subjectively-objective

[subjectively-objective]

Living in the Shadow of One's Future, Analyzing Captain Power (Part 4: "Final Stand")

We open with some Bio-Dreads entering a warehouse. They talk? That solidifies my theory that they don't have wireless communication. That's one of the crazy things about watching old sci-fi, sometimes their "future technology" is worse than what we have.

This shot is fun. I like all the extras desperately trying for spacework. Turning around, waiting, jumping onto pallets. Awesome.

I do like how the leader(?) asks for a locator to be brought in, only for the robot behind them to already be holding it.

The leader bot reminds their soldiers to "move it" which implies that they have motivation. I mean, we saw fear in the last episode, but that at least sort of made sense. A robot that runs away gets to fight again maybe. A robot that needs to be told to move faster is just gonna ruin the mission.

The whole incident was a setup and a firefight breaks out. The robots are beaten pretty easily. Another robot's head gets knocked off and only sparks fly further confirming my theory that bio is not stored in the head.

More shooties and pews. Some of these robots take more than one shot to kill which is nice to see. Too many shows have the bad guys fall in a single body shot. After murderizing the bio-dreads, they take a 'transmitter' from one of them.

It's actually a fairly fun and coherent action sequence. I know where the characters are, who they're shooting, it's way more fun when it makes sense.

There's also a Star Trek style journal entry. Huh.

"En route to Sector 7, grid coordinates 9 by 5. It used to have a name once. Not anymore." Glad they didn't stop the completely inappropriate dark tone for a show made to sell toys. Truly, I hope by the end of this one or more of the team are straight up dead, and the human lair (the Passages?) is destroyed just to really sell the weird tone.

Apparently the transmitter transmits their plans. So the bio-dreads have wireless comms, but as WWII style backpack receivers. Odd.

Also, what plans are there? The show's been pretty consistent that there's only a few people left and Power's crew are the only real rebels around.

They say there's "3 to 4 hundred civilians" at the target which would only take "3 sweeps, an hour" To do what? No way they're fitting 400 people on their tiny ship. We don't have it's top speed, but I doubt it can get to safety and back twice within an hour.

These details always bug me because it's your reality. If you want a ticking clock give them a transport shuttle but need an escort / cover to load it. If you want Power to save everyone make the timer 12-14 hours. The first few trips are easy, but the last one is hard. Only want the one trip? It's only a few dozen civilians. There are no inconveniences in a reality you create other than the ones you allow.

They fight and beat Soaron. Most interesting thing of note is Power called the missiles "antiques."

Lord Dread then orders Soaron to regenerate (not repair!) before completing the mission and digitize "and store" everyone. We knew digitizing was for storing people (including their memories),  but this implies a secondary use, lending credence to my "bio-dreads are people" theory.

Dread also receives "more salvaged artifacts from Toron[?]" to examine. Before he gets up, his chair needs to unlock. So, he's stuck there. Interesting. Is it providing power for him? Is it because the true leader of the empire (the Machine mentioned in the Robible last episode) doesn't trust him? Was it just because it looked cool? Who know.

The artifact just looks like a Keanu Reeves statue.

Oh wait, that was just the glass. It's actually a Gobot. Weird, I never thought they looked alike until now, but the evidence is all there.

Dread puts his Warhammer figuring into the spinny fire room where it is destroyed.

I would too man.

I have a lot of questions about this scene. Why is Dread collecting artifacts? Why is it a Warhammer figurine? Why does the melting chamber have a spinny and a mirror? Destroying it makes sense. If he hates humanity, he hates human creation. The figure also kinda looks robotic, so maybe it's blasphemous given his robible. But, if that were the case he would have it destroyed rather than mailed to himself.

At the human rubble palace (which looks a lot like the military base from episode 2), marauders have attacked it and wiped everyone out. That solves the logistics problem which is nice of them.

Tank recognizes the villain's voice. His face too.

Apparently, Tank and this guy (Kestrel? Keshgo?) were genetically engineered. What part of them was engineered? Their bigness? Cause the Power suits and laser guns kinda trivialize being muscled up.

I think Kashgo was a wrestler before everything went to shit.

Also, what kind of streets did you grow up in Micheal? Cause you look older than Power (or at least around his age) and the world only became sucks when he was an adult. Combine that with them both being genetically engineered fighty dudes, and I'm starting to think the world sucked before the Bio-Dreads took over.

Scout speaks in an accent here before quickly shutting it off. A weaker mind might assume this was a joke, or that Scout is from France or wherever that accent originates. But no! Rewatch the scene. He talks normally until he pulls out the crystal, then speaks with an accent until he puts the crystal back. That's why he's so flustered when he returns to his normal voice. It wasn't a failed joke, it was radiation turning him Ameri-French. Haunting.

It cuts back to Soaron talking to himself. There's gotta be a person in there. Why else would he shake his fists at the sky while shouting to a crowd of him if not for the soul of a little Victorian boy trying to break free so he can play marbles?

Back at the ruins, Keshgo reminds the audience of the plot and lures Tank into a trap. The trap is "I'll give you the remote you are supposed to take from my corpse." I'm surprised Tank fell for it so quickly. He clearly knows Keshgo as well as what rules he's playing by (to the death) but for some reason just thinks he can walk up and take the trigger.

There's a "I'm gonna do the thing to kill the people, but it's actually you, the heroe's, fault for not stopping me" scene here. Normally these are nonsense, but Keshgo has a point here. Tank just... walked up to him slowly after leisurely walking through an empty building. Cuation is good, but he had a set timer from the beginning, and he should know Keshgo wouldn't give up easily. Yeah, Keshgo's tripping the bomb but Tank isn't even trying to stop him.

This bothers me so much. Keshgo said there were only five minutes left, but the timer shows 8? Once again, it's your reality. There's no reason you couldn't make the timer say "5:00" when Power found it. Sure, this scene could be happening before the previous one, but most shows that do this 'split the POV' set up do it to denote simultaneous events.

Aside from that, I do like the detail of Power asking the hostage if the door was trapped. Slows down the episode and shows that he's cautious and not gonna walk into a trap blindly.

Tank kicks Keshgo through a concrete wall. So, the genetic boost is pretty strong. A single kick is stronger than 40% of Power's armor based on the last episode's window incident. However, such strength seems to come at the cost of his speed as Tank slowly approaches the detonator and patiently waits for Keshgo to sneak up behind him with a flaming stick.

There's a lot to unpack here. Keshgo implies Tank was holding back (Why? Was he afraid that Keshgo would detonate the bomb if he started losing?), the wall had some ripped posters on it that could be small lore pieces but are hard to read, but most importantly: there were flaming barrels in the streets.

Flaming barrels.

Who lit them? The people Keshgo hostaged? Keshgo? This is the post-apocalypse, any sort of movement could bring Bio-Dreads on you in an instant and where they are looks pretty sunny.

Why light a barrel on fire and waste precious fuel while also giving your position away to any aerial photography? Simple: Dread doesn't have air support.

I know what you might be thinking: "But isn't there a bad guy ship toy, the 'Evil Phantom Strikerᵀᴹ jet'?" Sure, sure. But it hasn't shown up in the show. Maybe it's the personal craft of Dread. We don't know that yet. What we do know is that the only aerial unit (shown so far) is Soaron who is clearly a high-ranking member of the army given his direct line to Lord Dread (and his unprofessional attitude towards him).

Despite this, we've seen him be sent on pointless missions like surveying sectors and hunting down a half-dozen civilians (Power said 300-400, but only like six were in the bomb cage, and I doubt Keshgo killed 394 people.). Why would your (assumed) second in command be an errand boy? Because he is. His rank isn't due to his status or abilities, it's because he's the only Bio-Dread that can fly.

If that's the case, then lighting a barrel for fun or warmth is trivial. There's only one plane on the planet. The chances of it flying over your particular rubble heap is low.

Power saves everyone and Tank leaves Keshgo with Soaron while they run. Power says some nonsense about how he'd die without armor. Yeah, that's the point. Rather than run, they stand there until Soaron kills him. After that, they jump from their cover(!?) and shoot at Soaron.

Third episode, third digitization. This one looks less painful, and Soaron roars again. Does he do that for fun, or does Digitizing people just feel good?

