#q good girls guide to murder was alright

[corvidii]

i really dont have enough brain cells to read mystery books i forget the main characters name how do you expect me to remember what happened at exactly 12:14am on septemeber 12th at widesurf drive idk i dont remember the irl date dude lmao

[grindy-cog]

@tianeve-q asked me to answer no.7, no.10 and no.12 from the Harry Potter Themed Asks. Thank you!

7) ‘Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince’ would be my favourite. While I didn’t enjoy all the romance and unnecessary (melo)drama, I dealt with them, as they helped certain characters grow. Overall however, I find this particular book and its plot very interesting; we learnt more about Voldemort as Tom Riddle, yes but also, between the lines, about many other characters, like Ginny, Albus, Severus, Harry himself and, finally, Draco. It’s also a very dark story, when you think about it; you can actually sense that somewhere beyond Hogwart’s walls, there is a war going on; that by the end of this book, all these characters we know, whom we grew up with, no longer have the privilege of being children in any sense of the word. Also, Dumbledore’s death and Fawkes’ lament are things that somehow stay with the reader (or at least myself) forever.

10) Hmm, I had to think this one through, if I’m honest. From personal experiences, I’d be able to relate to Ginny Weasley, because I know what it is like to be the youngest and the only girl in the family; as well as Draco (whom I don’t even like), because I understand how one can feel, when they are pushed to be someone they are not, in the name of parental love and care; even if that may not necessarily be the actual case. In some ways, I could relate to Dumbledore and Snape; for trying to make up for the mistakes I’ve made in the past, though they were no way near that tragic and didn’t cost me a lifetime of self-loathing.

12) Ah, Severus. Just so you know, it’s going to be a really long answer, sorry xD Well, he is undeniable an anti-hero, one of the best ones I’ve ever had a pleasure to come across in the literature. Was he a good guy? Yes. Was he a decent person? No, not really. He likely never allowed himself to be; at least not for many years. He wasn’t the villain of that story, even though his behaviour was questionable at best and he could hold a grudge like no other character in the Harry Potter series; maybe apart from Aberforth Dumbledore but that’s a different story.

Snape willingly became a Death Eater but maybe, just maybe he saw it as an easy way out for someone like himself; or who he believed himself to be, possibly an outcast doomed from the start. He definitely had an innocent blood on his hands, he was a git to children for no justifiable reason at all, he was a good teacher but a terrible mentor and he spent majority of his life fighting for the ‘good side’, or preparing to do so. Yes, he told Voldemort about the prophecy, though I think it’s safe to assume that Dumbledore, unknowingly to Severus, let him to (if you’re interested, I’ve commented more on it here). It doesn’t justify his actions, of course, but even assuming that he was alright with killing an entire family for his own gain and his Lord’s approval; he realised his mistake and unashamedly begged Albus for help. Now, you can say that he only did it because of Lily but even if that is true, it doesn’t make the action itself any less meaningful. Some people, like Harry, are self-sacrificing because of what they had been through, others, like Regulus Black, need someone they care about to be hurt or mistreated, to realise the error of their actions. However you want to look at it, Snape dedicated the rest of his life to Dumbledore and Harry, and as much as I love how Albus played him, in some aspects it was indeed cruel. I’m positive that Severus had grown to genuinely care about Dumbledore, yet was pretty much forced to murder him in cold blood, knowing fully well that the world will likely never learn the truth behind it all and probably shattering his soul forever. And that’s the main difference between Gryffindors and Slytherins that many don’t like to think about; the former, most of the time even subconsciously, seek glory; the latter, even if they’re driven by power lust, rarely ever. Regulus and Severus both died being well aware that the world will likely remember them as the bad guys; they accepted it, because ‘those cunning folks use any means, to achieve their ends’.

It took me awhile to understand, why Harry named one of his sons Albus Severus and I wasn’t exactly alright with the whole ‘the bravest man I ever knew’ line. I was by no means surprised by ‘Albus’ but ‘Severus’ right next to it, seemed bizarre to me. But now, I think it does make sense. While I still feel sorry for the kid, being named Albus Severus, I understand why Harry and Ginny decided to do it. You see, James and Sirius were more or less the father figures of Harry’s life; they represented his childhood and the once beautiful dream that could never really be, yet gave him inner strength. But Albus and Severus, represented Harry’s reality, everything he had been through but also what he fought for. In one way or another, all four of them died for him (as well as Lily) but Albus and Severus helped him grew into who he had to be, in order to finish and hopefully survive that war. Sure, Snape wasn’t aware of many things but he still protected Harry, he still guided him, however unpleasantly. And well, in the end, Severus was probably the bravest man Harry ever knew; and Harry, being Harry, wanted this unloved for a long time man, to be remembered. And same with ‘Albus’; because yes, Dumbledore was respected and maybe even loved by many but Albus? The real Albus? That person, in many ways, was never known to Harry at all.

