Veritas Virumque/P1E3

"The gods had condemned Sisyphus to ceaselessly rolling a rock to the top of a mountain."

That night, asleep, Turnus found himself in a moving train. He was walking through the aisle, and his glaze travelled into each compartment, only for his vision to be met with static when he would discern the contents within. His motion stopped, and then he was sitting in one of the compartments. A body, with a blank expression and cherry blossom hair, was staring at him.

“My liege,” said the Bastion Fanfarinet in Turnus’ dream.

The world outside of the train was blurred.

Turnus looked more closely at the Bastion Fanfarinet with the blank expression, and reached out a hand towards him. If only the boy’s facial features could be sharper, if only he could dial up the resolution, Turnus thought, as he continued reaching out, only for his hand, and the rest of him, to phase through Bastion Fanfarinet.

There was no more train scenes, no more Bastion Fanfarinet, as Turnus was propelled into his next dream of the night.

~*~

When he woke up, Turnus shook his head, shaking out his hair that was stuck to his back with sweat, until it cloaked his shoulders instead.

Once he was fully cognisant and functional, Turnus ended straight to the archives room Gladiolus mentioned.

It was simultaneously pedantically perfect and an utter mess. Turnus didn’t know where to start. He didn’t even know what he wanted to look for, or what would even indicate proof of Bastion Fanfarinet’s once-existence.

He decided, at the very least, to search for his “current” ambassador, the man by the name of Gabriel Fanfarinet.

Half an hour in, and his search was futile. Turnus Wyllt temporarily contemplated whether to leave and take a coffee break, but heard the door to the room open.

In stumbled in an adult. They appeared to be in their early twenties, with hair green as moss and a nervousness in their step. Turnus could immediately tell, given their white lab coat and intelligent air, that this person was a witch.

“Hello?” he said.

The witch stopped in their step. “Oh,” they frowned. “I didn’t know that students actually cared about this place. I’m Utility Fei, I do administrative work here.”

They held out a gloved hand. Turnus looked at it.

“I’m not going to shake your hand,” he said, then realised that sounded rude. “I mean, you’re wearing gloves, and you’re handling like, archival stuff, so I assume it’s to keep the books safe. I’m not dirtying your gloves.”

“Smart,” they retracted the hand. “I actually only wear these for aesthetic purposes. What are you up to?”

“I’m… I’m trying to find some stuff, but this place isn’t super organised.” He gestured to a small mess in the corner, and some medium sized messes around the archives room. Files not the folders, folders with only one file, mislabelled folders and files printed on the wrong sort of paper.

“Guilty as charged,” they raised their arms defensively. “But hey, give a guy some credit, it’s already difficult enough managing the MirrorNet databases for this school, nevermind organising things in the physical realm.”

He blinked. "Physical realm?"

“This place. The material world. I know, I know, the World of Ever After is in the digital age, things get uploaded onto the MirrorNet, that’s how the school keeps track of everything… but systems break down and everything is so ephemeral… it’s nice having things on paper,” the fae turned away, almost as if they were talking more to themself than to Turnus. “What are you here for? I didn’t think statistics would interest the students this much.”

“I’m searching for someone. I think he’s missing.”

“Missing?”

“Disappeared. Fallen off the face of the world. Perhaps a cryptid?”

“Fascinating! Maybe I can’t find your missing person, but I could probably tell you the most popular person of this month. Perhaps the couple of the month?” asked Utility. They sat themselves by a mountain of files, cracked open their backpack, and pulled out a snack.

Turnus blinked. “Thank you, I guess. That’s not really important to me.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m really sure.” He was very much starting to doubt the helpfulness of this witch.

“Sorry I couldn’t help,” the witch’s words didn’t seem too genuine. Perhaps it was because they were eating while speaking. The snack in question was matcha Pucky. “I can at least offer you food? I don’t think I caught your name, either.”

Like a fool, he complied. “Turnus Wyllt. I’m a student here.”

He leaned over to take a stick of Pucky, and felt a force pushing him back. It was the same repulsive force he felt with fae: a weak magnet, a light push, one that needed a study pull to counteract.

“You’re not human.”

The prince couldn’t detect magic -- that was a skill that required magic in itself. But he knew the effects of magic, and taught himself how to recognise it through objective means and sharp senses. This was one of such incidents.

“Um.”

“You’re not human,” he repeated. Things were starting to make sense. The little quirks, their constant snacking. “If I’m guessing right, you’re a changeling.”

They blinked.

And their eyes darted from side to side.

