Ultraplex: Assessment

"Max! Focus!" the voice shouted.

Max was flipping through the nineteen folders. He was confused; they were filled with looseleaf pages of handwritten notes and pieces of graph paper covered with hand-drawn maps.

"Okay, let's talk about another time when you did choose to intervene."

A file folder appeared on the table in front of Max with symbols on it that Max couldn't decipher.

He flipped open the folder and scanned the documents inside.

[Halogrhin Excerpt]

"The records on your actions in World: Halogrhin are, of course, spotty. Are you able to give us any insight into the process by which you and the Dragons became aware of the threat, the means by which you access the -"

Max interrupted. "Can I get a coffee? I need a coffee. How much longer is this going to take?"

A different voice (was that three now?) shouted: "Mr. Montgomery, you are in no position to -"

Max interrupted again. "It's math! It's just math alright. You identify the risks and you identify the protections. If there's more of the former than the latter we go. We help. That's all. No big secret, no complex magic formula. We're variables in an equation. We don't care where the monster came from, unless learning that helps us kill it. We don't care what the monster wants unless that helps us kill it. We show up, kill the monster, balance the equation, and then we're gone."

The Prefalta folder, the Halogrhin folder and the nineteen other folders were gone. There were five new folders on the table.

One of the voices said, "We understand that you want it to be that simple. That the 'equation model' allows you to compartmentalize the work you do in the Ultraplex and prevent yourself from becoming overwhelmed. But is it really so straightforward as 'balancing the math'? How does that explain these records?"

[Capsille Excerpt]

[Verkatruuda Excerpt]

[Turm Excerpt]

[Anreeyal Excerpt]

[Prio Excerpt]

Psychoplex: The Hanged Man

Cognitive

The Hanged Man arcana functions as a symbolic map of my experiences of being both bound to the world and apart from it. The Tree represents the world, both physically and experientially, all the branches and roots are the repeating fractal patterns of possibility. The world is diverse and complex, strong and vital, but the Hanged Man is bound to it, not climbing it but also not cutting it down. So he has access to it all but isn’t free to leave or fly away. He is also inverted, so even though he has direct contact with the world he experiences it from a distorted or reversed way, seeing first the roots rather than the branches, always forced to understand the tangled web of causes that grow all the effects. From his position the Hanged Man can look out and up at the stars, other worlds, but cannot reach them. His binding is a prison but a ritual one, because the inversion and sacrifice are what gives him this special vision – he can see more than the tangled branches and rough bark. He is trapped between worlds but has access to both. A constant liminal magical state. But he can’t easily act in either world.

How It Feels To Hang

* feeling suspended between worlds

* not understanding the nature of reality, of events surrounding me, their causes and effects

* unable to extrapolate a course of action because I want to act towards a type of truth but I’m not sure what it is

* no sense of ground, of a foundation to make decisions and judgments from

* seeing extreme possibilities, even contradictory versions of events and interactions, leaves me unsure which way to move, which way to respond

* In this sense I am bound to the world > I can’t act only from my own wishes, desires, needs – I need to have feedback, validation, harmony with the way (I think) the world works

* Feeling hanging at the edge of the Otherworld – total fantasy, delusion, magic, dream, madness, imagination > unable to float away because of my need/desire to find truth, my doubt, skepticism, my sense of responsibility

* Feeling deep philosophical uncertainty about my experiences and perceptions

Omniplex: CD Four

The Passion of the Cube
The Original Soundtrack for the Mind

(interior artwork: Max engaged in a fierce gun battle, firing Joy and Pain at unseen enemies. Caption: 'COMING SOON')

Beatles - Tomorrow Never Knows
Go Home Productions - Beatleg Bootles Part 1
Nicknack - Crystal's Better Tomorrow
Dropbass - Big beat mania
Jx - Fark the Farking Rohypnol (Blacksmoke vs Prodigy Mix)
djbc - Golden Peace Frog
DJ Tripp - Spin Me Harder
Jirob - Wheres Your Talking Head At
Instamatic - GodLife
Lenlow - Chocolate Cake
Laptop Orchestra - Plastic Orchestra
Jet Set Willy - Failed Weekamix
Lenlow - Vegas Baby
London Symphony Orchestra - Hey Joe

C2IP Update.3

Marshal stepped into Mick's apartment. He had used a Neo-Linguistic Programming technique from a library book to convince the superintendent to give him access. Mick had only disappeared a few days ago but somehow there was already a thick layer of dust coating every surface, almost like ash. 

