[SESSION id=1.13]: Emphasis
For take the humble negation sign.
Even its form is ambiguous, ever-changing.
All to match a single perspective.
And in perceiving, we assign her value.
From one angle, negation.
From another, comparison.
All valid, from a certain perspective. — L.
Focus
The floor was cold when I awoke. I'd been staring at the book for so long that the words blurred together. My intent had been to climb into bed, which I must have failed at, since I was lying on the cold hardwood floor, only a faint blue glow reflecting off the thing sitting on my face.
Stupid eyes.
It was the very same book. I must have put it over my face in the same position Mother always put her own books on the table. That would keep out the light enough to rest, which I must have done, since I was waking up. Though admittedly it felt less like waking up and more like realising something. As though I'd been awake the whole time. Unfortunately, being awake stole that realisation from me the moment I processed that 'might have been' of the event.
Why had I thought sleeping with a book on my face was preferable to climbing the short distance to the bed? That seemed really a strange thing to me.
As I lay there, unwilling or unable to move – who could say which – some of the words in front of me started to resolve. Function. Parameter. Return value. Inline behaviour. Not enough for me to make any real sense of it, but enough that I could piece together the rudiments of meaning.
My hands were a bit too heavy to move the book. My head was a bit too stiff to roll over and let the thing slide. My shoulders seemed glued to the floor, so I lay there, resting. As I closed my eyes, the moment seemed different somehow. How does a moment ever seem different? The air? The shape? The place?
Lines from L's notes started to crush me. 'It is in the sequence the artist plans, and in the sequence the viewer follows'. Whatever the hells that meant. Rather, I knew it was to do with motion through a piece, even when the piece itself was static. But it was about disconnecting our expectation from the reality of our work.
Even so, the moment shifted around me.
Was I still under a book? My eyes fluttered open, answering that question in the negative. My head quaked with something resembling pain, though that was so fleeting I almost had to think it wasn't real. The bed was warm. Not as another body, but as my own, a little overheated from something.
All around me were drawings of flowers. No. Drawings was the wrong word. Diagrams. A familiar whirr met my ears. The fan of a workstation. Louder than it should be, but quieter than it had any right to be, given its age. Jazz had left the thing running, I supposed.
Sensations were wrong. For a moment I thought I might be in Other Lillian's body again, but that couldn't be true. Not with the view out the window. She'd never been in a room with a view like that.
Probably dreaming from my cosy spot on the cold floor then? But were that true, why wasn't I shivering? Usually in dreams my sensations were tied to what my body felt outside.
Nothing to do but sleep it off then, I supposed without much confidence, and closed my eyes.
My legs shivered as the held me up, exposed to the cold air of my childhood home. I was walking to make coffee. No. That was wrong. Tea. Mother and I drank tea like it was an addiction, and we needed a fix. Two lipstick stained cups waited for me on the counter as I set the kettle to boil.
Preparing the cups was simple enough. Gather the requisite strainers, add one scoop of tea – measured and tested to be perfect for one cup of tea – into the strainer, making sure not to lose a single tightly curled leaf. Set the strainers into the correct cups. Mine was shaped like a lotus pod. Mother's was shaped like a holiday thing I could never quite place.
While I continued waiting for the kettle, I took up Mother's book. Silly to read the thing when she already knew everything in it, but she loved it for some goddess-cursed reason. Flipping through the pages was a comfort. She'd be overjoyed if she heard me saying that, so I opted to keep the thought inside my head.
A loud click told me the kettle was ready, so I returned to the kitchen. When had I left the kitchen?
Steaming water poured over the tea leaves in one, two, three cups, and I took up one before carrying it to my spot on the couch. Normally, I would've ignored Mother's book, but it called to me, and I worked at it for several minutes as the tea cooled to drinkable. Once it was there, I began to sip.
Mother lied to me, I realised. The book wasn't about workstation management so much as workstation programming. All for the best. I needed to get good at that if I wanted to sort whatever was wrong with Jazz.
I set the book down when I finished the tea and returned to the kitchen. Another half scoop of tea into the strainer, more hot water, and I left the one cup for Mother when she awoke, taking my own back to the couch.
What prompted me to set down Mother's book, I couldn't say. I couldn't even say why I was awake when the clock clearly stated it was almost an hour after midnight. Though, I knew I couldn't trust clocks anymore. No one could, after what happened.
