"Today says scarlet. Right?"

Marvus stood before the long mirror with its flared edges of sculpted black and gold flames, suspended from two metal rods attached to the ceiling. He admired, or rather, questioned, his ensemble for the day. The day. Day One.

"What is appropriate decor for the rest of your life?"

A visual assessment went into full study. Dress slacks, admittedly a deeper shade than scarlet, (might as as well dub it crimson and save some fuss), but the accented chrome chain dangling from the deep left pocket (for the attached billfold, and style) gave Marv's legs a long, sophisticated swing when he stepped. This was good, as Marvus was not a tall gent, barely above 176 centimeters. The socks? Slim, bright scarlet, crosshatch pattern. Not the most ideal fabric for an arctic day, but the demands of business attire outranked the litany of common sense. Marvus wiggled his toes in the socks. Not too tight. Excellent. Moving up the line of sight to the area of doubt; the shirt and its obvious close binding. Silk, since it came to the Tetrarchy twelve years ago and created a new industry boom, lowered the price of such goods and engendered a plethora of designs. Marv preferred ones that showed off his hard work at athletics. After all, it was hard to convince others that the 'lonely historian bookworm' engaged in freerunning during his rare moments of spare time. An amazing set of abs made the argument for him. It was the sole habit from childhood, when he and Jonn used to jump the many high railings in the Complexes, that Marv used for enjoyment and stress relief. But, what would Archivist Harvest think of his showing off? He didn't seem to mind at yesterday's post-hire briefing...

But he spent a considerable amount of time in the talk glaring at Marv's abdomen.

"Right. Substance over style in this case. First impressions. Well, second, anyway."

So, he removed the tight athletic top and wandered over to the walk in closet for a variant design, less constrictive, more studious. As he walked, Marvus pressed the digital button on the wall to turn on the viewer. His was a simple design, a flat oval screen imbedded in the wall, around 150 centimeters long. Best get the day's weather and burghal news along with a shirt.

"...a massive undertaking indeed, but the Observatory Wing of the Artisan Houses has completed its twenty-year assessment of Ring Theory. For those who might not have kept up with the study, or its concurrent project, Vernal Moth One, Ring Theory is actually an old concept developed back two centuries ago during the initial Age of Powered Flight. Vendig Reddsift, inventor of the first flying machine formulated this theory, believing that we could one day inhabit the asteroid belt around the Moon, as frequenting the Moon itself would be much too volatile. Over the course of time, scientists added many and varied ideas to Reddsift's dream, but the main one to stick came with the formation of the Aubade Kinship: solar sails..."

Marv chose his shirt as the report went on. He picked the kind tucked in and requiring a belt, which for an extra three seconds caused an emotional uproar that the slacks would have to change as well. But he remembered the plain red belt with the sliding clasp, no buckle, and all was right again. The shirt, a pullover of loose scarlet silk, had three buttons at the top and a high rounded collar. Once tucked in, it enhanced the sleek sides of his figure, while presenting the appearance of a man who gave a care about his chosen profession. Off and away from the bedroom Marv moved and stood over the spotless white counter in his minimalist kitchen, gazing into a blood red coffee cup full of that bitterblack drink from the ferrous meteoric nation of Yu-Tal-Uz. The best coffee came from there, hands down.

Black. Cherry. White. Circle. Rectangle. Confined cup. Open countertop. Such sharp distinctions. Perfect divisions between shapes and hues. Art at home.

"...study's goal was to determine not only the cost of one solar sail, its launch and the feasibility of closer astronomical observations of the Moon and planets beyond, but also to assess the viability of asteroid mining. This had been a desire of the Tal-Uzzian Theocrats for generations, as they are born and raised on a mass of meteors embedded into the Ny Sea, and iron ore mining and processing is their very existence. But to others in the Kinship, mining alone, exploration solely for the purpose of seeing new things meant little to the average citizen. The question for the person on the street? How could space travel, a venture for the wealthy to be sure, benefit the common person on the street, a sincere and critical part of our societal upbringing? There were fears too, fears of 'stellar dust' kicked up by mining activities and falling to Earth, clouding up the atmosphere, of the rich creating a new world for themselves, a plutocracy high above..."

