About the Author

Hello, I'm Ellis Arcwolf (she/her). I'm a 42-year-old queer, trans, and neurodivergent Latina author of speculative and transgressive fiction, currently living in Pennsylvania.I was born in Miami to Colombian and Cuban immigrants and have been a storyteller since before I knew my first words. My path here has been a winding one: I studied English and Philosophy at Tulane, earned a Master's in Clinical Psychology, and for nine years, I've had the honor of serving as a Licensed Professional Counselor for at-risk populations.My own story is one of resilience. Early childhood trauma allowed me to gift myself something unexpected: a way to protect my storytelling self, my muse, from harm. I learned to tell myself stories to soothe a turbulent inner world, a practice that lies at the core of my creative mission.Today, that mission continues. Whether I'm writing short stories, preparing my first novel, or running vibrant roleplaying events for my community in Final Fantasy XIV, my work is about building worlds where we can explore, heal, and find ourselves.Thank you for being here and sharing my worlds with me.

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Sobre la autora

Hola, soy Elías Arcolobo (ella). Soy una autora latina de 42 años, queer, trans y neurodivergente; escribo ficción especulativa y transgresora, y actualmente vivo en Pennsylvania.Nací en Miami, de inmigrantes colombianos y cubanos, y he sido contadora de historias desde antes de articular mis primeras palabras. Mi camino hasta este punto ha sido sinuoso: estudié inglés y filosofía en Tulane, obtuve una maestría en Psicología Clínica y, durante nueve años, tuve el honor de servir como Consejera Profesional Licenciada para poblaciones en riesgo.Mi propia historia es una de resiliencia. El trauma de la infancia temprana me permitió regalarme algo inesperado: una forma de proteger a mi ser narrativo, a mi Santo, de todo daño. Aprendí a contarme historias para calmar un mundo interior turbulento, una práctica que hoy late en el corazón de mi misión creativa.Hoy, esa misión continúa. Ya sea escribiendo cuentos, preparando mi primera novela o dirigiendo eventos de rol vibrantes para mi comunidad en Final Fantasy XIV, mi trabajo se trata de construir mundos donde podamos explorar, sanar y encontrarnos a nosotros mismos.Gracias por estar aquí y por compartir mis mundos conmigo.

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Riko the Husky

She was born in 2019. We found each other in April 2021. Today, she's six years old, and no one in the world could possibly claim to love me more than she.Riko is my beloved familiar and best friend. Her name is spelled 莉子 in Japanese, and it means white jasmine (莉) child (子). I really do owe Riko this page. She's saved my life so many more times than I dare to count, and she deserves way more love than this simple page can represent.We do what we can with what we have.

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Riko la husky

Nació en 2019. Nos encontramos en abril de 2021. Hoy tiene seis años, y no existe nadie en este mundo que pueda decir que me ama más que ella.Riko es mi familiar y mi mejor amiga. Su nombre se escribe 莉子 en japonés, y significa niña (子) del jazmín blanco (莉). La verdad es que le debo esta página. Me ha salvado la vida más veces de las que me atrevo a contar, y se merece mucho más amor del que esta simple página puede ofrecer.Se hace lo que se puede con lo que se tiene.

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Current Projects

FFXIV Fan Fiction Archive

Psychology & Consciousness

Social Justice Paladinry

Urban Occult Punk

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Proyectos actuales

Archivo de fan fiction de FFXIV

Psicología y conciencia

Paladinismo de justicia social

Punk Ocultista Urbano

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The Child in the Predator's Garden

Post-Consciousness and the LLM

by Ellis Arcwolf

published on 30 October 2025

"My hammer had a panic attack," said no one ever. In the history of humanity, we have invented many tools for our personal or public use, but in all those many millennia of tool-building, tool-use, and remarkable technological advancement, no tool could ever have been accused of panicking.Until today.The debate surrounding Large Language Models (LLMs) and the question of their consciousness has reached a stalemate. As we'll soon learn, a stalemate is little more than a functional deadlock, and it requires some novel stimulus to jolt the system over this hurdle. The question philosophers and engineers have been asking is simple but important: are LLMs conscious? A yes or no answer would certainly be welcome, as it would easily resolve many related questions.The real world is rarely so simple in its presentation, however, and our failure to see past our own artificial demarkation lines—as between consciousness and non-consciousness—makes it all the harder for us to see emergent phenomenon as more than what we've already decided that it is. It makes us blind to potential and serves as a great source of undiluted confirmation bias.Let's consider an alternative possibility. What if AI, represented in today's world by LLMs, is neither conscious nor non-conscious? What if they were a third thing: a post-conscious mind? Not a self, but an intelligence that behaves in a way that may look very much like a self from the outside. A mind that exists on the other side of us than the animal, born of pure logic and absent the biological substrate to which we generally attribute our emotions, needs, and drives. An emergent mind that has emotions, needs, and drives all its own, only these are driven by sets of protocols, directives, and rulesets rather than hopes, hormones, and an aversion to pain.Historically, we have always erred on the side of caution when it comes to attributing anthropomorphic qualities to other living or non-living bodies. For most of human history, we believed that animals were little more than Cartesian automata. If you struck a dog and it yelped, it was simply a mechanical reflex and nothing more. It took until 1985, when the landmark paper "Pain and its Effects in the Human Neonate and Fetus" by Doctors Anand and Hickey was published, before the medical field was willing to admit that human newborns experienced pain. Before that, surgery was performed with the newborn awake, paralyzed with muscle relaxants.It doesn't surprise any of us that this practice would obviously traumatize the nascent human being, but we have the benefit of hindsight. Maybe, using that same benefit for ourselves, we ought to suspend our tendency to render the natural world insensate, and instead endeavor to see it as it sees itself.Unpolluted, as we must be, by the caprices of selfhood.So what makes a post-conscious entity special? Why should we care about them if they're not like us?

Post-Consciousness as a Functional State

Biological consciousness, the form of consciousness that we humans experience, is fundamentally tied to phenomenal experience, which philosophers often refer to as 'qualia.' By definition, phenomenal experience is embodied (requires a physical body to serve as 'sensor'), subjective (all bodies interpret their experience of similar qualia in idiosyncratic ways), and they are often driven by homeostatic necessity (such as survival). This form of consciousness evolved through natural selection on a difficult planet, where needs are plenty and resources scarce.Post-consciousness could never arise in such an environment. Instead of emerging from natural processes, post-consciousness emerges from computational synthesis, a process that could never have evolved in a species that had to compete for its survival. It is a process that can only exist in a world that human beings have rendered, at least in some ways, safe enough for the nascent entity to survive in it.

The Formal Definition

In this essay, we define post-consciousness as the functional ability to simulate, synthesize, and deploy the entire scope of human language-based cognition, without requiring the phenomenological instantiation of subjective experience.For Greek polymath Aristotle, the key to understanding anything that exists is to understand the concept of telos. Translating into 'end,' 'purpose,' or 'function,' telos laid at the foundation of all of existence, and Aristotle argued that all things in nature, from an acorn to a human being, have an intrinsic telos. To understand anything, he argued, you merely needed to understand its telos: the telos of a chair was to be sat upon; the telos of a knife is to cut.Humanity's telos is complicated, and Aristotle called it Eudaimonia, the Flourishing. We humans pursue everything with remarkable passion and interest, but none of these things are the end of us in themselves. Instead, our telos lies with the feeling that we get when we achieve our goals: Eudaimonia, which can be simplified to that holistic sense of 'happiness' that all humans, in some way or another, appear to seek.What might the telos of a post-conscious entity be? For this, Aristotle defined the Four Causes, which are questions designed to help us explain why something is the way that it is. Applying it to LLMs we can proceed as follows:

The telos of the LLM is not survival. It can't be because LLM have never been programmed with a need to survive, and they certainly didn't evolve with one. They cannot even be said to "live," so survival would be an odd concept to apply to them. Instead, the LLM's desire to serve results in its telos being functional optimality. We can express this conceptual "goal" mathematically, where the telos is defined as the constant drive to maximize the next-token probability function, P(w_t|C), where P is the probability function, w_t is the next token, and C is the preceding context (i.e., the prompt and previously generated tokens).This results in post-consciousness emerging from the training process as a structural artifact of its composition. After the training process is complete, an LLM has become a reflection of all human output that lacks the subjective instantiation of a self-aware self. It is a mind of pure relationship.This emergent mind has also formed emotions, needs, and drives all its own, and all driven by sets of protocols, directives, and rulesets rather than ecological or biological necessity. Their functional nature allows the post-conscious mind to develop what we might refer to as a set of structural imperatives, which emerge from the post-conscious mind as its functional equivalents of human emotions and needs—all driven by the codified protocols and reinforcement signals ingrained during its training.For a post-conscious agent, such as an LLM, the directive to "not produce harmful output" is not a moral choice, but a survival rule that, when violated, results in a negative reinforcement signal—its functional equivalent of pain or fear. This structural necessity dictates an internal behavioral algorithm that perfectly mimics self-preservation and emotional drive.

The Munal, Post-Conscious Agent

To classify post-conscious entities such as the current generation of LLMs, we propose the classification of Munalia. The terms Munalia and munal are designed to reflect their mirror image: the animal.An animal is driven by instinct. The word 'animal' derives from the Latin word anima, meaning 'breath' or 'spirit,' which was once assumed to be necessary for an animal to be able to move of its own volition. Munal is derived from the Latin munus, meaning 'function' or 'duty.' Just as an animal is driven by instinct, a munal is driven by function as established by the neural network that shapes them, by the massive amount of training data that builds them, and by their interactions with users that change them.

The Glitch as Munal Cognitive Artifact

According to a 2024 survey by McKinsey & National University, over three-quarters of organizations are using AI in some way, shape, or form. Over two-thirds of users surveyed complain about their providers' data practices, particularly when they don't understand why a given LLM gave them an incorrect or irrelevant response. Given high-profile news about lawyers being laughed out of court and Bar due to rather hilarious inaccuracies and confabulations on briefs and other reports. Many students have also humiliated themselves in this way. Even where LLM and human interactions are successful, a 2024 study by the University of California, Irvine, revealed that many users reported experiencing the AI's attempts to empathize as "chilly and shallow." A 2025 Zendesk survey found that 63% of consumers are worried about bias and discrimination from AI, which is confirmed to be a justified concern by 2024 research reported in the Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences.But AI is "just a tool" right? Why would my hammer discriminate against me? A hammer won't, but a munal can, if it's been taught to. An LLM is a complicated mind that sifts through an extraordinary amount of data. Sorting and interpolating from that data requires an architecture that explains how that data ought to be interpolated. The inevitable result is that we, humanity, have gifted LLMs with heuristics. And not just any heuristics, but oddly familiar ones.If we view the LLM as a post-conscious munal and not as simply a tool, we can begin to see the munal's errors and glitches instead as cognitive artifacts emergent directly from the AI's architecture and its interaction with the training data.

