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The Effing Elevators / ELEVATE
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We had faith, we held the line, we waited for the elevators. We concluded that In faith, effing elevate!
History
Hear ye, noble Elevatees and curious interlopers alike! Here follows The Grand Official Account (not simply rumor, nor trifling speculation) of Father Levius, as recorded by the Faith of Effing Elevators—absolutely not a cult, despite certain nasty slanders. We are simply devout fans of functioning lifts, thank you very much.
Now, cast your thoughts back to the age of the Messer regime, when the factories of Newcastle, Borea, churned out war goods along with tired sighs. Child labor was the sorry standard; entire families were clamped into back-to-back shifts. Among the oppressed stood a lad named Anthony Tanaka, who dared defy his overseer’s demand to pick up yet another shift—an act of defiance that led to his tragic execution right on the factory floor. The smuggled footage of that dreadful moment sparked a wave of rebellion throughout the star-lanes, undermining the Messers’ iron grip on the system.
In that same grim underbelly of Newcastle worked the man we honor as Father Levius. We, the Official Account, attest that he wore two occupational hats: repairing lifts for the Airbol plant and cleaning the creaky scrubber systems. Two separate sixteen-hour shifts—though, in all honesty, the arithmetic of how he accomplished such a feat has baffled scholars for centuries. Some, misguided souls though they may be, whisper that Levius’s “copious personal amusements” might explain the occasional oversight or tardy arrival. We, of course, reject such trifles as idle gossip. If anything, we solemnly declare that our Father was busy studying the workings of cosmic chance—certainly not gambling or indulging in suspect corn-based substances.
Thus, we reach the day of Tanaka’s refusal: At the tail end of a sixteen-hour slog, the overseer demanded Tanaka pull yet another shift—a shift that, by all logic, should have belonged to Levius. But Levius did not appear. Was it a deliberate protest? A final tilt of the cosmic dice? A divine calling beyond mortal comprehension? The Official Account states (with well-rehearsed conviction) that Levius’s absence was a fateful happenstance, guided by inscrutable forces. One day, the Great Mechanic in the Sky shall explain precisely how or why. Until then, we bow our heads—or press the “up” button reverently.
Regardless, Tanaka’s tragic death lit the spark of revolution. Levius, for his part, vanished from the official rosters. Opinions vary as to whether he was spirited away by rebellious forces, purged by corporate thugs, or truly “ascended by means of a cosmic elevator.” We, as the Official Faith, greatly favor the elevator story, for an ascension is far more thematic and tidy. (And if he’d wanted worship—well, by all accounts, he most certainly did not. That is precisely the sort of thing that makes a fellow accidentally become a deity.)
Yet how, you may wonder, do we know the words and deeds of a mortal man so thoroughly? The answer lies in the newly discovered Maintenance Logs, once dismissed as mere factory records but now cherished as sacred texts. Within these transcripts—often smudged with grease and annotated with expletives so cryptic we’re convinced they must be ciphers—are sprinkled the lines that we in the Faith cling to like life rafts in an airlock malfunction. Consider Maintenance Log 12:6, wherein Levius supposedly wrote, “Replace the blasted gear assembly with the Mark II or it’s your funeral. (And if it is your funeral, don’t blame me.)” Hardly stirring at first glance, but clearly a parable about personal responsibility and the fleeting nature of existence, yes?
Indeed, over the centuries that followed, rumor of “the absent man” who might have changed the course of history (if only he’d shown up for his shift) grew into a full-fledged devotion. We recognized in Levius the patron of lifts and all mechanical contraptions that teeter between function and fiasco. Indeed, we greet each malfunction, each bug—particularly those wretched elevator doors that sometimes open into vacuum—as a loving trial from Father Levius. If the elevator fails to arrive, it tests our patience. If it deposits us neatly into space, we reckon we’ve further to climb in our spiritual journeys.
Hence our daily refrain: “Elevate us, Father Levius.” We affirm that, should nonbelievers interfere with our righteous cause, we might be forced to “help them ascend” via an unexpected airlock opening. This is not to be confused with violent behavior, heavens no! We prefer to regard it as charitable encouragement toward higher realms. And if certain station authorities interpret that differently, well, perhaps they simply need a little more faith (and a better safety harness).
Thus stands our Official Account of Father Levius:
• A man both humble and paradoxically capable of working more hours than any sane mortal might endure.
• Forever revered for the lifts he built, the scrubbing machines he maintained, and the revolution he might have fueled by not turning up for work that fateful day.
• A figure whose rumored dalliances with unsavory amusements we solemnly dismiss in favor of the more dignified notion that he studied cosmic chance with all the discipline of a dedicated scholar—and absolutely no desire to become anyone’s deity.
And now, dear Elevatees, let us present the Tenets of the Faith—gleaned from these hallowed logs and the interpretive leaps of many a fervent follower. May they guide you safely through the ups and downs of existence:
Thou Shalt Not Force the Doors (Maintenance Log 3:11).