Marvus drank coffee. One cup became two. He listened to the gentle fall of raindrops and hard wind pellet the windows with aggressive, pleasing percussions. Sleepy eyes waking to the goings on in the world made their way to utensils, a loaf of dark bread, a bowl of cold melon soup cooked up three days before on the stove. The nose became aware of bitterness from the coffee, steam, heartiness of earthy melon and soft spices cooking. Mouth tasted grains and the eyes perked up. The ears reverberated with the musical rain, reminded the brain the wind was not one to be taken lightly this day (mental note received), and paid passing attention to the details played out on the daily show called Your Continent.

"...continual applications of better performing solar power, especially as regards its percentage of conversion, light to electricity, changed ideas about solar sailing and space colonization. Higher up, beyond the protective confines of the atmosphere, solar production would expand exponentially, according to most studies. This would allow not only for limitless power to future space stations, but could produce energy in mass quantities that can be beamed down to any station on Earth..."

"Work! Right!"

Morning calm could make one forget the demands of the day. Marvus tripped over his own two well adorned feet en route to grab a pair of faux fur lined polar boots dyed an awesome brick red. Right wrist, bruised. Tongue, bitten. Boots, obtained. Marv sat on the clean floor sliding on the boots, mumbled about the birth of new baby aches and pains.

"...in other news, today marks week two in an unprecedented visit from Ambassador Klavin Dearkind of the Gem Estates..."

Marvus froze in mid boot pull. Now, he had a rather unwanted knack for giving up perfectly good moods for bad ones on the average day, without outside assistance. This skill was a distinct aptitude of the subconscious, never performed on purpose. Marvus Blackenwhite, creature of the Now, inhaled the moment and often forgot the outer world, yesterday, tomorrow, reality. He existed in time and beyond it, free floating, a condor adrift on a permanent thermal updraft.

Reality had its way with him. Often. Like now.

"Ambassador? Hmph! Lurking in the shadows like an...an..." now he was yelling at the oval screen as if it had wronged him, trying to find a suitable insult for the mysterious man from the Estates.

"...Estatesmen haven't been to this continent since that nation was still known as Jondan Throne, over a century..."

"Vagabond!" Marv pointed at the screen in resolute victory. "Yes! That's it! A vagabond traveler! And, I will not falter in dealing with you today, Ambassador Vagabond! Not on my first day, with Archivist Harvest watching! Ha! You want a show, good sir? Let the performance begin! I'm the ringmaster of this circus!"

He marched for the door, grabbing the triple layered black sueded cot with the oversized hood, his leather satchel stuffed full of books and leaflets, tripped again, and exited.

Internally, Marvus shuddered. Last night's emotional drain, the feeling of being sucked dry by an unseen parasite, returned, sapping away a portion of his flamboyance. He hit the main door, aggravated, and went out into the literal breathtaking day. Cold, a profound, icy veil draped the burghal of Masara. Marvus clutched the stair railing as he descended to the pavement, as eyes discerned the immediate danger of slick, frozen water all around. Magnificent, glistening, deathly ice world.

Gloves, fuzzy red, cerise, white striped, were applied to the hands. The hood, tossed over the head with a fierce display of concern for one's health and for not freezing to death. Well, the rain began to subside, which was a plus. But even a lover of long walks such as Marvus felt this good-turned-enraged day deserved a ride in something with a roof and climate control.

Marv hurried back up to the door, the overhanging roof providing some escape from the icicle talons in the slapping hand of rainfall, and whipped out the speaker. It was a round dial device, dull steel with seven buttons. One button rang up a preprogrammed directory activated by voice. Marv pressed this button and let the computer handling things in some satellite above listen.

"Cab service for one. Four-Eleven Premiere. Right away, please!"

He jumped up and down, breathing hard, cheeks flush, and waited. Strange, even to himself, Marv did not go back inside the main door where warmth awaited. He wanted the weather to beat him, inform him. Klavin is cold. Gem Estates is cold hearted, imperialist. I can be just as ruthless with words as they can in deed.

