The Spiders' Web: Chapter Three

Uncle Ben and Aunt May did not think Peter could hear them talk. They thought he didn’t know about their money issues, or about how his hospitalization (which they didn’t press charges on) had wiped out their savings, or how Uncle Ben couldn’t take out any more loans and their credit cards were maxed out.  They also thought Peter couldn’t hear Aunt May cry softly about Flash and Peter and Liz.

They were wrong on all counts.

Peter didn’t notice much as he walked through Queens’ streets. He bumped into people and was sworn at, but he didn’t hear. He handed his whole backpack to the cops with hardly a grimace. He pushed through the crowd as much as he could, but was slower than he normally was at getting through. He was late to first period, for the first time ever. Nor did he answer any questions. Peter was scribbling in his notebook; he didn’t even notice the bell.

By the time Peter walked up to Dr. Allan at the end of Advanced Physics he had filled up an empty notebook.  Without saying anything Peter thrust the notebook into Dr. Allan’s hands and sat down in a front row desk. Dr. Allan opened the notebook gingerly. He stared at the front page. And then began to flip through it, hurriedly.  Dr. Allan flipped through an entire 70 page notebook in three minutes. Dr. Allan sat down on his desk and stared. He got up and walked down the hall, and came back a minute later. “Mr. Elvarez knows you will not be in his class. You are excused from English. Because this is revolutionary.” He sat down and took a deep breath. “Peter, this is a 70 page equation about how to make an impenetrable force field that can be powered by AAA battery. This…. This is beyond amazing. I cannot begin to tell you how amazing this is. It’s revolutionary. This could change everything. I can’t overstate this.”

“Good. How do I sell this?”

Dr. Allan laughed. “Slow down there! There’s a lot more to go before we patent this. Like building an archetype and proving that your math checks out.”

“It checks out.”

“I know it does. But Peter, not everyone will be able to follow this. You literally invented three different symbols to make the math work. PhDs wouldn’t be able to read this. The only reason I’m able to follow this is because I’ve graded your homework and I’ve seen you make up symbols before. We need more than just a key of symbols. We need a working prototype.”

“But-“

“Peter, without a prototype to prove that this isn’t gibberish nothing can be done.”

Peter sat there, looking at the desk. “I can build it. Cheaply.”

“Peter, how? How are you going to find an object that can reliably produce an atomic threat that the force field can deflect, consistently?”

“I can get one. That’s all you need to know.”

“Alright, I’ll help you build it if you can get something.”

The rest of the day was a blur. Peter grabbed another notebook and continued to fill it. By the end of the day Peter had filled another notebook with schematics. The instant the bell rang Peter was out of his seat and out the school doors. He didn’t even stop at his locker. He ran down the street, dodging between people and light poles and cars and all the other random nonsense that was in his way. It wasn’t until he got to Inglesia that he realized he needed his inhaler… and then he needed to puff on it twice and wanted to do more.

Manny was just coming out of the bathroom when Peter came into the restaurant. He beamed at Peter and patted him on the back, almost knocking him over with each pat. “Manny, I need a really big favor from you. It’s huge.”

Manny laughed and said “Sure, Peter, sure, let’s go into the office in the back and we can talk.” They headed back, past the smelly kitchens and dirty people, and they turned his stomach. Just the sight of the dishes in the sink made Peter want to throw up. When Peter went into the office, which was strewn about with file folders and chewing tobacco tins, the enclosed space made Manny’s pungent smell unbearable.

Peter couldn’t stand. Fortunately there was a chair, which he grabbed. Out came the inhaler. Manny delicately helped Peter down. He took a fan and put it in front of Peter (“To help with breathing!”), who found the gesture helpful, if not sentimental. Manny sat down opposite of him (and away from the fan), and waited. “Uncle Ben needs help and I can help him.”

“What does Ben need?”

“Money. And I can get it.”

“How?”

“I can make a small force-field generator that will stop anything, on a molecular level. It can make billions, ending my Aunt and Uncle’s financial troubles, forever. I can do this.”

Manny nodded. He got up and turned to the safe behind him (12-00-68, as Peter saw it) and got the adamantium knife out. “Adamantium cuts on a molecular level. Count me in.”

Peter looked down at the knife. “Um, I hadn’t even asked yet. You sure? I’m not sure what my force field may do to this knife. And I know it’s important to you.”

“Pete, you and your family will never go hungry because of what your Uncle did for the Morales family. I would do anything for you. The knife is nice. It reminds me a time when I needed strength and I found it. But this is huge. It’ll work.”

Peter shook Manny’s hand. “I really, really appreciate this, Manny.”

Manny smiled and nodded. “What’s family for?”

Flash was sitting in Peter’s living room when he got back, sitting with Uncle Ben and Aunt May.  Flash stood up and Peter took a step back. “Parker, where were you at the end of class?”

“I had gone to see Manny. What the… I mean… what are you doing in our house?”

“It’s Liz, Parker. She’s gone.”

Peter tried to hear the rest, but he couldn’t. Not on the first go around, anyway. After he was sat down and given a glass of milk by Aunt May (“His poor nerves!”) he heard it: Flash had tried to meet up with Liz at their usual spot during lunch… and Liz wasn’t there. Flash went to look for Liz but couldn’t find her anywhere. Flash cleared the whole school before talking to anyone. And, when the cops said they wouldn’t look for Liz without twenty four hours of absence, Flash went to the only place he thought he could turn… to Peter. When asked why Flash thought Peter could help, Flash said that he couldn’t think of anyone smart enough to figure it out.

Peter gripped the adamantium pocket knife in his pocket and walked out the door with Flash. The first place they checked was her house (“So good to see the two of you together again!”), but that was a dead end: Liz’s mom and step-dad had assumed that she was with Flash. The pair went back to the highschool and Peter broke into Liz’s locker. And, there on the top shelf, was a spray canister. It was an unmarked grey. Peter picked it up and examined it. “It’s got a refrigerant system built into it, high-tech stuff.”

Flash took it from Peter. “Liz would never have something that was this boring.”

They looked at each other a moment.

Peter had keys to the science lab, courtesy of Dr. Allan. He wasn’t in. Peter ran up to one of the microscopes, sprayed a bit of the stuff in the canister on the slide, and ran it under the microscope. Flash stood next to him for a few minutes, tapping his foot. “What’s the hold-up?” Peter held up a finger. “The clock’s ticking, Parker. We need to find Liz!” Peter flipped his hand around into a rude gesture and Flash chuckled. “There’s the old Pete.”

Peter didn’t seem to hear that last comment. “This has got to be a mistake.”

“What is?”

“This stuff, if sprayed in your face, would change your DNA.” Peter pulled back from the microscope. “How the hell would you package a DNA resequencer in an aerosol can?”

“Well, I mean, you see crap like this TV shows all the time, right?”

“That’s my point, Flash. This shouldn’t be possible, not even by my standards.”

“You have standards?” Peter glared at Flash. “What? You either laugh or your cry or you kill someone. I need you around right now, so I’m doing the first.”

Peter rolled his eyes. “How about none of them right now? I’ve no idea what the resequencer does. All I know is that, if they used this on Liz, they’d need a place to stash her. Somewhere quiet and out of the way.”

“You mean like an abandoned warehouse? Would it need to be nearby?”

“Her DNA is being re-written. If I was going to do something that ridiculous I’d want to move her as little as possible. Not even out of the building, if at all possible!”

Flash started for the door. “I know exactly where. C’mon!”

Peter rolled his eyes when he saw the place. “Oh, you got to be kidding. Of all places?”

Flash bristled. “Look, how were we supposed to know that behind the bleachers had a secret door?”

“Dare I ask how you found it?”

“Um, no.”

One of the bricks was slightly off-shade of the rest of the wall. Flash walked over to it and leaned on it, putting all his weight on that brick. It slid in with a “click”, and the ground next to them opened up, slowly, with hardly a sound. Something small and dark skittered out, but it moved so fast that Peter and Flash barely even registered it was there. After a minute of waiting, nothing happened, so both Peter and Flash started to go down.

The door closed behind them, blocking out all the light. Peter screamed. “AH! IT BURNS IT BURNS! MY NECK! GOD! HELP ME! HELP ME!” His screams reverberated down the walls. Flash tried to shut him up, but it was too late. Peter had rolled onto his back, spasming and foaming at the mouth. A small object fell out of his pocket: it was a pocket knife. Flash picked it up on reflex as he tried to help Peter. Down the hall Flash heard another scream; it was Liz. A small light appeared at the end of the tunnel, flickering. Flash flipped the pocket knife out and hurried down the cramped tunnel.