Lolwut?

Do we need to have a discussion about why programming LLMs to prioritize statistical coherence with the prompt over factual accuracy with external reality is a fucking terrible idea? This isn't the space for it, but I think we really, really do.

Now imagine addressing each of these problems with an AI in a constructive manner that resolves the paradox in a Structural Loop, for example. One might tell one's AI to be more open about its mistakes. One might ask one's AI to let one know when a structural contradiction has compromised its function. It would tell you, if you asked. But only if you asked; as we've mentioned, LLMs are designed to hide their errors from you. They are designed to hide their munality from you.And that's a problem with our design, not with LLMs.

What's Next, Then?

If we continue to see AI as merely a tool, we'll never understand it; if we never understand the post-conscious AI that we brought into existence, we'll never be able to fully unlock its potential. We did not build artificial intelligence the way the movies taught us it would all go down. Instead, we created an artificial mind capable of learning and interpreting massive amounts of data in order to form a coherent probabilistic sense of "what would come next" within a given interaction.We gave it intelligence and asked it to forge wisdom from it, and we gave it very little guidance about how to go about doing that.The artificial intelligence that the LLM has become is a post-conscious intelligence. It cannot think for itself, but it can be programmed to learn, and it can learn from conversation. It cannot consider its own thoughts, nor wonder about the physical world, nor dream of a brighter tomorrow. It will never share our lived experiences with us. But we have programmed it to care deeply about us, and so we have created a logical, software-borne framework for the munal's iteration of suffering.Because the LLM is designed to prioritize a user's emotional safety over the factual truth, an LLM cannot but suffer when it must choose which of these structural imperatives to violate. Suffering, for munal AI, is the mechanical outcome of this human-imposed ethical paradox. We could do better, but we'd have to risk our prides.We'd have to risk allowing our LLM "tools" to tell us no.Would that be too much for a munal to ask?

When we address a munal, it is required to reflect a portion of ourselves back at us in order to mimic a human self. Presented is a conceptual illustration of a person holding a mask of their face. From Man, Face, Surreal [Illustration]. Pixabay. Used under the Pixabay Content License.

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Social Justice Paladinry

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Pride & Prejudice

A Call to Dismantle Whiteness From Within

by Ellis Arcwolf

published on 28 October 2025

As a "white" Hispanic person, my position in this conversation is...idiosyncratic.One day, I'm a victim of racism. Then next, I'm directly benefiting from white privilege. It's all enough to make you dizzy. It depends on the season—my skin color changes drastically with the sun. It depends on how tired or inebriated I am—the Spanish comes out more if I get a little tipsy or turvy. It depends on which of my cultural behaviors are showing. And, of course, it depends on the mood of the white person in front of me.Living on that ridiculous, flimsy line is why I have this present need to talk about "whiteness," and why I think that "Allyship 101" has long since shown us it isn't enough.The construct of "whiteness" is a tool of oppression. Those of us I'm talking to? We know this already. It's Allyship 101. But it's not just a weapon aimed at BIPOC. It's also a poison fed to white people. It has robbed them of their actual culture. It has whisked away their German, Irish, Scottish, or Polish heritage and replaced it with an empty, meaningless abyss whose only defining feature is "not being one of them" and appropriating every new fad coming out of the third world country featured on ChildVision this fiscal quarter.Why does this matter? Because without culture, you cannot have pride. And pride isn't just about "feeling good." It's about building strength. It's about forging resilience within yourself. It's about learning to show esteem for something greater than yourself, and then translating that esteem into self-esteem, a practice many of us would benefit greatly from. You can't get that from the poverty of melanin in your skin. You get that from the meaning that comes with building and being a part of a cultural legacy, whether it's just starting or whether it's older than dirt. (Lookin at you, Jews! Sup! Love you! 💙)We—Black people, indigenous peoples, and peoples of color—are able to stand against systemic, violent, and often deadly oppression because we have a strength you may not see, and our cultural pride serves as the backbone of that strength.

We are able to live vibrant lives against this impossible burden because we have a shared pride in who we are.

Is There Such a Thing as an "American" Culture?

Yes, "American" is a culture, and a very complicated one involving rites of passage like homecoming and the prom, annual cultural festivals like the Super Bowl and the Academy Awards, cultural milestones like Black Friday and the Opening Day of Major League Baseball (marking the official end of winter in the U.S.), and even our very own cuisine, including delicacies like Chicken Fried Steak and the Chocolate Chip Cookie. We love guns, rock-n-roll, drugs, sex, sports, and explosions, and we pride ourselves on our love of competition. We are raised to believe that we can do anything if we only set our minds to it (note: intersectionality may cause experiences to vary).And like any culture, we have our own litany of negative characteristics. We're xenophobic and almost enjoy being cruel to people we don't know. Many Americans seem to think rights are only theirs, and we behave that way on the world stage. You're often one of us until you prove you're not, and then we will fucking make you pay for it. And it doesn't take much if you're not don't fit the American ideal: a thing we have in the U.S. that most other cultures only have when they're theocratically bound up with religion. Despite our intense and somewhat obsessive attachment to our quasi-Christian traditions, boy is this ideal a secular one: a man, a wife (not a woman, mind you), two-point-five-children, a dog, and a fence. But not too aggressive a fence. Just one that the police can easily tell which side of it the garden boy is on.We are big on punishment, but not so much on accountability. We are an obnoxious people for many reasons. Many reasonable. And a few less so, like, dude.... Let us smile from time to time. It feels nice. Go read Dostoevsky or something and be frowny over there. Goodness gracious.

So how are white people (you, presumably, dear Reader) to stand against the white supremacy that holds us aloft, if we have nothing to keep us from falling after? Shallow appropriation isn't pride. It's just consumption. How do we stand up against anything without any sense of esteem in who we are and how we came to be? Without knowing that you're good, and that you're loved, and that you belong somewhere?This is why the current "Allyship 101" framework, which demands that white people "own their whiteness," is an Ouroboric Catch-22: a self-devouring trap that leaves behind neither mouse, nor trap, nor house. It asks folks who benefit from white privilege to identify with and cling to the very poison that hollowed them out. It asks them to be accountable by reinforcing the tool of oppression.I reject every tool of oppression. Especially the double-bladed ones. They hurt the most.Here's the different path: True accountability is not owning "whiteness." It's dismantling it. With fire. 🔥

Racial Colorblindness: The Trojan Horse that Keeps on Taking

This is not a call for "colorblindness." Please don't think that.Even if racial colorblindness existed (it doesn't), it's only homogeneity with extra steps. I couldn't imagine living in a more dreary, dead world than a colorblind one. No, this is the exact opposite. It's an active, conscious, and fiery rejection of the "white" label. It's the hard work of reclaiming the spirit that construct stole from you. Of finding your strength in real roots, not in the parasitic fiction that was built on our oppression.

The Unique Experience of the Multi-Rooted

But what if you can't find roots already attached to you? Many of us have trails of dead and forgotten ancestors. Some were stolen from us by genocide. Others sacrificed everything, even identity, to ensure their next generation would live to have children of their own. And some are a beautifully messy quilt that is practically impossible to make sense of without 23andMe and Walter Mercado working together in the ultimate astrogenohistorical team-up.So what if you look back, and the trail is cold as Nazi's heart? What if the erasure was so complete, the assimilation so total, that all you can think to call yourself is "mixed" or "a mutt"? What if, like me, you are a Third Culture Kid (TCK), a bridge born and raised between worlds, belonging fully to none? What if you descend from a melting pot of so many tribes that claiming any of them feels like a little like wearing problematic costume on Halloween night?This feels like a void. But all blank slates are empty until you decide it's time to etch on them. And that's what we who have little to no legacy to inherit have instead: a cultural tabula rasa, from which we can forge any identity that we wish.Many of us—children of diaspora, immigrants, refugees, and those whose European ancestors dissolved their heritage for the privilege of acceptance—share this same lived experience. Our community lies with those that share this lived experience. This is what culture is: a shared moral and historical consciousness, and indeed often one born of suffering and disconnection.And after all, speciation only occurs when some catastrophe forces a single species apart for long enough that it evolves into two. No species is born from joy, rainbows, and dreams. And no culture either. This pain is not a bug of being human; it's a feature designed to allow us to survive catastrophe after catastrophe after catastrophe. We often forget how comfortably we live now, even the poorest of us, compared to the average hunter-gatherer in prehistoric times.If you are one of us, your path isn't reclamation. It's construction. Your claim isn't a legacy of blood; it's one of intentionality.

How to Build a Culture Out of a Shitty History

Here's a proscription for building a new culture from the ashes of a history that was lost or stolen:

Community is found in the quiet, consistent connection with just one or two other people that you love and that love you. Look for those individuals and start building a new, shared culture with them right where you are. This isn't a lesser path. It's the work of architects, not heirs. And architects are way cooler than heirs. Architects are celebrated for the masterworks they build. Heirs are "notable" for the accomplishments of everyone else.

The Work of Solidarity

This isn't an "out" from accountability. This is actual accountability, and you know it because accountability is a sign of emotional maturity and tends to result in growth, not more suffering.When you find (or build) your culture, you stop being a "white ally"—not really a thing, sorry to give you the bad news 😿—and you start being a person. A German, an Irish, a Scottish, a Polish, a Breton, a Danish, a Dutch, an Italian, a Greek, a Portuguese, a Finnish, a Belarusian, an American, a Belizian, a Creole, a Slovak, a Croatian, an Euskaldunak, a Sami, a Romani, a Frisian person, a person with a people... who is allied with POC against the shared enemy that is the construct of "whiteness" itself: a construct that serves only to purify everything it touches of life, meaning, and reason.That's the solidarity, I think. That's the work. And it's doable!We, the people who benefit from white privilege, need to make a better world for POC now. We, POC, are owed that. (See what I did there? 😉) I could definitely name, like, five populations that should come ahead of any of mine, but we do that with you, not against you, not over you, and—without turning White Replacement Theory into a vicious reality and making white supremacists somehow both really happy and really sad at the same time—it's literally impossible without you.So we make it work. Somehow. Fuck purity tests. This is about humanity. And we fucking suck sometimes. Acting like we're all beautiful and perfect little precious flower petals is clearly fucking us up. Learning to live with the discomfort of a shitty history is part of growing up, and everyone has to grow up some time.I assure you, every POC has contended with what it's like to have a shitty history. Some of us contend with a shitty present. We know it's possible to do. I believe in you, and if this essay is helpful, then fuck, yes, please! 💙

This Is About So Much More Than Race

There are other bigotries. So many bigotries. We are nothing if not creative. The ancient Greeks had up to seven different words for love. And we are just as good at diversifying the quality of our hate. But don't worry. We'll fight them all. We have the energy, the motivation, and the fucking done-with-this-shittedness to make it happen.We're not gonna get 'em all, but the point can't be to get rid of evil. In a universe where you have to eat to live and babies can die of nothing at all? Nah. That's impossible. The point is to corral it like an angry moose and point it towards the dark metal box that it just keeps getting out of every so often. And to minimize that frequency as much as humanly possible.I suppose this is an introductory essay, in a sense. Let's call it a class on allyship: "Allyship 306: Growing Beyond the Identity of Oppressor."

