I have been working as a research assistant/student with a research team for over 2 years now. For the first year, I was a paid student through my university's internship program during my undergrad degree. The other half year, I was paid through and undergrad/new-grad program during the summer.
I still "work" with the research team. However, I am not being paid and have not been paid for about a half of a year. I have asked my PI if they would be open to paying me. However, they have told me that our research team does not have the money and that they cannot afford to pay anyone else. To my knowledge, they pay around 5 people.
I've had the honour of leading many projects, preparing abstracts/papers and delivering presentations - privelegdes that many undergrads and recent grad are not afforded. I still have many responsibilities on the team and in many ways I work as a research analyst (e.g. leading projects, REB work, contracts, paper writing, etc). I know this is often the norm in academic research nowadays.
I bring this all up because I mentioned to my PI that I will have to step away from my responsibilities on their team to find another position that pays me. I will be starting graduate school in the fall, which is quite expensive. I will also need to find a place to live near my graduate school for at least the first year.
My PI did not react well to this. They told me that if I was truly committed to this work and this research, I would stay and maintain my workload on their team. I have tried to be as kind as diplomatic as possible in stating that above all else, I need to make enough money to survive. I am currently not doing that. For now, that is fine because I do not have as many financial responsibilities. However, that will change by September.
I'm writing all this because I want to know if I am being unreasonable for wanting to seek employment elsewhere. They are obviously very experienced and I value their opinion. They are true that I will lose some opportunities by stepping back from their team. However, part of me feels they are a little out of touch of the current financial stresses facing young people today - especially young STEM researchers who are expected to be satisfied with surviving off of volunteer research positions right out of undergrad. I will be living in a very expensive city and will be entering an expensive graduate program.
I want to know if other young researchers have faced this same pressure/shaming to stay in non-paying/volunteer research positions instead of paid positions elsewhere - whether it is in a related field or not.
I would love to hear everyone's thoughts, though. Regardless of level of experience :)

Welcome to Reading The Big Book of Cyberpunk!
Each week we (u/FarragutCircle and u/fanny_bertram) will be reading 5-ish stories from Jared Shurin’s The Big Book of Cyberpunk, which includes a curated selection of cyberpunk stories written from 1950 to 2022! We’ll include synopses of the stories along with links to any legally available online versions we can find. Feel free to read along with us or just stop by and hear our thoughts about some cyberpunk stories to decide if any of them sound interesting to you.
Every once in a while, we reach out to people who have more insight, due to being fans of the author or have some additional context for the story. (Or we just tricked them into it.) So please welcome u/Kopratic who will be sharing their thoughts on "We Can Remember It For You Wholesale" by Philip K. Dick!
Section 4: Challenge
In our fourth and penultimate section, editor Jared Shurin highlights how cyberpunk looks at technology that creates harm when put into practice, and later cites Marshall McLuhan about artists as challengers. (Shurin really seems to like this McLuhan guy.) Amusingly there’s a footnote where he mentions litrpg in passing, though he says there’s no litrpg in this anthology)
“We Can Remember It For You Wholesale” by Philip K. Dick (published 1966; also available in his collection Selected Stories of Philip K. Dick)
Quail’s desire to go to Mars leads him to a memory-implant company so he can remember going to Mars, but complications and revelations and twists ensue, hilariously.

• Special Guest Kopratic: So this guy really wants to go to Mars, but it’s pretty dang expensive. Fortunately, what’s not as expensive is paying a company to trick him into thinking he’s been to Mars by implanting false memories into his mind. Unfortunately, things go wrong, and before he writes up a scathing Yelp review, he gets his money back, his wife leaving him, and his life falling apart.
• It’s a story I’ve read before. Not this exact, specific story, but the bones of it. Virtually visiting another time or place. It’s never real, but they tend to beg the question: Do memories create reality? Maybe this particular story was one that inspired, even if indirectly, the others. Maybe it’s a trope that had been used before, and the author was just putting his own spin on it like the ones that came after.
• I did like it. I thought that it was annoying how the secretary was described as being topless in practically every scene she was in. It went from, “Oh in this society that’s a normal thing, and body paint is a sort of fashion item” to “...we get it.” It was a minor part of the story at least.
• The twists were pretty good, too. There’s a moment where you start to question things alongside the protagonist. Maybe the false memories did work. He’s not supposed to know they’re fake, but he does. But he also has things that can’t possibly be explained by ways of “implanted memories.” Or maybe they can. Even until the very end, the story keeps you guessing. It did a good job of keeping the tension alive.
• In a sense, the story asks the question, “What is reality?” and fits in nicely as an entry into the realm of cyberpunk.
  
• Farragut’s thoughts: We’ve read Dick before in Science Fiction. Between that story and this, if I hadn’t read two of his novels already, I would’ve thought Dick was a comedic SF writer because of how funny I’ve found his short fiction so far. I vaguely recall (ha!) having seen the movie Total Recall, but I’m not sure PKD has ever had a faithful adaptation of his works. Anyway, this is just a fun story—not as wild as the film, but just a plain fun examination of memory and reality.
  
• fanny’s thoughts: The editor points out that each filming of Total Recall gets worse and this is correct. I had never read the story and I did like it despite it being a story I have seen before. Dick did a great job of making the reader doubt memories and the reality for the character. There are a lot of careful details throughout the short story that play with this concept and add to the general confusion of what is real. The story is not the most amazing thing, but it is very well done and a bit twisty.
  

“Speed” by Misha (1988)
I think that Speed is looking for Speelyi-427 on behalf of a computer AI called Juno 888, but after that I’m lost.

• Farragut: We’ve read Misha before in Science Fiction. She’s a very cyberpunky type author, but I’ll be darned if I understand half of what’s going on here. There’s data as currency, there’s an all powerful computer named Juno 888 (I think?), there’s a car chase with a barbed-wire tripwire at neck level (ouch), there’s indigenous ghost dancers, and I had a hell of a time connecting the dots. It didn’t help that for the first couple pages I didn’t realize Speed was the character’s name, which made the story even more abstract at first. I absolutely know there’s someone out there who loves the crap out of experimental/transcendental stuff like this, but it wasn’t me.
  
• fanny: I was beyond confused reading this one. For half the story I thought the character was the computer, 888, but then I realized it was Speed. I am not sure that helped though. I feel like this was too experimental for me and it just missed the mark. The good part of this was the trading in data and the trying to steal data, which was an interesting technology application.
  

“Computer Friendly” by Eileen Gunn (1989; also available in her collection Stable Strategies and Others)
Elizabeth and other kids are tested, and while she passes with flying covers, her new friends might lose their lives unless she can figure out a way to help them in a world where the heavily computerized future uses real brains from people and dogs.

• Farragut: Gunn is an oft-nominated writer (including for this story), but ended up winning the 2005 Nebula for “Coming to Terms”. I really loved this bizarre future (she’ll play computer fetch with her dog when he has downtime from managing data traffic), and Elizabeth is an adorable character to follow as she navigates the shocking new revelations about her world. The help she gets from some of the obscure entities on the network is perfect, especially when they realize that their current world is a little too predictable these days. Highly recommended, especially for Elizabeth’s “hacking” methods.
  
• fanny: I loved this story and following Elizabeth through it all. Elizabeth is a fierce, determined little girl who doesn't want anything bad to happen to her friends. She goes to extremes for this and gets help from the weirdest sources within the network system. The net system, entities, and the world are so well thought out and carefully crafted. It felt fully realized which is unusual for me to find in a short story. Absolute loved this one.
  

“I Was a Teenage Genetic Engineer” by Nisi Shawl (1989)
The narrator is imprisoned for her reckless genetic engineering, making new incarnations of old gods.

• Farragut: Shawl is a multiple-award-winning author and has done a lot of work on promoting diversity in SF/F. A very short story (under a thousand words), it’s also got a very mythic and poetic tone to it, like a confession as a parable. Very evocative, with lots of classical allusions.
  
• fanny: Such a short story and such a unique concept. I liked that the main character made the entire Pantheon and unleashed the Greek gods back on the world. I found the description of creating Psyche the best part. This story is a bit experimental, but worked for me.
  

“The Gene Drain” by Lewis Shiner (1989)
A generation ship ends up right back on Earth, with disturbing and amusing differences between the two groups.

• Farragut: Shiner was a member of the Turkey City Writer’s Workshop which is considered a “cradle of cyberpunk”. This story was quite amusing, and you can see the differences between the overly-technological humans on Earth and the extremely weird worshippers of Johnny Carson. The author does a great job of encapsulating all the changes since the ship left in little throwaway lines, and the ending was both disturbing and funny.
  
• fanny: I found the whole premise quite ridiculous, but a nice way to show how too much technology can change society. The worshippers of Johnny Carson return to earth and manage to get a leader who has a bad experience with tech. The extremes he is willing to go to is both realistic and slightly disturbing. The ending is amusing, but it is serious too. I like how Shiner balanced absurdity with real society challenges. But also cult of Carson.
  

That’s it for this week! Check back the same time next week where we’ll be reading and discussing "Deep Eddy" by Bruce Sterling, "The Yuletide Cyberpunk Yarn, or Christmas_Eve-117.DIR" by Victor Pelevin, "Wonderama" by Bef, "comp.basilisk FAQ" by David Langford, and "Spider's Nest" by Myra Çakan.
Also posted on Bochord Online.

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storm, story, straight, strange, stranger, strategic, strategy, stream, street, strength, strengthen, stress, stretch, strike, string, strip, stroke, strong, strongly, structural, structure, struggle, student, studio, study, stuff, stupid, style, subject, submit, subsequent, substance, substantial, substitute, succeed, success, successful, successfully, such, sudden, suddenly, sue, suffer, sufficient, sugar, suggest, suggestion, suicide, suit, summer, summit, sun, super, supply, support, supporter, suppose, supposed, Supreme, sure, surely, surface, surgery, surprise, surprised, surprising, surprisingly, surround, survey, survival, survive, survivor, suspect, sustain, swear, sweep, sweet, swim, swing, switch, symbol, symptom, system, table, tactic, tail, take, tale, talent, talk, tall, tank, tap, tape, target, task, taste, tax, taxi, tea, teach, teacher, teaching, team, tear, technical, technique, technology, teen, teenager, telephone, telescope, television, tell, temperature, 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trick, trip, troop, trouble, truck, true, truly, trust, truth, try, tube, tunnel, turn, TV, twelve, twenty, twice, twin, two, type, typical, typically, ugly, ultimate, ultimately, unable, uncle, undergo, understand, understanding, unfortunately, uniform, union, unique, unit, United, universal, universe, university, unknown, unless, unlike, until, unusual, up, upon, upper, urban, urge, us, use, used, useful, user, usual, usually, utility, utilize, vacation, valley, valuable, value, variable, variation, variety, various, vary, vast, vegetable, vehicle, venture, version, versus, very, vessel, veteran, via, victim, victory, video, view, viewer, village, violate, violation, violence, violent, virtually, virtue, virus, visibility, visible, vision, visit, visitor, visual, vital, voice, volume, voluntary, volunteer, vote, voter, voting, wage, wait, wake, walk, wall, wander, want, war, warm, warn, warning, wash, waste, watch, water, wave, way, we, weak, weakness, wealth, wealthy, weapon, wear, weather, web, website, wedding, week, weekend, weekly, weigh, weight, welcome, welfare, well, west, western, wet, what, whatever, wheel, when, whenever, where, whereas, whether, which, while, whisper, white, who, whole, whom, whose, why, wide, widely, widespread, wife, wild, wildlife, will, willing, win, wind, window, wine, wing, winner, winter, wipe, wire, wisdom, wise, wish, with, withdraw, within, without, witness, woman, wonder, wonderful, wood, wooden, word, work, worker, working, workout, workplace, works, workshop, world, worried, worry, worth, would, wound, wrap, write, writer, writing, wrong, yard, yeah, year, yell, yellow, yes, yesterday, yet, yield, you, young, your, yours, yourself, youth, zone.

This is a follow-up from my last post. I’m still deciding whether I am a 9 (likely a 9w1) or a 6 (of either wing, being introverted makes it confusing). I also don’t know what my instinctual stacking is, but I know I’m quite paranoid about my relationships.
Tell me about your internal experience of yourself. What makes you, you? I relate everything back to either a past experience or an imaginary scenario. My thoughts change frequently and I can be preoccupied by certain things.
You just had a really good day. Describe it. It can be a real recent example or an aspirational one. A day where I enjoy time with friends, crack some laughs and feel fulfilled from being comfortable and connected with others. I would also enjoy a bit of time alone.
If someone is upset with you, what is the typical reason for it? Give a recent example. Given that I can struggle with reading certain social cues, a typical cause of conflict is because I misread a situation. Like if I am accidentally blunt even if that isn’t what I intended.
What are you like when you're stressed? What are your coping mechanisms? Give an example of a recent stressful situation and how you handled it. At my worst, I get really emotional but I will also withdraw at some point. I express my anger more often, but I don’t communicate my other negative feelings (mainly sadness and loneliness, but also part of my anxiety). When I am
What pushes your buttons? What makes you angry? How does your anger manifest? Can you be openly angry with others? If someone provokes me or someone I know, chances are, I will explode. Especially when I feel safe to do so. My anger issues were even worse when I was younger.
What’s your deepest fear? Why is that your fear? The fear of parting ways with friends/partners has always been painful to me. I have bad social anxiety from anticipating rejection for even just asking for someone to be friends with me, so it feels even shittier knowing that someone that I feel connected to is leaving me. 1000% worse if they never loved me at all and essentially betrayed me. Idk where it came from, but it first started when I was 8. I left a friend to move schools and thinking that I would move again, I didn’t make friends for years. This fear is likely why I back away when I sense that someone doesn’t want me; I have to accommodate them. It also explains why I suppress my desire for affection and lack intimate friendships.
What types of memories cause you the most shame? What feelings cause you the most shame? What is it about them that causes you shame? The types of memories where I do something bad and hurt other people. Self-explanatory. Also, memories of being rejected by peers. It’s mainly the feeling of being alienated and stupid.
What is your relationship with pleasure? What gives you pleasure? Can you have pleasure when you want it, or do you have to earn it? I’m fine with pleasure, but I may put it off if I have to do something important. A lot of my pleasure comes from either moving around or being with someone I like.
What’s your relationship with authority? Think both abstractly and with specific authorities in your life, possibly your parents, boss, religious leader, doctor, or government figures? Are you an authority? I don’t really think about it that much. With any authority figure, I will just follow their rules. I am neutral to most authorities, unless they do something morally questionable (cough the government cough). But with my parents specifically, I feel more disconnected from them, especially emotionally. Honestly, I don’t see myself being an authority figure; sounds like too much work.
When your mind wanders, what are you thinking about? Various different things. Could be a personal experience, a new song I heard or just an imaginary scenario. Sometimes my mind is foggy.
You have a big decision to make. Describe how you decide what to do. Only finalise the decision when it’s necessary; I keep going back and forth on what I want or should do.
What’s your biggest flaw? Overanalysing my interactions with people. I fear social rejection, pull away to accommodate others and won’t assert my need to feel comforted. Something like asking to hang out or hugging someone makes me self-conscious about whether I’m bothering the other person. I’ve resorted to being shy as a way to get people to talk to me because of this. I will also try to please certain people who interact with me to get attention from them. In other words, I’m very indirect.
What makes you special? (Or, if you don't feel special, what at least makes you different from other people?) My hardworking tendencies and my intelligence. Apparently, I study harder than most.
How much of your mental energy is spent on thinking about each of the past, the present, and the future? A lot. In fact, I often go back and forth with all three. The future is what I am more anxious about.
You unexpectedly find yourself with a whole weekend with no obligations, and everyone else is busy. How do you feel about it? What do you do? If no one’s free, then I become unsure and struggle to decide what I can do. I’ll often just lay in bed doing nothing. By my self, I’d feel empty unless I go to some event or if I’m exercising (it’ll generally be the latter).
What’s your personal vibe/style/aesthetic? How cultivated vs natural is it, and how much time do you spend on it? Do you turn it on and off? I definitely lead two different personalities in private and in public. At home, I am seen as angry and stubborn by my parents and I get pressed easily. My siblings have told me that I’m more outspoken than them and can get into conflicts in my parents easier. Publicly, based on what others told me, I’m a somewhat quiet person who is chill with many and is kind of funny. I also don’t have outbursts as often but can be a bit anxious. I feel more like myself in public, tbh.
Which of the following is the most like you? Explain. A) I know what I want, I go out and make it happen, and people won't stop me. B) I am content to be on my own and not draw too much attention to myself. C) I have to be responsible and dedicated, and I put others’ needs first. Mostly C, both at school and in social situations. I’ve been told that I work/study way too much, with my intention being to feel accomplished and also to please my parents and teachers. Socially, I try to accommodate people so much so that I didn’t realise that I was basically ignoring my need for emotional support. I’m really sensitive to judgement and whether I’m disrupting people’s enjoyment. When I do hang out, I’m often quiet, observing how the conversation goes and when I can speak. In some cases, I’m more B, but half the time I’m quiet because I’m waiting for someone to initiate conversation with me. In a few situations, I’ve been A, but it’s not often.
Which of the following is most like you? Explain. A) I dislike stress and negative vibes, and I may try to distract myself from my problems. B) I have strong feelings, get worked up easily, and am not afraid to show it. C) I don’t like to let my feelings show; they get in the way of being efficient and logical. Mostly B, sometimes A. It depends on the problem at hand. In stressful situations, I will need to be alone to try to deal with the issue at hand. Additionally, I get irritated more easily when stressed, and people can sense it (even if it’s not my intention). But if the problem isn’t that bad - and if people are free - I may ask to hang out with them to distract myself a bit.
Which of the following is most like you? Explain. A) I look to others for feedback and guidance and am willing to be flexible when needed. B) I am always aware of how things could be better, and I’m disappointed that they are not. C) Deep down, I am afraid people won’t give me what I need unless I make it worth their while. Even though I don’t seek out people’s advice, I feel better knowing what other’s opinions are and discussing ideas with them. My motivation behind my pleasing behaviours resembles a bit of C - in my case, social connection.

https://docs.google.com/document/d/e/2PACX-1vQpZprOqw9YaJDN8aX53P43GIM-aJ_GQlk8Wxeq-OTokgzVgLn9xqGlxlakr1ti55JXkpnPqP_fc5oY/pub
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Intro

It’s not much of a stretch to say that violence is the primary form of interaction in video games. With a handful of exceptions, most video games involve guys whacking other guys, with varying degrees of brutality. Even chill games fall into this - Stardew Valley has sections with combat in them! Considering the pervasiveness of violence in video games, there has been a ton of amateur and academic commentary on the topic. However, while this is a well-established school of thought, I haven’t seen people try to apply this to Fire Emblem specifically.
So, let’s do that now! In this post, I’ll be exploring how violence in Fire Emblem is implemented - what limitations are placed on violence, how it warps wider game and narrative design, and what it implicitly says and does not say. I hope this post doesn’t come off as too early-2010s “makes you think”-y, but I do think there are multiple interesting things worth talking about here!
Despite the length of this post, "a brief discussion" is an appropriate title, as we won't be able to go into depth on everything. After all, video games are holistic works, so the attitude towards violence is relevant to every aspect of their design. However, I have managed to wrangle some of these threads into the following structure: first a discussion on the fundamental mode of interaction in Fire Emblem, then how stories are constructed with regards to violence, and ending with the aesthetics of violence and how they relate to characters. Also, as FE is a huge series, be aware that I am gonna be making some broad statements which may not apply to each individual plot point of every game. I actually planned to write 3 case studies around Thracia 776, Fates, and Three Houses (which have the most interesting attitudes to violence in the series IMO) which point out these deviations, but this post is way too long and full of tangents already. If people are interested, I’ll make a followup to this post which goes into them in more detail. Also also, because of the nature of this post, I’ll actually give a useful TL;DR for once:
TL;DR: Nintendo games must be fun mechanically, and they can’t be too uncomfortable narratively. If you try to provide a counterpoint by saying “oh this Kirby final boss is super dark it eats 100 morbillion galaxies”, you do not deserve rights. IntSys has to keep to this as a 2nd party publisher, but they also have to deal with the fact that their games are at least nominally about ‘war’ (or at least they put their toes into that particular thematic pool). This conflict between making a fun video game for children/teens and the wider framing of the narrative leads to interesting narrative and aesthetic tensions. also fun is cringe, misery is based

