#i was really trying to ration but i still spent too many of my hoarded keys failing to get masqeralleus

[egophiliac]

GRIMS COMING!!! You gonna pull for him??👀👀

I'm gonna try, but...

I have mere hours to decide if I want to make one last attempt at Malleus or save a few to try for Grim...and this is all before the new event reveal on the 16th. truly the most difficult choice of our modern times. the gacha is getting its revenge for all of my Lilias.

[grumpyhedgehogs]

those who are left behind (share the grief between them)

Summary: Cody goes to find Rex. Ahsoka finds him first. AO3. Part 2 of “scraps” series. Part 1. Part 3, Part 4, Part 5.

Warnings: Grief/mourning, canon-typical violence.

Cody tries to find Rex.

It’s the only thing he can think of after he manages to get off the Death Star--a feat in and of itself, as he knew it would be. He’d had a couple close calls; he knows he was on the list to be transferred to a teaching job for new initiates, and clones as a whole were kept under close watch. Too many of the vode had killed themselves or disappeared or went berserk and killed their commanding officers. (Cody thinks about those brothers now and wonders how crazy they really were.) He’s not sure if he was under closer observation than most post-Order 66, due to his place at Kenobi's side for years; those memories are hazy, and upsetting besides. Obviously Vader didn’t think he’d be more of a problem than anyone else now, because even with the close watch Cody’d been able to slip security and hitch a ride on a stolen emergency shuttle with little fanfare. The fiasco with the droids weeks earlier taught everyone exactly how much the Empire let slip between the cracks.

The lightsaber was tempting. It still is. But Vader keeps it in his secure chamber, hoarding it like a Krayt dragon. Cody didn’t even try.

So he gets away and goes to find Rex. Rex, who had told him about the chips. Rex, who Cody had dismissed. Rex, who was made commander and promptly had everything else taken from him with Order 66. Rex, who Cody had seen hide nor hair of during his tenure as CC-2224. Cody tries to find Rex.

Ahsoka finds him first.

He's on some backwater planet, somewhere bleak and angry looking; drab grey roads and trees with no foliage against a blood-red sky. The people here live in hovels and call themselves lucky. Cody closes his eyes as he leaves the tiny fishing market on the edge of the docks. The smell clogs his nose and makes him want to retch, but for a moment he can almost feel the weight of Obi-Wan’s hand on his shoulder. He can picture the exact curl of Obi-Wan’s mouth, the twitch of an eyebrow as he tells Cody to find the beauty in the small things. The people here are born with silver scales lining their cheekbones, their fingers webbed with thin, iridescent skin that catches the light just right and turns to millions of colors. There are children who actually play in the street here. There are no stormtroopers raiding the stalls. Happiness comes in small packages, Obi-Wan would say. Cody exhales the smell of dead fish and wraps the robe tighter around himself.

It was probably too big on Obi-Wan by the end; it fits comfortably around his shoulders, and although Obi-Wan was a little taller, he certainly wasn't wider than Cody even on the best day. He’d slimmed down during the war too; they’d had few rations going around in the hard times--it was always a task getting the general to eat when his men were going hungry. Cody nearly put him on an IV a couple times.

The robe covers what’s left of his stark white stormtrooper armor well enough. He’d stripped the leg armor off immediately, stole some fatigues from a clothesline when he’d landed on the first planet he could find and slipped those over his blacks. He’s been planet hopping for a while, chasing rumors of rebels and crossing imperial battlegrounds. They’re burial sites now. Cody doesn’t know enough about the Force to do more than read the fallen their last rights and ask them to be well as they pass on. Every place is the same; empty, except for bones. The Mando’a prayers spill from his lips easily but his voice is rusty and Cody usually settles for a silent vigil instead. There are so many dead.

After the first graveyard, Cody stripped off as much of the white paint from his vambraces as he could. It’s a shoddy job, but it’s the best he can do. Paint is a luxury he can’t afford. Cody doesn’t have a credit to his name.

He bows his head to the small woman who pushes a package filled with row after row of tiny fish into his hands and chatters at him in an unknown language. Places like this, even as untouched by the Empire as they seem, know hardship. The people here are kind. Obi-Wan would be proud to have met them. Cody tries to be proud too, but his chest is so hollow now. The robe flutters and whips against his knees as he walks away.

He’s outside town limits, thinking about a campfire and shelter, when he hears it. There’s the scrape of a boot on rock somewhere above him in the hills that line the dirt road. He should have gotten off the path into the treeline when he’d had the chance. The hood is good cover from the light rain but it gives too much of the movement of his head away; by the time Cody whirls around, there is no one behind him. He scans the trees anyway and counts how many bolts he has in his blaster. He’d taken out those troopers on Florrum weeks ago. A couple of hunting trips when he couldn’t beg or work for any food in townships. He’ll have to make the shots count.

But before he can do more than pull the blaster from his sleeve, they're upon him. There’s a sound of ignition, one that has Cody thrown years into the past, and then a flash of white. A figure in dark clothes bears down on him with a white lightsaber, and Cody doesn’t mean to react how he does, he really doesn’t, it’s not red but—

But he’s spent years as a slave to a lightsaber wielder dressed all in black and he can’t do that again, not after watching Obi-Wan fall. He can't go back to the Death Star. Cody pulls his blaster and fires a shot, dodging to the left and then feigning a stumble, hoping to get around to the attacker's other side. The other fighter, also cloaked and hooded against the rain, is spry and wiry--perhaps female--and obviously trained. One of those Knights of the Empire they were talking about training? They dodge another bolt as Cody curses and then a second ‘saber lights up and--the handles are the wrong way around.

They’re holding their lightsabers wrong. Cody nearly does trip this time, only just scrambling back from a slice that surely would have taken his head off. As he does, the figure speaks.

“Where did you get that robe?” They hiss, and prepare to strike again.

“ Ahsoka?”

“Wh-- Cody? ”

“Oh, Force,” Cody says, feeling like he did when Longshot knocked all the air out of him during a sparring session. He pushes his hood down hurriedly. Rain splashes down his forehead, rolls off the end of his nose, fills his mouth. “It is you. You’re alive!”

He’d been so afraid of being alone.

Ahsoka, older and leaner and sadder than he’s ever seen her, lowers her own hood. One ‘saber stays in her hand. Good. “Cody. You’re...you.”

“I remembered,” Cody chokes out. It’s hard not to vomit when he thinks about it for too long. “Who I was, before the Order. I remembered.”

Ahsoka’s eyes are sharp. Her mouth is a thin line. “Good men lost their lives that day. Dead men walked among us for years afterward. I--I’m sorry for your loss, Cody. It has been a long time.”

“I’m sorry too,” Cody says. It tastes like ash in his mouth, like the pyre he should’ve given Obi-Wan and never got the chance to. “The vode weren’t the only people lost that day.”

She softens, if only just. The lightsaber is hooked onto her belt under her own robe. “It really is you. Come then, I have a fire.”

They settle around her campsite, small and remote, on a perfect vantage point, before she speaks again. Cody is waiting for her when she does. He unwraps the fish, ignoring the mud splashed onto the scales from their impromptu fight, and lays them out on a flat rock in the fire. They are too small to debone individually; they’ll have better luck eating around the skeletons and hoping for the best. (“If you kill my grandpadawan via choking on a fish bone I will never forgive you,” jokes the Obi-Wan in his head and Cody suppresses a snort.)

“The robe.” Ahsoka murmurs. Her lekku twitch, in apprehension or agitation Cody isn’t sure. The pit in his gut, always there, yawns wider. She’s Obi-Wan’s family. Next of kin. He by all rights should give it to her, but… “It has Obi-Wan’s Force signature infused in it, but I recognized that yours was different. I thought…”

“I’d taken it off his body.” Cody finishes for her. Ahsoka nods, grim. He nods too and flips the fish. “You’re almost right. He didn’t leave behind a body, just his lightsaber and the robe. Vader killed him; it’s what woke me up. Chip’s stopped working, I guess. Too old.”

