Multiple realities pushed close against their reality, and everyone could feel it – there were those that were other, but might be considered to be benevolent, and there were those who were attempting entrance that were unwelcome.
To look at them was not to understand them – merely to know that they were there. Space and time buckled around them, localspace physics sputtering and failing like tiny engines crushed under the bootheel of illogic. Poured into a form that configured itself from the narrative data contained in the substrate they were interfacing with, those from the Unscripted Realms unfolded themselves into a giant humanoid form, and once they were there, they moved rapidly away from their ingress point. Leaving behind them only a single writer.
The Inviolable Editor handed a small note to the Immaculate Author, something that no one else would ever read. The Author smiled and placed the note in his mouth – ate it, and sat down to begin typing.
Change came from both of them, different tensions pulling at the physical structure; felt in the spirit; understood by the mind. And no one knew what it meant, because in a very real way it meant something that had never been meant before in the entire history of this reality.
And to some degree it does not matter who is writing. It may be the one brought in through Bellwether, or it may be someone else. It may be something else. Maybe Bellwether’s echo is merely a translation of the editing that someone else wishes to impose. Do those in the story recognise the push from outside, or does it merely translate as force? Do words foam around the causal chain thrusting its sharp point of effect at certain characters.
Light swirls around,seeming to speed up, and to drag the sky with it. Everyone feels a moment where they are fixed and the world is reconfiguring around them; where it is moving, light ribboning out from stars dying in the transmission of their energy out into the universe.
Two fingers touching. A spark. A repeating spark. A hung moment. A stutter. The words repeat on a loop. But it is something – something is happening.
Reality Engineer level one shakes hands with Reality Engineer level two and they know that they have not met, and they know that all is possible, so anything is probable. Does it mean you should not tend your area of the garden if you discover there is another garden and another gardener nearby? The seeds are carried by the wind where they need to go, and they grow how they will grow into the shapes that are buried in the instructions that rest at their centre.
Gruff is a frozen moment with nothing being typed.
Bellwether is a refutation. His envoy a refutation.
The Immovable Editor is a conversation with the Immaculate Author.
The Unscripted are a journey deep into alien territory.
Stories don’t really have an end, the books just leave us dangling, and wondering, after the goal that was set up in the early chapters was achieved, what shape the stories that get told by their descendants will take.
Sometimes a story only seems done because the landscape is changing and you can’t quite see what it is that is being cooked under the fogbank of steam rising out of the cooking pot.
Reality has always been engineered though some may have failed to see the intelligence behind the design and running of the machinery. What is needed when the machinery becomes an ill conceived engine for the navigation of existence? It needs to be reconfigured – it needs to be reimagined – it needs to engineered.
A garden – flowers growing, blooms dawning like the waking sun, and people arrive to cultivate them, and to refine them. Some would call them gardeners, and some might call them Reality Engineers.
Carter Brecht pulled on an encounter suit.