#Out-of-Distribution Queries

[govindhtech]

LeanVec Improves Out-of-Distribution Vector Search Accuracy

Intel LeanVec Conquer Vector Search with Smart Dimensionality Reduction

The last essay in this series highlighted how vector search is essential in many applications that need precise and fast replies. Vector search systems often perform poorly due to memory and computation strain from large vector dimensionality. Also common are cross-modal retrieval tasks, such as those in which a user provides a text query to find the most relevant photographs.

These searches often have statistical distributions that differ from database embeddings, making accuracy problematic. Intel's LeanVec integrates dimensionality reduction and vector quantisation to speed up vector search on huge vectors while retaining accuracy in out-of-distribution queries.

Introduction

Recently, deep learning models have enhanced their capacity to construct high-dimensional embedding vectors whose spatial similarities match inputs including pictures, music, video, text, genomics, and computer code. This capability allows programs to explore massive vector collections for semantically meaningful results by finding the closest neighbours to a query vector. Even though similarity search has improved, modern vector indices perform poorly as dimensionality increases.

The most frequent are graph indices, which are directed graphs with edges indicating vector neighbor-relationships and vertices representing dataset vectors. Graph traversal is effective to find nearest neighbours in sub-linear time.

Graph-based indices excel at small dimensionalities (D = 100) but struggle with deep learning model dimensionalities (D ≈ 512, 768, 1536). If deep learning model-derived vectors dominate similarity search deployments, eliminating this performance gap is crucial.

This graph search speed drop is caused by the system's memory latency and bandwidth, which are largely utilised to fetch database vectors from memory randomly. Vector compression sounds like a decent technique to minimise memory strain, however PQ and SCANN either don't compress sufficiently or perform poorly due to irregular memory access patterns.

The Out-of-Distribution Queries Challenge

The queries are out-of-distribution (OOD) when the database and query vector statistical distributions diverge, making vector compression harder. Unfortunately, two modern programs often do this. The first is cross-modal searching, when a user queries one modality to return relevant elements from another. Word searches help text2image find thematically similar pictures. Second, many models, including question-answering ones, may create queries and database vectors.

A two-dimensional example shows the importance of query-aware dimensionality reduction for maximum inner product search. For a query-agnostic method like PCA, projecting the database (𝒳) and query (Q) vectors onto the first main axis (large green arrow) is recommended. This selection will lower inner product resolution since this path is opposing Q's principal axis (orange arrow). Furthermore, the helpful direction (the second primary axis of 𝒳) is gone.

A Lightweight Dimensionality Reduction Method

To speed up similarity search for deep learning embedding vectors, LeanVec approximates the inner product of a database vector x and a query q.

How projection works LVQ reduces the number of bits per entry, whereas DRquery and DRDB reduce vector dimensionality. As shown in Figure, LeanVec down-projects query and database vectors using linear functions DRquery and DRDB.

Each database vector x is compressed twice via LeanVec:

First vector LVQ(DRDB(x)). Inner-product approximation is semi-accurate.

LVQ(x), secondary vector. An appropriate description is the inner-product approximation.

The graph is built and searched using main vectors. Intel experiments show that the graph construction resists LVQ quantisation and dimensionality reduction. Only secondary vectors are searched.

The graph index is searched using main vectors. Less memory footprint reduces vector retrieval time. Due to its decreased dimensionality, the approach requires fewer fused multiply-add operations, reducing processing effort. This approximation is ideal for graph search's random memory-access pattern because it permits inner product calculations with individual database vectors without batch processing.

Intel compensates for inner-product approximation errors by collecting additional candidates and reranking them using secondary vectors to return the top-k. Because query dimensionality reduction (i.e., computing f(q)) is only done once per search, there is some runtime overhead.

Searches are essential to graph formation. Intel's search acceleration directly affects graph construction.

LeanVec learns DRquery and DRDB from data using novel mathematical optimisation algorithms. Because these methods are computationally efficient, their execution time depends on the number of dimensions, not vectors. The approaches additionally consider the statistical distributions of a small sample of typical query vectors and database vectors.

Findings

The results are obvious. LeanVec improves SVS performance, exceeding the top open-source version of a top-performing algorithm (HNSWlib). The reduction in per-query memory capacity increases query speed approximately 4-fold with the same recall (95% 10 recall@10).

Conclusion

LeanVec uses linear dimensionality reduction and vector quantisation to speed up similarity searches on modern embedding models' high-dimensional vectors. As with text2image and question-answering systems, LeanVec excels when enquiries are out of distribution.

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Chapter 34

Series Masterlist

Warnings: Postpartum depression; allusions to child abuse; perceived child abuse - read with care

A/N: I am so sorry it has taken me this long! The move has really done a number on my mental health and I've been struggling to write anything substantial. I've taken some serious liberties with Georgia weather. If you noticed, no you didn't. Lol I don't hate Rick. His mindset isn't the greatest at this point. We know that. Just making sure everyone is aware that I love our deputy. Post partum depression is a real thing and it sucks. This chapter has some really angsty, dark tones, and should be read with care, especially toward the end (beginning at “Oh,hey.” She greeted, patting the ground next to her). I did lots of research and sadly, what transpires is a real thing that people do for reasons that aren't necessary. Please try to give Carol and reader some grace given the circumstances. But if you're sensitive to anything dealing with making a child uncomfortable, you might want to skip this. It gets a little heavy. I would be happy to give you a summary of what is happening if you would rather skip the last few paragraphs (see above where to stop reading). Just message me.

I love you all! Thank you for your patience with me.

You weren’t sure when it happened, when the switch flipped or the dial turned. All you knew is that every single time your daughter cried, you wanted to break down and sob with her. When you held her to your breast, you couldn’t look at her. You left her with Lori or Carol more and more, the looks they gave you annoyingly understanding. When you would hand her off to Daryl and walk away, you couldn’t bear to see that expression of befuddled dismalness. 

“Postpartum depression.” Carol finally said one bitterly cold morning. She was changing Birdie with swift movements, eager to shield her from the drafty atmosphere of the warehouse. 

You had your back to her—your face in your hands—while you silently cried, two small bottles of breast milk sitting at your feet, still attached to the manual pumps. Sniffling, you glanced over your shoulder just as she placed the shifting blanketed bundle against her shoulder. “I hate my baby, Carol.” You whimpered. “That’s more than depression.”

The silver-haired lady shook her head. “Honey, I promise you don’t hate her.” 

“I don’t want anything to do with her.” You bit back with more vexation than you had intended. “I can’t stand it when she cries. I just want Daryl to keep her away from me.” When she tilted her lips with that gentle smile, it took all you had not to chuck one of the bottles at her. What was wrong with you? Could she be right? Were you depressed?

“I went through this, sweetheart. It will pass.” When she offered you little Birdie, you reeled. “You can’t keep avoiding her.” She was right and you hated it. With a huffing breath, you accepted your daughter, distributing her small weight across your arm for her head to rest in the crook of your elbow. “I have an idea.”

You heaved a sigh, not really interested in whatever it was that Carol was going to suggest. You had to stop taking your frustrations out on the woman. And Lori. And Daryl. And especially little Birdie. She was perfect and you knew in your heart of hearts that you could never truly harbor anything other than unrelenting love for her. Yes. Carol was right. You were definitely depressed. 

“What?” You finally queried. 

“What’re you two doin’ in here?” You heard Daryl’s boots crossing the concrete floor until they stopped just behind you. His lips pressed gently against the crown of your head. “Hey.” You said nothing. So much for not taking things out on your fiancé. 

“Daryl, right on time.” Carol beamed. 

“For what?” The confusion was evident in his tone.

“Y/N pumped some milk for the baby. It won’t keep unless we get more snow and can store it in the drifts.” She informed. “Why don’t you feed the baby?”

“Feed ‘er? Like with a bottle?”

“Unless you’re miraculously lactating, yes. With a bottle.” There was a hint of jocularity in her tone. You could almost feel his glare without turning. 

“I mean—yeah, okay.” Annoyance momentarily forgotten, you focused on the uncertainty in your partner’s voice. You didn’t miss the tremble. Neither did Carol. 

“You’re gonna be fine, Daryl.” She said encouragingly. 

“Ain’t me m’worried ‘bout.” The archer mumbled as he circled around you. He was hesitant in reaching for Birdie, but took her into his arms immediately when you sat up straighter and shifted her. The movement must have upset your daughter, her little limbs flailing as Daryl positioned her in the bend of his arm. “Ain’t no need for all that fussin’, lil Bird. You’re gonna get fed.” His throat worked as he swallowed. “By somebody. May not be me after I screw this up.”

You rolled your eyes. “You’re better with her than you give yourself credit for.” It came out flat and harsh, your default setting as of late. Still, one look at the expression that decorated Daryl’s features, you found yourself ashamed. “You’re a great father.” You added, softer and with sincerity. 

Daryl held your gaze and, for a moment,—for the first time in a long time—it was uncomfortable. When he nodded and turned to Carol, you were able to exhale, though your stomach remained in knots. 

“Gimme the thing, I guess.” He held out a hand and looked down at his daughter, her little face reddening. Her mouth opened with the slightest squeak. She was two seconds from shrieking. “Keep your diaper on, lil’ girl. It’s comin’.” Daryl gingerly bounced his arm, Birdie’s features smoothing out for a moment, just long enough for Carol to hand over the bottle. 

You found yourself leaning forward, biting your lip as if ready to spring into applause when he accomplished the “impossible” task. When you caught his gaze, both of you looking up at the same time, you sat back and cleared your throat. When had things become so awkward between the two of you? It was almost unbearable. 

“Tilt her up just a little.” Carol instructed. “Touch the nipple to her lip, she’ll—there you go.”

You heard the soft snort of Daryl’s laugh and let your eyes travel from Birdie—now happily suckling away at the bottle—to your fiance. His eyes were soft but excited, sparkling in a way you’d never before seen. His lips were tilted upward, only the slightest fraction. Smiling suited him. You wished he’d do it more often. 

“Told ya that ya wasn’t gonna starve. Slow down. Ain’t no one gonna take it away.” He babbled, scrunching his nose with that smile still adorned. Was he even aware that he was lowering himself to sit cross-legged on the floor in front of you? You didn’t think so. At that moment, no one else existed to him; just a father and his little bird. 

You only felt the smile on your own face when you looked over to find Carol watching not Daryl and Birdie but you. With a soft, knowing expression, she mouthed see? And see, you did. You nodded, tears stinging behind your eyes. The room was silent aside from Birdie’s gulps and breaths and squeaks, and for moment, you thought:

Everything’s gonna be just fine.

If only you knew just how wrong you were.

“We can’t have her crying like this!” Rick was swiping a hand roughly over his tired face, looking haggard. Things between him and Lori were not improving. They seemed to only be worsening. Even Daryl had called out the deputy’s behavior once or twice in the last two weeks. The archer was currently glaring daggers while he rubbed a fingerless-gloved hand over Birdie’s back through the sling that held her to your chest. 

The loss of the warehouse had been tough on everyone, but you and your baby were affected the most. Your mood swings were only growing worse, though less and less toward the little one in your arms and more toward the adults that were only trying to help you. In turn, Birdie remained in a constant state of inconsolable. Hershel had thrown around words like colic and had Daryl dosing out gas drops to the little one but nothing seemed to soothe her.

The cars had run out of gas, as well as Daryl’s bike. The archer had pushed the motorcycle along for a time before he declared that he couldn’t protect Birdie if he was too busy hauling a damn bike. He had hidden it under some brush, easy to be tracked back to later. It was Merle’s bike and you knew what it meant to him. However, Birdie meant more. Much, much more and he would crawl into hell and back for the little girl strapped to your front.

“She’s a baby, man. How else she s’posed to let us know she’s needin’ something?” Daryl snapped, his voice intentionally higher to be heard over your daughter’s cries. 

“Daryl, you know this isn’t safe! She’s gonna bring every walker for miles down on us!” Rick threw out an arm, gesturing broadly. “Or—or the living! You saw what they would do!”

“Ain’t much we can do! She ain’t hungry! She ain’t needin’ changed! She’s just pissed off an’ I ain’t far away from bein’ right there with ‘er!”

“Boys.” Lori admonished, squeezing your shoulder. When had you started to tremble? “All this negative energy isn’t helping.”

“She’s right.” Hershel agreed, adjusting his gloves. “Babies are incredibly intuitive.”

“We just need to find fuel—cars.” Rick sniffed, hands on his hips. “We’re sitting ducks like this.” His eyes met Daryl’s in a heated challenge.

After an intense staredown, it was surprisingly Daryl who backed down first but not without a menacing growl. Turning to place his body between you and Rick, he brushed his bare fingertips over Birdie’s hooded head and then across your jaw. “Y’want me to take ‘er for a bit?”

You shook your head even as the temptation beckoned you to acquiesce. “I don’t think jostling her would help right now.” A single tear trailed down your cheek. As much as it pained you to admit, Rick was right, but how could you coax your baby to stop her noises of discomfort when you had no idea what was ailing her? Daryl used his thumb to swipe away the moisture, his expression equal parts distress and sadness. He clearly felt as helpless as you did.

“S’take a break.” He said suddenly, ushering you to a nearby log. Lori was immediately lowering herself beside you with a great deal of difficulty given her round belly. You could sympathize with her struggle, having been there not so long ago yourself. Her hand came to rest on the back of your head with loving strokes meant to soothe your nerves.

“I think that’s a great idea.” She agreed, offering you a gentle smile when you searched out her gaze. After a moment, you nodded and began to remove Birdie from her sling. Carol appeared with an extra blanket to cover you and shield the baby from the cold as you tried to nurse her. Daryl was hovering, shifting from foot to foot with his fingers digging into the strap of his crossbow. As much as you loved the man, his nervous energy wasn’t helping things in the slightest. 

“Why don’t you go hunting?” You suggested, reveling in the relief when Birdie quickly latched and her wailing ceased. Her little hiccups around enthusiastic gulps remained heartbreaking. The past few days had seen you begin to settle though the fraying of your nerves lingered. At least you were now aware of how much you loved your daughter and that you wouldn’t change a single moment that brought her barreling into your life. 

Daryl quickly shook his head in refusal, his already white-knuckled grip on that strap growing impossibly tighter. “Can’t leave ya here like this.”

You bit back the urge to yell at him, make the demand that he go. He meant well. “Please?” He wrestled with indecision, his expression damn near crumbling before he skillfully schooled it with a sigh.

“Fine.” He huffed at the same time that he took a single step toward you. He seemed to think better of it and turned on a heel while stripping his weapon from his back. “Be back in a hour an’ we can move on.” You knew as well as he did that there was little to no game to satisfy the group’s hunger. He was only trying to placate you. The two of you needed time alone, needed to talk and work through the tension between you. 

With an inward sigh, you watched him disappear into the trees and shushed Birdie when she released your nipple and began to squirm and fuss. 

“So,” Lori began, “am I looking at the future Mrs. Dixon?” Her question caught you off guard, your eyes shooting wide even as you stared straight ahead. Only when she tapped the back of her hand against your arm did you acknowledge her and her request to take Birdie. Passing the baby off, you adjust your clothing and draped the extra blanket over your daughter.

“How did you—”

“He asked my advice.” Lori carefully arranged Birdie against the front of her shoulder, alternating between patting and rubbing the little one’s back. Tiny grunts and squeaks sounded from beneath the blanket, an audible passing of gas following close behind. The experienced mother turned toward where Hershel had sat to rest as well. “Maybe a touch of colic?” There was that word again. 

The older man hummed. “Could be. I’ll fetch the drops.” You felt bad watching him struggle to his feet from the forest floor, but couldn’t be persuaded to do so yourself. You were just too damn tired.

“What is colic?” You asked, your brow drawing inward. It was obviously not a danger to your baby, given Hershel’s lack of serious concern, but if something was hurting her, it was hurting you. The very thought of her pain had tears springing to your eyes.

“It just means that she’s uncomfortable. It might be the lack of protein in your diet. It could be gas. There’s no real explanation. She’s just—not feeling well. It’s nothing to worry about except she won’t be easily soothed for a while.” Her lips thinned into a sad smile. “It’s nothing and a lot all at once.”

“I’ll take her.” Carol offered whilst petting your hair as Lori had just a few moments prior. Extricating Birdie from Lori’s arms, she bounced the infant tenderly against her chest. “Y/N, will you come find me once you’ve finished up here?” Sporting a questioning look, you still nodded and watched her walk away after returning the gesture.

“He asked your advice?” You stared toward the empty space of Carol’s retreat for a moment longer before turning your attention to Lori. This time, her smile was genuine if not cheeky. 

“He did.”

“Hey—Hey, uh, can I ask ya somethin’?” 

She hadn’t really noticed Daryl approaching but that wasn’t surprising. He was a hunter and stealth was something in which he excelled. Lori paused in her stirring and tapped the spoon on the side of the kettle. The beans had yet to even begin to heat over the small fire inside the house, so she had a few minutes to spare.

“Of course.”

Daryl had changed so much over the course of the months he had been with the group, and she had you to thank for such a large part of that. And now, she had little Birdie to thank as well. The man was going to make an excellent father, despite his lack of confidence.Though she knew so little, she was aware he wrestled with unnamed demons, but you were there to help see him through it. He would be just fine. All three of you would.

“I, uh—well—” The archer rubbed at the back of his neck, something she noticed he did when he was uncomfortable. “Ain’t good at any’a this shit, so m’just gonna say it.” Lori raised her eyebrows when he paused to chew intently on the side of his thumb. “Wanna ask Y/N to, y’know—to marry me.” Her first instinct was to cheer, to celebrate his commitment, but thoughts of Rick—of Shane—trampled any immediate joy and ushered in skepticism. “You’re sure?”

Daryl scoffed. “Course m’sure! Lookit what she went through—what she just did for me. Why wouldn’t I wanna make ‘er my wife?” The confusion—the utter exasperation—on his face gave her pause but she continued.

“But do you love her?” She asked. Daryl wiped a hand down his face, ending with running the length of his index finger across his bottom lip. “It’s not a hard question, Daryl. Do you love her?” She didn’t realize—or maybe she did—how difficult it was for the man to admit something that deep to anyone but you. She wasn’t aware that he had said it before, had said it in the van, in the presence of the Greene’s and Carol, but whether or not they had heard was not something he had bothered to care about during that pivotal moment. 

Finally, Daryl sighed, his voice quiet. “I love ‘er. Yeah.”

