#bluejay reading log

[firestorm09890]

you're kidding

[shikai-the-storyteller]

Highlights and timestamps for Pac's 10/10 stream:

—

(All his streams are 10/10, but this specifically is his October 10 stream)

33:00 - Pac and chat are talking about ghosts, and Pac says if he turned into a ghost, he doesn't think he'd be a blue ghost. - Pac: I don't think I'll turn into a blue ghost, I would become a ghost of another color, I want to become a two-color ghost. Blue and yellow.

34:00 - Pac jokes "How am I going to become Mayor if no one else wants to run?! 'You can only lose to yourself' dude, if it's just me and Jota, I don't know..." - Pac talks about how Bagi gave him a reverse compliment by saying "You're the most neutral of all, you should become mayor!"

~ 41:00 - Pac: You know the best way to gain votes? Besides buying votes, giving gifts! We go to people's houses, give a gifts, and says "You want more gifts? Vote Pac."

45:15 - Pac logs onto Arkanis and hears some very strange scary noises (someone pranked him with a skulk shrieker

54:00 - Pac gets a text from Quel

1:01:00 - Pac talks about comparing himself to Jota, and how

1:08:45 - Pac meets up with Quel and gives her a fern and some mechanism she asked him for. - He tells her he's running for mayor

1:56:30 - Pac cubito dancing

1:59:00 - Pac says he knows there are non-Brazilian fans / fans who don't speak Portuguese who watch Arkanis, so he always tries to read things out loud for folks :') ❤️

2:12:00 - "A Dios Le Pido" plays on Pac's stream, and he talks about Claudio

2:30:45 - Pac hears a spooky noise that sounds like the Creaking

2:37:00 - Looking for Alice the bluejay (?)

2:41:30 - LittleMissSun (Chayanne's admin) raids and Pac says hello.

2:46:30 - Pac chases after an orca saying "Free Willy! Free Willy! I'm a big fan!"

3:00:00 - Milo arrives and startles Pac. They give each other a hug. Milo says his new enemy is Claudio

3:06:30 - Sun in chat says "i missed just listening to portuguese without understanding anything i actually mean that. no joke. this is nice :DD" ❤️

3:18:30 - Pac calls Milo a 550 year old baby, but agrees that he's still a baby.

3:26:45 - Pac and Milo play on the trampoline

3:29:30 - Pac talking to Gabepeixes: I want to blow up Bia and Araldo, everyone will die if it depends on me, but if I become Mayor, I would like to have a specialist with me. I want to keep Bia exiled. I am going to send Araldo away, I am going to send Bia too, and maybe i will try to go further, one side of Jota to bring peace to Valigma where there are no these two people creating chaos. And then we can start a new era of Arkanya domination.

3:32:00 - They talk about democratizing Arkanya

4:04:30 - Guh tosses Pac out of his house.

4:20:00 - Guh gifts Pac a frog named Choke

Pac raids Guh and ends stream.

[maxdurden]

wip whenever

i was tagged by the incredible @johaerys-writes

tagging all the folks i usually do, no pressure! @dearestaeneas @deadchannelradio @sarcasticbeanie

listen y'all if we're lucky emily wilson will knock some sense into me and i'll start writing actual shit again soon, but for now have new dc comics oc lmao

"What you're doing is dangerous. You understand the risks, right?" 

Silas gave the strange man-beast in front of him a withering glare. He was a living dead abomination—he wasn't worried about a little danger. The threat Elijah posed to him should he be found out was not nearly as abstract as this creature might have thought. Silas had fought Elijah on several occasions. The outcome had never been better than a quick-to-heal black eye and tepid congratulations on his progress. He knew that if he was found out, he would not win.

"I do." He spoke through bared teeth. Working with these children did not feel right. One of them, positioned near the back and wearing a mostly blue suit, was a Bat. Silas had seen them swinging through Gotham. He had caught them snooping through the Court's old headquarters. They were the enemy. 

And yet, Elijah was growing more erratic by the day. Silas didn't want to put his brother at risk, but he needed help. Silas had read about transformations like these in old logs and journals of Grandmasters and Judges; Worsening Electrum dependency, mercurial moods, a lack of obedience even to the Court, all these things had been observed in Talons before. Electrum slowly ate away at their humanity while the grueling cycle of hibernation and rebirth wore on their sanity until they were nothing but a violent shell. Perhaps an alliance with the Bats—With the Wayne Family—would save Elijah from the same fate. He would understand, when it came time to tell him. And if he didn't, it wasn't as if he could do worse than he'd already threatened. But Silas was doing this for him. 

"Good," The strange beast with whom he was brokering a deal nodded its head. Despite its immense size, its odd proportions and scratchy voice gave the distinct impression that Silas was speaking with another adolescent. The rest of the team were children, too. Bluejay, who Silas had been first to meet, was only a few years older than him.

The beast held out something for Silas to take. His hands—much to Silas' relief—were not hoof-like in shape or texture, though they were rough and ashen gray. The object was only the size of the creature's relatively large palm, and Silas squinted down at it. What exactly it was was hard to say. It appeared, at first glance, to be an impossibly smooth, rectangular black stone. It seemed to him to be a strange offering, but perhaps this was custom in the future to which he still felt so ill-adjusted. Or perhaps it was a common tradition of horsemen—of whom Silas had only ever met this one. Either way, it felt rude not to accept. 

It was cool to the touch, and no thicker than a quarter inch. Its surface was a sleek black on both sides, but was clearly constructed from metal on one side and not the other. So, not a stone. Still Silas couldn't piece together what it might have been. The metallic half was the only stretch of black interrupted, with a square piece of glass covering some small piece of metal, or something too alike it to be told apart when it was so small. 

"If you find something, or need our help, contact us." The horseman spoke with an earnestness that washed over Silas. He looked up from his examination, awkwardly holding the gift—just slightly too large for him to comfortably wrap his fist around—by his side. "I'm Taurinus, by the way, but you can call me Polk." 

A nervous ripple passed over his teammates. Some shifted from foot to foot, one clad in black and red with intersecting lightning bolts on his chest made a motion with his hands so quickly they blurred in Silas' vision. A girl with long black hair stepped forward, as if to interrupt, but seemed to think better of it.

"I am Talon." Silas said, words slow and deliberate. 

"You’ve gotta have an actual, real name." Bluejay blurted out from where they were standing next to a redheaded girl whose suit was also ornamented with lightning bolts. 

"My name is Talon." Silas would not be called by another name. He had not quite earned the title yet, but he would soon. He would accept no other form of address from these strangers. "How am I meant to contact you? Any correspondence would almost certainly be intercepted." And he had been given no place where he could send information, besides. 

"With the phone," Polk's explanation felt more like a question than an answer, and it did not serve to clear anything up for Silas, either. 

"I don't have a telephone." He insisted, feeling the heavy weight of eyes on him and the distinct sensation that he was making a fool of himself. It was his turn now to shift uncomfortably from foot to foot. He had vague memories of the telephone that used to hang in the first floor of his childhood tenement building, the pleasant voice of the operator and the eternally-long line of others waiting their turn. He now had access to no such thing. 

Silence stretched on for a beat too long. Silas watched as eyes slid from him to the smooth object in his hand. 

"That’s a–well, uh, it’s a cell phone.” Polk pointed with his large hand towards the odd gift Silas was still holding by his side. 

A cell phone. Silas was already well aware that the world he now lived in was nothing like the one in which he’d grown up, but he couldn’t begin to anticipate the technology he’d encounter. Gotham itself had changed with the years, all glass and steel now. He had taken comfort in finding places he could recognize–the clocktower, Gotham Cathedral, even Wayne Manor which he remembered lording over the city from its perch in Bristol an entire century ago. Looking at Gotham for the first time again felt much like staring down at the reflective surface of this small black rectangle. There was the strange sensation that he was an alien on an altogether unfamiliar world. How was this meant to be a telephone? There was no receiver, no dial, no cords. 

“Oh shit, right.” Bluejay spoke now, taking a step forward. “I think the Talons are from the past, sometimes.” 

“Weren’t you supposed to be doing research on these guys?” The girl who had almost interrupted Polk spoke up, voice dry and unimpressed. 

“I did! They hibernate or something!”

“For how long? This poor kid doesn’t even know what he’s looking at!” 

Their squabbling faded into background noise as Polk stepped forward. “Here, let me show you how to use it.”

[post-finem]

Witch's Log 2

Hello, outsider

I haven't written here since learning that what I write isn't private. I have, however, spent a lot of time with the wood recently, and in that time I've come to better understand the situation.

I was scared to write before because I wasn't sure who you, dear reader, were. I'll share what I've come to understand, but one thing I've learned is that you know nothing about me either, so that's probably where I should start.

I am the witch. I had a human name at one point, but it's hard to remember these things when you're the only entity in the wood who uses such a concept.

Oh yeah, the wood. You don't know them either. I'm not a particularly easy individual to explain, but the wood? ...I'll try my best.

The wood is time. Or, the wood is outside of time? The wood transcends time? The wood is wound through all of time, but they also exist in every moment outside of time. All of the befores, the afters, and the many, many in-betweens.

I don't know if the wood has a size. I've only explored the few hundred miles surrounding my home here, and most of the places I've been have remained roughly consistent in physical presence, but there's definitely a degree of... fluidity... to the wood.

Now that you have a clear and comprehensive understanding of this place, I can tell you more about myself!

As I said before, I am the witch. My name has been lost to time, but that's only because I've had no need for it. I recently learned that my consciousness is 984 years old, though my body has not aged for most of that time. I lived in the chronological realm (where you, the reader, [probably] live) and aged normally for about 23 years before coming here. I've been connected to time at various moments since, and I also experienced normal aging in those moments, leaving me with not a clue as to how old my body currently is.

What I can say is that about half of my hair is gray (the rest is brown), and only about a quarter was gray when I first came here. I have a few more wrinkles than when I arrived, and I haven't gotten many new scars since, but some of the ones from before have started to fade a little.

Also, in the moments when I am connected to time, especially if the connection is strong, my body hurts. Aches and pains, soreness, migraines. I wasn't particularly kind to my body before coming here, and time never fails to remind me of that.

So, I've shared a bit about myself, but I'm sure you're wondering why and how I'm writing to you — my understanding is that you have little-to-no knowledge of the atemporal, after all.

The answer is crows. Sorry, not just crows; they're just the ones who hang out with me the most. The answer is corvids. Crows, ravens, magpies, bluejays... Unlike most chronological entities, corvids are of the wood, and unlike most entities of the wood, corvids have an ingrained link to time that allows them to freely traverse the boundaries of the wood.

And so the wood, sensing that I've started to feel lonely lately, has enlisted the corvids to share my writings here with beings of the chronological realm, such as yourself. The corvids are also able to relay messages back to me, so if you have questions, feel free to *ask* 😉.

I have to say, I'm grateful for this connection I've been given. I'm happy to be away from other humans given the nature of the time I spent among them, but I'm also glad to finally have a way to communicate safely. I don't hate humans (I am one, after all), but I don't feel safe around them, either, so I think this arrangement suits me best.

I have a spell to work on now, so I'll end here, but I hope this message finds you well, and I hope to hear from the corvids soon!

☮️💜

Read Part 1 Here!

[quibliography]

The Left Right Game by Jack Anderson 🎣

Synopsis: This nosleep subreddit turned podcast is about Alice Sharman, an investigative journalist for the National Public Radio. A story about a paranormal road game is brought to her attention by a man named Robert Guthard who has found travel logs and instructions and wants to bring her along on his next trip. She joins a strange caravan of travelers also looking to play the Left Right game but the journey turns out to be much stranger than anyone could have possibly imagined.

My Quibs: Hot damn. I haven’t been so infuriated by a story like that in a long time. They say that good art makes you feel something and I went from curiosity to apprehension to anxiety to fear to fury to resignation. None very positive, but still. I don’t want to give anything away and it starts unravelling after only part 2 so I can’t talk much about content. I can however praise the *french kiss* excellence of Anderson’s prose. Aside from the standard spelling and grammar editing needed, the writing is fantastic. It creates a persona from a road, a microcosm from a caravan of characters, with callsigns that are just asking the reader to dig deeper. (More on that in a second.) Maybe because it’s in the guise of a subreddit post, casually thrown onto the internet in longer and longer stretches of time. [Those reddit comments look ready to pull off their heads waiting for the next chapter.] But Anderson manages to speak on so many levels: as a casual subreddit poster, as a professional NPR journalist, as a skeptic who is open-minded, as a believer who wants to learn the truth. I could go on and on but the other half of what made this so enjoyable was the “real” other half of the story. All the reddit comments (or as many as I could read before I realized I hadn’t eaten all day) going through theories, dissecting literary elements and symbolism, rage posting that it’d been 14 days without their story fix. My favorite comment insight was that “Ferryman” and “Bristol” - which is supposedly an old term for bridge - are two ways to cross a river, a symbolic representation of the road they travel. Mind blown. That’s something I would never have been able to recognize on my own. It makes it almost an immersive, interactive storytelling. Talking to the “OP” and asking after him, telling him not to play the game himself, speculating about his involvement. OP/Anderson was almost real which gave the story he was telling more sincerity. It’s a community involvement in a story that I don’t get outside of mainstream television, which to be honest has a ceiling on quality.