He didn't really want to be that way, but his mood dictated this more than reason. Klavin had taken something precious from him, twice, last night and this morning, and self defense, maybe even a touch of vengeance, determined to return the favor. Emotions were potent, messy, as detrimental and explosive as they were constructed and pure. Perhaps he should be better, and on any other day, Marvus would have fought this urge to slap back. However, yesterday's important boost of personal well being was the greatest he'd had in many a time, years even.

The cab pulled up, electric buzz whir, splashing ice water up on the curb. Marv ran for the door, opened it, leapt inside. The driver, a prickly, balding, heavy guy who smelled of lavender and strong smoke (incense?) gave a cursory backhanded wave.

"Museum of the Unison. Make it fast. Please."

Click went the cab door as Marvus shut it. The rain, gone. The cold, never stronger. Ice, omnipresent. But, he arrived, in one piece, to his personal Land of Dreams.

The Museum. From the outside, not even the torrential chill from Gelica's wicked polar vortex could diminish the pristine glow of this facility in the eyes of Marv. He stood before a wonder of mankind, temporality and architecture. The Museum of the Unison reigned across from the Premiere Walkway, but surrounded on its other sides by an enclosed garden with a high stone wall of steely grays and dour browns. The building itself was a cylinder, an odd shape for a, 'stodgy pantry to lock up ancient goods', as Daya once termed it, but this glass obelisk reflected a new twist in the often dusty saga of history telling. Modernism. The Unison, from the start, in a pledge by the burghal, would be a most up-to-date facility, one that must be treasured from without as much as from within. At seven stories in height, it held to an impressive stature here near the city center, where most buildings were shorter than the tall skyscrapers along the riverfront several blocks away.

The windows, long, jade tinted, functioned as solar paneling. In truth, this was the first site to implement the latest solar technology, a translucent polyglass composite capable of sixty percent conversion of light into electrical power. The fullness of the Unison being made of this glass meant it often gave power to nearby streetlights, passing cabs low on fuel and the remainder of the block. The first things one noticed walking through the arched stone wall and heading for the double glass doors with the steel rod handles were the procession of mastodon skeletons, framed so as to appear to be marching, the glass giving the white boones a greenish hue. Marvus strode into the museum, full of pride, and noticed the entranceway held a large, shoulder-to-shoulder crowd of persons.

Not persons.

Reporters. Journalists with their floating drone buzzy cameras and extendable microphones. Reporters for the computer news, print news (on a recyclable polyglass reader, info updated daily), with clear press ID badges swinging off of blouses, of jackets, from thick parkas. Every single one of them had their eyes trained beyond the plush setup the Unison had to offer. They were not interested in the trio of stringed instrument players off to the right, sending out positive vibrations to welcome guests.Nor did anyone pay attention to the first collection after the mastodon procession, twelve glass cases showcasing the early reign of the Mithonian Empire, from whose epic salvos and disasters came the Neerian Tertarchy and now Tetrarchy Coalition.

No. They wanted the man at the head of a circular table, an all too personal setting for a glamorous event, at least in Marv's mind.

Flashing lights were going off like fireflies, blinding the man at the center of the journalistic hurricane. Marvus cut into the crowd, insecure, hands pushing more than excusing himself as he blazed a trail to the front of this formal gathering he was never made aware of.

Klavin Dearkind.

Ah. Why am I surprised? Marvus stopped dead at the front of the probing, accusative, inquisitive collectors of today's happenings. Klavin seemed as resolute, as potent as he was last night, unfazed by the bright lights and ceaseless inquiries from Masara's disciples of the Code of Debate and Information, from where the art of journalism sprang. Marvus found it hard to hold onto the joy he had about Day One, about the Museum's charms and fresh new scent. He saw, felt, only the robbery of the prior evening, the crowd's antsy frame of mind feeding his animus.

He wanted to yell, "Thief!" But others were ahead of the game.

