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The giant cuckoo clock on the wall strikes nine in a melodious, yet metallic-sounding cry.
The IPC does not go lightly in organizing parties and galas, especially with events with as much political meaning as this one holds. It is the 5th one Screwllum participates in: a celebration of the peace treaty between organic and inorganic factions. There is to be at least one per Amber Era, sometimes two if the Preservation takes long enough to strike THEIR hammer down again. There is some calculus involved in the planning of these events that Screwllum takes very little interest in. Leave it to the Astral Ecology School to care for, they are paid enough for it. After all, those events are particularly relevant for short-lived species, as Remembrance but also a warning to not throw away hard-won peace.
Many factions are present, such as the IPC, of course, the Xianzhou Alliance, or the Omen Vanguards. Even the Masked Fools are invited to participate every time. They rarely send a representative, however, something about being less fun to go to a party when you are invited. They did send a goat one time. The Xianzhou had to feed it, sit it at the table like a proper representative, and give it an allocated time for the pre-dinner speech, as is expected by proper protocol. This had been humorous indeed.
Another time they sent a warhead.
Which was found later to be non-functioning, but since then, people and security measures have been rather on the safer side.
Many smaller planets send representatives, as signatories of the treaty. The importance of the delegation generally says a lot about the political importance they have, within the universe but also as a contributor or not to the preparatory work. And well…
The representatives of the Philosopher Union come in a group of around 30 individuals, one of the biggest delegations after the IPC: all colorful drapes and gold jewelry: bracelets and chains, some heavy shoulder pieces, and other ornamental headwear accompanied by the clinking of their glasses. Some talk with friends and allies, but many stay in their place, all distinguished and displeased to find themselves amongst fools and enemies yet again. From money-grubbing IPC members to unfeeling machines. Screwllum serves himself a drink of Ambered colored machine oil, finding pleasures in the monotony and unchangingness of some aspect of human nature.
Organics truly are fascinating creatures.
After many Amber Eras of meetings and peace treaties, of diplomatic and military incidents. Here they are, less than a cold war, closer to a cold shoulder, but still, no friends to be found in wise scholars. Smart men they are; they do not escape the grudges of their ancestors.
It is fine; Screwllum does not need to be liked, and Intellitrons do not need to be loved. But He needs to be feared enough to not risk retaliation, and They need to become indispensable enough to eliminate any idea of inorganic destruction as an acceptable alternative. This, is why Screwllum graciously comes to every hosting of those “peace galas” between the different factions of the last Emperor War. Every time he presents himself to them, there is one more Intellitron present as an IPC executive, as a guard, as a merchant, or as a politician. More than peace, this is the true design of this social indulgence.
Yet, the Philosopher Union, again and again, proves to be a rusty cog in his well-oiled machine.
Not a problem, just a setback. He has never been mad or annoyed about it truly, and if he had been, this would have been a pleasure even greater than the challenge they already offer. Normally, the chitons would spread around a bit. Not next to any Intellitron, no, especially not next to the few Screwllumites in attendance. There has been instances of talks with them, but it was truly more cases of mistaken identity than the deliberate seeking of any inorganic entity. Which, every year, seems to be less a question of holding grudges and more of an issue of tradition held by the older generations given the younger ones. He knows of disagreements and controversies within the Laurel Wreath Galaxy; it is only a matter of time. Screwllum is old, by organic standards; he can bear to wait for a few Amber Eras again to see the slow and steady erosion of long-seated hatred and resentment.
No enemy has won against the inevitable march of time.
And he is a very patient man.
But it seems time is to arrive sooner than expected tonight.
Screwllum has been entertaining some Xianzhou delegation members for half an hour now, amused by the body language of a young foxian trying to diplomatically get an agreement out of him on some aspect of mechanical and organic technology consultation. His ears and tail movements revealed millions of thoughts and moods going through him during this hopeful yet fruitless conversation.
He is intimidated by Screwllum. Most people are.
This is how it goes for Genius Societies members; this is how it goes for rulers; this is how it goes for "war heroes". Screwllum has been ascribed to all those characteristics, and in a social relationship, they matter greatly. A sudden raising of voice came from behind him, and he turns around to look.
There is a commotion in the Philosopher Union delegation.
