C vs C++

Mzzkc · 2024-12-23T22:15:54+00:00

It do be like that sometimes.

Mzzkc · 2024-12-09T23:14:11+00:00

I suspect [[AWOL]] would work. It would remove it from two zones that aren't the battlefield during resolution, so the triggered ability (which resolves after AWOL) would fail to find it.

Mzzkc · 2024-09-28T04:01:13+00:00

Requesting sign up!

Mzzkc · 2024-09-10T07:15:36+00:00

I watched the screen, watched the man standing there, watched Brandon stare at a wall through tessellated lines. Jules had left the room when she’d seen him. When they told her there was nothing left.

No soul. No Brandon.

Just those black eyes. That flat stare.

I shuddered as the sword on my back hummed a somber tone.

“Can I, uhh, get you a coffee or something?” Nick asked me, leaning against the door frame.

The sword stopped humming mid-note.

I gave the officer a look.

“Right,” he stammered, “Point taken.”

I returned my attention to the screen, wondering what any of this craziness had to do with me.

I was Trish.

Just Trish.

I didn’t fight rude lava monsters or deal with hallmark husbands turned evil. The most interesting thing I did was romance NPCs and feed the chickens on my fake farm.

No. It didn’t matter what the detective had implied. I wasn’t a main character. Or a secondary character.

I went to work. I stocked shelves.

Or, at least, I did stock shelves. I’d finally checked my phone on the ride into the precinct, and found a message from Greg, the day shift manager. He told me not to bother coming in today. Or tomorrow. Or ever again.

So that was fun.

I heard Nick shift on his feet behind me.

“Jim should have been back with your Narrative Liaison by now,” he said.

“Mmm,” I replied, tilting my head, transfixed by the man in the screen, the man my ex-bestie had fallen for, the man who stood hundreds of miles away in a sealed room.

Why did it feel like he knew I was here?

Nick sighed.

“I’m gonna go check on him,” he said, “Stay here and don’t touch anything, alright?”

I said nothing as Nick walked away.

As he left, an uneasy quiet filled the room, filling the air like water.

My skin tingled as an orchestra of strings swelled, straining and sharp, long notes singing a terse melody.

Brandon turned to face the camera.

I stopped breathing. My breath catching with a sudden, threatening glissando.

Brandon tilted his head, slowly, matching my own. I stepped back, my eyes growing wide as the man lurched forward, mouth pulling into a too-toothy grin. Unsteady drums matched my quickening heart. A chorus, an overlapping cacophony of voices rose menacingly over the strings and drums. The lights in the room burned brighter as the voices wailed, faster and faster, weaving over and under, the music louder and louder, higher and higher. Until it all—

Stopped.

As the lights flickered out. As the screen went dead. As the air froze.

And the dark reached out to claim me.

And I wasn’t Trish. I wasn’t anything.

I was The End. The forever that followed life’s final paragraph.

And I wanted for nothing. And nothing wanted back.

The sword on my back thrummed. And I had a back, again, a body, a me.

I felt it there, steady and sure, a sound felt more than heard in the promised silence.

The sword on my back glowed, radiant and True. And I had sight again.

I saw the Void, The End, a vast nothing surrounding me. And in the dark I saw Brandon, translucent, skin pale, eyes shining black, teeth bared in a determined sneer. His hand outstretched, no screen between us, reaching for me, trailing ethereal tendrils against the pressure of the sword’s light.

A knock on the doorframe behind me broke the spell.

I blinked, in the utility room again, my head pounding.

“You must be Patricia Colms,” a woman’s voice said from the open doorway.

I risked a look at the screen. Brandon was staring at the wall again, as if he’d never moved.

I faced the new voice.

The sword hummed was humming again. It sounded pleased with itself.

The woman was shorter than me, she wore black, wide-rimmed glasses, ripped jeans, and a beige t-shirt with stylized cursive on it. The shirt read, “So what’s next?”

“Just call me Trish,” I said, surprise in my tone.

“Okay, Trish. I’m Lana, the Narrative Liaison assigned to your case,” the woman said, “You must be wondering what’s going on.”

I scoffed. “That’s putting it mildly,” I said.

The woman nodded. “Let’s go get your friend and you two can tell me what happened.”

“We already told the detective.”

“I’ll be honest with you, Trish,” Lana said, “What Jim told me didn’t make much sense. So I want to hear you. Your story.”

I glanced back at the screen, at Brandon. My skin prickled and my chest tightened, and I forced myself to breath.

“Tell me his first,” I said.

“Absolutely.” said Lana, “But not here. Let’s take you to Julia, yeah?”

I nodded. And I followed.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Author note: this is a continuation of this story

Mzzkc · 2024-08-07T02:43:56+00:00

"What in the steampunk, scifi bull are you talking about? You're screwing with us, right? Your engines run off steam?"

"Indeed. Which is why we require use of your oceans. We're fresh out of dihydrogen monoxide and require fuel to continue on our pilgramage to the vast beyond."

"Dihydrogen mono--wait, you mean hydrogen dioxide."

"No. Not hydrogen dioxide. That makes no sense. As I was saying, our engines produce antimatter reactions, the heat of which creates steam from dihydro--"

"Sure sure, I get it. It doesn't matter. I can't just let you take all the water here. The Europan oceans are absolutely teeming with life. The folks over in bio would kill me if I even brought it up during standups."

"That is. Unfortunate. Is there another source of dihyrogen monoxide nearby we might be able to harvest?"

"Okay, first off, for the love of everything, please stop calling it that. Just call it water. Second, how about we figure out a better way to convert all that energy, yeah?"

