diff --git a/content/post/fiction/post-self/gallery-exhibition.md b/content/post/fiction/post-self/gallery-exhibition.md
index 1621921..8f25772 100644
--- a/content/post/fiction/post-self/gallery-exhibition.md
+++ b/content/post/fiction/post-self/gallery-exhibition.md
@@ -21,6 +21,6 @@ The Simien Fang school of Art and Design is proud to invite you to the opening o
 
 RSVP<!--more-->
 
-## [Play the game](/assets/posts/gallery-exhibition.html)
+## [Play the game](https://qoheleth.post-self.ink/gallery-exhibition)
 
 This entry takes the form of a Twine game. There are choices to be made, and random chance at play. Twine is a form of interactive fiction that you can play in your browser. It requires a modern browser with JavaScript enabled.
diff --git a/content/post/fiction/post-self/hues.md b/content/post/fiction/post-self/hues.md
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..fe4fb9a
--- /dev/null
+++ b/content/post/fiction/post-self/hues.md
@@ -0,0 +1,168 @@
+---
+categories:
+- Short Story
+series: Post-Self
+ratings: G
+date: 2024-03-04
+description: True Name confers with a past self.
+img: post-self.png
+title: Hues
+character: "True Name — 2350"
+type: post
+tags:
+- Science fiction
+- Uploading
+- Furry
+---
+
+> Spoilers for [*Mitzvot*](https://mitzvot.post-self.ink)
+
+-----
+
+I see the world in new hues.
+
+I see Ioan and May Then My Name sitting together on the bed, cross-legged and touching. I do not think they even realize that they are doing so, that they have set their hands next to the other's, that their pinky fingers overlap.
+
+I see Ioan with eir sun-lightened hair and sun-darkened skin and marvel the ways in which the thirds of me see this: one third has cataloged it as a unique pointer to a past of climate refugees that I will never know, one third judges the ways in which ey blends with eir surrounding, and one third... Well, down that path lays too many conflicts.
+
+I see May Then My Name trying to hide sleep-addled emotions beneath pillow-mussed fur. I see the way she remains at all times conscious of her body, its extents, its softened boundaries. I see the way some small sliver of her mind continually runs through a checklist of appearance she will never even admit to herself, a litany of reassurances that she is the right level of cute, the right level of innocent, the right level of earnest.
+
+I remember that checklist more clearly than she does, I think. I remember thoughts flickering to whiskers — bristled or no? — to ears — should I perk them? — to weight — a little slouch will show as rolls, but in a good way — and back again.
+
+And I see myself recorded in their eyes. I see the way Ioan is buffeted about by the competition between eir need to help and eir growing confusion over who I have become. I see a tempest swirl in May Then My Name\'s eyes.
+
+"Heading outside?" Ioan asks.
+
+I am struggling to keep myself present. My mind is a jagged mess of tangled wires and unfocused lenses. I nod. "Yes. I will need an hour or so of nothing but the morning and the grass."
+
+"Of course," ey says.
+
+May adds, "Take the space you need."
+
+I feel something akin to love press flush against something akin to shame. I hide it with humor. This is a new thing\... "Thank you, dear. If you cook breakfast, I will refrain from telling Ioan embarrassing stories."
+
+"Asshole." She laughs. "Where did this humor come from?"
+
+"Your guess is as good as mine, at this point."
+
+I see the world in new hues as I step outside, holding my coffee close against the chill of the morning. The deck is cold beneath my paws, and the sim feels fresh, new in a way that it is not to any of the three of me.
+
+I do not linger. I have a task.
+
+Instead, I step carefully and deliberately down the stairs from the balcony and into the cool and dew-heavy grass. This, too, is cold on my paws, and I remember a conversation with Ioan some weeks back about the joys of winter. I remember it as though around a corner: indistinct. I remember it as though overhearing it in a quiet bar: murmured.
+
+The remembered conversation is in place, settled alongside memories of me working on the tent with Deberre and memories of me working alongside Zacharias and Jonas.
+
+It is a dangerous memory, for how innocuous it is. It is too hot to touch directly just yet, for neither May Then My Name nor I anticipated just how many of her memories around Ioan are love-colored, just how many bear the new hues through which I see the world. There is so much love in that conversation, so much love in em saying, "Well, if you ever wore shoes..." That aposiopesis is an I-love-you directed at May Then My Name.
+
+I remember it directed at me.
+
+It is dangerous, and it will be dangerous work to grapple with it. All of these memories are in place; it is just the weight of conflicts that I am left with.
+
+The dew from the grass quickly soaks my feet, and I can tell my pads will be numb by the time my task is complete. As it is, the fur all the way up to the hems of my slacks is wet, and my slacks themselves halfway up my calves are already soaking through.
+
+But I have a task before me. My pace is slow, deliberate. My breath is bated, anxious. My mind is keenly focused on maintaining a distance from the bruised cloud of conflicting memories in order to make it through the coming conversation.
+
+I see the world in new hues. The pale green and tan of the grass makes me crave anise cookies. The delicate blue of the sky — so much more delicate than I remember! — makes me thirst for cool water. The dull green of the tent before me, shining with the same dew that marks me, makes my stomach ache. I have never seen the world like this before.
+
+My pace is slow and deliberate, but it is not sneaky. I make as much noise as is appropriate, and what is appropriate is the sound of footsteps. I know how to muffle those, how to set the sounds I make aside, both through a cone of silence and through the bushcraft I have picked up through someone else's hard-won knowledge. But right now, the morning needs footsteps.
+
+True Name needs footsteps.
+
+The nose that pokes out of the tent to greet me when I am a few paces away is my nose/not my nose. The face that follows is my face/not my face. The dark brown of the eyes, the black of the fur, the white of the mane, all mine/someone else's.
+
+I have never felt this split after a merge before. I have never felt this split before, *period*, not since I was Michelle and also Sasha, names that are not my own. I am still True Name as well, yes?
+
+Am I?
+
+This skunk before me looks out into the world with the same eyes I have, and yet they do not see the same hues. She bears the same exhaustion on her face from the same sleepless night I have had, and yet she is not tired for the same reasons.
+
+I wave a small camp chair into being before the fire pit she has/I have built, set my coffee aside, and begin the task of lighting the fire for us.
+
+She watches from the tent, silent.
+
+The crack of the tinder on my paws echoes both familiarity and unfamiliarity within me as I break it down. I have done this so often before — daily for years and decades — and yet one third of me has not started a fire more than a handful of times in all that time.
+
+I build my small pyre, and still the skunk in the tent watches, silent.
+
+Finally, once the fire licks up along the tinder with washed out tongues of flame, I pick up my cup of coffee and offer it to her. We both need it, but she deserves it more.
+
+She nods warily, eyes never leaving me as she steps from the tent to accept the mug, dreaming up a chair for herself across the fire from me, and together we build it up the rest of the way, at least enough for an hour's warmth.
+
+"You look well," she says at last. Her tone is tired above all else, but beneath that exhaustion lies something uncomfortable.
+
+I nod, marveling at the subtle intonations, marveling at the way my heart reaches ever outward along lines of interpersonal relationships. I marvel at how much those three words make that ache in my stomach twist into a sharper pain, an anxiety, a need. I need to address this. I *need* to address her discomfort, her exhaustion. I *need* to take her all up into my arms and let her warm herself against me, be the safe space for her to weep. I *need* to prove the love for her I cannot avoid in myself.
+
+I see the ways in which she would resent that if I did so now, but then, I see the world in new hues.
+
+So I just nod and instead say, "I am tired, but yes, I am well."
+
+She looks down to the fire, sips her coffee. "Good."
+
+"How are you feeling, dear?"
+
+"Tired."
+
+I shake my head. "How are you feeling about this? How are you feeling about yourself?"
+
+She looks up without lifting her snout, and that uncomfortable tension within her grows all the more evident. "About myself?"
+
+I nod.
+
+"I am feeling broken," she says, gaze once more dropping. "I am feeling cracked in two, with only the whims of reality keeping me in one piece. I am feeling the world falling out from under each of my footsteps. I am feeling broken."
+
+"I think–"
+
+"I look at you," she says, interrupting, "and I *know* that I am broken. The crack was there before today, but I look at you and I know that, no, I am not cracked like some mug on the shelf, I am broken."
+
+This time, I remain silent, settling into a part of me that is new. I am helpless before this change, helpless before the feeling of True Name stepping back, of End Waking disappearing into the woods, of May Then My Name leaning forward. I remain silent and watch my other self carefully, feeling that line of connection between us tug harder, demand an embrace.
+
+There was a time nearly two centuries ago when five/six people sat on the grass, when May Then My Name and In Dreams and Hammered Silver and End Of Endings sat before Sasha/Michelle and talked about the end of the Council of Eight, about True Name and Jonas taking over the world, about being a dead woman walking. That of True Name in me does not remember this from any previous merge, so it must have been just after the last time May Then My Name merged down.
+
+I remember watching Michelle/Sasha struggle to speak, to live, to exist. I remember her form shifting. I remember her having a bad day. I remember watching her and having to exercise every iota of restraint to not go in for a hug.
+
+I overlay that memory here, and the similarities shine through overbright.
+
+I hold myself back and say instead, "Is there a place in the world for broken you?"
+
+She winces away from the question, shoulders drawing in. I am not surprised when she shakes her head. I do not think either of us are.
+
+"And how does that feel, True Name?"
+
+She coughs. Or laughs. I cannot tell which. "Do not call me that."
+
+"What shall I call you?"
+
+"'Nobody'. Call me Nobody so that when you speak of me, you say that Nobody is tired quite like me."
+
+Heart aches. "Is that, then, how it feels, Nobody?"
+
+"I do not care how it feels." She straightens up and meets my gaze, half-smile touching her features, and I can see the energy it takes for this broken me to do so. "What I care about now is if it was worth it."
+
+"'It'?"
+
+"The merge." Her tone is earnest, kind, even as the words come urgently. "Is who you are now worth everything that was done to us? Is it worth 106 knives in the back? Is it worth May Then My Name destroying us? Is it worth the way she killed, however kindly, the last remaining True Name?"
+
+I sit back, startled.
+
+There is a war within me. Opposing forces strive for primacy. That of May Then My Name begins to cry. That of True Name picks up on the resentment stated by my up-tree and slots it into her own reality.
+
+I can see what she means. I can see the death of who I was in the face of who I became. I can see the love May Then My Name must have intended contrasted with the heartless way she accomplished this final nullification of True Name as she was.
+
+But I see the world in new hues. I see the world with the knowledge of a conversation on the balcony in the seconds and minutes after End Waking's entire life was dropped unceremoniously on top of my mind.
+
+*"I know a part of me was acting out of vengeance,"* she had said, and I know this to be true, but I know the truth in her stammering, *"I never wanted to hurt her."*
+
+I see the world in new hues and with new context.
+
+"Yes," I say at last. "Yes, it is worth it."
+
+The True Name across the fire from me screws up her face and buries it in her paws, and now, I truly am unable to hold back. I crawl around the fire, kneel before her, and wrap my arms around her shoulders to hold her to my front as she weeps. As we both weep.
+
+The wave of relief or sorrow or release or despair eases up and, eventually, she leans back. She leans back and looks searchingly at me, investigating every strand of fur on my tear-stained cheeks, and I do the same with hers. We sit for nearly a minute, noses all but touching. Then, without a word, she draws me into a hug and, once my arms tighten around her, she quits.
+
+My arms collapse against my front.
+
+I see the world in new hues as I soak in a brief wave of grief as this last vestige of that broken me disappears. I cry before the fire as I accept the merge easily, almost automatically.
+
+I see the world in new hues and, just for a second, just for a glimpse as she stared into my face in those last moments, so did she.
diff --git a/content/post/fiction/post-self/opportunity-paralysis.md b/content/post/fiction/post-self/opportunity-paralysis.md
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..5c0430f
--- /dev/null
+++ b/content/post/fiction/post-self/opportunity-paralysis.md
@@ -0,0 +1,385 @@
+---
+categories:
+- Short Story
+series: Post-Self
+ratings: G
+date: 2024-11-17
+description: After uploading, how do you change? How does your identity?
+img: post-self.png
+title: Opportunity Paralysis
+character: Rena Hatch — 2368
+type: post
+tags:
+- Science Fiction
+- Uploading
+- Gender
+---
+
+I thought it would be different. I thought it would be cleaner, maybe. Cleaner, or far more grimy, all exposed pipes and puddles of unexplained liquids pooling in dark corners while the brittle lighting of shitty fluorescents flickered. Give me the clean LEDs over that, the well-polished linoleum and stainless steel, doctors with surgical gowns and nurses with fibrous paper booties strapped over their oh-so-comfortable shoes.
+
+Saskatoon Central Upload Clinic was none of these. Where one might expect a hospital check-in desk, thick plexiglass separating the clientele from the assistants, there was a row of podiums, each bearing a tablet with a grip-bar beside it, a way to check in using the implants embedded on the middle joints of one's fingers. Where one might expect the cold, hard chairs, blessed with only the thinnest layer of padding, of a hospital waiting room, there were instead plush chairs and love seats upholstered in linen. Where one might expect cold and white bare walls, calm paintings and potted plants softened the cream-colored paint further, spider plants stringing trails behind water coolers.
+
+Check-in is simple: slide my fingers around the grip bar until the magnetic contacts pull at those NFC pads embedded in skin. Wait as patiently as I can while the tablet whispers a series of disclaimers against my cochleae through the tendrils of my exo. Shift my weight anxiously from side to side and give my assent to the questions with a nod and a tap of the thumb.
+
+Yes, I understand that uploading is irreversible.
+
+Yes, I understand that uploading is destructive.
+
+Yes, I understand that there's a risk. *There's a risk to staying behind, too,* I think, but carefully do not say.
+
+Yes, I understand that the financial payout to designated next of kin will be-- cancel. No, there is no next of kin. If you're not going to let me will it to a charity or foundation, I guess the government can have it.
+
+*Yes, I understand,* I indicate time and time again, perhaps two dozen times in total, then answer a short survey about who I am before I'm finally given a number and told to sit down.
+
+The wait wouldn't be unbearable if it weren't for the lingering weight of import straddling my shoulders, a petulant child tugging at my hair and whining about how this is the wrong thing to do, that there's gotta be some better way, this is irresponsible. Ten minutes with that weight and those whispered words would be bad enough, but then we hit twenty. Thirty. It wouldn't be so bad if--
+
+"Three twenty-seven? Ma'am?"
+
+I jump at the interruption, looking up to the tired yet kindly eyes of the nurse. "Yeah, sorry," I reply. My own voice echoes strangely in my head, muffled by my own mask, and I realize it's been days since I've said anything aloud.
+
+I follow them into the procedure room, where the scent of sterilizer and ozone lingers in the air, where the chair that reclines into a bench stands alone, where sets of tracks on either side of the chair lead to barely concealed doors in the wall. I follow their guidance in undressing. They don't give me a gown or anything, and standing in nothing but this awful body that shrivels at the touch of the cold clinic air is decidedly uncomfortable. I sit awkwardly on the chair/bed. The cover looks like fabric until it's touched, at which point the illusion is shattered when my fingers find it unpleasantly rubberized. Another reminder of my skin, of my very real, very ill-fitting body.
+
+The discussion with the doctor is quick and to the point.
+
+Yes, I understand this will take about half an hour.
+
+Yes, I understand I'll be sedated but not asleep.
+
+Yes, I understand that the point of no return is announced by a beep.
+
+Yes, I understand, I understand, I understand...
+
+They smile to me, just as tired as the nurse. "Hey," they say, bowing. "It'll be a jiffy. Seriously. Been a decade since our last failed upload."
+
+"How many successful ones have you had since then?"
+
+They shrug. "I do about seven or eight a day, there are five operating rooms, and we're open every day. Never was the best at math, but that's a lot of uploads."
+
+The chair reclines automatically into a bed, and a faint whirr sounds behind me as the cabinets slide out from the wall from behind their subtle doors, revealing banks of what I imagine must be various scanners, instruments, tools, and whatever else is needed for the largely automated procedure.
+
+There's a loud beep that fills the room, and the doctor says, "Last chance." Their voice is lazy, calm, hardly an imposition. It's the voice of someone unwilling to sway the listener, merely doing their job.
+
+I shake my head, and that heavy import resting on my shoulders finally starts to slip, to slide free and drop away from me. The whining fades, the whispered suggestions that I'm doing the wrong thing become inaudible.
+
+Here is a short list of things that are more unpleasant than the uploading procedure:
+
+-   I don't know, literal torture, maybe?
+
+It's not that it hurts. The first thing they do is give me one hell of an analgesic, leaving my mind dream-fogged, and then they clip something to my implant's contacts that I'm guessing all but turns off my ability to feel pain.
+
+It's that they leave the rest of me *on.* The smell is more intense than I'd care to admit. There's little I can see, but the sound is nauseating. I want to tell them to give me some fucking earplugs or something, but whatever's clipped to my contacts has inhibited motor control as well.
+
+The worst, though, is the way my vision jitters and blurs through all of the work they do on my head.
+
+And then, without warning, it's over.
+
+I'm sure there's some sort of discontinuity, that some amount of time passes between when the procedure completes and when I find myself here, fully formed and conscious, in the orientation room. Or perhaps it really is instantaneous. A part of me wonders if there might be some form of the procedure continuing back in the surgical room, some final scan of my dy­-- no, my *body's* dying nervous system, a place I no longer inhabit.
+
+Relief. The success streak of the clinic will not be broken by me.
+
+I wake on the floor of a nine-by-nine cube of what appears to be cool, gray stone blocks one meter on a side. I'm pleased to note the utter reality of the space. The stone is just that: stone. It isn't a rendering of stone, not a representation of stone, just...stone.
+
+The light seems to come from nowhere, leaving only blurry and indistinct shadows around me as I push myself up to sitting, doing my best to ignore my nude body, less than ideal in so many ways. I've gotten quite good at that over the years.
+
+"Greetings," says a soft voice behind me. I whirl around to see a short person with curly black hair, voice feminine and lilting. She's facing the other way, arms crossed before her. "I am facing the wall, as many here arrive unclothed. I am a construct --- a pretty face for a conversation tree --- and, while I will do my best to answer your questions, anything more difficult will wait until you can talk to a real person."
+
+"O-oh. Uh," I stammer. I scramble quickly to my feet and cover my body with hands and arms. That she's facing away certainly helps, but still. "How do I get clothes?"
+
+"I will walk you through the process of making those. It is part of a short tutorial series that will allow you to step into the System proper. Please close your eyes, think of your favorite outfit, and breathe in. As you breathe out, say, "I want to be wearing my favorite outfit," and smile."
+
+"Smile?"
+
+"Yes," she says. "We have found that this helps the newly arrived more smoothly project the intent to create something."
+
+Frowning, I nod and close my eyes, imagining the frowsy cotton skirt and linen blouse that had always been my favorite. Earth tones. No patterns. Muted. A way for me to stay hidden and comfortable both. A way to be overlooked. I breathe in, dreaming of that skirt and blouse, and speak "I want to be wearing my favorite outfit" as a sigh on my exhale.
+
+There isn't any change, at least not any immediately perceptible one. It's not like the clothes flow down over my shoulders like some sort of pleasant animation as I'd expect from a sim back on the 'net. When I look down, I'm just...clothed.
