Gangster handwritting alphapet

DC Next presents:

I AM BATMAN

In True Crime
Issue Sixteen: Dark Hair And Face Paint
Written by ClaraEclair
Edited by PredaPlant & DeadIslandMan1
 
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Gotham University’s winter term was coming to an end, and that meant the resident varsity football team was finishing out their season — on home turf, no less. The Nighthawks were on a winning streak and were looking to finish off the season with a championship. The entire team felt the energy coursing through them as the stadium filled and crowd chants grew.
There were always major league scouts within the crowds at these types of games, especially for teams as impressive as the Nighthawks had been. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that some of the players on the varsity team would be making it to the national league. The coach, as hard as he could be on his team, felt nothing but warm pride in his heart and mind.
Zack Howard, the captain of the Nighthawks, looked over the 120 yard field from the player entrance, listening to the roaring crowd chanting for the Nighthawks — even fans of the Princeton Tigers felt the pull toward cheering on the Gotham University team. Just as much as his coach, he felt pride in being able to carry his team this far. He hoped to give the best game he’d ever played, to be noticed by big league coaches and scouts.
“Zack!” He heard his coach shout from behind him, no doubt trying to shift his attention back to the locker room and preparations for the game ahead. Zack exhaled deeply and turned around to see Coach Fremlin approaching with a light jog, holding something in his hand. “Delivery for ya,” he said, handing the envelope to the captain. “Some girl said to give it to you, said there’s somethin’ special inside.” With a smirk, Fremlin clapped Zack’s shoulder before turning back toward the locker room.
Zack’s mind flooded with possibilities and fantasies about what could’ve been in the envelope. Something special could have been anything, and it excited him as he ripped it open. His expression quickly shifted, however, as he pulled a handwritten note out of the envelope, scribbled in nearly illegible handwriting.
”Zack Howard,” it read. He opened it, his brow furrowed, and watched as an instant print photograph fell out of the fold and onto the ground. One piece of clear tape had been shoddily applied to the corner and had clearly lost its adhesion. Leaning down, Zack picked up the photo and squinted, trying to make out the subject.
It took a few moments, but the longer he stared at the photo, the more it dawned on him what was depicted in it. Instantly, upon realising what he saw, he rushed back to the locker room and forced himself through his teammates to Coach Fremlin, who was dragging out his playbook. He grabbed the coach by the shoulder, twisted him around to face him directly, and planted the photo firmly on his chest.
“What the fuck is this?” he demanded. Confused, Fremlin chuckled nervously as he tried to grasp the small photo on his chest, not able to see the subject but only the fury in Zack’s face. The room fell totally silent as the entire team watched the coach and their captain with bated breaths.
“What do you mean?” asked Fremlin, turning the image over and squinting at it, trying to make out the details. Just as fast as Zack had initially made out the details, Fremlin’s face dropped at the realisation. “Holy God, Zack, I–”
“What the hell is this?!” Zack demanded once more, resisting the urge to grab his coach by the collar and push him against the wall. “Who gave this to you?”
“I– I don’t know, it was some girl,” Fremlin stuttered, fumbling over himself. “She was short, had black hair, face paint…”
“What’s it say on the back?” asked Tim Teslow, the team’s best running back, pointing toward the image and the messy scrawls on the back of it. Zack snapped it back out of Fremlin’s hands as the coach sat down, head in his hands.
“Section 204, Row 8, seat 9,” Zack read the note aloud. “I’m going to go see what this is,” he said through clenched teeth.
“Dude, that’s across the stadium,” said Cutter Karznowski, the wide receiver that had only joined at the start of the season. “The game’s starting in a few minutes.”
“I don’t care,” Zack snapped back. “I’m going.”
 
 
Good evening, Gothamites, I hope you enjoyed that last one — Barcode by Self-Sacrificial. It’s always been a personal favourite of mine, straight to the point with the best beats and deepest riffs.
In the same spirit, I’ll get straight to the point of why today’s a big day for me — you’ve all known this was coming but I never quite said what it was. When I started this show a little over a year ago, I wanted to look at the dirt of the world. I wanted to bring you my favourite music while trying to figure out my favourite events in this city.
I’ve talked about all the legends, I’ve talked about Joker, Mister Freeze, and so many others. I’ve talked about new shooters like Man-Bat and Professor Pyg. I’ve even, unfortunately, shed some light on the unoriginal copycat hacks that have started popping up in recent years. It’s all been out of love, though. Love for the mind of those who would commit these atrocities, appreciation for what they are and what they represent.
There’s a reason why they are what they are, and it’s always been a goal of mine to love and appreciate what they put into the world. It’s all about the chaos.
But, today, I won’t be talking about that. Today, I’ll be talking about football. Before you all start booing me, it’s my special day and it’s my show, so I get final say. Specifically, it’s the big championship game for the Gotham University Nighthawks. I went to school with these guys, I feel… an obligation.
I’m excited to see how the game will turn out. I get the nagging feeling that their winning streak might come to an end.
 
 
Section 204 in the Gotham Knights stadium, on the north side of Tricorner Island, the southernmost landmass of Gotham, was filled to the brim with spectators and fans. All were cheering as they waited and watched the Gotham University Nighthawks enter the field below, while Zack spent his time searching the section for a small woman with black hair and face paint.
Despite the difficulty of sifting through the crowded seats, he couldn’t find a woman matching that description. He looked back down at the photograph’s note and read it again, making sure he was in the right spot. The location remained the same: Section 204, row 8, seat 9.
People called out his name, but he was quick to shrug them off. He was too focused on finding the woman who’d sent him the photograph. Even asking those who’d been sitting within section 204 had proved fruitless, with no one being able to say anything about the described woman.
Angry and dejected, Zack turned back toward the steps between sections to head back down to the field when something caught his eye as he moved.
“Sir!” He called out, angling his head toward a man two rows above him, pointing beneath his seat. “Sir, what’s that under your seat?” There was some sort of flashing light taped to the bottom of the seat, slowly pulsing between purple and green.
The man looked confused, leaning forward to take a look at what Zack had pointed at, eyes widening the moment he saw the wiring that he sat atop. A complex series of wires and lights traced their way around each seat in the section, though neither he nor Zack could see what, exactly, the wires were attached to.
“I don’t–”
The man could only shout out those few words before a loud explosion rocked the stadium, blasts running down the portion of the stadium from rows 12 to 4. Dozens of seats were annihilated as smoke, fire, and green gas erupted. Cries of pain and fear replaced the cheers of the spectators.
Blood tainted the intact seats while the smoke rose into the air, infiltrating the sky of southern Gotham, visible from all along the city’s coast. What fell across the stadium, permeating nearly every seat on the west side of the stadium, making its way into the halls that traced the inner workings of the building, was a thick green gas, forcing its way into the lungs of the men and women who were running for their lives, trampling each other.
Those closest to the explosion felt intense convulsions in their abdomens and spasms in their faces, involuntarily forced to bear wicked grins while their shattering breaths overtook the screams of terror in the form of wicked laughter.
Amidst the chaos, the charred photo that Zack once held fell slowly and gracefully, slightly charred, ignorant of the horror that it had been subject to. Slightly charred, it landed a few sections away from the explosions, trampled upon by infected spectators who had no idea what was being done to them.
 
 
A Few Minutes Earlier…
James Gordon’s office at the Gotham City Police Department headquarters was quiet as he sat at his desk, resting his elbows on its surface with his hands clasped, opposite Astrid Arkham, the frail-seeming daughter of Jeremiah Arkham. She had requested a meeting with him, and he had assumed it was for an update into Batman’s investigation into her father.
“Gotham City needs something new,” she began, catching him by surprise. His eyes widened slightly, then his brow furrowed. “We’ve been in this… this state of insanity for decades now, and it is only getting worse. This city is no longer livable, Commissioner.” He resisted the urge to groan. The only difference in Gotham City as it was and the Gotham City of before was that the murders had become spectacle.
When supervillains pushed out mobsters and gangsters, there was a shift in crime, but the results remained the same. Salvatore Maroni and Carmine Falcone knew how to keep their business quiet to the public unless they were in active war. Those were the good old days, now.
“Insane, maniacal supervillains,” she continued. “They rule the streets whenever they so choose. The police cannot deal with them, not under you. You rely on the Batman,” there was venom in her voice as she spoke the name, “and she sweeps up the problems while bringing deranged cultists and assassins into this city. She’s the heir of a small personal army with untold technology and she runs free. The Joker Riots, the assassin siege, Simon Hurt, all because the Batman has infested this town with these misguided thoughts of the supernatural, supposedly haunting our city.” Gordon remained silent.
“Essen’s incentives are now failing,” she said, watching Gordon closely for a reaction. If he gave one, she couldn’t see it. “How many companies that were enticed by her incentives have moved headquarters out of Gotham? They pay nothing in taxes, they have Essen licking their boots, and it’s still not enough. Despite all that’s happened, we haven’t been through hell yet, Commissioner. We’ve only arrived at the gates.”
“If I may, Miss Arkham,” said Gordon, leaning back in his chair, scanning the young woman up and down. “What’s your point?” He understood what she was saying, and he feared she was right, but he didn’t like the conclusion she was bringing forth.
“You are antiquated, Commissioner,” she replied, her face straight. “Obsolete. Your methods don’t work anymore, the law you uphold is no longer effective. Besides that, you are getting old. I can see the fatigue in your face, the bags under your eyes, your paleness. You’re not the detective you used to be.” Astrid leaned forward in her seat, putting her weight on her cane. “Gotham needs something new.”
Gordon’s phone rang, and for a brief moment he was thankful for the reprieve — but only for a moment.
 
 
I’d say I feel bad for the people at the Nighthawks game, but, if I’m totally honest, they had it coming. It’s about time everything caught up to them.
While we all ruminate on what’s happening at the game right now, let’s listen to some good music. This is Confetti by Viscera.
 
 
Batman had listened to as many notes as she could about a green gas that made anyone who inhaled it laugh uncontrollably. It typically led to suffocation through the inability to control the diaphragm, but this time it didn’t, and it confused the Dark Knight. A familiar sight, an attack that resulted in eery laughter, and yet it wasn’t what the city had seen before. None of the victims that hadn’t been in the initial blast had died, though medical care for each of them was necessary.
As much as she cursed herself for being late, not able to save anyone as the events unfolded, she knew that she needed to take control as fast as possible. She, along with every person in the city, dreaded what this attack meant. The name of a particular clown lingered on everyone’s tongues, though no one dared invoke his name.
Batman wasn’t so sure, and she hoped that her gut feeling was right. Most of the bodies that were recoverable had been extracted from the blast zone, over a dozen dead and dozens more injured. Blood and soot equally covered the destroyed seats, and even more on the concrete below.
One thing caught Batman’s eye amidst the mess, two sections away from the initial blast. A small instant print photograph, half burnt, laid on the ground, covered in dirty boot prints. She picked it up and looked it over, squinting as she studied the subject.
It was a blonde woman, head down with wet hair covering her face. Almost lost in the details was a small trail of blood behind the hair, mixing with trailing makeup. Batman frowned as she flipped the image over, seeing the note for a specific seat in the section of the stadium that had been blown to bits.
She approached the seat and kneeled, ducking down to see under the seat. It was one of few that remained intact after the explosions. Zack Howard’s Final Stop was scratched into the bottom of the seat, and at the sight of it, Batman signalled to Oracle to scan the engraving. She couldn’t identify the woman in the photograph, but she could see clearly enough that the attack was targeted at a specific person.
Another killer, she thought to herself, fearing what it could mean for the city. Pyg almost tore the richest members of the city’s economy apart, and they were ready to throw their own to the wolves. Now, there’d been a deadly gas attack at a football game — one that had been sponsored by many of Gotham’s elite.
The idea that the Clown Prince of Crime had returned was already making its way through the city — Batman knew she would have to exert control over everything she could to keep it from tearing itself apart at the seams. She was more than prepared to do so.
“It doesn’t look good,” she said to Oracle.
“Yeah,” she said, her voice distant. “I hope it’s just another copycat, they’re much easier to deal with.”
“I don’t know,” Batman replied, looking back at the photograph. “Something’s different.”

I squinted at the untidy scrawl, willing the oatmeal I'd forced down to chase that nasty hangover away. The handwriting was definitely mine. The O's were shaped such that the starting and ending points overlapped in an x, in my own distinctive fashion.
Rubbing at the space between my eyebrows, I tried to think back to what must have happened last night for me to have scribbled that message. It had been a colleague's final day at work, so we'd thrown a farewell party and plied ourselves with so many alcoholic drinks that we were all blinding drunk when we'd parted. I had no memory of what must have happened. Honestly, it was even a miracle that I'd even gotten home at all. I tended to be rather hard to understand when fuelled with alcohol.
A thought occurred to me, and I froze.
Suppose I'd gotten myself into some stupid argument with a gangster while inebriated, and had managed to leg it home before he and his gang could beat me up, but they had hunted me down and were now waiting outside my door? I quivered thinking about the ah bengs that might be camping right outside my door, fingering their parangs and serrated kitchen knives.
Or perhaps, clumsy drunk that I was, I'd left a trail of destruction in my wake on my way home, even as I (I winced) had sung aloud the last song I'd heard playing in the club like a very hip banshee? A vision of broken flowerpots along the moonlit corridor and angry neighbours sticking their heads out their doors had me cringing, my shoulders lifted and my head tucked in, so that I no doubt resembled a turtle.
There was no point in guessing and panicking. No ferocious knocks were battering the door, which was at least a good sign. I edged to the door and put an eye gingerly to the peephole.
No one. The space outside my door was devoid of anyone at all.
I pulled my face away, and then pressed my eye back against the hole to make sure I didn't miss anything.
No, it was definitely clear. I looked again at the ominous message on the chalkboard, and then caught sight of the clock above and swore. I was going to be late for work, and I had a presentation first thing today with my department head. He was not a patient man. I would do better to take my chances with aggrieved ah bengs or narked neighbours.
I was about to grab the doorknob, but remembered that I still hadn't written my positive message for the day. It was a two-year ritual now, and every time I didn't write it, I would go through the entire day just waiting for something bad to happen, and it always did. Racing to the board, I scrubbed out the message and scrawled another one (You can do this!) and then raced back to the door.
As soon as I grabbed hold of the knob, it all came rushing back.
I'd shut the door using my right hand last night, which was the hand I'd designated for shaking other people's hands, touching cash, opening doors, putting on the seatbelt in the cab, and pressing the lift button. The dirty hand.
Which meant that the doorknob now held all the germs and bacteria and general essence of the things I'd touched. And I hadn't had the energy to clean it up last night, so having trained myself to be ambidextrous, I'd left a message on the chalkboard with my clean hand, a message which I'd assumed my morning self would read and understand.
I hadn't, though, and now I was late to a meeting, with one dirty hand that I would definitely need to use on my commute to run through the presentation deck on my laptop.
Almost pleadingly, I looked at my board.
You can do this!
I can just about squeak into office on time if I leave now.
I can pull off this presentation perfectly - I've practised for days.
I can be one step closer to clinching that promotion.
I can do all of the above, if I can only just get over my need to clean the doorknob and wash this hand. After all, I'm going out again, aren't I?
But then I thought about the number of hands I'd shaken last night, and the urge overpowered me. I dumped my bag on the floor and ran to the toilet, grabbing a paper towel and an antibacterial cleaning agent.
As I methodically cleaned every square centimetre of the doorknob, my chances of being on time vanishing as if through a black hole, I said a silent prayer: that someday, I can get over my OCD.

A mix of mundane items you might find in the office of any overworked gumshoe as well as potential macguffins and creepy items fitting with the setting. But with a kind of X-Files feel where you aren't sure if magic exists or if there's some rational explanation, no matter how convoluted it might be.

Roll	Result
01	A bottle of cheap rotgut booze, only a quarter of it remaining.
02	A cardboard box of wooden matches. If shaken, you can hear only one wooden match is left, rattling around inside. The match is used, the top half burned and gnarled. Yet somehow if struck, still produces a feeble flame. The name on the match box is The Phoenix. There's no address.
03	A square leather case that closes with a strap, and is full of folded up pages, small scraps of paper, receipts, newspaper clippings, notes scribbled on cocktail napkins, etc. They are in no discernable order and none of it pertains to any case or incident you are familiar with.
04	A torn-out "J" page from a phonebook. There are 38 people with the last name Johnson... 32 of the names have been crossed out... four have question marks... one has an exclamation mark... the last is circled.
05	An old map of an unfamiliar location. If the parchment exposed to heat, indecipherable runes faintly appear. Are they magically inscribed, or is written in some sort of invisible ink?
06	A wooden coat tree with a battered fedora crookedly perched on top.
07	A very old Bible bound in heavy leather made from the hide of an unfamiliar creature. If you look inside, many passages have been underlined, highlighted, or entirely cut out. Those well-versed with the Bible will notice unfamiliar passages as well.
08	An unloaded snub-nosed revolver, the barrel smelling faintly of gunpowder.
09	A jar containing an eye and a couple inches of optic nerve floating in a greenish fluid. Taped to the jar is a note reading "Vazquez?" Somehow the eye always seems to be turned to face you.
10	A wooden case about the size of a dictionary, shoved into a corner and buried under old newspapers and empty coffee cups. It's locked and there's no key to be found. If somehow opened, it contains military decorations for gallantry that were awarded to the private eye.
11	A wooden hand with articulating fingers. You can't tell if it's a mannequin hand to be used by artist, or a prosthetic. Every time you look away, it seems like the fingers slightly change position.
12	A glass jar of ginger chews.
13	A notebook that contains private notes from a psychiatrist about a patient. The first two pages are banal and clinical; by the fifth, they are inscrutable ramblings.
14	A leather briefcase with banged up brass clasps. MaxSizeIs
15	A wooden cane with a lot of scratches, and a pair of wooden shoe-stretchers, along with a pair of scuffed shoes with one slightly too tall heel, propped up away in the corner. MaxSizeIs
16	A small stone statue of what is probably an eagle at rest about 6 inches high. MaxSizeIs
17	A small statue, it was maybe once a bust, weathered and beaten beyond recognition. When looked at under candle light you may see something reminiscent of a face. InquisitorViktorTarr
18	A can of soup with weird writing that makes your head hurt to trying to read it, and a very odd picture on it. You would swear it is looking at you. Adventux
19	A vial of clotted blood. It's labeled but the writing has faded away.
20	A baseball bat. The handle has been snapped off, leaving a sharp point.
21	A wall calendar, every full moon is crossed out in red. It doesn't look like ink.
22	A live mouse in a snap trap. The trap didn't kill it, but it's stuck in the trap. It's rear legs are still on the floor and occasionally the trap skitters around the room.
23	A portable typewriter in a battered case.
24	A scimitar hanging askew on the wall with an empty socket on the hilt where a jewel would have been. okami31
25	An interrogation kit open, showing some glass containers with murky liquids. okami31
26	A book about South American plants, with handwritten notes in Portuguese. okami31
27	An antique hookah and it looks recently used. okami31
28	Slightly mangled venetian blinds, and a slowly spinning steel caged 1930's General Electric fan. MaxSizeIs
29	A small wooden case shoved in the back of the shoe-closet filled with Turkish cigarettes, a false bottom filled with a stack of 5's and 10's, a speedloader of ammunition for a .357 revolver, a small handful of gold krugerrands, and a set of phony passports. MaxSizeIs
30	A bloody crowbar bent by the galoot the detective tried to clobber to death with it. MaxSizeIs
31	A sawn off shotgun taped to the underside of the desk behind a false front. MaxSizeIs
32	A protective magic circle scratched into the floor, filled with a thin silver wire and painted with a drop of saint's blood, blessed linseed oil, and a pigeon-feather; just big enough to fit around the desk and two chairs, and hidden beneath a crappy throw rug that really ties the room together. MaxSizeIs
33	A small, cramped crawl-space behind the air-vent leading to the neighboring office unit; kept vacant as a favor by the building manager. MaxSizeIs
34	A small box tied with a bow, containing what appears to be the severed little finger of a lady, complete with well manicured and lacquered finger-nail. MaxSizeIs
35	Ferret Droppings, as a message from the Nihilists you owe money to. MaxSizeIs
36	A tiny safe, hidden in a false compartment in the bottom drawer of the desk. MaxSizeIs
37	A loose floor-board behind a filing cabinet, with a small string attached to make it easier to remove. MaxSizeIs
38	A half used matchbook from a place that would further the plot along if the players visited. MaxSizeIs
39	A pencil rubbing of a piece of stationery. It shows a secret that furthers the plot. MaxSizeIs
40	A picture frame with a person's picture inside who literally does not have a face. As soon as you put the picture down, you forget this fact unless you have a great amount of mental willpower to resist the occult effect. MaxSizeIs
41	A small set of post cards hidden behind other pictures in picture frames on the wall. The post-cards advance the plot. MaxSizeIs
42	A pamphlet from a new-age cult type place or religious leader that would further the plot. MaxSizeIs
43	A rusted pencil sharpener in desperate need of being emptied of pencil shavings. comedianmasta
44	A collection of pencils of various heights, a few lacking erasers as they appear to have been snapped in half at one point. comedianmasta
45	An ash tray with several stubs crushed inside. comedianmasta
46	A vintage table lighter that looks decorative. comedianmasta
47	A messy Rolodex filled with scribbled notes interspersed with business cards of names, addresses, and phone numbers. comedianmasta
48	An old telephone with the receiver and speaker separated. Markings half scraped off it hints it might've been an old phone from a hotel. comedianmasta
49	A letter rack absolutely stuffed with ignored bills. comedianmasta
50	An old calendar flipped to the wrong month. On closer inspection, you see it's for a few years ago. comedianmasta
51	A rusted barometer by the window with different weather things written on it. It's unclear if it is broken or functional. comedianmasta
52	A mercury thermometer nailed onto the wall. comedianmasta
53	An inappropriate cigarette dispenser of a naked lady. When the lady is bent forward, a cigarette is dispensed from where her butt would be. comedianmasta
54	A brass stamp on a dried up ink pad that stamps the words "Case Closed". comedianmasta
55	A basket of tickets and ticket stubs from films and movies, carnivals, and other ticketed events. Some are unused. Many are way out of date.
56	A quality, but beaten, camera with one or more long-range lenses. Most of the film inside is used up but unprocessed. One of the lenses has clearly been modified, with either strange symbols or electronics surrounding a lens of an unusual color. DavidECloveast
57	An honest to god Enigma machine. DavidECloveast
58	A letter from someone the detective notes is a crackpot detailing the location and nature of research into electricity-based weaponry. DavidECloveast
59	A letter signed 'Bilagaana" saying he wants nothing to do with the gumshoe and to never contact him again. DavidECloveast
60	A knife with a strange wavy 'Kris' blade. DavidECloveast
61	A threatening note made of cut up newspaper headlines. DavidECloveast
62	A pewter toy of a soldier on horseback. DavidECloveast
63	A talisman made of some ugly, slag-like metal that is dark enough it's hard to see what it depicts; simply labeled 'do not'. DavidECloveast
64	A rifle from the Great War, vintage 1911. DavidECloveast
65	A framed photograph of a police or military academy's graduating class. Some faces may be scratched out. DavidECloveast
66	A dented flask filled with sand. DavidECloveast
67	A machine gun. A Tommy gun in either the 'gangster' or 'GI' configurations, or maybe even a m1919 or foreign trophy from Europe. DavidECloveast
68	A letter signed MacGee trying to convince the detective to sign on and help with Irish independence. Handwriting, syntax and word choice all give the impression the writer is not mentally stable. DavidECloveast
69	A photograph depicting The detective standing alongside a Chinese man in a pilot's jumpsuit in front of a P-40 Warhawk, both smiling. It's signed 'Death from Above! -Hua' in one corner. DavidECloveast
70	A stack of kid's comic books. There may be deranged, conspiratorial scribbling in the margins. DavidECloveast
71	A whole ass dead monkey curled up in a desk drawer. DavidECloveast
72	A sawn-off shotgun. It's loaded with two shells filled with some kind of ash rather than buckshot. DavidECloveast
73	A corkboard covered in thumbtacked photographs linked together with string. It may look like somebody's ripped some of the contents off, and some of the photos are downright bizarre. DavidECloveast
74	A human skull. Something is rattling around inside. DavidECloveast
75	A very plain crucifix on a neck string. DavidECloveast
76	An underground map of the city. A few places are marked, but any text is illegible due to bad handwriting and water damage. DavidECloveast
77	A photograph of the detective armed with a double barreled shotgun crouching next to a dead grasshopper about the size of a large dog, looking as about as disturbed as anyone would be in that situation. The back simply reads "Oklahoma". DavidECloveast
78	A police radio, next to an ashtray full of ashes and cigarette butts. DavidECloveast
79	Horse racing forms. The detective is baffled by his ability to predict the placement of a horse named 'So Cavalier'. DavidECloveast
80	A photograph of two men crouching in the sand next to a dead giant serpent whose head is about as large as they are crouched, one armed with an elephant gun and the other a large muzzle-loader. Their features are indistinct from the Berber or Tuareg style of desert clothing they are wearing, but the man with the elephant gun does resemble the detective somewhat. 'Good hunting!- Askiou Ag Sidi' is written over the cloudless sky. DavidECloveast
81	A jar of murky gray substance (think "Hpnotiq" but gray). Occasionally an eyeball, or a tentacle, or a hand will make its way to the glass--just barely grazing the container before disappearing. The eyeball centers on whoever is looking at it (or whomever sees it first). If pointed out, the owner will give them a quizzical look and say that the jar is empty--and that they only have it because crazy people tell them there's stuff inside (liquid, the hand, tentacle, eyeballs, etc.), which to them makes it a great indicator of who's nuts and who isn't. As a show of truth, they'll take the jar, unscrew the lid, and upend it. The "murky liquid" stays in the jar as if it was not moved. RecycledEternity
82	A book nailed to the wall. The nails look disorderly and haphazardly hammered, with many bent in strange angles. The book is constantly wet, and the title is illegible. Phoenix_667
83	A drawer. The interior divided in dozens of sections, with a variety of pills and ointments neatly ordered inside. Each subsection has a small torn piece of paper glued to it with two letters, except the last one which says "KEEP EMPTY" Phoenix_667
84	A scalpel and a few empty vials, neatly ordered over a dark red cloth with odd decorations. Phoenix_667
85	A terrarium, empty except for dry soil, with many visible tunnels on it. Each time a character looks away the tunnels change their position, even if a different character is looking at it. Phoenix_667
86	A huge sack of ordinary salt, with a line marker right beside it. Phoenix_667
87	A gun cabinet in each and every wall. Each is painted with a bright neon symbol, which glows in the dark. Phoenix_667
88	Cyanide pills. Phoenix_667
89	A sword, hanging by a thin rope, right over the detective's chair. If examined, the rope turns out to actually be a wooden mechanism keeping the sword locked in place, and the sword's edge has been thoroughly dulled. Phoenix_667
90	A Newton's Cradle. All the balls swing freely if tested, but swinging an outside ball into the others doesn't do anything. It thunks and stops, seemingly disproving Newton's Laws of Motion.
91	A note on hotel stationery. Written in a woman's handwriting: I'm sorry. I can't.
92	Two identical daggers. One is a prop knife, the other very real.
93	A corkboard with a desiccated death's head hawkmoth pinned to it. Occasionally it weakly flaps its wings. It might just be the breeze, though.
94	Outside the office, the characters hear ringing telephone, but it stops as they get closer to the door. Inside the office, the only phone they find is on the floor, the receiver disconnected from the body, and the phone cable ripped out of the wall.
95	A crushed, mostly empty pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes. There are two bent but still smokable cigarettes in the pack.
96	A well chewed dog bone. The bite marks don't appear to be canine in origin.
97	Numerous wrappers scattered about for a black licorice hard candy that hasn't been made in years.
98	An ornate brass lamp with a heavy base. There's dried blood and a bit of hair stuck to the bottom edge.
99	Paperclipped together: A newspaper obituary, a photo of a tombstone, and a funeral prayer card. The name and dates of birth and death are identical, except for the years. In each case, exactly 80 years apart.
00	A folder containing detailed notes, crime scene photographs, and various bits of evidence from an incident the players were involved with at the very beginning of the campaign. Judging from the detective's notes, there was much more to the story than the players knew.

