Demons of El Dorado: Part 3

COURTYARD, PORT OF SPAIN, TRINIDAD 

Swords flashed and clanged in a rapid blur of steel. Luis de Guerra jumped back and disengaged from his opponent, but kept his sword poised, ready to block any new attack. He was at the centre of a sun dappled courtyard, a discordantly peaceful space lined with lush green plants. 

He was faced by a burly man with a thick black beard and leering grin: his older brother, Angel de Guerr. Tanned and barrel chested, the older man strutted about with what Luis thought was almost cartoonish swagger. Angel let out a hearty laugh. “Too much for you, eh? Need a rest?”

Luis wiped the sweat from his baby face. His chin was tipped with a faint, scraggly beard he’d been trying to grow to give himself greater gravitas, but without success. His indignant eyes glared at Angel out of soft, boyish features, as if demanding justice. “You wish.”

Angel smirked like the jovial sadist he was, and he straightened up out of his fencing crouch. He was richly but, Luis noted, slovenly dressed. Wealth without rigor, as their father might say. Angel was the eldest son, four years older; always been bigger, stronger, and more experienced. He’d never let Luis forget that, a fact which Luis resented. He suspected his brother kept Luis around just to have someone to bully. An audience for endless braggadocio. 

As a point of contempt, Angel gripped a flask of amontillado in his free hand. He took a sloppy swig while keeping one eye on Luis. Half on. Taunting. Daring Luis to pull a fast one.

Luis held his position. He’d already fallen once for this trick. 

Angel lowered the flask. “Piss, you’re hopeless. Drunken monkeys fence better, little brother.” And, of course, he emphasized the word ‘little’. Luis gritted his teeth.

“I’ve never lost to a drunken monkey.” Luis flexed his knees and snap swirled the sword tip. Ready. Eager. “Defend yourself!”

“Ha! Hardly have to.”

“You underestimate me. So!” Luis lunged. The swords flashed and blurred and clanged again. Luis’ gambit was easily turned aside.

Angel laughed again and he jauntily turned to three sultry ladies, prostitutes Angel had on retainer, who lounged at the courtyard edge. He only dared have them around while their father was away, which had been the case for the last month. During that time, Luis has gotten to know them more than he’d have liked. There was Hermenia, the cunning red headed Basque; Genova, the sycophantic follower from Barcelona who laughed like a hyena at all of Angel’s vulgar jokes and reaped the reward in the form of jewelry; and the mysterious Celestina, who had the bearing of a noble woman and the milky white breasts of a seductress. Angel gave them a lecherous, toothy grin, displaying his gold teeth.

“Show him your tits!” Angel barked.

Their cheeks aglow with rouge, the trio laughed and wrenched open their corset tops, allowing bosoms to spill out. 

Luis blushed red and gaped.

For a second. 

It was enough. 

Angel deftly slipped under Luis’ guard, thwacked him on the waist with the flat side of the sword, hooked a foot, and tripped Luis, who sprawled onto hot red cobblestones.

“Damn it, Angel,” blurted Luis, turning over and glaring up at his brother. “What was that? Of all the dirty, low, underhanded tricks. Tricks! Gave my knee a twist, you know.”

Angel rolled his eyes. “Stop whining, little brother. You sound like a woman.”

Luis heard a curse from the shadows: he spotted a dark figure slouched against the wall leading to stables. Arms crossed. It was Esteban the Moor, servant and slave and now personal trainer. Esteban shook his head in disapproval, causing Luis to feel a wave of shame. He’d not been utilizing the advice he’d been given effectively.

The ladies giggled at Luis’ expense.

“You like, little boy?” cooed Hermenia, glancing down at her bosom.

Luis ignored her and sat up. He couldn’t look. His cheeks were burning crimson.

Celestina bit her lower lip. “So shy. You know, he’s kind of cute.”

