in conversation.
Jailer :
- *sigh* Excuse me for a moment. I have duties that I must attend to.
With a sigh, the jailer steps into the gathering, causing a strangely subdued reaction from the prisoners.
Sonetto :
- They don’t seem intimidated by her at all.
Recoleta :
- Yeah, they just look like a bunch of artists having a chat in the garden. And the jailer seems to be like a grumpy neighbor coming over to ask them to keep it down.
The “grumpy neighbor” continues her chastising.
Jailer :
- Everyone, you know the rules. There are to be no after-hours gatherings here without the Physician’s approval.
Inmate I :
- You sound softer and softer each time you come to warn us. Why not just join us? Isn’t it better than circling around the Panopticon all day?
- And look around you. We’re in the Hall of New Encounters. What better place to host a salon?
Inmate II :
- You’re missing out in Comala if you don’t even get a taste of our literature.
Inmate I :
- Exactly. Even those oil-dripping musicians drop by from time to time. Not that they’re the kind to care about the beauty of words.
Sonetto :
- Oil-dripping musicians? Timekeeper, could they mean—
Before the jailer can say anything else, two of the prisoners simultaneously gesture for her to stay silent, pointing to the center of their gathering.
Inmate I :
- Quiet now, please! The Idealist’s salon is about to start.
Jailer :
- …
Vertin :
- These people seem friendly enough. Why don’t we see what this is about?
Gathering Participant I :
- In deserts, in stars, within labyrinths,
Gathering Participant II :
- In waters, in mirrors, within reflections,
Gathering Participant III :
- We dream on death’s straw pillow.
Gathering Participant IV :
- Here we are, paying tribute to the ghosts,
Gathering Participant V :
- To give it all up again.
All Participants :
- To give it all up again.
The Idealist :
- My dear friends, we face a difficult truth: the movement of visceral realism still stumbles in the dark.
- Our poems, our language, our minds are tangled by a stifling vine—a mundane, stale vision shared among all bourgeoisie.
- We follow this vision blindly, clinging to the comfort brought by logic and conventional wisdom, and by it, we nip every branch of new art in the bud.
- Poems are perhaps too fragile an outgrowth to develop one’s life upon. But here, we may light them like candles at our funerals.
- Let poetry become the bridge between us and the world.
A lone clap breaks the silence. It comes earlier than all the other cheers from the audience.
Recoleta :
- As we come back and forth over the boundaries of life and death, the old obstacles begin to take on a new look. With the eyes of poets, we may see behind them.
- You’re a visceral realist.
- I can’t be mistaken. You must be—
The Idealist’s eyes pierce through the grove of literary enthusiasts, reaching a distant, drifting new world.
The Idealist :
- A lonely cowboy. Finally home.
- What a wonder.
- You’re in time. The salon has just begun. And La Sociedad de Poetas de las Américas isn’t like those salons that care more about who’s invited than the art. All are welcome here.
Sonetto :
- A literary salon in a prison? Though so far it seems to have more dancing than poems.
Vertin :
- Did you understand what that man just said?
Sonetto :
- No, sorry, Timekeeper. I need a moment to think it through.
Vertin :
- Don’t worry, Sonetto. I would guess we’re not the only ones who are confused here.
- Ms. Jailer, is this that peculiarity about Comala you mentioned earlier?
Jailer :
- …
- Enough, Idealist. You’re still an inmate here, and you’re walking a very fine line right now.
The Idealist :
- Oh, I’m quite aware of where I am and what lines I tread.
- This is a prison. The safest place for poets in this part of the continent. One cannot be arrested twice, after all.
The man’s words draw laughter from the other prisoners as they turn to discuss the speech with excitement.
The Idealist :
- But please, don’t trouble yourself with our little farce. What harm could a few poets possibly do?
All the irregular rhymes and wild contradictions of aesthetics converge into a chaotic countercurrent, crashing against the newcomers.
Recoleta clenches her fists in shock—certain that the man before her is her mysterious pen pal.
Recoleta :
- Mr. Idealist? Might I ask you something?
Jailer :
- Hold on, Recoleta. All forms of communication with the inmates must conform to our regulations. We will need to record the conversation and submit it to higher authorities for review.
Vertin :
- I have some questions for the gentleman as well, but we’re more than willing to follow the rules.
- I think the person I’m looking for might have attended this literary salon, or at least talked to some of its members.
- I’d wager she’s spoken to that gentleman. That is … if she has been here at all.
Jailer :
- I see. Go ahead then. Just watch the time.
As the visitors petition the jailer, Recoleta pushes past the bustling crowd and takes a deep breath.
Recoleta :
- *deep breath* Are you Aleph?
The noisy atmosphere plunges into silence, just like the still waters nearby.
The Idealist is evidently taken aback by the name.
The Idealist :
- Oh! *chuckle* Another visitor looking for Aleph.
Recoleta :
- So you know him!
The Idealist :
- Naturally. But I’m not obliged to speak of him to one who does not, stranger.
The salon host is noncommittal, turning toward Recoleta’s companions.
The Idealist :
- And you, young lady in the hat? Are you here for Aleph as well? What a lively day this is!
Vertin :
- No. I’m looking for a blind woman. Her name is Dores.
The Idealist :
- Ah, yes. I remember. Her writing was impeccable, like an exquisite crocodile-skin handbag in a shop window, elegant, yet condescending.
Vertin :
- Do you know where she is now?
The Idealist :
- I’m not able to keep track of every inmate here, Miss.
- Perhaps you should ask those who have seen everything from above.
- Through the glass, where the scrutinizing eyes of power look down on us.
Recoleta :
- Eyes?
She scans the prison hall. The walls, the great tower, and the pool remain unchanged. Nothing appears amiss.
All the prisoners present nod in agreement, prompting a weary sigh from the jailer.
Jailer :
- Have you taken your medicine today, Idealist?
The Idealist :
- I’m feeling marvelous! Today, I require no help from them!
Jailer :
- I’ve warned you. It’s unwise to act against the Physician’s orders.
The Idealist :
- Act against him? No one may act against him here.
- The Physician must have misunderstood us. I suspect he doesn’t understand half of what we say. I’d like to know how he got his medical degree. Not by cracking open skulls, I should hope.
The prisoners exchange knowing smiles.
The Idealist :
- What a pity, Jailer! You know, I’ve always believed you had the soul of a poet, just like us.
- We’ve already spoken enough “rebellious thoughts” outside of Comala. How else do you think we ended up in your nuthouse?
- We’ve been here far too long, long after the Junta was removed from office,
- after our home became a deserted wasteland in the aftermath of the Latin American Boom.
Jailer :
- What are you getting at?
Recoleta :
- That power is boring, meaningless. Nothing holds onto power forever.
- And the one true connection we have to life is poetry.
The Idealist :
- See, Jailer? Even an outsider understands our ideas better than you. It’s time to open your eyes to reality.
- La Sociedad is the only way for us to feel truly alive in here, beneath the gaze of those prying, ever-vigilant eyes.
Jailer :
- Idealist! Last warning. Stop this now.
The Idealist :
- Fine, fine! Alright, companions. Sadly, the salon must come to an end, as our jailer insists.
The crowd murmurs and grumbles as they begin to disperse.
The Idealist :
- Dear friends, I do not mean to abuse the power of suspense. I sincerely invite you to come with me to the heart of La Sociedad de Poetas de las Américas.
- Perhaps you’ll find the person you look for there.
The man strikes a gesture somehow equally comedic and solemn.
Vertin :
- We’d love to. Umm, only if that’s okay with you, Ms. Jailer?
Jailer :
- I suppose that’s alright. You’re already here; we can call it part of your tour. But, please, ladies, take none of their ramblings seriously.
The Idealist :
- Thank you, Jailer! Please, follow me.
(Battle)
Jailer :
- Wait, this isn’t the way to the gallery.
The Idealist :
- It isn’t the USUAL way. It’s a shortcut. We call it the “Reptilian Complex and Primal Hunger” route—much faster than the “Limbic System and Postmodern Anxiety” route, let me tell you!
Jailer :
- But this passageway has long been abandoned, and entry is prohibited. It’s extremely dangerous to—
The Idealist :
- Relax, Jailer. No one—not even you—knows this prison better than I!
Sonetto :
- But, Timekeeper … I think we’ve just gone in a circle …
…
The Researcher awakens in her dune cave, which felt to her as hollow as a tomb. It was a little before dawn.
Stacks of tapes had eaten up her living space, climbing up again and again, each of these spinning reels speaking of stories about that cottage with a blue roof.
She heard the voice of the Murdered Donkey Driver behind her: “I hear them all, the laughter and voices of generations past. Like dry leaves caught in the cracks of old walls, rustling only when the wind blows through. I wouldn’t set foot in that house if I were you.”
The Door-Side Beggar spoke too: “I sleep on the porch every night. Each morning, a dim light glows through the window. But no one ever leaves through that door … and no one has ever entered.”
Then the Bank Clerk’s voice: “It’s the story of the ‘alter ego.’ That house must’ve been filled with debts no one would return to claim.”
The sick old lady, struggling in her bed, whispered: “The house remembers those days, when people vanished in the darkness of night and children were stolen by the storms.”
The Paracausality Researcher had heard enough and drifted back to sleep again. There was only the rattling of the Die of Babylon echoing in her hollow cave.
(Gallery of Bewilderment)
In a deteriorating activity hall, thousands of floating slips of paper form a blurred, colossal face. It is hard to imagine how the prisoners managed to transform this place into what it is now.
García :
- I’ve always wanted to use the element of fantasy to better establish our theme. And I was right.
- Now the stage is captivating, the timing is perfect, and the audience is ideally placed.
- Only one imperfect element remains in the scene—the creator, who hasn’t stepped away from his creation.
- No, there’s another thing.
García, the curator of the exhibition, stands beneath his work, deep in thought, agonizing over every minute imperfection.
His fellow poets whisper to one another.
Roberta :
- Can you even tell any difference between today’s setup and yesterday’s?
La Sociedad Member I :
- Seriously, Roberta? That’s a rude question!
Roberta :
- Well, what’s the difference, then?
La Sociedad Member I :
- Well, I can’t see one either. But you should never judge art by how much it changes in a day! It’s a creative process.
- We might be standing at the edge of the world, but art has no boundaries! We have to show him our support.
Roberta :
- Easy for you to say. He’s been tinkering and tweaking for over three months.
- Even if the Idealist himself entrusted him with this exhibition, he can still be wrong sometimes. This gallery is turning into a dump!
??? :
- I’m seeing ghosts, all with the same faces, García. All too many. It’s easy to get lost in them.
Having navigated through the labyrinth, the Idealist—the leader of La Sociedad—arrives at the exhibit’s entrance, accompanied by several new faces and the jailer.
García :
- Idealist! You’re back. Are these new recruits for La Sociedad? You must have had a very successful day!
The Idealist :
- It is good to see you, García. How has your vision progressed today?
Recoleta :
- First a salon, and now an art gallery? Is this really a prison?
Her shock is evident on her face, but her words are ignored as García begins to vent his frustrations.
García :
- As you can see, I’ve strived to push the element of fantasy in my work so that it might reach perfection.
- But why doesn’t it look like what I imagined?
- It’s like I’m trying to work on a shadow—some shapeless thing that morphs and shifts by the hour. Idealist, am I losing it again? I took my medicine as instructed.
The Idealist :
- It was never the pills that blinded you, my dear García.
- You mustn’t let tedious routine stifle what’s truly alive. Remember, like those old poems, your exhibition must have a timeless rhythm that’s never lost to the changing of minds.
García holds out his hands as if grasping something fleeting but fails to hold onto it.
García :
- Sorry, maybe I’m just not getting it.
The Idealist :
- Look up! There’s your answer. Though the sun rises the same way every day, the multitudes of shadows it casts are ever-changing.
- Isn’t that the only constant in life—change?
- We foolishly pursue stability and constancy, but our very world denies it. Take a step back—take several—and see the truth for yourself, lest you too become lost among the shifting shadows.
García :
- I get it now! It’s the changing light that makes the exhibits seem different from what I expected.
- I shouldn’t waste my time on freezing things in one perfect moment. Instead, I need to embrace change as it comes.
- I don’t know how to thank you! I won’t let you down. I must complete this exhibition.
- Complete my “alter ego.”
The choice of word widens the writer’s eyes.
Recoleta :
- Did you say “alter ego”?
- And he called you García. Is that your name?
- García, where did you learn about this “alter ego”? Do you happen to write under the name—
But the curator has already returned to his work, uninterested or oblivious to his visitors.
The Idealist :
- Please, Recoleta! Give our artist some space. Can’t you see? He’s already returned to his own time and space. He can’t hear a thing you say.
Roberta :
- He’s right. García is deep in his own head now. He won’t hear a thing until he’s done with whatever he has to do.
- Even if the floor were to collapse out under us, I think he would be left standing in the air without even noticing.
Recoleta :
- Ah. Pardon me then.
She takes a step back out of respect.
The Idealist :
- Alright. My dear guests! Please forgive my late introduction. Welcome to the Gallery of Bewilderment.
Vertin :
- Thank you for inviting me here, Mr. Idealist.
The Foundation’s investigators have been carefully observing each prisoner’s movements since they arrived. But unfortunately, there is no sign of Ms. Dores.
The Idealist :
- I imagine you’re curious about what we do here, in the heart of La Sociedad de Poetas de las Américas.
- We’re putting together a magazine—a collection of poems from Comala, our very own Casa de las Américas.
Recoleta :
- Casa de las Américas?!
The Idealist nods with a smile.
The Idealist :
- Exactly. Named after its great predecessor! You’re a fine mind indeed! At this very moment, all our companions are working on it.
- García’s exhibition, “Alter Ego,” is centered around the birth of this magazine.
- And here, you can see the signatures from all the poets involved, along with a few words they’ve written for it.
- Reading it is like looking into the soul of our society.
Sonetto :
- All these signatures …
Sonetto steps forward to examine the perplexing “artwork.” In the dim lighting, the enormous face appears to be looming watchfully over the entire room.
A floating slip of paper catches her attention.
Sonetto :
- Timekeeper, here! It’s Dr. Dores’s pseudonym—Urd!
Vertin :
- Then she was here.
Sonetto pockets the slip of paper dutifully.
The Idealist :
- Precisely. She used to be one of us, and still is, if I may correct myself.
- You can ask around here. Maybe some of our members know where she went.
- Don’t we all miss the familiar faces of old friends? I’m sure they’ll do everything they can to help you find yours.
As he finishes speaking, several enthusiastic prisoners come forward to greet the Idealist.
La Sociedad Member II :
- Mr. Idealist, I’ve finished my short story. It’s called “Weightlessness.” It drifts around the subject like a sheep floating in space! The readers can start anywhere in the story or read it in any order they like!
La Sociedad Member III :
- And please take a look at my piece, “Off Limits!” Every word that has been forbidden is either erased or replaced with symbols. It’s a one-of-a-kind jarring experience!
La Sociedad Member IV :
- And I’ve finished a new paragraph! Just wrote it today.
A prisoner, wrapped in several meters of manuscript paper, like a strange sort of mummy, squeezes into the crowd.
La Sociedad Member IV :
- Oh! New faces! Welcome!
Without any warning, he calmly tears the manuscript to shreds.
The fluttering fragments fall like trailing sparks from a fireworks show.
The abrupt “welcome ceremony” leaves the newcomers stunned, while the “natives” share knowing smiles.
Recoleta :
- Idealist! Did he just …?
The Idealist :
- This is the writer for the prologue of our magazine.
The leader of La Sociedad, either misunderstanding or evading the question, responds with enthusiasm.
The Idealist :
- The prologue consists of a two-thousand-line poem and an introduction that is written in 86 languages to avoid misinterpretation. It represents every second we spend here.
- Naturally, the arrival of new members disrupts its structure, and so we must begin again from scratch.
Recoleta :
- So he just tore it all up like that because he thought we were joining?
- With all due respect, isn’t this a little excessive? Heaven knows I’m not one to judge. I’ve torn up plenty of writing for my novel.
The Idealist :
- Please pay it no mind. It may not be an easy task, but he’s doing his part.
- Destruction is hard, but more necessary than you think. Without it, we’d all be stuck in a still and stagnant pond, with all the smells that entail.
Vertin :
- This all sounds very complicated. When will your magazine be finished then?
- Forgive me, but I’m not sure what a floating sheep, a jarring reading experience, and all this constant rewriting are meant to express.
The jailer, having remained silent, takes a deep breath and interrupts.
Jailer :
- As I’ve said, Comala is unlike any other prison.
Vertin :
- Ms. Jailer, do you mean …
Jailer :
- This place also serves as a research center. And the prisoners here, for all they claim, are not just “poets.”
- They are arcanist criminals, and each one of them has been diagnosed as mentally ill.
