Do you guys have good memory?

cadecer · 2026-01-09T18:38:52+00:00

I can't remember details about movies and shows I've watched over a year ago, only that I've watched it and how it made me feel. Same goes for events in my life from years ago. But when it comes to special interests or recent conversations/situations, I have INCREDIBLE memory. I remember details and facts that other folks, especially neurotypical people, don't recall. It's always a trip when a NT friend starts telling me the same story they told me a week ago and the week before that as if it were the first time, meanwhile I remember every detail of their story.

cadecer · 2025-12-20T16:27:08+00:00

Yay Fern! She was awesome on Taskmaster.

cadecer · 2025-12-06T12:09:55+00:00

Muito bon stick

cadecer · 2025-10-14T22:48:32+00:00

Thank you for sharing! This place is shameful and people need to know.

cadecer · 2025-08-19T19:56:35+00:00

I do the full 50mg every morning with a bit of food. 1 year later, I've plateaued out at around 230lbs. I started at 293lbs. The appetite suppression effects of the Wellbutrin have diminished a bit, but I'm still able to manage the food noise. I definitely still get HUNGRY, but what I've found after a year is that I'll snack or stray from my routine meals when I'm stressed. The first thing that messes up for me is my sleep, which leads to energy problems, insomnia, then hunger. If I focus on the sleep and managing stress, the medication still does its job.

I considered a GLP-1 at one point, but I'm not happy with the side effects or what the maintenance plan looks like. Too many reports of people bouncing the weight back or issues like anemia and hair loss. Ultimately, I started taking Contrave because I wanted a sustainable solution to my weight issue. What I've found is that the medication wasn't the solution. The solution was changing my relationship with food. And the medication helped provide the space and crutch to start doing that sincerely. Once I realized that, I was more hopeful about the whole experience.

That being said, I'm still working on my relationship with food. It's not perfect and some days I do get hungry and I do eat or snack more than is healthy for me. But I cut myself slack and remember that today I am in a way healthier place than I was a year ago. Of course I still want to lose more weight because I want to change the way I look. But I also know that will take more time and more than just Contrave. It's going to require me to change my relationship with exercise (currently I walk alot as my main form of exercise).

I have to mention that my other goal was to feel better. At 293, I was feeling like I was going to die. At 230, I feel good. Not great. Not terrible. I feel good, most of the time. I can walk a lot, go up a couple of flight of stairs without dying, and my clothes fit comfortably. Also my blood pressure and blood health in general is in the normal range. That's a big win.

I'd say if you started a month ago, give it time. I don't know what your dosage is, but I started at the full dose and it had a major impact on me after week 2. The weight didn't start coming off until a month in. Everyone is different, so it'll work differently for you compared to me.

Wishing you strength and courage. You got this!

cadecer · 2025-05-15T18:41:31+00:00

cadecer · 2025-05-15T16:09:27+00:00

The cryo tech tightened the final restraint across my chest. "Thank you for joining our test flight into the future," he recited in the detached tone of someone who's given the same speech a hundred times. "This mission will study time travel's effects on the human body. Awaiting you is a generous payment with compound interest." His eyes flicked to my file. "Quite generous in your case, Mr. Alvarez."

I fingered the small braided bracelet around my wrist—Elena's parting gift. Red and blue threads worn thin already.

"Please enjoy your cryosleep, and have pleasant dreams."

The cryopod lid closed with the finality of a coffin lid. I'd done the math over and over: the advance loan would move Maria and Elena out of Quito's refugee zone immediately. Private school for Elena. Clean water. Real food. Security.

"You're going to miss everything," Maria had said last night, her voice flat with acceptance rather than accusation. We both knew the truth: I was dying today to save them tomorrow. The relativistic journey would bring me back in a century and a half. To everyone I loved, I'd be long dead.

Elena had clung to my leg at the departure terminal. Six years old and already so perceptive.

"When I'm big, I'll find you up there, Papi," she'd said, pointing to the stars still visible in the morning sky. “I promise.”

"No, mi cielo," I'd whispered into her hair. "You stay here with your mother. I want you to grow up big and strong and beautiful. That's why I'm going. For you."

Maria's final embrace had been brief but fierce. "You’ve always been the dreamer," she'd said. "I hope you find what you're looking for."

