I've been gradually nudged towards developing an original fic idea, which happens to be an anthology about the machinations of a sorceress at the New York subway's Lost Property Office, and her naive apprentice. This is the first story, "Lost Twins", meant to test the basic concept and introduce/develop some of the main characters. After writing it, I'll have a good sense of whether developing the concept further is viable.
For now, this is a placeholder thread for posting snippets/notes for easy reference and/or discussion.
This post will eventually be updated with links to plot summary and completed chapters.
Preparatory Notes
- Characters - Simon Molloy (http://www.soulriders.net/forum/index.php/topic,102526.msg1040245.html#msg1040245)
- Characters - Drake Powell (http://www.soulriders.net/forum/index.php/topic,102526.msg1040351.html#msg1040351)
- Characters - Mu Forbis (http://www.soulriders.net/forum/index.php/topic,102526.msg1041182.html#msg1041182)
- Characters - the ghost - todo
- Characters - Simon's genie - todo
- Characters - Rosa Hernández (Rose) - todo
- Supporting Characters - Guard - todo
- Supporting Characters - Mr. Desmond - todo
- Supporting Characters - Mr. Cartwright - todo
- Minor Characters - Jonathan Frost - todo
- Minor Characters - Michael Frost - todo
- Minor Characters - the 'confidence artist' (http://www.soulriders.net/forum/index.php/topic,102526.msg1041293.html#msg1041293)
- Minor Characters - Rose's genie - todo
- Remaining Minor Characters - todo
- Worldbuilding - summoning and libations (http://www.soulriders.net/forum/index.php/topic,102526.msg1040627.html#msg1040627)
- Worldbuilding - christmas elves (http://www.soulriders.net/forum/index.php/topic,102526.msg1041182.html#msg1041182)
- Worldbuilding - greater Bolg - todo
- Worldbuilding - genies - todo
- Worldbuilding - ghosts - todo
- Worldbuilding - bloodline vs. non-bloodline magic users - todo
- Worldbuilding - high frequency stock trading - todo
- Worldbuilding - hidden secondary subway system - todo
- Worldbuilding - veil of ignorance regarding magic - todo
- Worldbuilding - list of schools of magic - todo
Lost Twins (first draft)
- Chapter 1 - todo
- Chapter 2 - todo
- Chapter 3 - todo
Characters - Simon MolloyThe narrator of this story, Simon is a precocious and intelligent high school student who also suffers from the various failings of an isolated teenager: apathy and aimlessness, a general lack of self-knowledge, a tendency to assume problems with himself are problems with the outside world, and a sense of not having anything worth to work hard for. He is offered a mostly-frivolous internship at a high-frequency trading firm in New York (which apparently intends to evaluate the interns' intelligence and then recommend them to prestigious university financial programs, in order to ensure a long term supply of people willing to work in high finance), and accepts due to feeling a mild curiosity about how the financial world works. By the end of the story, he realizes that his curiosity about hidden corners of society is in fact his defining aspect, the only thing that can motivate him to do more than bear a situation passively. This understanding gives him a fairly sobering sense of his own lack of moral fiber.
Simon introduces himselfWhen I received the letter from Frost & Prentice stating that they would be interested in offering me a summer internship -- this was prior to my gig at the Lost Property Office -- I was understandably curious. What could I -- an only-mildly-remarkable high school student attending 11th Grade at a municipal Collegiate Institute in the suburban wilds of Ontario -- possibly contribute to the workings of a marvelously efficient and complex high-frequency stock trading operation in the heart of midtown Manhattan? Even as an on-the-off-chance mass mailing to any and all students who happened to rank highly in high school math and programming competitions, it seemed implausible...
To satisfy my curiosity, I answered the letter; one thing led to another and almost before I knew it, I found myself at a job interview. There, I was told not to worry about such questions; the firm would worry about helping my find my field of optimal contribution, while I should instead focus on the valuable learning experience I was about to receive. To me that sounded like a reasonable notion; but, more importantly, I had no idea how this obscure and secretive guild of traders operated, or what sort of sway they held over the hidden affairs of the world. The questions gnawed at me, and (viewing my prospects soberly) that summer would be the one and only opportunity I'd have to find out.
And so it was that I came to New York in the summer of 2012.
I had a blast, at first. So what if people on the street were always tense and wound up? So what if the subway platforms were covered in grime, and the trains never ran on schedule? So what if *everything*, right down to the sidewalks on the street and the convenience store down the road, seemed beat up and, in a word, secondhand?
The city still seemed like a fresh place in the world; the internship seemed an improbably lucky escape from the dreary monotony of passing mutely through my remaining days of high school. The immense concentration of power and authority at Manhattan exuded such a hyperactive magic that, at first, I might sleep scarce four hours a night, yet wake up ultimately refreshed and ready to attack the day before me so vigorously, it might well regain consciousness sometime in the next months still wondering what hit it.
As with an unhealthy drug, this high could only be reliably attained for about the first two weeks. Afterwards, I was forced to reacquaint myself with waking to an alarm clock, fighting every last cell in my organism that cried out for sleep and rest and idleness in some calm, cottageous region of the world, and then dragging myself with the utmost effort to work.
Things would start to get seriously sour once I'd entered the elevator and observed yet again that I was the youngest person among those going up. What is more, everyone in the elevator would be going to a different office, each dealing with its own trivial and incomprehensible slice of the grand scheme of human affairs.
"... take your kids to work day today, or something?"
At a glance, the man who addressed me in the crowded elevator appeared to be several shades more important in his bearing than even my boss's boss (who himself cuts a pretty impressive figure). That was strange, because at the same time -- in contravention of all the invisible laws that govern the upper circles of finance -- he was holding, with his very own hands, a chihuahua on a leash, which creature was frantically sniffing every surface available at ankle level. (Who brings a chihuahua into an office building?)
After a short, awkward silence, I realized that not answering would make the inquiry sound like a heckle, in spite of the fairly friendly tone. There was just one problem, which was that my voice was not conducive to speaking. The muscles of the throat suffered from some kind of spasms, that no amount of therapy was able to fix... in any case my voice sounded like someone dying of suffocation, or perhaps someone already dead. This has always led me to prefer the company of books to that of people, and cultivate my capacity with the written word to the exclusion of all else. I'm frequently told that I've achieved a bit too much success with that last endeavor.
In any case, it's not like I could do small-talk in written form. So I opened my mouth, and the voice of the dead filled the elevator:
"No... summer intern. High frequency trading."
There were a lot of mildly disapproving looks, followed by a stony silence that signified no possibility of exchanging wisdom.
I would have added that my resume had been solicited after I'd placed third in Canada in a high school programming competition, except that this would probably just be understood the wrong way. ("A what competition? Huh? So you won some contest to get here?")
Even inside the one firm I was working with, the various affairs and errands of Frost & Prentice were siloed and isolated. I had really nothing to learn from anyone I encountered outside of the narrow circle of people I was directly concerned with. If I so much as tried to ask the details of their labours, chances were that I would find the answers just as opaque and unenlightening as the answers I myself would give if a someone were to ask me the same kinds of questions. As the silence continued, the elevator doors would open to a haze of fluorescent light and I would make my way into the office —
— where, finally and most devastatingly, was to be found idleness. This feeling may be familiar to you, or it might be difficult to understand, it merits an entire book devoted to just explaining it, perhaps, but few people would read such a dreary volume and so I will restrict myself to revisiting the notion later, when it seems relevant. (Really, once you understand _what_ high frequency trading really is, you'll immediately wonder what business they had hiring interns out of high school.) I will say that, in the end, it was not too different from the idleness I'd escaped in high school. There I'd felt myself misplaced into an environment where my purpose was not to pursue some overarching goal, but merely to avoid unwanted attention – something that could just as easily be attracted by too zealous labour as by too much procrastination.
With my internship, I once again felt misplaced, in almost exactly the same fashion. The only difference was that, as I avoided sticking out, and waited patiently for nothing to happen, money kept pouring into my bank account all the while, far beyond any amount previously conjured by the sheltered imagination of a high school student. And, most depressingly, it came in exactly the same fashion almost, but not quite, no matter what I did. I was misplaced into my job, while some hypothetical ideal intern's payroll was being misfiled to my account.
So in a very narrow and fanciful sense of the word, I was doing my utmost to imitate an item of lost property on a subway train.
(note: as a result of various circumstances - i.e. a genie - Simon now has a normal speaking voice)
"Name?"
"Simon Molloy."
"Where d'ya live? Parents around?"
{Gist of answer: I lived alone, of course, in a cramped studio apartment in Brooklyn, paid for by the company.}
"Hmm. Where are your parents?"
{Gist of answer: My parents were, in fact, back home in Toronto.}
"Ah, not from around here, I see. How are you liking New York? This your first time here?"
"It's... okay here, I guess. I went on a trip here just once. That was... also okay."
"Just okay? The Big Apple not merit any adjectives or anything?"
"Well, on the last trip here it was confusing and bewildering. Now I think I'm getting used to it. Not sure if I'll ever be able to think of it as home."
"Hm." Powell answered, looking away from me at the ceiling.
There was a brief moment of silence for my sense of wonder at the novelty of New York. I realized that I hadn't even gone up the Statue of Liberty yet.
"Okay, Simon Molloy. Here's what we're going to do. We're going to listen to you list off any and all people who could have planted that genie on you. That means anyone you've been even the least bit in contact with in the past... oh, I don't know. Since you arrived here in New York, I guess. I ask you some intensely probing personal questions about those people, take some notes. Then after I'm done stripping your New York experience to the bone, I probably stare at the notes for an hour, give up in disgust and burn the paper to ensure Forbis doesn't snoop through it, then send you on your way with some friendly advice."
She stood up and leaned over me until she was practically blowing smoke in my face. Her voice dropped to a dangerous, low tone as she gave me the advice in question.
"Namely, I wouldn't use that genie if I were you. Not for more frivolous wishes, not for less frivolous ones. Take her out once a week, give her the attention she needs, and stuff her back in the notebook double quick and be sure that no one, I mean no one, knows about her."
Sitting back down behind the table, Powell seemingly relaxed and threw her arms wide in a noncommital gesture.
"I don't know, I'm not exactly Sherlock J. Holmes here. But I owe you to take a good hard look at this situation, because, while having a genie you know about chasing you sounds pretty good, I know all about 'too good to be true' and I'm thinking that's exactly what I'm looking at here. You don't seem like the kind of guy I want to be involved in this mess. And, who knows, I might find some lead that'll help you out. If not, I'll wish you good luck... in any case, in the interests of good old-fashioned paranoia, let's have that list, shall we! Anyone you know in New York, anyone at all!"
{Some dithering on the part of Simon regarding invasion of his privacy, dispelled quickly when Powell quietly threatens to hand the case over to Department of Homeland Security instead. They'd certainly be interested in an unaccounted-for genie that seemingly dropped out of nowhere.}
The list, when I finally scraped the dregs of social interaction from the depths of my memory, was surprisingly and embarrasingly short. Even down to the guy at the deli counter I bought sandwiches from, the list of people I knew in New York (essentially speaking, the minimal criteria were remembering their appearance and meeting them more than once) numbered in the ballpark of fifty. However, what Powell seemed particularly irritated and bewildered by was my inability to specify salient details of interaction. There weren't many to specify. What exactly was important about most of these people and my relation to them? That co-worker so-and-so jibed me once in a while about my taste in lunch purchases?
So the masses of private, personal and sensitive information that Powell had been aiming to extract from me were simply not there. This was probably the most embarassing aspect of the whole affair so far. I didn't even have anything worth dithering about.
"Okay... this really isn't much to work with. It sounds to me like someone not on that list could've been observing you from far off without you even knowing, and picked you as a socially isolated target. I'm not sure what kind of scheme you could concoct with a socially isolated target and a cute genie, but... hmm. Interesting. Stupid and cruel, but interesting. I'm pretty sure they're not doing that, though."
"Wait, what?"
"Well, if I specifically wanted to ruin your life, I could probably concoct something with that kind of genie. Then again, I could also concoct something that didn't require me to toss away a genie. But you're a nobody; who would even want to ruin your life? No, someone has to know you, specifically, and be using you as a means to some larger end. Again, large enough to waste a genie on. Not sure there's many people in the city patient enough to apply means so small -- meaning you, not the genie of course -- to an end so big. But then you're not a target, you're specifically selected to be a cog in a precisely engineered plan. In that case, there's a small set of people to consider who would know you well enough to be sure of your suitability for their purposes..."
"Wait, I don't understand what..."
