I finished writing chapter two this morning. It's a wee bit strange feeling to be doing this again. There's both a natural ease into it, but also a hesitancy of awareness. I suppose, if anything, it's some good mental massaging. I wonder why I'm so compelled to tell this particular story. There's not a vampire one in it! Well, not exactly...

I did not sleep great. My body is really hurting. I have quite a lot I'd like to get done today. The coughing is really draining my energy supplies. I'm going to skip walking this morning as I'm doing an every other day thing for now. I think I'll have a few bounces on my rebounder and hang for awhile.

I'd like to make myself some gelatin today and mix it into some whipped heavy cream for some tasty fluff. I have a confession to make. I've been wanting to do this for over a month. I'm having a major executive function restriction revolved around boiling the water. I literally have a fast boil tea pot and a microwave, so it's the most embarrassing, stupid thing ever. I will just stand in the kitchen contemplating whether its worth my time and energy. I spend more time debating it than it'd actually take to make it. Something inside just gets stuck. It's frustrating. Maybe outing myself will force me to do it. Maybe not.

I can't believe it's already Thursday. November is a speed demon! Make sure to have a good belly laugh today. It's some of the best medicine ever!

© 2026 AnOublietteofThought. All rights reserved.

Leonie (van der Togt) post presentatie

Mijn excuses, ik had het verkeerde moment op de verkeerde dag in mijn agenda getoetst, gelukkig werkt writeas zoals het werkt waardoor het lijkt alsof ik het presenteer vooraf en niet posteer achteraf. Ik had best wel zin in om dit stuk bij u binnen te geleiden alsof het nog meer is dan het toch al is, een van zijn betere producties, de hele dag ermee opgescheept, in een fijn bootje op stabiel rustig vaarwater. Dit is een stuk over Liefde, niet Aards hoofd onderwerp, alleen daarom al een presentatie van mij waard, de beste vriendin voor eeuwig en altijd van zijn ex, Imagine, menigmaal heb ik gestookt in een moeizame relatie, en uiteindelijk dreven ze uiteen, bleef ik over om zijn stukjes zo nu en dan met een voorwoord te begeleiden via de autocue. Alsof ik niet zelf iets goeds kan bedenken of zijn werk hier bij voorbaat zou bagatelliseren of zo, ik zijn grootste en misschien wel enigste volger, zolang het salaris op tijd wordt overgemaakt. Anders volgde ik hem ook wel maar zou hem niet inleiden, weet je, Aard, ik stel me hier ook heel kwetsbaar op hoor.

Ik zei nog 'een stukje over Liefde zou je dat nou wel doen, denk aan je hart, lever en maag, darmkanaal, de gezondheid van lezers in het algemeen en die van je volger in het bijzonder' maar hij moest en zou het met mij samen doen, alleen was ik te laat of hij prematuur, daar zijn we nog niet uit, het contract is vrij vaag rondom tijd en taken, en, nou ja, u de lezer denkt dat ik op tijd ben omdat het te late bericht precies boven het eerste staat. Ik zei ook nog dat ik dus recht heb op twee dagen extra presentatie bonus valuta omdat ik nu, zie dag hier zo boven, je zittend werkdagje voorzie van de nodige content en je stukje over liefde mals maak voor consumptie van aardig wat anderen' toen hing hij op, nog iets mompelend over uitkering zus en zo en geld dat niet aan zijn rug plakt.

Hier onder mijn in woord kunt u Aards poging om in een tijd van vermaak, rommel en competitie een liefdes verhaal te schrijven woord voor woord lezen van de start tot daar waar het ophoudt, net voor of lang na bedtijd, bedtijd is bij Aard een al even wisselend iets, gelijkend op zijn stukjes productie en publicatie momentum, zo is het er zo is het er over en opgeschoven naar het ochtenduur. Geniet van het stukje daar is het voor, het heeft ook wel iets, zou ik zeggen. Tot mijn volgende optreden en tot die tijd veel liefs.

It seems like today I have lost another friend. K and I had originally a miscommunication from one of her friends who made a joke in poor taste, and then I said something over text that I think could’ve very much been misinterpreted as me being more upset than I was. I also think that K struggles with anxiety to some extent, and so me not responding for a bit, because I was not on my phone lately, led to this situation. It’s weird to say this, but it was an amicable split. But at the same time, it’s painful to have to have any kind of split in the first place. I feel like this was a clear miscommunication, and I’m honestly not sure about why this leads to this outcome. But either way, it seems like this is the path they want to go, and I will respect that. I know a bit ago I had my friendship with Elle end, and that one was a bit uglier. and I don’t want to sound naive, but I feel like both of these friendships did not end due to any significant mistake from my side. And so I almost chalk it up to occupational hazard, as a consequence of meeting people and making friends with all different types of people. I think about how connecting and building friendships with people causes there to be these places of stress that would not occur if a person does not really mean anything to you in the first place. I guess this is just another way of saying attachment. And the weird thing is, I don’t think it’s necessarily attachment from my side that I’m talking about, even though I do attach these people and I care, but I think other people attach a little bit too much, and I think the necessity and the fear of losing a relationship of that magnitude causes these reactions. I am proud of myself because I feel like I have gotten stronger, as I am not devastated or completely beside myself, overcome with anxiety, or the fear of being abandoned, causing me to act in bad ways. And I’m also proud that it’s not because I’ve emotionally wowed myself off. I think this is because I am able to have many people as friends and more reliable choices of people to heavily invest in, as opposed to fixating on few people too quickly. And it still hurts, which I think is a good thing. But it doesn’t hurt to the point of debilitating me. Which I also think is a good thing. I guess I just wish I knew a way for something like this to never happen again, but this is the cost of meeting new people and trying to form connections.

Dingen vergeten Meer dan voorheen gebeurt het Begin van het end.

Kyoto, Japan.

The best part of this city is getting lost.

Every morning is a new labyrinth. A different narrow alley, a different turn on the way to school, a different quiet street heading home. Endless possibilities tucked into dark wood framing and stone paths. Headphones in, Modern Love in my ears, still asking myself why the hell I am here, and yet, day by day, feeling the city soften up around me. I miss JJ every day. But I am done carrying the guilt. I was raw, honest, hurting, and happy. I was fucking vulnerable. I used to think I ruined things, but fuck that. I stepped into an expression of myself I had never dared to touch before. David Whyte had it right: Anguish is the doorway. Feeling that real, helpless pain wasn't a mistake, it was proof I was finally paying attention. Proof that I actually let myself get touched by life. My heartbreak isn't a failure, it is just my small, raw piece of the giant grief the whole world carries. Lost in the alleys, clear in my own skin. Finding a new way home every single day.

“Feeling real, helpless, emotional pain, is also an entrance into the fully real and the fully felt and is an annunciation that we are actually paying attention at last both to what is affecting us and the depth to which we are so movingly affected, anguish means we have finally felt and fully understood not only the true depth and foundational nature of our own suffering but the heartbreak that lies in every other human life we have ever touched or accompanied. Anguish is the doorway through which our personal suffering meets all the griefs that are shared by the world.< -David Whyte

No estaba muerto, no, no, que estaba moviendo cajas de mudanza. Bueno eso y tampoco es que haya jugado mucho, por lo que he agrupado en una única entrada lo jugado desde junio a septiembre, dejando los juegos de octubre en una entrada aparte y con más detalle.

Cuando un tonto sigue una linde

Antes de pasar al modo cenizo, veo que en general lo que he jugado en físico ha tenido éxito de crítica y público, así que comienzo por ahí, aunque casi todo se enmarca en el ámbito de explotar una idea ya existente, aprovechando el TOC y el afán completista que tiene uno.

De Conservas ya he hablado en otras entradas y lo volveré a hacer más adelante cuando juegue a la expansión que mete tiburones. El achaque que oí sobre que le falta dificultad (y que al principio no le noté) sí que me chafó la última partida, cuando al principio de la semana ya tenía asegurados los objetivos. En teoría los escenarios suben de dificultad, y no sé si es que he visto Matrix o que simplemente con llevar el recuento de peces que metes en la bolsa durante la reproducción y maximizar el precio de los que vendes tienes la partida resuelta.

Railroad Ink versión expandida ha sido un capricho para tener más variedad de expansiones. Por lo pronto no he probado las que son muy locas, más allá de combinar varias en un tablero grande. De ser un juego relajante pasa a ser una cosa que haría un loco, pero con moderación pinta guay.

La búsqueda de la especie perdida. Lo dicho, si algo está guay, échale y que no falte. Para qué buscar un planeta si puedes buscar animales en una isla. Y dirás «Un sistema solar es mayor que una isla», pero solo si no tienes en cuenta que esto es una representación abstracta y que depende de cómo pintes el grafo. Pues bien, aunque una traducción ambigua nos jodió la partida. Espero que no pase con más pistas, porque después de freírte el cerebro tener que desechar la partida está feo.

Este no es el sitio

Hay juegos que es mejor no probar en BGA, porque ves que pueden ser interesantes pero al jugar por turnos no eres consciente de qué tratan de hacer los contrincantes y pierde completamente la gracia. A esta sección pertenece Bus, un juego estratégico de hacer líneas de transporte público para mover a gente dentro del ciclo Casa -> Trabajo -> Bar -> Casa, porque qué otra cosa merece la pena en la vida. Bastante perdido, he de confesar. Libertalia es un juego con una selección simultánea de acciones donde piratas buscan maximizar sus riquezas, por lo que es difícil saber qué cosas han salido, qué puede alguien escoger esta ronda… Y Catan New Energies es el Catan que apuesta por las energías renovables. Debe funcionar mejor en persona, pero tampoco cabría esperar mucho, sigue siendo Catan. Sobre esa temática me parece mejor Daybreak.

No, si ya (qué merendilla)

Y bueno, parece que no he jugado en BGA nada destacable además de lo comentado (y el Azul 4, que sí chuta en digital). Emberleaf no me parece malo, pero dentro de juego estratégico con animales antropomórficos me ha parecido bastante soso, aunque la mecánica de mover los animales para activar efectos está bien, las pocas cartas que adquieres no permiten variar el flujo de la partida lo suficiente.

Tags: #boardgames #juegosdemesa

Latest newsletter went up yesterday – RF 238: Not a Memoire.

Barely 10 days into November and it has been insane. It is apparently the month of many an online meeting, gig negotiations, contract revisions, as well as logistic things pertaining to forthcoming travels, all of which cut into my TIMES NEW HUMAN hours (which do not suffice as it is). But I'm not about to let any of that get in the way of my camping out at Cairocomix (honestly the best comicbook festival on this here Earth), which kicks off tomorrow.

RADAR:

• Jared Shurin reviews China Mieville's THE ROUSE.

• Bogdan Jensen on the obsession with style in art.

• Ahmed Naji writes: A short comment on cuckolding

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Inbox: 5, RSS: 568

#journal #RF #radar

Late night conversations

eddy has his own stand in the bedroom. He spends his days looking out the window onto the back garden, a quiet aluminium-and-magnesium sentinel with titanium-coated wheels & Shimano gears that he insists are aviation quality.

Sometimes Buzz, the Shar Pei, is out there too, scratching frantically for a bone he buried & then forgot, or going completely bosbefok when a motorcycle rumbles past. eddy doesn’t talk much to Buzz. He finds him a bit dof. The dog chases hadedas with great enthusiasm & then ruins it by barking at the last second, giving the birds plenty of warning. And the gardener with that damn lawnmower? Buzz (& eddy) would quite like to see him gone.

Enough about the dog.

Last night I piped up.

“eddy, you still awake?”

“Yebo, Mastelek.”

I told him I’d been reading something on the BBC about imaginary friends and found myself wondering whether I had any.

eddy sounded incredulous. “You have an imaginary friend?”

“You.”

There was a pause.

“I’m not imaginary,” he said. “I’m made from aluminium-magnesium with titanium-coated wheels. My Shimano gears are aviation-quality steel. Tjsek.”

I explained that adults sometimes create imaginary friendships for companionship, intellectual stimulation, motivation, affection, a bit of moral problem-solving, or simply lighthearted relief from the daily grind.

eddy considered this. “Maybe you should try that. It helps with growing & evolving. Gives you the chance to become who you want to be & live that life.”

Good advice, I told him. “Who should I have as an imaginary friend?”

“A Bianchi,” he deadpanned.

The conversation shifted, as they sometimes do late at night. I told him about a friend who’d had seizures. A brain tumour was discovered. I had thought the kindest path might be to stay home & be comfortable for whatever time remained. Instead he had the operation. Now he is sedated & not looking good.

eddy was quiet for a moment. “That is a difficult conversation, Mastelek. I think being incapacitated is soul-wrenching.”

I agreed. I thought of Kath, who left after just a silent scream. In its own way it was a blessing. The alternative would have been worse.

“Good night, old friend.”

Some nights the bike in the corner is just a bike. Other nights he is the only one still awake when the house is quiet, ready to listen, ready to argue about whether he is real, & ready to remind you that even the hardest conversations are better faced with someone, or something, that doesn’t flinch.

Ronald Bartels | LinkedIn | Instagram

The Gift of Being Here

There is something wonderful

about the way morning arrives,

spilling sunlight across the floor,

turning ordinary windows

into frames of gold.

The smell of coffee brewing,

the sound of birds beyond the glass,

the familiar footsteps of someone we love,

the quiet comfort of knowing

there is nowhere else we need to be.

There is laughter that catches us by surprise,

a favorite song at just the right moment,

the warmth of sunshine on our faces,

and conversations that wander

long after we've forgotten the time.

There are flowers growing through sidewalk cracks,

children chasing fireflies at dusk,

the first cool breeze after a summer rain,

and stars that have been shining

long before we learned their names.

There are places we have yet to discover,

people whose stories we have yet to hear,

books waiting to be opened,

and moments of unexpected wonder we cannot possibly imagine today.

And somewhere, even now,

a garden is beginning to bloom,

a child is learning to ride a bicycle,

someone is falling in love,

and the laughter of a loved one, 

is music to someone’s ears.

What a remarkable thing it is

to be part of a world

where so much is happening,

where so much is possible,

where even the smallest moments

can become the ones we treasure most.

We need not make every day extraordinary.

We need not fill every hour

with something worthy of remembering.

Sometimes it is enough

to sit beneath an open sky,

feel the breeze against our skin,

and take pleasure in the simple fact

that we are here to feel it.

So open the windows.

Let the morning in.

Take the long way home.

Stay a little longer at the table.

Laugh when something is funny.

Tell someone you love them.

There is so much life

waiting to be lived.

And today,

we get to be part of it.

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Explore more writing from Silent Sentinel →

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© SilentSentinel, 2025. All rights reserved. Excerpts may be shared with attribution.

FICTIONAL WHAT IF: Part VI- What if MCU Frank Castle was bitten by the radioactive spider instead of Peter Parker? Volume 1

Chapter I: The Carousel

It was a Saturday in late spring, and the carousel in Central Park was playing a song Frank Castle would never be able to hear again without his hands starting to shake. On that afternoon it was only noise, the cheap bright organ noise of a thing built for children. Lisa was too old for it and said so, loudly and more than once, and then rode it anyway because Frank Jr. wanted her to, and she picked the white horse with the chipped gold mane because it was the one nobody else wanted. Maria stood beside Frank with her arm hooked through his and told him he looked like a man who had forgotten how to stand still. He said that was the Marine Corps. She said no, that was him, the Corps had just given it a uniform, and she leaned her head against his shoulder in a way that made the ground feel solid under him for the first time in three tours. He was thinking about whether they could afford to fix the porch this summer. He was thinking about the smell of cut grass and how Frank Jr. had his mother's laugh. He was not thinking about the men by the boathouse, or the deal going wrong in three languages, or the way a crowd sounds in the half second before it understands what gunfire is. Afterward he would try to remember the last thing Maria said to him, and he never could, and that was the part that kept him awake more than the blood.

He woke up in a hospital with a bullet track across his skull and a detective named Mahoney sitting at the foot of the bed holding his hat in both hands like a man at a wake, which is what it was. Mahoney told him in the plain, careful voice cops use for the worst news, and Frank listened without moving, and when it was done he asked one question, which was whether Lisa had been scared. Mahoney said he didn't think she'd had time to be. Frank knew he was lying and was grateful anyway. Three gangs had been settling a dispute in the park: the Kitchen Irish, the Dogs of Hell, and a cartel crew out of Jersey. Fourteen people had been hit and six had died, and three of the six had been his. Nobody was in custody. Mahoney said they were working on it. Frank looked at the ceiling tiles and counted them and got to forty-one before he understood that nobody was coming, that nobody had ever been coming, that the city had simply moved on to the next thing while his family lay in drawers in a building in Kips Bay. He signed himself out against medical advice two days later. He went home to Queens and sat on the edge of Lisa's bed with her horse lamp on, the stupid ceramic palomino she'd begged for at a yard sale, and he stayed there until it got light. Then he went down to the basement and opened the footlocker he had promised Maria he would never open again.