Those are not necessarily rare, coming from a population that holds debating to the status of a national sport. There has been videos coming out on social medias, of a wrestling match happening in the amphitheater of the Union Assembly to settle matters concerning a legal provision. Something about the conviction of the mind speaking better through the body.
In the middle of the agitation, one man.
His head is ornamented with the leaves of the high order on each side of his head, but his clothes are rather plain for an event like this. A diplomat? A simple scholar maybe.
The golden leaves are weaved through a head full of delicate purple curls, longer than the hairs of the rest of the delegation and his robes are a deep blue, with gold thread running through the garment. He could appreciate good quality and decent craftsmanship from there. Screwllum has an appreciation for good clothes that not many around him seem to share; there is a world of difference between expensive and quality, and some IPC executives wearing gaudy watches ought to be taught this.
The man is taken in a low yet heated conversation with a few of his comrades—his companions seemed heated at least; he seemed calm enough— before he suddenly turned his face to the side to directly look at Screwllum.
Oh.
Such an intense and piercing gaze. Not one of surprise, fear, or contempt. A curious and analytical stare that seems to try to see through the composition of his alloy and the placement of his gears. It couldn’t, of course.
Yet.
Screwllum looks back, inclining his head a few degrees and lift his glass a bit as a toast.
The man raises an eyebrow before inclining his head a few millimetres on the side. He let out a few sentences, turning the older man in front of him red with shame. Or anger, there is no way to tell from there.
And then the man promptly turns around and walks towards him.
He excuses himself, politely, of course; from his unfortunate conversation partner, who did not notice the turn of events, too anxious was he in being listened to, and turned around to look at the man.
“Mr. Screwllum, you are a hard man to find.” The man's voice is rich and confident with a vague haughtiness that amusedly reminds him of his dear friend Herta. He turns to his left to catch his eye, "It is very nice to make your acquaintance, Mr...?
“Veritas Ratio,” answers the man. Veritas for truth in one of the Laurel shared dialects, as his translator seems to detect. It is always interesting how the synesthesia beacon differentiates between names and nouns when they can be used interchangeably. Truth is a choice name for a diplomat, certainly. “I wish to greet you on behalf of the Philosopher Union delegation. It is, after all, a day of peace celebration, isn’t it? We ought to be grateful to one of the leading reasons.”
“Mr. Ratio, then. It would be my deepest wish to return the greetings, but I have an inquiry. Is it on behalf of your delegation you are greeting me or on your own?” Screwllum make a deliberate turn of his head briefly towards the Philosopher representatives, some seething and others looking at him, then Ratio, in different levels of appalled and entertained. “Affirmation: I do not think the delegation is inclined to greet me.”
Ratio looks back at the delegation with a scolding stare akin to a mother towards her children. Most of them immediately turns around or looked away.
Hm.
“Well, as the one leading this diplomatic mission, I would like to think my voice means a bit more than theirs. Some fools have an unhealthy attachment to antiquated ideas, and others have yet to learn to know when to listen and when to discard the antiquated words of their elders. But who am I to go against the opinion of the majority after all, hm?”Ratio scoffs, turning in his hand one of the delicate wine glasses—with a content more adapted to an organic palate than Screwllum’s—in his hand.
That hand is elegant, with well-trimmed nails and jewelry of beautiful craftsmanship decorating fingers and wrists. Heavy bracelets, with chains meeting carved rings. But those are a callused hand. A fighter maybe? But from the placement of the calluses and the multiple yet repetitive and delicate scars, an artist or a craftsman. That, allied to the muscles of the man, leads him to believe it is not the hands of a diplomat or politician.
“Inquiry: What makes a man disinterested in a political career like you become head of a diplomatic mission?” asks Screwllum, deliberately ignoring the buzzing of the conversation around him. He knows gossip is being spread and pictures taken. A representative of the Philosopher Union talked to Screwllum in an official capacity. That is a conversation he will indulge in, even if he was not already curious about the man, at the very least for the positive press that will follow it.
The golden eyes of the man alight at the question, his mouth raising to the side—not an expressive individual—in a small delight. He is revelling in being discovered, and while Screwllum knows he was ill-prepared in reading organic body language and expression, he could swear he caught a twinkle on the side of his face. He puts his head to the side:
“What gave me away, Mr. Screwllum? Is it my behavior or my dress?” Ratio asks coyly, his expression a bit mischievous, like he and Screwllum are on a good joke together. Might as well.