+
+I'm once again taken aback by the sheer reality of the place. The linen of my blouse is just as I remember it, that well-beaten fabric almost plush between my fingers. The cotton of my skirt sways just as I expect as I turn to inspect it. The only difference seems to be that the colors are a little fresher than remembered, the hem of the blouse a little lower.
+
+"I hear the swishing of fabric. May I turn around now, or do you need additional time?"
+
+"Oh, uh, you can turn around," I say.
+
+Nodding, the woman turns, smiles, and bows deeply to me. "Welcome to Lagrange, Rena Hatch. You are in the orientation sim AetherBox#5287. Should you care about such, you are upload 21,529,358,059, but will ever be a unique and cherished soul aboard *et cetera, et cetera.*" She laughs. "The next step of the tutorial is to fork for the first time."
+
+"I...what?"
+
+"Forking is the process of creating a copy of yourself. This copy is a wholly independent person and is free to either live out their own life completely separate from your own, or to quit. Should they do the latter, you will have the option to merge some or all of their memories with your own."
+
+"Why would I want to do that?"
+
+She shrugs, stepping back to the wall to lean casually against it. "Oh, plenty of reasons. You might have an obligation while in the middle of pursuing a hobby, or overlapping invitations to events, or just for shits and giggles."
+
+The casual demeanor and profanity catch me somewhat off-guard. She isn't what I expect from a construct. I find myself liking her immensely.
+
+"Oh, well. Sure, how do I do that?"
+
+"Same as with your clothes. Close your eyes, hold in your mind the desire to fork, breathe in, breathe out, smile, say the words." A lopsided smile tugs at the corner of her mouth. "You do not have to do all of that, mind. You can just do your best to project the intent to fork; you seem like a pretty savvy girl."
+
+"You're one hell of a guide."
+
+"Well, according to your file, the answers you gave on your survey, you are one hell of a woman."
+
+I laugh. "What's your name?"
+
+She smirks. "Fork, and I will tell you."
+
+Snrk. Well, might as well. I do my best to keep the eye-closing and mumbling-to-myself to a minimum, instead taking a deep breath in and then...
+
+"Well done, Rena," the guide says, grinning.
+
+Beside me stands another version of myself. We both let out a startled laugh and take a half step away from each other. I work up the courage to lean in closer to my new instance and, after a moment, she does the same. We take a few moments to inspect each other's faces. I'm startled to see just how much the acne scars that pock my face crinkle my cheeks when I smile.
+
+"Well I'll be damned."
+
+"Neat, is it not?"
+
+Both of me nod. My double --- it flashes into my head that she's named Rena Hatch#2a883de3, though how that comes to me, I haven't the faintest idea --- says, "So I can just go on living as I'd like?"
+
+"Well, sure, but for the purposes of this exercise, I would like you to go ahead and quit. Same thing, desire to quit, yadda yadda."
+
+"Isn't that kind of like dying?"
+
+"Not really, no. It is a merging. Many call it 'merging down' rather than 'quitting' for that reason. Our answer to the teleporter paradox is..." She gives a Talmudic shrug.
+
+Both of me laugh and, after a moment, where once Rena#2a883de3 stood, she is no longer. There's no sudden inrush of air, she simply isn't there anymore.
+
+There's a sensation of *almost* remembering something, like a word that's right on the tip of my tongue, ready to be said or dismissed as not worth the effort.
+
+I decide to remember it and there, suddenly, is the memory of popping into being, of suddenly seeing this guide from another point of view, suddenly seeing another version of myself --- me, the one who remained --- suddenly inspecting my own face, and then...well, then no more memories from that point of view.
+
+"Weird."
+
+The guide laughs. Weird to include that on a construct. "Again, you do not need to fork, or you can fork hundreds of times over. It is also used to change one's appearance --- simply fork while holding the desired change in your mind. Should you like to be shorter, to have thicker hair, well..." Another shrug.
+
+*This* leaves me pondering. I barely listen through the remainder of the tutorial --- checking the time, checking the feeds, checking my current reputation balance, looking up information in the perisystem architecture --- as my mind circles around that ability.
+
+I mean, of course there's the ability to change on the System. Right? Like, that was part of me uploading. Even if it required filling out forms in triplicate, there had to be a way to live the life I wanted up here, easier and more fulfilling.
+
+I just hadn't imagined it would be dropped in my lap by an automated guide.
+
+The sound of my name snaps me back to reality. "Uh, yes?"
+
+"I said 'welcome once more to Lagrange, Rena Hatch.' You have been provided with a starter boost of reputation. Feel free to look up housing on the reputation market, though you have been provided a room."
+
+"How do I get to it?"
+
+"Why, that is the final step in the tutorial, my dear. Project an intent to visit 'home'. This will work for any sim name you are provided, so long as it is either public or you have been invited by the sim owner." Another smile tickles at the corner of the guide's mouth. "For instance, if you would like a lovely cup of coffee, may I recommend The Alley Cat? You can find it at Old Town Square#58289a40."
+
+"Oh, well...alright. Thank you, I guess."
+
+"My pleasure."
+
+"Weren't you going to tell me your name?"
+
+The construct bows. "You may call me what you wish, but I am patterned off one of my creators, Then I Must In All Ways Be Earnest of the Ode clade." I must look nonplussed, as the construct laughs, waving a hand dismissively. "You will learn, my dear. Please enjoy, and do not hesitate to ask for help on the new upload assistance feed."
+
+I hesitate, bow back, and step out of the orientation sim with a wish.
+
+-----
+
+Those early days are heady for me. I do indeed get a very good coffee at The Alley Cat, though not without a moment of embarrassment as I have to ask the constructs working behind the bar how to pay.
+
+"No need," they say, sounding far less personal than the guide I'd met, more automated. "Reputation cost deducted automatically. No need."
+
+Ah well. Like I said, pretty damn good coffee.
+
+I spend a few days just poking around Old Town Square and its environs. At night, I step home to my little apartment, sleep for a while, browse the feeds, maybe take a shower. Then in the morning, I'm back to the public sim, poking through the various shops --- I spend the most time in the one specializing in impossible shapes --- or going for a hike up to the natural park environment just beyond the pedestrian mall.
+
+I eat, I sleep, I explore, and I fork. I fork like mad.
+
+There is a cost to forking --- after all, that new me takes up space on the System's hardware, too --- but only if you let the two instances linger for more than five minutes. It makes sense: if forking is the easiest way to work in these huge changes, then that gives you a buffer to do so.
+
+So I fork, holding in mind a change, and then my new instance and I discuss how it works out, and if it's good, the old instance quits and the new instance becomes the only me. I learn early on to make small changes, as trying to hold too much in my head at once just leads to a confused jumble of an appearance. I fork my hair smoother, less dry. I fork my face rounder and softer. I fork my breasts rounder and my hips curvier. I fork myself shorter.
+
+In the end, I guess I kind of complete the transition I'd started back phys-side.
+
+It's thrilling and terrifying, leaving behind that old version of myself. What happens if I fuck up and don't like who I become? What if the wrong me quits? Would I die?
+
+The feeds help me out immensely, here. With nearly two trillion instances, I'm hardly the first trans girl to upload to get away from a less-than-ideal life. I'm hardly the first one who'd been struck with a case of the genders that uploads to hunt for a cure.
+
+Here's what I learn:
+
+-   Don't fucking worry.
+
+Sure enough, I can't quit without another fork already in existence. It's like pressing against a membrane: maybe I could push through, but it's like Lagrange doesn't want me to. Also, I find that if I focus hard enough, I can fork back into the version of myself who originally uploaded. The memory is still there.
+
+So I keep on forking and forking and forking until I...well, I guess I wind up looking a little bit like the guide who introduced me here. Sure, I've got longer hair and I'm not quite as stocky as she was, but I pass.
+
+I don't just pass, I *am* that girl. Not quite the same one I dreamed so long ago, but I just plain am that girl.
+
+Don't fucking worry, indeed.
+
+It's my third day there when I start to get pretty actively lonely, and instead of digging into the sims and shops and yet more restaurants, I start hunting for people.
+
+Old Town Square is surprisingly chill, in terms of crowds. Sure, there's little knots of people that wander down the brick-paved pedestrian mall, or folks out in ones and twos enjoying the sun and their own cups of coffee, but it's hardly as packed as I would have assumed for a system containing so many uploads and all their forks.
+
+The amount of sims listed on the perisystem architecture about blows my head off when I check. There have to be millions, maybe billions of sims I could go looking into.
+
+Which makes sense, I suppose. With the reputation I have, I could probably get started on a sim; it's not that expensive.
+
+I haven't the faintest how to do so, nor the faintest where to start, so I do the first thing that comes to mind and ask someone at The Alley Cat where they'd go to start seeing more of the world. The person I ask shrugs and gestures behind them toward a door set in the wall. I'd assumed it led out to a patio out back or something, a sign above it reads "Infinite Café#06f4e37a --- Thanks For Stopping By!"
+
+Nothing for it. I step through the door.
+
+And immediately fall to my knees.
+
+The street I walk out onto is far more packed than Old Town Square, yes, but it also seems to go on pretty much forever. The further down the street I look, the more it seems to rise until, sure enough, it rises right up into the sky and continues around in a loop until back where I am. So large is the diameter of this loop that the street above me looks like a shimmering thread draped lazily across the dazzling blue sky.
+
+"What the fuck..."
+
+There's a laugh beside me, and I look up to someone towering above me, offering a hand to help me stand. They're tall --- taller even than I was back phys-side --- with long hair that sits between frizzy and curly, and a rather chic looking tee to go with a pair of what look to be scrub pants. Messenger bag. Glasses. They're delightfully gender. Visibly and effortlessly transfeminine. "Come, stand. It is a lot, is it not?"
+
+"Uh...yeah," I say, wobbling up to my feet with their assistance. Looking around shows me people. People and people and people. Across the street: another café, stuffed to the brim with people. Down the street: yet another coffee shop, a furry of some sort staring longingly at a display of pastries within. "What the hell is this place?"
+
+"Infinite Café." They chuckle, not unkindly. "Every café sim on Lagrange is invited to have a back door that opens onto this street. You could walk for a month here and still not see half of the cafés on offer."
+
+"Jesus."
+
+"There are...ah, looks like fifty-eight cafés with Jesus in their name, yes."
+
+I snort.
+
+"Come, walk with me," they say.
+
+"Why?"
+
+"Fuck if I know. I am starting to feel awkward standing in front of this place waiting for you."
+
+I fall into step beside them as we start to make our way down the street. "Wait, hold on. Waiting for me?"
+
+"Yes. In All Ways said I ought to keep an eye out for you."
+
+"In All-- wait, the construct? The orientation guide?"
+
+"That was In All Ways's construct, yes. *She* is still a real person. She keeps vague tabs on uploads that pass through her orientation settings."
+
+"And she kept tabs on me?"
+
+"Millions pass before her constructs' eyes, she just keeps an eye out for a few particular things. Friendly faces, interesting stories, that sort of stuff." They shrug, smiling. The smile is kind enough and earnest enough to take the wind out of my suspicion's sails. "You seemed interesting enough to her, apparently, so she sent you my way. You seem nice to me, too. You can call me My."
+
+"My...like me, my, mine?" I say, sounding stupid even to myself.
+
+They laugh. "Just like that, yes. Hold My Name Beneath Your Tongue And Know of the Ode clade. Just 'My' is fine. She/her."
+
+"That's the second time I've heard 'Ode clade', and I still don't get it."
+
+"A clade is just a group of people forked from the same upload. I am quite far diverged from my root instance. Certainly further than In All Ways is. You look a little like her, you know that?"
+
+Caught. I panic.
+
+She rests a hand gently on my elbow and tuts. "Hey, hush. It is okay. You take inspiration where you can, yes?" she says. "Besides, I am not going to complain. She is pretty."
+
+"Thanks," I stammer, unsure of how to proceed. "You are too, I guess."
+
+"'You guess'?" She smirks. "No, no, I get what you mean. In All Ways said I should be on the lookout for a trans girl, about our age, real frumpcore vibe. I got pretty much that, did I not? Besides, we usually share an aesthetic, I am just dressed down today."
+
+"What, the skirts and all?"
+
+She nods, tilts her head, and, with a quiet rustle, her clothes shift from what she had been wearing to a navy blue tiered skirt and almost-matching splotchy blue blouse. "Of course."
+
+I grin, making a show of looking her up and down. "Definitely pretty, then," I say. I ought to kick myself for flirting, but I'll take what I can get.
+
+She gives a hint of a curtsey. "So, Rena, yes? She/her, yes? Tell me who you are. Tell me why you are here. Tell me what you dream of."
+
+It takes me a moment to piece together what exactly I'm being asked. "I'm a nobody," I say eventually, shrugging. "Parents are nobodies, grandparents were nobodies. I had friends, but they were all on the net and planning to upload someday. I was just the first." I hesitate for a moment, then add more quietly, "And I guess the whole being a girl thing."
+
+"And what do you dream of?"
+
+"God, I have no fucking clue."
+
+"Cheers to that. Hey, look. Jesus Croissant." She laughs. "Want to check it out?"
+
+Jesus Croissant is sterile, blank, modern. Here, at last, I see the too-flat planes, the too-simple colors, the suspiciously repeating patterns of flecks on the Formica counters. It makes me realize just how high quality a sim Old Town Square is. At least the coffee's okay, though croissants are weirdly absent from their menu.
+
+For the rest of the day, we continue on down the road, hunting for other Jesus-themed coffees and snacks. My teaches me how to play with my sensorium, to turn up and down my sense of smell, my sense of fullness and hunger, even, when a passer-by bumps into me, the collision algorithms that govern how close to me others can get to me before bouncing off.
+
+"It is a good place, Lagrange," she says. "People build all of this fantastically weird stuff, they build all of these fantastically weird versions of themselves, and they have their fun. They really do! But once they are here and no longer scraping by or living comfortably in their workaday jobs, they settle into their niches of giants or robots or furries or impossibly muscular people." She peeks at me sidelong, an appraising glance. "Or trans girls, yes?"
+
+While there's an invitation to respond, I decide against it, instead focusing on picking out each of the types she had mentioned in the crowd around us. There, a giant robot, standing nearly three meters tall. There, a surfeit of skunks, chatting animatedly. There, a woman who could absolutely, no doubt, break me in half.
+
+We continue on.
+
+We don't find the next Jesusy coffee shop, but we do agree to meet tomorrow to try again.
+
+-----
+
+I continue to meet with My --- or at least a fork of her --- daily for the next week or two.
+
+She's old, it turns out. Nearly three centuries. One of the first uploads, back in 2117, when the System had yet to blossom to its full potential. She'd been up here, riding along in the hardware that had been floating up by the moon since before my grandparents had been born. Since before my grandparents' grandparents had moved north to Saskatchewan.
+
+Old and wide-spread, too. The Ode clade has at least a hundred instances --- "*nominally* one hundred, do not ask me the total; it is probably well into the thousands" she says --- scattered about on Lagrange.
+
+The more I talk with her, the more worldly she seems, and the more of a hick I feel. Here's this trans gal --- a cis woman who had uploaded, a fork who had lived as a cis guy for decades before transitioning back the long way around --- out here living her best life like there's just nothing to it, getting coffee with me every day, taking me out to ridiculous restaurants every evening --- "I am just a fork," she says, "so you need not worry about keeping me from anything" --- and having increasingly deep conversations about the vagaries of life.
+
+She's a weird bird, but I can forgive much from someone more than ten times as old as me.
+
+And this whole time, even past my one-week-iversary of uploading, I keep forking and changing, forking and refining, forking and tuning. My hair could be this long, right? Or...well, no. Maybe it could be a touch shorter. And my eyelashes could be a bit longer. And the hairs that make up my unibrow could be thinner --- not gone, no, just enough to shape an impression of a face. And my cheeks could be maybe just a little rosier. Which maybe I could do by keeping them as they are but toning my skin a little lighter, perhaps?
+
+It's infuriating. It's *more* than infuriating. It's crazymaking, forking and changing, forking and changing, hunting for ever finer lines of exploration, going down blind alleys of gender, making U-turns in front of piles of identity that make me wince and squirm.
+
+I puzzle over this dysphoria, so different from back phys-side. So different from the reason I uploaded in the first place.
+
+My doesn't need to say anything, she just keeps on talking to me, keeps on spending time with me. She just keeps on being around me as someone who is happier, more content with her life. She just exists at me as someone who lives in her body entirely while I, itching, squirming, do not.
+
+She never calls me on it, not once, but when I finally break down in front of her and start crying about it, *'I know'* is painted across her face in plain-to-see lines.
+
+"I just don't even know what I'm doing. I feel like I'm refining myself into something unrecognizable," I ramble in a quiet corner of one of those Jesusy coffee shops. None, so far, have been Christian. All have been bizarre. "I'm turning into someone I don't know."
+
+"Why?" she asks. "I mean, I know *how* you are doing it. I know the base reasons. You are trying to become maybe a cisfemme woman, yes? You are trying to be the you that you always saw yourself as, yes?"
+
+"Well, yeah," I say, turning my untouched latte around in a circle on the dinged-up tabletop. "I told myself I'd come up here and finish my transition."
+
+"'Finish'?"
+
+I squint up at her, fearing a trap. "Ye-e-es..."
+
+She holds up a hand disarmingly. "I am not calling you out, my dear. Everyone approaches this differently. What I mean to ask is what 'finished' looks like for you."
+
+"I don't know," I say as I subside back into my seat, sounding miserable even to myself.
+
+"You have all the time in the world, Rena," My says. "And that world is going nowhere fast."
+
+I nod sullenly.
+
+"Well, hey. How about you show me what you looked like before."
+
+"Here?"
+
+She shrugs. There really isn't anyone around but us and the constructs behind the bar.
+
+I shrug, too, and fork into that version of me I remember from so long ago --- had it really been a week and a half?
+
+My raises an eyebrow.
+
+"What?"
+
+"Look."
+
+I glance over at that fork of me, then look closer. Really, truly look. What I'd taken as too tall comes off as merely tall-ish, now that she's not me. That too-high hairline is all but unnoticeable. That rectangular frame I'd bitched about plenty is...fine. Like, it's fine! She's fine!
+
+*I was fine.*
+
+My pushes her chair back to go stand by this new version of the old me, and similarities and differences crowd into my mind. There, two trans girls, just standing in a coffee shop, looking for all the world like they're on a date. Maybe they don't pass, not to my discerning eye, but they look fine. They look fine.
+
+Here are all the unassailable, irrefutable facts about them:
+
+-   They look fine.
+
+"Fuck," I say.
+
+My laughs.
+
+"What do I do?" I groan, slouching back in my chair and looking up to the two before me.
+
+"Whatever you would like," My says. "You have the time, yes? And I sure as shit do not know what you need out of life. All I can do is keep taking you out for coffee while you figure it out, yes?"
+
+I laugh. "Yeah, but which me?"
+
+She casts an appraising look at me, then at my new instance standing beside her, visibly and effortlessly trans. "One of you," she says eventually. "But only one. The other can do whatever she wants --- she can quit or go on exploring her own life or whatever; she can change and individuate, become someone new, change her name to something ridiculous as we have --- but only one of you gets to go on the next date."
+
+Me and this new Rena, this new old Rena, look at each other, grin, and nod.