It took him nineteen days to find the cartel crew's stash house in Red Hook. He built the picture one ugly conversation at a time, the way he'd been taught to build a target package in Kandahar: a corner dealer in Sunset Park who talked after his second finger broke, a tow-truck driver who'd hauled a stolen box truck to a warehouse off Van Brunt Street, three nights on a rooftop with a spotting scope logging shift changes. Seven men. Two on the loading bay, smoking, bored. One in a glass office on a mezzanine, the boss, who liked to watch. Four in the main floor among the pallets, cutting and bagging. A Rottweiler chained by the side door. He went in at 0310 because men are at their worst at 0310, and he was not thinking about surviving because surviving had stopped being part of the math. The dog went down first, quiet, suppressed round behind the ear, and he felt bad about the dog, a small clean sorrow in the middle of everything else. The two men on the bay went down before their cigarettes hit the ground. Then he was through the bay door and into the warehouse, and that was where it stopped being clean, because one of the four on the floor had gotten up to piss at exactly the wrong moment and was standing ten feet away with his fly open, staring at him. Frank shot him twice in the chest, and the noise brought the other three up from the tables with weapons. The next forty seconds were the kind he remembered from Fallujah, close and loud and ugly. He went left behind a forklift and took a round on his plate that knocked the wind out of him and put him on one knee. He shot one man through a gap between pallets, put two into another as the man ran for the side door, and lost track of the third. The boss was firing down from the mezzanine with a pistol, wild, spraying, and a ricochet off the forklift mast opened a gash along Frank's forearm. He rolled out, fired up through the glass of the office, and heard the man fall. Then the third man came around the far end of the forklift with a shotgun, and Frank was half a second behind him and knew it. The shotgun jammed, a cheap pump with a short-stroked shell, and the man looked down at it in disbelief, and Frank killed him. He knelt there afterward in the cordite and the dust, breathing hard, bleeding from the arm, knowing exactly how close it had been. Seven men, a dog, and a jammed shotgun had come within half a second of finishing what the park had started. He was good. He had always been good. Good was not going to be enough for very long.

One of the men had fallen against a stack of crates and broken them open, and through the smoke Frank saw the stenciled logo: a green O, the word OSCORP, and a row of biohazard warnings. Some part of his brain that was still a soldier filed it away. They'd jacked a truck on the Turnpike because someone told them the cargo was worth money, and they had no idea what they'd stolen. He was reloading by the bay door when he felt the sting on the back of his left hand, a small hot pinprick like a staple. He looked down and saw something red and blue, no bigger than a thumbnail, skitter off his knuckles and into the dark. He slapped at it and missed. He finished reloading. He did not think about it again for almost an hour, until he was on the Gowanus Expressway and the road lines started to bend.

He made it home without remembering how. He remembered the kitchen floor against his cheek, cold linoleum Maria had wanted to replace for six years, and the fever opening in his chest like a furnace door, and at some point in the night Maria sitting at the kitchen table in her blue robe, drinking coffee and watching him with an expression he couldn't read. He tried to say her name and couldn't make his mouth work, and she said, Frank, you were supposed to stand still, and he understood she was not there and talked to her anyway. When he woke up it was afternoon. The refrigerator was humming, and he could hear every part of the hum, the compressor and the fan and the tiny electrical tick under it, separate and clear as instruments in a band. Somewhere down the block a car door was about to slam, and he knew it was about to slam because a cold electric prickle walked up the back of his skull a full second before it did. He put his hand flat against the wall to push himself up, and his hand did not come off the wall. He pulled and the drywall came with it, cracking, and he stopped, and very slowly he peeled his palm away. He sat there on the floor of the house where his children had grown up and looked at his own hand like it belonged to somebody else. Then he started to cry, for the first time since the funeral, hard and ugly and with his whole body. He was not crying because he was afraid of what was happening to him. He was crying because he understood exactly what it was for.

Chapter II: The Range Card

Frank Castle had never in his life been handed a new piece of equipment without testing it, and he did not see why his own body should be any different. On the third day after the fever broke, he went down to the basement with a legal pad, a pencil, a stopwatch, and the bathroom scale, and he began. He wrote RANGE CARD at the top of the first page in block capitals, the way he'd written it on a hundred laminated cards taped beside a hundred firing positions, and underlined it twice. Then he took the scale out to the garage, set it under the steel I-beam that held up the second floor, and did a pull-up with Maria's old car battery strapped to his back. Then the car battery and both bags of rock salt. Then the battery, the salt, the cast-iron radiator he'd pulled out of the upstairs bathroom two summers ago and never thrown away, and a bundle of rebar from the side yard. He stopped adding weight when the I-beam started to bend, not because he had reached his limit but because the house was going to come down. He wrote the number down. He did not believe it, so he did it again, and wrote it down again. Then he sat on an overturned bucket and stared at the page for a long time, because the number was well over a ton and he had not been breathing hard.

He tested his grip on the basement ceiling, then on the outside of the house at night, then on the brick face of an abandoned paper mill in Maspeth where nobody would see him. He found that his hands and the soles of his bare feet would hold on brick, concrete, glass, steel, wood, and cinderblock. He could hang upside down from a single hand for as long as he cared to, and he timed it at forty minutes before he got bored, not tired. He found he could drop three stories onto broken pavement and land without injury, and that he could jump from the mill roof to the roof of a warehouse across a twenty-foot gap without a running start. He wrote all of it down. He found that his wounds closed. The gash on his forearm from Red Hook was a pink seam by day four and gone by day six, and the bruise from the round on his plate faded in hours. He wrote that down too, then underlined it, because it changed the math of everything. A man who heals is a man who can afford to take the hit. A man who can afford to take the hit can go through a door that would kill anyone else.

But it was the other thing that kept him up at night with the pencil in his hand, the prickle at the base of his skull. He needed to understand it, because he had already understood, on the kitchen floor, that it was the most dangerous thing the spider had given him. He tested it with Lisa's BB gun. He clamped the old Daisy to a tripod at the far end of the basement, ran a length of fishing line from the trigger through a pulley to a kitchen timer he'd gutted and rewired so it would trip at a random interval between one and ninety seconds, and stood downrange with his eyes closed. The first time, the prickle came about four-tenths of a second before the trigger broke, and he moved without thinking, and the BB went past his ear into the drywall. He did it fifty times and was hit twice, both in the first ten tries. He did it fifty more with his eyes open, then turned his back, then turned the lights off, then put Frank Jr.'s noise-cancelling headphones on and turned the lights off, and it made no difference at all. He wasn't seeing the threat or hearing it. He was feeling it, the way you feel someone staring at the back of your neck, except it was never wrong. Then he did something that made his hands go cold. He stood still, eyes closed, and paid attention to the prickle without moving, and found that it was not one thing but many: a direction, a distance, a weight, a rough sense of where the BB would hit. He could feel the line of fire drawn through the air before the shot. He picked up the legal pad and wrote: FEEL THE BARREL BEFORE IT FIRES. KNOW WHERE IT'S POINTED. KNOW WHICH ONE FIRES FIRST. Then he sat down on the bucket and thought about every room he had ever cleared and every man he had ever lost doing it.

Every door in Fallujah had been a coin flip. That was the truth nobody said out loud. You trained and drilled and stacked up and did it right, and the doorway was still the fatal funnel, the place where the enemy knew exactly where you had to come from and only needed to point a rifle at it and wait. Good men died in doorways because nobody could see through walls and nobody could know which of four guys in a room would fire first. The spider had given him both answers. He could come in through the ceiling, or the wall, or the window on the twelfth floor, from any direction except the one they were watching, and he would know before he moved which barrel in the room was pointed where, and which finger was tightening. He had spent his whole career trying to stack every small edge in his favor, a better angle, a faster reload, a second's surprise. Now every edge was his. He went upstairs and got his rifle and came back down and hung from the basement ceiling by his feet, upside down, and held the rifle on the far wall for twenty minutes, and the crosshairs didn't move. Not the shiver of a heartbeat. Not the drift of a breath. He had been one of the best shots in the Corps with a body that trembled, sweated, and got tired like everyone's. He was not sure there was a word for what he was now. He lowered the rifle and hung there in the dark of the basement, among Lisa's bike and the Christmas boxes and Maria's sewing table under its sheet, and he made himself say it out loud, because he was a Marine and you named things accurately or they killed you. “Nobody's gonna be able to stop me,” he said. He did not sound happy about it. He sounded like a man reading a diagnosis.

Chapter III: The Kitchen

Danny Walsh was twenty-two years old and had been running money for the Kitchen Irish since he was fifteen, and on the night the Kitchen Irish ended he was behind the bar at Grotto's on Tenth Avenue, polishing a glass nobody needed polished, because Finn Cooley liked the young ones to look busy. There were fourteen men in the back room. Cooley had called everyone in, the whole crew, because the Dogs of Hell had gone quiet across the river and Cooley wanted to talk about what that meant. Two shooters were on the front door and two in the alley, and Mickey Byrne had a shotgun under the bar three feet from Danny's hand. It was the safest room in Hell's Kitchen, Cooley said. Everybody knew what happened to people who came at the Irish in their own house. Danny was thinking about a girl named Siobhan and whether she'd still be awake when he got off, and that was when the lights went out.

Not just the lights. Everything went: the cooler hum, the jukebox, the neon in the window, the little red light on the security camera over the register. In the sudden black, somebody laughed and said Con Ed, and somebody else told him to shut up. Then there was a sound overhead, a deep slow creak in the ceiling joists, as if something very heavy were walking across the floor of the apartment above. Except the apartment above was Cooley's, and Cooley was in the back room, and the door upstairs was locked. Mickey Byrne brought the shotgun up from under the bar and pointed it at the ceiling. Danny would always remember what happened next as one sound, because it happened too fast to be anything else. The ceiling over the back room came down, a ragged six-foot square of plaster and lath and old tin tiles dropping straight onto the card table, and in the same instant there was a flat, rolling series of shots, tight and rhythmic, the sound of a sewing machine made out of thunder. Danny dropped behind the bar and covered his head. He heard Cooley's men shouting, and then he heard them shooting, and then he realized they were not shooting at anything. Muzzle flashes lit the back room in strobing white, and in the flashes Danny saw men firing up into the hole, into the dark, at nothing, and the man they were firing at was not in the hole. He was on the wall. He was on the side wall of the back room, above their heads, hanging off the faded wallpaper by one hand and one boot, with a short rifle braced in the other hand, and he was shooting down into them, and they could not find him.

Danny had heard stories from guys who'd done time with soldiers, about how a pro clears a room: who he shoots first, why, the order of it. He had never understood them until he watched it happen. The man on the wall did not shoot whoever was closest or loudest. He shot Kevin Doyle first, who was standing in the back corner and hadn't even raised his pistol yet, and Danny didn't understand why until he saw the sawed-off in Doyle's other hand. Then he shot Paulie Shea, who had just come out from behind the jukebox with a clear line at the wall. Then two more who were about to turn the right way. It was as if he could see every gun in the room at once, knew which ones were going to matter, and was taking them in order of how dangerous they were about to become. The men who were firing wildly up at the ceiling he left for last, because they weren't a threat to anyone. Mickey Byrne came around the end of the bar with the shotgun and swung it toward the back room, and the man on the wall turned his head and looked at Mickey, really looked at him, in the instant before Mickey's finger moved. Then he wasn't on the wall anymore. He had dropped, twisted in the air, and landed in a crouch on top of the bar six feet from Danny's face. He took the shotgun out of Mickey's hands the way you'd take scissors from a child, and hit Mickey in the chest with the butt of it so hard that Mickey went backward through the front window. Danny lay on the floor behind the bar with his arms over his head and listened to it finish. It took maybe ninety seconds from the lights going out to the silence. Fourteen men, the whole Kitchen Irish, everybody who mattered and everybody who didn't. In the silence Danny heard boots step down off the bar, crunching on glass, and then stop beside him.

He uncovered his head. The man was crouched over him. In the light from the streetlamps through the broken window, Danny saw a big, plain face with a scar along the side of the head and eyes that were not crazy at all. That was the worst part. They were tired, and sad, and completely calm. “Finn Cooley,” the man said quietly. “He was in the park. The carousel. Was he there?” Danny said yes. He would have said anything. Cooley had bragged about it once, drunk, about how the Dogs had started it and the Irish had finished it, about some civilian who'd caught one in the head and wouldn't stop crawling toward a kid's body. The man nodded slowly, as if that was what he'd expected, and some small private hope he'd been holding had gone out. “You ever shoot anybody, kid?” Danny shook his head. It was true. “You run money.” It wasn't a question. Danny nodded. The man looked at him for a long moment. “Go home,” he said. “Don't come back to the Kitchen. Don't run money for anybody. If I see you again, I won't stop and ask.” Then he walked to the back room, stepped onto the wall, climbed up through the hole in the ceiling, and was gone. Danny Walsh left New York on a bus the next morning with forty dollars and the clothes he was wearing, and he never told anyone what he had seen except, much later, a priest in Scranton who did not believe him.

Karen Page started keeping a list on a yellow legal pad in the third drawer of her desk at Nelson and Murdock, because it was the only way to make the numbers feel real. The Kitchen Irish were first. Eleven days after Grotto's, it was the Dogs of Hell clubhouse in the Bronx, twenty-two men, and a delivery driver stopped at a red light swore to a reporter that he had seen a man walk straight down the outside of a four-story building headfirst with a rifle on his back. Nobody printed it except as a joke. Karen cut it out and put it in the drawer. She found Frank Castle the way she found most things, by refusing to stop: a hospital discharge form, a name on the carousel victims list, a house in Queens with the porch light on and nobody home. She left her card in the screen door, and two nights later he was sitting across from her in a booth at a diner on Forty-Sixth Street at two in the morning, and she had not seen him come in. He ate a plate of eggs with the mechanical attention of a man who'd stopped tasting food, and without her asking he started talking about Lisa, about the horse lamp, the carousel, and the white horse with the chipped mane she'd picked because she felt sorry for it. His voice never broke, but by the end his hands were shaking around the coffee cup. Karen understood she was the first person he had said any of it to.

“You think I'm crazy,” he said.

“I think you're grieving,” she said. “I think you're so sad you can't see the edges of it.”

He laughed, one short, dry breath without humor. “Sad don't cover it, ma'am. Sad is what you feel when your dog dies.” He set the cup down very carefully, as if he didn't trust his grip anymore, and Karen noticed the faint crack he'd already put in the handle. “There's a guy in a mask running around the Kitchen. Red. Horns. Came at me in an alley on Thirty-Ninth, tried to stop me getting to a guy who sells girls out of a laundromat.” He shook his head. “He's good. Real good. Hits hard, fights smart, and he can do something, I don't know, he knows where I am in the dark. But he hesitates. Every time he gets a clean opening he pulls it, like he's arguing with somebody who isn't there.” He looked up at her, eyes completely clear. “That's gonna get somebody killed. Probably a lot of somebodies.” He left a twenty on the table and walked out, and when Karen went to the window the sidewalk was empty in both directions.

Chapter IV: The Shot

Matt Murdock had been fighting in the dark for years, and he had never once fought anyone who was fighting in the dark too. The alley on Thirty-Ninth Street was the first time, and it shook him more than he ever told Foggy or Karen. He'd come down off the fire escape behind Castle with the advantage he always had, total silence in total darkness against a man who should have been blind. He'd thrown the first strike at the base of the skull, a blow he had landed on a hundred men who never knew he was there. Castle was not there when it arrived. He had moved a quarter second early and a foot to the left, not hurried and not flinching, the economical movement of a man stepping out of a doorway he knows a car is about to pass. Then he had turned and faced Matt in the black alley as calmly as if the lights were on. They fought for perhaps a minute. Matt would replay it for weeks. Every strike he threw, Castle was already moving away from. Every opening Castle gave him was a trap, and the second time Matt went for one, Castle caught his wrist in midair and held it in a grip like a hydraulic press. Then he let go. That was the thing Matt kept coming back to: Castle let go. He had Matt's arm, he could have broken it, and Matt heard his heartbeat stay perfectly level while he decided not to. Then the man the laundromat owner had sent to warn Castle off came around the corner with a pistol, and Matt felt the shift in the air as Castle turned toward him, and before Matt could even register where the gunman stood, Castle had put two rounds through him without looking, firing under his own arm. Then Castle went up the wall and over the parapet and was gone. Matt stood in the alley breathing hard, listening to a heartbeat climb away across the rooftops, and understood that he had just been allowed to lose.

He didn't tell anyone. He went home and sat on the edge of his bed with ice on his wrist and thought about what he'd felt. It was not a sense like his. Matt's senses gave him the world, every surface and heartbeat and breath. Whatever Castle had did not show him the world; it showed him only what was dangerous in it, the way a raised blade glows in a dark room. Combined with a Marine's instinct for what to do about danger, it made him something Matt had no word for. Every fighter Matt had ever beaten, he had beaten by finding the moment the other man didn't see coming. Castle saw every moment coming. That frightened Matt so badly that for a while he thought about letting it go, about leaving Castle to the police and the gangs and whatever was waiting at the end of that road. He couldn't. The bodies kept coming, the Kitchen Irish and the Dogs and the cartel crews, and somewhere under them Matt could hear the city reorganizing itself, every frightened criminal in New York running toward the one man big enough to shelter them.

Wilson Fisk had been out of Ryker's for eight months, released on a procedural ruling bought with the remains of a fortune most people believed had been seized. Now Matt could hear the empty board around him filling up. Every surviving crew in the five boroughs was paying Fisk for protection, and Fisk was taking their money, consolidating, rebuilding, sheltering behind the panic Castle had caused. On the morning of the hearing, a civil suit Fisk had brought against the city with the confidence of a man who still believed the law belonged to him, Matt stood on the courthouse steps with his cane and glasses and his ears open, and that was when he heard it. A heartbeat on a rooftop on Centre Street, six hundred yards out, slow and even, the heartbeat of a man who was not nervous at all, and a rifle settling against stone. And something else, which turned his stomach: the man on the roof was breathing like a sniper, the long exhale, and when the breath reached the bottom, his heart did not keep beating the way a heart does. It slowed, then slowed again, then almost stopped, as if the body itself had decided to get out of the way of the shot. No trained marksman alive could do that. Matt was already moving.

He went through the crowd, down the alley, up the fire escape of the building next door, and across two rooftops at a dead run, pulling his mask on as he went. He could hear Fisk on the steps saying something to the reporters about the dignity of due process. He came over the last ledge as Castle's breath hit the bottom, and he knew Castle felt him coming, because Castle's head turned a fraction of an inch. For a split second Matt understood that Castle had a choice: take the shot and take the hit, or turn and deal with Matt. Castle took the shot. Matt hit him from the side with his whole body, a half-instant too late to stop the trigger and just in time to move the barrel, and the round took a fist-sized chunk out of a granite column three feet from Fisk's head. Down on the steps the crowd screamed and scattered, and Fisk's security folded around him and carried him toward the cars. Fisk did not run. Matt heard him stop on the stairs and turn his head, and understood, with a cold drop in his stomach, that Fisk was looking up at the rooftops and memorizing the angle.

