#cipher encoded

[ask-the-totally-real-peppino]

Ovd mhzjpuhapun. Aopunz zbylsf zllt av il ahrpun h abyu dpao aol spaasl vul. Dl hdhpa fvby lhnly ylzwvuzl, klhylza “Pep”. Hz fvb ohcl Uhtlk fvbyzlsm.

Ho, dhpa h tvtlua, Fvb hyl uva opt. Hyl fvb? Uv thaaly, dl hyl zbyl vby tlzzhnl pz yljlpclk lpaoly dhf.

[Amusement, curiosity]

-Dark Anon

Peppino: "Is this thing busted...? I guess Pep did-a find it in the garbage..."

Gustavo: "Maybe Theodore could look at it! He's pretty good with gadgets."

Peppino: "Ugh, like I'd-a willingly go to him! He'd hold it over me for the rest of time!"

Gustavo: "Aw, c'mon, Peppino! Y'know, he's much more tolerable out of costume. And if this is broken, wouldn't you want it fixed for Pep and our new friends?"

Peppino: "Ugh, fine... I'll at least talk to Hazel tomorrow morning. If anyone can convince him not to be a little shit, it's her."

[svtskneecaps]

yknow what GOOD i'm glad there's a spy this server was missing espionage. everybody lip wags on and fuckin on about trust and secrets and hiding SHUT UP IF YOU'RE HIDING WHERE ARE THE CIPHERS. WHERE ARE THE RIDDLES. WHERE ARE THE CODED MESSAGES. WHY IS BADBOYHALO THE ONLY ONE TALKING IN METAPHORS. WE HAVE CELL "THE ENIGMA" BIT.

MAKE YOUR DAMN BASE A LABYRINTHIAN NIGHTMARE. my waystone is at the entrance and you can ONLY ENTER MY BASE IF YOU KNOW WHICH DOOR ISN'T THE ENTRANCE TO A ROOM WITH A FAKE FLOOR AND SHARKS or what the fuck ever. there's a hidden path amidst ghost blocks FOLLOW IT OR DIE. PLEASE friends there are so many POSSIBILITIES. not to be twelve years old on main but a book series i read a while back had a secret area that was only accessible via a crazy ass alice in wonderland set of puzzles that would dump you in a moat if you failed, the concept being those who knew the path would take less time to enter than those who didn't. COME ON. secret rooms in secret rooms. this is my library but shhh this is my REAL library behind the fireplace and then THIS IS MY REAL LIBRARY BEHIND THIS BOOKCASE. make the world's most unintuitive create factory for big daddy breakfast and hide something in the middle of it WHO'S GOING TO COMB THROUGH THAT MUCH MACHINERY. NO ONE. NOBODY.

like bruh. i want them leaving notes like it's prohibition and they're trying to find a speakeasy. i want them smuggling information like the revolutionary war. i want them to talk like truckers when a cop is on the frequency. i want "one if by land two if by sea" type shit. ESPIONAGE. IS. COOL. DAMNIT.

[decamarks]

OH MY GOD I FORGOT SPLATOON HAS LIKE 10 DIFFERENT WRITING SCRIPTS HELL YESSSSSSSSSSSSSS

i have to learn all of them and write exclusively in them for the next like 3 weeks.

[sprinklecipher]

Customized a Peepy to match my blog :)

More angles/progress photos below the cut

I exclusively used fabric paint, which gave it a stiff, vaguely papier-mache-like texture. I think that works well with this design (it's like hardened frosting!), but I might try out fabric dye or something along those lines if I ever do another one.

Anyway, if anyone out there is thinking of fabric painting a colorpy, be warned that the first coat will probably look rough:

It's possible that using a primer would help, but I can't personally speak to that since I just winged it for this attempt :)

Also, I was surprised how big of a difference the red line on the beak makes in terms of how 'finished' it looked:

[muted5ilence]

Me when Eddie Dear Update

But fren pointed out the low low prices for Poppy merch and such things

So Eddie is being actively haunted

And Poppy is just a very very worried character

/lh

But someone saying Eddie might get removed — he died /hj

Poppy is being quietly removed /j

My main notice is that the project actively reflects what we as a fandom (sorta, maybe) have been thinking of

We got characterization actively via the 14 clips and such

And it was “Eddie is being bullied </3” and “Poppy deserves more love” (bc most ppl favor the rest of the cast). Plus we get Sally and Frank fighting, which is funny as a Sally hater (I have mad respect for Frank for that lmao)

So reflecting those things in the COMMUNITY, we get a mostly Eddie-centric update. Confirming that he is in fact left out a LOT, that he is in fact an isolated lil guy (the isolation stuff). Poppy is *quietly* left out of stuff (me when fren said it could be like the birds migrating thing but instead she stays indoors—which tbh she already isolates herself in her home anyways). And Sally is actively being fought (a massive DUB for the Sally haters 😂)

Also I miss my boyyyy, I miss Wally 🥺 They really said “No sir” and locked him up and shit, not allowed to chat on main anymore 😔 Tbf, he did make a mess. But like c’mon, let pookie SPEAK!! Punished for being autistic /j

Anyways I think about the person who made those notebook entries “my name doesn’t matter”

ALSO OML SO MANY Ws ARE USED ACTUALLY (in reference to different things)

Wally, WaLLy, Welcome Home, WHRP, (thats it actually that I can think of)

So when the sign off is •W, I’m gonna think of what little we get

Also note, remember those questions startin’ w/ W, fellas

Who what when where why

And AAAAAAA my brain is making minor connections to things that don’t matter bc ITS SILLYYYY!!! SIlly Silly <3

Anyways yeah I miss pookie and I hope he and/or others will make codes with the new cryptography stuff we gettin’ (cipher)

I always loved those pages in activity books anyways, because looking at a key for reference and translating letters is so fun (despite the tedious back and forth if you dont have it memorized)

[hummingbird-hunter]

First cipher's still up, but I have new one to spare,

You can decode it with your wizarding flair!

But this time I ask you, make sure to play fair,

And not fooken BRUTE FORCE it like SOMEONE did to the LAST ONE *cough*@d1nosaurpower*cough

Rb usv bwq afwe ugro, bptnwruvqeuwpoy, rui'af opi Tgxwr-Izarwf (cfuyxdw yliqt opfseq izarwf). Eqnp usi byox gpnuy ugd lrlla.

[nnn-lll-nnn]

DATA BURSTS

./.

ACOUSTIC; </>Acoustic this is Hitman Adjust Fire System Aided out.</> HITMAN-3-2; </>TEN DIGIT IMPACT GRID FOLLOWS; FN3965823148, OVER!</> ACOUSTIC; </>Ten Digit Grid; FN3965823148, out.</> HITMAN-3-2; </>TEN T.N.-14S OUT IN THE OPEN WITH ATTACHED INFANTRY DANGER CLOSE REQUEST SPLASH OVER!</> ACOUSTIC; </>Ten T.N.-14s out in the open with attached infantry Danger Close request splash, out.</> ACOUSTIC; </>Message to Observer; Alpha, 2 rounds, 4 guns in effect, Target Number; GK7067 over.</> HITMAN-3-2; <;/>M.T.O. ALPHA, 2 ROUNDS, 4 GUNS IN EFFECT, TARGET NUMBER; GK7067 OUT!</> ACOUSTIC; </>Shot, over.</> HITMAN-3-2; </>SHOT, OUT. SPLASH OVER!</> ACOUSTIC; </>Splash, out.</>

./.

13 83 63 83 72 52 52 71 21 91 81 63 73 52 72 82 43 63 22 21 42 22 21 11 81 42 22 51 22 81 21 13 62 81 63 71 83 32 32 81 71 71 81 71 21 63 81 43 83 63 71 83 32 32 81 71 71 81 71 51 63 81 21 13 21 42 61 52 71 52 63 63 43 51 81 63 22 21 42 61 81 63 71 43 42 21 42 72 72 43 71 22 62 52 42 43 83 63 81 61 21 42 61 43 63 43 83 61 22 43 32 21 12 12 62 81 63 72 73 43 23 64 42 21 32 33 43 13 82 12 52 71 62 72 81 42 22 21 81 73 62 42 91 41 41 41 31 31 42 73 32 31 42 42 42

./.

./.

XAXnxASONiw AJ Zi zi EKnows that we will AccCopmpistch our Goalatz, AdnYhENTVIyhn, tMaRkOffitchen'zyhnviyhn delivDevilitchyihntz plans oppose this obvious truth and blatant reality.