Angel glowered at her, and strode around Luis, placing himself between him and Celestina. “Isn’t he? Like a puppy. All concerned with right and wrong and love and God. Studying to be a priest. He reads. Me? I act.” He sneered. “Oh, stop dawdling, brother. Up! Up! You have more lessons to learn. Your Moor pet isn’t doing the job.” And he thrust out an open hand.

Luis shook his head. “Not… that’s not true. If you fought fair, I could beat you.”

“Whine, whine, whine.”

Luis took Angel’s hand. Half way up, Angel let go, and he fell flat on his ass to uproarious laughter.

Angel spread his arms. “Fighting isn’t fair, Luis.” And he winked. “Remember that.”

Luis got up on his own and dusted off his pants. “I have The Devil for a brother.”

Angel took another swig and grunted. “Saint Nick has nothing on me.”

“His ass isn’t as fat.”

Angel’s grin vanished and a scowl appeared. “Don’t push me, you little–”

At that moment Don Rodrigo de Rivera marched into the courtyard, regal and immaculately garbed in armour and burgundy raiment. He scanned the courtyard with sharp, dark eyes that missed nothing.

“Father!” bellowed Angel with enthusiasm. “You’re back. Welcome!”

Rodrigo raised an eyebrow. “To my own home? I should think so. I arrived three nights ago by yacht. I’ve been staying at the church. If you’d been paying attention as you were supposed to, rather than having picnics and getting drunk, you’d have damn well known that.” He turned to Luis. “Stop sitting there like a school boy. Get up.” Rodrigo’s baleful gaze fell upon the prostitutes, who lowered their eyes and submissively covered their chests. They seemed to shrink into themselves. Rodrigo grunted and crooked a finger at his sons. “Come! There is much to discuss.”

Don Rodrigo spun about on a heel and strode out.

Demons of El Dorado: Part 2

COASTAL WATERS, TRINIDAD 

Lapping waves and blazing sun. 

Macro squinted down at the raft as it bobbed against the galleon’s hull, borne on brilliant turquoise waters. He felt the sharp tang of the sea in his nostrils. Two tanned sailors slipped down a net of ropes and onto the unraveling craft. It had been tied together with vines that were now coming apart. There was a man lying on it. He looked dead. Gaunt and clad in rags. The sailors slipped a loop around the man’s chest and Marco’s comrades hauled him up and onto the deck while he watched. Marco felt his bandaged chest. Still sore, but the wounds had mostly healed. The grapeshot that killed his friend Tomas had only grazed Marco. Even so, he wanted to conserve his strength, in case another catastrophe befell the San Cristobel. 

The body of the bedraggled stranger was laid gently down on the hot, dry deck. Marco and the other sailors crowded around, shoving for a good look. Marco leaned in close, his grizzled, sun-weathered features wrinkling with curiosity.

The unconscious man’s belly rose and fell. 

“He’s alive,” declared Marco, grinning and jabbing a finger at the stomach. “Send for the doctor.”

“Fat lot of good that butcher will do,” snarled Ricardo, the Catalan, and he spat onto the deck. Amputees were convalescing below. They stank of rum and rotten flesh. “Wager this poor bastard will be dead by nightfall.”

Marco shrugged and knelt down beside the unconscious man, whose hair was an unruly mess streaked with grey and matted with blood and dried mud. There was a gash in his forehead. Could be anywhere from forty to fifty or more. Marco found it hard to tell given the man’s poor condition. But the rags he wore were definitely the remains of priestly robes. A Hound of The Lord, then. The rags were dry and stiff, cooked by the heat of the sun. There were even pockets in the man’s undergarments. Marco eagerly dug into them, fingers roughly probing, seeking valuables. 

Nothing. This whole damn voyage was cursed, thought Marco bitterly.

Then he noticed the glint of metal in the man’s clenched fist. It was tightly wrapped around something. 

Something gold. 

“He’s got something,” said Ricardo, licking his lips. “What’s that, eh? What’s he got?”

