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Allura 39

\*trigger warning - grief\* Dear Minnie, I miss you dearly, more than words could describe. Since 1954, when we were sitting on that big stone fountain in Darlington, listening to the chime of that old clocktower, wondering when the man of our dreams would sweep us off our feet like Cinderella, I have believed our bond to be unbreakable, something that nothing short of divine intervention can break. I still remember (and am sure that you do too) how, when we were so much younger, we would sit by that fountain for hours. I’m sure you remember too, we would watch the water trickle down the side of the cheaply carved rock and, when we were both called in to eat dinner and go to bed, I would sneak out to the telephone box and call your landline, and we would stay awake, talking for far more hours in hushed tones, so as to not wake your old ma, about which member of which band was most attractive. We only seemed to blink before you were in New York. Neither of us could afford a plane ticket, so we would communicate purely by telephone and occasionally by letters. It was 74 by then and letters had gone out of style. The world had changed so much by then, and our world had changed even more. Do you remember how confused I was when you fell in love with Darren? I remember you telling me, all excited, practically jumping. He’s nice enough, but nowhere near as nice as all those band members we were talking about by then. Oh and the wedding! It was unbelievable how brilliant it was. I can still remember the colour of the roses. Do you remember how they were the exact same colour of Darren’s hair? That was that last time I saw you. In fact, that was the last time I had ever left Darlington. If you remember, my back had gotten so bad by that point that I could hardly sit in a car for ten minutes, never mind all the hours it would take to fly to New York. And of course, you were nowhere near able to afford the ticket with your apartment’s prices. I remember talking on the phone about it. “130000 Dollars!” you said to me “130000!” And I told you “That’s just what you get for moving to such an expensive city. You could move a little bit further into the country.” But of course, Darren was an actor, so he needed to be in the city and that company you worked for was in the direct middle of there. I don’t remember what it was called, it was something to do with fashion. By this point it was the nineties, I was on benefits and had become a writer. I had sent you the first draft of my novel. ‘World’s apart’ it was called, I remember it so well. It was about us. We were living worlds apart too. Well, by 2000, it was published. I, Pam Earnest had a novel published and out to the public. Obviously, we both know it was a bit of a failure in terms of sales, but that wasn’t the point! I had pushed us out there, I loved it. Now, our lives had slowed down a bit by this point as we grew older, and the world changed around us. There are no longer any telephone boxes on the street corners, and the big stone fountain has been removed. We can’t talk like we used to. Loreen from down the street has started helping me around with my back, but I can’t call you on the phone anymore. I miss you Minnie. I love you Minnie. I miss you. Sincerely, Pam.

It started as just another frustrating day for Ramona Diaz. The 38-year-old low-level city councilwoman was stuck in a seemingly endless DMV line, trying to get her license renewed before the lunch rush. After two hours of waiting, the fluorescent lights and droning announcements over the loudspeaker had already sapped her patience. When she finally reached the counter, the clerk curtly informed her that she was missing a vital piece of documentation and would have to reschedule her appointment. A red haze of anger clouded Ramona's vision as she felt all the built-up stress and futility boiling over. "You've got to be kidding me!" she erupted, slamming her palms on the counter. "I've been waiting here for two freaking hours!" The clerk shrank back, eyes widening in surprise at the outburst. But Ramona was just getting started, sick of having to bottle up her authentic self for public consumption. She let years of repressed frustration and impotent rage pour out in a torrent of profanity-laced tirades as she swiped everything off the clerk's desk, sending documents and office supplies clattering to the floor. She forget what it means to not think before act ever since people watched her all the time. By the time the stunned security guards managed to restrain her, she had already vented her fury on the office's antiquated computer terminals, leaving them in pieces amidst the detritus. As the handcuffs clicked on, the viral footage was already spreading across LivePol - the 24/7 politicians livestreaming platform that had revolutionized American politics over the past few decades. For the first time, Ramona's unvarnished self was on full display for the nation to witness. That evening, her husband Peter bailed her out, the viral DMV meltdown footage already making the rounds. LivePol almost crashed, since it was the first time in decades since some politician did something that didn’t alighted with the constants advices. Ramona was distraught, feeling deeply ashamed at her loss of control, and by the time she returned home, all her advisers resigned. "I don't know what came over me, Pete. I totally embarrassed myself... my career is done." Peter didn’t know what to say. They couldn’t sleep, barely talked all night. Just laid in bed, while the phones rang. Over the next few weeks, however, her popularity soared as the bemused public developed a strange fascination with the foul-mouthed, unrestrained version of Ramona they saw on their LivePol feeds. Here was a politician being brazenly, almost obscenely authentic - ranting about mobile games being stupid freemium cash grabs, or berating a barista who spelled her name wrong, or tearing apart fast food employees over getting her order incorrect. At first it was shocking, even disturbing to see a Woman of State having such vulgar public meltdowns over trivial matters. But soon the Diaz RageCam became strangely compelling viewing for millions seeking an outlet for their own pent-up frustrations with modern life. Suddenly, across the nation, it was cool to "pull a Ramona" and vent with gale-force fury over the smallest inconveniences. Something shifted in Ramona. The raw, honest responses across the internet praising her for "keeping it real" and "telling it like it is" started eating away at her remorse. Maybe this unfiltered persona could be... empowering? Revolutionary, even? The idea fermented as she witnessed her popularity numbers climbing. Within a week, the decision crystallized - she would fully lean into this new identity. What followed was a spree of increasingly unhinged public spectacles, each one meticulously captured on her feed as the "RageCam" phenomenon took off. There was the tirade against a barista who mixed up her order name ("It's f**king Ra-moan-a, not Ramonica, you utter waste of zygotes!"). The on-camera beef with a self-checkout machine at a grocery store after it failed to scan several items ("You whiny little b**ch machine, not doing the payroll taxes you should be doing!"). Ramona's freakouts became mandatory watching for millions seeking catharsis. Per longstanding tradition, politicians' homes and families were meant to be off-limits from public livestreaming to allow some privacy. But Ramona herself obliterated that norm during an explosive argument with Peter over household chores. "I'm the lifeblood keeping this sad household running while you're out chasing corporate eunuch bucks!" she raged, hurling a lamp across the room that shattered against the wall. "So why don't you shut your domesticated pie-hole and show some f**king appreciation?" Within a week of her DMV meltdown, Ramona had fully committed to leaning into her new uninhibited "RageCam" persona to Peter's dismay. Her unfiltered tirades were picking up momentum, much to her husband's increasing discomfort. It all came to a head one evening when Ramona returned home from another day of profanity-laced rants making the social media rounds - this time angrily berating an innocent grocery bagger over a crumpled cereal box. "Are you actually doubling down on this unhinged act?" Peter said, his voice a mixture of weariness and pleading as she stormed into the kitchen. "This isn't who you really are, babe." Ramona whirled on him, eyes blazing. "And what, this docile Stepford wife thing is the 'real me' you want? Just keeping my mouth zipped and playing the pretty little politician's arm candy?" "That's not what I'm saying at all," Peter said, struggling to keep his tone measured. "But there's a line between authentic passion and... this. The madness I'm seeing streaming out there isn't you." "You're damn right it's me!" she shot back, jabbing a finger at his chest. "The real, unflinching, uncompromising me that you've never had the courage to accept! This is a woman who refuses to bottle up her justifiable anger and discontent anymore." Peter put his hands on her shoulders beseechingly. "I've always supported you expressing yourself, babe. But this constant rage-spewing and adolescent hostility? It's self-destructive and so beneath you as a person." Ramona shrugged off his hands in disgust. "There you go again, telling me how to act and what to think! Just like every other insecure man who can't handle a strong woman threatening his frail ego." "I'm trying to be your partner here!" Peter retorted, his own temper finally starting to fray. "But how can I when you've decided to fully buy into this repellant, unrecognizable character?" "Maybe I'm just finally showing the guts to embrace my most authentic self without apology!" she shouted back. "Not the demure little facade you want me trapped performing out of some 1950s housewife fantasy." Peter sighed, shaking his head as he ran his hands through his hair agitatedly. "This... this isn't you being 'authentic,' Ramona. It's you being needlessly cruel and vulgar for a twisted likability game that's only going to leave you empty and alone." She laughed bitterly at that. "You smug, insecure prick. You're just threatened by a woman who won't be controlled or shamed into compliant mildness anymore." "This has nothing to do with control!" he insisted, his voice rising urgently as their kids poked their heads in, concerned. "It's about being a decent role model for our children... for acting with even an ounce of the integrity and respectability your office deserves!" Ramona glared at him, fists clenched as the depths of their divide became clear. Something almost snapped in her at that moment. To see her husband so desperately looking for the woman he loved, watch her kids looking at her like she was insane, like she was a monster. But the crowds, the liberation, the phenomenon she became. Even if it wasn’t too late, could she really make a conscious choice like that? Alas, Ramona's withering look said it all. She was all in on her new persona, regardless of whether it ultimately brought positive change or merely a fleeting sugar rush of angsty infamy. A battle line over identity and integrity had been drawn, with no signs of resolution ahead. As Peter moved out with the kids, too shaken to continue together, Ramona's unbound furor only stoked her diehard supporters' zeal. They cheered her on as the ultimate truth-teller bucking the stifling politically correct norms. With each colossal public meltdown or vulgar slight against decorum, her grassroots grew stronger. In the final weeks before Election Day, any facades of substantive policy messaging were abandoned in favor of pure, visceral emotional pleasure for Ramona's base. When an elder community activist attempted asking about climate proposals at a town hall, he was quickly cut off. But while her two main opponents still in the lead, Ramona had to do something radical. Something decisive, that would swing the tides. That opportunity arrived, at the last hearing of her trial. It went well at first. She could have walked it off easily if not for her remarks about the judge and the verdict along the way. But as the judge declared her punishment - two weeks of community service and no more - Ramona took her chance. She glared at the judge and knocked over stacks of legal books and papers, throwing some toward the judge and verdicts. “This whole damn court system is rigged from top to bottom!” Ramona said. “It's all a big act, a fake show to make you sheep think there's justice when really it's all been bought and paid for by the elite scumbags running things behind the scenes!” She chucked a metal trashcan towards the bench, clanging loudly. “You lords and masters in your little robes and costumes think you're so high and mighty, looking down on the regular people from your ivory towers! But we're onto your racket now. This so-called ‘justice’ you peddle is nothing but a corporate-controlled sham to cement the establishment's iron grip!” A wooden gavel went sailing past the judge's head. “I've seen how the system works firsthand - grinding down the little guy while your banker overlords and Big Business cronies get away with their dirty bullshit scot-free. Anyone dares to call out the status quo gets squashed under the state's boot like a bug!” She started grabbing random objects like purses and briefcases from the gallery and heaving them towards the bench. “This court is a disgusting farce, just another money-grubbing tentacle of the all-powerful deep state machine! You parasites in your cheap Halloween costumes pull the strings however your globalist puppet masters order to keep the unwashed masses in line! Your robes and phony-baloney ‘rule of law’ are nothing but a wizard's curtain to hide how you elite filth are looting and pillaging this country into the ground! Well, I'm ripping away that curtain and baring your tyranny for all to see!” Finally, she chucked the courtroom's recording device towards the judge, smashing it into the bench as she raged on. “So go ahead and convict me, you corrupt establishment stooges! Throw me in chains if it helps you sleep at night knowing you're protecting your soulless, greedy overlords! Because I'll never stop screaming the truth from the rooftops about how rotten and rigged your entire decrepit system is against the real people of this country! I'm the unshackled voice you sadistic bootlickers want to destroy! The unstoppable flame of righteous patriotic fury that's going to burn down your entire demonic deep state cabal and corruption empire to the ground! Try and stop me, you have-nots!” She glared defiantly, surrounded by the debris and chaos she had created in the courtroom as the judge looked on in disbelief, blood trickling from her forehead. The raucous cheers that erupted said it all - for her supporters, drunk on the adrenaline of watching public decency torched, facts and figures were irrelevant. Only the sick thrills of watching hot-headed id run rampant mattered now. On Election Day, Ramona won by a landslide. The nation had spoken, choosing visceral gratification and a release from societal constraints over sober governance and moral leadership. But with her victory came a price. As the cell door clanged shut, Ramona stood alone in the dim, cold confines of her prison cell. Her family was gone, too shaken and hurt to stand by her side. The walls echoed with her isolation, the reality of her choices pressing down on her. But outside, the raging crowds still chanted her name. They had elected her even as she faced charges of disorderly conduct and contempt of court. To them, she was the embodiment of defiance, a symbol of rebellion against a system they felt had failed them. As the inauguration ceremony approached, a small group of loyal supporters gathered outside the prison gates. Ramona, clad in her orange jumpsuit, was brought to a makeshift podium set up in the prison yard. Cameras flashed, capturing the surreal moment as she prepared to take the oath of office. Peter sat alone in his dimly lit living room, the flickering glow of the television casting shadows on the walls. On the screen, Ramona stood in the prison yard, a solitary figure against the stark, cold backdrop. The woman he had once known seemed a distant memory, replaced by someone driven by a relentless, unrecognizable fury. He watched as the warden stepped forward with a Bible. The scene felt surreal, almost grotesque in its juxtaposition of solemnity and spectacle. Peter’s heart ached with a mix of sorrow and disbelief. This was the culmination of a journey that had spiraled far beyond reason. “Do you, Ramona Diaz, solemnly swear to uphold the Constitution of the United States, to serve the people with integrity, and to discharge your duties faithfully?” “I do,” Ramona’s voice echoed, steady and firm, yet hollow. The crowd outside the prison gates roared in approval, their faces alight with an unsettling fervor. To them, this moment was a triumph, a thrilling culmination of their desire for unfiltered emotion and defiance against the establishment. Peter saw it differently—a grim reflection of a society that had chosen chaos over coherence, spectacle over substance. As the camera panned over the cheering supporters, Peter felt a profound disconnect. The country seemed to revel in the madness, drawn to the raw, unbridled spectacle that Ramona embodied. In their eyes, she was a beacon of rebellion, but to Peter, it was clear that the cost was far greater than they realized. He turned off the TV, the applause and chants still echoing in his mind. Ramona’s image lingered, a haunting symbol of a nation that had forsaken stability for the rush of discord. Alone in the silence of his home, Peter understood that this was not just Ramona’s descent, but the nation’s as well. Spiraling into a future where spectacle reigned supreme and substance was a relic of the past, just to get a cheap thrills, something to joke about, and to see their basic selves in office.

