This is a story written by me starring several TTV Boards Members, who all signed up for being included in this topic.
Chapters will be posted when I have the time. You can read the first book here.
The Book of Logic
Do you remember your first word?
Perhaps, if that comes readily to mind, do you remember your first breath? The first sensation of being you felt, drifting through your consciousness? You existed before, no doubt, but the consideration of the fact - you were alive, beyond any possible doubt - did not enter your mind until with your very own lungs, you took in the world around you.
Well, You knew now about being alive, regardless. Had You been before? possibly, even likely. Otherwise You might not have known how to walk as You slowly stood. You had been created with a body - who was the creator? This particular indication seemed obvious at first given the fact that You existed, but the questions it brought about were so concerning. Who made You? Why had You been made? Was there any specific purpose, or was it the whim of some fanciful craftsman, bored by the inane rigamarole of daily being?
What seemed infinitely more important, however, was that you instantly discerned the audible frequency of some repeatedly moving motion coming from nearby. What was worse, it seemed to match every thought, as if You spoke the words audibly and the sound matched every syllable. Undoubtedly this could not be a someone who was listening to those thoughts, as last You checked, those thoughts stayed inside the head and could not be detected.
Wait a moment. The noise muffled slightly. There was a tapping sound, which seemed to speak indecision. Then, there was a terrible crawling sound, as if some centipede was wriggling inside the ear canal, and the Chronicler appeared.
“Hello,” said the Chronicler.
“Hello,” said You.
“Would you please consider my appearance for the record?” The Chronicler said, writing even as he spoke.
You politely nodded and looked at the Chronicler. The scratching noise continued, and it became instantly obvious to You that the Chronicler was responsible for the commotion, scribbling a feather filled with ink on a large coarse sheet of paper suspended on a board. The board was in turn being help by one of the Chronicler’s hands; one of six, to be precise. He had spindly arms leading from those hands to a center body, which acted like a caterpillar in a sense; six limbs seated below the head, and the rest of the body was a strange worm or snake-like mass which seemed to almost spiral in on itself.
“Yes, I don’t look very proper, now do I?” the Chronicler commented, implying a smile from the oval void which was only obstructed by two massive white eyes which beamed down brightly at You. “But neither do you, considering you don’t have any pants.”
You looked down. No, You hadn’t considered that lack of attire prior to this, as You had nothing on currently except underwear. Well, that was embarrassing, especially since You had no objection to decency and now had to try to come up with an explanation.
“Color?” the Chronicler interrupted, raising a hand to what might have been his chin. “Red. That acceptable? I am hardly a fashion designer.”
You looked down at the Red trousers. You distinctly remembered having not put them on nor having seen them anywhere remotely nearby. And this Chronicler fellow seemed to discuss them as if he were sewing them that moment.
“I should explain.” the Chronicler mumbled, his hand still writing furiously to keep up with the current course of events. “I am the Chronicler of You. I keep up to date on all events; I record everything that has occurred. If something happens, I write it down. Every thought or action. Nothing is left out. Try thinking of something.”
So You did. You thought of a yellow flower, not too much pollen, as someone somewhere might be allergic. You handed the flower to the Chronicler. Then You realized You had never picked it, and the ground was so hard there was no way anything here could possibly grow. What was this sorcery?
“You considered it, so I wrote it as having been.” the Chronicler chuckled out his response. “Go on, think of something else.”
So You thought of the weather. Marvelous thing, being able to change the world. What if it was sunny? You felt the warm beams of sunlight echo around. No, too much sun. The dark clouds made You feel gloomy. Clouds are often accompanied by rain. If only You had an umbrella… No wait, You did have an umbrella, yes- wait, why wasn’t it appearing? Oh. It must not work retroactively. Well perhaps the sun came back, and met the rain, and the rain became warm, and warm things rise, so the rain began to rise back up into the air, and-
“Please stop.” the Chronicler lamented his woes through a half-coughing grumble. “You’re way too enthusiastic about this. From now on I’m just going to record what literally occurs, and only deviate if you need the support. Okay?”
“Support?” You chimed in, speaking for the first time since You met the Chronicler. “Why do I need support? I can stand perfectly fine.”
“You may not in the future. I cannot say. But there are trials ahead, and we must move onward, lest the past press down upon us.”
You couldn’t see the past, but You could feel the past behind You. Always building, always growing, pressing You onward to avoid the crushing reminder. So You began walking. And the Chronicler followed right behind, noting every step You took.
“The whole secret lies in confusing the enemy, so that he cannot fathom our real intent.”
― Sun Tzu, The Art of War