Overall, I truly like Snape as a character, he is one of my favourites; but I don’t necessarily like him as a person. I can understand some of his behaviour and the reason behind it; but that doesn’t mean I should justify that. He was a very greyish here and there good guy with a complex personality but sadly, he never grew enough to be a decent person; instead deciding to be forever bitter about the past long gone.

[one-of-us-blog]

For Your Eyes Only (1981)

Today Drew is forced to watch and recap 1981’s For Your Eyes Only, the twelfth James Bond adventure. Bond is on the hunt for a sunken bit of technology that could spell big trouble for the British government. Bond also gets tangled in an absolute badass’ quest for vengeance, and surely that’s going to end well, right? Right?

Keep reading to find out…

Eli, I’m sorry this is so late, but you did a fantastic job with your last two recaps! I can’t believe you’re so close to the finish line! I’m going to keep this extra short to dive right into the action, but I wanted to say again that you’re doing an amazing job and I can’t wait for your next recap!

Buttocks tight!

Screenplay by Michael G. Wilson & Richard Maibaum, film directed by John Glen

We’re old hands at this now, so the standard gun barrel sequence holds no surprises for us. What is surprising, though, is that we open on James Bond bringing flowers to the grave of his late wife, Teresa Bond. Remember Tracy? It’s been a while! Bond doesn’t have long to mourn in peace, though, because a priest runs up to inform Bond that the office is sending a helicopter to pick him up. The chopper arrives, but Bond is suspicious when the priest appears to give his last rights as the helicopter takes off. Bond was right to be suspicious, because just then we cut to Bond’s archnemesis, Ernst Stavro Blofeld! Well, I mean, I think it’s Blofeld… We don’t get a good look at his face, but I’d know that kitty anywhere. Despite now being apparently wheelchair-bound and sporting a neck brace after his last encounter with Bond, Blofeld still has a trick up his sleeve and sends a signal to the chopper that kills the pilot. Blofeld controls the helicopter remotely and instead of just crashing it immediately and killing Bond easily, Blofeld has some fun and whips him around a bit. This gives Bond time to get control of the helicopter and steer it right over to Blofeld. He hooks onto Blofeld’s wheelchair and drops him into a smokestack while Blofeld babbles incoherently about buying Bond a stainless-steel delicatessen. At leas the cat got away.

After that bonkers opening, we jump to our trippy title sequence where we actually get to see Sheena Easton belting out the undeniable bop, “For Your Eyes Only”. This is a real slow jam, and the standard crew of naked silhouetted ladies even manage to slow down their flips and summersaults to match the mood.

With that banger behind us, we jump to a fishing boat which is actually yet another nautical spy base. The fishermen really goof up and accidentally haul in an old mine which promptly blows the ship, spy base and all, to hell. In MI6, M is informed about the accident; turns out there’s trouble, because the water the ship sank in ain’t that deep and now there’s a chance the damn KGB can get ahold of tech aboard the ship. MI6 hires a marine archeologist to secretly locate the sunken base and get the goods before those damned dirty Russians can get their hands on it, but he and his wife are both gunned down in front of their daughter, Melina Havelock (Carole Bouquet). The freshly orphaned Havelock regards her murdered parents and craves vengeance.

Back in London, M gives Bond the lowdown on what exactly is at stake here. The ship that was sunk was carrying the Automatic Targeting Attack Communicator (ATAC), which can be used to launch missiles from British subs. Bond is filled in on the deaths of the marine archeologist and his wife, and told they were killed by a hitman named Hector Gonzales (Stefan Kalipha). Bond is sent to Madrid find Gonzales and figure out who hired him to ice the Havelocks. Bond infiltrates Gonzales’ villa while some truly unexpected music plays all around him. Bond is almost instantly captured by Gonzales’ men, but then Gonzales is unexpectedly killed with an arrow to the back. Bond makes a run for it and runs into the uninvited archer: the utterly badass and utterly parentless Melina Havelock. Bond and Havelock make for his car but it gets blown up, so they take Havelock’s bitchin’ ride instead and she leads some goons on a chase that would put Bond to shame. The car tips but some friendly villagers right it and Bond, in a move that is as unnecessary as it is unwanted, decides he’s going to drive Havelock’s car now. Through dumb luck and none of Havelock’s cold precision Bond eludes the goons (to be clear, he totally flipped the car at one point, too, but Havelock is a lot cooler than him and didn’t pull a dick move by demanding to drive again because she’s not that petty and she has nothing to prove to this limey showoff).

Bond gives an absolutely insufferable lecture about the dangers of seeking revenge to Havelock who, much like me, has no time for his shit. You’re seriously going to try to warn her away from seeking vengeance after dropping Blofeld down a smokestack, like, half an hour ago, James? C’mon. He finally skulks back to England before he can get in the way of anymore of her awesome plans. Bond is scolded like the overgrown child he is by M and told to use some magical Q tech (which is really just an electronic sketch artist) to identify a man he saw paying Gonzales. Unbelievably, Q’s toy works and the man is identified as Emile Leopold Locque (Michael Gothard).

