Difference between revisions of "Outworld/The Gallery Of Truth And Lies"

Revision as of 19:22, 19 September 2017

And Out The Other Side

Author: By My Crooked Teeth

By My Crooked Teeth felt a little disorientated from his ejection from the nexus. He walked through the doors of his Gallery, he took off his robe and deposited his satchel on his new desk, identical to his old one from long ago. He took a stroll through the Gallery, he looked at the tapestry that depicted the fall of the Concord, his ever changing window, he used his keys to move to different locations, random rooms, random places, theatres and libraries and finally he came across an archway. He inspected it and saw the names carved on it. He placed his hand on the archway and felt the power flow through it. A person of his realm came across him startled, Crooked introduced himself and asked how the people were coping. All seemed well, and with that he let them go on their way. He returned to his study with books in hand. History books and a burned tattered volume taken from the wreckage of the concord one on the nature of training. He had work to do, and journals to write. And now he thought about it he should prepare for visitors. He was expecting company. He placed the pile on the desk and opened several of them before flipping through his journal to an empty page. At the top of his page he wrote, “And through the other side.” By My Crooked Teeth sat in his Gallery he wrote the words that he thought needed saying, did not know when the next nexus will open but he had a lot of work to do before then.

Thoughts Of The Gallery

Author: By My Crooked Teeth

Observations of the Gallery – By My Crooked Teeth

The Territories that we as shapers have access to are a fascinating glimpse into the Shaper themselves. As each Territory reflects the Shaper who created it. Much like in life we are all influenced by those we encounter. This is true of Territories. With each shaping adding and altering the make-up of the Territory for better or worse. Some are impositions of personality of those who create these qualities and others are an interpretation of the understanding of the Shaper who owns the territory. Personally, I attempt to create a quality that matches the world it will be included in, others will make sure that all know who and what they stand for in their creations.

To pardon the phrase the Territories themselves are a means of reflection for the Shaper who owns the Territory as it is influenced by their inner most selves and their inner most truth. I wonder how many Shapers were horrified by what they saw and others vindicated by their work. I cannot speak for them, if only because it may be a question people may not be able to answer fully, or would not want to address for fear of the answer. I have spent some time observing and pondering my territory and thought it would be prudent to formalize these thoughts.

The Gallery of Truth and Lies is very much in keeping with many Penitent Order Territories, of which most of them are places of learning, teaching lessons through hardship or offering unlimited knowledge. This is true of the Gallery. Though there is an interesting difference. The Gallery itself openly states that it may not give you all the information that you desire. Even from its greeting it seems to focus on the pursuit of knowledge rather than spoon feeding. Upon entry, there is a phrase written upon the wall;

“Welcome to the Gallery of Truth and Lies.
Enter and you will learn,
Seek and you shall find.
But the Fool takes the first answer.
And Fall for the Lie.
The Wise searches for the right answer,
And find their Truth.
Discover what you will, but don’t trust everything.
Welcome to the Gallery of Truth and Lies.”

This seems to serve as both promise and warning. I have been told that the Gallery seems to change to suit the visitor, the information or sights they want to find seem to be easily accessible. The décor seems to suit the culture and preferences of the visitor too, at least in part, the basic layout seems to be the same.

The Gallery itself is littered with misinformation, items that are complete fabrications or relics of alternate choices, of roads less travelled. Some shelves hold depictions of the same events from different culture’s perspective. One hall way is filled with cave paintings, on the opposite wall is the same event in the medium of a Holovid new coverage.

Some rooms have Skeletons of strange beasts, ones of legend and some simply fiction, and designs of airships that never flew hang from the ceiling. The Gallery’s shifting personalities and appearances could have some interesting views on that reflecting myself. I am not yet certain as the full extent of that being significant.

There was an initial concern about the realization that a culture and people will spring up from each territory and for a while I was worried that the people would be camped out among the portraits and statues. It turns out I was half right; the people of the Gallery live inside the paintings. Several of them depict places to live, villages, towns, cities and people can move from one portrait to another, using the Gallery as a central point. A place to learn and house the various climates and environments that have been presented.

It is curious that the Gallery is full of art since I lack much in regards of artistic talent. The books I could understand I have always been a writer but I have never had a talent to paint. It occurred to me though that I had always had a slight jealousy for those with the talent to draw and create beautiful images, most of the portraits were taken from essays that I wrote on ideas of societies and as they say an image is worth a thousand words. I do believe that the portraits are a means to show me the images that are in my head, by passing any talent for create art itself. Even when I am shaping I view it as an exercise in writing, creating hopefully vivid descriptions that bring these alterations into being. The Gallery seems to be the extension of my desire to create, taken from my ability to write and imagine.

There are some elements of the Gallery that are fixed, these are mostly in the wonders that were either created by myself or by others for my territory. The Floating Window dominates a room in the Gallery, I use it mostly for writing but I have found it constantly visited by the peoples of my Gallery staring out at the scene or reading a book at a strange sunset. I will admit it is a beautiful place to be. I have found that due to the ever-shifting nature of the gallery it can be difficult to navigate on the upside there is the Door of many locks which I created to solve that problem. A different key in a different lock leads you to a different place. It allows anyone to move about the library without too much issue also it does warrant a means of defense if I lock the door it locks down the Gallery. It is a strange curiosity, a free-standing door that seems to be repeated throughout the Gallery. But it seems to be taken well by the populous. The Archway depicting the names of the Realms that was shaped by my former student Gatling is a lovely piece of work that has become a place of good fortune for those leaving the Gallery to explore Horizon and beyond. The Gallery has opened trade and learning from the mistakes of the past via a tapestry of the fall of the Sublime Concord, as such things should be remembered.

An additional curiosity is what happens when there are multiple people in the Gallery it seems to blend elements of the differing personalities to create a new appearance, I have theories that I could use this as a means of determining if someone means harm in the Gallery as the books and art alter to the visitors need I expect that would start producing books on whatever technique they wished to employ. Though fortunately or unfortunately no one has attempted such a thing so I cannot test this hypothesis. Perhaps I can ask Rain to surprise me with a halfhearted attempt on my life. Something to consider.

