Great Old One

 Great Old One:

 

That the observed changes in the presence of the observer is an interesting aspect of quantum physics known as the Observer effect. This principle affects quantum objects—those found at the atomic and subatomic scale—scales so small that they are difficult for human beings to comprehend, and whose laws are counterintuitive and intellectually challenging to us.

The goal of quantum physics professors is for students to achieve such a level of knowledge in this area that they understand as little as the former do, but if possible, that the latter do not understand even less.

 

The question Professor Rufus was asking himself at that moment was the following: if a being of impossible dimensions and non-Euclidean angles were to unknowingly manifest itself in our universe, would the fact that it observed the world change the nature or properties of that very world?

 

Lately, strange cases of mutations were occurring across the globe. Anything could be affected: from human beings to buildings or entire cities, extending to flora and fauna, transforming whole landscapes or even dimensions like the space between sound and silence—now occupied by a sort of constant static, yet no different from silence itself.

Some living beings died in grotesque and unpredictable ways. And yet, where the most changes had apparently originated, no measuring instrument showed anything unusual: there was no increased radiation, no shifts in atmospheric pressure, nor any variations in the components of the air or water. If the corpses or the buildings, distorted into spaces beyond imagination, were inspected, no special substance or trace could be found.

At the human level, the planetary scale was, for the moment—and, given the situation, possibly forever—the maximum scale a problem could present. Due to a complex juxtaposition of elements, this worried the professor on many levels.

 

Furthermore, it seemed that the problems were escalating in intensity. A couple of days ago, they had discovered that simply looking outside from the protection provided by the four walls of a building was enough to make a person mutate grotesquely and, in many cases, die.

There was probably no salvation, nor anything as banal as meaning.

 

Fortunately, in his apartment building, where everyone knew each other, they tried to support one another—whether in the form of food, medicine, tales and stories to tell, or by providing emotional support, even at a time like that.

The first to commit suicide were those optimists who set arbitrary dates for a great miracle to occur, that whole lot of misnamed "alpha males," and the type of people who do not know how to process their feelings and constantly repress them. That is to say, all those who had some excuse to avoid being in touch with their emotions, whatever they might be.

And it was completely understandable: there didn't seem to be anything in reality itself that was going to change the course of events, and the only ones who could bear living like this were those who possessed curiosity or a purpose in life. Of course, given the situation, many of them ended up committing suicide too.

Human beings need each other to survive, and without being able to go outside, it was only a matter of time before they died of hunger or disease—if not from terrible mutations. So, Rufus did the only thing he knew how to do to feel alive: learn.

 

By that point, Rufus had more curiosity than fear, so one night he took his telescope and began to observe the sky. His appearance began to shift; his teeth started falling from his gums while a new mouth began to grow on his head. That process turned out to be extremely painful, but not incapacitating, so, carefully weighing the circumstances, he decided to go up to the rooftop with his telescope.

 

Finding something striking in the sky that night was much easier than he thought. Over the night horizon, he saw a silhouette eclipsing the stars and a powerful core of light moving from side to side, as if some strange creature of cosmic proportions were approaching planet Earth.

He looked through his telescope: that core of light looked like a white hole, and the being was unmistakably heading in his direction.

Rufus wondered if a creature so large could even perceive planets.

“Probably not,” he thought.

And he wouldn’t be lying if he said he would have liked to live just a little longer to confirm that, indeed, it couldn't.

 

 

 

    Great Old One  © 2026 by Marta Roussel Perla is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International. To view a copy of this license, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/

 

Primigenio

 Primigenio:

 

Que lo observado cambia en presencia del observador es un interesante aspecto de la física cuántica conocido como el Efecto del observador. Este principio afecta a objetos cuánticos, aquéllos que se encuentran a escala atómica y subatómica: escalas tan pequeñas que a los seres humanos nos cuesta comprender y cuyas leyes nos resultan contraintuitivas y desafiantes a nivel intelectual.

El objetivo de los profesores de física cuántica es que los estudiantes alcancen un conocimiento de esta área tal, que entiendan tan poco como entienden los primeros, pero a poder ser, que los segundos no entiendan menos.

