The Recordist

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History Is Written By the Losers

Presently they arrive in some sort of encampment, albeit one with solar panels mounted everywhere, presumably to power the electric lights strung all over the place. They're marched into what appears to be some sort of HQ tent, where the presumable commander orders them to stop. He then searches them -- nice job not searching them before you brought them into your hideout! -- and runs the back of his black-bark-encrusted hand along Peter's cheek, when Peter shirks from his touch.

The search -- which is yielding weapons on everybody, so again, NICE JOB, guards -- is interrupted when Walter, ticklishly averse to the search, is recognized by a bespectacled and bevested fellow. "The three of you -- you haven't aged a day. You were supposed to be dead a long time ago," he says, amazed. Walter explains they were trapped in amber for twenty-one years. The guy introduces himself as Edwin and puts his bark-covered hand out to shake. Walter hesitates, but Edwin says they were exposed when they got here. This isn't exactly reassuring, but at least Walter feels there's no reason not to shake the guy's hand now, so that's what he does. Oh and by the way, Edwin, I'm supposed to retrieve something here, something very important, and since you seem to no me, have we met here before? "No, at least not in the way that you think," says Edwin, cryptically.

And then he's leading Walter into what appears to be an abandoned bomb shelter, down the stairs and into a brightly lit room full of glowing cubes through an invisible curtain of electromagnetic discharge that glows around whoever enters. I mention it only to point out that there seems to be some significance to it but it's never referenced again. Walter asks what this weird place is, and Edwin says he's looking at history: "Ours... yours... mankind's." He pulls one of the cubes from the wall and says it's a data cube, on which are stored accounts of every major historical event from the day of the invasion onward. The cube plugs into a pedestal in the middle of the room and displays holographic images and text -- including an article about Fringe Division being sanctioned to police natives (featuring a picture of ol' Broyles). "You have files on us," Walter notes. Edwin's all, duh! "We gather important information from around the world, and then we record it. You have a healthy lore about you." He goes on to say his son, River (ugh, friggin' hippies) is an expert on Fringe Division. They were a group of refugees from the cities and Edwin's father started the historical record to counter the traditional notion that history is written by the winners (or "oppressors," as Edwin calls them). "Someone has to survive to tell mankind's story," he says.

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