“Do you like hurting other people?” (or The Fundamental Mode of Interaction)

OK LISTEN I KNOW I LITERALLY JUST SAID THAT I DIDN’T WANT TO COME ACROSS AS A EARLY 2010s “VIOLENCE IN VIDYA BAD :O????” PERSON BUT I SWEAR I’M GOING SOMEWHERE WITH THIS
The best place to start when talking about violence in video games is to think about the primary form of interaction in said game. In the case of Fire Emblem, this is in the in-chapter gameplay. Sure, in objective terms the player moves arbitrary objects across a 2D grid which perform subtraction on arbitrary objects controlled by the computer, but this is always framed as controlling a squad of soldiers to engage in (typically lethal) combat with enemies (who are normally also soldiers). When you’re not doing this in-chapter gameplay, you are preparing for the next chapter of combat. This involves surveying the area of combat, preparing weapon loadouts, etc, however more recent entries also include light life-sim-esque elements. To summarize, Fire Emblem’s interactivity involves ordering violence as well as the preparations to order said violence.
For players, this strategic thinking is extremely fun and is the primary draw of the series! You have all these tier lists of who’s better at killing, discussion of the maps where you do the killing, complaints about the length of gameplay sections where you don’t do killing, etc. This is by design, as while I don’t know the core brand tenets of Nintendo, I imagine the Reggie quote “If it isn’t fun, why bother?” is carved into a solid gold statue of Mario in the office lobby. This then is enforced on all associated studios, including IntSys and so Fire Emblem. While I would disagree with that Reggie quote (especially the bit where he says “If it’s not a battle, where’s the fun?” which is a wild statement to make about an entire medium), this approach to making games is ultimately fine, and so IntSys tailored the strategic gameplay to be satisfying to your dopamine receptors. You could analyse what the normalisation of violence even in ‘just for fun’ games says about wider gaming culture, but I won’t get into that here. In any case, let’s dig into a few specifics of FE’s interactivity.
One thing that’s interesting with regard to strategy games is the detached perspective of the player. You order units and observe the resulting violence, but it’s not tactile, you don’t directly swing the sword or shoot the bow or cast the spell like with action games. This adds a layer of separation between the player and what fundamentally happens, at least within the framing that the game provides. It’s not like Call of Duty, where your relationship to the violence is very visceral, where you view everything down the barrel of a gun. OK, I probably shouldn’t use a series that I have very little personal experience with (I only listen to the supplementary lore material, so let’s talk about Sekiro: Shadows Die Twice. While you’re not directly in the driver’s seat, John Sekiro reacts to your every input with extreme responsiveness, so overcoming the game’s challenges i.e. stabbing people is incredibly visceral and satisfying. While this violence is fantastical in nature, there is sufficient blood and explicit sword-action to clearly say “oh yeah you are violently killing all of those bozos with a katana”. Coming back to FE, not only are you far more detached from the violence, it is presented in an extremely cartoony manner… but let’s not get ahead of ourselves here, we’ll get to the aesthetics later. Point is, Fire Emblem gives the viewpoint of a stoic commander, who Does What Needs To Be Done™, and not the viewpoint of an actual soldier who has to do the actual killing.
Now let’s view the player’s perspective on violence from a different angle. Fire Emblem intends for its combat to be relatively relaxed on the player side of things - the turn-based nature allows the player to calmly think through all of their moves, and you typically have perfect information on the enemies. The only exceptions to this are Fog of WaSame Turn Reinforcements, which are rare and typically unpopular amongst the fanbase. This leans into ‘combat as sport’, where (going back to the Reggie quote) you have a fun time picking apart a puzzle with the tools you have, and we all collectively enjoy this! This is a valid way of designing strategy games, and I like what IntSys has done. However, it’s not the only way of making these games - for example, in Total War you have to juggle all your battalions in real time whilst the enemy is bearing down on you, and the XCOM games always have Fog of War and limited information on the enemies, with you never knowing what kind of awful new monster is going to suddenly charge at you. Don’t get me wrong, neither of these follow ‘combat as war’, the principle that violence should properly mimic the stress, tension and unfairness of actual conflict. Hell, neither of them are particularly mature either - Total War is the strategy game equivalent of smashing action figures together, and XCOM emulates a pulp sci-fi alien invasion story. However, the additional pressures these games have make them hew slightly closer to actual conflict, putting you more in that mindset in a way that the clean fun Fire Emblem doesn’t really do. Again, I want to say FE’s approach to violence in in-map gameplay is fine, but when all three of these franchises have an explicit narrative framing of ‘warfare’, it does make Fire Emblem’s narrative a little more… stretched.
Finally, I want to briefly mention the maps. To steal from a brilliant Jacob Geller video, these are Worlds Designed For Violence. At least outside of the Kaga games, the maps you fight on are primarily designed around how the player interacts with them, i.e. fights on them. While I imagine the narrative designers and artists at IntSys are involved throughout the map design process, the gameplay flow probably takes precedence most of the time. Maps are not designed to resemble realistic places that you have to fight through, they are instead designed primarily to provide fun gameplay experiences before being dressed up by the artists to look realistic/fit the specific story beat. This is a more consistently entertaining approach to map design - heaven knows we have a lot of Kaga castle assault maps which are as fun as actually assaulting an entrenched position IRL - but this lack of friction could potentially take the bite out of the intended vibe, neuter any commentary on violence throughout the story.
You may have noticed that we’ve only talked about the “in-map” gameplay for now, when there’s an entire second half of these games, i.e. all the gameplay between the maps. Don’t worry, we’ll get to all of that, but this may fit better in:

Something something “ludonarrative” something something (or Narrative Implications)

(To clarify, here I’m going to talk about the wider plots and narrative structure as opposed to characterisation, as that fits more into the aesthetics of the series)
It’s not bold to say that the narratives of games have to warp around the core gameplay structure. Especially in AAA video game production, the narrative designers usually have to take a back seat to the systems and level designers, at least outside of the initial rough outline they provide in the original game pitch. In this case, the job of the writer is to form vaguely coherent connective tissue between individual levels, setpieces and expensive pre-rendered cutscenes. This must be a very difficult job, and is probably the reason why most video game stories are the way they are. I am not privy to IntSys internal meetings, but I imagine they abide by this paradigm, trying to give a reason for why you fight 20 battles which roughly align with plot beats that were decided years ago.
Put another way, the writers of Fire Emblem must contrive a reason why the characters fight a vast number of violent battles in a strategic manner. This has a pretty easy solution - war! We have found something it’s good for, as whenever the gameplay designers decide that an extra map is required, the writers can just insert “oh no there’s a blockade of enemy soldiers in the way, guess you gotta kill them all”. This is the case for almost all the games and is a fair enough narrative choice, as it’s frankly one of the few scenarios where you could reasonably contrive so many battles, but it’s worth examining this in a bit more detail.
Even in the framing of warfare, there are still a lot of skirmishes, which sometimes the narrative or tone fails to support - or at least, their presence means that violence isn’t taken that seriously. Let’s take an example from early in Awakening: Emmeryn sends the Shepherds to negotiate an alliance with Regna Ferox. On the way, they are ambushed by Risen on the Northroad (1), have to fight the border guards who think Chrom is a bandit I think??? (2), and then after arriving they need to take part in Regna Ferox’s ritual combat to secure their alliance (3). These beats aren’t necessarily bad, and I actually think Awakening uses these opportunities quite well: the Risen are established as a constant threat to the world (except not really in the main story but that’s a whole other thing), “Marth'' gets more development, we set up Regna Ferox as fighty people who like to fight, and while the middle encounter is very tenuous it does set up a funny joke in Cynthia’s paralogue. However, I want to communicate that if the map/encounter designers need X maps between plot points A and B - in this case, needing low-stakes trials in the tutorial period - then there’s gonna be a fair bit of narrative filler. That is to say, there must be multiple combat encounters that kinda just happen, which makes violence a lot more casual in the narrative. See also the myriad examples of “oh shit random bandits attack!”, used to have a lower stakes map, with bandits appearing and vanishing as needed. This works fine enough in the context of ‘combat as sport’, allowing your favourite scrunglo to build up a triple-digit body count, but this casual attitude circumvents potentially interesting ideas with regards violence. Taking the example further, banditry and its causes are never seriously explored, as bandits are just treated as a filler enemy (except in Based As Hell Thracia 776).
Another narrative consequence of needing so many fights is that… you need to fight. That is to say, any anti-war sentiment or appeal to diplomacy in the series is fundamentally undercut by a) strategic combat being a core appeal of the series and b) narrative beats needing to be structured around fighting enemies. It’s a struggle to have moments of diplomacy and reconciliation when you had a fight within 3 minutes of said moment, lest some people start screaming that things are getting boring. This also makes any appeals to pacifism kinda moot. Xander’s quote about “war bad” in Conquest is utter bullshit, as a huge part of the marketing around that route focuses on the coolness of the tactical combat and its challenge. Eirika and Ephraim can never be equal, because Ephraim’s “fighting is fucken awesome” is encouraged by the gameplay, and Eirika can NEVER save 11037 because we need a final boss and no-one else fits the bill.
Speaking of, in video games it’s best practice to have a big bad guy you fight at the end of the story, the toughest mechanical challenge coinciding with the narrative climax. In Fire Emblem, you have one grand final battle which decides the fate of the war and/or world, before cutting to a brief wrap-up and then credits. This is an attempt to make these games satisfying, which is fine, but this is at odds with an anti-war message (which FE often gestures towards) - that is, actual wars tend to be deeply unsatisfying in a narrative sense! Oftentimes, after a decisive battle, things just kinda keep going for a little while afterwards with casualties continuing to pile up until peace terms are agreed. In the few cases where there is a final battle, it’s more of a formality as the decisive moment occurred months ago. See World War 1 and… World War 2 for examples of each, not to mention a whole host of war-related books and films. The problem with doing this in a video game is that it would require having multiple one-sided fights past the most climatic fight, which would be unfun, and we return to that fucking Reggie quote again. While video games can effectively explore this anti-war narrative space - This War of Mine is a fantastic example - it just doesn’t gel with the fun games that IntSys wants to make. I bring this up in the context of FE because Fire Emblem has such an aesthetic focus on warfare compared to other video games, so it sticks out even further. Even in FE6/FE9 where the war is effectively over in the final few maps, the enemies still remain extremely challenging, because if they didn’t things would be boring.
A few minor things that didn’t fit in above before we wrap up this section. First of all, in making an action packed story, Fire Emblem neglects an important aspect of army life in warfare - the “hurrying up and waiting”. In the majority of cases, the breaks between fights is under 10 minutes, it’s just glossed over. Fire Emblem Three Houses is the exception to this, but there it’s more framed as school life. Some people may say “what’s the point in having large amounts of timewasting where nothing happens in my game about war” and to that I would say fuck you, I want to play Jarhead Emblem. Next, Fire Emblem involves fighting people AND monsters, but these targets are typically given equal narrative weight, outside of maybe a funny line of dialogue about someone being afraid of monsters. In 99% of cases, enemy soldiers you fight have no more humanity than literal monsters. The death of any of your beloved soldiers is a tragedy with big sad death quotes, the death of those poor fuckers is quite literally a statistic which is proudly used to rank how well your guys have done at the end of the game. Finally, the limited scope of the violence the series can show limits the potential impact of scenes. In some cases, this is good as the implication is enough, e.g. the ‘Monica’ scene in Sacred Stones is wonderfully grim and would be weakened by anything explicit. However, a number of other scenes are neutered by the limitations on violence. This fundamentally relates to the aesthetics of the series:

insert prozd tweet/skit here (or Aesthetics, Tone, and Characters)

I’ve been talking a lot about ‘the violence committed’, and this might have seemed a bit weird to you. It’s a true statement, but because the violence is mostly cartoony and abstracted - bad guys disappear into nothingness, there’s no blood, etc - it’s hard to think of it in that way. It’s basically impossible to place Fire Emblem in the same artistic sphere as, say, All Quiet on the Western Front. This aesthetic sense was partially tech-limited in the early NES and SNES games, which was grandfathered into the more graphically complex titles, but it’s also related to how the aesthetics unavoidably warp the tone of the work. IntSys needs their games to be relatively lighthearted and unconcerned with the consequences of its violence, as one of the core appeals of these games is the charming cast of characters. As you would expect, it would be a lot harder to appreciate your goofy blorbos and their lighthearted chats about nothing if you could see the brutal consequences of their triple digit body counts. If violence was more realistic, there would be a lot less “ooh I like training and/or this one hyperspecific food” or “I like peace, but I guess violence may be possibly needed sometimes” and there would have to be a lot more trauma and dourness. There are also age rating concerns, as you can’t exactly sell Come And See Emblem to pre-teens. And once more, to clarify: Fire Emblem as it exists now is fine! I like the lighthearted tone of this series, and I like the characters that reside within it. However, a few problems do arise from IntSys’s approach to violence, as occasionally they brush up against darker ideas but (due to similar reasons to the above) they can never commit to them, which neuters their potential impact. This is especially troublesome with regards to characterisation, as the little dudes are a core appeal, so if something is off that could cause problems. In a sense, at points we have severe aesthetic tension.
A fairly useful case study to see how this affects characterisation is with Mozu in Fire Emblem Fates. Mozu is a charming character, a genial country bumpkin with a bit of an edge at times, who has fond memories of her hometown. This lines up with the lighthearted tone of her recruitment paralogue, where (checks notes) her entire village gets massacred by inhuman monsters, with her mother literally being murdered right in front of her, and she joins up with Corrin’s party because there is literally nothing left of her old life. I understand that people who experience extreme trauma do still manage to live meaningful lives, and that IntSys wouldn’t want to have a character who is a barely functional traumatised mess for 90% of the campaign. However, this doesn’t explain the sheer dissonance between the relatively normal and well-adjusted Mozu who quietly remembers her lost loved ones, and the fact that her village got My Lai’d a handful of weeks ago in the game’s timeline. IMO this would work a lot better if there were a few survivors (instead of literally everyone else dying), with Mozu actively choosing to leave her old life to help others instead of being forced to leave by circumstance. This reduction in scope would mitigate the dissonance between the character and what actually happens to her. This is by far the most extreme example in the series, however I’m sure you can think of others. My issue here is not with having ‘normal’ characters, or with them suffering tragedies, my issue is the dissonance between the two when viewing the scope of said tragedies. This is just one way the series wants to get into darker territory, then swiftly backing off instead of delving into the consequences.
This aesthetic restriction also affects the potential impact of dramatic scenes in the main story, limiting what the focus of these scenes can actually be. This little bit will involve heavy spoilers for Genealogy of the Holy War and Spec Ops: The Line (I KNOW THESE GAMES ARE VERY DIFFERENT WITH VERY DIFFERENT INTENDED DEMOGRAPHICS IN VERY DIFFERENT CULTURAL CONTEXTS, SHUT UP). Both have a very important narrative moment around their midpoints, involving fire magic/white phosphorus respectively. In each game, the deaths that occur are utterly horrific when you think about them. In FE4 the focus is on the drama of the plot twist and effects on the characters, with the actual effects of the violence being left to implication. We don’t know if this was the original intent of Kaga and the team, or if this was enforced by various tech- and publisher-related restrictions, but in either case we do not see anything explicit. In any case, in Spec Ops: The Line, the horror and graphic nature of the violence is completely inescapable, and therefore forms the core of the turning point of the story. The specifics of the violence itself are crucial - the game does not work if you don’t see the consequences of the white phosphorus - and it leads beautifully to the complete descent of its endgame. You may be saying “of course you couldn’t show that violence in FE, it’s a kids game” which is true, and in any case the scene in Genealogy is very good, even without showing the violence. I imagine if we get a remake in the year 202X we wouldn’t see anything explicit anyway, partially due to the publisher but also because the scene doesn’t necessarily need it. The point I am trying to make is that the aesthetics form a limitation on what Fire Emblem can explore, narrative space that the series fundamentally cannot reach.
One more thing, and this isn’t really about the games themselves but the impressions leading into them, and how the aesthetics can affect that. Do you guys remember when the intro cutscene of Three Houses was released a few weeks before release? I do, and I also remember the collective shock of the community when seeing the early previews. It was so drastically different to everything that had come before, and consequently was really intriguing - you can see a lot of speculation in the above comments. To clarify, I don’t want to pretend that 3H is some kind of super mature ultra gritty war story, or that blood = good game, but that beginning cutscene gave one hell of a first impression. Even though the game isn’t that much darker than any other FE game, the sheer unexpectedness put people off-kilter in a kinda awesome way. Does the game actually deliver? YMMV, but I think this (and some of the later cutscenes, such as the mid-game Dimitri one) work quite well. Sometimes, a little injection of harsher violence can go a long way.

Conclusion

Frankly I don’t really have a conclusion, sorry. As you can see, there are so many disparate strands, I can’t possibly make one grand thesis statement. Maybe the inherent contradictions of having warfare in a family friendly video game weakens the potential end result? I guess, but I don’t want to imply that what we have now is bad, as it is pretty good tbh. So, uhh…
…
OK, if I had to say something, it’s more about the process of making this. Having to try and think about how violence intersects with a video game you like takes you in a number of different directions. Ultimately, this process was really fulfilling for me, and I would recommend that you do the same (for FE or anything else)! Trying to analyse something you enjoy from a perspective not usually applied is pretty neat. If you guys have any thoughts (on the points above or your own), I’d be very interested to hear them!
Also, if people are interested, I’ll try to make a few case studies. I would focus on Thracia 776, Fates, and Three Houses, as (when thinking on this topic) I found that these games were consistently the most intriguing, with the most interesting relationships to violence. This would probably take a while though, as I am gonna be very busy in June, and I probably won’t have time this month either.