My name is Greg. It's been some time since I was in school as a student and I’m now a teacher in the same school I went to more than 20 years ago. I have two small children and they’ve reached an age where summer has started to have meaning. Their excitement, and the excitement I see in my students, has filled me with a reminiscence of the summers of my youth. It makes me simultaneously a little sad but also incredibly happy. I think of my friends, my parents, and my youth and I get to smile at the joy I felt then. I see my own kids today and it makes me smile at all the possibilities that summers hold for them. This is my story of summers past. But this story is only partly reminiscence. Much of it is just a feeling. A feeling I’ve not felt since… The school bell was ringing and I was running. Teachers were trying to tell us to walk and be careful over break but we stopped listening at 3:30 pm and it was already 15 seconds past that. I grabbed my bag, my gym clothes, and my drawing pad from my locker and quickly shoved the now-irrelevant papers and notebooks in the closest garbage can. I came to regret this last action later, not because there was anything of value in those binders full of notes and paper, but because I missed out on burning them in an epically large neighborhood bonfire we had a few weeks after school ended. The door slammed open and I breathed in the free air… Summer! Eli, Kevin and my older brother Charlie were outside waiting for me and we were off on the first adventure of the summer: The way home. The way home was easy by modern means. We could take Old Ryan Road to a sidewalk to a gravel siding to our subdivision. But the way we took was better in every way. “Through the marshes” we charged. We called the path “the marshes” because it regularly flooded but it was really an old nature path the city built years ago. It was overgrown and completely underutilized. It had a deep ditch on one side and was tree-lined on the other. The long grass on the path had been tamped down but it was still up to our knees. We liked to imagine monsters lurking in the depths of the ditches and the dark of the woods, and we had to watch each other's back while making regular expeditions into the woods for weapons. A good stick was the best protection and, following proper cover and advance techniques taught to us by Kevin’s neighbor the veteran, we made our way out of the path and clear of the monsters. All except Eli, who had clearly been possessed by some kind of ghoul and was now “it”. He attacked at the opening of the marshes, where the tall grass met the road. He roared and held his stick above his head like a Tuskin Raider from Star Wars. We all ran for it! Scattered in three directions. Expecting to be hunted. I went for the woods that ran behind the houses in our neighborhood. But I had a long way to go before I was safe at home. I saw Eli attempt to catch Charlie but Charlie was about a foot taller and, despite his complete lack of athletic ability, he was quick! I crept through the woods, staying in the shadows as best as I could, but It was 3:45 pm in June so even the thickest canopy couldn’t really give good concealment. I was exposed. I had to make a move. Eli had been moving in the opposite direction of me a minute ago but I didn’t know where he was now. “Go!” I said and made to sprint along the tree line, always ready to dive into the woods. Suddenly Eli was behind me! He came from the woods and was so much faster than me. He had a smaller stick now and threw it like a boomerang at my back. It hit me under my arm and I fell to the ground in a dramatic, yet heroic death. “Rise now, servant!” Eli said. I was his second now. Doomed to serve him forever! Or until we got home. I’d done pretty good and home was only a little farther. We took up a defensive position now, protecting the house from those who would try to enter. It took a few minutes for Charlie and Kevin to make their way to the house. I saw Charlie first and screamed as an alarm. Servants can’t talk. Plus I was still loyal to my non-Eli counterparts, but had to be fair. Eli came running and took off after Charlie but as he did I saw Kevin out of the corner of my eye make his way up behind Eli and as I opened my mouth to shout again, he raised his stick and shouted “Safe!” while stepping on the porch. Charlie had gotten away and was still fair game. Eli told me to hold and protect the porch. I did and would take out Charlie if I had to. He was my older brother so I might take just a little pleasure in throwing a stick at him. Jokes on me, Charlie slipped past Eli and tackled me to the ground. He was bigger than me. I lost that battle, badly, and he made it to the porch. Eli, being a good comrade, berated me about getting tackled while I told him what a failure he was at catching Charlie. Twice! We smiled, laughed at each other, and went inside! Next adventure: Convince the parents that pizza and a sleepover are the best ideas. Me: “Dad. Pizza, movies, and Eli and Kevin sleepover? What do you think.” Dad: “I think you think I have all the money” he looked over his glasses at me. “Ok, fine. I’m in!” We knew Dad was an easy mark. Mom would have had conditions. They would have been completely legitimate, but who wants conditions? The final adventure of this final day of school: The Sleepover Pizza was the ultimate sleepover treat. No work, no waiting, and the cute girl four grades ahead of me was the delivery driver. Did I exist to this girl? No chance. Did that mean anything to me? Nope! Dad rented three movies from Block Buster: The Hunt for Red October, Silence of the Lambs, and IT. He liked thrillers. We weren’t complaining. We were allowed to watch The Hunt for Red October because Dad thought the original Bond was someone worthy of our time. The other two were “too scary” for us kids. But we weren’t so chicken as to let a good thing pass us by. The tapes were in the house, and we wanted to watch them. When would they be back? When we were 18? Nope, we couldn’t wait that long. But how to get them? Our domain was the basement. Obviously. What parents wanted to share the TV with kids? We were given The Hunt for Red October, which my parents had seen in theaters, and they stayed upstairs and watched IT. We could hear Mom when we ventured up to sneak a peek giving her patented scared gasp, like she did in the car when Dad drove a little too crazy in traffic. It was obvious that we needed to get a hold of that movie. Before we could start The Hunt for Red October, which was undoubtedly good, Kevin revealed that he’d pulled off the greatest heist of our generation; he’d swiped the tape for Silence of the Lambs and left The Hunt for Red October in its place in the case. Genius! The Silence of the Lambs was a true marvel of cinema and at some point in the night, everyone had put something over their face and pretended to be Hannibal Lecter as he skinned his guard's face off to escape. Charlie’s was the best. He’d gone upstairs and gotten a piece of pizza, stripped the cheese off of it, and cut a hole for the mouth. The sauce and rippled dough made it pretty convincing in the dark. I was the youngest, so naturally the easiest mark, and he surprised me with it first, vaulting over the back of the couch and giving me his craziest eyes. It was effective. I didn’t sleep well for a few weeks, though I’d never give him credit for it. My parent’s movie was longer than ours so we had to wait downstairs for it to end. After the credits rolled on our movie, Kevin turned off the lights and the TV all at once and we were in complete darkness. I don’t know if you know how The Silence of the Lamb ends, but a pitch-black basement is a terrifying setting after watching that movie. Kevin laughed from one corner, then must have moved quickly to the opposite corner and said, “It puts the lotion on its skin…” in his creepiest imitation of Buffalo Bill. I nearly died when he grabbed me and pulled me to the couch. I was in the movie for a second. I was Clarese. I was in Bill’s basement. I was doomed. Fortunately for me, Eli or Charlie made some noise and Kevin headed off to catch them too. Then I saw the light at the top of the stairs, got my bearings, and B-lined for it. Charlie must have heard the stairs and figured out how to get up and so did Eli. We got to the top, opened the door, and proceeded to lock Kevin in his own nightmare. Awesome! We laughed and high-fived as he pushed his way out after a short struggle. Plenty of quiet insults were thrown through the door on his way out. As my parents went to bed they told us to keep it down and start to calm down for the night. We had every intention of doing so, but after they went to bed, we discovered, to our great excitement, that IT was still in the VCR. “Yes!” whispered Eli in his quietest scream of excitement. His face, wide-eyed and mouth agape, said everything that we were all thinking. Two thrillers in one night. And it was only 9 pm! IT finished to a room of frightened looks and excited hearts. We definitely should not have watched that and Silence of the Lambs on the same night. But we did and not one of us was going to suggest that we were scared. No, instead we snuck outside. Sewer-dwelling monsters be damned! This was a time of dusky-yellow street lights and quiet subdivisions. It was midnight and we were alone outside. Kevin had a small flashlight that he’d wisely grabbed from the cupboard, something he’d learned was necessary on a few previous forays outside at night, but the moon was enough to illuminate our way between streetlights. We passed behind Kaia’s house and she opened the back door as we were near the middle of the yard. “Hey!” she whispered. “What do you think you’re doing?” She gave us a look somewhere between mad and intrigued. “Just out for a stroll” whispered back Charlie. “Wanna come with?” I punched Charlie secretly. He knew I had a crush on Kaia. Good big brother but I was nervous to ask her out and this didn’t seem like the time. “Nope!” she said, looking at my brother, then she made quick eye contact with me and gave me a mischievous grin. We kept walking and Eli suggested we go to the woods, to our fort. After two scary movies and a whole pile of imagination, this was the last place I wanted to go. But everyone had been razzing me about my crush on Kaia, and they hadn’t missed her little look, so I was feeling emboldened enough to take the risk. The woods once backed up to a farmhouse with a barn and outbuildings and a small industrial plant. Our neighborhood was the old farm field. The woods, however, was left nearly as it had been and was full of old rusting junk left behind from the farm and plant. There was a car frame and several tires, a refrigerator, a stack of chicken wire, a few car hoods, and a random assortment of smaller farm and industrial parts. Safe was certainly not the way I’d describe this woods, but it was fun. At night, however, it became entirely different. We’d formed a path through it over time, using the car hoods to go over low, wet spots, and using the larger items as landmarks. But they were harder to find at night and the wind and shadows played enough tricks to make our imaginations roil. Toward to interior of the woods, the space opened up where someone had dumped tons or gravel long ago. On one side it formed a berm, hiding the now-abandoned industrial building, and on the other was a low area where natural rocks formed a kind of flat area. The natural perimeter around it was entirely overgrown now and the trees and bushes formed the walls of our fort. We’d built nothing there but the trees and the gravel berm formed natural barriers that closed it in. The best part, the trees were covered in vines that were just strong enough to let us swing on. If you started at the high point of the berm, you could swing 30 or 40 feet with ease. Now, in the moonlight, our fort was infinitely more ominous. It was additionally scary because Eli kept disappearing and then jumping out with his best Pennywise impression. He even tackled Kevin at one point and the two of them rolled around for a few seconds. It was a pretty fair fight but Eli eventually pinned Kevin and pretended to bite his head off. Now in the fort, we decided ‘kick the can’ was the best bet. Charlie drew the short straw and the rest of us bolted away to sneak around and get the best positions. I was about to go as Charlie’s back was turned, but as I got up to run, someone else ran in and absolutely punted the can and bolted off. They were followed by another, smaller shadow, and the two of them disappeared into the bushes. Charlie yelled a curse and reset the can. Movement came from my right. I whispered “Eli? Kevin? Which one of you got the can?”. No reply. Then two girls jumped out of the dark. “Ahh!” I yelled in a surprisingly high-pitched voice. Hannibal and Pennywise reeled in my brain and I was about to be eaten by them both. But no, it was Kaia and her younger sister Amber. I blushed with tremendous embarrassment as I replayed the sound I’d just made in my head. Just as I got hold of myself a little more, the two of them ran away and Charlie replaced them with a grin. He kicked me and said, “your it!” I moved to the center of the circle and I heard the others rustling through the undergrowth. I heard a clear cough from my left and went for it. As I did, Eli let out his best Tarzan call and literally swung from a vine to the center of the clearing and kicked the can into the bushes. Kevin stood from the bushes in front of me and chuckled. The two of them had planned it out. Each of us in turn got caught and placed in the middle to defend the can. Kaia was the quickest to get out of the center. Turns out she’s incredibly competitive. Who knew? Amber was also pretty good, but Kaia and I teamed up to do another Tarzan swing. Mostly because it looked super cool when Eli did it. I felt her eyes on me as I swung. She ‘whooped’ as I got the can and taunted her little sister. We dropped off the girls on our way home. I was walking with Kaia at the back and she gave me a sly kiss on the cheek as we approached their house. I nearly melted. We all agreed we should definitely sneak out again this summer. No one else saw Kaia’s kiss and no one else ever knew. I liked that little bit just for me. (Side note: I married Kaia one day. Best thing I ever did.) We got home and settled in for bed on couches, the ground, and the beanbag chair in the corner. Kevin seemed to always call the beanbag chair. Oh well. We started another movie but no one was invested now. We slipped off to sleep, dirty and tired but with full hearts, as the movie played in the background of our dreams. Summer day 1: complete success.

“Got a live one tonight.” Jim heard the panicked squeals even through the thick metal door. “Good,” he replied. “You know I like a little fight in ‘em. How long’s this one been here, Charlie?” “About a week. Not in the best shape but you’ll have to make do.” “How much?” “For my best customer?” Charlie paused to consider his offer. “Let’s say an even thousand.” Jim retrieved an envelope from his coat pocket and removed a wad of bills. He counted out ten of them, folded over the stack, and offered it to Charlie. “Have a good time,” Charlie said, holding out a bucket into which Jim placed his phone – no recording was the only rule. Charlie handed Jim a key and slipped on a pair of headphones. Like clockwork, Jim came on the first Tuesday of each month. Charlie knew that’s when Jim told his wife, Marlene, and daughter, Jessica, that he and the other church elders met for planning meetings. As a matter of fact, Charlie knew a lot of things about Jim. In the business they were in, you had to know who you were dealing with. One mistake could mean life in prison. An hour or so passed and the door opened. A slightly disheveled Jim exited the room. “Good one this month,” he said. Charlie nodded and passed over the bucket. Jim grabbed his phone and saw a missed call from Marlene. “I’ll be in touch,” he told Charlie, and went outside to his truck. Once in the quiet of the cabin Jim phoned back his wife. “Hey babe, leaving now. Be there in twenty.” “K, drive safe.” Jim returned home and walked into the kitchen to find Marlene at the stove making dinner. “Hope you’re hungry tonight,” she said with a laugh. “I never know how much pasta to make.” “Fine by me. You know leftover spaghetti’s my favorite.” He grabbed three plates from a cabinet and brought them to the table. “Jess, dinner!” he called. Jessica descended from upstairs with eight loud thumps. “Hi, Dad. How was the church thing?” “Meh, business as usual,” Jim replied as they all sat down at the table. “Did you discuss a new sign?” asked Marlene. “The one out there now is barely visible from the street.” “Yep.” Jim spooned some salad onto his plate. “Just need to appropriate the funds and find a good company to make it. We don’t want it falling and hurting anyone.” “Not a bad idea for an insurance scam,” Jessica said. “I’d be able to buy a car in no time.” Marlene shook her head and smiled. “Or you could be like a normal person and get a job.” “I’m trying, Mom.” “How’s the search going?” asked Jim. “It’s OK,” replied Jessica. “Tried a few clothing stores at the mall. Just waiting to hear back.” “Well, keep at it. You’ll find something soon,” Marlene said. “I know how badly you want the car.” “Seriously. Why can’t we be rich? You just had to become a priest, huh Dad?” “I wanted to be a rockstar,” said Jim. “But there was one tiny problem.” “Yeah,” Jessica said. “You sound like a dying cat when you sing.” “Bingo,” Marlene chimed in. The three had a chuckle and the conversation drifted off. Dinner continued as normal, as did the coming days, and the weeks began fading into the uniformity of suburbia. A month passed when one night, they found themselves in the living room watching TV. “Oh, I’ve got good news,” said Jessica. “You’re moving out?” Marlene smiled wryly. “You wish. But anyways, I have a job interview at the mall tomorrow. Can I take your truck, Dad?” Jim shook his head. “Sorry, got the church meeting.” “Ugh, that’s right. First Tuesday,” Jessica groaned. “Guess I’m getting the van.” “What time do you need it?” asked Marlene. “Four-thirty.” Marlene nodded in confirmation. “Well,” Jim said, standing up from the couch. “With that, I think I’ll hit the hay. I have an early morning marriage prep. Hopefully I’ll come home to an employed daughter.” He kissed the top of both girls’ heads. “Goodnight, love you.” The next workday passed uneventfully and Jim made his monthly trek to Charlie’s. He parked down the street and fired off a text to Jessica. *Hope the interview went well. Can’t wait to hear about it later!* Jim exited the truck and made his way to Charlie’s door, signaling his presence with a special knock. Charlie answered with an enthusiastic grin. “It’s your lucky day. Got a fresh one for you,” he said, ushering Jim inside. “Different from the usual ones we get – not filthy or drugged out.” “How much?” asked Jim, reaching for the envelope of money in his coat pocket. “Three grand.” Jim raised an eyebrow. “Buddy, this one’s special. Arrived about two hours ago – you get first crack.” Jim pursed his lips and took a deep breath. “OK, but for that price I’ve got a request.” “What’s that?” “Turn the lights off. I want a little more of a challenge this time.” Charlie shrugged. “Sure, if you want.” Jim handed over a wad of bills and Charlie extended a bucket. Jim silenced his phone and deposited it into the container. “Lights off,” Charlie said, flipping a switch to the left of the doorway. Jim slipped into the room. Almost immediately the thuds and grunts of a struggle emanated from behind the door. Charlie put on his headphones and sat down to wait. Thirty minutes went by. Then, an hour. Jim didn’t usually take this long. Seventy-five minutes passed. Ninety. Charlie’s heartbeat began to quicken. Any deviation from the norm made him nervous. Right when Charlie had worked up the courage to investigate, Jim emerged from the room, tidying himself. “Worth every penny,” Jim said, zipping his fly. He reached into the bucket for his phone. “Keep the girls coming like that and I’ll make you a very rich man.” Charlie nodded his acknowledgment and Jim left. Once outside, Jim glanced at his phone to find twenty-four missed calls from Marlene. He hurried to the truck and dialed back. The phone barely had a chance to ring before a panicked Marlene answered. “Jim, where the fuck are you? The store called looking for Jessica – she didn’t make it to her interview and I — I can’t get a hold of her either.” Jim’s heart leapt into his throat. Jessica wouldn’t have missed the interview on purpose. “It’ll be OK,” he replied. “I’ll be right there.” He hung up and went to slam on the gas, but a stomach wrenching thought stopped him cold. He flung open the center console, grabbed his pistol, and dashed back down the street. Startled by the sudden banging at his door, Charlie looked out the peephole to see Jim furiously pounding. He cracked open the door and Jim muscled his way inside, holding the gun to Charlie’s head, “Whoa, what the fuck?!” Charlie raised his arms. “Where’d you get the one today?” asked Jim. “You know I can’t give you details.” Jim retightened his grip on the gun. “Answer the question or I’ll blow your fucking head off.” “Ok, ok. She was picked up over by the mall. What the hell is—” A shot pierced the air and Charlie slumped backward onto the ground. Jim’s heart thundered in his chest as he stepped over the body and approached the heavy metal door. He grasped the cold handle, pausing to drop his head in prayer before easing it open and looking inside. Curled up in the far corner was Jessica, clothes shredded and hair tangled. She recoiled at first, but upon seeing it was Jim, scrambled to embrace her father. A horrified Jim stood frozen as his daughter hugged him with all her might. In the light he could see cuts and scrapes covering her body. He wriggled from her embrace, doubled over and retched. “Dad?” Jim looked up at Jessica and began to weep. “Oh, fuck,” he whimpered, standing up and putting his hands on his head. “You…no…I…” He paced back and forth in distress. “I’m sorry,” he blubbered, standing up and hugging Jessica. “So, so sorry.” He kissed the top of her head and pressed her face further into his body, shielding her from seeing him raise the gun. “It’s gonna be OK,” he said, voice trembling. “I love you, Jess.” He closed his eyes and pulled the trigger, cringing at the sound of the shot. Jessica went limp in his arms. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he tenderly lowered her to the ground, eyes still clamped shut to avoid the horror. His mind raced as he staggered back to his truck. He considered running, but Marlene would be shattered when the truth came to light. Surely she would die of a broken heart. He owed her more than that. If only he could take back what he had done. Paralyzed by grief, Jim did the only thing he knew how; he prayed. Through the tears he clasped his hands together and looked skyward, asking the Lord to guide him once more. More than anything he wanted his family to be together again. He realized they would never share another meal or go camping at their favorite spot by the lake. No birthday or anniversary could ever be the same – at least in this life. And then… an answer popped into his head. He sped home to Marlene and found his wife at the table, face down, sobbing in her arms. She raised her head and their tear-stained eyes met for a split second before Marlene glanced down to his crimson stained clothes. “Jim, is that–” Without a word he whipped the gun from behind his back and discharged a single slug into her forehead. Marlene toppled off the chair and onto the floor, dead from the shot. Jim rushed to her side and laid down on his back next to her, taking her lifeless hand in his. “Lord Jesus,” he said. “Forgive me for my sins. By dying you unlocked the gates of life for those who believe in you: do not let me be parted from you, but by your glorious power let me and my family reunite in the heavenly Kingdom of God where you live and reign for all eternity. Amen.” And with that final prayer, Jim inserted the gun into his mouth and squeezed the trigger.