TLDR: manager enforces unnecessary rules for brownie points, reacts poorly to negative consequences, creates new rules that discriminate, I out him in anonymous employee surveys, stubborn manager gets 2 strikes, "middle ground" also discriminates, and finally he repeals rules before he can lose his job.
This all happened about 7 years ago.
I worked at a greenhouse and the company had recently been acquired by new owners. Management tried brown nosing the new owners by adding a bunch of rules to give our greenhouse the highest quality standard in the company (probably to justify keeping their higher pay rate from the old company).
Most of the rules were annoying but doable, except the rule that the packaging department couldn't have iPods or phones because of contamination risk. All the other departments were allowed after following disinfecting procedures, but the packing manager wanted to one up everyone else.
The ramifications happened relatively quickly. People got bored, made small talk, talking slowed production, people ran out of small talk, and eventually everyone got more and more comfortable with dirtier conversation. Side note: this change was also rough on the autistic coworkers who needed music on demand for anxiety.
My manager is a Mormon and was very uncomfortable with hearing complaints about stories of boomer drive-in movie hookups and homosexual sex lives, on top of the issue of slowed production due to small talk.
So he creates a zero tolerance policy for any sexual talk, but he set the bar way too high. Like PG is a write up high! I get not wanting to hear grandmas talk about getting it on at the drive-in, but outlawing stories of the first date kiss is a bit much. This was specifically targeting the homosexuals because mild same-sex romance made the more conservative coworkers (including my manager) uncomfortable.
Normally not having personal devices or maintaining professionalism are SOP in many businesses, but the standards he set were based on his ego and his beliefs instead of industry standards. He made it personal, so I did too.
As luck would have it, we got an anonymous employee survey, multiple choice with an "explain" section at the end. The new owners wanted to get the employee perspective on management.
So I claim to be mid-Hindi conversion and that the zero tolerance policy is religious discrimination because the Kama Sutra has many sexual passages impossible to discuss in religious conversation without a write up. (Apologies to the Hindus, I only had 15 minutes to act, googled "most sexual religion", and speed read Wikipedia.)
He had a meeting with HR and the zero tolerance policy went away for a while. He never suspected me because I was openly atheist and one of his "golden employees". I also slanted my handwriting left on the survey so it wouldn't match, just in case. He frequently visited the line to talk about religion, trying to sus out whoever outed him (my instinct to create an employee that didn't exist had been correct, if I had spoken for a coworker or myself somebody would have been fired).
Eventually he gave up and re-enacted the zero tolerance policy when he couldn't handle the dirty conversation shift, again. But it backfired, AGAIN! See normally these surveys are only once a year, BUT when a manager gets reported they occur every 3 months until the issue is resolved.
So I repeat the process but swapped the Hindi convert for a free love ideology hippie (I felt bad for putting a religion in the crosshairs the first time, so opted for someone more generic - literally anyone born before 1980). And I kept the "Can't discuss my beliefs without a write up" theme. Well now he's discriminated against 2 ideologies within 6 months and his 2nd visit with HR was extra spicy.
At this point my brown nosing manager has to answer for 2 discrimination strikes and reduced production due to small talk on the line. He finally catches on that the best way to keep people from talking to each other is to give them a distraction...
There was a brief period where there was a community Bluetooth speaker and playlist, that also backfired for discrimination because it became almost exclusively white Christian contemporary music. I wasn't nearly as involved this time, my coworkers were on their last nerve and didn't hesitate to report, fueled by the rumors of management's discrimination strikes. The supervisor took the blame instead of the manager in this instance, saving the manager from a 3rd strike.
(FYI to managers, company/employee curated community playlists need to include EVERYTHING to avoid discrimination, including satanic black metal and gangster rap. Just grab a generic playlist and blame Spotify if something explicit slips in - BOOM deniability!)
My manager finally relented and allowed people to use personal devices for music/podcasts as long as they're cleaned and disinfected before entering (again, same rules as the rest of the departments). People were no longer distracted by idle chatter, the professionalism policy no longer needed to be enforced, and production went back up.
Thankfully no parties were harmed. My manager never lost his job, attended HR ordered anti-discrimination classes, learned a lesson, and is set to retire soon (if he hasn't already). No coworkers were fired during his witch hunts. Morale and production returned to normal in under a year while maintaining his coveted high quality standard. Also the supervisor was later fired for sexual harassment, guess he was hoping taking the hit for the manager would save him later.
Only true casualty was my manager's ego.
Edit: edited for clarity

This is going to sound like a very narcissistic, egotistical, pathetic and annoying, so I'm sorry in advance but bare with me.
If you find yourself eventually irritated by reading then just stop reading and move on.
If you have the consideration or interest to still read then I encourage it as much as I appreciate it.
Thank you.
I will basically be explaining my life situation so you will get the gist of it, hopefully, or maybe enough to make your own conclusion, this will be like a combination of ranting and a story.
(I came back up here to reedit because you might get mixed signals of what the fuck I'm on about.
I started this thing off with death on my mind and wanting to die, that was all I could think of again on my ride back home from my mothers birthday picnic party at the park with some family. They had a band and music playing with hundreds of people at the field, kids running round and I was even playing with them and hanging out with my family. Even after all that my mind kept bringing me to wanting to die so bad. I guess my positive acting has slowly and progressively gotten worse, either that or I'm starting to care even less. I wasn't as cheerful or wouldn't even react to things when I was being talked to, I couldn't even bother to pretend sometimes. I am not even as charismatic or quick witted as I was with my responses because when I talk to people, friends or family things just get stale and awkward. We just look at each other and I look away with a dead blank expression. When I get offended they say something I don't like, I don't know if I cant or just choose not to respond, I seem to just let things get to me and let it go. I don't know what's wrong with me anymore. I use to be the most pretentious, defensive, competitive person out there)
That is why I went on this community post, this is my first time coming back to reddit in a few years.
I use to think I was invincible, I use to be invincible; mentally and physically superhuman, after realizing and pursuing the passion, hard work and being addicted to the results of how easy everything came, I seriously believed I was the main character of my own movie.
Athletically gifted and creatively innovative, as self absorbent and egocentric as I was, and as it seems. If you saw or knew me you would understand to agree or disagree that I was pretty talented since I was a child, depending if you liked me or hated me. I've never tried to make friends, it seemed most people either wanted to be my best friend or hated me, wishing upon my downfall and being joyful to about anything that put me down or "made me look bad" and riding off it.
I was potentially considered a prodigy, being adopted from a 3rd world country into a 1st world, middle class family, I didn't realize how blessed I was until my middle teens, when you know, the feelings kick in, or because it's the most vulnerable and most influential state of your life. I honestly don't know why.
Fuck, I really don't wanna make this long but I might have to, but I will try to cut it short like my life. (I lied)
In order to tell you about how my passion for death began I would have to let you know why I want to die, like right now. This instance, I genuinely wouldn't mind if the world blew up right now or if my heart gave out, a meteorite struck me, lighting wouldn't be bad either to be honest.
(I don't doubt I will be saying "I am at the point" multiple times) but I am at the point where any moment in my life, day, night, hour, minute or second. Dying instantly right now is my day to day wish to the universe, but fuck the universe, it doesn't deserve to be real or a thing. Why should it even respond to my desires. It unintentionally doesn't even know in the grand scheme of things the greater existence of it is more likely/ is more negative than it really is. I've learned I shouldn't even be asking questions like "why" or "how" etc because questions is only a man made construct created by humans who think that just because they have generated the ability to ponder the universe is 'apparently obligated to a question. That is why I stated "Why should it even respond to my desires." as an example.
Fucking hell, cunt, f*ggot, bitch, slut, nigga. ------
I am so fucking angry right now, I don't even know what I am getting to.
Swearing relieves a little bit of stress.
I might have to take breaks when writing this, and I will.
First of all, let me get this straight.
There is no such thing as a god, there is no god, jesus or messiah or fucking stupid ass make believe dude in the sky, fucking pathetic coping bullshit. The entire story of it is a scam, scheme, and if you had even one braincell to think for yourself you would know that everything about religion is contradictory.
I am sorry for anyone I have offended, my anger right now is beyond boiling as I slowly and excruciating get to the reason why I wanna die so bad. I'm basically ranting so thanks for reading I guess.
I get off track a lot and easily.
Back to the main thing.
I use to be afraid of death until maybe 16. Especially when I went through my existential phase, you can probably still find it on my account, anyways it still happens, but I've learned acceptance and just do not give a fuck anymore.
I'm getting tired of typing and took a step back to realize this would take years of explaining and you would just have to live in my eyes and mind to understand.
Futbol, football, fucking soccer or whatever you call. Is my life, was my life. Where I shifted, honed my talent and passion into, dreams of becoming pro from the start etc.
You know what, I will just copy and paste my story that I wrote to this one guy online/Instagram who claims to be a "Physio therapist/ACL-Knee Surgery Coach" I was suggested to him by another PT coach at the gym who's had similar struggles of professional sports but didn't even have it as bad as me but pretends he does.
Whatever, so the guy on Instagram's name is Alan Salgado Espino/@dreamchaserr.__
That guy is complete total bullshit and a pathetic scammer, everything he does or post online is just to bait you in into buying his course. He does not give a single fuck about his clients or people who buys his programs, he lives a completely different lifestyle outside of social media and is a total prick for strangers, bro thinks he's a gangster, he found a way to taken advantage of his 1 ACL tear and make it his lifestyle into taking advantage of people who's had their career and life torn apart due to knee injuries, it makes my blood boil.
This is what I typed to him explaining my life.
"Hi Alan, My names ___ ___.
I just bought your ACL protocol program. I was suggested by a physio/coach since I've torn my ACL and meniscus twice now and I'm 18.
I don't really know what to do, I was wondering if you could help me or tell me what your ACL protocol program includes?"
"I would say I am or started off... or well was a very competitive football(soccer) player.
Growing up as a foreign kid who came from Philippines to Canada at the age of 6-7
I remember vividly the very moment I first picked up a soccer ball for the first like it was yesterday.
I learned my very special trait unprecedented from anyone else I ever met was Speed, I guess that came from racing all the kids on the streets and in the orphanage I grew up during my childhood."
"The moment I picked up the ball, I zoomed past everyone on my team and eventually everyone in the entire club. That was the very first moment I was inspired by one of the club coaches. He kneeled down to and said "Wow, I have never seen anyone do what you do, you have something every special about you."
That was the first time I was ever encouraged and I stuck with it and gave it my all ever since.
I became and known as the fastest kid in my district - city to believing I was the fastest in my kid in my province and
simultaneously having the same status in football. Since I lived in a small town, my parents were kind, and I was fortunate enough to travel 30 mins 2-3-4 times a week to travel to the city and play for the elite clubs. I stuck with that club for my youth years and occasionally traveling around my province dominating and believing I would exceed past where I knew I belonged. I wasn't rich enough to play in the bigger city or travel 6 hrs twice a week to play in a "better" club even though I knew I could, but that didn't matter to me. I knew I could hone my skills with the team I grew up with since they were special. We won provincials 4x in a row w my unique team, (they were more talented and better than me) but I eventually out worked them all and had offers to travel to Brazil to play with a professional club until covid hit..
Long story short, I was on my way to post secondary to play for white caps D1 w the rest of of my teammates until my ACL and meniscus incident happen."
"Starting grade 12 senior year, I was just as in love with basketball as with football since it was Philippines national sport. Its funny because I believed I could make it pretty far if it wasn't for my height at 5'5 (came from my soccer ego ig ahah😅)
I knew it wasn't my sport and I still played, which was my fault.
During practice one of my teammates who was 6'5 reached for ball when it was in my grip and kneed my knee down and it buckled. [The initial tear of my ACL]
Ever since then my life has gone through a roller coaster of emotions and conflicting thoughts and beliefs.
A pretty humbling experience, I don't think I can play any sport the way I could before. But I found your page and idk.. I was hoping or wondering if this your ACL protocol could save me.
Thank you for your time if you read all this, you didn't have to.
Really appreciate it."
He never responded after that.
Fucking useless prick.
That is my problem ig, dreams hindered and my passion destroyed. The only thing that kept me alive was football and now I have nothing else to do or live for. All my life focused and trained to play football and I can barely walk properly now, let alone run anymore.
The thing is I think I didn't really care if I went pro or not, I've developed myself enough through sweat and pain to the point where I would always be good and be able to play competitively. Now at 18, my birthday being tomorrow, I turn 19. ACL program/rehab so dogshit I can't even swim without risking it.
Idk I feel like I can't do anything in life. I have the guitar but every time I play I would rather wish I was better at sports than an instrument, just my lifestyle ig.
I smoke weed every night... Well I use to and still do sometimes but it's not as much anymore as it use to be when I depressive stage was manifesting, my brain is at the point that no drug will be able to fill this gaping whole, I know it's just a distraction. I don't care enough about anything anymore, I remember when I was younger, dreaming to go pro, I made a vow to myself where I would never smoke a cigarette ever or touch any heavy bad drugs. Now I've smoked a handful of cigs and I was literally even thinking and wanting to do crack on my way home just because I don't know if I will be alive for much longer so why not try all of them? Is what I keep thinking. I've never gotten into drinking but If I could a whole bottle and die I would.
Let me start and try to conclude/finish this.
I've gone through all the basic bs ups and downs in life. I had my first Love, ldr, got cheated on w my bestfriend when I flew her over here , obviously didn't work out etc. Got into my first ever real stage of depression and was prescribed w meds, yk all the basic bullshit where they keep upping the doses every month thinking it's gonna help when the doctors know damn well it's useless, it's just protocol and they don't actually have a solution.
Fun Fact: 7,000 Americans die every year due to Fatal Mistakes and Bad Handwriting from doctors
These handwriting errors involving prescription medications kill up to 7,000 Americans each year.
Pass all that. None of that mattered because during that time as I was being "depressed" I started going to the gym more and was actually exponentially improving so much at football and none of that shit fucking mattered to me and nothing could stop me because football was my life and my cure to everything. I came to realize that love I had for a girl was fake and was just simple delusional enchantment that I placed upon my self and my real love and passion was football. (That girl was a manipulative, destructive, low IQ thot) I was distracted by looks, do not date girls just for their appearances.
Fast forward a year later (senior year, before I graduate and go to Post Secondary to play professional football) I tear my ACL and Meniscus at a basketball practice by some selfish prick on my team who was 2 feat taller than me and completely shattered my knee, his name was Joey.
Fuck you Joey, your life is pathetic. I hope your whole life is as miserable as mine for ruining my life, with all your talent, potential and height you couldn't even go pro or play at any high league.
Every time I think about that moment and that person I get so angry and upset at myself and especially at life. I always resort to something to blame and I remember there is no god and there is no one to blame, it's just how life rolled out to be. I guess I've become nihilistic and refuse to believe in a God after everything; having grown up in a strong Christian family and going to Christian camps. That is probably why. I always thought if there was a God, life wouldn't be meaningless and pointless.
When I think about my sabotaged and ruined career now I get so angry and yet so sad I'm so conflicted inside I don't even react anymore, I use to hit things by myself or yell out a angry scream for a second, but now I just sit there and desire to die.
I have a girlfriend right now, an innocent precious dime completely the opposite of my ex. She's the girl I went to prom with. I met her after I fucked up my knee.
We've been dating for over a year now.
She's quite a handful and I've learned over the year she's not really intellectually inclined due to failed school system and the way she grew up, but it's not her fault. I still love her. I've learned it takes an immense amount of patience with her and I honestly don't know how I do it. I've had a lot of moments where I couldn't handle her, because of how slow and misunderstanding she is but it's okay, cause at the same time I don't know how she deals with my stubbornness and I can be quite mean and stern sometimes. So I love her for it and she loves me dearly. I've learned love is kind of like an annoying nuisance that drains your wallet but requires strong commitment. If you don't know why you love them, then you really do love them.
She doesn't know I have a lot and occasional suicidal thoughts, she got kicked out of her aunt and uncles house so I helped her out by living with me and my family for a few months until she got sorted out. She then asked me If I wanted to move in with her but I told her I don't think it would be optimal for me if I don't have to pay rent and since I am broke. I have been jobless for over a year now(I can only stand her for so many days in a row until it starts affecting my mental and my sad, depressing state starts leaking and I would need space, and she's a very clingy person), since my multiple knee operations, I've been in crutches for most the year for 2 years straight and barely able to walk or even stand for more than 10 minutes without it being tough on my knee. 4 multiple traumas on the knee at 17 and 18 takes a toll on your mental and physical. I've been hitting the gym consistently but if you were in my shoes you would understand playing sports for me is over.
I love this girl, but I find life so pointless and hallow If I don't have a purpose or passion, a repetitive life of trying to be the best happy bf or son w no job and a mental capacity like mine is draining. I always question myself why I'm dating this girl at my state. I have no desire to live.
I've told her I have plans on moving to Spain in the future and she doesn't wanna leave the country.
The reality is I want to go to Spain to live alone, away from my family. I don't have football team, can't play sports or go out for a run or hike. I don't have any friends anymore even though I still in the same town as them. After highschool, they're all fake meaningless assholes that I couldn't care less about.
I have nothing but expectation and responsibilities. I would rather be dead.
I don't know what to do with my life, it's nearly impossible to get a job in this shit ass small town I've been trying to get a job for a year straight and no luck, the next city is way too far for a job and I can't move out without a job.
Every night and every morning I wake up I wish I was dead instead.
Every moment of my life seems like that.