The kitchenette was a mess of take-out packaging. The living room was a ruin of videogame cases and controllers (many smashed in rage), cigarette butts, CD cases, sketches and hand-written poetry.

In the small bedroom (just a sleeping bag on the floor) Marshal found the map Mick had been working on, pages pasted to the wall with lines and circles connecting them, a shot straight out of a conspiracy movie. It was the outline for Mick's next novel. 

Marshal had read Illiciterati and Evanjaculist and had been eagerly awaiting Mick's newest book. Except he had been having all these strange dreams and when he performed his ritual meditations to Odin and Merlin the gods had been telling him that something more was happening, that Mick was involved in something deeper. Then Marshal had started having these really potent daydreams at work, imagining uncovering a covert war between something called The System and a group calling themselves Counter, and it was all connected to Mick's writing. The dreams and visions and daydreams became more and more intense until he was compelled to come here...

One page was titled 'Chronoplex'. The name 'Suki', 'version GrownUp?', 'version Grandma?'. 'Project Realtime?'. 'Can we access the Missing Season?'. 'Can we learn what happened during the Millennium Incident?'.

Another page labelled 'Paraplex'. 'So what happened to the Initiated Dragons?'.

The next: 'Ultraplex'. 'Are these reports that the Counter-System was broadcasting? Or are they made up? Propaganda or just fiction?'.

'Hyperplex'. 'The Plureality Dragons Upgraded'. 'The Diner Dragons?', crossed out. 'Darius?', circled and crossed out.

'Omniplex'. 'Art, journals, music, RPGs?'. 'Project Horizon?'.

'Synchroplex'. A list of dates.


'Manaplex'. Mostly illegible. 'New job?' circled. 'Project Ellipses?'.

And in marker, scrawled over many of the pages: 'BETRAYAL'.

Marshal had no idea what any of it meant but could feel that it somehow explained everything.

He also noticed a copy of a magazine on the floor. Profile Celebrations. The cover story was about a man named Vlad Akimoto. Marshal scanned the article:

International fitness business empire mogul. Founder of "The Timeless Warrior" training regime, based on ancient lost arts of body purification through testing one's physical limits, combined with the introduction into your healthy diet of designer herbal infused beverages. Proposed by some in the fashion industry that Akimoto was the father of the "hipster" movement. Rumoured a) to be majority owner in the up and coming "Citadel" independent music label, b) to have founded the online "Barbarian" clothing line which specializes in custom design t-shirts, c) to own a number of fashionable craft beer eateries in Tokyo, St Petersburg and Munich.

Why was Mick researching this guy?

The Battle for the Hyperplex Part One: E.S.P.ionage

The intel indicated that the Ashen Tradition was seeking a powerful relic called The Hyperplex.

Collateral information referenced the Hyperplex in contradictory fashion; sometimes it was described as a Staff, others a Chalice, sometimes a Sword and, of course, a Disc. Max had lots of ideas about what the Hyperplex could be, what it might mean, how it might relate to the other Plexes they were learning about; he was the idea guy, after all. 

The rest of the team knew that ideas were important but sometimes not as important as taking action. So Max hunkered down to try and figure things out and the other Dragons went to work.

Angst learned from a contact in the Ultraviolet Lodge that the Tradition had a large-scale portal operation running in a secret sub-basement of the local Museum. 

Frank conducted some psychic eavesdropping on people entering and exiting the Museum; he confirmed that the portal was indeed active but could not determine where it led to. 

