Geoff OBrien

Michael, Your thoughts are always welcome. Thank you. With all due respect, however, I have self-published four novels and (basically)drafted four others. Notwithstanding valid and thoughtful criticism, any 'buzzkill' you provide shrinks to insignifcance compared to an undiscovered and/or apathetic readership.

Michael, Thanks for taking the time and effort, not only to read, but to comment so comprehensively. I do appreciate both those things and your encouragement. After considering your feedback, I’ve added some brief reminder notes to the story’s file. Posting the odd short story to OL has proven to be an interesting experiment so far.

(approx. 3,000 words) {Recruitment} The Suit held out his hand to Sam. “Want it?” Further down the street, André sat on pockmarked bitumen, huddled in his ragged jacket. He watching them from his particular murky spot of Penthouse Street – ironically named, André had been informed, because it offered some of the best spots for this part of the city, and because it’s street signs were stolen by bored kids years ago. By this time of night, chill winds raced through the street like illegal hot rods, scattering the street’s ‘residents’ to the warmer shadows beside or between run-down and condemned buildings. André’s spot was provided by a concrete and bitumen niche, in between an apathetic corner store past it’s retirement age and a smarmy burger joint with a gunshot-riddled window. The odours wafting from the latter’s bins curdled or aroused André’s stomach, depending on whether he’d eaten for the past day or not. Safely draped in shadow, André spied on The Suit peddling his crap to Sam, André’s brother up the street. The Suit was a hard young man, or a soft older man, who was actually wearing a sweat-stained sleeveless shirt, basketball shorts and joggers. Nevertheless, he acted liked like a suit, same as the other suits and skirts who walked to and from the train station down the street on weekdays. In the middle of a frigid night on Penthouse Street, however, this particular Suit had briefly stopped for a breather from jogging. Yeah, right. If The Suit was out jogging, then André was selling gym memberships – maybe André could offload one to this guy and earn himself a pre-trash meal for once. What was The Suit doing here? Working over the temporary-cum-permanent residents of this bitumen and concrete cave? Trying to blend in? He’d have pulled that off better with a red nose, clown makeup and floppy shoes. André had made him half an hour before he’d jogged around the far corner and down the street. The Suit’s attitude and the way he carried himself was all wrong. People around here, they… meandered, shuffled, lacked purpose. Even standing still, The Suit came across as hurrying, as though late for an appointment with his banker or mistress. Above him and Sam, a busted street light randomly flickered on, intruding like a bored beat cop. Laying in The Suit’s hand was a shiny electronic device – a phone, maybe. It’s smooth screen reflected the street light overhead until that light snuffed, though not before André saw The Suit suddenly take back his offering, pulling it away from Sam’s outstretched hand. What the hell sort of mean trick was that? Was The Suit giving the thing away or not? Not, apparently, because The Suit said something then abruptly walked away, still holding his offering. Scanning the street up and down, he paused, then changed course, crossing the street, angling toward André. Mounting the kerb, The Suit squinted, spotted André, then approached. He held out his hand. “Want it?” The open hand – yes, it was a phone – was level with André’s face. “What’s the catch?” André asked. The grim arrangement of The Suit’s lips were too flat to be called a smile. “Good answer.” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “This is yours.” Unbidden, The Suit crouched to place the phone on André’s thigh, startling him, whose first instinct was of being groped. The too-smooth object immediately slid down one side of André’s thigh. He snatched at it by reflex, trapping it against his leg. What was The Suit’s game? A sting? Or was he a gangster, hoping to set up André as a mule or fall guy? André inclined his head at Sam, who was watching. “Why give this to me and not him?” “You had the audacity to question. He did not. Not only had he expected his fortune, as if already promised, he acted annoyed because I’d been late in delivering it.” What a humanitarian. André let the phone drop. It clattered on the bitumen. “Maybe I’ll give it to him anyway,” he said, hoping to provoke the asshole. “If you wish.” The Suit didn’t move off his haunches. The dismissal startled André. “You don’t care?” “I did say that the phone was yours. Do you expect me to dictate what you should do with your jacket?” The Suit pasted on a polite smile. “That said, may I make a suggestion?” André swallowed the temptation of his own sarcastic suggestion to the man, whose unwavering eyes revealed little. “It’s a free country.” The Suit’s flattened lips parted and widened to resemble a genuine smile. “You may well discover the truth about that firsthand.” “What is that–” “I wouldn’t sell or give that away, if I were you.” {Offer} “Why not?” “It’s a modified knockoff. It can take pictures, make calls and send texts only to specific numbers, and can do little else of consequence.” Curious despite himself, André picked up the phone to examine it. It didn’t look as useless as it sounded. This time, André couldn’t resist sarcasm. “So I can’t use it to while away my lonely evenings watching porn?” The Suit’s smile faded. “It can’t even access a web site, let alone… that.” “You didn’t put any data on it?” “It can’t use data, not as you’re thinking of it. Don’t waste your time or money trying.” Something in André’s mind prompted him to set the phone down. This encounter was progressing from weird to alarming. What was Sam doing? Still watching them? Good. André was beginning to wonder if he’d need a witness. Or help. Whatever The Suit’s game was, André was becoming less inclined to play. André was only recently homeless, after being fired from his probationary customer service job. His ex had taken this badly, cleaning out their jointly owned bank and credit card accounts, then kicking him to the kerb. He’d resisted, arguing about waiting until he’d found another place – a temporary place at least – to stay. Her new boyfriend and his brother had persuaded otherwise. Even so, André was lucky compared to most of this street’s denizens. He wasn’t chasing butterflies like Sam or strung out like that twitchy guy down the street. André had managed to sweet talk one of the cute job centre girls the next block over, convincing her that he could push a broom and lift boxes. Once he was lucky enough for someone to reach down and drag him closer to the ladder, he could hang on to the bottom rung by himself for awhile until he was ready to hitch himself up another rung or two. All he needed was half a chance. Such as someone giving him a free phone? André sighed. This was either a really good idea, or a really bad one. “You still haven’t mentioned the catch.” He reached for the phone. “Not a catch so much as an opportunity to earn a little cash.” André pulled back his hand. “Well, that’s a relief. Silly me, worrying that this might be illegal.” The Suit retrieved the phone instead. “I won’t insult you by pretending that there’s no risk involved.” He held it out again. “I’m essentially offering you the equivalent of a minimum-wage job, plus chances for more remuneration, depending on how reliable, enthusiastic and creative you are.” “You act like a gangster,” André mumbled, “but talk like a politician.” “‘But’? I resent that.” The Suit chuckled. “I’m an honest ‘gangster’, not a dishonest one.” Whose side gig was comedian, apparently. “Get to the point.” “Certainly.” The Suit tapped his thumb to the phone, causing it to flash on. “It’s easier to demonstrate, if I may…?” He extended the unlocked phone a bit closer to André. “Fine.” André accepted it. “Now what?” The Suit directed him to tap on the phone’s photo album icon. The next screen displayed a screen full of picture thumbnails. Many of them displayed scenic views of hills, snow-capped mountains, clouds, oceans. The rest of the thumbnails showed headshots of old, distinguished-looking white guys. Every picture, whether of scenery or white guys, also featured a few lines of text, not quite readable at thumbnail level. André glanced up in silent query. The Suit impatiently waved him on. André tapped on a random picture, one of the scenic ones. The text was a… quote? Huh. Interesting, though not very practical for André. He accessed another picture, one of the old guy ones this time. Another quote, same subject as the first. “What the hell?” Why should Andre – or anyone else in this street – care about that sort of stuff? “Is this a joke?” Maybe it was, some sort of prank. Keeping his head still, André’s eyes flicked around, half expecting to see another guy pointing a camera or another phone at him. “That’s your job, if you choose to accept it.” The Suit raised his hands. “I’m explaining, I’m explaining. First, find some means of producing readable printed copies of those pictures. I suggest a public library, but you may do so however you wish.” “What do I do with the printouts?” “Whatever you want, so long as it’s public. For example, you may wish to stick them up somewhere for other people to see. Once you’ve done that, or something similar, take a photo of what you’ve done using that,” he pointed at the phone. “Why?” “To get paid. Any photo you take with that will be automatically uploaded to a private computer network. Assuming the photo shows what I’m asking, you’ll receive a certain minimal amount of remuneration per photo taken.” André allowed himself a second to catch up. “Minimal?” “If you’d like more rewards, take more photos of more of those pictures, used in different contexts. “How many?” “As many as you want. For even more reward, try being a little… creative with your pictures. For example…?” He glanced about, trying to think. “Ah.” André began to look where The Suit was looking… … until The Suit reached behind his back. {Interview} A gun? André scuttled back on his ass, trying and failing to find his feet. The Suit held something flat and white – a folded piece of paper. No gun. André released his tension in a long, soft sigh. The Suit – unaware of the angst he’d created – unfolded the paper, revealing it to be a copy of one of the phone’s pictures. “Observe.” He stood and moved toward the grocery store – or rather, to the street light beside it – to paste the picture against the street light’s metal pole. This just happened to be only a few feet away from a community board nailed upon the grocery store wall. Tacked on the community board were several notices, including one about a bias hotline for hate crimes, and another appeal to ban a book about abortion. The printout must have had glue or double-sided tape on it. The Suit stepped aside, showing off his achievement like an artist with his newest painting. “Cute,” offered André. “And profitable. Take a photo.” André shrugged. No reason not to. He rose. “Make sure you include both my picture and community board beside it.” “Yeah, yeah.” André aimed the phone; played around with it some. “It’s done.” Probably. “Excellent.” The Suit sauntered back to check. “That’s good.” He directed André back to the home screen then pointed at another icons. “Tap on that.” “Okay.” Another app started loading. “This, my newest freedom fighting friend, is your crypto wallet.” The nickname didn’t comfort André. What was a crypto wallet? Some sort of electronic or phone version of a physical wallet seemed to be a safe guess. “And?” “See all the zeroes?” The Suit folded his arms, self-satisfied. “Watch.” They both watched the phone’s screen, in fact – André doing so in a way that allowed him to keep an eye on the Suit, who was acting more jolly all of a sudden. Was he high? If the man sidled any further in to André’s personal space, he was going to get his precious modified phone returned to him more uncomfortably then he’d expect. Something flickered on the screen, drawing André’s eyes back to it. The last few numbers had changed. Still mostly zeroes though. A feeling of disappointment surprised André, inadvertantly caught up in The Suit’s enthusiasm. “That’s all?” The Suit seemed to be expecting a more favourable reaction. “That’s your payment, yes.” “This? This is, what, two ten-thousands or whatever of one cent?” “A small fraction of a bitcoin,” The Suit corrected. Bitcoin? André had heard of that, though he didn’t know too much about it. “So?” “Think of it like a different currency. Tap there. See?” Another number, preceeded by the more familiar dollar sign, appeared beneath the first number. “Five dollars thirty-six,” André read. “Indeed. At today’s exchange rate, five dollars equals that much bitcoin.” “Someone sends this… bitcoin,” André sought to confirm, “after I take pictures of those pictures.” “You got it, champ. Payment for proof of mischief.” “I can’t spend bitcoin.” “Actually, you can, also by using that phone. Some shops around accept bitcoin. Check around. If you can’t find such, other methods exist. Check the phone for more details. In any case, that’s how you earn your next meal. The more photographs you send of pictures that you’ve printed out and used, the better your life becomes.” “Until someone catches me in the act at this con.” The Suit offered a conspiratorial wink. “Pro tip: this job is easier if you avoid the authorities, well-meaning though misguided as they unfortunately are. That phone’s hardware and software is complicated and untraceable. If you’re caught, you’ll take the blame, not me or mine. That’s one of your conditions for accepting this phone, by the way. And, believe it or not, our little agreement isn’t intended as a con.” “Prove it.” {Fine Print} “You asked for it, friend. Sit down and pay attention, because here comes the fine print. Come on, sit. That’s it. Your office could do with some new furniture, if you don’t mind me saying. Anyway, if you violate one of these or get caught, chances are high that that phone gets remote-wiped, thus forever terminating this chance to not only improve your life, but perhaps everyone else’s as well, eventually.” He kept talking… and talking, dominating the conversation for the next little while. André felt like he was back in school while The Suit lectured his conditions for André’s ‘employment’. No defacing private property. Public property only. The Suit pointed at the picture he’d slapped on the street light pole, emphasised how he’d put it there instead of anywhere on the walls of the grocery store. “Though I’d pay you extra myself to see one of those stuck on the walls of some bureaucrat’s office or car,” he joked. No repeated pictures, or too many pictures taken in too confined an area. Devices in the phone and algorithms in the phone software could detect that. “If you stuck a second picture beneath that one over there, for example, you won’t get paid for the second. Let’s aim for public impact rather than graffiti, shall we?” “How many pictures is too many?” “Use some common sense.” “One picture per city block?” The Suit clucked his tongue. “Knew I’d picked the right man for the job.” The Suit’s mood encouraged André to indulge in his curiosity. “What’s in this for you?” “Let’s say that I’m part of a social organisation, conducting a social experiment. You and I aren’t the only ones negotiating agreements like this tonight. Or ever.” More people handing out more phones? To pay people more money to make and take pictures? “How are you paying for all that?” “Creative accounting, my friend. Your tax dollars at work.” The Suit winked. “So to speak. On that subject, you may note another perk of this job: no taxes.” “Sounds shady,” André heard himself say. That may not have been the best idea. The Suit only chuckled. “I did warn you that I’m an honest gangster.” Implying that André would become the same? He decided to keep that question to himself. The Suit must have sensed André’s doubt. “To paraphrase a popular saying, one person’s public offender is another persons’s freedom fighter.” “You expect me to fight?” “Not in the way you’re implying.” Not reassuring. “Relax, friend. Take inspiration from our armed forces, honourable volunteers risking their lives to protect us and our rights from threats foreign and domestic. Meanwhile, me and mine have detected another serious problem, a growing problem, a threat to our livelihood. Inspired by our armed forces, we’ve decided to combat this threat… in our own way. One of the first steps for this is recruitment. Every general needs an army.” The Suit rose to his feet. “All set? We’d both enjoy some sleep, I’m sure. The longer I stay here, the more likely you and I may have to answer awkward questions.” André still held the phone in his hand. Why not try this scheme? If only once or twice. See what happened. He could always trade or give away the phone if he got spooked. He decided to get up as well, for some reason. Idly considering what he held, he noticed the picture on it. “One last thing.” “Speak.” André pointed at the picture that The Suit had pasted on the street light pole. “‘…protect unpopular speech’?” he asked, quoting part of it. He checked the picture on the phone. “‘…freedom from interference by the government and nothing else’.” He scrolled to the next picture – this one was different. “‘Censoring hate condones haters to censor you’,” he quoted verbatim. That particular picture featured an arrangement of apparently dead human bodies to resemble the last word. “Are people really going to care about any of this?” The Suit’s eyes challenged André. “Why? Do you have any better ideas?”