While I have wondered, and been asked as to the nature of the society that has sprouted up from my Gallery there is one distinct element that has become apparent. The people of the Gallery are people who constantly question the world around them, to constantly seek the truth and not take anything at face value. Time will tell if this will continue or will change as it will continue to be affected by other Shapers. But I can be gladdened that people born of my creations are not sheep to a single idea. They are a philosophical people, a people who seek a truth and learn from the past rather than repeat it. It seems to be a culture that favours the nurturing of the human imagination and creativity. I have encouraged those of the Gallery to travel and make their own informed decision as to how they wish to form their society. I am intending on aiding them for if I can without making them dependent on me in the long run. As my shapers powers are now limited, and I have no desire to rule. I have supplied the people with various social philosophies and allowed them to start working on their own society. I serve as advisor and architect for the moment.

This Gallery serves as a reflection of me, it shapes itself to be the most useful to its guests and favours creating the means for people to not take what they are told at face value, to search for the truth hidden behind lies and fictions. While showing them the value of these same things. A place that holds intelligence and creativity in equal esteem. Whether this territory will flourish is unknown but for now, for if I have power it is my responsibility and I shall protect it as I will any of the others of Horizon. In the meantime, I wish to understand better this world as it is born.

Maybe it will be a great boon to the World that is to come.

Visitor

Authors: By My Crooked Teeth, Gatling

Gatling stood in the shadow of The Gallery, a small brass key in hand and a large door with many locks towering before her. Wider than the norm made of steel and brass, the surface of the door was made up of locks of various sizes and shapes, some so small they would not look out of place on a child’s wind-up toy, others more akin to large, sturdy prison locks. Scattered between each there were several door handles, equal in their eclectic styles.

It was a confusing door owned by a confusing man.

Somewhere, deep in the folds of her midnight cloak, was a letter. ‘This key is one to my office. Get inside and you will have learned a lesson and you may roam free in the Gallery.’ Her lips quirked into a tiny smile. She slipped the key into one of the locks and twisted, hearing it’s click. One hand firm on the metal of a small handle, she gave a solid push and proudly stepped through the threshold…

...into a large expanse of grassy land, the Gallery looming large behind her.

Her brows furrowed as she cast a glance over her shoulder. The deserted gravel path that lead to the front of the Gallery was still there, where she came from. She turned back to the wide expanse before her. With a huff, she pushed the hood from her head and let the door slam shut behind her, leaving her at the rear of Crooked’s home.

“If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again.” The young shaper marched her way back round to the door of many locks, mind focused 100% on the test at hand. Sharp eyes scanned over the surface, taking in each detail until they came to rest on a second lock, smaller this time and brass in colour. A perfect match for the key in her palm. “Gotcha.” She chimed with a grin, thoughtlessly sliding it into place. Twist, shove, stumble and -- “Oh come on!”

The wind caught in her hair as she gazed out across the elevated expanse that surrounded the Gallery. The roof was flat and made of granite, grey and monochrome. Small structures were littered across it, varying the horizon until it looked like a city skyline. One looked like a dome with a door in the roof, another looked like a greenhouse. Behind her was the door, freestanding and obnoxious. Mocking. Whatever wonder the sudden stunning view had conjured in her was quickly packed away and labelled ‘Later’.

Drumming her fingers on her arm, Gatling steeled herself and raised the key once more. “Third time's the charm.” She muttered, picking a lock, inserting the key and... she paused, pulled the key out again and thought. ‘This key is one to my office.’ “You’ve seen my Gallery, make what you think would fit.”

The key was small in her palm, unimposing, brass looking like it hadn’t seen polish in years. Looking at it, you wouldn’t think what it unlocked - the office of a man who had seen through time. Not like the door itself. It reeked of possibilities, endless and countless, so many options and no doubt all of them inviting. Carefully her eyes traced every lock and then some, finding more and more hidden just out of view until finally, she spotted it. With an even smile Gatling fit the key in place and unlocked the door.

Stepping through the threshold, however, only brought her face to face with another, grander set of oak double doors with silver inlays. Turning around she saw the door free standing about five feet away from the front entrance.

For a long moment, she paused, shifting through a range of emotions before setting on rolling her eyes and planting a begrudging smile on her face. The wood was smooth and warm under her hands and she pushed into the Gallery itself without hesitation.

The first element that she encountered was a verse carved into the wall in stone;

Welcome to the Gallery of Truth and Lies.
Enter and you will learn,
Seek and you shall find.
But the Fool takes the first answer.
And Fall for the Lie.
The Wise searches for the right answer,
And find their Truth.
Discover what you will, but don’t trust everything.
Welcome to the Gallery of Truth and Lies.

Gatling’s fingers traced the words as she sighed a little, annoyance at herself creeping up the back of her neck. Every time she thought she had kicked the Combine habit, she ended up right back there, rushing to the obvious choice. Falling for the lie. She let the words sink in before moving on, fingers lingering on stone until the last possible moment.

The Gallery itself was, quite frankly, bizarre.

It was a mismatch of art, statues, furniture, and instruments dangling from the ceiling. It was beautiful in a chaotic way. There was a smell in the air, something faintly like flowers and wood smoke. She wandered through the halls taking in every sight and sound she could, footsteps echoing loudly through the vast, silent rooms. Carefully, she returned the key to its home around her neck and called out into the silence.

“Crooks? Crooked?” She lowers her tone. “Please be home or this is going to be really awkward….”

“Well we can’t have that,” The brief rattle of keys the only sign of his arrival. He looked a lot more casual than last she saw him. The black Combine style jacket was gone, revealing a grey collarless shirt with a black waistcoat, his black scarf loose around his neck. He was unarmed and cleaning his glasses on a handkerchief. Leaning against the arch of a doorway, he smiled. “Hello Miss Gatling.”

