Chapter 47: Time Traveling Hitler

I'm left just poking at the strawberry bundt cake, head reeling and gut still swirling from the teleportation. The cake is delicious though, and I feel myself actively decompressing and coming down from the adrenaline, my legs feel like aching jelly. Like someone taught slime how to hurt.

I lean over my shoulder to read this quaint street side cafe’s menu and confirm my suspicions as, after scanning the multiple different written languages, I find the plain English entry for “[Refreshing Treat].” Oddly enough next to the same but in Latin.

“You gonna eat that?” Scab Cy asks around his mouthful of refreshing bundt cake.

The look of acorn I give his audacity should peel paint, but I get a taste of my own bundt cake when he just stares with a growing smirk.

A flash of impulse to throw the cake in his face passes, and instead decide I'll finish my piece.

Scab Cy pays the waiter; Some kind of bug person, with 3 ‘fingers’ making up their main claws, and several lower arms like a shrimp down their chest that they use to clean our table and box up the rest of the cake. Their mandibular mouth opens to thank us and wish a good day and I fail to not stare.

“Ya ready?” Scab Cy asks me, gingerly fitting the box of bundt cake into his fanny pack of holding.

A bite or two of cake remains on my plate, and I stare at it, pushing it with a fork before I look back up and ask.

“For what? What now?!” I nearly shout, my tone getting away from me now that I've got some more energy in me and have come down from fight-or-flight.

Other patrons turn slightly, already slyly watching the doppelgangers but now paying attention to the potential drama. My frustration at even that only serves to reverse the instinct to shut up back into spite and rage. My mouth runs away from me.

“It's been one thing after another for— God, has it only been a day? Is this what it's always like? Do we ever stop? Can— can I have time to rest? Take this all in? See the world— see my friends?! You'd think we’d be made of time! What hellish task are you dragging me off to now? And, am I allowed to ask why? Like, I get it, I get it. You're me. I should trust you. I really should. But like, a confident look and [No Time to Explain] isn't gonna cut it forever! Fuckin’ explain! We have time!”

“Excuse me, sirs, if you could please lower your volume? You're disturbing the other patrons.” The waiter returns, and I realize I'm standing and leaning over the little cafe table.

A snooty looking four-armed— Dephi?— Woman clutches some odd bag to her and looks ready to speak to the manager. I almost yell something, then turn to see Scab Cy looking slightly ashamed— not embarrassed— and receptive, and my hackles lower a bit.

“Sorry.” I say to the [Waiter].

“It's been a difficult day and the [Refreshing Treat] let it catch up to me. I apologize.”

Scab Cy hands multiple gold coins to the waiter, which I see from other patron’s faces is an insane tip, and mutters something about it being ‘for the trouble.’ We share a look of mutual understanding, returning to common ground on our shared value of being kind to wait staff and grunt workers.

The [Waiter]... Scuttles seems like an unkind word but it really does fit… scuttles off and Scab Cy puts up that privacy spell again and taps a ringed finger on his good hand against a cup of tea.

“Truthfully, we don't have time... Don't worry, I'll explain.” He says.

I wasn't worried. Of course he will. Fucker loves the sound of his own voice. Oh god is this what it's like to hang out with me?

The bubble of introspection pops as he continues.

“See, I have all the time I need; I can time travel. You can't. And right now you're thinking ‘why not just bring me along?’ I might be able to bring people with me, I dunno, I haven't tried— yet. But you gotta remember, just teleporting a few miles makes your guts do jumping jacks. You wouldn't survive time travel. Your entire being would be torn apart. My first time I still wound up passing out for a… spoilers. Ahem. Point is, you've got a long shopping list of things you need to do and skills you need to get to even think about being able to time travel.”

He stops to take a sip of his tea.

“Okay… so what's—”

“What's the hurry?” Scab Cy asks, infuriatingly finishing my question because he already knows what I'm thinking.

“Well lemme ask you a question: back on Earth, what do you think most people would do if they could time travel?”

I take a breath and seriously consider the question. I go to take a sip from my own tea and find it's empty. Scab Cy slides me his.

I sip, and begin.

“Well, I'm guessing some people would see what the future is like. Then go back to see a lost loved one, or some historical figure, then try to change some great tragedy—”

“Exactly.” Scab Cy says, excited.

“The day Hitler was born would be the busiest day in history. Hundreds of time travelers tripping over each other trying to kill baby Hitler, countless counter-time travelers trying to prevent the worse timeline that causes, cyberpunk neonazis that go back to worship him like a god, a bunch of terminators kicking around, an art teacher or two with a soft heart, it'd be chaos. Cuz that's the period in time when Adolf Hitler, literal Hitler, is at his most vulnerable.”

“Right now, you're baby Hitler.”

The tea grows cold, sitting in my hand.

“...I’m Hitler?! We're Time Traveling Hitler?! What the fuck do we do?!”

“Metaphorically! We don't commit a genocide… I don't think. We just make some enemies! You can agree that that's inevitable. Life would be so boring if we did nothing to ever piss someone off. But it just so happens that… at least one can time travel too. You saw that guy. Aurelius Carafa.” Scab Cy clarifies

“I thought future us killed him.” I say.