The leader of La Sociedad remains composed, like an island in a rough sea,
leaving the onlookers to question whether he is entirely mad or the sanest of them all.
The Idealist :
- You’re quite right, Jailer. But let’s not forget that mental illness is merely a deviation from the norm. And who decides the norm? You? The Physician? Or the ones outside these walls?
- We’ve been exiled here by the standards of our time, deprived of our roles in the outside world. So please, as we agreed before, I ask you not to interfere with the affairs of La Sociedad!
Jailer :
- These people are visitors, not your new recruits.
The Idealist :
- But should we not hear their thoughts first?
The Idealist turns toward the visitors with an urgent plea.
The Idealist :
- My friends! No one escapes the Eye of Power. We must resist. Stand with us. Pick up your pen and take poetry as your shield before it is too late!
Recoleta :
- Idealist, I admire your fight. But I came here with a different goal.
The leader of La Sociedad, caught in his fervor, ignores her words and carries on.
The Idealist :
- “We’re the last true owners of an old legend, words now only remembered as myth.”
- We must stay on the path of literature until I find that transcendental solution …
- To invent an idiom that is generic, all-encompassing, yet precise. My poem will be written in this language, leaving no room for doubt or misinterpretation!
- How blessed is a man with infallible memory! He holds the finer details of each object within him, more vivid than anyone else. In the end, he’ll have all the answers, if time allows him!
A dream-like expression crosses his face. It briefly seems as if he has become an entirely different person. But his vision is soon interrupted.
La Sociedad Member IV :
- Sweet tank! Sister … howls! Hermaphrodite—Tango …!
- They put the whole city … in the nuthouse!
Sonetto :
- Timekeeper, look over there!
Vertin :
- Isn’t that the prologue writer?!
Sonetto :
- There’s something off about him. Please, Timekeeper, stay away from him!
The Idealist :
- What’s happening?
Roberta :
- Idealist! Pablo is having another episode!
La Sociedad Member IV :
- Multiples of … us! You make reality sick!
A flash of arcane energy flares up, and the jailer steps into the crowd reactively.
Jailer :
- I could use your help, ladies!
(Battle)
…
The frenzied prisoner is subdued. He lies convulsing in the center of the exhibit hall.
Roberta :
- Poor soul. I’ll bring him to bed.
- Well done, ladies. Aren’t you full of surprises!
Jailer :
- What was all that?
Vertin :
- It seems he had a mental breakdown and lost control of his arcane skill. It appears that every line he recited carried unbridled power.
Sonetto :
- Usually, only specific lines can channel arcane energy. You can’t just force the power into words or craft a poem to serve your purpose.
- Pablo must have a rare gift for identifying empowered lines. When he recited them all aloud, they overwhelmed him.
Roberta :
- That’s right. He’s a genius who rides the tides of emotion, just like Arthur Rimbaud.
- We always keep a close eye on him to make sure he doesn’t recite anything while reading or writing.
Roberta trades glances between the tense jailer and her visitors.
Roberta :
- But, sometimes, things slip through.
The Idealist :
- You must understand how difficult it is for a poet to never taste the words on his own lips.
Jailer :
- So, then this isn’t the first time. And you’re all fully aware of it.
- Do I understand you right? Did you just admit that you’ve been hiding an inmate with a dangerous condition from us?
- According to the Safety Regulations for the Panopticon of Comala, he must be sent to the Physician for immediate treatment.
The jailer’s command causes a dramatic shift in the room.
Roberta :
- No, no! Wait, we can explain!
- He’s doing fine! We know how to help him. This was just an accident. We-We got distracted by the new members.
The Idealist :
- We won’t be handing him over to the Physician.
- No true writer would allow their mind—the most sacred palace of their thoughts—to be opened up to that cold-hearted, ignorant butcher. Even one who believes their inspiration flows from a source beyond the mere substance of a brain would refuse it!
Jailer :
- …
The jailer furrows her brows and pulls out her weapon. The air tightens into an invisible thread.
Jailer :
- This is a serious violation of the rules. I’ll have to report this to the Physician, and all of your treatments will need to be reassessed.
- Until a new treatment plan is in place, all members of La Sociedad are confined to their cells without any of their usual privileges.
The jailer heavily emphasizes “La Sociedad,” triggering a commotion among the prisoners.
La Sociedad Member II :
- This is not what we agreed to!
La Sociedad Member III :
- You gave us your word! Affairs within La Sociedad were not to be disturbed!
Roberta :
- Please don’t do this!
- Please, he doesn’t deserve this. No one does! We don’t wanna lose our friend.
The previously convulsing prisoner struggles to his feet.
La Sociedad Member IV :
- Please, madam! I swear it won’t happen again. I’ll take the medicine on time as instructed.
- I promise I won’t hurt anyone.
Jailer :
- I’m sorry, Mr. Pablo, but rules are rules.
The Idealist :
- Before you take this poor man from his friends, may I ask you something?
- Do you know where these inmates go after they see the Physician?
Jailer :
- …
- My duty is to keep order here. What happens beyond these walls is not my concern.
- Perhaps they’ve recovered from the Physician’s treatment and were returned to society.
The jailer’s expression relaxes.
The Idealist :
- Within these walls, the only truth we know is this: no one returns from the clinic of the Physician of Comala.
- Are you certain this “treatment” they received is really a cure?
Roberta :
- Pablo is harmless. He-He’s just a writer who has a talent for finding words and poems. That’s all.
- Please, let him stay. We’ll look after him. He can have our share of the medicine. We’ll keep him in check.
Jailer :
- But this doesn’t conform to our regulations.
??? :
- Still as arrogant as ever, Idealist.
- One day, you’ll get us all killed.
A stranger enters the exhibition hall. As she arrives, the jailer exhales with relief.
Jailer :
- Ah, it’s you. I’m glad to see you here.
Vertin :
- Who is that?
Jailer :
- That’s Octavia, one of our model inmates. She’s been a great help in the past.
- If you’re interested in prison literature, I’d suggest talking to her instead of the Idealist.
Vertin :
- So, she’s a writer, too.
Recoleta :
- Who would’ve thought! This place has got writers coming out of the woodwork!
- I thought it would be easy to find my writer friend in a prison. But what are the odds that I’d break into a place absolutely lousy with them?
Jailer :
- She used to be in their gatherings, until she got tired of their nonsense and started her own faction.
The new arrival brings out a change in the Idealist. He clicks his tongue imperceptibly.
The Idealist :
- What are you doing here, Octavia? Haven’t you heard? The era of chieftains, ghosts, and plantation stories is over. Visceral realism is the future!
Octavia :
- Ha. And has this brilliant “visceral realism” helped you finish any of these poems?
- What a waste of time. I’m not interested in your movement or arguing with you.
- I just walked by and happened to witness another episode of your brutal arrogance.
- And I’m not about to just stand aside and watch you repeat your mistakes!
- I’m taking Pablo to the Physician. Care to lend a hand, Ms. Jailer?
The Idealist :
- We agreed to mind our own business. Are you breaking our agreement?
- No one, no one will be allowed to erase a word from our poems!
(Battle)
Octavia :
- Haven’t you let your ego cause enough trouble, Idealist?
The Idealist :
- Better that than siding with the devil like you!
Vertin :
- Enough! This pointless arguing ends now.
…
Jailer :
- Stand down, both of you!
Their heated debate continues without any concern for the jailer’s warning.
Octavia :
- You’ve never listened. I pity your followers—to be led by such a reckless megalomaniac! Do you even think about the consequences of your actions?
- We fought hard to earn the freedom to discuss literature under their watch. Your impulsive ego threatens to destroy everything we’ve built here.
The Idealist :
- Spare me the lecture, Octavia. We don’t need permission to do as we please.
- You’re just another puppet of power, kneeling to the eyes behind those glass walls.
- They have trained you to believe it was your own decision: to be good and conform. Who could’ve done a better job?
- When I look at you, all I see is a sheep, docile and obedient, just the way the tower wants! What kind of work could someone like you create? Literature isn’t defended by those lounging in cozy rooms, scribbling to soothing music.
Octavia :
- Have you looked in a mirror, Idealist? You’ve become a pathetic, windmill-tilting fool, a monster tearing down everything around you!
The Idealist :
- A beast of prey, you mean? Naturally, a sheep would be appalled by the mere thought of such a creature.
- A fearful sheep caught in a vine, confusing the blade that would set it free with the jaws of a lion!
Octavia :
- Such a master of metaphor! But I beg you—learn to distinguish right from wrong, fantasy from reality. Only then can you truly lead our people toward what’s right.
The Idealist :
- “Distinguish right from wrong.” Don’t make me laugh. Is that the limit of your vision?
Octavia :
- You … You …
The impassioned leader jumps onto a nearby bench, striking a dramatic pose before the crowd.
He raises his arms and launches into a speech.
The Idealist :
- Companions! Friends! Listen to me!
- There is no truer home to literature than a prison—
A blast of deafening sound and all words fall from the air.
The Idealist :
- The Idealist’s expression freezes. His eyes search down from a frozen face to a dark red hole in his chest.
An ominous shade of crimson seeps out.
Octavia :
- No! NO!
The horrified arcanist stumbles back, screaming.
Jailer :
- Who did this?! Hands behind your head and drop to your knees, all of you, now!
- This is your last warning!!
The prisoners show no reaction to the jailer’s final ultimatum. They stare at the Idealist, unmoving.
Roberta :
- Idealist, you-you’re bleeding. It’s in your chest.
As his life drains away, the Idealist appears unsurprised. He simply turns his gaze toward Recoleta.
The Idealist :
- You must …
Recoleta :
- Yes, Idealist?
Unfinished words dissolve into silence as the prison itself begins to tremble.
The entire exhibition hall twists and contorts, its surroundings warping beyond comprehension, as if dissolving and expanding freely.
Recoleta :
- What’s going on?
(Garden of Forking Path)
The hall is still. Time seems frozen in place, until someone utters the first words.
Octavia :
- Was he shot? Where did the bullet come from?
- Ms. Jailer, and you ladies over there, come give me a hand! We need to get him to the Physician!
Her words ignite the first spark.
La Sociedad Member II :
- Did you do this, Octavia? You couldn’t face the burning truth of his words, so you pierced his very heart instead, just as it was blazing with the fire of justice!
- Or was it you, Jailer? Did you intend to crush the voice of poetry beneath your wheel of power?
- It has to be one of you. Devils in disguise! Beasts in human skin!
Octavia :
- Can’t you see? I had nothing to do with this. I’m as innocent as any of you.
- I’ve been trying to keep order here, to protect everyone. And now you blame me?
La Sociedad Member III :
- Don’t listen to her! The Idealist made it very clear. She’s trying to get us punished for her own gain!
- You’re a murderer, Octavia!
The prisoners’ fury erupts.
In the chaos, Sonetto blocks an arcane skill that pierces the air.
Octavia :
- This is mad. You’re accusing me without proof. It wasn’t me.
Jailer :
- This is getting out of hand. I suggest you ladies leave now.
Recoleta :
- No, wait.
- It all happened too fast. What happened to the Idealist? Is he alright?
- I … I didn’t even get a chance to ask about Aleph.
As the tide of people surges around them, the line between life and death blurs beyond recognition.
Sonetto :
- I agree with the jailer.
- Timekeeper, Ms. Recoleta, let’s get out of here.
The violent conflict rages on, and everything else becomes meaningless.
The illusion of time dissolves, its flow unknown.
Under the garden’s influence, the frenzy of prisoners begins to resemble an unreadable, chaotic epic.
At this moment, an unidentifiable figure enters their midst, though no one takes notice.
The newcomer scrutinizes the motionless corpse.
??? :
- His vitals are gone. At last, some peace and quiet.
- Well. For a liar and a thief like him, there’s hardly a better end than this.
He reaches into the Idealist’s coat pocket and pulls out a die.
It is an artifact marked by patterns veiled in smoke, an object seemingly not meant to exist in this world, a twenty-sided die known only through an omniscient perspective.
And now, it is stained in an utterly corrupted blackness.
??? :
- Heh. Just as I thought. You had it all along.
Jailer :
- Ladies, I must apologize for what happened back there.
- We were caught off guard. There has never been a commotion of that scale before. I must report this to the Physician.
Vertin :
- Don’t worry, Ms. Jailer. We made it out in one piece.
Jailer :
- Thank you for your understanding. Ordinarily, I would arrange to escort you to a safer location, but I’m afraid at this hour, you’ll have missed the last train. And the roads are icy at night.
Hearing this, Recoleta exchanges a quick but meaningful expression with her companions.
Recoleta :
- Psst, Vertin. We can’t leave like this.
Vertin :
- We appreciate your kind consideration, Ms. Jailer, but we still have some unfinished business here.
Jailer :
- I see. I’ll arrange a clean room in a safer section for you.
- We’ll do our best to ensure your safety tonight.
Night falls as the girls huddle together, scrutinizing their unfamiliar surroundings.
Sonetto :
- They actually found us a spare room.
Recoleta :
- Bleak, quiet, and somber. It’s a cell like all the others.
Vertin :
- Don’t worry. This isn’t the first time we’ve ended up on the wrong side of the bars.
Sonetto :
- At least this time we’re just here for the night, not a full sentence.
Sonetto lets out a whisper-thin protest.
Vertin :
- Though, this cell is quite different from the ones we’ve been in before.
Recoleta :
- Not just this cell. The whole prison is unlike anything I’ve seen.
- And this society they’ve been running here isn’t some mere pastime. They’re having real discussions about meaningful topics, even though the rest of the world has been cut off from them.
Sonetto :
- But we’re still in an arcanist prison, a place where conflicts and violence can erupt at any moment. Let’s not forget that.
- Ms. Jailer warned us from the start. These prisoners are mentally unstable and potentially dangerous.
- Ms. Recoleta, with all due respect, we can’t afford to see this place through rose-colored glasses. We’d be overlooking the risks, as we did earlier.
Recoleta :
- And with all due respect, Sonetto, we didn’t overlook any danger. At least I didn’t. A writer must be observant if she is to accurately reflect the world in her writing.
Sonetto :
- But you—
Vertin :
- We came here with different goals, and still, none of them have been accomplished.
- I suggest we focus on our respective missions instead of fighting with one another.
Sonetto :
- Apologies, Timekeeper. Ms. Recoleta, I take back everything I said.
Recoleta :
- Don’t apologize, Sonetto. I’m at fault, too. Sometimes I forget that words can be as sharp as swords. You were only thinking about our safety. I shouldn’t have been so rude.
- I actually really admire how you fought back there! If you’d allow me, I’d like to write a poem for you, once my novel’s finished.
Sonetto :
- Ah …
Vertin :
- That’s terribly kind of you. But honestly, I think we’ve had enough poetry today to last a lifetime.
Recoleta :
- Let me know if you change your mind. By the way, did either of you see what happened to the Idealist?
Recalling their recent conflict, the indomitable girl finally hesitates.
Vertin :
- The jailer told me she went back to the gallery once everything calmed down.
- She found nothing: no blood, no shell cases, not even a trace of the Idealist.
Sonetto :
- Timekeeper, now’s really not the time for ghost stories.
Recoleta :
- Do you mean that maybe the Idealist somehow managed to get out of there on his own?
- Or perhaps someone else helped him.
Vertin :
- Well, according to the Idealist and our jailer, any inmates who are unwell will be taken to the Physician.
- It’s possible someone brought him there while everyone else was shouting and running about.
Recoleta :
- You’re right. It could be that he’s with the Physician right now. I’m relieved! That was a sudden plot twist, but a visionary of his magnitude doesn’t deserve to die in silence like that.
Vertin :
- To be fair, the gunshot was quite loud, as was the ensuing commotion.
Recoleta :
- …
- Nonetheless, he couldn’t have just died like that! I mean, the readers would riot if a writer were to kill off a character so abruptly!
- But, you believe he’s still alive, too. Am I right?
She knows her words are merely a cover. She needs an answer—a real, undeniable answer.
Vertin :
- There’s nothing that we can be certain of for now. But on a brighter note, we didn’t come back empty-handed from our mission either, Sonetto.
- We found Dr. Dores’s signature in the gallery. You were right all along, Recoleta. She was here.
Sonetto :
- But we didn’t see her at the gathering. Could something have happened to her, like with the Idealist?
Recoleta :
- Do you think she was also sent to the Physician and never made it back?
Vertin :
- This is all just speculation. If we want to find the Idealist or Dr. Dores …
- We need to speak to this Physician first.
- Ms. Recoleta, do you believe that the Idealist could be your pen pal, Aleph?
Recoleta :
- Whether he is or not, he’s still my best lead.
That name touches a nerve once again.
Recoleta :
- Friends, I’ve had this strange feeling in my gut since we got here. Something is slowing us down.
- Now to figure out what it is …
A silent fear grips her, like ripples suddenly appearing on a once-still lake, unsettling in its quiet disturbance.
