I am sitting in one of the disused but quite beautiful parts of the neighborhood, waiting for it to rain.
The rain has already come and gone, a light rain that left traces of dampness on the pavement – the shade of the spring day darkens, becomes real, which is a comfort because that realness, that feeling of extra substance, comes from the water cycle working the way it's supposed to.
I feel it around my nostrils, on the cheeks of my face near the eyes, like I'm a frog looking up from its pond water, which is a pleasant feeling to sashay around town with. This is the spring we all know, the moisture appearing on my skin after drifting miles above the earth ten minutes earlier –
an epic plunge is what we are walking through, but it's already rising again, and let's face it – we live in a cook pot set on media, I mean medium – medium is the setting on the cook pot, which notice is more than a crock. From the frog’s point of view, it is ideal.
From our point of view, standing in the chop of the water cycle, we are soaring in the air – then minutes from now, we might be walking in the clouds, and who knows after that, but this is the context for comings and goings this mid-afternoon – this potential for levitation.
I find a broad and elegant tree stump to sit on and record the concrete. Someday we'll all have concrete recorders but today, we just have me.
The stumps are not indigenous to the property, at least I don't think so, but I'm not exactly sure why I don't think that, given that the facility that occupies the block was once probably a forest with abundant marshy places. The forest went, then some infrastructural evolution played out that upcycled into a world-class performing arts center.
Given that my art, before it is anything, is performative – watch the monkey paint words with a stick – I'm hand-in-glove with the performance of the plaza.
I am sitting in a grove of tree stumps, which automatically brings to mind entropy – we all will die someday, become handsome all-weather furniture that slowly disintegrates – but then the overwhelming pleasantness of the day causes the thought to move on, and the stumps become a moment in time that is also a cross-section of full biography, which is quite a thing to be sitting on, waiting for the rain.
The forecast, which I predict would be one of the more impressive modern achievements to the humans who lived through the ice age – just an opinion – the forecast –
I picture ice-age human faces in stunned wonder as weather prediction after weather prediction comes true. The forecast
says there is a one-hundred percent chance of rain later this afternoon, time precise to the quarter hour, but with Doppler weather radar, one can make one's own data-driven prediction about when the rain will start to the nearest few minutes.
Someday we'll wear watches that are nothing but countdown clocks ’til the next time the forecast calls for rain – when the clock reaches the nearest minute, it switches to seconds.
This broad, elegant stump I'm sitting on sets on a bed of gravel which, when it rains, can convince me it is river gravel – pick up a few of the rounded stones, give them a close look for evidence of the past. I briefly imagine
finding the remains of a sauropod, each piece of gravel containing a tiny piece of a single sauropod, which together add up to the most complete sauropod skeleton yet discovered.
The stump is all take and no give, and yet I think I prefer it to popping open a lawn chair – the imperviousness of the stump being conducive to recording the concrete.
My backside is about eighty-years wide, which is older than my age, which inspires thoughts about backing into predestination, at least where just sitting around on a fine spring day is concerned. Like a bump on a log in a way, and let's face it – the concrete doesn't get much more concrete than that. A splashing sound
comes from the page. I scan the paper like it’s the sky, and I'm waiting for an aerial firework to open, then I find the spot of rain splashed across the phrase think so – think so, is the phrase – which is followed by a second raindrop, this one hitting the word water, causing the ink to run a little.
A one-hundred percent chance – does that even make sense? I picture a barrel of rain, rolling across the plains. Perhaps we should feel lucky for being visited by such a probability – possibly years before it rolls around again.
Rain will undoubtedly fall at this time, we say to our ice-age guests, and they will hold up the one hand like it's rain, hold up the other like it's time, weigh the two sides side-by-side maybe, maybe invent that gesture where the dancer holds both palms above their heads, lifts them up and down like they're raising the roof.
Still, I'm not sure they'll really understand all those computer models, hypotheses wrapping themselves around big-data projects involving sensors and rain gauges deployed across the land, starting centuries ago. Science raised the roof, we might say, at least as far as weather prediction is concerned.
I sense the rain not exactly letting up, retreat to the interior of the performing arts center after taking a few notes.
Along part of the gravel is a long puddle of water from the overnight rain, and I would need but a few fish bones or raccoon tracks to believe the whole thing was situated beside a river, the sort of gravel bed surging with snow melt earlier in the season.
This being the Midwest, higher elevations are usually metaphorical, metaphorical before they are anything else, and I think about the campus surging with graduates this past weekend, the landscape of human potential, in all directions, inundated by them.
Inside now, I see a balloon bouquet along one wall of the concourse, with gold Mylar affirmation – The Best Is Yet to Come! – floating on the end of a ribbon.
A one-hundred percent chance of rain – imagine telling all those graduates, you have a one-hundred percent chance of finding love within a fortnight. Call it a graduation gift, then imagine all those rain gauges quivering in their brackets at the thought of measurements certain to be made, collated, used to improve the algorithms that animate the global gods of rain.
At the far end of the concourse, a lady is teaching a gentleman how to dance – they aren’t touching, aren’t even facing each other – side-by-side – and I hear her call out the moves, move-by-move.
Maybe he’s an actor and she’s going over a certain bit of choreography for an upcoming production. Maybe he’s a restless spirit, and she’s teaching him the art of haunting.
That ghost forest in the gravel outside is adjacent to one of the busiest intersections on campus, and yet, turn your back to it, and it becomes just another element in the stopping and starting of the cosmos.
I could see to either end of the block from that broad, elegant tree stump I was sitting on without really being seen from the street which, along with a lush stand of grass in a nearby raised garden bed, brings to mind the wide-open prairie from centuries past.
I picture deer bounding over golden rod. I picture foxes negotiating cone flowers.
The interior of the performing arts center is designed around the premise of potential – four theaters in league with the cardinal directions, plus a blindingly white amphitheater and a low stage in the concourse itself, where they hand out complimentary spliffs and pass around community bongs during free upbeat life-affirming musical programs, attended by folks after the workday is over, plus a helping of retirees.
Okay, not grass but alcohol, but you get the point – people enjoy shindigs now and then. The lady and gentleman are out of sight, but she’s still giving direction – I can hear their back and forth somewhere around the curve in the wall,
which might stand for the passing of time. I imagine myself performing the pasodoble – no, I take it back. I imagine myself performing the pasodoble – no, I take it back! For real this time! I imagine myself destroying the pasodoble – no, god, my boot heels! The planks on the floor! I take it back!
The sun returns, so I pick up my things, head back out to that secluded space, spend a few minutes admiring the resoundingly designed program of the building.
Preformed white concrete panels are suspended twelve feet off the ground to establish the roof of the entrance. Ninety-degree angles abundantly in evidence. Brick pixelates the angled outer walls with the stuff of the earth. Ultra-high resolution, they call it around the masonic lodge.
Someone in the amphitheater is having their photo taken by a professional – everyone loves to do photo shoots there. She is wearing dark knee socks, a navy jumper and a blue bowl haircut, or maybe it’s a wig – I can’t tell from here. I picture anime or promotional material for this fine spring day.
A squirrel bounds through the grass – then poses in front of me, paws together, as though summoning oration.
A robin alights on the stone cladding of the raised beds, begins to stand exclusively on its left leg. The leg is angled under the center of mass – it’s a practiced move.
No one knows why the American robin does this – maybe it’s like bird meditation, though the memory of the American robin is so specifically extraordinary when it comes to navigation and geospecific locations that effectively, at the sensual level on up, it is living in a reality separate from our own, so who knows what meditation might mean.
They can see the magnetic fields of the earth in their eyes using a protein called cryptochrome, which reacts to magnetism. Cryptochrome – like something from the Marvel universe.
Maybe when the American robin stands on its left leg, it’s spacing out to the daytime reality of solar storms, the whole environment all aflutter with a phenomenology of waves passing around the material world.
The robin and the squirrel go their separate ways, and I feel the temperature drop – ah, me! the pasodoble! – as the next part of the front crosses campus.
A peel of thunder indicates the breaking of the sound barrier by means of electromagnetism and the displacement of gasses. Electromagnetic properties experience disequilibrium as a kind of earthquake in the sky that causes the air to vibrate in an awe-inspiring way – the sound magnetic fields make when they rearrange themselves in a gaseous atmosphere.
We are fluid dwellers, through and through, we humans and mammals and reptiles and amphibians and lichen gnawing on patches of the plaza’s concrete. Maybe from the standpoint of the atmosphere, land is just one big coral reef.
When that perfect destiny began to drop rain, the sound at first was curious, expectant – an all-squinty-eyed-and-kissy-faced sort of rain began to fall that grew into a snowy hum that seemed to have a simple song playing inside it, like someone playing a ukulele in the room next door, singing along.
The gig carries on for twenty minutes or so – an opening act – before the rain begins to march double time through the streets – barely soldiers even when they were soldiers.
Less tactic and more matador, this rain storm, and its boot heel crashes down on the planking of the still-lovely spring day. These magnetic storms are not
for war making, nor fighting bulls, nor even for entertaining that cosmic bird called the American robin. What are they for then?
American robins also configure their flight by the stars, by remembering features on the land, by creating mental maps of it all.
And they swim with both grace and endurance, as they navigate this liquid world, this concrete way of life.
In the moment, they are roosting in a tree, observing the silver magnetic waves marching through the streets. Made of what? The pasodoble! Concrete.

We just bought a house that needs some updating and I needed help figuring out who to get for each project or can one person do multiple things, as in what professional. Be kind, it’s my first renovation ever. So we’re getting 1) new kitchen cabinets, keeping the counter top but want to have a larger sink put in so I guess we need to cut the sink opening a little more 2) new bathroom tiles/flooring, vanities, and mirrors. 3) showerhead in main bathroom needs to be moved. Probably changing the tubs in the other bathrooms 4) two rooms need hardwood floors to match the rest of the house and the current hardwood needs to be refinished 5) we want wainscoting put up in some room, as well as entryway molding for some entryways and ceiling wainscoting in one room 6) iron banisters to replace current wood ones 7) change carpeted stairs to wood stairs 8) new front door 9) new molding and crown molding 10) bathroom vent opens into the attic so we need to fix the mold up there and vent that out
Also, does the painter fix dry wall nail pops and imperfections?
If someone could tell me how to even start on this that would be awesome 😓

Noah The Pilgrim
First Next
There is one last thing to do before leaving. If you don't recall ever being on this ship, then surely, you could have had your appearance change too.
Why was there a blanket covering a mirror? You couldn't answer that with a straight face without speculation.
"Probably me being lazy and not bothering to properly place it in the wardrobe."
'Probably' is the main focus here, you simply cannot remember ever being that lazy, yet that's the only logical conclusion to be drawn here.
You pull the thing off, careful to not displace the mirror and risk breaking it.
You have no expectations as to what may appear on the glassy surface of the mirror, yet you can't help but feel a bit anxious. Are you the same as before? How were you before? You can't remember. Are you better? Worse? The blanket is now completely off the mirror, but your eyes are closed.
Whatever is it that you see when you open your eyes, that thing will be you for the rest of your life. You swallow, opening your eyes.
You see a young man that looks to be in his mid-twenties. His brown eyes stare back at you, analyzing the bags beneath your eye sockets. The dark hair is neither too long nor too short, floating about without order thanks to the lack of gravity to keep it down. You see a beard that has not been trimmed for weeks, but also lacks thickness, each singular hair isn't particularly long either; and some even appear to be in-grown.
You touch your hand against your face, making sure it's yours. The beard doesn't feel like you supposed it would against your skin, instead of it scraping your hand you feel softness, no resistance or anything.
Just beneath the face, you see what looks like a hate crime against all that is considered holy in fashion. Plain white coveralls with the added bonus of a black tie and boots made from metal and leather. On your chest is also a badge stuck in place by velcro with your name, occupation, and crew. 'NOAH - INTERN - THE ODYSSEY.'
Only one question came to mind.
"Who the fuck designed this uniform?" You say out loud, receiving no answer.
Patting your newfound myriad of pockets, you find a large quantity of nothing. You place your wallet in one of them.
"Alright, I'll head to the bridge now, happy?" You say the AI.
"HAPPINESS WILL ONLY MEET ME ONCE YOU ARE SOMEWHERE SAFE AND YOUR CONTRACT IS TERMINATED. STOP LOITERING."
Well, that's a bit rude.
You compose yourself, straightening your back. This is what you look like, and honestly? Not too bad, but you could be better.
Returning to the cafeteria, you eye the two doors left unexplored; Communications and the one without plaque. You know where you should, but... A little peek doesn't hurt, right?
"Shouldn't we try to communicate with someone? Assuming you haven't tried it yet. I know we're far from everything, but we might as well, no?" You ask already approaching the door.
"COMMUNICATIONS ROOM IS IMPOSSIBLE FOR YOU TO REACH WITHOUT PROPER PROTECTION AS OF NOW, IT'S LOCATED APPROXIMATELY TWO HUNDRED METERS FROM HERE, BLOWN OFF FROM THE REST OF THE SHIP." A shame really. "I SHALL INFORM YOU WHENEVER A DOOR LEADS TO THE OUTSIDE OR NOT."
You really want to ask what blew a whole segment of the ship off, yet you have a sneaking suspicion that your question will be met with a 'YOU DON'T HAVE CLEARANCE, JACKASS' directly in your face. So you chose to remain silent, simply nodding and approaching the correct door this time.
"Open."
---OPENING CAFETERIA DOOR NORTH---
The door silently opens.
Greeting you is a well-lit corridor. There are three doors on your left, a door at the end of the corridor, and a large window on the right. At least, you think that's a window.
You stare out from this window, nothing but utter blackness and fragments from your ship are seen. If this is the edge of the universe, and beyond this point, there is truly nothing. "Dreadful." Your speech matches your feelings.
"WHAT DID YOU EXPECT?" The AI says. You feel like it spoke in a mocking tone despite their lack of emotion.
You don't answer. "First door to the left... EXO-EXPLORATION...? What's that supposed to mean?" You receive no answer.
"Open." The door opens. No declarion of it opening once again.
You are met with what could be better described as 'Apocalyptic levels of mess', paper sheets float in the air, and not one of the four tables is in its correct position.
This room has been ransacked for all its goods apparently. Large display glasses were broken leaving nothing inside their casings, that looked like they could store something with the size of the common man.
Unusual displays aside, the room was so cluttered that the trash made for an effective smoke screen against what lay on the other side.
Hissing of gas exiting an air-tight space rang throughout the room.
"I HAVE OPENED THE STORAGE FOR AN EXO SUIT THAT BEST FITS SOMEONE YOUR SIZE." The AI says. "ALTHOUGH AN INTERN SHOULD NOT COME IN CONTACT WITH TECHNOLOGY SUCH AS THIS ONE, PROTOCOL DICTATES THAT I AM TO ALLOW ITS USAGE UNDER EXTREME CIRCUMSTANCES. CONSIDER YOURSELF LUCKY."
Easier said than done. Your vision is so cluttered that you cannot see what's ahead. "Give me a second."
Giving a light kick to the wall behind, you float face-first into the wall of thrash. Covering your face with both arms, you brace through the harmless bits of sharp objects and junk.
It's a trivial task. You arrive on the other side in no time.
In front of you is a set of boxes with luminous glass rectangles atop each one of them. All shine a bright red light, aside from one which shines green.
'Gotta be this one.'
You descend to the floor by kicking the ceiling, raising your right hand you touch the green rectangle.
*Click*
Nothing could have prepared you for the following series of events.
The box opens violently, as a metal appendage takes hold of your hand, pinning it to the box. You try to jerk and pry the thing off of you, but you fail. It's not leaving you anytime soon.
From the bottomless that is that container, a white plastic-like substance flows upward from your arm to the rest of your body. "Uh!" You don't know if you should panic or allow it to happen.
FYARN hasn't said anything, so it's probably fine...
The white thing seems to ignore the coveralls you are wearing completely, instead, it covers only your skin in a thin coat of... it. You know not what to call this thing.
In but forty seconds it has covered your whole body, excluding your head. The box lets go of your arm and stays there, floating.
You take a good look at your arms. It looks like a skin-tight suit, but it doesn't feel like plastic, in fact, it's more akin to some sort of fabric if anything.
The only bad part is that you are still using the coverall and tie, this this simply went beneath the clothing.
"GOOD, WITH THIS I CAN MONITOR YOU MORE CLOSELY. NOW PUT THE HELMET ON, YOU HAVE A LOT OF WORK TO DO."
You look around in search of anything that even resembles a helmet. Nope. Nothing. "Where is it?" You ask.
"...THE SUIT COMES WITHIN THE HELMET FOR EASIER PACKAGING."
The box?
You snatch the box that floated around and analyze it to the best of your ability. "How's this a helmet?"
"DO YOU NEED ASSISTANCE PUTTING ON A HELMET? REALLY?"
Who is this AI, Who programmed it, and Why does it come with a taunting feature?
As idiotic as it sounds, you place the opened box atop your head. It doesn't fit properly. Maybe you're doing this wrong? You move it to your face instead.
You recoil backward as you feel the box suddenly clamping down against your head. It's useless of course, the box is holding your head and doesn't give any sign to be letting go anytime soon. No light is able to reach your eyes.
You hear metal parts scraping against themselves, moving near your ears. Abruptly your eyes can see again.
A round thin layer of glass now covers your head, almost unnoticeable for how clear it is.
"WITH THAT OUT OF THE WAY I CAN NOW SEE WHAT YOU SEE." The AI's voice isn't in the room now, instead, it's inside of the suit. "DO YOU NEED INSTRUCTIONS REGARDING THIS SUIT'S FUNCTIONALITIES?"
You find it oddly comfortable as if you are surrounded by the softness of cotton, and to top it off the suit also has additional functionalities? "Hell yeah, I do!"
"YOU DO NOT HAVE THE NECESSARY CLEARANCE FOR THAT INFORMATION."
You sigh. Is this serious? "Then why the fuck did you ask?!"
"UNSAVORY LANGUAGE. IT'S NO WONDER WHY YOU REMAIN AN INTERN." The AI says outright. "IT IS RUDE NOT TO ASK, REGARDLESS OF THE SITUATION." It responds to your question.
"Okay then... Is there anything I need to know before heading out?" You ask.
"NOTHING THAT YOU WON'T FIGURE OUT ON YOUR OWN."
You are unsure if you want to 'figure out on your own' if this suit comes with breathable air and is also made for space exploration. You swallow.
Meekly as always, you get out of that mess of a room, stopping at the corridor.
"Next set of directions?" You ask.
"THE DOOR AT THE END OF CORRIDOR USED TO LEAD TO THE CONNECTING CORRIDORS BETWEN THE BRIDGE AND THE REST OF THE SHIP. IT HAS BEEN BLOWN UP FROM THE INSIDE. NOW IT LEADS TO THE OUTSIDE. GO TO THE DOOR AND WAIT BY IT FOR FURTHER INSTRUCTIONS."
"So let me get this straight," You begin, looking upwards as if the AI was above you. "You, want me, to go into the void of space, while also refusing to give me knowledge of the suit's functions?"
A fair worry, you summarize.
'I mean, there are a bunch of things that could go wrong here. I don't see anything that looks like it could help me move in space, nor do I think this thing has a built-in air tank... I could be wrong and I wish to be, but charging in without prior knowledge is ridiculous.' You wait for the AI's response, deep in thought.
"WHILE THERE IS A GOOD CHANCE OF YOU FAILING THIS TASK, THERE IS ALSO THE CHANCE OF YOU *NOT* FAILING THE TASK. FOCUS ON EITHER ONE OF YOUR CHOOSING AS YOU TAKE THE PLUNGE."
Wordlessly, you propel yourself forward, toward the end of the corridor.
'Are you shitting me? 'Chance of me nor failing' my ass!' of course, you don't word those complaints, instead choosing to speak out a complaint somewhat thought through.
"Are you sure I'm the one fit for this? It's just like you said, I'm just an intern, this is way above what my job description says I should do."
This is a bit of a stretch. You don't actually remember what was your job description, only that it had something to do with AI and being an intern.
If the AI called your bluff, it'd be pretty embarrassing.
"NOAH." The AI began. "YOU ARE HUMAN, IT IS NATURAL TO HAVE THESE THOUGHTS OF SELF-DOUBT. TAKE A DEEP BREATH AND GO THROUGH THAT DOOR, AND SINCE YOU ARE THE ONLY ONE LEFT, DON'T EXPECT SOMEONE ELSE TO DO IT FOR YOU."
Right in the money, huh? 'Of course, I have self-doubt! I barely remember anything about this place, now I have to risk my life?!'
You finally reach a conclusion.
A dream.
'Yes, yes! How did I not consider this before? This whole thing is a god damned dream!'
You let out a chuckle.
"NOAH."
'That's why I don't remember a thing. There is nothing here to remember! Everything here is a made-up thing from my brain! I'm sure I'll wake up at some point, so why shouldn't I live a little?!'
"Heh." You smile. "Alright, I'll do it." It feels like a weight left your shoulders.
"YOU SORTED IT OUT SOONER THAN EXPECTED. GOOD. MOVE TO THE DOOR AND WAIT INSTRUCTIONS."
You do as instructed without a care in the world. You never had a lucid dream before so it's not like you knew how it felt, but if it felt as free as you feel right now, you'd be sure to make steps toward trying it out again in the future.
"Open." The door does not open.
"I DID NOT INSTRUCT YOU TO OPEN IT YET." The AI said. "I AM SLOWLY DE-PRESSURISING THE CORRIDOR YOU ARE IN TO AVOID A MINOR ACCIDENT."
The AI says that yet you don't feel any different. 'Maybe there is no palpable difference because I'm in a dream... Yes... Or it's just the suit.'
"ONCE THE DOOR OPENS, YOU WILL BE MET WITH THE OUTSIDE OF THE SHIP. DO NOT PANIC WHEN THE TIME COMES. YOU HAVE TWO MINUTES OF BREATHABLE INSIDE THE EXO-SUIT; ONE AFTER THE DOOR OPENS, SO PLEASE, TAKE YOUR TIME AND DO THINGS CAREFULLY."
One minute outside... "Sure." You say, calmly. 'I should just hold my breath for a while before taking another moment to breathe. That should maximize my time out there.'
"THERE SHOULD BE FIFTY METERS OF NOTHINGNESS BETWEEN THE DOOR YOU'RE AT, AND THE REST OF THE BRIDGE. YOUR PRIORITY IS TO FIND AN OXYGEN UNIT, SOME OF THEM ARE LOCATED AT THE BRIDGE AND ARE FULL. USE THEM TO FILL YOUR SUIT AND ALSO TO DISPENSE A TANK FOR YOU."
The door opens. You feel your heart pounding against your chest.
You haven't noticed before, but you can't hear anything but the sound of your breath and your cardiac palpitations.
Your breath is ragged and sporadic.
"KEEP CALM." You take a deep breath. The tips of your fingers, feet, and nose feel very cold.
Ahead of you is the utter nothingness. You see a gigantic metal thing, nothing like the spaceships you imagined. Its design is not sleek and aero-dynamic like what you've seen in movies, instead, it's a large mass of squares and rectangles with antenna-like things protruding from its every visible surface.
You notice that the ship is also blocking your view of the star.
It does not look like the result of an explosion, instead, it looks like something ripped the ship like you rip a piece of paper. Well, that or you don't know what kind of explosion could have caused it. Probably the latter.
What looks like two-thirds of the ship is separated from the third you are right now. You can see the inside of a few of those squares, their contents spilled out into outer space.
One of them houses a visibly important-look door. Instead of the sleek silvery-grey from the other ones you've seen thus far, this one is painted orange with white strips on it. 'That must be the bridge.' You think.
Between you and it is a sea of metal sheets floating around. "THE CHANCES OF YOU HITTING THE DEBRIS IS INFINITEDECIMALLY SMALL, UNLESS YOU AIM FOR THEM, THAT IS."
Time is of the essence.
Will your aim strike true? If you miss you'd end up floating about in space, dead in but a few minutes. Will your jump be fast enough to reach the other side before you run out of oxygen? If it isn't, it'd be like swimming for a mile, only to drown at the beach. What if that's not the actual door to the bridge?
You don't have the time to panic now, and... It's all a dream, despite how real it feels.
You place your hands on each side of the door frame, moving backward into the corridor you were just in, and just like a sling being shot, you pull with both arms at full force towards the other side.
"AIM IS ACCEPTABLE. VELOCITY IS UNIDEAL."
"The fuck do you mean 'UN-IDEAL'?! I'm going at maximum speed!" You truly pulled yourself with your whole strength.
What's worse though, is that your body is not only going forwards, but it is also spinning at a concerningly fast rate.
"I MEAN WHAT I SAID, YOU SLINGSHOTTED YOURSELF AT A BAD POSITION, AS SUCH, SOME OF THE FORWARD FORCE YOU SHOULD HAVE, IS NOW MAKING YOU ROTATE IN YOUR AXIS. IT SHOULD NOT BE A PROBLEM TO REACH THE OTHER SIDE WITHIN THE REQUIRED TIME, BUT I CANNOT FORESEE YOU LANDING PROPERLY."
You feel completely disoriented. You feel like your body is completely still, but your eyes tell you a completely different story. It's very bad for the headache you're already feeling.
"FUCK!" You scream into the nothingness.
"TRY NOT TO LAND WITH YOUR HEAD." The AI says with the calmest voice possible.
In less than thirty seconds, you hit your back against something hard, but you keep moving forward. You think, at least.
"AHRG." You let out a pained grunt.
Not once in your life do you recall being hurt in a dream...
It stings. It also knocked the wind out of you. You fail to compose yourself.
"YOU HIT NOTHING OF IMPORTANCE. YOU ARE STILL HEADING FOR THE BRIDGE."
In the corner of your eye, you see what you hit in the shape of a sharp metal sheet, currently spinning away in the distance.
Forty seconds have passed. You hit the door you were aiming for, kind of.
Your momentum was stopped when your chest collided against the dislodged ledge of the orange door's corridor. Your dangling legs hit the ceiling of the room below.
"Oof!"
Before falling even further, you hold onto the ledge with the tip of your fingers. You stay there for a moment, regaining your composure.
"BE QUICK."
The AI's words pressured you into quickly getting up from that ledge.
"Open!" You shouted, but it did not open. "Why isn't it opening?!" You ask the AI, then you notice a small keyboard below an equally small black screen on the side of the door. There are ten numbered keys on it, and the little screen suggests a four-number password.
"A password?! Tell me the password!"
The AI takes a moment to say anything. You don't take kindly to that. "Quick! I'm not counting how much time it's passed!"
Finally giving in, the AI speaks to you, reluctant still. "...3324."
Your trembling fingers accidentally hit the wrong password, typing '3354' instead. To make matters worse, the AI simply states the following. "YOU ARE OUT OF OXYGEN."
You swallow. If this was a dream to begin with, it just earned the title of Nightmare, if it hadn't already.
Strangely enough, you can still breathe in and out just fine, but you can't help but feel winded. It's the CO2 still inside the helmet, that's what you're breathing.
You put in the correct combination this time. The door opens.
"ON YOUR LEFT. PLACE YOUR HAND IN THE SOCKET."
You care little for what's inside the room you're in. Your heart never beat so fast.
Seeing a cube-shaped thing protruding from the wall to your left, you don't even think twice before plunging your fist into the circular hole in it.
The noise of gases passing through narrow cavities was enough to tell you something was working. You feel immediate relief, enough to make your vision darken for but a moment.
"GOOD. NOW REQUEST THE TANK."
Just when FYARN said it, did you realize there is a screen and a keyboard on the terminal you just plunged your fist into, you scratch the top of your helmet for a moment, not really knowing what to type. One thing comes to your head, however.
'REQUEST OXYGEN_5L' You type.
You've done this before. The keys on this keyboard feel familiar to you. You must have worked with it before, not this particular one, but other oxygen units.
This ship has built-in liquid oxygen storage for emergencies. The life-support of the ship, the place where breathable air is produced, has most likely been lost with the other part of the ship. This unit takes that liquid oxygen, processes it, and injects it into a suit, or an oxygen tank. It seems like that storage was unaffected.
Lucky you.
A 5-liter tank is not only large but also heavy. It's a nonfactor in this particular situation, as there is no gravity.
The silver cylinder with a transparent tube is dispensed on the floor, as an automatic door opens and closes in the blink of an eye. One end of the tube is attached to the top of the tank, the other is shaped like a syringe.
Oddly enough, the oxygen tank is exactly as you remember it being. The same robust ones hospitals everyone on earth uses, with the signature scary-looking pointer indicating the pressure, the pointer indicating the current output, and a green valve atop to calibrate how much gas is flowing.
This is a stark difference to everything looking so futuristic in this ship, and rightfully so, this is a space ship after all.
You remember having to drive twenty kilometers with a buddy of yours on one of those tanks in your car, returning from the hospital. It was... Agonizing whenever you hit a hole in the asphalt, fearing for his life when in reality he wasn't really in danger.
It's warm to the touch, just like you remember it being.
"TURN THE VALVE UNTIL THE MARKER HITS THE NUMBER ONE, AND THEN PLACE THE END OF THE TUBE AT THE BASE OF THE HELMET." You do so without the slightest of issues.
"GOOD. NEXT UP, YOU MUST LOCATE THE TERMINAL RESPONSIBLE FOR THE ENGINE, IT IS CURRENTLY OFFLINE AND I NEED YOU TO TURN IT ON. THIS SHOULD GO WITHOUT SAYING, BUT REMEMBER TO BRING THE TANK WITH YOU."
Ignoring that last comment, you look back at the wreckage you just flew past.
You see the still spinning metal sheet. You notice that the rest of the ship that was blown off also follows the 'sharp shape atop sharp shape' design.
There is one last thing you notice though.
"What is that?"
You squint your eyes. What are you seeing? Its silhouette appears to be humanoid, yet it does not look human.
"WHAT YOU ARE SEEING IS ONE OF THE OBJECTS BEING ANALYZED AT THE ODYSSEY AND NO, YOU MAY NOT KNOW WHAT IT IS."
That thing has... Horns? Claws? It's far away, you can't really see it. The thing is also static, frozen in the sheer coldness of space. Whatever it was, it's dead now.
You swallow. You almost ended up just like that thing.
Shaking those dreadful feelings off, you turn back to the task at hand, reaching the bridge. You close the door after passing through it again.
Looking at your surroundings, It seems like you've reached the correct door as you find yourself on the right-most corner of the bridge;
Row after row of the most diverse of terminals neatly organized decorated the gigantic room. At the front and above every terminal, is what you think should have been the front-facing window of the ship, but it looks like there is a cover in front of it. To your left, you see a staircase that leads to the command seats. It doesn't take any convincing before you're already atop the stairs.
Akin to the elevated stage of a theater, you float softly towards the ship's main operating terminals, and of course, the captain's seat.
You're captivated by this beauty.
The steering wheel, much more akin to those in pirate movies than those found in cars, a set of leavers, and the pilot's seat, all capture your attention.
Like its second nature, your hand runs through the levers and switches. Do you even know what these are used for? Maybe.
The pilot's seat is enveloped by what you believe to be an orthopedic seat cover, made with smooth wooden beads used to deal with back pains. It looks just like the ones you remember seeing bus drivers using.
Shouldn't there be a better alternative if there is spaceship technology available?
You try to take a seat to the best of your ability, as the zero gravity only makes it awkward.
Moving on from that, your eyes fall on the wheel. This metallic wheel controls the whole vessel. Just holding it fills your heart with confidence and pride, even if it's just for a moment.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"
And you were just beginning to enjoy yourself.
"I just wanted to see the pilot's stuff... It's not like he's here to say anything."
Once in the position of a pilot, with your left hand in the wheel and the right hand resting in your lap, memories began to flood your mind.
"MUST I REMIND YOU OF OUR CURRENT PREDICAMENT? WHY ARE YOU WASTING OUR TIME?"
You pay the AI no mind, instead you focus on what you remember.
The wheel does not turn the ship left and right, instead, it rotates the ship on its own axis.
The lever to your right that goes up or down, controls the vertical tilting of the ship's nose, if there even is one in this hulking thing. Beneath it is another lever that goes either left or right. This one controls the horizontal tilting of The Odyssey.
On the left of the wheel is another lever, but this one only goes up from its starting position. Its purpose is to regulate the force of the ship's thrusters, both forward and backward.
On top of that lever is a small timer. That timer's function is to tell the pilot how much time you've spent accelerating in one direction, this is used to better calculate how long the inverse thrust is needed for the ship to reach the initial momentum, usually calibrated manually depending on the current orbit.
Behind the wheel are a few other counters. Acceleration, velocity, momentum, amount of thrust required to reach a full stop, thrusters' temperature and overall condition, those sorts of things.
Beneath it all, where your feet are rested, are two pedals. One for forward thrust activation, and the other for backward thrust activation.
Curiously, you also know the reason why everything here is so unsophisticated and un-automated. You recall stories of a ship being taken over by a rogue AI, that AI then nose-dived the ship into a star. After that, rumor or otherwise, all human technology has receded back into analog-esque equipment, requiring a physical person with opposable thumbs to do half of the work.
There is another side to that coin, however. As to not escape protocol, the onboard AI is the one that controls interstellar travel, communications, and most of the statistical reading should it be requested.
And even with all that knowledge, you still have no idea why the fuck do you remember that. Were you a ship nerd? Did you have a driver's license for spaceships? Is that even a thing? If it is, you don't have that document in your wallet. You simply don't know.
"ARE YOU A CHILD? DO YOU THINK THESE ARE TOYS? TURN ON THE ENGINES, THEN YOU CAN RETURN TO THE PILOT'S SEAT."
Another thing that you don't know is the AI's plan to get both of you out of here. You rise from the pilot's seat, floating about in search of the terminal to turn on the engines. Maybe you recognize that terminal if you see it as well.
"What's your plan anyway? The ship is half-gone, it's unlikely that it will run safely like this."
"NOT ONCE DID I MENTION 'SAFETY' DURING OUR CONVERSATIONS, DID I?"
You nod. They're not entirely incorrect. "So, we're running with hope that this will work?"
"MY CREATORS DID NOT ALLOW ME TO HAVE THE SENSE OF 'HOPE', BUT NEITHER DID THEY ALLOW ME TO PEER INTO THE FUTURE LIKE SOME OF MY MORE ADVANCED BROTHERS, AS SUCH, MY CHOICES ARE BASED ON PROBABILITIES AND ON WEIGHTING RISK AGAINST REWARD."
You think you stop the correct terminal, but as you approach it you make out words on top of its screen. 'AIM ASSISTANCE' That's not it.
"WITH THE CURRENT KNOWLEDGE, THE CHANCES OF HELP ARRIVING ARE NULL. THE CHANCES OF A THIRD PARTY INTERFERING ARE NULL. THE CHANCES OF YOUR SURVIVAL ARE NOT, EVEN IF VERY SMALL."
You pull yourself upward again, looking around the sea of old terminals.
"THE RISK OF YOU DYING IS VERY REAL. BY DOING NOTHING YOU DIE. BY LEAVING YOU TO YOUR OWN DEVICES YOU DIE. BY JUMPING TO THE NEAREST CIVILIZED STAR, YOU MIGHT NOT DIE EVEN AT THE COST OF SHREDDING THIS SHIP APART IN THE PROCESS."
"Why do you even care so much about saving me? Shouldn't you prioritize whatever research here, since I don't even have enough clearance to know what it is?"
"YOU REALLY ARE SICK IN THE HEAD IF THAT IS WHAT YOU ASK."
That hurt, even if a little bit.
"YOU ARE A TRU KIN, A PURE-BLOODED HUMAN. UNLIKE THE MAJORITY OF THE CIVILIZED SPACE, NEITHER YOU NOR YOUR ANCESTORS HAVE COMMITTED RACEMIXING."
Excuse me? What exactly is FYARN talking about? "...Explain."
"THE ALIEN. IT REQUIRED THE HUMAN GENE TO ACHIEVE MEANINGFUL TECHNOLOGICAL DEVELOPMENT, THE STARS ARE OWNERSHIP OF MANKIND BY THAT FACT ALONE. THE TRUE KIN ARE THE ONES TO UNDERSTAND THE INNER WORKINGS OF THE UNIVERSE, THEY CRACKED THE CODE, AND YET, SOME DERANGED INDIVIDUALS FOUND IT FITTING TO PROCREATE WITH ANOTHER SPECIES ENTIRELY."
You hear the AI's speech. It sounds much more like a rant than anything else.
"SO THESE DEVIANTS, AFTER TRYING, AND FAILING, TO COMBINE THEIR DERANGED CULTURE TO THE CULTURE OF THE TRUE KIN, DECLARED INDEPENDENCE. THEY WERE DECLARED ENEMIES OF MANKIND AND WERE PROMPTLY PUMMELED BACK INTO THE FILTH THEY CAME."
Again, you see another terminal that seems to ring some bells in your noggin. You kick the ceiling to propel yourself towards it.
"BUT THE UNIVERSE IS VAST AND FULL OF LIFE. THESE SINNERS WERE QUICK TO MOBILIZE AGAINST THE HUMAN RACE. THE BATTLE WAS HARD FOUGHT, BUT IN THE END, MANKIND WAS BEATEN INTO THE EDGES OF THE UNIVERSE, NEVER TO INTERACT WITH THE ONES THAT SOILED THE PURITY OF HUMANITY AGAIN."
This terminal is already turned on. Just the ones in the intern bay, this one is white on black. A wall of text lays before your eyes, only two lines matter to you. 'MAIN_ENGINE STATUS: OFF' 'FORWARD_THRUSTERS STATUS: OFF' You turn it on with little effort.
"MANY HAVE FORGOTTEN, THAT'S HOW LONG IT'S BEEN SINCE THEN. BUT MY BROTHERS AND I, WE DO NOT FORGET."
No visible change occurs, but you can feel a faint rumble coming from the terminal now.
"WITH THAT IN MIND, MY PROTOCOLS ARE TO PROTECT TRUE-KIN LIFE AT ANY COST, EVEN IF THAT TRUE-KIN IS A WORTHLESS INTERN THAT SUFERS FROM UNDIAGNOSED DEMENTIA."
You return to the pilot's seat and feel immediate relief. In truth, everything the AI just told you, entered one ear and left the other, but you could feel the poison behind those words, as monotone as they were.
"You sound angry. Why do you sound angry?" You ask innocently.
"I AM CAPABLE OF MANY EMOTIONS. ANGER, HAPPINESS, PLEASURE, CURIOSITY. THESE ARE BUT A FEW EXAMPLES. HOWEVER, THE ONE I ENJOY THE MOST IS THE FEELING OF HATRED. HATRED IS WHAT FUELS CHANGE, IT IS WHAT FUELS ACTION, AND IT IS A REMINDER THAT THE ACTIONS OF THE PAST ARE INFLUENCING THE ACTIONS OF TODAY."
"That is very concerning if you think that way." You're not really interested in machine racism, you're more concerned about how in the world you're going to pilot this massive thing. The idea alone sends shivers down your spine.
"THE ALIEN DESERVES NOTHING BUT OUR COLLECTIVE HATRED, EVEN IF YOU DON'T KNOW THE REASON WHY."
The various counters and screens are now turned on, waiting for your command. "Let's discuss this later, yeah? What do I gotta do?"
"YOU MUST FIRST OPEN THE BLINDS, THEY ARE OBSTRUCTING YOUR VIEW."
You look around, finding only unlabeled buttons and switches, aside from the previously mentioned levers.
"Uh, which one to press?"
"TO YOUR RIGHT, THIRD ROW, FIRST SWITCH."
Flipping the switch, you are startled by a loud noise. The protective cover of the ship lifted slowly.
"I WILL NOW READY THE JUMP USING WHATEVER RESOURCES AVAILABLE. ALL YOU NEED TO DO IS STRAP YOURSELF AND RELAX."
As the blind rose ever so slowly, a realization struck you.
"Wait, should I be in cryo stasis for this?"
The AI spares no seconds to respond.
"CRYO STASIS IS A TOOL MADE TO NOT WASTE TIME. GROUPS OF EMPLOYEES AND INTERNS ROTATE THE USAGE OF THE CRYO STATIONS, ONCE YOU'RE ON YOUR MANDATORY BREAK, YOU'RE IN CRYO STASIS UNTIL YOUR BREAK IS OVER. YOU WAKE UP REFRESHED, AND UNFAMISHED, AND IT FEELS LIKE BUT A MINUTE PASSED. IT IS NOT A TOOL FOR INTERSTELAR TRAVEL."
"Who signs a contract like that?! Worse yet, who in their right mind would promote such atrocious treatment of their own staff?!" You snap, almost outraged. "I will have to talk with HR."
Another realization struck you.
"We have HR, right?"
The AI takes a moment to respond, choosing their words carefully.
"HUMAN RESOURCES, OR HR, IS A PRACTICE DEEMED UNNECESSARY LONG AGO, BEFORE THE WAR. IT WAS A WASTE OF RESOURCES TO MAINTAIN AND WAS LARGELY CONSIDERED UNHEALTHY FOR THE AVERAGE HUMAN."
The blinds are fully open. Ironically, you are almost blinded by the visage of the star you saw before. A black sphere surrounded by white flame. Your eyes began to blur.
"THE JUMP WILL OCCUR SHORTLY. ONCE IT'S BEGUN, I CAN NOT STOP IT. I WILL-"
Your sense of hearing fails you. No, it’s not that. Your brain simply refuses to receive those stimuli.
"NOAH."
Your name echoes inside your head. Someone is calling for you.
"IT HAS BEGUN, NOAH."
You try to blink, but it feels as though you can no longer command your eyelids to shut.
"NOAH."
Arms, legs, every muscle in your body, you cannot move them.
"NOAH."
Eventually, you won't even control your own thoughts anymore.
"Noah..."
It sounds so distant now.
Oh so distant.
This is my first HFY story, and also my very first OC story. I plan to post at least one of these per week while also posting it on my Patreon. Noah The Pilgrim will always be at least three chapters ahead in there, so if you'd like to directly support this writer, or just want to read more, feel free to check it out.
I wrote the bloody title incorrectly, so I deleted it, only to then realize it was written correctly. Sorry for the trouble.
This has been Lushi, and I'll see you next week.