"...about the nineteen thousand and more refugees from the Cartavian Flats, which your government trapped in the Sulla Valley...in the midst of summer. What is your response to that, now that we have an actual member of Estates to respond." The journalist who got her statement above the rising tide, Sessa Jone, an experienced emissary of the public spectrum. Marvus watched her often on the nightly bulletin, passing out facts in a stout, objective manner. She seemed less so this frigid day.

"I am afraid I do not understand. Is this how questions are asked here, as statements?" Klavin kept mastery of calculated indifference, just as at their first meeting. Here, before the passive sheep of the Coalition, Marvus had found the dire wolf. But the wolf was not hiding, nor snarling. It was simply...there, looking with curiosity.

Can wolves be curious? He must be hiding it. But how? How can he contain all of the emotives he stole from me? It must be killing him.

True. Garnering the aura of others built up fast, and left the one taking it in with an immediate passion for displaying it. Good things could not be held in for long, no different than when one hears a god song, one must sing along with it. Perhaps, just perhaps, not so with bad emotions, or positivity stored (stolen!) inside of a twisted man. Maybe in such a cocoon they simmered, stewed into something less refined, like the vitriol drilled out of the earth for profit. Slimy. Disgusting. Selfish.

"The question," went the reporter, "is what are your feelings on the entrapment? Was it right, in your opinion, to let those people starve, many to death, in the waterless waste, especially as they were fleeing from a war torn nation?"

Klavin held up a hand, attempted to quell the vocality of the press corps. It stifled their noise but a bit. "Please, please, please can we have some calm?" He waited, hands folded on the small table, face stiff as a corpse. Waiting. The press died down. "Now, yes, the war between the Faltered Provinces of Gem Estates--"

"Do you mean the Oasis Commonwealths, as they are legally called by the Tetrarchy Coalition and the seventeen other nations?" Sessa poured it on.

"--are of a concern to us, and me, in particular. My family comes from the region, though centuries ago, but I have, or rather, had, relatives there." The ambassador took a sip of water from a copper mug, eyeing Sessa Jone with the peaceful poise of a master game player. "However, we well know that the, Commonwealths, as you say, are not seen as such by other kingdoms, and their war, to be blunt, is an atrocity brought on by nefarious factions at the street level, who destabilized the perfectly sound government led by Amzir Waldom."

More flashing. Questions erupted like an age old volcano that had rumbled for eons, wiping out the brief lull with its magma plume of vocal outrage. Reporters, onlookers, museum visitors had all become one, forgetful of the purpose of the Museum of the Unison, to bring people together via the power of the past.

Where is Archivist Harvest to shut down this farce? Marvus waved off Klavin just at the moment the ambassador noticed him. He stormed away from this interrogation. Last night, he had met this predator, and found him to be apex. Not that he ever met similar archetypes before in person, but Marv had the wisdom of history in his memory, the awareness of knowing the many and varied despots of old. These reporters, despite their pedigree, would elicit naught from him. But as Marv escaped, the fury grew.

"Are you saying the blame for the current war at your border is the fault of the very people suffering?"

"And your nation's arming the Waldom forces, this after years of turning a blind eye to Waldom's torture of civilians, keeping over a million locked off in an irradiated zone still registering fatal levels of toxins after contamination in the Crowning War..." another journalist jumped in.

"Ladies. Gentlemen. Pease. Some decor." Klavin waved both hands now, slow, deliberate. "Fussing will not stop the fighting or starvation, nor will anger eliminate the scars left by the greatest war in history."

"Caused also, by your country," Sessa noted.

"Er...yes. We...regret the war we..." Klavin shot the reporter a glazed, studious glare. "If you will excuse me." And then, in one smooth move, he departed from the table, his numerous in peerless gray suits entourage falling in line behind him.

So, the freedom of Marvus from the huddle became a foot race. Looking back, Marv noticed Klavin, eyes locked on him, following. He picked up the pace, intending to make it down the wood paneled hallway to Harvest's office and raise all manner of fuss. In this too, Ambassador Klavin Dearkind, the Dire Wolf of Gem Estates, outmatched him.

"Mister Blackenwhite!"

"A bit busy at the moment!" Marv turned back to offer Klavin a partial grin before stepping up from quick gait into a full gallop.

