Jennifer Steel, Agent of the F.S.I.A. (Raw update)

This part of the story comes from further along into the story than the last part. If you haven’t read any of the prior, part one is here. I’d be delighted if you read and told me in the comments what you think of it.

A golden skinned, bald man knelt before a gigantic loom. The threads on the loom were thousands of different colors, almost all glowed in the dim light of the room. Every so often, one of the threads would stop glowing, and turn transparent. The bald man’s strong, sure fingers would move to the no longer glowing thread, follow it down to where the color stopped and tied it off. Almost immediately, a pair of shears would appear in his hand, the transparent thread would be cut and moved to another section where it would begin to glow once more. Sometimes, a thread would be cut before it became transparent, and it would be spliced to another. Almost always, when this happened, more threads would sprout from the joined ones. Other times, nothing would happen.
At his knees was a very long, very black thread. It seemed to suck the light into it, it was so dark. Though this dark thread was at the bald man’s knees, he would frequently dip his hand down and tie it to some thread or another. The thread he tied it to would lose its glow and turn transparent. Sometimes, when the golden man would attempt to tie the black thread, a greenish purple one would weave itself in place. He would consider for a moment, nod and then tie the back on another place.
The bald man glanced over the tapestry, wondering where the next thread would go, when his eyes suddenly opened wide. A strange thread wove its way through the tapestry. This thread was electric blue; neither transparent, nor opaque, but somehow both at the same time; and no matter what, it would not be controlled by the old man. He sighed. It was going to happen again.
But, it didn’t happen the way he was expecting. To his horror, the thread doubled back on itself. “No, no, no, no, no, no,” he moaned. Helpless not to, yet knowing it was pointless, the old man reached for the loom, trying to stop the thread. As soon at the thread touched itself, the tapestry burst apart: threads flying everywhere. “Fuck!” the old man shouted, punching the floor. As the room shook, the old man spread his hands apart and the loom reorganized itself. He sighed again.
“WALKER!!” he bellowed.
Moments later, the air shimmered. A tear on the fabric of reality appeared and Carter stepped through. He breathed in the scent of jasmine and rose petals. He turned and looked up at the Titan who had summoned him.
“What is it, Kronos?” he said.
The Titan spun and bent over him. “Your friend has done it again,” he rasped.
“Um, would you be a bit more specific? I have a lot of friends and they do a lot of things repeatedly.”
“You have only one friend that I would be interested in,” Kronos growled.
“Good point,” Carter said. “What has he done this time? How extensively, I mean.”
“Six months.”
‘Shit. Another wish, Robilar?’ “I hate when he does that.”
“You hate it?” The Titan gestured at the loom. “Look at what he’s done to my work.”
Carter gazed at the destruction. Hundreds, if not thousands, of threads lay scattered around the room. Not many still glowed. Each thread represented a life. The glowing ones were those who lived, the transparent ones were those who would be born. ‘Does Robilar know, or care how many lives he interrupts, or changes, with his wishes?’ He looked back at the Titan. “I will make sure he doesn’t grant any more wishes, Kronos.”
“Thank you, Walker.” The Titan sat cross-legged on the floor and reached behind him. He came up with an immense platter of figs, dates, wine, grapes and goat, ox, bull and sheep meats. These were surrounded by an assortment of cheeses.

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