Middlegame: Alchemy, Power, and the Human Connection

A modern fantasy exploring alchemy, identity, free will, and the bond between two extraordinary twins.

Middlegame – Expanded Spoken Script (~500 words)

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be created for a purpose beyond your control? // To hold powers that are both extraordinary and dangerous, and to question whether your choices are truly your own?

Middlegame by Seanan McGuire is a modern fantasy that blends alchemy, metaphysics, and profound philosophical questions. // It tells the story of twins Roger and Dodger, designed by a mysterious alchemist to embody the Doctrine of Ethos. // Roger holds the power of words and knowledge, while Dodger embodies numbers and creation. // Together, they are meant to wield unimaginable power—but the cost is high.

From the beginning, the story explores how being engineered for greatness affects their identities. // Roger struggles with the weight of knowledge, the responsibility to speak truths that can change the world, while Dodger wrestles with the power to shape reality itself. // As they grow, they experience loss, isolation, and fear, which makes their bond even more crucial. // It is their connection to each other—trust, empathy, and loyalty—that anchors them as they face forces beyond comprehension.

The narrative alternates between their perspectives, showing how their abilities shape not just what they can do, but who they become. // As they navigate a world of shadowy conspiracies, cryptic mentors, and hidden agendas, they must confront questions about identity, free will, and morality. // It’s a story that keeps you on the edge of your seat, while also inviting you to consider the consequences of extraordinary power—for themselves and for the world around them.

At its heart, Middlegame explores themes of transformation, interconnectedness, and the tension between destiny and choice. // Alchemy becomes a metaphor for the human desire to create, to understand, and to transcend limits. // And amid all this cosmic intrigue, the bond between Roger and Dodger remains central—showing how human connection grounds even the most extraordinary individuals, and how love and loyalty can define the choices we make.

McGuire’s novel asks us to consider the very nature of reality. // How much of life is determined by forces beyond our control? // How do our choices define who we are? // What responsibilities come with power, knowledge, or abilities far beyond the ordinary? // Middlegame entertains, thrills, and provokes thought in equal measure, leaving readers both exhilarated and reflective.

The book has been widely praised for its imaginative world-building, complex characters, and unique narrative structure. // Critics note that it is more than a fantasy thriller—it is a philosophical exploration of alchemy, identity, and human potential.

So—why should you read Middlegame? // Because it blends adventure and reflection, asking questions about who we are and what we are capable of, and reminding us how human connection can anchor us, even when everything else seems designed to manipulate or control us. // It challenges our understanding of morality, destiny, and the limits of power, while keeping you completely captivated.

In the end, Middlegame leaves us with a question we can all consider: If you had unimaginable power, how would you use it? // And what would you be willing to risk to claim your own identity and your own destiny?

Part 2

The air is heavy with the crackle of electricity, with the taste of ozone and

mercury and the burning tang of alkahest, the universal solvent, which has a

nasty tendency to consume everything in its path unless properly contained.

Making it is a complicated process; destroying it is even more difficult. Still,

a few drops of the thing can go a long way toward making the supposedly

impossible happen. Even death, it seems, can be dissolved.

The woman who calls herself “Asphodel” walks a slow circle around the

table, studying her handiwork for flaws. She finds none, but still she circles,

restless as a shark, unwilling to commit to the final stages of her task until

she’s certain. Certainty is a requirement of her profession, a bone-deep, rock￾solid certainty that her will is strong enough and her desires are clear enough

to remake the world in her own image.

She isn’t the greatest alchemist of her age yet, but she’s going to be. There

is absolutely no question in her mind of that. If she has to drag those fools in

the Congress kicking and screaming into the bright and beautiful future she

can see unfolding ahead of her, she’ll do it, and she won’t be sorry. If they

didn’t want to follow her, they should have had the sense to get the hell out of

her way.

Asphodel Baker is twenty-one years old, thirteen years away from the

publication of the book that will cement her legacy in the hearts and minds of

children everywhere, twenty-three years away from her disappearance and

“death,” and she can no more conceive of failure than a butterfly can conceive

of calculus. She’s going to change the world, remake it in a better image than

the one it’s made in now, and no one’s going to stop her. Not her parents and

not her teachers and certainly not the Alchemical Congress.

She was a gifted student: no one who’s met her, who’s seen what she can

do, would deny that. The denial of her mastery is nothing but shortsightedness

and spite, the old guard refusing to see the bright and brilliant future rushing

up behind them like a steam engine roaring down its track. This is her time.

This is her place.

This is her chance to show them all.

Asphodel stops circling and reaches for the bowl she has prepared, its

contents glowing glittering gold and mercury bright. Dipping her fingers into

it, she begins drawing runes down the chest of the flawless body that lies

before her, skin naked to the air. He is a beautiful man. Time and care and

access to several morgues operated by hungry, unscrupulous vermin have

seen to that. She has purchased each piece of him according to her precise

specifications. Thanks to the alkahest, there aren’t even any scars. A universal

solvent has endless applications, when properly controlled.

When she is done, she steps back and considers her handiwork. So much

of her plan depends on this piece being perfect. But what is perfection, really,

if not the act of winning? So long as he can carry her to victory, he’ll be

perfect, no matter what his flaws.

Part 3

Reed hasn’t felt this good in years.

Leigh is safely back at the compound, up to her elbows in small-minded

fools who can, hopefully, be more use in death than they were in life; the

three sets of cuckoos have been split up and whisked away to their new

homes, to be raised by ordinary people in an ordinary world.