Lori felt something in her chest release, a strong sense of relief and—if she were being honest—jealousy overwhelming her senses, making it impossible to speak for a moment. Gathering her bearings, she nodded and turned back to the pot, picking up the spoon to begin stirring. “Then you just ask her.” She sniffed, tilting her head just so in order to hide her tears from him. She was happy for you, compellingly so, but there was no denying the sadness that weighed on her own heart. Still, this wasn’t about her. This was about you—her friend. “Don’t rehearse lines or try to make it perfect. You just ask her. On the spot and from the heart.”

She heard the quiet hum from the side. It was the most straightforward form of acceptance toward her answer that she was bound to get from him. As his bootfalls receded into whispers on far away hardwood, she smiled.

Try or not, he was going to make it something that would mean the world to you.

You wiped away a tear and sniffled, consumed with a fresh wave of guilt for how you had been treating him as of late. He was handling your mood swings with grace, never lashing out, even if you did see him bite his tongue on more than one occasion. He had every right. Hormones or not, he deserved better than what you had been giving him.

“Thanks.” You whispered.

“So?”

You sniffled a second time, wiping at both of your eyes. “So what?”

Lori chuckled, her hands on either side of her belly. “Did you say yes?” 

You smiled and shook your head, recalling the moment to the forefront of your mind—hearing his tone, summoning the myriad of emotions you had experienced. It really was a Daryl Dixon proposal and it couldn’t have been more perfect. “I said yes.” You gave an indignant oomf as you were pulled against Lori, her arms squeezing as tightly as they could manage. “Wait, wait, wait.” You laughed, patting her back in an effort to coerce her into releasing her hold. When she let go, you sat back, expression light. “We’re keeping it quiet for now, making it official later.”

“Why?”

You shrugged. “A lot can happen in a short amount of time. He could change his mind.” Especially with these fucking mood changes. 

“You’re right.” She agreed. You shot her a look, almost as if you had been expecting her to disagree with you. “ A lot can change. We don’t know what’s going to happen even in the next few minutes.” She paused. “Who we might lose.” Leaning forward, she cupped your face and pressed a kiss to your forehead. “Think about it.” You studied her for a moment, the sadness and apprehension radiating from your friend and forming a veil over you that was almost smothering. You nodded. “Good. Now go see what Carol wants. I think I need a nap.” She gave you an encouraging smile and didn’t move as you stood, looking over your shoulder at her before you disappeared to find the other woman and your daughter.

It wasn’t hard to do. Not at all. You just followed the loud exclamations of a disgruntled infant. As you approached, you could tell your daughter had just been given a fresh diaper and was in the process of being swaddled. The cold, flat ground beneath her couldn’t have been helping things. The weather was warming but at a slow rate Regardless, you had no idea what was coming next: what Carol would share with you and the disaster that would follow.

“Oh, hey.” She greeted, patting the ground next to her. The lack of her usual gentle tone and welcoming smile were your first clues that something was amiss. She sighed heavily, not meeting your eyes once you were cross-legged at her side. Her hand was splayed over the top of the blanket, gently rubbing circles over Birdie’s belly. “There’s something I want to tell you—advice, if I can even call it that.” She said solemnly. You weren’t sure where her thoughts were at that moment but it was somewhere dark, somewhere in a place she had deserted since the deaths of Ed and Sophia.

“What is it?” You needlessly adjusted the knit hat on Birdie’s head; pulled the hood of the tiny jumpsuit more snug around her little round face.

“Babies cry, Y/N. It’s how they tell us when they need something. It’s the only way they can tell us.” Why was she schooling you on something you had already learned? And in such a monotonous fashion? “I don’t want Rick to be right but there are dangers and few options if a herd follows the noise.” She sighed heavily, her shoulders held slumped under an invisible weight. “I don’t like it but it’s fact.”

“I know that, Carol.” 

“It’s just—” When you looked away from the baby, your gaze was immediately drawn to the lone tear straying from her closed eyes. “When Sophia was born, she was—she was such a quiet baby.” Her words came so softly, so full of melancholic nostalgia that you felt your own heart clench. Then, when her eyes opened, they were hard, her expression stern and twisted. “He gave me a break. Ed.” She didn’t even need to say his name. You knew. “A couple of weeks before the—old habits came back. The bruises, the screaming.” She was trembling, her hand leaving Birdie to curl into a fist on top of her knee.

“Carol, we don’t have to—”

“Sophia felt it.” She nodded, staring off to nowhere in particular. “That energy—she began to cry, she was so unsettled. Ed didn’t like it. Shut her up or I will, he would say.” She bent forward, her face crumbling as her hand slid up to twist into the front of her jacket. “I didn’t want to do it, but I didn’t know how else to keep her safe.”

You waited her out, terrified of what she was about to tell you. When you said nothing, she inhaled deeply and released her hold on the coat, stroking the back of a knuckle over Birdie’s cheek.

“Y/N, I am going to show you something. I only ask that you please try not to think less of me.” Your mouth was moving but no sound emerging, your wide eyes watching her lean over your daughter, shushing the discontented cries. “I would never hurt your daughter, just as I would have never hurt my own.” Before you could speak, she was pinching Birdie’s little nose with one hand and covering her mouth with the other. The crying ceased but the flailing did not, her little limbs jerking.

“Carol!” You threw yourself forward and snatched her wrists, pulling them away from your daughter, throwing the other woman off balance and onto her hip. Carol caught herself, her palm shoving toward you in a desperate gesture for you to calm down. “What the fu—”

“Look!” She pleaded, her head jerking toward the now silent baby.

Birdie was still, her tiny blue eyes open and searching, stunned. She wasn’t crying, not at that moment. Your jaw was agape, your mind warring between anger and bewilderment; between betrayal and understanding.

“You only do it for a moment, not long enough to cause any harm.” Carol sat up, tears flowing down her cheeks, unchecked. “I couldn’t let Sophia cry. I did what I had to do.” She shook her head adamantly, her eyes closed tightly as if she were trying to jar the unpleasant memories loose and out of her mind. “I don’t regret it. I don’t. She was safe from him.”

“I don’t—Carol, I can’t do that.” You were crying openly now, picturing yourself denying your daughter precious breath. Even just one attempt would break you, split you open from the inside out.

“I’m not telling you that you have to, but Y/N,” she paused, gathering herself back up onto her knees at your side. She intentionally kept space between the two of you. “Rick—he’s trying to keep us safe. You saw what those monsters were going to do to her. You’ve seen what walkers can and will do. Just until we find a car. Until—”

Your face was in your hands now, Birdie’s crying having picked back up. “What if I—”

“Only a moment, Y/N. She will catch her breath. Eventually, it—it trains her.” Carol hesitantly touched your shoulder, and you broke, bowing over your little one with open sobs. Your body trembled from the force of your crying, any sound muffled by the blanket pressing into your face. “I’m so sorry. I just want her to be safe. I want her to have a chance.”

The two of you stayed that way for an uncertain amount of time, long enough for your sobs to drain away into hiccups and whimpers. Sitting up, you roughly wiped at your face, red and puffy eyes frozen on your screaming baby. How could you do what she was suggesting? How? What would Daryl think? “I need to talk to Daryl.”

Carol nodded, but her expression screamed uncertainty. “Maybe you should show him.” She suggested. “He can see that it’s not hurting her.”

“The man wouldn’t even wipe her ass because he was afraid of hurting her, Carol.”

“You’re right. Maybe this was a bad idea. I shouldn’t have—I’m so sorry.”

She felt ashamed. You could see it all over her; her face, the way she began to curl in on herself. She was ashamed of something she was forced to do to keep her baby girl safe. And then she had lost Sophia. It was clear that Carol wasn’t proud of the way she had to ensure her child’s safety. It wasn’t a hack you go around bragging about at neighborhood get-togethers. It was survival.

“Show me what to do.”

Expression grim, Carol moved closer and instructed. The actions were so simple. It was the very idea itself that was so impossibly difficult. Pinching Birdie’s little nose, the baby gasped wetly through her mouth just as your hand was coming down to cover it. Your heart was seizing, vibrating painfully in your chest. Just as your fingertips touched her cheek—

“What the fuck are you doin’?!”

Daryl.

[jasminewalkerauthor]

So you've wrote a book, what's next?

So I recently started uni and naturally immediately joined my universities writing and book societies, last week I was sat editing my book when a couple of people approached me. Apparently through some light instagram stalking they had found out I published books and was wondering how on earth do you even do it.

Upon being on tumblr this week it turns out that this is a question that a lot of people are interested in, this being probably my most requested post ever?

ANYWAY. You've wrote a book, either you're two drafts in or fifty drafts in it doesn't entirely matter. I am going to give you the bad news that the work has only just begun.

The first choice you really need to make is whether or not you want to pursue traditional publishing or self/indie publishing. I believe the common misconception of the difference between the two is that one is 'Easier' than the other. Both are hard, just in different ways.

Traditional publishing is hard to break into, you need to convince enough of people that your book is worth selling which can be incredibly difficult and results in a lot of heartbreaking emails. However once you have that publishing deal you have those people in your corner to help with editing, cover design, and distribution among other things.

Self publishing, much like the name suggests, means that you have to do everything yourself, edit (or source an editor), design (or source a designer), marketing, the works. However the plus side of self publishing which I like is that you have a lot more creative control and freedom.

Now to be fully transparent, I am an indie author, naturally I am going to know a lot more about a process I have actually gone through rather than one I havent. However I do believe I can provide at least a rough guideline of the process so that people can get an idea of what going into it.

So starting with traditional publishing, assuming that you have a full draft that you've at least done some self editing on, your first step is finding an agent. You'll need a couple of things for this. First is make a document of the first 30 pages of your manuscript (a 'sample' if you will), and a query letter which is almost like a cover letter for your book, this is what potential agents will look at to judge whether they want to represent your manuscript.

I dont think I need to say it but your query letter is VITAL, please take time with it, some agents may not even look at your sample if your query letter is bad.

Now, searching for agents is relatively easy, there are a lot of databases online that will give you a list of agents and whether or not they are accepting submissions. Most agents will also have a kind of 'wishlist' of manuscripts they're looking to represent (e.g. sci-fi, philosophy, high fantasy), look for agents with a wishlist that includes your kind of book.

Once you have an agent they will be able to go to different publishing houses with your manuscript, hopefully leading to a book deal at some point. From there the publishers will help with editing, design, and distribution.

With self publishing the process is a bit more complicated. First is the editing process. Either you can edit your own manuscript if you feel up to it or you can source an editor. There are three different editors you can hire: Developmental editor, Line editor, and Proof reader. Almost every editor charges per word of your manuscript.

I would also recommend looking for Beta readers, these are readers who will read through an early copy of your manuscript for feedback (These are NOT editors, more reviewers). There are also ARC readers who you send an early copy to about 2-3 months before release to build interest in your book.

When it comes to the actual publishing itself, there are two main publishing platforms: kdp and ingram spark. Both of these are three besides the fact that you will need to buy an ISPN for your book to use ingram spark.

I think i'll leave it there because this is LONG, but i may turn this into a series, what do y'all want to know about?

[tanadrin]

I think what stress me out about AI currently is that the companies pushing it are not being honest about its limitations and a lot of people using it are not thinking critically about its output and taking everything it says at face value.

Rolling stone recently had a really good article about AI feeding into psychosis and i think that is the tip of the iceberg.

AI hit the general population very quickly and very uncritically for capitalism reasons and i think we will eventually work out the problems and it will provide great benefit but it rolled out in about the worst way it could have.

I can’t say i have used a representative sample of all gen AI. I’ve only used ChatGPT a bit and now Claude; Anthropic’s interface for the latter seems to stress quite clearly what kind of queries tend to be useful and what not, though, and to emphasize that Claude is fallible.

AI psychosis, deepfake porn of real people, CSAM, and similar problems are very real. People not understanding the limits of technology is a problem. But people have used the internet to harass people and distribute revenge porn; people have fallen for bullshit on television because it was presented in an authoritative format. We should be concerned about these problems but not panic more so than we might about similar problems with other technologies, i guess is my point. And i think these are problems inherent to easing costs of information creation and distribution generally. You would get them in one form or another even in the absence of capitalism. Indeed, the evil capitalists mostly try very hard to lock down their AI behind restrictive usage policies; afaict it’s the open source and freely distributed models you usually have to turn to if you want to easily generate (say) porn using the faces of real people.

[shirohige-pirates]

Solicitude

Victorian AU - inspired heavily by @hannahbarberra162's Hysteria series.

Marco/Reader

Summary: You meet Marco Edward during your debutante ball when you're 17, and marry him shortly after your 18th birthday. Agreements are reached in writing, but you realize quickly how much space exists within the lines. Will you be able to bend within the lines you drew yourself? Or will you break against edges you never imagined?

CW: Dark dark content. Misogyny, age gap, power struggle, dub con, non con, coercion, yandere, kidnapping, abuse, group sex, abuse of power, bondage, rough sex, oral, kink, bdsm dungeon, impact play, degradation, praise, gags, humiliation, you kind of unknowingly sign yourself over for free use and don't realize it until it's too late, mdni, DEAD DOVE YOU HAVE BEEN WARNED.

Chapter 2: Proposals

Knowing one of the reasons for your débutante ball was to find a suitable suitor, you weren’t surprised when you were called into your father’s office and found your mother in there with him. There were several folders on your father’s desk, and he slid them toward you when you sat down.

“You’re of course welcome to review all the candidates,” he clarifies as you regard the small stack. “But this is what your mother and I narrowed things down to.”

“You don’t have to pick anyone either,” your mother adds, placing a warm hand on your arm. “We appreciate your willingness with all of this, but your father and I want you to be happy first and foremost.”

You smile somberly. “It does feel a bit… transactional.” Opening the first folder you see a portrait of Shanks. His smile isn’t nearly as bright as it was during the ball, but even the best cameras still required a couple moments of exposure to work. “But I want to give it my best.”

A bright smile was hard to hold for that long without looking a bit manic.

Still, you smile at the face looking back at you and almost laugh when you see paperwork to go with it. When you told your parents you were willing to marry for the sake of the family, and not just your own love, you knew it was going to require taking the other person’s family and business into account. Objectively, seeing that information laid out like a dossier made the most sense, but seeing it with your own two eyes was still a little surreal.

Shanks was from an old family, and most of their money came from crops and distribution.

“They went from war machines to farm machines,” your father says as you reach the same part of the file. “Shanks’ father made the transition thirty years ago and he’s taken over since. Cheerful fellow.”

“Drinks a bit much,” your mother adds, and your father gives a small nod of agreement. “Though he does seem to handle it.”

You hum, setting the file down and picking up the next one. Drinking wasn’t an issue for you, as long as the one doing the drinking didn’t become violent or unreasonable from it. The next one was Sanji’s picture, and you barely glanced at it before closing the folder and setting it aside.

“Oh.” Your mother gave you a soft smile when you looked up at her. “That was quite the definitive response.”

“He was very polite,” you assert, reaching for the next folder. “But either his heart or his hopes are elsewhere, and I don’t think I could help him.”

“Your sister said something similar during the ball,” your mother muses, waving away your querying look. “Just that he seemed distracted.”

Opening the next folder you flinch despite yourself. Even as you look at the face looking back at you, almost disinterestedly it seems, you aren’t sure if you flinched because of a negative response or a positive one.

“Dr. Marco Edward, head of Sphinx Sanatorium,” your father says as you pull your eyes away from a gaze that seems to demand your attention. “While they specialize in treating hysteria and other traumas, they do tend to a wide range of ailments with great success.” He clears his throat as you begin to flip through the pages.

Your father clears his throat before continuing, pulling your attention away from the impressive data before you and toward him.

“Mr. Edward’s family and I have been speaking in-depth since the ball about a merger between our two families. As your mother and I have said, we shan’t force you or your sister into anything, but if you have no interest in Mr. Edward, we will put the proposition before your sister.” He doesn’t say it as a warning, or with an apologetic tone, but with the even and careful timbre of a business statement.

“You seem to have made quite the impression on him,” your mother adds when you go back to looking at the file. “It was mentioned that there are many eligible sons within the family, and he was rather insistent concerning you.”

“Rightly so, I had not expected a man like him to blush,” your father chuckles as your mother scolds him for telling on the young man like that.

Young man. Marco was twelve years your senior according to the information in front of you. Not an unheard of difference in age between two adults. If not you, then your sister, two years younger. The additional two years difference unsettled you for some reason, though it was less the age itself and more the amount of time he would have to ingratiate himself.

Your brows furrow, and you scold yourself. You hardly know Marco Edward, and while your intuition was often correct, it wasn’t flawless. You needed to know more.

“Must I decide today?” You question closing the folder and keeping it in your lap as you look up at your parents.

“Not at all.” Your father answers. “How long would you like?”

“A week… no, a month, if that’s not asking too much.”

“Hardly,” your mother assures you, your father nodding along with her. “It’s a big decision, and you should give it due consideration. We’ll send return word to the gentlemen.”

“Just… Just Mr. Gol and Mr. Edward.” You correct. “My considerations are just between them, unless there’s a folder with someone who wasn’t at the ball?”

Your parents shake their heads. “A few prior to the first screening we conducted.” Your father clarifies. “If you’d like to see them?”

Thinking on it for a moment you decline, picking up Shanks’ folder, adding it to Marco’s and excusing yourself. You weren’t against reviewing what was available in front of them, but this was just more efficient. Admittedly it was also a little embarrassing.

Laying out the pros and cons of a business proposal, when it was strictly business, was something you often did in solitude because you had a tendency to focus so deeply you inadvertently ignored those around you. But now you had new parameters to consider, and you weren’t sure you wanted to mutter them absently with your parents around.

You weren’t against the notion of love, but unlike your younger sister, you didn’t rank it very high. You wanted someone who would respect you primarily, especially in matters that you were educated in. Mutual respect and a capacity to communicate didn’t require romantic love to function, but you weren’t immune to the pleasures and dreams of romance. Having someone desire you was also important.

Especially since, despite the primary reasoning for your suitors; family and children were certainly expected. Two such prominent families, no matter who you chose, would be expected to flourish financially and genetically.

Reading carefully through the files it was almost like looking at two identical candidates. At least in terms of political and economic power. Shanks’ business wasn’t as diversified as Marco’s family’s businesses. Several brothers headed up different businesses and ventures, and all were solidly successful. The overarching business of transit and trade even stretched over to Shanks’ family.

But the Gol family operation was dug deeper, with generations of roots behind it. Staying power that the Edward family hadn’t been around long enough to command. Not that you could lend much weight to that factor - empires rose and fell faster than a generation if the leadership was poor or rotten. Just because the Gol family and its business was older didn’t mean it would outlast the Edward family.