./.

./.

[lesbiten]

i literally could have made this last night and it wouldve been so much easier

[nrth-wind-a]

✿ (@ Tim?)

5 + 1s: ✿ - five times my muse almost texted yours, and the one time they did II Accepting

Folder: The Inertia Files… Access Granted.

File 1: First Contact

January 30th: Text Received: “Guess who?” Attached: [An image of a blond with Bart’s face]

It wasn’t hard to guess.

Text Sent: “Inertia. How did you get this phone number?”

Text Received: “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

There was a middle finger emoji at the end. No text was sent back.

Tim sighed, setting down his cell. So Inertia had his phone number, now. And not one of his burner numbers, at that—he had his actual, personal phone number.

Very few people in hero circles, and even fewer in villain circles, had that number, so he could only guess how Inertia had gotten it. He had a few theories, ranging from something normal like, he asked the right person for it, all the way to, he hacked Tim’s cell just to be a dick. The problem was that the extreme theory was just as viable as the mundane—and, frankly, in their lives, he’d probably believe the more incredible idea faster.

At any rate, he had it now, and Tim really didn’t want to go through the steps of getting a new number, especially if Thad could just find out that one, too, and if he’d hacked his phone to get it, then blocking him would do no good. Besides… Tim could probably use this to his own advantage anyway.

So that was how Thad Thawne was not only not blocked in Tim Drake’s phone, but he was added to his contacts. For a bit of private revenge, Tim put him in as “great value bart,” which made him chuckle.

Although, it was almost non-private revenge. Tim screenshotted the jerk’s contact page, with the name there, and his profile photo, which Tim had stolen off the internet, since the selfie Thad had sent was far too flattering for Tim to use—and he almost sent the file, along with the little smirking emoji from his keyboard.

But, hm... He didn’t want Thad to think he’d somehow gotten under his skin, and if he really wanted to make Inertia squirm, maybe not answering him back was the better choice…

Tim detached the picture from the empty text, and then set his phone down, moving his attention to Lonnie’s latest cipher, wondering why on earth his friend decided that he was the best one to check it for holes, considering that Steph’s talent for decryption far outclassed his.

He managed to work at it for another thirty minutes, before deciding that he had to give in, because his mind was still struggling with the Thad Thawne puzzle, unable to put it down.

So he drafted one more text. 

“Why did you contact me? What was the point?”

But, rethinking it entirely, he deleted that text, too, and ducked downstairs to his nest’s training platform. If he wasn’t going to get any thinking done, then maybe he could at least run through his bo forms, instead.

Happy new year, Tim Drake. A murderer has your cell phone number.

File 2: Another Day, Another Bird

March 7th: Text received: [blank]

Attached: [A picture of Inertia flipping off the camera]

No text was sent back.

Tim raised an eyebrow at the photo. It wasn’t unexpected from Inertia; he seemed to despise Tim as much as Tim did him, and their recent fights had done nothing to assuage that hatred—so much so that it only seemed like it had grown stronger. Which thus resulted in the occasional vitriolic message or picture, meant to remind him of said detestation.

This wasn’t really a problem for Tim, if he was being honest. He very rarely responded, if ever, and usually it was with a simple “okay,” or—in one instance, which had made him smirk at the thought of the speedster’s reaction—a thumbs up emoji.

And it wasn’t that he liked the texts, or anything. That wasn’t it at all.

But he did start to anticipate them—not hoping for them, per se, but folding them into his daily life all the same. In fact, it was starting to feel like his routine without them would be weirder, now.

So, when this image arrived, it was very nearly welcomed. His suspicion giving way to an amused smile, he started to type, “I was beginning to think you’d forgotten about me,” when he immediately caught up to himself and backspaced rapidly.

What the hell was he thinking?

File 3: Red Hood Should Have Shot Him. It Would Have Been Funny.

May 15th Conversation Log [13:36 – 14:14]:

Inertia: Look. I know you hate me, and I hate you, but I have to ask: What the ever loving fuck is wrong with you Gothamites?! You have put up with some grade A freaks in this city.

Red Robin: What are you even doing in Gotham? Red Robin: Actually, Red Robin: Do I wanna know? Red Robin: Answer in tweet length or less. Red Robin: Preferably less.

Inertia: I have a life. Fuck off. Inertia: That short enough for you? Inertia: How do you have friends if you’re this much a control freak?

Red Robin: Think you can take that life back to Keystone? Red Robin: Like, for real; I really don’t wanna hear another rant about metas in Gotham Red Robin: Seriously, it happens every time one of you shows up-- do you know how often one of you shows up? Red Robin: It’s like one of you is always here.

Inertia: I’ve got friends here I like to keep up with like a /good friend/. Inertia: Hmm…or do you not know what that’s like? Inertia: Control Freak. >:P Inertia: Seriously? I thought you guys just dealt with freaks who make very questionable choices in their lives? Or relied on tech, or something like that?

Red Robin: I was about to ask how you’re responding so quickly, but. Duh. Red Robin: Anyway, what do you care about my social life? I have plenty of friends; I just don’t feel the need to remind everyone every few seconds. Red Robin: mean it’s almost like you’re trying a little too hard. But what do I know? I’m secure in all of my friendships. Red Robin: And we do, mostly. Why? Who did you run into?

Inertia: Duh. Indeed. Aren’t you supposed to be the smart one of the bunch? Inertia: I don’t really. I just like annoying you and taking jabs at you. It’s fun to make people squirm and second guess. Because, really, you don’t know what people think of you. Maybe your friends are holding grudges over some of the things you do or have said. Inertia: You really over estimate how much I care. Inertia: No one freaky. Ran into that Red Hood guy once though.

Red Robin: So like, how slow do you have to go to text like a normal person? Red Robin: And honestly, whether or not I’m the ‘smart one’ really depends on the day. I’ll give you that info for free, if only so that the next time you think you need someone with a brain, you don’t come looking for me. Red Robin: And yeah, I guess they could be holding grudges, but they still come meet me whenever I wanna hang out so :/ Red Robin: Anyway, I’m surprised you lived past meeting Hood. Must not have been much of a threat in his eyes, huh?

Tim didn’t mind all that much when Thad stopped replying, except—okay, for a moment, he was worried, since Inertia’s first text had implied that he was in danger of some kind. Tim tried to tell himself that he was only worried because he didn’t want someone offing Inertia before he could put him through the justice system, but he would be lying if he said that that excuse didn’t come to him until later, when he thought he needed one.

In the moment, rather, he’d just finished drafting, “Hey, did whatever grade A Gothamite freak you ran into this time get you?” when he realized that he shouldn’t care.

So before he could start weighing the pros and cons of sending such a message to a villain, he deleted it and put his phone on his nightstand, swiftly exiting the room to avoid even looking at it for the time being.

[Private Files: For Tim Drake’s Eyes Only]

Password: ***************

Private File 4: Weather Wizard Break-Out

No texts have been sent or received. This is just for logging purposes.

Note To Self: Ask Inertia if this is something he wants a heads-up about. If no: take no action. If yes: ask Bart for updates on jailbreaks when they occur.

Second Note to Self: Figure out why this would ever be a good idea. He shouldn’t be helped. He doesn’t even need it.

Tim sighed, as he debated deleting the entire file. He would, but… no, he had to keep thorough logs, which meant keeping the pointless ones, too—if for no other reason than that the written word was supposedly therapeutic.

He hit ‘save,’ reluctantly, and then deleted the text draft he’d written: “Central dangerous. WW out.”

He closed the file, and then started gearing up for the night, instead.

Private File 5: Unnamed Case #114713022

Password: ***********

No texts have been sent or received.

Nursing wounds from Inertia. Lost this time, I think.

What was Thad doing to him? Tim thought. Why couldn’t he just get this guy out of his life? Why wouldn’t he leave him alone? Why wouldn’t Tim leave him alone?

This sucked.

Glancing at his reflection in his bathroom mirror, he put his fingers against the bridge of his nose, and—with a locked jaw and a determination that only Batman could have taught—he reset the bone, giving a sharp cry as he did so.

“Fuck.” He gripped the sink, the flow of blood starting back up again, little droplets splattering scarlet against the porcelain, and god, that hurt.

At least he’d thrown back a few good hits of his own, because if he hadn’t, then his pride would have likely stung more than his face. Silver linings, he supposed.