“You're not thinking 4-dimensionally. Sure, he's dead. But that doesn't mean he isn't gonna keep being a huge pain in the ass. Time travel. The future is in the past and the past is in the future. Versions of him from the past are gonna litter the timeline and keep popping up all over.”

“Fucking… great.” I say, putting my head in a hand.

“We couldn't have not pissed off the other time traveler?”

Scab Cy looks a little stressed as he says “that's kinda spoilers, but the short of it is: No, that was pretty necessary.”

“Needless to say, we need Baby Hitler to grow up in a big hurry.”

“Please don't keep calling me that.”

I pensively stare at the tea, and then slug back the cold leaf juice.

“Well, shit. How much time do we have?”

“Not enough.” Scab Cy says, and then stands, ushering me to follow.

We leave the cafe, and begin walking down the smooth cobblestone roads of this vast city Scab Cy had brought me to. The weather is balmy but not the same oppressive heat as when we were in the desert. People of every shape and size flow past us as I'm bombarded with anachronistic styles and technologies blended together with the common thread of magic.

Scab Cy continues talking as he strolls down the street, eye searching for specific landmarks among the tall stone and wood buildings around us to guide his path to a place he has yet to tell me of.

“Thankfully we have a bunch of our selves and some allies running interference right now to keep you under the radar. Some measures are being put into place even a few centuries ago only to pay off now. I think we might've even started a cult?” He says, with a quirk of his head.

“A cult? That can't be ethical. There's no such thing as an ethical cult.” I say.

“I think it was accidental. Dunno, haven't done it yet.” Scab Cy says, still scanning the roads, until his eye alights as he rounds a corner.

I follow his gaze and see an edifice tearing the sky. A steep pyramid-like structure scrapes upward, blotting out the sun when I stand at the right angle. Prismatic glass reflects the daylight into man-made rainbows across the city. The geometric shape of it is broken by towers, rickety bridges leading to floating islands. I watch some winged beast depart from an opening in the stone building’s side and judge that the wings must be colossal if visible from this distance.

The view strikes me with awe and wonder, reminding me of the magical world I now stand in. I feel almost offended and aghast at the people going about their days around me, unacknowledging of the monument near them, until my vestigial social-sense kicks in to figure this is relatively normal to them.

“Cy, what is that?” I calmly ask Scab Cy, unflapped by using my own name to address someone else.

A large beast-like man with a dog's head like a doberman scoffs as his likely amazing hearing lets him hear my question, which means it is a stupid one.

Scab Cy's smug grin grows wider as he responds.

“That, my infantile friend, is the library of Alexandria.”

“Wait, not our library of Al—”

“No, obviously not. Though a lot of that lost knowledge is in this library. That's just its closest English name. This nation-state was conquered by Alexander the Great when he came through, though. Oftentimes it's just called the Great Library, which is a bit derivative of the Great Work if you ask me, but may also be a pun on Alexander the Great again. I'll explain more, walk and talk, we gotta take the underground, the library is a ways away.” Scab Cy says, motioning me to follow him.

We walk another block, and I pay more attention to our surroundings, the anachronisms striking me even harder.

“The library is, like, 10s of thousands of years old and contains knowledge to reflect that, though it's been sacked several times. This whole city is built around the library, with industry and services tailored to it.”

We briskly walk through a street of shopfronts, and I recognize a tutor service, several places offering lodging, and a very busy building advertising [Scribes].

Ancient Grecian style architecture mixing with more modern sensibilities down another street, alien styles and technologies, and even actual paved streets with personal vehicles— though few resemble cars that I'm familiar with.

“A large chunk of it is open to the general populace— the open sections being anything that can be copied and, honestly, destroyed without major joss. But the library gets more exclusive the more niche, dangerous, or exotic the information you're looking for is. The Library City boasts one of the largest [Mage] populations in the Wider World because of it.”

He flashes me a smile as we take a sharp turn.

“But don't worry, I've got special access.”

My excited gaze locked on our surroundings has me almost collide with someone as we take the turn.

The dwarf shouts something, then scoffs as he walks past.

“Hmph. Tourists. You're getting scammed lad! You'd need to be an [Archmage] to get that kind of access!”

I exchange a look with Scab Cy, then whisper.

“You're not an [Archmage], are you?”

He looks amused and surprised as he replies. Which is also surprising, because he should remember asking that question himself. Maybe it's an act. Or maybe it's genuinely been that long.

“What? No.”

His eye twinkles.

“Not yet anyways.”

We begin descending some distinctly subway-like stairs, with signage that seems to shift in my eye until it reads as English.

Scab Cy directs me onto an on-ramp styled path, and I notice us begin picking up pace very quickly as I feel pins and needles on the soles of my feet, similar to the [Haste] spell he put me under before, as we pass by the familiar sight of buskers and beggars hocking their shitty wares endemic to any major city.

“Day passes to the historical section!”

