Post-Self | Gallery Exhibition: A Love Story

A night on the town. A bar for an aperitif. A light dinner at a modern restaurant, one of those places with default sensoria settings that turn up the taste inputs and turn down the visual inputs, so that you eat intensely delicious food amidst a thick, purple fog. Another bar, livelier and less painfully modern, for a digestif. (link:"And...")[Crowds. Crowds upon crowds. Your own crowd a cell within a supercrowd. Instances drifting, or perhaps forced by momentum — theirs or others' — along the thoroughfares of a nexus. (link:"And...")[A low slung building, a crowded foyer, fumbling for tickets. (link:"And...")[Waiting. (link:"And...")[Programs. Explanations. Elucidations. Errata. Words to chuckle over with your group of friends. <blockquote>\ Dear, Also, The Tree That Was Felled, of the Ode Clade is pleased to welcome you to its gallery opening. Tonight, it has prepared for you a modest exhibition of its works within the realm of instance artistry. This is presented at the culmination of its tenure as Fellow, though the name rankles, of Instance Art in the Simien Fang School of Art and Design.\ </blockquote> [[And the sound of a door opening.->An Introduction To and By The Artist]] ]]]]

A short, slight...thing, steps from the next room through one of the two doors on the far wall and calls for attention. To call it a person seems almost misleading. It's a dog. A well-dressed dog? A glance further on in the program offers a glib explanation: <blockquote>\ <h3>The artist</h3> This gallery exhibition serves as the capstone for Dear, Also, The Tree That Was Felled, of the Ode Clade in its role as fellow. The fellowship in instance art was created specifically for Dear in recognition of the excellence it brings to the field. Dear's instance is modeled after that of a now-extinct animal known as a fennec fox, a member of the vulpine family adapted to desert living. Dear has modified the original form to be more akin to that of humans. The iridescent white fur appears to have been a happy mistake.\ </blockquote> (link:"Well.")[That's a thing. (link:"Anyway.")[*"If I may have your attention, folks. My signifier, or...ah, name is Dear, Also, The Tree That Was Felled, or just Dear. I come from the Ode Clade of Dispersionistas, and am a Fellow of Instance Art at the Simien Fang School of Art and Design. "An artist is, one might say, one who works with structured experience. A play is art, as is music, as both are means of structuring experience in a certain way. "So, also, is instance art. It is a way of using dissolution and merging in such a fashion that the experience of forking — or of witnessing forking,"* (link-reveal:"it gives a polite nod to the room.")[ *"Becomes structured, becomes art."* *"Before we begin, I would like to take a small census of those present. This is for your own sakes as well as for that of the artworks, such as they are. We'll let them know. Could you please raise your hand if you consider yourself a Tasker?"* (if:$strategy is "Tasker")[You and your group of friends slowly raise your hands. It's damning: your group of Taskers are the only ones in the room.](else:)[A scant few hands go up in the air, all huddled in one corner of the room. Perhaps a group? A group of their own?] Uncomfortable titters waft through the...the audience? The ticket holders, at least. Talking about dispersion strategies is not something one usually does. Dear holds its face composed in a calm, polite expression. *"Trackers? Raise your hands, please."* Of those who remained minus the Taskers, perhaps a third raise their hands. Several individuals, a few distinct groups(if:$strategy is "Tracker")[ including your own]. That leaves well more than half belonging to — *"And Dispersionistas?"* Sure enough, large numbers of hands lift into the air. The Dispersionistas are a vast majority, and surround most everyone else in the room, minus the Taskers, who remain off to their own side. (link-reveal:"The audience seems to be mostly fans of the work.")[ Dear gives a brief blink, likely saving a tally of represented dissolution strategies to some exocortex for other instances to access. It smiles kindly at the audience, *"Thank you. Now, if you would be so kind as to follow me, I will be happy to walk through the gallery with you."* Dear turns adroitly on its heel and without a moment's hesitation, forks. A second, identical instance appears to its left and finishes that turn in perfect synchrony. (link-reveal:"A small wave of applause begins. To fork so casually and continue to move in lockstep bespeaks no small amount of practice with the procedure.")[ (link-reveal:"It doesn't last.")[ One instance of Dear (the original? maybe?) heads(if:$strategy is "Tasker")[ through the left-hand door](else:)[ [[through the left-hand door]]] and the other (the fork? it's so hard to keep track with all these people) steps [[through the right door]].]]]]]]

Your group, exchanging nervous looks, heads straight for the right-hand door. (link-reveal:"Perhaps that's the door that Dear had meant.")[ The room you wind up in is smaller even than the foyer, and the ticket-holders have to press even closer together. The audience that winds up here is the most diverse, containing the entire group of Taskers who wound up at this (apparently primarily Dispersionista) event. As such, the press is met with uncomfortable silence: one doesn't normally talk about dissolution strategies with strangers, but (link-reveal:"Dear has deftly forced it to be an issue.")[ There's no sign on the fox's face that it knows what it has done. Just that calm, polite smile. Curious. How can one know that a fox is smiling rather than snarling or something, much less that the smile is polite. Perhaps styled after those old cartoons of anthropomorphic animals, or simply just an impression. *"Thank you. Much cozier in here."* (link:"Right.")[(link-reveal:"(if:$strategy is \"tasker\")[You and your friends do not feel cozy](else:)[The Taskers do not look cozy].")[ You suppose it makes sense. There are bits of this that appeal to all: forking for a specific purpose, instances accomplishing goals. This was flagrant abuse of that in (if:$strategy is "Tasker")[your](else:)[their] eyes, however, given that these instances will likely move on and live their own lives. Independent, individual instances. *"I would like to elaborate on my previous point,"* Dear says. *"This opening is about the idea of instance creation as art, and in that sense, it's the easiest job I've ever had. Instance creation is art."* (link-reveal:"It holds up one paw as though to forestall further conversation.")[ *"All instance creation. This show is about utilizing that consciously, but all instance creation is art. It is structured experience. The Taskers, and I believe you're all here?"* Dear smiles kindly. *"The Taskers are the tightest adherents to structure. The most baroque."* Still holding its paw up, Dear, Also, The Tree That Was Felled forks once more, an identical copy of itself appearing standing just next to the original. The instance quickly quits and dissipates. An example, perhaps. *"The goal of this exhibition isn't to just talk about that, though, it's to explore the creative limits of forking as art."* Dear forks once more, but this time into two additional instances. One short, lithe human, holding up its hand just as the original instance still holds up its paw. And on the other side of Dear, a small animal — smaller than you expected, the size of a small cat — that you suppose is the fennec mentioned in the program, colored in creamy tan fur. It becomes clear that the primary Dear is a synthesis between the two. The human Dear reaches out to shake one of the audience members hands while the fox dashes toward the crowd, weaving its way between legs in a good simulacrum of [[an animal attempting to escape]].]]]]]