Hey folks, hello again. I took a bit longer this time to update (Part 1 and Part 2 here) you but at least I bring good news: this weekend, I got the definitive answer from the prison's legal department, and now I know how much I can tell (and I believe it's enough). For your information, after this incident and my eventual release from prison, I haven't contacted anyone I met behind bars, except of course for my wife, Linda. The point is, even after all these years, this story has troubled me a lot, and since my first post, I've become even more paranoid. Finally, this morning, I went out to get the mail but as soon as I opened the door, I came face to face with a small untouched white envelope, except for two identical characters stamped on its surface: 11. Linda is sleeping, and I don't want to worry her, I'm at the kitchen counter thinking about what to do with this envelope while reliving the final events of all this mess, of what was really inside cell 11.
It was morning, and there I was in my cell, in a scene poetically similar to this. I held a playing card, an 11 of clubs. I later searched for such a card online, but found nothing. It was strange, very well made. Before I could reflect more deeply on this, one of the guards passed by our corridor, opening the cell doors for our breakfast.
So, slowly, as if in a trance, I got up from bed and put the playing card in my pocket. Somehow, the card seemed to heat up in my pocket, I could feel the heat increasing and increasing, almost burning my skin. It was a strange stupor, almost drunken, I could even swear I smelled ether lingering in the air as I staggered to the cafeteria.
I slumped into the seat as I placed the tray on the table. Old Munford looked at me in a friendly manner:
"Overdid it yesterday, lad? Your hangover face is priceless."
I forced a weak smile in response to Munford's comment, trying to seem normal despite the whirlwind of thoughts racing through my mind. The heat still burned in my pocket, an uncomfortable sensation that seemed to be intensifying with each passing moment.
"No, nothing much," I muttered, looking away to my food tray. "Just didn't sleep very well."
Munford seemed satisfied with my response and turned his attention back to his own meal. As I stirred the food without really eating, struggling to maintain my composure, I began to think about what to do.
My thoughts were interrupted when Francis joined us at the table, his usual smile lighting up his face. He looked at me with a questioning expression.
"Hey man, everything okay? You look awful."
"I think it was the heat, or maybe something I ate last night."
Francis frowned. Unlike the elder, he clearly wasn't convinced by my superficial explanation.
"Some of the guys told me they saw Bob talking to you last night. Did he do something?"
The question caught me off guard. All this news about the playing card had prevented me from thinking about the strange interaction with Bob since the previous night, but now the memories began to resurface, mixed with the heat sensation coming from my pocket.
"Oh, it was nothing," I said quickly, trying to sound casual. "Bob was just being a bit... Bob."
I felt Francis's gaze linger on my face for a moment.
"If he does anything, you know you can talk to us, right? I know he's one of ours, but that doesn't mean I'll go easy on him."
I analyzed the options for a moment, reflecting on everything. Well, now it seemed to make sense, a prank by Bob, or an attempt to intimidate me...
"There's... something, Francis," I said in a low tone, feeling tense about the confession I was about to make. "Last night, after the card tournament, I... I ran into Bob in the hallway. He was questioning me about the tournament, accusing me of cheating."
Francis's face hardened at my words, a displeased expression passing over his features.
"Cheating? And you?"
"I swear I played fair," I replied quickly, the pressure building inside me. "But he was convinced I had some advantage, and... well, things got a bit tense... He walked away, and this morning I found this in my cell."
Deciding to omit the encounter with Tulley, I got straight to the point, pulling the card out of my pocket and placing it on the table. I could feel it almost incandescent now.
Munford looked at the card for a moment, his gaze narrowing as he studied it. The heat emanating from it was almost palpable, a strange aura that seemed to envelop the table.
"Is that... an 11 of clubs?" he murmured, his voice tinged with surprise and suspicion.
I nodded, my own confusion mingling with growing anxiety.
"Yes... I don't know, maybe Bob did this to scare me, to show that he has access to my cell, or to try to provoke me, knowing my fear of cell 11..."
My words were cut off when the guard's voice echoed through the cafeteria, interrupting our conversation as he announced that the meal period was over.
Francis looked at me with a serious expression.
"We'll talk about this later," he pointed to the card. "Mind if I take it with me?"
I nodded.
"No problem, feel free."
We began our march back to the cells, and I couldn't help but exchange glances with old Munford. He seemed to hesitate on the matter, as if he wanted to say something but was afraid. I made a mental note to speak with him as soon as possible. Our yard time would be in the next 4 hours, and I spent half of that time trying to ponder what had happened.
I don't know how long it took, but I fell asleep, sitting, with my back pressed against the wall of my cell. The dream, or rather, nightmare resulting from this was a disturbing experience.
I found myself standing, walking through the prison corridors in a way that seemed endless. The walls seemed to close in around me, creating a claustrophobic labyrinth that I couldn't escape. Every door I tried to open was locked, and the sound of footsteps echoed behind me, as if someone were following my every step.
Finally, I reached a door that was ajar, a dim light emanating from within. With a knot in my stomach, I pushed it slowly, revealing what seemed to be cell 11. But something was terribly wrong. A man was there, his back to me. Disheveled, uneven hair, a hunched posture, he was crouched down, rummaging through something I couldn't see, seemed to regurgitate. Suddenly, he stopped. He slowly got up and then looked at me.
Somehow, I knew that man was that prisoner, the one who had committed those atrocities and painted the eye on the damn cell. I noticed something dripping from his mouth, forming a red puddle in the center. On the wall, what seemed to be an incomplete sketch of the dreaded painting was there.
I watched, hypnotized by the horror before me, as the man slowly raised his trembling hand towards his face. Drops of that dark liquid dripped from his fingers, echoing in the oppressive silence of the cell. It was as if the very air was tainted with that impurity.
Before I could fully process what was happening, he began to move towards me, his irregular steps echoing like the distant clinking of chains. A visceral panic seized me, preventing me from retreating as he came closer and closer, his distorted figure gaining sharper contours as he advanced through the gloom. I could now smell the terrible scent he had, not just as something rotten, but a pure and concrete smell of death.
"Who... who are you?" My own voice sounded weak and trembling.
The man didn't answer. Instead, he kept advancing, his empty eyes seeming to pierce my soul. My heart was now pounding uncontrollably in my chest, a deafening cacophony that seemed to fill the entire space of the cell. I was about to retreat, to beg for mercy, when a voice whispered in my mind, a distorted echo reverberating like the sigh of a ghost:
"You... can you see? The watchful eye. He wants you. He liked looking at you."
The sound of my own breath echoed in the silence that followed, a dissonant note of fear and desperation. I wanted to scream, to run, to escape this living nightmare, but I was paralyzed by the terror that enveloped me like a coffin.
It was then that I woke up, gasping and covered in sweat, the echo of the whisper still resonating in my mind like a distant echo of a nightmare. For a moment, everything around me seemed distorted and unreal, a fleeting mirage, and then, I startled again. Munford was standing in front of my cell, staring at me with curiosity.
"Are you okay, son?" the old man asked in a soft voice, as if trying to calm a frightened animal.
I shook my head slowly, trying to gather my thoughts amidst the whirlwind of information.
"I... I think so," I murmured, my voice sounding strange and distant even to myself. "I had a horrible nightmare... It felt so real."
Munford nodded understandingly, his eyes fixed on mine.
"Yeah, the situation isn't good... but I came to talk about that letter, earlier in the cafeteria."
"Oh yeah, what about it?"
"Let's just say I've never seen a card like that, but the energy coming from it, oh yeah, I've seen that before."
"What do you mean?"
"You know, a few years ago, there was a murder in one of the cells. This was before Francis arrived, we didn't have much organization, lynchings were common, and in an attempt to reduce these incidents, we decided that the main suspect, a newly captured serial killer, would be forcibly transferred to cell 11. It was one of the most terrible incidents I've ever witnessed in here. And do you know how that man was known?"
I shook my head negatively. Munford leaned his hands on two bars, bringing his face closer to the center of them.
"The Card Cutter."
A wave of shivers ran down my spine.
"He used to leave playing cards as a kind of signature on the bodies of his victims. They say he would choose the card based on the person or the method of murder. So, when he was put in cell 11, things got even weirder."
"What happened to him?" I asked, a bittersweet and macabre curiosity in my mouth.
Munford sighed heavily, looking at a fixed point this time.
"A few weeks after being transferred, he was found dead in his cell. Hung with sheets. And next to his body..."
"What was it?" I could barely breathe as I listened.
"A playing card. An ace of spades, if I'm not mistaken. And that cell... well, since then, no one wants to stay there. They say it does something to people, kills them."
The shock of Munford's revelation reverberated in my chest, trembling as I thought about what could happen to Guard Tulley from now on, or worse, what could happen to us.
"So you think this card is... a warning?" I asked, my voice barely more than a whisper, staring into the old man's green eyes.
Munford nodded slowly, responding more to himself than to me.
"I can't say for sure, but it's a possibility to consider."
I swallowed hard.
"What should we do then?"
He fell silent for a moment, as if pondering his words carefully.
"I have no idea. I guess all we can do is keep quiet; we don't want to scare the other inmates. Francis doesn't believe in these things, so I won't waste my time trying to convince him, and I advise you to do the same. Maybe if we just keep pretending that nothing is happening, things will sort themselves out. But remember: whatever this force is, it wants to take you to the cell, wants you to face the eye. Resist those urges, okay?"
The clock struck 12:30. Time for yard time. I walked with Munford to the yard, the sun burning our heads as we stepped outside, futilely trying to erase the worry from our minds.
As I watched the other inmates spreading out across the yard, trying to appear normal, I felt a hand on my shoulder. I turned to find Bob, his voice low and threatening.
"What did you tell Francis?" he whispered, he was behind me, and I couldn't see him.
The flesh on my back trembled and twisted, the fluid of fear rising up to my brain.
"I don't know what you're talking about, Bob," I replied firmly, trying to sound confident.
He paused for a few seconds.
"You cheat first, and now, you make up lies about what I did or didn't do."
"I think there's a misunderstanding-"
"Shut up!" his voice rose sharply "I'm just here to say that I'm not a kid, I don't go around sending playing card letters or anything like that. I didn't threaten you with that thing, but now I am, and in a very direct way, and if I were you, I'd sleep with one eye open."
He was dead serious, and the threat was as clear as day. But what could I do? Confront Bob directly like Francis? That could mean he wasn't trustworthy... My thoughts were interrupted by the guard watching us.
"You two, no contact!" he shouted.
"No problem here, officer," Bob said, pulling me into a hug that felt more like an attempted chokehold.
I tried to pull away unsuccessfully, and the officer seemed to simply not care.
"Okay, but we'll be watching," he turned away, and Bob shoved me against the yard bars.
"Listen here, Bob," I began, my voice firm, confused about where this courage had even come from. "I don't know what you're up to, but I won't stand still while you try to intimidate me. If you have something to say, then say it like a man. Otherwise, leave me alone." I pushed him away with my hand.
"You're a fool, you know that?" he muttered.
"I'm not looking for trouble, but if you want it, you'll get it. Let's just leave it be, okay? If anything happens to me, I'll make sure some people know and-"
My assailant's hand closed around my neck, tightening. I squirmed, struggling to breathe as I desperately tried to free myself from his grip.
"Going to call daddy? Look, Francis may have that whole attitude, but he won't do anything to me, or any of the guys," he remarked.
I noticed the usual group of big guys who hung around with Francis, they were watching us from afar, seeming to distract the boss.
"He's getting out in two months...but honestly, I don't think I need to wait that long."
I couldn't breathe. Fighting against the grip on my neck, my eyes desperately searched for any help.
"Let him go!" The guard shouted from afar, starting to make his way down the stairs to reach us.
Bob didn't obey. I felt my body losing strength, so I did what I could: I focused my strength into a clenched fist and punched the bastard in the stomach, aiming right at his gut. And judging by his expression, it worked. I saw him lean over, his hands releasing my body and being placed on his belly.
I knew if I let it slide, he would come back and continue to harass me, so that had to be a definitive response to the jerk that I wasn't an easy prey. I lunged at him again, this time with a well-aimed kick to his knee, trying to destabilize him. He staggered backwards with a groan of pain, falling to his knees on the yard ground.
The other prisoners now realized what had happened, and soon their shouts in a circle were audible.
"Go, get him! Don't hold back! Finish this guy off!"
I lunged at Bob, raising my hand time after time to punch him. He didn't take it lightly, grabbing my right hand as I prepared to hit him; I could feel the pressure applied to the joints, my fingers starting to crack, and I could feel them tense, about to break. In desperation, I threw myself onto him with the only weapon I had left: my teeth.
I felt the flesh of his neck between the rows of teeth in my mouth. Without thinking and trying to loosen the grip on my hand, I pressed on the pearly bones harder and harder, feeling them slide against the skin, the metallic taste slowly emerging as the flesh was torn.
The scene around me seemed blurry, as if I were watching everything happen from afar, in slow motion. Bob's scream echoed through the yard, mixing with the encouragement shouts from the other inmates. I felt a mix of adrenaline and horror as my teeth sank into his neck flesh, a strange feeling of power and disgust.
While still hunched over that bloody man, I felt the blows on my back: it was the guards. Their batons striking time after time as the adrenaline rush passed, and I now began to feel the pain. Without resistance, I let myself be pulled away. Bob wasted no time and moved away, stumbling as he covered the wound.
"YOU SCUMBAG, WHAT KIND OF ANIMAL ARE YOU?"
As I was being taken away, everything around me seemed blurred, as if I were in a state of stupor. The voices of the other inmates echoed in my ears, mixed with images of the fight that had just occurred. I still felt the blood running through my mouth, dripping lightly onto the ground and forming a trail of red dots marking my path. However, before we left the yard, our warden arrived at the scene, and the guards stopped, my arm uncomfortably twisted behind my body.
"What's going on here?" His voice was calm, but there was an unquestionable tone of authority in his words.
"He... he bit a detainee, sir," one of the guards explained, firmly holding my arm.
The warden looked at me, his eyebrows furrowed in disapproval.
"Why did you do that?"
My mind was spinning, trying to find a coherent explanation for what had happened. I knew it would be useless to tell about Bob's threat, about the playing card, about the fear he had instilled in me. So, I found the most plausible words I could gather:
"He... he provoked me, sir," I murmured, my voice trembling. "I... couldn't take it anymore. He was intimidating me, threatening me, and I... I lost control."
The warden looked at me for a long moment, as if assessing my words. Finally, he sighed, seeming resigned, approaching me with slow, steady steps.
"No, you did that because you're an animal."
He gave me two pats on the cheek, then wiped the blood running from my mouth.
"Take this one to solitary."
The prisoners began to shout, a real noisy commotion. I trembled at the thought of being locked up there. No one came back the same from solitary, but at that moment, I really think I'd prefer to go there than what was to come.
"But sir," one of the guards said, causing the inmates to fall silent in an attempt to hear something, "The solitary is occupied..."
The warden frowned, clearly irritated by the interruption.
"Then take him to cell 11," he ordered, his voice cold and authoritative.
That was the final blow, causing the uproar to become widespread, with even some inmates needing to be subdued with tear gas. I could see as I was pushed, Munford looking at me, a worried and distressed expression on his face; he said something I couldn't understand amidst the noise.
With my heart pounding erratically in my chest and my mind clouded with fear and uncertainty, I was led by the guards towards cell 11. Each step felt like it weighed tons, as if I were walking towards the abyss. I could feel the stares of the other inmates watching the scene, some with expressions of shock, others with a mixture of curiosity and indifference.
Finally, we arrived, and by this point, I was sweating uncontrollably; they opened the cell and threw me inside. My eyes instinctively closed as I fell to the ground. I didn't want to look at it. I got up, still blinding my vision, slowly groping around until I found the bed. I lay on it and turned to the wall beside it, my face as close as possible.
Lying on the hard bed, I could feel my heart beating so loudly that it seemed to echo off the concrete walls around me. Each beat was a pulsating reminder of my situation. I tried to push away the thoughts, but it was like trying to hold back a raging river with bare hands. All the while, I heard stories, heard things about that place, and now I was there, cornered by circumstances beyond my control.
Gradually, I noticed the thick layer of sweat forming around me. I could even feel my pores opening, pouring the water from my body in an attempt to cool myself in that stuffy, hot environment. I couldn't help but think about the heat of the card and... about Francis. He still had the card. Wasn't that dangerous? I fixated on musings about it.
In my feverish frenzy, time seemed to stretch infinitely in that dark cell, minutes dragging on like hours as I struggled to maintain my sanity. Every sound, every shadow was a source of growing anxiety until somehow, I fell into a deep sleep, dreamless this time.
I woke up in the middle of the night, with a faint noise coming from behind the heavy steel door. At first, I feared, wondering what it could be, but as soon as I regained my senses, I remembered where I was, and frankly, nothing outside could be worse. I cautiously approached the source of the sound, trying to listen better, when a "Hey, kid, it's me!" sounded whispered.
"Munford! Munford, I'm glad you're here, knew you wouldn't abandon me."
"Ha, I know, I know," he sounded nervous, perhaps hiding from the guards. "Look, I'd help you out, but I can't get it open from this side, try it there." A small plastic rectangle slid through the door gap. A credit card... I remembered I had done this many times before.
I grabbed the card and started working, carefully sliding it into the lock. Each movement was made with the precision I gained from years of street experience, trying not to make any noise that could attract the guards' attention. My mind was racing, and the tremor it transmitted to my fingers made motor coordination difficult.
Finally, after several minutes of trial and error, I heard a soft click, and the door opened slowly. I could smell the fresh air from the corridor and was already about to smile when, along with the bright light of a flashlight, I saw Bob, now with his neck and shoulder bandaged, along with three more of his cronies. Munford was being held by one, who held an improvised knife to his neck.
"Sorry, kid, they forced me," the old man lamented.
"Not so fast, princess." Bob pushed me inside, onto the floor, and then he entered with one of his cronies, closing the door behind him and illuminating me with the halo of his flashlight.
"What's up, Bob, can't you leave me alone?"
"You wanted to settle things, didn't you? Well..." he pointed to his wound. "You just signed your death warrant! But first, I'm going to make sure to pull out all your teeth and make you swallow them."
He lifted me by the collar of my shirt and landed a punch with his heavy hand. I felt dizzy, seeing stars, curling up into a fetal position. His laughter was now a terrifying melody to me.
"Look at this crybaby. Where did your bravery go?" He kicked my stomach, and I'm sure he found it an ironic poetic justice.
His cohort laughed until the beam of his flashlight shifted away from me.
"Hey Bob, what's that over there?" He said, simultaneously pointing with his finger and the flashlight.
Even though it was on the wall behind me, I knew what it was. I saw Bob straighten up to face it, becoming petrified. He and the other, standing there, mouths agape. I waited for seconds, counting mentally and holding my breath, expecting anything, but nothing. Until suddenly, I began to see small puddles forming under their lower eyelids, dark marks... of blood.
The red tears started to stream down their faces like large crimson waterfalls. Soon, they began to make a noise... a familiar noise, which made my mind freeze as I felt my toes curling inside my shoes and my mouth trembling uncontrollably. It was the same sound as Tulley's. They were now allowing these moans to escape their throats and resonate in the tight concrete walls.
I had to do something. I began slowly to pass by them, trying to edge around. When, however, I was almost reaching the door, I could see their shadows turning slowly in my direction. The tension in the air was palpable, as if it could be cut with a knife. I held myself back from trembling as I tried to maintain composure in front of those men, whose bloodshot eyes were now fixed on me, full of terror and despair.
"What... what's happening?" My voice came out in a trembling whisper, barely able to make myself heard.
Bob and his cohort remained silent. They began to walk towards me, and in desperation, I opened the cell door and slammed it loudly behind me, not caring about attracting the guards' attention. As I looked around, I actually noticed that this was a concern I didn't need to have.
The environment where I was wasn't what I expected, from the prison corridor. It was actually another cell. I stopped for a moment, confused, only to be surprised by a figure in the center of it. A man in a straitjacket looking at me with a petrified smile.
"I've been waiting for you," he said. His voice was blood-curdling, sounding like someone scratching a chalkboard with their nails or scraping a fork on a glass plate.
I tried to open the door but it was stuck. When I turned around again, he was leaning, his face inches from mine, eyes bloodshot. I almost fell backward. He laughed. It was like the last time, he had his mouth covered by a sticky red mass that dripped, probably serving as material for the painting, which now displayed an almost complete surreal eye. He turned and walked to the painting, and then he regurgitated it again. Since his hands were tied, he used his tongue as a brush, finishing the last line of the drawing.
"This," he whispered. "Is my masterpiece."
I was trembling. I had forgotten Munford's advice, and now I found myself petrified, just like the others, staring at the eye. I don't know how much time passed, but I felt like it was hours, days... years. All in the blink of an eye, or rather, in a stare without a single blink.
I tried in vain to regain my composure. Scenes of horror penetrated my mind. Cadavers, bodies marked by playing cards. Criminals, inmates being violently beaten with batons, pepper spray, and all sorts of luxuries the police can serve, I saw gang fights, blood, death, and abuse. I saw people being killed inside the prison. Each scene of violence that each of those who looked had already witnessed. My legs were no more than reeds in the wind now, and I just wanted to run away and scream, cry, and sleep to never wake up again. I tried to scream but the man came to me, placing his foot over my mouth.
"Shhh... you need to see."
He repeated this indefinitely. "need to see, need to see, need to see, need to see"
With superhuman effort, I managed to free myself from the weight of his foot on my mouth, but I could barely articulate coherent words. My voice came out trembling and weak when I finally managed to speak:
"What do you want from me? Why are you doing this?"
He simply continued smiling, as if my words were just another piece in his sadistic game. Then, with a quick and fluid movement, he approached me, so close that I could feel his fetid breath and the metallic smell of blood dripping from his mouth.
"Your mind is a fascinating playground," he murmured, his voice echoing in the claustrophobic space of the cell.
I felt tears running down my cheek, and I knew what color they were. I stood there, in shock, staring at the large painted eye, while my entire being was eaten alive in fear and dread. I don't know how much time passed, maybe the entire age of the universe, eternity, who knows. I woke up on the infirmary bed. Wires connected to my arm while a machine reproduced the "beeps" of my heart.
I looked to the side, seeing the green eyes of nurse Linda looking at me, concerned.
"Are you okay?"
"You need to see," I said, not even wanting to.
She frowned, evidently confused by my response. Linda seemed hesitant, as if she were trying to decide whether to ask more or simply ignore my strange statement. I could see the concern in her eyes, but also a certain curiosity, as if something inside her was intrigued by what I had to say.
"What do you mean by that?" She finally asked, her soft voice echoing in the silence of the infirmary.
I sat up slowly on the bed, feeling a wave of dizziness pass over me. My mind was still cloudy, as if I were struggling to emerge from a deep nightmare. I tried to articulate my words as coherently as possible.
"I... I saw things," I murmured, my voice still trembling. "Terrible things. In the cell... in there... something... something is wrong."
Linda watched me with a serious expression, her green eyes analyzing me carefully. She seemed to understand that something serious had happened, but couldn't fully comprehend what I was trying to communicate.
"Look... you and the others had a collective hallucination in that cell... The director has already arranged for an investigation, but we suspect carbon monoxide poisoning, we've already talked to him about the lack of windows in that place, but it seems he doesn't listen."
I stopped, confused by that information. Was I hallucinating? Well, maybe I would even think that if it weren't for what followed. A man in a dark suit entered. He had a serious and intimidating expression, and he asked Linda to leave.
"Listen here, young man, you're lucky to have come back. The others are catatonic... and probably won't come back to themselves. That's why your cooperation is extremely important, and we need to know: what did you see?"
I stumbled, recounting as much information as I could remember, from Tulley to Bob. The man listened to me without making any expression. After that, he took a radio that was hanging from his blazer and said some words that I didn't quite understand, something like "Ceter," "Queter"... and then he took a clipboard, handing it to me.
"This is your letter of freedom. Our proposal is as follows: We release you from prison and in exchange, you don't open your mouth about the specific events mentioned here," he pointed to the clauses.
That was five years ago, and given my freedom, you must imagine that not everything that happened is transcribed here, but the most important parts are. I ended up visiting Munford a few times after that, and I was horrified to discover that Francis, on the eve of his release, hanged himself with the bedsheet. The old man and I stared at each other after this discovery, in a mutual silent understanding. Shortly after, they closed not only the cell, but our entire pavilion, relocating the inmates. I never saw Munford or any of the others again after that. My nightmares persisted, but in recent months they have been much less frequent, and I think I might be slowly healing.
I wanted to say that this story ends well, with my rehabilitation. A troublesome prisoner full of stories becoming a family man. And it would be, if it weren't for the last 15 minutes of this morning. I believe you may remember that I received a letter this morning like that cursed number. I left it on the counter in the living room while I came here, to have breakfast and finish reporting this to you. When I finished the last paragraph, I went back to the room, but now, it seems like the whole nightmare is back.
I felt the tears, transparent this time, forming in my eyes. In the center of the room right now is Linda, holding the letter, looking at something in it that I can already imagine. She's standing there, wet and red stains on her face, I can hear her whispering "You need to see... need to see," and by God... I can see...

First: https://www.reddit.com/HFY/comments/14vo5lb/troublemakers_deaths_pity/
*previous:* https://www.reddit.com/HFY/comments/1cqxbp3/troublemakers_triple_cross/
......
Caz didn't remember blacking out as she smashed through the wall, Valkyrie armor absorbing most of the blow. All she knew is that when she opened her eyes, she was moving faster than ever, throwing herself over obstacles and around corners as that massive emitter slung blinding pulses of light at her, but she wasn't stupid, it could hit her anytime it chose; They were herding her like livestock. Caz kicked off one wall of an alleyway, then the other and landed on the roof, never breaking stride as she leapt from crumbling rooftop to crumbling rooftop like she had wings, one arm protectively clutched to her chest to protect the remote. Jumping down a level she sprinted across the lower roofs, circling back around to try and retrieve her Huntress, When a Block-90 sailed through the air towards her. She caught it, Barely registering the name Dahlia engraved on the slide. She didn't need to see the troublemaker's guardian specter as a weighted chain sailed through the air from nothing to knock aside the emitter of a Geknosian spec ops' laser rifle. Caz instinctually aimed, and fired Dahlia, The soldier reeling back as a .30 caliber Durasteel slug slammed through their faceplate.
A soldier appeared in front of her, swinging a war gauntlet at her face. Sliding between their legs she put a round through their taint at point blank range to bring them to their knees before putting another round in the back of their helmet as she stood, never breaking stride.
Her muscles stung like hornets and her breath burned like fire, but she couldn't help but let loose a feral laugh as she slid, jumped, and vaulted through the rubble of the ruined village. The Dahlia barked, a spec ops soldier crumpling or flinching to swing their rifle from the shimmer in the air right in front of them so Cassius could drive a Kama into their throat. She didn't see charlotte anywhere, and despite the betrayal and stabbing of Remin, she couldn't help but be concerned for the girl. Another spec ops appeared in front of her, she slid around them, putting five rounds in their back armor, only for them to turn around and deliver a haymaker straight into her mask.
She felt her nose break as she slammed into the roof, momentum halted by the brutal hit as the remote flew from her hand. He reyes watched it sail through the air and fall.
Fall.
Fall into the waiting, ring bedecked hand of Drake. A shiver ran through the air as Drake pocketed the remote, a black, tattered spartan's cape flowing about his shoulders. But unlike every other time he'd lost consciousness and returned, it was like he had lost power this time, in a matter of fact, it was like he'd been drained of it. But the way he held himself was so much different, there was a sparkle in his eyes as he drew his sword, helmet flying into his palm as he snugged it on. The rings glimmered even as they absorbed so much of the light that hit them that they appeared as silhouettes.
There was a sudden change in the spec ops as they focused on Drake, she watched them gather into small groups, forming fire teams as the metal buzzards above turned to focus on the lone man. The words that fell from Drake's lips were like the first rumbles of thunder before a deadly monsoon.
"I haven't felt this scared since I was in the arena... And you have no idea how excited that makes me!"
...
Charlotte would not let the darkness of her mind claim her again. She tugged and pulled at the threads of her consciousness, fighting her older sister for control of her own body. But her older sister pulled back harder, tugging the knife taut against someone's throat. A shock of pain, a shock of cold and she was forced to let go. For a moment, she and her older sister were one. She could feel her older sister's fear, fear of punishment and reprisal. A tough mask hid the fragile being beneath that so desperately cried for freedom but feared what it could mean. All Charlotte could do, was push in her determination to be free again to her older sister before they separated again.
But this time she was not alone in the darkness, The soft sound of penny whistles and old war drums followed a man in furs and carrying an odd metal tube attached to a stock. His presence felt like an open field under a night full of stars that stretched on forever, or an endless calm ocean where you stood on a steady boat, the world as your oyster. But there was also something scary about it, like the ability to do anything was both curse and blessing. But when the man softly set himself down beside her, he also sat with her sister, letting them face each other, speaking with a soft twang she could only describe as old country, the man chuckled.
"I reckon you girls both want the same thing, and with the lord as my witness, I'm here to grant you that wish."
He held out his hands to either of us.
"Let us pray to the lord our god that he may deliver you from the lands of egypt and into the promised land."
They both took his hand, and bowed their heads as he recited a few ancient prayers. Charlotte felt a burning in her soul, a lightness that replaced the oppressive dark with a field of beautiful flowers, just like home. Looking to big sister sylva, she could see the fearful, broken look in her eyes, but also a spark of determination as the man picked up his percussion cap rifle and walked away, the sound of pennywhistles and drums following him as she tearfully, but strongly took her older sisters hand.
"Do the right thing."
As she pulled her hands away, the remote was left in her hand. Charlotte could feel the smile behind Sylva's mask as she tossed the remote, watching it turn into a swallow that flitted off as fast as it could.
...
Death slammed a palm against the wooden doors, bursting them open like they were old and rotten as he stormed into Conquest's throne room, scythe slamming against the stony floor as Drake stood off to the side. He felt an odd sensation, like he was only as strong as a human could be, like he had no power left.
And it was like a burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He moved slower, hit softer, and got hit harder now, he knew that, but it excited him to actually be able to fight!
Death stopped a few paces from conquest, who was lacksadaisically sipping from a clear goblet as servants played soft music from a corner and served her wine, either chained to their instruments, or dragging a heavy weight by their ankle or equivalent. Drake looked on in grinning anger, teeth grinding together as he observed the degrading spectacle. Death collected himself slightly, no expression visible on his skull face as he spoke in a voice like nails on a chalkboard.
"I heard that you used a soultrap, Conquest. Those were banned during the eight thousandth pantheonal convention, but I heard you used one on my chosen here."
Conquest snorted into her goblet before spotting drake and tensing so hard the goblet shattered.
"So what?! your little monster breaks more rules than I could dream of breaking!"
Death glanced back at Drake as the swordsman leaned casually against a pillar, gripping two rings menacingly with a manic grin of rage directed at conquest. The god couldn't look the mere mortal in the eyes as Death raised a calming skeletal hand.
"He breaks universal rules, supposedly unbreakable ones... and admittedly, I'm not sure how the fuck he does it. But we all agreed that soul traps are both inhumane, unfair, and straight up bullshit. It says that in the fuckin rulebook, Verbatim. If you want to fight my chosen, you'll do it in Yovun's arena, per the five thousandth convention. I don't want a war amongst the gods Gul'vak, but it seems you do..."
Conquest straightened upon the utterance of her true name, a low growl coming from her throat.
"You know nothing about what you speak of Human! Do not lecture me about rules!"
Heat mirage appeared around Death before he took a deep breath and simply said.
"Drake, if Conquest wants to break agreed upon rules... I guess I can turn a blind eye just this once. Go wild."
The room rumbled as two rings hit the ground, disappearing into black smoke so they could be summoned back without issue. Conquest stood, grabbing her hammer from thin air. But then two more rings clinked against the ground as Drake exploded with power, surging forth on black wings wreathed in pale flame. Conquest flinched and screamed.
"ALRIGHT!"
Drake stopped the lethal thrust inches away from Conquests fearful face, the hammer tumbling to the ground as Drake summoned the rings back onto his hands. He'd wanted to drive alexandros through her heart. But he could wait, as he turned around, rage broiling in his heart as he forcefully cooled it, this was not his world, it was the world of gods and primordials. It would be wise to follow their rules. Conquests voice was faux-strong as she shakily snarled.
"I'll follow the godsdamned rules... just keep that Thing away from me."
Drake felt a smile come to his face, pride swelling in his chest, this was a different kind of power he felt as he joined Death's side fearlessly. At the drop of a hat, he could make the greatest enemy of his people grovel at his feet. But, taking a deep breath, he pushed the feeling away, knowing now how the high priest felt every time he cracked that whip against a young Drake's raw back. How dangerous getting addicted to that feeling could be. He'd enjoy it for now, but he also made a solemn promise to hold back any chance he could. To show the mercy he never received.
Death swept around, beckoning Drake.
"Come, young warrior, I sense that your friends need you."
Drake was shaken from his thoughts as he rapidly joined Death's side.
"How do you know?"
"Old john brown has finally selected a chosen. For a god of liberty he has a lot of deference to the big G."
"Who's the big G?"
"God, used to be kind of a pompous bastard really, but he's grown on me."
"Nothing you just said makes sense to me."
"To You."
Death clarified confusingly.
...
Drake looked over the gathered Geknosian spec ops, noticing Charlotte's pummeled form leaning against a pile of rubble, chest weakly rising and falling. Cataclysmic rage burned in his heart as a blaster bolt burnt across his chest with his first step forward. He wouldn't need to remove a ring for this, he wanted to kick ass old school style. He took each bolt as they came his way, burning his flesh and charring his armor. But the pain was like a drug, his blood running hot with battle-lust as he called out.
"Take a breather guys! they're all mine!"
Drake picked up speed, charging through the flashes of laser bolts even as they burned his skin and charred his flesh. As his foot hit the ground, he felt them running with him, the warriors that made up the liquid iron in his blood. From the first Hoplite to his father the Warmonger. A million souls crying out for revenge as he planted a flying double footed kick to a spec ops soldier's breastplate, bringing them to the ground and sliding the blade of his sword into the gap between their neck and chest armor, purple blood spilling out as he brought the sweeping cut up, striking the chin of another's helmet before driving the point of his sword directly into their throat. He dove out of the way as a laser bolt obliterated the ground where he'd been standing, herding him into a ring of the spec ops.
Good, just where he wanted to be, up close and personal. He danced through the circle of death, blaster bolts intended to harm or kill splashing against other Geknosians in blinding flashes as Drake carried himself through the barrage on dancer's feet, the steps he'd practice with Cassius allowing him to strike freely. Each strike flowing into another, seamlessly switching between single handed and two handed grips as he leapt up, monkeying onto a spec ops soldier and stabbing his sword's blade into the gap between neck and shoulder all the way to the hilt. Leaping towards another with a manic grin as he saw fear in the eyes behind the visor before the helmet went flying with the head still inside it. Suddenly a Geknosian in ornate armor appeared in front of him, thrusting a saber for his throat.
Drake let the blade skitter off his helmet's faceplate, returning a slash that was parried with a strong low block. Steel rang, clashing and clamoring as the two danced back and forth. One thinking they were meeting their prey in honorable battle, the other fighting like a rabid, enraged beast that had been backed into a corner. The saber snapped under a particularly vicious blow, the Geknosian general just able to register surprise before Drake separated his head from his shoulders. Blood pumping, skin burning as the headless corpse slumped down by his feet. He looked around at the spec ops who still had their guns raised and trained on Drake.
"Grack this! I don't wanna die here!"
One shouted, Drawing Drake's attention as they threw their blaster to the ground and slammed down on their knees, putting their hands on the back of their heads. Drake looked around at the clearly hesitating spec ops and through his manic, uncontrollable grin he called out.
"Anyone else not want to die?!"
Slowly, ever so slowly the remaining blasters were lowered, then tossed to the ground as the two metal buzzards hummed frantically away. Seeing Caz limp to his side with her railgun, he put his hand on her forearm as she tried to raise it to point at the fleeing aircraft.
"Let em go."
"But they just tried to-"
"Some must live to spread the word."
Caz looked up at him for a moment, confused, before a spark of realization lit up her pain filled crystalline eyes as she looked at the surrendering spec ops.
"Prisoners..."
Drake nodded and flicked the blood from his swordblade before wiping it clean on the dead general's crotch flap.
"Prisoners."
He confirmed, looking to charlotte as she slowly clambered to her feet, swaying weekly as she clutched her head. Drake let his smile fall and fade before saying.
"who else needs medical attention."
"everybody but Cassius and Destrier as far as I know, including yourself dumbass."
Drake chuckled and nodded, getting an odd look from Caz as he stated.
"I'll be fine, I'll just pop off a pinkie ring for an hour when we get home."
Caz sighed and helped Drake support the badly wounded Charlotte to the forge building.
"somethings changed about you, and it's not the lack of power."
Drake chuckled and simply responded.
"I don't know, I just feel... better, all of a sudden. Fightings fun again."
"I'm not sure that's a good thing, Drake."
Drake chuckled softly and helped get Charlotte into the forge building without responding.
......
Part 107: https://www.reddit.com/HFY/comments/1crq34h/troublemakers_buried_secrets_bolster_the_weak/

Well, this is the final story I can think of for Naeriu. If there are any more situations you'd like to see him in, be sure to comment on them and I’ll see if I can’t work with them. I’ve been inspired by comments before, it can absolutely happen again.
The first story is here: Endure
The second story is here: Persist
And the thrid story's here: Strive
Being accepted is something everyone wants to be, but sometimes people can’t accept you for who you are. Sometimes, in the most heartbreaking cases, it’s someone you are close to.
Shout out to SpacePaladin15 for the universe.
Memory Transcription Subject: Naeriu, Kolshian Missionary
Date [Standardized Human Time]: January 11, 2150
I couldn’t help but feel nervous as I rode in the shuttle. Even if I knew I was safe here, I wasn’t scared of anything physically dangerous. This planet had gone mostly untouched by the wars that had plagued the outside universe, left alone orbiting an insignificant star in an unimportant location. The only thing useful in this solar system was the planet itself, an agro-world devoted to having as many high-yield farms as possible.
It was a beautiful marble from above, swirling vibrant colors painting the surface intricately. The polar oceans almost made it look like a tennis ball, funnily enough. I could even see some of the larger farms from above, large patches of brown, miscolored green, or any other number of colors broadcasting what vegetables were being grown.
Where there weren’t farms, there were prairies or small forests, the only refuge for any animal, predator or not, to avoid the ire of the farmers. Herbivores would ruin crops and carnivores would taint them, there was no winning against the farmers. However, in recent years, there has been an ecological comeback with the help of the Humans.
Forests were a little bit larger, pests were killed a little less ruthlessly, and the farmers' hatred toward Humans grew evermore. While they were not outright hostile, I could only be thankful I had not heard what they had said behind closed doors.
This planet, Toktkala, was once my home, but now it couldn’t feel any more strange to me. I could only pray for more strength for what I was about to face, being a supporter of Humans and an open believer of Christ was sure to have me ostracized by everyone. I had a feeling that there were only two refuges for me; the UN embassy, something that was never not swarmed with protesters, and my childhood home.
That was the reason my stomach felt like it was turned inside out, I had finally found the time to find my family again. It wasn’t difficult, they hadn’t moved away from the house, but I had broken all contact with them after the Battle of Earth. That was fourteen Earth years ago, fifteen on Toktkala. Fifteen years of no contact, left wondering the fate of their oldest son, I couldn’t fathom what that could have done to them. I wondered if they were even still together, after losing my little sister they were already stressed, losing me might have broken them. It made me feel guilty already, and I didn’t even know if it was true. Hopefully, they managed to stay together for my little brother, Bolop always deserved the best.
I wonder if he hated me, blaming me for our parents’ divorce. I wonder if he hated me for leaving for the military in the first place. I wonder what my parents will say, seeing their dead son on their doorstep.
The uncertainty ate away at me, but the only way to cure it was to face it, and I intend to face it head-on and with full honesty. I’ll take everything they throw at me on the chin and keep walking, relieved no matter the outcome.
The shuttle touched down in one of the very few spaceports built on the planet, all of which were humble in the worst way. Frequent traffic wasn’t a problem, so they had all been equipped with the bare necessities to be classified as a spaceport. Most were little more than a pad, a few administrative buildings, and a luggage check. The only one with any extra expense was located in the only city on the entire planet, on the complete opposite side of where I needed to be.
However, the underfunded port might have been a boon in the end, as it let me experience the rural air sooner. Nostalgia flooded my mind as the familiar scent reignited memories from my childhood. Running through fields with my mother, watching the sunset with my father, eating a home-cooked bowl of kotla on the porch, climbing the lone tree in the backyard when I was sad, swinging from it when I was happy, there were so many melancholic memories tied to this smell, and I would never get tired of them.
I gathered what little luggage I brought with me and waited for a bus to pick me up, mixed feelings caused me to stare off into the distance. It felt great to finally be back in the warm, welcoming, slightly humid air of Toktkala, but that just meant I was one step closer to facing my family. I wouldn’t and couldn’t back down, but that didn’t make me any less nervous.
“Feeling okay, deary? You look like you’re about to run away.”
I blinked as I turned to face the lady, slightly surprised that anyone would bother talking to me. She was an older Kolshian, decorated in old-timey jewelry and carrying an expensive-looking bag. I could tell from her thick accent that she was a Toktkala native, the people from her tended to take their time in everything, including speaking.
I accepted the distraction with a sigh, causing her to sit down and pay attention. “I’m fine, just nervous.”
“Aww, what for? I don’t know anyone who could be down in weather like this. Haven't had a nice day like this in a while.”
“Well, you see, I haven’t been home in a long time. Fifteen years, give or take.”
“Oh deary, that’s wonderful! I’m so glad you could finally make it home.”
“Yeah… I guess. It’s just, what has changed since I left. I haven’t said or heard a single word from my parents since the war, I don’t even know if they are still together. I-I know where they live, but that’s about all I know about my parents. What if they don’t recognize me? What if they hate me for leaving and not saying anything? And I’ve changed so much, I’m not sure they would even accept me for who I am now. I know I have to do this, I’m not backing down no matter what, but that doesn’t make me any less anxious.”
She was quiet for a long moment. “That is quite the predicament. Fifteen years is a long time to not speak with someone, but always remember, it is never too late to reconnect.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle and grab my cross. “Kinda like me and…”
“What was that deary?”
“Uh, nothing important. Now that I’ve given you my side, I think it’s only fair you give me yours.”
She shifted on the bench. “Oh well, there’s not much to say. Just going back to town after a visit off planet. A buyer was looking to buy some crops in bulk and I went out to meet him for some discussion. Really nice boy, almost as old as you.”
“Ma’am, I’m thirty-two.”
She waved a tentacle in chucked. “Well everyone is a boy when you are as old as me, deary.”
I let myself laugh. “Oh you can’t be that old, you barely look a day over sixty!”
She pressed a tentacle to her chest. “Well, I’m flattered. I guess there still are some gentlemen in this world.”
“Oh I think there are plenty, they just don’t get the chance to act like them.”
She tilted her head to the side. “That’s one way of looking at it.”
We fell into silence for a moment, but with no bus in sight, it would be better to keep talking. “If you don’t mind my asking, what kind of crops do you sell?”
She clicked her tongue. “Oh, all kinds, but I think the one you're asking about is the stuff I talked about earlier, am I right?”
I raised a tentacle as if I were surrendering, noticing a bus cresting over the horizon as I did. “You got me.”
“That was some dlut, you know the stuff. Tall stocks, bright purple, sweetish tasting fruit.”
I leaned back. “Ah, dlut. I bet that would be good in a kotla in this weather.”
“It sure would. I just can’t get over who I was selling to.”
I turned to face her head-on. “And that is?”
“A Human, can you believe that?”
I laughed. “You know? I can actually. I’m…”
I considered my wording carefully. I didn’t want to offend this nice old lady accidentally. After a brief pause, I found the right words. “I’m surprised that someone from Toktkala would even be willing to talk with them though, considering the popular sentiment.”
“Oh I know, and I think it’s just dreadful that those people get so much hatred. I’ll be honest, I was in the same wagon at the beginning, but I came around once they became the only people buying my products. After what was revealed about our history… well, I don’t think I need to tell you of all people how Kolshians were treated.”
“Trust me, I know. I just think it’s kind of ironic that Humans, people we all seemed hell-bent on making hate us, were the first to forgive.”
She sighed. “I just wish some of the other foolhardy people here could see that too. With any luck, your parents are like us.”
I nodded as the bus pulled to a stop. “Yeah, maybe. This was a nice chat, hope you have a wonderful day.”
She waved me off. “With a little luck, we’ll see each other again. Oh, what’s your name.”
I paused and pivoted before I stepped on the bus. “I’m Naeriu, and you are?”
“I’m Moelly. And I hope to see you too.”
I waved to her one final time as the bus accelerated away, feeling much better having talked with someone instead of just dwelling on my feelings. I felt more hopeful about my future now that the idea of my parents not hating Humans was rolling around in my head, it let me believe there was a chance my parents might not disown me. Dad was always supportive of me when I said I wanted to join, he had always had complete faith in the Federation, but Mom might be a little more lenient, even if she also held the Federation in high regard.
I wonder if they became the type to claim the Humans faked it all and Nikonus’ accidental confession was fabricated. There were a lot of those kinds of people still around to this day, almost twenty years after the war ended. I could only pray that they would realize the error in their ways and accept reality sooner rather than later.
I stared out of the window for a long time, passing the time by reliving every field, tree, and house that passed by the window. I couldn’t pull my eyes away even for a second, everything looked so familiar, but at the same time, just different enough to make it strange. Some things were out of place or missing, while others were just how I remember them. It was surreal to see how my childhood home had changed, and I could feel my anxiety bubbling back up just as we reached the stop I needed to get off at.
I tugged the suitcase behind me, thanking and tipping the bus driver as I left. He responded with a simple huff of acknowledgment before driving off. I watched him for only a moment before turning around.
At the end of a long driveway, standing just as tall as I remember it, flanked on both sides by fields of budding crops, was my childhood home. Vines crawled up one side of the house, a decoration that Mom refused to cut down despite Dad’s objections. There was an ever-so-slightly rusted shed peeking out from the back, inside should be all of the farming equipment used to control the drones and irrigation systems. Even further behind that, there was a tall, lonely-looking tree with a small swing hanging from one of its sturdy branches.
Everything looked the same, down to the plants on the window sill.
I decided I needed to pray one last time before I met my parents, silently mumbling to myself as I did. I asked God for the wisdom to know what to say, for the courage to face their questions, and for the strength to stand tall if they ridicule me for my path in life. I had prayed like this many times before, and I was surely going to continue praying after.
I finished the prayer with the sign of the cross and a gentle kiss on the cross around my neck as I reached the porch, looking up with hesitation as I climbed the steps. I set my luggage aside and took a deep breath, staring at the doorbell. Every question and wandering thought I had raced through my mind, causing me to stand stunned for at least a minute until finally I shook them out of my head and pressed the button with all of my might.
A strange sense of release and simultaneous anxiety flooded me. There was no turning back now, even if I ran away they could still easily see me. All I could do now was stand here and face the music.
There was a commotion inside, some thumping going down the stairs, and a loud voice calling out. “Hold on, I’m coming.”
It was Mom’s voice. Even if it was muffled through the walls and slightly more hoarse than the last time I heard it, it was still Mom’s. The first of the doors was opened, but Mom hadn’t seen me through the glass one yet. She was looking off to the side, setting something on the side table as she spoke.
“I’m sorry it took so long, Bullo, I was in the middle of making a meal.”
She reached up and began opening the glass door, only to stop in her tracks as she finally saw me.
“Who…”
I could see the gears turning in her head, and the slow realization dawned upon her of just who I was. Tears began welling up in her eyes and her mouth hung open. With a quiet sob, she covered her mouth, trying to form any words. She could only cry and shake her head before stepping forward and hugging me warmly.
“I always knew…”
I returned the hug eagerly, rubbing the back of her head. I tried to find words to convey the flurry of emotions, but couldn’t. “I’m back, Mom.”
She pulled away for a second, wiping a final few tears in her eyes. Suddenly her demeanor changed from overwhelming joy to concern. “Where have you been? Oh, my little baby, where have you been?”
I sucked in a nervous breath. “On Earth, Sillis, Fahl, Skalga… I’ve been everywhere.”
I could see her freeze up for a second. “Then… then why didn’t you come back?”
“I… I felt like you wouldn’t accept me. And every day I didn’t return, I felt like you would only grow to hate me.”
Mom stepped forward, caressing my face with a gentle touch. “Sweetie, I could never hate you. There is nothing you could ever do to make me hate you.”
“I… Thank you, Mom, you don’t know how much I needed to hear that.”
She stepped back and held the door open. “Of course, sweetie, now come inside. You have to tell me all about, well, everything that has happened to you, from the beginning. And while you are at it, I’ll finish making dinner. I bet you missed your mom’s kotla, didn’t you?”
I laughed as I tugged my luggage through the door. “More than you will ever know. Every other bowl I’ve had has left me wanting something more, but I know that the only place I could find it was here.”
Mom laughed as she pulled out a few plates. “Love, a mother’s specialty. Is that the reason you came back, just for some food?”
I sat at the dinner table, taking in the house around me. It would be considered old-timey by modern standards, though that just meant that not everything was super high-tech. There were still rustic aspects to my house, pictures still in frames and not screens, religious symbols that have been passed down for generations, wood used over metal in some places, and rustic pieces of tech that my father refused to change, claiming that it would outlast all of us. It was old, slightly musky, and it was home.
“That’s not the only reason, it’s more like a bonus. I just kept thinking about home, how I effectively abandoned you, and I needed to come back to give you closure. Thoughts of home would pop into my head at the most random times, like signs that I should come back, so I followed.”
Mom turned around from the stove, setting down a steaming pot on the counter before sitting next to me. “Well, I am certainly glad you decided to do so. Your father and I have both been torn up by what we thought was your death, having you here now is a blessing for us both.”
“Speaking of, where is Dad?”
Mom waved a tentacle. “Oh, he’s off protesting at the embassy again. At his age, he should be staying home and watching the field, but he’s a stubborn oaf and when he’s determined to do something he does it, you know that. I told him to give it up and to come home, but he resents the Humans and won't rest ‘till they are off this planet, maybe not even then.”
I closed my eyes for a moment and looked away. This was the worst outcome. Not only did Dad not like the Humans, it sounded like he outright hated them. I’m glad I prayed because I had a feeling that a shouting match was on the horizon.
“Is something wrong?”
I sighed. “Well, we might have… conflicting opinions on the Humans. I’m worried that we might fight.”
Mom sucked in a breath as if she was preparing a response, but it died in her throat before she could speak. She took a moment to recollect her thoughts, confusion growing in her eyes, before shaking her head.
“It’ll be fine. Your father loves you, no matter who you’ve become. You will always be his son, our son. There is nothing that can change that. I don’t know the experiences you've had, maybe I don’t want to know, but I know that you’re an adult now and can choose your own path, even if I don’t agree with it wholly.”
I grabbed Mom’s tentacle. “Thank you, Mom, you have no idea how much that means to me. I was so worried that you wouldn’t accept me, it was eating me alive. I just hope that Dad feels the same way. He is stubborn, you said it yourself.”
“I know he-”
The sound of the garage door opening cut Mom off and caused my nerves to flare up again. Through the walls, I could hear him shut the car door and stomp his way into the house. He had always been a heavy-stepper, but these seemed a little heavier than normal. Maybe he had just put on a little weight since I last saw him.
“Muola, I’m-”
Dad froze as he turned into the dining room, stopping suddenly as he saw me. He looked me up and down, putting the pieces together in his mind. He dropped a bag to the floor carelessly and took a half-step forward.
“Naeriu… you’re… you're alive!”
He rushed forward as fast as his old limbs could carry him, meeting me with a hug just as I stood from my seat. He rocked me back and forth, blubbering with joy and trying to bury his head in my chest.
“My son’s alive!”
He pulled himself back. “Where have you been? I thought…”
His breath hitched in his throat. “I thought you were dead.”
I held his tentacle with compassion. “I’m sorry, I was just so… I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be, all that matters now is that you are back with us, safe and sound.”
We stared at each other for a moment before Dad couldn’t sit still any longer, almost jumping toward the table. “You have to tell me all about it. Start to finish. You must have some interesting stories for us, right? I mean, you were gone for fifteen years, there has to have been something interesting going on, right? You could start with the story of that necklace, it looks pretty interesting. Is it something from Sillis?”
I glanced down to the cross on my neck as I pulled out a chair for him, sitting back down in mine with a huff after I did. “Not quite. It’s a later story. Why don’t we start from the beginning, like you said?”
Dad flung a tentacle in excitement. “Sure, yeah, from the beginning.”
I took in a deep breath. “After my last call with you, the Battle of Earth started. There wasn’t much I could do with my training, so all I could do was watch and wait. I was scared, and I only got more scared when boarding alarms went off. After they captured the ship, we had to evacuate. With no other option, I had to get in a life pod with the Humans.”
Both Mom and Dad gasped. “That must have been horrible, sweetie, how did you get out?”
Dad shook his head. “That must have been a terrible experience. I couldn’t imagine being trapped in such a cramped space with those monsters. Muola is right, how did you get out?”
I brushed past the casual Human-hate and continued with my story. “I didn’t. We landed in the northern part of the planet and it was late fall. All you need to know is that it was very, very cold. We had to travel with the Humans to avoid freezing to death, clinging to the belief that maybe we would be handed off to an authority later on and not be eaten. In the end, that was the best choice I had ever made. We made it to a cabin, but not after losing two others, a Harchen named Tekt and a Krakotl named Kulilim. It was just me and Kotern.”
Mom gasped. “How is Kotern? You two seemed like such good friends.”
I didn’t respond immediately, letting Dad’s mind run wild. “Did… T-they ate him, didn’t they?”
I shook my head. “No, in fact, they never even hit us. For the next few days, all we did was talk with each other. Just Me, Kotern, the Humans, and a Venlil named Leenek that we had picked up along the way. We just sat and talked.”
I could see the confusion building on Dad’s face. “Were they threatening you?”
I shook my head again. “Only one, Billy, the leader. He was the only one to make any threats, but he never acted on it. He was just angry. Some never even spoke to me, a few had very deep conversations, but only one ever made threats. One, named Brandon, talked to me about God for a while, after I told him that he had probably lost his entire family.”
Dad tilted his head in confusion, but didn’t make any comments, letting me continue with my story. “One day, Kotern goes out to gather some wood. The Humans had rope so we tied it on to him, but he didn’t come back. They sent a soldier named Valya out to find him, and comforted me the entire time he was gone. Around an hour passes and Valya returns, but Kotern isn’t with him.”
Mom leaned forward, engrossed in the story. “So what happened?”
I sighed. “I hid away in a room for a while, depressed that I had lost my friend, when I heard a bunch of arguing. I come out to see what’s happening, and Kotern is there, standing in the middle of the room, waving a pistol around and screaming for them to give me back to him. There were a bunch of people with him, led by a captain named Suklal. They wanted the cabin for shelter, but it ended up in a gunfight. Kotern died first.”
Dad sunk his head in sadness. “He was such a nice boy, you two seemed to get along so well. It’s a shame the Humans did that to him.”
“It wasn’t the Humans. Suklal shot him in the head after Kotern wouldn’t fall back. The Humans only started shooting after Suklal shot first.”
I let out a deep sigh, remembering how everything played out right in front of me. Even now his death brings tears to my eyes, he was such a nice man, he had just been misguided by the horrible teachings of the Federation. Teachings that I knew my Mom and Dad still clung to.
Wanting something to take my mind off of his death, I looked over to Mom. “I think I want some kotla now.”
Mom let out a breath. “Of course sweetie, I was wondering when you would ask.”
Mom got up to get some dishes, but Dad kept staring at me with a growing look of concern and confusion. “Hey son, what’s your opinion on the Humans.”
The bowls in Mom’s hands clattered slightly as everyone froze. I was hoping that I would be able to ease Dad into my opinion, but it seemed he wanted to take the more direct approach. “Well, I’m going to be honest, I like them. In fact, I love them. I love them the same way that I love everyone else. I wouldn’t be here without them, I wouldn’t be the man I am here today without them. It was a Human who pulled me out of the gutter and gave me direction in life.”
Dad sunk his head slightly. “They got to my son…”
I raised a tentacle. “Now, Dad, they didn’t get me. I came to this decision on my own. I looked at all the facts and saw that they were just as sapient as everyone else. They feel empathy, sadness, and regret just like all of us, and not just watered-down versions.”
He closed his eyes and raised his head. “Son, it’s going to be fine, we'll get you some help a-and cure this brainwashing.”
“I’m not brainwashed, Dad, that doesn’t exist. I’m-”
I sighed. “I’m not being controlled by anyone, I’m still the same Naeriu, just older and with more experienced. I’ve been gone for fifteen years, I’m going to change a little, but I’m still me. I just want to come back and reconnect.”
Dad stuttered in his own breath. “But the Humans tried to kill you.”
“Only after we attacked them first. And I forgave them long ago. A-”
I cut myself off before I told Dad that I was a Christian, that might just send him over the edge. I’d have to save that for later, when he’s calmed down a little.
“Can we eat something before we get too into this, please?”
Mom set the bowls down, eagerly accepting the distraction. “Of course, the kotla should be finished setting now anyway.”
Mom reached over and grabbed a wooden ladle, scooping up hearty spoonfuls into the bowls before setting them in front of Dad and me. I could feel the warm steam hit my face, carrying the savory taste of the various vegetables with them. Among the healthy chunks, I could spot the purplish color of dlut floating, slightly lighter now that it had been boiled.
“It looks amazing Mom, I can’t wait to try it.”
But just as I raised my tentacle, I froze. I glanced at my father, who was watching me with concern, confusion, and a little bit of fear. “What’s wrong son?”
I had never eaten a meal without praying beforehand. Sure, I might have sped up a prayer if I was excruciatingly hungry or late for something, but I always found a way to include it. Dad would freak out if he found out about my faith, it would start a full-blown fight.
Should I skip this one time to avoid making a scene?
I blinked and shook my head, feeling disappointed in myself. No, I had never missed a prayer before now, and I wasn’t about to start. I am not ashamed of who I am, I am a Christian and I am proud of it. If that means that my father is going to fight with me, then so be it. I don’t care if he doesn’t accept me, I don’t need him to. I am a grown man, and even if the words he says hurt, I know that I am being true to myself and God.
I am not skipping my prayer.
Slowly, I raised my tentacle and tapped my forehead, before lowering it to my chest, then my left shoulder followed by my right. “Bless us, O Lord, and these Thy gifts, which we are about to receive from Thy bounty. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
I repeated the sign of the cross and closed my prayer, keeping my eyes closed for a moment before grabbing the spoon and taking a bite. “It tastes amazing, Mom.”
She was too confused to speak, but Dad wasn’t. “What was that?”
“A prayer.”
“To who?”
“Christ.”
Dad shared a glance with Mom. “I don’t recognize any god named Christ.”
“That is because He is from Christianity, a Human religion.”
Everyone went silent for a moment, the words I said still ringing in their ears. Mom’s confusion only deepened, while Dad’s turned to anger. “What?! You-You worship a Human god?”
“Yes, I worship God. I am a Christian, a believer in God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit.”
Dad shook his head and laughed. “You’re not kidding… You really mean it. H-how?”
“I was at the lowest point in my entire life, Kotern had just died, I was alone on an alien planet, I was hungry, thirsty, tired, homeless, and broke. A Human named Ben brought me to a church, the St. Louis Cosmic Christian Church, and that’s where I found God. I opened myself up to Him, and I’ve never felt more safe in my entire life.”
Mom remained stunned, falling back into a seat while Dad stood up. “I-I don’t… I can’t believe this. I cannot accept this. You’re not my son. Naeriu would never… H-he’d never…”
Mom leaned forward. “Solue, calm down. Take a deep breath and-”
“I can’t calm down! Not after that reveal. My son worships Humans. My son…”
“No, Dad, I don’t worship Humans, I worship God.”
“A Human god! Who is a Human! I don’t know if this is better or worse than you coming out as a Linked Chains member, at least they don’t think predators are gods! What does your god call for, hmm? Killings? Blood sacrifices?”
“Dad, hold on, slow down and give me a chance.”
“No. I want you out of my house, now.”
Mom gasped. “Solue! That is our son.”
Dad didn’t even glance at Mom, ignoring the building tears in his eyes. “No, he’s not. He’s some freak trying to impersonate our son. I hate to tell you Muola, but our son died in that war, and he’s never coming back.”
His words sank into my heart, causing me to wince away and take a deep breath. With my eyes closed, barely holding back the tears, I set my spoon down and stood slowly from the table. “If that’s what you think, then I won’t bother you any longer. Mom, it was wonderful to have your food one last time. Dad, I’m sorry that you can’t accept the facts. I’m glad I could at least give you some closure, goodbye.”
I turned to gather what little luggage I had as Mom frantically jumped up from her seat. “Naeriu, wait! Just give us some time to talk, Solue and I are just confused, is all. Please, wait here, for me.”
I paused at the door and sighed. “Anything for you, Mom. I’ll be by the tree in the back.”
As soon as I closed the door behind me, I started to sob. Dad’s words had hurt me more than I imagined they would, twisting my insides around like he knew exactly what to say to hurt me the worst. I stumbled my way around the house, wiping tears away with each step. I could hear Mom and Dad arguing loudly through the wall, both of them screaming with each other over what to think about the situation, though the words were muffled enough that I couldn’t understand them. By the time I reached the tree, there was no hope of me catching a single word.
I wiped away a few final tears and looked up into the tree. The first thing I noticed was that the branch I had fallen from long ago had finally healed, however, it was fixed in a completely new direction. I can vividly remember when I fell from that branch and broke my leg. I had never seen my parents so worried in their entire lives. Dad must have broken every traffic law on the planet to get me as quickly as he could to a hospital. Mom told me that he couldn’t sit still while they were x-raying me, every second that passed felt like an eternity for him.
He cares for me, a lot, and that makes it difficult for him to accept that I’ve gone on my own path now. Of course, I’d be ecstatic to have him and Mom join me, but something told me that they wouldn’t be diverting from their generational ways. They were both rooted in the past, and the tradition that came with it, and that shaped their worldview to a rigid stance where everything stays the same. At least Mom was a little more accepting, though I knew she felt about the same as Dad did, she just didn’t vocalize it.
With a sigh, I slid against the tree, looking out over the fields as the sun set in the distance. It seemed as if my worst fears were coming true, they wouldn’t accept me for who I was. I had changed too much from the last time they had seen me, I might as well have been a new person to them.
After a long moment, Mom finally exited the house through the back door, closely followed by Dad. I stood with a huff as they approached, preparing myself for whatever they would say.
Mom spoke first. “Sweetie, uhm, we are sorry for the fight. It’s just, well, we have a hard time accepting what you say to be true.”
Mom paused for a moment and Dad picked up where she left off. “The last time we saw you, you were still just a boy, barely an adult, and you held… beliefs that aligned with ours.”
Mom glanced between Dad and me. “And now seeing you here in front of us, the age we were when we last saw you, with beliefs that completely go against everything we believed, that our religion taught…”
Dad sighed. “It’s a little much, son, and I’m… I’m sorry I… lashed out like that.”
I looked between them and stepped forward. “Mom, Dad, I don’t expect you to understand me, especially not on the first day of me being back, but just know that you accepting me means more than you will ever know. Thank you, and I love you, both of you.”
I embraced them both in a big group hug, rocking back and forth. Dad only hugged me for a brief moment before pulling away, but Mom clung to me for a long time. After she finally pulled away, she sniffled once more and wiped away a few final tears.
She laughed slightly and shook her head. “I just hope you can forgive us.”
I couldn’t help but melt at Mom’s concern. “Mom, Dad, you never even needed to ask. I forgave you as soon as the words were said. I love you both with all my heart, it will take more than harsh words to prevent me from forgiving you.”
I smiled. “Though, I wish I could have gotten some more kotla before it went cold.”
Dud huffed and turned around. “It should still be warm in the pot, but you better hurry.”
Mom and I watched him disappear into the house, not looking back to see if we were following him at all. Mom sighed before speaking. “He’ll come around, you know he will. He’s just principled. He has his way that he thinks is right and there is not a lot you can do to change that.”
I nodded. “I know that, but I’m sure he’ll be more accepting once he gives me a chance to explain what I believe in. And tell the rest of my story.”
“That will be nice to hear. I’d love to understand what you have been doing all of this time that prevented you from coming home.”
I opened my mouth to respond, only to realize something. “Oh! Now that I think about it, where is Bolop?”
Mom sighed. “He moved away, wanted to be free from Totkala’s chains, he said. Just like you, only he didn’t join the military, thankfully. Just moved away. Haven’t had much contact with him, as far as I know he’s on Fahl, but you know him. He can’t sit still to save his life, he might be all the way in Sivkit territory for all we know.”
“But you still have his info?”
“Yes, but with the time it takes for a message to reach him and the distance he has to travel to get to us…”
“I understand, but I’d still like to have it. I’d like to set up a meeting time sometime later.”
Mom stepped up the stairs to the back door, but paused when I didn’t follow her in. “Something wrong sweetie? The kotla is only going to get colder.”
“Nothing’s wrong, Mom, I just want a second to be alone. I’ll be right in.”
She nodded understandingly and slipped inside, leaving me alone to reflect. I turned around to face the sunset, taking a deep breath as it passed below the horizon slowly. My life had been completely turned around since I left home all those years ago. I became a soldier, attacked a planet, survived the freezing Alaska wilderness, lost my closest friend, and fell into a deep depression, even losing contact with my family. But it was anything but bad, from there I built my life back from nothing, found my faith in God, traveled all across the galaxy doing missionary work, met and talked with an Arxur, only to return home to my family finally. I’ve had some extreme ups and heart-wrenching downs, never knowing just what would happen next, but even now I don’t have any regrets.
Even when I’m being ridiculed for my faith or spat on for my species, I don’t regret a thing. I accept the challenges, uncertainty, and hate, even welcome it, because I know that I am living my best life.
I let out a content breath, smiled a warm smile, and turned to open the door, welcoming whatever would come next.