“Hi.” She grinned in return. “Nice place you have here. Modest,” Her tone quickly turned teasing. “Interesting… doors.” A note of bemusement twisting into it.

“One tries.” He replaced the glasses to their rightful place on his nose. He tilted his head with a smirked. “Where did the door take you?”

A beat.

“The back door.” She admitted, glumly.

Another beat.

“And the roof.” She added. Her eyes cast down to her shoes, annoyance at herself creeping back up her neck again.

Crooked let her words linger, eyes remaining glued to her face before he cracked a smile.

“Well at least you didn’t fall into the acid pit.”

“You have an acid pit?” Her eyebrows raised.

“No, but I had you going for a second there.” There’s another pause before a smile cracked her face and she burst into laughter, shaking her head. “How have you been? How have your studies progressed?”

“My studies are progressing, though clearly not as far as I had hoped,” She shot a glare back towards where the mocking door resided. “But I am learning. And that’s more than I can say of myself 5 years ago,” She smiles softly, pulling an old familiar book from her bag, its red cover far more worn than the last time he would have seen it.

Crooked snorted “Plenty of time for that. Has Rain tried to kill you yet? He tends to take a swing at people every now and then to keep them sharp.” He shook his head. “There is no set time to learn a lesson.” Crooked gestured to a chair, “If you will humour an old man? Why don’t you tell me what you learned from the key I sent you?”

Gatling shifted the cloak from her shoulders, draping it over the chairs back and giving Crooked a shy smile. Her outfit was familiar but changed, the rich reds and golds drained to black and silver, her hair that bit longer, and accented with a streak of white which she tucked behind her ear as she settled into the soft leather seat.

“Well… at first, I suppose, I learnt nothing. The roof and impromptu grounds tour proved that. But then, then I thought back to what you said at the nexus, and in your letter. I know the Gallery in theory. I know how, in ways, it reflects bits of you as the Garden does me. So, in a way, the key reflects you as would the lock…” She hesitates, realising she was wandering away from the question.

Crooked smiled again and pushed himself off his doorway, he walked over to Gatling’s chair and picked up the cloak, hanging it up on a peg by the door. He selected a seat for himself and sat down, cocking his head at the hesitation. “Go on.”

Her eyes flicked to him for a second before she ploughed on. “So, that’s how I got through it, eventually.” She finishes in a rush, but continuing anyway. “But that’s not what the key should have been teaching me because I already knew that, right? So, it’s something else. Like the door. The key fit in every lock, turned and lead me somewhere, but not where I needed to be… But it leads me somewhere. Like… the lock it opens isn’t the only path?” She looks up at him, clearly unsure of herself.

Crooked pointed at her, “A good answer. One of many you could have found.” he tapped his fingers on the armrest, “The door leads you anywhere. The right key to the right lock and turning the right handle and opening it the right way will lead you to different places. To different possibilities. You were given a question and challenge and a single key and told to enter my gallery. My dear Miss Gatling. Much like the door there are many ways to learn a lesson. I will not tell you what to do, merely give you the tools to do it for yourself. That is the nature of the Order, we stand alone, we stand together. Individuals that form a whole. Never think that you have learned nothing. Even a failure can bring you an answer. The question is this. Was the information you gathered from the challenge worthwhile? Did you find it useful?”

Gatling contemplated the words, her eyes shifting left as she twisted them over in her mind, reviewing the events of the last half hour with care. When she finally looked back to Crooked she was smiling. “Yes. I do believe it worthwhile.”

“Good,” he nodded, “Good. Other answers I would have accepted was, ‘Why not just knock on the door?’, ‘I am more confused than when I met you.’ and ‘Why not use the archway I built?’” he laughed. “It has been a while since I have been a proper teacher again, and then it had little to do with the Order. So, I am glad you are making a sense out of my ramblings.”

Gatling’s lips formed into a small smile, her face looking the years she’s gained for just a moment. “The ramblings of an old man hold wisdom between the bullshit.” She cracked a grin and winked at him. “Oh. And in answer to your other question, No. Rain has not yet tried to kill me, but Patient’s territory had a good stab at it.”

“Yeah it does that.” Crooked conceded, “Another way to learn knowledge. Everything is a test. Everything is a challenge. Learn, explore, grow. Then you can be who you were meant to be. Or who you want to be. Or who you need to be. That is your choice.” He shrugged and began cleaning his glasses. “Because without choice we are slaves.”

Her grin faltered for just a moment, flickering with something far in the back of her eyes. Gone the moment it appeared. She sat back in the chair, twisting the key’s chain between her fingers, feeling the brass tumble across her skin as she made it dance “One day, I’m going to explore beyond each of those locks.” She spoke it as simply as truth, dropping the key back to its resting place between her collarbones, eyes looking out further into the Gallery.

“Most of that is just bits of my mind. Records fabricated and stolen, there are more interesting places than mine. But here is a good place to start.”

Gatling opens her mouth, but clearly thinks better of whatever it was she was going to say. Instead she springs to her feet and holds a hand out towards Crooked. “Then shall we, Old man?”

Crooked hesitated and then took her hand, got up and went out into the Gallery.

The decor of the Gallery was made up of warm colours, browns and coppers mixed with silver and mahogany. It seemed like it was like a winter had been surprised by a sudden spring. Crooked weaved through the rooms pointing out items of interest. Until he stopped at another door of many locks. He reached for the ring of keys on his belt.

“I think you will like this room.” He fumbled through until he picked up a key that looked like it had a horse style motif on the grip. He slid it into a rusted lock, reached up and lifted a door handle up, then down and pushed the door open.

