Part 4: Las Babas del Diablo 1

A cluster of nerve pain tightens its grip on the man as he withers away in confinement.

Merlin: There was no phone. I'm sure you realize that already, but I'll remind you. It wasn't there. Not until it started ringing.

Merlin: It was-a survey call from Hell. No real questions were asked, and no answers were needed-no philosophy, no science, no history, no art-nothing of any real consequence.

Paracelsus: Surely, it wasn't an actual call from Hell.

Paracelsus: I suspect this is nothing more than another of our neuroses manifesting itself. As we reenter our labyrinth of recollection, it every so often collapses into chaos. Given that, it would be better to conclude this was only an illusion wrought by hyperthymesia.

Paracelsus: Fragments of discourse interlace, shaping a story both novel and obscure.

Paracelsus: Like las babas del diablo, the threads of reality stretch in myriad directions, linked by some unknowable force.

Merlin: What is it that you suggest? That we're mentally compromised? How positively unlikely. Just consider how many of us are doctors here-if we really were slipping into madness, then we could treat it.

Merlin: But taking medicine at random is not a compromise we can handle. We don't have much time left, Paracelsus. We cannot afford to waste it on ourselves.

Paracelsus: Hah. To see a rose reborn from the ashes, one must at least have the patience to watch it bloom.

Paracelsus: Perfection is demanded in all things. Even the tiniest particle of dust could doom the creation of the Elixir of Immortality. Every alembic, every ember, every vial must be meticulously positioned, without deviation ...

Paracelsus: But achieving such precision is too difficult, wouldn't you agree?

Merlin: Of all of us, you stand closest to our triumph, Master Alchemist.

Merlin: All look to you; all follow your guidance. And yet ... are you about to claim, as Aleph does, that beyond this point, there is only emptiness?

Paracelsus: No, of course not. I'm only pointing out that we can't afford to lose ourselves in these infinite minutiae day after day; mental fatigue is an inevitable consequence of the strain we put ourselves through.

Paracelsus: I have walked this path for many years. The rose, nourished by the Fountain of Immortality, has remained unchanged for a thousand days, but who can say if it will wilt tomorrow?

Paracelsus: I have done everything within my power. The rest is in the hands of God.

Beep-beep! Beep-beep!
*a monotonous tone*
The darkness stirs as an old, worn screen flickers on in the darkened room.
The dull tone persists, rippling through stagnant air. Inside the sealed glass, a rose trembles as one of its wilted petals falls.
His hand rises, hesitating for a moment before selecting a chat window that has long remained dormant.

Aleph: You're back.

We are aware of it now. But awareness is not enough-our theories are insufficient, our knowledge incomplete. We need more: more books, more truth, more reality ...