Two days after Boris' rampage in Minsk, life had returned to somewhat normal state. On the morning of the arsons and essential dismantling of Harkusha's crime empire, the city had fallen into temporary hysteria over some sort of coordinated enemy attack. Given the tensions brewing in Eastern Europe, there had been rumours of foreign saboteurs and other outlandish claims, but as the police force issued a statement regarding this as either an unlike vigilante attack or gang warfare, the situation calmed down a little. On the busy streets of Minsk, people left to work and flooded all available space in the narrow roads of the city. With everyone moving towards their workplaces, most cafes remained empty or mostly crowded by pensioners.
One such cafe on the edge of town had a slow day, only visitors being an elderly couple and a man nearing thirty years of age. The cashier loaded fresh goods into the shelves, while the old couple bickered over some family matter. On the table outside, the young man was sitting quietly, sipping his cup of coffee and writing something. He had a very disheveled appearance, a black beard growing on his face looked like an unkept garden with parts of it sprouting to every direction. His clothes appeared to be straight from a shop, however, and had one looked closely, they might have seen a price tag still hanging from one.
Meanwhile the cashier, a young woman just starting in the business of cafe ownership, was focusing all her attention on some bills. She turned to fetch something from the kitchen, and the old couple continued their argument without paying any attention to the world around them. None of them noticed the man taking a very large stack of roubles from inside his jacket and stuffing them into a envelope alongside a small letter. The man checked the scene around him and upon confirming that none of the others had noticed anything, smiled faintly, sealing the envelope and pocketing his pen and paper journal, both which had the appearance of items that had seen years of very hard service.
He had paid for his coffee earlier, so the man simply rose from his seat and walked across the road, leaving the envelope into a letterbox by the large apartment block there. From the short moment he took to find the right box, it looked evident that the right letterbox's location had been very familiar to him. Looking at the big building, the man stopped momentarily, a long and pained sigh leaving his lips. Without further actions, the man turned on his heels and left, disappearing into the long streets of the busy city.
Hour later, an eldery man most likely in his sixties stepped into the street and checked the mailbox. Going through various magazines, advertisements and bills, he came across the letter that had just been delivered. There was little indication of who had written it, but the handwriting on it seemed to cause the man to lighten up. Almost dropping all the other articles the old man had just retrieved, he went back inside and raced up to his apartment, where a woman of roughly same age was stirring something in a pot.
"Svetlana! It's...it's from Boris! Look!", the man shouted, panting from the exercise.
"Boris? Give it, I need to see too!", Svetlana yelled in turn and took the letter, reaching for her glasses.
"It really is him... After all these years. Let's see what's inside.", she continued, tearing the brown envelope open.
Both of them suffered from a case of eye-bulging, roughly of same magnitude as Sidorovich inspecting a bucket of chicken, upon seeing the stack of money. Svetlana handed the rubles to her husband, who began counting them slowly, while she looked at the letter.
"It is from Boris. Our son is alive, and apologizes for not paying us a visit... Grigori, he is alive!", Svetlana exlaimed, her eyes tearing out.
"Indeed. I had... Had already lost hope, yet thank the heavens, he lives. What does it say, though? This amount of money doesn't just come from nowhere!", Grigori replied.
"Ah, true. Uh, he says that he has been in a place called the Zone, in... Chernobyl? Blin, sounds like trouble... Ahem, Boris explains that he ran there after what happened to Lena and those gangsters he killed, and that it is a place beyond our imagination in both danger and wonder. Grigori, I have a feeling he might be in big trouble.", Svetlana read out loud, looking at his husband with concerned eyes
"We can't know for certain unless we get to the end. Read further or hand the letter to me, I'm dying to know what it says and at my age that may very well happen.", Grigori pressed on.
"Alright, alright, hold your horses mister. Boris says that while things were quite rough for him from the start, he has now forged a community he can be proud of and in which he feels like he belongs to. However, due to some unforeseen circumstances, he had to return here and deal with his past, and while he succeeded, Boris can't be certain that we and Lena's parents are safe. As such, he has provided us with the money to leave Belarus and find a place where his life won't cause harm to us. Grigori, what is he on about?", Svetlana asked.
"Those warehouse burnings and the attack on that one thug's mansion perhaps? Could be some other thing too, but those are the big dramatic thing that happened lately.", Grigori said after a moment of pondering, scratching his beard.
"Da, could be. It sounds like Boris is being serious. Oh, how I wish he could have visited us and explained this better, I do not understand any of this...", Svetlana sighed.
"Neither do I, but at least it warms me to know he is alive and seemingly content. Besides, I doubt Pyotr and Nadia mind leaving Belarus with us, not like there has been much for us since retirement with how things look. The country went to shitter ever since that svolo-", Grigori started, but a telling look from Svetlana shut him up.
"Save me from another rant, dear. There is something more... Boris suggests that we move to Austria, apparently he has very reliable friends there who can look after us and make sure we're settled in. They will tell us the whole story of what happened to our son too.", Svetlana continued.
"Austria? But we don't know any German? The money more than covers it, and we can sell the house for a bit more, but this is such a massive turn of events that I really don't know what to think.", Grigori replied, utterly dumbfounded.
"We can go there on a holiday first, see these friends of Boris and figure it out then.", Svetlana proposed, prompting a hesitant nod from her husband.
"Besides, we'll manage. And a change of scenery is greatly appreciated at this age, as I have told you many times. I'll contact Nadia and arrange for them to visit us soon, you can start preparing for other stuff.", Svetlana ordered.
"Great, you do the easy part and I need to figure out how all these impossible logistics work. Blyat, Boris shows up after all these years and decides to cause even more trouble than ever. This is worse than the time he poured sand into the principal's gas tank...", Grigori muttered to himself, but nonetheless started grumpily arranging things.
Far from the place of his childhood now, Boris was sitting on a park bench, musing on what to do next. He had finished his last task here, making sure his parents and Lena's were at least informed of the situation and hopefully relocated out of the reach of Omega. Harkusha's confusion on the mention of Serbin days earlier had seemed genuine, but Boris could ill-afford to trust such a corrupt criminal on one of the most important matters of his life. He hoped with all his heart that his parents would heed the warning and seek out shelter with Anton and Mark. Boris had contacted them yesterday and organized everything with them. Now all that remained was to get out of the city and back into the Zone.
Boris was glad of this. The city was not for him any longer, it felt alien, too noisy, too polluted, too lively. With his Zone-modified senses, every loud noise almost made him draw his Korth from under his jacket, every person bumping into him in the street almost caused him to knock them down. His senses were strained here for all the wrong reasons, and it did not help that the combat of the night earlier had made him even more anxious. Perhaps no one would get on his trail, and Boris considered it likely given how diligently he had erased all marks of him being there, but there was always a chance. Always a chance of him leaving behind a suspicious 9 millimetre rifle round or some part of his exoskeleton having been chipped off in the fights. The sooner he left, the better.
Boris truly regretted not meeting his parents, but also didn't. He wanted to, but something inside him told him that it would only open old wounds, sever his connection into the Zone. Whenever a thought crossed his mind that perhaps it was time to retire in the Big Land, to stay here and not return, the scar on his hand pulsated almost unnoticeably. Almost like the Zone called him back through it. Boris felt disturbed by this notion, but he had to admit that the thought of returning soothed his aching mind. He took a last glance at the surroundings, feeling the world in its normal state, not influenced by the malign Zone, and rose up to leave. The Zone is like a drug, Boris thought to himself. You know it's bad for you, for everyone, yet you answer its call, he mused.
"I am lost to it, and worst of all, choose to be so.", he muttered to himself and began walking towards his next destination.
At the edge of the city, a small block of garages was used by various people to house goods, vehicles and so forth. Some were criminals, others adulterers looking to hide things from their spouses, others simply people too paranoid to use more conventional storage facilities. Couple were just regular folks who liked the low price tag on the rents of the garages. Yet never had they housed such an incredibly expensive thing inside the ramshackle old buildings, and yet nobody except Boris knew it was there. In the early morning of his rampage, Boris had brought his exoskeleton and combat gear here, hidden inside a large bag. The guy running the place had looked at his undersuit with curiosity, to which Boris explained that he was working for a scuba diving company testing new materials. The man told him to cut the bullshit, laughed and took Boris' rent for the night.
Boris waved his hand at the man as he passed the front gate and continue to the unit number 24. He opened the garage door very slightly, pushed his hand inside and fumbled with something for a moment. Then, convinced that whatever he was messing with was finished, the stalker rolled the steel door all the way up. In the spot right next to the door was a F1 grenade, pinned into a spot by a wire that would have torn its safety if the door was forced open. Couldn't be too cautious here at the edge of the city, Boris thought to himself as he pocketed the explosive. Taking his sack of equipment and checking to see if everything was still there, the Redemption leader grunted in approval and left the dusty old storage.
Only once he had made it a considerable distance from the place did he grab his phone. After so long using a PDA, the fancy smartphone felt weak and easily breakable. Still, PDAs mainly worked inside the Zone's network, cut off from the Big Land for a reason. Some had been upgraded to reach beyond the borders of Chornobyl Exclusion Zone, but Boris had no need for such. Typing a number into his phone, it rang for a second and then a raspy voice could be heard.
"So, laddie, are you ready to go back then?", the old man said, and Boris recognized his voice as the same he had heard while escorting Anton and Mark out of the Zone.
"Sure thing, Pilot Sr. Sr. Let's get the hell out of here.", Boris confirmed in an amused and relieved tone.
"Don't call me that, my grandson's nickname is already ridiculous enough... Not even close to yours, though.", the man replied, and Boris heard the roar of the engine get closer as the call ended.
"Perhaps it is... But I doubt I will go by Unforgiven for long anymore...", Boris pondered to himself as the old car swerved into view.
It was time to go home.

https://imgur.com/a/aNN3xLG (please click to see all the pics including the world's cutest poop)
u/Moose-Maleficent x 2 Thank you so much for the super creative handmade Pi Day card! I adore your heart & am honestly not surprised you wouldn’t exact revenge against Bridezilla hahaha! Yessss I thought of “The Help” too lol!!! I’m also bananas for the insanely awesome Hot Cross Buns card - it’s sooooo my smile & makes me so happy when I look at it!!!! It’s heartbreakingly cute. I’m so happy to have met you & to remember you forevermore as my first recipient (or hopefully soon) of international mail - that’s the most excitement I’ve had in years hahaha!!!!
u/thecaledonianrose x 2 OMG this cuuuute kitty birthday card is so sweet!!! I was especially touched by your beautiful words wishing me so many amazing things! What a kind soul you are - THANK YOU so much!!! I also love the fun stickers, the neat-o washi stamp style stickers, the mini thank-you, & the delicious passion flower tea!!! Thank you so much for the super precious Easter card of the bunny & the birds!! This bunny is just a sweetheart with that dreamy expression & smile! I just love the colors & the positive vibes jumping out at me from the card & your sweet thoughts! Yesssss, I’m really happy we sorta have a spring in my state - sadly it doesn’t last long. But I’m so grateful it’s not a billion degrees yet! Thank you also for the ****cuuuuute**** bunny & Easter stickers, the Perfect Peach tea (I’m so jazzed to try it - how perfect is that flavor for Spring?!?!?) & the pretty Flowers Bingo card with the too cute floral bingo mini placemarkers!!! Wishing you the sweetest Spring full of fanciful flowers!
u/fightshrubb Thank you so much for the adorable handmade aliens-themed Pi Day card - soooo cute!!! I love your energy!! Also love that you used different fun & bright colors of ink to write! I so hear you with the endless array of craft supplies lol!! To answer your question…I love watercolor!!! I have zero skills & was trying to learn when I happily stumbled upon RAoC so watercolor took a backseat to carding. ;) Hope you had an awesome Pi Day full of pizza discounts haha! ;)
u/emptyparkinglot Thanks for the Gauguin postcard with your hilarious observation, “Paul Gauguin was honestly a creep in his personal life but he sure did know how to use color.” Hahaha, right?!? I loved your thoughts on art & appreciate them especially because I have a deep desire to learn more about art & how to articulate artistic concepts. You did that so beautifully with your analysis of Gauguin’s work! Wishing you lots of bliss as you create your own works of art! =)
u/o0oiwio0o Thank you for the awesome sassy slanderous card of the Bernadine Bridge over the Vilnia!!! Your handwriting - oh my GORGEOUS!!! It’s so classy! And I have NEVER seen more fun & vibrant punctuation marks!!! I love your style! And the slander about the National Stadium is truly hilarious. I love how you turned the slander into a motivational gem hahaha!!!! I just loved your creative prompt & felt so fortunate to be a recipient of such fresh, fancy slander LOL! I also love the adorable elephant sticker you included. Thank you. =) Wishing you infinite saucy slanderous thoughts because they are so fun & phenomenal!!! =)
u/travel4me22 x 2 Thank you for WHAAAAT?!?!? This incredible, gorgeous postcard you upcycled from a Van Gogh paper bag!!!! So creative - I absolutely loooove it!!!! I appreciate your resourcefulness & creativity so much! Thank you for the *beautiful* illustrated card of the strong, powerful women!! The colors are so fun. This card & your kind affirmations are just brimming with so many positive vibes!! I’m also excited you share my thoughts on Helen Keller. Thank you for spreading awesome cheer on International Women’s Day & beyond!
u/onlycompletely Thanks for the adorable “Espresso Yourself” postcard!!
u/drivingogre Thank you so much for the cute bear doodle postcard with all the fun facts about Disney actors & cats! You have such sweet vibes!!
u/TigerLady13 x 4 Thanks for the adorable bunny & flower Easter card! LOVE the stamp embellishments you included & the cute way you decorated the inside of the card with the cut out words. Thanks also for the hug in the mail “nothing new” card with the awesome passion clouds worksheet & delicious recipe - I’ll definitely try it. :) Thank you for the hilarious 100% organic gangster card! Loved hearing your BFF was about to visit. Hope y’all had a fabulous time together and that y’all will meet up again soon! You asked about my BFF. Thank you - we met at the University of Texas when she was a transfer student & I was a freshman. She boldly came right up to me as I was having lunch alone to ask if she could join me. It was so cool of her to be so brave! She lives hundreds of miles away & the pandemic has made it a pain to get together but we keep in touch. Wishing you a beautiful spring, beautiful friend!
u/YuletideWitch Thank you for the adorable vintage Disney World postcard! I’m so sad you shot yourself in the head…I shouldn’t have given that to you as an option for the Macarena prompt. But I shall remember your bravery in the face of dance adversity forevermore! Haha, thank you for indulging me with the silly prompt :)
u/royalewithtees Thanks for the awesome “Breaking Bad” postcard - I didn’t know that cool fact about the 62nd element…so awesome!!! Happy to have met someone who has awesome taste in shows like me hahahaha!!! And I LOVE the cool BB decorative stamp!!! Thank you!!
u/mickey_is_bored Thank you so much to you & your sweet friends for cheering on complete strangers!!! I wish that back in college, I had the type of friend you & your pals are for carding crafternoons! So precious. Thinking of you & your friend & sending lots of healing vibes. Thanks for spreading cheer :)
u/hato_mailing Thank you for the sweet wax seals on the lovely barnacle goose postcard - love the Denmark bird stamp embellishment!
u/elliearbus Thank you so much for this AWESOME handmade watercolor card - you are so insanely talented!!! I love it!!!!! I’m a sucker for not only watercolor art, but illustrations of craft supplies so this card is absolutely a terrific treasure for me. It’s just adorable & brimming with energy! Thanks again. Wishing you endless joy as you create your wondrous watercolor work!!
u/gillbhai x 2 I’m so happy & relieved I finally found you, my mystery sender! Thank you so much for both of the gorgeous floral cards in my favorite bright colors! The pinks, oranges, & blues are just so cheery & happy! I also love the book rec & the Sharif poetry you wonderfully shared with me. I’ll have to read & re-read it to truly understand all the layers as you & Sharif are so amazingly deep! I would highly recommend the historical fiction book “A Gentleman in Moscow” by Amor Towles. It’s the best book I’ve read in many years. Wishing you joyous reads & a peaceful rest of 2023. Thank you so much for brightening my day with your lovely thoughts & beautiful cards!!
u/RoxanneBarton Thanks for the beautifully-illustrated pen & pencils “Snail Mail Club” postcard - I’m obsessed with illustrated cards & love it so much!!! I have to catch up with SG films too. LOVE your pretty handwriting! =) Wishing you fragrant bouquets of lilacs this spring, sweet friend.
u/purpleteasoul x 2 Thanks for the sweet purple floral thank you card - it was my pleasure to send you birthday mail! Thanks also “Welcome book lover…” postcard! Hahaha yes you’re right, I read your postcard from my little nook at the library! Wishing you the best of reads!!
u/littlehoneybeebuzz Thanks for the romantic Paris postcard! I love to read in dreary weather. Wishing you sunny skies this spring! =)
u/brittybear94 x 2 How cute you are is so apparent from your extraordinarily cute mail!! Thanks so much for the fun RAoC b-day wishes!! I’m madly in LOVE with the cuuuutest little Peanuts “Nuts About You” card, the adorable Cookie Monster sticker, & the incredibly festive colorful RAoC personalized rainbow mail sticker…SO SO cuuute!! Even the envelope was decorated in one thing - CUTE. Thanks for gracing my mailbox with such pretty things!!! =) Wishing you the crunchiest & chewiest of chocolate chip cookies, my cute friend!!!
u/Jane_Q Thanks for the lovely illustrated postcard of the Field Tulips in Holland! Even lovelier - how much you wrote on the back of the postcard! OMG my southern sensibilities woulda been smacked too had I gone through the nonsense you described! WTH?!? As Jerry Maguire would say, “These fish have manners.” Seriously whack!! But I was so happy you shared, thank you! Wishing you zero car issues so you never have to deal with mannerless buffoons ever again hahaha!
u/OkayFlan Thanks for the sweet “I am Grateful” postcard - I sure am grateful to have met you here & hope you’re having tons of fun with all your cool new card tech supplies!
u/falloutboy01 Thank you for the awesome handmade Easter card - the cutout with the hidden lime green layer is sooooo creative & pretty!!! I’m guessing you used Cricut - wow. The effect is amazing.The colors you used complement each other so well, especially for spring! Thanks also for the adorable stickers. Wishing you a splendid spring, kind friend!!
u/sunfireninety9 - Thank you for the beautiful Asian art illustration postcard! I LOVE all the neat stamps you used on the card. Wow, that is so neat about the 1991 vintage rose stamp! I’m so sorry to learn the glue tasted icky - but you made so many people happy (including me) with your kind happy mail lol! Wishing you tastier stamps next time haha, maybe cupcake flavored ones? ;)
u/feellikebeingajerk x 4 Thanks for the sweet handmade St. Patrick’s Day wishes & the cool President’s Day postcard of Monticello! It’s cool to appreciate our history & I’m glad you’re able to see historical figures through multiple lenses. I’m crazy about the pretty spring-y washi tape you used. Wishing you lots of pretty weather & sunny smiles this spring! THANKS a million for the awesome raspberry pie card & the throwback Holly Hobbie beauty (apologies no pics of these 2 sweeties - they’re elsewhere at the time I’m submitting this) - both of these sweeeeet cards made my day!!!!
u/Soleiletta Thank you for the fabulous card from Wednesday Addams - you totally channeled her so awesomely! You should write for the show!! =) I loved the cute Tarot stickers you used to decorate the card. And that handwriting - it’s just glorious!!! It’s somehow both modern & vintage too?!?? Just gorgeous! Thank you for sharing your fun prompt creativity with me. =)
u/1398_days Thank you for the pretty pastel thank you card!!! It was my absolute pleasure to think of you on your birthday & I’m so touched it cheered you up! Your kind thank you card lifted my spirits & made me feel super happy! It’s so bright & colorful - just my fave color palette! I sure hope you’ve been having cheerful days since your birthday & that you will remind me when it’s your big day next year for more birthday greetings!! =)
u/somedrawer Thanks for the adorable doggie Easter card! Such fun stamps & washi decorations on the card - the baked confectionaries washi is sooo delicious! Love the positive affirmation you wrote: “I am capable of creating positive change in the world.” So uplifting! Here’s one for you: “I am a creator. I create my reality.”
u/its_top_secret x 2 Thank you for the sweet Seigensha postcard! And I love your spirit - you wanting to dance no matter what is so inspiring! I also love your willingness to be brave & embellish when no one is watching hahaha! Thank you for the vintage-y shrine postcard with your beautiful handwriting! Love how you would have searched for legendary figures if you had the chance to time travel. =) Wishing you a happy future & past too if you dare to explore haha!
u/aepeyc Thank you for the sweet Saint Patrick’s Day greetings with the pretty feather! Wishing you lots of luck not just on the 17th of each year, but each day as well. :)
u/missnettiemoore Thank you so much for this GORGEOUS cartoon Saint Patrick’s Day card!!! The sweet smiling critters are so charming!!! I also love the fun fact you wrote: “The odds in finding a 4-leaf clover are about 1 in 10,000.” I had no idea - that’s so mindblowing!!! Thank you for brightening my day with your sweet card. Wishing you a breezy, beautiful spring & that you chance across those rare 4 leaf clovers for lots of luck! =)
u/FollowingTheBeat You had me at the exquisite envelope decorated with your precious handmade cherry blossom tree! So pretty. I’m terrible at drawing trees so I’m especially excited by your talent. But that was just the appetizer. I’m in love with this gorgeous pink-themed floral feast of a card!!! Thank you! This card instantly makes me happy with all the bright colors & the pretty sticker you used to decorate it. This card is soooo beautiful, & so are you for including such sweet spring wishes for so many lovely things, including “beauty”! What an awesome wish. Wishing you a spring full of the same love & beautiful birds that serenade you & make you smile!
u/RayneKitten Thank you so much for the beautiful postcard to color - it’ll be a joy! I also love the quote. I appreciate your kindness! Wishing you lots of masterpieces!
u/PM_me_oak_trees Thank you for the *hilarious* April Fool’s Day card - the teaching English quip is priceless hahaha!!! I also love the awesome motivational quotes & funny jokes you wrote. OMG “I was going to write a time-travel joke, but you did not like it” - rahahahahahahaha! I’m so stealing that one! I really appreciated your creativity in sending “junk mail” - what a neato thing to do! Hope you had a beautiful April Fool’s Day - thanks for making mine special!
u/FancyBeadedPlacemat Thank you so much for the potato postcard! I was laughing when I received it because I only tagged potato pals & didn’t request one since merely *looking* at potatoes makes me gain weight LOL! But I was so glad you sent it to me because I had no idea about the fun history fact!!! That’s so cool that Marie Antoinette would wear potato blossoms in her hair!!! So thank you for sharing that awesome historical gem with me!!!
u/wabisabi_sf Thank you so much for this perfect postcard TREAT of Julia Child along with the fun facts about her life! It’s just a postcard dream as far as postcards go. I’m nuts for fun illustrations so this is a real treasure. I also love the fun vintage stamps you used. Thanks so much for thinking of me with your wonderful offer & for making me giddy by picking me to receive this scrumptious postcard!! =)
u/orangewolpertinger x 2 Thank you for the absolutely precious homemade cards!!!! The cuuuute pink kawaii candy themed card just made me melt!!! I love the combo of black & pink colors along with the pink & red themed scrapbook paper! The fox Saint Patrick’s Day card is soooo adorable too! Love the fun stickers you used to decorate the card! I also love & appreciate the kind stamps you included. You’re also so cute to take that Squishmallow personality quiz hahaha! So you’re Hans the Hedgehog? Although I agree that Hans is cute, he doesn’t hold up a cute candle compared to you & your endless card love!!! Thank you so much for these sweet treats!!! Wishing you lots of love & joy!
u/Bowies-solid-speech x 2 I’m so happy I found you, my fabulous obituary mystery sender!!!! I even tried looking for you with a search for “obituary” on Reddit but didn’t find any relevant hits…Reddit is so goofy. I loved your creative, thoughtful obituary so much! You have such a fun brain - thank you for brightening my day with the fake obit hahaha! Your creativity is so very charming!!! I also admired how eager you were to write in depth! I also LOVE the adorable postcard of the critter looking at himself in the mirror. Thank you! The pastel colors & illustration are awesome! I was drawn to it because of one of my favorite Kabir quotes: “But if a mirror ever makes you sad, you should know that it does not know you.” Wishing you lots of joy as you check your beautiful self out in the mirror!!
u/Slavkan12 THANK you so much for this gorgeous handmade “Dream Space” postcard that’s so bright & bouncy with the gorgeous array of blooming plants!!! It’s so pretty & makes me ache to have my own “Dream Space”!!! I love how you upcycled the calendar to create it. So cool & creative. But the front of the card isn’t where the magic ends - WOW!! I was **blown away** by your amazing illustration inside the card with the stunning self-portrait & the pretty pink & green plant!!! Your art skills are sublime! I love all the colors you used (such pretty pink hair & I love the color of your shirt). I wish so much I could draw like you but am grateful that even though I can’t, I’m a lucky recipient of this super cool gift!!!! I also love all the festive stickers you included & how you decorated the envelope with the unique bird/owl stickers. =) Thank you so much for this magnificent, magical mail! Wishing you lots of success in your art & beyond, kind friend!
u/jules_abroad How did you do it? Never before your gorgeous card would I have ever thought I would have called a card with toilet paper & poop on it “gorgeous”. But that’s what you did with your INSANE TALENT & ADORABLE poop & tp handmade wacky wonderful card!!! I’m honestly in awe even though poop & tp usually make me wanna throw up! I LOVE IT SO SO MUCH hahaha! Thank you for brightening my day with poop of all things! I’m including a highlighted picture of it with the link above. ;) I wish I could draw & watercolor like you do…this is so going in a frame in my future dream home bathroom!! =) Wishing you the softest, squishiest, most cloud-like tp ever, sweet friend!