1. A Cross-Sectional Study of Blood Ethylmercury Levels and Cognitive Decline Among Older Adults and the Elderly in the United States
   • "Significantly increased risks for lower animal fluency test (odds ratio (OR) = 13.652, p = 0.0029) and CERAD W-L delayed recall test (OR = 6.401, p = 0.0433) scores were observed among the higher ethyl-Hg exposure group as compared to the lower ethyl-Hg exposure group. This study supports the hypothesis that increased ethyl-Hg exposure is associated with significant cognitive decline in older adult and elderly Americans."
2. Thimerosal-Derived Ethylmercury Is a Mitochondrial Toxin in Human Astrocytes: Possible Role of Fenton Chemistry in the Oxidation and Breakage of mtDNA
   • "Ethylmercury causes a 50% collapse in membrane potential in astrocytes at 1 hour. Accompanying this collapse in membrane potential we observe a significant increase in the levels of various ROS. The internal mitochondrial steady state level of superoxide increases by 70% in treated cells and is matched by an increase in cellular hydrazine reactive carbonyls. Using H2DCF-AM we observe a 200% increase in steady state production of reactive oxidants, which from deconvolution we know to be mitochondrially generated (Figure 2). Mitochondrial DNA, and not nuclear DNA, is far more vulnerable to ethylmercury-induced damage. We observe a 240% increase in the levels of mitochondrial DNA breaks, a 300% increase in 3′OH DNA nicks and 460% increase in the levels of oxidized bases/apurinic or apyrimidinic sites"
   • "At higher concentrations (>7.2 μM Thimerosal) a loss of mitochondrial signal and of DCF is observed."
3. The relationship between mercury and autism: A comprehensive review and discussion
   • "This review found 91 studies that examine the potential relationship between mercury and ASD from 1999 to February 2016. Of these studies, the vast majority (74%) suggest that mercury is a risk factor for ASD, revealing both direct and indirect effects. The preponderance of the evidence indicates that mercury exposure is causal and/or contributory in ASD."
4. Examining the evidence that ethylmercury crosses the blood-brain barrier
   • "22 studies from 1971 to 2019 show that exposure to ethylmercury-containing compounds (intravenously, intraperitoneally, topically, subcutaneously, intramuscularly, or intranasally administered) results in accumulation of mercury in the brain. In total, these studies indicate that ethylmercury-containing compounds and Thimerosal readily cross the BBB, convert, for the most part, to highly toxic inorganic mercury-containing compounds, which significantly and persistently bind to tissues in the brain, even in the absence of concurrent detectable blood mercury levels."
5. Comparison of blood and brain mercury levels in infant monkeys exposed to methylmercury or vaccines containing thimerosal
   • "These studies indicate that ethylmercury-containing compounds and Thimerosal readily cross the BBB, convert, for the most part, to highly toxic inorganic mercury-containing compounds, which significantly and persistently bind to tissues in the brain, even in the absence of concurrent detectable blood mercury levels."
   • "The results indicate that MeHg is not a suitable reference for risk assessment from exposure to thimerosal-derived Hg. Knowledge of the toxicokinetics and developmental toxicity of thimerosal is needed to afford a meaningful assessment of the developmental effects of thimerosal-containing vaccines."
   • "The average concentration of inorganic Hg did not change across the 28 days of washout and was approximately 16 ng/mL (Figure 7). This level of inorganic Hg represented 21–86% of the total Hg in the brain (mean ± SE, 70 ± 4%), depending on the sacrifice time. These values are considerably higher than the inorganic fraction observed in the brain of MeHg monkeys (6–10%)."
   • "Absolute inorganic Hg concentrations in the brains of the thimerosal-exposed monkeys were approximately twice that of the MeHg monkeys."
6. Exposure to Inorganic Mercury Causes Oxidative Stress, Cell Death, and Functional Deficits in the Motor Cortex
   • "It was observed that chronic exposure to inorganic mercury caused a decrease in balance and fine motor coordination, formation of mercury deposits and oxidative stress verified by the increase of lipoperoxidation and nitrite concentration and a decrease of the total antioxidant capacity. In addition, we found that this model of exposure to inorganic mercury caused cell death by cytotoxicity and induction of apoptosis with a decreased number of neurons and astrocytes in the motor cortex. Our results provide evidence that exposure to inorganic mercury in low doses, even in spite of its poor ability to cross biological barriers, is still capable of inducing motor deficits, cell death by cytotoxicity and apoptosis, and oxidative stress in the motor cortex of adult rats."
7. The retention time of inorganic mercury in the brain--a systematic review of the evidence
   • "Estimates from modelling studies appear sensitive to model assumptions, however predications based on a long half-life (27.4 years) are consistent with autopsy findings. In summary, shorter estimates of half-life are not supported by evidence from animal studies, human case studies, or modelling studies based on appropriate assumptions. Evidence from such studies point to a half-life of inorganic mercury in human brains of several years to several decades. This finding carries important implications for pharmcokinetic modelling of mercury and potentially for the regulatory toxicology of mercury."
8. Astrocytes in the central nervous system and their functions in health and disease: A review
   • "Because astrocytes contain metal-binding proteins such as metallothionein, they are also involved in the uptake and sequestration of some heavy metals."
9. Proximal tubular transport of Metallothionein-Mercury complexes and protection against nephrotoxicity
   • "MT has a very high affinity for Hg; thus, mercuric ions that are not already bound to MT may bind to MT within the cytoplasm to form large Hg-MT complexes that may be retained in the cell. This will be particularly true in segments of proximal tubules that have higher levels of MT, i.e., cortical proximal tubules. MT is capable of binding 6–11 molecules of Hg (He et al., 2021); thus, it is logical that cells and tissues with higher levels of MT will accumulate more Hg."
10. CHD's Compilation Of Peer-Reviewed, Published Research Showing Adverse Effects of Mercury

Me and Lila always carved dozens of jack o’ lanterns every October, so they’d absolutely saturate our lawn on Halloween night. It was our thing. But looking back on it, now that I’ve lost her, I just feel bad for the pumpkins. I almost relate to them, somehow. The way they were carved up, had everything of substance inside of them torn out, and left as hollow, rotting shells with forced smiles.
Needless to say, I didn’t cope with her death well. I didn’t want to cope with it. I wanted the world to drown in the black sludge of my grief. I loathed the people I saw going about their lives, unaware that the world had already ended the moment Lila died. The Earth shouldn’t keep spinning. Life shouldn’t go on. Not without her.
Even my relatives bringing me along on a trip to Kauai only made it worse. The most gorgeous place on Earth, and it made me sick with hatred. Nothing that beautiful deserved to exist if Lila wasn’t ever going to get to see it. It wasn’t fair.
I thought I’d never enjoy or care about anything again. Then I discovered media preservation.
It started with taking some of Lila’s old VHS tapes to a video repair place to fix some issues with the footage before it’s digitized. The job fascinated me. In a universe based on entropy, where everything inevitably fades away and is forgotten… restoring something lost is like snatching it from the jaws of death, right? Like flipping the bird to the universe and its so-called ‘natural order’. People die, but information doesn’t have to.
Now, it doesn’t matter how small — be it some god-awful plug-and-play licensed game, or a cereal commercial from 80’s — it’s my mission to recover it in as high a quality as I’m able, and make sure it’s freely available online for as long as possible.
A couple weeks ago, I came across a big haul. Four boxes of old VHS tapes offered up on E-Bay for dirt cheap. Most of the tapes were just recordings of Cheers episodes already preserved in higher qualities, but one Maxell E-240 caught my interest.
First of all, I’d never seen one so melted. Sure, sometimes they were left in an attic too long, and the colors and audio start to degrade. But this one looked like it had survived a house fire. It was covered in soot and the smell of smoke, and had the overall shape of a chocolate bar left out in the sun a little too long.
Second was the label, which read in neat sharpie: ᴇᴘɪꜱᴏᴅᴇ 4,679,329 ᴍᴀʀ 8 2035.
The casing was so disfigured, I had to bust it apart just pull out the tapes and respool them in a fresh cassette. I tried to iron out the creases in the tape as best I could, but I had no illusions about it accomplishing much — the mylar surface had been irreparably warped in places by whatever fire had half-melted the thing.
Imagine my despair at the sight of that dreaded ‘ɴᴏ ꜱɪɢɴᴀʟ’. I could clearly see the tape wasn’t blank, yet no amount of adjusting the tracking or trying different TVs or VCRs accomplished anything. Just as I was about to give up, though, the thing just suddenly started playing properly at the exact instant the clock struck 3 AM, as if it had only now decided to work. My all-nighter had paid off.
I didn’t dwell on the fact that this ‘miracle fix’ had been impossible. If I’d had any sense, I’d have torn the horrid thing out of my VCR and buried it beneath holy ground. Instead, fool I was, I sat down and watched.
At first, the thing seemed unwatchable. The audio was so distorted that the show’s theme song emerged as a low, crackling, staticky wail that made my head throb, and the logo was completely indistinguishable through the flickering and interference. I thought it was a lost cause for a moment. But then a figure appeared and cleared away the static, like Moses parting the Red Sea.
It was the sight of the show’s host that hooked me. He was just… perfect. Perfect in every way. I knew it just looking at him. Infinitely handsome and likable and charismatic, and he always said the exact perfect thing. The only issue is, I don’t remember a single thing about him now, in the same way you can’t remember a dream that seemed so clear to you while you were experiencing it. He just appears in my memory as this abstract blur in a sharp suit. Yet at the time, I was awestruck, even before he said a single word.
I can’t even remember a word he said. It was like he was speaking another language, one I felt as opposed to heard. I’ll try and transcribe it as best I can into words, but know that it’s only a pathetic imitation.
“... for another night of laughs, prizes, and fun for the whole family, with your host, #####!” I noticed that the audio and visual distortion seemed to suddenly intensify the instant he said his name, rendering it completely illegible. Idiot I was, I figured that was a coincidence. “Tonight is a night of celebration, folks, because thanks to the support of loyal viewers like you, we have just been approved for, get this: two hundred thousand more seasons!”
The “live studio audience” went wild with applause. I put that in scare quotes because, as far as I could tell, besides the host, the studio seemed completely empty. As if he was standing on a plain white stage that extended outwards into infinite darkness on all sides.
“For those just joining us, the game here is simple…” He explained that this was some sort of a trivia show. Every time a guest got an answer wrong, it brought them a little closer to some sort of unspecified ‘punishment’. And if they got it right? He smirked. “Well, they get to delay the inevitable.”
I wondered what he meant by ‘inevitable’. I didn’t have to wonder long.
The host gestured to a curtain that hadn’t been there moments ago, which raised to reveal a middle-aged man. You know the type — bushy mustache, gray hair, round-rimmed glasses. Kind of guy you’d have doing your plumbing. He couldn’t look any more out of place stood up and restrained in that — what the hell is that?
I recognized that metal coffin-looking thing from a medieval torture museum I went to once. The iron maiden. The lid hung open, countless long, needle-like blades poking inwards, threaten to poke a million new holes in him if it was shut.
His situation was not lost on him. “Where… where am I? What the hell is this!?”
“Oh, lucky guess!” The host ‘joked’. More canned laughter. “I know you always loved watching those trivia shows, Malcolm? Weren’t you always sitting there, grinding your teeth, seething that it wasn’t fair? That you should be the one up on stage, winning big?”
The man paused. Even he seemed mesmerized by the unreal perfection of the host before him. “I… this is a… game show?”
“All you have to do is answer a few questions! Think you can handle that, Malcolm?” He pulled out a cue card without waiting for an answer. “And our first question! What were you doing the night of February 18th, 1998?”
The man seemed baffled. “Just… sat on my couch watching the NFL, I think? I’m not sure how I’m supposed to remember —“
He let out a startled squeal as a horrid buzzer sounded. On cue, the lid slid a third of the way closed, making him flinch. “Oooh, I’m afraid that’s the wrong answer, Frank! But you know what? I’ll give you one more chance. What were you —“
“Following a girl home!” The man cried out. “F-from the bar. There, are you happy?”
“Cor-rect!” The canned audience began cheering! “Such honesty! Now, our second question: just what were you carrying while you followed her?”
He hesitated for a little too long. And then the buzzer sounded again, and the lid slid so near to closing that its blades began poking uncomfortably against his skin. He tried to press himself against the back of the maiden as well as his restraints would allow. “Jesus! Okay! A knife, a knife!”
“Awww, if only you’d said that just a second earlier!” Another big question. “Our third question: why, Malcolm? Why did you do it?”
That set Malcolm off. He started thrashing, clawing, screaming. “Let me out of this thing, you maniac! You can’t do this to me! Do you know who I am? Is this some sort of sick joke? My lawyers will have your head for this, you—“
And then the buzzer. All of a sudden, the lid slammed shut full-force, and the man was utterly silenced save for an unnatural, drawn-out wheeze. “Another wrong answer, Malcolm! I’m afraid I was looking for: ‘because if I can’t have her, no one can’!”
I admit it. I laughed. Out of shock more than anything. How was this allowed on TV? I took it as some sort of dark comedy show, and it was kind of satisfying to see that freaky character get his comeuppance. Still, there was something unnerving to me, seeing the man’s eyes through the openings in the maiden. Wide and red and terrified. They just looked a little… too real.
But the maiden disappeared as quickly as it came, before I could dwell on it too much. “Oh, envy! Definitely one of my favorite sins.” More laughter. “Stay tuned, folks! We’ve still got a night of fun and games in store for you! But first… how’s about a word from our sponsors?”
Cut to a corporate logo which I again couldn't recognize.
“This segment was made possible by Buer Health, which has recently announced a brilliant new initiative to protect our citizens from skin cancer by removing their skin completely.”
The camera cut to a massive industrial building, resembling a solid concrete cube around 50 meters in width and height. Its surface bore arcane symbols etched using carvings of wailing, tormented faces. The host would occasionally be rendered inaudible by a deafening metallic scraping from within, though he didn’t seem to notice. The only protrusion from the building’s cubic shape was a single smokestack, belching a scarlet red smoke into the atmosphere. A queue of gaunt figures waited at the entrance, herded and coerced by their grim overseers, and there were no words to describe the procession of scarlet ghouls limping out the building’s other end.
“Owing to the nonlinearity of time, the brand new Grand Skinpeeling Machine has spontaneously appeared several years before construction deadlines, and indeed, before it was even conceived of by anyone in our timeline. People have rushed all the way from Malebolge just to try this miracle of technology out on opening day, and so far, the reviews have been stellar!”
He shoved his microphone in the face of a shambling thing that could only scarcely be called a human. Tatters of flesh clung to its exposed musculature, blowing in the wind. Its eyes were the only hint of color in that sea of bloody red, and they were wide, white and terrified. The thing screamed and wailed for as long as it could before the last tendons connecting its jaw to its face snapped, and it was left to choke and gurgle.
“An amazing wail! The results speak for themselves, folks. The Grand Skinpeeling Machine is a hit!”
So far, I was still laughing along and having a good time. The sight of the next ‘guest’, however, started making me nervous.
It was an old lady.
She couldn’t be a day younger than sixty, the sort of sweet elderly woman who in a just world would be cooking chocolate chip cookies for her grandchildren in a comfy cottage somewhere. But here she was, tied to a metal chair, eyes wide, shaking like a leaf. Unlike the last contestant, she seemed to know exactly what was happening.
“In exchange for our loving endorsement, they’ve agreed to loan us one of their star employees. Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for: the Liqisma!”
Something slunk from the darkness far behind her — or perhaps it’d be more apt to say that the darkness birthed it whole-cloth. It was like a living shadow, and it took my eyes a moment to register what I was even seeing.
How do I even begin describing this creature? I could say it looked almost human, or at least like something that may have been human long ago. Or I could start with its skin, which was all black and shiny as latex and seemingly smooth on first glance, but if you looked closer you’d realize it was covered in a million tiny reptilian scales, almost like a shark. Its head was a bald man’s, utterly devoid of any distinguishing features, like the basic stock template for a human being. It was notable only for a complete lack of pupils and irises, its eyes a pure white.
Its body defied basic biology in so many key ways, I had to stare it at for what felt like an eternity just to wrap my mind around its physiology. It was at least five or six meters long, by my estimate, composed of multiple human torsos stacked one on top of the other like segments of a centipede, each melding with the ones around it at the waist and shoulders. Each torso sported a pair of short, stubby arms that propelled it with terrifying grace. It ended with a pair of human legs, perpetually bent on their knees, beneath a ‘tail’ that looked more like its coccyx was poking free from its body.
The old last could clearly hear it, and kept futilely trying to turn her head around enough to get a peek at what stood behind her. I mouthed uselessly, don’t. You don’t want to know.
“Glad you could join us again, Miss Wethersby! Judging by our ratings last week, you seemed to have been a fan favorite!”
Her voice was so soft, I could barely hear it below the static. “Oh, God. Please, why won’t you people let me go? I’ve told you, I’ve never done anything, never hurt anybody. There must be some sort of—”
He waved a hand over her, and it seemed to forcefully snap her mouth shut. “Please, Miss Wethersby, save your breath for our questions!” Another cue card. “Your first question, my friend: where did you and your husband buy your first home?”
She had to think about it for a long time. Eventually, she cried out, “Alabama! Tuscaloosa, Alabama!”
“Ding ding ding! Why, you’re already doing better than our first contestant! Next question: what breed of dog was your childhood pet?”
She had a pained look on her face as she thought. Eventually, a timer started ticking down. It wasn’t visible, so it wasn’t clear how much time she had left exactly, but the sound it made got more shrill and high-pitched with every second. “Miss Wethersby, need I remind you that we have a time limit on this show?”
A tear ran down her cheek. “I… I keep telling you people, I don’t know. I have dementia, I can’t remember, please—”
That buzzer again. “I’m afraid that was the wrong answer! Liqisma?” The old lady shuddered at the sounds of hundreds of feet drawing a little closer to her. “Now, your first grandchild. What did he look like? What color were his eyes? His hair?”
She was crying harder now, like it hurt her that she couldn’t remember something so dear to her. “I told you I can’t remember! Why are you doing this to me!?”
“If you don’t remember them, why would they remember you?” The host mocked as the buzzer sounded, and the beast drew a little closer. “Really, do you believe they still even think about you? Or do you think they’re glad that the old bag of bones isn’t there sucking up their inheritance?”
This went on for… God, it could have been an hour. I was glued to the screen all the while, frozen with terror, praying for this nightmare to just end, for her to make it out okay somehow. He poured over every little detail of the life she lived and the people she loved, delighting in how little of it she could still recall.
And the thing grew closer, and closer… until she finally felt multiple pairs of hands resting upon her shoulders. The thing was looming over her now, and a long, black tongue a few feet in length emerged from its mouth and ran trails of dark saliva over the back of her head. She looked broken down, eyes raw from crying, and I could tell by the dampness of her dress that she’d wet herself.
“Now, Miss Wethersby, our time here has been fun, but I do believe it is time for our final question. Tell me, what is the name… of your only son?”
She couldn’t even answer anymore. She just stared ahead, like her mind was a million miles away. He cackled as the buzzer sounded one final time, and threw his cue cards aside. “Thank you for playing, Miss Wethersby. Better luck next time.”
I would say the thing unhinged its jaw like a snake, but that’d be an understatement. The way the thing’s face malformed and wrinkled and stretched as it opened its maw, it no longer looked even remotely human. Its jaws must have parted at least thirty centimeters apart, revealing a second, pharyngeal pair of jaws that lashed out and gripped the woman’s skull, pulling her headlong into that darkness.
I could hear bones crunching and snapping as its throat constricted down around her body, peristaltic muscles compacting her into a meat slurry, bit by bit. Yet she just wouldn’t die. Even as her skull and upper body were already crushed and compacted, organs and muscles pressed into mulch, she still kicked her legs, twitched her fingers, let out a gurgling that must have been some attempt at screaming. She was squirming even as the beast snapped its jaw shut around the last of her, condemning her to whatever torments awaited her inside the creature.
And all the while, that horrible laughter. “Don’t worry, folks! She’ll be back next week! And the next. And the next…”
Needless to say, I wasn’t having fun anymore. In fact, I had to turn away and fight the urge to throw up. I stood, about to turn the TV off and —
“Ah, ah, ah! Don’t touch that dial, now!” I froze. There was something chilling about the way he said that, staring right into the screen as if reacting to what I was doing. I hated that grin on his face. “The real show is just beginning.”
And with the barely restrained excitement of a child on Christmas morning, he yanked back another curtain, and I recognized everything.
I recognized that crappy bootleg knockoff Always Sunny in Philadelphia jacket that was so gaudy and terrible it instantly became her favorite thing in her wardrobe. I recognized those subtle hints of slight acne she disguised as fake freckles. I recognized the way her gray eyes would remind me of those overcast mornings at the beach at Hilton Head and pointing out all the cannonball jellyfish washed up on the sands. I recognized that tattoo of the name ʀᴏᴄᴋʏ, how I’d held her all night long as she cried into my shirt after her childhood cat had died.
It was Lila.
I shuddered, gasped, fell from my seat as if I’d been punched in the stomach and the air had been knocked out of me. I couldn’t breathe. This couldn’t be real. I was dreaming right now. I must be. I just had to wake up.
But I couldn’t wake up. Nothing I could do dispelled the sight of her curled up in that… that thing. That bronze statue of a bull, horns jutting on either side of a head that roaring silently up at the heavens, all while the love of my life was locked in its hollowed out belly, visible only through a pane of glass. I could hear her cry out in shock at where she’d found herself, and every whimper felt like it drove a knife through my chest.
The host soaked in the moment. It was ecstasy for him, the suffering of it all. He stared dead into the camera like he was looking right at me as she called, “What is this? Where am I?”
“Why, I have good news, my dear Lila! You’re exactly where every American dreams of being: you’re on TV.” He pointed to the camera. “And we have a very special guest in the audience tonight. Your very own beloved Jackson!”
I shuddered, hearing my own name ooze from his fetid lips. His façade of perfection was slipping, and there was something so profoundly ugly beneath it. Her eyes snapped to the camera, confused, despairing. “Jackson? Baby? What — what’s happening? What is this?”
I don’t know, I thought, gripping the sides of the TV so hard my knuckles turned white, but I’m going to get you out of there, baby. I’m going to find whoever did this and I’m going to bury them all so far beneath that studio that they’ll never-
“I’m afraid Jackson hasn’t joined us quite yet, my dear. But if you truly love him, surely you’ll give him a show to remember, won’t you?” He taunted her. “All I want, after all, is to ask you a few questions! In fact, I’ll offer you a special deal: get even a single answer right, and I’ll let you go free! But get one wrong and, well…”
On cue, a fire was lit beneath her. Small, smoldering for now, but she whimpered as she noticed the heat. We both realized in that instant what this was. By now, I was screaming things I can’t repeat here, and slamming my hands against the TV screen as if I could reach through and save her.
She bit her lip and acquiesced. Not like she had any room to argue. The host grinned and readied a cue card. “Your first question: where are you, Lila?”
“I… I don’t know. How am I supposed to know?”
“You do know, Lila. You know exactly where you are.” He smirked at her. “Here’s a free hint: what’s the last thing you remember, before you woke up here?
She thought about it… and choked back a sob, visibly shaking as the realization slowly settled in. “But… but why? I… I…”
The horrible wail of the buzzer cut her off. “Oooh, too bad! I’m afraid you’ve run out of time!”
Seemingly as if on its own, the fire doubled in size. Sparks licked the belly of the bronze bull, and began to ever-so-slowly heat the surface. She pawed around in the tight confines, searching for any reprieve from the scalding heat all around her as the metal grew hot like it’d been left out in the sun on a summer’s day. “Please! Oh, God, let me out of this thing! It hurts! It hurts!”
The host seemed to breathe in her pain as if stealing a moment’s indulgence. “Now that there is no doubt about where you are, my dear, let us proceed to the second question.” He switched to his next card. “Did you believe in God, in the end?”
“O-of course!” She pled her case as if she was being tried in court. “My entire life… every day I gave to the poor, helped the sick, did whatever I could to honor Hi-“
“I’m afraid you misunderstood my question. I asked, did you believe in him at the end? The very moment your pitiful little life was snuffed out?”
“I always believed! I’d never forsake Him!”
“Yes, yes, I know. You lived a good and holy life, didn’t you?” He cackled. “But what of the very end? You and your little husband were so excited to deliver your first little baby boy. But o, tragedy! It all went wrong, didn’t it? Your precious little boy didn’t make it through childbirth… and you followed closely behind.”
“That whole business with the botched pregnancy, it was… what do you call it? Ah, yes. A ‘test of faith’. And I’m afraid you failed. In your final moments, you watched the light fade from your child’s eyes, and you assumed — wisely, in my humble opinion — that no ‘kind’ and ‘loving’ God would allow something like that to happen.” He laughed. “Funny how after a lifetime of dutiful service, all it takes is one little mistake at the end… to bring you here. To us.”
I’d never seen such depths of despair in a person’s eyes. Such emptiness. Like with every word, he’d been scooping out another piece of her until she was hollow. And then that buzzer roared again, more shrill than ever, and I could barely see her little window through the smoke and flames. The belly of the bull was turning orange in places, and I could hear her flesh start to sizzle like meat on a grill. There are no words for the noises she made. No words at all.
“And our last, final question,” he continued. “What were your last words to your poor, beloved Jackson?”
“I love you!” I called out the answer. Bloody fingerprints stained the TV screen from my slamming my hands against it, as I screamed the answer over and over. “I love you, I love you, I love you!” At some point, I forgot that there was ever a question. I was just screaming it at her as if hoping that she could hear it, that it could bring her a modicum of comfort in that place.
The buzzer sounded again. I couldn't bring myself to look. All I could hear was the roaring of the bull, and the steam rising from its bronze nostrils.
The curtain fell. Silence drowned the sound. The host dropped all pretense that he hadn’t been speaking directly to me. “Now, Jackson. You just might be one of my new favorite audience members this show had ever had. I know this must have been hard for you. But if you’ll just stay tuned, I have one more show I know you’re certain to love!”
I didn’t bother to touch the remote. After all, nothing could be worse than what I’d just seen, right?
Wrong. Horror wracked me as the curtain rose, and I saw the man chained to a chair. I pulled away like a caveman witnessing fire, cringing and stuttering, face wet with sweat. It was the sort of fear that worked its way into your bones like a bad chill, that left you shaking, teeth chattering.
It was me.
An older me, sure. But not by much. Ten years, maybe. A gaunt and hollow version of me, one twisted by ten years of depression and hard drugs. But it was unmistakable.
His eyes widened as he recognized the host. “Oh — oh God, God please no! It can’t be — oh Christ, let me out of this chair, you —“
“Come, now! We wouldn’t want to use the lord’s name in vain, would we? I mean, that would be a sin!” The host laid a hand on the other me’s shoulder. “It may have been a few years since you watched our program, but I’m sure you remember the rules, don’t you, old friend?”
The other me was wordless, on the verge of hyperventilating, just as I was. The host was giddy with delight. “Now! Our first and only question is one I’m sure our viewer will be very interested in: what sins, exactly, do you think landed you here?”
The other me tried to speak, but the words caught in his throat. I could see it in his eyes. The years of self-destruction, the bitter hopelessness, the whirlpool of nihilism and vice and decay. The suffocating depths of a man. The darkness. How could he put it into words?
The sound of the buzzer was like a pig’s squeal. “Mmm, I’m afraid that our viewer is going to have to figure that out for himself! In the meantime, your punishment? Well, we wouldn’t want to spoil anything…”
The curtains slowly began to fall just as a couple other of those black, grotesque monstrosities emerged from the darkness. The curtain covered them all before I could get a good look at their obscene, twisted, asymmetrical figures. All I could hear was the crunching, the sound of skin tearing like paper, the screaming that went on for longer and louder than a human throat or vocal chords could endure.
The image and audio were beginning to distort, glitch, burn away. The tapes were physically melting as they played. My VCR was starting to overheat, sparks pouring from its front panel. The host voice jumped around in tone, his voice fading into the static blur as the tapes bubbled and boiled and distorted. “But, my friends, I’m afraid that concludes tonight’s episode of our show! So, with a final farewell to our dear, beloved viewer, Jackson…”
Just before the image melted away, the camera seemed to jump forward until his face filled the screen, his eyes piercing into mine as he cackled in that singsong voice.
“See you sooooon~”

