POPOLA VI
Popola ran her fingers along the copper apparatus, tracing the delicate etchings that reflected afternoons narrow light. It might have seemed like some strange Volantene decoration as some residents speculated. But it potentially would be the key to a mystery that had eluded them for months.
Her interface scrolled, as she performed an analysis of the copper connections once more ensuring their intricacy was proper . It said yet again the connections were correct, nonetheless she verified from it again through technical data, missteps could not be afforded not with this.
Once Devola returned from tasks on the Street of Silk they planned to synchronize their systems; the temporary link between their processors, coupled with the apparatus, would expand her scanning capabilities—enough to include a radius of nearly 1000 kilometers, without overtaxing her Maso-inlaid CPU.
"…much more to analyze" Popola mumbled to herself as she nervously rechecked the connections. With this copper contraption, they might uncover the source of the anomalous particles in this world. If successful, it could lay the groundwork for preventing further harm, if it was indeed similar in effect Maso had back on Earth.
Her concentration broke at the sound of a faint gurgle behind her. She turned toward the simmering pot on the hearth, where the scent of Kingscopper filled the small space, with strong earthy aroma. Glancing over, she spotted medium sized, bubbles forming in one of the simmering pots—the Kingscopper tincture was close to its ideal consistency.
"HOT PIE," she called out, her voice steady, "WATCH THE POT! Ensure the bubbles don't get too frequent or large."
His face reddened slightly as he nodded, moving to adjust the flames. Popola watched him for a moment, her eyes softening. Despite his lack of experience, Hot Pie was managing the odd job well enough. Popola appreciated his help today more than usual, as her thoughts had been preoccupied with the copper device and the upcoming scan.
Walking over to another pot, a more pungent aroma filled the vicinity. Popola was meticulously crafting two types of tinctures today: one solely made of Kingscopper in liquid and paste forms, and another more experimental tincture that included Kingscopper mixed with a small drop of milk of the poppy. The latter was meant for cases where the pain was too great for kingscopper alone to suffice.
She turned to Hot Pie. "Keep the flame steady for this one. It is for wounds that require an additional touch," she explained to Hot Pie, her fingers steady as she added a single drop of milk of the poppy into the mixture. "The extract of poppy is a uncertainty. Too much and it brings risks—sleepiness, confusion, even slowing the heart and breath until they stop."
Hot Pie looked puzzled, his brow furrowing. "I thought milk o poppy was safe. Maesters give it to the high born like sweets."
Popola paused, meeting his soft eyes. "That's the problem. Too many believe it harmless because its effects are easy to nullify at first. But in excess, it can cause respiratory depression—when your body can't get enough air. The heart slows, and sometimes… it stops and well from there."
Hot Pie's eyes widened, unease spread across his face. "That sounds like some tale of grumpkins and snarks… that old peddler would tell Is that really true?"
Popola allowed herself a small, sympathetic smile. "Alas, it is all true, Hot Pie. The poppy's essence is potent, and without caution, it can do great harm. That's why we mix it with kingscopper—it has properties that soften the worst of its effects. We use just enough of the opium to help without causing undue harm."
Hot Pie frowned, a look of confusion clouding his features. "Opium? Never heard of that before. What's it mean?"
Popola paused, feeling the weight of her words and realizing her slip. "Opium is simply a term for the essence of milk of the poppy. It is derived from the sap of poppy flowers—concentrated, made into something that can dull pain. But it carries its dangers, as I said."
Hot Pie scratched his head, glancing warily at the simmering pots. "Sounds like something only the fancy maesters know about. Where'd you learn all this?"
Popola froze, just for a moment. The question hung in the air, and her circuits hummed softly, searching for an answer. She could not tell him the truth—of her long years of existence, of the knowledge gained far beyond what any human could fathom.
She settled on a half-truth, her voice calm and even. "From books. I have read a lot, over many years."
Hot Pie scoffed, a disbelieving chuckle escaping him. "Many years? You're not that old. My mum didn't look as young as you do."
