“These are not terms of peace,” spat Jovios. “This would be surrender.”

Resting the quill down on the scarred mahogany table I leant back in my chair, watching as the deity’s face contorted and frowned reading and re-reading the short length of parchment presented to him. “Call it what you will, it is an end to this conflict.” I advised.

Locks of ashen white hair floated as if suspended underwater as his slender figure rose and paced around the plateau, puffs of umber tinged dust erupting under heavy steps. Neutral ground was hard to find but it made the location of our engagement oddly fitting. Cracked earth extended as far as the eye could see with various shades of orange and maroon forming great plates across the mesa. Neither stem or bud could root in the desolate waste.

“Laima has seen what becomes of our planes, I know that to be a fact.” I brushed off the small piles of sand accumulating in the table’s cracks. “It will be millennia before a true order re-emerges. By which time, you will have lost the final sparks of your Godlihood.”

Turning sharply the deity’s right fist coiled in a lethal arc toward me, flashes of crimson lightning rippling up his bulging forearm. My short crop of hair was tussled by the sudden gust, accompanied by the slight tingle on my cheek as if I had accidentally brushed against a nettle bush. “Traitor.” Hissed the breathless Jovios, slumping down into his chair.

“It’s a shame,” I mused. “When I was your ward, I watched you decimate legions of knights for your beloved Sophilian tribesmen. If I close my eyes, I can still smell the putrid concoction of charred flesh and melted bronze.”

Through laboured breaths he locked eyes with me, “What have you done to me..? I cannot hear them.” The weak voice whispered.

“Yes… I never quite knew what you meant by that.” I responded, pushing up from my seat to loom over the fallen God. “Though you could hear, in your own hubris you refused to listen to them. It’s no matter now of course, I will take care of them for you.” Extending my index finger a surging store of energy boiled in my chest. As I willed it up to my shoulders, down to my elbow, and finally to burst forth from my fingertip, an overwhelming sensation of ecstasy forced my knees to buckle.

A great clap echoed from plateaus for miles around, ringing out in the lifeless expanse. The bolt left charred shadows behind us. Mine long and proud, squared shoulders and erect posture forever imprinted on the stone. Jovios’ a meek ball, curled under the chair with his head between his knees.

“Laima,” I called out to the cloudless sky. “I know you are there. Tell the others of what happened here. Next time, send a delegate who is willing to speak of peace.”

With a soft wheeze the mirror fogged over, clouding both myself and Mr Bear in white plumes as the flashes of magnesium camera lights forced us to wince. A dull quiet filled the office, the five dossiers that lay open on my desk carried little weight in comparison to an interspecies manslaughter case. Pulling the narrowest folder towards me I eyed over its summary.

Workplace endangerment, appropriate accommodations not made for visual impairment in the case of three temporary rodent employees. The squared san-serif typeface did little to invigorate the case, I folded it over and clipped the pages together, filing it for a junior intern’s attention.

Breach of contract, Fairy Godmother’s terms of enchantment intentionally false. Taking a long drag of the wooden pipe, I sucked in my cheeks and puffed out small rings of smoke. They wafted towards the ceiling before dissipating out across the flat white plaster; staining its surface with patches of aged mustard tar. Princess Cinderella was not unknown in the region, she had been slandering her Fairy Godmother to any sleaze with ink and paper. Rumour was she paid well.

Rolling up the thick white parchment I tied a thin red ribbon around its width and held it up with my right hand. Swooping down from its perch, a pigeon clasped the drawstring with its talon and beat its wings to regain height. At the peak of its arc the bird turned and dove towards the carpet, gaining speed it was unfased by the possibility of connecting with the rigid floor. With a vwoomp the bird disappeared, replaced by a throw of feathers and sparks. The tips of the carpet let off the nose curling smell of burnt wool as it coughed up black strings, singed from the close proximity to the courier’s dispelling.

By the time I had risen to stamp out the embers the light had begun to dim in the room. A shimmer appeared behind me that forced the hairs on my neck to stand up, pale blue fireworks spat and burst at its frame as the wavy form showed its true nature. Though it was made of wood the door had a ghostly presence, it was mostly transparent and had none of the rich earthy browns or yellows that oak usually held. Three equally spaced bursts rumbled on the door, each punctuated by a rose firework that bloomed in the spot of impact.

“Enter.” I called out. The doors parted down the centre seamlessly, swinging open into the space.