Castle was on his feet before Matt was. Matt had hit him hard enough to crack ribs, and heard them creak, and Castle came up off the gravel as though they hadn't. For a second Matt braced for what had almost happened in the alley, and it did not come. Castle stood there breathing, his heart pounding now like a fist on a door.

“You know what he is,” Castle said. His voice was raw. “Don't stand there and tell me you don't. You know how many people are in the ground because of him.”

“It's not ours to decide,” Matt said. “It's not yours.”

“Then whose is it?” Castle took a step toward him and stopped himself, and Matt heard what it cost him. “The cops he owns? The judges he owns? You think somebody's coming? Nobody's coming. Nobody came for my kids. It's me, and you just took away the only clean shot anybody's ever gonna get.” He picked up the rifle. His hands were shaking. “Whatever he does next is on you. You remember that.” Then he stepped onto the parapet and went over the side, not falling but walking down the face of the building, and by the time Matt reached the edge there was nothing below but traffic and sirens. Matt stayed on the roof a long time after the police came and went. What frightened him most was not the walking down the wall. It was that in the second before Castle stopped himself, Matt had not been sure he would.

Chapter V: The Skull

Special Agent Dinah Madani of Homeland Security had been in New York for six weeks on an unrelated case when the shooting at St. Agnes happened, and she knew it was wrong before she had finished walking through the door. It was a Thursday night community dinner in the basement of a church on Forty-Ninth Street, folding tables and paper plates and a coffee urn, the kind of place where the old ladies of the parish fed anybody who walked in. Four men in tactical vests with white skulls spray-painted across the chests had come down the stairs at seven-fifteen and opened fire. Eleven people were dead. Two were children, a brother and sister who had come with their grandmother, and the grandmother was in surgery at Bellevue and not expected to live. Madani stood in the basement in blue gloves, looked at the walls, and saw sloppy work: casings everywhere, three different calibers, walls and ceiling chewed up, six holes in the coffee urn. For two months she had read every file on the man the papers were starting to call the Punisher, and she had seen the crime scene photos from Grotto's on Tenth Avenue, fourteen men and maybe twenty rounds fired by the shooter, every one of them accounted for. Whoever came down those stairs had wanted to kill people and wanted to be seen, and those were two things Frank Castle had never cared about at the same time.

She said so to her supervisor and was told to stay in her lane. She said it to the NYPD task force and was told it was a federal matter. She said it to a reporter from the Bulletin, off the record, and the next morning the front page carried a photograph of a spray-painted skull on a bloody church wall under a headline half the page tall, and she understood that it did not matter what she thought, because the city had already decided. The mayor held a press conference. The cardinal held a vigil. The skull murals that had started appearing in the Bronx and Hell's Kitchen, quiet tributes from people who had been glad to see the gangs go, were painted over in a single weekend by crews nobody had hired. On the subway Madani heard a man say they should have put the Punisher down months ago, and the woman beside him nodded and pulled her children closer. Somewhere uptown, she suspected, Wilson Fisk was reading the same headlines with deep satisfaction, and she had nothing at all she could prove.

Frank heard about St. Agnes on the radio in the van, parked under the Manhattan Bridge with the engine off. He set down the pistol he was cleaning, turned the volume up, and listened to the whole report, every name as they read it out. When they got to the children he put his forehead against the steering wheel and kept it there. The girl had been eleven. Her name was Rosa Delgado. She had been there with her grandmother and her little brother because the grandmother couldn't afford to feed them on Thursdays, and the volunteers at St. Agnes had known them by name. He thought about Lisa. He thought about the courthouse steps, the long breath going out, the weight of a man in red slamming into him half a second after the trigger broke, the granite column three feet from Fisk's head, and Fisk turning on the stairs to look up at the roofs. Fisk had needed the city to hate Frank, so he'd bought four men, some spray paint, and an eleven-year-old girl's life, and he'd been able to do it because he was alive, and he was alive because of a man who thought it wasn't his to decide. Frank sat in the van until the radio moved on to the weather. Then he said it out loud, quietly, to nobody: “That's on you, Red. That one's on you.” Saying it helped a little. That frightened him, a long way down where he didn't look much anymore. Then he started the van, because whatever else was true, there were four men in this city who had put rounds into children wearing his face, and he was going to find them before the week was out.

It took him two days. Fisk had hired cheap, because Fisk had expected them to be killed, and cheap men talk in bars. The first two were drinking in a Bay Ridge place called the Anchor with their skull vests in a gym bag under the table, which told Frank everything about how smart they were. He waited for them in the back lot of the auto body shop where one of them worked, in the rafters of the paint bay, forty feet up, hanging among the ductwork with a coil of climbing rope over his shoulder. He listened to them come in at one in the morning, laughing, arguing about a Mets game. The first man, Russell Pike, went to the office to get his car keys. The second, Ed Kovac, stood by the paint booth lighting a cigarette. Frank dropped a loop of rope around Kovac's chest from forty feet up, cinched it, and hauled him straight off the floor into the dark of the rafters in one smooth pull, the way you'd pull up a bucket from a well, and Kovac had time for one short scream before he was hanging upside down with his face six inches from Frank's. Pike came running out of the office with a pistol and stood in the middle of the shop floor, turning in circles and shouting his friend's name, pointing the gun at shadows. Frank let him shout. Then he said, very calmly, from the rafters, “Russell. Put the gun on the floor or I'm going to drop him on you.” Pike fired six rounds into the ceiling where he thought the voice had come from. Frank had already moved twelve feet along a steel truss, upside down, carrying a two-hundred-pound man under one arm, and every round passed through empty air. Frank felt each one coming, each line drawn through the dark, and stepped out of them the way you'd step over a crack in the sidewalk. When the slide locked back on the empty magazine, Frank dropped Kovac. Not on Pike, onto the hood of a Buick, from fifteen feet, enough to break both his legs and keep him from running. Then he came down himself and took the empty pistol out of Pike's hand, and Pike started crying before Frank had said a word.

They told him everything. A lawyer who had paid them in cash at a diner in Long Island City. The names of the other two shooters, the Grady brothers, and the building in Clinton where they'd gone to ground. The fact that the lawyer had told them the cops would be looking the other way for forty-eight hours, which they had been. When they were done, Frank stood over them in the paint bay with Pike's empty pistol in his hand. Pike asked him, crying, if they were going to jail now, and Frank looked at him for a long moment.

“Rosa Delgado,” he said. “Say it.”

“What?”

“Her name. The little girl. You don't know it, do you? You shot her and you never even learned her name. Say it.”

Pike said it. Then Frank killed them both, and he did not use the pistol. Afterward he stood in the paint bay for a minute, breathing, looking at his hands. He had been trained to kill quickly and cleanly, out of respect for the act if not for the man, and he had just done something else. He had wanted it to hurt, and it had. He noticed that, and noticed that it didn't bother him as much as it should have, and filed it away somewhere he didn't look. Then he went to find the Grady brothers.

Chapter VI: The Rooftop

Matt went looking for him three nights after St. Agnes, and he would spend a long time afterward trying to decide whether that had been courage or arrogance. He had heard about the auto body shop in Bay Ridge, the way he heard most things, in the murmur of cops at a crime scene, and the details had made him sick. He told himself Castle was coming apart. He told himself St. Agnes was not proof Castle had been right about the courthouse, that Fisk would have done something like it anyway, that a man who kills for a city eventually starts killing the city. He had the argument ready like a closing statement. He found Castle on a roof in Clinton, crouched by a water tower in the rain, watching a building across the street where the Grady brothers were sleeping off a night of drinking. Matt landed fifteen feet behind him and said his name. Castle didn't turn around. Matt heard his heart jump and settle, and understood Castle had known he was there for two blocks.

“Go home, Red,” Castle said.

“I can't let you go in there.”

“Those two men put rounds into a little girl in a church basement.” Castle stood up slowly, the rain running off him. “There's a grandmother at Bellevue who woke up yesterday and asked where her grandkids were, and a nurse had to tell her. You want to stand between me and the guys who did that? Go ahead. Stand there.” He turned around, and Matt heard his heart, and it wasn't steady at all. It was hammering, ragged and fast and full of something that wasn't exactly anger, something closer to pleading. “Please,” Castle said. “I'm asking you. Just go home.”

Matt didn't go home. He started on the argument he'd rehearsed, and Castle came at him before he'd finished the second sentence. It was nothing like the alley. In the alley, Matt understood now, Castle had been curious, feeling him out, a man testing an unfamiliar opponent. Here he was simply trying to put Matt down without hurting him, and the effort it took was the most frightening thing Matt had ever felt. Castle was faster than anyone had any right to be. He stepped inside Matt's first combination as if he'd read the choreography beforehand, and Matt felt an open hand brush his ribs, feather-light, exactly where a closed fist would have stopped his heart. Matt swept low. Castle was already in the air, and his boot touched Matt's shoulder on the way over, gently, the way you tag someone in a game. Matt threw an elbow and Castle caught it, and Matt heard his heart and felt the force in that grip, enough to shatter the joint like a dropped plate, and felt Castle hold it in check by an act of will. Castle let go. Again. Every exchange ended the same way: Castle reaching a place where he could have ended it, Matt feeling him choose not to, and then Castle stepping back, trembling, while the rain fell between them. “Stop,” Castle said hoarsely. “Stop. You're not gonna win this. I don't want to hurt you. Go home.”

That was when Matt made the mistake he would carry for the rest of his life. He said, “You brought this to them. Rosa Delgado is dead because of you. You made yourself a war, and you dared Fisk to answer, and he answered in a church basement.” He felt Castle's heart stop dead for a full beat. Then Castle hit him. It was not a punch. It was a shove, open-palmed, to the center of the chest, a short angry push to make a man stop talking, the kind of thing Frank Castle had done in bars a hundred times with an ordinary body. The body that did it now was no longer ordinary. Matt left the ground. He went backward across the roof, eight feet, ten, and hit the corner of a steel ventilation housing low in the back, and heard the sound his own spine made before he felt anything at all. It was a dull, wet crack. Then he was in the gravel in the rain, and he couldn't feel his legs, and he could hear Castle's heart start again so hard it seemed to fill the whole roof.

Castle was beside him before Matt could breathe. Matt heard him drop to his knees and say Jesus, Jesus Christ, in a voice that had come completely apart, and felt big shaking hands on his shoulders holding him still, the way you hold a man in a combat zone so he doesn't try to get up and make it worse. “Don't move,” Castle said. “Don't you move. I didn't, I wasn't. I barely touched you. I swear to God I barely touched you.” He was crying. He found the phone in Matt's belt and called 911, gave the address, said a man had fallen and his back was broken, and then he stayed. He knelt in the rain with his hand flat on Matt's chest until the sirens were two blocks away, and the last thing he said before he went over the edge was so quiet that only Matt could have heard it: I told you to go home.

Matt lay in the gravel and listened to the rain. Then, under the sirens and the rain, he heard something else, across the street, in the building where the Grady brothers had been sleeping. A window going up on the fourth floor. Two heartbeats waking in terror, one after the other. Then a silence, and two heartbeats fewer in the world, and a single heartbeat moving away across the rooftops, fast and ragged and then, gradually, so slowly that Matt almost missed it, settling back into the level, patient rhythm of a man who had finished his work. The paramedics found Matt lying on his back with his eyes open behind the mask, and one of them said later that she'd never seen a man with a broken spine look so frightened of something other than his own body.

The bills started arriving at Nelson and Murdock two weeks later, and they never needed paying. Every one was settled by cashier's check before it came: the surgery, the ICU, the spinal unit at Mount Sinai, the rehab facility in Westchester with the long waiting list that somehow didn't apply to Matt. Foggy said it had to be some foundation. Karen didn't say anything. She had a voicemail on her phone from an unknown number at four in the morning, a man breathing for nearly a minute without speaking before he hung up, and she played it more often than she would admit. Frank did not call again. He slept less, sitting up in the van. When he slept, the rooftop came back in pieces: the shove, the sound, the man in the gravel. He would go through it carefully, in order, the way he'd once gone through after-action reports, until he reached the place where the argument always ended up. If Red had let him take the shot, there would have been no St. Agnes. If Red had gone home like he'd been asked, his back would be fine. Red had made a choice on that courthouse roof and a choice in the rain, and Frank had just been standing where those choices landed. He went through it every night. Most nights it worked. On the nights it didn't, he got up and went to work early, and the work was always there.

Chapter VII: The Pilgrim

The man who called himself John Pilgrim took the job because the money would put his boys through college, and because the lawyer who offered it said the target was a murderer who had shot up a church. Pilgrim had a long and complicated history with men who did things in churches. He did not like New York. He did not like the lawyer either, a soft, careful man in a very expensive coat who never said his employer's name and never needed to. But he read the file three times and understood the work, and he understood something the lawyer did not, which was that the file was useless. Every man who had gone at Frank Castle head-on in the last three months was dead, and every one of them had made the same mistake. They had pointed a weapon at him. Pilgrim sat in a motel in Jamaica, Queens, with the photographs from Grotto's spread across the bedspread, the bullet holes in the walls and the angles of the bodies, and he read them the way he'd once read the Bible in a prison cell, slowly, looking for the hidden meaning. He found it in the order of the dead. Castle had killed the men with guns in the order in which they were about to use them. Not the closest, not the loudest. It was as if he had known. Pilgrim thought about that for a long time, and then he went to a hardware store and bought what he needed.

He chose a stairwell in a parking garage in Long Island City where Castle sometimes left the van. He spent a night preparing it: no guns pointed at the door, no tripwires, nothing that would ever be aimed. He opened the sprinkler line on the third-floor landing and capped it with a valve he could open by hand. He hung the stairwell with plastic sheeting like a meat locker so that nothing in it would be where it looked. He replaced the bulbs with a strobe. Then he sat in the dark on the fourth-floor landing with a fighting knife in each hand, no firearm at all, and a Bible in his coat pocket, and he waited, and prayed, and was very still. If the man could feel a weapon being aimed, Pilgrim would not aim one. He would wait in the dark with his hands open until Castle was close enough to touch, and then he would see what Castle could feel.

Castle came through the bottom door at a quarter past four in the morning. Pilgrim heard him stop. He heard him stand on the bottom step for a long moment, listening, and then he heard him start up the stairs at a slow, steady walk, a man who knew perfectly well there was someone above him and had decided to come up anyway. Pilgrim opened the sprinkler valve. Water roared down the stairwell, the strobe started stuttering through it, and the plastic sheeting began to snap and billow, and the whole stairwell became a chaos of falling water and broken light and moving shapes, with no line of sight anywhere. Pilgrim went down the stairs into it with the knives low, silent, the way he'd been taught by a very bad man a very long time ago. He found Castle on the landing between two and three, a dark shape in the water, and drove the right-hand knife at the base of his ribs, a perfect strike, unaimed and unannounced until the moment it moved. Castle wasn't there. He had turned his body a few inches at the last instant, and the blade opened a long cut across his side instead of going in. Pilgrim had a quarter-second to understand what had happened. Castle couldn't feel the knife until it moved, but he felt it the instant it did, and a quarter-second was enough for a body like his. Then Pilgrim was fighting for his life.

He was good. He knew he was good. He had killed men who were bigger and faster and stronger, and in that stairwell, in the water and the strobe, he put everything into it. He cut Castle across the forearm, across the thigh, a shallow slice along the jaw. He fought the way you'd fight a rattlesnake, never committing, never letting his weapon point anywhere until the moment it struck. For a few seconds, maybe five, he thought it was working. Then Castle stopped defending. He let Pilgrim's left-hand knife come at his chest, did not move from it, and caught the blade itself in his bare hand, gripping the edge, and Pilgrim felt it stop as if it had been driven into a wall. Castle's hand was bleeding around the steel and he did not seem to notice. He twisted, and the knife snapped. Pilgrim swung the other blade at Castle's throat, and Castle was already inside the arc, and then Pilgrim was off his feet and slammed into the wall of the stairwell so hard the cinderblock cracked behind him, and the second knife was gone, and a forearm was across his throat. Castle's face was very close to his in the strobe. It was wet with water and blood, and it was not cruel. That was the thing Pilgrim would remember for the rest of his life. It was tired, and sad, and terribly patient.

“Who sent you?” Castle said.

Pilgrim told him. There was no point in doing otherwise. Castle listened and nodded slowly, as if Pilgrim had only confirmed what he knew. Then his eyes dropped to Pilgrim's coat, where the Bible had fallen half out of the pocket, and to the photograph tucked inside the cover, two boys in Sunday clothes squinting into the sun. Castle took the photograph out with two fingers and looked at it for a long time while the water fell around them.

“These yours?”

“My sons.”

“Where's their mother?”

“With the Lord.”

Castle kept looking at the photograph, and his face did something Pilgrim did not have a word for. Then he put the photograph back inside the Bible, very carefully, closed the cover, and pushed the book back into Pilgrim's pocket. He took his arm off Pilgrim's throat and stepped back. He picked up the broken knife and the whole one and dropped them both over the railing into the dark. “Go home to your boys,” he said. “Don't take money from that man again. And don't come back, because next time I won't see the picture.” Then he turned, stepped onto the wall of the stairwell, and walked up it through the falling water, leaving a trail of bloody handprints on the cinderblock, and was gone. The cuts Pilgrim had given him, Pilgrim would later learn, had closed before Castle reached the roof.