“Okay, fine, then explain this.” And they snapped their fingers, and in their hand, appeared a bouquet of rhododendron flowers. With another snap, they disappeared. Turnus could tell, from observation alone, that it was a witch’s spell performed, not the fae equivalent.

In defense, Turnus threw up his arms to shield from any stray flying magical particles. “I don’t know,” he said, once the effects were gone. “Do you have an explanation?”

“Simple. Witchcraft is learnt, fae magic is inherited-- oh, alright, I see,” Utility frowned, and dejectedly took another Pucky to munch on. “You got me there. Now you have me monologuing on my life and tragic backstory and why I am a changeling masquerading as a witch. Pucky?”

“No, not from you,” said Turnus. “Seriously though, why are you doing this?”

“Why I’m a witch this round of changeling-hood? Very good question. I can get you a good answer as well!” they said, finishing off a Pucky in two bites. “Fae magic is innate. Fairies are composed of pure magic, after all, so doing magic is basically on par with breathing. It’s hexactly what you’re put on this world for. You get me?”

“In theory, yes. In practise, no.”

“Well, basically, there’s an ease to doing fae magic,” they grinned. It was unnerving -- too much teeth, not enough seriousness. “But witchcraft… that’s a human arcane art. It’s a skill - you practise, you train, your ability manifests from your efforts. No nepotism. Only hard work.”

“Easy for you to say. I don’t have any magic.”

“Don’t be like that! If you had magical parents or something, I’m sure--”

“I do.”

“Oh. Well, my point is, fae magic is really archaic. It’s stagnant, it lacks the innovation and adaptability of the human arcane arts. So being a witch, studying to get where you are, just feels fundamentally more worthwhile.”

This conversation was starting to make him feel sick. This witch-changeling-whatever, going on about their own struggle with magic, choosing to pick up a form of magic that was completely barred to him, for fun, skipping over his comments.

Utility was out of Pucky now, so they pulled another snack from their bag.

“Anyway. You get me. Powerful magic runs in family lines, but you get skilled mages from anywhere. Too much nepotism in fairykind. Eugh.”

“You’re a fae.”

“Yeah, but I’m also a changeling. I love humanity just as much… almost certainty more.”

Turnus was frowning. “Not necessarily. My parents are both mages. I’m magicless.”

“I mean, yeah, I guess, genetics can be weird, but if you try--”

“No, you’re not getting me. Here, wait, do you have any magical items in the bag of yours?”

“I have a healing potion. A few spell scrolls. Oh, this cursed amulet! It gives you the spell of feather falling. Fun stuff.”

“Great. Try putting it on me.”

Utility decided that it would be more fun to throw the amulet around Turnus’ neck like a game of hoops. Instead of landing perfectly around his neck, however, the amulet deflected like a boomerang and slammed into the fae’s windpipe.

“OOF. What-- I-- how-- owww.” They winced. “Where’s… where’s that healing potion…”

“Do you see what I mean? My mother and father put me through years of private tutors, years of private witch doctors… we’ve found nothing.”

“Don’t you think it’s amazing? You’re devoid of the one power, the one energy that literally builds our world, and yet-- magic-less, you have this strange unique perspective,” they puzzled aloud. “It’s like your own brand of omniscience.”

“That’s… optimistic,” Turnus said. “I guess. I just kind of live life. Do my best. That sort of thing.”

“Well, then, chin up, Young Sisyphus. You’re bound to get somewhere. What were you looking for, again?”

“This guy named Bastion Fanfarinet.”

There was a brief flicker of fear across the changeling’s face. “I’m sorry?”

“Bastion Fanfarinet. I think he was meant to be the Ambassador Fanfarinet in the Princess Mayblossom. Listen, Utility, you’re a scientist, aren’t you?”

“I don’t wear this white coat for nothing, kid.”

“Great. Can I ask a question? Can someone… just.... disappear?”

“Maybe.”

“You must have a hypothesis right? Or even a conjecture?”

That seemed to persuade them to open up a bit. “I guess. Tell me, what’s the most iconic trio of literal animals you see around the school?”

“The Three Billy Goats, of course.”

“Well, I see the Three Little Pigs. When Raven Queen walked through the school gates at the start of her second year, it was a little pig that told everyone around her to run.”

That was not how Turnus remembered it.

“So, how can you be sure your view of reality is the one true reality, when these discrepancies exist?”

“That’s one incident. There’s bound to be more.”

"Oh, of course there's more. Take legacies, for instance. Something popular... common... I used to use the Snow Queen, or Beauty in the Beast as an example, but I can't really now," they frowned. "Look, this is kinda touchy and I don’t think I have the permission to continue talking about this example."

Turnus frowned. He didn’t seem too sold on what the changeling was saying.