Should you read it? If you love seat-gripping, throw-popcorn-at-the-screen, supernatural stories. And I would highly suggest you read it before you listen to it, because despite the high-quality sound editing, they didn’t invest so much in the text-to-audio translating. During most of the last three chapters of the podcast I didn’t understand what the hell was happening and it became much clearer after I read the subreddit.

Similar reads? Many many comments compare it to Stephen King and I would agree. It has that same eerie quiet like a silent scream. The only difference is that King has a grittiness to his writing whereas Alice dictates like a journalist.

(Spoiler Alert!) Ooooookaaaay. So much to unpack that has already been unpacked a hundred times over in reddit. My mind is overflowing with all the awesome theories that I read I barely need to generate any of my own. [Quick side note to say that I love reddit. This was one of the few instances were I browsed hundreds+ comments and none were even slightly internet trolly. There was a lot of hate for Bluejay, but it was deserved. And two opposing camps about the ending, but that always happens. Anyways, props to the LeftRight reddit.] My favorite theories:

1. Besides the obvious Charon, Styx, Purgatory parallels, someone made a comparison to Dante’s Inferno and how each chapter was related to a sin. It became a stretch, but it was fun.

2. The forest child. A lot of thought about it being Bluejay, Bluejay’s aborted child, and then finally Marjorie and Rob’s child. Even though the story has more evidence toward the last, I like the symbolism of it being Bluejay. Her unwavering need for the game to be fake was naive and shedding light on it should lead to maturity but instead it distorts her even further.

3. The silent city being a parallel to Aokigahara where the inhabitants of one are from the other. And possibly other areas of the LRG being connected to the real world.

4. I like how people both loved and hated the ending. Personally, I was dissatisfied because a) a really gripping story has no good end, I will only be happy that it goes on indefinitely and b) I’ve never been a big fan of cosmic god-like involvement. I’m okay with it philosophically, but with all the comments saying that the road takes Alice to her destiny as this god-like creature, a physical embodiment of it is not my cup of tea. It diminishes our measly fragile Earth-bound existence. 

What did you think of The Left-Right Game?

[wufflesvetinari]

fighting off amanda through the power of my dad

LISTEN....i have been telling liz about an EXTREMELY niche dbh fic idea that started as a joke but i’m now completely obsessed with, which is a My Best Friend’s Exorcism homage about the “give up” ending with connor and amanda if north led the revolution

(i don’t think you’d need to read the book to understand the fic; you’d just have to know that MBFE is about the power of deep friendship fighting off demonic possession. which, like, amanda is close enough)

i’m putting the chat log under a cut mostly for my own later reference but also for all 2 of you who think this would be as AMAZING and ABSOLUTELY WORTHWHILE as i do

---

SeaTonic: the more i think about the "give up" ending where amanda takes control but you still get the hug scene, in addition to that one fic where connor is scribbling notes to try to get a message out, the more i kind of want like a "my best friend's exorcism" homage

SeaTonic: connor is suddenly the most popular boy in the precinct but he's mean to hank 

SeaTonic: hank calls connor's brain to find him for something mundane and he hears connor from what sounds like a tinny connection in a snowstorm being like "hank??? hank where am i????"

bluejay: oh my god

bluejay: most popular boy in the precinct.......

SeaTonic: everyone wants to be part of his clique

bluejay: Connor passes up a chance to be a lil shit to Gavin and extends an olive branch instead

bluejay: Hank: where's my son

bluejay: who gets the biologically improbable tapeworm infestation

SeaTonic: i wish we knew more about these police officers. you could make it like jericho instead and it's a simsense addiction [NOTE: we are talking about these]

SeaTonic: connor's like "no this is cool and harmless"

bluejay: Ohhhh that could work really well, actually

SeaTonic: because taking down jericho from the INSIDE

bluejay: addiction to BTLs

SeaTonic: amanda's plan all along

bluejay: In that case, Hank could be the main character figure

bluejay: Alienated from the androids (who in this case actually have a good reason to be wary of him)

SeaTonic: so they don't believe him fully yeah

SeaTonic: connor's been feeding them hints that hank is like trying to control him and they're like "let us save you from the evil human my poor boy"

SeaTonic: but instead of passive-aggressively ignoring hank north almost murders him

---

SeaTonic: the problem with the my best friend's exorcism fic would be that in order to make it spin off from a canon ending you'd have to have all named jericho characters killed

SeaTonic: and connor would be too busy running the revolution to really interact with hank or other non-jericho people as much as i'd want

bluejay: What about deviant Connor dies in hold > rooftop fight with Hank > quasi-deviation and rejoins Jericho?

bluejay: that's definitely less perfect

bluejay: but, oh hey then the Jerichrew wouldn't know anything weird happened with Connor at all. he could've just showed up like "Cyberlife didn't realize I deviated so I came back and pretended you guys had killed me and escaped"

bluejay: "don't listen to that human saying something is weird with me, he's a dick"

SeaTonic: so you mean that when amanda tries to take him over in the crowd she succeeds but then doesn't make him shoot immediately?

bluejay: mm hm. so, it contradicts her canonical behavior, but I think you could spin it as an AU that's reasonably in line with her canon behavior

---

SeaTonic: god i'm trying to think around the like.............okay so ra9 is god + deviancy

SeaTonic: and in my best friend's exorcism there's god + exorcism

SeaTonic: but that doesn't save her in the book

SeaTonic: it's like THE STRENGTH OF MY LOVE FOR YOU AND THE POWER OF THE STUFF WE ASSOCIATE GOOD MEMORIES WITH

SeaTonic: i think you could do something with that

SeaTonic: wow i keep accidentally wanting to write about quasi-deviancy

---

SeaTonic: see im now completely obsessed with this fic idea because you'd have to have a scene of hank “exorcising” him by rattling off things that he and connor bonded over and it's probably just like. "by the power of the chicken feed! cholesterol levels! dogs! not...killing yourself!"

SeaTonic: kamski is the exorcist except instead of being a bumbling, earnest dude whose understanding of his role springs from the wrong place it'd be like "huh. well, guess this isn't working. my advice is to throw out the whole connor and get a new one. bye"

bluejay: pft, yeah

bluejay: Kamski taking notes on what to do differently for the next Connor

bluejay: "if my super good rA9 plan and backdoor didn't work, it must be over (shrugs)"

SeaTonic: "yeah he was cool while he lasted but hey, at least i got this very detailed error report. thanks for bringing him over. i can have chloe dump him out back"

---

bluejay: if you do use a simsense angle, that could be a hint about the existence of the Zen Garden for Hank

bluejay: because it indicates that androids work in such a way that Cyberlife can replace their sensory input with VRtrap em in the fuckin Matrix

SeaTonic: yeah that makes sense, and i think i would have the accidental phone call to connor's soul before then too so all hank knows is a) connor is acting weird and b) he had a phone call where he sounded like he was in huge trouble but was apparently completely fine and unaware of the call when he finds him

SeaTonic: so he might be able to put that together with him knowing about simsense stuff

bluejay: maybe Hank played Shadowrun in college

SeaTonic: alwkwjte;awoh god

---

SeaTonic: OH writing this would also give me the chance to do "amanda talks to someone using her own mannerisms in connor's body" because the demon talks to abby as she's trying to exorcise gretchen

bluejay: hell yeah

bluejay: oh... Amanda is based on Kamski's real life mentor....so he probably gave her a lot of Amanda's personality, mannerisms, capabilities, etc and then it had all this other shit welded on top of it sloppily

bluejay: an Amanda that managed to defeat Deviant Connor might be the one being that could really fuck with Kamski's head

SeaTonic: incredible

bluejay: or even worse... what if he's not bothered by her

bluejay: Amanda didactically lecturing Kamski about how Deviant Connor failed and he's like "fascinating"

bluejay: maybe AI Amanda would be more fun and interesting to him than Deviant Connor at this point lmao

SeaTonic: KAMSKI NO

SeaTonic: god he's like "nope this isn't working, throw connor out, bye" and then amanda's like "i thought more of you, elijah" and he's like "...never mind, i'm keeping him. that's fine with you right hank. he's broken"

bluejay: oh my god he's the WORST

---

(it would absolutely have a happy ending though!!! and some creepy shit with the real connor stuck in the zen garden probably, because the scene with the accidental phone call to gretchen’s soul in MBFE fucked me up!!!!!)

[redditnosleep]

Has Anyone Heard of The Left/Right Game?

by NeonTempo

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 (Final)

Hi Guys,

Firstly, I want to apologise for not being at my laptop for the past few days. I had to attend a wedding in Scotland for one of my uni friends. They booked it in mid-week and, between you and me, I don’t think it’s going to last which means not only have I neglected you guys, but I’ve also wasted money on a rental suit and a John Lewis tea set.

As always thank you for your help in my ongoing attempt to find Alice. I’m now in full contact with the radio show she was working for, and they’ll be sending over Rob’s submission to the show as soon as they can. I’ve also looked up every town named Jubilation and have contacted residents from each of them. None of them have the particular junction mentioned in the previous log, “Sycamore Row” and “Acer Street”. I even combed google maps to make sure. I’m not sure what town Alice passed through last February but it doesn’t seem to exist on public record.

The guy who promised to retrace the route from the mirror shop came through, and has sent me a few possible addresses for Rob. He also mentioned looking into the game itself more. I’m not sure what he means by that but I want to be clear, please don’t play this game on my behalf. I don’t want that on my conscience.

Ok, without further ado, here’s the following log.

Thanks again.

The Left/Right Game [DRAFT 1] 10/02/2017

(Possible Opening) (I want to address you, the listener, for a moment, with an advance notice concerning the following episode. I’m sure it’s not been lost on you that every installment of the series so far has played host to some strange, unexplainable occurrence, and spanned a great many miles of travel. It goes without saying this has been by design. I’ve been summarising the countless hours of uneventful meandering and taking extra care to document the strange phenomena we’ve encountered along the way. I wanted the story to be fast moving, to have a real feel of progress with every chapter.

If that sense of exploratory intrigue is why you’re listening to this show, I completely understand. I’m certain it’s a primary draw for almost all of you; the twists, the turns, the mysterious, strange encounters along an impossible road.

But if that is the case, I feel it’s my duty to inform you that, apart from a few notable exceptions, there will be almost no ground covered in this segment, and the monsters we encounter will be all too human; stress, divisiveness, discomfort and, as one might imagine, grief.

If you want to read the synopsis of this episode on the website and wait for the next part, then you’ll be all caught up and I’m sure we’ll be back on our way, heading once more into the great unknown. But I feel it’s important to give the aftermath of Ace’s capture its own episode, in part due to the significance of the revelations that are unearthed in its wake, but also as a gesture of deference to the man we lost.

This is the story of our second night on the road.)

As we make the left turn, the horrifying space behind us is quickly replaced by a quiet emptiness ahead. The Wrangler crawls, defeated, toward the waiting convoy. The remaining four cars are parked haphazardly, taking up more than half the road. Rob drifts to the far end of the tarmac, looking to overtake and resume formation. Both of his hands rest on the steering wheel, his eyes fixed on some distant point in space. It’s not hard to imagine that behind the focus and the quiet control, there’s a man in turmoil, a man who can’t bring himself to say anything, in fear of saying too much.

AS: This is Bristol to all cars. We’re heading back on the road. Get yourselves in formation and make way for those around you. We’ve got a while to drive before we stop for the night.

LILITH: Bristol where’s Ro… Ferryman?

AS: Ferryman’s here.

APOLLO: Where’s Ace?

AS: Ace is… Ace didn’t make it across.

APOLLO: Uhh what?

LILITH: What the fuck? Bristol where is he?

It would be simple to describe what had taken place, or at least summarise the barest facts; what happened to Ace, where he is now, why he isn’t coming back. But for some reason, I can’t utter a word about what's transpired. Something about the event itself makes it impossible to retell, as if the requisite phrases have been locked behind glass.

AS: We need to get to the stopping point. It isn’t safe to stay here.

Shortly after we’d turned the corner out of Sycamore Row, Rob implied that the rest of the days’ drive would be uneventful. Had he waited just a few minutes longer, he would have been entirely correct. We’re on the road for another four hours, both of us quietly attending to our own preoccupations as the forest gradually thins out. The landscape gives way to rolling cornfields, that stretch out beyond the horizon on both sides.

Nothing notable happens, which is ironic, as I find myself typing up a lot more notes than I need.

With the sun descends through an orange sky as we pull into a clearing, beside a wild grove of apple trees. Rob turns off the ignition and the two of us sit in silence. Rob’s need to concentrate on driving had been a good excuse to stay quiet, a good excuse to not face each other. Now the wheels aren’t turning however, and the true reason for our mutual reticence is all too clear.

AS: Do you think he’s dead?

ROB: I don’t know.

Rob’s response isn’t reassuring, and I’m oddly grateful for that. There are no comforting words he can give me, and any attempt would have seemed horrifically insincere, a mockery of the situation’s onerous gravity. Anyway, given the circumstances of Ace’s capture, I’m not even sure which answer I want to hear.