“Explanation: your hands, actually. Outside of a peculiar hobby, I have never seen diplomats with such callouses. I would assume a craftsman, some form of organic or inert material carving, but the callus on your right middle finger and the bit of leftover ink you seem to have leftover under your bed nail let me think something of a writer. Unusual in the era of pads, surely, but I have heard the creative process to be a highly tailored preference in organics,” answers Screwllum. “Simple deduction and highly detailed imagery.”
“A teacher, in Veritas Prime we still favor some form of hand-written examination, and it seems only fair to mark them. I have a marble carving hobby, learned from a specialist at the university who comes from Plato, where it is a rather popular pastime. Generally not as famous with politicians, though, which is why you would not find any other hand in this room with similar scars,” explains Ratio, sipping a bit of wine at the end. Screwllum could not help but commit all that information to memory: it is probably not hard to find if someone was to dig a bit, but it is freely given. And in this diplomatic minefield, it is an opening a door. “5 points for the excellent deduction, Mr. Screwllum, but I suppose I shouldn’t have expected less from a Genius.”
Ratio smirks at that last word, seemingly implying something that Screwllum did not have enough context to understand.
Screwllum is a bit perplexed and probably a bit frazzled by this encounter. This is unexpected, which is unusual and, as such, delightful. What a strange mystery of a man, so pleased to be opened up and analyzed under the unfeeling stare of a Genius, the cold stare of an inorganic lifeform. 5 points? How bold.
How interesting.
“Affirmation: Genius I am; all-knowing I am not after all. Thank you for enlightening me, Mr. Ratio. Inquiry: Allow me to reiterate, but why does a teacher, such as yourself, moonlight as a diplomat"
The man's face makes a strange grimace, seemingly implying annoyance. This seems somehow more fitting than a smile on this face.
“Unimportant, but, if you must know, I had my hand forced by a few people due to a political position I am apparently to assume. I think they are regretting it as we speak.” said Ratio in a mirthful tone as he was, indeed, speaking to a regrettable individual.
Screwllum couldn’t help but chuckle.
“Is this why you came to me? To create a political incident out of revenge?”
If it is the case, Screwllum wouldn’t be mad; it would probably be the highlight of this event.
Ratio looks at him pensively.
“No, that is not why. Well, that is a motivator certainly, but I have no care for what my fellows think; I am a bit bored, and you were just very conveniently there to distract me from the prattling of a diplomatic operation that seemed to be mostly about gossip, business deals, and gossip about business deals. You also seemed barely listening to that poor Foxian man, and I ought to save you and him from respective boredom and further embarrassment.”
The foxian man was indeed embarrassing himself; the deal would have been downright terrible for Screwllum, as the compensation was uninteresting and unneeded, it is work that could be done by a half-competent mechanic. Screwllum did not get into the Genius Society because of his passion for uninteresting work.
Screwllum was preparing an answer to this when, from the corner of his eye, he caught Cobalt's stare.
Cobalt, his indispensable chief communication officer, is in the middle of the room, entertaining a small army of IPC members with his perfectly tuned jokes and calculated body language. They found themselves a passion for public speaking, and who was Screwllum to deny its subject to cultivate their talents?
If he got himself an excellent mediator out of it, this is perfectly inconsequential and highly beneficial.
Screwllum sent him a transmission for information on “Veritas Ratio” through the direct system they both have on since they left their diplomatic suits for this gala. Cobalt is currently linked to the Interastral and Planet Screwllum databases. The reason why Screwllum isn’t linked to it directly is simply practical: where Cobalt can afford to fumble in the middle of a sentence because of processing, research problems, or information overload, Screwllum can not. However unlikely that would be. So he delegates.
He receives the answer nearly immediately.
The folder Veritas Ratio is surprisingly heavy, and the more Screwllum read through, the more he is surprised that he had not heard of that name before. It is like it has been deliberately hidden for those who did not seek it. Of course, the time it took for all this to pass is hardly perceptible for organics: information exchange, analysis, and classification being incredibly fast for machines as advanced as Screwllumites. And no inorganic still alive is more advanced than Screwllum.