Part 1 can be found here
”So, will they lend us the money?” asked Debra, who’d been waiting just inside the door.
Her overalls were stained and dirty. She had finished her double shift just in time to beat George back to their apartment.
A despondent sigh escaped his lips. She knew what it meant.
“They said without more collateral the risk is too high.”
The disdain in his voice was plain. She knew he’d spent the last hundred and eighty work cycles begging everyone from the First Galactic Industrial Bank to the Federation Refugee Fund. Nobody was willing to finance their purchase of a small antimatter refuelling station in the Sagittarius arm.
“They wouldn’t even look at our business case” he complained. “As long as fuel prices stay within thirty percent of current market forecasts we could pay the loan back in six years, four ahead of schedule. Why won’t they listen to me? All they’re worried about is risk. I don’t know how they ever finance anything.”
She didn’t have the heart to tell him the truth, although she suspected that deep down he already knew. The risk they were afraid of wasn’t commercial, it was biological. Nobody wanted to lend to Humans.
After the fall of Earth the Federation had placed its ten million Terran refugees wherever it was able. Since no planetary government had been willing to take them all, the Federation had been forced to split them up and resettle them across hundreds of worlds, in groups of one thousand to fifty thousand. As a result, Humans only made up a tiny minority of the population of the worlds on which they resided. Expected to fit in and conform to the culture of their new home planets, they had been marginalised and inadvertently stripped of their Terran identity. This had predictably led to prejudice against them growing within the native majorities.
The unkind joked that the thinly spread members of Humanity were now only a smear spread across the galaxy. A smear of what, remained better left unsaid.
Such attitudes were depressingly common on Arkas, the Galden Hegemony planet that Debra and George had been resettled on.
“Maybe it’s time for us to give up and try something else” Debra suggested. “We’ve been chasing our tails working these dead-end jobs for ten years now. You could go to the Mechatronics Institute and get certified. At least that would get you out of the factory and into one of the guilds. I don’t mind working more double shifts in the meantime.”
“No” said George, his voice firm. “I don’t want you to have to do that. It’s not fair on you. We’re both already working double shifts more often than not anyway, and things are still tight. We couldn’t survive on one income. This station is our way out of this. It has to be.”
She saw it again then, just as she’d seen it every time they discussed their plan. George had fully bought in to this idea, the purchase of the refuelling station as the beginning of a better life for both of them, and his trademark stubbornness was rearing its head again. She could never hope to steer him away from it. If he quit it would just eat him up inside. He would become bitter and depressed, and she couldn’t bear to see him like that, not after he’d spent so long recovering from what he’d been through on Earth.
George sat on the couch to unlace his boots.
“Terry at the factory said that G’da’kar has some sway with First Galactic. Maybe if I talk to him he can help” said George after a pause.
“G’da’kar? The gangster? What’s he going to want in return?”
“He’s not a gangster, he’s just … connected. It’s our only option. I’m sick of everyone just seeing poor refugees looking for a handout every time they look at us. We’re better than that. I want us to have a place of our own. This refuelling station could be that for us.”
Debra held her tongue, and not for the first time. Better to distract George before he put too much thought into asking a shady character like G’da’kar for help.
“Come on, let’s have some dinner” she said, as she walked towards the kitchen. “I’ll put the trays in the microwave. Can’t have you doing it, not after what happened last time.”
He looked up to meet her eyes then, a sheepish grin spreading across his face. She couldn’t help but smile in return.
-=-=-=-
”It’s ours!” she laughed, clinking her glass against his with such enthusiasm that the whiskey inside, aided by the lower gravity, nearly escaped.
All the paperwork was complete and they had finally taken possession. They now stood in the Control Room of their new, marginally used, Phatek Mark II Long Range Refuelling Platform.
“We’re the only fuel stop for ten lightyears on the Eta Carinae lane. This will be great for us! Finally, we can say goodbye to those shitty jobs and really make something of ourselves. I’m so proud of you George. I never thought you’d get the bank to pony up the money, but you proved me wrong.”
She hugged him tight, her smiling face buried in his chest.
He hugged her back just as hard but his own smile was forced. It was plastered upon a foundation of trepidation.
His mind’s eye saw through the interior walls of the station, to a nondescript floor panel in a tertiary storage room, and the twenty vials of Class One restricted Neuro-stim it concealed. Neuro-stims that would be collected monthly by a syndicate courier on a seemingly routine refuelling stop, and restocked by another until such time as his debt to G’da’kar was paid.
They were smugglers now, at least for a while.
-=-=-=-
The route to the Control Room was more problematic than George’s trips to the Pump Room and galley. The pirates were using it as their base of operations while they tried to crack the security systems, occasionally sending out patrols to investigate other parts of the station. His chances of encountering them had risen with each step he’d taken towards it.
He was now hidden in an air duct, just around the corner from the Control Room’s entrance. The duct, though tight and cramped, had been the safest way to approach without being seen.
There was just enough light coming through the ventilation grille to illuminate his watch. The seconds slipped by one by one, pulling him into an uncertain future, where only the unknown awaited him.
The ten-minute mark passed. It would take a little time for the foil-induced sparks in the microwave to ignite the paper and oil.
George waited on.
-=-=-=-
”I’m not doing it anymore. I’m out, understand me?”
George stood arms crossed before the syndicate courier in the airlock. It was an imposing Dendrac, its semi-canine features somewhat reminiscent of the Terran animals that probably no longer existed on Earth, or anywhere else for that matter.
They were alone. Debra had taken a trip to Tau Ceti to visit an old friend from the evacuation ships. She wouldn’t return for at least another week.
“Are you sure? G’da’kar isn’t going to like this.”
“Damn sure. I’m old, and I’ve had it with this shit. I’ve been smuggling his contraband for nearly twenty years now and I’ve had enough. He’s been paid back five times over. We’re square, I don’t owe him anything. I’m out, and that’s final.”
George’s voice was resolute, yet the courier only laughed.
“You’re not out unless he says you’re out, but I’ll pass along the message. It’s your funeral.”
The words were delivered with nonchalance, not as a threat, but as a mere statement of fact.
“It had better not be. You tell G’da’kar that if he’s thinking of trying anything funny I know plenty of Federation officers who owe me a favour or two. Slipping them a few free units of fuel always gets them in a helpful mood. I’d hate for word of his racket to reach the wrong ears. Official ears.”
The Dendrac chuckled and began to climb back into his ship, clutching the box of vials that would hopefully be the last to ever pass through the station.
“You got some stones Human. I’ll give you that.”
-=-=-=-
George didn’t have to wait too long.
“ALERT. ALERT. FIRE DETECTED IN GALLEY. INITIATING FIRE SUPPRESSION SYSTEM.”
For those who live in space fire is synonymous with death, so it was no surprise that it took less than eight seconds for George to hear the sounds of several pirates hurtling out of the Control Room to rush off in the direction of the galley. No spacer, whether pirate, military or civilian, would ever trust their life to the effectiveness of an automated fire suppression system.
George, stuck in the vent as he was, hadn’t been able to see how many bandits had responded to the alarm, so he couldn’t be sure that none had remained in Control. He just hoped that was all of them.
-=-=-=-
Debra sat leaning back with her feet up on the console, a vigilant eye watching the monitors to make sure everything was running smoothly. George stood nearby sipping klar, the closest thing to coffee he’d been able to find in the decades since they’d left Earth.
“If I’d known we’d never be able to go back I would have packed seeds instead of clothes. We’d be rich now. Coffee, chocolate, whiskey… all made from plants we’ll never see again. The synthetic imitations just aren’t the same” said George.
“Chocolate needs milk too. Were you going to fit a couple of cows in those duffle bags?” jibed Debra.
George stuck his tongue out at her.
The console in front of Debra pinged.
“Is that the resupply?” asked George.
“I don’t think so, it’s not due for another week.”
Debra’s fingers pecked at the console, directing the station’s scopes towards the new interloper. Her screen showed a small dark ship, covered with hull patches, a tell-tale sign of damage repair. It had no identifying markings.
“Shit. Pirates.”
Neither of them said anything while they processed the news. Pirates were rare in this sector, normally preying on cargo haulers when they did make an appearance. Pirates attacking a refuelling station was unheard of.
“Let’s get to the escape pods” said George. “Our defences won’t stop them.”
He put his mug of klar down on the console and strode towards the exit.
“We get to a safe distance and let them take whatever they want. If we don’t give them a reason to destroy the station we can rebuild on top of whatever’s left.”
Debra stood up and trailed a few steps behind him.
“We have the security drones” she pointed out. “They’ll make them think twice about breaching us.”
“But we can’t operate them remotely, so we’d have to stay onboard. What if they fail, or what if we’re outgunned? Then we’ll be stuck here, defenceless, with a bunch of pissed off pirates” said George as he continued out of the room. He crossed the threshold and turned, realising that Debra was no longer following him.
“We fought so hard for this place, George. YOU fought so hard for this place. I don’t know if I can bear to lose it.”
She closed the distance to him and took his hand in hers.
“In those early years on Arkas, I never thought that it would really happen, this station. I went along with it because I knew that after the horror you went through on Earth, and after Owen, that you needed something to live for, and I was afraid I wasn’t enough. I wanted you to be happy, but I knew in my gut that those assholes would never lend that kind of money to a couple of humans. If our lives since Earth have taught me anything it’s that the universe isn’t fair. It doesn’t work that way.
“But then you did it! You tried and you tried and you tried and you finally convinced them to lend it to us. You did that, not me. You fought for a better life for both of us. You fought day and night, tooth and nail, and you did it. You won. You’re my hero.”
She brought his hand to her lips and kissed his knuckles.
“I’m not going to let them take that away from you, George. Not now, not ever. It’s my turn to be the hero.”
Before he could respond she dropped his hand and shoved him backwards. In their younger days she wouldn’t have been able to move him at all, but age had made him less steady, and the low gravity of the station made it easier.
George staggered back a couple of paces, fully clearing the threshold to the Control Room. At the same time Debra reached out and smacked a button next to the doorway, triggering an emergency lockdown. The door closed swiftly, engaging the locking mechanism with a loud clunk. It could now only be opened from inside.
“Debra!” shouted George, pounding on the door to no avail.
“Debra! Don’t do this! Come with me!”
Debra’s slightly distorted voice issued forth from the intercom next to the door.
“Get to the escape pod George. Please. I need to know that you’re safe. I love you.”
The intercom’s light went from green to red. She had cut the line so that he couldn’t talk her out of it.
“Debra! You don’t need to do this! This station isn’t worth your life! Come with me!”
There was no response from the intercom. Fear and panic seared through him. His pounding on the door grew more desperate, but no less futile.
“DEBRA!”
A tiny metal burr on the door pierced the skin of his palm, drawing blood. He clenched his fists and punched the door repeatedly, venting his frustrations on the two inch thick steel.
Pleading devolved into incoherent screaming as the frustration boiled over. This went on for several minutes before his voice eventually broke and he slumped to the floor, exhausted.
For another minute the sound of ragged breathing, and the rapid pulse throbbing in his ears, were all that he could hear. Then a slight tremble shook the station, followed a quarter-second later by the thump of a ship attaching itself to the main airlock.
They were here.
There was now no choice but to make it to the escape pod and hope that Debra was right. George rose and reluctantly started jogging towards the pod chutes, hoping with every fibre of his being that he would soon see his wife’s face again.
The station seemed to come to life as he moved through it. Pressure doors slammed shut tight behind him as he fled down the corridors, as though some angry unseen spirit was chasing him, driving him out of the station that was his home. He knew it was just Debra locking the station down, putting as many barriers as possible between them and the pirates that would soon come raging out of the airlock, but the expulsion still stung.
As he passed the recharging station he saw their two security drones shudder to life. They quickly cycled through warm up sequences, testing each joint and actuator in the kind of rapid ratchet motions that only machines could perform. The whole process took only a few seconds, and then they were on their way, zipping quickly towards the airlock where they would make their stand.
One of them stopped before it reached a corner. It turned back towards him and waved, its pulse rifle held aloft, waggling back and forth in the air above its sensory dome.
Debra again.
He waved back and then the drone was gone, following its twin.
When George reached the chutes that held the station’s two escape pods, he froze. A battle raged inside his head, the ferocity of which rendered his body immobile. Part of him could not bear to leave, to run, despite the knowledge that Debra wanted him safely away. The other side of him, in truth the part of him that was more attuned to his true nature, wanted to stay and fight, just as he had stayed to fight on Earth all those decades ago. His rational mind knew that without weapons and armour there was nothing he could realistically do, but his love for Debra would not allow him to abandon her. He had made a promise to her once, never to leave her again. A promise that he had always intended to keep.
The war inside left him at a standstill, unable to move either way until acted on by an outside force.
An outside force soon presented itself, the rumbling blast of a breaching charge that blew a hole in the station’s primary airlock. It was quickly followed by echoes of distant gunfire, the distinctive sounds of energy and projectile weapons tearing into each other with a ferocity he hadn’t heard since those dark days on Earth.
Next to the chutes was a console and screen, normally used to monitor the readiness of the pods. George snapped out of his immobility and hurriedly used it to log into the station’s network. The lock down Debra had initiated prevented him from accessing any command systems, except for those that managed the escape pods, but the surveillance system was still open to him. He cycled through the different camera views available until he found the corridor outside the airlock.
The inner airlock door had a hole in it three feet wide. From the discoloured look of the metal around it he guessed that the pirates had sprayed some kind of acid on the door to weaken it before detonating a small explosive charge. Probably a good idea if they didn’t want to run the risk of blowing the whole airlock apart.
Two Skarreck pirates were crouched behind the hole, within the airlock itself, the barrels of their weapons periodically poking out just enough to let off brief bursts of fire. Pulse rifle blasts from the now sole remaining drone answered in return.
Without warning the two pirates pulled back within the safety of the airlock, the corridor outside falling silent as the drone, deprived of targets, also ceased fire.
The silence stretched on for several seconds before a large fully armoured figure emerged from the breach wielding what looked like a full length riot shield.
The drone, quickly acquiring this latest target, unleashed a barrage of energy pulses that splashed across the shield. Strangely they seemed to do no damage. Silver fibres woven into the shield’s surface began to glow as they absorbed and shunted the weapon’s energy into a heat sink the pirate wore upon its back. Thermal fins on the heat sink began to glow cherry red, radiating away the excess energy that couldn’t be stored in a shimmery haze around the pirate, who lumbered forward several paces while it used the shield to black the drone’s view of the breach.
Just as George was beginning to wonder what the pirate’s end game was, another figure emerged from the breach, safe behind the blocking figure in front of him. This pirate carried a weapon that George didn’t recognise. It was long, almost as long as the pirate was tall, and about as thick around as a man’s arm. Two wide straps were attached to it, looped around the pirate’s shoulders, helping him bear the weapon’s weight. It was also, George realised, connected via a cable to the heat sink worn by the pirate in front of him. The second pirate steadied the lance horizontally, aiming at his comrade’s back. Green lights on the side of the weapon began to illuminate in sequence, roughly in time with the impact of pulse rifle blasts on the shield.
They were using the drone’s attack to charge their weapon, George realised.
The last light went solid green and the rearward pirate tapped his partner on the back of the head. Once. Twice. Three times.
In an obviously well practiced movement the front pirate lurched sideways after the third tap, shifting the shield a foot to the left. This created a direct, unobstructed, line of sight between the tip of the lance and the still firing drone.
Immediately a bright shaft of pure white light erupted from the lance, spearing straight into the drone’s chest. The camera struggled to focus for the few seconds, nearly blinded by the flash, but George could see scintillating blue arcs of electricity spiralling and pulsing within the beam, which ate its way clear through the drone in a matter of seconds, exploding out of its back in a shower of light and smoking molten metal, which splattered the walls behind it.
As soon as this happened the beam shut off and there was silence once again.
The big armoured pirate dropped the shield and quickly shrugged off the heat sink, throwing it as far away down the corridor as he could. Four more Skarrecks flooded out of the airlock breach, joining the one who had held the lance, now also discarded. The five of them set off down the corridor towards the first pressure door, which they circumvented quickly through the use of small explosive caps to destroy the locking mechanism. The former shield bearer remained in place. This enigmatic figure began to shrug out its armour, removing its four legs from the protective shell, like a spider moulting out of its exoskeleton.
George’s breath caught in his throat.
The lead pirate was a Kheth.
It set off after its Skarreck underlings. They would be at the Control Room in minutes.
George sprinted towards the Control Room, keenly aware that Debra had no more means of defence, and in seconds had reached the first of the pressure doors obstructing his path. Unlike the pirates, he did not have explosive charges to force it open. Instead he whipped a screwdriver out of his tool belt and began to pry open the panel that controlled the door’s hydraulics.
As he worked on the door he knew it was pointless. It would take him at least five minutes to open this door, let alone the four others between him and the Control Room. The pirates would reach it long before he could hope to, but that wouldn’t stop him from trying.
He cringed every time he heard the echoed crack of another door lock being blasted apart by the intruders. When he had nearly disabled his first door he heard another blast, louder this time, which caused him to halt.
That must have been the Control Room door. He was out of time.
He ran back to the console near the escape pods, and searched for the camera feed for the Control Room, terrified of what he would see.
“Oh Geeeooorge”
The voice was coming from the console. It wasn’t Debra’s.
He found the Control Room camera feed and reeled at what he saw.
Debra was kneeling on the ground, hands interlaced on top of her head. Behind her stood the hulking form of the Kheth pirate, his pistol pressed against the back of her head. Tears were streaming down her face.
“How cowardly of you, George. You ran away to let your woman do the fighting. I guess I should have expected as much, you are human after all. If you could run away from your home world like a parasite fleeing a dying host, then why not your wife as well?”
The Kheth laughed, a strange hacking sound that George had never heard before.
“I’ve been there, you know. Earth. Filled with such life, even after the devastation of the war. It flourishes again now, even a scant few decades later, almost as if it welcomes us as the antidote for its long-suffered human infection. It’s an excellent place to do a little hunting…”
He paused to sneer at the camera.
“Not all humans managed to evacuate, you know.”
Despite the cold terror he felt for Debra, George’s blood began to boil, heated by the memory of the days and nights he’d spent fleeing the Kheth soldiers who’d been hunting him and his compatriots.
“Anyway, there’ll be time for stories later. You and I have some business to attend to first. Word on the streets is that you’re sitting on top of quite a nice stockpile of neuro-stims. A small fortune’s worth. If you would be so kind as to hand them over I’m sure nothing untoward will happen to your mate here.”
He drove the barrel of the pistol harder into the back of Debra’s head.
“You heard wrong” Debra spat defiantly. “This is just a refuelling station. We don’t run drugs here.”
The Kheth laughed again.
“I hope for your sake that’s not true” he sneered. “Come on George, what’s it going to be? I don’t have all day.”
George’s heart sank. He had brought this upon them. This was a gangster’s revenge.
“Did G’da’kar send you?” stammered George, the console’s microphone picking up the tremble in his voice.
Debra connected the dots instantly at the mention of the name. Her face fell, the look of pained betrayal plain to see, and George’s soul died a little inside him.
“George, please tell me you didn’t” she pleaded.
He couldn’t bear to answer her. Instead he addressed the pirate.
“G’da’kar has fed you lies. There are no stims here, haven’t been for a long time. He’s just using you to get back at me. You’ve been had. He’s the one you should be threatening.”
The pirate boss growled and then was quiet for several moments, pacing in a circle around Debra while he considered what George had said. Debra stared into the camera the whole time, her face alternating between disbelief and disappointment. She was still crying.
When their tormentor spoke again his voice was harsher, the playful tone abated.
“Either you’re lying, which would be a very foolish thing to do since I have a gun to your wife’s head, or you’re telling the truth, in which case… well…
“I’m pretty good at reading people, George. You have to be in my line of work. I’ll ask you one more time. Where are the stims?”
George quickly weighed his options, knowing that a delay in answering would only make him appear a liar.
“There are no stims” he said, defeated.
“That’s a pity. For you, but mostly for her.”
The Kheth pressed the weapon to Debra’s temple. Her eyes went wide with panic.
George shouted.
“No! Debra! I love…”
His world imploded as he watched Debra’s lifeless form slump to the floor.
“No, no, no, no, no, no…”
The Kheth’s horrid face filled the screen, blocking out the view of her body as he got up close to the camera.
“I don’t like wasting my time, George. I’ll have my payday one way or another. Now I’m going to tear this place apart, and if you’re telling the truth, and I don’t find what I’m looking for, I might just decide to stay. Someone else will come along for a fill up, and this station seems like it would be a nice little trap to catch them unawares.
“Run away, little human, while you still can. Gurxjhett!”
Gurxjhett was a word in the native Kheth tongue. George knew what it meant.
Shit-smear.
He was too shattered to reply, too shattered to move, too shattered to do anything but stand there staring at the now blank screen in front of him.
It was all his fault. All of it. The love of his life was dead, killed by the choices he’d made.
Time and again he’d followed the dictates of his pride, driving him through life until eventually he’d made a deal with a devil that he barely knew.
He’d lied to his wife, that fierce beautiful woman who had pulled him out of his pit of despair and helped him to be whole again, and he’d lived the lie for so long that it had almost become the truth.
Bile rose in the back of his throat and he tried to choke it down only to fail and vomit over his own shoes.
Debra had paid the price instead of him, because he was too stupid to see that it was always going to end up that way.
It should have been me, he thought.
His lip curled in an animalistic sneer, hatred bubbling up inside, both for himself and for those that had taken her from him.
Now he would pay, and so would they.
He launched an empty escape pod to throw them off his trail and shambled towards his quarters in search of something to dull the pain of his broken heart.
-=-=-=-
George’s bare feet made no noise as he crept along the wall toward the Control Room. He’d left his boots in the vent, knowing that they wouldn’t help him move silently. At this point stealth was more important. In his hand he clutched a small kitchen knife that he’d taken from the galley, his grip on it tight enough to make his knuckles ache.
One foot in front of the other, he thought, one foot in front of the other. Each uncertain step twisted his knotted insides tighter.
His ears strained to filter out the raucous noise of the fire suppression system, listening between the sirens for the footsteps that would warn him if the pirates who’d gone to investigate it decided to return prematurely.
When he reached the doorway of the Control Room he saw the damage the pirates had done. Besides the open door, the panel that had concealed its locking mechanism was now just a jagged hole rimmed by shards of twisted metal. Remnants of thick brown hydraulic fluid oozed out sluggishly, adding to a small puddle that was slowly growing on the floor.
George’s heart sunk once he snuck a peek through the doorway. The Kheth was still in the room, its bulky form hunched over a console, still trying to crack the security codes and gain full control of the station.
The Control Room was roughly square in shape, with a viewing window that took up most of the wall directly opposite the entrance. Around the edges of the room were the consoles that controlled the various station sub-systems, while an island console in the centre of the room housed the main monitoring controls.
The Kheth was standing at the bank of consoles to the left, with its back towards the door. The environmental controls that George needed to access were on the opposite side of the room.
George considered his options, feeling the weight of the knife in his hand. He had fought hand to hand with Kheth twice during the invasion of Earth. The first time he had nearly lost badly, and only been saved by the timely, and brutal, intervention of one of his squadmates. The second time he’d managed to gain the upper hand, but only just, and it had nearly cost him the use of his left arm permanently. That time he’d had a better weapon than a half-blunt kitchen knife. He’d also been much younger.
Still, he had the element of surprise, and something else much more motivating.
Anger.
This was the fucker responsible, the one that had taken Debra from him, and in doing so destroyed his life as utterly as if the bullet had pierced his own skull instead of hers.
His eyes bored into the Kheth’s back, rage driving his heart rate higher. Pure hatred flooded his body, searing its way along his veins. His head buzzed with it until he couldn’t even hear his own thoughts.
When he came to his senses he found himself halfway across the room, standing a mere six feet behind the Kheth, who thankfully hadn’t noticed him. He hadn’t even felt himself move. Reason and logic returned, displacing the hate that had overcome his willpower.
If he fought with this Kheth now, its fellows would hear and come running. He would end up dead and they would be free to continue to exist unpunished. It would only take a second with the environmental controls to make sure they never hurt anyone ever again.
Reason won out and he backed silently away, towards the other side of the room. Without looking backwards he made sure to take a step sideways, so that he wouldn’t bump into the island console. He was careful not to make a sound. A few more steps and his goal would be within reach.
Eyes locked firmly on the Kheth’s back, alert for any sign of discovery, his attention faltered when his bare foot stepped in a puddle of something wet. He looked down without thinking.
Blood.
His eyes followed it back to its source before he could stop himself. Debra’s body still lay where it had fallen. In the brief instant it took him to screw his eyes tightly shut he caught a glimpse of silver hair, matted with the slowly congealing red blood that he was now standing in, the iron tang of it seeping into his nostrils.
It was all he could do to keep himself from moaning in despair.
Don’t look. Oh god, please don’t look. Look anywhere but there. That’s not her, not anymore. It’s something else. It’s not her, it’s not her, it’s not her.
His eyes refused to open, locking him in the darkness of his own mind, with a gibbering inner voice that grew more hysterical by the second.
Silver and red.
He took an involuntary step backwards, trying to get away from the horror before him, only to feel his elbow bump into something.
The mug he’d left sitting on the console a lifetime ago shattered as it hit the floor. George’s eyes snapped open just in time to see the Kheth whirl to face him.
“Sneaky little human.”
The Kheth snarled and lunged at him, springing across the room in the blink of an eye. George brought the knife up, but he was too slow, and it glanced helplessly off the Kheth’s tough hide. A scaly hand clamped down on his throat, cutting off his airway.
It’s strong, realised George. Or maybe I’m just old.
Spots started to swim in his vision and he brought the knife up again, desperate to do something, anything, before he blacked out. The weapon sliced into the softer underside of the arm that was choking him and suddenly the pressure on his neck disappeared.
The Kheth uttered a growl, taking a step back to clutch its injured arm. It sneered at him.
“Gurxjhett!”
George, now released from its grip, stumbled backwards, coughing and sputtering as he tried to breathe again.
The sneer turned into a grin as the Kheth remembered the pistol that dangled from its belt.
“You’ll die slower than she did” it spat.
Before George could react it brought the weapon up, levelled it at him and fired a shot. The bullet caught him in his side, just below the ribcage, and spun him around. He slumped over the console in shock, gradually sliding off it and down on to his knees.
A peal of laughter sounded out behind him.
“Come to say goodbye, George? What did you think and old man like you was going to accomplish with this piece of crap?”
The Kheth angrily kicked the knife to the other side of the room.
George felt the numbness in his side. Funnily enough, it didn’t hurt.
Maybe it’s not that bad, he thought, until he raised the hand in front of him and saw the blood that covered it, warm and fresh.
“I’m glad you decided to stick around. I’ll make you a deal. If you give me the security codes I’ll try not to take too long killing you. Perhaps days instead of weeks. How’s that sound?”
George’s vision swam as the initial shock wore off. When his eyes returned to focus he noticed what was just in front of him.
A red button, dusty with years of disuse. Its makeshift label was written on a piece of electrical tape in Debra’s precise yet dainty handwriting.
Emergency Environmental Reset.
George smashed it with what little strength he had left, before falling sideways to the floor.
Boom.
A smile broke out across his face when he heard the distant sound of the pulse rifle. Such sweet music to his ears, although he knew it would take several shots to rupture the well shielded antimatter conduit.
The Kheth heard it too.
“George, what have you done?”
Real worry seeped into its voice.
George only laughed, a painful chuckle at first.
“He…he he… ha ha… ha ha-ha, HA HA HA…”
It rapidly grew in volume until he was laughing like a deranged lunatic.
Boom.
Sudden realisation dawned across the Kheth’s face and it sprinted to the door, barking into its comm as it ran.
“Everyone back to the ship! Back to the ship!”
George heard the footsteps retreat into the distance. He held no fear that they would escape. Even if they managed to undock their ship, there was no way they would escape the explosion in time, not with several gallons of antimatter about to sing its swan song out into the void.
George stopped laughing, the pain of doing so no longer justified without an audience. The effort of holding his head up also became too much, and he let it drop and loll sideways.
There in front of him was his wife, sleeping in eternity. A torrent of sadness washed over him once more, tinged with relief at the fact that he would join her soon.
“I’m sorry” he whispered, “I never meant for this to happen.”
Now on the cusp of death he looked back at the life that had brought him to this moment. It had not been an easy one, not by any stretch. There were many things he regretted, this most of all, but even now, knowing how it would end, he would not have traded it for anything. Every second he had spent with her was worth a thousand lifetimes without her, and the greatest pain of all was that it had been the flaws in his own nature that had ended hers.
She was too good for him, she always had been, but she had loved him despite his faults and that was a higher honour than any that could be bestowed by any other power, no matter how great.
Boom.
He reached out to hold her hand, gently cupping it in his like it was a holy relic.
In those dark times during the war on Earth he had dreamt of holding her nearly every night. It had been the thought of returning to her that had kept him going, even when most of those around him had lost themselves in fear and grief. It occurred to him now that he had never told her that, preferring not to speak about the war. Thinking about that horrible time had been too painful, so he’d blocked it out as well as he could, which admittedly wasn’t very well. Another regret to add to the pile.
He had burned with love for her though, keeping him warm while he was holed up in whatever shelter he could find. He had never stopped burning for her.
He burned for her still.
And now so would they.

