Issue 3: Action, That's How! (A Caper in Time Part 2)

by Evan Forman and Michael Robertson - One Chapter a Week Starting 27.11.16


Table of Contents
Chapter 1 - King Zaedar is Introduced, He Learns of Our Hero’s Exploits in Issue #2, and A Mysterious Force Awakens™ From The Depths of The Ancient Past
Chapter 2 - John Boss - Incredibly - Escapes from "The White Palace of Death”, Shoots A BUNCH of Dudes, and Makes His Way to The Relative Safety of Dryadora’s Coal District
Chapter 3 - Dhubagèl Escorts Aerin Through The Sewers of Dryadora, But Maybe Also His Subconscious? What I Mean is We Get to Know More About This Previously Mysterious and At Points Unsettling Character, and The Subterranean Setting is Associated - in Jungian Psychoanalysis - With The Subconscious, So That Works
Chapter 4 - That Relatively Sedate Chapter Was Just a Break from The All-Important Action! As John Boss and Chel Make Their Way Through The Coal District In Their Attempt to Find Safe Refuge, But Not Without The Police Giving Chase
Chapter 5 - John Boss, Aerin Liette, Dhubagèl Shaen, Chel Hagar, and More are Finally United, and Ready to Strike Back Against King Zaedar’s Brutal Regime
Chapter 6 - The Past 30 Years of Aerin's Life Are Unlived for the Sake of the Plot, by Which I Mean Primarily the Plot of This Book, but Also the Plot Which the Red Hand Formulate in This Chapter, Which - If That Wasn't Obvious to You, Reader - Is a Clever Bit of Wordplay on the Similarities between The "Diegetic" Rebellion's Plot Which Requires Sacrifice, in a Very Fatalistic, Heroic Sort of Way, and The "Non-Diegetic" Aristotelian Plot Structure Which Requires Sacrifice in a Very Ritualistic “High-Maintenance Volcano God” Sort of Way
Chapter 7 - In a ‘Baroque Formalism’ Power Move, Four Conversations between John Boss the 34th and the Three Members of the Dryadora Red Hand Cell Are Intercut with a Scene of Domestic Mundanity, and a Scene of Great Heroism Which Is Also a Flashback into the past of John Boss the 41st. For the Purposes of Light Genre Parody, a Minor Character Has a Silly Name; A Minor Character Waits for a Bus, Which Doesn't Actually Move the Plot Forward or Contribute to The Themeing in Any Meaningful Way, And a Minor Character Mentions Things from Wurld’s past but Doesn’t Explain Them, Which Gives You That Kind of High-Fantasy Texture without the Bogged-Downedness That Comes with Fields of Exposition: All the Flavour of Fantasy with None of the Nutrition, and I Think That's Beautiful
Chapter 8 - The Night before the Operation, Aerin — Overcome by Insomnia — Hides Away in His Study and Distracts Himself from His Fear of Tomorrow's Events with the Comforting Familiarity of His Self-Loathing. Kreida Tries to Comfort Him and the Two End up Comparing Notes on a Relationship Forged under the Crucible Pressures of Mental Illness. It's Actually Really Nice.
Chapter 9 - There's a Flashback to an Episode from Chel Hagar's past with Revealing Parallels to Another Episode from Chel Hagar's Past: Chapter 7 of Issue #2. You Might Assume This Is Our Only Reason for Jumping Back a Few Years in Time, but Only If You Pay Attention Will You Notice That We're Subtly Reminding You of and Expanding on the Sub-Sub-Plot of Dryadora and / or the Whole Elvin Empire's failing Electricity System, Because That's Going to Be Important Later. We Then Seamlessly Transition into the Red Hand Cell's Infiltration of the DTV Station Where the Tapes of What Actually Happened in the Arena Are Kept. Being the End of Act II / Beginning of Act III, Things Go a Bit Skiwhiff and the Chapter Ends on a Thrilling Cliffhanger That You'll Have to Wait 'Til next Sunday to See Resolved!
Chapter 10 - Aerin and Krieda Spend Most of the Day in Dryadora's Pearl District, a Nice Day out Which Is Actually a Ruse by Aerin to Get near the Arena Where the Prime Minister Is Making His Speech. Krieda Is Conveniently Scheduled to Visit Her Parents in the Afternoon, so This Gives Aerin the Perfect Opportunity for a Heartbreaking Goodbye Scene before He Goes to Infiltrate the Press Crowd and Place Lockswell's Signal Jammer on the DTV Van's Satellite. Aerin and Dhubagèl Engage in Some Breathtakingly Suspenseful Scenes of Social Deception, but Are They Wily Enough to Avoid Detection by the Already On-Edge Members of the Prime Minister's Elite Guard? Also, How Good Was Doctor Who Last Night?
Chapter 11 - The Red Hand Defend the Control Room as Their Broadcast Goes out to the World. They Flee, and after a High-Octane Chase Scene They Escape into the Forests. All Hope Seems Lost, but Then They Are Saved by a Mysterious Character from an Earlier Point in the Story in a Way That Is Surprising but, Crucially, Still Made Inevitable by the Aristotelian Clockwork We've Established up until This Point. I Liked This Week's Doctor Who a Lot More Than Frank Cottrell-Boyce's Last Episode. It's Good That We're Getting More Fully-Realised Alien Planets In The Show Again
Chapter 12 - The Twelfth One

