Our teacher told us to be careful with our new equipment. We were told that this was the only set of items we would receive; if broken, the student would simply be left with nothing, and he or she would be forced to only watch as others conducted experiments. Then she told us, ironically, to play around for 20 minutes or so.

Immediately, everyone opened their boxes and examined the items. Some students, me included, already understood a bit of what we were doing. We placed the battery in the holder, looped wires from both ends to the light-bulb, and smiled when the light flickered on. These lights were dotted around the classroom, serving as an engine of jealousy for those other students who were furiously trying (and failing) to get their light-bulb to light up.

But after a few minutes, everyone else had figured it out, the room was now filled with lights corner to corner, and when the teacher turned off the lights, the classroom was a firefly show. It was no longer “elite” to simply have a weakly glowing bulb, and the focus was now on other things.

A few students hooked up the two ends of a battery with wire, and watched as the battery heated up. Of course, we didn’t know about short-circuiting anything and just thought it was amazing. Some commented that this must be how heaters were built.

Then came the larger experiments.

As twenty minutes began to draw to a close, some realized that hooking more than one battery in a row at a time would result in a more powerful glow. Two batteries was not enough, and the search across the classroom began for people willing to donate their batteries for this experiment.

But when they came to me, and asked for me to donate my battery, I refused.

“But why not? You’ll get a battery back later,” they argued. But I only countered that a battery was not my battery. The others had short-circuited their batteries, damaged them, dropped them on the floor, and such. Mine was in pristine condition, I haughtily announced.

“All right then,” they said, and left.

I watched as they hooked up multiple batteries, resulting in a very powerful light. Everyone clapped, and the teacher went into a small discussion about power, voltage, and such. The students were applauded for their work, but warned about connecting too many together.

But my battery was safe.

Two or three days later, in a demonstration about parallel and series circuits, our teacher took my battery to use in a demonstration. When I got the battery back, I was deeply disappointed that it was not, in fact, my own battery. She had simply given me another one from her stash of batteries. This one was more beaten, perhaps used more.

“It’s just a battery,” everyone chuckled.

On January 27, the Egyptian government stopped the Internet. Egypt cut off all telecommunications between Egyptian citizens and the rest of the world. As hundreds of prestigious news organizations, including  CNN and the Committee to Protect Journalists have reported, this most certainly wasn’t an accident. The focus in the mainstream media has primarily been focused around the importance of non-violence and the limiting of access to the Internet and communications; since it’s important to me, I’ll talk about the latter.

The Internet itself was founded upon principles of freedom in communication. The web, in its current uncensored state, would never have flourished like it did if governments had put limitations on its distribution. This we take for a generally accepted fact; for those who need convincing, look no further than conglomerates like Google, Facebook, and companies who have re-invented the way we communicate.

Aside from the government of Egypt’s actions lately, the news (especially those focused on technology) a few weeks ago reported on what may turn out to be breaches of net neutrality. Simply put, telecommunications and Internet provider companies proposed tiered Internet policies (“data discrimination”). These ideas were protested by multiple organizations dedicated to the advancement of free speech. However, the FCC’s response was less than satisfactory; rather than condemning, it seemed to leave out any regulation against data discrimination on cellular platforms.

The phrase net neutrality itself seems to lend itself importance, but many don’t realize its importance. The every-day access of websites itself may be hindered. Imagine having to pay for websites with tiers, like the current state of cable television:

It’s not hard for many to see why such a proposal and system would be detrimental to the overall expansion and growth of the Internet. And yet, as ludicrous as it may seem, such ideas are being considered by telecommunication companies. They consider prioritizing their own content or the content of providers they have contracts with.

This brings us to Internet throttling or blocking: it has been reported that many Internet providers have throttled or blocked BitTorrent and other P2P connections. Simply put, these connections are an easy way for users to share data with each other using a unique decentralized (more or less) architecture.

