An otherwise tidy room is covered in fine scratches and small unidentifiable stains. The smell of disinfectant lingers in the air, mixed with mildew.
Jailer: Wait here a moment.
Jailer: I'll report the situation and your request to Dr. Merlin.
Jailer: However, since he's always busy, I can't guarantee he'll agree to meet you, but I'll do my best to persuade him.
The jaguar's figure slinks out through the inner door.
Vertin: Now's our chance, Sonetto.
Sonetto: Our chance? What do you mean, Timekeeper?
Vertin: It's unlikely that the jailer will let us search the central tower, even in this situation. We should take the initiative and look for clues while she's away.
Sonetto: I-I see, Timekeeper. I will do my best.
Sonetto swiftly conducts a thoroughly unauthorized search.
Vertin: Thank you for your assistance, Ms. Recoleta. Without your precise predictions, we wouldn't be standing here now.
Vertin: I haven't yet grasped the connection between the Die, your novel, and what's happening in this place, but ...
Vertin: By process of elimination, it's almost certain that your pen pal, Aleph, is right behind this door.
Recoleta: Sometimes I envy your decisiveness, Vertin. I'm sure many people have praised the special talent of yours.
Vertin: Are you alright? You don't seem as excited as when we first entered Comala.
Recoleta holds her gaze on the tightly shut door, uncertain whether she hopes it will open now or ever again.
Recoleta: The all-seeing sentinel of the Panopticon, veiled within the central tower ... If it truly is Aleph, I—
Recoleta: I don't know how to face such a terrifying and increasingly plausible reality.
Sonetto: Sorry to interrupt, but, Timekeeper, I think you'll want to see these.
Vertin: Signed "Urd." This is a letter from Dr. Dores.
The delicate signature matches the one in the manuscript folder.
Recoleta: Her handwriting—It's as beautiful as I'd imagined. Who is it addressed to?
Recoleta: "Dear Mr. Aleph ..." Aleph?!
Vertin: Looks like Dores and Aleph are acquaintances. Or, at least, they've had some correspondence.
Vertin: "Dear Mr. Aleph, my apologies if this reaches you at an inconvenient time. I am Dores, pen name 'Urd,' an ordinary inmate of the Panopticon of Comala. I write seeking your guidance, if you wouldn't mind offering it to me."
Dores: "I heard from the Physician, Dr. Merlin, that ..."
Dores: You have the answer to every question—a statement which has been echoed by the Idealist and the other inmates.
Dores: I have something I wish to ask you. What exactly is your role at the prison? Chief warden? A secret backer? An observer who dominates the prison? Are you truly the supreme ruler of the Panopticon of Comala?
They tear open the next letter, eager to read on.
Aleph: Dear Urd,
Aleph: I do indeed have answers for every question, including yours. I'm afraid every one of your speculations is off the mark. I am merely an inmate who chose to imprison himself here.
Aleph: And allow me to point out that your identity isn't as ordinary as you claim. Why is it that you, my fellow inmate and guest of Manus Vindictae, are so interested in Comala?
Vertin: Dr. Dores, a guest of Manus Vindictae?
A muffled shattering of glass interrupts their reading.
Sonetto: It came from inside the room. Do you think they're okay?
Recoleta: The jailer and the Physician! What happened?
The door defies any attempt at an answer, sealing all the events from view.
Vertin: I'm not sure, but it could be bad. Come on. Let's go in and see if they're alright.
The unlocked door leads to another room, more decrepit and oppressive than the last.
A cold operating table lies in the center, surrounded by scattered bottles and medical instruments.
Vertin: It seems we've stumbled upon the Physician's—
Recoleta: The Physician's office. I should've known. But, is this an operating room?
Recoleta: As if this prison wasn't bizarre enough already.
Inside the narrow operating room, the jaguar reacts badly to their intrusion.
Jailer: Didn't I tell you to wait outside? What do you think you're doing, barging in like this?
Recoleta: We were just worried about your safety, Jailer.
Jailer: Enough. Get out of—
???: Quiet!
The Physician: The reptilian complex governs all our fundamental functions.
The Physician: Our heartbeat, breathing, fight-or-flight responses, and our territory and hierarchy awareness—our primitive ancestors, like reptiles and birds, followed such instincts to survive.
The Physician: Through millions of years of evolution, we developed the limbic system.
The Physician: This processes emotions and forms memories. It allows us to feel—fear, sadness, anger, joy—our behaviors are given "meaning."
The Physician: Now, it's the neocortex that makes up more than two-thirds of our total brain volume.
The Physician: Language, perception, logical reasoning, abstract thought—this is what forms the complexity of human nature. We read, create, perceive. We try to understand both the world and ourselves. We are forever setting goals, one after another.
The Physician: And all this—these multitudes—happens within the confines of the skull, in the tight folds of the crowded cerebral cortex.
Vertin: Is he performing surgery?
The Physician: Such a delicate and elaborate organ.