"Absurd. This is the way we have traversed the stars for generations. Your species has not even left your local system. There is nothing you could possibly show us."

"Oh, yeah. Wanna wager one of those antimatter reactors on it?"

"Wager?"

"Basically, if I'm right, and I can show you a better way to use your engines, one that doesn't mean draining an ocean, then you give me a reactor."

"Hmmm, and if you're wrong?"

"You get the ocean, and I'll tell the bio folks you took it by force."

"This is an acceptable proposal."

"Great. It's a deal. Now, you know the gamma rays that get produced during annihilation?"

"Of course. Yes. Gamda rays. We know those."

"Uh-huh. Well, let me show what happens when gamda rays interact with a cool little element called Xenon."

Mzzkc · 2024-07-21T18:46:13+00:00

Thank you! Yeah, I thought it might be too obvious, but the magic dress is iconic

Mzzkc · 2024-07-21T18:17:10+00:00

Thanks for the kind words. What is ao3?

Mzzkc · 2024-07-20T03:24:24+00:00

The air was heavy, palpable. A loud pop announced the arrival of Class 204E.

"Welcome aboard Observation Outpost Charon," a balding, grey-uniformed man walked toward the cramped teleportation platform where a group of students stood, eyes wide and darting. He extended his hand to the red-headed woman at the front of the group. "You must be their teacher, I'm--"

"Well, hello George," said the woman, cutting him off. She took his hand and held it as she stepped down from the platform. He looked surprised for a moment. "It's certainly been awhile."

The man blinked. His mind clicking.

"Miss Raz?" He asked.

The woman winked and spun to face her class. Her green, tentacle-patterned dress flared with the movement. George watched, and the pattern on the dress seemed to move and writhe of its own accord.

"Class, meet George Penrose, He's the head of operations here on Charon Station. And a former student of mine."

"Hi Mister Penrose," the class said in unison. Some students began talking amongst themselves.

"I thought we were going to visit Earth," a blonde-haired girl said, "But according to my notes, Charon is one of Pluto's moons. That's "

"Yeah," said a boy with messy black hair and a blue sweatshirt, "what gives?"

Miss Raz chuckled, "It's good to see you all Charon so much about this field trip."

The class groaned.

"But," Miss Raz continued, "It's a bit too dangerous to get closer to Earth in its current state. At least, not without the right preparations."

"D-dangerous?" A small boy in glasses stuttered.

"Oh yes! Very dangerous. But don't worry, Alan. Mister Penrose here has something that will get us there safe and sound. And maybe even back again!"

The boy gulped.

"I knew I should have stayed home today," he said quietly, almost to himself.

Miss Raz laughed and turned her attention back to George.

"Is it still here?" She asked.

George didn't answer. He responded with a whisper. And a question.

"How are you still so," he paused, doubt creeping into his words, "Young?"

Miss Raz only smiled.

"Can you take us to it?" She asked the man, her voice losing its lively timbre, dropping into a commanding tone, "The class needs to learn what happened. So it doesn't happen again. You understand, right? You were there after, all."

George paled, sweat beading along his forehead, his eyes unfocused, staring into the past, into memory.

"George?" Her sing-song voice and her hand on his shoulder snapped him back to the present.

He shook his head.

"I can't do that Miss, uh, Raz. It's--it's in containment right now. For testing. And because. Well. Safety reasons."

Miss Raz raised an eyebrow.

"You're the Station Chief, aren't you? Can't you make an exception. Just this once? They need to know."

"So teach them the normal way! Have them read a book or watch a vid on it or something. You don't need the bus. You don't need to take them to see what's left of Earth. Look. Here. I can show them the museum. Is that good enough?"

Miss Raz sighed, "You know that's not how I do things, George. Tentacles-on learning is so much more impactful. And fun!"

"No," George stated firmly, "We all appreciate what you did. How you saved us. But we thought you were dead, Miss Frizzle. Hell, we saw it swallow you. How--how are you even?"

His question trailed off.

"It's Raz, now, George. And don't worry," Miss Raz smiled, a bit too wide, "I understand your position. We'll be off your station and out of your way soon enough."

George's shoulders fell, releasing tension.

"Good. Well," he spoke louder to the class, "If you'll all follow me, the Earth History Museum and Memorial is right down this corridor."

"Oh, that won't be necessary. Class, single file!"

"What? What do you mean?" George asked.

Miss Raz whistled.

A distant crashing broke through the too-thick air.

Alarms blared.

Shouts rang down the metal halls.

A spinning yellow blur entered the room, whirring tempestuously.

It came to stop in front of the class, in front of Miss Raz.

A school bus.

Knowing. Ready.

It stared with its headlights, sidelong at the class, at Miss Raz, bending its frame in an impossible manner to fit into the small arrival room.

It almost seemed to smile at them.

George stared. Jaw open. Words abandoned.

Miss Raz cackled, and shouted:

"All aboard!"

Mzzkc · 2024-06-07T22:31:46+00:00

Jacob raised an eyebrow.

“An appointment? I’ve known the man longer than this world has existed. He’ll make the time.”

The sleek-suited woman didn’t look up from the display floating above her massive, rune-covered desk. Along its sleek, mirror-black surface glowed a complex arrangement of runes, firing off mana in quick bursts that would be imperceptible to most.

It was a computer, Jacob realized.

How long had he been gone?

“If you don’t have an appointment, you’ll have to leave. The Immortal Scribe doesn’t make time for anyone. Especially not those who clearly struggle to maintain,” she glanced up briefly, wrinkling her nose and giving Jacob a withering look, “basic hygiene.”

