A Journal by Martine
From the Singularity Weapons quest introduced in Fever Dreams.
Obtained by speaking to the Executor Assistant at the end of Martinate Holding.
A Journal by Martine
A new book by Martine.
Part 1
All my questing, all my writing, all the bloodshed and violence and manipulation and destruction, all to this one central question, 'What do I have to do to get some respect in this forsaken existence?'
With all that I have experienced, with all the pain I have felt, and the pain that I have inflicted, surely something in there marks me as one to be reckoned with? Yes? Yes? Yes, I would think so.
In fact, one would think that the mere mention of my name would send shivers amongst those appreciative of my talents. Have I not worked hard for this to be so? What more has to be done? Must I rid this world of every single living thing in order for someone important to realize that I SHOULD HAVE RESPECT?
You appreciate the dilemma. What point the performance without an audience? But I need a better audience. One more finely tuned to...subtleties. To complications and ambiguities. Instead I strut on the stage before hordes of mice, old and feeble. And blind. Very, very blind.
Hello, little blind mouse. And what do you call yourself? Are you one of those big, strong Lugians? Maybe one of those crafty Tumeroks? A slimy Mosswart? Or one of those flimsy, whiny Isparians? Or do you think you are a member of a higher order than these lesser races? Shadowkin? Virindi? You are all little blind mice to me.
Me. Me, me, me. Ahh, the trappings of fame bring with it such an incessant need for details. What is my name? Puppet, Father, Martine, Lord, Candeth, Husband, Master. How old am I? I am 39 years old. I have existed for over 4 million years. Where do I come from? From a tiny jewel of a planet, nestled deep in the confines of blackness, protected by the merest layer of air. From a plane of Order, pure and crystalline.
I am the product of two cultures, two races, that should never have been fused. Human existence to the Virindi is like explaining to a singular point the existence of three dimensions. It has been a painful process for my former colleagues to adapt to this life. And those that I have adapted to my own needs have experienced even more pain. The Isparian part of me might have once felt sympathy.
So here you stand, or sit; full of false bravado or having the good sense to tremble; wanting nothing more than to flee this place, or hoping to beg of me a favor in support of some ill-conceived notion that will result, at best, in another day's worth of cheese for your little mousy mind: reading these words. I regret that this is the only interaction we will share this day. I am not ready to meet my audience off of the stage yet. And you are certainly not ready to meet me.
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Part 2
Respect. That is the reason behind this latest writing. I will have it. Mark that down. I no longer yearn for love or sustenance, comfort or warmth. There is no security, and the purity of order has been exposed as the eternal lie. All are differing arrangements of chaos. Respect is the one goal I have left. It will not be denied me.
I thought that going back to right the old wrongs would bring me the satisfaction I craved. First Arrgkh, then Alayne. I searched far and wide for the Overseer that made me what I am. To thank him, of course. Nothing. Did he perish as a result of his machinations? Or later, during the Directive War? He did not seem to be one who would have let my own plans go unchallenged, especially coming from a former minion of his. I still amuse myself by imagining our next meeting, even if it will only ever happen in my dreams.
Eternal screaming. The Virindi in me will not stop today. As I mentioned above, the Isparian and Virindi mindsets do not meld well. He does not quite accept he is me. Most days I am strong enough to quiet him...to incorporate him. But after the events of yesterday, I am tired. Back during the days of Jean and the Master, when Martine was destroyed, I had an image that kept on coming back to me, over and over and over.
I thought of God, a God who looked over his creation, and knew that he could not escape it. That he, and the whole of existence, would continue to be, for ever and ever. And he was filled with such horror at the unceasing pace of his creation, and his secure knowledge that there would never be anyone with more authority or power than him to give him peace or absolution, that his only recourse was to scream and scream and scream. Eternal screaming.
Respect...when last I left you, reader, I was full of manipulations and plots, dreams and ambitions. I envisioned...well, perhaps those dreams are not quite dead, yet. Even with this meddlesome Directive, there are still ways for me to achieve my earlier goals. Whether I still wish to or not...but do not fret, little mouse. Enjoy that nibble of cheese. But it was that first meeting with the Directive that showed me that vexations do not cease when one becomes a cat.
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Part 3
I went through a period in the management of my various pets, encouraging them to speak their mind. To let me know what they thought and felt. They had been a bit lacking in performance of their duties, and they seemed resigned to, not afraid of, the death and torture they were threatened with. Hence, an experiment with a new policy. One of the Isparians was reading through some of my earlier memoirs and apparently felt the need to comment.
"Exalted Master High Lord," he began (while I was encouraging more openness amongst the help, proper respect was still a must), "while I truly love all that you write, you display such obvious genius, I do have one small critique."
Of course, I was most interested in what he had to say. I moved in close to hear him better. Apparently, this made him nervous. I smiled pleasantly, "Please continue, valued servant."
"Well, your description of your various internal mental states is admirable. But I found myself wanting more visual description. Give your readers a better sense of, how do the Viamontans put it, 'Mise en scene.' I want to be able to see what is going on for myself, I need to be able to place myself in the story. And you might want to emphasize plot more in these tales. Where is the true conflict? The resolutions are rather...facile, no?" He finished with a flourish, truly proud of his analysis.
I, too, was impressed. I tried to distill his words to their essence.
"So, you desire to be more immersed in my stories? My stories are chiefly concerned with pain. Let me help you in this immersion process." After his screams subsided somewhat, I proceeded to his next point, "And I truly apologize for the brevity and ease with which I handle conflict resolution. I promise you that I will practice prolonging and extending the amount of pain and conflict in my literary interactions. But what value a literary text, except how it mirrors in some awful way the real world? Even though you will beg for death and release, just remember that you are serving a higher literary goal."
My social experiment ended after that day. I do admit I surpassed prior motivational attempts with the display I put on with my Isparian assistant. My staff was very happy apparently to see the "nice Master" replaced with a more efficient and productive leader.
Fine, I admit I completely made up the previous anecdote. It never happened. Pure fantasy. I just get tired of being told that I have no sense of humor.
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Part 4
I would not have even been aware of the Directive agents coming to Auberean were it not for the Virindi in me changing his screams to frantic gibbering. "nononono howcantheybehere willtheykillme willtheysaveme pleasesavemekillmefreemenonononono"
It would be nice to say that I could hold a rational conversation with my own internal Virindi. That I could convince him that it was in our best interests, as long as we shared a mind, to work together to maximize the possibilities of our long-term biological happiness. Unfortunately, I once more had to rip the information I desired out of our frazzled mind. This was still early in the process of our symbiotic relationship, before I learned how to incorporate it entire. Unpleasant and messy, but better than the screaming.
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-- Author