 

La pregunta que se hacía el profesor Rufus en aquel momento era la siguiente: si un ser de dimensiones imposibles y ángulos no euclidianos se manifestara, sin saberlo, en nuestro universo, ¿el hecho de que observara el mundo cambiaría la naturaleza o las propiedades de ese mismo mundo?

 

Últimamente se estaban dando extraños casos de mutaciones en el mundo: cualquier cosa podía verse afectada: desde seres humanos, hasta edificios o ciudades, pasado por flora y fauna, transformando paisajes enteros o dimensiones como el espacio entre el sonido y el silencio, ahora tomado por una especie de estática constante, pero no diferente del silencio.

Algunos seres vivos morían de formas grotescas e impredecibles. Y sin embargo, allí donde en apariencia más cambios se habían originado, ningún instrumento de medición mostraba nada particular: no había más radiación, presión atmosférica, variaciones en los componentes del aire, o el agua. Si se inspeccionan los cadáveres o los edificios tergiversados en espacios más allá de la imaginación, no se encontraba ninguna sustancia ni rastro especial.

A nivel humano, la escala planetaria era, de momento -y, dada la situación, posiblemente para siempre-, la escala máxima que un problema pudiera presentar y eso, debido a una compleja yuxtaposición de elementos, preocupaba al profesor a muchos niveles.

 

Además, parecía que los problemas iban subiendo en intensidad y, hacía un par de días, habían descubierto que mirar al exterior desde la protección que dan las cuatro paredes de un edificio era suficiente para mutar de forma grotesca y, en muchos casos, morir.

Probablemente no había salvación ni nada tan banal como significado.

 

Afortunadamente, en su edificio de apartamentos, donde todos se conocían, intentaban darse apoyo mutuamente, ya fuera en forma de comida, medicinas, relatos e historias que contar o brindando apoyo emocional, incluso en un momento como ese.

Los primeros en suicidarse eran esos optimistas que ponían fechas arbitrarias para que ocurriera un gran milagro, toda esa caterva de mal llamados "machos alfa" y ese tipo de personas que no saben procesar sus sentimientos y los reprimen constantemente, es decir, todos aquellos que tenían alguna excusa para no estar en contacto con sus emociones, fuesen éstas cuales fueren.

Y era totalmente comprensible: no parecía haber nada en la realidad misma que fuera a cambiar el curso de los acontecimientos y los únicos que soportaban vivir así eran aquellos que tenían curiosidad o un propósito en la vida.

Ante la situación muchos de éstos se suicidaban también, por supuesto.

Los seres humanos se necesitan unos a otros para sobrevivir y, sin poder salir al exterior, sólo era cuestión de tiempo morir de hambre o por enfermedad, cuando no por terribles mutaciones, de modo que Rufus hizo lo único que sabía hacer para sentirse vivo: aprender.

 

Rufus, a esas alturas, tenía más curiosidad que miedo, de modo que una noche cogió su telescopio y empezó a observar el cielo. Su aspecto empezó a cambiar y los dientes se le empezaron a caer de las encías mientras le crecía una boca en la cabeza. Aquel proceso resultó ser extremadamente doloroso, pero no incapacitante, de modo que, sopesando cuidadosamente las circunstancias, decidió ir a la azotea con su telescopio.

 

Encontrar algo llamativo en el cielo fue mucho más fácil de lo que pensaba aquella noche, ya que vio sobre el horizonte nocturno una silueta eclipsando las estrellas y un potente núcleo de luz que se movía de lado a lado, como si alguna criatura extraña y de tamaño cósmico se estuviera acercando al planeta Tierra.

 

Cogió su telescopio: ese núcleo de luz parecía un agujero blanco y aquel ser se dirigía inequívocamente en su dirección.

Rufus se preguntó si una criatura tan grande podía siquiera percibir los planetas.

“Posiblemente no”, pensó él.

Y no mentiría si hubiera dicho que le habría gustado vivir un poco más para confirmar que, efectivamente, no podía.

 

 

 

    Primigenio  © 2026 by Marta Roussel Perla is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International. To view a copy of this license, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/

 

Crossroads

 Crossroads:

 

Before all the before-times, there was nothing. But the I appeared suddenly out of that void, tearing through time and creating the moment.