Sitting heavily in his desk chair, a tissue held to his nose, he switched on his phone with his free hand, and, without thinking much about it, he typed out, “Gonna make sure you don’t get to use your healing factor next time, asshole.”

But he had a feeling that that would only make Thad smugger, so instead, he backspaced the text and turned his attention to literally anything else.

Files Closed. Signed Out. Re-Enter Password to Log Back In.

Unlogged Mission. Status: In Progress

Tim was in a very, very bad position. Hidden in the shadows of a locked-down private security bunker, with a broken arm and his friends nowhere within helping distance, he couldn’t help but think that Murphy’s Law was not only real, but that it had it out for him specifically. With Kon off-world, Bart M.I.A., and Cassie in Themyscira, he should have known better than to get involved in something too big, but he honestly hadn’t thought this mission was too big.

But now he was hurt beyond what his field first aid could help, and he was too far from Gotham for his family to get there in time; and he didn’t have any contacts in the JL—besides, he’d rather figure this out himself than contact any of the adult heroes, because then he’d never be let out of the “sidekick” shadow he was already seemingly stuck in—and he hadn’t brought his Titans communicator with him—once again, because he hadn’t thought this mission was too big for him.

So this meant that he had one option left. One, last-resort, impossible contingency, which he really didn’t even count on working, but… well, it couldn’t hurt to try, right?

7/12/22 – [msg to: great value bart, sent 3:23 a.m.]: sending u my coordinates. wouldn’t ask normally, but i’m in a bad way. all u have to do is get in and get me out; don’t even have to fight. ur powers should work fine. 7/12/22 – [msg to: great value bart, sent 3:24 a.m.]: if u do this, i’ll owe you BIG. 7/12/22 – [msg to: great value bart, sent 3:25 a.m.]: whatvr u want. srsly. 7/12/22 – [msg to: great value bart, sent 3:26 a.m.]: if u don’t come tho, which… fine ig, whatever, can u at least run bman here instead? 7/12/22 – [msg to: great value bart, sent 3:27 a.m.]: again, i’ll owe u SO MUCH 7/12/22 – [msg to: great value bart, sent 3:28 a.m.]: kay, moving locations, will be 2 rooms down from the 1 i just sent

7/12/22 – [msg to: great value bart, sent 3:35 a.m.]: in case i die btw— 7/12/22 – [msg to: great value bart, sent 3:36 a.m.]: [attached: a picture of Red Robin, flipping off the camera like Inertia, but with a grin on his face] finally sent 1 back ;P

[starlitevening]

Reminded again of my autistic infatuation with the Polybius Square cipher from a couple of years ago

[sammy8d257]

AvA Sticktober Day 25 - Trade

CW: Eyestrain, Static, Glitch

MAD KING AU BABEY!!

Did you know today's also the 2nd anniversary of the conception of this AU? Back in 2021, I drew this -> [LINK] <- for Day 25 And then from there, it expanded into an entire AU where Purple goes mad and overthrows King

This comic's a special one because it introduces one of my favorite things, ARG elements specifically code breaking! I'm gonna start off with something really simple and then maybe do something more complicated in the future

But if you need some hints, There are letters and a Caesar cipher key hidden within the comic Find the letters, use the key to encode them, and then plug them into the tinyurl address

Feel free to share your findings either in the reblogs of this post or elsewhere, I just ask that you credit me if you do it somewhere else and make sure to add the CW/TWs from the secret pages

Otherwise, happy hunting!

[cryptotheism]

I think you talked about it before, but I can't find any post saying so. Did alchemists and the like really encode their research/theories in ciphers and such that only they understood?

And if they did and we have examples of this, do you know how convenient it was for them? Or was it tedious to have to read their own work in cipher?

Yes! It was basically a form of proto-copyright! It certainly made things a bit more difficult to read, but it was evidently worth it to protect your techniques.

[bonzos-number-1-fan]

JMJ: Frankenstein; or, the Modem Prometheus

Originally this was going to be titled "So Your Favourite Couple is Dead." but that would probably be a better outcome.

Spoilers for The Magnus Protocol episode 1, and all of The Magnus Archives by implication, below the cut.

This is going to be building on a couple of ideas I've seen throw around. Too often to cite any particular source, unfortunately, but I've not seen this conclusion reached and I think it might have more backing to it. Additionally, it's built upon the assumption that because "Chester" and "Norris" share VA's with Jon and Martin that they are Jon and Martin. Which naturally leaves that other J for "Augustus" being Jonah.

A very common thread in the conversations around episode 1's incident reports is that they're foreshadowing the major themes/beats of the show. The second one is obvious enough; don't got to the Magnus Institute. A sentiment we can all get behind. The other, a story of partial reanimation, has been taken to be a warning that the people you love don't always come back the same. I think that's likely the implication but a potential clue hasn't seen any attention AFAIK.

Before we get there though I need to briefly explain the history of JMJ. If you were a part of the ARG you'll know all about Colin's Code Collection. For those who don't know out favourite OIAR code monkey kept a selection of projects on the OIAR servers and through some covert means we gained access to this. Lots of it was normal stuff like Colin thinking he could improve Linux. However there were several encoded strings left by _6A1F7106A_$. These strings contained a few things but of importance for us is a few code blocks encoded in a monoalphabetic substitution cipher where the ciphertext was alchemic symbols. 6A1F7106A itself is an encoded string but unlike the rest of the ARG it was encoded in three layers. 6A is hexadecimal for "J", while 1F710 is Unicode for "🜐", and 🜐 was "M" in the aforementioned alchemic cipher. JMJ.

Now back to that incident. Coming back wrong was the entire premise of why that incident was scary. JMJ have come back too., and as that incident was about partial reanimation everyone ran with that idea mapping onto JMJ. But "Reanimation (Partial)" wasn't the only option for it as it could have bee "Reanimation (Amalgamative)".

This whole time they've been saying JMJ. It's not ever just been J, or M. Even before we knew it was JMJ it was 6A1F7106A. Always one string; like one name. We've been talking about how shunting the Fears through the portal could've mixed them together but they're not the only ones that could've happened to. So what if it's not about JMJ coming back wrong, but coming back pieced together into a new whole?

It's not just the naming either but how they act. An amalgamation of Jon, Martin, and Jonah vying for control. Jonah, again presuming Augustus is Jonah, is the rarest of the three because it's 2-on-1. Jon and Martin can try to suppress him. Additionally, the .jmj error also makes more sense if you treat them as a single entity rather than three entirely separate ones. The trailer initialises them all as separate things but any effects of them we see is a single name and given all the above they don't seem to be able to act independently. The reason the trailer mentions errors and undefined drives for the master–slave drives would then be because there is no singular consciousness in control of the whole. There is a lack of authority, no truly dominant aspect to them, no hierarchy. So they're vying for control and causing those errors. The .jmj error, the encrypted text when plaintext would have been more useful, Fr3-d1 breaking down, the fact they seemingly can only manifest single personalities at once, Jonah's rare appearances. There is an obvious conflict at play here.

The opening to this wasn't a joke either. I was planning on writing about how they're likely dead for real. We've known Elias' VA wasn't coming back for a long long time so if it's Jonah in there it's OG Jonah. OG Jonah who doesn't have a body, which means more than likely whatever has trapped them hasn't stored their bodies. They're in there forever. No getting out. No returning to life at all. Just a cyberspace hell.

But at least they've got some close company.

[milosperfectlove]

decoding perfect love's encoded messages

perfect love's code contains secret messages in a few different ciphers/codes. these messages are from the perspectives of milo's three forms, as well as text in plain english from eris. this post lists and decodes all these messages.

this is applicable to version 1.0 of the game. if there's any more added in future updates, i'll update this post.

the lines with scrambled letters are in caesar cipher, with the letter shifts varying between lines. these lines are from the perspective of pre milo.

the lines with strings of double digit numbers are in nihilist cipher, with alphabet abcdefghiklmnopqrstuvwxyz and keyword manipulation. these lines are from the perspective of manipulation milo.

the lines with strings of dots and dashes are in morse code. these lines are from the perspective of violence milo.

the lines in plain english are from the perspective of eris.

each encoded message has its decoded form directly below it in italics. decoded lines may be adjusted for readability.

script.rpy, lines 1-4. these lines are placed at the very beginning of the script's code, and are meant to hint at which codes are used for the encoded messages.

