Winter2022

Somewhere, there is a student
sitting at his desk
next to a pile of books,
daydreaming as he looks out the window.
A fly on the wrong side of the glass,
stuck in society’s spider web.
He doesn’t know it yet
but he has inner mountains that he will climb.
He will learn the way of the wind.
His shallow thoughts will wash away in the streams.
His love is vast and endless as all the oceans.
His power is unseen, anchored in the depths
of all chaos and peace.
His kindness will touch others like gentle waves.
His mind will reflect the emptiness of the sky.
He will float through life unnoticed,
keeping to an inner path as lovely as the lotus.
He will possess the patience of the trees.
Selfless in action, passions he cannot hide,
a heart of a lion, still he displays little pride.
He will overcome his fears with love.
His dreams will be achieved by placing trust in the world.
He has his mother’s heart
and will write with his father’s hands.
His mother believed in him
the moment she held him in her arms.
His father could never understand
until he read exactly this:
let these words burn into your heart
and water your dry and weary eyes.
You did everything you could
so that I could do what I love.

Poetry.

(From: J. R. Lyttle. Reflections of the Heart, 2022)

I stopped on a backroad between Collie and McAlinden,
passing half a dozen homes and secret groves.

Two friendly farmers waved out to me,
their sheep dogs panting happily beside them.

Watching cows milks my time and returns me
to the simple life – simplicity is leading me spiritually.

Crows and magpies float in from the west.
Kookaburra laughs echo from beyond the distant fence.

Sunlight brightens the fields
as I dance alone along the road.

Holding hands with the summer breeze,
I feel the freedom of the open meadow.

The dandelion is blown away.
The detached leaf flies.

(From: J. R. Lyttle. Reflections of the Heart, 2022)

When the mind is blank,
I turn to the page.

You ask how I acquire
This quiet and calm?

I write with moonlight in my palms.

(From: J. R. Lyttle. Reflections of the Heart, 2022)

If you step with no awareness
you’re bound to get tangled,

But stay too long knowing it’s wrong
you’re bound to be strangled.

There are leaches and tiger snakes,
the breezes can tempt you here and there,

but for your heart’s sake,
stay away from the spider’s lair.

From my heart to yours, don’t be with someone
who doesn’t make you feel the best.

There is strength in a single strand of web.

(From: J. R. Lyttle. Reflections of the Heart, 2022)

It was a Friday evening at 7:30; people were streaming into the casino like moths to a light, and I was on door duty. This issue only got worse as I remembered that it was Halloween, so there would be a masquerade ball later which always seemed to triple the number of people at the casino. As I asked the same questions, I noticed a man who was dressed similarly to everyone else: a golden mask and a black tuxedo. But this man had a mysterious aura radiating from him, his masquerade seemed to be hiding much more than his face. I then observed his hunched back which told me all I needed to know; a serial slot machine gambler who wasn’t doing well financially or wouldn’t be soon. Everything else seemed to become a blur as I stopped asking questions to the rest of the punters, probably letting in hundreds of underage individuals, but I didn’t notice nor care at the time. As the man plodded to the front spot in the queue, I tried to imagine his broken and twisted world, one where money was not earned but won through sheer luck. Although I felt sorry for him, I figured that the cycle he was in was unbreakable. This detail, however, didn’t stop me from wondering if telling him that would make a difference.

As the night wore on, my role in the casino steadily changed from door duty, to assistant, to waiter, and then to security, and the world became a figurative blur as the hours continued passed midnight, and that was when I noticed the man from the entrance. He was sitting at a slot machine with a back so hunched, I knew he had been there for hours and had not partaken in any of the special events from the night. I watched him as he placed another coin from his ever-shrinking stack into the mouth that was stealing away more than just his money. He pulled on the trigger, and his body posture seemed to have hope radiating around it. That was until the machine blared three different images, and his body posture seemed to get worse than before as he slammed his hand down on his machine. I wanted to go and help him, but my body told me otherwise. This man was the exact kind of person we preyed on to keep the money coming in the business, so scaring him away might begin lowering our revenue for the night. I stayed put, but my mind began thinking about the possibility of helping him get out of the situation.