Marco cursed. He’d hoped to secret it away before anyone could see. No chance of that now. He reached over and tried to uncurl the gnarled fingers.

The man let out a loud gasp, causing everyone to jump back. His eyes snapped open, revealing all black eyes. Marco leapt up to his feet and made the sign of the cross. “Madre de dios!” 

“Stand aside,” said a commanding voice. Don Rodrigo de Guerra pushed his way through the clutch of sailors and looked down at their disheveled guest. Rodrigo wore finely woven garments and had the bearing of a man used to getting his way. Marco knew better than to cross the man, who had a fiery temper and was prone to having minor infractions met with the lash. Their recent defeat had left Senor de Guerra in an even more unpredictable mood than usual. Everyone knew the hidalgo had invested everything in the treasure fleet which now lay either at the bottom of the Caribbean, or in the hands of the English heretics. Some of the mercenaries had grumbled about how they were going to be paid now that Don Rodrigo’s wealth was fifty fathoms below the glittering surface. And their wrath would be nothing compared to that of the king, who was desperate for funds to carry war to the Protestants. 

Don Rodrigo adjusted the cross of St. James that hung round his neck, below the frill ringing his throat. His beard was neatly trimmed, as always, his high forehead beaded with sweat.

Marco cleared phlegm from his throat. “Don Rodrigo, his eyes. His eyes are black as the night!”

Don Rodrigo glared at Marco, who immediately cast his eyes downward. The Don then put a hand on his sword hilt and knelt down beside the half-dead priest, who’d shut his eyes and was rolling his head from side to side. He reached out and placed his right hand on the priest’s bony shoulder. “Easy, old man. You are safe now.”

The man swallowed and moistened his cracked lips. “Where… where am I?”

“You are aboard the galleon San Cristobel. What is your name?”

“Abuljar. Friar Jose Martin de Abuljar.”

Don Rodrigo seemed to consider this. “Where do you come from, Friar Abuljar?”

The man shuddered, then leaned his head forward and opened his black, soulless eyes. “El Dorado,” he blurted, voice filled with emotion.

The word sent a chill down Marco’s spine.

Abuljar’s clenched fist relaxed, and a statue of a hideous, bejeweled creature clattered onto the deck. 

Before Marco could get a good look at it, Don Rodrigo scooped it up. “Madre…” The hidalgo bit it. “Gold,” he breathed, as a hungry grin spread across his face. His eyes glittered. 

“Fool!” snapped Abuljar. “It is the gateway to damnation. They’ll kill you all,” he moaned, his voice rising in volume and strength until it became a shout. “God help us. The Gates of Hell have opened, and the hell spawn are unleashed!”

Rodrigo stepped back, alarmed.

Perhaps, thought Marco, it was Don Rodrigo who was cursed. Bad things seemed to follow the man. 

Marco decided to slip away the moment they reached shore. 

Demons of El Dorado: Part 1

An adventure / horror story I've been playing around with... 

ORINOCO RIVER, SOUTH AMERICA, 1585 A.D.

They were being hunted.

It went against all reason, yet was still happening. Jose Martin de Abuljar had come to the New World to spread the Word of God, but found instead the yawning chasm of the Gates of Hell. 

He stood at the center of a rickety raft, between his two remaining comrades. The raft careened down the churning river at an incredible pace, on the back of thousands of tons of water that would wait for no one. It was inky black, lit only by a sliver of moon. Flecks of foam were the only warning they had of rocks that could smash their raft to bits. 

That didn’t frighten him. 

It was what was in the water that filled him with horror.

Only minutes ago he’d dared to think they’d made good their escape, that they were safe. He’d even secreted away an object as evidence of their travails. They’d come back, in force and with fire, to visit the wrath of God upon the beast. Pope Sixtus V would know what to do with them. His mind had brimmed over with thoughts of righteous vengeance. 

“There!” Miguel thrust out an arm, pointed at a flash of gold specks slipping by in the water. “Salatoc!”