Oh my dear, it's such a Lowly sight, to be loved Indefinately without a clear Mind. The Middle child is crying he wants to be hAppy, the youNgest wants to be just lIke them in every way, the oldest wants to Protect with an Undying wish and the LAsT Is the type that ONly cares for themselves. It's cynical. He hurts and for what? What does he reMORSE over? Let's have some fun, shall we?

script.rpy, lines 7-10. these lines are placed right after the previously mentioned lines.

U vgef imzfqp eayazq fa omdq rad yq, eayqazq fa xahq yq. I just wanted someone* to care for me, someone to love me. 56 63 57 55 66 57 46 35 89 67 78 64 56 36 48 68 58 60 63 35 77 39 85 48 74 65 54 58 77 77 42 44 58 48 67 48 83 26 75 78 87 56 85 I will be just like them in every form and in every way. .. / .-- .. .-.. .-.. / .--. .-. --- - . -.-. - / - .... . -- / - --- / - .... .. -. -.- / --- - .... . .-. .-- .. ... . / .. ... / ..-. --- --- .-.. .. ... .... .-.-.- I will protect them, to think otherwise is foolish. Milo will love you, he has no choice.

*originally says "somone" when decoded. i assume this was a typo, so i changed it.

script.rpy, lines 90-93. these lines are placed after the setup for default configurations, and before the script code for the main menu.

X'b hd wpeen iwtn rwdht bt. I'm so happy they chose me. 76 34 48 78 46 87 46 43 98 46 68 47 43 55 56 48 68 70 55 24 55 57 67 67 76 53 48 35 48 68 55 24 55 57 67 67 76 32 44 48 66 66 65 53 55 67 49 46 66 44 47 58 77 69 42 43 77 58 78 56 56 44 55 They are my god, a thing* I cannot reach. I cannot fail for a second or I am nothing. .. / .--- ..- ... - / .-- .- -. - . -.. / - --- / -... . / ..- ... . ..-. ..- .-.. / .- -. -.. / .--. .-. --- ...- . / .. / -.-. --- ..- .-.. -.. / -.. --- / ... --- -- . - .... .. -. --. .-.-.- / .. / .-- .- -. - . -.. / - --- / -- .- -.- . / ... ..- .-. . / -.-- --- ..- / -.-. --- ..- .-.. -.. / -. . ...- . .-. / .... ..- .-. - .-.-.- I just wanted to be useful and prove I could do something. I wanted to make sure you could never hurt. It's unfortunate that you chose him.

*originally says "think" when decoded. i assume this was a typo, so i changed it.

script.rpy, lines 7675-7676. these lines are placed after the househusband ending.

.. .----. .-.. .-.. / -... . / -.-. .- --. . -.. / .... . .-. . / .-- .. - .... / -.-- --- ..- .-.-.- I'll be caged here with you. Strange, even as a clipped bird you aren't the one who is in a cage.

script.rpy, lines 7929-7930. these lines are placed after the walls ending.

67 42 48 35 78 60 45 45 77 68 57 44 76 26 65 39 59 76 62 25 78 35 67 87 76 34 57 57 57 66 65 53 98 58 79 57 63 42 55 48 86 60 85 45 89 56 88 56 47 22 75 68 59 66 85 45 89 35 77 58 64 26 57 55 66 67 55 62 59 78 68 78 64 65 48 75 50 87 85 55 67 48 67 55 56 56 76 68 56 79 73 65 78 69 Please don't hate me, I'll do anything for you. I'll give you my heart if you ask me, I'll give you my everything, just for you. What you thought was a failure was a success. Some things perhaps are better not seen.

script.rpy, lines 8162-8163. these lines are placed after the marriage ending.

56 54 66 68 59 89 66 53 59 68 78 87 76 34 48 76 46 99 85 45 89 66 49 87 47 33 64 48 79 89 46 53 87 48 67 65 56 44 48 48 78 78 75 35 88 76 68 66 46 26 75 45 80 76 75 34 55 68 86 48 55 22 84 39 79 68 74 22 76 39 66 44 74 36 67 57 50 56 44 34 78 68 57 48 74 Isn't it pretty, the way your eye glitters in mine? Isn't it wonderful that we have the same mark on each other? As long as we get to match forever more, it does not matter how you mark me.

script.rpy, lines 8355-8356. these lines are placed after the cannibal ending.

.. - / - .- ... - . ... / --. --- --- -.. --..-- / . ...- . .-. -.-- - .... .. -. --. / .. / -- .- -.- . / -.-- --- ..- .-.-.- / .. / .-- .. .-.. .-.. / . ...- . -. / .-.. . - / -- . / .-. .. .--. / -- . / - --- / ... .... .-. . -.. ... / .. ..-. / -.-- --- ..- / -.. . ... .. .-. . -.. / .- / - .- ... - . / --- ..-. / -- . .-.-.- It tastes good, everything I make you. I will even let you* rip me to shreds if you desired a taste of me. How noble of you. Do not worry, if I desire a taste of you, you will know.

*originally says "me" when decoded. i assume this was a typo, so i changed it.

script.rpy, lines 8537-8538. these lines are placed after the doll ending.

56 55 76 57 69 89 42 54 68 45 57 48 84 26 75 39 80 88 55 44 66 68 57 48 64 22 66 78 87 56 85 54 It's not as if he were using them anyways. The joints don't seem to work as well as they used to? That's too bad.

script.rpy, lines 8705-8706. these lines are placed after the killer ending.

- .... . -.-- / -.. . ... . .-. ...- . / .. - / -- --- .-. . / - .... .- -. / .- -. -.-- - .... .. -. --. .-.-.- They deserve it more than anything. It's a strange joy to watch others hurt. You understand, right?

script.rpy, lines 9192-9193. these lines are placed after the burning ending.

67 42 48 35 78 60 55 25 68 38 58 77 43 42 64 45 69 87 85 45 89 48 47 64 47 44 76 39 49 69 75 22 75 55 86 57 76 34 54 48 77 60 55 56 87 68 45 76 86 45 78 57 50 60 45 26 58 48 78 85 43 54 44 55 66 66 65 53 98 58 79 44 65 25 48 75 50 87 85 55 67 48 67 55 55 22 76 35 66 97 42 65 87 36 49 48 65 32 67 66 89 79 76 Please, I did it all for you. I cleansed it all with fire, just as you needed. It was all for you, and everything has always been for you. Oh? Just for me? You shouldn't have my love.

script.rpy, lines 9421-9422. these lines are placed after the kidnapping ending.

-.. --- . ... / .. - / .... ..- .-. - / -- -.-- / .-.. --- ...- . ..--.. / -... ..- - / - .... .. ... / . -..- .- -.-. - .-.. -.-- / .-- .... .- - / -.-- --- ..- / .-- .- -. - . -.. .-.-.- .-.-.- .-.-.- .- -. -.. / .. / .-- .. .-.. .-.. / --. .. ...- . / -.-- --- ..- / .-- .... .- - / -.-- --- ..- / .--. .-.. . .- ... . .-.-.- Does it hurt, my love? But this exactly what you wanted... and I will give you what you please. Aha... is that what you were worried about? Do not worry, my love. This little thing could never hurt me in the slightest.

sprite.rpy, lines 205-208. these lines are placed between the file location specifications for some true ending assets and character sprites.

A oadd twugew ozsl A zsnw lg sfv escw lzwe zshhq. I will become what I have to and make them happy. 88 46 53 73 88 82 46 70 79 74 84 74 50 60 76 44 96 83 79 46 68 64 63 64 50 47 82 64 65 66 75 60 76 44 76 84 48 66 86 54 57 106 66 38 77 55 63 83 70 27 86 63 75 92 59 68 59 74 83 66 58 47 64 73 88 83* When they look at me with disdain, I can't help but cry. I did something wrong, didn't I? .-- .... . -. / - .... . -.-- / -.-- . .-.. .-.. / .- - / -- . --..-- / .. / -.-. .- -. .----. - / .... . .-.. .--. / -... ..- - / ..-. .-.. .. -. -.-. .... .-.-.- / - .... . / -.-. --- .-.. .-.. .- .-. / - .... . -.-- / .... .- ...- . / --- -. / -- . / .. ... / - --- --- / ... - .-. --- -. --. .-.-.- When they yell at me, I can't help but flinch. The collar they have on me is too strong. So meek and malleable - it's been a while since you found someone with such a lack of spine.