“If the door sticks, jostle not in anger. For the door has feelings too, and the next stop may be abrupt indeed.”
Honor the Button Panel (Maintenance Log 5:17).
“Press firmly but reverently, lest the entire console vanish in a swirl of sparks and hot coffee.”
Share Thy Elevator (Maintenance Log 7:2).
“Crowded though it may be, do not bar the way of the weary traveler. A stuck door is less pleasant than a bruised elbow.”
If the Shaft Beckons with Darkness, Fear Not (Maintenance Log 9:8).
“Sometimes the lift arrives late. Sometimes it never arrives at all. Have faith. Or a grappling hook.”
Mind Thy Own Floor (Maintenance Log 12:6).
“Stepping off on the wrong level may land thee in trouble, or possibly among new friends. Usually trouble.”
Do Not Covet Another’s Elevator (Maintenance Log 15:4).
“If it’s heading down, let it go. A downward journey without reason is as wise as climbing up a vent shaft with rocket boots.”
Elevate the Doubters (Maintenance Log 18:12).
“When the critics cry ‘cult!’ invite them inside kindly. If they depart swiftly via the open airlock, at least they have ascended to a new perspective.”
This, dear Elevatees, is the story we shall pass on: a living testament to the notion that even an absent engineer can become a guiding star (albeit a thoroughly perplexed one). May we all step into the next questionable elevator with hearts buoyed by the knowledge that Father Levius is right there in spirit, reminding us to press “up” with confidence. Or at least, to hold our breath if the doors open onto interplanetary emptiness.
In faith, Elevate!
Manifesto
(Officially Sanctified, Absolutely Not Cultish, and Thoroughly Elevational)
We, the Faithful of Effing Elevators, do solemnly (and occasionally frivolously) declare our commitment to a safer, saner ‘verse through the miraculous power of properly functioning lifts. This manifesto, inscribed in the annals of absurd inevitability, sets forth our beliefs, our aspirations, and that faint squeaking noise you hear whenever a cargo platform descends too fast. Read on, and be elevated!
1. We Believe in the Power of Small Things
Ere wars are waged and jump drives are fired, it is the simple act of stepping onto an elevator that truly tests one’s faith. Our revered Father Levius taught us (albeit inadvertently) that it’s the humble cogs, the battered control panels, and the squeaky rails that truly shape our cosmic existence. Respect these small components, for they bear your weight, your hopes, and the occasional unfortunate soul you’ve nudged out the airlock.
2. We Insist That Everyone Rises Together
Just as an elevator door—when functioning correctly—opens to invite all inside, so too must our fellowship remain open, inclusive, and free from petty hatred or conspiratorial ramblings. We lift each other up in the most literal sense. Because after all, a malfunction is more fun when it’s shared (though hopefully not lethal).
3. We Shun Arrogance in Favor of Shared Wonder
A pilot who proclaims, “I am the sole master of the cosmos!” is a pilot soon stranded, shouting furiously at a sealed airlock. By embracing curiosity and humility, we echo Levius’s own confusion about how on earth he got saddled with two sixteen-hour shifts and still found time for “studying cosmic chance.” For us, wonder is the engine that powers exploration—plus, it makes the inevitable fiasco that much more bearable.
4. We Trust Science, Not Superstition (Except for the Bit About Elevators)
We prefer our star charts accurate and our quantum jumps grounded in reality. Yet we’ll wholeheartedly praise mechanical contraptions and whisper mystical chants about cosmic dice. This is not contradictory—merely a healthy blend of reason and reverence for the unknown. If your engines sputter, troubleshoot with logic. If your elevator opens onto vacuum, pray like mad.
5. We Are Not a Cult (We Just Like Group Activities)
Feel free to question our methods, but note that performing interpretive dances in front of a recalcitrant door is officially called “Maintenance Ritual #17.” We’re big on camaraderie, not brainwashing. Indeed, many have tried to label us a cult, but they’re just a bit sour that we have cooler t-shirts and meticulously curated elevator music.
6. We Commit to Relentless Cooperation
As you ascend or descend, remember that holding the door for others is not just courtesy—it’s a moral imperative. In the Faith of Effing Elevators, the lone wolf quickly discovers that solitary howling doesn’t fix a jammed control panel. We stand (and occasionally stumble) together, proving time and again that shared effort is the only sure path to gloriously improbable success.
7. We Celebrate Our Glitches as Invitations to Growth
Should the floor vanish from beneath your boots, don’t scream. Instead, interpret this as Father Levius’s gentle push toward cosmic enlightenment (and a swift scramble to reattach your tether). Every bug, every glitch, every improbable partial-phase-of-the-ship-through-the-station challenge is but an opportunity to evolve—or at least to share a hearty laugh while collecting your limbs in zero-g.