23 HOURS, 7 MINUTES, AND 5 SECONDS

"What time is it?” asked Krieda.

“Half eleven? Ish?” Aerin looked back to see if he could see the top of the church they’d passed. “I think that’s what I saw on the clock tower.”

“Don’t you have your watch?”

“I’d have remembered it if you weren’t in such a rush to get out.”

“Well! It’s a Sunday and it’s the last day of the exhibit, when else will I get the chance to see how I'm misunderstood?”

The sun shone off the wet stone of Dryadora’s pearl district, casting hard shadows around the backs of the gray columns which held up the one and two hundred-year-old buildings. On the other side of the road from Aerin and Krieda, the city gardens had started to burn orange in the Suffocation. (In the Ring Tale, the Suffocation is the nightmare of the golden sun falling asleep: the repressed knowledge that its light cannot last forever. Which is depressing, Aerin thought, but the colour of the old forest is still paradoxically beautiful.) Above the buildings on the other side, Aerin could see the red crown of the Dryadoran Amphitheatre, which had been lowered to keep the weather out as the police investigated the scene of the explosion.

Aerin turned away from the arena and back towards Krieda. “What time did you say you’d be at your parents’?”

“Half one to two. Are you desperate to get rid of me?”

“Yeah.” He nodded. “My life has just been too nice and fun with you around. I need to get back to my roots.”

“Well you’ll get there when I’m gone.” She gave a pantomime heave as she took his hand from his coat pocket and held it. “But you’re mine for now, so there.”

* * *

Trapped and enraptured, the author feels the earth drop below his feet. He has almost forgotten the world he left behind, he has almost forgotten the world. He looks at Her and makes a mental commitment to never forget the patterns of shadow where the sun shines on Her heavenly body, the weird sometimes-green-sometimes-brown-but-always-little-flecks-of-orange-stardust-around-the-centre colour of Her eyes, the spot just below Her lower lip and the bulbous little curves of Her nose. Down below, circling around the sight of Her, he feels his chest and stomach submit to their new orbit.

* * *

From the outside, The Dryadora National Gallery wasn’t so much a building as it was one or two faces of a creature too big to see in its entirety. Above the grand old edifice and the arrays of tall, arched windows, four cranial domes sat on the different levels of the roof; the first major Dryadoran building of its style. Krieda led Aerin in by the hand, stringing him along through the foyer as he stared up at the murals on the concave roof - pantheons of nature spirits presiding over the works of the elves - and up the stairs, totally ignoring any sign of other works in the gallery, and to the Krieda Caishead exhibit on the second floor.