It’s common knowledge to me and many others that although P2P is advertised as a legit solution to problems, more often they are used for illegal transfer, such as the theft of copyrighted content. They cause content providers millions of dollars in profits. They are just like, perhaps worse, than common theft from a store.

And yet, the United States mustn’t throttle or block them, or let any company do so. Not if the US claims itself to be a country with freedoms of speech. Because doing so is the very opposite of what this country was founded upon. Yes, copyright infringement is bad. Yes, I oppose it. But no, any sort of limiting the stage on which humans can express themselves freely – the Internet – is nothing less than a crime to humanity in my personal opinion.

So finally, bringing us back to Egypt and the current situation: Egypt has blockaded the Internet in the same way the British may have blockaded the United States during the Revolutionary War. And it seems to be having similar effects: the trade of an entire country, the communications of the area, have been completely disrupted.

The purpose is not to condemn Egypt for its actions, although I would certainly like to. The current government of Egypt is too self-centered and too haughty to re-consider itself and evaluate if it is truly the best government for this nation with such history and heritage, and with such promising futures in front of it.

The censoring and control of telecommunications and the Internet is not certainly new: many countries practiced the same techniques to quell protestor and rioter communications. But by suspending the very spider web on which we humans have built our very lives on is again, nothing less than a crime to humanity.

—

Tiered internet image from Irresponsible Journalism.
Net neutrality image from Into Mobile.

Here’s what I have to say to her: you don’t represent everyone. Your parenting methods are not the “Chinese parenting method”. Stop calling it that. This is part of the reason why this particular stereotype of Asian parents even exist.

Before you read this article, please read her writing on the Wall Street Journal and watch her interview by MSNBC. If you’re in a state of disbelief and insult: you’re not the only one.

I’m using the term "Chinese mother" loosely. I know some Korean, Indian, Jamaican, Irish and Ghanaian parents who qualify too. Conversely, I know some mothers of Chinese heritage, almost always born in the West, who are not Chinese mothers, by choice or otherwise.

In the WSJ article, Chua mentions how her daughters were never allowed to be in a school play, watch TV or play computer games, play any instrument other than the piano or violin, among other things. And I think – how terrible. How awful it must be, to not be able to strain for your own goals.

But then she goes on, talking about how this is the “Chinese mother” method of raising kids. And that’s when I started raising an eyebrow.

What my family has taught me

From personal experience, I can say that Chua doesn’t represent all Chinese parents, because I know that my parents would frown on her methods. My parents were immigrants, and when I was born in the US, I became a second generation immigrant, similar to Chua herself.

My parents, of course, are Chinese. Being of this descent, they know of the different parenting approaches that many Chinese, including Chua, utilize for their kids. They, however, to my benefit, chose not to follow these examples word for word.

Distilling what I think I’ve learned from my parents into five statements, it might look like this:

1. Try my best at what matters.
2. Don’t be afraid to start over.
3. Protect body, mind, and soul.
4. Learn from your own mistakes.
5. Enjoy life.

These are the lessons that I will one day walk away with. The list does not include Get A’s in all classes. It doesn’t include Play piano and violin because they matter in life. My parents gave me the gift of choice. I think of it like a selection of options, with a recommended answer.

Do I think this is the best parenting method? Of course not. It depends on the parent, the kid, the society, and the situation. It may seem like the goal is to teach the child something, but in many cases, it’s the parent that ends up learning.

Accomplished on my own

I’m very proud to say that I got into web design, web development, and computers completely on my own. It was never my dad’s intention for me to become interested in technology, nor was it for me to learn Photoshop, InDesign, among other professional software. It definitely wasn’t my dad’s intention for me to get involved in business at such a young age.

But just because it wasn’t my father’s intention didn’t mean that he didn’t support me. I have no doubt that my family has always been positive of my various endeavors. Sure, they’ve tried to point me in other directions, but very rarely has it ever been forceful.