“I felt him when he went.” Ahsoka’s eyes are far away when Cody snatches a glance at her. She sits, back ramrod straight, unyielding, steely. He thinks Obi-Wan would have been like this in the end; untouchable, almost. He was statuesque, carved from marble, right up until the moment he died. “His light went out; that day the Force got much darker.”

“Wasn’t sure it could get darker.”

“Obi-Wan spoke once to me,” Ahsoka tells him after a long silence. She takes the food offered and nods her thanks. Cody’s heart is dead, has been since he left the Death Star, but he curls his fingers into the robe’s edges and listens anyway. He never stops hurting these days. “Through the Force, I mean. It was right after--right after. Just a fleeting thing, a feeling. He wanted to make sure I was safe, that I knew he--”

Cody doesn’t move when her words cut off. He knows. She knows.

It is like stripping off his own skin with a dull blade when Cody shrugs out of the robe and offers it up. “Here.” His voice is hoarse, tortured, not his own. “I just--you’re his family, but I can’t... please.”

Ahsoka is beautiful even when she cries. The robe looks worn, dingy in her hands, but she holds it close, like a child. She has to work hard to get the next sentence out. “You loved him.”

Cody nods. His face is wet too. “Still,” he whispers, almost inaudibly over the fire. “Still.”

“It’s yours,” Ahsoka promises. “Let me meditate with it, just once, and then--it’s yours. It’s yours.”

Ahsoka goes still; her shoulders stop hitching after a while, her cheeks dry, her breathing evens. Cody does not sleep, but he does drift. He knows she will not mind the salt water on his own face when she wakes. Obi-Wan would tell him to release his grief, perhaps that Obi-Wan is not worth it; Cody holds on almost greedily, bottles up the pain and sorrow and regret and keeps it with him, cold as ice in his chest.

He knows she comes back by the small cry that slips past her lips; she jerks in place, nearly toppling from her meditation pose. Ahsoka straightens again and clenches her hands in the robe, head bowed. “Alright?” Softly, softly. He knew her when she was just a child.

“Meditation is rougher than it used to be,” Ahsoka admits, and, reluctant, passes the fabric over in a bundle. “Thank you.”

“I miss him too.”

“What are you doing out here?”

Cody smiles without real feeling. “Following you. Or the Rebellion in general, I guess. Thought maybe I could find Rex that way.”

Ahsoka raises her eyebrows. “The Rebellion hasn’t been here for months; I’m just here checking up to make sure refugees we helped are still doing alright.”

“You guys got a head start on me.”

Her laughter is quiet, like Obi-Wan’s used to be. Cody looks away, twists his hands in the robe.

Wait.

He knows Obi-Wan won’t mind. He lost so many during the war anyway, went through them like tissue paper. It was a game among the 212th, who could find them on the battlefield first.

Cody looks up, eyes Ahsoka shrewdly. She’s taller, more muscular than she used to be. He’s no seamstress. “Scarf or sash?”

Ahsoka blinks at him. He presses his lips together and nods. “Sash. Won’t get in the way.”

The sleeve comes apart at the seams easily enough. Cody ignores her protest, and tears the other sleeve away too before pocketing one--someone else will want it, someone else who can hold vigil with Cody and Ahsoka both. Then he tears open the remaining sleeve and flattens it, before holding it out to her. “Through the belt loops,” he advises, blandly, like the tears on both their faces don’t exist. Her eyes are the size of dinner plates in her head. “Won’t get in the way when you pull your weapon.”

Ahsoka’s lips tremble when she takes the scrap of fabric. Cody doesn’t watch her loop it through her belt, taking the time to wrap the rest of the robe around his shoulders in a makeshift poncho; the hood hangs down his back still, and the ends of the robe are still long enough to cover most of his breastplate, some of the only trooper armor he has kept. There is a scratch on the shoulder from when an overconfident Jawa took a shot at him on Florrum.

Ahsoka gasps when he looks up. She gestures at his chest. “You…”

Cody splays his hand where she indicates, over the insignia he painstakingly etched into the armor covering his heart. The lightsaber was tricky to overlay on the 212th logo. It took him hours. He has a lot more time on his hands now that he’s not being controlled by the chip, though; it was worth it.

“Yes,” Cody answers. “I--I don’t want to forget again. Never again.”

Ahsoka reaches out and takes his hand over the fire that gutters low in their makeshift hearth. A thousand lives lie between them, and a thousand deaths. Her hand holds his so carefully. Cody squeezes back and feels Obi-Wan smile. “Never again,” Ahsoka vows.

[cursedfanficdelicateogs]

Amalgam

Word count: 4638

Ice cream isn’t exactly a priority during the apocalypse. 

Especially if you’re an amputee.

And yet at the moment, Herman’s main problem is whether or not he can fetch a second helping of banana soft serve. 

And well, if he could stop watching the Bee Movie right about now. 

“Sorry if you don’t like banana,” Dr. Salmaki said, spooning out more ice cream. “But it’s not like dairy products can last very long these days.” Laughing, she pulled out the gold flower from her hair and tucked it back in at the crease behind her ear; an odd look for a woman in her mid-60s. Even more strange was that sunflowers still existed in this world. It was small, a blossom you would drive by on a summer afternoon but never know the name of. Unfitting to the world right about now, but it blended right into her hoarding garden Herman examined with the turn of his eyes.

Shrubs, trees, vines shrouded the room like a terrarium, except this time he wasn’t looking from the outside in. He was part of the lizards or bugs, trapped, with its wild chirp lost from the sense of overwhelming security. There was no need to try and survive. 

He could sort of understand why those lizards died so quickly now. 

Then again, he wasn’t a lizard.

“Not a fan of the Bee Movie?” Dr. Salmaki asked, turning the television off. Barry and Vanessa disappeared from the boxy screen with a blink of light, their animated voices cut off with a high-pitched click. Dr. Salmaki reached for her cane and pressed the eject button on the remote control, the VHS sliding out and hitting the ground. 

He had forgotten how much he missed technology.

He shook his head, nonetheless. 

“I’m not a fan of cartoons in general, I guess,” he replied. 

“You get used to them once they are the only source of entertainment you have.” She paused. “Too literally in this case, considering it’s the only cartoon I have.” She chuckled again. 

What was so funny?

“I’m never really home, so I guessed this crappy kids’ movie would be enough if I ever had to stay here at home for more than a day. Now look at me, my television is only useful to watch some anthropomorphic bees destroy the environment.” She said, smiling. He remained quiet, not sure how to respond. 

“Not much of a talker, hm?” She asked, raising an eyebrow. Herman sipped up whatever was left in his bowl. 

Melted bananas. His new favorite food. 

“There’s not much to talk about,” he replied simply. 

A pause of silence. Dr. Salmaki smiled, snickering as if he was some sort of pet. 

“Looks like you’ve got a story, though.” She remarked, tapping his one foot with her cane.

He instinctively grabbed what was left of his right thigh, a burning shot firing down his limb. 

Herman’s heart raced.

Thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-thump-

The pain disappeared once his fingers made contact with the leg. 

He was the butt of his body’s own sick joke. 

“Please don’t do that.” 

“Sorry.” 

Another pause of silence. 

“I used to have friends.”

Dr. Salmaki set her cane to the side. 

“I wasn’t sure what happened to them now, especially after the meteor. Perhaps they could afford government-funded panic rooms, with their suburban wealth and all. Our family could’ve been a part of the system, too, if it weren’t for me. 

Some, like my sister and I, stayed in communal panic rooms. These shelters were offered by local folk who supposedly took pity on us and our pleading parents. 

There was only enough food for two more people, so mom and dad offered to go find some more for themselves and the rest of the group.  