Most of the windows on the gallery’s upper floors were opaque, letting in light but not distracting from the works with a view of the city. Stepping over the threshold, Aerin had to remember that he was supposed to have seen this all before, so he tried not to look shocked when he saw the room. Krieda let go of his hand and adopted a chin-stroking thoughtfulness as she paced around her own works. Aerin held back laughter in the quiet gallery as she raised a puritan’s eyebrow at a scratchy nude drawing.

* * *

I look at these bodies on paper from a distance, but as I’m drawn closer I stop seeing bodies and start seeing desperate, feral black lines of charcoal like you can’t wait to finish her. For a second I’m not sure if you’ve drawn an elf or a human, she could be anyone but you love(d?) her. To the right of that, a red-haired woman painted with so many layers that parts of her emerge out from the canvas. She’s reclining on some cushions, turned away from us, and I am struck by the thought I could reach out and touch every curve of her right now. The physicality here is comparable to the sculpture in the middle of the room.

* * *

In the middle of the room there was a sculpture. A woman made of featureless white wax draped her arms around the shoulders of a man made of polished glass. On the other side of a rope divider, Aerin read the sign:

“‘You’re Just Like Me, We Have So Much in Common’ (2213)
Krieda Caishead
Wax, wrought iron and glass
Caishead’s work deals primarily with eroticism as a phenomonologistic, intersubjective experientiality with reference to Raendre’s frameworks of biological identificationism. Feminist critics might emphasise the signified genders, reading the male’s reflective, reflexive identity as a predatory lure. However - in another example of Caishead’s obsession with the experience of her audience - the viewer is struck upon closer inspection by the sight of their own face in the work, they themselves have either been put in the position of the wax woman or have put their face to the guilty party.”

Aerin stepped back, lowered his head slightly towards her and whispered, “Krieda, honestly, how many intersubjective experientialities did you use to make this?”

“So many. So much phenomenonol…phenomom, monomo…nom-”

“Doo-DOO, doodoodoo.”

She clasped her hand over her mouth, her shoulders heaving as she tried not to burst the near-silence of the gallery. “I hate these things.”

“The signs?”

“Yeah, I mean fine, tell them the title and the name of the person what went and made it, but I can’t stand just…telling people what it’s supposed to mean.”

“It’s like spoilers.”

“Yes! Don’t give away the twist.”

“What’s the twist? That you see yourself in that guy’s face?”

“Kind of. The ‘obsession with the experience of the audience’ thing is pretty spot-on, but other than that…”

“I do like that you’re not making art in a vacuum,” he said.

“Yeah, it’s like…so there’s a general consensus that art is supposed to communicate The Truth,” she said, lowering her voice and folding in her neck at those two words. “But art does this almost exclusively through lying about the world, or creating parodic facsimiles of other ones.” She paused.

“To whatever degree that language itself isn’t a parodic facsimile.” Aerin interjected.

“I was more meaning in very…material terms. A landscape painting is supposed to be a representation of reality, but to some alien who’d never seen trees or people or countryside before it can only ever be a representation of itself. Basically I think there’s some untraveled roads that start with step one: none of this is actually real. Or at least, this is only real in that it’s an object of ink or paint or pixels or thought which is held back by claims to reality.”

Aerin thought for a moment. “A lot of that’s more applicable to fiction than fine art.”

“Yeah.”

“People shouldn’t have to suspend their disbelief, is what you’re saying.”

“Eh, that’s a stupid way of thinking about art. Fiction, especially.”

They wandered into the next room. “How do you think of it?” asked Aerin.

“Aristotelian imitation,” said the elf, sitting down on a bench in front of a lush forest landscape (painting). “Don’t you know about that?”