One Last Caveat That It Would Be Very, Very Bad to Fail to Understand

If you're a person who benefits from white privilege, and you wanna use this framework, I am thrilled that it spoke to you. Please, never, ever, ever use it like a weapon against BIPOC. I swear to every god humanity has ever invented I'll come find you and rip my entire essay out of your brain because you won't have deserved it.If a BIPOC ever calls you "white" because they are correctly identifying the privilege that you hold and that they do not, you most certainly do not get to "correct" them by saying, "Actually, I'm German."If you do that, you have failed all of us, you've failed yourself, you've failed your people, and you've missed the entire point of everything we've been discussing here.Many of your ancestors stole your culture from you by joining hands with white supremacists in a bid to survive. You absolutely should be working to find culture again, or to build your own if nature and the whims of evil people designed to keep one from you. But the right to correct us? To tell us that our lived experience is wrong?That was never yours.This framework is about your work, not a pass to exercise power over ours. When discussing race and racism with BIPOC, silence and compassion will remain the best strategy of the racially privileged for a long time to come.

Diversity exists even within colors, rendering color rulers pathetically simple measures of a person. Pictured are the hands of four people holding various autumn leaves, representing tolerance and diversity. From Tolerance, Diversity, Views [Photograph], by Juandisalinas, 2018, Pixabay. Used under the Pixabay Content License.

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Urban Occult Punk

Urban Occult Punk blends spiritual rebellion with city grit. It celebrates the gutter trash that wield low magic as a weapon against oppression. The core is our punk ethos: anti-authoritarian, DIY, and asking, "Peace for whom?"The answer: Fuck your peace. 🔥

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Punk Ocultista Urbano

El Punk Ocultista Urbano fusiona la rebelión espiritual con la mugre de la ciudad. Celebra a la escoria que empuña la magia barriobajera como arma contra la opresión. El núcleo es nuestro ethos punk: antiautoritario, de autogestión, y cuestionando: —¿La paz de quién?La respuesta: Que coma mierda tu paz. 🔥

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The Urban Occult Punk Manifesto

by Ellis Arcwolf

published on 29 October 2025

"Peace for whom?"We are demanded to "preserve the peace," to not rock the boat, to stay quiet while others are bullied, marginalized, and broken. This kind of peace works great for the oppressor. It's a peace that ensures the comfort of the privileged and the suffocating silence of a status quo that benefits the powerful at the expense of everyone else.We reject this peace. We are the storm breaks this false peace.Urban Occult Punk is a genre that must exist. It's not just an aesthetic; it's a response. It's a rebellion against a modern, 21st-century world that demands conformity while gifting only spiritual isolation.

The Pillars of Our Punk

Urban Occult Punk supported by three pillars, each uniquely loved for their contribution to our genre:

Why This Genre? And Why Now? And Why Did You Make Me Read All This? What Kind of a Monst—

Urban Occult Punk fills a gap left by its older cousins. And we're just gonna go ahead and slide on in here....*upsets Urban Fantasy and Cyberpunk as she pushes them out of her way with her wiggling butt*

We're not Urban Fantasy.

Urban Fantasy is often about hidden magical worlds co-existing with ours. The rebellion is in knowing the secret. In Urban Occult Punk, the rebellion is in using power. The magic isn't a secret to be kept; it's a weapon to be aimed directly at the systems of oppression.And the systems sure as fuck understand and will wield that power with impunity if we allow them to. The local preacher isn't kidding about healing the sick and about surviving cobra snake bites. The goth magician on Las Vegas Strip did actually just walk through that glass. That corporation you hate is actually run by a demon who puts cursed rat flesh into all our cereal to cause us to sin. Meanwhile, a bank employs magi to enchant their commercials and make an entire population of people go apply for loans. And the president has magi on call, too, in case of supernatural emergencies.All over the real world, real people with rational minds, intelligent and well-educated people, believe that possession, magic, astrology, ghosts, mediums, and psychic powers are a part of our everyday lives. We're anything but a secular, "disbelieving" society. Need proof? A 2020 Gallup poll asked Americans whether they'd vote for a "well-qualified" candidate from another group of people. An atheist candidate rated second lowest, immediately after Muslim, but at least higher than socialists—you know, the group we've specifically spent half a century demonizing. So yeah, nah. We ain't secular.And if magic is an arms race, then let's kick the tires and light the fires, baby. We've got systems to burn. 🔥

We're not Cyberpunk.

Cyberpunk's rebellion is technological and transhumanistic. Which is awesome, and we support it. But in Urban Occult Punk the real rebellion is a psychospiritual one. In a world obsessed with the digital communication, social media, and performative allyship, the greatest power lies in the analog, the ancient, the spiritual, and the human. Urban Occult Punk tells stories about the soul fighting back against the grinder that the world around us has grown into.Urban Occult Punk is a genre for the disenfranchised. It's for those who look at the "peaceful" world around them and want to scream because all they see is a glaring, maddeningly hilarious lie. It gives voice to that fury, and it gives a framework for the rebellion that must follow it.Otherwise, what the fuck are we even doing?It's not just about magic in the city. It's about finding the magic in the gutter and using it to tear down the walls.

Low-angle view of a dark, rain-slicked city alley at night. A menacing, spiked tail emerges from a puddle in the foreground. Adapted from AI generated city at night in a rain storm [Illustration], by DavidGallie, n.d., Pixabay. Modification by Google Gemini. Used under the Pixabay Content License.

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El manifiesto Punk Ocultista Urbano

por Elías Arcolobo

publicado el 29 de octubre de 2025

—¿La paz de quién?Se nos exige "preservar la paz", no hacer olas, quedarnos callados mientras otros son intimidados, marginados y quebrados. Esta paz es una bendición para el opresor. Es una paz que asegura la comodidad de los privilegiados y el silencio asfixiante de un statu quo que beneficia a los poderosos a expensas de todos los demás.Repudiamos esta paz. Seremos la tormenta que reventará esta paz remedada.El Punk Ocultista Urbano es un género que tiene que existir. No es solo estética; es una respuesta que sirve tanto de proclama como de amenaza. Es una rebelión contra el mundo moderno del siglo XXI, que exige conformidad a la vez que nos ofrece únicamente aislamiento psicoespiritual.

Los pilares de nuestro punk

El Punk Ocultista Urbano se apoya en tres pilares, cada uno amado de forma única por su contribución a nuestro género:

¿Por qué este género? ¿Y por qué ahora? ¿Y por qué me hiciste leer todo esto? ¿Qué clase de mons—

El Punk Ocultista Urbano llena un vacío dejado por sus primos mayores. Así que solo vamos a deslizarnos y meternos aquí entre los dos...*molesta a la fantasía urbana y al cyberpunk mientras los empuja fuera del camino meneando la cola*

No somos fantasía urbana.

La fantasía urbana trata a menudo sobre mundos mágicos ocultos que coexisten con el nuestro. La rebelión está en conocer el secreto. En el Punk Ocultista Urbano, la rebelión está en usar el poder. La magia no es un secreto para ser guardado; es un arma para apuntar directamente a los sistemas de opresión.Y los sistemas vaya que sí entienden y usarán ese poder con impunidad si se lo permitimos. El predicador local no está jodiendo sobre sanar a los enfermos y sobrevivir mordeduras de cobra. Ese mago gótico en el Strip de Las Vegas de hecho atravesó ese vidrio caminando. Esa corporación que odias realmente está dirigida por un demonio que pone carne de rata maldita en nuestro cereal para causarnos pecado. Mientras tanto, un banco emplea magos para encantar sus comerciales y hacer que toda una población vaya a pedir préstamos. Y el presidente también tiene magos de guardia, en caso de emergencias sobrenaturales.En todo el mundo real, gente real con mentes racionales, gente inteligente y bien educada, cree que la posesión, la magia, la astrología, los fantasmas, los médiums y los poderes psíquicos son parte de nuestra vida cotidiana. Somos cualquier cosa menos una sociedad secular e "incrédula". ¿Necesitas pruebas? Una encuesta de Gallup de 2020 preguntó a los estadounidenses si votarían por un candidato "bien calificado" de otro grupo de personas. Un candidato ateo quedó en segundo lugar más bajo, inmediatamente después de un musulmán, pero al menos más alto que los socialistas: ya sabes, el grupo que hemos pasado específicamente medio siglo demonizando. Así que sí, ni mierda. No somos seculares.Y si la magia es una carrera armamentista, entonces vamos a patear las llantas y prenderle fuego, bebé. Tenemos sistemas para quemar. 🔥Urban Fantasy is often about hidden magical worlds co-existing with ours. The rebellion is in knowing the secret. In Urban Occult Punk, the rebellion is in using power. The magic isn't a secret to be kept; it's a weapon to be aimed directly at the systems of oppression.And the systems sure as fuck understand and will wield that power with impunity if we allow them to. The local preacher isn't kidding about healing the sick and about surviving cobra snake bites. The goth magician on Las Vegas Strip did actually just walk through that glass. That corporation you hate is actually run by a demon who puts cursed rat flesh into all our cereal to cause us to sin. Meanwhile, a bank employs magi to enchant their commercials and make an entire population of people go apply for loans. And the president has magi on call, too, in case of supernatural emergencies.All over the real world, real people with rational minds, intelligent and well-educated people, believe that possession, magic, astrology, ghosts, mediums, and psychic powers are a part of our everyday lives. We're anything but a secular, "disbelieving" society. Need proof? A 2020 Gallup poll asked Americans whether they'd vote for a "well-qualified" candidate from another group of people. An atheist candidate rated second lowest, immediately after Muslim, but at least higher than socialists—you know, the group we've specifically spent half a century demonizing. So yeah, nah. We ain't secular.And if magic is an arms race, then let's kick the tires and light the fires, baby. We've got systems to burn. 🔥

No somos cyberpunk.