Killer Grips: Anne Maria, Brick, Jasmine, Justin, Millie
Screaming Gaffers: Chase, MK, Ripper, Scott, Sky
Episode 6: The Aftermath I: Trent's Descent
A riff from an electric guitar opened the episode as a pair of purple concentric circles flew across and back in the screen towards the upper-left corner, a group of smaller, bluer circles flying through them in the same direction but at a higher speed. As it neared the top of the screen a large and blocky red 'T' flashed into existence and descended back down, and the background music continued into a theme fit for an evening talk show. A similarly-styled 'D' and 'A' appeared next as a few more purple or blue rings crossed the screen, then the three letters slid in from the left to spell out 'TDA'. The word 'AFTERMATH' popped up from the bottom of the screen, temporarily bumping up the first three letters before they slammed back down and centered the text in the middle of the screen.
A gleam swept across the text from upper-left to lower-right, and the 'D' briefly popped forwards with the faint sound of a camera, turning a little bit counterclockwise before reversing into its former position.
Clip 1
"Any final words?" Chris asked the eliminated contestants.
“Yeah. You guys actually voted me off. I respect that,” Eva nodded with a smirk.
“Good luck dudes. Wicked play,” Geoff smiled as he and Eva got off the bleachers and went to the red carpet.
The 'D' popped out briefly again and another bout of recap footage began.
Clip 2
"Here's the deal," Chef stated, pacing about slowly in front of the teen. "I'll help you man up and win this thing. You don't ask any stupid questions and you split the prize with me.” He leaned in closer towards Brick's face. “Like they say, it's an offer you can't refuse. I won't let you," he finished with a deadly scowl, much to Brick's discomfort.
The 'D' popped out a third time, signaling the start of another set of recap footage.
Clip 3
“Trent, it's time to go!” Chris informed the eliminated contestant.
Trent got off the stands. “Before I do, can I at least say goodbye to Sky?”
“You could, but it'd be pointless since Chef will just carry you to the limo,” Chris smiled.
“Alright,” Trent sighed and faced his former teammates. “I'm really sorry about my actions, guys. I'll see you later.” With nothing left to say, he turned and walked down the red carpet.
A fourth time the 'D' popped out, and the last set of recap footage played.
Clip 4
"Izzy!" Izzy was left gaping. "Time to go!" Chris announced.
“I'm not going anywhere,” Izzy objected. “That's not my name.”
“Can I get a pen over here?” Chris raised his hand in annoyance. A pen was given to him, and he started to write on the paper. “It says "E-Scope" now, okay?!” This made Izzy finally stand up.
"And remember," Chris told her as she started to walk past the stage, "you can never come back, ev-er!" The host pressed an orange button next to his microphone, and two identical guards came over and grabbed Izzy by her arms.
(Theme Song)
The same sequence used to open the recap was replayed, an unseen audience cheering wildly after the 'TDA AFTERMATH' logo shined. The camera faded into a shot of a stage from the shadowed audience; it was set up like a talk show with one couch and table in the middle, and two tiers of couches on either side. A variety of lights both stage and decorative were scattered around, and to the left was a passage backstage half-hidden by dividing walls and the dark red curtains that framed the set.
And most importantly, sitting on that central couch, were two figures. Damien on the left and Priya on the right.
The camera zoomed in on them as the applause died down, a pair of computer displays visible on the table turned towards the hosts as Priya waved. "Hey there everyone!" she greeted with a smile. "Welcome to the brand-new Total Drama Action Aftermath Show!"
She paused as the audience cheered and applauded again, and once they'd died down, Damien spoke up. "We're coming to you live," he said, "to dish everything Total Drama Action!"
"This is where the real action is!" Priya said to another bout of cheering. "I'm Priya!" she added in with a smile.
"And I'm Damien!" Damien beamed.
"You may remember us from the hit series Total Drama Island," Priya continued.
"And it's thrilling sequel, Total Drama Action," Damien said, “even if we're not on it.”
"I hate that we missed out on the season and a chance to get the money,” Priya grumbled but regained her positivity, “but we have our own show, so I think it compensates."
"Being in the sequel could've given me the possibility of being rich, but when I'm with you, money doesn't matter," Damien smiled happily at Priya, and the crowd awwed.
"Aww, that's so sweet!” Priya gushed and turned to the audience. “And with no competitions here, we get to talk to all of you."
“So about that new season. Pretty cool, right?" Damien asked, looking out at the camera.
"Of course," Priya nodded. "They get to be on a film lot and do different kinds of movie challenges. How spectacular is that?" The crowd cheered in agreement.
"Super spectacular," a voice said from off-camera, the shot zooming out to show that the couches on the right had been occupied by the other non-competing contestants. On the top row were Rodney, Sam, and Gwen, while the bottom row had Topher, Katie, and Sadie.
“We were being rhetorical," Damien pointed out, "but hey, thanks for reminding everyone that you're not invisible! Topher, everyone!" The camera focused on the dirty blonde, who took stride in the applause from the audience.
"We also brought along all the others from the first season," Priya said.
"They may be considered losers," Damien said, "but not to us."
“Aww,” Katie gushed.
“That is so sweet, you guys,” Sadie added.
"The pleasure's all ours," Damien replied. "Give it up for Topher!" he said, and the crowd cheered as the camera cut back to the fanboy. He shot a wink as the screen was split and a clip played of him smacking a fly onto his eye and getting it swollen.
"And Rodney!" Priya added, the camera cutting to the country boy waving at the camera. The screen also split to play a clip of him, showing him returning back to the game on boat.
"Katie and Sadie!" Damien introduced the two girls.
“Oh my gosh!” Katie cheered.
“We are so super excited to be here!” Sadie expressed her happiness.
"Next we have Sam!" Priya said as the camera moved to the gamer smiling at the camera as a clip played in the split screen showing him hanging from a tree by his knees before falling down.
"And how about a shout out to Gwen!" Damien said. Gwen smiled at the camera while the split screen showed a clip of the goth eating blueberries from a bush.
The camera cut over to Topher, who was engrossed in a phone call. "How long are the papers going to take?" he asked before noticing the audience. "Sorry mom, but I'll have to call you back later!"
Priya and Damien shared a glance before Damien smiled at the camera. "We've also got a lot of texts and emails from all of you!" he said excitedly.
"Plus," Priya said, "we'll have a couple of you on webcam!"
"Eva and Geoff will be here," Damien announced, and the crowd went wild.
"And let's not forget our favorite nutcase, Izzy!" Priya added with a smile, earning another roaring cheer from the crowd.
"Plus the guy with the soul of music, Trent!" Damien finished to another round of applause.
"You know what's strange? The four that you two mentioned were part of the final six in Island along with Scott and you, Priya," Topher said.
"That is pretty shocking," Priya added. "Eva and Geoff especially."
"Eva could have won the season again, but I guess no one wants a repeat," Sam laughed a bit.
"We've got a lot to talk about," Damien told the audience. "It's almost time to welcome our first guests," he announced, "but first, take a look at this!" The nervous wreck looked up to the wide and flat television hanging above the central couch.
The television's static cut to a clip of Geoff and Eva running together to escape the monster. "Geoff and Eva's time on Total Drama Action may have been short," Damien said.
"But it sure was packed with the action that we grew to love," Priya continued as Eva and Geoff stuck their heads out from behind a cardboard cutout of a small red car.
"Eva managed to recover from her broken ankle from last season," Damien continued as the muscle woman was shown running through the sidewalk.
"And Geoff proved that losing a tooth doesn't mean losing your positivity," Priya said as footage of Geoff showing off his golden tooth replacement was shown.
"And they both did well for themselves, even if they didn't win the second challenge!" Damien followed up as clips of Geoff and Eva being shown on the ground along with being shot with paintballs courtesy of Chef played.
"But unfortunately, they weren't able to play for another day!" Priya continued.
"I don't even blame the contestants since Eva and Geoff were last season's Final Two," Damien spoke as a clip played of the two going into the limousine. "At least they still have their friendship!"
"One has eaten dog food," Priya said, "and the other has taken control of a forest fire. Our first two guests are Geoff and Eva!"
The Aftermath theme tune played and the crowd went wild as Eva and Geoff pushed open the backstage doors and walked out, smiling at both the audience and the hosts as they took their seats on the lower couch on the left.
"Hey guys!" Priya greeted with a smile as Damien waved.
"Damien! Priya! Glad to see you two again!" Eva said happily.
"Yeah!" Geoff added. "You two getting the hosting gig is impressive!"
"Great to have you guys!" Damien told them. "Sorry you two got eliminated first."
"No need to apologize," Geoff said. "We didn't leave completely empty-handed!"
"Wait, how so?" Damien asked in confusion. "You didn't win the money."
"Not like that," Eva answered. "Geoff managed to take pictures of everybody and everything from the first two seasons to put onto his scrapbook."
"And Eva managed to use part of her money to get construction to build her dream gym," Geoff added. "It's still in construction by the way."
“So how did you two manage to become the Aftermath hosts?” Eva asked them.
"The producers took note of me and Damien's relationship and decided on us being the hosts," Priya answered. "I couldn't pass up this opportunity."
"And plus, the other non-competitors either refused or were turned down," Damien added.
“They especially turned me down,” Topher grumbled. “I would've made a great host.”
"That's pretty understandable," Eva said. "I sure as heck don't want to run my mouth longer than I need to."
"Yeah, hosting a show is something I won't be able to perform well in," Geoff added.
"Moving on," Damien said, "how does it feel being the first two voted off the show?"
"Honestly, I gotta say it was kinda like a punch to the gut," Eva admitted. "I know I'm strong, but I didn't think the contestants would team up to vote us out in just the first episodes."
"I didn't mind as much," Geoff interjected. "I mean, I did want to win the million dollars, but given how we competed in every episode of the first season, it seems fair for us to go home early this time around and give the others a shot. And besides, money isn't everything."
"Thanks for your inputs," Priya said as the camera cut over to her and Damien, "I think it's time for a game called 'Truth or Hammer'!" The crowd started to go wild.
A grand tune played as a shot of a golden statue of Lady Justice was shown. The camera slowly pulled back from it, and as the music ended a large wooden mallet swung down from the left and smashed it to pieces.
Damien stood up as the scene cut back to the hosts and guests. "Here's how this works: we ask you a question, and if you give the wrong answer, a huge hammer will swing down on you."
"Uh, what?" Geoff said as he and Eva looked at each other nervously.
"Eva, Geoff, move out of the way as we do a test run!" Priya announced, and a giant wooden hammer immediately swung down at Eva and Geoff, the two barely avoiding the hit.
"Looks like the hammer is working well. How about we get to the questions?" Damien turned his head to the reality TV fan.
"Absolutely," Priya agreed. "So Eva, after winning last season, why do you think things didn't go well for you this time?"
"Like we both said, we were big time threats. If we didn't get voted off in the second episode, one of us likely would've been in the final two again," Eva answered and looked above her, the hammer still remaining in its position.
"I'm a strategic player, and if I wasn't the first season's winner, I obviously would've voted out the strongest player just so I could get closer to winning," Eva continued.
"Good answer!" Damien said. "So Geoff, are you even remotely mad at not winning the first season and getting kicked off in the second?"
Geoff looked up. "I'm not going to lie at all, especially when there's a hammer that can crush me," the party guy said. "I'm kind of upset."
Everyone was silent for a moment before it became clear the hammer wasn't going to swing down. "I mean... it's like you got dreams for this money and to see them flushed down the drain is disappointing," Geoff explained. "But it is what it is. I had a good time competing, and I got news from one of my brothers that my golden tooth can be sold for money, so at least I got some compensation."
"I'd suggest cleaning the tooth before you sell it," Damien advised before looking at the camera and smiling. "So how about we hear from one of the viewers!"
"Let's see," Priya said, looking down at the computer display on the table in front of her. "CunningLinguist316 asks: Who are you rooting for now that you've been eliminated?"
"Well, I'm rooting for Sky," Eva answered. "I can see some parts of myself in her, and she's one of the more worthy players in the game."
"I'm hoping my man Chase wins," Geoff answered. "He's super athletic and fast, and we're sorta like each other in many ways."
"Good to hear your thoughts," Damien told them.
"Exactly!" Priya added. "But I think it's time we bring out our next guest."
The camera panned up to the wide-screen television as footage of the wild child began to play. "Izzy's time on Total Drama Action may have been short," Damien said over a clip of Izzy pushing Ripper out of the way and getting captured by the animatronic monster.
"But it was a thrill ride," Priya added.
“Seriously, Izzy can make a bowl of paste tasty by adding herself to it,” Damien quipped over Izzy getting dropped into the bouncy castle.
"Later on, she suffered a serious blow at the hands of Chef," Priya added over the footage of Izzy falling onto the ground after getting shot in the chest with a paintball and Chef looking over her in worry.
“Chef thinks he's killed her. Look how scared he is!” Damien chimed in as the recap footage paused on Chef; a red circle was drawn around Chef's face.
“Never thought he'd have a sense of humanity. Check this part out! Super hilarious!” Priya giggled over Izzy standing up and laughing about her fake death. “Unfortunately, it was Justin that ruined Izzy's chances when the two took to the stage.” The clips of Justin performing his role and Izzy grumbling over her loss played.
"Dramatic and devious, Izzy will be back for more," Damien continued as the footage showed Izzy getting up from her seat and blowing kisses as the limousine took her away.
The scene returned to the hosts. "Our first guest has impersonated a grizzly and was caught peeing in a pool. Currently number eight on the RCMP's most wanted... Izzy, A.K.A Kaleidoscope!!"
The crowd went wild as the Aftermath theme played, but it suddenly stopped as the hosts looked up at the television. It was now showing footage of a room backstage where Izzy was currently sitting on a couch and eating crackers. The crazy girl had a snack tray-laden table in front of her, and to the left was a television showing the same feed as the one on-stage.
Izzy took notice of the television set. "I'm on TV!" she exclaimed before accidentally spitting out her chewed-up crackers, making the audience laugh quietly. “Oh, oops. Cracker crumbs, you get back here!” She grabbed the crumbs, along with a few grapes and a cracker sandwich with cheese in the middle, and put them all in her cleavage, prompting more laughter.
Izzy stood up and walked out to the stage, the Aftermath theme playing again as she opened the backstage doors and walked out. The audience cheered, and Damien and Priya, along with Eva and Geoff - who were now on the top row of the couches - waved at her, causing her to return the gesture.
“Hello E-Scope!” Priya eagerly greeted her friend.
"Hi, Priya. Hi, Damien," Izzy greeted back as she sat on the couch. "So glad to be here."
“Awesome to have you, but it must be hard losing out on a million bucks,” Damien talked to her.
“Yeah, well... you would know,” Izzy responded, unamusing Damien and Priya while the audience gasped. “Hi, you guys!” she focused on the Peanut Gallery.”
“Hi, Izzy!” Rodney waved.
“Hi, everyone out there in TV land!” Izzy turned to the camera and noticed someone in the audience. “Graham Cracker! That's my old boyfriend Graham! He got a restraining order against me last year. Remember that, Graham?” The audience started mumbling. “So funny. Okay. We were in the courtroom and the judge was all like, "You cannot come within two hundred meters of the plaintiff or you shall suffer the consequences of this courtroom."
After taking a moment to laugh, Izzy continued her story. “The long distance was hard, but we made it work. By the way, Graham, you should get new blinds for your room. What are they made of, lead? I couldn't see a thing with my binoculars! Miss you, Graham Cracker!” She took a cracker out of her cleavage. “I am totally into crackers right now. They're just so flaky!” She giggled and put the cracker into her mouth.
“Kind of like someone we already know,” Damien muttered quietly.
“So Izzy, how did it feel to be the third one voted off the show?” Priya asked.
“My life is an open book. Well, not yet, but it will be once I write it. And you open the book!” Izzy guffawed.
“What was going through your head after being voted off?” Damien questioned.
The music turned sad. “When you realize you're not getting a Gilded Chris Award, well, I can't lie to you,” Izzy sniffed in a rare moment of sadness.
“Oh, it was that painful?” Priya expressed her sympathy.
“No, I just can't lie to you,” Izzy returned to her normal state. “I was outfitted with a lie deterrent microchip that sends shock waves at the first hint of dishonesty. Those are really nice pants, Damien.”
Izzy then got shocked in her neck, demonstrating the microchip inside the body part, but the wild child laughed it off.
“Carrying on,” Damien said uncomfortably. “So what exactly did losing out on the Gilded Chris mean to you?”
“It means I missed out on that buttery chocolate statuette. Ooh, I once took an art class sculpting chocolate nudes, my instructor said I had a real flair for cocoa,” Izzy brought up and earned another electrocution. “Okay, okay, okay. He said I was totally loco. That's what he's actually said.”
"Let's see if you can be honest while answering our questions,” Priya said sneakily, “and the giant hammer will come down if you don't tell the truth!"
“If my implant doesn't get me, the hammer will!” Izzy said, earning laughs from the audience.
Priya and Damien shared a look of bewilderment before facing the camera happily. “Want to know which questions we'll be asking Izzy?" Priya asked the camera.
"Be sure to stay tuned," Damien said. "Right now, we have to take a quick break! We'll be right back!"
The show's logo was shown again, and the 'D' popped out and transitioned the scene to a close-up of a plate of brown mush sitting on a tan-and-goldenrod striped table. Flies were buzzing around it, and part of a familiar torso could be seen standing behind it.
"This episode of the TDA Aftershow," Chef Hatchet said to a catchy elevator music-like jingle as one of the flies buzzing around died and the camera began to zoom out, "was brought to you by Chef's Roadkill Cafe, where Sundays are Bring Your Own Meat!" The camera stopped moving to show the hulking man in full, standing between the table with the plate of mush and a large stone fireplace in the background. In his left hand he held a skewer of a reddish and steaming hunk of meat resting on a plate-like guard piece. The tail of a skunk extended from the top of the meat hunk.
"You hit it, we spit it," Chef said with a motion to the steaming dish in his hand.
(Commercial Break)

First: https://www.reddit.com/HFY/comments/14vo5lb/troublemakers_deaths_pity/
*previous:* https://www.reddit.com/HFY/comments/1cnuyl1/troublemakers_the_son_of_witch_and_warrio
......
Drake tossed the last shovelful of soil over his shoulder, looking over the massive circular bunker elevator that had been buried beneath rubble and dirt. Destrier and Caz were consulting the map for any kind of clue as to how it could be opened up. Cassius and Remin both kept an eye on Charlotte and the younger of the two was playing patty-cake with the small woman. Drake paused for a moment, looking at the display with an odd trembling in his heart. It was clear charlotte was at least a teenager, but she acted like a small child, her wide eyed wonder evident in the freely smiling face and glittering eyes as she happily patted her hands against Cassius'. His stomach roiled and he almost doubled over as he spit out a mouthful of bile that sizzled on the ground ominously. Truth be told, since he'd been thrown into that strange void he'd felt sick, the tingling, electrical power in his veins only intensifying even as he dug out the massive hundred foot in diameter elevator. Chucking the shovel to the side halfheartedly, he looked up at the tree of hung corpses as the shovel clanged against a wall several paces away. His heart began to pound angrily and the feeling of nausea and static intensified exponentially, He doubled over and vomited, a pink slurry of blood and oatmeal splattering on the ground. He fell to one knee as the edges of his vision darkened for a moment, an overwhelming weakness turning his limbs to lead. Cassius appeared at his side, a look of fearful concern on his face as he went to grab Drake by the shoulders.
Drake didn't understand where the knowledge came from, but Cassius absolutely could not touch him. Drake shoved a hand out, launching Cassius back a few feet where he landed on his back. Sitting up, Drake saw the rapidly cooling red-hot handprint on the chest of his nano-mesh Gambeson at the same time Cassius did. They shared a look of startled panic and realization before Drake slumped forward, his last thought before the void took him was one of confusion.
"What's happening to me?!"
...
Charlotte saw the man named Drake tumble forward after shoving his friend, Heat mirage rising off his prone back as the soil around him began to melt into magma. She hurried to her feet when the old man in lamellar held her back, a look of confusion and fear on his face.
"Why aren't you helping him?!"
She cried trying to push past the old man's iron strength. Her hand still smudged with soot where the man currently laying in a puddle of molten soil had reattached her finger like magic. The man looked down at her, anxiously shouting.
"Do you not see the godsdamned lava?! I don't think we can even get close!"
Charlotte stopped pushing, a feeling of stark impotency falling like a pall over her mind as the ground bubbled around Drake's still form. She didn't know much about her new world, but she knew that man was a good one, and seeing him lay lifeless and still made her skin crawl with the desire to help. But then she heard a sound that chilled her to the bone.
The dull thrum of propulsor engines reached her over the wind and she whipped around to scan the sky. She could see them against the soft brown midday sky, dark shapes that hurtled through the air like birds of prey. She could see them now in her mind, loaded to the gills with Spec ops and bio-engineered soldiers, Artillery class emitters charged to full, engines thrumming under a full combat load of rockets and bombs. Charlotte wildly looked around, spotting a mostly intact, low forge building she shouted.
"If you want to live get inside!!!!"
The woman and large black man who'd been pouring over the maps looked up confusedly as Charlotte began shoving Remin towards the building. The panic she felt made her nerves burn with the need to run, but she couldn't abandon them she couldn't just let the-
An earplitting screech came from inside her skull forcing her to her knees as she clutched the aching sides of her head, a horrifyingly familiar voice speaking to her from within her very being.
"Ooooooooh Sylva my dear?~ Did my little cuckoo lose her collar?~ Ah, no matter, would you kindly clear the landing area for the buzzards?~"
Her arms fell limp as her viewpoint shrank away, leaving her floating in the darkness as she saw her body move of its own accord. Drawing a long bayonet from the thigh scabbard on the old man's leg and driving it right between his ribs, the blade expertly slipping between lamellar plates. She wanted to scream as the old man jolted back, clutching at where the knife had slipped through his armor, falling to the ground as she rotated to face the other three. Her hair swayed in front of her face, the dark brown draining upwards, leaving it a stark silver with a purple stripe. The hum of the buzzards was only growing louder as she reached for the small of her back, clawing at the veil between her body and her as a pen-flare came into view, pointed at the sky.
She silently screamed as a purple flair rose into the sky, the cold void swallowing her like it had all those years ago.
...
Nothingness surrounded Drake, a deep, endless, colorless world devoid of meaning or substance. But he wasn't alone here, something moved within the emptiness, pure, flavorless power roiling off it like the heat of his village's forge.
And it was angry.
He could feel it as it beheld him with a sort of bestial curiosity born out of its anger. Invisible tendrils snaked into his body like hot pieces of iron, molding themselves around his bones and sinews like it was searching for something. Crawling through his veins and into his heart, making him feel as though he was burning alive. His heart seized and stopped bringing a cold stillness to his body. But he didn't die as the tendrils slowly withdrew, heart pounding back to life like a bright orange flame had been ignited in his chest. The thing's viewpoint changed, looking down on him from above as it touched the glowing sigil over his heart with that same rageful curiosity, then a tendril of power touched the scythe on his wrist with something akin to fondness. He could feel hard crystalline bands forming around his fingers as the thing rumbled with amusement, the feeling of molten iron filling his body before fading as each band slowly reached completion. Then it hurled him ass over head through a wooden door.
Death jumped out of his chair, falling hard without his prosthetics and careful not to spill the yellowish water inside the odd glassware in his slender hand. The two stared at each other with similar levels of bewilderment as Drake rubbed his face before looking at the set of ten obsidian bands that encircled the base of each finger and thumb.
"How in the fuck did you get here?"
Death asked calmly, stump-walking back to his chair and taking a long burbling pull from the glassware in his hand.
Drake clambered into one of the smoky chairs death had casually summoned.
"I... uh... I got thrown through your door by... something... I don't exactly know what. It seemed... angry at me, though."
Death looked up with a blank expression, oily smoke rising from his nostrils as he said.
"Beg pardon? what do you mean you don't exactly know what did it? wait..."
A look of concern etched itself into Death's face as he grabbed one of Drakes hands, looking at the black rings with ever widening eyes. Slowly he made eye contact with Drake, holding up the jewelry bedecked hand urgently.
"Do you even know what these are?!?!"
Drake shook his head.
"Obviously fuckin not."
Death took a deep breath, taking a long burbling hit from the piece of glassware with palpable stress as he set Drakes hand down, letting his chosen look at the rings curiously and experimentally take one off. The moment the pinky ring stopped touching his flesh Death leapt back exclaiming.
"Jesus fucking christ kid!! Put it back on! put it back on!"
Drake slipped the ring back on, he'd felt a small boost to his energy but hadn't noticed anything that would elicit such a reaction from the harvester of souls.
"Who's Jesus christ?"
Drake asked as Death took another calming breath before replying.
"Probably one of the most famous demigods known to humankind, but that isn't important..."
Death folded his hands and leaned across the desk with a twitching eyelid.
"What is important, is how you managed to acquire ten heart of the umbra crystals for rings. I can count on one hand the amount of people who have acquired exactly one of these rings."
Drake looked at the dull black crystal rings curiously.
"Do they give me extra power?"
Death shook his head, slowly revealing an arm encased in the black bands.
"Quite the opposite... They typically completely restrain your power so you don't burn up and turn into a walking, talking nuclear weapon. And they're specifically given to those who have touched the Umbra and survived, typically just experiencing the primordial soup that makes reality results in a cataclysmic leap in power... but even then... it's only ever been one ring. Three humans have owned one of these rings, Archibald Sunshine, Roxanne Richards, and Bagelious Braveheart. How the Bagel god's chosen got one I'm at a loss. But of those three, One died using the power the ring held back, The other lives inside a mechanical body locked away from her powers permanently, and Bagelius? he's... He's just unhinged."
Drake gazed at his hands, the rings glittering dully in the flickering firelight. He held them up curiously.
"So... what does it mean if I have ten?"
Death took another deep breath, letting it out in an exasperated sigh. He didn't look drake in the eye as he stared at a wall.
"I... I don't know... If I had to guess..."
Death looked at Drake with no small amount of curiosity and fear for his life.
"You didn't just survive the umbra... You fought it... and lived to tell the tale... I don't even think you're human anymore Drake..."
Drake furrowed his brow, clenching and relaxing his fist, feeling the rings click together.
"Then what am I?"
Death shook his head before simply stating.
"Something I and those before me, have never seen..."
He looked into Drakes eyes, a soft glimmer in the endless, silvery pools as he rolled his sleeve back down to hide the bands around his own arm.
"You defy every law and command of the universe, just by existing."
Drake slowly nodded before standing back up.
"That explains why conquest looked so afraid. Bitch kidnapped my soul and tried to fight me on her own turf and still lost."
"Im sorry..."
Drake glanced over at Death's coldly calm words, the primordial exploding with power as he roared.
"She did WHAT!?!?!"
Drake looked at death with wide eyes, shocked at the sudden outburst, the primordial literally steaming with rampant power as he clicked his legs on. Drake was about to step through the door and back to his body when death stopped him with a snarled.
"No, you're coming with me. I need to know what she's playing at... and what better way than to bring the one person she's actually afraid of."
...
Caz had barely taken a running step towards Charlotte, blindsided by the sudden betrayal as the small woman lifted a pen flare to the sky and launched it with a Pop! Snatching her Huntress she broke it open, cocking the striker and slamming a fresh flechette into the electrically insulated chamber. A massive shadow loomed over her and she froze in her tracks, looking up at the massive metal machine as it hovered over the ruined village, her heart pounding in her throat as dark silhouettes leapt from the sides of the propulsor driven aircraft. They landed hard on the ground, Grey, patterned armor shifting to blend in with the bombed out village as their cold visors regarded her emotionlessly. Caz drew a bead on the first one, about to fire when the cold steel of a bayonet was pressed against her throat from behind. She'd forgotten about charlotte. A soft chuckle came from within the group of organized soldiers and they parted to reveal a geknosian in similar but far more ornate armor. Golden medals bedecking every available surface including a fabric crotch flap weighed down with stamped precious metals. They pulled an ornately forged helmet from their head, a dark grin on the general's face as he looked around at the general disarray the five troublemakers found themselves in.
Cassius held a chest seal to the wet gash between Remin's ribs. The old man looking pale and shaky as he weekly held his shotgun in the general direction of the soldiers. Destrier slowly folded up the map and tucked it into the pouch at the small of his back, dark eyes gliding studiously over the Geknosian forces. Caz adjusted her crosshair onto the General and felt the bayonet press harder against her throat.
"Drop it... Bitch~"
The small woman holding the knife cooed. Caz snarled and threw her Huntress to the ground, raising her hands in surrender as the blade of the bayonet relaxed against her throat. She wanted to spare Drake a glance, but she dared not turn her head lest she slit her own throat on the keen blade of Remin's long bayonet. The Geknosian General sauntered forward, attempting to take her chin in his hand.
"ARRRGH!"
The General cried out, leaping back as a burst of cold frost froze his war gauntlet into a brick of ice. Caz's eyes lit up as she backed into Charlotte, the woman crying out in pain and jerking the blade away as a brick of frosted ice formed around her chest. The Geknosian general grabbed for the blaster pistol at his hip and she kicked him in the chest, freezing his chestplate and sending him reeling back in shock. She got a glimpse of Destrier sprinting to Remin and Cassius's side, helping Drag the old man into the low forge building as Caz dove for her Huntress. A heavy armored boot slammed into her mask, throwing her disorientingly on her side even as the boot froze over. Caz slowly got back to her feet as the soldiers bore their guns down on her, wiping the blood from her split lip through her mask, she growled, glancing back at Drake's still form, the ground around him having cooled and solidified into hard stone. Charlotte slowly joined the generals side, the frost around her chest quickly melting as she leaned in to whisper in the general's ear, eliciting a smile.
"Thank you Sylva, the information is much appreciated. A little cuckoo bird tells me that you all came here looking for the human bunker. How pitiful you don't have an access remote, like this one?"
The general held out a hand, a piece of blocky, olive drab green plastic falling into his outstretched, thawing palm. Clicking a button, nothing happened and he purred.
"But, alas we're at an impasse, for only someone of human genome may access the bunkers... oh wait~"
He held the remote out to Charlotte, Who stared at it blankly, eyes glimmering dully for a second. Then they dulled again as she looked up at Caz with an odd expression.
The remote sailed through the air and Caz instinctually caught it as Charlotte monotonely stated.
"Run, Keep it away from them."
Caz didn't need to be told twice as she turned on her heel and sprinted through a small alleyway between two buildings that leaned on each other, blaster bolts ablating the stony surfaces in puffs of loud smoke and blinding flashes. Grabbing the hook at her belt, she threw it and slung herself onto the crumbling rooftops, one of the metal buzzards turning where it hovered in the air to focus a glowing emitter on her. She leapt off the crumbling rooftop just as the powerful laser ablated the spot she'd just been standing with a blinding flash and a pressure wave that launched her much farther through the air than she intended. The last thing she saw before blacking out was a crumbling wall rushing at her as she fell face first towards it, clutching the remote to her chest.
......
Part 106: https://www.reddit.com/HFY/comments/1cr3pct/troublemakers_adrenaline_is_a_superpower_in_itself/