**~Planet: Azuria~** As a mage of the School of Destruction, I’m not gonna lie, doing paperwork was not my favorite thing to do. I guess it’s not very many people’s favorite, but I could alter the fabric of reality to blow stuff up so it’s extra boring. What’s worse was that my desk was full of it, mission reports I hadn’t filled out, artifact descriptions that needed to be filed, all of it was a testament to my procrastination. I turned to my monitor and logged in to find an alert popup on my feed. It was from Doctor Isabela Silva. Most guys would have loved to receive a message from the gorgeous Sansarian woman, but I was not one of those guys. Whenever she sent me a message, it was always about to be a task and a half, but I’d become one of her most reliable friends, much to my misfortune. I pressed the popup on my screen to reveal a message saying that she’d be at my office nine am. After taking a look at the chrono it was about nine am in about three minutes, well so much for organizing my office before she arrived. Almost as if my thoughts summoned her, I heard a ping from the set of double doors, as the A.I. announced, “Dr. Silva is here to see you sir.” “Yeah, yeah let her in.” I answered, and she came strolling through the open doors. She was a light blue skinned woman, with dark blue tentacles that fell around her shoulders, each one had a gold ring at the end of it. She was shapely, with fins that protruded from her forearms and calves. She had finned ears and a set of sapphire eyes that pierced the soul. All of this was complemented by her lab coat and an insulated cybernetic mesh that left little to the imagination. She walked into my office, observing the scattered books on the floors and some on the little tables I’d left open, then smiled at me, “Your office is in impeccable shape as always.” “We aim to please.” She chuckled, but my demeanor grew serious, “So what’d you need?” “I need a favor, but I’m guessing this time, it might be a welcome change of pace.” She gestured at my paperwork. I sighed; this woman knew me too well. She came walking towards my desk then sat atop, and gave me one of her famous smiles, the same one that turned so many men into mush, “But I can tell you while we take a little walk around the academy, it’s been forever since we spent time together.” “That’s because every time we spend time together, you inevitably ask for something nonsensical.” She laughed, “And whose fault is that?” I huffed as she continued, “Look, I can only rely on you, considering that most only have naughty intentions when they do me a favor. Besides, taking a walk with me isn’t the worst thing you could be doing, and it’ll get you back in the action instead of filing documents.” She turned to look at the snow coming down over the mountain tops through my viewport since I had a nice view of the peaceful, snowy landscape. “Fine, fine, lead the way.” She began to walk back toward the elevator across the well-polished polymer floors. I followed a moment afterwards, but not before I grabbed my revolver whom I affectionately named Hunter, and put it in the holster on the back of my robes. We walked past the furnished waiting room to the elevator on the other side. We got into the elevator and she leaned against the back wall as we came down towards the training halls. The elevator had a glass lookout and we could see a few mages in the arena. I looked out to see a young boy and girl facing off against a few training robots while their master watched over them. It was a plain looking arena and the master was an old coot who went by the name Ebenezer Cleide. He looked like the stereotypical wizard, you know the type, brown robes pointy had, but he was a good mentor and teacher for young mages. “Did you ever think about taking on a student?” Izzy asked. “No, why?” “Because you’d make a great teacher, and because there are a lot of students that look up to you.” I stayed silent, after all, part of why I was around was to hunt rogue mages. A life of violence was not one to teach the young to adore. I turned back to face her as she came to watch alongside me. We came to the second floor of the training arena where we came to the railing to spectate the rest of the match. On the bottom floor were the two students, one was a Nymean a girl with four arms, and black skin with gold runes running through her skin. The other was a lizard like boy who had all red scales and a cobra like head, a Tarak. The training bots had the two surrounded, but at least the girl looked confident. The young Tarak seemed a bit nervous, beginning to form haphazard hand signs, but before he could perform his spell, the bots shot him with a stun round that knocked him out cold. The girl cursed at his failing but remained calm, placing two of her hands together and letting the two orbs from her other hands float. Her eyes lit ablaze with purple fire which caused the orbs to fire bolts to destroy three of the bots. The other students began to cheer, next to Master Cleide, but unfortunately the girl lost focus which allowed the remaining bots to shoot her in the back, knocking her down to the ground. I could hear the old man begin to lecture them, while Isabela continued, “I suppose I had an idea, that might put you in charge of a very interesting apprentice.” “And you mentioned this to me now, why do I have a distinct feeling that you already suggested this to the headmaster.” “I did, we’re just waiting on you to agree.” “What makes you think I would?” “Arxor Academy is the home of mages, wizards, sorcerers, and witches. Not every country understands that, besides, the mage in question is a boy I tried to mentor back when I was still in Bastion’s army. He’s a kid on the wrong side of the tracks, but he’s trying to use his power for good. You’ve got a rare compassion for people that have it rough, and you’re not like the others, so stuck in the rules that you can’t adapt to an unconventional student.” So, she wanted me to take on a student who, more than likely was an outlaw at this point, has issues with authority, and he would hate someone like me. While I didn’t have the most troubled childhood, my experiences as a rogue mage hunter would have driven most people insane. I suppose she thought a student wouldn’t be worse than surviving the obnoxious situations I’d been in. That said, I wasn’t about to take on a student when there were far better teachers here, “I’ll look for the kid, but I can’t guarantee that I’ll be his teacher. My hands are far too dirty to teach him in the right way. He needs someone who isn’t steeped in the violence mage hunters are accustomed to. People like Master Cleide down there would give him a far better education.” That excuse should work. “Whatever you say.” She said then we began to walk to the other side of the arena. We walked down a set of stairs that led to a massive door that opened automatically when we came close. The hall was massive allowing for the passage of many students, while large statues of legendary mages stood sentinel. For a moment we passed several hurrying students in a rush to their next classes, before I finally asked, “Tell me a bit more about this kid.” “Well, he specializes in magic that’s consistent with the School of the Unseen. When last I saw him, he used three catalysts, each a silver ball that can’t be separated from him. Each one can turn into an eye with varying effects. His name is Zerik Shin.” “So, where’s he at?” “Bastion, Slade City.” I thought about that for a minute. Bastion was not a very friendly nation when it came to mages. The Western Continent as a whole went through a phase of religious nut jobs verses mages, and it tore nations like Bastion apart. Now they’re about as atheist and anti-magic as it gets. On top of all that, Slade City was literally one of the most run-down cities on the planet. Plagued with crime and society’s unwanted, it was a cesspit for the most dangerous criminals known to man. “That’s a hard sell Izzy, even if he’s a prodigy.” I said, but she turned back and smiled as we passed a small door on the left side, where the infirmary and her office were, “I know, but you can handle it. I owe you one Jaden.” “Wait I haven’t,” She disappeared into the infirmary leaving me in the halls, surrounded by the incoming students. I sighed, there was so little information, how was I supposed to find this kid? I looked up at the ceiling and stared at the fluorescent lights then began to proceed towards the end of the hall. I walked past a few doors then came to a decorated door on the left that led to one of Arxor Academy’s libraries. The enormous room had shelves stacked high with data slates and books from bygone eras. Magic theory piled on high at least four floors worth of knowledge in this library alone. Mankind had figured out so much about the Wyrd and how it bestowed magic to each of us in such unique ways, but there was always more to know, more to see. I walked through the black carpeted library to one of the tables and sat, pulling up a menu from the holo-table. I selected a book on the School of the Unseen magic to try and understand the way a mage with this kind of magic thought and acted. This was generally the process when I started hunting, finding out how their magic worked and adapting my own in a way that was an effective counter. Aside from just finding a needle in a haystack, there was the fact that this kid specialized in the School of the Unseen, which meant his magic would make him difficult to detect through magic sense alone. I sighed as a hover-bot brought me the requested book. It was from a scholar on the School of the Unseen, a tome from the Izra Hizen, an infamous assassin known for killing one of the last emperors of the east. “About to head off on another of Isabela’s little request?” A voice behind me said, only for me to find that it was a human the rest of the academy called “Lancelot.” He was known as the Blade Mage, using melee weapons as his catalyst. He was tremendously powerful, and frustratingly enough he considered me his rival. I hadn’t wanted that, but whenever we sparred the matches were close, with the winner only narrowly eking out victory. He wore a set of armor that looked like a knight’s armor, but fashioned after our modern power armor that was silver with red secondary colors. A cloak of scarlet was draped around his shoulders, pressed down by a vibrant white gold and blue sword he named “Excalibur.” He had a rugged face with pale skin, and he wore his hair short. He was what most women found attractive, and he drew stares wherever he went. Behind him were a few mages, he called his disciples, all of which had an arrogant look about them. Amongst them were a few ladies that most jokingly referred to as his “fan girls.” Oddly enough the one woman he wanted attention from was Dr. Silva, so it’s no wonder he was here. Everyone stopped what they were doing to watch our exchange, how rude could they be? I wanted to scream “mind your own business!” but that would just play into his hands. I gave him my usual unimpressed look, fighting desperately to suppress the urge to slap the taste out of his mouth, “I haven’t quite accepted the request yet.” “Well then, perhaps I can help? After all I have a few friends that could help me find, well whatever it is that she’s looking for a bit faster.” “Nah, I think I’ll be fine.” I was lying of course, but I felt like being contrary. I looked at the man and at his little flunkies who gave me hard looks. “Besides, I figure a guy like you would have far too much to do to help out with such a small request.” I gave him an infuriating smile, both of us staring daggers into the other. “Alright my friend, well, I’d better get to that important task. I envy you, you know, but one day I’ll show you that I’m the greatest mage alive.” He finished then walked back out of the library. I leaned back and looked up at the ceiling while others returned their attention back to what they were doing. I smiled ruefully wondering whether Izzy told that bastard I’d agreed just so that he’d come see me and ensure I took her little request. I took a few more moments in the library, before I left to begin making preparations for the long trip south.

#Welcome to Micro Monday Hello writers and welcome to Micro Monday! It’s time to sharpen those micro-fic skills. What is micro-fic, you ask? Micro-fiction is generally defined as a complete story (hook, plot, conflict, and some type of resolution) written in 300 words or less. For this exercise, it needs to be at least 100 words (no poetry). However, less words doesn’t mean less of a story. The key to micro-fic is to make careful word and phrase choices so that you can paint a vivid picture for your reader. Less words means each word does more! You’re free to interpret the weekly constraints how you like as long as you follow the post and subreddit rules. **Please read the entire post before submitting.**   *** #Weekly Challenge **Writers, please keep in mind that feedback is a requirement for all submitters. You must leave at least 1 feedback comment on the thread by the deadline!** **Theme:** **Bonus Constraint (15 pts):** Story includes an LGBTQIA+ character. **(You must include if/how you used it at end of your story to receive credit.)** Happy Pride Month! In honor of that, this week’s challenge is to write a story inspired by the theme of ‘identity’. You may interpret the theme however you like as long as the connection is clear and you follow all post and subreddit rules. The bonus constraint is encouraged but not required, feel free to skip it if it doesn’t suit your story. You do not have to use the included IP. **Please treat these topics & constraints with respect and care.** *(Artwork created by on Deviantart.)* **For some extra fun:** Use the stickied comment on this post to tell me who your favorite fictional LGBTQIA+ character is! It can be any medium: tv, movies, literature, games. etc.! *** # Last Week: - Winner: by u/katherine_c You can check out previous Micro Mondays .   *** #How To Participate - **Submit a story between 100-300 words in the comments below (no poetry) inspired by the prompt.** You have until **Sunday at 11:59pm EST**. Use to check your wordcount. - **Leave feedback on at least one other story by 3pm EST next Monday.** Only **actionable feedback** will be awarded points. See the ranking scale below for a breakdown on points. - **Nominate your favorite stories at the end of the week .** You have until **3pm EST** next Monday. *(Note: The form doesn’t open until Monday morning.)* ###Additional Rules - **No pre-written content or content written or altered by AI.** Submitted stories must be written by you and for this post. Micro serials are acceptable, but please keep in mind that each installment should be able to stand on its own and be understood without leaning on previous installments. - **Please follow all subreddit rules and be respectful and civil in all feedback and discussion.** We welcome writers of all skill levels and experience here; we’re all here to improve and sharpen our skills. You can find a list of . - **And most of all, be creative and have fun!** If you have any questions, feel free to ask them on the *stickied comment* on this thread or through modmail.   *** #Campfire - Campfire is currently on hiatus. Check back soon!   *** #How Rankings are Tallied **Note: There has been a change to the crit caps and points!** **TASK** | **POINTS** | **ADDITIONAL NOTES** |:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:|:--:| | **Use of the Main Prompt/Constraint** | up to **50** pts | Requirements always provided with the weekly challenge | **Use of Bonus Constraint** | **10 - 15** pts | (unless otherwise noted) | ***Actionable* Feedback** (one crit required) | up to **10** pts each (30 pt. max) | You’re always welcome to provide more crit, but points are capped at 30 | **Nominations your story receives** | **20** pts each | There is no cap on votes your story receives | **Voting for others** | **10** pts | Don’t forget to vote before 2pm EST every week! *Note: Interacting with a story is not the same as feedback.*   *** *** ###Subreddit News - Join to chat with authors, prompters, and readers! We hold several weekly Campfires, monthly Worldbuilding interviews, and other fun events! - Explore your self-established world every week on ! - You can also post serials to r/Shortstories, outside of Serial Sunday.