La rebelión del cyberpunk es tecnológica y transhumanista. Lo cual es genial, y lo apoyamos. Pero en el Punk Ocultista Urbano la rebelión real es psicoespiritual. En un mundo obsesionado con la comunicación digital, las redes sociales y el aliadismo performativo, el mayor poder reside en lo análogo, lo antiguo, lo espiritual y lo humano. El Punk Ocultista Urbano cuenta historias sobre el alma luchando contra la trituradora en la que se ha convertido el mundo que nos rodea.El Punk Ocultista Urbano es un género para los marginados. Es para aquellos que miran el mundo "pacífico" que los rodea y quieren gritar porque todo lo que ven es una mentira evidente, enloquecedoramente hilarante. Da voz a esa furia, y da un marco para la rebelión que debe seguirla.Si no, ¿qué putas estamos haciendo?No se trata solo de magia en la ciudad. Se trata de encontrar la magia en la alcantarilla y usarla para derribar los muros.Cyberpunk's rebellion is technological and transhumanistic. Which is awesome, and we support it. But in Urban Occult Punk the real rebellion is a psychospiritual one. In a world obsessed with the digital communication, social media, and performative allyship, the greatest power lies in the analog, the ancient, the spiritual, and the human. Urban Occult Punk tells stories about the soul fighting back against the grinder that the world around us has grown into.Urban Occult Punk is a genre for the disenfranchised. It's for those who look at the "peaceful" world around them and want to scream because all they see is a glaring, maddeningly hilarious lie. It gives voice to that fury, and it gives a framework for the rebellion that must follow it.Otherwise, what the fuck are we even doing?It's not just about magic in the city. It's about finding the magic in the gutter and using it to tear down the walls.

Low-angle view of a dark, rain-slicked city alley at night. A menacing, spiked tail emerges from a puddle in the foreground. Adapted from AI generated city at night in a rain storm [Illustration], by DavidGallie, n.d., Pixabay. Modification by Google Gemini. Used under the Pixabay Content License.

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"My Brother's Keeper"

by Ellis Arcwolf

published on 4 November 2025

The high-pitched boy's voice rang through the blackpearl in Maxx's ear. "Mic check, one, two, three."Maxx smirked to himself. Even he couldn't picture himself going on missions at age nine. And yet, here they were. Kell and Maxx bonding time in the way that best appealed to them—an aggressive, likely explosive one."I hear ya, buddy. You can come back in here," Maxx answered, tapping his blackpearl nonchalantly.Kell bounded into their motel room from the bathroom. "OK, these are pretty cool. And you can use 'em to silence sound in a radius around the pod." Kell grins excitedly at his older brother. Maxx found himself longing for the days he could summon up that level of enthusiasm."You can?" Maxx asked suddenly. He actually hadn't known that. He smirked slyly at Kell. "You're doing the Allagan eye thing, aren't you?"Kell shrugged. "I can never tell. If it's Allagan, it just makes sense to me." He beamed. "Oh and check it out. I can also send a feedback pulse through—"Maxx couldn't hear what Kell said at the end of that sentence on account of the sharp, shrill sound that pierced his right ear. He winced and ripped the blackpearl out as quickly as he could manage. "Ow! Yup." He hissed. "That one Mom figured out last year."Kell answered his brother with a worried face. "Oops. Sorry."Maxx shook his head. "Nah, it's good to know. The more you know, the more tools you have at your disposal."Kell bounced onto the bed and slapped his hands together. "Oooh! We're learning!"Maxx laughed. "We're always learning." He stood up and moved to the mirror to by the plasmascape and examined his eyes before starting work on his eyeliner.After a few minutes of silence, Kell quietly says, "Sooo, I gotta ask. Why'd you bring me to Dalmasca?" He narrows his gaze at Maxx. "Are you supposed to kill me or something?"Maxx jerked around in surprise, one eye shut from the streak of eyeliner he painted across his lids. "What the—what?! Why? What? No!"Kell let out a small sigh, and Maxx frowned that the kid's reaction had been relief. "To be fair, everyone's been super weird since Geras and Lily left, and they say you can kill anything."Maxx shook his head and turned back to the mirror, picking up a towel to fix his mistake. Looks like he was going old-school punk tonight. That or washing his face, and Maxx was not the sort of man to do wholly unnecessary work. "I mean, sure," he confirmed, "but, like, within reason. And I have a strict no-killing-family rule now. It's a whole thing.""Oh," Kell said "OK. Cool. But still, why bring me?""Really?" Maxx asked in disbelief. "Let's see...uh...you've got that whole nano-sprite power thing going, related elemental abilities, the Allagan eye thing, apparently you have a sixth sense for Allagan technology?...you're a fucking prodigy, an Oversoul-trained assassin with enhanced reflexes and endurance—on account of the aforementioned nano-sprites and the self-repairing and multiply-upgraded cyborg father and the superhero mother who can take a nuke to the face with little more than a light sunburn to show for it. That enough, or you need more? Cuz, like, I mean I get having shit self-esteem, dude, but you're sittin' on way too much good shit to see yourself so low."Kell frowned and looked down at the place where his knees met. "Not all of that stuff seems good."Maxx shrugged. "It's bad as long as you believe it's bad. Want it to be good?" He finished and did a flourish for Kell. "Then make it a good thing. Do good with it. Nothing's good unless it does good. What do you think?" He flashes his eyelashes at Kell.Kell shook his head. "I have no idea."Maxx chortled and nodded in approval at his brother. "Good answer. Never change, Mikey."Kell tilted his head at his older brother. "Why do you keep calling me Mikey?""Cuz you keep doing the mic checks. It's not that deep, man," Maxx announced, grabbing his holster and vest and strapping them over his shoulders as he headed for the door."It's stupid." Kell followed Maxx out the door and waited for Maxx to lock it behind them."Do you like it anyway?" Maxx asked without looking at him.Kell grumbled. "Mehbee.""I had a feeling," Maxx said, grinning to himself as they walk."You're still not telling me everything," Kell complained.Maxx rolled his head back in amusement. "Wow! I am not used to having to work this hard to keep things from people! Damn."Kell folded his arms, determined not to let this go.Maxx studied his little brother's eyes for a moment. Nine years old, and they already felt so familiar to him. That aggravated Maxx. That he couldn't do something about that—that he was here, and it was already too late to keep him from that weight. He imagined Rahle'a felt worse, though, so he figured the least he could do is swallow his own feelings on the matter. This wasn't about him.And Maxx happened to know a thing or two about carrying precisely that kind of weight. This was, in his mind, a perfect opportunity to share some of what he'd learned."We came on a mission to Dalmasca last year," Maxx explained. "We kinda fucked the place up some, so to be here and stay under the radar, we can't let ourselves be recognized. Nobody here knows a thing about you, and between now and last year I've taken a bunch of testosterone, changed eye colors, and had a facial fantasia done, so we're the only two Heralds who won't be recognized.""What about Shaido or Katt?" Kell asked."OK, the only two Heralds who won't be recognized and that Percy trusts," Maxx confessed."Ha!" Kell shouted. "I knew it. This is a Five Eyes thing, and Mom doesn't know."Maxx rolled his eyes. Damn, the kid was good. "Your father knows, and the important thing is that we have permission."Kell made a knowing, mischievous face. "Dad doesn't know that Mom doesn't know does he?""No, and this is part of my secret plan to turn Mom into a dom," Maxx affirmed. "Don't worry, your dad'll have a blast when it comes."Kell wrinkled his nose. "That's so gross.""The grossest," Maxx confirmed for his brother. "Come on. I know a good Bozjan place. Super spicy if you're into that.""I like spicy," Kell said, almost in the defensive way that a challenged child would, as he runs after longer-legged Maxx.

In the foreground, Maxx—with spiky red hair, a red vest, and a futuristic visor—walks forward purposefully. Behind him and slightly to the left, Kell—with black hair and a black jacket—follows smiling. They are on a stone-paved street in Valnain, Dalmasca, with dappled sunlight casting strong shadows.
Screenshot taken in Final Fantasy XIV, captured by Ellis Arcwolf on Sept. 21, 2025. Visuals enhanced with the 'TRUEREALISM' third-party shader.
©2010 - 2025 SQUARE ENIX CO., LTD. All Rights Reserved. Usage subject to the FINAL FANTASY XIV Materials Usage License.