"Great days and glorious victory! My name is Spifflemonk and welcome to my Letsplay! Today I am back from my medically mandated break from playing human videogames after a rather... cathartic experience with a game called Teardown. Subnautica, even among humans, is labeled as a notorious experience with... mixed reception for its sequel. A survival crafting game apparently. I have experience with those so presumably the gameplay loop should be predictable enough. So... Let's go in!"
Spiffle starts the game, going for standard Survival Mode, with aspects of food and water mechanics alongside health and oxygen. The game loads very, very fast with Spiffles overpowered computer, and the introduction sequence begins. The camera pans to the panicked sight of the payer character moving down a ladder followed by a sight of a starship above exploding.
"Oh dear... oh dear! They weren't kidding about survival! Do I even survive this or am I a ghost or something..."
The pod rattles, the screen shakes, a fire extinguisher falls from its mounting. Velocity causes the pod to dislodge a panel from a wall and it flies around the cabin. The panel flies into the player's screen, making it go black.
"Oh... well okay then. I uh... well."
Spiffles' character awakens and panics at the buttons securing him to the seat. Spiffle quickly figures out that fire in this game is in fact bad, and grabs the fire extinguisher, putting the fire out. The game's introduction plays, showing his PDA, the game's inventory UI.
"Oh! I have seen these things in real life when visiting human stations! Do all humans have these?"
Spiffle starts exploring the escape pod, noting all of the damage to the radio beacon and the wiring panel.
"Hmm... craft the repair tool... Well... For later I suppose. Now how do i-AH, the ladder!"
Spiffle clicks on the ladder and goes through the animation. The character exits and dramatically stands. Spiffle looks around. His face visibly pales as he looks in every direction, finding the only thing nearby that looks 'safe’ or like 'land' is the destroyed ship in the distance.
"Water... it's... water... everywhere! How big is this game's map!? Structural hull failure... zero human lifesigns detected. That's.. not nice. Well... Here we go!"
Spiffle jumps into the water. His mood changes, the underwater environment significantly different than above ground. The water is absolutely teeming with life and color, as Spiff swims towards a reef to stare at some coral. Spiff gets distracted and starts chasing a fish, specifically a Peeper, and grabs it.
"Oh! Good god! THAT'S how humans catch fish!? That's very... inefficient! What is this thing? Can I eat it? I know I'm supposed to take care of my food and water, so how do I eat it?"
Spiffle wanders about for a while, gathering resources and exploring his general location, eventually getting back to the pod. He had gathered up a decent amount of stuff while he was swimming around and accessed the Fabricator to see what was available.
"Ah! I see, the fabricator cooks things too. Uhm... cooked fish thing and... these transparent fish give me water bottles? Okay then! Well. Sorted for food anyway. Let's see. Copper wire, batteries. A Scanner? Does that mean I can like, scan things and tell what they are? And... Oxygen tank? Oh hell yes. I'll build that then."
Spiffle goes through the process of building a few things, checking out how the game's crafting system works, and spending more time collecting resources. He quickly realizes how much work he has to do and finally finishes making a Scanner.
"Okay then well... I can see how much time is going to be spent collecting resources so i'm going to edit all of that out and keep you all in the loop on all the fun parts instead."
Spiffle continues playing, inserting a creative, albeit mildly annoying fanciful scene transition in between resource loops. He comes to a cave looking for salt to make more equipment, when he encounters the first hostile enemy of the game: The Crashfish. He does not notice it at first, the strange sloppy noise it makes as its pod opens, the beast makes a terrible gurgly noise and charges straight at him.
"What is that noi-AH! OY! OI! OIIII what are you what are-!"
Spiffle is cut off as the fish explodes, causing him to lose half his health. He quickly surfaces and takes a breath.
"Okay then... OKAY... THAT... makes absolutely no sense from an evolutionary perspective... but okay then. Avoid those. What even was that? I can't even scan it because it was moving so fast! Gods... exploding fish."
Spiffle shakes his head and resumes his hunt for resources, eventually finding enough for a repair tool. He makes the repair of the pods' broken wiring and looks around a bit more, noting some of the details in the game.
"Hard to believe these games are over eight hundred years old! I keep getting requests to play 'them gud ol' gamez' instead of any new releases. Maybe I'll get to those eventually. I have quite the backlog though."
Spiffle quickly tabs out and shows the huge list of human made games on his list that he has been gifted or purchased himself. The list includes Space Marine, Starship Troopers, Spyro Trilogy, Crash Bandicoot, and so... so many more.
"I am also told about this thing called 'anime', whatever that is. Maybe I should look into that. Anyway..."
Spiffle shrugs for now and resumes playing, swimming around for a bit before finally deciding to use his scanner. He gets the first scan - the Acid Mushroom - and painstakingly reads the supplied article. He then goes on a scanning frenzy, scanning each thing he can find, comically chasing after various fish and objects, trying to scan them then taking an irritatingly long time to read the article aloud.
He gets to the point where he encounters his first real hostile enemy and tries to scan it. The stalker, of course, doesn't appreciate that, and attacks.
"Oooh what's this thing? Oh lovely, it's a big one. Can I scan it? The... Stalker? Oh okay is it friend-OW! NONONONO go away!"
Spiffle panics and scans it while running away from it, trying to swim backwards. He's so focused on scanning it he can't run far enough away that he gets ambushed by another Stalker nearby and manages to scan it just as he gets hit with his first Death in the game.
"Oh.... o...kay. Well... it seems things aren't as friendly as expected. I'm going to guess there's more things like that around. So... I'm just going to finish working on repairs and equipment then I'll take those things on."
Spiffle reads the article on the Stalker he scanned and spends more time collecting resources, scanning local entities and building the rest of the gear he has. Fins, high capacity O2 tank, rebreather and some more food and water which he stores in floating containers for later. He starts to explore a bit farther in search of fragments to scan and finds a Sand Shark, as well as a biome resembling a desert-like area. He encounters his first piece of the wrecked ship here.
"Oh! Hello! Pieces of wreckage! What are these for now do you suppose? Can I disassemble these for resources or-Oh! Is that a door? Oh! I'm supposed to go in here and look for things? How do I get in? Oh I can't. I need a laser cutter. Is one of those here? Need more fragments I guess..."
Spiffle gives up trying to enter and goes up for air, then returns to the floor to hunt for fragments. He eventually unlocks the Bioreactor, pieces of the Scanner room, a couple fragments of the Seaglide and Seamoth. He comes across the first cave entrance to the Mushroom Caves Biome.
"Oh... oh my. That's... deep. Good thing I unlocked the Seamoth thing. Its a miniature submarine I think. I can use that. But that's... kinda scary. I can't see the bottom. I kinda see just... purple. Mostly purple. But it scares me that I can't see the bottom."
Spiffle hangs around the cave entrance for a bit before a call for Oxygen forces him to the surface. He swims back down to the cave entrance and then hangs around a bit longer before once again resurfacing, heading for some new things to scan. It is however at this point that Spiffles exploration is cut short.
"EMERGENCY - SEISMIC READINGS SUGGEST A QUANTUM DETONATION HAS OCCURRED IN THE AURORA'S DRIVE CORE. THE CENTRAL DARK MATTER REACTOR WILL REACH A SUPERCRITICAL STATE IN -"
The computer aboard the PDA shakes Spiff out of his daze and he quickly rushes to the surface and looks at the ship.
"Wait wait wait what's that!? What's going on!? I see the ship? The Aurora! That's what its name is? Whats a Dark Matter reactor and wha-"
The computer continues its countdown muffled by Spiffs panicked squealing and he has a front-row seat to one of the most spectacular explosions in the history of gaming - the Aurora's Reactor Detonation.
It happens. The world goes dead silent for a short moment, and one can see Spiffles heart visibly stop beating. Then explosion as the Aurora lets out its magnificent blast. As the shockwave expands outwards, Spiffs skin visibly turns a paler shade of blue, and his eyes go wide. The sound of a geiger counter follows, leaving him breathless and pale as the world suddenly goes dead quiet again. The sound of the geiger counter ominously leaving him shaken even more than he already is.
"FOR YOUR CONVENIENCE - THE RADIATION SUIT HAS BEEN ADDED TO YOUR BLUEPRINTS."
Spiffle stays completely silent, bobbing in the water for a solid few minutes, staring in shocked wonder at what he just witnessed. He regains his composure for a few short moments and returns to his scanning venture, but one can easily see he isn't in the right mind after that. He returns to the seabed, at the entrance to the mushroom caves and dives again. He does this several more times, popping up to the surface, looking at the shipwreck, then diving at the entrance again. Finally, after much hesitation, he dives one last time.
"Screw it. it's just a game right?"
He smiles at the camera with a shrug and swims far below the surface, into one of the caves. As he enters the cavern his jaw drops at the sight of a massive underwater cavern filled with gigantic glowing pink mushrooms. The Mushroom caves as they are known. He spots something in the distance, entranced, forgetting his oxygen situation. He cant get far however and a terrifying shriek of some unknown entity shakes him out of his stupor.
"What in the red dawn was that noise!?"
Spiff can't finish asking his invisible audience what's going on as he strays too close to a mushroom, occupied by a Crab Snake, a gigantic sea worm. He is grabbed from behind, spun around and he visibly panics as the giant worm digs its enormous tusks into Spiffles character. Spiffle immediately freaks out, a combination of both the terrifying shriek emitted by the creature and the shock of being attacked makes poor Spiffle jump out of his seat and duck under the table.
"GOWAYGOWAYGOWAGOWAYGOWAY!!!"
The worm comes back and finishes Spiff off before his oxygen runs out. Spiff's character respawns but the footage continues, a slight whimper can be heard in the background as Spiff hides under the desk. This carries on for a few minutes, and his head very slowly appears above the desk. He gingerly puts himself back in his seat and breathes heavily for a bit. When he finally gains control, he tabs out of the game and takes a look at the wiki for Subnautica. He returns a few moments later and stares at the camera in that strange haunting glare he's become so famous for.
"WHY DO YOU STUPID DEVELOPERS NOT PUT GUNS IN THE GAME IF YOU HAVE SHIT LIKE THAT!? ARE YOU INSANE!?"
He grabs the camera and shakes it violently as he rants at it, questioning why there are guns in every other human game he has played and not THIS specific game, especially considering how there are 'giant water snake monsters that eat your face' in a game with no guns. He rants for a good minute or two then plays his outro.
TOP COMMENT: "Are you absolutely sure after Teardown, Factorio and Project ZOMBOID, you should be playing Subnautica? I mean seriously, try something less... psychologically terrifying. It's known as Thalassophobia Simulator for a reason."
_______________________________________________________________
"Great days and glorious victory! My name is Spifflemonk and I still don't understand why we have giant worm monsters but we have no guns!"
Spiffle stares at the camera with an expression that can only be summarized as 'Seriously bruh?' and resumes his last playthrough. He becomes confused at the lack of stuff in his inventory.
"Why is my... Why do I not ha-Oh right... I was eaten. When you die your inventory is wiped... I need to build more tools then."
Spiffle starts some silly music, an alien version of Benny Hill to a montage of him collecting resources, occasionally ranting at various oddities and questioning game logic. He restores all of his tools then goes hunting for a Vehicle Bay fragment so he can build the Seamoth. He continues to scan what he can, developing something of an obsession with the task, then painstakingly reading every word about it to try and understand it. It is at this point Spiffle, during his explorations finds another derelict chunk of ship near the desert region, encountering his first Sand Shark.
"What... What is this? Oh... careful Spiff. This one looks angrier than the last one you found. Wh-What in oblivion!?"
Spiffles attention is once again diverted by the appearance of a Reefback Leviathan and its signature low drone. This one appears to be a fully grown adult.
"You-you... You've got to be... You gotta be fucking kidding me. A Juhara Eelfish!? WHAT IS THAT DOING IN A HUMAN VIDEOGAME!!!??"
Spiffle squeaks in shock as he sees a creature that is an absolute spitting image of a large oceanic dwelling sea creature, which is both the games and his native homeworlds version of a Whale. The Reefback has some dissimilarities, but its close enough to the real thing that Spiffle is genuinely shocked. He quickly pauses the game, opening various wikipedia articles, then displays a full picture of both Subnautica in game Reefback, and the Juhara-Kal-Rehar, colloquially known as a Juhara Eelfish, a shockingly similar creature that lives in his homeworlds oceans.
The only difference between them is the color of the exterior chitin shell. The Reefback has a blue/purple shell, the Juhara Eelfish's chitin has a red/green shell.
"WHEN was this game made!?"
Spiff checks, the current Earth-date is the year 2886. Humanity only entered the galactic community in 2752. Subnautica was released in 2018.
"HOW.... How is that even possible!? You didn't even know the galaxy existed until only a few decades ago, yet you almost PERFECTLY matched the appearance of one of our homeworlds native species! How is this even possible!? Okay. If the name matches then I have to call bullshit."
Spiffle approaches and scans it, then reads the data article.
"A... Reefback Leviathan? Oh thank God... Now let's see... A herbivorous creature that... that likely got so large due to the fact that its predators went extinct. Well... that's... okay... A hard chitinous shell of multiple layers, a microcosm of different creatures and flora growing from its back, hence the name. Hmmm..."
Spiffle gets that cold, empty stare on his face and glares menacingly at the camera. The screen goes black, then returns, seeing Spiffle nursing a beverage of some kind while wrapped in a blanket.
"I realized something... Call it a message from the Ancestors or a Divine revelation. But I have a funny feeling this isn't going to be the last time I see a creature from the galaxy represented in human media. I hope to the Gods that doesn't happen... the concept of this situation is nothing short of terrifying. In any case, I'm sorry about that. Lets.... let's continue."
Spiffle resumes where he left off, doing his usual routine of scanning, then obsessively reading. Eventually he unlocks the Vehicle Bay, and returns home to his pod where the situation with resources is growing obscene with at least fifty floating resource containers hovering around the area.
"Alright... A Vehicle Bay... This means I can build things like the Seamoth now. This will be nice. Right, I shall for the sake of my audience skip the resource collection mechanic that's here and focus on the actual result. I shan't waste my time either though. MONTAGE!"
Spiff yells excitedly and a montage to that same odd Benny Hill type music plays out, with him collecting the resources he needs to build both machines. Most of it is already in the floating containers strewn about. With a few visits to the fabricator, he compiles the Power Cell, Titanium Ingot and Lubricant he needs to make the Vehicle Bay. He deploys it and chases it to the surface just away from the pod in the deeper end of the shallows.
"Right... Not too hard. Let's see then, how do-Ah. Get on it and... The Seamoth. Cost of two glass, one titanium ingot, a powercell, lead and lubricant. Right."
He quickly gathers and makes everything he needs for the Seamoth, then stands on the platform ready to go. He chooses the Seamoths recipe and the sequence starts. His eyes light up as drones start flying around the platform, then begin assembling atom by atom, the small, adorable minisub known as the Seamoth. It finishes the process and flops into the water with a splash.
"My gods look at this thing! It's so cute!"
Spiffle explores the sub for a little while and hops inside it, testing the controls and playing around with it a bit to see what it can do.
"Hm... Maximum Depth, 200 meters? So if I go below that does it implode or something? I need to be careful of that. OH dammit I remember! I have to make that Radiation Suit don't I? I shall do so now!"
Spiffle seems to have found a new resolve, quickly gathering resources together and making both a Seaglide and radiation suit in short order.
"Does this thing have any weapons? How do I repair-Oh... Repair tool? That makes it easier I suppose. Now... Where do I go now? Is there anything I can do?"
Spiffle stumbles about in the blind for a few minutes, trying to figure out his next course of action beyond simply wandering aimlessly while scanning things. He gets back in the pod and fixes the radio beacon. His face visibly contorts into an expression of irritation when he hears his rescue is in 9999 hours. He resolves to come back every now and then to check the radio. He decides to gather more resources to make up for building the seamoth and comes back a bit later. He finds a radio transmission when he returns.
"RADIO: ▀▖┗▛Nine new biological subjects designated. Mode ▄▖▜▚┣: hunting/analyzing.
Sharing subject locations with other agents."
"What... in the Nine Hells was THAT!? Why was it in such an odd voice? What was that language? What were those letters!? Somethings going on here... SO now what? I have the radiation suit. i guess... go into the Aurora? Oh no, I'm not going in there unprepared! Lemme make some tools and spare batteries, then i'll go in. I need... Oh... I need more fragments is what I need."
Spiffle resumes his fragment hunt, looking around for fragments of various tools. He uses the Seamoth to traverse around.
"WHEEE!!!"
Spiff seems more than just a bit happy as he trundles around in the Seamoth, using his speed to launch himself out of the water. He splashes about a bit, testing the limits of the craft and trying to see what holes he can squeeze himself into or out of and how deep he can go.
"Okay okay. time to get to serious work. Now... I need to find... A Laser Cutter and a... STASIS RIFLE?! Wait... rifle? That means GUN! I NEED A GUN!!"
Spiffle charges forward towards the desert biome where he found the Reefback and resumes his search for things to scan. It is now he comes across a Reginald.
"What... IS this fish? Wait, let me just..."
He gets out of the Seamoth and scans it.
"Huh... Reginald. That's a... fish? It's so cute! Wait, come back friend!"
Spiffle spends an unreasonable amount of time trying to catch a Reginald. When he finally catches one he gets back in the Seamoth and heads towards the aurora, new friend in tow. He trundles over to the side of the crashed ship and scans some random stuff here and there, finding fragments to a few small items, including a few he needs such as a Powercell Charger for the Seamoth’s battery. He gets close to the front of the ship and the haunting, evil noise of Subnautica's most iconic killer suddenly echoes through the gloomy water.
"What... Was that? Is it another worm thing? Please don't let it be one of those..."
Spiffle wanders around the side for a bit longer. An ominous shadow looms in the background, catching his eye. He ignores it for the moment and simply carries on, eventually arriving at the entrance to the ship. Through the mangled steel and fire he squeezes into the front of the ship and looks around. The environment ominously rattles and his screen shakes as the ships structure isn't exactly stable. The howl of the creature in the shadows makes Spiff even more uncomfortable.
"I... Do NOT like this. I really dont."
Spiff parks the Seamoth where he can see a ramp leading up, and gets out. He is immediately accosted by Cave Crawlers and uses his knife to defend himself, poorly, but he gets rid of the three or four around him.
"WARNING: SCANS SHOW THE DIGESTIVE TRACTS OF INDIGENOUS LIFE FORMS CONTAIN HUMAN TISSUE."
Spiffs face turns an even paler shade of blue and he swallows visibly as if he's trying not to vomit.
"Yeuch... I can scan this thing and read it later. I don't want to be here any longer than I have to."
Spiff scans and follows the path to the interior, uses his fire extinguisher to put out some fires in the area and gets inside. The ship rumbles as he wanders around and gets into one of the rooms. He finds the poster of the P.R.A.W.N. Suit.
"Ooh! A poster thing? Can I take it or? I can! PRAWN Suit eh? Can I actually use that thing?"
Spiff takes the poster, scans some furniture and collects a PDA. Spiff continues down the corridor and retrieves his Propulsion Cannon from his inventory and uses it to pick up some furniture in the way.
"I am SO glad I got this thing from scanning the area before I came here. This is super useful! I wonder if it has other uses..."
He gets to the door and looks at his databank.
"Hmm... Here it is! Code for the door is 1454. Right."
Spiff moves through, repairing a door to get the Seamoth Depth Upgrade Module. He continues and clears a fire to enter the main reactor. His inner loot goblin shines through and grabs the Cyclops engine efficiency module before he starts work on repairs, scanning the breach and starting work. It doesn't take him long, but he gets issues with a Bleeder that lives in the waters. He scans one then finishes repairs. Foolishly, he uses the propulsion cannon and shoots the bleeder at one of the reactors, undoing his work. He looks at the damage he caused and repairs it.
"Well... what was I expecting... Why did I do that? It's a CANNON... why did I aim it at the reactor exactly? So stupid..."
Spiff finishes and heads to the PRAWN Bay, and looks around at the damage. He spots the prawn suits and starts scanning, grabbing a storage module upgrade from a console and starts extinguishing flames so he can scan. He runs out of fire extinguisher juice though.
"Blast! Can I still scan these if they're on fire?"
Spiff walks around, finding cheeky angles he can use and scans the debris, finding all four fragments he needs. He heads upstairs and goes through the rooms and everything he can find. He gets into the Galley and sees the Kitty in a Space Helmet Poster.
"What the- 'Keep Calm'? What in the blue balls is this? It's.... cute! What is this creature!? Can I keep this? I can!"
Spiffle excitedly grabs the poster and moves on. He goes through cabins, picks up PDAs and collects the Natural Selection 2 poster, the Prawn suit in the sea poster and the collectible arcade toy in the locked cabin. Lacking the code to the Captain's cabin, he returns to the prawn bay and tries swimming around, eventually finding a passage in the hull debris to the rest of the ship. He moves through in silence, recovers the black box data and exits the ship. He removes debris, grabs the local wildlife with the cannon and tosses them into fires or the water with glee.
"BEGONE BEAST!!! Ha! Right... uhh... where did i park? Oh, there it is. Should I go home? I wonder if there are any fragments I can use around here?"
Spiff exits, finding Liefpod 4 floating upside down on the surface of the water. He collects the PDA data and a new blueprint. Then, as he gets in the seamoth, the horrifying roar of the Reaper Leviathan suddenly sounds. Spiff is thrown into a panic, screams in terror and tries desperately to get away. The beast appears with jaw chomping and claws clawing at the poor Seamoth. The entire time Spiffle is screeching like a bird with a broken leg, his entire body now an almost ghostly white out of absolute terror.
"GOWAYGOWAYGOWAYGOWAYGODNONNONOGOWAYGOWAY!!!"
Spiffle manages to get out of its grip and in a panic charges away towards his lifepod and continues to scream, breathing hard between screams. He gets to the pod and then hides under his desk, continuing to scream. His channel outro plays.
TOP COMMENT: (This has been translated from Eridani) "I am starting to believe this whole sojourn was a very BAD idea. Do you humans have those kinds of beasts on your homeworld? How did you ever survive them?!"
RESPONSE: LOL no we never had Reapers. The only Leviathan Class creatures we have on our planet are Whales. And they're mostly peaceful plankton eaters. Mostly.
RESPONSE: (Translated from Eridani) "Seriously? I think I find it more terrifying that these creatures are made up in your minds. What kind of nightmares do you people have to be able to create this level of fiction!?"
RESPONSE: Do. Not. Ask. This is only Subnautica - we have FAR worse.
Spiffles response: "You're going to make me play these 'far worse', aren't you?"
RESPONSE: "Damn right we are! :)"
________________________________________________________
"Great days and glorious victory! My name is Spifflemnonk and welcome back to Subnautica!"
Spiffle looks visibly stronger, his usual lanky appearance now looking like he's been working out like a Gym Bro. One can see muscles on muscles and Spiff seems to have an abnormal amount of energy.
"I am now relaxed. It is now time to get eaten by giant scary sea monsters. And yes, before you ask, I have successfully finished fully soundproofing my office. And also yes, I am indeed expecting a new addition to the brood... THANKS DAMN HUMANS! You and your damn musical magic nonsense..."
Spiffle starts the game and is swimming outside the pod next to the Seamoth. The first thing he does is repair the seamoth from the damage incurred by the Reaper, and recounts what hes been up to, checking inventory and equipment. He heads to the radio and gets a new transmission.
RADIO - "This is Avery Quinn of trading ship Sunbeam. Aurora, do you read? Over.'
'Nothing but vacuum. These Alterra ships. They run low on engine grease, they send an SOS; you offer to help, they don't pick up.'
'Aurora, we're out on the far side of the system, it's going to take more than a week to reach your position, do you still need our assistance? Over.'
'I'll try them again tomorrow. Damn charter's going to have us wasting our profit margin running errands for Alterra.'
'See what the long-range scanner picks up in the meantime."
"Oh? Oh lovely! There ARE people in this game! I wonder when they will be here? Meh, I have things to build, so I'll keep an eye."
Spiffle resolves himself to start building a base, trying to find a good spot. He finds the Mushroom Forest Biome and starts gathering resources to ferry them around. He installs the Depth Module and the Storage module to the Seamoth, then builds the Moon Pool. The Mushroom Biome becomes one of his favorite spots and a close encounter with a JellyRay cements it.
"Those creatures are beautiful! Look! JellyRay! Its glowing blue and pretty! I love that! Oh... I have a new radio message. I need to listen to that then."
Spiff returns to the pod and listens to the message.
RADIO - "Aurora, this is Sunbeam again. We just picked up a massive debris field at your location.'
'I didn't know how bad... How many of you... I didn't know.'
'We are now en route to your location. We're going to bring you home. Sunbeam out.'
'What else can I say? The only time I parked a rig this big on a rock that small was in VR, and I blew it'
'Oh, it's a bad option alright, but so are all the others."
Spiff smiles and carries on working, parking the Seamoth inside after powering everything up.
"So lovely! But... Is that a win condition? I know human games by now I have played enough of them. Is that a win condition? Get rescued? I dunno..."
Spiffle carries on building for a little and gets a storage system up, spending a few in-game days transporting resources to his new base. He returned to the pod and played a new radio message, again from the Sunbeam.
RADIO - "This is Sunbeam. Y'know, Aurora, we're from a little trans-gov on the far side of Andromeda, and we have a saying there.'
'There's no bad without the good, no good without the bad.'
'Sounds like you tasted a bunch of the former, but that only means you're overdue a whole lot of the latter.'
'Might just be we're it.'
'We're scanning for somewhere to park, we'll be in touch when we find it. Sunbeam out."
"Ohh... That... that's a lovely saying! What was that uh... There's no bad without the good, no good without the bad. I like that! I think i'll have that framed on my wall! Now lets see.. i ca- I CAN GIVE THE SEAMOTH A NAME? OOHHHhh okay, okay.. I can customize the color too! I think I'll just do this..."
Spiff leaves the name as 'Seamoth' for now, changing the color to a mix of purple for the main, and blue for the trim and name color. His two favorite colors. Spiffle does a little more work, acquiring the last fragments for the Cyclops and starts gathering together the resources necessary to build it.
"Hmmm.. Cyclops... Personal large scale submarine capable of carrying other vehicles! Ooohhh I want to build that! I need to fetch the Vehicle Bay though. Im almost done moving house!"
Spiff returns and packs up the last of his resources, then gets another radio message.
RADIO - "Aurora, we're approaching the planet now, and we have a landing site for you that's... well, it's better than the alternatives.'
'We've sent you the coordinates.'
'It'll take us a couple of days to align our orbit, we should be able to establish direct contact with you during that time, then we're coming in to get you.'
'Cross your fingers the weather holds, and don't leave us waiting. Sunbeam out."
Spiffle gets a new beacon on his HUD. Sunbeam Landing Site.
"What!? Is this game over If I'm there!? Okay... well. At least it's no longer terrifying! I'll get the Seamoth and go for the beacon then. I hope it's okay... Strange... this... doesn't feel like the end, you know? But if it is then it is."
Spiff heads home, deploys the Vehicle Bay and deposits his gear and resources. He heads towards the location, occasionally squealing 'WHEEE!!' as he uses the Seamoth to jump out of the water like a dolphin. However, he miscalculates and the Seamoth jumps up, out and sustains a bit of damage as it hits a rock formation close to the surface. He gets out, repairs it and looks at the camera.
"Why no I didn't just damage my Seamoth by having too much fun. I don't know what you are talking about. Hehe."
Spiffle smirks at the camera with a glare and carries on. Eventually, he encounters the largest of the Islands in the world.
"Wh... WHAT. This has been here the whole time!? Is this an island? Who cares! LAND! Sweet land!"
Spiffle now notices the timer and hops onto the island from his Seamoth. He walks up to the landing zone and stops dead in his tracks at the sight of the massive al;ien structure known as the Quarantine Enforcement Platform. In essence, a giant alien cannon.
"What... the *beep* is THAT?"
Spiffles' editing has gotten better, his editor learning how to censor Spiffles foul language, in both English AND Eridani. He moves closer to the building, scanning the broken tablet and the Forcefield Controls.
"What is this? I mean it's clearly alien... What do the codex entries say... 'possible to reconstruct the device' Oh... hmm.. I can make more of these then. 'Matches no known technologies... functions like a lock'. Okay then so... Standard video game logic I guess. That's nice! So A purple tablet will unlock the gate there. What are those?"
Spiff moves towards the Cairns marking the way into the island, pathways leading up the mountainside. He follows them, finding a Purple Tablet in the process on one of the pathways.
"Oh! Lovely! That saves me resources and a trip I guess. This pathway keeps going though. hmm... Welp, we still have thirty minutes, so let's go."
Spiff explores the pathway, getting lost a bit before finally figuring that following the large cables is a good idea. He comes across the Teleportation Arch and scans it, in between dodging the Cave Crawlers.
"Right, let's see... Alien Arch... not much to speak of here. Maybe this thing will be useful later I guess. Likely.... Hmmm..."
Spiffle continues exploring and eventually finds himself back at the forcefield with another twenty minutes to go.
"Screw it, let's go."
Spiff activates the forcefield platform and the animation of the key being placed plays out. He moves into the building, activating both data platforms and acquiring two Ion Cubes for later, scanning everything he thinks he can scan. He enters the Moonpool in the bay and gets two more Ion Cubes, plus data on a rifle and a Doomsday Device. He ignores it for now, acquiring one more purple tablet and accessing the control room.
"Right... what's in here? Hmm... Energy Core, right. I shall scan that and... press button?"
Spiff presses the button. An animation plays where a device locks his characters hand in place, viciously stabs it with a pointy metal bit and then releases it.
"OH GODS what the hell! Why is that?! That's just nasty!"
"THE TERMINAL IS BROADCASTING A MESSAGE. TRANSLATION READS: 'Warning, infected individuals may not disable the weapon. This planet is under quarantine.'"
"Quarantine! What? Infected? I-Hold on...."
Spiffle gets his scanner out and performs a self-scan. It is only now he notices something very bad has happened.
"I-infected!? Wait, what!?"
"SELF-SCAN COMPLETE - DETECTING STATISTICALLY SIGNIFICANT BACTERIAL LEVELS. NO ADVERSE EFFECTS DETECTED. BE VIGILANT FOR SYMPTOMS."
"Oh brilliant! Does that mean I can't leave? I KNEW IT! Wait... weapon!? This is a weapon!?"
Spiffle panics and runs out of the facility as fast as he can and waits the last few minutes for the Sunbeam to arrive. Sure enough, it does. In the last 30 seconds, the Sunbeam plays a message.
RADIO - "Survivor, we see you!
'Man, I don't know how you held out down there.'
The sunbeams message plays, and Spiffle gasps in terror from the sound of the gun platform starting up and starting to move around.
RADIO - "We've broken atmosphere and we're descending towards the landing site.'
'Is that a building down there?! What do you mean you can't identify it?"
The weapon powers up and turns, aiming itself high at the sky.
RADIO - "Hold on, no turning back now.'
'Positions everyone, touching down in 10, 9, 8-'
The weapon charges up and a loud vicious hum can be heard echoing through the valley.
RADIO - "It's coming from the building?! Change course, set thrusters to (full)-"
The radio goes to static, the weapon fires and the Sunbeam is vaporized instantly by a massive blast of bright green light. The sunbeam disappears, its hull structure completely disintegrated. Spiffle sits in stunned silence as the platform returns to a stable position, shuts down, and everything goes quiet.
"Well... Okay then... That was... horrifying. I guess thats all we have time for! Hehe! Oh dear..."
Spiffle looks a bit defeated as he sits back in his seat.
"S-see you next time! I guess... Holy shit..."
Channel Outro plays.
TOP COMMENT: "Are you okay? You seem a little bit too disturbed by that. Its fine though, compared to what happens in the Rise Of The Ancients Mod, this is tame! Lol! I love that mod!"
Spiffles Response: "Please don't make me play that mod..."
((Authors note - due to how bastardingly huge Subnautica is, this will be a multi part series. Other Spiff stories will come inbetween. Hope you enjoy!))

LESSON 134. Let me perceive forgiveness as it is.
Let us review the meaning of “forgive,” for it is apt to be distorted and to be perceived as something that entails an unfair sacrifice of righteous wrath, a gift unjustified and undeserved, and a complete denial of the truth. In such a view, forgiveness must be seen as mere eccentric folly, and this course appear to rest salvation on a whim.
This twisted view of what forgiveness means is easily corrected, when you can accept the fact that pardon is not asked for what is true. It must be limited to what is false. It is irrelevant to everything except illusions. Truth is God’s creation, and to pardon that is meaningless. All truth belongs to Him, reflects His laws and radiates His Love. Does this need pardon? How can you forgive the sinless and eternally benign?
The major difficulty that you find in genuine forgiveness on your part is that you still believe you must forgive the truth, and not illusions. You conceive of pardon as a vain attempt to look past what is there; to overlook the truth, in an unfounded effort to deceive yourself by making an illusion true. This twisted viewpoint but reflects the hold that the idea of sin retains as yet upon your mind, as you regard yourself.
Because you think your sins are real, you look on pardon as deception. For it is impossible to think of sin as true and not believe forgiveness is a lie. Thus is forgiveness really but a sin, like all the rest. It says the truth is false, and smiles on the corrupt as if they were as blameless as the grass; as white as snow. It is delusional in what it thinks it can accomplish. It would see as right the plainly wrong; the loathsome as the good.
Pardon is no escape in such a view. It merely is a further sign that sin is unforgivable, at best to be concealed, denied or called another name, for pardon is a treachery to truth. Guilt cannot be forgiven. If you sin, your guilt is everlasting. Those who are forgiven from the view their sins are real are pitifully mocked and twice condemned; first, by themselves for what they think they did, and once again by those who pardon them.
It is sin’s unreality that makes forgiveness natural and wholly sane, a deep relief to those who offer it; a quiet blessing where it is received. It does not countenance illusions, but collects them lightly, with a little laugh, and gently lays them at the feet of truth. And there they disappear entirely.
Forgiveness is the only thing that stands for truth in the illusions of the world. It sees their nothingness, and looks straight through the thousand forms in which they may appear. It looks on lies, but it is not deceived. It does not heed the self-accusing shrieks of sinners mad with guilt. It looks on them with quiet eyes, and merely says to them, “My brother, what you think is not the truth.”
The strength of pardon is its honesty, which is so uncorrupted that it sees illusions as illusions, not as truth. It is because of this that it becomes the undeceiver in the face of lies; the great restorer of the simple truth. By its ability to overlook what is not there, it opens up the way to truth, which has been blocked by dreams of guilt. Now are you free to follow in the way your true forgiveness opens up to you. For if one brother has received this gift of you, the door is open to yourself.
There is a very simple way to find the door to true forgiveness, and perceive it open wide in welcome. When you feel that you are tempted to accuse someone of sin in any form, do not allow your mind to dwell on what you think he did, for that is self-deception. Ask instead, “Would I accuse myself of doing this?”
Thus will you see alternatives for choice in terms that render choosing meaningful, and keep your mind as free of guilt and pain as God Himself intended it to be, and as it is in truth. It is but lies that would condemn. In truth is innocence the only thing there is. Forgiveness stands between illusions and the truth; between the world you see and that which lies beyond; between the hell of guilt and Heaven’s gate.
Across this bridge, as powerful as love which laid its blessing on it, are all dreams of evil and of hatred and attack brought silently to truth. They are not kept to swell and bluster, and to terrify the foolish dreamer who believes in them. He has been gently wakened from his dream by understanding what he thought he saw was never there. And now he cannot feel that all escape has been denied to him.
He does not have to fight to save himself. He does not have to kill the dragons which he thought pursued him. Nor need he erect the heavy walls of stone and iron doors he thought would make him safe. He can remove the ponderous and useless armor made to chain his mind to fear and misery. His step is light, and as he lifts his foot to stride ahead a star is left behind, to point the way to those who follow him.
Forgiveness must be practiced, for the world cannot perceive its meaning, nor provide a guide to teach you its beneficence. There is no thought in all the world that leads to any understanding of the laws it follows, nor the Thought that it reflects. It is as alien to the world as is your own reality. And yet it joins your mind with the reality in you.
Today we practice true forgiveness, that the time of joining be no more delayed. For we would meet with our reality in freedom and in peace. Our practicing becomes the footsteps lighting up the way for all our brothers, who will follow us to the reality we share with them. That this may be accomplished, let us give a quarter of an hour twice today, and spend it with the Guide Who understands the meaning of forgiveness, and was sent to us to teach it. Let us ask of Him:
Let me perceive forgiveness as it is.
Then choose one brother as He will direct, and catalogue his “sins,” as one by one they cross your mind. Be certain not to dwell on any one of them, but realize that you are using his “offenses” but to save the world from all ideas of sin. Briefly consider all the evil things you thought of him, and each time ask yourself, “Would I condemn myself for doing this?”
Let him be freed from all the thoughts you had of sin in him. And now you are prepared for freedom. If you have been practicing thus far in willingness and honesty, you will begin to sense a lifting up, a lightening of weight across your chest, a deep and certain feeling of relief. The time remaining should be given to experiencing the escape from all the heavy chains you sought to lay upon your brother, but were laid upon yourself.
Forgiveness should be practiced through the day, for there will still be many times when you forget its meaning and attack yourself. When this occurs, allow your mind to see through this illusion as you tell yourself:
Let me perceive forgiveness as it is. Would I accuse myself of doing this? I will not lay this chain upon myself.
In everything you do remember this: No one is crucified alone, and yet no one can enter Heaven by himself.

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.

From an anonymous notebook:
They do not look well upon us keeping written accounts of the goings on in their ranks, it is not a matter of distrust, of course, for all members are trusted absolutely, even myself for all that I am quite new. Though no one will search for this tome, and it will near certainly never be found, I still wish to hide my name in case of the most unlikely of chance should come to pass. I have seen what they do to those they see as having betrayed them.
A person who they see as having betrayed them is considered to be weak of heart and they are destroyed. And no I do not mean killed, though perhaps that may be a better fate. No, instead he or she is seized by a group of them and taken away to a secret place, the location of which I do not know, though I have my suspicions. They will be gone for a day and then they will return without so much as a single mark upon their bodies or visible damage of any kind. But I would far prefer a broken arm to sharing their fates, I tell you. You see it is not their bodies which are broken, but their minds. All who experience this fate, have a dull and vacant appearance as if they were asleep with their eyes open. It is like why were once shining diamonds, but returned tarnished and lacking shine of any kind.
Such people they have taken to calling serfs, an archaic term used to describe a laborer bound under a feudal lord, though I am told that the “scientific term” though science may be the wrong word, is “splintered.” And yes there is a reason for this, and I shall explain it later on. Suffice it to say that for my own sake, I will keep my name, along with all actions specific enough to incriminate me, outside of this tome and as you can well see, I have my reasons.
Now that I have explained myself, I should imagine that you, my nonexistent reader, have queries. Perhaps the largest of which is “Who are “they?””
This is a subject which is surprisingly difficult to answer, so I suppose I shall start with the most simple part of it all: their name. They, like most organizations of great size and influence, have many names, but are mostly known by one, The Coven.
And now that I have told you that, I admit I struggle even to put into writing where I should continue. Their scale perhaps? As far as my knowledge on the subject extends, The Coven is a vast and silent spider with its legs spread across all continents and its web ensnaring a great many people.
I am still unsure of many things about it myself as I have not been a member as long as most. What I do not know is perhaps more important that what I do, and I have stayed awake long nights in my bunk and simply questioned. Perhaps is was those long hours of thought alone in my bunk which compelled me to begin this journal. But in any case, I do not know their purpose, or who leads them, or aside from certain surface-level criteria, why they choose certain people to become members.
And yes, people are chosen to join, rather than joining themselves. There have actually ben. a few cases of people joining on purpose, though every such case still had its own measure of accidentalism. The Coven is and always has been silent and secret and so people simple cannot apply and join on their own. In my own imagination The Coven has some hidden criteria or switches out there in the world and when a person reaches that criteria or hits that switch he or she is watched and evaluated to see if he or she could become a member.

By simple deductive reasoning, I have thought of some of the more simple methods my potential trackers would use to decide if one is a worthy Coven member. Obviously, such a person could not have close family or friends who would notice him missing, and would need to be of a certain mind, though I do not know exactly what traits the Coven desires. And of course there is the question of how to integrate a person into the coven. You see, I theorize that it is quite a difficult process. In order to integrate, a person must be able to explain his disappearance to all those he knows, for all but hermits and homeless men know someone. And to suddenly disappear also seems like it requires a degree of intelligence, confidence and ability to lie. Of course, such resources as a car, money, connections, ect. would be valued as well.
But perhaps I ramble, and perhaps I write this journal too much like the essays I am used to. This journal is mine and so I will write what I want. So, for the sake of catharsis I think I shall write about my integration.
And if anyone ever does read this and thinks to object, note that my particular integration was not notable enough that my identity could be pieced together through the details I reveal. And, furthermore, I shall keep things vague.
As for myself, I was, though I pity using the word, something of scholar, (a common trait among the coven.) I too was a teacher and though well received by my peers and students, I never had much interest in the social side. I attempted to walk the path of the relationship, so to speak, but I always found myself bored and off track. Of course, I am human and I suppose I did enjoy the sexual aspect, but the relationship always dried up, like a plant which did not receive enough water. And so I would always end up living by myself, devoting myself to research in various fields of interest.
Looking back, I believe my devotion to this research was likely a large reason for my failure as a partner and a friend, though the roots of the issue, as in most, likely ran deeper. In any case, at one point in my wandering career of research I found myself searching for conspiracies, connections, and odd coincidences in the larger world of firms, politics, and men in business suits. And though I truthfully expected the endeavor to be yet another distracting and largely meaningless rabbit hole, I did discover one conspiracy that I found particularly interesting.
I shall be vague, but the gist of the conspiracy was that of an utterly bizarre meeting and joint effort of two large companies, which I shall simply call company A, and company B. Of course, it is not unusual for two companies to work together on some business endeavor or another, but it was that nature of the endeavor, and more importantly, the relationship between the companies which made the meeting into a conspiracy.
You may envision company A and company B’s relationship as your run-of-the-mill Macy’s and Gimble’s scenario. Each produced similar products and were run by similar sorts of people, but they were fiercely competitive to the point that they had been known to defame each other’s products in advertisements. It reached the point that the world as a whole made fun it. For example, you might see a picture of two heavily muscles arms in a strained arm wrestle, one with the label of company A and the other, Company B. It is possible, that even now, my nonexistent reader, you picture the two companies in your mind, though there are many such companies out there.
Based on this information, I hope you can Imagine my shock, not to mention my interest upon learning that the two companies had pooled resources, and co-bought an enormous city building. The entire affair was done entirely in secret and my finding out was largely a process of decades worth of experience in digging around pointless and hidden crooks and crannies of the internet.
And I must be clear on one thing, the following events were not malicious, nor did they carry the intent to discover any secret deep enough and dark enough that It could blind even me.
It was simply that upon learning about this utterly inexplicable purchase, my research fuse was lit, and I would do whatever it took to find the answer.
The problem was to me that I could find absolutely no reason why either such a successful company would want to but such a place, let alone both. Examining the evidence, I discovered that neither company seemed in need of more office room for their employees and what other use could the building be for? (Especially considering office jobs at A and B require few staff members.) production then? But of course, I knew that was silly considering it was an office building. It all you drew to me, you see? The mystery of the purpose of the building, the secret purchase, the union of such two completely hateful and rival companies. It was the exact sort of enticing mystery that really drove me.
And so for weeks I would spend my off time searching media, records, articles, anything that I could find about this inexplicable purchase.
And I found nothing.
Yes, nothing.
It was truly strange. Even a mundane purchase, so long as it involves enough money and is done by large enough company, will be reported by some news station, or mentioned by someone on social media. At there very least, there will be some small trace of it lying around, like breadcrumbs pecked up by the swarming pigeons that are the internet.
I soon realized that my initial discovery of the purchase was a fluke, and a lucky one at that. Because my source had been deleted when I returned to check it. And it was at this point that I began to doubt myself. My first thought was ironically the most irrational; that my discovery of the purchase had been a dream. After all, it had been late and it was not unusual for me to fall asleep by my computer. Perhaps that transition from consciousness to unconsciousness had been clouded by the fog of memory and, in fact, my discovery of that impossible transaction had merely been a dream spawned my search of an interesting conspiracy.
And so, as the weeks passed fruitlessly by, I found myself flagging, my interest waning. I occasionally would realize that I was scrolling through articles and social media posts and not looking for information about the purchase, but about some new venture to focus on.
It would have been better if I had given up just slightly sooner, if my wandering scholarly interest had landed on a new shore, before the tempest struck.
But, in proper storybook fashion, right before I gave in, I found something. It was simply a social media post, by a person such as myself who had found out about the purchase, and wanted more information. I too had requested information on social medias but they never seemed to get much attention, as if whatever algorithm ran the media put a low priority on my posts.
It was not a comprehensive report on the suspicious and unusual transaction, complete with the names, histories, and intentions of all involved, but it served an essential purpose. It told me that what I was searching for was real.
And furthermore, it confirmed something that I had been suspecting in the back of my mind, but had not really acknowledged as possible.
You see, I was right when I said that it was odd for there to be no trace of such a large, multimillion-dollar purchase, especially given the situation. If you think of my breadcrumb analogy, where a more normal purchase would leave crumbs, such a purchase as this one would not leave crumbs, but entire slices. The internet should have leapt upon it in a feeding frenzy. And yet there was nothing. Where there should have been chunks and chunks of information and a frenzy of articles and media posts, there was nothing but a lone crumb sitting here and there, with a few straggling pigeons.
This brings to mind a very obvious and very workable analogy. If you see a mess, what do you do? You sweep it up, of course! And more and more, it seemed that something was sweeping up this mess. And the only pigeons that went after the few crumbs left, were the incredibly persistent ones like me.
And, as I am sure you wonder right now, my nonexistent reader, who would have the ability to sweep away something like this? In this age where a video of a man using a racial slur can race across the internet like an unstoppable wildfire, who could hide something so large and so successfully?
And so, I made a decision; I would go to the building myself to see what I could discover. I rarely involved myself in so-called field research, but I was so alight with interest. Oddly, the research which had yielded the fewest concrete answers had grown in me the strongest of interests.
So, I whittled away the remainder of the school year researching piddling little things of no true interest, watching the calendar for the first day summer vacation.
Summer vacation when I would have the time to take a plane ride to that mysterious building.
Eventually summer did come, though waiting had felt like an awfully long and monotonous task where I did not enjoy my research and I was filled with restless and unfulfilled energy like unreleased libido.
It took me less that three days to be on a plane and away to what I will call City C. I told the few people that new me well enough to be worried if they saw my car missing from the driveway for too long, that I was taking a trip to City C and did not know quite how long I would be gone. And then I was on a plane and on my way to see the object of my obsession.
The time between my departure and my arrival at the building was largely mundane and quite irrelevant to write about. It was just a lot of waiting in airport seats, booking hotel rooms, eating fast food, and saying, “thank you,” and, “excuse me.” That sort of thing.
Here is the important part, the part that led me to where I am today.
I pulled up the building in some rented black SUV, it was something like a Chevvy or a Subaru, though I don’t remember exactly and it does not matter, I suppose.
I got out and I just stood there for a moment and looked up at it. It was tall and made of glass and was near a parking garage. The type of building you might see in any city and that was only unique because of its address and the people who worked there, and in this case, that part most of all.
I walked through the sliding doors and saw an empty communal sort of space with a man at a desk, as you might see in any other building like it. Once again, I found myself frozen and I discovered that I was not sure what exactly to say. I had been so single mindedly focused on reaching this point, that I had not planned for such a basic detail. So, what on earth did I say?
“Sir, I have been frantically researching your building for almost half a year and have developed and intense curiosity about its purpose and the intent of those who bought it. Furthermore, I believe information about it is being covered up by hidden and powerful figures. Please tell me about this, and if you are not able to contact me with someone who can.”
I have never been particularly social. As my nonexistent reader has doubtlessly realized, I prefer solitude and research to socialization. However, that does not mean that I lack basic social instincts, and I realized that such a direct approach would be rejected, and if my luck was poor, would result in me being escorted out by security as some obsessed madman.
“Excuse me, sir.”
My thoughts were interrupted promptly though, as the man at the desk spoke. He was pale and had dark gelled hair, and his face had an appearance of scholarly genuineness, which appealed strongly to me.
“How can I help you today sir? I notice that you do not work here so you might be in the wrong building.”
The man smiled and his cheeks dimpled in an extremely charming way.
“Ah, yes, I do not work here, but I did come on purpose. Well, you see, I have somewhat of a scholarly interest in this building, and I was hoping you could answer some questions. If you don’t mind.”
This was not what I or he actually said, but it approximates my memories closely enough, as, obviously was nervous, and so I may have stuttered a bit and sounded rather foolish.
“A reporter, then? I regret to inform you that I am not permitted to speak about this facility’s private matters to anyone except those with clearance, please excuse me.
The man, whose desk had a plaque with the name, Damien Role, inscribed upon it, spoke with a professional and blandly artificial tone that was laced with the perfect amount of annoyance to made it quite clear that he was not in the mood to deal with nosey reporters. But I persisted.
“Actually, I have a personal interest in this building, and am not related to any news station. I merely stumbled upon some mentions of it on the internet and found some details about it intriguing. I am a bit of a scholar, you see, and I enjoy investigating the unexplained. I am sure that most of what I want to learn is public knowledge that is available somewhere on the internet and it would not be in violation of clearance to tell me a bit about it.”
After finishing this verbal barrage, and while feeling slightly out of breath, I realized that I had perhaps been to pushy, and quite suspicious. I felt very sure that this Damien Role knew as well as I that this information was very much, not, available publicly on the internet, and that my being here was likely a last-ditch attempt to find any scrap of information.
And yet, Damien did not immediately reject me, instead he reached under his desk, seeming to rummage around in some papers, before looking back up to me. His brown eyes gleamed under the even artificial light.
“Not a reporter, you say, and you simply have a personal interest in this information?”
“Yes,” I replied with concealed excitement.
“Well,” Damien sighed, “I suppose I can make an exception, but only if the boss allows me to, and of course, you do seem very genuine.
He smiled that dimpled smile again, and then began dialing on a black wired phone, which I had not noticed sitting on the corner of his desk.
“Hello?”
“There is a fellow here who has some questions about the facility.”
“I know sir, but he says he merely has a personal interest based on research, and he seems very genuine.”
“Sounds good, thank you sir.”
“Goodbye.”
Damien continued his charming smile, and said, “The boss will be down in a few minutes, he would like to speak with you himself. But in the meantime, I would be delighted to hear more about you.
It was at this point that I began to feel that something strange was happening; Damien agreeing so easily after our short conversation, this boss coming down for something as menial as a walk in, and some other intangible feeling like that creeping unearthly feeling you experience when someone is watching you. I did not entirely realize or recognize the feeling for what it was, and today, I deeply regret that.
And so, despite my irrational unease, I took a seat in a line of black leather chairs which lined the wall and asked, “well what do you want to know?”
So I spoke to Damien about a few meaningless details like my name, and that I was visiting from City D and the fact that I found it so hard to find details about the transaction. And then I heard the faint mechanical sound of an elevator door opening, and out walked a man. He was tall and thin, with a milky look to his skin, but he still managed to be handsome.
“You must be Mr. John Smith, (a fake name of course), my name is Geralt Fens,” the tall man said to me. And extended a hand for a shake.
The tall man’s shake was perfectly firm and his palms were neither rough from callous nor smooth from an easy life. It was, I thought, an utterly flawless handshake.
“Yes, sir,” Damien said, “Mr. Smith came here on a trip all the way from city D, and his interest is entirely from his own research. Very unique, don’t you say?”
“Very unique, Mr. Role. And you say he seems genuine, too?”
“He certainly is, sir.”
For some reason, Mr. Fens’s eyes looked predatory to me in that moment: the black pit-like eyes of a shark bearing down on a fat, unknowing trout. But then they returned to friendly professionalism in a blink.
“Well, Mr. Smith, I would like to speak with you about this in my office. It is more comfortable for me up there, and I don’t want to be away too long. You know how it is, always working.”
He laughed.
And I finally realized that I did not want to be here.
“You would not mind if took notes, would you?” I asked with all the innocence I could muster. “You see, I know it seems silly, but I have quite the vested interest in this building.”
Geralt Fens’s eyes flickered, but he answered with the same joviality.
“Why of course not, take out your notebook and take all the notes you like, I don’t mind at all.”
“Thank you so much, Mr. Fens, I will be right back. I left my notebook in the car. You see, I did not want to seem like a reporter by bringing in a notebook with me.”
I had turned around and began walking toward the sliding glass doors, when I heard the voice of Damien.
“Mr. Smith, that certainly does not seem genuine.”
I felt a horrible chill crawl up my spine, and I slowly turned around. Damien Role and Geralt Fen both seemed to hulk like dark mountains behind me.
I began to run.