“The term rings a bell, but… ”

“First described in Poetics, written by Bob Aristotle in 350-odd, it basically says that people don’t become invested in fiction because of the coherence of some kind of ‘secondary world’, but because people are naturally imitative: every baby learns by copying the people they see around them. ‘Suspension of disbelief’ suggests a kind of temporary psychopathy where the audience can’t tell between fiction and reality. It’s not so much about the realism with which the lore holds together but the unity of all the plot elements. If zombies and tentacle monsters suddenly appeared in a realistic political thriller with little to no buildup everyone would be pulled out of the story and nobody would believe it, but if the zombies and tentacle monsters had been set up beforehand,” she demonstrated, drawing arcs over points on an imaginary timeline, “then people would still be on board. Not because they believe it’s real, but because it makes structural sense.”

“Yeah that makes sense,” said Aerin, sitting down next to her. “So it’s not so much that the reader believes that what’s happening is literally real but that…” he rested his head on his hand and his shoulder on his knee as he tried to find the words. “The way in which the events play out in the story is similar to how events play out in real life, and the characters have enough… imitatability, to have an effect on the reader… ”

“Regardless of the fact the reader knows none of them are real,” she nodded. It was not so much that Krieda was more intelligent than Aerin rather than that she was more intelligent than Aerin with obvious zeal. He found this novel and exciting. The prick. “Ummm, did they not say that in that screenwriting programme you watched a while ago?”

“What?”

“That every character you write should be made up of two or three people you know in real life,” explained Krieda, before she was visibly struck by a thought. “Who am I?” she grinned. “You look alarmed, honey.”

‘What do you mean?” asked Aerin, who looked alarmed.

“In your stories!” she nudged him. “Who did you make with me? I hope I’m not any of the villains, and I think you’d know better than to just make me a love interest on the side,” she placed her hands behind her on the wide bench and leaned backwards, still smiling at him, almost kicking her legs in mischievous excitement. “I’d better be brilliant. I want a library with a ladder and a throne of bones.”

“I’m sure there’s some sort of rule you’re breaking just now,” Aerin deflected.

“Okay,” she retracted, magnanimously, and placed her head on his shoulder. “I won’t ask you to break the magician’s code. My point is: we shouldn’t have to pretend behind a veil, as artists or people or people in books or portraits. We’re gonna smash that shit. Meet them halfway. Reach out into the world and stroke their pretty faces.”

Aerin chuckled. “You’re a very ‘people’ person, aren’t you?”

She nodded. “Art should be sensuous. Straight representation can do that, in the hands of a master, but I want to do things differently. Impressionist painters would just squeeze tubes of paint onto the canvas and leave it like that, the look and feel of paint on a canvas… that’s just as valid a thing to… you can consider the colours alone as beautiful as whatever it’s trying to communicate. The paint is as pretty as the world behind it, you know?”

* * *

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHH!

Oh, sorry.

I think your brain is very beautiful.

Is all.

My thoughts are nowhere near as composed as i’d love for you to think, this is very much an unfiltered stream of frantic remembrance which will get sorted out at a later stage.

But, still, saliently:

Aaahh!

* * *

Aerin and Krieda strolled along the stone path which coiled through the park, cutting through expanses of grass which glistened with dew. His breath tumbled out in fog as he spoke. “It’s just…weird. Unimaginable. It’s weird that it’s weird,” he paused, adjusting his hands in his coat pockets. “Most people have whole lives planned out for them, roughly, but then ask me what I'll be doing when I’m fucking forty and I have no idea.” He glanced over at her, she was looking at some kids in a playground in the other direction, looking at any other thing in the world as if she innocently had no idea how beautiful she was. “I had no intentions of making it that far until recently.”

Krieda took on the mannerisms of a journalist. “Mr. Liette, just what *will* you be doing when you’re forty?”

“You,” he stated bluntly. She tried not to spit out the steaming coffee she held in one mitted hand.