First to traverse the threshold was the pigeon, fluttering around my shoulders before returning to its perch. Next the clacking footsteps of glass slippers on stone floor quickly transitioned to a dull thud on carpeted wood. As she passed through the door her form sprang to life, pale red tinging flushed her cheeks and the grey of her hair erupted into a blonde river of curls.

“Mrs Charming,” I lowered myself to one knee, holding out my palm for her to grace. “It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Quite.” She responded curtly, brushing my palm with a bony index finger before rounding on the red velvet cushioned chair opposite the desk. Here for business, it would seem. Out of the corner of my eye, I could swear the mirror let out a small chuckle.

I returned to my station, stashing the remaining three un-filed dossiers in a draw and locking it shut with a thin brass key. Spreading out the first five pages of Cinderella’s case I began my interrogation.

“You are accusing your Fairy Godmother of breach of contract, is that correct?”

“Correct.” She responded. “I was assured that the curse would be broken at midnight. My gown returned to rags, the carriage went from plush and luxurious to a puckered gourd that stunk of mildew, but a single glass slipper remained enchanted.”

Tapping the ash out of the pipe, I refilled its reservoir and offered a drag to the Princess, she turned it away with a well practiced gesture.

“Since the slipper remained enchanted, you’re alleging that her end of the bargain wasn’t upheld?”

“Correct.”

“What is your proposed resolution?” Clicking the cap off my fountain pen, I ran my thumb up its golden curve.

“Emotional damages, in the order of eighty percent of the revenue earned from her claims to be a royal matchmaker.” She practically spat the title. I scribbled down the response on the inside of her file, nodding as she spoke. “I think it is only fair, don’t you?”

My pen paused mid stroke as I wrestled with the phrasing of my next question. “Are you unhappy with the Prince?”

“How dare you.” She hissed, “The Prince is an upstanding gentleman, he is honest, moral, and ultimately.. quite Charming.”

“I’m unsure of your chances to sue for emotional damages if you seem to be in your desired place as a result of her actions.” I advised. “Do you not think that instead she went above and beyond her station?” The proposal was risky, but since I had the mirror as a silent witness I would be able to claim expert corroboration if her outburst betrayed any ill-intent.

Her hand, heavy with a thick golden ring that when melted down could spawn at least ten usual sized bands, reached into her purse and drew out a folded slip of paper. Sliding it onto the velvet tray at the lip of my desk, she asked “Are you going to take the case or not?”

Opening the note, my heart skipped a beat. I could get a new filing desk, bookshelves, paint the entire room… Hell, I could up and abandon this office and move into a high-rise. “I’ll devote my efforts to give you an answer by tomorrow’s early light.” I answered.

Satisfied, her sparkling gown twirled as she rose to face the centre of the room. Swooping down, the pigeon burst past her neck throwing her hair out like tasseled curtaintails. As it flashed out of sight, the pale door re-emerged in the space left behind. Passing through back into her realm, I let out a sigh as I span my chair towards the fogged mirror.

“Hear all that?” I called out.

“Loud and clear.” A shaky voice replied. As the mist slowly cleared, the weathered pale skin of the Fairy Godmother came into view. She clicked her tongue and knitted her brow in concern. “Is it really breach of contract? I was only trying to help…”

“Gods no.” I laughed, “She’s just looking for an easy payday. Those weren’t her words coming from her lips. This time, we’ll take the prince for everything he’s got.”

Fondling in the darkness I found the small recess on the top of the clock, pressing in I squinted at the sudden flash of red light as the four numbers formed. It was almost 01:30, and though my eyelids hung heavy and I regularly let out deep bellowing yawns, my body refused to succumb to the night.

Pushing myself up to a seated position I stretched out and flicked the light switch, flooding the room with warm yellow light from the halogen bulb. Basking in its glow, I wondered if much like a lizard I just needed some warm light to help me drift off. Before a minute had passed, I realised this was a silly thought.

The room was unfamiliar, which no doubt played a part in my difficulty sleeping. Exposed wooden beams loomed in the high ceiling, holding up perpendicular dark planks which formed the third floor. Against the east wall cream wallpaper decorated with reliefs of sunflowers was heavily faded by decades of sun pouring in from the western window. Pockets of modernisation betrayed the illusion, with fresh white plastic electrical outlets and the notably recent addition of a carbon monoxide detector hidden away in the recess of my wooden canopy.