Thirty more minutes passed, and I continued to watch him as his stack of coins began to reach zero. I peered closer at his tiny stack of coins and realised he had only three more games left to play. I walked up to him and asked if he wanted a refill on his chips. He turned around and showed me his card number while telling me to empty his savings. I plugged it into my machine, and the account flashed red, empty. That was when I knew: this man would either exit the casino rich or rest here for eternity. My boss would be pleased with this performance; any Russian Roulette player would always attract more people and more bets. Given tonight was particularly stacked and crowded due to the Masquerade Halloween Ball, one Russian Roulette experience would surely bring in hundreds of thousands of dollars in profit, and we might even get some under-the-table money for our hard work. But the thought of saving this poor man’s life kept buzzing in my head, continuing to drive me slowly insane. But I managed to push the thought of saving this man’s life aside after a little while, with the knowledge of that extra money that would come with the business.

I watched the man as he put his second last chip into the monster that continued to eat more than his money, pulled the trigger with eyes closed in hope, and watched as the first wheel flashed a crown, the second wheel a crown, and then the third wheel as it slowly rolled around for what seemed like an eternity, just passed the third crown that would win him hundreds of thousands of dollars, onto a dud. The innocent man didn’t have the energy left, however, or the will, to be angry. He stared at his one, final chance to win hundreds of thousands of dollars before death was the penalty for losing. He plugged his last chip into the machine, which cackled at him as it rolled into its stomach, and the flashing lights on the trigger switched on. With all the energy he had left in him, he pulled as hard as he could, put his head on the machine, and closed his eyes, quivering with fear and anticipation. He didn’t see the result as it flashed:
7…
7…
The word JACKPOT flashed across the screen as he opened his eyes. I strolled over to him, stunned, but as I caught his attention, I realised that there would be no extra money tonight, so my tonality quickly changed from ecstatic, to dejected, “I thought you weren’t going to get anything with your stack there.” The man turned around to me, tears streaming down his face with joy, and I rethought my decision. This helpless man’s life hadn’t been put to the 83.33% chance of survival that would’ve come had he not hit the jackpot, and I was unhappy because I wouldn’t get paid extra money tonight. There were many rules at the casino, and the one, most important one, was to never tell a customer to stop spending their money, and then I realised why. This was the one rule that would push these poor, innocent, and depressingly addicted people towards putting their life on 83.33%. By the time I had this realisation, however, I was helping another customer with a cocktail. The thought that the business was supporting this reckless behaviour, however, obliged me to break free of the casino’s rules.

Feeling confident, I walked straight up to the man who was still hunched over his machine, gambling as though nothing had changed, and told him, “My name is John Stocks. I’ve worked in this poisonous business for ten years, and you need to leave right now. That is, unless you want to put your life up to the odds.” The room around me became so silent after I finished speaking that you could’ve heard a pin drop. Suddenly, the man spun around towards me and menacingly stared at me before snarling, “You’ll not tell me how to live my life!” Before turning back to the slot machine.

Before long, the room was suddenly strumming the chords of a casino again, but I wasn’t in that mood. I couldn’t bear to be in that noxious place, so I left. I didn’t even need to quit my job, the manager did that for me. I tried unsuccessfully to get myself a new job, but nobody would take me in. That was when I turned back to the casino to make money for myself again and began putting my life to the numbers. What had once seemed so foreign and twisted to me, suddenly seemed normal; my back began to hunch, and I became the victim of the slot machine, who gleefully under its mask of numbers and a flashing screen, began eating away at more than just my money.

I could feel the already hot sun beating down before I even got out of my tent. I was sweaty, but not from the heat of the day, instead from the terrors that had troubled me last night. I’d had vivid dreams about the monster that I longed so desperately not to find. And the noises, oh the horrific noises of crunching bone and deep growls, coming from deep in the heart of the jungle.