We have a short sequence of the SotF fighting Soaron before fleeing in the ship. This one might be just as long as the others, but feels way less gratuitious cause it isn't just shooting until the time is up. The characters are actively fleeing and approaching the ship which provides a good climax to the episode.

There's a cool moment where Power blocks a shot with his arm and it glows from the pyrotechnics. Tumblr only lets you put so many videos in a post, so you'll have to settle for a PNG-ture.

After their shooties are over, Power gives Tank a pep-talk about how he's not like Keshgo because he fought to protect things while Keshgo fought for himself. He also mentions the facility he grew up in, Babylon 5. Oh yeah, that reminds me that J. Michael Straczynski, creator of Babylon 5, was the head writer for this show.

I've always felt that unfamous shows with well-known credits behind them should have a little warning pop-up when you watch them. Knowing the people involved went on to do something (or came from something) really helps to set the mood when watching lesser-known things. Like this:

Overall, eh? This one was better-paced than the last ones (only adding one new character'll do that), but it also just wasn't as interesting. Tank being a genetic soldier is neat, but they didn't do anything with it in this episode, so why would I expect them to do it in future ones?

His conflict really wasn't fleshed out enough because they didn't tell us what the fuck it was. Yeah, Keshgo and him are from the same thing, but what was it? Evil soldiers? Fighting the Bio-Dreads? New Gen Construction Workers? And they only introduce Tank's desire to "leave that life behind" at the end of the episode. A short conversation in the beginning (hell, put it in one of the previous two episodes so it feels less forced) where he mentions how he wanted to leave fighting behind only to become THE fighting guy on the team of fighting guys would have helped. Cause as it stands I thought he just didn't want Keshgo to blow up the hostages rather than he didn't want to fight a person.

Honestly, the most interesting part for me was Tank name-dropping "Babylon 5.." I always find it fascinating to go through a writer's catalog and see certain ideas crop up as they evolve. I haven't watched Babylon 5 yet, but it's on the list. So, hopefully when I do I'll be able to look at things and go "He did that in Captain Power!"

But, that's also the problem with these sorts of things. Since most people would have seen or heard of Babylon 5 first, their reaction wouldn't be that Straczynski was thought of a cool name but that he was pre-referencing Babylon 5.

Rather than look at the name and plot elements that carry over as ideas originating in Captain Power before evolving into what they were in Babylon 5, they are seen as prototypes of the 'finished' work. Leaving the first In a perpetual state of incompleteness.

Yes, nothing exists in a vacuum. Every work is inspired and built upon something else. If a creator denies it then they're lying to you or themselves. Nevertheless, it is important to try to treat things as if they were made in a vacuum. Notice and comment on the similarity between stories, but don't define something by its inspirations.

[subjectively-objective]

This is not a look into my mind. This is a look into my reality. The world as I see it, in my own twisted image.

[subjectively-objective]

Update: it has tried. It mutes for around a second every time it changes.

A pathetic final attempt to defeat me. Let the machine writhe in pain and desperation to inconvenience me. The momentary silence it conjures brings reflection and a reminder of my superiority. Let it try, for I shan't falter and will come out the other end meditated and sure of my power.

Car radio started randomly switching between the saved stations.

You think you can beat me? You think your so smart with your antenna and beeps!?

I made all the saved stations identical. Try switching now you stupid cabinet.

[subjectively-objective]

Car radio started randomly switching between the saved stations.

You think you can beat me? You think your so smart with your antenna and beeps!?

I made all the saved stations identical. Try switching now you stupid cabinet.

[subjectively-objective]

Kids Love Stories about the Hopelessness of War! Analyzing Captain Power (Part 3: "The Abyss")

  We open with a destroyed City and a man crawling out of the sewers (I knew they were sewer rebels!)

He sees a weird cube robot with some flashy red lights.

It reminds me of a mouse droid from Star War.

This thing has an odd design. It's close to the ground, so can't easily traverse the city ruins and it has these handlebar looking things. What are they for?

He then gets cornered by a bunch of humans(!) before claiming that he left "for some air." The people living in the bombed-out wasteland of a city seem to doubt this claim, which sucks for him.

So the robot is owned by the humans. Why? If they are living in a bunker and leaving is a bad idea, having a patrol bot that does nothing but shine a red flashlight and get stuck seems counterintuitive. It doesn't seem to have any weapons, and the light doesn't trigger any alarm when it hits the guy. It looks neat, but does nothing to enhance the story and actively opposes the universe of the show. These are the sort of props you make when you have $1 million per episode to burn.

Oh yeah, the scene ends with "The General" pointing a gun at the man and probably shooting him.

One minute. It took one minute before it got too much for the children who would buy their toys.

Aside from not knowing how to appeal to their damn audience, the opening was pretty good. It was short, did some more world-building with the underground bunker and human resistance, and set up an interesting villain. I hope they explain the General's reasons for murder as being something more than "I'm evil" it could really make an interesting third faction in this show of a human society determined to hide from Dread at all costs rather than fight him. All-in-all, it really sold me on the episode so far. I want to know more about this villain and how he ties into the world of the show.

We cut to Power and Hawk receiving a signal (from the soldier earlier) that's on an open channel. Such things can only end badly, so the two decide to follow the plot.

 Headphones are usually used to listen to audio, but apparently not in this universe.

I like how Power got to his station first (cause it's closer) and had to vamp until Hawk got there to synchronize the suit-up. He looks genuinely confused like he forgot what hands are.

The sequence is cool. It has all the flair of a Sentai series without taking a million years.

They then both take off in these hoverbikes. They showed up at the end of the last episode, but I'm talking about them now. They have these suction cup thingies on the side, like training wheels or magnetic connectors. Could these have been repurposed cargo vehicles? Are they fans keeping the bike in the air? Why is Hawk "The Flying One" using one instead of flying?

The sky is purple here.

The next scene goes to Volcania, it is sick as always. Dread is reading the Robible. He is on chapter four, but it starts with "The machine was given unto man." That's weird. You would think a book about robots would open with machines. There is also the matter of the machine being given to man. Not created, given. Are bio-Dreads an alien creation sent to destroy mankind? Or have they deluded themselves into believing humans could never have built them? Either way, I hope this gets expanded upon.

He also says the machine gave "my people" a means to throw off their "bonds of flesh." Two interpretations here. "My people" could refer to fellow machines being freed of their bonds made by the fleshy humans. It could also refer to humans being freed from their flesh (to be digitized I guess). Another interesting bit of growth for the villain. Did the Machine free other machines, or entomb people?

Another big detail here: Dread is reading. He doesn't know this text. He might not be the one in charge of the bio-Dreads. Things like this really help with the world-building, but only if they are paid off. Hopefully it does.

Dread also gets the soldier's unencrypted signal as well. I like the small detail of Dread and Power using different sector measurements (Sector 42 Mark 7 and Sector 14 cross-reference theta).

Dread tells Soaron to investigate. Soaron asks if he should terminate his current task, implying that they do things other than hunt for Power. Small details like this, even when they aren't important do a lot to make the characters feel like they do more than enter stasis until the heroes need to be shot at.

Speaking of being shot at, the human army from earlier shoots at Power and Hawk the moment they land.

We do get a better shot of the bike here. I honestly wasn't expecting it to have a real prop. I thought they were just using the toys like with Hawk's flying.

It's got two guns that look pretty built-in, so repurposed cargo-vessel is out. The front is appropriately bulky, and the back appears to have an engine. I also think there's a steering vain / tail at the very back, but that could just be the set. At this low res, everything looks like goo.

After a brief shootout where Power says they have "40% power" left on their suits, they jump through a window which knocks them both out. So, for the powerscalers out there, 2.5 window leaps > Power's armor at full strength.

After getting window-diffed, they are captured and the general interrogates them.

At first, I thought the general was in denial about the world, believing the military he worked for still existed and needed to charge traitors and spies. I was pleasantly surprised when I was proven right in an unexpected way.

He still thinks the country exists, but there is an added layer of nuance in his speech that implies he knows that everyone's dead. Like he's just using "we wait for the President's orders" as an excuse to stay in hiding and keep everything normal. It's an interesting take with someone who has given up on everyone else, but not themselves, relying on an authority he knows is dead to avoid guilt.