In the chilly woods of a faraway town there was a loud crash. This crash was heard by all the nearby townsmen, as it was very loud. Although many heard the crash, most just assumed it to be thunder or a car and did no further investigation. However, a group of boys just outside the crash site not only heard the crash but saw an arrangement of sparks and bits and pieces jump into the air. The boys decided to investigate. So, the boys tightened their winter jackets and head into the dry, cold woods and journeyed to the crash site. Upon arriving, the boys stumbled upon a UFO that was heavily damaged and halfway into the ground. The UFO opened and a humanoid android stumbled out. The boys stepped back, both curious and a little frightened. The android appeared to be severely damaged, but the damage looked old. He had likely been damaged long before the crash. The android was gray, and about the same dimensions of a human adult. The boys took a step towards him and waited for him to speak. Upon stepping out, the android spoke. "I am an android who has seen many worlds before this one. I have borne witness to the rise and fall of great empires. I have met innumerable amounts of creatures and societies. I have learned the knowledge of scholars from every corner of the multiverse, but they have yet to answer my one question. So, tell me humans: what is the meaning of life?" The smartest boy pushed up his glasses and spoke, "Well the point of life is to make good grades so you can make it to college." "Why?" Replied the android. "To get a good job and make good money." "And why do you want the money." The boy waited a moment and then said "To get a nice house." "And why do you want a nice house?" "Because I'll have a lot of money and will be able to afford it." "So is the meaning of life to have a lot of money and own nice things?" "Well I- uh suppose so, yes." The android thought a moment then said, "What if there is a tornado or earthquake and it destroys your house and the safe you keep your money in and you lose everything. Then is your life meaningless?" The smart boy said nothing and stepped back. The other boys assumed the smartest one the superior and as he was unable to answer the android's question they didn't bother. Then the android told the boys a story. "Once I met a man, in another world. And this man pushed a large boulder up a mountain every day. But once he reached the top you know what he did. He pushed the boulder back down to do it over again. Every day he worked to push a boulder up a mountain and then he pushed it down to do it again." The boys were visibly confused and waited for the android to continue. "So, you wish to work and get money to pay for expensive things and you have the expensive things because you have the money. It's a life of cycling materialism, where is the end goal? Is there more to life than just material objects?" The smart boy stepped back up and his face was in awe. But right before he spoke the android's hand started beeping and flashing. The android looked up and said "I have to leave now." And then the android touched the UFO, fixing it instantly. He then got inside and flew off.

I miss all of it. I pretended that I hated it. I pretended I was tricked into it. I pretended it was an enormous waste of time and love and treasure and youth and potential, but I didn’t mean it. I lied about everything. I want it back. I want to be back in the toxicity of life and death. I want to smell burning bodies and plastics. I don’t want to care about anything and care about the only thing. I want to have total disregard for filing my taxes. I want all of my income to be disposable. I want friends that I hate and enemies that I love to hate. It was the simplest thing I’ve ever done. It was so hard that I’ll never forget it. I want to spend the most boring hours of my life scanning through optics for enemies that never appear. I want to react to an IED that had no business being where it was when it exploded underneath my vehicle. I want to die in my dreams for eighteen days in a row and wake up to a dry mouth and an erection every one of those mornings. I want to wake up in the middle of the night for the following eighteen years with dreams where my rifle jams when it is most needed. Dreams where bears attack my children. Dreams where I’m left in the middle of the desert as my Marines drive away without me. Dreams where I watch ocean waves crest mountains and cut paths through the desert toward me. I want a war where I am justified in my hatred of someone, anyone. I want to die a martyr and watch my death honored by people that matter. Thank you for your service. The dead that I know are so distant in my memory now. I don’t remember most of their names anymore. There was a time when I made it a point to review their names in my head. It seemed important not to forget them. Just in case I needed to rattle off the names of my dead friends in some bar to prove a point. I considered tattooing their names on my skin. Who really cares, though? I’m a liar if I don’t admit that part of me blames their deaths on a lack of skill and proper discipline. Fuck them because I’m still here, and they are DEAD. What difference does it make when I pour a drink out for them? Their moms don’t care if I do. My mom cried the first time I came back home. I hate her for it. She didn’t love me until she realized she could lose me. I don’t regret any of it. What an adventure it was. Dysentery, rash, hunger, boredom, nicotine headaches, caffeine withdrawal. While deployed, I missed everything. Coming home to the first beer after six months, jerking off in privacy, twelve hours of sleep a night, top forty radio, quarter pounder with cheese, it was all worth it. Absence makes the heart grow fonder. I’d go home on leave and tell my friends about my deployments. I exaggerated because I thought I needed to. Exaggerated as if the truth wasn’t crazy enough. I exaggerated because I knew a dozen people who had better stories. God, if our loved ones knew who we were. Suppose they knew what we’ve done? Not one amongst us has been honest with our mothers, wives, and children. Why is that? Guilt? Shame? Of course. Even if we spilled our guts, they might say it was “okay" and they loved us anyway. It’s our fault that they don’t hate us. The truth is too hard to explain. I watched my Marines break into houses and snatch grown men from their mattresses. Zip-tied and gagged before their fucking wives woke up. I watched Marines dig out the bodies of dead children from the rubble of a schoolhouse after a suicide bomber drove 500 lbs of explosives into it. I watched EOD collect the burned remains of a scout into a ziplock bag. I’ve held a pregnant woman at gunpoint. I’ve stolen cigarettes from a Bedouin widow. I’ve aimed my rifle at a boy trying to fix a hole in the asphalt because I thought he might be placing a bomb. I watched a Marine slam a juice carton into a child’s face because he thought it was funny. I said nothing. I witnessed an Iraqi man forcing a boy to give him a blowjob in a gas station. I passed out MREs to starving Iraqis. I led a fire team into a mosque to search for weapons. I’ve seen an infinite variety of human shit. I destroyed a village well while searching for illegal weapons. I found them. I’ve told my Marines to hold security on our Iraqi Army partners because I didn’t trust them. I’ve read reports about Marines who were abducted from their posts by insurgents because complacency kills, complacency kills, complacency kills, complacency kills, complacency kills, complacency kills.

Her coworkers told her it was a bad place to live, but she didn’t share the same sentiment. Sure, the outlets were painted over, there was a permanent rust mark on the bath tub that ran into a suspicious hole in the floor of the bathroom, the windows squeaked when they opened or shut and two of them got stuck regularly, but it was hers. For the first time in her adult life, she gets to live alone. So what if mildew grew above the window in the bedroom and there was no dishwasher? This place has character, and she loves it. Her mom flew out to help with the move. She had seen the pictures that were beautifully doctored and was in full support of the move. Emily called her as she signed the lease and they immediately started scouring the internet for furniture and paintings to hang. Her mom flew out to help with the move, wanting to make sure Emily didn’t overstress herself and backslide on the progress she was making. It had been a bad year, the breaking point being her fiancé leaving her in a letter while she was away at a funeral. This apartment, while exactly what Emily believed she needed, was simultaneously exactly the place any mother would be terrified of their daughter living. Her mom couldn’t help but make a few comments. “The fire escape door doesn’t have a lock on it, what if someone breaks in”, so they got a little battery powered alarm. “It smells like weed, what if you go into work smelling like weed”, it really wasn’t that strong, but they got extra candles. “There’s a homeless camp outside” oh, that. The street at the foot of the building did have a decent homeless population. There was a shelter across the street and while only some of them took up residence in the actual shelter, a great number of the homeless lived on the street right outside, to stay close to the food. There weren’t any violent outbursts, a few of them talked to Emily briefly, they all seemed very kind, just down on their luck. Emily’s mom has nothing to worry about. She learned very quickly that the day time population and the evening population were very different. The apartment has two bedrooms, one bathroom, one living room, and one kitchen. The two rooms are on one side while the kitchen and living room are down a long hallway. The bathroom is in between. When picking the bedroom, Emily opted for the room that faced the courtyard (away from the homeless people) and didn’t have an unlocking, barely alarmed fire escape door in it. She set up what little things she maintained in the breakup and started scouring the internet to fill the rest of the space. In a matter of days, the apartment was transformed into what Emily needed it to be. Vibrant colors on every surface, small touches of personality wherever she could squeeze them in. Granted, most of the knick knacks were meaningless, little trinkets she picked up in bulk to facilitate the overall goal of filling the space, but she promised herself that she would work to replace them as time went on. Those items were just place holders for when she was ready to be the person that had hundreds of trinkets accompanied by hundreds of stories. She stayed at her mom’s hotel with her until the apartment was full. Why not? She didn’t see her mom often and her mom’s hotel room was not nearly as lonely as Emily’s new apartment. So Emily’s first night wasn’t until everything was as moved in as it could be. Every article of clothing was hanging exactly where it was meant to be, the desk in her office was littered with her work papers, the kitchen fully stocked and all the meaningless trinkets lined shelves across all the rooms. It felt lived in, even though no one had truly lived here since the last tenant moved out a few months prior. On her first day, Emily started to grasp what it truly meant to be completely alone. There were no roommates in the kitchen to shuffle around when she wanted a drink of water. When she wanted to take a shower, there was no one already occupying the bathroom. When she made dinner and cooked too much, there was no one to offer it to, and when she sat down to relax before bed, there was no one waiting on the couch for her. Solitude, whether she liked it or not. She poured a glass of wine and tucked the small blanket around her feet, settling in to watch her TV show. This was by no means a new show to Emily. She had seen the entire series twice and now picks and chooses whatever episode she wants to watch again and again. A comfort show, something that won’t be different to her. On this particular episode, a team of detectives is hunting down a serial killer that enjoys recreating Edgar Allen Poe stories. It’s one of Emily’s favorites, and it’s at the end of a season so the episode has two parts, which turns a forty-two minute commitment into an eighty-four minute commitment, which delays the thing she has been dreading the most, sleeping completely alone. On the plane ride home from the funeral, the only thing she could think of was sinking into Spencer, her now ex-fiancé’s, arms and going to sleep. She was exhausted from the entire trip, emotionally and physically drained from not only losing her sister-in-law, but running around to comfort every family member struggling to hold it together. This is what Emily is good at, putting her emotions aside for others. But the second she got on the plane to fly home, she realized how much it had affected her. She wanted so badly to be held while she finally took her time to grieve the woman that had become a part of her family. He had kept up appearances, gave her nothing to worry about the entire time, he was distant, sure, but that could be written off as not knowing the person he needed to be for her. Giving her the space that she needed. When she sent her flight information and he said he wasn’t going to be out of work in time to get her, she didn’t bat an eye as she called a car to pick her up from the airport. Yet as soon as she stepped into the apartment they shared, she felt how different the air was. Nothing was particularly out of place, the air just felt different. She went to their room, and where she expected to see his pajamas strewn across an unmade bed. Instead, a letter sat in the center of the bed. It detailed that they were over, he didn’t love her anymore. There wasn’t an ounce of kindness in his writing, nothing that cued any outside reader to the fact that they had been in a dedicated and loving relationship for the past three years. In his letter, he said that he would be back in one week from his trip and she should be out by then. Afterall, it was his name on the lease. Emily was at a loss for what to do, grieve her sister, her fiancé, any of the other people that left her life unexpectedly that year. She curled up in the bed, laying on his side because the sheets still smelled like him, and she cried. Not the body shaking cry that causes someone exhaustion, she was already exhausted, this was just the final straw. She blankly focused on one spot in the carpet as the tears rolled out of her eyes and on to his pillow. The sunset and soon she was cast in darkness, save for the street lamp that cast just below her face through the blinds. She didn’t sleep, didn’t even bother trying, because when you lose enough in such a short period of time, why not lose sleep too. That was the last night Emily spent alone. The next day, she took up temporary residence at her friend’s apartment. Lonely but not alone. She found her new apartment and took up residence in her Mom’s hotel room while she waited for her meaningless trinkets to fill her shelves. This will be the first night she will face complete and utter loneliness. Once her double feature rolls to the credits, she turns the TV off and notices how the room becomes remarkably quiet. The only sound even close to her was the gentle hum of the refrigerator in the adjacent room. Still and silent. Time for the rounds. Window by window, every lock is checked, every blind is pulled down tightly. She fills a cup with cold water for her nightstand. As she’s getting ready for bed, she passes the front door three times and checks the lock and deadbolt all three times. Finally, the office. If her mother hadn’t made a comment about the safety, or lack thereof, of the fire escape door, it would have been in the back of Emily’s mind, but since it was spoken, she couldn’t help but worry about it. The small alarm they had purchased was blinking, indicating it was on and ready to alert in the event of an intruder. She shut the lights off and closed the door, adding just one more layer between her and the imaginary intruder. Across the hall, she peeled the covers back to her bed and laid down, before getting back up to check on the fire escape door again. Eventually, she pushed her desk against the door, making sure to stack the edge of it with several books propped up and open, the idea being that one nudge of the desk would knock the books over and be a second form of alarm. As a final measure, she grabbed her largest kitchen knife, checked the front door locks again, and set off to sleep. This is the moment of stillness. Weeks leading up to this moment, where she has forced herself to face the very thing she has been avoiding. All she can do is wish for just one distraction. Perhaps the universe has given her enough bad luck, maybe in the spirit of turning things around, she will get exactly what she wishes for, because in that moment of stillness, she hears the beginning of an argument outside through her single paned glass. A couple is fighting outside. Emily can’t make out the words, but it’s quickly escalating in volume and passion. She ponders for a moment. Should she interject herself into this couple’s private moment? What kind of person sits and watches as someone goes through something that intense and raw? Not a good one, that’s for sure, but Emily felt as if she deserved to not be a good person, not yet anyway. She snuck to her living room, all the lights still off, and slowly, so slowly raised the blinds. She could see the couple and make out a few words. The man felt that the woman was dead weight. They were homeless because of her. He had stayed with her through…something, but Emily couldn’t make it out. She walked slowly towards the window, as if it was an animal that would spook if she moved too quickly, and opened it just a few inches. Night air slowly trickled in, causing the hairs on her exposed thighs to stand on end. “you want to rub my face in it? You chose to stay with me through all of that, I never asked you to stay” The woman screamed in his face. “I stayed with you because I loved you, I would have done anything for you” the man shouted back, throwing his hands up in exasperation. “Well I am sick of feeling like I owe you something, I am fucking sick of it” she turned to look behind her shoulder as if someone was waiting for her. “You don’t fucking love me, if you loved me, we wouldn’t be living in the car on the side of the fucking street waiting for our next meal” “We are here because of what I sacrificed to be with you, we are here because I stopped working when you got sick, we are here because of your bills. The only thing you have to be upset about is getting fucking sick. You don’t take care of yourself, that was your fucking problem until you dragged me in and made it my problem” He spat back at her, stepping closer. “I could have been fine, you were always holding me down and I am fucking sick of it. You held me back, you have punished me for the cards I was dealt when you knew about them from the start. You want someone to hate for how things turned out, hate yourself. I would have been fine without you. I would have been fine. You want to sit on that pedestal, you want to judge me from the outside, you want to make me feel bad and use my struggles to make yourself feel like the hero? You’re fucking scum and I am done with you” She turned to walk away. For a moment, Emily thought he would let her go, she thought that he would let her get away and try to live without him. Maybe she would make it without him, if he loved her, wouldn’t he want that? Then she saw him reach into his waistband and pull out a gun. Emily’s hand found her mouth and she felt all air stand still as she watched on. “You are not going to ruin my fucking life and walk away, that’s not what we’re going to do, you’re the fucking reason, you have to live with what you have done to us or die on this fucking street” His hand trembled as he slowly brought the gun up to her. Emily ran back to her room, grabbing her phone from the nightstand, she dialed 9-1-1 and ran back to the window. “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” The operator said that well-rehearsed words calmly. “um, Hi- yes, hello. There are two people in a fight outside of my apartment. The man has a gun” Emily barely whispered, not wanting either party to know she was there. “You’re going to shoot me? Is that where we are now? You want to shoot me?” The woman walked closer to him and it was everything in Emily to not scream at her to run away. “You’re too much of a fucking pussy, you want me to ruin your life which is exactly why you’re going to let me walk away right now” The barrel of the gun was pressed against her chest. “You can’t say that I ruined your life if you kill me, you can’t say that I broke your heart if you’re the one that blows mine to pieces” “I could say that shit with you dead or alive, baby” He says this in a volume just barely above talking, Emily isn’t sure she heard it right when a gun shot rings out in the air and the woman falls to the ground. “Ma’am, are you there? Was that a gun?” The operator speaks with a bit more force, drawing Emily’s attention briefly away from the scene. “The McDonalds off of Sharon, right outside the homesless shelter, he just shot her” Emily didn’t have time to ponder the lack of emotion in her voice, if she thought she had hit an emotional rock bottom, she was wrong.. The operator started to ask more questions but Emily just hung up, her eyes planted on the woman laying on the ground with a bullet in her chest. She panned to the man and immediately felt the blood rush from her body and her stomach launch into somersaults. His eyes were planted firmly on hers. When she has returned with her phone, she had stepped out of the shadows and placed herself directly in the screen of the window. They held each other’s gazes for a moment, but she was not the cause of his pain, therefore not worth his troubles, yet. The woman sputtered on the concrete. He went to her, on his knees, he leaned into her. She pulled him in closer by the back of his neck with her bloody hand and whispered something in his ear. When she let go, he slowly straightened and stood towering over her. All of a sudden, his foot was driving repeatedly into her skull against the sidewalk. Blood splattered and trickled out onto the light colored concrete, appearing black in the night lighting. He stomped and stomped, after she was long dead, until red and blue lights started to illuminate him. He didn’t run. He didn’t move at all and for a moment, Emily believed that he was beginning to realize what he had done. But that cold gaze turned back towards her. He knew that she was the reason the cops were called, he knew she was the reason that his bad luck had taken an even worse turn. His gun followed his gaze and Emily ducked just before a bullet flew through her window. Glass shards shattered about her living room around her, she stayed down until she heard the officers yelling at the man to put his gun down. He started to scream as they barked orders over him. Emily peaked above the windowsill and saw him in cuffs, leaning against the front of the car. She waited and watched as they got him into the back of the car. Soon, more cars and trucks and vans appeared, carting off the remains of the woman. Emily went down to give her statement, she told the entire story to an officer. She was with them until the early hours of the morning, answering question after question, writing and signing a statement. Finally, when the last officer told her to stay out of trouble before he drove off, she made the trek back up to her apartment. Her freedom, her new home. Early sunlight started to trickle into the room from the broken window. The living room looked different now, and not just because of the broken glass in the carpet and sofa. This living room had been apart of something, and it was changed now. She turned to go to her room, certain she would fall asleep with no issue at the point, when her eye caught on something stuck in the door frame. A brass bullet was wedged into the old wood. It caught in the sunlight and Emily though, in that moment, ‘This is the most precious thing’. She dug the bullet out of the frame and held it in her hand, rolling it in her palm, back and forth, then walked to her bookshelf, still filled with meaningless trinkets, and placed it on the third shelf from the top, right at eye level. Her first trinket, the beginning of her new life.

