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The Black Author.
500 years since the collapse....
A forgotten structure, in some long forgotten city. The world around surrendering to dust. This was safety. This was some semblance of peace. Through the seems of her skin streams of black script drifted lazily through the air, curling for a moment as if it was going to form before evaporating into nothing. A thin black line of ink slid slowly down a pale cheek, it traced along the line of her face before dropping; but unlike any others this turned into a letter. Her eyes caught the letter, a meaningless character from a long dead alphabet with none but herself to remember it. As it fell to the floor it burned for a moment before fading away causing her to look away grimacing; she hated to watch herself make things as it implied intention and she could not trust even herself.
Reaching deep inside herself she touched the edges of the Deep Script, endless and crowded with so many unfinished sentences...Names and memories pressed against her fragile psyche causing her to pull back quickly as her curiosity was a dangerous thing. Against the wall a half cracked mirror showed her reflection, pale skin with dark hair. Fingers blackened and liked inked pages playing at eyes. Her head tilted for a moment, her reflection hesitating for a moment before following her lead forcing her to look away. As she stood the air around her rippled, not a true distortion but a small suggestion of one. Her arms wrapped around her body, she did not hug herself for comfort but contained herself “I will not...I will not rewrite...”
She no longer wanted to be an archive...a weapon...the last remnant of an extinct cosmic life...she wanted to simply be a girl for once....she didn’t want to become infinity...
 To exist quietly, to be allowed to take up space without consequence; thats all she wants. Existing quietly inside the world around her watching the river as it was broken constantly by the rain at that fell slowly around her. It seemed to hesitate, to reconsider gravity halfway down before committing to splashes on the inky depths which were only broken by shards of neon from the city behind her. Behind her the city slept, it was the exhaustion that only someplace dying got; not her. Streetlights flickered with no audience to preform for, empty windows and darkened signs. Virelya preferred this place, reality paid less attention when there was no one watching. Pressure built in her fingers, it wasn’t pain but something wanted out. Clenching her fists dulled the sensations but as she relaxed the digits smears of black were left on pale skin...
“No...not now”
The ink obeyed, going still beneath her skin allowing her to release the tension that had been building. It worried her when it refused to obey, when she had to reach into the Deep Script. Tilting her face to the sky she allowed the rain to mix with the tears she didn’t know had been there, they were clear and that put her at ease.
“I can do this...I can just exist...”
Her words were shaky at best but still when she spoke them nothing happened. No edits, no annotations, no margins. The universe didn’t respond. Virelya Noctis just stood there, small and alone- somehow managing to hold herself together, one breath at a time. Her very existence daring reality to remain as it was.
Containment-The first days
Alone works at first, choosing places noone expects, empty train stations, cities where history has forgotten its existence. The empty peaceful salt flats. She is careful to limit her thoughts, her feelings. Writing in her notebook, counting her breaths; eating because this body remembers what its like to be hungry even when her soul has long forgotten why it matters. The Deep Script hums and sings behind its glass, the ink only leaking when she is careless. She is content, she tells herself this is sustainable. And for a lenth of time it is...
Two weeks-The Echos
It starts slow and almost unnoticed. The silence around her begins to gain texture. Footsteps echoing long after the body is gone. When she actually speaks aloud it sounds rehearsed, not authentic. She starts answering herself, not a conversation; a correction. ”No, this isn’t real. Stop that.” At times she catches herself, somehow halfway through a sentance she had no memory of starting. The ink begins to react...curiously; not violently. Almost if the Script is listening more closely now that there is noone else around...
The Narrative Drift-Week Three
Rearrangements begin, not gaps. No emotional weight in faces, no context for a loss. Names without faces, Her notebook fills much faster now. Rules. Lists. The rules feel necessary. Don’t stay awake more than sixteen hours. No visiting of old locations. No thinking about what came before. No thinking about the Lattice. The ink in her veins surfaces more now, fault lines mapping her arms and legs. She keeps herself covered. She doesn’t look into mirrors.
Absolute Fatigue-One Month
Her name is no longer used as it implies continuity. Instead she become “this” This must eat. This must rest. It dawns on her she hasn’t touched a living being in weeks and it lands louder and harder than expected. It causes her chest to ache- not with emotion. But something structurally, like she is being compressed to tightly. Inside the Deep Script is getting louder, not screaming; but whispering. Offering solutions. Efficiency instead of destruction. Why is she playing at a singular being when she is many?
Fracturing-Five Weeks
Around her the world begins to subtly respond to her moods. Weather shifting with her insomnia, shadows stretching with the feeling of being watched. While she rests objects drift closer. With shaking hands she catches herself in an edit, the smoothing of a cracked wall. ”I am still here...” She is shaking for hours afterwards, the world around her feeling unconvincing. A Dangerous Calm-Six Weeks
The worst stage of them all...she feels fine. No panic or sharp emotions plague her. The pressure easing and the ink remains quiet. This feeling is familiar. You would think being emotionally numb would stabilize her....it doesn’t. It dissolves her. Without her emotions the Deep Script stops seeing her as a person, instead she becomes infrastructure. Her dreams become those of endless pages, words forming on them without her input. Waking she misses hours...days.
Assimilation Risk-A Breaking Point
One morning Virelya wonders why she is trying. There is no dramatic apocalypse or meltdown. The rules begin to feel arbitrary, her once precious notebook becomes performative. The world around her begins to lean in, the ink aligning instead of leaking. This is the most dangerous of times as she is not emotional. Just empty. If left undisturbed she won’t destroy the world, but become part of it. Another background process. The silent author no longer feeling, no longer choosing. Simply humming beneath reality. This would be how the last Inkweaver ends. Not with some grand act of violence or emotion, but with quiet acceptance.
Back from the edge
Its always something small, never grand, never cosmic. Simply a voice, a presence. Someone noticing her absence, someone saying her name. A small reminder that she is a one, as a person. Not a system. Not a function.
The Absolute Truth
There is a timeline of solitude that she can endure, a month before the edges begin to fray. Six weeks before she becomes a true liability to not only herself but to the reality around her. The only thing keeping her from becoming infinite is solitude, but it does not protect the universe from her influence.
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