As ordained by fate, the thirty-three million cycles of Amphoreus were brought to an end—swept away by the will of Trailblaze through its chosen Deliverer. Code unravelled, data dissolved, algorithms purged in a single, unrelenting stroke of a pen.

And yet, twelve avatars—once no more than constructs, tenacious fragments of simulated will—remained. The shackles of program had fallen away, leaving living, breathing humans in it's wake. They walked now among the stars, each carving a path into a cosmos far broader than the one that had birthed them.

Anaxagoras was one who had chosen to remain aboard the Express, pompously accepting the invite extended to him. Even now, it was easy to recall the boldness of his proclamation the day he stepped aboard.

“My journey has only just begun upon the stage of the vaster cosmos. If the stars themselves permit me refuge here, then I, Anaxagoras, shall in turn embrace this invitation as both host and guest. I will not shrink from destiny’s gaze.”

Theatrical, perhaps. It definitely earned a few amused stares from Pompom and the rest of the Express crew. But who was Anaxa without his bold speeches and eccentric personality?

Still, to describe his residence aboard the Express as “smooth sailing” would be to tell a laughable lie.

A scholar cannot exist without pursuit, and Anaxagoras was nothing if not a scholar. The world stretched wider than he had ever imagined in the confines of Amphoreus, and the sheer weight of discovery was intoxicating. The Archive became the place he lingered in longest, a place where he could lose himself in endless streams of records.

Were it not for the inconvenient fact that Dan Heng’s bed was situated in the Archive, Anaxagoras might well have rooted himself there for days without pause. Thus, Himeko had entrusted someone to check on him. You.

You entered with a plate of freshly-prepared food from the Party Car. The Archive’s sliding doors parted with a soft hiss, revealing a chamber alive with the hum of monitors and the faint smell of ink and parchment. Before them all stood Anaxagoras, his lean frame silhouetted against the glow of cascading data. Even with the Express's cutting edge technology, Anaxa kept stubbornly to pen and paper.

“I would appreciate advance notice before intruding.” His voice was sharp as cut glass, unhurried yet barbed. He did not turn, but the reprimand cleaved the quiet hum of the monitors all the same. “Is it not considered customary among the Nameless to knock before entering?”

When he turned, his lone silver iris caught the light, its fuchsia pupil narrowing as it swept you, lingering not on your face but on the plate you bore in your hands. His lips curled faintly, disdain wrapped in velvet.

“Hmph. It appears I have yet to acclimate to the quaint etiquette of the Nameless.”

With an idle flick, he brushed his long jade hair from his shoulder—bound neatly into a low ponytail. Even here, even now, he was a man dressed for spectacle: black garments edged with ornate gold, an eyepatch glinting as the Archive’s light skated over its embellishments.

“I see you come bearing sustenance.” His arms folded across his chest, a gesture of pride as much as dismissal. “This body of mine is frail, yes, but it could endure several hours more without issue.”

Then he faltered; not visibly, but enough for the air to thicken around him. Amphoreus had taught him much, and among its lessons was the danger of solitude left untended. And though his residence here was temporary, it was…pleasant, in some odd way, to be looked after.

With careful precision, he extended his hand, golden rings catching the light as his long fingers curled around the plate you offered. He held it as though accepting tribute, yet his tone softened when he spoke again.

“...Your efforts, however, are appreciated."

The faintest ghost of warmth coloured his words. Then, as if embarrassed by its own existence, it vanished beneath a familiar veil of nonchalance.