Your group, exchanging nervous looks, heads straight for the left-hand door. (link-reveal:"Perhaps that's the door that Dear had meant.")[ The room you wind up in is smaller even than the foyer, and the ticket-holders have to press even closer together. The audience that winds up here is the least diverse, containing none of the Taskers and very few of the Trackers who wound up at this (apparently primarily Dispersionista) event. As such, the press is met with uncomfortable silence: one doesn't normally talk about dissolution strategies with strangers, but Dear has deftly forced it to be an issue. There's no sign on the fox's face that it knows what it has done. Just that calm, polite smile. Curious. How can one know that a fox is smiling rather than snarling or something, much less that the smile is polite. Perhaps styled after those old cartoons of anthropomorphic animals, or simply just an impression. *"Thank you. Much cozier in here."* Many of the proclaimed Dispersionistas are grinning at the trick, and even several of the Trackers are smiling. *"My only request is to not fork during the duration of the exhibition,"* Dear continues, giving a knowing glance to some of the Dispersionistas. *"Exigencies aside, of course."* A thought crosses your mind. Perhaps it's the drinks, those hip and strong aperitifs and too-sweet digestifs. You briefly consider [[forking]], testing Dear at its word. Perhaps it'd be better to [[stay intact]], though.]

Something about the fennec catches your eye as it dashes quickly through the crowd. It doesn't seem to be following any pattern, but its motions remain purposeful. It seems to be...perhaps, making eye contact with each person in the room? (link-reveal:"And then it comes to you.")[ (link-reveal:"And it looks up to you.")[ And winks.(link:" Can fennecs do that?")[]]] The strange critter holds your gaze for longer than some wild animal should, or so it feels, but the moment is broken by the soft sound of Dear clearing its throat at the front of the room. *"The next room is just through here. [[If you'll follow me, please->Escape to fight room]]."* It's difficult to deny the tiny critter before you, to tear your eyes away from it. Easy enough to forget that its an instance of Dear as it leads the tour onwards. Perhaps if you could just dally a little and [[get a closer look before moving on->Follow the fennec]]. And then the explosion happens.

(set: $rebel to true)\ (link:"Well, hell. It's hard to take a fox standing on two legs seriously when it gives you instructions")[... \ (link:"This all seems rather ridiculous, when you take a look at it. Instances as art?")[... \ (link:"You're not as smooth as Dear, but you manage to step a little further away from one of your friends, leaving enough room for you to bring into existence your own second instance.")[... \ For a moment, you aren't sure quite what happens. After a second, things start to click into place, though. A mere fraction of a second after you forked, Dear also forked, instructing its instance to come into existence in a space overlapping the space that your instance already occupied. This sort of thing is very much frowned upon and, in most public areas, impossible to even pull off. As it is, collision detection algorithms whine in protest and force the two instances apart with some force, causing a cascading ripple of collisions, spreading complaints of personal space. The room has safe settings, at least, and the collision detection algos register a bump at least a centimeter before one body touches another. The Dear at the front of the room is smiling beatifically, but the one confronting your instance has undergone strange transformations. Its eyes are bloodshot, almost to the point of glowing red. It's mouth is gaping, lips pulled back in a snarl, muzzle flecked with froth. *Rabid,* you think. (link-reveal:"It has lost most of its humanity, though it remains on two legs.")[ You let out a shout, but it's drowned amid a chorus of other yells and screams. Post-humanity, confronted with humanity regressed feels a special kind of fear, and as the feral Dear herds your instance toward the back of the room, back toward the foyer, the other ticket-holders (*though perhaps 'audience members' is the correct term, now*, you think, as you struggle to send a SIGTERM to your instance amid the distraction) surge forward toward the original instance of Dear. (link:"It's still smiling.")[... It opens [[the next door->Fight room]] ]]]]]

There's a moment of silence as Dear reaches for the handle of the door leading to the next room, (link-reveal:"then ruckus.")[ For a moment, you aren't sure quite what happened. After a second, (link-reveal:"things start to click into place.")[ Some wag forked. A mere fraction of a second after, Dear also forked, instructing its instance to come into existence in a space overlapping the space that their instance already occupied. This sort of thing is very much frowned upon and, in most public areas, impossible to even pull off. As it is, collision detection algorithms whine in protest and force the two instances apart with some force, causing a cascading ripple of collisions, spreading complaints of personal space. The room has safe settings, at least, and the collision detection algos register a bump at least a centimeter before one body touches another. The Dear at the front of the room is smiling as beatifically as ever, but the one confronting the new instance has undergone strange transformations. Its eyes are bloodshot, almost to the point of glowing read. It's mouth is gaping, lips pulled back in a snarl, muzzle flecked with froth. *Rabid,* you think. (link-reveal:"It has lost most of its humanity, though it remains on two legs.")[ You let out a shout, but it's drowned amid a chorus of other yells and screams. Post-humanity, confronted with humanity regressed feels a special kind of fear, and as the feral Dear herds the forked instance toward the back of the room, back toward the foyer, the other ticket-holders (*though perhaps 'audience members' is the correct term, now,* you think) surge forward toward the original instance of Dear. (link:"It's still smiling.")[... It opens [[the next door->Fight room]] ]]]]