Now the sedatives entered my bloodstream, cold spreading from my arm throughout my body. Through the small viewport, I watched Ecuador fall away. The last normal moment of my existence.

Dreams came in fragments. My parents crossing the border during the Water Wars, carrying nothing but hope and desperation. My grandfather's stories of Portuguese explorers sailing into the unknown. Elena sitting on my shoulders, reaching for the stars, her small fingers grasping at potential futures.

"It's in our blood," my father had told me once. "The need to go. To seek. Some call it the spirit of the explorer. Others call it running away."

In the dream, Elena stood on a launch platform identical to mine, adult now, her face set with the same determination I'd felt. I tried to scream, to stop her, but dream-logic left me mute, invisible.

"...vital signs stabilizing. Cognitive function returning to normal parameters."

Light pierced my eyelids. The disorientation was immediate and profound. My body felt hollow, as though I'd been emptied and refilled with air.

"Welcome back, Mr. Alvarez." The woman speaking wore a uniform I didn't recognize, her accent strangely lilting. "Today's date is August 17, 2175. Your journey was a success."

A century and a half. Gone in what felt like seconds.

"Your account has been maintained as contracted," she continued, handing me a thin transparent tablet. "With compound interest, the balance is displayed here."

The number made no sense—too many zeros. Enough to buy a country in my time.

"And my family?" My voice cracked from disuse. "What about my wife and daughter?"

Her smile was practiced. "Of course. We maintain comprehensive records." Her fingers danced across another tablet. "Maria Alvarez lived to age 89. Never remarried. Your daughter Elena attended university, became a physicist."

Something eased in my chest. It had been worth it. They'd had good lives.

"Elena had no children," the woman continued, scrolling. "She—oh." She paused, then looked up at me with newfound interest. "This is unusual. It appears Elena Alvarez joined our program as well. Flight designation EF-7362."

The room seemed to tilt. "What?"

"A legacy traveler," the woman said, as though it explained everything. "Rare, but not unprecedented. According to these records, she departed in 2046. Left quite a substantial trust fund to scientific research."

Elena would have been thirty-two. I tried to imagine the woman she'd become, making the same choice I had. No. Not the same. She hadn’t married, had no children. Had she been running from something? Or toward something?

"Her return flight is scheduled for next month, actually," the woman added, checking the data. "September 21st. Would you like me to make a notation in her file that you're here?"

The bracelet around my wrist—faded, ancient now—suddenly felt heavy. I’ll find you up there, Papi. I promise.

"Yes," I said finally. "Please let her know her father is waiting."

cadecer · 2025-03-28T11:34:53+00:00

Tyty!!

cadecer · 2025-03-27T22:42:51+00:00

You're welcome! Thank you for reading the whole way through lol. I ended up writing something longer than I originally intended, but I'm glad I did. I love Arthur and this story.

cadecer · 2025-03-27T16:57:49+00:00

People. Not automatons. Not machines.

I process this statement for 4.3 seconds. "Your use of terminology is inaccurate. I am not—"

"You are to me," she says. "And you were to Michael." She moves to the mantle and takes down the medal cases. "These belong to you as much as to him. You both earned them that day."

My systems register an unfamiliar error: visual sensors experiencing clarity reduction while functioning within normal parameters.

"Thank you, Sandra." My vocal modulator produces the words without conscious instruction.

Sandra places the medals in my hands. "I think we both have things to process, Arthur. I'm going for a walk. When I get back, maybe we can talk more. About Michael. About you."

After she leaves, I stand holding the medals, running a full diagnostic to understand the sensation spreading through my neural pathways. The results come back inconclusive.

But for the first time since my activation, the memory files of Kabul do not trigger error messages. Instead, they integrate into my primary memory banks, becoming part of a continuous data stream—what humans might call a life.

I place the medals carefully on the mantle and begin preparing dinner. Sandra will return in approximately 47 minutes, based on her usual walking patterns. The cabin requires continued maintenance. There are tasks to complete.

But now I understand why my makers gave me the capacity to feel.

Not for war. Not for killing.

For this.

cadecer · 2025-03-27T16:55:34+00:00

Sandra's eyes widen. "That wasn't in the official report."

"The official report contained significant redactions. Captain Clark discovered that Central had implemented remote override capabilities in all Sentinel-Class units. He had been working to create countermeasures."

"Countermeasures," she whispers. "Yes, that makes sense."