"The plan they're using you for? I honestly have no idea. Genies try to discern and grant your innermost wish, normally without you being aware of it. They are also very resilient and powerful in that tendency. Hard to mess with the genie end of the equation. So your innermost desires are either irrevocably messed up, or someone is trying to warp them."
I gave up. This paranoid notion of this strange girl had dragged me back out of Brooklyn and halfway up Manhattan, one could say from the very doorstep of my apartment where I'd been hoping to rest, extracted from me a mass of irrelevant personal detail, and ended up as a strange speculation I did not understand and did not want to believe. So, some incomprehensible forces may or may not have dropped a magical being in my lap for unknown but perhaps extremely sinister purposes. That is, if I had a good reason to believe the teenage girl sitting across from me, smoking her cigarette as though it was the most perfectly natural thing to do at that age.
Dubious. No, not dubious... next to what I'd seen, I just didn't have any point of reference to determine what was plausible truth and what was fanciful imagination.
A part of me noted vaguely that I had every right to protest at this point, saying that what I'd heard was ridiculous (but next to what? next to a genie in my pocket? next to an entire parallel subway system crammed with goblins? ridiculous next to what?) and that I would get going while the night was still young, as I had work tomorrow and needed my rest. But out of long habit, I remained silent, since I did not frequently need to take such a demonstrative stand with anyone. People either gave me what I want, or I didn't deserve what I wanted most of the time. I was also used to my few, resoundingly hoarse interruptions being unwelcome, and Powell showed no signs of slowing down such that I'd either be able to cut her off, or need to prod her into some other deliberation:
"Anyhow, that's about what I expected to come out of this in terms of insight. Not much to go on. Though, surprisingly, the list is far more narrowed down than I thought it could be." she said, clearing her throat insolently to indicate the reason why it was so narrow. "Now, the far more promising thing to do if we're trying to sniff out this 'sabotaged genie' business, is just ask the genie. C'mon."
The second one probably belongs more properly in my next post about Powell, but it happens to amply illustrate Simon's haplessness.
The scene with Powell paints her as a no-nonsense, amiable, intelligent woman. She comes off as having good intentions and the knowledge to back those intentions up with a good course of action. How much of that is correct based on a single scene is harder for me to discern. Simon does seem a bit lost trying to track down any meaningful interactions with people, but given that this is my first experience with Powell, I feel like much more of my attention is on her than on him. Her threat to rat him out to DHS if he protests too much will come off differently based on her tone. Given the rest of the passage, I expect she won't be too nasty about it; such would be inconsistent with her tone (a tone that changes only when she warns him earnestly about the dangers of the genie, and since that seems sincere, that comes off fine).
Characters - Drake PowellQuote
"Drake Powell," she announced, indicating herself. "I'm with the Lost Property Office. You have an item to turn in?"
My first impression of her was somewhat misleading. Drake Powell was a fairly plain, clean-faced teenager, who looked to be slightly younger than myself. She was wearing a long brown skirt that reached well below her knees, and an impeccably clean short-sleeved white shirt with a collar carefully folded just so. A nondescript, oversized tan coat hung carelessly from the shoulders all the way down to knee height and, oddly enough, added another bit of professionalism to the look; though as a rule, Powell never actually wore the sleeves of it. Hair was short enough to not look out of place even on a boy, and strangely tousled to boot, but in a way which might be handwaved as being vaguely cute. (Probably, I guessed, it's hair somewhere in between wavy and curly, the kind that isn't easy to style in a coordinated fashion. She wrestles with it in the mirror for five minutes each morning, then declares the result to be good enough before turning her mind to more practical matters.)
The only things wrong with the picture were Powell's apparent claim to represent the MTA in a position of responsibility at her age, plus eyes that seemed to reflect some kind of light that wasn't there and give her expression a sardonic edge, plus the fact that she was presently breaking several laws at once by unabashedly smoking a cigarette.
Such facts do not add up to any coherent picture of a person's role in society, and so I didn't know how to properly respond to her inquiry. Instead I just stared.
"What?" Powell tilted her head and laughed quietly. "Bad habit I picked up in the fifties."
To start with, just a few notes on the character before I share any additional scenes.
Drake Powell was working at the Lost Property Office since before all the latest batch of bureaucrats were hired there, and, apparently possessing the secret of eternal youth, will likely still be working at the Lost Property Office after the latest batch of bureaucrats is gone. This incredibly dull-seeming vocation doesn't square very well with her status as the self-proclaimed 'greatest magician in North America'.
Being that self-assured, Powell does not really care for anyone's opinion. While she does not have bad intentions towards anyone in particular, she finds it very easy to treat people as means to an end (or obstacles before a goal, depending on how genuinely useful they are). In some situations, she also comes across as very cynical and paranoid by modern standards, having been around far longer than her outward age suggests and being accustomed to a mentality that was far more prevalent in the Cold War United States.
She is rarely seen actually working magic to solve problems, preferring to avoid difficult situations that need to be solved with magic in the first place. Where she can't avoid a problem, she prefers to take advantage of existing magic already in place, using a discipline such as Disputation. Where she can't turn existing magic to her needs, she prefers to pull favours with her various connections to do the job for her. Only if that fails is she generally seen to even consider doing more than a trivial cantrip of her own accord. This means that hardly anyone has a good measure on her actual level of ability, and whether or not it matches up to her lofty claim.
At the same time, her solutions to a situation are frequently highly disproportionate relative to what is actually necessary. Her preference for indirect solutions means that she often has the choice of whether or not she wants to intimidate by acting as though she has great power, or to avoid attention by distancing herself from responsibility for what is happening. By doing the latter, she can maintain the appearance of a consummate bureaucrat who has no room for personal discretion in an affair, even though the reality of things is practically the complete opposite.
Her initial impression of Simon is that he is perhaps intelligent in some respects, but certainly a hapless rube who has become entangled in a situation he can't be entrusted to handle on his own. When she revises her opinion of his potential later on and considers him as an apprentice (for reasons beyond the scope of this story), her ambiguous impression makes it slightly difficult for her to convince Simon that she is, in fact, a formidable magician worth studying under. (As she points out herself, a firsthand demonstration of magic is not really helpful in this regard. How obvious a working is has little bearing on how useful it is -- the effects that make it obvious are mere illusionism and window dressing, one step above stage magic, and completely divorced from the actual useful effect which is rarely conspicuous.)
Update: some scenes involving Powell
DHS threat
{insert Simon dithering}
"Look, let me be level with you, Molloy, you're a nice kid, I don't want you to get into any trouble. But that's my current opinion; before I took a closer look at you, I was expecting I'd just fill out the obligatory paperwork and be kicking you and your genie straight over to the Department of Homeland Security as a hazardous materials case. Because there is ample cause to suspect that the genie is being used in a malicious manner."
What? This talk of handing me to a security agency was coming out of absolutely nowhere!
"Wait, hold on a second. If you're obligated to report me to an agency like that," my now-treacherous tongue started to give voice to my question, "then why didn't you... why aren't you doing it? I mean, already?"
Powell grimaced, and proceeded to massage her forehead with one hand and spell out the matter for me in excruciating detail:
"Because what consistutes hazardous materials is a matter of discretion on the part of the MTA representation. That is, myself. As I said, I suspect that the genie is being employed by someone in a malicious manner that would preclude you from making use of it safely, and particularly if you don't want to deal with the DHS it is your responsibility to investigate the matter to your own satisfaction, so you can at least rest well at night without worrying for your own safety and the safety of other people. Haven't you read any of the admonitions against thoughtless dalliances with supernatural beings? Now, I need this information because I am choosing of my own free will to throw away my time and help you to do that, even though I have no possible reason to care about you. Especially because I have no possible reason to care about you, I am unlikely to care about taking advantage of you or of your petty personal details. Or, are you genuinely ready to go turn yourself in to the DHS because you have nothing to fear from them?"
The effect of this diatribe was to largely to make me shake my head and murmur something vaguely to the negative.
"Oh my, how unpatriotic," Powell noted mildly, completely ignoring the fact that I hardly had any patriotic obligations to the United States government in the first place. "I have sympathy for you, though. Becoming material evidence in a security investigation is hardly a night on the town. Anyhow, let me just start with the basics. You're working here in New York? Going to school? If you just loiter about aimlessly all day, you've gotta do that somewhere, too. Let me hear about that kind of stuff."
"I work at Frost & Prentice." I began.
This was... just great, I didn't even have much cause to fear the DHS (or so I kept telling myself), I was merely under the impression that the DHS dealt with real things, not... whatever was going on right now. So, either way, dragging them into this situation felt like it would have been counterproductive to my sanity....
"...." Powell inclined her head for me to further elaborate on my workplace.
"It's a small high-frequency trading company."
She seemed to latch onto the words and savor them for a moment.
"High frequency trading... really? You're a financier then. Congratulations," Powell stated without the least bit of sincerity, "sounds like you're a big deal already. I'm starting to imagine a few people might be out to get you, huh?"
"No, it's... much simpler than that."
"Oh."
I explained {the internship and the bit about how Simon was hired into it -- perhaps removing the corresponding part of the introduction}.
"God damn it," Powell gave one of her soundless laughs, which unexpectedly left me feeling hurt that she didn't think more of my position. "That's rich. Anyhow, so if you work you must have a boss and everything? What kind of guy is he?"
{segue into the next bit of the scene: by this kind of goading interrogation, Powell determines the full set of Simon's interactions to her own satisfaction}
(heavy spoilers of stuff near the ending, but not of the actual resolution)
"Should've gone to the DHS..." I groaned.
The almost-completed One World Trade Center building was looming above us. Across from me stood Rose and, far more importantly, stood the angry ghost that wanted to destroy New York, making me wonder if the World Trade Center plaza had become irreconcilably cursed in the past few decades or something to suffer such incidents.
In short, I could indeed now understand what Powell meant when she said that the DHS might have been interested to know about this.
Powell was standing between us after the fashion of a referee, having obtained (of all things) a violin from somewhere. She grimaced at what I said, while the ghost merely laughed.
"You think so, boy?" said the ghost. "Let me tell you this -- if that notebook were to fall to some obscure office in that department that thirsts for its power -- if I were to thus have the chance to place some self-righteous secret agent with the full authority of the government across from young Rose the convenience store clerk here, Rose who's never had the slightest moment of power nor luck in her short life, there would be such destruction... for what else would they be able to agree on, but that the city of New York is not to their liking? Yet their desires and means to attain them would be irreconcilable."
Powell shrugged at this.
"You're very focused on these two irrelevant rubes, sir," she interjected coldly. "What am I to you, chopped liver?"
"Almost," the ghost frowned. "You are an interchangeable cog who will perform your designated role in this ritual."
"Well, no." Powell countered. "I happen to be none other than the best magician in all of North America. And, among other things, a virtuoso of the noble and high art of Disputation."
"That's immaterial. You're here in the capacity of a familiar spirit. I put out my job advertisement. You, of your own free will, were able to answer it. You are bound to perform the duties of the ad as surely as the sun will rise tomorrow. These foolish children will state their wish; I will see into their hearts and witness that what they see is true; and I conjure that you will join the two genies to enact the vision into reality."
"Yeah, old man, but who says that might have anything to do with what you wanted, or what you thought you were asking me for? Pfft, when a contract gets laid down on paper, it's still so inexact that you want to have your teams of lawyers quibbling over it back and forth. When it's a thought-impression you send into the ether, though, what's to say that your understanding of the situation and of your own demands is at all accurate to what the Court of Truth will hold it to be?"
"I saw clear enough what it is I have done and what it is that must happen."
"Oh, I get the picture. That's exactly what I'm going to take and I'm going to twist it ten ways to Sunday before I'm through, here. The results might still be messy, but that's only because I'm a bit of a hater, myself," Powell carried on in an incongruously cheerful manner, "and so I've known exactly the sorts of feelings you're being driven by, and so I have some room for creative interpretation in how I carry out your demands."
She trailed off into a brief and significant moment in which the old man's ghost (while physically unable to turn pale) visibly lost composure.
"How?" he snarled.
"I'm not about to give a long lecture on contempt and pride and the desire to drag everyone down to your level. But, suffice it to say, I'll find a way to reconcile that against the childish notion that everything should go up in a huge fireball. To start with, I can combine the genies in any number of relations. The resulting perspective and jurisdiction will be vastly different. Why, in one sense, New York -- the idea that built this metropolis -- might be thoroughly destroyed already, there's hardly anything left to do but for ignorant mortals to properly appreciate this fact and abandon the city to its own inevitable ruin! An enhanced clarity of perception, you know, wouldn't that be a really terrible thing to visit on a place like Manhattan? See, if you'd settled for choosing some mediocre mumbler of incantations, you might have gotten what you want, but no, you had to have the best of the best...."