Chapter 1 The gods were as cruel and petty as they were powerful. They seemed to delight in pointing out the flaws in humans. To hold them to standards that were near impossible to reach and cast them aside without guilt when they inevitably failed. No where was this more clear than in the case of Maiden Emma. A young paladin of the goddess Mira. Mira was the goddess of maidens and purity. And her paladins reflected that. All were young virgin women and followed her edicts, and were given power for it. Power to strike down wickedness and perversion wherever it came up. Maiden Emma was the greatest of these women. She could strike down a man without even touching him and her beauty won the hearts of the people around her. One day, Maiden Emma was called upon by her goddess to travel to a village that had been overrun with bandits. Maiden Emma had to go at once, demanded the goddess, as the men there had sullied a local temple and were insulting her. Of course Maiden Emma rode out to face them, armed with her power and her determination. However, once she arrived she quickly learned that a single paladin, even one as favored as her, was no match for a force of nearly thirty fighting men. She fought bravely, taking down bandit after bandit, but even with the help of her power and her sword she was eventually overwhelmed. To surrender one's life as a maiden was proper of a paladin Mira when captured, but she refused to be beaten. Surely, her goddess would understand that she just wanted to live, no matter the cost. Her famous beauty helped her then. By the time the paladins of law arrived, as they had also been chasing the bandits, she was barely alive and was now just Emma. She went back to the temple of her goddess, to pray and recover, but her way was blocked by the very sisters that she had once led. It mattered little to her goddess how she had lost her chastity, or that it was taken from her, only that she had lost it. And was therefore no better than any other woman that had broken their vows. Emma was devastated. The only family she had ever known now refused to even look at her and the goddess she devoted her life to now thought she was no more than a common whore. She was all but forced out of the city, as they were strongly tied to the temple and couldn't have her around to tarnish their image. She thought fleetingly of ending her life but shook it off just as quickly. She had refused to be broken by those men and would not be broken by this. So she traveled north. Into the mountains far beyond the lands of her old gods and into the lands of new ones. The All Mother and the all creator (bit pompous but who was she to judge). She took work as a merchant's guard, difficult work to get as it was uncommon in this area for women to be fighter's, and traveled widely for many years. She remained alone for most of this time, as the men in these lands were more strict then the ones she knew and did not want a wife that not only could fight but had also been ‘spoiled’ like she was. She did not think that she had been however, and would not let it hold her back. She eventually found a man that thought the same. He was a quiet man from a small village even farther north. He was with a small group that came down to the city (really just a slightly bigger village) to stock up on grains and hay to see them through winter. She saw him from afar and liked the gentle way he led the horses that pulled his cart and the quiet way that he spoke with the various children that were running around, excited for their first trip to the city. She made her way over as his group was leaving and tried to convince him (very skillfully and deftly) that his group of a dozen strong farming men needed a guard to protect his hay from bandits. He said that they had spent their little gold on supplies and would not be able to afford such a strong and capable guard. She assured them that she was heading that way anyways, though there was nothing past their village that she knew of, and it would make sense to travel together. He looked at her in a way that made her think that he knew more about her then she had said. And frankly told her so a second later. “The only southerners that come up north are traders and their guards and the only ones that come to our villages are deserters from the king's army trying to get away. We don't want the trouble of having the king's guard marching through our town.” He spoke calmly and without threat and she met his gaze evenly. “I'm not running from the king and if I was, Martin,” the trader that had hired her, “would have given me up for the reward weeks ago.” Martin cared about money and money alone, he would have likely sold his own mother if he could have got a gold piece for her. The man thought for a moment and nodded. He, as well as everyone else, knew Martin and knew to avoid his stall unless he had something that you couldn't live without. And to be prepared to pay double for it if you couldn't. “Then let's go. We need to be back before nightfall. My name is Tobius by the way” They reached the village after night had set. The farmers' wives came and strutted around them, clucking about the hour and the quality of the products they had procured. She found lodging in a local inn that was more of a storage room for the village then an inn but it would do. She found plenty of work among the farms as they prepared for winter. Chopping and stacking wood, mending fences and rethatching roofs. She was helping farmer Dan muck stalls when Tobius approached her and asked. “I thought you said you were just passing through.” She clarified that she had never said that and it was never mentioned again. After that talk with Tobius the villagers seemed to accept her more. They didn't have an official leader of the village but Tobius often handled things whenever they got into groups or needed to deal with large issues. In such a small town there was often little to do but work and gossip and the villagers enjoyed doing them both. She quickly found out that Tobius was widowed, his wife dying during childbirth, and that he lived alone in the house he had built for them. Emma thought it was a tragedy that such a nice man would be alone like that and set about fixing it. She would go over to help him with his farm and more often than not would stay long after the work is done. She found her guess of his character to be even better then she had thought as Tobius was a strong and quiet man of honor. A man that knew not to push her but still to hold her when the memories became too much for her to hold alone. A man that had endless patience for her and knew to wait for her to come to him. And so she did. They were married the following spring and Emma was soon with child. Months passed and despite an old northern superstition of southern women being unable to birth in the cold weather, they were blessed with a healthy baby boy. A few years passed and Emma had her second child, a beautiful girl, and Tobius couldn't have been happier. Unfortunately for them, their story doesn't end there. For the gods are as cruel and petty as they are powerful and none so much as the God of fate. And he had plans. Not for the parents no, but for the young boy that would change everything. Chapter 2 They walked away from the burning village. A man that was too tall. A small girl held in his arms. And a young boy with dark eyes. The too tall man easily plowed a path through the snow and held tight the girl that was quietly sobbing into his chest. The man stopped. The boy wasn't following. He stood in the snow, staring at the village, the only place he had ever known, as it burned. He didn't shiver. The heat from his anger kept him warm. The too tall man placed a hard hand on his shoulder and warmth seemed to seep into the boy from it. "She didn't sacrifice herself so that you would be caught frozen." His voice was quiet and calm but as unyielding as steel. "Why would they do this to us? What did we do to deserve this?" The boy nearly spit the words out. "You had more than they. And to an animal that is reason enough." "They were humans not animals." "Disrespectful boy! You would say that your father was the same as those men? Your mother?" "No! My parents would never-" "Then listen well, boy. There are humans and there are beasts. Your father who died protecting the village and your mother who died so you may escape, they are people, humans. But humans can fall. It is what makes them human. Those creatures out there, that use their strength to kill and capture those who have none. Who steal and brawl over slivers of gold. Who lust and torture to satisfy dark desires. Those are no longer men. Those are animals." The man looked at the village with a look of hatred somehow even stronger than the child's. "You've lived on the borderlands your whole life, boy. Tell me, what do men do when there is an animal hunting in your village." Confusion then understanding danced across the boy's face. "The men come together and kill it." He started toward the village with hard eyes only for the strong hand on his shoulder to spin him and push him back toward the forest. "Killing beasts is hard work my boy. These ones in particular. Not the work of a child." The man looked down at him with an eager expression, as if waiting for something. "It's man's work." "I'm not a child." Said the boy, stomping along. "I will kill them. I'll get strong and I'll become a man. I'll be the greatest man that has ever lived! Then I'll hunt every last animal down till there is none." He glanced at the girl held in the giant's arm. "So that this can't happen again." The man's smile was wide with pride and it was hard to keep the joy from his voice as he asked. "And how will you manage that? You have nothing. Only the clothes on your back and a child to drag you down. Once we reach the city don't expect any more help from me. Your mother and I had a deal, that's all." The boy didn't disappoint. He spun to face the man and spoke with such ferocity that he was almost shouting. "So what!? You think we need you to help us?! My father raised me to stand up for myself and my family. I'll figure it out alone! I'll get an apprenticeship with the smith in the city. He came through town once and said I had the shoulders for it. I'll get him to hire me or I'll go someplace else. I'll take care of her AND I'll get strong. I'll work and I'll grow and one day I'll hunt every one of those beasts until none of them dare to attack anyone again!" The boy stood gasping, nearly foaming at the mouth over his outburst and the man stood with fire dancing in his eyes. "Yes." The man spoke easily. "I see it now. You could very well be the greatest man to ever live." The boy thinking he was being made fun of stepped toward the man threateningly. The man held out a hand in peace. "Our interests align in this way boy. I want the beasts purged as much as you, perhaps even more so." The boy deflated as his sudden anger drained away. "Why? Who even are you? Why did our mom send us with you? And why didn't you help in the village?" "Why? Because beasts like that are nothing more than failures of men that have been led astray by gods and that sickens me beyond reason. As to why your mother sent me with you and why I didn't help? That answer is simple. I did. Your father and the men in the village had the conviction to to hold off the beasts and i gave them the strength to do so. The women had the knowledge to take their children and flee into the wilds. I gave them the fortitude to survive until the king's guard arrives. Your mother and I had a…special relationship. Your mother was once a powerful person under the boot of a false god, but her power was taken from her years before you were born. She never let it stop her however. I have watched her for a long time, she clawed herself from the arms of the abyss and never surrendered again. She was aware of my presence the way that one knows when they are watched from the shadows. And when the beasts came and some of the village women were captured she couldn't run with you. Couldn't let them suffer as she had. It was then that she knew me and called to me. She became my paladin, my sole worshiper. And swore to kill as many of the beasts as she could. In return I would take you to the city." They walked in silence for a while as the boy thought of the man's answers. They had entered into the forest surrounding the town and were following a narrow game trail. The man in front and him behind. The boy realized something. "You never said who you are." "Smart boy," praised the man. "I didn't." The boy suddenly had a sick feeling. "Are you a demon?" He had heard of those from Edmond, the traveling priest that came through town every month, evil and powerful beings that made contracts for people's souls. The man laughed loudly, causing the sleeping girl in his arms to stir. The sound was strange given the night he had. "What is a demon but a weak beastly God? What is a god but a lawful demon? Both sell power for souls and both leach off the faithful." He laughed again as if what he had said was funny. The boy tripped over his own feet as the thought came into his mind. "You're a god?!" "Smart smart boy. That I am. And that I am not. Not like the gods you know. I am a different sort, one that both exists and does not. Older and more powerful yet also much much weaker." "That doesn't make sense. You either are or you're not. How can you be powerful and weak at the same time?" "It's a matter of perspective, boy. In the eyes of the grand church's gods I am weak indeed. And yet in the eyes of your mother and the people in your village I am the most powerful being in existence." "That still doesn't make sense. How can you be that powerful and still let everyone die?" "They died because they were out manned, undertrained and ill equipped." The boy stopped to argue but the man turned and a firm hand landed again on his shoulder. "The only way to have saved your village would have been to wipe out the beasts completely. And that is something that I cannot do. Other gods exist outside of the mortal world. They feed off of their followers' souls and use that power to change the world around them. I am different. I take no soul. I exist only within the world. Specifically," A long finger poked into the boy's chest, above his heart. " within you." The man stood to his full height and spread his muscled arm, the other one holding the girl, wide. "Behold boy, the God of Man." Despite his size the man didn't look very impressive. He didn't glow or float or anything magical. If anything he looked like a common man that you might see anywhere, if quite a bit taller and broader. "How could you not kill those guys if you're a god? Is it because they're also people?" Anger flashed across the man's face. "I told you, boy! Those men out there are nothing more than beasts. Animals! Unworthy of anything except death. I didn't kill them because it would only create more of them." The boy's confusion must have been obvious because the man continued in a calmer voice. "Humans are uniquely powerful. They have that power because they have the will to fight for themselves. Humans have spread across this land not despite the dangers, but because of them. A dwarf will starve to death debating with his clan on if they should sell gems for food. An elf will dance away the centuries without noticing the forest burn around them. Man is the only creature that lives under the burden of his own mortality and yet does not let it stop him. Instead he uses it to push himself to greater heights. To conquer that which cant be conquered. To build things that will outlive them by centuries and they can do it all without divine blessing or demonic power. It's what makes them such popular targets for those parasites that call themselves gods. Those sirens call to the beast in men and use their stolen power to make men greedy, violent addicts that sell the souls of their own people to fuel the gods' ambition.\` “And you're different because you don't have ambition? You just said you wanted to wipe out those you called animals” “The gods your people worship take your power and use it to wage pointless war against each other in their realities. They are separate from you and use you as tools. I am different because I came from you. I only exist with the context of humanity. That is why I want the animals dead. I want you to be at your best. If you are all wiped out then I too shall fade. I am the very soul of man made manifest and I will not allow my people to be used any longer.” After such an impassioned speech the boy was silent and they walked on, deeper into the woods. The light of the burning village fading behind them. The boy turned the conversation over in his mind trying to wrap his head around the information that went against nearly everything that he had been taught growing up. He was walking in the woods with a god. A God on earth, which wasn't supposed to be possible after the All Creator sealed the gods away. His mother knew this God and never told him, or the fact that his mother became his paladin and turned her back on the Holy Mother. That meant that her soul wouldn't go to the holy land and that he would never see her again even after he died. That thought hit him particularly hard as the church taught that death wasn't the end for those that walked with the light. But if the man wasn't lying, and the boy was strangely certain that he wasn't. Then there was no holy land, and he never would have seen her again anyways. The church said that after death unclaimed souls became energy that was used when new souls were formed. The boy cheered up at that. It sounded better than being used by a false god to fight a war anyways. He was ripped away from his musings as he tripped over a root in the darkness. His anger came back in a massive surge. He shouldn't be here. He should be home in bed getting rest because his father had promised to teach him how to ride Old Farmer Dan's horse once he got big enough and he finally did so only last week. Instead he was out in the cold woods in the dark. He wanted to go home. But there was no home, not anymore. It was destroyed, taken by those…animals. He clenched his fists until they shook and barked out to the man. “Hey! You said you gave my mother power to face those guys, right?” The man turned back, looking interested. “In a way I did. I made her know who she was, what she could do. I firmed her grip and settled her nerves. She would have done it anyway but I gave her the power to go beyond her limits.” “So you gave her power. Give it to me too.” The man's smile grew wide. “You want me to give you my power? That would make me the same as the others. All I do is enhance what is already there. I take the human spirit and supercharge it. I will not do it for nothing though and I can not imagine what you could give me. Your mother, at least at the end, swore to my cause.” If the boy had been older or wiser he likely would have seen the path that the man was leading him down. Would have seen the smile and the knowing eyes. But he was a boy. A boy that had lost nearly everything he knew and wanted to hurt those responsible. The boy dropped to his knees and touched his forehead to the dirt. He tried to remember the oaths that the church taught him for swearing one's soul. “I solemnly pledge my soul to your will. Your cause shall be my guide. Your duty shall be my purpose. My power shall be you-” The boy was cut off by a firm hand patting his head. “Now now,” Said the man, “I will have none of that.” Despite his words the man's grin nearly split his head and his eyes were alight with a strange glow. “Did I not tell you that I take no soul? That I give no power?” “You do! Otherwise mother wouldn't have sworn to you. To be your paladin-” The boy jumped to his feet. “That's it! Make me your paladin. I will serve. I swear it.” The man looked down on the young man before him. “You would serve a god with no followers? A god that you will be mocked for if any even believe that he exists? A god that wouldn't even save his only paladin? A god that will give you nothing your whole life and upon your death will cast you into the ether without a care?” “Like you said, the village was always doomed. We could have never defended against a group like that. You were the only god that even showed up. No other god came to help, despite the offerings and oaths we had given. Despite what you say you do give power. You gave my mother the power to give everything so we could be safe. I think I get it now. You only give help to those that are willing to fight without it. And so I will. I will train and grow, I'll get stronger and learn how to fight and when the time comes,” the boy stuck out his hand, “you will point me at the enemies of man and I will end them. Deal?” The god took his hand without hesitation. “Well then, young master paladin, I am eager to see what kind of man you become.” As they walked on the boy took the lead. Holding branches and making sure they stayed moving toward the city. He didn't question the sudden weight of his sister in his arms, why he could suddenly see better in the blackness of night nor why he no longer felt the cold. He simply marched on.