“Please, sirs, I just need enough to get home—”

“Tier 1 spellbooks! Perfect gifts for beginner [Mages]!”

Scab Cy keeps his eye forwards as he walks, uneven hands in his high-waisted pants’ pockets. I keep pace as we flash past other pedestrians on the opposite lane to other side of a barrier.

“I'm only tier 4, dude. Higher than most people, but not quite enough to be taken seriously. I'm like the best player in the minor leagues. It's good to be underestimated though.”

“Our stop is at the end of the line, so we'll be there in 6.2 minutes.”

We walk in silence for a minute, and my mind spins with information. I distractedly wonder how this walkway standardizes the pedestrian’s walking speed or if it gets traffic. Magic, probably.

Scab Cy clears his throat awkwardly.

“This is the part where you ask me questions.”

I look back towards him.

“You're a real jackass, you know that?”

He laughs. “I guess that counts as a question. Yeah, I know that.”

I sigh, resolving to be less of a know-it-all, but also knowing I'll likely fail.

“Alright, highest priority: Why are we going to the library?”

“Besides the fact that it's the greatest single collection of knowledge outside of the Akashic Archives, the mind of the God of Knowledge, or in the memories of the God of Time? We're gonna be adding some info to your book, and then gonna give you some time to learn some spells as ya mull over some stuff. Plus, I promised to introduce you to somebody.”

That mollifies the growing headache I've had for the last day a bit. Knowing what's going on does wonders for your mental health. Plus, the idea of learning new spells is very appealing. I think I could grow addicted to the feeling of magic, and expanding my knowledge of it. Though, I have to point out something to him.

“You mean introduce yourself.”

His needling smile is too calm, and so— almost nostalgic— that it sets my neurons alight with curiosity.

“Yep. Should be fun. Don't be scared, she's a big softie.”

The walking path we’re on begins to slow and widen to let people off into a large receiving platform at a station. There’s a wide staircase and several elevators to one side, letting people back up to street level, while Scab Cy and I are part of the crows moving towards the wide lobby-like entrance to the library. The marble floors echo with magic as all around us are statues and murals depicting ancient figures and scenes. I’m struck, staring at a painted mural behind stained glass covering one wall. It depicts the library on a dark day, in stark contrast to the blazing fires— but that isn't the focus. Lightning flares from the clouds among the falling islands and collapsing towers, flashing from the mouth of a dragon splitting the sky. Its scales are a tarnished green copper, tinted back to that glossy orange by the glass. But it's lightning doesn't strike the library, no, it strikes through some fleshy horror climbing along the side, illuminating its warped and cancerous skeleton from within. The tactical colors of the glass acts as a sheen to the paint behind it, as well as a barrier, for behind the glass, the lightning is real. A faint crackle can be heard even from here, as the electrical arc flickers and flashes on specially placed nodes along its path. It's hard to see from afar, but the level of detail is staggering, with people and tableaus visible in every hole in the stone or centimeter wide window. A dephi man with an easel is set up before it, the [Painter] frustratedly trying to recreate some of the techniques— quite literally trying to catch lightning.

Behind his lower right elbow I could swear I saw—

Scab Cy nudges me as we near the front of the line at one of the many security stations to this underground entrance.

We approach a gate with a uniformed aven, similar to a hawk, their forward facing eyes look tired and drained by their public-facing job. They look over Scab Cy and me, and glance at a tablet— a literal stone tablet— levitating next to them.

Their high and chirping voice speaks, boredly.

“Please remove any anti-appraisal artifacts, and place your bags on the table.”

They look between Scab Cy and me, then continue.

“Any personal golems or simulacrum will have to be inspected and tagged.”

“Actually,” Scab Cy begins, “I'd like to request a special inspection.”

At his words the people in line behind us groan and the droop in the aven’s feathers deepens.

“If you have a special entry card it can be presented now, or scanned at one of the gates labeled ‘special entry.’”

Scab Cy seems to be enjoying this, as he says “oh no, we'll be needing to speak to an [Inspector]. Please call for one. Don't worry, we'll step out of line.” and grabs my arm, walking me off to the side.

The people behind us in line trade glances at us, some unabashedly staring, as we stand near one of the walls. I watch the line continue to move as a few minutes pass.

Further into the room I hear indignant and entitled shouting, and follow the gaze of the crowd to find a human man shouting into the face of one of those bug-crustacean people, wearing a similarly green and copper uniform to the gate-guard.

“—at do you mean?! My family has had a supporter's card for generations! Do you know who I am?! I am Lord Humod Bolkiah! I shouldn't need to have the card on me for all the money we give you! I demand to speak to your superiors!”

The crustacean person says something to him, and begins walking our way. It is at this point that I realize that they are the [Inspector] we asked for, and therefore we have pulled a Karen and asked for the manager.

I put a palm to my face, but pull it back as I see the patient smile of Scab Cy and realize that we very well be actually entitled to something.

“You've requested a special inspection.” The [Inspector] states, their mandibular mouth shifting fascinatingly.

“Yes, we possess a special entry card that includes the waiving of inspection.” Scab Cy responds.