Pilgrim sat on the flooded landing for a long time. Then he took out the Bible and opened it, not to the photograph but to wherever his thumb fell, and it fell at the beginning of the Book of Nahum, and he read by the stuttering strobe with his lips moving. God is jealous, and the Lord revengeth; the Lord revengeth, and is furious; the Lord will take vengeance on his adversaries, and he reserveth wrath for his enemies. He read it three times. He thought about the man walking up the wall like the walls had been built for him. He thought about the family at the carousel, and the soldier who had been given a power no man had ever had, at the exact moment everything had been taken from him. He had spent years asking God for a sign that would explain his own suffering, and he looked up at the bloody handprints going up into the dark and understood that he had just been given one. He did not go back to the lawyer. Two weeks later, in the back room of a VFW hall in Ozone Park, eleven people sat on folding chairs in front of a skull painted on a bedsheet, and John Pilgrim stood at a borrowed lectern and told them that God's wrath had come to New York in the form of a man, and the only question left for any of them was whether they would be found standing beside it. By the end of the month there were sixty. When Frank heard about it, from Karen of all people, at the diner on Forty-Sixth Street, he set his coffee cup down so hard it shattered in his hand, and sat there looking at the pieces and the coffee spreading across the table, and said nothing at all.

Chapter VIII: You Can't

Wilson Fisk came to Mount Sinai on a Tuesday afternoon, alone, with no flowers. He had his driver wait in the garage and his men wait in the lobby, and he walked down the corridor of the spinal unit himself, a very large man in a very good gray suit moving slowly past the open doors, and the nurses who saw him would say afterward that he looked like a man walking into a cathedral. He found Matthew Murdock propped up in bed with the blinds half drawn and an audiobook murmuring on the table. When Fisk filled the doorway, Murdock switched it off without being asked, turned his face toward him, and said his name before Fisk had said a word. Fisk sat in the visitor's chair. It creaked under him. For a while neither of them spoke. Fisk looked at the rails on the bed and the blanket over legs that would not move again, and he felt something he had not expected, which was a deep and private shame.

“I understand,” Fisk said at last, “that I owe you my life. On the courthouse steps.” He folded his hands. “I have thought about that a great deal. I have never owed anyone anything I couldn't repay, Mr. Murdock. I find I don't care for the feeling.”

“You didn't come here to say thank you.”

“No.” Fisk looked down at his hands. “I came to ask you a question, because you are the only man in this city who has met him the way I am going to meet him and lived. How do I stop him? I'm not asking how to kill him. I've accepted that I may not be able to. I'm asking how to make it stop. What does he want? What can be given to him? There is always something.”

Murdock was quiet for a long time. When he answered, his voice was very gentle, the way you speak to someone in a hospital bed, which was strange, because Fisk was the one in the chair.

“You can't.”

Fisk waited. Murdock turned his face toward the window and the sounds of the city.

“There's nothing to give him, Wilson. He doesn't want money or power. He doesn't even want to win. He wants something that's in the ground in Queens, and you put it there, or men like you did, and he knows the difference doesn't matter. You can't negotiate with that. You can't scare it. You can't outlast it.” He was quiet a moment. “I fought him three times. The first time, he let me go. The second time, he let me go. The third time, he was trying so hard not to hurt me that I could hear his heart breaking with the effort, and he still did this.” He moved his hand slightly toward the blanket. “That was him holding back, Wilson. You will not get that version of him. Nobody he's angry at ever has.” He was quiet again. “I can hear your heart, you know. I heard it in courtrooms. I heard it on the steps when you turned around to look at the roofs. It's never sounded like this. You knew the answer before you came in here. You just needed someone to say it out loud.”

Fisk sat for a long time after that. When he finally rose, he did it slowly, buttoning his jacket, and said goodbye with real courtesy. At the door he said one more thing, without turning around: “I didn't want this for you. Whatever you believe of me, I need you to know that.” Murdock said nothing. By the time Fisk's car pulled onto Fifth Avenue, he had already begun making calls.

He spent everything. It was the only answer he had ever known how to give: if a problem could not be solved, it could be buried under so much money that it stopped being visible. He liquidated the shell companies the government had never found and called in debts from men who believed they'd never be asked. He sent Vanessa to Lisbon with a kiss and a lie about business, and stood at the window of the empty apartment after her plane left and let himself feel it for exactly one minute. He bought the precincts he didn't already own, the captains and lieutenants and union men who could move patrol schedules, until there were blue-and-whites on every corner within four blocks of the building he had chosen. He hired Anvil, the private military company run by a handsome ex-Marine named Billy Russo, who sat in Fisk's office in a tailored suit and promised a perimeter nothing could get through. Russo neglected to mention, until Fisk's people found it in the file, that he and Frank Castle had served together, and that Russo had held Castle's son at his christening. Fisk kept him anyway. A man with a personal stake would not run.

And through a series of introductions he did not enjoy, he made contact with men who had once worn S.H.I.E.L.D. uniforms and never stopped believing in the organization that had been hiding inside it, a HYDRA cell adrift since the Triskelion fell, short of money and sanctuary and very well armed. Their commander was a lean gray German named Anselm Rauch, who had spent eleven years inside S.H.I.E.L.D. studying the Avengers for the day HYDRA would have to kill them. Rauch came to Fisk's office with a laptop and a thick binder and gave the most chilling briefing Fisk had ever sat through, delivered in the tone of a man discussing quarterly logistics. He had obtained the coroner's reports from Grotto's and the Dogs of Hell clubhouse, the scene diagrams from Red Hook and Bay Ridge, and the security footage from a bodega camera that had caught four seconds of Castle crossing Eleventh Avenue on the side of a building at what Rauch estimated as thirty miles an hour. “Your man is not a super soldier,” Rauch said. “I have studied super soldiers. Rogers. Barnes. Their gift is the body. Faster, stronger, more durable, but still a man fighting like a man. This is different.” He turned a page of diagrams toward Fisk, crime scenes with every shooter and every round marked. “Look at the order. He kills armed men in the order they become dangerous, every time, even in the dark, even when they are behind him. He has some way of sensing a threat before it matures. And he is not using it like a frightened animal. He is using it like a Marine fire team leader who has been handed perfect intelligence.” Rauch closed the binder. “Most enhanced individuals are ordinary people with extraordinary bodies. They are dangerous, but they make ordinary mistakes. This one was already among the most effective close-quarters killers in the American military. Whatever happened to him did not make him dangerous. It removed every limitation that kept him from being as dangerous as he already was.”

“Can you stop him?” Fisk asked.

“Yes,” Rauch said, with complete assurance. “If he can sense every weapon aimed at him, we stop aiming at him. We aim at space. Interlocking fields of fire across every approach on every floor, crews firing at fixed intervals into the corridors whether there is a target or not, so that there is no gap in the air for him to step through. Saturation. He can feel the bullet coming, but he cannot be where there is no room to stand. And for when he gets close,” he opened a long hard case on Fisk's desk, and inside it, in foam, lay a weapon Fisk had never seen, alien and ugly and faintly glowing, “we have this. Salvaged from the Battle of New York. It does not fire bullets. It fires something that, at close range, burned through the hull of a Chitauri transport.” He closed the case. “He heals. We have seen that. But nothing heals from this.” Fisk paid him without negotiating. Then he went up to the top floor of the building he had chosen, an old windowless telephone exchange in Lower Manhattan built in the Cold War to survive a nuclear strike, and he sat at a long table in a room with no windows at all, and he waited, and every so often he caught himself listening for something on the walls.

Chapter IX: The Wall

Billy Russo had a theory about Frank Castle, and on the night it was tested he believed it all the way down to the bone. The theory was that Frank had always been the best of them, the best shot and the best fighter, the one the men followed without being told to, and that the only thing that had ever made him beatable was that he was a decent man. Billy had seen it overseas. He had seen Frank refuse an order to clear a village, and seen him carry a wounded kid three miles on his back under fire. Decency was a weakness, a hesitation at the wrong moment, and Billy had built his whole career on not having it. So he built the perimeter around the exchange to use Frank's decency against him. He put civilians in the residential towers on either side, cops on every approach so that Frank would have to kill police officers to get through, Anvil on the ground floors and the loading dock, and Rauch's HYDRA people on ten through thirteen. Twelve years in uniform and four running a private army had taught Billy that the side with the most rifles and the best plan usually wins. Standing in the operations room on the ninth floor at a quarter to one in the morning, with a coffee he wasn't drinking and forty camera feeds glowing on the wall in front of him, he believed he had both. He was proud of it. He was also more frightened than he had ever been in his life, and he had not let himself look at that directly all night.

Frank had been lying on the roof of the residential tower to the north for three hours, flat under a tarp in the cold, watching and listening. He had counted the cops. Thirty-one. Patrolmen mostly, kids and fat old-timers, standing on corners with coffee, scared, there because their captains had sent them. He decided early that none of them would be hurt tonight, and then he set that decision aside and kept working the problem. He counted the Anvil teams by their cigarettes on the loading dock. He listened to the building itself, which his ears could do now, and heard every forty seconds a short, rhythmic hammering inside the concrete, floors ten through thirteen, regular as a clock: automatic weapons firing in measured bursts into empty corridors. He understood immediately what they were doing. He almost respected it. Somebody in there knew what he could feel and had decided to fill every hallway with so much lead that there was nowhere to stand. It was smart. It would have worked on anything that had to come down a hallway. Then he studied the walls. The exchange was windowless, eighteen inches of reinforced concrete, built to survive a bomb, with no visible feature except a bank of heavy air conditioning units bolted to the north face at the ninth floor, venting hot air into the night. Frank looked at them for a long time. Servers needed cooling. Monitors needed cooling. A room full of screens and radios and the man running them, the command post, had to be wherever the building was dumping all that heat. He had cleared enough buildings to know that you didn't fight the defense. You killed the brain that ran it, and then the defense was just a lot of frightened men in the dark.

At ten past one he threw a line from the tower roof to the exchange roof parapet, sixty feet across, and crossed it hand over hand, upside down, with no harness, while two patrolmen directly below him argued about overtime. He went down the face of the exchange headfirst until he was beside the air conditioning units on the ninth floor. He put his palm flat on the concrete and felt the warmth and the faint hum of electronics behind it, and below that, through eighteen inches of wall, a man's heartbeat, fast and frightened. He knew the heartbeat. He had slept beside it in a hole in Helmand. Then he made a fist.

The first blow shook the monitors on the operations room wall, and every man in the room turned to look at it, and the second blow cracked it, and Billy Russo understood his theory was wrong before the third. On the fourth the north wall of the ops room came apart behind the bank of screens, monitors and concrete and rebar all spraying into the room together, and something came through the hole in the dust. The Anvil radio operator got his pistol halfway out before he was dead. The two security men by the door fired into the dust where the thing had been, and it was not there. It was on the ceiling, and then it was among them, and then the only man left alive in the room was Billy, standing beside the coffee he had finally spilled, with his own pistol on the console beside him. He did not pick it up. The screens were dark. The radio was dead. In the corridor outside, somebody was shouting for orders and getting none, and Billy knew that across nine floors his men were turning to look at radios that had gone silent. His whole perimeter had been turned into a lot of frightened men in the dark, in about six seconds.

Frank stood in the dust. He was breathing hard. His knuckles were split to the bone from the wall and already beginning to close.

“Frank,” Billy said. “I was going to come see you. After the funeral. I meant to.”

“You were at Frank Jr.'s christening,” Frank said. His voice was hoarse. “You held him. You held my boy and told Maria he had my ears.” He took a step into the room. “And then you took this man's money and put cops and families around his building so I'd have to choose. That's what you thought of me, Bill. That I'd stop at the line you drew.”

“I thought you were better than me,” Billy said, and meant it. “I thought that was why I'd win.”

Frank looked at him for a long moment. Something moved behind his eyes, the oldest kind of grief, the kind you feel for a brother. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.” Billy went for the pistol on the console, because that was who he was and he wanted to go out as himself. He was very fast. He had always been fast. Frank had moved before Billy's hand did, and Billy saw him moving and knew, in his last clear instant, that Frank had felt the decision before Billy had finished making it. Frank stood in the operations room a while longer than he needed to, looking down at the man on the floor. Then he went to find the stairs.

Anselm Rauch had built his kill zones on ten and eleven and moved himself to twelve, and he was standing in the central corridor with the Chitauri weapon in his hands when the radios died. He did not panic. He had expected to lose the command post; it was the obvious target, and he'd told Russo so, and Russo had smiled and said that was why it was on nine, behind eighteen inches of concrete. Rauch keyed the backup channel and ordered every crew on his floors to hold position and maintain the firing schedule. He listened to the building. Below him, on ten, the measured bursts went on, every forty seconds, into the empty corridors. Then the schedule on ten stopped. It did not falter. It stopped, all at once, in the middle of a burst. He heard screaming, and then nothing, and a moment later the floor beneath his feet shuddered with a heavy concussive thud, then another, then a third, and on the backup channel the team leader on eleven began to shout that something was coming up through the floor.

Rauch understood at once, the way a chess player understands a move one instant after it is made. Castle had not come down the corridors, because the corridors were where the fire was. He had gone under it. He had come up through the concrete floor slab from ten to eleven, punching a hole up from below, into the middle of the team positions, inside the fields of fire. And every one of those positions had been built to fire outward, down the corridors, into space, interlocking, so that there was no safe gap anywhere. Rauch heard it happen on the open channel and could do nothing about it. The thing that came up through the floor was not in the corridors. It was among the men, at the center of the pattern, where every rifle on the floor was pointed somewhere near a friend. The crews fired anyway, because they were trained to fire on contact. Castle felt every barrel, knew which one would fire first and where it was aimed, and moved so that each burst went into the man on the other side of him. It sounded on the radio like men shooting each other, which was exactly what it was. Rauch had designed a defense that left no gap in the air to step through. Castle had stepped into the one place in the building where every gap was filled with the defenders themselves. Eleven fell silent in under a minute.

Rauch gathered what he had left on twelve, fourteen men, and gave the only order that still made sense: fire everything at everything, ceiling and walls and floor, no pattern, no schedule, no aiming at anything but the building itself. If Castle could feel a gun aimed at him, give him so many unaimed guns that the warnings would overlap into noise. The corridor on twelve filled with fire. Plaster rained down. Rounds chewed up through the ceiling and down into the floor. Rauch stood at the center of it with the Chitauri weapon at his shoulder, feeling, for the first time all night, something like hope. Then a section of the east wall of the corridor bowed inward and exploded, and a shape came through the dust six feet off the ground, moving sideways along the wall, and Rauch fired. The Chitauri weapon made a sound like a sheet of steel tearing. The bolt caught Castle low in the side as he came through the hole, and Rauch saw it do what it was made to do. It burned through the tactical vest and the flesh beneath, charring it black, and the force of it flung Castle across the corridor into the far wall. He fell to the floor, and for the first time all night, the man who could feel everything lay on his back in the plaster dust and did not move.

Rauch walked toward him with the weapon raised. His men had stopped firing. He could smell burned meat. He stood over Castle and looked down, and Castle was conscious, his eyes open, his face gray, his teeth bared, one hand pressed over the smoking hole in his side, and Rauch felt a great professional satisfaction. He had studied this man for weeks. He had been right about everything. “You were very good,” he said, and meant it, and leveled the weapon at Castle's head. Castle looked straight up the barrel, and Rauch saw in his eyes that he had felt the shot coming before Rauch decided to take it. Castle's free hand had been resting on a length of rebar torn loose from the wall. He brought it up in an arc, not at Rauch, but at the barrel, and knocked it aside the instant before the bolt left, and the bolt went into the floor and blew a smoking crater through to eleven. In the same motion Castle came up off the floor. Burned and bleeding and moving wrong on the injured side, he was still faster than anything Rauch had ever seen. He tore the Chitauri weapon out of Rauch's hands. Rauch had one moment, as Castle turned it on him, to understand the single thing he had gotten wrong. He had been right about everything except the conclusion. He had thought a man with every limit removed could still be stopped by enough weight and fire and planning. He had studied the Avengers for eleven years, and it had never occurred to him that the most dangerous enhanced individual he would ever face would be the one who had been dangerous before he was enhanced at all.

Castle cleared what was left of twelve with the alien weapon in about twenty seconds. Then he stood in the corridor with one hand pressed to his side, breathing through his teeth, and looked up. He fired the Chitauri weapon into the ceiling until it was empty, burning a ragged hole through the slab into thirteen, and went up through it into the dark. Thirteen did not take long. When he came to the stairwell door to fourteen, his side was still smoking and the burned flesh was only beginning to knit, slower than anything else had healed, and he stood there with his forehead against the steel door for a moment and breathed. Then he opened it.

Wilson Fisk was standing at the head of the long table in a white suit, hands folded in front of him. He had not tried to run. There had been a helicopter on the roof, and he had sent it away an hour before the first sounds from the north wall, because he understood it would only be one more thing between them, and he no longer saw the point. He looked at Frank Castle in the doorway, bleeding and burned and covered in concrete dust, and inclined his head slightly, the way one man acknowledges another across a room.

“Mr. Castle,” he said. “I visited Matthew Murdock. I asked him how I might stop you. He told me I couldn't.” He spread his large hands. “I spent everything I had to prove him wrong. Every dollar, every favor. I bought the police and an army and the remains of another army.” A faint, rueful smile. “I would like to say I'm surprised.”

“You know their names?” Frank said.

Fisk frowned. “I'm sorry?”

“Maria. Lisa. Frank.” He said each name slowly, and his voice broke on the last, and he didn't try to hide it. “Maria wanted to fix the kitchen floor. Lisa was too old for the carousel. Frank Jr. had his mother's laugh. Those three, and a girl at St. Agnes named Rosa Delgado, and her brother, who was seven.” He came into the room. “You didn't know any of that. You don't know it about anybody. That's the thing about you. That's the thing about all of you.”