“No you won’t,” she said, wiping the corner of her mouth. “Forty’s old, Liette. Your hips will sound like a creaky rocking horse. Like a donkey. Cackling. At you. You’ll have…” she took the end of her scarf and shook it in the air, “flaps of skin wobbling below you like a fucking chicken. I will be flattened beneath your pendulous udders. It will take fire crews and jaws of life to prise me out of there.”

“I thought you were so sweet when I first met you.” (He said, smiling-muscles starting to hurt and chest hollow as if exposed to the elements and whole body burning and bright in ways I can only ever fail to express.)

“It’s too late now,” she smiled, shaking her head. “You’ve fallen into the trap.”

“Good. It’s nice here.”

Neither of them said anything for a moment, Krieda’s smile drew out like fire receding into embers and Aerin looked out at the sun glinting off the lake. A neat parade of ducks scrambled and swarmed towards a little girl overarm-throwing bread into the water.

“What *did* you think?” Krieda asked. “When you first met me, I mean.”

The question unsettled Aerin. He felt unmoored from the world, lost to the not uncommon thought that he should have died some time ago and that he did not belong here anymore. He decided he could be nothing but honest.

“I thought you were demented but you were very pretty-”

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“What?”

“”Very pretty’? You’re underselling this, surely.”

“Terrifyingly pretty. Spectacularly, overpoweringly pretty.”

She shrugged. “You’re getting warmer.”

“The first time I looked at you I knew I had seen the pure and indivisible beauty of the world that every artist in poetry or print or paint has tried to capture and failed.”

She stood up straight and nodded, satisfied. “That’ll do.”

“That, and I could actually smell the Clever on you.”

“What does Clever smell like?”

“Sort of like…” he looked up in the air and stroked his chin for inspiration. “Have you ever tried to make soup with slightly-too-old vegetables and it has that sort of vinegar-y fragrance?”

With her finger, Krieda traced the path of a single tear down the side of her nose and off the corner of her mouth. Aerin put his arm around her shoulder and kissed her cheek. “It’s fine, though. I don’t mind, honestly.”

“Oh, god.”

“What?”

“That was nearly two years ago. It’ll be our second anniversary in…less than a month. It can’t be that long. Time is lying. It feels like two months.”

Aerin bowed his head and allowed himself a quiet sad smile. “It feels like two days.”

* * *

Aesthesis: an archaic word that simply means 'sensation', the perception of the world through the external senses. Also used to refer to the fiction-writing mode by which you try to bring the reader into a story by describing the physical sensations of the characters.

There is stone path beneath my feet. A soft, cool wind bites pleasantly at my cheeks and earlobes and I can feel the cold in the back of my throat. I crack the knuckles of my fore and middle fingers underneath my thumb and there is a satisfying pop. I feel like my toes require cracking but I can't bend them fully in these shoes. There is a slight nip on my right heel when I put my weight on that foot. I don't have the top button of my coat done and there is a slight cold infiltrating the space between the collar of my shirt and the skin of my neck. You're shorter than me so I notice that when walking through crowds I lean slightly towards you to hear you speak. There is an unruly strand of hair at the top of my head and I think I can feel it blowing in the wind but I think I might be being paranoid. There is birdsong, and the low ribbit of a helicopter. I catch a whiff of the hand-rolled cigarette being smoked by the young man walking past us with short black hair and glasses. A crow belts out the same note - almost a bark - four times. A middle-aged man with silver hair walks past in a shirt even though he has a blue jacket slung over one arm. I can see a strand of hair in front of me so I push it up with my hand and I have this phantom stickiness on my three longest fingers. The top of my left palm where it connects to those fingers is particularly sensitive to the cold, so I put it back in my pocket. Even in this isolated green I can hear the thunder of the construction site nearby. The sun comes out more directly now and I can feel the change on my legs first. I narrow my eyes to see. Coffee is a wondrous invention but it is still heavy in my stomach over an hour after drinking it. A bulldog headbutts the back of my lower left leg and there's this after-sensation of greasy hair. (I am in almost all other cases a dog person.) My nose is starting to run in the cold. We pass a busy café with large glass windows and I feel, physically, watched. The sound of an accordion's 3/4 tune travelling on the wind. BeepBEEP in the distance. Mostly the sound of my own thoughts, partly the sound of your voice. The warmth of my coat hums around my torso and the lining touches my arms inside, the right of which hangs over your shoulder. Inside my chest, there is a heaviness.

