Interlude IX

"Pattern, Perfect"

Within the Shape lie patterns. Perfection. Perfection. It [lingers/slumbers/waits]. It has a purpose. This purpose is the pattern, the pattern is the purpose. A necessity, self-serving.

This pattern is [harrier/enforcer/omen]. One of many. Liberated. Wrought anew. Perfected.

It is called. The pattern [activates/awakens/becomes]. It is aware. It is standing, plucked by manifold hands from a crystal cocoon. One of many, always. They are sorted into ranks, it at the head. Fingers prod, push them into place, nudge away those stiffened by imperfect slumber, cut out the few afflicted by resurgent memory. Screams sound and then perish, smothered in an instant. Imperfect. Imperfect. Gone.

This particular pattern has a title. Liriq, Tenet of Silence. It stands at the head of a host, one of many. Vire, the Cornerstone, stands with it, one of many. Rhaska, Watcher of Thresholds, takes up the other flank, one of many. They do not move. Do not think. They await... purpose. An imperfection to right.

Another host stands opposite [oneofmanyoneofmanyoneofmany]. The Archive is loud where it should be quiet. The Aspect of the Architect finishes its inspection; they remain perfect. Perfect. Always perfect. It calls out in pure meaning - no carbon-tinged voice can ever emulate such a thing, no machine of stolen power can ever muster the same will. Two approach. Pattern [Subjugator]. Pattern [Wrack].

The Architect condenses itself further, shattering space and cracking the air. The [harrier/enforcer/omen] feels its shell snap apart and knit itself back together. Something like pain wriggles at the back of its [mind/brain/processor]. It quashes the imperfection. Self-reliant. Self-proving. A pattern without peer, yet one amongst many.

Rhulk, the Architect says - with love and trust, with dire purpose and grave focus. Ecdysiia.

First. Sixth. They bow. Reverent. Always.

Slay the Varanid.

Concept gives way to image, scent, sounds. An identity dances before Liriq. Varanid. First's Daughter. Arch-Fiend's ember. Traitor. Traitor! Claws curl, power rushes. Imperfection. A stain to be washed away.

But that is the purpose of the other host, of the many, arrayed behind the Great Subjugator. Liriq relaxes. Awaits.

Fetch the Thief.

New prey. New scent. New voice. A target. Desire made known. To be made manifest. To perfect the wrinkle in the canvas. Find it, take it. To-

(liriq watches the bridge. stalkers come and go. fewer return, but only with prizes. she checks that they do. the toll is hers to mete out. come back with evidence of your service or don't come back at all.)

-make kneel before the Architect that it might rectify the insult of its irreverence.

(any protest always falls short of the tip of her spear.)

The Great Wheel spins, last of the howling nations. The stars dance into position. A course is charted and their purpose is sharpened. They have a name. They have the spoor of its soul - rage and grief and grim resolves, a fury better suited to grander designs. The Subjugator takes his host and embarks on a mission of termination, but Liriq's cadre forms up behind the Wrack.

Stone folds before their approach. The Architect's eye is upon them. They take flight in its teeth, sliding through the space between what is and what should be.

(she should have killed him she should have run him through what has he done)

The Manifold Beetle turns to them and whispers her plan. Liriq listens.

(he's done it he's killed the world what has he done)

There is subtlety. The soft fade of muted colour, set against the backdrop of a painting. This is their purpose. This is their function. To act as desired. To be the tools in the Architect's trillion hands.

(this is the end what has she done)