I packed up my tent, and set off for the long, gruelling hike that lay ahead. I now wished that I had not let Ralph leave, or that I had gone with him. I was being driven insane by my own thoughts, or perhaps maybe from the deadly levels of radiation to which I was being subjected. I walked past decaying ruins of a once bustling and vibrant city. I imagined the hundreds of families, not unlike my own that had been put at peril to the horror of a nuclear holocaust. I imagined that it will not be long until I join the bodies buried underneath the soil I walked along. Not from an explosion, radiation poisoning, even disease-ridden mosquitoes that roamed the area around me. No, my fate would be sealed by something that was a combination of these things, a beast so big and strong that no one who had ever come here had made it out alive.

As night grew closer, I knew that I would encounter this beast in a mere few hours, when darkness had enveloped me and my surroundings like a blanket of death. I began to shiver, and I got panicky. Every broken twig or rustle of leaves would make me jump and look around frantically for the beast that would surely kill me. It would not be until later that night that I would learn my fate.

Something’s watching me; I can feel it. In the back of my mind there’s just a little voice saying, “It’s here. It’s watching you. You’re gonna die”. I tried to ignore it, tried to look around, clear my head. Then I saw it. Red eyes staring right at me.

Everything went silent.

You could have heard a pin drop. The only sound, faint as it may have been, was the sound of the beast breathing. My mind was screaming at me to run, but my legs wouldn’t obey. Then it moved.

I ran, moving my legs as fast as I could, trying to put as much distance as possible between me and the beast. Seconds felt like minutes, minutes felt like hours, and after just five minutes I wanted to give up. My calves were burning, already sore from the day’s walking. My mouth was drier than a desert, and my head pounded like a drum. My heartbeat faster than ever before, and I thought it would explode out my chest.

I felt the beast’s warm breath on my neck, and I knew that it would catch me in mere seconds. Why had I ever decided to come out here and try to see this animal? It was a death-wish, and now I would end up like the many who had come before me. As I took my final breath, the beast jumped, and plunged its long claws through the centre of my chest. In my dying moments, my life flashed before my eyes. A wave of dread washed over me – the last thing I would ever feel.

The men gathered around Mr Jones, pedestalled on top of a large grass mound. The sunset glow revealed the ugly face plastered on. His eyes were bloodshot and baggy, hair knotted and matted, a sign of many nights of sleeping on the pub couch. His clothes, ragged and stained, stunk of smoke, and his breath, alcohol. The men looked at him with disgust, contemplating their decision to assist when they could have ignored this repulsive man, as many fellow farmers had. These missing men had not slipped Jones’s mind, however, and he was inwardly fuming that many neighbours and friends hadn’t turned up to help with the fight. In fact, even the men who had come to fight were not there out of respect for Mr Jones, but instead, for their own personal gain. The thought of the farmers helping Mr Jones for the sake of niceties was laughable, but the men feared animalism spreading to their farm, so were in agreeance to fight alongside him.

Mr Jones had been evicted from his farm for a whole month now, all the while scheming ways to reclaim his land. However, it had not taken him long to land upon his decision: violence. For Mr Jones, violence was often a resolution, a fact all too well known by his animals and wife. The harder part of putting his plans into action was lobbying men to carry out his deeds. It did not come as a surprise to Mr Jones that few people would support him. He was a brutal man who only connected with others through drunk games of pool and trading of produce. However, he was still disappointed with the lack and standard of men he had mustered. Most of the men were workers from Pinchfield Farm sent by Mr Frederick, and most of whom were staring at the ground and shuffling their feet.

The sight of the men was not one that appeared to resemble an invasion. There were seven of them armed with mere sticks, slouching and grumbling to each other, reluctant to triumph over these animals. A few chattered and laughed in little groups about the successes in their works or the irony of invading a farm led by animals. All the gathered men, out of scepticism that the animals would fight back, had neglected to bring their guns, and had instead picked up some sticks they had found lying around. Only Jones himself held a shotgun, aware of the fight the animals could put up, he told the others outwardly. In actual fact, he carried the gun in the hope of the blood of a special few.