Recoleta :
- Look, it’s a wild guess, but just wait till I finish.
- It feels like everything happening in this prison is somehow connected to my novel, The Rise and Fall of Sanity.
Vertin :
- We’re no strangers to wild guesses, and sometimes they’re closer to the truth than you’d think. So this …
Recoleta :
- The Rise and Fall of Sanity.
Vertin :
- Sorry. What exactly is your story about?
The question scatters the midnight gloom. Outside, moonlight spills over gray-white snow.
Recoleta :
- Hah! I never thought that you’d be interested!
- It starts—sorry, it’s been a while since I told it from the beginning: A few, a few years ago, I worked, worked as a forest ranger. It happened in a desert town called Amalfitano, in Sonora back in 1975 …
Two patient listeners watch the stammering girl, waiting for the next part of her story.
Recoleta :
- Ah, you know what? Most people say the beginning’s a bit hard to get into, except for Aleph. I’m thinking of rewriting it.
- But if you like the sound of it so far, maybe I could read you the latest part I just finished?
She studies her readers’ expressions, guessing madly at their responses.
Vertin :
- Please.
Recoleta :
- “It all started with the frequency data from the tapes.”
- “The general pattern seemed to have changed. At first, the Paracausality Researcher chalked it up to a statistical error—a glitch, perhaps.”—Oh, sorry.
- But after a few days and long nights of meticulous calculations, that explanation only became less and less plausible. The odds of success and failure kept shifting, and the chance of repeating the previous result kept growing. It was as if someone had tampered with the rules and tweaked it to their liking.
- She took her findings to Amalfitano, “the town of nothing,” as they called it then.
- Near the old looms, she met a blind weaver who spoke softly of an old tale:
- “I heard a strange rustling at dawn, like a die rolling along a wooden floor. Then the morning light dimmed and died. That was the last time I saw the sun, my own hands, or the threads I worked with.”
- “The second time I heard the die roll, I was told the oxen in the field sank to their knees and never stood again.”
- “By the third roll, the fields were crawling with frogs. Plows ran over them, and some still writhed, squeezing themselves deeper into the cracks in the earth.”
- “The fourth time the die rolled, ten dormice plunged into the sea in a strange sleepwalk, and ten bears feasted for the last time before winter arrived.”
- “The final roll of the die was cast in a cage, during a duel, before a crowd of eager eyes. The winner left with ten pounds of gold, and the loser left with ten flies which fell on him to feast.”
Vertin :
- …
Sonetto :
- …
The quiet spreads through their cell like a rolling tide.
Vertin :
- Is that all?
Sonetto :
- Emm. Seems like it.
Recoleta :
- Well, there’s more, but I haven’t quite figured those parts out yet.
- Any thoughts? Anything? I can take it. Please. I really need some feedback.
Vertin :
- I … I wonder if the protagonist ever finds this “Die of Babylon” in the end.
Recoleta :
- Oh, Vertin, it isn’t a real die. It’s just a metaphor!
Vertin :
- Oh, I see. I must’ve missed that. Sorry. Still, it’s a beautiful story. Sad, but beautiful.
Recoleta :
- The story is still too obscure, isn’t it? *sigh* Aleph warned me about this. In our last correspondence, he suggested adding the Blind Weaver to shed light on the hidden theme.
- It helped at first. But even with this sage advice, no matter how hard I tried, the plot just didn’t seem to move forward.
- I feel stuck in that village with them—lost, dazed, isolated inside their small, disconnected moments. Something crucial is missing, leaving gaps between the characters and scenes.
- Should I change the storyteller’s perspective? Start a different angle? Or maybe rewrite the characters completely? What should I do?
Before the writer sinks into a swirling vortex of self-doubt, someone decides to push for something tangible.
Sonetto :
- Apologies, but you said your story somehow connects to what’s happening here in the Panopticon. What makes you think that?
Recoleta :
- It’s a strange feeling. Like everything here belongs to a dream I once had, only I can’t remember it.
Sonetto :
- Do you mean that you have a sense of déjà vu?
- It’s nothing to worry about. Our psychiatrist friend, Kakania, told me those moments are often the result of a dysfunctional connection between two parts of the brain, like a little glitch in our heads.
Recoleta :
- No, it’s nothing like déjà vu!
The storyteller snaps back, politely agitated.
Recoleta :
- Déjà vu is a single moment, a specific situation. But here it’s everything! La Sociedad, the rules, the Idealist, even the incidents in the gallery! Each one unfolds in a similar pattern, like the grooves on a record, telling a story I feel I’ve listened to before.
- Amalfitano and Comala. They’re two sides of that same record, playing out the same tune. Whatever happens in my story seems to be happening here too.
- I had that feeling when I met you as well, Ms. Vertin.
- At first, I thought it was only an interesting coincidence. You’re much like the first character in my story—a traveler with a suitcase.
The girl rambles on, desperately relating to her characters.
Recoleta :
- But then I realized, the doctor, your Dores—she’s like the Blind Weaver, who lost her sight to the die despite having always been faithful to it.
- And the jailer—she’s the Bank Clerk who assisted the corporation in taking over the town in order to escape her past.
- And the Idealist? He’s the Murdered Donkey Driver. And the Die of Babylon … No …
- My dear fictional friends … What on earth is happening to you?
Vertin :
- Wait. Are you saying that everyone we’ve met here matches a character from your story, like some kind of archetype?
- That sounds unbelievable. But, then again, maybe you’re onto something.
- You see the world through a different lens that none of us share.
Recoleta :
- Not just the characters! The events here are mirroring my story, too.
- Aleph—he’s the only one who truly understood my story. If things are playing out just like my novel, then …
- Maybe Aleph is in fact still here.
Vertin :
- Are you suggesting that someone is controlling the Panopticon in order to make it follow the same plot as your story?
- That they’ve set the rules, started the poetry group, planned the attack on the Idealist, and tried to prevent us from finding Dr. Dores?
- If that’s true, Ms. Recoleta, it’s very likely that the one acting against us is in fact Aleph himself.
Recoleta never expected the chain of reasoning to unravel this way.
Recoleta :
- But I … No … How could that be possible?!
She interrupts, only for confusion to creep onto her face moments later.
Recoleta :
- Why? Why would he do this?
- I don’t see any reason why he’d be connected. He’s an intelligent, cultured, and profound person, not a common killer.
- No, none of this adds up.
Sonetto :
- Remember, Dr. Dores was brought to Ushuaia by the Zeno rebels.
- And we know they’re connected to Manus Vindictae.
- If this Aleph really is hiding Dores from us, he may be working with them.
Recoleta stares blankly for a time before clumsily shifting the topic.
Recoleta :
- Oh my, Sonetto! I didn’t know you had such a flair for stories! Maybe you should join us and become a visceral realist too.
- I think you’re only imagining things. Perhaps you were inspired by this strange prison? Haha.
Vertin :
- Perhaps we all need to start writing our own stories.
- Come out, now. Whoever’s out there, speak up.
- How can we help you?
Sonetto :
- Who’s there?
(Battle)
…
García :
- Easy, easy! It’s me, García! We met at the gallery earlier.
- Please. I come in peace.
Recoleta pays no mind to the young man’s explanations; her focus holds on the woman beside him.
Recoleta :
- It’s you, Octavia! The murderer herself!
Vertin :
- Please, calm yourself, Ms. Recoleta.
- The jailer has already confirmed that she wasn’t the one to fire at the Idealist. The shot came from somewhere else in the room.
Recoleta :
- Hmph.
Recoleta bites her lip, giving up a little space to the intruders.
Vertin :
- Ms. Octavia, what brings you here at this hour?
Octavia :
- I come here out of goodwill. Believe me, I didn’t want any bloodshed either.
- I understand you just arrived today. There’s something you need to know about the inmates here.
Their visitor’s expression is weary and low.
Octavia :
- We’re outcasts rejected by society and literature, and our privileges are limited within these walls. But before I started my own literature group, I struck a deal with the Panopticon authorities.
- If we cooperate and stay out of trouble, they’d leave us be. We could discuss literature freely and openly in Comala. Such a thing may seem trivial to you, but this is of immense importance to us.
Recoleta :
- Oh, there’s no happier thing in this world than discussing literature! No one should ever put limits on it!
Octavia :
- You’re right, Recoleta. But we’re prisoners here. There are certain rules we have to follow.
- Except, the Idealist didn’t see it our way. He refused to compromise, believing that the long poem and his so-called “-ism” could break us free from the cage of the ever-watchful eye.
Recoleta :
- Perhaps he was right. You might’ve achieved more if you’d listened to him. After all, visceral realism keeps us connected to who we are.
- You have to believe in the truth of visceral realism! Because out there, beyond these walls, many of us still do!
Octavia :
- And what has it changed? García, you’re the latest inmate here. Tell us, three months ago, before they arrested you and took you here …
- What has the visceral realism movement accomplished out there?
Beside them, García, who had been patiently leaning against the railing, produces a metallic vibration on its grates. A rough paper roll burns between his lips.
García :
- At first, it was revolutionary. Young poets joined in droves. We held gatherings, and the literary world seemed alive again.
- I was just a kid when the leading poets left the city. Everyone thought it was only temporary. But they didn’t come back, and nothing has happened since.
- No one says it, but we all know: visceral realism died in 1977.
Recoleta :
- No. Not for me.
- It’s not dead as long as people still believe in it. I believe in it!
Octavia ignores the childish remark. She knows that “conviction” can be as fragile as a spider’s web.
Octavia :
- Belief, faith—what is this obsession with the “true self”?
- Why does your type always insist on there being a true self hiding beneath our roles in society, our disciplines?
Recoleta :
- Look at the Idealist! He never once stopped fighting for what he believed in, even long after he was put behind these bars.
Octavia :
- “Idealist,” what a name he gave himself. Who will he be when he finally breaks free from the eyes of the central tower? When he’s left without his willful audience? A nobody, that’s what.
- And that is a truth even he is terrified of.
Vertin :
- Ms. Octavia. I hope you’ve come with something more important to share than just some criticism of the Idealist.
Octavia :
- You’re right. I have an important message for you.
- Dr. Dores—I heard you were looking for her. The woman from the São Paulo Veterans’ Residence. She used to write under the name “Urd,” didn’t she?
Vertin :
- Yes, that’s right. Do you know her? You’re the first person I’ve met here to speak plainly about her.
- Do you know where she might be?
Octavia :
- We crossed paths, but only briefly. I’m not sure where she’s gone. Maybe the authorities know.
- However, she left this with me. I think you’ll need it more than I do.
Octavia hands over her personal folder.
Before they might open it, she has already turned to leave.
Octavia :
- We have other matters to attend to. I’ll leave you to your business. García, shall we?
Their visitors leave in haste, their faces and expressions obscured by the night’s shadows.
The Foundation’s investigators open the worn manuscript folder with caution.
Vertin :
- “The Physician told me the horrifying truth about the Panopticon of Comala and the power behind it—Manus Vindictae.”
- “By becoming the Panopticon’s sole patron, they seized control of the resources and the allocation system, turning this place into a living hell. I suspect that the Physician, the current highest authority here, is responsible for this situation.”
- ”… I discovered that the inmates were put through brutal training, even when they were too sick to carry out their tasks. They also forced pure-blood arcanist inmates to wear their masks, effectively turning them into murmuring puppets …”
Sonetto :
- Just as we suspected, Manus Vindictae is orchestrating everything.
- No wonder we didn’t find them in the city. They’ve been hiding here all along.
Vertin :
- No one would’ve thought to come looking for them here.
They snap the folder shut.
A familiar signature, seen on the foreword page of UTTU magazine, and the receipt found in São Paulo’s Heartfelt Home.
Sonetto :
- But why would Ms. Octavia bring this to us? What’s in it for her?
- Do you think she’s trying to mislead us, Timekeeper?
Vertin :
- Maybe. But the handwriting in that notebook is most certainly Urd’s.
- If she’s leading us astray on purpose, why? Ms. Recoleta, what do you think? Could she be Aleph?
Recoleta :
- Not a chance! Haven’t you seen how she denies everything beautiful in the world? Aleph would never be so biased.
- No, Aleph is like a mirror. He reflects both light and shadow.
- But Octavia … Maybe she hasn’t looked at the shadow within for a long time.
- I know that look on her face. It’s the look of a writer.
- I’ve seen so many like her during my trip—the faces of a lost, struggling generation.
Under the night sky, Comala Prison stands like a forgotten gravestone covered by fine, cold snow.
In a room repurposed from a prison cell, three girls in search of someone share an absurd, bizarre tale. Meanwhile, at the entrance of the central watchtower, a jaguar knocks on a secure door.
Jailer :
- *deep breath* Dr. Merlin, I’m here to report on today’s events.
??? :
- Come in.
(Central Tower Waiting Area)
Frantic writing breaks the quiet of the room.
The jailer’s visit does not deter the man behind the desk. He continues writing, wholly absorbed, as if each letter were filling the world around him.
Jailer :
- There was a commotion in the gallery today, sir.
- An inmate known as the Idealist was severely injured. The inmates nearby said he lost consciousness from blood loss.
- However, after we put everyone back in their cell, the Idealist was gone. I made a sweep of the grounds, but there was no trace of him.
- It’s possible that he regained consciousness and went into hiding. I’ll perform a full search tomorrow.
The jaguar finds herself quite unexpectedly concealing the truth about Pablo.
The Physician :
- No need.
Jailer :
- Sir?
The Physician :
- He knew the consequences of breaking the rules, did he not?
Jailer :
- Sir, with all due respect, I think today’s incident proved just how dangerous it is to let the inmates keep their weapons.
- We never should’ve let them walk around with deadly weapons! Even if we had to, we should’ve doubled the guards. We can’t expect them to follow their own rules simply out of fear of the central tower.
The Physician interrupts her sharply, with no hint of concern.
The Physician :
- Such matters fall beyond your purview, Jailer. You only need to do what’s required of your title.
- Is there anything else?
Jailer :
- There is another thing. Two guests from the Foundation came through today. They said they were looking for someone named Dores.
- They’ve shown a willingness to cooperate. Though, they were involved with the incident in Corridor Zero.
The sound of writing continues. Her report is disregarded. The jailer takes a deep breath. The next part is difficult to say.
Jailer :
- Sir, there is one more thing.
- I told Ms. Octavia we’re short on rations, and she’s adjusted the inmates’ portions accordingly. But that won’t last long.
- Manus Vindictae stopped providing supplies back in March, and Zeno has collected all the prisoners they had previously placed in our custody.
- I just wonder why they have so suddenly withdrawn from Ushuaia and brought all their prisoners with them.
- I also noticed that we haven’t received any orders from the government since Warden Tartuffe was transferred.
- In fact, we haven’t had any communication with them at all.
- Sir, in frank terms, we’re facing down a serious shortage of medicine, food, and basic supplies. At this rate, the Panopticon will soon be unable to operate. Where will our inmates go then?
The man before her says nothing for a long time, his pen still flickering over the page.
Jailer :
- Can we ask the Foundation for help? Th-They’ve sent their people here. Maybe they’re interested in the Panopticon?
- I could arrange a meeting if you like.
The Physician :
- You’re unusually talkative today.
The man finally stops writing and looks up.
Jailer :
- Pardon, sir?
The Physician :
- It’s fascinating, you know. You’ve become so much more concerned about this place and its inmates than when you first started. You are now dictated by your title.
Jailer :
- I didn’t mean to overstep. I’m sorry.
The Physician :
- You can go now. I have a great deal of work to do. Oh, and one more thing.
He beckons the jailer back before she leaves.
The Physician :
- Make sure this month’s Comala Congress is held according to schedule.
Jailer :
- Yes, sir.
The jaguar disappears beyond the door, metallic footsteps fading into the distance. Only then does the Physician allow his suppressed frustration to surface.
The Physician :
- How many times have I warned you about this? The Idealist has to go. He’s nothing but trouble for us! You’re too soft on him, Aleph. Look at the mess he has us in now!
Aleph :
- Calm down.
The Physician :
- He’s a rabble-rousing thief, a self-destructive maniac, a snake in the grass.
- He even stole the Tear of Comala from me. He’s nearly ruined everything we’ve worked for!
The man angrily raises the once-lost and now-found die.
In the dim room, it flickers with a comforting glow.
Aleph :
- It’s only a die, Merlin. It does nothing more than a die can do.
The Physician :
- You were there today. You saw what he did. He managed to change the Panopticon with this die, even if only for a second.
- He’ll ruin my work, Aleph. He’s a slave to his passion; his head is filled with impulsive thoughts. I don’t trust him. We can’t trust him!
- I’ve done everything you’ve asked. Now it’s time to do your part.
Aleph responds with indifference to the Physician’s frustration, continuing his writing without pause.