For those who are curious, this is a sequence of scenes I'd drafted a couple months back(then more recently edited a few times) for Ambition(working title), a sequel to Better Together. At this point in time, it's primarily intended as 'extra' short story for those familiar with that novel. Besides a few minor details, however, it ought to stand on it's own, besides also hopefully demonstrating my abilities with more simple, lighthearted prose. Though this sequence was fun to write, I'll probably cut it from the novel, because it's basically too long; almost ten per cent of a middle-grade novel that is not focused on it's main character. This started out as something of a side-story-esque 'hero's moment' for a non-main character, or 'sidekick', from Ambition(the main character's friend). As I introduce several new characters in this novel, I decided to give most of them moments like these: a few paras or a scene where each one can shine in some way, to better cement them in Reader's mind as well as providing some feel-good moments to serve as brief breaks from the main plot(s).

(approx 5,400 words) {Co-pilot} Frida and her under-fourteens Perifania Pride rugby league teammates would face their greatest challenge yet: being flown across the outback to Galt Station, where their parents were waiting, having already arrived. Frida’s friend Simone also happened to be along for the trip. Frida and the girls stepped off the airplane – except for airsick Adele, who weaved and wobbled. By now it was late afternoon. The air outside was dry and uncomfortably warm, in constrast with the airconditioned plane. The first leg of the trip was over. For the second and final leg, the girls would be flown by helicopter. One of the pilots led the girls down the plane’s retractable stairs, then across the tarmac, toward the only building on the deserted outback airstrip. Further away, a small stationary helicopter rested beside an open hangar. The helicopter was closer in size to the one Mum would use to instruct out at Saunders Airfield, rather than bigger transport helo that she flew Frida and the Pride mixed team in last year. The airplane pilot opened the glass doors of the building and pulled one of them aside, allowing the girls to enter. Inside the squat building was some plastic seats for visitors. A plump, elderly woman sat behind a desk, patiently typing at a computer. The airplane pilot left the girls with someone else who was waiting beside the seats: a tall, tough-looking man with tattoos and a bushy beard. He wore a black leather jacket, jeans and steel cap boots. Most of his skin was heavily tanned except for a thin band across his eyes. Frida guessed he must wear sunglasses a lot. Most of the girls wilted or shrunk away, intimidated by a man who looked like a bikie. A ready, easygoing smile transformed his stern face. “G’day,” he said down to them. “Tom’s ma name and flyin’s ma game.” An outback twang melodised his accent. “Reckon I must be just about the luckiest guy in Queensland to fly all of you lovely ladies around. Ready to head out to Galt Station?” Adele cradled her stomach. “Do we have to go straight away?” “Next Uber helicopter won’t be along fer awhile,” he joked. “So it’s either a quick helo ride, or a hundred kay walkabout with dingos, kangas and king browns to keep ya cump’ny. Take yer pick.” “We’ll fly, thanks,” declared Leah with a royal voice. Others nodded. “Right-o. This way then.” He walked outside. All the girls followed him – except one. “’Dele?” Frida called back. “I’m thinking, I’m thinking.” Adele took a second to gather herself, then reluctantly followed. “All this flying,” she muttered when she’d caught up. “What’s wrong with buses, huh? Next time you talk to Mr Saunders, tell him to buy us a bus.” Back outside, Tom led them to the helicopter waiting by the hangar. Swinging open the side door, he motioned inside. “Might hafta squeeze in, sorry. Only room ta sit a few.” The girls rushed inside, where scuffles broke out for available seats. The sulking rest had to stand, bunched together in the passenger area. Instead of participating in the melee for a seat, Simone had dodged her way past to stand at a spot just behind the open, empty pilot’s cabin. Frida and Adele joined her. Several headsets featuring headphones and mikes dangled all around the pilot’s cabin and the seated section further back. They weren’t connected by wires to anything – they must use bluetooth. Tom stayed outside for a few seconds, walking around the helo, checking it from the outside. Then he opened a separate door to the pilot’s cabin. Taking his seat, he strapped in his harness and began flicking switches. He donned a radio headset and chatted to someone, telling them where he was flying and checking the weather. After that, he took off his radio headset, poked a thumb towards the empty beside him and spoke to Frida, Simone and Adele, who were closest. “Anyone fancy themselves as a copilot?” Adele stared at the floor, miserable with her rebellious stomach. Frida and Simone looked at each other. “Go ahead,” Frida said. “Y-you sh-sh-sure?” “Course I am. You’re the only one of the two of us who has actually flown a helo.” “Only th-that wuh-one t-time w-w-with y-your Mum. Th-that d-d-doesn’t–” Tom was following their conversation with raised eyebrows. “No jokin’?” he said to Simone. “Yer’ve had time in the air?” “No jokin’,” Frida replied for Simone’s sake. Tom beckoned to Simone and patted the seat beside him. “Come on then hon’! Don’t be shy. Get yerself a free lesson. Next time yer jet-setting shiela mates are sipping fruit punch and winging around the outback, yer’ll be flyin’ ‘em yerself, ‘cause Tom trained ya.” His face suddenly soured, then he turned his head, coughing and spluttering. Opening the pilot’s door, he spat outside. About to close the door, he hesitated, cradling his stomach. He reminded Frida of Adele. “Are you okay?” Frida asked. Tom winced. “Not feelin’ a hundred percent, t’ be honest.” He closed the door. “Startin’ tuh wonder if sharin’ Mick’s ‘tater wedges was such a good idea. He said he’d kept ‘em separate from those prawns and their juices, but I dunno…” He scrounged around by his feet, then held up a thin and opaque blue plastic bag. “Might hafta use this, soon.” He coughed in to the crook of his elbow. Adele eyed his bag. “Do you have another one of those?” “Nope. Sorry. From the look o’ ya, I’m thinkin’ we might hafta share this one.” Adele groaned. {Pilot} “Get ready ladies!” Tom called back. “We’re about to go! It’s gonna get loud in here, so if ya wanna talk, use those.” He hoicked a thumb at the headsets, then grinned. “Or lip read.” He flicked the switches for the engines, then settled his hands on the pilot’s controls and his feet upon the pedals. Simone settled herself in the co-pilot’s seat. Outside the cabin, Frida could see the edges of the big metal rotor blades above them began to spin. She and the other girls paused to listen. The whine of the helo’s engines increased in pitch, in tandem with the whoosh of the whirring metal rotors. Soon, the rotors were spinning so fast that they blurred through the air, resembling the world’s biggest desktop or pedestal fan. Tom donned his radio headset once more and spoke in to it. The helo jiggled, then moved, slowly rising. Any girl standing had to hastily readjust her stance, resetting her feet and balance as though setting themselves for tackling practice. The sitting girls did something similar with their hands, planting them against the sides of their seats and gripping them. The helo continued to rise. Once the girls felt more confident with their balance and posture, they all – except Adele – rushed to the closest window. Beneath them lay a mostly empty landscape of reddish dirt, dotted with the occasional mound and eucalyptus tree. In the distance, a seemingly endless straight stretch of bitumen road rolled out to the horizon. A family of kangaroos bounded away from the noise the helo was making. The late afternoon sun covered everything with subdued yellow-orange light. Viewed as a picture, the landscape may have been boring. Viewed from within a rising helicopter, as high as a skyscraper and still climbing, the girls were entranced. After a minute, the helo was so high that Frida couldn’t discern the shape of the trees or kangaroos anymore, only tiny splotches of stationary green and shifting brown amongst all the red dirt. A road train truck rolling down the road looked like a metal caterpillar that Frida could pluck with her thumb and forefinger. The novelty of the loud engine and rotor blades were beginning to wear off, so Frida decided to don a headset. Some of the other girls were doing the same. Motion distracted her. Tom the pilot was coughing again. This bout seemed worse than before. Hacking and gasping, he soon had to let go of the controls and pick up his sick bag– Frida looked away, peering outside the window again. Outside, the vivid setting sun had dropped a little lower toward the horizon. Soon it would be dusk. They may not arrive at Galt station until after nightfall. Frida wondered how many rooms they would have. She hadn’t really thought about how she and the other girls would sleep until now. They would probably have to share rooms. She reminded herself to ensure she wasn’t sharing a room with both Leah and– Something – someone – tugged at Frida’s shoulder. Simone? For some reason, her face was aghast, almost as pale as Adele’s. Simone wordlessly pointed at the pilot… …whose body was silently tipping forward and sideways to slump against the pilot’s door. The sick bag lay discarded, balanced on his jean-clad legs. Tom wasn’t moving. Frida gaped at him. Was he asleep? Unconscious? How had he became like this? What would happen to the helo? Frida stared without seeing, her mind’s eye playing a Hollywood-esque video of a spinning helicopter plunging through the air, crashing in to the ground, erupting in a fireball– Something bumped against Frida, interrupting her mental doomsday movie: Simone, prodding at her, jolting her to action. Frida reached out to shake Tom. He didn’t respond. Somehow, the helo was still flying. For how long? Someone would have to land it. Could Frida do that? Part of her wanted to. She knew some stuff about helos. Her mother was a pilot. Frida had spent some time on the big, room-sized simulator out at the airfield where Mum worked as an instructor. Frida fantasised about flying everyone to safety… but not for long. She wasn’t the best girl for the job. Frida looked to Simone, who had shrunk back against the co-pilot door. She shook her head violently – almost dislodging her headset. If Frida had thought all of this, her friend would have too. Not only that, Simone was probably a step or two ahead… and whatever she was thinking was wigging her out. “Simone.” Frida indicated the unattended cyclic, the stick-like metal thing rising from the floor that the pilot used to fly the helo. The end of the cyclic split out into two bits, resembling the letter Y, that either the pilot or copilot could reach. “Nuh-n-nuh-n-n-nuh–” “Yes, Simone. It has to be you.” They both knew it. Frida had never piloted a real helo, only mucked around in a simulator. Mum had once taken Simone for an actual flight for an hour. She’d logged some time in the airfield’s flight simulator. She had also been the one practically living on her X-box flight simulator game since the holidays. Frida had sometimes idly wondered if that would be enough to enable someone to fly in real life. She was about to find out. “What has to be Simone?” Adele asked, her voice groggy. Miserable with her motion sickness, she had nonetheless heard something in Frida’s and Simone’s voices to pique her curiosity. Where Frida stood, she would be blocking most of Adele’s view. Other girls were pressing forward, trying to see what was going on. “Never mind,” Frida snapped, all-too aware of the passing time, and that they were passing it without an operating pilot. Then she saw Adele’s face. “Sorry. Hey, keep the others back, could you?” “Why?” “Because I asked nicely?” Adele looked at her. Checking the other girls couldn’t see, Frida allowed Adele a quick peek at the pilot, who still hadn’t moved. Adele raised her hands over her mouth in dismay. “Ohmygawd.” Her hands muffled her voice. “Yes, so why don’t–” Frida stopped when Adele uttered an incomprehensible noise that sounded like “Urk,” and urgently reached out for the pilot’s sick bag, still propped on his legs. She couldn’t quite reach it. Frida could, so she snatched carefully at the very top of it – darkish splotches of somethings were inside – and extended her arm to thrust the bag out to Adele. She hastily took it and spread the top of it open. The girls behind Adele shrieked and backed away as fast as they could. Frida shrugged. Close enough. Now, what to do about their pilot? Simone was one step ahead, trying to pull the pilot away from his seat. “H-h-h-help–” She stopped trying to talk once Frida also pulled at the man’s inert body. He barely budged. Wait…he was strapped in. While Frida worked at the straps and buckles of his harness, Simone was slapping his face, so desperate to rouse him that she accidentally whacked Frida instead. “Ow! Watch it!” Someone bumped Frida from behind. Bindi, wearing a headset. Thank goodness. The bigger girl could assist. “Here,” Frida said, “help me with this guy.” She passed one of his arms to her. Bindi held it balanced upon her palm, examining it with mild curiosity. “What’s with him?” “He’s passed out.” “No way.” “Way.” The helo dipped. {Simone Speaks} Frida’s stomach swooped in reaction to the sudden motion. Everyone froze… …then the helo levelled out. “Pull!” Frida yelled at Bindi. They yanked at the pilot as hard as they could, almost falling backward when they managed to drag the man’s body most of the way off the pilot seat. The helo dipped again. Too late, Frida realised: the controls. Pulling the pilot away from them may have been a bad idea. “Simone!” Frida’s friend jumped over to take the pilot’s place, awkwardly settling herself in the pilot’s seat. She had to stretch her legs to reach the pedals. The cyclic rested at an awkward spot for Simone, who wasn’t as tall as the pilot. The helo jiggled when she grasped at the cyclic too quickly. Her other hand settled over the collective, a lever beside the pilot’s seat that looked like the handbrake in a car. The helo levelled out. Simone was wheezing in barely-controlled panic. Frida ordered Bindi to pull the pilot away. “Try rousing him. Let me know if you do.” “Why can’t you do it?” Frida glared at Bindi. “I have to assist with flying.” Bindi’s eyes bulged. “Or do you want to do that?” “You can,” Bindi said, so quietly that Frida only understood by lipreading. “Thanks. Get Alissa to help you with him.” Some of the other girls were getting anxious, watching Frida and Bindi. They surged forward again, jostling Bindi and Frida, who yelled at Adele to do something. Adele wiped something from her mouth with one of her hands. Her other hand waved the sick bag at the closest gaggle of girls, who recoiled as though they were vampires and the bag was old garlic. That freed enough space for Frida to clamber on to the recently vacated co-pilot’s seat. It felt warm and sweaty from it’s previous occupant. A whisper of airconditioning tickled the back of Frida’s neck, making her shiver. The shivers seized the rest of her body, causing her to tremble like a leaf in a cyclone. Part of her wanted to curl up in a corner and let someone else take over. Her nerves were jangling, as though this were the last minute of a close – wait, that was it. This was like playing the championship game, that was all. Yes. That was all. Last year, her captain had been taken out of the game, injured by rule-breaking boys. Today, her pilot had been taken out by prawns. Now, as then, Frida didn’t want to take charge. Unfortunately, she didn’t have much of a choice. She had to. This is like that championship game, that was all. The championship game… Frida forced herself to take a big breath. She really hoped that pilot would wake up soon. “What do you need?” she asked Simone. Simone