The words hit Popola with an unexpected pang. Her smile faltered, softening with a mix of sadness and amusement. She swallowed the tension that arose, then laughed lightly. "Well, thank you, Hot Pie. I'll take that as a compliment."
Hot Pie noticed the change in her demeanor and shifted awkwardly, his gaze returning to the simmering pots. He decided not to press further. Instead, his tone took on an earnest note. "Still... it's impressive, all this stuff you know."
Popola smiled again, this time with more warmth, something softer and more sincere. "We all do what we must, Hot Pie. You, too. Your hands might bake pies, but today you've made medicine. Its no small thing."
Hot Pie's chest puffed out slightly, his cheeks reddening with pride. "Maybe I ain't so bad at this apothecary stuff after all, huh?"
Popola chuckled, the lighter moment lifting the air around them. But as her gaze drifted back to the copper apparatus, her thoughts lingered on Hot Pie's innocent observation—the notion of years, of age, of the lifetimes she carried in her circuits. The weight was ever-present, but she pushed it aside. There was no need to dwell on such things, not today.
A few hours later, the very fruitful day was interrupted by a distant thunder of hooves. Initially nothing but a faint echo she payed little mind to, but it soon became too loud to be normal. Popola's face hardened as the cries and muted murmurs rang out like a droning bell, and her fingers stiffened momentarily on the jar she was storing.
With an understood sigh, she whispered, "Hot Pie, stay inside."
The young baker gave her a wide-eyed look. Frantic footsteps against cobblestone and escalating yells punctuated the air, too loud to be muffled by the districts thin walls. Popola prepared herself for the scene by approaching the doorway and cautiously pushing it open.
As she stepped outside, Popola's sensors immediately picked up on an anomalous change from the typical.
Three men stumbled down the narrow street, their forms casting long shadows in the afternoon light. Henrik's familiar figure was easy to spot, but his usual composed demeanor was gone. He and another man supported a third between them, the injured man's feet dragging against the ground with each step. Blood dripped steadily from somewhere above, creating a trail of dark spots on the dusty street.
As they drew closer, Popola's optical sensors captured more detail. The wounded man's head rested against Henrik's shoulder, dark hair plastered to his scalp with blood and sweat. His features, though slack with unconsciousness, mirrored Henrik's own - the same prominent jaw, identical hazel eyes now hidden behind closed lids.
"Help! Please, we need help!" Henrik's desperate shouts cut through the strange quiet after the commotion.
Popola was already moving towards them, her systems shifting into emergency response mode. As she drew closer, she noted the third man's attire, which seemed more fitting for the shipyard than the nearby city districts. Her gaze settled on the sigil embroidered on his tunic: a grey ship with black sails on an onion. The image tugged at her memory banks, but the immediate need to help the injured man overrode any attempts at retrieval.
"Popola!" Henrik's voice cracked as he called out to her. "It's my brother, Harwin. He's hurt bad."
The seafarer adjusted his grip on Harwin's limp form. "Those bastards... they trampled him like he was nothing desperate to catch up with the wheelhouse."
Popola's optical sensors took in the scene in a fraction of a second, assessing injuries and calculating blood loss. "Bring him inside, quickly," she ordered, her voice calm and authoritative amidst the turmoil. "Hot Pie, clear the table. And bring me the strong tincture."
Popola's hands moved with a familiar precision, cleaning the wound as Henrik paced nearby, his usual composure fractured. Matthos stood by the door, his seafarer's stance steady despite the grim atmosphere.
"I was down at the docks," Henrik started, his voice thick with emotion. "That body we found it was a shipwright... needed to know if..." He ran a trembling hand through his hair. "Doesn't matter now. Lord Davos's son here," he gestured to Matthos, "was helping me ask around when we heard the commotion."
Popola applied the kingscopper paste to the deep gash in his brother's side, her sensors monitoring his vital signs as Henrik continued.
"Red draped bastards," Henrik's voice cracked. "Riding through like we're nothing but rats to be trampled. Didn't even slow their horses when people couldn't clear the way fast enough." His fist clenched at his side. "I knew Harwin would be there. He always visits the baker's stall this time of day, ever since we were boys..."