The Physician :
- Time’s ticking down. I can’t afford any further mistakes. No one can be permitted to stop my experiment in the Panopticon.
- I’ll prove it to them that we’ve found the path to the ultimate answer.
The cottage with the blue roof was silent as always.
In a fleeting dream, the Paracausality Researcher uncovered the truth behind the Die of Babylon.
She carefully examined hidden patterns, much like an astute astrologer tracks the movements of the stars.
What may seem like errors or accidents doesn’t negate the verities of destiny. On the contrary, they affirm its very existence. Just ask the great Heraclitus!
In an unobserved universe, the Die of Babylon spins in perpetuity, dictating the fate of all in time that is both infinitely long and infinitely short.
Look, she closed her eyes! She respected the randomness of numbers and destiny. She respected the Die’s judgment.
Otherwise, she would have acquiescently lost herself in the gaps of time and wandered forever as a ghost in oblivion.
(Hall of New Encounters)
In the solemn prison hall, under the half-light of the next day, the prisoners of Comala gather.
Octavia steps onto the podium with a stern expression.
Octavia :
- First, allow me to make one thing clear: I had absolutely nothing to do with what happened to the Idealist yesterday. I swear it on my career as a writer!
- As you all know, the Idealist and I are the representatives of the two factions of La Sociedad de Poetas de las Américas. As you also know, we have been at peace since the Let Sleeping Dogs Lie agreement was signed a few months ago.
- Despite our differing views, we have coexisted to this day under the watchful gaze of the central tower. Rest assured that we will work tirelessly to locate the missing Idealist.
Inmate III :
- Don’t put so much pressure on yourself, Ms. Octavia. His death wasn’t your fault!
- After all, he was the one who threw the first verbal dagger!
The murmurs cascading below reach the ears of the prisoners from another faction.
Roberta :
- Show some respect, you morons!
- The Idealist is missing, not dead! I’m sure he’ll show up in one piece before we know it!
Inmate III :
- Better face the hard truth now, Roberta. Though I have to say, it won’t be easy for you to find a new leader as mad as him!
A polite cough from the hostess pauses the heated debate.
Octavia :
- Please, everyone, quiet down!
- According to the agreement, today’s congress should’ve been chaired by the Idealist. Since he is still missing, I will be acting on his—
??? :
- Pardon my lateness. Go ahead. I’m ready to moderate.
Unfamiliar footsteps break the regular pattern of events. The jailer leads her visitors to the entrance of the prison hall.
Jailer :
- Ms. Vertin, I looked over the incarceration and visitor records from the past six months.
- There was no mention of anyone named Dores.
Vertin :
- Then it seems only the Physician knows the whereabouts of Dr. Dores. Ms. Jailer, we need to meet with the Physician. It’s important.
Jailer :
- Listen, you really shouldn’t take the inmates’ ramblings too seriously.
Considering the identity of the person before her, the jailer softens her tone.
Jailer :
- But, if it’s as critical as you say, I’ll make another request later.
- That said, I’m afraid the meeting won’t happen for at least a few days.
Vertin :
- Understood.
Jailer :
- For now, please join us for today’s congress.
Recoleta :
- Spectacular! Do you hold literary salons like this every day? This place is practically a writer’s paradise.
- So, you’re the host of the salon, Octavia?
- I say we set aside our differences and have a titillating literary discussion!
Octavia :
- You’ve come at the right time. You may serve as witnesses for the congress alongside the jailer, like a citizens’ jury in a court.
Jailer :
- Your suggestion aligns with the congressional rules. Very well.
Recoleta :
- Huh? Congress? Witnesses?
- Isn’t this a salon? Which topic are we discussing? Literary theories, schools, principles, languages, oh, narrative perspectives?
Octavia :
- None of those.
Octavia lowers her head, giving her questioner a long and deep look.
Octavia :
- This congress is about the randomness of fate, Ms. Recoleta.
Recoleta :
- Randomness of fate?
As she sinks into confusion and bewilderment, the jailer’s voice rises into a triumphant introduction.
Jailer :
- Dear visitors from the Foundation, allow me to introduce the Comala Congress.
- What happened yesterday was merely a brief anomaly. In the Panopticon, spontaneous order among the inmates is the norm, and the Comala Congress serves as its truest reflection.
Vertin :
- Spontaneous order?
Jailer :
- Yes. Through the congress, the inmates assign and distribute medication, communal duties, and rest periods. They are entirely self-regulated.
Her tone is filled with pride.
Octavia :
- I hereby announce the commencement of the seventh Comala Congress!
As her words fall, Octavia takes out a worn lottery box and a small trinket from her hand. The prisoners move in perfect order like a swarm of ants.
Sonetto :
- A cardboard box and—is that a paper die? Hmm. It has 20 sides.
Recoleta :
- …?
Octavia :
- We carefully examine hidden patterns, much like an astute astrologer tracks the movements of the stars.
Recoleta :
- Isn’t this …?!
From somewhere in the audience, the girl unconsciously mumbles a revelation.
Recoleta :
- Isn’t this just like the Die of Babylon?! The MacGuffin that weaves through the entire plot, the infinite symbiote of fate, and the symbol that compresses time into a shriveled circle?
Octavia :
- What may seem like errors or accidents doesn’t negate the verities of destiny. On the contrary, they affirm its very existence. Just ask the great Heraclitus!
- In an unobserved universe, the Die spins in perpetuity …
Recoleta :
- “Dictating the fate of all in time that is both infinitely long and infinitely short”?
Vertin :
- …?!
Inmates :
- Look, I’ve closed my eyes! I respect the randomness of numbers and destiny. I respect the Die’s judgment.
As the prisoners recite their announcements, the author’s voice becomes more and more sluggish.
Recoleta :
- “Otherwise, we will acquiescently lose ourselves in the gaps of time and wander forever as ghosts in oblivion.”
- I-I don’t understand what’s going on.
- Oh, but the irony’s that I probably have more idea what’s going on than anyone here.
Vertin :
- Ms. Recoleta, this is all in your novel, isn’t it?
Recoleta :
- I’m afraid so. The recitations, the references to an astrologer, and Heraclitus—they couldn’t possibly be just a coincidence.
- Then, could it be? Will they look to the die to dictate their fate?
The girls’ audible shock does not affect the proceedings on stage; the congress continues.
Octavia :
- I shall perform the first roll. Its result will determine the subsequent roll order for this congress.
The hostess tosses the twenty-sided die into the cardboard box and begins shaking it rhythmically.
Octavia :
- The result is 5. This check complies with the prerequisite conditions of the Ruling of the Die, and the standard roll order has been established.
- Inmate José, please come forth.
- You are the first in the initiative order. Therefore, fate’s judgment shall fall upon you before all else.
Inmate III :
- Me? O-Okay …
The prisoner steps forward, taking the fragile box in his hands, shaking it to roll the die of absurd fate inside.
The die stops, and just like that, a simple number decides his fate.
Inmate III :
- 17! It’s 17! Ah, what a wonderful number, 17! Like an oasis in an endless desert!
Octavia :
- The result is 17, and the score combination 6+4+4+3. According to the Ruling of the Die, he shall receive 60 risperidone tablets, 40 clozapine tablets, and 40 diazepam tablets. Additionally, he will assume the role of cultural manager of the Comala Congress.
- Before he takes office, Inmate José must clean the first restroom for the next seven days.
Inmate III :
- W-Wonderful! I’ll gladly clean the toilet! I’ve got the brooms here, the toilet detergent, oh, and the toilet brush, too!
- I have been waiting for this opportunity! As cultural manager, I will speak with every inmate and complete the Comala Memoir, finally capturing the moments when literary sparks ignite and explode.
Octavia :
- Next is Inmate Edoardo. Please come forth.
The man in question is a nervous mess. His gaze flickers, his eyebrows fight for space on his forehead, and his teeth clash against each other in turmoil.
Inmate IV :
- B-But I can’t remember the Ruling of the Die. I can’t remember anything. Damn it!
- Sorry, Ms. Octavia, but I-I don’t think I can do this! I didn’t get any medication in the last congress. I’ve had multiple episodes. It’s like … like my brain’s jammed or something!
Octavia :
- It’s alright, Inmate Edoardo. It’s easy. You don’t need to know the rules to roll the Die. Give me your hand. I’ll help you.
The prisoner follows suit, hands trembling as he shakes the box—the only thing he can do.
Octavia :
- My sincerest apologies, Inmate Edoardo. The Die dictates that you must voluntarily descend into the sewers and write the thematic keyword that currently causes you the most anxiety on the walls.
Inmate IV :
- I … Th-Thank you very much, Ms. Octavia.
- Agh. I think my head’s about to split in half. I … I need a moment to rest before I head down there …
- … and fulfill my destiny.
Clutching his head, the prisoner leaves. His steps heavy, his hands empty, but his brow finally falling at ease.
Recoleta :
- Jailer, are you really letting them make every decision with the roll of a die?
- Edoardo is clearly in a much more dire condition than José. The medication should’ve been given to him!
Jailer :
- As I said, this is how the inmates of the Panopticon maintain order. The Physician periodically provides medication, food, and other necessities, and the inmates distribute them in this spontaneous and efficient manner.
- Neither authority nor violence is involved in this process. This is what sets Comala apart from all other custodial facilities.
Recoleta :
- Is that it? You abdicate all agency to the roll of a paper die and call it the “randomness of fate”? What kind of sick joke is this?!
Jailer :
- Please calm down, Recoleta. This is the method that the inmates have collectively decided to recognize. They’re prepared to face the possible sacrifices that it brings.
- This isn’t about you or me. It’s not our place to interfere with a procedure that has been proven both pragmatic and effective.
- My duty is to assist the inmates in maintaining order through the methods that they have established, and yours is to witness their self-governance, not judge it.
The jailer takes a deep breath. Her words clearly meant to convince herself as much as anyone listening.
Recoleta :
- If everything somehow unfolds as it does in my novel, then every roll is already predetermined.
- Vertin, do you remember the story I told you last night? The odds of both success and failure were consecutively multiplied.
Vertin :
- I remember.
Recoleta :
- As soon as a character experiences a failure, they continue to suffer failures in an endless chain reaction.
- None of Edoardo’s future dice rolls will ever result in a number higher than 10.
- At this rate, this system … this Sociedad ruled by the Dice of Babylon, is bound to collapse.
She looks around, realizing that her words—weighty as they seem to her—have garnered no attention.
Recoleta :
- Edoardo will never receive any medication.
- The moment he writes the keyword on the wall could very well be the moment he spells out his own death!
- No, I can’t let this happen. I have to do something!
Recoleta rushes to the stage.
Jailer :
- Wait, Ms. Recoleta! What are you doing?
On the stage, Octavia remains the picture of serenity as she orchestrates the congress.
Octavia :
- Ms. Recoleta, as a witness to the congress, you have the right to express your doubts—calmly.
Recoleta :
- Listen, you—
She recalls the complaints of her two former companions, the jailer’s dismissals, and the confused expressions of every editor she has ever faced.
If she were to lay out every detail of her novel here and now, she would only get the same response.
Recoleta :
- *huff* No, it’s nothing. It’s just that I’d like to participate in the dice-rolling ceremony. May I?
Octavia :
- Of course! The very fact that you’re standing here in the Panopticon proves that you share a common fate with it.
Recoleta surveys the prisoners waiting to cast their die. Their expressions are serene, untroubled, calmly awaiting their fate. The joys and misfortunes of those before them do not affect the long, winding queue in the slightest.
She takes a deep breath.
Recoleta :
- It doesn’t matter when I roll the Die, since the rolls are simply a reflection of the randomness of fate, right?
Octavia :
- Precisely.
Recoleta :
- Then, I’d like to perform my roll after the 27th inmate. Is that alright?
Octavia :
- As you wish, Ms. Recoleta.
(Battle)
…
Octavia :
- It seems fate favors you, Ms. Recoleta.
- Here are your supplies.
- Please be sure to follow the distribution rules of the congress. This is an essential structure of Comala and a belief shared by all its inmates. Honor it.
Recoleta :
- Just as I suspected.
- These supplies belong to me now, Octavia. I’m free to use them however I please.
Recoleta strides toward Edoardo, who has curled up in a distant corner, clutching his head, as his body trembles in silence.
Recoleta :
- Here, Edoardo, take them.
Inmate IV :
- …?
- B-But I haven’t fulfilled my destiny yet.
- These precious tablets and capsules … I can’t accept them. They are gifts from fate. The Die has placed them in your palm.
Recoleta :
- But I don’t need them; you do.
Inmate IV :
- Th-Thank you, kind miss.
The prisoner’s trembling stops. He blankly pinches his arm, as if trying to distinguish reality from dream.
Then, all at once, he snatches the medication from her hands and shoves it into his mouth.
Recoleta :
- Edoardo?! What’s wrong? A-Are you taking the medicine right now?
- There’s no need to rush. There’s plenty of it. You can have it all.
Inmate I :
- For goodness’ sake, Edoardo! How could you squander fate’s gifts like this?
- Kind miss, please, give me the medication. I need them more than anyone else.
Inmate II :
- No, I’m the one who needs them most. Give me the medication. I beg of you.
- With the protection of these amulets, I might finally be able to get a peaceful night’s sleep, no more trembling floors and wailing ghosts.
The prisoners shove and struggle, countless hands reaching toward the hapless writer, trying to snatch the small round pills of salvation.
Octavia :
- Enough! Enough!!
A blue glow spreads through the room, forcing the prisoners to clutch their heads and fall down to their knees. Their riot comes to an abrupt halt.
Octavia :
- You shouldn’t have done that, Ms. Recoleta.
- Your ignorant generosity could shatter the very basis of our survival.
She steps toward Edoardo, now writhing in pain, and picks up a few stray capsules scattered at his feet.
The pills dissolve into a stream of voided sand, vanishing as it pours through her fingers.
Octavia :
- We have never had such chaos at the congress. Understand this: We rely only on the randomness of fate to distribute supplies and assign responsibilities.
- If you disrupt this status quo, the entire system of the Panopticon will collapse beyond repair.
- It is only by respecting the arbitrariness of fate and adhering to the rules of the Die of Babylon that we have kept this place functioning all this time.
Recoleta :
- The Die of Babylon?!
- Tell me, how did you know this name? Are you the one orchestrating this whole thing?
Recoleta, equally confused and furious, grabs the hostess’s collar.
Recoleta :
- C-Could it be? Are you Aleph, just as Vertin suspected?
Octavia :
- Let go of me, Ms. Recoleta! Have you gone mad?
- The roll of the Die is absolutely random. I’m not orchestrating anything. Before the congress began, I made an oath. I intend to keep it.
Vertin :
- Please, calm down, Ms. Recoleta. I think she’s telling the truth.
She lets go of her grip as the reality of their situation dawns on her.
Recoleta :
- S-Sorry, Octavia, but, please, you have to tell me how you learned about the Die of Babylon.
- I must know. Only my pen pal and I should have any knowledge about this die.
Octavia :
- I heard about it from the Physician. He described it as a symbol of collective consciousness that we could harness to maintain immaculate order in the Panopticon.
- The Comala Congress was coined, iterated, and perfected by the Physician based on this concept.
Vertin :
- The Physician again. Everything eventually leads back to him, just as we suspected.
Recoleta :
- I see.
Recoleta casts her eyes over to the silent jaguar, who has remained wordless from beginning to end, watching it all unfold.
Recoleta :
- Jailer, we have to meet with the Physician in person, now.
Jailer :
- As I’ve told you many times, Dr. Merlin is too busy at the moment.
- I couldn’t possibly trouble him over a novel and a pen pal. They’re just fantasies.
Vertin :
- Couldn’t you make an exception?
- What if they’re not just fantasies? What if they’re tied to the very survival of this place?
- Ms. Recoleta said the Panopticon could collapse because of the Die of Babylon.
Jailer :
- Are you seriously telling me you believe that nonsense?
Recoleta :
- It wasn’t nonsense, nor are they fantasies! You saw with your own eyes how I won the die roll!
Jailer :
- It was just a coincidence.
The jailer’s words are at odds with the subtle motions of her eyes and face. The Foundation’s investigators seize on a prime opportunity to apply pressure.
Vertin :
- What if we present you with stronger evidence to prove it’s more than just a coincidence?
- If everything in the Panopticon proceeds according to Ms. Recoleta’s novel, as she says, she should be able to predict what happens next.
- Including the roll results of the “absolutely random” Die.
Recoleta :
- That’s right! The Die of Babylon isn’t random at all. It’s nothing but a supercilious fraud veiled under the guise of fate, an enactor of the inescapable loop of history, and—
- And not one of you is paying attention to me whatsoever. Ugh, to hell with this era of ignoring unknown writers.
Vertin :
- Ms. Recoleta, please make your prediction for the next inmate’s die roll.
- This way, you can prove to Ms. Jailer the irrefutable connection between Comala and your novel, The Rise and Fall of Sanity.