Goner was able to hack the Museum's security and Angst was able to counter the protective wards that the Tradition had set up. 

They had put the call out to Aqua and to Maggie, anticipating that things would likely get hostile once they made a move on the portal. 

When the team gathered, after a few minutes of warm reunion, they prepared to enter the Museum...

Miles To Go

The kids had finally fallen asleep, sprawled on the motel bed. She had let them watch a late night talk show and snack on candy bars from the vending machine. Yeah, maybe she was going a bit soft. 

Suki stepped out the door but left it open a crack so she could still hear the cute little snores. Scanned the parking lot. She had started learning counter-surveillance habits when she had been roughly the same age as Yuri and Hira; she wondered if she should start teaching them.

Lightning flashed in the dark, still miles away.

She lit a cigarette and took out her phone. The screenshot was a selfie of her and Olivia from... seven years ago? A few less wrinkles. Olivia was kissing her on the cheek and Suki was frowning, pretending to be irritated, but her eyes betrayed her, the sparkle in them. Suki suddenly missed her so bad it felt like a bullet in her heart. Actually, Suki knew what that felt like and this was worse. Just to brush her fingers across her cheek...

She shoved the phone back in her pocket and took another drag.

Spilling Milk

Mags Qute looked up from the book she was reading and over at Axie and waited for him to speak. His bright blond hair stood up in messy tufts as the sun streaked through the dark room. Providing light in the abandoned house.

"We've been here for three days now," she stated. Or has it been longer? Placing the tome on the table as she reached for the coffee. "When do we move again?"

Haven't we moved already?

Axie glanced at her and smiled. He had been sharpening his knife on a whetstone. "As soon as Franz and Loner return."

"Maybe they got captured?" Mags stated. They've been captured already, we know they have, so what are we doing here? Back here? "Then what do we do?"

"I guess we can cry over the spilled milk then," he replied.

No, not again...

What was that Barthes' essay about killing writers?

When they came for him none of his neighbours were surprised. 

For years Mick had been a 6.6-on-the-Richter-scale nuisance in the building. Loud music, loud video-games, loud movies, loud shouting at various gods and goddesses. Aileeza, the tenant in 2B ("Or not to be!" Mick would always shout at her when they passed in the hallway) would often point out that his whole shtick was a knock-off of that character in Warren Ellis' Transmetropolitan. The other tenants didn't get the reference but they got the fact that Mick hated Warren Ellis and therefore hated the comparison, and they took some pleasure in that. Petty maybe, but they had endured and were entitled to some small retributions.

Evicting Mick wasn't an option, despite it being a cause that would have unified Democrat and Republican, Israeli and Palestinian, Team Angel and Team Spike. Mick's residency was secured due to the funding agreements as arranged by the local Arts Council and the local Mental Health Agency. Mick's presence was what kept the rent so low and ensured the other tenants could continue living there. 

"'There is no war, there is only the Dalang!'" Mick would shout about the way he both embodied and transcended the dualities of the situation, to which Aileeza would point out that he was only quoting Grant Morrison, another comic writer whom Mick rather liked but nevertheless resented being accused of imitating (although he most certainly was).

And so it had continued until the day it stopped. When they finally came for him. The other tenants weren't sure exactly who 'they' were, or what Mick had done to finally warrant apprehension - for all his sound and fury he never signified anything actually violent. 

Of course he did a fair bit of shouting as the men and women in nondescript clothing (the kind of outfits that operatives in those Bourne movies always wore) took him away in their black SUV. 

"I fucking made Max! He's nothing without me! If I had never taken that assignment for Opi8 he'd still just be a figment of your fucking imaginations! And who do you think has protected him all this time? Do you have any fucking clue how hard it is for him to even be in the world? If I hadn't kept all you assholes distracted with my rants and my jokes you would have seen right through him and he'd be thrice as fucked as he already is! So you thinking you're helping Max? You're fucking killing him!"

Three or four days later the tenants began commenting to each other on how unsettling the quiet was.