The torture chamber is a pretty boring set. I get that it's an underground bunker, but compare it to the destroyed city from earlier this episode, or the bio-Dread power plant from episode one. I hope we don't spend the whole episode here.

Once again, this is super dark and boring for a kid's show. They outright say that Dread killed Power's dad and that Power and Hawk will be executed. Dark, and it continues this series's trend of being made to sell toys by people who wanted to make a 'real' show. It's kinda sad, because I feel that without the dumb toy tie-ins in every episode, and the 20-minute timeslot, it probably could have been fairly successful. They just needed to decide if it was for pre-pre-teens or post-teens.

This scene is pretty fun. The general completely ignores the colonel to rant about his dumb, unfounded opinion before getting mad that someone disagrees with him. It's just like the real thing. It also is a good way to quickly sell the situation that the general is set in his ways and the colonel is trying to change things.

That's honestly the main thing I've noticed over these two episodes, the show is fast. The first episode I barely noticed it due to the opening being quite long, but this episode really hasn't given any scene time to breathe.

The scenes themselves are good, but they cut together so quickly with no downtime it feels claustrophobic. This show really needed a forty-minute runtime.

I do like their military logo that's barely visible in the background. It's a sword with wings that kinda look like closed eyes or olive branches. Like it's a weapon of peace, virtue, and turning a blind eye to everything it does to the contrary.

Soaron finally finished whatever his mission was and follows the signal. If this show was forty-minutes, I wouldn't have minded five to ten of them being about Soaron's mission. Was it a survey where he was bored the whole time? Was it taking out a rebel unit? Maybe he was cleaning some of the rubble.

The robots make quick work of the military (off-screen though. The only on-screen fight clearly showed the humans taking 0 losses).

This scene is interrupted by the colonel demanding the general orders a retreat. The general comes to terms with what is happening while the colonel takes charge and orders the evacuation.

Once again, a good scene in a vacuum, but I really need a few more minutes to get to know the general to feel this emotional moment. His whole world is crashing around him, and he is realizing it is his fault (though, not really cause its the guy from the opening's fault they were found), but since I've only seen him for eight minutes I don't feel anything for him.

Power goes up to fight the bad guys and wins. Now that I have normal humans to compare the power suits too, I have to ask what it is they do. They obviously provide armor, but it isn't much. One shot in episode one went through Power's suit and injured him, and in this episode one window took out 40% of their charge. Do they make you a better shot? That would make sense, but they haven't had the time to really explain what the suits do other than sell toys.

Another good scene which calls back to the General's rant earlier about "not having any good songs to win the war" Too bad I can't understand what he's saying because the mixing is so bad.

Does anyone have subtitles for this show? I miss out on about a quarter of the dialogue and I'm watching each episode a half-dozen times to take notes.

It was just last episode that we learned that digitizing sucks, so obviously we have to do it again to the crazed general. Kids love torture and horrific pain.

We enter this episode's climatic battle (which your toys can play along with!) and its just as long and boring as the first. This one at least has some choreography as Soaron and Hawk fly around each other to land hits, but the special effects don't do the concept justice.

Okay, I've been wondering how Scout can hologram as a robot and not get spotted and this scene explains it. The robots don't have wireless communication, otherwise they wouldn't have to wave to each other. This means they likely are more man than machine (if they are part human, that isn't confirmed yet).

Power gets shot a lot here. He's kind of weak for being the Master of the Power Suits. That also means that one window > 30 laser blasts.

I didn't notice it earlier, but Power also has a symbol on his suit. It kind of looks like the military one(?), but it's a bird. I guess this is the future Air Force logo. There isn't much to say really, it's a bird (or a person) spreading its wings before a rising (or setting) Sun. Neat, but it's no eyeball angel sword.

That robot tried to run! They can feel fear!? Who programs a fear response into your robots? Unless these robots are former people. Them being people would explain why Dread digitizes people, he needs brains to power his robots.

No, these ones have a robot head. So they are robots who can feel fear. Weird. Or, the human parts aren't in the head. I'm leaning towards them being in the flashy chest. That's why it's a glow from another reality; it's formed from human souls.

The episode ends with Hawk saving power and saying "Thanks." "Heh, What are friends for?" as they fly off into the sunset.

Note to writers: NEVER end your story with a "characters joke to each other as the episode fades to black" is is never good. You want to end on a punchy one-liner? Make it relevant to the story. "What are friends for?" has no bearing on the episode or the characters. It does nothing but remind me I'm watching a show for children. In this instance, you're better off with them riding off in silence as the music swells. Anything else would ruin the tone. 

If you had to have an ending line, have it be something like hoping the soldiers made it out ("I hope we bought them enough time." "We have to hope for a lot of things." or "Hope's all we can do for them," etc.) or a "Took you long enough." "I was taking the scenic route." (this one is still eh as it doesn't mean anything. It's fine to end the scene but absolutely not to end the episode). Make your ending matter; it is often the only thing people remember from your story.

Overall, a pretty decent episode. Keeping up the quality of the first (for good and ill). It has some interesting sci-fi concepts and storylines, some good characters, some good dialogue. I especially liked the general. His actor did a good job, and his scenes carried this episode.

However, it also has rough pacing, bad special effects (good for its time, but not good enough to stand the test of it), and the same identity crisis as before. It tries so hard to be a 'real' show but the forced toy-ins bring it down. This episode faired a little better as the final battle was really the only egregious part and can easily be skipped.

[subjectively-objective]

US Vice President Kissability tier list 100% accurate all time.

LBJ would have been in either mouth or tongue, but his picture is too wrinkly, and Schoolcraft was a solid Mouth tier until I saw his name. Otherwise, I feel it's all self-explanatory.

[subjectively-objective]

This is what I assume all real generals do. You give them a microphone and a multi-monitor setup and it's just like an RTS.

[subjectively-objective]

How the world treats me whenever I (normal) have Oreo cheese and mac.

[subjectively-objective]

Arcana 99 - Ch. 8

Live from the Past

What is this? Next

“Of course I had heard of the Grenfell-Maxwell Marathon, it was the most interesting event of the twentieth century. Well, discounting the first World Wars and the invention of computers and the airplane, and the creation of the Internet, and the first automobiles, and the Cold War, and. . .”

The man outside the sound booth waved his hands. 

Right, “Be concise. Be positive.”

“But, those had been covered to death in countless contemporary works. But, even when compared to those monumental historical developments, the Grenfell-Maxwell Marathon holds a certain special place within my heart due to the sheer number of mysteries surrounding it. These mysteries were no doubt aided by the small amount of coverage of the race as few at the time bothered paying attention to it for a multitude of reasons. 

“Its starting day came with claims of a new land-speed record for a horse and an open-air motorcycle. The moment these records were made conveniently occurred while the cameras were all turned off for fear of the kicked-up dust damaging equipment. And, no one could take the announcer’s word for it, Motorcycles wouldn’t be able to reach that speed while remaining open for several decades, and horses. . . well, horses have never been able to run that fast.

“That gaffe not only led to the death of the announcer’s career, but it also resulted in a loss in credibility regarding everything about the event. Investors and advertisers stopped promoting it, and only local newscasters bothered to appear at stage finishes. Despite the trivial amount of official records being made for the race, anecdotal reports of violence and disappearances accompanied the marathon throughout its course.

“These reports were never officially investigated, but the loss of life among the competitors was evident. Of the quarter-million teams initially in the race, less than one thousand arrived at the final stage’s finish line. Many of the missing competitors were retrieved by expedition teams hired by Mr. Grenfell, and scattered autopsies claim lacerations, gunshot wounds, and other, stranger causes of death. 

“The two major sponsors of the race, Mr. Grenfell and Mr. Maxwell are probably the most well-known people connected to it. To this day, their names are synonymous with impossible yet believed promises, people with unknown sources of wealth, and well-meaning mistakes. Despite their historical staying power, little is known about them, their first recorded appearance was in India where they promoted the marathon, the total amount and source of their wealth was never disclosed, and they never appeared publicly after the race’s finish.

