#follow-up question: can king charles use me as change for a fifty

[mylittleredgirl]

i got loaned to a different department at work and it incidentally opened up a whole new part of the conspiracy map for me. “they faked the moon landing” is OUT, “they faked the american revolution” is IN. the district of columbia and also the u.s. treasury were created as a british puppet state, and american companies and also every human american citizen to this day are owned by?? british nobility i guess??? i got told to LOOK IT UP GIRL but like where do you even start with that. even on god’s most incognito-est browser i don’t think i want this string of search queries on my soul.

[nortonclarissa]

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[wolf-in-a-suit]

PHD in Matchmaking

A/N: This is my entry to @cleolemonfanfiction‘s writing challenge. Featuring a really pissed off Loki and you dear reader, victim to the fact that you’re Tony Stark’s stubborn friend:

Due to working on a project with Tony you are forced to share a room with none other than sunshine personified: Loki. Both of you find Stark’s hospitality to be thoroughly lacking, will you survive?

My prompt was: A Marvel character and the reader become roommates; they aren’t exactly easy to live with until they reveal their feelings to one another.

Pairing: Reader x Loki

Warnings: Language (nothing major), Loki being an a**

Word Count: 2.399

There was something fishy about Tony Stark’s proposal.

When he told you, one of his best friends way back from university, that he would love to work with you again, you should have been skeptical. His story started reeking when he proclaimed you should just live in the Avenger Tower, for the duration of your stay. Every living being with an intact survival instinct would have been more than careful - thus you accepted it.

After all it was Tony, and you were talking about THE Avenger Tower! As in: high gear equipment for research and a bunch of superhuman trotting around- so no big deal at all!

"Tony you can't be serious..." The billionaire just huffed and said: "Look I'm really sorry but due to construction work we simply don't have enough room, so this will have to do."

"Not enough room? We're talking about a fifty-six floored skyscraper!"

He just clapped your back and ignored all complains - as usual. "Just pretend we're back at the university and you've got a new roomie."

You simply hoped this wasn't one of his disastrous tries to play matchmaker. In your last year at MIT the genius suddenly came to the conclusion that he was the 'Date Doctor' – you should have never encouraged these delusions by watching the film with him- and his first victim (patient) had been your mutual friend. At the end of the month his crush had invoked a restraining order against all three of you.

Becoming infamous on campus had always been a dream, but something about being 'that-girl-with-the-restraining-order' just wasn't all it was cracked up to be-and it certainly didn’t help on the dating market.

"So... who is my roommate?" At this moment a fair skinned, black haired man, stepped into the room a bored expression residing on his face.

You just shook your head. "NO, way! Do you think I lived under a rock these past years? You're expecting me to share a room with the nut job who tried to destroy New York?"

Said nut jobs face changed at lightning speed to a murderous glare.

"How dare you, a mere mortal, an insect in the face of a god, disgrace the-" "Hush,-" you interrupted him right then and there "-the Grownups are having a conversation here."

Loki just stood... still, his brain still trying to process the sheer audacity of this mortal. Tony on the other hand was impressed: "This isn't a sight you see all days: Took us a Hulk to get him to shut up."

At the intensity of your glare the Tony Stark, billionaire, inventor and Superhero started fidgeting nervously. 'Time for a strategic retreat!'

"Yeah, the two of you will be just fine. See you at work." With that he was gone, leaving you to face down the self-proclaimed and pissed off 'god' on your own- high time to reevaluate your choice of friends.

Outside, the turn tail almost smacked into a mountain of muscle. "Wow, Goldy-Locks we've got to put a bell on you." Thor starred at the door concern swimming in his blue irises: "And you deem this to be a good idea? You do realize that my brother is mighty compared with your mortal standards, even with his powers bound by your machine?"

"Relax, big guy! ___ managed to hold me in check for years. How much worse can he be?"

This was followed by a loud crash. Both heroes exchanged glances and after a silent agreement was struck, simply dispersed as if no screaming echoed out of the room in question.