CD Two

Max Cube vs The Interdimensional 

Corporate Mofo's

The Soundtrack

(interior artwork: Max suspended upside-down in the position of The Hanged Man from Arcana 12 of the Tarot in front the Tree of Life from the Kabbalah, with the Sephirot replaced by popular icons: Keter = Yin-Yang, Binah = Radioactive, Hokhmah = Watchmen clock, Gevurah = The Invisibles' blank badge, Hesed = The Bat-signal, Tiferet = Peace symbol (on Max's shirt), Hod = Warning sign, Netzah = Crosshairs, Yesod = X-men symbol, Malkhut = Happy Face)

Track 01: ReFlex - The Politics of Dancing
Track 02: Crystal Method - Comin' Back
Track 03: Rolling Stones - Shattered
Track 04: Cardigans - Erase Rewind
Track 05: Limp Bizkit - Break Stuff
Track 06: Fishbone Beat - Goza Goza
Track 07: Air - Talisman
Track 08: Depeche Mode - Personal Jesus (Pump Mix)
Track 09: The Doors - Maggie McGill
Track 10: Juno Reactor - Conga Fury
Track 11: Kajagoogoo - Too Shy
Track 12: Destiny's Child - Bootylicious
Track 13: David Holmes - Gritty Shaker
Track 14: Cornershop - Brimful of Asha (Fatboy Slim remix)
Track 15: Queen - Now I'm Here

Surveillance

“There's surveillance everywhere! Every-fucking-where I go I'm being watched!”

“Max, okay, let's slow things down,” Angst said softly.

“Don't try and de-escalate me, I'm the one who fucking de-escalates people. You know it's true – they are watching me everywhere I go. And don't you dare cast one of your fucking spells on me. I don't want to be calm.”

“Okay,” she said. “That's fair.”

Max could tell he was scaring her. He took a deep breath and activated the appropriate implant. The equations began processing.

“I'm sorry, Angst. I'm not mad at you. I just got scared.”

Her posture relaxed slightly. “I know. And you're not wrong – you are being tracked. We know that.”

Max rubbed his forehead. “Do we? I mean... Jesus, it's just that everywhere... It's so loud everywhere, you know? All I hear is alarms and cries for help. And even the silences between them are just spaces for more alarms to fill. And I'm trying to figure out this whole System thing, and the Counter-System. If they're even fucking real. How do I know? It's something Control told me, but what if it's just another thing I made up. Like Maggie.”

Angst tensed again. “Maggie's real, Max. I've met Maggie.”

“How do I know you're real?” He looked at her, his eyes wide.

Happy Halloween 3

Previously on Halloween...

The Dragons' Costumes (version.Sense8)

(Max, Tatter, Suki, Goner, Frank, Angst, Marshal, Maggie)

The Professor and Morganfokker's Costumes (version.Sense8)

Morganfokker's Costume (vesrion.HalfLife)

Max's Costume (version.Multiversity)

FLASHBACKORFORWARDORSIDEWAYS

Max snapped a fresh clip into Joy then another into Pain. He blinked his eyes, steadied his breathing. The wall was cold against his back, and for a second he flashed on a vague memory of being in some sort of Dome, like a sci-fi underworld. Sometimes the flashes of alternate versions shook him to the core, left him dizzy and spinning. And other times they reminded him that he was a superhero after all. Max spun into the hallway and started sighting, squeezing, repeating, breathing. The guns sounded like a giant beating a drum, shattering the air, the arms and chests of the targets shattering, their black suits exploding in red, their sunglasses hiding eyes gone wide and empty. Max was graceful in the violence because he wasn’t really there; his mind was drifting in a vision of reciting poetry to a shining hologram of his one true love. The rhythm of the words and the rhythm of the weapons ended and the hallway was quiet, the LEGACY hit squad destroyed, Max breathing steadily.