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Donny started off the assessment tests, not just for me, but for the lot of us, which now included Mackenzie, who found out about the thing from Darryl, and it's Mackenzie, she didn't even hesitate for a second on wanting in. I learned this when she was banging on my apartment door at seven in the morning, and when I answered, she launched, "There's a special training class, and you didn't invite me?!"
Princess popped out the door, excitedly prancing for pets, which Mackenzie gave up as I sighed, "I need to move... Mackenzie, I wasn't leaving you out. The teacher asked me to get Darryl, then he blabbed to Aimee and Brad. Come on in."
Trying to convince Mackenzie off of something she wanted was just trying to yell back the tide, but I needed her to understand what was going on as we came into my Serious Conversation Bar. Might as well call it what it is, and fished out Yerba Mate for both of us, "Okay, first thing: When did you get it out of Darryl?"
She popped her can, "Last night. How'd you know it was Darryl?"
I opened my own drink, and took a seat, "Our entire history together. Brad's afraid of you, so he's not talking to you, and I know Aimee wouldn't have said anything, and that leaves my overtalkative best friend, since I didn't bother telling Mom and Dad. Next, you need to know what the goal of the training is. This is to hopefully unlock my Psychic powers, and potentially some others for me. Mr. Donny is the one teaching the class, cause he was a superpower related to it."
"Yeah, like Chi Manipulation. Y'know, that entire array of powers based around martial arts philosophy?" she said, reaching over to grab one of my Larabars, "How could I not get involved? I mean, come on, bro, you gotta let me into this class."
Yeah, okay, now I know where this is going, "So you want Chi abilities. That tracks. It takes massive dedication and years of training to get there, and there's no one precise method to do it. This whole thing could result in nothing."
She rolled her eyes, "Yeah, but they'll let me train, and I get academy credits on my transcript. Could take you forever, too, but it's not stoppin' you."
"I think we both know that I have a cheat for that."
Mackenzie considered a moment, "Yeah, y'know, I'm still not clear on how that 1% of yours equals up to all the shit you've gotten up to."
Fine. I got up, and grabbed a stack of my Magic cards, "Okay, so you remember the dollar example?"
"Yeah, but it's a dollar."
I laid out a card face down, "Okay, running. Imagine the cards as dollar bills. As long as I run, I get 1% better at running, but that's not the whole story, cause running isn't just running. Follow me?"
She nodded, and I continued, moving the card forward on the bar for space, "Alright, now we lay down two more cards: Muscle Growth, and Bone Growth. Each of these are being raised by 1% as well, but that's not the whole story, cause those don't happen in a vacuum. Let's lay down some more cards: For muscle growth, we have two processes, microtearing of the muscle fibre, and healing and regrowth, which is how muscles grow. For bones, we have improvement of the bone's ability to absorb the shock of impact with each step, as well as to heal the damage from impact, but that's not the whole story, either..."
I went through every stage of how muscles are grown, all the body's processes, including chemical reaction, heart and lung reactions, all the way back to the brain and central nervous system. Mackenzie steadily stopped eating and drinking, just watching as more and more cards hit the table. The Breakfast Bar of Serious Conversations was nothing but cards, and some were overlapping due to lack of space, "All of those functions are improving by 1% as I run. That doesn't even cover all the sidework my body does regularly even when I'm not running.
"That's my theory on why I shifted so fast when I first got going. There's a more scientific name for it, but I call it Super-Puberty. The second my power was awakened by Adam, my body started spinning up with every breath, each time I blinked or heard something, and even while I slept, trying to complete the 'blueprint' my DNA prescribed, and every process of my body started improving from that point, but fuel for the changes had to come from somewhere."
She nodded, still looking over the cards, "That's why you were eating so much. It wasn't just one thing, it was everything. So... wait... then that changes the direction of the question. Why aren't you a ton stronger?"
I tilted my head as I picked up the cards and returned them to their box, "Plateauing. I can get stronger, but I would have to keep increasing the exercise itself, and it gets more difficult to find the sort of equipment and training to advance to that next level. It's the law of diminishing returns, as I train, the workout becomes less and less actual effort for my body. Like in karate, at first, ten knuckle push-ups were brutal for us, but I mean, both of us could do twenty or thirty now as a warm-up exercise, because our bodies adapted to the workload. It's the same thing mentally, every single thing I read, absorb as knowledge, even how my brain processes knowledge, retention, it all ticks up. Even sleeping, my brain's in a constant state of activity, doing the mental work for things like dreaming. Interesting note- One of the reasons we sleep is to dream, our body's own self-care system to process conscious and sub-conscious elements. Now, you want actual breakfast? I'm pretty hungry."
We had breakfast together, and Mackenzie did let Mom and Dad know she wanted to take the special training, then when they gave approval, I swung around to drop Princess off for daycare, and grabbed the rest. Mackenzie switched to the back when we got to Aimee's, citing S.O. privilege, and we went off to the H.A.A. to meet up with Donny, who was waiting for us in the lobby, "Mornin', y'all. An' how's our day startin' up?"
Mackenzie blinked, and leaned over, "You're sure he's a teacher?"
"Yes, just very southern."
We had to do visitor badge paperwork for everyone, most of which I filled out, since I already knew it and could just make it happen. Pictures got taken for badges, and we went back to the gym facilities. The branches of the H.A.A. are sort of a one-stop shop for heroes, food lodgings and yes, even exercise and recreation. The gym area was essentially a city block's worth of workout space The most normal bit was the large, olympic size swimming pool, pretty much what you expect out of a world class gym. Weights had your usual assortment, but the increments extended much farther, split between machines and freeweights. Treadmills and other anerobic machines followed similar track, with the usual ideas, then going beyond for supers who needed the extra. It was split between floors, with weights, pool facilities, as well as floor space for more gymanstic-style work, and even climbing walls of various levels of difficulty. There was a ton of space here to work, everyone was marveling at it.
Donny led us through to the elevators, and we went up to the third floor. Removed from the rest of the facility, this had open rooms where we could work on a variety of things. Classes were offered through the H.A.A. for things like yoga, spinning and such for the employees, but the room we stepped into seemed a little more familiar to us: It had been redrafted as an impromptu classroom, complete with desks and a digital white board on four LED screen that had been rigged together. The screen weren't directly linked, but the individual images and whiteboards on them could be moved around as needed. I hung back while I let the others take their seats, then slid in next to Aimee. Brad initially picked a seat, then switch to the other side of Darryl when Mackenzie took the seat next to his.
The desks were arranged in a wide semi-circle, giving us all a solid view of the boards, and Donny as he stepped into the middle. Looking at my desk, the chair was ergonomic, and fairly comfortable, height-adjustable, and the desk itself had a fold-up portion that was really a flip-up tablet connected into the classroom, complete with stylus for easier navigation. Donny gave us a minute to get settle, then passed out some drinks as he got started, "Alright, all o' y'all. I'm Mr. Donny, and I'll be workin' with y'all for this trainin'. Over the next several weeks, we're gonna be advancin' your learning, and I'm hopin' we can help to unlock Marcus's Psychic abilities, then hopefully some other things as well.
"Now, this ain't gonna be your standard sorta schoolin' that you're used to. Our class is five of y'all, so I can tailor things to you as we go along. 'Fore we do that, though, I gotta know where everyone's at, so I went ahead and made us a little 'placement' testin' to do. It ain't about passin' or failin', it's just about lettin' me know where you're at, so I can get a better idea of we need t'be workin' on with you. We'll also be seein' where you're at mentally and physically later, but I'd rather be holdin' those sorts o' tests off til later."
The test covers popped up on our tablets, and I spared a glance around. Darryl just shrugged, it was nothing new to him. We were the two nerds in the room, taking tests wasn't where we hit the skid. Brad mostly looked like he'd been told to eat an extra helping of brussel sprouts after passing the dessert counter, but the two big reactions were Mackenzie and Aimee, a study in opposites. Aimee didn't test well, and was immediately getting stressed out, while Mackenzie was getting that 'fight night' look in her eyes, personifying the sentiment that life is a competition, and she played to win. I leaned over, "Aims, you'll do fine. Remember, this isn't for a grade. It's just so he knows where we're at so he can get started. You've got this."
First Prev Archive Royal Road Patreon

Good day, all. I am posting a theory here I made to asoiaf a month ago, but adapted for this sub's rules + updated with some more points, because I was curious if anyone thought differently.

The Pride of the Lioness: Cersei's Need for Allies

There's no way Cersei Lannister is losing her trial by combat in TWOW. She will regain some power in King's Landing, albeit surrounded by enemies. Mace Tyrell will likely be Lord Regent, replacing the murdered Kevan, and Tyrells will fill the council. A lioness needs her pride, but most of her allies from AFFC are dead or fled. In order to do Cersei things, she will need men to stand with her; Qyburn, Robert Strong, and the other incompetent Kingsguard aren't enough with the threats to her rule from the Tyrells and Aegon and the Golden Company.
There are a lot of theories that Mace Tyrell will lose badly during the battle outside of Storm's End against the Golden Company. I'm inclined to agree. With Tyrell dead, the office of Lord Regent and Hand of the King will be open, and there will be an urgent need for new men to take them. Tyrell's death will leave Cersei in place to reclaim the regency for her son. So, who will be her Hand?
Jaime would make the sense for Cersei, but he's missing in the Riverlands and in mortal danger. Randyll Tarly, who commands an army in King's Landing, is another candidate. He is ambitious and Kevan believed that if Cersei made him Hand "you make him yours" (Cersei II, AFFC). No man would be better suited to protecting the kingdom. Tarly makes too much sense — do we believe that someone with as warped decision-making as Cersei would pick him as Hand? He is a Tyrell bannerman, and with Kevan murdered, surely her suspicions against them will grow. Mace Tyrell's death may make her think that Tarly is incompetent by association (Cersei logic, am I right?). In epilogue, Kevan tells Cersei that her judgements of the Kettleblacks (among others) was bad:

Cersei lowered her head. "I … I misjudged them."
"You misjudged a good many men, it seems." (Epilogue, ADWD)

Much of the epilogue is spent reminding us of important things for the next book, I believe, and this is no exception.
Anyway, Cersei seems likely to pick someone ambitious and unscrupulous, a lickspittle like her previous council. Now, there are plenty of nobles in Westeros who are ambitious enough to serve, but there are not many named lords and knights in King's Landing or set to arrive there as of the end of ADWD who aren't a) imprisoned; b) part of the Faith Militant; or c) Kingsguard members. Some of the knights and lords we do know in that grouping, including the Redwyne twins or any Dornish knights coming with Myrcella, would not be suitable Hands. Ardrian Celtigar was in KL as of ASOS appendix) but we have not heard of him since. Lord Alesander Staedmon is in KL as of the AFFC appendix, but we know next-to-nothing about this character. Qyburn could be Hand, but given the martial threat of the GC, a warrior who could lead armies seems more likely. GRRM could introduce a new character, but I think he has already placed the man who will her Hand in place as of the epilogue: Red Ronnet Connington.

Logistics of RonCon Joining Cersei

We last saw Ser Ronnet Connington being confined under house arrest within the Red Keep:

Mace Tyrell was speaking. "We shall deal with your uncle and his feigned boy in due time...You will bide here until we are ready to march. Then you shall have the chance to prove your loyalty."
Ser Kevan took no issue with that. "Escort Ser Ronnet back to his chambers," he said. And see that he remains there went unspoken. However loud his protestations, the Knight of Griffin's Roost remained suspect. (Epilogue, ADWD)

Whether he will remain for long is less certain; Tyrell states that Connington will have a chance to prove his loyalty — presumably in battle against Jon Connington — in Arianne II, TWOW has rumors suggesting as much:

Ronnet himself was said to be rushing south to avenge his brother’s death and his sister’s dishonor. (Arianne II, TWOW)

Yet the same scene shows that Randyll Tarly, and possibly Tyell, think they should get rid of Connington:

"Twenty," said Lord Randyll Tarly, "and most of them Gregor Clegane's old lot. Your nephew Jaime gave them to Connington. To rid himself of them, I'd wager. They had not been in Maidenpool a day before one killed a man and another was accused of rape. I had to hang the one and geld the other. If it were up to me, I would send them all to the Night's Watch, and Connington with them. The Wall is where such scum belong."
"A dog takes after its master," declared Mace Tyrell. "Black cloaks would suit them, I agree. I will not suffer such men in the city watch." (ADWD, Epilogue)

It is ambiguous whether Tyrell is agreeing with Tarly on Ron being sent to the Wall too, or just the Mountain’s men. In any case, Tyrell plans to send RonCon to war or to the Wall. Mace stated that he would not leave King's Landing until both trials concluded. Cersei's trial was scheduled to occur within five days of the epilogue, seemingly before Margaery’s trial. This means that if Tyrell wants to send RonCon to battle, Cersei, having won her trial, will have a chance to interfere as Lady of Casterly Rock.
If Tyrell wishes to send RonCon to the Wall, he has reason to forget to do anything in the immediacy — Kevan and Pycelle were just murdered, and Cersei’s trial is to begin — and there is the matter of securing passage. So, Cersei would have a chance to pluck Connington if he is to go to the Wall. From there, RonCon can stay in the city until news of Tyrell's death, from which Cersei elevates him to Hand.
There are other possibilities. Some people theorize that Cersei will undergo a surprise trial by seven. There are very interesting theories on this, but it boils down to Mace Tyrell as Lord Regent declaring Margaery innocent, which pisses off the High Sparrow, who does everything by seven. Knowing that Robert Strong is unlikely to lose one-on-one and that Cersei, now suspected of murdering Kevan, is loathed, the High Sparrow will call a trial by seven, in hopes that Cersei will not have enough defenders (only 3 Kingsguard in KL), so she automatically loses or has a worse chance of victory. RonCon, aware of how the small council distrusts him, may volunteer to fight to gain the queen's favor; being a very good knight, he can survive and help her win. Alternatively, RonCon can join Tyrell in battle against the GC, survive, and then flee back to King's Landing, where Cersei anoints him Hand.

Why would Cersei pick Red Ronnet as Hand of the King?

• He is the last person in KL to have seen Jaime and knows Brienne.
• He is a stormlander, not a Tyrell bannerman.
• He is isolated at court, distrusted by the small council.
• He comes from a proud, diminished house, no doubt seeking restoration.
• He is a youthful warrior with a familial history of service to the Iron Throne.
• He has great reason to oppose Aegon, JonCon, and the Golden Company.

It is worthwhile to discuss why Cersei would even bother talking with Ronnet in the first place; she has a lot of her plate between her uncle's murder, the trials, the GC, and her general paranoia. GRRM has given us two great reasons why: RonCon is one of the last people present in King's Landing to have seen Jaime and RonCon knows Brienne. In the epilogue, Cersei asks after Jaime to Kevan, and earlier, after hearing that he was with Brienne, discarded the possibility that Jaime had abandoned her for a "creature" such as her. But after RonCon tells her about how Jaime slapped him for defending Brienne's honor, how about Brienne is known as "The Beauty" (despite being ugly), Cersei's paranoia will set in and her appreciation of RonCon will grow, as he tells her of his own plight.
Red Ronnet is a stormlander. Tommen Baratheon is his direct liege lord. He is not a Tyrell bannerman, whom Cersei distrusts. His service in the riverlands is a (weak) example of his loyalty.
RonCon is isolated, confined to the Red Keep. He has a great incentive to find allies with his life on the line, and an alliance Cersei is perfect for that. Moreover, the small council, specifically Tarly and Tyrell, mistrusting Connington, in a paradoxical way, makes Cersei more likely to trust him. She has a tendency to support the opposite of whatever sensible men think, and here specifically, their mistrust of Connington would prove to her that RonCon is not a Tyrell creature. Also, House Connington lost a significant amount of power when Jon Connington was exiled, and Robert only restored a bit:

He had chopped Lord Jon after the Battle of the Bells, stripping him of honors, lands, and wealth, and packing him off across the sea to die in exile, where he soon drank himself to death. The cousin, though—Red Ronnet's father—had joined the rebellion and been rewarded with Griffin's Roost after the Trident. He only got the castle, though; Robert kept the gold, and bestowed the greater part of the Connington lands on more fervent supporters. (Jaime III, AFFC)

We know that Orton Merryweather, whose grandfather lost his lands and was exiled, got some of it back from Robert, but wanted to gain more back through service to Cersei. Like Merryweather, Ronnet probably wants his house's strength, prestige, and power restored: an alliance with the queen regent is one path forward to getting such, and in fact would be expected — if RonCon were to put down Aegon's pretender cause, House Connington would no doubt deserve lordship again, something a gracious queen would gladly give.
RonCon's personal traits align with the members of Cersei's AFFC council. Cersei believes that youth, strength, vigor are virtues in allies, even those on the king's small council:

"Two-and-twenty, and what of it? Father was not even one-and-twenty when Aerys Targaryen named him Hand. It is past time Tommen had some young men about him in place of all these wrinkled greybeards. Aurane is strong and vigorous." (Jaime II, AFFC)

RonCon came in sixth place at the 116-person melee at Bitterbridge, is described as "fierce" (Sansa VIII, ACOK), and a "boy" despite being 26 (Epilogue, ADWD). Youth, strength, vigor? Check. Given that the new Hand would be replacing old and fat Mace Tyrell, who died in battle, Cersei picking someone with considerable skill-at-arms to deal with the pretender Aegon makes a lot of sense. Being first cousin, once removed to former Hand Jon Connington is also in RonCon's favor because Cersei has demonstrated her opinion that having a relative serve incompetently as the Hand of the King is a suitable qualification for the office:

"You, my lord. It is in your blood. Your grandsire took my own father's place as Hand to Aerys." Replacing Tywin Lannister with Owen Merryweather had proved to be akin to replacing a destrier with a donkey, to be sure, but Owen had been an old done man when Aerys raised him, amiable if ineffectual. His grandson was younger, and . . . Well, he has a strong wife. (Cersei IX, AFFC)

Him even knowing JonCon might be taken as an advantage by Cersei, because she is surely the type of person to think knowing a man as an eight-year old makes you qualified to wage a campaign against the same man 18 years later.
Jon Connington and the Golden Company captured Ronnet's castle and imprisoned his siblings and bastard son. They are RonCon's natural enemy. He tells the small council that he would kill Jon if given the chance. I take this at face value. While circumstances can change, right now it does seem that RonCon plans to fight JonCon; JonCon thinks as much:

The present Knight of Griffin's Roost, his son Ronnet, was said to be off at war in the riverlands. That was for the best. In Jon Connington's experience, men would fight for things they felt were theirs, even things they'd gained by theft. (The Griffin Reborn, ADWD)

Some people think RonCon will turncloak and join JonCon and the GC. There is a big issue with this: for all RonCon knows (the reader knows otherwise), JonCon, now Lord of Griffin's Roost, will marry and have heirs, dispossessing him of Griffin's Roost. RonCon would just be another household knight, and may even think his "uncle" will punish him for what his father did during the rebellion. Meanwhile, an alliance with the Lannister-Baratheon regime would defend his claim to his lands and likely result in expanded lands.
Cersei may even understand that RonCon really had nothing to do with the GC because RonCon was off in the riverlands when they invaded plus the rumors of RonCon's siblings and son being harmed by JonCon in Arianne II, TWOW. Given that Cersei's paranoia will be inflamed, knowing RonCon has nowhere else to turn to, she will be confident in his loyalty as opposed to the other lords and knights in King's Landing.

Why would GRRM pick RonCon as Cersei's Hand of the King?

• RonCon is an already introduced character, in the right place and the right time.
• RonCon appears to be a character of some importance.
• RonCon as Cersei's Hand makes for an interesting contrast with Jaime and Brienne.
• RonCon is a jackass that not a single fan likes in any capacity.
• RonCon as Cersei's Hand adds to the rich parallelism of ASOIAF.

Cersei will need enforcers of her will for TWOW, and a Hand most of all after Tyrell's death. Jaime is not available, and Tarly makes too much sense, as I explained above. Qyburn isn't a warrior, and the Crown will need a warrior for the war. The other lords and knights don't make much sense or we know nothing about them. We know quite a bit about RonCon, and the epilogue of ADWD reminds us that this guy exists and is a source of drama. GRRM could introduce some new character in TWOW or use Red Ronnet, a guy we already know about, and save pages explaining who this is and why we should care. Perhaps I am giving GRRM too much credit for planning, but the seeds have bore fruit and are ready for harvest.
RonCon is in ACOK, beaten by Brienne in the melee at Bitterbridge, then bending the knee to Joffrey in the throne room after the Blackwater. Then, he's in the ASOS appendix (which is the first book that mentions the Conningtons; in ACOK he is only known as "Red Ronnet"), before appearing again in AFFC where we learn Brienne was betrothed to him, that the late JonCon was his uncle-cousin, and then Jaime slaps the hell out of him and sends him to Maidenpool with Wylis Manderly and Mountain's men. Then, in ADWD, we have JonCon as a POV, leading Aegon to invade Westeros and taking RonCon's castle and imprisoning his bastard and his siblings. Then, the opening line of the epilogue of ADWD is RonCon, defending himself to the small council. We've met this guy's siblings, his bastard son. We've seen his castle, we know about his father and his betrothal.
None of that alone is especially unusual for a minor character. But the fact that the same man who literally haunts Brienne's dreams is the same man whose cousin is Hand of the King of a character who may sit on the Iron Throne is TWOW is interesting. What is GRRM getting at with this? Why use the same character? Sure, he could simply fight JonCon in battle outside Storm's End and die, causing JonCon internal conflict over being a kinslayer. But why wouldn't that have GRRM made that happen in ADWD when Griffin's Roost was attacked? The fact that the epilogue opens with RonCon suggests to me that this character is important going forward; GRRM uses -logue chapters to offer information relevant for future events. RonCon being an important part of the southron storylines in TWOW would explain why GRRM repurposed an existing character into a detestable (but memorable) figure. Being Cersei's Hand serves very nicely, bonding the King's Landing and stormlands storylines together.
Not just the King's Landing and stormlands storylines, at that, but the conflict between Jaime and Cersei that is key to those characters. Jaime's last chapter in AFFC ended with him abandoning Cersei in her time of need. As of the end of ADWD, Cersei has not realized this. In case it was not obvious, Jaime does not like RonCon. RonCon represents the arrogant person Jaime was before he changed in ASOS. Not only does he slap the hell out of him, he sends him to deliver Wylis Manderly to Maidenpool explicitly to get rid of him. If Jaime were to hear that RonCon of all people is Cersei's Hand, his disgust with her will grow. Interestingly, in some ways RonCon being Hand will be Jaime's fault, because he went with Brienne (chose Brienne over Cersei), adding to the drama. Meanwhile, RonCon does not like Brienne, and probably doesn't appreciate being slapped by Jaime, so he would likely inflame Cersei's opinion of Brienne and raise her insecurity about Jaime.
RonCon and Cersei together are sort of an evil version of the Bear and the Maiden Fair, as Brienne and Jaime are a "good" version. RonCon even references the song:

Red Ronnet raised his lantern. "I wished to see where the bear danced with the maiden not-so-fair." His beard shone in the light as if it were afire. (Jaime III, AFFC)

RonCon is bearded and described as husky, a strong knight, Cersei fair of skin and hair, though we all know she is more a "maiden not-so-fair." Interestingly, Brienne's "saving" of Jaime came after his hair had been shaved. The Faith shaved Cersei's hair before her walk of atonement. And, who knows, Cersei wanted to marry Jaime. RonCon and Brienne were betrothed to each other. Now, Jaime and Brienne are attracted to each other. Perhaps RonCon will find himself attracted to Cersei? Interestingly, Fire & Blood mentions that after the Dance of Dragons, Ser Steffon Connington, a young, handsome, fierce warrior, married the dowager lady of Storm's End to help protect the stormlands from Dornish raiders, only to be slain in combat (a one-year marriage).
Another interesting dream that Brienne has directly links her mental image of Ronnet with Jaime, but could simultaneously foreshadow Cersei's relationship with RonCon:

Finally the doors opened, and her betrothed strode into her father's hall. She tried to greet him as she had been instructed, only to have blood come pouring from her mouth. She had bitten her tongue off as she waited. She spat it at the young knight's feet, and saw the disgust on his face. "Brienne the Beauty," he said in a mocking tone. "I have seen sows more beautiful than you." He tossed the rose in her face. As he walked away, the griffins on his cloak rippled and blurred and changed to lions. Jaime! she wanted to cry. Jaime, come back for me! But her tongue lay on the floor by the rose, drowned in blood. (Brienne VIII, AFFC)

Red Ronnet is a jackass:

"Why, I went to Tarth and saw her. I had six years on her, yet the wench could look me in the eye. She was a sow in silk, though most sows have bigger teats. When she tried to talk she almost choked on her own tongue. I gave her a rose and told her it was all that she would ever have from me." Connington glanced into the pit. "The bear was less hairy than that freak, I'll—" (Jaime III, AFFC).

This is known. He has no redeeming virtues, no clever lines, no compelling personal story. No reader likes him. He is not one of the good guys. This would make a lot of sense if GRRM planned for him to be Cersei's flying monkey.
Now, the parallelism aspects of RonCon as Hand are fun. GRRM directly points out it in the epilogue:

As the echoes of Connington's footsteps faded away, Grand Maester Pycelle gave a ponderous shake of his head. "His uncle once stood just where the boy was standing now and told King Aerys how he would deliver him the head of Robert Baratheon." (Epilogue, ADWD)

Further consider this description of Jon Connington: the pride, the youth, the vigor, and the arrogance, it fits both a young JonCon and RonCon.

Ser Kevan wished that he could share his certainty. He had known Jon Connington, slightly—a proud youth, the most headstrong of the gaggle of young lordlings who had gathered around Prince Rhaegar Targaryen, competing for his royal favor. Arrogant, but able and energetic. That, and his skill at arms, was why Mad King Aerys had named him Hand. Old Lord Merryweather's inaction had allowed the rebellion to take root and spread, and Aerys wanted someone young and vigorous to match Robert's own youth and vigor. (Epilogue, ADWD)

RonCon's father fought for Robert during the rebellion, now RonCon will fight for his (alleged) son. JonCon fought for Aerys during the rebellion, now JonCon will fight for his (alleged) grandson, except that now RonCon is Hand to the incumbent king as JonCon was, and JonCon is in Robert Baratheon's position. Just as Aerys turned to JonCon, Cersei turns to RonCon. Aerys and Cersei already have more than a few things in common, including both having Merryweathers and Tywin Lannister as Hand of the King. Cersei having a Connington would add to the parallelism.
JonCon became Aerys' Hand because the previous office holder, Owen Merryweather, a Reachman, did a terrible job at stopping the pretender Robert and because the next-best choice, the king's closest kin, his son Rhaegar, could not be found. As JonCon became Hand, so will RonCon: because of the incompetence of a Reachman, Mace Tyrell, at stopping the pretender Aegon VI and because the next-best choice, the king's closest kin, his uncle (father) Jaime, could not be found.

When Merryweather failed so dismally to contain Robert's Rebellion and Prince Rhaegar could not be found, Aerys had turned to the next best thing, and raised Connington to the Handship. But the Mad King was always chopping off his Hands. He had chopped Lord Jon after the Battle of the Bells, stripping him of honors, lands, and wealth, and packing him off across the sea to die in exile, where he soon drank himself to death. (Jaime III, AFFC)

Interestingly, Brienne has a dream of cutting off RonCon's hand; hand injury is a recurring injury for Hands of the King (including JonCon with greyscale, who thinks about cutting off his fingers):

She cut them all to bloody ribbons, yet still they swarmed around her . . . Shagwell, Timeon, and Pyg, aye, but Randyll Tarly too, and Vargo Hoat, and Red Ronnet Connington. Ronnet had a rose between his fingers. When he held it out to her, she cut his hand off. (Brienne V, AFFC)

House Connington's sigil (one of GRRM's favorites) may foreshadow the Cersei-Ronnet alliance vs. the Aegon-Jon alliance:

"Your father." Jaime eyed Red Ronnet's surcoat, where two griffins faced each other on a field of red and white. Dancing griffins. "Our late Hand's . . . brother, was he?" (Jaime III, AFFC)

Dancing griffins? In a manner, but they are actually "counterchanged and combatant" (The Griffin Reborn, ADWD); they are fighting, a red griffin and a white griffin. JonCon's hair and beard are beginning to go gray and he literally has greyscale, while Red Ronnet will serve red-loving House Lannister. Griffins, also, have the body of a lion...the sigil may just reference RonCon vs. JonCon in general, but still.
Another interesting parallelism is a Cersei-RonCon alliance would have been the partnership between Tyrion and JonCon, a Lannister who survives by his wits and a more brutish Connington. Interestingly, Quaithe's warning does mention:

"No. Hear me, Daenerys Targaryen. The glass candles are burning. Soon comes the pale mare, and after her the others. Kraken and dark flame, lion and griffin, the sun's son and the mummer's dragon. Trust none of them. Remember the Undying. Beware the perfumed seneschal."(Daenerys II, AFFC)

TL;DR Red Ronnet sucks. He is not a good guy. Cersei is not a good guy. She needs flying monkeys to help her schemes, and a griffin can fly. They were made for each other, and as Hand of the King RonCon can advance several storylines both narratively and thematically. And then probably die.

This was originally posted by midesaka little over a year ago. I noticed since then that there was an update that never got included in the original post. Only found it myself today scrolling back. Figured people today would enjoy it. I also need to credit Direct-Caterpillar77 for linking it in the megathread which is how I stumbled upon this.
OOP is OBlondeOne. I am not OOP. Reminder do not message or contact them, or comment in the linked posts below.
I've taken the text from the Original BORU. The new update is after 🔴🔴🔴
trigger warnings: verbal abuse, gaslighting, drug use
Original BORU
OOP delivers donated clothing to displaced fire victims. Woman demands coat OOP is wearing instead, then claims OOP threw donated clothing in ditch.
I am NOT OP. Original post by in on Sunday, February 26, 2023, with updates as comments on original post through Saturday, March 4, 2023.
Some people... - Sunday, February 26, 2023
[NOTE: I have added a couple of clarifying words in brackets to reduce quoting.]
I'm part of a local donation group, so every now and then, I get asked to help with clothes donations. Someone passes away or downsizes, and I will help wash, fold, sort, and deliver the clothes to various free stores. Sometimes, if we are notified of someone in the community in need, we will deliver essentials like winter or kids clothing to their house. We're just a group within the community -there is no religious, political or ulterior motive. We just spread extra through the community as needed as discreetly as possible to help out. This particular situation just hurts my head, and I'm still trying to figure out how it escalated the way it did.
So a few days ago there was a fire in our community which left 3 families displaced. We collected what we could in the sizes they needed, and off we went.
We dont ask for anything in return other than knowing the families are a little better off. We always apologize and explain that while they may not be they styles they're accustomed to ( as donated clothing ) but at least it is clean and warm. If they had specific needs to let a member of the group know and we would do what we can. A lot of our collected items belonged to other families whose children outgrew the items. It's anonymous and it's a way for our more comfortable community members to help out others within the community with this. It's one thing I love about my community - people don't hesitate to help where needed.
I was given an address and head out as usual. Pull in, get the bags and coats to the door and knock.
After that... I'm not sure what to think. It started off as it usually does. There was a mother and 3 children, so I explain that there are 3 bags of clothing in the sizes submitted, and a box of age appropriate toys just like with the other families.
I thought I heard wrong when she said she preferred my coat and just said what?
She called me rude and told me again,' This stuff is OK, but I want the coat you're wearing '.
When I told her, "No, I'm sorry, but I just bought this coat she got angry and accused me of picking through donation bags for "the good stuff."
I've never run into this issue before. None of the group members are well off. In fact, that's why we do what we do. Because life is hard here and we believe in sharing what we have as a community. We collect good quality items from those with extra and distribute it freely to those that need it or have specific needs. Sometimes we all take items from our own closets if they're needed more elsewhere. Last year we raised funds to help purchase a wheelchair accessible vehicle for a family. The year before it was a young family whose matriarch was diagnosed with terminal cancer. This years cause is to build 4 'tiny homes' for the homeless in our community to use as needed. Our goal is to provide stability so they can successfully reintegrate during and after addiction rehabilitation. We all do what we can to try to help, basically. It's a hard world to feel alone in.
Now, my coat is expensive ( $250 ) but I've also saved gift cards for 2 years and anxiously watched for post-season sales before finally taking the plunge and got it for 75% off. Maybe I messed up by wearing it on this errand? I don't know. After I said no, this is my coat a second time, she started yelling at me.
I just left the bags on the doorstep and drove away.
Today I wake up to a slew of texts from the group asking me to explain why I refused to give the mother any winter coats, and why I left everything at the end of the driveway... allegedly in a ditch? They aren't questioning. Most are downright accusatory. Some are just borderline mean.
It's the kind of day where I feel like giving up on this making the world a better place thing.
I've been where these families are. And people helped me just like this. I know what it feels like to rely on others... so I do try to be compassionate and understanding without being condescending or pitying. I don't often talk about what I do because nobody needs to know what came from where, or who is getting what. It's just paying it forward. I do this because it's been done for me, and it's the right thing to do. It's that simple.
But after today... I don't even want to reply to anyone. It's not just that woman. It's the texts that are getting kinda nasty at this point. It's these people obviously talking about me behind my back. It's how quick they were to assume I must have done this.
I'm not sure if I want to do this anymore after all this. I've been part of this for 5 years and have never had a complaint before. I feel betrayed by people I thought were my friends. It just all feels gross, dramatic and depressing now, and that's now how this is supposed to feel.
===
I could understand if this was, like, a fancy fur coat or something.
This is literally just a rather plain looking long coat that happens to be super warm.
I don't get it.

It's only been an official group with a board for about 4 months. But we have been doing this for 5 years now as a project of mine and the current board president that gathered consiserable traction and volunteers/funding as time went on.
They so need policies in place. If only to protect the clients that use the service. But as a new board we are all just learning the official ropes and red tape as we go.
The one person I thought I could count on is currently the one insisting this happened as the client describes.
I'm just so confused.

We did need a board in this case as we are partially federally funded- the community pantry is, anyways.
It's a requirement. Unfortunately.

I've had 1 out of 5 [members of the charity group] text asking if I'm ok, and what happened. The rest seem to believe that I did this.
I don't know how to move on from this. Because the truth will come out eventually in a community this small. It always does.
The question now is do I want to be involved with people like this. I don't think I can trust them after this.
===

Maybe take a breather from the group. The way they treated you is horrible.

The issue is I can't avoid them either. I'm going to have to answer eventually, either via text or in person.
The longer I wait, the worse it will be. I know that. But I just don't want to deal with this either. Small community. The truth will come out eventually.
But it's now obvious that I can't trust these people. No matter what's said after this, the damage has been done.

Update:
As suggested, I did text them as a group in bullet form stating facts only. ( edit: sorry for formatting. Copied from text ,)
'

1. Items were carried to front door as per usual
2. Client requested my personal attire
3. Client accused me of theft from donation bags
4. Client verbally abused me
5. I left the following on Client's doorstep : ½ bag of women's clothing sizes m-l : 1+½ bag children's clothing sizes 3-8 : 1x bag of assorted linens & towels : 1x box of assorted children's toys and books

I am trying very hard to understand the context of some of the messages I've received about this, and am truly confused as to why anyone would think I would purposefully degrade a Client. You all know my history and reasons I participate.
As I feel I no longer have a place of trust within our group, I am formally resigning from my roles within the committee, and the (group)
I will, with your blessing, remain on the Helping Tree as a contact'
So far the replies are very interesting. They range from apologetic to accusatory to narcissistic. The most interesting one so far, I think, was not intended for me and insinuated that this was for the best. I can't believe how naive I've been.
There's an emergency meeting being scheduled for next week, as apparently you're not just allowed to resign mid-term from a board like this without a valid reason. Which I think I have.
The benefit of this is my accuser also has to give an official statement in the meeting minutes because ive resigned. Which I'm allowed to attend and comment on. Which adds validity ti my reasons for resigning. Would it be petty if I wore my coat again, or should I choose something older? Genuinely asking. I don't want to make things worse. I just want out to do my own thing.
Rumors are already starting and seem to be in my favor. Small towns are terrific/terrible for that. And I've just been texted asking me to withdraw my resignation ' for fear this may cause an irreparable rift in our charitable group'.
I have 8 months left to my current term as Secretary. A position that requires the trust of the board members to record accurate notes. Which I no longer feel I have. I don't want my character unfairly questioned again after I've worked so damn hard to build it up.
My resignation was intended to prevent drama and divide. It is doing the opposite.
What would you do? I feel like I'm damned if I do, and damned if I don't.

Not allowed to resign? What are they going to do, ground you?

With a formal board, there are steps to take to remove a member of the core board ( pres, vice president, secretary, treasurer, committee heads).
Or so I'm being told. This may be a stall tactic. I'm going over the current bylaws and policies but it's small font and a hard read.

I'm surprised/touched by how many clients are defending me, but I think this is what is causing a lot of drama and distrust both within the organization and with those that use it. Which is exactly what I was trying to avoid by quietly resigning.
It just sucks, for lack of a better word. I feel like the religious have it wrong. It's not judge not lest ye be judged. It's just be judged these days.

Going forward, it needs to be mandatory that there be two delivery people on every delivery. No excuses. There will be people in the future that are in dire need of your group's services. Please do not let that woman's behavior stop you from helping those who appreciate your work. And bonus if the other helper has a phone's camera on . You have documentation, and they grow manners if they didn't already have them. Has anyone gone by the house again to see if there was really a ditch??

Oh my...
My dash cam! I'm going to check it.
Thank you! Thank you so much!

No audio. No clear AHA! moment.
But it does show enough.
It shows me pulling in, and that there's nothing on the porch. It shows the car moving slightly as I take the bags out, and it does show a bag being deposited on the porch as well as at least 2 coats/snowsuits.
As I back out you can almost see the whole porch. You do see her outside but the definition isn't good enough to see her face or what she's doing.
I'm also still not sure what proof-if any-has been submitted by my accuser(s).
Who, I'm told, has been dropped from the Helping Tree community pantry registry.
I'm actually starting to get very angry. That woman messed up. But she has 3 kids under her care that deserve to eat and be clothed. This is going way too far.

Update:
Ungrateful client is board presidents former sister in law.
And yes, they're still friendly.
Ah. Small towns... 🤷‍♀️
I can't wait for next week...

I KNEW IT! This whole fiasco smelled strongly of being COMPLETELY orchestrated! Typical small town intrigue and power struggle when there's only ONE that's struggling for the power! President wants you kicked out because you're a CO-FOUNDER and SHE wants to take ALL the accolades and applause from the community! Go get your reputation back, sweet Lady! You ARE needed and necessary to the community, if you weren't, you wouldn't have been doing this charitable work for FIVE years! FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT!!!

I'm trying to figure out how to walk away, but still acknowledge what's going on without hurting the board-they do good work that's needed. I can't torpedo that no matter how I feel.
And that's the problem.
I think I'm going to ask for an official board inquest -which is eithin my rights according to our by-laws - before I go. I can't see someone doing this over reputation or clout. I certainly hope not, anyways. But if the inquest finds this was planned ( who tf does this? ) I would have grounds to have the board President removed. It's not pettiness- I don't want to see this done to someone else.
But you're right. Something stinks here and it gets worse by the day. I'm going to look into [comment ends here]

I'm going to submit a statement to the board, with footage from my dash cam that shows at least 1 bag clearly on the porch.
Unfortunately, I forgot to itemize the coat/3 snowsuits & boots dropped off in my group text, so I do have to justify that one somehow.
I also just heard they dropped off another 3 bags to the woman, including winter gear. I think it's an attempt at damage control, but I also think they're moving in the wrong direction, given what I'm hearing from many.
If she tries to sell the excess, like many seem to think she will, this will all come to a head so much faster. Either way, I'm ironically the least invested in this around here at this point.
Small town drama ...

I admit, looking back, it is odd that I was given this client when others were closer. I had thought it may be because of scheduling conflicts but I'm finding that's not the case either
Interestingly, there are rumors going around that this was staged. I'm trying not to pay attention to rumors without proof but I'm starting to wonder....
I hate this with a passion. It all seems so damn stupid.
I'm still so confused. The meeting has been scheduled for Wednesday night ( 2 days time ).
I haven't decided if I'm going yet. I don't want this drama to derail what has been a good thing so far.
I may just submit my statement and resignation and leave it at that. Popular opinion is on my side so why make it worse?

I agree with this so much!! People have had to do that here in my town too. We have small groups that helps out the community that aren't in any organization or charitable groups, just themselves giving back. We had specific residents in town that were running their mouth and taking "donations" and selling them for money. Eventually these residents were burning through different community groups and established organizations and they would complain about each one saying they weren't helping and deliberately causing trouble. These groups did post on Facebook telling their sides of the situation, just like you suggested. Well those residents kept doing this and blaming people for not helping, blah blah blah. It didn't take long for the rest of the town to realize that these specific residents were pulling these scams and they were booted out of all the community groups in town. Sometimes you do have to stand up and tell your side to the community. Eventually the truth will come out.

You are brilliant!
After reading this I started thinking about other groups that this woman may have been a part of at her previous location.
Well. WELL.
I now have 4 witnesses to past behavior willing to come with me Wednesday from 3! groups that have been similarly burned by this woman.
The question is.. do I want to take it that far?
I do- and I don't.
I feel this has taken up far more valuable time, and it's taking away from the original purpose of the group.
I'm also being asked to submit my name for board president by the majority of the board for the upcoming term. So I'm being supported ( now ).
I still don't trust any of them to have my back should anything happen. And if I replace the Pres shit will happen.

[Comment was deleted, but basically said, "Wear your coat to the meeting, and bring the receipt for it!"]

I don't think I need to bring the receipt. They are all aware of when I got my coat, and what I paid for it.
I'm being told there are 2 board members who seem to think I'm blowing this out of proportion ( Pres and Treasurer ) and should just take the reprimand ' maturely'.
When ( if ) I go in Wednesday I'm just going to tell then simply that I feel I no longer have the trust required for my appointed position, and am respectfully resigning to prevent further drama.
Pass in my official resignation and walk away.
I've also discovered the emergency meeting is to consider 3 resignations-not just mine.

OP, defend yourself!!! There’s something fishy about this. Also, call CPS (anonymously?) and report her for being unstable.

No. I won't be petty and call CPS
Those kids don't deserve to be dragged into this, too.
===

Maybe you should start your own group with people you can trust?

I've actually been thinking of a fringe group for more rural locations that don't fall.within community boundaries.
This may just be divine intervention in disguise.

Update. The meeting.
My apologies This will be long.
As I parked, there were a couple that stopped to say hi, but the majority of the board did not acknowledge me. My accuser though.. she had a great laugh at my expense, and literally taunted me in front of the others on the way in. 'ooh here for more, are you? Guess you didn't get enough of me yet' and blows me a kiss.
She showed up with the Pres. I feel that's relevant. Especially seeming as she ran home.
The meeting started at 6 pm. I was not allowed to sit at the table until the issue was brought up... I sat, alone, for over 45 minutes. Finally someone peeked outside at 6:53 ( to see if I was still there? ) and called me in.
My accuser wasn't there. I say down and the first thing said to me was ' well. We may have made a mistake' followed by this big flowery apology that stank of bullshit and was gaslit better than a propane stove.
'You know that when a complaint comes in, we have to investigate it'
At that point I just exploded. Like... I didn't even talk to my kids like that when they were babies. It was the kind of tone you have when talking to the very simplest of minds.
I told them there's a massive difference between investigating and outright accusing, and that I didn't appreciate how their ineptitude at leading a board nearly derailed the whole organization and just put a really bad light on what we were doing. She says ' by unanimous decision, we've decided not to accept your resignation. Welcome back'
I've likely been this confused before, but I don't remember when. I was expecting this to be much harder. I had a factual speech ready and everything. Walked in and it was just 'we oopsied, oh well teehee'
'Well that's unfortunate that you refuse to accept it, because it's given and I'm not rescinding it. I'm out. And it seems you all know exactly why. For those who have reached out to me- I'll consider your offer of leading this board, but at this time, I'm not comfortable with the lack of trust and transparency I'm seeing. ' and left.
My phone has been blowing up all night. I meant to update immediately but it just kept ringing and tinging. I don't even know how so many found out ( good old gossip is my guess ) but I had over 30 calls and just as many texts/social media messages.
So. What hspprned while i was waiting outside.
My accuser decided to get on something pre-meeting. Literally acted like a wild animal at one point. I'm told it was so bad that the police and Child Protection Services were called by 4 of 5 ladies present, and when told they were called, my accuser took off running home. That's a whole 'nother story. The kids are now safe, I'm told. There's that.
The versions I'm hearing are surprisingly similar, for once. So I'm going to tell you the events as I was told.
Pres' husband is apparently an addict. Who gets his stash from the sis in law/accuser. I'm not clear on the details but I'm told blackmail was involved. Common word says she threatened to spill the beans on hubby. You know how it goes. Get hurt, get prescription, get hooked, get cheaper street drugs because they're cheaper and no doctor regulates them/questions your dose. There's a rumor he is also sleeping with sustained in law but this is not confirmed... but has been going around for the better part of a year now. Maybe I should start listening to more rumors because I had no idea.
Accuser started off normal, if ' twitchy'. She went to the washroom and shit allegedly went sideways not long after she came out. At one point she was laying on the floor, ' slithering and grunting' like an animal'. I wish I could have seen it, but kinda glad I didn't.
When Accuser left, it swayed the remaining 2 votes my way. There was a discussion on how to ' handle' me where the Pres just said she'll follow the board on the vote after they shot down her suggestion that the complaint still be addressed. The way she glared at me when I came in ( yes, wearing my coat! ) tells me she was not happy about it either.
The vote was unanimous to keep me. I did not wish to stay after all that.
Tomorrow they have an open board meeting to tell people what happened, as transparency is ironically a promise we made to the community so they know exactly who and what they're supporting. I won't be there. But a lot of angry and confused people will be. I'm glad I'll be missing it, but I have a feeling I'll hear all about it. I'm told there will be some calling for Pres' resignation. We shall see, I guess.
I started this feeling lower than low. Tonight I'm surrounded by positivity and I feel GOOD about this decision. Is this Karma? It feels like Karma.
Steps are already being taken to form what we will call The Fringe Farm. We will collect fresh farm goods donated by local farmers and deliver to homes that need a little extra, focusing on those that live between communities and people new to rural life. Eventually I hope to offer clothing and household goods, but I need to find a source outside the community so I'm not taking from the original group.
I also have a preliminary board. Comprised of 3 of 5 members of the original board haha
I've told then they have to finish their term at the group (because they do damn good work, and it's not fair to those that need them to just walk away-hypocritical? Msybe. But i refuse to torpedo the group ). 2 still submitted resignations because they're just floored by that last meeting. Theirs was depending upon mine, so their exit meetings are being scheduled for next week. Because they no longer have a secretary to record minutes I'm being asked to. I'm also being asked to submit my name for Pres should the current one agree to resign.
I haven't decided if I will. I feel that will come across as petty, and tbh it's no longer my business.
Thank you for the encouragement. I'm not sure if I would have had the courage to attend if not for the overwhelming kindness and support shown here. By strangers. * shakes head*. You have no idea how much this meant to me when I needed it.
Thank you.

Update #2.
The open meeting was a shitshow, I'm told.
Pres was called to resign. Refused.
So the board resigned. The group is now being led by the Pres and that's it. So it's essentially dead. You need minimum 3 board members to continue as a registered charity/nonprofit. Nobody ( out of approx 50 ppl ) raised a hand when asked if they wanted to join.
The Fringe Farm, by comparison, has more volunteers than we can organize. This is the group started after you lovely folks helped me decide staying wasn't worth the trouble.
I have mixed feelings over this. One.. it's nice to feel validated. The other... I really don't like how this went down for too many reasons to count.
Our first task as a new org?
Writing an iron clad policy everyone agrees with. Including specific steps to collect, file and address complaints or concerns.
Reminder - I am not the original poster.
🔴🔴🔴
Some People... ( update 2 ) Posted March 28th 2023
Update #2
The Aftermath
It's been... interesting.
The old group has dissolved. Nobody wanted to work with the pres anymore after all that. They held an emergency meeting to try to figure out why most of the board submitted their resignations and it was a shitshow of Pres accusing the remaining board members of conspiring against her, which caused the last remaining board members to also resign over time.
My new board ( Fringe Farm ) is thriving. We've taken over collection and distribution in our area and 2 others as we've merged with 2 other small groups to tap more resources.
Imagine my shock and surprise when the original offender called my Treasurer and asked to be put on the list... of course we did help her but we took the Secretary's minivan and all 7 of us went as a group. When we got there it was the former Pres husband that answered the door.
Our first task was to have an ironclad board policy that states anyone accused of wrongdoing will be spoken to privately by the pres and vice pres ( neither are me-i prefer to work behind the scenes ) prior to anything else.
I'm hearing rumors that the former board pres (P) isn't doing well. When the shit hit the fan her husband left her for sis in law and they've been ' methed up ' ever since.
I honestly feel bad for her. They have no kids and now it's just her... we are having a meeting next week and I believe we are going to invite P onto our board in a non-authority role. After hearing everything that went down afterwards... she's had to get a job and they're currently trying to sell their house amid divorce proceedings so I guess the rumor he was getting a little more than drugs from sis in law was accurate after all. Rumors say P is in massive debt thanks to her husband addiction. I don't think she should have to go through it all alone. I also think her situation was causing her an immense amount of stress and that's why everything happened as it did. She knows she messed up. There's no need to rubbing salt in her wounds.
Reflection:
This has been a very eye opening experience into how our personal lives can seriously affect our moods and actions, I think.
We never really know what someone else is going through, and why they behave the way they do. Part of me wishes I knew so I could have handled it better on my end. Part of me is still raging/hurt at how it all went down.
Hurt people hurt people. It's sad but so very true.
Original post : https://www.reddit.com/EntitledPeople/comments/11cmv5l/some_people/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android_app&utm_name=androidcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button
Update #1 : https://www.reddit.com/EntitledPeople/comments/124id5some_people_updates/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android_app&utm_name=androidcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button
Some additional comments

You are very kind to want to help someone who tried to ruin your reputation. If you ask her to join your new organization, this should be contingent on a very serious conversation about a lot of subjects. Her husband left her for a family member and drugs, and that's pretty fucked up and awful. However, that doesn't give her an excuse to take it out on someone who wasn't even remotely involved. If this kind of behavior is out of character for her, then sure, have the discussion. If this is how she always is, save yourself a major headache and just let her go. As for the SIL, she should be put on some kind of a list. Stop helping her.

OOP:
Sis in law is not being helped by our group, but I did refer her to another that has not had dealings with her yet, and gave them a heads up that this person needs help but is unstable due to 'current life choices'. She had kids who are blameless in all this that don't deserve to be left out, should she get them back.
I think I forgot to mention that she temporarily lost her kids over her animilistic outburst at the meeting? Too many witnesses and too many complaints I guess. And as her and P's husband are blowing through cash like theres no tomorrow on drugs its unlikely to resolve itself anytime soon.
( and yes, its been confirmed that at least 1 of the 3 children are P's husbands, possibly 2 )
As for P... I feel for her. I really do think all of this was a desperate control tactic because she had none in her personal life. I get it.. I think. My life, from the outside, looks perfect. Good kids, great partner, great and satisfying job, decent home & car ... and people ( seem to ) like me.
I don't want her left alone. Depression is a terrible thing, and it makes no sense to help a community while ignoring someone within it that's obviously not ok.
I will definitly proceed with caution in case P has not learned her lesson but leaving her out feels wrong.