+
+"Deal," we say in unison.
+
diff --git a/content/post/fiction/post-self/prophecies.md b/content/post/fiction/post-self/prophecies.md
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..cd9233d
--- /dev/null
+++ b/content/post/fiction/post-self/prophecies.md
@@ -0,0 +1,292 @@
+---
+categories:
+- Short Story
+series: Post-Self
+ratings: G
+date: 2024-02-05
+title: Prophecies
+cw: Discussion of suicide
+type: post
+tags:
+- Death
+- Science fiction
+- Uploading
+img: post-self.png
+description: What Right Have I struggles to mourn 23 billion lost souls.
+---
+
+To step into The Bean Cycle was to be immediately assailed by sound. There was, as to be expected, the clink of glasses and muted howl of steam wands bringing milk up to temperature, but mixed in was the clatter and clicking of work being done on bicycles. Wheels were spun, chain was dragged through derailleurs, tires were changed. Milk was steamed, espresso was made, names were hollered out.
+
+It was not the type of din that Slow Hours expected for the one she and If I Dream were looking for. It was too uneven, this wall of sound. Too unpredictable. The steam wands were too piercing and the occasional clang of a wrench or raucous laughter over some story of a crash too jarring.
+
+She looked to If I Dream, who merely shrugged.
+
+Scanning the cafe-*cum*-bike-repair-shop revealed little. It was certainly well populated enough, with every table in use and few enough empty chairs. In the corner by the window, a crowd of synthetic creatures of some sort had gathered, looking vaguely feline but with glassy faceplates showing LED-light eyes in sets of fixed expressions. While they were all far shorter than Slow Hours — who one would be hard pressed to describe as tall — the couch that they were sitting on looked to be barely able to hold their weight.
+
+Even if it was not the type of place for the target of their search, it was still incredibly endearing, and she made a note to herself to return some day.
+
+"Afternoon, friends," the barista said, grinning to them. They were tall and wiry, red hair and beard shining in the bright halogen lights over the bar. "Two mochas? Extra whipped cream?"
+
+Caught off-guard by having her order guessed for her, Slow Hours froze, brow furrowed.
+
+If I Dream elbowed her in the side, murmuring, "I have canvased this place before. Do not worry about it." More loudly, she said, "Yes, though please make it three. Thank you, Hasher."
+
+Still frowning, Slow Hours allowed herself to be guided down the counter to wait for their drinks to be picked up. She set up a cone of silence over her and her cocladist, more for the relative quiet that it offered than for privacy.
+
+"Are you sure this is the place?" she asked.
+
+If I Dream nodded. "Yes, quite sure. Hasher was the one who tipped me off, and I...have seen her outside."
+
+"You are already watching her, then?"
+
+The panther smiled faintly, gave an even fainter shrug. "I am nothing if not myself."
+
+"Then why did you not just go speak to her yourself?" Slow Hours asked. "Or bring me straight to her?"
+
+If I Dream rolled her eyes. "My dear, I *just* said that I am nothing if not myself. That is not my role in this. That is yours. This is the story we are telling, yes? We are stepping into a cafe and ordering a coffee. We are seeing what this is like, this place where she has been parked the last week. We are speaking with Hasher."
+
+Sighing, she nodded and leaned against the counter, poking at the anodized sheet of aluminum that covered it. Thankfully, it seemed to be coated with some thin sheen of resin to keep the texture reasonable and noise down. "Well, alright. You are the sneaky ones."
+
+"Do you not also live in stories? I thought that was part of your whole shtick."
+
+She snorted. "Well, okay, good point. I suppose I am still a little rattled, is all."
+
+"'Rattled'?" If I Dream laughed. Like everything else that she did, it was nearly silent, more a quiet huffing of breath through her nose than anything. "*The* Slow Hours of the Ode clade is rattled?"
+
+"Yes, yes," she said, waving away the comment with a grin. "I really do see your point about the story, I am just finding it hard to slow down, perhaps. When you said that you had heard something, I was ready to race to find her, to have to jump through all the hoops of a fetch quest, so to hear that you already know precisely where she is, that you are already watching her, makes waiting for a coffee like this feel like a waste of time."
+
+"It will be worth it, I promise."
+
+"The coffee?"
+
+The panther laughed once more. "Well, I was going to say the story, but the coffee *is* quite good here, so, yes."
+
+It was only another minute or two of waiting before Hasher waved to get their attention, gesturing to three paper cups sitting on the bar, ready for them. Slow Hours dropped the cone of silence and winced at the sudden barrage of sounds that followed. She turned her hearing down a few ticks. "Thank you," she said, bowing. "By the way, we were hoping to meet up with a cocladist of ours. She is a skunk, a furry, built rather like myself." She gestured down at herself — human, instead, with pale skin and curly black hair tied up in a messy bun, but stocky and short. "Black fur, white stripe, a little jumpy. Have you seen her around?"
+
+Wiping their hands on a towel hooked into the strings of their apron, Hasher nodded, tilting their head over toward the couch full of robots. "The one who was sleeping there the last few days, I'm guessing?"
+
+"Sleeping?" Slow Hours asked, frowning.
+
+"Yeah. She would just kind of curl up at one end for a few hours and nap. No biggie, of course, and we all liked her. She only ever slept while things were slow, and she'd always move when asked." They broke out into a grin again, shrugging. "Or when it got too loud. Or when it got too quiet. Or just every now and then for no reason we could figure out — very stimmy type — but she was always very polite about it."
+
+"Yes, that would be her," she said, smiling. "Well, thank you very much. Did she leave recently?"
+
+They nodded towards the back door of the shop as they started to make their way back to the line of customers waiting for drinks. "Out back, out to Infinite Café, probably half an hour ago. Just peek in if you need anything!"
+
+The two Odists bowed their thanks and carefully picked their way further over to the cafe side of the building, winding their way between tables until they reached the brick wall. There in the middle was a green, wooden door set into an arch, and above the arch "INFINITE CAFÉ" shone in tooth-achingly pink neon.
+
+The sim in which The Bean Cycle existed had a weather pattern tuned after somewhere in the northern hemisphere, so they had entered the shop sometime in early March — a scant three weeks after Lagrange had come back online after the Century Attack — where the air still had a bite to it and salt still stained the sidewalks out front from where the ice had been melted in the days prior. They had arrived late in the afternoon, the sun setting down along the street casting long shadows behind them.
+
+When they stepped out into Infinite Café, though, it was the same bright, midsummer's noon as it always was there. The light came from everywhere and nowhere, and their shadows sat just beneath their feet. It was the perfect temperature — no matter who you were, no matter your preferences, it was always perfect — and it was as packed as ever.
+
+If one percent of the population of Infinite Café was missing, Slow Hours could not tell, and for that she was grateful.
+
+The sim was dead simple: it consisted of one, long road set into a thin torus. A truly enormous torus: when she looked up, she saw a bright thread directly above them where the road had curved up into an arch hanging in the heavens, and yet the road seemed perfectly flat as far as she could see.
+
+Lining either side of the street were entrances to cafes. Cafes, coffee shops, doors leading out into libraries with coffee carts, alleyways leading out into sims where coffee was hawked from handcarts, dusty steps leading up into marketplaces where vendors boiled their coffee in their cezves in great vats of sand set over wood fires. Anywhere that served coffee to cladists that wanted was free to create an exit that led out into Infinite Café, and over the two centuries of its existence, it had grown from a labyrinthine maze of buildings to the ring-road that it was today.
+
+She had no clue how it worked, if it really was that big, but the sheer size of the System had been driven home quite effectively over the last few weeks — 23 *billion* dead! The number remained surreal — so she was hopeful that there were no tricks involved, no attempts to make it look bigger than it was.
+
+She was hopeful that all of these people here on this relatively crowded street were real, not constructs or illusions. She hoped they found coffee and friends and loved ones and long-lost selves.
+
+A gentle touch to her shoulder brought her back to the present. She looked over to If I Dream, then followed her gaze to the center of the thoroughfare.
+
+There, in the middle of the path, stood a skunk. She looked much like others in her clade, with white-striped black fur, tapered snout, cookie ears poking out from an unruly mane, and where she differed, it mostly came down to clothing. She wore a linen tunic in dandelion yellow, cinched around the waist with a leather belt, and a pair of loose, woolen trousers in a dusty brown. Her mane was tied back with a kerchief of some sort, a pastel triangle fully visible to them as she stood stock still and stared straight up to the arch above.
+
+Slow Hours felt concern tugging at her cheeks, while a glance at If I Dream showed only curiosity.
+
+"Shall we?" she asked.
+
+If I Dream nodded.
+
+Letting a crowd of joggers pass, the pair made their way up to the skunk so that Slow Hours could gently touch her elbow.
+
+The reaction was far more extreme than expected as the skunk let out a shriek and skipped three or so meters away from them, nearly colliding with a couple walking hand in hand. She whirled, tail bristled out behind her and ears splayed to the sides. Her eyes were wide and breath coming in quick gasps.
+
+Both Slow Hours and If I Dream took a pace back, startled.
+
+In the span of a few short seconds, the skunk seemed to get her bearings and comprehend just who was standing in front of her. She visibly worked on mastering her breathing as she stood up straighter, brushing her paws anxiously down over her shirt. "Ah...I, ah...Slow Hours?"
+
+She bowed slowly, deliberately, so as not to startle the skunk any further, and nodded. "Yes, and And If I Dream, Is That Not So." She held out the extra mocha. "We got you a coffee, What Right Have I. Would you like to join us?"
+
+What Right Have I looked between the two anxiously, clutching at the hem of her tunic. "I...ah, do you...I mean, is there an occasion? Is there a place? I was...I mean, I had been in The Bean Cycle but the couch...oh, I am talking myself in circles..."
+
+With that, she began to pace in an abbreviated line before them, alternating between scrubbing her paws together and straightening her already quite straight shirt.
+
+Slow Hours looked to If I Dream for help, and the panther stepped forward silently and wrapped her arms around the skunk from behind.
+
+At first, she thought this would be a prelude to them stepping from the sim together, or perhaps some affectionate bear hug, though this did not fit what she knew of their faint acquaintanceship.
+
+Instead, though, If I Dream simply squeezed around the skunk and stood still. There was a squeak and a tense-looking squirm from What Right Have I at first, but in surprisingly short order, her breathing fell under her control and she slouched against her cocladist, looking as close to relaxed as Slow Hours had ever seen her.
+
+*"What is this about?"* she asked If I Dream via sensorium message.
+
+*"A hunch,"* the panther sent back. *"Apparently a correct one, for which I am glad. Sometimes compression helps, yes?"*
+
+*"If you say so."*
+
+"Are you alright, my dear?" If I Dream murmured loud enough for Slow Hours to hear as well. 
+
+"Y-yes. *Tizkeh l'mitzvos.*"
+
+"Will you join us for coffee? It is not a demand, to be clear. Just an offer."
+
+What Right Have I nodded slowly. "Is the...ah, is the couch free in The Bean Cycle?"
+
+If I Dream hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "The creatures have left. There is a person sitting on one corner, but if you are comfortable, the rest is free."
+
+"If we...I mean, if I may set up a cone of silence, that will be fine, yes."
+
+Slow Hours watched as the panther gently released her grip on the skunk, the two monochromatic animals — one in baggy, colorful linen and wool, and the other in black form-fitting shirt and leggings — separating cautiously, as though to move faster might once more send What Right Have I into manic pacing.
+
+"Shall we?" Slow Hours asked, smiling reassuringly to her cocladists.
+
+The couch was indeed free, though there was no other instance of If I Dream visible. Slow Hours put this out of mind as best she could; the first stanza was well known for just how easily they slid about unseen, unbeknownst to others as they simply watched, observed.
+
+They sat in the crook of the couch, L-shaped as it was. What Right Have I requested one of the corner vertices of their little triangle so that she could get up and pace should she need, nudging the low table that sat before her aside to help assist in this endeavor, before setting up the cone of silence and nudging it to obscure them as occupants. The din of the coffee shop fell to a low murmur. 
+
+The three of them set their coffee cups on small coasters set in the air just within reach, and waited in silence.
+
+"What Right Have I," Slow Hours began gently once the silence seemed to open up. "From Whence messaged the first stanza a few days ago to see if any of them knew where you were."
+
+"She messaged Speaking, in particular," If I Dream added quietly. "She is the instance hunter of our stanza, yes? But she is feeling perhaps a little burnt by recent events and requested some space, for which I am glad. She deserves that."
+
+"I know," the skunk said. "She has messaged me several times. I have...ah, I mean, I always endeavor to let her know when I am okay. And I am! I promise."
+
+Slow Hours laughed, holding up her hands. "I believe you, my dear. This is a meeting between friends, not an interrogation. We wanted to see whether you are okay, yes, but it has also been some time, yes? And I have been checking in with much of the clade in the last few weeks. There are several of me out and about on meetings such as these."
+
+She nodded. "She told me she just wanted...ah, she requested "a bit more proof than gentle rebuffs." I told her that I am okay. I told her that I was walking and meditating."
+
+"Is that what you have been doing during the day?"
+
+"I..." She trailed off, scrubbing her paws against her thighs. "Some, perhaps. A little. We are still in *Shloshim,* but I cannot...ah, I am not focused."
+
+"You will have to forgive me for being a bit blunt," Slow Hours said gently. "But are you overflowing?"
+
+What Right Have I's expression dropped, the skunk quickly going from attentive to panicked to miserable.
+
+If I Dream held out her paw, an offer for reassurance. "I do not know what your overflow looks like, What Right Have I. I trust that it is not pleasant, though. It rarely is, yes?"
+
+"It is sometimes," she admitted, shaking her head at the offer of touch. "It is...ah, it comes in two flavors. It shows itself as religious ecstasy sometimes, of a sense of spirit, a feeling of *HaShem* existing in the world, in the System. Those who reach out to RJ, who reach out to our friend, they are reaching out to *HaShem!* Ey may be our personal *HaShem,* yes? But ey is an abstract manifestation of the world!" Despite the sudden animation in her words, the sudden fluency in her otherwise stuttering speech, her expression remained dire, anxious.
+
+Slow Hours smiled faintly, taking a moment to think back. The skunk's choice of words triggered a memory of a report written for the clade decades back. "Codrin said that, yes? Or rather reported that Answers Will Not Help said that. "Our own personal *HaShem.*" She said that she could not feel em on Artemis, yes?"
+
+What Right Have I nodded, subsiding back into the couch. "Yes. I...ah, I mean, I would not have joined them for that reason, never mind the other difficulties faced."
+
+Both Slow Hours and If I Dream nodded. No Odist had joined Artemis for its ongoing voyage.
+
+"But ey is still *b'tzelem Elohim,* yes? Ey is still in the image of Adonai, yes? Ey is still human, even if ey is our world. Our world is *b'tzelem Elohim,* and we, *b'tzelem Elohim,* reside within em." She smiled weakly. "Rav From Whence does not like it when I say these things, but that is what I feel when I am overflowing."
+
+"And that is what you are feeling now?" Slow Hours asked.
+
+"No," she said, once more sounding miserable. "If I do not feel ecstasy, I feel anguish. I feel...mm, I feel nullity. I feel nothing. I feel RJ and I think, "Ah my friend, my friend." I do not see in em the divine. I do not feel *b'tzelem Elohim,* I feel stupid. I feel...ah, I feel broken. I have been staying here, sleeping where I may be seen because I am afraid...ah, because I am so, *so* afraid that I will disappear, that I will crash and that no one will notice me. I fear that I will be forgotten and that...ohhh, I am talking in circles. I am thinking in circles, I am sorry."
+
+"It is okay," Slow Hours said gently. "Do you think you are overflowing because of the Century Attack?"
+
+The skunk whimpered and pushed herself quickly to her feet, pacing once more and shaking her paws out as though to dry them off, then straightening her already straight skunkerchief. "I have been dreaming," she mumbled, then jerked her head to the side with a quiet squeak. She continued more clearly. "I have been dreaming, here on the couch, out there in Infinite Café when...ah, when I fall asleep out there."
+
+Slow Hours tilted her head, sitting up straighter.
+
+What Right Have I smiled faintly. "I have...ah, I am not the oracle that you are, my dear. I am no prophet."
+
+She smiled, shaking her head. "Neither am I. I would still like to hear your dream, though."
+
+The skunk nodded, paused to gather her thoughts, then spoke slowly. "I am disembodied, yes? I am floating and I see a figure, and they begin to weep, and they dissolve into a cloud of black specks, and these specks float away on a breeze, and each one enters the heart of a cladist, and they cry out in agony and dissolve into clouds of their own, and so it ramifies until all are dust. I see you, yes, and I see If I Dream, and I see Should We Forget and I see No Longer Myself."
+
+If I Dream jerked back as though slapped, a sudden move that was nevertheless silent. "Do not–" she said, then shook her head.
+
+"I am sorry, If I Dream," What Right Have I said, bowing low and forcing herself to sit once more. "I...ah, my dreaming mind remembered names of those lost, perhaps, and extrapolated."
+
+The panther nodded, scrubbed a paw over her face, and sighed. "It is okay, my dear. I am still feeling raw."
+
+It was What Right Have I's turn to offer a paw. If I Dream accepted gratefully, giving a brief squeeze. When this lead to another squeaky tic from the skunk, she let go.
+
+"Ah...sorry," the skunk stammered. "I have...I mean, that is to say...ah, I am talking in circles. I am sorry."
+
+"It is okay," Slow Hours said gently. "Do you need some time?"
+
+She nodded, bowing her head for a moment before retrieving her mocha for a tentative sip. Apparently finding the temperature tolerable, she followed this with a longer drink.
+
+Both Slow Hours and If I Dream followed suit, simply taking in the ambiance of the shop.
+
+"Have you had dreams, Slow Hours?" If I Dream asked, breaking the silence with her quiet murmur.
+
+She startled to awareness, smiling sheepishly. "Since the attack? No, nothing memorable, though I have not been sleeping well. I do not imagine many are."
+
+"And before?"
+
+What Right Have I perked up, setting her coffee aside and scrubbing her paws together, kneading pads against pads. "Do your prophecies only come in dreams?"
+
+Slow Hours laughed. "My little predictions are not prophecies. They are just that: guesses based on the trajectories of the stories one tells. I may predict that, when we leave today, What Right Have I will linger a while yet because there is something she has yet to tell us– no, it will come in time, you do not need to until you are ready. But that is based on the trajectory of the story I have heard so far." She hesitated a moment, thinking. "But yes, I have had dreams that may well have been prophecies, but only ever in hindsight."
+
+"Tell us...ah, I mean, will you tell us some of what you dreamed?"
+
+"Yes. It has happened four times. Only those four, though." She held up her hand with as many fingers raised as she explained. "Perhaps Lagrange got hit by a stray cosmic ray or some other fancy particle and it flipped a bit inside the portion that contained me, and I was given some premonition. Smacked upside the head by Apollo, yes? Or, in your terms, visited by the angel of the Lord who gave me a honeyed scroll to eat."
+
+She tapped one finger. "The first was about Qoheleth and his little...adventure. Some two decades before, I had the same dream five nights in a row, of him standing in his robes, arms raised to the heavens, and then crumbling down into sand. At the time, I did not even realize that it was him. I had not seen him in more than a century, and when I had, he was dressed like a natty old college professor."