"That will not give what either of us demands! If people are not swallowed by the flames, if they just up and move, the pestilence will move with them. But you will not be rid of me either, I have no lack of time now, I will follow that pestilence to the ends of the Earth and I will get what I want..."
"... but you're not getting it right now anyways. See? This is exactly what I warned Simon here about. You don't thoughtlessly consort with beings and powers you do not understand. And, old man, here's a shocker for you, that doesn't stop being a rule after you're dead. Now, I'm losing my patience with the conversation. Rose, was it?" She adressed herself to the clerk standing unblinkingly across from me. "Let's hear what it is you want these genies to do."
{NOTE: now, the ritual commences. Probably in the actual scene, the banter
would come interspersed in the ritual, so that the ghost doesn't know upfront that he's been thwarted.}
After she had finished crossing the street, the first thing Powell looked at was the paper cup holding my latte. She was staring at it as though it was an amusingly stuffed dead animal.
"You paying good clean American money for that stuff, Molloy?"
"Yes. Yes I am. Why?"
"You could save a lot of cash just carrying a thermos," she pointed out, rummaging in her coat for one. "Forbis was just brewing some kind of fennel tea thing. Want some?"
"No, I... already have this to drink. Shouldn't let it go to waste."
She took hold of the cup and lifted up the lid unceremoniously to determine that what I had was a sugary latte.
"'Wasting' that stuff? Feh! Throw that away and have some of mine! I'm fairly sure Forbis has nothing to gain from poisoning my tea, if that's what you're worried about."
"...."
What, if I may ask, is the reasoning for the name Drake?
Finding out just how young Powell is meant to appear required me to correct my image of her somewhat, but it does make for a curious character. I think I'll have to see more scenes with her to judge her manner and methods when attacking a task, though.
Quote from: Muphrid on September 25, 2012, 12:00:54 AM
What, if I may ask, is the reasoning for the name Drake?
Complicated to explain without ruining the backstory. I'll say she's named after Sir Francis Drake, whynot, and I won't go into the family history behind that naming right now. It's not as interesting as the story behind 'Mu Forbis', in any case.
If there are any specific ways that name is odd (besides it just being not a girl's name), it might be good to have the issue lampshaded in-story, though. Thoughts?
EDIT: given the reaction to the unexpected remaining details, it occurs to me that
starting with visual descriptions for the characters described from now on would be a good policy. Simon can be the exception, being the closest thing to an everyman in this story...
The name just seemed like something that might have a story behind it. It's definitely unique.
Starting with a visual description does seem like a helpful thing to do, both here and in-story. I can't speak for anyone else, but I definitely try to visualize what's happening, and while I've never been fond of writing out every detail of a character's clothing or anything like that, a few visual cues to give something to build on can't hurt. I think you strike a good balance here. Hair, face, a little bit about the clothes, and the coat is a nice touch. That's plenty and doesn't feel overdone.
Added a couple of Powell scenes to the character post above (http://www.soulriders.net/forum/index.php/topic,102526.msg1040351.html#msg1040351).
All the italics in Powell's big paragraph of the DHS scene makes it sound like she cares more about this situation than her otherwise snarky attitude and tone might indicate. I'm not sure if that's what you intended. The same could be said of the coffee scene. It's interesting that she chooses to replace Simon's drink rather than just laugh at him for his foolishness. Is this a level of depth you're trying to get at specifically, or does it run contrary to what you have in mind for the character's attitude and ideas?
I admit, I'm not entirely happy with my personal mental image of Powell yet. It seems difficult for me to bring together the right voice, look, and body language that match what I think her words should get across. I try to picture her with an abjectly indifferent attitude, but she seems to care too much (or at least find this too interesting) for that to fit. That may have nothing to do with what you've written, though.
Quote from: Muphrid on September 26, 2012, 11:01:12 PM
All the italics in Powell's big paragraph of the DHS scene makes it sound like she cares more about this situation than her otherwise snarky attitude and tone might indicate. I'm not sure if that's what you intended.
Hmm, that's probably appropriate relative to the fact that there's a narrator and that's the portion of Powell's attitude that he happens to perceive (or the part that Powell wants him to perceive). That works because, if that's your impression, it means the diatribe doesn't come across as just a crude mobster-like "I wouldn't want to see something
bad happen to you" threat. What makes it not just a threat should be that Powell's sympathy comes across as genuine.
As to what Powell is really thinking behind the words, it's complicated.
On some level Powell means exactly what she says. She knows Simon (based on her current impression) is in a situation he can't handle, and in the cosmic scheme of things doesn't deserve to be entangled in.
But on a more fundamental level Powell is almost always maintaining an inventory of powerful magical resources that exist out there. (An improbably large percentage of artifacts with unknown natures or obscure properties pass through the Lost Property system.) Where they are, who nominally controls them, what and how she can make use of them for if she feels the need. The genie is definitely on that list -- they would've talked to her (informally, preceding Powell's formal interrogation) in the preceding scene, and Powell privately saw a few clues that this might be a particularly powerful specimen. Seeing it end up with the DHS is a suboptimal outcome for her, since that limits what she knows about its further destiny, and it limits the ways she can make use of that knowledge. (a.k.a. "Yeah, it's safe in some Warehouse 13 somewhere, along with a bunch of other artifacts of doom.") Not to mention, she also doesn't know who planted the genie, and why, and that could be important to know -- it's good to be aware of which people are trying secret ploys for power in the city. She also does't really trust the DHS to handle the genie in optimal fashion -- it's a powerful resource, and would most likely cause bureaucratic infighting over which government agency gets to control it once it's 'clean'. (No, Simon wouldn't get to keep it under any circumstances. Imagine if he'd picked up a fleet of fighter planes.) So Powell wants to take control of the situation herself, do her own investigation of things, and wind up the most informed person around on the matter. This is her path to becoming and remaining the most powerful magician around -- always knowing something that the other person doesn't know. This is not just a matter of knowing more spells than the other person, it's a matter of knowing things that make the hassle and moral hazard of weaving new spells unnecessary.
The fact that she sincerely suspects that the genie being found by Simon just lying there on a subway train is part of some malicious setup, and the fact that she can bring herself to sincerely want to help Simon, happens to be a significant advantage in that regard. If it was a disadvantage, then she'd be pushing those feelings aside and playing up her stiff professionalism. (UPDATE: well, relatively stiff. It's something we'll see her using on other people.) But it isn't, and it incidentally makes it possible for Simon to contemplate becoming her apprentice (once she starts to consider him for that role).
I'm not certain that it'll take just one story to drive home this point narratively.
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The same could be said of the coffee scene. It's interesting that she chooses to replace Simon's drink rather than just laugh at him for his foolishness. Is this a level of depth you're trying to get at specifically, or does it run contrary to what you have in mind for the character's attitude and ideas?
Primarily, by that point he's an apprentice. Powell has a somewhat proprietary attitude towards him, and thus will tend to ridicule and seek to adjust any habits he has that she thinks are counterproductive and/or strike her as downright stupid for trivial reasons. (Being GI Generation, she's seen a lot of cultural change and historical unpleasantness in a short period of time. Being Powell, she paid attention to it and decided that much of the cultural progress of the 20th century wasn't an improvement on what came before.) Given that she thinks Simon can become a top-tier magician, this means that any aspect of his life that might hinder his attainment of that level, no matter how trivial, is under examination.
You can read all sorts of alternate interpretations into the way they interact, and to some extent the characters are designed to have that tension. But it's by no means the foremost aspect to their relations.
That scene was written mostly to indicate that Powell thinks someone poisoning her tea is a natural notion to consider. Whereas Simon (at least at that point) just doesn't expect anyone to even think in those terms. To even ask the question is kind of weird, of course.
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I admit, I'm not entirely happy with my personal mental image of Powell yet. It seems difficult for me to bring together the right voice, look, and body language that match what I think her words should get across. I try to picture her with an abjectly indifferent attitude, but she seems to care too much (or at least find this too interesting) for that to fit. That may have nothing to do with what you've written, though.
Hmm. That points to some things I could play up in the scenes I'll be writing from now on. Not going to say what I'll be playing up, so as not to bias your mental image -- we'll see if I succeed in conveying the image I have of her. (The exact mental image is not something you'd get out of the reasoning I've posted so far. In some ways it's the most difficult to convey because the image came first, and the reasoning about how Powell thinks and behaves proceeds from it...)
QuotePrimarily, by that point he's an apprentice. Powell has a somewhat proprietary attitude towards him, and thus will tend to ridicule and seek to adjust any habits he has that she thinks are counterproductive and/or strike her as downright stupid for trivial reasons. (Being GI Generation, she's seen a lot of cultural change and historical unpleasantness in a short period of time. Being Powell, she paid attention to it and decided that much of the cultural progress of the 20th century wasn't an improvement on what came before.) Given that she thinks Simon can become a top-tier magician, this means that any aspect of his life that might hinder his attainment of that level, no matter how trivial, is under examination.
So it's kind of a "everything you do reflects on me and how I've taught you, even your choice of coffee" sort of thing? That's reasonable.
Minor note: I notice you mostly refer to it as
the DHS. I think, unlike the FBI or the CIA, it's mostly referred to popularly as just
DHS, for whatever reason. (I checked the wiki article on DHS just to see if I wasn't crazy on this point, and the usage is predominantly as I describe, it seems.) Powell could deviate from this practice reasonably given her background, though.
Quote from: Muphrid link=topic=102526.msg1040424#msg1040424So it's kind of a "everything you do reflects on me and how I've taught you, even your choice of coffee" sort of thing? That's reasonable.
Well, 'reasonable' isn't exactly the word I'd use. But it's not too far from what she thinks. Mostly she feels the coffee is a stupid waste of money. And she has no qualms about seeming impolite pointing such things out. Imagine if you saw someone regularly buying $50 processed cheese sandwiches.
Quote
Minor note: I notice you mostly refer to it as the DHS. I think, unlike the FBI or the CIA, it's mostly referred to popularly as just DHS, for whatever reason. (I checked the wiki article on DHS just to see if I wasn't crazy on this point, and the usage is predominantly as I describe, it seems.) Powell could deviate from this practice reasonably given her background, though.
Hmm, so either Simon or Powell should stick to the standard usage. Not sure. Simon would be less likely to know it. But Powell has more room for such eccentricities. I'll decide later.
Posted another Powell scene character post above (http://www.soulriders.net/forum/index.php/topic,102526.msg1040351.html#msg1040351) (under 'discipline of Disputation'). Not entirely satisfied with it, yet.
There's a whole pile of issues with the ghost's voice (and how its pompous style of speaking affects the way *everyone else* talks to it) that I'll worry about when covering that character. For now, I'm more concerned about Powell's proposed resolution to the situation.
It has to be a competent way to 'save' New York and much preferable to the ghost's desire for everything to be consumed Sodom and Gomorrah-style, but also very morbid in its own way. Also I'm not clear on what Powell's own attitude should be towards poetic justice and to what extent she'd be sincere in the notion that New York should simply be allowed to deteriorate into a mockery of itself after the manner of Detroit, or even worse.
I think I'll at least need to rewrite to emphasize what exactly the clarity of realization that Powell's modification of the wish produces should be: "New York is a basket case. The most prudent thing to do isn't to stay in the rat race here, but get the hell out. All of the pretty dreams telling us otherwise are delusions."
Besides the fact that Powell is severely fed up regarding the direction the city (and America in general) is going and would think its ignoble destruction a richly deserved consequence of its failings, she also has ambitions *somewhere* of making it a better place. But it's probably difficult to hold on to the notion of it being worth the effort when you're mostly contending with things like a wronged and angry ghost clamoring for its destruction -- in itself evidence that you're facing an insurmountable problem.
Edit: oh, and of course there's the whole question discussed earlier on IRC on the extent to which it's safe and tasteful to reference the World Trade Center... this issue should be more clear with this bit of context visible. Opinions?
Also, I might get a few odd looks when Powell says that the idea that built New York (having to do with such things as, say, the American Dream as it was understood, say, in the 1920s and 1930s) is pretty much destroyed. This is at odds with many stories where you would hear the villain being confronted by defiant assertions such as "you might destroy New York, but you can't destroy an idea!"
To give one example of what I mean, the Romans worshipped various weird gods and said hackneyed-sounding things such as "if you wish to have peace, prepare for war." (Contrast Einstein: "one cannot simultaneously prepare for and prevent a war.") Whether or not the Romans' ideas had merit, they're pretty much dead in many circles of society nowadays, to the extent that it's difficult to imagine restoring them to life. To take another sense of the word that might be relevant, many incredibly wishful alchemical ideas of the past have been obliterated in real life by a more complete understanding of chemistry and of the limits and conditions on what it can accomplish.
