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This was literally a nightmare I had; tried to make a story out of it.

 

1.

The AT15A banked steeply towards the surface. The dark, cold water pressed around the small submersible; the pilot, Capt. Kendon Mkell opened a small pouch of caffeine. The patrol route was nearing to the furthest point of the ocean he was supposed to check before turning back, and he was tired. This run was one of those half-day exercises of boredom, but he tried to keep alert; he was fully aware that things could change any time. Routine and boredom was the worst enemy of any soldier; when things go south, as they invariably do, he did not want to be caught with his pants down. Everything conspired to make him drowsy: the muted lights in the cockpit, the murmuring noise of the propulsion system, the featureless darkness outside of the viewport… he needed the boost. The sensory array was on a passive mode, only receiving; the turbines were quietly pushing out water without generating much noise that any enemy craft would be able to pick up. He was quite certain nobody was around in a thirty kilometer region, but even if the RTT had any watercraft around, he should be safe from a first-strike from distance. It was really hard to pinpoint the source of the noise these waterjet engines made; the whooshing sound was very diffuse on most instruments and sonars. The enemy would have to be really close to make an accurate measurement; so close, in fact, his own instruments would give him warning about any metallic objects larger than a beer can in that range.

 

He skirted around the sunken wreck of the NSS Liberty. The gigantic warship was floating submerged in the ocean; a causality of the war raging over and under the Pacific Ocean. Kendon switched the sensors into active mode; the low pulses of the sonar made his inner ears itch. The screen was really noisy due to the small floating objects around the wreck. Pieces of the ship, equipment, dead bodies all congregated around the gigantic dead craft. The submersible was an interesting amalgam of an aircraft and a submarine; unlike most of the submarines of old it resembled a fat little airplane that had a manta ray somewhere in its family tree. The blunt nose housed the cockpit with an actual viewing port -a luxury in submarines. The short wings were round and deltoid, and the engine nacelles were hanging from the mid section of the ship. It looked like it could fly; in reality it was modelled on aircraft and rays. The cockpit’s viewing port was relatively large; it served a very useful purpose since in the very short range dogfights these crafts engaged in normally, visual clues were essential for the pilot. There was no time for the traditional slow cat and mouse hiding games submarines of old usually played. This was a vicious, fast and brutal way of waging a war underwater, which resembled the Second World War dogfights more than anything else. Since the ocean was a complex web of currents and thermal layers, it was an incredibly difficult and complex battlefield. Small crafts like his could hide from sensor scans by crossing into another thermal layer or current; the scans would not be able to penetrate the boundaries of these layers. One minute your target could be right in front of you on your instruments, the next it could disappear by diving into an oceanic current, only to emerge behind you. On territorial waters sonar buoys were used to monitor the ocean to a considerable depth, but on contested waters this was not possible; these were the dangerous regions where entire enemy formations could lurk under your craft without you ever realizing it.

 

Mkell watched as the faint glow from above illuminated the floating debris around his craft. Visibility was -as usual- very low; he only saw objects rushing towards him when they got to four-five meters to the viewport. He was forced to engage the active sonar since he ran the very real risk of running into something he does not see; he still jumped when a dead body slammed against his cockpit window. The dark waters robbed the colors from the corpse rendering it a monochrome spectre. Most of the body was still intact and the uniform perfectly recognisable, despite of having spent weeks in the freezing water. The fish did not yet get around to eat the corpses; something in the water released by the dead ship kept them away. Kendon shook his head, and tried to calm down. He kept telling himself that the collision with the dead seaman only exacerbated the effects on his heartrate of the caffeine he just consumed but with very little success. He gently steered around larger pieces of floating debris, checking the vicinity of the wreck. This was the largest object around several hundred kilometers; perfect hiding place for any enemy craft.

 

Suddenly an active signal- something live, something energized among the dead debris. Something that was under power; something that had no business to be there. The sensors locked onto the object; a flick of a finger, and the armament came to life. A feral grin spread on his face. “Gotcha”, he murmured. The HUD (head up display) put a red diamond over a small fleck – the enemy craft. Now he had a visual point of reference, too. The sensors narrowed its scan range automatically to get a more accurate reading. Another second and the turbines went full power as well; the small, blunt nosed craft jumped ahead in the water. Mkoll felt his heartbeat in his ears again; the hunt was on.