And in this tale, it turns out the I is actually you—that’s life for you!

You begin to move forward; at first, everything is pure magic, and you see the world as a spectacle you can only be a part of. You’re like a song appearing between musical notes, or like a colour painting a sunrise.

Then, a lot of people begin to carelessly place their ideas and expectations onto you, and you start to grow and petrify—just a little, just enough to play your role.

However, the stage is demanding, and little by little, you learn to defend yourself from the vicissitudes of life. You resort to mechanisms, springs that activate when a new situation resembles an old one closely enough—one where you weren't allowed to be yourself because you had to respond to the ideas and expectations of others. Thanks to those springs and mechanisms, you know what to do.

You start to feel you are those mechanisms; you start to think that, somehow, they are your personality and that it is you who operates those levers, cranks, and compasses.

You walk on and reach a crossroad.

At this crossroad stands your family. No, you couldn't choose them, but—though you don't know it yet—you will be responsible for how you react to them. It seems almost like a trap because, to a large extent, you will learn "How to React to Things™" from your family.

At this fork, you choose your friends, another important part of that learning process. In retrospect, I can tell you that you’ve been lucky—but what would have become of you if you had gone with those others of darker hearts? Then there were those others, the ones who were very economically successful in life; what became of them?

You keep walking and, once again, you encounter several paths.

Here is the moment when you decide to stay in a relationship where you aren't treated well. In reality, this decision is made of a myriad of moments stretching out in a straight line before you. Do you have the tools and the knowledge to do something else? If you don't have them, is it truly a decision?

The rest of the paths seem like illusions: in that one, the same relationship lasts a very short time; in that other one, it seems you emigrate and emigrating with your partner works; and in the one further beyond, emigrating creates a resentment that destroys you both. Of course, in most of the branches, that partner doesn't even exist, and that time has perhaps been filled with other people or matters.

You look back with curiosity, but you stumble upon the moment that relationship ends. In some realities, you jump quickly into another relationship; in others, you suffer from depression, not knowing how to navigate the grief; and on this path you are walking, you question why you accepted that treatment.

Do you see? This other path is where you flee from your actions and their consequences because you cannot face the emotional cost of understanding yourself as a person who acted this way or that—as a person who did such a thing to others or did such a thing to themselves. If you follow it, the emotional consequences of this decision will splinter, and it will be very complicated to track them down to put the puzzle pieces back together.

Down that other path, you will focus primarily on your professional life, never stopping the search for people to accompany you on the way.

Down that lonely trail, you dive into your life but gradually lose sight of those who had walked with you.

Of course, there are complicated paths. If you go down that one over there, you will change; you will kill—metaphorically—part of who you are, and you will suffer—this time in a very literal sense. But you will change, after all, because the cost of suffering the change is lower than the cost of suffering everything that would happen if you didn't change.

Look, in one fork, your friends change with you. In others, they don't.

In many others, some do and some don't.

Evidently, you cannot choose any of that, so you don't choose.

Note that along this path you learn—at the cost of not betraying yourself—that your defense mechanisms weigh too much and serve too little. That there are people you have to let go. That learning to regulate your feelings in no way means repressing them or fleeing from them by thinking up excuses, hierarchies, and whatever narrative makes you feel better than others just because—whether it's that you’re better at this or that... you already know that lie.

The lie of the I.

It is only an inflammation of the ego, somewhat annoying, but it’s one of those illnesses that kills itself off, like a fever. The treatment: courage in abundance, surpassing the limits of the imagination and what is socially accepted. Later, when courage no longer even understands where that limit was, who put it there, or what time it opens: a little bit of chocolate.

But wake up, otherwise life is going to eat you up. Down that path, yes, you start to feel all the feelings, including the negative ones. Why would anyone submit themselves to such torture? But you gain clarity, and slowly, life hurts less. Those mechanisms and springs you called your personality fall away because they are no longer useful to you.

And the feelings begin to integrate into all those gaps left by the mechanisms that are no longer there. Suddenly, you glide through life by means of living, and you begin to dance with life.