No more men would arrive from now on. This was it. This was the team that Mr Jones had put together to recapture his land. Miserable that seven inert men was the best effort he could put up against his animals, Jones sighed. Yet he understood that it would have to do. These men would have to be the men Mr Jones would lead into battle. It was now or never.

Accordingly, Jones cleared his throat and began his speech: “Gentlemen, I’ve gathered you all here today to fight. I’m sure you are all well aware of the recent indecencies that have occurred upon my farm and farmhouse, and I thank you all for offering your assistance in helping me reclaim what’s mine and my wife’s. This past month has been difficult. Rendered homeless and hopeless, I have had a lot of time to think of what has happened upon my farm and what I would like to do about it. Personally, I would love to slaughter all the animals on my farm. Those vile sheep, pigs, horses, donkeys, you name it, I want them dead. However, I must go against my instinct today because what is a farm without animals? So today we go in to fight merely for the land. Fight your hardest, men. You may think I am crazy, but these animals are like none other. When I was banished from my very own farm by a bunch of creatures on four legs I was in utter disbelief. But men, this is the truth; these animals can fight! So, march in with your strongest heart and mind and be prepared for anything. If backed into a corner, have no regret in maiming or slaughtering these creatures. Once we go in, we will not leave until victory is ours and the farm is under my leadership. This might occur through surrender or preferably bloodshed, although as soon as triumph is ours, we must stop fighting. Remember, these animals have brought this upon themselves, so take no pity on them and show no mercy.”

The men let out an unenthusiastic, “Hoorah!” pretending to have been motivated by this drunken and dark speech. Mr Jones stepped down from his grass mound and began walking through the men towards the gate of Manor Farm. The men started following suit and formed a lopsided triangular formation, led by him. Jones loaded his shotgun, removed the safety, and cocked it, ready to fire at first notice.

In the sky above a flock of pigeons screeched and called as the men marched towards the gates.

We were trudging along the beaten path, kilometres of dirt track and downtrodden grass engraved into the land by the thousands of souls who had stood in my rank before. The green pastures slowly turned patchy from the scattered shrapnel and debris that the war had brought. As we neared the front the smell of sulphur lingered in the air and Lieutenant Morton yelled, “You can smell the Krauts now, aye boys,” implying that the devil had been here.

However, Lieutenant Poole spoke to us under his breath, “It’s just the overworked five-nines lads. Don’t be worried about these Germans; we’ll have them running back to Berlin.”

Captain Bradley gave us the signal that it was only ten kilometres to the front. He flicked his cigar out of his lips. As it hit the grass, it singed.

By this point the countryside was no longer recognisable; there was no glimpse of green in front of us and gigantic craters moulded the earth while sludge puddles formed around our boots. All we could hear were the constant eruptions of five-nines in the near distance. The bombardment of the German lines had been on-going for six days without rest. Captain Bradley was doing the hard yards on foot with us. Unlike most captains he gave up his horse to be with his men; he was a good leader like that – always inspired us by leading from the front. Captain told us our battalion was going straight to the front of the Somme as High Command needed fresh meat for the assault on the 1^st of July. As we neared the line, we came across what would have been hundreds of artillery pieces with piles of empty shells beside them, built up like giant ant hills. We passed through six lines of heavily fortified trenches, all of them three metres deep with sandbags piled on top with mounted machine guns and command bunkers spread long the line very 500 metres. Each trench we passed was crawling with men and piles of munitions covered in mud; it was like a subterranean city of chaos.

As the sun came down, we made our way to the first trench at the front, freshly dug days before to accommodate the new troops but not yet reinforced. Captain Bradley told us to stay low in the trenches to avoid stray rifle fire even though the barrage was still in effect, and no German would dare to step outside. However, Lieutenant Morton didn’t seem to care as he constantly stuck his head up just to look over the grassy field into nothing. Captain Bradley proceeded to brief the lieutenants once the troops had settled in, “Boys I know this is daunting to be in the first wave, but we must stand tall and true for the men, and we must do our part for King and Country. I want you both up by 06:00 to wake the troops and get them prepared for the first whistle at 07:30 when we go over.”

