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I'm an amateur podcaster who plays guitar at night. I have a degree in communication, where I majored in media and culture, which means I'm way more qualified to play pool and watch Buffy than you are. I'm also a pretty good hypnotist.

[tamesg]

The Ferry

This afternoon I took the ferry to the island.

I had been meaning to do it for years. The boats leave every hour from the harbour, white and practical, carrying bicycles, backpacks, and people who look as though they already know what waits on the other side. I bought a ticket, stood among strangers, and watched the city loosen itself from the shoreline.

The crossing was shorter than I expected.

On the island there was a small trail through pine trees and low grass bent flat by the wind. Someone had told me about a lookout at the far end, where the cliffs opened suddenly onto the sea. I followed the path without difficulty. The afternoon was clear. Everything appeared exactly where it was supposed to be.

At one point my phone vibrated. A message from someone I've been seeing recently.

How is it?

I looked at the words for a moment before putting the phone back into my pocket.

The lookout was beautiful when I reached it. The water stretched outward in every direction, bright and indifferent beneath the sun. A few people stood near the edge taking photographs. Others sat quietly on the rocks, eating sandwiches from paper bags.

I stayed there longer than necessary.

What surprised me was not the view itself, but the sudden certainty that someone else should have been there. She would have liked the ferry ride. She would have complained about the wind and then stood in it anyway. She would have pointed at things I hadn't noticed—the shape of a distant cloud, a bird balancing on a railing, some detail so small it became important simply because she had seen it.

The feeling arrived without sadness. It was closer to recognition.

I imagined her standing beside me, hands in her pockets, both of us looking out at the water without speaking. The scene seemed to settle more naturally around that version of events, as though it had been designed for two people who already knew each other's silences.

Eventually I turned back toward the harbour.

The ferry home was nearly empty. As the island receded behind me, I took out my phone again and looked at the unanswered message. The cursor blinked patiently inside the reply box.

After a while I typed:

It's beautiful.

Then I stopped.

The boat continued across the water, carrying me back toward the city. Outside, the wake unfolded behind me in two long white lines, remaining visible for a time before disappearing completely.

[tamesg]

News

The letter arrived in the afternoon, slipped beneath the door without ceremony. For a while, I didn’t notice it. It lay there quietly, as if it had always belonged to the room—the same pale colour as the walls, the same stillness as the air.

When I finally picked it up, I thought at first it must be a mistake. The words were too gentle, too certain. I read them once, then folded the paper along its crease and set it on the table. The table seemed slightly smaller than before, as though it had adjusted itself to accommodate this new object.

It was good news. Unmistakably so.

I tried to feel it properly, the way one is supposed to—something like warmth spreading through the chest, or a lightness in the hands. Instead, I became aware of the quiet ticking of the clock, and the faint hum inside the refrigerator. The room had not changed at all.

Without thinking, I turned towards the telephone.

Your number is no longer written anywhere. I checked the drawer anyway, beneath a stack of old receipts and rubber bands that had hardened into brittle loops. I lifted each one carefully, as though the number might be hiding underneath, flattened and waiting. But there was nothing.

It seemed important, suddenly, that you should know. Not the details, not even the words themselves—but the fact of it. That something, at last, had shifted. That the long, indistinct stretch of days had been interrupted by this small, precise occurrence.

I imagined placing the receiver against my ear, listening to the hollow ringing travel outwards, searching for you. I wondered what I would say when you answered. Perhaps I wouldn’t say anything at all. Perhaps it would be enough just to let you hear my breathing, slightly uneven, carrying the shape of the news inside it.

But the telephone remained still, untouched.

I returned to the table and unfolded the letter again. The crease had deepened, as though it remembered being closed. I traced the lines of the text with my finger, slowly, so as not to disturb them. If I moved too quickly, I thought, the words might scatter or lose their meaning.

Outside, something brushed lightly against the window—perhaps a branch, or a bird passing too close. The sound was brief, almost imaginary.

I folded the letter once more and placed it back where it had been. For a moment, I rested my hand on top of it, applying just enough pressure to feel its presence.

It occurred to me then that the news might fade if left unshared, like a scent dissipating in an empty room. I tried to hold onto it, to keep it intact, but it had already begun to thin at the edges.

Still, I left the letter on the table, exactly where it could be seen, in case you happened to come back and find it.

[tamesg]

Music

The kitchen light was the only one on, a single warm bulb above the sink that turned the room into something soft and slightly unreal, like the inside of an old photograph. It was a little past two in the morning. I sat at the small wooden table with a half-empty glass of barley tea and the old stereo playing at a volume just low enough that the neighbours wouldn’t complain.

The song came on without warning—something from the early nineties, a slow, slightly off-kilter ballad with a Rhodes piano that sounded like rain falling on metal. She used to call it “our song,” though we never agreed on why. Maybe because we’d sung it together once, badly, in the front seat of that old Toyota after too much cheap sushi, windows down, summer heat still clinging to our skin. Her voice had been thin and surprisingly sweet, mine mostly laughter and approximate notes. We’d kept going even after the cassette ended, filling the silence with made-up verses until the car ran out of road.

Now the same chords drifted across the kitchen tiles. I didn’t move. I just listened while the memory arrived the way cats sometimes do—uninvited, deliberate, curling itself into the empty chair opposite me.

I wondered where she was these days. Probably in some city I’d never visited, maybe Osaka or Fukuoka, or perhaps still in Tokyo, living in one of those narrow apartments where the walls remember every argument and every quiet morning. She might have cut her hair short again, the way she did whenever she wanted to feel like a different person. Or maybe she’d let it grow long, the way it was when we first met, falling past her shoulders like dark water. She could be married now, or divorced, or living alone with a dog that hated everyone except her. Perhaps she still drank barley tea at odd hours. Perhaps she still sang in cars.

The chorus arrived, and for a moment I almost opened my mouth to join in, the way I used to when she was sitting beside me. But the impulse passed. The room stayed quiet except for the music and the faint hum of the refrigerator. When the song ended there was a small click as the needle lifted, then silence, then the soft mechanical sound of the turntable returning to rest. I finished the tea. It was lukewarm and faintly sweet.

Outside, the streetlights were still on, glowing the same pale orange they always had. Somewhere far away a train passed, carrying people who didn’t know each other toward places they hadn’t chosen yet. I thought about putting the record away, but instead I just sat there a little longer, letting the afterimage of her voice settle somewhere behind my ribs, mild and harmless, like smoke that no longer burns.

[tamesg]

No, it isn’t the loss itself—don’t be naïve. People lose things every day and survive it quite decently. One becomes accustomed even to that, even to misery, if it is simple enough. What is truly poisonous is something far more ridiculous: the music continues. Yes, continues—as if nothing had happened, as if it were mocking you. And you know perfectly well that it belongs to them. That knowledge alone would be sufficient punishment, if punishment were distributed fairly.

But of course it is you who hears it. You, and no one else. As though it had been entrusted to you—entrusted!—which is laughable, since you have no right to it whatsoever. I sometimes think it would be easier if I had stolen it; at least then I could despise myself honestly. Instead, I am left in this ambiguous position, half thief, half guardian, and entirely contemptible.

The melody torments me not because it is beautiful—beauty is a childish excuse—but because I recognize it immediately, with a recognition so precise it feels obscene. It arrives like a truth discovered too late, one of those truths you would gladly exchange for ignorance if only ignorance were still available. And so I sit with it, uselessly faithful, gnawing at my conscience, fully aware that this fidelity is neither noble nor chosen, but merely another form of my cowardice.

[tamesg]

Emily Loves Rocky

Emily had been trying to figure out if Rocky Douglas liked her for approximately three weeks when his younger brothers got kidnapped by ninjas.

Well, not exactly ninjas. They looked more like generic henchmen in black outfits, but Rocky had yelled something about "bad ninjas" while performing what appeared to be an actual backflip off a wall, so Emily was going with ninjas as the working theory.

The thing was, Rocky had been walking her home from school—actually walking her home, like he'd offered and everything—and they'd been having a completely normal conversation about the science project, and Emily had been pretty sure he was about to say something important based on the way he kept starting sentences and then stopping.

Then a van had pulled up, several men in masks had jumped out, and Rocky had immediately shifted into what Emily could only describe as "ninja mode," which involved a lot of yelling and impressively acrobatic fighting that would have been really cool to watch if Emily hadn't been terrified and confused about what was happening.

The men had grabbed Rocky's brothers—Colt and Tum Tum, who Emily had met exactly twice and who had both times asked her extremely embarrassing questions about whether she "liked" Rocky—and driven off while Rocky chased after them doing moves that Emily was pretty sure weren't taught in normal karate classes.

Which left Emily standing on the sidewalk, her backpack still on, her science textbook still open to the page about photosynthesis, trying to process the fact that her potential maybe-crush had just fought off multiple adult men using martial arts and was now presumably going to rescue his brothers from some kind of criminal organization.

"Okay," Emily said to nobody in particular. "That happened."

***

The problem with having a crush on Rocky Douglas, Emily was discovering, was that normal middle school dating logic did not account for the fact that he was apparently some kind of trained ninja warrior who fought actual criminals on a regular basis.

Emily had done everything right according to the advice she'd gotten from her friends and older sister. She'd made sure to sit near him in class. She'd laughed at his jokes (even the ones that weren't that funny). She'd asked him for help with math homework despite being perfectly capable of doing it herself. She'd even orchestrated that walk home by mentioning that she lived "kind of near" his house (she didn't, but two miles wasn't that far).

What she had not accounted for was that Rocky's life apparently included elements like "fighting armed kidnappers" and "performing backflips during combat situations" and "having the kind of younger brothers who got targeted by criminal organizations."

The next day at school, Rocky wasn't there. Neither were Colt and Tum Tum. Emily spent most of first period trying to figure out if she should be worried about their safety or if this was just normal Douglas family stuff that happened sometimes.

During lunch, she overheard some kids talking about how the Douglas brothers had been in the news for "helping police apprehend suspects," which seemed like a very official way of describing what Emily suspected had been another ninja situation.

"Did you see Emily's boyfriend on TV?" one of her friends asked with a grin.

"He's not my boyfriend," Emily replied automatically, even though this was getting increasingly frustrating to keep saying. "We're just... we're friends."

"Friends who walk home together."

"One time! And it got interrupted by kidnappers!"

Her friends looked at her like she was making this up, which was fair because "our walk was interrupted by kidnappers" sounded like the kind of excuse you'd invent if you didn't want to admit that nothing romantic had happened.

***

Rocky came back to school two days later with what looked like a bruise on his cheek and a slightly different haircut, both of which somehow made him look even cooler than usual, which Emily decided was completely unfair.

She wanted to ask him if he was okay, if his brothers were safe, if he'd actually fought criminals and won, but when she approached him before science class, all that came out was: "Did you finish the photosynthesis worksheet?"

Rocky blinked at her, clearly expecting a different question. "Uh, no. I was kind of... dealing with some family stuff."

"Right. Family stuff. That's totally fine."

They stood in awkward silence for a moment. Emily tried to think of a way to transition from photosynthesis to "so I heard you fought crime?" but couldn't figure out how to make that sound casual.

"Hey, um," Rocky said, and Emily's heart did a small flip because this was the same tone he'd used right before the kidnapping van had shown up, "thanks for not making a big deal about what happened the other day."

"With the... the ninjas?"

"They weren't technically ninjas. Just really well-trained criminals working for my dad's business rival who wanted to kidnap us for ransom."

Emily processed this sentence, which contained several pieces of information that raised more questions than they answered. "That's... that happens to you?"

"Kind of a lot, actually."

"Oh."

More awkward silence. Emily was trying to figure out if "gets kidnapped regularly" was something that should affect her opinion of Rocky as a potential boyfriend when Colt and Tum Tum appeared from nowhere like tiny chaotic ghosts.

"Hi Emily!" Tum Tum said with the kind of enthusiasm that immediately put Emily on alert.

"Rocky talks about you ALL the time," Colt added, grinning in a way that made Rocky's face turn bright red.

"No I don't! Emily, I don't— they're exaggerating—"

"He has a whole notebook where he—OW!"

Rocky had apparently kicked Colt under the desk with what looked like impressive precision. His brothers ran off giggling, leaving Emily and Rocky in even more awkward silence than before.

"Sorry about them," Rocky muttered. "They're... they're the worst."

"It's okay," Emily said, trying very hard not to smile too obviously. "Little brothers are annoying."

"The absolute worst."

"So you talk about me?" Emily heard herself ask, immediately regretting it but also desperately needing to know.

Rocky's face somehow turned even redder. "I mean, sometimes? Like, normal amounts? The way you'd talk about anyone who's in your class?"

"Right. Normal amounts."

"Very normal."

"Totally normal."

The bell rang, saving them both from further awkwardness. Emily spent the entire science class pretending to take notes while actually trying to figure out if Rocky talking about her to his brothers (who were apparently also ninjas?) meant what she hoped it meant.

***

The next incident happened during the school assembly two weeks later.

Emily was sitting with her friends, half-paying attention to the principal's announcements about upcoming events, when she noticed Rocky and his brothers having what looked like an urgent whispered conversation several rows ahead.

Then Rocky stood up, whispered something to a teacher, and all three brothers left the auditorium quickly.

"Where are they going?" Emily's friend whispered.

"I don't know," Emily replied, but she had a sinking feeling it was another ninja situation.

Her suspicions were confirmed an hour later when the principal made an announcement that there had been a "security situation" in the parking lot that had been "resolved by some very brave students," and could Rocky, Colt, and Tum Tum Douglas please come to the office.

Emily watched through the classroom window as all three brothers walked past, looking remarkably calm for people who had apparently just dealt with a "security situation." Rocky glanced toward her classroom, made brief eye contact with Emily through the window, and gave a small wave before continuing to the office.

Emily waved back automatically, then spent the rest of class trying to figure out what the appropriate response was to a boy who casually waved at you after fighting crime during a school assembly.

***

The conversation she'd been trying to have with Rocky finally happened three weeks later, during what started as another attempted walk home from school.

"So," Emily said, deciding to just address it directly, "the ninja thing. That's just... part of your life?"

Rocky looked embarrassed. "Kind of? My grandpa trained us. It's a family tradition."

"And the criminals? They just keep showing up?"

"My dad's business is complicated. There are these people who want to get revenge or whatever, and they think kidnapping us will help with that."

Emily tried to imagine casually explaining to her parents that she might be late for dinner because she'd been kidnapped by her dad's business rivals. "That sounds really stressful."

"It's not that bad. Usually we just beat them up and they go away for a while."

"Usually you just beat them up," Emily repeated. "That's the usual solution."

"I mean, we also call the police afterward. It's all legal."

They walked in silence for a bit. Emily was trying to reconcile the Rocky she knew from science class—who got nervous during presentations and always shared his extra pencils—with the Rocky who apparently fought crime as a regular hobby.

"Does it... does it bother you?" Rocky asked quietly. "The ninja stuff?"

Emily considered this. On one hand, it was definitely weird. On the other hand, Rocky had looked really cool doing that backflip, and there was something kind of admirable about someone who would immediately jump into danger to protect his brothers despite them being extremely annoying.

"It's different," Emily said finally. "But I don't think it's bad different."

Rocky's face lit up in a way that made Emily's stomach do that flip thing again. "Really?"

"Really. I mean, it's definitely not normal. But you're... you're pretty cool when you're doing the ninja stuff."

"You think I'm cool?"