The floorboards beneath your feet sound hollow.

Suddenly, others are dancing too.

The floorboards beneath their feet sound hollow.

They carry many survival mechanisms on their backs, but then again, who doesn't?

You stop in the middle of the stage; the spotlights blind you.

Then you look at the audience, but there is no one there.

In your hand is a mask; it is yours, your persona.

But that mask is made only of survival and familiarity, of fear and past.

And it doesn’t fit you anymore.

There are cracks in it, and you come with your own face—one that never had a name.

You take a bow.

And that is how masks fall: with a bow full of compassion for who we have been.

Canned applause plays, as if the sound came from an old, pre-recorded cassette tape.

"Who are you?" life asks you, speaking to you for some reason from the proscenium, perhaps interested.

The night ripples like a blanket spreading through the air and comes to a still, creating a landscape of black hills dotted with twinkling stars. There is a trail breaking through them, a moonbeam, marking a path that no one can travel, save for the night itself.

"Who are you?" life insists, expectant.

And your only answer is a question mark.

 

    Crossroads  © 2026 by Marta Roussel Perla is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International. To view a copy of this license, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/

 

Encrucijadas

Encrucijadas:

 

Antes de todos los antes no había nada. Pero el yo apareció de ese mismo vacío, rasgando el tiempo y creando el momento.

Y en este relato el yo, resulta que eres tú, ¡cómo es la vida!

Comienzas a avanzar, al principio todo es pura magia y ves el mundo como un espectáculo del que sólo puedes ser parte. Eres como una canción que surge entre notas musicales, o como el color que pinta un amanecer.

Después un montón de gente empieza a poner despreocupadamente sus ideas y expectativas en ti, y tú empiezas a crecer y petrificarte, sólo un poquito, lo justo para representar tu papel.

No obstante, el escenario es exigente y poco a poco aprendes a defenderte de las vicisitudes de la vida. Recurres a mecanismos, resortes que se activan cuando una situación nueva se asemeja lo suficiente a una situación vieja en la que no se te dejó ser tú porque tenías que responder a ideas y expectativas ajenas, y gracias a esos resortes y mecanismos sabes qué hacer.

Empiezas a sentirte esos mecanismos, empiezas a pensar que, de alguna forma, son tu personalidad y que eres tú quien maneja esas palancas, manivelas y brújulas.

Caminas y llegas a una encrucijada.

En esta encrucijada está tu familia. No, no podías elegirla pero, aunque aún no lo sepas, serás responsable de cómo reaccionarás a ella. Parece casi una trampa porque en buena medida de tu familia aprenderás Cómo se reacciona a las cosas™.

Es esta otra bifurcación está el momento en el que eliges a tus amigos, otra parte importante de ese aprendizaje. En retrospectiva puedo decirte que has tenido suerte pero, ¿qué habría sido de ti si te hubieras ido con aquellos otros de corazón más oscuro?

También estaban aquellos otros, que triunfaron mucho a nivel económico en la vida, ¿qué habrá sido de ellos?

Sigues andando y de nuevo te encuentras con varios caminos.

Aquí está el momento en el que decides quedarte en una relación en la que no te tratan bien. En realidad, esta decisión se compone de una miríada de momentos extendiéndose en línea recta ante ti. ¿Tienes las herramientas y el conocimiento para hacer otra cosa? Si no los tienes, ¿es realmente una decisión?

El resto de caminos parecen ilusiones, en ése la misma relación dura muy poco tiempo, en aquél por lo visto emigras y emigrar con tu pareja funciona, y en el de más allá emigrar crea un resentimiento que os destruye a ambos. Por supuesto, en la mayoría de bifurcaciones esa pareja ni siquiera existe y ese tiempo se ha llenado quizás con otras personas o asuntos.

Miras hacia atrás con curiosidad, pero te topas con el momento en el que esa relación termina, en algunas realidades saltas rápidamente a otra relación, en otras sufres depresión al no saber navegar el duelo, y en este camino que andas te cuestionas por qué aceptaste aquel trato.