Henrik's words faltered as he watched Popola work on his brother. The usually stoic city watchman's eyes glistened. "If Matthos hadn't helped me carry him... Seven hells, I can't lose him, Popola. He's all the family I've got left."
"The wound is deep," Popola stated calmly, though her diagnostic systems registered concerning data about blood loss and tissue damage. "But you brought him to me quickly. That improves his chances significantly." She reached for the stronger tincture she'd prepared earlier. "Hot Pie, bring me those clean linens."
Henrik wiped at his face with the back of his hand, the motion rough and hurried, as though trying to scrub away the shame clinging to him. His jaw worked wordlessly for a moment, the muscles tightening and releasing as he stared at his brother's pale, still form on the cot.
His grip on the bedframe tightened, the wood creaking faintly under the strain. "I swore to protect this city," he muttered, his voice low and hoarse, more to himself than anyone else. "To keep the people safe. What kind of protector can't even keep his own brother out of harm's way?"
His eyes flicked toward Matthos, his face hard with the weight of his failure. The gratitude in his voice came reluctantly, like it was being forced out through the jagged edges of his guilt. "Thank you… for helping me get him here. Your father no doubt is wondering where you've gone of by now."
Matthos shifted uncomfortably, his boots scraping against the floor as he averted his gaze. "Any man worth his salt would've done the same," he replied quietly, his tone steady but subdued. He hesitated, as though searching for the right words, before adding, "Besides, after what those riders did…" He trailed off, his lips pressing into a thin line.
His hand twitched at his side, curling briefly into a fist before he let it fall open again. "Father always said the smallfolk pay the highest price when the highborn play their games," he murmured bitterly, the disgust in his voice barely restrained.
Henrik's head dipped, his shoulders sagging under the weight of his own words. His hand slid from the bedframe to his lap, fingers curling into a loose fist. He let out a sharp exhale through his nose, the sound laden with frustration.
Popola, standing nearby as she organized her supplies, paused to glance at the two men. She didn't speak immediately but knew the watchman needed something to focus on.
"Henrik," she said softly, preparing to bind the wound, "your brother's strong. Help me lift him slightly so I can secure these bandages."
Henrik nodded, swallowing thickly as he moved to assist. Together, they carefully lifted Harwin just enough for Popola to work. Her hands moved with practiced precision, wrapping the clean linen snugly around the injured leg. Henrik's movements were steady, though his jaw remained tight, his emotions simmering beneath the surface.
As they settled Harwin back down, Matthos stepped back, adjusting the sword at his side. He gave Henrik a small nod. "Your brother's in good hands now," he said. "I'll let you stay with him." His tone lightened slightly as he added, "And hopefully, you'll find more peace here than you would at that tavern of yours."
Henrik snorted faintly but said nothing, his gaze fixed on Harwin's pale face.
Matthos turned his attention to Popola, offering her a small, lopsided smile. "Thank you again, Popola," he said, eyes filled with warmth. "It's been lovely to meet you. Seems the Lord of Light deemed Harwin worthy of help today." His tone was half-joking, but there was sincerity in his words.
Popola tilted her head, her lips curving into a faint smile. "I think the credit lies more in your efforts than any divine intervention. But I appreciate the sentiment. And thank you, Matthos, for helping bring him here."
Matthos chuckled softly, his earlier tension easing just a fraction. "Well, I suppose I'd better find something to entertain a boy before Father has to delay his schedule back to Dragonstone even more," he said with a wry grin. "May the gods grant you luck in your investigations, Henrik. And I'll pray that your brother's path is lit amongst the darkness."
Popola found Matthos's comments slightly odd but understood they were well-meaning. She nodded graciously. "Best of luck to you as well, Matthos. I hope you find what you're looking for."
Matthos gave her a final nod, then adjusted his cloak and headed toward the door. The sound of his boots against the wooden floor faded into the growing quiet of the room.
Popola's gaze lingered on the door for a moment before she turned back to Henrik and Harwin. The latter stirred slightly, his eyelids fluttering open for a brief moment before closing again.