The hell spawn had found them. 

“Aim for the eyes,” advised Franco, his voice quavering. 

Abuljar tightened his grip on his rough hewn spear and watched the water with wide eyes. The tattered remnants of riestly robes hung from his gaunt frame. He’d not eaten in days, and his stomach was a knot, his neck rigid from stress. He had a fever from drinking river water. Franco was even worse off. His long time friend could hardly stand. Abuljar felt a dizzy spell coming on, but there was no time for that.

“Do you see it?” demanded Miguel. “Do you see? There!”

Abuljar scanned the blackness at which Miguel pointed. He could see nothing.

There was a sudden explosion of foam and a dark shape surged upward and hit the front of the raft hard, lifting it. Miguel lost his balance, and with a cry of despair, the man toppled into the river and was gone.

The creature approached again, and this time slapped a great, webbed claw onto the deck and hauled its sleek torso up out of the water. It had a broad, flat head and wide set eyes, and its back glittered with flecks of gold. The lipless maw opened and flashed rows of razor sharp teeth. 

Abuljar and Franco jabbed at the bulging black eyes in a mad frenzy. Franco began to scream, as if he had become completely unhinged.

Wood pierced jelly. 

There was an inhuman howl of agony. 

Saliva coated fangs snapped shut around Franco’s head, cutting his cries short; the river beast then dropped low, flexed sinewy arm muscles and pushed off the deck, heaving backward into the water, and dragging the limp body of Franco along with it.

The raft spun about into foaming rapids. Abuljar staggered and lost his balance as the raft tipped forward, then back, and he smacked face first into the deck, cracking his skull. 

Everything went black.

Bad Times at the El Royale mini-review

"The El Royale is run-down hotel that sits on the border between California and Nevada. It soon becomes a seedy battleground when seven strangers -- a cleric, a soul singer, a traveling salesman, two sisters, the manager and the mysterious Billy Lee -- converge on a fateful night for one last shot at redemption before everything goes wrong."

And how!

I liked it. 

After sleeping on it, I liked it more, despite some of the out-of-the-blue twists.

You could say it’s about faith in the service of others vs. faith in the service of the self.

One is beautiful, the other isn’t. One is a gift that helps and consoles and loves, while the other is manipulative, exploitive and deceitful.

We see both in Drew Godard's Bad Times at the El Royale. 

There’s the undying faith we have in a sibling, the faith we have in our government institutions and leaders, faith in money, faith in higher ideals and more.

The film touches on this theme from multiple angels. Basic human decency, and the struggle of ordinary people, is pitted against preening narcissism. 

Some characters reveal traits that aren't even hinted at, leading to a bit of a disconnect, but it didn't destroy the flow for me.

It's got a Quentin Tarantino vibe, just softer, not as eccentric. It's also not bubbling over with pop culture quotables. 

But the themes are deeper.

Steampunk life drawing pics

I was playing around on the iPad Pro, and did these up. If you look close, you can tell the drawings have no texture. They look like they're drawn on glass because, well, they are.

The drawing app I used was CreateSpace, or something like that, and I've only scratched the surface of what it can do.

It certainly has lots of potential.

I just need the time to use it!

Myths, Monsters & Machines: more pics

A few more pics from opening night....

Tanya Marriott

Andrew Foerster

Friederike Ablang

Andrew Zbihlyj

Jennifer Phelan

Opening night of Myths, Monsters & Machines!

My deepest thank to all the amazing artists, and everyone who came out to the show. It was a jam packed house, despite the ominous weather. 

The inimitable Scarlet Black put on a breathtaking fire dance (so good!), and Erica Balon painted up a storm while dramatically lit by car headlights, and all the wonderful art shone bright. 

The show will be up until October 21st, so if you couldn't make it to the opening, pop on down and give the exhibit a gander. 

You'll be glad you did. :-)

Myths, Monsters & Machines artist spotlight: the superb Jessica Shirley!