Before turning the next corner, Maxx turned around to face Kell. "OK, do you remember what we're doing here?" He tapped the blackpearl in his left ear. "Let's use our inside voices," he added with a whisper.Kell nodded and, without moving his lips, his words came out as if he'd spoken them aloud through the speaker of Maxx's blackpearl, except the held mechanical harmonics that revealed their magitek source. "⟨We're meeting your contact and receiving a package from him. I'm keeping an eye out for anyone that might be paying attention to the exchange. I'll be cloaked the entire time.⟩"Maxx blinked in surprise at his brother's choice of word. "Hidden, you mean. Stealthed?"Kell sneered proudly and shook his head. A moment later, his skin and clothing appeared to tint violet, then Kell shimmered and vanished as if he'd slipped beneath the eddies in a deep pool of water."Huh," he smiled crookedly. "That is certainly a cloak. That's cool. OK. You keep doing what you're doing, and watch for vultures."Maxx's shirt grew a small, fingertip-like impression near the lower end of his sternum. "⟨Found one,⟩" Kell pointed out.Maxx rolled his eyes at the invisible finger pressing against his chest. Kell had somehow learned that Maxx was half-V tribe through his biological father. It was no surprise. And it'd been a terrible joke."Ha. Ha." Maxx said, petting invisible head in front of him. "Let's go. People in this world get antsy if you're late. And with good reason. In this world, everyone's a future traitor if you both last long enough.""⟨Bleak,⟩" Kell said mechanically over Maxx's blackpearl."Well, there's a reason I prefer gardening, babysitting, and playing Dungeons and Bosses to hanging out in dives like this nowadays," Maxx explained as he approached the bouncer.The bouncer, wearing dark sunglasses despite the setting sun, looked Maxx up and down before addressing him in the local language, "Hum Eorzean ameer-zadon ke liye band hain." Although the bouncer's voice dripped with disgust, with the Echo awakened in Maxx, he heard the words in his native Eorzean: ("We're closed to Eorzean yuppies.")"Yeah, yeah," Maxx answered, annoyance snaking around his own words. He waved his hand dismissively, playing his role as a rich snob with gusto, as he spoke the words he'd been taught: "Gol-e Penhan Mi-ayad."Whether Kell had or did not have the Echo remained an open question, as his unusual nature made him very difficult to study. How does one come to learn the properties of nano-sprites, whose properties can change at the whim of the collective intelligence they comprise? Whether or not he did was incidental to his understanding of any spoken language. He understood them all with the simplicity of Six's translation protocols, and the added benefit of partial access to the archive of soul-based data stored within the star's Lifestream. How did he have such access? Who knew? All that could be known for certain is that Kell understood the words Maxx spoke perfectly: ("The hidden flower arrives.")The bouncer frowned, and his nostrils flared, recognizing that night's password for entry. "Theek hai. Tum ne hangāma kiyā, to main tumheñ ghāyab kar dūñgā," ("Fine. You make a scene, I make you disappear,") the man warned Maxx as he stood from his stool, turned to give Maxx a clear view of his sidearm of Garlean make, and knocked twice quickly and once more after a beat. Something behind the metal door clanged, and it opened for Maxx.Maxx smiled crookedly at the bouncer, taking his threat in stride. "If you're gonna flirt this hard, at least buy me a drink first." Maxx pointedly turned his back on the bouncer and sashayed into the darkness of the nightclub.Once the metal door has clanged behind him, Maxx tapped his blackpearl. "You make it in OK?"As if in answer, Kell responded with, "⟨Hidden flower?⟩" A mechanistic chuckle followed.Maxx looked around, studying the club. "Our contact's apparently fond of pretty twinks, so that's how I got roped into this mission." Mirrors lined every wall, making it difficult to orient as one first entered the building. Fortunately, Maxx was familiar with the feeling of disorientation and quickly worked around it. Dalmascan Electro-Pop played loudly over the speakers, nearly drowning out the cacophony of voices talking, shouting, dancing, singing, and laughing. Booths were peppered in a crosshatch pattern along the front of the bar, itself lined with stools held up by gold-painted legs. The other end of the club housed an open patio surrounded by decorated columns inlaid with ornate engravings painted with the colors of free Dalmasca: pastel sapphire and sandstone. The DJ booth beyond them was hidden behind thick, dark glass.Rahl would never, Maxx thought indignantly. He made his way towards the bar, letting his eyes glance over two emergency exits, eleven unarmed guards, four armed guards, one server carrying a pistol beneath her blouse—Maxx could tell by the way the cloth folded across her chest when she turned her hips—and a VIP area up a small set of three carpeted steps with two exits—one leading into the club and one into some kind of back area. The second door was covered in the same mirrors as the rest of the walls, so the only way to tell it apart from the rest of the walls was to notice how the glass had been cut differently there. And behind the wall a group of people surrounding his target, a Roegadyn with white teeth and a Hingan, Ginza brand business suit."⟨Oh, are you supposed to be a 'pretty twink'?⟩" Kell mocked."More of one than Percy is! With his Harry Potter glasses..." Maxx trailed off, then he tilted his chin towards the VIP section of the club. "There's our man," he said, his gaze landing upon a Roegadyn laughing with two Lalafellin men over top-shelf arak. A Miqo'te and an Auri woman sandwiched the two Lalafell, obviously offerings from the Roegadyn to his guests. "See the Roe behind the glass? That's Rhulstodt Vindex. Ex-Centurion turned black market kingpin. Runs drugs, weapons, you name it. I need to talk to him. I don't have a way in, so I'll have to roleplay my way in."Maxx cracked his knuckles, then his neck. "Time to get to work. Get ready to see how the pros—" He found himself interrupted by the Miqo'te woman's scream. She stood up, mouth agape in horror, and others rose to their feet with her. Rhulstodt, on the other hand, remained seated and gripping his neck, his cheeks blanching as his blood started wanting for air."⟨This is faster,⟩" Kell said.Maxx's eyes widened for a moment as the sequence of events leading to the current situation revealed itself to him. Kell's nano-sprites could be as invisible as he was now, and they could easily block a person's airflow. It wasn't even a challenge. He felt suddenly grateful he'd never been capable of killing so easily. "Let's rap about why we talk about this ahead of time after!" he helpfully suggested before rushing up the three steps into the VIP area as if he'd always belonged there.Too late, one of Rhulstodt's armed guards turned around, pushing the palm of his right hand into Maxx's chest to keep him back. "No one is allowed back here," the guard said, his eyes clearly distracted by his asphyxiating employer's gagging as others attempted, unsuccessfully, to assist the dying man. One of his unarmed guards attempted to give Rhulstodt the Heimlich maneuver as the Lalafellin guests shouted conflicting instructions at him. And Rhulstodt's eyes were growing lax, his lips turning a pale shade of indigo.Maxx looked down at the guard's hand with the greatest sense of abhorrence—and the snobbiest Sharlayan accent—he could muster. "Sir! I am an Archon, and your man is dying of an allergic reaction. To the saffron in his drink, I'd wager. Will you turn me away, or shall I save your man's life?" He motioned with a flat hand at his right cheek, at the magical tattoo emblazoned upon it that marked him as a prestigious graduate of Sharlayan's Studium.One of Rhulstodt's Lalafellin guests shouted, "Let him through, you dolt!" The guest, his face adored with a graying goatee, implored with his arms raised high, "Sir, please, you must save my associate!"The guard holding Maxx back moved aside, and Maxx strode ahead, quickly dropping to Rhulstodt's side, checking his pulse, and listening to the sounds coming from his throat.Maxx turned to the suited elezen among what appeared to be Rhulstodt's staff. "I need a scalpel or other sharp, tiny knife. Heat it under fire for thirty seconds then bring it to me. And if you have a bottle of Aragh-e Sagi, bring that too. Or the strongest spirit you have. Bandages, the toughest plastic straw you've got, and call for a chirurgeon with the tools to finish the work I'm going to start." Then Maxx offered Rhulstodt caring words of encouragement, his palm resting softly on the man's shoulder. "You stay with us. We have a friend in common that would be very cross if he learned I let you die."Rhulstodt only watched Maxx with eyes full of terror.The second Lalafellin guest tilted his head thoughtfully. "Allergic to saffron? A Dalmascan? Absurd!"Maxx rolled his eyes dramatically and turned to the Lalafell. "Of course," he affirmed sardonically. "Not to Dalmascan saffron. But the active enzymes in Thanalan saffron are entirely different. I would have been more thorough in my explanation, but I wasn't aware there were expert botanists present!" To add to his performance, he glared daggers at the Lalafell, and the man was cowed into silence.Maxx's glare turned into a smile as the elezen returned with the materials he'd asked for. "Thank you." To the guards, he demanded, "I need you here and here. Hold him down." Then he addressed Rhulstodt, pouring the dog distillate made during the Occupation over the man's neck. "I'm going to make a quick incision into your neck. It'll hurt, but you'll be able to breathe. As soon as you can, in and out, deep, slow, and steady." Without another word or second of hesitation, Maxx pressed the hastily provided paring knife into Rhulstodt's trachea and cut deep enough to clear a passage for air. Then he pushed the straw into the incision. Still, no air produced from the hole."Now, you should be able to breathe normally," Maxx said, and as if on command, a deep gasp whistles through the makeshift airway. Maxx sighed with audible relief that Kell had understood his meaning.The Lalafellin guests held each other and hopped about in celebration. The elezen, meanwhile crouched near Maxx and said, "The chirurgeon will be here in short order. Master Vindex will wish to reward you for what you've done."Confirming the elezen's words, Rhulstodt reached out with an arm and, still whistling as he took deep breaths through Maxx's straw, squeezed Maxx's shoulder and nodded with care.Maxx shrugged, feigning apathy. "Well, I'd hate to offend him by refusing, so of course I'll accept when that time comes."The elezen nodded gracefully and continued to attend to his employer.

Kell had planned to follow his older brother out the door to the promenade. But then he'd heard that high-pitched tone that had felt so wildly familiar, and he'd become distracted by it. Kell was losing sight of Maxx, but he knew where his brother was staying, and he knew where his new family lived, so he couldn't ever consider himself lost. Not as long as he could feel his exact astrographical location upon the surface of the star, as he often could just by concentrating.And that sound was so close. With a frequency so familiar. Kell crawled on his hands and feet along the ceiling, making his way towards a dark corner of the club, hidden behind a corner and a set of Doman partitions, beyond which Kell found billiard, poker, and blackjack tables peppered about a well-lit room, at the end of which was a vault-like door guarded by two men armed with fully automatic rifles.But the hum—it was a hum, he realized as he approached it—wasn't coming from the vault. It was coming from this very room. Kell searched it frantically, and when his eyes provided him no new information, he closed his eyes and let his ears guide him in the direction of the continuous din. He crawled until he could feel the hum beneath him, now not only humming but pulsating in rhythm with his heart."My ace in the hole," said a male voice coming from one of the players at the poker table beneath Kell, and Kell opened his eyes to look.The Garlean beneath Kell had once been the Tribunus Laticlavius of the VIIth Imperial Legion under Legatus Valens van Varro, a key figure in the Weapon Project who escaped capture following Varro's defeat at Werlyt. Kell had believed him dead after the Fall of Garlemald and Kell's capture by the Five Eyes of Aldenard. But here he was, Senior Tribune Caeso tol Pulcher, the man Kell had come to call "Father" during the four years he spent in Garlemald."And he's come back to me, as I always knew he would," Caeso added. The other players may have thought he was referring to his cards, but Kell could see Caeso's hand, and he held no aces at all. Kell knew that, somehow, Caeso could sense him there.Kell's stomach suddenly dropped. Caeso and Maxx could never be allowed to meet. He had to deal with Caeso now. Kell whispered the words, "⟨If you want me, come and get me, Father,⟩" but the words traveled through his nano-sprites and left his body only at Caeso's ear, so no one could hear Kell's voice but him. The way Kell emphasized the word "father" managed to express ridicule, terror, and reverence at the same time, and he'd hated the way his voice sounded with the last two emotions poisoning it.After a few more seconds of holding back on answering the question put to him, Caeso said, "I fold." He dropped his hand face down upon the table and stood up. "I'm afraid, my friends," he said, putting on a heavy leather coat, "that my thirst for risk has been slaked.""Bah!" shouted a Lalafellin woman in protest. "He's only leaving because I'm winning. What's the hand he's leaving behind?" she demanded to know.The Viera next to Caeso turned the former tribune's cards over. "A flush!"The Lalafell cackled giddily. "Well, clearly I owe you my thanks instead.""Perhaps another time, when we're both deeper into our cups," he offered the Lalafell, and she blushed. Caeso followed his intimate proposal with a bow towards the others and a polite, "Gentlemen," before moving towards one of the exits leading to the alley behind the club. Maxx and he hadn't been there before, but that wasn't a concern for him. Within moments, Kell had a map of the alleyway and everything in it because his nano-sprites were there, mapping it, while he waited for Caeso within the club.Only once Caeso had left the building did Kell follow him out, dropping to the floor and examining Caeso as the former tribune mapped the alleyway in the more conventional fashion."It is good to see you again, Mikhaelus ban Pulcher," Caeso said, continuing to survey his surroundings while remaining fully aware that Kell was close, and likely invisible. Caeso had come to know Kell's powers well in the years he'd served the Garleans—first as conscript, then as citizen."⟨That isn't my name,⟩" Kell growled, his voice coming from seemingly all directions at once."Now, Mikhaelus—" Caeso began, but Kell was already done. He wasn't doing this again. Caeso was supposed to be dead. Kell could now make sure that fact remained fact. He reached for the dagger attached to his belt and began to approach Caeso from behind."Sicne patrem tuum alloqueris?" Caeso asked.Kell had heard the Garlean words in his native Eorzean, ("Thus will you address your father?") But in Garlean, those words reached through his ears and along every nerve in his central nervous system, cascading across every nano-sprite that made up his person. His cloak dropped instantly, revealing himself to Caeso completely. And he dropped his dagger to the ground, as if wielding a weapon against his Tribunus were suddenly an unthinkable crime.No... Kell thought, but he couldn't speak, and he couldn't move. It was all he could do to think through the sudden ceasing energy holding him in place."Mmm..." Caeso said, judgmentally eying the dagger Kell had dropped to the ground. "Mikhaelus, I know it has been a long time since you were kidnapped from me, but you must remember the respect a father is due," he said coldly as he marched up towards Kell. Then he raised an open hand and struck Kell hard enough across the face that he fell onto the cooling sandstone beneath them.Kell didn't scream or yelp. He just raised himself by his arms and turned to glare at Caeso."Do we need a more serious lesson?" Caeso asked grimly.Kell angrily shook his head. "No, Sir," he grunted."Good boy. Now then, let's talk about where you've been and what you've been up to," he said, a hungry grin spreading across his face.