Lilith appears at my window, rapping her knuckles against the glass with an aggressive impatience. I’d expect nothing less about now. Everyone in the convoy has been made to follow a unilateral order, my order, without explanation. They’ve been travelling for hours accompanied by the glaring absence of another human being. Looking in the wing mirror, I glimpse the rest of the convoy, standing by their cars, watching the Wrangler expectantly.

Rob’s hands still haven’t left the wheel.

With a sharp intake of breath, I push the door open and step out onto the grass. The ground is soft below me as I walk over to the group. There’s recently been rain. I begin to address the rough semicircle, it almost feels like one of Rob’s briefings.

EVE: What’s happening Bristol?

APOLLO: Did Ace turn back?

I meet Apollo’s eye. For the briefest of moments, I consider telling them all exactly that. Maybe it would save them from the slow, heavy ache that’s currently weighing down my chest. Maybe it would just save me from a difficult conversation. Either way, I know I can't lie to them. They deserve the truth, however unpleasant.

AS: No he didn’t turn back; they crippled his car.

LILITH: The tow truck? Did he get out?

The answer doesn't come easily. I’m being pressed to say the words aloud and, in doing so, to fully acknowledge what happened. It feels like I’m being driven to a funeral, like I’m being verbally marched towards an open casket.

EVE: What happened to him?... Bristol…

ROB: He’s dead, Eve.

I hadn’t heard Rob step out of the car when he reaches the group. It’s hard to hide my relief as he takes over proceedings, addressing the group matter-of-factly. Now it really is like one of his briefings.

ROB: Two guys in the tow truck coming outta Jubilation. They got him. They took him back with them to the town. Way they were treatin’ him he won’t last long.

BONNIE: Oh goodness…

EVE: What? Rob what’re they going to do to him?

ROB: I can’t tell you. Nothing like this ever happened before.

LILITH: Well we need to go back.

ROB: That ain’t gonna happen.

LILITH: We’re not going to fucking abandon him.

AS: Lilith…

LILITH: We’re going back!

ROB: No we’re not.

APOLLO: Me and Rob can go. You know the place right Rob?

ROB: The kid’s dead Apollo.

LILITH: But he was alive when you last saw him?

ROB That’s right.

LILITH: So what point did you decide he was dead?

ROB: When I saw him being carried away with a fucking tow hook sticking out his mouth! Goddamn it.

Rob shouldn’t have said that. I understand his reasons of course; he wants to convey an important truth, that nothing can be done, or could have been done, to save Ace. His ghastly choice of words does the job, but it also sends a ripple of disturbance through the crowd, planting in everyone’s minds the gruesome image I’ve been trying all day to uproot.

Bonnie covers her mouth in shock and sorrow. Eve turns noticeably pale, and even Lilith, who is intent on leading the questioning, is taken aback.

LILITH: Did… did you see this Bristol?

I nod solemnly. The group bristles at my affirmation.

AS: I saw enough. I had to close my eyes when it happened, Rob tried to save him until…

Before I can finish my statement, my words are cut off by something truly unexpected. In spontaneous response to my words, a harsh outburst of mocking, sarcastic laughter rings out from within the convoy. One by one, we turn towards its source, until we all find ourselves staring at Bluejay. Her unapologetic chuckling fills the silent night air.

AS: Is something funny, Bluejay?

Bluejay tries to speak through her, all too slowly, waning laughter.

BLUEJAY: It’s just… you call yourself a journalist… Hah you closed your eyes, my god… there it is! There it is.

AS: I’m sorry?

BLUEJAY: Do you close your eyes for magic tricks too?

EVE: What the fuck Bluejay?

APOLLO: Come on, this isn’t the time.

BLUEJAY: Oh the time is well fucking overdue. Seriously are you all morons? The Left/Right Game is a hoax. It’s fake! Rob Guthard’s played you all like fucking children! Ace is fine, he’s probably an actor! Like the hitchhiker was an actor and those towns people too. I mean, come on.

The group is taken aback by Bluejay’s incredulous tirade. She’s clearly been holding her tongue since day one; our reaction to Ace’s capture representing just one step too far.

AS: I saw Rob shoot one of those townspeople with a hunting rifle. I saw the wound. It was real.

BLUEJAY: It was a blood filled squib. The rifle was probably loaded with blanks. You can buy both from any good theatrical retailer. Seriously what the fuck is wrong with you people?

LILITH: Ok firstly, I don’t like your fucking tone. Secondly, have you noticed that we’ve been the only cars on the road for almost two days? And what about Jubilation? Are you suggesting Rob hired out a whole town? That would be fucking impossible.

BLUEJAY: Oh yeah sure, THAT’S impossible, but it’s totally believable that we’re driving on a magic road. Maybe this is the highest budget scam I’ve ever seen but that’s all it is, a scam. And Al Jazeera here is giving him all the publicity he wants. I mean these people are sheep but you, you’re a fucking sycophant.

My mother used to tell me that you can’t strike a person from the high road. Staring down the barrel of Bluejay’s darkly self-satisfied grin, I’m more than tempted to make the descent.

AS: Ok Bluejay fair enough. I’m not going to pretend to know what’s going on here, for all I know you could be right. But why would Rob spend the production budget of a Hollywood film to trick a radio journalist and two vloggers. Trust me, our website does not get enough traffic for-

BLUEJAY: Oh don’t be so self-important. It’s not YOU he’s trying to fool.

Bluejay turns to Rob, fixing him a glare of pure, unadulterated triumph.

BLUEJAY: Admit it Rob. Admit that this is all a fucking farce. Admit that you knew who I was before I even got out of my car.

Rob’s face looks like it’s been carved from granite. The group looks to him for an answer, but he delivers his response directly to Bluejay, his eyes locked with hers.

ROB: It’s true… … I know who you are Denise.

The atmosphere changes, and for a moment, the night erupts into a foray of whispers. Rob’s answer clearly means something to everyone but me.

EVE: Denise?

LILITH: Denise Carver?

APOLLO: No. You serious?

AS: Sorry, who’s Denise Carver?

LILITH: She’s the biggest killjoy in the hobby.

BLUEJAY: Oh fuck you, you fucking air-head.

ROB: Denise here is a member of the Skeptics and Rationalist Institute of America. She likes to get herself invited on ghost hunting expeditions under a false name so she can debunk them publicly. You may've gathered she don’t believe in the supernatural.

BLUEJAY: Actually I do believe in the supernatural. I believe that it’s a billion dollar industry built on selling comfortable lies to the gullible, and it thrives on shitty journalists and attention whore bloggers who are willing to spread whatever shit they think will get them clicks.

AS: That’s why you took so long getting around the pine tree. Even when the truck was coming for Ace. You didn’t think any of it was real.

BLUEJAY: Uhh… did you?

As condescending as her delivery may be, her words spark a sudden realisation. It’s true, that with an unspeakably high budget and a few deft stooges, you could probably replicate most of what we’d seen on the road. Yet, without realising it, I’ve found myself agreeing with Rob’s version of events, personally defending the Left/Right Game’s validity against its decriers. I’d set off on this journey much like Bluejay, as a staunch, confident skeptic, but somewhere between the tunnel and this moment, I’d become a believer.

Bluejay notes my lack of protest, and turns back to Rob.

BLUEJAY: I’m flattered you went to all this trouble. I didn’t know my work was so offensive to you.

ROB: I admire your work Denise. Always have. That’s why I brought you along.

BLUEJAY: That is bullshit. Tell your friend Ace he can’t act for shit.

Bluejay pulls a pack of Marlboros out of her coat, lighting up immediately, and goes to sit on the hood of her nearby car. Her demeanour clearly signals that her part in the conversation is over, though her words leave a bitter aftertaste for everyone involved. To sympathise, it must be exhausting, spending two days with people whose opinions are diametrically opposed to your own, having to listen in silence while they corroborate their own seemingly preposterous views. Having said that however, I’m incredibly glad she’s stopped talking. It reminds me of a time when we got on much better.

The next question comes from Eve, her voice quivering.

EVE: Can… can we die here Rob?

The quiet force of her words turn everyone’s heads back towards Rob. It’s clear that others have been thinking the same thing, and they’re looking to Rob for an answer.

ROB: It’s possible. The road ain’t ever killed no one before. Not so long as everyone followed the rules.

LILITH: But you said in your emails it was dangerous.

ROB: That’s right.

LILITH: But you didn’t feel like telling us that we could die out here?

Rob turns to Lilith, clearly offended by her accusation.

ROB: In the 1920’s Jon Ebenrow killed 36 people and violated their bodies. In one of your videos, you guys went to his home in Virginia looking for the man’s ghost. Bonnie & Clyde once spent $500 to stay at the Iowa Murder House, a place that’s supposed to possess its victims and force’em to kill each other.

ROB: If you all honestly believed in what you were chasing, you should be accepting death as an outcome every time you step out. We are looking for evidence of another world. What we’re doing here has the scientific significance of the moon landings, the cultural significance of Columbus reaching the Americas and a whole lot of people died doing both. If you accepted the risk chasing down the ghost of a two-bit serial killer, you should be willing to accept the risk for this.

Lilith looks like she’s been scolded by a parent. There’s a fire in her eyes as she observes Rob, meeting his criticism with scorn.

LILITH: Oh so it’s Ace’s fault? He should have “accepted the risk”?

ROB: He did accept the risk. Ace made his decisions. He saw the dangers of the road first hand and he kept on goin'. I told you this place could be dangerous, and maybe you didn’t take that seriously. But you are NOT gonna treat me like I lured any of you here under false pretenses.

We stand for a few moments in the uncomfortable void left by Rob’s words. No one’s quite sure where to look.

APOLLO: Well what do we do now Rob? Do we turn around?

ROB: I ain’t gonna make that decision for you. If you want to split off and head back, I suggest you wait till mornin’ and stagger your leavin’ times by an hour or so. I ain’t never seen nothin’ like what happened back there before, but this is the most people I ever played the game with. Maybe that’s doin’ somethin’.

AS: What do you mean by that?

ROB: Well it’s the only thing that’s changed. Truth is, this ain’t our world, by all rights we shouldn’t be here. Even when it's one car the road always tries to discourage you. Maybe it’s like bacteria in a vein. One or two might slip by unnoticed but once it hits a certain point it’s like a uh…

AS: Like an immune response. You think the road’s pushing back on foreign objects?

ROB: And the bigger the group-

AS: The more violent the response…

It makes sense, until Bluejay laughs once more. Hearing her reaction, I reassess what I'm saying and I can’t help but feel a little foolish at the idea.

ROB: Maybe. It’s just a theory... I don’t know.

Rob collects himself, regaining his composure.

ROB: Either way, you all have the morning to decide if you want to keep on the road. Bristol, if you want to go home, you gotta find someone to take you. I ain’t ready to head back yet.

He turns away from the group and marches to the Wrangler. I don’t see him again for the rest of the evening, and I have no intention of bothering him. Eve and Lilith immediately crowd around me, asking if I’m alright and taking it in turns to disparage Rob’s actions. I can’t bring myself to join in. All I can bring myself to say is…

AS: Can I charge my phone in your car?

The group has very little to say for the rest of the night. A deep solemnity hangs in the air, dampening any semblance of good cheer like wet leaves on a dwindling fire. No one offers any conversation, Apollo’s reservoir of quips has run dry. Everyone’s wondering where they’ll be going from here, pondering the sort of person they are in circumstances such as this. Do they press on towards danger, or back towards safe and familiar ground. It’s a question they’ll have to figure out for themselves, ideally before sunrise.

I already have questions of my own.

About an hour after Rob’s departure, bidding fair well to the rest of the group, I walk over to Lilith and Eve’s car. My bag is resting on the front seat, a black wire leading inside from the charging port. I’ve decided not to tell the pair that I’ve been charging the detonator for a military grade explosive less than ten metres away from them. Perhaps it will come out during broadcast. If you’re listening to this, sorry girls.

I pick up my bag and, checking that no one’s looking, make a beeline for the apple grove. I march through the small wood, the air growing still, the sounds of the convoy quickly fading behind me. In the late evening darkness, with the moon shrouded by legion of crooked trees, I’m puzzled that I’m not more afraid. I’ve seen what happens on this road and, as I pass through the grove and into the neighbouring field, intentionally isolating myself from the rest of the group, I'm quite aware that help won’t be coming for me. Even so, as the corn rises up in every direction around me, I find myself almost incapable of fear. The day's events have drained me of emotion, and I'm now with everything else pulled away, I’m left with only one driving directive; an overpowering urge to figure this road out, regardless of what that entails.

Judging the distance I’ve traveled to be acceptably out of range from the convoy, I take the block of C4 out of my bag and place it on the ground. Gritting my teeth, my body cringing with self-inflicted dread, I press the power button on the Nokia and wait for something to happen. My worries of instant disintegration are allayed slightly as the grainy image of two outstretched hands comes into view, swiftly replaced by a menu screen.

I work fast, the words on the brown paper package constantly reminding me of what I’m putting at risk with every passing second.