Yet he cannot help but think that despite the milliseconds it took for him to receive and process all this information, Veritas Ratio saw and knows what happened. His gaze is thoughtful, and the raised eyebrow spoke not of distrust but seems to say, “Well, are you done now?”
While they are talking on the side of the room, the live band—truly an orchestra, the IPC is excessive—present for the occasion, started playing something more danceable than vaguely jazzy tunes. He catch his answer back and, after examining the man in front of him, patiently waiting with a nearly empty glass of wine, decides to take a page out of the Trailblazer book and try out impulsivity for a change. Original situations call for original solutions after all, especially when the problem is so exciting.
“Mr. Ratio, may I have this dance?
The little IPC woman who has been spying on their conversation while shoveling disgustingly overpriced appetizers in her mouth nearly chokes at hearing the question and is immediately assisted by two frazzled servers. Ignoring her coughing noises, Screwllum helds the golden gaze of the man in front of him.
For the first time since they started talking, Ratio seems caught off guard, looking at the hand before him, uncertain, and cheeks a bit pink somehow.
“Screwllum, I—”
Screwllum slowly lowers his hand; maybe that was too forward; some cultures and people take longer than others to warm up after all. Dancing can be a highly intimate activity. Yet, Screwllum couldn’t help but be a bit disappointed.
Until Ratio caught his hand.
“I would be honored, Mr. Screwllum. I, um, please excuse my manners; I haven’t been invited to dance in… a while. Please be patient with me; I think my dancing skills might be, excuse the pun, rusty, so to say.”
The Ratio he has in front of him is one trying to come back to the original mask of arrogance and control he had a few seconds earlier and failing. Screwllum couldn’t help it, but whoever Veritas Ratio was, looking at the man all red, hesitant and frazzled, he has never met someone so…cute .
Ratio held his hand more firmly and followed him on the dance floor, ignoring the double takes people make while passing them. Screwllum is pretty sure he saw a woman in a red peplos raise two thumbs up to Ratio, who deliberately did not look at her.
Screwllum does not dance often he knows how, of course. And at the difference of organic minds, his is not one susceptible to forgetting. Still, as he places his hand on the back of his partner, taking care to not touch the vast expanse of skin left open on his back by the himation , he could not help but delight in the foreign sensation of an organic body against his. The drapes and the leather of his gloves allows him to still feel a bit of warmth created by his body. Screwllum is taking his cue from Ratio. He does not necessarily assume he is to lead; many male-presenting individuals tend to assume the leading role, as this is how they were socialized and formally trained. But visibly, Ratio assumes he would, so that’s what he does. It’s a rather slow dance as it is, with movement around the room but giving the ability to talk to competent dancers.
And Ratio is, surprisingly or unsurprisingly, Screwllum can never tell with this delightful man, a competent dancer.
Not perfect No, he is a bit too rigid, his muscles locked too tight to allow for the more flexible movement. But he is familiar with it and practiced in the steps. And he does not seem to mind the activity much.
“Do you enjoy dancing, Mister Ratio?”
The handsome face in front of him is focused, not looking at his feet per se, but checking from time to time that he is not going to walk on Screwllum's polished shoes. Screwllum would like to tell him that he owns enough pairs to be able to change them for a year straight without redundancy. Or that he has access to some of the most precise repair technology that could make any accessory have a complete factory reset that could not be differentiated by experts. But he has a feeling that talking about it would just be more embarrassing for his—debatably willing—dance partner.
“I saw you talking with your chief communication officer earlier. I would like to know, Mister Screwllum, what did you learn about me?” asks Ratio, looking him in the eyes, a bit more confident in his footing now that they have done a few turn.
“Concession: I simply asked them to find information on the individual Veritas Ratio, and they delivered.”
Ratio just keeps looking at him inquisitively.
“Your academics and scientific achievements are exceptional and many.” Screwllum did not mention that he was a bit surprised the Erudition did not turn THEIR gaze toward the man. A keen and curious mind like this would sound like a perfect match. Maybe if he talks to Herta, they could…not yet. Too many variables are yet unanswered. “And you seem to be a favorite for the role of Philosopher King, if I am to trust the newspaper, numerous speeches, and comparative political essays on the matter?” The future leader of a galaxy, you would want to know and meet interastral leaders beforehand; already made relationships would sit a sovereign more comfortably on a throne.