Reaching down to the bedside table I felt around for the phone left to charge overnight, my fingers traced down its cracked screen as I approached the power button. Nothing. I lazily rolled towards the lip of the double bed and peered over its excessively padded edges, it was then I realised that I had plugged the charger in but not turned the power on at the socket. What a ridiculous design.

It was no use in scorning the house, the switch snapped with satisfying resistance befitting of a newly fitted appliance and the obscured symbol of an empty battery appeared, fractured by the numerous grooves and splits in the damaged screen. It would take at least ten minutes to retain enough charge to use, so I stretched out my sore legs and stood up to explore. Tip-toeing around I avoided particularly loose floorboards as to not wake the entire house, this also ruled out exploring the weathered mahogany chest of draws that loomed at the foot of the bed, as no doubt sliding out even the smallest drawer would sound like scraping a chair throughout every room of the house, even the cellar.

Inviting me over was a large curved piece of furniture draped in a patched woollen blanket. The shawl was heavy to drag off, and moving it produced the unfortunate smell of wet sheep that now clung to my bedclothes. I piled the material onto a disused armchair. I wasn’t the only one surprised by the weight, as the legs of the chair braced and creaked in complaint. Turning back the oval design was revealed to be a dressing table, it had been meticulously cleaned and polished since its installation. It was clearly a part of a set with the slick and brooding mahogany matching that of the dresser, but whilst the storage had been left to the elements this piece had been restored and protected.

Exposed in the polished mirror I crouched to inspect my tired frame. It appeared more of a portal than a reflection, there was no hint of dust nor imperfection in its surface. If I reached out my hand I could fall through into the other room, that was as long as the me on the other side didn’t try the same thing and force us to bump heads. I sat on the hard circular stool that serviced the table admiring the most accurate reflection, with the moonlight on my left side of my face exposing the rash that ravaged my pale cheek. It looked particularly tender on the other me.

With no desire to practice cosmetics at such an early hour, I grinned and held up a fist. “Best of three?” I whispered to myself. “Rock, paper, scissors, go!”

I flashed paper, and my adversary did the same. “Ah, that’s a confident move. Most people go for scissors on the first round, but you thought I would play rock to counter that? I’m not playing a novice, I see…” She mused back at me, with me parroting along to her line.

The second round ended in a similar draw, with both of us flashing scissors and eying each other suspiciously through the ornate carvings of the furniture’s frame. “This one’s for all the marbles…” We agreed. “Rock, paper, scissors, go!”

I… lost? Wait a minute, how did I lose? My rock was clearly facing off against paper, but both of our horrified expressions seemed to match in the mirror. “H-How?” We both hissed. “Rock, paper, scissors, go!”

Again?! My scissors blunted by the slender fist pressed up against the cold surface, we both recoiled back to slump against the bed. Clambering over the thick winter covers, we dragged our phones back to the mirror to document this suspicious activity. I thumbed the lock button, but only met with the sad floating icon that reminded me I forgot to charge the device. Looking up in the mirror however, my reflection’s phone had lit up perfectly to contour her chin from below with clinically white light.

Holding up the screens to face each other, her phone was immaculate. It could have come straight off the production line, whereas mine had been dropped and crushed enough times to write it off. Navigating from the mirror, I helped myself to swipe and open up the camera app, then begin recording. Setting our phones down next to us, we re-ignited the game.

“Rock, paper, scissors, go!” Draw, a pair of rocks. “Rock, paper, scissors, go!” Draw, two sheets of paper. We decided to forgo the introduction, throwing hand after hand at each other and perfectly matching. Even the lingering three fingers when holding scissors had the same curl of the little finger up and to the palm. Frustrated our brows knit and our faces began to flush. Rocks, Scissors, Scissors, Scissors, Rocks, Papers, we drew time and time again.

Until… “Haha!” I shouted, “You win!” I conceded, crumpling my scissors towards me. “You lose!” She shouted, tapping the tips of my fingers with her fist.

“Just a few more minutes… There we go,” I ran my scarred fingers over the griffon’s plume of chest feathers, soothing her into kneeling. We both watched and listened with silent breaths, three nestlings cooed and slumbered in the nest that lay just a few hundred feet below us in the dense foliage. Curling my fingers I dug down to the majestic creature’s skin to scratch at the base of its feathers, the hulking body edged closer to me.