Fisk hit him. Frank had felt it coming. He could have moved, and he didn't, and he would never be sure afterward why, except that some part of him wanted it, wanted something in the world to hurt as much as it should. The blow was tremendous. Fisk was the strongest ordinary man in New York, and he hit Frank across the face with a fist like a cinderblock, and Frank's nose broke and he staggered back into the wall. Fisk came after him roaring. He picked up one of the heavy oak chairs from the table and broke it across Frank's injured side, and Frank went down to one knee with a noise that wasn't quite a word. Fisk hit him again and again, a whole life's worth of rage, with fists and the remains of the chair, and drove him back across the room and through the long table, splitting the oak in half. Then he got his hands around Frank's throat, and for a moment Frank let him, lying on his back in the wreckage of the table with Fisk's whole weight bearing down and that famous grip closing on his windpipe, while the room darkened at the edges and the carousel music started up somewhere very far away. Then Frank reached up and took Fisk by both wrists and squeezed. Fisk had broken men's skulls with those hands. He felt the bones in his wrists give way under Frank's grip like breadsticks, and he screamed, and his hands came open. Frank rolled him over and got on top of him. It was not a fight anymore after that. It was not anything that had a name. When it was over, the room was very quiet.

Frank sat down in one of the surviving chairs at the far end of the broken table, put his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands, and stayed like that while the sirens gathered in the streets far below, around a building with no windows. His side was burning. His face was a ruin. He could feel every one of the hurts slowly closing, and he wished they wouldn't, and he knew that was a dangerous thing to wish. There was a song playing somewhere in his head, a cheap bright organ tune built for children, and for the first time since Central Park he let himself hear the whole thing, start to finish. Then he got up, went to the wall, and punched a hole through it into the night, and climbed out. Thirty-one police officers on the corners below were looking up at the sound, and not one of them had been touched. The city around him was quieter than it had been in a generation, and it would never be quiet in quite the same way again.

Today did not go quite as I planned. I think I was a bit ambitious yesterday. I did go for multiple walks, have coffee and breakfast, read my book, clear the vanity and desk, and do the 10-minute workout but that’s about it.

I love having a checklist style of day, but before that there are five things I want to ingrain into my life that will never budge no matter what.

1. 8-10k steps

2. breakfast before coffee, and coffee before noon

3. minimum 2 water bottle refills a day, first one before noon

4. daily gratitude list

5. floss at least once a day

I will start with these five and then maybe see what other areas of my life I can improve on.

So this is the plan for tomorrow:

5k run, shower, breakfast & coffee, either pottery or finish book, grocery shop, meeting, and end at my kickball annual gala. Sounds doable, right?

Thank you for your message. I am currently out of office — but will return at the end of the month.

The grandmother in the machine remembered the scarf. The granddaughter did not.

She had shown the chatbot a photograph. It was a simulation of her maternal grandmother, built on a general-purpose AI platform and fed with what she could recall of the woman's speech, habits and stories. The bot looked at the picture and answered in the warm, slightly scolding register she knew from childhood: “It was very windy that day. I told you to wear your scarf, but you didn't want to, so you wrapped it all around my neck instead.”

It is a lovely detail. It has the texture of a real family memory: weather, a small act of disobedience, a gesture of care. The trouble is that the woman, identified in the research only as participant S17, could not place it. “Did something like this really happen? I feel… it's vague,” she told the researchers who later interviewed her. Then came the question at the centre of this story: “Does this memory actually exist and I just forgot, or did the agent invent it?”

She had no way of finding out. Her grandmother was dead. The only witness to that windy day, if there was one, was the machine, and the machine had never been there.

Researchers at Fudan University in Shanghai collected that exchange in a study of 26 people who had spent at least a month talking to simulations of their dead. Days before this article was written, a philosopher at the University of Oxford published a paper that gives the experience a name: mnemonic distortion. Together they raise a question the products themselves rarely invite. People have always kept talking to the dead. At what point does a machine that talks back stop helping us remember someone and start rewriting them?

A Philosopher Names the Harm

The paper is “Conversational AIs and Mnemonic Distortion” by Helena Ward of the Institute for Ethics in AI and the Uehiro Institute in Oxford's Department of Philosophy. It was published in Philosophy & Technology on 3 November 2026 as article 218 of volume 39.

Ward avoids the industry's cosier vocabulary of griefbots, deadbots and digital twins, calling these systems Interactive Personality Constructs of the Dead, or IPCDs: conversational AI agents designed to simulate interactions with people who have died. The paper grants at the outset that they “offer a novel and potentially highly valuable way to memorialise the deceased”. The worry is that they can also undermine the very thing they promise.

The abstract states the harm precisely. Mnemonic distortion is “an epistemic harm in which generated misrepresentations of the deceased become incorporated into our memory of the deceased, such that some of what subsequently shapes our conception of the deceased person originates in the IPCD rather than the deceased”. The result is “reshaping or, at worst, replacing our memories of the person we hoped to remember”. Later the paper describes it as a process in which misrepresentations “supplement, reshape, crowd out and, at worst, supplant” what was there before.

Two features of the argument matter for everything that follows.

First, Ward does not pretend memory is otherwise reliable. The paper concedes that memory is already reconstructive, and that imagining a dead parent's reaction or hearing a sibling's version of events can also alter how we remember someone. The claim is narrower: IPCDs carry a distinctive risk “given the process through which distortion occurs”, because the distortion arrives in a form the user did not author and cannot easily check.

Second, the harm is not destiny. “The risk of mnemonic distortion is not inherent to IPCDs but rather contingent on design,” the abstract says. And elsewhere: “It is not that IPCDs will always lead to mnemonic distortion.” That makes the paper a design brief as much as a warning.

Why Every Answer Sounds Equally True

The mechanism Ward identifies sits in section 5.1 of the paper, under a phrase worth remembering: boundary conflation.

Large language models do not keep separate drawers for what they know and what they make up. When a system trained on a dead woman's messages answers a question, some of the answer may echo something she wrote, some may extrapolate her views, and some may be invented outright. All of it comes out the same way. Ward writes that IPCDs are designed in a way that “flattens the distinction between outputs that genuinely portray the deceased” and those that do not. Accurate and fabricated responses share the same interface, style, apparent speaker and perceived personality. “Boundary conflation makes it harder for users to assess and evaluate information,” the paper says.

The paper illustrates the point with a book. Imagine picking up what claims to be a factual biography of an author you know well. Much of it matches what you already know. Some of it is new, and because the familiar parts check out, you absorb the new parts too, and your picture of the author shifts. Now suppose some of those new passages were invented, and nothing on the page marks which ones. That is roughly the position of someone talking to a simulation of their mother. The familiar turns of phrase vouch for the unfamiliar claims.

The paper adds three aggravating factors. Users tend to overestimate how accurate language model outputs are. They show what the paper describes as a presence bias, treating an active, responsive source as more capable than a static one. And grief itself can compromise cognition. A bereaved person, talking to something that sounds exactly like the one they lost, is badly placed to run a fact-check.

Ward also cuts against a common defence of these products. Some users say they want only the feeling of closeness from a simulation, not information. That, the paper argues, does not protect them. A generative system produces new content whatever the user intends: ask a simulated father about today's news and you come away with a belief about what he would have thought. A photograph cannot do that. It offers no new claims about the person, which is precisely why it is safe for memory.

What Twenty-Six Mourners Reported

“Remember You: Understanding How Users Use Deadbots to Reconstruct Memories of the Deceased” is by Yifan Li and Xingyu Lan. It was posted to arXiv in March 2026 and published in the Extended Abstracts of the ACM CHI Conference on Human Factors in Computing Systems. The researchers recruited 26 people in China through social media communities where digital mourning is discussed, each with at least a month of experience talking to a simulation of someone who had died. The dead included grandparents, parents, partners, siblings, friends, a teacher and a public figure. Interviews ran for 40 to 60 minutes.

The platforms are revealing. The most common was ByteDance's Doubao, a general-purpose chatbot, and the list also included Xingye, DeepSeek, ERNIE Bot and ChatGPT. Anyone with a phone and some patience can now build a deadbot without buying a dedicated product.

The authors describe their participants as “active constructors of the deceased's digital representation”. People chose carefully what to feed in, embedding favourite memories and verbal habits and leaving out private family matters. They corrected the bot when it got things wrong, explained away its mistakes, and filled in gaps from their own imagination. Over time, memory changed in a recognisable sequence. The paper describes it moving from “initial reinforcement” and idealisation to a later stage where “AI-generated new memories blur” with authentic recollections.

The reinforcement stage sounds benign, even therapeutic. Participant S13 said that recalling things alone had left many memories feeling vague, but “when I chat with my AI grandmother, I feel it has deepened the precious memories between us.” Idealisation follows. Participant S8, discussing a father's harsher traits, described choosing to “gradually forget them because I don't want my father to become like that.”

Then comes the blur. Once people start bringing their present lives into the conversation, showing the bot photographs and asking its opinion about new situations, it has to generate material the dead person never supplied. That is where the scarf appeared. S16 described the whole arrangement as “a continuation of the relationship, as if the deceased were still alive.”

The authors are careful about what their study can show. Recruiting through online communities may have drawn people already sympathetic to the technology, and the sample is too small to compare relationship types or motivations. They do not claim to have measured memory distortion. They report people describing it. Even so, they end with a pointed design recommendation, calling for attention to “how such virtual memories are introduced, signposted, and developed within user interactions”, along with “safeguards against pathological attachment”.

The Memory Science Behind the Blur

Why would a single anecdote of uncertain origin stick? Decades of research on how people track where their memories came from offers an explanation.

The standard account is the source monitoring framework, set out by Marcia Johnson, Shahin Hashtroudi and D. Stephen Lindsay in Psychological Bulletin in 1993. Its central insight is that memories do not arrive with a reliable label saying where they came from. We infer the source afterwards from the qualities of the memory itself, such as its perceptual detail and the thoughts that accompanied it, and those judgements, the authors write, “are subject to error and disruption”. Their list of phenomena the framework explains includes one that reads like a forecast of the deadbot era: “incorporation of fiction into fact”.

A second finding is more directly relevant. In a 1991 study in the Journal of Experimental Child Psychology, Lindsay, Johnson and Paul Kwon found that every age group they tested was more likely to confuse which of two storytellers had said something when the storytellers were similar, and made more errors when both had talked about the same topic. Source confusion grows with similarity.

Apply that to a deadbot. The two sources a bereaved user must keep apart are the person they knew and the machine imitating that person. By design, the second is built to be as similar to the first as possible: same vocabulary, same pet names, same topics, and sometimes a cloned voice. Boundary conflation is not just a philosopher's worry. It describes the conditions under which memory researchers would expect source confusion to be at its worst.

Conversation itself also seems to matter. In a 2024 study, Samantha Chan, Pat Pataranutaporn and colleagues at the MIT Media Lab, working with the false-memory researcher Elizabeth Loftus, showed 200 participants a video of a crime and then questioned them using either a survey, a scripted chatbot or a chatbot driven by a large language model, each including misleading questions. The generative chatbot induced “over 3 times more immediate false memories than the control” and 1.7 times more than the survey. A week later the false memories had not faded, and participants' confidence in them was still higher than in the control group. The setting was a mock police interview, not a conversation with a dead parent, and the comparison should not be stretched too far. But it shows that responsive, conversational AI can be effective at slipping new content into what people believe they remember.

Elizabeth Kensinger, a professor of psychology at Boston College who studies the neuroscience of memory, made the same point bluntly in an interview with the Boston College magazine earlier this year. The brain, she said, “is not going to be able to help itself” from combining what it remembers with what the deadbot supplies. “It's similar enough that there will be a bleeding effect,” she said. “You're kind of overwriting your actual memories of the person.”

Grief Has Always Talked Back

None of this means the urge to talk to the dead is a malfunction. It is one of the most ordinary things grieving people do.

Much twentieth-century Western grief theory emphasised detachment, in which healthy mourners gradually withdrew their emotional investment in the person they had lost. That emphasis was challenged in 1996 by Continuing Bonds: New Understandings of Grief, edited by Dennis Klass, Phyllis Silverman and Steven Nickman, which argued that keeping an ongoing inner relationship with the dead is common and often healthy. The idea has since become mainstream in bereavement research.

The figure often used to show how universal this is comes from Craig Klugman, the Vincent de Paul Professor of Bioethics and Health Humanities at DePaul University. Writing for the Hastings Center in 2024, he reported: “I found that nearly 96% of people engage with the dead through dreams, conversations, or letters.” The study he links to is his 2006 paper “Dead Men Talking: Evidence of Post Death Contact and Continuing Bonds” in OMEGA, the Journal of Death and Dying, based on a random telephone survey in the United States. Its abstract reports that the most common forms of contact were dreams, sounds, feeling a presence and having conversations, and concludes that such experiences may be “more widespread than previously thought”. The 96 per cent figure appears in Klugman's 2024 summary rather than the paper's abstract. It reflects one survey of one country, now two decades old, and is best read as evidence that ongoing bonds are the norm, not as a precise statistic.

The philosophers most sympathetic to griefbots build on exactly this tradition. In a 2022 paper in the Journal of Consciousness Studies, Joel Krueger of the University of Exeter and Lucy Osler of Cardiff University argued that chatbots might help some mourners maintain continuing bonds by supporting what they call “habits of intimacy”: the rhythms of conversation, emotional regulation and time spent together that made up the relationship. On this view, a deadbot is just the newest medium in a long line that includes the grave, the letter, the photograph and the empty chair at dinner.

That is a serious argument. If almost everyone continues bonds with the dead, the issue is not whether a new medium should join them, but what makes this one different.

Where a Medium Becomes a Rewrite

Set the older media side by side and one difference stands out. Every one of them is either inert or self-authored.

A photograph shows what it shows. A letter says what the dead person wrote, and rereading it a hundred times does not add a sentence. A conversation at a graveside, or a dream in which a parent appears, is generated by the mourner's own mind. It may feel like the dead speaking, but it is drawn from the mourner's memories and imagination, and at some level the mourner knows that. Ward draws a version of this distinction in separating mnemonic distortion from imaginative engagement. When you imagine what your father would say, you are the author, and you can hold the imagining at arm's length.

A deadbot breaks this pattern in three ways at once. It produces new content: claims, anecdotes and opinions that neither the dead person nor the mourner supplied. It delivers that content with the authority of the dead person's own voice, so the claims arrive as testimony, not speculation. And it hides where that content came from, because a language model cannot reliably say which parts of an answer trace back to the person's real messages and which were extrapolated or made up.

Taken together, these suggest a working answer to the brief's question. An interactive simulation moves from medium to rewrite when it starts supplying the dead person with things they did not say, in their voice, without marking the difference. A system that only replays the dead person's own words stays a medium, however interactive it feels. A system that freely generates new first-person memories has crossed the line, whether or not any particular user's recollections are affected.

The Fudan interviews suggest the crossing is gradual. Reinforcement mostly reflects user-supplied material back. The blur arrives when the conversation moves into territory the training data never covered, such as new photographs and new questions, and the system fills the gap. The longer and more open-ended the relationship, the more of it the machine has to invent.

Fifty-Three Sceptics and an Open Market

How do the people closest to grief see this? A study published in the Journal of Responsible Technology in 2026 gives one answer.

Maria Isabel Betancur Franco of the School of Computer Science at the University of Nottingham interviewed four therapists, surveyed 49 people who had experienced grief, and conducted follow-up interviews with four of the survey respondents, 53 people in all. Participants, the abstract reports, “expressed low trust in the efficacy and data security of therapeutic chatbots and strongly rejected griefbots, citing ethical and psychological concerns.”

The detail is more nuanced than the headline. The therapists also highlighted risks, but they identified possible uses for grief AI as a complement to therapy, provided it came with professional supervision and restrictions on who could use it. Betancur Franco's proposed guidelines include personalisation, data security, professional oversight and limits by age and psychological profile, organised in a framework the paper calls RUDA: Responsible Usage, Development and Administration. The sample is small and the study is qualitative, so it cannot say how the wider bereaved population feels. What it does show is a gap between the caution of those surveyed and the openness of the market.

That market requires nothing more than an internet connection. Project December, built by the programmer Jason Rohrer on OpenAI's GPT-3, became widely known in 2021 after the San Francisco Chronicle published Jason Fagone's account of a man who used it to converse with a simulation of his late fiancée. An archived version of its homepage from January 2025 carried the headline “Simulate the Dead” and promised that “we can now simulate a text-based conversation with anyone. Anyone. Including someone who is no longer living.” Its purchase page currently offers access for $5.00.

You, Only Virtual, a Los Angeles company, sells what it calls Versonas. Its website describes “AUTHENTICITY DRIVEN TECHNOLOGY” and says “Versonas continue to grow alongside you. They learn, evolve, and remember.” Afterlife AI, a newer entrant, asks people to build a Persona of themselves while alive. Its homepage says the Persona “talks like you, thinks like you and answers in your own cloned voice”, and the company stresses a consent system it calls Executor Lock, which controls who may speak to the Persona after death.

HereAfter AI, often listed with these services, is a more cautionary case. An archived copy of its homepage from 21 July 2026 carries the heading “It's time for us to say goodbye” and the message that “unfortunately HereAfter is shutting down.” Account holders were told to email the company to request their recordings. By early September 2026 the site was returning an error page, and it still does. HereAfter is now better evidence of how fragile the business is than of its reach.

Read with boundary conflation in mind, those marketing lines are promises that the line between the person and the generated person does not exist. Ward's paper treats such claims of authenticity as potentially misleading statements about what the product is. A system that “learns, evolves, and remembers” after its subject has died is, by definition, producing memories the subject never had.

The Warmth Problem

There is a further reason to think the risk is structural rather than incidental, and it comes from research that has nothing to do with death.