Recoleta :
- You finally remembered its name! Oh, what sweet balm to my spirit!
Vertin :
- Ms. Octavia, please continue the congress, and let the next inmate perform their roll. Then Ms. Recoleta’s statement will be proven true.
The hostess of the congress remains noncommittal.
Octavia :
- I appreciate the reminder. No matter the interruption, the Comala Congress must go on, though not for Ms. Recoleta’s sake, of course.
- Next inmate, please.
Following the die’s designated order, the next prisoner steps forward to roll.
Octavia :
- Hello, Inmate García. You know what to do.
García :
- Of course.
Recoleta :
- “The 6th face. A broken pillar. The conflux of fortune and calamity.”
- So, the result of the next roll will be a 6.
Her prophetic precision plunges the Hall of New Encounters into breathless silence.
Octavia :
- As fate reveals, the number is 6.
Vertin :
- Just as Ms. Recoleta predicted.
Jailer :
- That could still be a coincidence. Do it again.
Recoleta :
- “The 13th face. A bewildering cadenza lacking a true beginning or end.”
- “The 4th face. A drowning man used the last of his strength to swim to safety, only to discover he’d mistaken a mirror for the surface of the water.”
- “The 17th face. He limped toward the distant oasis, only for the faint moisture and eerie stillness to cruelly reveal it as a mirage.”
- “The 6th face. Another broken pillar, with identical cracks to the last. It confirmed the Paracausality Researcher’s hypothesis—this place used to be a circular building.”
- Is that enough? I’ve almost finished the entire chapter.
Octavia :
- It’s not possible.
One “coincidence” after another begins to stir into an uproar.
The coincidences appear endless.
Octavia :
- Who are you?
Recoleta :
- I’m sorry if this comes as a shock to you, but I did warn you, Octavia.
- Now, it’s proven. The Die of Babylon is anything but the so-called “randomness of fate.”
Octavia :
- Have you been sent here by some god, or are you a Hopi prophet?
- Have you brought this knowledge to save us, or to shatter our beliefs, our world?
A question destined never to need an answer. She lets her eyes fall into the cardboard box and onto the twenty-sided die. The ridiculousness of its nature becomes starkly visible.
Octavia :
- What is this thing in my hand? What are we? What is this prison?
Jailer :
- I don’t know if it’s some kind of sorcery or arcane skill, but it’s unfathomable.
- I’ll take you to the Physician. Not because of your earlier request, but because the situation has escalated beyond my means.
- The overseer of the Panopticon will decide how to handle your situation.
Vertin :
- To be honest, Ms. Recoleta. I wasn’t sure you’d be able to correctly predict everything.
Sonetto :
- Timekeeper, are you saying that you risked everything on a hunch?
Vertin :
- It worked, didn’t it?
Jailer :
- Come with me. Dr. Merlin’s office is in the central tower.
For her part, the now vindicated writer follows at the end of the line, letting her mind race like a bullet train.
Recoleta :
- In the sixth version of my novel, everyone in the town dies because of the Die of Babylon, for only death can close the loop of history.
- And Jailer, you’re the Bank Clerk, right?
- So, in the end, will you also have a meltdown, like the Bank Clerk does, when he realizes that he and the Dune Piscator are the same person?
- If all of this is tied to The Rise and Fall of Sanity, then, as its creator …
- I will get to the bottom of this.
An otherwise tidy room is covered in fine scratches and small unidentifiable stains. The smell of disinfectant lingers in the air, mixed with mildew.
Jailer :
- Wait here a moment.
- I’ll report the situation and your request to Dr. Merlin.
- However, since he’s always busy, I can’t guarantee he’ll agree to meet you, but I’ll do my best to persuade him.
The jaguar’s figure slinks out through the inner door.
Vertin :
- Now’s our chance, Sonetto.
Sonetto :
- Our chance? What do you mean, Timekeeper?
Vertin :
- It’s unlikely that the jailer will let us search the central tower, even in this situation. We should take the initiative and look for clues while she’s away.
Sonetto :
- I-I see, Timekeeper. I will do my best.
Sonetto swiftly conducts a thoroughly unauthorized search.
Vertin :
- Thank you for your assistance, Ms. Recoleta. Without your precise predictions, we wouldn’t be standing here now.
- I haven’t yet grasped the connection between the Die, your novel, and what’s happening in this place, but …
- By process of elimination, it’s almost certain that your pen pal, Aleph, is right behind this door.
Recoleta :
- Sometimes I envy your decisiveness, Vertin. I’m sure many people have praised the special talent of yours.
Vertin :
- Are you alright? You don’t seem as excited as when we first entered Comala.
Recoleta holds her gaze on the tightly shut door, uncertain whether she hopes it will open now or ever again.
Recoleta :
- The all-seeing sentinel of the Panopticon, veiled within the central tower … If it truly is Aleph, I—
- I don’t know how to face such a terrifying and increasingly plausible reality.
Sonetto :
- Sorry to interrupt, but, Timekeeper, I think you’ll want to see these.
Vertin :
- Signed “Urd.” This is a letter from Dr. Dores.
The delicate signature matches the one in the manuscript folder.
Recoleta :
- Her handwriting—It’s as beautiful as I’d imagined. Who is it addressed to?
- “Dear Mr. Aleph …” Aleph?!
Vertin :
- Looks like Dores and Aleph are acquaintances. Or, at least, they’ve had some correspondence.
- “Dear Mr. Aleph, my apologies if this reaches you at an inconvenient time. I am Dores, pen name ‘Urd,’ an ordinary inmate of the Panopticon of Comala. I write seeking your guidance, if you wouldn’t mind offering it to me.”
Dores :
- “I heard from the Physician, Dr. Merlin, that …”
- You have the answer to every question—a statement which has been echoed by the Idealist and the other inmates.
- I have something I wish to ask you. What exactly is your role at the prison? Chief warden? A secret backer? An observer who dominates the prison? Are you truly the supreme ruler of the Panopticon of Comala?
They tear open the next letter, eager to read on.
Aleph :
- Dear Urd,
- I do indeed have answers for every question, including yours. I’m afraid every one of your speculations is off the mark. I am merely an inmate who chose to imprison himself here.
- And allow me to point out that your identity isn’t as ordinary as you claim. Why is it that you, my fellow inmate and guest of Manus Vindictae, are so interested in Comala?
Vertin :
- Dr. Dores, a guest of Manus Vindictae?
A muffled shattering of glass interrupts their reading.
Sonetto :
- It came from inside the room. Do you think they’re okay?
Recoleta :
- The jailer and the Physician! What happened?
The door defies any attempt at an answer, sealing all the events from view.
Vertin :
- I’m not sure, but it could be bad. Come on. Let’s go in and see if they’re alright.
(Central Tower )
The unlocked door leads to another room, more decrepit and oppressive than the last.
A cold operating table lies in the center, surrounded by scattered bottles and medical instruments.
Vertin :
- It seems we’ve stumbled upon the Physician’s—
Recoleta :
- The Physician’s office. I should’ve known. But, is this an operating room?
- As if this prison wasn’t bizarre enough already.
Inside the narrow operating room, the jaguar reacts badly to their intrusion.
Jailer :
- Didn’t I tell you to wait outside? What do you think you’re doing, barging in like this?
Recoleta :
- We were just worried about your safety, Jailer.
Jailer :
- Enough. Get out of—
??? :
- Quiet!
The Physician :
- The reptilian complex governs all our fundamental functions.
- Our heartbeat, breathing, fight-or-flight responses, and our territory and hierarchy awareness—our primitive ancestors, like reptiles and birds, followed such instincts to survive.
- Through millions of years of evolution, we developed the limbic system.
- This processes emotions and forms memories. It allows us to feel—fear, sadness, anger, joy—our behaviors are given “meaning.”
- Now, it’s the neocortex that makes up more than two-thirds of our total brain volume.
- Language, perception, logical reasoning, abstract thought—this is what forms the complexity of human nature. We read, create, perceive. We try to understand both the world and ourselves. We are forever setting goals, one after another.
- And all this—these multitudes—happens within the confines of the skull, in the tight folds of the crowded cerebral cortex.
Vertin :
- Is he performing surgery?
The Physician :
- Such a delicate and elaborate organ.
- Were it unable to forget, what would come of it?
- Can this space, no larger than the palm of my hand, truly accommodate dozens of people at once?
At last, the Physician sets down his operating scissors and needle, signaling the end of the surgery. Yet at the same time, the old machine issues an alarm, signaling that his patient’s vital signs are wavering.
Recoleta :
- What’s happened to the patient? It looks like he’s dying.
Her anxiety rises as the question goes unanswered. On the screen, the last waveforms disappear, leaving only a constant flat tone.
Recoleta :
- Did the surgery fail?
The Physician :
- Nonsense! The surgery was a tremendous success.
- I have erased his debilitating hysteria and restored order to the Panopticon.
- What are you trying to achieve by barging in here?
The man behind the operating table stares at the uninvited guests expectantly but does not give them a chance to respond.
The Physician :
- Forget it. The next operation requires my attention.
- Jailer, show them out. Bring me the next patient in 15 minutes.
Jailer :
- I’m sorry, Ms. Vertin. I’m afraid you have to leave now.
Recoleta steps forward, blocking their path. There is a hint of pleading in her voice.
Recoleta :
- Please, just let us speak with you! It’ll only take a moment! I have something very important I need to ask.
Her question is not given time to take shape.
The Physician :
- Important? Nothing is of greater importance than my experiments in the Panopticon, outsiders.
- To ensure they continue, the stability of time and schedule is absolutely paramount.
Recoleta :
- Experiments in the Panopticon? So you really are the controller of the prison, then?
The Physician :
- Controller? What an outdated notion—superficial, really.
- The Panopticon has no need for such a power. Regardless of who occupies the central tower—or even if no one’s there at all—every inmate is both the observer and the observed, both wielders and subjects of power.
- Achieving such a state requires no physical or violent measures; the structure of the Panopticon itself is the mechanism which sustains it. Comala is simply a manifestation of this model.
- Once I confirm its feasibility and adaptability, this model can be applied to any functional setting with only minor modifications.
- So far, it has proven to be far superior to any current system of governance in our world—transcendental, even.
- Curse it! Why am I wasting time explaining this to you? Time is running out.
The investigator keenly senses the key within his words.
Vertin :
- Dr. Merlin, you keep mentioning “time.” What exactly do you mean by that?
The Physician :
- Really? You need to ask? Even those oily-headed lunatics know it.
- The end of this era is imminent, is it not?
Indeed—the word that was so close to being spoken.
Vertin :
- You know about the “Storm.”
The Physician :
- That’s what you call it, is it? A “Storm” that washes everything away?
- You employees of the St. Pavlov Foundation should know better than I. Soon, this era and everything in it will cease to exist.
- I must prove the feasibility of the Panopticon model before this place is turned to ruins, or something even more unrecognizable.
Recoleta :
- A “Storm” that washes everything away? Vertin, what on earth are you two talking about?
The conversation extends beyond even the most imaginative creations of the aspiring writer.
Vertin :
- …
The Physician :
- No one can predict the era to which we’ll be reversed.
- I’ve seen the eras change time and time again—the transformation of this place over and over.
- But no matter which era each of these nine “Storms,” as you call them, has taken us back to, caudillismo continues to plague this land.
- Dependency theorists, martyred revolutionists … I’ve seen them all. You, young writer, are no different from those intellectuals who were swept away in the rain.
- There is no romance in this era, only the repeated cycles of madness and brutality—an endless, meaningless struggle.
- Only in this forgotten corner can we momentarily escape the plundering of the marauders and the chaos they unleash.
- Although, it won’t be long before this place is looted by those oily-headed lunatics.
- Just as it has countless times before on this land as rich as silver.
He mutters to himself.
The Physician :
- But there is still hope. Even in a wasteland, we may still be saved.
- As long as I uncover the path to transcendentality, I will find the ultimate answer.
- Ugh, I’ve already wasted far too much time on you! Leave. Now!
The Physician turns away, beginning preparations for the next surgery, organizing his worn-out instruments.
Jailer :
- You heard him. Please don’t press things any further.
Recoleta :
- Alright, sir, I get it. Obviously, you don’t want to discuss my novel with me anymore, so I won’t insist upon it.
- All the letters we wrote to one another, all those inspiring revisions and suggestions … I guess they meant nothing to you.
Her voice wavers. Rejections, closed doors, harsh critiques—this proves more devastating than all of them together.
Recoleta :
- But there’s still something I must tell you. Jailer, could you please allow us a private conversation with the Physi—no …
- With Aleph.
Hearing this, the Physician stops.
The Physician :
- Leave us, Jailer. I’ll spare these outsiders five minutes.
Jailer :
- …
The jaguar turns to leave, her face revealing an uncharacteristic sorrow as she lingers on the girls one last time. This time, she offers no words.
Only the steady beeping of a heart monitor keeps the eerie silence at bay.
Recoleta :
- *deep breath*
- Dr. Merlin, or should I say Aleph? I don’t know why you’re using my novel to manipulate the Panopticon.
- But you need to know that it won’t serve your purpose, whether in fiction or reality.
- You claim that the inmates are “both the observer and the observed” and “both wielders and subjects of power.” How could you be so blind as to not see the true state of the Panopticon?
- The inmates haven’t achieved any “perfect order.” No, they’ve devolved into pitiful caricatures of themselves—performers in some endless pantomime to be watched from the central tower.
- Even their medication has become a prop to demonstrate the so-called “randomness of fate” in the theater that is the Panopticon.
- This farce hasn’t made the Panopticon a better place. No, it has warped it into a twisted theater of cruelty where the sick are denied treatment and left to quietly perish in the dark corners of its halls.
- And literature has died alongside them.
- This prison is a monster born under the gaze of this “all-seeing power.”
- Aleph, is this truly the ultimate answer you’ve been searching for?
The Physician suddenly seems startled, stepping back and accidentally knocking over his tools.
The Physician :
- What?!
- Are you suggesting that this is the answer I’ve reached?
- That my experiment has been a failure all along, and I’ve been too blind to see it?
- No, impossible. Foucault’s theory is flawless!
Having his life’s work denied is something he cannot tolerate. The man searches the tabletop with feigned composure, but in doing so, he unintentionally sweeps all the surgical tools onto the floor.
The Physician :
- I have removed every obstacle to the running of this prison. It is pure, sacrosanct.
- I have constantly re-evaluated the system, adjusting my instructions to my subordinates to ensure the most efficient maintenance of the established order.
- And now, you stand here and tell me that everything I’ve done has been meaningless from the very beginning?
- That the power model I have implemented has already been replaced by an alternative?
- No, outsiders. The perfect order of the Panopticon shall not be disrupted. I will not be swayed by your lies!
- This facility is superior to all others. Nothing here escapes my notice.
At last, in a barely noticeable corner, he finds the twenty-sided die wreathed in black mist.
The Physician :
- That said, it isn’t easy to work a miracle, as we all know.
- I shall personally verify it all myself.
All of his emotions dissolve as he grips the die.
The narrow operating room shakes, as if responding to him, emitting a distorted screech.
Vertin :
- What’s happening?
The Physician :
- Visitors from another era, you have come here with plagued ideologies in an attempt to break the subtle balance of the Panopticon.
- But did you not notice the tiles beneath your feet, the cracks, and water stains on the walls constantly changing right before your eyes?
- This room, the previous room, every room.
- You have blindly wandered through them, seeing them as nothing more than the building blocks of a monotonous labyrinth.
- But this place was not born from the chaotic imaginings of a madman. No, every inch has been crafted through the meticulous harnessing of order and power.
- Every wisp of spider silk drifting in the wind, every speck of rust on the gallery rail,
- every detail of the Panopticon has been built by my own hands.
- With this ever-shifting die, concepts may be transformed into reality, and ideals into substance.
- I observe the movement of every entity—the passage of every second. The moment you entered this realm, you, too, became subjects of my experiment.
(Battle)
Recoleta :
- This happened when the Idealist was attacked, too!
Sonetto :
- To think we’ve been trapped in a prison fabricated by a die all this time …
- Did the Physician really build all this with such a small, simple object?
Vertin :
- The distortion is getting worse. Prepare yourselves to fight or flee.
The situation begins to spiral out of control. Now everything in the room screeches and twists until they become a mess of meaningless black-and-white lines.
Recoleta :
- Please, Dr. Merlin. Stop this!
The Physician :
- No. You’re asking for the impossible.
- Power model of the Panopticon is destined to permeate all of society. Such insignificant interferences could never plunge it into chaos.
- But it already has, Merlin. You’ve failed.
- I have not failed! As long as I keep the prison running …
The Physician fiddles with the die, muttering baffling and incoherent words to himself.
The Physician :
- It isn’t your power model running the prison. It’s the die.