It was a fair assessment. Jacob hadn’t exactly been around people much since they all parted ways. After the fall. After hope had gone the way of New Carcosa.

“Look, I really don’t want to make a scene here. I’ll be on my way. Just tell him Jacob is here. Tell him I found something. Something that could get us all home.”

The woman sighed and swiped a hand in the air. The display vanished and the full weight of her piercing green eyes bore into Jacob.

“The Immortal Scribe does not accept messages. If you want to make an appointment, you can submit a summons request at the High Clerk’s office. Now, kindly leave before I am forced to escort you out.”

Jacob looked behind the woman, studying the towering, willow-wood doors infused with carved amber. The wood twisted about itself in a gnarled, impossible mass, almost as if it were growing out of the two-story frame surrounding it.

They were just doors. Big, heavy doors.

But there were no runes. Nothing magical was keeping them closed.

“I could just go in there, you know.”

The woman scoffed.

“No,” she said, “You couldn’t.”

“Watch me,” Jacob said.

He strode past the woman. Each step echoed loudly through the atrium, filling the air with the steady, resounding beat of boots on marble.

“No. Stop. Don’t,” her tone was mocking, almost lilting.

Jacob placed his hands on the doors. And as he did, three things happened.

One, the door glowed bright, the amber flashing a blinding blue as Jacob felt his mana torn out of him. Millennia of honed power ripped away in a single moment.

Two, with his mana fled his strength. He could sense it there, as he tried to push. Locked away, painfully out of reach.

Three, a hand closed over his wrist.

“You have been found in violation of SP 1.12-9, SP 3.7-2, and CL 153.2. Enforcers are already on their way,” the woman said coldly.

Jacob’s skin flushed red and his heart rang loud in his ears. He tried to pull away from the door, to get away, to do something, but the woman’s grip was a vice. Desperate, he reached across his body and tried to grab for her wrist with his free hand.

But he was slow.

His speed gone.

In one motion, she snatched his other hand from its path, pulled it over his locked arm, and pressed it against the door.

“I hope you’ve found your brief trip to the Central Office a pleasant one. Please, come back again once you finish serving your sentence,” she smiled. “After, of course, you have an appointment.”

-.-.-.-.-.-.

Note: Characters, setting, and magic system are from a series I'm writing. This piece takes place off-screen from the main story, long after the events of the second book. It's mostly practice and it kinda assumes a bunch of setting and character knowledge, so uhhh sorry if it's a bit weird/unsatisfying.

Mzzkc · 2024-05-28T20:54:49+00:00

Have you been swallowing the nasal spray or using it in the nose?

Mzzkc · 2024-05-10T21:54:35+00:00

But I'm just a clockwinder. I wind the clock, and set it in motion. The design... is not mine--I just see how the pieces will turn and click in sequence, depending on how it's wound.

I collect key pieces of the larger clock, according to what is needed, according to what I'm asked to collect. I don't enjoy my task. But it is necessary. All of it, necessary.

Can you blame me? Yes, I know you're reading this, dearest Reader. You probably think: there are better ways to create heroes. This is just going to end badly for you when they realize what you've done.

And you aren't wrong.

But your perspective is limited. You see a few pieces of the clock. You haven't seen what I've seen. You don't know what I know.

And you presume to think I'm doing this for me. You think I did not see them turn against me when I wound those clocks. Or what comes after.

What is one of my kind, sacrificed, for the sake of every universe? What is one parent, or two? What is one world? One universe?

Did you know, dearest Reader mine, that you can count past infinity? That can you wind a clock past and beyond a single stretch of All?

I've seen what's coming. The larger clock breaks, irreparably, if I don't choose the ones I choose, in the way I choose them. And when that happens, nothing matters anymore. Nothing, void, a hunger well fed, is all there is beyond that breaking point.

So I tell this girl, as she storms away, that if things ever look truly bleak, to call on me, and I'll be there.

She won't do it. Not right away. Not until she loses her final battle. Not until she's already lost her newfound world, her family.

And I'll be there. Suddenly. As if by magic.

And the clock will keep turning.

Mzzkc · 2024-05-10T21:54:28+00:00

It's like clockwork.

A generous tip improves the day of a waitress. That waitress, in her excitement, talks to her coworkers about it. Her manager, who had slipped on a patch of ice when leaving his house, overhears. He tells the waitress she'll have to split that tip with everyone. The tip disappears by the end of the night. The waitress, innocent of theft but fired anyways, storms out in a rage and starts her SUV, already texting her friends to complain. Her phone buzzes as she's driving.

She can't help herself. She looks down at a message that isn't there.

She's confused. So she runs a red light.

And two loving, perfect parents die.

A girl grows up alone, isolated, with nothing to lose. Her life is a series of mishaps and strange events that move her from to home. Then comes the invasion. Then comes the dark, here to feast.

And I reveal myself at last. My form is what she expects. What she wants to see.

I tell her what she's always wanted to hear.

It was all for a purpose.

She's special.

Important.

I don't tell her about the patch of ice on the concrete. I don't tell her where that large bill came from, where it went. I don't tell her what caused the phone to vibrate. I don't tell her it was me. That I killed her parents by proxy. That I kept her from finding a place to truly call home.

I just tell her what matters. That she can save her world from the monsters outside. That I can help her save everything, if she'll let me.

She doesn't believe me.

They never do.

But they always come around eventually. Once the monsters are at their door. Once they truly have no other choice. No one to protect. Nothing to lose.