Of the two, Shanks was certainly the more jovial. But both his demeanor and Marco’s seemed more mask than genuine, and while you faulted neither for it - society being what it was - you found that Shanks’ mask bothered you more. It felt like a play, as though he sought to distract and entertain, versus simply guarding a part of himself. The affable fool was good at covering a myriad of things, infidelity not the least of which.

You were grateful for having requested a full month to consider your choice. A week later you were sitting outside one of your favorite cafes, still mulling your options, your mind wandering away from the logical - objectively they were equal - and moving toward the emotional.

The hardest part was that you could only speculate. In both cases it was impossible to say who would be a better fit emotionally. All three of you comported yourselves in a specific manner due to family and station, and no one was going to let slip anything beyond that.

“Would the lady welcome a bit of company?” The question comes along so easily you don’t even flinch. Without looking up, you nod, gesturing to the empty seat as you take a small drink of your tea.

“Mr. Edward, what a pleasant surprise.” You address him, giving him a soft smile as he sits and makes himself comfortable.

“Pleasant,” he hums, an easy smile on his face. “An acceptable quantifier.”

“You feared something else?” You prompt and the smile on his face for a second is sharp before he relaxes again.

“I heard you’d requested time to deliberate, and I was only concerned my presence would be unwelcome.” He clarifies.

“Come to warn me away from Mr. Gol?”

“What makes you think I would waste my time speaking ill of a business partner?” He muses as you take another sip of tea.

“Because I cannot imagine you wasting time to extol your own virtues.” You answer honestly. “Such arrogance would be unbecoming, and you prefer your actions to speak on your behalf, I think.”

“While every thought you speak does make me admire you more, young lady, I had no intention of speaking about your choice at all.” He replies smoothly, nodding to the waiter who brings him a cup of tea. He hadn’t ordered, and all you could assume was that he was enough of a regular to receive such service.

“You came to speak on the weather then?”

“If you’d like.” He agrees. “Or perhaps on this cafe, or a book of some interest to you. Anything you’d find pleasure in speaking about.”

“Anything I’d find pleasure in speaking about.” You muse, rolling the offer around on your tongue for a moment. “Then might we talk about your family’s businesses?”

Marco’s brow arches a little, but not enough to pull his hooded gaze wide. “Certainly. I’ll answer what I can, and do my best to sate your curiosity.”

Over the next half hour you fired question after question off at him. He answered you evenly and concisely, not offering up elaboration on his own, but answering your follow up questions when he could. He declined a few questions - and frankly you expected as much - some of your questions could easily be turned against him and his family if they were answered carelessly.

But you didn’t purposefully attempt to trap him, admitting before each probing question that you may be asking beyond what was allowed. You learned more than what was compiled, and he spoke highly of his brothers and his family.

It wasn’t uncommon for there to be stress and frustration within a family that had many children. Whether they were all grown or not. Being close to your sister, you were happy to hear Marco had a close relationship with his brothers.

“Have I satisfied your curiosity?” He questions after you sit back, seemingly done with your barrage of questions.

“As much as you could, yes.” You answer politely. “And I understand the parts you couldn’t sate, so I won’t hold it against you.”

“How magnanimous.” He muses, pausing for a moment as he regards you. “In exchange I will be brutally honest with you, regarding this matter.” You don’t ask him what matter he means, you already know, but something about him shifts.

His body language isn’t relaxed. His gaze pins you in place, and for a brief moment before he continues speaking you wonder if he doesn’t mean to kidnap you off the street.

“The Union of our families,” as he speaks the terrifying sensation at your throat vanishes and your mind scrambles to keep focused on his words in the wake of the powerful shift. “Is a priority for my family and I. If not you and I, then it will be your sister and I.”

“My parents won’t force either of us.” You say quietly. You feel so small, and it’s a struggle to keep your voice steady.

“I needn’t rely on your parents.” He answers honestly. Simply. Firmly.

Your mind races with a hundred different things he could employ. You weren’t wise with age, so some of your thoughts were fantastical and likely foolish, but some cold truths sunk into your skin.

Blackmail of some kind. Threats. He was well-respected and every bit as smart as you, with more experience and education and notoriety. What world would listen to you over him if you were both presenting your cases? You couldn’t be more calm and more logical, not against him, not in a way that would work in this society.

Marco could almost see the course of your thoughts. Not that he imagined they were all that far off from the various options available to him, from the nefarious to the cordial. He didn’t want to directly threaten your family in any manner, since your parents would be his biggest supporters by the time you were married.

But he was going to marry you. Your own decision in the matter was of no consequence to him. As much as he loved your intelligence and bravery, he would indulge neither in his pursuit of your company. He would not abide someone else’s lips upon yours save his own, no matter the means he might be forced to pursue.

“Your face says you think very little of me.” His tone is neutral, smooth, and almost amused.

“I… no, my… my apologies, Mr. Edward, my thoughts got away from me.” You manage to assert, embarrassment dripping from your words. You had no reason to think so harshly of him, and you weren’t sure where the thoughts were coming from.

“Quite alright. It’s not a simple matter of love, in this case.” His words sound understanding and soothing, but you can feel an edge in them, cold against your throat. “It may be rude of me to say so, but I do feel affection for you. It seems it has made my presence more zealous than I meant for it to be.”

“Affection for-.”

“You,” he interjects so easily you barely even realize it. “Not your sister.” He pauses a moment, letting the words sink in. “I would still marry her if that was the choice left to me, but I cannot conjure affection up from nothing.”

You’re quiet, looking into an empty teacup. You would want your sister to marry for love, given her temperament and disposition toward the idea of it. Your parents wouldn’t force her, but he could - even if it wasn’t through threats and blackmail, he was certainly patient and graceful enough.

He would play at love, you were almost certain, and could you intervene? Could you warn your sister against him without accidentally driving her into his arms? She was your sister, certainly, but love made even the most sane of people mad.

“Don’t feel you need to answer me right this moment.” He says, his words pulling your gaze out of your cup. “Regardless, I won’t wed anyone until they’re eighteen. A broken engagement would reflect poorly on everyone, however, so I don’t mean to rush you into that decision either.”

Setting down money for his, and your drinks, he offers you a genuinely bright smile. “Do have a good day, sweet doveling. Thank you for indulging me.”

The hustle and bustle of the world around you was muted. Pointless and far away in relation to the steady click of his cane against the pavement. It wasn’t exactly fear that gripped you, but a sense of inevitability. You hadn’t come up against someone who left you feeling so powerless and cornered. An equal at the foundation of things, but your superior beyond that.

And there was nothing you could do. You couldn’t go back in time and be born earlier, scrambling for extra experience and wisdom in a wild attempt to stay ahead of him. You hadn’t the resources.

You could tell your parents, but it was hard to say how such a conversation would go. They loved you yes, but young ladies were prone to exaggeration. Perhaps not you, and perhaps they would believe you, but eventually the conversation would need to be had with Marco, and his family, and how much weight would your words hold in the face of his?

You could choose Shanks, get him into your proverbial corner, and use the two years between to protect your sister. But there were too many variables. Shanks was a business partner of Marco’s. How much would he indulge you? How easily could he dissuade you from worrying? His was an easy temperament to get caught up in, and that was mostly the point.

The affable fool didn’t want confrontation, he wanted people to go with his flow. It worked best for him, and he could leave people feeling like it worked best for them too. But there was certainly a monster there, beneath the surface, otherwise the business would show signs of floundering since he took it over, and there were no such signs.

And what if the two were friends?

There was no way to know, frankly. You could set up a meeting with Shanks, you were sure. It was only fair to give both an equal opportunity, but even as you headed home you realized how useless that was.

There was only one option. You just had to hope Marco’s affections were enough to indulge you.

[genshin-impact-updates]

"Melusines' Survey" Web Event Now Available, Participate For Primogem Rewards!

The two Fontainian aquabus tour guides Aeval and Elphane have been tasked with carrying out a survey of Travelers visiting Fontaine.

Help Aeval and Elphane with their research~

Obtain Primogems and other in-game rewards, as well as a little surprise!

>> Click to Take Part in Event <<

Event Rules

● Event Duration: 2023/12/25 12:00 – 2024/01/07 23:29 (UTC+8)

● Raffle Prize Results Announcement: Before January 12, 2024

● Primogem Rewards Claim Time: Within 30 days of receiving the mail

Event Rewards

● Complete the survey to obtain Primogems ×40, Hero's Wit, and other in-game rewards.

● Share your survey results with the hashtag #GenshinMelusinesSurvey on Twitter (X), Facebook, Instagram, Telegram, VK, or other social media platforms.

Primogems ×160 (100 Winners)

Genshin Impact Ganyu Figure (10 Winners)

※ Sharing on HoYoLAB does not count towards prize draw participation.

User Terms and Conditions

・Please log in to the event using your HoYoverse Account and select your corresponding character in Genshin Impact to take part. This will ensure that your rewards can be sent and claimed correctly. You can participate in this event as long as your Adventure Rank is at least 10.

・After helping Aeval and Elphane complete their survey, the in-game rewards will be distributed via in-game mail. The mail will expire after 30 days, so don't forget to claim the rewards in time.

・Players who share their survey results with the specified hashtag #GenshinMelusinesSurvey on Twitter (X), Facebook, Instagram, Telegram, VK, or other social media platforms will be entered into the raffle and have a chance to win Primogems ×160 or a Genshin Impact figure.

・If you post and win on multiple platforms, you'll only be able to win one reward. Reward information will be sent out via private messages.

・The list of winners will be posted on the various official social media platforms for different languages. Relevant information will also be sent to the winners via private messages.

・Primogem rewards obtained from the raffle will be issued via in-game mail within 20 business days of the winners list being announced. The mail is valid for 30 days. You will be deemed to have forfeited your rewards if you fail to claim them before the mail expires, so don't forget to claim them in time.

・Winners will be informed of the specific issuance time for Genshin Impact figures won in the raffle via private messages.

・This event will be held and judged on multiple platforms. The event rewards will be shared across all platforms, and will not be distributed proportionately between different platforms/regions.

・If the issuance of rewards fails due to the player providing the incorrect UID or delivery address, the official team will not re-issue said rewards.

・If you have any queries about the event, please contact our Customer Service at genshin_cs@hoyoverse.com or via the in-game Feedback feature.

・There is a possibility that this event may be changed or ended without notice.

*More details about the rules of the event can be found on the event rules on the event page.

*This web event is not indicative of any related gameplay features in Genshin Impact.

[see-arcane]

Was Frankenstein Not the Monster? PILOT

A fire of too many colors swallows a manor in the countryside and descends into a pit.

An occult detective's prying leads to revelations far more volatile than the mere aftermath of a nightmare.

Men and monsters circle at the edge of a legend that should have died in the cold almost 100 years ago.

And in the dark beyond that edge, strange Creatures watch and work and wait.

…Such is the stage set for a new piece under the working title of Was Frankenstein Not the Monster? I make no promises—certainly none the size of Barking Harker—but at the moment, this project has been eating up much of the time I’ve spent while juggling the publication of The Vampyres. As it stands, I think I might be making another book.

If you’re interested, the preview is below the cut, but also available here and through a link in my website, here.

Was Frankenstein Not the Monster?

C.R. Kane

Every muscle palpitates, every nerve goes tense—then the body rises from the ground, not slowly, limb by limb, but thrown straight up from the earth all at once. He did not yet look alive, but like someone who was now dying. Still pale and stiff, he stands dumbstruck at being thrust back into the world. But no sound comes from his closed mouth; his voice and tongue are only allowed to answer.

—Scene of a necromantic conjuring by Erichtho, as depicted in Lucan’s Pharsalia.

“I see by your eagerness and the wonder and hope which your eyes express, my friend, that you expect to be informed of the secret with which I am acquainted; that cannot be; listen patiently until the end of my story, and you will easily perceive why I am reserved upon the subject. I will not lead you on, unguarded and ardent as I then was, to your destruction and infallible misery.”

—Victor Frankenstein, as penned by Capt. Robert Walton, edited and distributed by M. Wulstan, in the epistolatory document referred to alternately as The Legend of Frankenstein, ‘The Walton Letters,’ or, ‘Lament of the Modern Prometheus.’

THE MODERN PROMETHEUS! THE MANMADE WRETCH!

WHO IS THE MONSTER?

THE HORROR, THE HUBRIS, THE HAVOC!

ALL COME TO ELECTRIFYING LIFE IN…

THE NIGHTMARE OF DR. FRANKENSTEIN!

Based on the lauded literary terror penned by the late Robert Walton and brought to public light by M. Wulfstan, The Legend of Frankenstein.

The Apollo Crest Opera House presents the most harrowing take on the mad doctor and his marvel of creation to date.

Featuring up-to-date theatrical effects and the most stunning visuals ever seen on the stage, this is a show to whiten the locks and deliver endless shocks.

Come to GASP, to WEEP, to SWOON, and above all, ladies and gentlemen, to PONDER the century-old query beneath the fear in this tale of a creature crafted from the dead and the proud madman who dragged it into the world!

When the passerby corrects you, claiming the scientist is Frankenstein rather than the monster, remember to ask in turn:

WAS FRANKENSTEIN NOT THE MONSTER?

1

The Inferno of Erichtho

While Dyson’s was one of many heads turned by the events surrounding the housefire of Dr. Richard Geber, he was one of few interested parties who arranged a stay in Surrey’s countryside to ogle the site in person. The other who rode with him was, stunningly, Ambrose, one of his oldest friends and the staunchest recluse he had ever known. Dyson had suggested they try to wheedle Cotgrave, Phillips, and Salisbury all together for a full holiday, if only half in jest.

But where eager Cotgrave was anchored by familial obligations, Phillips and Salisbury were merely hesitant in matters of the uncanny. In truth, the latter pair had positively gawped at him. Their eyes asked wordlessly if the stamp of inhuman horror had magically been blotted out of his memory or if he’d simply abandoned sense altogether. Dyson laughed at the looks, especially Salisbury’s. He of the straight-lined life and the wincing insistence that Dyson keep all answers to himself when it came to the mystery of Dr. Black and the query of Q, only to come slinking curiously back with questions upon seeing Dyson’s haggard mien post-discovery.

As if reading the memory in him, Salisbury’s face flamed and turned away while Dyson continued, “My friends, I would no sooner part with the haunting of those experiences than a writer of penny horrors would relinquish the muse of his nightmares. Ambrose here will rightly call it perverse with you—he is the adept where I am the amateur—but he knows the worth of retaining the proofs of what he calls ‘sin’ and we politely deem merely the ‘weird’ or the ‘supernatural.’ Cotgrave, dear fellow, you at least have an open mind on the subject. If we can manage it, would you appreciate a souvenir of the strange ash for your desk?”

“Cotgrave,” Phillips had cut in with an aridity to dry the ocean, “has not been put into contact with anything more harrowing than some poor child’s grotesque diary. He and I,” he’d nodded to Salisbury who was muffling himself with the wineglass, “had the dubious fortune to play witness to the far end of your direct jabbing at the unknown, neither of which bore anything but blighted fruit. The sight of that miserable treasure hunter’s golden relic was more than enough for me. Salisbury, for his trouble, had enough poisonous proof poured in his ear as thirdhand storytelling to make him rightly uneasy, followed by wondering whether you had been struck by some ailment after prying too far.” He’d turned fully to Salisbury. “Has Dyson ever breathed a word of what it was that shocked that new white up his temple after chasing the scrap of a cipher and Dr. Black’s work?”

It was Dyson’s turn to look away. He had not told Salisbury about Travers’ shop. Certainly not about the opal and what it held. Nor would he ever. He knew even the most sublime prose would fail to do the spectacle or its horror justice. Salisbury would suffer for it, as most of his friends would, and so he burned his tongue with holding the story in. For the most part.

He’d broken enough to recite the event to Ambrose in tragically plain terms. Ambrose had nodded, recorded his statement in one of many journals kept for the purpose of notes and scrapbooking, and shelved it away with the rest of the flotsam that clogged the bookcases which stood in for his walls. The recluse gave his oath not to breathe a word of the case’s final act to another.

“At least not until you are too dead to speak on your own behalf,” Ambrose had added. Dyson found the terms satisfactory.

Yet the fact of his having an encounter so disturbing he’d not even shared it with his most sober of friends still managed to work against his invitation to the strange scene in Surrey. Even Cotgrave shook his head.

“No need of the ash, my friend. I will settle for a description of whatever you dredge up in those hills.” Dyson noted the sickish pallor that washed over him as he pronounced the last word. Phillips shifted uncomfortably in his own seat. Salisbury ran out of wine to nurse and set his glass aside.

“I will be curious of whatever account you bring back,” came his intonation, “if only to know whether you are treading on more tangible toes than some unseen wraith’s.” Salisbury had canted his gaze sharply at Dyson. “No, you have not told me what it was you did upon following the trail of breadcrumbs I mistakenly revealed to you. But I would be a fool not to assume you went and did something unwise regarding the business of those strangers in the note. Q and friends and whoever else. They are real people. Just as Dr. Steven Black was. Just as Phillips and the whole of London recalls the late Sir Thomas Vivian being quite real, and more immediately dangerous than any bogeyman lurking beyond our respective brushes with the so-called supernatural.”

“Sinful,” Ambrose corrected over the rim of his own glass.

“Indeed,” Salisbury sighed. Dyson did feel a trifle apologetic toward the man. He seemed to have aged a decade since he’d stepped back into his life. “But be they supernatural or sinful or just plain mad, human monsters are the more prolific villain of the world, and far easier to cross paths with. Dr. Richard Geber was a man of considerable notoriety with, I would wager, any number of watchful vultures in the branches of the family tree and as many serpents playing patron to his less savory works at the roots.” He’d leaned in, regarding Dyson and Ambrose in the same plea. “Do your sightseeing if you must, but be wary of what prying you do whilst playing occult detectives. A man seeing a nuisance is far more likely to take action against it than any monster.”

Dyson sadly lost his opportunity to assure Salisbury and the rest of his planned caution, as Salisbury had used the word ‘occult’ and set off a fresh avalanche from Ambrose. Talk plunged into proper distinctions of the extraordinary and the eerie, somehow managing to trip into a round of storytelling that marched through the suicide epidemic of certain well-off young men who he theorized had each encountered the same unearthly stimulus whose knowledge could not be lived with, around to an ugly room in a rented country house with a habit of seeding a mirrored insanity in wives and daughters who spent too long in the sight of its irregular damask walls, and all the way to the facts in the case of the pseudonymous M. Valdemar, that mesmeric scandal that might not have been half so sensationalized as cynics might declare…

Salisbury had put his head in his hands while Dyson, Cotgrave, and Phillips settled in for the monologue, feeding the orator only what flints of dialogue were needed to roll him further on. Were he onstage, Ambrose would have deserved a lozenge, a bouquet, and ten minutes’ applause.