Firstly, I type my number own number into the phone, assuming, or at least hoping, that the mechanism isn’t activated by outgoing calls. A few seconds later my cell phone rings, giving me the Nokia’s number. Checking the call logs, I find a second, different number, which seems to have made a call to the phone three times in quick succession. If I were a betting woman, which I sometimes am, I’d suggest that this number belongs to whoever built the bomb, the calls representing an attempt to test the trigger prior to its implementation. If I’m right, then this should be the personal number of whoever was driving that crashed car.

My third discovery, is a little bit more puzzling. No texts have been sent from this phone, however there is one solitary message residing in the phone’s inbox. It’s from a third, separate number, and it reads thus:

“Please don't do this Rob.”

I stare at those four words, the new information grating uncomfortably against my already preconceived theories. If this text is to be believed, and my previous deductions are at all accurate, then that means Rob Guthard was driving the car. That the C4 in the trunk had belonged to him. All this time I thought Rob may have been responsible for something terrible, but what if he was run off the road himself? If that is the case, it leads to an entirely new question… who was responsible for his crash?

As I begin to think it over, the air explodes around me.

I’m jolted out of my examination by a powerful, echoing voice which reverberates the very air. The corn is thrown into a frenzy as the noise echoes from every direction, as if spoken by the air itself.

VOICE: I’ve watched you questioning.

Without a second’s hesitation, I turn off the Nokia and throw the block into my bag. I jump to my feet and scan the cornfield for whoever spoke the words, backing away towards the convoy. Suddenly, realising how far I am from my friends, I break into a run, my boots pounding the dirt as I flee back to the woods.

Less than a minute later I burst out through the trees, my bag swinging with the weight of the block. Everyone’s in their cars, seemingly fast asleep. I’m starting to think they’re onto something. With no one to talk to, and a long day ahead of me, I suppose there’s no further recourse but to catch my breath, write up my immediate thoughts and then, finally, get some much needed rest.

I feel a dull pressure behind my eyes as I step towards the Wrangler. Quietly opening the back door next to my sleeping area, I carefully hide the block under my luggage. Then, silently closing the door again, I wander around to the passenger side, where my notes are waiting to be typed.

I reach out and grab the handle, gripping it tightly. I don’t open the door. In fact, after a moment staring through the glass, I let go.

The pressure behind my eyes gives way, and before I know it I’ve slid down to the damp ground, my back against the cool, hard metal of the door. A whine catches in my throat as ugly tears stream down my cheeks. My breath shudders as I inhale, and my attempt to breathe out plays to the world as a quiet, declining sob. The tears take me by surprise but I don’t wipe them away. In a bittersweet way, they’re welcome, necessary even. They carry with them a familiar sense of heartrending release. By the time they’ve run dry, I feel like I might just be able to move on from the events of the day. The sounds in my head are just a little quieter now I’ve paid them their due.

BONNIE: Are you ok honey?

I’m picking myself up when I see Bonnie walking carefully over to the Wrangler. I brush myself off, a little embarrassed at being caught.

AS: I didn’t know you were awake.

BONNIE: I’m a light sleeper, and Martin… Clyde snores. Do you need someone to talk to?

AS: I think I just need to sleep. Thanks Bonnie.

BONNIE: My name’s Linda, if you’re wondering.

AS: … Alice.

BONNIE: That’s a beautiful name. Well Alice, I know I don’t talk much, but I know how to listen… if you ever want me to.

For the first time since the pine fell, I find myself smiling. It’s a weak smile, but a smile nonetheless.

AS: Thank you Linda. I might take you up on that. Have a good night.

BONNIE:** Have a good night.

Bonnie starts to walk back to the car, before pausing and turning round. One last piece of comfort to offer.

BONNIE: And remember, everything will all be alright once we get to Wintery Bay.

I frown a little, unsure what Bonnie means. She smiles back blankly, then resumes the path back to her car. She’s mentioned that place before, upon leaving Jubilation, in what seemed like a moment of idle reminiscence. How she mentioned it just now doesn’t seem like reminiscence at all.

After everything that’s gone on, all the suspicion I’ve been directing at Rob, all my worry for Ace. Is something the matter with Bonnie?

Perhaps I’m misunderstanding, perhaps Bonnie misspoke, but all the same, the brief comfort her words afforded me has already faded away, leaving a familiar feeling of confusion and paranoia in its place.

I let myself into the passenger side, type up a few pressing notes and then climb through onto the air mattress. Sleep doesn’t come easily. I close my eyes and try to convince myself that tomorrow will be better than this harrowing day. Yet every time I make that particular argument, a voice in my head responds:

“That may depend on which way you turn.”

[sending-the-message]

Has anyone heard of the Left/Right Game? (Part 8) by NeonTempo

Hi Guys,

Apologies for the removal of this log a second ago, not sure why that happened, and I should also apologise for the delay in posting recently. If I could dedicate all my time to finding Alice, then I would. Sadly, I need to work as many Christmas shifts as I can get my hands on, especially now I’ve decided that I can’t continue the investigation effectively from my flat in North London.

I’ve been thinking about it for a while and I’ve decided that, after Christmas, I’m going to be flying out stateside to follow up on the leads you guys have provided. Hopefully once I’m there I might be able to make some real headway.

In the meantime, please keep any and all insights coming, however small. I really do read all of them.

Ok, here’s the next log:

Part 1

Part 2

Part 3

Part 4

Part 5

Part 6

Part 7

The Left/Right Game [DRAFT 1] 14/02/2017

In the brief interlude before I hit the ground, I find myself alone with the stars.

As I fall backward towards the slope, my gaze rising to meet the night sky, I feel a sudden weightlessness take hold, as if I’m being granted an audience with the heavens. The rich and endless firmament shines down through the canopy, with no earthly light to dull its glow. Despite everything that’s happened, I’m unable to ignore how magnificent it all is, how gracefully detached from the ugliness below. Though the moment lasts no more than a second, it feels longer, like I’ve been gifted some fleeting respite, a transient sliver of time in which to appreciate the calm and quiet cosmos. A moment to escape, however briefly, from the events that are to come.

I don’t know how much longer the moment might have lasted. I suppose I never will. It’s with a sense of genuine sadness that I turn myself away, twisting my body around in mid-air. The stars disappear from view, and I am left staring down the slope into the valley’s dark, uncompromising depths. My commune with the heavens has ended, and I’m returned to the cold, unforgiving earth.

It doesn’t welcome me back.

I hit the slope, immediately bouncing off one shoulder and landing on the other, barrelling forcefully and unstoppably downhill. My entire body is thrown into chaos, tossed into a frenetic, uncontrollable dance, swept along by the rushing earth towards the impatient valley floor.

The back of my ankle flails against a hard, jagged rock. My face rolls into a small bloom of stinging nettles, their caustic leaves scraping against my cheek. I battle to bring order to my descent, my hands grasping at the undergrowth, clawing through loose soil in a frenzied search for stability.

Rocks and dirt cascade around me as I pull myself onto my back, finally managing to descend with my feet pointed downhill. I’ve regained control just in time, looking ahead to see a large tree, bursting out of the hill a few metres below me. A split second before I would have collided with the thick, knotted trunk, I throw myself to the side, my wrist ricocheting against the bark and sending a shooting pain down my arm.

The valley’s base comes into view, hurtling towards me as I plummet through the rushing undergrowth. I can make out the bodies of the deer who made this hazardous journey before me. I can hear the pained braying of the survivors, moaning in hollow resignation as they struggle to stand on broken legs.

A moment later, I join them.

The slope doesn’t level out gradually. Just before the bottom, the sharp incline I’ve been hopelessly traversing drops off into a sheer rock face. Before I can stop myself, I’m launched from the slope, kicking dirt into the air. I spend the final three metres in freefall, before landing on my hands and knees, my whole body subject to a complete, bone rattling halt.

My body tensed and aching, I pick myself up off the valley floor. The second I stumble onto my feet, a harsh beam of torchlight strikes the ground to my right. My muscles groaning, I jump back against the natural rock wall as the light swings my way, sweeping directly over the spot where I just landed.

Bluejay is looking for me. I would have expected nothing less. The beam glides along the ground, scanning the base of the slope, lighting up the twisted bodies of countless deer. Fortunately, the shadow cast by the rock wall offers a measure of sanctuary, shielding me from the torch’s restless glare.

About half a minute after it arrived, the beam rises through the trees and cuts out.

I don’t expect her to come after me. I certainly don’t expect her to drop down the slope. Perhaps she could walk back down the road, taking a gentler route downhill, and pursue me through the valley once it levels out, but that walk would probably take half an hour each way. If I were her, I wouldn’t want to leave the Wrangler unprotected for that long.

Despite the fact that she’s showing no signs of entering the valley, Bluejay is clearly eager to locate me. The torch suddenly illuminates the damp soil ahead of me as she points it back down into the valley. I suspect she turned it off just long enough for me to feel overlooked, allowing me to consider stepping out into the open. I also suspect that, should the torchlight find me scrambling around on the valley floor, a bullet will quickly follow it, putting me down to lie with the deer. From that point, all she’d need to do is walk down and slip the Wrangler’s key from my cold, limp fingers.

Catching my breath, my back pressed against the rough rock wall, I run through my current priorities. I need to stabilise Rob, I need to lure Bluejay away from the Wrangler, and, most pressingly, I need to contact Lilith.

I reach to the back of my waistband, my hand searching for my personal walkie talkie. My fingers touch denim, finding an empty space where the transceiver should be. My stomach drops as I search along my back. It’s gone. I’d had it with me when I dropped onto the slope, but at some point during my furious descent, it must have gotten away from me.

The torchlight swings back around once more.

Though it’s something I never thought I’d have to do, I find myself making a mental inventory of the convoy’s radio transceivers. Before we set out on the road, Rob handed a walkie talkie out to each of us. Since then, it’s safe to assume that those belonging to Ace, Apollo, Eve, Bonnie and Clyde are no longer in play. Lilith must have lost hers when her car sank into the ground, which is why I gave her Rob’s before she ran into the forest. That just left mine, which could be anywhere on the hillside, and Bluejay’s.

The torchlight disappears once more.

I cautiously lean out from the shadows, scanning the forest around me. Bluejay’s walkie talkie had been in her car when the child pushed it from the road. If I’m correct, then her transceiver is the only one left that I can use to contact Lilith. The car itself doesn’t seem to be anywhere around me, but as I turn my head and scan the dark hillside, I can see it resting on the slope. The entire car has been stopped mid-fall, resting precariously on its side, the vehicle’s crooked undercarriage crumpled around the trunk of an old and battered tree.

If I’m going to get in touch with Lilith, I’m going to have to climb up there.

I edge along the rock until Bluejay’s car is almost directly uphill from me. Turning around, and running my hands against the damp, shrouded wall, I’m able to discern a few passable handholds. Placing my fingers into a large groove above my head, I jam my boot onto a small outcrop just above the wall and push myself upwards.

It isn’t an easy climb. My hands are cold, my arms are tired and I’m certainly not wearing the right shoes. My boots repeatedly slip from their holds, causing my arms to throb as they’re forced to bear my weight. After painstakingly scraping up the first two metres, I run out of places to put my hands, my outstretched fingers falling roughly 10 inches short of the top. I take a quick breather, letting both arms straighten as I lean back and observe the wall above me. As the torch sweeps past overhead once more, it illuminates a small twisted root on the very edge of the cliff.

I have no idea if I can reach it, and there’s every chance it will give way immediately, causing me to topple helplessly back to the earth. However, I can already feel my grip weakening, a noticeable ache running up my forearms. I’m not going to be able to stay where I am much longer, and I suspect I won’t have the energy to make it this far again. Edging my feet up, scrabbling the side of my boot against the wall until it sticks in place. I bend my legs slightly, poising myself to make the jump. Gritting my teeth, and with a sharp, tentative intake of breath, I swing myself up into the air and let go of the wall.

I feel grossly vulnerable, hanging in the air with nothing but a harsh fall below me and a harrowing climb waiting above. I throw my arms forward as I hit the peak of my jump and just manage to catch the root with both hands. A heavy jolt wrenches my shoulders, threatening to yank me back to the ground. Fear and adrenaline alone sustain my desperate grip, my arms on fire as I swing my leg up to the ledge, hooking my heel over the top after a few clumsy attempts.

I force myself over the edge and onto the soft soil, just in time for the torchlight to start circling back towards me.

With one final surge of effort, I push my aching body upright and struggle over to the nearest tree, falling at its base and pressing myself against the bark. The light travels quickly. The tree’s darkening shadow swings over from the right, covering me, and then fading again as it stretches out to my left. The light leaves me in darkness, certain to return soon as Bluejay continues her frenzied surveillance.

It's started to rain a little. A few sporadic droplets fall through the sparse canopy and land on my outstretched palm. It doesn’t take long before these scouts are reinforced by a steady downpour, drumming against the leaves and grass, soaking through the loam. The already punishing incline is going to prove completely unclimbable if the rain has enough time to slicken the grass and pound the soil into mud. I also doubt I’ll be able to make the initial climb again, especially if the rock wall becomes coated in a layer of cold rain.

As much as I have to move quickly up to the car, I also need to move carefully. It’s becoming increasingly clear that this will be my only attempt at reaching the radio.