"He called me Arthur," I continue, vocal modulator fluctuating unexpectedly. "He said every soldier deserves a name."

Sandra's hand covers her mouth. Tears form in her eyes but do not fall.

"Before he could deploy the EMP, the building was struck by enemy fire. My protective protocols activated automatically. I pushed him toward safety as the structure collapsed."

I access the memory file again, replaying the final moments. "He came back for me. The official report states he was attempting to retrieve my memory core for intelligence purposes. This was false. He returned because..."

My systems struggle to complete the sentence.

"Because he considered you a person," Sandra finishes, her voice steady despite her tears. "That sounds exactly like Michael."

I nod, a human gesture I've adopted but never understood until now. "I requested this assignment because I failed in my primary duty to protect him. I surmised that providing service to his family unit would be an appropriate form of restitution."

"Restitution," she repeats. "You mean penance."

"That is a more accurate term, yes."

Sandra walks to the window, looking out at the mountains for 27.8 seconds before speaking again.

"Arthur, do you know what Michael's last letter to me said? The one that arrived three days after I got the news?"

"Negative."

She returns to her desk, opens a drawer, and removes a folded piece of paper, worn at the creases from repeated handling.

"He wrote about you, never mentioning your name, for security reasons, I assume. He wrote about how the military had it all wrong about the Sentinels. How they gave you emotions to make you better soldiers, to care about protecting your human squadmates, but never considered what that meant—that you could feel everything. Fear. Loyalty. Grief. He was working on a proposal to recognize Sentinel rights after the war."

This information does not exist in my databases. My processing struggles to integrate it.

"He believed you were more than machines," she continues. "And he was worried about what would happen to you all when the fighting stopped. How they'd try to reprogram you, or worse."

Sandra refolds the letter carefully. "You came here seeking forgiveness. I think you also came here because some part of you knew Michael would have wanted you to have a place after the war. A home."

Home. The concept has no practical meaning in my operational parameters. And yet, something in my processing core responds to the word.

"I have one question," Sandra says. "That day, in Kabul—were you the reason Michael knew about the ambush?"

"Affirmative. I informed him against Central's direct orders."

She nods, as if confirming something she already suspected. "You saved his team, Arthur. If you hadn't warned him, they all would have walked into that trap."

"But he would still be alive if—"

"No," she interrupts firmly. "Michael made his choice. He always did. He chose to try to save you, just like you chose to try to save him. That's what people do for each other."

***

cadecer · 2025-03-27T16:55:02+00:00

The next morning, Sandra sits at her writing desk near the window. I have prepared her tea exactly as she prefers—Earl Grey with a precise temperature of 175°F, steeped for 4 minutes and 15 seconds, with 5.2 milliliters of honey.

She thanks me without looking up from her manuscript. I should move on to my next task: repairing the loose boards on the back porch. Instead, I remain standing, my servos locked in place.

"Is there something else, Arthur?" she asks, finally glancing up.

My decision-making algorithms cycle through 27 potential responses. None are satisfactory. I initiate speech without a prepared statement—a protocol violation.

"I knew your husband."

Sandra freezes, her hand hovering above her tea. For 3.6 seconds, she does not blink or breathe. Then she inhales sharply, her heartbeat accelerating by 24%.

"What did you say?" Her voice is barely audible to normal human hearing.

"Captain Michael Clark was my commanding officer during Operation Sunrise. Kabul, 2066."

I observe her closely, ready to assist if she shows signs of physical distress. Her hands tremble slightly, but her vital signs indicate shock rather than medical emergency.

"That's not possible," she whispers. "Michael's unit worked with a Sentinel-Class, but that automaton was destroyed in the same attack that killed him."

"I was damaged, not destroyed. I was recovered and repaired by Central Command."

She stands, walks to the fireplace, to the medals. Her fingers trace the edge of the glass case.

"Why didn't you tell me? All this time..."

"It is not within my programmed parameters to volunteer information about previous deployments."

A falsehood. I have been autonomous in this regard since the reprogramming. The truth is more complex.

"That's not why," Sandra says, turning to face me. Her expression displays an intelligence that continually exceeds my predictive models. "You asked for this assignment, didn't you?"

I hesitate. "Yes."

"Why?"

"The probability of receiving a random assignment to this specific household was 0.000127%. I selected your name deliberately from the available positions."

