Day after day, the Paracausality Researcher hid away in the wilderness outside the town of Amalfitano studying the data she had collected.
One evening at dusk, a voice called out from outside her cave. She put down the equipment and her tapes and stepped outside. A man stood curiously at her door.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, raising both eyebrows. "Nothing ever happens in Amalfitano these days."
The local introduced himself as the Bank Clerk. He had probably the most amiable face around—bright eyes, lifted cheeks, a soft jawline. It was a face beaming with hope.
The Researcher showed him the spectrums she'd been compiling. "I've been collecting stories about the Die," she explained. "Perhaps they hold the key to explaining the randomness that fate displays."
"Ah, that does intrigue me so!" the Bank Clerk replied briskly, "I'd love to hear all about it. But I have to go. I mustn't be late to the Dune Piscator's funeral." And with that, he left.
Three days later, the same footsteps returned to her cave.
"You're back! How have you been? Did you make it to the funeral?" She asked.
"I have no idea what you're talking about," he replied tersely. "I'm not the man you think I am." His face was drained and gaunt, his eyes sunken deep into hollow sockets. It was as if every spark of life had been drawn out of him, leaving only an empty husk.
The Researcher insisted she wasn't mistaken. "I know people by their deeper nature, down to the synchronicity of their spectrums. I've never been wrong before."
"Whatever you say." The man muttered roughly. "I don't understand anything of your high-minded ideas. Just let me go. It's been a long day out there fishing, and all I want now is to collapse on my rickety bed." He trudged off with footsteps that sounded exactly like those of the Bank Clerk's.
Jailer: As you might have noticed, Ms. Vertin, this facility isn't just a prison. It's also a research center.
Jailer: Its full name is "the Panopticon of Comala." It was established by the Foucault Association in 1975.
Jailer: We've hosted workshops, academic sessions, and even lectures about the Panopticon. You may even have seen some reports about it.
Jailer: Experts of psychoanalysis and scholars from various fields have come here to exchange ideas and seek collaboration in their studies.
Jailer: In many ways, the Panopticon is unlike any other prison you've seen before.
Vertin: I see. No wonder Ms. Recoleta has gone to such lengths to become a part of it.
Vertin: Actually, my assistant and I are here to inquire about a prisoner named Dores. Does that name sound familiar?
Jailer: Not that I recall. Could she have used a different name? What does she look like?
Vertin: Hmm. She'd have arrived here about three days ago. It's also possible that she came as a visitor, not a prisoner.
Vertin: She's a blind woman who always carries an old typewriter.
Vertin: She used to be a doctor at the São Paulo Veterans' Residence in Brazil.
Vertin: And on the subject of different names, she once wrote for UTTU under the name "Urd."
Jailer: I don't think I've seen anyone fitting that description. And as I said, we haven't had any visitors in some time. Certainly not in the last three days.
Recoleta: But I did see her! I saw her walking towards Comala Prison!
Jailer: Someone must have mixed up their memories. Simply put, I don't recall seeing anyone by that name or with that description here.
Vertin: I see. Thank you, Miss. Perhaps we made a mistake.
Sensing that her current line of questioning is going nowhere, she shifts toward a different topic.
Vertin: Ms. Recoleta, you've gone to great lengths to get into the Panopticon. Would you mind telling us why?
Recoleta: Finally! I've been waiting for you to ask!
Recoleta: I'm here to find my pen pal in Comala!
Vertin: You have a pen pal ... in here?
Recoleta: Yes. Six months ago, I went to a book exhibition in Guadalajara and came across the contact details of a few writers. I sent them my novel and asked for feedback.
Recoleta: Looking back, it was a bit forward. But nothing unheard of between writers. A lot of friendships start through letters, you see.
Recoleta: And Aleph wrote back.
Recoleta produces a thick stack of letters from her coat.
The recipient's address changes with each letter, reflecting the turbulent lifestyle of the wandering writer, yet the sender's address is eternally constant—Comala.
Vertin: And how much do you know about this pen pal of yours?
Recoleta: Oh, well. He calls himself "Aleph," which is a grammatically masculine word, so—
Vertin: So you assume Aleph is a man.
A reasonable suspicion, but in her experience, never a certainty.
Recoleta: Yes. He's probably a poet, a writer, perhaps even an alchemist. He's one of the brightest people I know. There's never been a question that he couldn't answer!
Recoleta: I've asked him about religion, politics, history, potions, even critters in length and breadth. Can you imagine someone who knows all those things and so extensively too?
Recoleta: And he helped me with my novel. He always seems to know the best ways to bring my characters to life.
Recoleta: Honestly, he's so insightful. I've begun wondering if he's omniscient.
Recoleta: With his help, my story grew richer and fuller, like a well-tended plant. Strangely, I can't seem to take it any further now. It's as if the roots have been sapped of their strength.
Recoleta: I couldn't understand why. So, I resolved that I would see him in person to find out.
Jailer: Again with this story about your uncanny pen pal. I've already told you a dozen times.
Jailer: It's all very moving, but it still doesn't justify your actions.
Jailer: Writers experience mental blocks all the time. Yet you don't see them trying to break into a prison over it.
Vertin: She does have a point.
Recoleta: Please, Vertin, Jailer! Have a little mercy, will you?
Vertin: Hold on. I've been meaning to ask—why are you only calling her "Jailer"?
Vertin: Don't you know her name? Or do you just prefer addressing people by their occupation?
Recoleta: Oh, about that—
Unexpectedly, it is the jaguar herself that speaks up.
Jailer: It's okay, Ms. Vertin. I don't mind being called by my job title. I take pride in what I do.
Jailer: I'm perfectly fine with just being "the jailer."
Recoleta: Exactly! A researcher is a researcher, and a jailer is a jailer.
Vertin: ...?
Recoleta: Titles and code names often tell us more about people than their ordinary given names, don't you think? Take Sonetto, for example.
Recoleta: Your name comes from sonnets, doesn't it? That great poetic form from Italy.
Recoleta: Some people mistakenly think Shakespeare invented it; some say it was Petrarca ... Though no one really knows when the first sonnet was written.
Recoleta: Sorry, I'm straying from my point. You're Italian, aren't you, Sonetto? Is that your real name, or just a code name? Were your parents poets?
Sonetto: Umm. As much as I'd like to be able to answer your question, I never knew my parents.
Sonetto: My earliest memories were of the School of Primary Defense of Mankind. I've lived there since I was a small child.
Recoleta: Ah. My apologies. That was thoughtless of me.
Sonetto: It's fine. You meant no ill intent, I'm sure.
Sonetto: Timekeeper, if Ms. Recoleta was right about Dr. Dores's whereabouts, perhaps the jailer is keeping things from us, or perhaps Dr. Dores visited the Panopticon without her knowledge. Either way, we need to do some digging here.
Vertin: I agree. Let's see if we can talk to some of the inmates and find out what they know.
As they chat, the corridors—until now endless—reach a terminal point, with voices echoing ahead.
Jailer: Ladies, we're about to enter the main hall of the Panopticon.
Jailer: This is one of the places where the inmates spend their recreation time. At this hour, they're supposed to be in their cells. But what's all that noise?
The jailer seems to be tense with the apparently unusual amount of noise.
Jailer: Ms. Vertin, could you keep an eye on Recoleta if anything happens?
Recoleta tries her best to avoid the hard stare of the feline jailer by blending into the Foundation team.
Vertin: Certainly.
Recoleta: What do you take me for? I'm not going to run away!
Recoleta: That'd be a pretty cheesy way to start a story!
Jailer: ...
Jailer: Please just stay close to me.