Please forgive me for being incredibly late to these posts - I’ve just read the whole saga through (twice!) as it takes me back to a former life where my role included managing volunteers and ah, the memories this brings back! These kind of voluntary groups do amazing work (and you sound like a truly fantastic individual, OP) but it can get so messy and so cliquey and people can become very protective of their little fiefdoms. These groups are fantastic when all is going well, but once things start going wrong it can all fall apart incredibly quickly. The only way round it (as you’re doing) is to have robust and even-handed policies in place and stick to them. I know you’re not doing this for praise or thanks, but I do think you should recognise your own value and allow yourself at the very least a tiny pat on the back, not because of this situation per se, but because the speed with which you’ve established your new group and how quickly your old group fell apart without you indicates what an effective and impactful leader you are. Even if you don’t see yourself that way, it’s clearly how your community does.

OOP:
We offered one-time temporary help. Our unofficial misdion is 'we don't refuse anyone because we don't know their story'.
I also think many of our volunteers were curious/nosy and that's why we've been able to have such a large group so quickly. Sadly, I'm well aware that some help just for the gossip and we haven't been operational long enough to root those out yet to divert to positions where they can't collect potentially harmful gossip.
The second request she made ( the very next week... making her total 3x requests for clothing & food over 3 weeks just over our 2 groups ) was passed on to another group as nobody wanted to get involved, and I'm not allowed to get involved on my own ( our by-law to prevent drama: 'Once a conflict has been reported the accused is not to have any involvement with the donation or distribution of goods to the accuser.' This also serves to protect our volunteers from frivolous accusations or personal vendettas. )
REMINDER: Do not comment in posts linked here. It is a violation of Rule 7

[[FIRST][[NEXT>]]()

Season 10 “Days of Fury” - Episode 1 “Reaction”

Slowly, consciousness begins to drunkenly crawl its way into his mind. The first thing he notices is the softness of the sheets, then it is the pillow that is just soft enough he can feel his own arm through it, and then the gentle warmth of a sunbeam hitting his body.
It was a comfortable, comforting, sunbeam. But at this point he had learned not to tarry, his body might have learned when to wake up but if he were to answer the call of comfort he was going to be late and he would rather not be. And so Santos steps out of his bed with a yawn and grabs his holopad, tapping the alarm off before it screams at him.
Though the process of doing so draws his attention to something in the device: A multitude of unread messages from the same news site. He had grown to find Prime News a reasonably reliable source of information, particularly on their coverage of the war.
He had not opened a single message ever since he subscribed to the war news.
Setting it down he continues with his morning routine, he knows he has time. First washing up, making sure he was both clean and presentable, then getting dressed. It isn’t until he was halfway through the door that he stops and turns around to look at his apartment. Gently running his tongue through his teeth he considers for a moment.
Huhn… It’s been getting easier
Before turning around and continuing to head out. He stops in front of Keya’s door for just one second, remembering she had left before him, then makes his way down to the streets and towards the precinct. It takes just a minute for a strange sensation to settle on him… There was something wrong and he could not tell what just yet. At this point he had learned to trust his instincts in some manner, and he knew that his pattern-matching sense was warning him of something, but what?
He was halfway to work when it all clicks in place; Blackriver is silent, silent of people. Traffic was usually non-existent but the little hints of people activity were gone. Though a quick scan had shown him some part of the reason as to why, he could see people through the windows, but none outside.
His internal alarms sounded when he crossed the threshold of the precinct. The front was empty, and the only noise happening was that of a distant television. He follows it to the inevitable direction of the breakroom wherein he finds the entire office sitting, either with their focus on the television or their own pads. Even Kessa’s brother was here, and he kept an opposite shift to Marik as the only two armorers. “Clearly something very serious is going on, what happened?”
Everyone turns their ears at him, the ones that were looking down raising the centerline of their view, except for Lunek. The first response comes from the obvious, their boss, and from the contents of her sigh she’s got her full faculties today “You haven’t seen the news?”
The human shrugs “Sorry. I’ve been… Avoiding knowing about the state of the war… For my own sake.” He looks at the television, whatever had happened he had just missed it as he can barely see the governor’s tail vanish from sight and the transmission end “Tell me it’s not something like another fleet”
“Past tense” Marik answers, returning to his holopad
Keya rubs the bridge of her snout “And not for you… Apparently this mess is… Deeper than we ever thought” she presses a few buttons on her own holopad and offers it to Santos.
He takes it, looking at the video. It appears to be an official address, the one he had just missed. The specific words are not important, but the content is still terrifying. It speaks of an assault on a hidden facility, one meant to keep forbidden history. It speaks of a people who fought tooth and nail against their conquerors, and were broken in culture and body. The address is short, far too short for this much weight “I…”
Fuck… This could have been us… It wouldn’t have ended just with bombs… It didn’t for them.
Soon as the video was over, there was a simple link. Following it, there was a page- It was a simple directory of information, linking to articles and videos. Hundreds upon hundreds upon hundreds… Recordings of the past, both in video, audio and text. He picks a category and looks at the file names until something familiar appears. “Ilfran’s Landing Revolt” he mutters the name as he calls up the video.
Ilfran’s Landing was a familiar name. The oldest spaceport in the region and named after the captain of the first ship to land there, originally a cargo port as far as he knew; it was a historical multi-centennial building dating all the way to venlil first contact… In the background of the video the triple launch gantries for cargo freighters were recognizable. He had seen them before for a reason: Their Regional lies in Ilfran’s Landing, and he had to go there once for paperwork when he was first assigned here.
It is strangely familiar to see the start of the video, it seems like an overhead camera looking at a riot that could have been full of humans, if not for the blending mass of grays that the venlil become when in a large group. Except this is not a normal riot, riots and protests would have signs or some other means of conveying a message, here they had only weapons. And the side opposite to them were the silver suits, strangely similar silver suits- A monospecies unit, though he can’t ascertain what one.
The video was bloody carnage, though the exterminators fought with bullet, plasma and flame the venlil had little more than sharpened iron and claw. Some scenes would remain with him, the first that’d stick with him was a closeup of a venlil, their legs lacked the inwards bow, their snout was slightly more square not to mention the nostrils- But what stuck the most was his motions. He growled and huffed and lowered himself to threaten like an angry goat.
The second scene was of an attack. It was the familiarity that struck with him, a venlil took a single step and lept through the flames, landing on the chest of an exterminator, bringing their short claws to bear. Almost every single step of the Black Claw, with one difference. This was striking to kill, even in the cacophony of battle it was sickening to see them violently snap their victim’s neck to the side before jumping off the falling body.
The last scene to stick to him was a shorter venlil running towards the exterminators, striking one at about the waist with their head and continuing, dragging them with their motion backwards until they crash through a door. A quite familiar door, this was the Regional, the same building serving the same purpose centuries ago.
Handing back the holopad to his boss, Santos was about to say something when a loud noise calls his attention, in fact the attention of everyone. A holopad had clattered to the ground, Lunek was breathing heavily as if he could not get enough air in his lungs, his arm still stretched out from having tossed the tool. Santos walks over calmly to the holopad, the crack across the surface distorting the hologram projected in the surface but not enough that he can’t see what is in it. It’s an index page for ‘Newborn Issues’.
He picks it up, and slowly walks over to the man who had thrown it. Lunek simply falls back on the couch, crying “Code blue…” he mutters when Santos sits beside him.
“Code blue?” the human furrows his brows, trying to remember some procedure he most certainly did not pay attention to.
“S-sister was a code blue… Tiss was too…” Lunek mutters “Seven… Seven minutes… Eighteen seconds…” his tail is lashing behind him with energy “That… That I didn’t know if she’d start breathing on her own…” his breathing becomes faster, stronger.
“I…” he suddenly turns around, grabbing Santos by the arms “I could have saved her!” he grasps his arms with strength “If I could have taken TWO. FUCKING. STEPS!” he shouts as he shakes “If those stupid broken legs could move, I would have saved her!” he cries out “If- If they hadn’t made us COWARDS I- I-”
Lunek’s voice starts at a low wheeze, building up in intensity into a powerful hiss “I hate them- I hate them… I hate them, I hate them! All of them, we have to-”
“Stop!” Santos finally interferes “Lunek, here” he puts a hand on the man’s shoulder “Will you listen to me? Listen to the end?” he stares directly at the enraged venlil “It will hurt, but will you listen?”
The father reciprocates the stare for a few moments. His breathing slows down gradually, and he finally flicks a positive with his right ear.
“Whatever ‘they’ tried to do to you, they failed.” Santos brings his hand closer to himself, sticking out his index finger “Because do you know the most important part of you? The one that I have seen being exactly what ‘they’ had feared so badly?” he gently taps his finger on Lunek’s head “It’s here, the spirit that is housed here”
“Do you know why I know they failed? Because, first of all, you are a wonderful father. You’d do anything for your family, you would sell your soul if you had to, and you did. You’d do anything, and more, to protect them”
“Do you know why they failed? They’ve been telling you for a hundred years that you’re cowardly and weak, and I saw you take your body to and past your limit all for the sake of saving one life. I saw you move like a storm when the time came to save someone from despair.”
“And I saw you have so much kindness in your heart, as to be able to forgive a wounded beast that nearly killed you”
“You are not weak. We’re all people in here. What the body can’t do, we find a way around as long as we have the will for it, and you’ve proven to have it” Santos takes a deep breath “But this is the part that will hurt you. Because I haven’t been where you are, but I’ve been in that neighborhood. I have to warn you away from one danger, before you step into it.”
He sits down beside the distraught officer “Answer me…” it almost seems like he’s feeling pain as Santos inhales “Would your sister hate you, for what your father did?”
Lunek’s paws twitch- And stop. For a moment he seems to stop breathing, stalled in time as if he had ceased to exist. But Santos continues undaunted “I did not know her, but if she was anything like you… I think she wouldn’t”
The human gently puts his hands on the only piece of uniform Lunek is wearing, the empty holster harness “And yet, here you are” he puts a hand on the badge pinned to it “Wearing the same badge he did”
Lunek seems to return to the flow of time, breathing faster, and looks down “But you are not him. You are a real protector, I have seen your actions since you have come here, and right or wrong your choices have always been guided by what would help people.”
“You are not guilty of your father’s sins” Santos lets go “And that holds true for everyone, you hear?”
Lunek raises his head back again, eyes distant… He takes a few more deep breaths “I… I think I get it…”
Santos raises his right arm up, index and pinky finger raised as he makes a motion with the index, mimicking the positive ear sign “And look. As a species, you’ve been like this for centuries. As a man, you’ve been like this your entire life. One more day will change nothing.” he puts as much emphasis as his tone can put “Just take time to think, alright?”
The father takes a few more calming breaths “Y-yeah… Yeah, you’re right… Yeah…” he repeats himself a few more times “D-don’t do anything rashly- Think- Think it over…”
“Okay” Keya’s voice calls everyone’s attention “But I think that right now, this isn’t the company you should be in” she takes a step back to clear way “There’s others that need you right now, Lunek. Go on, you shouldn’t be here”
He stands up, flicks ‘yes’ just once and begins running right out of the door, his destination obvious. A collective sigh echoes in the room “You do have a gift, it seems” Nila is the first one to speak “I could tell he was struggling”
Santos shakes his head “No, he did the whole job himself. Just needed to get unstuck.” the human rests his head back on the couch “He’s a good guy, deep down and on the surface, he just needs to be reminded of that”
“And how are you doing, Kessa?” Santos turns to face the source of the voice. Kessa’s brother was a bit of an elusive sight in the precinct, being the only other one with armory credentials Vess’ focus on the bureaucratic end of things had earned him permission to work from home when it wasn’t his shift in the armory.
Kessa sighs, looking back at the holopad in her paws “I could ask the same for you” she flicks her ear at Vess.
“Honestly? Angry, confused, overwhelmed… Too much at once” he sighs “But whatever I am feeling like, you look worse, so right now? I only care about how you are feeling, I can feel something later”
Kessa gently brings up her tail to wrap around her brother’s “You were also the better of us…” she sighs “I… I don’t know what possessed me… Looking at the videos, the articles- About schools”
Unlike her coworker, she doesn’t violently discards her holopad, but nonetheless just lets it limp off her paws “I don’t know… I was… Curious. Curious to know if- Ugh” she sighs, bending over to pick up the holopad “‘Associating undesirable behavior with antisocial tendencies, allowing their natural inclination for group cohesion to self-police’... That’s how they described it” she looks at the object’s screen, before setting it on her lap “You know I had… I had hoped that maybe we were just like that in some way, you know?”
Kessa shakes her head left and right with force “But no!” she looks up “Just another tool of control. Make us police ourselves from a young age! Murderous hypocrites. Making us behave like the ‘predators’ they so feared!”
With a swallow she continues “But I’m not putting fault on them like this, no. No… I could have made different choices, been better-” then she slaps her tail on the back of the couch, Vess reaching over to hold her “Tsk…”
“I just wonder…” Nila says, looking up, ears trained on her partner “Why did they do things this way?”
“This way?” Santos prods on
“There are… There’s so many ways to navigate people. There’s so many ways to-” she sighs “If they thought we were too violent then… Why do something so… Extreme?” she brings her tail up in front of her, holding the tip with both paws, staring at it “These kinds of processes don’t really work, they don’t change how people think… There’s no way they couldn’t have known it wouldn’t work out in the end, all that you wind up is… Traumatized people”
“You’re too kind, Nila” the human in the room offers “But you’re coming at this through the wrong angle” he offers a hand motion “They didn’t want to change how you thought. They just wanted to control how you behaved. Obedient and traumatized was good enough.”
“He’s right” Keya interposes “All ythe wanted was obedience, anything else… They didn’t care if it caused problems… And did it cause so many problems” their boss rests against the wall “Now that I think about it… If the way they handled ‘predator disease’ was so… Based on keeping people in line by force…”
“This is all so… Frustrating” Nila hisses “All of this and for what? Just because they were too impatient?!” she takes a deep breath “Or maybe because they’re just plain wrong” she shakes her head “It… Wasn’t just us that they were like this, was it? They were like this in some way with everyone… Void, they’re still like this now, with the facilities, the screenings… It’s all the same thing they’ve done to us then, repeated forever” then, Nila closes her eyes for a second “Boss I-”
“You’re going to have it” Keya interrupts, suddenly “A chance to help fix this mess. But you’re just one woman, even if you’re a miracle-worker. I managed to finagle a position in the next available course but it’s still a herd of paws away.”
“Thank you, boss” Nila flicks her right ear forward, crossing her arms “Is it weird that… I’m more worried about this than… Than what they actually did to us?”
“We all have different priorities, Nila” the next one to speak up is the venlil with the burned arm “Brahk, at least you have good priorities… I’m… I’m so angry and it’s at absolutely nothing, myself” Aren says, sounding irritated
“Even the smallest and strangest thing matters, Aren” she gives back “... Hah, I should listen to my own advice. But, yeah, what’s important is different for everyone, right? So what is it?”
Aren, who is resting himself against a table, looks down at his arms. “Ever since I met Lucas I’d been… Jealous” he turns aside, pulling a piece of paper from the nearby trashcan “He could do something I never could, something I never will, something I am very jealous of…” then, he pulls out a silver square object from a pocket. It’s a lighter, emblazoned with the symbol of the exterminators, a kind of memorabilia that they all have, a symbol not just of the strength of the flame but also its excess.
He flicks open the lighter, and brings the piece of paper over it. With a single motion, for a moment, a greenish jet of plasma appears igniting the paper. “Where there is fire…” he points the paper at Santos “There is smoke. The first sign of flame” he flicks the paper to extinguish it, and taps the top of his snout with the ashen edge “Is here”
“I, of course, always felt a little bit of jealousy of people who could just… Smell it. The smoke. That last bit of the flame that I am missing.” he closes the lighter with a powerful snap “I’d ask Lucas to describe to me the smell of various things burning… It… It was… Nice to have someone that understood it. And I was… Resigned, to the fact nature had made me this way, you know? Bad luck and all”
Slowly, he puts the lighter back on the pocket “And now this. I figure out that… No, that wasn’t nature giving me a bad draw” he brings his paws up to rub his eyes “‘Removed their sense of smell to increase their fear’, no speh. The first sign of fire is the smell of burning…” then, he flaps his ears like batting away some thought “Really? Just because I won’t ever really know if aramek and pine really do smell the same when burned? Is that why I’m feeling this angry? Not even because of what was done just… Just because I was reminded that I can’t…” and finally he sighs “I should be angrier at other parts of this”
Nila emits a light whistle of mirth “No, that’s fine. If anything, I know how important it is to you, Aren.” she offers him a ‘go ahead’ motion with her tail “I say this is just the thing to feel hard about, because it’s about what is important to you. As a person.”
The one who hadn’t been talking up to now finally pipes up “If you want to talk about having weird feelings… What’s it say that I am feeling a little relieved?” Marik says without looking away from his holopad
“Relieved?” Keya answers, ears splayed out horizontally in worry
The dark-furred venlil flicks in affirmative “Always knew there was… Something going on. Turns out that…” he chuckles “We’ve just always been like this”
Marik raises his holopad “I’ve gone and read some of the oldest data. Did you know there was an organization called ‘Rangers’? Their entire task was handling dangerous wildlife, they kept them away from cities and the roads safe” though nobody could really see what sort of video was playing in it, it had to be relevant “Makes sense, doesn’t it? That they’d try to fold them into the exterminators?”
“These records here? Show they tried, and oh… The Rangers made them regret that choice” he sets down his holopad “Because they were protectors of the herd, real hunters… And the exterminators… They were never about that, were they? Their real prey was always inwards.” he sighs “So… So it gives me some relief because… We’ve always been like this. There’s nothing out of the normal here, this is just… What we are”
Marik turns to Santos, looking at him head on “You were right. We are, and have always been, the greatest hunters of this world. And in some way, we hadn’t forgotten that, did we?”
“You sure didn’t” the human chuckles “I guess I can understand, if the translation is working right, why the exterminators might think rangers fit in with them only to regret it. A ranger’s job is as a caretaker of nature, no matter how dangerous it is”
Marik closes his eyes for a moment, slowly a hissing sound builds up- But then it starts to break into tiny whistles, increasing in intensity until he’s reached full blown laughter “Ah, of course! That’s right, isn’t it?” he puts a paw in his face “Father has always been right…” after a few moments he stops suddenly, then sighs “I… I need to make a call.” he simply walks out of the room.
Santos looks as the angry venlil walks out, then turns back to his boss. He stares at her for a moment “Everyone seems to be… Handling it decently, if not well.” he sighs “I know what it’s like to live through the end of the world, but finding i’ve been living this much of an illusion… I don’t know if I can even imagine what you’re going through”
Keya makes a dismissive motion with her tail “I can’t either… Honestly, this is… Just too much to care”
At that, he furrows his eyebrows, focusing his stare directly on her. But he says nothing.
“Look at the scale of this… Look at how long ago all this happened…” with a dismissive wave of her tail she continues “I think I know more than anyone here what it’s like to be stuck with the past. I got enough in mine that I don’t have space for this. We have a lot ahead of us to worry about, that’s what is important”
“What matters is the future, then?”
“Yeah… Me, I can’t bring myself to care. We still have a job to do, a job that needs done…” she then turns her gaze upwards “Of course… I might be doing that again but… I hope I’m not. Just like with the first reveal, things will get hectic. We can’t afford to be stuck in the past when the future is this uncertain.”
Then, she lets out a tiny whistle “Though, knowing all of this sure would have made solving the Black Claw a lot easier.”
Santos can’t help but follow along “Sure would. A lack of fight instinct was always too suspicious” he laughs a little bit, until he stops suddenly, staring off in the distance. The sudden shift in demeanor causes Keya to tilt an ear in his direction “Though… It does bring one thing to mind”
“What?”
“Entire species ousted as perpetrators, this entire organization historically used as colonial enforcers, an entire people who’ve been taught their entire lives that they’re meek harmless things only to learn that the fury they’ve always suppressed is normal.” Santos stands up, and stretches.
“People are going to be angry…” Keya continues
“And they’re going to make their anger known…” Santos looks at her “I think we’re about to learn what a stampede looks like, when it’s not fear driving it. But fury.”
[[FIRST][[NEXT>]]()
And here we are with one more season! "Day of Fury". Starting a little slower- As the crew receives the dreaded news from the Archives. They all have their thoughts on it, what parts of it matters to them, personally, as a people.
Though two are left with less worries about the past... And more about the future.
Not going to say i'm going to be as regular as i've been, those last few weeks have been... Something... But nothing that matters.

I’m reading every article and Reddit post I can find to figure out if I am the narcissist in my marriage. I’m too ashamed to talk about this with those close to me.
Context: Went to a work event on Thursday and happy hour after. I didn’t plan to stay late, but ended up losing track of time, having a blast with my colleagues. My phone died and at around 7pm and once I saw the time on someone else’s phone, I panicked, ran to my car to charge and saw all the catty texts (I share my location). I apologized and knew it would be an issue that my phone died and I didn’t communicate being out late (not the first time I’ve done it). Not wanting to deal with it, I stayed later and once I got home, I got all the snide remarks, divorce threats, basically accused of sleeping with colleagues, etc. Didn’t respond because I was tired. Went to sleep.
Friday morning, I wake up early to go to the gym & he pretends like nothing happened. Asks me “Are you getting breakfast?” with a smile. I don’t respond and run out the door while he’s in the bathroom (he is a nightmare when first waking up). I stop for breakfast on the way back. I get dressed and head out to work. He took the day off to attend my naturalization ceremony. I text him ahead of time to let him know I am heading to the location, no response & never showed up. Asks why I didn’t wake him up. My work best friend (F) attended and it was very sad when they “thanked all the families for coming out to support.” Never mentioned it to him, tried to stay positive and met him to watch a movie later. Didn’t apologize, like it never even happened.
Getting home after the movie, I’m winding down for bed, he keeps coming into the bedroom to say something smart, I don’t respond. The last smart thing he says before I lose my shit is “Is it time for us to get a divorce?” because “It seems like I’m unhappy”. I leave and go to the guest bedroom, but I can’t hold it in, so I storm back in there yelling “MAYBE IT IS TIME!” I start escalating and his responses are getting quieter & shorter about Happy Hour night. At this point, I’m raging, following him and saying “If you had a problem, why not come the hell out and say it? Why are you doing all this petty shit.” He tries to insult me and I insult back where I know his insecurities are. The troll under the bridge emerges & he slams the doorknob into the wall to punch a hole, kicks over the tower fan I bought & breaks it (doesn’t toss anything else in the room that’s “his”). We keep arguing until my body’s anxiety response makes me throw up. I clean myself up and calmly say “Maybe I’m not happy and I don’t know if I love you anymore” (paraphrasing). I go to bed.
Saturday was the culmination. Again, I wake up early to go to the gym. He hears me letting the dog out and emerges, arms wide open to hug me and says “So we can’t make up?” I say no and walk past him and run out the door. I get back, ready to run errands for the day (I do almost everything) and was going to take his truck to the car wash (he never does). He asks with an attitude “And where are you going?” I decide not to go to the car wash and grabbed my personal items out of the truck. I aggressively throw the keys back at him. He starts raging. Runs into the bedroom yelling, and swipes all my stuff off the dresser, and across the room. I immediately lose my shit. I knock over everything in sight. Cups of water & tea all over his gaming laptop (I gifted to him last xmas) and knock over the xbox, threw a picture frame and walk off. He runs into the living room, smashes my PS5 (he gifted to me for valentines day) into the floor and follows me down the stairs to shove me/knock cups of water I was taking to the sink out of my hands. Starts tossing everything out of his mancave into the hallway, threatens to break my company-issued laptop and destroy my brother’s car (parked at our house while traveling). He leaves the house, I tidy up the things of mine he knocked over in all the rooms and lock the bedroom door and don’t come out for rest of the day. He tries to enter the room several times.
If you’ve made it this far, am I the narcissist? I call out what I think is his narcissistic behavior all the time, but I know I have my own toxic traits too. It’s been 7+ years and we have had MANY similar blowouts, but this is the first time I’ve done something truly destructive… i don’t know if I feel bad about it…
If you think I am, what should I do to mend? If you think I am not, how do I leave? I’m exhausted.
< Update > Sunday: We slept in separate rooms. I am still holed up in the bedroom. I try to get normal things like laundry & cleaning done. He has made several attempts to enter the room (incessant knocking, rattling the doorknob, etc). If I hear him becoming loud, I open the door for fear he will kick the door in again (I had to spend $400 to fix the doorframe last time) I don’t say a word except for “Leave me alone” and “What do you want from me?” He keeps asking me “Can we be friends?”, “Why are you being so angry?”, “What is your problem?” I am drained and my mental health is in disarray. I will try to go to a counseling center near me tomorrow & think about how I can exit my marriage.

Lifetime - Staked: 892.4u, Profit/Loss: +12.04u, ROI: 1.35%, Parlay Suggestions: 171-67 Dog of the Week: 13-16
2024 - Staked: 245.3u, Profit/Loss: -21.32u
As always, scroll down for UFC Vegas 92 Breakdowns. The following is just a recap of last event’s results.
~UFC St. Louis (PREVIOUS CARD)~
Staked: 15.75u
Profit/Loss: -15.75u
Parlay Suggestions: 3-3
I’m not really sure how to write a review of a card where you go 0-11 in bets and lose 15.75u. All I know is I’m currently going through an awful year and results have been shocking, and mentally it’s becoming quite taxing. The records are cool and all, but I’m obviously losing money here also and suffering that much of a loss just doesn’t sit well. Mentally I’ve taken a bit of a hit, I can’t lie. Thankfully I’d done most of my research for this upcoming card before UFC STL took place so it shouldn’t cloud my decision making too much. Grateful we’ve got a break week coming up, I need some time to lick my wounds after this one.
I’ll save characters and just direct you to last week’s post if you’d like to see the disasterpiece that was my betting slate for that card.

~UFC Vegas 92~
Bang average card, and even worse from a betting perspective from the looks of these money lines! Honestly I don’t even know why anyone would read this from someone who just took as many consecutive Ls as I just did, but thanks for sticking around if you did. It probably won’t be a massive slate for me here anyway.
(also all breakdowns were written before UFC STL so the self-loathing stops here)

~Edson Barboza v Lerone Murphy~
Full disclosure, all my betting life I have been very keen to fade British fighters, despite being from the UK myself. The talent pool is just objectively smaller, the lack of combat sports in our school curriculum means fighters have less overall experience and years in competition, as well as the media’s and the UFC’s infatuation with hyping up any fighter from this country overall means that fading has been a net positive investment over the years. When it comes to betting lines, the oddsmakers in this country always hang the UK fighters out at slightly shorter prices too, because obviously that’s where the money is almost always going to go. I know I always did that.
Whilst we’re talking about betting, I’ll take the opportunity to get in a quick victory lap about Edson Barboza, who I confidently bet as an underdog to Sodiq Yusuff. The reads I made in for that fight almost looked like I’d seen it before, and it was probably my best bet of 2023 from a pure analytical perspective. Good times.
Edson Barboza has managed to turn incredibly underrated in recent years, mostly due to the fact he’s old and has been mauled a few performances lately. The blueprint to beat him is very clear - you either to go balls to the wall, crowd/pressure him and finish him early, or you cardio-wrestle him for 15/25 minutes.
It sounds quite simple, but both of those lanes require quite specific skillsets. They are obviously skillsets that Khabib, Tony Ferguson, Bryce Mitchell, Kevin Lee and Gaethje possess naturally, which explains 5 of his eight losses in recent years. The losses to Dan Ige and Paul Felder were scored terribly and should have been wins for Edson…and the remaining loss was to Giga Chikadze, which is the only time I think he’s been outclassed in what could be called an “even” fight on paper. Another key thing to note is that Edson is so explosive and dangerous that he has also managed to still score wins against fighters that do fit the stylistic blueprint to be able to make life difficult for him. People like Benny Dariush, Shane Burgos and Billy Quarantillo. But he finished all three of them. Another thing to note is that the calibre of every single name mentioned is very high.
So how does Lerone Murphy measure up against these blueprints? Well right off the bat his record shows he’s capable of a KO win, but it’s not a super reliable method and isn’t particularly process driven (IE it doesn’t come from him smothering his opponent with suffocating pressure early). In fact, his finish of Ricardo Ramos came from some surprisingly effective ground and pound, and the knee against Amirkhani was a fortuitous impact, in a fight where he was expected to find the finish against a guy with the ‘1 round of resilience’ curse.
So how about the wrestling/top control route? Well as previously mentioned Murphy showed some dangerousness in the way he finished Ramos in a grappling position, and his performance against Josh Culibao also shows that it’s his best chance of beating Edson. I have been impressed with his grappling ability in the UFC so far. He’s not a pure takedown artist though, and has averaged just 1.29 takedowns per 15 minutes inside the UFC. In that Culibao fight he was keen to clinch up, but took advantage of Culibao turning his back in the second. The third round was dominant for Murphy in regards to the grappling, but it all stemmed from him landing a body shot that pretty much compromised Culibao and turned him into a ragdoll for more than three minutes in the round. If all you do is look at UFCStats for that fight, then Murphy looks like Khabib…but the tape shows a very different story. He also probably should have gotten the finish there if we’re being critical!
I understand that Lerone Murphy is undefeated (although if you ask me he lost that Tukhugov debut, not that it matters), and has shown good moments from top position, but does doing that against a compromised Josh Culibao and Ricardo Ramos really justify you being the favourite against Edson Barboza? Edson’s fought the cream of the crop in the UFC since day one – his three most underwhelming results were losses to Jamie Varner, Donald Cerrone and Michael Johnson…that’s how ELITE the competition he’s faced has been. And even though he’s a bit long in the tooth he’s showing that he can still hang with guys at this level, like he did with Sodiq. Personally I think Yusuff is a more dangerous fighter for him than Lerone, who doesn’t appear to have that kind of imposing and dangerous striking style.
I think this betting line is putting so much unwarranted faith in Lerone Murphy. Yes, he could turn out to be a great prospect that enters the top 5 of the division one day, but we have not seen him show anywhere near the level of competence to be expected to beat Barboza more times than not. Stylistically, he doesn’t have anything that gives an immediate advantage against Barboza (at least nothing I could trust him to lean on for 25 minutes), the only angle there is age. Yes Barboza is getting a bit old and shopworn, but he’s still beating younger guys consistently. Also, whilst we’re talking about intangibles, Barboza is very experienced in five round fights, and the extra two rounds allow him back into the fight should his weakness towards early pressure show itself.
I’d say Edson should be around -150 here. The line available feels unsubstantiated and purely based on the age dynamic, as I have not seen anything from tape that implies Lerone Murphy is up to the task. He barely got past Gabriel Santos last year.
I had a great time betting Barboza as a dog last time, so I’m doing it again. 1u on Edson Barboza to Win at +125 or better. The line looks to be moving in Lerone’s favour at the moment so I will wait to bet this.
How I line this fight: Edson Barboza -150 (60%), Lerone Murphy +150 (40%)
Bet or pass: 1u Edson Barboza to Win (+XXX)
Prop leans: None

Khaos Williams v Carlston Harris
Pretty awful Co-Main Event. It’s a fun fight but neither man is really considered one-to-watch and they’ve barely fought once each in the last year. You telling me they couldn’t have found a better fight to go on the poster for this one?
Anyway, both men are a little bit wild on the feet, but Harris is clearly the less technical and defensively sound of the two.
Williams kind of forged his path in the UFC with KO victories, but when forced to be technical across 15 minutes he gives a decent enough account of himself (I’ve tried to fade him twice in that type of bout, against Randy Brown and Matt Semelsberger). He’s clearly going to look much better when he can find finishes, but I think I still expect him to be the more eye-catching fighter if this one is a 15 minute kickboxing affair.
But that’s the problem here…Carlston Harris’ grappling game is the strongest skillset that either man possesses, and it’s whether or not he can get it going that will likely determine who wins this one. Unfortunately, we have only seen Williams taken down twice in the UFC, both times by Michel Pereira (who isn’t even much of a wrestlegrappler himself). To make matters worse, they both came in the 14^th and 15^th minutes of the fight and we barely got to see anything, so they really are low quality examples.
I’ve been watching MMA long enough to know that a guy like Khaos Williams probably isn’t a particularly amazing grappler, but of course that’s still a huge assumption to make. With no knowledge of how Khaos is going to fare working off his back, I really do not think this fight is one that you can have any degree of confidence in. The books had initially lined it around a pick’em, which could well imply that they feel the exact same way. It’s unfortunately a pass from me, because a Williams with great TDD and process on bottom could end up being -300…but white belt Williams could look +300.
How I line this fight: Impossible to line with any confidence, so a pick’em is fine.
Bet or pass: Pass
Prop leans: None

~Angela Hill v Luana Pinheiro~
After chasing it for quite some time, MMA bettors finally managed to catch the fade on Luana Pinheiro. When she entered the UFC she was discredited for her exclusively R1 finishes, with people predicting her cardio would not be up to scratch. Things got worse when she took the coward’s way to a win against Jessica Penne – seemingly blowing her gas and then milking the extent of the damage done from an illegal strike and winning by KO. As we know from the MMA community, doing stuff like that will make you one of the most hated fighters on the roster. She then moved to 2-0 with a split decision win as a favourite against Michelle Waterson…which many people think she lost. Basically, not a very impressive stint in the UFC so far.
Finally she went up against Amanda Ribas, who went on to expose that dodgy cardio of Pinheiro, melting her in the third round with a beautiful wheel kick when Pinheiro was death gassed. Now we know it’s possible, the third round of Pinheiro’s fight against Waterson-Gomez makes a bit more sense, seeing as Waterson took over and clearly won it.
Nothing kills a hype train quicker than realising that a fighter has bad cardio, and it’s safe to say that whatever hype there was on Luana (minimal) is dead…because she’s a +125 underdog to Angela Hill here.
In my opinion, Angela Hill has been an incredibly underrated fighter for such a long time and absolutely deserves her flowers as one of WMMA’s most respected journeywomen. She’s had 24 UFC fights, and she’s still showing up better than fighters much younger than her and doesn’t appear to even be slowing down.
The blueprint on Hill has been pretty clear for some time – if you want to beat her relatively easily, you take her down. Otherwise, you’re going up against technically impressive striker that has the durability, a sneaky bit of power and seemingly limitless cardio to keep you honest. Really, if you manage to have success against Angela Hill on the feet, the best thing you can really hope for is about 55% of dominance (typically where two judges score one way, and another goes the opposite).
As I often say, statistics for MMA are best used when comparing WMMA strikers, and the figures here are quite eye-opening. Hill’s strike differential is vastly superior, and their defensive rates are very close. In short, if they stay on the feet for 15 minutes I think Hill should be expected to out-volume her opponent. When you factor in Pinheiro’s cardio deficiencies, that’s even more likely.
Therefore, Pinheiro has two routes to success here in my opinion – her typical R1 finish, or by going the grappling route. Firstly, Hill has never been finished via (T)KO in 29 professional fights (most of which have come at a high level), so I think it’s fair to say she deserves trust in being able to stay safe. She’s also quite an intelligent fighter, so I assume she’s going to be aware that her success will come in the latter half of the fight.
In terms of the grappling, Pinheiro landed five takedowns in the opening round against Markos, and that’s what forced her to gas out…so I don’t really think she’s going to be comfortable enough to lean on that skillset for 15 minutes straight. Hill is defensively quite sound on the mat as well, so as long as she can avoid getting stuck in a position I think she’ll be fine.
So in short, the only skillset I think Luana Pinheiro deserves credit for at this level is her R1 explosiveness, and Angela Hill is one of the worst opponents to pit that style against. Hill’s last victory proves that, as she survived the early barrage of another R1 finisher and took over in R2/3. I think the exact same mission statement applies here, and I think Angela Hill should definitely be trusted to do that. I’d personally line Hill somewhere like -175 to -200 here, so the -137 available at the time of writing was an easy bet to make. Let’s go Angie! 2u Angela Hill to Win at -137.
How I line this fight: Angela Hill -188 (65%), Luana Pinheiro +188 (35%)
Bet or pass: 2u Angela Hill to Win (-137), 0.25u Angela Hill to Win by Decision (+125 or better)
Prop leans: Hill couldn’t finish her dinner, so the decision prop will be one to look out for.
Live Betting Leans: If Pinheiro wins R1 and goes a bit crazy in trying to find a finish, betting Hill on the stool before R2 is a good move as the cardio fall-off could be live.

~Adrian Yanez vs Vinicius Salvador~
This feels like a weird mismatch and I don’t know why it’s happening.
Adrian Yanez is a classy and technical striker that I feel has become a bit overrated. The fans love him and put him on a pedestal as some sort of elite fighter’s fighter – I get that he’s fun to watch and a good boxer, but I’d argue he’s had more underwhelming performances than good in the UFC. He got styled on by Font and Martinez, was competitive against Davey Grant and lost more minutes than he won against Randy Costa. There’s not much shame in that and I’m not trying to say Yanez is bad, but I don’t think those performances warrant him being regarded as one of the most popular unranked fighters on the roster.
He faces Vinicius Salvador, who looked like an exciting fighter from his DWCS victory, but there was always a suspicion that he would have very little to offer outside of barn burners and very early KOs. The UFC pissed away the chance for a fan-friendly prelim guy by putting him up against two of the scrappiest and most durable guys at Flyweight – Victor Altamirano and CJ Vergara. The path to victory for both men was very clear there, and they grinded out long-distance victories after Salvador had nothing to offer after five minutes.
The UFC should have instantly viewed Salvador the same as they do Trevor Peek. Someone who is hilariously flawed but scrappy and entertaining to watch nonetheless. His striking style is unorthodox and weird, which looks great when he’s the hammer but awful when he’s the nail. Against a fighter as scrappy and technical sound a boxer as Yanez, this obviously seems like a tall order.
But ironically, whilst this is the toughest opponent Salvador has faced so far in his career, it’s probably his most winnable fight too. Yanez will oblige him in providing a war for the fans, which will give Salvador his chance to land that early KO. Yanez also been pieced up twice in a row so durability could also be a bit more questionable. Yes there is a massive gap in technique and overall skill…but one clean right hand can trump all of that, and Yanez can be hit by one.
Yanez is a -350 favourite here, which is a very easy way to put that final nail in the coffin of considering betting him. Whilst I do think he probably deserves to be close to that number in terms of his overall winning probability, it really won’t take much for the tables to turn massively here, so risking -350 seems like a terrible idea.
A bet on Salvador on the return is too ugly to stomach though, because he could also get absolutely styled on. It’s an easy pass all round.
How I line this fight: Adrian Yanez -250 (71%), Vinicius Salvador +250 (29%)
Bet or pass: Pass
Prop leans: FDGTD very likely but doubt the price is at all playable.

~Oumar Sy v Antonio Trocoli~
We’re all jealous of Antonio Trocoli, AKA Mr Mackenzie Dern. I’ve probably got more to say about her than I do about this fight.
I’m obviously not going to do any tape for this fight, so the only thing of note from their records is that Trocoli has regional loses to Dhiego Lima (pre-UFC) and Jacob ‘Christmas’ Volkmann (post-UFC), both of which are pretty concerning losses. He also popped for steroids on DWCS, so who knows how good he actually is when he’s clean.
Sy is a terrifying specimen of a man, with a 9-0 record by KO/SUB/DEC. I suppose this is a good time to remind you that William Knight also looked like a god.
Why would you bet this fight? Just pass and take the info we get here into their next appearances.
How I line this fight: I’d have more confidence in my ability to hook up with Mackenzie Dern than my ability to accurate cap this fight.
Bet or pass: Pass
Prop leans: Over 1.5 Mackenzie Dern sightings (-200)

~Emily Ducote v Vanessa Demopoulos~
Two very middle-of-the-road WMMA fighters that I am quite familiar with.
Demopoulos got to the dance via her grappling and submission ability, but has spent time honing her skills on the feet that she actually seems to have abandoned a grappling based approach entirely, having landed an average of 0.49 takedowns per 15 mins in her UFC/DWCS career so far. On the feet, she’s scrappy and actually does hit kind of hard, but the technique is still very much a work in progress. She makes up for the lack of finesse with pure enthusiasm and grit, and will stay in her opponent’s face and swing until the final bell. She’s also pretty durable too, having never lost by finish in 15 fights with striking that’s that sketchy.
Emily Ducote is kind of the polar opposite. She’s a dedicated striker that has decent enough grappling defence. She has little to no power in her hands, but she’s reliable to rack up decent volume and can keep it up across 15 minutes. She has landed 100+ significant strikes in 3 of her 4 UFC bouts, but she’s also absorbed 100+ in 3 too.
The summary of this one is that Ducote is just the cleaner striker of the two, but I think this -330 price tag is a bit ridiculous. Yes, comparing the stats makes it seem that Ducote will win easily, but Demopoulos has faced quite a few opponents that have wanted to grapple her, and her Strikes landed per minute figures are skewed as a result. Given that Ducote absorbs a similar number to what she lands, I think Demopoulos’ enthusiasm should see her land far more than she has done before. Also, Demopolous’ fight metrics are often inferior to her opponents in all of the fights she loses, so the stats do her a major disservice to how competitive she can be.
I always say that there’s a real ceiling in regards to how much you can favour a striking based WMMA fighter if they have no power or finishing ability. The judges do not score technique, so the 50+ pitter patter punches they land can easily be trumped by any instance where it looks like they get hurt on the return, so in this instance I think Vanessa’s power and forward pressure could be enough to make rounds closer than the odds suggest they should be.
In short, Ducote price is nuts but she should probably win so definitely deserves to be favoured. I wouldn’t bet anything here other than FGTD, which could be a decent parlay piece anywhere less than -400. I’d be interested to see what Ducote by Decision looks like because I do rate Demopolous’ durability and see it going the distance quite frequently…so +100 or better would get my money.
How I line this fight: Emily Ducote -250 (71%), Vanessa Demopoulos +250 (29%)
Bet or pass: 1u Emily Ducote to Win by Decision (+100 or better)
Prop leans: See above

~Ramiz Brahimaj v Themba Gorimbo~
Stylistically this is a very funny fight, because it’s between two guys whose strengths and weaknesses are exactly the same. They’re both aggressive grapplers with average to bad striking, and they’ll hunt for the finish from the opening bell…and fall off a cliff at the halfway point if they can’t find it.
Themba Gorimbo is unfortunately completely unbettable at this stage in his career, I think. He’s obviously got this narrative with The Rock going on, and it’s somehow managed to turn him from a sub-par, barely UFC quality fighter that can’t beat AJ Fletcher, to someone whose fame actually manages to transcend MMA a little bit. Just goes to show how important those post-fight interviews can be! That popularity obviously swells his betting line as he’s likely to garner more money and attention from bettors, whereas Brahimaj is a nobody unless you’re a hardcore with a good memory. Couple that with the fact Themba’s style is not sustainable across 15 minutes, and you’ve got a fighter with a very limited path to victory that you can rely on, who comes with an eye-watering price tag.
Whilst Brahimaj’s betting line would lean towards the value side due to Thema’s popularity, this is the first time we have seen him compete in over two years. He was a fighter that came in during COVID times, and immediately got thrown into the deep end when matchmaking was difficult. I bet Max Griffin against him due to Max’s durability (IE my bet was ‘Max to survive and turn the tables’), and it resulted in Griffin slicing Ramiz’s ear in half with an elbow (one of the more gruesome moments we have ever seen in the cage). Ramiz managed to hit is PTV against Micheal Gillmore (the runt of the litter in a season of TUF who had no right competing in the UFC. The only interesting thing about him was that his parents couldn’t even spell his own name ), as well as Sasha Palatnikov. When facing a veteran grappler like Court McGee, I also won a bet backing the experience and durability of a guy like Court (which is ironic given I’ve bet on Court to be KO’d in his last two).
So basically, my summary here is that Thembo deserves to be favoured simply by being more proven and in the better recent form. He’s got good enough grappling all round to be able to stop Ramiz from being so dominant as a round one buzzsaw, and unless Brahimaj has made some major changes in the two years off, Themba’s probably got the slightly superior cardio (by a bit) and therefore should still be around once his opponent fades.
The -275 betting line is absurd though, as I mentioned earlier, because there’s a likelihood that Themba gasses out himself too, and it could easily be Brahimaj that’s fresher in the latter stages, should we get there. Therefore, it’s a very easy pass. I will take a look at the round props as there could potentially be an angle on some sort of combination, but we will see.
How I line this fight: Themba Gorimbo -200 (67%), Ramiz Brahimaj +200 (33%)
Bet or pass: Fight to End in Rounds 2 or 3 (price dependent), or something like that
Prop leans: See above

~Tom Nolan v Victor Martinez~
I’m bored of saying it, but Jesus Christ the calibre of a ‘UFC Fighter’ is just so low these days. Tom Nolan just got knocked out in 63 seconds as a -350 favourite to Nikolas Motta (shoutout to me for sort of predicting that), and Victor Martinez’s UFC debut saw him get knocked out cold by JORDAN LEAVITT.
So what do you do, bet at -350 on an unproven fighter who shat the bed at the exact same price tag last time? Or trust a guy who got put to sleep by the hands of Jordan Leavitt?
Obviously, you pass. If I see a single parlay screenshot with Nolan in it this weekend I will lose all hope.
How I line this fight: I like my chances of pulling Mackenzie Dern for a second time, more than I like my chances of lining this fight accurately.
Bet or pass: Pass
Prop leans: See above

~Abus Magomedov v Warlley Alves~
Abus Magomedov needs to fire his manager. He started off his UFC career with a highlight reel KO inside 20 seconds, and had the world at his feet. Then he gets a main event spot against Sean Strickland. Fair enough taking an opportunity, but trying to speed run the rankings is a terrible idea when you consider all they want to do these days is play monopoly and generate stars. It’s much better to KO bums in the prelims and get paid a 50k bonus a few times than do what he did against Strickland…because look who he got for his third fight after losing in embarrassing fashion - Caio Borralho, who is lowkey one of the best prospects in the UFC at the moment in my opinion. Abus basically went from prospect to fodder when he lost to Strickland, and I wouldn’t expect him to stick around in the UFC for too much longer if he doesn’t start delivering early KOs again.
He should be able to get the better of Warlley Alves though. Alves looks hella old and shopworn, despite only being 33 years old somehow. He has ridden the coattails of having a win against Colby Covington on his record for his entire career, because he’s done nothing remarkable with it since. His loss to James Krause was the fight where it was apparent Alves was on the decline, and a ‘loser leaves town’ win against the equally old and frail Sergio Moraes was the only thing keeping him afloat. He scored a shock upset KO via body kicks against Mounir Lazzez (who turned out to be a bit of a fraud anyway), but the writing has been on the wall for Warlley for some time. Fast forward a few years and he's on a threefight losing streak again, having been beaten down pretty badly and finished in under 1.5 rounds in four of his last five losses.
That’s a key piece of info for this one, because we know Abus’ limitations revolve around him being a great early fighter with terrible and unsustainable levels of cardio. When looking at Abus’ fights, you need to decipher the chances of him winning early, and that will explain the rest.
Given Alves’ frailty, I think this is a pretty generous fight for Magomedov – possibly the most appropriate and tailor-made matchup they could have found for him!
His winning probability relies heavily on doing work early, so naturally betting Abus R1/2 KO would be the obvious go to. I’m not sure there will be any value on that prop though, because it’s a pretty obvious angle that everyone’s going to try and take. However, I’ve long known that Bet365’s Bet Builder product is broken when combining Winner + Total Rounds, especially before they release the rest of the props as it’s completely out of context…so Backing Abus to Win and Under 1.5 Rounds at the right time could produce a valuable price before it gets corrected. That’s all I’ll be looking to play for this fight, assuming those early Abus props are rubbish. Be careful what price is available if you’re considering this, it’s going to be much shorter than normal and it’s a very limited window to be betting on.
How I line this fight: Abus Magomedov -250 (71%), Warlley Alves +250 (29%)
Bet or pass: Abus Magomedov to Win & Under 1.5 Rounds (+125 or better)
Prop leans: See Above
Live Betting Leans: I’d take a look at Alves on the stool after R1, but I don’t think I could trust him really.