"I didn't say that. I said you're cool when you're doing ninja stuff. That's different."

"That sounds like the same thing."

"It's not the same thing."

"It sounds really similar."

They were both smiling now, and Emily realized this might actually be the moment that Rocky said something important, the moment she'd been waiting for since she first decided that yes, she definitely liked him and not just as a friend.

Then Colt and Tum Tum jumped out from behind a hedge where they'd apparently been hiding, yelling "Rocky and Emily sitting in a tree!" with the kind of perfect timing that could only come from extensive ninja stealth training being used for maximum sibling annoyance.

Rocky's face went from happy to mortified in approximately half a second. "I'M GOING TO KILL YOU BOTH!"

His brothers ran off laughing while Rocky chased them with what Emily had to admit was impressive speed. She watched the three of them disappear around the corner, their shouts of "K-I-S-S-I-N-G!" fading into the distance.

Emily stood alone on the sidewalk, her backpack still on, her homework still unfinished, trying to process the fact that her almost-moment with Rocky had been interrupted by his ninja brothers who had been literally hiding in bushes to spy on them.

"Next time," she said to herself, "I'm going to ask him to a movie. In a public place. Where his brothers can't hide in the bushes."

***

The movie date happened two weeks later, after Emily had explicitly told Rocky "no brothers allowed" and Rocky had promised they wouldn't even know he was going.

Emily had chosen a movie that seemed normal enough—some action thing that Rocky had mentioned wanting to see—and they'd made plans to meet at the theater on Saturday afternoon.

She arrived ten minutes early, which gave her plenty of time to stress about whether this was officially a date or just two friends seeing a movie together, and whether she should have worn something nicer than jeans and her favorite sweater.

Rocky showed up exactly on time, which Emily was starting to recognize as very typical of him—ninja training apparently included punctuality. He was wearing a button-up shirt that looked like he'd put actual thought into his outfit, which made Emily feel slightly better about her own wardrobe anxiety.

"Hey," Rocky said, smiling in a way that made Emily pretty sure this was, in fact, a date.

"Hey," Emily replied, trying to sound casual despite her heart doing gymnastics.

They bought tickets, got popcorn (Rocky insisted on paying, which seemed like another date indicator), and found seats in the middle of the theater. Everything was going perfectly.

Then, about twenty minutes into the movie, Emily noticed two small figures sneaking into the theater and sitting several rows behind them.

She turned around and made direct eye contact with Colt and Tum Tum, who immediately ducked down behind their seats like that would somehow make them invisible.

"Rocky," Emily whispered, "your brothers are here."

Rocky turned around, saw his brothers, and his expression went through several stages of disbelief and rage before settling on resigned frustration. "I'm going to actually kill them this time."

"They're really committed to this," Emily said, trying not to laugh.

"I told them I'd put them in a headlock if they followed us. They specifically promised they wouldn't."

"I mean, we could just... ignore them?"

Rocky looked at Emily like she'd suggested something revolutionary. "Ignore them?"

"They're all the way back there. If we just watch the movie and don't react, they'll get bored."

"You don't know my brothers. They live for this."

"Do you want to leave?"

Rocky hesitated, clearly torn between his dignity and the fact that they were on what was definitely a date. "No," he said finally. "No, we're staying. They're not going to ruin this."

"Ruin what?" Emily asked, because she couldn't help herself.

Rocky's face turned red even in the dim theater lighting. "You know. This. The movie. Us... watching the movie."

"Right. The movie."

"The movie."

They sat in charged silence for a moment before Emily made a decision. If Rocky's brothers were going to be there anyway, and if Rocky was going to be too flustered to say what he was clearly trying to say, she was just going to have to do it herself.

"Rocky," she said quietly, "is this a date?"

Rocky looked at her with an expression that suggested he was trying to calculate the right answer to a very important question. "Do you... do you want it to be a date?"

"I asked you first."

"I asked you second."

"That's not how this works."

From several rows back, they could hear Colt whisper-yelling "Just say yes!" followed by Tum Tum's "Rocky, you're messing it up!"

Rocky closed his eyes like he was praying for patience. "Yes," he said finally, looking at Emily. "I want this to be a date. I wanted it to be a date when I asked you. I should have said it was a date but I got nervous and just said 'movie' like an idiot."

Emily felt her face break into a huge smile. "Okay. Then it's a date."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Even with my brothers spying on us?"

"Especially with your brothers spying on us. At least now they'll have something accurate to tell everyone at school."

Rocky laughed, and some of the tension went out of his shoulders. "You're really okay with all the ninja stuff? And my insane family? And the fact that criminals keep trying to kidnap us?"

"I think it's kind of cool," Emily admitted. "Weird, but cool. Besides, how many people can say their boyfriend fights crime?"

"Boyfriend?" Rocky's voice cracked slightly on the word.

"I mean, if you want—"

"Yes! Yes, definitely, boyfriend works."

From the back of the theater came the sound of Colt and Tum Tum trying and failing to contain their excitement, followed by an usher telling them to quiet down.

Emily and Rocky looked at each other and started laughing, and then Rocky did something that Emily had been hoping he would do for weeks—he reached over and held her hand.

His palm was slightly sweaty, probably from nerves, but Emily didn't care. They sat there holding hands in the middle of a movie theater while Rocky's ninja brothers spied on them from the back row, and Emily decided that even if this was the weirdest dating situation in the history of middle school, it was still pretty much perfect.

"For the record," Rocky whispered, "I'm definitely putting them both in headlocks when we get home."

"That seems fair," Emily whispered back.

They settled in to watch the rest of the movie, hands still linked, while in the back row, Colt and Tum Tum gave each other victorious high-fives and immediately started planning how to embarrass Rocky at school on Monday.

Being a ninja warrior, Rocky had told her once, required focus and discipline and years of training.

Being a ninja warrior's girlfriend, Emily was discovering, required patience, a sense of humor, and the ability to maintain composure while his younger brothers orchestrated elaborate spy operations during your dates.

But looking at Rocky's smile and the way he kept glancing at her like he couldn't quite believe this was actually happening, Emily decided she could definitely handle that.

[tamesg]

Island Maintenance

Island Maintenance

Samuel Ashford was reviewing his monthly restoration reports when Margaret's voice crackled through the emergency radio, fundamentally challenging his understanding of what constituted appropriate visitor behavior at a historical preservation site.

"Sam, we have a situation. Another visitor got stuck in the Selenitic Age. They can't figure out how to get back."

Samuel looked out his office window at the serene landscape of Myst Island, where ancient mechanisms hummed quietly in perfect harmony after months of careful calibration, and felt his shoulders tense with familiar dread.

"What did they touch?" he asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.

"Everything. They activated the sound puzzles, redirected the power systems, and apparently decided to 'improve' the crystal configuration because they thought it looked 'incomplete.'"

"And now?"

"Now they're calling from the emergency satellite phone we had to install in every age after the incident with the Mechanical Age tourists. They want to know if we can send a taxi."

Samuel closed his eyes and reached for the detailed restoration manual that had become his most frequently consulted reference guide since opening the islands to educational visitors. "I'll link over and sort it out. Again."

"Thanks, Sam. Oh, and we've got a group of university students coming this afternoon for the guided tour. Art history majors, so they should be... respectful."

After hanging up, Samuel gathered his emergency repair kit and prepared for another day of undoing what well-meaning visitors had accomplished through enthusiastic interaction with irreplaceable ancient technology.

***

Samuel had earned advanced degrees in archaeology and mechanical engineering specifically to qualify for the caretaker position, driven by deep respect for the sophisticated culture that had created these linking book technologies and the intricate ages they connected. When the D'ni Restoration Council had first advertised for a resident caretaker to maintain the islands while facilitating educational access, he had seen it as the opportunity of a lifetime.

The job description had mentioned "educational access" and "visitor coordination," but somehow failed to convey that this would primarily consist of people who approached ancient mystical technology with the same mindset they brought to escape rooms.

"The key," Samuel explained to each new group of visitors, "is to observe and understand before interacting. These are not puzzles to be solved—they are functioning systems that have been carefully restored to their original operational parameters."

The explanation was invariably followed by someone immediately walking over to the nearest device and asking, "But what does this lever do?"

***

The Selenitic Age rescue mission took most of the morning, requiring Samuel to reverse-engineer the sound puzzle configuration that the stranded visitor had created through what they described as "systematic experimentation," but which Samuel recognized as random button-pressing until something happened.

"I thought I was supposed to solve it," the visitor explained as Samuel carefully restored the crystal array to its proper settings. "Isn't that what these things are for?"

"These systems control environmental functions like atmospheric processing and geological stability," Samuel replied, consulting his detailed schematics while recalibrating the sonic frequency generators. "They're not entertainment devices."

"Oh. Well, they seem like puzzles."

"They seem like puzzles because the D'ni designed their technology to be intuitive and elegant. That doesn't mean they're meant to be randomly manipulated by tourists."

"But if they weren't meant to be touched, why are they accessible?"

Samuel paused in his calibration work, contemplating how to explain that preservation meant maintaining functionality rather than preventing all interaction, and that the difference between respectful observation and enthusiastic puzzle-solving had somehow become the defining challenge of his professional life.

***

By the time the university students arrived that afternoon, Samuel had already fielded two more emergency calls: someone had gotten the water systems stuck in what they called "puzzle mode," and another visitor had somehow convinced themselves that the island's lighthouse was part of an elaborate riddle sequence.

"The water systems you see throughout the island represent centuries of refinement," he explained to the art history students, gesturing toward the carefully maintained channels that carried water to various mechanical systems. "Every element is precisely calibrated to work in harmony with the others."

The students nodded appreciatively, taking notes and asking thoughtful questions about D'ni metallurgy, architectural principles, and the relationship between their technology and their philosophical worldview.

Samuel felt the familiar satisfaction that came from sharing genuine knowledge with people who appreciated the significance of what they were witnessing. This was why he had chosen this career—the opportunity to help others understand the remarkable achievements of a civilization that had mastered technologies modern science was only beginning to comprehend.

Then one of the students noticed the gear configuration near the dock and asked the question that Samuel had learned to fear above all others: "Is this one of those puzzles where you have to turn the gears to open something?"

"No," Samuel said quickly, "those gears control the island's tidal generation system. They've been carefully adjusted to—"

But the student was already examining the mechanism with the focused attention of someone who had spent their formative years playing puzzle games and assumed that every interesting-looking device was designed for interactive problem-solving.

"It looks like if you turn this one clockwise, it would affect these other gears here..."

"Please don't—"

The grinding sound that followed indicated that the island's power distribution system was now operating in a configuration that had never been intended by its D'ni creators and was definitely not covered in Samuel's restoration manual.

The lights flickered, the water pressure dropped noticeably, and somewhere in the distance, Samuel could hear the distinctive sound of ancient machinery trying to operate outside its design parameters.

"Oops," the student said. "Should I turn it back?"

"NO!" Samuel replied, perhaps more forcefully than necessary. "Never try to fix what you've just broken. That's the first rule of archaeological preservation."

***

Three weeks later, Samuel faced his greatest challenge yet: a group of escape room enthusiasts who had apparently assumed the islands would provide "the ultimate puzzle experience."

"We've done over two hundred escape rooms," their leader announced proudly, "and we heard this place has some really challenging puzzles that nobody's solved yet."

Samuel felt a familiar sense of dread, amplified by the group's obvious enthusiasm and their discussion of "completion times" and "hint usage strategies."

"Actually," he explained carefully, "these aren't puzzles to be solved. They're historical preservation sites showcasing D'ni technology and culture."

"Right, but there are puzzles here, right? Things to figure out?"

"There are functional systems that can be observed and studied, but they're not designed as entertainment—"

"Perfect! We prefer the really challenging ones."

Samuel spent the next four hours following the group around the island, watching in horror as they systematically "tested" every mechanism they encountered, approached each device as a component in some larger puzzle sequence, and maintained detailed notes about what they called "solution pathways" and "unlock conditions."

"This water control system is obviously part of a multi-stage puzzle," one of them announced, having apparently decided that the island's irrigation infrastructure was designed as an elaborate logic problem. "If we adjust the flow rates in the correct sequence, it should trigger the next phase."

"That system provides drinking water to the—"

"Got it! So water flow is probably the key mechanic. Very clever design."

By the end of the visit, the escape room team had managed to temporarily disable the lighthouse, reverse the rotation of the tower, redirect the island's power grid into what they described as "puzzle mode," and somehow convince themselves that they were "80% complete" with solving what they assumed was an island-wide meta-puzzle.

Samuel spent the following week restoring everything to working order while contemplating whether historical preservation and public access were fundamentally incompatible goals.

***

Then Samuel had his breakthrough. Instead of trying to prevent visitors from treating the islands like puzzles, he would lean into their expectations while redirecting their enthusiasm toward genuine understanding.

"Welcome to Myst Island," he announced to the next tour group, "where you'll have the opportunity to solve the greatest mystery of all: understanding how an ancient civilization created technology that we're still trying to comprehend."

He redesigned the tour as an interactive detective experience, where visitors could examine mechanisms and propose theories about their function, but where the goal was historical understanding rather than mechanical manipulation.

"Your challenge," he explained, "is to figure out what the D'ni were trying to accomplish with each system, and how their engineering solutions reflected their cultural values and technological priorities."

The approach was remarkably successful. Visitors still approached the islands with puzzle-solving mindsets, but now their curiosity was channeled toward questions like "How did they achieve this level of precision with medieval tools?" and "What does this design tell us about their understanding of acoustics?"

Instead of randomly pressing buttons to see what happened, they studied mechanisms to understand how they worked. Instead of trying to "solve" the islands, they tried to solve the mystery of D'ni civilization.

For six months, Samuel's approach seemed to have successfully bridged the gap between preservation and access. Visitor satisfaction scores were at all-time highs, educational outcomes exceeded all benchmarks, and the mechanical systems remained blissfully undisturbed.

Then Dr. Elena Vasquez arrived for the "Advanced D'ni Technology" workshop.

***

Dr. Vasquez was everything Samuel had hoped for in a visitor: a linguistics professor with expertise in ancient writing systems, genuine respect for archaeological methodology, and the kind of careful attention to detail that made her observations genuinely valuable to the restoration effort.

"This is fascinating," she said, examining the linking book display with obvious scholarly enthusiasm. "The integration of language and technology suggests a completely different understanding of how written symbols can interface with physical reality."

Samuel beamed with professional pride. This was exactly the kind of engagement he had been hoping to foster—intellectual curiosity channeled toward genuine understanding rather than random button-pressing.

"The D'ni understood that descriptive text could actually function as a form of technology," he explained. "Their linking books aren't just transportation devices—they're examples of language that can literally create or access other worlds."

"And these books here—they're functional? They actually link to other ages?"

"Well, most of them link to what we call 'prison ages'—places where dangerous individuals were exiled. We keep them for historical completeness, but obviously they're not part of the public tour."

Dr. Vasquez nodded thoughtfully, taking detailed notes about the relationship between D'ni script and what she called "reality-interface technology." Everything proceeded exactly as Samuel hoped these interactions would go.

Right up until the moment when Dr. Vasquez's scholarly curiosity led her to conduct what she would later describe as "a brief empirical test of the linguistic interface hypothesis."

Samuel was in the mechanical age, conducting routine maintenance on the fortress rotation mechanism, when his emergency communication device crackled to life.

"Hello? Is anyone there? I think I might have made a mistake."