Hours later, after Matthos had departed and the day's tumult began to settle, Popola found herself in the company of Henrik and his ailing brother, who lay resting in the corner of the room. The day's events had left her weary but a odd quiet did now settle over things. Harwin shifted suddenly, his face pinched with unease. His breathing quickened, and he murmured something incoherent, his fingers twitching against the blanket draped over him. Henrik was at his side in an instant, kneeling to gently clasp his brother's hand.
"Harwin," Henrik said quietly, his voice low and steady. "I'm here. What is it?"
Harwin's eyes fluttered open, hazy with exhaustion and discomfort. He searched Henrik's face with an almost childlike urgency, his voice thin but insistent. "The story… the one the lyre man used to tell us when we were kids. You remember, don't you?"
Henrik's expression softened, though his jaw remained tight. "The lyre man…" he repeated, his voice taking on a childlike tone. A faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Aye, I remember. Florian and Jonquil, wasn't it?"
Harwin nodded weakly, his gaze steady on his brother. "Tell it," he whispered. "Like he used to."
Henrik hesitated, his hand tightening briefly around Harwin's. His eyes flicked toward Popola,She gave Henrik a small nod.
Henrik's eyes softened, and he nodded. He took a seat, clearing his throat as he adopted a more dramatic cadence.
"In the Age of Heroes," he began, his voice weaving through the room, "when dawn nearly touched the west and Others walked beyond death… when wyverns roared and dragons soared above a world where hills had not yet dreamed of Andals, there lived a man some might even say boy in the Riverlands unlike any other. His name was Florian."
Harwin's gaze brightened slightly, the tale a comfort in his weakened state. Popola, tidying her workspace, paused to listen. The names and images were familiar, though distant, carrying the weight of old legend.
Henrik continued, his voice growing richer, inviting them into the tale. "Florian, known to all as the Fool, lived a life of laughter and jest. Clad in iron motley rather than gleaming armor, he bore a sword known more for tales than kills." Henrik's tone softened as he painted Florian as both a figure of mockery and bravery, his words filling the space with a gentle reverence.
Popola glanced at Harwin, whose gaze was fixed intently on his brother. The childlike wonder in his expression stirred a bittersweet memory within her of another.
"And yet," Henrik went on, his voice low, "it wasn't Florian's sword that defined him, but his heart. For he fell in love with Jonquil, a maiden he first saw bathing near Maidenpool. It was a love that defied reason—a love that would forever mark him a fool in the eyes of the world."
The soft crackling of the hearth mingled with Henrik's voice, the glow of the fire casting long shadows. Popola felt the weight of the tale, each word stirring thoughts of her own purpose, of the quiet work she and Devola had devoted themselves to. In their own way, were they too like Florian, fools clinging to hope in a world that often seemed bereft of it?
Henrik's voice softened further, almost reverent. "But what is a fool, truly? Is it one who sees the world's darkness, yet chooses to believe in its light? After all what is courage but a fools errand."
Henrik leaned forward slightly, his voice deepening as he farther settled into the cadence.
"Take the day, Florian had finally mustered the courage to reveal himself to Jonquil," Henrik began, his tone filled with a hint of dramatic reverence. "She stood by the pool, her golden hair catching the sunlight like threads of spun gold, her expression scathing as she gazed at the man before her."
He paused, casting a glance at Popola and Harwin, ensuring attention was kept. "And she said to him, 'You are no knight. I know you. You are Florian the Fool.'"
Henrik's voice softened as he shifted into Florian's response, imbuing the words with a blend of humility and earnestness. "'I am, my lady. As great a fool as ever lived, and as great a knight as well.'"
Popola's hands, which had been resting idly on her lap, tightened slightly as Henrik continued, her gaze fixed on the shallow breaths of Harwin. There was something in those words that struck at something familiar within.
Henrik straightened, his voice taking on a touch of playfulness as he delivered Jonquil's reply. "'A fool and a knight? I have never heard of such.'"
His tone shifted again, this time to embody Florian's response, laced with both sincerity and a touch of self-deprecation. "'Sweet lady, all men are fools, and all men are knights, where women are concerned.'"