This is probably something I ought to think about working into the actual fic, but because it's a fairly involved bit of commentary I'm not sure at this stage where or if it'll fit in. So I'll address it here, but I'm not going to worry too much about shoehorning it into the actual narrative.
Regarding the new disputation scene:
It seems that Powell must be quite confident--cocky even--to announce that she can twist the ghost's demands in any number of ways. Is it smarter for her to announce it so plainly rather than keep that little tidbit to herself?
(This may be more about cluing the audience in to her plans, but the question, and the impression it gives of Powell, remains.)
Powell seems to be very good at rules lawyering.
Is your vision of Powell's resolution her idea to have everyone realize what New York's become and feel inclined to abandon it? Or is it something much more radical than that? If it's the former, that in itself could be pretty significant, given it touches on the idea of magic touching everyone's mind.
I think the WTC reference is fine.
I think Powell's feelings that whatever built this city is long gone is appropriate. She has the added perspective of decades to bring to her point of view, and it's not unexpected that she might have a very different viewpoint than a contemporary person.
Quote from: Muphrid on October 04, 2012, 11:57:00 PM
It seems that Powell must be quite confident--cocky even--to announce that she can twist the ghost's demands in any number of ways. Is it smarter for her to announce it so plainly rather than keep that little tidbit to herself?
(This may be more about cluing the audience in to her plans, but the question, and the impression it gives of Powell, remains.)
I'm going to significantly rework how the actual summoning works, after some thinking based on this question, and post some notes explaining my reasoning later. But basically, there's a loophole Powell is using, and a reason why it wouldn't be abused in a routine transaction (and why most people wouldn't even pay attention to the loophole's existence).
The nature of the loophole also makes it irrelevant whether or not Powell is subtle about her intentions. And yes, she rarely wastes her breath on self-deprecation.
Quote from: Muphrid on October 04, 2012, 11:57:00 PM
Powell seems to be very good at rules lawyering.
That's the idea. For an experienced magician, Powell has a very strong reluctance towards weaving complex magic. This obviously goes hand in hand with her familiarity of how such magic often has loopholes wide open to abuse.
Looking at the longer term, it might require a lot of attention to balance things out so that Powell doesn't seem to be operating in a permanent god mode next to everyone else. But in this story, where she doesn't have an established pattern of nearly always managing to get her way, it's more a problem of making sure Powell is doing enough to convince Simon that she is actually competent at a lot of things as opposed to -- as you said -- merely 'cocky' about them.
Quote from: Muphrid on October 04, 2012, 11:57:00 PM
Is your vision of Powell's resolution her idea to have everyone realize what New York's become and feel inclined to abandon it? Or is it something much more radical than that? If it's the former, that in itself could be pretty significant, given it touches on the idea of magic touching everyone's mind.
It's more the former. It's amazing how subtle the process of a fairly large and prospering city crumbling can seem. Even in real life, most of the things that really determine whether it does are out of sight or very difficult to notice.
Worldbuilding - summoning and libationsBasic development of the summoning system alluded to in the 'disputation' scene. A bit involved, but this is the depth to which it's necessary to know a mechanism in order to be able to take advantage of it. I'll have to think about how to simplify / selectively present this information in the actual story.
The ghost employs an ancient summoning ritual based on mutual agreement between a summoner and transactor. The summoner visualizes a description of the task they want the transactor to perform, and offers up a payment. This information is broadcast to nearby beings who have the ability (natural or artificial) to answer summons, and interested beings send an image of their nature and abilities to the summoner.
Both images are largely non-verbal, and contain a large amount of peripheral information which requires some skill to judge accurately. A higher degree of skill allows summoners and transactors to do such things as recognize beings they have already encountered, and to judge involuntary cues as to each others' true intentions. There is also some room for both sides to ask and answer questions about the arrangement, and make contrary offers, though non-verbal communication is not always as precise as language.
When there is mutual agreement, the payment is handed over, the summoning occurs, and the transactor is magically bound to perform the required task unless they voluntarily refund the payment. It is notable that a refund is the transactor's sole prerogative; the summoner has no authority to demand the payment back once they have given it, and must content themselves with the transactor performing the task as they see fit.
This is because the system was initially developed by demons for the purpose of being summoned into the mortal world to wreak havoc. In the old days, there were people crazy enough to summon malicious demons to perform vaguely defined tasks (whose letter had to be fulfilled, but whose purpose could and was twisted for the demon's amusement whenever possible), and to pay using barbaric sacrifices which the demon would find difficult to refund in any case.
(The demons did not generally derive any benefit from the actual sacrifice, they just demanded such payment because it was just amusing to them to cause humans to kill animals, and sometimes even each other in horrible ways for dubious short term gains.)
The total havoc was somewhat mitigated by the fact that the summoning mechanism has a built-in reputation system. (The actual demons who designed this system were clever, and determined that more havoc and enjoyment could be obtained in the long term if the rules of the system weeded out those demons who were disinclined to maintain even the appearance of engaging in honest dealing, thus raising the apparent trustworthiness of demons as business partners. Edit: or at least, this is the theory fashionable nowadays. Earlier thinkers simply assumed that a higher power forces demons to adhere to certain rules of engagement in the physical world instead of just having the ability to do as they please. The two theories are not necessarily mutually exclusive :-P) Besides the intent that the transactor actually projects, which they can falsify to a large degree, there is also information about the history of the transactor's previous dealings, which cannot be changed or concealed.
Thus a transactor who performed a large number of benign deeds to the general satisfaction of their summoner, will 'feel' completely different to the summoner than a demon who was summoned once to do housecleaning, massacred a small city in the process, and was promptly shunned by all subsequent summoners.
This information gets even more complicated when we take the character of the summoners into account, so an experienced summoner can discern between those transactors who are suitable for genuinely benign deeds, and those who have a high customer satisfaction only because they were used by wicked summoners explicitly interested in causing havoc.
(Of course, as summoners became more experienced in the use of the reputation system, it meant that demons would try to be subtle about their sabotage, doing it gradually over many summonings, and in such a fashion that the summoner would consider the resulting havoc to be their own fault.)
Eventually, the summoning was adapted to transactors from far more reasonable species than that of demons, and became used for the purpose of mundane business transactions, with the payment being money, magical energy, or useful commodities rather than pointless and sadistic sacrifices. By the time of 'Lost Twins' it is basically a glorified 'want ad' service for magicians and magical creatures, used because it is far, far more quick, efficient and private than advertising for one's services even on the modern Internet.
Another innovation to the system which made it more convenient was the use of a libation as the (worthless) initial payment. This would use the summoning mechanism to find a transactor based on a simplified description of the task, and to bring them for in-person verbal (and hence more precise and perhaps lawfully rather than magically binding) negotiations of the details of the task and of an additional payment (or rather, the _actual_ payment). If a mutually beneficial agreement is not reached, the transactor simply 'refunds' the libation (by giving one in response), and returns to their place of origin.
Obviously, the transactor might refuse to return the symbolic libation, and proceed to wreak havoc under the 'I refuse to refund' clause, much like a demon in the old days (the only difference is that the summoner has not wasted any payment beyond a few drops of wine). However, to use this loophole would be such an obvious indicator of bad faith that it produces an immediate black mark on the transactor's record, and practically guarantees an end to their summoning career. Perhaps those who already know the transactor personally might still deign to summon it, but even those might question the trustworthiness of the transaction.
Hence this loophole never comes into play, and has come to be overlooked in recent times when most transactors are human or nearly-human and their primary desire is in fact to receive payment, not to perform sabotage.
However, the situation with the ghost is dire enough that Powell can risk the reputation hit from not returning the libation, and hence being free to complete the job in the manner she sees fit. Powell's reputation before the incident would have been that of an extremely capable magician, who had last been a transactor some decades ago, doing complex work with a high degree of satisfaction (making money on the side during her doctorate). More interestingly for the ghost, she would have intentionally projected a distinctly anti-establishment vibe, and given the sense that she would regard any details of the assigned task as strictly confidential and none of her business. A typical transactor would probably not be useful to the ghost, as their immediate impulse might be to refuse to do the task, and report the situation to the authorities. (And yes, the fact that Powell is not willing to do this is something of a character flaw.)
The authorities are something that the ghost could deal with and even incorporate into his plan, but it would be a needless complication next to simply hiring someone to perform the ritual that the ghost wants.
This system really has the air of something that has developed over time, and I like that there are consequences for Powell twisting the task to her ends (even if she views those consequences as acceptable given the severity if the situation).
A question: is it possible for the transactor to perform some other deed in the process of fulfilling the arrangement that the summoner may not notice? I was prompted to think of this by the remark that demons would perform any extracurriculars gradually and over time to get them done surreptitiously. Is this just to spread out the effects of subverting the summoner's intentions, or can the transactor accomplish some things that the summoner might not be aware of?
Quote from: Muphrid on October 08, 2012, 08:45:04 PM
A question: is it possible for the transactor to perform some other deed in the process of fulfilling the arrangement that the summoner may not notice? I was prompted to think of this by the remark that demons would perform any extracurriculars gradually and over time to get them done surreptitiously. Is this just to spread out the effects of subverting the summoner's intentions, or can the transactor accomplish some things that the summoner might not be aware of?
These details didn't seem to me important to write down because they're part of my intuitions in designing the actual mechanisms, but it seems good to cover them now.
Basically, if the transactor does something that is egregiously not within the scope of their task, this might be grounds for revoking the summon. (The transactor keeps the payment, but the summon can be reversed and the transactor takes the usual reputation hit for foul play.)
Let's cover human transactors first.
If a human or similar transactor is summoned into a public space they would be able to access normally, or any location not under the control of the summoner, they're fairly free to act. They're responsible for any violations of the law they commit outside of the scope of the task, while the summoner is responsible for any violations of the law they instruct the transactor to perform. (In modern courts, the transactor might be considered accessory to the conspiracy.)
One special case of this is if you summon something on property where you yourself are presently tresspassing. In that case anything the transactor does, you are responsible for, but you can dispute anything extraneous they do that increases your risk of being caught, since it correspondingly decreases the transactor's likelihood of successfully completing the task.
If a human transactor is summoned onto property belonging to the summoner, the summoner is extending them their hospitality. Performing e.g. property damage outside the scope of the contract is a breach of hospitality for which the Court of Truth allows the summoner to undo the summon. The transactor of course might gain some information about the summoner's dwelling which they're well entitled to keep. (In general, information gathering and protection are governed by completely separate magic, if at all.)
Demons (the original summoned being) are a bit different. Normally they have a lot of magical power, but are very limited in where and how they interact with the physical world. When a demon is summoned to perform a task, the demon provides the magical power (and/or the skill to shape it for the desired purpose), while the summoner lends the demon their ability to apply it to the physical world. (Otherwise, the demon could just go to your house and wreak havoc without the bother of being summoned.) The portion of ability contributed by the summoner is, of course, the summoner's property, and hence they are free to specify what it may or may not be used for. It is easy to dispute the demon's honour if they use your access to the physical world to do something blatantly outside the prerogative they are given (and outside the secondary prerogative granted a guest, which would include such things as talking freely to beings besides the summoner).
Hence, where they can't do damage without being detected, demons are likely to either work within their prerogative to shape magic that is somehow sabotaged without violating the letter of the contract, or to interact with people besides the summoner in a superficially civil fashion with malicious intent, or to develop a long-term business relationship with the summoner which they can gradually nudge in an unhealthy direction. Or, a combination of all three.
The actual method of undoing the summon where there is a direct breach of faith is, you use the accepted forms of Disputation to signal the nature of the breach, and that undoes the summon. Unless the summoned being has a strong case to counter with regarding why they are, in fact, performing the actual task they were assigned, and not committing a flagrant breach of faith, a fairly simple and generally known form is usually sufficient. (Namely, crossing one's arms in an 'X' gesture.) This has typically come to be misunderstood as a general 'safe word' for aborting a summons, since most human transactors don't stray anywhere near blatant breaches of faith that would cause a summoner to dispel them without talking things out first; or, if they do and wish to dispute the matter to preserve their own reputation, instead of performing intricate magical disputation of their own they use an equally simple and generally well known form to take the proceedings to a law court.
So, to put things together and answer your question:
Given that you need to explicitly observe the breach of faith and take action to undo the summon, a transactor might of course wreak arbitrary extracurricular damage so long as the summoner does not notice. If the summoner notices while the transactor is still present, the transactor is dispelled and takes a reputation hit. If the summoner notices the effects after the transactor is gone, the transactor just takes a reputation hit. (A vague suspicion of the transactor's involvement in something would produce less of a reputation hit than a strong suspicion; outright proof would produce the biggest reputation damage.) If the transactor does something that isn't noticed at the time, and can't be traced back to it afterwards (even by a suspicion), then they're home free.