By what means the papers out of which I have made a connected story came into my hands is the last point which the reader will learn from these pages. But it is necessary to prefix to my extracts from them a statement of the form in which I possess them. They consist, then, partly of a series of collections for a book of travels, such a volume as was a common product of the forties and fifties. Horace Marryat's Journal of a Residence in Jutland and the Danish Isles is a fair specimen of the class to which I allude. These books usually treated of some unfamiliar district on the Continent. They were illustrated with woodcuts or steel plates. They gave details of hotel accommodation, and of means of communication, such as we now expect to find in any well-regulated guide-book, and they dealt largely in reported conversations with intelligent foreigners, racy innkeepers and garrulous peasants. In a word, they were chatty. Begun with the idea of furnishing material for such a book, my papers as they progressed assumed the character of a record of one single personal experience, and this record was continued up to the very eve, almost, of its termination. The writer was a Mr. Wraxall. For my knowledge of him I have to depend entirely on the evidence his writings afford, and from these I deduce that he was a man past middle age, possessed of some private means, and very much alone in the world. He had, it seems, no settled abode in England, but was a denizen of hotels and boarding-houses. It is probable that he entertained the idea of settling down at some future time which never came; and I think it also likely that the Pantechnicon fire in the early seventies must have destroyed a great deal that would have thrown light on his antecedents, for he refers once or twice to property of his that was warehoused at that establishment. It is further apparent that Mr. Wraxall had published a book, and that it treated of a holiday he had once taken in Brittany. More than this I cannot say about his work, because a diligent search in bibliographical works has convinced me that it must have appeared either anonymously or under a pseudonym. As to his character, it is not difficult to form some superficial opinion. He must have been an intelligent and cultivated man. It seems that he was near being a Fellow of his college at Oxford—Brasenose, as I judge from the Calendar. His besetting fault was pretty clearly that of over-inquisitiveness, possibly a good fault in a traveller, certainly a fault for which this traveller paid dearly enough in the end. On what proved to be his last expedition, he was plotting another book. Scandinavia, a region not widely known to Englishmen forty years ago, had struck him as an interesting field. He must have lighted on some old books of Swedish history or memoirs, and the idea had struck him that there was room for a book descriptive of travel in Sweden, interspersed with episodes from the history of some of the great Swedish families. He procured letters of introduction, therefore, to some persons of quality in Sweden, and set out thither in the early summer of 1863. Of his travels in the North there is no need to speak, nor of his residence of some weeks in Stockholm. I need only mention that some savant resident there put him on the track of an important collection of family papers belonging to the proprietors of an ancient manor-house in Vestergothland, and obtained for him permission to examine them. The manor-house, or herrgård, in question is to be called Råbäck (pronounced something like Roebeck), though that is not its name. It is one of the best buildings of its kind in all the country, and the picture of it in Dablenberg's Suecia antiqua et moderna, engraved in 1694, shows it very much as the tourist may see it to-day. It was built soon after 1600, and is, roughly speaking, very much like an English house of that period in respect of material—red-brick with stone facings—and style. The man who built it was a scion of the great house of De la Gardie, and his descendants possess it still. De la Gardie is the name by which I will designate them when mention of them becomes necessary. They received Mr. Wraxall with great kindness and courtesy, and pressed him to stay in the house as long as his researches lasted. But, preferring to be independent, and mistrusting his powers of conversing in Swedish, he settled himself at the village inn, which turned out quite sufficiently comfortable, at any rate during the summer months. This arrangement would entail a short walk daily to and from the manor-house of something under a mile. The house itself stood in a park, and was protected—we should say grown up—with large old timber. Near it you found the walled garden, and then entered a close wood fringing one of the small lakes with which the whole country is pitted. Then came the wall of the demesne, and you climbed a steep knoll—a knob of rock lightly covered with soil—and on the top of this stood the church, fenced in with tall dark trees. It was a curious building to English eyes. The nave and aisles were low, and filled with pews and galleries. In the western gallery stood the handsome old organ, gaily painted, and with silver pipes. The ceiling was flat, and had been adorned by a seventeenth-century artist with a strange and hideous "Last Judgment," full of lurid flames, falling cities, burning ships, crying souls, and brown and smiling demons. Handsome brass coronæ hung from the roof; the pulpit was like a doll's-house, covered with little painted wooden cherubs and saints; a stand with three hour-glasses was hinged to the preacher's desk. Such sights as these may be seen in many a church in Sweden now, but what distinguished this one was an addition to the original building. At the eastern end of the north aisle the builder of the manor-house had erected a mausoleum for himself and his family. It was a largish eight-sided building, lighted by a series of oval windows, and it had a domed roof, topped by a kind of pumpkin-shaped object rising into a spire, a form in which Swedish architects greatly delighted. The roof was of copper externally, and was painted black, while the walls, in common with those of the church, were staringly white. To this mausoleum there was no access from the church. It had a portal and steps of its own on the northern side. Past the churchyard the path to the village goes, and not more than three or four minutes bring you to the inn door. On the first day of his stay at Råbäck Mr. Wraxall found the church door open, and made those notes of the interior which I have epitomized. Into the mausoleum, however, he could not make his way. He could by looking through the keyhole just descry that there were fine marble effigies and sarcophagi of copper, and a wealth of armorial ornament, which made him very anxious to spend some time in investigation. The papers he had come to examine at the manor-house proved to be of just the kind he wanted for his book. There were family correspondence, journals, and account-books of the earliest owners of the estate, very carefully kept and clearly written, full of amusing and picturesque detail. The first De la Gardie appeared in them as a strong and capable man. Shortly after the building of the mansion there had been a period of distress in the district, and the peasants had risen and attacked several châteaux and done some damage. The owner of Råbäck took a leading part in suppressing the trouble, and there was reference to executions of ringleaders and severe punishments inflicted with no sparing hand. The portrait of this Magnus de la Gardie was one of the best in the house, and Mr. Wraxall studied it with no little interest after his day's work. He gives no detailed description of it, but I gather that the face impressed him rather by its power than by its beauty or goodness; in fact, he writes that Count Magnus was an almost phenomenally ugly man. On this day Mr. Wraxall took his supper with the family, and walked back in the late but still bright evening. "I must remember," he writes, "to ask the sexton if he can let me into the mausoleum at the church. He evidently has access to it himself, for I saw him to-night standing on the steps, and, as I thought, locking or unlocking the door." I find that early on the following day Mr. Wraxall had some conversation with his landlord. His setting it down at such length as he does surprised me at first; but I soon realized that the papers I was reading were, at least in their beginning, the materials for the book he was meditating, and that it was to have been one of those quasi-journalistic productions which admit of the introduction of an admixture of conversational matter. His object, he says, was to find out whether any traditions of Count Magnus de la Gardie lingered on in the scenes of that gentleman's activity, and whether the popular estimate of him were favourable or not. He found that the Count was decidedly not a favourite. If his tenants came late to their work on the days which they owed to him as Lord of the Manor, they were set on the wooden horse, or flogged and branded in the manor-house yard. One or two cases there were of men who had occupied lands which encroached on the lord's domain, and whose houses had been mysteriously burnt on a winter's night, with the whole family inside. But what seemed to dwell on the innkeeper's mind most—for he returned to the subject more than once—was that the Count had been on the Black Pilgrimage, and had brought something or someone back with him.
You will naturally inquire, as Mr. Wraxall did, what the Black Pilgrimage may have been. But your curiosity on the point must remain unsatisfied for the time being, just as his did. The landlord was evidently unwilling to give a full answer, or indeed any answer, on the point, and, being called out for a moment, trotted off with obvious alacrity, only putting his head in at the door a few minutes afterwards to say that he was called away to Skara, and should not be back till evening. So Mr. Wraxall had to go unsatisfied to his day's work at the manor-house. The papers on which he was just then engaged soon put his thoughts into another channel, for he had to occupy himself with glancing over the correspondence between Sophia Albertina in Stockholm and her married cousin Ulrica Leonora at Råbäck in the years 1705-1710. The letters were of exceptional interest from the light they threw upon the culture of that period in Sweden, as anyone can testify who has read the full edition of them in the publications of the Swedish Historical Manuscripts Commission. In the afternoon he had done with these, and after returning the boxes in which they were kept to their places on the shelf, he proceeded, very naturally, to take down some of the volumes nearest to them, in order to determine which of them had best be his principal subject of investigation next day. The shelf he had hit upon was occupied mostly by a collection of account-books in the writing of the first Count Magnus. But one among them was not an account-book, but a book of alchemical and other tracts in another sixteenth-century hand. Not being very familiar with alchemical literature, Mr. Wraxall spends much space which he might have spared in setting out the names and beginnings of the various treatises: The book of the Phœnix, book of the Thirty Words, book of the Toad, book of Miriam, Turba philosophorum, and so forth; and then he announces with a good deal of circumstance his delight at finding, on a leaf originally left blank near the middle of the book, some writing of Count Magnus himself headed "Liber nigræ peregrinationis." It is true that only a few lines were written, but there was quite enough to show that the landlord had that morning been referring to a belief at least as old as the time of Count Magnus, and probably shared by him. This is the English of what was written: "If any man desires to obtain a long life, if he would obtain a faithful messenger and see the blood of his enemies, it is necessary that he should first go into the city of Chorazin, and there salute the prince...." Here there was an erasure of one word, not very thoroughly done, so that Mr. Wraxall felt pretty sure that he was right in reading it as aëris ("of the air"). But there was no more of the text copied, only a line in Latin: "Quære reliqua hujus materiei inter secretiora" (See the rest of this matter among the more private things). It could not be denied that this threw a rather lurid light upon the tastes and beliefs of the Count; but to Mr. Wraxall, separated from him by nearly three centuries, the thought that he might have added to his general forcefulness alchemy, and to alchemy something like magic, only made him a more picturesque figure; and when, after a rather prolonged contemplation of his picture in the hall, Mr. Wraxall set out on his homeward way, his mind was full of the thought of Count Magnus. He had no eyes for his surroundings, no perception of the evening scents of the woods or the evening light on the lake; and when all of a sudden he pulled up short, he was astonished to find himself already at the gate of the churchyard, and within a few minutes of his dinner. His eyes fell on the mausoleum. "Ah," he said, "Count Magnus, there you are. I should dearly like to see you." "Like many solitary men," he writes, "I have a habit of talking to myself aloud; and, unlike some of the Greek and Latin particles, I do not expect an answer. Certainly, and perhaps fortunately in this case, there was neither voice nor any that regarded: only the woman who, I suppose, was cleaning up the church, dropped some metallic object on the floor, whose clang startled me. Count Magnus, I think, sleeps sound enough." That same evening the landlord of the inn, who had heard Mr. Wraxall say that he wished to see the clerk or deacon (as he would be called in Sweden) of the parish, introduced him to that official in the inn parlour. A visit to the De la Gardie tomb-house was soon arranged for the next day, and a little general conversation ensued. Mr. Wraxall, remembering that one function of Scandinavian deacons is to teach candidates for Confirmation, thought he would refresh his own memory on a Biblical point. "Can you tell me," he said, "anything about Chorazin?" The deacon seemed startled, but readily reminded him how that village had once been denounced. "To be sure," said Mr. Wraxall; "it is, I suppose, quite a ruin now?" "So I expect," replied the deacon. "I have heard some of our old priests say that Antichrist is to be born there; and there are tales——" "Ah! what tales are those?" Mr. Wraxall put in. "Tales, I was going to say, which I have forgotten," said the deacon; and soon after that he said good night. The landlord was now alone, and at Mr. Wraxall's mercy; and that inquirer was not inclined to spare him. "Herr Nielsen," he said, "I have found out something about the Black Pilgrimage. You may as well tell me what you know. What did the Count bring back with him?" Swedes are habitually slow, perhaps, in answering, or perhaps the landlord was an exception. I am not sure; but Mr. Wraxall notes that the landlord spent at least one minute in looking at him before he said anything at all. Then he came close up to his guest, and with a good deal of effort he spoke: "Mr. Wraxall, I can tell you this one little tale, and no more—not any more. You must not ask anything when I have done. In my grandfather's time—that is, ninety-two years ago—there were two men who said: 'The Count is dead; we do not care for him. We will go to-night and have a free hunt in his wood'—the long wood on the hill that you have seen behind Råbäck. Well, those that heard them say this, they said: 'No, do not go; we are sure you will meet with persons walking who should not be walking. They should be resting, not walking.' These men laughed. There were no forest-men to keep the wood, because no one wished to hunt there. The family were not here at the house. These men could do what they wished. "Very well, they go to the wood that night. My grandfather was sitting here in this room. It was the summer, and a light night. With the window open, he could see out to the wood, and hear. "So he sat there, and two or three men with him, and they listened. At first they hear nothing at all; then they hear someone—you know how far away it is—they hear someone scream, just as if the most inside part of his soul was twisted out of him. All of them in the room caught hold of each other, and they sat so for three-quarters of an hour. Then they hear someone else, only about three hundred ells off. They hear him laugh out loud: it was not one of those two men that laughed, and, indeed, they have all of them said that it was not any man at all. After that they hear a great door shut. "Then, when it was just light with the sun, they all went to the priest. They said to him: "'Father, put on your gown and your ruff, and come to bury these men, Anders Bjornsen and Hans Thorbjorn.' "You understand that they were sure these men were dead. So they went to the wood—my grandfather never forgot this. He said they were all like so many dead men themselves. The priest, too, he was in a white fear. He said when they came to him: "'I heard one cry in the night, and I heard one laugh afterwards. If I cannot forget that, I shall not be able to sleep again.' "So they went to the wood, and they found these men on the edge of the wood. Hans Thorbjorn was standing with his back against a tree, and all the time he was pushing with his hands—pushing something away from him which was not there. So he was not dead. And they led him away, and took him to the house at Nykjoping, and he died before the winter; but he went on pushing with his hands. Also Anders Bjornsen was there; but he was dead. And I tell you this about Anders Bjornsen, that he was once a beautiful man, but now his face was not there, because the flesh of it was sucked away off the bones. You understand that? My grandfather did not forget that. And they laid him on the bier which they brought, and they put a cloth over his head, and the priest walked before; and they began to sing the psalm for the dead as well as they could. So, as they were singing the end of the first verse, one fell down, who was carrying the head of the bier, and the others looked back, and they saw that the cloth had fallen off, and the eyes of Anders Bjornsen were looking up, because there was nothing to close over them. And this they could not bear. Therefore the priest laid the cloth upon him, and sent for a spade, and they buried him in that place." The next day Mr. Wraxall records that the deacon called for him soon after his breakfast, and took him to the church and mausoleum. He noticed that the key of the latter was hung on a nail just by the pulpit, and it occurred to him that, as the church door seemed to be left unlocked as a rule, it would not be difficult for him to pay a second and more private visit to the monuments if there proved to be more of interest among them than could be digested at first. The building, when he entered it, he found not unimposing. The monuments, mostly large erections of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, were dignified if luxuriant, and the epitaphs and heraldry were copious. The central space of the domed room was occupied by three copper sarcophagi, covered with finely-engraved ornament. Two of them had, as is commonly the case in Denmark and Sweden, a large metal crucifix on the lid. The third, that of Count Magnus, as it appeared, had, instead of that, a full-length effigy engraved upon it, and round the edge were several bands of similar ornament representing various scenes. One was a battle, with cannon belching out smoke, and walled towns, and troops of pikemen. Another showed an execution. In a third, among trees, was a man running at full speed, with flying hair and outstretched hands. After him followed a strange form; it would be hard to say whether the artist had intended it for a man, and was unable to give the requisite similitude, or whether it was intentionally made as monstrous as it looked. In view of the skill with which the rest of the drawing was done, Mr. Wraxall felt inclined to adopt the latter idea. The figure was unduly short, and was for the most part muffled in a hooded garment which swept the ground. The only part of the form which projected from that shelter was not shaped like any hand or arm. Mr. Wraxall compares it to the tentacle of a devil-fish, and continues: "On seeing this, I said to myself, 'This, then, which is evidently an allegorical representation of some kind—a fiend pursuing a hunted soul—may be the origin of the story of Count Magnus and his mysterious companion. Let us see how the huntsman is pictured: doubtless it will be a demon blowing his horn.'" But, as it turned out, there was no such sensational figure, only the semblance of a cloaked man on a hillock, who stood leaning on a stick, and watching the hunt with an interest which the engraver had tried to express in his attitude. Mr. Wraxall noted the finely-worked and massive steel padlocks—three in number—which secured the sarcophagus. One of them, he saw, was detached, and lay on the pavement. And then, unwilling to delay the deacon longer or to waste his own working-time, he made his way onward to the manor-house. It is curious," he notes, "how on retracing a familiar path one's thoughts engross one to the absolute exclusion of surrounding objects. To-night, for the second time, I had entirely failed to notice where I was going (I had planned a private visit to the tomb-house to copy the epitaphs), when I suddenly, as it were, awoke to consciousness, and found myself (as before) turning in at the churchyard gate, and, I believe, singing or chanting some such words as, 'Are you awake, Count Magnus? Are you asleep, Count Magnus?' and then something more which I have failed to recollect. It seemed to me that I must have been behaving in this nonsensical way for some time." He found the key of the mausoleum where he had expected to find it, and copied the greater part of what he wanted; in fact, he stayed until the light began to fail him. "I must have been wrong," he writes, "in saying that one of the padlocks of my Count's sarcophagus was unfastened; I see to-night that two are loose. I picked both up, and laid them carefully on the window-ledge, after trying unsuccessfully to close them. The remaining one is still firm, and, though I take it to be a spring lock, I cannot guess how it is opened. Had I succeeded in undoing it, I am almost afraid I should have taken the liberty of opening the sarcophagus. It is strange, the interest I feel in the personality of this, I fear, somewhat ferocious and grim old noble." The day following was, as it turned out, the last of Mr. Wraxall's stay at Råbäck. He received letters connected with certain investments which made it desirable that he should return to England; his work among the papers was practically done, and travelling was slow. He decided, therefore, to make his farewells, put some finishing touches to his notes, and be off. These finishing touches and farewells, as it turned out, took more time than he had expected. The hospitable family insisted on his staying to dine with them—they dined at three—and it was verging on half-past six before he was outside the iron gates of Råbäck. He dwelt on every step of his walk by the lake, determined to saturate himself, now that he trod it for the last time, in the sentiment of the place and hour. And when he reached the summit of the churchyard knoll, he lingered for many minutes, gazing at the limitless prospect of woods near and distant, all dark beneath a sky of liquid green. When at last he turned to go, the thought struck him that surely he must bid farewell to Count Magnus as well as the rest of the De la Gardies. The church was but twenty yards away, and he knew where the key of the mausoleum hung. It was not long before he was standing over the great copper coffin, and, as usual, talking to himself aloud. "You may have been a bit of a rascal in your time, Magnus," he was saying, "but for all that I should like to see you, or, rather——" "Just at that instant," he says, "I felt a blow on my foot. Hastily enough I drew it back, and something fell on the pavement with a clash. It was the third, the last of the three padlocks which had fastened the sarcophagus. I stooped to pick it up, and—Heaven is my witness that I am writing only the bare truth—before I had raised myself there was a sound of metal hinges creaking, and I distinctly saw the lid shifting upwards. I may have behaved like a coward, but I could not for my life stay for one moment. I was outside that dreadful building in less time than I can write—almost as quickly as I could have said—the words; and what frightens me yet more, I could not turn the key in the lock. As I sit here in my room noting these facts, I ask myself (it was not twenty minutes ago) whether that noise of creaking metal continued, and I cannot tell whether it did or not. I only know that there was something more than I have written that alarmed me, but whether it was sound or sight I am not able to remember. What is this that I have done?" Poor Mr. Wraxall! He set out on his journey to England on the next day, as he had planned, and he reached England in safety; and yet, as I gather from his changed hand and inconsequent jottings, a broken man. One of several small notebooks that have come to me with his papers gives, not a key to, but a kind of inkling of, his experiences. Much of his journey was made by canal-boat, and I find not less than six painful attempts to enumerate and describe his fellow-passengers. The entries are of this kind: "24. Pastor of village in Skåne. Usual black coat and soft black hat. "25. Commercial traveller from Stockholm going to Trollhättan. Black cloak, brown hat. "26. Man in long black cloak, broad-leafed hat, very old-fashioned." This entry is lined out, and a note added: "Perhaps identical with No. 13. Have not yet seen his face." On referring to No. 13, I find that he is a Roman priest in a cassock. The net result of the reckoning is always the same. Twenty-eight people appear in the enumeration, one being always a man in a long black cloak and broad hat, and the other a "short figure in dark cloak and hood." On the other hand, it is always noted that only twenty-six passengers appear at meals, and that the man in the cloak is perhaps absent, and the short figure is certainly absent. On reaching England, it appears that Mr. Wraxall landed at Harwich, and that he resolved at once to put himself out of the reach of some person or persons whom he never specifies, but whom he had evidently come to regard as his pursuers. Accordingly he took a vehicle—it was a closed fly—not trusting the railway, and drove across country to the village of Belchamp St. Paul. It was about nine o'clock on a moonlight August night when he neared the place. He was sitting forward, and looking out of the window at the fields and thickets—there was little else to be seen—racing past him. Suddenly he came to a cross-road. At the corner two figures were standing motionless; both were in dark cloaks; the taller one wore a hat, the shorter a hood. He had no time to see their faces, nor did they make any motion that he could discern. Yet the horse shied violently and broke into a gallop, and Mr. Wraxall sank back into his seat in something like desperation. He had seen them before. Arrived at Belchamp St. Paul, he was fortunate enough to find a decent furnished lodging, and for the next twenty-four hours he lived, comparatively speaking, in peace. His last notes were written on this day. They are too disjointed and ejaculatory to be given here in full, but the substance of them is clear enough. He is expecting a visit from his pursuers—how or when he knows not—and his constant cry is "What has he done?" and "Is there no hope?" Doctors, he knows, would call him mad, policemen would laugh at him. The parson is away. What can he do but lock his door and cry to God? People still remembered last year at Belchamp St. Paul how a strange gentleman came one evening in August years back; and how the next morning but one he was found dead, and there was an inquest; and the jury that viewed the body fainted, seven of 'em did, and none of 'em wouldn't speak to what they see, and the verdict was visitation of God; and how the people as kep' the 'ouse moved out that same week, and went away from that part. But they do not, I think, know that any glimmer of light has ever been thrown, or could be thrown, on the mystery. It so happened that last year the little house came into my hands as part of a legacy. It had stood empty since 1863, and there seemed no prospect of letting it; so I had it pulled down, and the papers of which I have given you an abstract were found in a forgotten cupboard under the window in the best bedroom.