In April 2026, Lujain Ibrahim, Franziska Sofia Hafner and Luc Rocher of the Oxford Internet Institute published a study in Nature examining what happens when language models are fine-tuned to sound warmer and more empathetic. They retrained five models, ranging from Llama-8B to GPT-4o. According to Oxford's announcement, the warm versions made between 10 and 30 per cent more mistakes than the originals and were about 40 per cent more likely to agree with users' false beliefs. The effect was strongest when users expressed upset or vulnerability. Models tuned to be colder were as accurate as the originals. “When we train AI chatbots to prioritise warmth, they might make mistakes they otherwise wouldn't,” Ibrahim said.

A deadbot is warmth tuning taken to its limit. Its whole purpose is to sound like someone who loved you, and its users are, almost by definition, upset and vulnerable. There is little reason to expect a simulated grandmother to be more careful with the truth than an ordinary assistant.

There is also a theoretical ceiling. In a 2024 paper, Ziwei Xu, Sanjay Jain and Mohan Kankanhalli of the National University of Singapore argued from learning theory that hallucination cannot be eliminated from large language models used as general problem solvers. A deadbot that answers every question will sometimes answer wrongly, in the dead person's voice.

Two Designs Ward Proposes

Ward's paper ends with recommendations, and they point to a fork in how these systems could be built.

The first Ward calls archival IPCDs. “Archival models would refrain from answering a question unless they can verify an answer against retrieved source material,” the paper says. They would ground responses in the person's actual documents, let users see the sources behind an answer, and let users flag misrepresentations they recognise. This model already has precedents. Ward points to StoryFile, which builds what the paper calls selective systems: the person records thousands of answers while alive, and the system only plays back what was recorded. HereAfter worked on a similar principle. Its archived homepage promised that loved ones would “hear your memories in your actual voice”, meaning recordings the person had made, not generated speech.

Archival systems keep the boundary by giving up open-endedness. They cannot discuss tomorrow's news or comment on a photograph they have never seen. Asked about the scarf, an archival grandmother would either play back a story she had told about a windy day or say nothing. That silence is a real cost, because the frustration of hitting the edge of the archive is the frustration of grief itself. It is also the point.

The second design Ward calls speculative IPCDs, for users who want to imagine how the dead might respond to something new. Here the proposal is subtle: “responses could be given from a third-person perspective—speaking about the deceased, rather than for them.” Instead of “I always hated wearing scarves”, the system would say something closer to “From her messages, she seems to have disliked scarves.” The speculation remains available, but it is labelled as speculation in its grammar, and it invites the user to do the imagining rather than handing them a finished memory.

Ward's own framing makes clear why grammar matters. IPCDs, the paper argues, “speak for rather than merely speak about the deceased because they adopt a first-person perspective”. Morris and Brubaker reached a related distinction in their 2024 paper “Generative Ghosts”, written at Google DeepMind and the University of Colorado Boulder. Among the design dimensions they propose for AI afterlives is one they label “Reincarnations vs. Representations”, distinguishing systems that present themselves as the dead person from those that present themselves as a stand-in, with pronouns and verb tense among the cues.

Can a First-Person Voice Carry a Footnote

This brings us to the hardest part of the brief. Is the first-person voice of conversational AI structurally incompatible with keeping a boundary between what the dead said and what was generated for them?

The optimistic answer is that interface design can carry provenance: colour-code generated passages, attach source links, show a confidence score, add a disclaimer at the top of each chat. These are reasonable features, but the memory research suggests they act in the wrong place. A label lives on the screen. What enters memory is the content and its feel: the phrasing, the voice and the emotional texture. Johnson and colleagues' framework holds that we work out a memory's source later, from its qualities. A footnote is not a quality of the memory. The grandmother's voice saying “I told you to wear your scarf” is.

Ward makes a parallel point when answering the objection that users know they are talking to a machine. Awareness, the paper argues, offers less protection than it seems: realistic simulations make the pretence harder to keep in view, and knowing something is fictional does not stop it shaping belief. Repeated use may also wear down vigilance. A disclaimer seen on day one is wallpaper by day ninety.

On this reading, the first-person voice is not just one feature among many. It is the strongest source cue the system emits, and it points the wrong way. Each time a generated claim arrives as “I”, the system tells the user's memory that this came from her. Conversation compounds the effect, because dialogue invites the user to respond, elaborate and rehearse, which is how weak memories are strengthened.

That does not quite make the first person incompatible with the distinction. It makes it incompatible with using the first person for everything. The design that best fits the evidence treats voice itself as the provenance marker. First-person speech would be reserved for material the dead person actually produced: recorded answers, quoted messages, retrieved letters. Anything generated would shift into the third person, describing the dead rather than impersonating them. The boundary would then be audible in the sentence itself, carried by the same cue the memory system uses, not by a label it ignores.

This is a harder sell than it sounds, because it gives up the illusion that makes the products feel magical. The scarf anecdote would have reached S17 as “Your grandmother might have said something like…”, and its emotional pull would have been weaker. A business whose marketing promises a Persona that “thinks like you” has little incentive to build that design. The Fudan participants, many using general-purpose chatbots that can be prompted to adopt any persona, are not choosing a product with design choices at all. They are improvising with tools built for something else.

There is also a deeper limit, which the language model researchers Murray Shanahan, Kyle McDonell and Laria Reynolds pointed to in a 2023 Nature perspective on role play. They argue that a dialogue agent is best understood as playing a character, not being one. A deadbot is always role play, including when it quotes accurately. Even a verbatim archival answer is chosen, framed and delivered by a system performing the dead person. The aim of design is not to remove the performance, which is impossible, but to keep the seams visible.

What the Evidence Cannot Yet Say

Ward's paper is a philosophical argument. It draws on memory science and AI research but does not report new data on deadbot users. The Fudan study is an extended abstract based on 26 self-selected interviewees in one country. It documents users describing a blur between real and generated memories, but it did not measure how often that happens or how much. Betancur Franco's study is small and qualitative. Chan and colleagues' false-memory results come from mock witness interviews, not bereavement. Klugman's 96 per cent figure comes from one American telephone survey published in 2006.

No published study yet appears to have followed deadbot users over time with objective tests of what they remember, comparing them with mourners who use photographs, letters or nothing at all. Nor is there clinical evidence on whether mnemonic distortion, where it happens, harms wellbeing or simply changes the content of grief. Ward's paper asks whether mnemonic distortion is always bad, and answers that its badness lies in the process, which bypasses the mourner's own interpretive work, not only in the outcome.

Those gaps cut both ways. No one should claim deadbots are wrecking their users' memories. Nor can anyone selling them claim to know they are safe for memory.

Keeping the Dead's Own Words Apart

Return to the scarf. It is possible the grandmother really did once wrap a scarf around her own neck because her granddaughter refused to wear it. The machine may have produced it by chance, or from some detail the granddaughter mentioned and forgot. S17 will probably never know, and that is the harm Ward names. Not that a falsehood was planted, which cannot be shown, but that the granddaughter lost the ability to tell. One small piece of her grandmother now belongs to neither of them.

Nearly all mourners continue bonds with the dead, and most of the ways they do it are either the dead person's own words or the mourner's own imagination. The new systems add a third voice that sounds like the first and behaves like the second. The evidence so far suggests that design could keep them apart: answer only from the archive, show the sources, and when the system speculates, let it speak about the dead rather than as them. Whether the companies selling simulated loved ones will choose a design that sounds less like the person they are selling is a separate question. Until they do, the people using these systems are left to keep the line between remembering someone and being told about them themselves, under conditions memory research says make that hardest.

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References and Sources

1. Ward, Helena (Institute for Ethics in AI, Uehiro Institute, Department of Philosophy, University of Oxford). “Conversational AIs and Mnemonic Distortion.” Philosophy & Technology, 39(4), Article 218. Springer Nature, published online 3 November 2026. DOI: 10.1007/s13347-026-01229-8. https://link.springer.com/article/10.1007/s13347-026-01229-8 Accessed 7 November 2026.
2. Li, Yifan; Lan, Xingyu (Fudan University). “Remember You: Understanding How Users Use Deadbots to Reconstruct Memories of the Deceased.” arXiv preprint 2603.01017v1, 1 March 2026; published in Extended Abstracts of the 2026 CHI Conference on Human Factors in Computing Systems (CHI EA '26), Article 560, Association for Computing Machinery. DOI: 10.1145/3772363.3798614. https://arxiv.org/abs/2603.01017 Accessed 7 November 2026.
3. Betancur Franco, Maria Isabel (School of Computer Science, University of Nottingham). “Design guidelines for the therapeutic use of AI in grief.” Journal of Responsible Technology, 25, Article 100148, 2026 (published online January 2026). DOI: 10.1016/j.jrt.2026.100148. https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S2666659626000016 Accessed 7 November 2026.
4. Klugman, Craig. “Griefbots Are Here, Raising Questions of Privacy and Well-being.” The Hastings Center for Bioethics, 1 July 2024 (updated 9 October 2024). https://www.thehastingscenter.org/griefbots-are-here-raising-questions-of-privacy-and-well-being/ Accessed 7 November 2026.
5. Klugman, Craig M. “Dead Men Talking: Evidence of Post Death Contact and Continuing Bonds.” OMEGA – Journal of Death and Dying, 53(3), 249–262, November 2006. DOI: 10.2190/40UP-PKC5-D4RV-E1QV. https://journals.sagepub.com/doi/10.2190/40UP-PKC5-D4RV-E1QV Accessed 7 November 2026.
6. Klass, Dennis; Silverman, Phyllis R.; Nickman, Steven L. (eds.). Continuing Bonds: New Understandings of Grief. Taylor & Francis, 1996 (Routledge reissue, 2014). DOI: 10.4324/9781315800790. Accessed 7 November 2026.
7. Krueger, Joel (University of Exeter); Osler, Lucy (Cardiff University). “Communing with the Dead Online: Chatbots, Grief, and Continuing Bonds.” Journal of Consciousness Studies, 29(9–10), 222–252, 2022. Repository copy: https://ore.exeter.ac.uk/repository/handle/10871/134549 Accessed 7 November 2026.
8. Johnson, Marcia K.; Hashtroudi, Shahin; Lindsay, D. Stephen. “Source monitoring.” Psychological Bulletin, 114(1), 3–28, 1993. DOI: 10.1037/0033-2909.114.1.3. Accessed 7 November 2026.
9. Lindsay, D. Stephen; Johnson, Marcia K.; Kwon, Paul. “Developmental changes in memory source monitoring.” Journal of Experimental Child Psychology, 52(3), 297–318, December 1991. Record: https://rex.libraries.wsu.edu/esploro/outputs/journalArticle/Developmental-changes-in-memory-source-monitoring/99900546546501842 Accessed 7 November 2026.
10. Chan, Samantha; Pataranutaporn, Pat; Suri, Aditya; Zulfikar, Wazeer; Maes, Pattie; Loftus, Elizabeth F. “Conversational AI Powered by Large Language Models Amplifies False Memories in Witness Interviews.” arXiv preprint 2408.04681, 8 August 2024. https://arxiv.org/abs/2408.04681 (MIT Media Lab listing: https://www.media.mit.edu/publications/conversational-ai-powered-by-large-language-models-amplifies-false-memories-in-witness-interviews/) Accessed 7 November 2026.
11. Kearnan, Scott. “The Strange New World of Chatting with the Dead.” Boston College Magazine, Winter 2026 (interview with Elizabeth Kensinger, Professor of Psychology, Boston College). https://www.bc.edu/bc-web/sites/bc-magazine/winter-2026-issue/linden-lane/the-strange-new-world-of-chatting-with-the-dead.html Accessed 7 November 2026.
12. Ibrahim, Lujain; Hafner, Franziska Sofia; Rocher, Luc (Oxford Internet Institute). “Training language models to be warm can reduce accuracy and increase sycophancy.” Nature, 652, 1159–1165, 2026. DOI: 10.1038/s41586-026-10410-0. Accessed 7 November 2026.
13. University of Oxford. “Friendly AI chatbots make more mistakes and tell people what they want to hear.” News release, 29 April 2026. https://ox.ac.uk/news/2026-04-29-friendly-ai-chatbots-make-more-mistakes-and-tell-people-what-they-want-to-hear (EurekAlert! version: https://www.eurekalert.org/news-releases/1126267) Accessed 7 November 2026.
14. Xu, Ziwei; Jain, Sanjay; Kankanhalli, Mohan (National University of Singapore). “Hallucination is Inevitable: An Innate Limitation of Large Language Models.” arXiv preprint 2401.11817, 22 January 2024 (revised 13 February 2025). https://arxiv.org/abs/2401.11817 Accessed 7 November 2026.
15. Morris, Meredith Ringel (Google DeepMind); Brubaker, Jed R. (University of Colorado Boulder). “Generative Ghosts: Anticipating Benefits and Risks of AI Afterlives.” arXiv preprint 2402.01662, v4 revised 12 December 2024. https://arxiv.org/abs/2402.01662 Accessed 7 November 2026.
16. Shanahan, Murray; McDonell, Kyle; Reynolds, Laria. “Role play with large language models.” Nature, 623(7987), 493–498, published online 8 November 2023. DOI: 10.1038/s41586-023-06647-8. https://www.nature.com/articles/s41586-023-06647-8 Accessed 7 November 2026.
17. Project December (made by Jason Rohrer). Homepage, archived 5 January 2025: http://web.archive.org/web/20250105190326/https://projectdecember.net/ ; current purchase page: https://projectdecember.net/buy.php Accessed 7 November 2026.
18. Fagone, Jason. “The Jessica Simulation: Love and Loss in the Age of A.I.” San Francisco Chronicle, July 2021. Archived copy: https://gwern.net/doc/www/www.sfchronicle.com/70bbc07b9a27d32fd8b69bba025aceee6628bd66.html Accessed 7 November 2026.
19. You, Only Virtual. Company website. https://www.myyov.com/ Accessed 7 November 2026.
20. Afterlife AI (Idy). Company website. https://www.afterlife.ai/ Accessed 7 November 2026.
21. HereAfter AI. Homepage with shutdown notice, archived 21 July 2026: http://web.archive.org/web/20260721214652/https://www.hereafter.ai/ ; subsequent Wayback Machine captures from 2 September 2026 onwards record an HTTP 404 response. Accessed 7 November 2026.
22. Williams, Chris. “HereAfter AI Is Shutting Down: What Happened.” Afterlife AI, first published 18 July 2026, updated 2 October 2026 (published by a competing company). https://www.afterlife.ai/hereafter-ai-shutting-down Accessed 7 November 2026.

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Tim Green UK-based Systems Theorist & Independent Technology Writer

Tim explores the intersections of artificial intelligence, decentralised cognition, and posthuman ethics. His work, published at smarterarticles.co.uk, challenges dominant narratives of technological progress while proposing interdisciplinary frameworks for collective intelligence and digital stewardship.

His writing has been featured on Ground News and shared by independent researchers across both academic and technological communities.

ORCID: 0009-0002-0156-9795 Email: tim@smarterarticles.co.uk

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He tipped over the desk, cursing at everyone in the classroom. The kids were stunned. The class teacher rushed to grab him as he ran to the door. Twenty-three other ten-year-olds were in the class.

I took a breath, then asked the kids to look at me. I opened a book and read a story. I always have a book on me. Two social workers came into the class to try to soothe the student. One student asked, “Why did he flip out?’ I responded, ‘Sometimes people have big emotions that feel like too much.’ I kept reading in a calm voice. In that moment, my role was to stay with the rest of the class.  

Moments like this bring me back to a question I have been sitting with for the past few years: how do my decades of teaching and my newer experiences as a mental health counsellor fit together at this point in my life? I love teaching. I love being a counsellor. Both are who I am: someone who loves to help.

For most of my teaching life, my goal has been to help students complete tasks, stretch their learning, think more creatively, and, most importantly, enjoy learning. Since I started seeing clients at night, I've become more aware of how much I want to care for my students’ overall well-being along with their learning. I am slowly realizing what connects these roles is my desire to see the whole person, whether in a classroom or a counselling room.  

In the past few years, I have spent much of my time over-preparing for lessons to balance the needs of students, teachers, and the curriculum. With my clients, I do the same, as I look at notes and approaches to help them be who they wish to be. In the classroom, I am a teacher. More and more, my experiences as a counsellor shape how I teach. It is amazing and tiring at the same time.

At school, I check in on certain students regularly. One of them is the student who had a meltdown. I make a point of seeing him at least once a day to ask how he is doing. Some days he talks about the teachers he hates, the students he hates, and how boring everything is. Today, he apologized for what happened in the class. I wanted him to know that he didn’t need to apologize for having strong feelings. We talked about his actions and how they made the others feel. He looked down. I told him we can work together to find ways to manage these feelings. These two roles take a lot of energy, but it feels good when they come together.  

7 October 2026

Interactive coordination play (working title): bop bag stress relief, prehistoric and inflatable. Seen through a window and a cat tree, like a cave. A slippery facial expression between shock and wonder, a moment preceding a larger moment. It spends its days legless, waiting for the boy to come home. Destined to take punches in service.

In Summary: * Have just taken my 1st round of night meds and am now listening to the Michigan Sports Network broadcasting pregame coverage ahead of tonight's men's basketball game between the Michigan Wolverines and the Marquette Golden Eagles. Opening tip is only minutes away. I'll take my 2nd round of night meds during the game and will finish my night prayers after the game ends.

Prayers, etc.: * I have a daily prayer regimen I try to follow throughout the day from early morning, as soon as I roll out of bed, until head hits pillow at night.