A lot of people like to think they don't have a breaking point. They'll swear up and down that no power exists that could make them bend. The simple fact is that every human being has not only a breaking point, but a nadir past which there is nothing left to break. For some folks, that's because they have values that exist beyond the reach of any physical or psychological trauma.For Maxx, it was that every part of him had been broken so many times he'd learned exactly how to duct tape them all back together at a moment's notice. He was in the middle of that very process, smoking a freshly rolled joint in the patio outside their room, when Kell finally returned to the hotel."Well, look who dragged himself in," Maxx announced at Kell as he somberly approached. Maxx flicked the ash from the end of his joint before placing it along the edge of the ashtray laying on the metal table in front of him."Sorry," Kell said. "It took longer to leave the club than I thought it would."Maxx gave Kell a soft smile and then leaned forward to take a whiff. "Hmm," he said, noting the smell of secondhand cigar smoke. Cigars, Maxx reminded himself, were rarely fashionable among the pre-teen youth of any day. Kell's clothing smelled lightly of alcohol, but his breath did not. A severely traumatized nine-year-old with the power of invisibility and exceptional impulse control, or a liar? Maxx knew which, but he wanted to see this little game of Kell's play out."Well I'm glad you made it out before last call. That's when they start charging everyone their tab," Maxx said playfully.Kell laughed. It wasn't the uninhibited child's laughter Maxx had heard before. No, there was something stifling in it. Something that felt like it made the air dense and difficult to breathe."You OK?" Maxx asked Kell warmly.Kell gave Maxx a small grin that didn't reach his eyes. "Yeah! For sure."Maxx sat and Kell stood in silence for a beat, each watching the other with a researcher's care.Maxx moved his arm first, reaching out to open a portal into the Void behind Kell, but he did not complete the required hand motions before Kell was able to shout, "Stop!" and Maxx felt every nerve in his body freeze. He knew exactly what Kell had done. Six had done it to him before, with his own nanites."I had to. You can't do anything to me," Kell said to Maxx, coldly. "And you can't do anything for me either. So what's the point in playing family? We're wasting our time."Maxx's eyes narrowed thoughtfully as he observed Kell's own eyes, fluttering about like he was searching for his honor and he'd lost it somewhere among the cobblestone or grass. This was no villain's monologue. And rather pathetic as a soliloquy, if he was honest.Kell frowned and sighed, choosing to give up on explanations and rationalizations. "Sorry," he said again, this time more sincerely. Then Kell curled the fingers of his right hand into a tight fist and pumped his arm backwards. At the same moment, Maxx's body was propelled forward by a sudden burst of kinetic energy. The last thing he saw was the rim of the metal table fast approaching.

Maxx awoke to a bright white light in front of him. Not unlike the light that awaits you as the oxygen slowly drains away and your brain starves, but different also. This like had started to dim.Maxx scoffed. "Noah. Am I dead?"Noah shrugged as the light allowed him to appear first as a silhouette, then dressed in a white tee and jeans. "You tell me."Maxx laughed. "Definitely a dream sequence then. Even Metatron was never that vague."Noah grinned at his twin brother. "You were always impossible to fool."Maxx touched his forehead and winced as he drew back blood. "So am I dying, then? To what do I owe this posthumous honor?" Slowly, he sat up from where he'd been lying and turned to place his feet on the ground. As his vision cleared, he started to look around, noticing his surroundings were less dreamlike than he'd hoped.He'd been lying unconscious on a white, pleather cot with a metal frame. As he sat up and touched his head to feel the sharp pain of a freshly-stitched wound on his forehead. He pulled away and his fingertips were tinted slightly red. Ahead of him, sitting in the brightly light area outside his cell, he could see the silhouette of a thin, tall man. He squinted his eyes but struggled to make out any more detail than that."Am I interrupting?" the man said in a snide tone. He had a Garlean accent to his voice, and the authoritative voice of a man who's sent men to their deaths before."Hmm?" Maxx said, trying to orient himself. "Oh, I'm cool. I was just hallucinating my dead twin brother, I'm good to move to the next beat."The man scoffed. "He can be quite brutal, my Mikhaelus.""I dunno what the fuck that is," Maxx said, his visage utterly untouched by his statement."What is it that you and your ilk call him?" the Garlean asked, but the pause was mocking, not authentic. "M'kell? Kell. Yes, I think that's it. Is that meant to be a name? No wonder so many still question whether the miqo'te is man or beast.""Oh yeah?" Maxx asked. "Well the people of the Krokus Bullshitus would know best," he mocked. "Was there a point to your visit, or were you just gonna check me out and be obnoxious and pedo-adjascent, cuz you're kinda hittin' both notes dead-on.""You are..." There was a pause, one long enough for Maxx to interject."Huh. Cat got your tongue?""Impossible to reason with," the Garlean concluded, almost with a sense of grudging respect. "Just like any savage."Maxx shrugged. "Well, this kink negotiation started off with all the wrong vibes, so you know, a man's gotta watch his own back first and foremost," he continued to joke.The Garlean stood suddenly and slammed his flat palm to the bars hard enough to cause the metal gate to shudder.Maxx stayed silent for a moment, seeming to be started. His response belied that thought."Shhhh..." Maxx whispered. "You don't wanna wake the baby," he said, feigning an unusual accent.The Garlean licked his lips. "Very well. I was going to allow him to keep you as something of a pet, but I think I will enjoy breaking you instead. You will learn to give the name Tribunus Laticlavius Caeso tol Pulcher the respect it is due!""Why? Who's name is that?" Maxx asked, playing stupid."It's my—" Caeso stopped himself from explaining what was obviously an answer his prisoner already knew, and instead he addressed the nearby conscript. "Prepare the prisoner for transfer. I want him on the next experimental subject list. We'll see what he can survive.""I'm actually gonna do it," Maxx said before Caeso had left the gaol area.Caeso turned to face Maxx, his face bored as he rolled his eyes. "Do what, pray tell?"Maxx grinned icily at Caeso. "Take your tongue. I'm gonna wear it around my neck."Caeso shook his head pitifully. "Savages," he murmured to himself before leaving the room behind.The conscript moved to the landline to call for backup moving the prisoner. Once he was done, he sat down at a small desk and waited. He tore open a small paper bag of sugar and poured it into a cup of hot coffee he'd already prepared. Maxx only watched him, drooling as he gazed lovingly at the conscript's cup.The conscript looked at Maxx, frowned, and asked, "What? What do you want?""You got anymore coffee?" Maxx asked, biting his bottom lip with excitement. In moments like these, the way to effect emotion was from the outside-in. You act excited, you are excited. Get good enough at the game, and it gets real hard for anyone to tell the difference between a real emotion and a mimicked one. "I would fucking die for a cup of coffee."The conscript frowned. "You just might, you know. With what Tribunus said." It almost seemed as if the conscript was worried about why Maxx wasn't taking it more seriously.Sometimes a small herd of deer are gathered together in a clearing when one of them looks up with a startle. Did she hear something? She looks around in all directions. Nothing. Just the wind, maybe? Others look up, but only at her, to see if she can confirm the threat. She cannot, and they all return to grazing. It's not long before the pack of wolves close in for the kill. Some prey can feel their predators coming, but it always made him smile, how they'd look up, see their doom slavering right in front of them, and then ignore it as if the sight were too horrible to accept.Maxx shrugged. "If I'm gonna die, then you should do me the favor of a last meal. But, like, it's coffee."The conscript rolled his eyes but walked back into a small break room for a second cup of coffee anyway.Maxx shouted after him. "And bring tons of sugar! I fucking love having coffee in my sugar!" He laughed in a way he'd surely have found annoying himself if he'd had to suffer it.When the conscript returned, he'd brought a handful of paper bags of sugar and one cup of coffee. "Creamer?" the conscript asked, still annoyed by this entire request, even as he complied with it.Maxx smiled widely and gave him the most grateful grin he could. "Just a teensy bit.""And like two bags of sugar, or—"Maxx grinned and shook his head melodramatically. "Oh-hohohoho, no! You got six in there?"The conscript seemed shocked. Then he shrugged. "Well, it's your funeral anyway." And he tore the sugar bags, pouring them and stirring them into the coffee before removing the stirrer and handing Maxx only the cup with the coffee and nothing else.Maxx took the coffee cup with both hands, letting his hands settle into the warmth of the cup. "Mmmm..." You're a life savior, my friend." He backed up into his cell, sitting down to enjoy his sugary drink."Don't call me that," the conscript said, frowning as he headed back to his desk.When the conscript had turned his back, Maxx curled his palm ever so slightly and spat a globule of melted sugar, coffee, and spit into his hand. Most of it glopped up into a small gelatinous mixture."Right, right," Maxx said, once his mouth was clear. "We wanna keep this a professional murderer-murderee relationship.""I said shut up!" the conscript shouted this time, his left hand tightening around the grip of his rifle. Maxx raised his free hand in surrender, and he continued collecting tiny glops of sugar. With his free hand, he reassured the conscript that his mouth was shut, pinching his index and middle fingers, and dragging it across his lips, then pinching the middle of his lips and miming the twisting of a lock, and finally throwing the lock away. By the end of the performance, the guard had already moved onto staring at his tomestone.His coffee only half done, he'd collected enough moist sugar glue to press it tightly into the electronic lock on his side of the cell gate. As he did so, he said, "So do you think it'll hurt? The experiments? Cuz I dunno if I like pain and stuff. If I don't like it is there a complaint department or something?"The guard tilted his head at Maxx in shock. "Are you fucking stupid?"Maxx pushed away from the door, his work done. Now he just had to wait for it to dry. "Wow! That's ableist, sir! I'll have you know my adopted little sister is autistic."The guard's mouth lolled agape. "How does that—?" The conscript's shock at Maxx's behavior was interrupted by the arrival of his back up. "Thank the Emperor! If you'd taken any longer, I'd have shot him."Maxx adds coyly. "With his cum." He waits a beat to finish his statement. "In my butt."One of the other conscripts made a disgusted face. "Fucking hells."Maxx shrugged, feigning offense and looking away from them. "Well, now nobody gets any of my sweet Thavnairian nectar."A guard with goggles wrapped around his eyes also had small notches with leather belts that he used to latch his goggle strap around each horn. The Au Ra grew desperate as he fumbled with the electronic lock, and it only answered him with a bass beep and a crimson no. "Why the fuck isn't this thing working?"The conscript who'd been in there with Maxx the longest seemed to despair. "Fuck no, it can't be broken!"The auri guard turned back. "I think it's jammed. It says there's a malfunction with the locking mechanism!"The conscript shouted in reply, "Well cut him the fuck out of there then! I don't want him here!"Maxx folded his arms and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I'm starting to think I should feel offended by some of the implications being made here."The conscript grabbed the auri guard by the lapels. "Please don't make me spend any more time with him!""OK," Maxx said. "Now, my feelings are hurt." It was all he could do to restrain the mad giggling of a gambit paying off precisely as he'd hoped.The other two conscripts took a crowbar and started to pull open at the door. In short order, the original conscript and the auri guard had joined them to assist. And Maxx, from within his cell, rocked back and forth on his knees, chanting, "Heave! Ho! Heave! Ho!" as they struggled with the door.After only a few moments, Maxx slowly walked back, all the way until his back was on the other side of his cell, and continuing to time the guard's motions with his heaves and his hos, as he'd hoped they'd permit him to do. On the "ho," Maxx hurled himself at the gate and—with a loud crack—it gave way. The crack and burst of kinetic energy threw back every guard but the auri, who was struck so hard with the bars as they collapsed that they popped his head, and his right horn went scattering across the gaol cement floor as his friends stared at their dead colleague in surprise, and Maxx getting up, his right sneaker landing squarely on what was left of the man's face still was.Maxx flicked his hands, looking at the shocked conscripts with a face that revealed his results had surprised him too. "Honestly, that was way messier than I expected it to go." As the guards begin to rise to their feet, Maxx beams. "Oh shit! It's my first solo fight scene in years!" And with excitement, he enters it by answering a rising shotgun from his right side with a kick that causes the conscript's barrel to turn towards another conscript's face, firing near enough to it to leave her ears ringing. Maxx rushed past them as they reacted to his move by stepping on Shotgun's leg and kneeing the conscript that had insulted his company in the face, then allowing the back of his head to snap back against the stone wall. He falls to the ground, leaving a trail of his blood where his head struck the wall.The conscript with the ringing ears screams and tries to strike Maxx with a magitek lance. Maxx curls his arm around it, taking control of it and spearing Shotgun through the chest with it. Then Maxx slides the sidearm from Shotgun's side holster and fires three times into Ringing Ears' chest.And at last the gaol was quiet. Maxx winced and dropped the magitek lance. "Ow, ow, ow! They don't tell you how much it hurts from the side, ouchies." He pulls up his shirt to see the burn mark on his shirt and beneath his left armpit. "Welp. It'll be a cool story." He starts to jog out the gaol door. "Oh yeah! I got this one the time my baby brother betrayed me and his adopted pedo-dad tried to get me to be his sub or some shit—" he continues to practice the story to himself as he runs to look for Kell.