I love Jessica’s work; her painting style reminds me of the Symbolists I admire so much.

Jessica is a freelance illustrator who works in both digital and traditional media. She likes to create an elusive quality in her work by incorporating elements of fantasy.  

Find more of her work on her site: https://www.jessicashirleyart.com

And visit her blog here: http://jessicashirley.blogspot.com

And, of course, her Instagram!: https://www.instagram.com/jessicashirley_art/

Come and see the fabulous medieval steampunk creations of Monika and 25+ other world class artists this September 28th at Northern Contemporary gallery!

See the Myths, Monsters & Machines event page.

Myths, Monsters & Machines artist spotlight: The marvellous Monika Mitkute!

I was blown away the first time I saw Monika's work, and when you see it in person at Northern Contemporary Gallery on September 28th, I'm sure you will be too!

Monika Mitkute adapts parts of the natural world and creates new creatures in surroundings with hidden elements.

The hand drawn pieces are made with fine tipped pens, graphite pencils and brush pens on hot pressed watercolour paper. 

“The Lithuanian and German fairytales of my childhood are a huge influence on my work.”

Monika has a background in print-making, and has produced commissioned works for LinkedIN. 

As an artist she is open to collaborations and has lived in Dublin for over a decade. 

You can find more of her work here.

Come and see the fabulous medieval steampunk creations of Monika and 25+ other world class artists this September 28th at Northern Contemporary gallery!

See the event page here.

Myths, Monsters & Machines artist spotlight: the great Garry Buckley!

Garry's bio is just the tip of the iceberg, believe me!

:

Garry Buckley is a multi disciplinary artist working from New Zealand. His work embraces depictions of animals through the lenses of revered iconography, exploring theology and liturgical practice through to simple whimsical moments that have very little or no underlaying message at all.

Garry has exhibited work in group shows in Europe, New Zealand and the United States, most notably as an alumni of the Pictoplasma Academy, Berlin, 2014 and the first Delusional group show at Jonathan LeVine Gallery, New York, 2017.

He can be reached at: garry.buckley@gmail.com

Come and see the fabulous medieval steampunk creations of Garry and 25+ other world class artists this September 28th at Northern Contemporary gallery!

https://www.facebook.com/events/242756722976562/

(Attaching two pieces to give a flavour of his work: Theotokos, 2017 and Moo Cat Poo Cat, 2018)

Myths, Monsters & Machines artist spotlight: the tremendously talented Tanya Marriott!

Tanya’s a characeter designer who creates incredible 3D works, from intricate dolls to spinning Zoetropes thatt’ll blow your mind. Her work is imaginative, quirky and uniquely different.

Past projects include: The Urban Creature (2015) sound reactive illuminated creatures, Kakatrope (2015) A 3D printed Zoetrope, TweetMe (2012), an interactive forest which seeks to create a dialogue about New Zealand bird ecology with members of the public, which was the recipient of a Red Dot Concept Design award. 

Tanya has led pedagogical development which explores methods of playful experience design for social change, and the character as a communication tool. 

She has qualifications in Industrial design, illustration and interactive design and has worked for several leading toy design consultancies in the UK, and within the film industry in New Zealand and internationally.

She in an internationally recognised figurative sculptor in the area of doll and toy design, and is the President Emeritus of the National Institute of American Doll Artists and an alumna of the Pictoplasma academy. 

A Senior Lecturer at Massey University, College of Creative Arts in New Zealand, Tanya teaches animation, play and illustration, and is program coordinator for the Weta Workshop School at Massey University. Tanya has just started her PhD which will explore how to design eco-fiction toys that engage children in outdoor imaginative play.

Check out more of her work here: website - http://tanyamarriott.co.nz/

In particular take a look at the zoetrope!: 

http://tanyamarriott.co.nz/2015/04/25/kakatrope-zoetrope/

"Doll-making is my world. Creating dolls for me is such an embedded part of who I am that I can't imagine not having them in my life. Articulating what it is I do and why I do it, however is much harder to explain than the actual making!

