(no subject)
[Acrid smells fill one far-removed section of the tunnels today. Those investigating will find nothing much remarkable. A room, perhaps, where the smell is strong than others. Clean of dust and free of vermin, it is nonetheless barren; any signs of past habitation have been carefully removed, and any past research . . . well. The odd trace of paper mulch in the drains of the sinks may be sign enough, as may the lingering scent of chemicals strong enough to dissolve even the toughest of parchment.
Research left for idle eyes was the source of one great tragedy. That mistake will not be made twice.
Zexion's alcove in the barn's cellar has likewise been cleaned. The the bed is made and the sheets freshly laundered, but what few personal effects were stored there have been carefully removed and packed away. What passes for the cellar's pantry has been stocked with some few jars of fresh miso and rice-bran pickled vegetables, with careful instructions on their maintenance and use.
What documents there were that could best be considered harmless have been left carefully stacked in Zexion's workspace in the barn loft. Historical notes, physics diagrams, reports on camp effects and pathogens . . . it would have been easy enough to find them another home, or file them with the library's books, but the loft is empty enough without further removing what signs of habitation still remain.
For three years, eight months, and twenty-one days, this world has been a prison, a residence, an unexpected second chance and, in a way completely unanticipated, something almost like a home.
But all things end, and all stories come to a close. And now, all that remains of this one is to say some few, and some final farewells.]
Research left for idle eyes was the source of one great tragedy. That mistake will not be made twice.
Zexion's alcove in the barn's cellar has likewise been cleaned. The the bed is made and the sheets freshly laundered, but what few personal effects were stored there have been carefully removed and packed away. What passes for the cellar's pantry has been stocked with some few jars of fresh miso and rice-bran pickled vegetables, with careful instructions on their maintenance and use.
What documents there were that could best be considered harmless have been left carefully stacked in Zexion's workspace in the barn loft. Historical notes, physics diagrams, reports on camp effects and pathogens . . . it would have been easy enough to find them another home, or file them with the library's books, but the loft is empty enough without further removing what signs of habitation still remain.
For three years, eight months, and twenty-one days, this world has been a prison, a residence, an unexpected second chance and, in a way completely unanticipated, something almost like a home.
But all things end, and all stories come to a close. And now, all that remains of this one is to say some few, and some final farewells.]