"How dare you low life lay a hand on my belongings?"

"What am I supposed to do just sleep on the floor? This is a bed not a bookshelf!"

"At last you seem to grasp your place!"

The bright blue sky had already given way to the red streaks of dusk.

"Do you think we should interfere?" Bruce Benner startled when a new wave of hollering pierced the air.

"At this rate someone is either going to die, or they are going to hook up." Black Widow retorted offering the assembled Team a bag of chips.

"Natasha I have the feeling you're enjoying this a bit too much. Can we really guarantee ___ safety?" Steve declined the snack appalled.

"As usual Cap you're boring! Just think about it: If she manages to get the wannabe emo to at least shut his mouth for a moment: I’d say it’s a full success." Salty crumbs escaped the heir of the Stark legacy’s mouth.

"100 bugs she won't last two days!" "I take you up on that arrow head!"

Half a dozen heads snapped to the door at the second loud crash disrupted the air.

Days passed and the annoyance started settling in his chambers. She had an absolute disregard for any form of human decency: Grabbing his books and stacking them up somewhere else, obscuring the marked pages in the process, reading late at night and keeping him awake in the process. Even sitting with her filthy human body on his cape and wrinkling it! His plan to dominate earth had never seemed so justified before: These creatures really needed someone to teach them manners! Or better yet-he found another wrinkle in the fine green wool- obliterate them from existence!

The mortal stumbled into his rooms late that night throwing, or trying to throw her lab coat over a chair where it fell to the floor in a heap.

“Do we also add filthiness to our many virtues now, hmm?” The scientist simply huffed, concerning well-adjusted to the jabs by now. “Good evening to you too!” Her bed moaned at the mass crashing onto it. For a few moments only the rustling of him turning delicate pages filled the room. When he felt the weight of stare settle on his shoulders, his eyes wandered to the second bed where he found her prone form watching him with some interest.

The mortal took his raised eyebrow as a cue: “So you’re reading Stephen King now? When did that happen?” The god of mischief’s lungs were filled with a suffering breath. “Obviously nothing of your planets dimwitted literature is capable of entertaining me for too long: So as you took the liberty of grabbing my books and shoving them around I took some of yours.”  

He waited for the inescapable fallout… but only got a huff and a: “Well than by all means: Enjoy our ‘dimwitted’ literature.” Soon the room was filled by the rhythmic fall and rise of her lungs, testament to the false security she thought herself in. Not concerned with the personified wrath, shackled as he might be –he regarded the collar, rendering his ability’s useless- inhabiting the same space as her.

The rays of the morning sun danced through the room, illuminating it in a golden glow. You stirred and opened a lazy eye. ‘You got to be kidding me!’ “Are you already reading again or have you never stopped?” Green eyes broke away from words and met yours. “Degraded as it may be, I must admit there is some merit to be found in your forms of fiction- however underdeveloped it may be.”

‘Aaaand good morning to you too, headache!’ Even when the man complimented something, he dragged it through the mud first. “For ‘underdeveloped’ literature you took quite a shine to it I’d say.” You eyed the tower of books piling beside his cot. A collection of Shakespeare, Charles Dickens and many others were stacked in a hazard manner forming a tribute to the leaning tower of Pisa. One could say much of the insufferable man, but he sure was a fast reader, but god forbid he would hear you complimenting anything about him. That would just feed his ego, inflating it to the eighth world wonder.

Thus the days passed, you worked with Tony and at night crashed in your room. At times, even having civil conversations with the black haired Asgardian. Well, scratch the argument the two of you had regarding his reading candles. How could such an advanced society still use freaking candles for light? Though, you suspected that was just Loki being in his no-one-could-ever-understand-me-cause-I’m-so-deep rebellious phase.

Your project regarding advanced bionic arms for amputees was taking bigger strides each day and would soon be finished.Than you would be out of here and free of the mood swings of his majesty. Tinkering with the sensor of the prototype a sudden sadness welled up inside you. These feelings were quickly brushed away however. Who had the chance to work in the Avenger Tower? It was only natural to be sad to leave it behind!

