#are you stupid. do you know what vast quantities of things are placed under the label of artificial intelligence

[anachronistic-falsehood]

"THEY USED AI FOR SPOTIFY WRAPPED >:(" ok and?? fork found in kitchen??? like. did you think spotify didn't use ai?? did you think a single person lovingly handcrafted every single daylist that changed multiple times a day for you?? do you think your music recommendations are personally picked out for you??? did you think a single person is assigned to each spotify user to meticulously keep track of every single podcast and song you listen to throughout the year and would stay awake all night if you're listening to rain sounds just in case you wake up and change it so they can frantically write down that you listened to calming white noise at 3 am on a tuesday night??? did you all not see the spotify dj x that has been there for like idk months??? ai is not a monolith of terrible things. this is an algorithm of course artificial intelligence is going to be used

[carryonsimoncarryonbaz]

SKIN DEEP—a fic

So Rainbow had a pretty funny exchange on Twitter yesterday about the Watford crew and teenage acne, and in particular if Baz would have acne. Which she said he most certainly would. So, being me, I had to go write a fic about it. Because I have no chill and even less self control. So here is a slightly crack-y fic, set at pre-canon era Watford, as hormones start to surge and Simon becomes pimple obsessed.

Screen shots of Rainbow’s tweets at the end of this post, to prove this lunacy had a real life prompt.

Simon and Baz fourth year, as the ravages of adolescence commence. Pimples, blemishes and spots. Questionable concoctions. The roots of Baz’s immaculate skin care regimen. Some things even a vampire can’t avoid.

Skin Deep

Year Four

Simon

I’m just about to splash water on my face when I notice them in the mirror. I mean, I’ve been expecting this to happen. I saw the older boys go all spotty at the homes. There’s no way I’d be lucky enough to be spared.

But fuck it all. I’ve got one on the side of my nose, two on my chin and one right between my eyebrows. How did I get all these pimples in one night?

I’m half tempted to think Baz spelled me. But that’s not his style, he doesn’t sneak about doing something like this, even though he’s a prick and a plotter. No, he did things like this when we were first years, but now when Baz spells me he wants everyone to know what he’s done.

Makes a production of it, the wanker.

Like when he knocks my boater off. Spells my shoes untied during class, so I trip when I stand up. Or seals the lid on the butter dish at breakfast.

If Baz was going to spell me spotty he’d do it in on a Monday, right before class, when everyone would notice. Not in our room, on a Saturday morning, when we’ve got nothing to do and nowhere to go.

He’s still asleep so if he did do it, it must have been in the night and really what would be the bloody point of that?

I have to reluctantly admit it’s probably not him this time. It’s me. I was just hoping this particular stage of puberty would just pass me by.

The other milestones have been coming one right after another though, so I guess I’m not that lucky.

I’ve got hair in more places now.

And I grew three inches this summer (Baz grew four, the tosser, so he’s still taller than me).

He’s taller but it’s like he fits in his body. Glides when he walks. Smooth as silk on the pitch. Bloody infuriating, is what it is.

I feel like a marionette on a string, my arms and legs all out of sync, knocking into furniture and tripping over my own feet, even when my shoes are tied.

And my voice has been doing that stupid thing where it gets all deep mid-sentence, and then it goes up so high I sound like Madame Bellamy. It’s bloody awful. Baz always gives me shit about it --“going to break into song for us, Snow?”

He’s such a prick.

I lean in closer to the mirror. The ones on my chin are small. It’s the nose one that’s a disaster.

No help for it. I’ll ask Penny if there’s a spell at breakfast. Though I doubt there is, seeing as Agatha’s been spotty for weeks and I know she’d use a spell, if there was one. Penny says Agatha spells her hair to be that straight and shine like it does. I wasn’t sure I believed her but some days it’s got a bit of an uneven wave to it so I wonder if Penny may be right.

*******

“No, Simon, there isn’t a spell.” Penny is using her patient voice with me, which means she thinks my question is unbearably stupid. She leans across the table to peer at me over her glasses. “You’ve hardly got any.”

“I might only have four now. But just you wait. They’re bound to get worse. With my luck I’ll be covered in them.”

“You don’t know that. And even if they do get worse it’s human nature! The universal teen experience!”

I groan.

“It won’t be that bad, Simon. Besides everyone’s spotty.”

“Baz isn’t spotty.”

She rolls her eyes. “Not Baz again, please.”

“Have you seen him, Penny?”

“I see him every day, Simon.”

“Yes, but have you really looked?”

“Obviously not as intently as you.”

“I live with him!”

I get another eye roll.

“He’s not got one spot! I tell you, it’s proof he’s a vampire. You can’t go through normal adolescence and be as pristine as all that.”

“Everyone goes through puberty at different times. He’s probably not at that stage yet.”

“He’s taller than me!”

“He’s always been taller than you.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“It’s not like he has any control over that, Simon. It’s genetics.”

I know that. I know height isn’t something that you can magick. But it just doesn’t seem fair that each time I grow enough to catch up to him, he grows too.

He did it last summer. Did it again this summer. Even grew over the Christmas holiday this year, the jammy bastard.

And now I’m sprouting pimples right and left and he’s across the dining hall with his flawless, pearly grey skin. Not a spot to be seen.

Typical.

****

I can tell I’ve got more when I wake up. Bloody hell. The old ones dry up and get crusty and new ones take their place.

My face feels heavier this morning. I grimace and I know there’s one on the side of my nose again. It pinches when my cheeks move so it must be massive. And the one on my chin itches— it’s probably grown overnight, red and welted around that nasty white center. I can’t even imagine what my forehead looks like.

I’ve tried everything.

Washing my face twice a day.

Alcohol to try to dry them out (didn’t do a thing, except make my skin all flaky so I looked like I had dandruff and the pox).

I borrowed some ointment off of Gareth. (He’s worse off than me, the poor sod, just a face full of them.) (Which should have tipped me off that whatever he was using wasn’t working.) (Got an earful from Penny about that.)

I had some sort of allergic reaction when I used his, so my face was itching, red even in the areas between the spots, and felt like it was on fucking fire.

Practically scrubbed my face off trying to wash it away.

Of course, Baz walked in right as I came out of the en suite. Did a double take at the sight of me, the wanker, then raised that eyebrow of his and curled his lip up in a sneer. Leaned forward and studied me for a moment. My face got even hotter. I don’t like it when he stares at me like that, all intense and focused. Like he’s plotting the best way to end me without triggering the Anathema. Makes my stomach twist, it does.

Made me wish my wand wasn’t half way across the room.

But I know Baz won’t risk the Anathema. He’s never done anything remotely threatening in our room. (It’s another story out of our room.)

He’d crossed his arms over his chest after he was done inspecting me and smirked, the tosser. “You know, Snow, between the excessive quantity of moles, infinite number of freckles, and extraordinary collection of pimples you have on your face, I don’t think I can actually see anything resembling skin anymore.”

He’s going to make me trigger the Anathema one of these days.

I ended up having to see the nurse for it, when I couldn’t stop scratching at my face. She rolls her eyes almost as much as Penny. It’s not like I can help being there so often. I’ve got missions. Important work for the Mage. It’s what I do.

She’d shaken her head at me and cast some spell that made the itching go away but didn’t do a thing for the bloody spots. Looked bored and put upon even doing that, she did.

This teen experience is a bloody nuisance.

I’m more and more convinced Baz is a vampire. The entire class looks poxed except for him. Like we’re in the middle of a plague while he’s all alabaster skin, unblemished and smooth, immaculate and bloody flawless.

Perfect, just like he always is.

Wanker.

Baz

Snow is an absolute spotted mess. It was entertaining at first, to watch him peer at himself in the mirror, hear the muttered curses as he would catch sight of each new blemish.

But I’m actually finding myself almost feeling sorry for him now.

Almost.

He’s standing at his mirror, turning his face this way and that, grumbling to himself as he inspects his reflection.

It’s something he does on a daily basis since his skin condition deteriorated so precipitously. I should probably stop needling him about it.

But I won’t because he actually seems quite bothered by it. Can’t let him think I’m going soft.

I wasn’t joking the other night, when I mocked him. I don’t think he has a span of skin left that doesn’t have some manner of spot or blotch or freckle on it. At least he’s stopped with the alcohol washes. He was shedding more than a snake when he was doing that, leaving errant flakes of skin all over the bathroom sink.

Disgusting.

Whatever he’s doing certainly isn’t making anything better. Making it a far sight worse by my estimation.

He’s literally a textbook illustration of acne vulgaris. The full range: from red and bumpy spots, to glaring pustules, to crusted over, scabby craters.

More like a walking dermatologic visual in actuality. You could slap a label on him: progressive stages of teenage acne and the entire range of pigmented facial anomalies.

Although they weren’t really anomalies before the acne got to Snow. His moles and freckles just seem to fit with his tawny skin—vast arrays of constellations scattered across his face, mapping out patterns against the smoothness of his complexion.

I don’t know what I’m thinking. What absolute nonsense. Snow’s freckles are a travesty.

And he’s anything but smooth complexioned. He’s more of a lunar landscape than Shakespeare’s damask’d roses.

I can’t be arsed to mess with him now though. I’m too comfortable under my blankets.

It’s far too early for anyone to be up, but Snow’s probably readying himself to head off on one of the Mage’s blasted missions again. Despite the fact that it’s a Sunday morning and by all accounts he should be doing what the rest of us are—having a lazy lie-in.

I watch him from under half-lidded eyes, the blankets pulled up to cover the bottom half of my face. He growls one last time, savages his curls in an attempt to tame them, and then charges out the door. It slams shut behind him, further proof that Snow has no regard for the niceties of sharing a room.

Thanks to all his thumping about, I’m now wide awake. I try to go back to sleep, try to will myself into a drowsy oblivion, but that ship has sailed. No Sunday lie-in for me and I lay the blame directly on Snow.

I stay under the covers for a bit longer, dreading the chilly walk to the en suite, but eventually my need to piss outweighs the comfort of the bed.

It’s not until I’m washing my hands and happen to glance up at the mirror that I notice.

There’s a pimple on my nose. Not just on my nose—at the very tip of it. Right in the fucking center of my face. If it were anywhere else—my forehead or my cheeks, for example—I’d have some chance of hiding it. But this. I can’t hide this.

And I can’t hide the one on my chin either. Bloody hell.

I shouldn’t even have pimples. I should by all rights be immune to this. I don’t get sick, I’m not prey to infections—how the bloody hell have I ended up with acne, for Crowley’s sake? It should be one of the perks of being undead—imperviousness to the ravages of teenage skin eruptions.

For half a minute I wonder if Snow has spelled me, in retribution for my insensitive commentary on his facial imperfections. But there is no possible way Snow could have managed a spell this precise, this nuanced. I’d be covered in boils, like Job himself, if Snow had attempted to pox me.

That’s not to say that this is acceptable. It most assuredly is not. And there’s no bloody spell for it. Dev’s been spotty since last year and he and Niall have yet to find anything that does more than slightly diminish the redness.