By 06:10 Lieutenant Poole woke us up while Lieutenant Morton continued to sleep, not bothered. I doubt any of us got any real sleep that night due to the incessant screams and cracks of the artillery and the anxiousness that some of the men had for the coming slaughterhouse. Most of us slept on the cold hard ground or sat up with all our gear strapped onto us, ready for the first whistle. The men passed around what rations were available, mainly dried bickies and canned meats, but many of us had no appetite. We all checked each other’s gear to make sure we had what we needed for our so-called assault. Captain Bradley came back from the command bunker where he slept two trenches back. He had a fresh shave and a perfectly cleaned uniform to the bewilderment of the whole battalion.

It was 7:15. Captain Bradley and the lieutenants addressed the battalion about plans. “The Kraut lines are 800 metres across the Somme; our seven-day bombardment should have destroyed all barbed wire and stationary weapons. The shelling will end at 7:30 just as we go over the top. Are you all ready?”

Stale silence filled the trench, but Lieutenant Poole spoke up, “Of course they are, Captain. Some of the bravest men in the British Army are in this trench.”

Lieutenant Morton scoffed under his breath as he looked around at the scared and uninspired men.

Time was ticking away and the atmosphere in the trench was like nothing I had ever felt – emotions of fear, regret and bravery all culminating into a strand of tension that could be broken by a single teardrop. Our men were pushed up the ladders ready for the first whistle, many against their will, but they knew it was their duty. Captain Bradley walked up and down the trench shaking the hands of all the men in the battalion while the whistle that sealed our fate dangled around his neck. He looked into the fearful eyes of his men trying to spark a fire in their hearts. The artillery continued to fire as the captain’s watch struck 7:30. All officers along our 24-kilometre trench blew their whistles as silence filled the air with a halt of the artillery. Thousands of men clambered up ladders as they left their trenches that morning to take a walk across the Somme, but the sacrifice made by 19,240 British men who died on that day will never be forgotten.

A drop of liquid landed on the rusted machinery next to me, but I couldn’t tell if it was from the sweat off my forehead or the blood from my bleeding hands. It was another daunting and furiously hot day just outside Cannington City where the scum of the working class lived. People had come to work on the mines, as it was mining season and people needed to work to survive. The mining yard or the “pit” as most of the working class called it, was a humongous space that provided an extravaganza of jobs, but they weren’t easy jobs. The mining yard was the beating heart of the city; however, it stunk of oppression. It was a hole the size of a city, intimidating to anyone who took a glance at it. It was mainly empty apart from the truck loads of mining equipment, coal and other resources. Workers would be carried out in buses suffocated by the crowd and choked by the humidity and heat. Misery and fear haunted the faces of the men and women who worked within the pit. Misery of the horrid working conditions and slaughtering hours an average citizen would work. A normal citizen working on the mines crucified themselves for ten long hours to receive minimum requirements for survival. Work was treacherous and took a physical and mental beating on the workers. You could see what the pit did to the workers on the mines by just having a glance; their eyes were heavy, and their facial expressions were weighed down by the heavy load of work and the beating sun.

So, you’d wonder why there hadn’t been a rebellion. I’ll tell you why; the city of Cannington which controlled the mines was ruled by a ruthless and corrupt political and feared group run by a manipulating, but psychotic character of a man named Coxely. He was an evil monster. Coxely believed that all humans were equal, and we didn’t need anything more than necessities to survive. All men were equal. What a joke that was. It was clear that since Coxely and his political leaders had come into power in Cannington City, the workload had doubled, and any morality or sense of freedom had disappeared. In fact at this point, people were working as if they were slaves to the man in power. Putting their blood and sweat into work to feed the belly of a man; he was drunk on the riches and power he had wrested from the working-class “slaves”.  But it was fear and manipulation that controlled the vast number of working citizens. Coxely had no regard for anyone who thought anything else but what he thought was right. He would slaughter the lives of men, women and children who he believed posed a threat to his power. Just last week he had found a group of young men and women conspiring against him. They had been tortured and then publicly executed in front of friends and family of the victims of Coxely’s onslaught. This was how Coxely showed his power through the fear and manipulation of his citizens. He needed to be put out of power for the sake of the citizens diseased by his plague of corruption.