That’s my personal belief, as the receiving end of the parenting system: let the kid try for his or her dreams. As he or she grows, her dreams will mature and become more reachable, from “I wanna live inside the sun!” to “I want to be the President!” to… who knows where.

Finally: she’s not ALL wrong

I have to end this by saying that not everything Chua has done is wrong. She’s strict, sure, but in the end it’s her kid. I don’t think what she does qualifies as child abuse. If her kids turn out to be successful, then: great! I’m simply arguing that there may be better parenting methods.

Our t-shirts and bracelets act as an awareness-raising tool that speaks directly to our target audience in a way that is authentic, inspiring and refreshing. #

I love boobies, say bright pink wristbands that are now on the arms of so many of my classmates. Bold and daring, the bands provoke attention. Part of a campaign for breast cancer, they’re a daring new strike from the Keep a Breast Foundation.

But the onslaught of media attention, the banning of these bands by schools and businesses, and other feedback suggest more than a few are raising questions. While certainly for a good cause, a number of reasons suggest perhaps that these bracelets were not the best way to raise awareness.

I’d like to raise a few questions to ponder.

Are people wearing them for all the wrong reasons?

Many times I have seen a student at my school answer to a teacher the reason for the band – breast cancer awareness. But is this the true reason so many people are now wearing them?

Perhaps the underlying reason is that they are a novelty, and the statement they make is one that would otherwise be taboo. In the name of breast cancer, they say, and it becomes okay.

Are people really wearing them for breast cancer? Or are they wearing them because it says, to be blunt, “boobies” on them?

Oh, but they might say – that’s true. But I care about breast cancer too!

I offer this to that statement then – if I rob your house but water your plants for you, does it make me plundering your valuables okay?

Are they provoking discussion the wrong way?

“Acting as an awareness-raising tool,” the Keep a Breast campaign’s website says. A noteworthy and noble cause then – to serve as a catalyst for discussion. But are they provoking discussion the wrong way?

I’d like to say that by now in society the standard pink band has become ubiquitously identifiable as a breast cancer band. These new thicker bands are not as recognizable. Any new object inspires discussion. A good thing, right?

But when I first saw the bands, breast cancer was the last thing I thought of. I read the band, I thought whoa, and it was a while before someone told me that – oh – they were for breast cancer.

Are these the right way to provoke discussion? Are they really going to lead the conversation in the right direction?

Could you raise funding like them in good conscious?

Oh, hi there! Good to see you as our new manager of funding. I’d like to run this idea past you – how about we get some funds for our campaign by exploiting sexuality? Oh, that’s fine with you? Okay, all right.

By now, you should have realized that my views on the bands are negative. I’d like to raise another point now – I could not in good conscious be able to run or participate in this campaign. It burns my heart to know that (in my opinion) this foundation is exploiting sexuality to raise funds.

It’s for a good cause, yes. But the path by which we go about this good cause can be varied. I’m not the biggest fan of this route.

Will this set a precedent for future campaigns?

If other campaigning organizations see this as a way to raise funds, would they follow? And would they be making the world a better place with their campaigning? Imagine if the following were to use a similar approach – a “I love…” followed by a taboo word:

• A foundation trying to cure erectile dysfunction.
• A foundation trying to promote the advancement of African Americans in society.
• A foundation trying to raise awareness of World War II
  (think along the lines of “I hate…” and what Hitler might say)

Such a campaign these would be, wouldn’t they? But think about it – they wouldn’t be too different from this one. Until then, I think I’ll stick to my normal breast cancer wristbands.

Note: This represents my personal view on this subject. This is all opinion. If you think this is fact, you are a buffoon. I, of course, welcome discussion and feedback.

We constantly hear about online cyber-bullying. In the news, we hear about people who have been arrested for harassment – and we always think to ourselves that these people must be freaks of nature, that it’s a very good thing they’re being put away in a jail cell for a very long time, away from your kids.

And chances are, you’re right. But at the same time, you may be wrong. Because those offenders are people just like me and you. They might have crossed that very thin line at a time when they didn’t realize they were stepping over the boundary. I did.