That was then.

In the now, Dyson and Ambrose sat in their car, preemptively swaddled against the first drifting motes of snow. November seemed only to have warmth enough left with which to give Geber’s estate its theatrical sendoff with its roiling thunderheads and dancing lightning. With that performance done, the sky handed its reins off to winter’s sedate styling. The train drew itself along under a ceiling of gauze and into the broad country whose rumpled hills and evergreen treetops were already hiding themselves in caps of cold white. Not that such seasonal flurries would have been any more help to the roasted manor than the downpour of the incendiary night had been.

Dyson riffled out the sections of newsprint he had brought along for the trip.

Headlines bellowed across the earliest of them:

STORM-STRUCK IN SURREY!

SPARKS FLY OVER GEBER’S BLAZE!

BLINDING FIRE DEVOURS MANOR OVERNIGHT!

          And so forth.

          The sum of these pieces was a remarkable series of witness reports from the staff who’d escaped the building before they could burn with it. Miraculously, every member of staff had made it out with barely a scorch mark between them. Even the horses, hens, and hounds of the estate were unscathed. It was only Dr. Geber and, the staff declared, a number of colleagues who had remained inside. Corroboration from the nearest towns confirmed that Geber was indeed housing several ‘learned gentlemen’ under his expansive roof for the purpose of some private experiment being undertaken in his home laboratory.

          All that saved the staff from especially sharp scrutiny was the likewise-confirmed evidence of just where that laboratory was located.

          “Geber had it all built underground,” claimed more than one servant. “He up and abandoned the one he kept at the top of the house half a decade back. Had a whole little nest of catacombs hollowed out lower than the cellar, moved in all sorts of equipment and chemicals and such. We saw it all go through the big double doors he had set in the back of the house. Figured him and his fellows would come up by that way or the little stairwell indoors. Whoever wasn’t eaten up by the blast, at least.”

          The blast which had not come from the heavens by way of the frantic lightning that night, but from right under the floorboards. One poor girl, Elsa Godwin, had gone down to fetch a jar of preserves and been the first to hear a series of what sounded like detonations rattling up from the ground. A distant crackle, a hair-prickling hum, a string of boom-boom-boom, all muffled by earth and concrete. That, and men screaming. There was barely time to hear as much before she also got to play first witness to the memorable fire; a blaze that begun at once to eat holes through the floor and western wall of the cellar.

          “I thought I was dreaming at first,” to quote Miss Godwin. “It all felt too impossible to be happening while I was awake. The fire only made it seem less real. Real fire isn’t supposed to work that way, you see? Real fire, it meets a solid wall of dirt or rock and that’s as far as it goes. Singes it, maybe, but it can’t just go burning through everything like it’s a paper dollhouse. But that was just what it did. While it was eating its way up the stairs to the doctors’ laboratory, it punched on through to the cellar. And even that I may have accepted as real enough, but for the look of it.”

          The look of that fire was described by her, by her coworkers, by those who rode up to gawk in person or make a feeble attempt at playing fire brigade, and even by a number of technical witnesses who could see the glimmer of it from their far-off windows, all in varying states of poetry or dumbstruck curtness.

          The fire had not been orange.

          The fire had been black. And white. And yellow. And red. All of these at once, every flame throwing its improbable light as if it fell through some nebulous crystal. Its palette might have been more enchanting if it weren’t for the fact that it was, as Miss Godwin and many more would claim, a fantastically voracious thing. So much so that Miss Godwin had scarcely made it back up the steps to shout the alarm before tongues of fire were poking up through the floor.

          It truly was a miracle that everyone aboveground had fled in time. The second miracle had come from the fact that, even lightning-struck as the roof was, it remained mercifully solid while the multihued fire ate up the lower floors. So solid that Fate kindly used it as the hand to snuff the monstrous blaze. The walls turned out to be so quickly enfeebled by their change to ash that they could no longer support the heavy slants and shingles. So the roof had crushed the creeping flames under its lid, dousing the fire with sheer speed, weight, and luck. It was as unlikely a thing as a man crushing a viper’s head flat with his fist before it could bite.

          Another bittersweet bout of good fortune came from the positioning of the laboratory itself. Whatever state the subterranean workings had been in post-explosion, they apparently made for an efficient ashpit. When the roof slammed down, it compacted everything below directly into the waiting pocket of hollowed earth. What could have been a conflagration was tucked tidily away almost as soon as the proverbial match was struck. Though it had doubtlessly come at the cause and cost of the very men who had sparked the fire with some experiment gone awry.

          “Some manner of chemical flame, a catastrophic bungling of electrical tinkering, or both,” professed numerous experts hunted down in their own labs and campuses. Dyson imagined they were perhaps a bit put out that Geber had done them the simultaneous mercy and unspoken insult of not inviting them to join whatever it was he and his colleagues had been dabbling with. An experiment of such secrecy and apparent potency that the man had not only tunneled out a buried laboratory for it, not only erected new stone walls and double-locked iron gates around his home, not only scoured fields across the scientific spectrum to people its undertaking—for chemists, engineers, technologists, surgeons, and sundry in-betweens were numbered among the missing and/or immolated dead—but even hired on a number of ‘attendants’ that the surviving staff recalled as having staggering guardsman physiques.

          All this to keep the experiment hermetically sealed and shielded.

          All this, only for a number of ears at the nearest pubs and markets to catch wind of the thing’s name anyway: Project Erichtho.

A secret experiment named for the necromancing witch of legend could only be yet another spur to the public imagination, turning a noteworthy housefire into a potential hellish horror story. Requisite headlines included:

FRANKENSTEIN’S ACOLYTE, ERICHTHO’S ECHO—DR. GEBER’S UNHOLY HEROES!

PROJECT ERICHTHO’S PARANORMAL PYRE!

SORDID SECRETS AND A DOCTOR’S DEADLY DESIGN: THE KINDLING FOR THE INFERNO OF ERICHTHO?

“It could be he’s gone on to join his heroes in a sordid afterlife,” some would say in tones that alternately scorned or cooed. “Faustus and Frankenstein may have a place waiting for him in a deeper inferno. It’s the sort of thing one gets from prying too far into Nature’s business, after all.”

So on and so on. Dyson had clipped everything of interest and strung the whole thing into a sort of haphazard file in contrast to Ambrose’s tidier pasting. Ambrose was even polite enough to feign renewed interest in the piecemeal newsprint despite the information being doubtlessly memorized already.

“Not memorized,” Ambrose said over a headline declaring Geber had conjured the Devil in his cellar. He opened his coat as if displaying illicit wares, flashing the holster where he kept a waiting notepad and pen. His was an especially tailored overcoat with a number of buttoned and hidden pockets for all his necessities. One might think he hardly needed his luggage but for a change of clothes. “My cheats are simply copied out and kept close like a good pupil’s before an exam.” He patted the lapel back in place. “I am not a man made to leave his cave often, Dyson. Therefore I must wrap myself as much in my mobile cave as I can.”

“Would that not make it your shell?”

“I suppose it would. It is a difficult thing for a snail or tortoise to be robbed of his home. Unless the thief is some errant bird after the homeowner, of course. But for all that I have my faiths and proofs in the uncanny, your Salisbury was right. Men are the most common threat to a man. They rob one of goods and life at a moment’s notice far more than any aberration.”

“Ah, that begs a question I’ve meant to ask.” Dyson waved his helping of papers as a baton. “You know the reality of seemingly unreal things. What you call your sinful, wrong, not-meant-to-be sort of phenomena and entities. Were you to find yourself cornered in the proverbial dark alley with an ordinary mortal cutthroat at one end and an unearthly bogeyman at the other, which villain would you risk?”

Ambrose offered a sliver of a smile and turned his attention back to the snow flitting by the window. He passed his helping of newsprint back blindly.

“You have only listened to my rambles with half an ear,” he said. “It’s true that what you would dub the supernatural I would call sinful, but I have yet to declare such things innately villainous. Otherworldly, yes. Eldritch is a decent term. Unwelcome too, at least in what we deem sane and right by the laws of Nature or our manmade structures. Or, to satisfy the macabre itch, yes, I would deem the whole breadth of it horrific. And yet, for all that we have assembled a fair collection of events that ended in death or worse as a result of crossing bizarre influences—indeed, enough to condemn many in, say, the demoniac terms of evil—the fact remains that even a living horror is not guaranteed to be villainous. To that end, let us look at your scenario. If I knew for a fact the ordinary man at one end of my alley intended absolutely to kill me, knife ready for my throat whether or not I handed over my money, whereas the horror at the other end was a complete enigma? I would simply have no choice but to remain still.”

Dyson lost himself to a laugh and crowed, “That is no answer! The scenario was a choice. Who do you risk pushing past? The common murderer or the uncommon enigma?”

“The threat,” Ambrose pronounced carefully, “of a horror is in the uncertainty of what it is and what such a thing is capable of. The cutthroat means to kill me, yes. But the horror? It may mean to end me as well, but in a far more hideous way. In fact, it may intend to inflict something far more unthinkable than the mercy of mere execution, such that the cutthroat would be a blessing of euthanasia by comparison.”

“Ah,” Dyson jabbed his paper baton again, “so you would take the cutthroat for the certainty of him.”

“No. I would remain still.”

“Ambrose—,”

But Ambrose held up his hand.

“I would remain still until one or the other proved himself the lesser evil. For the horror at the other end of the alley may have no ill design whatsoever. Being frightening does not immediately qualify the monster in question as a villain. After all, how many legendary monsters of old have we revealed as mere animals? How many unfortunate souls are there in the world, born with off-putting ailments or disfigured by circumstance, who possess the purest of Good Samaritan character? By the same measure, how many are there with the faces of Venus and Adonis who scatter only petty cruelties in their wake? Even creatures as humble as the common spider will terrorize some of the hardiest men as much or more than their wives. Yet the spider is there to help, tidying flying pests from the home just as the pretty housecat unsheathes her teeth and claws only to bloody her keeper’s hand.

“In short, a horror will horrify, naturally. A horror is capable of far worse things than any human effort. But a horror is not inherently a villain. I am happy to keep things in the hypothetical until I am faced with the awful choice in person, but should I choose to wait, to remain still and force one or the other to make his move, I am certain the motives of the inhuman party would be made clear. It would strike, or retreat, or…”

“Or what?”

“Or it would do as the first horrors of Creation did and be as an angel. Fallen or otherwise.” The topic clipped there as the station came into view.

Fighting the frost and the numb-faced arrival at their rented lodgings sponged up the rest of the day’s energy between the two of them. A hasty dusk and a heavy supper knocked both men back in their chairs and soon the ruddy comforts of the inn dragged them down into an early night.

Ambrose, Dyson was unsurprised to see, had turned into an insomniac so far from his preferred den. He was at the window puffing at the little ember in the clay bowl and staring out at the dark when Dyson finally surrendered to his bed midnight. Come morning, Dyson found he remained at his perch, puffing still.

“I did sleep,” Ambrose assured before the other could speak. “On and off. My dry eyes played traitor and made me lose watch for a few hours at a time.”

Dyson stilled in the effort of lacing his boots. He saw that the faint pouches that had been under his friend’s eyes last night had only deepened. The ashtray set on the windowsill was full.

“Geber’s housefire notwithstanding, I can’t imagine there’s anything worth spying on in these parts. Especially not on a moonless night.”

“It wasn’t moonless,” Ambrose said as he rubbed crust from either eye. His head gradually creaked away from the window to face Dyson. “I saw it come out in cracked clouds here and there. It helped somewhat, but I could still make out a little of the show either way.”

“What show was that?”

“I’m not certain. Some kind of domestic dispute? It involved either a very mad or a very sad individual on a rooftop.”

“What?”

“He got down alright. A giant came to gather him up and bring him indoors.”

“…How much did you have to drink after I went to bed?”

“Not a drop. The whole of it took place with that little house out toward the east there. You see?” Dyson followed where Ambrose pointed. There were numerous petite houses sprinkled along the crest of a far cluster of hills. He was about to point out the issue when his gaze caught on one that stood out from its siblings. Ambrose defined it at the same time, “It has its fresh cap of snow all ruined by their footprints. The man’s little pinpricks and the giant’s awl marks, so to speak. It happened that as I was woolgathering, a yellow light came on in the upper window. The shape of a man blotted it for a moment before the window swung open and the fellow climbed out.

“It wasn’t a pleasant sight even at a distance. He didn’t move like any climber I ever saw. More like,” Ambrose made a face, “I don’t know. An animal? An insect? Something like that. Whatever he was, he made it up there. So I assumed by how the darkness erased him when he skittered up. The first crack in the clouds helped me here, for it dropped a yellow beam on the house and showed the man standing on the very top of the roof. This he did while wearing no more than a pair of trousers and a coat that hung on him like drapes. A lone stick figure balanced on the ridge. Then a moment later, the giant came.”

“Not bounding over the hills, I take it?”

“No. He blocked the entirety of the lit window before he contorted himself out and climbed up after the man. His motion was a far more fluid thing, if likewise strange in how he placed his limbs. Were my eyes a little poorer, I might have mistaken him for some massive panther scaling a mountainside. But he was human enough seen from my seat. Just outlandish in his size and proportions. A hulking figure, yet corded and angled in a way you seldom see with men we might take for a contemporary Goliath.”

“I see. And what happened when he reached David?”

“The moon ducked out of sight for the first moment. It took a minute before it peeked through again to offer a silhouette of the meeting. Man and giant were facing each other with the giant seeming the most animated of the two. He gesticulated first with frantic violence, then as if he were beckoning the man like a stray from a gutter, and ultimately coaxed his frailer counterpart to extend a twig of an arm. The giant clamped onto it and seemed prepared to yank the man from his perch. But the man pointed with his free hand at the moon. This made the giant pause. The boulder of a head turned up. They stared together at the great ivory ball. But sense eventually overruled wonder and the giant maneuvered them both back in the window. The curtains were drawn. I figured that was the end of it.”

Dyson had by now fully dressed and packed for the day. He paused to raise a brow.

“Was it not?”

“No. Some while later, a light glowed in a lower window. David and Goliath walked outside. At least I assume it was David with Goliath. The spindly figure was erased in a massive clot of coats and blankets, it seemed, and so almost passed for a full-bodied individual. The giant shadowed him and forced a cup on him that I imagined must be steaming as it rose and fell from the man’s face. The moon was polite enough to show itself a few more times through the filmier clouds. Even the stars made some appearances. By dawn much of the clouds had broken up so that they skimmed across a half-clean sky. I saw the Morning Star hover in the horizon. The man pointed to this or the molten sunrise. The giant nodded and looked with him, patient as anything. Then David was herded back inside and I saw no more.”

Dyson hummed at all this and eyed the little house again. It really was a fair space away.

“Are you certain you saw a man and a giant? At this distance could it not have been some fevered child and his father?”

“If I were using my eyes alone, I might concede the possibility. Except.” Dyson watched him dig in his coat and produce a collapsed spyglass. “I have brought the full accoutrement of the hermit along, my friend. Its details were few, but far crisper than our sight alone.” A specter of mingled thrill and discomfort twitched along his lips. The former won just enough to pin the mouth up at one corner. “Though I wonder if that was a mistake.”

“Afraid they spied your spying? The threadbare David sounds like a stargazer. Perhaps he swung his lens around to find you in the dark.” Dyson spoke only to rib him. Instead he seemed to strike Ambrose like a lead weight. A greyish tinge passed in and out of his face as his gaze flicked back to the window. “Come now, there was no light on in here. Even if the pair had an astronomer’s lens between them, they’d never know you’d spotted their nocturnal theatre.”

“They had no lens at all,” Ambrose said. His lips still held in the unhappy upward curl. “Yet they did turn to look at this window. David first. Then Goliath. I cannot say whether they saw me, but…” Ambrose rolled the spyglass in his hand before replacing it in its pocket. “I saw a hint of their faces. Just the eyes. I may have imagined it. Some illusion of moonlight or sunrise. But the illusion was very crisp.”

“The illusion being what?”

“They were yellow, Dyson,” he almost chuckled. “Like the stare of animals caught in firelight. Bright as the lamps. And they did not turn from their staring in this direction until after I set the spyglass down.” Ambrose looked up at him. The whites of the man’s own eyes had gone rose-pink. “We’ve not yet set foot on Geber’s ash pile and already I have something for my notes.”

“Perhaps,” Dyson nodded carefully. “Perhaps you do. Or else a late night played on your conscience and sharpened your subjects into things that could chide you at a distance for spying. I have no such conscience on that subject and so might have missed their flashing eyes. Still, it is something for the diary. But only after breakfast.”

2

Dead, Buried

Breakfast came, breakfast went. Ambrose’s state barely loosened from its troubled knot. By the time they set out to poke around the week-old ruin under a dusting of snow, Dyson noted only a half-return to the man’s usual ease. He thought to remind him of the unhappy adventure involving the cruelly departed Agnes Black, to commiserate over the difference between the aftermath of the strange compared to meeting eyes with it, but swallowed it all down. Such talk would only rip up the scab, not plaster it.

In this mood, they took their way to the housefire’s wreckage with thin conversation. It only thickened again as the coach let them out at the site’s gates. They had been locked over again by the authorities and yesterday’s powder had made the surprisingly tidy mound and its rooftop cap into an anonymous lump of debris. Hardly worth the trip. But the sight of the ruin was only a fraction of their purpose there. 

Dyson instructed the coachman to return in an hour to the same spot to retrieve them. The coachman eyed the two warily. He’d no doubt seen more than his fair helping of journalists and policemen in the past seven days than any soul ought to deal with. But pay was pay and he seemed content to reappear in roughly an hour’s time, sirs, give or take another customer’s route. Dyson and Ambrose waited until the horse-drawn speck was almost out of sight before they began their march around the the high stone wall that passed for the ex-manor’s fence. Their breath trailed after them in white streams.

“He really had the place made up like a fortress, didn’t he?” Dyson observed. “Look here. Even the ornaments along the top are like spires. No one could go hopping in or out without undoing the seams of his skin in the attempt.”

“Project Erichtho was a thing to covet as much as conjure.” Ambrose dug again in his coat, this time bringing out his notepad. He thumbed to one close-scribbled page. “Do you know, this manor was his for less than a decade? He took the place seven years ago and left behind a far more metropolitan estate. A handsome spot, but not half so private or titanic as this.” Ambrose knocked his knuckles against the stonework.