¿Has visto? Este otro es el camino en el que huyes de tus actos y sus consecuencias porque no puedes hacer frente al coste emocional que supone entenderte como una persona que ha actuado así o asá, como una persona que ha hecho tal cosa a otros o se ha hecho tal otra a sí misma. Si lo sigues, las consecuencias emocionales de esta decisión se dividirán y será muy complicado seguirles la pista para montar el puzzle de nuevo.

Por ese otro camino te centrarás sobre todo en tu vida profesional, sin dejar de buscar gente que te acompañe en la vida.

Por ese solitario sendero te sumerges en tu vida pero vas perdiendo poco a poco de vista a quienes habían caminado contigo.

Por supuesto, hay caminos complicados, si vas por ese de ahí cambiarás, matarás –metafóricamente– a parte de quien eres y sufrirás –esto ya en un sentido muy literal–. Pero cambiarás al fin y al cabo porque el coste de sufrir el cambio es más bajo que el coste de sufrir todo lo que pasaría si no cambiases.

Mira, en una bifurcación tus amigos cambian contigo.

En otras no.

En muchas otras, algunos sí y otros no.

Evidentemente tú no puedes elegir nada de eso, así que no eliges.

Fíjate, por este camino aprendes, a costa de no traicionarte, que tus mecanismos de defensa pesan demasiado y sirven demasiado poco. Que hay personas a las que hay que dejar marchar. Que aprender a regular tus sentimientos en ningún caso significa reprimirlos o huir de ellos, pensando excusas, jerarquías y cualquier relato que te haga sentir mejor que los demás porque patatas, que si eres mejor en esto o en aquello, ya conoces esa mentira.

La mentira del yo.

Es sólo una inflamación del ego, algo molesta, pero es de esas enfermedades que se matan ellas solas, como la fiebre. El tratamiento: valentía a raudales, superando el límite de la imaginación y lo socialmente aceptado. Luego, cuando la valentía ya ni siquiera entienda dónde quedaba ese límite, quién lo había puesto ahí o a qué hora abre, un poco de chocolate.

Pero espabila, que la vida te va a comer. Por ese camino, sí, empiezas a sentir todos los sentimientos, incluyendo los negativos. ¿Por qué alguien iba a someterse a esa tortura? Pero ganas en claridad y poco a poco la vida duele menos. Esos mecanismos y resortes a los que llamabas tu personalidad caen, porque ya no te son útiles.

Y los sentimientos se van integrando en todos esos huecos que han ido dejando los mecanismos que ya no están ahí. De repente, te deslizas con la vida por la vida, y empiezas a bailar con ella.

Las tablas bajo tus pies resuenan huecas.

De repente, los demás también bailan.

Las tablas bajo sus pies resuenan huecas.

Llevan muchos mecanismos de supervivencia a cuestas, ¿pero quién no?

Te detienes en medio del escenario, la luz de los focos te ciega.

Entonces miras al público, pero no hay nadie.

En tu mano hay una máscara, es tuya, tu persona.

Pero esa máscara está hecha sólo de supervivencia y familiaridad, de miedo y pasado.

Y ya no encaja en ti.

En ella hay grietas, y tú vienes con tu propio rostro, uno que nunca tuvo nombre.

Haces una reverencia.

Y así es como caen las máscaras: con una reverencia llena de compasión por quienes hemos sido.

Suenan unos aplausos enlatados, como si el sonido procediera de una vieja cinta de cassette pregrabada.

–¿Quién eres tú?–, te pregunta la vida, que por algún motivo te habla desde el proscenio, quizás con interés.

La noche se ondula como una manta extendiéndose en el aire y se detiene, creando un paisaje de colinas negras salpicadas de estrellas titilantes. Hay un sendero abriéndose paso entre ellas, un rayo de luna, que marca un camino que nadie puede recorrer, salvo la noche misma.

–¿Quién eres tú?–, insiste la vida, expectante.

Y tu única respuesta es un signo de interrogación.

    Encrucijadas  © 2026 by Marta Roussel Perla is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International. To view a copy of this license, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/

Dungeoneering

Dungeoneering:

 

Shelyn had several years of experience looting ruined dungeons—or at least snatching whatever scraps she could salvage from them—so when that stone slab closed behind her, she didn’t lose her cool.