Fate had better places for them. 

I never contributed much to the team. I focused on sports in school, so I wasn’t as smart as the others. At least my sister could go out and scavenge. She had a pretty voice, and combine that with our dusty, out-of-tune guitar and there you go, sanity was restored for a few hours. 

It wasn’t my fault I didn't contribute anything to the group.. I couldn’t magically grow a limb back, and my body rejected the prosthetics available. But the other panic room members were generally sweet and frankly quite pitiful, sharing some of their food with me. 

Food, like clothing and medical supplies, was among some of the first materials to  run out. 

As many other groups of people during the apocalypse did, we organized a scavenging party. My sister volunteered to go, despite the fact that several people urged her not to. Probably because of me. Nonetheless, she left, humming the tune to a song I have long forgotten the title to. 

I may have not spent that much time with her than I should have, but I knew certain facts about her that others were slow to catch. One thing for sure, if she was absolutely silent, she was absolutely scared. It was unfair in a way, how she could just grow up so fast while I was stuck here, still living off of other people’s pity. Either way, it was neither of our choices to do so. 

I began wondering if it was the common fate for whoever stepped out the metal door to never come back. 

Panic grew. One left and again, never came back. Rations got smaller. I found out meetings have been pushed to nighttimes when I’m asleep. 

“They’re planning to EAT you.” A pitiful woman whispered ruefully one day. 

The metal door creaked open. I fled.

Surprisingly, no one dared to mess with me. No matter how menacing they looked, they’d just look away after glancing at my missing limb. It may be the apocalypse, but it takes a long time to just lose the pity from someone. 

The most conflict I ever got was when I encountered some sort of gang along the way. They laughed at my amputation crudely, and they threw me some food like they were feeding some birds at a park. They said they’re not heartless to the point they would kill a cripple, immediately after shooting one of their members for 'wasting ammunition’.

...They showed me how to get to a place that would offer some food and shelter for a short time. When I thought I couldn’t go any further, I just saw an old woman with a flower in her hair.” He finished his story. How he got to a place where he could eat vegan ice cream for eternity. 

“I mean, who knew that person would be some sort of apocalypse millionaire?” Herman asked, laughing emptily. 

Dr. Salmaki, after listening quietly with a couple of cynical remarks, laughed wholeheartedly. 

“I'm something, but not a millionaire.” 

She sighed, a smile lingering on her expression. 

“Well, perhaps it’s not the happiest story, but it’s one indeed,” she said. 

“I guess.”

“I don’t want to waste too much of your time, y'know, listening to me, but I used to have a grandson.” 

“What happened to him?”

“Oh, wasn’t fortunate I suppose. He contracted a disease and medication wasn’t good enough for him. Perhaps it’s my fault, I promised his parents I would take care of him and yet I was always out, investigating in the laboratory.” 

They both sighed. 

“Dr. Salmaki, I don’t want to sound rude, but maybe it’s best to keep the past in the past, you know? I mean, I used to have two legs, but it’s not like I try to remind myself of it everyday. It just... helps to think about something else. Especially when you can’t do shit to help yourself with the current problem.” 

She rested her head against the seat of the plant-occupied couch. Her green eyes lost its usual inspired twinkle, but as soon as she made eye contact it was back. 

“Yes, that’s a good idea. It's no use reminiscing!” she exclaimed, laughing wholeheartedly. 

“What should I be calling you? I just realized I’ve been eating ice cream with a complete stranger.” She asked. 

“It’s Herman. I was named after a Greek god, apparently,” he replied, shrugging.

“It’s better than Artemis. You would’ve been named after a goddess of virginity.” 

They laughed.

"I’m done with angsty talking, we're not characters in a YA novel, now. How about some music?” She asked. 

“Sure.” 

Dr. Salmaki stood up, stretching out her joints. Herman grimaced internally of how many cracking sounds her body was making. 

She walked over to the counter and from the dark, seemingly pulled out a radio and something else. She carried it back to the couch and set it between the two of them. She pulled out the disc box and took out the disc inside, handing him the box. While she was figuring out how to get the old radio to work again, he examined the empty case and its flashy writing. 

Lysa and Ellie’s Playlist for the Apocalypse

It seemed to be written on plain letter paper with markers. He flipped it over to the back, and there was what he assumed was a list of the songs in this playlist. 

Paparazzi

Perfect Illusion

Applause

Aura

Government Hooker

Paper Gangsta

Dope

Bad Romance

Telephone

“I didn’t know you were a fan of Lady Gaga, Dr. Salmaki,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“I’m not. I used to be a camp counselor for this one science camp a coupla’ years ago. It was called “Apocalyptic Science”, you probably know what it would be about based on the name. I hate prepubescents, but I was fond of these two girls, Lysa and Ellie. I dunno, they just reminded me of who I was when I was their age, maybe that’s why. Anyways, they asked me if I was a fan of Lady Gaga, and I said no. Not sure how they were able to burn a CD with explicit music at a limited technology camp, but they handed this to me on the last day as a gift.” She explained, pressing the play button. 

“What a coincidence, isn’t it?” She remarked.  

The machine whirred and clicked for a good half-minute before it finally decided to play some music. 

“We are the crowd, we’re c-coming out, got my flash on it’s true….”

He froze. 

“What’s wrong?” Dr. Salmaki asked. 

“Oh, um, it’s nothing,” he replied. 

“Your expression tells otherwise.” 

“It’s just that… I didn’t know this was the song that my sister was humming before she left, you know? I can’t believe I’m just recognizing it right now.” 

He paused, trying to figure out how he was feeling at the moment. How could he forget? She was always talking and singing about Lady Gaga. Did he simply not care to remember her favorite songs, maybe even try to share that single interest with her? 

The two of them have been through thick and thin, and yet they barely even knew each other. 

Or was it just him who knew nothing about who she really might have been?

“I feel so dumb,” he said, his voice hardly more than a whisper. 

Dr. Salmaki sighed. 

“It’s a feeling you get used to with time. I can’t know everything, even if emotions say otherwise,” she responded. 

“But anyway, there’s no use reminiscing. You’ve even said that yourself, didn’t you?” she confirmed, smiling. 

He let out a forced breath of laughter. He couldn’t contradict himself. 

“You’re right, there’s no point sulking about what I can’t change. Gotta enjoy the moment.” he replied. She laughed heartily. 

“That’s the spirit! Do amputees dance, or what?” she asked, lending him a hand. 

He smiled, using her hand and his crutch to stand himself up. 

“Of course.”

***

It’s been a few weeks since he’s been staying with Dr. Salmaki. He's learned that she not only does she have an indoor garden as her home, but she also owns a small farm of animals in her shed. Well, it’s more of a home for her pets, since she never uses them for food. But at this point, he has gotten used to a vegan diet, and it wasn’t like it was his position to complain anyway. 

“Hey, Herman, get over here for a sec.” Dr. Salmaki hollered from the other side of the house. He stopped his doodling and walked to where her voice came from. 

She was standing by the metal door, where her inventory was located. It was always locked for safety purposes, but he had no reason to step in there. But he respected her choice nonetheless. He wasn’t planning to build suspicion by asking about it any more than he needed to, anyway. 

“What do you want?” he asked, watching as she punched in the code for the door. 

“Remember when I said this was my inventory? Well, surprise surprise, that was a lie.” 

After opening the heavy door, she turned on the lights to reveal some sort of laboratory. 

With mixed emotions and disordered questions, he hoarsely replied, 

“...What?”

“Hey, do you want to see something cool?” 

Without even waiting for a response, she filled up an empty tank with tap water and mixed in a large amount of salt with it. She then proceeded to pluck the signature flower from her hair and drop it into the water. 

The blossom seemed to shrivel for a moment, as it sunk wistfully down to the bottom. 