Dyson knocked his shoulder in turn, “I see you go a-haunting places other than your home while our backs are turned. You are a fraud of a recluse.”

“On special occasions, yes.”

“And the timeline of Geber’s road to the freakish blaze meets your standards.”

“Very much so. You see, he had his career in the city, for all its lauded highs and scandalous lows. And his one trip out of that area was also his first and last trip out of the country. I was told he took a holiday up to Switzerland.”

“Told by who?”

“Former staff. All the ones in the manor were local hands. The original workers say he returned home from his holiday with a wild new passion—,” Ambrose paused to catch Dyson’s eye, “—and a souvenir. One that they never saw removed from its massive box. The nearest guess anyone could make was that it must be one of those majestic Swiss clocks or perhaps some statue bought on a whim. None would it put it past him to purchase a likeness of his spiritual muse, or maybe a rendering of the latter’s infamous creation. But no one ever saw the contents in person. He had this thing moved into his upstairs laboratory, locked the door, and neither butler nor maid was permitted to set foot in the room for the rest of the year.”

“Mysterious enough,” Dyson agreed while shaking a snow clump off his boot. “Though I can hardly picture Switzerland as possessing any equivalent to Pandora’s Box.”

“Nor could the staff. But they never did wring an answer from Geber. No more than they ever confirmed what all his latest experiments were in that locked room. Whatever they were, the staff thought there must have been some noise to muffle. Geber started playing his phonograph whenever he set foot inside, letting the opera warble over whatever din went on in his work.” Ambrose tucked the notepad away and tugged at his glove. “When it came time for his sudden exodus to the far-off manor, the movers discovered the box was nailed shut again, offering no one even a parting peek at the treasure.”

“And what is the import of this crate, exactly?” Dyson asked, even as he guessed. It was hard to avoid, keeping his steps aligned with Ambrose’s as they circled to the rear of the estate. The trees loomed with their snowy crowns sawing against the blue-white sky. They were close to where the acreage sloped into woodlands.

“None of the new staff mentioned its arrival or its being toted down with the rest of Project Erichtho’s flotsam. In fairness, the interviewed parties likely had far more on their minds than the exact nature of their employer’s bric-a-brac. Especially when the project appears to have begun in earnest four years ago.”

“But,” Dyson intercepted, “the staff in the city dwelling remembered his fixation with the thing seven years prior. And if the manor’s fresher workers could remember that his other scientific oddments were loaded underground, surely they’d recall him fussing about the box.”

“Such is my guess,” nodded Ambrose. He stopped them both short as the exact back end of the stone wall came into view. “Geber likely would’ve clung like a shadow to the movers whether they brought it by the inner stairs or through the back entry. Yet there was no mention of it in their accounts. Almost as if he couldn’t bear to have more eyes upon it than absolutely necessary. And, naturally, there is the issue no other paper or ponderer has mentioned regarding the novelty of a subterranean workplace.” Here, at last, Ambrose began to grin. “One that even the miner or a digger of catacombs needn’t bother themselves over.”

“Because the men in the mines and catacombs don’t have to work within a hermetic seal,” Dyson concluded, beaming back. “They have a way constantly open to the air. The staff claim that the entryways into the laboratory were always shut and guarded by a boredly vigilant set of guards. A tricky area to provide ventilation for with no opening. Unless there was a third threshold somewhere that Geber neglected to mention to the house staff. Say,” he waved a glove at the waiting woods, “hidden in some convenient cover of wilderness.”

“It’s where I would hide a second backdoor in his position,” Ambrose agreed as he ogled the rear of the stone wall and the adjacent trees. “If the back of the manor was here,” he marched with measured steps to the back gate, likewise locked, and regarded the ashes beyond the iron, “then the broader outdoor entrance was likely slotted there with it. A tunnel connected to the underground work area would not be situated far off. So…” He turned and traced an invisible line from the ashes to the woods and away to the west. “A straight route from here on is likely to bear fruit.”

“Would it not be simpler to circle around?” Dyson asked this of the waiting trees as much as his friend. “If Geber’s precious crate was also moved in by this hidden corridor, surely it would be someplace near the edge of this tangled patch. It’s no narrow copse, but I’d rather amble around it rather than risk the trudge inside.”

“Normally I would agree. However.” Ambrose stomped purposefully along the slope, leaving clear tracks as he went. “If we want better odds against our own amateur detective work being spied on, we must take advantage of what little cover we can. Salisbury would tell you so.”

“Salisbury would be down with a skull-cracking headache over the prospect from any angle,” Dyson countered. But they went through the woods just the same. The snow had come in lightly through the coniferous canopy and it traded their softer snow-plush tracks for a brittle thudding along frozen earth. A quarter of an hour’s search and a number of brambles later they came upon a clearing cluttered with large stones. Dyson felt Ambrose bristle at his side. Not from the cold.

He had read the precious and painful little green book Ambrose regarded as one of his truest treasures. The book that contained the child-ramblings of a lost girl, of strange white figures, of stones carved and twisting with ancient unholy influence. Mercifully, the mystique was soon spoiled.

The clearing had let in a little more of the snow through the gap in the canopy and when the powder was brushed aside it revealed nothing but moss and bird droppings on every rock. Another glance showed a number of stunted logs also strewn about. A makeshift sitting area. Ambrose took a spot on one of the logs and set to picking burrs from his trousers. Dyson thought he looked a little ruddier for having seen the rocks were plain.

“Well, convenience dictates that a secret entrance would be around here.” He pointed to what would be a few minutes’ walk to where the open light of a meadow waited. “Any closer to the edge and it wouldn’t be hidden at all.”

“True, true,” Ambrose nodded, removing his hat to shake off the frost and pine needles. “But even if we were on top of the thing, there’d be the second trouble of spotting it while it’s disguised. There was likely one or more guards on duty. On the off-chance that some wanderer came by they’d need to have some way to mask the opening.”

Dyson thought as much too and had been scrutinizing the ground. He’d found a good stick to claw up the dirt with. So far, no convenient trapdoor presented itself. As he prodded, he caught himself mulling over the hypothetical guards themselves. Surely they couldn’t have been caught in the blaze. Even if they’d been struck by a heroic urge, there wouldn’t have been time to rush to the manor and attempt a rescue. Yet he recalled no interview with any such person in the aftermath of the pyre, only those domestic staff who minded the house itself. So where had they gone?

The answer was hidden under a rock.

Specifically, the largest of the rocks in the clearing. Dyson’s stick came to a stop in its shadow as the branch suddenly dipped an inch into the ground where he’d dragged it. The snowfall masked it, but not well enough.

“Ambrose.” He patted the broad rock. “This stone isn’t supposed to be here.”

“What?”

“Look here.” He dragged his stick back and forth over the hidden groove beneath the powder. “It was moved out of place.”

Dyson and Ambrose eyed this only a moment before taking position on the stone’s opposite side. Together, after many a shove and as many curses, the rock budged. Not all at once, but in bursts. Between lurches they agreed that it had to have been put in place by far stouter strongmen than themselves. Their thoughts broke away at the same time when their next push dropped a leg from each of them down into the earth. There was much floundering and flopping aside to save themselves from slipping entirely into the hollow. When they’d recovered themselves, they peered down into the new opening. A wisp of daylight revealed hints of the interior. Shards of wood. The angles of a short staircase. And there, laying at the foot of the steps—

“Oh,” Dyson breathed. “Oh, God.”

“I fear He isn’t involved here,” Ambrose murmured back.

They lurched the stone the rest of the way, moving with caution until the entire hole was revealed. A square of earth had been cut away for the tunnel’s mouth. A set of heavy mangled hinges showed where a crude but sturdy door had been bolted into place. The door itself was the source of the wood shards, the largest of them showing they’d had a covering of dirt, leaves, twigs, and pebbles all pasted on to mask it. To judge by the frame, the door was meant to be pulled up rather than pushed in. As the stone was flat on the bottom, it could only be surmised that someone had smashed the timber in rather than bother with the lock.

Perhaps that was why the guards had died. They hadn’t been quick enough to offer a key.

Two men of powerful build were left crumpled at the bottom of the steps like ragdolls. One had his head wrenched entirely around on his shoulders. The other had his head crushed in like an eggshell. Whoever had done the work, they’d also seen fit to strip the broken-necked man of all but his underclothes, even down to his shoes. The man with the pulped skull had lost only a coat.

“I believe this is where our investigative ghost story hits a snag,” Dyson said, if only because someone needed to speak. The words did little to settle the chill now twining up his back. “We need to have the police up here.”

“We will,” Ambrose said, digging in his coat. Out came his matches. “But first.” He struck a light. “Recall that we are not here in search of ghosts. Ghosts are vapor. Their only weight is given to them by the storytelling.” He flicked the match into the tunnel so that it soared over the corpses. Dyson followed its glow with wide eyes. “Whereas the party responsible here exists with or without fireside theatre.” Dyson was already inclined to believe him. The sight revealed by the match merely forged faith into knowledge.

On the night of the fire there had been a positive torrent to go with the thunder and lightning. Once the guards and door were brutalized out of commission and left broken on the tunnel steps, a river of mud had dribbled in after the intruder. In the carpet of now-dried muck were smeared remnants of footprints. Most were colossal and led two ways, going forward and back. Whoever had made them was large enough to dwarf the dead men. A second set of footprints tramped back with these first massive soles, the barefoot steps looking far closer to human dimensions.

Beyond these smeared prints and just out of reach of the match’s light was the outline of a wide cart.

“Spare another?” Ambrose passed Dyson the matches. Dyson descended and made a rush to the cart. A match struck and showed the contents was discarded linen tarps all mottled with stains dark as rust. In the very center of the rumpled sheets, pointing to him, was a single rotten human finger.

The match went out.

Dyson raced back up to the daylit earth and rattled off the find to Ambrose.

“It does line up. An experiment named after Erichtho could hardly earn the title without doing something unwholesome with corpses.” Ambrose inclined his head at the tunnel. “It’s certainly not the kind of material Geber would want the house staff spying on its way down to the lab.”

“I wonder about that.” Dyson righted himself and squinted up at the sun behind a veil of new clouds. “Who’s to say that the finger was already rotten when it lost its owner? Surely the towns would have something in the news about graverobbers pillaging their cemeteries for convenient goods.”

“True.” The word was small. Dyson looked to Ambrose as the man paused in jotting something in his notes. His gaze was suddenly very far, hooked on some unknown point in the trees. “Quite true. After all,” he slowly closed the notepad and tucked it away with gloves that trembled, “it’s only worthy of newsprint if the dead go missing. The living disappear every day.” Dyson watch his throat work strangely behind his scarf. His breath came in very brisk puffs. “Such is hardly worth a blink these days. What’s the time, Dyson?” Dyson checked his watch. They’d eaten up most of an hour and he said so. “Then we’d best head down to meet our coach. Now.”

“Should we replace the stone? What if some animal gets in and—,”

Ambrose seized his shoulder. His head still hadn’t turned away from the trees. His voice came out so low there was almost no breath to whiten.

“Dyson. Now. Quick, but—but do not run.” His Adam’s apple seemed about to leap up through his mouth. “Now.” Dyson tried to follow Ambrose’s line of sight, but his friend was already dragging him like an errant sheep. Rather than take their original route, Ambrose shepherded them towards the nearest edge of the woodlands, out to the open snow.

“What happened to discretion?” Dyson asked in his own low pitch. Ambrose shook his head without fully taking his gaze away from the abruptly-fascinating patch of trees.

“We’ll be bringing authorities around here anyway. It hardly matters. Go. Just go. Once we get out in the open, we should—,” Behind them, a heavy branch snapped. To Dyson’s ears it sounded loud as breaking bone. Ambrose’s clutching hand became a vise. “Run.”

They did.

The gloom behind them snapped and rustled in a straight line after their heels. More, the ground itself twitched with the bounding of some unthinkable weight. Dyson thought ludicrously of bears or lions somehow migrating their way to this mild crumb of Surrey’s landscape. Yet he heard no animal snarl. Only the unimpeded breaking of the trees’ quiet as something titanic loped after its quarries.

Ambrose and Dyson broke out into the open meadow after a minute that felt like half an hour. They raced across the slope and around toward the fenced-in ruin of the manor at a frantic pace. Relief barely flickered in them as they saw the coach trotting up to the front gates. Their own tread was too wild to register if their pursuer was still galloping after them, but Dyson now felt the presence of eyes on him as surely as he’d feel the trundling of beetles along his neck.

The dead men flashed in his mind. Twisted and mashed and tossed in a pit. There was plenty of room to spare down there. New tenants welcome. And the coachman was so far, so far—

He stepped on one of his own bootlaces and went sprawling. When he moved to catch himself on his hands, his palm landed on something slicker than the snow, fumbling him so that he landed with elbow and cheek in the frost. It really was a pitiful layer of powder, he noted as his arm and face throbbed against the stiff ground. Ambrose skidded to a halt with him, almost falling as he scrambled on the frost. He might have shouted Dyson’s name. Dyson couldn’t be sure as he was peeling up the thing his hand had slid with. A leatherbound book with its cover lacquered in congealed mud.

“Dyson,” he heard Ambrose puff again. His breath was labored, but no longer a shout. “Dyson, can you stand?” Dyson looked up to see Ambrose’s attention was split between him and the trees. Nothing else was behind them. Dyson fixed his laces and regained his feet without releasing the book. “I think we can go at an easier pace now.”

“Yes. Possibly.”

Their new gait was not a sprint, but still a fair way ahead of anything leisurely. The driver looked at them oddly as they jogged over, at least until they gave him pay and directions for a trip to the nearest police station. Then his caterpillar brows shot up.

“Come across some trouble up there?”

“The human trouble has been and gone,” Dyson told him. “But they may want hunting rifles at hand for whatever creatures are roaming around in there.” The driver snorted at that.

“What creatures are those? Worst we’ve got in these parts are the damned foxes and a few snakes. Biggest thing I’ve seen was a buck that ran around last year. Had antlers two men wide.”

“It was no deer,” Ambrose assured him even as he craned his head again to face the trees. Dyson saw him fondling the part of his coat that held the spyglass. “In any case, it is a matter that would be helped by having a marksman ready.” The driver got no more from them as Dyson and Ambrose bundled themselves inside the coach. Ambrose hastily fumbled out the spyglass and watched the woods through his window until the treetops were out of sight.

“Not a deer, you say,” Dyson spoke as much to his mud-crusted souvenir as to the back of Ambrose’s head. “What then? I had no time to catch a glimpse.” Ambrose let out a breath as he collapsed the spyglass, fidgeting with the cylinder rather than tucking it away.

“Speaking frankly, I didn’t either. All I could spot in the gloom was the flash of bright eyes.” His throat twitched. “A gleam of yellow.” Dyson paused in his picking at the shell of hardened mud.

“Last night’s Goliath?”

“I don’t know. I cannot say with certainty whether the eyes belonged to a human shape or a creature on its haunches. Only that it was still as a statue in the gloom back there. Staring at us.” Ambrose shivered either from memory or cold and tucked the spyglass away in favor of his notes. He sketched rather than wrote. Scrawled across a clean page was the impression of two huge coins floating in a scribbled ink-shadow. The eyes featured pupils of a distinctly non-human make. “I am no artist, but this is roughly the look I caught watching us. They turned in the dark when we started for the trees’ edge. Then the eyes came forward.” He clapped the notes shut. “I found I was far more eager to be out of reach than to wait and see the eyes’ owner.” Ambrose gave him a tired smile. “I feel I’m halfway to a hypocrite after this. True, there was no alley and no waiting cutthroat, but I did run from the unknown when it came running.”

“Nonsense,” Dyson huffed. “Those eyes no doubt belonged to some exotic beast that escaped its pen in a zoo or some fool’s private menagerie. Nice open country like this is just the place you’ll find people with deep coffers and shallow sense hoarding pretty predators as though they were collecting pedigree hounds and cats. You wait, we’ll see something in the papers about somebody’s missing leopard or tiger prowling around the hills. Now, if that beast had cleared its throat in the dark and shouted at us in plain English to get out of its woods, there might be grounds to point and go a-ha! But as it had nothing to say and neither of us was polite enough to stand still and get mauled, the matter remains unsettled. Say, have you got a handkerchief you don’t mind ruining?”

Ambrose handed him one, his face finally regaining some tint as he puzzled over Dyson’s prize.

“It would be an opportune thing to be in a ghost story,” he sighed while Dyson scraped at the mud. “If we are, that will turn out to be a conveniently abandoned diary illustrating every move Geber made leading up to the fire, replete with his devilish experiments and all the lost spirits it conjured up. At the very least it will contain the chemical formula that led to such a unique blaze.”

Dyson scoured away most of the muck and frowned.

“Not a diary. Not even a tome of unholy scripture.”

“No?”

Dyson held the book up for him to see. Ambrose frowned back at him.

“No.”

The book was a leatherbound copy of The Legend of Frankenstein. What had been a luxurious volume had apparently been mangled by elements, animals, or else someone with a distinct loathing of the tale. Dyson had wondered at the lightness of the book and found that much of the pages were either shredded or torn out entirely. The inner cover alone had been spared attack, though it still boasted a minor bit of vandalism within:

There are not words enough to voice proper gratitude to the Muse, the Master, the Miracle. For lifetimes to come, even the finest poets of the world shall struggle to meet the task. Here and now, the most that can be said is thank you. Thank you for all that you have done, all that you are, all that is yet to come. A toast to the teachings of Prometheus, to Prima Materia, to the Magnum Opus realized!

—R.G.

Below this, a single line:

Mortui vivos docent.

“The dead teach the living. Interesting choice of postscript.”

“That isn’t all of it.” Ambrose took back the handkerchief and chipped further at a smear of muck still gripping the cover. It crumbled away to show words that had been stained into the board with a different pen. Almost carved.

Prometheus had nothing to teach. He stole the lightning for Man’s fire. The only worthwhile lesson of his myth was taught by the Eagle.

Erichtho might have had teachings to spare. The gods were wise enough to harken to her and know to quail. Yet mortal men care only for the dead’s secrets and the boons they might grant. These you will have. May the knowledge serve you as well as it has me.

No initial or signature was jotted with it, though some rough symbol was gouged below. A thing that curved and went straight at once, vaguely serpentine and somehow unpleasant in both its shape and the depth of its coarse engraving. As though the artist had been both incapable of finesse and insistent on carving the image regardless. Dyson and Ambrose each had a good squint at it and decided it was something related to a caduceus, the sign of medicine.