“Affirmation: You do not want it. Question: Why?”
Ratio makes a face at this, scoffing, with a vaguely disgusted pout.
“Ah, yes, power. People seem to be desiring it so much that I should probably try it out, just to see if it has something to it.’ replies Ratio sarcastically. “Tell me, Mister Screwllum, is it enjoyable being king? Is it something you would recommend to another being? All the power and the money in the world, is it worth it?”
While the question was asked in jest, he could tell Ratio would hear his answer, so he thought about it properly. This is a question he does ask himself after all, but their circumstances are also substantially different.
“Answer: It would depend, Mr. Ratio, on what kind of leader you would intend to be. Would you be uncaring and irresponsible, or would you take your role with grace and honor? The throne fits the man, not the other way around.” Screwllum adds cheekily “Following: I think creating your people, planet, and particularly legal system helps a lot in matters of decisions.”
Ratio breath out a chuckle, letting his hand relax a bit around Screwllum’s own.
“If you aren’t to be a king, what do you see yourself as, Mister Ratio?”
“A teacher.” It comes out of his mouth immediately, like a confession, without a second thought. “I am a teacher, and a teacher is the one curing fools from their ailment of idiocy. Even if I have taught one fool to think in my entire life, it would be one fool less on this plane of existence.”
A teacher, of course, a teacher, a man who teaches and scolds and leads by example. How could he be anything else? And how could Nous look at this desire to help others and recognize in it the obsession for knowledge found in Geniuses? Screwllum is not blind to his faults, and this greed of wanting to know more, wanting to see and understand, not for a particular goal but to simply satisfy that burning desire, is one.
This might be the ultimate reason Nous looks at them, as greedy and unstoppable they are. And when he looks at Ratio, passion, and morals meeting in a fiery explosion, he wants.
“Inquiry: Tell me, Mister Ratio, wouldn’t the King be the biggest teacher of men?”
“You wouldn’t be wrong, but there is only so much I can teach and I can learn in a context that is so familiar. A teacher is a student before anything.” Interestingly humble, to know is to be aware of your ignorance. “The Union, despite praising erudition and academic exchanges, does not know much of realities outside of its borders. It shares but doesn’t take. They would know maybe then that the inorganic threat they keep harping about has long been overrun by different yet just as dangerous ones. And hating his neighbor makes the man blind to the one burning his house down.” he spit out this last sentence like a curse. This is a discussion he has had many times, and many times has been disappointed in the answer.
Screwllum does not answer this; he agrees, of course, but he does not care for teaching others.
“For all my opinion is worth, Veritas, I believe you would make a great leader of men.”
The delicious redness he saw earlier appeared on Veritas's cheeks once again.
Sincere compliments, truly? Is it that easy?
And as they turn, they talk. Politics, philosophical ideas, and scientific understanding. Some knowledge overlaps and some specializations are notably distinct. For a follower of the Erudition, it is knowledge, all the same, the true and real power. And under the warmth of the heavy chandeliers, Veritas's eyes glow a tint Screwllum would liken to molten gold. He is blooming with life, passionately outspoken, and caring, more even than he wants to admit.
“You Geniuses, you think too big! You focus so much on the horizon you do not notice the answer might be next to you. For every Aeon, there is a path, and for every path, there is a path rider. If you cannot get to the Aeon, go smaller.”
That is an idea, yes. That is a fascinating idea; maybe Herta wouldn’t mind if he asked this now, would she? She can certainly be convinced after all.
“Veritas, would you be interested in—?”
BOOOOM
The ballroom suddenly shook in the aftermath of an explosion. The music stopped just as abruptly with glasses clinking and crashing against each other, and guests talking and screaming everywhere.
Veritas has pressed against his body, looking around alarmed at the cackling laugh coming out of every side of the room, akin to an evil-sounding doll. Vertas disengaged slightly from Screwllum and their dancing position, visibly going to help or learn more about the incident.
So this is it? Where they part.
Screwllum, his hand still on the man’s open back, loath to see him go. He tightens the hold on his waist, stopping him from moving further away. No, that wouldn't do. The other man looks at him questioningly as Screwllum gets his faceplate closer to his face, scrutinising as his pupils dilate and his cheeks color a soft pink.
