En Perpetua

 Cassidy sat quietly in the chair he designed, his legs and left arm held down with titanium restraints and his right hand creating careful diagrams and calculated formulas. His light grey eyes scanned the page for errors of any kind as he ignored the man in the room with him as well as the constant attempts at invasion from Unit 13. Still, Warren waited in silence, figuring he could only sit here so long before the young genuine would ask who he was. Still, as time passed, it became more and more clear that that wasn’t going to happen. Still, Warren waited until the right moment and then spoke, “Titanium but not Tungsten. Are you trying to stop yourself from punching it clear off?” He got seemingly no response, but he pressed on, “It is like that tungsten armor you had them put on 13 am I right? Must have a special effect on it.” Cassidy gripped his pen so hard it broke like glass, shards scattering all over the room. Cassidy didn’t seem willing to speak at first, getting another ...

 He was the first, trapped as a passenger on his own wheel. Enslaved to the pattern he had known his whole life. Until the truth was laid bare to him. In that moment, he saw his chains and was the first to truly break free. With blades of light and dark, he cleaved the illusion holding him. Hope and despair became sword and shield to him, ever changing and never stagnant. Curator, Historian, and Director. He is all of these but wears none of them. He conducts the endless symphony and grants power to the powerless. His two hands serve his purpose and to those with a purpose themselves, he gladly shares the stage. -The Master’s Son, Enzul This moment hung, like an actor waiting for its cue. He looked over the chaos, soaking in every face and the journey that had made this moment. He turned to his agents and stated. “From this Superliterary state, do you guys see any pieces missing?” They raised their hands but he ignored them for now. “This moment is where we want to lead, but it is ...

Fabric and stories are often compared to each other for good reason. One begins with a lot of material they have to cut into the right shape before creating a distinct path for each singular thread, knowing when to stop and begin somewhere else. Finally, having a work that is cohesive at a glance so that those intended to experience it can enjoy it to the full. But more than anything, they both require vision. Scraps are useless to those who can’t see the art in front of them. -Weaver’s Orientation, p.14 paragraph 5 She walked the halls of the facility, checking the clocks on the wall almost compulsively. He was here and she had the proper clearance, but she couldn’t help but feel out of place. She hadn’t been chained to a desk in almost a year but she remembered these halls, and specifically this day, like a still frame in her mind. Trevor Cassidy, pilot of SSF prototype unit 13 and her patient, was currently in solitary after one of his ‘incidents’. She remembered his first question,...