[Archivist’s Note]

  Some of you have noted that Marcus (and Teorin, to a degree) aren't exactly "pouring their hearts out on the page." That sparseness reflects their personalities. Each record bears the imprint of the minds of those who lived these events. For those new to the Protocol, I have selected brief excerpts as a kind of tasting flight—a reminder that each perspective carries its own weight, its own flaws, and its own truths.

  Readers who prefer more reflective access may find it in different forms: Kara, whose precision and self-scrutiny edge toward the analytical, and Lev, whose record runs unexpectedly lyrical and deeply felt.

  Though you will meet many voices here, the narrative rarely strays from more than two central threads. Each perspective is less a new path than a shift in lens, different angles on the same unfolding picture. Variety adds texture, but the focus remains steady.

  — Lianne Vail

  Archivist, Department of Reconstruction

  Marcus:

  1) Marcus let the moment hang. Then, without breaking eye contact, he picked up the bottle, and poured its contents onto the floor.

  “I’m not feeling thirsty,” he said coldly.

  2) “We’re here to reduce corruption at the port, remember? Murder’s out of line. And cleaning up the docks by killing people?” He gave her a dry look. “That’s a paradox. Also terrible for business.”

  (Marcus’ silences carry more weight than his words. The record reflects this. Often you may learn more from what he does not say.)

  Teorin:

  1) He scanned the treeline and spotted one with decent branches—sturdy, rough-barked, just challenging enough to be fun. A slow smile pulled at his mouth as he started up, fingers finding holds with practiced ease. Climbing was the one part of fieldwork that never got old…

  He paused, glancing down. It wasn’t a short drop. Still… the air pressure was good here. Heavy air. Plenty to work with. Plenty to absorb later, and he wasn’t flying anywhere tonight. Teorin stepped off the branch. Mid-fall, he released a shallow external pulse—pressure rushing out of him, bending the air beneath just enough to slow his descent. The blast stirred the leaves as he hit the ground hard but steady, knees bent, boots thudding into the soil.

  Reckless? Maybe. Worth it? Definitely.

  2) Teorin looked away, biting the inside of his cheek. Part of him wanted to argue. The other part wanted to believe it—the part that still remembered how Marcus used to sneak up and spin him around, or grumble but never move when Teorin fell asleep against his side. He yanked the bag closed, slinging it over his shoulder. His voice came low. Tired. “Doesn’t make it hurt less.”

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  Isi:

  1) Isi leaned against the wall and said, “I might have hacked the security system to talk to Kara without any eavesdroppers.”

  2) Isi pulled out one of her picks. It easily slid in, and the lock spun. Isi tried the handle again. This time the door swung open, and Isi heard a gasp from the other side. She had to hold back her curse. Idiot. She listened at all the doors except this one? She was losing her touch. Isi took a deep breath. She pulled up a smile and stepped through the door to where she could see the occupant of the room, a shocked brunette woman in her thirties, sitting at a desk. “Apologies, mo?a,” Isi said, letting her natural Portilian accent thicken until it was like some of her cousins from far up north. “I don’t mean to intrude, but your kitchen staff said that I could find you here.” …

  “It’s my nephew, you see. He’s hit a rebellious streak. He’s a bit of a hothead. He and his friends, well, they got this idea into their heads…” Isi blushed, remembering the time Cassandro had caught her as a teenager, awkwardly “practicing” seduction in the mirror. “And I’m afraid he’s run off with our car. I know this isn’t your problem, of course… but I think he drove past here, and well, I just want to know if he’s gone up to our cabin or if he went off somewhere else.”

  Kara:

  1) Kara smiled. The whole place was a paradox, and as someone who lived in history, she loved it. Upstairs was all terminals and datapads, but downstairs? Downstairs, paper and ink. Aralin’s colonizers had arrived long after books were obsolete, but the bursts made sensitive tech unreliable outside shielded walls. So two hundred years later, history survived in wood and paper. To Kara, the irony was perfect: the future preserved by the past.

  2) It was the almost that stung. She still had to work for it. To concentrate. To read. To listen. She was amart enough to become a professor at nineteen. She was running her own research now at twenty-three. And still not perfect enough for her family. Not Kinetic enough to be like Lev. Just stuck somewhere in between.

  Lev:

  1) Lev scanned the crowd again, searching for the waiter who had been carrying those phenomenal chocolate éclairs. They almost made the party worthwhile. He remembered the crisp bite of sugar shell, the melt of chocolate, the way his jaw shifted as the pastry gave way. The texture, the taste—perfection. And he wasn’t leaving until he’d had at least three more.

  2) He didn’t know. He really didn’t know anymore. He wished there were some easy answer, something that worked for everyone, but there just wasn’t. Everyone had their side, and he just wished more people were on his. “Sometimes…I don’t know. It’s like, since I’m the only one, I’m an easy target, you know?”

  Livia nodded, but she also glanced to the side as if she didn’t want anyone to see his outburst. This was not why she had brought him; he was ruining her pristine image.

  Lev sighed. He was probably going too far. He hadn’t meant to get into all this. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to throw all that on you.”

  (Lev often wanders from levity into confession without warning. It makes for disorganized archives… and unexpectedly moving ones.)

  [Lev] … Was that a compliment? Did you just compliment me?

  [Kara] You got a compliment, and I got a polite way of saying I’m terrible at parties.

  [Archivist] It was simply an analysis of tone. Nothing more.

  [Lev] Uh-huh. Sure. That’s why you put mine last. I’m her favorite. Secretly. My records are 100% the most fun to compile.

  [Archivist] Most fun, no. Most likely to make me cry while compiling, yes.

  [Lev] See! She didn’t deny it. I’m the favorite. Also, cry? From laughter, obviously.

  [Archivist] I have no favorites.