The relatively humanoid crab-shrimp person of indeterminate gender is either completely unphased or their emotions are impossible to read on their face, posture, or tone of voice.

“Special entry cards can be presented at any inspection gate or special entry gate.” They say, and turn away to briskly leave, scuttling on 4 chitinous legs beneath them.

“Wait, please.” Scab Cy says, slightly surprised, and the [Inspector] turns back.

“Our card is… unique and… shouldn't be revealed in public.” He says, slightly unsure of his plans that are evidently falling apart.

The crab guy just stares for a moment, before responding.

“This is highly unusual. Procedure states that guests claiming to possess such things are to be escorted to a secure room. Please, follow.”

Their manner of speaking is strange, monotone, and largely in statement form, but we follow them down a side hall into a stone room. My skin prickles and the air hums as we step over a metal plate and approach a table. We select two chairs more suited for our bodies as the inspector assures us that someone will be with us shortly.

My feet tap against the floor under the table, and there's a metal pang beneath my teeth that makes me feel like I'm being microwaved. I turn to Scab Cy.

“This security doesn't make you nervous?”

“Nah, watch this.” He responds.

A very business-like serpentine Naga slithers into the open door, flanked on each side by different crab people; These ones looking like straight-up crabs but far larger and thicker.

She opens her mouth to speak but Scab Cy just pulls a small item from his fanny pack of holding and slides it onto the table.

We all look up from the small resplendent-green rectangle with the words Horatio ‘Cyclops or Cy’ Bergmann engraved into it.

“I'd like to see the [Curator] please.”

The Naga woman looks between the card and him, affronted at him speaking first, then picks it up, and slithers to the corner of the room with it. She pulls a smooth white-ish stone from a pocket on her vest, depresses a spot on it with a claw and causes it to light up, and begins mumbling into the stone.

I nervously examine the two crab people, notably lacking weapons outside their massive claws that look like they could behead me with a single pinch, but turn back to the Naga woman as her voice raises to almost audible.

Her posture goes rigid, and her words grow stiff and short, the cadence of a ‘yes sir.’ The crabs and I look between her and Scab Cy as he leans back in his chair, smugly satisfied. She returns to the table, and she almost throws the card back at us. Her face is pale behind her yellow scales as she says “I am to escort you.”

Scab Cy shrugs. “So be it.”

I find myself following after a casually strolling Scab Cy, who lets the Naga security officer race ahead, then turn back exasperatedly. She says something into her little rockie-talkie, flicking her tongue in frustration and uncertainty, then slithers back to my future self’s side and slows to keep pace.

As we're led into the open floors of the library, I feel my tongue begin to dry as my jaw hangs loose, gawking at the world around me. If my eye patch had anything beneath it, it would be flying off my face from the way my eye cartoonishly pops at the sight of stacks and stacks of books scaling higher than some skyscrapers. Signs and plaques litter my vision like stars, and the sheer color of all the bindings blurs the collage into a mash that leaves nothing for my eye to focus on. The classical ladders are found in several places, some scaling high enough to give an OSHA inspector ulcers. I watch as someone stumbles on one, yet stay floating, perfectly adhered to the ladder by some flashing enchantment. Most of the populace, however, are using these mind-bending floating staircases and walkways.

On the floor— which is a floating transparent epoxy-like floor displaying an ancient Greek tiled floor beneath it— are endless displays and artifacts. It'd seem this place doubles as a museum, and I stare at what I believed to be the classic dinosaur fossil in the distance, until I see the stretched wing bones and legs, and notice the glow beneath the ivory— like the last vestiges of embers. Dragon bones. I nearly collide with the Crab-guard taking the rear of our escort, and am rather forcefully shoved along by the edge of its large crusher claw. Perhaps that was gentle for a massive Rangoon.

I sidle up along Scab Cy, casually walking with a self-satisfied smile, and he jokes.

“This place blows the Bass Pro Shop pyramid straight outta the water, doesn't it?”

I snort, and joke back.

“Well, I don't see any big fish tanks with all the local species of fish so, eh.”

At the end of my quip, a small chime noise sounds, and a holographic image of a human woman who I could only describe as the epitome of the stereotypical librarian— tight bun, little half-moon glasses with the neck chain and all— appears before me, floating to keep pace as we walk along.

“Information on local species of fish can be found in biology, encyclopedia, and trade/hobby sections. Would you like me to highlight a path in your vision or assist you in choosing a text?”

“Uh… no. Thank you.” I say, surprised at its sudden appearance, and it disappears with a nod.

“Huh. Automated Illusory librarians. That's… really useful.” I remark.

“Yeah but it does mean that this place is listening to everything we’re saying.” Scab Cy reminds.

“Oh, here we go.” He says, a little bit of delight returning to his voice after the cynical statement.

I try to follow his gaze from behind, but can't pick out anything in particular in the expansive menagerie around us.

Thankfully, two assistant librarians at the passing information desk, gossiping while inspecting and organizing misplaced books onto little trays that float away to their proper sections, give me a good lead on what to look for.