The vehicle is only a short climb away. I can see its undercarriage laying against the tree, the entire left side of the vehicle pressed into the ground. Only now I’m nearby do I hear the ominous creaking sound that emanates from the car, as it rocks almost imperceptibly around a thin focal point.

I wait for the torchlight to swing past me once more before pulling myself out from the shadow of the tree. My dirt covered hands grasping at any conceivable purchase, I crawl up the bank towards Bluejay’s vehicle. My feet slip on the grass with every other step as the rain seeps into the ground, soaking through my fleece.

I’m completely exposed as I make my way on towards the car. Though it remains a constant concern, the torch seems to be exploring another section of the hill as I arrive beneath the chassis, the undercarriage looming imposingly over me. I briefly glance up to check on Bluejay’s movements then, slowly, steadying myself against the incredible incline, I climb out into the open once more and pull myself up until I’m in line with the warped, twisted hood.

Bluejay’s transceiver is still fastened within its dock. Despite the car’s battered condition, the windshield is frustratingly intact, with nothing more than a small jagged, irregular hole near its centre. It will take a bit of manoeuvring, but it should be just big enough to reach through and pull the radio free. Slowly, and tentatively, I thread my arm through the centre of the opening, shards of serrated glass encircling my skin. My hand reaches the dashboard, slowly brushing along its surface towards the walkie talkie as I lean into the car.

The torchlight starts to swing back across the hill. Bluejay is walking along the ledge in a frantic mission to find me. In my current position, out in the open and trapped in a slow and delicate procedure, there’s no way I can get out of the way in time.

My hand grasps the transceiver as the light reaches me. Though I’m ashamed to admit it, for a brief moment, drowned in the revealing glare of the torch’s beam, I’m stunned into inaction. The light has stopped moving, fixed directly on me, casting my stark shadow down into the valley. I can imagine Bluejay’s triumphant glare as her desperate search is finally rewarded.

Returning to my senses all too late, I grit my teeth, and wrench the walkie talkie from its dock. With no time for grace or care, I retract my arm from the windshield, inhaling sharply as an aberrant shard of glass scrapes across the back of my hand.

It turns out I have greater things to worry about, as I hear a loud bang from up the top of the hill, followed instantaneously by a disgusting zipping sound that flashes past my ear. I flinch instinctively from the noise, my sudden reaction causing my boots to give way beneath me. I slam into the earth and career down the hill. What little control I have over the slope, I give away in a desperate bid to roll into the car’s shadow and out of the light. I don’t have time to right myself as I’m dragged chaotically down towards the valley, and cast over the edge once more.

The base of the valley flashes into view mere seconds before my body slams into it. The air is ripped out of my lungs, my pained cry forming a visible plume of steam that dissipates into the cold night air. I lay on my side, cradling the walkie talkie in my hands. At the very least, I’d managed to keep a hold of it.

The torch dances erratically around my position. I pick myself up and drag my body the last few metres, collapsing against the wall as torch beam lights up the ground in front of me. As I raise the radio, I realise my hands are violently shaking. I don’t think I’ve ever been as close to death as when that bullet passed by me, and although the noise itself died quickly, it’s horrific implications echo in my skull. Bluejay shot Rob as a bargaining chip, to drag us out of the Wrangler. It was a show of force. A power play. The bullet that she just fired in my direction had no nuance, no pretence, no objective other than its primary function.

Bluejay’s prepared to kill me, which means she’s prepared to kill any of us. I raise the transceiver, and switch through the channels until I find Rob’s frequency.

AS: This is Bristol to Lilith. Bristol to Lilith. Do you copy?

The radio crackles as I release the button. I wait twenty interminable seconds for Lilith to respond. She doesn’t.

AS: This is Bristol to Lilith, can you hear me?

This time I let a minute pass. Still nothing. Everything I’ve been struggling for since I jumped into the valley has come up against a wall of silence. I feel a swell of frustration inside me.

It isn’t fair.

AS: Jen? Jen… are you there?

Another minute goes by. I sit in silence the whole time, watching as the radio I risked my life to collect transforms into a useless hunk of plastic. After a while I loosen my grip and let it drop into the wet soil.

I bring my legs up to my body, wrap my arms around them, and rest my head against my knees. In a moment of rest, my breathing becomes shallow. A set of fresh tears well up behind my eyes, spilling out down my face. The rain falls around me as I quietly cry, sitting in the middle of a dark forest, muddied, injured, and alone.

I’m ripped out of my melancholy as the rain is blasted in every conceivable direction, whipping against my face, and splattering against the rock with incredible force. The air is whipped into a furious maelstrom, and a familiar, booming sound crashes through the ether.

VOICE: I’ve watched you struggle.

As soon as it arrives the voice is gone. The wind quiets down and the rain begins to drop vertically once again.

AS: Hello?! Hello?! Who is that?

The air is still, absent of everything but the rain. I wipe the tears from my face as I call out to the air.

AS: Can you help me? Please can you... just…

The voice has disappeared, and I suspect I won’t be hearing it again any time soon. Perhaps it just wants me to know that it’s watching. One thing is certain, if the voice is attempting to bring me comfort, or make me feel less alone, then its methods are horribly misguided.

LILITH (VO): Alice are you there?

My eyes fixate on the crackling radio.

LILITH (VO): Alice are you still there? I’m sorry I couldn’t…

AS: Jen! Jen, are you ok? Are you safe?

LILITH (VO): Yeah I’m ok, I thought you were… what happened to you?

AS: I uh… I jumped down the hill, got Bluejay’s walkie, she shot at me… how’ve you been?

LILITH (V.O): She’s gone fucking crazy. I made it to a clearing in the woods. It’s straight on from the car, or at least I hope it is. I still haven’t seen that… that thing anywhere.

AS: Well, it’s a big forest. Maybe it’s gone. Can you stay near the clearing?

LILITH (V.O): Yeah I can keep hidden nearby. What are you gonna do?

AS: I’m going to make my way to you and we’re going to get Bluejay away from the Wrangler.

LILITH (V.O): How?

AS: I’m still working on that. I’m about half an hour away. Keep your volume down but stay in touch alright?

LILITH (V.O): Yeah. Ok… ok will do. I’m glad you’re alright Alice.

AS: Yeah, you too Jen.

I fasten the radio to my waistband. My body still aches from the fall, blood dripping slowly from my hand, and my fingers are almost numb from the cold. Yet hearing Lilith’s voice on the other end of the radio has brought back something I lost in the valley. A sense of resolve that jumpstarts my tired muscles, pushes me to my feet and sets me off to rejoin road.

I’m still stuck in the middle of a dark forest, I’m still muddied, bloodied, and injured, but I’m no longer alone.

It isn’t long before my boots hit asphalt. I follow the road, sticking to the tree line as I work my way back up the hill. I’m reluctant to place myself within sight of the Wrangler, where Bluejay will almost certainly be camped out and waiting. Unfortunately, it’s the only point of reference in an otherwise unknowable forest, the only location from where Lilith’s location can be divined.

Once the road levels out, I take the precaution of heading deeper into the trees. The road is almost impossible to see now, but I’ll need the cover if Bluejay is still on the lookout. Even though I’m only a few metres deep, the woods fill me with a palpable sense of unease. Every shadow feels predatory, every twig that snaps under my foot sounds like the crack of a whip.

When the Wrangler comes into view, Bluejay’s nowhere to be seen. Curiosity getting the better of me, I creep closer to the road, observing the scene as the trees thin out. The place is deserted, with neither Bluejay or Rob anywhere to be seen. I have no idea what could have forced her to move him. Perhaps he managed to get away.

Something feels wrong.

Creeping up to the Wrangler, I find the passenger side window broken, a thousand splinters of glass spilled across the ground, trodden into the mud. The glovebox has been left open, the boxes of ammunition either emptied or removed. The next thing I notice makes my blood run cold, and forces me to curse my own stupidity.

The light on the CB radio is on.

When I’d reached the bottom of the hill. I’d correctly calculated the number of active radios, arriving at the conclusion that only me and Lilith would be able to communicate. Technically I’d been right, we were the only two who could talk, but that didn’t mean we were the only ones who could listen. I’d forgotten that the CB radio in Rob’s car had its own independent battery, and in-built speakers. Most importantly, he’d been using it throughout the trip to broadcast and receive across all our frequencies.

I switch the frequency of the walkie to a random channel, lift the receiver to my mouth and hold the talk button.

AS: Bristol to all cars.

My voice crackles out of the CB radio. Bluejay must have known I was going to contact Lilith, and she’d broken into the Wrangler to spy on the conversation. I can’t believe I didn’t think about it before now.

I switch the radio back to Lilith’s frequency.

AS: Lilith you need to get moving. Bluejay heard us. She’s not listening now but she knows I’m meeting you near the clearing. Get yourself back here ok? Lilith can you hear me?

BLUEJAY (V.O): Bring me my fucking key Alice.

My heart sinks. Now it makes sense why Bluejay wasn’t guarding the Wrangler. She’d eavesdropped onto my conversation and, instead of waiting for me to get back up the hill, she’d gone after Lilith. Despite all my efforts, all my good intentions, I led Bluejay right to her.

AS: Bluejay, where’s Lilith?

BLUEJAY (V.O): She’s here.

I hear a refrain of quiet sobbing in the background of the call, I can hear Lilith meekly calling my name.

AS: Ok… ok let me speak to her.

BLUEJAY (V.O): Hah what?! No no. No you’re not going to trick me again, Alice. You don’t get to confer. You get to bring me the key to my fucking car, and then you get to walk yourselves back home. Now what about that do you need to fucking discuss?

AS: Bluejay this is ins… we’re not your enemy Denise ok? Please… please you have to believe me-

BLUEJAY: You think I’ll ever believe a fucking word you say?! Bring me my fucking keys and if you pull ANY more tricks I will put a bullet in your fucking skull. Now, do you believe that?

She waits patiently for my answer. I suddenly feel like we’ve entered an entirely new realm. Bluejay has the upper hand, and under the threat of fierce, unthinkable consequence we’ve become the subjects of her domain. Reason, diplomacy, and sanity no longer hold sway over proceedings. As long as she has Lilith remains at the end of that rifle, I’m beholden to her madness.

AS: Fine. Ok. I’m on my way.

BLUEJAY (V.O): Good. You need to remember Alice, I didn’t want any of this. You brought ME here.

Bluejay lets go of the button, returning me to a familiar silence. If I keep the keys from her, Lilith will be at her mercy, and although Bluejay can’t really afford to kill her bargaining chip, I have no doubt she’ll be willing to hurt her as much as she needs in order to force my compliance. If I let her take the Wrangler, however, we’re both dead anyway.

I take a moment to think through my options. It doesn’t take long. There aren’t that many left.

My journey through the forest is uncomfortable, and rings with an unsettling finality. Like a guilty child heading towards an unavoidable reckoning, I’m overcome by a pervasive dread which builds with every shuffling step. I do my best to keep the Wrangler behind me, carving a straight line through the woods. All in all, it takes less than five minues before the clearing opens up ahead of me.

Bluejay is planted in the very centre of a large glade, leaving too much exposed ground in every direction for me to even contemplate an ambush. Rob’s torch lies at her feet, as she keeps both her hands firmly wrapped around the rifle. Lilith kneels beside her, the barrel of the gun placed against her temple, her tearstained face contorted by a mixture of despair and vitriolic anger. Her hands rest against her lap, her wrists bound by same brand of cable ties I’d used to restrain Bonnie. I can imagine Bluejay bristled with poetic justice when she ordered Lilith to fasten the band around her wrists.

They both see me as soon as I step out of the trees.

BLUEJAY: You’re late.

AS: I got turned around. Lilith are you ok?

BLUEJAY: Stop walking. Stop walking!

Bluejay grips the rifle more tightly, sending me an unignorable message. She’s keeping me at a good distance. She knows it takes her a second or two to reload the rifle, and she wants me far enough back to allow time for at least two consecutive shots. Everything she does, every action she takes, demonstrates that she’s preparing to act swiftly against us, should anything untoward take place.

AS: Lilith, are you ok?

LILITH: I’m… I’m ok. I’m ok.

BLUEJAY: Hand over the keys, Alice.

AS: Bluejay, take her back with you. Please. You don't have to let her… you can drop her off at a police station as soon as you’re home. But just… take her home.

BLUEJAY: Hand me the fucking keys.

AS:... Fine. I have them in my bag let me-

BLUEJAY: Hey HEY! What are you doing.

Bluejay snaps at me as I reach into my bag, pointedly jabbing the rifle against Lilith. Lilith cries with distress as the barrel repeatedly prods her temple. I take my hand out of my bag, and slip it slowly from my shoulder. Every move I make is being considered a potential act of subterfuge.

AS: Fine. Fine. Here.

I swing my bag in a slow arc and throw it over to Bluejay, it lands in the wet dirt about a meter in front of her.

BLUEJAY: That's better.

Bluejay steps forward, momentarily letting the gun’s barrel slip from Lilith temple. She quickly bends down and places the bag over her shoulder, reaching in, extracting the key to the Wrangler and placing it in her jacket pocket. In the fleeting seconds of distraction, I watch Lilith raise her hands high above her head and swing her elbows down to her sides in a single fluid motion.