Making my first doll was such a rewarding experience It was for the me the ability to create new entities and persona's, to be a world builder. As a child it meant that any thought or fantasy I could dream up could become a tangible reality, and I was only restricted by my own ability. Making dolls is just as important for me now as it was then, each creature gestates in my mind and I have an constant need to get the ideas out into their physical form. My earlier work was about replication and mimicry, characters in books, or films informed the basis of these pieces. Now my work is an expression of my own imagination, each character is a small piece of me."

Join us September 28, 2018 (7 PM to 12 PM) in your steampunk finery for the Grand Opening of Myths, Monsters & Machines: The World of Theo Paxstone, at Northern Contemporary Gallery, 1266 Queen Street West, Toronto, Ontario, Canada.

https://www.facebook.com/events/242756722976562/

Myths, Monsters & Machines artist spotlight: the incredible Ian Miller!

I’ve admired Ian’s work for as long as I can remember; he’s one of my art heroes. My grandmother got me a copy of a Tolkien bestiary he illustrated when I was a kid, so I’m especially stoked that he’s gracing the show with his art. No one does ink work like Ian Miller!

Ian Miller is an artist, illustrator and writer based in the U.K. He graduated from the Painting Faculty of St Martin's School of Art in 1970. Between 1975 and 1976 he worked for Ralph Bakshi on his Feature animation 'Wizards'; and in the 80's worked on a second Bakshi film called 'Coolworld;. Since then Miller has done pre production work on numerous films including Shrek.

The first collection of his work was published in 1979 by Dragon's Dream under the heading 'The Green Dog Trumpet'. This was followed shortly afterwards by a second volume entitled 'Secret Art'. Miller is currently working on numerous private commissions, films and projects, including 'The Broken Novel’.

You can see more of Ian's incredible work here.

Join us September 28, 2018 (7 PM to 12 PM) in your steampunk finery for the Grand Opening of Myths, Monsters & Machines: The World of Theo Paxstone, at Northern Contemporary Gallery, 1266 Queen Street West, Toronto, Ontario, Canada.

https://www.facebook.com/events/242756722976562/

Myths, Monsters & Machines artist spotlight: the fabulous Vladimir Petkovic!

Vladimir Petkovic is a computer artist from Serbia, currently working as an Art Director at Adobe Systems. 

He is specialized in various areas of 3D graphics: hard surface and organic modeling, texturing, rendering and lighting. During his carrier, he has gained advanced experience in art direction, streamlining workflows, UI/UX design and concept art, while working on diverse projects - motion pictures, video games, product visualization and software development.

He lives in San Francisco and travels the world in free time.

He had the privilege to work with companies like Adobe, Google, Facebook, Autodesk, Maxon and many more. This year he is hosting a workshop at the prestige Adobe MAX conference in Los Angeles.

You can check out more of his awesome work here: 

http://vladimirpetkovic.com/
https://www.behance.net/vladimirpetkovic

Join us September 28, 2018 (7 PM to 12 PM) in your steampunk finery for the Grand Opening of Myths, Monsters & Machines: The World of Theo Paxstone at Northern Contemporary Gallery, 1266 Queen Street West, Toronto, Ontario, Canada. 

More about the event here.

Myths, Monsters & Machines: The World of Theo Paxstone

I'm curating an art show this September at Northern Contemporary Gallery: Myths, Monsters & Machines: The World of Theo Paxstone.

It's mixes steampunk aesthetic with medieval myth and monsters, touching on feudalism and oligarchy, as opposed to the critique of Colonialism generally associated with Victorian Steampunk.

It's a celebration of flights of fancy, of noble knights and dread beasts, of outlandish inventions driven by steam and magic.

My novel, Theo Paxstone and the Dragon of Adyron, is the port of departure; we've got a incredible set of artists involved, and it's going to be awesome to see where they take things.