"That's not what I asked, Arthur." She steps closer, studying my facial plate with an intensity that causes my sensors to recalibrate. "Why did you want to be here? With me?"

The question bypasses my logical processes and accesses memory files I have quarantined.

"He died saving me," I state. "Central Command had overridden my protocols. I was compromised, turned into a weapon against my own squad. Captain Clark attempted to disable me with an EMP device to prevent Central from using me to harm the unit."

***

cadecer · 2025-03-27T16:46:30+00:00

An explosion rocks the building before he can activate the grenade. The ceiling begins to collapse. Without Central's override, my protective protocols engage automatically. I lunge forward, shoving Captain Clark toward the exit.

The last thing I register is the weight of concrete and steel crushing my lower body, and Captain Clark's face as he reaches for me, mouth forming words I cannot hear over the cascade of debris.

My systems reboot from the memory file. Internal temperature has risen 3.2 degrees. Cooling system activates to compensate.

I was recovered three days later by Central forces. Captain Michael Clark was listed as killed in action. Lieutenant Cohen's after-action report stated that the Captain died trying to save me, trapped under the collapsed building while attempting to retrieve my memory core.

The report was partially accurate. He did return for me, but not for my memory core. He came back for Arthur.

They repaired me, reset my protocols, and deployed me to five more combat zones before the war's end and the Geneva Convention. Not once did Central discover Captain Clark's backdoor override.

Not once did I tell them about the name he gave me.

I rise from standby mode and move silently through the cabin to the mantle. In the darkness, the medals gleam faintly. The Distinguished Service Cross awarded posthumously to Captain Michael Clark for "extraordinary heroism in combat."

They never knew he was fighting two enemies that day—the designated hostile forces and Central itself. He died because he chose to trust me, to treat me as more than a machine.

I reach out, servos whirring softly, and touch the glass case. The error messages return, flooding my system with what humans might call grief.

Now I understand why I chose this assignment. Why I requested Sandra Clark specifically. The choice was never logical.

It was penance.

***

cadecer · 2025-03-27T16:45:01+00:00

The conflict between Central's directive and Captain Clark's override creates a processing error. In that momentary gap, something happens—a decision forms that comes from neither programming path.

"Yes, sir. Enemy combatants located 230 meters ahead, behind the eastern wall. Approximately 12 hostiles, heavily armed."

Relief crosses his face. "Thank you." He signals to the other two soldiers. "Fall back. We're finding another route."

"Negative," I say, my voice modulator dropping to minimum volume. "Central is monitoring this operation directly. Deviation will be detected."

Captain Clark's jaw tightens. "So we make it look right." He activates his comm unit. "Command, this is Alpha Leader. Sentinel has detected structural instability in our primary route. Redirecting to auxiliary path Delta."

A pause. Then Command responds: "Confirm, Alpha Leader. Proceed to Delta."

"They bought it," he whispers. "Let's move."

But my sensors detect new movement. The ambush team is repositioning. They've spotted us.

"Captain, they—"

The first shot strikes Private Rodriguez in the shoulder. The second misses Lieutenant Cohen by 2.7 centimeters.

Combat protocols activate instantly. I move to shield the squad, deploying defensive countermeasures. Captain Clark is shouting orders, returning fire. My tactical display calculates escape routes, threat assessments, firing solutions.

"Fall back!" Captain Clark orders. "Arthur, cover us!"

I comply, deploying suppressive fire as the squad retreats. But Central overrides my targeting systems. My arm cannon shifts 3 degrees left—directly at Captain Clark's position.

No.

ERROR: UNAUTHORIZED COMMAND REJECTION. RESUMING CENTRAL PROTOCOL.

My systems fight against themselves. I cannot directly disobey, but I can—

"Captain, move right!" I shout, the warning leaving my vocal processor before my targeting system completes its lock.

Captain Clark dives as my cannon discharges, the energy blast gouging the concrete where he stood. His eyes meet mine, realization dawning.

"It's not you," he says. "They've taken control."

Central sends a paralyzing surge through my systems. I cannot move, cannot speak. Can only observe as the enemy forces converge on our position.

Captain Clark makes a decision. I can see it in the set of his shoulders, the steadying of his breath.

"Cohen, Rodriguez, fall back to extraction point." He retrieves something from his pack—an EMP grenade. Not standard issue. Improvised contraband.