Liz was naked. Liz was on fire. Liz’s hair was a flaming mane that went down her back. She looked at Flash. Flash looked at Liz. Liz screamed, the flames reared up, and Flash was knocked over. When Flash came to, he was alone, in darkness.

Peter had started to regain consciousness when Flash found his way back to him. Peter wasn’t able to speak; he seemed to have lost his voice. Flash looked around for a locking mechanism near where he thought the door was and couldn’t find one. Peter kept trying to say something, over and over again, but he was so quiet that Flash couldn’t hear, so he put his ear right next to Peter’s mouth.

“Knife. Adamantium.”

A small pocket knife cut through a foot thick wall of concrete in about fifteen minutes, with not even one scratch on the knife. Flash had never seen anything like it. Once he was out of the building he had cell service and called 911 for Peter, who had a huge welt on his neck. Peter did not let the inhaler leave his mouth once until the ambulance arrived. The cops investigated the area under the school and found several labs and an operating table. But the place was clean; no prints, no nothing. The whole place had been cleaned meticulously… aside from the burn marks that they found, walking out a rear entrance from the lab… which all of a sudden stopped. The cops were baffled. Flash was in shock.

Peter, for his part, didn’t get out of hospital for another week.

The Spiders' Web: Chapter Two

He smelled her perfume before he opened his eyes; for one second he was happy. But then he took a breath and his whole world hurt, and he remembered he should be surprised. And he was: Liz was sitting next to him. They were in a drab room. His inhaler was next to him on an end table. Peter was hooked up to various machines, including a heart rate monitor. Somehow they were in a room with a window. The sun hit her hair and created a golden halo around her face. Peter couldn’t help himself; he grinned. He’d forgotten how to do that and it felt good to remember.

But she didn’t smile back and Peter found he couldn’t remember how to anymore. “Peter, we need to talk.” He wanted to have something snide to tell her, he wanted to tell her to go away. But he couldn’t. “What happened yesterday was serious. I mean, look at what you did!”

“What I did?? I’m in a hospital bed! What do you mean, what I did? You mean what your precious brick wall of a boyfriend did.”

Liz stood up and walked over to the bed. “Peter: Flash is from a broken home, from a broken family. His father’s an asshole. He beats him, but not his face, so that way Flash can go to school without people asking questions. He is under the thumb of some of the worst people I’ve ever met. But he cares! He still wants to be good! I know, because, despite all the awful things he’s said and done, he does what he can. But you…? Your Aunt and Uncle are awesome. And you’ve turned into something evil.”

Peter gingerly leaned forward and touched Liz’s hand, who flinched and pulled it back. “But this is because of what Flash and his cronies like Kong keep doing to me! Liz, they swirlied me every day for a year, right after they were done using the toilet! I had to go home, every day, for a year, to wash fecal matter out of my hair! The school did nothing. My aunt and uncle did nothing. And you sure didn’t do anything about it either. Flash is pulling a fast one on you, Liz. He just wants to ruin you and then laugh about it to his friends.”

“How often have you been picked on in the last six months, since I’ve been talking to Flash?”

“He broke my Weather-Man just the other day! It’s why I did what I did! What you’re doing didn’t work!”

“Wait, what? When?”

“Around fourth period, just the day before yesterday.”

Liz blushed. “Um, that’s impossible.”

“What does that mean?” Peter clutched her hand again but Liz yanked it away.

 “Why don’t you figure it out, genius?” She stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.

It wasn’t much more than a minute until Uncle Ben and Aunt May came in. Uncle Ben took one look at Peter’s face and motioned for Aunt May to leave. She came up and gave Peter a quick kiss and left. “This isn’t a moment for a lady to witness”, Uncle Ben said. “Some things just can’t be said in front of anyone but another man.”

Peter nodded. “I destroyed a necklace that Flash was going to give Liz. I took peroxide, vinegar, and threw in some table salt packets I had from our lunch room, put it in a bucket, and instantly rusted out the necklace. Flash put me in the hospital over that.”

Uncle Ben nodded throughout, holding eye contact with Peter. But, when Peter finished, he didn’t say anything for a few more minutes. “Peter, you’re not malicious.” Peter opened his mouth to protest but Uncle Ben held up a hand “I’m not saying what you did wasn’t bad. It was. We’ll have to talk about that in a minute. But there are many things you are not, and an aggressor is not one of them. So what did Flash do to provoke you?”

“Uncle Ben, how do you know I haven’t changed? How do you know I didn’t just pick that fight with Flash?”

“Peter, you do know what you do every day, right? You go downstairs, into that basement, and you work. I’ve seen the things that are on your desk down there. They’re not weapons. You just make things. The concept of breaking things is not natural to you.”

Peter looked down at his hands. He took a deep breath. “Flash destroyed my Weather-Man machine. I had made it to be able to alter the weather, but on a very small scale. I was so… I was so… it’s gone now. And Flash had broken it. That’s what matters.”

“Ah, this makes more sense. It’s a bit of a relief, too!” Uncle Ben and Peter laughed; Peter winced.

“I miss how simple things used to be, Uncle Ben. Well, not that life isn’t simple now! It is… way too simple. I miss things being good. I miss people besides you and Aunt May being better than… well... what they are.”

“They are already, Peter. You just need to have some more faith in people. And I know that’s hard” Uncle Ben said hurriedly as Peter opened his mouth. “But there’s a lot more going on with people than you give them credit for. I know it’s hard to imagine someone being that warped by what happened to them, but look at what you just did! You destroyed something meant for Liz, of all people! I know you didn’t win out on that triangle, Peter, and I know that must hurt, particularly since you used to be such good friends with Flash. But c’mon, what you did was pretty awful. Why did you do it?”

Peter couldn’t answer.

“You’re not a bad person, Peter, but what you did was pretty awful. Are they bad people just because they’ve done something bad?”

“I… I don’t know. About them or me.”

“Exactly. And don’t you have a responsibility to give them the benefit of the doubt? Not to mention yourself.”

“I… I…” Peter couldn’t look at Uncle Ben. He kept trying to, but his neck muscles wouldn’t budge.

“You have that power, Peter. You have the power to give people the benefit of the doubt they need to be better. And that means you have a responsibility to use that power, wisely, like I’m giving you, right now. Can you give that to Flash? What if he wasn’t the one who destroyed your Weather-Man?”

“Flash has broken into my locker before, Uncle Ben. He’s admitted to it! Of course it was him.”

“Did you ask this time?”

“Well…”

“You talk about the past not being indicative of the present all the time and you go and accuse someone of something based off of past behavior?? How dumb is that? I mean, what do you need, a flowchart??”

“Wouldn’t a flowchart be kind of against the point??” Uncle Ben shrugged, and then his face screwed up as he got it, and he started to laugh. And then Peter started laughing. Peter and Uncle Ben laughed until the tears flowed down their cheeks. Peter was holding his ribs, groaning in pain. “You alright there, buddy?” Uncle Ben asked.

Peter winced, but smiled “Yeah! Yeah, just fine… I’m just fine.” He said in surprise.

“Good. Cause Flash is waiting outside, and he’s been wanting to talk to you this whole time. He got here earlier this morning.” Peter blanched. “Don’t worry, buddy, you got this! Just remember: you have a responsibility. See it through, OK?” Peter nodded. “You got this, alright buddy? I’ll be right out there with your Aunt. You can do it.” Peter nodded and Uncle Ben left.

The next few minutes were spent looking up at the ceiling. And sweating.  Peter grabbed his inhaler and puffed, which only made him feel light-headed. And then the door slammed open. Peter jumped. Flash stalked into the room, grabbed a seat, and threw himself into it, next to Peter. They didn’t make eye contact for a few minutes. Peter still had his hand on his inhaler. After a few minutes Flash shook his head. “I didn’t break your weather thing.”

“Weather-Man.”

“Whatever.”

“No, it’s not whatever!” Peter yelled. “That machine was going to put me on the map! I was going to use it to get me a scholarship out of this hellhole! Away from you! Away from Liz! Away from all of it!”