The Physician: Were it unable to forget, what would come of it?
The Physician: Can this space, no larger than the palm of my hand, truly accommodate dozens of people at once?
At last, the Physician sets down his operating scissors and needle, signaling the end of the surgery. Yet at the same time, the old machine issues an alarm, signaling that his patient's vital signs are wavering.
Recoleta: What's happened to the patient? It looks like he's dying.
Her anxiety rises as the question goes unanswered. On the screen, the last waveforms disappear, leaving only a constant flat tone.
Recoleta: Did the surgery fail?
The Physician: Nonsense! The surgery was a tremendous success.
The Physician: I have erased his debilitating hysteria and restored order to the Panopticon.
The Physician: What are you trying to achieve by barging in here?
The man behind the operating table stares at the uninvited guests expectantly but does not give them a chance to respond.
The Physician: Forget it. The next operation requires my attention.
The Physician: Jailer, show them out. Bring me the next patient in 15 minutes.
Jailer: I'm sorry, Ms. Vertin. I'm afraid you have to leave now.
Recoleta steps forward, blocking their path. There is a hint of pleading in her voice.
Recoleta: Please, just let us speak with you! It'll only take a moment! I have something very important I need to ask.
Her question is not given time to take shape.
The Physician: Important? Nothing is of greater importance than my experiments in the Panopticon, outsiders.
The Physician: To ensure they continue, the stability of time and schedule is absolutely paramount.
Recoleta: Experiments in the Panopticon? So you really are the controller of the prison, then?
The Physician: Controller? What an outdated notion—superficial, really.
The Physician: The Panopticon has no need for such a power. Regardless of who occupies the central tower—or even if no one's there at all—every inmate is both the observer and the observed, both wielders and subjects of power.
The Physician: Achieving such a state requires no physical or violent measures; the structure of the Panopticon itself is the mechanism which sustains it. Comala is simply a manifestation of this model.
The Physician: Once I confirm its feasibility and adaptability, this model can be applied to any functional setting with only minor modifications.
The Physician: So far, it has proven to be far superior to any current system of governance in our world—transcendental, even.
The Physician: Curse it! Why am I wasting time explaining this to you? Time is running out.
The investigator keenly senses the key within his words.
Vertin: Dr. Merlin, you keep mentioning "time." What exactly do you mean by that?
The Physician: Really? You need to ask? Even those oily-headed lunatics know it.
The Physician: The end of this era is imminent, is it not?
Indeed—the word that was so close to being spoken.
Vertin: You know about the "Storm."
The Physician: That's what you call it, is it? A "Storm" that washes everything away?
The Physician: You employees of the St. Pavlov Foundation should know better than I. Soon, this era and everything in it will cease to exist.
The Physician: I must prove the feasibility of the Panopticon model before this place is turned to ruins, or something even more unrecognizable.
Recoleta: A "Storm" that washes everything away? Vertin, what on earth are you two talking about?
The conversation extends beyond even the most imaginative creations of the aspiring writer.
Vertin: ...
The Physician: No one can predict the era to which we'll be reversed.
The Physician: I've seen the eras change time and time again—the transformation of this place over and over.
The Physician: But no matter which era each of these nine "Storms," as you call them, has taken us back to, caudillismo continues to plague this land.
The Physician: Dependency theorists, martyred revolutionists ... I've seen them all. You, young writer, are no different from those intellectuals who were swept away in the rain.
The Physician: There is no romance in this era, only the repeated cycles of madness and brutality—an endless, meaningless struggle.
The Physician: Only in this forgotten corner can we momentarily escape the plundering of the marauders and the chaos they unleash.
The Physician: Although, it won't be long before this place is looted by those oily-headed lunatics.
The Physician: Just as it has countless times before on this land as rich as silver.
He mutters to himself.
The Physician: But there is still hope. Even in a wasteland, we may still be saved.
The Physician: As long as I uncover the path to transcendentality, I will find the ultimate answer.
The Physician: Ugh, I've already wasted far too much time on you! Leave. Now!
The Physician turns away, beginning preparations for the next surgery, organizing his worn-out instruments.
Jailer: You heard him. Please don't press things any further.
Recoleta: Alright, sir, I get it. Obviously, you don't want to discuss my novel with me anymore, so I won't insist upon it.
Recoleta: All the letters we wrote to one another, all those inspiring revisions and suggestions ... I guess they meant nothing to you.
Her voice wavers. Rejections, closed doors, harsh critiques—this proves more devastating than all of them together.
Recoleta: But there's still something I must tell you. Jailer, could you please allow us a private conversation with the Physi—no ...
Recoleta: With Aleph.
Hearing this, the Physician stops.
The Physician: Leave us, Jailer. I'll spare these outsiders five minutes.
Jailer: ...
The jaguar turns to leave, her face revealing an uncharacteristic sorrow as she lingers on the girls one last time. This time, she offers no words.