Ominous. No. That was the wrong construction. No one could trust clocks, except that no one knew they couldn't trust clocks, so they continued to do so. I, on the other hand, continued to be uncertain of anything. For example, if it were midnight, why would I have made two cups of tea, one for Mother and one for me? Simple. Because it wasn't midnight, ergo, it must be morning, hence tea.
That felt wrong. It was too dark for morning. Or was it too bright for midnight?
In any case, I set the book down and finished my tea. I carried the empty cup to the counter, emptied the strainer, and went to bed, leaving the counter clear to make breakfast in the morning.
Stress
Jazz's absence was stricter when the sun shone in my eyes the next morning, she'd been closing the curtains since we came home from the hospital, then reopening them for natural light. Clearly, I'd forgotten to close them when I was studying. Too much work to climb into bed, too little work to manage. Beside that, I didn't really deserve a peaceful wakening if I was meant to be studying.
Could I guess the password that would let me into the workstation? Sure. Did I already know it? Absolutely. But Jazz told me I should bypass it to get to my answers. And to do that, I had to learn. Nevermind that everything I learned felt like I'd learned it before. Like on some level I knew everything in that book. And in every other book on the subject. Like I could sit down and write a bypass job in minutes if I really wanted to.
So why didn't I?
I supposed it was for the best that I crawl out of bed. I didn't bother checking the time. Instead, I sat on the floor with the books I'd been reading and flipped to a random page.
"A null pointer, to be distinguished from a void pointer, is a variable that holds space for a memory address but has either not been initialised or been initialised to an illegal point in memory," the book read, drawing a laugh from me. "Using a null pointer results in unexpected behaviour, so best practises demand checking against pointer initialisation and typing prior to usage."
The words stared back at me as I wondered how strange it was that I understood them. It wasn't even a matter of having built the foundations. The meaning just sort of strung itself together just within my reach, and I took it. I knew what it meant.
Granted, I didn't know what that meant. The fact that in a matter of work-weeks I'd gone from a complete wet duck to a majestic goose. How could that make sense? No one learned any skill that quickly. And yet, I was comfortable in my knowledge.
Application! Could I apply the knowledge?
I moved over to the workstation and turned on the power. A minute passed before it was asking me for a username. On some strange instinct, I typed Flower_Princess into the prompt and hit the key to submit. The workstation logged in without further request, and about fifteen seconds later I was staring at a bizarre work environment that looked like it would've been dated when the first workstations were built.
My fingers moved automatically. Terminal windows, coding spaces, and much more. My hands seemed to have their own mind. After thirty minutes of furious typing, I hit the submit key again, and watched as the workstation whirred to life, fighting against whatever it was I'd been doing.
'Whatever it was' couldn't be more unfair. It was a tool that ran through the filesystem and identified files with an access date within the last work-week, since a few days before Jazz left. Had it been almost a work-week? Once a file was identified, it was checked for the twelve accounts. If it had any of the twelve accounts, it was put in one file. If it had my name, it was put in another. Everything else was junk.
Checking the access dates might give me a clue as to why Jazz freaked out the way she did. But checking the contents might explain much more, so I had to know.
Almost ten minutes passed before I realised it might take a while, so I made my way for the kitchen.
"That workstation came to life quite nicely," Mother said between sips of her still steaming tea. "With the noise it's making, I might think you were running The System in your bedroom without thinking of the consequences."
"What was that?" My mind was elsewhere, but I was certain I'd heard it. "It's just a little test. A knowledge check, if you will."
"I asked if you were running The System on your workstation. It was a joke." She lifted my cup and slid it into my hands. "I'll be leaving for my rounds in a couple of minutes."
"Be safe."
My first several sips of tea brought me into the moment. It was beautiful. Not my normal tea. Something with fruit and honey and a touch of spice. But under it all was a floral note. I was so distracted, I didn't notice myself returning to the bedroom. But I still needed breakfast.
As if I'd screamed it from the mountains, a plate of food was sitting in front of me. Eggs, bacon, toast, fruit. The flavours were utterly ordinary, but they were an explosion of richness next to the tea.
"What is this, Mother?" I asked, holding up the cup. "It's almost magical."
"Just your usual jasmine, Lil," she marvelled. "Nothing out of the norm." After a second of concerned staring, she added, "Are you okay? Do I need to call Lion?"
"Call your romantic person-friend if you must, Mother," I grinned, "but I don't need their assistance."
"Still upset about Jazz?"
"Yes," I admitted, "but the tea does genuinely taste lovely." I took another sip and was suddenly horrified. "Or. Completely normal? Maybe you should call Dr. Stella."