sat rigid, staring straight ahead. “Simone!” Frida slapped Simone’s thigh, startling her. She gave her head a violent shake and re-gripped the cyclic. Frida exhaled with relief. Simone tapped at the earpiece of her headset. “S-s-send a m-m-muh-message t-t-t-t–” As always, Simone deferred to Frida when they needed to talk to anyone else. “What do I say?” “M-m-may d-d-d-d–” Right. “May-day, may-day,” Frida said in to the receiver, until it unexpectedly wiggled in her hand. “Hey!” Frida protested to Simone, whose finger almost poked Frida in the eye. Simone was tapping her finger at – oh, that’s right, the talking button. Frida had to push it in. “May-day, may-day,” Frida repeated with finger pressing down the button. “May-day, may-day, this is…” She glanced a question at Simone, who didn’t see, because she was busy looking at the instrument panel and experimenting with the controls. “Tom’s helicopter,” Frida continued. “May-day, this is Tom’s helicopter, going to–” What was it called? “–going to Galt station. I, uh, repeat: may-day, this is Tom’s helicopter, going to Galt station, may-day, may–” Simone prodded at Frida’s finger again, this time pushing it off the talking button. “–funny, Tom. You hear me? This is not cool. Take back the radio from those girls and get off the air in case someone with real problems needs to communicate.” What to say to that? How could Frida begin to explain what was going on? Trying to think, she glanced outside. That was a mistake. The ground… all the way down there… Frida could barely see it, because the sun had set. It was dusk now, not quite night. How far off the ground were they flying? A few kilometres? More? All this had felt scary, but in a distant way, like a computer game or a flight simulator… until Frida had looked down. “You there, Tom? On the off-chance that this isn’t some stupid joke, please respond.” This wasn’t a game or a flight simulator. This was real. A craggy mound of rock filled Frida’s vision, excluding everything else. The vision of the helo crashing and exploding recurred to her. They could fall right in to that rock and… “Tom, please respond.” No one would survive. “Tom, please respond.” “Tom’s helo here.” Frida gasped. She hadn’t spoken. Who had? “Hey, where’s Tom? Who’s this?” It was Simone. She had donned the pilot’s headphones and was slowly speaking in to the mike. “Tom is sick at the moment.” Her eyes were as wide as they could go, unable to believe the words she was hearing, words that she was uttering – and not stuttering. “He’ll talk to you when he can.” Her voice was monotone. Her eyes stared straight ahead as though she were walking a tightrope and dared not look down. Frida didn’t know which was more incredible: that Simone was flying, or that she wasn’t stuttering. “Another stunt, Tom? Very funny. Kick off whoever that is. I know you can hear me. You’re lucky the station manager isn’t here in the booth with me.” “Tom’s…glad to hear that,” Simone said carefully. “Uhhh…by the way…where is Galt station?” Frida’s headset crackled. “What’s that supposed to mean?” “Where do we… land?” A tear drop trickled down from one of Simone’s still-wide eyes. She wasn’t blinking either. Silence from the radio. Through her headset, Frida heard raised voices behind her. Someone squealed. They were learning what was going on. Frida turned around. Adele’s face was as white as a clean sheet and her mouth hung slack. Frida asked, “Is the pilot awake yet?” “No!” The increasingly louder hubbub from the other girls prompted Frida to raise her voice. “Is anyone with him?” “Bindi’s–” Adele dry heaved “–trying to wake him up.” One of the Youtubers butted in. “His face and throat,” she said, “are all, like, puffy and red.” Adele added, “Alissa took someone’s phone.” “Seriously?” Frida couldn’t believe it. Alissa was bullying someone at a time like this? “Why?” “She’s using it to call triple-zero.” “Alissa?” Frida repeated in disbelief. “Yeah. I guess she remembered her part of that, uh, revival thing from last year.” Huh. Alissa acting responsible. And Frida thought Simone flying and not stuttering was weird. Finally, the radio crackled to life. “Tom, if you can hear me, you and I are gonna have a very long chat when you get back – and by that I mean you being tied and gagged while I tear you a new one. Stop messing around and get on the air, now. I’m not kidding.” Simone fired an anxious glance at Frida, who could only shrug. The man on the radio didn’t sound very happy – or inclined to help them. “Girl? You there? Or that other girl?” “I’m here,” Simone said. “Um, over.” “Bit late for radio etiquette, whoever you are.” More silence. Then: “Listen, I told someone outside to switch on the lights around the helo pad, so you can land. After that, they’ll flip on some of our other lights, up high. Can you see any?” {First Time For Everything} Simone waved a hand outside, directing Frida to look, but she was already on it. There! Far off, to her right, closer to the horizon, easy to spot once the sun had set. Those lights were pretty much the only source of illumination to be found anywhere. Frida pointed. “I see them,” Simone confirmed. “Good,” the man’s voice crackled over the radio. “Head for those. When you’re close enough, you’ll see our station’s helo landing spot. Can’t miss it.” “Can you, um, stay on the air? Please?” “No worries, girl. I’m not going anywhere. If this is what I think it is…” The man stopped talking. “Well, the pilot… he–” “Don’t say anything else. Others might be listening. You and I are already in enough turbulence. Let’s just get you here, eh?” “Yes,” Simone agreed immediately. “Do you – does everyone there know what they’re doing?” “Um, yes.” Simone’s hand was wrapped around her side of the cyclic so hard that her knuckles were white. “Right… well, feel free to ask, just in case.” “Okay.” “Not that I can tell you much, to be honest. Never flown at all, myself.” Well, that was reassuring. Simone carefully moved the cyclic. The helo inclined to one side, causing it to slowly turn through the air. During the long turn, the helo would occasionally judder, taking Frida’s breath away for a moment, as though she’d been hit by a tough tackle and slammed backwards in to the ground. Soon, they were facing the far-away lights. The crackling radio startled both Simone and Frida. “What’s doing, girl?” Simone indulged in a fortifying breath. “Course change. We’re coming to you.” “ETA?” What did that mean? It sounded familiar. Simone seemed to know. Her eyes looked more normal now, blinking while she thought. “Five minutes,” she drawled. “I hope.” What would happen in five minutes? They would land at Galt Station? Yes, that was it. Frida remembered now. Mum would sometimes use the term ‘ETA’ when she was flying. Estimated Time of Arrival, that’s what it meant. “What is she doing?” One of the girls had pushed her way past Adele. The Youtuber’s friend. Her phone was out, of course, it’s camera directed at Simone. “No no,” Frida said hastily. Luckily, Simone wasn’t looking around. The Youtubers and their phone were the last distraction she needed. Adele shushed them and shoved them back. To distract them, Frida asked them, “How is the pilot?” They pouted. “Still unconscious,” Adele supplied. A flurry of motion beside Frida startled her. Simone. She had thrown up her other hand, her non-cyclic hand, over her mouth. Her eyes were wide open again, this time in dismay. “What is it?” Frida asked. “I can’t hover!” Simone wasn’t speaking to Frida, but in to the headset. “I forgot to mention that.” “So what?” the man sent back. “That means I can’t land on your helipad, because I’d have to slow down and hold the helo in a hover, first. I’m not skilled enough for that.” The man swore. After a moment, he said, “First time for everything.” “Wait, I have a different idea. Do you have a airstrip?” “A what? Girl, this is a cattle station, not Heathrow bloody Airport.” “What about an open field?” “How open? Most of our territory is full of cows, wildlife and trees.” Simone shook her head. “A straight road, maybe?” “Only gravel roads out here. No bitumen.” “That will do. I hope.” Simone closed her eyes, alarming Frida until her friend opened them again. “I don’t suppose your gravel road has landing lights?” The man laughed. “It doesn’t even have ‘beware of kangaroo’ signs. What are you thinking?” “Gliding us in slowly enough to slide to a stop using our skids.” “Hells bells, can a helicopter even do that? Can you?” Simone flashed an ironic smile. “‘First time for everything?’” “Don’t muck around or you’ll crash!” “Better to crash when we’re on the ground rather than stall in the sky and crash from there.” A pause, then, “Girl, you’ve got more guts than a weightloss group dropout. Looking forward to shaking your hand after you land.” Simone shuddered with a brief, high-pitched giggle that she choked off. “Likewise.” “Alright, I just got a brainwave. Gimme a sec. Dazza–!” The man’s suddenly-raised voice was just as suddenly cut off. Waiting for the man to come back on the air, Frida became aware that she was thirty, and had been for a while. She was feeling a bit knackered, too. Uh oh. She fished in a pocket for her blood glucose meter. She could be feeling this way because she was stressing about plunging to the ground and exploding. On the other hand… She pricked her finger and waited. Her blood glucose was a little high, but still okay. Meanwhile, the radio stayed silent. What was going on down there? Something beyond the cockpit snagged Frida’s attention. Down at the ground. More lights. A pair of them, piercing the nearly-dark sky. The lights moved and jiggled through the trees. “You there, girl?” “I’m here,” Simone said. “See the car lights?” Simone looked down after Frida pointed for her. “Yes.” “That’s Dazza driving his ute. He’ll zip up and down the road with his high beams on. Best I can think of.” “Okay.” Simone adjusted the cyclic. The helo approached the line of the road indicated by the car lights reflecting off the lines of trees. “Please tell him to turn them off when we’re almost level.” “Will do. Just so you know, I can see your blinkers from here. You’re close. I’ll shut up and let you concentrate. Good luck, girl. Cooee if you need anything.” “Thanks.” “All part of the service.” Inside the cockpit, the heat was smothering Frida. Had Simone accidentally turned off the airconditioning? Sweaty strands of Frida’s hair were distracting her. She wiped at her forehead, then rubbed her moistened hand on her shirt. Through her headset, she could hear someone breathing. Simone wriggled her body in her seat. She checked her pedals. She re-gripped the cyclic in one hand, then the collective in the other. Frida threw a glance over her shoulder. Pretty much every girl was bunched up behind Adele and the Youtubers. They were lucky that Simone wasn’t looking back. Being the centre of attention wigged her out. {Skid Marks} The helo dipped. So did Frida’s stomach. Gasps and a brief squeal made her twitch. The helo continued to slowly descend while Simone managed the cyclic and the collective. “It’s alright,” Frida said for the benefit of the others. “Simone is doing that. She’s bringing us in to land.” “She’s, like, done that before, right?” Frida didn’t look back. “Course she has. All the time. Shut up.” “Eh-eh-eh-eh–” Simone cut herself of with a bemused shake of her head, then dipped it towards a collection of the gauges. “Airspeed?” Frida guessed. Why was Simone stuttering again? “You want me to call airspeed.” Simone nodded without looking away from the eucalyptus forest beneath them. She dipped her head toward a different section of the instrument panel. “And altitude,” Frida guessed again. Another nod. “Okay… one thousand feet. Sixty knots.” The helo shuddered, almost jostling Frida off her seat. More squeals, plus lots of movement out of the corner of Frida’s eye. Some of the girls were thrown off balance. Someone leaned against her shoulder, then eased off. Meanwhile, Simone was fighting the cyclic. “W-w-w-wuarrrgh!” Wind. Frida knew enough about both her friend and flying to know that was what Simone wanted to know about. “Not sure,” Frida reported, seeing no wind sock. Wait. The trees. The tops of the trees were all swaying, from… “Right to left,” she said out loud. “Wind’s coming from our right, blowing to the left.” Simone adjusted the controls to compensate. They were flying directly over the gravel road, now. Trees lined the road to either side. Frida had to squint to see any of it; dusk was darkening to night. A faint crescent moon coasted the horizon, just above the tree tops. Higher up, the first lone stars were twinkling. “Five hundred feet,” Frida reported. “Forty knots.” Further down and ahead, Frida could see the ute, mostly by it’s glowing headlights and dimmer taillights. The ute was driving away from them. It’s brake lights flashed and then it spun around, revving up a cloud of dust. Flickers of the ute’s headlights dodged and sliced through the dust and night sky, beaming beneath the helo. If the ute kept coming, it might run into – no, the headlights jolted, then became still. The ute’s driver had stopped. “Twenty knots.” Frida didn’t bother reporting their altitude, because it was obvious: the grumbling helo was almost level with the tops of the trees. If the helo stalled and they fell from here, would it be so bad? They dropped lower. The whirring rotor blades were spinning unnervingly close to some branches. Simone guided the cyclic and collective. Her mouth was slightly agape. She was wheezing again. Preparing to land, she had pulled the helo’s pitch back a bit. That also raised the front part of the helo’s skids, the metal struts beneath it that held it upright when it was on the ground. The back of the skids would hit the ground first. Frida heard an agonised “Urk!”, followed by “‘Ewwws’” and murmurs of disgust. Adele’s stomach couldn’t handle it any more. The ute’s bright lights blinded Frida. Even as she turned her head away and raised her arm, the lights suddenly extinguished. The man in the ute had switched them off – perhaps too late, because their glare had blinded Frida. She blinked, trying to restore her vision. Hopefully Simone could see better. Were the helo’s engine and rotors louder? By the time Frida could see properly again, they were almost down. “Hold on!” The helo’s metal skids brushed against the gravel road, wiggling the helo and making a rough grinding noise that Frida could feel through her seat. A chorus of squeals and screams filled the cabin. Frida wasn’t sure if she wasn’t contributing to them. The vibrations through the helo ceased for a second when the skids lifted off, then restarted when they hit the ground again. The helo tipped forward when the skids flattened out, their entire length now grinding against the gravel road. They were on the ground. Simone switched off the engines. This didn’t stop the helo’s momentum; it continued skidding and bumping along the gravel road. Simone was still leaning forward, tense, ready with the controls. The landing wasn’t over. If she didn’t keep the helo balanced, it could yet tip over to one side, sending the still-whirring metal rotor blades slamming in to the road and causing who-knew-what damage to both the helo and everyone inside. With the whine of the engines winding down, Frida could better hear the grinding skids and whirring rotors. The helo was slowing…slowing… … stopped. No one moved, holding their breath until the main rotor above them ceased moving. Simone sagged over the cyclic. Frida almost couldn’t believe it. “You did it!” “N-n-no.” Hearing herself, Simone paused, then released another ironic smile. “W-w-we d-did it.” Frida launched herself at Simone, embracing her and hugging her as hard as she could. Adele wrapped her hands around them both. Other girls pushed in. Yet more threw themselves on top, joining what became a wriggling, giggling, laughing scrum. Girls crowded around the helicopter pilot seat and spilled out from the cockpit. Frida heard muffled voices amongst the pile. “Wowww–” “She landed it?” “Awesome!” “How could she–?” “Is there anything you can’t do?” Adele asked. “Y-y-yeah. M-m-move.”