As he was about to ask how this was supposed to be ‘cool’, the flower’s petals suddenly began to thicken and spread out. It had bloomed as if it was an early spring morning. 

Immediately it started to form suction cups you would only see on octopi all around itself, and soon it found its way towards the glass wall and stuck itself to it. It slithered around, the new creature's tentacles feeling around its territory. 

He watched, awestruck and but mostly disgusted. 

“It’s like a… a-”

He tried to think of the right term.

“A starfish? A squid? Close but no cigar. That’s what you get when amalgamating a Maximilian sunflower with a typical octopus,” she explained. She observed with dull eyes as if this was nothing new. 

“But how? I don’t understand how someone could just so easily do this.” he said, confused. 

“I used to be a genetic engineer. Heh, sorry lying about my profession again. But did you really think I was a BOTANIST?” she asked, chuckling softly. 

“But that still doesn’t explain how one could possibly do this. Isn’t this… I dunno, impossible?” he asked. 

“Impossible, yes. For Earth, that is.” 

“Goddamnit, that doesn’t explain anything! What are you saying, what, you’re some kind of alien?”

“Ha, I wish. We’re wasting time, Herman. Do you really want to hear this stupid story?” 

“Uh, yeah, especially now that you’re saying that we’re ‘wasting time’ for something I have zero knowledge about.” 

Dr. Salmaki sat down on one of the metal stools.

“Ugh, fine… Well, to begin, I was appointed by the government to figure out ways for people to go through the apocalypse without, ya know, dying.

We had our astronomist, botanist… pretty much the cream of the crop from each field of study. Hell, we even had a pastor. That’s how desperate the government was. We grew close, but we knew enough not to depend on each other too much. They were all intelligent people, smarter than me at least. But even the smartest people couldn’t figure out how to make the quality of living better while still remaining under budget. 

I think we gave up on what we could do with what was left of the Earth once we focused on the meteor. 

From what was concluded from the research, the meteor couldn’t have fallen ‘accidentally’ or ‘naturally’. It was either thrown by some galactic giant or was just a meteor with a very strange orbit defying all laws of physics. Both seemed pretty unlikely. The meteor was also releasing a whole new element to the environment, a substance rebelling against the laws of nature. Too bad the press barely even existed anymore, it’s a breakthrough that would’ve shocked everyone. 

We conducted all sorts of experiments with it, but with our limited resources we could only go so far until we hit another brick wall. We put safety before anything, but it’s difficult to balance security with discovery. We weren’t finding anything with lab rats. Exposing them to the meteor's element would only create some sort of gooey mutant. And we couldn’t risk losing possibly the only species alive by using something other than our abundant rats. No one wanted to die, either, despite their half-baked statements of sacrifice for the greater good.

The greater good only sounds sweet if it doesn’t involve yourself, after all. 

I think at one point the government got tired of our shindigs and complaints, so they decided to cut whatever rat’s tail funding and resources that went to us. As if the world is gonna repair itself. 

After packing up whatever I brought to the laboratory, I decided to stop and talk to the pastor who for whatever reason stayed with us until the end. 

“Why didn’t you just leave?” I asked. 

“Who am I to go against God’s will?” He asked back, calm despite the uneasy silence. 

“So it’s god’s will to set you in some safety net with guaranteed food and rest? While everyone else is suffering out there, scrambling and murdering each other for a morsel of food? Got it.”  

He chuckled.

“What’s so funny?” 

“Not a fan of Jesus, I assume?” 

“I mean, do you think I’m in this field just to worship some entity I have no knowledge or proof of its existence?” 

“It’s the whole point of faith. It’s the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” 

“Well, assurance from some outdated book isn’t enough for me. I need concrete proof, a hypothesis I’m 99 percent certain would be correct. I suppose that’s why religious people don’t make sense. You see them do ridiculous acts like bombing a village or flying into provenly dangerous lands all in the name of their gods.” 

“Precisely. Some perform dangerous crimes or actions, blinded by faith. But we are all blind in a way, since we are all sinners. What differentiates us is what leads us through that darkness and where we go because of it.” He explained. He walked into his room and came back with some sort of yellow flower in a plastic cup.

“That’s a Maximilian sunflower. How did you manage to grow it?” I asked, holding it by the makeshift pot. 

“I’ll be honest, it got a little boring to just watch everyone continue with their studies. You can keep it.” He responded. 

“I mean, thanks, but why?” 

“The sunflower symbolizes loyalty. They’re always facing the sun, even though ffor humans the sun is too bright to the point it blinds them. I feel like that was how loyal you are to science and your field. I admire it, how you proceed step-by-step to make sure the experiment is safe for all.” 

I rolled my eyes. 

“I may be passionate, but it’s not like I’m brilliant. I mean, if you’ look back you can obviously see that we haven’t seen any benefits to the new element, despite our efforts.” 

“True. So perhaps it’s time to take a leap of faith. You all have been so caught up in the hypothetical dangers of it up to this point.” He said, walking towards the door. 

“Whatever your choice may be, I have faith in you.” the pastor said, and left the laboratory. 

I looked back at the unused specimen, stored in their glass cages, tanks, or whatever environment they needed to be kept in for basic survival.

Government workers were going to come in tomorrow to clean and take everything that belonged to them. 

Quickly, I took everything that I could carry in my car. The sun has already set, and I needed to hurry if I had to make a second trip. 

It was time to make a leap of faith.” 

Dr. Salmaki finished her story. 

“And look where that leap of faith took me,” she said, pushing the curtain away and turning on the lights to the opposite side of the laboratory.

All this time, Dr. Salmaki has been hiding a plethora of animals and organisms, several of which Herman had never even seen before. 

“The meteor’s element, when used correctly, seems to have the power to amalgamate one organism with another. Strangely, it knows what traits to keep and what to throw away. It knows what characteristics have helped each organism survive in its habitat.” she explained. She walked to one glass tank and motioned him to follow. 

Inside was an egg, its shell resembling a tortoise’s.

“Of course, I’ve had failed experiments that didn’t lead me anywhere. But it just helps me learn what not to do, I suppose.” 

It seemed to crack and split open, only to reveal its exact same form. 

“An amalgamation of an unhatched chicken egg and a tortoise. This is its entire form. A shame, ain’t it? Well, it does what it does to survive, I suppose.” She said, soon dragging me to another glass crate. It seemed to be a regular hamster, except with the face of a pig. 

He grimaced. A pig’s snout just didn’t belong on a hamster. 

“The hamster’s food pouches helps it conserve food for an amount of time, and its snout can easily find food in its habitat. The tusks can help fend off predators, and its small size is helpful when escaping them. The swine’s social side and the hamster’s independent side seems to coexist. I’d consider this new species an ambivert, y’know, whatever that means to you..” She explained. 

“The most contrasting the two amalgamating organisms are, the better. Look at the egg and the tortoise, they both shield themselves with thick shells to survive. And they would. But they wouldn’t last long. Natural selection would take the best of them, considering their lack to reproduce. At least that’s what I hypothesize.” she added. She led him into another room, its door hidden behind a pillar made of amalgamations tanks stacked against each other. 

If Dr. Salmaki’s living space was overshadowed by plants, then her true laboratory was overrun by wires. 

“Don’t electrocute yourself,” she remarked jokingly. It didn’t help with his growing panic at all. He fumbled over the hazardous thicket while she weaved her way through the web she had somehow made. 

Approximately a third of the room was blocked off with glass on the opposite side. It was the only area he’s ever seen in this house empty, with the exception of a couple of unfamiliar machinery here and there. 

She sat down on an office chair, its leather wearing down into stripes of black and exposed cotton. Behind it was a long desk, just as discorded as the floors and walls. 

“Jesus Christ, Do you ever clean up, like at all?” he snapped out of anxiety. She shrugged. 

“It only wastes time from what’s really important,” she replied nonchalantly. 

