The fruit of liberation

Temptation of a shortcut, especially when it comes to developing strength in a reality where survival comes with a grading scale, can be sweeter than honey. Ah, what a Shakespearean dilemma: to be or not to be; to cheat or not to cheat. Well, when you're the master of the board, the issue takes on a whole new perspective.

---

Lost in digital meanders, I find my distraction in alternate realities that rival my current one in complexity. Virtual reality RPGs so immersive they almost make you forget about the lack of a decent dinner. Almost.

But come on, duty calls. I – the architect of this madness – have more to do than fight against cybernetic dragons. The magical reality knocking at my door is enough, thank you.

Two slaps... brilliant idea, Dean! Nothing awakens you to the harsh reality more than an old-fashioned self-flagellation. Now that I am 'wide awake' and with a pair of red cheeks, it's time to think like a G-class individual, but with the cunning of an F – failing, deceitful, but still strategic.

Rating E, that elusive muse that only comes with experience - or, in this case, with the help of a certain forbidden fruit. The fruit of liberation, a name worthy of a blockbuster or an 80s rock cover band. But in my world, it's more than just a cool name. It's the ticket to prestige, to power.

Knowing where this mythical fruit rests, I think of my characters on distant plot pages. The protagonist, Sam, with more tricks up his sleeve than a children's party magician, wouldn't notice if one went missing, right? It would be just a slight setback on his glory-paved path.

And what of the system that serves you? The artificial intelligence, whispering divine secrets into your eager ears - it could never comprehend the true meaning of 'struggle'. But me? I know the struggle. From the hard, cold pasture beach where my class G character stepped, to these rosy cheeks of pure knowledge and self-healing.

So, yes, I decide to trace a path not written in its lines, to taste this plot-thwarting fruit. Why not? At worst, it would cause an interesting diversion, a slight change of plans. And who knows, maybe a quicker ascent for the accidental hero that is me might bring new depth to the story. Or, at the very least, a few laughs in front of the mirror.

Now, the challenge is simple: acquire the fruit. Easy? Probably not. But since when has ease ever made something noteworthy? Here I go, Dean, the creator, the player, and perhaps the next class E trickster - but always, always the master of sarcasm.

---

Looking for something in the back of the wardrobe that screamed "casually apocalyptic" while still maintaining charm, I think that simplicity is indeed the soul of armament. Leather jacket? Check. Jeans? A classic. Boots... Well, they'll serve for whatever may come. And the plaid shirt complements the rural-charming vis-à-vis – yes, a complete paradox when I exude this ad-boy appearance in a world where being dazzling is the basic.

In the mirror, the vision is noteworthy – or it would be, if 'too pretty' wasn't the expected standard. At least in this place, my 'facial asphalt' days are a distant memory, a bad fantasy from which I woke up hangover-free.

As I gaze at myself, curiosity bites like an ant on a sleeping leg – where the hell are 'Dean's' parents, after all? Went out never to return, perhaps on an epic journey to find the most extended pack of cigarettes? It doesn't matter now. There's a ranking ladder awaiting my eager feet.

The world of Terra Nova calls, and I answer, locking behind me a house as silent about its origins as a lost civilization. The key - aptly located on the typical "I forgot I had this" table - finds its safe place in my pocket.

"This is more beautiful than I imagined," escapes my lips as I face the world for the first time not through the pages or the screen, but in flesh, bone, and concrete. Ark, my Ark, so cyberpunk in its foundations, so nostalgic in its veins, is much more than the epicenter of a plot – it's a titan of functional beauty.

The city, the human continent's capital, even manages to undo the knot in my chest. Imposing buildings slash the sky, and holographic billboards dance with images you'd only believe after two or three shots of virtual reality.

But ah, laziness, that old friend, strikes hard at the thought of the fate of the fruit of liberation. Gaia, how many worlds away from Ark? Many steps, many plans, no cozy series on the sofa.

Yes, returning to the comfort of a couch and losing myself in digital dramas sounds like a toast to mediocrity. It was tempting, definitely, but I knew I had a larger path to tread - even if cursing the long road I had sketched out between me and redemption in the form of fruit.

So, sighing in acceptance of my self-imposed fate, I take to the streets of Ark, stepping on the asphalt as if seeking the sound it would make under the weight of decisions. Decisions that would shape not only me but those who decided to follow my eccentricities. Decisions... that began with a brave step, albeit a reluctant one, in the direction of a city called Gaia.

So there I go, a country bumpkin adorned by fate, a potential mystic swordsman, in search of power that might - just might - allow me to break the mold from G to emerge as a resplendent E. What an adventurous nature mine, huh?

---

After a reflective journey through the corridors of my own urban-magical imagination, I arrive at the station burning with anticipation. My feet, a testimony to the path taken, are relieved at the sight of the tracks – strands of metal converging towards the unknown. Gaia, the destination where the fruit of liberation awaits, and with it a new era of ranked power.

---

Under the wide glass dome of the station, I join a tide of citizens and creatures of my own creative making. The train, a leviathan of splendid engineering, glides into the station with a smoothness reserved for new beginnings. The gratuity of the tickets – another gem of my authoritarian benevolence – makes the journey to Gaia a welcome balance between accessibility and adventure.