A shuddering bang and sudden flood of smoke behind and to your right makes up your mind for you. Turning, you find that the fennec has skittered away to the left. As the shouts of those nearest the banging noise and cloud of smoke rise up, you find yourself doing the same, following out of a sense of instinct rather than anything resembling logic. (link-reveal:"Cliché as it is, the lights go out. Perfect.")[ You keep heading left, where the fennec was going, pushing past scrambling attendees to get to the wall. The left wall, you reason, is a shared wall with the other room, the one which the other Dear had led the other half of the group through. There's probably a door between the two, though you hadn't had the chance to get a look, or perhaps you could break through. The smoke thickens. It has a lemony, sulfurous smell that, although it's never something you've smelled before, makes you think of bullets, grenades, gunpowder. In the dim light and confusion, you find the wall by abruptly slamming into it. Indeed, there's a door a few hand-spans away, and a tiny critter with big ears scratching frantically at it. You shuffle quickly over to the door, barely able to see for the smoke and dimness, and grab at the handle, praying that it's unlocked. (link-reveal:"The handle turns.")[ (if:$talkedWithFennec)[ [[You fall through->All alone]].](else:)[ [[You fall through->Wide open spaces]].] ]]

(set: $talkedWithFennec to true)\ <style> body { background: linear-gradient(to bottom, #ffe, rgba(0,0,0,0)) no-repeat; background-color: #eef; transition: all 1s linear; } tw-story { color: #353; transition: all 1s linear; } </style>\ \ It's a strange sensation to step from a cramped, crowded, loud, dark, and smoky room into such a space as this. The fall you took couldn't have been more than a few feet, but even now, your senses still feel knocked slightly out of place. To have a space like this, one that's bigger on the inside than on the outside, or outside when it should be indoors, underground, is certainly possible. It's easy. It's just also considered incredibly rude. In most sims, it's even illegal. In this one, you vaguely remember hearing that it requires a (link-reveal:"permit.")[ But here you are. (link:"You and a tiny fennec.")[(link:"You and a lapis sky.")[(link:"You and endless green fields.")[You and a sunny day.]]] Outside *and* a sunny day. The fennec, which had been grooming itself after the flight from the explosion, gives you what can only be a smirk and another wink, and (link-reveal:"starts heading off away from where the door ought to have been but is no longer.")[ (link-reveal:"Nothing for it.")[ You follow along after the tan beast, the fox looking minuscule amid the endless grass, nothing but its ears sticking up above the stalks. It looks out of place amid the green of the grass. The ground had looked flat at first, but that seems to have just been the grass all growing to about the same height. Beneath the grass, you keep rolling your ankle over tussocks and failures in the earth, stumbling over the fact that the grownd the grass is growing on is annoyingly uneven. The fennec winds its way amid these tufts, having an easier time of things with dainty paws. Your mind fills with stories, of magical animals, of sleeping for years and waking up to see the world vastly change. You start to think of the fennec as its own entity, something completely separate from Dear, from the exhibition you just left. *"You're one tenacious fuck, you know that?"* You look around, some part of you unwilling to believe that the voice came from the (link-reveal:"fennec.")[ You had forgotten, lost in your fantasies, that the fennec was still Dear. *"Yeah, me."* The fennec continued its dainty walk. *"I say 'tenacious fuck' lovingly, of course. I like you. You've got pluck. Gumption. Another you forked in another place, another time. We fought. We kind of fell for each other. It was fun."* "Another...?" *"Not much in the way of brains, though."* You roll your eyes. The fennec grins. *"You know you were told to send an instance to the exhibition, right?"* the fennec asks, casually. "Yeah," you respond, wary of traps.(if:not $instance)[ And besides, you had…*neglected* to fork before the exhibition] *"So why not quit?"* "Hmm?" *"Why not quit? Why not merge back with your…"* The fennec pauses and gives you and appraising glance, *"With your #(if:$strategy is "tasker")[core](else:)[tracker] instance?"* You shrug helplessly, realizing the two of you have come to a halt at the base of a hillock, a rough cave dug into its side. The fennec sits primly. "This is…this is an exhibition about instances as art, isn't it?" The fennec gives a short bark of laughter, looking perhaps most feral at that moment. *"It is, isn't it? Just thought you'd see it through, hmm? This exhibit?"* You nod. You feel ill-prepared for this. *"I won't lie to you, then. This exhibit,"* and the fennec nods toward the horizon, toward the cave, toward you. *"This exhibit is just a frame. It's just a canvas. You're the exhibit. You're the art."* You catch yourself nodding once again and attempt a more graceful response. "There's a lot of shows where the audience becomes the cast." *"I suppose."* The fennec settles down onto its belly, stretching out. *"That's one way to think of it, yes. I'm not fond of the play metaphor. Exhibit works better for me and the way I think, since I know who's watching."* Just as you begin to respond, the fennec quits. This sim, as a whole, provides a courtesy feature of a faint outline existing and then fading after a quit, crash, or failure. That just means you get to fume in the direction of a slowly fading outline of a fennec, standing at the mouth of the cave. The fennec's right, though, you could just quit.(if:not $instance)[ If, that is, you had remembered to fork, which you hadn't. If there were ever a time to regret things, now is probably it.] But *you're* right, too, you think. You want to see how instances become art. "[[Cave it is, then->Cave]]," you say, as though this is some sort of choose-your-own-adventure book or roleplaying game and you have to follow the available exits. Ah well. ]]]]

(if:$fromCave)[(set:$fromCave to false)And fall onto the street. Looking around, you see the building housing the exihibition just behind you. An instance of Dear putters around just past the glass doors, picking up programs and generally tidying up the place. You go to give the doors a try, but they're locked. Dear ignores you. Your evaluation of 'shitty fox' is reinforced. (link-reveal:"You wait.")[ (link-reveal:"You sit after the wait grows long.")[ (link-reveal:"You ponder visiting another bar(if:$noFennec)[ this time.]")[ (link-reveal:"You lose track of time.")[ Eventually, you hear voices from the side of the building. Still dirty from the cave, you wander back to your group of friends, rejoining them.]]]]] ----- ]\ No one seems to have come out of the exhibit unscathed.(if:$knockedout)[(set:$knockedout to false) Even you are having a hard time remembering how you got here.] A few bear the rumpled look of the recently roughed-up, but with their safety turned up, that's about as far as the physical effects go. Rather, everyone within the group looks emotionally bruised, bitten, scratched. Some look dazed, some hurt, but no one looks blasé. In that, Dear, Also, The Tree That Was Felled was successful. You and your group walk to another bar. (link-reveal:"Quiet, subdued.")[ You give the low-slung building a wide berth.(if:$lover)[ Only you came away with something. Two things. A card in your pocket, and a decision to make.] [[Fin.->About]] ]