Very few had the privilege to feel the heartbeat of one of these creatures, as my left arm sat against its torso I remarked at how pure this moment truly was. Light thumping slowed as my hand retreated back to the cold stony perch. Sweat began to pool on my collar as the radiating heat from my stakeout partner permeated through my linens. Clicking tore me away from the moment, irritation expressed through the chattering of the beast’s beak.

“What is it girl?” I asked in a hushed tone.

Bowing her head, she indicated towards the clearing beyond the nest. As soon as she had leaned forward, figures began emerging from the tree line.

First to breach from the forest was a scrawny man with deep wrinkles decorating his forehead and underlining his sunken eyes. “This must be it, look at the deep claw imprints in the mud.” The explorer announced to no-one in particular, tipping his hat to block the sun from his eyes. Two brawny warriors clad in scarlet brigandine knelt beside the discovery, one traced an excessively armoured hand through the track whilst the other prostrated himself further to smell the surrounding earth.

In a husky chipper accent, the first voice rattled from the helmet on the left. “Good work. Young, not able to take flight just yet.” Reaching into his back pocket he produced a drawstring pouch, as he dropped it into the bony hands of his guide the man buckled forward to maintain his balance, yelping in surprise. Straightening himself up he brushed the twigs and debris from the tail of his cloak and stored the pouch within the concealed wrapping of his shawl before turning back towards the forest.

“Not staying for the hunt?” Echoing from the second helmet came a younger voice, my recent experience in the West was limited but it reminded me of a boy I met from North of the Ugnis Straight. If this was right, the second tank was quite far from home.

“I need the coin, but I can’t abide by what you are about to do. I must respectfully ask that you delay your slaughter until I am out of earshot.”

Both men nodded in agreement, before each whistled out a grossly over-complicated birdsong from their cupped hands. Bodies piled out of the undergrowth, a quick estimation had their count at sixteen to our two. This time it was the griffon’s turn to console me. She released the grasp of a single talon, its gigantic claws resting delicately on my knee. For a creature that eclipsed me five times over, she was also capable of such grace and delicacy.

“Their nest is up in the fork of those two oaks, the mother should be at least five leagues away in the mountains at this time of day but don’t get complacent. Doyle, Crike, first and foremost your duty is to watch the skies. Got that?” Two battered and bruised companions nodded in response. “Good. Alice, Petyr, Ash, Nikol, you’re with me. The rest of you are setting the perimeter fire with Warren.” The second warrior raised his hand as a group flocked to him for more detailed instructions.

Patiently we sat, how my own partner remained calm at the sight of a mob of hunters surrounding her nest I may never understand. But she did. Gently I clambered into position, with an arm around the beast’s neck and the other tightly grasping onto my hooks. As the sun reached its peak over the scene, the fire was lit. Erupting around the twin oaks it encircled the nest to the cries of the three inhabitants.

With a sudden rush we dove, our combined shadow put the mob in a sudden state of shock. Before they had any chance to react the ground shuddered as we crashed down to the earth. A single beat of the griffon’s wings turned the roaring flames to flickering embers with a great plume of smoke spreading out to disorientate our enemies, the offensive charcoal smell clung to my nostrils with a vengeance.

I leapt from her back, brandishing my hooks towards a helplessly confused Doyle. With an over-arm swing the first hook caught around a rough scaled pauldren, dragging him forwards off his feet and back towards the griffon’s waiting talons. The second hook I rose in defence of an oncoming axe, in power alone it had no chance, however pivoting around the point of contact I was able to lock its wielder’s hand in place.

“Got you!” I roared, applying pressure to the exposed wrist his grip loosened with a scream. Planting my right foot I prepared to close the distance between us before a blur of barbs entered the space I hoped to be. Whipping back the griffon’s tail becoming clearer, her head dipped slightly in apology for the near-miss.

My role diminished as a threatened mother tore through the warriors like a fox might terrorise a rabbit’s hovel. I would distract any attackers at the griffon’s flank, disarming them if possible and throwing them to the ground for her to easily dispatch of. It didn’t take long for the outnumbering force to dwindle to a handful of seasoned soldiers.

“Lay down your arms!” I demanded, “Lay down your arms and you may leave this place with your lives.”

Lifting the visor on their plumed helm, the crimson warrior referred to as Warren stepped forward from the cornered pack. “I have seen what you do to hunters, we would not retain the dignity you are promising!” His accent became more clear. He was not simply from North of the Ugnis Straight, but to the far North of the Ugnis Plains. He was highborn.