“Someone is in a disgusting good mood today. And stop that hideous noise, are you trying to sing?” You came to a sudden halt next to him sitting on the windowsill.

“What, are you a leading expert on music now too? It’s called humming!” Unimpressed he resumed turning to the next page. “There is no need to immerse myself in, what you humans might call music, to know that it will lack any originality, or that your ‘humming’ is an insult to every hearing thing that has the ill fortune to meet you.” Your chuckle drove green eyes to flash from the page to your face. “Your insults are becoming a little bit clunky, you should work on that. Although I must admit I walked right into that one.” When your expression started clouding he couldn’t help but inquire:

“Now that you have managed to annoy me yet again, one should think it would lift your spirits even more?” “Ahh, it’s just...” at the impatient ruck of his head you continued: “Tomorrow there will be a press conference about our new project and I can already tell that Tony is going to hog all the glory.” Your hands were raised in surrender, justifying yourself to air. “Not that he ever did it on purpose, but he’s just so charming and outspoken… people always tend to forget me when he’s around. It’s been like this ever since university.”

Loki pondered on this for a long moment. At last he seemed to come to a decision. You looked at him hopefully.

Perhaps this was the turning point, the two of you had a real conversation:

He wasn’t that bad honestly.

“Do you plan on murdering me with boredom? Because that insignificant tale, almost finished what my brother and his idiotic friends started.”

Clash! A Jane Eyre book hit him square in the royal visage. “HOW DARE YOU LITTLE MORTAL-“ His screams died in his throat when salty water leaked onto your cheeks.

“You’re honestly the WORST person imaginable! I thought we had finally found some common ground!” You hated this, you hated that you cried in front of him! You hated this bastard! Why did all that sass leave you when you needed it the most?

The god of mischief scoffed. “Common ground!? You relate more to an insect than to me…” an almost immeasurable pause “Why do you even care about that?”

A primal roar tore through the air. “Because, I care about you!”

Silence.

‘Shit! Shit, shit, shitshitshit!’ If you hadn’t just revealed your greatest weakness to the one person bend on destroying your whole planet, his expression would have been hilarious.

Still, like a statue he stood, with a finger still raised in the air. His eyes wide and expression matching the vacancy, that settled in his mind at your admission. You waited, bracing yourself for the mental pain –probably accompanied by being bitch slapped into next century- that was about to come.

Half a minute ,an eternity stretched by and you couldn’t bare it any more. So you hurried out of the room, leaving shame and misery behind you.

“Where the hell is it?” Tony already rummaged through the whole lab leaving discarded files, books and old takeaway containers in his wake. Searching through the living room for the last control sensor of your prototype he became more and more nervous. “Damn!” his hands dragged through his hair and left it disheveled. “The press is arriving in an hour!” You on the other hand couldn’t really pretend to be to bothered. Between Tony probably being the only one to interact with the press… and the incident yesterday you were already at rock bottom: so pretty comfy with the thought of your work just being dragged through the mud by the press.

Not even the mighty Avengers, vanquishers of foes beyond human comprehension, crawling around on the floor like a band of children playing hide and seek could lighten your mood. Thor started bench pressing the whole couch, because Natasha couldn’t get a good look under it.

Than he entered: Loki strode into the room annoyingly regal and composed as always. Your eyes tried to focus on anything that wasn’t the immaculate form of the Asgardian, but then you realized he strode directly to you. Oh, you had spent the rest of last night- sleeping -on the now airborne couch- about what insults you would cast at him. Anything to fight the rising shame in your gut about your display of weakness yesterday. You squared your shoulders, got into a fighting stance and raised your eyes to meet his with a glare.

But all words failed you when Loki fell in one fluent motion onto his knee and took your hand, raising it to his lips. You felt the peck and something else meet your hand. When he raised his head your stares intertwined, his contained an uncharacteristic warmth.

