SECRET 412 Chapter 5 — The Visitor in the Slate-Grey Coat

vote-com in #fun • 4 days ago (edited)

Chapter 5 — The Secret in the Suitcase
The titanic mass of the Mother-History advanced upon Val-d’Enbas like a living tide. Its luminescent hexagons constantly recomposed themselves, forming and deforming silhouettes: a wolf, a knight, a queen in flames, a burning city… all swallowed and remade in an infinite loop. It was as if it were recycling all the stories of the world to make a single one—its own.

Naïma felt her throat tighten. She was no storyteller, no prophet, just a police captain with a faithful dog and a broken whistle. Yet, she stood on the front line facing a cosmic monster made of narratives.

The three mice of the multiverse trembled at the foot of the fir tree, clutching their instruments. The pocket watch had stopped, frozen at exactly midnight, while the town hall clock still ticked backwards. The translucent cheese shone like a miniature sun.

Abel, however, was motionless, his fingers gripping his suitcase.

“What are you hiding in there?” asked Naïma, her voice drier than she intended.
“Not a weapon,” he replied. “A possibility.”

He placed the suitcase in the snow. The lights from the tokens leaned towards it, as if the object attracted them more than anything.

“Then open it,” insisted Naïma.

Abel stared at her for a long time. His grey eyes were tired, but behind their calm shone a steel resolve.
“If I open it, there will be no turning back. The choice will belong to you, not to me.”

“Open it.”

He knelt and flicked the latches open.

Inside, Naïma discovered something she could never have invented, even in her strangest nightmares: a book. But not a normal book. Its pages vibrated like living membranes, covered in shifting characters that constantly recomposed themselves. Every time she blinked, the text changed: a child's fable became a police report, a Nordic legend morphed into an incident record, a love poem transformed into a newspaper article.

“What is that?” she whispered.

Abel gently stroked the cover.
“The Book of Beginnings. All stories exist within it, in seed form. That which has not yet been told, that which could be told, that which has been forgotten. It is the source and the mirror.”

“And why do you have it in a suitcase?”

An almost sad smile passed over his lips.
“Because I am not its author. Only its guardian.”

Naïma stepped back. She hated riddles.
“And how does that help us?”

Abel took a deep breath.
“To stop the Mother-History, we must oppose it with another story. But not just any story. A stronger, more universal one. A story that even she cannot swallow without choking.”

He turned his gaze toward the mice.

The three rodents had placed their instruments around the translucent cheese. The latter pulsed like a heart, each vibration resonating in the snow. Junon approached it and sniffed, fascinated.

The smallest of the mice, who seemed to be their spokesperson, lifted its head toward Naïma. Its tiny voice, however, resonated in every ear present.
“We have crossed a thousand worlds for it. In every era, in every dimension, the Ultimate Cheese takes another form: sometimes a simple wheel, sometimes a star, sometimes a secret. But its nature is the same: it concentrates the memory of taste, the essence of what connects beings.”

Naïma raised an eyebrow.
“Cheese to stop an apocalypse?”

Abel nodded gravely.
“Not ‘some’ cheese. The Ultimate Cheese. It is a universal symbol. Everyone understands the idea of shared food, of home, of flavor. Even the Mother-History, who devours everything, cannot appropriate what belongs to everyone.”

Louvel, still on his knees, lifted his head, tears on his cheeks.
“Of course… Cheese as an archetype. The meal, the table, the community. The history of humanity is that of campfires and shared dishes. It’s older than wars, stronger than kings.”

The mice nodded their tiny heads.
“If we place the Ultimate Cheese at the center of the Book of Beginnings, then the Mother-History will be forced to confront it. She will have to accept it… or dissolve.”

A roar shook the square. The Mother-History had just reached the gates of Val-d’Enbas. Its hexagonal body towered over the roofs, its shadow engulfed the decorated chalets. Children screamed, parents fled. Some were snatched by its luminous rays and disappeared, swallowed into its narratives.

The tokens, in a circle around the fir tree, amplified its chant.
“Ra… na… sha… no…”

The Book in the suitcase opened by itself. The pages turned at a frantic speed. Naïma felt like she saw thousands of stories flash by, as if all legends, all lives, were rushing to escape.

Abel placed the translucent cheese in the center of the book. Immediately, the characters stopped moving. The text froze. A single phrase appeared on the page:

“The story of a world gathering around the same meal.”

Light erupted.

A breath swept across the square. The tokens stopped dead. The Mother-History wavered. Its hexagons blurred, its forms faded. It tried to advance, but its steps distorted, as if it were walking on quicksand.

Louvel straightened up, his voice cracked but strong.
“Continue! Give it meaning!”

Naïma looked at Abel.
“And now?”

“Now, Captain, it’s your turn to tell the story.”

Naïma paled. Her? She was no storyteller. But the book vibrated in her hands, the cheese shone, the mice nodded, Junon barked as if to encourage her.

So, she took a deep breath and spoke.
“That evening, in a small, snow-covered town, despite their fear, the inhabitants gathered. They shared the same fire, the same bread, the same cheese. They understood that what bound them was not the fear of the shadow, but the warmth of the shared meal. And no monster, even one born from the oldest stories, could steal that from them.”

The Book blazed with light.

The Mother-History shrieked. Its hexagons shattered one by one. The tokens collapsed inert in the snow. The sky vibrated like a shattering pane of glass.

And, for a second, there was silence.

Then the fairy lights flickered back on. The town hall clock resumed its normal course. The crowd, first dazed, erupted in applause, tears, and cries of joy.

The mice packed up their instruments and bowed. Their cheese had disappeared, melted into the Book. Abel closed the suitcase.

Naïma, out of breath, ran a hand over her face. Junon rested her head against her thigh.
“So… is it over?”

Abel looked at her for a long time without answering. Finally, he said:
“No. It’s never over. Every story leaves traces. The Mother-History has retreated, but it still exists. And others will come.”

Louvel placed a hand on her shoulder.
“But tonight, you defeated it with a story that was simple, beautiful, human. And that, no monster can ever erase.”

Naïma smiled, exhausted.
“Then tell it well, Louvel. So it will be remembered.”

In the snow, the three mice were already looking at the sky. Their pocket watch began to turn again, and a crack of light opened in the air, a passage to another world. They raised a paw in farewell, then disappeared into the multiverse, in search of a new cheese.

Abel picked up the suitcase and closed it carefully.
“The Book has chosen its story. For now, we are safe.”

But in his grey eyes, Naïma saw something else shining. A worry. As if he knew this was only a respite before an even more terrible chapter.