It’s fine. This is fine.

It’s not fine.

I need to call home and talk to Daphne. Surely she’ll have some advice for me.

Simon

The sunlight filtering through the window wakes me up. I’m still knackered from yesterday. Didn’t get back until well after midnight and I’ve got class in just a bit. I stretch and groan as my shoulder pops. I wrenched it trying to free my sword from that basilisk’s skull last night. I roll my neck and pull myself to a seated position.

Baz is already up. The door to the en suite’s closed but I don’t hear the water running.

My stomach growls. I’ll have time for seconds if I get to breakfast early enough. I’m just about ready to head down there when Baz comes out of the bathroom, steam drifting behind him and bringing the scent of his shampoo with it. It’s some posh brand, in sleek, artistically shaped bottles.

Penny says it smells like cedar and bergamot. I’m not sure what cedar and bergamot smell like. All I know is that the scent is unfairly pleasant.

Unlike Baz, who isn’t pleasant at all.

He looks murderous at the moment, eyebrows lowered, eyes narrowed. He’s an arse in general but more so in the mornings. He’d sleep late if he had the chance—he’s rarely out of bed before nine on weekends, the tosser, not unless he’s got exams to study for or an away match.

I’m trying to stay out of his way as I leave but I make for the door right as he crosses the room to his wardrobe and we do this awkward half step to avoid each other.

And that’s when I see it.

He’s got a pimple on his nose. Right at the tip of it, where it comes to a bit of a point. It’s nothing compared to any of mine. I’d hardly notice it on anyone else but this is Baz.

It’s stark against his pale skin, raised and just slightly reddened.

Fuck. He’s got one on his chin as well. Two, actually.

Baz has spots.

Trivial and hardly noticeable ones, but still.

I open my mouth to say something then think better of it and hightail it down to breakfast.

I still can’t quite believe it.

Baz has spots.

Penny is disappointingly unimpressed by this unexpected and highly irregular development.

“Simon, we all have spots. This is not some earth-shattering revelation. It’s puberty. A normal part of human development. We’ve been over this.”

“No, but this is Baz. Baz, Penny. He’s not human.”

Penny rolls her eyes again. She rolls her eyes rather a lot, I’m thinking. “He is if he has spots, Simon. I’d say this disproves your vampire hypothesis for good.”

“Maybe vampires aren’t immune to acne.”

“Simon.”

“Maybe it’s some plot. He probably magicked them up himself, the scheming prick.”

“You’re relentless! First you’re outraged that he doesn’t have spots, now you’re complaining that he does! For Merlin’s sake, Baz has finally shown himself to be as imperfect as the rest of us, so let it go, Simon.”

“He’s not imperfect. Far from it. Even his pimples are impeccable—small, unobtrusive, uh . . . restrained.”

Penny stands up, takes her plate and glares at me over the top of her glasses. “That’s enough, Simon. You’re being absurd. No one has perfect pimples.” She stomps across the hall to deposit her dishes, turning back to give me a disapproving look.

I scowl at her. Baz walks in as Penny goes out.

She’s wrong this time. Penny’s not wrong about much, but she’s wrong about this.

Baz’s pimples are fucking perfect.

It’s so fucking unfair.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23383057

[saiyanhajime]

My First Artist Alley at a Comic Con… What I’ve Learnt

I’ve thought about selling my wears in artist alley for something like ten years now… And aside from feeling like my stuff isn’t good enough to compete until relatively recently, the main reason I hadn’t given it a whirl until now was the cost. I couldn’t understand how it would be financially viable, and if you’re here to find the quick answer to that same burning question, the answer is it’s not - at least for me. But if I’m being honest and perhaps a little harsh, I can’t really see how it could be what I would consider truly “worthwhile” for all but the most successful artists in the alley when you factor in all expenses.

But would I do it again? Hell yes. Did I have fun? Absolutely! Was there value in networking, making friends and social media gains? Yes, yes and yes!

I went to London Comic Con Spring run by Showmasters. I choose this con because of a few reasons, namely that it was the next local con with tables left when I started seriously obsessing over wanting to do this.

The stall was very reasonable at £80 (but I paid an extra £30 for an additional person to help out.)

This convention is a lot more Film and TV focused than was ideal for what I thought my audience would be - with their main highlight being their guest signings. I knew this going in and my assumptions were right, I think. That said, the “small press” section of the event was wildly varied, but it did feel like actual comic creators were doing the best of us all.

The Expenses

The costs add up, fast. A £ here and there and you’ve racked up £500 or so worth of expenses before you’ve even factored in potential travel, food and hotels… Let alone time. I know you’re probably thinking you wouldn’t spend that much, but believe me - if you record EVERY cost related to getting your stall together, you’ll be shocked how fast it accumulates. You’ll find yourself looking at all the £3-5 you spent on bits n bobs wondering how the final sum is so high.

I know what you’re thinking… You can do it cheaper. I just didn’t try hard enough to get these costs down. But believe me, I did.

I spent way more time than was worthwhile researching costs - these prices include VAT & they include shipping -  I wanted the most accurate picture of the hard cash I would actually have to spend up front… And the oddly expensive ones like the postcards cost so much because I effectively paid a premium to have multiple designs. My logic was to try lots of different things, learn as much as possible, but have few in quantity of each design. That way, the flops hurt less. You pay more per item for that privilege, but what’s the use in having 100 of something that won’t sell? I’d rather learn from x10 of something even if I’m making half the profit “per item”. 

That’s a mistake a think so many businesses make - don’t think of profit per item, think of it in profit on entire expenses. I made a huge loss, just like I expected. :) My 100 postcards for example costing £50 makes them 50p each, and selling at £1.50 means £1 profit per postcard. That’s £100 profit! Except I only sold 10 - that means a £35 loss for the time being. It’s not a profit until you recoup the whole cost. And I thought of the whole cost as that £550 sum from the get go. Only once I cover all accumulated costs am I making a profit.

But most of these costs are reusable… I could go to another con tomorrow and only pay an additional £150 or so for the table, travel, etc. and have enough stock and a decent display. And that’s my intention - don’t give up, do a few, then evaluate. THEN give up. :)

So realistically, you need to be willing to waste £800+ to find out if this game is for you. That’s a big chunk of money not to be sniffed at and you should be aware of that before you jump in.

The Products

What should I take? Who should I order it from?? How much stock do I need???

These are unanswerable questions because they are highly personal. I see soooo many “where should I get prints from??” with people expecting an easy answer. There isn’t one. But I can try and explain why there isn’t one. I think a lot of newbies assume creators don’t want to share their suppliers because they’re being protective or don’t want the competition - nonono, it’s that the answer is different for everyone. An established, popular and successful artist in the alley is likely ordering huge bulk orders from a supplier that has a minimum order of hundreds or thousands. What good is that information to us newbies? It’s useless.

Prints 

In the end, I took 7 print designs…. All fanart, with 4 of the designs being Dragon Ball, 2 of the designs Sonic the Hedgehog and one of GLaDOS from Portal 2. Two of the designs were on A3 and the rest on A4.

I ordered A4 and A3 prints from different suppliers, as they were cheaper this way, EVEN with the postage factored in - which is absolutely ridiculous I know, but you begin to see why “x company is best for prints!” is a useless piece of advice. But sit tight, cuz it gets way worse.

I ordered as few as possible, but a couple of websites had the same price for 5 as the other did for 10, etc. so I went with the one that offered more for the same, obviously. I had x6 (including the display print) of each A4 print and x10 of each A3 - not because I thought they would sell twice as much, just because that’s the least I could get for the cheapest price! And to make matters even more complex - I made those orders based on coupons I had found and you often can’t see the total inc postage until you’ve got everything in your basket and entered your address and email. I looked at maybe 20 suppliers. Imagine how long that took, just for prints. And if I did the same thing tomorrow, it wouldn’t be the same suppliers who were cheaper - coupons and offers change the game, quantity required changes the game. Getting 30 A4 prints might be cheaper on one site, but it might be better to get them from another if you’re after 40, and it definitely will be if you’re wanting them to be all the same - then you can probably get 100 for less than I paid. Nightmare. And you find yourself going “but I can get 100 of the same print for £17 - maybe it’s worth the investment…” Maybe? Who knows! Probably not though.

I don’t think I’d bother with ordering A3 again anytime soon - the main reason is that A3 cellophane bags and carrier bags big enough for such a large print are quite a considerable added expense… And a lot of potential buyers commented how they loved a print but just don’t have the wall space. I also couldn’t find a supplier that would offer to print less than 10 A3 prints in one design. One buyer commented that they would get one of my other prints if it was larger - but would they? I know from experience selling online that people often say “oh man I’d so get a ____ if you did one!” and you do and you even link it to them and then silence. Don’t take what potential customers say too seriously, unless you’ve got a decent number of them telling you the same thing. But for me, 3 people telling me that on top of my other reasons for disliking A3 is enough to go, ok… Forget A3.

Perhaps my best piece of advice is to sign up to every supplier's newsletter. I get emailed deals almost daily now and if you’ve got the time to play with, it’s worth getting your stuff ready for print and just sitting and waiting for that coupon to drop. 15-20% off can make a huge difference to your margins. I purposefully waited until January to place my orders, expecting a post Christmas assortment of deals, and I was right. Bare in mind that many suppliers can take a while to get stuff to you and it might not be right - so don’t cut it too late to order things. I ordered everything just under two months ahead of the con and had plenty of time to then play with and practise setting up how I was going to display things.

So, how did the prints do? I sold out of the Sonic and Shadow print - including the display, which I sold at a marked down rate. I sold 2 of each A3 print - Great Ape Vegeta vs Goku and GLaDOS… 1 of Majin Vegeta, 2 of Fleetway Super Sonic. None of Gogeta or Shenron.

So, Dragon Ball wasn’t so hot, Sonic absolutely was. Is that a long term trend, or just this con? Hell if I know.

I didn’t have a portfolio book with my prints in on the table - I thought that was a waste of space if I can fit them all up on my display - but with hindsight, you get two types of people... Those who aren’t interested in artist alley stalls and pass through at a distance and a print up high MIGHT catch their eye and bring them over. But the vast majority of people you’ll sell to have their eyes down at the tables as they pass. This was the most important thing I learnt - I’d read so much about how important it is to use “vertical” space and tried to get as much off the table as possible, but by day 2 I was spreading more out on the table until every inch of it was covered. I often had to tell people about my prints and they would look up having not noticed them! I had read that people recommend having a portfolio book for people to thumb through - but I hadn’t really understood the benefit of that. Having people touch and interact with stuff on the table is such a valuable interaction that sparks natural conversations. It’s really important to have physical stuff ON the table, perhaps more so than getting a fancy vertical setup. If you’re strapped for cash - ditch the idea of grid cubes or similar completely. Just lay stuff out.