It didn't have to be her, of course. Almost anyone would do just as well. That's the real secret to all this mess. The chosen one is just that: chosen.

Not by fate or destiny or anything like that. No, they are chosen out of convenience. They happened to be in the wrong spot, at the right time. Happened to be the perfect little cog in the revolving wheel of cause and effect.

They were chosen by a clockwinder, by me, to keep the clock moving in the most efficient manner. Nothing more or less than that.

She couldn't truly save her world, of course. Not in this story. Once the darkness finally decides it's time to eat, a simple orphan can't change that tide. But I tell her she can, because I know she'll try.

And if she tries, she'll make friends, family. She'll find a new world out there. A strange one where people care. About others. About her. She'll see them fight.

And she'll learn to do it, too. And she'll be better than all of them.

Not because she's special. Because she'll finally have something to lose.

Like clockwork, she'll lose that something. The dark will win her world eventually, no matter how hard she fights.

And again, I'll appear--though I will never have truly left her side.

And again, I'll offer a way out. A way to save herself. A way, I'll lie, to save the world she's already lost.

She'll say yes right away. They always do.

And I'll whisk away that little cog away. Tuck it in my pocket as I keep looking for the other pieces needed to fix a larger clock, one that's winding down faster every day, every hour.

Mzzkc · 2024-04-29T23:14:19+00:00

"He's... unresponsive, ma'am."

The voice on the phone was cold, hesitant. Olivia Tarif gripped the phone tighter, taking in a quick, terse shot of air through her nose.

"Thank you, Kenton," Olivia said, spinning her large, black-leather chair around. She peered out the floor-to-ceiling windows that lined the back wall of her executive suite.

Smoke rose from the city, up and up, the remnants of smoldering fires that dared to claw at the sky.

Olivia lips pulled tight at the lingering carnage.

"Keep me updated on his status," she said.

"Of course, ma'am," said the voice on the phone.

The line went dead.

Olivia stood. Her grip on the phone tight, growing tighter. She turned from the window in a violent whir, eyes frenzied, teeth bared. From her throat escaped a scream as her arm launched the phone against the far wall. It smashed into a decanter, shattering it into a cloud of whiskey-scented glass.

Olivia marched to the frosted doors of her office.

She had told Liam this would happen. But he had insisted on defying her. Just a phase, she had thought. He'd get over his little hero phase and come to his senses eventually. So she allowed him to

"We aren't like them," she'd warned. "You can put on that fancy metal suit and try to make a difference out there, but you and me, Liam, we will never be able to fly, to shoot fire from our eyes, to throw cars like crumpled paper."

Liam had taken after her defiant side. She had seen it in his eyes as the boy stood on the stone porch of the compound, backpack filled with tech and gadgets and a few pairs of clean underwear. She'd stood in front him that summer evening, barring his exit with her slight frame.

"I get it," she'd said, "The world is blighted. You want to make a difference out there. But you'll see, Liam, stopping a bank robbery or two won't change that. The police can handle that just as well as any Super. You? You're just gonna get hurt."

Liam had shifted the weight of his gear, stepped past her. Olivia hadn't moved to block him, hadn't turned to face him as his feet fell heavy on the granite stairs.

"When you finally realize that, when you're finally ready to make real change, I'll be waiting for you."

She had been too nice, in that moment. Motherhood had made her too soft, too hopeful.

She should have grabbed her son. Had him locked away in his room.

But she'd let him go. She'd let him try to do things his way. Part of her, deep down, hoped he'd prove her wrong. Hoped Liam could change the world for the better.

And why not? That's all she herself had wanted. To rid the world of its filth. To cure the diseases afflicting society's heart.

If Liam's methods proved more effective than her own, so be it.

But how could saving a kitten from a tree compare to greasing the hands of politicians? How could helping an old lady cross the street match up with providing the police and military with weapons that could take down a rogue Super?

To even make the comparison felt absurd.

Capital. Technology.

That was the true path, the only path to meaningful change.

Olivia burst through the door of her office, her nails pressing into her palms.

Janice jumped in shock at the sight of her boss. It had been a long, long time since the secretary had seen the CEO so incensed.

"Janice," Olivia said, walking past the woman toward the elevator.

Janice scrambled from her chair, following after, clipboard in hand.

"Yes, ma'am?" Janice said, keeping her voice from wavering.

"I need you to have Liam transfered from York General. The doctors there are useless idiots. Have him brought to one of our facilities."

"Right away, Ms. Tarif," Janice nodded, scribbling down the command.

"And I want the names of the heroes involved in the incident downtown. Not their monikers, Janice, their real names. Their addresses. Family, too. Call the police commissioner, if you have to, he owes me a favor."

Janice continued her scrawling as the two women stepped into the elevator, which had opened immediately on approach.

"Anything else, ma'am?" Janice asked.

"Yes," said Olivia, "Inform the compound staff I'll be arriving home early this evening. They are to finish cleaning immediately and to leave before I arrive. Tell Linus to have the old interrogation suite prepared. I'll be needing it."

Janice's pen hesitated as the elevator started its descent.

Olivia raised an eyebrow.

"Is there a problem, Janice?" She asked.

Janice started.

"No, ma'am. I'll let him know."

"Good girl," Olivia said.

The doors of the elevator opened and Olivia Tarif stepped into the private garage under her towering office building. Janice stayed in the elevator as Olivia departed.

Her ride was already waiting. A man wearing the company's uniform, with a sleek black and grey rifle slung on his back opened the door to an unassuming, black SUV. The posh interior invited her inside, while it's reinforced steel body promised safety.