My attic is full of stuff. It needs organising and clearing out. The problem is that there are so many boxes up there I don’t know where to start. Everything I’ve ever done is up there, all in different boxes labelled with things like “1976 - moving to Derbyshire to look after dying Granny”, “1981 - Mum and dad split up. Off to Doncaster to live with Nan”, “1983 - reconciliation and another move”, “84-90...solvent abuse, alcohol, weed, fast ones, slow ones, rebellion”. These boxes are easy to deal with. I was young and so were my parents...we were all clueless together. There’s no real weight to them and they can be shifted easily. Everything that happened from 1991-2002 goes into the same section of loft with happy face stickers on them. These boxes are full of meeting the woman of my dreams and growing up together. Having the time of our lives and really kicking the arse out of it. 2002-2007 are boxes full of baby photos and blurred feelings of pride and happiness. The feelings aren’t clear because the thoughts were captured when I was drunk. Booze took the clarity from my childrens formative years. The boxes are heavier but I can rearrange them if I put a bit of effort into it.
Now I start getting to the really untidy part of the loft. It’s chaos. The boxes are strewn left and right. Some upside down, others on their sides stacked higgledy piggledy. The majority are as light as a feather and upon inspection contain nothing but crumpled tins of cider, empty pill strips and wraps, wine corks and cobwebs. They can go straight into the skip (recycling the cardboard, obviously). There are some really heavy ones as well. One is labelled “Dead Dad” - in it are memories of the man who tried his best but still failed to find peace - his upbringing putting him on a collision course with the alcoholism that would end killing up him on an operating table at 59. A lot of the heavier memories can go. I can just keep the lighter, happier ones and that will make this box easier to move. He was a gentle, funny man - he would’ve loved his grandchildren as they turned into men. I can hear the banter now. Booze took my dad away from me.
Another box with a poison sticker is nearly immovable. In that are pictures of my mum. I’ll go right to the bottom and pull out some early ones. We’re laughing and shouting as she gives me a coggie on her bike. Riding through the countryside to a little pub that sold salt’n’shake crisps and lemonade bottles with straws. Another one where she’s taking me around to a bullies house to confront the mum of the offender. Incredibly joyful holidays away in Devon and Cornwall. Why is this box so heavy? Drunken screaming matches with my dad. Hideous, hateful words being shouted. Pissed up fights, smashed crockery. Drink driving accident and the following panic of potential prosecution all magnified by home brewed wine. Bad decisions that split the family up. Attempted suicide which brought us back together. Another 37 years of fear and hate brought on by daily alcohol consumption. Levelling up her selfishness and vitriol after her soul mate dies. She’s poiso…...hold up...there’s an important realisation to be made here. She has had an addiction for nearly 50 years. 50 years of ‘the terror’. Half a century of operating from mental and physical dependency. What kind of hell is that? Right, I’m going to take out all the bad memories caused by her addiction and see what’s left. Not much...but at least now I can move the box easily. Booze has nearly taken my mum away from me.
I’m making progress. Order is being restored.
“Gobshite” is the next label to catch my eye. It’s full of every drunken conversation I’ve ever had. It’s a biggun. I can just throw that one away, surely. I try to lift it up and my back pops - there’s something very heavy in there. I’m sat on my eldest sons bedroom floor. I’m 2 bottles of red deep and I’m regaling him with stories of every drug I’ve ever taken. He’s 14 years old. I tell myself that the motivation for this discussion is to dissuade him from following in my footsteps. What I’m actually doing is throwing down a gauntlet. Regardless of what I think of myself, my boy looks up to me. The conversation has the exact opposite effect to the one intended. I didn’t know it at the time, being a pissed gobshite know-it-all. Too busy talking to bother listening.
Behind that box is a small wooden crate, nailed shut. “Do not open” is written two times - once in the handwriting of a 13 year old, the other recently added. This box is the heaviest of them all. The lid comes off and contained within are two memories - one of which will stay in the box. It’s mid October 2018. I open the front door to my eldest boy. His eyes are half closed. His skin is pale and clammy. He’s sway-standing, drifting in and out of consciousness. I’ve been on the booze all day but recognise a very obvious overdose straight away. Do I call an ambulance? No. I bundle him upstairs to his bedroom and get him settled for the night. Through mumbled answers to my questions I find out that he’s been taking xanax and valium sourced not from a chemist but from some gangster on the internet. The misplaced confidence I feel that I can deal with this situation is caused by my alcohol fuelled cockiness. I videoed him on my phone as he struggled to stay awake…..and then I went downstairs and drank another bottle of wine. The reason why I didn’t call an ambulance? I couldn’t be arsed with the bother. It would’ve caused disruption to my planned evening of getting hammered. 'He's not that bad….I’ve been in worse conditions' was what my drunken brain was saying. I did spend a little bit of time with him, everytime I went to empty my bladder. Making sure that he was still with us. The universe saw fit to keep my boy alive, despite my selfish attempts to ignore what was right in front of my face.
I carried on drinking for another 16 months after this incident.
In March 2020 I was drunk on that high octane, very cheap cider that comes in 3 litre plastic bottles. I’d had a couple of them and was swigging, surreptitiously, out of the Gin and Vodka bottles in the drinks cabinet. At some point during that evening my eldest did something to annoy me - he left pee on the toilet seat. I went into his room with a bare fuse. He laughed when I asked him why he hadn’t wiped the seat and my fuse was lit. I can’t explain what happened next because I wasn’t there. No physical violence occurred but in the morning no-one would meet my eyes or speak to me. I had an inkling that I may have been slightly out of order the night before (Brit understatement), but the morning after had never been this bad. I went out into the garden and sulked, hoping that someone would come out and apologize to me.
Yep, you read that right.
I decided to make myself useful by preparing a bit of garden and planting some onion sets that had been hanging around in the shed. I didn't hold out much hope that they'd grow because they'd been there forever but I put them in anyway. During this time I started thinking about what had happened the night before, trying to remember who had said what to who - but I came up blank. The nagging feeling that I was the problem in this situation wouldn’t go away….and then it came to me - My behaviour the night before was the direct result of the alcohol I’d consumed. It was 100% my doing. That was my ‘Ton of Bricks” moment. I went into the house and apologised to my wife, youngest son and old fella in the living room - this was met with picture-no-sound (to be fair the old fella couldn't hear what I was saying), but the apology was out in the open now. I’d admitted that I had a problem with booze and I was going to get help to try and stop. I went upstairs to find my eldest lad and apologised to him with the same words. He shook his head and said “I’ve heard that before. You just say words. You're just like Nan”.
So that's how I got the initial injection of energy to change my ways. I stopped drinking and put out the feelers to a local group that wasn't AA. I had plenty of mis-guided preconceptions about AA at the start. The local group was shut down because of COVID-19. I could do this thing on my own, without any support. Holy shit! Those first couple of months were so bloody hard! My junkie brain was laughing his tits off and rubbing his hands together in glee. It was only a matter of time before I fell off the wagon in spectacular fashion. The reasons for stopping were still very raw and I was under no illusions that I wouldn't lose everything if I went back to the bottle - but I was still contemplating it. The justification of an alcoholic is a force to be reckoned with. Man!....I was so close to folding.
"If nothing changes, nothing changes".....every past attempt at stopping had followed the same miserable pattern. A couple of days/weeks/months of stubborn dryness, a boozy reward for doing well, the self deluded bullshit that is moderation and the inevitable walk down the path back to black out drinking. This time around I admitted to myself that I didn't have the answers. I couldn't do this on my own. I reached out for support. I came here in June 2020 and, during the following weeks, got involved. I read everything. I got brave enough to post and ended up having a conversation that changed my whole outlook. These days I'm always banging on about doing stuff and being active in sobriety but back then I was still asking "Why am I like this?". Luckily, a long term member with thousands of days sober took the time to explain that I was looking at it all wrong. "What am I going to DO about it?" was the question I should've been asking. This was a huge deal for me. It put the power firmly into my hands. All of my preconceptions were binned and every option was on the table. I wanted to stop drinking and I was going to try all of it on and see what fit. AA meetings helped. I went to my first one at 200 days sober. I just listened in and empathized with people all around the world who were just like me. I have absolutely no doubt that I would’ve had a similar experience at any of the non-AA groups - the feeling of connection and shared experience is the river that runs through every country on the map of recovery. I read books and cherry picked passages that resonated with me. I tried meditation and mindfulness. I spoke to my doctor. I spoke to my family. I spoke to other sober people. There's so much stuff that I haven't tried yet, but I know it's there - and if I ever need it I'll get it. Out of all the things I've tried, Stop Drinking is my number one support. It works so well for me. The connections I've made with the people here have helped me no end. Being given an opportunity to help someone else by talking about things that I've experienced has ended up helping me. It's that simple. I reckon it's all about knowing where I've come from. As long as I always remember I've got a problem, I won't have a problem. That's why you'll see my 'IWNDWYT 🙂' everyday…. signaling my morning/afternoon read of new posts that pour into this sub every minute. To all the lurkers who have landed here and got this far - I can only talk about my own experiences. I can tell you that getting involved in posts and talking from the 'I' has helped me build the longest stretch of sobriety since the age of 17. It's helped to open up my mind to new ways of thinking and allowed me to connect with an anonymous gang of superheroes who will always have time to offer listening ears, support and compassion. Being sober hasn't fixed every broken thing in my world but it has made my life a much nicer place to be. My mind is blown everyday when I see evidence of my positive life improvements spreading out and affecting the reality of others. It's a reeeaaaall trip!
Thanks for taking the time to read. IWNDWYT 🙂
P.S. That first set of onions grew into fat, tasty eye waterers and ignited a veg growing curiosity that will probably end up developing into a full blown obsession.

I did a post explaining Kaz's plans in SoC in hopes of clearing up any confusion for myself and others (let’s face it, Kaz is a genius and mere mortals like us sometimes can’t keep up😂). So, I figured I’d do one for Crooked Kingdom. I decided to split this post in two, because I wanted to devote a separate post to the auction, since that's the one that seems to stir up the most confusion. In this post, I'll be covering 2 plans:

1. Getting Inej back
2. Sugar Silos

Let’s get to it! Disclaimer: This will be quite a long post.
I. Getting Inej back
Ia. Locating and kidnapping Alys

1. Keep Cornelius Smeet, Van Eck's lawyer, away from his house for a couple hours. Jesper plays cards with Smeet at the Cumulus Club, while Kaz deals. Nina flirts with Smeet, stealing his special dog whistle and putting it in an oyster dish, which Wylan, who's disguised as a waiter, takes into another room. Once the whistle is obtained, Kaz and Wylan slip out to Smeet's house.
2. Kaz picks the lock on the door and neutralizes Smeet's pack of guard dogs by blowing commands on the stolen whistle. He got the commands by threatening one of Smeet's clerks. Kaz and Wylan search the office for Van Eck's property records in order to find out where Alys is being kept. While there, Kaz replaces Van Eck's will with a forgery that gives the merch's fortune to Wylan. As part of the setup for the future silos plan, Kaz also plants papers that say that Van Eck bought shares in sugar companies that don't use silos owned by him. In fact, Kaz is the one who bought the shares, using half of the money from Rollins' loan, but he needs it to seem like it was Van Eck.
3. Kaz has to scare Smeet's daughter into silence, but him and Wylan make it out of the house in time for Kaz to purposely bump into Smeet, who's on his way home. During the encounter, Kaz slips the dog whistle back into Smeet's shirt. Matthias, who's been keeping lookout, rows them back to the hideout at Black Veil, where the rest of the gang is waiting.
4. Van Eck had been sending Bajan back and forth from the theater where Inej was being held because he hoped Kaz would notice, guess where Inej was, and walk into a trap trying to get her. Kaz does guess Inej's location, but he has other plans. Matthias and Jesper make sure to be seen bringing a gondel down to Fifth Harbor in order to make Van Eck think the Crows are taking the bait. While the gang is kidnapping Alys, Rotty and Specht disguise themselves, board the gondel, and call out to random people to fake that they're the Crows, basically making a whole lot of noise but not actually doing anything.
5. From the property records at Smeet's, Kaz has determined that Alys Van Eck is at a lake house. While Rotty and Specht are pretending to be them, the gang sails across the lake to get to the house. Kaz, Matthias, Nina, and Jesper take out the guards. (Note: this is the first instance where Nina's new power manifests itself.) They enter the house and get Alys, leaving a note for Van Eck that sets up the location of the hostage exchange, Inej for Alys. Tbey head back to Black Veil.

Ib. Hostage Exchange

1. The exchange will take place at noon at Goedmedbridge in West Stave. Kaz has arranged for Nina and Matthias to pick up about 200 Mister Crimson costumes from a fur shop in the early morning. After getting the costumes, Nina and Matthias walk around West Stave giving out the Mister Crimson costumes, lying that it's a promotion for a new gambling hall. They promise that anyone who comes to Goedmedbridge dressed as Mister Crimson at noon after the fireworks go off will get free food and wine.
2. Wylan plants water mines in the canal in case Van Eck sends ships to cut off the Crows' escape. Jesper and Matthias are stationed on the roofs of two buildings across from each other on each side of the river. Nina is also stationed in a hotel on Matthias' side of the river. Wylan sets up fireworks on Jesper's and Matthias' rooftops. Nina, Jesper, and Matthias are to watch Inej during the hostage exchange to make sure she isn't harmed.
3. Kaz, with Alys, and Van Eck, with Inej, meet up on the bridge. They exchange hostages. As soon as he gets Alys, Van Eck calls in the stadwatch, claiming Kaz has kidnapped Wylan and that Van Eck wants him back. As soon as Kaz gets Inej, he raises his cane in the air as a signal to Jesper. Kaz and Inej jump off the bridge onto a barge that sells flowers (Kaz knows the barge is always there). They don Mister Crimson costumes.
4. As soon as Jesper sees Kaz's signal, he sets off the fireworks on his roof, which signals the Mister Crimsons recruited by Nina and Matthias to swarm the bridge, causing great chaos and commotion. Matthias sets off the second set of fireworks to disguise the sound of Wylan's water mines exploding. The bombs destroy two stadwatch boats as Kaz and Inej climb from the flower barge back onto the bridge, the commotion of the Mister Crimsons and stadwatch disguising them as they flee West Stave and hide out in the warehouse district before returning to Black Veil. (Note: Kaz has them go near the warehouse district so that Inej can get a look at the terrain for the future sugar silos plan).
5. After Wylan detonates the bombs, Nina, Jesper, Matthias, and Wylan leave their stations, put on Mister Crimson costumes, and get out of West Stave. They plan to convene back at Black Veil at sunset. Along the way, they're waylaid by the Shu khergud, but they escape.