Harwin, though weakened, let out a faint chuckle, the sound raspy but genuine. "That Florian," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "He knew how to speak to a lady."
Henrik smiled, glancing at his brother. "Aye, that he did."
Henrik's voice dropped to a near whisper, "Florian's love was his greatest strength and his greatest folly. But perhaps that's the price we pay for daring to hope, for daring to believe in something greater than ourselves."
Henrik's voice finally trailed off, the tale of Florian and Jonquil settling into the quiet room. Harwin, who had listened intently throughout, seemed calmer now and his vitals were better , breathing even as he rested.
Popola broke the silence, her voice curious but measured. "That was a beautiful story, Henrik. I think I've heard mention of Florian the Fool before, but never actually read or heard any of the story. Is it truly just a tale, or is there more to it?"
Henrik leaned back in his chair, his expression thoughtful. "Hard to say," he admitted. "Some say Florian and Jonquil were real—a knight and a maid who lived in the Riverlands. Others claim it was just a story meant to give people something to distract themselves from troubles back then, a reminder that even fools can find bravery and love in the darkest of times."
Popola nodded, her gaze drifting to the shadows flickering across the walls. "Hope," she said softly, the word lingering on her tongue as her thoughts turned inward.
The tale had stirred something in her, a memory she hadn't allowed herself to dwell on in some time. Back before they had arrived in this place, before the chaos and the loss, she and Devola had told stories too. Tales crafted with care, rooted in a truth that could never fully be revealed.
She thought of Nier—young, hopeful, and desperate for something to believe in. The story they had told him had been a fabrication, carefully constructed myth meant to accomplish a will far greater than themselves.
"When the great black book, Grimoire Noir, plunges the world into chaos...
The white book, Grimoire Weiss, will appear with his Sealed … or so the legend goes"
It had been a simple story of a hero destined to save humanity. But the reality was far more complex, even if the seeds of truth were there.
He had clung to that tale, not knowing the full weight of it. She and Devola had watched him grow, shaped by a purpose they had no choice but to give him, until all that remained in him was vengeance and resolve.
Her hands stilled over the collection of medical tools she had been organizing. She glanced at Harwins now sleeping form. She turned her attention back to Henrik who was looking at his brother as worry creased across his face.
"Do you think Florian really existed?" she asked, her voice low, almost hesitant.
Henrik shrugged, his expression thoughtful. "Maybe. Maybe not. But it doesn't matter, does it? Whether he lived or not, the story survives. It's something people hold on to. As a child the adventure of it called to me and Harwin. As an adult, I've felt like a fool plenty of times in my life, its good to know that even a fool can make it somewhere."
"Do you believe he truly saw himself as both a fool and a knight? Or was it merely his way of charming her?"
Henrik looked at her thoughtfully, his expression softening. "I think Florian knew what he was. A fool to the world, perhaps, but in Jonquil's eyes, he was something more. And isn't that what we all want? To be seen not as we are, but as we could be?"
Popola nodded, but her mind remained elsewhere. She thought of the parallels between henriks philosophy and the way they were seen the true humans of the world… the old world she supposed. The sister model line meant to safeguard humanities survival. She thought of the "prophecy" she and Devola had created. Both were stories of hope, designed to inspire belief in the face of despair. Yet, she couldn't help but wonder if this tale also carried more truth than it seemed.
Devola finally arrived back in Flea Bottom when the sun was all but gone, the twilight casting long, uneven shadows that seeped into their modest home and workshop. The fading light did little to illuminate the cluttered space, where the remnants of the day's chaos lingered in the form of half-sealed tinctures and discarded bandages.
Henrik had left some time ago, mumbling about finding solace—or perhaps answers—at the nearby tavern. Popola hadn't stopped him. She understood. If something happened to Devola again, she would do much worse than drown her worries in rat-tail ale.
The sound of the door creaking open drew Popola's attention. She turned to see Devola step inside, her shoulders stiff and her gaze avoiding Popola's. Something about her was off, and not in the way she'd occasionally been since their arrival in this harsh corner of the city. This discomfort was deeper, more unsettling—something Popola hadn't seen since that first night.