The voice was Dr. Vasquez's, but it was coming from the emergency transmitter he had installed in the red book's prison age—the one that had contained Sirrus before his recent escape.

Samuel's blood went cold. "Dr. Vasquez? How did you... please tell me you didn't touch the linking books."

"I was examining the script patterns, trying to understand the syntax structure, and I thought just placing my hand on the linking panel would help me understand the activation mechanism. But I appear to have... transported? This doesn't look like Myst Island anymore."

Samuel was already running toward the linking book chamber, his mind racing through emergency protocols that he had hoped never to need. "Dr. Vasquez, listen very carefully. Do not explore. Do not touch anything. Stay exactly where you are until I can link over and get you."

"Actually, there's someone here who says he's been expecting me. A very well-dressed gentleman who seems quite knowledgeable about D'ni history. He's offering to explain how the linking system works."

Samuel's sprint toward the book chamber became a desperate rush as he realized the catastrophic implications of what was happening. "Dr. Vasquez, whatever you do, do NOT listen to that person. Do not give him any information about the island, do not let him near any books, and absolutely do not—"

The transmission cut off.

***

Samuel's emergency call to Margaret was perhaps the most professionally humiliating conversation of his career.

"Let me make sure I understand this correctly," Margaret said, her voice carrying the careful neutrality of someone trying very hard not to scream. "One of our visitors is now trapped in a prison age with Sirrus, who has been trying to escape for years, and she thinks he's a friendly tour guide?"

"That's... essentially correct."

"And this happened because our new educational approach was so successful that it inspired her to conduct independent research on linking book technology?"

"I'm linking over to extract her immediately," Samuel said, gathering his emergency kit and trying not to think about all the ways this situation could get worse.

"Sam, Sirrus has been imprisoned for murder. He's manipulative, dangerous, and he's been looking for any opportunity to escape. If he convinces Dr. Vasquez to bring him linking books..."

"I know. I'm going now."

Samuel's linking to the red book prison age was his first experience with the disorienting sensation of traveling between worlds, and under different circumstances, he might have found it remarkable. Instead, he materialized in the rocky landscape with the single-minded focus of someone conducting an emergency rescue operation.

He found Dr. Vasquez sitting comfortably near the age's central structure, taking notes while listening with obvious fascination to someone she clearly assumed was a D'ni historian rather than a dangerous criminal.

"Sam!" she called cheerfully. "Perfect timing! I was just learning about the advanced linking techniques that the D'ni developed for age-to-age transportation. Did you know they had methods for creating portable linking books that could access multiple destinations?"

Sirrus, looking exactly as dangerous as Samuel had feared, smiled with the kind of cold charm that had made him so effective at manipulation. "Your colleague has been most helpful in explaining the current state of the restoration project. I understand you've been quite successful in making the D'ni technologies accessible to modern visitors."

"Dr. Vasquez," Samuel said carefully, "we need to leave. Now."

"But this is fascinating! He's explaining how the D'ni created what he calls 'master books' that could override the linking restrictions—"

"Dr. Vasquez," Samuel interrupted, grabbing her arm, "that person is Sirrus. He murdered his father, terrorized his brother, and has been imprisoned here for crimes against D'ni civilization. We need to leave immediately."

The look of scholarly excitement on Dr. Vasquez's face shifted rapidly through confusion, comprehension, and horror as she realized that her "helpful D'ni historian" was actually one of the most dangerous individuals in the restoration project's files.

"Oh," she said quietly. "Oh no."

Sirrus's friendly expression hadn't changed, but Samuel could see the calculation behind his eyes. "I do hope you'll consider continuing our educational discussions. There's so much more I could share about D'ni technologies, particularly regarding transportation between ages."

***

The extraction was successful, but the damage was already done. Dr. Vasquez had inadvertently provided Sirrus with detailed information about current restoration efforts, visitor access protocols, and—most troubling—Samuel's new approach to educational engagement.

"He knows that we're encouraging people to think deeply about D'ni technology," Samuel reported to Margaret during the post-incident debriefing. "He knows that our most engaged visitors are the ones most likely to experiment with systems they don't fully understand."

"And he's been imprisoned for years with nothing to do but plan how to escape."

"Exactly. Every educational success we have is now a potential security risk. Every visitor who becomes genuinely interested in D'ni technology is someone who might be manipulated into helping him."

Margaret was quiet for a long moment. "So what do we do?"

Samuel looked out at Myst Island, where ancient mechanisms continued their quiet operation while he grappled with the realization that his greatest professional success had created his worst professional nightmare.

"I don't know," he admitted. "I solved the problem of how to make people respect the islands. But I also created a perfect population of potential accomplices for someone who's been planning his escape for years."

"We could go back to the old visitor management approach. Strict supervision, no independent exploration."

"But that defeats the entire purpose of educational access. And honestly, after seeing how engaged people become when they understand what they're looking at... I don't think I can go back to treating visitors like potential vandals."

"Even if it means risking another incident like this?"

Samuel contemplated the question while watching the sun set over an island that housed some of history's most remarkable achievements alongside some of its most dangerous individuals.

"I guess I'll just have to get better at emergency rescues from prison ages," he said finally.

Samuel updated his emergency protocols to include "extraction from hostile ages" and "counter-manipulation training," while recognizing that his innovative educational approach had solved one problem by creating a much more dangerous one.

The islands still hummed with ancient power, but now Samuel listened to their mechanisms with the knowledge that every educational success brought him one step closer to the next potential catastrophe.

[tamesg]

Talent Management

"Janet, we need to talk," came the voice through the phone, followed by the unmistakable sound of someone trying to explain quantum physics to a brick wall. "I've got some ideas for the next game that are going to blow everyone's minds. Get it? Blow their minds? Like, literally?"

Janet Morrison closed her eyes and reached for the bottle of antacids that had become a permanent fixture on her desk. Twelve years of representing video game mascots had taught her to recognize the particular tone that preceded career-threatening creative discussions.

"That's... great, Bubsy. Why don't we set up a meeting to discuss it?"

"Already ahead of you! I've got the development team coming in at two. I'm thinking we open with my classic line—you know the one. 'What could possibly go wrong?' It's like dramatic irony, but for video games. Very post-modern."

Through her office window, Janet could see the Pacific Ocean stretching toward the horizon, and she found herself wondering if it was too late to pursue that marine biology degree she'd abandoned in college.

"Bubsy, remember what we discussed about letting me handle the creative presentations?"

"Oh, don't worry, I've got it covered. I'm going to really lean into the whole 'I know I'm in a video game' thing. Players love that meta stuff these days."

Janet made a note on her calendar to update her résumé after the meeting.

***

When Bubsy's management team had first approached her, the proposition had seemed straightforward: represent a platforming mascot with established brand recognition and a loyal fanbase. The character had already starred in several games, had a distinctive visual design, and possessed the kind of wise-cracking personality that had made other mascots household names.

The initial briefing materials had emphasized Bubsy's "brand recognition" and "loyal fanbase," though Janet would later discover that this recognition was primarily based on his games being remembered as cautionary tales, and that his fanbase consisted mainly of people who enjoyed ironically discussing bad video games.

Still, every client deserved competent representation. Janet had built her reputation on finding ways to maximize even the most challenging properties' commercial potential, and she approached Bubsy's career with the same systematic professionalism she brought to every account.

The first warning sign should have been Bubsy's opening line during their initial meeting: "So, you're my agent now? I guess that makes you an NPC in the game of my life! Get it? Non-player character?"

Janet had smiled politely and made a note to research exactly what she had gotten herself into.

***

The development meeting at two o'clock was attended by six executives from a major gaming studio, all of whom had somehow been convinced that Bubsy represented an untapped reservoir of entertainment potential waiting to be properly channeled.

Janet arrived early to review her presentation materials—carefully crafted talking points that emphasized Bubsy's nostalgic appeal, his distinctive character design, and the opportunities for modernizing classic platforming gameplay for contemporary audiences.

Bubsy arrived fifteen minutes late, burst through the conference room door with arms spread wide, and announced, "Sorry I'm late, folks! I was stuck in traffic. Or should I say... stuck in a badly designed level with too many obstacles? Speaking of which, what could possibly go wrong with this meeting?"

The silence that followed this entrance was broken only by the sound of Janet quietly updating her notes to include "damage control" as the meeting's primary objective.

"Bubsy," she said smoothly, "why don't you let me start with our prepared presentation, and then we can discuss your creative input?"

"Oh, but I've got so many great ideas! Like, what if we made a game where I'm aware that I'm in a video game the whole time? I could make jokes about the player, comment on the level design, maybe even talk directly to the camera!"

One of the executives leaned forward with interest. "That's... actually not a terrible concept. Meta-gaming narratives are quite popular right now."

Janet felt a flicker of hope, quickly extinguished when Bubsy continued, "Exactly! And get this—whenever something goes wrong, I could look at the camera and say my catchphrase. You know, 'What could possibly go wrong?' It's like the audience is in on the joke!"

"What joke?" asked another executive.

"You know... the joke that things are going wrong! Because I just said what could possibly go wrong, and then things go wrong! It's ironic!"

The room fell silent again. Janet realized that several executives were looking at her with expressions that suggested they were reconsidering their understanding of what constituted professional representation.

"Perhaps," Janet interjected quickly, "we could explore some alternative approaches to character development that might appeal to a broader demographic..."

"Oh, I've got this covered," Bubsy said, waving dismissively. "See, the beauty of my character is that I'm self-aware. I know I'm in a video game, so I can comment on all the stupid things that happen. Like, when I fall into a pit, I could say something like 'Well, that's what I get for trusting level designers!' See?"

Janet watched the executives' faces shift from confusion to polite discomfort to what appeared to be a growing understanding that they might have made a significant miscalculation.

***

After the meeting concluded with the executives promising to "review the creative direction and get back to us," Janet found herself alone with Bubsy in the conference room, surrounded by the wreckage of what had been a promising business opportunity.

"I think that went really well," Bubsy said, straightening his imaginary tie. "Did you see how they reacted when I explained the meta-humor? I could tell they were impressed by my sophisticated understanding of entertainment theory."

Janet looked at her notes, which now consisted mainly of apologies she would need to make and relationships she would need to repair. "Bubsy, can I ask you something? When you make those comments about being in a video game, do you think... do you think people find them funny?"

"Are you kidding? They love it! It shows that I'm not just another mindless mascot jumping around collecting coins. I'm an intellectual character who understands the nature of his own existence. Very existential."

"And when you say 'What could possibly go wrong?' right before something goes wrong, you think that's... clever?"

"It's brilliant! It's like I'm predicting the future, except I'm not really predicting it because I know it's going to happen because I'm in a video game where things always go wrong. It's multiple levels of irony happening simultaneously."

Janet stared at Bubsy, trying to understand how someone could be so thoroughly convinced of their own comedic genius while being so comprehensively wrong about what constituted humor.

"Bubsy," she said gently, "what if we tried a different approach? Maybe focus less on the commentary and more on traditional character development?"

"But then I'd just be like every other boring mascot! The whole point is that I'm smarter than the game I'm in. I'm like a philosopher, but with better jump mechanics."

***

The rejection call came the next morning, delivered with the kind of diplomatic language that Janet recognized as corporate speak for "never contact us again."

Janet had spent the previous evening researching Bubsy's history, trying to understand how a character with such obvious commercial limitations had managed to sustain a career in the entertainment industry. His games were primarily remembered not for their quality, but for their ambitious failures and their protagonist's uniquely irritating personality.

The reviews were consistently harsh, but in ways that suggested Bubsy had achieved a kind of negative fame—he was memorable precisely because he was so thoroughly annoying. Players didn't love him, but they certainly remembered him, and in the attention-based economy of modern entertainment, memorability sometimes counted for more than actual appeal.

Bubsy seemed to interpret this negative attention as validation of his comedic brilliance rather than evidence that he might need to reconsider his approach to entertainment.

***

The phone call that would define the trajectory of Bubsy's career came on a Thursday afternoon, when a small independent studio expressed interest in developing what they described as a "deliberately retro platforming experience that embraced the earnest cheesiness of 90s mascot characters."

Janet approached the meeting with cautious optimism, having prepared extensively for what she hoped would be a more successful presentation. She had developed talking points that emphasized Bubsy's nostalgic appeal, his distinctive visual design, and the potential for creating an intentionally campy gaming experience that celebrated rather than mocked its own limitations.

"The key," she explained to Bubsy before the meeting, "is to let them see your personality naturally, without forcing the commentary. Just be yourself, but maybe dial back the fourth-wall breaking stuff."

"Got it," Bubsy replied. "Be natural. Show them the real me."

Janet realized that she might have been fundamentally unclear about what constituted natural behavior.

The meeting began promisingly. The development team seemed genuinely interested in creating a platformer that captured the spirit of classic 90s gaming, complete with colorful graphics, upbeat music, and a protagonist who embodied the optimistic energy of that era.

"We're really looking for a character who can deliver that authentic 90s mascot experience," the lead developer explained. "Someone who's enthusiastic, maybe a little corny, but ultimately charming in that nostalgic way."

"That's exactly what Bubsy represents," Janet said, launching into her prepared presentation about the character's potential for connecting with both nostalgic adults and new younger audiences.

"Absolutely!" Bubsy interjected. "I'm like the ultimate 90s character, except I'm self-aware about being a 90s character, which makes me very current at the same time. It's like temporal irony!"

The developers looked confused. "Temporal irony?"

"You know, being from the past but commenting on being from the past, which makes me present-tense even though I'm historically dated."

Janet watched the developers' expressions shift from interest to bewilderment and realized that she was witnessing the exact moment when a potentially successful business relationship transformed into an awkward misunderstanding.

"What Bubsy means," she said quickly, "is that he represents a classic gaming aesthetic that can appeal to contemporary audiences through its nostalgic charm."

"Right!" Bubsy agreed enthusiastically. "And also I can break the fourth wall whenever things get boring! Like, if the level design is too repetitive, I could look at the camera and say 'Wow, someone really phoned this in!' It would be like audience participation, but for single-player games!"

The lead developer turned to Janet with an expression of genuine concern. "Is he... is he okay? He keeps talking about cameras and audiences like he thinks we're making a TV show."

***

After the developers politely declined to move forward with the project, citing "creative differences regarding the fundamental nature of interactive entertainment," Janet found herself seriously considering whether professional ethics required her to continue representing a client whose career appeared to be built on a foundation of comprehensive self-delusion.

"I don't understand why they didn't get it," Bubsy said as they walked back to Janet's car. "I was giving them gold! Meta-humor is huge right now. Everyone's doing it."

"Bubsy," Janet said carefully, "when other characters break the fourth wall, they do it sparingly, for specific comedic effect. You want to do it constantly, as your primary personality trait."

"Exactly! I'm not just breaking the fourth wall—I'm demolishing it completely! I'm like the most self-aware character in gaming history!"

Janet looked at Bubsy, trying to understand how someone could be so convinced of their own self-awareness while being so thoroughly oblivious to their actual impact on others.

"But what if," she suggested gently, "instead of telling people you're self-aware, you just... were self-aware? What if you actually listened to how people respond to your jokes and adjusted accordingly?"

"That would defeat the whole purpose! The joke is that I know I'm in a video game but I keep making the same mistakes anyway! It's like... like ironic incompetence!"

"Bubsy, that's not ironic incompetence. That's just incompetence."

"No, see, it's ironic because I know it's incompetence! I'm incompetent on purpose! It's very sophisticated humor."