“Deduction: There is an 86% chance of a Masked Fools attack. I have been waiting for them to start something since the beginning of the celebration. Explanation: They enjoy causing chaos too much to stay away. It was only a matter of when.”
Veritas settles down a bit, his shoulders lowering as well as the frown smoothing from his delicate traits.
“Ah, fools.” He answers in a deadpan tone, "How boring a world it would be without them indeed.”
Screwllum couldn’t help but chuckle. And for the second time this evening, he decides to meet the impulse overtaking his circuits:
“Mr. Ratio, I believe this gala is over, and most important speeches already happened.” Screwllum holds Veritas' right hand higher in front of him in the parody of a hand kiss, caressing the soft skin on the back against his glove. “Inquiry: Would you rather join your fellows, or may I invite you to finish this evening in a more intimate setting?”
Veritas looks quickly towards his delegation, the crowd of colored togas running around like headless chickens, without much of a goal, and then turns to look at Screwllum with an amused expression on his face, eyes full of heat.
“I might be convinced, Mr. Screwllum.”
If Screwllum had a mouth, he would have smiled.
Screwllum did not take lovers.
Not often, at least; in his few amber eras of life, there has been few.
Dr. Veritas Ratio can now be added to the count.
Screwllum learned two things from this encounter: the redness on Veritas did go further than his neck, and Screwllum's favorite sounds now include the breathy words of a an argumentative man suddenly cut by a moaning curse.
Under the hungry golden eyes, and the mouth around his ungloved fingers, he couldn’t help but caress the cheek of tonight’s commotion.
A delight .
They separate at dawn, each going back to their delegation, trying to look inconspicuous, taking advantage of the chaos and the army of giant colorful chickens that happened during that short time period.
Looking at the lack of tabloids on their behavior this evening, the Masked Fools might have stolen their thunder. Screwllum is somehow disappointed. He is under the suspicion that all the Screwllumites he took with him knew somehow, Cobalt refusing to look him directly in the eyes the whole flight, and Bolt, his secretary, couldn’t help but comment on his lack of tie in an unusually joyful manner.
Well, if that amuses them to see him like this, Screwllum did not mind. They all ought to find their fun somewhere after all.
The return home is uneventful, and life keeps on as usual, but the number recorded in his system, while taking barely any space, feels surprisingly heavy in his mind. He finds himself multiple times using processing power to examine it and find the different tints of purples held by the curls in his mind.
He does not hear a word about Veritas Ratio. For a month.
Until he does.
Screwllum is looking at the interastral news outlets, taking in the important and interesting news of the universe: from IPC broadcasts to more local journals and paying particular attention to academic articles. That is when he saws the picture, not on a main story but under the scientific news categories.
“Dr. Veritas Ratio to join the Intelligentia Guild: An unexpected but valuable addition
In a surprising twist, the very famous Veritas Ratio of the Philosopher Union, a well-known favorite for the role of Philosopher King, has seemingly abdicated from the running by leaving the planet and joining the Intelligentsia Guild as an official representative for the new semester beginning in the fall. This is a very lucky addition to the Guild: for those who do not flirt with academic circles, Veritas Ratio is an interastrally famous scholar who has a pedigree of 8 doctorates, 6 coming from the University of Veritas Prime, where he has been teaching as a professor for 15 years already. Luckily for his students, he is not leaving them hanging…”
Screwllum doesn't finish the article. However, he does connect to his phone and open the contact that had been sitting empty of messages for a month now.
“Dear Dr. Ratio, it seems congratulations are in order. When you have some time to spare for me, we might be able to go over some interesting subjects and projects that I believe you would find value in spending time on.”
Three little dots appeared immediately at the bottom of the screen.
“When,” how bold Mr. Screwllum.”
A second message immediately follows.
“I can imagine the calendar of a Genius must be rather adaptive, so here is mine. I have already put down days I am not available.”
[joint document: Personal-calendar.ex]
As always with this man, Screwllum could not help but be pleased. And as he ran calculations, he could also not help but focus on the closest date he could find.
Something in him is growing; he is unsure what it is, but he couldn't help but want to get to the root of it.
Isn’t this what a Society Genius is after all?
Unrelentingly seeking more.