It is very hard for me to write this article. It means owning up for my actions, and it means letting the public know what I have felt. But at the same time, publicly apologizing is the right thing to do. Admission is the first step to renewal, so it’s not only the right thing to do – it’s the only thing to do.

In the past week, I created a false Facebook account under the name of a classmate as a joke. It was mean and unwarranted, but it happened. When I realized the mistake I had made, just fifteen minutes later, I watched in horror as I realized Facebook’s algorithms had already spread the news. Those same algorithms I myself once admired and wrote about were now being used against me.

This person deserves a public apology, and I have given it to them in the form of a letter and this blog post. The event has been settled in a diplomatic way and it is now in the past, and I am ready to move on. But at the same time, it’s a good time for me to touch on a few life lessons.

There are thin boundaries between right and wrong

Many times, we as humans don’t realize that the lines between right and wrong are hidden, tiny, and easy to step over. You don’t comprehend what a disaster you have created until it’s much too late.

Society only makes it worse. It blurs the line between good and evil. It tries to convince you that the evil is good. And worse, it invites you to step across that line like it’s just another sidewalk crack.

But when you’ve realized that the next block of concrete sidewalk you’ve stepped onto is wet and the cement has not dried yet – when you lift your foot out of the goo, you’ve realized you’ll never be able to scrap that off your shoe.

Education, without a good heart, is dangerous

I heard the quote, “Education, without a good heart, is dangerous” once somewhere. Today, especially after what has happened, I realize how seriously true this quote is.

We can take the example of a hacker – there are two types of hackers known to us today: “white-hat” hackers, and “black-hat” hackers. Put namely, white-hat hackers find flaws and vulnerabilities and let those affected know so they can fix the problems. They’re good people. Black-hat hackers, on the other hand, find flaws and vulnerabilities and exploit them, usually causing many people harm in the process.

If you’re smart enough to be able to craft a nuclear weapon, then the whole world hopes you’ve got a good heart. That you won’t use it recklessly. But the truth is – it’s dangerous. Without a good heart, education is dangerous.

If you’re smart enough to know just how to hurt someone, how to trip them and have them be unable to stand up again, you are “educated” in these matters. And education without a good heart is very lethal.

As a leader, you stand up for the weak

Someone once told me that if you are a leader, then you must stand up for the weak. Those that have not stepped out with defiance, but linger in the back, quiet and worried – you must stand up for them. Those are the people you defend.

When you walk the path of life, will you go and step on those flowers that have painstakingly grown out on the side? Will you laugh as you see them squished and dead under your feet as you crush them? Or will you go out of your way to protect them and help those flowers to grow?

Will you cultivate life? Or will you watch as it dies?

Later during the flight, during the snacks I noticed on the bag of pretzels that they had printed a list of rather amusing directions to eating them –

1. Think about our wonderful low fares at airtran.com as you open packet.
2. …with each crunch, be reminded of our low fares.
3. As you swallow, remember again just how low the fares are…

On the flight back, the pilot of our airplane also made a few wisecracks on the passengers still not understanding how to buckle a seatbelt before ending by telling us he “approved” the message.

It strikes me as special in that I have not, in all my years of flights (actually quite a few given my age), ever had this level of service before.

It only takes a small touch to make people smile.

In a recent business dealing, I had been requesting something from the person on the other end. It was a battle before he finally agreed, but in his response email, he told me that part of the reason he agreed was that I had been so sincere and honest. He quoted the last sentence of each of my emails to him –

Regardless of your final choice, [name redacted], I want you to know that I personally wish you the best in your ventures and future work.

– and told me that my good intentions for him were a large part of why he had agreed with me.

Small touches really do matter. Whether it’s a humorous print on the back of a bag of pretzels, or just a simple ‘thank you’, people do notice them. And they matter.