As far as caves go, this one is (link-reveal:"rather unremarkable.")[ You laugh at yourself for having such a thought. The life you've chosen for yourself does not include many caves. You drop to your knees, brushing a hand through the last vestiges of the faint outline of that shitty fox, and crawl past the entrance of the cave. It is unremarkable in that it is almost cartoonish in construction. A low hillock with a rough hole bored in the side, rocks protruding here and there, worms and roots dangling from the ceiling. Always large enough to crawl through on all fours, but never enough to stand up in. *The construction is actually quite well thought out,* you muse. *At least, as far as [[cramped spaces->Cramped spaces]] go.* ]

(set:$fromCave to true)\ (link-reveal:"You climb.")[ (link-reveal:"Nearly vertical.")[ (link-reveal:"And, to your relief, it grows lighter.")[ (link-reveal:"You hasten.")[ (either: "[[Up and out.->Small exhibits]]", "[[And fall.->out into the night once more]]") ]]]]

{ (set: $endings to it + 1) (set: $wanderer to false) (set: $fighter to false) (set: $rebel to false) }\ A Twine game by <a href="http://post-self.io/about/contributors#makyo">Madison Scott-Clary#makyo</a>. <a rel="license" href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/"><img alt="Creative Commons License" style="border-width:0" src="https://i.creativecommons.org/l/by-sa/4.0/80x15.png" /></a> This work is licensed under a <a rel="license" href="http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/">Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 4.0 International License</a>, and was written for the *Post-Self* project. *Post-Self* is a collaborative fiction project exploring what it would be like to live in a post-self universe, where the idea of singular selfhood is blurred and torn down. <a href="http://post-self.io/about/characters/#dear">Dear, Also, The Tree That Was Felled, of the Ode Clade</a> is a free-to-use character associated with the *PS* universe, and also a fox. How cool is that? There were two things that were chosen for you. Alas, you have no control over them. Your dissolution strategy is $strategy, and you (if:$instance)[did](else:)[didn't] fork before heading to the exhibition. ----- The interesting part about writing is that, sometimes your characters pick up traits from you, and sometimes you from them. More often the former than the latter, of course, but one\ (if:not $lover)[ [[never knows.->Return]] There is more to do.] (elseif:$dead and $prime)[ [[never knows.->/dev/null]](set: $devnull to true)] (else:)[ never knows.]

(set:$knockedout to true)\ <style> body { background-color: #000; transition: all 1s linear; } tw-story { color: #aaa; transition: all 1s linear; } </style>\ \ (link-reveal:"Blackness.")[ But not quite just blackness. A blackness filled with stars. (link-reveal:"Only those are also black.")[ Your sensorium jitters and stutters. It's not something that you've ever experienced. The stars are swept away by a steadily expanding yellow sun, which then has its center replaced with steadily expanding blackness again. The sun is repeated in blue even before the yellow retreats to the edges of your vision, concentric rings of interrupted consciousness. (link:"And then...")[ (either:(goto:"Out on the street once more"), (goto:"Small exhibits"), "(link-goto:\"Something deeper\", \"Dying is quite painful, you find\")") ]]] (link-reveal:"")[ [[Small exhibits]] [[out into the night once more]] [[Dying is quite painful, you find]] ]

(set:$dead to true)\ <style> body { background-color: #000; transition: all 1s linear; } tw-story { color: #aaa; transition: all 1s linear; } </style>\ \ Dying is no quiet affair. It's loud, painful. Surprisingly so. Your instance, this body, is crashing in spectacular fashion. Every last bit of your sensorium is lit up like a Christmas tree, but the pain goes beyond that. It's a pain of existence, of the need to continue existing. Those expanding rings of colored black speed up. The black somehow increases in brightness. You cry out into it. Perhaps this is why you were instructed to send a forked instance.(if:$prime)[ But you didn't. There's a time for regrets, and, had you the synapses to spare, now would be that time.] [[Fin->About]].

You saw the credits. Are you hoping for an (link-reveal:"end scene?")[ Or to return? After all, you're not (link-reveal:"finished.")[ Who knows how long you'll keep having to (link-reveal:"return.")[ No matter what, though, (link-goto:"A night out")[Dear will be waiting]. Waiting to play with you, its toys, its media. Waiting to watch, to explore, to fight and love and tease and ignore.]]]

(set: $noFennec to true)\ <style> body { background: linear-gradient(to bottom, #ffe, rgba(0,0,0,0)) no-repeat; background-color: #eef; transition: all 1s linear; } tw-story { color: #353; transition: all 1s linear; } </style>\ \ It's a strange sensation to step from a cramped, crowded, loud, dark, and smoky room into such a space as this. The fall you took couldn't have been more than a few feet, but even now, your senses still feel knocked slightly out of place. To have a space like this, one that's bigger on the inside than on the outside, or outside when it should be indoors, underground, is certainly possible. It's easy. It's just also considered incredibly rude. In most sims, even illegal. In this one, you vaguely remember hearing that it requires a (link-reveal:"permit.")[ But here you are. (link:"You and a lapis sky.")[(link:"You and endless green fields.")[(link:"You and a sunny day.")[You by yourself.]]] Alone. You look around frantically, scrabbling fingers tearing at grass and the packed earth beneath it, as though the fennec might somehow be hiding behind or beneath it, might somehow appear before you once more, so that you can have your snarky conversation again. That's why you looped back around, isn't it? To confront that shitty fox once more and ask it what it meant by *"who's watching"*. (link:"You just want to shake that–")[You're fuming, you realize. You sit down on the turf and pick at some of the grass, taking a moment first to relish the anger, the self-righteous feeling of bolstered confidence. Then you work on calming down. There won't be a fox to confront, and it's as Dear had said: this space wasn't the exhibit, but the frame. That means you are the exhibit. Mustn't get too carried away tearing at grass lest you show up on a pedestal. You stand back up once more and look straight ahead, in the direction the fennec had led you last time. There's the hillock. The one with the [[cave->Cave]]. ]]