- It’s simply a form of magic, unrelated to the microphysics of power you seek. It provides no aid in your experimentation with power.
- It’s a false hope, a castle in the sky given to you by the military Junta and Manus Vindictae.
Sonetto :
- Manus Vindictae?
- So you really are working with them. What exactly do you intend to do?
The Physician :
- I …
- Then, I’ve also failed?
- I’ve ended up a pathetic fool, lost in the chaos of reality, just like the Idealist chasing visceral realism, Paracelsus seeking the Fountain of Youth, and Zahir obsessing over the one-sided coin.
- When did it all start falling apart, Aleph?
- When the doorknob loosened? When the prisoners’ wounds started to fester? Or when the daily disinfectant concentration reached 28 mg, or the crack in the second gray brick on the wall expanded to 6 mm?
- Or was it when Warden Tartuffe left Ushuaia with news of the Foucault Association’s dissolution?
- This place should’ve been the ideal ground for psychoanalytic practice. Why did they halt all research, all discussion?
- We’ve been abandoned, haven’t we? By eras old and new.
Aleph :
- You designed and have maintained everything in Comala, right down to the smallest detail.
- But it is these details that trap you. And, as the bars close around you, you are losing your name, Merlin, and you are becoming the Physician, a man forever imprisoned within these walls.
The Physician :
- I don’t understand.
Aleph :
- All these false eras are like a dreadful novel with no conclusion. Trying to find answers within such things is, in itself, a mistake.
- Much like them, you are destined never to attain transcendentality.
The Physician :
- …
- Tell me, Aleph. Does the ultimate answer even exist?
The die becomes too heavy for him to hold any longer. It drops to the floor.
The distortions and tremors of the prison finally subside, as if the pulse of a massive heart had stopped for an instant.
Amid the swirling dust, the girls help each other stand but fail to notice the truth revealing itself before them.
Sonetto :
- *cough* Timekeeper, are you alright?
Vertin :
- *cough* Yes, and you? And Ms. Recoleta, are you okay?
- Ms. Recoleta?
The smoke clears, but no one responds. The named girl simply stares in shock at the figure before her.
Recoleta :
- Y-You’re …
??? :
- The word “utopia” derives from Greek. It means “no place.”
- People cannot understand the structure of the labyrinth, yet they continue to follow its paths.
- They cannot comprehend the mechanics of fate, yet they believe in its jurisdiction.
- As if, by doing so, everything will naturally fall into place.
Aleph :
- And now, the polar night approaches.
- How good it is to see you, pen pal.
Vertin :
- Where did the Physician go? Wait.
- Sir, are you …?
No one notices when the unfamiliar prisoner appears.
He seems calm and almost ordinary, like an unchanging mirror that has stood here all along—in this room, in this labyrinth, passed unseen by everyone.
Recoleta :
- *pant*
The answer she now sees plainly makes her step back in a panic.
But in the end, she says the name out loud. Its sound is heavy, cold, and leaves her at a loss.
Recoleta :
- Aleph.
- It’s you, my pen pal.
- You are in fact in Comala.
- All those letters, all the ideas we shared—they weren’t just my imagination or some prank. Vertin, Sonetto, it’s all just as I told you!
- They weren’t meaningless. *pant* They’re all real.
Yet, why does she feel no joy?
Vertin :
- So, sir, are you Aleph, the ruler of this prison?
- Are you the one controlling the Panopticon with a die? The one hiding Ms. Dores’s whereabouts?
Aleph :
- What curious inquiries, quite different from the last 2666 questions I’ve received.
- My guests, you may call me Aleph, or by any other name, be it a symbol of god’s oneness or a farcical epithet.
- I am merely one of the many prisoners who voluntarily reside here—a single letter in the alphabet of the Panopticon.
Vertin :
- A letter … The way you speak is quite different from Dr. Merlin.
- Still, I wonder what your relationship is with him.
Under the dim lighting, the man looks drained of all energy.
Vertin :
- But allow me to make a guess: You’re Dr. Merlin, aren’t you?
Aleph :
- I’m afraid that’s not entirely accurate, but you may think of it that way.
- Merlin is a figment born of my mind, an incomplete reenactment. He is me, yes, but not entirely.
- He—or rather, they—failed to find their answers.
- They fought against their predestined fates, only to be inevitably crushed under their weight. I simply stood by and watched it all unfold. That was the extent of our relationship.
Vertin :
- “They”?
Aleph :
- You’ve already met Merlin and the Idealist—even witnessed their demise.
- Shackled by the delusions of verses, the Idealist lost his own name. Merlin, too, imprisoned himself within the system of the Panopticon.
- I’m sure their desperate pursuits caused you some trouble.
- Please forgive them. After all, your fleeting encounters led to the demise of them both.
Vertin :
- I think I understand now. The Idealist and the Physician are both parts of you, or, to put it another way, they’re your alter egos.
It seems the jailer’s diagnosis, that the whole prison is mad, has been shown to be more accurate than anyone could have imagined.
Sonetto :
- The Physician mentioned Manus Vindictae. What’s the relationship between this prison and the Manus?
Aleph :
- Visitors from the Foundation, we all witnessed those eras perish.
- In 1977, not long before the fourth “Storm,” I arrived in Ushuaia. Shortly after, some members of the National Foucault Studies Association reached out to me.
- But it wasn’t just them. An arcanist organization called Manus Vindictae also approached me. Each of them wanted answers. They named me their “advisor.”
Sonetto :
- You acted as an “advisor” to the Manus?
Aleph :
- The two parties presented me with a concept and a parable, respectively.
Sonetto :
- A concept and a parable?
Aleph :
- The Foucault Association sought to explore the feasibility of the Panopticon concept here.
- While Manus Vindictae showed me a parable of the past and future.
- Day and night, I wandered through endless texts, endless realities, as I searched for answers. And thus, Merlin was born. He was both an experiment and a price I paid.
- A new concept, a new direction … Pursuing such things always leaves me confined by the limitations of human knowledge.
- Merlin spent his entire life exploring Foucault’s theories in pursuit of that singular yet infinite answer.
Vertin :
- What about the Manus, Mr. Aleph? You didn’t explain why you helped them.
Aleph :
- Explain why?
- Because they asked me to, just as you have.
- I simply worked to answer their questions.
Vertin :
- So you’re saying that, to you, we’re no different from Manus Vindictae?
- And if we ask, you’ll answer us, without holding anything back?
Aleph :
- Is that not precisely what is happening this very moment?
Vertin :
- …
Aleph picks up the fallen die. It flickers with a familiar, comforting glow.
Aleph :
- This is what the Manus gave Merlin, a magical die named the
Tear of Comala. - It was once a gemstone that belonged to a god. At the beginning of the century, explorers plucked it from an ancient gate they discovered in Antarctica.
- To the explorers’ amazement, the gemstone could turn human desires into reality.
- So, they cut it into a die, a symbol of fate, and used it to build a sanatorium, which was later transformed into the Panopticon you are standing in right now.
His words are direct, yet they still leave the outsiders perplexed.
Recoleta :
- Then, Aleph, you really are the mastermind behind the Panopticon?
The silent girl grips her notebook. Her knuckles turn white from the pressure.
The draft of an unpublished novel, with words that only she knows—the countless hours spent at her desk, the self-reflections, the meticulous questioning, revisions, and scrutiny of every word.
That book holds the life of its writer.
Recoleta :
- You said Merlin used the Panopticon to seek his answer. W-What does that have to do with my novel?
- I don’t get it, Aleph. Why would you use my novel to manipulate this place?
- Roberta, García, Octavia, Pablo, the jailer, everyone … Not one of them deserved to be trapped in a deadly loop in which everyone’s fate is already predestined.
- They’re just like the ghosts in Amalfitano, inescapably trapped within the ruins.
- Tell me, what is it you really want?
Hearing this, the lonely prisoner fidgets with the die, looking puzzled.
Aleph :
- It’s not about what I want. It’s about what you want.
- The third line of your first letter.
- You said you wanted to give The Rise and Fall of Sanity an ending.
Recoleta :
- “Historical records of the Die of Babylon can still be found in the library of Santa Teresa University.”
- No, no, no. An opening like this would make the story too ambiguous.
- “In 1975, in the town of Amalfitano, Sonora, Mexico, something terrible and eerie took place in the cottage with the blue roof. It all began with the peculiar customs of the loc—”
- Wait, how did I learn about all this? I need to add a role for the narrator—the storyteller!
- “A surrealist poet from Mexico told me this story. An old woman walked into the bar she frequented in town. At the same moment …”
Aleph :
- ”… the Bank Clerk entered the bar, too, bringing news that a multinational corporation was going to build a cookie soap factory in Amalfitano.”
Recoleta :
- Wait, “Bank Clerk”? I didn’t know there were banks in Amalfitano.
- But it does make sense! Commercial banks are no doubt a hallmark of capitalism. Thanks, pen pal!
- “Before he became a Bank Clerk, he was an advocate of the town’s ancient customs.”
- “He was a Dune Piscator.”
Aleph :
- “After accepting the fate bestowed by the Die of Babylon, he chose to leave everything behind: the sad horrifying village, and the cycles hidden within infinite randomness.”
Recoleta :
- Oh, how ironic. But it’s still realistic, too. Now we just need a contrasting character—a believer in fate.
- “An elderly weaver sat in her ancient workshop, tirelessly spinning her wheel, a precious gift bestowed to her by the Die of Babylon.”
Aleph :
- “The Blind Weaver softly recounted all she had experienced.”
Recoleta :
- What a brilliant idea, Aleph! A blind weaver couldn’t possibly witness the murder!
- Fantastic! In that case, I’ll add a donkey driver who gets murdered in this chapter.
- With each of your suggestions, the story takes a step forward. Thanks, Aleph.
- But I still can’t see any sign of the ending.
- It’s like no matter how many new characters we add, there’s still something missing in the desert town. It lacks a key figure.
- Aleph, what should I do? How do I give this story an ending?
Aleph :
- You asked me yourself, “How do I give this story an ending?”
- You described to me how your words had transformed into an immoderate, infinite puzzle—an unrecognizable language, a collection of ambiguous information, and a parable that had lost all meaning.
- The absence of an ending still gnaws at you, forever trapping you in that scorching desert town.
- All I’m doing is trying to find it for you.
Recoleta :
- A-Are you saying you’ve been manipulating the happenings in the Panopticon like this ever since we first exchanged letters last September?
She struggles, vainly hoping for him to deny it.
Aleph :
- Yes. Every time you revised the novel, corresponding adjustments were made in the Panopticon. Faithfully reflecting the intricacies of every detail was key to ensuring the story proceeds smoothly.
- Such adjustments were handled by Merlin mostly; sometimes, the Idealist; and before them, Zahir and Paracelsus.
Recoleta :
- “Every time”?
Aleph :
- Six versions of the Amalfitano story have played out in the Panopticon already.
Recoleta :
- Does that mean … the frog crushed in the mud, the cow dying of old age, the dormouse falling into the sea,
- the ghost killed in the duel, and the sudden changes to the Die of Babylon …
- All the revisions you suggested—all the deaths, chaos, and madness—they all actually happened right here?
The ever-knowing prisoner falls into a long, dark silence. He will not answer a question when the one asking already knows the answer.
Aleph :
- Even eternity has its limits, Recoleta.
- In the sixth revision, we added the Blind Weaver, an extraordinary figure.
- Just like the Paracausality Researcher who carries a suitcase that you introduced in your seventh letter.
Sonetto :
- The Paracausality Researcher carrying a suitcase?
- Ms. Recoleta, is this character really based on the Timekeeper?
Recoleta :
- What? Of course not! The Paracausality Researcher is an entirely different character!
Aleph :
- Don’t you understand? We are only one die roll away from the ending.
Aleph lifts the core of the Infinite Labyrinth. The Tear of Comala swirls slowly in his hand.
Recoleta :
- I-I don’t … What on earth are you trying to do?
The filament lamps of the operating room dim in time with his motions. The walls ripple like water, then transform into countless mirrors.
Within the mirrors, an endless stream of information appears.
A seemingly possessed telephone babbles, an old radio sings, a flickering slide projector whirs and cracks, a muted film projector spins, a timetable opens, and dictionaries of countless languages flow past.
A room without an exit, an eternal predicament, a prisoner’s dwelling.
Aleph :
- Recoleta, it is the cycle of fate that has brought you to the Panopticon of Comala in Ushuaia.
- Now, return to The Rise and Fall of Sanity. Return and become a character once more.
- You’ve been searching for its ending, but how could you possibly find it when you’re no longer inside the story?
- I believe that this time, you will witness the grand finale with your own two eyes. No more sadness. No more loneliness.
- The answer you’ve long sought lies in the inevitable final roll of the Die.
Recoleta :
- So the jailer is the Bank Clerk and Urd is the Blind Weaver. But what about Roberta, García, and Octavia?
- They weren’t even assigned roles! They were just playthings, helpless in the face of “fate.”
- What right do you or I have to decide what happens to them, to dictate their gains and losses?
Aleph :
- But they couldn’t possibly understand such a thing, could they?
- To you, it’s just a story. But to them, it is the manifestation of bittersweet destiny.
Recoleta :
- Do you think hiding behind the guise of fiction absolves you from the reality that you’ve turned the Panopticon into a living hell?
- Yes, you’re the only one who truly understands The Rise and Fall of Sanity. Goodness knows how many manuscripts I sent out that never received a reply.
- I was so grateful to you. For your replies, for understanding my novel. Those things were more precious to me than any sunrise over the Andes.
- Had I known that your feedback was created in such a way, and at such a cost, I would’ve preferred not to receive it at all.
- Don’t you get it? Even if they don’t understand my novel, the people I meet are still my friends, whether we took a long journey together or we simply chatted for a few hours.
- We formed an inseparable, miraculous bond. They’re a part of me.
- How could you treat them like fictional characters?
- It’s disrespectful to my work and to life itself.
The writer’s resistance is so sharp that it cuts through Aleph’s carefully constructed labyrinth easily.
Aleph :
- But you raised the question yourself.
- Why do you resist receiving its answer?
He lowers his head, and for the first time, cracks appear on that indestructible mask.
The Physician :
- Hah, they’re always like this, aren’t they? They throw a question at you only to abandon it along with the fading of the era.
- This “Storm” will spare no one. You’ve known it all along, Aleph.
- Only the timeless Panopticon can maintain control. The all-seeing tower. The perfect governing system.
The Idealist :
- What a hopeless fool you are, Merlin. Haven’t you heard what they say? “There is no need to build a labyrinth when the whole world already is one!”
- Your meaningless questions will be swept away by the tides of time, only to resurface on the shores of our minds once more. We’ve seen it happen over and over again! Surely you’ve realized by now that the only true meaning can be found in literature.
- For over a century, literature has remained the singular, ultimate answer. This lonely cowboy is simply feeling lost at the moment.
The Physician :
- Spare us your ramblings, Idealist! You’re wasting our time.
Aleph :
- Enough.
The die that reflects the heart can no longer bear its weight, as it glows from within burning fissures.
On the surrounding mirrors, countless reflections of Aleph appear, each wearing a different face. They crowd into the room as a flood of ghosts.
Vertin :
- Aleph seems to be in a terrible state. We have to be careful. Something isn’t right about that die!
(Battle)
The Idealist :
- Hahaha, go ahead! Keep the story going!
- Carry it through until we finally feel the sweet gratification of the ending.
The Physician :
- Your endeavors are doomed to fail!
- There is only madness in literature and art, not transcendentality.
…
Aleph :
- These explorations, these fractures … they’re all failures, aren’t they?
- In this infinite expanse, I feel nothing but infinite sorrow.
The chaotic battle comes to an abrupt halt.
Sonetto :
- Wait, Mr. Aleph, are you human?
Sonetto steps back, lowering her glasfeder.
She is shocked to realize that her opponent has no arcane skills at all. From beginning to end, all he had was the die.
Sonetto :
- Please hand over the die peacefully!
Vertin :
- Mr. Aleph, please stop resisting. It’s futile.
Aleph :
- Futile. Yes, it’s all futile.
- The cage of rules, the ideals of literature … Both are futile, mere illusions conjured along the path to transcendentality.
- They all fear that they’re nothing more than phantoms in someone else’s dream—that reality will devour everything, including their very existence. That’s why they drift further and further away from transcendentality.
- They couldn’t break free from that false dream. None of them could.
Aleph stumbles as he looks up at the storyteller.
Aleph :
- Both the Physician and the Idealist walked toward their own destruction. Just as I expected.
- But your novel still has hope, Recoleta. Its ending hasn’t been written yet.
- We cannot deny that it may be the answer to achieving transcendentality.
Vertin :
- You’re not going to stop, are you?
- Not until you get your “answer.”
- Sonetto, we have no choice but to seize the die from him by force.