CRASH! The spell was broken by the thundering clash of the couch almost crushing Black Widow. Thor didn’t even register that the weight had left his hands, he just stared at the scene mouth agape. His brother, not able to contain the fast flash of a grin on his face, took this at his cue to leave. In another elegant motion he stood and left the room as if nothing had transpired between the two of you.

While everyone’s attention was still trained on Loki your turned your hand.

Inside it you found the sensor, a small slip of paper was attached to it: ‘Leave him to fidget some more!’ When the search party started shuffling awkwardly around you again, sending you deeply disturbed glances you slipped your hand into your pocket and felt a blush flame onto your cheeks.      

[themadameditor]

I love LOVE, I’m a huge sucker for it and in my stories, happily ever after is the theme. The world is shitty enough and in no need of more darkness, so I choose love. From the moment the world got wind of their courtship to the wedding, the union of Prince Harry and Meghan Markle has been subject to immense scrutiny from the press, and public alike. Talk show hosts and pundits questioned her affection for him, whilst royalist and elitist are still frothing at the mouth, at the thought of a bi-racial woman entering into the royal family, so much so, Kensington Palace had to release a statement condemning these attitudes that revealed that ugly underbelly of British society, that part of society some like to pretend does not exist.

But before we address that, let’s look at the different aspects that tied this all together. Meghan, a bi-racial, Hollywood actress bringing together elements of her background and culture, acknowledging that multi diversity from both sides of her heritage, and Harry the bonny rebel prince. If I didn’t know better I would believe this to be a script out of Hollywood, reminiscent of Grace Kelly back in the day. But unlike the Kelly marriage, there was a lot of symbolism in this wedding, a lot of pinned hopes and perception this union gives a nation, regardless of how you look at it.

In 1937 when an American divorcee married the king of England, it caused a constitutional crisis that would change the face of the monarchy itself. Six months after abdicating the throne, King Edward and Wallis Simpson got married, were bestowed with the title of Duke and Duchess, and would go on to live like pariahs of the establishment; common socialites ostracized by an institution refusing to acknowledge a different way of life to its own traditional existence. In 2018, the narrow streets of Windsor were lined with flag waving fans, black, white and all other ethnicities, in celebration of the Hollywood actress, American divorcee, biracial woman marrying into the same said royal family. Talk about a season of change; the world and all its colours celebrated a story of love, a new and modern kind of love that most hope will guide the royal family into navigating this more progressive world.

Mother of the bride Doria Ragland, for whom many cheered, attended as Meghan’s only family, following the much publicized brouhaha with her father and the palavers of her step siblings. She looked divine in a light green embroidered ensemble from Oscar De La Renta. Her dread locks in a ponytail, and a nose ring, she looked on proudly, if a little overwhelmed by it all, as her daughter married into this institution, inducted into the most secretive and highest echelons of British society, a foreign land with foreign ways; a far cry from her life as a yogi in America. Her presence represented a marked difference especially when directly beside the grandness of the royal family, of which she is now a part. Dreadlocks, nose ring and all.

Meghan, a product of a biracial marriage, now herself in a biracial marriage, is a woman acutely aware of what her race represents in today’s climate. This is not simply a marriage to a prince, this is a marriage of a prince to a commoner, one of mixed heritage whose story is not riddled with perfect clichés and rose gilded images. On both sides this was a significant union, but in the eye of the vortex is the woman marrying into a family much watched by the world, a family whose whiteness and class has often defined who they are, and afforded them a particular privilege, fairly or unfairly. This is a family whose whiteness is peak, whose history is steeped in colonization and slavery, whose crown jewels tell a sordid story, welcoming a woman whose heritage would have been another cause for crisis, some ten years ago even. The law prohibiting women from ascending the throne was only amended in 2012, to show you how steeped in the rigidness of the past the royal family is. Image is important, and watching Prince Charles walk Meghan down the quire of the aisle, spoke more to the character of the bride. Some would have preferred if she walked with her mother, but looking at the woman sitting in the pew, who sometimes caught her breath as the reality of the day dawned on her, one can see why Meghan asked Prince Charles to do the honours.  Above all else, it’s her prerogative.

