Well now
I have kept a private journal for many years, hidden and encrypted securely enough to ensure safety from even Vila's prying eyes. I found the data crystals containing my journals in the bedside cabinet in my hotel room this morning. All of them, entries dating back to my childhood. The earliest crystals I know were destroyed by my father; others were confiscated when I was arrested. Others were destroyed with the Liberator. And yet, here they are again. I have no desire to read through them, nor can I bring myself to destroy them. I replaced them in the drawer and began a new crystal.
To proceed in a logical order: my last entry dealt with the discovery of Blake on Guada Prime. Of the incidents that followed I will say only this: I failed him. I did not fulfill my side of our deal. I made a mistake, one I intend to rectify. That he bears some blame for what happened is irrelevant. The responsibility is mine alone. Details and regrets are not important here; only actions matter. My last memory of my own universe is of facing a dozen Federation troopers, all armed. Facing, in other words, death. And it had never been so welcome. I believed my mistake was impossible to correct. Now it appears that I may have been too hasty. At the instant my enemies opened fire, I found myself here: a hotel room in a sentient village, controlled by who-knows-what. For a while I was confused; overwhelmed, I suppose. A woman named Lorelai Gilmore and a man named Harry Dresden - he claimed to be a wizard - convinced me of the reality of this place. From numerous sources I have since learned that several hundred individuals, taken from many different realities and timelines, including fiction and death - reside here. Little seems to be known about the village, but the key to returning to our own universes apparently lies in learning some sort of lesson. I have already dismissed this as an option, for obvious reasons.
The population seems fairly domesticated, well-fed birds in a gilded cage, but a small group of people, mainly scientists, have agreed to meet with me to discuss the options for escape and share what they know about the village. Several options have already presented themselves, but I cannot describe them here; it is possible that this journal could be hacked. I must satisfy myself with a purely mental depiction of my plans.
In spite of myself I am intrigued by this place. Already I have met or communicated with a sentient (and very well-spoken) android, who *didn't* try to kill me, a wizard, two time travellers who are apparently the same person, and a beautiful woman who gave me alcohol and coffee. There have been others, too, all interesting, all different from each other. Were circumstances different, I might almost feel compelled to stay for a while. Stay and eat ice-cream and just *be*. I am so tired. But I cannot abandon my responsibility.
...can I?
This place has some sort of power. Like the tranquilised food we were fed in the accommodation domes, it seeks to suppress self-will, independence, rebellion. I must resist it. I must be free.
Damn the man. Damn him, if we weren't all damned all along.
To proceed in a logical order: my last entry dealt with the discovery of Blake on Guada Prime. Of the incidents that followed I will say only this: I failed him. I did not fulfill my side of our deal. I made a mistake, one I intend to rectify. That he bears some blame for what happened is irrelevant. The responsibility is mine alone. Details and regrets are not important here; only actions matter. My last memory of my own universe is of facing a dozen Federation troopers, all armed. Facing, in other words, death. And it had never been so welcome. I believed my mistake was impossible to correct. Now it appears that I may have been too hasty. At the instant my enemies opened fire, I found myself here: a hotel room in a sentient village, controlled by who-knows-what. For a while I was confused; overwhelmed, I suppose. A woman named Lorelai Gilmore and a man named Harry Dresden - he claimed to be a wizard - convinced me of the reality of this place. From numerous sources I have since learned that several hundred individuals, taken from many different realities and timelines, including fiction and death - reside here. Little seems to be known about the village, but the key to returning to our own universes apparently lies in learning some sort of lesson. I have already dismissed this as an option, for obvious reasons.
The population seems fairly domesticated, well-fed birds in a gilded cage, but a small group of people, mainly scientists, have agreed to meet with me to discuss the options for escape and share what they know about the village. Several options have already presented themselves, but I cannot describe them here; it is possible that this journal could be hacked. I must satisfy myself with a purely mental depiction of my plans.
In spite of myself I am intrigued by this place. Already I have met or communicated with a sentient (and very well-spoken) android, who *didn't* try to kill me, a wizard, two time travellers who are apparently the same person, and a beautiful woman who gave me alcohol and coffee. There have been others, too, all interesting, all different from each other. Were circumstances different, I might almost feel compelled to stay for a while. Stay and eat ice-cream and just *be*. I am so tired. But I cannot abandon my responsibility.
...can I?
This place has some sort of power. Like the tranquilised food we were fed in the accommodation domes, it seeks to suppress self-will, independence, rebellion. I must resist it. I must be free.
Damn the man. Damn him, if we weren't all damned all along.