"I believe I scheduled a tour..."

"Yes! Right after my meeting with the Archivist."

"He approved it this morning, you know, before my table discussion. I am ready now."

Bang. The shot that made the legs quit their action. Marvus turned around right outside the office door of Harvest with its soothing jade marble polish and ornate chrome latch.

"You did what?" Marv found he had turned and launched himself, heat-seeking missile, into Klavin's face. The entourage moved up, acting as a wall of muscle and bad moods to repel the historian.

"I rise early, before daybreak," said Klavin, eyes locked on Marvus with that searing calm. "Naturally, with my schedule, I arrange things quickly. Are you prepared?"

"Am I--?" Marv lost his train of thought. At least my righteous anger isn't being sucked out of me! Then again, this is probably what he wants, to make me like him!

"Oh, he is ready, Ambassador," a kindly voice offered from behind. Archivist Geome Harvest, frail but friendly, ninety-six years old if not a day past petrification, showed up as if carved out of the air around them. Dressed in a wrinkled suit, green and black checkered pattern, not seen since three decades before Marvus was birthed, it hung on old bones. A wizened smile graced Geome's labyrinthine wrinkles, knocked the spectacles farther down the straight alabaster nose. His abrupt appearance on the scene knocked the wind out of Marv's proverbial sails.

"I am?"

"Why yes," Harvest scuttled over to his aide and the massive foreign entourage. He patted Marv on the shoulders, the smile widening. "This here is my best man, Ambassador. Kind, considerate, as much an intuitive awareness of Continuum as intellectual. A good one, to be sure, and rare, even in our fair country. And, you might also enjoy the talk he'll be giving today to our student body." The level of soft complacency entered into Marvus as harvest stared at him with the winning smile, compliments drifting in the air like a gas attack of yore.

A generous aura, Marv thought. No, a smart one. "Thank you, Archivist." Marv took off his coat and satchel., shook his mentor's hand while giving Klavin a look somewhat less dramatic than before. Inhale. Exhale. Focus. Jump the gap between buildings and land softly. Let his peace enhance your mood. "Ambassador Dearkind, it's been a trying morning. The weather, you see, as of last night, has me feeling a bit drained, you see. Let me toss these things in my office and we can begin."

"Certainly," Klavin offered, the smooth tiger eyes roaming from historian to mentor. "Bellock, tay neshin abru." The entourage nodded, and made their way to the front of the museum.

Marvus didn't wait. He moved for his own office. Three doors away he found it, the same green marbling of the door, for Harvest, who helped design the Unison, was an age old anarch who despised, as much as a kind soul could, the idea of classism in any shape or form. Door opened, Marv found the comfy quietude afforded by good carpeting (a solid scarlet to match the outfit!) and a neat triangular desk, wood with a center of glossy onyx. Even the chair, tall and ergonomic, was to his liking. So hard to get a hand on a comfortable chair in this profession. Odd for a career relying so heavily on sitting for long periods.

He hung the coat on a silver hanger, the same for his satchel, organized his attire to appear more stately, and circled the office.

For a moment, just one, before the inevitable man from Hell entered, Marvus wanted to feel his space. Everything had an aura to a degree, even a place. Scientists recently studying the energy lifeforms and things emit and trade called this 'static resonance', the ability of inanimate objects to impart sensation in the living. Ancient cultures believed this to be the dead ancestors or spirits both benevolent and malevolent. Now, the reality that it was a tradeoff of electrons from one bit of matter to another took away none of its mystique. Marv let his shoes scuff the carpet to leave a visible trail, touched the paneled walls to pick up their almost liquid cool. A step by the circular vent brought heat to him, welcome, not too hot. Gray filtered light entered from the broad windows, giving Marv the cognizance that this space, his space, was one of contemplation, of solace from the torrent of feelings and accidents the world might throw at him. He breathed it in, every fiber of it, and allowed it to become him as much as he would become it. History. Historian. Serenity. Yesterday. Tomorrow. Today. The Continuum itself was this standalone foundry.

Concordance.

"Shall we?" Klavin asked from the doorway.

Bad spirit of old...