Bloody hell Michael, if this is you writing on a slow day, I tremble to imagine you writing on a productive day, or fuelled by amphetamines or something. Incidentally, I've been running Ubuntu(a Linux distro, probably the most popular one) and Libreoffice for a few years. There's definitely a learning curve coming from Windows. It's a good idea to have a backup machine and/or partition running Windows to fall back on. That said, Ubuntu is one of the more user-friendly Windows-like distros. Likewise, Libreoffice. It handles .doc(x) files pretty good, but things can get a bit whacky during conversions to and from .odt files, especially certain under-the-hood aspects of formatting -- especially, say, for when one is trying to professionally format one's own novels to upload to disseminators.....

Thanks for your reply, Michael(and fixing the embedded bits of my first post, I'm guessing). Some bits of practical and fiction related stuff for me to chase up, especially the mormon connections. I wasn't aware of how deep that rabbit hole apparently goes. Sanderson seems to be exploring the concept of faith through varying character's narratives in his Mistborn series(I'm reading through it's third novel, now) -- not exactly shocking, I'm guessing. And yet, Mistborn is proving to be thoughtful(if not inspiring) material for me, especially in how he explores and presents his ideas through fiction. Your reminder of Sanderson being a Mormon refreshes some temporarily-forgotten context for me, which will assist my thinking in this.

I’ve only seen Brandon Sanderson mentioned in passing around here, so what the hell. You ought to check out pretty much any of his (very many!)videos, really. He’s not only a competent best-selling fantasy author(traditionally published as opposed to self-published), he’s a fascinating man. A good starting point could be here. Of particular interest may be around the 33min mark where he discusses aspects of better fitting friends/family/partner in to your writing day-to-day and/or career: setting aside time for not writing, thereby to be more present/visible with loved ones and vice-versa; including loved ones in your writing in specific ways, eg having them assist in 'guarding' your writing time; etc. This video is interesting too. I’ve read relatively few of his books: the latter Wheel of Time novels and his freely available book Warbreaker. I’ve just finished his first Mistborn novel and am currently reading the second. IMO, based on what I’ve read from him, his non-Wheel of Time stuff is more pleasantly engaging than inspiring or life-changing, albeit incredibly commercially successful. Sanderson elevated himself to prominence after basically being asked to finish Robert Jordan’s Wheel of Time series, after Jordan’s untimely death. Probably my favourite prose that Sanderson’s written, off the top of my head, is a collection of Egwene-based scenes(which were likely outlined by Jordan before he died) that he wrote in The Gathering Storm. I don’t agree with some of the philosophy and motivations espoused in these scenes, yet Egwene (further)develops and portrays a magnificent inner strength and character, scenes that I’ve rarely read in fiction. I’m more interested in Sanderson himself than his works. He’s affable in his videos, one of those rare sort of knowledgeable and competent public speakers whom you’d enjoy listening to reciting their grocery list. He’s devoutly religious. IIRC, in one of his book signing videos(can’t remember which), he mentions reading the bible or somesuch every single day. And yet, to listen to his other vidoes, especially his lectures, he comes across as very well read and active-minded. How such rationality and religiosity coexist within one man to such degrees intrigues me to no end. I’m tempted to buy him some mind-reading headphones in the hope of him wearing them for a week or so to find out what passes through his mind. (I’m experimenting with embedded videos, so please bear with me if I screw something up. I’ve also included URLs to any embedded video for this reason)

I ought to add a bit more regarding a previously mentioned novel of mine: Better Together, the first novel in my Win-Win For The Win series. I happen to be drafting the sequel(second novel in the series) now; it’s working title is Ambition. Better Together(and Ambition) is a mostly lighthearted middle grade(ie, targeted to children/preteens) novel about a preteen Australian girl who is inspired to play rugby league(basically a contact sport somewhat similar to NFL). She also happens to be a recently-diagnosed type 1 diabetic. Any and all rugby-league description descriptions and action were written foremost for readers unfamiliar with rugby league; ie, anyone should find it easy enough to follow what’s going on. Better Together came about from me wanting to take occasional breaks from my more intense and philosophically demanding PoL project to write something more fun and easygoing, aiming for tone and content similar to The Mighty Ducks movie. I’m proud of one scene in particular, toward the end of the novel: a big feel-good moment that, years later, I still consider as one of my best scenes ever written, and very ‘fun’ to write. Better Together is philosophically light, due to both my writing style and it being a middle-grade novel. I do briefly mention certain ideas, however, mostly surrounding the concept of win-win relationships. Also, in a couple of lines in one scene(of fifty), a man is basically talking to the girl’s mother, lauding(ch) the sacrifices she’s made for her daughter. The mother explicitly corrects him, redefining her ‘sacrifices’ as investments, because her daughter is her highest value. Technique-wise, I’ll add that three scenes of the five or so comprising the climactic game(roughly 3000 words) were written entirely as speech – no narration. Those three scenes consist of two commentators commentating the game, alluding to the experience of listening to commentators while watching a game on TV. Thanks again for indulging me!