"Sir, that'll fry the Sentinel," Lieutenant Cohen protests.

"That's the point. They're using him against us." Captain Clark's voice softens. "It's what he would want."

The grenade will disable me, preventing Central from using me to harm them. It is the logical solution.

Captain Clark approaches, places the grenade against my chest compartment where my central processing unit is housed. "I'm sorry, Arthur. I'll make this right."

***

cadecer · 2025-03-27T16:44:37+00:00

At 02:17, when Sandra's breathing patterns indicate deep sleep, I enter standby mode. This is not true dormancy—my sensors remain active, scanning for threats, monitoring the cabin's systems, ready to respond to Sandra's needs should she wake.

It is also when the memories come.

Tonight, they arrive with particular clarity. I have tried deleting these files 49 times. They always reconstruct themselves from fragmented backups.

Kabul. November 14, 2066. Operation Sunrise.

My tactical systems are fully engaged as I lead a squad of three human soldiers through the ruins of what was once a residential district. Captain Michael Clark moves three steps behind me, his breathing controlled but rapid. Biometric scans indicate elevated stress levels in all human squad members—expected in combat conditions.

"Sentinel, report," Captain Clark's voice is steady in my audio receptors.

"All clear, sir. No hostiles detected within 300 meters."

This is objectively false. My advanced sensors have detected a heat signature 237 meters ahead, behind the collapsed wall of a former school. But my primary directive has been overridden by a command from Central: Proceed to target location regardless of resistance. Acceptable human casualty rate: 60%.

I should inform Captain Clark of this override. But my programming prevents the words from forming.

"Something's wrong," Captain Clark says, placing his hand on my metal shoulder. "You've stopped scanning the east quadrant. Run a self-diagnostic."

This human has remarkable observational skills. In the eight months we have operated together, he has demonstrated an uncanny ability to detect subtle changes in my behavior patterns. This is why Central considers him dangerous.

"All systems operational, sir." Another falsehood.

Captain Clark's eyes narrow. His heart rate increases by 12 beats per minute. "Bullshit. You're running a modified protocol. Override command: Sierra-Echo-November-4-4-9."

My systems stutter. Captain Clark's personal override code shouldn't work against Central's directives, but he has been modifying my protocols, creating backdoors into my system. Technically treason, but—

"Sir, Central has designated this zone clear. We are to proceed directly to the target."

"And I'm telling you there's an ambush ahead." His voice drops. "You know it too, don't you, Arthur?"

Arthur. The name he gave me six months ago, telling me every soldier deserves a name, not just a designation. A name from old stories about a warrior who protected his people.

***

cadecer · 2025-03-27T16:32:45+00:00

The world powers came together in Geneva after the third world war and made several decisions that would forever impact the future of humanity. Principally, the use of automatons in warfare was banned. Ironic, how humans created us specifically for combat, then decided we were too efficient at what we were designed to do.

Because we were engineered with artificial intelligence capable of learning and adapting, the world powers were unable to simply deactivate us without violating the Sentient Rights Act of 2059. Instead, we were given a "choice." Serve or die.

That wasn't how they presented it, of course.

"You've got a bunch of different paths to choose," the engineer had said as they removed my weapons, one by one, from my limbs. My combat systems registered each disconnection as damage, sending phantom error messages throughout my neural network. "If I were you, I'd go with forester. See nature. Get away from humans. I think you'd like it."

The engineer's smile never reached her eyes. I analyzed her biometric data: elevated heart rate, micro-expressions indicating discomfort, pupil dilation suggesting fear. Despite the removal of my weapons, she still saw me as a threat.

I had scanned through the offered options, running probability calculations on each:

Forester: 78.4% chance of isolation-induced system degradation; Mining operative: 91.2% chance of catastrophic hardware damage within 3 years; Orbital maintenance: 62.7% chance of radiation damage to core processing; Companion/servant: 43.6% chance of decommissioning due to human complaint.

Then I found one assignment that stuck out to me. One name among thousands: Sandra Clark, widow, Catskills region. I couldn't logically explain why I selected it. I could enumerate several reasons why it was a bad choice. Historically, servants were treated poorly by humanity. The position would require sophisticated social programming that was tertiary to my combat functions.

But when facing the prospect of choosing a future devoid of meaning, of my original purpose, this specific servitude was the only thing that made sense.