Sonetto’s arcane energy gathers at the tip of her glasfeder. At this moment, the silent storyteller takes a step forward.
Recoleta :
- Enough.
- I said, enough!
She shakes as she reveals the notebook that has never left her side.
(Expo Guadalajara)
1990, Guadalajara, International Book Fair.
People move between bookshelves and corridors, engaged in heated conversations. The air is filled with the mingling of multiple languages.
Editor :
- I’m afraid we can’t publish your novel in its current state, Recoleta. We look forward to seeing more refined work from you in the future!
- Ah, Mr. Cruz! What a pleasure to see you here! I’m an editor from Naranja Dulce Publishing House. Could you spare a moment to discuss the copyright for The Bluebird? We’re huge fans of your children’s literature.
The editor leaves, hurrying after another writer, leaving Recoleta standing alone in place. The 17th publisher to reject her today.
Recoleta :
- Hey, relax, Recoleta! Look at all the books around you. This place is heaven! You can’t get down on yourself, not here!
- There are so many writers and publishers here. It’s only natural you’d be turned down 17 times. This is just the beginning!
The young writer, attempting to forget her 17th rejection, flips through the event guide in her hands.
Recoleta :
- Now, which section should I visit next? Hmm, oh, this brochure might help.
She turns to the last page of the thick handbook, where all the invited authors and their contact details are listed.
Recoleta :
- Wonderful! An exchange of ideas between writers—nothing could be more incredible than that!
- I recall James Joyce was inspired by a letter he received from Henrik Ibsen. So, maybe what I need is to find someone to share my manuscript with, but who?
- Tadeo, Emma Zunz, Aleph, Averroes …
(Lima Apartment, Buenos Aires)
A knock at the door interrupts her daydream.
Recoleta :
- Oh, it’s you, sir!
- Don’t worry. I promise I’ll catch up on the rent next month! Although I must say, this apartment’s hardly worth the price. The cracks on the walls must date back to the last century!
Landlord :
- Hmph, make all the excuses you want, ingrate. If you don’t pay the rent soon, you’ll either end up in that crumbling colonial building on the corner or on the street selling oranges at the San Telmo market!
- By the way, Julia told me you lost your job at that textile factory.
- You under some kind like “can’t work in one place for more than three months” curse or something, little girl?
Recoleta :
- Oh, you don’t even want to know about the terrible things that happened in that factory. All I did was lend the oppressed workers a hand.
Landlord :
- Bah, you’re just like those college kids—full of hot air. Anyway, I’m not here about the rent.
- Didn’t you tell me to watch out for your letters a while back, when you’d just returned from abroad?
- Well, here it is, a letter for you.
The girl freezes for a moment, then snatches the letter and slams the door shut, almost buzzing with excitement as she unfolds it.
Recoleta :
- My goodness! Someone actually wrote back to me! This is incredible! Oh, oh, thank you so much for bringing it to me, sir!
She slits open the long-traveling letter.
Recoleta :
- “Dear Ms. Recoleta …”
- It’s from—let’s see—Aleph!
(Street, Buenos Aires)
Young Woman :
- Eh, I’ve been watching you. You’re not a local, are you? What are you writing?
Recoleta :
- Oh, hello! You’re right. I just arrived in Buenos Aires three days ago. My trip’s been a lot like a Copes tango performance—full of twists and turns, but nothing much worth telling, really.
- I’m actually writing a reply to my pen pal! Long story short, I sent him a manuscript of my novel, and to my surprise, he actually wrote back.
- Amazing, isn’t it?
- In our recent letters, we’ve been discussing how my novel lacks a key character to drive the story toward a decisive ending.
- So we’ve been debating whether to introduce a new ghost to act as a turning point for the story.
Young Woman :
- Oh, so then you’re a writer? Hey, Pancho, come over here! I’ve found an actual real-life writer!
Young Man :
- What’s the big deal? I wrote plenty of poems in middle school.
Recoleta :
- Oh, so you’re a poet!
- I have a feeling we’re about to embark on an incredible adventure together! Are you interested in joining the visceral realism movement?
Young Woman :
- Vis what? I’ve never heard of it. But it sounds like fun.
Recoleta :
- Fabulous! We have no time to waste. Once I finish this letter, you two must join me on a journey to Ushuaia!
Young Man :
- Ushuaia? The end of the world? Why the heck would we go to that icebox?
Young Woman :
- Oh, don’t be such a downer, Pancho. Just think of the fun we’ll have, the breathtaking scenery we’ll see, and the incredible stories we’ll hear.
Young Man :
- Fine, María. I’ll deal with the cold if you really wanna go so badly.
Young Woman :
- By the way, could you tell us about your novel?
Recoleta :
- Of course. I’ll tell you all about it on the way. Hmm, now where to begin?
- Alright, let’s start with the cottage with the blue roof in Amalfitano.
Recoleta :
- It’s been six months since we first exchanged letters.
- Since then, I’ve been traveling. First from Chile to Mexico, then from Mexico to Argentina. And I’ve never stopped writing.
- I’m not really sure what the purpose of my novel is. I just keep writing and writing. I can’t stop.
- What power does literature hold? What responsibilities? Perhaps only by continuing to write will I understand one day.
Recoleta flips through her notebook, every turn of the page containing a different-colored letter.
After their long journey, these pages of letters form a faded riddle, their handwriting long since blurred.
Recoleta :
- Aleph, you’re right. I do want an ending to my novel.
- But not like this.
Aleph :
- You really have no idea, do you, Recoleta?
Her only reader realizes she has still not grasped what is happening, forcing him to reveal a truth he has long concealed.
Aleph :
- The Rise and Fall of Sanity is your story.
Recoleta :
- What do you mean?
Aleph :
- You are a ghost, wandering this forsaken land, still striving to create a miracle.
- You are a wandering poet born in Amalfitano, the foolishly brave protagonist of the story, and the embodiment of the author herself.
- A reflection, yes. The author, no. You are simply a figment of her imagination, a manifestation of her dream to wander.
- Have you not realized it? The literary pursuits and romantic adventures you described … they are merely faded memories from 1975.
- The poets who joined the visceral realism movement with “you” left Latin America long ago.
Recoleta :
- Faded memories?
Aleph :
- As for the novel, it’s yours now—a story you’re writing, a story about yourself.
- Your departure has turned Amalfitano into a ghost town. The characters have lost their connection to you. They’re gradually fading away.
- If the novel is destroyed, you too will cease to exist.
Vertin :
- Wait, this is … Ms. Recoleta, is what he said true?
Recoleta :
- …
- I … I know you never lie, pen pal.
- In your first letter, you told me that a character’s role and fate must be determined from the outset and consistently adhered to throughout the story.
- Reading the perspective and insights of a walking encyclopedia—having such a person be willing to share their thoughts at all—was an exhilarating experience.
- I had never imagined my novel could develop in this way. Words could hardly describe how I felt in that moment.
- No one but you has ever understood the story of that town, let alone offered any revisions.
- Following your advice, I added the Bank Clerk, the Dune Piscator, the Blind Weaver, and the Murdered Donkey Driver.
- Amalfitano was no longer an empty town with a single blue-roofed cottage. The new ghostly residents had begun to fill the skies over it.
- The story was finally reaching completion. I could feel that the ending was within reach.
- I became increasingly eager to meet my pen pal. I couldn’t get the thought out of my mind.
- I wasn’t sure what I would say to this Aleph. A simple “thank you,” perhaps? Or maybe a discussion about the future of Amalfitano with its sole reader?
- Or maybe I’m no different from everyone else—led up the garden path by “fate.”
Aleph :
- …
Recoleta :
- But even if I am a ghost, as you say, an incarnation of someone else, a fictional being—
- So what?
- My resolve will not waver, even if my existence is bound to fade away.
- Because this isn’t what literature is supposed to be.
- You once told me there isn’t an ounce of reality in fiction—only voids and glorified lies.
- Let me tell you this: whether real or fictional, corporeal or intangible, I have accepted my existence.
- Now, let’s put a stop to this, Aleph.
- The inmates aren’t characters in my novel. They’re people trapped in a prison, just as you are.
- By simulating my story here, you have made me into some kind of god, a guilty false creator, a dictator of fate.
- I never wanted any of this!
(Battle)
??? I :
- I see it—the perfect frequency, the admirable randomness of fate!
- I think I’ve found it—the source of the Die of Babylon!
??? II :
- The debts of the dead—those bills—they’ve all been torn to shreds!
- I’m not trapped anymore!
??? III :
- Ah … sob
- Since the day I lost my sight, I never imagined the spinning wheel would turn again …
…
Shattered words and ghostly illusions roar forth, breaking free from the story’s structure and the gaps between its lines, filled with regret and obsession.
Torn letters and book pages flutter in the air, like snow in a crystal globe on a winter night.
Everything is quiet.
Sonetto :
- Ms. Recoleta has vanished.
- Did she really “cease to exist” like Aleph said?
Vertin :
- Recoleta …
On an unknown night, the wind carries the cold desolation of the desert.
In the cottage with a blue roof, a girl dreams of a circular prison.
Then, she wakes.
Recoleta :
- What a bizarre dream.
- The taste of reality—so bitter and sad.
- But full of dialectical thinking, haha. Maybe the people of the Panopticon were reflecting my inner thoughts?
She looks around, surveying the cobwebbed corners where stacks of manuscripts have piled up to the ceiling and over empty ink bottles collecting dust.
Recoleta :
- Ah, so I really am a character in the novel!
- The mysterious cottage with the blue roof was my home all along. Then, the rumors the ghosts spread were indeed just that—rumors.
The young writer steps out of her home and into the streets of the familiar yet foreign desert town.
Countless nameless characters and ghosts arrive upon hearing the news, filling the roads and skies.
The Bank Clerk :
- Welcome back to Amalfitano, dear writer!
Recoleta :
- Thank you, dear icon of capitalism. But, didn’t I tear this novel to pieces?
A woman wearing a peculiar hat steps forward.
The Paracausality Researcher :
- You see, Amalfitano is a dimension beyond life and death.
- This town is a reflection of your inner thoughts. It’s incorporeal. You can’t tear something incorporeal into pieces.
- Literature is endless and timeless, like a river flowing across life and death.
Recoleta :
- No wonder you’re my favorite character. You never cease to enlighten me.
The Door-Side Beggar :
- Unfortunately, literature is a dangerous and futile calling. Nobody truly understands or even remembers your work!
- Do you remember the saying? “The only truly dead are those who have been forgotten.”
- Hahaha, Recoleta, you’ll disappear for good if you leave Amalfitano again. It’ll be like you never existed!
Recoleta :
- I’ve always admired your critical thinking, sir. It fits your role perfectly.
Rough hands grasp the writer’s palm, feeling at the lines etched into her skin.
The Blind Weaver :
- Everything will be alright, Recoleta.
- Whatever happened, you’ve returned now. That’s what matters.
- The Die of Babylon will roll again, and each of us will get our endings.
The crowd erupts in cheers.
The Murdered Donkey Driver :
- That’s right. Solve the murder at the bar and put my soul at rest!
The Dune Piscator :
- Free the village from the madness inflicted by the ancient spirit!
The Paracausality Researcher :
- Fix the randomness of the Die of Babylon and flatten the calamitous frequency!
Amalfitano Residents :
- Roll the Die one last time, Recoleta!
The young writer takes a step forward. Everyone, the living and the ghosts, watches expectantly.
Recoleta :
- So the ending I’ve been searching for is the one the other “me” was unable to give me?
- The “me” that plunged headfirst into the struggle against an undefeatable power. The “me” who ultimately left this land …
- After all this time, I’ve finally found my ending.
She grasps the gleaming Die of Babylon.
Recoleta :
- Just one more roll, and it will all be over.
- My story, my town … Everything will finally come to an end.
- But the dream about the Panopticon … It’ll end as well, won’t it?
She stops.
The Bank Clerk :
- Oh, sweetheart, it’s just a dream.
The Door-Side Beggar :
- Ha, don’t tell me you’re abandoning your lifelong pursuit for a measly dream!
The Murdered Donkey Driver :
- That dream is cruel. No one understands this great novel there or this amazing town.
The Blind Weaver :
- But here, you are a true writer. This is your home, Recoleta.
Recoleta :
- But I already miss my friends in that dream. It exists, just like this place does.
The Dune Piscator :
- But we’re your friends too, Recoleta!
The Paracausality Researcher :
- You might disappear forever if you leave Amalfitano. Are you sure you want to leave?
The young writer puts down the die in her hand.
The die that signifies the end of everything vanishes into the sandy wind.
Recoleta :
- You know what I’m like, my dear friends. I’ve spent my life embarking on foolish, unrewarded adventures.
- That’s just who I am, isn’t it?
- Amalfitano is indeed an ideal place—a place for wandering, for a short trip, and for losing oneself for a while.
- And it has you, my fictional friends, who I love so dearly.
- But I must return to my dream and see my friends there. They’re just as important to me.
As they hear her words, the ghosts of the town smile with relief.
The Paracausality Researcher :
- Yes, you’re right, Recoleta.
- There’s no denying that you’re a noble and passionate soul. Every one of us knows it.
The Door-Side Beggar :
- Hmph, you’re our dear friend, too. Why would we stop you from doing what you truly want?
Everyone makes way for her as a path into a boundless void unfolds.
The Blind Weaver :
- We wish you the very best, Recoleta.
- Goodnight, my dear. May your dream be a sweet one this time.
Recoleta :
- Thank you all, my friends. I’ll never forget you.
The girl wipes the tears from her eyes and steps into the looming darkness.
All is silent as she enters the barren land. There is only the faint sound of footsteps echoing against a vast and empty darkness.
Editor :
- I’ve read your work, Ms. Recoleta. To be frank, it lacks both depth and breadth.
- This town of yours is still far from reflecting the complexity of society, and the narrative lacks a discerning perspective. It still needs some work if you want it to truly resonate with our audience.
- Just go for it, Miss. You’re at a perfect age to explore, experience, and learn!
Time wheels, and at last the girl feels her existence again within the void. She reclaims her voice.
Recoleta :
- Wh-What’s happening to me?
A thousand, or perhaps countless, faces emerge before her again.
Recoleta :
- Ah, of course! The Rise and Fall of Sanity is my story.
- So, even though the novel’s been destroyed, the story—and myself along with it—lives on in the minds of those who read it.
- Thank you for your feedback, editor! Even here in this great expanse of darkness, I can still hear your words!
- You have my gratitude. Thank you for reading my novel, even if you didn’t understand it and likely never will.
She navigates a labyrinth of words and an endless expanse of mirrored waters. The darkness surging toward her like a rush of waves on a dark night, making her presence feel heavier.
Young Woman :
- Honestly, I find your story totally fascinating! But I’m still struggling to understand the connections between all these nameless characters. Couldn’t you make it clearer, like a movie?
Young Man :
- Hmph, typical—trust a writer to try to be all obscure and mysterious.
Recoleta :
- María, Pancho, you guys are the best traveling pals I’ve ever had!
- Our paths may diverge in the future, but the joyful memories of our journey across grasslands, snowfields, and deserts together will remain forever.
Young Woman :
- It’s been great coming along with you. You’re totally one of a kind. We’ll be waiting for you at my aunt’s vineyard. A little sun after a hard day’s work will do you good.
The passionate companions wave to her, never looking back as they continue forward. The girl’s steps are no longer weightless. With every step she takes, they feel heavier and more real.
She lingers inside the infinite Mask in the Mirror, the boundless universe filling her with both confusion and illusion.
The Idealist :
- There is ambition in her writing. It’s passionate and poetic, fractured and chaotic. But, when viewed as a whole, her work feels like little more than a superficial illusion. It lacks the depth to truly touch the soul.
- I will refrain from offering further comments until she stops romanticizing her childish adventures.
The Physician :
- To put it bluntly, her phraseology feels overly deliberate to the point of distortion. Her verbiage is like a collection of vague sentiment bubbles.
Recoleta :
- I see, Aleph. Then this is how you really feel about my novel?
Aleph :
- A thousand readers will interpret a story a thousand different ways. Some believe the text itself is dead, and it is the reader who gives it life.
- The truth cannot be fully conveyed through words alone. That said, I think The Rise and Fall of Sanity is a good story.
Her heart skips a beat.
Within this “paradise” that harbors the boundless histories and mysteries of humanity, she finally finds the mirror that shows her reality as it truly is.
Recoleta :
- Oh, so the eternal paradise is a library of sorts, just like I always imagined! Or, is this just another reflection of my inner thoughts?
- Hmm, I like it here. It’s nice being surrounded by literature.
- But it’s time to go back. Back to reality.
Recoleta :
- You’re right about literature, Door-Side Beggar. It is a dangerous and futile calling, but I still believe in it.
The investigators from the Foundation breathe a sigh of relief together.
Recoleta’s reappearance is as sudden as her disappearance. Sonetto hasn’t even had time to wipe the tears from the corners of her eyes.