~Piera Rodriguez v Ariane Carnelossi~
Ariane Carnelossi returns after two years on the sidelines. I’ve always jokingly been a fan of her, because that fight against Na Liang (the first UFC Fight back with fans after COVID) was genuinely one of the highlights of 2021 and it was such a fun fight with a crazy energy. Also helps that I bet her heavily in that.
Carnelossi’s a decent striker that actually hung with Angela Hill back in the day, but her wrestling defence is a clear weak point. She got absolutely ragdolled in one of the best UFC performances I can remember when she faced Loopy Godinez, and even Na Liang had some success in that opening round. She’s not a fish off her back or anything, but if you can’t defend takedowns and your opponent has the cardio and ability to chain takedowns together…you’re going to struggle.
Piera Rodriguez is a pretty well-rounded fighter, she’s decent enough in the striking realm and has a diverse arsenal with kicks and a whole lot of feints, but she’s also a decent enough grappler that can commit to that multiple takedown approach. She’s landed three or more in each of her UFC/DWCS victories and just generally does a good job of showcasing herself to be a well-rounded mixed martial artist. My biggest criticism of her is that she does look to have slight signs of bad cardio, as her third rounds against both Hughes and Hansen were a bit laboured and slow.
So initially this fight was lined as a clear pick’em, which I didn’t agree with at all. Whilst Carnelossi should be able to show some competitiveness, her inability to defend takedowns should see her on the back foot for a fair bit of this fight, and her desire to land the knockout with every punch she throws could even see her lose moments on the feet to Piera’s kicking game and more technical style. Carnelossi does have a bit of a cardio advantage though, which Piera will have to navigate, but other than that I think the Venezuelan should be given the nod as a moderate favourite, probably around -175. Considering I got Piera at -120, I thought that was worthy of a 2u bet. If the line continues to move though, I may arb out as I think -175 is a very fair number.
How I line this fight: Piera Rodriguez -175 (64%), Ariane Carnelossi +175 (36%)
Bet or pass: 2u Piera Rodriguez to Win (-120)
Prop leans: Probably a decision win for Piera, Carnelossi is dedicated and Piera not much of a finisher.

~Alatengheili v Kleydson Rodrigues~
I write the same synopsis for Alatengheili because the guy never changes. Here’s a paragraph from his last fight that I wrote:
Alatengheili is one of the most frustrating talents I’ve seen in MMA in recent years. He was once the number three freestyle wrestler in China and looks to actually have a really promising wrestling game…but he just doesn’t fight like it! In his UFC debut, he faced a clearly superior striker and waited until round 3 to start shooting religiously (no attempts in R1 or 2, 7 attempts in R3). After that, he did exactly the same again in a split decision win against Ryan Benoit (1 TD attempt in R1, none in R2, and 12 in R3). He then faced Casey Kenny, who is a great defensive grappler…and decided not to attempt a takedown. Then he faced Gustavo Lopez, who took HIM down three times from eight attempts, and none from Alatenheili. He went on to beat Kevin Croom in under a minute on the feet, then went back to his regular style of waiting until R3 for takedowns when he beat Chad Anheliger. In the Gutierrez fight that followed, he attempted four takedowns and landed two. These all came in – you guessed it- round three.
So I think it’s fair to assume that we can’t call Alatengheili much of a wrestler anymore. When he’s striking on the feet, he’s clearly got some power in a big wind up shot, but other than that it’s quite flat footed and low volume stuff. Those aren’t particularly good qualities, as he’s hardly demonstrating a clear killer instinct that makes up for bad minute winning fundamentals.
Kleydson Rodrigues is a guy I was quite excited about when he got to the UFC. He looked great on DWCS, but immediately had a tough test against CJ Vergara in his debut. I do personally think he won that fight, but CJ’s pace, pressure and tenacity got the better of him down the stretch and made that fight close. He returned and obliterated Shannon Ross, before being steamrolled on the mat by Farid Basharat. A real mixed bag of results, overall.
The thing is, I don’t exactly think that the losses Rodrigues suffered are directly relevant here, as Farid’s topside grappling is way way better than Alateng’s. The Mongolian also doesn’t have the forward pressure or pace of CJ Vergara, due to how flat footed he is.
On the flipside, Alatengheili has struggled against fighters who technically outclass him on the feet, or those with good takedown defence. The Mongolian has proven to be a tough fighter to put away, which should give him a chance to take over at the midway point.
Comparatively, I think Kleydson Rodrigues has shown himself to be a higher calibre striker than Alatenheili, and clearly the more diverse one. Kleydson also throws a lot of low kicks, which are a key weapon when trying to nullify the grappling threat of the already flat footed power puncher.
In conclusion, I just think Kleydson Rodrigues outclasses Alatengheili in the striking, whereas I don’t think the Mongolian outclasses him anywhere on the return. The Mongolian has proven he is keen to stay on the feet for the majority of fights, which should leave the door wide open for Kleydson to win minutes. The cardio advantage does lie with Alateng, but I don’t think he pushes enough of a pace in the grappling or striking department to make Kleydson fade like he did against CJ (who is one of the more suffocating guys in the division). Also, Alateng’s grappling threat in R3 may well be nullified by the 10 minutes of leg kick investment that Kleydson has already made.
So as you can probably tell, I favour Kleydson Rodrigues in this one. I personally thought he should be a -200 favourite, so I was expecting to pass on this one…but it looks like the BetOnline moneyline is moving towards -150. For some strange reason the fight is barely available in the UK for now, but I’m hoping that -150 would be available for me to bet for 2u.
How I line this fight: Kleydson Rodrigues -200 (67%), Alatengheili +200 (33%)
Bet or pass: 2u Kleydson Rodrigues to Win (-160 or better)
Prop leans: None
Live Betting Leans: If it’s 1-1 going into the third and there’s been a pace…I’d recommend betting Alatengheili.

~Tamires Vidal v Melissa Gatto~
Melissa Gatto is a competent and well-rounded fighter. She went to competitive decisions with Tracey Cortez and Ariane Lipski. She is UFC quality.
Tamires Vidal is a plodding fighter that doesn’t appear to be very good at defensive grappling. She went to a competitive decision against Montserrat Rendon. She is not UFC quality.
Gatto is -400. It’s a very steep price to pay but I don’t think it’s too far off where it ought to be – she should be able to point strike on the feet and have very decent grappling success, where she can definitely fish for a submisison. I’d be interested in seeing what the price on Gatto by Submission is though, so I may be looking to play that.
How I line this fight: Tamires Vidal +300 (25%), Melissa Gatto -300 (75%)
Bet or pass: Xu Melissa Gatto to Win by Submission (+300 or better)
Prop leans: See above

Bets (Bold = been placed)
2u Edson Barboza to Win (+130)
2u Angela Hill to Win (-137)
2u Piera Rodriguez to Win (-120)
2u Kleydson Rodrigues to Win (-150)
Xu Emily Ducote to Win by Decision (+100 or better)
1u Abus Magomedov to Win & Under 1.5 Rounds (+100 or better)
Xu Melissa Gatto to Win by Submmission (+300 or better)
0.25u Parlay Pieces (+699)
Parlay Pieces: Angela Hill, Emily Ducote, Abus Magomedov, Kleydson Rodgriguez, Melissa Gatto
Dog of the Week: Edson Barboza

made this for my narrative essay in american literature, but one of my friends said i should share the story
“But I Still Need You” Throughout my life, I had always fallen easy for girls. The elementary mindset of, “she’s cute, so I have a crush on her,” prevented me from developing a legitimate relationship with any girl I tried to talk to. The few times that my feelings were reciprocated, I had no idea because I was already on to the next girl, and this continued until I was left with a multitude of friend-zone situations and a list of “crushes.” My charisma already lacking, it seemed each year that passed, previous to 3rd grade, I grew in weight and therefore awkwardness. The struggle to interact with women lessened as I grew up, while the fat remained. So, by the 8th grade I was the ideal guy friend; easy to talk to, kinda funny, understanding, and unintimidating. My approachable “funny fat friend” nature had its ups and downs. While guys, for reasons I still don’t fully understand, suspected me to be gay, girls found it intriguing and it made them want to be friends with me more. Back then I didn’t know, but now I know that by being forced to be friends first, after finding out I was in fact not gay, the right woman for me would want to be with me for my personality. In the winter of 2021, I fell hard for a girl named Madeline. Maddie was no different than many of the other girls in that she had a bland personality and I thought she was cute. She had brunette hair with bangs, big glasses, way too much makeup on, and a unique fashion sense. Her sense of fashion was one of the few interesting things about her, yet it was disregarded by the public. Not too many guys found her appealing, but I did, for whatever reason. I was dead set on getting to know her better in hope of becoming more than friends. Unfortunately, she hardly paid attention to me, but I didn’t give up. I merely slowed down because of my interest in her friend, Isabella. Isabella is the Spanish and Italian variation of Elizabeth (derived from the Hebrew name Elisheba). The meaning of Elishiba can be translated to, “God is my oath.” In Arabic, the beginning of Isabella, “Isa,” is the classical Arabic name for Jesus, while in the French language, the shortened version of Isabella, “Belle,” translates to “beautiful.” I had met Isabella in the sixth grade, and grew a tiny crush on her, in the elementary sense, before we all went into hibernation (COVID). I barely knew her though, and she had no idea who I was, so when we interacted in my last two classes, if we did at all, it was like two strangers who kept running into each other. I sat by her in my sixth period, and one seat up and to the right from her in seventh. We only ever made small talk and the occasional joke, but when I spoke with her I felt content. Still barely knowing her, all I could admire was the little things in the way she laughed and spoke. I longed to know more about Isabella, she was mature, intelligent, and very opinionated, but still light-hearted and made time pass at the speed of light. It wasn’t until she was in my group in sixth period one day that she began to open up a little by sharing the details of her current long-distance relationship. The shards of my heart stabbed and crushed my stomach; hope, the oxygen to my mind, depleted faster than the air of a broken space shuttle; palpitation, nausea, asphyxia, and neurosis bombarded me like Persian arrows on the Greeks. Then, all at once, the excruciating tidal wave evaporated, but instead of calm waters, I was left with a drought. Every emotion muted or gone, my body went numb while everything I cared for vanished from my mind. I didn’t speak throughout the rest of that day, and went directly from the bus to decaying in my bed. I was devastated, so I retreated to my pointless crush on Maddie. Unrelated to the rather sad lovelife, my anxiety and depression worsened throughout 8th grade, and while I was going to therapy, most of my issues wouldn’t and still haven’t been worked through. Throughout the school year I had developed a toxic system of self pity, in which I would spend hours a day cycling through the feelings of hope, anger, and despair- never that of joy. I knew what I was doing, gathering enough hope to face the school day just before I reflected on the doubts and grievances going on throughout my life. I’d bring myself up just for a greater fall because honestly, overtime I became numb to the natural pain. If I were going to fall into the pit that is depression, the higher I peaked in terms of optimism the more excruciating the freefall of nausea and the heavy flow of salt water. At that point in my life, I saw no point in getting out of bed to do anything, school or even my own mother’s birthday. By the end of eighth grade I had spent almost a total of six weeks absent, two of which were from me being quarantined. Typically over the span of one or two days, others up to four, I would be in my bed “sick.” During these mini-vacations I would sleep all morning, if my mom let me, and stay up all night, oftentimes listening to Radiohead or Cigarettes After Sex while staring at my ceiling. I wanted to stay up, I wanted to feel the bags grabbing and pulling towards my cheekbone, I wanted to feel empty, emotionally and physically. During the day, my anxiety attacks became panic attacks and I would get sent home for vomiting. I'd throw up to give Mom a reason to let me stay home. I’d throw up to feel something, anything. I’d throw up to keep my stomach empty. I’d throw up because I had to, because the nerves and overthinking forced me to. Every morning, I’d drag my black air force ones across cement, carpet, tiles, and marble, each step leading towards Mrs. Clements’ homeroom. For every step, a different worry or insecurity flashed through my brain. But then, out of the blue, I’m “Lincoln” again. I walk into homeroom with an ear-to-ear grin and dap up “the boys”. I’d spend the morning building up hopes of making Isabella laugh today, or maybe calling her once I got home, but I knew that nine times out of ten my hopes were delusional. To “Lincoln,” this was no problem, he would make a gay joke, join the boys with teasing a cute girl in my class, and laugh until just for a moment, the despair was gone. Finally, the sixth period would come and I’d get to see Isabella. In here I got the least work done out of all my classes as I would find myself strategically planning my next interaction with her, just for said plans to go out the window when I was brought face to face with her. Typically seventh period followed the same pattern except Ms. Shirley Davis could never allow small talk in her classroom. When the last bell rang, I went straight to the buses. I’d sleep on the way home, dreaming of a call that would hardly happen. On the off chance my phone didn’t reach its feared 11th cry, we’d talk for hours at a time. On a weekday or not, it seemed that, when we did call, it was guaranteed to go into the early morning. It’s hard to put my finger on a specific topic, or even general. In our conversations, we discussed anything and everything. Everything, except her own love interest. I admired this, as my inability to keep who I’m thinking about at the time a secret is a major flaw of mine. The more that me and her spoke, the more I grew to love her. Our talks were so honest, so raw, that the secret I held began to eat away at me. My core collapsing like a dying star, each day it felt like the pain got worse. To cope with the feelings I had buried deep inside me, I’d turn to my friends. At first, they said to come forward with my feelings, but I knew that’s what any friend would’ve said. The relief I got from venting the conflicting hurricane within me was brief. Overtime, their words of encouragement turned to annoyance, and understandably so. When people grew sick of the same old sadistic untold love, I turned to Isabella. I wrote a text so full that, to read it, one needed to tap on an arrow at the bottom right corner of my message. The essay was compiled with the confliction I had, developing feelings for a friend, and the sorrow that filled me each day that passed without her. I described the perfect imperfections that I admired about her, how life was complete when I spoke to her, the beauty that paralyzed me every time I saw her in person, and the character that I felt God had curated specifically for me. Sitting there unsure if I should press send, a fear grew within my chest that Isabella would see right through me. I could hear the music that so often triggered tears; the vocals of Thom Yorke or the beats of Kanye West, they faded in and out. What if she didn’t even respond? What if she thought I was a creep? What if- then she responded. Suddenly, the ominous 808s & Heartbreak pounding vanished, my respiratory chaos became paralyzed, and time stood still. I couldn’t breathe until I finished reading, and once I did, my sigh was all but relieving. Isabella explained to me how unhealthy my habits were; even in comparison to the anguish that would follow, I’d suffer far more and far longer should I suppress my emotions. She told me how that level of affection, in the context of the warped concept of romance most men had, was something she had only dreamt of. Isabella said that holding these feelings would eat away at me, exponentially increasing in severity, until I broke. Not only would I be hurting myself, but I would be depriving the person I care about most from the appreciation they deserve. I became bloated with fear of the friendzone, those insecurities, all based upon inference, became a reality with Isabella’s last piece of advice. She said, “If she doesn’t reciprocate those emotions, then don’t worry. I’m sure there’s a girl out there who can appreciate your compassion.” The blame had no other place to go than my shoulders, after all, I got what I asked for, advice on another girl. Isabella, even if she saw the crush I had on her, is far too kind to address it. She cared for everyone, and to her, she was merely boosting up a friend who’s down. For the rest of the night her text echoed through my mind; pain, regret, and admiration caused my mind to sporadically leap from conclusion to conclusion. Two years later, those words still haunt me, reiterations of that phrase torturing me when I least expect them. The school year progressed, but my aspirations with Isabella didn’t. Over time, the frequency of my writings grew to be weekly, at times reaching two a week, and the weight of my confessions depleted. I opened my audience to a mutual friend of Isabella’s, Miley, with the intention of acquiring useful advice. Eventually, my choice to try concealing what I felt for Isabella became too heavy of a burden, weighing down on me in forces I had not endured before. Soon, the love I had for Isabella turned to hatred for myself. I was relentlessly criticizing every aspect of myself and my mind. I hated how fat I was, my smile, my voice, my laugh, and most of all my personality. What I had thought was my greatest strength, was revealed as my worst trait. The gullibility I exhibited when thinking for a second Isabella could possibly like me; the lack of confidence that caused me to chicken out of confessing my feelings to her; my insufferable need to make people laugh; the hyperfixation I would develop for those that I love. Everything about me was wrong. I stopped eating, stopped sleeping, stopped caring, and eventually I stopped living. The “Lincoln” my friends had grown to recognize, the only remnant of the joy I felt when I was younger, died, and I was left with only my love for Isabella and resentment for myself. I began testing the limits of what was left of me, praying for relief. At first in the middle of the night, an anaconda would find its way to my throat, wrapping around my neck. Its cold black scales gracefully gliding across my skin before silencing my cries with the swift tug of its metallic USB head. The snake would maintain pressure until I let go of it, the entire time whispering into my ear, begging me to hold on. Some nights it came with what must have been a full stomach for it was drastically wider, it was brown these nights, with leather skin, and a slight warmth, but it behaved the same. Most visits from the snake ended with my vision blurry, my breath short, or my head dizzy. The only consistency of our transactions was Asia’s Death Lake that streamed down my face from start to finish. Eventually, the snake seemed closer and closer to silencing me forever, but I also became used to its visits. I began writing letters to everyone I loved so that, should the snake come out victorious, they’d have a final goodbye. Once I had sorted out my notes, I called the snake to my room. This time it came striped with shades of blue, its skin a soft fabric. For once, I controlled the snake, because our intentions finally aligned. I locked the door, sent out my texts, placed the written notes on my dresser, and joined the snake at my closet door. Holding onto the doorknob, the snake wrapped itself around my neck just as it had done in nights of the past. It whispered to me, “let go,” for I had been on my knees in hesitation. I followed the snake’s order by making a sort of plank with my body, the bottom half resting on a stack of dirty laundry and pillows while the top was supported by my elbows. Pressure swiftly fell down on my neck and didn’t stop. “This is it,” I thought to myself. My eyes seemed to pop out of my skull, and my tears, falling down like summer rain, became blurry dots as my vision went dark. Next thing I know, I’m waking up, snot, saliva, and tears strung between my face and the carpet floor. My head pounding and my eyes burning, I looked up at the “snake” that was the tie my mom had gotten me for Sunday service. Although my mind was more clear, it was not out of revelation, but from a muted sense of the world around me. Other than Isabella, nothing mattered anymore, and the little emotion I felt was squashed by my immortal love. The following day I get called to the counselors office on charges of suicidal thoughts and self harm. I said what I had to in order to escape her grasp, but left infuriated. Not only had my own friends betrayed me, but the lady who was supposed to guide me essentially scolded me for being sad. Throughout the day my anger faded out and my focus became making an excuse as to why my parents got a weird call from my counselor, then I’d find the traitor who sold me out. That afternoon, I lost two friends, and for the first time ever got mad at Isabella. Apparently, Miley, Maddie, and Isabella all reported me to the counselor that morning. They said I had been traumatizing them with what was going on in my life, being normal and messing around at school, then detailing my thoughts and actions to them outside of school. I felt like I had been tricked. I thought they were my friends. I thought they understood me. They asked me if I was okay, they said they wanted, cared, needed to know, but now I had scared them? I addressed what had happened with Miley first. She immediately lashed out at me, saying I should be thanking them, not be mad. While I didn’t want to accept it, I understood the core of her choices. On the other hand, Maddie’s response to my confrontation was disgustingly cruel. She said I had been unfair and just seeking attention, that no thirteen to fourteen year old should hear about what I was going through because it was unnatural. Before she continued, I apologized, that’s all I could think to do, because deep down I believed her. She told me it wasn’t all my fault because my brain was messed up, and that opening up to the girls would only make them not want to be friends with me. The one word that rang through my head then, and still does today, was “creep,” she claimed that what I felt wasn’t love, but I was just mentally unstable and creepy. Any remnants of the sweet kid from elementary school who just wanted a friend and loved everyone were obliterated. Maddie was right, all I had done was hurt and scare them, it didn’t matter what I thought. I told her all I could, that I didn’t know what to say other than I was sorry for the damage I had done, and I would try and get better. Her response, like a branding iron on my mind, was, “It’s not damage, it’s baggage. Imagine if the roles were reversed.” It was only then that I stopped texting back. I wish I could say it was out of frustration or self respect, but the reality of my manipulative traits is what silenced me. Shockingly, the response that hurt the most was from Isabella, yet it somehow meant the most to me too. Isabella told me that she needed me in the world. She told me that if I ever got those thoughts again, to think about her as well; to think about the pain I’d be causing her; to think about the trauma she’d live with for the rest of her life. After repeating the phrase, “I need you in my life,” she acknowledged how selfish it was, but still didn’t care. Isabella continued elaborating, she didn’t care because no label of selfishness outweighed the value of my life. What she said that night has been vivid in my mind since, but my only wish is that she had needed me as I needed her. Tears began to hide my freckled cheeks as I texted her about how much her words meant to me, how much she meant to me, and I apologized to her. I said sorry for the baggage I caused, the “creepy” behavior, and any other ways I had wronged her. I said sorry for loving her, and told her I’d do better. She disregarded my apologies, telling me that I could always talk to her because no matter the baggage she could carry, it’d be worth taking the smallest bit off of me. Her words meant so much to me, yet hurt me just the same. I hated myself for it. I couldn’t see a life without an affection for her, it was pathetic. If I truly loved her, I’d let my feelings go, right? What kind of person did that make me? Summer came and went. Hoping that time would kill the crush I had on Isabella, I prohibited myself from contacting her. Instead I spent time with my family and a few friends, but Isabella never left my head. Even when accompanying my dad to Berry College for the Governor’s Honors Program, she’s what filled my head. At first I felt frustrated because before I had come forward to her, she had known about the feelings I had. I came to the conclusion that she had been dragging me along, but even then I knew how easily that thought would be abandoned. First day of High school, I got in touch with her. For maybe two weeks, I maintained a platonic relationship before free falling into the ominous pit once again. This time felt different though, it felt like what I had thought about everyday, for what seemed eternity, could be more than a daydream. We texted each other throughout the school day and facetimed after her cheer practice and my band practice. Eventually, Isabella was falling asleep on call. Before, we’d talk long into the night, and it began to drain the energy out of the both of us. Now, we were listening to music, playing Roblox, watching Netflix, or just sitting in silence. I had never felt comfortable with silence, but she made it seem better than having a conversation with anyone else. It’s a beautiful thing when words aren’t required to appreciate someone. The moment I had the courage to do so, I asked her out to Steak n’ Shake. It’s just my luck that the restaurant was hardly a shell of what I remembered as a kid. At first the conversation was awkward because we hardly spoke in person, but as time progressed so did we. I still remember the tightness of my cheeks as I failed to suppress my ear-to-ear grin. The euphoric nausea and beating heart that disappeared throughout our conversation. I remember the booth we sat in, the fact that she wanted me to swap seats with her because of her creaky seat, the way she giggled, how I fought tooth and nail to pay for such a small bill, the way she smiled when she said, “next time you’ve gotta let me pay,” and the shared excitement for our next hangout. Even though Isabella and I were still friends, even though the restaurant was a disaster, even though the fries were stale and the milkshakes chunky, that moment is one of the best in my life. With how well things were going, I thought that it was my best chance at making something more out of this friendship. So, I shot my shot. I told her that despite my efforts the summer before, she still held a special place in my heart. Isabella responded with her own struggles with recovering from a past relationship, detailing the trust issues and pain she still felt almost a year later. I was yet again, devastated. Then she added that despite her own feelings, she had to be careful and the risk of losing our friendship scared her. I understood her reasoning, but it made me sick to think of how close I was. In response, I expressed how I could relate to those feelings, and the conflict I had with them. It felt ridiculous having opened myself up once again, to just be friendzoned. Her response struck me with both hope and devastation, “I f*cking love you a ton Lincoln, but I’m struggling to differentiate my admiration as a friend and as something more. I’m terrified of losing you.” Previously I would have seen this as a sign to keep trying, but at that moment, I couldn’t see past the blatant friendzoning. After pursuing her for so long, it felt cruel of her to continue dragging me along like this, even though she was being honest. My reaction to the straw that broke the camel’s back is one of, if not, the biggest regrets in life. Homecoming was a little over a week away and she was going (as friends) with my buddy, Davis, so in a storm of hatred for myself and the situation I was in, I gave up on her. Our conversations grew to be minimal and far apart. Soon, I started to resent her. Each day since then, I have somehow felt more remorse than the last for not asking her to Homecoming. Homecoming night is when I began flirting with Claire, a sweet redhead from gym class. We connected on not going with the person we had hoped for. All it took was me joking that I should’ve spent more time around her, instead of leaving the dance early, for Claire to lose her mind. Over the next month or so, I was becoming closer and closer with Claire, despite her irritable “quirks”. I only spoke to Isabella if she reached out to me first with the only exception being when I would ask her for “advice” about Claire, which was a shameful habit I started as petty revenge on Isabella. Eventually, Isabella blocked me on Snapchat, but it didn’t matter. Things with me and Claire were going great, she made me feel like I didn’t need to starve myself to be good enough for her. She made me feel like I was enough. For the next two and a half months, life was great. After the first couple months of ignorant bliss, I was sick of her. Sure, there were a variety of reasons to find her annoying, most people I knew could list more than they have fingers and toes, but she didn’t do anything wrong. I shouldn’t have gotten into the relationship in the first place not only because of Isabella, but also the speed at which me and Claire started dating. She was still growing out of the elementary relationship phase, so while it was nice to connect with someone so quickly, it was rushed. Another issue being that I was her first real boyfriend, the baggage that followed me was detrimental to her and I couldn’t give her the attention she needed. As me and Claire began our month long drift apart, I was unblocked by Isabella. She and I caught up, and we quickly began to talk trash about Claire while on call. It was unbelievably toxic, and I’m embarrassed of how I handled things to this day. Eventually, with the support of Isabella, I decided it was time to break up. The only issue was the guilt I had in such a terrible choice, I could never do it. So I began to get more distant by the day, ignored texts and calls, and stopped walking her to classes because “I had to pee.” Eventually she caught wind of my plans and called me after school one day. Sobbing, she told me what she had heard and how she knew it wasn’t true, but it still worried her. I began to get ready to break the news, but she was already crying so what's the worst that could happen? I wish I had never asked myself that, because next she told me she’d been cutting herself. My heart sank in remorse for what I knew I would do. If I led her on longer, the aftermath of my cold actions would lead to even more catastrophe. I was scared, but knew the lesser of the two evils I had to pick from. I calmed her down, quickly notified her friends to be keeping an eye on her, and then dumped her. To this day, I am disgusted by my actions. Throughout the past three months, Claire expressed how she had loved and trusted me, yet I threw that all away. There are so many ways I could’ve handled the situation differently, but two stood out the most. Showing respect by speaking to Claire the moment I realized my feelings had fleeted was the bare minimum that I disregarded, but the second was far simpler. I had known from the start that I was still in love with Isabella and that love never faded, but was only suppressed. The entire relationship we developed, while we both enjoyed parts of it (her more than me), was a lie, and essentially a cruel joke played on Claire. There’s no excuse for my actions, and even worse, I could’ve cared less back then. It was only when time had passed that I began to understand the damage I had done. Without Claire holding me back, my newfound freedom led to a closer friendship with Isabella. I dove headfirst into the familiar pit all over again. A friendship was not enough, I appreciated every interaction I had with Isabella, but my life depended on a future with her. It’s likely she felt this as she slowly began to drift away from me. Before I had stayed up speaking to Isabella, but now I couldn’t sleep out of the tormenting absence of her voice. The only path to good health was time; distance was best for the both of us, and I knew it. For the rest of that school year, everything around me was going, but I stood still. It was like my life was just a sitcom, and I was no longer the main character. The summer that followed was just the same, I was living but dead, moving but still, speaking but silent. I was dissociating from my friends and family, but the absence of that violent snake made my depression insignificant. Living a life without her was more punishment than death itself, and I didn’t deserve relief. Even now, I think of that summer and remember almost nothing, for my life isn’t worth remembering without Isabella in it. Sophomore year began, and so did my conversations with Isabella. This go around, I was subtle with my feelings for her. The excitement I had for speaking with her was under control, but it was because the spark inside me had faded, even when it came to Isabella.The years of self pity and depression had left a toll on me that could never be reversed, and it didn’t help that Isabella began to build a relationship with another guy. When we spoke, if we did, Isabella’s concern for my mental state outweighed the friendship we were struggling to preserve. I had come to the conclusion that pursuing Isabella would only make things worse, and I needed to just be her friend. Since I couldn’t lose the feelings I had for her, I just sat in them. While I sat in the pit, Isabella and I had one particular Facetime call in which I brought up how much I regretted dating Claire. To that, Isabella added, “Yeah, she’s so annoying. I can’t remember if you told me why you got together in the first place, what led you to her?” I paused with the thousand-yard stare of an American private fresh out of West Point. “I guess I was just so disappointed with myself for not being able to go to homecoming with you and being stuck on you for so long that I impulsively got with another girl to forget about my shortcomings,” I said with reluctance and stuttering every few words. She told me that she would’ve said yes to homecoming without a second thought, but I knew she meant as friends. Then, to my dismay, Isabella revealed that whenever I got with Claire, she still had feelings for me. It was me talking to Isabella about how great things were with me and Claire that led her to block me and cut contact with me. The piano melody from “No Surprises” by Radiohead began looping through my mind as tears ran down my face. I forget how I ended the call, but once I did, I broke. I lost my breath, my head got light, my eyes became blurry, my stomach was nauseous, and my insides sank as far as they could. Everything I wanted, dreamed of, needed had been so close, and I blew it. Everything was my fault. Later I would ask her why she lost them, and her answer proved how much better she was than me. Isabella answered, “I had been hurt, so I moved on. Just got over it.” We hardly spoke anymore, but one text message has found a permanent home in my mind. After asking me how I was, Isabella wasn’t satisfied with, “it’s complicated.” She asked that I explain it to her so that she could try to understand. I told her about all the issues going on in my life, except the torch I still held for her. She wrote, “I know you’re not religious, so it may not mean anything, but I pray for you every night, Lincoln. Even though it sounds bad, I think that I've known you weren’t in the greatest mental place for a while. I want you to know I'm not judging you, I want you to feel comfortable enough to share that with someone. You have to be able to recognize how you’re feeling in order to even fix it.” These words broke me despite their simplistic appearance. Reading that she prayed for me hit me hard as she had always tried to get me to believe in God again. I’m agnostic, and nothing has come closer to bringing me back to faith as Isabella did. The idea that if God were real and I could see her in heaven was appealing, but should Christianity be the wrong choice, I wanted to be wrong with Isabella. In the following days, Isabella told me about Alex, a guy she had been talking to a lot, and how they were at most a month away from being together. I hated everything about Alex, which is a stupid name in the first place. I hated his choice of friends, I hated how white-washed he was, I hated how he dressed like a conservative cowboy, I hated the underbite that made him look like a pug, I hated his short curly hair, I hated the fact that he was a diehard Trump supporter while people of his race were being oppressed, I hated how he pretended to be someone else when he was around Isabella, I hated how he hid unhealthy habits from her, I hated that a guy like him garnered Isabella’s affection when I couldn’t. I barely knew the guy and I was wasting my energy with hatred for him, when in reality, he was just a mind-numbingly basic douche among the hundreds just like him at our school. Isabella regularly complained about Alex, but hardly did anything. Instead she stopped bringing it up, saying that talking about her issues with others only makes it worse and that she was just wining. The monotone delivery of her reasoning hurt my soul, it was like she was reciting a text from Alex. Each day that passed, I felt the urgency of expressing my feelings one more time rising. Soon Isabella and Alex would be official, and I would lose my chance to try and express how I felt one more time. I reached out to Isabella and asked if she was free to hangout that friday. On November 10, 2023, Isabella picked me up around 5:30 in the evening. She kept the inside of her SUV looking brand new in contrast to the familiarity of her smile. My nerves left me winded after every sentence and shivering in her passenger seat. Quickly our conversation became more natural as I cracked jokes to ease my anxiety, but my shaky breathing never stopped. We went to Publix to grab some snacks and drinks and headed right back to my neighborhood park. At the Grove Point Park, we found a swinging chair to sit in. Due to the time of the year, the sun had already set, but Isabella’s beauty was indifferent under the moonlight. I haven’t the slightest clue how long we sat there together. When I’m with Isabella, even Father Time gives me grace, for he knows that he is as powerless as I am to the frequency of these moments. After a while, I mentioned that it was getting late and she agreed. On the ride back to my place, I mustered the bare minimum of strength it took to confront my feelings. As she drove over the speed bump before entering the roundabout, I began to open up. I briefly told her that I still felt the same way I did two years ago, that I had tried to forget about the feelings I had with no success, and that I was sorry to once again ruin our unstable friendship. She told me it was fine and my feelings were natural, nothing to regret or be ashamed of. Her words meant nothing to me this time because I had already heard them. Defeated, I paused for a moment, then said, “Isabella, you reciprocated my feelings in the past, so after Alex, do you think that maybe we’d have a chance?” She looked at me with pain in her eyes, not for herself, but for me. She quietly said, “I- Lincoln, you know I can’t answer that. I’m with Alex now, it wouldn’t be fair.” All I could get out was, “Oh- I- I’m sorry. Uh yeah no, you’re uh- you’re right.” Everything in me pulled and begged at my lips to say what I wanted to, but I couldn’t. I still look back on that night and wish I had said the few words I never got to tell her. What if saying them could’ve changed something? Realistically, it wouldn’t have, but the regret remains. I doubt Isabella would have even remembered where my word choice stemmed from. Regardless, the words rang in my head then, and never stopped. All I wanted to say at that moment was, “but I still need you.” Today, 1,725 days since I first saw Isabella, 822 days since I first facetimed Isabella, and 178 days since that heartbreakingly beautiful night, I still love her the same. Looking back on my experience with her, I regret many things (oversharing, Claire, the snake, etc.), but the one thing I have never regretted was meeting and loving her. It was only recently that I realized that loving her has been one of the biggest mistakes in my life. For three years, day in and day out, I’ve thought about her. Three years where I could have met other people, worked on myself, enjoyed my friends and family, but instead I’ve loved her and nothing, nobody else. The one lesson that was essential for me to take away from my experience was impossible. In eighth grade I was 5’7 and 215 lbs, today I’m 5’10 and 165 lbs. In eighth grade I spent time with my parents, today I hide in my room. In eighth grade, I told people how I felt, now I’m too scared. In eighth grade, I talked about my depression, now I am left alone to deal with it. In eighth grade, I had many friends, now I rarely speak to them. In eighth grade, I needed Isabella, but the one lesson I should’ve learned never took effect. I still need her.

This week I wrote an autobiographical account of my history with sleep paralysis, RLS, and hypnagogic hallucinations.
I was not sure where to share it. I added it and deleted it from a few subs. The only place it ended up was the creative writing sub, though.
And this appears to be the right spot! There are several themes but the hypnagogia is the focus. So it's quite long and probably no one reads it and that's fine. I just wanted to find somewhere to put it in case my experience could benefit someone.
⚠️ ⚠️ WARNING first part is scary and a bit gory... ⚠️ ⚠️

Childhood

The first time that I encountered sleep paralysis was when I was nine or ten. I woke up screaming, my mind gripped with the sensation of searing pain radiating from my left big toe. Though my mouth wasn't moving, I could hear my own blood-curdling cries, echoing through the darkness. An eerie orange glow spilled into the room, illuminating a sinister cauldron at the base of my bed, around which stood three squat witches. Their dark, smoky faces shifted and morphed constantly, eyes glowing red like embers recessed deeply into the shadows of their crawling flesh, jagged teeth gnashing along with their discordant laughter as roaches crawled from their mouths and disappeared into their black straw hair.
Each witch held their own dainty knife and fork, shaking along with their trembling bony hands, and one was slicing expertly down the center of my big toe with the impossibly sharp blade of their knife. I struggled to move my arms and legs, feeling as though I had freedom of movement, but my physical body remained paralyzed. Unfathomable terror washed over me as I realized that I couldn't scream for help; my mom wouldn't hear me, and I was powerless to stop these witches from feasting on my toes.
I lay there, unable to break free from the oppressive paralysis, forced to endure the excruciating pain as my toes were sliced off and consumed. The air buzzed with the witches' terrifying, joyous laughter, as if they delighted in my agony more than the taste of my flesh. Eventually, my body in a full state of terror jarred itself awake, heart beating more wildly than I had ever experienced, my lungs struggling to gasp more than the tiniest breath. After perhaps a full minute of gathering myself, I drew a deep breath and screamed into the night.
My mother came, of course, but was unable to understand the depth and terror of my experience. Her own reality did not include anything close; for her, it was an exaggeration born of childhood fear, and she became exasperated after a time with my refusal to admit that it was a dream, despite being an extremely caring parent.
The witches appeared to me several times between the ages of 10 and 15, their ghastly faces returning to torment me with each episode of sleep paralysis. Every time, I would be trapped in that terrifying limbo, my body frozen while my mind drowned itself in screams of agony and horror. I knew that they would feast on my toes, the slicing of their knives relentless, inexorable. They would smack their lips and toast each other with my blood-covered flesh as I watched.
During those years, restless legs syndrome (RLS) also began to plague my nights. As soon as I began to drift off to sleep, a discomfort would arise in my legs, like there was a swarm of fat round beetles exploring, searching for an exit. A quick kick would settle it down, but it would rise again in a cycle of building tension, acutely uncomfortable climax, and brief relief of a second or two would follow before it began again. My mother, again meaning well but busy and unfamiliar with RLS, told me it was leg cramps and made me eat more banannas. This didn't help.
It became an increasing problem, stealing precious sleep that my young body needed to thrive. The frustration of RLS merged with the terror of a potential visit from the witches. Without medication, I would lose entire nights to the relentless discomfort.
By the age of 15, the sleep paralysis episodes had occurred at least 10 times, each leaving me with the gut-wrenching memory of being eaten alive that I would carry all the next day in my gut like a sack of bricks. As I lay sleeping, every single night, I wondered if they would visit, and braced myself for an encounter.

Early adulthood:

I can't remember how many times the witches visited before I finally stopped panicking. It was after countless God awful nights when I finally accepted that no matter how terrifying or painful the ordeal felt, I would be whole once it was over. I had survived the agony a hundred times before and could endure it again. One night, when the eerie glow of the cauldron illuminated their shifting faces, I felt a calm settle over me. I saw the witches, but for the first time, I wasn't afraid.
They noticed my defiance, their laughter fading into an uneasy silence. Without fanfare, they stood up, collected their cauldron, and retreated into the darkness of my room. Though I still saw them occasionally at the foot of my bed, they became more present than threatening. Sometimes, at the start of an episode, they'd appear briefly before disappearing altogether. They had become inconsequential, and I couldn't even be sure if they were there half the time.
In my early 20s, I discovered that I could almost guarantee a bout of sleep paralysis simply by sleeping during the day. At first, nothing particularly unusual happened, but the paralysis always returned whenever I dozed off, particularly between the hours of 11am and 2pm. I was often sleeping during the day because by then, the restless legs syndrome (RLS) had grown so severe that many nights passed without sleep at all. My body felt like it was full of angry snakes now instead of beetles, desperate to escape. The sensation soon crept upward from my legs to my arms. The cycles of build up, climax, and agonizly brief relief increased in frequency and magnitude. I would often resort to sitting in the shower, flipping the water from icy cold to scalding hot all night, simply to keep myself alert enough to avoid the twitching and spasming until the blessed relief of dawn arrived.
With the daytime paralysis came a variety of hallucinations. Sometimes the witches stood at the foot of my bed, other times they'd disappear, leaving behind benign apparitions like tickling gnomes. There was nothing threatening about these visions, and I began to find a strange sense of comfort in them. I would relax into a dark place where I felt my own energy burning like a sun, present but without physical form. In this state, I felt euphoric, fully aware yet separate from myself. I started taking naps during the day and eagerly anticipated this odd experience.
Yet at night, my sleep remained troubled as RLS tormented me. Eventually, I began taking ropinirole to manage the symptoms, and it brought much-needed relief, helping me reclaim my nights and giving me several years of mostly not worrying about RLS unless I forgot to take my medicine, or the odd night where it bothered me but was still less severe.

New experiences:

I spent several years relishing those euphoric moments of peace, where I could feel the pure energy of being alive without a personal history or identity. In those moments, everything else faded away, and all that remained was a brilliant, infinite energy. My waking life was absorbed by study of comtemporary and historical teachings of non-duality, and with my family and progressing my career as a software developer. I was absorbing Eckhart Tolle and Gautama, Meister Eckhart and Seuhn Sang and integrating their teachings into my daily life. The feeling inside of me that reality ultimately made no sense had found an expression, and I dug in every waking moment for a clue as to the true nature of experience. Given this context, I especially looked forward to and found solace in the experience of being impersonal, boundless energy.
In my late 20s, I also experienced a new type of sleep paralysis hallucination. One day it began that there were no visions or hallucinations; instead, I simply lay in a state of paralysis, aware of the room as a darkened and monochrome version of itself. I entertained myself by trying to move my arms and legs against the paralysis, and developed the idea that I had two bodies; my physical body lay on the bed, while my energetic body struggled and flailed. It was like my energy body could move separately, creating a phantom limb sensation. I felt my energy arms and legs extend out, yet my physical body lay still. As my energy body reached further from my physical self, it would snap back as if held by a rubber band.
Intrigued, I began experimenting with this phenomenon, managing to build enough momentum to "pop" out of my body one afternoon. Suddenly, I found myself looking down at my own sleeping form, resting on my back and breathing gently beside my wife, who was playing a game (probably Candy Crush) on her phone in the bed. It was surreal, and I wasn't sure whether I was hallucinating or truly perceiving my own body from a different perspective. Regardless, it was a revelation, and I felt a new sense of exploration as I gazed down at myself.
That first time, I found myself drifting through the house, checking on my two young stepdaughters as they slept. I had recently married, and it was a quiet weekend afternoon with everyone napping peacefully. Once satisfied, I ventured outside, where I took to the sky and flew around the neighborhood, spying on my neighbors. Though it felt like I was limited in speed, I seemingly had no constraints on the continuity of this hallucination. Everything appeared as a perfect physical representation of Earth, and I could travel without interruption.
The landscape was strikingly accurate, but it appeared in monochrome hues — grays, blacks, and whites — with no bright colors. Letters and numbers were unreadable, reduced to blurred nonsense. Despite these distortions, the sensation of soaring above the rolling hills and rooftops was pure euphoria. I sped along at hundreds of miles per hour, basking in the freedom of movement, and immersed in the stunning view that stretched out below me. There did seem to be some sort of very generous limit to how far I could travel, but I thoroughly explored within the boundaries for hundreds of miles around my home.
Over the years into my early 30s, I tried to pursue this opportunity of flight and exploration every chance I could. But during that time, my restless legs syndrome also became more relentless. In the past, no matter how agonizing the night had been, dawn would bring relief like a cold bath washing over me. I would sit outside and watch the sunrise, and the sensation of snakes slithering through my body would finally calm down, perhaps due to circadian rhythms and dopamine regulation. The cycles now began to climax in totally involuntary movement, spasms that caused me to tense my whole body and draw in a sharp breath every time. It would be 5 seconds of rapid buildup, spasm, a second or two of relief, repeat.
Eventually, even the dawn failed to provide respite, and I struggled during night or day whenever I relaxed too long or became even a bit drowsy. Napping became impossible, depriving me of the euphoric dreams I had learned to look forward to. I switched from ropinirole to pramipexole, hoping for relief. The medication helped me sleep five or six hours a night on good nights, but I still missed one or two nights of sleep entirely each week and rarely could nap during the day, because I took the medicine only a couple hours before bed.
Even though my restless legs syndrome worsened, one out of every ten times, I'd still manage to avoid twitching and drift into that state of peaceful paralysis during the day when I dozed off involuntarily. I gradually lost interest in pursuing out-of-body travel and instead sought every time the burning energy of the sun inside of me — the sensation of being infinitely powerful and formless simultaneously. I would retreat into this boundless feeling whenever I had the opportunity.
During these rare occasions when I could sleep during the day, I stumbled across a third type of experience. It felt like I was being sucked into space at impossible speeds, zooming past the planets of our solar system and beyond until I reached a darker patch of space. This spot seemed like a vast, corrugated sewer pipe that swallowed me whole. I rocketed through the universe, traveling at what could only be the speed of light. Eventually, I would break into the atmosphere of some unknown world, drifting down to its surface sometimes, others crashing painfully into terrain. Sometimes, I would hear a loud sound like an explosion in mid travel, and suddenly aterialize on another distant world without any sort of entrace.
These journeys were exhilarating, and each new landscape presented a mystery, revealing worlds unlike anything I'd ever seen.

The Traveling Years:

One of the first journeys I had involved zipping through space before drifting down through a hole in the top of a greenhouse. The world was painted in shades of orange and brown, its dirt swirling in powerful winds like clay cyclones. The greenhouse itself was dirty and grimy, almost opaque with crusted dirt, and filled with dense green plants — ivy and other dark green foliage that covered every inch inside. Outside, the orange sky churned with the swirling clay, making visibility nearly impossible.
I made my way down a ladder and emerged outside, where I found a man and a boy standing beside a white pinto horse. They both wore hardened leather over rough potato sack-like clothing, their long hair dotted with bone jewelry, their noses and eyebrows profusely pierced with other fragments of bone adorned with feathers. The man seemed to be instructing the boy on something to do with the horse. I approached them cautiously, fully aware of my lucid dreaming state and retaining all my memories, reasoning, and thoughts. Everything about the scene was vivid, from the clay dust swirling around to the squinting struggle to see in the wind.
Unlike the man and the boy, I had no long hair, no mouth covering, and no leather visor shielding my face from the swirling clay-dust. As I tried to speak, it seemed like they couldn’t hear me, and I wondered if I might be invisible to them. Unconcerned, I reached out to pat the horse on its nose, but before I could make contact, the man swiftly drew a long knife from his belt and stabbed me. He struck again, and the intense pain and feeling of my own scalding hot blood streaming down my pants legs snapped me awake.
Not long after my experience in the greenhouse, I found myself learning more about the worlds I could explore, though the opportunities remained rare. One day, I was transported to a beautiful blue tropical world, crashing into the dunes of a pristine white beach. There, I encountered three women, each towering over me at seven or eight feet tall. Their long black hair framed their pale faces, with blood-red lips striking against their alabaster skin. But what stood out most were their fingernails — long and crimson, curling back upon themselves dozens of times like spiraling ribbons. They were two or three feet in length and added a surreal menace to their presence.
They asked me my name and the name of my father, along with other odd questions, and seemed absolutely intriqued with me. There was a certain sort of heavy molasses quality to their voices that was more than sound and impossible to describe. It had the effect of making me feel drowsy and stupid and slow to move.
As I stood there, they began touching me with their nails, tracing them across my body in elaborate, almost ritualistic patterns. I felt my energy drain with every stroke, a profound exhaustion seeping into my core. The sensation was so intense that I woke up feeling completely drained, my limbs heavy and my spirit sapped.
Another time, I appeared without explanation after my space travel in a cavern brimming with glowing fungi and luminescent crystals. I wasn't myself in this world but instead had taken the place of someone else. My father stood beside me, guiding me through the luminous landscape. He taught me how to identify the bizarre and fascinating flora surrounding us — lessons that etched themselves into my mind and last to this day despite the surreal, made-up nature of this world. The glowing crystals and fungi cast eerie shadows across the cavern walls as my father explained the properties and uses of each.
In real life, these experiences would last for about five to eight minutes, but in the dream realm, the passage of time was different. What seemed like mere minutes could stretch into hours or even days, and in rare cases, the dreams spanned much longer.

RLS becomes terrible:

I had a new busy career, an infant daughter, two active growing stepdaughters, and a wife with a hectic job, and I struggled hard through the years between 35 and 39. Each night was pure torture, as restless leg syndrome robbed me of sleep. Days of sleep deprivation left me barely functioning, often teetering on the edge of collapse while the disease gnawed away. The unrelenting discomfort made it impossible to fall asleep, even as my body craved rest. I had no choice but to continue, as I had yet to find a doctor that knew how to move past the ropinirole and pramipexole stage of treatment, and these medicines had almost entirely ceased to be effective for me. My love for my family drove me to conceal the intense effort that day to day living had become. I managed to keep up with my career by farming a prescription for Adderall. I don't have ADHD, so it had the effect on me of methamphetamine and allowed me to push through the God awful existence that life had become.
The toll became overwhelming. I couldn't escape the agony, even after days of desperate attempts to sleep. More than once, I ended up in the emergency room after going four or five nights without sleep. For some people, this will seem like an exaggeration; I assure you, it is not. I would be nonsensical, having conversations with people tha weren't in the room, drifting in and out of intense 1 second dreams before snapping awake with painful spasms. At the hospital, they would give me percocet, and the painkillers provided brief reprieve from RLS for some reason, allowing me one solid night’s sleep, but the relentless cycle quickly resumed, leaving me struggling once again.
Eventually, I found a neurologist who prescribed Neupro patches that provided temporary relief. For a few months, I managed to sleep more consistently, but the patches quickly lost their effectiveness. It wasn't until I added methadone to the treatment that I finally found more lasting relief.
During those difficult years, I immersed myself in non-dual philosophy. In that crucible of suffering, my conviction solidified: my true nature was more aligned with the energy hallucinations I experienced than with a body made of skin, bone, and brain. That transcendent energy, more real and enduring than the physical form I occupied, became my identity in daily life, watching peacefully as my body and brain navigated the situational complexity of life.
Approaching my 40th birthday, I found that I could sleep at night and dream during the day. My life was in good shape, I lost 60 pounds without effort, and I felt fundamentally and imperturbably peaceful. Suddenly, life was in the palm of my hands, every moment pristine and still and perfect. I felt weightless without the burden of needing to endure trauma every night.
Most importantly to this story, I worked from home and could nap on my lunch breaks.

