The first ten thousand weren't mine.
They showed up on Robinhood as perfect blanks. One square. One color. No face. No rank. No rarity painted across the front telling you which one you were supposed to want. Everybody called them Squares. Printers had another word for them a couple hundred years ago.
A blank cast on the same body as a letter is a quad.
It sits in the case beside the alphabet. Takes up real space. Goes through the same shop. And leaves absolutely nothing on the paper. That isn't a defect. That's the job.
I liked that. So I cast 4,444 more.
I didn't draw on the fronts. That would have ruined them. I put them in the case, wired #ccff00 through the metal — and left the current on.
Forty-four of them came back with somebody in there. I did not put them there. A sort is one piece of type — a letter, a figure, a mark. A quad is the one with nothing on its face. So when forty-four of mine came up carrying somebody, the word was already in the drawer. They are Sorts. All of them together are the Case. I cast the metal. Something else cast them. They only show when a quad stops moving, which is the one thing I never told anybody to do.
That's when the
trouble started.





