 

The enemy craft- after all, what else it could have been- powered up as well, forking around the debris littering the area. The AT15A rushed after it. A small canister detached itself from its back and headed to the surface. Since radios do not work underwater, this small transmitter was needed on the surface to alert the HQ of the intruder with all the data the patrol craft managed to record. In a short amount of time this region would be swarming with allied watercraft and aircraft. Until then it was up to the patrol to deal with the threat. The two small crafts pushed themselves fast in the water; cavitation bubbles were trailing from their wingtips and the waterjets. The previous drone was now replaced the roaring of the fully functioning propulsion system. The serenity of the cockpit was transformed by warning sounds and other noises of a warcraft in full readiness. Mkoll came near the enormous hull of the Liberty. The proximity warning was beeping as the black metal surface rushed under his craft. He swooped over the gigantic, copper colored screw and under the rudder, down into the inky black depth.

 

The enemy craft kept going further down, rushing towards the ocean bottom almost six kilometers deep; of course both crafts would be destroyed by the pressure before approaching even a fraction of that depth. Mkoll doggedly followed the ship. The rules of engagement allowed for certain amount of risk in chasing enemy infiltrators, but the object was to chase them off, and not necessarily destroy them. Any foolhardy chase would only jeopardise the area’s security. Mkoll only had about three more kilometers to destroy the submarine; after that he would have to return to the patrol area, secure it, and wait for the reinforcements to arrive. He intended to do his damned best not to let the enemy escape.

 

Hundred meters down. The enemy was approaching a thermal barrier; the sonar returns clearly indicated the boundary between the two thermal layers, and overlaid it onto his HUD. “No you don’t” he said, as he watched the enemy craft approaching this invisible layer; he let two fish off, and went into a steeper dive. The fish -the torpedos- were sleek, ultra-fast missiles that could achieve an incredible hundred and fifty kilometers per hour under water, but at the cost of being loud as hell; a sure way to alert to the enemy of the approaching doom. A bright white flash answered his attack as the enemy craft released a combined flair. The device scrambled visual, heat seeking and sonar-guided ordnance; however it illuminated quite a large portion of the ocean around it. Mkoll caught his first actual glimpse of the fleeting enemy: a small craft, not unlike his own. Probably an infiltrator gathering information. The craft was now invisible to his instruments as it was already below the thermal boundary, but he could see it quite clearly.

 

Before entering the layer he turned his craft to passive mode, and slowed down considerably; this way he would sink into the thermal layer undetected; he hoped his prey was still going full power, which would make passive tracking possible, while making him invisible to his prey. He gently eased the submersible into the lower thermal layer.

There was no sign of the enemy; his instruments picked up nothing. It was possible his prey went passive as well, but Mkell doubted it. Something was off. He felt tempted to go active again, and ping the area with a sensor sweep, but he knew he needed to be patient. He increased his altitude, to get back into the top layer, but nothing; he turned his craft down again. No sign of the intruder. He slowly increased the throttle, reaching cruising speed, when suddenly his craft slowed down and stopped. One of the waterjets cut off, and then silence.

2.

His first reaction was annoyance; he thought it was a mechanical failure. A quick check on the instruments showed everything in the green- the craft was fully functional. The number one jet cut off because of obstruction; the second one worked, but the craft still slowed down to a standstill. He tried to restart the stalled engine, but it refused. When increased the output on the second one, the craft shuddered violently, and then stopped completely; the second engine cut out as well. Mkoll sat back; the annoyance gave way to stupor and then worry. “What the… what is going on with you, old girl?” asked his craft. He tried to override the engine safety controls to get them going again, and in the furor of activity he almost missed the jolt. Something started to pull his craft. Something was pulling it downwards.

 

He quickly released a second transmitter, and then frantically started to work on the engine restart procedures. Nothing. The craft- even though it was undamaged and fully functional- did not respond to anything he did. It became clear: he had to get out of his doomed craft. There was nothing he could make out, something WAS pulling it down. He could not even begin to think of anything that was capable of grabbing and immobilizing an AT15, but his imagination filled the blanks out very well. He pulled the ejection handle, which would have released his cabin from the frame of the submersible, but nothing happened. The small, explosive bolts separated, but the craft was held together by something.  He started to get jittery; something unexplained was going on, and he was a hundred and fifty meters under the ocean surface. He knew the enemy craft was inconsequential now; something much worse was happening to him than the dangers of a dogfight. He tried the sonar, but the ping returned nothing. He turned all the floodlights on so that he could look around the vicinity of his craft, but most of them were simply blocked. Blocked by what? There was hardly any light escaping. He tried to launch a couple of fish from the two torpedo tubes, but the torpedo bay doors were blocked. He did not expect the warheads to do anything anyway, since they needed clearance from the submarine before they were armed. Still; it was impossible even to launch them. Something held his craft in its grips, and it was dragging it towards the abyssal plains below…

 

3.