+
+The next finger, tapped. "The second was about Michelle's death, and I will not repeat it."
+
+She tapped her ring finger. "The third happened in the midst of a play — one of my yearly performances — and in the scene, I was to fall to my knees and cry out, "The knife! At her neck, the knife!" But instead, I passed out and apparently mumbled words not in the script which tallied exactly with Sasha's experience."
+
+There was a moment of silence as she considered the fourth and how best to describe it, not least because of the easy comparison to What Right Have I's dream as explained. Finally, she tapped her pinkie "The fourth was a dream of a core part of me being removed through the back of my neck, a disappearing from the world and becoming a ghost in the next. There was more that I do not understand, visions of a field, a park, but I had that dream every night on the five nights leading up to New Year's."
+
+What Right Have I listened attentively to Slow Hours's description of her prophecies, or at least prophetic dreams. As she spoke, her cocladist's expression darkened, until by the end, she was scowling. "I am no Daniel," the skunk said once she had finished. "I will not scry your *mene, mene, tekel, parsin.* But if you had foreknowledge of Michelle's suicide or the Century Attack, why did you not say anything? Who might we be if Michelle still lived? Might Lagrange be unharmed if we but knew this?" 
+
+By the end, she was nearly growling, so many of her verbal tics melting away as that emotion rose.
+
+If I Dream lifted her snout from where her gaze had drifted. "Did she know, my dear? Or did she only have a recurring anxious nightmare? Do we not all have a hundred recurring anxious nightmares a year?"
+
+The skunk glowered. "And? If that is–" A tic briefly interrupted her, a jerk of the head to the side, and this time she really did growl, though it appeared to be more at herself than anything. "If that is so, then why were these  not known?"
+
+Slow Hours straightened up. "I apologize if that came off as in any way glib, What Right Have I, or as though I could have done anything about them. I did try to get in touch with Michelle after those nights of dreams, but she only smiled and reassured me that she would "live on". It was not until after she quit that those words had any import." 
+
+What Right Have I's shoulders sagged, though she was clearly still gritting her teeth.
+
+She sighed, continuing, "And perhaps it is as If I Dream says. They were anxious nightmares. However, they still bore the acrid tang of ill omens to me. There was a scent of premonition, and so I have slotted them neatly into that category, even if they *were* only caused by anxiety."
+
+There followed a long moment while the skunk processed this. She seemed to be running down a mental checklist, as her rapid breathing shifted almost immediately into something deeper and more even, her posture straightened from a wary hunch as though ready to bolt, and her expression settled into a rather stiff half-smile. All spoke of various bits of therapy Slow Hours remembered from centuries back.
+
+"Alright. Okay." What Right Have I slowed her breathing further and turned her paws facing up, another skill from therapy. "Okay. You are the both of you correct. I live in my head and in the Tanakh and with a thought of prophecies. For you to call them such, it, ah...it...okay. It makes them not what I was thinking. You are not Ezekiel. You are not Jeremiah."
+
+Slow Hours smiled, gave a hint of a bow from where she sat. "I am not, no. I am a script manager and nerd whose imagination gets away from her sometimes, yes? Even in sleep, yes?"
+
+The skunk's smile grew more earnest as she nodded. "Again, I am sorry. I...ah, I do not know. I am unwell, perhaps. I am overflowing and making connections that do not exist."
+
+"Do you suppose you have had more than four, if you include those that did not come true?" If I Dream asked curiously. "They do still sound fascinating, if only as a curiosity."
+
+"If I have, including the scent of premonition, then I do not remember them. It was that scent, though, that led me to reach out to Michelle. I am embarrassed to say that that was the only one I acted on, though, given that all four of those revolve around death."
+
+What Right Have I furrowed her brow, paws shifting to clench tightly around the hem of her tunic. "I remember a story...ah, a snippet from the *History* where May Then My Name says that Michelle thought of herself as a dead woman walking, yes."
+
+She nodded. "May Then My Name went on to say that Michelle thought that perhaps even the dead can know joy, yes."
+
+"Did she, in the end?" If I Dream asked, frowning. "Know joy, that is? When she asked us all to merge with her, to share with her all that we had become, what did she feel? When, for an instant, she became ten thousand years old, did she choose to quit because she found peace?"
+
+"I think that she did, yes." Slow Hours spoke carefully, keeping an eye on What Right Have I for further tics or other signs of distress. "Or, rather, I must believe that she did. There is too much despair if I imagine her as buried under the weight of all of our own despairs and neuroses. If it is a comfortable fiction, so be it. I will live in that comfortable fiction."
+
+If I Dream nodded slowly. "Far be it from me to dispel what curtains keep despair from leading you after her."
+
+She laughed and shook her head. "There is no suicide in me, thankfully."
+
+"When I received her sensorium message, I nearly refused to attend out of protest. I think many of us saw the writing on the walls when we heard that uncertain steeliness in her voice."
+
+What Right Have I winced, squirming tensely in her seat, right at the edge of the couch cushion. "It...ah...I mean, I struggled. I was there– we all were there! But I struggled."
+
+The panther smiled faintly to her. "We all did, yes. Part of me felt that if any one of us did not go, then she would not quit. Another part was terrified I would be one of many who did not come, and that she would die feeling abandoned by her own family. If she was going to quit, and she wished to do so in the company of her clade...And now..."
+
+She trailed off and let her gaze wander down to the drink she still held in her paws. Blinking rapidly, the muscles on her cheeks and snout briefly became more prominent, as though she was doing her best to keep her expression placid, to not snarl or voice her despair, much as it had been throughout, though the tears leaving tracks in her cheekfur were impossible to hide.
+
+Alarmed at the sudden shift in demeanor, Slow Hours scooted a few inches closer to If I Dream, offering her hand just as the panther had done for What Right Have I before. 
+
+She accepted with a grateful — if still wan — smile.
+
+Slow Hours returned that smile, saying quietly, "That was the dream I had, you know. The premonition. An upwelling of joy and then an overflowing. She looked up to the sun, and the sun was RJ, and then they were one and the same, and it was all joy."
+
+At this, What Right Have I burst into tears. She did not cry prettily, but very few people did. It was a brief cry, however, and soon after she scooted back to the furthest limit of the cone of silence and drew her legs up onto the couch with her, growling as she did, "Slow Hours, you are the fucking worst."
+
+"I am the worst, yes," she said, voice still quiet and calm. "But that is why I am choosing to believe that the premonition was true and why I am choosing to believe that she did find joy, or peace, or at least nothingness and freedom."
+
+"They both deserve to be together. I hope that that is what No Longer Myself has obtained. What all of those lost have," If I Dream sighed.
+
+"I think...ah, I hope your dreams were true, in the end," What Right Have I said after a long silence between the three of them, after each had fallen merely to sniffles. "I hope that they *were* prophecies, whether or not you knew. If only for that one, I hope that they were true."
diff --git a/content/post/fiction/post-self/qoheleth.md b/content/post/fiction/post-self/qoheleth.md
deleted file mode 100644
index ac64bbe..0000000
--- a/content/post/fiction/post-self/qoheleth.md
+++ /dev/null
@@ -1,1153 +0,0 @@
----
-draft: true
-categories:
-- Short Story
-- ARG
-series: Post-Self
-ratings: G
-date: 2017-01-26
-description: Qoheleth is the story behind and the goal of an Alternate Reality Game, or ARG, which took place in January, 2017, as part of Post-Self. As the readers worked through the ARG, more parts of the story were revealed, until all five were together. The full story is placed here, and further information about the game itself is included as an introduction.
-img: qoheleth.jpg
-type: post
-tags:
-- Science fiction
-- Mystery
-- Uploading
-title: Qoheleth
----
-
-This is the original short story Qoheleth in its entirety, which took place as an ARG. During the process of running Qoheleth, each chapter was reveiled as a step of a puzzle that readers had to solve. There is more to this than is exposed here, but is primarily of a technical nature. For information on that, please see [the repository](https://github.com/makyo/qoheleth).
-
-This version is quite old, and the story was expanded and repurposed into a novel by the same name, which you can find [here](https://qoheleth.makyo.ink).
-
------
-
-## 1 (Torah)
-
-Ioan Balan awoke to an urgent message.
-
-Ey didn't really like these, the sensorium messages. Ey liked paper messages. Ey mostly just liked paper. Ey was always accruing more. Paper and pens. Eir friends thought it creepy. Paper messages, or those rich messages that came attached to paper, played on its surface, or even messed with eir sensorium. To have one that just barged in on eir vision and endocrine system like this made em quite anxious. This one included a tiny jolt of adrenaline as an alert. Waking up with that jolt to have a partial sensory takeover just felt rude.
-
-The benefit was that ey didn't have to get out of bed to deal with it.<!--more-->
-
-The opacity on the message was turned up quite high, so that even in eir dark room, with eir eyes closed (and heart still pounding), ey could see the fox. A bipedal fox dressed quite sharply. It was sitting on a fairly plain wooden chair, situated in an empty room. The room had wood floors the same color as the chair, some very light wood, like hickory or pine. The walls were concrete where they weren't glass. Outside the glass was a sere shortgrass prairie, a cloudy day.
-
-The combination of the fox's white fur, glistening and iridescent, combined with the room and landscape was all painfully pomo. Ey didn't consider eirself much of a pomophobe, but this was...intense.
-
-*"Hi Mx Balan,"* the fox was saying. *"I have a proposition for you."*
-
-Ioan grunted. The message was recorded, thank goodness. No interaction
-
-*"My name is Dear, Also, The Tree Was Felled, or just Dear, and I'm a member of the Ode clade. I'm an artist-"* Ioan rolled eir eyes. Ey could tell it didn't like the word. *"-and performer. I'm not just telling you this to, ah, toot my own horn, I believe the phrase is, but just to underline the fact that I'm woefully unprepared for the situation at hand."*
-
-The fox smiled, looking tired. *"I need some help finding someone,"* it continued. *"Someone that doesn't want to be found. It's personally important, but also potentially damaging to the image of our entire clade."*
-
-Ioan furrowed eir brow.
-
-*"The person has information, a name, that ey have supposedly shared. We --- the other members of my clade and I --- don't precisely know if they actually did, unfortunately, we just have word from others close to the clade that someone knew and said The Name."*
-
-The fox shook it's head, ears flopping from side to side. *"I'm sorry, I'm getting sidetracked by details. I try to be prepared for conversations and messages like this, but I'm a little worked up, excited, I guess. Can we meet?"* It listed some coordinates. *"Even if only to talk. Even if you're not interested, I'd still like to meet you. You seem neat."*
-
-The message ended.
-
-Ioan lay in bed, thinking. It was still about an hour before ey had to get up, and ey was loath to start the day before ey had to. Ey tried eir best to sleep for another ten minutes, at least, but eir mind kept slipping back to Dear's request.
-
-*Why me?* ey asked the backs of eir closed eyelids. *Why hire a writer who fancied eirself a historian as a PI?*
-
-With still a half hour to go before ey had to be up, Ioan slipped out of bed, stood, and stretched. The least ey could do was get a shower and some coffee. If there were any reason that the founders of the system had included sensoria in the works it must have been for those.
-
-Those done and clothes donned --- ey knew ey could never out-natty the fox, so the usual faux-academia garb it was --- ey penned Dear a short note with a time. If it was day in that sim, or even late afternoon, it should get the note before dinner or bed.
-
-*Besides,* ey thought. *Maybe it will get the fox to start sending notes this way in the future.*
-
-No luck. Less than thirty seconds later, Ioan received a sensorium ping of acknowledgement, and a shiver up eir spine to go along with it.
-
-Ey forked and sent #c1494bf out to the meeting. Meanwhile, ey'd get some food.
-
------
-
-Ioan#c1494bf found eirself about twenty meters in front of the squat house. It was just as postmodern on the outside as it had appeared on the inside: a concrete block, a thick wrap-around patio covered by cantilevered eaves, floor to ceiling glass for walls. Ey wouldn't be surprised if the far side of the buiding --- ey couldn't see it very well, with the slope of the shortgrass-prairie it was on --- jutted out at some crazy angle.
-
-Smiling ruefully, ey walked up toward the house.
-
-A soft tone, a vibraphone struck with a soft mallet, sounded inside and outside of the house as soon as ey'd passed the barrier between grass and patio. Ey stood on the patio, waiting to be either admitted or greeted.
-
-A shadow of a person, human, peeked out through the glass at em, gave a pleasant wave, and hollered through the glass, "Ioan! Hi! I'll grab Dear."
-
-Before the person could do so, Dear came padding softly from around the side of the house, looking slightly more collected than it had during the message.
-
-*"Ioan,"* it said, smiling and offering a paw in greeting. Ioan wasn't sure how ey knew when a fox was smiling, but it was definitely a smile. *"Thank you for coming on such short notice. Sorry for the urgent message, I just need to find someone to help out rather soon."*
-
-Ioan#c1494bf took the offered paw and bowed. "Of course, Dear." Ey realized how strange it was to call someone a term of endearment as a name. "May we have a seat? I've just woken up and am still figuring out how to stand."
-
-Dear grinned and nodded, gesturing cordially with its paw around the side of the building from where it had come, leading the writer around and through a door in the glass.
-
-The interior of the house was as ey had seen, though as they moved through the space where the message had been recorded (a gallery, Ioan noticed) and deeper into the house, things warmed up a little. The concrete walls were softened by hangings, and the furniture was unexpectedly plush, rather than of the firm-cushioned, straight-lined variety ey had expected. Fox and writer settled for an L-shaped couch, sitting facing each other across the bend.
-
-After a moment's hesitation, Ioan began, "I must apologize, Dear. I'm not sure that you have quite the right person. I'm not really a detective, wouldn't know the first way of finding the one you spoke of."
-
-Dear shook it's head, *"I'm pretty sure you're the right person. I'm not really looking for a detective, per se. There's enough of those in the Ode clade. They'll suss out the whens and wheres."*
-
-"Then what-"
-
-*"There's a few kinds of people in the world, Ioan."* The fox said, voice low and calm. *"There's forgers and honers, of course. Forgers build a thing and plow ahead, and honers settle on a thing and perfect it. Artists generally fall into these classes: prolific and unfruitful artists, respectively.*
-
-*"But you're not an artist. You write, yes, but that's ancillary to what you do. A side effect. There are some other types of people out there, too: catalogers, feelers, experiencers."* Dear shrugged, *"For its own reasons, the clade needs someone to experience this. There's a lot of history in this, a lot that we've forgotten, a lot that we're trying to remember, maybe some that we're trying to forget. I want you to help figure out the history and story of this."*
-
-"An amanuensis," Ioan said.
-
-Dear brightened, its ears perking. *"Precisely. And what a delightful word, too."*
-
-Ioan grinned, "That's good, then. This is very much more my arena. I'll keep this instance around and keep #tracker up to date."
-
-The fox nodded and looked up, smiling as it's partner came in with three thick-walled, wide-brimmed mugs of coffee, setting two of them down on the corner of the table near Ioan and the fox. "Heard you were tired," they said, walking off with their own mug.
-
-Dear watched them go.
-
-"Your partner?" Ioan asked, feeling that a moment of chitchat was necessary. Ey grabbed eir mug eagerly. It smelled quite good.
-
-The fox nodded, picked up it's mug as well and leaned back into the cushions of the couch, slouching. *"Mmhm. Finally decided to explore relationships,"* it said. *"They accuse me of treating it like an art project"*
-
-Ioan grinned. "Well, are you a forger or a honer of relationships?"
-
-Dear rolled its eyes, said, *"Touché. I'm trying to be a honer, with this one. For a long while, I forked to create lasting relationships. Gets lonely, though. It was like being turned down every time. At least from my --- this instance's --- point of view."*
-
-Ioan felt they were getting a little too deep for having just met, so ey steered the conversation in a tangential direction. "You fork quite often, then?"
-
-*"Yeah, Dispersionista through and through. Or maybe profligate tracker, as sometimes I don't have the option to let instances linger."* Something seemed to occur to it, and the fox sat up again. *"Speaking of, do you know much about the Ode clade?"*
-
-Ioan shook eir head, sipped eir coffee. It *was* good.
-
-*"It's an old clade. One of the oldest on the system. Our founder, Michel Hadje, uploaded basically as soon as he could, and quickly became one of the, er, loudest voices on the system. He campaigned for sensoria to be included."*
-
-"I've heard of Michel!" Ioan sat up straighter. "Usually in the context of the founders."
-
-Dear nodded.
-
-"So what is Ode, then? His old username?"
-
-*"No, a poem,"* Dear laughed.
-
-"Oh! Oh, of course. So Michel wrote this poem..."
-
-*"No, not actually. Michel had a friend, a good friend, who wrote the poem."* Dear said, speaking more slowly now, sounding less rehearsed. *"When the friend died, Michel memorized the poem. All us up-tree instances do our best to keep it memorized as well. Really memorized, too, in the forefront part of our head, up where we think about it, not stored in some exocortex."*
-
-"Is that where your names come from?"
-
-*"Mmhm. Each of us is named after a line in the poem. I'm Dear, Also, The Tree That Was Felled, and my first long-lived fork is Which Offered Heat And Warmth Through Fire. My immediate down-tree fork is Dear The Wheat And Rye Under The Stars."*
-
-Dear splayed its ears, grinning sheepishly, *"It's not actually a very good poem, I must admit. Michel thought so from the beginning, too. His friend, though, when they died, when they killed themselves, it really tore him up. We all still think of them often."*
-
-Ioan nodded, "It must be quite long, then."
-
-*"It's only about a hundred lines, divided into ten stanzas. There are only ever ten branches as direct ancestors of Michel, and each branch only ever has ten long-lived up-tree instances. We may be Dispersionistas, but we're a small clade."*
-
-"And the poet? Who are they?"
-
-Dear bristled, then mastered its instincts. *"That's The Name that we don't share. The information that someone supposedly did share. Someone of the clade or close enough to it to know."*
-
-Ioan's mind swirled, confused at the fox's reaction, the concept of not sharing a name that was clearly important. "I see," ey said into eir coffee, covering eir confusion. "So you'd like me to help in finding this person and act as amanuensis along the way?"
-
-Nodding, Dear held out its paw once more. *"If you'd be willing, that is. We'd be glad to have you aboard."*
-
-Ey was already sold, Ioan knew, but all the same, ey took a moment longer to consider the ramifications of the job.
-
-Ey shrugged, reached out and shook the fox's paw. Dear grinned, shook back.
-
-*"Excellent. I've shared just about all I have to share on the topic for now, though as we get updates, I'll pass them on to you."* Dear leaned back into the couch once more, *"For now, stay. Finish your coffee, at least, though feel free to putter around for a while. Or just stay here. We've got an apartment on the side of the house. I've already talked with-"* it said it's partner's name, Ioan didn't quite catch it *"-about it."*
-
-Ioan nodded, "Thank you. I think I'll head home in a bit and sync up with myself, and start the research plan. Do you have any suggested avenues I should start down?"
-
-*"Of course,"* Dear smiled. *"As for research, dig a bit more into the Ode clade for now, probably. when I send you updates, maybe those will lead to different topics."* The smile turned into a sly grin. *"I know you're not a big fan of sensorium messages, but as that's how the clade communicates --- those of us who do, at least --- I regret to say that you'll be getting quite a bit more."*
-
-Ioan gave eir best polite smile.