Anyhow, thanks for asking these questions. This incidentally helps me to clarify that summoning and disputation are indeed both fairly deep disciplines in their own right. (Summoning is used to establish and clarify the terms of an agreement, disputation to -- among other things -- invoke or avert different interpretations of magically binding law.) Particularly with summoning you'd normally think that it was a wimpy discipline where powerful beings (or, more pathetically, other human magicians) do all your heavy lifting. However, particularly in the early days, to actually get results from it that make it even superficially worth the trouble, required an extensive cunning that might not have been meritorous, but certainly deserves the name of a skill in its own right.
Characters - Mu ForbisQuoteWith these words a person sidled up who at first glance I mistook for a midget, at second glance for a child, and after a closer look I was forced to conclude was neither of the two.
"Forbis," Powell addressed her coldly, not caring to elaborate further for my benefit.
The person who was apparently named Mu Forbis was short (well below even Powell's shoulder level) and surprisingly well-proportioned. Her eyes slanted within her pleasant round face, in a way that seemed to either make her look very cross, or seem to be partaking of some uplifting and slightly cruel joke you weren't included in, depending on the expression that shone behind them. She carried a notebook under one arm, and her clothing was such a bewildering combination of woven wool, felt, leather, and polished metal that I can hardly remember or describe individual details (especially since she made a point of changing her appearance slightly every week), but the whole mess came together to form an impression as though the highly crisp and professional uniform of a simple clerk at a very upscale, thoroughly old-fashioned department store, down to a jacket with gleaming buttons and dress pants -- that is, of course, if department stores made a habit of employing surprisingly childlike adults.
She also had one of those jogging headbands on, like the one Spock wore in that Star Trek movie where they all travel back in time to San Francisco to save the whales (or whatever the exact point of the movie was, I don't know). The headband did not mesh well with her outfit, and seemed like it had been a last-second addition. She did not look happy and gave the sense that she was trembling slightly from head to toe. Come to think of it, even the cheery tone in her voice was a bit strained, and her eyes kept darting involuntarily from one person to another as though she was a trapped animal.
Character Summary (somewhat a rehash of what I posted on IRC earlier)
Forbis is an adorably cute and innocuous Christmas elf who hangs out at the Lost Property Office! She cooks Cajun style sometimes, since she comes from the Louisiana branch of the Forbis clan, and she makes sure there are decorations every Christmas, no matter what Powell might say to that. Absolutely nothing to see here, please move along!
In reality, Forbis has infiltrated the Lost Property Office to investigate Drake Powell's activities, and sell any interesting information to a shady third party.
Under most circumstances, Christmas elves are undetectable in their infiltration of a workplace. They are able to show up, ask for work, and perform it usefully, without the employer even being consciously aware that they have an elf on staff and that they are interacting with one. This is an adaptation that serves to aid elves in more easily finding work to do on behalf of others, which is a direct and essential metabolic requirement for them.
Powell has managed to neutralize Forbis' undetectability, and is aware of her basic purpose, but cannot actually get rid of her, instead opting to control what she says around Forbis, engineer annoyances to make the elf's stay at the office more difficult, and occasionally try to cajole her to use her considerable espionage abilities for Powell's own benefit.
Forbis herself doesn't much care about her job; she finds Powell an interesting conundrum, but isn't particularly anxious to dig out Powell's secrets on behalf of her anonymous masters. However, in more mundane matters, like almost all Christmas elves, she is a complete workaholic; her hands are seldom unoccupied and she generally likes to take charge of assorted odd jobs in the office, from making coffee right on up to renovation. Unlike most Elves, who try to do these jobs unobtrusively, Forbis is a control freak who insists everyone do such things *just right*, and thus ends up forcing everyone but herself off any given project. This is particularly pronounced when she decides to involve herself in cooking.
In the scope of this story, Forbis has not yet adjusted to the fact that her presence at the Lost Property office is known to all the employees. Her demeanor is of someone caught between a rock and a hard place, forced into a situation that feels to her unnatural and violating, but pressing onwards with stubborn obstinacy. This is partially true, and partially calculated to garner pity from, and hence leverage over, either Powell or those who might be able to influence her.
Powell is fairly cold to Forbis at this stage
"What's up?" Forbis began in her cheerful-sounding voice, "Who's the nice kid you're dragging along, Fla Powell? Is that a genie? Neat, I've never seen one of those up close before..."
While I was looking at her, Forbis happened to look back and we made eye contact.
"Yi..ii..." she said (or something to that effect), actually starting to shake visibly and further coming to resemble a trapped animal, and then gave me a look of utter defiance, determination and venom, like I was a giant, repulsive cockroach in a gray suit that had politely proposed to bite her head off, and she was resolved to whack me in the face with a broom even if that wouldn't do a bit of good to increase her survival chances. She'd still do it just as a matter of principle.
The result was that I flinched away from the eye contact as though Mu Forbis' gaze was an exposed electrical cable that I'd accidentally brushed against.
Glancing at Powell and then at Mr. Desmond, I saw the latter mouth something at me, what exactly I don't know. (I'm not at all skilled with lip reading.) If forced to guess, I'd answer that it was something about not distressing Forbis with unnecessary eye contact.
"Is there something you wanted?" Powell asked.
"Fla Powell, you'll probably want to see for yourself!" she resumed enthusiastically, "I fixed the structural damage in the back room like you wanted, and I also..."
"Then Mr. Desmond will be able to find you another task, I think," Powell cut her off. "In the meantime, Mr. Desmond, I think I'll take Simon and get the paperwork for the damned genie sorted out."
With that, Powell turned and started to walk away, leaving Forbis gaping and looking about a third of the way to bursting out in tears. Mr. Desmond frowned, while I found myself swept down an aisle. {Shelves on either side were subdivided into square boxes, inside which one could glimpse the kind of junk that clutters the typical garage, albeit neatly sorted and categorized.} The supposed genie trailed behind vaguely, staring at me with an ambiguous smile like a cat that had glimpsed a raw steak.
"Sorry about that," Powell said, her voice regaining its more normal warmth, "Forbis has been working here for a month already and she's still having trouble adjusting."
That seemed to very much be the case, so there wasn't anything I could say to that.
"She is in the espionage business," Powell continued, "and so I am having to be a bit harsh to her."
I... nodded, feeling completely lost.
Subsequent discussion of the whole thing
(happens in a dim sum place; this should be interspersed with the mundane restaurant stuff)
She then pulled her headband off, exclaiming "What a drag!" -- and revealing that her small ears were, in fact, noticeably pointed.
"You're not bothering with your put-on?" Powell remarked. "Interesting."
So, evidently, Forbis was some kind of elf. {Simon *headdesk* -- somehow with all he's seen so far *this* is the last straw in terms of the supernatural}
"I'm sorry, I just need a minute," I excused myself from that position, and proceeded to listen passively to their ensuing bickering.
"Nice going, Molloy," Powell announced with what sounded suspiciously like the appreciation of a seasoned connoisseur of rudeness.
"I'm not offended! It's a perfectly understandable reaction after what he's been through!"
"I was getting curious, why do you even wear that thing?"
"...!" Forbis answered, so quietly as to be inaudible the first time.
"Come again?"
"So they can't tell I'm an elf!"
"Why? You're an odd little thing, sure, but the line workers will just assume you're some kind of midget with Down's Syndrome whether or not you have a headband. Or, I don't know, a half-elf. That's well known on the outside as, what do you call it..." Powell snapped her fingers, "{...name of the real-life genetic defect that has pointed ears as a symptom ...}."
"I don't want them to think I'm a midget with {...}! I don't want them to think I'm anything! Why can they even see me? Do you know how exposed it makes me feel to walk around day day in a place where people can see me?"
"I ask again," Powell ignored the elf's frantic queries, "what happened to your act of being the ineffably cheerful abomination of cuteness? You still have an audience right now -- I'm not fooled, but I bet Simon would appreciate getting to see it!"
"Because... it would be incredibly patronizing to act like that over lunch!"
Powell shrugged.
"Molloy, get your head off that desk; it's getting to be downright unseemly of you," she suggested.
{... Simon de-headdesk; Powell wonders why he isn't even angry -- something to develop with regards to Simon ...}
"You're not answering my question about what you did so that everyone can see me."
"Oh, that? That's simple. Because you work under me, I am responsible for your workplace performance and give visible account of those duties that I am aware of performing to my superiors and co-workers. So, if I know you're there, so do they."
"That doesn't make the least lick of sense! Just what..."
{Forbis glances at Simon, seems reluctant to talk in front of him}
"... what did you do that you can see me in the first place??"
"Honestly, do you really want to know from me? Particularly, since this is supposed to be a battle of wits where the spy and the defender of the secret both enact their strategy without giving it away to the other person, do you think it's normal for me to have to spoonfeed you everything?"
"Asking could be a perfectly valid strategy, if only it worked!" Forbis sighed. "It's not like your office is my favourite place in the world to be, Fla Powell. But if I don't do this, my clan will..."
"Alright, alright, whatever sob story you're about to tell me for the umpteenth time, drop it! I'm going to go to the extreme generosity of giving you a hint about what I did. Namely, I didn't do anything. And as for the way I choose to look at your presence here, that's entirely my prerogative. Yeesh, probably even Molloy could figure it out by now."
"Wait, what could I figure out?" I asked.
"Oh, here's a practical conundrum for you. Mu Forbis here is what they commonly call a Christmas Elf. To simplify the issue grossly, she eats work; to that end, she needs to find work, which... well, you know how the economy is these days in particular, when there might not even be a job to do, but the general principle has always been valid as well, not every employer might want an unexpected new employee popping up in their midst without so much as a chance to verify their trustworthiness. So, as a protective mechanism that these elves have against being kicked out by meddlesome people with their own ideas about who is and isn't suitable for employment, they are able to avoid detection entirely."
"... I don't get it."
"So, ordinarily, if, say, you were the CEO of some two-bit, dying corporation, Forbis could walk into your office, ask you how you like your coffee, water your plants, ask you how things have been going lately, listen to your complaints about all the things you have to keep hiding from the shareholders, go in and reorganize your highly classified private documents so things are easier to find, and even while she does all that, you wouldn't... even... notice!" Powell explained, restraining a crafty smile.
This beggared the imagination. How exactly could one get drawn into some prolonged and intelligent conversation about company secrets with a diminuitive pointy-eared stranger and not even notice?
"It's true." Forbis confirmed, with a serious look on her face.
{Simon still skeptical of how that idea even makes sense}
"Hm! Do you seriously not believe me?" she asked tensely. "Well, how about what I told you earlier? Did you get your work backed up in time for Powell's little circus?"
I choked. The elf's face suddenly resolved itself into the unspecified co-worker from earlier today. Funny, at the time I'd been under the impression I was talking to... to...
Huh. Who did I think I'd been talking to, anyways?
"Ah," Powell said, "had a feeling you'd be there to watch the show, Forbis. So, what do you think about my warning that you were losing out by not building a trusting relationship?"
"It's none of my business what you do to third parties because I didn't give you what you want on a silver plate," Forbis stated haughtily.
"Hold on," I found myself starting to think out loud, which was unfamiliar territory (the genie was smiling at me in a way that was both encouraging and off-putting), "I read about something like this... in a book by Oliver Sacks... where people can't recognize faces, or can't form coherent language or long term memories or whatever... or they can't tell the difference between people they know and strangers; so, you can induce aphasia... or was it akrasia..."
"Aphasia," Powell corrected me mildly.
"... anyhow, you can do that kind of thing to people. But only to the extent that you need to get into the job, I guess?"
Forbis frowned.
"I mean," I added, "I remember that I was talking to someone, because you did't need to hide any more than your identity to stop me from being suspicious. It was a conversation that I could easily have with any co-worker. But Powell gave the example where, on the one hand, you'd need to erase much more than that to talk to the corrupt CEO. So... on the other hand Powell knows you're there because..."
"Exactly." Powell cut me off joyfully, leaving a very confused elf looking from one of us to the other.
"... the hell?!" Forbis finally managed.
"Anyhow, as for more important matters," Powell pressed onward in a tone that permitted no interruption, "{...}"
(Missing scene -- explanation of the whole 'Fla Powell' thing. 'Fla' is just a term of address like 'Miss'.)
Anyhow, that's basically enough to introduce the character at this point. (She really only has three more appearances in this fic, two of them minor and one of them linked to the ending.) Most of my block with writing these scenes was due to a lack of appreciation of the fact that there wasn't that much I *could* introduce of the character at this stage when she's still completely out of her element in terms of dealing with Powell.