Captain Emma Sato gripped the command console, her knuckles white. The viewscreen before her was a swirling kaleidoscope of blues and greens – the alien world of Xylos, finally within firing range. 25 years. 25 years of burning rage, of relentless training, of a singular, desperate goal: vengeance. Mars, a husk, a silent testament to the day the Xylosani ripped through the solar system. Back then, humanity had been defenceless, their cities turned to ash. But from the ashes, they rose. They salvaged alien technology, to reverse-engineere it and built a fleet. The Huntress, Emma's command, was a testament to that resilience. A heavily-armed battlecruiser, bristling with repurposed Xylosani weaponry and the raw fury of a species pushed to the brink. Today, the fury would be unleashed. This wasn't just an attack. It was a reckoning. Emma tapped a command, her voice tight with emotion as it echoed across the bridge, "Gunnery crew, prepare for precision bombardment. We target military installations only. Minimize civilian casualties." A murmur of assent went through the bridge. Everyone knew the stories, the atrocities committed by the Xylosani. Yet, collateral damage was not the way. Not anymore. Humanity was no longer the prey. A deep rumble filled the ship as the main guns powered up. Weapons based on technology scavenged from a fallen Xylosani cruiser, repurposed to fire volatile energy projectiles. The alien tech thrummed with a malevolent energy, but today, it served humanity. "Targeting complete, Captain," came the calm voice of Lieutenant Tanaka, the Huntress' tactical officer. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the cool air circulating the bridge. This was history in the making. Emma took a deep breath, steadying herself. "Fire at will." The world outside the viewscreen erupted in a dazzling display of emerald fire. One by one, the targeting coordinates painted onto the holographic map blinked off, replaced by plumes of smoke and fire rising from Xylos' surface. Each detonation was a hammer blow against the Xylosani, a vindication for the lost millions. But as the initial barrage subsided, another set of blips appeared on the tactical display – Xylosani fighters, sleek and silver, swarming towards the Huntress. "Damnit," Emma growled. The ground assault wouldn't have secured the landing zone yet. They couldn't get caught in a dogfight. "Captain," Tanaka's voice held a hint of urgency, "Incoming missile barrage!" Emma slammed her fist on the console. "Evasive maneuvers! Point-defense systems online!" The Huntress lurched violently as it executed a series of rapid turns, the point-defense cannons spitting fire as they intercepted incoming missiles. The bridge crew braced themselves against the G-forces, their faces grim but determined. The alien fighters buzzed around them, their energy cannons spitting emerald fire, but the Huntress' shields held for now. Suddenly, a booming voice crackled over the comms. "This is General Petrov on the ground. We've secured the LZ! Permission to initiate troop deployment, Captain?" Emma felt a surge of relief. "Permission granted, General. Godspeed." As the first troop transport ships descended from the Huntress' hangar, Emma watched through the viewscreen. The soldiers, young and faces etched with nervous determination, were the future. They were the hope for a galaxy free from the Xylosani menace. The battle raged on, but the tide had turned. Humanity had finally taken the fight back to the enemy. And that, Captain Emma Sato knew, was only the beginning.

“Hey, Whats your name?”, asked a young attractive man. In around his twenty , mid sized, black hair, blue eyes and overall attractive man was asking for my name. I an inspiring actress who wasn’t even famous so what did he want from me. With hesitation I replied, “Eda, My name is Eda. Don’t wanna say my last name right now.” With a confident voice he replied, “well I will figure it out. By the way my name is John Smith nice to meet you.” Smith… well it was a familiar name but I couldn’t point it out. Where had I exactly heard it. But without giving me any time to think, this stranger offered me something even a prideful women like me felt hard to deny it. He said, “I saw you act soo I was wondering if you would like to work with me in a few projects.” He took out a complete contract in front of me. Like bro actually carries contracts with him at all time. Though I wanted to hear the offer, well more like read it but as a grown up women who just two days ago truned eighteen, I had to deny. As soon as I said it the man’s pride shattered and had a bloody shocked look in his face. It was sooo funny. But my mother taught me better to laugh at someone, so I went. Yaa just walked off thinking this is over. Now my living condition wasn’t great at that time so adjust with everything. It was a small appartment with bare minimum things. I had to leave everything and come here to the big city for studies and more importantly my acting career. Well my job wasn’t great either. Ofcourse I never had a degree and I don’t think I ever will. So now I was alone in my run down appartment thinking about the wiredo that just randomly offered me some thing. I decided to google his name, John Smith. And I found out something I never expected. He was a billionear, and one of the most important person in our generation. Shocked!!!! like the hell I truned down the guy who owns the store I work in. I realized I was fucked. What was I gonna do. I quickly called my friend, “dudeee!!! I fucked up I need to fucking do something” and told her everything that happened. She gave me a preety good advice, go talk with him. Two things came to my mind after that, can he really find out I work for him and even if I wanted to talk to him how would I do so? Its not like I personally know him, plus I probably shattered his little ego. But I had to try. If there was even a single possibility about me getting fired I needed to do something,anything. TO be honest I was scared. What if this truns out to be like fifty shades of grey, what if he kills me and feeds me to his lion. As I was getting ready I heard a knock at my doo, it was him John Smith at my door. With a soft spoken voice he asked, “dear why are you in a hurry? Can we talk for a wile” I nodded. But he scaned my room and asked me to come to the cafe below. Oviously someone like him wont come in to my place. We went down and like a gentle man he opened the door for me and like the dumbass I am I gave him an annowing look. After this I didn’t expect him to be polite and I was right, he stoped being soo well mannere. “Normally when I do something like this I try to come off as well mannered guy, no anger no nothing but I guess the shoe doesn’t fit for everyone.” Honestly I was imbarrased and I guess he noticed that as well. He continued “I want to work with you, I already told you so and I myself am pretty serious about it but are you?” Ofcourse I was serious about it you dumbass. So I replied in a cute voice that I thought was cute but lateron found wasn’t “Ofcourse I am serious Mr. Smith” He pushed a contract towards me and asked me to read it now. It was a fucking twenty page contract but I read it all. Now I was able to understand everything. Why he wanted to work with a small time actress like me. In normal cases I don’t flinch even now, but at that time I obeyed and signed the contract. I was scared. I was like a dumb bitch who was asked to do something and did it without barking back. I felt like I just signed my soul to the devil. But it is what it is and from this point onward he had complete control over my life and I had to deal with it until I was famous and had a net worth of twenty million or above. Yaa the contract really said that. Fast forward to present I am well above that mark and kind of living properly. But this story isnt about my present but about my past. How my life changed because of one signature and the shits I would have to do to survive in this industry. And spoilers this isn’t a happy story with a happy ending. But now back to the contract. Ill have to mention a few points to make this shit of a story more understandable. Number one, I am to live with him in his mansion until our contract is over. Number two, I cant discuss anything regarding our personal interactions, which means I cant put out a SA law suit even if I wanted to. Third I am not to talk about this contract with anyone else. The other points are kind of irrelevant for now but I will probably mention it as we go on, if I don’t forget it.

Yuma, Arizona October 1904… I stood alone on the train depot's wooden deck, the chilled morning air tugging the lower hem of my skirt which fluttered about my ankles. The sun peaked from beyond the eastern horizon of ancient lava rock encrusted with the drifted sand of the Colorado Desert. These porous ramparts were jaggedly course, with a million years of dark oxidation etched into their surface. My eyes burrowed into this expanse littered with a flora of squat barrel cacti, wiry creosote bushes, and the spiked tentacles of ocotillo plants frozen against the arid breeze. The dawn's infantile rays glared against the side of my face as a harbinger to the mid-day heat sure beseech the Imperial Valley. Soon, the white of cumulus thunderheads would collect from the desert floor wrung of its moisture by a summer heat which refused to move on. Regardless, the days were getting shorter and the paradise of winter’s relief was sure to arrive despite the weather’s stubborn persistence otherwise. The bellows of pressurized steam through the whistle of an approaching locomotive interrupted my pastel wonderings lost in a dream from the previous night. The black titan chugged ever slower as it neared the tiny platform while flared from its nostrils. The cobbled streets of a passed life not lived faded from my mind, my soul left to wonder if it ever happened at all. My head turned with the passing fuel truck nestled behind the engine’s cab, the elegant print announcing the arrival of Southern Pacific’s five am express from the town of Phoenix. The first passenger coach grinded to a holt before me and a sharply dress conductor left from its stairs with his hand trailing off the railing as he went. He placed his navy blue cover on his head and straightened the curved gloss brim before he reached into his breast pocket for the golden watch he was always sure was there. He placed his left hand to the side of his mounth and sucked the needed breath into his diaphragm for his address, “All aboard!... This is the 7:10 train bound for Los Angeles with stops in Ogilby, Glamis, Mesquite, Salton Dos Palms, Dry Camp, Palm Springs Station…” He rattled off a dozen other barn board bergs between Yuma and the coast nobody ever heard of, unless they were from there. I grew up out there though, and knew just how long the 7:10 train would take between each stop. Mine was the fourth. A dusty little hamlet on the edge of the similarly named, Salton Sink. Four years ago I’d returned to the valley on an adventure. I was a seeker of treasure, a legend I had consumed as a child and came to believe in as a grown woman. Time though, and the careless pursuit of youth had diverted my journey in another direction. My left thumb kneaded the pewter band wrapped around the base of my ring finger. I still have no idea why I wore it, a symbol of a union whose purpose was nullified a few short months after its conception. Hector was a good man though, and never dishonored our pact, even after it had become obsolete. A good man yes, but sadly never one I would share a love with. By the fall of nineteen aught four, we’d built a small enterprise from the scantly irrigated lands of the Imperial Valley. His grandfather had been a forty-niner but never once did he prospect for the elusive metals which broke more men than it made. No, the man was a storekeeper, and the lessons learned off the backs of dreamers who spent far more money on provisions then they ever pulled from the ground served his grandson and I well. The locomotive let of a belch of steam from under its chassis as I contemplated the detour that had become my life. My mother said it was the inevitable, that I should be happy I wasn’t alone. The truth though, I still was alone, regardless of how things looked from the outside. From behind me, the hastened drumbeat of leather boot heels rushed against the station’s boardwalk arrested my attention. As they grew nearer they slowed until the Western Union clerk stopped, feet from me, trying to catch his breath. “Miss Kingman!” I still wasn’t use to my changed last name, “Misses Kingman… I have a telegram for you. It came in last night, from London.” I took the slip of paper from him, the typewriter ink barely dried on the half chit of page. It was from Professor Enfield, of the British Museum… “Jonathan, thank you for the message. Can you send this in reply… Nuts!” I placed the sheet in my leather bag and snapped the flap shut as I relayed my response to the clerk. “Yes Ma’am right away Miss, Misses Kingman…” “Jonathan?” “Yes ma’am?” “My name is Ashley, you don’t have to call me Misses Kingman.” “Of course Misses Kingman, it’s just company policy is all.” “Of course it is,” I rolled my eyes at the unescapable truth that to the world, Ashley Grisham didn’t exist anymore, and if tradition had its way, never would again. The bell tolled on the locomotive as the conductor shouted his last warnings for the departing train. I hurried across the uneven decking and reached for the coach railing. I leapt onto the catwalk at the end if the train and peered off into the desert as if for an answer that never would appear. The engineer threw the throttle forward in the cab of steamer and I lurched slightly against the terminal handhold, my journey home on a detour once again. With a reluctant shrug, I turned and opened the door to the passenger coach door and stepped inside. Jefferson Heyduke. He was a bit of an eccentric for an alfalfa farmer, but he made for entertaining company on those boring rides through the desert. Jefferson and I went to school together over in Borrego. Friends always, there was a side of him society dare not view. He also had a keen taste for good Scotch, the trait my younger self admired most. Those days, he was also a partner in my clandestine endeavors, from a business standpoint that is. “Hey Duke,” I smiled as the joke never got old. “ Howdy Ash, how is the world of Misses Kingman these days?” I shot a look of playful disapproval at his use of my married name. “What? Hector is an honorable man. Maybe not who you thought you’d spend the rest of your life with but then again, where is he?” Hayduke’s mischievous smile betrayed his theory my legal spouse was technically cheating on me, perhaps with somebody he loved. I could only hope Hector was so lucky. “Chicago,” was my simple answer. “Isn’t she from…” “Don’t start with me Heyduke!” I pause to collect my thoughts from his distraction. “Anyhow. Your message said you have something for me?” I continued as I sat on the padded bench faced toward him in the passenger coach. I removed the brimmed hat from my head and ran my fingers through my hair to straighten it into place. I then discarded the headdress on the table between us. “Aye, yes I do,” he smiled as he reached for the leather case placed neatly at his feet. The metal clasps snapped open and he rummaged through the container until he retrieved the article I spoke of. He drew the carved piece of wood from the confinement of his satchel and placed it next to my hat on the table. “My dredging crew found this on a levy over near Thermal, shortly after opening the new floodgates there,” Heyduke explained as I took the relic into my grasp. It appeared as only drift wood at first, until further inspection. Carved into the wood were ancient Central American script. I began to interpret them best I could when Heyduke interceded. “de Anza wasn’t after Aztec gold. I believe, he thought he’d found the Fountain of Youth!” He wasn’t lying, but it seemed the translation he’d ascertained and mine were slightly different. “Fountain of Youth?” “Well not exactly. The writing is a bit muddled but best I can tell that’s what he thinks he found!” his excitement hardly contained behind his thick curled mustache. I read the scripted talisman again more carefully and it still made little sense, ‘to travel to another point in life’. It sounded like many of the legends of the Fountain, but still I had never heard it put quite that way. “What do you think it all means Heyduke?” “It means, we’re still in business, Ashley! For now,” he smiled with exuberant satisfaction. “Yeah, about that,” I began, “We received a telegram from Professor Enfield this morning.” I opened the flap on my purse and withdrew the chit of paper from the Western Union clerk. Heyduke took it from my gloved hand and adjusted his spectacles so he could read it aloud. “Dear Miss Grisham… you never told him you were married!?” “I didn’t feel it was pertinent, especially after Hector and I lost…” my voice trailed off at the painful recollection, “…Jack is never one to pry into my personal affairs anyway.” “I’m sorry Ash.” He took my hand to console me as any friend would, before he continued with the telegram, “It is my deepest regret to inform you, and your esteemed colleague, that the board of directors at the British Museum has suspended their sponsorship for you prolonged expedition…” He stopped reading and crumpled the message in his hand, “fuck ‘em Ash. We’ll find it without them!” I turned my head to stare out at the frozen sea of drifted sand which churned forever, until the copper mountains of the western horizon. They seemed another world, in a galaxy far away from that silent train car, almost alien compared to their surroundings of petrified molten oar and mesquite shrubs. I imagined for a moment, the ancient forces that created such a vast arid plain and the ocean which for time covered it. The history of the world was told in that geology, people were just never bothered enough to listen.