Postcards

When my postcards arrived I immediately realised I’d made a stupid mistake. I was obsessed with getting the display vertical and having lots of different designs. Having so many different postcards to display was a nightmare that I think impacted the whole setup. The wall they created took light away from one side of the display, they were really quite oppressive! - and I knew this before I even went to the show, but I didn’t know how else to display them. I don’t think I would order postcards again, they barely sold… But the 90 I have leftover will be displayed in a photo album on the table next time for sure. Seems so obvious now! They were a HUGE waste of money - they’re expensive for what they are to get made and the retail price of them is abysmal. But, there were a couple of times when people who didn’t have the money for a big print maybe wouldn’t have bought anything, but I had something cheap and cheerful to offer, which was nice. The other cool thing about them is you can have your website on the back and it doesn’t seem out of place or weird.

The main problem with finding a postcard provider was I couldn’t find anywhere that would do small print runs to allow me to order several designs, so I ended up going with the one company I knew who’d do that - Moo. But man are they expensive - I could have got 500 postcards of one design for less than half what I paid for 100 of 25 diff designs - but again, having the variety mattered to me.

Postcards are a pain and not worth it, which explains why I so rarely see them for sale. Lesson learned!

If you have a decent inkjet printer, postcards are super easy to make and I used to do this before I lost patience with inkjet home printers and switched to laser. Just get thick photo paper, already the correct size!

Stickers

I had a mix of kiss-cut and die-cut stickers that by day two I was spreading out on the table and absolutely getting more sales as a direct result… They still didn’t do exceptionally well, but I don’t regret having them. They’re a solid low-retail-price staple of the artist alley table. Pieces of art with a purpose, especially in the age of reusable water bottles. A couple of fellow artists noted that my stickers were very cheap priced at £1.50 and I kind of agree. I think next time they will be £2 and this won’t negatively affect sales. There’s a common fallacy that making something cheaper will increase sales - the likelihood is that it won’t, and when you think how many more sales you have to make to gain the same profit, you realise this is the case. Just that small difference of 50p would mean you have to sell 25% less stickers to make the same amount of money. Isn’t that insane? When you think of it this way, pricing your items right really matters.

I also had sticker sheets - the Baa (from Dragon Ball) ones I only sold one of, to a child who I’m not sure even knew what they were from, but the Sonic sheet did pretty well! I didn’t see many other artists rocking Sonic stuff - or even much Sonic stuff on the wider show floor - which is surprising given the recent film release. I guess I just tapped into a niche, but it’s hard to tell.

Several suppliers of stickers offer multiple designs as standard, or a small surcharge for having multiple designs. Shop around. Stickers are overpriced from many suppliers. The popular choice of Stickermule often run deals where you can get 50 for £19, but even this deal price is quite expensive for x50 of the same sticker. They are by far the best quality stickers, to be fair to them… But you don’t need x50 of one sticker for the purpose of artist alley. I’ve jumped on Stickermule promos in the past where they charge £1 for 10 stickers. That’s a great opportunity to try out design you’re really not sure about. I can’t stress enough how important newsletter signup to suppliers is!

Honestly, Zap Creatives are the only company I’ve used that I would recommend without a second thought. Their customer service is exceptional, their postal packaging is not only environmentally friendly but also adequate (I had a lot of issues with other suppliers packaging and items arriving to me damaged! Another reason you need to order far in advance.) and their prices are transparent and extremely good value. They have free postage (globally, I believe!), which makes it so easy to see how much you’ll be spending at a glance. They have detailed “how to” pages for setting up your files. They’re a dream come true. Sign up to their newsletter, follow them on socials, give them your money - they deserve it. Not sponsored, just genuinely impressed.

Comic

Back at Uni a friend and I made a little comic, and I got some more copies made and took it along because, why not… It is COMIC con after all, and this convention actually calls the artist alley “small press”. It sold pretty well for an independent original to a wide variety of people, young and old. It made me really happy to see an original work sell! You’d be surprised how cheap getting a book printed can be - but be willing for the pages to be slightly misaligned and the paper quality eh. But if you just want a cheap comic printed or a zine, it is very doable in small runs even as low as 10. Remember that stuff doesn’t need to be perfect. Don’t stress over imperfections. I wouldn’t recommend the supplier I used because their delivery was an abysmal royal shit-show, but their customer service made up for it and then their re-delivery was only a slightly less abysmal royal shit-show on the second attempt. So, I won’t mention them.

On that note - if a supplier isn’t good enough, get in touch with their customer services and be nice but tell them it’s not good enough. Give them a chance to fix things.

Traditional Art Originals

I took a lot of traditional media original artworks with me, mostly because I had them already. I sold one low value original.

This was a little heartbreaking because the sale of just one high value original would have pushed the worthwhileness a long way - but it is a lot of money to expect people to spend and is a luck of the draw situation, for sure.

However, the larger ones definitely attracted attention to my stall and created conversation - so I’d say if you have larger originals or small low value quick drawings, they’re worth bringing, but I wouldn’t make any for the intent of selling in the future.

I don’t think a single person thumbed through my plate rack of originals. It was a poor display idea. Don’t recommend it at all. But I can’t think of a better idea other than individual easel displays which take up valuable table space better used for spreading out other items flat.

How could I have done better?

I think having more variety of franchises in my prints was the only HUGE mistake that I kinda knew before I arrived might be an issue. The reason I didn’t was I was worried about space and this could have been avoided had I just listened to the advice I read and had a portfolio out - I even have an A4 portfolio book! Stupid. I’m stupid.

Would I have done enough better to make a profit? No way haha.

How did other people seem to be doing?

It didn’t seem like anyone was doing particularly well… But without knowing peoples numbers, it’s hard to say. And I doubt many people keep the obsessive books I do.

I am pretty sure a lot of convention artists don’t realise the amount they are spending vs the amount they aren’t making… But I could be wrong. There’s a lot of talk of “making table” which I did make back, but I came nowhere close to making back all associated costs. I think for it to be legitimately financially “worthwhile”, you’d have to take about £2k over a weekend - to account for the time and all expenses and paying yourself a decent wage. And if your prints are £10 each, that’s more than 10 prints sold an hour. No one was anywhere near this busy. No way.

A few artists told me this isn’t the most amazing show in the first place and they’ve done worse than they did at this same show last year, even if it seemed physically busier at times this year. A lot of this game is luck of the draw - who’s turning up, how much do they have to spend, what's the weather doing, etc. etc…

Do I need a card reader?

My sales were about 50/50 cash and card… But I ran out of exact change at one point, so being able to take card payments saved the sale. I have a Sum Up reader as it was the cheapest to buy up front and I had no issues with it the whole weekend. At £20 it was a bargain. I think I would rather have that than the cube display grid, for example.

Do you have any cost shaving tips?

Oh hell yeah!

First up - like I said before - sign up to every single potential supplier newsletter. Some of them send out coupons almost weekly.

I bought very little in the way of display equipment and salvaged the rest...

I borrowed some plate stands from my nan, I took empty cardboard displays from ASDA and Sainsbury's (I’d try Walmart or Target in the USA). These were great because they fold down flat for transporting, are light and FREE! Keep your eyes peeled when you’re out shopping for ones which might be the right size for your products. Often times you can transfer the one or two items left in them to another box in the store, or they’re simply empty. I found ASDA best for having completely unbranded boxes. I also made some stands for my small originals from thick card rather than by expensive display racks that are heavy to transport and cost a bomb.

Pick local shows if you can and research thoroughly your transport options and the cost. Parking, trains, hotel costs and eating out can be extortionate additions to your overall expense that are easily forgotten.

Make sure you can carry your setup and don’t need to spend additional money on an Uber or something to help you move shit around!

Use what you have. Don’t buy storage boxes and suitcases and trolleys if you don’t have to. Sure, they might make your life slightly easier, but maybe wait and see how your first few cons go.

Any other tips or things you wish you’d known?

One thing that was kinda stressing me out was leaving stock overnight, but I realised there’s a whole show floor of high value figurines down there...

Leaving the stall unattended isn’t a big deal, either. Obviously take your money with you, but your neighbors can let potential customers know you’ve popped to the loo and I saw several “Back Soon!” signs throughout the day. I took a friend mostly as company, but I would confidently do a con alone having seen how much of a non-issue this is. Having a friend is great for chatting and having a chance to have a look around the show and chat to other artists, though!

I’m not sure carrier bags are necessary. They’re a pretty substantial extra expense you can skip.

Check all your stock as soon as it arrives in the mail. I had an order of cello bags for A4 prints where about 50% of the pack were unusable as the bottom seal with just... open.

Oh! And the “Sundays are always quieter” rhetoric? My Sunday was twice as good as Saturday, despite being quieter on the show floor.

Overall...

I really enjoyed myself. I loved everything. Chatting to customers, chatting to artists, seeing what people were selling, people watching, eating junk, setting up, tearing down and having a friend to chat with and chill the whole time. I gained a pretty significant Twitter follower boost over the weekend and gave away approximately 150-200 business cards as well as meeting some awesome new friends.

I’m not sure if I will be back for the same show next year - we’ll see. I’d like to try a bunch of different shows with different audiences. Many overlap in terms of being around the same time of year. And all the while I’m carrying limited stock to see what works and what doesn’t, I’m reluctant to book two close together.

I’m lucky enough to live in London - so I have access to several big conventions throughout the year on my doorstep.

I have a table at Hyper Japan in July. A very different con to this one with a table almost half as big. So I suspect most of what I’ve learnt won’t even apply! But that’s kind of exciting. My logical brain tells me not to make more stuff, but I think I’ve got the con bug now and just wanna make more profits!

I hope this has been slightly useful to anyone toying with the idea of doing a convention. I recommend checking out @howtobeaconartist​ here on Tumblr as well as Ben Krefta’s incredibly detailed experiences of being a UK convention artist.

Another thing I found helpful was to watch youtube video walk-arounds from previous years at the same show - see what people are selling, their set-ups, get a feel for space, see if you see the same people returning year after year. Here’s a video from the show I’ve just done! Artist alley starts at around 7:50.

[razieltwelve]

Ember (Final Rose)

Yang staggered to her feet and wiped the blood from her mouth. It was hard to focus. She could barely see the Grimm in front of her. All she could see were the graves. How long had it been? Too long. She wasn’t supposed to be the last one left. She’d always thought she’d be the first to go.

The ground trembled. Claws sliced through the air. Her Semblance flared. The embers in her soul began to blaze. Dying embers became a bonfire. A bonfire became a blaze. A blaze became an inferno. An inferno became a star.

And she knew what happened next. 

She welcomed it.

X    X     X

Yang reached over to wake up Neo and froze. The other woman’s Aura signature was gone. Her mouth opened and closed, but the words wouldn’t come. There were only tears. Instead, she woke up Blake and Winter. She didn’t have to say anything. Their senses were keen enough. They knew.

Seventy-five. Neo had only been seventy-five.