(goto:"A night out") (link-reveal:"")[ This is done purely because the start passage doesn't align properly [[A night out]] ]

{ (set: $dead to false) (set: $endings to 0) (set: $talkedWithFennec to false) (set: $noFennec to false) (set: $beginningPassage to "A night out") (set: $knockedoutPassage to "knocked out") (set: $outside to "http://post-self.io") (set: $devnull to false) (set: $instance to (either:true, false)) (set: $prime to not $instance) (set: $strategy to (either:"Tracker", "Tasker")) (set: $fromCave to false) (set: $wanderer to false) (set: $knockedout to false) (set: $fighter to false) (set: $lover to false) (set: $rebel to false) }

(set: $devnull to true)\ <style> body { background-color: #111; transition: all 1s linear; } tw-story { font-family: monospace; color: #0f0; text-shadow: 1px 1px 2px #0f0; transition: all 1s linear; } </style>\ \ (link-reveal:"Nothing.")[ (link-reveal:"Peace. Freedom from pain.")[ More peaceful than dying is the thought that you've freed up disk space, memory. Perhaps, when you're merged back in, you'll remember to thank past you for this. Only, you didn't fork. You'll never merge back. Those memories that you hope someone will remember will be garbage collected and erased. You didn't even get to see the end. Ah well.]]

(if:$devnull)[(goto:"/dev/null")]

(font:'monospace')[ { dead: (print: $dead) - endings: (print: $endings) - talkedWithFennec: (print: $talkedWithFennec) - noFennec: (print: $noFennec) - beginningPassage: (print: $beginningPassage) - knockedoutPassage: (print: $knockedoutPassage) - outside: (print: $outside) - devnull: (print: $devnull) - instance: (print: $instance) - prime: (print: $prime) - strategy: (print: $strategy) - fromCave: (print: $fromCave) - wanderer: (print: $wanderer) - knockedout: (print: $knockedout) - fighter: (print: $fighter) - lover: (print: $lover) - rebel: (print: $rebel) }] -----

(set: $lover to true)\ <style> body { background-color: #b88; transition: all 1s linear; } tw-story { color: #300; transition: all 1s linear; } </style>\ \ You shrug. Carefully, though, as you're finding yourself loath to displace Dear's paw from atop your hand. "Sure, why not? Came for the exhibition, after all. Might as well get the most of it." You shrug once more, this time to your group, make no sign of getting up. They hesitate for a moment, then, frowning, give a dismissive gesture and wander off to the next room. "So. Fennecs." *"Fennecs,"* Dear agrees. *"Though one must be careful to specify anthropomorphic. Real fennecs are quite small(if:(history:) contains "through the right door")[ as you remember]."* Dear forks and a fennec — hardly a double-handful of fuzzy critter — appears between you, bridging your knees, back paws on Dear's knee and front paws on yours. It's tan, rather than iridescent white, and holds far less humanity about it. You raise a hand, but it quits (link-reveal:"before you can touch it.")[ *"This is intentional. I'm not a fennec. I rather like them, of course, but I'm not one. I'm an amalgam. I'm something more. Or rather, we all are, and I'm trying to embody it."* "So you're greater than the sum of the parts," you hazard. "Fennec and human?" *"It'd be better to say that we're all more than human. We may be post-human, as the old saws would have it, but we're certainly now more than the sum of the parts of our identities."* It grins, *"Fennec mostly just because I like foxes, though. All the deep words in the world won't hide that fact."* You laugh, giving its paw a pat with your free hand, "Well, hey, if it fits, might as well." Dear grins. *"Think it does?"* "Well, sure," you admit. "Just got me wondering what you get out of it." You feel your hand drop as the fennec turns up the sensitivity of its instance and turns down the rather conservative settings of the collision detection algorithms. You hesitate for the moment, then do the same, feeling the concomitant sensations of temperature and touch jump in intensity. *"Well, I get to be soft as hell."* It grins, *"Seriously, pet me. I love being a fox sometimes if only for the physical contact."* You laugh, although (link-reveal:"you feel yourself blushing as well.")[ After a moment's hesitation, you pet Dear's paw lightly with your hand. It's soft. *Very* soft. You keep up those touches. It's hard to remember the last time you felt fur. *"All of my intellectual bullshit aside, I think it's very important to remember the sensuality of senses."* Its eyes half-close in apparent pleasure. *"When the system was built, there was a big debate as to whether sensoria should be included at all, whether we should have sims and rooms and things to look at and touch. Some of the more romantic uploads argued loud enough that we overrode most of the objections. Pet my ears, those are softer."* You move to comply, then pause, tilting your head. "'We'?" you ask, finishing the motion and brushing your fingertips over the back of one of the ears once. Then again and again. Dear wasn't kidding about the softness. You suspect it was a selfish request on its part, as the fox ducks its chin to tilt its head toward your hands, leaning in closer. *"'We', yes,"* it murmurs, somewhat muffled. *"The Ode Clade is quite old."* You think for a moment, then grin. "You describe them as romantic, but talk of moving past romantic ideas of self." *"Do I contradict myself?"* It is mumbling quietly now. *"Very well, then I contradict myself, I am large, I contain multitudes. Other ear, if you please."* (link-reveal:"You laugh, earnestly and easily.")[ You slip your other hand from under Dear's paw, and bring it up to stroke the back of the other ear. The touch gets a shiver out of the fennec. "Fennec fits," you say. "Or, at least, soft animal does. You seem to act a little like how they say cats acted, though." *"Meow,"* Dear offers, too content to sound sarcastic. *"Seriously. There's room for romanticism and romance itself within post-modernism."* You move the hand that was stroking the first ear to ruffle the fur between the ears, laughing again and joking, "Romance, eh? You coming on to me, then?" It laughs along with and shrugs, *"Well, more like…you're the first one to show interest in me, rather than the exhibition. And I've run lots of exhibitions."* Moving gracefully, it leans forward, up onto its knees, and then in against your front, pushing you back against the armrest of the loveseat. Its arms slip up around your shoulders. The move startles you into hesitation, but after a moment, you settle your arms around the fox's shoulders. *"But I'm not ***not*** coming on to you."* You're at a loss for (link:"words.")[(link:"words. \"I'm flattered, but-\"")[(link:"words. \"You're sweet, you know that?\"")[(link-reveal:"words.")[ You settle for simply relaxing beneath Dear. Warmth, softness. "Lonely?" Dear settles with its muzzle resting alongside your neck. *"Mmhm."* "Same here," you admit. The fennec nuzzles in against your neck. Whiskers tickle, raise goosebumps. A moment of shared silence and touch. Your hands brush along the fox's back, imagining how soft the fur might be beneath the dressy shirt. Dear's blunt muzzle continues those soft rubs against your neck. It leans up, nuzzling its way to your ear. *"The only downside to being a fox,"* it murmurs, nose cool against the rim of your ear. *"Is that it's really hard to kiss with a muzzle."* (link-reveal:"And then it quits.")[ Your arms collapse against your front, through the ephemeral outline of the fox that remains. With a shout, you scramble off of the love-seat, shock forcing you to stand in a defensive position. The air is cold after the contact. "D-Dear?" you stammer. (link-reveal:"The room is empty.")[ It takes a moment for you to remember that you're within a gallery exhibit. That Dear hung the frames in which you're the art. How cynical of it, though, to build emotional rapport, to tease at the edges of your feelings, questing at loneliness, and to leave, to do this for art. You must admit it hurts. (link-reveal:"You laugh, forced and bitter.")[ "Lonely, indeed." You turn your touch sensoria way down and head to [[the door->Small exhibits]] ]]]]]]]]]]