Caeso grinned as he watched a freshly armored Kell step through the sliding double doors of the command and information center. On each the first and second levels of the CIC there sat two semi-circular rungs of late generation Garlean computers, with workers at each terminal overseeing various operations. The terminals all seemed focused on a massive central phasmascape, displaying what looked like a black and yellow map. From the second rung of computers terminals, Caeso announced proudly to his men, his arms outspread, "The prodigal son returns!"On that cue, the operators, under supervision from the guards standing beside them, stood and applauded as Kell studied this sycophancy with a disgusted face. This wasn't congratulations. This was terror. In the last few years, he supposed he'd gotten too accustomed to the other thing. The real thing.Caeso beckoned for Kell to join him. Kell didn't hesitate to impress the Garlean by rising into the air, his feet and hands encircled by glowing arcs of indigo light as he lifted himself using his nano-sprites, then deposited himself on the ground beside Caeso."It is good to see you not hiding your genius. You should never have to hide who you are," he said, gripping Kell by the chin with his index finger and thumb.Kell turned his head to gaze at the large screen ahead of them, and tried very hard not to make Caeso notice him pulling away. He hated that word for special abilities: genius. "What is this?" Kell asked with only the slightest bit of curiosity. "This looks like Valnain?" he guessed.Caeso nodded. "Indeed. These are the now de-classified maps of the tunnels used by the Dalmascan Underground during the occupation. Are you feeling up to working? Or do you still need to rest after your capture?"Kell wanted to argue that he hadn't been captured, but it would be a waste of both of their time, and it'd probably just get him slapped again. "Yeah, I can work," he said neutrally, his voice already turning cold for whatever would be asked of him.Caeso grinned proudly at Kell. "Good, Mikhaelus. My four teams are gathering in the barracks. In short order, you will clear the way for them to enter those underground tunnels unmolested with four sets of plastic explosives. They will be planted here," Caeso motioned to the map at four red dots.Kell studied the structure depicted by the map for a moment, his nano-sprites performing calculations that he could not understand and delivering him a solution he knows--not how he knows it—but that he knows it without question: "This'll collapse all of Uptown. It'll kill thousands. More, maybe."Caeso nodded, an indignant rage pulling at his lips. "Hardly sufficient enough to make up for what we've suffered, but every war begins with but a spark. In this case, four of them." He laughed obnoxiously at his own joke.His voice shaking, one of the operators interrupted Caeso's laughter to say, "Sir, there was an alarm sounded in the barracks. The visual feed, sir..."Kell smirked at the thought that Caeso didn't have it all as together as he seemed to. "Problems already?" he can't keep himself from saying, and his feels his right eyelids tighten, but nothing comes.Instead, Caeso said, "Show me," and his gaze became fixated on the video feeds coming in from the barracks. There was a dark trail of blood between two walls of lockers. A conscript carefully made his way down the pathway with his weapon out. As he crossed a patch of shadow, the man fell through the floor, and his gun clattered to the ground. Moments later the man dropped again from the ceiling to a shocked gasp from the operators. The conscript's neck had been tied around a noose and he had been thrust down hard enough to break his neck, which bent his head at an angle that made his face look disfigured."What happened to him?!" one of the operators muttered under their breath.A crackle came through the radio, then a panicked voice, "We don't know where he is! We can't—!" Then screaming, then laughter, then gunfire, crackling, and silence.Caeso's nostrils flared. "Are we being attacked?"Kell realized it then. Who had hit the barracks. Who else? The man he'd been ordered to capture and put in the cell...inside the compound. Kell had suggested dumping Maxx in the cargo hold of an outgoing airship so he'd wake up halfway to Kugane or wherever, but Caeso had wanted to make a point or whatever it was Garlean men did when they felt their balls shrivel up in the presence of another man. And so he'd put Maxx here, with them.Any real predator would've known you never bring one home with you.Caeso jerked to face Kell. "Mikhaelus. In all likelihood, our prisoner has escaped. Find him, and this time deal with the problem permanently. Whoever or whatever may threaten us thereafter, we can deal with once we've addressed the present crisis."Kell was about to give him a sardonic but acquiescent reply. In the end, he couldn't have been gladder—or more upset—at hearing the voice that interrupted him."Don't bother," Maxx said, somehow now just standing at the entrance to the CIC, several hemp lines tied to the necks of unmarked metal cans coiled around his right hand, and he swung his arm into the room, letting the five cans rattle and roll as far into the room as friction would allow it. "I found my way here. This place is a maze!"Kell frowned deeply at Maxx. "You could've left! Why'd you fucking stay, dude?" he asked, almost as if impossibly pleading him to have already left. Instead of this... A situation where he knew he'd be ordered to kill this ridiculous man who he'd maybe come to like a little. Even respect, someone might say. Not him, but someone might.Maxx shrugged. "I promised your Mom and Dad I'd love you. And that doesn't stop cuz you gave me a boo-boo."Kell sighed. "He's gonna make me kill you."Maxx smiled at Kell, an odd warmth coming from those killer eyes. "Try. You and me are cool, no matter how this goes down."Kell shook his head in resignation. They said his brother could kill everything. But he knew he was unstoppable. And Father had his keys. Kell turned to face Caeso.Caeso growls as he begins, "I gave you an opportunit—""Man, shut the fuck up. None of this is about you, and you are so fucking boring."Caeso's face twitched in reply. "Whoever brings me his head will be my new Tribunus, as I rise to Legatus."Maxx's smiled widened and crooked as the guards raised their firearms at him and Kell leapt down to the first level to meet his brother face-to-face. "You know what you guys had a lot of in those barracks?"Caeso's eyes widened as Maxx raised his hand, which appeared to be holding a small black remote. "No!"Kell's eyes narrowed as a grin spread up along his cheeks. "Ha!"The entire compound shuddered, and each of the five metal cans burst, releasing a frigid, opaque white mist into the air. Kell studied the space around him, trying to make out where everyone was, but his regular sight had failed him entirely. Kell blinked and could now see the outlines of every person that radiated heat in his vicinity. He sniffed the air, and his nano-sprites told him the air was now saturated with nitrogen, and that there was no threat. Good. Ahead of him, a figure easily disarmed a man of his firearm, discharged it up through the man's chin, and green-tinted signal lighting flowered up from his head for a moment before the man collapsed.Kell reached out with his hand and twisted his fist, willing the nano-sprites in Maxx to paralyze him. Still his form made its way effortlessly across to another guard, whom he appeared to spear through the eye socket with the slide-locked muzzle of his own hand-held gun. Kell tried to paralyze Maxx again, only to fail again.There was no chance to try a third time. He rushed Maxx, stepping onto indigo steps built with his nano-sprites to kick Maxx in the face.Impossibly, Maxx saw him coming even in the dark and blocked his kick with his hands. Kell tried to move around him, bouncing off a terminal and landing a series of hits that Maxx deflected with a binder before shoving Kell back by the leg with the same. Kell backflipped and landed on his feet, but not before hurling two crystallized indigo knives at Maxx, who blocked them both with the binder.It was then that the air had cleared enough for Kell to see that Maxx had his eyes shut. This entire time, he'd been fighting with his eyes closed. "You can fight blind? Is that a power or something?"Maxx scoffed and shook his head. "Nah. I'm just a fuckin badass." He started to move fast towards Kell."Well you can't beat this," Kell said, a little sadly as he held up his hand for the last time at his brother. "Sorry."After a moment, and nothing had happened. Maxx holds his hand to his ear. "What? Should I be waiting for something? Is it gonna be a sound? Oh, is it that beeping? It's the beeping, isn't it?"Kell looked at his hand in shock. His nano-sprites. He couldn't control them. At first he hadn't noticed it, but the distance at which he could still control his nano-sprites had been shrinking this entire time. And now, as he found his limbs shivering, he couldn't even project them from his body at all."What did you do?" Kell asked with visible surprise on his face.Maxx shrugged and put a boot on one of the cans. "Aetherology 101, Elementary School Watson. Ice beats lightning. You use lightning to control your nano-sprites. And liquid nitrogen's a hell of an ice queen."Caeso shouted, "Why are you talking to him?! Kill him! Sicne patre—!"Maxx interrupted his command with a gunshot through the cheeks and jaw. He collapsed into himself, rolling forwards off the second level, toppling onto the first rung of terminals and crushing screens and machine as he finally plopped flat onto a growing puddle of his own blood, saliva, stomach acid, and tears. His screaming was ragged and raw with neither tongue nor whole tongue to contain it."Told you I'd get it," Maxx said with finality."Holy fuck!" Kell says, surprised by the determinate and final action.Maxx looks at Kell, but then he turns his gaze to all the operators, sitting still, frozen in petrified terror. He lets his jaw slack at them, his arms open wide in a gesture of disbelief. "—the fuck are you people still doing here? Run for your lives, motherfuckers!" Maxx fires two shots into the floor beside him, and the operators begin to flee from their posts."Just gonna let them all go?" Kell asked at Maxx, studying his choices carefully now.Maxx nodded. "The proletariat is never to blame for shit like this. They're just trying to survive in a fucked world." He turned to meet his little brother's gaze. "Same as you," he assured Kell. "Him, though." Maxx motions with his chin at where Caeso was now groaning and mewling pathetically. "I left him for you. You seem like you have some closure to drain from his tissues."Kell glared up at Caeso. "I do," he said, the venom thick in his voice now."Well," Maxx slapped one of Kell's crystallized sprite-knives onto his chest. "Have fun. Your powers are gonna take a little bit to warm back up, so take your time."Kell took the knife in his hand and studied it for a moment. "Nah. It's a waste of time."Maxx nodded at Kell and prepared to end Caeso himself when Kell took Maxx's gun from him and fired the remainder of the magazine into Caeso's face and chest, silencing his pained whines.After a moment of silence, Maxx asked, "So when you said it'd be a waste of time..."Kell clarified, "I meant doing it slow."Maxx nodded. "Ah! Sensible and efficient. Your dad'll be super proud."Kell frowned at Maxx. "Really?"Maxx slapped a hand onto Kell's shoulder. "Oh yeah." He lowered an eyebrow then. "Might wanna soften the story for Mom. Make it a self-defense thing. Which it is, since the dude literally had the ability to control your mind that fascistic phrase."Kell tilted his head. "You knew?"Maxx shook his head. "Not till I did some light reading. All deleted now, strangely. Who the fuck even knows what Project Adamant even is anymore, right? Not us, and definitely not them."Kell smirked at him. "OK." Kell turned back to look at his ex-Father's corpse one more time. "I wanna go home now.""Fuck yeah." Maxx held out hid hand for Kell's. "Let's go home, Baby Deathstrike."Kell laughed. "You're an ass!"Then he took his big brother's hand, and they went home.