My feet carried me back to my bedroom without finishing any of what Mother had prepared. As the door closed behind me, the workstation fan slowed to a gentle hum, and I was carried away to a silent moment.
Jasmine. Rose. Phyllo. And you. And me. At the heart of it all. Why don't you remember, but I can't forget?
Her voice had been frantic, almost crazed. It was the night I met Jazz properly the first time, and that same Unknown Number called me. She begged me to remember something. What was I forgetting? How could I be forgetting if I didn't remember that I knew something to begin with?
A knock at the door. No hesitation. It opened.
"Your mother tells me you're having feelings, Lillian." Dr. Stella's voice was level They were entirely too calm. "Talk to me about it."
"Do you know about System Sickness?" No one but Jazz Star and Jazz Thorn had named it, but I still knew, so I had to ask.
They didn't give away the game. Their expression was level as they considered how to answer me. "It's unproven, from a medical perspective, but there's enough coincidence that I can say with confidence that it's not untrue."
"Non-answers get you nowhere with me, Doc." I stuck out my tongue, a petulant child's reaction. "How many cases have you seen?"
"Two, with near identical symptoms." They took a long deep breath. "Your mother, and my husband. They were, apparently, friends before he passed."
"And now you two seem rather cosy," I said, hoping to sound encouraging. "But you've encountered a third case without knowing it."
"My daughter?" He wasn't surprised. "I've long suspected it was coming. Did she tell you?"
"No. But I'm right."
"You know what this means?"
I didn't, but I still nodded. And then, suddenly I did. "Slow, creeping decay. First it's just little things that can be ignored or laughed off. Severe cases get maybe a year to sort their business. Mild cases may never notice."
"She isn't mad at you, for what it's worth," they sighed. "You're just much closer to things than she expected."
"Jazz told you what's up?"
"No, but I could infer it from her disappearing. She did the same when her father got sick." They shook their head and set a hand to the back of their neck. "Don't hold it against her."
They did a basic checkup and left, telling me to stay in the bed. I didn't argue. I let the workstation's hum lull me to sleep.
Concentration
I awoke to Mother's hand on my forehead. Her hand was freezing, or else my head was burning up. I must not have reacted much to it, because she didn't seem to notice that I was no longer sleeping. Did I not open my eyes? I could see her clearly so that didn't make any measure of sense.
My hand swung out. It didn't quite reach her.
"Child," she said in a much firmer voice than I expected. "You need to wake up. We have a surprise for you." Who was 'we'? "Put on some clothes and get yourself out here."
My body was wrong, but I did what I could to ignore that as I climbed out of the bed and dressed. Pants, shirt, no bra, for reasons. My hair was shorter than it ought to be, but I tried to ignore that as well. My life was already too confusing. No sense in getting caught up in little details.
The hallway was wrong. It turned an immediate left toward the living room, which was certainly different than it had been the night before.
"If you don't get out here in the next five cycle ticks, I'm sending our guest in after you. What happens after is your problem." How did Mother sound so very completely healthy? She wasn't like that the day before. But she also used the term cycle ticks. So was this Other Lillian's life? That would make sense.
The living room looked mostly the same, though the couch and coffee table were in a different arrangement. And there was a rather large armchair that contained a young and sprightly woman. Same medium dark skin, same amber-in-peridot eyes. Same impossible age in her expression. But she was so much younger.
"Jazz." I whispered, barely able to hold it back. My whole body leapt inside me. I needed to hug her. "But. How."
"Lillian, doll." She sounded overwhelmed and bewildered and pleased all at once. Her brow quirked, but she held something back. "Allow me a formal introduction, if you will." She bowed deeply. It did something to me I couldn't name. "Jazz Comet," she looked up from the deepest point of her bow and extended a hand, "at your service."
I curtsied, no skirt to be held, and giggled. "Lillian Thorn, at yours, Miss Comet." I smiled at the name. Not the same Jazz or Lillian for either world, I realised with the name. I took her hand in mine, and she pressed it to her lips.
"Your mother and I have been planning this for a supercycle," she said as she righted her posture and pulled me into a hug. "I'm so glad to be here."
So this Lillian hadn't ruined everything.
That was nice.
My eyes were the first thing to alert me to the dream ending. Was it a dream? I wasn't entirely sure. But I was definitely back in my own bed. The sapphire glow was growing on me. Convenient for reading a scene. Inconvenient for trying to sleep, but that was fine enough.
Dressed and out of the room in a moment. Dark out, but the morning sun was starting to do its job, which meant I might be able to trust the time on the clock. About forty-five minutes before Mother would be waking.