I might cut down on Forbis' presence in this story if it's too much of a distraction from the main plot, we'll see.
Note: The restaurant scene has as good a summary as any of what Christmas elves are. Since the complicated history of the species is a different matter outside the scope of this story, I don't think I need to bother with a separate post explaining those details, at this point.
Edit: in terms of feedback, I'm a bit anxious about how Powell's harsh treatment of her is coming across at this point.
A reference to The Voyage Home? That was unexpected.
I think it's appropriate that Powell is keeping Forbis out of her element and anxious, for Forbis's presence there can threaten Powell and her plans. The next best thing to neutralizing a potential enemy is to keep them off-balance.
Beyond that, though, if Forbis is mostly in the background for this story (and will largely only come up in future tales), it strikes me that her nature need not even be explained here. You could, in principle, only reveal that she's an elf and that she's uneasy being directly interated with, but the rest can stay a mystery until she comes into focus and the plot directly requires that her background be understood.
That's only a possibility, though, and having more background in an introductory tale can be useful to flesh out the setting. It's really up to you.
The Ghost and the Confidence ArtistThis was in some ways the hardest scene to write so far, and I'm not sure how well it works. But it's pretty important to introducing the character of the ghost (more on whom later).
"Magic," the man with the impressive-looking briefcase was saying, "is no great deal. It is merely, as my old mentor liked to say, the incomprehensible principles that govern reality made visible."
In the seat across from him, the gray old man was politely skeptical. He had boarded the (**F**) train at Herald Square and immediately found himself besieged by innocuous-seeming conversation. The contrast between the two men did not bode well for any agreement between them.
The gray old man was dressed in a thick, coarse, but well-laundered suit, his eyes shaded by a wide-brimmed felt hat. He studied a handsome coppery tortoiseshell notebook, as through searching for some profound meaning underneath the nonsense scribbled within its pages. All in all, he must have looked like a stern, old-time preacher studying an obscure religious tract in preparation for his next sermon.
(You often talk about the prevalence of various racial, gender, and other prejudices in modern society. Well, on a subway train in New York at least, these sorts of off-the-cuff stratifications absolutely pale next to the question of dress. This is so self-evident to me that I am having a difficult time just putting it into words.
It helps that now is not the New York of _Bonfire of the Vanities_, where even a meager assistant DA was tempted to disguise his social status with natty secondhand sneakers when riding the subway to avoid unpleasantness. People with sneakers and dress shoes may be seen to intermingle quite freely within the narrow metal tube, and to go their separate ways outside it. And at no time in history might you expect to see a gang-banger go about on the streets dressed like a banker, nor vice-versa.
What I'm trying to highlight here is, the old man's suit was clean, and crisp, and probably attractive and signifying of great intelligence to the layperson, but to the financial eye it merely suggested an uninitiated simpleton. Though, given the man's actions later on, I am certain he persisted in wearing this style of clothing as a deliberate provocation.)
Across from him, the (relatively speaking, since to me he would be pretty old) young punk with high-minded words about magic was wearing the kind of suit that practising financial magicians seem to favour for whatever reason — probably due to the aforementioned stratifications of dress sense. It had a pocket square, of course, greatly useful to various minor actions involving sleight-of-hand, and a bunch of those stripes that are not quite green, not quite gold, and not quite brown. Vertical stripes, to be exact — in an attempt to seem a bit taller and more imposing, most likely, at the cost of a somewhat seedy second impression. I never saw who the man actually was, but I have my suspicions, so I will take the partly artistic liberty of assuming he was one and the same with a certain college acquaintance of Powell's. Said acquaintance happened to be a self-proclaimed, but not very skilled magician and 'confidence artist' suffering from a ludicrous curse that confined him to the island of Manhattan.
He had two undeniable assets on his side. First was a bloodyminded persistence in acquiring resources to fix his plight — if you were trapped on Manhattan for ten years, you would be desperate to get out as well — and, of course, he had the hefty leather briefcase, a truly infallible and imposing object with brass fastenings, which served to compensate for the man's lack of authority and common sense. He began by rustling impatiently through a pile of papers, as though clearing his throat, then placing them into the briefcase, and fastening it into undeniable security with an audible **clunk** that rose above the miscellaneous noise of the train and galvanised the attention of half the subway car in the manner of a judge's gavel. The other half (sadly, myself included) had headphones on.
"This economy is going to pot," the magician proceeded to state, clearly and to no one in particular.
This was a notion that young and old, rich and poor could agree on, unless of course there was good money to be had in claiming otherwise.
"I **told** him not to go hog wild with the shorting, but he didn't bother," the magician proceeded to seethe, absolutely ignoring the fact that few people would be interested in what he had to say, "and now the market correction hits at the wrong time, which isn't but a pale shadow of how crazy things are going to get as elections season gets under way, if he doesn't listen to me! If he does, can't see what I'll tell him beyond what I already keep repeating, that of course he was gambling, gambling is fine and you can't get anywhere without it, but if you want to gamble profitably you have to shift the odds a little, have your own information that sets you apart from the unwashed rubes, get inside the problem, so to speak. If he insists on putting that mechanism beyond his reach, I'll just have to go and look for...."
The old man was annoyed to find that, somehow or other, he could not tune out the rambling words that were logically directed at no one and had no reason to be uttered in a public place; nor could he ignore their import, which wasn't particularly heavy in any case. He could only agree or disagree.
"You shouldn't have bothered either way," he announced, suddenly and simply.
This was a suitable lead to seize on.
"Well, why do you say that?" the magician asked, leaning across the aisle conspiratorially. "Life's all a gamble of one kind or another, isn't it?"
"I used to place great stock in the vagaries of the market myself, once upon a time," the old man said significantly, "the crash, however, cured me of that vanity permanently."
"What do you mean? Understood properly, it's just as much an opportunity as it is..." the magician trailed off, clearly expecting an answer already.
"There are always aspects of the matter which require close personal attention at inopportune moments. I will not divulge my private affairs, but the demands of being responsible for a large collection of assets... in short, certain basic priorities are absolutely required at the very bottom of one's being, and it is a thing that I did not take into account...."
The magician nodded sagely, this being far more of a confession than he would reasonably have expected from his potential mark. Usually his routine was to slip the unsuspecting victim a pamphlet detailing the ostensible services he might provide, and such openness would only be seen at Stage Two, or perhaps even Stage Three of the overall plan.
"... in any case," the old man continued, "what happened was that I was delayed in the morning by an unexpected impulse of... charity..."
He paused, seeming to push back a sudden shame that he would say such a thing.
"... or at least it seemed to be that way at the time. Regardless, the delay was quite real, and happened at the worst possible moment. I arrived, only to find that the person I had my affairs delegated to... handled the situation less than competently. Although I doubt I would have done better, it was a shock that the thing had been over and done with in my absence. A large personal portfolio, very near to the entirety of my assets, something I was quite proud of, in fact, reduced to little better than worthless paper in a matter of hours."
"Well," the magician agreed, "there is something to always being present to handle the situation yourself... if you are indeed a personal investor, you have ultimate responsibility. And there are, in fact, some highly advanced techniques I've learned to ensure what's effectively a constant personal hand on the rudder during trading hours..."
"I would imagine!" the old man laughed mirthlessly. "But I won't say my experience didn't teach me a lesson, one that might be more important than my earthly treasures. You see, your stock market, and your entire city that serves it, is becoming an engine for the destruction of human absolutes."
"Well, I don't see how your experience leads to saying _quite_ that...."
"I am speaking of such things as charity, or knowledge of how things are done in their proper time, or perhaps even vices such as greed which can topple or redeem a man at the strangest moments — at least as these things were understood by the fathers. Divorced from their usual consequences, both the virtues and vices are made impossible, or at least no longer serve their proper role in the grand pattern; and something completely different and certainly not better emerges. I am convinced that the more and more this goes on, the less and less there is to see when I look out on the world. No, I am opting out of that particular game for eternity."
Oddly enough, the magician found himself almost understanding this strange bit of demagoguery, and was seized by a sudden desire to shake the man's hand warmly. He settled for saying the following:
"Well, that's a great impulse! Excellent! Only, you see, you're just declaring that you've been licked by your great absolute-stealing engine of doom. See, I would say there was room here for some self-determination. You don't turn away from the game; people never accomplish anything that way, you know. I see it all the time. What's better by far is when you turn back and you tell that system that it hasn't seen nothing yet, that you're going to hit it with all you've got and you're going to win — on your own terms! Without sacrificing your priorities! That's the stuff dreams are built on, and if you doubt that it's possible," for he could note the old man's growing skeptical expression, "then you doubt the prowess of the great men that built this country, down almost to the last one of them!"
"Hmm...."
"You see, those advanced techniques I was talking about earlier, they don't consist in counting your money 48 hours a day like some modern-day Ebenezer Scrooge. It's a matter of getting inside the problem, rather. An enhanced understanding of things, some application of the sovereign will in the right places. The sorts of things that lead a man to be in the right place, at the right time, doing the right thing, something that any observer would tell you could not be arranged in advance. But he would be wrong. There's a mechanism behind it, but not something I can describe. It would be quite accurate, in fact, if I were to call it _magic_."
The old man made an irritated sound which the magician mistook to mean disbelief.
So the magician gave his above-mentioned spiel, repeating his mentor's words about it being a way to make the intangible principles behind all things act as directly manipulatable, tangible realities, or somesuch.
The old man then took out a fountain-pen, marked a page of his notebook with a deliberate mark, and snapped it shut.
"Magic." he then bristled, "I speak of living in accordance to eternal principles, and you talk to me about finding yet another way to circumvent them... with magic?"
"No, you do not understand," the magician maintained, "you have to stop thinking of it as a thing that will take over and consume the better things in your life, as conventional attempts at competent stock trading indeed do in the end. I, personally, maintain a sizeable and volatile bunch of assets, and yet I am quite at leisure the whole time to attend to whichever unrelated matters I will. You simply have to, somewhat similar to how you put it, remain willing to do each thing in its due time."
"Sir, I do not care if you use physics in your stock trading — or statistical forecasts — or high speed news bulletins — or _magic_, or whatever the latest accursed fad might be. So long as your purpose remains the same, it is a world that has become dead to me."
"Well," said the magician, with perhaps a slight mockery in his eyes, "I am sure either way you regret the loss that has befallen you. But if there was a way to at least get back the assets you have lost, you would at least consider doing so before going off and following whatever path seems like a better option to your old life?"
He stood up and held out a pamphlet.
The old man stood up as well and seemed to regard the magician seriously for the first time.
"Indeed. If there was a way to recover what I have lost, I might settle for that. But you do not have anything to offer, not anywhere near to the thing I want, now do you?"
He spoke in a low voice, mostly to himself.
"Take the pamphlet," the magician insisted. He tried to inject into his smile the knowing, enigmatic look of someone who really has a magic secret and the heart to bestow it on a stranger, the kind of look that is seen at the beginning of a fairy-tale with a happy ending, but for all his practice with a mirror it still didn't manage to turn out _quite_ right.
The old man eyed the pamphlet. Small, ornate capitals near the top seemed to read "THE MAGUS OF MANHATTAN — SOME REGRETS FIXED — ALL INVESTIGATED...."
"You cannot be serious," he said, "how exactly do you go about doing this?"
"I'm just asking you to consider the possibility; but, in your case, let's say I would look at the anatomy of your past mistake; then, and please read the pamphlet with an open mind before you dismiss the notion, I can find a way to _send you back_ to repair the damage, so to speak, though that's only a metaphor because what will change is not reality, you see, but your understanding and your relationship to it. And that will enable you to...."
"... engage in more of these damnable machinations," the old man exploded, "no, it is too late for that, no!"
"Why so hostile, huh? Not going to consider a stranger's friendly advice?"
For these words, spoken (to be honest) somewhat rashly and vehemently, the magician found himself being seized roughly by the front of his jacket. The old man was so moved by anger, in fact, that the notebook he was holding dropped to the floor.
"People like you," the old man hissed, "are the reason why..."
He did not finish. As the train crossed underneath the East River, both of them suddenly vanished into thin air. This occurrence, strangely enough, did not draw much remark from the other passengers; only a couple of people who had been standing earlier moved in to fill the empty space on the bench.
Apologies for the raw Markdown formatting and — nonsense.
Note: this is the only appearance in this story of the 'confidence artist' character, so there's not much to explain about the guy. I'll let his behaviour in the scene speak for itself (or fail to do so, I don't know).
Quote from: Arakawa Seijio on November 17, 2012, 10:09:35 PM
The Ghost and the Confidence Artist
Did you post something similar a few months back?
Having been on the NY subway a few times, my immediate reaction is that they're far too chatty for the subway. Almost any chatter between strangers on the subway is pretty much too chatty(unless, say, the person who is talking has dementia or somesuch). Although, since you're writing about an Alternate Universe, I suppose the character of the New York subway can be explained as anything you like.
Quote from: Jason_Miao on November 17, 2012, 11:06:33 PM
Did you post something similar a few months back?
Indeed, I posted the first part of this scene, which was just the description of the two characters.
Quote from: Jason_Miao on November 17, 2012, 11:06:33 PM
Having been on the NY subway a few times, my immediate reaction is that they're far too chatty for the subway. Almost any chatter between strangers on the subway is pretty much too chatty(unless, say, the person who is talking has dementia or somesuch). Although, since you're writing about an Alternate Universe, I suppose the character of the New York subway can be explained as anything you like.
Yup, subways are not very chatty places, not just in New York.
The magician uses a school of magic called mesmerism, which doesn't change the substance of a situation, but rather people's perception of it in terms of what they pay attention to and how they relate to what's happening. (This is more or less a souped-up version of the misdirection that is essential to real-world stage magic.) In this case, the perception being forced on the old man is that he is a participant in an ongoing conversation.
Powell uses mesmerism as well later on, to demonstrate a particular point (why the existence of magic is not a widely known phenomenon). That is probably not enough to get the idea, though. I might have to play the effects of it up in this scene to make it more obvious that something unnatural is happening.
The problem with magic in this universe is that, apart from the stuff that's
explicitly designed to look flashy and not much else, many of the effects are kind of difficult to notice.
It is good to see the ghost's disdain for what the city has become be made more concrete. I do agree with Jason, though, that it's somewhat difficult to catch how the magician convinces the ghost to engage him conversation. It rightly comes across as sudden and unjustified just based on the text of what is said. Perhaps Simon should speculate that striking up this conversation itself is part of the magician's manipulations? I'm not sure.
All right, here's an attempt at the same scene, factored out as a prologue. I'll have to look at it again in a while; for now it feels kind of unwieldy relative to the narrative purpose that it accomplishes. I wonder which specific parts need attention, or if the whole scene needs to be rethought or killed.
(For comparison, my guess would be
the transition from 'kind of grudgingly opening up to talk' to 'telling his sorrow' for the ghost, and then the ghost's basic dislike of magicians
both need to be made clearer. Possibly a rewrite would have to
take the standard fairy tale trope of 'mysterious magic salesman in incongruous location', establish that, then derail it by having the ghost scold him out as a conman
. That might be worth the attempt. I wonder how many words I can get this scene down to, minimum >_>)
Update: mere minutes after posting that, I get an idea for a new thing to try. So, this version of the scene is probably only useful for recording purposes.
First chapter is gradually coming along, though one particular scene is turning out weird, due to being on a tricky topic:
The run-down convenience store that the old man chose to visit was one of about a zillion such places in New York, or so I reckon, located in an area that was generally glossed over as 'a bad part of town'. Its paltry charms were further lessened by the fact that the clerk behind the counter was in a monstrously foul mood, and with good reason.
To say that Rosa Hernández was not having a good day would be a heavy understatement.
To start things off, her former boyfriend had been found to behave in a manner in a manner so unforgivable that the affair was broken off by means of a kitchen-utensil-throwing quarrel in which both parties had screamed at each other to high heaven. But really, Rosa was not particularly beautiful, and her boyfriend had not been particularly clever, and as each had always kept that foremost in mind, their travesty of a relationship had become thinly-veiled mutual resentment at not being able to find a better mate.
Far worse than that, Rosa had an older brother. **Had**. Because said brother had his own long-runing affair, with a certain drug, and believed the world to be conspiring to deprive him of it, most notably in the person of a certain drug dealer, low on the totem pole of the business, who tantalized and teased him with the forbidden lotus and yet demanded money for it in unattainable quantities. Driven to his limits, the brother stabbed his tormentor with a knife, though half-heartedly, before running away. The dealer, seized by "righteous fury" or whatever it was drug dealers felt in such situations, took barely enough time to bandage the wound; then he'd obtained a gun and pursued the brother, using the instrument to put a bullet into the brother's vital internal organs.
In short, stone dead was the brother, and before several generations came and went his name would be forever buried under the sands of time. As well might Rosa's be, even if her final end would hopefully not be so... trivial? ignoble?
Stupid, Rosa decided.
And part of the reason for the grief might very well have been that Rosa considered herself above such things as her brother's addiction, so that neither did she share his vices, nor had she raised a finger to eradicate them from him.
Added to that, standing behind the counter in the convenience store was cramped, vulnerable, low-paying, and did absolutely zilch in the way of consolation for recent events. Still she did it, because she just did not believe the elder Mr. Hernández to be capable of his job at the moment, drunk daily as he was these past few days, and perhaps not long for the world himself either.
She blew off any human contact with the customers by staring pointedly into a book that she pretended to herself she was reading. In reality, the pages had not been turned for almost an hour now as her gaze drifted unfocused among the same few sentences.
The old man gave her a long appraising look, then stared more perfunctorily at the selection of twenty-first century chips and candy bars. His face took on a confused look, as though attempting to evaluate the nutritional properties of a feast intended for space aliens.
His hand reached out towards a candy bar, then hesitated.
He thought some more.
He finally picked a bag of chips and proceeded to go through the motions of buying it.
"What is your name?" he asked Rosa, his tone seeming wistful, all of a sudden.
"Rosa," said the clerk grumpily, still staring into her book. She hardly even seemed to notice her side of the exchange.
"Rose. That is a beautiful name. I wanted to ask you something, Rose. Those movies for rent behind you – do you watch many of them, I wonder?"
Indeed, behind 'Rose' was a shelf of rental movies. The old man saw kung fu movies, old Disney movies, movies by Spike Lee, and that was only the beginning of a whole alphabetical jumble of strong sensations that Rose may or may not have watched.
"I don't know," Rosa announced, voice pent-up with unrelated emotion. "You going to rent one or buy something more? I haven't got all day."
The shop's customers at this hour were conspicuous by their absence.
The old man leaned his elbows on the counter and lowered his head to Rosa's eye level, continuing to gaze at her with undisguised interest, as though he'd found a particularly rare antique.
There were certainly interesting things to know about the young clerk.
A few years earlier, Mr. Hernández had decided to adopt two recently orphaned children under the sole stipulation that they, in turn, adopt his last name. Evidently, some strange and unexplainable desire for posterity had arisen in him.
On the one hand, there was his offer. On the other hand, there was the offer of the social worker sitting in her office, a shrill person in every sense of the word. Something in her seemed to promise endless bureaucratic complications, that once let into life, she and the things she represented could never be got out of it. Moreover, her explanations of the fostering system were absolutely incomprehensible.
Mr. Hernández's explanation of _his_ fostering system was simple: obey, and you will be protected.
The comparison of the two explanations ended in the social worker, frustrated out of the skull, shouting down Mr. Hernández in the middle of a crowded and tired waiting room, futilely attempting to explain that adoption laws did not work that way, there were procedures! And Mr. Hernández would certainly not be eligible for them! And so forth! All to no avail. She wound up involuntarily concluding to herself that yes, the worst of it _was_ true, in spite of all she'd been taught, there were people whose intellectual capacity was simply unsuited to the modern world. Emotionally, a part of her died that day due to the experience.
Of course, this new absurd opinion she had was nearly as much a distortion of reality as the absurd opinion she'd held before.
Mr. Hernández merely nodded at the tirade with absolute meek indifference, eventually silencing the worker. That was his way. He had no greater vice than alcohol, and in those days even alcohol could not manage to eclipse all his life and prevent him from keeping a promise once made.
So he simply walked out of the waiting room without a further word, and the two children unexpectedly followed him. In short, they wound up choosing the simple offer.
Needless to say, suitable representatives of government authority showed up soon afterwards, intending to extract Rosa and her brother from the small apartment directly above the convenience store; but Mr. Hernández stood on the stairs and simply looked at them with mild interest, not even bothering to seem worried or angry. There was something in him far, far more ancient than the bureaucrat and policemen below; who knew whether it came from some long-forgotten lineage of grim Mesoamerican priests, who felt it their prerogative to ritually slay any and all given into their charge, a strange and horrible sacrifice they thought was for the greater good of all, to placate the ravening gods of the abyss; or, worse, whether it came from some philandering conquistador, invincible and implacable, utterly convinced that he could do whatever atrocity was right in his own eyes?
Neither was a thing they had prepared themselves to encounter, just suddenly there, in a bad part of town where the men are in general far more depressingly simple and ordinary than in the good parts.
They felt somehow utterly ridiculous to have the eyes staring at them with their strange look of utter indifferent refusal, not even dignifying their demands with a single word of response; their thoughts became mixed; they left, and did not come back.
The children's file somehow became fortuitously misplaced (it is probable that not even God cares to inquire in any detail how these bureaucracies are really organized), then subsequent social workers took up their cause with resignation and not zeal, as a situation already settled, and then inquiries regarding the status of the children from all manner of authorities mysteriously vanished and did not connect to any enforcement mechanism.
The formation of the Hernández household, in short, was probably the only genuine honest-to-goodness miracle that happened in New York all that year.
Those were unreasonably happy days for the children, given that they were just recently orphaned. Mr. Hernández made absolutely sure that they received a reasonable education, in spite of the local public school's best efforts to ensure otherwise; he did not force them to do many chores, and never spoke so much as a stern word. Even when drinking heavily he did not rise to any vigor or violence, simply sat at the kitchen table motionlessly and stared into space. To anything the children asked at those times, he would respond only absent-mindedly.
Still, the same dimly remembered _something_ in him that had cowed even policemen and bureaucrats with the power of the law behind them, effortlessly made both Rosa and her brother anxious to never find out how far he might be pushed, and for the first few years they never disobeyed him on the smallest point, even behind his back. How was it, that to receive one disapproving look from him was worse than a lifetime in purgatory?
Of course, then the alcohol ate and ate away at him, and he ceased to be a source of magnificent fear, and his birthright of authority guttered out, he ignored the brother's transgressions with absolute indifference, the children became teenagers, grew bold and got out of hand for a time, the whole adoptive family had deteriorated and deteriorated, into the present abominable situation, and Rosa had, for the last few months before her brother's death, searched all around for even half-decent people who could help. The boyfriend had been a part of that search, but his terrible character was the rule and not the exception: she looked around and could not see even fifty righteous, or forty and five, but everywhere they were at best hardly better than pigs, often immediate enemies, most of them merely the indifferent; most insultingly, those whose very job it was to help her, were often the very worst in practice, that was one thing that had never changed. She looked but could not even see forty worthy souls, thirty, twenty righteous, in the end she would have been glad even for ten around her who, at a first glance, were not immediately disqualified as the sort of people who could help her family even an iota. What she would not do for even ten's sake, with no destructive good intentions regarding illegally adopted minors....
Moved by some spontaneous impulse, Rosa swore loudly, the entire ordeal of her life so far summarized in a single four-letter word.
"Ah," said the old man, as though that was the answer to his earlier question.
He turned around wordlessly and swept from the store. On the counter, in place of payment in legal tender, was a small notebook in handsome green tortoiseshell binding.
For this one, I'd just appreciate a sanity check to see if it contains glaring problems of political correctness, or suspension of disbelief.
EDIT: went through and replaces á with actual accents
My biggest impression is that this prose is very, very purple. I'm not sure if that's being done for deliberate effect or what.
QuoteTo start things off, her former boyfriend had been found to behave in a manner in a manner so unforgivable that the affair was broken off by means of a kitchen-utensil-throwing quarrel in which both parties had screamed at each other to high heaven.
"Screamed at each other to high heaven" comes off a little odd. That phrase usually directly follows a verb, most commonly something "stinks to high heaven." I'd probably just switch it out for "both parties screamed themselves hoarse" or some other way of describing it.
QuoteBut really, Rosa was not particularly beautiful, and her boyfriend had not been particularly clever, and as each had always kept that foremost in mind, their travesty of a relationship had become thinly-veiled mutual resentment at not being able to find a better mate.
I'd swap out "a better mate" for "anyone better" to tone down the aforementioned purpleness.
QuoteBecause said brother had his own long-runing affair, with a certain drug, and believed the world to be conspiring to deprive him of it, most notably in the person of a certain drug dealer, low on the totem pole of the business, who tantalized and teased him with the forbidden lotus and yet demanded money for it in unattainable quantities.
Very purple, and it sort of runs on. I'd split this up into two sentences. The taunting and teasing seems like a weird thing for a drug dealer to do; if it's just the brother's perception that could be clarified a bit.
QuoteDriven to his limits, the brother stabbed his tormentor with a knife, though half-heartedly, before running away. The dealer, seized by "righteous fury" or whatever it was drug dealers felt in such situations, took barely enough time to bandage the wound; then he'd obtained a gun and pursued the brother, using the instrument to put a bullet into the brother's vital internal organs.
A drug dealer who is armed would have his weapon on his person, and if someone stabbed him he'd probably try to kill the guy before doing even rudimentary first aid. "Internal" is superfluous and the phrasing is, again, purple.
QuoteThe comparison of the two explanations ended in the social worker, frustrated out of the skull
Could be "their" skull, or his skull, or her skull.
QuoteAnd Mr. Hernández would certainly not be eligible for them! And so forth! All to no avail.
Orphaned minors without relatives go into the custody of the state. If this guy ended up with these kids, he'd likely be charged with kidnapping. Rather than social workers knocking on his door, it would probably be police officers with guns handy.
QuoteThey felt somehow utterly ridiculous to have the eyes staring at them with their strange look of utter indifferent refusal, not even dignifying their demands with a single word of response; their thoughts became mixed; they left, and did not come back.
It would probably need to be blatant magic to get them to leave. If the story before this point hasn't explained that that's what is going on, this turn of events doesn't seem plausible.
QuoteFar worse than that, Rosa had an older brother. **Had**. Because said brother had his own long-runing affair, with a certain drug, and believed the world to be conspiring to deprive him of it, most notably in the person of a certain drug dealer, low on the totem pole of the business, who tantalized and teased him with the forbidden lotus and yet demanded money for it in unattainable quantities. Driven to his limits, the brother stabbed his tormentor with a knife, though half-heartedly, before running away. The dealer, seized by "righteous fury" or whatever it was drug dealers felt in such situations, took barely enough time to bandage the wound; then he'd obtained a gun and pursued the brother, using the instrument to put a bullet into the brother's vital internal organs.
Long-running.
QuoteIn short, stone dead was the brother, and before several generations came and went his name would be forever buried under the sands of time. As well might Rosa's be, even if her final end would hopefully not be so... trivial? ignoble?
It took me a double take to make sure I understood the structure of this sentence. "As well might Rosa's (name) be (buried under the sands of time)" is the meaning I get from this. Not sure if this needs restructuring to be less opaque. Might've just been me.
Quote"What is your name?" he asked Rosa, his tone seeming wistful, all of a sudden.
"Rosa," said the clerk grumpily, still staring into her book. She hardly even seemed to notice her side of the exchange.
Not sure how you feel about repeating Rosa so close to each other.
QuoteThe comparison of the two explanations ended in the social worker, frustrated out of the skull, shouting down Mr. Hernández in the middle of a crowded and tired waiting room, futilely attempting to explain that adoption laws did not work that way, there were procedures! And Mr. Hernández would certainly not be eligible for them! And so forth! All to no avail. She wound up involuntarily concluding to herself that yes, the worst of it _was_ true, in spite of all she'd been taught, there were people whose intellectual capacity was simply unsuited to the modern world. Emotionally, a part of her died that day due to the experience.
She being the social worker?
QuoteThey felt somehow utterly ridiculous to have the eyes staring at them with their strange look of utter indifferent refusal, not even dignifying their demands with a single word of response; their thoughts became mixed; they left, and did not come back.
Short of magic, this seems really quite strange, that even the government would just "give up" trying to get the kids from him. Or maybe given the story, we're more likely to look for magical explanations for things that would otherwise be mundane.
QuoteOf course, then the alcohol ate and ate away at him, and he ceased to be a source of magnificent fear, and his birthright of authority guttered out, he ignored the brother's transgressions with absolute indifference, the children became teenagers, grew bold and got out of hand for a time, the whole adoptive family had deteriorated and deteriorated, into the present abominable situation, and Rosa had, for the last few months before her brother's death, searched all around for even half-decent people who could help. The boyfriend had been a part of that search, but his terrible character was the rule and not the exception: she looked around and could not see even fifty righteous, or forty and five, but everywhere they were at best hardly better than pigs, often immediate enemies, most of them merely the indifferent; most insultingly, those whose very job it was to help her, were often the very worst in practice, that was one thing that had never changed. She looked but could not even see forty worthy souls, thirty, twenty righteous, in the end she would have been glad even for ten around her who, at a first glance, were not immediately disqualified as the sort of people who could help her family even an iota. What she would not do for even ten's sake, with no destructive good intentions regarding illegally adopted minors....
This first sentence seems like a mess of commas not necessarily placed in a grammatical way.
QuoteMoved by some spontaneous impulse, Rosa swore loudly, the entire ordeal of her life so far summarized in a single four-letter word.
"Ah," said the old man, as though that was the answer to his earlier question.
Which question? He asks about her name, if she's watched any of the movies. A swear word answer doesn't seem to make sense for any of those.
This was a rough scene, all told; so if I don't comment on a suggestion, that means I'm using it.
Quote from: Empyrean on February 07, 2013, 11:35:51 PM
My biggest impression is that this prose is very, very purple. I'm not sure if that's being done for deliberate effect or what.
I'll assume, then, that the problems pointed out below are just representative examples, and that there's plenty of stuff that could be fixed besides the things you draw my attention to. (I rewrite a couple paragraphs below in response to Muphrid, so that should give an idea of how I'll be proceeding.)
Quote from: Empyrean on February 07, 2013, 11:35:51 PM
I'd swap out "a better mate" for "anyone better" to tone down the aforementioned purpleness.
This phrasing I'd kind of like to keep; hopefully (?) it will work better if I tone down the purple phrasings
elsewhere that don't add anything.
Quote from: Empyrean on February 07, 2013, 11:35:51 PM
It would probably need to be blatant magic to get them to leave. If the story before this point hasn't explained that that's what is going on, this turn of events doesn't seem plausible.
and
Quote from: Muphrid on February 08, 2013, 12:20:08 AM
Short of magic, this seems really quite strange, that even the government would just "give up" trying to get the kids from him. Or maybe given the story, we're more likely to look for magical explanations for things that would otherwise be mundane.
After much IRC discussion and a timely comment from eternaleye, I've decided to lampshade this explicitly as a work of thaumaturgy (a capacity to work miracles entirely distinct from magic, commonly attributed to saints, and only poorly understood). This would be done by having thaumaturgy come up in conversation earlier, with suitable explanations, and changing the lampshade as follows:
Quote
The formation of the Hernández household, in short, was probably the only genuine honest-to-goodness thaumaturgical miracle that happened in New York all that year. And with the way such things work, it made sense that hardly anyone knew about it afterwards.
Then, it occurs to me, in the rest of the scene, I should make it more clear Rosa's efforts to find someone who she can bring in to keep the family from collapsing are made more difficult by the fact that they are in a bureaucratically impossible and illegal state; so it turns out to be a very double-edged miracle in some sense.
Quote from: Muphrid on February 08, 2013, 12:20:08 AM
QuoteIn short, stone dead was the brother, and before several generations came and went his name would be forever buried under the sands of time. As well might Rosa's be, even if her final end would hopefully not be so... trivial? ignoble?
It took me a double take to make sure I understood the structure of this sentence. "As well might Rosa's (name) be (buried under the sands of time)" is the meaning I get from this. Not sure if this needs restructuring to be less opaque. Might've just been me.
So, just to see if I'm on the right track with the revised style, I'd rewrite this as:
Quote
In short, the brother was stone dead. In a few generations, no one would even remember his name existed; though, of course, the same thing might well happen to Rosa. No matter what she did, she'd eventually be forgotten, just like her brother, even if the end of her own life would hopefully not be so... trivial? ignoble?
Stupid, Rosa decided.
Quote from: Muphrid on February 08, 2013, 12:20:08 AM
Not sure how you feel about repeating Rosa so close to each other.
You're right, this is suboptimal.
Quote from: Muphrid on February 08, 2013, 12:20:08 AM
QuoteThe comparison of the two explanations ended in the social worker, frustrated out of the skull, shouting down Mr. Hernández in the middle of a crowded and tired waiting room, futilely attempting to explain that adoption laws did not work that way, there were procedures! And Mr. Hernández would certainly not be eligible for them! And so forth! All to no avail. She wound up involuntarily concluding to herself that yes, the worst of it _was_ true, in spite of all she'd been taught, there were people whose intellectual capacity was simply unsuited to the modern world. Emotionally, a part of her died that day due to the experience.
She being the social worker?
Yeah. Probably looks a bit cliched to say that, at least looking at this after a good night's sleep. Again, trying to rewrite:
Quote
The children saw what amounted to a hands-on comparison of the two explanations when the social worker, frustrated out of her skull, shouted down Mr. Hernández in the middle of a crowded waiting room. She tried to explain that adoption laws did not work that way, there were procedures! And Mr. Hernández would certainly not be eligible for them! And so forth! -- All to no avail. Inwardly, the social worker wound up involuntarily agreeing with those who insisted on seeing things in the very worst possible light: that in spite of what she'd been taught, there were people out there whose intellectual capacity was simply unsuited to modern society. Of course, this new opinion of hers was just as exaggerated as her previous hazy ideals of humanity had been.
Quote from: Muphrid on February 08, 2013, 12:20:08 AM
QuoteMoved by some spontaneous impulse, Rosa swore loudly, the entire ordeal of her life so far summarized in a single four-letter word.
"Ah," said the old man, as though that was the answer to his earlier question.
Which question? He asks about her name, if she's watched any of the movies. A swear word answer doesn't seem to make sense for any of those.
So, it would probably be better to say:
Quote
"Ah," said the old man, as though that had just answered all the questions he could have cared to ask.
The point is that the ghost has some ability to penetrate into people's minds, and under the cover of his innocuous questions he was just learning all of Rosa's backstory in the scene. I probably don't want to say this in so many words; it should be more obvious what he's doing in the context of a different scene earlier in the chapter where he does the same thing to Simon.
Hopefully I'll be able to post the revised scene as part of the full first chapter.
The prose in this piece has always trended a bit purple, in part (I had thought) to highlight the discrepancy between Simon's inward eloquence and his outward awkwardness. So, I guess my question would be whether it's too purple for the effect to matter, or if there were some other intention behind it?
Quote from: Muphrid on February 08, 2013, 12:41:09 PM
The prose in this piece has always trended a bit purple, in part (I had thought) to highlight the discrepancy between Simon's inward eloquence and his outward awkwardness. So, I guess my question would be whether it's too purple for the effect to matter, or if there were some other intention behind it?
The question isn't relevant for this scene, mostly because it has a PoV shift into omniscient narration, unlike most of the other scenes. So it's not an issue of "does this fit with the idea I gave earlier of the narrator?", so much as whether it tells the story well.
And, especially with the subject matter, this scene could be narrated more simply. Do the example rewritings I gave serve to move it in that direction?
I'm certain once I post the chapter there will be a lot of rough edges of this sort. In general, whenever I push to flesh out a difficult set of impressions into a scene, things seem to start trending purple for me. At this point, it's a choice between endlessly revising the few difficult scenes where I'm tempted to put in flourishes, or putting it out there and having someone tear it apart with a critical eye as to which aspects of it actually bog down the narrative.
Quote from: Arakawa Seijio on February 08, 2013, 01:21:05 PM
The question isn't relevant for this scene, mostly because it has a PoV shift into omniscient narration, unlike most of the other scenes. So it's not an issue of "does this fit with the idea I gave earlier of the narrator?", so much as whether it tells the story well.
Well, I guess this indirectly brings up another question that had been on my mind: who the narrator was for this scene (whether it should be Simon talking about things he learned after the fact or what). If it is just a plain old, not-any-of-our-characters narrator, then yeah, I think that should be pretty distinct from Simon's narration proper, yet on the other hand, any big shift will really point this out. Sticky.
QuoteAnd, especially with the subject matter, this scene could be narrated more simply. Do the example rewritings I gave serve to move it in that direction?
The rewritten passages do seem a bit more straightforward, yes.
It seems strange to me that you're trending so purple. I didn't think "Anywhere in this World" was that way per se, but I do think you have a tendency to try to tackle really complex ideas or thoughts without breaking them down into more manageable pieces. Perhaps keeping that in mind will help you mitigate the problem?
Going to start a new thread to post the actual chapters:
http://www.soulriders.net/forum/index.php/topic,102788.0.html
A request to the moderators, could this thread be locked? Probably not going to add anything in this old thread.
*slaps forehead*, apparently we can lock the topics ourselves. Okay, no need for moderator assistance, then.