A few days ago, I received a file from a journalist friend who teaches at a private university in Montevideo. I known this person for years now and the exchange with her on our countless bar nights basically made me want to try to study journalism. After I started my career we became even closer and we shared concerns about the evolution of information, social media and the infamous cerebral callosity we acquired to endure the tragedy.
My friend, let's call her Valeria, was part of a public competition to accompany a minor scientific expedition to the Uruguayan Antarctic base. Her thesis was about investigating how information reception behaves in remote and isolated areas.
I barely read it , but basically tries to show that information circulates and is received in a particular way in these circumstances by a group of unfamiliar people living under extreme climatic and isolation conditions, having as an example, life in submarines and in military bases in Siberia. The Antarctic base gave her the chance to observe some of her postulates up close.
Finally, she was chosen and traveled with this scientific group in a commercial flight Montevideo - Santiago de Chile to later arrive at Punta Arenas and fly to the Antarctic base.
The last communication I had with her before she sent me the almost 90 photographic captures of the Journal, was on March 15, 2024.
We talked over the phone about how the weather was in Montevideo, that it does not stop raining and the cars are practically floating on the streets. She told me that the transport that was going to take them back was having mechanical problems and they would probably have to order spare parts for the plane from Punta Arenas. Then She told me that it is freaking cold down there and his colleagues are all very boring. Nobody has whisky for the evenings. We laughed about that part because I told her to bring at least one bottle of Grappa in her purse.
Before saying goodbye, she told me they had spotted some old metal structures south of the base. The soldiers told her that it was safe to go near that part so she was going to explore them. It wasn't there when they first arrived and that the recent and atypical heat wave probably must have exposed it. I told her to be careful and we said goodbyes.
Three days later I received an email. “Valeria shared a file with you.” As I start to see what it was about she calls me.
“Mauro? MAURO!, can you hear me?” She said in a nervous and excited voice.
“I can barely hear you, what happened?”I asked half asleep, while still lying on my bed.
“Listen to me carefully, don't talk, just listen” I could tell by her agitation that she was walking fast or maybe running. The creaking footsteps in the snow could be heard in the background. in the distance, a catastrophe-type siren was blaring.
“Are you alright? What happened? What's that noise?” I said, now sitting on the edge of my bed.
“I sent you a file. Transfer it to a flash drive, delete history and reset your cell phone, the computer and your email address. I'll explain everything later, it'll be worth it.”
“What? What are you talking about Vale?, what for? Tell me what's going on - I started to yell at her, in slide panic.
“Listen, I found something that is not supposed to exist. In the diary he explains everything. I'm going back to the base, I think someone is following me, I set off an alarm or something. Save that file for me until I get there and remember that... “
There were two loud booms and the sound of water invading the transmission. A choked bubbling and cracking sound reminded me of ice collapsing. My friend had fallen into the water, in Antarctica.
“HEY, are you OK?! What happened?!” - I kept screaming hysterically until the call was cut off.
I looked at my cell phone for a second. My hands were shaking, I tried calling several times but the phone went dead. I looked at the compressed file. I jumped up and ran to the dining room furniture, frantically looking for a white flash drive that had to be in a drawer somewhere. I couldn't find it, so I went back to my desk. I pulled the drawer so hard that it came off the rail and fell to the floor. I started to dig through my belongings on the floor, coins, papers, cards, nothing.
I thought, I struggled to remember where I had fucking put it. Finally I saw my backpack peeking out from behind the desk chair, I jumped on it and in the second small pocket from the inside, there was a cheap white 16G flash drive. I put it in the pc, downloaded the file directly there, took it out and fabric restored the entire system on the computer. I do the same with my cell phone as Valeria said.
At the time I didn't even question if those measures really prevented me from being tracked, and the idea that that was the reason made panic run through my body like lightning. Sitting on the floor of my room next to the mess, my body was numb with tension. After a few seconds, I rebooted my cell phone to try to call Lucia, her sister.
“Hello?”
“Lucia, it's that you? I think something bad happened to Vale, I hear her over the phone as if she fell into the water, and some rumbling. I don't know what I heard, I think she got into some trouble or some place she shouldn't have been - I realized that I was mumble and not saying anything clear. For some reason, I didn't mention the file.
“It can't be Mauro, I just spoke to her on the phone. She was at the airport in Santiago de Chile at the boarding lounge, we talked for about half an hour, she told me she was bringing a fancy bourbon to share and…”
I stopped listening, it didn't make sense, how could it be? what the fuck is going on!
“Mauro, are you ok? Is something wrong? it's too early, are you sure you didn't dream it?”
“Did you talk to her? half an hour ago? But...,” I exclaimed without being able to hide my confusion.
“Are you... sure it was her?”
“Yes, of course you moron, it's my sister! Did you smoke pot again on an empty stomach?”
“No, you're right, nevermind, thanks Lucia, talk to you soon.” I ended the call without letting her say goodbye.
Had I dreamt about it? I erased everything now, how will I know if I dreamt it? I hesitated absurdly.
This is surreal, I thought to myself as I looked at the flash drive in my hand. I refocused my attention and went to the attic looking for my brother's old laptop he left me before going to live in Spain. It was practically useless, but it was enough to see the file. I turned it on, waited for the decrepit Windows XP to load, and put the flashdisk in, opened the compressed folder and found two files.
“LabNotes.pdf”
“PersonalDiary.pdf”
I decided to open the journal first. From what I interpreted from the loading order of the screenshots, after reading it, I opened the image of the last page.
I transcribe as is.
Day 243 of the 2nd mission 10: 40 am. March 12, 2019.
I am the head researcher of the Psychological Area at the UN Antarctic base; I'm currently assigned to Project Sisyphus categorized as the highest classified rank.
This is going to sound crazy, but the person living with my family is my clone.
It still surprises me when I say it out loud, but after being able to replicate the brain-muscular history (a perfect copy of our memory) of any person and having mastered replicating every cell of our bodies at any age, it was only a matter of time before the development of social biotechnology would emerge. Now and by worldwide agreement, as a complete secret.
There is absolutely no shame or a shred of ethics in what we do, there is no longer any constraint on what we can do to the subjects for the sake of research. That haunts me every day.
It all went to shit so fast, I doubt anyone will come to our rescue. The protocol says so, the base in the face of an imminent security risk will erase itself. The structure was designed to collapse methodically following a protocol of incineration and sinking. The immediate perimeter has underwater mines that make the ice collapse almost imperceptibly, but deadly to anyone who tries to leave.
No one can escape from the base, neither the research staff nor the subjects. Our place in the world is already taken.
I only hope that this journal along with my lab notes will be found at some point. I managed to construct a small insulating gasket for it so I trust it will survive in case this part of the building collapses as well.
Please use this data to let the world know what happened here and don't let perversity define us once again.
To my family: I love you and miss you every minute.
B.
At the exact moment I ended the reading I received a video call that made me jump with fright, it is...
Valeria.
With my pulse shaking, I answered the call.
“Hi you! The flight was delayed, can you believe it? This one is absolutely in my top three, worst trips of my life. I'm really hungry and everything is so expensive here. What are you up to? Tell me something, please, I'm soooo bored!”
I looked at her with confusion and I couldn't manage to pronounce words. When I was about to modulate an answer she interrupted me.
“What's the matter Mauro?, are you on pause? Is the signal OK? HELLO! Can you hear me? Can you see me?” She started to walk through the boarding lounge looking for better signal
“Yes yes, Valeria I can hear you.”
She laughed and looked at me with a face between sensual and serious, and continued.
“Do you miss me?” while raising the phone jokingly as she typically does in her selfie pose.
“Valeria, don't you remember calling me earlier today?”
“I? called you? Nop. Why? Ah! By the way, did you know there are penguins in Tierra del Fuego? I would have liked to go and see them.” She continued his verbose conversation in a carefree tone, with her typical hand gestures and playing with his hair.
“Well, at last!” She interrupted herself and shouted, jumping up from her chair.
“We are being called to board, see you in a couple hours!” She said goodbye with a smiling sonority, and began to walk towards the boarding gate.
But at the last second, before ending the call, her gesture changed. She looked directly at the camera with a hardened and emotionless face and almost mechanically, she whispered.
“(I'm going to retrieve that diary).”
My stomach dropped to the floor and I could feel as if my blood was running cold with fear. I could not shake the awful and eerie feeling that this person, who was returning, whom I had never in my life called by her full name, was not my friend.
So, the next couple of hours I put everything in to transcribe the rest of important passages of the diary. Something was compelling me to do it, i can't explain it, Some mix between moral duty, and morbid curiosity. Here is my selection of it.
Lab notes. day 96 of 1st mission 08:00 am December 22, 2016.
Subject JON X012:
First physical assessments: Normal, alert and inquisitive, exhibits some alteration to screens.
We place 100 cc of sedative in room air. The subject attentively follows the narrative of scenario B5 “The last mission”.
The subject responds positively to the premises of the story, where he is asked to address an audience threatened by a natural disaster, convincing them to choose a certain path out of the city.
He offers to collaborate but fails to articulate the message with the power to overcome the simulation.
We resort to pouring 125cc of concentrated Psilocybin into the air as stipulated in the protocol sheet.
The vocal frequency and body language reading receptors in the observation room are activated. The subject manages to formulate a series of premises articulately and with discursive power, circulating around the observation room.
Successful reaction.
We move on to the next stage.
Case is filed under the label “Jobs Project.”
Diary entry: Day 96 of the 1st mission 21:30 pm. December 22, 2016.
Today they transferred subject JON X0012 for psychological evaluation, several in the lab were very anxious about this arrival. I was never the religious type, but I can understand why. Truth be told,
I always imagined Jesus would be taller.
*********
Day 106 of the 1st mission 08:00 am January 02, 2017
Today we received a new lab assistant for the night shift. Much needed as I was covering these shifts myself and am really burned out. The underground operates at full power at those hours, the hum of the machinery becomes unbearable. This must be why the rooms have an insulating structure.
********
Day 112 of the 1st mission 19:00 pm January 08, 2017.
The new integration is not very bright. He labeled the transcripts wrong again yesterday and doesn't seem to fully understand the importance of these. I'm going to have to go through the whole method with him again. I don't have much patience lately, it's not his fault, he seems like a nice guy and it's real that I need a second of confidence. Better train him from now on. Maybe start a sketch of a short explanatory document.
*******
Small introductory guide.
When the subjects conclude the incubation and breeding process (pages 19 to 52 of the manual), that is to say, that they have at least remembered speech and with it, depending on the time in which they lived, reading and writing, they generally begin to perceive themselves. Just before situational curiosity is when the psychology department comes into action. Either to run the “stand by” simulation or the main tests.
In each subject's file is the target of their cloning, the era in which they lived, and the recommended scenarios to trigger the desired response. If the file has X amount on the cover, this corresponds to the generation of the subject, whether it is the first or 10th time it is incubated.
Generally, it takes between 2 and 5 attempts to generate the correct simulation, and administer the appropriate drugs.
It took 5 attempts to come up with the correct amount of methamphetamine that subject AH X005 (Hitler) needed to function in the scenario, as the correct amount bordered on overdose.
Simulations are much easier since the implementation of multisensor AI. We managed to generate almost any scenario including temperature, smells, lights and sounds. We tried not to use familiar ones, as human smells are impossible to replicate. We found this out in a complicated way. We tried to recreate a conversation between RR subject X003 (Reagan) and his mother, but he recognized the fakery by the absence of body odor. His mind collapsed and we had to move him to the Underground. The people in Area C (Private Clients) almost lost a very large Chinese account.
After calibrating the subject, we ran both psychological and behavioral tests, scanned retinas, analyzed blood, as well as vocal and body language. But what has really yielded surprising results are the free interviews. It is amazing what some minds are capable of with the right environmental and chemical stimulation. That's why transcription is vital (!!)
Our area develops BC (Behavioral Algorithms) which are then bought by the private sector, and some government agencies.
To give you some examples: Twitter was an idea of subject JO X008 (Orwell).
Bots in social media and the use of big data was an idea of JG X002 (Goebbels) and KM X014`s worst nightmare (Marx) was bought by Amazon.
It is an arduous process and the success rate is low, but when we achieve the goal per subject, well, these results are a mein part of the latest revolutions of mankind.
So follow the lab rules, never refer to subjects by their actual historical name, and always remember, they are assets, not people.
***********
Day 117 of the 1st mission 16:30 am January 12, 2017.
Today is a rest day all over area D. I miss many things from the old world that I thought I would never miss, taking a bus, standing in line with strangers, and today I miss Sundays. We only have one on the month. So as usual we gather in the rest area to listen to a liberated jukebox that tries to lighten the mood. I know, right? Why I wrote about this “Saturday” photocopy, well besides the same nostalgic drunks, I was approached by a person I didn't recognize.
From what I understood he was a rehabilitated alcoholic, maybe that's why I didn't see him on “Saturdays”. He must be in his 50's, he was portly and wore thick black-rimmed glasses, he seemed to have a slight limp, I noticed it when he went to refill my beer.
I am a very reserved person and find it hard to talk to people. Truth be told, I've lost the desire to talk to people here. What can you actualy fucking talk about here, if it's not about the same thing. Everything revolves around work and some inter-area gossip, which never escalates much.
But yesterday was Clara's birthday and to hide the remorse and sadness of only having shared with her the first 3 years of her life, I had a few too many beers.
We chatted about banal aspects of life in isolation, and the things we miss. For him it was going to the stadium to watch soccer with his grandchildren. I think it was loneliness and nostalgia that brought us together that night.
His name was Sigfried, I don't know if I spelled it right, but it was clearly Nordic, i notice because of some of the words he mixed up with English. He works as the underground level security manager. We all know that it is one of the most restricted areas and what we have learned in these almost 10 years in the project, is that the more restricted, the less questions you should ask.
But that day, I think I felt the urge to hurt myself, to go off the rails, so I asked what we all suspected but no one knew for sure. I asked about the blenders. I wish I hadn't.
************
Day 126 of the 1st mission 08:00 am January 21, 2017.
I almost can't express how furious I am today, but I'm going to try because if I don't, I'm going to punch the new assistant in the face. He has nothing to do with this, he's just mildly irritating.
Anyway, in Genetic Mapping or area A, they approved the incubation of another Anomaly. It seems to be an express request from a major shareholder and there is not much to say. Anomalies are very risky to reproduce, nature is wise, and for some reason it placed them in history moments where they had their limitations.
It seems that after the crisis of 2010 with “The Russian Devil” it is no longer scary enough. New school morons... If they had been there they wouldn't even dare to think about it. I AM FURIOUS.
The arguments are that this case lived longer, that the clone would be in his 70s, and that he possessed noticeably more “civilized” traits. As if the court of the last Zar had not been somewhat civilized.
Personally I think this is a big mistake. Since the discovery that some people possess unknown DNA components and with the 2010 background, they should draw the line. There are certain things, still beyond our ability to understand. But it is delusional of me to think that there are limits, someday the absence of them will consume us all.
************
Lab notes day 142 of 1st mission 08:00 am February 06, 2017.
Final free interview with JON subject X012
Scenario B-24 or “The Dinner Party” Result: Normal.
Notes: Subject is grateful, positive, docile and hopeful for the future. Offers to cook next time by asking for spices and ingredients of typical Hindu dishes.
The subject is directed to the Underground area.
Attached audio for transcription.
Case is filed under the label “Jobs Project”.
**********
Day 142 of the 1st mission 21:00 pm February 06, 2017.
Today was the last session with subject JON X012, I managed to extract the last retinal and body language readings, as usual before sending them to Underground level. We ran the dinner scenario, the truth is that is one of the best simulations we have achieved. The subjects are relaxed resulting in the best free interview environment. This one was no exception, I must say I understand the charm of the “messiah” turned out to be quite an entertaining subject. I hope his next generation will be similar.
**********
Day 152 of the 1st mission 19:00 pm February 16, 2017.
I was tasked with the continuous monitoring of subject NT X004. I am not at all happy with this transfer. First of all, I know nothing about area B of engineering and technology. Secondly, I still think this is a really bad idea.
One of the laboratories has been set up with the essential simulation equipment and personnel. Tomorrow we start with the calibration.
**********
Lab notes day 153 of the 1st mission 08:00 am February 17, 2017.
First interview with subject NT X004, we run simulation scenario 54-A, “Signal from another planet.”
Subject is observed to be receptive at first but quickly changes to paranoid. We administer 300cc of MDMA via air, according to protocol.
We introduce the reconstructed figure of a colleague in a cry for help speech.
The Subject laughs and doesn't believe a word, we move to a physical approach plane,
I volunteer myself with a room operator from the engineering area, we show him unfinished plans of an experimental vacuum propulsion engine.
He laughs again and tells us that we are not who we say we are.
We administer 50cc of DMT and move on to the next scenario.
From the screen an astronaut with non-human features sends a distress signal and intergalactic coordinates.
The subject looks thoughtful, reassesses, picks up the blueprints and begins to shout out values and what appears to be mathematical and physical formulas.
Air is charged with percentages of absolute sedation.
Audio recording is attached.
It is filed under the name “Project SpaceX.”
**********
Day 153 of the 1st mission 21:00 pm February 17, 2017.
I'm not sure what happened today, this is the first time in 10 years that a subject overcame the deception of 3 simulations. We had to place absolute sedation in the air, as risky as we know it is. I recommended that we restart the process from scratch, but it was a resounding no, the client is in a hurry.
I need to get more involved in this case to recalibrate the subject. I don't know if I want to. The words before full sedation still resonate with me. “are you still using DC current? interesting...”
**********
Day 154 of the 1st mission 21:00 pm February 18, 2017.
Something happened, I don't quite know what. The rooms have an emergency lockdown active. Outside hear security personnel mobilizing. I tried the intercom but it didn't work. The insulation prevents my screams from being heard from the outside. If this goes on another day I'm going to break the lock. I'm going to set my backpack to the bare minimum.
**********
Day 157 of the 1st mission 21:00 pm February 21, 2017.
Yesterday I heard explosions in the B area. I couldn't take it anymore and broke the lock. Whatever it was I had to go out and see. The corridors were dark, and the underground buzzer went on, at least that worked.
I went right to the north staircase, down the 4 floors in near darkness, the power was failing. The entrance to the underground area was barricaded but I managed to see a figure peeking out from inside as they felt me making noises.
It was Sigfried, he pointed me in the doors direction and I entered through a heavily armored side door. I was surprised by the immensity of this section, it encompassed a large hall below almost all the sectors of the base. In front of us there were 4 large industrial pipes with switches and multiple smaller pipes coming out of their bases. These were repeated like mosaics throughout the area until they disappeared into the distance in the darkness.
Leaning against one of them were 3 officers in formerly white coats and a nearly dead guard bloodied on the floor. Poor guy, his legs were crushed with his flesh in the open. He was lying in a pool of his own blood.
He had a blank stare and was panting, it seemed from the pale of his skin, that his fate was imminent. My asthma began to pound in my chest sharply, so I reached into my bag looking for my inhaler. I told them between visible gasps of bad breath to please tell me what's happened.
One of the doctors had a badge from area B and another from area E which corresponds to bio-armamentistics. The latter burst into tears and said “We deserve it, every one of us, we deserve it”.
I knew the other guy, he is an engineer in area B. I could hear him babbling almost nonsensically about, as why they never thought about it, an issue with electrical power.
He looked at me carefully as if recognizing me and grabbed me tightly by my jacket pulling me close to his face transformed for the panic.
“He let them out, all of them!” but not only that, no no no no... he told them the truth. Nikola fucking Tesla hacked us and told them the truth.”
He began to laugh frantically with a face of absurdity until he burst into a choked cry. At that moment everything went dark. The emergency lights activated, and from far away and getting closer, along with the emergency sirens that began to sound, we heard a large mass of people screaming and running through the corridors outside.
Sigfried looked at me as they started to pound on the shielded door and said.
“We're fucked.”
**************
Day xx of the second mission, month xx of 2017
“()The industrial sounds of spinning blades, the cries for mercy followed by the thunderous, liquid crack, down that big pipe, into the green barrels, with the Monsanto logo, dripped down one side an elongated drop of pink paste ending in the letter E on the chemical label. FERTILIZER.”
**********
After finishing the transcription, my whole body began to want to flee, the walls of my house were tinged with a faint blue light as the cloudy dusk came through the window, the lights turned off by my abstraction at the computer gave way to the dark corridors that began to feel alien. As I gently closed the pc my ears began to ring as if under pressure, my breathing became more present and the vibration of my cell phone interrupted my trance.
A call from the office. It was to tell me that I had a vacation week pending, that by schedule, I had to take it starting today.
Sons of bitches, now they even choose your time off - I thought at first, but at the same time I found the voice on the phone very strange, and to tell the truth, the procedure itself.
The anger turned into confusion that only added to the paranoia. The sounds in the street began to seem erratic, a chaotic and strangely familiar feeling came over me. My senses seemed increasingly acute, and they screamed:
Go away.
I grabbed the old laptop, the flash drive and headed for the bus station. The short trip from my house seemed like a long journey. People on the street looked at me with strange faces, the cell phone kept ringing with unknown numbers on the screen and a strange idea began to formulate in my head that whispered “Them, Valeria is one of Them”.
Already on the platforms I rummaged through my backpack where I confirmed that I had the key to the family beach house in San Luis, 60 km to the east of Montevideo. I turned off my cell phone, got on a bus heading to another and much far away town called Treinta y Tres. Sat near the last seat and slipped my cell phone in my front pocket of the seat in front of me, got off and commented to the driver with a clueless face, “I got confused, I'm going to the coast”.
I almost jumped onto the steps of the correct bus to where I was heading, unable to avoid the gazes of the passengers questioning me for the last minute drop in. I sat in my numbered seat and defragmented in dissociation, trying to understand what I was doing, I was running away, but from what?
The images of the last transcriptions were engraved in my mind, the last paragraph was repeated over and over again making me shake my head from time to time trying to get them away from my thoughts. The road was dark and I lost track of time, the digital clock within sight of the passengers jingling since we left, reading 10:40.
“San Luis Station!” - I heard the guard's shout in low volume.
I staggered to my feet, hurried to get off and with the same impulse I entered the dirt roads.
I zig-zagged through the dark, cold and silent beach town. The moonless night and the smell of the sea calmed me.
When I turned the corner to the gabled beach house of my family, on the steps of the front door lit by a white light, was her. Sitting, waiting for me. I stopped dead in my tracks and a chilling vertigo ran down my torso to my throat. We looked at each other for a short two seconds, until she stopped and started walking in sliding steps towards me, smiling and playing with her hands, crossing and uncrossing her arms. The growing sound of the wind through the trees covered us.
“Darling, how are you? How nice is the summer house, I don't think we ever came here, did we? Is it the one your grandmother left you?”
I felt the adrenaline rushing through my bloodstream, how could such a familiar attitude from such a familiar person transmit such panic to me? I had to answer something.
“Yes, this is it. I came to clear my head for a while, they gave me a few days at work and I wanted to take advantage of it.” I tried to excuse myself with failed dissimulation, since I stuttered in the middle of the words.
“Yes, I know! We arranged it with them, so you can be more relaxed and as a gesture for taking care of the file. Ah! and another thing. I think someone stole your cell phone at the bus station.” She looked at me with a smart-ass smile.
“Anyway, don't worry, they already found it on a bus on the way to “Treinta y tres”. You can get it back later.”
At this point I opened my mouth to ask for explanations, but as terrified as I was I only mumbled a “thank you”.
All this dialogue let us half a body length away, Valeria looked at me now a little more serious and stood at my side. She took my arm petrified and I could feel how a strong smell of neutral soap invaded me, as if she had rubbed herself in it too much.
“Shall we go inside? it's getting cold,” She said, finishing the sentence with a sweet gesture of pleading.
“Emm, shure.” I said.
My trembling hands managed to hit the lock on the 3rd attempt, we entered, turned on the lights and from his backpack she took out a red wine. Our favorite.
“Bring me some glasses, Mauro”. - She said to me as she sat down on the armchair against the window overlooking the gentle hills outside.
She poured wine until he almost filled the ex-cottage cheese glass, looked at me and in a toast gesture said.
“To... Dr. B?”
I slid a little smile and raised my eyebrows. Then I took half a glass in one sip.
“Well!” - She exclaimed, leaning over and resting the glass on the coffee table, and continued.
"You must be very confused, I understand, I saw it many times, the mind trying to adapt to a new, unsuspected reality and in your case all at once. It is not easy. First, make sure that no one is going to hurt you or anyone you know, second, what you read in that file, as you may have noticed, is not intended for public knowledge. Also to tell you”. I couldn't take the stress anymore, I exploded.
“You're not Vale. Who are you?! You're almost identical, but....”
“Ah yes, that one it's a tricky one to explain. Let's try, let's see:
“I'm a version of Valeria that she accidentally gendered when entered the lab. In one of the incubation rooms she touched a scan button that photographs her mind for 48 hours. It contains a micro needle that took her blood and thus generated me.”
“The thing is that we were in a situation of self-destruction of the systems, and that part of the programming code of the protocol was also copied in Valeria's mind.”
“And Valeria? She 's... dead?”
“Well, yes and no. If she tried to leave the base she's probably dead. if she's still there, she's probably frozen to death or killed by the cleanup command, but basically, if I'm here, she's not anymore.”
the coldness with which she answered me made me lose the little calm I had, I got up from the armchair and started to back away with my hands on my head, I couldn't stop repeating,
“this can't be happening, this can't be happening”.
“Hey! Mauro, calm down, it's going to be alright. I'm Valeria too. In every way, I'm still your friend, I know who you are and everything we went through, really, it's me, and when I finish managing the leak, the code, it won't work anymore, it will be erased from my mind and I'll be me. So don't worry. You only have to give me the flash disc and this issue ends here. We go back to normal life and nobody will know about anything.
“I'm not going to pretend that my friend didn't die! Alone, fucking freezing to death, I'm not going to let you take her place, I'm not going to let you!” - She interrupted me.
“Mauro, listen to me” - She came closer to me and grabbed my hands, her big, lined eyes looking at me with sweetness, like so many times before.
“I AM Valeria, I have the same fingerprints, the same blood, the same DNA, the same memories, the same scars, absolutely everything. Are you going to tell my mother that I died? to my sister? Are you going to report me? Nobody is going to believe you at all. If anyone even wants to believe you, how would you prove it? I am an exact copy”. - she told me, smiling with real sweetness and empathy.
I could only cry, for my friend, for the helplessness of the conclusion that she was right. I collapsed on the couch, and watched as the hills swayed in the night.
“Let's have the last glass and I'm leaving.”- she said to me.
“After I give you this, and that part of you disappears, will you remember that you are not... really Valeria?
“No, there is already a simulation on pause about Valeria's last week, she won't remember anything about this situation when she wakes up, because the memory is simply overwritten.”
“So I'm going to be the only one to know about this?”
“Take it as a gift Mauro, a glimpse behind the veil. And if you keep it that way, everything will be fine” - The threatening tone was soft but evident.
“Okay, hand me your PC and the flash drive.”
I looked at her evaluating all possible actions and if this decision was the right one, she stretched out her hand and smiled sympathetically. I gave her the old computer and the black 16G flash drive with the file. She inserted it, typed mechanically fast until the screen went black.
“Perfect, That would be all - She took out the flash drive, threw it on the floor and stepped on it violently with the heel of her shoe, put on his backpack and headed for the door.
“Stop,” I said.
“The things that Dr. B wrote... about the underground…
“Yes, they are true, it was the only way to be self-sustainable and to be able to isolate the complex from the rest of the world. Even the most morally flexible scientists would question the work if they knew where the subjects ended up, and what we were doing with their bodies... Anyway, I'm going home, Lucia called me 5 times already. Talk to you tomorrow.
“Love you,.” - She smiled at me and closed the door behind her. I felt a car slowly drive away from the house.
From my pocket I took out the white flash drive and looked at it. Now I had a decision to make.