“—For only two weeks before— Astarius find me, is that the Director?”

“Is there an event today? I didn't see anything on the schedule… Why are they running?”

I pick out the person in the crowd, quite literally shoulder checking some poor man and causing the stack of books he carries to scatter. She flicks a finger behind her without breaking a stride and the books gently float back to him. The tall and lithe humanoid woman in a dead sprint wearing a very fancy, yet still dexterous, green dress puts her arms out in front of her and parts them, summoning wide translucent walls of shimmering pillows in the middle of a line of children on a school trip, and parts it like the red sea, sending them giggling or crying as they slide on the clean floors and she flashes past them.

“Wow, she's still a ways away. That elf can move.” Scab Cy remarks as the woman, instead of going around a large displayed piece depicting some historical battle with a giant cyclops between her and us, simply snaps her fingers and causes one of the many floating staircases to scream its way through the air, snapping into place in front of her. She sprints up the marble stairs and I have to shade my eyes as she dives over the top of the Cyclops’ massive staff, tucking and flipping in the air to roll as she hits the ground.

“What in the name of Tehklua…” I hear the crab guard from behind me whisper.

“Aha!” I shout, spinning back to face them.

“So you can talk!”

The crab is not amused.

The serpentine Naga engages a burst of speed, slithering forward to meet the elven woman, and they begin to animatedly talk as she slows her sprint to a very powerful power-walk. Someone claps, thinking it was some sort of show, and is quickly shushed.

“So, the Wider World has Elves? I remember you mentioning them when you explained the Natives vs Denizens vs Aspirants thing while I was disguised as a pregnant woman.” I ask Scab Cy.

“Yep. Though, they're not like Tolkien elves. They're closer to plants than mammals.” He replies, actually looking a little unsure as the director says something to the snake woman that makes the guard’s blood go pale beneath the scales.

As the elven woman approaches, I'm able to see her in greater detail.

What from afar looked like a tall, lithe, pale-faced human woman with bright yellow hair, up close reveals that the pale skin has a greenish tint to it. Her features are sharp and severe, her pointed ‘ears’ actually being closer to a folded leaf-like structure, somewhat like a cross between a pitcher plant and an elephant leaf. The locks of her blonde ‘hair’ are in fact thin, long petals, like those of a dandelion, pulled back and braided behind her head. Her shoes and, what I had thought was a very fashionable sock or legging that matched her simple green shoes and made a gradient up her leg from green to sheer at the knee, is actually, in fact, just her feet. Toeless, flat, green. To the disappointment of foot fetishists everywhere. Her green dress is actual clothing though, fascinatingly, the sleeve splitting into strips ending like twirling vines crawling up her bicep.

The effect makes me think of the Bee Orchid, the plant that evolved to resemble and mimic a specific species of bee, even smelling like female bee pheromones, to trick bees into attempting to mate with them and pollinate— which has horrifying implications on how these elves reproduce. I find myself accidentally staring at the modest lumps of cloth on her chest implying the presence of breasts, not lecherously, just fascinated and morbidly curious at what they could actually be. Why would a plant have boobs?

I snap my attention back as she approaches us, schooling an intense and harried expression. Her smile is sharp as she speaks.

“Master Bergmann, I was under the impression that you'd be making use of one of the private arrival bays for your visits! It is keyed to your card, after all.” Her voice is mellifluous yet authoritative and articulate, evidently stressed, though she strains to keep a lid on it. There is an air of… eternity to her. An otherworldly immortality that has me spellbound, like staring down the breadth of the grand canyon. I peer into her moving mouth to find fleshy tones and, at least the mimicry of teeth.

Scab Cy replies through his teeth, terse but smiling.

“And I was under the impression you wouldn't keep calling me that. Besides,” he exaggeratedly smacks a hand down onto my shoulder.

“The arrival bay doesn't allow guests, and he doesn't have a card. We'd like to see the Curator, please.”

To the elf’s credit, she doesn't even blink at the fight that the ‘he’ (me) mentioned is the exact same guy, only raising a single poofy eyebrow, resembling dandelion fluff.

“The [Curator] is currently in a planning session. If you had called ahead we could have scheduled a time for you to meet.”

Scab Cy casually looks about. “Sorry about that, couldn't call. Reasons. But don't worry, you can let the [Curator] know that if he's too busy, I can just try and find Alex myself.”

Her smile is like cracking stained glass as she twiddles her fingers, and the sound of tweeting birds flies away, only to boomerang back with a quick reply to her [Message] spell.

“It seems the planning session has finished early.”

Scab Cy’s smile is as intense as my look of embarrassed confusion.

“Lead the way.”

…

It's a very awkward elevator ride, at first. Scab Cy looking slightly embarrassed and remorseful to the elf woman and the director busily tapping on this little stone tablet, pulling it away from my gaze as I try to peek. We clear the lower floors and begin to have a view of the city beyond, and it is absolutely beautiful. Not expansive, but developed, and from what I can see I'd guess we’re in a warmer temperate climate. The equivalent of Italy.

When that gets boring, I try to strike up conversation to ease the tension.