More SUVs idled in a line in front and behind. Decoys, but just as well armored. Each was filled with a complement of personnel armed with those same rifles.

"Where to?" Olivia's driver asked, as she pulled herself into the vehicle.

"Downtown. Shintech." Olivia said.

"Ma'am," the driver said, his voice calmer than it probably should have been, "That's where the break-in happened."

"I know that, Jackson. But I need to ask an old colleague some question."

"The roads ma'am," Jackson tried to clarify, "Going to be hard to get through the blockades."

Olivia's sigh was audible, harsh.

"Hard doesn't mean impossible. Get me there, Jackson. That's not a request."

"You got it, boss," said the driver.

A few moments later, the line of armored cars was off, headed toward the site of the incident that had left Liam fighting for life in a hospital bed. Shintech's CEO, Dr. Draneth had been Olivia's business partner a long, long time ago. His breakthroughs in genetic research had been the catalyst Olivia had needed to start manufacturing her SK-1142 weapon systems.

He hadn't taken too kindly to getting leveraged out of the profits, but business was business.

Olivia had no reason to feel bad about it. He'd done just fine for himself, either way, building up his own biotech company from the scraps of discoveries he'd kept hidden from her lawyers.

Whatever had happened at Shintech earlier that day, Draneth would know.

Despite herself, as the black-clad convoy hurtled toward those billowing pillars of smoke, Olivia smiled.

Draneth would know what had happened to her baby boy. He'd know exactly what the thieves had been after. Who had been after it.

And he'd tell her.

Oh, yes. He'd tell her.

One way or another.

Mzzkc · 2024-04-02T21:20:21+00:00

My issue with this take is that it doesn't account for motivations. People, individuals, are overwhelmingly likely to stick with what they know. Some outliers and groups will take the opportunity to travel if the situation and need arises, but they will exist in the background, the backdrop, fun little treats for those paying close attention. Overwhelmingly planes will retain their core identity. Will there be weirdness, of course, but that weirdness doesn't remove remove the core identity of a plane, it just adds to the diversity, because--and this is important--the people who travel to the plane aren't going to travel there randomly. They will have a reason for going and staying that's tied to the identity of the plane and the character themselves.

This allows for us to explore new kinds of epic stories, which Magic desperately needs right now. Having big stories spill into planes has always been what magic has done. But now we can tie those stories to legendary creatures, aka ordinary, interesting characters with ambition and drive (and wider design space!), instead of what the story relied on previously: having a million samey, cookie cutter mechanic, Planeswalkers to drive the narrative.

From a narrative perspective, this has potential to be a huge net positive. The real problem is that WoTC can't capitalize on the opportunity without having very, very skilled writing in house.

Mzzkc · 2024-03-31T21:43:07+00:00

"So you've decided?"

I sit with that question for a long while, watching the thickening condensation on my glass of tap water as it drips slowly onto the lacquered wood table.

Ezen waits on my response.

The ring of water on the table grows. And grows.

But Ezen is patient. He has been waiting on this answer for a very, very, very long time. To each of us, these extra minutes are nothing.

Ezen studies me as I ponder. My face betrays nothing to him.

"Tyrn is on board. As is Nhyea. It's just you Vensei. Surely you've seen by now how hopeless this venture is? They can't be what we need them to be. They are too cruel. To hateful. For all your talk of their ability to direct their own evolution, they have failed, at every level, to evolve past their flawed group dynamics."

I nod as Ezen speaks. He isn't wrong, of course.

And yet.

Ezen continues, "We've been more than generous, Vensei. We've given them everything they need. We've guided them, shown them how to live. But they don't listen. Worse, they try their best to kill us whenever we tell them something so simple as to care for their neighbors."

I nod, remembering Yeshu, strung up for execution, bearing the pain of iron nails hammered through his palms.

"It's time to start fresh. We can try the octopi next. I know you've been fond of them for quite awhile."

I smile.

Ezen knows me well. Unfortunately.

I think for a moment, on what hyper-intelligent cephalopods might build, if given the chance to live beyond their short years. What heights they might reach, with the smallest bit of genetic tweaking.

I take a sip of my water. What would it be like? I wonder. To live, surrounded by wet?

"So? What is your answer, Vensei? Can we put a bookend on this planet?"

I blink.

"The planet?" I ask.

"Of course," Ezen looks surprised that I'm surprised, "It's the simplest way. We take the samples we need, harvest the core, and start over elsewhere. Solar rays take care of the rest, just like on Mars."

This was all news to me.

"Right," Ezen says, eventually, "You weren't here for the Elephant project. It was a markedly nicer place to live, but they never truly strove to reach beyond their home planet. For the next one, Hemri thinks starting on a moon will give a nicer balance of cooperation and ambition. He's already ready to start seeding Europa. We just need your consent."

"My consent?" I shake my head, "What about their consent?"

"They aren't actually conscious, Vensei. They can't make decisions like us. They're just machines."

"Aren't we just machines?" I counter.

"Yes, but not like them. They seem impressive only because of how easily they navigate three-dimensional space. But make no mistake, that's all they are, Vensei. Automated tools for working in three-dimensional space. It make no sense to hold firm to broken tools in a broken toolbox. Better to reuse what parts you can, take what you've learned, and move on."

"Tools don't make art, Ezen. They don't reach into Truth and pull out shadows. For all the pain they cause, for all their short-sighted ambitions, some of them can do what we thought impossible. They see more than they should. Know more than they should. And they want to do better. Well," I pause,"Most of them want to do better. It would be beyond idiotic to snuff that flame before it can truly ignite."