Her dress, in all its simplicity, was a grand symbol that told the story of a woman comfortable in her own skin, confident in her being, and a way for Markle to assert herself whilst going into an institution that would mean losing some of that self-assertion, where everything is choreographed and every move watched and dissected. The dress was simple; bateau neckline, wide enough to be almost off shoulder, long sleeves, nipped in waist, made from heavy silk with a muted finish. It schemed her body regally down to the exquisite train that glided easily with her every step. It was a dress free of the usual bride frothiness and was made all the more elegant because of its understated grace. This was a dress that made a statement in its quietness, one that spoke of and for a woman who understands the task and duty ahead of her, but at the same time, a promise to hold on to the woman who was raised by a dreadlock wearing Black mother. Images are important, the new Duchess of Sussex, is a woman whose life will forever remain public therefore, she is both a mirror and a window; a mirror in which young girls will see themselves and a window into which the world will look to define the institution she now represents. Whether Ms. Markle will remain that woman, time will tell. When one marries into such an institution as the royal family, it is with a sense of dependence; an establishment to speak on your behalf and orchestrate every aspect of one’s life. Her veil denoted that sense of history and acknowledged the duty she is to embark on. Five meters long, hand embroidered with every flower of the fifty three countries of the common wealth, much like Queen Elizabeth had at her wedding, and two of Meghan’s favorite flowers, California poppy and Winter sweet. Her tiara, on loan to her by the Queen, belonged to Queen Mary, two aspects make up this tiara; the broach which was gifted to Queen Mary in 1893 and the bandeau which was fashioned for the tiara in 1932.

A lot has been said about the Duchess’ ethnicity, her biracial background, the way the press has talked about her, the unfair way they have treated her father, the undertones and at times blatant racism from the press and some public figures. She is who she is, the daughter of a white father and a Black mother and she acknowledges both sides to her wholeness; you have to respect that. By all royal wedding standards this was a different, markedly different; even if all aspects would have been approved by the Royal Family. Mad props to Meghan because culture and heritage were a central part of the day. The descendant of slaves, Bishop Michael Curry, an Episcopal reverend from Chicago, delivered a very powerful, very inspiring sermon, quoted Dr Martin Luther King and referenced slavery in the antebellum American South, in an old English church in the small village of Windsor; wrap your head around that for a minute. Passionate and sometimes animated, his notes hit on love, taking us to church like they do in the Southern Baptist Black churches in America. A Black choir led by Karen Gibson sang their version of the soulful Ben E King’s Stand By Me. Sheku Kanneh-Mason, the nineteen year-old cellist whose rendition of Ave Maria is quite simply the most breathtaking version (I have most likely listened to all versions), received a call from Meghan asking him to play at her wedding. It was an acknowledgement of her heritage as a Black woman, a statement to those who have questions her roots, but also of Black Britain. She understands what her presence in the royal family might mean for some. Being mixed race, (I’m not, but I have half-sisters who are), is fraught with a feeling of being othered on both sides and having others project their sense of what your identity should be, onto you, as if the decision to claim your identity is not wholly yours, knowing that to choose one over the other will cause some measure of discomfort on either side. In a world where race and identity have become increasingly important, existing in the grey areas of who you are, outside of the margins of what is acceptable to society, can be daunting to say the least; the colour of your skin precedes your entire ability as a person. However, the idea that the presence of a biracial woman in the royal family is suddenly going to fix Britain’s race problem, is in itself a ludicrous assumption because she won’t. Furthermore, it is a rather unfair expectation; let Britain deal with its mess.