(How in the world has there not been a Bond character with the surname ‘Gothard’?)

Bond heads to Italy to track down Locque. In his hotel bathroom he finds a message waiting for him on his mirror, and it leads him to his Italian contact, Luigi Mario – No, sorry, Luigi Ferrara (John Moreno). Ferrara introduces him to a businessman and informant named Aris Kristatos (Julian Glover). Kristatos tells him that Locque is employed by a guy named Milos Columbo (Chaim Topol). I feel like we could have skipped a few steps in this introduction chain, but alright. Kristatos and Columbo used to fight in the Resistance together, but they took different paths and now Columbo is a seriously bad dude.

In the village, Bond catches sight of none other than Melina “Motherfucker” Havelock. That’s right, bitches, it took MI6’s most advanced Etch A Sketch technology, a ridiculous string of introductions and absolutely no effort from Bond himself for him to get this far, and this orphan got here before him with nothing but her wits, her thirst for vengeance and the ghosts of her dead parents to guide her way. Please, somebody, give this woman a spinoff!

Bond just can’t let Havelock tend to her own business, so he has to spy on her. Some motorcycle thugs race toward her, and Bond gets in the way of what I’m sure was a carefully laid trap of Havelock’s design. He drags her over to a sled and we find out she’s only here because someone pretending to be Bond sent her a telegraph telling her to meet him here. Aw, come on, writers, don’t nerf her like that! Havelock insists that Bond has no right to tell her what to do, but he slams his arm into her and forces her to stay in the sled. She tries to escape several more times, but he forces her to stay in her dreadful presence. He tells her to be a good girl and wait for him to do all the work himself, because we just can’t have nice things in this franchise.

Some ice skater who looks like she’s fifteen tries to sleep with Bond and he refuses her because even he has some limits. They go off skiing together and he ditches her, only to be pursued by more motorcycle thugs and a sniper taking shots at him from above. Bond manages to ski to safety for a moment, but the thugs, now joined by one of Columbo’s henchmen, are still on his tail. If there’s one thing these movies love more than a boat chase it’s a ski chase, and this one’s really goin’ all out. Bond eventually meets up with Ferrara, who drives to safety and he skates around with that teenaged ice skater some more. The ice skater’s coach drags her away so some hockey players can try to kill Bond.

He escapes in time to find out that Ferrara has been killed by Columbo. This never would have happened on Havelock’s watch. Speaking of, Bond meets back up with her in Corfu and she takes him on a tour of the local sights. Havelock reminisces on the views that her super dead father loved, and Bond unnecessarily comforts her as she processes her grief. Bond meets up with Kristatos in a casino, and Kristatos warns him again about how bad of a dude Columbo is. Unbeknownst to Bond or Kristatos, they’re being recorded by one of Columbo’s goons. Bond decides to make a move on Columbo’s mistress, Countess Lisl von Schlaf (Cassandra Harris). He successfully beds her, and she admits she knows he’s a spy and she’s supposed to get intel out of him.

Bond and the Countess go for a walk on the beach after banging all night long, and suddenly Locque shows up and Red Asphalts von Schlaf with a dune buggy. Locque is about to kill Bond, but suddenly Columbo’s men show up, chase Locque away and capture Bond. Columbo explains to Bond that Kristatos is actually the bad guy in all of this, he hired Locque and he’s working with the KGB to get the ATAC. Bond doesn’t immediately buy this, but Columbo gives him a gun as a show of good faith and the two get smashed on brandy. That night, they head to Kristatos’ warehouses where he’s secretly processing opium. Inside the warehouse they also find some old mines, so it turns out that fishing accident at the beginning of the movie was no accident.

Locque makes a break for it in a car, but Bond manages to shoot him and cause him to swerve nearly off a cliff. In revenge for the death of Bond’s best friend in the world, Luigi Ferrara, he cold-bloodedly kicks the car and causes it to fall to the rocks below, killing Locque. Afterward Bond tracks down Havelock, who’s busy carrying on her mega-dead father’s work in marine archeology and generally has no time for Bond’s bullshit. They head back onto her dead parents’ boat and Bond fills her in on the sitch with Kristatos. Havelock expertly translates some of her father’s notes and singlehandedly figures out where the sunken ship containing ATAC is located. She steers a minisub to the ship’s location while Bond makes himself as useful as balls on a dildo and slows her down at every turn.

The two suit up and head into the sunken ship, but Kristatos is lurking above and knows someone’s messing around near the ATAC. Havelock is naturally startled when confronted by a bunch of drowned sailors, and Bond takes the opportunity to condescend to her and tell her to go back to the safety of the sub. She says fuck that noise, and gets to work finding ATAC while he’s busy jerking himself off in his wetsuit. The two begin cutting ATAC free of the ship, but suddenly one of Kristatos’ men bursts in and knocks Bond aside like the sidekick he is. This allows the henchman to get ahold of Havelock and sever her air hose, much like her parents were severed from their mortal coil. While Havelock valiantly struggles with henchman, Bond manages to slap a bomb on his back and the two swim to safety, ATAC in hand, as he explodes.