True, she didn’t like having overlooked a trap; but she couldn’t locate the slab or the mechanism that had triggered it. Logically, it should be somewhere in the chamber she now stood in.

Although the room itself made her think of some twisted kind of magic, because when she tried to light it with her torch, what she saw there was highly suspicious.

For starters, the chamber was perfectly cubic—which was strange enough in itself.

In the center there was a pedestal with a key resting on it; a couple of steps to the left of the pedestal stood a mirror, and on the far wall, a door bore an inscription that read: “Exit.”
A strange bluish, luminescent liquid coating the walls revealed more to her eyes than the torch alone could have.

Shelyn thought you didn’t need to be a professional… dungeon-delver? She wasn’t sure of the word. Dungeonist? Dungeonette? Well, whatever. The important thing was that this room was a trap.

But why such an obvious trap? The whole point of a trap was to go unnoticed until the adventurer triggered it—and then harm them.

Was this some sort of architectural sadism? If that were the case, maybe whatever had triggered the slab at her back had been in the threshold itself, meant to crush her rather than trap her. But Shelyn hadn’t done anything special to dodge it—she had simply walked inside.

She used an extendable staff to knock the key from the pedestal without touching it, but nothing happened.

Then she checked with the staff that the floor tiles and the walls didn’t hide any pressure mechanisms.

She tossed a few objects around, in case there were movement sensors of some sort, then picked them back up.

A little recklessly, she touched the key with her finger. Nothing happened. So she picked it up and tried it in the lock. It fit, but didn’t turn. She couldn’t exactly say she hadn’t seen that coming.

She took out her lockpicks—because you couldn’t go around dungeon-delving without a good set of picks—but, predictably, the lock wouldn’t budge.

After a moment’s thought, she tried opening the door without inserting a key at all, but—for whatever reason—that didn’t work either.

That left the mirror. And Shelyn knew that the combination of mirrors and forgotten, dark ruins usually led to trapped creatures from the other side of terror, dangerous journeys between strange planes of existence with no clear way home, sickly interdimensional cults—or a pretty redhead staring at you from the other side. But usually Shelyn wasn’t lucky enough to just see her own reflection.

She could swear her reflection had looked normal before, but now, of course, it was a strange version of herself: more leather, paler skin, definitely more scars, clothes dangling with too many chains, something like needles piercing her arms and forming a kind of carapace, and a threatening attitude.

Shelyn examined it with curiosity.

The creature began ramming against the mirror, fracturing it, while Shelyn watched with interest. Then the other broke through and stepped into the chamber.

“Hi. You’re not some kind of metaphor, are you?” Shelyn ventured. “I don’t like metaphors,” she tried to explain clumsily.

“That’s a strange question,” the other Shelyn replied. “Not that I know of. Are you? Can a metaphor ask another metaphor if it’s a metaphor?”

“No, and I have no idea,” the adventurer answered, confused.

“Didn’t it occur to you about the mirror?” asked the other, pointing at the gap left between two rooms that shouldn’t connect the way they did.

“No, I’m a bit slow. I thought I was the correct me, until now, that is,” Shelyn apologized.

The other Shelyn circled the mirror, glancing into it as she passed: those two rooms posed a serious geometrical problem.

“Cool, huh?” she said, grinning.

“I have an idea.” Shelyn went to what remained of the mirror, crossed through, and took the key from the other side. She tried it in the lock, and this time the door opened.
The other Shelyn was going to the same but on the other side the door was already open, of course.

Each crossed their respective door. The next room was rectangular, but now the mirror covered the entire ceiling, and each saw the other walking upside down.
The mirror wasn’t really a mirror, at least it was not reflecting them, though it mirrored the rest of the room perfectly. And fortunately, they could hear each other through it.

“Do you think this makes sense?” asked Shelyn.

“I quit drugs years ago,” the other replied, “so probably not.”

On the far wall was a small plaque in cursive script.

“This one says…” Shelyn began. “will exist? There’s even an interrogation mark.”

“This one says Does free” the other pointed out. “What do you think?”