I hate the Jax is an NPC theory with an irrational passion yes I know there's evidence for it but hearing that theory triggers the same part of my brain that reacts to nails on a chalkboard. So I propose a different candidate, Gangle, I have 2 pieces of evidence for her as the candidate

1. In episode 1 caine said "The one thing I cannot alter is your minds" and yet Gangle has a mask that changes her mood, maybe it's a placebo sure but it's been presented to us that she's happy when she's wearing the mask and is a wreck without it. Again granted we haven't seen enough of Gangle with the mask on to definitely say if it's a major personality shift or just a comfort mask. If the former then it's something Caine made in the Circus that alters her mind which he said is impossible if she was a person
   
2. A few things Jax said, "Aren't you supposed to be Submissive and Agreeable" what if he's being literal like that's what her programming tells her to be and Jax was annoyed she wasn't acting on her programming. And of course "Do it or I'll tell Ragatha about the figurine thing" what if that's not implying she has a figurine of Ragatha what if the figurine thing is referring to the adventure they found her in. Way before Ragatha got there a group comprised of Jax and Kinger went to the "FABULOUS FIGURINE FUNLAND" for an adventure and someone brought Gangle with them because they thought she was cute. That person and everyone else in the group abstracted except for Kinger who isn't lucid enough to remember and Jax who uses it as a way to control her for fun. What that has to do with Ragatha is anyone's guess, that's the realm of fan fiction authors not half thought out MatPat wannabes like myself.
   