-
------
-
-The first message was not long in coming, arriving about an hour after Ioan#c1494bf arrived home. At least it wasn't high priority; ey had the choice to accept then. Half duplex, though. Would be an actual conversation.
-
-Ey sighed and closed eir eyes. The things ey did for work.
-
-Ey accepted the message
-
-*"Hi Ioan,"* came Dear's voice. It was still seated on the couch. *"Long time no see, hmm?"*
-
-Ioan nodded, subvocalized, "Yeah, took you ages. Have something for me?"
-
-*"Maybe. We've got a file from someone down-tree. Or, well, hmm"* It appeared to think for a moment before continuing, *"Someone down-tree from me found a file, and he thinks it might be a file from the clade, maybe one of the original ten."*
-
-Ioan waited until the fox was done before responding, "Alright, send it over."
-
-The file arrived promptly.  Eir shoulders sagged.
-
-```
------BEGIN AES BLOCK-----
-QUVTAgAAGUNSRUFURURfQlkAYWVzY3J5cHQgMy4wNmMAgAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
-AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAB9Mj6WfemiL807HBXlYmB/JG4Y5T9F/q9u4/9M
-i1K8vfWJUyFOFrpR0Ej4KpSu7CjjKEN/8jNDvvNSyD5kOog/KOmNxGfD2myXCgvm
-d1ev6dNGaKJvEyn9aahd7zjNFNzpB5d293f7++sETN9yRTqRq7yMvhpUyxXig1Q+
-3pK1lxKprLInWreU0uU52i6BrzrBnGzgl5Nu1h0TsNX0Bmf41bNGZ8rC9krVMuTP
-pr+NyY7+uuLpeibQECbvUzfHU95h3wRzo8p5+YSpM40EbjqklIO6VjN0mWuuRT/L
-QH+q2LgjbvPJ7M0qNAfwc8ac58/vrFXzBsHg5NIImSPog2TPD3LUhik5lsaXAVkv
-icj8J1eOaGfH4DYNm2R9P06jNBX8bQCtXdczSR2DkZgiPYXC7Jk+6wAfRj8W97zo
-Lv6pBWbfqIf1AO+kAJU/jm4T3BNbOG7D7K7h2niFiYg2dVogv1I2VHzwCjqDwr9z
-7vs8Mp616xCc80W1s87dPHIBUwfUz8sPBZ3DwWMYzgKqxvDxK0lNMIfOPqCGr4j6
-gYTmH4lRZKxxID4r6o5nzGUabIviWB19ZIqyiSkV2HLlomd3Fj1lR3DXQd1ZZxV9
-/sIuj6UhBfdIz/ZtuL5JwweHBZORAglB1ugbKeeaVkgKwrUC3WI87o6LVblgpFTG
-uEeJs/FemBB+dv9bzzyw6xXGJUVaGyMsyRKmDldGHo1862GxZP0HWXn2oIyucW5t
-zQYUnHk5NT5SDi+qlG9fK9DFG2iaelCnSawZTExZBepDhT1ooe445Jk3+6/aREKR
-AqP3mRsnwYl+h9bPZ5EV4alVyoF5wO0PWAiJwbZiH/6G+nrRDRjR9oiCnS5XPI9o
-Ost1uioKUQzaR96smA0VQ5YHb1lrDw8qw9VEZ227ZN3z3QTGWBuqJ8qMnNpaXGuQ
-mnQgGTfrZbQtwToyGljHntB+XXmK8A+NCpxNvx5KcGhpqtkvGZrpUjFJw2Xyt++7
-ULEWEsHBu3p8LWuNsZTlmGF/2wEMZ1LyPAzL02lq48QM0fyFLw8UmpW5ZCpDcBBL
-COhaknLtZ91SPDdJl6WkHGCfE1LIcJQdAsGudDvXI1ST97Kgmq+u9HOZMq7588di
-uGo+tKWQot4SkfN6ZKPcfd7AR9Cjhuqm3qzKLaT5ploaI9Wbkffi9MpHy/wImaBt
-ANjZ0lRGcilGsqUiv4Pql+GzsSYZbubVV3OO8u235jFwygHjFBMY17L/nc/JoQRr
-JqKySABDFCGHt67ifSKk4N6vsLd4w2gkp8xe/MOqYIEnzj14WiXDN8SutXk2+z6M
-0XkEQD9jA92LEx4JmCY5JzXf9XAYOVnGwihbpJOl8YLWQJ5vjUzPq/wUX3qK8Y9n
-73jAnH7/zgPaTJf1Xy0hEIeHPGl3DLBvGQVuTVkadjL8celxD8DGY8DiBWTLP/J5
-J+u7QzOVRbujPMLC7LrrK5myVqDPM/+LdRevC+n6ptZx2V8sbyEPcEApEXFH9u//
-OHVMn3gT5zEq/eLVaSZ8PO8BDHRJ+/xEjYAs2IogV+jKMsfEHQyt2kRZj9/BuH6l
-+oXxplqjLPFE0PZ+GyaAWYcVUvCkGKpaJ1yIFwI1s9vcDejeRTWH+N+xMlTc/GG7
-xLixBzzk1Lb5jwzzeoOizcAoE/BFHgIGpWE8G6KPZ6IGYqo9evYyXngwu5IlsdL2
-lT7SmuVc4zRz83FfsKypne6QZ4+3/4fQvd38Kcm2Vz0TWfcTEfdUj4yy7Er3/hjZ
-RfwAJhNmgZkJ3BxnEchB0gcDBfSF2isyH5Z2UxS2ynhSUkdBmfhiE3UmicqapdcT
-3m9h5XmX8QPEDmG6tguVvxF+NNjx6IdS+x+okQZg0ZYhmFtyEwvVRfN0U8b8r0gd
-1Vo/pd4PHLqTOvXTVemOMeXUWdjzUlEpbN/yrd6xZxCkLBcGPOyOUklV84szs8rq
-d5f1nR0U4Db/t5Hd04z7cDfjtIjHa+lbwOeci12aIyzW+zsGepau6I0oYgHRqKU0
-+PbosRqnjp8qIZG7pEmjIlIcE6sTtG258UFFSTuuokxON2ol1leZqZ39yeqhy6Mg
-df7yEYyoqBs40c9Na5xUNeRIhGqUR0ogxHQSN0TBVzEvhBHpym90jtJTgMrM+ALO
-Rs3icqEDZvlDO4e6UQA5AZ1ULINCkkgYeiZXODd5Uu+LLvCIrDlkkT1zddnHWRrD
-zvIaIDiaeZ6zrM8MTUzyg/VpMu72/p/adGfKIzsr6ZXWX11ZWa23RUkpheYVRuOS
-to2gTRXVBsEHeXbdPBHZUBlKCzMzLSeSCDzjlU+IQ4AXshJdoM6E5OwcekoOjoZv
-oG4sUbc6+u/UeIoBTIy7GrJPtROhXX7jsOtWLRXZ+4tjOqpYcaCNw6KsF4JX0Dh9
-SxvyVbnNn2xcgk1zEVeCk0wfeMQBpKTzRlYKUTV9iW2MpQzA3yaemENG5abo4iKG
-jTaWTgtSMtJxTC2WwTewfpEp9NvFx4/K+aWiMuW3cPCJclSsH0gh2muWwZLRgm8U
-vF6zv/r/I0Sl6ZFmmhZOz5nafx9uGnskRGO+NWsyb9S1+3VsFx1nUxAiShXiBuF6
-9SCFV3NfDrgCoVFrvcPROnQpZtauIY1QjEXwmmVmb3KVf/DMhbuZhUJrOJcX/MDR
-oIcsoqSaD0pZMM+LPHNyaliugpLctWQZ3RQpn+VtnXiI2ZwThDZ8tlFz7lMv5WCz
-VnWCdtRiP3mkNouUSOjzClNlU4zZgn5ngcbzLC2Y+nTE1WwOhLd4SwnMgCyG8i6h
-SVpyBeOvYLXIYhwQRg4mcS5wds91X4RcrhGYEPbVaoLKscLPRt/myMLPL9yVAgk5
-sm+wNn4BYBC+I/9G0KuEdstkvKNC6byypFDDPXymePb78/JPIk5otQJQHn6P+Bog
-cbtFwP1kz4f+O0DR8z2f8XFs11lkIeZkkKR40Aeb2wYYBm+EykkrozW8WuM7Do/9
-dPHmu55mf/asoyWP6rsf4tQz7QDSMWmfbhuFVznWAua53St2nS6IiT/hGk57sRmS
-EflP966Bk9ef8K1eFL28OZjbQ5MR8abTKY8+MD238QBu6xdigeT4ZmNneDuU1C5v
-0YAJavkhD+S973oUnR0eisO5Qjf1VMFOM8n54CZJOBklDsCKaedj9Pg8eoELsKAT
-pOPsS2f8JAkMSLS+gKsvTPHioycPi26Icm+LKUicGZfEzGzVx+NiW+e5mx/smJr3
-30tMWjo=
------END AES BLOCK-----
-```
-
-"What's an AES block?"
-
-*"An old encryption algorithm. And I mean __old__."* Dear looked a little embarrassed, *"We like old things. That's why we figure it's probably from one of us."*
-
-Ioan thought for a moment before responding, "So do you want me-"
-
-*"You don't need to worry about the file itself. That's why I didn't just forward it to you automatically,"* Dear paused, then added. *"Though I probably should have. Amanuenses form an* Umwelt, *so now this is part of yours, now. We'll talk about it at the end. Something to keep in mind, I guess. When we find the key, we'll let you know and send over the contents."*
-
-"Good. I gave AES a check, and you're right, that's ridiculously old. Can't you just crack it?"
-
-*"We could. Some of us probably already have. I want the key, though. It's probably a word or something, and may prove interesting."*
-
-"Interesting?" Ioan asked.
-
-*"Interesting in that the act of finding the key may turn up further clues."*
-
-"Ah, good point." Ioan pondered, then added, "Keep in touch, yeah? I'll do some digging on old cryptography, too, and see what all's out there."
-
-*"Good fucking luck. Cryptonerds were --- are --- very wordy. There's going to be a boatload to sort through."*
-
-Ey grinned, "I'll fork and research, then."
-
-*"Good plan. Gonna get back to the hunt, and hey, Ioan,"* the fox gave an earnest smile. *"Thanks. Even if I'm just running ideas past you, it's good to put in words."*
-
-"Of course, Dear." Ioan waved. Ey always felt silly interacting with sensorium messages. Would #tracker think em crazy? "Thanks for the project."
-
-Dear bowed, signed off.
-
-\#tracker was, indeed, giving #c1494bf a bemused grin.
-
-## 2
-
-Transcript of Node: [[bea0cf302fcd00863f0c67a91b1a75c0e4ba4863]](http://35.165.134.227/node/bea0cf302fcd00863f0c67a91b1a75c0e4ba4863) with descriptive text by #d5b14aa.
-
------
-
-*The footage shows two persons. One of them has to be Dear, Also, The Tree That Was Felled, who is an up-tree branch of the Ode clade, ninth stanza. No one else has ears that big, nobody else can somehow speak in italics. The other took some research, but I'm confident that ey are an instance of Ioan Balan, a historian and writer. Ey are a tracker, and eir habits tend toward few to no long-running instances. This instance is either #tracker or one tasked to this project.*
-
-*The two persons are sitting outside of a cafe, from whom I obtained this footage. They are in conversation. Going to sit down and watch this.*
-
-```
-DEAR, ALSO, THE TREE THAT WAS FELLED: We - er, some other Odists, down-tree from me - have come up with some hints about the message.
-
-IOAN BALAN: Oh? Anything good?
-
-DEAR: I suppose it depends on your definition of good.
-
-IOAN: Oh great. Excited already. Well, lay it on me.
-
-DEAR: So, one of us did a pretty exhaustive search of some records and found some old archive server running somewhere.
-```
-
-*Oh goodie. Better start gearing up.*
-
-```
-IOAN: Wait, start at the top. What were they searching?
-
-DEAR: They were searching for the block of encrypted text - not what was in it; they cracked that a long time ago, but I think this hunt is still valid and have some reputation to burn, so...anyway - they searched for the encrypted text itself, and they came across an archive server.
-
-IOAN: Old node boxes? Man, even I feel crusty using one of those, and I'm a historian.
-
-DEAR: You're only a little crusty *laughter*. They found the archive server though, and there's a bunch of stuff on it. New, old, the whole thing. There's stuff from ages ago, and stuff from a few hours ago.
-
-IOAN: You're kidding, right?
-
-DEAR: I know, it's ridiculous.
-```
-
-*The fox's ears flop when it gets excited and shakes its head, never noticed that. It's kind of cute.*
-
-```
-IOAN: Never met anyone who could actually get one working well enough to add new nodes. So the encrypted text was in a node on the server?
-
-DEAR: Yeah. It's still there. Just sent the URI.
-
-IOAN: I...well, I'll have to take it at your word that it's the same as the one you found earlier, I'm not going character by character.
-```
-
-*Dear seems a little frustrated at this. About Ioan's slowness? I know I wouldn't compare the files. It sounds exasperated.*
-
-```
-DEAR: Of course, Ioan. Promise it's the same. Needless to say, we found a crusty old server with the block on it, and there's other public nodes on there as well. I'm guessing a bunch of private ones, too.
-
-IOAN: Anything good in those?
-
-DEAR: Nothing...penetrable. It's all fairly opaque. To me, at least.
-```
-
-*Ioan grins at this.*
-
-```
-IOAN: Thus us meeting here?
-```
-
-*Dear nods.*
-
-```
-IOAN: Want me to have a look, then? Tech stuff is going to go right over my head, you know that.
-
-DEAR: It's not all tech, promise. I just want you to give it a read and see what you pick up from it, you know? Put your amanuensis hat on and just spend some time experiencing.
-
-IOAN: You think highly of me. No complaints, but why can't someone from your own clade fill this role?
-```
-
-*Dear's quiet. Struggling for words? Our Dear? This must have hit it hard.*
-
-```
-DEAR: We...differ. The Odists, I mean. But we also want someone out-clade for this. I want someone out-clade for this.
-```
-
-*Ioan seems taken aback.*
-
-```
-IOAN: Do the others not like that I've been brought on?
-
-DEAR: Of the ones who know, most are fine with it.
-```
-
-*Now frustrated/confused.*
-
-```
-IOAN: The ones who know?
-
-DEAR: We're a little split on how to tackle this in the first place. Different camps, different strategies, infighting. Ioan, you have to understand that, when a clade gets old, it starts to get a little batty.
-```
-
-*Calm down fox, I'm working on it. Not so frantic.*
-
-```
-DEAR: Some clades try to get around this by keeping a certain core group of instances - talking mostly Dispersionistas, mind - in a setting that keeps them as sane as possible, feels very 'normal'. Or maybe some are researching forking from earlier points, from down-tree, rather than from where they are now.
-```
-
-*It furrows its brow.*
-
-```
-DEAR: We don't. First of all, we started way too early on for that to be a thing. We trusted that change would keep us sane, that as instances diverged, especially with mutation algos in place, they'd change enough to keep us from falling apart.
-
-IOAN: And that didn't work?
-```
-
-*Long pause.*
-
-```
-DEAR: It kind of worked. I'll put it that way. I feel pretty well rounded, and I'm sure those across the clade from me do too, but...it's complicated. It's like having a super close sib that was raised by a different family, in a different sim.
-
-IOAN: More different than you'd expect, then?
-
-DEAR: 'Expect'...fits strangely for this. The problem is that they're still us, we're still them. Clades are like families in a lot of ways, but you have to realize that they're still one individual. We're more different than one individual should be. Does that make sense?
-```
-
-*It does, Dear. That's why I'm doing this.*
-
-```
-IOAN: I guess so. So some of your clade would prefer I not be a part of this?
-
-DEAR: They feel that investigating the matter of The Name being said is too close to investigating The Name itself.
-
-IOAN: I don't know how I would respond to that.
-
-DEAR: That's my field. Don't worry about it.
-```
-
-*Ioan holds up eir hands, looks apologetic. The fox has lowered its ears.*
-
-```
-IOAN: Sorry, hope I'm not overstepping at all.
-
-DEAR: Don't worry about it. It's all good, I promise. It's just that we're really good at arguing, so I've been dealing with that a lot, the last few days. I'm a bit on edge. Let's get back to the archive server, yeah?
-
-IOAN: Sure thing, Dear. Where did you say your cocladists had found it?
-
-DEAR: Just in a search. Don't know quite the details about how, assuming just a text search of perisystem stuff, I guess? Not too sure on the terminology, I bought into being an artist pretty hard.
-
-IOAN: *laughter* No worries there, fox. I'm trying to keep up with you is all. I was just wondering if they found anything else.
-
-DEAR: You mean like other nodes on the server?
-
-IOAN: I'll poke around at those, look for ties and such. I was more wondering if they'd found anything in their search that didn't meet the relevancy threshold for them. Stuff like things linking back to the server, or anyone talking about this *pause* Hebel Qoheleth.
-```
-
-*Silly name. Oh well. Dear looks taken aback.*
-
-```
-DEAR: Hadn't really thought to ask. Don't suppose they did, though. Do you think it'd be worth having them search around more? Lowering the, uh, relevancy threshold? *laughter*
-
-IOAN: Yeah, I think so. Though now that I've got it too, I can do some of my own digging. Kinda want to see who likes The Bible so much as to name themselves that.
-
-DEAR: The Bible?
-
-IOAN: Yeah, Qoheleth is the...uh, the teacher, or gatherer, or a bit of both, really. That's what the book usually translated as Ecclesiastes is named after. Not sure about Hebel. What's kemmer, by the way? The passphrase?
-
-DEAR: How did you...nevermind. Kemmer is something from a book. One of our favorites. It's complicated and out of scope, but it relates to fluidity of gender. Very big, in our clade. I've opted out.
-
-IOAN: So I noticed. It makes sense, though. I'll make a note to look it up.
-
-DEAR: Glad someone's thinking about this stuff. Sounding more like a-
-
-IOAN: Private investigator?
-
-DEAR: *laughter* I was going to say historian, sounding more like a historian every time we talk. But you never know, maybe you'd make a good PI.
-```
-
-*That was fast! I may have less time than I had thought. Dear's lovely, and it's totally right: on the other side of the clade, there are some who'd not like this kind of digging. Too entrenched.*
-
-```
-IOAN: I can't tell whether or not I should be flattered.
-
-DEAR: It's a good thing. Just keep digging, and we will too. I'll be about, too. Got a few more things to wrap up to finish the current gallery business, but after that, I'm just going to work on this - with you if you don't mind - and try and figure out what's even happening in the clade. Keep in touch, yeah? Ping me whenever?
-
-IOAN: Will do. *pause* Wait, you're an instance artist, right?
-
-DEAR: Yeah, why do you ask?
-
-IOAN: Why don't you fork to work on both at the same time?
-```
-
-*Dear shrugs, grins, quits. Very lovely fox. Really quite lovely.*
-
-*No time to dawdle watching Ioan try and figure out up-tree instances, though. Must be getting ready. Quit this instance, flush the server of extraneous crap to guide a little more effectively - yeesh, how old is some of this stuff? Need to re-encrypt a bunch of it anyway - and get ready for some visitors.*
-
-## 3 (Ketuvim)
-
-Ioan sat back and rubbed at eir eyes. Time had gone all funny with all this research.