After work we would come home to our lives in the corners of run-down homes and buildings. It was the cut which was away from the wealthier part of the population who lived in the revolutionised part of the city away from the majority of the working class. There was an old man by the name of Mosley who had lived and witnessed the upcoming of an oligarchical government. Mosley was a wise old man; he had been a preacher, preaching on how times could be different, how we could live in harmony and peace rather than working all day to come home to the depression of living off the leftovers of the wealthy. Mosley was regarded not only for his wisdom and teaching, but he gave hope. After work when we were no longer controlled by Coxely and his men, we would listen to him talk about the revolution and how it is coming. Talks about being free from the fear of Coxely ruling and where all men would work fairly for themselves and for their families rather than to feed the wealthy. The people living in the cut were intrigued; eyes and ears came alive, when Mosley would speak. Children smiled and the faces of the men and women working in the mines and other hard labouring jobs were in a frenzy of inspiration and hope.

It was a Friday night when everyone became aware that Mosley was going to speak, and he had good news. Everyone was excited and it seemed the whole cut was there to listen. “Coxely has put each and every one of you through unspeakable trauma. We have been the army of working slaves to a ruler who discards and doesn’t care for us. We live off the leftovers of a wealthy population that is separated from us.” Mosley spoke with a slightly croaky voice, but the intention, purpose and inspiration were there. “Do not listen when Coxely speaks of equality. He is a man of manipulation with an agenda of oppression. Why work under him when we ought to put him in his place and overthrow him ourselves?” The spirit of the working class roared as one, with shouts of joy and yells of excitement.

People were ecstatic and started singing songs of joy and hope. It was clear that after Mosley had given this speech, things were different. People seemed lighter and moved with a purpose. This was the start of a revolution as we knew it. A new feeling of passion and fight had been shown from the working class. I knew it was only time before we would rise to take power over Coxely. The revolution was coming.

As soon as my feet touched boiling sand, I was off. Running through the burning dunes to an abandoned lighthouse my friends and I called home.

I had something important to tell them.

The wrought iron door slammed shut behind me and I began my ascent up the stairs. I could hear them talking up the top. I burst through the hatch. My two best friends in the world stood before me.

“You’re not going to believe the story I have for you,” I said, excitedly sitting in the already forming circle.

“Well, get on with it, Ciel,” said Elijah Saltare, my best friend in this world. “We don’t have all day.”

“Three days ago my father, Baron Grayson Tames of Lycia, told me that I was to accompany him to the Kings Summit. This would’ve been an okay trip if one King wasn’t as dry as dust and the other wasn’t a racist sociopath.”

“You mean King Kane and King Vissian, right?” interrupted Kaya, the only girl brave enough to associate with us.

“Correct,” I replied. “Now quiet.”

She whispered, “Sorry.”

I continued, “The carriage ride was four hours of grumbles and “Are we there yets?” from me. This wasn’t helped by the fact that my clothes were all a size too small and were choking me in all the wrong places.”

“That implies that there is a right place to choke you?” Kaya said with a mischievous grin plastered on her face.

I glared at her. My story continued but my face was now ever so slightly pink. “When we had arrived, the angelic appearance of Castle Fienamont shocked me. It was a massive Castle situated by a waterfall, which bounced light off the windows of my carriage. Although I couldn’t look at it long, as we were quickly ushered inside into a war room for the peace talks. Huh, funny that.

“There was only one King present, that being King Kane Valerian of the Lylands, my Godfather. This made me his one heir and that was the precise reason that I hated and feared Vissian so much. He was my future adversary.

 “My father bowed to Kane, and I followed suit.

“Good morn, my liege,” Grayson said. Kane groaned.

“Here we go.”

“Gray, why do people say, ‘Good morn’?” Kane said, auspiciously playing with his long pink braid, “Do they mean to say that my morning better be good or else?” The King tended to overthink these things.