But perhaps you’re not perfect at tennis. Maybe you don’t play at Wimbledon. Maybe every time you swing your racket, you’ll miss. Maybe once in a while, when you actually hit it, the ball doesn’t go anywhere where you expect it.

But you know what? You keep on going. You don’t stop. Because that’s what sports – that’s what tennis – is about: trying, failing, and trying, until you succeed. And enjoying every step of the way. Because whether you’re playing against a brick wall, or whether you’re playing with friends at night and the mosquitoes are biting and the heat is stunning but you don’t care, or even if you play at Wimbledon along with the big names, or even if you are one of the big names in tennis – you don’t stop.

Because that’s what tennis is all about. That’s what sports are about. Now stop reading, go forth, go for your dreams, and keep in mind these principles that I’ve used for tennis – don’t stop, keep going, and try, fail, try, and succeed. Most importantly, have fun every step of the way.

Instead of watching soccer – World Cup is only on so much of the time – or playing outside (and getting all sweaty and gross), around ten people chose to watch chess.

The idea of watching chess anywhere else but “nerd camp” may be strange. It is very hard to invite a friend over and ask them to play chess. While chess is certainly a fun game, given many other options, it’s usually not a person’s first choice.

The keyword in the above sentence, however, was “given many other options”. Because unlike inviting friends over, when there aren’t many options, chess becomes a strangely interesting thing to do. Even when you aren’t playing, there’s something strangely interesting about chess.

And so, having discovered this new passion, many of us decided to even skip the World Cup games on television. Instead, we grab a bag of chips and dip and sit down in the hallway to watch the chess game.

It’s much less exciting than television – commentating is generally frowned on, and concentration requires peace and quiet. Chess is not exciting. It is, however, strangely riveting.

It’s interesting what people will do when options are taken away. But when they’re given back, it’s strange what they won’t leave behind.

Food for thought.

“The visiting times have ended,” a nurse said to Jason. “I’m terribly sorry, sir, but rules are rules, and you’ll have to leave now. You’re welcome to come back tomorrow morning.”

Jason watched the heart monitor screen fluctuate – up and down, up and down. IV tubing delivered medicines and saline into his daughter Eliza’s arm. Her face bore no emotion.

He was quiet. Eliza’s skin was pale. Jason reached forward, touching her tender lips. He wanted her to talk. To speak to him. To smile. To say hello.

No sounds came out of her lips. She did not move. The steady beeps of the heart monitor continued. Memories flashed through Jason’s mind.

His daughter fleeing his home. I’m sorry, Dad, she had yelled at him as he had watched speechless. A bright flash. A police officer. Put the drugs down now! The officer gesturing with his weapon. His daughter running away as fast as she could. Help me, she had yelled. The officer pulling the trigger.

His daughter falling to the ground. The officer running over. Him, trying to stop the officer from touching his beloved daughter. I’m sorry, sir. The officer had said as she was carried away on a stretcher. It’s my job.

Then, staking out the officer’s home. Relying on his training from his days as a special ops soldier – installing small cameras. Watching him. Swearing that one day, the officer would pay.

He would pay for his daughter with his life.

Jason turned around and left the hospital, a faint smile on his face.

- – – – – – – -

“Attention passengers: the #12 train will depart in three minutes.”

Standing on the North Platform of the Los Angeles Transportation Station, Jason had assumed the identity of Jonathan Adams, an administrator at the train station. He watched the #12 train carefully.

This was the train that Officer Richardson – the police officer that had killed Jason’s daughter – was taking. He was sure of it – Jason had hacked into the Annual Law Enforcement Convention’s attendee list. James Richardson was on the list. He was also a passenger listed on the #12 train.

Today, he was going to die.

It was imperative that no one find out who Jason truly was. Jonathan Adams was him now, he reminded himself. He turned around again as a melody played. “#12 train now departing.” The Maglaser train began to depart from the station, seemingly floating in midair, while in actuality being held up by invisible laser tracks.