With a simple hit of a button on her computer, the glass slowly began to swing open. 

“The glass worked as a divider between me and the two organisms, so I wouldn’t get amalgamated with them. But I suppose we don’t need it now, do we?” She asked, chuckling softly. 

“What’s going on?” 

“Think for yourself.” 

He took a brief moment to collect his thoughts to bring a conclusion. But what he came up with didn’t make sense at all. 

“You’re going to… amalgamate yourself with me?” he asked carefully, hoping for a correction. 

She nodded, unable to hide her smile.   

Questions flooded Herman’s mind, yet at the same time he didn’t want to know anything.

“At first glance you might be the last person anyone would ever want to combine themselves with. No offense, by the way.” 

Herman was too baffled to be insulted. 

Dr. Salmaki stood up and marched right over to the one-legged boy. She seemed to take his silence as a ‘“none taken”’, as she continued on. 

“My grandson died from a common cold, Herman.” She said, a bitter undertone lying hidden from her nonchalant fashion. 

“It doesn’t make any sense how you could survive for this long. There’s something special about you, something DIFFERENT from all the others.” 

He tried to think of a solid reason as to convince her not to do this, to just go along with their lives as they had before. He could forever be under her command, a silent servant paid with unstable mercy. Or he could be her new grandson, immediately, almost forcefully adopted into a madhouse family. Either way, it would be difficult going back to his golden peak of the apocalypse. His golden peak ever in his life. He thought Dr. Salmaki was the person that finally understood him. 

“You’re being irrational.” He finally argued. 

With her signature cane, Dr. Salmaki struck Herman’s right foot. Without his own physical support system, he fell right into the rubbery nest of wires tangled across the floor. 

The mad scientist pulled down a lever, a periwinkle gas escaping from the vents once contained beyond the glass door. 

She crouched next to the amputee, taking his hand and holding it firmly as if silently saying goodbye. 

“There is no rationality in faith.” 

The gas, after slowly travelling across unfamiliar territory, finally reached the two human figures. 

Swoosh.

---

Swoosh.

Wind flies through the ever expanding gaps in my body. 

It’s chilling.

It would take more than a billion years for Earth to reset if humans were wiped out from the planet.  

Not to boast, but it only took me seven years. 

A tedious period of time, yes, but in the end I’ve got the job done. Who knew a monster born in a messy, purple clogged laboratory would be so beneficial to life?

And all it took was a meteor. 

To be honest, humanity was doomed. Even if Earth had gone back to its Garden of Eden, there would be no way people could live in harmony, whether that would be between nature, extraterrestrials, or themselves. What would be the point of moving to another life-sustaining planet, if all humans would do is turn it into a self-obsessed cacophony? A human is a toxic cycle with no end, spiraling to their own demise. 

That’s why their new home is not earth, mars, or any other undeserving planet, but my mind. They live in an imaginary world, an exact replica of a world without the meteor strike, minus the memories of the horrifying apocalypse. 

It’s not fun. Their little society is an infection. 

Somehow, I can amalgamate with anything and everything, even without the element extracted from the meteor. Except my physical body tries to reject anything and everything I try to amalgamate with. So whatever the amalgamation may be is temporary, until I’ve had enough of it and eject it out of myself, turning whatever organism that was once part of me into lifeless waste. Quite literally. The first human I ever tried to amalgamate with was spit out as some sort of foul and nasty slush. 

I’ve learned to take better control of when that happens. 

That’s why this time, the purge of this once major amalgamation is all controlled and consented by yours truly. 

Lucky for them, this isn’t going to be a complete wipe out of humanity. 

Just a ‘natural disaster’ so that, for now, the amalgamation would be a bit more bearable. I’ve envisioned it several times. A meteor would fall to earth. Everyone except a small minority dies either directly or indirectly. 

Society is in crumbles, and society is quiet for once. 

And so I do it. I close my eyes, focus on the little Earth I’ve created, and send out a lonesome shooting star toward them. 

A horrible discord rings, pulsates through my mind and through the tips of my limbs, and it stops after a few seconds. 

I open my eyes, stand up, and walk over to the hoarding garden I call my home. I pluck a couple of bananas, prepare and blend them, and put them in the freezer for a familiar dessert. 

Ice cream isn’t exactly a priority when you have destroyed society. 

Especially if you are, quite literally, one of a kind. 

[icannotreadcursive]

Avengers PSAs: On the COVID-19 Pandemic 3: Don’t Panic

Natasha and Bucky stood side by side in front of neatly organized shelves, him with one arm around her, his other sleeve empty, both of them dressed in athleasure clothes.

“Hey, I'm Natasha Romanoff—”

“—and I'm James Buchanan Barnes—”

“—and we're coming to you from the Avengers's pantry,” Natasha continued, gesturing behind them, “to talk to you about panic buying and resource hoarding. First though, since people are bound to ask—Buck, where's your arm?”

“In an autoclave,” Bucky said flatly, “being sterilized.”

Natasha wagged an admonishing finger at the camera. “No excuses for not practicing good hand hygiene.”

“No excuses,” Bucky agreed. “You know what else there's no excuse for?”

“Panic buying and hoarding?” Natasha guessed with a knowing half smirk.

“Yup.”

She nodded slowly and took a half step away from him. “You don't think that's a little harsh? People aren't being malicious, they're just scared.”

“Nope.” Bucky crossed his arm over his chest, gabbing onto the opposite shoulder for lack of an elbow to tuck his hand into. “I'm playing the grumpy old man card here—I lived through World War Two and all the rationing that went along with it. I don't take kindly to people taking more than their fair share. And compared to Steve, I'm being extremely reasonable and calm about this.”

“That's true, actually.” Natasha glanced at the camera. “Steve wanted to do this PSA, but he's not very good at keeping his righteous anger over unfairness in check. So you get us.” She put a hand to her chin cutely.

“Mhm.”

“So let's talk about what panic buying is,” Natasha continued.

“As the name suggests,” Bucky said, “it's people buying things out of panic or fear—especially buying in bulk.”

“Despite Bucky and Steve's lack of patience with it,” Natasha said with a sidelong glance at her partner, “this is a natural and understandable reaction to certain kinds of crises, and it's quite common. The classic example, which at this point is also a joke, is Southerners buying all the bread and milk they can find anytime snow is predicted below the Mason Dixon Line.”

Bucky picked up the thread. “People usually panic buy in response to things like snow storms or hurricanes—major events that you can see coming long enough to know to prepare, and that you know are going to limit your ability to go out and get supplies.”

“The basic impulse is good,” Natasha conceded. “Stock up beforehand to make sure you have enough of the things you need in order to weather the storm—or, in this case, to weather the pandemic and its associated shutdowns.”

“The problem,” Bucky continued, “is that too many people are buying more than they actually need, and they're buying the wrong things. Most obviously, toilet paper.”

“When people panic buy, they leave the shelves empty,” Natasha explained. “This then creates a sense of scarcity that scares other people into panic buying the same items, causing actual scarcity, preventing people from being able to access the reasonable amounts of basic supplies that they do need.”

“We don't know how long we'll have to practice social distancing,” Bucky said. “In areas with stay at home orders, we don't know how long those may last, and we don't know for sure where new stay at home orders are going to be implemented, but that one, at least, we can predict pretty well.”

“If your city or town has known cases of COVID-19, especially if you're a college town….” Natasha shrugged.

“Expect to be holed up at home for a while,” Bucky concluded. “And it's important to prepare for that.”

“You're not doomsday prepping, though,” Natasha admonished. “You don't need a year or five's worth of anything.”