Speakers imbedded in the walls crackled on. “That’s quite alright Mr. Cube. Even as you stand there reloading and no doubt indulging in some fancy psychic technique the nanofabric of the carpeting is absorbing DNA from the blood you have spilled and funneling into microtubes that will be launched into orbit, retrieved by one of our satellites, and bonded to alien-robot hybrid hunters we have in stasis. They will be set loose to track you down, all their superkilling talents infused with the vengeance of the guards you just killed.”

“That’s actually really cool,” Max said.

The speakers crackled. “… Um, sorry?”

“I said that’s really cool. How you’re doing all that stuff with all your crazy technology.” 

“You mean you aren’t scared by it?” the speakers blurted.

“You’re going to all that effort to customize an advanced multi-type team of assassins from space just for me. I’m flattered. And slightly insecure that I won’t live up to the hype.”

The speakers fuzzed and went quiet. Just then Max’s cell rang. The Professor’s voice barged in as soon as the phone flipped open.

“Max, while you’ve been battling LEGACY in their Tower Maggie had been targeted by another supervillain! I believe the villain may be in league with Morganfokker! Her name is-“

“The Cheerleader. I know her. We’ve actually met.” Max lit a smoke. 

“Max, this is serious! All the data I have on The Cheerleader indicates that she is an Omega Level- waitaminute… You’ve met her?”

“Listen Prof, I’m not surprised to hear Maggie’s going at it against DeeGee.” He inhaled, staring down at the carpet, imagining the tiny robots in the carpet gathering up the molecules of blood. It was beautiful in a way. Maybe when the alien-robot hunters finally caught him they could figure out a way to reprogram them or something. A way to give even a bit of these guards a second chance.

“DeeGee?!?! Max what are you talking about?”

“Maggie’s undergoing a ritual and-“

“Another one? She just got out of the Initiation Chamber?!?!”

“Calm down, Prof. She’s invoking the arcana of the High Priestess in order to attain a greater level of wisdom, self-understanding and inner peace. Sacred combat against her shadows and dark sides is part of the ritual. Maggie’s no doubt engaging the Cheerleader to serve as an iconic manifestation of that darkness.”

“Ahh…” The Professor went quiet for a moment and Max could hear the sound of typing and some beeping. “I’ve updated my file, but I still think we have a problem and that Mags might be in danger.”

Max pushed the button on the elevator. Getting out of the LEGACY tower would be a hard job, even with the initial hit squad stopped.

“Why’s that?” Max’s tone grew serious.

“Based on my readings Maggie’s psychic waveform is oscillating between her identity as Ms. Magenta and, if you can believe this…”

The elevator doors slid open. “Think who you’re asking.” 

“Well. Maggie, even as she is in combat with The Cheerleader, is phasing back and forth into a tiny little faerie named Misfit…”

Max stepped into the elevator. “Gotcha. I’ll give her a call.”

The cellphone signal sputtered slightly inside the shielded elevator. The Professor’s voice warbled, “Which one?”

Max flicked the cigarette through the closing doors. “Think who you’re asking.”

Sympathetic Magic

In talking about it, and writing about it

he placed his burdens

on display, the fashion of anguish.

Making the effort to extend and externalize,

begging to be objectified, handled,

caressed, placed on her night-table,

the last thing seen before sleep,

a dream totem. Small and easily held,

her hands all about him.


He was counting on the gravity of his suffering,

the exquisite curvature of his past and future,

drawing her deep into the well of his now,

like a pit, like euclidian trajectories bent

into the circles of inferno. He felt warped,

and warping, and needed someone to act

as the planet, the source of his distortion,

its cause become the effect,

a want into need like matter into energy.



In his behaviour he offered up his troubles

in a performance to imaginary gods

in the covert hope she'd arrive to reveal

that they were in fact alone and therefore only together

and therefore his troubles hers and hers his only,

and he pretended his performance of faith

only for the day when she

might come to break it, another faith hidden

and nesting within the hollow husk.



He imagined it might be like the spreading of

an infection, his burdens passed onto her

and they becoming alike in swelling and fever.