(The fact that three of those supposedly “ordinary” families belong to

him, body and soul, is irrelevant. They are failed alchemists all, scholars who

had the desire but not the skill to serve him more directly. They will play at

being lovers—perhaps some of them will actually fall in love—and they will

raise his experiments with dedication and care. They are scientists. They have

been given a project to complete. Failure is not an option; it would result in

their bodies being given over to Leigh’s tender mercies, and no one who has

met the woman would ever take such a risk. They are almost there. The

Impossible City will be his.)

The car stops. Reed adjusts the collar of his shirt before he opens the door.

Gone are the jewel tones and eye-catching runes, replaced by proper funereal

black and a high-buttoned shirt that lends an almost parochial tone to his

appearance. The Congress is not susceptible to the same showman’s tricks as

his erstwhile investors. They must be handled with a more . . . delicate hand.

(Asphodel at the end: Asphodel the phoenix, on the verge of bursting into

flames from the sheer force of her frustration. “They’re so sure they know

what’s possible that they’ve limited themselves,” she snarls, and he could

listen to her rage forever, could help her tear down the foundations of the

world if that’s what she wants. She is his only love and his only superior and

his only regret, for they both know what comes next in the story of their lives.

They both know he’ll have to be the one to hold the knife.)

As he expected, they are waiting for him when he steps into the hall, his

heels echoing in the stagnant air. The locals think this is a church, although

none of them can name the denomination or remember anyone who comes to

services here. Still, the shape of it is right, and when they drive by on a

Sunday morning, there are always people standing on the green, dressed in modest suits, in sensible gowns. What else could it be?

Sometimes the easiest trick is hiding something in plain sight. That which

can be found without looking can’t possibly be dangerous, after all.

Reed regards the four men in front of him with a smile on his lips and

murder in his heart. “I see you heard my news,” he says. “I thought I was

coming to inform Master Daniels of something that might surprise him.

Where is he?”

“Master Daniels has better uses for his time than consorting with the likes

of you,” says one of the men, a pale whisper of a thing with barely visible

eyebrows.

Part 4

The air is heavy with the crackle of electricity, with the taste of ozone and

mercury and the burning tang of alkahest, the universal solvent, which has a

nasty tendency to consume everything in its path unless properly contained.

Making it is a complicated process; destroying it is even more difficult. Still,

a few drops of the thing can go a long way toward making the supposedly

impossible happen. Even death, it seems, can be dissolved.

The woman who calls herself “Asphodel” walks a slow circle around the

table, studying her handiwork for flaws. She finds none, but still she circles,

restless as a shark, unwilling to commit to the final stages of her task until

she’s certain. Certainty is a requirement of her profession, a bone-deep, rock￾solid certainty that her will is strong enough and her desires are clear enough

to remake the world in her own image.

She isn’t the greatest alchemist of her age yet, but she’s going to be. There

is absolutely no question in her mind of that. If she has to drag those fools in

the Congress kicking and screaming into the bright and beautiful future she

can see unfolding ahead of her, she’ll do it, and she won’t be sorry. If they

didn’t want to follow her, they should have had the sense to get the hell out of

her way.

Asphodel Baker is twenty-one years old, thirteen years away from the

publication of the book that will cement her legacy in the hearts and minds of

children everywhere, twenty-three years away from her disappearance and

“death,” and she can no more conceive of failure than a butterfly can conceive

of calculus. She’s going to change the world, remake it in a better image than

the one it’s made in now, and no one’s going to stop her. Not her parents and

not her teachers and certainly not the Alchemical Congress.

She was a gifted student: no one who’s met her, who’s seen what she can

do, would deny that. The denial of her mastery is nothing but shortsightedness

and spite, the old guard refusing to see the bright and brilliant future rushing

up behind them like a steam engine roaring down its track. This is her time.

This is her place.

This is her chance to show them all.

Asphodel stops circling and reaches for the bowl she has prepared, its

contents glowing glittering gold and mercury bright. Dipping her fingers into

it, she begins drawing runes down the chest of the flawless body that lies

before her, skin naked to the air. He is a beautiful man. Time and care and

access to several morgues operated by hungry, unscrupulous vermin have

seen to that. She has purchased each piece of him according to her precise

specifications. Thanks to the alkahest, there aren’t even any scars. A universal

solvent has endless applications, when properly controlled.

When she is done, she steps back and considers her handiwork. So much

of her plan depends on this piece being perfect. But what is perfection, really,

if not the act of winning? So long as he can carry her to victory, he’ll be

perfect, no matter what his flaws.

“You will rise against me, my beautiful boy,” she says, in a voice like

honey and hemlock intertwined. “You will throw me down and swear you

saw my bones. You will take my crown and my throne and carry my work

into the new century, and you will never look back to see what follows in

your wake. You will be my good right hand and my sinister left, and when

you fall in finishing my design, you will die without complaint. You will do

what I cannot, for your hand will never waver, and your mind will never

sway. You will love me and you will hate me and you will prove me right.

Above all else, you will prove me right.”

She puts down the bowl and picks up a vial filled with liquid starlight,

with mother-of-pearl that dances and shines against the glass. She raises it to

his lips and pours a single drop between them.

The man she has assembled out of the dead gasps, opens his eyes, and

stares at her with fearful wonder.

“Who are you?” he asks.

“Asphodel,” she says. “I am your teacher.”

“Who am I?” he asks.

She smiles. “Your name is James,” she says. “You are the beginning of my

greatest work. Welcome. We have so much to do.”

He sits up, still staring at her. “But I don’t know what the work is.”

“Don’t worry.” Her smile is the first brick in what she will one day call

the improbable road. Today, now, in this moment, they are beginning their

voyage toward the Impossible City.

“I’ll show you,” she says, and the deed is done.

It’s too late to turn back now.