***

That evening, Janet sat in her office contemplating the professional and ethical implications of representing a client whose career ambitions were fundamentally incompatible with the basic requirements of entertainment.

Bubsy wasn't malicious or unprofessional—he was genuinely enthusiastic about his work and clearly believed in his creative vision. His creative vision just happened to consist entirely of concepts that had already been proven to alienate audiences, implemented in the most annoying way possible.

Janet had built her career on finding ways to present her clients' best qualities to potential partners, but with Bubsy, she was starting to wonder if his best qualities were so overshadowed by his worst ones that traditional representation might be impossible.

The phone rang, interrupting her contemplation.

"Janet, great news!" Bubsy's voice crackled through the speaker. "I just had an idea for a new catchphrase that's even better than 'What could possibly go wrong?' Are you ready for this? 'I know you're watching me play this game!' Get it? Because players are watching, and I know they're watching, so I can talk to them directly!"

Janet looked out her office window at the Pacific Ocean and made a mental note to call her college advisor about that marine biology program.

"That's... very creative, Bubsy. Why don't we discuss it tomorrow?"

"I can't wait! This is going to revolutionize interactive entertainment! I'm going to be the first video game character who truly understands the nature of his own medium!"

After hanging up, Janet realized that Bubsy had achieved something genuinely remarkable: he had created a form of anti-comedy so pure and concentrated that it had somehow transcended traditional entertainment categories entirely.

He wasn't funny, but his complete lack of self-awareness about not being funny had become a kind of performance art. He was so thoroughly convinced of his own comedic genius that watching him fail had become more entertaining than watching him succeed would have been.

Janet began drafting a new marketing strategy, one that embraced rather than fought against Bubsy's fundamental inability to be intentionally entertaining.

In a world where irony and self-awareness had become the dominant forms of humor, maybe the most subversive thing a character could do was be completely, utterly, and sincerely unfunny while believing wholeheartedly in their own comedic brilliance.

It wasn't the career path Janet had planned for herself, but it was definitely the most unique challenge she had ever encountered.

And what could possibly go wrong?

[tamesg]

Tournament Logistics

The World Warrior Tournament contract hit his doorstep on a Tuesday—and levelled everything Marcus Rivera thought he knew about "peak human performance."

He had earned his black belt in karate during college, maintained a deep respect for the discipline and spiritual growth that came from dedicated martial arts training, and had built his event coordination company around a genuine love for combat sports. The World Warrior Tournament seemed like the natural culmination of his career: sixteen elite fighters competing in the most prestigious martial arts competition ever assembled.

The fighters' reputations were legendary in martial arts circles—Ryu, the wandering warrior who had mastered ancient techniques; Ken Masters, the American champion whose form was said to be flawless; Chun-Li, whose speed had become the stuff of legend. Marcus approached the tournament with the excitement of someone who understood how rare it was to witness martial arts practiced at the absolute highest level.

What the insurance policy had not anticipated was Ryu's opening technique reducing the entire west wall of the Thailand venue to molecular dust, or Chun-Li's kicks creating what seismologists later classified as a minor earthquake, or Zangief's wrestling leaving a crater so deep that city engineers had to be called in to ensure the building's foundation remained stable.

That had been day one. Marcus still had fifteen more matches to coordinate.

***

"Mr. Rivera?" His assistant, Jennifer, appeared in the doorway of what had been the venue's preparation room before Ken Masters had somehow set it on fire with his bare hands. "The insurance adjuster is here about yesterday's... incidents."

Marcus looked up from the stack of damage reports he'd been reviewing—seventeen pages documenting what happened when Dhalsim's techniques had interacted with the venue's sprinkler system, creating a steam explosion that the fire chief had described as "a sauna from hell."

"Which incidents?" Marcus asked, though he was beginning to understand that this question would become disturbingly routine. "The wall thing, the floor thing, or the thing where Blanka's fighting style caused a citywide power surge?"

"All of them, I think. He looks... tired."

Marcus gathered his reports and walked out to meet the insurance adjuster, a thin man in a rumpled suit who was standing in what had previously been the arena's main floor, staring at a hole that went down approximately fifteen feet and appeared to have been carved in a perfect spiral pattern.

"Mr. Rivera," the adjuster said without looking up, "I've been in this business for twenty-three years. I've handled claims for everything from minor flooding to major structural collapse. But I have never seen property damage that appears to have been caused by someone rotating at high speed while somehow generating enough downward force to drill through reinforced concrete."

"That would be Zangief's Screw Piledriver," Marcus explained, finding himself oddly defensive of the technique's legitimacy. "It's a signature move. Very traditional, actually—Russian wrestling dating back generations."

"Mr. Rivera, I don't think my company covers 'traditional Russian wrestling' that can bore through building foundations."

Marcus pulled out his copy of the insurance policy, now thoroughly annotated. "Actually, subsection 47-C specifically covers 'unusual applications of traditional martial arts during sanctioned competition,' and this is definitely traditional, even if the results are... comprehensive."

The adjuster gestured at the spiral hole. "Yesterday I received a claim stating that a competitor named Ryu created what appears to be a localized energy discharge that vaporized an entire wall. Not damaged it. Vaporized it."

"Ryu's techniques are extremely advanced," Marcus said, surprised by his own defensiveness. "He's been training for decades to achieve that level of focus and energy control."

"And then there's a report about fighter named Chun-Li whose kicks somehow generated enough wind pressure to shatter every window in a three-block radius."

For the first time since the tournament began, Marcus found himself really thinking about what he was witnessing rather than just managing it. These weren't random acts of destruction—they were the result of martial artists who had achieved something beyond normal human capability through pure dedication to their arts.

"Mr. Rivera," the adjuster said wearily, "I think we need to discuss whether this tournament falls under our 'sporting events' coverage or our 'acts of nature' coverage."

Standing in the ruins of another venue, Marcus realized that maybe the adjuster was asking the wrong question. These fighters weren't natural disasters—they were artists who had pushed their disciplines to levels he'd never imagined possible.

***

The real shift in Marcus's thinking came during the quarter-finals, when he stopped seeing the destruction as a problem to be managed and started recognizing it as evidence of extraordinary mastery.

He was reviewing damage reports from the Brazil venue when he noticed something in the patterns. Ken's fire techniques had left scorch marks that were almost geometrically perfect—not random destruction, but evidence of incredibly precise energy control. Chun-Li's impact sites showed mathematical consistency that suggested her seemingly impossible speed was actually the result of perfect technique rather than mere power.

"Sir," Jennifer found Marcus studying photographs of the arena, "the Brazilian authorities are asking about the atmospheric effects from yesterday's matches."

Marcus looked at the weather reports. The Ken vs. Ryu semi-final had created what meteorologists were calling "localized thermal phenomena," but looking at the data more carefully, Marcus could see that the effects had been surprisingly contained. Despite the spectacular nature of the techniques, the actual impact zone had been remarkably precise.

"These fighters," Marcus said slowly, "they're not out of control. They're incredibly controlled."

"Sir?"

"Look at this data. Ken's Shoryuken created massive thermal effects, but they were focused within a thirty-meter radius. Ryu's Hadoken vaporized a wall, but it left everything else completely untouched. They're not causing random destruction—they're demonstrating surgical precision at impossible power levels."

For the first time since the tournament began, Marcus found himself watching the live feed of the current match not as a coordinator managing damage control, but as a martial arts enthusiast witnessing something unprecedented.

Chun-Li and Zangief were fighting with techniques that generated seismic readings, but every movement displayed perfect form, flawless timing, and complete respect for their opponent. This wasn't chaos—it was martial arts elevated to a level that transcended normal human limitations while maintaining every principle that made the disciplines beautiful.

"Cancel my afternoon meetings," Marcus told Jennifer. "I want to watch the rest of this match."

***

The night before the finals, Marcus sat in his hotel room reviewing footage from each match, finally seeing what he'd been too busy managing to truly appreciate.

Every fighter had maintained perfect adherence to traditional martial arts protocols despite their world-altering capabilities. They honored their opponents, respected the venues as much as possible, and competed with a level of spiritual discipline that elevated their matches beyond mere displays of power.

Ryu's energy projection wasn't just destructive force—it was the culmination of decades spent perfecting the harmony between mind, body, and spirit that ancient martial arts texts described but that most practitioners assumed was metaphorical. Ken's techniques blazed with power, but every movement honored the forms passed down through generations of masters.

Marcus realized that the property damage wasn't a side effect of poor technique—it was proof that he was witnessing martial arts practiced at the mythical level described in ancient traditions. These fighters had achieved something that connected them directly to the legendary warriors of old, when martial arts mastery was said to grant abilities that seemed impossible to modern practitioners.

Tomorrow, he would be coordinating the final match between two individuals who had proven that those old stories weren't mythology—they were accurate descriptions of what martial arts could become when practiced with perfect dedication.

The insurance costs would be astronomical, but Marcus understood now that he wasn't just managing a sporting event. He was facilitating the demonstration of human potential achieved through flawless discipline and unwavering respect for traditional principles.

***

The finals took place at sunrise in a temple courtyard that had hosted martial arts competitions for over three hundred years. Marcus had coordinated with emergency services and monitoring equipment, but for the first time since the tournament began, he was focused not on damage control but on witnessing the absolute pinnacle of martial arts achievement.

Ryu and Ken faced each other across the ancient stones, both moving with the calm confidence of masters who had dedicated their lives to perfecting their arts. They bowed to each other, to the temple, and to the traditions they represented with the same respect that countless martial artists had shown in this same space across centuries.

When they began to fight, Marcus saw something that redefined his understanding of what martial arts could achieve. Every technique was executed with flawless precision that honored generations of wisdom. Every exchange displayed the respect, focus, and spiritual discipline that defined these arts at their highest level.

The energy effects weren't violations of martial arts principles—they were those principles expressed at their absolute peak.

The match lasted exactly seven minutes and forty-three seconds. The final exchange—a perfectly timed Shoryuken meeting a precisely executed Hadoken—created a column of light that reached into the upper atmosphere and left a circular pattern burned into the temple stones that would remain visible for generations.

When it was over, Ken stood victorious but immediately helped Ryu to his feet with profound respect. Both fighters bowed to each other, to the temple, and to the traditions they had just elevated to their highest possible expression.

The temple was still standing. Damaged, certainly—the stones bore scorch marks and the surrounding trees looked like they had survived a controlled lightning storm—but structurally intact and somehow more beautiful for having witnessed something extraordinary.

As Marcus watched the two greatest martial artists in the world conclude their match with the same formal respect that had characterized competitions for thousands of years, he understood that his eight years of tournament experience had been preparation for this moment.

The fighters had achieved something that was both completely impossible and absolutely authentic. They had proven that the legendary descriptions of ancient masters weren't mythology—they were accurate accounts of what martial arts could become when practiced with perfect dedication.

Marcus began drafting his final tournament report, noting that all competitors had adhered to traditional martial arts protocols throughout the competition, and that the structural modifications to various venues had been incidental to witnessing the fulfillment of everything that martial arts had always promised.

He would definitely need to adjust his insurance coverage for future tournaments, but he was already looking forward to coordinating events where the greatest martial artists in the world could continue demonstrating what human potential could achieve through perfect discipline.

After all, he had just learned that true martial arts mastery had no upper limit—and sometimes the most important job of a coordinator was simply to create space for greatness to reveal itself.

[tamesg]

Precision Engineering

Funky Kong was adjusting the gyroscopic stabilizers on his latest barrel cannon prototype when Donkey Kong walked into his workshop carrying what appeared to be the twisted remains of a perfectly good aircraft engine.

"Hey, Funky dude!" DK called out with his usual cheerful obliviousness. "Your plane's making this weird noise."

Funky looked up from his delicate calibration work—seventeen hours of micro-adjustments to achieve optimal trajectory calculations—and examined the mangled piece of machinery that had, until this morning, been a precision-engineered turbofan engine capable of maintaining stable flight at thirty thousand feet.

"Bro," Funky said slowly, his voice maintaining that laid-back cadence that had taken years of meditation to perfect, "this isn't making a weird noise. This is making no noise. Because it's completely destroyed."

"Yeah, that's the weird part," DK replied, setting the engine remnants down with the casual indifference of someone who had never personally built anything more complex than a banana smoothie. "It was working fine, then I tried to make it go faster by hitting it with a barrel, and now it won't start at all."

Funky closed his eyes and took a deep breath, channeling the inner peace that came from years of surfing perfect waves and accepting that the universe operated according to principles beyond his control. When he opened them again, DK was poking curiously at the barrel cannon's targeting computer.

"Whoa, don't touch that!" Funky said, diving across the workshop to protect seventeen hours of calibration work. "That's a precision instrument, man. It's calibrated to within 0.02 degrees of accuracy."

"Cool," DK said, completely ignoring the warning and giving the targeting system a helpful smack that immediately caused error messages to cascade across the display screen. "What's it for?"

Funky watched his morning's work disappear into digital chaos and felt something fundamental shift in his understanding of his chosen profession. This wasn't the first time. It wasn't even the tenth time. It was becoming a pattern so consistent that he was starting to wonder if the problem wasn't his equipment—it was his expectations.

"It was for calculating optimal launch trajectories," he said carefully, watching DK examine the error messages with the focused attention of someone trying to read ancient hieroglyphics. "Now it's for reminding me that maybe I should have gone into theoretical physics instead."

But even as he said it, Funky found himself already mentally redesigning the targeting system with better shock absorption and perhaps a protective casing that could withstand what he was beginning to think of as "standard Kong interaction protocols."

***

The pattern had been developing for months, though Funky had been slow to recognize it for what it really was. He'd been approaching each incident as an isolated case of mechanical misfortune rather than seeing the broader trend: every piece of equipment he built would eventually be subjected to creative problem-solving methods that bore no resemblance to the manufacturer's intended use.

Take last week's mine cart incident. Cranky Kong had brought him the remains of what had once been a vintage cart that Funky had spent three months restoring to museum-quality condition. Hand-carved wooden wheels, precision-machined axles, suspension system that could handle rough terrain while maintaining passenger comfort—it had been a masterpiece of functional restoration.

"The wheels fell off," Cranky had explained, dumping a pile of splinters onto Funky's workbench.

"All of them?" Funky had asked, though he was beginning to suspect he already knew the answer.

"Well, the first one fell off when I hit that big rock. Then the second one fell off when I tried to stop the cart by jamming a stick in the spokes. The third one kind of exploded when I decided the best way to fix the other problems was to drive faster."

"And the fourth wheel?"

"Oh, that one's fine. It's still attached to the cart. Well, what's left of the cart."

At the time, Funky had chalked it up to Cranky's age affecting his judgment. But now, watching DK systematically explore every button and lever on the barrel cannon despite being explicitly told not to touch anything, Funky was starting to understand that this wasn't about age or carelessness. This was about a fundamental philosophical difference in how the Kong family approached technology.

Where Funky saw precision instruments designed for specific purposes, they saw versatile tools that could probably be improved with sufficient application of force.

"So this shoots barrels?" DK asked, having apparently deciphered the cannon's basic function despite the error messages.

"It launches passengers in aerodynamically designed containers along mathematically calculated trajectories," Funky corrected, then immediately realized how pretentious that sounded. "Yeah, it shoots barrels."

"Could it shoot bigger barrels?"

"Why would you want bigger barrels?"

"More room for bananas."

And there it was—the disconnect that Funky was finally beginning to understand. He designed transportation systems; DK wanted banana delivery mechanisms. He created precision instruments; they needed tools that could be operated by someone whose primary technical training involved swinging from vines.