Despite Havelock literally growing up around this sort of stuff, Bond takes it upon himself to coddle her once they get back to the sub and even decides to pilot it himself (it’s that car ride all over again!). Unfortunately, Kristatos has a mini sub of its own, and the two subs BattleBots it out for a while before Bond manages to steer them to safety, nearly destroying a priceless archeological site (and by extension, the life’s work of Havelock and the death’s work of her father) in the process. They finally make it back to the surface, but Kristatos is waiting for them and he seizes the ATAC. Havelock is worried about the men she left on the boat, but Bond only cares about being a big strong man and making sure Havelock is let go. Yeah, because she’s definitely going to just walk away from the guy who killed her parents and now apparently fed her crew to sharks, dumbass. There’s an incredibly gross moment where one of Kristatos’ disgusting henchmen cut Havelock out of her wetsuit, then Bond and Havelock are trussed up and dragged through the water behind Kristatos’ boat.

Bond and Havelock get raked over some coral and some sharks almost much ‘em, but Bond manages to cut their bindings and they make it back to Havelock’s dead parents’ boat. Thanks to a pet parrot formerly owned by the late Mr. Havelock, they’re informed of where Kristatos is hiding the ATAC. Bond, Havelock, Columbo and some of Columbo’s men head for an old monastery where Kristatos is holed up. Bond almost dies while scaling the mountain to reach Kristatos, but eventually makes it to the top and sends a basket down to pick everyone else up. That ice skater is here, too, by the way, but don’t ask my why because I haven’t got a clue. A KGB helicopter is on the way to pick up the ATAC, and Bond and co. fight their way toward Kristatos.

Bond wrestles the ATAC away from Kristatos just as the KGB arrive.

Now get ready for some bullshit. Havelock, crossbow in hand, is ready to bring some biblical vengeance down upon the man that turned her mother and father into corpses and orphaned both her and a parrot, but Bond, James ���Drop a Dude Down a Smokestack Because Ten Years Ago He Killed the Woman He’d Been Married to For Three Hours” Bond, James “Kicks a Car Off a Cliff and Kills a Man in Retaliation for the Death of a Man He’d Known for Five Minutes” Bond, gets in her way and tells her this just isn’t the way. She hesitates, influenced by Bond’s buffoonery, and Kristatos draws a knife. Then Columbo, fucking Columbo, the guy absolutely everyone has forgotten at this point, gets to save the day and kill Kristatos by shooting him in the back. Right in front of Havelock. The orphan. The vengeful assassin. The ruthless huntress who had gone halfway around the world to unleash hell upon those who had wronged her. The guy who was responsible for the obliteration of her parents is killed by a completely ancillary character RIGHT IN FRONT OF HER, and she was denied the vengeance that was undeniably hers by right of blood and grief because James fucking Bond had to mansplain morality to her two hours after dropping a crippled man down a smokestack and then making a pun about it.

Bond throws the ATAC off a cliff instead of letting the KGB have it. The KGB leave. Bond and Havelock fuck on a boat. Margaret Thatcher talks to the parrot.