(I am a blind person and here is my story of going to my local walmart to pick up some shampoo, please enjoy and I'm open to any tips) I get out of the Uber, clutching my reusable grocery bag, and put my white cane in front of me to guide me into the store on the grocery side. Today, I have only one goal: to get Native shampoo with the cucumber and mint scent. With a sense of determination, I navigate to the end of the first piece of shelving and turn left, walking behind the register. The familiar sound of the automatic doors opening and closing reassures me that I’m on the right path. Now, the challenge is finding the shampoo aisle. There are two possible aisles, and currently, I’m in the pharmacy section. The prominent smell of foot powder confirms my location.I turn down aisle after aisle, trying to figure out where the shampoo could be, but the maze of thin aisles becomes frustrating. Needing a break, I turn onto the main aisles, which are much wider. I decide to take a walk to clear my mind and remove myself from the frustration. As I wander through the store, I explore various sections: auto parts, grocery and produce, clothing, and miscellaneous kitchen gadgets. The main aisle near the toy section catches my attention when I hear a young boy exclaim to his mother, “You gotta get out the way, she can’t see where she goin’!” I chuckle to myself but keep moving forward. My cane hits the edge of a shoe, and I say, “Sorry there.” The boy chimes in again, “See, mama, she hit me with her stick. I told you, she can’t see where she goin’.” The mom picks up the boy and apologizes, “I am so sorry, I had no idea what Julius was fussin’ about.” “It’s perfectly fine, kids will be kids,” I reply with a smile. After finishing my final lap around the store, I make my way to the garden section. The scent of mulch, dirt, and earthy flowers fills the air, creating a pleasant atmosphere. Approaching the counter, I hear two people talking and ask, “Do you guys work here?” “Yes, I do. How can I help you, miss?” a lady responds. “I just need to buy some Native shampoo with the cucumber and mint scent. Can you help me find it?” I ask. “Sure thing, darlin’,” she replies warmly. She gently grabs my upper arm and guides me to the section, calling for another girl who I assume works there. She tells the girl, “Can you help her find the Native shampoo with the cucumber and mint?” then whispers, “She’s blind.” The second girl grabs my non-dominant hand awkwardly, trying to guide me. “You can switch hands if it’s easier for you. I can tell you’re a little uncomfortable,” I suggest. She remains silent for a moment, then asks, “Why do you like this shampoo?” “I just like the scent, and the mint feels good on my scalp,” I reply jokingly. She guides me back to the register, where I check out and receive directions to the produce section to wait for my Uber. Once home, I place the shampoo in the shower beside the almost finished bottle. All in all, it was a good trip. TLDR: I went to the grocery store and a kid did something funny.

The fishing vessel moved slowly down the Yukon river. The captain and only person on the ship sat at a table in the cramped galley with a bottle of brandy in one hand and a glass in the other. He hadn’t shaved in a week or two. He couldn’t remember how long it was. He didn’t even really know how long he was on the ship and it didn’t really matter anyway. He had no where to go. The ship was his home. He hadn’t bathed either but once again what did it matter? He was the only one on the ship. He had been down the river several times but this trip he had gone farther than he ever had. This was a one way trip. He just went wherever the river took him. It was winter time and it was going to be dark soon. The captain looked out the galley window. The shoreline was thick with trees, snow and ice. He saw something within the trees. Some kind of animal, but he couldn’t really make out what it was. The animal stood up. It was tall. A bear, maybe. The captain turned, poured a glass of brandy and took a swig. He looked back. The ship was passing through a dense patch of fog. He couldn’t see the shore anymore. Perhaps the boat would hit a rock while in the fog. He didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything anymore. He could hear a baby crying. He looked around the galley. There were obviously no babies on the ship but the crying grew louder. It was unbearable. It was as if the baby was right next to him. He turned back to the window. The fog cleared and he found himself passing through a riverfront town. He had never seen this town before. A street ran along the river bank and houses lined the street, all facing the water. He was passing a house where a woman was helping another woman get out of a car. The woman in the car was crying and she was holding a baby. The baby was crying too. The captain could not make out their faces but he could hear them talk clear as day. “That bastard!” The woman holding the baby cried as she stepped out of the car. “He couldn’t even be bothered to be here on the birth of his child.” “I know how you feel.” The other woman replied. “But he’s doin what he feels is right to help provide for his new family.” The boat moved on. A few houses later he could see a party going on in the front yard. “Happy birthday!” A group of people shouted, all huddled around a picnic table. A child sat at the table with a cake in front of him or her. The child blew out the candles. “Who wants vanilla ice cream?” Someone asked. The captain smacked his lips. He hadn’t had ice cream in who knows how long and he could practically smell the freshly baked cake. His diet now consisted of mostly booze and canned meat. At the far end of the picnic table someone sat crying. The boat moved on. A man came storming out of the front door of the next house he sailed past. A woman came out behind him. “I’m not selling the boat!” The man turned and shouted at her. “This is my job, my life, my.. my passion.” “You haven’t caught a fish in weeks,” the woman shot back. “I don’t need this,” he replied. “I’m going to the pub.” “Oh sure, go drink your problems away like you always do.” The man climbed into a small pickup truck and drove off down the road. The next house he could see someone sitting at a kitchen table through the window. The person was reading a news paper. “The factory is hiring,” an unseen voice said. The person put the paper down. “No,” the person replied. “That place will be out of business in a week. No one will want to buy canned meat.” The sun had nearly set and the sky was a deep orange. The ship sailed past a pub and within its small parking lot was that very same pickup truck. The captain looked through the large window of the pub. It appeared empty. Suddenly a pair of legs flopped down from above and stopped with a jerk in seemingly mid air. The captain watched in horror as the legs began to sway back and forth. The town had ended and the ship was soon sailing past trees again. It was dark now. The captain turned and poured another glass of brandy. He stared into his glass for a while when he suddenly lifted his head and began to sniff the air. It smelled like smoke. He turned back to the window and the sky was lit up orange with flashes of red, white and blue. He sailed past a house that was engulfed in flames. Firetrucks, ambulances and police cars filled the street around the house. He could see a man sitting in the back doorway of an ambulance as the fire team worked on extinguishing the blaze. Two fire fighters approached him. “No one else made it,” one of the fire fighters said. “I’m sorry.” The captain began to cry and soon he was sailing through the dark again. The captain got up from the table, bottle in hand. He took a swig and proceeded up the small set of stairs the deck of the ship. He stretched as he stepped into the cold open air, walk over to rail on the edge of the deck and looked up at the mass. No one steered the ship. It had a small engine but he didn’t need it. He went to take a swig from the brandy bottle but he stopped. He stared at the bottle for a moment. “Vile thing.” He lifted the bottle and hurled it into the river. He turned to go back below deck when he heard the baby crying again. He turned back and saw women holding babies standing along the shoreline. It was the same woman and baby. Over and over. Then it was just one. Just the woman. The ship hit the shore in front of the women. The captain disembarked. The snow was thick and heavy as he approached the woman. He knew her. His wife. The captain fell to his knees in front of her. “Forgive me!” He pleaded. “It was an accident. I was wrong. I was selfish. I was just doing what I thought was right and I let my pride get in the way.” He looked down. “I came home. I was drunk. I went to light my pipe and left the lighter burning on the counter and I fell asleep. They couldn’t save you.” He began to cry. “I should have listened to you. I should have sold the boat. I should have gotten the job at the cannery. I knew we needed the money.” He looked back up at the woman. “Can you forgive me?” She didn’t respond. “Answer me!” He stood up. “Why won’t you say anything!” He reached for the woman’s shoulder but his hand passed right through her. Her body rippled like water with the passing hand. “Youa’re not real,” the captain was confused and angry. “You’re not real! You’re just in my head! Be gone!” The woman continued to ripple and transform. The captain was in awe. “An otter?” He stared face to face at the otter now before him. The creature was as tall as he was. The captain began to laugh. “You’re an otter.” The otter placed a paw on the man’s shoulder and he began to convulse. His eyes rolled back and he fell to the ground. A moment later he got back up. He too was now an otter.

As expected, the plate of sugary goods awaits him, next to a glass filled with sweet, white cow juice. He gently drops his heavy load and takes a moment to indulge in the tasty harbinger of diabetes. From behind him comes the sound of a gun being loaded, a voice speaks through the darkness “Yippee-ki-yay, Mr. Falcon!”. He feels a sting on his leg and hops, dropping the milk to the floor. “You shot me!” “Welcome to Texas, you animal!” she replies, while pumping her gun. “Sweetie, I think there's been a mistake.” “Ya goddamn right there is a mistake. You ain’t seen the sign on our lawn.” “The warning 'trespassers will be shot’?” “Daddy says it ain’t no warning, it's a promise.” She utters before pulling the trigger once again. “Ouch! Sweetie, stop shooting and listen to me.” “Mommy told me not to talk to strangers.” Unwilling to wait for her to load another shot, he starts limping away, before coming to a halt. “Ya didn’t think I’d come alone, did you?”, the girl mockingly asks. Before him, the hellhound is very vocal about his intentions, letting out a low, constant growl from beneath his exposed row of sharp teeth. “Till now, it’s only you, me and ma Charlenne. But if ya gonna gimme any trouble, you’ll play with Mr. Buttons.” He takes pause to get his head straight and consider his options for a moment. Had this been any other dog he would have used his magic to calm it down, even give a treat to the good boy afterwards, but his countless years on the job taught him never to underestimate the killer instinct of a chiwawa. “Sweetie, can we just talk?” “Keep your hands in the air and don’t move!” “I just want to talk, can you promise not to shoot me again?” He speaks, holding his hands up high. “Ain’t promising no crook nufing!” “I am no crook, sweetie, I’m no trespasser either. I am a jolly old man who brings joy on this special night. Haven’t your parents told you I was coming?” “Ma folks told me, alright. Nufing pass ma mommy and daddy.” “And haven’t they left those milk and cookies for me?” “Mommy is smart. She knew a fatty like you wouldn’t resist a plate of cookies and daddy said it’s easier to shoot a istafionafy taunget.” “Well, haven’t they told you to wait for me?” “They did, I waited and I gotcha.” “Sweetie, don’t you see? I am not a trespasser, I’m a quest.” “Ain’t seeing no guest sneak through the chimney.” “Well, it is not sneaking really, I’m just trying to set up a surprise, besides, you lock the front door, as you should.” “Why?” “To keep the bad men away.” “Ya goddamn right!” He can’t help but smile at the girl’s wit. “You’ve always been a smart cookie, Cherry.” “How do you know my name?” She asks, showing a hint of fragility for the first time in the night. “I know all about you, that is how I know you’re a good girl. I see how you take care of your baby brother, how you help your nana with her chores, how… Ouch! What was that for?” The girl frantically pumps her air pressure gun and rushes to the man, crouched after getting hit in the stomach. Her eyes locked into his, he stares at the barrel of the gun pointed at his face, as her voice, cold enough to chill the bones of the hardest convict, utters “What. Did. You. Do. To. Nana?” “Nothing.” “Did you eat her?” “No!” “Is ma Nana in your belly? Will daddy have to cut it open and get her out?” “No! There’s nothing in my belly but milk and cookies!” “Open wide.” “Cherry…” “O-p-e-n w-i-d-e.” She says, pressing the gun to his forehead. As the man in red opens his mouth, Cherry pushes his beard away and looks deep into his throat, thoroughly and carefully inspecting it. Not finding any Nana, she grabs one of the remaining cookies, her gun held steady on her other hand, never letting him out of its aim, as she takes a seat on the armchair. “We gonna wait till mommy and daddy wake up. If you move, I’ll tell Mr. Buttons there’s a big red pillow left for him to shred.” The little murder machine stands beside him, still growling, still showing his teeth; in front of him, Cherry's eyes and aim remain locked, legs dangling from the armchair as she takes a bite from the cookie. This will be a long night. \_\_\_\_\_\_\_ Tks for reading. More smart cookies can be found here.

Nobody really paid the changes any mind at first. We all assumed they were nothing but minor ailments. The kind you’d barely acknowledge and, more often than not, keep to yourself and expect to fade with time. I did at least. It was nearly a year ago when I first noticed a change. It was getting late, I’d just gotten home from work and had headed straight for the shower. As I lathered myself, I noticed a pimple on my thigh. At least, it looked like one. It didn’t freak like one. It felt hard like acrylic. I didn’t pay it much mind. A few weeks later I went to get my annual checkup at the doctor’s office. After he measured my height, the doctor told me I’d shrunk nearly half an inch. We laughed it off. I was getting up there in years afterall. I also noticed, if only for a moment, a bump on his forearm alot like the one on my thigh. There came a time when the bumps could no longer be dismissed. They continued to appear all over mine and others’ bodies one after another. Eventually it became a topic of conversation, and soon every government had to make a statement. They were all along the same lines. They had no explanation for what was happening, but they said they had their top scientists working on it. At work I noticed myself struggling a little to type on my computer. It seemed my fingers, save for my thumb, refused to move independently from one another at times. Not often enough to be a real hindrance, but enough to annoy me. A few of my coworkers were having the same issue, and we assumed we’d gotten carpal tunnel or something. We petitioned to get better keyboards, and that seemed to solve the issue. It must’ve been placebo. After a while, everyone had encountered similar issues with their hands and lost enough height to notice, but not quickly enough to completely disorient us. It became hard for anyone to deny the changes without lying to themselves. We were afraid. I know I was at the very least, but we could only try our best to go about our lives as normal. We hadn’t completely lost hope yet. Scientists tried their best to prevent us from reaching a point of no return. That is, until their fingers fuse together and they could no longer use their equipment. We were all forced to abandon our work and our passions as our bodies became incompatible with the society we’d built, and it collapsed as our human desires faded. One day, I decided I needed to see my mother, as I found that even my love for her was fading. She was hesitant, afraid to see what had become of her son. I could hardly recognize her when we met. All her hair had fallen out like the rest of us. Her face was unnaturally wide and her eyes were beady. It was nothing I hadn’t noticed changing about myself in the mirror. When we met in front of my childhood home she tried to give me a hug, but her new body wasn’t built for hugging, and she ran inside crying. That was the last time I ever saw her. Our skin hardened and segmented as our bones dissolved, and soon we found ourselves shambling sideways through the streets. First on two feet, then four, then six, and then eight. We’d all given way to instinct as we began to make our way to one place. We knew the human world was no longer our home. We knew we belonged to the sea. I scuttled for miles past everything I was leaving behind. The office building where I used to work, the doctor’s office, my old highschool, my childhood home, and the hospital where I was born. The memories they evoked didn’t register as my own. I shrank smaller by the day, and the distance between me and the ocean seemed to grow at the same rate, but I never stopped for more than a moment. Eventually, the sea stretching into the horizon was within view. As my claws first grazed the shore all memory of what it was like to be human washed away, and as I first submerged beneath its salty waters I knew my transformation was complete. I knew what we’d become. I knew what I’d become. I was a crab.