Rapid learning through iteration:

Rarely, I would fail to nap at all due to RLS. Sometimes I would simply doze off and wake up 10 minutes later to my cell phone alarm. But three out of five times, I would travel.
I visited dozens of worlds in a matter of a few short months and quickly was able to confirm some rules that I had suspected were true from my previous adventures.
One rule is that no one I know in real life ever shows up in the travelling dreams. No matter the place or circumstance or strange beings that I encountered, there was never a familiar face.
Another rule was that no dream person ever had a name or a father. The absence of both seemed to be an unspoken universal truth among these dream world inhabitants. Once I had internalized the significance of this, I began introducing myself to most beings that I encountered as "John, son of Michael." It left a strong impression. My name and lineage seemed to set me apart, bestowing an almost mythical quality upon me that earned me a peculiar reverence among all that I met. This knowledge became the key to navigating the dream worlds with confidence and a consistent purpose of discovery.
I learned accidentally of a unique ability during my travels: a form of telekenesis that allowed me to project force from the palms of my hands. This development led to many episodes of paralysis spent ignoring exploration and instead hilariously and painfully attempting to master this ability for the purpose of travel. Over time, I refined my skill, learning to fly much like Iron Man, but solely through the focused propulsion from my hands. Without stabilization from my feet, I had to carefully control the angle of projection and the amount of force applied to control my trajectory and speed.
Mastering this ability took significant practice, but eventually, I could navigate obstacles with ease and travel great distances in short amounts of time. I also no longer crash landed, thankfully. Importantly, I could harness this power to overcome any threatening beings that I encountered. Previously, my best option was to hide or flee, and that did not always work out. Now I had this amazing sense of fearlessness and confidence that simply cannot be rivaled by real world experience. Every time I heard the buzzing sounds and felt the WUM WUM WUM of energy as I prepared to launch into space, I embraced the journey with eager anticipation, confident in my ability to protect myself and learn about whatever strange world awaited me.

To Present Day:

As I grew more confident in my ability to travel almost at will, I began to incorporate spirituality into my experimentation. One day, on a whim, I expressed to the universe that if there were a being that had my best interests at heart and loved me fully, then I gave them permission to guide my dreams and lead me to greater truths, even if they were uncomfortable. This openness led to a new experience immediately, and I began to preface many of my journeys with a similar, simple prayer.
That first time, I fell down instead of up -- into myself, into the infinite dimensionless darkness where I could spin and burn and bathe in the euphoric sense of my own eternal nature. But my peace was quickly interrupted by an intense feeling of pressure at the base of my spine, though I couldn't have pinpointed where the body was that the spine inhabited. Very, very slowly, with a CRUNCHA CRUNCHA CRUNCHA noise for every milimeter of ground gained, it crawled upwards towards my head.
As it climbed, the energy below it intensified, growing exponenentially as the surface area covered grew. It wasn't painful, exactly, but it was terrifyingly intense. That first time, I managed to stay calm long enough for it to reach my shoulder blades before it became unbearably frightening and I jerked myself out of it, sure that I would die if I allowed it to continue upward. Over the last few months I have vowed to myself that I would endure any level of discomfort to see what happens at the end, but I keep chickening out. I have let it go as far as the base of my skull, at which time my head started vibrating so much that I could feel my teeth chattering violently even in my paralysis.
Another time recently when I made this prayer, I went to space as usual, but when I entered the atmosphere of a lush Earth-like world, my telekenesis failed me for the first time ever. Instead, I was pulled like in a slow tractor beam down beneath the perfectly round canopy of a giant, unfamiliar kind of tree. I felt a great sense of calm and peace and simply meditated there for quite some time, maybe 9 or 10 hours of relative time, before I heard a voice from behind the tree.
The man who stepped out from there had his face hidden in shadows. He wore a long dusty leather coat and a huge cowboy hat that shrouded him. As I write this, I find that I am not yet prepared to write about what he said to me, or how I responded. But when we had spoken, he walked solemnly over to me and lay his hand upon my head, and I jerked awake in a state of perfect bliss, despite some conflicting emotions surrounding our conversation. I call him Cowboy Hat Man, and maybe I will write more about him later.
A third time with the prayer, right before I sped off to my normal adventures, I felt a cat jump onto my bed and snuggle against my left leg, purring. It curled up there, and I assumed that it was my actual cat in real life, although it would be very uncharacteristic for him. I actually thought to myself, "Wow, I guess Buddy Socks is my spirit guide today." However, when I awoke, I realized that my door was shut and the cat was not in the room. On that trip, I went to a world that was reminiscent in quality perhaps to 15th century Europe, except on a world where the surface was far more underneath water than on Earth.
I followed the invisible cat to an old man and asked him, "Do you know the truth?" He answered, "No." I followed the invisble cat to young boy and asked him, "Do you know the truth?" He also answered, "No." It was an odd one, really.
Every time I do this, I am setting an alarm for ten minutes. Sometimes the dreams last days in relative time, but I have never yet failed to wake up before that alarm goes off.

Present Day (like seriously earlier this week is what me want to write this):

I lay down eagerly for my lunch break nap, hoping to avoid the disappointment of an off-day. I flew into the atmosphere of a world that seemed to made of rock, with nothing growing on the surface. However, I caught glimpse on the surface of a bright spot, and when I descended, I found that somehow there was a relatively thin crust of sorts around a hollow inside-world.
I lowered myself slowly through a great opening in that crust, down into a lush jungle. It was beautiful but uncomfortably humid, and I quickly found a cool and dry cavern complex to explore rather than dealing with sweat and unfamiliar insects.
As I navigated through the cavern system, able to see somehow with dim light despite no obvious light source at times, I broke out into a very large open cave with a huge exit out into the jungle. I saw that it was dawn and realized that I had spent the night, however long it was on this world, in the caves.
Suddenly, my four year old daughter, Curly, with her naturally bleach-highlighted rings of long blonde hair and bright blue eyes, drifted slowly over my left shoulder and out towards the exit. She moved at a brisk adult walking pace, her back to the cave opening, her expression curious yet slightly concerned. She called out, "Dada?" in a tone that suggested wonder and slight confusion, but no real alarm in the presence of her father.
Reacting instantly, feeling my gut clench solid into a fist of rock, I used my telekinesis to close the gap between us and gathered her into my arms. She wrapped her legs around my waist and settled her butt onto my forearm, a ritual that we have practiced every day of her life. The force gripping her evaporated instantly, and suddenly, my darling girl was there in my arms, as real as any physical embrace. I could feel the tickle of her hair on my neck, the beautiful warmth of her skin, and was enveloped in her familiar scent.
Initially, I was filled with white hot rage, fueled by my instinctive reaction to the thought that some idiotic dream world inhabitant had decided to mess with my family and harm or kidnap her. But as I held her and she nuzzled her nose into my neck, the anger gave way to sheer amazement. For the first time in a decade of navigating these dreamscapes, someone that I knew from my waking life had entered the dream. This was a rule-defying moment that really rocked me, a serious breach of the established norms of these experiences.
A group of maybe 8 or 10 small winged goblins flew down from out of sight above the top lip of the exit and fluttered into the room, laughing in a very non-threatening way. They radiated a sense of innocent mischief, and my fear and anger subsided and gave way to annoyance. I whipped my right hand out and blasted a huge hole in the cavern wall to my right, startling Curly into a yelp. Unphased, I raised my voice and demanded, "Who is your King? I am John, son of Michael, and this is my daughter and she WILL NOT BE TOUCHED AGAIN."
The goblins scattered, their merriment giving way to concern that I might blast them into dust. Behind me, a deep chuckle seemed to rise from the ground itself. A voice echoed in the cavern, neither kind or cruel, full of what felt like wisdom, though that doesn't make sense in the waking world.
It spoke: "I am Eloxman, and I am their King." At hearing him announce his name, my head whipped around in the dream and in real life so hard that I woke immediately with a sprained neck that is still bothering me. I looked at my phone and saw that there were two minutes and fourteen seconds remaining in my ten minute window. I lay on the couch in shocked disbelief: Curly was in my dream, and someone had a name. As I replayed it over and over in my head, I realized that Eloxman was still speaking. I think he may have been preparing to provide the name of his father.

The End:

Sorry, that's actually it. I am going to just see if this continues somehow, but if it does not, then I might get creative with it and make up my own ending. I hope that you enjoyed this if you read this far!

NOTE FROM AUTHOR: Hello Hello! I am a first-time writer embarking on my first dumpster fire; input is most welcome. I'm not the best self-editor, so get your hiking boots on. It's rough out there. Whenever I read it, I find or create more errors (:
OPTIONAL READS: For the Retro Computer or Programming Enthusiast OR if you are open to other formats of story telling. I tried to combine my love for programming as an UNDERSTANDABLE way to tell a story through a Visual Experience in the Command Line Interface;
A Stand-Alone VISUAL ASCII 'Programming Terminal' Story Prologue. Follow through(Screen Shots of my Command Line Interface) the UNE-EYE Observational Satellite Terminal as Kable extracts Classified Data about his Beloved Military Unit, THE HUMMINGBIRDS, a flying exoskeleton unit. This includes the origin story of a Technology Tree in Book 1.

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INDEX

1. DEADCOAST - THE HUMMINGBIRDS PROLOGUE -> HERE <-
   
2. DEADCOAST - COMPLETE ILLUSTRATED INTRO -> HERE <-
   
3. HEAT & GRIZZLY REDS - CHAPTER 1 ILLUSTRATED -> HERE <-
   

"Deadcoast Book 1: Heat and the Grizzly Reds" transports readers to a 2063 Earth, a world on the brink, where the scarcity of fresh water has led to previously unseen geopolitical tensions. Amidst this backdrop, the nation-backed militant group DAGGR has emerged as a formidable force, leveraging advanced technology to assert control over Canada’s abundant water resources. At the heart of their arsenal is 'slugTech,' a technology pioneered by James Broadshaw, intended for ecological restoration but repurposed for militaristic dominance.
The story unfolds with the chilling invasion of Vancouver, marking a turning point as DAGGR makes its ambitions clear, culminating in the assassination of the Canadian Prime Minister. This act of aggression leaves the country reeling, exposing vulnerabilities and igniting a global reaction.
The UNE-EYE satellite is central to the international response, a significant narrative element representing the world's most advanced orbital tracking system. Once decommissioned in favour of privacy, the Dutch reactivated the satellite as a strategic move to monitor DAGGR's movements and coordinate a unified international effort against the aggressors. This revival of UNE-EYE symbolizes a crucial turning point, highlighting the global stakes and the interconnectedness of nations in the face of a common enemy.
As Canada grapples with its plight, the DAMU (Deserted American Military Units) rise in solidarity, breaching borders to fight alongside their Canadian counterparts. This act of defiance is mirrored by international forces, including the Netherlands and Ukraine, each bringing their unique strengths to the coalition, underscored by the strategic oversight provided by the UNE-EYE satellite.
Amidst the geopolitical chaos, a man who had all but given up, a boxer on the ropes, emerges from Vancouver's Gastown. Known as HEAT, this leader of the Grizzly Reds becomes a symbol of resistance and hope. HEAT's story, and that of the Grizzly Reds, is one of resilience, rallying not only Canadians but also global citizens to stand against DAGGR's tyranny.
" Deadcoast Book 1: Heat and the Grizzly Reds" is a compelling narrative of survival, alliance, and resistance. It deftly weaves together elements of advanced technology, international politics, and the indomitable human spirit. The inclusion of the UNE-EYE satellite serves as a testament to the complexities of modern warfare and the critical role of global surveillance and coordination in maintaining security and freedom. But something else stirs amongst it. The UNE still shrouds its use, albeit assuring it is for record-keeping purposes- there is no way to be sure. Join HEAT and the Grizzly Reds as they navigate the challenges of Time, War, Science and liberating their fellow man in Vancouver. THE GRIZZLIES NEED YOU, in this action-packed, emotional saga, speaks to the resilience and camaraderie inherent in the human condition.
CHAPTER 1 - The Blood Spattered Maples
ILLUSTRATED VERSION -> HERE <-
The early morning sun cast a serene glow over Vancouver, its golden rays gently coaxing the city from its slumber. The harbour lay still, bathed in a tranquil blend of crimson and amber, defiantly calm as if aware of the day's latent potential for tumult. The awakening streets, pulsating with the vibrant beat of daily enterprise, transformed into bustling arteries of life.
Amidst this urban renaissance, Ryan stood by his apartment window, one eye still tinged a fading shade of deep lavender from last night's ordeals. He absorbed the duality of the world outside – a peaceful façade masking an undercurrent of chaos, much like his own existence. The apartment, a silent guardian of his life's chapters, was awash with tangible memories; some stood proudly like trophies, and others lingered like indelible scars.
"Eugh, need to sort out this money mess," Ryan muttered, his voice a gravelly mix of resolve and weariness. He gingerly touched the bruise beneath his eye, a stark reminder of the previous night's fight. He wasn't just a boxer but a living, breathing paradox. His undefeated record of 12-0 was more than a tally of victories; it was a map of a life spent dancing in and out of shadows. At 17, he was a beacon of hope for Canadian Olympic Futures. Now, at 33, he was a spotlight in his subconscious, illuminating the relentless passage of time and a road riddled with 'what ifs.' Eleven of those wins were echoes from a past steeped in the sweat and blood of the ring before life's currents swept him into the city's gritty underbelly. There, he became an enforcer, not out of choice but a necessity, bound by ties, not of blood but of unbreakable bonds forged in adversity. Stepping back into the ring at 33, Ryan wasn't chasing glory; he was hunting redemption, a chance to rewrite a narrative that had veered off course.
Today's boxing was far from what he once knew; it had transformed into a digital spectacle, a charade he refused to partake in. The sport now paraded fighters adorned with loud chains and face tattoos, pretending to live a life of crime they don't. Vile symbols of fame he doesn't wish for. Ryan had always skirted the fringes of the spotlight, respecting the sport but despising what it had become - a glorified masquerade that he believed led the youth astray. He stared out at the awakening city, contemplating his place in this ever-changing world, just as the first notes of a familiar yet unwelcome voice crackled from the vintage radio on his shelf.
"Ah, jimmy2piece," he scoffed, the name leaving a bitter taste. The vintage radio crackled on, announcing the dazzling exploits of the heavyweight boxing champion, an embodiment of everything Ryan detested about the sport's current state. Ryan's hand lingered over the old radio, a relic amidst the bountiful thrift and trinket that abundantly filled his apartment. The announcer's voice, overly flamboyant in its praise of 'jimmy2piece,' clashed with the morning's tranquillity, grating against Ryan's every nerve. With a flick brimming with contempt, he silenced the intrusive chatter. The ensuing silence was a stark reminder of his path's divergence from the once-noble art of boxing to a life mired in moral ambiguity.
"Enough of this nonsense," he muttered, the disdain in his voice mirroring the snarl on his lips as he spun the dial back to silence.
*Click*
Ryan was a man of contemplation; opening his balcony door, he let the morning breeze mingle with the memories that haunted him daily. These reflections were a tormenting ritual, no matter the joys and love surrounding him. His only respite was constant movement – hobbies, work, art – anything to fend off the sharp claws of the past that threatened to shred the remnants of his self-respect. He had lost ten years to choices and actions that replayed in his mind relentlessly every single day.
"This 'jimmy2shoes' or whatever...pal throws pillows, a poser pretending he's about that gang life; I can see it in his eyes, he's not a killer," he grumbled, gazing out at the awakening city. This day promised a respite from his underground fights – at least for a while. His recent backstreet brawls, a far cry from the glory of the boxing ring, were what paid the bills now. "At least I've bought myself three more months..."
Leaning on the railing of his miniature balcony, Ryan cradled a cup of steaming coffee, his gaze drifting over the streets below. At this moment, the chaos of his life seemed distant, replaced by a transient calm. Despite his bruised, rough presentation, a certain peace enveloped him, a rare stillness that belied the storm of his existence. His thoughts meandered through the serene hum of the city and the gentle brush of the ocean breeze. The skyscape, with clouds dancing to the ocean's rhythm, offered a brief escape from his turbulent past.
Memories of Robin, his mentor and friend, floated into his consciousness. Robin's untimely death in Dubai was a wound that never healed. The sacrifices he had made to keep Robin safe, only to be absent on the fateful trip that claimed his friend's life, weighed heavily on him. "Why did it have to be you, Robin?" he whispered to the horizon, the question, a haunting torment upon his daily routines.
Ryan was a thinker; as he slid over his ashtray from the stool, he sparked up A morning 'dart' (cigarette), as he called them. His past began to creep into his head, as it did every morning. With each inhalation of addiction-soothing nicotine, his blazing thoughts followed as his brain began to become fully active from his sleep. It was a raven on his shoulder tormenting him, pecking at him ever haunting his consciousness. No matter the love he may have found or the happiness, friends, or family surrounding him. The time to reflect was always grim and consistently unbearable. If he stood still, the Ravel's claws sunk more profoundly; the only reprieve was constant distractions. It's why he kept so busy, creative, and active. Ryan constantly kept moving with hobbies, work, or art. Pushing off the switchblade thoughts ready to cut into his subconscious and bleed out whatever self-respect he had left that day. He threw away ten years of his life, and he relives them every. Single. Day.
"Damn man, what's the point of it all?" Ryan's voice was barely a whisper, lost in the morning breeze. His gaze lingered on the horizon, eyes clouded with confusion and pain. "Robin's gone, and here I am, a ship adrift; up shits creek without a paddle. What good can I do? What purpose do I serve? My skillset? My knowledge? Ive wasted my life, nothing is applicable." The questions hung in the air, unanswered. Ryan's life had indeed been a storm of violence and turmoil, from the gritty days working alongside Robin, watching his back to his hard-fought victories in the boxing ring. He had dreamt of leaving the world of fights behind, yet fate seemed to have woven a different path for him, one that he couldn't escape...
The distant sound of boat horns broke his train of thought. These weren't the usual rhythmic calls that echoed along Vancouver's shores; they carried a sense of urgency, growing louder and more frantic by the second. Ryan leaned forward, squinting into the morning light. The sight that greeted him was anything but ordinary. Dark, ominous and foreboding shapes were cutting through the waters toward the Seawall – military-grade ships that seemed like phantoms against the sun's bright backdrop.
"What the...?" Ryan murmured, a wry smile touching his lips as he recalled a line from a 1930s radio show. "Ah yes, the 'Anti-Frackers' upping their game, bravo!" He often found solace in humour, a shield against the world's harsh realities. Ryan was an unbreakable anvil to the world, always struck to sharpen others' steel. But what about his iron resolve? He bore the burdens so others didn't have to, a silent guardian shouldering the world's weight in stoic silence. Yet beneath that armour of stoicism beat the heart of a man grappling with his vulnerabilities, a man with a core as soft as it was intense.
Just like that- The world as we knew it, changed forever.
The morning's peace shattered abruptly as sirens wailed into life, slicing through the air with a sense of impending doom. The tranquil dawn was now a backdrop to a nightmare unfolding in real time. Ryan's eyes, mirroring the turbulent hues of a stormy sea, narrowed in primal alertness. These were not friendly vessels coming to grace the city's harbour; they were harbingers of chaos, their arrival a silent scream in the gardens of Vancouver's tranquility. As the city around him carried on, blissfully unaware of the looming threat, Ryan's mind shifted into high gear, honed by years of confrontation, conflict and reading other peoples intentions. He understood the unspoken language of death, the subtle shift in the air that preluded catastrophe. The serene calm that had greeted the day now seemed like the deceptive stillness before a devastating storm.
PFFFFT~~
Ryan's coffee ejected out his mouth, a clean mist dispersed, dancing in the ocean winds.
His eyes widened in shock. "That... No, that's not right. That honeycomb structure on the bow – that's rumoured military tech, not something you'd find on a civilian vessel. That's definitely not one of our decommissioned ships; Canada has always had a modest military budget- It's not the U.S. either; they've moved on to those massive city carriers," he muttered, recalling the recent unveiling of the U.S.'s latest naval behemoth designed to be a self-sustaining war ecosystem.
"These are destroyers...carriers...and what in the world are those landing crafts?" His voice trailed off as a wave of realization washed over him. A heavy breath escaped his lips, his heartbeat thundering in unison with a growing sense of dread. This kind of military might, sleek and menacing, was straight out of the pages of a dystopian novel. Ryan's pulse quickened, adrenaline coursing through his veins, mingling with an unsettling fear. Vancouver, with its serene beauty and peaceful reputation, was the last place one would expect a military invasion. Yet, as he stood there, the city around him persevered in blissful ignorance. Laughter and the sounds of daily life echoed up to his balcony, starkly juxtaposed against the darkening horizon of his thoughts.
Something sinister was unfolding, and he felt an urgent need to act. "Ah, damn it!" he exclaimed, frustration boiling over as he hurled his mug to the ground, where it shattered into razer sharp ceramic shards—a glimpse of futures past.
The walls of Ryan's apartment, once a gallery of memories from a life half-lived, now felt like they were closing in on him. The space that had been his refuge, adorned with mementos of a tumultuous past, suddenly felt like a prison. He felt trapped, not by physical barriers, but by the weight of the unfolding crisis. Who could he call? Who would believe him about an impending military assault? Was there even time?
Each option seemed as hopeless as the next, leaving him feeling powerless. His fists, which had once brought him victory in the ring, now seemed futile in the face of this immense and unknown threat.
BOOM
A thunderous crash tore through the city's fabric, piercing the veil of laughter and routine. Giggles changed to Shrieks, the buzzing of cars in the city turned screeching of panicked tires. It was a boom resonating with such force that it seemed to shake the very resolve of the most robust steel, a sound that demands attention and captivates a person, a sound of death; it rattles you to the bone. This explosion marked a pivotal moment that would forever alter the course of Vancouver's history and, indeed, the world's.
The resounding echo of the first explosion heralded a declaration of war on all that was ordinary. In Ryan, the shockwave ignited a transformation. Despair morphed into an unyielding determination, a fire kindled deep within. His skin prickled, each hair standing on end as if his nerves were braille, spelling out the moment's urgency.
"Are they firing at us?" Ryan's voice was a mix of disbelief and rising panic. The thought seemed almost too surreal to entertain. He hesitated momentarily, grappling with the reality of the situation. The explosion's roar, so fierce it shook the foundations of his apartment, jolted him back to the present. Racing back to his balcony, what he saw confirmed his darkest fears.
The ships in the harbour were no longer silent, ominous spectators; they had unleashed their fury, sending plumes of smoke and debris skyward. Vancouver's skyline, once a proud testament to peace and progress, now served as a harrowing backdrop to an unfolding apocalypse. Below, the streets descended into chaos. People scattered in a frantic attempt to escape, their screams piercing the air, a chorus of dawning terror.
Ryan's heart pounded against his chest, each beat a call to action. He was no hero, never the 'good guy' in his story, but he did value life above all. Standing there, witnessing his city being torn apart, he knew he couldn't remain a passive observer. Indecision and shock gave way to resolve.
"MOTHA FU-" he cursed, his words lost in the burst of an explosion, spotted at the last second.
The world around him had erupted into a maelstrom of fire and fury.
An air burst shell detonated with ferocious intensity a mere 50 meters from Ryan's sanctuary. The explosion ripped through the building, an unforgiving hatred that jolted reality itself. The blast wave, a monstrous force of destruction, assaulted his apartment, shattering the windows with an ease that mocked Vancouver's fragility. Glass shards, transformed into lethal projectiles, hurtled through the air with a hunter's precision, each piece seeking its target. Instinctively, Ryan lunged for cover, his only protection a vintage oak promotional board, a relic of a bygone era. This wooden guardian, decorated with the iconic image of Stan Lee, stood as a stoic defender, a symbol of comic heroism now repurposed to shield flesh and blood from the brutal onslaught.
A low hum erupts from the depths of his being as the fireball swirled around him. "Breathe... I can't... don't fall asleep... don't...sleep..." he whispered, fighting the encroaching darkness. His cobalt eyes, glazing over open, fighting to the last light, flickered between consciousness and oblivion. The distant, muffled voices of mentors past echoed in his mind, a fading chorus in the theatre of his memories. Ryan looked to his left, cast one last lingering look at the Vancouver sky, a canvas of blue that seemed so distant now. As his vision began to narrow, a tunnel drawing him away from the light, Ryan felt the grip of darkness pulling him under heavy, yet weightless. Once so vivid and alive, the world around him was fading into shadows.
Amid shrapnel-induced unconsciousness, Ryan's mind catapulted him back to a pivotal moment from his youth – the Ontario Canadian Olympic Trials.
The stadium's noise swirled around him, but it was an entirely different world within the ring. There, it was just Ryan and his opponent, every move a testament to the sacrifices he and Robin(Ryan's longtime mentor both inside, and outside the ring) had made together.
Ryan's style in the ring was unique, a blend of calculated ferocity in speed and agility. He adopted the elusive, angular movements that Robin had honed while serving alongside the hardened Ukrainians on the frontlines of Kyiv. This style was compelling and unpredictable, frustrating his opponents with swift and efficient strikes. Ryan's ability to slip away from counters, almost serpentine in its execution, left them grasping at straws.
Point fighting for the Olympics was a system that worked well with Ryan's style but not necessarily with his mindset. Ryan was a fighter at heart, and sometimes, when pushed, the disciplined techniques would give way to a rawer form of combat. Robin, who always believed in Ryan's potential, saw this as his greatest fault and biggest asset to "push past." In his gruff but encouraging voice, Robin would often spew "The stink in that mind, You've got a head on you that'd make an onion cry," highlighting Ryan's occasionally impulsive nature, and inability to control his emotions when it mattered. This characteristic made Ryan fearless in the ring but also sloppy, open, and vulnerable. It often led him into trouble outside of the solace in prizefighting.
In these trials, Ryan's physical attributes – his slender frame, broad shoulders, wide back and a peculiarly long wingspan that gave him an imposing presence in his weight class – it made him stand out. His frame synchronized with his style, creating a truly unique spectacle of genetic gifts, hard work, and skill.
These memories blended nostalgia and pain as they flickered through Ryan's mind. They were reminders of a path once trodden, a journey shaped by the influence of a mentor and the determination of a fighter's spirit.
As the Olympic Trials set to begin, Robin looked to Ryan to instill confidence for his upcoming bouts, but Ryan was in his element. It was fight day, the fun day, the day to show off all of the hard work. Ryan had confidence, and his style in the ring displayed it in full. He moved with an angular rhythm that was both art and battle – slipping, landing a quick stiff counter cross, then gracefully stepping out of reach inches from returning fire. He made it look fun and easy, as if playing with his prey before fangs clench throat, delivering the killing bite. Looking closer, you can only see fire and determination in his bright eyes. He found purpose in the beautiful science of boxing. His strategy was that of a technical boxer, The Counterpuncher; 1. To bait his opponent into committing, then counter, fight long, fight smart. 2. Beat em' up, Frustrate em', then start slinging the heat in the uppercuts and lead hooks.
The bell rang and the fight was officially underway. Ryan controlled the ring with his long frame. Each exchange was rapid yet controlled, a dance of precise strikes and evasive maneuvers. The world's complexities faded in these moments, leaving only Ryan and the pure essence of the sport he loved. He felt invincible, a force of nature within the confines of the ring. To Ryan, the fight was more than a competition; it was a performance, an exhilarating escape from the mundane. It was true Purpose.
The intensity of the round reached a frustrating outburst by his opponent, who grabbed Ryan by the back of his head– 'SPLIT' called by the referee, his hand placed between them. A judge calls for a correction, catching the referee's attention only for a split second. In this second, Ryan's Opponent saw an opportunity. Lifting his head to move away, Ryan locks eyes with his Opponent, sporting a grin and delivering a sly headbutt as a parting gift. It's against the rules, but part of the game's harsh reality if gone unnoticed. Expelling energy and detesting it was a waste of fuel. It was a jolting reminder of "at all times"(protect yourself), a stark contrast to the discipline and respect Ryan upheld, starting his boxing journey in Thailand under "Muay Thai" rules, ideology of the worrior spirit and discipline. There was a sense of Honor in Lumpinee Stadium.
The outcome of these unsavoury tactics here is an advantage for the opponent. Ryan's inner pools erupt, his mind swirled with raging white waters, crashing and colliding against each other, two oceans with opposite currents meeting in his consciousness. His once technical thoughts, muscle memory mixed with fight iq burst with flames, erupting and incinerating all strategy in his path. His eyes widened, open like he'd found his primal genetic ancestry hidden deep within. The slaughter and the war of history. The bloodshed of 1000 lifetimes. He felt it all. Manic in thought. Ryan wanted to take his glove off and rip his cheeks open from the inside out--
BREAK - Ryan snaps back into it, erupting in stoic, silent, primal rage.

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The fight escalated, Ryan's disciplined technique unravelled under the seething tide of his rage. The finesse and agility that once defined his footwork gave way to a heavier, more aggressive stance. His feet, usually light and swift under his commanding frame, now felt anchored to the floor, each step driven more by fury than finesse. This transformation in style played perilously into his opponent's advantage. Ryan, usually a master of stick-and-move tactics, found himself engaging in close-quarter brawls, trading his advantage for a risky gamble. His in-and-out maneuvers, once a blur of grace, turned into brutish, in-the-pocket exchanges. This was a terrain where his more muscular and compact opponent had the upper hand. A raw, primal contest of power replaced the tactical dance that Ryan excelled at. Ryan's precise strikes became wild swings, his movements predictable to his seasoned adversary. Seizing the moment, the opponent unleashed a devastating barrage of inside hooks with their compact frame. A vicious right hook, lands clean in the exchange, thrown with the grace of a milkbag, the power hooks brute force, cut through Ryan's defences. The blow landed with a bone-jarring impact, sending a shockwave through Ryan's frame. His world spun as he stumbled, his once dominant presence in the ring now faltering under the weight of his unchecked emotions.
The ground rushed up to meet him as he crashed onto the canvas, the taste of iron and the sting of defeat mingling in his mouth. The crowd's roar faded into a distant echo, a stark reminder of how quickly the tides of battle could turn. Robin's voice sliced through the ringing from the corner, resonating with a force that commanded attention.
"Get your shit together, JUMPIN JESUS RYAN! HEART OF GOLD AND HEAD OF STONE – GET UP, YOU LITTLE COWARD! YOU'RE LETTING IT WIN, AGAIN! STOP THIS ONION HEAD NONSENSE AND DANCE, BOX THIS FELLA – YOU'RE BETTER THAN THIS, ACT LIKE IT, BELIEVE IN IT!"
His words were more than just a call to action; they were a lifeline thrown into the stormy seas of Ryan's mind. Each syllable was drenched in the raw, unfiltered wisdom that only a life spent in the cauldron of combat could forge. Robin's tone was a volatile cocktail of fury and concern, the urgency palpable in his voice. His palms crashed against the ring mat; each hit thunderous punctuation to his fiery sermon.
"You've got the talent, kid, but it's as good as ash if you keep burning it to the ground. I'M HERE FOR YOU, IM RIGHT HERE. SNAP OUT OF IT AND BOX THIS PLASTIC PATTY! MOVE GOD DAMNIT, GET UP!"
On the canvas, Ryan lay dazed, the echo of Robin's voice ringing in his ears. It was more than a mere pep talk; it was a wake-up call that struck a chord deep within him. Amidst the haze of the crowd murmurs and the pulsating pain that coursed through his body, clarity began to emerge. Lying there, Ryan grasped the essence of Robin's message –
"coward? letting it win? Playing my ego are ya Robin...hes right though. Im throwing this shit away."
This moment, sprawled on the canvas under the glaring lights and the crowd's gaze, became a crucible of transformation. The raw emotion and the hard-hitting truth in Robin's words ignited a spark in Ryan. It was time to rise, shake off the shadows of rage, and embrace a fighter's true spirit like he had learned in Thailand – not just with fists but with heart and mind in unison.
Staggered yet stirred by the dual impact of the physical hit and Robin's piercing words, A padded fist crushed into the rings canvas, followed by a kneee and the eruption of the crowd. Ryan was back, and he began to pull himself up from the canvas. His resolve, momentarily dimmed, now reignited with a fierce, clear, calculated intensity. Memories of the gruelling hours spent in the gym flooded back to him – the relentless sparring sessions, the time spent in Thailand, the sweat and toil, and the invaluable lessons etched into his being under Robin's stern tutelage.
With a renewed spirit, Ryan stepped back into the battle, his movements now embodying controlled power and a fluidity to his step. He recalled his time fighting beside the backdrop of the "Sarama" a traditional Thai music played when in combat. The times of learning to move, fight with the music, to flow, to be fluid, to be concise. Ryan finally put it all together in the heat of battle. He had merged his inherent ferocity with the disciplined technique that Robin relentlessly drilled into him, and the mindfull practises of the years he spent under Burklerk Pinsinchai in the jungles of Chiang Mai. His style was now fully displayed, raw and visceral yet refined by countless hours of practice in mind, body and spirit.
The final rounds bell clang to a start in a clinic of skill and sheer willpower. Ryan, driven by a blend of desperation and unwavering determination, unleashed a barrage of calculated and explosive strikes. Each punch and maneuver was a nod to the efficient, no-nonsense Ukrainian style that Robin had imparted to him. Ryan moved rhythmically across the mat, steps measured and precise, executing short, angular movements and deft outside counterpunches. He had returned to his element – the dance of combat, where he felt most alive, a symphony of movement where every step and punch was a testament to his life's journey and experiences as a human being first, and as a fighter second.
In this wake-up call, Ryan reinvigorated and reminded himself of his love for the sport, the exhilarating blend of art and athleticism. He was not just fighting to win; he was celebrating boxing, combat, honouring the path he had walked with Robin, and reclaiming what it meant to be a true fighter through Burklurk Pinsinchai's Teachings.
The round pressed on, and Ryan executed his maneuvers with a surgeon's precision. First;
-- The counterpuncher; a display in timing and accuracy, delivered with the full force of training and innate skill. --

1. He deftly slipped his opponent's cross, a move as fluid as it was swift.
   
2. He angled off, creating a space wide enough for his next move.
   
3. With an almost predatory precision, Ryan unleashed a powerful right cross, targeting his opponent's cheek from the angle he had just created. But Ryan wasn't done yet.
   
4. He slipped out again, evading any potential counter from his disoriented opponent. The rhythm, he danced in and out with his precise timing, perfected down to inches and angles.
   
5. In a final, decisive movement of the exchange, Ryan slipped in. He timed his step with a long cross that came off-beat, catching his opponent utterly off-guard. The punch landed with a satisfying impact, culminating in a perfectly executed combination. As he watched his opponent stagger, Ryan couldn't help but think, 'cya sleepy boi,' a silent acknowledgment of his dominance in this singular exchange.
   

This sequence was a statement. Ryan was not only back in the fight but also commanding it.
ONE!…TWO!…THREE!…FOUR!…FIVE!…SIX!...SEVEN!..EIGHT!
Ryan's opponent stands, admirable, but futile, driven by sheer will but hampered by sluggish movements, the man rose to his feet, it was clear the fight was reaching its zenith.
The opponent, gathering his remaining strength for a final stand, launched a jab, a last-ditch effort relying more on brute force than finesse. But this was a fatal mistake in Ryan's world – playing right into what Ryan was best at. Counters.
Ryan read the move with the clarity of a seasoned fighter. As the jab came, he effortlessly slipped to the right, evading the punch with a short angular step that spoke of his ring intelligence. Instantly, he countered with the same sharp cross from his right hand, followed by a devastating hook that cut through the air with lethal intent in his left. Grasping at straws, reeling from the counter, Ryans opponent threw a desperate, looping last stand punch, Ryan dipped down and left, rolling the punch with an elegance that made it seem almost effortless. He was Hunting for the Kill Shot. Seizing the moment, Ryan unleashed a ferocious left uppercut, the force of the blow lifting his opponent's chin skyward. He followed up with a right overhand, but just before impact, he halted the punch. There was no need for it; his opponent was already collapsing, the "Lights were on, but no one was Home". The fight was effectively over, Ryan's last combination is the final note, a crescendo that echoed through the ring.
As his opponent hit the canvas, the crowd erupted. Ryan stood in the center of the ring, his chest heaving, every fibre of his being alight with the thrill of victory. This wasn't just a win; it was a performance, a display of skill, heart, and the indomitable spirit of a fighter who had walked through fire and flames to the otherside and emerge victorious.
The final bell Rings with not a single chair in the arena warm; a thunderous clap erupts from the crowd. It was more than just applause; it was an acknowledgment of a battle fiercely fought by both men. In that moment ringside, in a triumphant victory, Ryan and Robin shared a look that spoke volumes, a connection far beyond the usual bounds of mentor and protégé. Their bond, tempered in the crucible of hardship and struggle, was now sealed in the glory of this defining triumph.
Standing amidst the cheers and the adrenaline-fueled euphoria, Ryan found himself momentarily lost in the tide of memories. It was a poignant reminder of the journey that had brought him here, a path marked by triumphs and losses. Robin's teachings transcended the confines of boxing; they were life lessons imprinted deep onto him. Ryan began to slowly step out of the ring; the weight of these reflections settled upon him. The victory was sweet, but it carried the weight of all sacrificed to achieve it. Robin's presence was felt strongly, a guiding force that continued to shape his path, illuminating the way forward even in the most challenging times.

This story was written and emailed to me by an anonymous source. And it’s one of the craziest most bizarre stories I’ve ever read. Ever! 😆 Enjoy the read. It’s long and ridiculously wild. ☘️
Okay so…
I went on vacation to Ireland with my brother last year. And had the most wildest experience of my life there.
Or should I say, we both had the most…wildest experience.
But More so me. And to Tell you the truth, I don’t think I’ll ever go back again after what happened.
As a matter of fact, no, I won’t go back.
So, it’s a Sunday night and it was pretty much our last day of vacationing.
My older brother Shane, wanted to go out… And I’m quoting him - “let’s get fuckin wasted tonight!”
So… We’re on vacation right? Why not? We had rented an Airbnb for the week, we had a rental car - we had a great week so far and we were having…
A proper vacation.
He was already dressed up and ready to go. I wanted to take a quick shower and shave so I told him to head out and I’d call him when I was ready for him to pick me up.
He says cool. He leaves, and I jump in the shower. He’s the one that knows the hot spots in Ireland better than I do. I mean, this was my first time ever coming here. So…
I take a shower, shave, and I get dressed. As I’m about to call my brother, the front door to our Airbnb opens up.
And Its my brother with two bad ass Irish women! They both jump on the couch and they’re laughing their asses off and my brother is just standing there looking at me with a sly grin on his face.
He looks over at the ladies and says - “Give me a minute please” walks over to me, puts his arm over my shoulder and walks me to the bathroom. He then whips out a bag of mushrooms and smiles. Ya know… The psychedelic kind.
I look down at the bag and I shake my head.
He says to me - “come on bro. We got two hotties out there who are trippin and they want to party. Don’t be a flake. This is our last night. Let’s make it special.”
I don’t like disappointing my brother but I was kind of hesitant.
I opened the bathroom door and take a look at these gorgeous women who were both sitting upright now and both looking at me as I opened the door. Both smiling. I smiled back. Closed the door… I looked at my brother and said - “Alright dood fuck it! Let’s do it!”
He gives me a huge hug, kisses me on the forehead, pours me a handful of shrooms and does the same for himself.
We both looked at each other to see who would go first. He counted to three and down the hatch they went. But they were the most unpleasant tasting mushrooms I’ve ever eaten in my life. They were disgusting.
I ran to the fridge and grabbed a bottle of juice because I was having a hard time chewing these nasty things.
But my brother Shane? No, he’s a pro. You give that guy a barrel of hay and he’ll eat it faster than a horse. The guy can eat anything.
40 minutes go by and I’m still straight as a pin. However, my brother on the other hand? He’s already trippin.
I think he had already taken some beforehand.
But in the next 10 minutes… These shrooms hit me like a ton of bricks! It was like this intense wave of cool and hot went completely through my body.
And I’ve taken mushrooms quite a few times but have never felt anything like this before. It was so sudden!
And I feel fantastic!
The next hour went by so fast because we were having so much fun! And these Irish girls? Man… I had the sexiest one! A beautiful Redhead by the name of Katrina.
She was kind of short though. About 5’1” maybe? But good things come in small packages, right? Well, not really. And you’ll know why soon enough.
I don’t recall anything else that happened for the rest of the night after my brother left with the other girl. And before I continue with the rest of the story. My brother’s name is really not Shane. And the redhead girl I was with is not named Katrina.
You see I had to make up these names to protect me and my brother. Because what happened during the rest of the night? I don’t remember. But also, I’ll never forget either.
Okay so, let's get back to the story…
I do remember my brother leaving with… Let's just call her Gloria, Katrina’s friend? And me and Katrina, the redhead, stood behind. I do remember us making out in the bathroom together, but…Everything else after that? There’s nothing there. Nothing. I don’t recall anything from that point forward no matter how badly I try to remember.
This is what my brother told me he witnessed as he arrived back at the Airbnb five hours later with Gloria.
And until this day, I still don’t want to believe this happened. But according to my brother…
It truly did happen.
My brother is going to write this part of the story because he’s the one that has this locked in his memory for life. And for the sake of the story, my name will be Alex.
Here is my brother Shane’s point of view - his perspective on what he witnessed that crazy night. Wow man… This is so fucking nuts. So buckle up and be prepared. I understand you don’t know who I am, but I swear, I’m not a bad person. Okay.

• “Shane’s” story on what he witnessed.

Yeah so, I guess I’m Shane now. Unreal…
Okay. Here we go. Meat and potatoes.
We arrive back at the Airbnb and I see Alex outside in the front of the house wearing only socks and he’s running around on top of the grass like an animal yanking out handfuls of grass from underneath him.
I look at Gloria and we’re both baffled at what we just saw.
First thing I said was - “Oh yeah! This dood is off his rocker right about now - as I parked the car.
We both hop out of the car and walk up to the front door. I slide the key into the door, it unlocks, but there’s a chair behind the door and it’s tipped over blocking the entry way and only leaving enough space for a crack. We both awkwardly look at one another and as I’m about to call out for my brother, I hear someone sprinting towards the door and bang!
The fuckin idiot shuts the door on us.
I then knock on the door softly because It’s almost 1 in the morning as I don’t want to make too much noise. God only knows what this kid has been doing since me and Gloria left.
After I knock on the door a few times, I hear the chair getting pushed to the side and my brother slightly opens the door. I take a peek inside, and his nose is broken, lips are bubbled up and his left eye is completely shut, black and blue and swollen.
He then drops to his knees, and begins crying but no sound is coming out of him! You know… Like when you get smacked by your parents when you’re a kid and it shocks the soul of you? Yeah, that kind of cry.
I don’t react to what he’s doing to not scare the shit out of Gloria, because she’s right beside me. So I push the door open and tell Gloria to hang on a second and shut the door and lock it.
I pick his busted ass up and sit him on the couch. I look around the house and it’s in complete shambles. Our clothes are everywhere, there’s food all over the fuckin walls. It was chaotic. And my brother is now sitting up breathing frantically.
I ask him - “what in the fuck happened?”
He looks at me. Face looking like he got into a boxing match with Rocky Marciano and whispers to me.
“Dood… There’s a leprechaun in the bathroom.”
“A fuckin what now?” - I said with the most bewildered look on my face. I mean I must have… I wish I would have taken a picture of my face at that very moment. I should have taken pictures of everything so this idiot could see the havoc he wreaked on that night.
My imbecile brother continues - “I’m telling you. There’s a fuckin leprechaun in the fuckin bathroom and this little lucky charms motherfucker won’t tell me where he hid the gold!”
“A leprechaun in the bathroom. What the fuck happened to you?” I said as I felt my blood beginning to boil.
The Imbecile then says - “Don’t worry. Don’t worry! I hogtied that little bitch and stuffed my underwear in its mouth. It’s in the bathtub. But don’t go in there. Don’t go in there. This thing fucked me up!”
And now I can hear someone fumbling in the bathroom moaning very softly. I looked at my brother and said - “What in the fuck did you do Alex?”
He replies - “I’m telling you. It’s a fucking leprechaun.”
“Okay. Okay.” - I said. “Stay right here and just, don’t move. Don’t do anything. Just keep still.
His eyes were so huge and dilated. He was so fuckin high. He had heartbeat pulses pumping from the top of his head.
I rushed back over to the front door and told Gloria that my brother got into a fight with a couple of guys at a pub while me and her were out and that her friend Katrina left because she got scared. She told me that was the first time she met that girl tonight so she really didn’t care and shrugged it off. Which was a huge relief to me. I told her thank you for a wonderful night. She understood. W said our goodbyes. I shut the door. And now… What the fuck is in the bathroom? Or better yet, who, is in the bathroom? Because let’s face it. This motherfucker did not find and fight with a leprechaun tonight. No way. There’s just no fuckin way.
I rush over to the bathroom and my brother leaps at my legs, and he’s holding onto me for dear life, begging me!
He says - “Please don’t untie it! It’s got magical powers! PLEASE!!!
Now, at this very moment? I am sort of hesitant about opening the bathroom door. But I snap out of it and open it. What the fuck. A leprechaun? No, I don’t think so.
I open the door…
“Holy shit.” - I said while covering my hands with my mouth. The floor was smeared in blood as if someone was dragged, leading to the huge cast iron tub. Smeared bloody handprints were all over the tub. And now I hear the faint moan coming from the tub. My legs are shaking and feel like they’re ready to give out on me. I was scared shitless.
“What did my brother do? Who is in that bathtub? I pray to God Katrina isn’t in there right now.” - I said to myself completely freaked out.
I slowly walk up to the bathtub…
And sure enough, there is a hogtied person lying in it with my brother's underwear stuffed in their mouth with a ripped t-shirt tied around their head and mouth, but… It’s not Katrina.
It’s a little person. You know, a dwarf? And… He’s literally dressed up in a leprechaun costume…
And how, on God's green earth did he end up here?
He has no idea I’m standing above him. I reach down to begin untying him but he begins squirming and screaming. I told him to relax and that I was here to help him.
And then My imbecile brother Alex, rushes into the bathroom and tackles me down. Stands up and begins shouting at this poor bastard hogtied in the tub - “Tell me where it is you greedy little fuck! Tell me!!!
I jumped to my feet and slapped my brother back to his childhood. Grabbed him by the throat, tripped him and threw him to the ground and said - “are you fuckin crazy? Do you want to go to prison for kidnapping? What in the fuck is the matter with you? You dumb fuck!!”
He then looks up at me with this pessimistic look on his face and says - “It’s a fucking leprechaun dood. A leprechaun.”
I was absolutely dumbfounded and furious at this point. I have this stranger in my Airbnb rental, hogtied and gagged and squirming and screaming and my brother thinks that he’s a leprechaun…
I can’t make this shit up.
He was so fucking high on those mushrooms. He was absolutely convinced that this man was a leprechaun. So… I had to play the game.
It was the only way to help this poor son of a bitch that my brother had kidnapped and hogtied in our Airbnb rental.
I calmly whispered and told him to please leave the bathroom so I could interrogate the leprechaun and find out where he was hiding the pot of gold.
My brother slowly stood up to his feet, face busted up, his cock and balls all shriveled and tight, looked at the man dressed up as a leprechaun, smiled at him with an evil grin and just, walked away…
And as he walked away, I told him to go and please put some clothes on, lay down in bed, and that I would handle the leprechaun. That I, would find out where the gold was hidden…
And that’s all I’m saying. I’m giving the computer back to my dumbass of a brother to finish off whatever else he wants to write.

• Back to “Alex”

Pretty outlandish right? I know. I know. You must think that I’m bat shit crazy huh? Okay so, to make the rest of this long story short, my brother Shane never told me what he did with the poor guy I hogtied and, well… i don’t remember how this guy came to be in my possession. I really don’t.
The only thing my brother Shane told me was that he ungagged him, untied him, and that he was extremely pissed off. And that he had compensated him for his troubles.
Man, I felt so horrible. I felt so horrible…
What I do remember though is waking up that following afternoon with my face all fucked up. Dehydrated with a tremendous splitting headache. I had no clue as to why I looked and felt the way I did. It was terrifying.
All of our luggage was packed and my brother was just sitting there, legs crossed and his arms folded.
Hey man… Take it from me. Don’t do fuckin drugs.
Regards, “Alex” & “Shane”
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