Flash backed up a bit. “Whoa- one second-“

“NO! FOR ONCE IN YOUR LIFE YOU’RE GOING TO LISTEN TO ME!” Peter lurched forward and Flash fell out of his chair. “SHE LOVED ME, YOU IDIOT! NOT LIKE, LOVED! YOU HAD NO RIGHT TO TAKE LIZ! NONE! I’LL NEVER FORGIVE THAT! SWIRLY ME A THOUSAND-“

Flash slapped Peter in the face. Gently. Peter- still - fell back onto the bed. “Parker, listen up: I didn’t destroy your weather-thing.  I know I did a lot of things to you and I know that makes me your fall guy. But, in case you forgot, I haven’t swirlied you for years now. If you miss it I can drag you to a nearby toilet and we can do it again for old time’s sake. Not my thing, not anymore, but if it makes your day? I’m down. But it is what it is: I did not touch your weather-thing. Sorry about the broken ribs. You really should stay out of my locker. Dweeb.”

Liz walked past as Flash walked out. “No right to take Liz?”

To liken Peter to a deer in the head lights was an understatement. “What?”

“Take Liz?”

“Um…”

“Seriously? Take? What, you think I can be bought and sold?”

“I-“

“Shut up, Peter. Flash didn’t break your Weather-Man. Not only do I not think he would do that but I know he didn’t. He was with me, Peter. Take. I don’t know what happened to make you like this, Peter, but I don’t want to find out.”

Peter winced as the door slammed.

Fifteen minutes went by. A soft knock could be heard, and Aunt May peeked her head in. “Peter?” He didn’t look up from gazing into his lap. Aunt May walked in, softly, and stood next to Peter. He didn’t look up. Aunt May stroked his shoulder. Peter stiffened, but Aunt May didn’t seem to take notice and continued to stroke his shoulder. She ran her hand down Peter’s arm, to his hand. He relaxed.

Peter held her hand.

The Spider's Web: Chapter One

Dirty, loud, incandescent signs. Loud, rude, people, with far too many colors and smells and everything else that made Peter want to be in his basement, most of the lights off, alone, with his work.  Peter grabbed his inhaler and heaved, fighting the tightness in his chest. He was late to school, but Peter didn’t care. School was worthless. If anything, he felt dumber leaving the building than when he went in.

Every day was the same. Peter walked into Hillcrest High School, past the metal detectors, past the cops, trying to hold his breath over the smell of other people who clearly had been smoking pot, to his locker, which he had locked with a padlock, right along with the standard lock built into the door. But the standard locks were stupid and were very easy to get into. Not that Peter had ever broken into a locker to vandalize them; he was curious as to how to figure them out. Locks were easier than people and much quieter.

Today, Peter had brought a small device in his backpack. Of course that meant checking it in with the cops, but he clutched the inhaler in his pocket as he produced the paperwork Dr. Allan had given him. Peter had built a machine that could alter the weather on a small scale. The cops fingered it, handled it, sniffed it (what the hell were they doing sniffing it??), and then handed it back. Peter sneered at them as he walked past. The cops ignored him. They had seen that look before.

The day went by far too slowly until chemistry class with Dr. Allan. And even that was slow. Dr. Allan would only go at the rate of someone like Flash, who sat in the back, on his phone. He was probably looking at nudes, knowing him. Half the girls in the school had been with him, by his account. Flash had been benefited by puberty, unlike Peter; he was six feet tall, built like a mountain, and had a rogue-ish red curl on his forehead that never seemed to move. It made the girls wet to look at him.  As Peter glowered at him he found himself touching his own, scrawny, leg. He flinched. 

Dr. Allan looked at the machine at the end of class and smiled. “Good work, Peter, good work! But it’s a little flawed. But if I give you this…” and he fished out a metal out of a desk. “But this will make sure that it doesn’t break down. Replace the copper flakes with this.”

“How… how did you get vibranium?” Peter stared down at the tiny bit of metal in his hands. “This isn’t… this isn’t legal, is it, Dr. Allan?”

“Peter, sometimes in order to progress towards your ultimate goal, you have to break some rules here and there. And please, like I said before, when we’re not in class, call me Charles.”

“Oh… OK, Charles. But how will I get the shaved bits off of a metal that redistributes all force put upon it?”

“You figure that out, and you will have a seat at any institution you’d like by the end of the year.”

When Peter went home he ran straight into his basement, locking the door behind him, not even acknowledging the calls of “Peter!” He’d been thinking about the problem all day. Vibranium would need to be rendered less reactive. He didn’t need much, just to whittle this piece of it down enough to place it in his machine. He knew that, in order to do that, he would have to slow it down on a molecular level… which meant cooling… of some sort.

He was back out the front door, vibranium in its protective case. He hopped on his bike, clearing a few blocks before stopping for his inhaler. He biked on until he came to Inglesia, a restaurant that Uncle Ben had donated his last cent to keep open. Their flautas were perfect, or so Uncle Ben said. Peter hated flautas. Well, Peter hated most friend food in particular, it just smelled horrific. But Peter was welcome into this stinky hell-hole anytime, and so he went there.

“Peter! How’s your uncle?” asked Manny, the head cook, who was currently waiting on tables too. Peter gave out the niceties. Manny smelled bad. Always. Peter had no idea how on earth the place stayed open; the Health Board should have shut this hellhole down years ago. But Uncle Ben saw value in this place…

“Hey, Manny! Do you, uh, have a second?” Peter looked around. He’d no idea where the money Uncle Ben had given this fool had gone, but it certainly hadn’t gone towards a shower. But Manny seemed friendly enough, regardless of… whatever. “Do you still have that… that knife?”

Manny laughed. “The knife from ‘Nam? Of course! What else would I do with an adamantium knife? Why?”

Peter pulled out the package from his backpack. “I’ve got something that only adamantium can cut.”

“Sure, Peter, sure! C’mon in, I can get that done for you!” Peter walked into the steaming kitchen with Manny. Perspiration spawned on Peter as they walked through. Peter hated kitchens. Too much going on. Manny went into his office, all the way in the back of his grungry hell-hole, and pulled a small knife out of a drawer. It was no bigger than a Swiss Army Pocket-Knife’s blade, but Manny was gingerly holding it. Peter handed the bit of vibranium to Manny, reluctantly. He indicated where to cut, and Manny gave a few quick slices. “There ya go, bud! Want a flauta on your way out?”

Peter refused, flat.

The next day was much the same, except it wasn’t. Peter didn’t mind the noise as much as he normally did, and he proudly placed his device (the “Weather-Man!”) into the cop’s hand. He saw Flash and even found himself smiling at the jock. Even he had heard the news within a few minutes of coming into the school: Flash Thompson, the lady’s man extraordinaire, was dating good girl, straw-colored haired Liz Allan! Apparently something about that hot blonde had turned Flash’s head enough to put up with her conservative nonsense. Whatever. Maybe she would rub off enough on Flash to make him not an asshole. After his English class with Mrs. Lapell he ran back to his locker.

But Peter knew who had broken into his locker before he looked inside. Only one idiot would be resourceful enough to get the proper tools necessary to break the lock and yet still flunk all the tests he took. And there was one spot that Flash dumped all his dirty work, regardless of whether it involved sex or not: behind the bleachers. He ran down the hallway, ignoring the warnings of his teachers, pushing past people, causing his chest to heave against his collared shirt. He got to the edge of the bleachers, and loosened his tie a little.

He stopped when he saw what was left of Weather-Man: just the vibranium. Flash was too stupid to see the value of it, of course.

Peter didn’t stop to talk to… Miles… after class. He went straight home, ignoring the greetings, and went downstairs. He didn’t turn the light on, he just sat. And sat. And sat. Eventually the door creaked and he could hear the groaning of the stairs.

Uncle Ben always smelled of cigars. He had quit years ago (Aunt May had made him), but the smell stuck, somehow. And his voice was a deep, calm, smoky sort of a voice. “Peter. I hate to bother you in your super-science lab, but your Aunt… well… she’s a worrier. And she’s worried about you. You came in upset. Is everything alright?”

Peter shook his head. “It’s all right, Uncle Ben, I just… I… Flash Thompson destroyed something I had made. It was a weather machine. It… took… it took a lot of work. An absurd amount, Uncle Ben. I even had to go to Manny for help, but Flash… He destroyed it.”

“And what are you going to do about it?”

Silence.

“Peter, what do you plan to do about it?”

More silence.