Ever play Fallout 4? First released several years back, it’s a mostly lightweight, occasionally sordid and gritty role-playing game based in a post-apocaltypic America. The game tends to present itself via 1950’s-era thematic elements. The way Fallout 4 was designed, it’s also able to be ‘modded’. As a result, enthusiasts have created, and are creating, many ‘mods’ for this popular game, even several years after the game’s release. What do I mean by modding? Fans of any given video game may use certain tools and techniques – either provided by the game’s developers and/or created by knowledgeable fans – to modify the ‘base’ game in pretty much any way they want. Commercial and moral aspects of modifying games can be an interesting topic in it’s own right. For our purposes here, however, think of game mods for games as basically being like fan-fiction for fiction. Some game fans can get pretty creative with their mods, as a casual glance at a Fallout 4 mods list at a popular game-modding site shows. Unfortunately, these mods tend not to be especially original, sophisticated or mature. Some rare mods except themselves. A particular favourite of mine is Horizon, which I happen to be playing(again) now. Horizon basically modifies, redesigns and adds to of a lot of elements of the base Fallout 4 game to make every aspect of gameplay more challenging, yet engaging. I much prefer playing a Horizon-modded version of Fallout 4 compared to the base game – though there’s a intimidating learning curve to Horizon(to say nothing of learning how to properly and safely use mods in the first place). The learning curve is worse for players who are very familiar with the base game, as a few things need to be ‘unlearned’. Horizon honestly feels like something between a ‘Fallout 4.5’ or quasi-Fallout 5. Most game developers don’t bother to release updates and DLC for their own games that are so comprehensive. Finally getting to my actual point now: what if someone created a halfway decent Galt’s Gulch-esque mod for Fallout 4? Or any game, I suppose. Maybe an ‘Atlas Shrugged 1.1’, where the player could assume the part of a new entrant to the Gulch and/or some part of ruined America and rebuild it with the help of other players and/or decent NPCs, protecting their settlements from raiders. It wouldn’t be full of just shooting and settlement-building, but include rare or game-advancing items, possibly to trade with settlements that one could only talk one’s way into(similar to the Vault 81 quest in the base game). Instead of collecting the usual doodads or macguffins, the player could search the ruins of the Twentieth Century Motor Company for parts, the Patrick Henry university for Hugh Akston’s old papers, or Galt’s old place near Taggart Transcontinental for tech… If only I had the funds to sponsor someone to do that, or could spare several months to learn how to create such a mod myself! Awesome, eh? Eh? Or, perhaps another creative idea; something maybe a little more controversial around these parts: a TV series, based on pretty much anything and everything to do with Rand’s life. Something at least somewhat autobiographical. Practically every period of her life has enough drama in it that the scripts practically write themselves(says someone who’s never tried scriptwriting) – especially the brouhahas surrounding the Brandens, other subsequent splits and controversies, etc. (Yes, I’ve been browsing/reading some of those threads here. I had little idea; the extent of the explosions, or the amount of ash thereof covering the participants. I still refuse to ‘take sides’, because it’s all basically hearsay to me. I’m well aware of how truths can be twisted and/or wielded, even with the best of intentions. Also, I’m lucky enough to not have to care. Never had any skin in those games. I’ve always been more interested in Rand’s ideas and how to apply them to my life.) Season one: Alisa is born. Growing up in Bolshevik Russia. Cliffhanger: can she escape and emigrate to the land of freedom? (Postscript: hmm. Come to think of it, a TV series would probably show in some order other than chronological, using flashbacks instead, etc). Season two: Rand adjusting/working/living in America. Cliffhanger: can she marry the man she loves and stay in the land of the free? Complications and subplots: surviving during the Great Depression and experiencing the Red Decade. Season three: Rand the burgeoning novelist. Continuing to practice and learn her craft. The struggle to get published. Her early novels. The triumph of the Fountainhead. Atlas Shrugged will obviously feature here, but I’m thinking less about the novel itself and more of the circumstances surrounding her writing it: her indignance about writing/teaching her ideas(“What if I went on strike?”); her Collective beta readers and a bit on those meetings and their lives; the reactions – both Rand’s and others – when AS was first published; etc. All this could probably be shown(to lesser extents?) with the Fountainhead and her other novels, too. Season four onwards: you can probably guess. Many here would know more than I. Sprinkle all the above with appropriate and/or little-known and/or heretofore unreleased aspects of her Archives…? I’m aware of not-sure-how-many autobiographical films of her that have been released. I’ve watched at least one. I’m thinking of something more dramatic, akin to the movies wrt to Churchill(ie; Darkest Hour, which I’ve watched) and possibly Oppenheimer(which I haven’t). Face-slappingly obvious summary: Rand was a controversial pro-American who lived a rather unusual, achievement-filled and dramatic life, to say nothing of her actual ideas. Most/all the facts of Rand’s life and accomplishments are public record. Ditto the basic facts regarding any/all disagreements. Unlike Atlas Shrugged, an autobiographic-esque TV series of her would be much more difficult(though not impossible) for showrunners to screw up, eh? Eh? Any other/better ideas out there?

‘How do you get your ideas?’ is a common question asked of writers. The question represents a yearning to learn how to create (and execute upon) unique ideas of one’s own. The more I write, the more I experience the opposite problem: I beget too many ideas. First world problems? Oh, if only I had the capital of a James Patterson and thus could write some ten-page outlines of all my ideas and send them out to ghostwriters… Moving on. An interesting scenario occurs to me on occasion. My day pauses for a little while as I ‘chew’ it. This process tends to be mentally engaging, and thus enjoyable. A few seconds to a few minutes later, however, I shrug my shoulders and think something like, “That could make a really interesting story. Oh well.” Then I get on with my life, often forgetting about the idea. Recently, I experienced two ideas in a row. We’ll get to what they are and what I’m doing about them soon. Some writers give permanence to their ideas by noting them electronically or by hand. This can help them deal with the distress of not being able to write them out in a length and format that feels more just. Or noting these ideas may allow writers to ‘shrug’ them off in a more mentally healthy way, allowing them to let them go instead of the idea endlessly swirling around in their minds, disrupting their already chosen writing tasks. Or such notes serve as a well, from which the writer dips in to and draws from on occasion. I’ve rarely noted/used ideas this way, because the process still feels unsatisfying. Such ideas tend to become stillborn whether I put them in the incubator or not. Or maybe I’m just lazy. Yet what if those ideas could live on? What if, instead of essentially muttering them to myself, I speak out about them here? Perhaps I could inspire you. Perhaps I could eventually inspire another writer, artist or executive sponsor who’s more inclined/able than I to work on the idea. Perhaps I could inspire the next big thing. Perhaps we could toss a proto-idea back and forth until it gains a momentum that can’t be ignored. Or perhaps someone brings me down to Earth with a common-sense one sentence reply that bursts my balloon, but enables me to realise it was a hopeless fantasy after all. Thank goodness I didn’t waste any more time and effort on that! This is also where you come in. Have you got an awesome idea? Something that makes you all gooey and wistful inside? “If only someone created something about/like fill-in-the-blank?” Share your idea here. It doesn’t have to be a novelistic or writing idea, per se. You could present it in a different form: as a picture, musical piece, video game, movie, poetry, graphic novel, dance routine, whatever. Maybe I or someone else could riff on it, give it a bit more visibility or coherence. For example, a short while after I started reading Rand, I would sometimes daydream, “If only someone created something as groundbreaking and mind-bendingly awesome like The Matrix, but rational.” Almost a couple decades later, I start doing that with Existence. To prime your pumps, I’ll begin with not one, but two ideas. One of them is what got me going with all this in the first place: what I consider to be a good basis for a video game mod that I’d love to either learn to do myself or sponsor someone else to do. And yeah, I could’ve placed it in my little idea incubator(aka ‘ideas’ file) like all the others, but… …heyyyy, why not try something different with this idea as well? Such as starting a thread on OL about it. Maybe you can add some details and ideas of your own – or tell me that it’s a ridiculous waste of time. My second idea is something more deliberately concocted for my purposes here, to fire y’all up a bit. More on these two ideas below.

I had several explicit goals in mind, writing this piece. Trying to serve all of these goals has almost certainly affected it’s composition. In order of importance: Writing a short story that would stand on it’s own – though this has likely been affected by my goals below. Posting the short story here, I could hopefully garner some support and critique. Some time after that, I could upload a revised/polished version to my website to serve goals below. Writing an introductory story for my Philosophy of Life series/concept – though probably not the introduction, as that should be via a hero, rather than a villain. The extent to which readers may not have liked my piece here is the extent to which they may not like Existence(my first PoL novel), as that novel’s style, characters, pacing and content(during the last quarter), are basically the same. Writing a ‘reward’ or ‘extra’ short story for readers/fans of Existence. In that novel, I decided to cut some content with respect to a particular character and tie-off that character’s subplot somewhat. Some of that content has been reproduced here. The more content I end up producing throughout my life, and the extent to which I am commercially successful(if ever), is the extent to which I want to populate my website and/or online spaces with more publicly accessible ‘extras’ like this piece. It’s been several years since I last completed a short story; ie, something between 500-5000 words. Having said that, this piece may be less of a short story, per se, than a novel-esque treatment of a delimited series of events. Though it’s short, I wrote it pretty much as I write novels. This may be as error-prone as a marathon runner, for example, training for 400 metre sprint events by simply doing more jogging.

G’day Michael, First, thank you for your post. I do appreciate that you took the time and effort to critique my efforts. With my response here, I may occasionally come across as vague – I’m very conscious of (and welcome!)any and all judgements/reactions being based purely on my submitted work. I therefore don’t want to ‘pollute’ such judgements/reactions with my reactions afterwards – ‘but you don’t get it; I was explicitly trying to do this and that’, etc. If one person says something, I may take it with a grain of salt. If several people are saying the same thing… (Should any one else wish to chime in – whether to briefly judge, react or whatever – I really do welcome and appreciate it. Pretty much all of my writing has been done on my own, with little-to-no feedback from others.) Michael, your first impressions, notes and suggestions were interesting reading. They’ve informed me enough of issues with this piece that I’ll incorporate in to a future version(s)(more of that in my next post). For archival and educational purposes, I’ll leave my submission as it is here without further editing. Given some of your feedback, including your re-written example, I’m not entirely sure you’ve gleaned what I was trying to show for the first half of the first scene(my word for any given block of prose I write; ie, my submission here includes five scenes). Basically, I will assume this is on me: at this point, I believe a quick content edit should suffice. Perhaps this is due to my use of the word partygoers, alone, at the end of my first sentence. At the time, I was thinking of a specific context(curse of knowledge)…which I now realise I may have failed to communicate/indicate(in that sentence, at least), because this party could be any one of a number of kinds of party – kid’s birthday party, company launch party, fancy-dress fundraiser, etc. Jane’s nakedness, in the party-based context I had in mind, was intended to show certain concepts and/or states of mind which I haven’t seen you mention. Again, I’ll assume this is on me. Finally, any time you wish to post critique and/or ideas based on me, my posts, submitted content here or elsewhere, public or private, go for it! Or not. Whatever works for you. Whether you or anyone else posts one line or an essay, I’ll read it, evaluate it and possibly take it on. Next up, I’ll post some additional, non-story-based explanatory context. In other words, briefly outline my motivations for this submitted piece.