-
-As with many of eir previous projects, ey tended to fall into a state of free-running sleep patterns and distractedness. Ey would work for a few hours and suddenly get quite tired, nap for what felt like fifteen minutes and wake up three hours later. Then ey'd work for twenty hours straight, neglecting to eat.
-
-Ey had researched it and entertained the idea that it might be part of some larger sleep disorder, but had put it off as just one of eir (many) neuroses.
-
-Less than healthy.
-
-There were never any complaints about the quality or amount of work ey got done while free-running. Ey didn't slip up or stumble, and being methodical got one quite far as a historian and writer. Ey would write the same quality work at the beginning, middle, and end of eir waking periods.
-
-What it did *not* do, however, was endear oneself to one's housemates. Ioan#tracker quickly grew frustrated, whether or not Ioan#c1494bf used a cone of silence. Ey knew the feeling well. It was a common enough problem when multiple Balan instances stayed in the same house while on projects, and ey was nothing if not a Balan.
-
-Ey considered digging a new spot for eirself to work, until ey had remembered Dear's invitation.
-
-So thats how ey had found eirself rubbing eir eyes in front of a simple (if painfully modern) desk in a studio apartment attached to eir...employer's? Friend? Eir friend's (equally modern) house.
-
-The apartment really was a studio apartment, too: someone --- perhaps Dear --- had used it for painting, and rightfully so. The exterior wall was floor to ceiling glass looking out over that sere prairie. The landscape, Dear's partner had explained, was the work of Dear's sib, Serene; Sustained and Sustaining, 'born' when their ancestor, Dear The Wheat And Rye Under The Stars had forked to explore its twinned interests of forming oneself and the of forming one's surroundings in greater detail.
-
-Ioan's head spun whenever ey thought about the clade, but the longer ey spent around Dear, the more ey found eirself liking it. Ey was curious to get to meet another Odist.
-
-If it weren't for the window, opaquable, the apartment would've felt totally like a cell. Simple cot, Desk, and kitchenette. The walls were whitewashed concrete, the floor that same pale hardwood, the fixtures all brushed steel. No doors to the rest of the house, nor even anywhere but outside, no restroom. One was expected to either turn off elimination or do so outside.
-
-*There's a cheap joke to be made there,* ey had thought, when first moving in. *About Dear lifting its leg against some tree, but I doubt its body ever had that functionality enabled.*
-
-Ioan shook eir head and rubbed at eir eyes more vigorously. Ey was daydreaming --- eveningdreaming, actually --- and that made em wonder how long ey had been awake.
-
-"Probably some horrid number of hours," ey mumbled to the wall.
-
-A sensorium ping, a gentle impinging of Dear upon eir senses, half-sensed words, *"Does the wall reply back often?"*
-
-Ioan spun around. Dear was standing, prim, dapper as always, at the door through the glass, paws clasped in front of it.
-
-"Scared the hell out of me!" Ioan blurted.
-
-Dear's serene smile widened into a grin. *"Sorry, Ioan. I'll wait until after the wall responds, next time."*
-
-"Jackass."
-
-*"Foxass,"* Dear corrected, accenting that with an exaggerated swish. *"Have some news. Care to walk with me?"*
-
-Ioan nodded and stood, "Glad to. Hitting a wall, here."
-
-The fennec adopted a look of concern, *"Don't hit your friends, Ioan."*
-
-"Ha ha," Ioan rolled eir eyes. "Something's got you in a state today. Tonight. Whatever."
-
-*"Tonight."* Dear's smile softened, *"Come on, let's go walk. Storm scheduled in an hour, let's catch all of the nice smells."*
-
------
-
-It had been long enough that I was thinking of myself as Qoheleth now. I had even begun introducing myself as Qoheleth, whenever I went out, just to try it on for size.
-
-That I had never gone out was of little concern.
-
-I liked the sound of it, though. I liked the connotations of 'teacher' and 'gatherer' and 'director of the assembled'. I wanted to feel the way that it felt to be someone different, and I'd found at least a part of that in this name, the name that *I* had chosen for *myself*. I'd not yet taught or gathered, but I was working constantly to attain that.
-
-And 'Hebel'. Hebel was another name I had picked up. Vain, futile, mere breath.
-
-Qoheleth's words, in the book they had written so very, very long ago were all about hebel --- or hevel, could never tell which. "This, too, is meaningless," the author had written, after taking a walk down a path in life and exploring.
-
-That's not how I envisioned the name, though.
-
-I thought of the two names as signifiers. Thought of the two *sources* of names.
-
-Qoheleth. That was the name I had given myself out of hope. It was a name of goals and aspirations. It embodied the things that I wanted to do. It took all of my plans and me, as the maker of the plans, and bound them up neatly into a word. A name. A rejection of The Name.
-
-Hebel was the name I had given myself out of despair. It was a name of self degradation and a way of reminding myself that, lofty as all my goals may be, they were all vanity. Mere breath.
-
-Together, the names reminded me that I was doing this for a reason. All of these resources, mostly found objects and hand-me-downs accrued over the years (if you never leave your private sim and never publish outside of it, you get surprisingly little), were being built up and strung together into a cohesive goal. A net.
-
-They, the resources, were all nothing. The reasons were all nothing.
-
-The whole plan was nothing, except for the truth underlying it. Not to fear God, but to...to something. To get the whole clade to see. My clade.
-
-My *old* clade.
-
-I was now Hebel Qoheleth.
-
-Hebel Qoheleth.
-
-The old name was dead. I was Hebel Qoheleth.
-
------
-
-Dear wasn't kidding about the smells. Ioan turned eir sensorium way up in intensity. Ey wondered if Dear's vulpine nose could smell things eirs could not.
-
-Serene had worked wonders here. The smells, the textures, the raw beauty of the place. It was a fine line that they had walked, too. Any further in one direction and the landscape would have become nearly desolate, more forbidding than natural. Any further in the other direction, though, and it would've been softened too much, would've become too well-tended, or even cartoonish.
-
-As the two crunched their way through the short, stiff stalks of grass, winding their way around the larger tussocks, Ioan realized that ey was quite taken with the place.
-
-A ridiculous house in the middle of nowhere, a glittering white fox and its partner, the prairie fading off into downs on one side and stretching out to infinity on the other...It had all seemed so contrived when ey had first visited. Too simple, too one dimensional. Kind of cheap.
-
-But it was all so well done. So incredibly, skillfully executed. The artistry was in the details.
-
-Ioan liked it here.
-
-Ey realized ey had been dawdling, past the comfortable stage of just enjoying the petrichor being washed in before the storm.
-
-"Sorry, lost in thought."
-
-*"It's okay,"* Dear said. *"You looked like you needed it."*
-
-"Hmm? Getting lost in thought? Or getting out of the apartment?"
-
-Dear shrugged, smiled.
-
-"Sorry, anyhow. I'm here now, will try not to do that again." Ioan grinned sheepishly. "What did you find out? You seemed almost punchy."
-
-*"I was, definitely. Still am."* The fox grinned and shrugged again. *"We seem to have found out who our...ah, who our target is."*
-
-Ioan mulled over the word 'target', searching for a better one. Ey couldn't think of anything better, so ey nodded. "What do we know?"
-
-*"We know a name, and from there we can find a bit of history, which you may be able to help in filling in."*
-
-"Names are good! Something other than Qoheleth?"
-
-*"Other than that, yes, but almost certainly connected, probably the same. Not much more than the name, though. No location, no sightings in ages. Some aging --- or aged --- resources, a name, and some history."*
-
-Ioan gave an impatient gesture with eir hand. "Well, what's the hold-up?"
-
-Dear grinned broadly, *"The hold-up is that I want you to feel some of the excitement that I felt on hearing this from down-tree. I want you excited and invested."*
-
-"I've been working twenty hour days on this, I'm pretty fucking invested."
-
-The grin turned into a laugh. *"I know you have. My partner's worried about you."*
-
-Ioan felt eir cheeks flush, "Sorry, I didn't mean to be a bother being up so much."
-
-*"No, no, we can't hear you or anything. They're just worried because we __don't__ hear you, or hear from you. We both like you."*
-
-The historian nodded, chastened.
-
-*"Don't worry about it, Ioan. It's all good."* Dear patted eir shoulder. *"The name, though, the name is the important thing right now."*
-
-"And the name is?" Ioan's mind raced. Could Dear say the name? Was it the poet, some how miraculously talking through the system? That would be exciting, wouldn't it?
-
-*"Life Breeds Life, But Death Must Now Be Chosen, of the Ode clade."*
-
-Ioan froze.
-
-Dear stopped a few paces in front of em and turned, grinning intently at em while its tail lashed excitedly behind it.
-
-"They...what?"
-
-*"Good,"* Dear's grin widened. *"I'm glad I'm not the only one who had to pick their jaw up off the ground."*
-
-Ioan stuffed eir hands in eir pockets. Brought them back out to press against eir forehead. Crossed eir arms. Returned eir hands to eir pockets. Suddenly anxious. "It's a real the-call's-coming-from-inside-the-house moment."
-
-Dear tilted its head, ears perked.
-
-"Never mind. Old trivia." Ioan shook eir head and rocked back on eir heels. "How, though? How'd you get the name?"
-
-*"A hunch I had, actually, though someone else dug it up."*
-
-"What was the hunch?"
-
-*"Signifier."*
-
-Ioan rifled through eir mental notes on the project. "Signifier...from the first encrypted note? Signifier is the password something something?"
-
-Dear nodded, *"Hardly anyone uses it anymore, but signifier used to be what we called the names of long-lived branches. It's still used here and there among older clades. I use it now and then, when I can get away with it."*
-
-"Makes sense, yeah. So they're..."
-
-*"They're an Odist, yeah. Way, way down-tree. One of the first instances."* Dear's smile faltered, *"We weren't very good at record keeping back then. We aren't really now, to be honest, but the system's better. We...we didn't know that he was still alive."*
-
-"Didn't know? I thought you all talked to each other. You must, in order to keep the names straight."
-
-*"Remember, all of our names are chosen from our stanza. I talk with the other nine within my stanza fairly frequently, and we may fill out the stanza before too long."* The fox's expression grew glassy, *"Life Breeds Life...that's the first stanza. They're a conservative bunch. Only know one or two, but I assume that others are out there."*
-
-Ioan nodded, "So the first stanza were the first forked?"
-
-*"The first line from each stanza were the first forked, back when it cost to fork. Like, cost real money. Anyway, the first fork of the first stanza must've just been a little more conservative than the rest of us."*
-
-"I...hmm. May I ask something potentially personal?"
-
-Dear nodded.
-
-"The Odists that don't want me digging into this too much, the ones you didn't really tell, are they from that side of the clade?"
-
-The fox's ears perked, *"To the last, yes. Why?"*
-
-"How will, er..."
-
-*"Life Breeds Life, But Death Must Now Be Chosen. Just Life is fine, too."*
-
-"How will Life react to the search? To me?"
-
------
-
-I loved this feeling. I loved the feeling of a project getting past the architecture state to that point where you could just start to use it. You'd been writing all of the interfaces and abstract classes and such for weeks and months (or decades, in my case). Then you'd started to fill in all of the inner workings, blocks of code filling out empty pairs of braces.
-
-And then, one day, you had enough that you could type in a command and see if it actually compiled, ran.
-
-And then you'd probably buckle down and start writing tests, start pulling together tasks and issues and such. No such luck for me. Old Qoheleth --- I still get a grin every time I say that --- gets to just keep writing until it's time to hit the big green button. There's no testing, there's no explaining if things go wrong. Just go.
-
-I was actually pretty excited about it.
-
-You get old, you know? And you can't die in this place. You can suicide, maybe, crash yourself and try to corrupt the merge, and I guess if I were to quit, there'd still be someone to merge with, but they'd be dealing with the same problems.
-
-No one ever really dies in the system. They just stop.
-
-And I'm sure one of those will happen to me at some point, and probably sooner rather than later, but until then, I'll just keep going more and more nuts. We all will. All of us old'uns, and then before long all the young'uns too. We gotta see. They all gotta see, but we gotta see, because we're the ones in a position to do something about it.
-
-I keep using 'we', too, damnit. I'm not part of their damn clade anymore. I don't know which of them are or aren't, either, and I don't think they realize that yet.
-
-I just need to keep working on what I can. I kicked Node: [67e97446cdbe3a4a3cfd5ebd75b1260f] out into the wild, so they'll probably get there before long. After that, we finish our little game and I get my moment as Qoheleth. I get to be the one to call the assembly together, the one to teach.
-
-And, since I know they'll get into these nodes, too, I have to add that, no, I don't bear a grudge. There's no ill will. This isn't a "now I'll show them" moment.
-
-I just need them *invested*. I need them fighting, which is easy, and I need them interested, which is hard. I need them invested in the problem before I stand up and clear my throat, and then I might have the authority, in their eyes, to speak, to teach.
-
-I got them fighting by saying That Name, and I've got Dear interested. Lovely Dear.
-
-I just need them all invested.
-
------
-
-Dear shrugged and turned its back on Ioan.
-
-The historian stood where ey was and watched as the fox took a few steps further out into the prairie, crossed its arms and stood, staring up into the bruised-looking sky. *"To the second bit, I don't know that it matters. They --- Life, or Qoheleth, or whatever --- are one of us. And even those of us who didn't want any outsiders brought on board are only frowning, looking down their at the thought, not gathering up arms."*
-
-"And to the first bit?" Ioan pressed. "What do you think they will think of the search?"
-
-*"What do I think? Or what do I feel?"*
-
-Ioan scuffed eir foot against the grass. The temperature was dropping out on the prairie. It'd be an inconvenience to have to slosh back to the house if it rained.
-
-"Both."
-
-*"I think that they'd probably get a kick out of it. I am, several of the others are, and the ones who aren't just don't care that much or are too angry."* Dear turned back around. Its arms were held tight against it's front though whether from cold or emotion, Ioan couldn't tell. *"As for what I feel, I feel that it's their game. They're the ones running it. But even if it's a game, it's not play. There's no real fun in it, just snarkiness. It's a game they've worked at perfecting."*
-
-Ioan marveled at the change in Dear, though with these deeper thoughts, ey felt some of the same.
-
-The fox's smile was weak as it added, *"They have designs. Designs and reasons."*
-
-Ioan and Dear trudged back to the low block of concrete, a bunker against the storm, as a chill wind swept away the petrichor and brought with it the rain itself.
-
-## 4
-
-Dear's partner had cooked that evening. They were good at it, so Ioan sat with them around the table and tried not to feel like a third wheel. Eating was not a necessity in the system, of course, not by any stretch, and while it was easy to go for months or years without eating, it was something that remained a habit for many of those who chose to upload. Ioan suspected that there was no small amount of hedonism involved in killing one's body to upload to a world beyond scarcity.
-
-All the same, it was a muted affair.
-
-Dear and Ioan had made it back to the house just as the first cold sprinkles had started to fall from the sky. Once they'd reached the patio, they took the chance to stand and watch, just out of reach of water, as the weather went from cloudy, through sprinkles and drizzles, to stormy. Ioan focused primarily on the sound, the way ey was able to pick out the individual sounds of droplets striking dry grass during the sprinkles, to the static of the drizzles, to the rush, roar, and whoosh of the storm itself.
-
-Ey had no idea what Dear was thinking. It stood, watching the rain and shivering. It looked more contemplative, but was somewhere less than sad. Ioan spent a moment sifting for the word, before giving up and guiding the fox back into its house.
-
-Ioan felt some energy return with the mix of curry and masala and rice. Calories would've been an empty term here, but that's what it had felt like: like eating a hearty meal and regaining strength. Likely, it was just the simple act of going back to where ey had been in the prairie when first heading out there. Engaging with one's sensorium. Maybe that's why the idea of food had been included in the system, after all.
-
-Dear picked up a little with the food, but not as much Ioan had, nor, perhaps, as much as its partner had hoped, judging by their own apparent anxiety. Dinner was good, but plagued with silences. Even after, as the three sat talking, their conversation was full of nothings.
-
-It wasn't until they poured some drinks and moved to the couch that Dear began to open up.
-
-*"I script a lot of my conversations,"* it said, staring into it's 'glass'. All of the glassware in the house was wide-rimmed to make way for a fox muzzle to lap, having little in the way of lips. Ioan felt strange drinking wine from something more akin to a bowl
-
-Ioan looked up. "Mmm?"
-
-*"I was just thinking."* It shrugged, giving it's wine a squirl and then a few laps. *"Earlier, when I was sharing that bit about the name with you, I had that all scripted. It was all pulled together in my head. The whole thing. I'd make a few jokes, lead you on, tell you the name, and then we'd bask in the wonder of the truth of it."*
-
-Ioan nodded, silent.
-
-*"Just like I spent dinner scripting this conversation."* Dear's partner gave its shin a playful kick. The fox grinned.
-
-*"It's thoroughly ingrained. I'm pretty sure most people do it, of course. It's just,"* it sighed. *"I had the whole thing scripted and planned, and then you asked questions --- as you are meant to, of course --- and my script collapsed."*
-
-"I 'went off script', you mean?"
-
-*"Mmhm."*
-
-"Sorry about that, I-"
-
-*"Oh goodness, no!"* Dear laughed, shaking its head, *"I'm trying to apologize here, don't steal my thunder. I just meant to say that you asked good questions and got me thinking, and I wasn't expecting that."*
-
-"It likes to proclaim," teased Dear's partner.
-
-*"It's not __not__ true,"* Dear grinned back. *"But anyway, I'm sorry I got all quiet, I didn't mean to put a damper on things."*
-
-"You didn't, I-"
-
-*"I did, though. Dinner was like some depressing silent movie."*
-
-"Don't sulk, fox," its partner said. "Dinner was fine. And let poor Ioan finish."
-
-Ioan grinned, letting the banter play out before continuing, "All I meant to say was that I worried that I'd offended with one of my questions."
-
-*"Not at all. I mean, not really."* The fennec furrowed its brow. *"I felt offended, is what I mean to say, when you asked how Life would react to you being a part of this investigation. An unfair reaction, though. Just one from the gut. I was offended because I realized that I'd invited you along on this as some sort of tool. Something I could wave about and say, "See, look what I have!" A tool or a trophy."*
-
-Ioan looked down into eir wine, taken aback.
-
-*"Doubly unfair of me, and for that I apologize."* Dear raised its glass. *"So you asked a really good question, actually, because it made me question my own role in this hunt. It made me think of what others would think, me bringing along an amanuensis and historian, which made me think of why I'm doing so.*
-
-*"And I think the reason for me doing so goes further than even I had planned. I think I have you along as a means of keeping me grounded, of keeping the clade from just doing what the clade has always done yet again, of-"*
-
-The fox stopped talking suddenly and set its glass down on the table. Its ears were standing erect and its fur bristled down along the back of its neck, hackles raised.
-
-It looked frantic.
-
-Ioan looked to Dear's partner, who sent a very faint sensorium ping in response.
-
-Sensorium message. That was it.
-
-The message lasted less than a minute before the fox leapt off the couch and dashed off to another room, forking almost as an afterthought along the way.
-
-The fork turned quickly and paced back to the couch, looking anxious. It didn't seem to be able to sit, and instead kept up that pacing in front of the couch, before its partner and Ioan.
