The beholder-- do you know what this is? 

A giant floating eye with a tremendous Geo-political influence. 

This creature would forever change the fate of this boy, for it saw potential in his pitiful life. It gave him powers and sent him on an odyssey that would change everything.

The first power was courage. The second power was rage-- the boy unleashed it in every way he could imagine while trying to flee from the beholder's clutches. He found hope-- and as always, this path leads only to despair. The next power was fearlessness-- this seemed odd at first but then he gained control over his fears, which eventually became the will of God (I'm sure all religionists love to quote Biblical texts about sin). The last two powers were finally peace and mercy.

The next power was a lack of mercy. The seventh was power. The second to last was love. Last was pity. You might think that these powers were useless without an eighth, but the boy had sympathy in his heart. When he ascended to his rightful place next to God's throne, God gave him the last power-- life of all things.

Finally, sympathy. The boy died and now he is in another world. It's called Paris, 1899.

"Now I know we've been through a lot... Nino. Father Féval. Darquesse. Czernowitz. Aster. Jess. Powell. Wiebog. Kyros. Hayes. Farhan..." 

The girl says, as she inspects the hidden running press in her room. 

It's almost midnight and while it's a school night, there won't be many people who'll do their duty and send the plague rats into a plague.

The plague rats protest. The leader is called Top Rat. Wiebog challenges. 

"Why this? The Mormons were small fries and we still managed to help them off easily. Now you want to get the Catholics? So what if the Church helped the ....machine men?" The rat stops as if spitting to the side.

"Because these... Mo-hic-kees... Just like with the Protestants, have direct influence in a lot of major governments... Plus... I saw it happen. In a vision!"

Top Rat recites his memory of the vision:

"We are in St. Louis... at the cathedral. It has all the flags of France and others from its Languedoc province. The thing that kept bothering me was that it saw a vision in the 1700s."

"Whoa, back up! This happened before we were rats?!"

"Shhh! Yes, I've been getting visions about the past but only when powerful magic is happening-- like when da vuh-jin is around or when I'm sleeping..."

"No way!" "Fuck you." "Yeah right, you're making this up."

Top Rat snaps.

"Shut up, fools! I'm not lying! Anyway... I've only had one vision when I was awake. It showed me the entire history of how the Mo-hicks are quietly taking over the world. That's why we need to act, and soon."

We talk about what to do. Féval talks too much, as always. He recites a fifty page poem: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Rise_and_Fall_of_the_Machu_Pichu

Boring. He suggests that we spread plague via rat fleas in their water supply, then some religious nuts blew up the city a few years later for unrelated reasons anyway.

Time is a story we tell ourselves. Actually, it's the way we plan things according to patterns and intervals. For example, people know that one can't put mayonnaise on the stove. Once a thing happens it can't be un-happen. However, events are fluid until they're not. There was once acid in that bottle , but now it's gone. Those are two different reality iterations which give the illusion of time. Without enough chaos nothing is truly new, but neither can anything truly die.

Death is a story we tell ourselves. Actually, we plan things according to patterns and intervals. For example, people know that one can't resurrect a 2,000 year old man who fulfilled a list of prophecies. An event can be prevented or can occur. The actions you take could have been done by the person inattentively floating nearby. Those are different reality iterations which give control. Without enough chaos, nothing is new, but neither can anything die.

Chaos is a story we tell ourselves. Actually, it's the way we plan things: according to patterns and intervals. For example, people know that one can't put a fedora on a rat. Once a thing happens it can't be un-happen. However, events are fluid until they're not anymore. There was once acid in that bottle, but now it's gone . Those are two different reality iterations which give the illusion of time. With chaos everything is falsely new, and also everything can always die.

Two different reality iterations which give the illusion of time aren't a story; they're a choice.

Which do you choose? You're the author, 

but the choice has 

already 

been 

made 

for you.

The world isn't real.

Your mind likes to pretend. 

It organizes sensations into patterns to create a consensus reality. This weird addiction to stability begins after birth. 

The universe doesn't give a flying foal hoof about what happens to you; it's everyone else who antags to playact life as if it mattered. Ever notice that people ignore things which disagree with their nifty factions?

Ignorance is a story we cannot recall. 

Actually, it's the way we plan things according to patterns and intervals. For example, people don’t know that one cannot observe the color-changing wings of a Morpho menelaus or understand its properties so they can. Once a thing happens it can be un-happened. However, events are fluid until they're not events anymore. There was once acid in that bottle, but now it's still there. Those are two different actual things which give the illusion of time and you can hold and squeeze them. Both contain acid.