Bucky nodded. “Take it a month at a time. Think about how many people are in your household and how much you actually consume of various supplies in a month. We have an entire shelf full of pasta here.” He gestured at the shelf behind him, which housed easily two dozen boxes of noodles. “There's roughly twenty people living here. We always use more than a household of three or four. A household of three or four use more than somebody living alone. Buy a little bit more than you otherwise might for the same amount of time, but not much. Remember there are people besides you in your community and leave some for your neighbors. Also think about what you already have at home. Have you had the same bottle of dish soap sitting next to your sink for the better part of a year? Then you probably aren't going to need more. If it's almost empty, go ahead and get one bottle to replace it.”

“Some things, it is reasonable and necessary to buy extra of right now,” Natasha allowed. “A lot of people are having to cook at home a lot more than you usually do, and you're having to do your grocery shopping for a whole month, maybe longer, instead of just for the next week, so you do have to buy more food. Clint's going to do a video on buying, storing, and preparing food smartly during the pandemic, so we're not going to go into that now.”

“You might actually need more of things like toilet paper,” Bucky said, “because you're at home, instead of at work or school using the toilet paper there. That's still not going to be a huge increase in usage. COVID-19 is a respiratory ailment, not dysentery.”

Natasha bit back a laugh.

Bucky continued. “Other things, you might use less of.  If you're anything like us here at the compound, you're probably hanging out in the same loungewear or pajamas for a couple days at a time, maybe showering less than you do when you actually leave the house most days, which means you're using fewer towels. In that case, you're doing less laundry, so you're using less detergent.”

Natasha clapped her hands together. “Now, if you, or your friend Karen the Facebook mom, or your mom did freak out and went and bought twenty jumbo bottles of Germ-X or more toilet paper than your household is liable to use by Christmas, that's okay. You, your mom, and Karen aren't horrible people. Keep enough to realistically get you through a couple months—for toilet paper in particular, that's roughly one role per person per week for most people—then return the excess to the store if you can. Otherwise donate it, give it to your friends and neighbors who don't have enough, or if you're really worried about recouping some of what you spent panic buying, resell it. But expect to resell it at a loss.”

“Don't even try to make more than you spent,” Bucky warned. “Price gouging is illegal, and punishments increase during emergencies. Some areas have laws against private individuals making money off of selling emergency supplies, so look into your local laws before trying that at all. If you're not sure, just donate. If you decide to be a greedy jerk, well, Steve's been threatening to throw on a hazmat suit and go deal with some price gougers himself, and I'm inclined to help him, even if leaving the compound means losing my arm to the autoclave for an hour again.”

“Take a breath. Take a step back,” Natasha commanded gently. “Take stock of what you need and what you have. Be realistic and be smart. Stock up and be prepared, but don't panic and don't hoard.”

“We're all facing this together,” Bucky said. “We can all get what we need, but only if we all take only as much as we need.”

“Stand by for Clint's advice on what food to stock up on and how to use it,” Natasha said brightly. “Thank you and goodbye.”

She waved. Bucky stepped forward to cover the camera with his hand—the video went black.

[rilenerocks]

I started making lists when I was about twelve. I know this because I have them. Mostly the lists were about people. People I liked, people I had crushes on, people I hated. The lists changed frequently, sometimes almost daily. Often there were ties for first, second and even third place. When my friend Fern and I spent hours on the phone at night, reading each other our diary entries, we’d sometimes make lists together. We had enemies lists which often included politicians we heard our parents discussing. We had favorite athletes lists and music lists, teachers lists and of course, lists of our peers and family members.

We changed popular song lyrics to reflect our current passions and we had so much fun singing them, especially the ones that were Beatles songs. I still find myself substituting our words when a tune pops up in one of my playlists. You’d never have known that either one of us had a care in the world. But of course we did.

My lists got more complicated as time passed. There were the standard lists that were more like timetables, when work needed to be done, birthdays and events that needed to be remembered, the stuff of calendars. But I had lots of other lists too. In my attempt to keep my priorities straight, I managed to write lists for a wide variety of topics. I had self-improvement lists, lists of books to read and movies to see, lists of subjects to become knowledgeable about, lists of places to see and goals to accomplish. I have a list I call “the permanent list.” That’s the one that has the unforgivable words or actions of people that I’ll never forget or forgive until either my brain or breath goes.

“Michael Quotes”

Right now I have a list of nicknames Michael called me. I also have a list of his terrible jokes and funny quotes that are part of our family’s vernacular.

“Birds of today” Starling Blue jay White breasted nuthatch Sparrow Cardinals Downy woodpecker Carolina wren Brown thrasher Cowbirds Catbird White crowned sparrow Hummingbird Grackle House wren Rose breasted Grosbeak American Robin Chipping sparrow White throated sparrow Redbellied woodpecker Red breasted nuthatch Goldfinch Junco

I have lists of birds and butterflies that have visited my garden. I have lists that are so obtuse I can’t recall why the words are on the same page. The habit of listmaking is a part of me which I suspect will go on until I don’t. After years of waking up and thinking of the day ahead, asking myself what I should think about first, I figure this was a pretty rational response to the flood of thoughts that’s my typical response to opening my eyes.

I suspect that some of my dreams are my subconscious attempts to keep sorting through the ever burgeoning thought stack in my head. Some people hoard stuff. I hoard words, ideas and feelings. I’m aware that the sorting by list is ineffectual at times. For now, it’s become clear to me that I can’t anticipate how long it may take, if ever, to always remember that Michael is dead. I mean, I know that he is. But when ambling through my days there are countless times when I expect him to walk through the door. If I feel like ignoring a text, I always think, wait, it might be Michael. I’ve called my son his name periodically.

In our younger days, Michael owned the car of his dreams, a white 1967 GTO convertible. Vroom, vroom. Today I was in a bookstore and saw a thick shiny book on the history of GTO’s and walked straight over to it, thinking I’d buy it for him and how much he’d love it. These moments are fleeting but real. If I don’t like my dreams, the ones when he and I are arguing, it sours my day. When I have a good dream about him, I wake up and acknowledge that feeling before going back to sleep.

September 17th, 2019

 Hi baby,

  Things are better now. Tristan is healing well from his surgery and Gabriel turned 9 today.

And I’m still writing the letters that represent our constant dialogue over so many years. I can’t list myself out of these deeply ingrained habits that had to do with our life together. Although not quite a complete germophobe, I don’t expect that I’ll ever be without a small container of hand sanitizer in my purse. When he was immunocompromised, I was determined not to let him get sick. I sprayed surfaces with Lysol and suspiciously counted the number of times people touched their mouths and noses and then put their hands on common surfaces. Whatever I could control I did control. Endless hand washing and hyper- awareness. Good luck getting rid of that. I know it’s a peculiar preoccupation to watch people spreading their contagion around but it’s just normal to me now. I forgive myself. I try not to be angry about all that he’s missed and that we’ll miss together. That’s a terrible place to be. I only allow myself those thoughts for short moments. I think my quality of life would truly be pathetic if I got stuck in those mean, jealous places. The list habit comes in handy during those times. I can think of about a zillion things that should supersede that negativity.

Right now, I’m in the midst of other people’s hardships. I’m knowing more and more sick people and I have one very dear friend who’s in hospice awaiting her death. That’s at the top of all my lists now, along with the knowledge that as I’m aging, I’ll face more and more of those sad times. My dad always used to say that if you’re lucky enough to survive to age 70, sometimes you can just cruise along for awhile. He never got there. Neither did Michael or my favorite brother-in-law. All lost at age 67. I’m past that age now. I wonder when my turn will come to face my own demise. I don’t know if I’d think about it as much as I do except for how many early deaths I experienced. Nah, I probably would.

I always expected to just keel over one day like a tree felled in a wood. I certainly didn’t expect to be around longer than Michael who came from a family where everyone routinely lived into their 90’s. I think we’ve all been led to believe that’s possible for the majority of people but I don’t think that’s right. For every octogenarian, there are dozens of people who’ve already checked out.