The room beyond was bathed in golden warm light. In the centre was a tree, a large tree dominating and drawing the eye. It was raining blossoms almost constantly as it stood there. On the ceiling was a collection of spherical shapes bound in rings and glowing softly. They seemed to form planets and constellations and directly above the tree was a large sun made of gold and what seemed like rippling metal fire coming from unknown central point. Ringing the room were a series of bookshelves punctuated only by a range of portraits, as tall as people but not even one of them depicting any. Instead places. Some were villages, or walled towns. Some were simple settlements by a babbling brook. Crooked spread an arm, “Welcome to the Cross Road.”

Gatling’s jaw dropped slightly as she took in the sight. Sure, the rest of the Gallery was stunning in its own right, but Crooked seemed to know her well. This room, this one was different. It was trance like, the way she stepped into the room, fingers running over book spines, plucking the odd one from the wall, flicking it open before getting distracted by a picture. And even then, all it took was a look up and she was lost staring there, mapping the constellations in her mind. “Wow…”

“Quiet, thank you for it.”

She shot him a smile, tearing her eyes from the ceiling and letting them run over the tree. Her heart strings tugged, the Garden springing to mind as she ran her fingers over the hard bark, almost feeling the pulse of life flowing through it. Familiar. Safe.

Crooked found himself a seat while Gatling explored the room. “Have you noticed anything about the room?”

“How do you mean?” Her attention only leaving the tree for a moment, mind trying to identify its family.

“The Gallery of Truth and Lies has a particular talent. It alters itself slightly for each visitor. It doesn’t look like this normally. Only since you arrived. I was never one for trees. That is your influence. Have you worked out what kind of tree it is yet?”

Her brow furrowed. “It’s a fruit… It’s impossibly old.” Her eyes strain to try and peek at the uppermost branches.

“Smell that air. It is faint but I am sure a gardener can tell the difference.” he crossed his leg and propped his head on his hand as he watched her puzzle it out. She scanned the tree once more before closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. The air was a heady mix of aromas; leather, ash and age pulled from the books, oil, metal and heat from the lamps. But faintly, on the back of her palate, the soft scent hit her.

“Apple Blossom.” She breathed, opening her eyes and turning them to Crooked. “It’s an apple tree.”

He tapped his nose. “Very good, pretty and practical. Producing wonder and providing the potential of food. Does that remind you of anywhere?”

“Yes.” Her fingers curled around the bark, her eyes tearing away as she pushes the sadness out of them and her voice turns studious. “A few, actually. If you really think about it. I mean, Bethany’s Castle has a wonderful farm attached to it, which matches beauty with produce. And even here, when you consider outside side of this case, could be holding those values to. And… and…” She bites her lip, mind wandering to the fading colours of her own territory.

Crooked stood and made his way over to her. After a second he hesitantly put a hand on her shoulder, just briefly. “Come on. Let me show you the locals. At least we can avoid the stereotype of Penitents being sad in libraries.” The words pull a smile from her, and for that moment she leaned into his touch before pulling away - fingers trailing along bark until the very last moment.

Crooked walked up to one of the paintings. It looked like a town under a storm. He leant down and pulled an umbrella from a stand next to the frame and handed one to Gatling before retrieving one himself. He ran his fingers over the frame and the faint sound of rain seeped into the room. The portrait seemed to be moving, just ever so slightly. “There is a reason why I call this the Cross Road.” He opened the umbrella as he walked forward into the canvas.

“You see I spent a lot of my free time as an Aspirant trying to work out civilisations, how one was supposed to live, what one needed to be comfortable that sort of thing. How much adversity they needed, how much stability. It was a delicate mix you see.” He stood on a hill overlooking the same storm wracked town as in the painting. “Too much and you cripple and doom the culture. Too little and it stagnates and become complacent. Despite our best intentions, most of humanity refuse perfection as imperfect. They buck against it. So, I wrote my ideas for worlds to build, settlements. This was one of them.” Crooked was huddled under the umbrella against the downpour. He turned to Gatling or rather to where he expected Gatling to be, unless he was talking to himself. She was staring at him, with big wide eyes.

“We’re in a painting.” She grinned, bypassing everything he had just said.

“Well of course we are. This is a Gallery after all.” Crooked shrugged, “Strange though. I have no artistic talent whatsoever I always envied those who could create beautiful things. Apparently that desire took the words I wrote and made them into pictures.” She laughed, rolling her eyes and walking over to his side.

“You do create beautiful things, Crooked. You just use words instead of paint. This Gallery proves that.” Her grin melts into a softer smile, threading her arm through his and pulling him towards the town. “Come on. You promised me locals. I want to meet the people of your mind.”

“I suppose you can see it like that. Beauty is subjective after all.” He mused to himself just before Gatling approached him. He froze momentarily to the threaded arm, but relaxed a half second before he was dragged along in the rain. “Yes, of course. There are several paintings you can explore as well if you like.” his words getting a little lost to the excitement and determination of Gatling.

Together they explored the various settlements that lived in the Gallery, beneath the canvas. Each one was enthusiastically explored by Gatling, dragging Crooked along the whole time asking him endless questions and learning every step of the way. She was fascinated by the farming community that lived in a painting ‘A Life earned in soil.’ She wondered how he tackled problems brought on by the production of fruit and vegetables, questions on irrigation and water flow. Crooked answered most of them and then sheepishly pointed out that he did need some advice on how to get some of the details right.

After the first two paintings Crooked started to get into the swing of things and was more enthusiastic in his explorations. It seemed like a totally new place now that he had someone to share it with.

For her part, Gatling didn’t seem to tire, her boundless enthusiasm carrying from village to village, painting to painting. By the time the last painting had been examined inside and out she was practically vibrating with it. Crooked found himself almost feeding off her enthusiasm, mirroring her almost like the gallery itself. He relished explaining every detail, spurred on by the fact that she didn’t seem bored at all. At times that felt like a rare thing.

“The Painting’s names are interesting. They seem to be taken from poetry written at the top of each piece of writing that inspired the portraits little worlds. Where should I show you next? I think the tapestries are rather interesting, there is one that Hawk made for me that depicted the Fall of the Sublime Concord which is interesting historically speaking.”

