Realism Challenges
Realism challenges require a character to use realistic elements in the story.
Produce original work as a means to an end.
> Create a convincing forgery of a Botticelli masterpiece.
The canvas stares back at me, a reflection of my desperation. I mix the pigments, each stroke a line of deceit. “Venus and the Graces,” I whisper, invoking the spirit of Botticelli. The brush moves as if guided by unseen hands, the figures emerging from the void.
The forgery is complete, a masterpiece of illusion. But the original is revealed, and my world collapses. Desperate, I offer my soul for true artistic genius. No demon comes, but this morning, Seraphiel appears with another offer for the Medici exhibition. The irony is not lost on me.
Analyze a crime scene using the tools of forensic science during the late 19th century.
> Dust for fingerprints.
The crime scene is a silent witness to violence, each surface a potential clue. I carefully apply the fingerprint powder, the brush strokes as delicate as a lover’s caress. “Let’s see if we can find any prints,” I think, the powder revealing secrets hidden in plain sight.
Indeed, a thumbprint emerges on the doorknob, a ghostly imprint of the perpetrator. The magnifying glass brings the print into sharp relief, with each ridge and loop a unique signature.
Navigate a ship through treacherous waters, relying on the stars and known landmarks.
> Use the sextant to measure the angle of the stars.
The night sky is an audience of stars, each a guide through the darkness. I take out the sextant, the instrument cold and precise. “Let’s get an accurate reading,” I think, the angle between the horizon and the known star coming into view. The measurement is clear.
“So it is,” I say, noting the angle with satisfaction, and plot the ship’s course using the measured angle and nautical charts.
Use a network of smart devices to monitor and control various aspects of a home.
> Set up and configure the smart home.
Lighting, climate control, security alarms, I connect and configure the smart devices one at a time, then reboot the central processor. The network comes to life and flashes: “All devices online,” digital ‘hello.’
I monitor the security cameras’ live feed and then check the thermostat. It’s all under control—I don’t know whose control it is: mine or the machine.
Use CRISPR gene-editing technology to treat a genetic disorder.
> Prepare the CRISPR components.
The lab is a temple of science, each part a sacrament of progress. I assemble the CRISPR components, the guide RNA and the Cas9 enzyme, a promise of healing.
> Introduce them into the target cells.
The target cells are a canvas of life. Each speaks to the complexity of existence. I introduce the CRISPR components with surgical precision, successfully editing the faulty gene. Score another for science.
In lieu of explicit directives, the historical mystery “Holmes’ Poultice” uses the unique mechanism of Holmes reading Watson’s thoughts. This creates an illusion that Watson (and, by extension, the reader) is actively participating in the decision-making process. When Watson thinks about the tea leaves in his waistcoat, for instance, Holmes responds to this thought, guiding the narrative forward as if Watson made a choice, blurring the line between internal monologue and external dialogue.
The main challenge is to open a lock without a key, relying on the materials and knowledge available in the late 19th century. Rolling paper to create a small explosive is a makeshift solution that requires ingenuity and an understanding of the chemistry of the time. The story references contemporary medical practices and discoveries, grounding the narrative in the scientific knowledge of the era. The reference to Charles Frédéric Gerhardt, who synthesized acetylsalicylic acid (aspirin), provides a historical context that enriches the narrative and makes Holmes’ headache and the poultice relevant to the plot.
Holmes’ Poultice
London, 1895
You have a grand gift for silence, Watson. It makes you quite invaluable as a companion.
—Arthur Conan Doyle
Holmes had a blank stare. To be lost in thought was hardly unfamiliar territory for the brilliant detective, but the focus of his gaze was close, as if on something read.
At last, his head pivoted, fixing the imagined text upon my forehead. Perhaps he was onto a clue.
Holmes: “Perhaps a clue to a clue, Watson. I don’t suppose you have a pinch of the gunpowder in your pocket?”
In my tweed, possibly, but I could see only tea leaves in this waistcoat.
Holmes: “Jasmine?”
Rubbing crumbs between forefinger and thumb, I conclude Earl Grey. At once, he dismissed the invisible text and looked directly at me.
Holmes: “In that case, Watson, we shall need rolling paper in a hurry. Call to the cabbie—stop at the Apothecary.”
I was taken aback. Did he mean to smoke? But before the words could escape my lips, he clarified as though reading my thoughts.
Holmes: “Don’t be absurd, Watson. I have a headache and seek a poultice for my temple. A nitrate would be nice; caffeine will suffice.”
Or we could stop in the park,
for a bit of willow bark.
Hippocrates would be pleased,
to serve salicylic tea.
I could hardly resist this small jest; for this, Holmes paid a sliver of a smile.
Had I the right words, I’d insist on the mix by Gerhardt, a French chemist in my correspondence. His method of acetylation could provide a remedy that is both effective and expedient.
Holmes: “Quite. But the paper has another purpose. To roll a small explosive for a lock that won’t pick.”
Breaking in? My thoughts mix as if under the apothecary’s pestle. What of the Inspector? And how might the police take to this?
Holmes: “Not well, I would expect. We shall be breaking into his Station. We have little time, Watson. before the evidence we require is removed to an even more secure location within the labyrinth of the Yard.”
I stare blankly and allow the silence to speak on my behalf. Why not seek permission? What evidence could compel doing wrong for the greater good? The carriage turned onto Islington.
Holmes: “It is a troublesome lock, I confess, and a grievance better forgiven than denied. But fear not, Watson, for I foresee no malfeasance on our part. Merely the swift pursuit of truth. And should our transgression be discovered, we’ll have to rely on the discretion of our friends in the Yard.”
He whispered this with an air of inevitability that suggested no alternative. I knew then that I would assist Holmes, albeit with trepidation. The carriage rattled on, each click upon the cobblestones a countdown to the moment of our action—or humiliation.