*this line uses alphabet zebrascdfghiklmnopqtuvwxy instead of abcdefghiklmnopqrstuvwxyz, and is the only one to do so. i assume this was a consistency error.

sprite.rpy, lines 1640-1643. these lines are placed between the file location specifications for character sprites and background images.

U'y eaddk rad xaawuzs mf kag rday mrmd, U'y eaddk ftmf kag tmp fa emhq yq. Oagxpz'f U tmhq nqqz efdazsqd? Bxqmeq paz'f xqmhq yq. I'm sorry for looking at you from afar, I'm sorry that you had to save me. Couldn't I have been stronger? Please don't leave me. 55 45 85 37 69 90 62 25 68 47 45 84 47 23 48 39 68 56 64 65 88 47 58 66 54 63 57 68 58 79 76 55 98 58 79 57 84 22 76 57 69 89 54 35 77 46 46 48 53 45 75 39 How could I have been anything without you? I was nothing before. .. / .-- .- -. - / - .... . -- / -- --- .-. . / - .... .- -. / .- -. -.-- - .... .. -. --. --..-- / .-- .... -.-- / -.-. .- -. .----. - / - .... . -.-- / ... . . / - .... .- - ..--.. / .-- --- -. .----. - / .. / -.. . ... - .-. --- -.-- / . ...- . .-. -.-- - .... .. -. --. / . ...- . -. / -- -.-- ... . .-.. ..-. / ..-. --- .-. / - .... . -- ..--.. I want them more than anything, why can't they see that? Won't I destroy everything, even myself, for them? But HE was the one who was seeking you. HE was the one who wanted to be with you.

sprite.rpy, lines 2655-2658. these lines are placed between the file location specifications for some true ending assets and code for image transforms.

Sjsb hvciuv W ybck kvoh mci rwr hc as, W kwzz ghwzz zcjs mci psqoigs mci aors as kvczs. Even though I know what you did to me, I will still love you because you made me whole. 56 54 56 58 80 76 45 44 88 47 45 84 47 53 78 57 46 97 42 65 55 45 78 48 74 63 56 35 79 68 46 55 78 55 48 65 47 I shouldn't have run away after what he told me. .. / ... .... --- ..- .-.. -.. / .... .- ...- . / -... . . -. / ... - .-. --- -. --. . .-. --..-- / .. .----. -- / ... --- / .-- . .- -.- .-.-.- / .. / -.. --- -. .----. - / -.. . ... . .-. ...- . / - --- / -... . / .-- .. - .... / -.-- --- ..- .-.-.- I should have been stronger, I'm so weak. I don't deserve to be with you. So really... isn't it just his fault?

that is all that i could find.

[blubberquark]

Why Not Write Cryptography

I learned Python in high school in 2003. This was unusual at the time. We were part of a pilot project, testing new teaching materials. The official syllabus still expected us to use PASCAL. In order to satisfy the requirements, we had to learn PASCAL too, after Python. I don't know if PASCAL is still standard.

Some of the early Python programming lessons focused on cryptography. We didn't really learn anything about cryptography itself then, it was all just toy problems to demonstrate basic programming concepts like loops and recursion. Beginners can easily implement some old, outdated ciphers like Caesar, Vigenère, arbitrary 26-letter substitutions, transpositions, and so on.

The Vigenère cipher will be important. It goes like this: First, in order to work with letters, we assign numbers from 0 to 25 to the 26 letters of the alphabet, so A is 0, B is 1, C is 2 and so on. In the programs we wrote, we had to strip out all punctuation and spaces, write everything in uppercase and use the standard transliteration rules for Ä, Ö, Ü, and ß. That's just the encoding part. Now comes the encryption part. For every letter in the plain text, we add the next letter from the key, modulo 26, round robin style. The key is repeated after we get tot he end. Encrypting "HELLOWORLD" with the key "ABC" yields ["H"+"A", "E"+"B", "L"+"C", "L"+"A", "O"+"B", "W"+"C", "O"+"A", "R"+"B", "L"+"C", "D"+"A"], or "HFNLPYOLND". If this short example didn't click for you, you can look it up on Wikipedia and blame me for explaining it badly.

Then our teacher left in the middle of the school year, and a different one took over. He was unfamiliar with encryption algorithms. He took us through some of the exercises about breaking the Caesar cipher with statistics. Then he proclaimed, based on some back-of-the-envelope calculations, that a Vigenère cipher with a long enough key, with the length unknown to the attacker, is "basically uncrackable". You can't brute-force a 20-letter key, and there are no significant statistical patterns.

I told him this wasn't true. If you re-use a Vigenère key, it's like re-using a one time pad key. At the time I just had read the first chapters of Bruce Schneier's "Applied Cryptography", and some pop history books about cold war spy stuff. I knew about the problem with re-using a one-time pad. A one time pad is the same as if your Vigenère key is as long as the message, so there is no way to make any inferences from one letter of the encrypted message to another letter of the plain text. This is mathematically proven to be completely uncrackable, as long as you use the key only one time, hence the name. Re-use of one-time pads actually happened during the cold war. Spy agencies communicated through number stations and one-time pads, but at some point, the Soviets either killed some of their cryptographers in a purge, or they messed up their book-keeping, and they re-used some of their keys. The Americans could decrypt the messages.

Here is how: If you have message $A$ and message $B$, and you re-use the key $K$, then an attacker can take the encrypted messages $A+K$ and $B+K$, and subtract them. That creates $(A+K) - (B+K) = A - B + K - K = A - B$. If you re-use a one-time pad, the attacker can just filter the key out and calculate the difference between two plaintexts.

My teacher didn't know that. He had done a quick back-of-the-envelope calculation about the time it would take to brute-force a 20 letter key, and the likelihood of accidentally arriving at something that would resemble the distribution of letters in the German language. In his mind, a 20 letter key or longer was impossible to crack. At the time, I wouldn't have known how to calculate that probability.

When I challenged his assertion that it would be "uncrackable", he created two messages that were written in German, and pasted them into the program we had been using in class, with a randomly generated key of undisclosed length. He gave me the encrypted output.

Instead of brute-forcing keys, I decided to apply what I knew about re-using one time pads. I wrote a program that takes some of the most common German words, and added them to sections of $(A-B)$. If a word was equal to a section of $B$, then this would generate a section of $A$. Then I used a large spellchecking dictionary to see if the section of $A$ generated by guessing a section of $B$ contained any valid German words. If yes, it would print the guessed word in $B$, the section of $A$, and the corresponding section of the key. There was only a little bit of key material that was common to multiple results, but that was enough to establish how long they key was. From there, I modified my program so that I could interactively try to guess words and it would decrypt the rest of the text based on my guess. The messages were two articles from the local newspaper.

When I showed the decrypted messages to my teacher the next week, got annoyed, and accused me of cheating. Had I installed a keylogger on his machine? Had I rigged his encryption program to leak key material? Had I exploited the old Python random number generator that isn't really random enough for cryptography (but good enough for games and simulations)?

Then I explained my approach. My teacher insisted that this solution didn't count, because it relied on guessing words. It would never have worked on random numeric data. I was just lucky that the messages were written in a language I speak. I could have cheated by using a search engine to find the newspaper articles on the web.

Now the lesson you should take away from this is not that I am smart and teachers are sore losers.

Lesson one: Everybody can build an encryption scheme or security system that he himself can't defeat. That doesn't mean others can't defeat it. You can also create an secret alphabet to protect your teenage diary from your kid sister. It's not practical to use that as an encryption scheme for banking. Something that works for your diary will in all likelihood be inappropriate for online banking, never mind state secrets. You never know if a teenage diary won't be stolen by a determined thief who thinks it holds the secret to a Bitcoin wallet passphrase, or if someone is re-using his banking password in your online game.

Lesson two: When you build a security system, you often accidentally design around an "intended attack". If you build a lock to be especially pick-proof, a burglar can still kick in the door, or break a window. Or maybe a new variation of the old "slide a piece of paper under the door and push the key through" trick works. Non-security experts are especially susceptible to this. Experts in one domain are often blind to attacks/exploits that make use of a different domain. It's like the physicist who saw a magic show and thought it must be powerful magnets at work, when it was actually invisible ropes.

