Quinn lets out a slow breath and opens the notebook.
The paper is thick beneath his fingers. The ink sits deep in the page, pressed in with steady pressure. The handwriting is precise and controlled.
He starts reading.
It takes him longer than it should to notice something is wrong.
The words aren't written in the language Quinn or He knows. The shapes are different. The structure unfamiliar.
And yet—
He understands them.
Not fluently or effortlessly, but enough that meaning settles before confusion has time to rise.
That realization baffles him for a moment before he settles, it is not the weirdest thing that has happened today, hell he is in a new body.
The first pages are brief and clean, almost instructional.
They speak of Vectors, he knows little of them, but he recalls them slightly in the many new memories he has.
But here unlike in the memories, Vectors are not spoken of as callings, they are spoken of as if they are directions.
Directions.
As he reads the word he stops for a half beat, all the things he knows of Vectors say something other, as if they are callings, but the word he reads completely contradicts that, it makes his head begin to ache as he tries to wrap his mind around it in the thoughts of Quinn. The ache slowly stops and his eyes refocus, he begins to read once more, starting from where he had left off.
A Vector is not a calling.
It is not a destiny.
It is the direction power takes once awakened.
He nods; the book says exactly what he thought it would, he continues, everything foreign to him, now including Quinn.
The writing lists several common ones. Watcher. Witness. Bearer. Listener. Each followed by short descriptions—not abilities nor feats, just tendencies. What they incline toward and what they might become.
There's no boasting in it, nor a promise of strength, it just speaks of the trajectory one would follow.
He turns the page.
The tone shifts slightly—less certain and more clinical.
States are listed next, Quinn is familiar with the terms of states and that the lower the number the 'stronger' an individual, after that his memories stop, like they are shrouded in a fog, he leaves his thoughts and questions before he goes back to the book, hoping something might unshroud the fog.
Eleven through Eight.
Eleven: Unawakened.
Ten: Touched.
Nine: Opened.
Eight: Controlled.
The wording is simple and stripped down which he hoped it wouldn't be.
Most never leave Eleven.
Many fail at Nine.
Eight is where belief becomes mistake.
He reads it twice to fully grasp it.
A faint pressure gathers behind his eyes, but it never fully forms into pain like before. It lingers there instead, like something waiting to see if it's needed.
He keeps reading and soon the structure breaks down even further.
The writing grows uneven, sentences run longer and margins fill with smaller script; rigid notes pressed into whatever space remains.
The topic shifts.
Anomalies & Creatures
He stops for a moment on the page, his interest piqued as he searches through Quinn's memories to find any mentioning of such things and once again, he meets fog, he shrugs it off for now and continues reading though something itches at the back of his skull.
Descriptions. He begins to read but there is no listing for what is tied to what, so he just assumes.
Some are drawn toward awakenings.
Some are created by failed containment.
Some are born when a mind cannot reconcile two truths at once.
His jaw tightens slightly before he continues to try and read what becomes a mess of scribbles and tangents.
They are not invaders.
They are the consequences.
A faint chill runs down his spine as he makes out the words before the scribbles cease and the handwriting grows sharper, the page teared in some places despite its thickness.
The longer an anomaly persists, the more it learns the shape of what surrounds it.
Something in him compels him to close the notebook as and before he realizes the notebook is snapped shut and, on the desk, he stares down at it going to open it, but his hand does not move.
The room remains quiet, the lamp steady, and the rain is still tapping softly against the glass before lightning strikes, and he gets snapped out of his thoughts, now finally becoming aware of something.
He never questioned the language, something inside of him did but he himself did not.
Not once.
The thought lands heavier than the content of any of the pages.
He now looks around the study, eyes moving across the shelves. There are more books here, older ones, thicker, some worn at the corners.
His attention drifts from the notebook in front of him and he wonders if the ones on the shelves are also in different languages.
He reaches toward the shelf nearest the desk.
Something taps against the window.
Soft and singular.
He freezes.
The rain continues its steady rhythm. The lamp hums faintly.
Another tap, firmer this time, clearly not rain.
He slowly turns his head toward the glass.
And the room, which has been patient until now—
waits.