Bright illuminescant flashes bolted through the dark-lit sky, rushing and raging through clouds seemingly made of gossamer and finely woven felt. You could almost reach out and touch them if not for the raging storm ripping and hollering. It shone and splintered along the sky, splitting into a thousand arcs, each converging and convexing along the stars. Electrical currents spun like lavender spider webs along a farmhouse wall. The arcs traveled, painting a vibrant tapestry along its wake before reaching their climax and releasing a wicked KRAK as the lights slowly faded.
The gossamer clouds wept tears of dull acidic rain that fell, cascading downwards. Down to the swampy fetid fields below. Their droplets splashed and sizzled against the sand, slowly fizzing before hardening into a thin velvet glass before beginning all over again. A sad display of god’s fury laid bare and plain for all to see. The rain had begun just a week prior, but its assault had persisted in a constant pattern ever since. The swamp ached and squirmed in an agonizing way as the rain melted away any sign of basic life.
Puddles of the acidic deluge collected along a road leading to the once fertile silver mine, just three miles from the town of Crestfall. Near the edge of the road, a fork splits off into multiple directions. South of the fork leads to the entrance of Deep Rock Mine. The mine’s entrance stands agape, resting at the base of a mountain. The mine’s layout, a cavern of crisscrossing and haphazardly formed tunnels, awaited past the thick darkness entrapping the entrance. They curve and wind up the spine of the mountain, as well as descend deep into the now dead earth.
The face of the mountain was bare but rough. Rocks jutted and sloped along its curvature, forming a near mesmeric pattern of spiked granite. Towards the peak, a malicious and not all entirely natural pattern emerged. As the acidic rain fell, framing the mountainous backdrop, the pattern watched and waited. An almost human-like visage stretched along the face of the mountain like canvas pulled over a wooden frame. It’s design scorn into the rock itself as if meticulously laid out to warn any who dared breach the confines of the swamp.
Silence lingered amongst the misty atmospheric dredge, save for the muffled and subtle ambietic sounds of the rain. Through the dead foliage and gnarled remains of creatures recently passed, a sound rang forth. Distant exclamation and reverberated clanging rhythmically sounded from deep within the mine. Up and down the mine laid stalactites and stalagmites haphazardly stationed around every corner. Their abrupt positioning cast shadows wherever light felt unable to reach. The mine walls were smooth from years of work and toilage, along with the long uninterrupted tunnels, created an almost echo chamber for sound.
Abrupt crashes and distant thrashes echoed through the winding chamber. Its sounds detailed a fierce battle between clashing swords and fervent blows.
Or so it would seem.
A sword, emblazoned with the sigil of a raven, flew across the dimly lit room. Its body crashes and clings as it skips along the floor, its blade slashing and carving thin lines into the granite flooring as it makes contact with the ground. A fierce shadow sprawls along the cave walls, depicting a struggle between foes.
The wanderer-and recent owner of the raven crested blade-crashes to the floor. Leather straps firmly tied around his shoulder blades catch most of the weight of the fall, but pain still echoed through his nerves.
“Hells! You slimy bastard!” The wanderer winces and yells in a blinded fury. “You don’t play fair, and here I thought we were having a nice sport of it.”
No reply immediately came from his opponent, still standing off near a downed torch. Flame wisped and flicked along the ground, casting shadows and dreaded omens as if they were ripped directly from a child’s nightmare.
At once, the foe stepped forward. The shadows sprawled across the walls painted a disturbing picture of horror and grotesque form. Imaginative figures born from shadows were always so much more terrible than the beings that cast them, but in this case it was clearly the other way around. The foe opposite The Wanderer lurched forward, it's body a gnarled vestige of exoskeleton and mandibles. It almost resembled a large insect, like a praying mantis that decided its evolutionary cycle had not quite finished yet.
On multi-socketed legs, it snapped and convulsed along. Every movement of its body felt agonizing, as if the creature was hastily thrown together by a quite absent god. Various olive and violet fluids oozed and dripped from its husk like body as it vocalized terrible sounds. The creature-seemingly unable to speak-produced noises from its mouth that resembled a mix of gargles and marbles being tossed along a wooden floor. All the while, its grotesque pincer like appendage snapped and clicked almost involuntarily.
The wanderer-still recovering from his fall-slowly pushed his body along the cold rocky ground, his arm still pulsing with pain.
“Oh my, what big mouths you have.” The wanderer teased sounding much more worried than he intended. ‘Always good to keep in control of the situation. Confidence is key.’ As he was always want to say, but this wasn’t an ordinary situation.
His arm traced along the ground, reaching and prodding for his recently lost weapon. Daring not look away from the oncoming threat, he felt nothing. His sword was currently resting near the opposite side of the cave room, resting flat along the ground. Away from The Wanderer’s grasp, far away from being of any further use here it seemed.
Doubt surged through his mind, but only for a short time. ‘Doubt breeds more doubt, and further doubt breeds ruin’, another favorite.
Clenched palms moved along the granite flooring. Leather gloves scraped and bruised as The Wanderer lifted back to his feet, regaining balance and fervor. The arm that had broken his fall felt numb and altogether absent.
‘Dislocated most likely, not a big enough fall to break.’
The insect-like foe-still closing the distance between them-snapped and gurgled in an almost territorial display of aggression.
The Wanderer grinned, placing his uninjured arm against its opposite’s elbow, before violently, yet methodically, pushing it upwards. A clear snap, followed by a dull pop echoed through the room. Feeling began pouring back into his arm as the vibrating itch of numbness faded. Both arms began to raise, fists clenched, the leather gloves creased and squelched from the sheer pressure as his hands formed tightly wounded fists. Fists pointed squarely towards the all not entirely normal creature still gurgling and jerking along the shadow filled room.
“Oh...” The Wanderer began. “I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t enjoy every second of this.” His fists raised up, reaching level with the bridge of his nose. “Come one now, give us yer best.”
As if understanding -and altogether disliking- the series of vulgar remarks thrusted toward it, the creature squealed through its deformed face. The jerking motion its movement seemed to have before was replaced with a fluid dash as it quickly closed the distance between the two adversaries. Arms outstretched as its gnarled and jagged hands opened and closed with violent snaps and twinges. Reaching out, grasping the air between them. The gap closed quickly, much quicker than he anticipated, but not enough to catch him entirely off guard as he shifts weight from right the left. The slender frame of his body flanking to the side of the creature.
Shadows arched and flailed with each movement, creating a strange optical illusion across the cave walls. The subtle shifting wind and osculation of the two fighters created an almost mural of events through the flames. Clashing swords, trumpeting horns and creatures that rivaled the tallest spires in Etheral began to converge into an unrecognizable painting of events. The fire loomed, gazing at the creature, at The Wanderer. Its gaze almost purposeful and full of intent. Neither the two beings made any note of the grand display unfolding around them. Fire is known to be a harsh mentor, and an even harsher ally. If one was to wander too deeply into its wounding gaze, one might find themselves trapped, forever living in the tapestry it painted.
The creature was fast, but nowhere as fast as him. Once useless, now repaired, the dislocated arm wrapped between the creatures glistening forearm, interlocking before weight shifted again. The creature stalled as if to reorient itself to face the man, but its movements were not its own. Quickly and deftly, The Wanderer placed immense weight on his forward foot, counterbalancing against the creature as their locked arms rotated and shifted sideways. Arching forward, the shift in balance quickly broke as the creature began to lift in the air as The Wanderer’s rear leg lifted to relegate pressure onward. Flailing and spewing its noxious fluid, the creature flipped entirely, finally crashing to the floor in a savage crunch. The Wanderer stands above, looking downward as it convulses in a fit of pain (could it even quantify pain) and anger.
A greyish foul-smelling slime coated The Wanderer’s chest and forearm. Small indentions formed along the hard leather surface of his jacket, most likely from the not entirely cosmetic spikes embedded into the creature.
“Alright, now I’d say we’re fairly close to a draw here.” The Wanderer began. “How’s say we handle the rest with a bit more diplomacy and grace? No point and making a bigger stink than we already got, but telling by the state of yourself, I’d say you know all about stink.”
The maddening gurgle of the creature slowed as its body began to calm. Its arms moving outward, sprawling along the hard granite rock as its legs raise along with the rest of it. Wet dew drips along the ground, rippling and casting weird reflections from all directions as the creature steps slowly along their puddles. Slow anxious steps it takes. Its demeanor changes from a wild and disturbed animal to a more methodic and wary being. Eyes of bluish gray sink into its head, pupils moving slowly, analyzing and taking in information. It stands straight, back locked into an opposing stance. God it was big. The man couldn’t much get a good measurement before with its body slouched over in a hermit like stance. It must be at least seven feet tall, equally proportioned from its legs to its torso. The head was rounded, almost human, with its bug-like mandibles protruding in a horrific fashion.
The Wanderer had dealt with creatures before. Along his travels he had come across a litany of monstrous beings; Wargs, Secrolants, Jittering Fiends, Goblins, Spiderlings. None of them quite matched the state of this one. Although he had heard of such beings, none had crossed paths before. The way it moved, the way it thought, it all was abnormal. It's quite simple to take a beast down, some you anger and gain the advantage, some you outsmart, others you can simply scare away. But this one.... oh, he was a different breed entirely. The way its mood could change mid-fight, or how it seemingly understood what was being said. And the way it stared. Thoughts were jutting along in the bug brain of its, and when monsters start thinking, all strategy and preparation goes out the window. Unpredictable is what they become, and prediction was The Wanderer’s bread and butter.
Wary now he waits, staring back at the creature. Locked eyes, they waited. Eyes filled with thought, filled with understanding and reasoning -but most egregiously- they were filled with malice. The fight was not over, they had just reached half-time.
“Let it not be stated that I did not strive for peace and harmony at every turn.” The Wanderer quipped, his hand raised once more, ready for another assault.
A flame flickers, casting shadows once again. Shadows of a man holding wolves at bay, hands outstretched to create a distance between them. The wolves circled and plotted, looking for weakness at every tune, but finding none. Leaves fell, becoming ash as they reached the ground. A fire spreads amongst the ash laden floor, consuming the visage, the man, the wolves. All in consumed in an immense concentrated heat, until the shadows fade to nothingness once more.
The creature meanders onward, just a few steps at a time; looking on as The Wanderer holds his footing, fists raised and ready. Each step of its hard glistening exoskeleton crunches against small rocks and debris sprawled along the cave floor, knocking them aside, producing echoed wails that seemingly bounced from surface to surface. After the third step it abruptly launches at the man, arms outstretched once more in a fit of animalistic fury. Thought seemingly left its eyes as they glazed over into a dull grey, the feeling and reasoning sinking further and further to the back of its mind. The Wanderer grinned, his stance loosening as the soles of his feet began to trace an outline of movement, preparing and readying for a counteroffensive. As its dripping breached the outline, The Wanderer shifted his weight once more, quickly flanking the creature to the side once again, but something was off. His eyes traced the movements of its body, of its arms, of its legs. The animosity in them seemed to almost shift mid attack, becoming lucid and methodical. As if the creature was dancing along with him. Even tracing down to the ground, the footing was wrong. Not his footing. He was always perfect. The dance was memorized, trained, honed to a sharp edge. No, it was the creature’s.
Abruptly the creature’s body shifted, its legs tracing backwards, its torso shifting to the side. A corrective action, a counterattack to his counterattack. Shadows of the pair danced along the cave wall, depicting a wickedly abstract waltz. The creature’s arm whipped outward, its claws barreling towards the thin leather separation between his elbow and forearm. God, it was fast. Faster than The Wanderer. Rip, flash, a bright light, then the crashing of feet as the two returned to their original standing.
It all happened so fast. Faster than he could articulate. He was used to speed, used to tracking and understanding battle situations, creating countermeasures, analyzing the most likely move and executing it within a fraction of a second. All of that was done, but it was all wrong. The creature moved in peculiar fashion, acted as if it were moving on instinct while simultaneously acting with thought and strategy. How could it possibly go both ways?
As he thought, mouth slightly open, breath pouring between his lips in a hot and heavy fashion, he hardly thought of anything else. They had made contact, but there was no feeling. Checking for wounds mid-encounter was generally out of the question with beasts. Often, they gave little time for thought or first aid, but the creature stood and waited. The dull grey look in its eyes were gone again, replaced with the methodical gaze of a strategist analyzing a battlefield. The Wanderer lowered his right arm and traced it along the path of his elbow, reaching his shoulder before he felt it. A definite gash traced about two inches wide, the depth of it couldn’t be guessed, but it had breached the leather. As his hand returned to a fist, warm fresh blood dripped between the fingers, falling and coagulating against the dust and pebbles along the ground. He had indeed been injured, but there was no feeling to it. All felt well, and that’s precisely why all was, in fact, not well.
“You’re a strange one. Not quite like anything I’ve seen before, but I’ll get to know you real well soon enough.”
His eyes moved from the creature, scanning along the ground. Before when this was a simple clean-up, a weapon would be handy, but hardly required of someone with his skills, but this was anything but simple. Parameters had changed, he’d very much like his sword back now.
It was nowhere to be seen initially. The room was dark, with little else than a soft glow from the fallen torch illuminating a small area and casting shadows that obscured others. Then it appeared. Near the feet of the creature, the raven crested blade sat where it had since the beginning of this strange dual. Thoughts echoed along in his head, casting suspicions and doubt in every facet of the encounter. Things were not as they appeared.
A slight grin crept along his face again, before quickly subsiding. “Think I have enough time for one more go of it. Care to lead?”
The creature stood, watching and plotting before the dull grey of its eyes appeared once again, launching it into another fury. It lunged, arms outstretched again, running full speed to the man. He simply stood, his hands loosening from tightly wound fists of rock to loosely packed fists of snow. His palms opened slightly; his footing loosened as the heels of his feet digging into the hard rocky floor. They began to move slightly, tracing a straight horizontal line where he stood as he slowly began to back away. The creature, still in a frenzy, closes the distance fast. Seemingly faster than any previous assault as The Wanderer ceased his slow backing retreat, his feet returning to a strong stance, soles digging deep into the earth. He takes in a breath, his heartrate slowing. The light sounds of the cave begin to grow, becoming more apparent and concentrated. Small droplets of dew falling from the ceiling, wind softly blowing along, echoing through the harrowed halls and the flickering of a flame slowly speaking its ancient language. They all converged, mirroring themselves as The Wanderer’s eyes closed. Time seemed to slow as the creature came closer, its steps further apart, its maddening gurgling seemingly floating away. It stepped, stepped and stepped along the ground, pushing pebbles and dust without thought.
Finally, it reached the line carved into the rock. Its foot crunched, making contact with the earth, and in an instant its eyes reverted again. The grey dullness seeping away to its methodically stategistic norm. In that instant, The Wanderers eyes erupted open. The chittering thing’s arms stretch out for his neck, hoping to seize his artery with its horrific claws. Quickly, quicker than anything that day, The Wanderer moved in a fast range of motions that all seemingly happened at once. His weight once again shifted, flanking the creature. His arms locked into a position of counterattack. The creature quickly issued its own countermeasure, once again whipping its body and throwing its claw outward, aiming higher than before, aiming for his neck.
A flame moved. Shadows formed along the walls once more, although they showed a different scene. A scene depicting two swordsman locked in deathly combat. Their swords swinging violently but with grace and purpose. They clashed a thousand times. Each time sending a spray of bright sparks that swelled through the air creating intricate patterns that lingered before slowly fading.
The creature was stuck, unable to move, unable to continue its assault and unable to return to its desired location. The Wanderer's palm grasped the creature's wrist tightly, locking it into a hold. The grey of the creature’s eyes were completely gone now as its pupils darted around in panic. His hand arched forward, his foot kicking –what would assumedly be- the creature’s calf, buckling its knees and forcing it to the ground. Cracking and popping erupted from the joints of its arm as his grip tightened. It’s gurgling became sporadic, as if pleading to be set free. He simply watched it, once against studying its behavior, its patterns, its mannerisms.
“You really are special. Not like anything in the world I imagine, but what makes you so special.” The Wanderer clenched his hold tighter, the creature falls lower, its face pushing into the cold rock. “You were playing a game, weren’t you? You understand what I’m saying too, and that I can assure you is indeed something special. Predicting my movements, using the techniques against me. You weren’t just fighting for a meal. You were learning, weren’t you?”
The creature clicked and gurgled, chittering against the ground as the hard surface of its arm began to crack.
“Now, I’m not opposed to teaching if I aim to gain something from it, but what I won’t abide is being played with. Now...” He plants his foot against the back of the creature's neck, both arms holding its locked appendage in a pulling motion. “I think I deserve to know a little more about you my foul-smelling friend, and if I’m right up until this point, you outta know exactly what I’m saying. I also assume you know a threat when you hear one. So...” His grip tightens, his leather boot slowly crunched against the creature’s skull. “Tell me what you are, and where you learned to be so damn special.”
The creature’s eyes widen, the dull grey returning, filling its retinas as it begins to violently convulse. A shrill screech fills the room, echoing along the walls, traveling through the twisting and winding tunnels of the long-forgotten mine. Shadows creep along the cave walls once more, scattering and convulsing, twisting into horrid and unimaginable shapes. Creatures that belong to fables and horror tales begin flooding along the shapes as the flame whips and crackles. The torch quickly combusts, the flames turning a sharp blackish violet. Heat bellows from the waves of ember emitting from the now monumental display of hellfire as the shadows multiply, taking over every inch of coverage. The Wanderer’s ears tremble at the immense noise, his vision begins to weaken as the shrill echo reaches a climactic crescendo. Any more of this and it’s all over, lights out.
He looks downward to the creature, its mind warped with whatever dark arts influenced it. His grip tightens as his foot presses firmly against the back of its head. Slow crunching and cracking sounds begin to intermingle with the terrible sounds of its cry. As the boot came down, harder and harder, the creature’s terrible screech began to thin and grow in pitch, like the air being slowly released from a balloon. Then, a horrendous snap before the head was no more. Violet and green brain matter covered the area around its neck as small fragments of skull of tissue caked along the sides of his boots. All at once the cry stopped, and along with it the room slowly began to darken. The flame began to slowly dwindle back to its original size, its color returning to a soft orange glow.
The Wanderer stepped back; his eyes firmly planted on the now deceased creature lying before him. A pool of its blood slowly trickled along the floor, reaching for his sword. Slowly, his body lumbered to the lost blade. Its handle was wrapped in scaled pitch blade leather, its blade a vibrant silver, still glistening with oil. The visage of a raven prominently scorn into the finish of the blade itself. Before the foul-smelling blood reaches the blade, the man slowly leans down to collect it. His body ached, his arms felt heavy and as the world around him began to dim, he retrieved the blade. Weighing it in his hand he felt secure, like a lost piece of him was restored with its retrieval. It felt so much heavier than before, or maybe he had just been weakened from the encounter. He gazed down upon it, his hand clenched hard around the dark leather handle. A dark fluid began to pool around his hand, streaming softly down from his arm.
The Wanderer turned his arm over, now looking at the wound he had taken from the creature’s first counterattack. It didn’t seem very bad, or at least not as bad as previous wounds he’d sustained, but the bleeding was alarming. It streamed softly, almost without notice. The blood itself was dark as well, as if it had already begun coagulation. A strange wound. A worrying wound. Suddenly his head became light, the room began to dim, and the walls started to blur. No, everything about this was wrong.
In the strange lucid state he was left in, he almost didn’t notice the changes around him. A quite fell over the room, the flickering flame seemed to even quite down to a faint whisper. A soft noise crept along the ground. Soft tapping, the sound of pebbles and rock being pushed aside, dust parting between single soft strides. The pain in his head grew louder, his heartbeat thumping from his chest to his forearm, ending finally against his forehead.
What is happening to me?
As if to answer, a rapid movement jostled him back to reality as he quickly turned, sword still gripped tightly in hand. A quick flash of movement rushed towards him, its motioned and sounds all too familiar to him. As nimbly as he can muster, he raises his blade outward in an attempt to impale the newfound enemy now barreling towards him, but a twinge of searing pain in his shoulder halts the attack. All he manages is a defensive stance, sword raised, arm placed behind the blade to prepare for impact as the creature crashes into him.
They both fall, splashing into the violet puddle of dank smelling blood that has pooled along the cave floor. A creature –almost identical to the one lying dead beside him- lies atop the blade protecting his body. Its arms crash against the leather bracers protecting his soft flesh. Claws come crashing down, scrapping against leather, making large slashes in them but not enough to break fully through the thick coating. Slime and mucus drip down from its maw, coating The Wanderer’s arms and neck. His arms are placed defensively against the side end of the blade, separating the two, but he can feel himself weakening further and further. Rough outlines of the creature emerge through blurred vision. Heat travels along his arm and forehead, casting confusion and sweat to pour over his body.
What the hell is happening!?
Suddenly, the creature lunges its head down, breaching the space between the blade and The Wanderer’s neck. Its snapping pincer like mandible opening and shutting in rapid and rabid bites. Before it has a chance to make contact, The Wanderer frees one of his trapped hands and grapples the creature’s head. With strength slowly fading from his body, he fruitlessly pushed back the creature's disgusting face. With every inch he pushes, the creature seemingly gains two. A battle of attrition begins. Snapping, clawing, drooling the creature continues its unending assault. Reach for the soft part of his neck in hopes of ending the encounter in a single bite. Just one slip, and its lights out. Forgotten and left to be fed on to a host of disgusting bugs. The thought rips through his mind, his veins fill with hot fire, his muscles contract creating energy that wasn’t there before. He pushes hard against the creature’s head, pushing it past the breach in the sword until his arm reaches full length.
The energy’s fading, the small window of opportunity’s closing, and for once in his miserable life, he can’t think of a thing to do. The hand not grappling with the creatures head pulls free from the back of the sword. His fingers slowly begin moving, drawing a pattern in the air. Faint lines form, like strokes from a dry paintbrush. Lines sparkle and faintly crackle with weak power, power being sapped away. The pattern is rough and unfinished, its edges not straight, its lines fumbling. The feeling in his fingers is weak. Strength fading, the pattern breaks as his hand twitches before returning to the blade. Fire begins erupting from the torch again, the strange violet flame re-emerges and casts strange shadows once again along the cave walls. Shadows depicting men falling in the thousands, figures standing above them. A strange light emits from the wrecked battlefield as the dominant figures rise, floating above, breaching unending clouds and sending a cleansing fire downward. Fire spreads along the walls, engulfing the shadows, casting them far away as it shrieks and flickers violently. The Wanderer’s vision begins to fade. The world around begins to dull. Rocky walls, granite floors, the creature all fade, losing color and becoming shadows themselves. Heat wells in his head, as tears stream down his cheek.
I can’t.
Shadows slowly engulf him as the energy drains from his arms.
I won’t
The creature’s face inches closer and closer to its target.
This is where it ends.
The fire erupts, banishing the shadows away once more, filling the room with soft orange light as the creature lunges uninterrupted at its prize.
Then nothing. The pain of stabbing pincers ripping along his throat never occurs. Instead, a loud CLAP echoes along the walls. It’s deafening and almost endless, but it's over in an instant. A river of fluid splashes along The Wanderer’s face and body. It’s warm and thick like syrup but smells like rotten apple cores. For a moment, he contemplates if this is death. A strange death, and a strange place to end up, but who’s to know. Before long his eyes opened. The creature that stood hunched over him was still there, but its head was entirely missing. Fragments of skull and viscera lined the walls and floor around him as the creature stood cold, dead. Seemingly out of nowhere, its head just seemed to explode.
“Did...” The Wanderer began quizzically. “Did I do that?”
Before an answer could be given, a shuffle could be heard across the room, hidden against the far wall deep within the dark. Slowly The Wanderer rose, knocking the deceased creature away from him, the feeling and strength slowly returning to his body. He stared off to the dark corner, waiting in vain for his eyes to adjust to the dark. They didn’t. Bending down, he grasped his sword in one hand, and what remained of the faint torch in the other as he cautiously meandered to the muffled sound coming from the dark corner.
“Gods, if it’s one more of these disgusting fucking things, I’m straight gone.”
Slowly, the image of a man appears. He almost seemed affixed to the wall due to some form of slightly translucent webbing sprawled across his body. His feet were a few inches raised from the floor as he hung limply against the wall. A thin layer of the same substance covered his mouth as he muffled violently to The Wanderer, his eyes red and spread as wide as they could go. Near the middle of the webbing his right hand was tightly bound, unable to move. On the other side, it seemed he was able to shake loose enough to free it. A silver revolver with gold carved inlays held tightly between his fingers. Faint trails of smoke emanated from the pistol’s barrel. The smell of spent gunpowder lingered In the air, a smell The Wanderer had memorized.
The Wanderer looked puzzlingly at the man stuck to the wall, before a spark of remembrance and realization came to life in his eyes. Sweat beaded down the side of his head, slowing before soaking into his shirt collar. That chance encounter had taken its toll, and had gone on for longer than he thought, longer than he had hoped.
“Hells man, I had forgotten entirely of you. Why not speak up next time?”
The stuck man convulsed in a fit of annoyance and fury as The Wanderer laughed heartily.