 “Two people fell in love and we all showed up” Whether or not we know them, their love moved us enough to take time out of our own lives to celebrate with them from whatever corners of the world we are. The love of a man and woman, who happen to be indicative of the country we live in today; if something more were to come out of that, it would be a plus. For now, we can celebrate their love and expect nothing more. We can all enjoy something and still be acutely aware of the society we live in.

wedding dress image via Kensington Palace

Harry & Meghan | Two People Fell In Love, And We All Showed Up. I love LOVE, I’m a huge sucker for it and in my stories, happily ever after is the theme.

[petersaysthings]

Prelude: A Brief History of Viktorium (Part I of V)

by Benoit Laurent IT BEGAN WITH THE DREAM of a young boy, as all things must. An innocent childhood fancy imbued with the spark of imagination. Throughout the course of his life, this spark would be heavily nurtured. His parents indulged him, this boy, as most born to affluence would—with immediate response to every demand and a condescending attitude toward his peers. This of course would leave him unprepared for the devastation that was to follow in his personal life as he dealt with its natural lessons such as death, betrayal, and above all, failure. ‘But what if one did not have to learn such things?’ he thought. This question, more than any other, became the primary driving force behind his life pursuits as he reached the age of adulthood.

Thus, the unchecked spark of indulgence was permitted to grow unto its logical conclusion; a dream so grandiose and decadent, its creator would soon realize there was no room left for it in the real world. And once he discovered Viktorium, that was it. The only reason this man ever needed, as it provided an excuse for everything from his narcissistic behavior to his mad scientist tendencies. The fact that it was a literal escape from the real world was perhaps the icing on the cake. ‘Ah, so one does not have to die after all! How might I exploit this?’

Have you all eaten your fill yet?

The man I am referring to of course is Charles DuPont, ‘First King of Viktorium’ as he no doubt likes to be known. By no coincidence, today so happens to be his birthday. I for one certainly hope he is enjoying it where he belongs—in exile!

Unfortunately for Viktorium—and in particular, our fine capital of Cavarice as it stands today—exile was not quite enough to repair the damage that was already done from fifteen long years of his leadership. We still have our share of problems to clean up, and that’s exactly where we lack guidance. Who is responsible enough to lead us into the next era as a Futuristic society? Mayor La Cour and the Republican Council certainly aren’t cutting it. The fact that everyone on both sides of the political sphere fancies themselves the next supreme is not the least of such concerns; they ousted DuPont with no clear backup plan in mind, yet they refuse to take responsibility.

And that is the very crux of the issue. Our current politicians in power were among the first to arrive here. No one in their rational, living, thinking intelligent minds could ever have conceived of the idea of having major responsibilities in the afterlife. Indeed how could they, when the very man who founded this place was just as irresponsible and naïve as they, so much so to have marketed it as a vacation destination? After all, death is the great respite. If you wish to escape death, you must take responsibility for the technological power that permits you to do so. But as is death, so is life! In Viktorium, you must work to earn your fill.

And to that end, I feel I must issue a sincere apology to all new arrivals. Many of you were duped into believing this to be a vacation destination, whilst those of you who came long after perhaps thought you were entering Heaven. Even the criminals recently executed that arrive here are those whom you must now consider your brothers, a rather Marxist law which has been upheld with disastrous results. Article IV of the Constitution of Cavarice which states “Thou shalt not judge new citizens for Earth crimes” was the worst of DuPont’s edicts left over as a relic of his former cabinet. But not to worry, you’ve got our fine upstanding Dispatchers for that, another organization that is not without its share of problems, and certainly not free of corruption either. So where did this all start, you ask?

The Man, The Machine, & The Movie Star

FIRST CROSSOVER, 1906. A man enters a poor rural village claiming he has recently developed a very special vacation destination which has yet to be used. All he needs are enough willing families of the general public to test it out for a couple weeks, which he will allow them to do for free. He uses all sorts of scientific words to describe the location, which you wouldn’t listen to anyway because he keeps pointing at his scantily-dressed assistant. All of your attention is focused on her. You trust him not because he smiles, but because the girl smiles. He goes at the men first.

