Zeroth Directive

Archive II

Operator Heidi has been extremely frank about keeping her real name since formally onboarding with Rhodes Island, stemming from her amicable relationship with Dr. Kal'tsit. Pay just a little attention when you're in Victoria, and you can find the name Heidi Thomson crop up from time to time in newspapers' literature and arts columns, or maybe on a romance novel bookshelf. However, should you ask the bookshop's owner about it, you'll find her few novels have hardly sold well; they've sat there piling up forever. By her very same sincerity, perhaps, Heidi did not do with Rhodes Island as she does when visiting noble residences, bringing her works with her as a meeting gift. Though she never made it big as an author, it was in fact her maiden work that got her foot in high society's door, and from there mingled with the aristocrats wherever they gathered. This can be principally attributed to her family name already having enough renown in the Victorian literary sphere. Plenty of the gentry are old friends with her father, and so they show every courtesy to the young author continuing her father's work, often bidding her to appreciate works and publish commentaries, so as to keep up her appearances. The vast majority commend Heidi's talent in succeeding her father on the literary front, believing her book sales are simply laid low by misfortune; a small portion are frank to point out that 'she's unable to escape her father's aura.' However, Golding, whom Heidi frequently exchanges letters with, scoffs at these evaluations. 'How do others see Heidi? That's hardly important, nor does she mind. She herself chose the position of third-rate novelist. She deliberately covers life up with fictitious writing. What you see is hardly the end of her talents. I know where it is she's set on pouring her true works and ideas. It's a shame how one's private letters are forever bound to be made public posthumously, no earlier.' 'Why is this the way she does things? The present situation in Victoria is one reason, and the other... I say you ask yourselves that, Rhodes Island.'

Archive III

Neither the paperboy running through the street nor the mover hauling a heavy container knew Heidi, nor did they know what exact technology was reclaiming the old mines' industrial equipment. The letters passed through their hands without word or whisper, arriving at either Victorian nobles' desks, or the gloves of checkpoint officials. Through several months of arrangement and bribery by Heidi, the Rhodes Island landship gained the ostensible status of 'organization for scrap reclamation,' and swiftly passed all border checkpoint inspections, staying incognito under Theresis' surveillance, all to enter Victoria and approach Londinium. For many years, the network of contacts Heidi and her father have built in Victoria has relayed info precisely as such. The Messenger accepts intel to be entered into information storage equipment, delivers it to the resident Dr. Kal'tsit at Rhodes Island, and then launches into action based on the reply. —Those Operators who've heard of this Messenger's activities prefer to imagine Heidi as cunning and sharp, easily all things to all people, but the reality is that, onboarded at Rhodes Island, Heidi seems unexpectedly relaxed. If she has free time, you can simply ask her for the behind-the-scenes on her intel work, and she'll unabashedly tell you story after vivid story, like how she got to know a Count thanks to his taste in a brooch, or how she shrugged off the surveillance without blinking in the streets of Londinium. Moreover, all the Self-Salvation Corps members working with Rhodes Island can testify that at the very least, the part once she enters Londinium is an absolutely real tale. 'Has she ever mentioned Ella? Sorry, maybe I shouldn't be asking, but... see, we all know it wasn't Heidi's fault she died, and we completely understand how her choice was for the greater good. Heidi, though... *sigh* Look, I've seen how she unwinds around the Rhodes operators. She really does. So I'm just hoping she can chat with somebody about all of it.' —Citizens' Self-Salvation Corps member who did not give their name

Archive IV

[A personal letter] ...from now on, she'll be the Thomsons' new Messenger. Since she first met you years ago, she's been ardent about wanting to correspond personally with you—to consult you on all those profusely imaginative issues of hers so particular to the youth. I think it'll be far better to make her your student, rather than let her keep using you as a character template in all her childish stories. She's at the proud, arrogant age now, and won't take a single word of advice from me. You'll see once you receive her own letters. I say that of it all she knows precisely the half of it; she postulates and conjectures far too much about the facets of the great land you unveil in your letters, not to mention the extravagance of her ambitions. We aspire wildly so in our younger years. It's time she sees it all for herself. I won't deny she is prepared in part. She showed a great deal of sharp wit when we took up the Duke on his invitation; she adopted an ignorance appropriate to her age as a cover, to inquire about a great deal quite ingeniously. Moreover, she's shown quite the timely talent for endearing others. Not that I can say it's been deliberate of her—only that she's had quite the words for me about my methods ever since I changed professions, so every time a stranger greets me on old literary circle business, she's there lukewarm, and insists on giving her own opinion or two. You know my views. I'd rather she not write a word, speak not a thing about this, and I don't like her using 'literature' as her stepping stone into the noble circles. Most of it is to spite me; she's at the stage where she willingly has me read all the gibberish she pens. She hasn't yet truly set foot into these lands, hence how feathery and hollow most of her writing is. I say gibberish with no exaggeration. But there is a redeeming quality. The one and only, being... the footprints that stretch into the oak forests beyond the snow, the oil that trickles about the seams of our capital's brickwork, the whistles from freighters as they dock in the haze. It is not my wish that these phrases constitute homesickness for her some day in the future, let alone for the Victorians one and all. Perhaps more practical terms will do. How long until we no longer have the written word to read? Even here in our remote Toron, the people can sense the dark clouds gathering over the throne, the earth tremoring, the present sprouting of the seeds the 'great figures' planted long ago. Kal'tsit, how much longer do you believe we still have to prepare? She trusts in every word you say, and I trust that'll you'll guide her where she needs to go.

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