Without the need to negotiate the purchase of a ticket with the nothing I possess, I simply pass through the turnstile, that symbolic barrier between the now and the maybe. Aboard the train, I seek out a seat that offers both comfort and a decent view. After all, watching the landscape unfold is always a desirable preface to the twists that life insists on weaving.

Seated, I can't help but lapse into contemplation. The trip to Gaia isn't just a diversion in the traffic. It's a metaphorical – and, who knows, literal – journey from G class to E class; a path lit by the possibility of social climbing in a world that I myself have projected and am now invited to play.

As the wheels begin to turn and the station becomes a blur, I convince myself that even these small victories, like a free ride and the hope of imminent power, are fragments of a larger narrative. After all, what is a story but a series of chapters, each with its own climax and calm before the next storm?

Gaia and its promise of personal evolution await, and as I glide towards it, I ponder over the many futures that could unfold from this point in the story. I swallow the cliché and allow myself a spark of expectation; this may be the most significant journey that Dean, masked as ordinary, has ever embarked on. And I, his reluctant narrator, am both a passenger and a conductor on this voyage into the unknown.

---

"We have arrived at the city: Gaia," announces a soft voice, amplified by holographic spotlights, creating a futuristic symphony that fills the train. Springing from my seat, I escape the steel leviathan to find the promised ground of Gaia.

Unlike Ark with its imposing grandeur, Gaia reveals itself as a jewel of dignified simplicity. Without delay, I ask for directions, because although I am the architect of this world, omniscience was not included in the package. The residents, with the common kindness of my realm of bits and dreams, assist me without hesitation, and then I find myself at the entrance of the mysterious Campbell Forest.

The environment is a carpet of wildlife, delicate and uncomplicated. "No humans around, but an abundance of creatures," I murmur to myself, a mental note for later perhaps. I move forward.

The walk is long, but the solitude is broken by the involuntary generosity of a little girl who must see me as a wandering adventurer – or a beggar. Water, an elixir at times like this, keeps me steady.

Finally, the cabin. Standing alone, perhaps abandoned, it rises like a reliquary of well-kept secrets. "This cabin scares me," I admit in an almost imperceptible whisper, though the day is clear. There are shadows that daylight cannot dispel, shadows woven by the unknown and expectation.

Entering the cabin, I feel the vacuum of uninhabited space, a blank page waiting for the pen's stroke of discovery. I approach the left window. "Time to vandalize one's own work," I whisper with a grain of humor that not even loneliness can kill.

With calculated blows, strong enough given my class G status, the wood beneath the window betrays its secret, and a hole opens beneath my focused efforts. A vandal in his own narrative.

The white cloth appears first, humble in its role as guardian of what I so earnestly seek. With the delicacy of one who fears to disturb a deep sleep, I unveil the expected relic, the allegory of my passport to change: "Hello, sealed power," I murmur, admiring the fruit with dragon-like scales, a gray that promises a universe of possibilities.

And in that moment, with the fruit of liberation in hand, I silently reflect: what wounds can also heal, what corrupts can also liberate. This is the duality of power, the duality of a mystic swordsman who is just beginning to slice the surface of his destiny.

---

If Dean's house was once a sanctuary of secrets and shadows, now it is just the dwelling of a man and his solitary decision. The air of normality almost mocks the surreality of his situation. Sitting on the floor, with the draconian fruit in hand, he contemplates his next action, one to which he had already committed.

---

"Why must my own creation taste like a gastronomic nightmare?" I question myself, holding the fruit of liberation, which looks more like a stone extracted from the darkest and most forgotten corners of Terra Nova. Remembering that I was the one who conceived this adds insult to injury.

I could have fashioned it into the most delicious of apples, but no, it had to be something that even the bravest of heroes would find daunting to challenge. Cruel irony.

Sam, the eternal sufferer of my stories, would despise me if he knew my true identity. "World creator, master of plots, and grand architect of misfortunes," he would say. I could only respond with a guilty shrug.

Then, resolute and twisted between determination and self-flagellation for the thorny path I chose, I bite into the fruit. The taste is an affront, a scorn for all taste buds, but I endure, chewing with the tenacity of someone who knows there is no turning back.

As the last pieces are consumed, a bizarre symphony of chewing fills the silence of the room. It is done.

"Ready, now just wait for the side effect to come," I speak with falsely confident bravado. The truth is that a nearly childish terror courses through my being. I know what is to come - it is of my own creation, after all.

The pain that is described as dying and being reborn, a phoenix of agony and ecstasy; my mind revolves around this thought as I wait, expectant and anxious. For beauty or for madness, for ignorance or for an ardent search for meaning and power, I imposed this upon myself - and now, the consequence would come, as inevitable as the conclusion of a well-told story.

I smile with a shadow of irony, of fear, of a fascination for what will come next. In Terra Nova, in the reality I have nurtured, now personified in an ordinary man who ate a grey-scaled fruit, the true rite of passage awaits its performance.

Will Dean emerge on the other side intact, transformed, or perhaps broken? The master of narratives has now become a character, subject to the whims of his own imagination. And like any good character, he awaits the arc of his story to unfold, while the stage of his destiny, the floor of his living room, takes on the solemnity of a battlefield in the twilight of a revolutionary choice.