Sensation is all we have, so you are in love with the sensation of me and I am in love with the sensation of you, but sensation only goes so far. I have felt “you” for two days, and you feel better than anything ever. There’s a voice in my head and it tells me this is wrong, that I’m lying. But the voice has said that about everyone who didn’t rightfully hate me.

In quiet moments I wonder why I was put here, two days ago, and I’d like to think I know the answer. Regardless of why I was put here, I know why I am here: I have decided I will be here for as long as you’d like. For better or for worse, the person I saw die in that forest was me. Not a doppelgänger, not a decoy. Three days ago and today, the thoughts behind your sensation of “me” are the same.

Basically I love you a lot and I’m not sure I actually care what the universe has to say about that.

* * *

Up the wonky old stone steps, up onto the streets again. Aerin and Krieda walked together for a bit, and then it was time. “Do you have any thoughts or feelings about dinner?” asked Krieda as they crossed the cobbled road.

“Ummm…” Aerin thought for a second. “I don’t know, I'll just go to the shops and see what happens.”

“Are you just walking home?”

“Yeah, it’s nice out, so.”

“Right then.” She spun around on her heel on the street corner. “I should be back home around…four? But my aunt and uncle are there too, so make that half four. I’m trying to sort of time-budget for an extra line of questioning from them.”

“Must you go?” Aerin feigned despair. “Can’t you suddenly get the plague? For an afternoon? For me?”

She chuckled and hugged him. “It’s only once or twice a year. I’m sure I'll make it.”

* * *

We kissed, too briefly, and your index finger was the last thing to detach from me as you smiled and started to walk away. I stood there for a few more seconds and just watched you MOVE, trying to record every single thing in my memory.

I wish, for all the world, that this was the last time I saw you.

* * *

Aerin glanced to his left as he tried to work out the geography. A crowd was gathered at the Dryadoran amphitheatre, which he could see at the bottom of the road, and he heard a well-spoken man’s voice echoing up the street from a sound system. He took a deep breath, and started walking.

As Aerin headed back down the steps into the park, towards a grocery shop he’d remembered seeing on the other side of the park, an old man with a flat cap stopped him.

“‘Scuse me mate, you got the time on you?”

Aerin pulled up the sleeve of his coat and looked at his watch. 1:42pm.