The zip tie snaps open, and without wasting a second Lilith launches herself at Bluejay, grabbing her waist from behind and trying to force her to the ground. Shocked at the suddenness of it all, but aware that this may be our only chance, I find myself sprinting across the clearing towards the pair of them.

Bluejay is taken by surprise following Lilith’s assault, but she adapts to the situation quickly. Planting one foot in front to brace her sudden momentum, she stops herself from being brought down. At the same time, she swings the stock of the rifle down to her side, where it meets Lilith’s face with a sickening crack.

BLUEJAY: You fucking bitch!

Lilith is knocked onto her back, dazed and hurt. Without hesitation, Bluejay swings the rifle down and fires a shot into the girl’s stomach.

I find myself trapped in the moment, as if reality itself is stunned by the madness taking place before it, unsure how it will continue on. The sound of the shot thunders through my consciousness, yet at the same time seems distant, otherworldly. I can’t bring myself to speak, my lips uselessly parted as Lilith’s fitful cries resound, uninterrupted, throughout the clearing.

AS: What have you done… what have you-

Bluejay is backing quickly away from Lilith, putting space between the two of us while she struggles to reload. She was right to keep me at a distance early on, she’s given herself more than enough time to drive a second bullet into the chamber, and click the bolt into position.

BLUEJAY: No more tricks Alice.

Before I know it, I’ve broken into a final, desperate sprint, casting wet mud behind me as I dash towards the shelter of the treeline. I can imagine Bluejay levelling the rifle, lowering her eye to the sights.

Another shot echoes through the cold air, flying wide and perishing with a distant thud. As I reach the edge of the clearing, I throw myself behind the thick trunk of the nearest tree. My back presses against the rough bark, as I listen for any movement behind me.

Twigs snap beneath Bluejay’s feet as she advances towards me.

BLUEJAY: You did this to yourselves! You did this with your lies and your tricks and your fucking games. Well I’m not FUCKING playing any more!

A shot grazes the tree, ricocheting off into the woods, I can hear her beginning to strafe around my position, poised and ready to fire as soon as she gets an angle.

BLUEJAY: You kept lying right until the end. Everything you’ve done, everything you are, you fucking monster! I will put a bullet in your skull and I won’t feel a fucking thing!!

From the moment she’d first opened her mouth, spilling her bitter, dogmatic cynicism into our group, I’d been waiting for Bluejay to realise she was wrong. Every so often, in a quiet moment, I’d catch myself fantasizing about the stark and esoteric phenomenon that would stop her tongue and force her to accept the truth. I realise now there was never going to be such a moment, that nothing lies beyond her powers of self-delusion. She was lost to us, lost to the road; a twisted woman, driven mad by her own rationality.

My hand slips into my pocket.

AS: You know what Bluejay. I believe you.

The next thing I hear is a faint, nostalgic ring tone, a sudden, deafening bang.

In the brief time I was afforded, following my tense call with Bluejay, I had taken one of Rob’s knives to the block of C4, cutting away almost everything around the blasting cap. The block was less than a pound in weight when I’d slipped it into a compartment of my satchel and buttoned it up. When Bluejay had asked for the key, I’d made sure to reach into my bag enthusiastically, I had a feeling she’d see my eagerness as a potential trap, allowing me a chance to throw her the satchel.

She didn’t trust anything I did, and it had made her predictable.

I step out from behind the tree and look towards Bluejay, lying broken on the forest ground, a large section of her abdomen removed by the blast, her arm, shoulder, and upper thigh virtually non-existent. She struggles to breathe as blood fills her air way.

BLUEJAY: I was ri… I was-

I turn away from her, and run towards Lilith. I drop to my knees beside her, grasping one of her hands. She grips my fingers weakly, her eyes are starting to drift shut, opening again for briefer and briefer intervals.

AS: Hey Jen…

LILITH: H… Hey Alice.

She speaks softly, her words hardly making it through the intense ringing in my ears.

AS: Try to stay awake Jen. You’re going to be alright ok? We’ll stop the bleeding and we’ll get you patched up… back at the Wrangler. We’ve got Roswell… in the spring. Once you’re better we’ll go there together ok? Jen? Jen…

When she manages to open her eyes once more, the look she gives me is kind, and heartbreakingly knowing. I can’t help but think back to our time on the cliffside, overlooking the vast ocean of fields. She’d asked how many people had died being told comforting lies. She asked how many of them knew. I can’t speak for anyone else, but as she stares up at me, hushing me with a look, I can tell that she does.

LILITH: I wish we could have been friends for longer.

I can’t bring myself to speak, every word seems too small, too insubstantial, too wholly insignificant to be the last thing she might hear. All I can do is stare into Lilith’s eyes as her faltering breath rises in clouds of pale steam, clouds that grow slowly thinner, and thinner, until nothing rises at all.

I lay her hand on the ground, and let her fingers slip gently from my grasp.

My legs carry me over to Bluejay. My hand reaches into her pocket and lifts out the key to the Wrangler. The metal is irreparably bent, with no hope of fitting back into the ignition. This was the potential outcome which had rendered the C4 as a last resort, only to be used if my life was in imminent danger. It had done its job, I was alive, but I was also stuck in this forest.

I can’t bring myself to care about that right now. My mind is numb to the concept of future suffering, with no space left to contemplate tomorrow’s potential trials. The horrors of the present are hard enough to face, my mind eclipsed by more darkness than I can process. The only glimmering shred of solace I can muster, comes from the wishful belief that I’ve now seen all the terrors this night has to offer.

As I turn towards the Wrangler, I find myself proven wrong once again.

I stand stock still as the child’s crooked form staggers out from the treeline. It looks markedly different, now a patchwork malformation of adolescence, adulthood, and old age. The face however, is still juvenile and filled with an innocent sorrow as it lurches towards Bluejay on uneven feet.

It doesn’t seem to have noticed me. I back away from Bluejay and step slowly towards Lilith, where Rob’s LED torch still lays on ground.

The child reaches Bluejay, observing her silent, mangled frame. Through my dampened hearing I can just make out a heartbroken whine. I continue to back away as it lifts Bluejay’s limp arm, shaking it wildly as if attempting to imbue it with some semblance of animation.

Frustrated tears dripping freely from its chin, the child throws Bluejay’s wrist back down against the ground. As it looks away from her broken body, and turns its face to me, I watch as the soft innocent features contract into a scowl of juvenile rage, signifying the inceptive throes of a tantrum that could eviscerate anything in its path.

In the last few seconds of calm, I feel my boot brush up against the torch. Bending slowly, keeping my eyes on the child for as long as I can, I reach down with my right hand and lift it from the ground. My hopes that I wouldn't have to use it are dashed instantly. The child drops onto its hands and legs, letting out a tortured, furious scream, and races towards me with staggering velocity.

I dodge out of the way at the last possible moment, hitting the soft dirt as the child skitters to a stop behind me. In the time it takes to turn itself around, I’ve already switched on the torch.

Once again, the child is hit by a powerful beam of light. It's body lurches and spasms, its skin pulling and stretching over elongated bones. Crying out in pain, its voice deepening with every passing second, the disjointed figure dashes in my direction, clasping my right arm in its hands and slamming me down onto the ground.

The torch swings wildly as the creature climbs on top of me, tearing the fabric from my right sleeve, digging its nails into the skin just above my elbow. It doesn’t stop at the skin. I feel the hot, electric agony of scraped nerve endings, hear the sickening snap of breaking bone. Before I lose my chance forever, I throw the torch weakly from my right hand, and catch it in my left, pressing the beam directly into the child’s face.

It screams a scream of decades. The child’s eyes roll back into its head, overpowered by the brutal onslaught the light has wrought. I look on as its face melts and flickers through adolescence, through adulthood and middle age. The tortured scream grows hoarse and weak as its skin wrinkles and sags, rushing beyond human years into an untouched realm of decrepitude. Eventually its eyes glaze over, and its once powerful scream becomes nothing more than a grating rattle. I let the pitiful, lifeless creature fall to the ground beside me as I roll myself onto my knees.

I stumble along the ground towards Bluejay, falling repeatedly, a stream of red soaking into the soil behind me. Once I reach her, I use my left hand to unfasten the rifle’s leather shoulder strap. I clumsily form the strap into a loop, passing it beneath my right shoulder. My head feels light, struggling to maintain focus. I grab a stick from the ground and place it through the knot of the loop, using my teeth to draw the knot securely closed around it. My left hand twists the stick over and over again, each turn tightening the leather strap until it bites into my skin.

The bleeding lessens, but not nearly enough.

Picking up my tired frame, barely able to keep myself upright, I place one foot painstakingly in front of the other, struggling over the damp ground, out of the clearing, and into the trees.

I need to get back to the Wrangler.

I can feel everything starting to fade, even the ringing in my ears is dulled, my vision blurry. I lock the stick under my armpit, freeing up my left hand to brace me as I start to stumble against the trees. The more I lose of my faculties, the less capable I am of perceiving their decline, but I know they’re slipping away all too quickly.

As I struggle further through the woods, a figure steps out from the trees, stopping me in my tracks. I sway on my feet, as I try to identify what I’m seeing, the very act of standing now requiring constant, dogged attention.

I have never seen the figure before. It seems to be composed of a constantly shifting maelstrom of crackling monochromatic sparks. An electric cloud of black, white, and grey, formed into a humanoid shape. As soon as it sees me, the humanoid creature falls backwards, scrabbling away from me across the ground, more terrified of me than I am of him.

I don’t know if the entity is malignant or benign, but in my current state, my mind softly screaming against the dying light, I can’t make the distinction. As it backs up against a mound of earth, I try to ask it for help. The requisite words have already been lost to the advancing fog, and all I can do is reach out my hand towards him. Attempting to entreat some spark of humanity within the fizzling, shifting figure.

In response to my vague plea, the entity scampers off into the forest, tripping over itself before disappearing from view. As I watch it leave, a single dim beacon ignites in the far corners of my swiftly vanishing mind. A single light, whose implications kick-start my fading reason, and force me on through the forest.

I can see the Wrangler through the trees. It’s close by, yet at the same time, impossibly far away.

There’s something wrong with my eyes. The car shifts in and out of focus, but every time it comes back in view the image is less sharp, until it exists as a pulsing dark green blur against a dull, slowly swaying backdrop.

My boot’s kick up against one another, a final stumble that brings me down to earth. When I try to get up again, I find that I’m completely unable. There’s no strength left in my body, and no amount of resolve can raise me back to my feet.

Though it may be my imagination, I think I can hear a steady rustling through the undergrowth, as if something were making its way towards me. Soon after my senses start to die away, leaving me with nothing more than the cold and the silence for company.

The dim light shines until the end however, the single strand of revelation, a solitary thought that I attempt to hold aloft from the all-consuming fog.

It’s a memory, a vague recollection from my first interview with Rob J. Guthard.

It was the day we met. The day he told me about his long and meandering life, Japan, Hiroji, Aokigahara, and the strange phenomenon he saw which sparked his obsession with the supernatural. The singular event that started him down the road to the Left/Right Game, that led this excursion… the moment that brought us here.

ROB (V.O): It walked up to me through the trees. Looked like static you see on a TV screen but it had a human shape almost.

AS (V.O): Almost?

ROB (V.O): It was missing an arm.

[leggylegs]

Bluejays and Cardinals

Photo by @little-penguin-ozzie (Added with permission)

Oswald dodges his fellow classmates, feinting left and right as he maneuvers down the hall towards the lunchroom, hands clasped on the straps of his backpack and a determined scowl on his face. Despite the crowd, and his diminutive stature, he sees Ed quickly, towering above most of the other sophomores, one hand clutching the handle of his lunchbox and the other adjusting his glasses as Oswald comes into focus.

“Where’s Jim?” Oswald asks as he comes to a stop in front of Ed.

“He’s in the office.”

“Still!? You said he got called there during third period!” Oswald stamps one foot in irritation. “What did he do this time?”

“I don’t know.” Ed shrugs. “The student runner didn’t say, she just handed over the note.”

“Well, we’re going to find out, then.” Oswald grabs onto Ed’s free hand and starts dragging him along behind him down the hall. “He at least owes us an explanation.”

“You know, the minute he left phys ed I got hit in the head with a volleyball. I think intentionally. It’s a good thing I wear my old pair during class because if they’d broken-”

“Shh,” Oswald stops abruptly and pats Ed on the chest, “hold on a minute, Ed, do you see what I see?”

Ed bites his lip and squints, moving his glasses up to see properly. “Is that his mother?”

“It can’t be,” Oswald says. “She’s never the one to come in.”

But they can easily see into the office through the large indoor windows. She’s standing in the center of the open office, one hand scribbling at some forms attached to a clipboard. Currently Jim is nowhere to be found.

“Maybe he had an appointment?” Ed shrugs when Oswald’s eyebrows go up in question. Ed shrugs. “She’d have to sign him back in.”

“Well he could have warned us is all I’m saying.”

“You just don’t want to wait in line.”