***

The real revelation came when Diddy Kong showed up that afternoon to collect what remained of his jet pack. Funky had spent eight hours the previous day fine-tuning the personal aircraft for maximum fuel efficiency—recalibrating combustion systems, optimizing fuel injectors, programming the flight computer to extract every possible mile from each gallon of aviation fuel.

"Thanks for the tune-up!" Diddy said cheerfully, hefting the charred, sticky wreckage that had once been capable of vertical takeoff and landing. "It was working great until I tried flying through that thunderstorm."

Funky looked at the remains of forty hours of precision engineering work and felt his worldview completing another fundamental shift. "Diddy, bro, why did you fly through a thunderstorm?"

"I wanted to see what would happen."

"And when the lightning fried all the electrical systems?"

"I figured I could fix it by pouring banana smoothie into the fuel tank. You know, for extra potassium."

"Potassium is for muscles, dude. Jet engines need aviation fuel."

"Oh," Diddy said thoughtfully. "That explains the screaming sound."

But as Funky examined the wreckage more closely, he started noticing something interesting. Despite the obvious damage from electrical fire and fruit-based mechanical intervention, several of his core design elements had actually held up remarkably well. The main housing was intact, the primary thrust vectoring system was still functional, and even the landing gear had survived what appeared to have been a controlled crash into something very solid.

"How did you land this thing after it caught fire?" Funky asked.

"Oh, I just aimed for the softest-looking trees and hoped for the best."

The fact that Diddy had not only survived but was standing here having a casual conversation suggested that maybe Funky's safety systems were more robust than he'd realized. Sure, the jet pack was destroyed, but the pilot was fine, and in the end, wasn't that the most important measurement of successful engineering?

"You know what, Diddy? Next time I'll build in some lightning protection. And maybe a separate compartment for banana smoothies."

"Really? That would be awesome!"

As Diddy left with his twisted wreckage, Funky found himself sketching modifications that would make his next jet pack design more resistant to both meteorological phenomena and creative refueling attempts. It wasn't defeat—it was adaptation.

***

The breakthrough in his thinking came when he started working on what he privately called "the Kong problem." Instead of treating each equipment failure as an isolated incident, he began analyzing them as data points in a larger engineering challenge: how do you design precision instruments for users who view precision as more of a starting suggestion than a binding requirement?

The answer, he realized, wasn't to build more delicate equipment and then get frustrated when it broke. The answer was to build equipment that could remain functional despite being operated by individuals who might, at any moment, decide to optimize its performance by hitting it with something heavy.

This led to the barrel cannon Mark VII project—though he didn't tell anyone about the "Mark VII" designation, since it implied the existence of six previous versions that had been deemed insufficiently Kong-resistant.

The Mark VII incorporated everything Funky had learned about Kong family interaction protocols: triple-redundant targeting systems in case someone decided to "help" with the calculations, shock-absorbing barrel construction for users who might attempt in-flight modifications, automatic trajectory correction for passengers who somehow managed to redirect their flight path mid-launch, and enough safety protocols to ensure survival even if the user actively tried to break something during operation.

It was, in engineering terms, the most over-designed piece of equipment he'd ever created. It was also, he suspected, the first thing he'd built that might actually survive contact with its intended operators.

***

The opportunity to test his new philosophy came sooner than expected. King K. Rool's latest doomsday device had been spotted approaching the island, and the entire Kong family had assembled in Funky's workshop requesting immediate transportation to the confrontation site.

"We need to get to Crocodile Isle, like, immediately," DK announced, still carrying the broken targeting computer from the morning's incident. "Can you get us there?"

Six months ago, Funky would have spent the next hour explaining proper pre-flight procedures, safety protocols, and the critical importance of not modifying equipment during operation. He would have insisted on comprehensive system checks, reviewed emergency procedures, and required signed waivers acknowledging that precision instruments were not designed for percussive maintenance.

But six months ago, he hadn't understood what precision engineering actually meant in a world populated by well-meaning individuals who approached complex problems with enthusiastic simplicity.

"You know what?" Funky said, walking over to a tarp-covered shape in the corner of his workshop. "I've been working on something special for exactly this kind of situation."

He pulled away the tarp, revealing what appeared to be a standard barrel cannon but which was actually the culmination of two years of hard-won engineering experience. Every component had been designed around the assumption that it would be subjected to creative modifications by users who had never read an instruction manual and wouldn't follow one if they had.

"Meet the Kong Launcher Mark VII," Funky announced. "Specifically designed for maximum reliability under... challenging operating conditions."

"Does it go really fast?" DK asked, already examining the cannon with the expression of someone planning helpful improvements.

"Faster than anything you've ever broken," Funky replied, which was both absolutely true and slightly concerning, but also exactly the kind of engineering challenge he'd learned to embrace.

What he didn't mention was that the Mark VII had been designed specifically for users who might try to increase their flight speed by throwing objects in the opposite direction, who could be counted on to remove safety equipment if it interfered with their aerodynamics, and who viewed "optimal trajectory" as a suggestion rather than a carefully calculated mathematical requirement.

The beautiful thing was, it would work anyway.

***

Twenty minutes later, Funky watched through his telescope as DK, Diddy, and Cranky flew in perfect formation toward Crocodile Isle. Their trajectories had been calculated to within centimeters, their landing coordinates pre-programmed for optimal tactical positioning, and their flight paths automatically adjusting for wind resistance and gravitational variables.

For exactly thirty seconds, he felt the deep satisfaction that came from watching precision engineering perform flawlessly under real-world conditions.

Then he watched DK somehow manage to redirect his flight path by throwing coconuts in the opposite direction—which, Funky noted with professional admiration, actually improved his aerodynamics. He saw Diddy attempt to optimize his speed by removing his hat during flight—a modification that, according to Funky's instruments, reduced drag by approximately 3%. And he observed Cranky try to increase his velocity by leaning forward really hard—which, surprisingly, had no effect whatsoever but didn't break anything either.

All three Kongs landed safely at their destination, which was a testament not just to Funky's engineering redundancy, but to his growing understanding that maybe the best solutions weren't the ones that prevented creative problem-solving—they were the ones that could incorporate it.

As he watched his precision-engineered equipment adapt in real-time to user modifications he'd never anticipated but had somehow designed for anyway, Funky realized he'd finally solved the fundamental engineering challenge of Kong Island: how to create perfect solutions that could remain perfect even when operated by people who viewed "perfect" as something that could probably be improved with the right application of fruit-based modifications.

His equipment might not stay pristine, but it got the job done. And in a world where the primary threat to mechanical systems was enthusiastic Kong family members with creative ideas about optimization, maybe "functional despite everything" wasn't just acceptable engineering—maybe it was the highest form of engineering achievement possible.

Plus, he had to admit, watching DK use advanced aerodynamics to redirect his flight path with strategically thrown coconuts had been genuinely impressive, even if it had violated several principles Funky thought were fundamental to physics.

Sometimes the best precision engineering wasn't about building things that couldn't be improved. Sometimes it was about building things that could be improved by anyone, in any way they could imagine, and still work exactly as intended.

Even if the improvements involved bananas.

[tamesg]

Keeping Up

Miles "Tails" Prower was hovering three feet above Green Hill Zone's most notorious spike pit, watching his hero die for the seventh time in ten minutes, when he started to wonder if maybe Sonic the Hedgehog wasn't quite as naturally gifted at the whole "going fast" thing as everyone believed.

It wasn't that Sonic lacked speed—when he got going on a straight stretch of ground, he was genuinely the fastest thing Tails had ever seen, a blue blur that could outrun wind and leave physics scratching its head in confusion. The problem was that most of Mobius wasn't actually designed as a series of straight stretches.

Most of Mobius had spikes.

"Aw, come on!" Sonic's voice echoed up from the respawn point below, tinged with the particular frustration that came from making the same mistake repeatedly. "That spike wasn't there before!"

Tails drifted down to where Sonic was dusting himself off, his twin tails spinning with the nervous energy that always accompanied these conversations. "Actually, Sonic, I think it was. Same place as the last six times."

"Yeah, well, it's badly positioned," Sonic replied, already bouncing on his heels with that restless energy that never seemed to leave him. "Who puts a spike right in the middle of a perfectly good running lane? It's like they don't want people to go fast."

This was, Tails had begun to realize, exactly the point. The spike was positioned precisely where someone going very fast would hit it if they weren't paying attention to where they were going. It was, in technical terms, an obstacle—the kind of thing that was supposed to make you slow down and think about your approach.

But suggesting that Sonic slow down felt like suggesting that fire should be less hot or that water should be less wet. Speed wasn't just what Sonic did; it was who he was. It said so right there in his marketing materials.

"Want me to fly ahead and spot for hazards?" Tails offered, the same suggestion he'd been making for weeks.

"Nah, buddy, I got this," Sonic said, winding up for another attempt. "Just gotta trust my instincts and let the speed take over."

Tails watched Sonic rocket forward with that magnificent acceleration that never failed to make him feel proud to be associated with such an incredible hero. For about four seconds, it looked like everything was going to work out perfectly.

Then Sonic hit the exact same spike in the exact same way, accompanied by the exact same sound effect.

***

The pattern had been developing for months, though Tails had been slow to recognize it. At first, he'd attributed Sonic's frequent encounters with environmental hazards to bad luck, or poorly designed terrain, or the obvious conspiracy by robotics manufacturers to make their spike traps as inconveniently placed as possible.

But as they'd worked their way through zone after zone—Marble, Spring Yard, Labyrinth, Star Light—a troubling consistency had emerged. Sonic would charge forward with absolute confidence, hit an obstacle that had been clearly visible from fifty yards away, respawn with a comment about poor level design, and immediately attempt the exact same approach.

"The thing is," Tails had overheard Sonic explaining to a group of woodland creatures they'd recently liberated, "speed is all about commitment. You can't second-guess yourself when you're moving at sonic velocity. You just gotta trust the process."

The woodland creatures had nodded appreciatively, clearly impressed by this philosophy. Tails had said nothing, but privately wondered if "the process" might benefit from occasionally including basic observational skills.

It wasn't that Sonic was slow to learn—when he finally did adjust his approach to a particular obstacle, he usually figured out an elegant solution. The problem was that "finally" often came after a dozen or more attempts, and "elegant" frequently involved bouncing off three walls and a spring to avoid having to actually slow down.

"Hey Tails," Sonic called, having just successfully navigated the spike pit via an unnecessarily complex route involving two loop-de-loops and a backwards wall-jump. "You coming or what? We got robots to smash!"

Tails spun his tails and caught up, marveling once again at how Sonic could make even basic locomotion look impossibly cool. This was why he'd started following Sonic in the first place—not just the speed, but the way Sonic made everything seem effortless and natural, like the laws of physics were just suggestions that didn't apply to truly cool people.

Except lately, Tails was starting to notice that maybe the laws of physics applied to everyone, and Sonic was just really, really good at making repeated failures look like intentional style choices.

***

The revelation came during their assault on Scrap Brain Zone, arguably the most hazardous environment they'd yet encountered. The zone was a maze of conveyor belts, crushing pistons, and electrical barriers—the sort of place that demanded careful timing and spatial awareness rather than pure speed.

Sonic had been struggling with it for two hours.

"Okay, new strategy," Sonic announced after his fifteenth encounter with the same crushing piston. "I'm gonna hit it even faster this time. Catch it off guard."

Tails watched from a safe distance as Sonic wound up for what was clearly going to be attempt number sixteen. The piston had a rhythm—down for three seconds, up for two, down for three, up for two. It was perfectly predictable. You could set a watch by it.

Sonic hit it at the exact moment it was coming down, just like the previous fifteen times.

"That's weird," Sonic said, respawning with a slightly glazed expression. "It's like it knew I was coming."

And that's when it hit Tails like a falling anvil: Sonic genuinely didn't see the pattern. It wasn't that he was choosing to ignore the timing—he literally couldn't process visual information quickly enough while moving at high speed. His brain was so focused on going fast that it had no capacity left for noting important details like "large metal object moving in predictable pattern directly ahead."

"Sonic," Tails said carefully, "what if you tried waiting for the piston to go up before running under it?"

Sonic looked at him with the patient expression of someone explaining something obvious to a child. "Buddy, if I wait for it to go up, then I'm not going fast. And if I'm not going fast, then what's the point?"

"The point might be not getting crushed?"

"Yeah, but then it wouldn't be impressive."

Tails felt something shift in his understanding of his hero. All this time, he'd assumed that Sonic's approach to obstacles was based on skill and confidence. But what if it was actually based on something closer to... stubbornness? What if Sonic kept hitting the same traps not because he couldn't figure out how to avoid them, but because avoiding them would require admitting that speed wasn't always the answer?

***

The crisis came in Chemical Plant Zone, at a section that involved jumping across a series of platforms while avoiding rising purple water that was definitely not safe for swimming. It was the sort of challenge that required precise timing and careful planning—you had to judge the height of the water, calculate the distance between platforms, and execute each jump with mathematical precision.

Sonic had been drowning in purple chemical water for twenty minutes.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered after respawning for the dozenth time. "Who builds a facility where you can't actually swim in the water?"

"Well," Tails said hesitantly, "I think the purple color is supposed to indicate that it's toxic chemical waste, so swimming in it would probably be—"

"It's just bad engineering," Sonic interrupted. "Water should be swimmable. That's the whole point of water."

Tails watched Sonic line up for another attempt and realized with crystalline clarity that his hero—the fastest hedgehog alive, the coolest guy in the world, the person he'd looked up to since he was old enough to spin his tails—was not actually very good at being Sonic the Hedgehog.

He was fast, sure. Incredibly fast. But being fast and being good at navigating obstacle courses while fast were apparently two completely different skill sets, and Sonic had mastered only one of them.

"Maybe," Tails suggested quietly, "you could try going a little slower through this section? Just until you get the timing down?"

The look Sonic gave him was so full of betrayal that Tails immediately felt guilty for suggesting it. "Tails, buddy, I thought you understood. I'm Sonic the Hedgehog. I don't do slower. Slower is for people who aren't fast enough to do faster."

And with that, Sonic charged forward into the chemical water again, moving with such magnificent speed and confidence that for a moment Tails almost forgot that this was attempt number thirteen of the exact same approach.

***

That night, as they camped in the space between zones, Tails found himself staring up at the stars and grappling with a revelation that felt too big for his young mind to fully process. His hero, it turned out, was not the effortlessly competent speedster he'd always appeared to be. He was something more complicated and, in a way, more admirable: someone who had built his entire identity around a single skill and was so committed to that identity that he'd rather fail spectacularly than succeed in any way that didn't align with his self-image.

"Hey Sonic," Tails said into the darkness, "can I ask you something?"

"Sure, buddy."

"Don't you ever get frustrated? You know, with all the... obstacles?"

Sonic was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice carried a note of something that might have been uncertainty, though it was hard to tell in the dark.

"Here's the thing, Tails. Everyone expects me to be the fastest. That's my whole deal, right? If I start slowing down, being careful, thinking before I move... then what am I? Just another hedgehog who happens to be blue."

Tails felt his heart do something complicated in his chest. "But what if being careful made you even faster overall? Like, if you didn't have to keep restarting sections?"

"That's not how it works," Sonic replied, but his voice lacked its usual confidence. "You can't be spontaneous and careful at the same time. You can't be a free spirit who plans ahead. The whole point is trusting yourself enough to just... go."