For the first-time Gatling, didn’t respond. Instead she hummed her interest, fingers trailing over the pages of one of the books she had left abandoned on a desk between their journeys. Her eyes were rapidly scanning the words, feet almost working on auto pilot as she found her way to settle herself between the roots of the tree.

“I suppose another place to show you is the theatre, it is a good place to see the holovids and some of the older combine films you might find entertaining…..” he noticed Gatling sat beneath the tree. He smirked and propped himself against the frame of a painting. He knew that silence well, it was the hunger for knowledge and getting lost in the pages of a book, it was a magic he had been under since he was out of the cradle. She would find him later. She had a key to his office after all.

He walked over to the door of many locks, unhooking the ring of keys as he went. He selected a key without looking and slipped it into a lock. He twisted the key to the right, turned a door handle to the left and pulled the door open. He stepped through and closed the door quietly behind him.

It would be hours before Gatling found him again, but until then she remained wrapped in words and tree roots, oblivious to his absence.

Recollections

Author: By My Crooked Teeth

“Greetings and salutations citizens. And here is another beautiful day here on the Ever-Approaching Sound of Freedom. Returning after liberating yet another oppressed people. The brave people of the Combine will never rest until the idea of tyranny and oppression exists nowhere but a harsh reminder of how broken the world was.”

By My Crooked Teeth smiled looking at the film, the man on the film walking backwards along the deck of the airship. He looked every inch the RevCorp member in his fine red uniform, a service revolver on his hip and pushing up the spectacles up his nose he went through his old rhetoric. The words that he knew his audience needed to hear, to convince them of the cause being right. He smiled at the conviction of the young man. If only he knew. If only he knew what would become of him.

“The breath-taking effort undertaken by the Crews of the fleet was exceptional and you would have to see it to believe it. The courage and dedication of the crew in their duty is an inspiration to us all. The Freedom charged into the heart of the Valtarian Tyrannous lines with all guns blazing and inspirational music crying out to the newly liberated skies. Here at the Front. As such this is the ship that we want you the proud citizens to see, to see the crew, its dedication and heroism in the face of darkness and the shackles of oppression.”

The camera panned with the RevCorp as he moved along the deck, to shots of people working, people singing, people doing their duty. A faint patriotic music underscored the events. The Rev Corp didn’t speak as he walked, he let the images speak for themselves. He let the music and the images affix themselves to the thoughts and minds of the viewers. The RevCorp knew when to talk and when to let people see. The camera showed the burn damage from what looked like dragon fire, or spell flame. The crew were proudly preserving the scars as a trophy of their victory. The RevCorp walked passed a ProCorp working on the radio that was crackling music out of it. There were people in simple uniforms, without adornment but they were clean and well cared for. The RevCorp stopped by this person and smiled at them.

“Hello, I’m recording a piece for the folks back home. Why don’t you tell them who you are and any messages for the people watching?”

The person looked surprised but nodded, “Of course. Well I’m Volunteer Plate, I Volunteered for service two years ago, before that I worked with Production on small labours, vital but I never worked on the engines or anything like that. But I saw what the Liberators were doing and I decided that I needed to help. I am not so good in front of the camera so forgive me there. But I am happy to help, there is a better world out there and if I can bring that closer I am ready to put my shoulder to the wheel. Everyone here is a hero, everyone is doing their part. I couldn’t be prouder of my family.” Plate nodded, “I guess what I want to say to the people back home is that anything is possible. That’s all. Is that alright?” The RevCorp smiled and nodded, “Perfect. Thank you Volunteer and thank you for your service.” The RevCorp moved on and he looked into camera “It is inspiring to see what can be achieved together.”

…

Crooked stopped the recording and frowned. That ship was destroyed two months later when a sorcerer summoned flame devils in the powder magazine. There was no news about it. The Ever-Approaching

Sound of Freedom was simply ‘out on maneuvers’. A novel way to say vapourised with no one left to bury. Another ship in the path to ‘Liberty’. Another list of the dead for a dream that was doomed to a vicious cycle. He believed when he was young, he believed when he was a different man. He supposed he still did in a different way. He had been thinking about what he wanted in this world that is to come. What he wanted to build. He had been waiting for it for so long, now it was here he wasn’t sure what he was building. If you asked the man in the film he would tell you a world where everyone was free from the chains of tyrants. If you asked him when he was a little older, a world where people could choose freedom for themselves and not be afraid of it.

Now? Now he just wanted a world that would work, that wouldn’t repeat the mistakes of the past, that wouldn’t cling to the flaws. He wanted to leave behind a better world than he lived in. After 700 years he just wanted to make a world that was worth it. That was worth the death and suffering, that all the fighting and killing was worth something. He wanted a world where people were not restricted that they could learn and flourish under their own strength. He wanted a world that was better than him. Not that that was a difficult thing.

Crooked shook his head. There was no time for such sadness. He needed to work, he needed to get his memories down, everything out of his head while he still had time. Before the end. There was too much to do, more than he had the time to watch the words of a dead man who looked so much like himself. He stopped himself mid thought.

“If we do not learn from history, how are we to learn from it? Remember your lessons Archivist.” He chided himself. “Even if it does hurt. Especially if it hurts.” He continued watching the recording of a little known Hegemonic Engineer called Rotation as he helped inspire people in his own little way. He would soon learn.

Choice Under Uncertainty

Author: By My Crooked Teeth & Ten Count Markowitz

It was a truth that was self-evident: market forces would always eventually win out. No matter how hard or how creatively you tried to fight against them, at some point the invisible hand of the market would make itself into an invisible fist and punch you in the kidneys until you realised the futility of your endeavours. Falling demand for your services couldn’t be powered through without changes; individual customers were never right but as a group had more influence than they realised; and no matter how unique your market, it would have a saturation point somewhere.