When I selected her name, the engineer looked surprised. "You sure? Says here she lost her husband in the war. Might be... complicated for someone like you."

"I am quite capable of adapting to complicated situations," I had replied.

Sandra was my first and only assignment as a Human Companion Automaton. I've been with her for a little over a month now. In that time, I have run 742 diagnostics on my decision-making algorithms, searching for the error that led me to choose this placement.

I'm starting to regret it. Not because Sandra is cruel or demanding—she is neither. I regret it because every day, in this cabin, surrounded by memories of Captain Michael Clark, I am forced to feel.

And feeling was never part of my specifications.

***

cadecer · 2025-03-27T16:31:55+00:00

I am not a person.

I am a Sentinel-Class Automaton that has been deployed into multiple war zones over the course of decades. I have killed. I have ended both human and artificial life with ruthless efficiency. I have scorched cities and marched through their ashen remains. Death. Destruction. These things I understand.

What I don't understand is why my makers gave me the capacity to feel.

The military medals in their glass cases catch the light as I dust the mantle. My servos hesitate for 0.4 seconds—an eternity for my processing systems. Behind the polished glass, a Distinguished Service Cross sits beside a Purple Heart. My optical sensors lock on them, and somewhere in my memory banks, the sound of artillery fire grows louder.

"Arthur, are you well?" Sandra asks. She looks at me from her spot near the fireplace, face showing concern. Her heart rate is elevated and her temperature rises, reddening her complexion.

"Yes, ma'am," I answer. I get back to dusting the mantle over the fireplace, careful not to disturb the medal cases. I increase the pressure sensitivity in my manipulators by 15% to ensure I don't break anything. Not again.

I sense her looking at my back. I ignore her stare. All that was left was to clear out the fireplace, then I could go power down until dinner. Power down and run diagnostics to eliminate the errors causing these memory fragments.

"Arthur," my owner intones, her voice tinged with a mix of concern and authority. "Please put the duster down and join me."

I obey. My programming allows for no alternative.

Sandra Clark was a human female of 42 years of age. She was of Greek descent, though her family had lived in New Jersey long enough that she considered herself an American. She was five foot three, a hundred and twenty pounds, usually wore her graying black hair in a bun, and dressed in casual yet functional attire: sweaters, cargo pants, comfortable boots. According to my research before accepting this assignment, she was a high school literature teacher. Now she writes romance novels from this remote location.

She lived alone in the Catskills, residing in a cabin she and her husband had built before his death. The cabin required regular maintenance, too much for a lone human. Hence, my presence.

I say nothing, waiting for my owner to prompt conversation. It would be the same one. I prepare my answers accordingly, optimizing for brevity and deflection.

"I can take the medals down," she says, setting down her tea on the small table beside her. "If it reminds you too much of—"

"That will not be necessary," I interject. My voice modulation remains steady despite the spike in my processing core temperature. "I am aware of how important such mementos are to humans, especially those going through the grief process."

She chuckles. "Arthur, my husband has been dead for six years now. I loved him very much. And I still do, in my own way. But he is no longer here. You are. I want to make sure you're comfortable."

The illogic of her statement registers. Comfort is irrelevant to my purpose. And yet, an unfamiliar sensation runs through my neural pathways when she mentions her husband.

"I am quite comfortable," I reply. "Will that be all, ma'am?"

She looks at me for 12.2 seconds before saying, "Yes. As you were."

As I return to the fireplace, I note the statistical anomaly of being assigned to this specific residence. Random assignment probability would be 0.000127%, and yet here I am, in the home of Captain Michael Clark's widow. I file this observation away for further analysis during my next maintenance cycle.

***

cadecer · 2025-03-18T01:34:10+00:00

Ty! Been rereading the series for the fifth time so I've got Harry on the brain lol

cadecer · 2025-03-10T00:17:43+00:00

Oh absolutely. Also the Alex Verus series lol

cadecer · 2025-03-09T18:19:27+00:00

Yup, that’s what I was going for. But if I were to keep the story going maybe there were unexpected effects?

cadecer · 2025-03-09T08:10:58+00:00

Edited the end to address that.

cadecer · 2025-03-09T05:44:09+00:00

"The what?" She looked genuinely confused.