And lying there in the dark, listening to his hero wrestle with the contradictions of his own philosophy, Tails finally understood what he was really witnessing. Sonic wasn't failing because he lacked skill or intelligence. He was failing because he'd trapped himself in a mythology of effortless coolness that didn't allow for learning, adaptation, or the kind of basic problem-solving that might require acknowledging that pure speed wasn't always sufficient.

"I think you're plenty fast even when you're being smart about it," Tails said quietly.

"Thanks, buddy," Sonic replied. "But smart isn't really my brand."

The next morning, Tails watched Sonic approach the same Chemical Plant section with the same unwavering confidence, the same commitment to going fast regardless of consequences. And as his hero promptly drowned in purple chemical water for the fourteenth time, Tails felt a complex mixture of frustration, affection, and something that might have been the beginning of wisdom.

Heroes, he was learning, were not the same thing as role models. And sometimes the most loyal thing you could do for someone you admired was to stop pretending their flaws were actually strengths.

But he kept following anyway, because even a Sonic who couldn't navigate obstacles was still the most interesting person in the world to watch fail with style.

[tamesg]

Radio Silence

Falco Lombardi had been trying to reach Fox McCloud for three days, seventeen hours, and forty-two minutes when he finally admitted to himself that this wasn't just Fox being moody about their last mission.

The first day, he'd figured Fox was sulking. The mission to Fichina had gone sideways when Fox had insisted on a direct assault instead of Falco's suggested flanking maneuver, and they'd barely escaped with their ships intact. Fox always got weird when his tactical calls didn't work out perfectly—brooding in his quarters, ignoring comm requests, the whole martyred leader routine.

The second day, Falco had started to get annoyed. There were contracts waiting, bills to pay, and the Great Fox wasn't going to maintain itself. He'd left increasingly sarcastic messages on Fox's personal comm: "Hey, fearless leader, some of us have rent to pay," and "Just checking if you've finished your dramatic sulking session."

By the third day, the annoyance had curdled into something that felt uncomfortably like worry.

"Still nothing?" Peppy asked, appearing in the doorway of the comm center with that particular expression of fatherly concern that made Falco's feathers ruffle with irritation.

"His ship's still parked at the spaceport on Corneria," Falco said, not looking up from the communication console. "Personal comm is active but he's not answering. Emergency beacon's dark."

"Maybe we should go check on him."

"Maybe Fox should answer his damn comm like a professional."

But even as he said it, Falco knew something was wrong. Fox McCloud was many things—stubborn, self-righteous, occasionally insufferable in his noble hero routine—but he wasn't irresponsible. He'd never left his team hanging without word for this long, no matter how badly a mission had gone.

Peppy settled into the chair beside him, moving with the careful precision of someone whose joints remembered too many high-G maneuvers. "You know, his father used to do this sometimes. James would get quiet after difficult missions, need time to process things."

"This isn't processing. This is—" Falco stopped, realizing he didn't actually know what this was. "Look, if he wants to have a breakdown, fine, but he could at least send a message saying he's having a breakdown. We've got the Bolse defense contract coming up, and General Pepper's been calling twice a day asking for status updates."

"What have you been telling him?"

"That Fox is reviewing tactical options," Falco said. "Which is technically true if Fox is sitting somewhere reviewing the tactical option of never flying again."

The bitter edge in his own voice surprised him. When had he started sounding so... angry? And when had the anger started covering up something that felt more like panic?

***

The morning of day four brought an emergency transmission from Katina. Falco took the call in the briefing room, trying to project the kind of confident authority he'd always mocked when Fox did it.

"Star Fox, this is Colonel Hawkins on Katina. We've got Venomian fighters making runs at our supply convoys. Nothing we can't handle, but Command wants your team as backup. Standard patrol rate, plus combat bonuses if things get hot."

"Understood, Katina," Falco replied, his voice steady despite the fact that his heart was doing something complicated against his ribs. "We'll be in system within six hours."

"Excellent. Oh, and tell Fox that Admiral Brennan sends his regards. They served together during the Fichina campaign."

The comm clicked off, leaving Falco staring at the empty screen and confronting the reality he'd been avoiding for four days: he was going to have to lead this mission himself.

He found Slippy in the engine room, elbow-deep in some maintenance project that probably involved making their already-efficient systems even more efficient. The young mechanic looked up as Falco entered, his expression brightening with the kind of eager optimism that made Falco feel simultaneously protective and exhausted.

"Any word from Fox?" Slippy asked.

"We've got a mission," Falco said instead. "Katina. Escort duty with possible combat."

"Great! When are we meeting Fox at his ship?"

Falco felt something twist uncomfortably in his chest. "We're not. It's just us."

Slippy's wrench slipped, and he barely caught it before it could fall into the engine housing. "Just us? What about Fox?"

"Fox is... handling other business."

The lie tasted wrong in his mouth, too much like the kind of political double-speak he'd always hated when it came from Cornerian Command. But what was the alternative? Our leader has apparently decided he doesn't want to be our leader anymore, and I have no idea why, and I'm starting to think maybe we weren't as much of a team as I thought we were.

"Other business," Slippy repeated slowly. "Like, secret mission other business, or personal other business?"

"Does it matter? We can handle a simple escort mission."

But as Falco walked toward the hangar to prep his Arwing, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was lying to himself as much as to Slippy. They'd done hundreds of missions with Fox calling the shots, Fox analyzing the tactical situation, Fox making the split-second decisions that kept them all alive.

How many of those decisions had Falco actually understood at the time? How many times had he complained about Fox's overcautious approach or his tendency to micromanage, without really grasping the weight of being responsible for everyone's survival?

***

The mission to Katina should have been routine. Three supply freighters running a standard route from the agri-stations to the main colony, with Star Fox flying escort pattern to discourage opportunistic raiders.

It started falling apart approximately forty minutes into the flight.

"Slippy, stay tight on freighter two," Falco called over the comm, watching his radar display with growing unease. "Peppy, you've got a bogey at two o'clock, probably just a merchant ship but keep an eye on it."

"Copy that," Peppy replied, his voice carrying the steady calm of someone who'd been flying combat missions since before Falco was hatched. "Freighter three is drifting a bit wide of formation."

Falco switched to the civilian frequency. "Katina freight three, tighten up your spacing. You're an easy target out there."

"Star Fox, this is freight three," came the crackling reply. "We're having some engine trouble. Can't maintain full speed."

And that's when everything went wrong at once.

The merchant ship that Peppy had been tracking suddenly accelerated, revealing itself as a Venomian fighter that had been running silent. Two more fighters decloaked from behind the nearest asteroid, and suddenly the neat escort formation was chaos.

"All ships, break formation!" Falco shouted, his training taking over even as his mind went blank with the sudden realization that everyone was looking to him for orders. "Peppy, take the high fighter! Slippy, stay with the freighters!"

But the Venomian pilots had clearly planned this ambush carefully. The damaged freighter was a sitting duck, and the attackers were focusing their fire on the escort ships, trying to eliminate Star Fox before finishing off the cargo vessels.

Falco found himself in a turning fight with a pilot who was either very good or very lucky, pulling Gs that made his vision gray at the edges while trying to maintain awareness of the broader battle. This was the kind of fluid, multi-target engagement that Fox always seemed to navigate effortlessly, calling out threats and coordinating responses while somehow keeping track of everyone's position and status.

"Falco, I need support!" Slippy's voice cracked over the comm. "Two fighters on my tail and I can't shake them!"

"Peppy's closer!" Falco replied, lining up a shot on his own target and missing as the Venomian pilot pulled an impossible banking turn. "Peppy, assist Slippy!"

"I'm engaged with my own problems here!"

Falco felt sweat beading under his flight helmet as he realized he couldn't see the tactical picture the way Fox always could. The radar was a mess of blips and vectors, and he couldn't tell which of his teammates was in the most immediate danger, couldn't prioritize threats the way a real leader would.

"Freight two is taking fire!" someone called—Falco couldn't even tell who anymore.

"Slippy, talk to me!" Falco shouted, but got only static in response.

For a terrifying moment, Falco thought they'd lost him. Then Slippy's voice came back, shaky but alive: "I'm okay, but my laser array is fried. I'm combat-ineffective."

That's when Falco finally managed to line up a clean shot, sending his pursuer spinning into the void in a cascade of sparks and debris. He immediately swung around to assess the situation, and what he saw made his stomach drop.

Freight two was venting atmosphere from multiple hull breaches. Freight three had stopped dead in space, either from engine failure or crew panic. Peppy was limping, trailing plasma from what looked like a damaged stabilizer. And the remaining Venomian fighters were regrouping for another attack run.

This was the moment when Fox would have done something brilliant—identified a weakness in the enemy formation, or found a way to use the asteroid field to their advantage, or coordinated a maneuver that turned near-defeat into victory.

Falco had no idea what that something would be.

"All Star Fox ships, fall back to the freighters," he called, hoping his voice sounded more confident than he felt. "We'll make a defensive stand."

It wasn't brilliant. It wasn't even particularly tactical. But it was something, and right now something was better than the paralysis that had been creeping up his spine.

The next few minutes were a grinding, desperate affair—keeping the fighters at bay while the freight crews attempted emergency repairs, managing ammunition and watching fuel levels drop, trying to coordinate defensive fire while protecting three civilian ships that couldn't protect themselves.

When the Katina Defense Force finally arrived—two full squadrons responding to the distress call—Falco felt relief wash over him like a physical force. The Venomian fighters, suddenly outnumbered four to one, broke off and disappeared into hyperspace.

"Star Fox, this is Katina Defense Leader," came the voice over the comm. "We'll take it from here. Nice work keeping the civilians alive."

Nice work. The words should have felt like praise, but instead they felt like a reminder of how close things had come to disaster. If the cavalry had arrived five minutes later, if the Venomians had brought one more fighter, if any of a dozen variables had shifted slightly...

"All ships, return to base," Falco said quietly.

The flight back to the Great Fox was conducted in silence.

***

Peppy found him in the hangar afterward, sitting on a maintenance crate and staring at his Arwing's laser arrays like they might contain answers to questions he didn't know how to ask.

"First time leading a combat mission?" Peppy asked, settling down beside him with a grunt.

"Is it that obvious?"

"Only to someone who's been there." Peppy was quiet for a moment, studying the scratched and scorched hull of his own ship. "You did fine, Falco. Everyone came home."

"Barely."

"Barely counts. Trust me on that one."

Falco looked up at the older pilot, seeing for the first time the lines around his eyes, the way his hands weren't quite steady anymore. "How did you do it? When you were leading missions during the first Andross war?"

"Same way you just did. Make the best decisions you can with the information you have, try to keep everyone alive, and hope you get lucky." Peppy paused. "The difference is, I had James McCloud watching my back. Made it easier to be brave when you knew someone that good was covering your mistakes."

"And now we've got Fox."

"Had Fox," Peppy corrected gently. "Past tense, apparently."

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the ambient hum of the Great Fox's life support systems and the distant sound of Slippy working on his damaged ship. Finally, Falco asked the question that had been eating at him for four days.

"Do you think he's coming back?"

Peppy was quiet for so long that Falco thought he wasn't going to answer. When he finally spoke, his voice carried the weight of too many years and too many losses.

"I think Fox McCloud has been carrying his father's legacy and everyone else's expectations since he was barely out of flight school. I think he's been making life-and-death decisions for people he cares about since before he was old enough to understand what that kind of responsibility does to you." He looked directly at Falco. "And I think maybe he's finally figured out that being a hero isn't the same thing as being happy."

"So what do we do?"

"Same thing we've always done. Take care of each other, try to do the right thing, and hope it's enough."

Falco found himself thinking about the moment during the battle when he'd thought they'd lost Slippy, the way panic had cut through him like a physical blade. Was that what Fox felt during every mission? That constant awareness that any decision might be the one that got someone killed?

"I always thought he made it look too easy," Falco said quietly.

"That's because he's good at it. Doesn't mean it was easy."

***

General Pepper's call came the next morning, patched through to the briefing room with the formal efficiency that always meant either very good news or very bad news.

"Star Fox, this is General Pepper. I trust yesterday's mission was successful?"

Falco straightened unconsciously, falling into the professional posture he'd always mocked when Fox did it. "Mission accomplished, General. All civilians safe, enemy forces neutralized."

"Excellent. I have another assignment for your team. Intelligence suggests Venomian forces are massing near the Meteo asteroid field. We need reconnaissance data on their fleet composition and probable objectives."

A scouting mission in one of the most dangerous regions of the Lylat System. The kind of assignment that required split-second navigation through moving asteroids, perfect coordination between team members, and the kind of tactical brilliance that could turn a reconnaissance run into an escape from overwhelming enemy forces.

The kind of mission that Fox would have accepted without hesitation, already formulating plans and contingencies before the briefing was over.

"General," Falco said slowly, "we'll need some time to review tactical options and prepare—"

"Time is a luxury we don't have, Star Fox. Intelligence indicates they're planning to move within the next forty-eight hours. We need that reconnaissance data."

Falco looked around the briefing room—at Peppy's steady, expectant expression, at Slippy's eager nod, at the empty chair where Fox should have been sitting. Three days ago, he would have been complaining about Fox's overcautious mission planning, his tendency to spend hours analyzing scenarios that Falco thought they could handle on the fly.

Now, faced with the responsibility of making decisions that could get his teammates killed, Falco finally understood what all that careful planning had really been about.

"We'll take the mission, General," he said, hoping his voice carried more confidence than he felt. "Star Fox will have your reconnaissance data within thirty-six hours."

"Outstanding. Pepper out."

The comm clicked off, leaving Falco alone with his team and the growing realization that being the one everyone looked to for answers was the loneliest job in the galaxy.

But as he looked at Peppy and Slippy—both watching him with the same trust they'd always given Fox—Falco felt something shift inside him. Not confidence, exactly, but something closer to resolution.

Maybe Fox was right to walk away. Maybe the smart thing was to recognize when a job was too big for you and find something else to do with your life.

But someone had to keep Star Fox flying. Someone had to take the missions that protected the people who couldn't protect themselves. Someone had to make the hard decisions and live with the consequences.

And apparently, that someone was going to be Falco Lombardi.

"All right," he said, standing up and moving to the tactical display. "Let's figure out how to scout the Meteo field without getting ourselves killed. Slippy, I need everything you know about asteroid field navigation. Peppy, start pulling intelligence files on Venomian fleet compositions. And someone get me a very large cup of coffee."

As his teammates moved to their tasks with the familiar efficiency of professionals who trusted their leader, Falco found himself wondering if Fox had ever felt this combination of terror and determination.

Probably every day, he realized. Every single day for years.

"All right," he said, turning back to the tactical display. "Let's get to work."

[tamesg]

The Bug Catcher's Blues

Tommy Nakamura was standing in Route 3's tall grass, surrounded by the evidence of his dedication, when he finally admitted to himself that maybe, just maybe, his career trajectory wasn't following the traditional arc of Pokémon training excellence.

It wasn't that he lacked dedication. His lunchbox, packed each morning by his mother with rice balls and apple slices, remained untouched until exactly noon, when he would eat while maintaining visual contact with the grass, ready to spring into action at the first sign of movement. His bug net—a birthday gift from his grandfather who had been a Bug Catcher himself—gleamed with the kind of meticulous care usually reserved for ceremonial swords.

The problem, Tommy was beginning to understand, was more fundamental than equipment or commitment.