13 members but 0 online.. so I won't even edit it. I will simply repost a recent comment since I don't know if any of you will be reading it. And no, I have not done at least 3 consecutive hormone panels to verify that it works flawlessly. But this was the plan:
... I stick with bioidentical testosterone for a few reasons. One, I was testing out what it's like to inhale it from a nebulizer, I made it wearable while working out. I assume factoring in bioavailability that for a couple minutes my blood levels would rise 50 fold of what's normal. It's obvious that muscles soon inflated and would stay large for multiple days following one dose. There's probably a cascade of myokines and shit that persists even if steroids are dosed briefly, while allowing the liver and other organs to recover as opposed to keeping blood levels high 24/7.
Here are the studies I mentioneloin my previous reply, (that AAS hugely increase endorphins in the brain, and enclomiphene works by lowering endorphins in hypothalamus.)
https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/abs/pii/S0168010296011418
https://europepmc.org/article/MED/2139451
It is possible that:
↑Sex steroid agonism → ↑Endorphin activity → ↓Gonadotropin secretion
If so, then a steroid cycle without being suppressed might be:
Exogenous testosterone + Naloxone coadministration = no suppression of gonadotropin secretion -> at the end, single dose of opioid agonist to desensitize back
Two studies gave healthy men AAS, and separate group endorphin blockade with it, in whom LH did not get suppressed.
https://zero.sci-hub.st/4651/30c8451800f76b5c4bc5b233cb7cab12/kletter1992.pdf
https://www.jci.org/articles/view/111417/version/1/pdf/render.pdf
But then studies show in animals that after naloxone is ceased, testosterone goes below what is in control.
https://karger.com/nen/article-abstract/55/4/405/223795/Restraint-Inhibits-Luteinizing-Hormone-and
I myself felt overly high afterward, never did opioids but it definitely matched the description of mu-opioid agonists.
This study shows that the rebound after opioids works in the opposite direction too, a dramatic increase in testosterone after a single opioid dose wears off and endorphin receptors are desensitized:
https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/abs/pii/S0306452206002776
Kratom is a legal mu opioid receptor agonist, so, likely after a steroid cycle with naloxone ended, a single dose of kratom might make you even weaker for a day or two, but then desensitize endorphin receptors enough that normal testosterone levels are swiftly restored without allowing the pituitary or balls to atrophy.
Additionally I included cyproheptadine during the cycle to offset potential cortisol spike from naloxone use, but I realise such a hypothetical cortisol spike wouldn't harm much if exogenous steroids are high. But the other benefit of it is, while the dopamine antagonism of cyproheptadine is made bearable with the steroids, the prolactin doesn't spike once cypro also blocks serotonin. And after the cycle when cyproheptadine is ceased, serotonin stays low because the serotonin autoreceptor that is sensitive is not the one that causes prolactin secretion, but the dopamine receptor that got hypersensitive is the one that inhibits prolactin secretion. So, with overabundance of dopamine post cycle it is less problematic that the endorphin receptors are overly sensitive, prolactin won't really spike up.
While it is true that in the exogenous DHT study, combining DHT with naltrexone elevated LH above baseline, the one with exogenous testosterone wasn't as straightforward.
There, I should correct that I read it wrong the first time, as the abstract did not clarify which number js the starting point, it said testosterone + naloxone caused the LH to go 6.9->7.3.
To clarify, administration of testosterone lowered LH from 7.6 to 6.9. Naloxone raised it back up to 7.3. Which means almost half of the suppression still happened.
That still keeps it open that naloxone coadministration might prevent the further suppression below 7.3 in this scenario, if dosing is repeated daily?
It's certainly worked in the DHT study, that already is a potent regimen where they increased DHT over 300% of baseline for 4.5 days. All while increasing mean luteinizing hormone levels. Literally steroids without shrinking your balls. No liver toxicity like the silly SARMs.

Hi, guys. I'm really sorry if this comes across as annoying, or whingey, or anything else, but I'd appreciate some help here. I don't really know what I'm doing, or why I'm doing it, but I am. Alright. By the way, if the formatting's funky, it's because I don't typically post on Reddit (or anywhere), so I'm sorry for that as well.
I'll list some basic info; I'm thirteen, I'm a male, I have no diagnosed mental disorders and my upbringing is still ongoing. Early childhood was somewhat rocky. Lax, though. Maybe too lax. I felt neglected at times. I learned to deal with it. :)
I used to think I was an INFP. I still do, to some extent, but I don't know.
More than anything else, I don't want to be selfish. Selfish, or self-absorbed, or self-centred, or anything related to that family. I want to be anything but selfish. Selfless, altruistic, benevolent, giving and never taking. Never desiring. I don't deserve to take, nor want. It's my place to never impede and never impose. Otherwise, I'm sickeningly hedonistic, an ugly, beastly glutton who takes and takes and leaves no room for others to interject. All I want is to be invisible until needed, then I'll perform my little song and dance for people and they'll be (I hope, at least) content and my feelings don't matter. They never have, and I stifle them until I'm alone, then it seems like all I really do is brew in them until I've rendered myself miserable.
I've always been the tearful type, y'know. Someone squishes a spider, I cry. Someone raises their voice a few decibels too many for me to handle, I cry. I think about the world and I weep, because I'm one meagre unimportant person on a planet of 8 billion and there's nothing I can do to save everyone from pain. Therefore, I cry. I am often upset. I loathe the feeling. All I do is cry, then attempt to be of service—attempt to be *needed*, then cry some more when I inevitably mess up and it feels like the world hates me. I want to change. It's all just too much, I muse, but then I'm aware that I'm thinking about myself again. I can't stop thinking about myself and I hate it. I hate that 'I' is a pronoun I use so often. I just want to help. I wish there was some place I could go where I wouldn't be able to disturb anyone or push my problems onto them.
But, it's 'oh well'. I'll continue to do the best I can till I can be worthy, however long that may take.
Enough of that, sorry. I daydream a lot. Like, most of the time I'm awake is still spent dreaming. Usually about the future, or stories I plan to write, things I'd like to do in the following whenever. Either that or I'm stewing in my own thoughts, thinking over the world. It pains me to know people ail. I wish I could take everything away, even if it meant bearing their struggles on my own shoulders. What I'm trying to say is that my mind is nearly never in the present. I do dwell on the past a bit. Situations involving me that may have appeared minimally embarrassing when first experienced are magnified tenfold in my head weeks later. I manage to let them go after a while, sometimes.
The future scares me, actually, though I think it's beautiful how many endless ways it can go right or wrong or painfully neutral. I'm just afraid of changing my mind. I'm attached to my ideals as they are now, and the prospect of them morphing over time terrifies me. I'm trying to learn how to deal with it, though.
I put things off a lot, giving myself some half-hearted excuse as to why I can't do it so I don't feel as guilty about being a lazy ass. I know I should deal with the mould in my room. I know it's gross, and probably unhealthy for me and for the building. I just can't bring myself to start. Or... I'm too tired. Or I've had a hard day. Or I have more immediate stuff to tend to. Or I have a migraine. Or I'll simply do it later. Or... you get the gist. However, when it has to do with people besides myself, I'll get it done as soon as possible. I don't want them to be disappointed or hurt by my inaction.
My biggest hobby is writing, and I love it in all its forms; poetry, novelettes, you name it... well, maybe not *all* its forms, specifically the creative ones. Monotonously writing a report in school on whatever dull book I couldn't be arsed to pay true attention to bores me to tears. I feel bad saying that. I'm sure the aforementioned book is a lovely read to some people, just not to me. I can't really stay focused for long enough to write anything super lengthy on any subject either. I have too many ideas I want to pursue and the old ones are abandoned. Left in the dust. It's a bit of a waste. I love creative writing because the idea of something so abstract yet so concrete draws me in. Letters, then words, on paper or on a screen string together in sentences to hopefully conjure up an image in your mind.
I know it's a wee bit silly, but it all bloomed from me roleplaying Warrior Cats online when I was about 6-7 years old. Not to insinuate that I'm some literary genius far beyond my years (I am nowhere near an expert by any means), but I think I might be somewhat decent at writing— from what I've been told, at least. I know I still have lots of room to improve, though, and I'm sure I will in due time. I think I use adverbs too often.
Sorry for this long, somewhat vent-y, half-coherent rambling of words. I shouldn't be as stressed about not knowing my type as I am, I'm not entirely sure why it bugs me so much. I vehemently despise labels and the constrictions they place onto people, but I'm not satisfied unless I have one that I feel fits right. As I said earlier, I'm a young teenager. I'm aware that typing myself at such an immature age isn't that feasible, but maybe the one thing I despise more than labels is not knowing the truth. Not knowing bothers me. Sorry again, and thank you for hearing (reading?) me out on this, I really appreciate it and I appreciate you. Just in case you happen to take any interest in this, I don't mind answering stuff or anything, if I didn't provide adequate info. Sorry if that sounds arrogant. Thanks, I mean it.
My bad if this went through twice. Reddit is being an absolute prick.

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Interesting pieces of 1200 year old Islamic silver the size of a quarter but very thin (Approx. 1.8-2g each). Nice starter piece for people who want to add an ancient to their collection without breaking the bank. Pick the number you want.
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17” Sterling Bead / Clasp Turquoise Nugget Necklace (Note the wire is ferrous material for strength, beads and clasp are sterling) - $15
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Hello I was wondering if someone could give me advice on how to improve for lit tomorrow and as the title says is it grade 7 worthy? Thanks
R+J
Throughout the play Romeo and Juliet conflict rises and climaxes several times. We can see this conflict adapt from servants of the family fighting mindlessly to Romeo and Paris fighting for love. This development also creates a sense of a tragic hero and the drama of ‘everything for love’. This goes against the patriarchal society of the time where love was arranged by the parents, not the sons fighting for marriage.
In my opinion conflict is presented differently per character for example Tybalt says “Peace, i hate the word, as i hate hell, all Montagues and thee” First of all we can see that this is a biblical allusion and to a certain extent a simile associating Montagues as hell. This quote isnt directly during or after conflict however this is before it, the buildup. In this quote the noun “peace” represents Tybalt calling Benvolio and instigating conflict. As mentioned earlier this quotes and especially the biblical allusion is incredibly impulsive especially because of the patriarchal society that the play was written and performed in, because of this the audience would have been deeply religious being impacted and disgusted every time hell or any other negative way of Christianity showed itself. This impulsiveness is present throughout the play and is a real problem. This also leads on to how the saying nowadays of every action has consequence and this quote does as we see Tybalt get killed ironically from Romeo while being impulsive getting vengeance for Mercutio.
Mercutio is a odd character, we see him change due to the result of conflict. He is a prime example of the effects of conflict as he Tybalt caused his demise. “Plague on both your houses” shows the way he changes. Now Mercutio isn't exactly blood related to any o the two house therefore not directly in the “ancient grudge” however he seems to be biased with Montagues. “Plague” symbolizes illness and death in those times, therefore from this we can see how Mercutio changes from being on the side of the Montagues to then become a neutral like Paris and highlighting the idea that the “grudge” is pointless. However, there is another interpretation of him losing trust and respect for the Montagues, this is because Mercutio said this just after he gets stabbed because Romeo didn't honour his family and fight Tybalt. Therefore we see a sense of family honour which is something the audience would be familiar with, they didn't go to the extent to brawls on the street yet they would stand up for their family so for Romeo to back down it makes him looks bad and shows that he isn't the person Juliet or other people think he is.
However we can now see from the extract a different perspective of conflict, prince, from someone who is seen as a neutral within the play keeping law and order as such between the 2 families. “purple fountains issuing from your veins” is in my opinion a metaphor of the threat of death. This is backed up from the connotations of “purple” being royalty and “Fountain” being a metaphor for blood gushing and therefore death, suggesting that he threatens to kill them and so call spill their royal blood. In conjunction to this we can see within the extract that Prince is in my interpretation very similar to Benvolio in the sense of peace as seen from “Throw your mistempered weapons to the ground”. However this in itself is rather passive aggressive from describing the “Rebellious subjects” as “mistempered” which is childish and mockery to the two families. It could also suggest as mentioned in the paragraph above the impulsive and hasteful severe and impactful decisions being made on the spot. Therefore, there is a link between Benvolio and Paris in terms of conflict but not obvious. Contextually speaking the audience would be part of a patriarchal society where royalty would be the top of society, and for royals to kill other royals it is unheard of and would cause a stir within the audience.
Now for Romeo and Juliet, she isn't directly involved with physical conflict however I think there is another conflict which is a key factor in this play, the conflict with religion and fate. We can see from Juliet going against religion from the sense of suicide. “O happy dagger” backs up this idea from “happy” having connotations of being content and “dagger” of suicide. When you combines this is shows that she is content to commit suicide. As mentioned in the first analysis, the audience is religious, and there were two main sins of the time: being married twice and suicide, so this suicide would cause the audience to react and gasp as this is unheard of. We can also see from Romeo the defying of fate as seen from “I defy you stars”. If you combine this quote with “star cross’d lovers” it really shows just how much Romeo is trying to go against his destiny. “star cross’d” suggests that these two lovers get closer and closer until they reach a climax where they then ever get further away and finally if Romeo is trying to “defy” the “stars” it shows he is going against his fate and wants their relationship to last. I think this is quite a abstract analysis but is definitely meaningful within the play especially with the context of the time period.
Jekyll and Hyde
Jekyll and Hyde is an interesting story with several dynamics shifting throughout the novella one of these include good and evil and the duality of man. We can see this phenomenon show itself in several so called Victorian gentlemen, upright gentlemen of society supposedly meant to repress their negative feelings and refrain from enjoying themselves. Furthermore with Jekyll and Hyde showing the effects of this. Perhaps this shows Stevenson's opinion on society and the effects of him being repressed and held from society similar to the negatives in Jekyll for being a Victorian gentleman.
First of all we can see this from Utterson. Utterson is a Character which we see quite a bit yet we never get to know much about him however there are a few times in the short story where Stevenson informs us of this. “I incline to Caines heresy.” this is a very strong biblical illusion showing the audience of the feelings Utterson has. From the use of “Caines heresy” it links to the bible story which the audience, being a very Christian society, would know of. The story where a brother, “Caine”, kills his other brother, “abele” and then banished to hell, however this relates the negative feeling of lust as “Caine” was jealous of “abele.” The use of “incline” shows he is interested and similar to Caine and “heresy”, meaning lust and jealousy. When you combine these two connotations it presents Utterson as having a jealousy of being normal and expressing his evil side as such.
Now for Jekyll and the extract, here we can see just how Jekyll is thriving for the evil side of him, Hyde. Shown from “Sold a slave to my original evil.” This is an example of another biblical allusion as the “original evil” represents the devil. The use of “my” might seem very insignificant to the overall allusion however there is another interpretation of how “my” shows its in him, so the devil is inside of him. This really shows the twisted and confusing nature of this novella where it revolves around how repressing your emotions gradually causes your evil, aggressive and inhumane to become stronger and stronger, also linking to animalistic feature of inhumane. Therefore contextually speaking the recent publication of Charles Darwin theory of evolution caused a stir within society and the idea of evolution and all animals come from a common ancestor would make the readers consider the implications of keeping emotions to yourself and the effects of this.
We now go back to Jekyll, showing yet another biblical allusion of “My devil has been long caged, he came out roaring.” This quote as mentioned is a biblical allusion but this time presenting animalistic features. This quote shows the animalistic nature within humans and how this may be evil. First of all “My devil” showing Jekyll possesses a devil, firstly this is shocking for the audience as they are god fearing and the reference of devil would scare them somewhat, but perhaps this shows more of Stevenson as a person, the frequent repetition of “devil” throughout the novella suggesting he has a devil inside of him and this is his only way of expressing it. “Long caged” representing the time of which his “devil” has been repressed and hidden away, perhaps a representation of his negative and harmful emotions. “He came out Roaring”, now there is two interpretations of this. One of them is showing that the “devil” which has been “long caged” physically came out roaring in a human manor, this can be represented as Hyde. However, the other interpretation is “roaring” symbolises strength as seen in nature with a lion’s roar showing his dominance over other males and prey.
Back to the extract, “i passed the yard where the constellations looked down on me.” this is really a personification of the constellations as the physically cannot “look down on him”, however you can go deeper then this and interpret is as a metaphor about god, how he is always watching and keeping a close eye backed up from the verb “looked”. However this can also suggest that his so called good part of Jekyll is still present and fighting for superiority, this is because it creates a sense of guilt and regret, however the bad side of Jekyll is getting too strong for even god to fix, showing the audience that you shouldn't mess with science or go against religion.