He knew he needed to escape before he got too deep, and was crashed under the immense pressure. Something gripped the ship, so he needs to evacuate. And do it without getting caught himself… He got out of his command chair, and started to frantically get his suit fixed up. He wore a survival suit for the mission; now he was attaching the gloves and the bottom ring of the protective helmet to the rubberised, insulated suit, and the rebreather apparatus on his chest. He needed to get out. He was afraid of the dark outside, but staying here would be death. In the near absolute icy blackness he had to leave his little piece of warm protection, and find the way to the surface while some unknown horror kept his craft in its clutch. He was shaking; five years of vicious combat did not prepare him for this. The thought of leaving the craft wanted him to just stay and wait for the end; about two kilometers down the outer shell would fail catastrophically, killing him instantly. This fate compared to the long swim to the top with the invisible threat behind looked better and better the longer he stayed and thought about the escape. He knew he had to move soon, or he’ll be unable to do anything at all. Once most of his gear was on, he opened the compartment for the flairs, and took three out. With a tape he fixed them together, and connected them to each other through the detonator heads. His hands were trembling as if he was deathly cold, and could fit the wires into their slots only with difficulty. The flares were set to detonate manually now. He clasped the helmet on, made sure the seal was engaged, and pressed the emergency flooding button. The cabin slowly filled up as the invisible force tugged on the submarine; dirt, papers and discarded food wrappers  swirled around his torso. His mouth was dry, and it was really difficult to keep his breathing regular… but he could not do anything until the compartment was fully flooded. The cold started to engulf him, and his whole body was shaking. He tried to see something, anything in the dark outside, but nothing came. He thought of the enemy craft; it was possible it met a very similar fate. He wondered about the pilot, and what he was doing; suddenly the thought of fighting another human being under these waters seemed foolish indeed.

The cockpit took two minutes to fill completely; it felt like an eternity to him. He slid the jury-rigged flair back into its compartment, and grabbed the trigger wire; once the cabin side hatch closed, he pressed the emergency button, which flushed the flare out into the water. He tried to calm his nerves, and get himself composed enough to start the escape, when two faint lights appeared in the cockpit window. He did not know how far they were, or what they were really; his imagination, however ran absolutely wild. He saw two huge, fluorescing eyes staring inside his cockpit, and screamed.  

 

4.

Kendon pressed his eyes shut and pushed the button.The flares went off with a cold-white flash outside the small submarine, and ignited the other flare rods as well. He blindly stumbled to the back of the cockpit, and opened the small hatch on the back of the AT15. The pressure was enormous, and he felt clumsy and sick with fear. With his eyes still closed he released the emergency balloon, and pushed himself out. Even through his closed eyes he was almost blinded by the light. He felt around with his hands until he found the wire of the balloon, and kicked himself away from the submarine. Following the line he started swimming with an undulating movement towards the surface. His heart was pounding in his ears and his throat; he did not open his eyes. He felt the six kilometers of depth under him; he felt the uncharted, cyclopean mountains, and the horrors lurking between them. He did not dare to open his eyes; just kept swimming following the life-line of the balloon to the surface. He expected something enormous to grab his legs at any second to drag him down to the deep, inky blackness below. The surface was about three hundred meters above… three hundred of torturous meters trying to reach the surface, the air, the world outside. He took as shallow breaths as possible in order to minimalize the noise from the rebreather apparatus. The cold water pressed against his skin; despite of the insulating fabric of his suit he felt the deadly chill setting in his body. With the pounding in his ears he risked a quick glance to the side. The water below him was flat, pale blue as the flares were burning with an angry white light below him; above the absolute blackness. He saw the shadow of his submersible, but he shut his eyes again in terror before he could see what held his watercraft in its grabs. His mind was screaming in panic, and all he could do was to swim and not to succumb to it. He knew that if he saw what captured him with his submarine, his mind would give up, he would lose his grip on reality, and he would die there, in the hostile, icy depth. He bit on the mouthpiece hard and kept swimming to the surface in the ice-cold black water while the hot tears were running down his face.