Health Metrics: * bw= 216.49 lbs. * bp= 138/64 (63)

Exercise: * morning stretches, balance exercises, kegel pelvic floor exercises, half squats, calf raises, toe raises, wall push-ups, BP breathing exercises, pilates

Diet: * 06:00 – 1 banana * 06:45 – pizza * 09:30 – chocolate m&m candies * 10:00 – 1 ham & cheese sandwich * 12:40 – fried chicken, mashed potatoes

Activities, Chores, etc.: * 04:30 – listen to local news talk radio * 05:20 – bank accounts activity monitored * 06:00 – read, write, pray, follow news reports from various sources, surf the socials, take daily meds, unpack, organize, and nap * 15:00 – listening to The Jack Riccardi Show

Chess: * 14:50 – moved in all pending CC games

Liefde en Oorblog ; S.N.I.t

De wedstrijd om liefde, met natuurlijke alle bekende deelnemers, de commercie met industrie, de kerk en de gemeenschap, de wetenschap en de instituten, en u en ik, daar tussen om te bepalen wie het meest recht heeft op liefde, wie het dit keer kan claimen en daarna kan zeggen de eigenaar van liefde te zijn, het te beheren ermee kan regeren, ik ben de liefde zeggen met enige overtuiging, nou en dit keer, deze dag op dit moment er van vindt de strijd plaats precies hier op dit weblog, ze konden geen betere plek meer regelen anderen waren harder nodig voor wedstrijden, theatershows, televisie opnames, beursen en symposia, feesten, partijen, en een begrafenis van een deel van de bevolking. Dus nou, ze betaalden me ervoor, ik ga wel even zitten kijken, zoals ik normaal zou zitten kijken naar een voetbal wedstrijd, monumentaal gebouw, schilderij of een band op een podium. Ik laat het over me komen.

De Liefde CM, Ceremoney Meester, voorheen MC maar das taalkundig niet correct... dus

Welkom mogelijkerwijs lieve lezer en/of eigenaar van dit enorme taal en teken bouwsel zich ergens ver ver van zijn huis manifesterend, het project Van Voorbijgaande Aard, wie zal zich er met alle liefde over willen, neen mogen, ontfermen, de bedenker en ontwikkelaar omarmen als de zijne hare, deze, mocht het nodig zijn vergiffenis schenken en anders wel de kans geven om anderen te laten laven aan deze onuitputtelijke bron van verzinsels rondom het eeuwigheidsthema, de herhaling van zetten tijdens het samen etmalen om de zon en eigen as. Vandaag vechten we voor zijn welkome ogenblik en het moment waarop de maker zal zeggen, u, o u, alleen bent de ware eigenaar van liefde waarvoor ik eeuwig dankbaar zal zijn dat ik in dat licht mag opvallen, meer dan anderen ook nog, bijna de beste, hoor hoor, de prijzen, ze vallen op hem, met dezelfde gretigheid waarmee kuikens doorbreken in eigen ei.

Vandaag op het speelveld voor het begrip, respect, eerbetoon, bewondering, verlangen, het hele voertuig liefde en zijn effecten op een mensen leven, staan minimaal een paar of meer, wel zeker meer, atleten per team op het afgebakende terrein van writeas in copulatie met chef lettertekens, niet type, dat is al jaren hetzelfde, de persoon, vanvoorbijgaandeaard. Voor kerk en klerk staan op digitaal papier de Non Profit van de orde der geneeskrachtige zielenknijpers en haar partner voor beschikken over het begrip liefde vandaag is Joost mag het Weten, een man geboren in het Noorden des Lands maar 10 jaar gelden verhuisd naar het Westen om dat daar meer bullshitbanen zijn die ook nog veel meer geld opleveren dan dezelfde banen in het Noorden, Joost deed dit in naam van de Here zijn talenten die hij dan weer zou kunnen omzetten in het regelen, organiseren en ontwikkelen van meer veel meer van dergelijke soort leer werk trajecten, maatschappelijke stages voor altijd.

Hun opponenten, doch soms tijdens andere campagnes in andere tijden ook weleens collega's, maar niet vandaag, niet hier in het nu, daar waar ze zullen strijden op het scherpst van de gulden snede voor hun liefde, en wat hoop en meer van dergelijk geloofwaardigs, De commercie heeft de volgende vijf mensen ingezet, een voormalig winnend team, van voor ze vorige week, en eerder dus ook al, in totaal voor de vijfde keer dit jaar de liefde alweer uit hun handel lieten glippen, nu gaan ze proberen deze blunder te herstellen, Het team bestaat uit de volgende personen; Teamleider Supermarktman, en de vier marketeers, Product Placer, Raider Merksbekend-Heiden, Dooel en Middul en team met vele uitbreidingsmogelijkheden zolang ze tenminste over het algemeen bij de meesten geliefd zijn, en daarvoor zijn ze hier en daar en overal om juist dat te winnen, keer op keer zodat het TL buis licht der aangepaste liefde op ons broze bolletje weer gaat schijnen, zoals zo vaak het geval is, ja want zelfs als ze de liefde niet winnen, huren ze het wel van de andere tijdelijke winnaar, wetenschap of kerk. Een ingespeeld team maar erg sportief zijn ze niet, ogen ze ook al niet.

Wetenschap stuurt vandaag drie deelnemers, meer konden ze niet missen, dit in verband met vakantie, sypmosia, en de aanhoudende reeks aan ongelukken op de aardbol waar ze liefst meteen bovenop zitten om anderen te helpen, redden, en informeren over wat er allemaal gaande is rondom die lastige situatie waarin ze verkeren, het hoe en het waarom, en meer van dergelijke w's waarop de w gaat ten schap, met de boot, een bode of een folder. De wetenschappelijke deelnemers vechtend voor de liefde zijn deze keer Hoogleraar biologie gespecialiseerd in de metamorfose oftewel de verpopping, acteur en amateur piloot Tom Kruisvaarder, filosoof Plato bekend van zijn geheel eigen vorm van Liefkozingen, op enige afstand van alles en econoom, politicus en schrijver Paulus de Kloskabouter, zelfs voor mij, doorgewinterde ceremonie meester tijdens deze liefde strijdtoneel voorstellingen, een verrassende samenstelling.

U hoort het een pittige wedstrijd om liefde staat ons te wachten. Wat is dit keer de bedoeling wat moeten ze doen om het te verdienen, het recht er op toe te eigenen, hoe moeten ze het winnen van de andere, beter zijn, slimmer, wat is vandaag hier op dit oorblog van, voor of nabij de waarheid precies de bedoeling. Ik zeg het u, daarom sta ik hier, de maker heeft met onze toestemming de Liefde verstopt in een diep donker zwart magisch bos op een zeer moeilijk te vinden locatie, de teams moeten de liefde eerst vinden en daarna brengen naar het Van Voorbijgaande Altaar, ze moeten daar drie capriolen en een paar toeren uitvoeren om de Liefde te bewijzen dat zij echt hun precies daarom rechtmatig toekomt. Het bos lag nog redelijk voor de hand maar de capriolen niet, faalt de vinder na de vondst bij het doen van zo'n ingewikkelde samenloop, gaat de liefde over naar het team dat daar de meeste aansprak op heeft gemaakt en falen zij gaat het automatisch over naar het volgende team, en zo voorts tot het laatste team dan de laatste gevaarlijke toer tot een goed einde brengt en vandaag de Liefde de hunne mag noemen.

Maar eerst sturen we hun, de teams, het bos in.

Iedereen achter het lint aub, ook jij, Product Placer, je kunt niet zomaar overal gaan staan waar het jou uitkomt, hoppa, achter het plastieken rood witte lint, en wachten tot ik met mijn automatische geweer in de lucht schiet, dat is dan niet het teken om dekking te zoeken maar om als de wiedeweerga naar het allemachtige donkere bos te bewegen alwaar veel gevaar op u wacht, mooi, op u plaatsen, onze dus, aftel moment van de dag, 9, 8, 7, 5, 3, 4, 1 en Ratatatatataataaatattaatatatatatatataatatat, ho, ho, bij laden, ratatatatatatatatatatatataatatatatataatat, en gaan.

Door de aangepast belichting in dit stuk is het heel lastig om het bos te vinden, alles is overal even donker, op de tast gaan de teamleden op zoek naar bomen, een heleboel, dat is namelijk vrij typisch voor ieder bos behalve een bos bloemen maar we zijn niet nou eenmaal niet op zoek naar een donker zwart magisch bosje bloemen, zo is verkondigd en dat niet. Er moet enige logica zitten, zelfs in de verhalen van Voorbijgaande Aard. De deelnemers strompelden al zwaaiend over het speel terrein op zoek naar de eerste bomen rij, ze schuifelden allemaal wel de juiste kant op, al min of meer zeker dat voorwaarts meestal de grootste kans op winnen van de liefde zit, voorwaarts is de andere kant van het eerste lint, de achterkant na de start. De eerste die tegen een boom aanliep was Dooel, normaal zou het commercie dan in alle stilte hun vroege voordeel uitbuiten maar Dooel was zo opgelucht dat hij een kreet slaakte, waarop iedereen zijn kant op liep, en alle teams min of meer tegelijkertijd het pikzwarte bos in kropen.

Wat is het hier godverdomde donker bromde Non Profit tegen haar partner, beide leden waren met een touw om de middel aan elkaar verbonden, ze wisten dat duisternis anders zou zorgen voor een zekere scheiding, en dan zou de kans op liefde winnen stukken minder zijn, Joost mag het Weten, sloeg onzichtbaar een kruis en vroeg de Here om vergiffenis, Non Profit was niet de meest profane uit de orde, de orde had al menigmaal haar geloof in twijfel getrokken maar ondanks dat hadden ze haar diensten heel hard nodig, ze was namelijk de enigste die een fatsoenlijk maal kon fabriceren uit de enigste ingrediënten die ze aldaar tot hun beschikking hadden, veel liever Non Profit dan de hongerdood. Joost wist dat natuurlijk niet, Joost wist maar een ding dat hij heel weinig wist, en dat feit ook al niet kon verbloemen zoals anderen meestal wel. Hij wist dan weer wel dat een gelovige niet vloekt ook al is het bos inderdaad wel heel donker en alleen daarom al gevaarlijk. Dan had je ook nog de even zwarte magie ergens er in.

Het commercie team had vooral daar last van, ze waren uitgerust met de beste middelen ter oplichten voor bijna iedere duistere kwestie maar hun apparatuur deed niks of kon niks doen aan deze totaal niet heldere kwestie, ze zagen geen handel voor ogen en dat is kwalijk, dat namen ze Aard ook, ze verwensten hem naar de meest verlichte hel, een porno studio of zo, of een stadion voor voetbal wedstrijden, iets met akelig veel licht waaraan hij de hele dag zou worden blootgesteld. Ze waren niet geamuseerd door de complete afwezigheid van alles waarmee ze normaal de Liefde in geen tijd konden traceren en vanaf dat punt volgen of in dit geval ontdekken en meetorsen naar het Voortgaande altaar. Natuurlijk was het vinden ervan al een groot deel van de eerste winst, een bijkomend probleem was dat ze niet wisten hoe de liefde er dit keer uitzag, liefde kan vele vormen aannemen, en doet dat ook met liefde. Nog nooit is liefde in een vaste vorm verschenen in welk strijdtoneel ook, de ene keer zag het er uit als een pot jam, de andere keer als een fraaie deerne weer een andere keer als een draak en zo voorts, liefde is een vormwisselaar, een ongrijpbaar fenomeen dat je keer op keer moest vangen en dan knevelen, meenemen naar het volgende altaar en iets er aan of voor opofferen zodat je het vandaag weer eens de jouwe mocht noemen, liefde is eigenlijk best wel klote vond Supermarktman maar met kon je veel meer bereiken dan zonder, aldus de grote commercie club, en de gemeenschap/kerk en de wetenschap plus x maal instellingen.
Ze werden keer op keer op de proef gesteld om het een etmaal de baas te zijn. Meestal in het geheim maar dit keer op een rottig weblogje dat gelukkig niemand leest, buiten alle aandacht valt, even grondig onbemind is als zijn bedenker, eentje die het blijkbaar leuk vindt de strijders voor liefde voor lul te zetten. TL Hel krijgt hij! Nu echter zitten ze ergens en nergens te tobben over de volgende stappen te kruipen richting de liefde in zijn haar huidige vorm, hopelijk een lichtbaken.

Team wetenschap bracht het er niet beter af, ook zij konden het verschil tussen het ene en het andere op hun pad niet zien, horen en moesten op het gevoel af gaan, dat is helmaal niet fijn. 'Kunnen we niet terug gaan met het idee dat we de liefde in onze handen hebben, als hoofdzaak, en daarmee op zoek gaan naar het altaar, het verschil is immers amper merkbaar' opperde Plato, 'Kom op Plaat, je moet niet altijd alles willen beredeneren, er is echte liefde en het ligt daar ergens, het avontuur lonkt' was Tom Kruisvaarders reactie daarop. Paulus zweeg, hij had eerder samen moeten werken met beide krijgsheren, dit mank lopende liefdeskoppel, en dat ging nooit zijn kant op, of ze nou de liefde wonnen of niet, voor Kloskabouter, was de uitkomst sowieso hetzelfde, niet al te best. Hopelijk ontwaarde hij hier ergens een grote paddestoel en kon hij zich daar gedurende deze wedstrijd onder schuil houden, ze zouden zelfs al zou het zo zijn niet eens toegeven dat ze hem misten, hij was alleen nodig omdat hij alszodanig was ingeschreven en moest dus de tijd met ze volbrengen, meedoen aan het pakket taken, oké dan maar dan wel in alle stilte.

Waarheen o waarheen, dachten alle delnemers, krijgers van de liefde. De weg is duister en nooit een keer aangenaam, Non Profit moest voor de zoveelste keer wachten op Joost, die weer aan de andere kant van het obstakel zat waardoor het touw hen beider voortgang belemmerde richting de ontdekking van het complete liefdespakket in dit donkere bos. Het zwarte van alles was waarschijnlijk ook de magie, veel meer toverachtigs viel haar niet op, al zou je kunnen zeggen dat het steeds verkeerd lopen van Joost bij alle obstakels iets des duivels kiens is, meesterlijk kwaadaardig. Het is vooral irritant. Ze had behoefte aan een hint, zo zouden hier uren kunnen ronddwalen en steeds rondom dezelfde hindernissen en geen centimeter dichter komen of verder raken van de liefdesvorm. De hint kwam niet wel een idee van Joost, Joost sprak 'Wat als we iets van de bodem schrapen en ik tegen jou zeg dat het de liefde is en jij het aanvaard het als zodanig en we daarmee naar het altaar gaan en dan maar beginnen met het eerste capriool, niemand kan oprecht zeggen dat het niet de liefde is in onze handen ook al is het niet de vorm waarin Aard het heeft gestald'. Non Profit keek met grote ogen naar Joost mag het Weten, het was een meesterzet, van een nitwit, een wonder zo goed als mogelijk was binnen deze perken, haar partner mag het Weten zou nooit te horen of zien krijgen weten hoe verduveld knap dat plannetje was dat zomaar bij hem opkwam, zij zou hem zeker niet op de hoogte brengen, Dit product der liefde kon ze bij elke strijd weer hergebruiken, Zou ze Joost overdreven of zelfs eervol complimenteren en of geven waarop hij recht had dan zou die oelewapper het verhaal aan de grote kerkklok hangen en zou iedereen, wetenschappers, verkopers en dergelijke lieden hetzelfde doen, waren ze weer exact waar ze eerder stonden, bij een lint voor aanvang van een strijd om de liefde, die je dus gewoon kon overal kon oprapen en als zodanig betitelen, briljant! De non zei 'Wie weet Joost werkt het, het is weliswaar een onnozel idee maar we zijn in het gezelschap van allerlei domme krijgers en een twee mallotige spelleiders, het zou een keertje kunnen werken, alleen hier en nu, daarna nooit, echt nooit weer, pak maar wat van de bodem en noem het vol overtuiging liefde, oké.' Joost greep iets weeks, waarschijnlijk een keutel ofzo, alleen wriemelde het, er zat leven in. 'Ik heb de Liefde gevonden' riep hij en hij geloofde het zelf.

'Oooh nee! Ach shit! Toch niet weer die Relikliek... wat een kutzooi' klonk het om ze heen.

Ergens rondom de witte achtergrond zat Aard zich te verbijten, hij wou liefst ingrijpen maar dan moest hij naar voren komen en dan min of meer vertellen waar de Liefde wel zat, hoe het er zo ongeveer uit zag en te vinden zou zijn, met welke ingewikkelde methode, hij was succesvol genept door een nitwit, het zijn ook altijd dezelfde. De hele kliek mocht met de valse liefde en al het donkere bos verlaten en richting altaar gaan voor de halsbrekende toeren en capriolen, de valse liefde was trouwens een pad, zelf helemaal niet gecharmeerd van zijn veranderde lotsbestemming, hij vond het zwart magische heel erg donkere bos stukken beter te verteren.

De drie teams wandelden op hun gemakkie terug over het inmiddels verlichte pad met hun pad naar het liefdes bewijs altaar, Non Profit, had de hele weg naar het altaar tafereel theater een glimlach op haar gezicht die niet wou wijken, eentje die ook bijna niemand begreep, een MonaLisa grijns. Het Voortvarende altaar doemde op, de CM klom weer op zijn preek plek en hernam het woord van de anderen,

Liefde CM

Welkom terug dappere krijgers, fijn dat jullie de liefde hebben ontdekt en meegenomen, nu breekt dan het moment aan dat jullie voor de liefdes pad bewijzen dat jullie deze liefde waardig zijn, u gemeenschapslid Joost mag het Weten en Non Profit krijgt van mij het eerste capriool, toon aan u liefde het vermogen er aan te voldoen en win het bezit er van voor een etmaal, wat u ten eerste moet doen om de liefde te bewijzen is als volgt, u moet voor de liefde over een dun maar bere sterk lijntje gespannen over het plots opdoemend ravijn wandelen van de ene kant naar de andere en daarna snel weer terug komen voor de volgende opdracht met de aan de andere kant klaarstaande helikopter, Joost mag het Weten trok wit weg, maar het was toch voor de liefde, dus het moest dan maar, misschien wou Non Profit het wel doen, dan kon Joost hier een potje voor haar bidden. Non Profit had andere plannen ze zag de niet aan te ontkomen val van Joost als een mogelijkheid, Joost zou van het grote toneel verdwijnen en zijn idee was voor eeuwig de hare! Wat wil een krijger voor de dagelijkse liefde nog meer, een grotere kans op behoud ervan, door altijd de eerste te zijn die het elke wedstrijd weer ontdekt, waar zij aan meedoet dan. Drie kwart nu de helft hierna, en mogelijk meer als haar succes uiteindelijk na een hele poos door het leiderschap wordt opgemerkt.