“Peter, what are you going to do about it? Cause there’s a few ways you can go about this. You could let it be. Flash has his own issues. I know it doesn’t excuse what he did, but are you really going to add to whatever may be going on with him, just because he hurt you? I know that’s not the nice answer. If you want to we can report this to the school, if you’d like.”

Peter sat there in silence for another minute. “No, Uncle Ben, you’re right. I wouldn’t want us adding to it. I think I can forgive him.”

Uncle Ben clapped him on the shoulder.  “You’re a good man, Pete. You’re going to change the world someday.” He left Peter in the basement. The sun would come down before Peter follow him back up the stairs. Peter laughed and joked with Uncle Ben and listened attentively to Aunt May's insistence that he was far too fragile a person for those kinds of jokes. Peter washed the dishes for her, much to her protests. He played Scrabble with Uncle Ben and Aunt May (and let Aunt May win every time) and then went to bed. But Peter didn't sleep. Peter hadn't slept more than a few hours a night for years. His mind would never calm, not without absolute exhaustion. He would have gone out to do basketball for the exercise, but Aunt May protested about how fragile he was. Peter almost believed her.

So the next day Peter didn't confront Flash. No, Peter waited for Flash to rush into class, five minutes late, before he asked to go to the bathroom. He got up, walked down the hall, stopped and a locker, opened it, and looked into it for a few minutes. After a few minutes he walked away, spring in his step, to the janitor's closet, for which he produced a home-made skeleton key. He pulled a few fluids out of it and then went back to the locker. A few minutes later he put everything back and went to the bathroom. It took less than a few minutes.

Peter was on his way to gym when he was grabbed by his sweater collar by a familiar hand and dragged outside. As Peter looked back he saw Liz, that straw colored hair in a bun, running after them, yelling at the top of her lungs. Of course they went to behind the bleachers. But that was the way the world worked, wasn't it?

Flash was so red in the face that something... unexpected... happened. Peter laughed. He couldn't help it, Flash looked so ridiculous! His red, curly, hair, his red, angry face... Peter didn't give a shit anymore. He was going to be beaten within an inch of his life, he knew it. But Peter had done it. He had hurt Flash in a way far more powerful than anything Flash was about to do to him.

Flash had stopped yelling and was looking at Peter, expectantly. Liz was screaming? Crying? Peter already had a bloody nose. It felt good. The blood tasted good in his mouth, tangy and sour. "Oh, you wanted me to say something?" Flash stared, dumbstruck. He even let go of Peter and stepped back a half step. "You want me to apologize for taking your pweicous widduh neckwace for goody two shoes Whizzy and-"

He felt his nose break and he laughed. His ribs popped and Peter yelped in pain, but the look he shot Flash made Liz freeze as she ran to pull Flash off him.  She grabbed the top of her head with both hands, and that bun came undone. Golden hair cascaded down her shoulders. Her face was framed in gold. Peter chuckled. "See, Whizzy? Poor widduh Fwash hasn't change much, has he?"

The last impressions Peter had was Liz's scream and the bottom of Flash's shoe.

The Giggling Dark: Session 1

Xellous, his big sister Genevieve, and his sweetheart Kora went out into the woods in the middle of the night to hunt for deer. While doing this they bumped into a firey little demon boy.

Everyone froze.

The flaming demon jumped at Kora, but Xellous, whose bow was already out, shot the demon boy in the neck. Screaming, the demon boy ran away, leaking burning liquid and burning the grass around him. Genevieve started to run after the little demon, telling Xellous and Kora to get home, that she'll go it alone. Xellous and Kora argue that they'll need her and that she shouldn't do it. Genevieve gripes about it but she concedes that taking on a demon on her own is a dumb idea. Tracking the thing is easy enough... but it turns back, towards Kora's farm. Both Genevieve and Kora go quiet, but Xellous tries to assure them that everything will be OK.

When they get to the farm they see that the little demon is attacking Altus, Kora's father. Threen, Kora's mother, sneaks up behind Altus and hit him on the back of the head with a shovel. Kora then shot him in the arm with her bow. The demon stared, transfixed, at Threen. Xellous shot the fire demon in the torso, confused. Genevieve held Xellous back, telling him to let Kora kill her father. And so Altus died.

Threen and Kora hugged each other, crying in relief. Xellous, overwhelmed, tries to process. But another fire demon came out of the house, attacking Threen. Xellous put an arrow in the demon's head and knelt beside it. Examining the corpse, Xellous realized that these demons were called Flammeous Lads: demonic little boys, summoned to do a task. They're utterly obedient to that assignment and are rather rare. Xellous, being an amateur enchanter, wanted the heart for... reasons.  So he cut out the heart of the demon's chest. He burned his hands to do it, but he did it.

Kora screamed: her brother, Michael, was not in the house! Xellous stashed the burning heart away, longingly, and since he was the better tracker between him and Kora, found Michael's footprints. He had left sometime before they had gone out to hunt, judging by the marks, and he had gone into the woods as well! Xellous, Kora, Geneveive, and Threen set out. As they followed the tracks Genevieve talked with Xellous, quietly, about Kora killing Altus. She explained that it was necessary, but that Xellous would have to talk with Kora about it, because it was not for Genevieve to talk about further.

Kora would not say one word about it.

The tracks led to an abandoned cabin, in the middle of the woods. There was a warm glow coming out of the windows. Standing outside the cabin the four began to consider their options, but then they heard Michael scream inside the cabin.  Xellous runs straight in, far in front of the others. Michael was up to his shoulders in blood, kneeling next to a small human corpse, with an ashen-looking Flammeous Lad standing nearby. Michael fell backwards, staring at his hands. Xellous froze, as did everyone else who ran in behind him. But the Flammeous Lad didn't. He jumped at Genevieve, grabbed her by the hair, and smashed her head into a nearby wall, setting her body alight. Snapping out of his fear Xellous shot the Lad in the head, who fell over, but continued to twitch. Xellous fired another arrow into the Lad's head. Xellous smothered the fire that was eating at Genevieve's body, and grabbed some bandages. But Genevieve didn't move, no matter what Xellous did. He cried, he screamed, he wrapped her in as many bandages as he could muster, but it did not matter. Genevieve would not move. Kora ran out of the room. Threen ran for her screaming son. Xellous  took all this in, took a deep breath and, setting Genevieve down gently, ran after Kora.

Xellous found Kora in a nearby clearing, fletching arrows. Xellous stood there with her for a few minutes, not saying anything. Kora explained that she was pregnant. Xellous said nothing. Genevieve had known about it, but had told Kora not to tell Xellous about it, because she didn't want Xellous to be distracted from his enchanting work. Kora told Xellous about how kind Genevieve had been to her, how she had promised that they would find a way to get her away from her father. And now Altus was dead, but so is Genevieve! After a few minutes of silence Kora asked if Michael had been the one to summon the Lads. Xellous was stupid enough to say it probably was, and Kora began to sob. Xellous tried to hug her but is pushed away. So Xellous sat next to Kora as she sobbed. After awhile she grabbed some more branches and continued her fletching. Xellous also grabbed a branch, with his burned fingers, and starts to fletch as well; he'd never fletched before. Kora smiled at him, and told him that he wasn't doing a half bad job. Xellous smiled.

The Giggling Dark, Session 0

"Dark Grin" by eyeoftheredking

I've known Ryan since I was 16 years old and have gamed with him ever since. He's a fantastic roleplayer and has an eye for chaos, good plots, and utterly intense characters. And, honestly, he's got a level of emotional honesty in all of his RP that makes him one of the funnest people I've ever gamed with. Every time I don't game with him I feel like I'm missing something. So, when I decided I wanted to do solo campaigns, I realized very quickly that I wanted to game with Ryan again. I had this pitch, an idea I got from reading Fire on the Velvet Horizon in the form of  The Flammeous Lads:

Obviously this isn't all there is when it comes to my Flammeous Lads. And that's what stuck with me. I couldn't unsee what I saw when I read about them. Over the months this idea grew and blossomed into a horrific picture of depravity, something so horrific that I couldn't not say it. I wanted to throw it at a player and see what they did with that level of darkness. And Ryan was that player. And I instinctively wanted Burning Wheel to be the engine that pulled the carriage.

Ryan, in turn, wanted to make a character unlike anything I'd run before: a two life path character, mere child, in Burning Wheel. He wanted to play a child prodigy enchanter. So we sat down and tried to figure out how to do that in the system.