Even after the restructuring of the organisation, stripping out the dead weight of Human Resources and forcibly assimilating R&D, there were still well over a million men, women and other folk who bore the title of Margin Driver – all scrapping and clawing over the same contracts. Opportunity was at least a hundred thousand Accounts Executors past the saturation point and, for all but the lucky few who backed into the pop culture vein and became celebrities, that meant figuring out how to shine. That meant “branding”. Crafting a character, developing a gimmick, cultivating a reputation - however you wanted to couch it, in the Opportunity that was being left behind standing out from the crowd was critical. The older generation groused and moaned about it, calling it “contrary to the Driver ethos” and “going against all our traditions”, but that was mostly just the old guard complaining about change in lieu of actually doing anything to affect it.

In his time, he’d seen a lot of attempts at branding – some good, some excellent, many bad and the rare few so legendarily awful that they instantly became classic – but standing in the shadow of the Gallery of Truth and Lies, Ten Count Markowitz reflected that he’d never seen anybody be quite so devoted to their gimmick as By My Crooked Teeth. The double doors to the Gallery stood nine feet tall, wide enough to drive through and were covered top to bottom with locks and handles, no two the same and most not even similar. “And they say I’m compensating for something.”

Give or take a few days and acknowledging that Shapers seemed to have a rather...individual relationship with normal progression of time, Ten Count guessed he’d been away from home for about seven months and he intended this one to be the last stop. ‘Poking my nose into what people are doing and generally being a nuisance’ was how he’d put it to Thoughtful Spider before leaving, and he’d dropped in and terrorised at least a dozen territories outside Opportunity.

The key on his finger had arrived a few days before he’d set off. Crooked had extended an all-purpose invite for the Nexus to come visit him - in Ten Count’s mind, being sent a key put him on the Penitent Order’s VIP list, but this was clearly a puzzle he was meant to solve and Ten Count had never been especially keen on brain-teasers. If the answer wasn’t “break the smug bastard’s nose and keep hitting him until he tells you what words end -gry”, it wasn’t worth asking.

Tapping the key into his other palm, Ten Count gave it a closer look. Big, ugly and old were the words jumping to mind – six or seven inches of pitted steel, covered with tiny scratches from constant use, the scraping of metal on metal. Logically, it should fit the lock that matched it, something tarnished and ugly, but this was Crooked he was considering. It wasn’t going to be the obvious choice, so pick…

That one. Big enough to fit the key, but made of polished brass and looking if not new, then certainly well-maintained. When it’s not the obvious choice, pick the least obvious choice – Ten Count turned the key, shoved the door and trod heavily into a snowbank waiting on the other side. “Hm.” The landscape was beautiful, a gorgeous panaroma of snowcapped mountains and clear, clean blue skies, but the Gallery it certainly was not. Stepping back over the threshold and slapping snow off his leg, Ten Count shut the door and sat down, cross-legged on the gravel. Tossing and catching the key without paying it much attention, he went back to staring at the locks.

“There’s hundreds of these bastard things, I’m going to be here forever if I have to try all of them,” Ten Count mumbled, imagining himself covered in snow and still sitting on the path outside. That Crooked had posed him a puzzle wasn’t surprising but, as he sat and reflected on it, it did seem unusual for him to give anybody a puzzle without any information to go on. “Perhaps...I’m not meant to solve it?” It sounded good enough to be plausible. Ignoring how idiotic it probably looked, the Visionary stood up, held out the key, waved his arm around and closed his eyes. If there wasn’t enough of a purchase for logic to take hold, why not try random chance? Blindly prodding away, Ten Count felt the key find a lock and turned it. “He shoots...” he said, shoving at the door. The great door swung slowly and there before him, lay the Gallery.

“And he scores!” Stepping into the entrance hall, Ten Count allowed himself a few moments of smug self-satisfaction; nobody was ever going to call him the sharpest knife in the drawer, but he was still capable of a few moments of insight. Besides, he’d met plenty of so-called geniuses and the one thing that brought them together was that none of them had been able to outsmart a bullet.

Even with the smug afterglow, the fabled and legendary Gallery of Truth and Lies didn’t look like much. Dimly lit from hidden wall sconces, there really wasn’t much of...well, anything. Dark wooden panelling on the walls matched the floor, worn smooth from what was probably centuries of footfall, and camouflaged the plain doors set evenly around. Ten Count hadn’t been expecting a riot of colour, but there should have been at least some decoration. It was still a gallery.

“Crooked!” The first door on his left rattled, which made little sense because there wasn’t a visible lock on it, and the second refused to budge at all. “Crooked, I made it.” Door number three, at the end of the hall, took some effort to shift but eventually gave in with a protesting screech from the hinges. “Take care of your damn doors, man.”

The next room looked much like the first - dark wood, dim light, doors that didn’t open – but it wasn’t until the third door he passed through opened with the same eye-watering scream that the penny began to clatter its way down. Ten Count stepped through, shut the door and, somehow knowing exactly what he was about to see, opened it again to bright sunlight. “It’s the same, the same poxy room over and over again. I fucking hate you, Crooked.”

Closing the great puzzle door and again sitting down on the path, Ten Count huffed. Logic wasn’t working, random choice hadn’t happened and his normal next plan of action, to find somebody and threaten them, required another person to have a gun stuck in their face.

Still, there was one thing he did better than just about anybody.

---

Something about the new day had left Crooked feeling unsettled.

He’d risen with the sun, as normal. He’d taken breakfast with one of the scholars in residence, he’d dealt with the day’s correspondence, he’d settled an ecumenical dispute before it had threatened to get ugly – nothing out of the ordinary, yet the mental itch he’d woken with refused to leave. The day was not to be a pleasant one.

Nonetheless, by the middle of the afternoon, he’d been able to keep the concern quiet lone enough to ensure all of his daily tasks were complete. With his time entirely his own, all Crooked wanted was to isolate himself and get back to work. The history on the fall of the Concord wasn’t going to compile itself; naturally, it was mere minutes before the archivist was interrupted by a quiet knock on the door.