“Despite the loss in credibility worldwide, the skepticism surrounding Grenfell’s and Maxwell’s wealth, and the ever-present danger throughout the race, the nearly one million competitors saw the race as their road to riches and glory. The sensational promise of a wish to the victor had no small influence on the people’s fervor, and the competitors were more than willing to risk everything to gain that fabled prize.

“And that. That passion from an almost magical source that overtook these people and the mystery of how it all happened is what brought me and my crew back almost three-hundred years.” I took a deep breath. Speaking for such long periods was not a skill I possessed, “There. Was that take good enough for you Samuel?”

The man clicked a button and his clearly annoyed voice came through a speaker within the room, “That was fine, but I’m Madden.” The man pointed to a person sitting beside him, fiddling with a camera, “He’s Samuel.”

I nodded and left the sound booth, “Have you gotten the footage yet?”

God, why was this the only job I could get?

The man looked at me, though he wasn’t the one I addressed, “Yup, I got the generic B-roll for the intro, and our outdoor cameras are trained on the other competitors of interest.”

A waste of my talents, and on what? A fucking documentary.

I approached the man and surveyed the numerous electronic screens. I recognized the plane as belonging to Jacqueline Santos-Dumont, and the nearby horse and motorcycle that were supposed to break records, but none of the other people were familiar.

Not only a documentary, a documentary on this stupid race. Nobody remembers it, and those that do, know it was nothing but a sham to see how desperate people could become. Unlike me, of course; I’m not desperate. I just. . . can’t be picky with my jobs at the moment.

When the race began, we kept our eyes on the alleged victor, Sheri Parfit; the lost pilot, Jacqueline Santos-Dumont; and Etteilla Laveau, the owner of history’s “fastest” horse. The plan was that I would provide on-site commentary, and we would later create a more fleshed-out script for the footage when we returned to the present.

We were surprised when our cameras recorded Etteilla’s teammate shooting Dumont’s plane. Even more so when our Sound Isolator detected Dumont mentioning the loss in fuel.

Huh, cheating so early, and by Grenfell’s favorite team no less.

“Strange,” one of the crewmen said, “If Dumont knew of the leak, why would she take off?”

His question was answered when the team behind her, a hitherto unknown group hijacked her plane and launched it themselves.

What. 

I’ve done a little preliminary research for this thing. . .

I’m out of luck, not talent.

. . . but, not once in my research did it mention that Dumont was hijacked by a group of wannabe cowboys.

We barely had time to be surprised at that moment as the cameraman pointed out something far more astonishing, Sheri was gone. Her truck had vanished from outside. He hastily cycled through the cameras until he landed on the micro-camera we had placed on their hood. With its view on screen, we could plainly see the city of Flores.

What.

The implication that practical teleportation existed centuries before we had believed would be revolutionary.  

Perhaps it could even revitalize my career.

As our astonishment began to fade into acceptance, our recorder set to the race announcements radio station picked up that Etteilla had broken ahead. We mocked the statement; it was well known that it was impossible for a horse to travel that quickly, and the sound bite was an infamous example of bad journalism. 

An example I had hammered into me countless times.

But given what else had happened. . .

Samuel switched to the camera he had placed at the edge of the salt flats. On it, we could clearly see that two people had breached the dust cloud surrounding the racers. Samuel zoomed it in. One of the people was on an open-air motorcycle, the other. . . a horse.

What.

Nothing else. Just what.

The four people we had planned to follow all well beyond our vehicle's reach, at least beyond it without drawing attention to ourselves.  One of the two men took direct control of the micro-camera in Flores and launched it to get a few aerial shots of Sheri’s victory. Meanwhile, the other retired to the cabin and began to weave us through the crowd and towards the other competitor of interest, Urho Häyhä. There weren’t any reported incidents involving him today, but we know that something happened before he reached Flores, and given what else had already happened. . .

I urged him to drive faster and began to smile. This was the first natural smile I had done in. . . I don’t even know how long.

I am Revatti Alcubierre, and this race is how I rediscovered my calling.

Next

[subjectively-objective]

Arcana 99 - Ch. 7

Behind the Curtain

What is this? Next

Of course, everyone had heard of the Grenfell-Maxwell Marathon, I was the person running the advertisement campaign after all. Even with my skill, it was difficult to spread the message across the globe, especially because Mr. Grenfell refused to give me a target demographic, “Everyone,” he would say whenever I asked, “Everyone needs to see this, and everyone needs to come.” Coupled with Maxwell’s insistence on using incorrect grammar on the Latin slogan I created, it was a daunting task to make the ads effective; one that I was more than capable of doing. With the sheer number of participants I had heard through the radio, there would be no way I could charge too much for my services in the future, even if I was being paid a paltry sum for this job.

After that fiasco with that woman claiming to have won the race, I had little else to do than make a few more calls cementing the synchronized announcement of the next leg before I could take the rest of the day off. And take it off I did. The small island of Flores offered little in terms of entertainment as I spoke neither Spanish nor the many native languages; despite this, I was able to find some food and spent the rest of the evening watching the Sun set over lake Petén. When the Sun had set and the Moon remained in the same position it had been most of the day, I wandered back to the race offices.

I arrived, I entered the lobby, remembered what day it was, stepped behind the counter, and checked the safe. Empty. 

After all I’ve done, they still can’t pay me my money?

I marched up the stairs, furious over how I had been cheated. They had the money to meet every demand I made when advertising. Every commercial, every interview, every celebrity endorsement was covered by them, yet they were too stingy to pay me the five thousand dollars I was owed. I approached Grenell’s office, and could barely make out two voices coming from inside. I paused.

Wait, why should I wait for him to stop talking? He’s cheating me! And he should learn that when you cheat Karin Bernays, I’ll cheat you right back.

I threw open the door and gave an exclamation of my grievances alongside some flowery vulgarities. My fury sated and my eyes cleared, I saw that there was only one person in the room, standing in front of an open window looking out to the moon. It was Maxwell, or at least someone with a face like Maxwell’s. Though he still appeared portly, he was slightly thinner and slightly shorter than I remembered.

Upon hearing me enter, he spun around, causing the floor to softly creak, “Wh-what are you-why are you in here!? Get out!” He stammered out this rhetorical question and answer while gesturing towards the door and loudly stomping away from the window.

I planted my feet and stood my ground, “I’m not leaving until I am paid what I’m owed.”

Maxwell made another response. This time he was a little calmer, and a lot more threatening, “Fine, but if you do not leave right now--” I never heard what his threat would be as during that same breath, Mr. Grenfell appeared directly between Maxwell and the open window. Or, more accurately, Maxwell and the Moon. Mr. Grenfell was holding a small box, though I focused little on it as it seemed that that small amount of fat that Maxwell had lost had been siphoned onto Mr. Grenfell.

Grenfell looked to Maxwell then me. He dropped the box, and his hand was suddenly upon my throat. Through my panic and fear, I was unable to perceive much of what happened after, but I did notice three things. First, Mr. Grenfell had not moved away from the window. Second, though Grenfell’s hand had not lifted me, I could no longer feel the floor beneath my feet. Third, the box he had released had not hit the ground; in fact, when last I saw, it was tumbling as if it had been dropped all while floating in the same place. I saw these things and began to lose consciousness, but before the process could complete, I fell to the floor.

“Dammit,” Grenfell said, “Her involvement is too well known.”

“We could try threats.” Maxwell said while ‘catching’ the falling box.

“As if those have ever worked.”

As they argued over what to do with me, I clambered to my feet and snuck towards the door. I made one quiet step, and Mr. Grenfell silently appeared in the doorway. He spoke some more to Maxwell, paused, then looked out the window, “We have another eavesdropper?” He muttered. 

He reached his hand past my head and towards the window. It would never reach it from where he was, yet a moment later his arm pulled back by my ear ignoring my logic and reasoning entirely. As his hand came into view, I could see that it was clasping a metal ball the size of his head. On one side, the ball had a black glass opening, while the other side emitted a soft blue light which created a gentle breeze. The top of this ball contained a mount for a long, thin wire that bent backward as it rose from its metal body.