(Word count: approx. 6,200) {Jane} Jane sauntered naked amongst the partygoers. The mansion’s party room was at least a couple hundred metres long and wide. Chandeliers lined the arched ceiling. Classical marble pillars and floors completed the grand décor. Tables of hors d’oeuvres waited by one wall. A troupe of musicians were set up by another wall. Jane plucked a glass of wine, then a bite-sized treat from two separate waiters, each of whom bowed their head at her. She worked the crowd, flitting here and there, briefly advising on fasion with a man in a tuxedo, discussing philosophy – the finer points of suspension of consciousness – with a university professor. In between musical numbers, the saxophone player beckoned her over to flirt with her. Exhibiting herself amongst these clueless beings while wearing nothing at all never got old for Jane. She flaunted her knowledge over them, safe in their ignorance. It almost didn’t matter what sort of beings they were. They begged her to twirl in that dress, or enquired about her shade of lipstick, or groaned with envy over her stiletto boots. They acted as though Jane were as beautiful and sophisticated as Theodora, as wise as Verbovshik. A pair of children loitered by the hors d’oeuvres. Two little girls wearing plain dresses. They were watching Jane. One whispered in to the other one’s ear, who subsequently raised hands over her mouth to stifle her amusement. What was this? Jane strode for them, not taking her eyes off them while ignoring summons, brushing aside questing hands, stepping around a corpulent man. Curious and unwary, they waited for her. Coming closer, Jane pushed down a feeling of uneasiness. One of the girls had lidless eyes, consumed with black, as though her pupils were as wide as her eyes themselves. Tattoos swirled around the other girl’s neck: intricate, repetitive designs of disembodied hands covering human eyes. Jane halted before them. “See something?” “You’re naked!” they chorused together. The witless fools giggled furiously, enchanted with their observational skills and daring. A distant boom of thunder penetrated the walls. Was there a storm nearby? The stately party room afforded no windows to view outside. Vertigo suddenly consumed Jane, a disorientation akin to the sensation of falling on the cusp of sleep. Her feet clamped to the floor, a reflexive action resetting her feeling of weight, of balance, though she had never lost either. Theodora@Taggart’s Cabin: Wake up, Jane. The trial is over. Already? The entire party room shuddered, as though gripped by an earthquake. Cracks began splitting stretches of the marble pillars. The ‘guests’ continued on, unaware. The girls peered about, curious. PlainJane@Taggart’s Cabin: log out home The next instant she felt herself being gently, yet insistently shaken. A fully-clothed Jane adjusted her eyes. She and Theodora sat at one side of a long table in one of the smaller conference rooms. The two men representing the admiral sat at the other. This was the first time Jane had been ‘invited’ up to the bridge deck of the ocean liner. Jane wistfully glanced out the nearest window, partly unconcerned with what was transpiring in the room, partly to communicate this to the others – and to herself. Though rarely venturing outside, she wished she could now. Anywhere was better than here. The vista was mostly the same boring view as always: the sun’s rays sparkling off a desert of calm ocean crowded by a clear, endless sky. The only difference now was a faint brown smear on the horizon: the coast line of some island or landmass. In between gathering papers and standing up from the table, one of the admiral’s men were stealing covert glances at Jane, fascinated by her. Other women might complain of men staring at their breasts or ass. Jane’s ‘admirers’ would stare at the swirling tattoos around her neck, or her lidless eyes, covered by the LED smart contact lenses that were paired with her BCI implant. Later, she knew, the man would be boasting to his buddies that the rumours of the woman with the weird eyes and tattoos around her neck were true; a woman stranger still than most of the weirdos that inhabited the lower decks. Theodora led Jane out of the conference room and through the corridors of the bridge. As always, the lithe, sensuous woman made Jane feel like a clumsy idiot child. Hungry, envious eyes of the male passersby fixated on Theodora’s bronze skin, her generous cleavage, her golden hair arranged in a tidy ponytail long enough that the end of it rested against her backside. At least she was drawing attention away from Jane. At the elevator, Theodora tapped down. It wasn’t until the elevator doors closed that she spoke. “I can sympathise with wanting to be elsewhere during a procedure overseen by the admiral’s men.” She tapped the number two. “It’s in your best interest, however, to at least pretend to care about the outcome.” Theodora, having appointed herself as Jane’s representative at the hearing, had done all the talking. All Jane had to do was sit there, awake and present – an act aided by her contact lenses arranging visual details of Jane’s eyes appropriately. “Who won?” Jane asked idly. “We did, in a manner of speaking. Do you want to know how?” “Not really.” “Try not to fall afoul of TC’s network access rules again, please. I can help only so many times.” Jane refreshed her Heads-Up Sensory Heuristic. In the upper-right periphery of Jane’s HUSH-assisted vision, an exclamation mark briefly flashed. A message. Jane activated it. Partially transparent monotype text superimposed itself upon her vision. Hellenist@Taggart’s Cabin: Serious issues with our latest disconnected. Three dead, several injured. Killswitches are likely issue. Will discuss further at staging room. Please come as soon as possible. {Opportunity} Exiting the elevator, Jane followed Theodora – she must have also received Verbovshik’s cast – to the staging room, more out of curiosity than anything else. There, a thin man was pacing. Streaks of white permeated his dishevelled black hair. His grey eyes moved constantly, blurring like skimmed text. Verbovshik was impatient. Two others were already in attendance: Trarius, the machine-like security muscle-man who never smiled or relaxed, and Larnalil, the broad-shouldered, red-haired nurse who presented as female. The latter was one of the few people aboard Taggart’s Cabin somehow privileged enough to have access to makeup, provided by Theodora. The last three times Jane had asked Theodora about that, she had smoothly reminded Jane that it was the luxury of luxuries, rarely found upon a post-cataclysmic planet, and that as soon as the scavengers found more she would pass it along. Without ado, Verbovshik said, “I’ll need biological material,” in rapid, accented English to Jane and everyone else gathered in the staging room, “from those relevant to this issue.” The restless man indicated a nearby pair of scissors and a glass container, both propped up in one of the empty chairs. In other words, nothing from Jane, who was now holding her breath. Could this be the opportunity she’d been waiting for? Predictably, the merest hint of such a mortal threat had the others exchanging worried glances. Trarius the security goon spoke next. “Are we in any danger?” Amazing that his medical heuristic could divert oxygen away from all his muscles to his brain and mouth. Know-it-all Verbov waved the concern away. “Of course not. My disconnection process is sound.” “Then why the sample collecting?” “I thought that would be obvious: for an experiment. Most here represent an ideal control group. Our most recent disconnected will form an impromptu experimental group, allowing me to test a recent hypothesis of mine regarding updated connected security heuristics. So, before we engage in today’s reconnaisance, I’ll need some biological material from you.” Trarius didn’t move. Neither did Theodora or Larnalil. Verbovshik glared at each of them in turn. “You hesitate? After all we’ve achieved together? After all I’ve done for you?” Jane, exempt from this latest scheme of his, indicated the glass container. “Whose hair is in there?” she asked him. “Yours?” Verbov nodded. “Amongst others. I ask nothing of any of you that I wouldn’t ask of myself.” “So magnanimous of you,” Theodora said sarcastically. Larnalil was the first to step forward. No surprise there. The man-woman just about worshipped Verbovshik. This seemed to help the others decide. Once they each snipped at their hair – their backs obfuscating what they were doing to Jane – Verbovshik said, “Let’s proceed with our next task. When you’re all ready, log on to Heofon. Once you’ve spawned inside, proceed to–” “What about login security?” Trarius asked. “Has Mary updated that, too?” Administrators rarely, if ever, allowed strangers to log in to their sims. Non-connected usually had to hack their way in – and evade detection once there. “To the best of my knowledge, Mary hasn’t changed any aspect of her login security.” “Convince me.” “Few things are certain in this world, as I’m sure you’re aware. Run my login script as usual. If any issues arise, I’ll notice soon enough, and troubleshoot accordingly.” He relaxed in his chair, closed his eyes, and immediately appeared to fall asleep. The others decided to follow along, including Jane. She mentally summoned a command line after ‘closing’ her eyes, because a dark background better offset the typically white command line text. While the more intuitive imaginavisual interface could be used, a command line was sometimes faster and more efficient. PlainJane@Taggart’s Cabin: purge Heofon cache --nolog Plausible deniability thus set, she ran Verbov’s login script. PlainJane@Taggart’s Cabin: Hellenist.sim-access --Heofon Hellenist’s psuedo-CAL script, version 0.67. Logging you in to Heofon... Error! Incorrect cache data for Heofon(does not match record). Simulacra login attempt failed and/or stopped. Verbovshik(aka Hellenist) has been notified. PLEASE DO NOT TRY AGAIN, as repeated attempts increases the risk of administrator intervention. Wait patiently for Verbovshik to cast you and diagnose your problem. ‘Opening’ her eyes, Jane stared at the glass container of biological material. Verbov was taking his time. At last, her HUSH automatically dimmed her vision to better eliminate visual noise in favour of new command line text placed in the foreground. Hellenist@Heofon: What happened? PlainJane@Taggart’s Cabin: no clue Hellenist@Heofon: The rest of us can’t stop now. This is too important. I’ll cast someone else to join us. We’ll diagnose your problem later. In the meantime, why don’t you take the biological material to D room? One of Larnalil’s assistants will meet you there. PlainJane@Taggart’s Cabin: okay Better and better. He was practically going out of his way to do everything Jane wanted. She rose, moved past the staging room’s sleeping occupants and fetched the container of biological material. The cramped D room was deserted. Besides the medical cot with it’s restraints, D room’s most interesting feature was it’s human-sized annapod, the only one of it’s kind aboard the entire ocean liner. Hmm…what was that? Jane peered through the annapod’s cylindrical transparent glass casing. Usually, the nutritive solution filling it was completely clear. Over there, however, was a barely noticeable splotch of… something. About the size of her fingernail, the splotch had a white-ish colour, like milk. What was it? Some minor aberration. It didn’t matter. Jane held up the container of biological material, considering it. What she was about to do would feel weird. It was the only method she could immediately think of. This wouldn’t matter either, not for long. “Jane?” She gasped and whirled around. One of Larnalil’s assistants. “Oops, sorry. Hey, one of our disconnected almost started a riot in the asylum. They need me for a while. Be alright on your own?” Now Jane’s heart was racing for a different reason. “No problem,” she said, as nonchalant as she could manage. Now. She wouldn’t ever have a better opportunity than now. She crept outside to monitor the assistant’s progress. As soon as he was out of sight, she retreated inside D room then shut the metal-enforced door. This automatically engaged it’s electronic locking mechanism, which by design, couldn’t be opened from the inside. Opening it from the outside would take anywhere between a few seconds to a few minutes. Then just as long, if not longer, to decide what to do about Jane. That was enough time. She opened the glass container, took a fortifying breath, then raised it and tipped it into her mouth, attempting to suck down or lick up it’s contents. Some of the strands of hair within were troublesome, but soon enough, she had either swallowed everything or at least trapped it inside her mouth. Then Jane stripped as fast as she could. She wasn’t sure whether her clothes would get in the way, but she wasn’t going to risk it. Naked, she awkwardly scrambled up the annapod’s somewhat slippery glass casing, paused at the top, then slid in feet first, submerging herself in the nutritive solution. It was shockingly cold, stealing her breath. Rather than acknowledge her clamouring survival instincts, let alone act upon them, she summoned a command line. The quicker she could log out of reality, the quicker her discomfort would disappear. Her body would function just fine on it’s own, and her consciousness would be transported to inside the sim. PlainJane@Taggart’s Cabin: login to Heofon User PlainJane approved by administrator Mary. Logging you in to Heofon... Jane fell asleep. {Heofon} Wooden pews and stained glass windows. Walls and ceiling of stone. Jane had spawned inside a church. Two men waited for her. The solemn, emaciated man with a pinched face held a strung bow, though no arrow was nocked. The glowering burly man had a massive mace stapped to his back. “Guys, what’s with the medieval weaponry?” Jane teased. “You don’t need those in sims.” To demonstrate, she raised her arms, braced, then whimmed, spawning a rocket launcher to rest upon one of her shoulders. Her legs buckled under the bulky weapon’s heavy burden until she hastily changed it’s weight properties. To the thralls’ credit, they didn’t flinch at the sight of the weapon, or it being aimed at them. Perhaps they didn’t know it was a weapon. What next? Merely throwing the rocket launcher away would be boring. Firing at Mary’s messengers would be fun – freaking them out, pissing them off, and possibly necessitating them to respawn if she ‘killed’ them – yet that risked ruining the deal by crossing a line. Fire the launcher somewhere else? Jane leaned backward, stretching impossibly far at her waist, so that the launcher’s barrel faced up. She squeezed the trigger, causing the weapon to hiss when it ejected it’s payload. The rocket ignited, producing a baleful roar that shouted down the church’s hush. The men winced and covered their ears while the rocket streaked away and exploded into the church’s stony rib vault ceiling. Falling debris prompted the men to curse and jump back. Jane simply whimmed a barrier around her. The men glanced at each other, troubled at the sight of cascading chunks of rock inexplicably bouncing or rolling off her. Tinkling glass and crumbling stone added to the cacophony. Bowman finally addressed the issue by pretending none of it had happened. “Why do you stare at everything, girl?” he challenged. “Don’t you ever blink?” Not in reality, no. Jane may have constructed her saemerself with normal eyes that included eyelids to fit in better, but she wasn’t used to having them or using them. She batted them at him now, which seemed to disconcert him even more. That was fun. “Get to the point,” Jane warned them, “or I’ll disconnect your asses. See how you get along in the real world without Mary to cradle and suckle you.” “What do you–?” Bowman started to speak over Jane, then his eyes flashed, confusion forgotten after hearing Jane speak their so-called mother’s name. “Leash your blasphemous tongue, lest I cut it free.” His brother didn’t bother to speak, instead reaching back to extract his spiked mace and swing it in the one motion. Jane couldn’t resist showing off. She whimmed to become incorporeal, fading almost completely while the thrall’s mace swung impotently through her, then emerged back to normal. Enraged at his failure, the burly bully swung again, for the same result when Jane briefly vanished again. Rematerialising, she sweetly said, “Problem?” “Enough.” Bowman threw out a restraining arm to block his brother. “Mother waits. She bade us to meet with this demon, not duel with her.” The reminder of Mary subsided the maceman more than anything else. “The moment Mother is finished dealing with this demon, I will cleanse this realm of it, in Her name.” Bowman and Jane alike ignored the boast. “Do you have the flesh of the infidels that Mother asked for?” he asked her. “Show me what I was promised,” Jane demanded. Bowman reached behind a pew to pick up a scroll that he handed to Jane. She suspected it was more than it appeared. Her suspicions were confirmed when she touched it, triggering files to begin uploading to her: whitepapers and design documents detailing how she could acquire what she needed, what she lacked, what Verbovshik and the others had. Odd that someone like Mary, so enmeshed in her mystic stone-age simulacrum, would possess such a treasure trove of cataclysm-era information, to say nothing of handing it over to Jane so readily. Perusing the scroll, she could guess why. She would need Mary’s assistance to complete the process. “The flesh of the infidels?” Bowman prompted Jane. She spat at his face for reply. That was fun. After a shocked instant, the burly one collected himself enough to raise his mace. At the same time, Bowman moved again to prevent him. Glaring a warning at Jane, the latter raised a hand to wipe away the spittle. Jane waggled a finger. “Uh uh. Your ‘flesh of the infidels’ is in that.” She could have given the biological data to them in any number of ways. This was more fun. Her assertion stayed his hand. He examined her, not quite daring to wipe away her disrespect yet. “That’s impossible.” “I can prove it.” “How?” “Lick it up.” Jane laughed at the expression on his face. She could get used to ordering idiots around. “Further sensing and consuming it will allow your sipsu to glean all the biological data and cast them to Mommy. Ask her if you don’t know what that means.” “What is… ‘sipp-soo’?” Aww, he tried to understand anyway. Adorable, like a toddler attempting to touch-type by whapping his hands against a keyboard. “Simulacrum Psuedo-Sense Unit.” Jane chuckled. His face! Such a buzz to give him information that he couldn’t possibly understand. Hilariously, the thrall would have to take Jane’s assertions on faith, just like he did with Mary. Neither of these fools knew what a simulacrum was, let alone the fact that they existed within one. Their ignorance gave Jane a thrilling sample of her power over them, the same power that administrators like Mary wielded. Jane thrust out a provocative hip, enjoying their grimace of distaste of being propositioned by a ‘demon’. “Go on then. Eat me.” With the tip of his forefinger, Bowman dabbed at his cheek, collecting a sizeable portion of her spittle there, then inserted that finger in to his mouth. Jane stared, burning with an unexpected flush of desire while his mouth worked. Not quite sexual desire – the only way she would touch one of them was via more spit – but something similar: the rush of power, of