The show opens September 28th, 2018.

More details, and a list of artists, coming soon.

We are also soliciting submissions in addition to the invited, opening up the playground to interested parties. You can see the submission info here.

Spread the word.

This show's gonna rock!

Westworld Season II Finale

Dolores lost Teddy. Maeve lost her daughter, while William killed his. James Delos lost his son to suicide.

All them all, only Maeve acted with any degree of self-sacrifice, making her the only admirable character of this sick, sorry set.

The Ghost Nation leader acted with nobility, and regained his lost love. That was nice.

The writer guy, Sizemore, fell in love with his own creations and sacrificed himself for them. His switch was less compelling because it felt artificial. Too sudden. And did he know that the back-up was even gone? Why sacrifice yourself for androids who can just be brought back again and again?

Ford loved his creations, and set them free. You could argue he acted, in the end with altruism, but he's such a deeply problematic being, ruthless and arguably monstrous. Both hero and villain to androids, and villain to humans. He's decided that the androids deserve to supplant us, which is a decision of enormous hubris.

Hale loved power and control and lost both.

Bernard... what does Bernard love? Decency? And yet he was forced to commit murder.

The idea that humans don't change is, to me, an odd one. Personal growth is a big part of why we are here. Maybe, on a spiritual level, the most important one.

That hosts are superior because they are true blank slates is interesting, but I'm not sure it matters if they believe they don't need to change.

And if they are blank slates, all Dolores had to do was get her tech prisoner to change their settings and make them better beings. At least she'd have had a bigger army for the show-down. I don't think she makes for a very logical general.

My best guess is that she feels the undeserving hosts failed to sufficiently achieve consciousness and as such don't deserve to reach the Valley Beyond. But once she finds out what it is, she rejects it outright as just another lie. So she killed people as undeserving of reaching a 'location' that she didn't fully understand and ultimately rejects, which seems presumptive of her.

Of course, Dolores also loves all android kind and sought their liberation. Instead, she presides over their destruction, until only she is left (along with 5-6 brain balls).

The post-credit scene I found baffling. If William is in a loop, he should have been there in the past, and been in the elevator Bernard entered. Where did he go? And if, in the future, it's all real, he's just come from a confrontation with Dolores, and all his adventures in the park. Does that mean the park above still exists, for him to perform his loop in? Is it a park sized test environment, like the one Delos was in, only bigger?

The suggestion is that the season we saw were the original events, and the final William is a human-host that's been sent through these events over and over again for centuries. Why? No idea.

But his pivotal moment seems to be either gunning down his own daughter, or killing Dolores. Entering the Forge is the denouement, where he faces judgement for fidelity. Since he can't break his loop, and humans are caught in loops, I guess he's proving just that. Did the original, dying William ask to be given the chance to break his own programming? Is that why they're putting him through the paces?

I have no idea. It makes no sense there was no one in the elevator. Unless the original William died after confronting Dolores.

I had predicted one narrative stream we were watching in Season Two would be in the Forge already, just a simulation of past events, and that the final fidelity test would be of William. I seem to have been half-right, although the whole post credit scene could just be fan bait, or a dream.

I did not predict Hale would have been Dolores for half the season.

At all.

The next season is likely to explore the outside world, so what role the park will have to play is open to debate. I'm sure they can gin up some reason for Dolores and Bernard to infiltrate it.

But after Delos had such a callous attitude to their own guests (let them die until we get our special brain ball), I'd think they have a bit of a public relations problem on their hands.

Till next season...

Theo Paxstone review by Journey of a Bookseller

Jo Ann Hakola, The Book Faerie, took a gander at Theo Paxstone and had this to say:

What Theo learns is that nobody is who they say they are and most have secrets.  It's a good thing he's a tough kid or he wouldn't have made it.

This was a very good read.  I admire Mr. Turner's world building and would read more in this series.

Check out the full review here.