Mr. Grenfell closed his hand, and the ball that just a second before was too large to be palmed vanished wire and all. He wiggled the fingers of his clenched fist for a moment like a magician emphasizing a trick to hide the sleight of hand. His fingers stopped moving, his fist opened, and chunks of metal—most of them larger than his hand—fell out and onto the floor. His destructive mission complete, Mr. Grenfell looked to me and said, “I know you have seen much, perhaps too, but you will tell no one of this.”

I gave no response. Regardless, Mr. Grenfell stepped out of the doorway and let me escape. Though I couldn’t go far. I still didn’t speak the local languages, and I could feel his eyes watching me as I inched down the hallway. I eventually made it to my room, and with the door closed and Grenfell’s frightening gaze locked behind it, all my panic surfaced and halted my attempts to sleep.

After that display, all of Grenfell’s oddities that I had earlier passed off resurfaced. He neither explained where he had gotten his wealth from nor why he wanted this race to occur. That thought of “why” kept my mind from thinking about “what”.

Though I had no way of knowing it now, or perhaps ever, the truth was that he, Euclid Grenfell, used this race to repay his debt.

Next

[subjectively-objective]

Arcana 99 - Ch. 6

Victory so Soon

What is this? Next

Of course, I had heard of the Grenfell-Maxwell Marathon. After all, it was a prime opportunity to reveal my genius to the world (and gain a non-trivial amount of money). My plans were meticulous, they had to be. Like all major advancements, there could be no flaws, else that would become the excuse for not moving forward.

It had happened with the automobile, 

“Why should we rely on oil and machines to make us travel when a horse does just as well?”

“It’s barely any faster than a horse, and can’t even go off paved roads.”

And the airplane, 

“It can’t even carry more than one passenger, it will never replace rail and sea.”

“It crashes too often. It’s just unsafe.”

Nevermind the fact that horses required fuel in the form of food. Nevermind the fact that a horse could tire or become injured. Nevermind the fact that planes could traverse previously impassable terrain. Nevermind the fact that boats and trains can sink and crash as well. Nevermind the fact that these arguments had opposed every advancement in human history and not once have they changed. 

Nevermind. Nevermind. Nevermind.

I stepped out of the back of my trailer; I shouldn’t be near the equipment when I am this irritable. I looked to my right and saw Jacqueline Santos-Dumont’s plane. It was a marvel of engineering, and the fact that she had designed and built it herself would have been a major inspiration for me if I were younger. Instead, my inspirations were Emmy Noether and Marie Curie. Inspirer or no, colleague or no, it pained me to take the win from her. Dumont was also flying to prove the fruits of her own mind, but this race was the only way I could demonstrate my own creation to the world; any other way would result in discounting it as a hoax. Besides, Dumont was already well known and would surely have other opportunities to show off her skills. 

I made my way to the front of the truck. On the way, I noticed a man had parked a motorcycle between my own and Dumont’s vehicles. He was alone, so I surmised that his partner had not shown up yet. Having reached the cab, I conversed with our driver, Hank, about our plan.

“Just so we’re clear when the race starts, don’t drive,” I said.

“Look, I’m fine with waiting to start, but could you at least tell me why?”

I smiled and shook my head, “That would just spoil the fun.”

Content with how well I believed Hank understood my instructions, I made my way back to the trailer. Once inside, I marveled again at my potentially wonderful creation. Potentially was only an operator here because I had to alter the original design to fit in the trailer. Doing so resulted in little room to maneuver. Pipes, antennae, motors, and cables filled every square inch of the space, leaving only a very specific route from one end to the other.

Along that route sat (layed?) a man entwined within the mechanical mess. He had his foot sitting inside a (purposeful) crevice of a cooling tank, and his hands were exploring the electrical depths of the main core of the machine. That man was my assistant, Charles Antony Tepper, and the only reason I was able to fit the machine inside this small trailer. My original plan was to unpack and build it outside; the open area would make issue detection and repairs simpler. However, he had the idea of packing it inside the truck and utilizing his small frame and nimble hands to reach around corners. Of the months we had spent preparing the machine for transport, less than half was spent making the design smaller. Most of our time was spent on optimizing the design of Charles’ footholds to be as unobtrusive as possible while still being useful. In the end, I was able to work on the most vital parts in the front while he could handle the little bits I couldn’t reach.

I heard a deafening roar outside, the race had started, “Charles, are you almost done?” I cupped my hands around my mouth to make myself louder.

Charles poked his head above the piping, “I just need to double-check the connection here,” he looked around himself, “and escape.”

I closed the trailer doors and grabbed the handheld transceiver from its mount on the door, “Hank, can you hear me?”

A static-filled moment passed before an answer came through, “Yes. And, before you ask, no, I haven’t started the truck.”

“Good, we’re almost done back here, so get ready.”

Another pause, “Ok.”

By then Charles had made his way out of the machine and reached the starting lever. I approached mine, counted down, and flipped the switch. The machine’s hum filled the room and the entire trailer began to shake. I say began, but it truthfully only shook once then stopped. Despite the short length of the event, I was able to think of potential consequences. We were either going to land safely, appear inside something and explode into billions of tiny pieces, appear inside something and watch it explode into billions of tiny pieces, miss the field entirely, or die mid-transit.

God, this is so fun.

I was excited, and when I discovered I didn’t die, my excitement grew.

“What was that!”

Hank’s frightened response did nothing but increase my elation. I took a step towards the trailer door, opened it, and stepped outside. I was inside of a small field surrounded by trees on three sides and a lake on the other.

It worked!

Charles and I had a celebratory hug and dance, “What just happened!?” Hank interrupted.

I smiled at him, “We just performed the world’s first portable teleportation.”

Hank continued to ask more questions, but I stopped him. We needed to travel the final mile to Flores if we wanted to win. To ease his curiosity, I offered to sit in the cab with him and explain along the way. Charles stayed in the trailer to monitor the machine.

On our way across the land bridge, I saw that decorations for the race finish were still being placed. One such piece was a banner emblazoned with “Congratulations Dumont!” I chuckled at that one then continued to explain the inner workings of my machine to Hank.

Hank drove around the island until we saw a building with a sign for “Grenfell-Maxwell Marathon Stage 1 Offices”. We couldn’t find a place large enough for the truck to park, so we left it in the street while we stepped inside to accept our prize.

We spoke with the receptionist at the front desk. We then argued with her about how we actually were participants in the race and were not just there to steal the money. A few minutes of this passed before a tall, chubby man walked down the back stairs. I couldn’t describe a mote beyond that, I was too busy wondering how such a heavy-looking man could walk so lightly to take in his features.

“Oh, Mr. Maxwell,” The receptionist began, “I’m sorry for being so loud, but these people simply refuse to leave, and,” She leaned towards him and whispered (though it was loud enough for us to hear), “They keep saying they’ve won the race. Not the brightest scam artists I’ve seen.”

The man looked at us, glanced at the door, then approached us, “I’m sorry for my employee's rudeness,” He spoke in a slow deliberate manner with frequent second-long pauses. Every word he spoke was meticulously selected and weighed before it left his mouth, “But, you must understand that with. . . our current knowledge someone being able to move from the start to the finish this quickly is improbable.”

“Yes, it is, but I did. Go check your records, we signed up this morning at the starting line.” I said.

“Yeah, and I even had to deal with a race official ranting about how no one read the rules,” Hank added.

Mr. Maxwell nodded; it was just as deliberate as his voice, “I understand your frustrations with not being believed,” He glanced at the doorway again, “If you would please lead me to your vehicle, we can get this situation sorted.”

I agreed and led him out the door and into the small lot of the office. Mr. Maxwell then looked directly at Hank’s truck, “That is your vehicle then? It seems so ordinary, yet it brought you here so soon. And, the choice of such a cumbersome vehicle for this event is. . . odd. May I see inside?”

I barely had time to register his last request as he had already reached the trailer doors.

“No! You can’t.” Charles said, blocking Maxwell’s way, “We’re keeping the specifics of our transport a secret. At least, until someone is willing to buy it.”