The End

~~~~~

I’ve got to say, I’m pretty damn mad right now. This had the potential to be an absolutely amazing movie. The look of righteous fury in Havelock’s eyes as she stood over the bodies of her murdered parents honestly gave me chills. She shot an assassin with an arrow and drove in a high speed chase like a badass. Then Bond came into her story and she was completely declawed. Bond gets revenge on Blofeld for killing Tracy. Bond gets revenge on some dude whose name I can’t even remember for killing Ferrara. But Havelock? No, Havelock doesn’t get revenge. Havelock isn’t allowed to avenge the deaths of her mother and father. And then, as if that weren’t enough, we’re slapped in the face by Columbo being the one to kill Kristatos. If Kristatos was going to die, why the FUCK couldn’t Havelock be the one to kill him? I’ve been confused and frustrated by parts of these movies in the past, but never, in 12 whole films, have I felt this genuinely furious. The writers of this movie took a character like Havelock, who could have been an absolute badass angel of wrath on a holy quest for vengeance, who could have been an equal to Bond and could have elevated him to his best, who could have delivered an incredibly powerful and satisfying story, and then they took a big dump right on her face.

That’s not even taking into account the other things about this movie that suck. The music, aside from the titular song, isn’t good. Why is that ice skater in the movie at all? Why did we need to go through fifty different dudes to get to Kristatos and Columbo? This movie is a mess, and I’m very angry about it.

I give For Your Eyes Only QQ on the Five Q Scale.

It’s the final countdown! Before I post my next James Bond recap, Eli will have posted his recaps of both “Home Again Rose” and “One Flew Out of the Cuckoo’s Nest”, the penultimate and final episodes of The Golden Girls, respectively. We’ve still got a whole season of The Golden Palace to cover, but this will still be a monumental achievement on Eli’s part and I can’t believe it’s come so soon! You’ve done my Golden Girls-loving heart proud, Chief! I can’t wait to read those final recaps, and then after that (and after I’ve wiped a tear or two from my eyes) I’ll be back with my recap of the James Bond film with arguably the most famous name, Octopussy.

Until then, as always, thank you for reading, thank you for nerfing and thank you for being One of Us!

[meatlong]

fekjkejkfwek

Tuesday night in the great rounded hall. The wall screens play a cartoonish nightscape, with exhaustedly happy sheep frolicking through crudely drawn stars. There are 150 chairs in the hall, soft leather recliners with thin metal wracks holding brainwavers, delicate strips of aluminum and plastic, fasteners on the backs to fit any size cranium. Fearsome grown men. Timid, waifish girls.   Relaxing music plays all around, the kind of tunes to accompany a beautiful sunrise. And the center’s voice system guides us smoothly, gently. “Take a seat everyone, there is no rush. Make yourself comfortable, take care not to choose a spot near someone who will distract you from your relaxation.” Her voice is caramel pouring in ribbons on a chocolate commercial. It runs down the spine, inflicting the autonomous sensory meridian response. The sound of a mother, hushed, telling you, “Everything is alright, everything is as it should be.”

I sit in the second last row, peel off my hospital shoes. Attendants will come around and administer the brainwavers, but the majority of us are more than capable of setting the equipment ourselves. The attendants wear squishy polyurthane masks with pleased, sleepy faces on them. When you’re a child it’s calming. At 20 the facelessness of the attendants is unnerving. I can tell who they are by freckles on the hands, by the shape of fingernails. The attendant with the squared off nails and the overgrown cuticles, with the light beige birthmark on the left side of the right wrist, fits my brainwaver over my skull. The animatronic face of her foam helm shifts from serene to serenely satisfied. “Good job!” the mouthpiece says without moving. There is a piece of hardware beneath my skin, above where face flesh moulds out into the arch of my ear shell, on either side of my face. They say you can’t notice them, but you do. When you know they’re there and you think about them, you can feel it. Like a pressure to the temples. A doorway always slightly ajar. Around the hall, the faces of the attendants switch over. A chorus of “Good job!” interrupts the peaceful swell of music.  The attendants file towards a portion of the nightscape at the back of the hall that is an illusion, an overlapping of screens leading to a doorway meant only for staff. Soon enough, it is only the patients laid out in recliners, linked up, watching the sheep endlessly tumble over each other. “You are a wave,” the voice system murmurs. “You are receeding and climbing forward. You are the salt spray of the ocean, you are the call of a bird long out to sea.” The music shifts subtly, letting in the noises of the coast. Where are the oceans now? Is this a recording, or a recreation? “You are the smallest guppie, you are growing and growing beneath the water, to the great and powerful majesty of the humpback whale.” The softest recollection of a whale call, something belonging to another world entirely. It’s all a means of distracting, but we have done this too many times not to feel when the brainwavers engage. The slight pinch at the temples, that sick dropping sensation. I can see the room all around me still, but everything is a little less sharp. Sheep bound from the screens, they jump a little higher than they should, onto the blackness of the ceiling. One slips free of the screens and meanders through the chairs. A humpback moans and I can feel it in the basin of my chest. A school of fish descends from the darkness of the ceiling, swarms playfully around the sheep. Someone nearby giggles; we drop off into assisted slumber.