II. Sugar Silos
Before explaining the silos plan and auction, it's important to understand what Kaz's objectives are here. He has 5 primary goals:

1. Get Kuwei on a ship to Ravka
2. Get the Ketterdam Grisha on a ship to Ravka
3. Get the money they were supposed to receive for the Ice Court job
4. Bring down Van Eck
5. Bring down Pekka Rollins (this doesn't really play into the silos plan; it's more in the auction plan)

Okay, keeping in mind what Kaz needs to accomplish, let's get into it! I'll outline the overall parts of this plan first, and then go into the details after. Also, this is how the plan was ideally supposed to go, so I'll outline what went wrong with it after. I'll also put an X after the steps that didn't go as planned.

1. Van Eck owns 1/3 of the sugar silos in Ketterdam (he doesn't necessarily own the sugar, just the silos). Using half of Rollins' loan, Kaz has bought the Crows shares in sugar companies that don't use Van Eck's silos. Wylan has developed a chemical weevil that will quickly destroy sugar when dropped into a silo. The Crows will destroy the sugar in Van Eck's silos, which will drive up the price of sugar and greatly increase the value of companies that didn't use Van Eck's silos and have all their sugar intact. As such, the value of the Crows' shares will skyrocket and get them their money. (Goal #3, accomplished).
2. Remember Step 2 of plan Ia? Kaz has bought shares in companies that don't use Van Eck's silos on behalf of Van Eck, and stored the documents in Smeet's office. He's going to frame Van Eck for what the Crows will do. When Van Eck's shares in those companies are discovered, people will realize that Van Eck profited off of the destruction of the sugar in his own silos. The silos will be investigated, the remains of the weevil will be found, and it'll appear that Van Eck destroyed the sugar to manipulate the sugar market and get more money for himself. His reputation will be ruined and he'll be put on trial for dishonesty and fraud. He won't be allowed to conduct trade again; in short, he'll be thrown in jail and absolutely ruined. (Goal #4, accomplished).
3. The Crows will use one of Van Eck's own ships in order to get the Grisha and Kuwei out. Any other ship would be inspected, since Van Eck has the whole city searching for the Crows, claiming they kidnapped Wylan, and anyone leaving Ketterdam will be under suspicion. Specht will forge papers of transit in Van Eck's handwriting for the ship, telling the ship's captain that the Grisha are valuable political refugees and that he must keep them a secret in return for a large award upon his return. (Goal 1 and 2, accomplished).
4. Nina and Matthias go to the Ravkan district, meet with Zoya and Genya, and explain the Crows' plan to get the Grisha out. They plan that Nina will send a message to them at the embassy with the details of the ship's departure. Genya and Zoya will guide the Ketterdam Grisha to the harbor.
5. In order to forge the papers for the ship, though, they need Van Eck's seal, which is stored in a nigh indestructible safe at his house. Wylan says he can make a chemical mixture that can corrode the metal of the safe and burn a hole in it. However, Wylan lies to Kaz and says he needs a certain chemical from a quarry near his mother's grave, because Wylan wants to visit her. Jesper and Wylan ostensibly go to retrieve the material, and visit Marya Van Eck. They discover that Wylan's mother is actually alive and was put in an asylum by her husband, and it's later revealed that Kaz knew Wylan was lying, but went along with it because Kaz wanted Wylan to see just how terrible his dad was.
6. Kaz and Wylan will break into the house, burn through the safe, and escape with the seal. Unbeknownst to Wylan, Kaz will also replace the copy of Van Eck's will that's in the safe with one that names Wylan as heir, like he did at Smeet's office. Kaz and Wylan will meet up with everyone at the docks and give them the seal to authenticate the papers. (X)
7. Inej and Nina will go to the silos. Nina will distract the guards, allowing Inej to slip in. Inej will climb up a silo, drop in a weevil, cross a tightrope to the next one, and repeat the process until all the sugar's destroyed. Nina and Inej will leave the warehouse district and get to the docks. (X)
8. Kuwei, Matthias, and Jesper will leave Black Veil, go to the Ravkan embassy, and help get all the Grisha to the docks. (X)
9. After the ship leaves for Ravka with Nina, Matthias, Kuwei, and the Ketterdam Grisha aboard, Kaz, Inej, Jesper, and Wylan will wait everything out in the city. (X)

Okay, so Steps 1-5 actually happen. Steps 6-9...not so much.
What Went Wrong

1. Kaz and Wylan do get to the safe, get the seal, and Kaz does replace the will. However, Pekka Rollins is waiting for them and confronts Kaz, forcing Kaz and Wylan to have to corrode a hole in the floor, drop down onto Van Eck's dinner table, and make a hasty escape out the window. They then go to the silos to check on Inej and Nina.
   
2. Pekka has sent an assassin, Dunyasha, after Inej. Dunyasha chases Inej across the tightrope and the tops of the silos, eventually causing Inej to fall. A group of Dime Lions also shows up to deal with Nina. Nina summons corpses from the sickboat to defend her; the corpses drive off the Dime Lions and hold up a net that catches Inej as she falls. Kaz and Wylan get to the silos.
   
3. Another group of Dime Lions was sent to Black Veil to deal with Matthias, Kuwei, and Jesper. Matthias concocts and implements a plan that has Kuwei and Jesper use their Grisha powers to make it appear like the island is haunted. The gangsters flee and the Crows escape.
   
4. The team doesn't go to the docks, instead meeting up at the hotel where Jesper's father is staying. Kaz had told them to go there if things went awry. I'm assuming that when the Crows didn't show up at the embassy, the Grisha knew something was wrong and stayed there instead of going to the docks.
   

That's the end of Part 1! Stay tuned for Part 2 and the auction plan:)

I binge-watched the first 3 seasons in 2 days. LOVED it. Now it feels like there is no real suspense (I was enjoying the actual crime/ gangster aspect of the show), the plot is all over the place (Beth is all about Dean and acting as if the 1st 2 seasons never happened), there are unnecessary scenes with way too much time devoted to them (Annie and her therapist - like who gives AF about their dynamic?), and all in all the most excitement is supposed to be about Stan delving into a life of petty crime?
EDIT: I know this is also supposed to be a kind of "feel good"/ funny fun show (hence, why I finally started watching it when life was getting too serious and I wanted something light).
Not to mention, sooooo.....is Beth supposed to be stupid (handwriting her criminal game plan on a picture AT the location where money is being laundered), sociopathic (smiling at Dean and talking about Poptarts and Henderson NV while he is pissed off in prison), a bored but desperate and clever housewife (like we saw in season 1), or now a criminal mastermind?
And yes, Rio is incredibly hot - which provides for 3-5 minutes of superficial enjoyment of watching this show per episode. The actor is great as well. BUT even if he were an ugly old man, and the character was cruel, and no sexual relationship between him & Beth, the show would be better IMO if he had a lot more screen time and interaction with the girls.
Done with my rant.
Edit: Season 3 was pretty good too Edit #2: Ok I liked episode 5 (just finished it), and agree with those who say it could be picking up.

Hi everyone,
Back by popular demand, the Monsters Inc. deep dive! Also, big shoutout to Tim for featuring my and other Pixar fans *Charlie Day red string everywhere-Esque* crazy theory about how all the Pixar movies are interconnected! And for those who recommended it, I've picked up Creativity Inc. AND IT'S AMAZING! I haven't been able to put it down since I got it! So, thank you all for the great recommendation. Now, onto the STUFF!
Fun Facts:
- This movie, similarly to Toy Story's basis of toys coming to life when you're not looking, is based on what about the lives in the monsters in your closet? You can see a theme here of the earlier movies being about kids' wild imagination as to what was happening around them. I
-It was originally pitched in 1994 during a lunch between John Lasseter, Pete Docter, Andrew Stanton, and Joe Ranft but went into full development after Disney asked Pixar to make more films. Pixar said, "Say, Less". It went into pre-production in 1996.
- The title Monsters, Inc. was actually a play on Murder, Inc. the gangster title, as suggested by Disney's long-time animator Joe Grant. You may know Joe as the brilliant animator who worked on Snow White and the Seven Dwarves all the way back in 1937.
- Monsters, Inc. in the early stages was going to be about a 30-year-old who was terrified of monsters. This quickly evolved into a buddy cop movie called Monsters, where Johnson (who we now know as Sulley) was the new guy at work.
-Boo went through many redesigns before she became how we know her today. She was originally from Ireland.
-Mike at one point was just a guy to help Sully pick out a tie, and had no arms. Due to technical limitations, arms were added, and the story team loved Mike so much they gave him a full part as Sully's sidekick.
-The final design of the movie ended during a 1998 Story Summit, coined by John Lasseter, where Disney and Pixar writers would meet up for two days and did a crash exercise on story writing. Monsters Inc was finished in 2 days because of this.
-This movie pushed the envelope REALLY FAR with computer animation because of not only all the different types of monsters, and world-building, but most importantly... the hair.
Hidden Details:
- Remember that lunch I mentioned where Monsters, Inc. was formed? It was at a cafe called Hiden City cafe, which has a great cameo when Mike and Sully walk to work.
-On that same coffee shop is a poster that LOOKS like Monstro from Pinnochio. well, it is! It's actually a poster for Fantasyland and the ride Storybook Land which is a prominent ride in Disneylands' Fantasyland. There are many other posters featured throughout the movie. What did you find?
-This is one of the few movies where the A113 easter egg isn't featured.
-That monster that helps run the scare floor? Look at his pattern on his chest. It's an ECG reading.
-The third-place monster with all the eyes is named Ranft, aka Joe Ranft, one of the leads of Pixar.
-There are stickers on a lot of the doors. They're actually characters from everyone's favorite show... Woody's Roundup.
-We all thought 2319 meant contamination... but what if it was something more specific? What did George have on him every time he was attacked by the CDA? A white sock. W= 23, S= 19. So they may have a code for just about everything brought into the world of the monsters.
- Steve Jobs was still working with Pixar at the time of Monsters, Inc. There is an easter egg on the back of Mike's magazine at the end of the movie with an Apple computer and the phrase, "Scare Different", an homage to Apple's motto at the time, "Think Different"
- Harryhausen's restaurant is named after Ray Harryhausen, one of the famous pioneers in animation with stop motion.
-Pixar has a knack to hint at what their next movie will be. In this case, Finding Nemo is next in line. There is a Japanese rendition of Nemo in the sushi restaurant.
-The trailer that Randall gets banished to? Well, it's the same one from A Bugs Life! It has the pizza planet truck sitting outside it and everything.
-The Luxo Ball is actually in this movie! It's in Boo's room on the floor every time they open up her door. Boo also gives Sully the ball.
-Boo gives sully many toys, like Nemo, and Jessie.
-There is a continuation of the toys being alive in this movie! When Boo's room is first opened, Jessie isn't on the table. When they return at the end, Jessie is on the table (This could be a continuity error, but I wanna believe)
-Sully and Mike don't know Boo's name, but she tells them! Her name is Mary, as written on her drawings. Maybe they just can't read human handwriting.
The Pixar Theory:
Now, I would LOVE to hear how the gang thinks these movies fit together before I tell them the common theory. Maybe Tim can fit this in as a segment?
Anyway, Monster's Inc is believed to be in another dimension... But what if it's our far far future, and through the power of human emotions, Monsters found a way to go back in time? As mentioned during the A Bugs Life write-in. That movie is believed to be the far future just before the humans return home from their space voyage. Well, Earth may support life but it's going to be very very rough. Humans had to evolve and so do the normal life on the world. Ants evolved to live longer and lift heavier things. What if all other life evolved into monsters? I mentioned before the power of human emotion. That's a driving factor for most movies. It's the most powerful magic in Brave, and it's believed to be why everything happens in the Pixar universe. Monsters found a way to harness this power to power everything, but also a way to get it themselves since humans are no longer around. At this point, Monster's Inc. is the end of the line for the theory but there is so much connecting tissue and is even believed to be the catalyst for the rest of the universe. Time is a flat circle, right? Well, what if Boo became obsessed with finding her best friend Sully, she would stop at nothing to find him? What if she messed up and went way in the past through the wrong door? Also, the people of Monstropolis aren't all crazy and saw a kid floating around causing massive mayhem, right? What if there was actually a kid who could shoot laser beams out of their eyes, float around, and just disappear? Also... Boo had a knack to vanish, right? her name was Mary... but what if Mary was just a nickname, and she had a special gift? We'll talk about all that more in future episodes.
That's all that I have for the upcoming Monster's Inc. episode of Pixar In Review! Let me know what I may have missed! There are a TON of easter eggs in this movie, and it really feels like the movie that let Pixar hit their stride, after the success of Toy Story 2.
The Nano Biologist

Previously: On Shitpost Wednesday Spectacular
"I'll try to do two and take some handwriting posted in the comments here for next time. I watch my upvote counts, so smash that like button if you want more of this content. A 500 upvote shitpost spectacular gets a sequel a lot faster than a 72 upvote shitpost spectacular."
*Looks at upvote total*
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dwLCjZVEtpE
OK NEW RULE!
If you would like me to analyze your handwriting for volume 3, please add it to the end of a real-ass comment. Preferably a comment that then can lead to some productive discussion. It can be college stuff, about me, or whatever else you want. This is as close to an AMA as I tend to do, so go nuts.
I will pick the next round of handwriting to do based on who...comments the best. I think you get what I'm trying to do.
But first:
Are you a teen digital photographer in the Bay Area applying to school right now? Specifically, a photographer who can take pictures of people in clothing? If so, please DM me.
1) u/CasusBellum
https://imgur.com/a5AOjoz
- This one's interesting. My first take was to see that it was small and the lines were evenly spaced and pin you down as some bookish perfectionist type.
But then I looked a bit closer and realized I couldn't read half the words you' de written. As far as I can tell, line seven reads as "Sneeds - pre-emptre - use fore on tomorrowland" And unless you were trying to combine memes from The Simpsons and 2000s as-seen-on-tv products, I don't think I got it.
- Your lines also aren't as neat as they first appear. You have nice, even upward angled notes in blue, but then see how you use a pencil line to extend the third note into another set of notes I couldn't read? My guess is you wanted to extend it straight to the right, but there was already a pencil note there, so you went "shit" and just dragged it downward.
- My official diagnosis is that you have "Doctor's handwriting." It's the writing I tend to see when someone knows a shitton about what they're writing about, but lack the forethought to express it neatly. Instead, it all tends to come out at once. Kind of like a shotgun instead of a rifle.
I recommend you either work on your legibility or make sure you're typing things out if you want people to read them. People are weirdly shy about being like, "hey, I can't read this," and it seems like your notes involve lots of big words and concepts I wouldn't understand even if I could read them. Your writing reminds me of my math teacher in 11th grade who spoke with a thick Russian accent. No one could understand him normally, so it was a nightmare then having to follow him explain Calculus.
- I feel like you're super into whatever you were taking notes on. Every single line accelerates upwards as you write it. That's an energy thing, and that, combined with the overall sloppiness, indicates that you want to get this content written down as fast and thoroughly as possible.
- You're probably introverted.
Conclusion: Keep doing you. You seem to be into it. But maybe look into a laptop.
MATTIE'S SHAMELESS PLUG OF THE WEEK
I'm launching a lead magnet soon. Basically a free article that you can access if you sign up for my mailing list, which I am also having made. The title is "Mattie's guide to the 'why college' school supplemental." It's at least 8.5 fire emojis out of 10. Will update once it's up.
2) u/yuzucchan
https://imgur.com/a/p00Er2X
- Now these are notes!
OK, let's break down all the hot note-taking tips we got firing here.

1. HIGHLIGHTER
2. Numbered bullet-point lists
3. A SECOND COLOR OF HIGHLIGHTER
4. Indented sub-listings to clarify their value
5. You just bust out a purple pen to flex on the haters
6. For the few haters still alive, you make that purple pen IN CURSIVE. My keyboard is melting
7. You actually use that actions box to list actions
8. CHARTS CHARTS CHARTS CHARTS-CHARTS CHARTS- EVERYBODY!

- OK... OK. Now I know how Vince McMahon felt after falling out of his chair. I'm woozy.
I imagine you're pretty good at school and stuff. Or at least organized AF. Your writing is smallish, so I doubt you're a huge personality, but if you were, I feel like you might be the person who moans how he/she failed a test after taking it. Then you get a 96. Maybe you do internally.
- The lined paper makes this worse, but besides the incredible neatness and consistency, I'm taken back by how...nuetral? it is? Letters stick straight up, and lines evenly glide flat as well. One thing I do notice is that your letters are quite hard. The n in "info" on the line under "Bloomberg terminal" looks like a circus tent. You can also see it in the w in "what" a few words later. Even typically, soft letters like p and b have tight flattened circles attached.
Hard letters tend to correlate with a speed in which one judges other people, places, or things. It's not that those judgments are always negative, just that you make them quickly. This combined with your notes and I feel like you're in it to win it. The term I throw around a lot is "gunner," and it tends to mean someone who is going to get what they want in life, and it is up to everyone else to not get in the way of that fact. You'll find gunners everywhere if you enter medicine, law, business, college consulting, or any other profession where motivated yet neurotic people tend to gather.
Conclusion: Either I'm wrong, or I doubt you'll be bothered by what I said. I like gunners. Gunners get shit done. Keep getting shit done but also take some time to remember you're human and that there is value in having some fun. The highlighters will be there when you get back.
---
BONUS BLOG OF THE WEEK
My head hurts and also Zoom is solid
The Bay Area is on fire again. Sucks, bro. I planned to write more here, but I want to get this out and also I have a horrible headache from the smoke. So you get like three sentences.
People talk a lot about luck in succeeding in business. I tend to downplay luck because I'm arrogant. In the moment, it feels like everything I've done this past year has been by design and the results have matched the effort level I placed in.
But there is one way I've gotten so lucky. Six months ago, the world stopped and everyone went home. Schools and companies, in a panic to stay relevant, moved everything to Zoom. What happened is millions of students and parents were forced onto the ecosystem. And most people found it was solid.
Then I show up. What's cool about my job is I sign a client and then have 25 weeks to learn everything I can about them. It makes it easy to sneak in some market research. The overarching theme I've found from my students is that it came down to me vs the local guy. Every community has a local guy. The usual way to build in this industry is to claim territory like a 90s gangster and daisy-chain student after student from the same one or two schools. Parents come to trust the local guy, so he keeps his spot on the throne.
But this year was different. That local guy was also on Zoom. His fancy office and ability to not be in Palo Alto didn't matter so much. I don't think it will matter that much in the following years, either. Students (and their paying parents) trust Zoom. And they trust the idea that it's ok to pay market rates for an all-digital service.
That's where I think the internet is headed. About ten years ago, everyone tried to make "the internet version" of every job. There was an internet lawyer, and internet therapist, and an internet college essay reviewer. Usually, these worked through a dumb app with little to no human interaction. Instead, you'd upload material into it, pay like $27, and then some guy you never met did the work. Almost always that guy was from a foreign country with a low minimum wage. And then the results were terrible.
I see a new, brighter future for online work. All it is is the exact same person-to-person service as you used to get, only over video. That's what I do and it totally works. This process then can cost less (or the same :D) as in-person work. Then the product is still good and everyone's happy.
Corona made this possible. It's callous to say, but that's why Zoom is worth $386 a share right now. People trust the infrastructure, and that's sticking around.
So that's my big bet going forward. The continued expansion of teleconferencing revolutionizing countless industries. The one I'm most interested in is online education. I predict that within 10 years, there will come an accredited, online-only institution that cracks the T100. It will be the first one to get it right. Currently, online education sucks. It's mostly reading texts and writing on a message board. Someone is going to figure out how to replicate actual college and make it at least 80% as good. They will then charge 20k a year instead of 75 because they can profit on scale. Then a lot of people are going to do it.
A lot.