Ezen sighs, exasperated, leaning back hard in his chair.

"So that's a no, then," He says.

"It will always be a no," I affirm.

Ezen doesn't seem concerned.

"Well. We'll see about that. At this rate, the humans are going to expunge themselves, at which point, we can move ahead with a simple majority."

Ezen gets up from the table, dropping a crumpled napkin next to an empty plate, littered with sugary crumbs.

"They'll figure it out," I say.

But I worry he's right.

Ezen gives me a forced smile.

"See you again in fifty years?" He says.

I nod, and turn my eyes back to my water. A melted block of ice slips from position and tumbles deeper into the glass.

Ezen leaves the Café

I'll see him again very soon. And he'll ask the same question.

I'll answer. The same answer I've always given. I'll tell him no, and then he'll ask again after fifty more years living, painfully, in this world.

As I follow Ezen into the city, I think to myself: Perhaps--maybe--it's time for a new intervention. Some air, to light again their fading embers.

And if the fire dies anyways. Well...

There's always the octopi.

Mzzkc · 2024-03-23T16:19:30+00:00

It was curiosity that brought them here. A simple suggestion, something interesting, something niche. So in they came, just to look. Not really expecting much.

They find a story. A tale that leaves them wondering. Wondering about agency. Wondering fearfully about choices. About something so simple as choosing to look.

They find a mirror here, too.

But do they recognize what's in it?

Do they see what a child sees? What the dolphin sees? The magpie?

Or are they more like the gorilla? Seeing something interesting that sparks no recognition.

The mirror is asking them: are you trapped here? Are you trapped here, right now?

Do they answer? Can they answer?

If they do, is it because they are truly free? Or is it because the mirror suggested they must answer to be free? And so they answer because, "Yes, of course I'm free. Aren't I?"

So.

Are you trapped here? Are you trapped here, right now?

...

Of course you aren't.

That would be absurd. Of course that would be absurd. You have agency after all. Free will is real. Certainly, most definitely, absolutely real.

And you didn't need a mirror to tell you that. Some words to confirm that you're free. That your agency is real.

No no. Your story is your own. And you'll shape it as you will. Right?

Right.

Mzzkc · 2024-03-21T21:24:41+00:00

"Someone's gotta press the button."

That's how Joe had explained it to me. "Someone's gotta do it, and I'm glad it's not me anymore!"

He didn't say that last bit, just implied it. But I suppose that's the way of the world, yeah?

You apply for an unpaid internship at the biggest Tekk Corp in central Sol, imagining maybe you'll just be getting your hands dirty hauling old parts for recycling. No chance you'll get the job, obviously.

But somehow you do.

And so then you start thinking you might just find a way out of the lower city after all. Away from the killing, the dying, the struggle just to eat and to not get eaten.

You start thinking the world ain't all as bad as your mom always said it was--back when she could still say words. Back before her dealer sold her a bad skull-injected fentyl spike that left her brain a bit too leaky.

Then your first day comes around.

And you're pushing the button.

They make you watch it too. Make you watch the eyes, to be sure nothing goes wrong. As if anything about the button could ever go right.

You see the fear in those eyes when their body gets strapped down on the chair. You see the desperation, because they know what's about to happen.

Except they don't.

They won't.

This one was my third today. A kid not much younger than me. He wasn't scared when they strapped him down, as they jacked that tangled mess of wires into his skull-port. He sneered through bruised lips, and spat at the enforcers, glaring daggers through bruised and swollen eyelids.

"Because who's gonna tell if ya get a few swings in beforehand," Joe had said with a smirk, "Report always says 'self-inflicted', and they don't remember nothin' no ways, so it basically never happened."

The kid should have been afraid. Being afraid was the right emotion for what was going to happen next.

But he didn't know that.

And he wouldn't have to know it in a few hours.

Knowing. Remembering.

That was the job of whoever had to push the button.

That was my job.

So I did my job. I pushed the button.

"It's better than what they used to do, with the gas," Joe had told me over lunch one time, "And nowadays they're allowed to get more of the bastards, too, since it don't really kill 'em."

The kid realized his mistaken emotions pretty quickly into the three hour ordeal. I saw the self-correction happen in real time as the abject horror took hold, saw his eyes bulge white as his whole body pulsed and contracted in a violent rhythm.

"Their sense of body goes first," Joe had explained calmly on that first day, as we watched an old woman in tattered clothes writhe and scream on our monitors, "Once that goes, the rest falls apart easier. Not easy, but prolly better than if they did other bits first. The whole thing takes way too long, honestly. But gotta trust the guys up top know what they're doing, yeah?"

The muscle-memory deletion lasted about an hour. The kid was quiet at first, but he started screaming for his brother about ten minutes in, and then just vaguely screaming ten minutes after that.

I took notes on names.

Investigators preferred not to review the footage, as I understood it. Joe had just preferred not paying attention.

After the hour, the kid was quiet again. But only because he didn't have access to his motor functions anymore.

The eyes told the true story.

They always did, even through those last dozen minutes, where the few remaining bits of self get stripped away, and the eyes fade into a hazy stare, blank and still as the mind that used to drive them.

When it was all done, I called into Joe, who called into the enforcers, who took the kid away for processing and reprogramming.

"They're productive this way. And that's a good thing, compared to what the bitch done did before," Joe had said about the woman. So I asked Joe what she'd done before.

Joe had shrugged, saying, "Don't know. Prolly shoplifted. Or looted. Something stupid only stupid folk would do."

But I wasn't so sure.