My computer dream is usually like this: I’m in an endlessly expansive city, and the buildings look old but are upkept. The people are cheerful, the sun is shining. There are many parks with deep woods, there is green life sprouting everywhere. Fantastical flowers sprouting from the ivy. I can float at will, I can tower over everything. The walls crackle with green lightning at night, and there are friends and familiar faces everywhere. It is all built by me, and I control everything. Some nights I fall into harams of ecstatic, squelching bodies. Sometimes I lounge on a boat in the wide, meandering river with my One True Love. They have face that is always changing but always so beautiful. The city was smaller when I was a child. I had a crew of friends who would take me on wild adventures. We would run through the wharfs in the expansive night, we would find dead bodies and seek out murderers. Board massive wooden spaceships and explore the inky heavens, the stars turning to laterns skimming a pool of blackness. Some nights I was a vampire, living alone in the ancient cathedral in the heart of downtown, ringing the bells and striking fear into the hearts of  slackjawed denizen. My One True Love would cower before me, ask for forgiveness for some wrong-doing I never quite found a name for. Typical teenage fantasies. But now I run through trees, now I build strange altars and pray in the lushness. There is a god in the city now who is not me, there is a god in the city who wears herself like a snake. The darkness of the rock, the maw her slick body piles through. They monitor the dreams. They watch them in foggy shapes on screens somewhere. I can taste green life in my head, but the lights go on one by one in the great rounded hall. The attendants have animatronic expressions of the slightest sorrow. It’s over now. The brainwavers peel off of our skulls, they slide back into their predestined slots in the wracks. “Give yourself a moment to reflect, to regain your sense of here, of now,” the voice system says. “It is Tuesday, in the year 2089. Wriggle your toes, feel them against the cool tiles of the floor. Wriggle your fingers, feel them against the softness of the chair...”

~*~

I’m not sure of my name. I live in the Joan Block, where every girl is called Joan and seperated with a letter.  My letter is Q, Joan Q, but I read so many things on my e-Book. Sometimes I will be Howard, sometimes I will be Ginger. Recently I’ve been The Nettle, but I feel like that is a name I won’t hold on to for long. There was a long, long time of using the name I-Me, something to single myself out. I-Me is what feels best. I don’t know where the Center is located. I don’t know how I came to live here. I don’t know how big the compound is. There are many locked doors, and many corridors that aren’t locked that instinctually I’ve never wandered down. We can open the doors of our rooms at night, but we rarely do. The Center is our home, we are used to its rules. For most of my life I thought the windows looked outside, I thought we were surrounded by beautiful but fearsome mountains. Gaping blue skies, tremulous waterfalls. Early this year, the year of 2089, Joan W (who rages on and off and makes herself vomit after every meal) threw herself headfirst into the window to get to the other side. The screen shattered and oozed purple fractured light before blinking out completely. All the Joans watched it with a bad, crawly feeling over us, and while Joan W lay ignored and unconscious on the floor, attendants swarmed the rest of us off to the great rounded hall to dream. If I really think about it, that was the first night I built the shrine. Just a little one. I stacked tree bark and lit the long grasses on fire and slept black sleep in the center of the flames. There are things for us to do. We go to classes, we learn mostly maths, physics, biochemistry. I am a good student, but I daydream. Many of the Joans crawl in and out of each other’s beds. We kiss with loose lips, half-bored, and fumble expertly in each other’s pants because there are no secrets of our bodies anymore. Sometimes I wonder at other blocks, blocks of Kristins and Gregorys and Marks and Amandas. I wonder at things unexplored, things outside of Joan A’s assurance that we are angels. Things outside of Joan W mumbling to herself, pacing the hall in the night. Things outside of Joan R using too much teeth below the ocean of covers. Justins, Danicas, Gideons, Mariahs. Marys, Tommys, Hannahs, Olivias. They’re here, even if we Joans don’t see them. They leave their evidence behind. Messages engraved in the  plastic tops of the desks. ‘SANDY WAS HERE’ or a wavering little ‘hello’. Socks shoved in the back of the toilet to make the water spill over. The attendants try to clear it away, but it isn’t a secret there are others. We follow a schedule so as to never see each other, chasing ghosts through the halls. We move through modules. Their heads lull back as the sheeps peel woollen bodies from the wall. Identical lives, one hour removed.

~*~ We Joans are in the classroom. The attendant wears a face of stern concentration. They sit on a stool, holding a pointer across their laps. The headsets in the classroom are similar to the brainwavers. They feed us data, they create an expansive pocket in our heads for that data to sit. Eventually we will form four even lines to the board, we will use a stylus to answer a slew of questions on the material we have injested. The mask will say, “Correctness is key!” If one of us makes a mistake, we sit back at the desks and repeat the lesson from the beginning. In my ears, the disciplinary voice of the auto-instructor says, “Suppose the world is super-deterministic, with not just inanimate nature running on behind-the-scenes clockwork, but with our behavior, including our belief that we are free to choose to do one experiment rather than another, absolutely predetermined, including the ‘decision’ by the experimenter to carry out one set of measurements rather than another, the difficulty disappears.” In my ears, as I rearrange particle diagrams that float gently all around me, the auto-instructor says, “There is no need for a faster-than-light signal to tell particle A what measurement has been carried out on particle B, because the universe, including particle A, already ‘knows’ what that measurement, and its outcome, will be.” And I feel it like a finger barely running down the nodules of my spine. The taste in the back of my throat grows, the greenness blooming at the base of my skull. She is with me. The lesson continues, the theorems appearing, being solved, evaporating at my fingertips. I