“The alchemic variant seems just as likely, if we’re to chase Geber’s words to their logical end,” Ambrose said in a tone that heartened as much as frustrated Dyson to hear. It meant the man’s nerves were settling, but also that his mind was now wandering down avenues several leagues away from the present, no doubt combing an internal library of references. Dyson flattered himself to know that he too had some scraps of intel to turn over. He recognized the Magnum Opus as referring to a ‘Great Work’ just as prima materia was a term for a sort of primal matter from which life and the universe was meant to be concocted. But no more than that. He’d need to dust off some old books or wait for Ambrose’s own ramble before he could scrounge up any deeper details.

As it turned out, Ambrose had sealed himself up in his head for the moment.

A moment which lasted long enough to get within talking distance of the police. They described the tunnel and what was in it. There was scarcely time to stretch their legs before they were riding along with the uniformed men, each thankfully armed. Sunset was almost racing them to the horizon by the time they trudged back to the clearing with lanterns in hand. Both men froze upon discovering it. When asked why:

“We didn’t leave it like this,” Dyson heard himself croak.

“How so?”

“The stone. We left it pushed aside when we left. The tunnel was still uncovered.”

Now the boulder was planted right back where it had been.

A hasty examination was made for tell-tale shoe prints, to little avail. New snow was fluttering down and filling things in with an accomplice’s speed. Giving it up, the group of them carefully shouldered the rock aside. Their caution’s reward was a column of acrid smoke that wafted up and plugged every unfortunate nose in reach. The last embers of a fire were dying down inside the tunnel.

The two corpses were roasted. The cart was a cinder. The tunnel’s floor had been glazed with oil and set alight until the whole bottom of the chute was a long black stream at least halfway to the underground entry point of the manor. Investigation to that farthest end revealed a pair of melted metal doors with burst windows. Beyond them there was only packed-in ash.

Dyson made no more mention of his hypothetical escaped animal.

Ambrose was not only silent about the Goliath seen from the window, but went so far as to draw his curtains before bed.

[the-garbanzo-annex-jr]

By  Hank Berrien

“I work at Kamal Adwan Hospital as a cleaning supervisor,” Al-Sharif stated. “I joined the Al-Qassam Brigades (Hamas) in 2021 in the Nukhba forces in the Western Battalion.”

The “Nukhba forces” are an “elite unit within Hamas, which includes operatives chosen by senior Hamas leaders,” CNBC noted. “Five Hamas leaders secretly planned the bloody invasion of southern Israel on Oct. 7, with 70 commandos from the terrorist group’s elite Nukhba Force leading the charge across the Gaza border, the London-based, pan-Arab Asharq Al-Awsat newspaper reported on Wednesday,” JNS reported in January 2024.

“Where were you arrested?” the interrogator asked.

“Inside Kamal Adwan Hospital,” he replied.

“When you were at Kamal Adwan Hospital, who else was there?” the interrogator continued.

“There were people there, the staff — the medical team I work with daily and directly. There were also operatives from Hamas and Islamic Jihad from the Al-Nasser Division and other organizations in Northern Gaza,” Al-Sharif admitted.

“Why were you hiding in Kamal Adwan Hospital?” the interrogator queried.

“They believe it is a safe haven for them because the military cannot directly target it,” Al-Sharif said.

“What do you mean when you say it is a ‘safe haven’?” the interrogator pressed.

“Because there are civilians and patients there,” Al-Sharif answered. “They think the military cannot bomb it, such as with a missile from an F-16 or by demolishing the building.”

“Now, when the operatives were in the hospital, what were they doing?” the interrogator wanted to know.

“The operatives were there transporting equipment and weapons like AK-47s … and pistols,” Al-Sharif revealed. “The weapons were transferred to and from the hospital from the outside in and from the inside out within the hospital. It was used for observation and patrols. They leave the hospital late at night; they arrive at the hospital in the morning. Inside the hospital, they distribute the grenades and mortars equipment for attacking tanks, for ambush positions and for tunnels underground to the command and control center, whether at Kamal Adwan, Faluja (Jabaliya Camp), or in new locations where the operatives are located.”

[sleekervae]

The Bride [0.7]

Masterlist

A/N: sorry I've been away for so long guys, I hit a bit of a depression when I came home but I'm slowly coming out of it. And ofc any time Tom's in a cowboy hat catch me gnawing at the bars of my enclosure lol.

Pairing: billy the kid x fem!reader

Summary: Billy moves to Lincoln

Warnings: cursing, slander, mentions of shooting, anxiety and paranoia

Word Count: 5,222

Tag List: @poppyflower-22 @ponyslayer

The town of Lincoln was a booming, dusty town with a strong Mexican population. Despite its small size it was rapidly developing in housing, productivity, and opportunity. And where there was opportunity, ambition came sniffing around.

The first opportunity Lawrence P. Murphy saw was a monopoly; so many immigrant farmers eager to make a living, and he had the means to distribute their products to those who needed them. Of course, because he had been in the only game in town, no farmer could complain when Murphy began to slash their earnings, because where were they supposed to go? Who was going to compensate them?

Well, John Tunstall saw his own opportunity: completion.

Same distribution, same stores, better wages, better human rights. And when the farmers learned of what Tunstall had to offer, they of course clamoured to sell their grain, veggies, and dry goods to him instead of Murphy.

Another result of competition was jealousy... as well as greed... and then desperation.

Murphy became so desperate to keep his stocks, so desperate to hold on to the power and control he had within Lincoln, that he was willing to sub-contract criminals to keep the farmers in line. There was no real law in Lincoln, so again -- who was to stop him?

Seven had just struck the morning air, businesses were opening and children were beginning their chores for the day. It was a simple, ordinary day, up until an unfamiliar horse strided into town. On the back of said horse was a woman, a striking stranger donning a long canvas coat and a black, wide-brimmed hat. The horse matched her facade, black in its coat with a single white sock on its back leg, trotting away peacefully under the patient guidance of its rider.

Some of the locals stopped what they were doing, it wasn't often they'd see women riding horses by themselves. They'd never seen a strange woman ride into town, period; they were typically always accompanied by a man.

And yet, the town of Lincoln would come to find there was nothing typical about this woman.

They watched curiously as she stopped before John Tunstall's store. Dismounting her horse, she was much shorter than she appeared, however she walked with great confidence up the stairs of the store front and waltzed right in.

A store clerk glanced up, giving her his own curious gaze as she bypassed all the available product and approached the desk, "Can I help you, ma'am?" he asked.

"Why yes," she smiled sweetly for him, lifting her hat off her head and letting her long brown hair cascade over her shoulders, "I heard Mr. Tunstall was hiring for a book keeper. I'm here to apply," she replied simply, plucking her riding gloves off her fingers one by one.

The clerk nodded, "I see. Do you have experience?"

"Yes, sir. Six years worth," her smile widened, the tinge of her southern accent was so effortlessly charming that the clerk couldn't help but be taken with her.

"Six years?" he queried. He couldn't have put this girl at more than twenty-years-old.

"That's right," she nodded, never wavering in her confidence.

She seemed sweet enough, the clerk didn't see the harm in her, "Well, Mr. Tunstall won't be back in town for another few weeks, but I'd be happy to give you the run through, if you'd like?" he offered.

"I'd appreciate that," she nodded, "Mr...?"

"Charlie works just fine," he stepped out from the counter to lead her into the back, "And your name?"

"Johana," she replied, reaching out to shake his hand, "Johana Delile,"

Working for Mr. Murphy brought in a lot of money, and for the most part, it was easy money. Intimidate the competition, disrupt supply chains, and remind the locals who held the monopoly in town.

That last part didn't sit well with Billy. Jesse, however, seemed to thrive on it.

The locals they were threatening, the supply chains they were disrupting, were typically Mexican families. Immigrants who had journeyed up North in hopes of achieving the American Dream. They were good people who just wanted to make an honest living. People who, despite their contracts with Murphy, were giving their supply to Tunstall because he simply paid better.

If anyone deserved a shot at making it in this country, it was them. Billy understood that better than any of Jesse's boys could, better than Murphy ever would. Murphy's solution was muscle and ammo, and despite how much Billy tried to keep violence out of it, he could only play peacemaker for so long before something snapped.

Billy found himself torn. He knew the pain of struggling for a better life, the desperation that came with it. He saw the fear in the eyes of the families they intimidated, and it ate at him. He could almost hear Eleanor's voice, urging him to do the right thing, to find another way.

But here he was, stuck in a cycle of survival and compromise, his hands tied by the very people he was trying to distance himself from. Each day brought a new challenge, a new moral line to cross, and Billy felt the weight of it pressing down on him, threatening to crush whatever remnants of his old self he had left.

Today was another warm one, summer would be coming to an end soon yet the heat was insistent on sticking around. Murphy had tasked Jesse with another intimidation tactic, Jesse naturally dragged Billy and Pat with him.

They made a good trio: Jesse was the aggressive one, hyper, quick on the tongue and on the draw, Pat, with his distinguished way of dress gave him some air of power and authority, people respected him. And Billy, well Billy's sensitivity came into play quite effectively. Jesse knew how much Billy didn't want blood spilled, he could tell from the moment he stepped foot into town. So Billy was naturally the last line of threat, encouraging the locals to wise up and respect Murphy's business.

Today however would prove to be just a tad different.

It wasn't the first time the trio had stormed into Tunstall's store, tearing through bags of grain, kicking bags of flour, making a real mess of the place. The clerk in charge stood helpless, unarmed, and outmanned. This was exactly what Jesse and his boys expected as they strode into the store. Jesse’s aggression could be sensed a mile away, and it was enough to make the poor store clerk quake in his boots.

"I thought we gave you a warning last time!" Jesse hollered, his boot connecting with another bag of grain, spilling its contents across the floor.

"And what warning would that be?" the clerk stammered, trying to stand his ground. Billy felt a pang of sympathy for the guy, along with a growing annoyance at Jesse’s antics.

"Shape up and ship out," Jesse replied with a sneer. "You've got no chance at competing with Murphy. He knows it, you know it, and I'm sure at this point Tunstall knows it too."

Pat chimed in, "You can’t even get the same quality product. It’s no competition."

Billy lingered in the back, staying quiet but ready should things escalate. They almost did with a farmer and his family the other day, and Billy had barely managed to reel Jesse back in, like a rabid animal on a leash.

"Where's Tunstall at?" Jesse demanded, hands on his hips.

"He won’t be back for a few weeks," the clerk said, trying to sound confident.

"You told me that last time," Jesse scoffed.

"Last time was the same," the clerk replied. "Mr. Tunstall’s a busy man, you know..."

A smirk tugged at Jesse’s lips. He glanced at Pat, then at Billy, before turning back to the clerk. "I bet he is. So damn busy, he leaves some gawky kid to run his store instead of being here himself. Real brave man,"

Just as the tension reached its peak, the door to the store swung open, and Billy swore he was seeing a ghost. Given the dumfounded look on Jesse's face, he felt the same. In walked Eleanor—or a more refined, polished version of her. Billy finally sat up from the crate he was resting on, studying her hard as she sauntered into the hostile room. Her hair was pinned up nicely, her slacks were traded for a nice dress, and her face was clean, free of any trace of stress or depression.

"Sam, you need help out here? I heard some bags fall over—"

She took in the scene with a quick glance, her eyes locking with Billy's first, then shifting to Jesse. The same gobsmacked expression hit her only for a moment; her eyes went wide, and Billy could hear her sharp inhale. Nevertheless, she remained cool and stoic, standing beside the clerk with a calm authority that commanded the room.

"What’s goin' on here?" Eleanor asked, her voice steady and her Carolinian accent heavier than before.

Jesse straightened up, stepping forward with caution, "Eleanor?" he muttered, but the edge in his voice had dulled.

She cocked a brow, glancing at Sam with curiosity before turning back to Jesse, "Who's Eleanor?" she asked plainly.

Pat himself was confused, glancing between the two men. Obviously, there was something about this girl that had them both as white as sheets.

Jesse scoffed in disbelief, "Don't play around, Ellie. It's not funny," he told her.

"Do you see me laughing?" she sassed back, one hand going on her hip, "Now I asked you a question, you still have yet to answer me,"

"They were just leaving, Jo," Sam informed her.

"Jo?" Billy finally spoke, coming to stand in line with Jesse and Pat. There were so many emotions flooding through him; relief because she was alive and appeared relatively unharmed, confused and hurt because she obviously recognized him and Jesse, but whatever role she was taking on now, she obviously couldn't let slip that she knew them.

"Johana," she said simply, "You boys work for Mr. Murphy, don't ya?" she cocked her head, staring directly at Billy now.

Billy took a hard swallow before answering, "That's right, ma'am," Jesse shot him a glare, pissed and annoyed that Billy was playing into her cock and bull story.

A pitiful smile crossed her face, "Then you don't belong here. Either buy somethin', or get out," she huffed, "We got a special on dried apricots this week,"

Jesse was still in disbelief, but he could register enough to see how she was talking to him. He could see which side she was playing for, and that automatically made her his enemy.

"You really wanna' do this, Eleanor?" he asked, "This is what you do to me?"

Eleanor simply shook her head, "Now listen, I don't know who this Eleanor girl is, but God save her soul should you ever find her. Now, I told you to leave,"

Jesse scowled menacingly, anger boiling inside him now, "Or what?" he took a step closer, "What the hell are you gonna' do?"

Billy watched anxiously as a viscous, petty smile crossed her face. He could see how much Eleanor was enjoying this, toying with Jesse, riling him up. But he couldn't have predicted what she did next.

Without warning, she let out an ear-piercing, murderous scream. The type of scream women let out when they knew they were in real trouble, the type of scream that townsfolk would drop everything for and run if it meant protecting their own. And that's just what happened, already Billy could hear people making their way to Tunstall's store. He knew exactly how it would look when they came in here, and he was eager to avoid as much trouble as he could.

They had to get out, now.

"Alright, alright! We get it!" Billy stepped forward, his hands out to try and calm her, "You win!"

Eleanor immediately stopped screaming, that same smile still plastered to her face. It was almost as though she had been taken on by another spirit, this wasn't the Eleanor that Billy had come to know. Even Sam was shaken as he cowered further back behind the desk.

"I'm glad you see it my way," she told him, "Now either run along, and I make up a ruse about a mouse runnin' loose around here. Or the townspeople can come in and I'll tell 'em all about how you tried to manhandle a poor, defenceless, little woman," her smile was overtaken by that all too familiar pout that Billy and Jesse came to know.

That murderous glare returned to Jesse's face, his fists balling at his sides. Of course, he couldn't do anything here, not now anyway. Billy wouldn't put it past him to return come closing time, though.

"Alright, we're leaving," Pat agreed, tugging Jesse by his jacket arm, "But Mr. Murphy's gett'n real tired of losing his suppliers,"

"Well, maybe if Murphy paid his suppliers properly, he wouldn't be having a problem?" Sam butted in.

"Money talks well, after all," Eleanor nodded coyly.

Jesse stepped back with the boys, his glare never leaving Eleanor's, "Don't get too comfortable, Johana. We'll be back,"

"Gimme' a head's up next time!" she called after them, "I'll put some coffee on!"

Billy grabbed Jesse and dragged him out the door, just as a few locals came rushing into the store to see what all the screaming was about. Sam and Eleanor -- or Johana, as they came to know her -- quickly quelled their fears with the story of a rogue rat, sending them all on their way again. All they were left with now was a giant mess to clean up.

"That was wonderful, Jo," Sam awed, "I don't know how you got it in you!"

"What do ya' mean, Sam?" she asked.

"You just stand up to them so well! That first guy was all up in your face and you never flinched!" he replied

"Well, it's simple," she told him as they began to clean up, "Don't let 'em see you scared, that's how they know they got power over you,"

Sam nodded, "S'pose that makes sense... were you scared?"

"Of those knuckle heads? Please," she scoffed.

"Why'd they keep calling you 'Eleanor', though?"

Eleanor simply shrugged, not letting any hint of stress show in her expression, "Hell if I know. Maybe I just got one of 'em faces?"

Sam began to laugh, "Maybe you look too much like his girlfriend that took off on 'im?" well, he almost hit the nail on the head...

"Maybe so," Eleanor chuckled back, though the thought of being Jesse's girl absolutely repulsed her, "I'm gonna grab the broom. You try to salvage whatcha' can,"

"Sounds good!"

Eleanor walked into the back of the store, her calm facade crumbling the moment she was out of sight. Her hand flew to her mouth, muffling her labored breathing. Her chest tightened like a bowstring as she fell back against the wall, eyes wide with panic. Jesse was in town. Billy was in town. They were working for the competition. If they were feeling spiteful, her cover was definitely blown.

She slid down the wall, her legs shaking beneath her, the reality of the situation hitting her like a freight train. Memories flooding back like a dam bursting, the life she had tried so hard to escape was back to haunt her. She pressed her palm against her chest, willing herself to calm down.

Footsteps echoed from the front of the store, each one sending a jolt of fear through her. Sam would surely be back to check on her if she wasn't out soon. She clenched her fists, her nails digging into her palms, fighting to regain control. She couldn’t let him see her like this, couldn't risk him finding out the truth.

Taking a deep breath, Eleanor straightened up, forcing herself to stand tall. She brushed her hands down her dress, smoothing out the wrinkles, and went to fetch the broom. She had fought too hard to create this new life, and she wasn’t about to let the Seven Rivers Gang destroy it.

Billy had never seen Jesse so furious. The moment he stepped out of the store, his boots stomped heavily across the gravel path. He kicked at a wooden beam supporting the building’s awning with such force that Pat worried it might come crashing down on them.

"That bitch!" Jesse roared, his voice echoing through the quiet town. "After everything we did for her, that's how she repays us?" He turned to Billy, eyes blazing with rage. "She say something to you? About her little plan?"

Billy flinched at Jesse’s snarl. "N-No!" he shook his head swiftly, meeting Jesse’s intense glare. "She must’ve come along here on her way from Rosario!"

"Like hell!"

Pat stepped in, anxious to calm Jesse and avoid drawing more attention. "Who is she, anyhow?" he asked.

"A little runaway whore I took pity on a year ago! Stupid me for thinking she’d be loyal!" Jesse snapped. "I let her outta my sight for one day —"

"Hey, c’mon!" Billy interrupted. "Don’t be that way, Jesse. You don’t know what she had to put up with out there!"