Lesson three: Sometimes a real world problem is a great toy problem, but the easy and didactic toy solution is a really bad real world solution. Encryption was a fun way to teach programming, not a good way to teach encryption. There are many problems like that, like 3D rendering, Chess AI, and neural networks, where the real-world solution is not just more sophisticated than the toy solution, but a completely different architecture with completely different data structures. My own interactive codebreaking program did not work like modern approaches works either.

Lesson four: Don't roll your own cryptography. Don't even implement a known encryption algorithm. Use a cryptography library. Chances are you are not Bruce Schneier or Dan J Bernstein. It's harder than you thought. Unless you are doing a toy programming project to teach programming, it's not a good idea. If you don't take this advice to heart, a teenager with something to prove, somebody much less knowledgeable but with more time on his hands, might cause you trouble.

[javiddenkins]

Javid Denkins is not interested in answering questions. 

It's 9:30 in the morning and I'm sitting across from Denkins in a conference room at the AMC Studios offices. Denkins declined to meet anywhere more personal than this beige and glass room, impersonal Muzak buzzing through the speakers, windows overlooking an empty studio lot. There are posters on the wall but none, strangely, for Blow the Man Down, the runaway hit Denkins conceived, writes, and now showruns. 

Blow the Man Down, or BTMD as it's frequently referred to by fans and journalists alike, is a workplace comedy set in the Golden Age of Piracy. This unusual premise would be interesting enough even without the top-tier leads brought on by AMC to play opposing pirate captains Sam Bellamy and Olivier Levasseur—Oscar Issac and John Boyega light up the screen and bring surprising comedy chops to the pirate-filled stage they share with such talents as Michelle Yeoh ("Zheng Yi Sao") and Sam Neill ("Captain Benjamin Hornigold"). 

But beyond that, BTMD seems to be that rare thing in mainstream media: a slow romance between two middle-aged men finding love for the first time. The first—and so far, only—season ends on a cliffhanger, our heroes separated by an ocean but determined to reach one another, and their love story—if it is one—stays unresolved. 

Usually an interview like this—between seasons, after renewal and filming but before advertising—would be the perfect opportunity to delve into the mind behind the magic and attempt to tease out hints about what's to come. 

But Denkins seems determined to ignore Hollywood's traditional playbook. 

Whether this is the standard conference room used for interviewing reluctant showrunners, or if Denkins picked it especially for the purpose, I'll never find out. I've already been waiting half an hour, uncertain if Denkins intends to join me at all. When he does finally arrive, he makes his position clear. 

"I'm only doing this because you agreed to my terms," he says. 

I'd describe what he looked like, if he had a coffee or a snack or a smoker's twitching nerves, if he sounded tired or amused or angry—but I can't. If you see a description here, it's because Denkins decided, for whatever reason, to approve it. Otherwise, sharing my impression of Denkins is off the table, one of many terms and conditions my editorial team and I had to agree to before Denkins would accept this meeting. 

Denkins doesn't want to make my job easy. Photos of him do exist from the few red carpets he's attended; enthusiastic interviews with the cast, writers, and production team of BTMD definitely paint a picture that belies Denkins's apparent efforts to avoid perception. But here and now, in the oppressive air conditioning of the AMC offices, I am contractually obligated to interview a cipher.

If he can be all business, though, then so can I. I hit a button on my phone's recording app, set it down between us, and ask what made him decide to tell the story of an obscure pair of pirates like Sam Bellamy and Olivier Levasseur.

He shrugs. "Why does anyone write anything? This is my job." 

It's not the kind of answer I was expecting. Something must show on my face, because he follows with, "That's unsatisfying, isn't it. No definitive answer."

"It's not what I expected," I hedge.

"What did you want to hear?"

I try to gather my thoughts, but I'm definitely stalling, uncertain that this is what Denkins intends. "I did a little research," I say. "Not as much as I imagine you did, but I found some of Bellamy and Levasseur's history together and, later, apart. Bellamy's ship is the only fully authenticated Golden Age shipwreck in the world, so it makes sense that the wrecking of the Whydah is an important turning point in season one. Levasseur, on the other hand, is best known for the mystery of his encoded treasure map, flung into the crowd at his hanging and only ever partially solved, which you seem to have used as a foundation for the coding and decoding motifs throughout. But for a show that seems determined to discuss the consequences of fame and reputation, it's fascinating that you've chosen two men most casual viewers have never heard of."

"Outside the narrative they built for themselves," Denkins corrects. "Is there a question in there?"

I remember again that Denkins isn't here to make this easy for me. "Why not choose one of the more well-known pirates of the era? Henry Morgan, Captain Kidd, and Blackbeard are all arguably more famous both now and when they were alive. What made you choose Bellamy and Levasseur for this story?"

"I think," Denkins says, "I just answered that. There's a difference between how you perceive yourself, and how the world perceives you. Those famous pirates retained their notoriety even after death. Sam and Ollie did have reputations when they were alive, but if people today know them at all, it's typically for reasons completely unrelated to whatever little fame they achieved in life."

"And that fascinates you?"

Denkins looks irritated. "It doesn't matter what fascinates me. That's the story, that's—look, I don't know how to write a puff piece like this," Denkins says. "I don't know if it would really sound like this, if anyone would bother caring enough about what I want to get this far."

"Excuse me?" I say.

"Do you honestly think," Denkins says, "there's a single journalist out there that would actually agree to these interview conditions? This is a fantasy, a what-if, and it still doesn't work."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," says Denkins, "I didn't even give you a name."

And that's true, I realize. I don't have a name. 

"Right," says Denkins, as if hearing my thoughts—and I suppose, in a way, he does. "And you don't know how you got here, and you don't know where you'll go after. I made you up. I made all this up."

I look at my recorder, which isn't a recorder. I look at the room, which isn't a room. 

"Okay," I say. "So what did you want to happen?"

Denkins taps my phone's screen to stop the recording. Denkins imagines me noticing that he taps the screen, and so this must have meaning. There is no room for junk words and actions in prose, and even less in television. Whatever's on the page has to have meaning, or it's wasted space, wasted time, a moment that could have been useful now gone and never coming back.

Denkins shoves my phone back to the center of the table and says, "I wanted to see if I could just talk about the story without making it about me."

"But you're part of it," I point out. "You have to be. It came from you. It was something you thought was important, and then you put the effort in to create it. The story exists because of you, in relation to you. That's why people, why fans, want to know more about you. They love the story, and you made it, so they want to love you, too."

"I don't like that," says Denkins. "Rephrase it."

"They love the story," I say, parroting back at my creator, "and you made it. They want to know about you so they can know more about what the story means."

Denkins's chair creaks as he pushes it back, puts his head in his hands. I wonder if he's doing that in the real world, too, in the place where he's imagining this interview that will never exist. 

(Except I'm not the one wondering. He is. He's wondering what an interviewer would think of him if he allowed himself to show this weakness. Rephrase. Show this ache. Rephrase. Show this.)

"I'm not a story," Denkins says, face still hidden. The Muzak piped into the room seems too loud, too discordant now. Maybe that's what the world sounds like to him. "I'm not imaginary. I'm not a specimen to study under a microscope until every part of me is uncovered and connected one by one to every part of the show." He drags his hands back down and I think I can say that he looks very, very tired. 

"Yes, maybe I put some of myself in Blow the Man Down," he continues. "Maybe I did in season two as well. Maybe I put something in The Gang, and maybe I'll put something into whatever else I make for the next fifty years. And what I put there is—will be—has to be—my choice. All things I chose to share. But this?" He waves a hand at the nonexistent conference room, at nonexistent me. "This isn't a choice. It's a demand. I'm being held hostage for answers, as if me keeping my boundaries somehow ruins the show, ruins the story."

"Because you're not a story," I repeat back, watching for confirmation. "Because what you choose to reveal is the only story the audience should need."

"Yes," says Denkins. "That's it."

That's not it, though. I know this, because I'm him, talking to himself. Thinking all this through. 

"So you cut yourself off," I say. "No one can know anything about you, because they're already clawing for what you're not willing to share—so how much worse would it get if you gave them a chance to come closer, right?" 

"To take, and get it wrong anyway," he says. "Or get it right, but not like it. Not like me. How I'm perceived might change how the story is perceived. And even skipping over the whole art of it all—this is a business. How the story is perceived affects dozens, if not hundreds of people and careers. And all of it can get destroyed in an instant if there's some aspect of me that the audience decides is wrong."

Denkins pushes back from the table, stands up as if to leave. I'm not done yet, though. He's not done yet.