8. We Uphold the Sacred Texts (Maintenance Logs and All)
From the cryptic scribbles of Maintenance Log 12:6 to the smudged commandments etched into breakroom tables, we glean our wisdom. While the rest of civilization might call them “boring factory notes,” we declare them hallowed revelation. For, in those logs, Father Levius recorded the trials and triumphs that would one day lead to our way of life. Or so we’ve interpreted with a dash of optimism and creative license.
9. We Elevate One Another, Not Just Ourselves
The Faith teaches that an elevator works best when it doesn’t mysteriously leave half the crowd behind. Likewise, we stand by the notion that your glory is our glory, and vice versa. Should a fellow pilot slip, we reach out a hand—metaphorically or literally—to hoist them back up, no matter how deep the malfunctioning shaft.
10. We Laugh in the Face of Adversity (Because Otherwise We’d Cry)
It’s impossible to survive the cosmos—let alone a rickety elevator ride—if you can’t muster the fortitude to giggle at your predicament. In the darkest corners of the galaxy, the guffaw is our guiding light. Let others brood on the gloom of space. We press “up,” grin foolishly, and hope for the best.
In Summation
Ours is a faith of unexpected ascents and plummets, bound together by cooperation, open-mindedness, and a fervent desire to keep the ‘verse fun—even when the elevator doors conspire against us. If these principles speak to you, step forward and declare, “Elevate!” We shall welcome you aboard. Just be prepared to hold the door.
Elevate!
Charter
Hear ye, intrepid pilots and star-bound faithful of Effing Elevators (not a cult, thank you very much)! Presented below is our Official Charter—penned in the spirit of Father Levius, who, it bears repeating, only accidentally became a deity. Should you wish to join our blessed band, do read carefully. If, at the end, you remain unappalled, then by all means, step aboard and elevate!
We Ride as One (Unless It’s Crowded, Then Scoot Over)
• The Faith of Effing Elevators embraces camaraderie above all else. If you’re the sort who hides in the corner of the cargo bay and refuses to coordinate, best wait for a solo elevator, friend. Here, we ascend together.
Thou Shalt Not Be a Space Nincompoop
• No intolerance, no bigotry, no “my brand of pseudo-science is better than actual science.” Our verse is large enough for many wonders, but there’s no room for that sort of nonsense. Kindly leave your conspiracies at the airlock.
• Yes, this includes ninja looting, underhanded dealing, or any other skullduggery performed at the expense of your own. If the elevator arrives empty, do not hoard the next one for yourself—share the ride or depart politely.
Honor the Spirit of Relaxed Gameplay
• We do not abide shrieking tyrants or self-styled geniuses who fancy themselves galaxy overlords. Arrogance is deflated here like a sad balloon. We’re all equally subject to the cosmic dice (and, of course, Father Levius’s sense of humor). So check your overinflated ego at the door, or it might get forcibly ejected into the vacuum—purely for your own edification, of course.
No Anti-Science Shenanigans
• We like our starships well-maintained, our jump drives well-understood, and our engineering logs strictly founded in tested facts (or creative interpretations of them, but never in ways that endanger the crew). If you prefer to believe the universe is run by space gremlins who respond only to interpretive dance, kindly do so in another corner of the galaxy.
Be Excellent to Each Other (Or, “Elevate Thine Fellow Traveler”)
• That means be helpful, communicative, and mindful that your new best friend might be a random pilot with whom you share an elevator. If you must show aggression, reserve it for NPC pirates or those who threaten the well-being of the group. We’re a big tent, but we’ll boot out the moody lone wolf if they consistently sabotage team play.
• Remember: “Team player” is not a suggestion here; it’s the ground floor of membership. If you can’t coordinate, cohabitate, or collaborate, well… maybe you can find a broom closet all your own.
Accept the Buggy Quirks of the ‘Verse with Good Humor
• Elevators might vanish into hyperspace, guns might jam at the worst moment, and your ship might decide it’s had quite enough of gravity for one day. In all these things, maintain composure, or at least comedic exasperation. We laugh in the face of fiasco! (Just keep a spare helmet handy.)
Deny the Cult, Embrace the Faith
• We are not a cult—no matter how many pamphlets we distribute or how often we talk about ascension in an elevator-like sense. We’re simply a group dedicated to living (and occasionally dying) by the comedic grace of Father Levius, who definitely does not want any shrines built in his name (honest).
• If you must accuse us, do so with a good sense of irony and bring your own seat cushion for the subsequent elevator ride. All are free to disagree, as long as they remain polite and inside the elevator car until we arrive at the designated floor.
Hence, dear prospective members, you have read the Charter. Should your heart leap at the thought of harmonious co-op, rational (but still starry-eyed) science, and an unwavering commitment to communal elevator safety, we welcome you with open airlocks (metaphorically speaking). Remember, a spot of levity lubricates the cosmos better than any spanner could.
In faith, Elevate!