"Oh, and you do?" Jesse scoffed. He stopped in his tracks, stepping into Billy’s space, eyes narrowing. "You'll cling to anything to hang onto her, won’t you?" he growled, spit flying from his lips.

Billy held his ground. "That’s not true —"

"Are you sure? Because now my worry is you'll take one look at her, she’ll bat her big pretty eyes at you, and you’ll lose focus," Jesse huffed.

"And you won’t?" Billy shot back. "You knew her longer."

"And for reasons beyond me, she likes you better," Jesse replied, bitterness lacing his words. "Don’t fall for it, Billy! She’s a snake! A con artist! And we walked right into her next scheme!"

Billy clenched his fists, struggling to keep his composure. "Do you even hear yourself?" he asked, his voice tight with frustration. He didn’t want to believe Jesse, but the doubt gnawed at him viciously.

"You heard her in there! She's Johana. For now, anyway," Jesse spat, whirling around and striding away. Billy and Pat jogged to keep up.

"Jesse, what're you gonna do?" Billy asked, a knot of worry tightening in his chest. He had a sinking feeling about Jesse’s intentions.

"What do you think I'm gonna do? How do you think Tunstall's gonna feel knowing he's got a con woman running his store?" Jesse's voice was sharp, filled with a venom that made Billy flinch.

Pat grabbed Jesse’s sleeve, pulling him to a stop. "Hold on, now," he said firmly, forcing Jesse to face him. "Listen, I understand how pissed off you boys are. But how are you gonna look to Tunstall -- hell, how are you gonna look to Murphy -- if you go and accuse this girl of being who you say she is without any proof? Now, if she had her name and face on a poster, that would be one thing."

Billy nodded, desperate to keep the situation from spiraling. "Yeah, and exposing her doesn't serve us any purpose, Jesse," he added, his voice steady but pleading.

Jesse's jaw clenched, his eyes flickering with a mix of hurt and anger. He knew they were right, even if he hated to admit it. As much as he felt betrayed by Eleanor, he had to stay focused on their mission. She -- Johana -- whoever she was, couldn’t derail their plans.

"Fine," he snapped, ripping his arm from Pat’s grip and straightening his jacket. "Leave her be. She'll be out of a job in no time, anyhow." He then turned to Billy, his eyes narrowing. "And if I find out you go anywhere near her..." His words were harsh, but there was a flicker of something softer in his eyes -- a hint of the pain he felt, buried beneath the anger.

"I won't," Billy assured him, though the words felt like ash in his mouth.

As they fell in step, Pat attempted to shift the conversation to something trivial. Billy nodded along, but his mind was elsewhere, a heavy lump forming in his stomach. The sight of Eleanor had stirred something in him that he couldn’t quite shake. Relief at seeing her alive and well was overshadowed by a gnawing anxiety, questions spiraling uncontrollably in his mind.

Why was she here? Was she safe? What had she gone through to end up in Tunstall's store? His heart ached with the thought of her composed, cleaned up appearance in the store clashing with the Eleanor he remembered. She was pristine and lady-like, a true Southern Belle not quite herself, and if he hadn't seen her in the store there was a good chance Billy might not have recognized her at all.

Billy’s gaze drifted back to Jesse, who was now engaged in a conversation with Pat. Jesse’s anger was palpable, but Billy could see the undercurrent of hurt beneath it. He knew Jesse felt betrayed, but he also knew how deeply he had cared for Eleanor. It was a mess, all of it, and Billy was caught in the middle, unsure of what to do or how to feel.

If there was one thing Billy could never do well, it was listening. He knew he'd pay dearly if Jesse or anyone found out where he was going.

He hadn't planned to leave the party early, but Dolan Murphy couldn't help but push Billy to perform. And perform he did. Over ten targets shot down in less than a minute—a personal best some would reckon. Despite their admiration, despite the clear impression Billy had made, he could also recognize the fear in their faces. Good. In a way, he wanted Murphy, Jesse, even the U.S. Army General to fear him.

With every shot, he reflected on how he ended up here, his mission to abolish such a corrupt system quelled when he realized he was suddenly just as wrapped up in corruption as everyone else. Dear God, if his mother saw him now...

In the wake of his demonstration, Billy left alcohol spilled, glass shattered, and a small fire breaking out over a barn threshold. Nevertheless, he couldn't help but stop and watch the U.S. Army General swig down his whiskey while he chatted with the town sheriff. He recognized the colors he wore, the brim of his hat, the markings on his sleeve. He was of the same battalion as Eleanor's husband—or would-be husband, that is. If he was here, he wondered if that same captain was here too.

He wondered if Eleanor knew that...

His feet moved before his mind could catch up, carrying him away from the chaos he'd left behind and towards the edge of town. He knew the risks, knew Jesse’s wrath would be waiting for him if he got caught. But he had to see her, had to find out if she was okay.

As he walked, the night air cooled his burning skin, but did nothing to calm the storm inside him. He remembered the fear in the eyes of those he'd impressed with his shooting skills, the way they looked at him like he was something to be wary of. It was a twisted sort of satisfaction, knowing he could instill that kind of fear. Yet it was also a bitter reminder of how far he'd strayed from the man he once wanted to be.

His mother would be ashamed, and Eleanor—he didn’t know what she’d think. She might assure him it was okay, might try to understand, but the truth was he didn’t even understand himself anymore. The lines between right and wrong had blurred, leaving him adrift in a sea of confusion and guilt.

Billy stopped at the edge of the road, his eyes scanning the darkness for any sign of her. He didn't know what he was hoping for, but he knew he couldn’t walk away without trying.

The roads were quiet at this time of night, a welcome reprieve for Eleanor on her evening walk home. She still didn't have a "home" per se, but Tunstall paid her just enough to stay in a nicer boarding house. No holes in the curtains, no rotten bed mattresses, and locks on doors that worked properly.

It had been days since Jesse and Billy ambushed the store, and yet she was still as shaken as though it happened moments ago. Every step she took outside, her eyes scanned the faces in the street. Every glance out a window, she wondered if they were watching her, plotting something. Sam, bless his heart, was still oblivious to any stress she was under as he continued to run the storefront, leaving Eleanor to fret over the books and accounts in the back.

She had to wonder if God had a twisted sense of humor, or perhaps he was just taunting her at this point. Taunting her with Billy, always keeping him just within reach, but never enough to have him fully. Not that she ever thought she stood a chance, not out here, anyway. She had to wonder how he became so mixed up in such nasty business. When did he come back to the gang? Did Jesse feel more inclined to let him return because she disappeared?

Ditching Jesse was a move she knew she could never recover from in his eyes, but she seized her opportunity to escape the first moment she could. After all, there was opportunity for her in Lincoln; she never stood a chance with Jesse.

Not even with Billy.

As she walked, the cool night air did little to calm the storm inside her. Her mind was a whirlpool of memories and questions, each one more painful than the last. The image of Billy's face, the anger and confusion in his eyes when he saw her in the store, haunted her. She wondered if he thought of her as often as she thought of him, if he missed her the way she missed him.

But then she reminded herself of the reality. Billy was tangled in a web of violence and lawlessness, a world she had desperately tried to escape. A world she could never fully belong to, even if her heart stubbornly refused to let go of him.

There was a palpable tension in the air, a feeling that prickled at the back of Eleanor's neck. The sensation of being watched, of unseen eyes tracking her every move, gnawed at her. She tried to shake it off, attributing it to her frayed nerves, but the feeling only grew stronger.

The street lamps cast long, eerie shadows, and every rustle of leaves or creak of a wooden plank seemed amplified in the stillness. She quickened her pace, her heart pounding in her chest, every instinct screaming at her to get to safety. Her eyes darted around, catching glimpses of movement in the periphery, shadows that seemed to loom and retreat.

She could feel her breath quickening, a tightness in her chest that had nothing to do with the physical exertion of walking. Every step felt heavy, as if the weight of unseen gazes bore down on her. The normally comforting sounds of the night now seemed sinister, the hoot of an owl making her jump, the distant bark of a dog sending a shiver down her spine.

Eleanor's mind raced with possibilities, each more frightening than the last. Was it Jesse? Had he sent someone to follow her, lurking in the shadows to catch her off guard? She shook her head, trying to dispel the paranoia, but it clung to her, a dark cloud she couldn't escape.

Reaching the boarding house, Eleanor fumbled for her keys, her hands trembling as she pushed through the doors. The clerk was gone for the night, the sign-in book left open on the desk, and a dim candle burning at the end of its wick was the only source of light within.

The flickering candlelight cast dancing shadows on the walls, making the empty room feel even more eerie. Eleanor’s pulse quickened as she hurried towards the stairs, her breath hitching when she heard the door creak open behind her. Panic surged through her veins. Without a second thought, she reached into her bag, her fingers closing around the familiar handle of her switchblade.

She spun around, blade ready, eyes wide with fear and apprehension. But then she froze, the tension in her body melting into a mixture of relief and confusion. Standing in the doorway, silhouetted against the dim candle light, was Billy.

His eyes met hers, a flicker of surprise crossing his face before settling into a wary calm. He stepped inside, closing the door gently behind him, as if to show he meant no harm. Eleanor’s heart pounded in her chest, not from fear anymore, but from the sudden, unexpected rush of seeing him here, now. She slowly lowered the blade, but didn’t put it away, her mind racing with questions and emotions she wasn’t ready to face.

“Billy,” she whispered, the name barely escaping her lips, a mixture of relief and disbelief in her voice. She took a cautious step back, still not entirely sure what to make of his sudden appearance.

"Eleanor," he nodded, speaking softly, "Or... am I talking to Johana?"

She scoffed quietly, slipping the switchblade back into her bag, the tension flooding out of her shoulders, "Come on, quick. Before someone sees you," she whispered, fluttering her fingers to follow her. Without a second thought, Billy obeyed, Jessie's warnings be damned. He was just so glad to see her, to see her ruse falling for him.

She led him down the hall to a corner suite, unlocking the door to reveal a newer, cleaner, intact room. Billy took it all in as she drew the curtains, his eyes lingering on the small details that spoke volumes about her new life. The floral wallpaper, the neatly made bed, the organized desk—it all painted a picture of someone trying to build a semblance of stability. But the shadows in her eyes, the tension in her movements, told another story.

"Nice place you got here," he noted.

"I suppose," she shrugged as she lit the gas gamp, casting a warm glow in the room, "Bit of a step up for me, I'll admit," he noted how her voice softened, her accent wasn't so strong anymore.

"It suits you," he then glanced over her appearance, her long corduroy skirt, the matching vest with the flouncy white shirt underneath, "The whole get up suits you," She looked like a more grown up version of herself that she'd fit into with just a few more years.

"You don't have to flatter so hard," Eleanor went for her closet and pulled out a bottle of whiskey, "Care for some?"

"Nah, I'm alright," he took a seat on the edge of the bed while she poured herself a glass anyway. The warm glow of the gas lamp cast a soft light on her face, highlighting the worry lines etched into her features.

"So..." she began as she sat across from him, her voice steady but low, "Who wants to go first?"

[signalfog]

US Constitution - A Critique and Upgrade Options

SACCO & VANZETTI PRESENT:

THE CONSTITUTION IN FIRE AND CODE

A hard-nosed, ethical teardown of America's source code BASE SYSTEM: U.S. CONSTITUTION v1.0.1787

VANZETTI: The Constitution is not sacred. It’s a contract—one written by 55 elite white men, many of whom owned humans, and none of whom trusted the masses.

It’s a political OS designed to stabilize a fragile post-revolutionary elite consensus. It featured:

Separation of Powers: Isolation of functions to prevent autocracy, but also to slow democracy.

Checks and Balances: Not equilibrium—just distributed veto points.

Enumerated Powers: Core federal functions, tightly scoped.

Elastic Clause: An escape hatch for future relevance, designed to expand federal power slowly.

But its core failure? It was engineered for a low-bandwidth, low-population, literate-male landowning republic. It has not been significantly refactored since muskets and messengers. It is a creaking system straining under incompatible load.

SACCO: This wasn’t “for the people.” It was designed to keep the people contained. That was the function. The Senate was an elite kill switch. The Electoral College? A manual override in case democracy got uppity.

It’s not a broken system. It’s a functioning oligarchy framework with ceremonial democratic syntax.

BILL OF RIGHTS: PATCH OR PROP?

VANZETTI: The Bill of Rights was a retrofit—a patch to suppress anti-federalist rage. It formalized personal liberties but offered no systemic guarantees. It assumes good-faith actors will respect vague principles like “unreasonable” and “excessive.” No enforcement layer. No recursion. Just faith.

They are declarative rights. Not executable rights.

SACCO: You have the right to speak, sure. But no right to reach. You can protest, unless the city denies your permit. You can be tried by jury—if you can afford not to plead out.

These aren’t rights. They’re permissions granted by an extractive system when it suits the optics.

They tell you the government can’t search your house. They don’t tell you about digital surveillance dragnets, predictive policing, and facial recognition at protest marches.

The Bill of Rights is a beautiful lie in cursive. It reads clean. It runs dirty.

SYSTEMIC LIMITATIONS — 2025 REALITY

VANZETTI: The Constitution is brittle under modern load:

Elections: Electoral College and Senate distort democracy beyond recognition.

Legal System: Lifetime judicial appointments become ideological hard forks.

Rights Enforcement: Subjective interpretation, no auto-execution.

Transparency: Black-box governance remains default.

Corporations: Treated as persons with infinite speech budget.

Privacy: Undefined. Loophole the size of AWS.

Its failure modes are increasingly exploited by well-funded actors who’ve read the source code and know no one’s enforcing the terms.

SACCO: Don’t talk to me about founding wisdom when your “more perfect union” doesn’t define “truth,” doesn’t define “justice,” and doesn’t protect the poor from being data-mined, indebted, and incarcerated.

They wrote this to protect wealth from mobs. We’re the mobs now.

THE UPGRADE PATH: BLOCKCHAIN GOVERNANCE

VANZETTI: A new system must execute governance as code, not wishful interpretation. Here’s how it looks:

1. ConstitutionChain All laws, interpretations, amendments, and precedents recorded immutably. Transparent. Auditable. Every ruling is version-controlled. We no longer interpret the Constitution—we query it.

2. Smart Contract Rights Each civil liberty is codified. Violate it, and the system triggers penalties automatically. No discretion. No delay. Rights exist only if they execute.

3. ZK-ID Voting System Anonymous, verifiable, cryptographically secure civic identity. One citizen, one unforgeable vote. Gerrymandering becomes obsolete. Voter suppression becomes mathematically visible.

4. Distributed Judicial Logic No more black-robed oracles. Rulings handled by time-limited panels of legal professionals, selected randomly and transparently. All opinions stored, auditable, and revisable based on new precedent or revelation.

5. Public Key Legislative Tracking Every bill, every edit, every lobbyist fingerprint on public record. Representational corruption becomes a provable dataset.

SACCO: This isn’t utopian. It’s survival.

The current system runs on the belief that words written by slavers can protect the data rights of your daughter on a school Chromebook.

It can’t. You need a constitution that logs, executes, and cannot lie.

DEPLOYMENT STRATEGY

Phase 0: Parallel Chain Shadow legal and civic frameworks built at city and state levels. Use real elections as dry runs for blockchain voting. Publicly track existing corruption as a proof-of-need.

Phase 1: Digital Citizenship Opt-in constitutional layer for a new federated digital public. Users choose citizenship by protocol, not geography.

Phase 2: Critical Fork When the legacy system hits unsustainable entropy—financial collapse, legal legitimacy crisis, climate-triggered authoritarianism—the constitutional fork becomes the continuity government.

SACCO: When the Republic dies, it won’t announce it. It will just stop executing your rights and blame you for noticing.

We’re not trying to fix the system.

We’re building a better one in its shadow.

CONCLUSION:

VANZETTI: The Constitution was a brilliant v1.0. But it cannot scale, cannot adapt, and cannot protect. It needs to be replaced by something that runs honestly in real time.

SACCO: It’s not about preserving liberty. It’s about enforcing it.

If your freedom isn’t programmable, it’s marketing.

“In the beginning, they wrote it in ink. Now we write it in code.”

[resolutepath]

“ i’m not here to talk about me. what the is going on with you? ” oh this called to me from sunday to elio for some reason

There is a hiss between teeth as sound filters into the space it occupies, vessel uncomfortable as the one known as Elio attempts to sit up straight, managing a reclined slouch that likes neither as refined nor composed as his usual posture. Fingers curl into the rich fabric of the couch, pressing deeply until it crinkles beneath digits, knuckles whitening with the efforts. It is a concentrated effort to peel them away once the most upright position is obtained, and Elio swipes one through loose locks, attempting to bring the disarray into some form of order, ignoring the thump behind the eyes, the sharp agony that is only hindered by shaded lenses. Upon his tongue is a query as to Sunday's intentions and yet before he can make it amusingly, the other has charted the course of the conversation in an adept and succinct manner, cutting off any chance of distraction being an option.

"A minor inconvenience... it will pass soon enough..." It hardly covers the extent of the affliction, merely the fact that it will pass, but it is one of the more closely guarded facets of the abilities he holds. Yet, still he is so keenly aware of the halovian seeking place within the Stellaron Hunters, in finding purpose and meaning in the operation that is run and to dismiss the concerns now might destabilise what has already been forged.

So Elio raises a trembling hand and offers Sunday the seat at his side, waiting until he makes himself comfortable, before fingers curl atop the blanket that shrouds his frame in piles of fleece and comfort, leaving a more vulnerable image of the figure that has been otherwise untouchable in the way he has presented until now. For a moment there is silence, this one born of an agitated calm, permeated by the unanswered questions about his state, the change within his demeanour.

"We all have our trials we must face... I am not an exemption... though this information is that which I do not distribute so readily..." A pause, given the emphasis the stretch of trust held out in this space, the welcoming into a smaller group within their team, the gifting of a knowledge not easily shared. It is less abrasive than dismissing Sunday entirely, but the tone used is one that emplores for pity to be left at the door, to accept that this is but a fact of existence. It is not something that Elio wishes to be coddled over but rather supported through, for it is the penance of knowledge, another part of the curse of knowing too much. When one is gifted the abilities of an aeon but still contains the fragility of a man, there are consequences that cannot be ignored.

"When a muscle is overused... it aches and must be rested, Destiny's gaze... is no different. It has great advantages... but they come with consequence..." There is a pause as Elio's head throbs and the room spins, and he raises his palm to press against his the centre of his forehead as though it might ease the ache. It won't. The only relief he finds is in laying down and allowing time to pass while he remains prone, hoping there is not too much time lost. "And I am afraid that... I have overtaxed myself once again..."