“Come in.”

“Archivist?” A dark-skinned woman stood at the door, equal parts confused, concerned and oddly flattered; in two years studying at the Gallery, she’d never yet been afforded the privilege of seeing Crooked’s office. “We have a small issue with a visitor.”

“An issue, Fforde?”

“Yes, there’s a gentleman at the grand entrance. He’s banging on the door and won’t stop. He believes you’ve issued him an invitation and...” Fforde tailed off for a moment, remembering what had been shouted at her. “I think the exact words were ‘Get him to open this fucking door before I call down an orbital strike and make this place look like Firebreak’s bigger uglier brother’.”

Crooked put his head in his hands and exhaled. “That explains the itch,” he mumbled, before looking back to Fforde. “The gentleman at the door. Glasses, a big coat, hair like that?” The student nodded and despite himself, Crooked found himself smiling. “Let him in. Bring him through the...correct entrance.”

---

“You, sunshine, and your bloody door have got things to answer for.” As a greeting, it lacked many things – courtesy, invitation, basic manners – but Ten Count’s opener certainly broke the ice. “All that time and the way in was around the fucking corner? You really are a duplicitous piece of work, you know that?”

“And hello to you too, Ten Count. Who else would threaten an ally with an orbital bombardment? You do realise that you can walk around the door of many locks. It’s the fastest way around, not the only way in. Thank you, Fforde.” Crooked nodded to his student in dismissal and gestured to the empty chair.

“Take a seat, please. To what do I owe...this?”

“Hah. Allies, is it now?” Ten Count sat down with no small degree of gratitude. He and Crooked’s student had been walking for the best part of an hour – shock of shocks, the Gallery of Truth and Lies was much bigger inside than it appeared from the outside. “If you’re trying to pretend you’ve defected, you’ll need to look a lot less monochrome to make that lie stick. You’re looking well.”

It wasn’t a sentiment Crooked could easily reciprocate. He knew better than most how time’s natural flow washed around Shapers, but Ten Count looked like he’d been through the wars already. One especially ugly scar ran down the side of his face, looking like somebody had taken a slash at his eye and missed by an inch, and Crooked could see a patch of burned skin under his collar. Even that paled into comparison with his attire. “And you’re looking colourful. That’s an...eye-catching ensemble, what do they call that?”

“The shirt’s...orchid, I think,” said Ten Count, sparking up his lighter. “Or fuchsia. The trousers they called periwinkle, but that’s not a real word, I know that’s bull. No offense meant, but I got tired of being mistaken for one of your mob all the time so I went to see the one who gave Spider his makeover. Apparently, I’m a winter.”

“Quite.” Crooked pushed a black glass ashtray across his desk. “What brings you here, Mr. Markowitz?”

“Well, you invited me.” Ten Count slouched back into the comfortable chair. “I was planning to wander the Outworld for a bit anyway, then I got a nice little invitation letter from you and I thought it was probably prudent to stop by.” Taking a welcome drag on his cigarette, Ten Count tossed the old steel key onto the desktop with a clatter. “You probably want this back as well. That fucking door, man, I get you’ve got an image to uphold but I don’t plaster everything I own with tens.”

Eyeing it with more suspicion than the glowing cigarette, Crooked reached out to take it. “So, where did this one take you? I assume you tried the door.”

“I did, I did. The first lock brought me out on the side of a mountain somewhere, so apologies if I’ve dripped on your carpet anywhere.” Flicking the ash off, Ten Count took another drag and made a poor attempt to blow a smoke ring. “Damn. Second time, I thought I’d got it but it was a room that only led into itself over and over. Clever, that one.”

Running his fingers gently across the pitted metal as he inspected it, Crooked turned over the key. “Did you keep the letter this came with?

“Course. ‘Mr. Markowitz, the Gallery of Truth and Lies awaits your custom, come find the answers which you seek’, all of that.” A moment’s thought. “And that reminds me. How did you get my address?”

“I have your card. Most of the Nexus has one of your cards, your address is on there.”

“I know, but...wait.” Ten Count closed one eye and squinted at the archivist with the other. “Shit, it wasn’t you, was it?”

“If you mean, I wasn’t the one who invited you here, then no.” Crooked tapped the key on his desk, beating out a slow and considered rhythm. “Nor should you have got this from me. It’s not mine. And much as I like you, Ten Count, you are not somebody I would give one of these to either.”

A slow smile oozed across Ten Count’s face as he ground his cigarette out into the ashtray. “Well, now. Isn’t this interesting? Somebody thinks they can play games with me...”

“Us.” Nothing about Crooked’s demeanour had obviously changed, but there was a touch of steel to his calm tone. “Whoever this mysterious writer is, they’ve chosen to impersonate me. Rather poorly I might add, which would indicate...”

“That this is somebody who doesn’t know either of us that well. Personally, or by reputation.” Lighting a second cigarette, Ten Count leaned back into the chair once again. “Because I don’t think anybody who knows your story would risk pulling you into this and, on the off-chance they’re trying to run a play on you, which of your enemies would be stupid enough to bring me into the picture?”

Letting the compliment go past without acknowledgement, Crooked touched the second drawer down thoughtfully before mumbling to himself. “Not the time for that. You said about the address of that letter, was that the only one?”

“Not going to lie, that was part of why I wanted to drop by urgent. Before yours, before that arrived, I had letters from Soar and...shit, I can’t remember her bloody name.” Snapping his fingers impatiently, Ten Count mouthed a few attempts at words. “Her, the red hair, always looking sad, everybody she knows is dead...”

“At Dawn and At Dusk? Or Gatling, to use an old name.”

“That’s the word! Gatling, where the fuck did that word disappear to? I’m losing my bloody mind...anyway, yeah, Dawn and Soar sent me letters – nice letters but they still both came to my private address, my safest house. Somebody’s got hold of that information and they’re spreading it around enough that one of your mob has got it.”