-
-After a few tense laps, it said, *"Qoheleth just sent me a message."*
-
-"What?" Ioan rushed to place its glass on the table with Dear's. "You mean Life?"
-
-*"He asked me to call him Qoheleth, but yes. He sent me a message. Can I pass it on?"*
-
-Dear didn't wait. The message came in with a flash.
-
-Highest priority, it came with a rush of adrenaline and a sensation of falling, sudden and intense fear replaced with an incongruously jovial voice. An old voice, almost Santa Claus-y. The contrast made Ioan's bones ache.
-
-"Hi Dear, this is Qoheleth. Not Life Breeds Life, But Death Must Now Be Chosen, but Qoheleth. I'm glad to see that you've kept this up and gotten this close. Not sending this to deter you, but to cheer you on. I'm going to send you a bit more information --- just you, mind! --- and I want you to get the rest of the clade in on this, see if you can get them working with the same delightful fervor you and Ioan have.
-
-"So anyway, here's the bone I'm gonna toss. You should be looking at Node: [32c5a64b66d0338be4373d796cf1eae5343f1077]. That'll get you right to my door. May need Gist Node: [0fedcbbb5e9839936ce799ece39fcd49] to help, too, though you already have the key, I think. I expect most, if not all of you, though, you understand? You're lovely, Dear, and I can't wait to see you and your friend, but I'd like to host as much of the clade as I can.
-
-"I'm really excited for this, and I'm totally looking forward to see you all, yeah?"
-
-There was a moment's silence, a sense of lingering, and then, "Oh, and thank you, Dear. You've made this a treat. You're the closest one to the thing I'm after, and I'm glad this tickled you as much as it did me. I think you and I both know why, too.
-
-"Anyway, see you soon, fox. Cheers."
-
-The relative calm that fell over Ioan signified that the message had ended, and ey slouched back into the couch, eyes wide.
-
-"Holy shit."
-
-*"Right? Hold on, don't go anywhere. Going to reduce conflicts while I make the calls,"* the fork of Dear said rapidly, and quit.
-
-Ioan shook eir head and said again, quieter, "Holy shit." Ey reached for eir glass of wine once more.
-
-"Bone I'm going to toss, hmm?" mused Dear's partner. "He makes it sound like a game."
-
-Ioan nodded and watched the fox's partner spin their wine glass by the stem between their two palms, watched the wine creep up the sides from centripetal force. "It showed you, too, then?" ey asked.
-
-The figure laughed, "Of course. I know I've not been hitting the books or the streets like you two, but I'm still in this. I was the one who pointed it to you."
-
-Ey nodded, feeling eir cheeks flush, "Of course, sorry. Do you know what he meant by "closest one to the thing I'm after"?"
-
-"Maybe. I only really have an inkling, though, and I'd rather let Dear explain."
-
-Ioan nodded again, "That's fair."
-
-There was an uneasy silence for a few minutes. The two sat on the couch, sipping their wine and mulling over the message. For eir part, Ioan was considering the strange dichotomy of the familiarity with which Qoheleth had addressed Dear --- "see you soon, fox" --- as well as *why* the fact that this seemed incongruous to em. It was difficult to think of Qoheleth as a member of the same clade as Dear, someone with whom Dear shared a root identity, after so long of thinking of this person as someone entirely different.
-
-Silences have their own rhythms, Ioan knew, so it waited until there came a point where ey could ask, "About all this, do you know much more about the whole name business?"
-
-Dear's partner looked up, "Who, Qoheleth's?"
-
-"No, I mean the whole name of the poet."
-
-"Ah." They shrugged, "Not particularly. I just know it's something the clade has an almost religious fixation on. Most of them, at least."
-
-"Do you know it?"
-
-They laughed. "Oh, gosh no. I mean...well, do you know why Dear's a fox?"
-
-"Why's that?"
-
-"Because it likes foxes."
-
-Ioan felt as if ey'd stumbled. Dear's partner laughed.
-
-"Seriously, that's true. But also, it was an experiment. I don't know The Name because I'm not allowed to know The Name, that much is obvious from the clade's reaction to this whole thing. But I also don't know The Name because I'm pretty sure Dear doesn't even know it. Not anymore."
-
-"How do you mean? I thought all of the Ode clade knew The Name, kept it secret and close to their hearts or something."
-
-"Many do, I've been told. And I think that Dear does this too, in its own way. That way means doing its best to forget it and to move on."
-
-Ioan nodded slowly, "To get to the acceptance stage of grief?"
-
-Dear's partner nodded. "So it did its best to forget."
-
-"Is that something that one needs to work on, then?"
-
-"Have you forgotten anything, recently?"
-
-"I, well..." Ioan stopped and thought for a moment. It was a difficult question to comprehend, and more difficult to answer. How could ey know whether or not ey had forgotten something by going back through eir thoughts.
-
-All the same, ey prowled through eir memories. Even just those from the time ey had been spending with Dear. They were jumbled, sure, and lots of impressions, but nothing was forgotten that ey could think of.
-
-"I'll spare you by passing on some thoughts from Dear," said the fox's mate. "We aren't gifted with eidetic memories when we upload, not by a long shot, but neither can we truly seem to forget anything we do remember, anymore. It's as thought each memory is labeled with a priority level from zero to ten, and when it hits zero, it's forgotten, except the actual scale only goes down to point oh oh oh oh one or something. We can kick it way to to the back of our minds, down the priority list, but we can't forget it. The system won't let us."
-
-Ioan nodded, realization dawning on em. "So Dear tried to forget, tried to kick that memory all the way to the back of its mind. What does that have to do with being a fox, though?"
-
-"Know much about exocortices?"
-
-"Sure, I've got a few up and running for storing long term stuff. Hell, I've got one for this project. Isn't that kind of like forgetting?"
-
-"Almost, but you can never forget that they exist, can never forget the passphrase, right?"
-
-Ioan frowned, directing it to eir wine rather than Dear's partner.
-
-"But exos also need part of your sensorium to match, right? That way you can't just tell someone your passphrase and let them in."
-
-Ioan nodded. Ey had a hunch of where this was headed.
-
-"So Dear put The Name into an exocortex, all by itself, and then tried to change its sensorium enough that it couldn't get back in."
-
-"I see," said Ioan, sipping at eir wine again. It left em parched. "It's a fox because it likes foxes, but that wasn't the goal. The goal was to no longer quite be the same Dear that put The Name into the exo."
-
-Dear's partner nodded.
-
-"How did it do that? By forking?"
-
-Another nod. "Forking and mutating, forking and mutating. You can change your form easily enough, but it's much harder to change your sensorium. I don't even know how many times or tweaks it took. That's how it got into instance artistry, though."
-
-Ioan nodded, "Damn. That's intense."
-
-"Dear's an intense fox." Its partner grinned.
-
-"True enough."
-
-"It'll be back soon enough. Let me throw a question back at you, in the meantime. What are your thoughts on the last thing Qoheleth said? "I think you and I both know why"?"
-
-Ioan settled back into the couch with eir wine and thought for a minute or two. "I'm wondering if he was talking about what Dear did to forget the name. On one hand, it sounds like a sort of congratulations. Like, "I'm glad you're able to move on," but after all that talk of all the clade and all of what Dear said earlier, I'm not sure if that's the whole story."
-
-"How do you mean?"
-
-"Well, has Dear mentioned to you the more conservative side of the Ode clade?"
-
-Its partner winced and nodded, "Plenty."
-
-"It said that Qoheleth is from that conservative side. I wonder if that's not working out well for them."
-
-"Conservatism?"
-
-"Yeah. Retaining all of those things from the original Michel Hadje, following a sort of Dispersionista path, but more in letter than in spirit. Dear called them batty."
-
-"It's called them that to me, too."
-
-"I'm just wondering if it's right," Ioan said, finishing eir wine. "Maybe they are batty. And getting worse."
-
-## 5 (Nevi'im)
-
-Mustering the Odists took surprising effort.
-
-Qoheleth had said that he would welcome them at any time, and Ioan had thought that this would be easy.
-
-It was not.
-
-Some did not want to go, even with a forked instance. These took much persuasion. One did want to go but refused to fork to do so, or to fork at all --- this, above all else, set Dear off: the fox did not take confusion of this sort well --- and so the clade had to work with the one member's schedule. Some wanted to bring others (such as Dear bringing Ioan), and this set off another round of debate, delaying them further. They decided that they would only bring willing participants who had played a role in the project.
-
-With little to do, Ioan read and waited. Ey read up on the history of the Ode clade. Ey read up on this form of public key encryption. Ey read Ecclesiastes and all ey could about it. Ey read about various mental vagaries and attempted to map them to Qoheleth, Dear, and various members of the Clade which Dear talked about.
-
-This last was mostly for fun, but ey was also beginning to strategize eir report. Ey wanted to write something very full-fledged, an essay for Dear, and a slightly modified and anonymous version for publication, if the clade would let em. Ey wanted the result to be readable, rather than simply an account of events. Something that would help explain the whys and hows of an older clade in turmoil. A historical document.
-
-And finally, the day had come, nearly two weeks after deciphering Qoheleth's last message. There had been no further communications from the wayward Odist. He seemed patient enough to wait.
-
------
-
-Hebel Qoheleth is a patient man. I have time. Enough time, at least. I know I'm gone, I'm a lost cause, but much of the clade still has their faculties about them. Most of them, at least. So long as they act within the decade, I'll be here. Any longer, and we'll risk further degradation.
-
-It's been two weeks since I pinged Dear --- lovely Dear --- and although it had tried to contact me several times, and pinged countless more, I never responded. I did my part. I called them, got them fighting, got them interested, and I think I got them invested.
-
-Now, hopefully they will come.
-
------
-
-The designated meeting point was the prairie in front of Dear's house. Ioan was confused as to why they didn't just meet in Qoheleth's sim, until ey realized that many members of the clade had not met in years or decades, or, in the case of up-tree instances, ever.
-
-For a family reunion, it was quite stiff and formal, tense. *Probably not the best of circumstances to regather the clade,* Ioan thought.
-
-Ey focused on eir job as amanuensis.
-
-Ey was surprised at the variety of the cladists. It made sense, of course, for a Dispersionista clade, but it was the direction in which the differences headed which intrigued em. The most notable difference was the gender presentation ratio. It was heavily skewed feminine. Michel Hadje had been born male, ey remembered, but had never transitioned, yet here was a crowd of primarily women, all similar enough to appear related, but different in their own ways. Kemmer indeed.
-
-Ioan supposed it was due to the individual preferences that each long-lived fork had gained in its time away from the root of the clade. The remaining Odists who had not changed, or who had changed very little where the ones who Ioan suspected were the less liberal bunch Dear had mentioned. They all looked fairly similar.
-
-Ioan couldn't help but think that they represented a lot of the various shames and repressions that Michel had held, that everyone held. It was an interesting dissolution strategy.
-
-There was one other fox, as well. A female fox, similar in many ways to Dear, though with natural coloration rather than the iridescent white fur that Dear maintained. Dear gave her a tight hug and introduced her to Ioan as Serene, the one who had designed the landscape of its property. Ioan liked her at once.
-
-Michel himself was notably absent, though Dear assured the historian that he was still very much alive. *"He said that, if anyone should remain behind, it was him, as he had started this whole damn thing."*
-
-Ioan shrugged and nodded. Dear gave a small smile and shrugged as well.
-
-There were a few tag-alongs, folks immediately identified as out-clade. A few friends, and a few partners, singular and plural. Some who Ioan suspected were like eirself, historians and helpers brought along to witness and record. One of the conservatives (at Ioan's guess, at least) had even brought a reputation analyst along with him, a slight Asian gentleman who introduced himself as Qián Chunyu.
-
-Dear announced that the party would be leaving in five minutes.
-
------
-
-Aha! Dear sent a sensorium message. Just a view of a crowd and it announcing that they would be leaving in five minutes.
-
-I ran a quick count of the crowd I could see within the fox's few and it looks like I'll be expecting the entire clade plus a few here and there --- I can see Ioan next to Dear, there --- in just a few minutes.
-
-I'm going to shut down all the exits from this room so that there will be less incentive to wander away. I'll make the extents a little bigger, too, in order to fit everyone comfortably.
-
-This is going to be fun.
-
------
-
-The room was a utilitarian grey, closer to black than to white, and the illumination was a central light source somewhere above the exact center of the room, looking slightly misted. It was enough to give definition to the room's corners and boundaries, those walls of matte grey, but not a whole lot else. A small pedestal was set a few meters from one of the walls, only a half a meter high.
-
-A platform? A dias?
-
-Except for that change, it was the default room created before one added modifications.
-
-The Odists arrived in clumps of ten or twenty at a time, taking about thirty seconds to arrive in total. A low murmur started up almost immediately. If this meeting had to be called, then perhaps every detail was of the highest importance.
-
-A man appeared on the platform.
-
-Qoheleth.
-
-Ioan wasn't sure how ey knew, just that it was Qoheleth. He was about Dear's height, but a touch heavier, and had affected a greying beard and receding hairline. His clothes were a simple cream tunic and trousers of...was that leather?  Atop this, a reddish-brown robe.
-
-He certainly seemed to have adopted the part of a biblical notable. The murmuring doubled, trebled, and then subsided.
-
-Qoheleth smiled, and then called out to the group, "Welcome, folks. Good to see, er, most of you again, and I'm sure it'll be pleasant to meet the rest of you later."
-
-Silence. Part confused, part curious, part angry.
-
-"I'm Hebel Qoheleth, though some of you remember me as Life Breeds Life, But Death Must Now Be Chosen, of the Ode Clade. For my own reasons, I've chosen to rescind my membership within the Ode clade-" He held up his hands to quell the protests from within the crowd. "I've chosen to rescind my membership within the clade because something is starting to go wrong."
-
-Iaon looked to Dear. The fox's brow was furrowed and intent. Ey looked from it to the rest of the crowd, studying the expressions. Many of the other outclade individuals were doing the same, confirming Ioan's hunch that they were other amanuenses. The reputation analyst, Chunyu, had positioned himself up near the platform itself and was scribbling notes.
-
-The conservatives looked stoic.
-
-Qoheleth continued, "Something is going wrong in many of the old clades, with many of the old uploads. They should probably all hear this, but, even though I'm not a part of you anymore, I still feel the responsibility to tell you all."
-
-"Why the puzzles?" a voice shouted.
-
-The older ex-Odist grinned, looking proud. "I had to get you interested and involved to get all of you here. I had to make you all think that there was more going on than just an old man convening a meeting."
-
-Grumbles greeted this.
-
-"It worked, didn't it?" Qoheleth smirked, then went on. "So, on to why I called you all here, hmm? Lets get to the good stuff. Or the bad stuff, really.
-
-"There's a bit of a problem going on with the older uploads and their clades. It's a small one now, but I think it'll just get worse and worse over time.
-
-"Actually, it may not be a problem with the uploads at all, but a problem with the system. I'll cut right to it: the problem is forgetting and aging. We can't forget. We never age. We're stuck. We never grow."
-
-Dear was nodding.
-
-"Maybe some of you feel the wrongness in this, but I'm worried that it's too few of you. I called you here to teach you why this is a problem." Qoheleth ignored the indignant sounds from the audience and kept going, seemingly in a rhythm. "It feels good to be forever young, to be forever ourselves. But even if the physical and biological origins of aging have been obviated by the system, by being digital, the need to age and change is still there. It's a need backed by sanity and diversity rather and biology.
-
-"Sanity drives the need because we can't forget. Maybe some of you have figured out ways to intentionally forget, but forgetting needs to be an organic process. It needs to be something that happens to us, not just something that we choose to do. All we can do is ignore, now, but even so, that just drives us further from sanity, over time. It's a limitation of the system applied to our sensoria, our minds."
-
-Qoheleth seemed to be gaining confidence, talking louder and more fluently as he went. "Diversity, because we need to change more than just our shapes and our memories. All of us here, all of the Ode clade gathered today, are still essentially Michel Hadje. I don't see him here, and that's fine. His choice. But we're all still him. All hundred of us, all of our short-lived instances, all of our secret long-lived instances we didn't name after the Ode."
-
-Dear briefly splayed its ears, managed its embarrassed reaction, and then straightened up again. Ioan saw several others do the same, all of the more liberal bent. Ey smiled.
-
-"It's not enough that we make nations out of individuals, we need to change beyond our root ancestors, if we're to survive. We need to breed, to produce more individuals. We can't keep relying on those who can afford to upload from offline for change. We need to forget at the very least," He pounded his fist against his palm with these last syllables. "Or perhaps we need to learn how to die again."
-
-The silence was intent. Ioan made a note to eirself, *Impressive. He has them hooked. All the way. Almost all of them except the conservatives.*
-
-"That's why I posted The Name. That's why I gathered you here today. I'm telling you, we need to fix this, and I have some ideas as to how-"
-
-Ioan missed the cue, if there was one, but with eir eyes locked on the stage, ey didn't miss the action.
-
-At the mention of the name (and perhaps that was the only cue that was needed), Chunyu hoisted himself up on the stage, withdrew a syringe from his pocket, and slammed it into Qoheleth's back.
-
-Then he quit.
-
-Qoheleth had time to let out a soft "hah," sounding bemused, and then began to artifact and jitter on the stage. The death lasted perhaps five seconds, as the old man's internals struggled against the intrusion of the virus, before he crashed, disappearing from sight much as the assassin had.
-
-By the time Ioan looked around the room, the conservatives had left or quit.
-
-Ruckus and uproar were too strong of words for what happened with the remaining audience. There were a few scattered shouts, mostly of surprise, but primarily just concerned murmurings. For its part, Dear stamped a foot and began to pace in the small space it had, tail lashing behind it.
-
-"What just happened?" Ioan whispered to the fox when it came close.
-
-*"One of the conservatives took a bet."*
-
-Ioan didn't press further.
-
------
-
-I have them! I really, finally, truly have them all here!
-
-I don't know that I have them all hooked, but I did it. I set my mind in motion by will alone. I count those who weren't hooked. Mostly first and second stanzas, mostly like me. How did they go so wrong, though? I'm a first-stanza instance. First stanza, second line, even, and I didn't turn out so bad.
-
-Well, okay, I turned out kinda messed up, but only because I suffered the same fate that they all would, perhaps were already, only I suffered it a little bit earlier. I started going bonkers from the sheer amount of stuff in my head. I started living too long, living my Methuselah life while still having a mind like a steel trap. Nothing was getting out of my head. Nothing *could* get out of my head. It just wasn't possible in the current system.
-
-I have grand plans. Grand plans of organizing a petition among all the old clades, with the Ode clade leading and me leading them in turn. A petition to the system engineers to hire some damn developers again and stop treating this like abandonware that still runs. Get some devs in there and add the ability forget and the ability to die. Hell, maybe even the ability to breed. The word's even in my name, my old name, for chrissakes.
-
-As I continue through my spiel, I can tell I'm hooking the liberals, the later stanzas, most of all. Dear's sold completely, I can see it on its face, fox or no. Can see it on Dear's other fox sib. Dear's whole stanza.
-
-The conservatives are harder to read. The whole lot look blank and stoic. They just stand there, with their historians and their analyst --- the flash of his stylus as he scribbles notes in shorthand keeps distracting me. I power through, though, because it was working.