This seemed worse.
"Devola," Popola said softly, setting down the jar she had been labeling. Her sister didn't meet her eyes as she walked further into the room, the twilight barely catching the faint sheen of sweat on her brow. "What's wrong?"
Devola hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line before she finally spoke. "The owner of the brothel introduced himself to me today."
Popola blinked, the statement catching her off guard. "I thought Chataya was the owner."
"So did I." Sister's voice was clipped, flat in a way that rang alarm bells in Popolas head.
"What did he do?" Popola pressed gently, though there was an edge to her words, a protective fire building in her chest.
Devola shook her head, finally meeting Popola's gaze. "He didn't do anything. Just… he said that soon enough, Leerah could be a more 'active' participant."
Popola froze, a lump forming in her throat so suddenly she almost choked on it. Her hand gripping the rough wood of her desk nervously. "What can we do?" her voice quieter than she intended.
Devola looked away, her jaw tightening. "I'll figure something out," she said after a pause, though her tone betrayed the uncertainty. Her eyes flicked to the table where Harwin lay resting. "What about him?"
Popola exhaled slowly, trying to steady herself. "That's Henrik's brother, Harwin. He was trampled by horses in a rush to reach the royal retinue."
Devola winced, her shoulders sagging slightly. "On my way back from the Street of Silk, I saw some bodies trampled like that. They looked…" She trailed off, shaking her head. "Terrible. Red, black, purple. Broken in ways I wouldn't wish on anyone even legion."
Popola swallowed har, having been so focused on helping Henrik and Harwin in the moment she hadn't stopped to consider how others might have suffered the same fate today. Her mind drifted, unbidden, to the sounds she'd ignored earlier, and she felt a sharp pang of shame. How many could have been saved? she wondered.
Finally Popola weakly broke the silence. "Would you still want to do the broader scan? I'd understand if you'd rather wait. I'm not sure I'm ready for it myself."
Popola looked at her sister, noting the tension in her posture, the weariness in her eyes. For a moment, she considered suggesting flat out they put it off.
"Oh, sister," Devola said, her voice cutting. "Part of me does want to wait, but there's no sense in it. If not today, then when? The longer we delay, the worse things could get. Let's do this."
Popola gave a small nod. "Alright. Let's get it done."
After ensuring Harwin was well asleep, and in safe conditions. The workshop was quiet except for the faint hum of the copper apparatus as Popola and Devola connected their systems to it. The dim red glow bathed the room in eerie light, and Popola's hands moved deftly across the controls, keeping the utmost focus. Devola stood beside her, monitoring the interface on her own end, her lips pressed into a thin line of anticipation.
"This should extend the scanning radius," Popola murmured, double-checking the connections for the third time. "I calculated it to reach around 1,100 miles, which should give us a clearer picture of any traces of the particle."
Devola nodded. "It's better than working blind. Let's hope we find something useful."
Popola initiated the system synchronization, the copper apparatus emitting a soft chime as their processors linked. See brought out her internal interface only see could see to project above the device for ease of mind if anything got disconnected. As the synchronization was finalized, a new message blinked on the screen: "Threshold Extended to 1,500 miles."
Popola frowned, her eyes narrowing. "That's… unexpected," she muttered. "It's exceeding my projections by a significant margin."
Devola leaned closer, her brow furrowing. "Good or bad?"
"Potentially both," Popola replied. "We'll know soon enough."
The apparatus began its scan, a soft hum building as waves of light pulsed outward from the device. On the interface only, a primitive map began to materialize, the contours of the land etched in faint lines of light. Tiny pockets of particles began to appear, scattered across the map like faint embers in the dark.
Popola leaned in, her breath catching. "There," she said, pointing to several glowing markers. "Small traces of the particle… scattered across the land. Not just one isolated source."
Devola's eyes widened. "That's… more than I expected. But why so many?"