Jason watched the 360 degree cameras. A large and burly man stopped in front of him, carrying a suitcase. It was the perfect opportunity. He instantly turned around and ran down a staircase marked “Employees”.

At the bottom, he typed in “J ADAMS” into a keyboard and swiped his ID card. The door opened. Jason was in the Heart.

In year 2396, the Heart of the station was what kept everything moving – a control center of sorts. A line of computers on the wall, workers staring at them, kept the ten nuclear reactors running, and those reactors in turn kept the Maglaser systems working.

All the workers were busy. He was safe. On a large screen above the workers, a dynamic map displayed the status of trains. A moving dot labeled “#12 – LAX to SEA” slowly moved away from a larger block labeled “LAX North”.

His eyes travelled down to a wall of switches, protected behind a glass wall. Those switches controlled the status of the Maglaser trains. Jason was going to shut the trains down with the switch. Two guards stood in front of it, however, armed with laser pulse weapons. They were too strong for Jason to subdue.

Jason walked over to a rack. He swiped Adams’ ID card. Instantly a laptop was ejected into his hands. He grabbed the laptop, swiping his ID card once more, and logged into the framework. He would divert the guards away. Adams was a high-clearance worker. It would help him.

A schematic of the Heart loaded in, with points all across the map labeled with the name of each worker. He tapped on numbers 4159K and 5124P, the two guards protecting the switches, and entered commands for them to divert to a training center.

“4159K, 5124P – by order of Adams, abandon positions and report to TC4.” An automated voice rang out through the Heart. Two lights on both men’s uniforms also flashed on. The two looked at each other, confused, and then started forward.

The switch was unattended.

For fear of power outages, all major switches were protected by hard key locks. No swipe cards or fingerprints were allowed. That meant the lock could be quickly picked.

Over a century ago, traditional lock picking tools were abandoned in favor of automated ones. They were so easy to use and prone to abuse, however, that the government kept a close watch on them.

No matter – Jason had a solution just as well: a special lock picking key and a torque wrench. He gently nudged each pin until he felt the lock open. With a click, the glass door swung aside.

One button, the Main System Shut Down, was all that was needed to shut down all the Maglaser systems. Hundreds of trains would seemingly fall from the sky. One police officer will have died as he rode the train to his convention. Finally, Jason would receive revenge for his daughter.

But is it right to sentence the innocent to death too? Jason thought in his mind. After all, by shutting it down, thousands would die too.

That officer deserved it. It was his fault, Jason decided. He pressed the button. Now he would finally die.

He was wrong.

Instantly a light flashed on behind him, alerting the engineers. He should have noticed it, but he didn’t. The glass door swung shut behind him. Only then did alarms begin to sound.

“Sector 58. Decoy switchboard activated.”

Three guards ran over to him, pulling out laser pulse weapons. He was caught, and he was going to die. Well, that wasn’t going to happen. Jason pulled out an explosive, attaching it to the glass wall, then carefully turned it so it wouldn’t hit him as well. He detonated it instantly. The shrapnel hit a few wires and one of the guards – a success.

“Communications circuit down in Sector 58,” the loudspeakers announced but he didn’t care. Already, he was running for the exit. Determined to get through, he ducked around machinery.

A laser pulse singed his shirt as the guards began firing shots at him.

He ran even faster.

- – – – – – – -

The heart monitor’s steady beats quickened. Somewhere down the hall, an alarm sounded. Nurses hurried over to the room, checking the IV tubing.

“Someone, inject some sedatives!” a doctor yelled. A nurse grabbed a syringe and injected them into Eliza’s IV.

The beeping slowed.

- – – – – – – -

Jason ran faster than he had ever run before. He felt the wind against his skin as he tore through the Heart. Alarm bells were sounding. Too many.

He tore through an emergency exit, running up the staircase. He was outside now, back on the station. He could smell the fresh air now. He could see the skyscrapers in the distance.

He was free.