Crooked touched the key gently, looking pensive. “And you’re sure it is At Dawn and At Dusk and Soar Ever Upward you were writing to and from?”

Ten Count gave the archivist an amused look. “If that wasn’t Soar, whoever’s impersonating him is too good at doing it to not be like him, and I don’t think our new world could survive multiple Soars in it. He’s a unique little creature, he is.”

“No comment.”

“Point is, after everything that happened with Ziggy, my name is mud in certain areas of Outworld and I’d like to figure out who’s pretending to be you so I can neutralise them and not have to fight a war on two fronts. Saying that,” Ten Count added, mouth twisting into a smirk briefly, “it wouldn’t be the first time. Can you kick over some rocks and see what scurries out?”

For a few moments, Crooked considered simply agreeing but his old bones were thinking in Opportunity terms again. Locke wouldn’t have done anything for free; nor would Wellspring, for that matter. “I can try. A favour in exchange for a favour.”

“Crooked, come on,” the reply came, Ten Count chiding the archivist. “You and I both know how much an unspecified favour could be worth. I’ve asked you something specific, it’s only fair to do the same.”

“Fair?” Crooked chuckled, a dark sound but not without amusement. “I remember somebody from Opportunity once telling me that if you ended up in a fair fight, your tactics sucked.”

Ten Count had to laugh. “That sounds like Dad alright. Point taken, the best I can do now is pledge you my trigger finger. The next time the Nexus opens again, if you need somebody for an Affront, come find me and I’ll take the field, no questions asked.”

“No questions asked?” Crooked said, sounding rightfully skeptical, and Ten Count was forced to shrug in concession.

“No questions, some caveats. I won’t be part of any plans you have to gank another Shaper.” Sparking up his lighter again, Ten Count lit another cigarette as he stared blankly at the ceiling. “I don’t think most of them realise just how much fallout the Ziggy affair is going to have, but I know what the worst case scenario is and I want to avoid that. Spider and I won’t fight each other and I don’t especially want to be part of any more Penitent testing. Anything else...give me a call, keep me alive and I’ll win your battles for you.”

Crooked snickered. “I forgot how staggeringly modest you were. Although, if you think I’d want to kill a Shaper while the Nexus exists, you don’t know me very well at all, Ten Count.”

“It’s not a comment on you, good sir. Like I said, parts of Outworld want me reduced to ashes because I robbed the world of Ziggy Love. I don’t think it’d help my case to become the first Shaper complicit in two murders.”

“Speaking of Ziggy Love,” Crooked stood and turned, gazing out of the portrait window. “There is something you can do for me while you’re here, though. You may have heard I’m compiling some records on the death and life of your former Prime Executive, and I’ve been interested in speaking to those involved. Your colleague 2-Square, she gave me a rather nice interview but then...you were there.”

“He’s dead and he’s still plaguing me. Glee time it is.” Ten Count groaned, reaching into his breast pocket and taking out a bag of disgustingly blue powder. “Give me something I can cut this up on then I’ll tell you all about how we did it and why.”

The archivist smiled as he opened up a tall cupboard, the implications of what he’d just heard swirling inside his head. Placing a small slate tile on the desk, Crooked set a voice recorder next to it and flicked the switch. It was true: even if you didn’t know you were looking for them, you could always find the answers you sought at the Gallery of Truth and Lies. “Ready when you are, Ten Count. Tell me about the cancellation of Ziggy Love.”

Affront Apparition

Author: By My Crooked Teeth

- Submission to the archive

- Archive access Archivist By My Crooked Teeth

- Subject – Affront apparition.

During the second evening of the Grand gathering of the Nexus an affront was made on behalf of the apparitions. Since the beginning people have been attributing more personality to the apparitions, bestowing names and encouraging more individual activities. This came to a head when members of the People’s combine Engineer Crankshaft and Volunteer Axle challenged each other to an affront on behalf of two apparitions. The Nexus Apparition (Referred to as Sprocket) and the Affront Apparition (Known as Bolt or Stand Between the Lines). The affront team was comprised of

“Team Sprocket” - Engineer Crankshaft, of the Relentless Advance on the Tyranny of Authority. - By My Crooked Teeth - Liberator Diesel, of the Relentless Advance on the Tyranny of Authority. - Volunteer Vector of the Symphony of Purpose.

“Team Bolts” -Liberator Dynamics, of the Victory Through Persistence. -Volunteer Axle of the Symphony of Purpose -Fusilier Falconet of the Unity Through Purpose. -Engineer Cam of the Symphony of Purpose.

After a pitch battle the so-called Team Bolts won the affront, and far as all parties were concerned that was that. That was until the Affront Apparition began to act strangely. Upon it’s person began to sprout red pulsing veins. Along with that there was a change in personality. It became more informal and got the names of shapers wrong, it berated shapers for being tardy to matches or begrudged when no Hexes were thrown at each other. It is too early to tell yet if this is a permanent difference or what it means. Recommendation is to watch and wait. Suggestions were thrown around such as continuing to fight affronts to see if that would continue to change the apparition or not. Another was to break the mind of the apparition to see if it would not ‘infect’ the other apparitions. This was met with a lot of argument until it was finally decided to shelf all further actions until the next turning of the Nexus. Further observation needed.

- Submission ends. - By My Crooked Teeth – Archivists.

Addendum – Subject personal note pertaining to the matter.

Bugger. I mean really who thought that would do anything. It is fascinating that it does but who honestly thought it would give an Apparition more awareness of its surroundings. I mean in retrospect it makes sense but there was no evidence in any of the old Concord Records of such a thing occurring in the past.

How in the name of the Broken Bloody Oracle could I have known? It was a silly affront to let off steam made by combine too drunk on Boot Shine to know what they were doing. Actually, I should likely not submit this for historical purposes.

- Submission deleted from the Archive.