The diagnosis was simple. Neo was the product of two distant offshoots of Saviour and Ragnarok joining together. The fact that she’d survived awakening her Semblance at all was a minor miracle, but her body had always been living on borrow time. Once her Aura capacity dropped low enough, the two conflicting sets of genes had begun to tear away at each other.

Yang had simply thought it was arthritis or something like that. Neo had never told any of them what it really was. The stupid idiot had probably been trying to avoid worrying them because there hadn’t been a cure. At least her children would be safe. Their genes were stable enough to avoid the problems she’d been plagued with.

Watching them put Neo into the ground, Yang had half-expected the little troll to leap out of her coffin and claim it was all a prank. But she didn’t, and they buried her on a rainy day late in spring. 

X    X     X

Yang shone more brightly than a star. A corona of pure Aura surrounded her, a violent, raging maelstrom of raw power that simply incinerated anything it touched. There could have been a thousand Grimm or even a million and not one of them would have laid one claw on her.

She laughed, and there was something wild and desperate about it. The lesser Grimm were either dead or fleeing, and she finally got a glimpse of her real opponent, a colossal Grimm, the kind that could crush entire civilisations. Dimly, she was aware of it raining, but none of the rain reached her. The conflagration around her evaporated it long before it could touch her.

The power inside her continued to build. How much time did she have? Five minutes if she was lucky, maybe less. She was old now, so old, and her Semblance wasn’t as easy to control as it had. Already, she could see her skin blistering as her body began to fail under the strain.

Not yet. Just a little longer.

The Grimm roared, and she roared back. 

X   X    X

Winter passed away early one autumn morning. She was out on the porch in her favourite rocking chair when she went to sleep and never woke up. In a way, Yang was glad. For the longest time, Winter had been afraid that she would die on some mission far from home with no one by her side. Instead she’d passed after a brief illness with her family right there with her.

Yang had been brewing some tea for her when Chomp V padded into the kitchen and nudged her. The Saint Bernard was getting on in years too, and she had a feeling he was hanging on just for Winter. No one could ever replace the original Chomp in their hearts, but this particular descendant of his had been one of Winter’s favourites.

When he nudged her leg and gave a low whine, she knew. Without saying a word, she went out onto the porch and tucked the blanket a little tighter around Winter. It didn’t matter anymore, but it felt right to do. Even if she couldn’t feel the cold anymore, it seemed wrong to let the blanket slip loose when there was a chill about.

Ninety years old. Not a bad run, Winter would have said, certainly much longer than she’d expected given her career choice and all the close calls she’d had over the years.

They buried her next to Neo, and a week later, they buried Chomp V nearby too. That old dog really had been holding on just for her. 

X    X     X

Yang hit the Grimm like a meteor out of the sky. The force of the impact shattered trees for more than a mile around and tore the leaves off others even further out. The Grimm barely flinched, and its counterstrike would have reshaped a mountain. Yang took the blow with a mocking laugh, and the blaze of Aura around her burned ever brighter.

The night was gone. In its place was a day born of the radiance that was Yang’s Aura, a raging, furious star that eclipsed even the sun itself. Her next blow hit harder still, and the one after that was even stronger. The ground shook, the clouds parted, and still the Grimm refused to fall.

Brighter.

Hotter.

Stronger.

The inferno in Yang’s soul was reaching its zenith. Her skin sizzled, and her hair began to char. But she was smiling. She’d been away from home for so many years, but she’d be back home soon. She could feel it. It was right there, but there was still one last thing to do.

X    X     X

Trust Blake to be the one to go down fighting. A ninety-eight year had no business on the battlefield, but Blake had spent so many of her teenage years running away that she’d refused to run away later in life even when it would have been smarter.

From what Yang had heard from the survivors, Blake had been an army unto herself. Her clones has washed over the battlefield and turned the tide. Oh, she wasn’t as strong as she had been in her prime - not even close - but she was cunning and skilful, and quantity had a quality all of its own.

In the end, it hadn’t been the Grimm that had killed her. At the end of the battle, standing victorious one last time, her heart had simply given out, that brave, kind, wonderful heart. She’d complained about some pain in her chest, and by the time they’d begun treating her, it was too late.

They’d buried her next to Neo and Winter, and Yang had stood there, utterly numb, realising that she was the only one from Team RWBY left. Even Ruby and Weiss were gone. They’d passed one after the other only a year ago. Looking around the crowd at the funeral, she realised that almost all of the people from her generation were gone. There were so few of them left.

In the crowd, Diana met her eyes. She understood.

X    X     X

Yang felt something inside her give way, and the rush of power from within her became an unstoppable torrent, a flood, a tidal wave, an onslaught that washed away everything in its path. The world flared, so bright it blinded her, and the blast that followed annihilated the Grimm and carved a vast crater into the ground so large she knew it would be visible from space.

She wasn’t sure how long she’d been lying there. It might have been ten seconds. It could have been ten hours. But then she heard footsteps. Was it the Grimm? No. She had just enough of her senses left to realise who it was.

Spiky hair, turned white by age, appeared at the edges of he hazyr vision.

“You know,” Diana drawled. “I’m kind of amazed you’re alive.”

Yang smiled weakly. Her Aura, which had blazed at millions of times its usual strength only moments ago was now little more than embers, dying and faint. “Not for much longer.”

“I figured that.” Diana sat down beside her and sighed. She wasn’t as sprightly as she had been in her youth. “You know, there is a song the Yun sing.”

“Oh?” Yang blinked. Diana was gone. No. That wasn’t right. She couldn’t see. Her eyes must have begun to fail. It wouldn’t be long then. She hoped her hearing would hold out a little longer. She had a feeling that this was important.

“Can you hear the bells?” Diana sang softly. “The bells calling the warriors home? The proud and mighty bells of Oerba long lost. The warriors hear the bells, the bells of the city long lost, the bells of the city fallen and not yet rebuilt.” She chuckled. “Trust me, it sounds better when you sing it in Yun, but the point of the song is that the warriors in the song are dead. The bells they’re hearing aren’t really the bells of Oerba because they died defending Oerba. Instead, they’re the bells that toll in the halls of our ancestors to welcome the Honoured Dead.” She reached out and took one of Yang’s scorched hands in hers. “Can you hear the bells, Yang? You’ve more than earned them.”

“Bells, huh?” Something swam into view out of the darkness of her lost vision. There was a house in front of her with a familiar dog waiting on the porch. She climbed the steps and opened the door to a time when everything was perfect and everyone she loved was still alive. They were waiting for her there, with smiles on their faces and words of greeting on their lips. She wasn’t an old woman anymore. She was young and so were they, and she felt more at home right now than she’d felt in years and years. “I think I can.”

“Then don’t worry about anything else,” Diana said. “You’ve done enough, more than enough. You’ve fought for so long, but you don’t have to fight anymore.”

Yang smiled and squeezed Diana’s hand. “I’ll say hi to everyone for you.”

The embers within her sputtered and went dark. Her hand went limp.

X    X     X

Diana reached out and closed Yang’s sightless eyes before glancing down at the syringe of emergency nano-machines in her hand. As she stood, Alison and Li arrived. The twins looked at their mother for a long moment and then back at her.

“You didn’t use the syringe, did you?” Alison asked quietly.

Diana smiled. “No. No, I didn’t.”

Li’s lips quivered. “Thank you.”

“For not using them?” Diana chuckled. “Most people would be mad.”

“She’s smiling,” Li said. “It’s been a long time since she smiled like that.”

Diana dragged in a deep breath. “I know - and that’s why I didn’t use it.”

“We’ll bury her next to the others,” Alison murmured. “They’ll be together again. I think... I think that’s all she’s wanted these last few years.”

“She’s certainly more than earned her rest,” Diana replied. “And I don’t think she could have asked for a better death than this.” She gestured at the crater around them. “She always did say she’d go out with a bang.”

X    X     X

Author’s Notes

So this is what becomes of the Neo/Winter/Blake/Yang group. Neo goes first followed by Winter and then Blake, with Yang going last. Frankly, Yang always thought she’d be the first to go, but life has a way of surprising people, and not always in a good way.

I wouldn’t say their story is a tragic one. They lived and they loved and they were very happy. But time passes, and time doesn’t lose. As sad as some of those last years were when she was alone, she’d happily endure them because of all the joy that preceded them. It’s fitting then that they’re waiting for her when she passed (and Chomp too, of course). Death can be sad and awful and tragic, but it can also be peaceful and welcome when it comes after a long life lived well.

Out of everyone in their generation, Diana is the last to pass. She outlives all of her siblings and all of her cousins and friends. Yet perhaps it’s for the best because she’d quite possibly the only one who could endure that sort of thing and not end up bitter about it. 

If you’re interested in my thoughts on writing and other topics, you can find those here.

I also write original fiction, which you can find on Amazon here. I’ve recently released two stories, Attempted Adventuring and Surviving Quarantine, as well as two audiobooks, Two Necromancers, a Bureaucrat, and an Army of Golems, Two Necromancers, a Dragon, and a Vampire, and The Hungry Dragon Cookie Company. If you like humour, action, and adventure, be sure to check them out.

[tanadrin]

Of Things Remembered

“Wake up.”

The scene around me swam and reformed itself as the young man opened his eyes. The generic room was replaced by a modest stone cell. A little table appeared in the corner, where one dim candle flickered, casting a dim light over a couple of books and some parchment. An evening chill swept in from the narrow window that appeared, and outside I could see the stars, undimmed by any city lights or orbitals. I switched over to the full baseline human sense-simulation, and inhaled slowly. The evening air was fragrant and damp, like a rainstorm had just passed. Through the door I could hear voices far down the hall, rising and falling together, perhaps in prayer.

"Everything is fine, but you need to wake up.” He seemed to be more alert now; his eyes were searching about the room; he was confused, but calm. When his gaze finally came to rest on me, he looked me up and down for a long time before he said anything. I glanced down at myself to make sure my appearance wasn’t too unusual. I fit into the room, now: I was dressed in plain homespun cloth, with simple leather slippers, and my hair hung loosely around my ears.

“Are you all right?” I said.

He nodded. “Yes. Yes, I think so. I must have been… sleeping very deeply. Dreaming about something. But I can’t remember what.”

“The deepest of sleep. And I’m sorry to wake you from a well-deserved rest, but we needed to have a conversation. I’m Nolla.”

“Will,” he said. “The brothers call me Long Will, on account of my height.” He turned one ear toward the door. “Shouldn’t we be at matins?”

“Don’t worry about that for the moment,” I said. “We have more important matters to attend to.”

Skipping prayers didn’t seem to sit well with him, but he didn’t object. He sat up and looked at me more closely. I turned to the little table and picked up his candle, holding it my lap so he could see better.

“I don’t think I know you,” he said. “Are you one of the novices?”

“No, nothing like that. I’m just a friend. A guide. I’m here to help you through a difficult transition.”

Will furrowed his brow. “What sort of transition?”

“We’ll get to that. What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Yesterday, I was…” His voice trailed off. “Funny. I don’t remember what I was doing yesterday. Or the day before that.”

“What do you remember?”