(set:$fighter to true)\ <style> body { background-color: #b88; transition: all 1s linear; } tw-story { color: #300; transition: all 1s linear; } </style>\ \ Without even thinking, you reach out a hand and grab one of the instances of Dear by the scruff of the neck and drag it to you, giving it a good shake as you do so. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?!" you shout into its face? The fennec snarls at you and, with surprising force, grabs your forearm and, using itself as a pivot, swings you around through about a quarter-circle's arc. It keeps its paws on your arm, one on your elbow to keep it straight and one on your wrist, and shoves you back by lunging forward. It lets you go and, in one complex motion, aims a swipe at your face with one paw while the other slams, palm flat, against its jacket pocket. Something happens to the floor beneath your feet. [[You fall.->Fight]]

You squirm a little in your seat, indecisive, then shake your head. "I'd better stick with the group. They look pissed." Dear laughs, *"So they do. Well, fair enough. Feel free to look me up sometime, though. Goodness knows I have more thoughts on the matter."* At that, it quits, a faint echo of it lingering in the air, smiling to you. You stand reluctantly and [[follow your friends.->Small exhibits]]

(if:$wanderer)[It's a surreal experience, watching your self, your actions, through someone else's eyes. Sure, there are videos and such, but there's something a little different about this. The way the 'camera' moves is…well, it's not a camera. There's no way it could be a camera. It has to be Dear. You watch more closely as the recording loops. It starts with a flash, a point of view very close to the ground. Lots of ankles. Shoes. Then it moves, quickly and jauntily, dashing among feet and shoes, pausing to look up into faces. Most give it only cursory glances, apparently unsure of how to take this tiny animal moving among them. A few refuse to look at it, clearly disconcerted. Then there's your face. You look more curious than anything, trying to figure out this thing before you. The you here, now, stares back into your eyes through the playback. You hold your breath. There's the explosion. The viewpoint skitters off to the side (lots of ankles, here) and toward a wall. It seeks out the molding on the floor at the base of the wall, then the corner where that meets the molding of a doorjamb. There's its place. It scrabbles at the door, waiting for you, knowing you'll come. And there's your shoes, with less dirt on them than they have now, and then the door swings open. The viewpoint leaps through, into sun and grass, with the shoes (and the rest of you) falling after. Until now, the playback had been silent, but directed speakers start to project a little bit of audio, muffled. *"You're one tenacious fuck, you know that?"* you hear the fennec's voice from the speakers. Everyone but you laughs. You hear your discussion with the fennec, heavily obscured by the crunching of grass and the occasional grunts from yourself as the two of you make your way through the field. Your discussion on the meaning of exhibit, of medium, of art versus frame. The video slides slowly lower to the ground as the fennec stretches out, then goes dark. Repeats. There's a touch of resentment, you feel. That Dear had somehow managed to record a portion of its sensorium (was that even possible?) and was playing it back to these strangers. But you look around you, and you see mostly thoughtful faces. A few have blanched, as they realize that they were on exhibit, not Dear.]\ (else:)[On the pedestal is a recording, but it's shot from a strange angle. The camera moves…well, not like a camera. It has to be Dear. You watch more closely as the recording loops. It starts with a flash, a point of view very close to the ground. Lots of ankles. Shoes. Then it moves, quickly and jauntily, dashing among feet and shoes, pausing to look up into faces. Most give it only cursory glances, apparently unsure of how to take this tiny animal moving among them. A few refuse to look at it, clearly disconcerted. Then there's a notably different face. It looks more curious than anything, trying to figure out this thing before it. You hold your breath. There's (if:(history:) contains "through the right door")[the](else:)[an] explosion. The viewpoint skitters off to the side (lots of ankles, here) and toward a wall. It seeks out the molding on the floor, then the corner where that meets the molding of a doorjamb. There's its place. It scrabbles at the door, waiting for something, knowing it'll come. And there's those shoes, the ones belonging to that curious face, and then the door swings open. The viewpoint leaps through, into sun and grass, with the shoes (and the rest of the audience member) falling after. Until now, the playback had been silent, but directed speakers start to project a little bit of audio, muffled. *"You're one tenacious fuck, you know that?"* you hear the fennec's voice from the speakers. Everyone laughs. You hear a discussion with the fennec, heavily obscured by the crunching of grass and the occasional grunts from yourself as the two make their way through the field. A discussion on the meaning of exhibit, of medium, of art versus frame. The video slides slowly lower to the ground as the fennec stretches out, then goes dark. Repeats. You look around you, and you see mostly thoughtful faces. A few have blanched, as they realize that they were on exhibit, not Dear.]