Frankly, I'm surprised Scab Cy managed to keep his mouth shut this long.

“So—ahem” I begin, and am forced to cough and clear my throat as something catches in my mouth, dry from gawking.

“Ach! sorry— throat— uh… I was just gonna say that, I don't believe I ever got your name?” I say, unsure if I should introduce myself if she’s familiar with my future self.

Scab Cy looks immediately amused and the elven woman just tilts another of those fluffy eyebrows dismissively in my direction, then continues to type as she speaks to the other me without looking away from her work.

“So what is this? An outlier? Polite Cy or something? Or did you get your brain scrambled— again— and are interrupting operations to find a treatment because your memories are far too dangerous to trust to a normal [Healer]?” She asks, picturesque sarcasm saturating her words.

Scab Cy winks at me— probably. He did the exaggerated head lean as he closed his eye so that's likely the case. Then pulls up his sleeve and stares at one of his timepieces, letting the silence linger for an uncomfortable amount of time. Even when the elven woman actually looks at him, he waits another second or two before answering quickly.

“Actually, this is me from the past. Present Cy. Tier 2. This is genuinely his first time meeting you.” He says, and the director suddenly goes shock still, then whips around to face us as the elevator doors hiss open in front of us.

Her emerald eyes are as wide as they'll go as Scab Cy grabs me and yanks me off the elevator, pulling me along as he races into the rooms beyond.

As has been established though, that elf can move, and she quickly catches up to us, her tablet disappearing with a flick of her wrist. Her smile is genuine, sardonic, desperate, a little sadistic, but oh so sure of itself, as she extends a hand for me to shake. The sun lights her from behind through a wide wall of windows, a halo around her golden hair.

“Sandathelus, from Shedameadow.”

I take her hand and open my mouth to speak, but all that comes out is an ‘Ohp-’ as she yanks me upwards, taking me off the ground by my arm and hoisting me without breaking stride. My untethered arm wheels and my legs kick as she and Scab Cy pull me over an unfinished model sitting out on a table.

She sets me back down and Scab Cy cackles in good humor as I dazedly quip.

“Nice to meet you.”

Her eyes twinkle in mischievous wonder.

“Can't say the same. Be good, alright?” She says, stopping and waving to us as we race through a classy wood and carpeted waiting room.

I wave back.

Scab Cy slows and I reorient myself, slapping his hand away from the bunched grip of my overcoat. Scab Cy stops, and waves.

“Afternoon fellas. Ladies. Here to see the [Curator].” Scab Cy says to the wall of guards in front of us.

2 lobster people, 2 dephi, a stone dragon statue and what looks like a miniature mechanical humanoid, like a Jaeger from Pacific Rim, wait at the other end of this receiving room, lined with historical displays and pictures to entertain those waiting. The lobster claws slowly clack open and shut as the dephi grip their odd glowing batons and the dragon statue clings to the side of the wall, its mouth open and eyes trained directly at us.

The 3 foot tall mech takes a sidelong stance, one arm raised up behind it and one extended towards us as a little hatch opens from its shoulder, extending a 3rd prehensile arm with a taser that crackles to life at the end of it. Its fingers bend on its extended arm twice in quick succession. The universal gesture for ‘come at me, bro.’

“Let him in! He's begrudgingly permitted!” A voice sounds, muffled through the fanciful mahogany door behind them, and the squad of guards reluctantly untense and step aside.

Scab Cy walks forward confidently, and I follow along.

He waves to the stone dragon, and pats one of the 4-armed maned humanoids on their armored chest plate.

“Stone-ziss, looking good. Resilience, how’s the kids?”

“Non-existent.”

“Ah… so, good then!” He says, rallying quickly with uneven finger guns as he presses the door handle with his butt, walking backwards into the office beyond.

After peeling my eye from the armed guards we walk past, what I see through the butt-opened door as I walk through it is a fairly standard, if fantastical, office. Incredibly well made wooden desk, countless filing cabinets, some looking to be made of obsidian or some greenish metal, placards, papers, objects and knickknacks. On the wall behind the desk is a dramatic painting depicting an ancient Greek army besieging the library. Behind the desk is a man. Portly, with sparse brown hair that's bald at the top but not the sides, bookish because of the pale pallor, papercut hands, rounded spectacles, and red tweed vest. His face is lined from decades of worry as he speaks with a vaguely Greek accent to someone through a stone he holds to his ear.

“—ank you. I’d be more than happy to continue discussion at a later date. Your people can talk to my people. Have a good day.”

He ends the call by pulling a little insertable cartridge from the base of the stone, setting it into an organized series of them at his desk.

As we enter the room, the floor in front of the desk seems to creak, and thick branches of wood twist and thicken to form two, nearly identical wooden chairs. Cushions form like growing mushrooms and pillows appear with a puff of magic and hardening air. Scab Cy takes the chair with more pillows, and the wood leans back slightly as he relaxes. My chair is stiffer, though not uncomfortable, just more formal.

Scab Cy raises his growing hand up to his ear, extending the thumb and forefinger and shaking it, mouthing the words ‘you still on the phone?’