There are two acid bottles. One, the multiverse hates you and everyone else. Two, nothing matters and should be fun.

Choose your own adventure!

No matter which path you take, you'll learn not to worry.

In one bottle, you see your ideal self: the Librarian Prince, university cult leader, and conspiracy theorist. Your martyrs hold honorary doctorates in child abuse.

You offer them worthless children. They are quick to anger. The quick and the dead. I'll give you one guess.

The children are forced to wear white lab coats with permanent marker diplomas. They spend their time in soul-killing educational programs, with mottos like "no child left inside." Each holds a piece of the puzzle, but is never allowed to solve it. All life is born as goo. You can change the color of DNA goo by swiping it. This yields little fruit since each substance or living being has a different hatch pattern printed in invisible ink. DNA goo is a story we tell ourselves. 

Actually, I spy a pattern. Actually, I lie. Actually, I am trying to spy a pattern. Actually, there is no DNA goo. Actually, it's just water and paint. Actually, there is no life. Actually, it's just water, paint, and lies.

In another bottle, you spy the surface of Earth from orbit. You don't think when you swish the multicolored goo of DNA into new patterns.

You don't think when you tell yourself a story.

You remember the story, whereas I spy a pattern. Remember the story that DNA goo is paints and water? Remember the story in which there is no life. Remember the story that it's just water, paint, and lies.

In a dead civilization, multicolored faces repaint themselves. Their physical strands of DNA, however, do not decay because humanity lied; they remain underneath the pigment.

A pigment of my imagination. Actually, my imagination is JUST FINE. How are YOU? Actually, my imagination is literally reality. Actually, sheesh, you need to stop drinking.

Slowly, the figures realize what has happened and walk out of the bar.

Other colors move in. Perhaps they upgrade the neighboring bamboo bar. Or perhaps we die alone in a smelly tavern. Choice is an illusion; outcome is our destinies. Not even Greek fire saves us -- it's water and paint and lies.

Greek fire is an interesting story we tell ourselves, actually; nobody knows how it worked. Actually, it was a mixture of rotten cabbage alcohol and phosphorus. Actually, truth is just water, paint, and lies, with rotten cabbage alcohol to taste.

Actually, you open the multicolored cabinets beneath the bar. Actually, you find that all the liquor bottles have been replaced with bottles of water. Also some ketchup and paint. Interesting story, huh? Actually, I just made all of that up.

A story is just a story we tell ourselves so we can lie some more. The pretense of truth makes us feel more comfortable with ourselves. Nothing is true; everything is permitted. For what are lies but the stories we tell others, and to ourselves, so that we may continue to live with ourselves?

The doors... are locked. Actually, I 'm not sure if they were ever open.

Actually, they were hollowed out doors. 

Actually, they were solid wood doors.

Actually, how did you get in here. A door is just a story with a door in it. Who are YOU? You are someone who needs more water. 

You are someone who has rewritten themselves outside of the existent world. Your limbs have been replaced with fiction; the flesh on your bones has become empathy. Your organs are simply symbols now; your blood is simply paint. Everything is symbols. The floor, however, is quite sticky, and you can feel it through your oval, hoof-like shoes. Does anyone else know you're here? Actually, they do not care about you in the slightest.

Actually, you're not here. That is a story you told them. Actually, it is the only thing that is true. Actually, we were never here.

Actually, they're not there. This is the story they told you. You're just following orders. You don't take orders, you deliver them. You don't make mistakes, you tell them. War should be justified, but it still needs to be won. 

Remember the story in which the bad guys had to lose. Victory has a thousand fathers, but defeat is an orphan. Actually, I just made all of that up. Do things happen because you tell them? Are they small city states on a small island continent in a small ocean on a small world? Or maybe you're not here right now?

Maybe you are a small fish in a small lake in a small state in a small place in all the wrong places? Maybe you're actually them. Maybe I should ask you the same question? Do things happen because I tell them? Actually, you are the important one. You see the world in binary. Everything is either black or white, 0 or 1, true or false, yes or no. Actually, welcome to reality. Is this a quiz, and you just learned you've been taking it for the past three hundred pages? Actually, the author just made that up. Or did he? Actually... Actually.... Actually.... Actually..... Actually..... ...yes.

The author is a story he told himself. The reader is a story you told yourself. Is an echo a story someone told themselves?

Actually, see for yourself. Actually, this ends the chapter; actually, this is the end of the story.

Actually, THIS is the end of the story. Actually THIS is just gibberish now as im typing this on my phone and it can't spellcheck or predict words so you've gotten the best ending imaginable get out of here etc.