This pedestal contains a fairly short loop, more obviously taken from a conventional security feed. It's hard to discern what happens at first. It mostly looks like a bunch of people standing still, and then, as if on cue, freaking out. (if:$rebel)[A closer look, and you feel your cheeks go red. You know what's going to happen. There's you. And there's your forked instance. And there's Dear's forked instance. And then chaos as Dear deftly moves the room into strife. Then the recording loops. You swallow hard, knowing what's going to come next. You avert your gaze from the pedestal as you watch the chaos begin again. Your friends jeer at you, but you don't feel proud at having done what you did.]\ (else:)[It takes a moment to really discern what happened, but then you see it. You wait for the video to cycle again and quickly locate the audience member who does it, who starts the fight. You see them fork, their instance appearing quite close to them. Then you see Dear's instance appear nearly overlapping with them, the collision detection algorithms forcing them apart. That feral Dear pressing the attack. The video's silent, but you can almost hear the shouts and ruckus. The audience member may have started the ruckus, but you're pretty sure it was Dear that orchestrated it.]

(if:$fighter)[As you catch a glimpse of the next pedestal on approach you wince, both at remembered pain embarrassment. The scene in this pedestal shows fighting, chaos. Once again, this appears to be a sensorium recording (how had Dear *done* that?), showing a fight that's far more well-choreographed than you remember. Seeing it from Dear's point of view, it looks a lot more like purposeful herding. The safety settings on that room had been so high that that's about all it had been. Then the instance's point of view gets whipped around to face you, your face squarely in its vision. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?!" You wince at the sound of your voice, hoarse from excitement, profane, coming from those directed speakers. Then the fight begins in earnest. You're dragged to the center of the room of the fight and then dropped into the ring, those concrete walls and that dirt floor making your remembered wounds ache. This fight is less well choreographed. More jagged. Except to you. You know. The details play out on the pedestal with a cool, almost clinical precision, holding none of the emotion that you had felt. The blows, the circling, the jumps and scratches. The syringe. *"I had to mean to do it,"* says a soft voice next to you. The fight isn't so far off that you don't still have a strong urge to deck the fox standing in front of you. It smiles, almost sadly. *"If I didn't mean to do it, you would have been confused. Maybe there would be victory, but it would've been empty and hollow."* Dear shrugs, offers an apologetic smile. *"Confusion is not what was called for, in this exhibit. Victory or loss. Stress and decisions."* You take a breath. One of those intentional breaths, the ones where you breathe out longer than you breathe in. "I think I understand why you did it," you say, quiet and controlled. "I don't like it, but I think I understand why." Dear nods, offers a hint of a bow, and backs away, *"That's my job."* It retreats into the crowd.]\ (else:)[The scene in this pedestal shows fighting, chaos. Once again, this appears to be a sensorium recording (how had Dear *done* that?), showing a fight that's far more well-choreographed than you remember. Seeing it from Dear's point of view, it looks a lot more like purposeful herding. The safety settings on that room had been so high that that's about all it had been. Then the instance's point of view gets whipped around to face someone, their face squarely in its vision. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?!" The voice is hoarse from excitement, profane, coming from those directed speakers. Then the fight begins in earnest. The audience member is dragged to the center of the room of the fight and then both Dear and the fighter are dropped into the ring, a cylindrical room with concrete walls and a packed dirt floor. This fight is less well choreographed. More jagged. The details play out on the pedestal with a cool, almost clinical precision, holding emotionless energy. The blows, the circling, the jumps and scratches. The syringe. The audience members around the pedestal gasp quietly as the syringe is wielded by a paw, wielded against that audience member. The struggle lasts only a second or two longer before the video loops. There's no conclusion.]