“That I should be at matins. That the abbot gets quite cross with lazy brothers. I spend most of my time when I’m not at prayer copying the books, and helping Brother Stephen in the kitchen. But I’m looking forward to summer. It does me good to spend some time outdoors, helping with the planting. I… I’m sorry, I’m feeling a bit foggy.”

“You’ve been asleep for a very long time. It’s quite natural. I just want to make sure you’re feeling all right.”

“Are you a doctor? Have I been ill?”

“In a manner of speaking. Tell me about specific events you remember. Start with your life just before you came to the monastery.”

“Well, I’m from the village originally. My parents suggested the religious life, and it always felt right to me. I remember leaving home, coming to live here as a novice. I remember being nervous, meeting the abbot for the first time. Learning to read and write. I remember… I remember the time Brother Laurence and I got lost in the woods, and we were terribly worried, and tired and hungry, but Brother Hugh found us. We laughed about it later, how stupid we had been. It feels like it was a long time ago, but for the life of me I can’t say when. I suppose it could have been just yesterday.”

“It was a long time ago,” I said. “All these things were.”

“How long have I been asleep?”

“More than ten thousand years,” I said gently.

Will smiled, then laughed. “Oh, you’re very funny.”

I shook my head. “I’m quite serious.”

“Yes, long enough for everything in the world to pass away and to start over from the beginning, so it’s exactly as I left it.”

“It isn’t, Will,” I said. “This, everything you see around you, is an illusion for your benefit.”

I let the simulation flicker, just for a second; I didn’t want to scare him, but I wanted to show him I wasn’t lying. For just a moment the walls and the table and the bed under him disappeared, and the dark hills and the stars and the moon beyond were visible where the cell had been; and then they were back, as solid as they had been before. Will’s face went deadly serious.

“Is this heaven or hell, then?” he said.

“Neither. You’re not dead. Not anymore. You don’t have to be afraid; nothing’s going to hurt you or cause you pain. I’m sorry for the deception, but we wanted you to wake up in a place that would be somewhat familiar to you, to make sure you felt at ease.”

Will ran his hands over the blanket, and the wall beside his bed; he rubbed his fingertips together, staring at them intently.

“All this feels very real,” he said.

“The mind is a powerful thing,” I said. “Yours is in a kind of in-between state right now. A place where we can take your memories and the sensations you know and show them to you in great detail. And where our illusion might be imperfect or incorrect, your mind will supply the little details and corrections needed to make it feel solid and consistent. But please believe me: we have no malice in our hearts. All this is for your benefit.”

“I believe you,” Will said. “Or I would like to, which maybe amounts to the same thing.”

I smiled and nodded. “Very good. Then we have overcome our first hurdle.”

“What… what has happened to me?”

I took a deep breath. “Will Long of Hythe, in Kent. You were born sometime in the late thirteenth century A.D., you died of natural causes, an old and well-respected man, abbot of this monastery, in 1334. You spent your life as a monk, serving God and your community, and because of your reputation and your position, you were remembered long enough for your name to enter the local histories, along with a few lines of your biography. You took to poetry later in life, and composed several hymns, and a few fables based on local legend. Most of the manuscripts that contained copies of your work were lost in the Dissolution of the Monasteries in the 16th century, but twelve manuscript folio, on which you were named as the author of the verses contained therein, were discovered deep in a London archive almost six hundred years later. These were the basis of an influential study of your life and work, about half solid historical investigation and about half clever speculation, by a PhD candidate--a doctor of philosophy in training, that is--in 2135. We used that study as the starting point for bringing you back.”

“You said I wasn’t dead.”

“You are speaking to me now. You hear me speak to you. You are sensing, thinking, feeling. Yes, you are not dead.”

“But I died. Long, long ago.”

“Yes. You did.”

“And you brought me back? That’s not possible.”

“Debatable,” I said. “By which I mean, we do debate it. Some would say, you are not Will Long. Will Long ceased to be when his heart stopped beating and his eyes were closed and he was laid to rest beneath the earth; and you are a new person, with the same name, and many of the same memories and thoughts and feelings. And some would say, it is the pattern that makes a man who he is. That just as if you take a tapestry and pick it apart into individual threads, if you weave it back together again, is not the same image? What if you replace one thread? One hundred threads? One thousand? And there are others who grant that while you may not have to use the same threads, if you make any error at all in the weaving-together, it is a different image. To which I say, does it matter, if it looks the same to the observer?”

Will closed his eyes and rubbed his head. “You’re talking in riddles. I need specifics. What did you do? How did you make this? Make… me?”

I leaned back in my chair. “I will try to explain this as succinctly and accurately as I can, but your language lacks many of the words I need, because your world lacked many of the things we used, and the words to describe them. But our methods are all the methods of the natural world, all the methods of good and honest philosophy, all knowable to a man like you if he has enough learning.

“There are methods of mathematics, like the algebra of the east, but much more sophisticated, by which one can infer missing quantities among vast collections of information. Some of these are very precise; some of these cannot produce precise knowledge, but only approximate knowledge--yet often that approximate knowledge can, by successive application of different methods, be narrowed to a very small range. As though,” and I gestured now at the books on the table, “you open a manuscript to find one word blotted out; yet if it is short, and begins ‘th-’ you know it is ‘the’ or ‘thee’ or ‘thou,’ and not ‘through’ or ‘thorough.’ Or as though a line is missing from a piece of poetry; and while two other copies agree on what the missing line is, a third disagrees--but you judge the two that agree are more likely to be correct.

“And these mathematics are so complicated and so difficult that a whole city of human calculators might work for centuries and accomplish but a small piece of a modest puzzle to which they are applied. But in the many centuries after your death, we have developed tools to aid us. First, they were based on the same principles which drive clockwork, like more sophisticated clocks capable of performing arithmetic quickly, by the means of levers and gears. The same machines, using the same principles, were made more sophisticated and swifter in their operation over time--and eventually we stopped using clockwork, and started using other physical principles to operate them. But the underlying logic of their design was the same. Though they appeared as though they could perform wondrous feats that had nothing to do with mere mathematics, mere mathematics was the foundational principle of their operation; and they could accomplish no wonder that could not in some sense be reduced to a question of numbers and the operations of numbers.”

“I am afraid I don’t know much about mathematics,” Will said. “All this sounds quite fanciful to me.”

“Then let us speak of words--for it was another insight of later days that mathematics is not so different from language, and the philosophers of those days used one word to unite the two, the word ‘information.’ The theory of information was found to be a useful tool for examining the natural world, just as you might use your eyes or your ears, or, in dark places, search instead with your hands. And using the tools provided by the theory of information, we came to believe our ability to recover things that were lost now extended to the memories and feelings and thoughts of those who had long been dead. Especially those who had left some testimony of themselves behind. And we hoped, maybe--perhaps an arrogant hope, I admit--that by the application of these techniques to recover lost lives, we might from the shape of those lost lives then discern the shapes of other lives, previously invisible to us, and recover those as well--and so on and so forth. And that therefore we might hope one day to return to life all those who had ever lived and died, to rescue them from their long sleep.”

Will laughed. “Are you so impatient for the day of judgement?”

I smiled. “Nothing like that, I assure you. We don’t judge, Will. We don’t condemn. We don’t pick and choose, either. We intend to resurrect the good and the bad alike. The deserving and the undeserving. Those great and those petty, those high-minded and those mean. Our labor, which we grant might never be completed, is not to play God, and to ensure each man receives his deserved fate, but only to redeem. Without preference or favor. There is only one restriction we place on ourselves.

“And what’s that?”

“We don’t bring back people who, according to our reconstruction, would prefer not to exist. There are some who suffered greatly before their death, whose suffering can be amended, whose hearts can be made whole. But there are some who, we know, prefer to sleep. We study them, to understand them, but we do not bring them unwilling back into the world. That would be a great cruelty. We create--or recreate--no life which would, we think, prefer not to exist. And for those about whom we are uncertain, we bring them back only long enough to ask them. Which is why you are here.”

Will looked surprised at this. “If you have such power over life and death, why not make everyone want to live?”

“Because then they wouldn’t be themselves.”

“But you don’t know that they’re themselves. You don’t even know for sure that you’re not just… writing new books. Writing new stories, weaving new tapestries, that have nothing to do with the old ones. If your machines are wrong, if your philosophy in error, perhaps you are only raising up new ghosts who remember a fiction.”

“Perhaps,” I said. “Would you like to know my thoughts on the matter?”

“Certainly.”

“Then I believe this: that it doesn’t matter. If you are exactly like Will Long of Kent in every particular, it may even be that our philosophy is in complete error and that there is some vital spark, some privileged point of view, which the old Will Long bore in himself and which was extinguished on his death; and that any vital spark you possessed, any point of view you hold, is but another very like it. Yet please believe me when I say that there are very good reasons to believe that that is not the case, reasons which are not beyond your capacity for understanding, but which nevertheless are beyond the learning you possess right now.

“Yet even if it is not so--that you are unlike Will Long in some little particular, or unlike him in very great ways, such that you are simply a new person who shares his name and is inclined to produce poetry in a similar style--you nonetheless think and feel and act according to your own preferences and desires, and that we must respect those preferences and desires. And to wantonly interfere with them--to insist that every soul we call forth must share our preference for existing, and our view of the world--would indeed be arrogance. You might not be the old Will Long, but you are a Will Long, and worthy of our respect.”

This seemed to satisfy him. “But have you never found your mathematics to be in error? Have you never had to revise them? Does this never change how you might weave the threads together?”

“It can happen,” I said. “We do not need to bring forth the soul entirely to understand it; they can be studied while they sleep. But those of us who do guide the souls we call forth have a pragmatic view of things. Were we to discover, say, some new poem of Will Long’s, we would incorporate that into what we knew about you. If it only changed our view of you a little, it would hardly be worth recreating you. Though we might ask you if you wanted that knowledge incorporated into yourself, which we could do. But if it changed how we understood you drastically, it might be worth it to create another Will Long. But that would have no affect on you. The world is very wide now. There is space for many people like you, and each adds their own particular distinction and joy to it.

“But this rarely happens. We have long since ceased to die of mere old age; the world is full of what would seem to you like miracles. And for thousands of years before the calling-forth of souls began, we were laying the groundwork for the great project, studying history in every minutia, compiling great libraries of information, libraries greater than any you have imagined. It is not impossible that we might discover some new information we have long overlooked, but it is a rare thing. Though I cannot say it is impossible.”

“And you want to know if I… accept this?”

“Yes.”

“You don’t know my answer?”

“It was one of the very few things we could not determine in advance.”

Will was quiet for a long time.

“What happens if I say no?”

“You can lie down and go back to sleep. This strange little dream will fade. We’ll keep a record of you, and use it to help further our studies, but you’ll never be called forth again. We’ll never disturb or trouble you, and you can await the end of days, or whatever comes after, in a dreamless slumber.”

“And if I say yes?”