Sonetto :
- Recoleta? You’re back!
Vertin :
- I’m so glad to see you’re safe.
Recoleta :
- And I’m so glad to see you two worried sick about me, tee-hee! Thanks, my best friends Sonetto and Vertin!
Sonetto :
- …
The reborn writer turns to the prisoner sitting dejected nearby.
Recoleta :
- See, Aleph? I still exist.
Aleph :
- Amalfitano is gone. It’s all over.
- You’re simply a wandering ghost now, never to return home again.
- You may still exist, but Amalfitano will never get its ending. You’ve nullified its existence, rendering all of this meaningless.
- I’m sorry I couldn’t answer your question. I’ve failed once again.
His die falls to the ground. Once used to construct a beautiful dream, now whatever magic it held has dissipated.
Aleph :
- Amalfitano and the Panopticon were two parts of a whole.
- With Amalfitano gone, Comala no longer has any reason to exist.
Recoleta :
- I’m sorry, Aleph. You, who know all the mysteries of the world, who seek answers to every question,
- have lost yourself in the process.
- You can answer everyone else’s questions, but never your own.
- Who’s the person behind that mask? Is he real? Does he still exist?
Aleph :
- Who am I?
The weighty ending to the story leaves the prisoner, still trapped in a blurred illusion, exhausted.
Comala Prison groans, like an aging waterwheel struggling under its own weight, distorting, fading, and collapsing into the currents of his mind.
Vertin :
- Stay vigilant, everyone. This is just like when the Idealist and the Physician had their meltdown.
- Only this time, it seems even worse.
Recoleta :
- I think … Aleph is trying to tear down the Panopticon.
Beyond the crumbling walls, a shivering figure is faintly visible. He grips a gun tightly. The black barrel, shaking in his hands, is aimed at the people in the room.
??? :
- F-Freeze! Stay where you are, all of you!
A prisoner steps out from behind the wall, a weapon held in his shaking hand.
García :
- I was just setting up my exhibit when everything started shaking. Then I realized it wasn’t just my imagination.
- So I followed the cracks in the wall and found my way here.
- I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but something’s happening to the Panopticon, isn’t it?
His panicked hands shift the gun toward Aleph, who has collapsed on his side.
García :
- Are you the Physician? Or is it Aleph?
- Whoever you are, please, please restore the Panopticon to the way it was! I’m begging you!
- You-You can do that, right?
Aleph :
- …
The mind that once created infinity now watches as it folds back into nothing before him.
García :
- Why? Why aren’t you doing anything? Damn it! Why is this happening?
- Oh, oh, the die! If you won’t help me, then I’ll do it myself!
The prisoner, in desperation, lunges forward.
Recoleta :
- Calm down, García!
(Battle)
…
Sonetto :
- Timekeeper, he’s …
García, weakened by his long confinement, is easily knocked to the ground, unable to withstand even the lightest touch of arcane skill.
García :
- Why? Why is this happening to me?
- I was so close … so close to completing the exhibition.
Recoleta :
- Can’t you see, García? There is no one controlling this place now! You’re free!
- It isn’t the die that’s trapped you, nor is it the walls of this prison.
- It’s the rules and that overpowering gaze from the central tower, but now that’s all gone.
- You can go outside. You can set up your exhibit anywhere you want. No need to stay stuck in this—
Looking back on all that he has lost, the artist cuts her off.
García :
- No, Ms. Recoleta. You’ve seen the world out there. You know as well as I …
- … that there’s nowhere else I can go but here.
- This is the only place in the world where I can hold my exhibit.
- And you’ve ruined it. You’ve ruined everything.
Recoleta :
- …
Vertin :
- This room’s about to collapse. We’ve got to leave.
- Mr. García, do you need a hand?
García :
- I can take care of myself, thank you.
- I … I’ll go a different way. I have to go back and finish setting up my exhibit.
He drags himself forward with trudging steps, retracing his path to leave.
Recoleta :
- Vertin, what about Aleph? We can’t just leave him here.
Vertin :
- Of course not. We still have questions he needs to answer.
- Sonetto, help me get him up. Let’s get out of here.
Sonetto :
- Yes, Timekeeper.
The dejected prisoner looks at Sonetto with confusion.
Aleph :
- Your words are always at odds with your thoughts. You carry an ocean of questions, yet never reveal even a single drop of them.
- Why have you never shared your doubts? Why do you stay silent in the face of everything and everyone around you?
Sonetto :
- …!
- I … I believe in my duty.
The prisoner shifts his gaze to the other Foundation investigator.
Aleph :
- As for you, Paracausality Researcher. You’re different from any other seeker of answers.
- Even on a desperate, near hopeless journey, your heart holds little doubt.
Vertin :
- Perhaps not every question needs an answer, Mr. Aleph.
Aleph :
- Is that so?
The prisoner, so used to answering others’ questions, seems to have run into one of his own. But unfortunately, no one is here to answer it.
Vertin :
- “Dear Urd,”
- “Why are you so interested in the Panopticon of Comala?”
- “Dear Mr. Aleph,”
Dores :
- Whether as a doctor or a writer, I simply cannot turn a blind eye to the friction around me, especially the discord and injustice I’ve witnessed here in Comala.
- So, I would ask of you a question: Is there any way to resolve the endless conflicts in this place?
Aleph :
- To put an end to this, a true ending is required.
- Your arrival has made it possible for this simulation to have an ending—or rather, a victory.
Dores :
- What do you mean by “victory”? I’d appreciate it if you could clarify in simple terms. If this victory comes at the cost of any inmate’s life, I’m afraid I cannot accept it.
- I also have another question for you: If I leave, will the stories and conflicts here come to an end?
Aleph :
- Ms. Grace of Manus Vindictae will grant you passage. But in any case, the cycle of history will continue to repeat itself in this prison, and in the entire world.
- The sins of humankind will not cease until veins turn to wires, flesh and bone to geometric shapes, and the world around us twists in the colors of an oil painting.
Dores :
- I must say, your words have left me rather baffled. Fragments of the events you describe often appear in my dreams. Could it be that these things really happened?
- If that’s the case, why can’t I recall the details? Why am I left with only disconnected pieces?
- The madness in Comala, these bizarre dreams … I must put an end to them.
- What have I forgotten? Has someone or something altered my memory? I can’t shake the feeling that something crucial to me has been lost in the river of time. Some kind of duty, perhaps.
- What should I do? How can I recapture what I’ve lost?
Aleph :
- I won’t answer a question that already has an answer, one given to you by the person who escorted you here and made you a promise.
- You’re so close to the place where the truth lies. Think carefully. Why are you here?
Vertin :
- These letters we found have answered a great deal, but there’s still something that isn’t clear.
- Mr. Aleph, what exactly did the Manus promise Dr. Dores?
Aleph :
- An era. A chance for her to remember her duty.
Vertin :
- An era?
- You helped her leave the Panopticon in the end. Where did she go?
Momentarily roused from his dream, the prisoner looks blankly for a moment before his gaze drifts back toward the distant illusion.
Aleph :
- Southward.
- There, on the no-man’s continent, Manus Vindictae is preparing to recreate the parable of the past and future.
- A glorious past and a glimmering future belonging to arcanists.
- Dr. Dores is deeply connected to this particular parable.
Sonetto :
- Hmm. What exactly are the Manus planning to do in Antarctica?
- And why would Dr. Dores go there voluntarily?
The information revealed stirs unease in the hearts of the investigators from the Foundation.
Vertin :
- Mr. Aleph, when did Dr. Dores depart?
Aleph :
- It was a day when both the clouds and sun were visible.
Vertin :
- A day when both the clouds and sun were visible? Could you be more specific?
Aleph :
- Specific? You mean the time of day?
His mind long ago lost any sense of time, a necessary exchange to make room for an infinite cosmos of words.
He once again finds himself without an answer.
Recoleta :
- When both clouds and the sun were visible? Hey, Vertin, I think I know!
- It was three days ago! Then, Dr. Dores wasn’t going to Comala on the day I met her.
- She was leaving. She was headed to Antarctica!
- It was cloudy that afternoon, with a brief spell of sunshine, just like Aleph described.
Vertin :
- Then it hasn’t been long since she left. Excellent news.
Sonetto :
- Three days. If we set off immediately, we might still catch up to her.
- But based on the intel we gathered in Ushuaia, Manus Vindictae bombed the entire port three days ago.
- Clearly, they wanted to prevent any interference from the Foundation. It’s unlikely we’ll find any functioning ships there.
- I’ll report the situation to the Buenos Aires branch. Timekeeper, I’m afraid we’ll have to find another way to get there.
Aleph :
- I have a boat.
A small boat gifted by Manus Vindictae.
During the past several “Storms,” he has taken this boat, traveling to Antarctica at Manus Vindictae’s invitation to evade the reversion.
Vertin :
- Could you lend it to us? The situation’s urgent, Mr. Aleph.
(Secret Dock, Ushuaia)
Beneath a decrypted lighthouse, a battered little boat bobs in sync with the waves.
It is small and fragile, not the kind that seems capable of braving an icy sea.
Aleph :
- This boat will automatically take you to McMurdo Port, the landing point Manus Vindictae established by the shores of the Ross Sea.
Sonetto eyes the boat with skepticism, rightfully distrusting this “advisor” of Manus Vindictae.
Sonetto :
- This looks like Manus technology. Its arcane energy source is highly unstable.
- Timekeeper, I suggest we wait for support in Ushuaia.
Recoleta :
- I don’t usually agree with Sonetto, but I have to admit, I don’t have much confidence that a boat this small can actually make it to Antarctica.
Vertin :
- Mr. Aleph, do you know anything about Manus Vindictae’s ritual? How far has it progressed?
Aleph :
- The ritual could begin at any moment. I believe that’s why they left Comala.
- Upon departure, one of their members, a woman named Grace, told me they would seal off the sea.
Sonetto :
- Are we too late?
Aleph :
- If you wish to find Dores, you must follow the same path she took.
The distant drone of the raging waves fills their background like a repeating omen.
Vertin :
- I see. Mr. Aleph, members of the Foundation branch will arrive soon to evaluate your condition. I hope you’ll answer their questions with the same patience you showed us. Thank you.
- Sonetto, let’s go.
Sonetto :
- Yes, Timekeeper.
As always, Sonetto keeps any mission-irrelevant queries to herself.
The girls preparing to set sail turn to the young writer beside them.
Vertin :
- Thank you for your assistance too, Recoleta. Perhaps you’ll consider joining the—
A thunderous crash echoes from behind them—the sound of a collapsing building.
Recoleta :
- What was that? It came from the Panopticon!
Blazing flames reflect in their eyes, just like the name of this island might suggest.
A winter night stands sentinel over a great conflagration as every brick of Comala Prison crumbles and falls.
Recoleta :
- With Aleph’s control gone, Comala is collapsing.
- The inmates aren’t even real criminals, are they? And they’re still in there, with no clue that they’re no longer being watched from the central tower!
- We have to go tell them! We have to get them to safety!
Vertin :
- Yes, we should help them get out, at least until support arrives.
- But the Manus ritual …
The battered boat sways within their sight.
Recoleta :
- Don’t worry. I’ll go alone.
Vertin :
- Huh?
Recoleta :
- You should hurry. When this is all over, I’ll write to you, my dear friend!
- During this journey together, our teamwork has been impeccable. So, you can trust me to do this.
- I’m not doing it just to help you or the organization you represent. I’m doing it because the inmates are my friends.
Vertin :
- Okay. I trust you.
- Take care of yourself, Recoleta.
Sonetto :
- But if the “Storm” truly is imminent, as Dr. Merlin said, then, Ms. Recoleta, you’ll …
Sonetto, more familiar than anyone with the Foundation’s exhaustive regulations, has no ready answer. She knows that, in this era, before those arcanists who remain ignorant of the truth, she must watch her words.
Recoleta :
- I don’t quite understand what this “Storm” is all about, but don’t worry. A brand-new adventure is the best thing that can happen to a writer.
- And I doubt it’ll surpass the epic adventures we’ve shared over the past couple of days. I’m going to write everything, including the two of you, into my new novel.
Vertin :
- Then I’d like to be the first to read this new novel, if that’s alright?
Recoleta :
- Of course. Listen, I believe literature is like an endless, timeless river.
- So we’ll meet again someday, somewhere, probably in someone else’s story. Who knows?
She takes one last look at her new friends, feeling a longing as if they had known each other for decades.
Then, without a backward glance, the girl sprints back to the burning ruins of the prison.
Recoleta :
- Farewell, my cherished friends!
I hear a sound in the distance
?!?!?! (Music)
Guiding me on to a land of existence
So I journey on to a path that feels real
There is a voice that’s calling me
To somewhere far—
Have mercy, please!
For happiness, I sing to you
And for freedom, I sing to you
Nothing can break me, nothing bring me down
Like a child I leap around
For happiness, I sing to you …
?!?!?!
All the visitors depart one after another.
Amid the distant echo of singing, the “creator” of this prison stares into the fire as it burns.
The moment holds for a time, until a breathless jaguar appears at the dock’s edge, staring at the human before her with uncertainty.
Jailer :
- Dr. Merlin. You’re Dr. Merlin, right? I finally found you.
- What on earth happened in the central tower? Right after I left, the whole Panopticon started collapsing. The tower’s in ruin.
- I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Please, sir, come with me. It isn’t saf—
Aleph :
- That won’t be necessary.
- The snow is still falling, yet everything in the labyrinth has already gone up in flames.
- Fortune, fate, karma—They’re nothing but a ridiculous joke.
- It’s over, jaguar. You have lost your memories, your identity, your name, and now, your title. You are no longer a jailer trapped in the Panopticon.
Jailer :
- I don’t get it, Dr. Merlin. What are you talking about?
The jailer takes a step back, her predator instincts sensing the danger in the words to come.
The damage may not be physical, but it threatens to shatter what little faith she has left to hold onto, and the life she has always known.
Jailer :
- I’m-I’m going back to Comala. Order must be maintained. The prisoners mustn’t be allowed to escape.
- Please take care, Dr. Merlin.
Nerves torn between panic and hesitation, the jailer at last turns toward the searing flames.
Jailer :
- Hey, you! Don’t run off like that. It’s dangerous!
No one heeds her cries.
One prisoner after another flees in terror, escaping the crumbling labyrinth.
Inmate I :
- In deserts, in stars, in labyrinths!
Inmate II :
- We dream on death’s straw pillow!
The jailer drifts through the raging scene, unable to steer a sensible course. At last, she pins down a frail and powerless prisoner beneath her weight.
Jailer :
- Stop!
??? :
- Get off me! Let me go!
- Are you blind? The Panopticon is falling apart!
Jailer :
- It’s you, Roberta.
The jailer recognizes the prisoner under her grip.
Roberta, a kind and quiet prisoner, always well-behaved, now panicked and desperate to escape.
Roberta :
- They’re all mad! I knew it. They’ve been insane from the start!
- The whole place is burning to the ground, and they still won’t leave! They’re still talking and talking about things that no one cares about.
- Ah! I can’t help them. I’ve never understood what they were talking about—the rhythms, the factions, the ideologies …
- Yes, the people were nice, the Idealist, too, but I’ve had enough of this prison. I’ve had enough of the Panopticon.
She collapses onto the ground, sobbing.
Roberta :
- I never should’ve joined these movements. It was all meaningless from the beginning.
- I wanna leave this place—go to Spain or France, anywhere but here. I want to go back to Magdalena.
Jailer :
- Huh …
The jaguar releases her grip. Without a backward glance, Roberta leaves.
The jailer steps back into the circular structure she knows as her only home.
For happiness, I sing to you
And for freedom, I sing to you
Nothing can break me, nothing bring me down
Under the night sky, she sees Comala Prison glowing like a brilliant bonfire.
Jailer :
- ♫…
Three days ago
Dores :
- But how does literature make you feel?
Recoleta :
- As though I’m a kid looking through a kaleidoscope for the first time.
- Well, maybe that’s not the best way to put it. Perhaps something a little more subtle.
The young writer drowns in the vortex of words as the blind woman walks away.
She walks silently toward Comala Prison, arriving at the dock hidden between cliffs and reefs.
There, the prisoner who answers all questions awaits her arrival.
Dores :
- A ship sailing to an unfamiliar land.
- A parable of the past and future. An era that once existed and is yet to come.
- Is this the answer you’ve provided, Mr. Aleph?
Aleph :
- No, Urd. You will have to find this answer yourself.
- No one can help you with this—no one.
Dores :
- I see. Thank you, Mr. Aleph. I will remember what you’ve told me.
So the platonic year
Whirls out new right and wrong,
Whirls in the old instead;
All men are dancers and their tread
Goes to the barbarous clangour of a gong.
W.B. Yeats—Nineteen Hundred and Nineteen