The man, whose copper desk placard names as ‘Giancarlo of Macedon, [Curator of World’s Knowledge]’, doesn't acknowledge the silent question, instead pushing up his spectacles as he pinches his nose, responding tersely.

“Why, praytell, are you interrupting my meeting with Hollis’ [Minister of Cultural Affairs] when you could have used a private arrival bay or, at the very least, called ahead?”

The man doesn't seem stern, just competent and busy. Scab Cy shrinks back a bit, un-relaxing in his chair as he wrings a hand, sitting up.

“Sorry, Giancarlo, seriously. Couldn't letcha know I was on my way cuz explicitly saying precisely when and where I would be is… a bad idea right now. I couldn't teleport to the private bay cuz this guy doesn't have a card and woulda been vaporized.”

“Believe it or not this is the lesser evil.”

The [Curator]’s baleful look shifts between Scabby and me, the soft lighting of the room shadowing the dark accents of his lower eyelids.

“And you couldn't have summoned him after you got here?”

Scab Cy forcefully laughs “funny you should say that! Just had a similar conversation with Sandy where she called him Polite Cy…” he trails off as the [Curator] just stares at him, without the time for him to dance around.

Scab Cy takes a deep breath. Looks at me, then back at the man. As he speaks, he has the [Curator]’s growing attention.

“He isn't a branch, Gian. This is... me.”

He gestures to me, and I sarcastically wave, thankful that someone acknowledges me as an actual person present.

“Tier 2, fresh out of the tutorial, nervous, confused, has no idea what's going on. Me.”

“Giancarlo, I'd like you to meet… Cy.”

His eyes are wide, and his body is still. He just stares at me.

My wave is a little less confident and a lot more awkward.

“Hi. That's— a pretty accurate summation. Nice to meet you?”

His stare lingers, tracing its way over me. My hair, my scars, the way I'm sitting. I don't like the way I'm being examined like a horse at auction, but at least he isn't checking my teeth. He meets my eye, and just… looks, for a while.

He stares at me like he's seeing a ghost, or one that hasn't yet died. Or… a God? No.

He looks at me like I'm baby Hitler. But good, I hope.

When he speaks, his eyebrows raise in surprise as if his mouth got the drop on him.

“You look different.”

That seems to wake him a bit as he shifts in his chair.

“Different how?” I ask.

He takes off his glasses and begins cleaning them with a cloth.

“I… can't say.”

He turns to Scab Cy as the glasses return.

“So he hasn't found—”

“Nope.”

“And it's before you fought—”

“Yep”

“And—”

“Whatever you were gonna ask if it's ‘before’, it is. The only thing he's done so far is escape Ssesli, lose his book, and murder a [Crime Boss]. Also, c'mon Gian, spoilers.”

The man slumps back, and as a second or two passes in silence, I feel the need to butt in, but he suddenly leans forward, presses a button on his desk, and quickly begins speaking to someone as he activates a skill.

“[Adapt Plans]. Shelly, would you please ask Sandy to begin preparing one of the event rooms for... sometime later this week. I'm going to level tonight and my wife will want to throw a party. Oh, and someone from the Hollish ministry will be getting in contact to reschedule our exhibit planning; could you please push that off until next week. I will hopefully have a new skill that'll give us an advantage for that. Send some wine and a fruit basket to apologize for the delay.”

He looks back up at us for a moment.

“And tell Dendron to offer the security team overtime this next week.”

He leans back, then remembers something and picks up a mug from off his desk, the rune on the coaster flashing as he lifts it and causes the coffee to steam. He raises the cup to his lips, hesitates, pulls open a drawer on his desk and retrieves a flask, thinks better of it, puts it back, and takes a long draft of his coffee. Giancarlo of Macedon takes a steadying breath. When he looks back at us, his gaze is steady, yet shaky. Brave.

“What can I do to help?”

“Ye—”

I don't get further than a syllable before Scab Cy speaks over. Which is really shitty for someone who went through this same interaction but from the other view.

“We need to see Alex.”

Giancarlo grimly nods, and stands with a pop in his knee.

He mutters as he turns to face the painting on the wall behind him.

“It's a good thing I keep a spare.”

To the horror of any other curators or art aficionados, he puts a finger directly onto the canvas of the painting, pressing on the heads of certain soldiers in the chaos of the depicted siege in a specific order.

I take the opportunity to finally get a word in edgewise.

“Yeah, hey, it's me. The guy you guys are talking about. Getting kinda tired of being treated like I'm not the real Cy, or not the real Cy ‘yet,’ or like I'm the ‘before’ in a ‘before and after’ picture. Would love to be looped in here.”

They both just look at me for a second, apprehensive and remorseful, until Giancarlo shakes out his head and speaks back up.

“Apologies. But you have to understand C— you prefer to go by Cy, yes?”

I nod, and the image of the painting shimmers and disappears, leaving a complex combination lock and handle of a safe in the frame where the canvas once was.

He begins inputting a code.

“This is the greatest collection of text and information in the Wider World. How many… history books— do you think we have?”

