The pain and disillusion had subsided. Now and then, I would feel sleepy. Three heroes had volunteered to keep an eye on me on my way to any prospective place of containment. One of them was called Dalton. To my knowledge, none of them had accepted to the goddess’s contract terms yet.

I wondered about how the goddess would respond to an insurrection if the heroes left behind decided to take that path. There were two guards at my sides, two men in front of me, and a woman behind. The hall looked sumptuous, and cold. Its walls had red arrays in white clouds. It conveyed nostalgia to me.

I had had the time to formulate one of my thoughts more coherently. It was an existing argument.

‘You cannot trust a theory which does not follow the main criterion of hard science to be immutable. That main criterion would be that of equivalent exchange. An immutable theory means a theory whose outcome remains unchanged and predictable in a precise manner, for fixed sets of values. The first best thing one can do is to cite comprehensive data, never mind particular or universal data. Once the data is out, perceptual-belief-based memory can be examined. To validate both the collected data and perceptual memory, you have to be particular. In being particular, you identify similarities.’

Particularizing data and improving marketing segmentation - that was the utility of data centers for social networks. Access to individual data, in the first place, could be limited. The idea reminded me of the banning of diary-keeping for miners in Russia. A successful theory had a successful lifespan, until the forces of entropy forced the values of constants to be adjusted. Since I was dead, my life, as a theory, was incomplete.

To preserve my theory or its conclusions in a way similar to Russian miners, I would have to engage in efficient peer-to-peer exchanges. The aim for any individual or business economy was to maximize the ratio of peerage to faith language, to generate profit at the required rate.

“Ambrosia is a pretty goddess,” one of the heroes in front of me said. “If she happens to hold party events, I’m all in. I would not even dream of refusing.”

“We can confirm your opinion after our first job,” Dalton said.

I kept quiet. From experience, idealism was womb-like. It was a belief that was in contrast to defenseless, and offensive voids. One was Yin and the other was Yang. It was a duel between idleness and chronic stress. I would write stories because it provided a connection.

What movie would a person take another person to see? Why was the concept of idle boxers regaining their flame of boxing popular? In what story section did a reader get advice from the writer, with what metaphor?

What experience was beautiful? What solution achieved efficiency? What kind of connection allowed for something to continue from one being to another? One motivation when it came to using the connection in stories was this: ‘You looked like you were having trouble doing something and did not want help. So I took you to see a movie on that something.’

The connection was part of the human meta-narrative. What was the right thing? What was, objectively speaking, true? What was it which triggered motivation?

Was it the Baldwin effect – the side-effect of natural selection – that was the object? Was it survival? Was it hyper-threading, similar to viral internet posts, or something more complex?

What was the right thing? I observed the wall. The clouds with red arrays parted to reveal red trees under a sun. The rays of the sun were red. The sun, itself, was a Yin and Yang symbol. A goddess with auburn hair created a spring, from which animal forms took shape. The wind picked up in waves of red to welcome a desert.

As part of a story’s connection, making the reader wallow in self-pity or escape from problems was not obligatory. It was a story, after all. It was full of acts. The story thrived with phenomena known as emotions, and had an eye for objectivity. Phenomenon – that what the emotion of motivation was.

It was the same as asking why a parent taught a child a flawed language from the beginning itself, or why any ideology at all was created. A story was convenient to transfer language systems and belief systems, to allow someone else to learn how to play at life.

Support creative writers by reading their stories on Royal Road, not stolen versions.

No interaction with a story – even the most inhuman story, devoid of both emotional and rational metaphors and flow – meant no language to learn, and eventually, death, for a baby. In the case of rats, rather than babies, it was a scientist, Jaak Panksepp, who discovered the play circuit. Rats whose play circuits were not activated became depressed. They lost motivation. The play circuit was also present in humans. Historically speaking, a particular building, where babies were raised, had a death toll because the babies’ play circuit was not sufficiently engaged. Story-telling and similar interactions provided the rules and cognition for play, such that they were essential.

The story every human told himself was that he had a right to be protected, and to have native rights. Until, he was killed, and that that right had proven to be entitlement that had cost him his demise.

Play. That was half the answer. The second half of the answer was agenda and experimentation. Agenda pertained to the duality of self-help and marketing. Experimentation could be for artistic styles, as much as for metonymy or toward pragmatic ends. Writing was a good craft to choose for self-expression.

“Hero Aidan, why did you refuse your proposed duties?” The guard who asked the question had a big nose, and sharp eyes.

“I don’t expect you to call me a hero,” I replied.

One of the escorting heroes, a cocky fellow, said, “you gambled your future away just now. You should not have refused.” He laughed.

“That’s alright.” I looked at my hands. Either way, I was suspicious of the governance system I was getting into.

“You will be cursed,” the man laughed. I looked at his back and exhaled.

The woman blew her nostrils in disapproval at our exchange. “Wherever I go, men are toxic.”

The guards looked at each other and chose to drop their heads. They walked on. The woman superseded the guards to join Dalton, at the front. As she approached, Dalton said, “Get a dog, will you?”

“How about I give you a cookie instead, trash.”

The man gave the woman a side-glance. I saw him frown. “I dislike diabetes. That said, I uphold my entitlement. Get a dog.”

“You are a pig,” she said, looking at his face. She looked at me. I looked away.

“Objectified trash does not know the difference between being trash and a pig. Unless I am harassing you, let me just say that you look pretty.”

“Thank you, I know,” she said.

“I wouldn’t hope for your name to be Margaret Thatcher though,” the man said.

The woman looked ahead and coughed. “Keep your complaints to yourself,” she said.

“Have at it, guys. I look forward to attending the first party Ambrosia throws,” the other hero said. He left.

The woman said, “Aidan, why don’t you sort out this person’s thoughts?”

“It is not my place to dispute suspicions of this nature,” I said.

“Whatever. You are an accomplice.”

I looked at the woman, and kept my reaction to myself. “I think you hate a lot of men and that you will be good at volleyball,” I said.

“Nonsense,” the woman replied. She stomped to the back.

Everyone had a taste in advocation, in order to live. Only slaves and the stoic courted solitude more. When it came to the hero that already left, it was a question of relevant experience. Demoralization without conflict engagement was the same thing as asserting that you did not owe the other person any good advice. You did not owe the other individual an apology for not meeting the other individual at his moral level, if you thought such was the case.

I wondered what time it was. The man said, “I’m tired. I’ll leave you here, Aidan. My full name is Dalton Dakota.”

The woman looked at Dalton, perplexed. “I trust you will behave all the way to your cell.” She peeped behind my back. My hands were handcuffed. “My name is Hilda Akryong. You may call me Miss Akryong. Also, I’m open to communication. I don’t really hate you.” She flaunted her hair, displaying her ear.

“Got it,” I said. I did not need to prove myself. This would have to wait. I did have to think up a plan while I would be imprisoned. I had a wry smile. I had no reason to drive most people away, including Akryong.

We kept walking. The palace we were in must have been quite big. I turned and followed the guards.

***

Elliot Brave became the first pilgrim in two hundred years.

All pilgrims of history had been great warriors and kings who ruled the human world. Elliot seemed quiet, but Ambrosia figured Elliot could vie for either kingship or any other important position. He did not lack competition. As long as she held out, she could see this task to its end.