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Sometimes I write stuff. It just comes out. I’m not really sure what to do with these stories, so here is one.

 

The sunrise

The sunrise was always a wonder. The way the deep black of the night slowly gave way to the grey sky and the black ocean… and then the riot of colors: at first dark reds, oranges, until the sun appeared turning the cold, black water into blue again. He loved the sunrise, even though he has watched it every morning for millennia. The sun’s fire was his fire; this is when he felt some tiny sliver of it burning in him again.

This sunrise was even more special than all the others. It was the last one he would ever see. That small sliver of fire was turning ember… it was time.

He lazily turned into the southern wind, and slowly spiralled upwards, always upwards. Below him the endless ocean became a featureless blue surface; no land was in sight. He has spotted two of the giant albatrosses whose lives very much mirrored his own, but even they could not hope to ascend where he was.  He was alone; even his kind did not come this east, preferring to stay closer to the islands where the earth’s fire is close to the surface. Only the very old or the injured come to the east. His long wings lazily flapped twice; it felt good to be on the move.

He always found it amusing: a creature of air and fire living over the cold, dark ocean… He was not afraid of the water; eons ago, when his kind waged war against mankind, he had plunged in the ocean, taking a wooden ship with him. The cold water suffocated him, it threatened to extinguish his fire, but he could endure it for a limited time. In fact, he endured longer than the humans he dragged down with their boats. That war was savage and unnecessary; hundreds of his kind died, as did tens of thousands of the Men of the West on their boats, in their villages and towns.It took centuries and an exceptional man to end the conflict. The reasons for the war were simple and yet tragic. Mankind learned to fare the oceans. They finally left their continents, and started exploring the endless oceans. They got close to the islands where the his kind reared their young. They upset the balance of power. How dare these creatures whose lives can be barely measured in decades challenge the ancient race? How dare they threaten their most sacred islands?

They threatened the them by simply existing. They upset the balance of things, and this lead to war. First, only the boats were burned, but when the armada of men came to avenge their dead and dragons died, too. His kind moved west, to deal with the threat at its source. Dragons appeared in the mountains, destroyed villages, burned up fields and livestock; things were spiralling out of control. Dragonkind had fire and the air; mankind had their war machines spitting out long rods of true steel, and people who could use magic against the dragons. Now mankind was eager to bring the war to their islands as well; countless eggs and youngsters were murdered by men. He grew up in this conflict; and he grew old during this conflict. He knew bitterness, he knew anger, he knew murder. And then the small, lone boat appeared.

The boat was painted black: black hull, black sails, even the ropes were painted black. The sail bore a sigil of a red dragon. Only one man came on this boat: a tall, young man with a red ruby on his forehead. He came as an emissary of people who were just as hateful and bitter as his own kind.

They did not kill him. He, as one of the oldest surviving member of his flock, talked to him in the common tongue. They talked, and they started the long and difficult process of making peace. An uneasy peace; a peace pregnant with resentment and hate, but it was a peace. And this peace held. The east remained for the dragons, while they left the west with its continents and mountain ranges for mankind. They departed not to return – ever. He felt the emissary die years later – betrayed and murdered; a victim of petty power struggles between the petty kingdoms of the short-lived humans. He felt sadness and he felt rage, but he kept the peace; he did not fly west to avenge him. Dragons don’t have friends; yet his human was the closest he could call one. He still wore the ruby as a sign of the contract between the two races and of the newfound respect.

The second human came centuries later. This time he came for help. Something evil appeared in the west. Some corruption spread, turning and twisting everything in its path. Plants, animals, humans; even corrupted and twisted parodies of dragons were marauding the western continents, spreading the contagion to the east. The purity of life was no more. Dragons believed of themselves to be the First in Creation. They were creatures of freedom; they saw themselves as the guardians of this world. And something has threatened it. Something had dared to corrupt even dragons, who lived far in the west. Dragons, who were long lost cousins of their race, who became only legends even in the memories of his people… This was unacceptable. Some argued to leave the west to its fate, but there are always cowards in every society; even amongst dragons. So they went to war again. He and this emissary became leaders of this joint army. The human became “the Dragon Rider” in the legends of his people centuries later, which amused him immensely; these fables made him out a little more than a flying horse, after all. He cared not how the tale was span in the west after the war ended. They went west, they found the source of corruption, and with great sacrifice they have destroyed it.

