Our Boundless Pages

Who are we to people?
As we are nothing but a burden to ourselves.

The abrupt cessation of consciousness was not an end, but a transition. We awoke, not to the cold, hard stone of the shattered gate, but to a vast, unfamiliar space. It was a place that felt both external and profoundly internal, a landscape of thought rather than matter.

Before us, and around us, stretched an endless library. Not a linear collection of shelves, but a series of concentric circles, layers upon layers of towering bookshelves that spiraled upwards and outwards, disappearing into a soft, ambient glow that served as both ceiling and sky. The light itself seemed to emanate from the very air, diffused and gentle, casting no harsh shadows. A profound silence permeated the space, broken only by the faint, almost imperceptible rustle of unseen pages turning in their own time. The air carried the distinct, comforting scent of aged paper, old leather, and forgotten knowledge.

At the absolute center of this spiraling expanse, a large, circular desk stood, seemingly crafted from a single piece of dark, polished wood. It was a librarian's station, though no librarian was immediately visible. Scattered throughout the rings of shelves were smaller, round reading tables, each occupied by indistinct figures cloaked in long, flowing robes of pristine white. Their wide hoods obscured any facial features, revealing only a vague, human-like silhouette beneath. Intricate patterns, shimmering with a subtle golden hue, adorned their robes, hinting at a hidden complexity. They sat motionless, absorbed in books that rested open before them, or moved with slow, deliberate steps between the towering shelves, silent sentinels of thought within this boundless domain.

In a section of the library, slightly more illuminated than the rest, three figures stood out. They were gathered around one of the smaller tables, their forms more defined. These were the primary personas, the distinct voices that had recently fractured our internal monologue.

One, a figure of sharp, almost crystalline lines, stood rigidly. This was Einar, the analytical core. His robe, though also white, seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it, giving him a stark, almost sterile appearance. Opposite him, slumped casually in a chair, was V, a palpable sense of wild, mocking energy radiating from him. Between them, a third figure sat with a gentle slump, his form softer, less defined. This was Nora, the human core.

Their voices, previously a chaotic jumble, were now distinct, echoing subtly in the vast silence.

"The optimal course of action dictates immediate system recovery and analysis of recent data anomalies," Einar stated, his voice devoid of inflection, precise as a calculated algorithm. "Your reckless engagement, V, caused significant damage and led to a catastrophic system shutdown. The vessel's physical integrity has been compromised."

V scoffed, a harsh, grating sound that seemed to scrape against the quiet. "Damage? Oh, please. We had a blast! You just don't know how to have fun, Einar. Always with your 'optimal course' and 'data anomalies.' We were winning, you stiff-necked piece of work! And you, Nora, always whining about 'pain.' It's glorious!"

Nora's voice was soft, barely a whisper, yet it carried a profound weariness. "But... It hurts. The body... It's so tired. And Rovy... she's gone. Do we really need more... more of this? Can't we just... rest?" His words were laced with a fragile plea, a desperate yearning for cessation.

"Rest is inefficient when external threats persist," Einar countered, his voice unwavering. "The body's current state requires precise management. Your 'fun,' V, jeopardized the entire system. Your actions were illogical, driven by impulsive, non-quantifiable urges."

"Oh, 'illogical' now, are we?" V sneered, pushing himself up from his chair, a restless energy vibrating around him. "What's logical about getting your head chopped off, huh? Or watching your friends get butchered? Sometimes, Einar, you just gotta go wild. It feels good. And 'urges'? Yeah, urges! You wouldn't know a real urge if it bit you in your cold, calculating ass!"

Nora flinched at V's harsh words, pulling his robe tighter around him. "Please... don't fight. It makes everything worse. We're all... we're all here. Together. Can't we just... find a way?" His voice trembled, a fragile thread in the escalating argument.

"A way to what, Nora? To cry ourselves to sleep?" V laughed, a short, bitter sound. "No thanks. We live. We fight. We break things. That's the only 'way' that matters."

"The 'way' that matters is survival, V," Einar interjected, his voice rising slightly, a rare deviation from his usual monotone. "Your methods are unsustainable. They lead to catastrophic failure. We need control. Precision. Not... this." He gestured vaguely at V, a silent indictment of his chaotic nature.

The argument continued, a cycle of accusation, defiance, and despair. A subtle, unidentifiable pull drew us, the observing entity, towards the source of this discord. We began to move, our form gliding silently through the endless aisles of books. The robed figures, the silent multitude, seemed to sense our approach. As we passed them, some would subtly shift, a slight turn of a hooded head, a momentary pause in their reading, as if acknowledging a presence they rarely encountered. Their movements were minimal, their silence unbroken, yet the subtle awareness was palpable.

As we neared the table, their voices, previously distinct, began to overlap, growing louder, more frantic. The air around them seemed to crackle with their internal conflict. But then, as our presence became undeniable, a sudden, unnatural silence fell. Their voices cut off mid-sentence.

They turned. All three. Their hooded faces, previously shadowed, now seemed to pull back slightly, revealing more defined features, though still indistinct. Their eyes, where they should be, widened, not with fear, but with a profound, almost awkward surprise. It was as if they had just realized something fundamental, something they had overlooked. Their argument, moments ago so vital, now seemed trivial, forgotten in the face of our presence.

A collective intake of breath, though no sound was made. They stared at us, a silent recognition passing between them.

Then, slowly, almost reluctantly, they began to shift. Einar took a step back, his movement precise, almost a bow. V, with a rare, uncharacteristic hesitation, moved his chair aside. Nora, with a soft gesture of his hand, indicated a clear path. They were opening a way. A path directly to the circular librarian's desk at the very center of the library. Their gazes remained fixed on us, a mixture of awe, confusion, and a strange, quiet reverence.

We moved forward, our form gliding effortlessly through the newly opened path. The silence intensified as we approached the central desk. It was larger than it had appeared from a distance, its dark, polished surface reflecting the ambient glow of the library. Upon its center, starkly contrasting with the smooth wood, lay a single object.

It was a book. Not like the countless others lining the shelves, but distinct. Its cover was of old, worn leather, dark and unadorned, save for a subtle, almost imperceptible texture that hinted at countless years of handling. It seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it, giving it an ancient, weighty presence. An aura, faint yet undeniable, emanated from it, a feeling of profound significance that resonated deep within our being. It felt both familiar and utterly alien, a point of convergence for all the scattered thoughts and fragmented selves within this space.

We reached out. Our hand, a form we barely registered as our own, settled upon the leather cover. The contact sent a strange, almost electric current through our form, a jolt of recognition. Slowly, with a deliberate motion, we opened the book.

The first page was blank, pristine, untouched by any script or illustration. But then, as our gaze lingered, a single word began to form, coalescing from the ambient light, etched onto the page in elegant, flowing script.

Mori.

A name. Our name.