“The two doors I had passed through earlier, opened again to reveal two familiar figures. General of the Lylands, Sean Verant and Advisor to the Crown, Alastair Figg. I bounded over to him and encircled his black cloak in a hug.”

“Ew,” whispered Kaya, making a face. “Not my dad,”

“Shut it,” I replied, “It’s weird enough being God-cousins or whatever.”

Sean was my other Godfather, and I liked him better.

Alastair squatted down next to me, reaching for my shoulder.

“Ciel, right?” He asked. I gave him a hum of approval, “Thought so, they bore you already?” I hummed again.

“Why didn’t you just nod, stupid?” asked Elijah, earning a glare from me.

“He’s blind, you ass,” I replied.

“Blind?!” Eli exploded into laughter, “The King’s advisor is blind?! Ha!”

A quick strike from Kaya ensured his silence.

I continued: “King Kane and his guests exchanged hellos and pleasantries. As they talked and reminisced about past wars they had fought in, I was left to sit, alone. If only I was older, maybe I could understand them.”

Kaya softly grabbed my hand and rubbed her thumb across it. I thanked her and continued with my story, “The massive doors were thrown open, this time revealing two new figures. I knew these two well. They were General Nicola Ignis and King Vissian Wytt. They wore decorative armour from their country – Renher and Vissian had a broadsword at his waist. I had a bad feeling about this.

“Nicola stepped forward and cleared his throat. The room held its breath, “King Vissian Marius Wytt requests a duel with King Kane Lycan Valerian, for the throne of the Lylands.” A collective gasp sounded, and Kane stood up, flicking his long braid off his shoulder.

“Now Vissian,” Kane said evenly, “You said we could resolve this quarrel without violence.”

“I was never one for politics,” came the icy reply from Vissian. “Don’t act like you don’t want a fight, scum!” The last word was spat from his mouth, as if it had left a bad taste in his mouth.

Kane sighed and drew his sword. Vissian grinned.

The Dance of Steel began.

The two Kings fought as complete equals, in strength and status. No advantages. This was until a rather stupid slip-up caused Vissian to fall and narrowly miss a slice from Kane’s sword. He paid for that with a sizeable chunk of his nose.”

“Ew! Blood,” said Elijah, in disgust. “I thought this was going to be a fun story,” he groaned.

“You are such a big baby, Eli,” teased Kaya.

I sighed and continued: “Vissian rolled behind Kane and tried to hit his back. Keyword: tried. He missed cutting Kane’s treasured ponytail off. This only served to distract Vissian from an incoming strike from Kane. His sword entered Vissian’s shoulder. He cried out in pain and spat blood. The enemy King toppled like a chess piece. Kane removed his crown, muttering “Stupid King.”

“I joined in a growing chorus of cheers for Kane’s victory. An arrow broke that cheer in two and pierced Kane’s shoulder. Checkmate. The room sprang into action. Sean quickly caught Kane and Grayson dived for the bow-wielding Nicola.”

“Ok, that’s it,” Eli said, his face turning green, “I’m out,” He ducked his head out of a window and vomited. Kaya turned to me and told me to continue.

“A medic was called over and they started to patch the arrow wound. Grayson re-joined us after arresting the culprit and declared “And you thought this was going to be boring!”

“I’m not one for politics,” I reiterated, mocking Vissian.

“My father laughed and Kane chuckled.

“And that’s the end,” I said, standing up.

“Is the King all right?” Kaya said, also standing up, “Did Vissian die?” I nodded. Her eyes wouldn’t meet mine.

Eli had fallen asleep near the window which he had thrown up out of. I grabbed a blanket from his nearby mattress and draped it over his shoulders.

I stood up and gazed out the window at the stunning coast, stretching for miles. I felt a tug on my arm and turned to see Kaya’s worried face, looking at my own.

The coast had nothing on this girl.

“What if Vissian had won?” she said quietly, giving voice to my deepest concern, “He would’ve killed you, yes?”