He finishes putting in the code and, instead of opening the safe by the handle, grabs the opposite edge of the painting, and it swings open as I just shrug and say “Loads?”

“Countless.” He says, quietly and weightily as Scab Cy and I both shift around in our seats, half standing to catch a glimpse of what’s in the safe.

I see a large tome, but can’t see its cover, loose pages of ancient paper, even what looks like a handle to a sword, but he pulls out a sloped shape of brilliant green and quickly shuts the door.

“Now, how many do you think you’re in?”

He hands me the hefty object, and I look down at a scale, in the deepest shade of dark green I’ve ever seen. My mind immediately jumps to a conclusion and goes back to the mural outside the entrance, with the tarnished copper dragon— but this isn’t that same waxy green. It is like seeing jade in a dark room. He moves from behind the desk, and exits through the doors behind us.

“You are a—”

He suddenly turns to look past me at the guards suddenly following behind.

“Don’t escort me. —and plug your ears!” He shouts at them.

They do so.

“[Unquestioned Order]. Good skill for keeping secrets.”

He continues down the hall towards the elevator with us following. His pace is determined. His eyes glance about before he continues.

“You are a time traveler, Cy. Or, you will be. This place has the most complete account of all your past— future deeds outside of the memories of those who were there.”

We enter the elevator, and Giancarlo reaches a hand into his mouth, pulling out a fake tooth and inserting the shaped nerve into the service keyhole. The button panel lights up, and he presses them in a certain order creating a negative shape of the library, but upside down.

The elevator begins to descend, fast.

Scab Cy looks excited and is raising his eyebrows, giving me an ‘I know, right?’ look.

I look back to the [Curator], who tongues the exposed hole in his jaw before continuing, his mouth outpacing the brain behind his wide pupils. His heart thrums beneath his vest.

“It is my understanding that you’ve tried to keep your actions in the past to a minimum, or hidden, so they don’t overshadow you now. For the past millennium the library has kept the disparate accounts, unreliable sources, and loose recurring throughlines in history relatively secret. We haven’t been completely successful. But,”

He looks me in the eye, as an important man. A mortal man.

“I know who you are, Cy.”

The floor display goes past -24, then just goes blank.

“I know who you’re going to be.”

There is a radioactive hum in the air that burns beneath my teeth as some kind of invasive magic scans over us. It stops when the feeling reaches my chest, where I clutch the scale.

“Forgive me, then, if it is a shock to see you now.”

He smiles as the elevator slows, then rotates.

“It’s easy to forget that legends were men once, too.”

I am shock still for a moment, just digesting as Giancarlo pulls his fake tooth out of the button panel, cleaning it with a handkerchief.

Scab Cy sidles up next to me, in front of the doors, and whispers.

“Yeah I felt the same, too.” He snickers at his joke.

The doors open, and before us is a colossal room, ceiling high enough that my vision fades as I take in the skyscrapers of bookcases, the countless cases, devices, artifacts, and displays. There is an astronomical device, far in the distance, taking up what looks like 100 feet of floorspace. Its telescope has 3 barrels, one of which points straight down. The floor is an endless collage of art and history, pieces of ancient flooring taken and melded together. The distant sky that is the ceiling is a deep textured green, strikingly beautiful in its shade from even this far away.

Giancarlo speaks from the side.

“This is your stop. If you ever need anything, you have your card— or, well. Alex can engrave that for you.” He says, pointing to the scale.

“Thanks.” I say, dazedly, as Scab Cy steps out of the elevator. I offer my hand for him to shake.

Giancarlo smiles, ruefully and nostalgic. He shakes my hand.

“You're welcome. Try not to need anything though, you're a bit of a headache.”

Scab and I chuckle and wave goodbye to the man as the elevator doors close. He looks around the room behind us and yells “and good luck!” before they close.

…

Giancarlo feels his heart thundering in his chest, slowly breathing to hope it abates.

He mutters under his breath as the elevator returns to normal function.

“Poor bastard.”

He slots his keystone tooth back into his gums uncomfortably, then speaks.

“Fwa—”

He adjusts the false tooth.

“[Fraction of Master’s Knowledge].”

The [Curator of Hoarded Knowledge, Keeper of Founder's Secret] clutches at his head and blacks out against the elevator floor.

When his [Secretary] finds him, he looks up at her with bloodshot eyes.

“Shelly, you remember that security overtime I mentioned? Triple it.”

…

“I like that guy.” Scab Cy remarks after the doors close.

I nod. “Yeah, ya know what? Me too. He—”

The walls shudder and the floor thunders as we're knocked off our feet by the tornado of sudden wind. The green of the ceiling above us blurs with a storm of movement, and a voice that could sunder stone and split the sky resounds from deep within the library.

“Cy!!!”

I brace myself against a lectern, whose open book’s pages are insultingly still, unmoved by the tempest around us.

“What is that?!” I yell.

“That—!” Scab Cy shouts from where he leans against a shelf, then points down the center aisle where far, far in the distance a deep and terrible light begins to grow.

“—would be Alex!”