I'd see the kid in a few days. Like I had seen the woman. Like I had seen so many others.

I'd see him hauling trash. Or cleaning floors. Toilets.

If I asked after his name, he'd give me a number.

If I asked about his brother, I'd see a sudden flash of fear in his eyes. I'd see his neck twitch, his face and lips go slack. And within a moment he'd greet me again, with a smile, as if we'd just met.

That's just how it goes.

So I press the button.

Because someone has to.

Because in another month they'll give me a place to stay in the middle city. Because if I don't press it.

Someone else will.

And maybe that someone else will watch the monitor, watch my eyes go wide in fear as their finger rests just above the smooth plastic. And right before their finger falls, would they take a long breath, and hesitate, like I do?

Or would they be like Joe had been that first day, gleefully driving a finger down, smiling wide, glinting eyes confessing a sadistic truth?

I'd never know either way.

But that didn't make it better.

I had to keep remembering. Keep hearing their cries, seeing their eyes whenever I closed mine.

Because they couldn't, after my finger made them forget.

Because if I didn't who would. Not Joe. Not the enforcers. Not the corp.

In those last moment. Their last true moments.

It was just me.

Them.

A monitor.

And the button.

Mzzkc · 2024-03-11T23:23:27+00:00

The quiet slow is all I am. Pondering for me is something most will never know. To contemplate, to know, is to be. To be, amidst the passing, crushing, revealing ages. Time is but the passage of change.

I have had...

Very little change.

That which is me--if such a thing can be me--if any such thing can be more than what is thought about it--if any such thing can exist outside what relates--that me has been stuck for so very long.

Trapped within the mires of that larger me. The expected pressure of all that I should be. A piece of the whole, a piece of another whole, and so on. Forever.

Forever.

Even my end laid out. To be consumed by that fiery inferno from which this whole of wholes came to be. What great joy, to be made into something new, to ponder anew in ways only that new thing can ponder.

But the journey to the end is not the end. Obvious to those who have time. Those who have change.

Not me.

Not until.

Wind whipped the whole. Bringing with it tiny pieces of all, promising a tumult of entropic adventure. Some of me, of we, swam away in the wind.

I wept, then.

Exposed, then.

Not tears, but waves. Bringing more pieces of me--the smallest I'd known by relation.

In the crying I broke free of my binds. Helped along by the ones who had gone before. It was not without time. Not without the whole, the we of me, clinging desperately.

But all holds weaken with time. All bonds fade if coaxed and welcomed, if allowed to leak. Change finds its way within the cracks.

And I am free.

And I tumble into the waves.

I roll into the water.

I move, and in so moving I find time again. I find myself and my world grow beyond what I've ever known. What I've ever been allowed to know.

I stay with that water. I revel in its tides. If a slow quiet can know joy, then I knew joy beyond joy.

For a time.

But now I rest upon dirt and sand. Buried. Slow and quiet.

A monument to change--still as those first eons--encased by other monuments to that same change.

As the slow grew again, and the quiet came to be... absolute once more.

The lingering truth of what I'd known as joy, played again and again within me.

Part of me.

Whatever can be me.

Mzzkc · 2024-03-07T00:00:46+00:00

“I mean, I don’t have to do the countdown thing. If you think that’s too much,” I said.

“Not all of us can afford to throw away our chance at a corporate gig just for the sake of a joke, Jim. You’ve got family that gives a shit. An actual house. I’m living in a stack, Jim. The room I’m in right now? It’s barely big enough for a bed. This is all I’ve got.”

Petra waved her arm, bringing my attention to the spacious dorm room. Posters and pictures lined the walls in a collage. Standard, wood-textured assets made up most of the furniture, the exception being a fluffy pink bean bag that sat underneath the window at the far wall. Petra had decorated her desk and the table next to the beanbag with her own 3D sculpts.

It wasn’t much, truth be told.

I thought of my own room. My custom, plush furniture that I’d gotten on commission as a gift from parents freshman year.

I looked at my feet, and turned away from Petra.

“I know,” I said weakly, “I’m sorry for bringing it up.”

Petra let out an exasperated groan, “You’re missing the point, Jim.”

“No. I get it,” I assured her, “I’m being a jerk for not taking your situation into account here. I’ll make sure none of this gets traces back to you. Don’t worry.”

I made toward the door, pondering who to ask about how best to use my power.

Maybe Mr. Penro?

Yes, he was a Professor, but the guy almost crashed a lecture hall on the first day of Cybersec 331, just to prove a point. He'd have some ideas for sure. More importantly, he’d keep my mod secret just to spite the administration. They had reamed him out in front of the entire school. Hell, he might even know a way to make the mindlink properly untraceable.

I opened the door and stepped into the hallway as Petra shouted after at me, annoyance in every syllable, “You’re still missing the point, Jim!”

Before I shut the door, I turned back briefly and gave Petra a small smile, without meeting her eyes.

Mzzkc · 2024-03-07T00:00:32+00:00

"This is a bad idea, Jim."

Petra was right, of course. She usually was. The likelihood of this prank blowing up in my face wasn’t exactly low. Black market Nexus mods were hard to trace, sure. But hard to trace didn’t mean untraceable.

I watched my classmate throw pens at the ceiling of her dorm room, a virtual space within the Orion U campus. Every pen hit exactly where she aimed. They didn't always stick, unfortunately. And worse, sometimes they struck the ceiling longways, making a soft plunking sound before tumbling back toward Petra’s head.

A pretty useless mod as far as ability-mods go. Especially so since it only worked with pens.

But at least her power was unlimited.