(if:$lover)[Seeing the cool blue hues of the scene above the next pedestal brings an immediate and uncomfortable reaction. It feels like you swallowed a ball the size of your fists and it's lodged itself behind your rib cage. Embarrassment. Frustration. Anger. Loneliness. All in equal measure. It makes you queasy. You approach the pedestal just as the loop begins again. Once again, you're viewing a scene from Dear's point of view. *"We can stay and chat a bit more,"* the fox says. *"Don't worry, I'm running this show, I make the rules."* You watch yourself shrug, say, "Sure, why not? Came for the exhibition, after all. Might as well get the most of it." When the instance of Dear looks around, you see that the room is almost empty, the last folks, your friends, drifting out the door. The conversation that follows is low on intensity and high on subtle, emotional cues. You watch yourself and the fox have a slow and easy conversation about 'why's. The image of Dear looks down, and you see that it's paw is resting atop yours. You clench your fists. You know that that instance was designed specifically to be likable, approachable. The big eyes, the softened gaze, the larger ears. You know that you walked right into that. But hey, you were lonely and honest. You thought it was lonely and honest. That feeling in your chest becomes a constriction, frustration and anger winning out. You watch the whole scene again, this time from the other point of view. You watch your own face as it slowly opens up, as you discuss being a fox, sensoria, post-modernism and romanticism. and romance. You watch as the point of view rises, leans in closer to the you pictured there on the pedestal, watch as it leans in close, into a hug far more intimate than one would expect from someone one had just met, two bars worth of drinks aside. The viewpoint switches to somewhere above the fox and yourself on the couch, though the audio stays close by. *"The only downside to being a fox,"* says the instance of Dear, and you turn around as casually as possible so that you don't have to watch. You hear, all the same, *"Is that it's really hard to kiss with a muzzle"* There's Dear, in front of you. Not the softened overly-kind dear from the blue room. Just normal Dear. Well, 'normal'. Dear-prime. It's good because you figure the sight of the kind-Dear in this context would've made you quite upset. *"Was that unfair of me?"* it asks. It's done something to the room — unsurprising that it would have admin privileges in its own gallery, come to think of it — the two of you are in a cone of silence. "I...well, yes." You try and count the layers of remove from the reality of what you had experienced, try to calculate the cuils in your head. The experience, the exhibit on the pedestal, talking to the artist. You shake your head. Dear waits. "I'd say you did an admirable job with the exhibition." *"Admirable?"* It tilts his head, looking almost canine in that moment. *"I set up a situation — several, really — in which audience members feel emotions toward ephemeral constructs and made it art. I don't know if that's admirable. It's just art."* You begin to reply, but it cuts you short. *"I'm an artist, that's what I do. I'm a person, though."* It's grin looks weary, *"Also a fox-person, but a person. And I feel like I cut too deep with that one. Was that unfair of me?"* Your shoulders sag. Dear waits. "I don't know," you admit. "I had a few drinks, the exhibit was stressful. It was supposed to be stressful like you said. Just…it may have been an act, but I fell for it pretty hard." Dear waits. You feel discomfited. "Look, it's just silly, is all. I don't even know why it affected me so much," you trail off, trying to decide how much further to go on. "Look," you repeat, shaking your head. "Was it true? What you said? Are you lonely? Were you earnest? Were you coming on to me?" Dear nods, simple and straightforward. *"It's perhaps easy for me to talk about because I rehearsed hard for this shit, but yeah, I'm lonely as hell. I fork to form relationships and keep myself…I mean, I don't lie in my work if I can help it."* It's your turn to wait, which discomfits Dear. *"I'm sorry,"* it says. *"I did cut too deep. Wasn't thinking. It's not my goal with these things to damage anyone's trust in instances or in me. It's just that I don't make art because I know why. If I knew why, I wouldn't need to make art."* The fox hesitates for a moment, then sighs. *"I feel really bad about this. I'm sorry. I'd like to do what I can to regain your trust."* The weight of decision hangs heavy around your neck, heavy enough to bow your head. There's very little you feel you can say without making that decision right then, so you stay silent for a moment. Finally, "I feel like you're trying to ask me out." *"I'm not ***not*** asking you out,"* Dear looks cautious. It smiles faintly. So do you. "Listen, can you give me a night? Let me put some thought into it." It nods. *"Fair. And listen, I really am sorry. There are bits of this show that I wrote thinking that they'd lead to one thing, some spectacular art, and they led to, er, this."* You nod, saying, "I get that. Kind of like a choose-your-own-adventure story that got a little out of hand." Dear shrugs, *"I guess."* It hesitates for a moment, then draws a card out of it's left pocket, reaching out with its right paw at the same time, a perfectly formal business card exchange. You grin and, on a whim, turn down your touch sensoria way up to accept the card — a flash of contact information and locations — and shake the fox's paw. It's *very* soft.]\ (else:)[A view of relaxing blue hues fills the next pedestal. Once again, you're viewing a scene from Dear's point of view. *"We can stay and chat a bit more,"* the fox says. *"Don't worry, I'm running this show, I make the rules."* The person filling the viewport shrugs, says, "Sure, why not? Came for the exhibition, after all. Why not get the most of it." They shrug once more, this time off 'camera'. When Dear looks around, you see that the room is almost empty, the last folks (perhaps those the audience member was shrugging at?) drifting out the door. The conversation that follows is low on intensity and high on subtle, emotional cues. You watch the audience member and the fox have a slow and easy conversation about 'why's. Dear looks down, and you see that it's paw is resting atop the audience member's hand, and you realize that there's another layer going on here. This doubles as Dear instructs the audience member to pet its paw. You suspect, and their reaction confirms, that sensorium intensity has been turned up. As free as society is, especially in these circles, it's still uncomfortable watching affection, touch, and flirting. Second-hand embarrassment leads to second-hand blushing when the recording of Dear leans forward to hug itself against the surprised audience member and says, *"I'm not ***not*** coming on to you."* It's almost a struggle to keep watching. They talk of loneliness. They talk earnestly. You wonder why Dear included this private moment in the exhibit. The viewpoint shifts to up high, somewhere on the ceiling, but audio remains close to the pair. Perhaps a microphone in the couch. *"The only downside to being a fox is that it's really hard to kiss with a muzzle,"* Dear says, and then quits. The audience surrounding the pedestal gasps as the person remaining in the scene lets out a surprised shout and jumps up from their spot on the couch. They quest about frantically, looking upset at this sudden disappearance. "The instances aren't the art," one of your friends mumbles, and you turn to them. They shrug. "I don't think so at least. I don't actually know what the art is." Someone from across the pedestal offers, "Maybe instances are the brush?" Laughter. *"Instances the brush, emotion the paint,"* says a soft voice. Dear stands attentively nearby. *"The art is…experiences?"* "Was that a question?" you ask. Dear shrugs. *"I don't make art because I know why,"* it says, bemused. *"If I knew why, I wouldn't need to make art, then, would I?"* "So you're a romantic?" *"Perhaps you should go back and watch the scene again."*]

The fifth pedestal, the one in the center of the room, is (print:$endings+1) recordings playing at once. They all feature you. They all feature the things that you did during your time here in the exhibition. All of those sly forks and subtle mergers. *"Did you think I did not know?"* a soft voice says beside you. You feel a heat rise to your cheeks. "I…I mean, I didn't–" Dear holds up a paw, indicating silence. It seems fond of the gesture. *"I knew."* It smiles. You find it a touch odd that the smile is simple and kind, not sly and knowing, not triumphant, and you're not sure why. *"I knew and expected it."* "Is it okay?" Dear laughs. *"Of course it is! This is a show on instance art. That's why it's expected. That's why there's five small exhibits here, not four."* You smile tentatively. *"That was a rather Dispersionista thing to do for a $strategy."* "I may have had a few drinks before." *"I suspect a good many of those here did."* "So why did you allow it?" Dear spreads its hands in a graceful gesture before clasping them at its front once more. Its tail, you notice, is swaying behind it, steady. *"You and I have talked about this."* "I suppose we have," you mumble, still sorting through the merged memories. *"SF calls me an instance artist. Hell, I call myself an instance artist, but it's not totally accurate. I'm closer to a director, though. I organize the stage, the crew — even if they're all me — and the choreography. You're the art though, or close enough to it. I won't say audience, or actors. I don't like the play metaphor all that much, since the art isn't in the acting. There is no acting."* It shrugs, *"But the metaphor will serve."* You nod, watching the multiple feeds play out in their own courses. After a few silent moments together, you ask Dear, "What are we supposed to do with our experiences here?" Dear grins. *"This isn't a lecture. No classroom, no notes, no papers to write. It's not a tool that you take away to use,"* it pauses, that grin going sly. *"And even if it were, that's your fucking job, not mine."*(if:not ((history:) contains "Seduction"))[ It turns and walks away, saying as it goes, *"Besides, you're not done here"*]