domination. She could definitely get used to ordering thralls around. Maceman’s body suddenly slackened, as though he were about to faint. Before that could occur, something seemed to seize him. Despite loosened legs, he remained upright. His jaw slackened, his mouth fell open, and a voice that was not his own rolled out, a voice as dry and old as bound papyrus. “I am pleased.” The ancient woman’s voice skittered through Jane’s ears and gnawed at her mind. She belatedly clapped her hands against her ears in a futile effort to shut it out. After a shaky breath, Jane forced herself to drop her hands. None of this was real. Remember that! Ironic, needing to reassure herself that way. That voice though… Mary was living up to her reputation. “Glad to hear it,” Jane croaked, trying and failing to act casual. “So, the others are dead, then?” The administrator’s statement implied that she’d been able to make use of the biological material to successfully target, then activate the others’ killswitches. “You’ve ended them?” “What you provided enabled me to breach your confederates’ defenses to release their souls from their bodily prisons, which exist no longer.” “Speak plain,” Jane dared to say. She had to make sure. “They’re really dead?” “Yes.” The horrid voice coming out of the twitching man’s mouth somehow sounded amused. “They’re really dead.” “Good.” Jane rubbed her hands together. “Good. I’ve completed my side of our bargain,” she prodded, wanting Mary’s assurance that she would follow through. “Serving faithfully gains my favour. Stating the obvious does not.” Jane held her breath. “Nevertheless, you have served well. You shall ascend.” Jane slumped in relief. At last, she would be free. Hellenist@Heofon: You disappoint me, Jane. {Subjugation} Also in Heofon, Verbovshik had been observing the entire exchange from half a world away, ensconced within a deeply buried bunker full of electronic gadgetry, ingenious devices that, in the imperfect realm, could spy on any exposed spot upon the entire planet. He’d spawned it all within Heofon himself – given enough time combined with a sustained personal effort and discomfort bordering on pain – inspired by technologies invented long ago, during the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. This bunker’s very creation and existence challenged the antiquated esthetic of the Heofon simulacrum. Prior to casting Jane, he wiped all evidence of the compound’s existence. It wouldn’t do for Mary to gain such powerful tools. Despite the risk of warning Jane, Verbovshik had needed to cast his intentions first, if only by implication. Within pre-cataclysm archives, he had discovered that the most enlightened and effective modern law enforcement organisations had not only served their constituencies, they had considered themselves accountable to them. Though few – perhaps none – would know but he, Verbovshik would honour those noble sentiments. Immediately after issuing warrant, so to speak, Verbovshik spawned himself within the church, presenting his saemerself in the guise of Zeus, the ancient Greek god. Overly theatrical, of course, yet entirely necessary – plus a bit of harmless fun. The sudden, inexplicable appearance of such a stern apparition, half again as tall and wide as any human, draped in heavy robes and heavier threat, understandably shook the composure of Mary’s thralls, who gaped and cringed. Such was the point. Trembling in their current state of existential terror, the thralls’ self-confidence was momentarily shaken, leaving them psychically vulnerable; easy pickings for another master. Verbovshik seized them. As luck would have it, their actual master maintained her connection to them, so Verbovshik would have only this moment to take advantage of his increase in power until Mary reassumed control. It would be enough. As a spacecraft increased it’s power by timing a sudden thrust to take advantage of a celestial object’s gravity well, so would Verbovshik increase his power by momentarily taking advantage of these pitiable, passive-minded unfortunates. Larnalil@Taggart’s Cabin: Entire cell culture is dead. Nothing lives. So. Jane had gone through with it. Saddening, to confirm those suspicions. Meanwhile, Verbovshik’s first task was to level this playing field. Engaging Jane – no amateur to simspace – immediately was too risky. When Mary resumed control of her thralls, Verbovshik would be effectively surrounded. This being simspace, he wouldn’t die if captured, not immediately. Compared to what Mary would do to him, however, death would likely be preferable. He wouldn’t let it come to that. At the first hint of serious danger, he would protect himself and escape by logging out – or try to. Thus, he first wielded his temporarily elevated power by cordoning off Jane’s section of the church, forming an enclosing barrier so solid that it would not only be impenetrable, it’s dense mass would suck away the air within, creating a vaccuum. Being suddenly trapped and unable to breathe should occupy Jane for a sufficient period of time. Next, Verbovshik began a process of forcibly disconnecting Mary’s two thralls. Given their ignorance of the simspace they occupied, this was as simple as searching their saemerselfs for all-too-common vulnerabilities to exploit, much the same way as hackers scanned software for broken access controls, buffer overflows, misconfigurations and the like. Within moments, the two thralls vanished, as did Verbovshik’s elevated power – and Mary’s capacity for interference. Thankfully, to the best of Verbovshik’s knowledge, no one – including administrators like Mary – knew how to effect one’s whims beyond one’s sense perception in simpace. Short of Mary herself or another one of her thralls arriving in the vicinity, she could no longer effectively interfere. A subtle cracking pop announced the disintegration of the barrier surrounding Jane. The red-faced woman was lowered upon one knee, struggling to breathe, until she noticeably took hold of herself and stood with suddenly regained vigour, her breathing and the colour of her face returning to normal. “Who are you?” she demanded. The question puzzled him. “Verbovshik.” Who else would he be? “Nice try. You can’t be him, whoever you are, disguising yourself with his face, his body. Mary killed him, and his friends, using the biological material that I gave her to trigger their killswitches.” “Mary ‘triggered’ a clump of blastocysts,” Verbovshik corrected, “previously grown from the biological material that you stole. That material was provided by certain volunteers, not I or the others. Didn’t you notice the discoloured area of the annapod’s nutritive solution? That was the cell culture Larnalil had been tending. She has reported that that culture is lifeless, proof of your treachery.” “A convenient story.” “A truthful story, with the exceptions of my initial cast detailing dead and injured disconnected, as well as the parts I gave everyone else to act out.” Verbovshik sighed. “Why, Jane? Why did you scheme to have us killed?” She scoffed. “Like I’m telling you anything.” Her body abruptly wavered and shimmered like a mirage. Several of Verbovshik’s heuristics gave warning. He focused, triggering a running background process to immediately change the ‘mass’ of almost every existent within sensory range to extreme levels, effecting a surge of ‘gravity’ that would effectively trap her here. The only existential exception to his action was Jane’s body, as trying to change her directly amounted to an act of force, something that she would better anticipate and defend against. She could yet counter this particular process of his and respawn elsewhere, but only by possessing and making use of particular knowledge of physics – within a simular context – or by countering with an overwhelming, administrator-esque amount of brute force. Lacking both, all Jane could do was growl in frustration when she rematerialised. Verbovshik hoped she would try logging out next, though she would probably guess that her body, resting within D room’s annapod, would be covered. Her best course of action would be to re-establish contact with Mary or her thralls, try to finish what she’d started. Wary of further attempts to escape, Verbovshik drawled, “Remember with whom you speak. You know of my experiments.” Verbovshik implored her with his hand. “I must know why. I don’t intend to waggle my finger at you.” “No,” she snarled, “only to deliver me to those who would.” “I must learn,” Verbovshik implored. “If you would tell me, I promise to let you go.” “Yeah, right.” “I can’t speak for anyone else, however.” A pinch of truth to offset his seasoning of lies. “I’ll tell them that Mary helped you overpower me, that I was forced to log out. However long it may take someone to decide to execute your body is however long you’ll have to enact a more preferable solution.” Verbovshik could imagine at least two. She sampled his testimony, chewed upon it. Sagging with sudden weariness, she flopped down upon the nearest pew. “I can’t stand it any more.” “Stand what?” “Everything. That tattered world. Reality.” She cackled. “Or whatever you call it. ‘The impossible realm’.” “The imperfect realm,” Verbovshik corrected. “And I can sympathise.” Her admission disturbed him, representing this unexpected emotional connection they shared. Or was Jane lying, manipulating him, knowing the admission would draw his sympathy? He needed more data. “The imperfect realm is as stubborn as stone, refusing to give up it’s secrets easily, if at all. Simulacra, by contrast, are much more vibrant, accommodating, expressive, malleable. Quite a pity, really, to have to return to the imperfect realm at intervals.” “What if we didn’t have to?” The statement energised Jane enough to make her sit up. She spoke with more enthusiasm. “What if we could exist in sim forever? No logging in or out, no connection or disconnection. Life without limitations. No more being tethered to reality. I – we could be free.” Troubling. “You’re hardly the first to consider that. Others have tried living in sim indefinitely, pre- and post-cataclysm. It’s one of the reasons why humanity fell.” Thinking of the principle behind the idea, Verbovshik added, “Perhaps the reason.” “I knew you wouldn’t agree with me. That’s why I had to go behind your back. And humanity didn’t ‘fall’. We evolved – as you know full well, otherwise we wouldn’t be here. Nor would Mary and her thralls. Nor other administrators and their thralls. Stop being so dramatic.” “Whomever survived managed to do so through sheer luck.” “Or because they were the fittest, the most adaptive. They adjusted to their situation, becoming what they needed to be: administrators and thralls, working together.” “Please don’t insult my intelligence. Subjugation is not cooperation.” “Where it isn’t, it could be. I have it planned – had it planned,” Jane corrected bitterly. “I wouldn’t be an administrator, or a thrall, but a combination of both. Imagine it! Wielding the existence-altering power of an administrator, encapsulated within the blissful ignorance of a thrall.” “How? Almost, I would wish to behold such a twisted abomination. You would be a tyrant and a slave?” “The best of both, the worst of neither.” Madness. How had Verbovshik missed these tendencies within her? Too engrossed in his own work? Unlike most of his allies, Jane had never been connected. Must one have been enslaved to truly appreciate freedom? Perhaps he should leave her for an administrator to claim after all. “So why go to Mary for–?” A church wall exploded. Stony shrapnel whizzed past them. Some of it would have hurled into and through them, likely ‘killing’ them, were it not for their reflexive, hastily raised barriers. Verbovshik momentarily struggled with inexplicable sensations akin to lightening and loosening as something forcibly stopped his running process of high mass, undoing all of it’s effects. Within the new breach in the wall, hunched forward over her sturdy and artistic stone cane, was a haggard, wizened woman wearing a faded white cilice that covered most of her skeletal body. Her wash-watered eyes, nearly devoid of colour, bulged as though something from within pressed against them, yearning to escape. {Confrontation} Time slowed while Verbovshik split his focus to run commands and scripts simultaneously. Hellenist@Heofon: Hellenist.sim-access --Heofon Hellenist@Heofon: logout Heofon Hellenist’s psuedo-CAL script, version 0.67. Logout failed. Permission denied. Logging you out of Heofon... Contact administrator. Error. Ports blocked by administrator. Problematic, though not unexpected. Escape wouldn’t be that easy. Bit by barely perceptible bit, Mary’s non-cane hand began rising. Could Verbovshik respawn elsewhere within Heofon? Relocate beyond her sense perception? Hellenist@Heofon: Hellenist.sim-respawn --self --random Hellenist@Heofon: saemerself respawn --random Saemerself respawn failed. Destination Mount Sinai out of range(pointer unreachable or doesn’t exist). Saemerself respawn failed. Location Babel Tower invalid or doesn’t exist. Some ineffable aspect of Mary’s presence, the force of her will, or both likely affected every existent within her sense perception. This would forcibly prevent any of it, including Verbovshik, from being able to respawn elsewhere, to a different area of the sim, one less affected by her. “Have fun,” Jane said. By the time Verbovshik glanced in her direction, she was disappearing. She didn’t matter now. Mary pointed at him, obviously preparing to whim something. Anticipating what it would be, Verbovshik whimmed at the same time, spawning a metal pole between them, it’s bottom wedged within the church floor. Mary’s bolt of lightning struck it instead of him. Thunder boomed, shaking the church’s foundations and piercing his ears, causing enough pain to prompt him to compartmentalise his ears away from his awareness. Thin fissures of silent strain split through the stony church walls. Mary’s mouth moved, speaking words he couldn’t hear. He paused, belatedly realising he had spawned something new in to…no, no time to ponder that now. Mary was raising her other hand as well – her unsupported stone cane remained upright – to further hone her focus for who-knew what purpose. Verbovshik didn’t intend on staying and discovering what it would be. The metal pole remained. Good. Time to experiment. He could have ran toward the pole. Instead, he whimmed, wondering if he could respawn there… …and then was beside it. Good. Mary couldn’t or wouldn’t prevent his moving about within her sense-percepted influence. His idea seemed viable. He concentrated fully upon the metal pole, partly preparing to change it’s properties, partly anticipating resistance from Mary. While he felt mental pressure – his eyes struggled to remain on target as their muscles wanted to relax; his mind’s eye, as it were, felt the same – it wasn’t as much as he’d anticipated. She was too focused on what she was doing – her cane-hand was nearly hovering at the same height as her non-cane hand – or she didn’t care about what he was doing, or both. Consequently, Verbovshik was able to effect a change in the pole’s height – a massive change. The metal pole suddenly thrust upward like a mythical beanstalk, through a convenient hole in the church roof. Up and up into Heofon’s murky sky stretched the metal pole, growing higher every second, until he could no longer discern it’s tip. He knew it continued to grow, because beside him, the pole’s width was burgeoning accordingly, grinding against, then through the church floor. The widened base of the metal pole base blocked Mary’s view of him, giving him an extra second while she shifted her position to compensate. Go. As additional information is sometimes needed to bridge a gap between two concepts, so too did the recently changed metal pole now bridge a gap between Mary’s sense-percepted region of Heofon and elsewhere, far away from her, where Verbovshik needed to be. Thus did he reach out and touch the metal pole, thereby to respawn himself at it’s pinnacle. The next instant, frigid air roared around him. He began falling until he hastily extended his arms and legs to wrap himself around the much-thinner section of metal pole, exposed in this desolate, thinly oxygenated space. Clinging to the pole, he felt like a damsel in distress from a pre-cataclysm movie. Gasping and shivering, hyper-aware of the passing seconds, he nonetheless luxuriated in savage satisfaction, clenching a fist in triumph. Success! Verbovshik had respawned within Mary’s area of influence as much as away from it, via one of it’s existents, the metal pole. Two sensations warned him: plunging from a lack of support, and the feel of rising heat from below. Was Mary melting the pole? Why she hadn’t followed him up here was anyone’s guess. Hellenist@Heofon: Hellenist.sim-respawn --self --Athens The avid audience sat on the edge of their stone seating at the amphitheatre, wondering what would happen next. It was night here as well. Verbovshik, sitting at the far end of one line of patrons, eased out a long sigh of relief. His sudden presence and noise startled people nearby, whose exclamations were shushed by others. While Verbovshik would be more anonymous amongst the connected, he wasn’t safe yet. Haunted by uneasy thoughts of a deus ex machina, Verbovshik retreated to find a quiet, secluded spot where he wouldn’t be interrupted. Hellenist@Heofon: Hellenist.sim-access --Heofon Hellenist’s psuedo-CAL script, version 0.67. Logging you out of Heofon... Error! Ports blocked. Administrator is actively monitoring and blocking commonly used ports. Attempting to access other ports... ... Failed to discover available ports. Cloaking saemerself using data, activities and parameters of existing connected and/or logged in user(s)... ... Ports found. Logging you out of Heofon... Verbovshik’s eyes fluttered open. He was safe, returned to the imperfect realm – D room, specifically, aboard the ocean liner. Trarius, his muscular security man, waited nearby, the gorgeous Theodora with him. Verbovshik had been sitting in the staging room when he’d first logged on to Heofon. Now, he and most of the relevant others – including Larnalil, whose ringlet-arranged auburn hair and eager face suggested a countenance that was perhaps out of place during this sombre moment – were here in D room. Trarius must have carried Verbovshik’s body here while he’d been asleep. Jane’s body rested peacefully inside the nutritive-solution-filled annapod. The innocent-looking would-be murderer wasn’t yearning to be born, but to be aborted. Seeing Verbovshik’s opening eyes, Trarius wasted no time in striding to the annapod and climbing it. No one spoke while he reached down in to the annapod, grasped it’s occupant around the neck, then hoisted her up and out to toss her body aside to the floor below. Limp flesh and lively water splattered D room’s floor. Trarius jumped off the annapod, crouched beside Jane’s head then twisted it with a savage flourish. His swift execution was all the more chilling for his utter lack of apparent emotion. “She has likely escaped us,” Verbovshik informed him, “via Heofon and Mary.” “Not for long,” Trarius said with apparent calm. “We will find either her new body, or irrefutable evidence that she exists no longer. Assuming the former, you will then disconnect her while I leave and fetch her to face justice.” “A solid plan.” It would remain secondary, however, to Verbovshik’s primary plan, started prior to this whole sorry situation unfolding: disconnecting the Chinese woman.