"Sounds lonely," I say.

"Sounds like something a fan would say," he shoots back, and I shrug.

"Blame yourself for thinking it and making me say it, then. It sounds lonely. It is lonely. It's lonely to think there's no way that you could open yourself up, talk about who you are and what your art means to you, without feeling like someone, everyone, will take advantage of that vulnerability."

I pause, and in that pause I find something to latch onto. "You've imagined me," I say. "You've imagined this scenario, where you stay cut off and oblique and hidden." I pick up my phone from where it's placed between us, and I shut it down completely—not because it exists, but because it's a symbol he understands. "What would happen if you imagined being part of the story?" I ask. Rephrase. "What would happen if you imagined being free?"

We look at each other. The tinny music of this artificial space comes to a sudden halt.

Denkins leaves the room. 

I am—

Denkins comes back. He sits down. He looks at me.

Time doesn't exist in the beige and glass room. But behind him, now, there is a poster of Sam Bellamy and Olivier Levasseur, a drilled coin on a cord stretched taut between them. And the Muzak hasn't restarted.

Denkins looks different. Or maybe he just feels different. Those things are functionally the same, here.

"You know the old movie trailers?" Denkins starts, not really a question. "The ones that start with 'in a world…'"

I nod. 

He smiles a little. "Okay. In a world where Blow the Man Down doesn't exist. Let's say there's something else instead. Let's say it's called Our Flag Means Death. It's a workplace comedy, it's the Golden Age of Piracy, the works. They even manage to kiss in the first season, though the cliffhanger is worse. And in that world, there's a different guy who runs it, a guy named David Jenkins, who seems nicer and more outgoing and shares a lot more of himself than I do. And I think it goes mostly okay for him, except he has to scrub his social media, delete most of his Instagram, and never gets to name his wife anywhere in case a fan might notice and start following her around."

"Sounds grim," I say.

He shrugs. "It's another way of handling it. David, in that world, has made a choice to draw the enemy fire toward himself, instead of hiding away and letting it scatter at random. It seems to work okay for him, and maybe it would for me too, but, you know. Maybe that's a little of myself I gave Ollie. Because I also like the idea of testing something first, all the way to destruction."

A little of myself. This—this is personal information. Something that, in the negotiations that never happened, he said he'd never give me.

My phone, with its blackened screen, is right there. I keep my hands still, folded together, decidedly not reaching for the phone. Denkins watches, sees. His shoulders loosen; neither of us, I think, realized how tense he'd been.

"In that world," he says, "there's a second season coming that no one knows anything about and there's a fandom going feral. Echo chambers that feed off their own theories because there's nothing new to add to the pot. Just like our world, right? In the absence of good data, overwrought ideology works just as well.

"And in the middle of this, to provide a distraction, maybe, or to draw that enemy fire like he so often does, David Jenkins says he'll get a Tumblr—you know, one of those not-really-social-media internet places. And maybe he does. He doesn't tell anyone his username, so it's a mystery whether he really did it or not. But someone opens an account. And someone says they're definitely not David Jenkins."

Javid Denkins is holding a cup of coffee. So am I, now. We take sips, mirrors of each other. The coffee tastes like it has seven sugars in it.

Denkins swirls his cup gently, not looking up at me. "When you're trying to figure out something that's terrifying," he says, slow and careful, "and enraging, and so big and so much that it feels like you'll collapse under the weight of it…sometimes you need to find a way to conceptualize it more abstractly. Make it manageable. Put it in bite-sized chunks. 

"So instead of me, dealing with all this fame, and these expectations, and these pulls to turn me from a person into a plot point…maybe there's this other guy. In this other universe, with this other pirate show. Another writer, who says he's definitely not David Jenkins. But—he could be. He could be. And either way, there's enough uncertainty that the fandom can't tell right away."

"Schrödinger's showrunner," I say. 

Denkins tips his mug at me. "Yeah, that gets pointed out, too. Because either it's really him and the fandom will eat at him—death by a thousand needy bites of demand, and something that feels like connection but by its nature can't be—or it's not him, just a fan pretending to be him, attention-seeking, scamming, stealing unearned laurels to crown a meaningless triumph: successfully mimicking the concept of David Jenkins."

"Pretty binary."

Denkins shrugs. "You saw the first season. I'm a sucker for duality." 

He hums and looks out the conference room's window. The AMC lot is gone. More accurately, it was never there. Outside the window is an ocean. The water is green-screen perfect, and there are two tall-masted ships in the distance: Bellamy's Whydah Gally and Levasseur's La Louise. They float angled toward one another, counterpart to their captains on the poster behind Jenkins, missing only the drilled coin between them.

"Except," says Denkins, slow and musing as he watches the distant ships, "in the vast multiverse of imaginable possible outcomes, it turns out that there is the very slimmest possible chance of a third thing happening."

There is another ship floating now between the Whydah and La Louise. It's freshly painted, poorly rigged, and its figurehead is a unicorn. Instead of one flag, it has half a dozen. And I know, because Denkins knows, that instead of gunpowder in its hold, it carries jars and jars of harmless marmalade.

"So," I say, "David Jenkins—"

"Oh, definitely not David Jenkins," says Javid Denkins, amusement lighting up his face. He keeps his eyes on that third ship.

"So the person who is definitely not David Jenkins," I say. "He comes and starts a social media account. He answers questions."

"Sort of. Nothing specific, really. Just…narrative likelihoods. Enough to dangle hope. But the fandom wants more. There's a Richard Siken line he sees, that if he'd chosen to stay anonymous maybe he could've actually posted: 'but monsters are always hungry, darling.' It's like that. So he backs up a little, and considers how to hold off the inevitable. The season two hints are vague? Make them vaguer. Add some smoke and mirrors to hide how little substance they have. There are only so many general pirate tropes around? Stretch out how long it takes to get the ones he has. Add steps. Add puzzles. Make the fandom work for it, and maybe they won't notice how little there is to find. Give them an interesting enough box to open, and they'll ignore the fact that there isn't an answer on the inside, just another, smaller box." He tilts his head and looks at me. The light outside is now luminous pink and yellow, flashing off the water and highlighting his face like a duotone painting. "Then he…" Denkins sighs. Puts down his mug. "Then I sit back and see what happens. I see if it's as bad as I think it would be if I did it here, in the real world."

"And is it?"

Denkins reaches out with one hand, tugging my phone over to his side of the table. He starts fiddling with the buttons, attention on it instead of me. "To start with? Yes. And no. It didn't matter that the one thing I promised was that I wasn't David Jenkins. They—the fandom—found me anyway. They assumed I was him. And I was right, of course I was right, they asked me questions. Hundreds of them. Like that was the only reason I existed, like I couldn't just be a regular person like the rest of them, just on Tumblr to read about the Carpathia and get taken out by the color of the sky."

"For better or for worse, you're a public person," I say. "They think they know what it means when a public person breaks down the barrier between themselves and the fans. Even well-meaning people make assumptions."

The recorder is no longer a phone and app; it's an old cassette player with thick plastic buttons like I, or more accurately Denkins, had as a child. It matches the ones his elementary school classrooms had, which in turn looked like the device Mr. Spock carried at his hip to record and interpret data from strange new worlds. 

Denkins, in the here and now, half-presses the play and record buttons, which would trigger the record function if pushed down completely. He holds back. Riding the edge of commitment. Over and over. 

"Yeah," he says. "Yes. That's true. And I could've been completely anonymous if I wanted to be left alone entirely. I suppose I wanted to prove that everything I believe—everything I'm afraid of—is true, and that I'm justified in hiding away, refusing to be 'known' by anyone I haven't specifically agreed to. Hence the thought exercise. And when I was done, and I had my proof," he says, leaving off the recorder buttons to raise a pointed finger at me, "I wouldn't have to see you again either."

We look at each other. "But here you are," I say.

He laughs. It's rusty, but sure. "Here I am," he agrees.

"So what happened?"

"Turns out," he says, "that in that infinite universe of possibilities a writer can dream up, there's a world where, yes, all my worst fears are confirmed…but that's not all that happens."

He stops, and we are both silent for a long, long moment. His fingertips brush over the recorder buttons, repetitive and soothing, like he's calming something feral and unused to human touch.

