A Quiet Night

It's just us, dear. —X.N.

Are you sure? I don't want to be a bother to anyone who could be reading this. —H.Y.U.

I'm sure. I've been continuing to walk the halls of the Library. I've passed thousands of bookshelves by now, and am only now just starting my journey back. My calls haven't been answered either. Survivors have either buried themselves deeper, they're no longer in the Library, or their corpses are invisible to me. If any are still around, they can respond here. —X.

I guess… Do you think they've gone to other timelines? —H.

Who can say? That's not advisable, however. Whatever the jailers have done may carry over beyond our world. It's for the best if we stay here until we're able to figure out a way to safely travel, if one exists. —X.

We should probably fill this out like usual then. It could be valuable for any worlds not affected to read up on. —H.

Agreed. You would know more on the matter than I, so perhaps you should take the lead here. —X.

Sure thing babe. I don't know that much about it, though; I booked it out of the jailer's site the second shit got real. Anyway. The jailers created some fucked-up virus of sorts that makes everything normal. Too normal. -H.

Too normal? —X.

Normal according to their definitions. It's not enough for a general sense of normal. It's their normal that mattered. —H.

Was it actually a virus? —X.

In the end, it's the same regardless, right? Just because you try to do good for people doesn't mean it'll always be good. It's probably worse if you accidentally do something bad intended to be good. So they created a meme and it ended up being a virus. That's how I see it. —H.

I assume you have some personal feelings on the matter if you are feeling this strongly about it. —X.

I swear I'll hit you when you get back. —H.

It's impolite to hit a lady. —X.

But I'm a girl too, so it's totally fine. —H.

I think the difference lies in you being close to me. —X.

No need to be stiff at a time like this, we're still dating even in the apocalypse. —H.

Ah… I suppose. I can't help it, though. —X.

You'll learn. Anyway. A virus. It made us all normal. So normal that we can't dream. So normal that we pop pills to stop sleeping so much, so we can stop dreaming so much. I found an illustrated book on regression analysis; what does that even mean now? How much more did they take away from us? I don't know. This is what normal is. —H.

rating: +61 + – x A Quiet Night The Unraveling, The End of Days, GD-Class Gestalt Dissolution Scenario Conspectus Starting from the furthest reaches of human perception, concepts, objects, and people are going away, leaving nothing but void. No attempt to stymie the spread of the darkness has been successful thus far. This collection of information is incomplete. If you have anything to add, please don't hesitate to do so. It could save lives. Knowledge Traits:

Things that pass into the night do so suddenly, and usually with a great deal of mess. Like removing a keystone from a bridge, the structure crumbles, and its stones are lost in the river. Concepts are either lost, destroyed, or altered to be unrecognizable. Nature:

The fading is unpredictable, and immune to divination. The only known pattern is that the periphery seems to be affected first. With no apparent rhyme or reason, entire categories of being have faded away. History & Associated Parties:

It's impossible to tell when or where this began. Most disappearances are only distinguishable by the trails of broken references they leave behind. Effects exist without causes, rendering processes irreversible. Either logic is being damaged, or our ability to understand it is. As of the time of writing, contact has been lost with nearly all satellite universes. Ways seem to be increasingly prone to malfunction, spitting their occupants into unreality. Seeking out reliable information is more dangerous than ever. Approach:

Warding has not been able to prevent concepts from fading, but it's possible to resist the erasure of memory from the mind with magic or certain drugs. There are no safe places to hide. Faded things are missing from every location, universally, and if anything it seems that the lesser-known goes first. Unfortunately, hiding in plain sight isn't possible either. Earth is a beehive of infectious material right now. Observations & Stories This section was empty when I got here, and when I'm done this story will remain alone forever. But this will do. The Library's pretty quiet now, at least in the sections that are still accessible. Nowadays, observations are barely possible. No-one who tries to look up close at the holes the stars left ever comes back. Everyone who goes to civilian centers becomes one of them. Unless you're willing to view everything indirectly and analyze the gaps, you'll never find anything. And that's just what I've been doing. I think I know something important. The pattern isn't what matters, what matters is that we can interpret a pattern in the first place. The end of days started with things that were small to us, distant, obscured. The edges of our vision faded away. But that's just it: it's our vision. Things that are only distant from humanity. Concepts that were only devised by human culture. When was the last time anyone spoke to a non-human intelligence? I know they existed, but how long have they been gone from the Library? There used to be Librarians, here, in entire wings that are now inaccessible. Not even the sound of Pages skittering around on the endless roof can be heard. Where are they now? There's a shift going on. Like a whistle raising in pitch until we can't hear it anymore, reality is becoming out of phase with what we can understand. I don't know if we can catch the wave before the world leaves us behind. I've set up this document as best as I can. Use it, or don't. I'm not going to be here. I'm going as far away from Earth as I can before it all goes away.

— AE Doubt You're not going to trust me, and that's okay. If you did, you wouldn't be the kind of person I'm looking for. You won't believe me when I say that we're not who you make us out to be. I respect your group, probably a whole lot more than most of my colleagues do. Regardless of our differences in the past, we're interested in many of the same things. Neither one of us wants to sit back and watch humanity dissolve into the night. So don't sit back. I'll be frank: the Serpent's Hand isn't going to make it. It's too disconnected from the world. But that doesn't mean that you, individually, can't make it. Come work for us. We have the resources to keep the society from falling apart. We have medication that will help you resist the fading. We have inoculation that will help you stay lucid against the brewing memetic thunderstorm. And we need all the able bodies and functioning minds we can get. Face it. The periphery is getting smaller. Soon enough, you'll either be a civilian or you'll be an employee. Make your choice.

— John Morse, Esoteric Containment Specialist

Say, dear. —H.

Yes? —X.

What do we do now? —H.

Unsure. I suppose we should talk about our remaining options if I am able to head back there. —X.

Please don't say if. —H.

When I head back there. —X.

Much better. If you find any picture books, I want to read them. —H.

I shall look on my way back. Do you have any preferences for what I bring? —X.

No. Anything's fine by this point, as long as it won't make my head hurt. I love you. —H.

I love you. —X.