But the North Platform of the Los Angeles Transportation Station was locking down. Passengers looked around in confusion as the #95 train, about to leave, abruptly slowed down and returned to the station. The exits were shut down.

“Please stay calm,” a loudspeaker said over and over again. “A lock down has been ordered by LAPD and should not affect you.” In downtown Los Angeles, a CBS news crew was heading out to investigate.

Back in the Heart, employees monitored the status of trains. On the large map, a dot labeled “#95 – LAX to JFK” left “LAX North”. Abruptly, it halted, a message flashing up next to it – “Returning to LAX North due to a Code 54 Breach”. The dot slowly moved back.

Around it, #46 (LAX to HOU), #72 (LAX to RDU), and #17 (LAX to DFW) all did the same. The “LAX North” box glowed a bright red, indicating total lockdown. And further out on the map, “LAX South” and “SAN North” (San Diego) glowed yellow, indicating partial lockdown. An urgent supervisor spoke with the FBI on the phone.

It was a state of pandemonium.

- – – – – – – -

The #12 train slowed down, and then completely stopped.

“Attention passengers,” a loudspeaker announced. “A security hazard has been detected. Stay calm while this train returns to the station.”

Officer Richardson looked around in confusion. What was going on? He shifted uneasily as the passengers looked at him – he was in full uniform – as if he knew what was going on.

“Unit Alpha fourteen to HQ. What’s going on at LAX North?” He enunciated clearly into his radio.

“HQ to Alpha fourteen, switch to private,” the police headquarters radioed back. Richardson put in his earphone. “Terror attack. Code 54 breach,” answered the headquarters.

Code 54, Richardson thought, stunned. An attempted terrorist attack.

Glancing around at the passengers, Richardson announced, “Everyone, I’m in no position to make any orders, but please stay calm. We have a bit of a problem here.”

- – – – – – – -

Jason ran through Station 62, tearing through the crowds. Cameras locked on to him, automatically following his body. In a SWAT team’s MCC (Mobile Control Center) in the back of a black van, quickly driving to the station, five men watched Jason run through the crowds.

One of the cameras captured a face shot. In seconds, he was identified as Jason Witts – former Special Operations soldier – single and the father of Eliza Witts, who was currently in Intensive Care at the Los Angeles Medical Center.

“You are clear to fire,” a controller said into a mike in the MCC. A helicopter flying over the station targeted Jason. A single shot was fired.

Jason was running. Suddenly, he stopped. It seemed as if the world was turning away. Perhaps gravity wasn’t functioning properly. That would be funny, wouldn’t it? He looked down.

Back in the MCC, the controller received a response from the helicopter.

“One tranquilizer dart, bullet code Oscar Delta Bravo one five nine.” On the screen in the MCC, “Bullet – ODB159” showed up on the screen. The words “Successfully hit target” appeared next to it.

Jason looked down at himself again, dizzy. Something dark red was blossoming across his chest. A strawberry milkshake, perhaps. Jason liked milkshakes.

He fell onto the floor and blanked out.

- – – – – – – -

In the Intensive Care ward at the Los Angeles Medical Center, patient 491’s – Eliza Witts – eyes opened. Doctor Petrov’s pager sounded. It announced a message to him –

“491 regained conscious.”

- – – – – – – -

Jason woke up. He tried to move his arms, but became suddenly aware that he could not move his body. There were no handcuffs or bindings, yet strangely he could not move. A tranquilizer, he decided.

A police officer came in. He had a clean shaven face and had a solid built body. Jason stared at him. He seemed oddly familiar.

“You Jason Witts? The crazy man that tried to blow up North Platform?” He didn’t wait for an answer before continuing on.

“I want you to know how much trouble you’re in right now. Your actions caused ten stations to shut down, and we had to mitigate one million passengers. Do you realize how hard that is? And then our brain analysts looked up why you wanted to blow us all up. And, man oh man, I’m surprised.”

The identity of the police officer hit Jason before he said it.

“I’m Officer James Richardson, Jason, and today you tried to kill me.”

- – – – – – – -

Eliza sat up, confused on her bed. A nurse ran into the room with a cup of water. Opening Eliza’s mouth for her, she forced the water down her throat. “Drink it,” she said. Eliza had no chance to reply.

The nurse checked her vitals and then withdrew her IV. They spread a jelly on the IV location, stopping the bleeding. Some kind of medication labelled “Post-IV” was injected into her arm.

“I want to talk to my dad,” Eliza said – the first words she had said in three months. She was surprised her voice still worked. Her eyes seemed woozy but shone with a fierce determination.

“I want to talk to my dad,” she said again.

“All right, honey, just let me look up where your dad is.” Typing in Jason’s name, she hit Enter on the keyboard.

Jason Witts – Currently under ARREST at the Los Angeles Detention Facility.

Eliza’s face fell as she watched the nurse’s face contort in surprise. The nurse looked at Eliza. “Honey, there’s – there’s been a small problem and you can’t see your daddy just yet. But it will be okay, all right?”

The nurse clicked the “More information” button out of curiosity.

CLASSIFIED under H.R. 3162 Patriot Act.

The Patriot Act – the terrorism laws passed hundreds of years ago. But what did it have to do with Eliza’s father?

- – – – – – – -

“Richardson,” a man interrupted, barging into the detention room. “Terribly sorry, but I’ve got news.”

“Oh, let me hear it,” the officer snarled, eyes still on Jason.

“The – uh – Witts has an urgent request,” the man said, backing away from Richardson. He was an intern at the Detention Facility, and it was his second day. He wasn’t expecting a terrorist.

“His daughter woke up, and she wants to talk to him. We have her on the phone,” the intern said to Richardson.

Jason’s eyes widened. After so many months, had she finally woken up? Eliza? She was alive?

He looked at the officer. “Please,” he choked out. “Please.”

Richardson turned to Jason. His fist was clenched as Jason and Richardson locked eyes. But then something happened.

The officer’s eyes softened. He slackened his fist.

“Of course he may,” he said, pressing a button. Looking at Jason, he smiled at him. “You did just try to kill me, but maybe you aren’t the heartless man I thought you were.”

Jason smiled back. “Thank you.”

Behind him, a video chat initiated on the wall. Eliza’s face appeared, worried.

“Dad?” Eliza’s voice came through. “Dad, are you in a detention facility? What’d you do? Are you okay?”

Jason choked back tears. Eliza’s eyes widened.

“Baby,” Jason said, “I’ve never been better.”

A quiet and crisp night – only the moon shines through the forest. It is silent, like God has put a silken sheet over the world. Only the soft drips of raindrops as they fall to the floor of the forest can be heard.

Rain is curiously simple in some aspects – it is really just water – yet it embodies a much more complex idea behind it. Standing in the forest, one cannot help but listen to the rain dripping downwards, drenching the leaves like tears from a forgotten goddess. The pitter-patter forms music, and thunder becomes the rhythmic offset to the moment.

As the lightning flashes, however, much more becomes evident. A deer, running for safety from the rain. An ant, desperately making for its home but being caught in the pools of tears. Suddenly, as the clouds rumble overhead, a more saddening situation is felt.

You feel one with the animals, small, weak, and helpless. One with the forest, and one of many.

This is beauty.

But just like that, the silence grows a companion. For in the distance, the sounds of a guitar playing begin to form. The crisp notes are a stark opposite of the forest’s slow and dull sounds. A bongo joins in, and a girl begins to sing.

“Oh world, oh world,” she sings. “How I love the tears you cry from the sky, how I love the trees you mold from the ground.” And like this, she continues. Animals all around the forest shuffle gently in their homes, listening to the melodous music.

The next morning, the sun shines brightly. In a meadow beside the forest, young children dance. Their mother, a cautious one, comments on how terrible the forest is. Such a dangerous place, she remarks.

How right she is, and yet – how wrong she is.

- – -

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