“If you gentleman bring your wives to Viktorium for some much deserved relaxation, I can promise you they won’t soon forget it!” The girl captures your attention with all sorts of flashy poses as he displays a map of the area. “This is the most sophisticated restaurant in town, just off the waterfront. They serve only the best aged wines, delectable dishes of seafood including the finest caviar, and the best chocolate cakes for the lady here, if it so happens to be your wife’s birthday.” He smiles and pats her behind as she caresses her neck and coos in submissive adoration.

Now any intelligent man from the city could see through such a ridiculous act, but the town of Bezonvaux unfortunately had little experience with carnival marketing tactics. They were simply happy to escape their troubled lives through any means necessary. Then again, that is precisely why Charles DuPont had chosen them to test his machine. Also chosen as part of his marketing act was a then twenty-five year old model and actress by the name of Constance Renou, now the Director of Viktorium-France Transit. Charles’ relationship with her, as well as her role in the deception, remains unclear to this day.

What is most clear, however, is what occurred one month later at a date now known as First Crossover. The very mention of it in Viktorium is enough to make one shudder in abject terror, and rightly so. The Viktoria I machine was the biggest technological disaster of our age. Not that Charles cared. He got what he needed most out of the deal in the end—test subjects. Because for all of his credit as a scientist and innovator, DuPont was still the same ruthless, conniving human being he had been as a child. He had to have his way no matter what, and he would go to any means necessary to get it.

On the night of First Crossover, two hundred and thirteen people entered the Viktoria I never to be seen again, either in Viktorium or anywhere else for that matter. According to Charles himself as he stood trial, the crowd formed an orderly line and talked of their excitement. One by one they stepped into the chamber, each accompanied by a green flash that grew ever brighter. The last lit up the entire sky even ten kilometers away. And just like that, the peaceful village of Bezonvaux was gone forever. The following is from DuPont’s court statement before he was exiled:

I tried to stop it. I had noticed earlier that the matter density array was misaligned to a variance of a few degrees. At first, I thought it was within acceptable limits. When they began entering, everything seemed fine. But the flashes got brighter as time went on, and I realized the phase emitter was failing to compensate as it should have. There was a critical overload and I couldn’t be sure the rest would materialize on the other side. After the first fifty people, I told them we had to stop. But they kept pressuring me to continue firing the switch. ‘You promised us!’ they said. I had never seen a crowd of farmers so upset and angry. Some of them were carrying pistols, others rifles. I was certain more were carrying knives. Despite the fact I had my own pistol, I was outnumbered. Viktorium was no assurance for me either. I knew if I died, I would come here and the ones who had crossed might make further attempts on my life. We’re still not yet certain what happens if you are killed in Viktorium. Where would I go? But I thought they might have gotten through. How is this all my fault again? Surely they must be alive somewhere! We just have to keep looking.

But of course nobody wanted to look, and they won’t bother. There is far too much power at stake. The fact that Charles’ machine was an eventual success is all that matters to Viktorium’s current politicians now. They just needed the right scapegoat to exile him, because even that was difficult enough. He is a most intelligent man, but I digress. The machine must keep running at all costs, even if it should send us to the Reapers!

That was Charles DuPont’s philosophy, and it is that of our current Parliament. So does it not seem strange to you that the parts are still defective, even if the body has changed? Are we truly expecting a different outcome in this world, and will we also expect one in the next, so long as the same tired cranks are still in power? Of course not! These little power plays they make every damned election year are blatant misdirection, folks! The corporate wheels are still turning, and this is the very essence of The Man, The Machine, and The Movie Star.

Because while The Man hides in a magic box somewhere no doubt holding the secret to his miraculous return in his bloody hands, The Movie Star is still here to draw our attention, operating The Machine to the horrid detriment of our society.

God Save Viktorium! God Save Us All!

If you liked this, you can read more of my web serial Adventures In Viktorium here!