am suddenly aware of every part of my anatomy existing in a plastic school chair, and the tremulous effort of continuing the lesson as if nothing is wrong. Through the streams of data in front of my eyes, I can see the instructors fixed expression. Do they notice me? Are they looking at me? Impossible to tell. Behind me, I hear the thud of her body hitting the floor. I can hear the soft hiss of her scraping over the polished linoleum. The instructor drones on, the words fall into the brain pocket undigested. “There is a way to escape the inference of superluminal speeds and spooky action at a distance. But it involves absolute determinism in the universe, the complete absence of free will...” She coils around me. I can’t see her, but the hairs on my arms stand on end. And softly, through the voice of the instructor, she says, “I-Me, I-Me... I-Me...” Oh, I feel it everywhere on me. Warm like the sun in my city. I’m half-there, half-here, and it’s torture to be neither place completely. I think the word ‘superluminal’, I try to regain the context of the lesson. Data streams begin discolouring, piling up in front of my eyes. The attendant’s face must be turned towards me now, but it is still so impossible to tell. She brushes against my ankle, my chair scrapes an inch forward. I am the only Joan interrupted. “I-Me...” she says. It’s a quiet breath in my ear. The instructor says, “Pupil, regain concentration,” and the equations clear. I fall hard onto the desk, gasping for breath. She is gone. I’m slick with sweat, I’m nothing more than a pulse and a feeling of nausea. The instructor repeats, “Pupil, regain concentration.” I hear the attendant making their way towards me. The other Joans haven’t noticed. This happens sometimes. The attendant has a face of half-concern. “Pupil,” the attendant says in a gentler tone, “regain concentration.” And then again, in chorus, they say, “Pupil, regain concentration.” But I cannot. I keep my head down and shake.

What an odd feeling! To be given extra attention, to be given additional care. Two attendants come to the room with a wheelchair. The Joans have slate grey eyes, staring into the middle distance with twitching fingers. They don’t pay much mind as I’m helped into the wheelchair and taken out of the classroom. They put a container in my lap and I place my head at the rim and let loose a stream of bile and oatmeal. I think they will put my back in my room, but instead I’m taken into a corridor I’ve never been before. There are no doors, only screens that play an oceanic scene. Schools of fish flit from one side of the hall to the other, and watching them I get the terribly dizzy feeling that they will swarm the three of us. That they are pirhana and will rend the meat from our bodies. “My head hurts,” I say to the attendants. Neither of them look at me. But this is exciting. I’ve never been sick before. I imagine a sick room like in the movies, with beds of Rodneys and Todds and Kaylas laid out all around me. Even if we aren’t permitted to speak to each other, it will be such an experience to meet a face that is not the face I wear myself. We pass through a set of glass doors, to a desk where an attendant is sitting ramrod straight. “809-C,” the attendant says, and they wheel me off through another chute of hallways, past blank-faced doors. It’s a labyrinth, and I cannot keep track of the white walls, of the many turns. We enter a small room, and the doors shut behind us. An elevator. I’ve never been in one before. They press a button. I don’t see what floor. Nothing is numbered. This all must be done through instinct. The elevator opens out onto a floor with many screens showing the illusionary mountains, a side of them I’ve never seen before. There is too much pink in the rock, I think. Too much pink to be real. We reach our destination, and it is the greatest dissapointment I have ever felt. It is smaller than my own quarters. There is a bed with thick black straps. They guide me onto it, fasten me to the mattress. One of the attendants says, “Relax, Joan Q, readjustment will take place in approximately 3 hours.” “What is readjustment?” I ask. The attendant says, “There is a malfunction in your implants, readjustment will take place in approximately three hours.” “Three hours?” “The doctor is busy, there is a malfunction in your implants, readjustment will take place in approximately three hours.” Their faces are serene as they fasten me to the bed. “This is a precaution, the doctor is busy. There is a malfunction in your implants, readjustment will take place in approximately three hours.” I don’t struggle against the restraints. I’ve never been restrained before. I’m not sure I would have considered moving from the bed if they hadn’t made moving impossible. The attendants receed from the room. The door slides soundlessly shut. The lights dim to half, and I feel pressure against all of my body. Tight spaces have never bothered me before, but I’ve read of claustrophobia. It’s like I can’t catch my lung’s worth. This room doesn’t smell right. I’ve never pictured this part of the center. I thought that this would be exciting, but it’s unsettling. What is readjustment? Will it hurt? I feel nauseous again, and they’ve left me no option but to be sick on myself. I hold it in, I shut my eyes and will myself to sleep away the discomfort.

And she comes into my dreams on her belly. “I-Me,” she gasps. I try to move on the bed, half-conscious. I can’t move, still tied down, still nauseous and sweating. “You will see. I-Me, you will see...” I feel her crawling onto the bed. I know what she looks like, I know the green plating of her skin. She curls around me, holding tighter than the straps that keep me fixed in place. But I can breathe with her here. I can pull myself away from this bed, I can walk the streets of my mind-metropolis. There is a malfunction in my implants, readjustment will take place in approximately three hours. The lush taste of the woods makes my mouth water. She hovers above me, I can taste her. “You will see,” she whispers. “I-Me...” “Don’t leave,” I say, but I can feel her lifting from me. She dissipates. I open my eyes to the room, and the straps are pulled taut over my body. There is a static all around, my hair floats all around me, a fan of black. Slowly, the buckles slide and let loose, fall back to the bed empty handed. The sick feeling is gone. The doors are opening. The doors are opening, and I choose to leave.