Table of Contents
Chapter 1 - King Zaedar is Introduced, He Learns of Our Hero’s Exploits in Issue #2, and A Mysterious Force Awakens™ From The Depths of The Ancient Past
Chapter 2 - John Boss - Incredibly - Escapes from "The White Palace of Death”, Shoots A BUNCH of Dudes, and Makes His Way to The Relative Safety of Dryadora’s Coal District
Chapter 3 - Dhubagèl Escorts Aerin Through The Sewers of Dryadora, But Maybe Also His Subconscious? What I Mean is We Get to Know More About This Previously Mysterious and At Points Unsettling Character, and The Subterranean Setting is Associated - in Jungian Psychoanalysis - With The Subconscious, So That Works
Chapter 4 - That Relatively Sedate Chapter Was Just a Break from The All-Important Action! As John Boss and Chel Make Their Way Through The Coal District In Their Attempt to Find Safe Refuge, But Not Without The Police Giving Chase
Chapter 5 - John Boss, Aerin Liette, Dhubagèl Shaen, Chel Hagar, and More are Finally United, and Ready to Strike Back Against King Zaedar’s Brutal Regime
Chapter 6 - The Past 30 Years of Aerin's Life Are Unlived for the Sake of the Plot, by Which I Mean Primarily the Plot of This Book, but Also the Plot Which the Red Hand Formulate in This Chapter, Which - If That Wasn't Obvious to You, Reader - Is a Clever Bit of Wordplay on the Similarities between The "Diegetic" Rebellion's Plot Which Requires Sacrifice, in a Very Fatalistic, Heroic Sort of Way, and The "Non-Diegetic" Aristotelian Plot Structure Which Requires Sacrifice in a Very Ritualistic “High-Maintenance Volcano God” Sort of Way
Chapter 7 - In a ‘Baroque Formalism’ Power Move, Four Conversations between John Boss the 34th and the Three Members of the Dryadora Red Hand Cell Are Intercut with a Scene of Domestic Mundanity, and a Scene of Great Heroism Which Is Also a Flashback into the past of John Boss the 41st. For the Purposes of Light Genre Parody, a Minor Character Has a Silly Name; A Minor Character Waits for a Bus, Which Doesn't Actually Move the Plot Forward or Contribute to The Themeing in Any Meaningful Way, And a Minor Character Mentions Things from Wurld’s past but Doesn’t Explain Them, Which Gives You That Kind of High-Fantasy Texture without the Bogged-Downedness That Comes with Fields of Exposition: All the Flavour of Fantasy with None of the Nutrition, and I Think That's Beautiful
Chapter 8 - The Night before the Operation, Aerin — Overcome by Insomnia — Hides Away in His Study and Distracts Himself from His Fear of Tomorrow's Events with the Comforting Familiarity of His Self-Loathing. Kreida Tries to Comfort Him and the Two End up Comparing Notes on a Relationship Forged under the Crucible Pressures of Mental Illness. It's Actually Really Nice.
Chapter 9 - There's a Flashback to an Episode from Chel Hagar's past with Revealing Parallels to Another Episode from Chel Hagar's Past: Chapter 7 of Issue #2. You Might Assume This Is Our Only Reason for Jumping Back a Few Years in Time, but Only If You Pay Attention Will You Notice That We're Subtly Reminding You of and Expanding on the Sub-Sub-Plot of Dryadora and / or the Whole Elvin Empire's failing Electricity System, Because That's Going to Be Important Later. We Then Seamlessly Transition into the Red Hand Cell's Infiltration of the DTV Station Where the Tapes of What Actually Happened in the Arena Are Kept. Being the End of Act II / Beginning of Act III, Things Go a Bit Skiwhiff and the Chapter Ends on a Thrilling Cliffhanger That You'll Have to Wait 'Til next Sunday to See Resolved!
Chapter 10 - Aerin and Krieda Spend Most of the Day in Dryadora's Pearl District, a Nice Day out Which Is Actually a Ruse by Aerin to Get near the Arena Where the Prime Minister Is Making His Speech. Krieda Is Conveniently Scheduled to Visit Her Parents in the Afternoon, so This Gives Aerin the Perfect Opportunity for a Heartbreaking Goodbye Scene before He Goes to Infiltrate the Press Crowd and Place Lockswell's Signal Jammer on the DTV Van's Satellite. Aerin and Dhubagèl Engage in Some Breathtakingly Suspenseful Scenes of Social Deception, but Are They Wily Enough to Avoid Detection by the Already On-Edge Members of the Prime Minister's Elite Guard? Also, How Good Was Doctor Who Last Night?
Chapter 11 - The Red Hand Defend the Control Room as Their Broadcast Goes out to the World. They Flee, and after a High-Octane Chase Scene They Escape into the Forests. All Hope Seems Lost, but Then They Are Saved by a Mysterious Character from an Earlier Point in the Story in a Way That Is Surprising but, Crucially, Still Made Inevitable by the Aristotelian Clockwork We've Established up until This Point. I Liked This Week's Doctor Who a Lot More Than Frank Cottrell-Boyce's Last Episode. It's Good That We're Getting More Fully-Realised Alien Planets In The Show Again
Chapter 12 - The Twelfth One