“Then you have another choice to make. What life do you want to live? You can stay here, in the place that was your home in life. Or you can step out into the world.”

“What’s it like out there?”

“It’s hard to explain. It would require a long, slow transition, unless you were very adamant about going out immediately; but I must warn you, others have done that, and found it very trying. The world is full of many wonderful things, but also many unfamiliar perils. You have little of the background knowledge required to understand it; and those who live there see things very differently than you do. But if you are curious and generous of spirit, you can adapt.

“We are all human out there, after our fashion, though we might not seem it at first. In some ways our various lineages long ago diverged, to say nothing of the ones, like mine, that began within the machines built to understand the universe. But we remain united by certain common sentiments and hopes which are not alien to you.”

“What if I wish to remain? What is this place, anyway?”

“An illusion of information. A kind of dream, perhaps, but one inhabited by very real people, like yourself. You can stay here, and we can give you a light and pleasant dream of your life forever, if you want. Or we can link your simulation to the simulations of others like you, so that you are not alone.”

“How long have I to decide?”

“As long as you like. There’s no hurry.”

“That’s a relief.”

He looked out the window at the stars.

“Tell me, if you know. I have always wondered. What are those, anyway, out there in the sky? What are they made of?”

“They are suns like our own. Immense lights that warm distant worlds.”

“Have you visited those lights and those worlds?”

I smiled. “We have. Truth be told, you are around one now. The machines that support you here, in this state, hang high in the sky above one we call Van Maanen’s Star.”

“How far away is England?”

“About eighty-two thousands of a thousand of a thousand of a thousand miles.”

“Could… could I go back if I wished? As myself?”

“Of course. It would be a long journey, but by no means impossible. But Kent is very different now than when you left it.”

“Could I visit other worlds?”

“You certainly could. There are enough peopled worlds that you could spend the rest of your life visiting them.”

“And how long will that be? How long is the rest of my life, if I say yes?”

I shrugged. “If you avoid sudden misfortune, or if you choose to make copies of yourself as some do, you can reasonably expect that you, or a Will Long very much like you, will live to see the youngest stars that now blaze grow old and lonely in the sky. Which would be a very, very long time from now.”

Will stared out the window for several minutes; I did not interrupt his reverie. This was a conversation I had had many times; it was never quite the same, except that this moment usually came sooner or later. Sometimes it lasted hours. Sometimes it lasted years. I was happy to wait. But Will’s answer came astonishingly quickly.

“I’ve made my decision.” There was a bright, joyful gleam in his eyes.

“Very well. What have you decided?”

He pointed out the window. “I want to go out there. I don’t want to wait. I want to see what’s changed. I want to understand this strange world you have spoken of to me. And maybe to write new lines on what I see.”

“Then so it shall be. And many will be glad to hear this happy news.”

I stood, and drew back the sleeve of my robe, and stretched my hand out. “Come, Will. Take my hand.”

Will’s hand grasped mine, and I pulled him up, up out of the bed, and out of the room we were in, and out of the cool, clear evening that surrounded it; like swimmers rising to the surface, we rose up into the warmth and light beyond.

[meimikana]

A Touch of Editing: AO3 Fandom: Tales of Vesperia Pairing: Rita/Estelle Rating: Gen Summary: A little proofreading to pass the time. (Post-Canon)

P.S. The fic is under the cut for people who don’t wanna go to AO3 for whatever reason. Cheers~

---

"After a long, arduous battle, the group of intrepid heroes finally laid to rest the misguided schemes of the doomed Commandant. Misguided? No. No, that really just does not work when describing Alexei," Rita muttered absently as she took a pen to the manuscript she'd been reading. "He was an arrogant, murderous madman. Crazy, insane, megalomaniacal, dumber than a sack full of perverted old men-- all of the above work so much better in describing that nut and his singularly unique brand of reality."

"You think so?" Estelle asked curiously as she returned from the kitchen, carrying a plate stacked with her newest attempt at sugar cookies. It was one of Yuri's recipes; and while he was an excellent cook when it came to sweets, it had taken her several attempts to get the results to a point where they didn't make her teeth ache from the vast quantities of sugary goodness. How the man's own teeth hadn't rotted out completely yet was a mystery to them all.

"Of course!" Rita said sharpy as she looked up from the handwritten pages. "The world domination crap was bad enough, but what he tried to do with you and the Entelexia was completely unforgivable. The man was a lunatic of the highest order."

"I don't know," Estelle murmured thoughtfully, almost to herself. "He might've once had good intentions, but the further along he went the more they got laid to the wayside until all that was left were visions of a future that could never come to pass."

"Very poetic, but you're much too kind," Rita grumbled as she returned her attention to the manuscript. "Commandant Alexei was a sadistic bastard who liked causing people pain. He enjoyed hurting you; and he certainly got his jollies out of forcing you to fight Yuri. And don't forget what he did to the old man either. Definitely not someone deserving of anyone's pity."

Estelle winced at the reminder. "You're right, I don't think I could ever forget that. I just wish things had been different. Maybe if I had been different I could have changed things. I was in line for the throne, but I never really thought about what that meant. Perhaps things would have turned out for the better if I had actually tried to exercise the influence that position awarded me."

"Don't be ridiculous, he needed your power to raise Zaude. He would've used you regardless of how well off you were. Besides, you're fine just the way you are," Rita muttered absently as she flipped a page. "Better a novelist living out here in Halure than an empress stuck up there in that eyesore of a palace."

"Thank you," Estelle whispered softly, a smile of elation curving her lips at the unexpected compliment.

"Just stating the obvious," Rita said blandly, only half paying attention as she marked a few more places on the next handful of pages. She'd forgotten how much had happened during their race to save the world from itself; there just hadn't been enough time to store all of the pit stops and stumbling blocks into memory. And frankly, most of them hadn't been all that grand either, though Estelle certainly had a knack for making it sound that way. Of course, there were a few things deliberately left out of the story. People just didn't go around leaving clues about certain murders for anyone to run across. No, Yuri might be an adult --sort of-- and willing to face the consequences of his actions should the truth get out, but the rest of them weren't. They'd already had to face the prospect of him being dead once already and none of them wanted to revisit that place again anytime soon. He was staying right where he was.

Speaking of which...

"So where's all the stuff about Yuri's stupid stunt?" Rita asked curiously as she studied the next few pages and came up empty. "You've got all the Zaude crap, a few mentions about Flynn searching for his wife, and then you skip ahead to the capital. Did I miss it somewhere?"

Estelle grinned at the crack over Flynn and Yuri's "relationship", but shook her head at the question. "It's not in there."

Rita glanced over at her in confusion. "Why not?"

"Because I don't know what happened," Estelle stated plainly and shrugged.

"He didn't tell you?"

Estelle shook her head again helplessly. "I'm afraid not."

"Well get Flynn to tell you," Rita huffed in annoyance, "The jerk owes us that much, making us worry like that."

"Flynn doesn't know either," Estelle explained as she picked sadly at one of her cookies. They'd gone through so much hardship together and trusted each other implicitly with their very lives; but even now he still wouldn't tell any of them what had happened to him at Zaude. It was... worrisome. Yuri tended to be honest about most things, or at least he'd fess up once he'd been caught out on something. But in this he remained silent, and that was never a good thing when it came to Yuri Lowell. When he went quiet, somebody usually ended up dead.

"Ugh, fine!" Rita groused as she tossed the stack down, flopped back in her chair, and crossed her arms in supreme irritation. "I'll just threaten to set his hair on fire the next time I see him. That ought to get him talking."

Estelle chuckled at the mental image that suggestion produced. Yuri didn't really preen about it, not noticeably at least, but it was hard to miss the fact that his hair always looked perfect regardless of the time of day. Rita's threat would be taken seriously, there was no doubt about that.

Sighing, Rita forcibly bottled up her bubbling annoyance, closed her eyes and leaned her head back. Better to save it for later and unleash it on the person who deserved it. "You know, it's strange," she said after a moment spent listening to the peaceful quiet of Halure, "I never thought I'd be able to adjust to so much silence. Aspio was always ringing with some project or another, and the explosions from botched experiments were pretty frequent too."

"You... don't like it here?" Estelle asked hesitantly, a frown crossing her face as she clasped her hands together in apprehension. She had hoped Rita would be happy living with her, but perhaps her own hopes hadn't been quite enough. Maybe...

"Well, I'd rather it be Aspio, but as long as you're here then it's home," Rita replied bluntly. "Besides, unlike those imbeciles at the capital, I don't need a huge lab to do my research in. My old house worked fine, and this one works even better."

Estelle smiled beatifically as her mounting concern were neatly laid to rest. "I'm glad then."

Rita blushed slightly at Estelle's regard, but let it remain at that. They had all the time in the world to do other things, for now things just worked better at a slow, steady pace. Besides, it was nice to not have to over-think things for once. Very nice.

[moonraccoon-exe]

I've seen a few people calling Gladio abusive because of the train scene (I personally think it's bs but to each their own.) what are your thoughts?

Hallo! Thank you for the question! ( ´ ▽ ` )ﾉ

I have always and will always defend Gladio regarding that train scene.

We must consider some important factors:

1. Repressed feelings/Coping Mechanisms (main reason to me)

2. His duty/role in the story.

3. Lack of understanding/Stereotypes.

Honestly, I don’t think the three points can be described as separated because they all have to merge in one, so here is what I see and think about Gladio, his psyche, and the train scene.

Gladio is a man that was raised not only as a soldier, but under the concept of having to be the best soldier of the world, because it’s expected from him to be this unmovable wall, this unhumanly, impossibly strong and un-defeatable thing. I don’t know if you people know how soldiers are trained, but they’re basically trained to be cold-minded, to not lose the head, and to not let emotions overtake, so they can think 100% with the brain and 0% with the heart. 

Gladio was not only trained this way, he was raised this way; we see him laugh and be playful, but that’s outside of duty. Within it, it’s always the head cool and never panicking (except for that bit in Episode Ignis when he “freaked out” because Ignis was not answering through the com).

We see it in that small freak out, I’ll talk about it later.

All in all, Gladio’s into this philosophy of “duty now, feelings later”. We can take as long as we want in-game to do stuff, but I think that canon story is all one event after the other, no breaks in between (only the necessary stops, etc.). Knowing this, I have the idea that Gladio never gave himself a chance to mourn.

We see Noctis mourn and feel bad onscreen shortly after Insomnia’s Fall and Regis’ death, but not Gladio, or any of the guys; however, Prompto does have his breakdown in his episode, as does Ignis (of sorts), but not Gladio; his episode is not self discovery and emotions, he was looking for a way to become strong for Noctis; for his duty.  Always his duty, always his duty, Gladio’s centered and focused 100% in his duty through the game because he has to.

He says it himself during Titan’s trail; “when you can’t focus, I do it for you”. It doesn’t mean he’s being selfish and a cocky idiot; he’s saying that it’s his duty to focus when Noctis can’t, not something he masters, but something he’s forced to attend to.