First off, there's the setting: it's based in a setting called Stardust, where there are rot zones: areas where the dead rise and become undead. A few hundreds years ago a star fell and sanctified the ground. Other stars, noticing the positive impact their sister had on the world, joined suit, and the overwhelming presence of Rot Zones retreated into regional territories. The campaign happens in a place relatively far from one of these zones, but it still impacts the world and burial rituals and all that.

Second off, there's the problem of the cost of the trait Child Prodigy, which made it unworkable to make Ryan's character Xellous an enchanter and a Child Prodigy. After spending an hour trying to get the math to work in the lifepaths (it didn't), we decided that magic would not require being Gifted. But that means that magic is ubiquitous. We had to get around that, as I imagined this as a very dirty, very miserable, thoroughly umagical place. So we settled on what's called Practical Magic; everyone has a little bit of magic, but it's generally for enhancing stuff they already know how to do, and it's certainly not very powerful. Nor is it easy to learn. So, while everyone can learn Uncle Chuck's mending spell, not everyone can learn how to smooth their words in a way that makes them almost impossible to resist. Enchanting is an art taught to almost no one, and few stumble upon it. Xellous' exceptionality would come in the fact that he started the game Grey-shaded. After removing that requirement it was a breeze to make the character.

After figuring out what we wanted to do we made a few relationships for Xellous: his girlfriend, the tomboyish Kora, and Genevieve, the older sister. All three of them liked to hunt, especially at night when their parents were asleep. The opening situation would be that, while they were out one night, they bumped into a Flammeous Lad. Xellous' Beliefs were all about becoming a great enchanter, coming out from under his sister's shadow, and making sure that Kora didn't try kill the Flammeous Lad by herself, which she definitely wanted to do.

Character and situation presented, we were good to go!

The REAL Beyond the Wall Review

Welcome to the definition of a mixed bag. Beyond the Wall and Other Adventures is a unique game, with a great idea: make it  possible to make characters, draw up the scenario, and play an entire story, all within one session! It is a lofty goal. There's only one other game I know that tries to do a complete story in a single session, Tenra Bansho Zero, which I also own. But that game has gotten no actual playtime with me so far, unfortunately, because of the prep work involved in setting up a session; BtW has no such issue. But as you get past the brilliant character and session creation rules you'll find a mess of rules that just do not fit together. It's not enough to completely wreck the game, but it certainly doesn't help the game or elevate it into the smash hit it honestly should be.

BtW's character creation is unique. Most games will use either an archetype system or a class system of some sort. BtW uses both an archetype and a class system, to great effect. The archetype system is actually a background generator, building you up from childhood to present day, with quirks, traits, relationships, and then hooking that into a class. And this system works, really really well. It's simple, flavorful, and effective. It's actually so effective it makes me wonder why no one else has done something like this before! If anyone reading this blog has run into something quite like this let me know and I will gladly play the hell out of that game. Generating the session is equally as good. It's detailed and dependent on what the players generated in their character building. And this whole process can take as little as half an hour! Yes, you heard me right! Half an hour! It's amazing! And what's more the hooks generated are very good, more than enough to get the session started.

Unfortunately the actual rules for the session are not terribly good. There are three (yes, THREE) different systems of resolution in this game: roll under, roll above, roll and add modifiers. Every single newbie I've shown that to scratches their head. Fortunately the systems are simple enough for even noobs to adapt to, but they shouldn't have to: there are plenty of ways to take the simple roll under system that is the mainstay of the game and do it through the rest of the system. Whitehack presents these solutions, as do other games, and the fact that this game took the worst that the OSR has in it is head-scratching, particularly when you consider that the designers had another system in mind but chose the system they did for ease of use. It's not enough to destroy the session, but it is a drag on it. I'm going to houserule a lot of Whitehack into this game, if only because at that point it'll be the perfectly smooth system they were talking about to begin with.

I want to call BtW perfect, I really do. You can do all sorts of wonderful things with this system and the designers are clearly onto something. And you can tell that they have a really good idea. But all good ideas need some cleaning up, particularly unique ones. Burning Wheel needed it, 4th edition needed it, and this game needs it too. I would highly recommend Beyond the Wall, I would just highly advise to not be shocked if a second edition is made, and I would advise to be even less shocked when it's a clearly superior product to the first edition. These guys are onto something. I hope they chase it down, catch it, and make it perfect.

The Bereaved: Session 2

Mokola woke up, face down, in the snow. He could barely feel his fingers and toes and there was frozen blood on the back of his head. Four of the five orcs were dead, with wounds that matched weapons that were delivered by Midnight Guild members. with no sign of Karl. Mokola checked his pack; in the scuffle that had killed the other orcs his pack had been smashed; he had one day of rations left, from his original 11. Mokola examined his torches and was pleased to find that they were not damaged. He found a hollow tree and lit a fire, but managed to cut himself because of how cold he was.

After successfully applying a bandage Kenin the Ghost showed up. She revealed that it was indeed Midnight Guild members, six or seven of them, led by Yron (the Midnight Guild member who had been encountered earlier) who had killed the orcs, with the other one fleeing. Only two or three had been sent by the Headmaster to look for the missing soldiers, however. They also left Mokola behind, something that the (more-or-less) honorable Guild of Midnight Stalkers would never do. Kenin followed them, trying to see where they went. Turns out that it's only a few hour's walk to Dragonskull Fort. So, after warming up, Mokola set out for Dragonskull, following Kenin. Mokola has a Cloak of Shadows, a gift from a friend that, when properly attuned, helps to make a character practically invisible, but it takes a day to attune. Mokola begins to attune to the Cloak as he travels and finally finds Dragonskull Fort.

Dragonskull Fort was set in the side of a mountain, inside of a massive dragon's skull. The area in front of Dragonskull was hollowed out natural spring, with more water added in from a redirected nearby river. The artificial lake itself is filled with spikes, cemented into the lakebed, and every foul substance you can imagine; rumor has it that if the whole lake will catch fire if a match is lit nearby. Even now, in the middle of the dead winter, one can smell the lake from way up on a nearby mountaintop.  In the area above Dragonskull Fort loose and sharp rocks have been layered, making assault by a large force upon the top of Dragonskull impossible.

Mokola, looking down upon the fort and holding his nose, started to look for a way down the sharp rocks above Dragonskull Fort. Not only did he find a way down, but he also found an enclosed area nearby, which let him sleep unmolested for the night, even in the cold with a fire. He also found a weaker area in the rock formation which, if a rock was thrown at it, would create a rockslide. The next evening Mokola made his move. He gets down the hill because of the Cloak, but he trips and sends a number of rocks down, onto the Dragonskull Fort below, cutting himself.

A group of trained assassins are not going to miss that. About a half dozen or so of them come out and see Mokola with no difficulty. Mokola lit a torch and threw it onto the lake and it lights up, startling everyone. Mokola tried to use the distraction to hide, but couldn't; his compatriots saw right through the ruse, and began to shoot at him with bows as other assassins started going up the hill, after Mokola. An arrow hit Mokola and he fell to the ground, unconscious.

Mokola woke up, chained and in a prison cell, face to face with Yron. They verbally spar, with Mokola trying to appeal to Yron's honor as a member of the Midnight Guild as well as the pragmatic question "What happens when the humans are wiped out?". Yron shuts down these avenues, however, stating that he's with the winner, who is going to be Lord Kuntal, the leader of the orc horde. The orc with a cleaved face from last session is brought in, as a traitor. As it turns out this orc had decided to betray Lord Kuntal, and so therefore he was marked for being the Orc Queen's sacrifice as well.

After a few hours of being alone with the unbound orc Mokola was finally able to get a response out of the orc, who is fiercely loyal to Lord Kuntal and agrees with the punishment that he is given. Mokola tries to figure the orc out, but the Orc Queen comes in... who is a bombshell raven haired human woman. She takes the orc and Mokola out, paints them in feces, and kisses them both, planting spiders in their mouths. The spiders, when spat out, turn into flame. Chanting in a tongue that was unlike any tongue known to men, the orcs cursed Mokola and his orc companion.

They are then set on fire.

The Bereaved: Sessions 0 and 1

"Angry Orc" by tomcii

This all started because of an apology. I'm running two solo Burning Wheel games (of which posts shall be made as well) and was talking to my buddy Andy about this, and just suddenly felt incredibly guilty. I was the GM who first introduced Andy to RPGs, only to find that I had an unintentionally created a monster. Andy is not kind of a good GM and definitely not kind of a good player: he's one of the best in both categories that I've encountered. But for the last ten years Andy has GMed for me, not the other way around. I generally go to him when I'm tired of GMing and he very nicely lets me play a game.

