Chapter 5: The Grape of Wrath

𝚃𝚑𝚎 "𝙸𝚗-𝙻𝚊𝚠 𝚅𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚝" 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙱𝙼𝙸’𝚜 𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚟𝚊𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚘𝚙𝚜 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗. 𝙸𝚝 𝚛𝚎𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚕 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚜𝚒𝚘𝚗, 𝚊 𝚍𝚎𝚎𝚙 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚕 𝚊𝚗𝚡𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚢, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍. 𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚑𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚜𝚘 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚝𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚘𝚗𝚜.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝙿𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚙𝚎, 𝚊 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚠𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝚞𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝚊 𝚛𝚞𝚕𝚎𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑𝚢. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚞𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛-𝚒𝚗-𝚕𝚊𝚠, 𝚊 𝚠𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚗 𝚗𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝙴𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚛, 𝚠𝚑𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚐𝚊𝚣𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚞𝚜 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚏𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚢 𝚙𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚜. 𝙱𝚎𝚝𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 𝚜𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝙲𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚝 𝚂𝚊𝚞𝚟𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚘𝚗, 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚕𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛’𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚌𝚊𝚛.

"𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 '𝚆𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚁𝚞𝚐' 𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚘," 𝙱𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍, 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚎𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚍 𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚗. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚐𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝙱𝙼𝙸 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚘𝚞𝚏𝚕𝚊𝚐𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑-𝚜𝚘𝚌𝚒𝚎𝚝𝚢 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜. "𝙿𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚒𝚜 '𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍' 𝚊𝚗𝚍 '𝚛𝚎𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚍.' 𝙾𝚞𝚛 𝚓𝚘𝚋 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚘 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚒𝚜 𝚊 𝚌𝚛𝚞𝚎𝚕 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜."

"𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚐𝚊𝚖𝚎?" 𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍, 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚘𝚗 𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝙼-𝚄𝚗𝚒𝚝. "𝙰 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕?"

"𝙽𝚘𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚙𝚒𝚕𝚕, 𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛. 𝙰 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚊𝚌𝚕𝚎," 𝙱𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚍. "𝙸𝚏 𝚜𝚑𝚎 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚍𝚛𝚘𝚙𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜, 𝚒𝚝'𝚜 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚔𝚎. 𝚆𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚗𝚝 𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝚒𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚋𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝙴𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚔 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝙿𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚙𝚎’𝚜 '𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚖𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜' 𝚊𝚝 𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝙲𝚑𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚖𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚗𝚎𝚛 𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚕 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚢𝚎𝚊𝚛 2045. 𝚃𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚖. 𝙼𝚊𝚔𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚠𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝚜𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚕𝚍 𝚊𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠."

𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝙿𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚖𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚢𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚘𝚖 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚋𝚒𝚛𝚍.

"𝚂𝚘, 𝙴𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚛," 𝙿𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚛𝚙𝚎𝚍, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚠𝚘 𝚘𝚌𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚑𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚗𝚊𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚕. "𝙸 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚍 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙼𝚊𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜. 𝙷𝚘𝚠 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎—"

"𝙽𝚘𝚠," 𝙱𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍.

𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚒𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝙿𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚘 𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚝. 𝙷𝚎 𝚙𝚞𝚕𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊 '𝚂𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝙵𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗 𝙽𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚎𝚛.'

𝙰𝚜 𝙿𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚙𝚎’𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚖, 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚍𝚎—𝚒𝚝 𝚜𝚎𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚕 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚑. 𝙸𝚝 𝚠𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚍, 𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚌 𝚓𝚒𝚐 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚑, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍.

𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝙿𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚏𝚊𝚜𝚝. 𝚂𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚞𝚗𝚐𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑 𝚒𝚝. 𝚃𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝙻𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕 𝚃𝚠𝚘.

"𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚕𝚋𝚘𝚠," 𝙱𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍. "𝚃𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚗𝚢 𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚎."

𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊 '𝙻𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚍 𝙽𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎 𝚃𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚌𝚑' 𝚊𝚝 𝙿𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚙𝚎’𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝 𝚊𝚛𝚖. 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚎𝚕𝚋𝚘𝚠 𝚓𝚎𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚘𝚞𝚝𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍, 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚒𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍 𝚋𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚝. 𝙰 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚕 𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝, 𝚊𝚛𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚏𝚞𝚕𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚊 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚢 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝. 𝙸𝚝 𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚌𝚔 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚎𝚍𝚐𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎, 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚛.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚗'𝚝 𝚓𝚞𝚜𝚝 𝚙𝚘𝚞𝚛; 𝚒𝚝 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍.

𝙰 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝, 𝚌𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚜𝚘𝚗 𝚊𝚛𝚌 𝚘𝚏 𝙲𝚊𝚋𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚎𝚝 𝚜𝚘𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚘𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎. 𝙸𝚝 𝚋𝚢𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚙𝚕𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚝𝚜, 𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚊𝚙𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚜, 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚕𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚠𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚠𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚘𝚏 𝙴𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚛’𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚎, 𝚎𝚐𝚐𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚕-𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚔 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚞𝚜𝚎.

𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚏𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚍 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚊𝚟𝚢 𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚝 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚑𝚎 𝚗𝚎𝚎𝚍𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚜𝚗𝚘𝚛𝚔𝚎𝚕 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑𝚎. 𝙴𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚛 𝚕𝚘𝚘𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗 𝚊𝚝 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚜𝚝, 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚌𝚑 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚗𝚐. 𝙿𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚣𝚎𝚗, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚐𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚕𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚎𝚠𝚊𝚢𝚜, 𝚠𝚎𝚎𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚙𝚞𝚛𝚙𝚕𝚎 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚝𝚎 𝚛𝚞𝚐.

"𝙾𝚑... 𝚘𝚑 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚛," 𝙿𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚒𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍.

"𝙸 𝚜𝚎𝚎," 𝙴𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚛 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚟𝚘𝚒𝚌𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚔𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚒𝚌𝚎. "𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝙼𝚊𝚕𝚍𝚒𝚟𝚎𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚢, 𝙿𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚙𝚎. 𝚃𝚑𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚔𝚜 𝚠𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚒𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚊𝚐𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚜𝚝𝚢𝚕𝚎."

"𝚂𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚎 𝚒𝚝 𝚞𝚙," 𝙱𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚞𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚍. "𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚢 𝚙𝚑𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚜𝚝 𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚗𝚍 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚎."

𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝙿𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚋𝚎𝚍 𝚊 𝚌𝚕𝚘𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚘 𝚑𝚎𝚕𝚙. 𝙷𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚛𝚞𝚐 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚑𝚎𝚎𝚕. 𝙾𝚗𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚢 '𝚂𝚞𝚛𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚎 𝚂𝚕𝚒𝚌𝚔.'

𝙿𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚜𝚕𝚒𝚍. 𝙷𝚎𝚛 𝚏𝚘𝚘𝚝 𝚔𝚒𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚍 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚕𝚎𝚐. 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚌𝚎—𝚊 𝚝𝚊𝚕𝚕, 𝚞𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎 𝚟𝚊𝚜𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚕𝚒𝚕𝚒𝚎𝚜—𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚜𝚠𝚊𝚢. 𝙸𝚝 𝚝𝚒𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚍 𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠𝚕𝚢, 𝚊𝚐𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚢, 𝚍𝚞𝚖𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚎𝚎 𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚘𝚏 𝚏𝚕𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚕 𝚠𝚊𝚝𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚙𝚘𝚕𝚕𝚎𝚗 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝙴𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚛’𝚜 𝚕𝚊𝚙.

"𝚃𝚑𝚊𝚝’𝚜 𝚒𝚝! 𝚆𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚗𝚎!" 𝙱𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚕𝚊𝚞𝚐𝚑𝚎𝚍, 𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛 𝚘𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔. "𝙻𝚘𝚘𝚔 𝚊𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚎𝚛! 𝚃𝚑𝚎 𝚊𝚠𝚔𝚠𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜 𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚎𝚕𝚜 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑 𝚙𝚘𝚠𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚘 𝚛𝚞𝚗 𝚊 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚌𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚒𝚗 𝙱𝚎𝚕𝚐𝚒𝚞𝚖!"

𝙰𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚋𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚗 𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚟𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚌𝚔 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚢 𝚖𝚒𝚜𝚝 𝚘𝚏 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙱𝙼𝙸, 𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚊𝚠 𝙴𝚕𝚎𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚛 𝚛𝚒𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚒𝚛 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚐𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚢 𝚘𝚏 𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚋𝚊𝚝𝚝𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚑𝚒𝚙. 𝙿𝚎𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚘𝚙𝚎 𝚠𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚘𝚠 𝚝𝚛𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚘 𝚋𝚕𝚘𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚔 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚊 𝚙𝚒𝚎𝚌𝚎 𝚘𝚏 𝚜𝚘𝚞𝚛𝚍𝚘𝚞𝚐𝚑.

"𝚈𝚘𝚞'𝚛𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚝𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚎𝚕 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚝𝚑𝚎 '𝙲𝚊𝚜𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚎 𝙴𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚌𝚝,' 𝙿𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚕𝚎," 𝙱𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚜𝚊𝚒𝚍 𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚢 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚙𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚍 𝚒𝚗 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝙷𝚞𝚋. "𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚐𝚎𝚝 𝚝𝚘𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚋𝚕𝚎. 𝚃𝚘𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚠, 𝚠𝚎’𝚛𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚠𝚒𝚝𝚑 𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚕𝚢 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚏𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐."

"𝚆𝚑𝚊𝚝?" 𝙰𝚛𝚝𝚑𝚞𝚛 𝚊𝚜𝚔𝚎𝚍, 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚐𝚎. "𝙰 𝚛𝚘𝚢𝚊𝚕 𝚠𝚎𝚍𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚐? 𝙰 𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚏𝚞𝚗𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚕?"

"𝚆𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚎," 𝙱𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚊 𝚜𝚑𝚞𝚍𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚍. "𝙰 𝚜𝚎𝚕𝚏-𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚖𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚊𝚝 𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚘𝚌𝚎𝚛𝚢 𝚜𝚝𝚘𝚛𝚎 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚝 𝚘𝚗𝚕𝚢 𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚊𝚔𝚜 𝚒𝚗 𝚛𝚒𝚍𝚍𝚕𝚎𝚜."

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Chapter 4: The Lag of the Land

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Chapter 6: The Ghost in the Machine

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