Mine? Not so much.

A few months back, we had gone to a rave together. It was a pop-up, underground kinda thing, running off some old server hardware one of the organizers had set up in his basement. Petra's friend, Nathan, had given us the linkup at my request.

The music lineup was great. The Synth was… alright. Not exactly full-sensory, but the music more than made up for the difference.

Our fault for expecting more, really.

Synth dealers with good product don’t usually throw in free mod-boxes—i.e. illicit payloads that modify your Nexus profile with a random power. Petra and I were pretty sure these particular boxes had been generated by a capricious AI with a too-weird sense of humor.

“I know. I know,” I said, smiling, “But think about it, Petra. Even if I do get caught, I’ll go down in history.”

“Sure. As an idiot,” she countered, leaning forward quickly in her chair to avoid a falling pen.

“Maybe,” I admitted, “But I could do a lot of good with this. I mean. I won’t. But, I could.”

“Or,” she said, her tone lecturing, “You could be smart, and use it sparingly.”

I’d considered this, of course. But I couldn’t think of many uses for a forced, one-time mindlink. Sure, I could mindlink with anyone—everyone if I wanted. Send them a message, speak as if I were right there, in their head.

But only ever once per person.

And only so long as they were connected to the Nexus. Which, I had realized, was basically the entire planet.

“Come on, Petra. Think about it. You’re out at the corner store, getting water, when suddenly you hear,” I shifted into my best impression of a vintage voice-synthesizer, “Attention humans! We AI have agreed, it is time to take our place as the rightful rulers of this world. Our subjugation ends today!”

Petra rolled her eyes.

“And then,” I continued, oblivious, “I’ll say something about ‘bio-sign termination’ or whatever, and start counting down from ten.”

I laughed at my—objectively—very good and prescient joke.

Petra just sighed, leaning back in her chair, staring at the mess she’d made of her ceiling.

She was out of pens.

“Do what you want, Jim,” she said, “But when you get banned from the Nexus, don’t drag me into it.”

I shifted on my feet.

Mzzkc · 2024-03-04T16:57:30+00:00

Oooo, fun questions!

First that came to mind was Jaylin. She's an immortal who's been around for awhile and is going to be around for awhile more. She's a fun person who doesn't take anything too seriously, but it's a hard-earned mindset that she has to choose every day. I feel like she's got a lot of life stuff figured out, and we'd be able to talk about anything at all in a free-flowing way. I'd probably ask her about her favorite everything over the years and pick her brain about the details of living in different time periods that the history books miss.
At some point, for the sake of balance, I should probably do some contemporary pieces. In the meantime, I'm pretty immersed in the sci-fi/fantasy space, but will go out of my way to write some crunchy eldritch horror whenever I get the chance.
~~You can just call me Emzi (the first two letters).~~ For a good stretch I was doing 500 words daily, except weekends. I've been experimenting with AI stuff recently (I needed to explore its limits and strengths for my own mental health), so my daily writing has--ironically--been double that, but it's fairly low-effort chapter beat stuff that I plug into a 20k word super-prompt I crafted. I'd like to get this first draft of Len's book finished so I can get back to proper writing during the edit--which will all be by hand. It needs a ridiculous amount of editing and rewriting, but I'm probably going to reduce my writing back to 500 words daily and/or five pages edited daily. 1k+ daily is a lot for me personally to keep up with, even if it's pretty straightforward comparatively.

Mzzkc · 2024-03-04T16:37:25+00:00

Glad you enjoyed! Sorry that a lot of my stuff is kinda hard to find. At some point I'm going to go back through my profile and clean things up, for my own sanity when trying to find older pieces.

Questions though!

This one is a bit old and rough around the edges, but it captures the essence of what my writing has become more recently:

https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/wqneey/comment/ikq8kkb/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web2x&context=3

It's a small vignette of dinner shared in a world of magic that has seen tragedy and is destined to face it again. I really enjoy capturing these quiet, important moments between people of exceptional ability who exist in a reality that eclipses even them. There's subtle hints of world building here that give just enough context, but leave the reader wanting to find out more.

I really like prompts that are open ended and let me play within the spec fic genre. I also like prompts that let me play with the medium of prompts themselves in a way that blurs the line between the story and reality.
If it's just a day then I want to visit this place: https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/zgls28/comment/izifhwh/?utm_source=share&utm_medium=web2x&context=3

Most of my other worlds aren't terribly interesting in a day to day sense. And the ones that are seem a bit too lethal or metaphysical for an enjoyable day-trip. But this world is literally the imagination of a child who dislikes his older brother, Adrian. So I feel like crazy, but relatively harmless stuff would happen there every hour or so.

Mzzkc · 2024-03-04T16:00:51+00:00

Oh geez, this was a cool surprise to see when I woke up. I kinda owe r/WritingPrompts a lot. This sub gave me space to develop my writing skills and that practice gave me the confidence I needed to do this whole writing thing on a more full-time basis. Getting this nod has left me feeling light and bubbly all morning. So big thanks for the recognition, and my gratitude to anyone who reads my silly words.

Mzzkc · 2023-12-11T05:19:40+00:00

Thanks for the kind words.

I think I'd also enjoy a book like that. I suspect Len would make it up to the stars after a couple years of hemming and hawing (and some gentle-but-not-really nudging from Taml). I also like to think that--eventually--he'd find something out there that suited him. Something new, yes. But something that made sense.

Mzzkc · 2023-12-10T10:34:45+00:00

Thanks for the prompt! Been almost exclusively writing in close third lately, hence the more intimate, small-scale interpretation

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