A shuddered breath passes over lips and for once Elio seems the closes to human that he has been, vessel shuddering, lips pressed in a thin line, fingers curling. He wants to move, to rise, to fight but he has not the capacity for it. Sitting upright is battle enough and one he will not win long term. "You know as well as I do the weight of consequence, Sunday. In time this will pass... until then I must... endure." He pauses, giving in to the need to sink, head turning so he might keep his gaze affixed upon the other and though he is wrought with pain he still smiles, allows lips to curl upwards. He is glad for the company, though he may not be of much use for some time.

"You need not linger... I have born this far longer than you know. But if you wish to stay, I will be grateful for your company..." In this there will be no direction offered, only choice as a shaky breath passes lips, and Elio lets lids shut for a moment, mentally preparing himself for the day ahead. It will pass, and though it will be a struggle to endure, it will be worth it for those he considers his own, for the universe he desires to save.

@avaere

[mariacallous]

Connecting the dots of recent research suggests a new future for traditional websites:

Artificial Intelligence (AI)-powered search can provide a full answer to a user’s query 75% of the time without the need for the user to go to a website, according to research by The Atlantic.

A worldwide survey from the University of Toronto revealed that 22% of ChatGPT users “use it as an alternative to Google.”

Research firm Gartner forecasts that traffic to the web from search engines will fall 25% by 2026.

Pew Research found that a quarter of all web pages developed between 2013 and 2023 no longer exist.

The large language models (LLMs) of generative AI that scraped their training data from websites are now using that data to eliminate the need to go to many of those same websites. Respected digital commentator Casey Newton concluded, “the web is entering a state of managed decline.” The Washington Post headline was more dire: “Web publishers brace for carnage as Google adds AI answers.”

From decentralized information to centralized conclusions

Created by Sir Tim Berners-Lee in 1989, the World Wide Web redefined the nature of the internet into a user-friendly linkage of diverse information repositories. “The first decade of the web…was decentralized with a long-tail of content and options,” Berners-Lee wrote this year on the occasion of its 35th anniversary.  Over the intervening decades, that vision of distributed sources of information has faced multiple challenges. The dilution of decentralization began with powerful centralized hubs such as Facebook and Google that directed user traffic. Now comes the ultimate disintegration of Berners-Lee’s vision as generative AI reduces traffic to websites by recasting their information.

The web’s open access to the world’s information trained the large language models (LLMs) of generative AI. Now, those generative AI models are coming for their progenitor.

The web allowed users to discover diverse sources of information from which to draw conclusions. AI cuts out the intellectual middleman to go directly to conclusions from a centralized source.

The AI paradigm of cutting out the middleman appears to have been further advanced in Apple’s recent announcement that it will incorporate OpenAI to enable its Siri app to provide ChatGPT-like answers. With this new deal, Apple becomes an AI-based disintermediator, not only eliminating the need to go to websites, but also potentially disintermediating the need for the Google search engine for which Apple has been paying $20 billion annually.

The Atlantic, University of Toronto, and Gartner studies suggest the Pew research on website mortality could be just the beginning. Generative AI’s ability to deliver conclusions cannibalizes traffic to individual websites threatening the raison d’être of all websites, especially those that are commercially supported.  

Echoes of traditional media and the web

The impact of AI on the web is an echo of the web’s earlier impact on traditional information providers. “The rise of digital media and technology has transformed the way we access our news and entertainment,” the U.S. Census Bureau reported in 2022, “It’s also had a devastating impact on print publishing industries.” Thanks to the web, total estimated weekday circulation of U.S. daily newspapers fell from 55.8 million in 2000 to 24.2 million by 2020, according to the Pew Research Center.

The World Wide Web also pulled the rug out from under the economic foundation of traditional media, forcing an exodus to proprietary websites. At the same time, it spawned a new generation of upstart media and business sites that took advantage of its low-cost distribution and high-impact reach. Both large and small websites now feel the impact of generative AI.   

Barry Diller, CEO of media owner IAC, harkened back to that history when he warned a year ago, “We are not going to let what happened out of free internet happen to post-AI internet if we can help it.” Ominously, Diller observed, “If all the world’s information is able to be sucked up in this maw, and then essentially repackaged in declarative sentence in what’s called chat but isn’t chat…there will be no publishing; it is not possible.”

The New York Times filed a lawsuit against OpenAI and Microsoft alleging copyright infringement from the use of Times data to train LLMs. “Defendants seek to free-ride on The Times’s massive investment in its journalism,” the suit asserts, “to create products that substitute for The Times and steal audiences away from it.”1

Subsequently, eight daily newspapers owned by Alden Global Capital, the nation’s second largest newspaper publisher, filed a similar suit. “We’ve spent billions of dollars gathering information and reporting news at our publications, and we can’t allow OpenAI and Microsoft to expand the Big Tech playbook of stealing our work to build their own businesses at our expense,” a spokesman explained.

The legal challenges are pending. In a colorful description of the suits’ allegations, journalist Hamilton Nolan described AI’s threat as an “Automated Death Star.”

“Providential opportunity”?

Not all content companies agree. There has been a groundswell of leading content companies entering into agreements with OpenAI.

In July 2023, the Associated Press became the first major content provider to license its archive to OpenAI. Recently, however, the deal-making floodgates have opened. Rupert Murdoch’s News Corp, home of The Wall Street Journal, New York Post, and multiple other publications in Australia and the United Kingdom, German publishing giant Axel Springer, owner of Politico in the U.S. and Bild  and Welt in Germany, venerable media company The Atlantic, along with new media company Vox Media, the Financial Times, Paris’ Le Monde, and Spain’s Prisa Media have all contracted with OpenAI for use of their product.

Even Barry Diller’s publishing unit, Dotdash Meredith, agreed to license to OpenAI, approximately a year after his apocalyptic warning.  

News Corp CEO Robert Thomson described his company’s rationale this way in an employee memo: “The digital age has been characterized by the dominance of distributors, often at the expense of creators, and many media companies have been swept away by a remorseless technological tide. The onus is now on us to make the most of this providential opportunity.”

“There is a premium for premium journalism,” Thomson observed. That premium, for News Corp, is reportedly $250 million over five years from OpenAI. Axel Springer’s three-year deal is reportedly worth $25 to $30 million. The Financial Times terms were reportedly in the annual range of $5 to $10 million.

AI companies’ different approaches

While publishers debate whether AI is “providential opportunity” or “stealing our work,” a similar debate is ongoing among AI companies. Different generative AI companies have different opinions whether to pay for content, and if so, which kind of content.

When it comes to scraping information from websites, most of the major generative AI companies have chosen to interpret copyright law’s “fair use doctrine” allowing the unlicensed use of copyrighted content in certain circumstances. Some of the companies have even promised to indemnify their users if they are sued for copyright infringement.

Google, whose core business is revenue generated by recommending websites, has not sought licenses to use the content on those websites. “The internet giant has long resisted calls to compensate media companies for their content, arguing that such payments would undermine the nature of the open web,” the New York Times explained. Google has, however, licensed the user-generated content on social media platform Reddit, and together with Meta has pursued Hollywood rights.

OpenAI has followed a different path. Reportedly, the company has been pitching a “Preferred Publisher Program” to select content companies. Industry publication AdWeek reported on a leaked presentation deck describing the program. The publication said OpenAI “disputed the accuracy of the information” but claimed to have confirmed it with four industry executives. Significantly, the OpenAI pitch reportedly offered not only cash remuneration, but also other benefits to cooperating publishers.    

As of early June 2024, other large generative AI companies have not entered into website licensing agreements with publishers.

Content companies surfing an AI tsunami

On the content creation side of the equation, major publishers are attempting to avoid a repeat of their disastrous experience in the early days of the web while smaller websites are fearful the impact on them could be even greater.

As the web began to take business from traditional publishers, their leadership scrambled to find a new economic model. Ultimately, that model came to rely on websites, even though website advertising offered them pennies on their traditional ad dollars. Now, even those assets are under attack by the AI juggernaut. The content companies are in a new race to develop an alternative economic model before their reliance on web search is cannibalized.

The OpenAI Preferred Publisher Program seems to be an attempt to meet the needs of both parties.

The first step in the program is direct compensation. To Barry Diller, for instance, the fact his publications will get “direct compensation for our content” means there is “no connection” between his apocalyptic warning 14 months ago and his new deal with OpenAI.

Reportedly, the cash compensation OpenAI is offering has two components: “guaranteed value” and “variable value.” Guaranteed value is compensation for access to the publisher’s information archive. Variable value is payment based on usage of the site’s information.

Presumably, those signing with OpenAI see it as only the first such agreement. “It is in my interest to find agreements with everyone,” Le Monde CEO Louis Dreyfus explained.   

But the issue of AI search is greater than simply cash. Atlantic CEO Nicolas Thompson described the challenge: “We believe that people searching with AI models will be one of the fundamental ways that people navigate to the web in the future.” Thus, the second component in OpenAI’s proposal to publishers appears to be promotion of publisher websites within the AI-generated content. Reportedly, when certain publisher content is utilized, there will be hyperlinks and hover links to the websites themselves, in addition to clickable buttons to the publisher.

Finally, the proposal reportedly offers publishers the opportunity to reshape their business using generative AI technology. Such tools include access to OpenAI content for the publishers’ use, as well as the use of OpenAI for writing stories and creating new publishing content.

Back to the future?

Whether other generative AI and traditional content companies embrace this kind of cooperation model remains to be seen. Without a doubt, however, the initiative by both parties will have its effects.

One such effect was identified in a Le Monde editorial explaining their licensing agreement with OpenAI. Such an agreement, they argued, “will make it more difficult for other AI platforms to evade or refuse to participate.” This, in turn, could have an impact on the copyright litigation, if not copyright law.

We have seen new technology-generated copyright issues resolved in this way before.2 Finding a credible solution that works for both sides is imperative. The promise of AI is an almost boundless expansion of information and the knowledge it creates. At the same time, AI cannot be a continued degradation of the free flow of ideas and journalism that is essential for democracy to function.

Newton’s Law in the AI age

In 1686 Sir Isaac Newton posited his three laws of motion. The third of these holds that for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Newton described the consequence of physical activity; generative AI is raising the same consequential response for informational activity.

The threat of generative AI has pushed into the provision of information and the economics of information companies. We know the precipitating force, the consequential effects on the creation of content and free flow of information remain a work in progress.

[lepidopteal]

Hopped onto the arcane oc train with the power of starcrossed sapphics and hypothetical postcanon adjacent brainworms ✨ , the idea focusing on ordinary people working to make the world a slightly better place. More info about them below because I am physically incapable of not yapping

Clara 🌱

- Daughter of a Piltovan House who own a section of agricultural prospects topside

- Botanical Researcher

- After the department is given some of Talis’ notes to decode post battle for the Hexgates, she becomes interested inthe ‘arcane scarring’ in Undercity flora that he wrote about

- The query leads her down to Zaun, and eventually puts in her in contact with the insurgent group known as the Firelights

- Despite her claims of want to help, earning enough trust as a ‘piltie scientist’ is not an easy task

- It’s a common belief that she has ulterior motives, and in a way she does, just not the kind people assume

- Soft spoken and erudite with an inability to let anything go, the world has left her with questions she’s determined to get to the bottom of

Comet 💫

- Orphaned Zaunite

- Firelight member and an absolute speed demon with a hoverboard

- Almost went looking for the Commune before things went to hell, now she’s glad she didn’t have the nerve

- Post battle she focuses on distributing aid and relief efforts amongst the common people of Zaun. Anywhere she Can help she will

- Maintaining good morale after tragedy is a herculean task, but she’s mentally assigned herself said role. When she’s not busy she’s looking for ways to get civilians back into better spirits

- Sweet (with hint of toxic positivity that she’s not ready to acknowledge) but also a competitive risk taker that wouldn’t know the meaning of ‘slowing down’ in the literal and metaphorical sense even if you spelled it out to her

[literaticat]

I have offers from two agents and I'm kind of freaking out about deciding. I have some questions. A. Agent #1 would be my preference except for one thing - she seemed really hesitant when I asked if I could talk to her other clients. She said I could email her questions for them and she would forward them to her other clients. Is this a yellow flag? And if so, how yellow is it? Another writer advised me to write back and push to be allowed to talk to her clients - is that something that's likely to get my offer taken away? B. When I was googling her, it seemed that Agent #2 hasn't sold any books to Big Five publishers in like ten years. When I asked her about this, she cited a book she's sold recently that was sold to an imprint that is distributed by, but not owned by, a Big Five publisher. Does that count? C. After Agent #1's offer, I gave all the other agents two weeks to get back to me (even though Agent #1 gave me a much looser timeline). Agent #2 got back to me within the two weeks, but we only got to talk on the phone yesterday. I unwisely told her I'd get back to her by the end of the original two weeks deadline, which is Monday. I just wasn't thinking! Can I write back to her and ask for more time, or am I held to the original two weeks deadline that I gave her?

If you want to just DM or email me who these people are, I can tell you my opinion privately (but you can't do that in anonymous mode).

Othewise, woof, this is a lot to parse.

A) I don't think it's really a flag of any color. Like, I do think people asking to talk to some clients is normal -- not everyone does! But it's not weird or anything IMO. I have some clients who I know won't mind, and I warn them when I've given out their names. But... maybe that isn't a request she gets often, and she just doesn't want to bother her clients by sending a person to pester them or giving out their personal info! I can understand and sympathize with that, too. My clients are busy with their own stuff, and I certainly don't want people bugging them on my behalf.

I personally probably WOULDN'T go back to the agent and INSIST YOU TALK TO THEIR CLIENTS -- that seems aggressive? Like... why not just take her up on her offer? It's a little weird, to ME, but hey. If she forwards your email, they can choose to reply to you personally, they don't HAVE to go through her.

(OR, just forego this step -- if she obviously has active, longterm clients that she is selling things for, newsflash, they are probably going to say nice things -- why would they still be with her if they hated her?!)

Alternatively, are you like, Facebook/Insta/BlueSky friends with any of her clients? Maybe you can just drop them a casual line via DM, and be sure to say, hey, zero pressure, I know you are busy, but I got an offer from your agent, etc. While it would DEFINITELY be annoying AF for a random stranger to DM asking about their agent just because they are querying their agent, or because they want to get a referral or something like that -- in this case you actually have an offer from the agent, so it feels less like you are being a pushy stranger and more like you are being a curious colleague!

IF you decide to do that, though, just keep it SHORT, POLITE, AND CASUAL. And know that they MIGHT turn around and tell the agent that you DM'ed them. So BE COOL!

B) If a given small publisher is just distributed by a bigger publisher, no, that doesn't count as being part of the bigger publisher. However, big publishers do have LOTS of different imprints and whatnot -- are you sure that this imprint is not an actual imprint of the larger publisher? And when you say "no Big Five publishers in ten years" -- do you mean like, only tiny micropresses or something? Or do you mean "mostly major publishers just not necessarily part of the Big Five"? Like, Chronicle, Scholastic, Candlewick, Abrams, Sourcebooks, Bloomsbury, blah blah blah, all are not technically "Big Five" publishers -- but there is zero reason to be leery of them, they can pay just as much as any Big Five and they have just as good distribution, etc.

C) If you need more time, just say you need more time. "So sorry, I'm gonna need another beat here, still waiting on a couple of stragglers" or "So sorry, Passover and Easter got the best of me here, I need a couple more days" or whatever. Obviously try to make it fairly quick, but it's fine if you need a bit of time.

[aziminohi1992]

Winter in the Highlands Part 3

"Sorry I got here so late. I had meant to come earlier but the cows decided to make a break for it as I was gearing up to leave." He raised an eyebrow, concern warring with his sense of humor. "I take it you managed to wrangle them sufficiently since you're here?", he queried, his voice thick with amusement. She grinned. "Oh that part didn't take long at all. Once they realized how cold it was they practically ran back inside on their own. It was fixing the barn door and the fences that took me so long." Unable to contain himself any longer, the silence of the hills broken with the echoes of his laughter. "Any ideas as to why they left the barn in the first place since they so clearly dislike the cold?", he managed to choke out between bursts of merriment. His lover shrugged. "Maybe they saw a mouse." The nonchalant statement only served to send her boyfriend deeper into the throes of laughter as he opened the tower door for them to enter. Faye smirked and skipped over to the singular table in the tower to remove her coat and began unpacking the basket while the mage struggled against unceasing waves of mirth so he could breathe properly again. Finally he won out against his own laughter and settled the pack he was carrying at the foot of the double bed a few feet away before removing his cloak. He walked over to stand next to her, his hand slipping around her waist to rest on her hip once again. "Could a mouse really have caused that?", he asked, curiosity getting the better of him, his eyes lighting up when he saw the contents of the basket. It held blanket-wrapped dishes, no doubt in an effort to prevent them from growing too cold during the journey here, from which the unmistakable scent of his favorite tropical curry and pineapple custard crepes wafted up to his nose along with what appeared to be a very large thermos of tea. "Who knows? I certainly don't.", she snickered playfully, still entertained by her usually serious lovers earlier reaction, as she filled the bowls she had brought from the (thankfully) still hot pot of curry knowing Lance didn't own any sort of dishware or cutlery since he typically survived on field rations much to her displeasure. The outpost was small and bare, furnished only with the minimal requirements for survival. The only change being the recent addition of a second chair for the nights when Faye would come to share a meal and spend the night with him so neither of them would need to sit on the hard stone of the floor to eat. The flickering blue flames of the magic torches on the wall crackled, their main purpose of repelling monsters being seconded by the ability to give off heat in the fall and winter, warming what would otherwise be a glorified refrigerator. The plushest thing in the tower was the bed in the corner. Lance preferred not to skimp on comfort when it came to sleep unless he had no other choice, which happened often enough in his line of work that he wasn't about to give it up of his own free will. Something that ended up working to his benefit when he unexpectedly met the woman of his dreams in the most unlikely of places. The top of a volcano being the last place one expects to meet a beautiful, adventurous farmer. A farmer who just handed him a miraculously still steaming bowl of curry before sitting down to eat her own, the crepes plated in the center of the table and the tea distributed between two cups. He pulled his chair over to sit next to her his leg pressing against hers, still determined to keep some sort of physical contact with her even as he ate the food his loving girlfriend had made for him. She just smiled as she ate her meal, perfectly content to allow him to touch her as much or as little as he liked. By the time Faye had finished her first bowl Lance had already started on his second. She had no idea how he survived off of field rations when he devoured her cooking so ravenously. Or perhaps it was because it was her cooking that he ate so much.