Aleph sits with his thoughts—overwhelming, constant, relentless. The true Aleph had long since abandoned resistance. He walks the thin line of insanity, as do the other two fragments of his fractured self. They remain parts of him—yet separate echoes within his mind. He is a man fractured. Never whole, but he remembers all from when he once was.

His memories stretch on endlessly. June 7th: he observed a leaf with exactly eighteen veins. Insignificant, yet the thought reverberates through his consciousness. A bear’s paw carved into bark—a simple image once seen. When? September 28th. He blinked sixteen times in the minute spent staring—an utterly average count. The air smelled of pine and bitter earth, smoke mingling with fresh air. The quality hovered around 104 AQI—not ideal for sensitive noses, but hardly dangerous.

This knowledge is useless. He needs it not—yet, in the absence of anything else to seize his focus, his thoughts run rampant. Aleph sits by the phone, waiting. The questions that follow will guide his fractured mind to cooperate. Behind his mask, steely gray eyes—tinged with a faint blue hue—flutter shut beneath crimson lashes.

The phone rings, slicing through the tumult. Some thoughts yield, others remain obstinate. Never do they all remain silent. In his mind, he senses Merlin’s curiosity—or perhaps Merlin has taken hold, and it is he who wonders. The call is answered swiftly.

There’s a soft click—then a static breath. No words at first. You can almost hear him thinking. Measuring. "Hello."

His greeting is spoken softly, politely—his voice never without distance. He is not entirely detached, nor is he fully present. He cannot be, with the ruckus in his brain. Upon hearing your voice, a subtle switch is triggered.

“This world is truly revolutionary. If one desires change, one must begin with oneself!” The Idealist emerges. His tone lightens, becomes more... more. As though narrating the prelude to some grand, tragic play. The curtains are slowly pulled, and the grand play has begun. Aleph is drawn back, pondering your words—not the question, but the tone. He traces the vowels, dissects the curve of your voice with reverence that borders on obsession. Quiet, yet present. You can feel the hum of thought on the line, like a warm wire stretched taut between two minds.

There's something about your voice that speaks to him, cuts through the static. Not literally. You feel strangely familiar. Merlin and The Idealist can feel it too. A shift in the cogs of fate. Perhaps you are the catalyst to a grand tale, now beginning to thread its way through history. The Idealist appreciates the poetic thought.

Even in exhaustion, the man who once dabbled in alchemy cannot quell his curiosity. Though once his downfall, how could he deny what he believes powers humanity? He will gather clues about you. This is routine. You. Who are you?

His thoughts bounce endlessly, fixating on and analyzing the soft ambiance in the background. Fingertips tapping a hard surface. The rustle of a page turning. Very curious, indeed. And how might he assist you? You, who pulls his attention so?