Enemy by Imagine Dragons, a song to play in the background

You are sick and tired of not having answers. It is your job, your mission, to have answers and to propose solutions. You would not have earned the title of 'Commander' without succeeding at this.

So… when you enter the next Library Incarnation, the scene around you swirls and blurs. The 'Commander' aspect of you takes in the soft hooting of owls, the rustling of other people's clothing, and the cutesy owl imagery splashed against pastel wallpaper. It could be useful after all–knowing how to use your surroundings in a fight–ahem–a tense situation.

A tense situation that you plan on creating, whether the Guardians and Chosen want you to or not.

After your foray into the Heart in the Well Library, your mind has been churning with the possibilities, with the inklings of a theory coalescing into something solid. Finally. It is annoying that with each 'answer' a door is opened to a heap of new questions… or to questions that were never answered properly in the first place. You are beginning to suspect that the Guardians either don't know much at all about how this Library thing works OR… they are being intentionally vague. Maybe both. Your sharp mind hasn't ruled that out either.

But the Serpent mentioned that someone is working against the Library, trying to interfere with the Chosen's efforts to save it. Your conclusion: it MUST be one of the Guardians. Who else would have the power, the knowledge, the resources to ensure the destruction of every single Library?

Except the Well. You smile in spite of yourself. Sure, you were unable to get final confirmation of every woman's survival, but you think you did well. That all the Chosen performed admirably, for the most part. And it seemed as though the Serpent also thought you were making progress.

Good. You'll take it.

So you search through room after room of this 'owl café'. You had heard of such things becoming popular in the late 20th and early 21st century, but they most certainly had died out by the 25th. You glance at the message on the bulletin board and on pamphlets in the learning area: “Closing permanently by the end of the month…”

Hm, seems like this one is also about to bite the dust.

In your time, before the apocalypse, people often kept robotic instead of flesh and blood companions. There was no need for animal cafés or for domesticated animals as pets. You think of R.E.X., still aboard Antares 9, detached as it was from the rest of the space station.

You don't know how many beings like R.E.X. survived after the apocalypse. The Simplex would have no need for inorganic creatures they couldn't parasitize. It couldn't hijack electronics the same way it could a human brain. Not like what had likely happened to your parents and Adam, assuming they hadn't succumbed to any number of the many natural disasters that had wracked the Earth. At least Hidashi had been able to die the way humans should.

You descend from the café floor back into the learning area. The only place with what could actually qualify as books. There aren't many on the shelves, just 40 to 50 max. They are mostly about owls and other wildlife, although a few are about Japanese culture, and an entire section is dedicated to children's books and graphic novels. Another strange Library.

There is a twitch of movement at the edge of your field of vision and your bionic eye whirrs. Was it your imagination, or did two of the plush toys sitting on a shelf switch positions? You stare at the two colourful owl plushies just above another pile of toys overflowing from an armchair, but your bionic eye notes nothing of interest.

Then you hear it.

[Commander Sarah P. Deckker, was it?]

The voice echoes in your head. It actually sounds like three to five different voices, resonating, harmonising with one another.

You spin on your heels, immediately on the alert. This voice was not familiar. A Guardian you hadn't met yet? You cast your gaze around.

[On the coffee table, Commander. The 'owl photobook.'] There is a note of resignation over the words 'owl photobook.'

Ah! There, lying upon a low table in front of a star patterned sofa, a plastic laminated booklet with portraits of different owls on the cover stares up at you. The title proclaims it as: “Hiro's Hoot House: A Complete Guide.”

You quickly take a seat on the sofa and scoop up the 'owl photobook.'

“Who are you?” you demand. You keep your voice at a whisper and open the first few pages of the book. A table of contents filled with names and species of owls greets your eyes. Your gaze flicks upward. Is anyone around? You are conscious that one of the rules of the café is to speak quietly, but more importantly you have no desire for some random person to overhear you and either think you're crazy or eavesdrop on some critical information.

There is no one in this room other than a brown-haired man, face turned away from you and selecting a book from the graphic novel section. You eye him suspiciously. He must have entered right after you, yet you didn't notice until now.

You probably would have continued to scan the stranger if the photobook in your hands hadn't begun moving of its own accord.

Words rearrange themselves on pages of owls hunting mice and feeding their young. The letters glow a faint gold and form: “I am the Original Book. One of the Guardians. Shadow & Shush told us that you were searching for answers. For a way to help.”

This is the famously elusive Original Book? you think.

“Shadow & Shush did?” You frown. You don't like the sound of that. Not one bit. You recall that they had looked up, sniffing and hissing at the air, murmuring about being watched. It seems the Monitors did a fair bit of watching themselves.

Pages continue to flip as gold lettering takes over the neat, bubbly writing of the photobook. “Yes. They said you, Brad Sands, and Sedgewick Harper found the Heart. That the Heart found you.”

“Yes…” you start, brow still furrowing. “It was not especially difficult. We're not sure why the Heart 'revealed' itself to us, but I'm also uncertain why you revealed yourself to me.”

“Ah, yes… the name 'Deckker'… we had heard it before.”

You jolt and you immediately summon the image of the 'Chosen who proved themselves' and 'Chosen who may remain' tapestries from the Heart. Your photographic memory doesn't lie. There was no 'Deckker' on either list before your own name was added.

“How? Where? When?” you snap.

The words glow again, even more brightly and you have to squint to make them out.

“When we saw your memories. Well, Shadow & Shush did. They are good at sorting the relevant from the inconsequential, seeing what people are really about.”

“They did… what?!” Your voice rises a pitch and you have to take a deep meditative breath to force yourself back into a semblance of calmness.

Those damn Monitors… saying they were 'made up of memories' and then prying into your own… The image of those glowing white eyes boring a hole through you returns. Was that when they did it? Is there any way for you to avoid such an invasive act in the future?

This time the words fill up the page even more quickly. “Commander. It is alright. The Library already knows what type of person you are. Where you came from. But the Guardians… we don't know all of this at first sight. We have to get to know you much as you have to get to know us. And you may not agree, but this time, the memory search may have been to your benefit.”

“How is a breach of privacy like that beneficial? You can't actually believe saying that levels the playing ground or makes what you did okay. You using us like that–!”

“Commander.” The book writes.

“Sarah?” A voice from across the table asks.

No. No. It can't be. That voice… it had been lost to the apocalypse. Lost to the meteorites, tsunamis, and earthquakes. That part of your life was lost. Gone. Dead.

Adam was dead.

Yet… you glance up, and there he is… standing on the other side of the coffee table… your twin brother, Adam. Almost exactly as you remember him, just a little more gaunt, a little bit older, with dark bags under his eyes and the beginnings of wrinkles at the corners of his mouth.

And the wondering look he gives you shifts into something accusatory, something…angry?

The words are written as well as broadcast in your head: “We are sorry, Commander, if he is not exactly the same.”