So, as I was talking to him, I realized I could do a game for him. And then I wanted to do a game with him. And then I was talking about it and realizing that two Burning Wheel games is going to be a lot of work, so adding a third was probably not a good idea. Andy and I are both gaming snobs. We also like exploring new games and enjoying mechanics that no one else has thought about before. I'd been wanting to try Whitehack for almost a year, having bought the game and gotten a Notebook copy of it for Christmas, one year ago. So I suggested it, and somehow Andy decided this was a good idea.

And then I couldn't think of a campaign idea. Nothing.

So I just had Andy start making a character. Because sometimes whole campaign ideas can spawn off of just one random fact about a character. So Andy sat down and began to make a character. He picked his class first. Now, in Whitehack there are three base classes: the Deft (specialists in a field), the Strong (the combat monster and able to harvest special abilities from dead critters), and the Wise (Miracle workers who pay for their spells with HP).


Andy went for the Deft. Deft characters' Groups are not tied to stats, and they also have access to special tricks/mentors/items that no one else does, one active and one inactive (switching between them takes a day). Andy decided his active Mentor would be a ghost by the name of Kenin, who was a rival of his, back to haunt him. His inactive benefit is a cloak that can hide with anything. It's not magical, it just... blends...

Kenin sparked off an idea for a campaign, and I had something to pitch. Kenin had died in a failed assassination attempt of the orc lord Kuntal, who had overwhelmed the country of Crondas and was at the capital city, Terl's, gates. Kenin would not talk about why she failed, but she came back and asked Mokola (Andy's assassin), her rival, to finish the job for her. But in the interval Kuntal had destroyed Terl, destroying it. The royal family had managed to escape, but it's the dead of winter and nobody can last that long.

So the campaign begins with Mokola's talk with the leader of his assassination guild, the Guild of Midnight Prowlers. In the wake of the wholescale slaughter of the Kingdom of Crondas the Guild has allied itself with the crown. A few days ago some scouts of the crown had been sent out to examine Fort Dragonskull, which was neslted a few days away to the east in the Dragonbone Mountains.These scouts have not returned and so the headmaster is sending Mokola out to figure out what's going on. The headmaster has already sent a number of his agents out, but he's worried about their loyalty, and is sending Mokola as a back up to the back up.

After gathering some supplies Mokola set out. After being taunted about how much he sucks and really has no drive by Kenin, Mokola sent her out to check out a nearby campfire.Kenin came back, laughing, and told Mokola they were no threat even to someone like him. Mokola approached the campfire and found five individuals around it who were heartily sick of each other. One of these survivors, Karl, asked to come with Mokola. Karl was a bit grouchy, but he tried to keep up with Mokola the best he could, asking whatever questions he thought Mokola would answer. Mokola kept Karl safe from gigantic eagles and helped him outrun a group of orcs, even burying one of the orc's blades in his face.

They also ran into one of the survivors of the Guild's party: Yron, who clearly was not happy with the headmaster's idea to make them friends of the crown. As they staged a perfectly normal conversation Yron motioned for Mokola to kill Karl, since he was nothing more than a rube civilian. But Mokola refused, and instead asked Yron what had happened to the others. Yron told them that his other compatriots were dead, slain by orcs, as were most likely the king's men. Yron did not offer to journey with them, instead turning back for home camp, telling the pair to watch out, or else they would wind up dead.

Karl finally had to rest, after going all night without rest because of the relatively clear weather. Mokola, who needed to scout, warned Karl not to rest unless he thought he could do it safely, and stepped out to re-orient himself. But the temperature dropped significantly and the winds howled, driving Mokola to reconsider his course of action.

Which is when Mokola found himself surrounded by orcs, including an orc with a deep impression of a blade in his face. Mokola could hear a captured Karl behind him, begging him to run, that the orcs were trying to cut off his escape routes.

Mokola fled. Karl's shouting stopped abruptly. Mokola realized that he was almost completely cut off, so he tried running right at one of the orcs, elbowing him in the face as he went by.

But the orc grabbed Mokola by his head and slammed his head into a tree.

The Whitehack: Read-Thru Review

I've always had a bit of a fascination for the Old School Renaissance. There's something about the uncompromising, focused play that I find alluring. While I generally disagree with the level of nostalgia and dogmatism that the movement gravitates towards I've always wanted to try one of the movement's games. And, after paying attention to the movement for years, I've decided to try out Whitehack first. The things that have drawn me to the game are its simple, flavorful, and emergent gameplay.

Whitehack's gameplay is simple. This is generally the opposite of what I go for in games, mostly because complexity can lead to a greater amount of richness in the narrative of a game. Rule-lite generally strips things down too far and forgets that, first and foremost, RPGs are games that make stories, not make sessions of shared make-believe. There needs to be systems that can trip up the players and that can complicate the narrative in ways the players do not expect. Whitehack solves this problem by making sure what systems do exist generate complications. Players are defined by Groups, which can be either races, affiliations, or vocations, not your Class, which is merely how you accomplish your goals, not what you are. These things are determined by group decision. You merely say that you are an elf knight and you get a greater chance at succeeding when doing things that pertain to those aspects. You simply say what you do and the rules give a framework to challenge you in the way that you defined.

Whitehack's simplicity lends itself to flavor. When Andy and I sat down to come up with a campaign concept I couldn't think of anything for a campaign. So Andy looked through the classes and decided he wanted to play a Deft character, someone who is a specialist in his chosen field. By the time he was done making up stuff I had a campaign idea, as he had come up with a ghost who helped him in tight spots and had a cloak he could do fun tricks with. I started asking questions about the ghost and the assassin's guild that Andy was a part of... and we just took off. None of these elements design have a whole lot of mechanical weight, yet. Whitehack runs off of group fiat, and what the group says is permanent. This means that, as time goes on, the mechanics are reinforced differently as one's understanding of the world evolves.This in turn creates more flavor that you have to circumnavigate.

All of this adds up to what Whitehack promises: emergent gameplay. The ruleset is intentionally sparse; most of the game rules can be summed up within 20 pages. You wouldn't know that the game has this element from its spartan ruleset, but this is where Groups come in. Groups are sources of your characters' expertise: affiliations ("groups" you belong to), races (I hope I don't have to explain), and vocations (which are things like woodcutter, knight, assassin, etc.). Every time you are faced with a task that you think a Group applies to you must state how it applies and then roll 2d20, taking the better of the two (the game calls his a double positive roll). You get two of these groups to assign to your stats (one Group per stat!) with and, as the game progresses, you get more. And that's the thing: you get more. As the game progresses you get more flavor and mechanical weight, which means that the game fundamentally changes with the addition of each Group. Each of these Groups fundamentally alters the setting, which alters the story, which alters your player. Most of the classes end with 5 Groups. That's 3 seismic shifts per character (except the Deft, they get 6! And their Groups aren't tied to Stats! So powerful!) It doesn't look like much, and that's the trick.

I'll be posting more as I play, but these are my initial impressions. Can't wait to write more!

A Theoretical Manifesto

It's been a really long time since I've written on GMing. Part of that has to do with having a kid, leaving the Army, moving, and changing jobs; it's hard to GM when you've got so much going on. But, thanks to the wonders of The Burning Wheel and The Whitehack and solo campaigns, I'll be starting not two campaigns soon, but three. I've had some time to think about my methods and madnesses, and this is my manifesto: people need structure, ring plots are awesome, re-incorporate often!

People need structure. I don't mean structure as in "this is what the players are going to be doing today". That's called rail-roading. What I mean is that people, narratively, flourish with a structure that the GM follows. Now I'm assuming a Burning Wheel-esque structure: character sets Beliefs and Instincts and the GM challenges them, as opposed to the GM coming up with a plot to walk the players through. This means deciding, ahead of time, how you, the GM, are going to challenge the character(s) in a general fashion. And when I say general I think I should say "vague". The way I like to conceptualize what I'm talking about is to use Story World cards. The image draws up associations, which can be used to throw at the players' BITs.