-
-It's working, because I am Qoheleth. I am the teacher, I am leading the assemblage. I am instructing them in the dangers they face, telling them what's going on in forceful, no-nonsense terms.
-
-And then I fuck up. I knew it as soon as I did it, too. I said something about The Name. I got too proud and started going into my whys. I shouldn't have done that at all. It'd lose me the conservatives. They, more than others, guarded that dumb name more jealously than all the rest.
-
-I try to keep going to cover up my mistake, but there's that damn analyst, pulling himself up onto my stage. *My* stage. It takes only a moment before I figure out what is going to happen, but by then it's too late.
-
-The damn analyst's hand slaps into my back, and there's a sudden, searing pain. The only noise I can manage is a sort of strangled laugh at my own foolishness. My insides start to crumble.
-
-Maybe I was Hebel after all. Vain, futile. Mere breath.
-
-Havel havalim 'amar qoheleth, havel havalim, hakol havel.
-
-Fuck. I was so close.
-
-I'm glitching. Can see bits of myself spreading out.
-
-So close.
-
-Tunnel vision, blackness.
-
-So close.
-
------
-
-After the assassination, with no one to lead them and no reason to be there, the rest of the Odists and their friends left. Dear's pacing wound down, and it eventually stopped, shoulders sagging.
-
-It paused, and then turned to Ioan, *"Come on, let's go back."* Then it turned and addressed some others near by, primarily from the same stanza, by the historian's guess. *"Any of you are welcome, too."*
-
-It was Ioan, Dear, Serene, and Praiseworthy --- the first line of the stanza and down-tree instance from Dear --- who wound up back at the house. They entered the sim about twenty meters from the house, where Ioan had originally arrived, and trudged slowly up to the house.
-
-Dear's partner greeted them at the door, silent. Perhaps Dear had sent ahead a message, for the individual mostly stayed out of the way of the four. They disappeared and returned shortly with mugs of coffee.
-
-The four witnesses slumped into the couch, Dear and Serene leaning against each other, and Dear's partner settled on a stolen dining-room chair before them all.
-
-"So," they said, finally. "What happened?"
-
-*"One of the conservatives played their hand. He brought along an assassin, and as soon as Qoheleth revealed his reasoning for revealing The Name, the assassin acted and then quit. My guess is that Qoheleth hadn't forked and won't be heard from again, and that Chunyu, the assassin, was a fork who will 'mysteriously' experience some problems merging back. No culpability for its #tasker or #tracker instance."*
-
-"Ah..."
-
-Silence fell on the group again.
-
-Ioan waited for one of those ebbs in the rhythm of the silence before clearing eir throat. "Perhaps it's too soon, but may I ask after everyone's well being? Their thoughts on the matter?"
-
-Serene shook her head. Praiseworthy offered, "I'm not surprised, really. Not happy, but not surprised."
-
-Ioan turned to Dear. "You alright?"
-
-It was a moment in responding, before it nodded. *"I'm with Praiseworthy. I'm not surprised, but not happy. Kinda pissed, actually,"* it said, smiling sardonically. *"That was short-sighted of them, though, because I have a hunch that Qoheleth was right."*
-
-"Right?"
-
-*"About the need to age, to die. About forgetting."*
-
-"Does this have anything to do with you trying to forget The Name?"
-
-Dear shot a grin at its partner, *"You two get along, I see. Yeah, it does. I think I did it, too, unless there's some association I missed. Can't remember it for the life of me."*
-
-"You'll have to tell me how you did that, sib," Serene laughed.
-
-*"Later, yeah. I think Qoheleth was right, though. We need forgetting. We need breeding and change and death."*
-
-"So how do you feel about the assassination?" Ioan asked.
-
-*"I'd prefer that not be the only means of death, of course. Perhaps the primary way should be through...ah, suicide is not the best word, but it's what I mean. Through choice, just like Qoheleth's old name."*
-
-Life breeds life, but death must now be chosen.
-
-Ioan nodded.
-
-*"It's like I said. Batty. They're all batty."* It stared at its paws, one of them brushing through its sib's forearm fur. *"It's like some sort of Methuselah syndrome, or reverse Alzheimer's. Instead of being doomed for forget, we're doomed to remember. Doomed to remember everything. We can't forget, and it all gets to be too much for one mind."*
-
-"What about exos?"
-
-*"Exocortices are a fix, but an iffy one. You're still stuck with the knowledge that they exist, and their inventory. That's why I can't forget __that__ The Name exists, or that there's an exo containing it which I can't access. Not unless I go through the whole shitty process again --- sorry, Serene, it wasn't pleasant --- with that bit of knowledge, and then what? I'll have the knowledge that I have an exo that I can't access pointing to something of dire importance."*
-
-Ioan shifted, leaning forward to rest eir elbows on eir knees, eir chin in eir hand. Ey sipped eir coffee as ey thought.
-
-Serene piped up next, "I get what you're saying, Dear, but I don't want to die. I don't want you to die, either."
-
-Dear's partner, frowned. "Neither do I, fox."
-
-The fennec laughed and shook its head, ears flopping about. *"Trust me, I don't either. I don't think many people do. I just think we need death, or something like it, as part of the system."*
-
-"Something like it?" asked Praiseworthy.
-
-*"We need a way for an individual to end. We also need a way to create new individuals. Qoheleth called it breeding, but it could just as easily be a way of ending one individual and having them live on as another."*
-
-The others nodded. Silence once more.
-
-Finally, Dear gave a lopsided smile, *"Perhaps that's my next project."*
-
------
-
-Ioan Balan#tracker chose a blithe-theirs merge strategy in this particular instance, when Ioan#c1494bf finished the project and quit. They chose together, actually. #c1494bf requested it, and #tracker agreed.
-
-There was one more sensorium chat after that, between Ioan#tracker and Dear, Also, The Tree That Was Felled. Ioan thanked Dear profusely for the opportunity and experience. Dear cried and made Ioan promise to come back --- *"your wall will miss you"* --- to which Ioan readily agreed.
-
-Ey would, ey was sure, but for now, ey needed a bit of distance to sit and think and remember and write. Maybe not remember --- ey couldn't forget. To mix the thoughts around. To understand.
-
-Ey moved out to eir favorite Adirondack chair on the deck with pen and paper. Ey spent a moment thinking back on Dear and Qoheleth, another moment savoring the heft of the pen and the texture of the paper, and then began.
-
-> A few weeks ago, I awoke to an urgent message.
->
-> I don't really like those, the sensorium messages...
diff --git a/content/post/fiction/post-self/reading.md b/content/post/fiction/post-self/reading.md
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..69c4d4f
--- /dev/null
+++ b/content/post/fiction/post-self/reading.md
@@ -0,0 +1,62 @@
+---
+categories:
+- Flash Fiction
+ratings: G
+series: Post-Self
+date: 2023-10-20
+img: post-self.png
+description: Rye prepares for a reading.
+title: Reading
+type: post
+tags:
+- Science fiction
+- Uploading
+---
+
+All readings are the same. They all begin the same way, with stepping off to some sim, known or unknown, where she would arrive a good hour early. There, she would wait or walk or drink her coffee or tea. Would it be a bookshop this time? Would it be a library? Would she run her fingerpads along the spines of books, counting known and unknown titles?
+
+Perhaps it was a cafe, and she would get herself a little pastry, some crumbly thing to eat while wandering lazily outside or inspecting the various pieces of art lining the walls within.
+
+She would get there an hour early and simply inhabit the space.
+
+As time drew closer, as her contact would come out to meet her, she would feel the excitement begin to prickle at the back of her neck, and she would have to restrain herself from letting her hackles raise or her tail bristle out. Some long-forgotten and perhaps-imagined reaction to danger tickling both human and skunk parts of her mind. She would feel her scalp tingle and her tail threaten to hike, and she would sit in that sensation. She would bathe in it. She would relish every shift of every strand of fur, and as she sat, legs crossed and coffee or water cradled in her lap, listening to her contact chatter, she would delight in the nervous anticipation of the reading to come.
+
+"Will you be reading from a physical copy or an exo?"
+
+"Oh, an exo," she said, smiling. "As much love as I hold for the physical tools of the trade, I hold yet more for all of the tools at our disposal. Especially when they let me be more dramatic."
+
+They laughed. "Right, you were an actor before, yeah?"
+
+She nodded. "Of a sort, yes."
+
+"And how long will your reading be?"
+
+"I have a variety of segments prepared, from five minutes to an hour."
+
+They blinked. "An hour? Holy shit."
+
+She shrugged gracefully, smile still lingering on her muzzle. "Perhaps another artifact of being an actor. I could talk the ears off a fox."
+
+Laughter.
+
+"Shall we aim for somewhere in the middle? Twenty minutes, perhaps?"
+
+"That'll work, yeah. You're the only slot, tonight, but that'll still give you at least forty minutes for Q&A." They smirked, adding, "Which I imagine you'll need. I read your book, by the way."
+
+It was her turn to laugh, musical and joyous. "I am pleased to hear! I trust that you have questions of your own?"
+
+"Oh, *plenty.*"
+
+"Delightful," she said, clapping her paws together. "I shall look forward to them, then."
+
+This conversation echoed a hundred times, a thousand, in her memories. This conversation and so many others like it set the stage. This conversation and so many others like it became one of the steps in that liminal space between the waking world and the dream of her stories.
+
+She would step away from home or from a meeting or from a cocladist's and at that moment, at the precise instant she ceased being *there* and started being *here,* she was in a place between. She was in a time between times and a world between worlds.
+
+She dwelt, then, in the world of the Ode. She knew where it was from, her name. Not just the Ode itself, but the place the line itself referenced. She had talked to the poet in her own way — perhaps it was closer to prayer, but she bothered not with distinctions such as these — and she knew the scene ey had been painting. She knew that ey had sat at the edge of the natural area some few blocks away from their high school, sat on the fencepost and looked out east, out beyond the natural area and wind farm to where the coarse shortgrass prairie dissolved into rectilinear fields. Tan, perhaps, or brown or gray, they would all shine the same beneath the moon, beneath the stars. They were all dear to em. They were all dear to *her.*
+
+So as soon as she would step away from home and before she would step up to the lectern, she would dwell there at the edge of the natural space. There is where she would feel her hackles threaten to rise and her tail threaten to bristle. She would look at the art and see nothing. She would drink her coffee or tea or eat her pastry and it would have a flavor she did not experience. She would have her conversations on autopilot, and her earnest smile would be no less earnest for her absence from the space. She would do all of these things and overlaid atop her vision would be fields silvered by starlight. She would do all of these things and her tongue would be coated with the taste of sweet night air, of dust and pollen and petrichor. She would strain to hear her contact through the soft noises of wind and crickets.
+
+And then, with all the suddenness of dawn, a chorus of birdsong crashing through her mind, the moment would come. Her contact would stand before the gathered crowd and introduce her —  her! Dear The Wheat And Rye Under The Stars! She was published! She was an author! The realization would never not startle her — and she would brush out her tail one last time, run her fingers through her mane, and step out of the liminal space of the Ode and into the dream of her story. The nervous excitement would wash away and she would be *here.* She would be *now.*
+
+And then she would read.
diff --git a/content/post/fiction/post-self/regret-of-potential.md b/content/post/fiction/post-self/regret-of-potential.md
new file mode 100644
index 0000000..c438016
--- /dev/null
+++ b/content/post/fiction/post-self/regret-of-potential.md
@@ -0,0 +1,76 @@
+---
+title: Regret of Potential
+type: post
+categories:
+- Flash Fiction
+series: Post-Self
+ratings: G
+description: Two people discuss regrets.
+date: 2023-10-07
+img: post-self.png
+tags:
+- Science fiction
+- Uploading
+---
+
+We sat for a while in silence, sipping at our drinks in the sun-dappled corner seat of the coffee shop, me with my exquisite pour-over and ver with ver tea that ve promised me was delightful.
+
+"And is there anything you regret?"
+
+I startled back to awareness, eyes glancing over ver way, the bemused grin that ve gave me over the rim of ver tea. "Uh...I missed something again, didn't I?"
+
+Ve laughed, nodding. "I have asked you this question twice in the last ten minutes, and each time you get distracted by the street outside. Perhaps I should ask what has captured your attention instead."
+
+I shook my head. "That's easy, I can tell you that in a sentence. It's not busy."
+
+"'Not busy'?"
+
+I nodded. "It's not busy. I mean, there's people out there, sure. Quite a few, actually."
+
+"Some of them may be constructs to give a sense of a bustling small town," ve said. "But certainly not all of them."
+
+"Right, I remember learning about that when reading up on this place." I nodded out to the street, the park beyond, the couples and triads and happily single instances relaxing in the grass. "But there's not, like...a kajillion people out there. It's not packed."
+
+"I see. Yes, there may be some two trillion instances here, but they are not all in one place. They are not all in the same sim."
+
+"So where are they?"
+
+Ve shrugged. "There are, ah..." Ve tilted ver head, then said, "There are a few hundred billion sims, my dear. Not everyone is crammed into a few small ones."
+
+"And I've still seen crowded ones. The big cities, the weird nexuses, the central library."
+
+Ve nods.
+
+"Anyway, that's what I was thinking about."
+
+"Does that have anything to do with your regrets?"
+
+I laughed. "I don't know, maybe. I guess a part of me regrets not being born earlier so that I could see this place as full of unexplored potential with just a few tens of thousands of people on it."
+
+"They were heady days, to be sure. It felt like we had been plopped down in the middle of a blank canvas. An infinitely large blank canvas. We were the paints, and we smeared ourselves out with reckless abandon, painting lives and spaces."
+
+"You're weird, you know that?"
+
+Ve snorted. "Guilty."
+
+"I wish I'd gotten to see that, though," I said, dragging us back on topic. "I wonder what I would have created? Would I have gotten into food? Sims? Traditional art? I was kind of a blank canvas when I uploaded a few years back. I feel like I could have gone anywhere when I got here."
+
+"Did you spend a while in hedonism?" ve asked. "Most do, when first they upload. Some months or a year sampling every pleasure known to posthumanity."
+
+"God, yeah. I can't count the times I ate myself sick."
+
+Ve laughed.
+
+"I guess I don't regret it so much that I want to go back to before all of this variety."
+
+"It was not lacking, but I do see what you mean."
+
+"I guess I regret not experiencing that potential. I regret that I'll never see anything like that again."
+
+Ve settled back and sipped at ver tea, a thoughtful expression on vis face that I couldn't even begin to pick apart.
+
+Finally, ve said, "Perhaps we must make our own potential. Replace regret with determination."
+
+"I don't know if it's that easy."
+
+"Few things are, my dear."
diff --git a/content/post/fiction/sawtooth/youre-gone.md b/content/post/fiction/sawtooth/youre-gone.md
index a837884..f94ee17 100644
--- a/content/post/fiction/sawtooth/youre-gone.md
+++ b/content/post/fiction/sawtooth/youre-gone.md
@@ -33,7 +33,7 @@ Hard as that may be.
 
 -----
 
-### [**Play the game**](/assets/posts/youre-gone) (or [read the script](/assets/posts/youre-gone/script))
+### [**Play the game**](https://restless-town.makyo.ink/youre-gone) (or [read the script](/assets/posts/youre-gone/script))
 
 *You're Gone* is a story as told through instant messages. It's playable in all modern browsers.
 
diff --git a/content/publications/_index.html b/content/publications/_index.html
index 6d0b4bc..81715b6 100644
--- a/content/publications/_index.html
+++ b/content/publications/_index.html
@@ -19,6 +19,15 @@ permalink: /publications/
                 </div>
             </li>
             -->
+            <li>
+                <div class="post-card light-purple">
+                    <a href="https://idumea.post-self.ink" class="post-card-image">
+                    </a>
+                    <div class="post-card-body">
+                        <a href="https://idumea.post-self.ink" class="post-card-link"><h3 class="post-card-title">Idumea</h3></a>
+                    </div>
+                </div>
+            </li>
             <li>
                 <div class="post-card light-purple">
                     <a href="https://motes-played.post-self.ink" class="post-card-image">
diff --git a/layouts/index.html b/layouts/index.html
index fcdf389..ec3cf06 100644
--- a/layouts/index.html
+++ b/layouts/index.html
@@ -5,7 +5,6 @@
             <ul>
                 <li class="carousel-entry home"><a href="#home">Home</a></li>
                 <li class="carousel-entry publications"><a href="#publications">Publications</a></li>
-                <li class="carousel-entry projects"><a href="#projects">Projects</a></li>
                 <li class="carousel-entry recent"><a href="#recent">Recent posts</a></li>
                 <li class="carousel-entry more"><a href="#more">More...</a></li>
             </ul>
@@ -38,6 +37,15 @@
                             </div>
                         </li>
                         -->
+                    <li>
+                        <div class="post-card light-purple">
+                            <a href="https://idumea.post-self.ink" class="post-card-image">
+                            </a>
+                            <div class="post-card-body">
+                                <a href="https://idumea.post-self.ink" class="post-card-link"><h3 class="post-card-title">Idumea</h3></a>
+                            </div>
+                        </div>
+                    </li>
                     <li>
                         <div class="post-card light-purple">
                             <a href="https://motes-played.post-self.ink" class="post-card-image">
@@ -192,22 +200,6 @@
                         <li><a href="https://thenewstack.io/coming-out-in-tech/">The New Stack</a> - <em>Coming Out In Tech</em></li>
                     </ul>
                 </section>
-                <section class="carousel-item projects">
-                    <h2>Projects</h2>
-                    <div class="large">
-                        <p>Along with standalone works and story collections, Madison has worked on several writing projects, often with others</p>
-                        <ul>
-                            <li><a target="_blank" href="https://ally.id">ally</a> - an ergodic, semiautobiographical project in the form of a conversation</li>
-                            <li><a target="_blank" href="https://post-self.ink">Post-Self</a> - a collaborative fiction project designed to explore the implications of a universe where the sense of self can be blurred, split, or demolished through replication</li>
-                            <li><a target="_blank" href="https://adjectivespecies.com">[adjective][species]</a> and <a target="_blank" href="https://lovesexfur.com">Love ◦ Sex ◦ Fur</a> - [a][s] is a metafurry resource aiming to take a look at the furry world from the inside out; LSF is a sub-project exploring the same in a more adult setting</li>
-                        </ul>
-                    </div>
-                    <div class="small">
-                        <a target="_blank" href="https://ally.id"><img alt="ally" src="/assets/img/projects/ally.png" /></a>
-                        <a target="_blank" href="https://post-self.github.io"><img alt="Post-Self" src="/assets/img/projects/post-self.png" /></a>
-                        <a target="_blank" href="https://adjectivespecies.com"><img alt="[a][s]" src="/assets/img/projects/adjspecies.png" /></a>
-                    </div>
-                </section>
                 <section class="carousel-item recent">
                     <h2>Recent</h2>
                     <ol class="post-card-box clearfix">
@@ -258,7 +250,7 @@
                         <p>Several of Madison's projects take part in shared universes or in series.</p>
                         <ul>
                             <li><a href="/series/sawtooth">Sawtooth</a></li>
-                            <li><a href="/series/post-self">Post-Self</a></li>
+                            <li><a href="https://post-self.ink">Post-Self</a></li>
                             <li><a href="/series/rum-and-coke">Run and Coke</a></li>
                         </ul>
                     </div>