“I never promised dignity. However, you will live I can guarantee you that.” I responded.

“We will take our chances,” He pulled his visor back down, the metallic echo punctuated his final words. “I’d rather take my chances against two beasts than surrender!”

It would stand to reason that even a secret society would have secrets. Its very nature relies on the ability to hide events and fact from the public eye, and yet its members all assume that they are kept fully informed of the daily goings on.

The keys on the mechanical keyboard clacked with satisfyingly deep depressions, springing back up ready for their next engagement. Though it was a mid-80s model the plastic hadn’t even tarnished yellow over 36 years of constant use. My monitor however was not a satisfying vintage. Bars flickered across the CRT screen as the old girl purred in the stale air of the silo. Tracing my cotton-gloved hand down the first page, I muttered the book’s ISB code under my breath and the keys tacked away.

Slotting the covers into opposing metal slits I placed the probing arm on the last page. Stabilising the book with my left hand, my right fondled round the side of the contraption eventually finding purchase on the ribbed wheel. Spinning gently the book was pulled taut and the slits bit down with their padded molars, trapping the novel in place.

Once prepped I stepped back to the keyboard, donning my ear defenders I hit the enter key and braced myself. With a wheeze, mechanical joints dropped into place, a soft whirring hinted at the inner workings of the device. The thin metal rod that rested in the index rose and separated into two separate twig-like pieces, deftly waving over the index page like a conductor preparing the orchestra for an explosive introduction.

I shielded my eyes just in time as the pages began curling in a grand wave, flashes illuminated the page for the overhead camera in such quick succession it appeared as a singular blindingly white flash of magnesium.

Heaving, the scanner sank back from its excitable shaking and released its hold on the book. Pulling it off the plate I wrote out its unique tag, date of archive, and stacked it neatly on the trolley alongside the already completed 29 books. After checking the first few scanned pages to ensure the alignment wasn’t skewed, I logged off the terminal and wheeled my trolley out into the concourse.

“Done already?” A meek whisper snuck up behind me as one of the trolley-boys slipped a hand over mine, attempting to weakly wrestle control of the wheeled plinth. I stood my ground, tightening my grip and increasing my pace.

“It’s only 30 books.”

His voice was grating, it peaked and emphasised seemingly random syllables with the jumpy enthusiasm of a hungry deer. “Yes but to check and scan each one, it only took you a morning.”

“Yes, I’ll return them myself thank you.” I concluded the conversation, pushing the trolley forwards with a jolt to throw the limp hand away.

Slinking back into the cul-de-sac of desks, the new blood sniffed out a new scanner’s trolley to hijack. I didn’t particularly dislike him, but his unease was infectious and lengthier conversations would bear no fruit.

Retrieving the clipboard and biro from the brass hook on my desk, I ticked off the books one by one as I wandered down the expansive corridors. With two years postgraduate experience in library science I knew my way around the metal shelves. However, two years was minimal in the face of the depth of knowledge the facility held. Centuries of combined practice at decrypting, archiving, and translating were recruited to immortalise as much paper as we could get our hands on. Of course, this meant that the newest among us either pushed trollies or archived vapid autobiographies and how to guides.

The idiot’s guide to Windows 7 mocked me with a vague sense of entitlement as I climbed the cold metal ladder to return it to its resting place. I checked off the storage on my clipboard and climbed back down into the narrow but empty passage. Accurate note keeping was drilled into us at every turn. With the ban on outside communication, our systems were archaic but effective if used with appropriate care and attention.

One Week Wedding Planner and Cooking In the Outback held supposedly as key knowledge as fragments of handwritten notes from alchemists and philosophers of ancient history, and we had to handle their pages with a similar level of care. Gliding back into their carved niches, their boxes were ticked as I painstakingly whittled down my time before lunch. Luckily, working North through the library would put me closer to Uncle Ivan to share our break together.

Finishing up my task I rolled the completed returns card into the faded-red plastic canister and dropped it into the open mouth of the vacuum tube. With a satisfying swallow the pill disappeared into the bowels of the operation for digesting.

Fogged glass obscured Ivan in the sealed room, carrying a respirator and working through a comically large pair of gloves, the brittle pages were treated like radioactive material in the steady hands of an expert scientist. Each page had to be turned by hand, so it wasn’t unlikely he had been working on this tome for days. Noting my presence he covered the pages with a thin white blanket and doffed his protective equipment. Exiting from his station the seals on the door hissed like opening a can of soda, the offensively sterile air sucking the scent out of our surroundings.