This war changed things. The previous separation disappeared; dragons started to inhabit desolate mountain ranges, deserts; some even settled close to seats of power. Some were lured by the new, the novel; some were lured by power, some were asked by the humans to stay, and some were lured by treasure. A dragon needs no gold or precious stones; yet some pillaged, robbed and murdered for these things. Most of them were dealt with by either their own kind, or by human armies and mages. Some saw this mingling as signs of corruption in itself, but change always scared some people; even dragons. He himself lived in the court of the man he befriended, giving him counsel, helping him keep the hard-won peace, making sure the Chaos cannot return. But once the king died, he felt the call of the east; the open ocean called him. He became a legend again; this time a legend of the wise sage, and not the all-destroying Worm, as people knew him in the previous war.

He turned into the Sun… the fire in his throat hissed in the icy wind.

He looked down at the surface of the ocean. He thought of the gigantic creatures he saw before. Giants, larger than even he, singing their strange songs, and wandering the endless blue ocean; their thoughts were too alien for his mind to interpret. Yet their lives mirrored his in a strange way… always swimming, yet always needing to come up to the surface for air -they too were beings living on the edge of life and death. He imagined what happened to the ones who grew too old, or suffered too grave injuries by the monsters of the deep to keep swimming. He imagined them slowly sinking into the dark coldness one last time, knowing that this time there is no ascent. They descend to the very bottom of the ocean, all the way down to the crushing depths, their bodies providing food for the denizens of the deepest ocean. They shared this fate, his kind and their kind; it was a fate he has chosen. He felt strangely at peace of the thought. He has seen his kind die before; a lot of them died violent deaths, and in some cases he himself was the cause. They just burned up, as their own fire consumed them.The ones who died peacefully simply flew east to disappear -at least, most of them.

Like he did now. He left his flock, and came here, where there is only air and water, like many has done before him. For centuries now he felt his body grow heavier, his fire weaker; as if he was slowly turning stone…. which was, in a way, was exactly what was happening. Once the fire went out, dragons became immovable stone, like the earth’s bone. He has seen what happened to his kind when they became too tired, too lazy, too heavy to fly. So it was time. One last choice to make.

He closed his amber eyes, and started to fly… to really fly. Loops and rolls, dives. Once a thing of effortless joy, now something that left burning pain in his body; yet he felt happy. He knew of tales of  majestic birds singing one last song before their deaths; his song was of roaring fire and the savage joy of flight. One last loop, and he turned towards the water. The ocean waited for him.

I have to walk about a mile to the Tube every day, and spend this time listenting to podcasts. Usually history (History on Fire, or Martyrmade), but sometimes I switch to politics or anything else that catches my fancy, really. The other day I left my headphones at home, and came to an uncomfortable realization.

I seriously debated turning back and walking home to grab them adding another twenty minutes to my commute. This is when I realized I don’t actually just think. I fill my time with books, podcasts, radio – while I don’t actually think, reflect on what is happening around me, or just explore my own thoughts. Weird, isn’t it? I honestly don’t know if I’m listening to Teddy Roosevelt’s life because I’m interested, or because I feel uncomfortable being left alone in my own head. I guess this is a good step in the right direction- realizing the need for change.

Next you know I’ll be sitting under a tree watching my belly button.

I’ve been thinking about this a long time. If you asked me one thing that I think should be hammered into anyone and everyone -and what took me a while to realize- is to be aware of things around you.(Self-awareness is important, too, but it’s not today’s topic.)

I was about thirty when I realized that things just happen around me, and I’m not exactly aware of them; I don’t pay attention. I let things happen, I let things play out; I’m passive in my own life. My mother is like that to this day; and I suspect many other people are, too. And it’s not necessarily some big revelation, finding god or anything like that. It’s simple things.