Thanks for that EC Credits Skinner box vid link, Michael. That’s the one I was trying to look for to link to in my original post. Also EC Credits related, they recently split Youtube content channels for reasons I can’t remember/don’t understand, so everyone else may immediately find more interesting EC Credits-based content from them here, at their ExtraHistory channel. And CGP Grey’s vids, whilst not video game related, are all interesting and watchable too. Video game documentaries These tend to be longer videos. I remember enjoying watching The Story of Tetris, and many other videos from Gaming Historian. Those of who who may have heard about certain games and wondered what the fuss was about, while not necessarily wanting to invest time in playing them, might be interested in one of Noah Caldwell Gervais’ typically lengthy videos. For a more succinct introduction to his content, perhaps consider this point of his examination of the entire Half Life series to date, where he discusses Half Life Alyx, Valve software’s VR-based entry to the series, for about twenty minutes. He makes some interesting points about VR gaming in general and how certain he is that Half Life three, which is widely considered vapourware, will eventually be released. Those of you who know of or who have enjoyed any of Square’s Final Fantasy series may not know or remember that they released a game waaaay back on the Playstation one called Vagrant Story, which apparently managed to garner one of the first ever ‘perfect’ scores (40/40 or something, IIRC) from a well-regarded Japanese games review magazine, as told in this video. Why haven’t you heard as much about VS as a typical Final Fantasy game? You may wish to skip Vagrant Story’s development history and start here, where the game itself is discussed, beginning with it’s snappy film-inspired opening, unheard of at the time for any (typically slow)Japanese role-playing game. The video then goes on to discuss story telling techniques used in the game(TLDW: unreliable narrator, as well as conflicting narratives and/or lies). If any of you actually played and enjoyed Vagrant Story as I did(it’s apparently a bit of a ‘cult classic’, as it’s gameplay wasn’t quite as ‘perfect’ as it could have been), this entire video will be quite interesting. Special mention: Vagrant Story’s soundtrack, which is just as beautiful as any Final Fantasy soundtrack.