Clapping me on the shoulder the lanky documentarian posed his daily question, “Where’re we eating?”

“Bird’s nest?” I proposed.

With an authoritative nod he lead the way up winding staircases and through too many security points to count before reaching the small bustle of tables and sparsely stocked vending machines. Aptly named; the eating spot overlooked the entrance of the silo from a high vantage point, it was a perfect place to watch the numerous deliveries and gawk at the security detail even one briefcase could have in tow.

“Major,” I put my hand to my hairline in a salute.

Ivan covered his mouth and turned to face the railing as the Major’s face soured. Below a sculpted ginger beard his lips pursed, supported by deep wrinkles forming on his stout neck.

“I couldn’t help it.” Sniggered Ivan through snorting chuckles. “Didn’t you wash your hands before eating?”

He was pointing the the ink-stained swollen hands that delicately cradled an egg and cheese sandwich, any small part that wasn’t rubbed black was a raw scarlet.

“Declassifying.” Explained the Major. “Birds aren’t falling out of the rafters, so you must have been on -“

“The Torah.” Ivan replied, as if this was a perfectly normal day at work.

Questions vied for supremacy as they divulged even the smallest morsel of detail about their work, but I held my tongue and let the pair eat in peace. As we ate, a small number of deliveries came and went. First to approach the desk were two men in tweed blazers and faded brown chinos who wouldn’t be out of place in an archaeology department mixer.

“Look at the way they walk.” The Major guided my vision with a wide palm on my upper back. “See the way they hardly swing their right arms?”

I nodded, watching as their gait became more obviously stilted.

“They’re carrying. Likely small caliber, can hardly see a crease in their belt-line.”

Producing a folder from his jacket, the man on the left signed and stamped the receipt of delivery and was on his way. It would appear they weren’t lecturers, but why did they seem so on edge?

The next deliveries were uneventful. Publishers delivering crates of new releases, a new delivery of air purifiers and tall slim gas cylinders, and a woman who left a flash drive on the counter and left without a word or pen stroke.

Disillusioned by the day’s haul, I began to turn back to my lunch. Shouting interrupted my disconnection from the scene as a copier slammed his fists on his desk and began bellowing. From the height it was hard to make out, so I gently leaned against the guardrail.

“- Swore an oath! We both did! Every page, documented for all time!” He roared, red in the face with particulates of spit emphasising his frustration. His adversary was a hunchbacked man with a patchy cream cardigan draped over his boney shoulders. Facing away from us it was impossible to hear his reply, frozen in space he didn’t move an inch but it was clear from the unwavering attention of the copier that he was giving a slow and methodical reply. Swiping the papers off his desk the man leapt to attention and ran North slipping deep into the maze of shelves, swiftly pursued by a number of bystanders in coordinated black formalwear.

“What was all that about?” I uttered to myself.

“Think nothing of it.” My lunch mates replied.

“Wait.. You know something!” I leaned in, fascinated by the prospect of drama in the library.

‘Keep yer voice down!” The Major hissed. “Of course we know. We’ve been here longer than you’ve had a nose to pick. Some books aren’t worth keeping, that’s all.”

“Well, one book.” Ivan absentmindedly corrected, earning himself a stare that could shatter glass from his neighbour.

“What’s in it?” I whispered.

“Who knows.” Ivan swept up the stray lettuce that had escaped his wrap into a small pile. “Could be too dangerous to store. The book itself could be harmful to handle. Might contain information on the founding of this socie-“

“Stop.” The Major commanded. Standing to attention he contributed one last piece of advice to the conversation, “it doesn’t matter what’s in the book. If we’ve been told it’s not for our eyes, we forget about it.”

Ivan pinched the pile of gathered greens and scattered them into his mouth, “ironic, coming from the guy declassifying government papers.”

Exhaling hard from his nose, the brawny figure turned and stomped off towards the stairs. Ivan and I sat in the silence, recovering from the ripples of his dramatic exit. Commotion carried on in the corridors below, the occasional muffled shout would perk up like a human-scale arcade game.

“He’s just pretending.” Ivan answered my unspoken question. “Everyone wants to know what’s in the book. But, he thinks it’s Pandoras Box.”