So all the time it’s “Focus, focus, focus”, not a moment for emotions.

Let’s see, from Gladio’s perspective, all the shocking events that anyone would mourn but he didn’t:

Insomnia’s Fall. His father’s death. His king’s death. The loss of his homeland. The stress of not knowing Iris’ state (for a few days). Jared’s loss, which has to be particularly and majorly heavy for Gladio, as Jared was the Amicitia butler, and he most probably knew Gladio ever since Gladio was born, let’s say a second father or even a grandfather figure. Altissia in chaos. Lunafreya’s death.

And what I think finished affecting him, Ignis’ injury.

I don’t mean this as “omg they love each other” (which they do, just in a brotherly way). This has two sides, 1. the feelings for Ignis and 2. the personal side.

On a side, of course it would affect him to find his friend heavily injured, almost in agony, and then see him lose sight. It mustn’t be easy for anyone, to watch a dear one go through such tragedy. There’s a chart that shows the kind of relationships between the four bros individually, and Gladio’s with Ignis’ was something the sorts of “The person that understands the situation as I do”; they understand each other, and the dynamic and interaction feels like they’re best friends the way Noctis and Prompto are, if just not as bouncy and hyperactive and funny, rather serious and quieter. 

Watching and living through a dear friend’s, a dear brother’s tragedy, it must be terrific. Because death can’t be helped, but to watch someone lose sight? And someone so dear to him.

And then the “selfish” side; imagine being tasked since you’re born with the only single one duty of protecting, saving and aiding the life of someone else, and watch someone else do it for you. Imagine being tasked with the only one duty of making sacrifices for one person, and watch someone dear to him do it in your place, right after you thought you were strong enough to do it yourself.

I don’t mean Gladio was angered that Ignis made bigger sacrifices, on the opposite; I think it must have destroyed Gladio.

“It was supposed to be me, not you”  not a canon phrase, but one that I think must have gone through Gladio’s head a million times. He was supposed to die for Noctis, not Lunafreya. He was supposed to put the ring on, not Ignis. He was supposed to have been injured and face the Chancellor, not Ignis. He was supposed to be the one losing sight, not Ignis, not Ignis, never Ignis. 

Because Gladio was raised with that idea, that he’s living just to keep Noctis safe and to go through all the hells and heavens and earths to keep him safe. So to acknowledge that he almost let Noctis die, and he didn’t because a dear friend made a huge sacrifice for him, and watch both of them at your feet, while you’re entirely unharmed?

Gladio must have been dealing with huge guilt, an enormous guilt, guilt in measures we cannot comprehend. 

So we add all the previous events to the massive guilt and the struggle of watching a dear friend going through his own tragedy.

And it doesn’t take a genius to know sooner or later he had to explode.

I like to compare our emotions or “soul” to a glass of water, and each problem or tragedy etc. is a drop (or many drops, depending on the situation). Gladio’s trained to keep the water inside, calm and cool, where everyone else drops the water at times before it’s full. So Gladio naturally, whether consciously or not, started keeping all inside, a drop for each event, and half a drop for each that that he didn’t give proper care to the glass.

Until his glass was full to the top. Full to the very top, unable to take a single drop of water more.

So it’s as soon as something else happens, as soon as the tiniest of events happens, that the glass spills the content. Because even if it was a tiny, stupid, unimportant drop of water, it was the last drop of water, the only one necessary to spill the entire glass’ content. 

And that’s what happens to Gladio. He has his glass full for major events, and it’s a minor one that drops it.

Its name? Noctis not putting the ring on.

Let’s retake it; Gladio has been repressing an enormous quantity of negative emotions within himself for the sake of his duty, until he became full. 

So it’s not that the fact that Noctis hadn’t put the ring on what makes Gladio so angry; it’s not because of one thing, it’s because of a thousand things that were triggered by only one. Gladio talking about the ring is only the tip of the iceberg; the real thing is all under the water and out of everyone’s sights, at least out of the sight of the people that are not comprehensive or understanding enough to go further the things that are said and cannot read the subtext.

Noctis not putting the ring on was not an excuse, but it also wasn’t the only motif or reason for him to explode the way he did; it’s everything he had been carrying, hiding behind the mask of only one fact. 

And here’s where enters the part of stereotypes.

We are so used to have a stereotype for each emotion that we think they’re all the same and we all react the same. We immediately link emotions to other words that we can’t get out of the zone of stereotype and into the zone of understanding and we think we all react and feel the same. We hear “sadness” and we think we all cry. We hear joy and we all think we all smile or laugh. We hear anger and we all think we yell. We hear fear and we all think we shake.

And honestly that’s not that; those are common factors that are shared among the great majority of people, but we don’t stop to understand that it’s always on different levels, different ways, and sometimes it’s not even that. There’s people that laugh when they’re scared, people who go mute and can just walk around when they’re joyful, the world is so big and vast and humankind is so unique and different and special and we’re all so different that not two people among the billions of them will ever feel the same way.

My happiness will never feel the same than yours, nor my sadness, nor my anger, and any other emotion. We can comprehend each other’s emotions but we can’t truly understand them because they’re a personal experience and only we know how we experiment them and how we feel them and how we demonstrate them.

So everyone sees Gladio raging out and screaming, frowning and shoving faces, that what we think immediately is “He’s angry”. And yes, yes, he’s fucking angry, but an emotion can be a way to demonstrate another emotion. So yes, Gladio’s angry, but we never stop to think that his anger is only the way to express other things.

I learned in a course of psychology during high school that anger is only the way to hide sadness. I’m angry at you because you were late, and it made me angry because it hurt me to feel you don’t care, which makes me sad. I’m angry at the world’s homophobia, and I’m angry because I can’t believe this much hatred exists, and it makes me sad. I’m angry at my mom for not coming to my birthday party, and I’m angry about it because I wanted her to be here and it hurt that she didn’t come (these are all merely examples). 

Yes, I’m angry that you’re not putting that ring on, and it makes me angry because you’re not filling your duty when others have made huge sacrifices so you do, and honestly it hurts to see the position you’re in, the position I’m in, the position he’s in, and I feel like I’m failing you, so please do your duty because I’ve been standing a thousand hells this far for you and I can’t stand to see I couldn’t do it right and have failed you.

Things change, hm?

I think Gladio feels like he failed Noctis because Noctis is not acting as he should be doing it, and instead of feeling it’s all on Noctis, Gladio, who  was tasked with making Noctis succeed, sees him fail and doesn’t see him fail but sees himself fail. Because if Noctis failed it’s only because Gladio failed (this thought, in his head).

So we add all that we know, Insomnia, Regis, Clarus, Jared, Iris, Ignis, Lunafreya, his own failure, all into one, and then one tiny fact is added, of course there’s only so much one person can take. 

Back to the emotions and stereotypes, I meant to say that we all think of the word “sad” and we think everyone cries, but honestly everyone has their own way of showing sadness. There’s some that hide it, some that stay quiet, some that furiously cry, some that silently cry, some that decide to vent it into punching things, etc. 

Gladio’s way of expressing sadness may as well be screaming and hiding behind anger. Because that’s how he was taught to react; no time to cry, just punch things and yell. So, considering he grew up into the philosophy of a cool, dead head, and making the terribly mixture of it with a huge, enormous repressing of emotions, he becomes conflicted, he wants to cry but his brain has no idea how to do that, and what is the only other door that’s open? Anger. So all that Gladio has to cry, he shows it through anger instead. Because that’s his sadness, different from everyone else’s, because I insist none of us show or feel the emotions the same way.

Noctis not putting the ring on probably did upset him, yes, and it annoyed him, but it was more the trigger and excuse than the entire view of his rage. Gladio’s not abusive or exaggerating or an idiot for screaming at Noctis for something that may seem so trivial; what he talks about is only the trigger, the tip of the iceberg. The real thing hides underneath and behind.

Usually, when we have a trigger of these sorts, we end up going back to the real reason even if just indirectly.

It happens a lot to me with my mom. She’s a bit explosive as well, and I’m super understanding about this issue of people’s emotions and not digging into stereotypes, and I tend to listen very well, so I’m usually her target when she wants to rant about something. And one day you can see her getting upset at me for something like not washing a fork, and three minutes into her rage, she’s talking about why her brothers don’t support or help her when she needs it. 

It has nothing to do with the fork. If I wasn’t as understanding as I am, I’d think all the outrage was towards me, against me, because of the fork. But I know the fork was only her trigger, and the real reason goes deeper and into other things. 

And what does Gladio say?

He starts talking about the ring, but then, a bit out of place without being too out of place “Ignis took one for you too, and for what!?”

Hm? *wiggles eyebrows*

And you know why my mom usually rages at me (without insulting or harming me in any way)? Because she knows I understand, I never yell back, and because she trusts me. 

It’s easy for emotions to break free without your consent in front of people you trust. 

So Gladio’s outrage doesn’t only mean he was sad, frustrated and scared, it can also speak about his trust into Noctis. Honestly, if he wouldn’t believe in him, he wouldn’t have given a damn about the ring. But he wants Noctis to grow as a mature king and fill his role and be responsible and he knows he can do it, so that Noctis is not doing it angers him because he knows he can, and it just triggered him.

Besides, Gladio grows with this idea that he has to be some sort of mentor and guide for Noctis, his protector, the brotherly figure that should be wise and that will “focus when Noctis can’t”. So the adviser having the moral down in the dumps, and Prompto having no official duty, Gladio must feel, consciously or not, that it’s on his hands to take the reins and do something, and he wants to put Noctis in his place and be the main column to keep things up.

But Gladio, by this point, is so frustrated himself. Imagine trying to lift everyone’s spirits when honestly you don’t want to or can’t. Of course it turns into frustration, because he knows what’s needed but he doesn’t have it, but no one else has it, so he tries to force himself to it, and only ends up more angered and frustrated, and his attempt to lecture Noctis turns into an argument.

And just a friendly reminder: GLADIO IS ONLY 23 YEARS OLD. Nobody can expect him to be the wisest or anything. They’re all stupidly young, so young and put into situations that would freak anyone of any age out, especially someone their age, because they’re past the “I don’t understand, so I face it fearlessly” stage and the “I understand fully and have experience enough to face it” stage,t hey’re right in the middle, where they understand perfectly the risks and the problems, but don’t know how to deal with them.

Gladio’s 23. He’s young, he’s hot-headed at times, of course, of course. It happens. People in the early twenties still don’t know where and how to go, we’re not wise or mature enough yet as much as we think we are, and situations as hard and heavy as the guys face, of course it’ll throw them off-guard and out their knowledge and reach. 

To be honest, I think that to be so young, he did excepcionally good, incredibly excellent, facing everything. 

Having one breakdown is just natural and logical, and it doesn’t take any credit from him. It was fair; he had gone through the journey wise and strong, much wiser and stronger than anyone should ask from someone his age. So a breakdown was very well deserved. 

Thing is people don’t understand that “breakdown” is not only crying, it can also be anger, and it won’t stop being a breakdown. Different demonstrations, same thing. 

And even though I’m sure I’m forgetting something because I always post stuff forgetting about the best damn arguments or parts, this is what I think of Gladio’s outrage in the train, why I understand and support and love it, and why I think it’s natural and very well needed. 

I love you, Gladio. 

[rickwayneauthor]

*A State of Immanent Corruption*

 You will thus understand my surprise when, after I was rescued from the attic in Whitechapel, the police informed that I had a solicitor and that he had secured for me an exit from a lengthy prison sentence. The solicitor, a Mr. Bentley, told me he was employed by another attorney, an American named Olcott. When I asked why me, he said he didn’t know, that he was instructed merely to secure my release, which he did. I was taken under police custody to a steamer ship, which I had never before seen, and placed immediately aboard. There, I was introduced to the Countess Constance Wachtmeister, a drab woman done up to her neck in stiff Victorian dress—all black, including gloves and laced boots. She was, she told me, the personal assistant of “HPB,” which is how Madame Helena Blavatsky preferred to be called, and that by the terms of my release, I was now indentured to the Theosophical Society, who were responsible for my moral welfare. She said it with gravity, and as soon as she finished, without so much as a handshake, I was swept to a small cabin, the door was locked, the ship’s whistle blew, and we set sail for India.

 We stopped in Cairo. I have never been so hot. I saw the pyramids and so much more squalor than I had presumed could exist in the world. The British seemed about as interested in their empire as a dog its fleas. But of course in that, they were hardly unique. Within the week, we set sail again from a port in the Red Sea. Meanwhile, despite numerous comings and goings, no one could tell me why I was there. I was given books to read, which I ignored. When Countess Wachtmeister appeared the next day to test my command of their contents, she was positively beside herself with fury that they had been unopened. I tried to explain to her that no one had suggested there would be a test, certainly not the wordless Arab boy who had handed them to me as if they were the plague. I was scolded like a schoolgirl by a woman less than half my age. But I took it in silence. I was a stray, just then passing the straits of the greatest desert in the world. I felt it best to do as I was told—at least until I was in a position not to. I suspect also that I was beginning to learn patience. Constance Wachtmeister was a droll woman, and in that way, her opinion of me didn’t matter in the least. I read the books she provided—even correcting the Latin grammar in one, which seemed to have been written by a four-year-old—and passed her stupid test. (The subjects included, among other things, alchemy and the sacred marriage.)

 It was, I later learned, a prerequisite for joining the inner circle of the Theosophical Society, of which I was now a part—whether I wanted to be or not. But it was still several weeks before I met the infamous HPB, who was already at our destination. After landing at Bombay, a great mess of a place, the Countess and I were transferred to a locomotive that took us across the continent to Madras. Some miles outside the city—a journey of several bumpy hours by carriage—was a compound that had recently been built for Madame Blavatsky and her followers, and that is where all of us lived. By the time the Countess Wachtmeister and I arrived, retinue in train, we were exhausted and at each other’s throats. Madras was as sticky as a swamp, and as such, I removed some of the ridiculous outfit in which I had been dressed, an outfit barely fitting the dreary climate of London and certainly not the tropical subcontinent. Although I showed no cleavage, the Countess was aghast at my bare neck. I tried to explain to her that across the whole of Europe a bare neckline was considered quite proper attire for a lady less than forty years before.

 It is not the case that manners and mores have gotten uniformly liberal with the centuries. They have waxed and waned unevenly. Concordant with its reputation, the Victorian mind was obsessed with all things proper, but this did not mean an absence of sex. Married couples were expected to engage in the act vigorously and often, in only to populate the Empire. But still, the infamous social repression of the age was not a myth, and it found its fullest and most fecund expression in the Countess Constance Wachtmeister. She was an Englishwoman by upbringing and half by birth. Her father was French, I believe. Her parents died when she was very young and she was raised by her aunt in Surrey. She was married to her cousin, Count Wachtmeister of Sweden, at the ripe age of 27 and moved to that country, where he was Minister of Foreign Affairs. After bearing him a son, her husband died, leaving her a widow at 33. In accordance with tradition, she wore black for the rest of her life. It seemed to infect her. She was not only entirely prudish, she was also relentlessly dour, the kind of woman for whom nothing and no one was ever good enough. When I said we were at each other’s throats, I meant it literally. On more than one occasion, I thought seriously of strangling her, if only to make it impossible for her to speak.

 As we approached Ardor House, Madame Blavatsky’s manor, we both bore a long list of grudges against the other, accumulated on the long journey, that we expected the Madame to arbitrate as soon as possible. Alas, she was not home. In her stead, amid the usual, constant menagerie of hangers-on, we found scads of barefoot, dark-skinned workmen hammering up the tile floor. It was a strange sight. Ardor House was brand new, radiant even, having been recently built by the wealthy leader of a sister society in India expressly for our glorious leader, whom he greatly respected. What’s more, there seemed to be nothing wrong with the thing. The floor was a bit stark for my taste, being made of black and white marble tile. But it was perfectly flat and quite cool to the touch.

 “Admirable qualities in a floor,“ I told the Countess. “Not a person.”

 Apparently, HPB had had a fit at the sight of it, taking it as a great insult. She didn’t set a single foot on it, which means she had not actually entered the white-walled manor that had been built for her and made it clear she never would as long as it required treading such a travesty. Then she left to join the mendicants and gurus perambulating around the town.

 The issue, I would come to understand, was doctrinal rather than material. Ardor House had been designed from flag to foundation on the principles of spiritualist magic promulgated by the Society and its cohorts. In the ceiling of the foyer, for example, was a fresco adorned in gold leaf that depicted the fundamental forces of the universe—sun and moon to the north and south, woman to the east, man to the west. In her hands was a chalice. In his, a dagger. To enter the foyer, one had to pass through seven white arches corresponding to the seven faces of the divine. The arches bisected a narrow nursery—it being the tropics, much of the building was open to the air—planted thick like a white witch’s garden. And on it went like that: the grand library was in the shape of a star, the baths were oriented to the poles, crystalline windows in the ceiling traced the path of the sun whose rays seemed to penetrate every corner. If there were shadows in Ardor House, they were faint. The floor, the very ground on which one walked, was checkered to represent the our place in the cosmos, a view that HPB expressly rejected.

 Men have always understood—and HPB would’ve agreed—that we can discern the nature of the universe from the facts of our circumstance: that we spend half of each day in darkness, for example, and that correspondingly there is both suffering and joy in the world. For all pre-modern thinkers, it was impossible to conceive of the world as existing anywhere but on the border between great warring realms—stuck, as it were, in the middle. For the Norse, Earth was Midgard, the middle realm, just as in China, it is the Middle Kingdom, with heaven above and darkness below. So, too, in Christianity and Islam. Hence the stark, black-and-white tiles of the floor were the stage on which every drama of the house would take place—a reflection of the universal condition.

 Madame Blavatsky asked how anyone could know this. After all, the scholars of antiquity believed that the earth was a bowl or a plate or sometimes a marble covered in a shroud of fixed stars, like a canopy through which holes had been poked so as to let the divine light peek through and remind us even here of the glory of God. Yet, once it was clear that was not the case, that each of those tiny twinkling lights in the sky was not a pinprick but its own distant sun, our ancient conception of ourselves being in the middle of things was never updated. That view was, like that old canopy, fixed in place. It was also, HPB noted, quite psychologically pleasing. Being in the middle suggested that everything was in some way about us, that we were the focus of the great conflict, that we were the star players and the earth the field of sport upon which every gaze in the universe was fixed.

 Hardly, she said. The night sky was not a shroud but a seemingly infinite well of darkness—cold and barren and immeasurably vast. We didn’t seem to be in the middle of things at all. We seemed quite far flung in fact. True, our planet was tilted and turned every day between light and dark, which certainly suggested a struggle, a fact born by the common occurrences of suffering and joy. The earth seemed to be neither heaven nor hell, as the old religions assumed. But if our planet were the focus of the conflict, she said, if we were the front of the war, why could we not see the forces of light? Instead, there is only darkness. Darkness on all sides. An immeasurable quantity of it. Our planet was swimming in an ocean of darkness. What’s more, what grace there was seemed only to come by our hand. This, she said, was the problem of evil. It seemed quite direct. Evidence of malice was patent and universal, while evidence of grace was scant and indirect. If the divine were acting on earth, it was only very weakly.

 But the crown jewel of her argument was what she called the state of immanent corruption, whereby life survived only by consuming other life. Anything that remained still, that took no act, as the gurus in India urged, inevitably succumbed to rot, and that this applied even to the mountains and rivers. All things not only suffered, they degraded. Where then was the influence of the light? The divine was incorruptible and unchanging. It’s power flowed from itself. Everywhere on earth there were agents of evil. One tripped over them outside the door. Yet, how rare was the saint? How rare were his qualities: knowledge, love, courage, wisdom, and compassion?

 The truth, she argued, was that we were not the middle kingdom. We were not the center of everything and never were. Neither was the earth in Hell, which is specifically a house of torture. It was instead in the realm of corruption. It was in the realm of the dark lords. Adrift in some distant corner, we had cast off their shackles some thousands of years before, just as the ancient texts had taught us, but we had not been strong enough to embrace the light, which is why things stand as they do, where the earth spends half of every day in light and half in darkness. But earth is not the focus of the fighting. Earth is not on the front. It is a dismal little planet well behind enemy lines. Which means we are the resistance. And that is why, throughout our history, it has been so easy to question the existence of the divine, for the forces of light do not erupt here as they do elsewhere in existence. Being so far removed, they can do little but slip us help from time to time, as through pinpricks in a canopy.

 Although HPB wouldn’t live to see it, science would eventually come to vindicate her view of the universe, at least in its significant facts. Our lady’s views on “immanent corruption” presaged the laws of thermodynamics, which were being formulated at the time but of which she had no knowledge. She also suggested that the distant dots of light in the sky were, like our sun, symbolic of acts of rebellion and that the true nature of a dark universe must be cold, bleak, and unradiant—what we now call dark matter. And in as much as our cold, dark universe had been created—forged was the word she used—by the lords of night as a font of suffering from which they could power their universal aims, that suggested it had a violent beginning, a big bang. This latter observation is especially important since it contradicted the prevailing, chauvinist view of the time that the night sky was the reflection of God: glorious, eternal, infinite, and unchanging.

 Such arguments about the fundamental nature of the universe had been raging for decades both between members of the Theosophical Society as well as between the society and its peers. Some of them had gotten quite heated. By the time HPB arrived in India, there was considerable bad blood, and in typical Blavatsky fashion, she would not be bested and took no quarter. To tread that checkered floor, certainly to live on it, was a tacit admission of defeat. She simply walked away.

 The Countess and I found her in a cramped apartment in the city lounging on a pillow wearing nothing but a single loose gown.

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from the opening of Bright Black, the fifth and final installment of my full-course occult mystery, FEAST OF SHADOWS

 art by Chris Cold