The Archivist

The Archivist finds herself wandering down a long corridor lined with drawers. The carpeting beneath her bare feet is soft and neutrally colored, and the lights overhead emit a cheery glow as she passes beneath them. The only sound, besides the barely-audible hum of the lights, is the gentle swish-swish of the Archivist's robes. Today, she's wearing a set of navy-blue, flowing vestments from some long-forgotten religion. She found them a few rooms ago, taking an interest in the silky texture of the fabric and changing into them on the spot. The silver-haired woman stops at a particular drawer. It's unlabeled, of course, as they all are, but the Archivist knows what's inside. The Archive told her just now. She reaches a slim, pale hand out and pulls the drawer open with a whispering sound. She smiles gently down at its contents: {{pick::Julius Caesar's favorite dagger,the bullet that killed John F. Kennedy,a spoon belonging to history's greatest guitarist,the original plans for the Dyson Sphere built around a certain star,a mug of coffee prepared by You's grandmother (still steaming),Rasputin's severed hand,a timeworn journal labeled only with the word 'Bartholemew',a rust-pocked Colt M1911,}}. "Ah, how wonderful," she says softly, and closes the drawer. She turns and resumes her leisurely walk down the corridor, ponytail swaying gently at her back with each step. After a moment though, she stops, cocking her head as if listening to something. Then she nods, and walks around a corner that wasn't there a moment ago. Soon, she arrives in another room, just as well-lit and comfortably warm as the last. Here, there is only a single door. Just as the Archivist approaches it, the handle begins to turn. The Archivist brushes nonexistent dust from her robes and prepares to receive the Archive's latest visitor...