Before either could speculate further, a sharp chime interrupted their thoughts. The holographic interface flashed red, and a message scrolled across the screen in stark, urgent lettering:
"LARGE COLLECTION OF MASO-RELATED PARTICLES DETECTED. MASO PARTICLE DETECTED. INFORM 'CLASS A' ANDROIDS IMMEDIATELY."
Popola's hands froze, fear overcoming her as she darted over the message. Devola glanced at her sister, concern etching deep lines into her features. "Popola? What's wrong?"
Popola raised a hand, silently asking for a moment as she stared at the interface. Her voice, when she spoke, was measured but tense. "Give me the data packet."
The system didn't comply immediately, repeating the warning instead: "INFORM CLASS A ANDROIDS IMMEDIATELY"
Popola's jaw tightened. "There are no Class A androids here," she said sharply. "Devola and I are the only androids present."
The interface paused, as if considering her words, before glitching briefly. The message updated:
"GIVEN LACK OF CLASS A ANDROIDS, CLASSIFICATION IS TEMPORARILY SUSPENDED FOR THIS POPOLA MODEL. WOULD YOU LIKE AN INFORMATION DOCK ON LOCATION OF PARTICLES?"
Popola exhaled slowly, steadying herself. Her voice, though calm, carried an undercurrent of unease. "Yes. Provide the location data."
The map shifted, zooming out to reveal a broader view of the world. Several points lit up, each glowing marker accompanied by a string of data. The soft hum of the apparatus was the only sound in the room as both sisters stared at the display.
Popola leaned closer, reading aloud in a voice that grew quieter with each revelation. "Approximately 1,050 miles to the southwest… I believe that's near Oldtown. A large collection of dormant, unmoving maso particles. It's… interspersed with an unknown particle. Not the one we've encountered before—something else unidentifiable."
Devola's breathing hitched, her eyes glued to the interface. "Oldtown? That close?"
Popola didn't answer, moving to the next marker. "923 miles to the northwest, on what appears to be an island about 123 miles off the coast of the continent unsure on that one's name… a smaller collection of pure maso, also unmoving."
"Another collection. Just... sitting there?"
The third marker glowed brighter than the others, its light casting faint red hues across their faces. Popola hesitated before speaking. "1,492 miles to the southeast, across the summer sea near a much larger landmass possibly Sothoryos… an even larger concentration of dormant maso. No unknown particles present, just… pure maso."
Devola's hands closing in tightly. "No, No..," she whispered, her voice breaking. "This much maso? It shouldn't even exist anymore, let alone in these quantities."
Popola hesitated at the final marker, her breath catching. The system highlighted it in ominous red, pulsing in a slow, steady rhythm. Her voice faltered as she spoke. "And here… 1,100 miles to the southeast. A moving source of maso. It's smaller than the others, but… it's the only one actively moving." She paused, her lips pressing into a thin line. "It appears to be in the middle of the Summer Sea, between Essos and Sothoryos."
The interface chimed again, drawing her attention back to the display. Another notification appeared, its text accompanied by a faint, almost imperceptible glitch in the system:
"ANOTHER SOURCE OF MASO DETECTED. THIS MASO SIGNATURE MATCHES THE EXACT ENERGY SIGNATURE OF YOUR PAIRED DEVOLA MODEL."
Popola froze, her brow furrowing deeply. Her fingers hovered over the controls. "Wait. Repeat that please" she murmured, her sense of dread only increasing. She glanced at Devola, who was already looking at her with wide, fearful eyes.
The interface repeated: "LIVING MASO SIGNATURE DETECTED. ENERGY SIGNATURE MATCHES CURRENT DEVOLA MODEL."
Popola's voice cracked with alarm. "What does that mean? Is there another model?" Her hands clenched at her sides, her tone rising with each word. "Is there another Devola out there?"
Popola's voice remained steady despite the growing knot in her chest. "System," she said firmly, "clarify. Is there another Devola model active in this region? Use vocals to inform both my sister and I at once."