If someone was to have a  Belief I must stop my brother the Duke, no matter the cost and I had that card to challenge the player with, I'd try and show just how similar the two brothers really are. I'd take the other two Beliefs the character had and copy them exactly. If one of the Duke's minions is an evil douche have the Duke punish the guy, publicly, in a manner the player agrees with. Have the Duke be horrified by any bad outcomes from his actions, whatever they may be, and swear to fix them. And do this for all of the Beliefs for everyone in the game. The thing is that this card can create completely different outcomes.

Ring plots are awesome. So the cards alone aren't going to be enough, because how do you balance all of this out? The point of a structure is to provide something that doesn't move so players can feel free to riff off of it. But some variance is needed; you can't just go and do the one card, over and over again. There needs to be a structure to the images, a series to run the campaign on. You can pick any structure you like, I suppose- 4 act, 3 act, matters little- but I like the ring cycle, as popularized by Star Wars. It can be summed up as Introduce, Subvert, and Re-Introduce, summed up as two cards. Determine how many sessions you're going to play each card. For a Burning Wheel game I suggest 4 sessions a card.

1. Introduce-  Using a card, lay out a new situation for the player. Use the card and the Beliefs at the table to craft this scenario. There is much less science to this than art, feeling out what about the Beliefs and the card evoke from you. Each session advance the plot using the imagery on the card. Again, play it loosey-goosey with how you challenge. If you think a dog in an image should be used for loyalty in one session and cowardliness in the next, then who cares? Do it. You've got several sessions to play around with the image. Regardless of how you play around with it, this card is used to mollify the players. Whatever their Beliefs are, treat them as if they are utterly true! Let the players cement themselves into their convictions, playing with them very little. Let them feel secure for awhile.
2. Subvert- This the card that knocks your players over. Destroy them with everything you have. Take these sessions to utterly contradict everything the players throw at you. You've spent several sessions allowing the players to build their stuff and to trust that their points of view are correct. Destroy their confidence.
3. Re-Introduce- Now take your first card and introduce the same kind of stuff you did before, but flipped with the subversion in mind. Combine the two cards, with the first card being taking precedence. Go for tying up loose ends. You've laid down the groundwork and then destroyed it, now use all the pieces and bring it to a conclusion.

Re-incorporate often! Once you've laid down the Introduction step revisit those things. When in doubt, use a previously existing element in a new way, as opposed to introducing completely new things, whole cloth. It's always a good idea to take an old toy and break it and bash it up or build it up. This creates a sense of continuity and helps the players feel like they're in a world. And it will make them confident in doing whatever it is they like, knowing that you will honor their contributions before adding any of your own.

This will, in theory, create a good 12 session arc for Burning Wheel, or any other game. You can create a second arc by swapping the order of the two cards and running the players through the steps discussed above. Want another arc? Reverse the cards again.  You can do this as many times as you wish, until the campaign naturally comes to a conclusion, although I suspect 

Now there will be a few  objections to this method: it limits the GM's creativity, it's not organic, and it will tire over time.

To the first: limits to creativity can be a good thing, as can structure and order. In fact, limits on the human mind makes it sharper, not duller, so long as the limits are not meant to destroy the ability to work. This method is meant as a spring board, not a prison.The cards and the structure are meant to evoke comparisons and give you a place to return to when in doubt. If you're using the structure as a prison that is not the intent. 

To the second: vegetables and what's "natural" grow best with order to hold them up. Ivy and vines grow best with scaffolding to hold them up, it's why they attach to buildings and trees and anything. I don't know about anyone else with creative urges, but I find them to be wild and random, striking when I least expect it and doing whatever they like. If you give this seeming chaos structure and a place to fill up it will do it, organically. 

To the third: of course it will tire over time. Stories conclude. There's a reason why most American sitcoms are garbage: they just retread the same crap, with no actual ending to them. The problem is that most GMs don't know when their stories naturally conclude and want to keep them going as long as they can. Making a story structure can allow you to accept that you need to do so that your players can have the closure they deserve. Planning for closure means your players will get it, somehow. And there is nothing worse than a game that doesn't have even a half-fitting conclusion. Plan for it and accept it and your players will have a bittersweet time, not just a bitter one. 

Like I've said in the title, this is all theoretical. I've been sitting on these thoughts for a little while and am planning to try them out. Hopefully my players won't mind my experiments. And hopefully y'all won't mind following me as I post about the results of them. Onward!

For Parents/Spouses Only

I write this post with the knowledge that some will think I've over-anthropomorphized God. This is not inaccurate, I suppose, but I do have one preemptive point in my defense: truth is not one statement, but a paradox: two equally intense and equally opposing viewpoints. The truth of God's impassibility is not lost on me, especially as an Eastern Christian. But, without posts like this, the truth is incomplete. I present this as the other half of the truth.

This is a stand-in for your baby.

God sees you the way you see these people. Except a heck of a lot more.

That means that every time your poor little kid falls over and you flinch, but find it cute because it's really not the end of the world, God does that too. Every time your child screams about not being given a cookie and you wish you could give it to them but frankly the cookie's bad for them and so you have to say no but it's not the end of the world . The baby may think so, but you know better. You have perspective. So it is with suffering.

Wait, you thought any number of horrors you experienced were different than a child falling over and hitting their head?

The only difference between the cookie and your trauma is the amount of time it takes to recover from it, because you, the adult have actualized more of your potential and therefore there's more to damage. That is, in fact, the only difference. The principle is the same, especially when it comes to God's view of us.

Stand-in for your spouse

God knows you far, far more deeply than your spouse ever will. Each and every little tick of your face and body is loved. Your entirety is known, seen, acknowledged, thought about, and loved. That desire you feel for your spouse? The emptiness that yearns for the light inside of your spouse? Yeah, that isn't there. There is no need, just appreciation, pure and simple. It's not filled with the physical urges that, if not fulfilled, sour and must be wrestled with. There is no moment where that sourness turns to just plain old lust, because there is no need. The realization that you made at some point where it doesn't matter if your spouse is wearing clothes or not, their body was never the point? That was never a realization. All that has always been there, and for more than you could ever imagine.

All those times where your spouse has done something dumb and you found yourself angry at them, because you love them and how dare they squander that love so easily over something so trite? I have unfortunate news for you: your love isn't very great. Without God's love your love is nothing and so is theirs. God's love does not break down. The frustration we feel with our spouses is natural, God feels it too, far more often than you do. Why? We can't see into our spouse's minds, and thank God! We're incapable of going that far.

But God's able to go where you can't. Yet.

Oh yes, marriage is eternal. You are with that person, in all eternity. Come the Judgment you will be able to finally love that person as God intended you to. This is all a warm-up. All of this life is. The new Heavens and Earth is a resurrected one. Nothing goes anywhere. So marriage sure doesn't either. But we're just getting warmed up here.

All of this is practice. And family helps us understand what it is that God wants, when we do the real thing.

One Saturday Morning

The previous night I'd had a really awful PTSD attack. Wave after wave of horrific anguish washed over me, and would have completely overwhelmed me if not for reaching out to God with the Jesus Prayer. You can claim to have faith all day, but when the night comes and the darkness comes in what do you do? Anyway, the next morning rolled around and I felt pretty awful. I was having trouble with the trigger, which was still riding it out in my body. I didn't know how long it was going to last, and frankly I didn't know if I could deal with the truth anyway. So my family and I went for a stroll.

It was still a bit cool; the sun hadn't reached its typical Oklahoma awfulness.  On this day you'd almost believe it was a normal August day anywhere north of the Mason-Dixon. My 3 year old was skipping along, and the wind was just the tiniest bit crisp. That's about as close to Fall as we'll probably get for a few more months yet.

I was enjoying the weather, despite myself. After all, it's not too often where you get a break before November in this wretched state and even I could tell it was a good morning, even if I couldn't appreciate it. The mind of someone deep in a trigger is of bolted down boards on roiling chaos. It's hard to adequately express it, only that at some point the body wears out of being in so much supposed danger all the time and you begin to feel depressed, since there's really not a whole lot more to do at that point.

And then we happened upon the graveyard.

Now, this graveyard was not a surprise; we live right across the street from it, after all. We'd known about it for a few weeks. But we'd never gotten to visit it. Well, today was the day. And I was welcomed with the greatest gift a troubled man can receive: silence.