Mr. Maxwell respectfully stepped away from the door and looked at Charles, “Ah, you wish to keep your discovery confidential. That is reasonable, for now.” Maxwell looked at the truck doors again, then turned around. He stared for a moment. I followed his gaze and my eyes fell upon the field we had landed in just a few minutes ago. Maxwell looked back to me, “It appears that your group did travel here. I will notify Mr. Grenfell of your success and return with your money shortly. However, due to the suspicious nature of your arrival, you must remain here for the next fortnight while we investigate the matter.”

“What? Then we’d lose our lead!”

“Do not be alarmed. I will have all other competitors follow suit. In the end, you will still have the same lead as before.”

Not one of us had a response for the man, so we watched in silence as his large frame quietly vanished behind the doorframe of the building. The entire ordeal had unnerved me greatly and revealed a large hunger within me.

Perhaps a side effect of the teleportation? Hmm. . .

Though, that was a question for another hour. For now, the three of us made our way to find food. It was difficult to order given how the vendor only spoke Q’eqchi’, but we were eventually able to get our meanings to each other.

Speaking of language barriers, I was surprised that Mr. Maxwell could speak French so fluently

We returned to the truck and Hank drove us back to the mainland and found a place to park. We bought rooms at a nearby hotel and lounged the rest of the day away. When it was finally time to sleep, I was barely capable of the act. Come tomorrow, reporters from across the globe would arrive to interview the race’s victor to learn how she achieved such a feat. I was nervous, but the fame and notability I could gain from that would propel my career beyond what anyone else has ever achieved. My discovery was sure to net a Nobel Prize. I’d become the next Tesla, the next Einstein, the next Rockefeller. . .

I fell asleep shortly afterward to my dreams of glory. In the morning, I would awake to find most of my predictions were true (No Nobel and no Rockefeller, sadly). Even with the mystery of instantaneous movement solved, I was destined to uncover a mystery far greater than I could ever dream. 

I am Sheri Hoy Parfit, and this race is how I changed the world.

Next

[subjectively-objective]

Arcana 99 - Ch. 5

A Floating Relic

What is this? Next

Of course, I had heard of the Grenfell-Maxwell Marathon. Upon first hearing of it, and the prize that awaited the victor, I knew that this was the moment I was told to await. I quickly gathered a platoon of like-minded men and refitted an old zeppelin to carry us to victory.

The sight of the quarter-kilometer-long beast drew attention, but I became a Major for my ability to turn things around. We moored the zeppelin several miles behind the end of the race’s starting grid. We would launch before the race began and would drift to just behind the line by noon. After that, I would brief the men aboard of our mission, but before I could do either, I needed to finish this idiotic interview.

“So, what are your plans if you win this ‘wish’ everyone’s been promised?” The reporter laughed at the word ‘wish’ as he pointed the microphone to me.

“I care none for the wish, real or no. I only desire to show that Germany has moved beyond our wretched past and is a source of more than just war.”

Damned Englishman, you are the reason we’re seen this way.

“And you’ll certainly show the versatility of German engineering with your zeppelin back there. Might I ask what its name is?”

“Oh, yes, that is the Graf Zeppelin, but we call it the Graf II to avoid confusion. Built to be the sister ship of the Hindenburg, but after the disaster in ‘37, it was scheduled for destruction.” The reporter nodded along to my drivel.

You’d believe anything, wouldn’t you?

“I fought tooth and claw to keep it around, for historical purposes of course. I had the interior remodeled to better reflect the Hindenburg and even took it for a few test flights. Even then, I never thought I’d get the chance to fly it for any real journeys much less with so many watching,” I forced a natural smile, “It truly is an honor to be able to be the man that shows the world that airships need not be forgotten.”

Honor? A fool’s tool, and. . .

“Thank you for that insight, Mr. Kober. One final question, how are you prepared to obtain helium abroad with most of it being held in the US?”

It’s Major Kober you twit.

“Ha, the US may have 90% of all helium, but we’ve made contracts with the other 10%. Some of them were even willing to give it to us for free just to see the Graf fly overhead.”

“Wow, I suppose you have everything figured out, huh?”

You fucking imbecile. No amount of helium could make it fly, not without drastic changes to the ship. Hydrogen is the only option we have.

“Yes,” I smiled at the man, “planning ahead is a must when flying an airship. Misreading a weather map, flying too high, unevenly distributing weight, and venting too much air can all quickly lead to a crash. Even landing is an odyssey. We need specially built mooring masts which haven’t been made or used in twenty years. In fact, we had to order the construction of a mast both here and in Lake Petén Itzá just to be able to participate in the race. And, if we must build one at every stage and hire a ground crew to launch and land us, we’d probably spend more money than we could win!”

The reporter laughed then took a step back, “Well, that’s all we have time for. The race is going to start soon, and I’m sure you’re just dying to get started,” The reporter said some final words to his invisible audience then waved for the camera operator to stop filming. With that annoyance out of the way, I started for the Graf.

I boarded, and the vessel’s captain immediately ordered the 200-person ground crew to walk the Graf Zeppelin away from its moor. When we had reached an appropriate distance, he gave another order and they threw off the ropes tying us to the ground and the Graf began to gently lift off. If I hadn’t watched it happen, I never would have never noticed it due to the gentle nature of our ascent. When we reached our cruising altitude of 200 meters, I climbed up the ladder from the control gondola and into the Zeppelin’s hull. From there I walked into the lower deck’s interior. I turned left, walked through the Chief Stewards cabin which had been refitted into a cabin for our head doctor, and into the smoking room.

Inside sat the eight sergeants of our 85-man army. I gave them a swift briefing of our flight plans, and how they should prepare their troops for potential deployment. The officers knew that deployment was unlikely. I knew better but kept it to myself for now. I finished the briefing, and the other eight men all stood to relay the information to their squads. As they left, I stopped the fourth squad sergeant, Vasilij Hetzenauer, and gave him further instruction. I then made my way to the upper deck lounge.

We had refitted much of the old ship to better reflect our needs, but many of the niceties originally provided were too great to remove. We had kept the paintings, seats, and tables from the original design, however, the item I had wanted most, the aluminum Blüthner piano, had been destroyed during the war.

I had always held a fascination with musical instruments. The skill and artisanship required to make even a rudimentary one were immense. Every detail, every facet of the design had to be perfect. It was like a microcosm of life; to succeed, all imperfections must be removed and replaced. If you have an imperfect piano, you could fix the broken parts as they begin to interfere with its sound, but in the end, you would still need to remove them all. So, why waste time waiting for them to harm you?

My mourning was interrupted by sergeant Hetzenhauer stepping into the room. He had a rifle on his back and a tube in his hand. If I had looked closer, I would have seen that the tube was a single scope of a long-broken binocular. Of course, I had no need to look closer; I already knew what it could do. The sergeant walked past me and sat on a bench in the promenade. He opened the window before him and readied his rifle.

“I take it that you already know what I was going to order?” I said, sitting down on the bench beside him.

“I knew that ‘meet me in the lounge, bring your gun’ meant that I was about to fire it,” he fiddled with the rifle’s scope, “What I don’t know is how you expected me to see anything.”

I looked out my own window. The ground beneath us looked like little more than a muddy pond. A moment later, a lone fish leaped out of the water. It continued to climb upwards until its entire form was revealed to not be a fish but a plane.

“There’s your answer Hetzenauer. Dumont would win this race. . . if she can finish.”

Vasilij said nothing. He carefully aimed his rifle at the approaching plane and surveyed it for weak areas. The plane continued its rapid ascent, much more rapid than I thought Dumont would fly, and grew ever nearer to our vessel. In fact, she appeared to be on a direct collision course with us.

Is she really so desperate for attention? Oh well, she would be the only one hurt by such a crash.

I glanced at the old ship wheel hung on the wall above where the piano should have been.

Dumont’s plane was less than a hundred meters from us now, and sergeant Hetzenauer smiled, fumbled with his gun’s trigger, and quickly pulled it back inside the window. I barely had time to register that he had not even made a shot before Dumont’s plane eclipsed our windows and veered away from us.

With Dumont’s distraction over, I was able to fully focus on Vasilij’s direct failure, “You didn’t fire! Explain yourself right now!”

“I had two reasons for not firing, Major Kober,” He addressed me by my title, but his words held no respect, only necessity. “One, the pilot of that plane was not Dumont. Two, someone else had sabotaged her plane and caused one of the engines to catch fire.”