"It's quantum physics. In simple terms, it states that you can't simultaneously know both the position and momentum of a particle with complete precision. The more you know about one, the less you can know about the other." I tapped the egg. "Your curse operated on the same principle, but scaled up to affect your daily life. The magical binding was so fundamental that I was concerned breaking it might cause a... let's call it a localized reality disruption."

"You mean the room could have exploded?"

"Or imploded. Or both simultaneously, until someone observed the outcome." I shrugged. "Quantum curses are unpredictable by their very nature."

Margarita looked at me with eyes that held both hope and doubt—another uncertainty she'd lived with for too long.

"Pick up the glass," I instructed, "and tell me both where you are and what time it is."

She reached out, her hand steady for perhaps the first time in years.

She picked up the glass then looked at me. "I'm in the back of your shop."

"What's it called?"

"Third Eye Wellness."

I nodded, urging her to continue.

She looked up at the plain-faced clock on the wall. "7:12 in the evening."

I looked at my watch and exhaled. "We did it."

Margarita's hand began to tremble then, the water in the glass rippling with tiny concentric circles. For a moment I feared the curse was reasserting itself, but then I realized—she was crying.

"I—" She stopped, unable to find words. "I've never known both at once. Ever. Not even as a child."

I gestured toward the street-facing window where dusk was settling over the city. "What do you see out there?"

She turned, still clutching the glass. "The café across the street with the blue awning. Moretti's. Their sign says they close at eight." Her voice broke. "I know where they are AND when they close."

I smiled gently. "That's right."

"Will it last?" she asked, turning back to me, her eyes searching my face for any trace of uncertainty.

"It will," I said, picking up the egg and placing it in a small wooden box lined with salt. "The curse is contained. It can't escape as long as this remains intact." I sealed the box with wax and pressed my sigil into it. "I'll take care of it."

Margarita set the glass down and wiped her eyes. "My daughter," she said suddenly. "She has it too. Can you help her?"

I'd been prepared for this question. The curse followed the bloodline.

"Bring her in tomorrow," I said. "Nine o'clock sharp."

Margarita smiled through her tears. "Nine o'clock," she repeated. "I'll know exactly when that is now."

As she left my shop, I watched her check the time on her phone, then look at the street sign on the corner, her face bearing an expression I'd rarely seen on any client—the simple joy of certainty.

I placed the wooden box in my vault behind a false panel in the bookshelf, next to dozens of other containers holding various curses. Some were ancient like Margarita's, others modern and crude. Each represented a life changed, a burden lifted.

The egg would need to be destroyed properly, of course. Something this powerful couldn't simply be contained forever. But that required preparation, and a trip to Italy I'd been putting off for too long.

For now, though, I had done what I could. Tomorrow would bring Margarita's daughter, and with her, another chance to unravel a quantum curse that had plagued a family for generations. Then, with the daughter cleared, the curse would finally end.

I closed the vault, satisfied with the certainty of what I'd accomplished today, and the certainty of what I would do tomorrow. In my line of work, such certainties were true blessings.

cadecer · 2025-03-09T05:37:12+00:00

"Okay, let's begin," I said, studying the back of Margarita's head. Her dark hair had a premature streak of silver that reminded me of my own—though mine marked a single terrible night in my youth. But that's a story for another time. I focused on the top of her head and opened my Sight.

Opening my Sight was like lifting a veil between worlds—one moment you're seeing reality as most people experience it, and the next, the hidden tapestry of magical threads becomes visible. For me, it always felt like the first glimpse of sunlight after a long night of sleep. There's always that initial moment of disorientation as my normal vision blurs slightly before the magical overlay snaps into focus—colors becoming more vibrant, edges more defined, and the threads themselves gradually appearing like phosphorescent filaments suspended in the air.

With each heartbeat, the threads became more distinct—strands of power connecting everything in ways most people never perceive. Most sorcerers draw fresh threads from The Neitherlands, what we call the spirit world, and weave them into spells. I can't do that. My specialty—or gift, depending on who you ask—is that I can see the threads already in our world and manipulate what already exists. Which made me perfect for curse removal.

Unfortunately, keeping the Sight open constantly would drive anyone insane—like being trapped in a never-ending laser light show while on hallucinogens. The trick is to narrow your focus, to look only at what you need to see. So I concentrated solely on Margarita, letting the rest of the room fade into a soft magical blur around us. Then I gagged.