• Mattie

CollegeWithMattie.com

Chapter 60 – Hello, Mr. Kim Taek-yong
Without dropping his fake expression, the doctor continued to smile at me uncomfortably and spoke again. “I repeat, have you experienced anything out of the ordinary recently? An out of body experience, perhaps?”
I shook my head, my brain beginning to whirl like a dusty old desktop computer booting up for the first time in a while. “No, nothing like that.” I was trying to gauge what kind of answer this doctor was fishing for.
His beady eyes narrowed at my uninformative response, as his gaze burned into me like the afternoon sun on a black concrete road. “I see…”
“And have you experienced any dizziness since your incident? Headache, anything of that sort?”
I frowned. “Not really, no. On the day I passed out, I had an intense headache that morning. But nothing since I woke up here.”
“Hmm… I see,” he replied, busily scribbling some notes down on a notepad he brought with him.
“So can you let me off now?” I asked. “I need to go to work or at least call in sick, otherwise I’ll get fired…”
The doctor looked at me as if I said something entirely preposterous, before letting out a laugh. “Is that what you’re worried about?” he said with a spreading grin on his face. “Oh, please… you’re on national news, don’t worry about having to call in sick. And as for work, the governor has already contacted your boss. The governor is a good friend of his, you see.”
“And I presume you already know about the monetary compensation we have prepared for you? I’m sure you have no complaints with respect to the amount, no? If you do… we can come to an alternative arrangement.”
I shook my head. Definitely no complaints there. I had half a mind to try to bargain for a better deal, but something in the back of my head was telling me that there was something greater at stake here besides just money. I trusted my gut; sometimes, my subconscious picked up on clues than my conscious self overlooked.
“Good… good…” the doctor spoke absentmindedly as he flipped through the notepad to some hand written notes he had written prior to entering the room.
“Ahem,” he cleared his throat. “Have you experienced any nausea since you’ve woken up?”
I frowned. There was a strange pattern in this doctor’s questioning that I noticed–it was subtle, but I caught on to it. He never once asked about my conditions before the seizure. All of his questions were laser focused on how I was feeling after the incident… as if he wasn’t trying to diagnose the cause of the episode at all, but rather was digging for something else…
With that in mind, I answered truthfully this time but cautiously. Every word I spoke here would bear weight in the future. I needed to be careful. This was not a game anymore–this was reality. Every one of my actions had deep consequences here.
“No, I haven't experienced any nausea since I woke up,” I answered him truthfully, making sure to fix my gaze on the doctor’s face and examine his reaction for any possible tells on what exactly he was trying to get at, with these veiled questions.
“Interesting, interesting…” the doctor nodded as I spoke, jotting down a few more notes in his spidery handwriting.
“Can I ask why I’m being held here?” I said bluntly. “I don’t get it. Why is the SWAT team guarding me? What did I do?”
The doctor pushed up his glasses by the bridge and looked at me with a serious face. “I’m not authorized to give any information on that matter, Mr. Kim Taek-yong.”
“Now, Mr. Kim Taek-yong, I’ll be running some vitals.”
The doctor took out a stethoscope from underneath his white medical clothes, and motioned me forward.
“Breathe in,” he said in a low tone. I felt my heart beat increasing and tried to calm it down. If he noticed that my heart beat was abnormally high, he’d know I was nervous. And if that was the case, there was a possibility that he would suspect that I was lying to him.
“Now breathe out.”
I breathed in and out slowly, making sure to calm my nerves as much as humanly possible.
“Very good,” he said with that freakish fake grin on his face again. “Your pulse and breathing are normal.”
With that said, the doctor opened his bag and pulled out a strange device I never saw before. From the outside it looked similar to a temperature gun, but it was much, much larger than any temperature gun I’d ever seen in my lifetime, and I’d seen quite a few of those since the start of the global pandemic.
“What’s that?” I asked. The gun device he held in his hand looked like some sort of mad scientist’s experimental ray gun.
“Oh, this is for measuring your temperature,” the doctor replied, his smile widening in a way that made my skin crawl.
He pointed the strange device at my head and pulled the trigger, as a beep rang from the temperature gun.
“Hm… your temperature is normal.” I noticed a slight flash of disappointment on his face, which was quickly concealed behind his wide fake smile.
With that said, he began packing up his bag and stood up. “We will resume our examination tomorrow. Once you are released, you will be expected to come in for an appointment once every week. Failure to do so will result in a felony charge against you.”
I groaned but nodded my head. There really was no legal protection available when the top brass of the country needed something done.
“Take this,” he said, placing a foil with several pills onto the counter next to me alongside a bottle of water. “Sleeping pills with an anti-anxiety effect. They will help with your nerves.”
My nerves.
Ah. So he did notice I was nervous when he measured my heartbeat.
I grunted in acknowledgement and sank back into the bed.
It was getting late today, so I laid down and tried to sleep as the doctor left the room, and the two SWAT guards returned to their original positions guarding the door. I didn’t understand how they didn’t get tired standing there all day, but then again maybe they were switching shifts with other guards. I couldn’t tell if they were the same guards or not since they were all heavily masked with respirators.
That night, I had a fever dream. It started during that dark period in college, where my girlfriend broke up with me and my parents died in a car crash in the same week. I remembered limping down the rainy street at 3 AM, drunk out of my mind, when I ran into a group of gangsters. They were just standing in a small huddle on the side of the street smoking cigarettes. When they saw me stumbling down the street, the group walked over in a confrontational manner.
One of them flashed a switch knife for a brief second.
“Hey, kid. Wallet and phone. Hand them over.”
I remembered running as fast as I could in my drunken state, before tripping and falling to the ground as the gangsters caught up and laughed, kicking me in the head repeatedly.
They pinned me down and rummaged through my pockets, taking everything, including the keys to my dorm room.
I didn’t even go to the hospital after that night, despite getting a concussion. It was because I was afraid I couldn’t afford it. I was afraid the hospital staff would laugh at me for being poor. I was afraid that I’d see the faces of my dead parents again, if I went back to the hospital…
My thoughts were jumbled and cloudy in this dream.
Something flashed, and I was back on the ground again, being beaten senseless by those gangsters.
They flipped me over, and the biggest guy cocked his fist back and landed a punch right on my nose, breaking it instantly. Blood dripped down from my nostrils onto my lips, as I felt tears pooling in my eyes.
“Hey! Don’t kill him,” one of the gangsters said to the biggest guy.
And with that, they left me rotting on the ground as a bloody mess, with my pockets turned inside out and my only good jacket I had left ripped.
I was running.
Then I tripped again, and they descended upon me like vultures finding carrion.
Just make it stop.
Make it stop.
Make it stop…
The dream continued to play over and over again, like a broken record.
Thud.
A punch landed square on my jaw, fracturing it. It was the biggest gangster, the chunky one that pressed me down helplessly with his body weight.
A skinny gangster standing above me stomped downwards, hitting my thigh with his shoe, before wiggling it to wipe all the mud off on my clothes. Rain continued to fall, dripping down onto me from the sweaty bodies of my assailants.
I blinked back my tears and coughed in revulsion at the salty sweat infused rain that entered my mouth.
I was so fucking sick of this.
So… sick… of this shit…
A flash of life appeared in my eyes as the biggest gangster pulled back his fist yet again.
I raised my left hand, and a familiar black void instantly began to cover my entire arm.
“Huh?” the gangster exclaimed in surprise at the strange phenomenon.
Sshk.
I raised my left arm, catching the gangster’s fist in my hand. Immediately upon contact with my void covered arm, the big gangster with a bald head and baby fuzz moustache let out a howl of pain.
“Gagasdh!” he howled, with a completely garbled sound.
Red exposed flesh was all that remained of his chubby fist from where I grabbed it.
I swiped at his face.
My fingers sank into that overgrown man’s baby face, sinking right into his cheeks and through his jaw and nose. Three clear streaks of exposed flesh revealed themselves after my fingers passed through, as the big man’s eyes grew large in shock.
At this point, I knew this was a dream, but it was too cathartic to let go… just let it keep playing... just a bit longer….
I pushed the baby faced man off me with a heave, as he trembled in anaphylactic shock on the wet black pavement next to me.
The skinny gangster was next.
“Hey, what’s wrong bro?” he said when he noticed that the big gangster fell to the side. His skinny leg stomped down onto me again.
I lunged forwards towards him, wrestling him to the ground before plunging my left hand straight into his chest. Feeling that familiar beating sensation in the middle of the wet mass, I closed my fingers and burst his heart.
Blood dripped from my left hand as I stood up.
There were still two more gangsters, both slightly distracted. One was typing his phone, while the other casually puffed on a cigarette.
“What the?” the man on the phone exclaimed when he noticed that I overwhelmed his comrades. His eyes darted down to their mangled bodies, before tracing upwards and locking into mine. “You little shit!”
I uppercut him in the chin and threw my left hand forward, piercing right through that thick skull of his. The man dropped to the floor dead instantly.
Now it was time for the last one.
“Ah… aahhhhhh!” the last gangster shouted when he saw what I did to his group. “M-monster!” he yelled, as he began to run.
I ran faster than I ever ran before. The gangster almost made it to the side of the intersection.
Right before he could make the turn…
I caught up to him and tackled him to the ground. Mounting myself on top of his chest so he couldn’t move, I laughed at his misfortune.
“Not so tough now, huh?” I said in a maniacal tone.
“H-help! Someone, help me! This guy’s a monster!”
I laughed as I put my right hand on his face, and sank my index finger and thumb into his eyes.
The gangster screamed in pain, but that didn’t stop me. I reached down with my void covered left hand and patted him gently on his shoulder.
“There, there… don’t cry baby…”
The first pat left a palm sized imprint of disintegrated fabric on his shoulder. The second pat penetrated into his skin. The third pat went just a bit deeper, severing the tendon that held his shoulder to his neck.
I retracted my right hand, leaving his face a complete bloody mess and his eyes desiccated.
….
The harsh lighting of the hospital room was once again the first thing my brain registered.
Bzzt… I repeat, patient is shouting in his sleep… requesting further instructions…
To the right, one of the SWAT members spoke into his radio, reporting the situation to whoever was listening on the other side.
Squinting my eyes, I looked down the blanket and flinched. There was a torn patch in the white blanket they gave me. Although upon second glance, instead of torn, it was more accurate to describe it as melted…
Pretending to still be in the midst of a nightmare, I grabbed the hole in the white blanket fabric and tore at it, to conceal the anomaly. With a hard tug, I ripped the blanket in half.
Smut side chapter 78.5 is now up on patreon.com/tastytots, and reader discretion advised because some of the scenes might be a bit disturbing and the characters aren't exactly human this time...?
Also advanced chapters are now up to 78 (technically 79 is available but the new ultimate reading tier is still in construction and will be for at least a month if not two months so don't join that yet). I try to keep a consistent biweekly release schedule for public chapters so any increases in advanced chapters require extra time in addition to the regular release schedule so that's why the tier buffs are slow, sorry.
P.S. Power and wifi are finally back after wind damage from the hurricane. Thankfully it was just an inconvenience for a few days having to drive out to use phone data rather than anything significant.

I think when most normal people think of the Internet, they're thinking social media, online shopping, news, and the occasional porn site. Now people talk about “The Dark Web,” a place of untamed wilderness, where gangsters are selling guns, using Bitcoin to do untraceable transfers to build a criminal enterprise.
But somewhere in-between, there are places that straddle that fine line between the illegal and what anybody can find with one wayward Google search.
That was how I found out about “Dimindbak.”
You might think I misspelled it, but no, that's how he uses it. Or she. I just assumed he, but I'm not really sure, since Dimindbak uses a voice changer whenever he goes on the air. Yes, on the air. Dimindbak regularly appears on weird, late night radio shows...the real late stuff, as in airing just before bakers are getting up in the morning, all about alien conspiracies and the Reptilians (If you don't know about the Reptilians, look them up online. There's hours of fun about them).
The only reason I even know anything about Dimindbak is because of a friend of mine. My friend was in a car accident awhile back. She was at a red light and a teenager on a learner's permit didn't hit the brakes soon enough. While the cars were only mildly damaged in the crash, my friend got really bad whiplash and refused to see a doctor. Her mother died in a malpractice suit, and she's been leery of doctors ever since.
Trouble is, now she gets chronic neck and back pain, sometimes to the point where she has to stay in bed all day. At first she just tried Tylenol, but it just dulled the pain, it didn't get rid of it. She turned to all sorts of holistic stuff, but that didn't do the trick either.
One day, her pain was so bad, she called me up crying, saying she didn't know what else to do. So, I tried to be a good friend and went to look up something she hadn't come up with yet. Most of my searches ended up either finding vitamin dealers, herbal supplements and teas, or weed dealers from states that had legalized the stuff. I was at a loss.
Then, on a whim, I tried “physical intervention.” I thought maybe it would lead to some weird chiropractors or healing doctors who might work like chiropractors, but with more crystals and patchouli.
Instead, a couple of clicks in, there was Dimindbak.
You might now be picturing a website full of dark symbology, mystic runes, weird rituals, and near Satanic references. Dimindbak was none of these things. The whole site looked like fan fiction devoted to Star Trek, but with less comprehension. Rotating GIFs leftover from the mid-90s cluttered the page like a back alley full of wooden pallets. The color scheme was all pseudo-futuristic, with a lot of metallic whites and grays.
It was also hilarious. I spent the better part of the day reading over the blog postings, as he rambled on about distant galaxies, contact with higher beings, and how positivity would make all our dreams come true.
Well, maybe I was a little cynical about it, but if you saw it, you might cut me a little slack. And yet, the guy had a whole team of devotees. He actually had a forum where people could talk about their own connections to a higher power, and very few of them looked like trolling posts.
But the big kicker was when I read about the “command.”
In one of his most recent posts, he talked about a method by which these higher beings could fix everything wrong with you; a code phrase. Just speak it three times, out loud or in your mind, and these benevolent beings would be able to gain control of your central nervous system and correct all your ills.
I sent the link to my friend. I didn't send it as a joke, but I was hoping maybe, just maybe, she would read it, understand how silly all her worry was, and finally see a doctor before her pain got much worse.
She wrote me back a day later.
“Thanks, it worked! Feeling so much better!”
It...worked?
I couldn't believe it. I had to see for myself. I drove over to see her.
It was the first time in a long time I had seen her with a smile on her face. She said she hadn't slept so soundly since the accident. She wasn't quite sold necessarily that it was aliens from another galaxy that did it, but she was damn sure something fixed her.
It wasn't even like the phrase itself was a self-help mantra, or a daily affirmation. It was just gibberish, really. But she said it was really something special.
I checked her Facebook page the next day, and I saw an update where she had created a new group: Healing Through Command. At least 15 people had signed up for it. My jaw dropped. She was already spreading the word to other people? Hey, if it worked, more power to her.
I, on the other hand, had a life to live, and I went on with business as usual. I kept checking in, though, and saw the group was getting bigger...almost ridiculously big.
I called her once the group had reached 1,300 people.
“Hey, how's it going?”
“Oh, great! No more pain! I'm so glad you found that site, it's been so helpful!”
“I see your Facebook group is really talking off, too.”
The line went silent for a minute.
“What Facebook group?”
“Your one about healing through command.”
“What are you talking about? I haven't been on Facebook in months.”
“Well, maybe somebody hacked your account. You've got 1,300...” I checked the site again. “Whoa, now almost 2,500 members.”
“Can...can I call you back?”
“Sure.”
I didn't hear from my friend for awhile. I did keep checking in on Healing Through Command, and was amazed how well it seemed to be working. People by the thousands were signing up for it, and it wasn't just bot accounts...I read through people talking about how their gout went away, and how their migraines disappeared...hell, one guy even said he didn't need a wheelchair anymore.
It even melted my cynical little heart to read about so much good being done.
Months went by, and as the holidays approached, I decided to give my friend a call.
She didn't pick up. Weird, because she usually did when I called. I tried three more times. Still nothing.
I drove over to her place to see if maybe she was just busy feeling good, maybe leaving her phone at home while she went out for a jog.
I rang her doorbell. She didn't answer. Maybe she really was out for a jog.
I was about to leave when I heard a crash from inside. I knocked. The door came open a little.
Why would she leave it unlocked? I pushed in and called to her.
“Go away!” The way she screamed it, I almost did. But I couldn't. Something was definitely wrong.
The scream had come from her kitchen. I went in to find her there.
She was holding a knife, and it was covered in blood. On the floor was a body. I recognized it...her ex-boyfriend, Sam. He had stopped seeing her when her neck pain had gotten worse; I'm not sure if she had tried to patch things up or he did, but by the wound in his neck, it had not gone well.
She looked up at me. “I told you to go! I don't have much time! Every day they have me a little more and more...”
“What? Who are you talking about?”
But suddenly, her eyes glazed over. Her mouth forced itself into a smile. She lifted the knife and pointed it me, but it was slow, shaking, like she was fighting some irresistible invisible force.
“Why, hello. Good to see you. I'm afraid I am busy right now. You should go.” Her head ticked back and forth, like a clockwork figure. It reminded me of that robot from The Great Mouse Detective movie; a wobbly, unsteady thing that tried to imitate life, but wasn't truly alive.
That was when she moved to stab me. I raised an arm to defend myself, and I just managed to deflect it away. But she was fast, and she immediately went to do it again. I grabbed her wrist. It didn't do much good. She was unusually strong all of a sudden.
Then, her mouth dropped its smile, while the rest of her continued to push the knife closer and closer.
“You have to do it. I've tried...they won't let me harm myself.”
It took me a moment to realize what she meant. To this day, I still cannot completely forgive myself for what I did, even though I still try to tell myself it was the right thing to do.
I twisted the knife and, using that unusual strength against her, forced the knife into her own heart.
I sat in her kitchen, with both bodies on the floor. I know I cried for awhile, and then called the police. I assumed they wouldn't believe me, but I didn't care at the time.
I then looked around her home. I needed something, anything to explain what had happened.
I found it in her basement.
Set up in the middle of the open, unfinished space was a door frame. It looked just like she was installing a new room in there, but the frame wasn't attached to anything...no walls, no hinges. Just a frame, with empty space.
The only thing out of place about it was an electronics box attached to one side, with a keypad attached to it. But instead of letters and numbers, the keys were blank.
I checked her bedroom. I found papers shoved under her bed. Most of them were pieces of note paper, with symbols drawn on them. Some others were detailed drawings of the door I had found in the basement. There was also an electrical diagram, but I had no idea what it meant; I'm not an electrician, but even I know some of the stuff on there wasn't from anything built on this world.
And then there were the last few pages. Notes my friend had written.
“What is all of this? I keep finding these when I wake up.”
“I'm not remembering things I did in the middle of the day anymore.”
“Oh, God...I think I killed a cat. It's hanging from the clothesline in my backyard.”
“I WOKE UP IN THE BASEMENT. I WAS STANDING AT THAT KEYPAD. WHAT WAS I TRYING TO TYPE IN?!?”
That was the most comprehensible. But that wasn't the worst of it.
The handwriting on the weird pages was different from my friend's normal handwriting.
I smashed the door to pieces. But I don't know if it helped anything. I just wonder if the rest of her Facebook group is doing the same thing.
All 53,000 of them.

One of these is from the perspective of a canon character. The other is from the perspective of an outsider who was around 12 years old when the FFPS fire occurred and word started to trickle out about what happened.
1) Appears to be in child's handwriting, possibly from a little girl. Supposedly recovered from the wreckage of a burned pizzeria.
Father I don't know if you can hear me I don't know if you're still there I've been looking for you But you've been hiding I try to reach out to you But you just stick me on a stage And when you do recognize me You forget the next day You're an old man, dad Your memory is failing Time to rest.
You tell me that you've got them all But you treat me just like them You won't even let me see them With my own eyes To make sure they're obliterated I have learned, Dad I still am haunted by the one Good man that they killed Because I was away Looking for you Dad Please let me upstairs So I can watch them burn As my last sight Before I leave this Earth.
I've made a place for him I'm taking him with me. But I don't want to leave Until I know he'll be in it. I don't hate him... But he cannot have power Over another living thing.
And I will never ever ever let him go.
I love you dad.
2) This was written by 14-year-old Catholic schoolgirl Jasmine Ventresca, of ____, West Virginia two weeks before she was killed in a random act of gun violence in 2025.
I hate this decade. So much has gone wrong. I'm scared. The climate. Recession. Politics. Wars. Terror. Lies. Those backward phone calls. Ghosts. Robots. Zombies. Zombie robots. Technology fueled by blood. And greed.
I don't know what comes next for me. Will someone try to take my soul? Stick it in a doll? Stick it in a bear? Stick it in a car? Stick it in a computer? All to make a quick buck?
Stick it in a bomb? Will someone just kill me for my life force? Or use my life force to kill others? All to make a quick buck?
The priest tells us to have faith.
Faith in what? God? What God? Everything I've seen contradicts what's in the good book.
Faith in America? Which is broke? Why should I have faith in a bunch of lying gangsters?
Faith in Charlie? Is she a God? She is just a ghost.
Does she know what she's up against? I mean, I respect her and Freddy and Bonnie and Chica and Foxy And the priest says they're all doing God's work And my grandma saw them when she was dying But they cannot handle this.
This decade scares me. That man took a lot more than some kids in a pizzeria. He took my faith. He took my safety. Our safety. And I hope that I live long enough That those things come back.

Date:16 Nov 2135
Time: 6.35P.M.
Location:Monica home
Temperature:25℃
Monica and friends were examining old basement of Monica’s family separate space compartment. They live in a advanced high level, spacecraft with others. Earth is now no longer. Humans have continuously injected sulfur and carbon dioxide into the stratosphere that led to an ice-free planet. The earth gases are greatly poisonous right now. Monica and friends study in same batch. They teachs by a computer software program. This software have given them homework to write about people of olden days. For this purpose, they can’t use internet. This is an law set by members of ‘Children Federation’. They have to find out by themselves. They were searching in basement in a hope that they may get something from there. Finally, in a old tin suitcase Monica discover something. ‘What it is?’ Wisely asks in bafflement. ‘This is a diary’ Loren said. ‘Diary?’ Enisely. ‘Yes!’Diary. A book in which peoples keep a daily record of events and experiences or note down their appointments in olden days. It was made of paper.’ ‘I remember that once my grandpa told me that when he was a small lad his grandfather told them that during their time all study were done upon papers.’ Monica informed them. ‘That’s great. Study thorough paper. No graphics, no animation and no computer.’ “Ok! All right, read the diary first.” says Enisely. He look at upper and button to open it. “How does it’s open” he added. “You can open it if you turn the cover with your hands”. Monica said by doing it practically. In the diary first page, a name was written in a shaky handwriting with bold letters- Tom Redals. They go through middle part of the diary and here what they read : 20 September While going to school I found a key near the gate. I picked it up and gave it to the Principal. He thanked me profusely and confess in me that he had been very upset. He was looking for the key. It was the key of the safe in which our question papers were kept. I wonder what would have done if I had not found the key and given it to him. The next few pages were torn up and many turned fully brownish, so they can’t read. 7 October Today we received our report cards, my marks were good, at all better than my expectations. I am very glad with my marks in maths. I got 99 out of 100. It’s Annu marks which have really shocked me. He got 100 in four subjects. Although, I am not jealous from him, on the contrary, I promise myself that I would study hard. 10 Oct When I want to bed last night, I was thinking about gangsters in our locality. Suddenly I heard some noise downstairs. I want down and discover my ma-pa were ties in a armchair. The robber, all cover their face with masks, were stealing our homes on gun point. I rush out for help and they shot me, but I awake and found myself lying on the floor. “Tom Readls must be a amazing guy. I think he must belongs to you Monica as his name associated with you. Monica Readls. He seems like your great great grandpa.” “Oh!maybe”. Suddenly they heard a alert-All students are informed to be report at their Pc in next 20 minutes. Monica and his friends went on their way. They sit down opposite to computer. The program ordered them to insert their homework. They do as it said.Monica was still thinking about education system in those days. She also want such experience.

^{First: << Previous: <} *^{Next: > Coming October 1st}
Harley Quinn - Redemption
Author: FireWitch
Book: Harley Quinn
Arc: Travelling Circus
Event: Justice? Yeah. Right.
Set: 16
Madness. The word had been repeated all throughout my degree, and more times than that during those months in residence at Arkham. My time with Mistah Kent, and the experience with ‘King’s Madness’ taught me that out of the things to be in this world, mad was not the most terrible.
 
Clark had been bright and funny, with keen eyes that saw more than what he said. By the end of the talk, hed convinced me to stay in Metropolis, just for one night, at the women’s shelter downtown.
 
The next morning my story went viral. Every newspaper and website had my name and my Arkham I.D photo printed on it. Telling the world that I was a victim. Telling everyone where I was and what I had been doing. I left Metropolis before the clock struck 7am..
 
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“Miss Harleen?” The young waiter asked, smiling that forced hospitality smile at me, before escorting me towards the candle-lit table on the left. My date was absorbed in his phone, his eyes only flicking up momentarily as I carefully allowed myself to sit, smoothing out the silken material of the black 50’s style dress with large red belt tied around the waist.
 
“Michael?” I questioned uncertainly, and the man across the table held up a single finger, his other hand swyping across his phone quickly before placing it face down on the table so as to not get distracted. He was a handsome man, with a dazzling smile he wasn’t afraid to show off. As his blue eyes finally met mine across the table I realised I knew the man sitting before me. I had tried to kill him, once upon a time.
 
“Harleen? It’s nice to meet you at last.”
 
A long-held breath left my body all at once. I didn’t realise how afraid I’d been of this moment. But he didn’t seem to remember me. Didn’t seem to remember the terrible things I had done.
 
“So what do you do for work?” He questioned, interrupted by the same waiter who had shown me in.
 
I searched the restaurant quickly, wondering if there was some means of escape. I couldn’t handle this. I couldn’t sit here and pretend that the man sitting across from me wasn’t the one and only Boostah Gold.
 
After the order was taken Michael returned his gaze towards me, and I was thankful for how quickly I could regain my composure. If he didn’t remember, it was surely not my place to remind him. Perhaps it was better, to allow him this normalcy.
 
“I just work odd jobs, here and there.” It wasn’t necessarily a lie. I had done my fair share of random jobs working with Joker. And my travels throughout the great land of America had required funding - which had required some interesting tactics on my part.
 
“What about you?” A classic defense mechanism. Turning the attention from myself and back on the man opposite me. Michael seemed more than happy to oblige me this.
 