We weren’t the only ones thinking about eliminating Dumont. Good.

I congratulated Vasilij for his observational skills and dismissed him. He retired to the writing room next to the lounge. I looked out the window once more. The air beneath us was still too murky to make out any individual people. Craning my neck to glimpse at Dumont's shrinking plane, I could barely make out several thin, gray wisps emanating from it.

With first-place secured, I started towards the lower deck's bar.

Vasilij's voice emerged from the writing room and cut my plans short, “Major Kober!” His voice still held no respect, only urgency, “Two racers have already pulled ahead of us!”

What?!

I ran to the room. Inside a small radio was quietly tuned into the race. Out of the radio came the voice of the reporter that had interviewed me earlier, “. . .of the same team. This really does put the pressure on the other competitors. Can anyone but Dumont’s plane and Kober’s Zeppelin hope to stand up to these two magnificent competitors? Why, if I wasn’t watching this happen, I would dismiss it as fantasy. Yet, here they are. A motorcycle and a horse topping nearly one-hundred and fifty miles per hour. . .”

I looked at Vasilij.

Could they have. . .

“. . . ten minutes ago, I would have given the race to Dumont, and second place to Kober, but now it appears that second is likely to be. . .” The announcer’s voice became more muted as he spoke to the unheard people within the studio, “You really think I would fall for this nonsense? I know that this race is starting a bit strange, but you won’t make me look like a fool! I should have you fired for that! There’s no way. . .” Silence filled the airwaves as someone at the studio muted his microphone, “Are we back now?” His voice had lost all the wonder and cheeriness it held before. It had been replaced with the voice of someone’s whose entire world had been destroyed and violated before them; a voice I had only heard one other time, “God, this will be the end of my career,” He took a deep breath, and a rustling page could be heard, “The first stage of the Grenfell-Maxwell Marathon, from the Great Salt Lake to Flores, Guatemala, started on June 24, 1954, at 12:00 PM. Now, at 12:15 PM on the same day, it. . . it. . .” He sighed, paused, and sighed again, “We have a winner.”

What!? How dare they! First, those two bastards break ahead, and now someone else has already won? Verdammt, we’ll lose at this rate. Then we’ll never get the wish, and the Reich will never be reformed.

I stopped, afraid I had spoken. They were too transfixed by the broadcast to notice if I had. My lapse in concentration caused my wound to flare up. My cheek burned, and I soothed it the best I could with the moist handkerchief I kept for moments like this.

No. No, perfection is achieved by destroying the imperfect. And victory is achieved by destroying the undeserving victors. I cannot get caught up in minor setbacks. Not until I know who I can trust with my true goal.

That thought calmed me enough to ignore the pain. This race was certainly going to be more difficult than I anticipated, but with both the Graf and our manpower, victory was an inevitability. This race was merely a test. A test to ensure that the imperfect is removed and the perfect rise. I smiled, now certain of my success.

I am Gottlieb Kober, and this race is how I got my wish.

Next

[subjectively-objective]

Arcana 99 - Ch. 4

What is this? Seriously, what is this? Next

Next

[subjectively-objective]

Arcana 99 - Ch. 3

Third Place

What is this? Next

Of course, I had heard of the Grenfell-Maxwell Marathon. Its advertisements were certainly targeted towards people in desperate situations. In fact, the promised wish at the end was cited by most I saw signing up. Though it was obviously no more than a ploy to get gullible people in the gate.

Why bother with the ploy when the offered money is more than enough to draw people?

Even my fellow veterans that knew the wish was a lie desired nothing more than to win the grand amount of money at the end of it all. Most of my friends and family wanted nothing more than to win, but they either lacked the drive or the money to cross the Atlantic and try. 

Me? Well, I pride myself on being a little more tempered, a little more frugal, and a lot more patient than my peers, comes with the territory of being a sniper, but even I cannot deny a quick way to make lots of money. Combine that with my expecting wife? To not try would be the worst choice.  

I found a handful of other vets from the Continuation War and talked them all into coming with me, and we were soon on our way to the starting line. I had finished rechecking that we had everything packed in our jeep when I overheard my two teammates talking about their hopes for the race. I may have been the one to convince them to come, but they were far more ambitious than I. 

“If we can place first in five stages, that’s over half a million.” One said. 

“Yeah, but why stop there? If we make it to the end, we get that whole ‘wish’ thing.” Said the other. 

“Only if it’s true,” 

“And I can’t even begin to imagine what I would ask for if it were.” 

“I know that if I had it now, I’d only wish to be out of this damn heat.” 

They had a mutual laugh as I sat in the back of the vehicle, “You should have packed like I told you to,” The two people sat in front of me were Johannes Mannerheim, a soldier I had met during the Lapland War, and Aksel Oesch, a friend through Johannes and the person who stole this jeep from the Soviets. 

One of them waved their hands to dismiss my words, “Bah, we’ll have plenty of opportunities to buy clothes on our way to the other side of the world. By the way, are you still sure about leaving after the first stage?” 

I hesitated to answer. $1,000 was a good amount of money, and it would only grow larger if we placed higher and finished more stages, “I can’t. I promised that this would only take two months, and no amount of money is worth not seeing my child’s, well, any of it.” Johannes nodded. Though his children are adults now, he remembered how it felt. 

A minute of silence passed and it was only interrupted by the announcement of the beginning of the race. Our car sprang to life as the countless others around us followed suit. As I expected, we weren’t gaining on most of the competitors on the flats, but once we reached more rugged terrain, we would make up for it. I reached over and turned on the large radio placed next to me in the back row. I quickly scanned the stations and found the one announcing the race. 

A static-infused voice came out of the headphones and was barely audible over the screams of engines filling the air, “Laveau has broken ahead!”

“Have either of you heard of a Laveau?” I asked. 

They both shook their heads, “The only other racer I know is Dumont” 

Aksel groaned, “Can you not remind me about her, please? It kills the mood when I know this is just a race for second place.” 

"No," I said, "Someone else has already broken ahead. We're racing for third now."

“Only if there’s not another plane competing.” 

“No,” I said, “Only Dumont’s crazy enough to fly a plane when she doesn’t know where the finish line is.” Just as those words left my mouth the ground around us darkened. If I was eating anything, I would have spat it out right then. Above us was a twenty-year-old relic, a zeppelin. 

“Cool, now we’re gunning for fourth.” Johannes rubbed his hand against his head. 

I went to reassure him, but I was interrupted by the radio, “My God! Someone else has broken through the crowd and is gaining on Laveau! It’s competitor 200362, Nerio Pinkerton!” 

“Hey, Johannes the announcer just said that Nerio is here." 

“Nerio? Let me guess, he’s already far ahead of anyone else?” 

“Yeah, looks like we’re fighting for fifth.” 

“Nerio?”

“Oh, right, you’ve never met him. He was a mercenary we worked with during the Continuation War.” 

“Mercenary? I didn’t know we hired any mercenaries.” Johannes looked at me. I shook my head.

If he doesn’t know now. . .

“We are clearly off to a wonderful start to this race!” The announcer continued, “Those two appear to be leagues above the others, and what a spectacle it would be to watch them battle for victory. Wait, hold on. . . I have just received news that Mr. Pinkerton and Ms. Laveau are both members of the same team. This really does put pressure on the other competitors. Can anyone but Dumont’s plane and Kober's. . .” 

He’s on a team with that other person who sprung ahead? Fourth it is. Though, why would he waste himself on this race?

“Hey, Urho, stop daydreaming about him and look,” Johannes pointed to our left where a plane was easing above the crowd, “She must be braver than I thought, taking off in the middle of all this.” 

Something wasn’t right with Dumont trying to take off this early. She was clearly capable of it, but a collision with any vehicle would destroy her chances at victory. I grabbed my rifle’s scope and aimed it towards the plane. Through the scope, I could see black drops fly out from the right wing. 

I panned the scope until I could see the cockpit window. Inside, one person was sat behind the controls. While I couldn't see them clearly, I could tell they weren't Dumont for two reasons. Firstly, they were wearing a wide-brimmed hat inside the plane, a hat that would only make it more difficult to see where they were flying. Second, and most damning, their fashion sense was extremely poncho-centric, a direct offense to Dumont’s normal French chic. 