The system responded after a brief pause:
"NEGATIVE. ALL DEVOLA MODELS HAVE SLIGHTLY DIFFERENT ENERGY SIGNATURES. EACH MASO SIGNATURE IS EMBEDDED WITH A UNIQUE MODEL NUMBER FOR IDENTIFICATION PURPOSES BY SCANNING SYSTEMS."
"Matches mine? But that's…" Devola trailed off, her voice tightening. "Not possible. How?"
Popola's throat tightened as she processed the words. "So... if this signature matches Devola exactly, what does that mean?" she asked, her tone careful, as though speaking too loudly might break something fragile.
The interface hesitated, or perhaps the system itself was recalibrating. Finally, it responded:
"UNCERTAIN. SHOULD BE STATISTICAL IMPOSSIBILITY. ALL MASO ENERGY SIGNATURES ARE UNIQUE. THE SIGNATURE GIVES NO INDICATION OF TECHNICAL OR ANDROID NATURE. IT IS CONSISTENT WITH ORGANIC BEING MASO SIGNATURES."
Devola took a step back, her eyes darting between Popola and the glowing display. "Organic?" she repeated, her voice barely above a whisper. "How could something organic have my exact energy signature?"
Popola's fingers tightened around the edge of the apparatus, her gaze fixed on the data. "Where was it detected?"
The map shifted again, highlighting another location with a faint trace. The system continued:
"THE TRACE WAS DETECTED APPROXIMATELY 1,462 MILES TO THE DIRECT EAST. CURRENT DIRECTION CONTINUES EASTWARD BUT FELL OFF SCANNING RANGE. STATUS AND LOCATION UNKNOWN."
"How long ago were they at the location?"
"UNABLE TO DISCERN AT THIS DISTANCE, LIVING MASO BEARS SAME TRACE AS THE RESIDUAL SIGNATURES LEFT ON DAY OF DIMENSIONAL ENTRY INTO FLEA BOTTOM DISTRICT BY OBSERVER MODEL 022: 'DEVOLA'. GIVEN THIS POTENTIALLY THE SAME LENGTH OF TIME HAS PASSED"
Devola's head snapped toward her sister, her face pale. "Living? That's not possible… It can't be possible!" Her voice trembled. "Living maso with my signature? After everything we've seen, after all this time—What does this even mean?"
Popola remained frozen, her eyes locked on the pulsing red marker. Her mind reeled, memories of Earth's destruction, of the horrors maso had unleashed, rushing to the forefront. Her voice, when it came, was barely above a whisper. "I don't know," she admitted. "But if it's true… it changes everything."
Devola let out a frustrated cry, pushing away from the wall. She began pacing the room, her movements erratic, her hands clutching at her head. "This can't be happening. It's like we're back in 2053—nothing mattered. It's all happening again, Popola. What if—"
"Devola!" Popola's voice cut reached out, gripping Devola's wrist firmly but gently. "I don't have the answers right now. But panicking won't help us. We need to think."
Devola's breathing tears brimming in her, but she nodded reluctantly. "Fine," she muttered, seemingly defeated. "Fine. But don't you dare tell me you're not scared too."
Popola's expression softened, her grip on her sister's wrist loosening. "I am," she admitted quietly.
A.N.
Been a while since the last update, and I want to thank you all for your patience. Originally, I planned to split this part of the story into separate POV chapters for Popola and Devola, but after much thought, I decided to combine them into one. The elements in this chapter have been in the works for quite some time, but I've been battling some serious writer's block, and honestly, I'm not entirely satisfied with how this chapter turned out.
Writing the in-between period after Jon Arryn's death and before the Quiet Wolf's arrival has been especially challenging. While it's still fairly early in that timeframe after Arryns death, I think I'm going to skip over the rest of it for now. I want to move the story forward and focus on the main narrative arc.
So next up, I'm planning a Gendry POV chapter which still will be in the inbetween time, and after that… we'll be introducing a brand-new POV character! (I've already written their first chapter, and I think many of you can guess who it is.)
This prologue arc (Arc 0) has taken me nearly two years to complete, and while it's been an incredible journey, I'm anxious to dive into the heart of the story. Hope people enjoy what's to come as it's been something I'm quite excited to write and later on reread.