black_box

Agarma

He lamented the maximal computational complexity of any functor mapping Soul to Set, and from Set to Reality, and so through composition. He discovered from an early age there existed a god with naturally isomorphic misgivings, so allied to define a functor from Soul elsewhere.

He hadn’t killed crown prince Quincy, though it had been in the cards, with a deck of size O(n!). Thank Callister, Grandfather, Libri, Shiron, the suicide had thinned the deck, and consequently thinned his blood. He’d drafted up plans to take control regardless of the newly declared crown prince, and was somewhat disappointed when it had been himself. Yet as his blood and possibility decreased in their density, his heart began to boil, and the pressure on the remaining paths increased to bursting. He drew a King of Wands, a Ten of Cups, and Seven of Swords on himself, and calmed slightly.

He preferred to think of possibility as a solid path, like a wire, or an aether branche, rather than a pipe of fluid. Though the laws concerning lightning in metal or thaums through aether were poorly understood, they seemed more deterministic than fluid dynamics. But, he didn’t bleed electricity or magic. He bled blood. And phlegm, and ochre bile. More yellow than black.

The first step to getting a wider world, he concluded, he swore, he edicted, he prayed, he committed, was creating a sufficient foundation of order first. Lie that the laws you’ve created are axiom, rather than the force they’ve been derived from. If you’re dealt a favourable path, encode it deep.

He wished Samantha had killed herself, too. If she wouldn’t coagulate, she should cauterize. Better yet, he wished Anisa had killed her. There existed an easy patch, though.

“Sir?”

He was in a room. A bedroom. Yes. There was a wardrobe he had loaded, and a bed, and a desk, and a chair. Two chairs. And there was a voice outside the door.

“Yes, Claire?”

“Your meeting with Calhoun in five minutes?”

“Yes, thank you, Claire.” All the thinking, scheming, living, it was exhausting. Could everyone see how tired he was? “Wake me in 1 minute.” Literally, as well.