How did I end up doing molecular biology? I wanted to be an etologist, after all; a scientist working with animal behavior. I found the lecturer really antagonistic and unpleasant, the department was outside the city, so I gave up on this line. While looking for alternatives I got into plant physiology, because a friend was working in a lab there, and asked me if I was interested, and finally I helped out my then fiancee a couple of time in her lab. She left the lab, I stayed; and hence my career in molecular biology was born. Instead of focusing, instead of figuring out the best way forward I just bounced all over the place, letting things determine how my future will be shaped, and accidentally ending up somewhere. I let my mother bully that particular girl, hoping things will get better; I tried to balance between the two effectively ruining our relationship, her state of mind, and my relationship with my mother at once. I still feel shame for what I’ve done -or rather, what I have not done. My only excuse is that I was young, and had no idea what being a man (and not a child) actually means.

I let time pass by without actually looking at what was happening not realizing I will not get back those years I spend living in a waking dream. (This is the best way I could find to describe this state of mind when you are not making an effort to be consciously aware of what is happening around you.)

It was the same story with my first PhD. My supervisor and his wife who was the lab manager, were horrible. (They haven’t had a PhD graduate in seven years prior…) Instead of drawing the necessary conclusions, and getting the f… well, the hell out of there, I stayed around, hoping it will work out. It did not. I got depression, thought of suicide, I wasted years of my life, and when I left finally, I realized I made my first really conscious decision in my life. I can thank Jenni Fields that much at least. She taught me what matters really in this life.

I also realized I lost friendships, important people from my life, because I let things drift apart. The best case was my high school class… I was in a boarding school in Sopron, a small town in Hungary, and almost all my classmates ended up going to Budapest for their university courses. It would have been trivial to keep touch, to get people together regularly; yet nobody tried and now we did not even hold our 15th anniversary of our graduation. (It’s a custom to do it every five years.) We could have met every week in a pub, and yet we are strangers now. Now I make an effort to keep in touch with people, even if they live on the other part of the world.

Don’t get me wrong: planning will not necessarily get you where you want to go. As the elder Moltke said, plans do not survive the first contact with the enemy. But HAVING a plan is essential. Having it and constantly revising it is important; otherwise you’re just like a driftwood carried by a river.

So she feels under the weather, and just wants to get under a duvet and “watch a nice, lighthearted comedy or TV series”.

 

Half an hour later I go into the room to check on her. “So, what are you watching?” “Ripper Jack”

 

 

Ooookay.

 

 

I often wonder how much effect things really have on us, and how much is determined by our brain. The placebo effect is a very well known phenomenon: it is clear that taking sugar pills (even if the person knows they are just sugar pills) does help alleviating pain, or even curing certain conditions.

That in mind I would like to share a little amusing story from my Florida days, when I was working in the hell that was called the Chemistry Department of that tiny little university north of Miami.

I was responsible for the running of the coffee club in our little lab of horrors, and that meant I took the money from the collection box, and transmuted it into coffee in the supermarket, to make sure the laboratory kept running smoothly.

If you ever have been around academics, you know that we are practically coffee-based life forms. If you listened to the postdocs and fellow PhD students in the lab you had an impression that nobody was able to function without a good dose of daily caffeine, moreover even the slightest decrease in the daily dose would cause immediate withdrawal symptoms, the inability to function as a human being, migraines, shakes, and in general, transform a relatively functional adult into something that resembles a zombie more than anything.

Well, I got to test this hypothesis over two weeks.

Now, I know, ethics committees are pretty strict on human experiments, but please keep in mind that it was not premeditated, and the people in questions were horrible human beings, anyhow. (Seriously. The place was the definition of how not to run a lab.)

Anyhow, one day the money stopped coming into the box. And despite my repeated warnings, nobody felt it was important to replenish it. Since I bought the last batch of coffee on my own money, I thought I’d just substitute the next batch to the decaf that was on sale -hence cheaper than the regular coffee, since it was I who paid for it anyhow.

 

For two weeks everyone had coffee with absolutely no caffeine in it.

 

Nobody noticed.

 

And this is why I am happy to have decaf at any time; it makes absolutely no difference. You get the same hit out of it, even if you know it’s decaf – and this is the miracle of placebo.

 

…so we had this workshop about changing policies in a changing world, and at the end we had to come up with a superhero who embodies this idea of bold change.

 

And then it hit me. Superheroes are not the agents of change. That’s the supervillains’ job. Superheroes are keeping up the status quo. They are by definition against change.

I think I found something really profound.