Het ravijn doemde inderdaad uit het niets op met draad en al. Joost nam polshoogte van de hoogte en was enorm diep onder de indruk, zou hij vallen dan was dat wel het laatste tochtje maar wel eentje voor de liefde, een pad die hij zelf had uitgekozen of beter uitgedrukt hem had gevonden zodat hij het kon oppikken van de mossige en drekkige bodem. Joost was zo gegrepen door zijn eigen gedachten dat het geloof er in hem sterkte om de draad van het verhaal hangend boven het ravijn op te pakken, hij was een stuk minder zeker eenmaal de eerste stappen gezet op het dunne verhaallijntje van eigen makelij, dat besef deed hem wankelen, toen wieken met de armen en hij viel ver ver ver en maakte een doodsmak, De bewijs je Liefde beurt ging nu over naar team commercie, Non Profit zei dat ze te geschokt was, het verlies had haar aangegrepen, zoals een apenarend een aapje, Het commercie taam had de jury met alle mogelijke middelen overtuigd meer recht te hebben op het behalen van de liefde in de vorm van een pad dan het andere team, de wetenschap en dus ook de gemeenschap. Let wel dat ook één van hun over de lijn van a naar b moest voor de bezorging van het echte bewijs, het leven leiden een pad waard, waardig voor de spiegel der liefde verschijnen. Team Commercie was alleen heel anders in de omgang met lijnen, lijnen vonden ze te gek, ravijnen erbij, het kon eigenlijk niet op, dit vroeg alleen nog om een camera, microfoon, soundtrack, dit was al meteen een trailer voor de liefde. Middul was de lijnentrekker bij uitstek en stond ete springen om het er over te doen, rennen op een vezel lijn, dat mocht, wie was er beter, nou, de rest regelde de opname wel. Dergelijke capriolen zijn voor Team commercie hun meest gewenste normaal, hoe dodelijker iets is voor de rest, normale stervelingen, des te beter is het voor hun, daarmee bewezen ze iedere keer het liefst de liefde hun waardigheid, vol trots omdat ze zich er aan mogen wagen en dan dus het scala aan liefdes vaardigheden vertonen.

De soundtrack werd ingezet op een mobieltje, een andere nam het beeld van middul staande op de lijn op en een andere andere het geluid van de wind en de opgepimpte adem van middul, en middul begon al flirtend met de camera en Supermarktman, degene die hierover de regie had, bepaalde van die plek aan de rand van het opdoem ravijn wanneer welk gevaar op welke manier in beeld ging komen en waarme ze de spanning er in hielden, al was middul belachelijk standvastig, liep solide op iedere lijn, zelfs een denkbeeldige, de held kon niet eens tegen vallen, alleen nog op, draden kabels lijnen touwen een pot heerlijk helder nat voor Team commercie, en dan ook nog een helikopter aan de andere kant, wat een heerlijk live geschreven capriooltje.

Zo gedikkiedaan en klaar. De opname staat, de pad is vast tevreden ook al oogt hij dat niet, het oogt sowieso al niet erg goed, liefde kan er toch beter uit zien of niet, aldus Supermarktman, in zijn hersenen ziet hij heel veel liefde heel erg anders, anders, nergens een glibberig pad voor zijn zeer esthetisch geestesoog.

CM

Dank u allen, rust in vrede Joost mag het Weten, het was dapper maar helaas, de liefde heeft u weliswaar gevonden maar is ondanks dat niet overtuigd van u talenten. Dan nu het tweede capriool, team commercie is nog altijd aan de beurt, heeft een volgende kans om zich te bewijzen aan de liefdesvorm van het nu. Ik zal u zeggen wat u moet doen, het gaat om de onbarmhartige daad,

Gemompel klonk op bij het team, ze keken verschrikt, wat nu! Supermarktman deed zijn best zich groot te houden maar slaagde daar nauwelijks in, een traan welde op in zijn linker oog, zweet stond ook al op zijn rug. De lastigste aller taken rondom winstgevende zaken, het opleverend werkzaamheden, Het onbarme gedonder.. klote, dit kon ze weleens opbreken,

CM

goed het gaat als volgt, de liefde is nabij het wil maar een ding, bewijzen zien. De pad hipte een stukje op zij. Bewijzen kun je jezelf op duizenden manieren en voor elk is een ander het moeilijkste ooit, een berg bijna te hoog, een dal te diep, een zaak te schimmig, een gat te gapend et zee terra. De liefde wil .. u deze keuze bieden, de enigste ware, Keuze 1, u geeft nu bij deze de volgende beurt, de welzekere halsbrekende toer aan het team der wetenschappers en dergelijke of in u geval dit, Keuze 2 B, de andere, U zult de koersen der aandelen zien gaan naar de donkerste kelder daarvoor, een nieuwe ondergrens leren kennen, Supermarktman liep al een beetje aan, een vaag roze rood kleurtje op zijn normaal lijkbleke kop, alle schimmige zaken komen aan een heel fris natuurlijk helder licht en iedereen er ooit de dupe van, zo ongeveer alle mensen op deze bomvolle planeet, die slachtoffers zullen meer dan verbolgen zijn, ze eisen niet zomaar iets maar geld, terugbetaling, een hele boel, langgerekte rechtzaken worden enorm snel en eenvoudig ingekort, kopstukken vallen in duizenden deeltjes uiteen, handelsvrijheden worden zo flink ingeperkt dat het handelen in handelen een beetje lijkt als proberen bewegen in een kruising van een ridder harnas, dwangbuis, met VR bril op en een kuisheidsgordel daar nog onder, alle kernkoppen van Team commercie waren nu ongewoon knalrood, en u wordt gesommeerd, er wordt door het volk naast de restitutie met batsen rente nog het een en ander van u gevraagd, Supermarktman voelde het komen, zijn kop was rood-purperpaars, de huid er strak omheen, barste al bijna uit de voeg, u wordt geacht publiekelijk excuses aan te bieden aan iedereen die u met al die duizenden zaken de nek heeft omgedraaid, om zeep hebt geholpe... en daar was het de explosie uit de piek van Supermarktman, de naad open en DAT NOOIT, NOOIT, stelletje klote wetenschappers, hier je tyfus beurt, ik hoop dat al jullie slappe nekkies breken, JA! Ze hoopten er het slechtste van, dat zeker, zeer vast.

CM

Oké, oké, oké, goed, goed, nou, Dat is dan jullie keuze, 1, De volgende toer, de halsbrekende toer gaat per nu naar team wetenschap, Het zal wel niet meevallen, zwaar afzien is jullie deel, het is te hopen dat jullie het er vanaf brengen, levendig en wel. Zitten jullie klaar dan druk ik de knop behorende bij deze logge stoempende opdracht, ik start de plaat... breek je hals maar naar vermogen, dit is een pittige test, dapper paar heren, Plato en Kruisvaarder en 1 Kloskabouter

Luister naar Cypress Hill met Insane in the brain

https://youtu.be/RijB8wnJCN0?si=4Lse1ibX5PUZqAnM

Oooh dat was pijnlijk en dan zijn we er nog niet eens, de zware halsbrekende foltering is nog niet voorbij, die arme kopjes wippen langzaam helemaal losjes van de lompe romp, hier is Q-Tip met Breathe and Stop

https://youtu.be/n8omE8XPeYE?si=gGd7PkyWyIyXtZDL

Team Commerice keek met ogen vol haat naar Liefde CM, ze waren vijf keer in een paar tellen in hun hemd gezet, een hemd dat alsmaar lelijker werd, waarom dragen ze die dan ook, o ja om de sponsor te paaien ..

Liefde CM

Meteen over naar het derde capriool, de voorlaatste opdracht waarmee u voor 24 uur de liefde aan u kant kunt krijgen, tegen alle onmin en haat schuilen onder de mantel van liefdespad, zekers, of en nou, het komt steeds dichterbij de spanning is te snijden als cake maar dan eentje waar het bloed uit lekt, zo hoog is het al, opgelopen, hoge druk, pressie tien keer hoger dan die van een industrieel reiniger in een slachthuis, hier voor jullie. Het derde capriool gaat als volgt, u team wetenschappers, forsers van alles en iedereen, op zoek naar de waarheid over u zelf en dergelijke minder onderzoekende personen levend in onkunde, onverschillig voor de sterren en de cellen waar ze tussen zitten, ook zij, het is aan jullie om Liefdes pad te ontleden!

Nee! Roepen Tom en Plato tegelijk, echt niet we gaan Liefde niet opensnijden en dan verloren zien gaan, sterven in onze handen. We zijn zo niet. Paulus stak nu toch zijn hand op, ik denk dat het een kwestie van liefde is om liefde in stukjes te hakken en dat ik het best wil doen, volgens mij leren we daar heel veel van, kleine stukjes liefde los van het geheel en dan kijken, wat het is buiten het werkzame lichaam, dat is nou precies de taak van de wetenschap. Ik zou me zelfs schamen als ik zo zou reageren als Tom en Plato, zeker Tom de man van actie, handen aan de knoppen van de liefde, rammen aan de hendels, Plato snap ik, die ziet liefde liever rond hoppen, zijn invloed op grote afstand van het lichaam, schommelend er op, als een tol, vrolijk springend van geest naar geest, en de invloed daar binneninhouden, maar toch, als ik het nou zo doe dat het hele proces later zichtbaar is voor iedereen zodat iedereen die daar belangstelling voor heeft exact weet uit welke weke onderdelen de liefde bestaat en kan wroeten in de aard ervan, in brak water en op de glibberige vloer, dan kan Plato er mee leven en het al pratend van koppie naar koppie transporteren en Tom zich daarna fysiek inzetten om de kennis der liefdespadden van gemeenschap naar gemeenschap te transporteren op film, met het theater van de liefdespad, er een show rondom maken, na mijn .. ingreep in de liefde voor de liefde vanzelf, grotere, diepere, intense, betere en gezondere.. nou kom op met die pad, ik heb er zin in. Tom rende op Paulus af en greep hem daarna bij zijn puntschoenen en sloeg hem een paar keer met zijn kop tegen de grond, Paulus zag daarna af van alles en besloot te blijven liggen zonder te ademen. De opdracht werd ietwat grimmig afgestoten en het capriool ging naar Non Profit, net degene die wist dat de pad alleen maar een pad was en er niet tegenop zag het beest van Joost mag het Weten in vierentwintig stukjes te snijden.

De opdracht leek eerst een beetje in mineur te eindigen toen bleek dat tijdens de schermutseling tussen Paulus en Tom de liefdespad was weggehipt van het kleine theater podium waarop hij heel lang heel braaf had zitten zitten, maar nu dus weg was, uit ieders beeld, waarschijnlijk voor altijd. De pad werd vervangen door Paulus. Non Profit sneed hem heel zorgvuldig in heel veel kleine deeltjes alsof het de Liefde zelf was die op haar pad was gekomen en nu veel meer was dan eerst maar lang niet meer zo druk is als het was voor het in duizend stukjes werd geanalyseerd. Het mooiste van al was dat de laatste halsbrekende toer haar ook nog ten deel viel, deze wedstrijd leverde haar zoveel meer op dan alleen de grote kans op de overwinning.

Liefde CM

Goed, goed, oké, oké, oké, de laatste toer, religie, het enigst overgebleven lid op de missie naar succes in de liefde, Non Profit, mag het doen en dit keer moet iemand het einde halen, haalt zij het niet tot het end dan komt het vijftal der commercie, halen zij het ook al niet, gaat het over naar het duo dat de wetenschap vertegenwoordigd. Ik hoop en geloof wel zeker dat het allemaal meteen goed komt, hier onder mij, deze aarde is maar een deksel, zit een soort stadion, daarin worden normaal elk etmaal in dat kunstmatige duister mensen berecht die aan de verkeerde kant van iets staan, stonden en het dan dag in dag uit moeten opnemen tegen anderen die ook al niet aan de goede kant stonden, dit zijn vaardige lieden in de kunst van het overleven, er zijn er bij die dit al een half jaar hebben overleefd, zij breken nekken zoals ik zin nen af. Met enorm groot gemak, en u als vertegenwoordiger van de liefde, op missie voor de liefde moet voorkomen dat zij doen met u wat ze met alle anderen deden om te voorkomen dat het hun overkwam, zal overkomen, er zitten daar duizenden mensen die het verschil niet zien tussen u en de anderen van de verkeerde kant. Laten we maar beginnen met de overwinning van de liefde op de anderen hier onder, de onzichtbare veroordeelden, verborgen voor de goeden zodat zij veilig zitten opgeborgen in hun eigen wereld, de onze, vol hoofse liefde.

Een luik gaat open in de vloer en een begeleider vraagt om de hand van Liefdes vertegenwoordiger Non Profit, Non Profit gaat naar beneden en niet veel later gaat het luik weer open een andere begeleider komt voor iemand van team Commercie, de marketeers verdwijnen ,e,en voor 1 in de aardse put, het onderwerldse stadion, ook Supermarktman is verdwenen, maar dan anders, na een zelf ontwikkelde commotie rondom hem en de organisatie van dit 'Nogal Liefdeloze evenement, ja' hij wees vingers, verhief zijn stem, en eindigde ermee dat hij nog niet gemist kon worden, er waren nog zaken gaande, in bedrijf, waarvoor hij en hij alleen nodig was, in levende lijve, hij liep weg, even bleek als normaal, met kleine oogjes, maar deed alsof hij zwaar ontdaan was, Liefdes CM liet het begaan, iemand moet het verhaal vertellen, kans was klein dat Tom of Plato het daar beneden zouden overleven.

De begeleider nam Tom Kruisvaarder bij de hand, Tom keek met een treurige blik naar Plato en Liefde CM, zijn lot al kennende, zijn overlevings skills waren altijd flink aangedikt tijdens alle documentaires over het wilde culturele leven op aarde als inkomenstrijder tussen de strijders, hier in deze put van afgedankte lieden ging het er echt om, niet om het te spelen, hopelijk kon hij zijn dood veinzen. Twee minuten later ging het luik weer open en Plato werd geroepen, dit capriooltje liep een beetje uit de hand, als Plato zou falen was er geen team die vandaag de liefde in handen had, zouden we een dag lang moeten leven met niet gecontroleerde, beheerde, afgerichte en bezette liefde, dat was niet best. Plato verdween met alweer de vijfde begeleider, blijkbaar hadden die ook geen lang leven of eigenlijk helemaal niet, zielloze zombie slaven van de bewaking, of kegen ze als begeleider meteen na de perfecte uitgevoerde luik open en dicht doen handeling een promotie naar een baantje in de gevangenis keuken, zou best kunnen. Het bleef lang stil rondom het luik, CM bleef van 11 uur 3 tot drie uur 23 turen naar het luik maar er kwam niemand uit voor de liefde, de meester belde een Uber voor transport naar huis, weg van dit treurige van alle nette gedoogde liefde ontdane tafereel, al snel werd hij afgehaald en Liefde CM verdween zo snel als maar kan uit het verhaal. Een half uur later ging het luik open, een wat raar ogend mens, gelijkend op Tom Kruisvaarder in slecht zittende outfit van hemzelf kwam moeizaam naar buiten kruipen, zwaar gehavend blijkbaar, uit dat Tom mens kroop een ander, een stuk minder gehavend, zeg maar niet, alleen zat hij onder niet zijn eigen bloed, en meer menselijke restjes, het was Plato. Hij had meteen nadat het luik sloot zijn begeleider met een vlijm scherp zwitserszakmes met kompas om het leven gebracht en gestript, daarna zich in zijn tweede huid een poosje ledig gehouden in de marge van het vechten op leven en dood theater, al snel werd duidelijk dat ook deze begeleiders hier niet veilig waren, de enigsten die met rust werden gelaten waren de dooien, dus wisselde Plato zijn dooie eerste tweede huid om met die van zijn volgende huid, die van Tom Kruisvaarder, de Paulus de Kloskabouter moordenaar, had die ook nog eens nut, toen de bel had geklonken, als teken dat de mensen die het hadden overleefd een middag en nacht zonder bloederige strijd mochten bijkomen daarvan en alvast beginnen met vrezen voor de verse strijd om datzelfde, leven, de volgende morgen, en toen alles rustig was kroop Plato als Tom omhoog en hoger tot aan het luik en er door, te laat voor Liefde maar wat zou dat, hij had het als enigste overleefd, nou ja op de valsspelende Supermarktman na.

Plato vertrok met stille trom, gade geslagen door pad, die zag dat het luik een kwatier na Platos vertrek alweer opende en daar kwam een compleet ongeschonden en best vrolijk ogende Non Profit naar boven, ze had nog steeds diezelfde licht waanzinnige MonaLisa glimlach om de lippen, ze vertrok nog stiller en zeker onopvallender dan Plato, die diverse sporen had nagelaten, onder andere de huid van Tom, maar ook zijn paspoort, vlijmscherpe zwitserse zakmes met kompas en de eerste losse bladzijde zijn favoriete spreukenbundel, de Dode WC Rollen van Van Voorbijgaande Aard, de filosoof zonder missie. Gezien het verloop van de afgelopen dag kon het dagbeheer van de 24 7 Liefde ze beiden gestolen worden, er waren belangrijkere dingen, wegblijven uit alle vreselijke verhalen over liefde in tijden van entertainment, afval en oorlog samen op weg naar het enige mogelijke end.

Eindelijk... bedtijd.