“But don’t trust me, kid. As you said, it’s all merely conjecture.”

“You can help me, right? Help me find this one person."

It was Utility’s turn to frown. “I… look, kid. Do you really want to have this conversation?”

“Why not?”

"I don't know - questioning this sort of stuff always felt like a slippery slope to me. One day, you're working out how the world functions and sustains the system. The next, you start-"

They stopped, and hit Turnus with a look that shook him to the bone. It was a look that had seen things - that knew things - things obscured by years of dust and ashes and tucked away with suspensions of disbelief and plot holes.

It was compelling, and he knew immediately what he had to say then.

"I want the truth," Turnus said. "I want reality, Utility. I want clarity, I want understanding. This is a world of riddles and cute little anecdotes, it's all fun and sweet and all, but it offers none of the things I crave for. I don't care if it's dangerous - I want to know."

“So only truth will set you free,” Utility took out another snack -- this time a granola bar, and took a bite. “Here’s the truth, and it’s like science. You will research and study and struggle and never reach an absolute end goal. The process is tedious and the answer is not satisfying.”

“And you’re still dedicating your human life to science?”

“There’s a favourite quote of mine: the struggle itself towards the heights is enough to fill a man’s heart,” the fae said. “One must imagine Sisyphus happy.”

“I’ll take the struggle. Over apathy, I’ll always choose struggle.”

“Fine by me, kid.”

~*~

Later that night, in a studio apartment not far from BookEnd, a changeling witch sat at a computer, with their head lying a distance from their keyboard, for they were waiting for everything to properly connect.

“Couldn’t you invented something a little better than the Turnip Princess Router? Eugh, sTORy Project Incorporated, odi et amo...”

There was no need to dig through a Sword Document, or a binder full of jotted-down keys, to know the IP to access the website they had in mind. More so than any other fae, changelings knew how to grapple with numbers.

And these numbers, Utility believed, were worth memorising.

On their screen displayed an Internet Relay Chat. Or as fairytales who think themselves too self-important would call it, a MirrorNet Curds-and-Re-whey Chat.

Houston, we have a problem, Utility typed in. Their screenname displayed next to their message: Dick Feiynman.

This isn’t pucking Texas, Utility. The response was instantaneous, coming from a screenname that read ‘ Haus of Boss ’.

Dick Feiynman : Hey, I’ll have you know that I graduated top of my class—you know how the saying goes. I have news. Will this news get me a promotion?

Haus of Boss : Unlikely.

Dick Feiynman : Ah well, I have centuries to make an upward climb in the Fairytale Authorities. Okay, alright, so point is, I just had someone ask about a vapourisation. Sure, whatever. Such suspicions usually disappear if there’s no tangible proof of the person.

Haus of Boss : Your concern?

Dick Feiynman : Strange kid. Literally magicless. Not in the way you would think. Any common person can pick up and use a magical item. Not him. Any common person can approach a fae - you know, pure magic beings. Not him. I’d argue, in fact, upon observation, he’s not magic-less. He’s anti-magic.

Haus of Boss : Explain.

Dick Feiynman : You know how charge works. A neutral object is attracted to a positive object. A neutral object is attracted to a negative object. You can’t get a neutral object repulsed by either a positive object or a negative object… I don't know where I’m going with this. Laws of Fae-ysics or whatever.

Haus of Boss : Hmm.

Dick Feiynman : I worked in security once upon a time! I learnt how we set up systems like these… how we account for discrepancies. The assumption is that everyone is intrinsically, inherently magical. The only thing that splits us into a spectrum is how well we can control for this magic. What do we have in this case? Someone who has added an entirely new independent vector to the current linear space we operate in! I’m concerned… he said his doctors don’t even know what’s up. Do you think they’ve published papers? I’ve got to peer review this stuff...

Haus of Boss : Did you get a name?

Dick Feiynman : Turnus Wyllt. He didn’t give a destiny, though.

Haus of Boss : We’d find him in the system. You know science. Take the outliers and control for them. In this case, control him.

Dick Feiynman : How?

Haus of Boss : It’s simple. You catch flies with honey, and princesses with kidnapped princes.

Dick Feiynman : I’m not following.

Haus of Boss : We need him on our side. We’ll feed information. We build trust. Feiynman, get this Deep MirrorNet key down on a strip of paper. I will private message you his mailing address.

Within fifteen minutes of the hexchange, Utility had prepared the bait.

The envelope contained two strips of paper. One was a message, made entirely from cut-out newspaper words and letters. The other, also made from cutouts, was a Deep MirrorNet key.

''Get yourself onto the Deep MirrorNet. Key attached.''