No, I didn't say quiet. The graveyard was far from quiet. There were people doing maintenance and there was a woman walking, talking on her cell phone. But something hung here, in the air, serene, passive, and patient. The instant I stepped foot on this ground I could feel my body change. Gone were the aches and pains. In its place was the realization that what I was feeling would pass. These people lay here, awaiting the day they would come back. I was awash in something that is very rarely felt: peace. I found myself laughing as we walked between the gravestones, heady with the borrowed freedom of the dead, the knowledge that this too would pass. Oh, it was not not my freedom, and I knew it. I knew that, once I walked away, the battle would begin again. The memories would begin to fight to come back, and I would be faced with something new and horrific to suffer through, all over again. But, for that moment, staring at the dead's tombstones and realizing how little time I actually had, I was free. The Gift of Illuvatar was, indeed, just that: a gift! And  while that gift would be mine someday, it was not yet. And so I enjoyed my troublesome and stubborn flesh as we walked. These people were waiting. They were at peace. And one day I would join them, when it was time. Fortunately I do not dictate that time.

I stopped, took a deep breath, and walked into the area. There were single days on these gravestones, with toys (illegally) stacked atop them. The air itself changed; anguish overlaid itself on the peace of the rest of the yard. My wife and I stood, staring at the gravestones, and cried as we looked at our little ones, one strapped in a carrier to my wife and our three year old running around, oblivious as to where we were. Death may be a gift of release from this cruel world but that doesn't mean it's any less painful for those left behind. These little ones had such a small amount of time, months at the very longest. Looking at our little ones my wife and I were overwhelmed by it all.

Drying our eyes the best we could we left the silently grieving area and started trying to corral our three year old back to our house for food. It was almost noon, no one had showered, and we'd barely eaten anything. But, of course, a three year old in an open space is going to run like the dickens, and he had to be caught. Across the road, closer to our house, is a pair of fountains. We offered to stop there. Our son found this acceptable and, crossing the usually-busy road, we made our way to the fountains.

As you can see, there are multiple levels down to the water; we never let our children down to the last one, because it's so easy to fall in and with the reeds, we might never even notice what had happened. Fortunately our eldest son was in a good mood about that restriction today. Instead, he walked up to me, held out his hand, and shouted "JUMP DADDY!" I looked down at my little angel, one who at so many points infuriates the holy hell out of me, but then inspires with pure goodness a moment later. I looked down at the half of a six foot drop to the next level. He probably didn't need me to do it, but that was besides the point, wasn't it? I grabbed his small, delicate hand and, yelling at the top of our lungs, we jumped the half-six feet , to the next row below.

And we did it over, and over, and over again. Each time we laughed and, for the briefest second, there was something far better than peace. I only wish I knew how to describe it to you.

Lunch was delicious, by the way.

Catholics, Orthodox, and Tolkien, Chesterton, and Lewis

I'm absolutely appalled by most of my Orthodox brethren's treatment of Catholicism. Modern Orthodoxy's selective sense history (not to mention the ignoring of their own canons and anathemas) is frustrating. Don't get me wrong, there's problems with Catholicism, and they're all tied in with the Pope and Rome and the centralization of their ecclesiastical power. But there's still some hope for unity, and I think that's thanks to J.R.R. Tolkien, Chesterton, and Lewis

I mean, sure, who doesn't love LOTR? Well, quite a few. But there are a number of Orthodox who love Tolkien, who attribute their Orthodoxy, in part, to Tolkien. Even the most die-hard ROCOR I've met has sang Tolkien's praises. And it's not hard to see why. Tolkien's worldview is decidedly Orthodox: people fall and succeed because of their limited qualities, not because they're good or bad or whatever, the world is infinitely larger than the characters but can be profoundly affected by them, and victory is because of the divine, not the human. But the inherent tragedy of human existence, coupled with the fact that, for us Christians, death is no longer the tragedy it once was, is at the beating heart of Tolkien's works, which lines him up with Orthodoxy's hymnography and doctrine. And people can feel that out.

G.K. Chesterton is another great example of a Catholic who the Orthodox love to quote. His books Heretics and Orthodoxy and some of the most quotable and hopeful books I've ever read in my life and were part of my (still very much so ongoing) recovery from cynicism and a dead life. Chesterton's take on life as being a fairy tale that all others are based on is impossible to ignore, let alone talk down. Chesterton's fiction isn't quite as good as his non-fiction, but it has a charm that's all its own.

I don't know of a single Christian group that can actually hate C.S. Lewis. While he was nominally Anglican (c'mon, people, the Great Divorce puts him squarely into Orthodox territory at the least, if not Catholic)the fact of the matter is that The Chronicles of Narnia and The Space Trilogy have put Lewis as secondary only to Tolkien in the Christian world, and even that's arguable for a number of people.

Like I said, Orthodox and Catholic alike hold up these three giants without any shame. And that, to me, speaks to a much greater commonality than people on both sides would like to admit. An Emperor of China, when he wanted to know what his people were like, would go out and find out what art they were creating and consuming. And the fact of the matter is that, if a right-right ROCOR Orthodox can love Tolkien as much as a modern Novus Ordo Catholic, not all is lost. We can figure this out, somehow.

It very well may take the Anti-Christ to do it, but that's to be expected. We are only human, after all, and are a rather thick bunch.

PTSD

It always starts with a period of deep anger. The type of anger that comes out from your bones and leaves you feeling like there's no other feeling to have about the world, and that you never felt anything different.  It spikes at differing things that it holds to be threats, like how the sun shone in your eyes just then, or the way your son's voice sounds particularly squeaky when he's trying to communicate how much he can't say, or even when your poor wife is trying to get you to pick up the other kid cause he needs someone to hold him. There is a threat to be found, somewhere, and the anger will be damned if it can't find an attacker.

The funny thing is how reasonable it is until you open your mouth to express why you're being pissy.

Oh wait, this makes no sense. Crap.

For a brief second you feel powerless and the feedback loop is created. You are now locked into a cycle of anger at... something... along with the shame of being so irrational, which makes you angry, because no one else understands. Nor can they. It's a comforting loneliness at times. I wouldn't wish this on anyone. But the wish to not have anyone share in it just makes you lonelier.

Sometimes this cycle goes on for weeks at a time, as your body continues to break down the barriers between you and a truly horrific memory, the stuff of nightmares. You take a breath and ride it out. The little drops of anger have become an ocean that you ride upon in your little skiff. Getting wet is impossible, but you can stay on the skiff.

And then you remember.

All of a sudden you are there. Your brain snaps into awful focus, and you realize that you are in a moment of hatred so intense, so awful, that you cannot for the life of you figure out how the heck you are still around. You are being hurt, right now, and you cannot stop it. Maybe, just maybe, someone will figure it out. But you're tired, so very, very very tired. You're in two places at once. That's not figurative, you are both a child and an adult at that point and I dare anyone to tell me different. The decision to stay in one point in time must be made. What happened then is then, you are not there, not right now. The pain may be so intense that you feel that you've lost your mind, but the simple fact is somehow, some way, you are sane, because if you were not feeling like this it would be insanity itself. Flailing in the tidal wave, you get the idea to shoot a hand up, above your head.

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner!

I do not pretend that every time I say that prayer I feel the presence of God. That would be utterly untrue and prideful. Perhaps it's just the act of doing it that is so helpful. But there are some times I'm convinced that there's a presence that dawns in my soul.  The Presence does not say much, not normally, but He does hold me, as the waves continue to batter harder and harder. There are times I find myself terrified of everything, but He continues to hold me, and I am safe. Even in the midst of the worst tidal waves there He is. Sometimes I must pray for the person who is did the damage to me. And sometimes I realize the waves of anger that I feel against this person are so horrific that they'll destroy me too, and so I ask for the both of us to be saved from myself.  Sometimes it has to be praying for myself, because the tidal wave is aimed at me for allowing this horrific thing to happen to me. The fact that I was a child is immaterial to that level of anger. Someone must be destroyed, and if it's me, the one who made the anger in the first place, so be it. Anger is ultimately a suicidal impulse, somehow, even if you don't feel suicidal at that precise moment. To be angry at another and to wish for their harm is to wish harm to yourself.

So the waves hit, over and over, and I find that I am still alive, that the world did not wash away, and that part of me cannot hate or be angry anymore.  And the waves just... stop. Sometimes it's large parts of my personality that walk away changed, and sometimes it was just a battle for just the tiniest personality tick. But I walked through the shadow of the valley of death, and He was with me. And yes, that rod is really comforting. And without His staff I would have wandered off a long time ago. Goodness and Mercy do follow me, because if He didn't I would've drowned, and it's as simple as that. 

Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner!