The Matrix – Page 6 – A Piece, of the Sky

If production had called the violation, in the heat of the moment, fine. But there is a statute of limitations here, like in sports. Production can’t go back and reset the entire week, after-the-fact. That wouldn’t be fair to everyone. ‘Fairness’ is also relative. We live in a “random,” quantum world and a game, as a controlled environment, can mitigate that randomness, only so much.

The moral of the story is that no matter what twists are thrown in: battle-backs, power-apps, hacker comps – bad players will be bad players and skillful players will be skillful players. It will always come down to how one plays the game.

I blame Scottie for the absolute blow-out of this week. Scottie was the best one, to come back in, from the jury house. However, Foutte is going to Foutte (that’s a new verb now) – so, even Foutte’s best player is the worst player, in a house of mostly Level 6 players.

Scottie just wasted this opportunity. From the time he came back in, championing #Scyler, you knew Scottie was going to bungle this. He was ‘just happy to be here.’ But that’s not enough! Even if you don’t have a traditional goal, you must still have a goal. You have to be motivated by something.

Scottie is a super-fan, but it seems like he is simply watching the show, from inside the house! Scottie just didn’t have that groundbreaking, epiphany moment, like JC had last week, when JC knew that he didn’t just want to make Final Four or Final Two, but he wanted to win the game. Second-best just isn’t going to cut it.

Speaking of JC, if I had known JC was so smitten by Tyler, I wouldn’t have rated him so highly. JC is still hanging on, by his fingernails, to the ledge of my Final Five, because JC and Brett are beginning to make plans, but JC needs to realize that Tyler, Angela and Kaycee don’t owe him anything.

Yes, JC stuck his neck out, and worked as a mole, collecting information for Level 6, from Foutte. But, as I highlighted in my last analysis, JC hasn’t had to touch the block and he hasn’t had to take on the ‘face’ of the organization, as HOH. Level 6 and Tyler essentially shielded JC from going home, during the first month. JC holding his work, for Level 6, over their heads, is already rubbing Tyler and Angela the wrong way.

JC also keeps confronting Tyler about this Tangela nonsense. As I alluded to, last time, what do you think Tyler is going to tell you, JC?? Tyler is never going to admit that #Tangela exists! Every time JC asks Tyler those mega-obvious questions Tyler is going to deny, deny, deny. Never, in a thousand years, will Tyler ever say ‘yes’ to your questions, JC!

Yes, it is a bad strategy for Tyler to continue to claim Tangela doesn’t exist. Tyler should just own it and say ‘Yes, what are you going to do about it?’ Then Tyler can move on and go back to the game, because Tangela has really distracted him and made Tyler mush – highly strategic mush, but still mush.

However, as long as Tyler continues to obfuscate, he’s not going to give JC a different answer. The time for talking is over. It’s time for JC to do something about it! Get over this crush on Tyler, JC! Tyler isn’t going to take JC to the Final Two! He was never going to take JC to the Final Two! JC is finally understanding this, but by the time JC and Brett act, it may be too late.

Which brings us to Brett: as the Trickster archetype, Brett is actually more of a beta person or an omega person. JC needs to take the lead here. The problem is that the two of them are both wringing their hands, like Hamlet, afraid to make a move!

JC and Brett keep hoping that someone, like Hay or Sam, can be tricked into not targeting each other, and can be convinced to take out Tyler or Angela, instead – for JC and Brett. But these two have to recognize that no one is going to do it for you! There are only about three weeks left in this game. Three weeks to half-a-million dollars!! Wake up! Take out Tyler, the huge sitting duck.

They went up to the rooftop of a nearby motel, the one where Cai was staying. A gentle whirring rose from the boiler turbines, down below, deep in the bowels of the building. Sleeping pigeons roosted under the water tower. The rain had stopped, and clouds floated in the night sky, reflected by giant puddles.

Cai had retrieved his long, black overcoat, which swirled around his thin legs. He pulled out a Camel cigarette and offered his lighter to Dan, who took it, and lit up.

The two men watched the retreating cumulus formation, illuminated by the veins of traffic below. Steam floated from thousands of dark rooftops, with myriad HVAC units, vents and tunnels.

Dan glanced at the Dracula-like creature in front of him. “You’re from out-of-town?” he muttered.

The lothario gave him a crafty, cryptic look, “You might say that.”

There was a density to him – that aristocratic nose, that lofty, sweeping brow – that spoke to him, that offered a weight, a depth. He felt himself drawn forward into this man’s orbit, like falling into the path of a black hole – or a runaway bullet train.

“Where did you say you were from?” Dan tried again.

“I didn’t,” the stranger guffawed.

“Excuse me?” Dan also laughed, but he was 100% serious. He really wanted to know.

“Originally, I am from London, but I came here from Seattle,” Cai began.

“Misty Seattle. Hmm,” Dan said, taking a drag on his cigarette.

“Yes; how well versed are you in the mystical arts?” the stranger gave him a significant look.

“The mystical what?” Dan asked, dumbfounded.

“The mystical. Arts.” Cai said, punctuating each word with an action: he dropped the butt and stepped on it – grinding it out – also taking one step closer to Dan, in the process. His massive, intellectual weight was all directed at Dan. The tall man loomed in front of him, looking down on him, his eyes narrowed in that oily, feline slant again.

Dan stepped back, confused, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Cai stood still, as if his metaphysical weight were settling, like a dense ball of dark matter. He sighed, as if confessing something to himself for the first time, “I am the Lightning Avatar. I come from Atev. You’re aware of parallel dimensions, right?”

Dan, a high-energy particle physicist, nodded. He was still baffled, but something Cai said, rang true to him: a bell knell of recognition tolled inside his psyche, on the shores of his consciousness. He didn’t know why. It was a note, the clarion call, of destiny.

He decided he would address that later, and pushed on gamely, “So, what’s your job?”

“Anesthesiologist,” Cai smirked, with obvious relief. He seemed to be standing over Dan less, and the angles of his body opened into a more welcoming posture. Cai’s mien took on the very definition of ease. Dan allowed himself to come closer, into the circle of Cai’s cologne – into the circle of energy that vibrated and emanated from him.

“You would be,” Dan murmured, surprised at how close he was to this man. The nail edge of a crescent moon emerged from a cloud bank and towered over them both.