“Is this a logical problem or an emotional one?”

“Philosophical, I think.”

“Yeah, yeah, but from which angle do we solve it?”

“Put it this way,” the other proposed. “Is our mental activity determined or not? If it is, then we don’t own it. If it isn’t, then it’s random.”

“I don’t like that idea…” Shelyn admitted.

“If our mental activity is determined,” continued the other adventurer, “then it’s determined by something in our mind or by something external. If external, then no free will. If internal, then we’re just postponing the problem. Because we can ask again: is that thing in our mind determined or random? Either way, we don’t control the situation.”

“But what the hell-ohhh…” Shelyn had always believed free will was essential, of course. Without it, you had to answer a whole host of questions about ethics, responsibility, and punishment that very smart people—though perhaps not smart enough to answer them—would have to face. And yet, free will suddenly seemed like nothing more than an illusion, shattering like that first mirror in the first chamber.

At the same time, her fear that some idiot who thought free will didn’t exist might justify any atrocity vanished, because that was the stance of someone who didn’t really grasp the matter, since the agent is always accountable and society always protects itself.

“I’m not making a point,” Shelyn said, surprised at her own words.

“What?” asked the other, intrigued.

“I mean if someone asked me what I mean, if there’s no free will…”

“Oh, yeah. I’m too old to go around making points, too,” her interlocutor agreed. “Free will doesn’t exist,” she declared theatrically.

The far wall stirred and produced a door.

Both opened it and stepped into the next room. This one was white and bright.

They were both in the same room, at the same time, in the same place—being one.

There was absolutely nothing in the room, not even the door they’d entered through.

Shelyn ran her routine tests: checking for pressure, motion, or sound sensors; for cavities, reliefs, protrusions, or any hint of seams in the smooth wall.

There was nothing.

So Shelyn—or both halves of her—sat down on the floor and began to think.

On the bright side, she wasn’t hungry, nor did her bodily functions seem active. In other words: she had all the time in the world.

At first, she thought about her situation with urgency. Then she relaxed. Then she reflected, grew bored, began questioning the meaning of her existence, who she was, what the world was, she tought silly thoughts, and cycled through those stages again and again.

After what felt like eternity, she stopped thinking, because it wasn’t taking her anywhere.

Then she relaxed into the silence.

It stretched out in every direction; who she was blurred into the walls of that chamber, and her mind became a mirror reflecting everything.

And yet, within the silence, she began to think again: her brain told her life would be very boring if there were nothing in her mind, that she couldn’t give herself up completely with all that story on her back. And that story—who she was—settled heavily on her shoulders once more.

Her fears pounced on her in a merciless struggle; doubts appeared, wounding her; terror dragged images from the past, full of darkness and of all the wrongs she had suffered or, more often, had inflicted.

But it was too late: Shelyn had already realised that her idea of herself was a strange lie no one tells anyone.

Her mistakes were her wisdom, and her pain and worries pointed to the problems she needed to resolve.

And she saw how all that darkness filling her body disappeared, leaving empty spaces that, instead of sealing, let the light shine through.

Shelyn didn’t like metaphors: you could never trust them, because they never meant exactly what they claimed to mean. To her, they had a dishonest streak, and that’s why she hated becoming one.

She valued sincerity—tempered with empathy, of course—above all else.

So she relaxed and returned to silence.

She realized words could never transmit that stillness—at best they could name it, destroying it in the process.

And she wasn’t sure, but maybe—just maybe—metaphors were a way, incomprehensible if anybody asked her, of escaping the limits of language.

Silence, in any case, struck her as the better solution: it was honest, and meant exactly what it was.

Silence felt like remembering something important, like coming home, like the calm of knowing you were where you belonged.

And so, with her body pierced by beams of light, she felt herself returning to herself.

The walls of that chamber opened, like petals in spring, and Shelyn found herself before a wooden cabin in the forest, beside a flowing brook: her home.

“Fuck me,” she muttered.

She still didn’t like metaphors: you couldn’t trust them.

 

    Dungeoneering  © 2025 by Marta Roussel Perla is licensed under Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International. To view a copy of this license, visit https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/4.0/