I grabbed her hand, gently. My status as Kane’s heir was known to Vissian, so I would’ve been a major target in that situation. “You don’t need to worry about me, Kaya,” I replied, rubbing her palm. “Your father wouldn’t let anything happen to me,”

“Sorry, it scares me to think about that,” she said, “I don’t want to lose you, Ciel.”

I pulled her into a hug and whispered in her ear, “I know.”

Metaverses are promoted as virtual platforms accessible through a VR headset that allows the consumer to engage in virtual social activities, trade in virtual markets and work virtually. It is often described as the successor to the internet. Interoperability is the concept of linking multiple Metaverse platforms together. Businesses have minimal incentive to offer interoperability. It’s not only expensive, but the company also loses control of their Metaverse. Conversely, having an interoperable platform will significantly benefit the majority of the population. This principle is the source of the ethical quandary; Do Metaverse companies have an ethical obligation to provide interoperability? Through a utilitarian perspective and examining the categorical imperative, one can argue that the lack of interoperability allows companies like Meta to accrue too much power and potentially segregate socio-economic-classes in their platforms for economic benefit.

The Metaverse shares strong parallels with the internet in that opportunities are derived from the use of these technologies and their constituent social networks; one must access them for economic, social, and educational opportunities. The barrier-to-entry for VR platforms is economically high, therefore lower-socio-economic communities are forced to find cheaper, lower-end alternatives that don’t provide the same resources, social networks, and opportunities as higher-end platforms. Alternatively, they could be forced to pay with their privacy/data – this is how Meta achieves such a desirable price point. Due to this, companies that do not integrate interoperability into their platforms will create socio-economic-segregation between the different Metaverses.

Rule utilitarianism mandates that “we ought to promote acts that create the greatest benefit for the greatest number of people”. Rule utilitarianism can be used to assess the following arguments. The lack of interoperability between these platforms will create a system akin to the Apartheid government, as people will be segregated and locked in specific areas of the Metaverse according to which platform they can afford, thus greatly decreasing their net benefit. Companies like Meta will create implicit socio-economic frameworks that aim to segregate people into virtual platforms that reflect their economic status. This will inhibit lower-socio-economic users’ ability to collaborate and make business/social connections. These factors would create a de facto exclusion in which lowersocio-economic people would not have equal access to opportunity in Metaverse platforms. Overall, through adopting a rule utilitarian perspective, companies have an ethical obligation to incorporate interoperability into their Metaverse platforms.

Almost all social-class systems are synonymous with the affluent having greater power/voting rights than the impoverished. The proposed non-interoperable Metaverse is no different, and thus doesn’t promote equality. Current inaction on integrating interoperability will likely cause these class systems to be reproduced from the very inception of the Metaverse revolution; and once established, these exclusionary dynamics will be difficult to disband. The higher classes who are the most powerful/influential are not going to radically change a system to their detriment. From an ethical egoist position nor should they; similar situations have occurred countless times throughout history (e.g., racial class systems, Titanic class system). However, Kant states that a “categorical imperative is a moral law that all people must follow, regardless of their desires in the given circumstance”. 4 Equality is widely accepted as a categorical imperative, and interoperability in the Metaverse will facilitate equality, therefore interoperability is a categorical imperative for technology companies.

This segregation between Metaverses will likely be justified and mystified by technology companies. They could claim they do not have the “technological capabilities” to implement interoperability. This technical framing of the issue is principally fallacious; it is ultimately designed as an excuse to hide the social and economic implications of their inaction. Put differently, they’re hiding their moral choice behind an untrue ‘is’. These companies are hyper-capitalist and are motivated by the nonepistemic value of monetization and view interoperability as a supererogatory duty. Thus, even though there is a technological challenge to implement this technology, it is possible. Given the gravity of harm of not doing this, there is an ethical obligation for companies to create interoperability for their platform at its inception.

All things considered, through the direct analysis of these arguments and drawing upon normative ethical theories, it is clear that interoperability is crucial to ensure that the future of the Metaverse is ethical. The Metaverse signals an unprecedented paradigm shift in how we interact with each other and the world. Making sure we set strong ethical foundations is paramount to the success of our technological evolution.

Bibliography
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