RESERVOIR_OF_DEAD_DRAFTS

Chapter 5: The Reservoir of Dead Drafts

Climbing a book is harder than climbing a mountain.

Elara pulled herself up the golden stitching of The Spine. The "rope" was thick and braided, smelling of old glue and vanilla. Her burned left hand throbbed with every movement, a constant, screaming reminder that she was "interesting" enough to survive.

"Elevation: 4,000 feet," Unit 734 reported. The drone was struggling in the thin air, its rotor blades wheezing. "Oxygen levels critical. Ink levels... negligible."

"Don't remind me," Elara grunted, swinging her leg over a massive knot in the binding.

They were level with the body now.
Pinned to The Spine by a quill the size of a spear, the "Previous Protagonist" hung limp in the wind. Up close, he looked wrong. He was too perfect. Square jaw, rippling muscles, a tragic scar over one eye. He looked like a composite of every hero ever written.

"Draft Zero," the Librarian said, floating effortlessly beside them. "He was intended to be a Space Marine. Then a Wizard. Then a Detective. The Author couldn't decide, so he became a mess of contradictions. The plot collapsed under his weight."

Elara reached for the next rope, but her pen slipped from her pocket.
It tumbled, hitting the leather binding. Clack.
The clear barrel cracked.
The last few drops of black ink spilled out, staining the giant book spine, then evaporated into smoke.

"No," Elara gasped. She scrambled for the pen. It was empty. The nib was dry.

"Game over," Unit 734 stated flatly. "Without ink, we cannot manipulate the narrative. We are static characters."

"Librarian!" Elara shouted. "I need a refill! Give me a refill!"

The Librarian shook his head slowly. "Ink cannot be created here, Elara. It is the blood of the universe. It can only be... transferred."

He pointed a long finger at the dead man hanging next to them.
"Draft Zero didn't die of old age. He was cancelled. But he is still full of potential. Full of unused descriptions."

Elara looked at the corpse. She looked at the giant quill impaling his chest. Thick, black liquid was oozing from the wound. It wasn't blood. It was Ink. Pure, shimmering, unrefined Ink.

"You want me to... drain him?" Elara felt sick.

"It is what all writers do," the Librarian whispered, his voice sounding like tearing paper.

Elara looked at her empty pen. She looked at the infinite drop below her.
She reached out.

She pulled the giant quill slightly out of the corpse's chest.
SQUELCH.
A geyser of black ink erupted. Elara shoved her broken pen under the flow. The liquid defied gravity, swirling into the barrel, sealing the crack, filling it with a swirling, violent darkness.

The corpse’s eyes snapped open.
They were white, blank pages.

"Don't..." the corpse rasped. His voice sounded like a thousand different voices layered on top of each other. "Don't go up there. The Ending... it hasn't been written yet."

"I have to," Elara said, capping her now-full pen. She felt a surge of power—stronger than before. This wasn't just ink; it was recycled ink. It was heavy with history.

"He doesn't know how to finish it!" the corpse screamed, thrashing against the quill. "That's why we die! He gets bored! He abandons us!"

"I'm not a draft," Elara said, her voice hardening. She used the pen to stab into the leather binding, creating a handhold where there was none. A ladder appeared.

Rungs of iron burst from the spine, leading straight up into the clouds.

"I am the published version."

She began to climb the iron rungs, leaving the screaming draft behind.
The Librarian watched her go, a look of genuine curiosity on his eyeless face.

"She has started stealing," he noted to the drone. "She is becoming a true Author."