The problem was that his Caterpie, Frederick, had been level 6 for three weeks.

***

Tommy's first battle of the day came at 8:23 AM, announced by the telltale sound of expensive sneakers squelching through the post-rain mud. A trainer emerged from the grass wearing a red baseball cap and carrying himself with the insufferable confidence of someone who had never lost a battle to a Caterpie.

"Hey!" the boy called, pointing dramatically in Tommy's direction. "I challenge you to a Pokémon battle!"

Tommy sighed and reached for Frederick's Pokéball. This was his forty-third challenge since taking up residence in Route 3, and while he maintained a careful log of each encounter in a spiral notebook, the results had achieved a consistency that might have been impressive if it weren't so thoroughly depressing.

"Go, Frederick!" Tommy called, releasing his Caterpie into the muddy clearing.

Frederick appeared in a flash of red light, blinking slowly in the morning drizzle. The small green Pokémon had developed what Tommy interpreted as a philosophical resignation to their circumstances—a sort of dignified acceptance of inevitable defeat that Tommy found both admirable and deeply troubling.

"A Caterpie?" The other trainer laughed with genuine delight. "This'll be easy! Go, Charmander!"

Tommy watched the small orange lizard materialize and felt the familiar sinking sensation in his stomach. Fire type. Again. It was always fire types, or flying types, or literally anything that wasn't a grass type weak to bug moves.

"Charmander, use Ember!"

The attack connected with depressing efficiency. Frederick squeaked once—a sound that had evolved over their many defeats from pained surprise to weary acknowledgment—and collapsed in the mud.

"Frederick is unable to battle," Tommy announced with the practiced cadence of someone who had said those words far too often. "You win."

The other trainer collected his prize money with the gracious smile of someone accepting an inevitability, recalled his Charmander, and disappeared back into the tall grass to find more challenging opponents.

Tommy knelt beside Frederick and sprayed him with a Potion, watching the small Pokémon slowly return to consciousness. This was the part that hurt the most—not the losing, but the gentle, trusting way Frederick looked at him afterward, as if to say: Surely next time will be different.

"I'm sorry, Frederick," Tommy whispered. "I know you're trying your best."

Frederick nudged against Tommy's leg with what might have been forgiveness or might have been resignation. Tommy had stopped trying to tell the difference.

***

By noon, Tommy had lost six more battles.

He sat on a fallen log, sharing his lunch with Frederick and updating his battle log with the methodical precision of a scientist documenting a particularly slow-moving disaster. The notebook contained forty-nine recorded defeats against a variety of trainers, ranging from cocky ten-year-olds with starter Pokémon to more experienced trainers who seemed genuinely apologetic about the one-sided nature of their encounters.

His win column remained conspicuously blank.

"Maybe," Tommy said to Frederick, who was nibbling contemplatively on a piece of apple, "we should consider diversifying our team composition."

But even as he said it, Tommy knew he wouldn't follow through. His grandfather had been a Bug Catcher, and his grandfather's grandfather before him. The Nakamura family had been training bug-type Pokémon for four generations, maintaining a proud tradition of... well, losing battles, mostly, but losing them with dignity and unwavering commitment to their chosen specialization.

"The thing is," Tommy continued, his voice taking on the tone of someone trying to convince himself as much as his Pokémon, "bug types have hidden potential. Everyone underestimates them, but that just means they're not expecting our strategies."

Frederick looked up from his apple with what Tommy chose to interpret as thoughtful consideration rather than polite confusion.

"Like, what if we trained really hard and got you to level ten? Then you could evolve into Metapod, and Metapod has Harden. That's a defensive move. Very strategic."

The enthusiasm in Tommy's voice wavered slightly as he realized that Metapod's primary battle strategy consisted of becoming very, very difficult to defeat while also being completely incapable of dealing any meaningful damage in return. It was the Pokémon equivalent of winning a fight by becoming too boring for your opponent to continue punching.

***

The afternoon brought three more battles, each following the same dispiriting pattern. A trainer would emerge from the grass, spot Tommy's distinctive bug catcher outfit and net, and challenge him with the eager anticipation of someone who had just discovered a conveniently placed vending machine.

The third trainer of the afternoon was a girl named Lisa who couldn't have been older than eight, traveling with a Pidgey that she had clearly just caught. Tommy felt a brief flutter of hope—surely a newly caught Pidgey wouldn't be much stronger than Frederick.

"Go, Pidgey!" Lisa called. "Use Gust!"

The wind attack lifted Frederick three feet into the air before depositing him unconsciously in a nearby puddle. The battle lasted approximately four seconds.

"Wow," Lisa said, counting her prize money with the careful attention of someone who had never seen so many coins at once. "My mom said bug catchers were supposed to be tougher than that."

Tommy retrieved Frederick from the puddle and administered another Potion, trying to ignore the way the small Pokémon seemed to sink deeper into philosophical melancholy with each revival.

"Your mom was probably thinking of different bug catchers," Tommy replied quietly. "More successful ones."

***

As evening approached, Tommy found himself conducting his daily equipment maintenance ritual—polishing his bug net, organizing his Potions, and carefully documenting the day's defeats in his battle log. The routine had become meditative, a way of processing the steady accumulation of evidence that his chosen career path might have some fundamental flaws.

Frederick had curled up beside him, using Tommy's backpack as a pillow. In sleep, the small Pokémon looked peaceful, free from the burden of consciousness that brought with it the knowledge of tomorrow's inevitable battles.

Tommy opened his grandfather's journal—a leather-bound book that had been passed down through the family, containing the wisdom and strategies of four generations of Bug Catchers. He flipped to a page near the middle, where his grandfather had written: "The true strength of bug types lies not in their power, but in their persistence. A Caterpie may lose a thousand battles, but it only needs to win once to evolve."

Tommy had read this passage hundreds of times, drawing comfort from its implication that persistence would eventually be rewarded. But as he sat in the gathering dusk of his forty-seventh day on Route 3, he began to wonder if his grandfather might have been engaging in the sort of optimistic self-deception that kept the Nakamura family legacy alive despite all evidence to the contrary.

Maybe the real lesson wasn't about the hidden strength of bug types. Maybe it was about the hidden strength required to keep believing in something that brought you nothing but gentle, daily humiliation.

***

The next morning brought Tommy's fiftieth battle, against a trainer named Marcus who traveled with a Squirtle that looked embarrassed to be participating in what was clearly going to be a one-sided encounter.

"Water Gun," Marcus called halfheartedly.

Frederick went down without a sound, having apparently achieved a state of zen-like acceptance of his role in the cosmic order.

As Tommy administered what felt like his thousandth Potion, he found himself thinking about alternate career paths. Maybe he could become a Pokémon researcher, studying bug types from a safe, academic distance. Or a breeder, helping other people's Pokémon become strong enough to defeat other people's Bug Catchers.

"I'm really sorry," Marcus said, his voice carrying genuine sympathy. "I mean, I needed the experience points, but this doesn't feel like much of a challenge."

Tommy looked up from Frederick's prone form and realized something that should have been obvious weeks ago: he wasn't fighting to win anymore. Somewhere between battle fifteen and battle forty, winning had stopped being the point. He was here because this was where he belonged—in the tall grass with Frederick, part of the landscape, as permanent and reliable as the route markers.

He was, he understood with sudden clarity, exactly the kind of trainer his grandfather had probably been—and his grandfather's grandfather before him.

"It's okay," Tommy said, and was surprised to find that he meant it. "Everyone needs to start somewhere."

As Marcus disappeared back into the tall grass, Tommy picked up Frederick and walked slowly toward the edge of Route 3. Maybe it was time to go home, to hang up his bug net and find a new way to honor the family tradition. Maybe he could open a small shop selling bug-catching supplies, helping the next generation of optimistic young trainers prepare for their own inevitable string of defeats.

Frederick stirred in his arms, looking up with those trusting dark eyes that had sustained Tommy through forty-nine days of systematic humiliation.

"What do you think, Frederick?" Tommy asked quietly. "Ready to try something new?"

Frederick's response was a soft, contented purr that Tommy chose to interpret as agreement, though it might just as easily have been relief.

As they walked away from Route 3 together, Tommy realized that losing every single battle for forty-nine consecutive days had taught him something valuable after all: that sometimes the most courageous thing you could do was admit when you were fundamentally, comprehensively, magnificently wrong about your own abilities.

And that there was a strange kind of dignity in being defeated with grace by eight-year-olds and their newly caught Pidgeys.

Behind them, Route 3's tall grass rustled in the wind, already waiting for the next optimistic Bug Catcher to take up residence and begin their own slow, methodical journey toward enlightenment through systematic defeat.

The tradition would continue. Someone else's grandfather would pass down the family bug net and the comforting mythology of hidden potential. Someone else would stand in the rain for weeks on end, convinced that this time would be different.

Tommy smiled as he walked toward town, Frederick drowsing peacefully in his arms, both of them finally free from the weight of expectations that had never quite matched reality.

Some battles, Tommy had learned, were won by walking away.

[tamesg]

The Potter's Lament

Harold Claywright had been making pottery for thirty-seven years when the Hero of Time first walked into his shop.

It was a Tuesday morning in late autumn, and Harold was arranging his latest batch of ceramic vases on the main display shelf—twelve hours of careful work, each piece thrown and glazed with the patience that only comes from decades of practice. The bell above his door chimed, and in walked a young man in a green tunic, carrying what appeared to be several swords, a bow, and enough equipment to supply a small army.

"Good morning!" Harold called out cheerfully. "Welcome to Claywright Pottery. Please, feel free to browse, but do be care—"

The young man walked directly to Harold's prize vase—a cerulean blue piece with hand-painted golden trim that had taken him three weeks to complete—and smashed it with his sword.

Harold blinked.

The young man collected the three rupees that had somehow materialized from the shattered ceramic, pocketed them with the casual efficiency of someone collecting mail, and moved on to the next vase.

CRASH.

Two more rupees.

"Excuse me," Harold said, his voice climbing an octave. "What are you—"

CRASH. CRASH. CRASH.

In the span of thirty seconds, the Hero of Time had systematically destroyed every piece of pottery on Harold's main display, collected approximately fourteen rupees, made a small "hyah!" sound of satisfaction, and walked out.

Harold stood in his shop, surrounded by ceramic shards and an silence so complete he could hear his own heartbeat. Then he sat down very carefully in his chair and stared at the destruction for exactly forty-three minutes before beginning to sweep.

***

The Hero returned the following Thursday.

This time, Harold was ready. He had spent the week crafting cheaper, smaller pots—what he privately called "smash pottery"—and had hidden his good pieces in the back room. Surely the Hero would be satisfied with the decoy vases.

The young man entered, nodded politely at Harold, and proceeded to destroy every visible piece of pottery with the same methodical efficiency as before. But this time, when he finished with the display area, he walked directly to the back room.

"Wait!" Harold called. "Those aren't for—"

CRASH. CRASH. CRASH.

The Hero emerged from the back room having somehow located and destroyed Harold's entire collection of masterworks, including a tea set that had been commissioned for the mayor's wife and a decorative urn Harold had been working on for his daughter's wedding.

Seventeen rupees total.

The Hero nodded again, said "Thanks!" in a voice bright with genuine gratitude, and left.

Harold locked the door, put up a "Closed" sign, and spent the rest of the day drinking wine and questioning every life choice that had led him to this moment.

***

By the third visit, Harold had developed a strategy.

He had spent two weeks creating an elaborate maze of ropes and pulleys that would lift all pottery out of reach the moment someone entered his shop. The system was triggered by a pressure plate hidden under his welcome mat, and Harold was quite proud of the engineering involved.

The Hero stepped on the mat. Every piece of pottery in the shop rose gracefully toward the ceiling, suspended by nearly invisible fishing line.

The Hero looked up, considered the situation for approximately three seconds, pulled out his bow, and began shooting arrows.

It was like watching a master archer practice on ceramic pigeons. Every shot was perfect. Every piece of pottery exploded in a shower of clay and glaze. The fishing line, Harold realized too late, had no structural integrity when punctured by arrows.

Twenty-three rupees rained down with the pottery shards.

The Hero collected them all, including the ones that had rolled under Harold's workbench, and departed with a cheerful wave.

Harold sat in his chair and laughed until he cried, then cried until he laughed, then just cried.

***

The fourth visit coincided with Harold's nervous breakdown.

He had tried everything: pottery made of stone (too heavy), pottery made of metal (too expensive), pottery made of wood (not technically pottery, and somehow still smashable). He had tried hiding the merchandise, bolting it to the floor, even posting a sign that read "Please Don't Smash the Pottery—This is My Livelihood."

The Hero had smashed the sign too.

So when the bell chimed that Tuesday morning, Harold was sitting in his empty shop, surrounded by bare shelves and unfinished clay sculptures, eating soup directly from the pot because all his bowls had been destroyed.

The Hero entered, looked around the barren shop with visible confusion, and then—to Harold's absolute horror—began examining the wet clay on Harold's worktable.

"Please," Harold said quietly. "Not the clay. It's not even fired yet. There's nothing inside it."

The Hero paused, seemed to consider this information, and then began systematically punching the unfired clay sculptures.

No rupees materialized. The clay simply collapsed into shapeless lumps.

But the Hero continued punching anyway, working through Harold's morning's work with the same methodical determination he applied to everything else, as if the absence of monetary reward was merely a minor technical glitch that would resolve itself through persistence.

Harold watched thirty years of muscle memory and artistic instinct get reduced to formless mud, and something inside him broke in a way that couldn't be swept up and thrown away.

"Why?" he whispered.

The Hero looked up from a half-destroyed clay bird, genuine puzzlement on his young face. "What do you mean?"

"Why do you destroy everything I make?"

The Hero seemed to consider this question with the same careful attention he had given Harold's clay sculptures. "I'm looking for rupees," he said finally, as if this explained everything.

"But this is my shop. These are my creations. I spend weeks on some of these pieces. They're not... they're not treasure chests. They're art."

The Hero blinked slowly, and for a moment Harold thought he saw something like recognition flicker across his features. Then the young man smiled with the radiant innocence of someone who had never once considered that his actions might have consequences for other people.

"I know," he said kindly. "You make really good pottery. The rupees inside are always worth more than usual."

And with that, he punched Harold's last remaining clay sculpture—a piece Harold had been working on for his granddaughter—into oblivion, collected the zero rupees that emerged, and walked out.

***

Harold never reopened his shop.

He took a job at the village blacksmith instead, reasoning that even the Hero of Time would have difficulty accidentally destroying an anvil. He sold the pottery shop to a young woman who converted it into a bakery, which seemed to experience the same mysterious bread shortage whenever the Hero was in town, though she bore this with considerably more grace than Harold ever had.

Sometimes, walking past his old shop, Harold would see ceramic shards worked into the flower bed out front—pieces of his vases and bowls, worn smooth by weather, now serving as decorative mulch. They looked rather beautiful that way, he had to admit. Broken, but beautiful.

And sometimes, very rarely, when Harold was feeling particularly philosophical, he would wonder if perhaps this was simply how the world worked—that all things were eventually broken, that the only choice was whether you broke with purpose or by accident, with malice or with innocent indifference.

But mostly, he tried not to think about pottery at all.

The Hero of Time saved Hyrule seventeen times over the following decade, and was universally beloved by all who met him. In the songs and stories that chronicled his adventures, no mention was ever made of pottery, destroyed or otherwise.