Three cups waited for me on the kitchen counter. Two lipstick stained, one not. Had Jazz returned? Not likely. She would've been in bed with me, right?
Prepping the cups alerted me to a coffee maker on the counter that hadn't been there. Of that much I could be certain. Neither of us drank coffee. In bold letters on the side of the machine were the words Stim-Brew Max. That was what Jazz Thorn called coffee. Was I in another instance?
Soft hands wrapped around my waist, pushing my sleep blouse out of the way to make sure there was plenty of skin contact. "Thinking of having tea?" Jazz's voice was curious, almost surprised. "And after your mother and I went to the trouble of getting the best one."
I turned about in her arms. She wasn't my Jazz. That I could be sure of. How to ask without confusing things.
"Jazz, love," I half-mumbled, half shouted, "this is going to sound like I've lost it, but what is your maiden name?"
"Aster," she whispered, "why do you ask, Mrs. Aster? Do you not remember your own name?"
"It's a long story that you won't believe," I admitted even as I questioned my own sanity. "Let's start with something simple. How did I end up with the glow-bulbs?" I pointed to my eyes.
"You laugh too much. And you hit your head," she groaned at the thought. "Next. We've known each other since my Ma moved us to Lake Town after my Da passed."
"Okay," that helped a lot. "I'm not your Lillian," I breathed the words, uncertain, but determined, "or at least, the mind in this body right now isn't. My Jazz is called Jazz Star."
"This isn't the first time you've been here, Star-Lily," she said as she held my gaze for a bit too long. "If I've counted right, this is the tenth. But I suppose this is your first time. Like a river flowing backward."
"Well, that's good. Yes, I prefer tea." I smiled. "But I'd be willing to give stim-brew a shot." I grinned at some joke that I couldn't explain. "Question. Has she told you how many there are?"
"You'll tell me next time that I was wrong," she giggled, "but the last time we spoke, it was thirteen. But every time I tell you, the number goes up."
"Well that's fun."
"The first time I saw you, you said quite the opposite." Jazz shook her head. "Not fun a bit."
"Tracks," I said as my stomach flipped.
My body was a bit too heavy when I awoke. Not in a Lillian and Jazz Thorn kind of way. More in a 'body fell asleep' kind of way. As I lifted my arm, or attempted to, it flopped across my body without much sensation. I wriggled my body back and forth for minutes, using what I could of my core strength to make any progress.
Eventually, everything started tingling, and I gained a modicum of control. The hum of the workstation greeted me, and I moved straight to the floor. I was certain I'd find something. Some way to know it was real.
Flower_Princess @ System in /
└──── ./super_duper_script
Done!
Flower_Princess @ System in /
└──── cat field_of_lillies
/usr/share/db/system.shThat seemed impossibly small a dataset for a tool that should pull all recently accessed files with my name in them. And yet, there it was. Just the one. I'd even included a dozen or more variants. Lily, Lilly, Lil, Lillian, Lilian, Lilia, and much more. And yet, only the one file. How did that make any sense?
Flower_Princess @ System in /
└──── cat full_field
^C
User interrupted. Exited with Status Code 1.
Flower_Princess @ System in /
└──── That was much less surprising. The full list of recently accessed was huge. The cat function didn't even start the display job. At least I knew the thing worked.
I did something I knew was stupid as I was typing and ran the script. Seconds passed. Then minutes. And before long, I was looking at yet another impossible thing.
Flower_Princess @ System in /
└──── /usr/share/db/system.shWelcome, Rose. ╭─Rose@δόμος in (0.0.1) ~/ ╰─⏣: █What even was that? What did it mean? How was it possible?
Uncertain, unwilling to touch anything, entirely out of my depth, I did the only thing I could think to do. My finger found the power button on the workstation, and I held it down. Eventually the whirring came to a close, and the screen went blank.
Nothing about that was my work.
I awoke as the sunlight found my eyes. Goddess, but I wished Jazz were there to remember to close the damned curtains. Could I perform the task? Certainly! It didn't take a supreme hacker to close a fucking curtain. Would I remember to? Absolutely not.
"Mother!" I called without bothering to get out of the bed. Her face greeted me at the door. "How long have I been sleeping?"
"About three hours if Lion is to be believed," she spoke so calmly, "and they've been here since they told you to stay in bed. They weren't sure you'd listen, but they've been pleased to find you in compliance."
"I know you have System Sickness, Mother." Not an accusation. An announcement. "So tell me what you know about Rose."