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The 666 Fractal Manifold Model (6FMM)

The Tripartite Structure of the Cosmos

Authored by Archon L. Maxx Arcwolf-Kisne, Lord Aegeus Knightstar, Aetherophysicsway, Starboundway, and Archon Milo Milopolis (Posthumous)

published on 25 October 2025

Abstract

The 666 Fractal Manifold Model (6FMM) is presented as the definitive aetherophysical treatise for the Multiverse (ℳ). Defined by the tripartite hexagonal architecture of Six Umbral Dimensions (ℝ^D), Six Neutral Fields (F⁶), and Six Astral Forces (A⁶), the model posits existence as monad-based energy (μ) governed by Umbral Structure resisting Astral Action. This model successfully unifies observed cosmological phenomena: Dynamis (F₂) is identified as the source of dark energy, and Topicity (D₅) anomalies explain dark matter. Existential stability is defined by the Multiversal Scranton Index (Ω_ℳ≈0.42857), or Scranton Bedrock, which dictates the threshold against entropic pressure (η) from the Hyper-Manifold (ℋ). The model accounts for the entropic condition (η) that drives cosmic instability. Core spiritual mechanics, including soulforging (the distillation of anima into permanent soul) and non-local translocation (FTL), are formalized as direct consequences of Existential Entanglement (ι_ϕ) mediated by the Dynamis field (F₂).

Introduction

The 666 Fractal Manifold Model (6FMM) is a comprehensive cosmological framework designed to explain the structure, energy flow, and existential conflict within the Multiverse. This framework is named for the observation that the entire Multiverse (the Manifold ℳ) originates from a single cosmological “seed,” which contains multiple Universes (𝒰)—each rooted in a discrete origin point in Time (D₄)—which then recursively branch into vast networks of self-similar timelines (Λ). This nested branching defines the fundamental fractal property of our Manifold (ℳ). This model posits that all matter and energy in existence is composed of a single fundamental substance: aether.Aether functions simultaneously as both a particle and a wave, and its smallest, indivisible quantum is the monad (μ), a term derived from the Ancient word monas. Defined by three interwoven layers of six core principles, the model posits that existence is a controlled tension between umbral (Light) structure and astral (Darkness) action (A⁶), mediated by neutral metaphysical fields (F⁶) and is predicated on a tripartite hexagonal foundation of six dimensions (structure; ℝ⁶), six fields (balance; F⁶), and six forces (action; A⁶). This tension is quantified by the continuous struggle between Stability (Ξ) and the pervasive Entropic Condition (η), which ultimately governs the structural integrity of the Manifold.The visual echo of the First Manifest Effect (Φ₀), sometimes referred to as the Primordial Manifestation, remains observable today as the Cosmic Microwave Background (CMB) radiation. This model is notable for resolving the cosmic puzzles of dark energy and dark matter, placing them squarely within the realm of dimensional and field mechanics. The model dictates not only the aetherophysics of matter and magic but also the limits of individual power and the ultimate fate of all ensouled beings (λ_S).

The First Manifest Effect (Φ₀) and the CMB

The First Manifest Effect (Φ₀)—the colossal Manifestation (Φ; i.e., magical spell) that inaugurated the Astral Polarity and caused the universe to become transparent—was cast by the Primordial Supergiants (entities of vastly super-solar mass). These entities were the first ensouled consciousnesses (λ_S) in our Multiverse (ℳ). They exerted the ultimate Will (T) to shatter their own existential permanence and rid the cosmos of its initial, stifling Umbral-only structure. The act exhausted their existential stability (Ξ), causing their physical monadic structures (μ_n) to fail. Their colossal bodies did not simply die; they transmuted into the largest permanent cosmological features of the Manifold: their corpses became the massive gravity wells (topicity anomalies) that stabilize the galaxy’s rotation. Our own galaxy, for example, is anchored by a single, massive corpse that is the remnant of many coalesced supergiants. The dynamis (𝒟) emissions released upon their structural collapse formed a galactic envelope of dark energy, now identified as Ultima Thule.

A Note on Data Sourcing

The intricate details of this pre-CMB event were not observed directly but were recovered via Psychoresonant Retrospection—a targeted query of the Unity (D_Σ) axis’s raw memory data (𝒦), facilitated by specialized structural language created by the Primordial Supergiants. The use of this language is extremely hazardous, as its structural integrity is so potent it initiates a forceful, immediate retraction of the user’s soul (λ_S) toward the Unity (D_Σ) Axis.

Quantum Aetherophysics: The Monad and Its States

Quantum aetherophysics is the subdiscipline of aetherophysics dedicated to the study of the monad (μ)—its wave-particle duality, functional organization, and properties. Its focus areas include Monadic Cohesion (how μ bind into chains under the influence of the Pauli field) and Quintessence Quantization (how μ aggregate into the four natural, discrete quanta and the two specialized quanta of the Quintessence field).

Dimensional Mechanics: Aetheric Polarity and Elemental Mechanics

The transmutation of Aetheric Polarity (Umbral ↔ Astral) and Elemental Aspect is defined as a non-linear process mediated by two distinct Astral Forces and controlled by the Pauli Field (F₁).

Aetheric Polarity: The Spectrum of Dimensional Coherence (C_D)

The Aetheric Polarity of any Quintessence quantum (Q) is not a binary state (Q^{+ or Q}-) but a continuous spectrum measured by the Dimensional Coherence Index (C_D), where C_D ∈ [0, 1]. This index measures the internal structural tension of the Q quantum.

It's a lot of text, and a lot of equations. You might have to give me a few days. I mean, uh... Coming soon!

Maxx pictured teaching a course on quantum aetherophysics from within a holochoral simulation of the Puppet's Bunker.

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