Harold lived quietly, shod horses and mended horseshoes, and kept his hands busy with metal instead of clay. He never made pottery again, but he never forgot how it felt to create something beautiful and fragile in a world full of people who couldn't tell the difference between art and obstacles.

Which, Harold supposed, was perhaps the most valuable thing he had ever learned.

Even if the lesson had cost him everything.

[tamesg]

Not everyone who should be here is here.

040313.

[tamesg]

She really kills me, yeah she's my friend She's my Tuesday high, my girlfriend She's so cute, so pretty, funny girl She's always into something, hey girlfriend! She has a pink bicycle She rides everyday, yeah She likes eating ice cream While blowing bubbles with her chewinggum And always wears different colored socks She does it to me, yeah she's so nice She only drinks tequila, Tuesday high She's got cute, short hair such a pearl She's always doing something, funky girl One day while walking in the park I heard someone panting And there she was dancing I laughed and cried out "Oh what a dancer" She said "If my legs were longer I'd be a super model don't you know? So take my picture now please" The flowers in the park were dancing in the wind As the sun glowed, yeah, yeah And I took pictures as she spun around Stopping to strike a fancy pose, yeah, yeah It's never boring with my honey girl She's such a bright and dizzy, funny girl She's always dancing all alone in her funky world She's got a black belt, what a funky girl "come on" She's AB RH minus yeah You might call her strange, but she's my friend

[tamesg]

The Right Temperature

The Tanaka house was always too warm in winter. Keiko had discovered this three weeks ago when she first tried the front door and found it unlocked. The heating system must have been expensive—the kind that kept every room at exactly the temperature you'd want it to be, not like her own apartment where she had to choose between freezing or bankrupting herself with the electric bill.

She had only meant to step inside for a moment, to escape the December wind while she waited for the train. But the warmth had been so complete, so enveloping, that she'd found herself taking off her coat and hanging it on the hook by the door, right next to the family's jackets. It had looked natural there, she thought. Like it belonged.

The living room was arranged exactly as a living room should be. Not cluttered like some houses she'd seen, not sparse like her own place, but balanced. A sofa that looked like it would be comfortable without being too soft. Magazines arranged on the coffee table—not perfectly aligned, but casually placed, the way a real family might leave them after reading. Photographs on the mantelpiece showing three people: a man in his forties with kind eyes, a woman about Keiko's age with a gentle smile, and a boy of perhaps eight or nine.

She had studied those photographs carefully. The family looked happy in the uncomplicated way that some people managed to achieve. Not posed happiness, but the real thing. The kind she remembered from a time in her own life that felt increasingly distant.

That first day, she had stayed only twenty minutes before the sound of a car in the driveway sent her hurrying out the back door. But she had returned the next afternoon, and the afternoon after that. Always when she knew they would be out—the father at work, the mother at her job at the community center, the boy at school. Always careful to leave everything exactly as she'd found it.

Today was Thursday, which meant the mother would be working late and the father would pick up the boy from school before stopping at the grocery store. Keiko had learned their schedule without meaning to, the way you learn the rhythm of rain on your roof or the sound of your neighbor's footsteps in the hallway above.

She let herself in through the back door, which they never locked during the day. The kitchen welcomed her with its familiar warmth. She filled the kettle and set it on the stove, then opened the cupboard where they kept the tea. Not the cheap bags she bought for herself, but proper loose-leaf tea in small tins with names like "afternoon blend" and "evening comfort."

The afternoon blend was too bitter, she had discovered. The evening comfort was too mild. But the breakfast tea—that was exactly right. Strong enough to taste like something, gentle enough not to make her nervous.

While the tea steeped, she wandered through the house, touching nothing but observing everything. The father's reading glasses left on the kitchen counter beside a folded newspaper. The mother's slippers tucked under the coffee table. The boy's school bag dropped by the front door, homework papers scattered beside it in a way that spoke of childhood and security and having adults who would help you organize such things when you needed them to.

In the living room, she settled into what she had come to think of as her chair. Not the father's chair, which was too firm and smelled of aftershave. Not the mother's spot on the sofa, which was too soft and still held the impression of someone smaller than Keiko. But the armchair by the window, which seemed designed for someone exactly her size.

She sipped her tea and looked out at the garden. December had stripped the trees bare, but even in winter the yard had a cared-for quality. Someone had raked the leaves into neat piles. Someone had covered the more delicate plants with burlap to protect them from frost. Someone had built a small snowman with the boy, she could see—lopsided but charming, with stones for eyes and a carrot nose that was already being investigated by curious birds. It was almost like she had been part of building it, she thought. Almost like she could remember the weight of the snow in her mittened hands, the boy's laughter as they rolled the head into place.

This was what she had been missing, she realized. Not just the warmth or the comfort or the good tea, but the evidence of care. The way a home looked when people loved it and each other enough to tend to small details, to leave traces of their attention scattered throughout the rooms like breadcrumbs showing the path of their daily lives.

Her own apartment had none of these things. Clean but sterile, furnished with the cheapest functional pieces she could find. No photographs because there was no one to photograph. No scattered newspapers because she read everything on her phone. No homework papers because there was no child, no slippers under the table because she had no reason to sit in her living room when her bedroom was warmer.

The tea was getting cold. She carried the mug to the kitchen and washed it carefully, dried it, put it back in the cupboard exactly where she'd found it. Then she walked through the house once more, straightening a cushion here, adjusting a magazine there, making sure everything looked exactly as the family had left it.

But at the front door, she hesitated.

Her coat hung on its hook between the father's heavy winter jacket and the boy's smaller one. It looked so natural there, so right. Like it had always been there, like it belonged to someone who lived in this house full of careful warmth and casual affection.

She could hear a car approaching. The father's car, returning with the boy from school and groceries from the store. In a moment, they would come through that door, and she would have to slip out the back like a shadow, like someone who had never been there at all.

But for just a few seconds longer, she let herself stand in the hallway surrounded by the family's coats, breathing in the scent of their lives, pretending that when the door opened, they would be coming home to her too.

The sound of car doors slamming broke the spell. She grabbed her coat and slipped out through the kitchen, pulling the back door closed just as she heard the front door opening and the boy's voice calling out that he was hungry, that his teacher had given them too much homework, that he'd forgotten his library book again.

"It's fine," she heard the father say, his voice warm with the particular patience that comes from genuine affection. "We'll get it tomorrow. Go wash your hands for dinner."

Keiko stood in the narrow space between the house and the garden shed, her heart beating fast not from fear of being caught, but from the proximity to this ordinary moment of family life. Through the kitchen window, she could see them moving around each other with the unconscious choreography of people who have shared the same space for years. The father unpacking groceries, the mother arriving home and hanging her coat on the same hook where Keiko's had been moments before, the boy setting the table without being asked.

She watched until they sat down to eat, then walked back to the train station in the growing dark.

The next week, she found herself staying longer. An hour became two hours. Two hours became the entire afternoon. She had taken to bringing a book, settling into her chair by the window to read while the winter light faded around her. The house held her like an embrace, and she began to understand why the family seemed so content. It was impossible to be unhappy in a place so perfectly calibrated for happiness.

On Wednesday, she discovered that the father read mystery novels. There was one on his nightstand, bookmark placed exactly halfway through. She recognized the author—someone she'd always meant to read but never gotten around to. The father had good taste, she thought. Methodical but not obsessive, the bookmark placed with care but not fussiness.

She read a few pages standing beside the bed, then a few more. Before she knew it, she had settled onto the edge of the mattress, then leaned back against the pillows. The father's side was too firm, but the mother's side had exactly the right amount of give. Not too soft, not too hard. Just right for someone of Keiko's size and weight.

She meant to read for only a few minutes, but the book was engaging and the bed was comfortable and the house was so quiet and warm. The mother's vanity mirror caught her reflection as she turned a page—a woman with graying hair lying in someone else's bed, reading someone else's book, wearing someone else's life like a coat that was almost the right size. She looked away quickly.

When she woke, evening shadows were creeping across the bedroom floor and she could hear a car in the driveway. On the nightstand, a framed photograph showed the parents on their wedding day, young and laughing. For a moment, looking at it through sleep-heavy eyes, she had thought the bride looked familiar.

She was downstairs and out the back door before the front door opened, but something had shifted. The line between visiting and inhabiting had blurred in her mind, and she found herself thinking of the bed not as the place where the parents slept, but as her bed in her room in the house where she belonged.

The mistake happened on a Friday.

She had been careless with the tea, leaving the tin open on the counter while she answered a phone call from work. When she returned to the kitchen, she couldn't remember exactly how the tin had been positioned. Had the label been facing out or in? Had it been pushed all the way back against the wall or sitting slightly forward?

She tried three different arrangements before settling on one that looked natural, but doubt gnawed at her through the rest of the afternoon. What if they noticed? What if they realized someone had been in their house, drinking their tea, sitting in their chairs, sleeping in their bed?

The thought should have alarmed her. Should have sent her running back to her own apartment with the resolution never to return. Instead, she found herself imagining what would happen if they did notice. Would they be angry? Frightened? Or would they understand, somehow, that she meant no harm? That she was just someone who needed what they had, who had found in their house the life she was supposed to be living?

The fantasy took root over the weekend. She imagined the conversation—how she would explain that she'd been caring for their house, that she'd noticed the broken hinge on the kitchen cabinet and fixed it, that she'd been watering the plants when they forgot. She would be apologetic but not ashamed.

By Monday, the fantasy had become so vivid that she found herself preparing for it. She bought groceries—the brands she'd seen in their refrigerator, the type of bread they preferred. She practiced what she would say, how she would stand when they found her. Calm and reasonable, someone who clearly belonged in a house like theirs.

She let herself in through the back door as usual, but instead of her typical routine of tea and reading, she began to cook. Nothing elaborate—just a simple dinner. The kind of meal a thoughtful person might prepare for a family coming home after a long day.

The kitchen responded to her touch as if it had been waiting for someone who knew how to use it properly. The stove heated evenly, the knives were sharp and well-balanced, the spices were arranged exactly where intuition suggested they would be. She worked with growing confidence, tasting and adjusting, setting the table with the good dishes she'd found in the dining room cabinet.

In the cabinet's glass front, her reflection moved alongside the china. For a moment, the woman in the glass looked like she belonged there—like someone who had always lived in this house, who had chosen these dishes, who had a right to use them. The illusion was so complete that when she blinked, she expected to see the mother's face looking back at her.

By five-thirty, the house smelled like home. Like someone who cared lived there and had spent the afternoon preparing something special for the people she loved.

She was arranging flowers from the garden in a vase when she heard the front door open.

"Something smells amazing," the father called out, his voice carrying the pleasant surprise of someone arriving home to unexpected comfort.

"Did you cook tonight?" she heard the mother ask, and there was warmth in her voice, gratitude for what she assumed was a gesture of love.

Keiko smoothed her skirt and walked toward the front hallway, practicing her smile. They would be startled at first, of course. But once she explained, once they saw how much care she'd put into the meal, how naturally she fit into their routine, they would understand.

"I hope you don't mind," she began, stepping into view. "I thought you might be tired after work, so I—"

The mother's hand flew to her throat. The father stepped protectively in front of the boy, his face shifting from confusion to something harder.

"Who are you?" the mother whispered. "What are you doing in our house?"

Keiko's practiced explanation crumbled. They were looking at her like she was something dangerous, something that didn't belong. Not with curiosity or even anger, but with the instinctive fear people show when they discover a stranger has been living in their most intimate spaces.

"I was just—I've been taking care of things," she said, her voice smaller than she'd intended. "The plants, and the broken cabinet. I fixed the hinge."

"How long have you been coming here?" the father asked. His voice was steady, but she could see his hand reaching slowly for the phone on the hall table.

"Not long. A few weeks. I haven't taken anything, I promise. I've only—"

"A few weeks?" The mother's voice cracked. "You've been in our house for weeks?"

The boy peered around his father, his eyes wide. He was looking at her the way children look at things that shouldn't exist—not with wonder, but with the deep unease of someone whose world has suddenly revealed itself to contain possibilities they'd never imagined.

"I made dinner," Keiko said desperately. "Everything is exactly how you like it."

For a moment, no one moved. The father's hand stayed frozen halfway to the phone. The mother stared at her with an expression that hadn't yet resolved into fear. The boy tilted his head slightly, as if trying to solve a puzzle he'd never encountered before.

Then understanding hit them like cold water.

They weren't listening to her words. They were seeing a stranger in their hallway, someone who knew their preferences and their schedules and their habits. Someone who had been sleeping in their bed and drinking their tea and watching them through their windows like a ghost they'd never known was there.

"I think you need to leave," the father said quietly. "Right now."

"But I belong here," Keiko heard herself say. The words came out plaintive, childlike. "More than I belong anywhere else. I fit here. Can't you see that?"

The silence that followed was the kind that crushes things.

Keiko looked at their faces—the father's protective tension, the mother's barely contained panic, the boy's confusion—and saw herself reflected in their eyes. Not a family friend who had overstepped. Not a helpful neighbor who had made a mistake. A stranger. An intruder. Someone who had violated the most basic boundaries of human trust.

"I should go," she said quietly.

"Yes," the father said. "You should."

She walked past them toward the kitchen, where her coat hung on its hook. The dinner she'd prepared was still warm on the stove, the table still set with careful attention, the flowers she'd arranged still bright in their vase. It all looked wrong now—not like hospitality, but like evidence of something sick.

At the back door, she turned. Through the doorway, she could see them huddled together in the hallway, the father's arms around his wife and son, all of them watching her with the wary attention of people who had discovered that their safe world was more porous than they'd believed.

"I never meant to frighten you," she said.

The mother nodded once, but it was the kind of nod people give to unpredictable animals, acknowledgment without understanding.

Keiko stepped out into the December night.

Through the garden, she could see the snowman they had built together—or rather, that she had imagined building. One of its stone eyes had fallen out, and the carrot nose was gone, leaving only a dark hole where its smile should have been.

Her apartment felt impossibly small when she returned to it. The radiator clanked and wheezed, heating the rooms unevenly. The walls were thin; she could hear her neighbors' television, their footsteps, their arguments. The kind of sounds that reminded you that you were alone in a building full of people who didn't know your name.

She made tea with a bag from the grocery store. It was too weak, then too bitter when she let it steep longer. She sat in her one chair and tried to read, but the words swam on the page. Everything in her apartment felt like a compromise—furniture that was almost comfortable, lighting that was almost adequate, a life that was almost enough.

From her coat pocket, she pulled out the small silver spoon she had used to stir her tea that final afternoon. She had taken it without thinking, her fingers closing around it as she'd grabbed her coat. It was delicate, well-made, with a tiny flower engraved on the handle. The kind of spoon that belonged in a house where people cared about such things.

She placed it on her bedside table, where it caught the light from her cheap lamp.

She went to bed early, but sleep wouldn't come. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw the boy's face—the way he'd looked at her like she was something from a nightmare. They had overreacted, she thought. She had meant no harm. She had been careful, respectful. She had improved things.

But still, that look in his eyes bothered her.

The silver spoon gleamed in the darkness. Tomorrow, she would return it, she told herself. She would walk by their house—just to make sure they were all right—and leave it in their mailbox with a note explaining that it had been an accident, that she'd only wanted to help.

Just to make sure they understood.

The radiator clanked. The neighbor's television murmured through the wall. On the bedside table, the stolen spoon waited patiently, reflecting nothing at all.

[tamesg]

彼にギターで敵わないって事実が、逆に彼を超えたいって原動力になってる。