“Do you blame me!? It’s a long line!” he shouts, drawing attention to the two of them. Mrs. Gordon glances their way, and upon seeing her son’s friends flapping about and making a small spectacle of themselves she smiles softly. Ed waves to her, a bright blush overtaking his face as Oswald rants about the inequality of making him wait in line for the crummy reduced cost lunches when everyone else gets the regular meals.

“And another thing, the quality of a student, no, a child’s meal, the fuel that helps them succeed, shouldn’t change just because my mother can’t afford the fancy, whole cost meals.”

“I think you already argued this in debate,” Ed says, “and I agreed with you then.”

“Well the point hasn’t reached the ears that make a difference, so I’m going to, oh, Mrs. Gordon!” Oswald calls out to her and waves frantically as she and Jim leave the office. She smiles back and Ed hides his face in his hands, willing to smudge his glasses if it means she won’t see the blush. “Jim! Jim, you were supposed to meet us by Ed’s locker.”

“Oswald,” Ed tries to pull him back. The regular lunch crowd is starting to mill about, filling the hallways and clogging the space between them and Jim. “Oswald stop calling from here.”

“Well if he’d just come over I wouldn’t have to yell.” Oswald grabs Ed and pulls him across the space to Jim and his mother. “Jim, you didn’t come to Ed’s locker for lunch.”

Jim shrugs, scowling at the floor and hunching his shoulders. He doesn’t appear to have been in a fight; his hooded shirt isn’t dirty or scuffed and his face isn’t bruised or scraped. “Not hungry.”

“I’ll go start the car,” Jim’s mother says, squeezing her son’s shoulder and patting him on the back before she goes.

“Oh, well,” Ed frets over his lunchbox and the uneaten food inside. “Usually you sit with us either way.”

“Are you getting suspended?” Oswald blurts out.

“No,” Jim’s scowl deepens.

“But you’re leaving,” Ed points out.

“Just go get lunch without me.” Jim says, curt, voice clipped and raspy.

“Jim if someone’s treating you unfairly you should tell us,” Oswald says. “Or you can get your dad to come yell at the principal again. Most of the time you’re just defending us, so-”

“Just leave me alone!” he shouts, fists clenched, “don’t be such a baby! You can survive one lunch without me!” Oswald blinks, backing away until he bumps his back into Ed, and Jim shouts something unprintable, angrily stalking away and out the door to the front drive.

Ed puts a hand on Oswald’s shoulder, and mumbles, “we can go eat on the back steps.”

“He snapped at me,” Oswald says, dazed. “He never snaps at me.”

-

They’re at Oswald’s tiny house, because they’re always over at someone’s, but right now Jim’s isn’t an option. Oswald’s been to the Nashton home exactly once in his life, and he’ll join track team before he even dreams of setting foot their again.

Ed’s on the floor, lying on his stomach while reading a book for school, and Oswald’s doing the same while lying in his twin bed, or at least he’s trying to read along with Ed, but he keeps seeing Jim’s angry face, the barely visible but still painfully there rage Jim keeps just under the surface directed at him, and he tosses the book aside without bothering to save his place.

“You should finish reading. We have a quiz tomorrow on chapter one,” Ed says, flipping the page into chapter five. “It’s about fifteen pages. The chapter, not the quiz. This book doesn’t even have enough substance for a fifteen page final exam.”

“Jim yelled at me today.”

“I was there,” Ed says, not agreeing or disagreeing, just reminding Oswald of his presence. “I don’t think he got in a fight.”

“That doesn’t explain why he left, or why he got so angry.” Oswald rubs his eyes. He’s proud to say he didn’t cry over this, at least not until they got to the back stoop where no one would see. But the stinging redness around his eyes decided to persist log enough for his mother to see, and to worry. He’d lied and told her his allergies were acting up and she gave him a wet washcloth to clear away pollen; Ed managed to wait until she was out of earshot before correcting her logic.

“Jim is always angry.”

“Yes but not at me. Not at us.” Oswald rolls so he’s on his side, watching Ed as he speed reads another set of pages before flipping to the next. “Why aren’t you scared?”

“I am,” Ed says. “I’m just better at hiding it.” Ed bookmarks his page at the end of the fifth chapter and sits up. “Can I sleep here?”

“You don’t have to ask,” Oswald says. He knows Ed usually sleeps at Jim’s house during the week. “My bed is getting a bit too small to share.”

“We’re just too big,” Ed says. He moves so he’s resting his back against the box spring. “Or I am, at least.”

“Hey,” Oswald fakes being offended and hits Ed in the chest with his pillow. “I grew half an inch last month. You’re just part giraffe or something.”

“I don’t think-”

There’s a soft knock on the door and Oswald’s mother pokes her head inside, smiling at the two boys and saying, “Oswald sweetheart, your little friend is at the door.”

Oswald sits up straight and looks at Ed, who’s also looking confused, and then back to her. “Okay?”

“I’ll send him in,” she says. She blows Oswald a kiss and he smiles briefly, then he turns to Ed.

“Do you think it’s Jim?”

“I can’t imagine anyone else it would be,” Ed says. “Perhaps, oh, hello.”

Jim stands in the doorway, just behind the seam separating Oswald’s carpet from the hallway. He bites his lip, keeping his head down as he says, “sorry.”

“You’re forgiven, obviously. Think nothing of it,” Oswald says as if he didn’t spend the entire afternoon agonizing over what he or Ed could have done to make him so angry.

“You aren’t in trouble, right?” Ed asks.

Jim shakes his head. “I wasn’t suspended.”

“You weren’t in English,” Ed says. “We have to read that book,” he gestures to his copy in the middle of the floor. “It’s painfully boring but a fast read.”

“I won’t be in class tomorrow,” Jim says. He’s still avoiding their eyes, and he still hasn’t actually entered the room.

“But you weren’t suspended,” Oswald clarifies.

Jim looks up at the two of them. His eyes are red and irritated, and now that he isn’t hiding under his hood quite so thoroughly they can see how blotchy and red his face is. Jim bites his lip and crosses the small space into Oswald’s room and shuts the door to the hall.

“Jim, are you alright?” Ed asks, standing, the pillow falling to the floor with a soft plop.

“My dad died,” he says abruptly, and he shudders, exhaling a raspy, choppy breath and sobbing. He doesn’t even try to hide, arms limp at his sides as tears stream down his face.

Ed reacts first, rushing to close the gap and pull Jim to his chest, one arm firmly around Jim’s shoulders and the other tugging his hood down and petting his hair. Oswald remains stunned on his bed for half a minute, then he jumps up, wanting to help, but Ed already has Jim wrapped up in a tight, comforting hug.

(Where did Ed learn to hug like that? Oswald wonders. Jim, he settles on. It must’ve been Jim, back before Ed started staying with either of them overnight. He’d needed plenty of hugs back then.)

He puts a hand on Jim’s back, feeling the shuddering, gulping breaths as he cries. He rubs his thumb across Jim’s ribs, unsure how else to include himself and hoping this is enough. As he rubs Jim’s back Ed’s hand slips down off Jim’s head and over his shoulder until long, spidery fingers are resting just barely on top of Oswald’s, and Oswald presses his lips together tightly when Jim sobs are no longer muffled by Ed’s shirt. He looks at Ed, at the sympathy and sadness in his eyes, and he moves a bit closer to Jim, pressing his hand firmly against his back and trying to absorb a bit of the sadness from him.

–

[themoneybuff-blog]

Is your home a better investment than the stock market?

Shares 169 Ill admit it: There are times that I think everything that needs to be said about personal finance has been said already, that all of the information is out there just waiting for people to find it. The problem is solved. Perhaps this is technically true, but now and then as this morning Im reminded that teaching people about money is a never-ending process. There arent a lot of new topics to write about, thats true (this is something that even famous professional financial journalists grouse about in private), but there are tons of new people to reach, people who have never been exposed to these ideas. And, more importantly, theres a constant stream of new misinformation polluting the pool of smart advice. (Sometimes this misinformation is well-meaning; sometimes its not.) Heres an example. This morning, I read a piece at Slate by Felix Salmon called The Millionaires Mortgage. Salmons argument is simple: Paying off your house is saving for retirement. Now, I dont necessarily disagree with this basic premise. I too believe that money you pay toward your mortgage principle is, in effect, money youve saved, just as if youd put it in the bank or invested in a mutual fund. Many financial advisers say the same thing: Money you put toward debt reduction is the same as money youve invested. (Obviously, theyre not exactly the same but theyre close enough.) So, yes, paying off your home is saving for retirement. Or, more precisely, its building your net worth. But aside from a sound basic premise, the rest of Salmons article boils down to bullshit.

Lying with Statistics Looking past the paying off your house is saving for retirement subtitle on his piece (a subtitle that was likely added by an editor, not by Salmon), we get to his actual thesis: Making mortgage payments can, in theory, be a way to accumulate wealth almost as effectively as contributing to a retirement fund. Im glad Salmon qualified this statement with in theory and almost because this is pure unadulterated bullshit. And its dangerous bullshit. Heres how this logic works: If you buy an urban house today for $315,000 (the average price) and it appreciates at 8 percent a year for the next 15 years, you will be living in a $1 million house by the time you pay off your 15-year mortgage, and you will own it free and clear. Which is to say: Youll be a millionaire. For this to be true, heres what has to happen.: Home prices in your area have to appreciate at an average of eight percent not just this year and next year, but for fifteen years.You have to take out a 15-year mortgage instead of a 30-year mortgage.You need to stay in that house (or continue to own it) for that entire fifteen years.Once youve become a millionaire homeowner, you now have to tap that equity for it to be of use. To do that, you have to sell your home, acquire a reverse mortgage, or otherwise creatively access the value locked in your home. The real problem here, of course, are the assumptions about real estate returns. Salmon spouts huckster-level nonsense: The 8 percent appreciation rate is aggressive, but not entirely unrealistic: Its lower than the 8.3 percent appreciation rate from 2011 through 2017, and also lower than the 9 percent appreciation rate from 1996 to 2007. Thats right. Salmon cites stats from 1996 to 2007, then 2011 to 2017 and completely leaves out 2008 to 2010. WTF? This as if I ran a marathon and told you that I averaged four minutes per milebut I was only counting the miles during which I was running downhill! Or I told you that Get Rich Slowly earned $5000 per monthbut I was only giving you the numbers from April. Or I logged my alcohol consumption for thirty days and told you I averaged three drinks per weekbut left out how much I drank on weekends. This isnt how statistics work! You dont get to cherry pick the data. You cant just say, Homes in some markets appreciated 9% annually from 1996 to 2007, then 8.3% annually from 2011 to 2017. Therefor, your home should increase in value an average of eight percent per year. What about the gap years? What about the period before the (very short) 22 years youre citing? What makes you think that the boom times for housing are going to continue? Long-Term Home Price Appreciation In May, I shared a brief history of U.S. homeownership. To write that article, I spent hours reading research papers and sorting through data. One key piece of that post was the info on U.S. housing prices. Let me share that info again. For 25 years, Yale economics professor Robert Shiller has tracked U.S. home prices. He monitors current prices, yes, but hes also researched historical prices. Hes gathered all of this info into a spreadsheet, which he updates regularly and makes freely available on his website. This graph of Shillers data (through January 2016) shows how housing prices have changed over time:

Shillers index is inflation-adjusted and based on sale prices of existing homes (not new construction). It uses 1890 as an arbitrary benchmark, which is assigned a value of 100. (To me, 110 looks like baseline normal. Maybe 1890 was a down year?) As you can see, home prices bounced around until the mid 1910s, at which point they dropped sharply. This decline was due largely to new mass-production techniques, which lowered the cost of building a home. (For thirty years, you could order your home from Sears!) Prices didnt recover until the conclusion of World War II and the coming of the G.I. Bill. From the 1950s until the mid-1990s, home prices hovered around 110 on the Shiller scale. For the past twenty years, the U.S. housing market has been a wild ride. We experienced an enormous bubble (and its aftermath) during the late 2000s. It looks very much like were at the front end of another bubble today. As of December 2017, home prices were at about 170 on the Shiller scale. (Personally, I believe that once interest rates begin to rise again, home prices will decline.) Heres the reality of residential real estate: Generally speaking, home values increase at roughly the same (or slightly more) than inflation. Ive noted in the past that gold provides a long-term real return of roughly 1%, meaning that it outpaces inflation by 1% over periods measured in decades. For myself, thats the figure I use for home values too. Crunching the Numbers Because Im a dedicated blogger (or dumb), I spent an hour building this chart for you folks. I took the afore-mentioned housing data from Robert Shillers spreadsheet and combined it with the inflation-adjusted closing value of the Dow Jones Industrial Average for each year since 1921. (I got the stock-market data here.) If youd like, you can click the graph to see a larger version.