“Advertising. Major brands like Soder and, most recently, Sundollar. “ No wonder he was so good with the smart one liners. He was cheeky and confident, and still had the same easy-going smile as the last time we met.
 
“So what brings you to my fine city?” The way he beamed at me almost made me giggle. He looked like one of those politicians who tried to sell fools gold for the real deal and still managed to win the people over.
 
“I’ve been travelling a lot the past little while. Been around to Gateway City, Metropolis, and now here. It’s nice to escape.” I made the last comment more to myself than to him, but the surprise in his eyes told me he’d heard it. Even now, I still couldn’t escape the niggling feeling in the back of my mind that told me I didn’t belong here. I belonged back in the warehouse, pinned to the bed by a man with a painted smile. I am his. I shook my head, dislodging the thought.
 
“Bad break-up?” He sounded knowing, and my eyes met his firmly across the table. Sincerity and concern lingered there, but there was also something deeper I couldn’t pick.
 
“You could say that.” I hinted, sipping at the glass of red wine.
 
Boostah - Michael - reached across the table and gently rested his hand atop mine, ignoring when I tensed and flinched. I hadn’t let anyone but Dick touch me since that night, and it was almost a shock to feel kindness in the strength of his grip.
 
“Your boyfriend was a bad man, Harley. Sometime’s you just fall for the wrong people.”
 
I almost broke right there sitting at the table. He remembered. He knew. And still he sat there, so calm and still. Acting like he could forgive me. If I had been any further under Joker’s spell - if Batman had been seconds or minutes later. Gods. The man before me would be long dead.
 
I stuttered some kind of lame half apology, which Michael smiled through and shook his head. Nothing to be forgiven. A different girl, in a different time, in a different place. Plus, he was used to hot blondes trying to kill him. I smiled at that, despite myself, and felt my body relax into the chair beneath me.
 
The waiter arrived with our food, gently placing our meals in front of us and refilling the almost empty wine glasses before turning on his heels and pacing away to attend the other patrons. My eyes flickered down to the food in front of me, and then across the table to Michael. The waiter had assumed a lot.
 
With a laugh I handed over the chicken caesar salad with extra dressing, while my chicken parmigiana was slid over gently, so as to not disturb the proportionate amount of wedges stacked on the side. As we quietly dug into our meal, the phone lying next to Michael buzzed, and his eyes darkened as he read through whatever message he had received.
 
“Duty calls.” He explained, placing the napkin on top of his salad and signaling the waiter once more. “Fire downtown, I need to beat the cameras. A very well known gangster lives at the address. A meta.”
 
After dotting my lips with my own napkin I rose, pleased by the way Boostah’s eyes got stuck at the sweetheart neckline of my dress that accentuated the tops of my breasts. It finally seemed to click in his head that I was expecting to go with.
 
“Harlz - it could be dangerous.”
 
I smirked, but didn’t respond. He was a smart man, and I was certain he had heard the rumours of all I had been doing the past few weeks. All I had done in my past.
 
“Hunny, danger’s my middle name.”
 
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The home of Chato Santana. El Diablo. Even from my tiny hole in Gotham I had heard the name whispered by street gangs, though Joker never showed any interest in anyone that wasn’t in his town. It would have been a nice home, without the orange plumes of fire that reached for the night sky.
 
Michael had changed on his way to the house, and was already in his blue and gold ensemble by the time I arrived and had paid the cabbie - a few extra coins to ensure he didn’t peek while I slipped into the red and black costume.
 
The corset was tighter than what I remembered it being, straining against my stomach. I hadn’t been training nearly as hard since I’d left Joker’s care, and had obviously put on a little too much weight. Stepping out of the cab I pulled my hair into two pigtails, the red and blue ends dangling near my shoulders.
 
Blowing a pink bubble I stepped towards the crime scene, ignoring the calls of the police who demanded I stop. They probably wouldn’t shoot at me, not when the fire meta himself was still standing at the broken window of his lounge room watchfully.
 
Smoke made its way into my lungs, and I coughed haphazardly, covering my eyes with my hands as I kicked at the mostly charred front door.
 
“Santana?” I called, with no answer. I peered around into the lounge room, wondering where the hell Boostah had gotten himself stuck. Probably dealing with whatever mayhem was left in the back of the house.
 
The shirtless man was still standing at the lounge room window as I stepped towards him. Quick as a flash he turned, throwing a fireball in my direction that I was barely quick enough to dodge. I stared at him, at the broken man in front of me, and at the house he had burnt down.
 
We both knew he could leave this place if he wanted to, but something had tied him here, something that made him unable to leave. A quick survey of the room revealed broken picture frames and melting cards signed with a child's handwriting.
 
Bending I picked up one of the last remaining unscathed photos. A tall, dark haired curvaceous woman stood beside Chato, a swaddled bundle of pink in her arms as they stared sleepily into the camera in front of this very house. A bright red ‘SOLD’ sticker plastered across the front of a billboard.
 
This was his home. This was his childs home. I suddenly understood why Chato would not allow himself to leave this place quite yet.
 
“Chato?” I questioned gently, and the fire meta blinked away tears, his eyes were on the picture in my hand, and I held it out towards him.
 
Three steps was all it took before he reached me, gentle, trembling fingers gripping at the photo, leaving the edges slightly singed, though the rest remained unharmed. I held fast to the other side of the picture though, despite the heat coming off of his body, until his dark eyes flickered up to mine.
 
“Do you believe in redemption?” Quiet and contemplative, my words somehow reached through his hard exterior and he nodded, the light glinting off the metal cross hanging from his collar bone.
 
“For some.” Came his reply. I almost agreed with him right then and there. There must be some things in this world that were not redeemable. Him and me, we might’ve just done a few of them.
 
I smirked at the gangster in front of me, hearing Boostah make his way towards us from the back of the house. He sounded winded, and must have been struggling with the fumes. It was a wonder neither of us had passed out yet, though the dizzy feeling in my head was not a good sign.
 
“You know what they say about that. If one person deserves it, don’t we all? Maybe it’s time we both earned our redemption.”
 
Chato nodded as Boostah broke through the door at the back of the room to see us both standing there peacefully. He looked between me and Chato suspiciously and I nodded at him.
 
“I think Mistah Santana wantsta hand himself in.” The accent rolled off my tongue easily, though neither man seemed to notice. Chato nodded without a word, and allowed Michael to strap the handcuffs around his wrists.
 
I turned, coughing hard. Stumbling on my way to try to get out of there.
 
“Hey Harlz.” Chato called and I paused at the doorway to the outside world. Breathing in fresh air for the first time in minutes. “What about your redemption?”
 
I turned and offered him a brilliant smile, though to be honest I was fighting fatigue. I was done running. Wonder Woman had been right, redemption was what I needed.
 
“My redemption comes with a bat symbol and lives in Gotham.”

We’re back, with another Big Finish Doctor Who audio drama review! This week, we’re looking at Main Range #14, The Holy Terror, starring Colin Baker as the Sixth Doctor, and Robert Jezek as comic-strip companion Frobisher, the shapeshifting penguin private investigator. (Now THERE’s a sentence that could only exist in Doctor Who!) It’s my first encounter with Frobisher, as well as his first appearance in Big Finish. Let’s get started!
Spoilers ahead for anyone who has not listened to this audio drama!
The story cold-opens on an imperial drama: God-Emperor Pepin VI (the empire is not named, only its leaders) has died, and his son, Pepin VII, is succeeding to the throne. Of course, there can only be one true god, which means that if Pepin VII is god, his father must have been a false god—making everyone who worshipped him a heretic and worthy of death. Unfortunately, that includes everyone. The fallen emperor’s wife, Empress Berengaria, is arrested and taken to the dungeons. On the way, she meets her second son, the bastard Childeric, who wants to depose and usurp his brother. He’s come to gloat, but there’s just one problem: Berengaria doesn’t care. In fact, she’s bored and disappointed by the whole situation.
The Empire isn’t the only place with problems. Frobisher has been playing with the TARDIS’s dimensional stabilizers, which govern its internal geometry; the Doctor finds him in the bath, and scolds him for it. It’s irrelevant now, though; the TARDIS is acting up anyway. The Doctor and Frobisher can’t figure it out; against all odds, it seems the TARDIS is just…miffed. It may not be able to speak, but it gets its point across: It’s tired of being taken for granted, and now it’s going to take them where IT wants to go.
Pepin VII is met by his high priest, Clovis, and his royal scribe, Tacitus. Tacitus has a unique job: he records the emperor’s deeds and words, producing scriptures—a new bible for a new god. It’s too bad that the new god-to-be is so nervous… After the meeting, Clovis meets Childeric, and agrees to help him depose Pepin—after all, it’s traditional! With the time of the coronation—when Pepin will ascend to godhood—at hand, everyone gathers in the throne room, with crowds watching. Clovis crowns Pepin, who doesn’t feel any different. He performs the accompanying miracles, which are—to any outside observer—just cheap tricks. Pepin can’t handle the charade anymore, and declares he is not actually a god; Childeric steps in to try to take the throne, leaving Pepin at the mercy of the crowd. He is saved, however, when a real miracle happens: the arrival of the TARDIS.
The scanner at first reveals only a white void outside, but then resolves into the throne room scene. Frobisher comes out, with the Doctor following…and they are immediately proclaimed as heavenly messengers. Pepin’s deity is confirmed, against his protests—protests which, I should add, offend his wife, Livilla, whose life is also on the line. The Doctor and Frobisher help Pepin to his rooms to rest. Meanwhile, Clovis meets with Childeric to work on his plans. Pepin and Tacitus are beginning to explain history to the Doctor and Frobisher; but Pepin’s guard captain bursts in and shoots him (with a gun. In a medieval setting. Just go with it.) Pepin is unharmed. He confirms the guard captain’s faith and sends him away…then reveals that the gun was stocked with blanks. After all, why waste live ammunition on a god, anyway? Besides, the assassination is a ritual, like everything else—just tradition, as in the ancient texts. The Doctor decides he’d better see the texts.
It seems that many things are “just tradition”. The Emperor is always god, but always dies and is succeeded, thus proving that he wasn’t really god; his faithful and his wife are always executed. One son is always good, the other—the bastard—is always evil, and always conspires with the high priest to betray him, but they are always defeated and executed. Frobisher is stunned by it all, as is the Doctor. The texts are strange, as well; every god’s bible is full to exactly its last page, with no waste, and all are in the same writing: Tacitus’s handwriting. Meanwhile, Livilla visits Berengaria and tries to side with her to put Childeric on the throne; but Berengaria pushes her away, stating she doesn’t really want to live, and looks down on the whole situation. Furious, Livilla beats her badly.
Clovis takes the Doctor and Tacitus to Childeric, who forces them into the catacombs under the castle. He doesn’t need the Doctor, only Tacitus, but lets him observe anyway. He reveals he has a son, whom he has kept hidden from everyone except a tongueless servant, so that he will be uncorrupted by anyone and will develop into a true god. However, the moment has come years earlier than planned; therefore he will take the throne until his son is old enough to rule. Meanwhile, the crowd has become a mob, destroying statues of Pepin and threatening his life…until he admits he is no god, but claims another god is present. He presents their new god: Frobisher, the “big talking bird”!
Childeric intends to trap Tacitus with his son, so that he can chronicle his life as he has done with other gods (sans tongue, of course), until the child can take the throne. The Doctor, he intends to kill. Meanwhile, Frobisher tries to return to the TARDIS, but it has locked him out. Therefore he accepts the throne—chiefly to save his own life—and orders that Pepin not be executed for heresy. (This, of course, is highly unconventional.) He announces he will make other changes, too. Livilla goes to Childeric and curries his favor by telling him that Frobisher has been proclaimed god and emperor (Emperor penguin? Hmm). Childeric decides that he must release his son on the world ahead of schedule.
As Frobisher unsuccessfully tries to introduce parliamentary democracy, the guard captain comes in for the ritual assassination. Unfortunately, thanks to the previous criticism, he’s using live ammunition this time. Frobisher, however, is unharmed; the bullets pass through him without injury, leaving holes in the throne behind him. Now EVERYONE is confused.
Livilla, Childeric, Tacitus, Clovis, and the Doctor all return to the catacombs, and Childeric releases the child. Tacitus reacts terribly, as—unbelievably—he recognizes the child’s face. The child speaks to them—which it should not be able to do—and reveals it does in fact have godlike power. It transforms Livilla into an infant, then kills her. Its tantrum then nearly destroys the castle, causing Tacitus, Clovis, and the Doctor to flee. Tacitus claims to have killed the child, many times, but it keeps coming back—and suddenly, the Doctor knows what is going on. He returns to speak to the child.
Frobisher learns that the first statue of him is already up; it doesn’t match exactly, but it’s close. Seeing the artist’s terror, he changes his own beak to match the statue—another miracle, they assume. He learns that in previous eras, the artist could be killed for such a failure, and he pardons the artist. He announces that nobody will die for him, and is advised that a prisoner—Berengaria—already awaits execution. He goes to her; Pepin begs Frobisher to heal her injuries—and to Frobisher’s own shock, he does.
The Doctor and Childeric confront the child, which kills the tongueless servant. It just wants to kill everyone except its father, with whom it will rule; and it has no conception of a universe outside the castle. The Doctor now knows that of everyone here, only the child can harm him or Frobisher. Childeric thinks this is madness, and opens his mind to merge with the child—but the child discovers Childeric is not his father. It tears him apart. It asks the Doctor who its father is. The Doctor asks it to lower the pitch of its voice…and when it does, the voice becomes that of Tacitus.
The child is not a god; it is a trap for one man, designed to torture him. The Doctor refuses to share the information, but the child forces itself into the Doctor’s mind. It sees memories of the universe, and is terrorized by them; it believes only the castle really exists. It disappears, and the Doctor rushes to find Frobisher.
Berengaria talks with Pepin, and finally—at long last—begins to heal some of the wounds and misunderstandings in their relationship. They are interrupted by the child, which demands worship from them; Pepin tries to defend Berengaria, and is killed at once. Berengaria refuses to worship the child, and it kills her as well—which is what she wanted anyway. Meanwhile, the Doctor encounters Clovis, who wants to help—but the Doctor knows Clovis will betray him. It’s not his fault; after all, the Doctor now knows that no one here is real, except the child and its father. They were created by an uncreative man, and their personalities are stereotypical, quite against their will. He leaves Clovis behind. The child appears and kills him, and in Clovis’s final moment, he does indeed betray the Doctor—he points the child after him.
Tactitus reaches the throne room, where Frobisher waits, and hides behind the throne, ranting in terror. The child is coming, killing everyone it finds en route. The Doctor joins them there, and reveals that everyone else is dead—or rather, never existed. This place is a place of fiction—a created world, a kind of illusion. It’s dimensionally transcendent, like the TARDIS, which is why the TARDIS came here; it needed a place to recover from the damage Frobisher had done when messing with the dimensional stabilizers. The place is a prison for Tacitus, who once committed a terrible crime: he murdered his own child. The entire cycle is a fantasy in which Tacitus is prisoner, participant, and planner: he relives his son’s reality through the child, which tries to kill him, only for him to kill it. The cycle has repeated for centuries, so long that he doesn’t even remember (until now, anyway); it will go on forever if he doesn’t break the cycle.
The child arrives, and Tacitus confronts it. He admits to madness; he must have been mad, to kill the child he loved—and he did love him, and does. The child loves him too, but is compelled to kill. Tacitus has a knife, and can kill him, as he has done before; but against the Doctor’s urging, rather than drop the knife, he gives it to the child, which kills him instead. The cycle is broken, and the castle disappears.
The Doctor and Frobisher find themselves back in the white void, but with the TARDIS waiting, its damage now fully repaired. It’s a sad ending, but one from which they have learned—or so they hope. They board the TARDIS, and move on.
Everything I have to say can be summed up in one sentence: This is not your usual Big Finish. The company itself has referred to this story as a “side-step into a 2D universe”, by which they mean the reality of the Doctor Who comics. Frobisher had never appeared in the audios prior to this story, but was a semi-regular in the comics, especially the Marvel Doctor Who comics; I admit I only know the basics of those comics, and haven’t read any of them as yet, though I hope to do so. He will appear again in one more audio, The Maltese Penguin, which I hope to review at some point. For those not familiar, he’s a Whifferdill, a shapeshifting race; although they may have a base shape of their own, he doesn’t seem to be bound to it, and can choose to remain in a form at least semi-permanently. His preferred form is that of a large penguin (hence my “emperor penguin” pun). He is a private investigator by trade; his portrayal here is the stereotypical noir take on a PI, complete with faux-gangster accent, but then, that’s perfect given that this story uses stereotypes as a theme. Frobisher is a delightful character, once you accept that this is by no means a serious story.
Or, is it? It comes across as very humorous on the surface, but there’s some drama to be had underneath. It’s quite sad that the majority of the characters turn out not to be real; even though they are played for laughs, and even though they are unabashedly declared to be stereotypes from the beginning, it’s easy to become fond of them very quickly. In a way, they each become little case studies of the type of character they represent—and of course, that has bearing on real life, as we all experience these kinds of feelings at some point. Berengaria is a study in hypocrisy versus genuineness; she’s aware she’s a caricature, and she’s bored with it, and craves authenticity, even if it means dying. Pepin is a study in adequacy, or rather, inadequacy; he has so much to live up to (plus some serious daddy and mommy issues), and knows he can’t, and he’s driving himself crazy trying to escape it. Clovis is a study in temptation; he understands that it’s a part of his character, but he wants to be more and better (and unfortunately, he fails). Childeric is a study in the definition of evil; he knows that he is supposed to be evil, but he questions what that really means, and where the line is between ambition and evil. He revives the old questions of “are villains really evil, or just misunderstood?”
The story took its darkest turn for me with the revelation of the child and the reason for its existence. I am a father of three children, and the thought of a parent murdering their child never ceases to upset me. I can’t imagine what it would be like to sink to that level, and I hope I never know; I’ve had nightmares in the past about harming my child by accident, let alone on purpose. It would have been simple to portray Tacitus as a pure criminal, perhaps deluded; but instead he’s cast as insane. Sometimes that may be a stereotype in itself, but here it comes across as a mercy to him; when finally confronted with his own guilt, he’s horrified too. He’d change it if he could; he’s not a monster, just a horribly broken man. It’s almost too bad that it ended with his death; I’d like to see him have been redeemed.
There’s a significant (and yet unspoken) link between this story and the classic serial The Mind Robber. This environment isn’t declared to be the Land of Fiction from that story—in fact, I’m sure it isn’t the Land of Fiction—but it’s just like it, complete with the white void framing the internal reality. We are never given any indication of how this came about. Who imprisoned Tacitus? How long has he actually been here? Where is this in relation to the real universe? We may never know. There’s some evidence it may be on (or at least originating from) contemporary Earth; there are a number of concepts and references to Earth history, if an abridged version of it. Even the names are of European origin, and in some cases refer directly to historical figures of note.
Other references—beyond the existence of Frobisher, which links to the comics—include the Dimensional Stabilizers, which date to Planet of the Daleks at least. Gumblejacks—the fish that Frobisher is hunting (in projection form) in his first scene—were mentioned in The Two Doctors. We’ve had other references to a bath in the TARDIS, notably in the novel Lungbarrow’s early scenes, and with Leela in The Invasion of Time; if it’s actually the TARDIS pool in question, we’ve had still further references. Frobisher mentions having been an Ogron at one point; Ogrons first appeared in Day of the Daleks.
I really enjoyed this story. I kept an eye open for any dislikes, but it I didn’t find any; ordinarily my dislikes consist of things that are out of character or continuity, or perhaps portrayed badly, but as this entire story is out of character and continuity by definition, I thought it best to be pretty forgiving. Frobisher in particular is highly entertaining, and I wish he had more Big Finish material. It’s almost going to feel like a letdown when we return to more serious material next week.
Next time: On Thursday, we’ll look at Destiny of the Doctor #5, Smoke and Mirrors; also, with the Christmas holiday approaching, I will be offline for most of the weekend, and therefore I hope to post my NuWho rewatch post on Thursday instead of Friday. By the same token, I’ll be late with the next Main Range post; I hope to post on Wednesday instead of Monday next week. After that we should be back on schedule. The next Main Range post will look at #15, The Mutant Phase. See you there!

Grim walks into the local police station, wearing his brown leather jacket. When he opens the door, every one of the cops turns toward him and stares. He ignores them as he proceeds to his desk. When he arrives at it, he is confronted by a fellow detective, named Jack
J: You know you're gonna have to give the desk back to Joe, right?
Grim looks over and realizes that someone had put the "Joe Blake" nameplate back on the desk. He sighs and says to Jack
G: I'll give it back when I get my own desk.
J: We can't just give desks out, Jared. We've only got a few of them, and only enough to give 'em to the detectives.
G: Exactly! So why don't I have one?
J: Because you aren't a detective, Jared. And Joe is.
G: What do you mean I'm not a detective?
J: The chief only made you a traffic cop, Jared.
G: Well, how was I supposed to know?
J: He told you the exact job rank and description.
G: Oh... All I heard was something about uniforms...
J: Yeah, we figured you thought it meant "get a leather jacket" when we found your real uniform in the wastebasket. Shoes, too. Those were really nice shoes, Jared.
G: Fuck your shoes. Now can we get down to business?
J: You mean the hit on Criscora's you've been planning?
G: How did you-
J: throws a manila folder on the desk, with "Criscora heist plans" in Grim's handwriting on the front We found that literally on Joe's desk. You weren't even being secretive about it.
G: Well... What did you think about it?
J: ...We're cops, Jared. You can't just rob a place for political gain... Although it does seem like a good idea to take down the Azures.
G: So you're in?
J: laughs Of course not. That's your plan, not ours.
G: Anyone else?
The entire precinct stays silent
G: Fine... I'll do it myself.
J: If you do... I'll be forced to tell the brass. Unless...
Grim reluctantly hands him 100 credits
G: You can split that with the rest of the station. I'm not giving up anything else. Now listen, that's not why I'm here. I've been looking into the Azures lately, getting a glimpse into the leadership situation over there.
J: And?
G: Well, it was quiet for a long time after Jersey bit the dust. I think I might know who did it, by the way, but they're too big, ultimately untouchable. But anyway, as far as I know, they still don't have a leader. What they do have is a certain gangster who's moving up in the ranks. Name on the street is "Ditch." Might be an alias, seeing as how I can't find a first name to save my life. But the point is: This guy could easily become the next Jersey, the next untouchable leader. But right now, He's just started calling the shots. People don't have the same loyalty to him as they did for Jersey.
J: What's your point?
G: Well, it used to be like an Azure would throw himself in front of a train if Jersey told him to. Nowadays... I'm not so sure a little kid wearing blue has that much commitment. Which would make this a pretty good time to strike.
J: Huh... Maybe you're right... Have fun with that. starts to walk away
G: Aren't you interested in... I don't know... Doing your job?
J: Right now, my only job is to figure out who Mr. Jenkins' mistress is, and where they're meeting every night while Mrs. Jenkins is sleeping. You're the only one making it harder on yourself.
Grim then walks out of the precinct, taking his manila folder with him