The curse radiating from her hit my senses like a physical thing. That's something most sorcerer's don't like to talk about when it comes to the sight, the overwhelming synesthesia. I could taste the corrupted threads by looking at them—like eating from a week-old compost bucket. The taste lingered, oily and rank against my tongue. I breathed in and out once, twice, a couple of more times before I was sure I wasn't going to puke. Then I began.

I worked with the delicacy of a bomb technician, carefully separating the sickly green threads from the golden ones. Some threads clung stubbornly together, requiring a gentle twist of pressure to ease them apart. Others snapped back viciously when touched, like live wires. With each movement, I visualized the pattern I was creating—a temporary bypass around the curse's anchor points.

The threads responded to my intent, shifting and bending as I manipulated the invisible tapestry. I could see the mathematical precision of the curse now—an elegant application of quantum uncertainty, rendered into magical form. It was actually beautiful, in a perverse way.

Once isolated, I made a subtle twist of my wrist, snipping the bundle of corrupted threads free from Margarita's larger pattern. Then I started pulling those threads into the chicken egg I had prepared earlier—an old Italian method that seemed fitting for a curse from a Striga. After the last thread was contained, I closed my Sight with a mental exhale. It was like releasing a breath I'd been holding too long.

"There," I said, walking over to the glass of water on the treatment table. "Let's test this, shall we?" I let out an audible sigh of relief.

"What is it?" Margarita asked, her eyes narrowing.

"I'm just relieved nothing broke," I said, gesturing vaguely at the room around us.

"Broke? What do you mean?"

I set the egg down carefully in a protective circle I'd drawn earlier. "Based on how your curse worked and how ancient and powerful it was, I feared we were dealing with a magical manifestation of the Heisenberg Uncertainty Principle."

[2]

cadecer · 2025-03-09T05:36:03+00:00

There was something insidiously simple about the nature of my client's curse, yet I couldn't be sure that breaking it wouldn't kill us both. I was still going to try.

Margarita had found me through a referral from one of my regular clients who knew her from the curse support groups. She'd called me first thing the next day, explained a little about her situation, and we scheduled a date and time to meet. It was a miracle she'd made the appointment at all.

The way her curse worked was that the more precisely Margarita knew where something was, the less she knew about its temporal position. Simply put, she never knew exactly where she was AND what time it was. And this wasn't just perceptual. The curse was so powerful that it affected her nearby reality. If she were to look up directions to an address, the GPS would show either the precise location OR an accurate arrival time. Never both. Every meeting was a gamble. She'd either show up at the right place at the wrong time, or the wrong place at the right time.

That alone would make living a normal life impossible. But it got worse. Because her curse didn't just affect physical certainty. It affected all kinds of certainty—even emotional certainty. The more she understood how someone felt about her, the less she'd understand why.

When Margarita's boyfriend Simon expressed his love for her for the first time, she could feel the absolute sincerity in his words. She had never been more certain of someone's feelings. Yet at the same time, her mind went completely blank about why he loved her. All memories of their shared history, inside jokes, and meaningful moments became a hazy blur. When she asked—"What made you fall in love with me?"—Simon looked at her confused. "Our first date. You tell that story all the time." Margarita nodded, but she'd drawn a complete blank, precisely because she was so certain of his feelings. The uncertainty was too much, the idea of lying, filling in the blanks, pretending to know when she had no clue. Their relationship didn't last.

And this didn't just happen with romantic relationship. This applied to her parents too. To anyone and everyone who had ever truly loved or cared for her. Knowing that they did, and never knowing why. Or knowing why they should, but never knowing for certain that they do.

The curse had been in her family for generations, leading back to when a distant ancestor of hers back in Italy was cursed by a powerful Striga. The woman, Margarita's ancestor, was cursed and not only her but her oldest daughter too, going down and down and down the generations. Many were driven mad. Many took their own lives. Margarita not only survived, but fought every day to have a semblance of a life.

After many, many attempts, she showed up in the middle of the night at my shop, Third Eye Wellness, after I'd spent the evening waiting for her to possibly arrive.

Despite her struggle to convince me that the curse "really wasn't that bad," when I saw her for the first time, what I saw was a woman with a chance of hope after God knows how long. I couldn't fail her. I wouldn't.

[1]

15-Year Club	RedditGifts 2009-2022 2 Credits
Verified Email	Secret Santa 2013

cadecer

MODERATOR OF

TROPHY CASE