Let me explain what youre seeing. First, I normalized everything to 1921. That means I set home values in 1921 to 100 and I set the closing Dow Jones Industrial Average to 100. From there, everything moves as normal relative to those values.Second, Im not sure why but Excel stacked the graphs. (Im not spreadsheet savvy enough to fix this.) They should both start at 100 in 1921, but instead the stock market graph starts at 200. This doesnt really make much of a difference to my point, but it bugs me. There are a few places 1932, 1947 where the line for home values should actually overtake the line for the stock market, but you cant tell that with the stacked graph. As the chart shows, the stock market has vastly outperformed the housing market over the long term. Theres no contest. The blue housing portion of my chart is equivalent to the line in Shillers chart (from 1921 on, obviously). Now, having said that, there are some things that I can see in my spreadsheet numbers that dont show up in this graph. Because Felix Salmon at Slate is using a 15-year window for his argument, I calculated 15-year changes for both home prices and stock prices. Ill admit that the results surprised me. Generally speaking, the stock market does provide better returns than homeownership. However, in 30 of the 82 fifteen-year periods since 1921, housing provided better returns. (And in 14 of 67 thirty-year periods, housing was the winner.) I didnt expect that. In each of these cases, housing outperformed stocks after a market crash. During any 15-year period starting in 1926 and ending in 1939 (except 1932), for instance, housing was the better bet. Same with 1958 to 1973. In other words, if you were to buy only when the market is declining, housing is probably the best bet if youre making a lump-sum investment and not contributing right along. Another thing the numbers show is that youre much less likely to suffer long-term declines with housing than with the stock market. Sure, there are occasional periods where home prices will drop over fifteen or thirty years, but generally homes gradually grow in value over time. The bottom line? I think its perfectly fair to call your home an investment, but its more like a store of value than a way to grow your wealth. And its nothing like investing in the U.S. stock market. For more on this subject, see Michael Bluejays excellent articles: Long-term real estate appreciation in the U.S. and Buying a home is an investment. Final Thoughts Honestly, I probably would have ignored Salmons article if it werent for the attacks he makes on saving for retirement. Take a look at this: If youre the kind of person who can max out your 401(k) every year for 30 or 40 years straight disciplined, frugal, and apparently immune to misfortune then, well, congratulations on your great good luck, and I hope youre at least a little bit embarrassed at how much of a tax break youre getting compared to people who need government support much more than you do. Holy cats! Salmon has just equated the discipline and frugality that readers like you exhibit with good luck, and simultaneously argued that you should be embarrassed for preparing for your future. He wants you to feel guilty because youre being proactive to prepare for retirement. Instead of doing that, he wants you to buy into his bullshit millionaires mortgage plan. This crosses the line from marginal advice to outright stupidity. Theres an ongoing discussion in the Early Retirement community about whether or not you should include home equity when calculating how much youve saved for retirement. There are those who argue absolutely not, you should never consider home equity. (A few of these folks dont even include home equity when computing their net worth, but that fundamentally misses the point of what net worth is.) I come down on the other side. I think its fine good, even to include home equity when making retirement calculations. But when you do, you need to be aware that the money you have in your home is only accessible if you sell or use the home as collateral on a loan. Regardless, Ive never heard anyone in the community argue that you ought to use your home as your primary source of retirement saving instead of investing in mutual funds and/or rental rental properties. You know why? Because its a bad idea! Shares 169 https://www.getrichslowly.org/home-investment/

[firestorm09890]

I'm like two stages into canto vii and I want to let everyone who's never touched Don Quixote know that "In which Don Quixote has an adventure with this person, among other amusing matters" is the style of every Don Quixote chapter title. "Which treats the life and the contracts of the not-so-famous-but-valiant Don Quixote", stage 1, seems to be parodying "Concerning the famous hidalgo Don Quixote de la Mancha's position, character and way of life", chapter 1 of the book, in particular. I really hope they do this for every single stage it's so fun

[annoyingthemesong]

the sex talk

Yea. The one people get from their parents. I’ve been trying to have one to myself these days. 

A year celibate, more or less. Aside from a drunken 15 minute regret fuck, which I do not count as being ‘sexually active’, I’ve avoided it almost across the board. 

There were a few easy scenarios I could have gotten myself into over the last year had I really wanted it. Karen 1, and Karen 2. The woman I don’t even remember her name from 3inder and Bluejay. Marie. Maia. And of course, Olivia. 

I sort of regret Karen 1, Marie, and I really regretted turning Olivia down until two nights ago when that log was thrown back on the fire but I legitimately was swamped with finishing this Panorama proposal and there was just no way.. Though I slapped myself for that again and I hope I didn’t blow it this time. 

Olivia I have the strongest attraction and connection to, I felt it early on. She is fucking great, especially for a 22 year old college student - an age range I wouldn’t even set my Tinder age slider at. Mature for 22, and a brilliant jazz singer she makes me realise that singing and music comes with it’s own sort of intelligence, set apart from other fields of interest. I don’t care that she doesn’t really watch films or keep up with many current events or doesn’t read a lot - she sounds like Billie Holiday. She’s also from Nice, which makes sense - the euros grow up a lot faster than their North American counterparts. Lots of life experience, pretty early on. 

And she’s sensual as hell. Before my marriage I would have jumped at the chance ages ago, but since.. I don’t know. At first I felt good getting myself to the brink - knowing I could, but then pulling away. Telling myself I’d jump on it, if it really was right, but not to just fuck around for the wrong reasons or make myself feel bad about it or put another person in the position of making them feel bad. So I largely avoided unhealthy rebound-revenge sex. But now I’m faced with healthy it’s-right-in-front-of-you-asking-for-it sex with somebody I am legitimately attracted to and respect, and I find myself nervous. 

One reason I keep coming back to, the obvious. I’m a carrier, because of K. Latent, never had an outbreak, but I am. I’m terrified of having the up front conversation, and more terrified of having the night-after conversation in lieu of the up front conversation. Condom might be the only way to avoid the conversation altogether, but even that feels like a forced maneuver, like I’ll be conscious of it as I’m strapping the thing on and that in itself will be a turnoff. I just want to be able to make the decision without that all on my mind, but I knew this would come up in some way or another eventually - and here it is. 

who knows, will the spell break this week?

[firestorm09890]

stray canto vii part 1 thoughts (warning: long)

so many cool new designs!! it made me realize how few of interest we got in Canto VI. Then almost everything was pretty standard (classic maid and butler outfits, lots of suits, Cathy had a fancy dress at least? and everything was brown. yes I know, T Corp color drain, but still. and Öufi came before season 3 ended so that didn’t count), but this time we have Camille, the P Corp guys, Fanghunt Office, Hugo I guess, Hong Lu’s sister, the firefist guy? if he counts? he barely appeared, Sansón, and all the fancy dressed up bloodfiends. woo babey!!

speaking of Jia Xichun, I like her! She’s cute! I didn’t expect to see anyone related to Hong Lu, but in retrospect I probably should’ve, since his turn is next and his family is massive. I hope nothing bad happens to her. I've never read Dream of the Red Chamber

also speaking of Hugo, lol. lmao. when he was talking about pressing the button to get the reward I was like “oh hopkins 2, got it” and then Ryōshū sliced off his hands so I guess… not hopkins 2

ALSO the blonde Fanghunt guy is named Romero, which is apparently the name of a character in Vampire: The Masquerade. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was an intentional reference

Sinclair cursing that one guy out was so awesome. I remember when Canto V part 2 came out and he censored himself saying “Bitch Brother” people were worried that the new translators were making him softer than he actually was, but, nah, he tries his best to be a polite boy but when he’s actually genuinely pissed off he does not hold back. Ryōshū correcting him BUT THEN SAYING HIS INTERPRETATION WAS GOOD absolutely killed me. my son demands respect

it’s a good day to be a Leviathan fan

The scripted loss encounter was so cool. They set you to level 45 no matter what level your LCB Don is, and take away all your EGO except the base (which you can’t even use), and I don’t know how far you can actually get in this fight because I flipped tails every single time and lost every clash

let’s talk about the Barber! leave it to Project Moon to look at the character who didn’t have very much of a personality who stuck around with the priest and attempted multiple plans to bring Don Quixote back home so he could become sane again (and burned a bunch of Quixote’s chivalry books, also with the priest), and turned him into an insane vampire woman with big scissors and a shrill cackle who stitches masks onto people’s faces.

interesting choice to have Sancho and Dulcinea both named in a single line and then not acknowledged or mentioned again

Sansón! so based on his story log portrait background being bisexual, the blue name, and him resembling someone in Demian’s group in the Limbus Company PV, I feel confident saying he’s part of Demian’s Group. The spot where his Sign would be is covered by his mask, though, so no one in-universe knows

I think this is why Sinclair was cast in the role of the Knight of the White Moon: he also has the sign, which Sansón (who is the Knight of the White Moon) would be able to see, and even if other sinners have it too, they’re not Demian’s special guy. everyone else, though, seemed to be cast in the most humiliating role possible: horse to be ridden for Gregor, wild animal for Heathcliff, random peasant for Rodya, presumably homeless old person for Outis

ok Sansón. in the book, he’s a young college student who read the first part of Don Quixote and, in part 2, approaches Quixote saying he’s a big fan and encouraging him to go back out and do more knight stuff. However, he actually just thinks Don Quixote’s antics are very amusing and isn’t actually an earnest supporter, and is conspiring with the barber and priest to get Quixote back home to stay. the way they (priest and barber try to bring him home in part 1 is by tricking him with an adventure that’s conveniently in the same direction as their home village, but then they get sidetracked in an inn for a long time so they just put him in a cage and drive him home. in part 2, they want to play on Quixote’s terms for a more effective result. near the beginning of the second part, they have Sansón dress as a knight (called the Knight of Mirrors/Knight of the Forest. these titles have no significance in the book but apparently the mirror thing forces Quixote to see himself as the frail old man he is in Man of La Mancha), say his lady is fairer than Dulcinea to get Don Quixote to duel him, and then make Quixote promise to stay home for a year when he loses. however, Sansón is the one who loses, because he wasn’t expecting Quixote to actually be good at jousting. Later, near the very end, which iirc is 3 months after the first encounter, another knight called the Knight of the White Moon issues the exact same challenge to Don Quixote (it’s just Sansón again, and "White Moon" has no significance in the original book either), but this time Sansón wins, so Don Quixote goes home, dejected, and then becomes “sane” again and dies.

Since this Sansón is part of Demian’s group, I don’t think his intentions will be the same- the Barber was a bloodfiend, and he sees beyond the ambitions of the bloodfiends now- but it’s fun to know how he is in the source nonetheless

I really like how he didn’t show up after the Barber’s defeat to say something cryptic and then leave, he told us quite a bit, and though his methods were… questionable, he DID force the sinners to actually finally pay attention to Don Quixote

speaking of the stage play, I like the juxtaposition between Sansón’s play and the Barber’s. in a different context, what Sansón did might’ve been framed as horrifying, and we’d be talking about how uncanny and unreal this is, but I don’t think that’s the intention here. the sinners might be playing roles, and all the enemies are cardboard cutouts, but it’s better than putting targets on real people (though I guess they’re not “people”, they’re bad, bad, bloodfiends). the cheerful music in La Manchaland is distorted and out of place, while the stage play is nice in comparison. the music for the talking sections is a bit too upbeat for the situation, but the music during the battles really immerses you. guitar! trumpet! maraca! this music is clearly composed to emulate spanish music, and it’s very earnest, which I think is important, with how easily music sets tone in media.

in both cases, Don Quixote is in a delusion. nothing in the stage play of her adventures is real, but she’s also completely wrapped up in the narrative of evil bloodfiends without the knowledge that she is one. a violent nightmare and a peaceful dream, both of which she needs to wake up from.

they both do this thing with black-and-white thinking, too. there’s a difference between the “good” bloodfiends, which you should get along with, and the “bad” ones, which you need to kill (though Don sees them both as bad), and then the bandits in the stage play are cartoonishly evil and love to bully the weak. except it seems the first is the narrative the Barber wanted to sell, while the second is Don Quixote’s reality… I mean, the play is definitely inaccurate, but we’ve seen how Don behaves

if you follow me for kingdom hearts and are for some reason reading this you know how much I love Nobodies in kh. people who used to be human, but aren’t anymore, who look close enough but are different on an intrinsic and physiological level, that everyone automatically treats as unreasonable monsters that need to die when they’re more complicated than that… I love it so much, I’m cheering and clapping whenever bloodfiend morality is brought up. Moses said that Larierre was cordial and offered her a place to sit and talk, but then also said bloodfiends are insatiably hungry and you shouldn’t underestimate them. agh I love it

also THE MUSIIIIIC every fight theme so far has been a banger. songs that were already good but with typical carnival instruments, big brass swing, the aforementioned nice spanish music, and the fucked up and evil sequel to dubstep electroswing featuring evil laughter

and finally, the helm of mambrino. in early part 1 of Don Quixote, he sees a barber (COMPLETELY unrelated barber to the other barber btw) carrying a basin on his head, and thinks it’s the amazing mystical Helm of Mambrino, so he attacks the barber and steals the basin. Don Quixote wears it as a helmet a few times and everyone thinks it looks really stupid. they did not fight a bear for it, nor did they go into a cave. idk what this might actually be in the City. either we’ll see or we won’t

[firestorm09890]

[firestorm09890]

Don Quixote limbus company when Roland library of ruina went on his rampage: I STAND WITH MY CANCELLED COLOR FIXER

[firestorm09890]

Don Quixote limbus company: I WOULD HAVE PREVENTED THE SMOKE WAR