~*~ Where am I going? It doesn’t matter much. I’m just going. I feel snakes coiling and uncoiling in the lining of my chest. Through the first hall I expect someone to come for me, but no one does. Do they know I’ve left? Am I dreaming? I pinch the back of my hand and it hurts. I press against a door and it won’t budge. I knock quietly, then louder, and no one answers. Maybe they are sleeping. Maybe no one is there. The mountains tower to my left, a mirage. I find my way back to the elevator, but the doors don’t open for me. There is a gap between them just wide enough for my fingers to wriggle in. I tug once, twice. Nothing happens. Hmm. I look back down the hallway, it continues on for a long, long way. So long I can’t see the end. I’ve never imagined the size of the center like this. If this hall were a hole, if I were perched on the mouth of it, and I dropped a stylus into it, would I hear it hit the bottom? Would I? I continue on down the hallway, counting doors. They are numbered, and I descend from the 800s to the 700s, to the 400s and the 300s. I walk for so long my feet ache. We are in C. Is D above us? And E after that? How many rooms are occupied? The crawly feeling is all over me again, like when Joan W smashed the window screen. We Joans never spoke of it afterwards. Walking through the hall, I wonder if any of them remember. If any of them laid in the burning grasses. The 100s come and go, the hallway finally ends in yet another elevator. I wriggle my fingers into the doors and pull. They don’t give way, and my legs are tired from walking so much. I sit down in front of them, starring back down the endless hall. “I-Me, you will see,” I say to myself. I feel very, very small. There is a sound behind me, a soft hissing. I move out of the way right as the doors to the elevator open and a pair of attendants come through. They’re foam heads keep them from seeing me huddled in the corner. In between them is a girl in a wheelchair. Her head is down, but she has the same black hair I have. Maybe Joan C or Joan N? Or maybe it’s neither of them, maybe it’s a Cynthia G or a Lana O. I want to know, I want to see her face, but they continue on down the hall, and I launch myself into the elevator before the doors have a chance to close. There is a tower of buttons, unlabelled, and I don’t know what to press. I don’t want to end up on another endless floor, so I hit the very top one. The elevator does nothing at first, and the calming voice of the center says, “Authorization required.” This is where I’m caught, I suppose. Locked in the elevator, unable to give a password to the system. Someone somewhere will look through a camera, send a team of attendants, drag me back to 809-C for readjustment. “Authorization required,” the voice repeats, but the voice is just a little too fast. “Require-Authorization-require-require?” The elevator shifts uneasily. I can tell we’re going up, inch by inch. “Authoriz-authoriz-authorization.” And the voice dies out, the elevator gains momentum. The overhead lights flicker just a little bit, and I feel my hair rise from my shoulders, stand on end all over. There’s a pressure at my temples, I think of what I’ve read about tension migraines, how the brain feels loose inside the casing of the skull. The elevator goes up and up and up, it goes on for so long that I sit down again. The motion is no good for me. I feel shaky, my body breaks out in a sweat. I should have waited for readjustment, I feel terrible. I think of the god, of her serpentine body holding me down. The mouth of rock where she lives in the mind-metropolis. This is all for the good, isn’t it? I will see. Up and up and up and up - And then - The elevator stops. Everything is still, the sickness retreats from me, and the quickness of the change leaves me winded. The doors open, and outside everything is blackness. “You have reached your destination,” the center says when I don’t move. “Please exit the elevator.” I get to my feet, wander unsure out into the blackness. The floor is dark, the walls are dark. The ceiling is dark. Out in the night, like in my dreams, only there are no laterns to help me find the way. I get the sudden sensation that I am standing on a very tall precipice, and that if I look down I will surely fall. The doors to the elevator close, and when I look back I find it impossible to differentiate between the inky dark of the room and the place I have just walked through. “You will see,” says the god. I feel her in this darkness with me, but she is everywhere and no place. In my head, and taking up every inch, including the inches I am occupying. “Look and see, I-Me.” I walk forward, unsure. My hospital shoes make the softest hush. The room seems to be endless, but as I walk forward I can see that there is something in the distance, something I know is real. A window. A way out. I stop walking, my heart is beating too fast for me to move. “I want to go back,” I say. “No no no no no no no.” “I want to go back!” I shout. The god whips out her tail, slides it over the inch of skin between my socks and pants. “No no no no no.” She is calm. She knows I must only go forward. I know it too, we have come too far. We walk together, step by step, to the edge, and I close my eyes so I won’t see it, so I won’t know before I absolutely must. “I-Me, you are,” she says. “A choice, no choice.” I want to go back, I want to go back, I can’t go back. I can’t go back. My hands hit the artifically warmed glass of the window. My eyes fight with my brain to open, to see. I’m not ready. I’m ready. This is all I’ve been waiting for, this is what everything has meant to be. A choice, no choice. I must I must. “Open them,” says the god. I do. Far, far below, through the eternal night, the earth shines like a bright blue eye. It stares back up at me, its orbit clogged with currents of space trash. She is beautiful, she is sick. She is so far from me. And I feel upside down, I feel far apart and small small small. A noise comes from the basin of my chest, a sick and terrible noise of longing for something that was never mine. An identity, a home. A place of origin outside of the sterility of the center, flotsam high, high above the earth.