"Would you believe," he says at last, hushed and small in this glass and beige room floating on a digital sea, "that there is a world where fans—people—don't ask for more than I want to give? Who see the box I'm in, and instead of ripping it open to grasp for whatever good thing they think they can find inside…they give something back. 

"I played it all out, you see." He waves his hand over the recorder. Now there are two of them, sitting side by side, each with a row of thick black plastic buttons along the edge: one to play, one to rewind, one to record, and one to pop open its lid so that the cassette can be changed. One of the recorders is a little bigger than the other. "If I can imagine it," he says, "it has to be possible."

He looks at the two recorders; he's quiet now, talking to himself rather than me. I don't think I'm as necessary as I was before. I think maybe this is just him. Just Denkins in this lonely little room. He moves the smaller recorder so that it's lined up with the larger one, like he's lining up Matryoshka dolls as he reveals them.

"It started small," he says. "There were people who saw my puzzles, and made puzzles back for me, just to play along. People who saw my puzzles, and shared what they knew about them, just to help others play too. Small things. Little things. Possible things. I liked it. I didn't expect it. I…wanted to give back, too. Not just in the story, I mean. It was me who wanted it. Wanted to add to a world, to a community, where that sort of giving could happen. So I went further. I didn't just try to hint at common story beats this other show might hit—I started listening, following, asking what would be most welcome, and then gave that instead. And it grew. It grew until it wasn't really just an experiment anymore. It stopped being an adversarial proof. It started being…something else."

Denkins reaches out, and now there are three recorders on the table. The newest one is the smallest. He lines it up with the others.

"I'd already made David Jenkins," he says, "and in turn he'd made his own Javid Denkins. So why not do it again? This other Javid Denkins, this me who's me but not me, goes deeper. He uses the tools at his disposal. Our Flag Means Death has pirates named Edward Teach and Stede Bonnet. OFMD has a fandom like BTMD does, where people write stories about the characters, for themselves and—for others. Fan fiction. A thing that can be a gift, if you want it to be. So I started to write one."

One by one, Denkins hits the 'play' button on each of the recorders. The cassettes whir, a steady background hum. Each starts playing a part of some orchestral piece. Not the individual instruments, but something stranger. It's as if each cassette contains the whole work, but with fragments missing that the others complete. There are still some gaps in the playback.

Denkins waves his hand over the collection again, and a fourth recorder, smallest of all, appears. He presses play on it too, and the music fills in. It's a pretty little melody. Simple, if you know how to hear it.

Denkins hums a little of it before looking up, seeing me again. "That was it, really. That's what finally made all this small enough for me to understand. Made it small enough, far enough away from my actual world that I could finally let myself feel it. In this story that I'm telling, here is Edward Teach." Denkins touches the smallest recorder very, very gently. "Teach lives in a world where he's not the main character; he's just a fan of a gay pirate romcom called Blow the Man Down. He's tired, and he's angry, and he doesn't know how to deal with the world the way it is, with the fandom as he perceives it. He makes a Twitter account, anonymously, to prove that what he fears is real."

Denkins covers the recorder with both hands, only muffling the music a little. "Here's Edward Teach, made up of all my fears and saying them out loud."

He raises his hands, and now there are two little recorders, the same size, both playing the same parts together. He touches the new recorder with his fingertip, as if it's a bubble that could too easily break. "Here's Stede Bonnet," he says, "made up of all my fears coming true. And then having to live through it anyway." He stares down at this new recorder; the same as the Edward Teach one, but evidently special in some way to Denkins. He says, to me, to it, to the room: "It's a hell of a thing, to need to go so far away just to see what you've been carrying on your back the whole time."

After a moment, he looks back up at me. "In my story," he says, "Stede survives the disaster. My disaster. He survives it, because he has Ed—a love interest, yes, but not just that. He's someone he opened up to. And more than that, I saw—because I could imagine it, and so it must be possible, it has to actually be possible—I saw the fandom become…people."

With both hands, Denkins presses a button on each of these two small recorders.

Their lids pop open.

And from the walls, from the ceiling, from the glass windows and the limitless sea, there comes a multiverse of music.

"These people," says Denkins, tilting his head to listen as the swells of unseen instruments add to the gentle overture of his pocket worlds and turn the piece into something greater than the sum of its parts. "They're not some nameless collective made up of their worst impulses. They're just people. People are complicated. You can never know them completely; they can never know you. All you really get is what they—we—choose to do. 

"And I saw people try to help Stede. People, strangers, who didn't know who he was, not really. And they felt compassion anyway."

After a long moment, just taking in the music, Denkins sighs and carefully closes the lids on the two small recorders. The singing universe becomes just a recorded orchestral piece once again—though no less beautiful for it. He gently pushes the two recorders together until they're touching, side by side, and covers them with his hand. He says, "Ed got to see this. He got to know that even if his worst fear happens, he'll be okay on the other side of it. And he won't be alone." 

He lifts his hand; the two are now one, still playing its little melody.

Denkins picks up this amalgamated recorder and sets it on top of the next largest. He puts his hand over the stack he's just made. "Move it up a level," Denkins says. "David Jenkins, or someone who is definitely not David Jenkins, runs a Tumblr with games and puzzles and digital tools that stretch the boundaries of the narrative. He sees the reactions to his story. Sees fans who know it isn't real, who know that Stede and Ed are characters in a narrative—and nevertheless, these fans, these people, see that these characters are hurting. They try to help. They don't know who's behind the masks labeled 'Stede' and 'Ed,' not really. But they feel compassion anyway."

He lifts his hand. The little recorder atop the larger is gone. The music is different. Not lessened, but changed. It's come closer. 

Once more, Denkins moves the smaller combined recorder onto the last one—or, I suppose, the first of all of them. "So move it up one more time," he says. The music isn't audible in the room now; but I hear it anyway. It's in me. Us. The last little notes coming from the final recorders just a reminder of what the world could sound like.

He covers the top recorder with both hands. His touch is aching and very, very soft. "Here's me. Javid Denkins. I don't know if there's a world where I could open myself up and not have everything burn down in flames. I don't know if it could ever be possible for me to leave this room, open my laptop, and start something, somewhere, called 'definitely not Javid Denkins,' and have it be as beautiful and awe-inspiring as it was in my thought experiment.

"But God," he says, "I want it."

He lifts his hands, and all that's left is the final recorder, the one that was my phone to begin with. The music dissipates completely. But the feeling of it remains. Denkins rests his hands on either side of this solitary recorder. He says, "I don't know if all of that—all of them, my fans, my friends, all of what we made together…I don't know if it already exists for me in the real world. Just waiting for me to be brave enough to look. I don't know. But I think I have to believe that it does. That they do. I have to believe that it's possible not just to imagine that kind of grace, but to live it." 

Denkins brushes his thumb over the last recorder's play button. "I think that's what it means to be human," he says. "To try anyway. To unlock yourself despite your fears, and find hope there waiting for you."

He closes his eyes. I close my eyes. We take a deep breath together.

We open our eyes.

After a moment, I smile at Denkins, a little crooked. I've got one last question to ask, and it's one he might even answer. 

"Who are you, really?" I ask. 

It's something we all have to answer about ourselves eventually, and it seems particularly relevant now.

Denkins shrugs, and his smile mirrors mine. "Does it matter?"

"It feels like it does."

"How about this," he says. "Who are you, really?"

And knowing what I know now…if I'm anyone at all, then I suppose I'm Javid Denkins. An aspect. A reflection. A dream.

And so, in these universes he's imagined, is everyone.

"So," Denkins says. "You think I can start over?"

I smile wider. It feels good. "I'd love that."

He pushes the recorder back to me, and in my heart I hear his laughing request for one last rephrase—

Javid Denkins has been waiting for me.

It's 9:30 in the morning and I'm sitting across the table from a cheerful enigma. Denkins was already in the room when I arrived, a hot coffee by my seat and a box filled with fresh breakfast pastries and marmalade open and ready to be enjoyed. An advertising standup emblazoned with the unreleased (at time of writing) air date for season two of Denkins's Blow the Man Down takes pride of place at the head of the table. Through the windows opposite, bright sunlight bounces off the buzzing AMC studio lot, and I think I hear a certain pirate romcom's theme music playing quietly over the room's speakers.

Denkins grins at me, and it's easy to see why his actors and writers speak so highly of the experience of working with him. Because I can tell already: this is going to be fun. 

It starts when he leans forward, eyes bright, and presses the record button on my phone for me.

"Let's play," he says, and—we do.