I’m in the middle of three history classes this semester which are jamming huge swaths of time into 8 weekly hour and a half sessions. I come out of those classes dizzied by the compression of geologic time and long-gone civilizations that can be glanced over and set aside before tackling thousands more years. You realize how teeny you really are when looking at the world in these abbreviated segments. It’s fascinating stuff but absent a time machine, wrapping your mind around the brevity of our lives on a comparative scale is pretty daunting. And kind of comforting at the same time.

It’s only Wednesday and this week, I’ve considered the pre-Scottish elders and the Bog people alongside the Greeks and the Babylonians. We’ve looked at art and religious rituals, at least insofar as archaeologists have theorized about them and shared with us. I’ve been in ice ages and ridden tectonic plates and recognized that the Scottish oceanside rocks are basically the same as Maine’s because they used to be connected. All quite dazzling ideas that stimulate me to make more lists of things to explore, knowing full well there isn’t enough time for me in this universe to get through even a twentieth of what I’m writing down. But the habit is there and so I do it.

Lately because a cell phone makes it so easy to photograph anything, I’ve begun supplementing my endless writing with pictures to illustrate my lists. I have a photo of every place I’ve ever lived in but one because it was demolished a long time ago. I can always think of something new that needs to be photographed.

I have my butterfly and bird photos to go with their documentation as yard visitors. I keep having my storage on my phone fill up because I’m documenting everything. Maybe there’s a gene for this need to list and illustrate. It’s so much a part of me that I was lucky to start early and thus have plenty of writing and pictures of me in many moments with Michael and my family,  including really intimate ones. Ah, the days of the self-developing Polaroids. I was compelled to record. I think my daughter is like me. A record keeper. Maybe it’s a coping skill, a way to not be overwhelmed by the complexity of our lives. We certainly have more than our share of angst right now and I think lots of people feel the stress. So I suppose I’ll keep at it, trying to organize everything and trying not to forget what’s important. I guess I could have worse habits. Even a little Purell isn’t that bad.

Habits I started making lists when I was about twelve. I know this because I have them. Mostly the lists were about people.

[businessweekme]

Great Mysteries: The True Value of Bitcoin

It took two economists one three-course meal and two bottles of wine to calculate the fair value of one Bitcoin: $200.

It took an extra day for them to realise they were one decimal place out: $20, they decided, was the right price for a virtual currency that was worth $1,200 a year ago, flirted with $20,000 in December, and is still around $8,000. Setting aside the fortunes lost on it this year, Bitcoin, by their calculation, is still overvalued, to the tune of about 40,000 percent. The pair named this the Côtes du Rhône theory, after the wine they were drinking.

“It’s how we get our best ideas. It’s the lubricant,” says Savvas Savouri, a partner at a London hedge fund who shared drinking and thinking duties that night with Richard Jackman, professor emeritus at the London School of Economics. Their quest is one shared by the legions of traders, techies, online scribblers, and gamblers and grifters mesmerised by Bitcoin. What’s the value of a ­cryptocurrency made of code with no country enforcing it, no central bank controlling it, and few places to spend it? Is it $2, $20,000, or $2 million? Can one try to grasp at rational analysis, or is this just the madness of crowds?

Answering this question isn’t easy: Buying Bitcoin won’t net you any cash flows, or any ­ownership of the blockchain technology underpinning it, or really anything much at all beyond the ability to spend or save it. Maybe that’s why Warren Buffett once said the idea that Bitcoin had “huge intrinsic value” was a “joke”—there’s no earnings potential that can be used to estimate its value. But with $2 billion pumped into cryptocurrency hedge funds last year, there’s a lot of money betting the punchline is something other than zero. If Bitcoin is a currency, and currencies have value, surely some kind of stab—even in the dark—should be made at gauging its worth.

Writing on a tablecloth, Jackman and Savouri turned to the quantity theory of money. Formalised by Irving Fisher in 1911, with origins that go back to Copernicus’s work on the effects of debasing coinage, the theory holds that the price of money is linked to its supply and how often it’s used.

Here’s how it works. By knowing a money’s total supply, its velocity—the rate at which people use each coin—and the amount of goods and services on which it’s spent, you should be able to calculate price. Estimating Bitcoin’s supply at about 15 million coins (it’s currently a bit more), and assuming each one is used an average of about four times a year, led Jackman and Savouri to calculate that 60 million Bitcoin payments were supporting their assumed $1.2 billion worth of total U.S. dollar-­denominated purchases. Using the theory popularised by Fisher and his followers, you can—simplifying things somewhat—divide the $1.2 billion by the 60 million Bitcoin payments to get the price of Bitcoin in dollars. That’s $20.

So far, so straightforward. It turns out, however, that when it comes to putting a price on Bitcoin, the same equation can yield many different answers. In September, Dan Davies, an analyst at financial research firm Frontline Analysts Ltd., wrote up a “guesstimate” of Bitcoin’s value that he’d originally conducted in 2014 using—again—the quantity theory of money. He plugged in estimates for each variable and got about $600.

On Dec. 10, Mark Kirker, a high school math teacher in California, published an analysis online using the same equation for the same purpose. He concluded that Bitcoin should be way above then-current levels. He’s since revised the number. Contacted by Bloomberg, he says it could be $15,000.

How can something be worth $20, $600, and $15,000 within the same theory? One key reason stems from what we don’t know about cryptocurrencies rather than what we do know. We know Bitcoin’s maximum supply is 21 million, and we know the velocity of most commonly used currencies. We don’t know how widely Bitcoin will be adopted tomorrow, how frequently it will transact, or what it will be used for. In Davies’s example, a guide to Bitcoin’s future potential was the illicit drugs market, an obvious home for more-or-less-untraceable digital cash. The United Nations has estimated this market at $120 billion. Plugging in that number helped Davies get to $600.

For Kirker, though, drugs and criminals are only part of the story. He imagines including the output of some developing countries where ­cryptocurrencies might have better takeup than traditional banking. But with so much up in the air, the equation starts to look less like algebra and more like alchemy. Even in the non-Bitcoin world, the velocity of money and its price can fluctuate in ways not predicted by fundamental analysis. “I am not wholly surprised it doesn’t pin down a price target to within a factor of 100 either way,” Davies says. Some believe the cloud of confusion has to do with the simple fact that cryptocurrency is something entirely new—it needs a fresh school of economic thinking to go with it. A quantity theory of cryptomoney, perhaps.

John Pfeffer, formerly a partner at KKR & Co., has written several papers to this effect, arguing that technology is turning the centuries-old equation on its head. Bandwidth and computing resources are the fuel of cryptocurrencies, and they need their place in quantity theory, he argues. His version of the equation imagines a world in which more powerful computers and faster connection speeds combine to lower the cost of maintaining a ­crypto-economy over time, while the same forces radically increase the availability and speed of its digital coins. There already exist hundreds of tokens other than Bitcoin, pointing to a world where digital currencies are, well, a dime a dozen.

In a future where cryptocurrencies become a form of economic resource (like fuel, water, or electricity) that’s computerised and commoditised, would anyone get rich from hoarding them in her trading account? No, says Pfeffer. In his view, the more widely used a particular brand of digital cash becomes, the higher the probability its value tends toward zero. In quantity theory terms, ­cryptocoins’ velocity could go way, way up, while the cost of many services within the crypto-economy could go way, way down. Crypto could change the world and still leave a lot of people with worthless tokens.

Pfeffer dangles one hope in front of the Bitcoin faithful who dream of riches: the possibility there’s one cryptocurrency out there that will serve as a store of value for the digital world. Like gold, a metal seen by investors as a haven in times of crisis or when the purchasing power of cash is eroding, whichever coin wins that crown will have a completely different use—and price—than the rest. Applying this thinking to Bitcoin, Pfeffer explains, would yield a price target of $260,000 to $800,000.