Well, third place it is. Disappointing, but I could use the $12,000.

I am Urho Häyhä, and this race is how I discovered what I needed most.

Next

[subjectively-objective]

Arcana 99 - Ch. 2

A Technological Impossibility

What is this? Next

Of course, I had heard of the Grenfell-Maxwell Marathon. I tried my best to ignore the relentless ads, but they were well, relentless. Go to the theater? “In the news, the Grenfell-Maxwell Marathon promises to be the greatest event in history, bringing. . .” Read the paper? “Cash prizes will be provided to anyone who finishes. . .” Watch television? “Now a word from our sponsor, Mr. Grenfell and his wonderful race around the world! Have you ever dreamed of. . .” Go to a play?

PRINCE: “A glooming peace this morning with it brings; “The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head: “Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things; “Some shall be pardon'd, and some punished: “For never was a story of more woe “Than this of Juliet and her Romeo."

CAPULET: "May they be pardon’d first, and forgiven; “For how could their eyes have seen; “That every last of their wishes could be granted anon; “If they but won the Grenfell-Maxwell Marathon.”

Luckily for the actors, Romeo et. al was hardly Shakespeare's best work; frankly, it's his worst. I was only even there to mock the people going to the most mainstream Shakespearean play and still not being capable of understanding the words. As if I could understand that nonsense without help. If it had been Hamlet, though, the theater and the actors within would not be standing today.

Over the course of several months, I had unwillingly learned everything about the stupid marathon, but only one point interested me, the promise of a wish. I am a skeptic at heart, so I waited for proof to surface, and surprisingly, it did. Wishes were granted to a trio of randomly chosen volunteers. I watched the televised wish-granting hundreds of times, and through that research and some divination, I discovered that the wishes were truly granted to truly random people. Grenfell was legit. Well, as legit as a stranger claiming to have magical abilities could be.

It took a few days for me to fully decide on it, but in the end, I found myself in the Bonneville Salt Flats. If I couldn’t learn about magic at home, then Grenfell’s wish, or he himself, would have to suffice.

I signed in one hour before the race and was left to find my own starting position. There wasn’t a strict grid for starting positions, you only had to be behind the starting line, so I tried to find a good shady place for Zippy before the race started. There was obviously little in the way of shade in the salt flats, but I quickly noticed a plane towering over the cars dotted around it. I made my way towards it and let Zippy rest in the shadow of the plane’s wing.

Half an hour of meditation passed and ended when a woman spoke to me about where my teammate was, “He’s right here,” I said, patting my horse for emphasis.

The woman sighed, “Any mode of transportation is allowed, but animals cannot count as a teammate. You need a human partner.”

“What? I read the rules, and it only said that I needed a teammate, not a human teammate.”

She sighed again, considering how often she did it, she was either an expert or a hobbyist, “It was implied. Heavily implied. If you can’t find a partner in-”

I cut her off, I already knew what she was going to say, “Just sign me to be partnered with the next person without a team, and please, do it quickly, I have to make sure my horse is ready to run.” It didn’t matter how much dead weight my partner was, I would be more than capable of carrying them on my back.

The woman left with a final showcase of her favored action, and I started brushing Zippy. Less than a minute passed before a stranger interrupted me, “I’m Nerio, your new teammate.” I responded in turn and held out my hand.

“France?” He responded and extended his arm. I tried to initiate the handshake, but he had brought out the wrong arm. I had extended my right, and he his left.

Really? He’s going to do this stupid power move to make me change my hand when he’s the one who sent out the wrong one?

I looked at our mismatched arms, then at him. I needed to make it as obvious as possible that I knew what game he wanted to play and that I was not going to play it, so after a moment I looked at his right arm. All I could see was the empty sleeve of his jacket. We shook left hands.

“Actually, I’m from Australia. The French name is just a. . . thing,” I said, desperately trying to alleviate the tension I had made without admitting my mistake with an apology, “You?”

“Greece,” He was certainly good at moving on.

“Huh, I thought that name was Italian,” I said as I glanced to the sky. Judging from the position of the Sun it was 11:58, “We’ve got two minutes left, get on.”

“I was going to say the same thing,” He pointed to a motorcycle behind him.

Could you even steer a motorcycle with one arm?

I laughed, perhaps more than I should, and pointed out the obvious flaws with his vehicle. It could only last as long as he had gas, and he had brought no extra gas.

He marched back to his vehicle and said, “If you said that about any other bike, I’d agree with you, but mine is different. Your horse on the other hand. . . It may not need gas, but a horse just cannot compete with a machine, no matter how good the rider is.”

I am going to love every second of proving you wrong, no matter how right you should be.

I mounted my horse to hide the smile I was certain had appeared. Despite being a minute away from destroying his worldview, I couldn’t wait to begin, “If you said that about any other horse, I’d agree with you, but we are different.”

A shadow covered drifted over me and my horse. Looking up, I saw a grey shape floating in the sky. I had heard that someone was going to use a zeppelin in the race, but I thought it was hyperbole. From where I was, it looked tiny, but the vessel was still a quarter-mile long and just silently floating as if it could just ignore gravity. Truly the closest they ever got to true magic.

A voice filled the canyon and brought my admiration to an end. The race had started. The ground came alive as hundreds of thousands of cars screamed to action and fought for dominance. I could barely see beyond my horse due to the dust kicked up by millions of tires. I urged my horse on, and as expected I quickly fell behind the other vehicles, but it was only temporary. I wiped a drop of sweat from my brow, placed it upon my horse’s back, and placed both my hands above it.

Arcana Fourteen: Enhancement, speed and endurance.

Aided by my magic, Zippy launched through the dust cloud and past the sea of vehicles spread out before me. A moment later I broke through the ocean of dust and saw the open world before me; however, I couldn’t appreciate the scenery as both ground and sky became a blur. I had already traveled ten miles, and Zippy was beginning to tire. I placed the index and middle fingers of both my hands on either side of my horse.

Arcana Thirteen: Revitalization.

The horse's breathing calmed, and he resumed his speed. I looked at the people behind me, hoping to catch a glimpse of my teammate trailing behind.

I won’t see him, probably because he is losing ground right this second. I can’t go too far ahead though, I still need to pick him up when he realizes my horse is leagues above whatever assembly-line trash he’s riding.

Despite my negative thoughts towards his vehicle’s ability to compete, I saw him just fine. Not only had he broken ahead of the pack, but he had also caught up to me to the point that I could see his empty sleeve flapping in the wind, a triumphant standard declaring his victory over all those behind him, and his desire to add me to the long list. Seeing that he was clearly no relative of mine, he shouldn’t have any magic within him. That meant that his speed was purely mechanical. I drew a circle on my palm and faced it into the wind.

Arcana Three: Communication.

The wind told me that I was going ninety-four miles per hour, yet he was still gaining on me.

Nothing should be able to compete with the arcane except the arcane. Yet. . .

To say that this stranger being able to effortlessly keep up with the world’s greatest magician hurt my pride would be completely ignoring just how much it pissed me off. I pushed my horse a little harder (and used the thirteenth arcana again just to be sure). The wind said I was topping one-hundred thirty miles per hour, well beyond what any ordinary motorcycle could go even temporarily. This speed was unsustainable, but I only needed to keep it up until I reached the edge of the salt flats; I only needed to keep it up until I proved him inferior. I glanced behind myself to see his shrinking form, except it was growing.

Just how powerful is his damn motorcycle?

The current record for a two-wheeled vehicle is barely any faster than what we’re going, and that bike could hardly be called a motorcycle. It had a smooth shell built around it. A vehicle that can cut through the air like that at that speed without such a shell is impossible even less so one that can be driven with one arm. The easy explanation is magic, but I’m the only one on the planet. At least, the only one of consequence. So, who is he that has that impossible machine that can rival the very forces of. . . whatever forces drive magic?

He is Nerio Pinkerton, and this race is how he regained his humanity.

Next

[subjectively-objective]

Found these in the store today. Still looking for Mission 3, and a Powerjet so I can play.

[subjectively-objective]

Unwise thoughts swell into tempests within me. . .

I mustn't...