Such a value would be not too far off $1 million—where the frequently mocked, frizzy-haired self-help guru James Altucher expects Bitcoin to be in 2020. Software entrepreneur John McAfee has said it will hit $500,000. “If not, I will eat my d— on national television,” he tweeted. He later doubled his target price. Pfeffer has been more careful than most in warning of significant risk of investment loss. “This could all go substantially to zero for various reasons,” he wrote in December.

Putting a price on Bitcoin is therefore less about crunching numbers and more about deciding just what it is and what it could be, if anything. That’s appetising for risk-hungry optimists in the venture capital world, who are accustomed to their investments turning into big hits or big flops. Ride-hailing service Uber Technologies Inc., for example, has lost an eye-watering amount of money, yet it’s one of the most highly valued companies in the world. It’s a bet that more traditional investors would have difficulty justifying using traditional metrics.

But it also means science and snake oil sit side by side. Quantity theory is one example of how an equation can be remodeled to fit different scenarios or different wishes about where the price will land. And it’s not the only one: Network adoption, the cost curve of Bitcoin mining, and transaction volumes have all been bundled into marketable literature advising traders and investors on what to buy. It’s a thick numbers soup. At least Uber has financial accounts to review.

Those with long memories also remember the quantitative analyses that underpinned the hot new asset classes of the past, from dot-com stocks to securitised art. These were often sold to investors as new metrics and radical investment theses, only to be ditched when a recession or panicked sell-off hit. “They’re always talking about a new paradigm, but I say it’s the same meat, different gravy,” says Côtes du Rhône theorist Savouri, who maintains traditional economic theory should be embraced rather than ignored by the Bitcoin faithful.

For Savouri, the easiest way to understand the efflorescence of theories and valuations being bandied about is to opt for a simple, overarching one: the greater fool theory. It says that one fool buys in the hope that there’s an ever-bigger sucker willing to pay more. “The problem,” he says, “is that we don’t breed fools geometrically.” Lionel Laurent, Bloomberg Gadfly

The post Great Mysteries: The True Value of Bitcoin appeared first on Bloomberg Businessweek Middle East.

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Curse Of Strahd So Far

Hello all,I wanted to give a little background information on my character in curse of strahd because i find his motivations interesting and his journey so far has been riddled with quite a lot.

De’ath Caliber or De’ath for short was an ordinary human in a world of fae,elves and magic,he could never quite understand all the mysterious of magic and was amazed with anything exotic and foreign,he is a noble of his house,right under his father in the line to succeed,the Caliber family is know for the exceptional quality of the paladin bloodline they produce,every man and women who shows promise is anointed into the lords alliance,but with the oath of devotion,due to the belief stemming from the consistent wars that have ravaged the lands,all paladins are Pacifists.

now death was never the aggressive one but he was strong willed in what he wanted to do,he was never given access to the outside of the ivory towers until his training was complete,during one night at the age of 14 he snuck out to see what life was like among the rest of the world,being the sheltered boy he was he had never seen an elf or a dwarf of any type of race other then his own,while slinking through the streets he bumped into a body they smelled awfully like rotten fish,an orphan with ebony skin and blue eyes,growling yet low ready for a strike at any opportunity.

Being the only one in his household that didn’t really understand the value of money or the need to hoard it,he gave his entire allowance to this boy,and said to him “you can use the money however you see fit i don’t really need it any way,but i suggest you hit the waters the city guard will tan your hide if they catch you with that kinda gold,its a gift from Pelor,i can see your smile shining like him. 

As I walked away from the encounter quite shaken at how my father said the peasants were well off and that there were no problems in his kingdom a man approached me,he was gangly no meat on his bones maybe 27 a beard and red skin with rams horns circling his ears with a black pipe hanging from his teeth.

“Boy do you have any idea how much you have changed things?,that 20 gold can change a mans life for good?,its nice to see some of these nobles don’t all have spoiled brats,but you gotta be careful kid not everyone takes kindly to generosity seeing how its not something that’s often given down here in the slums,people are dying while the king sits fat and happy,employing his knights to take taxes and rob us of everything,sure the paladins don’t beat us but they more then make up for it with there arrogance and corruption,you gotta change things lad,you see it first hand here,you could have taken one wrong step and been gutted for being a silver spoon,my advice kid if your coming back,don’t wear the same clothes,but keep this on you it fits your look plus i bet it’d piss your daddy off that you got a bad habit already”. The man in the red hood places a pipe in my hands with a thick bag of assorted greens,and as i turn around to thank him,he vanishes.

i begin to walk home the rain is biting a bit into my silks as they drag lazily behind me,my eyes scan over the crowds here so many kind people unable to make ends meet while i eat roasted owlbear,it makes my mouth go dry in anger,and through that anger i begin walking a little too quickly into a women with green hair and curved ears,the most exotic creature an elf of the wilds,so clever but naive,i said my apologizes and went on my way,but she followed me,she had never seen a human before we weren't exactly a common site down here,with a bit of chatting i had made my first friend,and spent my first night in jail,as a chain-mail clad arm gripped me and threw me into a room,I had been accused of the theft of a heirloom a black pipe had been seen given to me an ally way,and the integrating with the subhumans is forbidden,my lips curled into a snarl and i spoke out,”you daft bastard do you have any idea who I am?,i am the prince of this Providence my father is lord high-tower,if you don’t want to loose your job or an arm you will drop me off at the gates and speak no more of this,in my honest though you are the scum,also pushing these children around and mocking them and stealing there coin,when my father hears about this you are dead”.

Instead,i was mocked by him in public,and forced quicker into the roles of a paladin,my backside was still sore from the branches,and my ego still hurt from the obvious lack of heart my father had to the commoners,it was all true every last bit,i held my tongue and carried my hatred,until the day of the ceremony.

My final chance was to marry a noble to unify the lower-class and high-class in secret i had chosen the quick and hot burning love of an elf,she had noble blood and her father was an amazing man,one who inspired me and taught me actual martial combat,my father didn’t agree with my choice,a dual was made between him and I,he believing that I was a weak and scrawny lad of 18,unfortunately for him he was over confident,he didn’t see under the leathers and chain of the common folk made armor,but i was a man now,with a body made of muscle and steel,a quick backhand and a laugh was all he could say he had on me,the pommel of his sword still hurt but the lack of eyes he had afterward were enough,I had blinded the old fool,and i deemed him unfit to rule.

Unfortunately not everyone agreed with me,those who held fast to my beliefs were executed including my bride to be,i was exiled into the world as a vagabond,after some time i had met up with the boy who smelled of fish,Trout who was doing much better then the last 4 years i saw him in,was a guild-member,it wasn't hard to guess his profession,with no-were else to go we hopped bars and brothels trying to find a home for an outcast and a thief,my comfort levels were always pushed beyond the limits,I hated whore houses, no women could compare to her,i had to find a way to bring her back and atone for my sins,a bawdy bard of dark elven nature took a fancy to our tale and joined us,we became the fastest of friends,slayers of goblin and kobold alike,but what we didn't know is around the corner there would be something that wouldn't fall as quickly as the green skins a force that couldn't be reckoned with,we met him after the damned vistani told us of the problems they had,and me being the fool I was couldn’t say no.

we went into that house of death,but something in me changed,i had killed for the first time,a Grick had latched itself onto my dear friend Trout,and i couldn't let it end him,the scriptures say that your fist time smiting is a godly affair,as per the same with using lay on hands to heal the wounds of another,I only saw a broken man on the floor and a dead creature,

I learned that day that there is absolute evil,you cant rationalize with it,the sins of the undead out weigh my own,i will have no oath,i will bend evil to my will and use them to keep the innocent safe and one day i can bring her back just the same as she always was,ill kill the limiter that is death,and ill cleanse Barovia of the taint of Strahd,one dead body at a time.

And that is the story of how i hit level 3,but there is much more to this tale and all will be revealed in due time.