“My marriage to him would mean nothing, my love. I would find a way to rid myself of him in time.” I’m desperate now, not wanting to let him go and unable to stop the river of tears splashing onto his forehead. “I would rather perish than put you in that position. I’d likely end up in the gallows anyway for murdering the scoundrel.” I shake my head, not wanting to listen to reason. “Let’s keep you alive now and find a way to deal with this later. I’ll break you out of the dungeons before they can hang you if I have to, and we can make a run for it.” “We won’t get far, my love, and probably both end up getting hung for the effort.” I grip his hand tighter, hoping the longer I hold onto him, the longer he’ll stay with me, but I can feel his strength waning. He can barely keep his eyes open, his breath raspy and labored. Soon, he will leave me. “Stay with me,” I plead through sobs. “That’s the one good thing about this curse.” He must be losing his mind. “There’s nothing good about this curse.” “Not true. I will get another chance with you in my next life.” “Pfft.” I can’t help laughing through my sorrow. He’s so irritatingly optimistic at times. The laughter doesn’t last long before turning back to weeping. “You probably won’t even remember me. I’ll be an old maid.” “I’ll always remember you.” Breaking down, I cradle his head in my hands and press my forehead to his. “Until we meet again, my love,” I whisper. He takes his final breath, and I sit there for a while, rocking back and forth. His face is peaceful, no longer tinged with constant pain, but I don’t want to believe he’s actually gone. The healers have to pry him from my arms. As they carry him away, my body trembles uncontrollably, the emotions overpowering me. I feel anguish over his loss, but more than that, a violent furor toward the man who took him from me. Over the following years, I devise various plots to take Erevos down, but he is a powerful magus of influence, and it’s nearly impossible to get him alone. It takes decades for me to catch him slipping one night after leaving a brothel without one of his guards. “You’re a hard man to get alone,” I say as I pull out a dagger, grab his greasy ponytail, and hold the blade against his neck. It cuts into him just enough to draw blood but not enough to kill. I want him to know why he’s about to die. “Whatever I’ve done, miss, I’m sure there’s a way we can settle this without further bloodshed.” “Tell that to my dead husband.” He pauses for a moment before the recognition dawns on him. “Avlore?” “Good, you remember. Now you know why you must die.” He laughs, making me want to vomit. I dig the blade deeper into his neck, and he stops, but I can still see the look of amusement on his face. “And what will you do afterward? No matter where you go, my men will find you and make you beg for death. Is that what Finnegan would want for you?” “Don’t you dare say his name!” I shout, cutting deeper. “You’re not a quarter the man he was, unfit to even clean the horse dung off his boots.” I can feel my anger rising, the taste of sweet revenge within reach. But our conversation is cut short by a guard on patrol who grabs me from behind and twists the dagger from my grasp. I cry out in pain as his thick, gauntleted arm wraps around my neck, scraping against the delicate skin. “Thank you for your assistance, good lad. You will be rewarded handsomely. Take her to my personal dungeons while I think of a proper punishment,” Erevos says with a devilish, covetous grin. I kick and try to scream, but my airway is blocked. Eventually, I pass out, Erevos’ evil grin the last thing I see. The next morning, I awaken chained to the damp, musty floor of his dungeon. It remains my living quarters long enough for my desire for revenge to die. Occasionally, Erevos comes to torture me and remind me of my failure, but eventually, he grows bored once I stop reacting, and the visits cease. His final words to me are, “What a pity. We could have done great things together,” but I elicit no response, not wanting to give him any reason to return. Resolving to spend the rest of my days locked away, the memory of my late beloved is enough to keep me alive. Several centuries pass, and Erevos falls out of favor after committing countless atrocities. He is stripped of his title and assets and left to die as an old pauper on the streets. Most of his prisoners are pardoned, including myself. When I pass him on the street one day, I feel only pity for what has become of him. Living out the rest of his days this way seems a fair punishment for his crimes. With my newfound freedom, I travel from town to town, experiencing the innovations that time has wrought. Riding on one of the new magic-powered airships, I embrace the freedom of leaving my past behind. I view a stunning, full-color picture show on a colossal screen with a clever, romantic leading man who reminds me of Finn. Awe-inspiring structures glow with magical light in vast cities, the need for candles and lamps extinguished. Floating metropolises surrounded by picturesque oceans and fluffy clouds dot the coastlines. Eventually, I settle in a small, quaint town that reminds me of my younger years. I look after the children of the busy wives and tend to a small garden in my spare time. One day, a woman whose children I look after welcomes her eldest son home from war, and something about him seems familiar. The way he talks and laughs reminds me of Finn. I watch him from a distance, allowing myself to reminisce, but never muster the courage to approach him. Instead, he approaches me one day on my way home. “I feel like I know you from somewhere,” he says with a smile that nearly gives me a heart attack. “I highly doubt that, young man. I recently moved to this area while you were away at war.” “Well, all the same, I’d like to get to know you better. You seem like a cool old lady,” he says, chuckling. “I assure you there’s nothing remarkable about me,” I protest, but he won’t hear it. Every time I see him after that day, he stops to talk to me. As time passes and I get to know him, I become even more sure that he is the husband I lost long ago. But I see no point in telling him so. He has his whole life ahead of him, and I’m an old, elven woman at the end of my current lifetime. Who knows how many years it will take me to reincarnate? Things are better with him remembering me this way. As I lay on my deathbed, he holds my hand gently but firmly, tears welling in his eyes. “This is probably going to sound crazy, Avlore, but I think I remember you from a past life. The story you told me about your husband getting killed by an evil magus feels like a distant memory.” My eyes widen, and I struggle to speak. “It doesn’t sound crazy at all. You remind me a lot of Finn. I almost told you so, but I didn’t think it would be a good idea.” “I wish you had told me. Now I feel like I wasted so much time building the courage to tell you how I feel about you.” “I’m still here...for now.” “I love you, Avlore, and I never forgot about you.” Tears trickle down my temples, and the weight of the past lifts from my old heavy body, the longing I felt for centuries finally satiated. “I love you, too. Until we meet again, my love...

The Campfire Journals Henry Henry is going to crack. We all see it, even the most hopeful among us. The warning signs are stacking way too quickly. He keeps scratching himself all over because the skin gets dry before it happens. He always seems to be tired, and never seems to get the second wind occasionally granted to the rest of us. He mumbles to himself a lot, can’t seem to think in his head even if he tries. He blanks out and stares off into space for unnerving amounts of time. Well, we all do that I suppose. Often there’s little else to do in order to pass the time, but it’s different for him. He does it for longer, and it’s harder to snap him out. He has to hear his name called several times, loudly, before he seems to realize where he is. Honestly, it’s almost like he’s sleeping. I kind of envy that. Kind of. Isaac keeps trying to convince him to hold on. He doesn’t want to lose anyone else on his watch. All Isaac talks about us how we have to help Henry. The poor bastard. He’s going to be crushed when Henry’s gone. It’ll be night again in less than a week. Without the sunlight, Henry’s fucked. The light from campfire isn’t going to keep him around for more than a day or so. Humans need light here. More so since time started behaving oddly. Even a blind man needs light now. There’s something about light that keeps you from going mad. It keeps your soul alive. It keeps the madness away in the same way it keeps the demons away. The fires help when it’s night, but it’s a temporary solution. The sun is the only thing that’ll really keep the shadows out of your mind. And if the darkness gets this deep under your skin in broad daylight, like it has with Henry, you’re done for. David says the realm itself is trying to eat us. It’s feeding on our souls, or our sanities. Maybe both. Other people say the shadows are alive. Conscious, and hungry. They feed on us and they’re sneaky enough to do it while we’re sitting right in front of a roaring flame. It just takes longer that way. Personally, I don’t much know what to think. And I don’t care much either. All I know is, there’s something evil roaming the world and the fire is usually enough to keep it away. Don’t go travel at night, away from the fires, and you’ll probably be fine. Of course then there’s people like Henry. Some people are just unlucky I suppose. Isaac thinks it has something to do with them letting their hope die. He could be right but I think he’s trying to make sense where there’s no sense to be made. Life is just unfair like that, if you ask me. Music helps. Keeps the shadows of the mind away. Preserves the mind, much like light. Light and music is a good combination. It’s just about the safest you can ever feel here. But music is hard to find. That’s why David left to look for bards. If we had a couple people to make consistent music, almost no one would have to end up like Henry. And if we had several, we might even be able to start expanding our territory. We’d be able to keep more ground safe. I do pity Henry. But these things happen. Best to keep one’s thoughts on those who still have a fighting chance. When you watch someone go through what he’s going through, you can find it happening to yourself if you look too closely. And I’m certainly not going to let that happen to me. Henry’s fate is one I truly wouldn’t wish on anyone. His mind will grow emptier and emptier. Less and less of his identity will remain each day. His speak less and less, and then he’ll lose the ability to speak at all. Then he’ll stop eating. Then he’ll stop doing anything at all. Henry will simply collapses somewhere. Mind you, he won’t die. His heart will still beat, and his lungs will still breathe but his mind will be a blank, white void. He’ll be utterly unresponsive to words, or pain, or sensation of any kind. And then his body will stand back up. But he won’t be Henry anymore. He’ll just be the body of something Henry use to live in. Now from here, there’s actually a couple of ways this could go from here, in my experience. He could just stay basically empty. He’ll just sort of drift from place to place, with no real purpose in mind. He’ll be unnerving to watch, but more or less harmless. Just an aimless body with no brain to pilot it, shambling from place to place. We call those ones the White Wanders. He could stay like that for a few hundred years. Until he withers away to dust. Unless something eats him before then. Or he could turn out as a a Red Wanderer. More or less the same thing, but with the occasional violent outburst. They can be triggered by someone talking too loud, or getting too close. Sometimes a specific word will set them off. Some say the name of a certain god will send any Red wanderer into a frenzy, though I haven’t observed this myself. Or he would become one of the Worshippers. Drawn to one of the many statues, idols and altars that dot the land. No one knows how they even find the damn things, but I suppose some otherworldly force calls to their minds. The make their way to these locations, they kneel, pray and speak they guard. I guess their worship gives power to whatever beings are causing the changes to the world we’ve experienced. They’re not usually violent, unless you approach the altars. The only time they’re really a problem is when their altars are blocking somewhere we need to get to, which is rare. I have to admit, the the worshipers creep me out the most of all the 3. There is an unlikely, worst case scenario. He could become one of the White Eyes. We call them that because they’re eyes shine with an eerie white light. They’re violent, always searching. They slowly but tirelessly patrol the lands, attacking anything that moves. And they speak sometimes too. Mostly in chants, or battle cries I think. It’s in a language none of us have ever heard before. In fact I’m not sure it’s even a human language. All I know is, every time I hear it, it makes my skin crawl in a way nothing else ever has before. I really hope that doesn’t happen to Henry. I hope he becomes one of the quiet, peaceful wanderers. That seems like the best outcome. He deserves at least that much. He was a good man. Though I must say, as I write this, he is glancing at me occasionally, and it is quite unnerving. Something in his eyes feels like he knows I’m writing about him as though he were already gone.

Back when Ben was in college in the early 2000, he intentionally tried to live as an idealistic intellectual, like trying on a new personality. Ben had managed to get a single dorm room for the fall semester out of a strange set of circumstances wherein his roommate had basically disappeared. He forwent a laptop, despite it making his social and academic life measurably more difficult than it otherwise would be, but this was his design. In the late summer of 2002 the impact of constant contact, focused advertising, tiktok finance, youtube content creators and dubai-style lifestyle vendors were science fiction…though, they were taking shape way out in the darkness. In his room there were scattered novels of Hunter S. Thompson, Don Delillo, various philosophical tomes, and a field journal about an undiscovered tribe of pygmies living on a remote island chain in the Solomon seas from the same era as his typewriter. Instead of a laptop he had found a 1930s Underwood model C portable typewriter for fifteen dollars at a dingy thrift store in town to complete all his written assignments. He was infatuated with the tactile feel of the keys, the mechanical clack of the typebars smacking the ribbon, and the importance of a hand typed paper. When he found the technological relic one afternoon in late summer, the old store clerk behind a tall counter pointed with a crooked yellow finger at the antique, “Don't underestimate the power of imagination young man, it's a hell of a thing. Hell, I should know because I fought in the great war ya know…against the hun! In those days we didn't have fancy things like portable telephones and PORN everywhere you look, these GODdamn girls today walk around looking like HOOKERS!!! And another thing….the Sopwith Camel…” The old man was ranting now and Ben could sense that this would be a situation where he was the sole inheritor of this man's life story. Everyone else had either died or stopped talking to the old loon years ago, and the faint perfume of whiskey was unmistakable. Even at 20, Ben knew that smell all too well. He inche’d back towards the door nodding and “uh-huh’ing” until he slipped out in between the slurs. He could still hear the old crazy bastard rambling on and on as he stepped out into the August sunlight. Ben wasn't a bad student, but he wasn’t a road scholar either. In all realities he was lucky to be in college at all. He was the first in his immediate family to get into a 4 year university and barely got in at that. Ben’s mom was a bank teller and his dad had gotten lucky in the bar business in their hometown after coming home from a tour in Nam. He knew that he was never going to discover the next breakthrough in the mystery of consciousness but he could write, and he loved reading the American greats. As the fall of 2002 rolled on he slowly began to write for his own enjoyment on the underwood. Assignments were more of an aside and it was easy to steal paper from the library printers. At first, he would just write about his thoughts, but then, he started to write about his desires, his dreams, his fantasies. Eilenn was also from his hometown, a small town in the north Chicago burbs called Glencoe, home of the Chicago Botanical Garden. She was cooler than Ben and from a better family. Yet, she apparently had noticed him as he had noticed her. They had hung in the same loose circle of friends but he was dating her friend at the end of the summer after high school, although they had broken up when Ben left for his first year at UIUC. Really, he had liked Eileen from the first time they met, and talking with her felt effortless. Hanging out with Eileen felt…easy. She had been accepted into the college of Ag. And Environmental Sciences at UIUC for the fall of 2002. She would also end up in the same dorm, just on a different floor. At first Ben would write in a journal style in the odd hours of the night, recounting events of the days or weeks, but when Eileen got to campus he started writing more and more about her. They had gone to parties together that fall, and drunkenly kissed a few times (which was understood to be meaningless). Hell, he had slept in her dorm room on a few intoxicated Fridays, but she was dating another guy. One night, a Thursday, in October after drinking a bottle of chianti by himself and smoking lucky strikes out on the front porch of the dorm, he plopped down to type a love letter to Eileen on the underwood. When he finished he stared at the pages for a bit, full of typos. “Your a wet street, in spring with the high presure sodisum litghts dimeing…your a bet that I cant take, the odds stacked I’’ only looe What iI amake…. “ He yanked the last page of the letter out of the paper fingers, crumpled it up with the rest of the pages and tossed it into the wastebasket. He felt hopeless, hopeless as a dove- hatefully in love, and flopped down on the twin sized dorm bed, into oblivion. That night Eileen was laying in her twin dorm bed, top bunk, listening to The Postal Service while staring up at her ceiling bordered by Christmas lights. Her boyfriend had seemed more distant in the last few weeks, and her mind drifted along to the night her and Ben kissed at a frat party. She thought about how they had spent an afternoon last August hiking, listening to Modest Mouse, and then how she thought there was something interesting about him. She grabbed her egg shaped phone from between the wall and her mattress, the gray light illuminating her face as she looked for Ben’s name. Not finding it and remembering he stopped using his phone that fall she jumped down to her desk. She flipped on the desk light, located a 3 x 5 note card and scribbled “Hey homie! I have to go to this dumbass Beaux-Arts Ball thing in Glencoe, want to go with? And, do you have any pot??” In just hiking shorts and a string tank she snuck up to the 3rd floor and slipped the note under Ben's door. When she cracked the door of her dorm room open again letting the bright hallway light in, the lower bunk mate Ariel just turned over and groaned “Duuude, what the fuck..

~Rayray~ It felt frustrating in Chongqing. I was rather stuck in Hechuan. I got accustomed to lajiao (spice) there. I was a Midwesterner at the age of 22. I was raised in Illinois. I became a manic—a Ferris wheel on fire—I was hiding under a bed in a hotel. Bold like napalm. Sometimes I can never stop. Even when I was 18 in a ward arguing with staff. Always want to fight things. That’s why I refused the meds and went on a plane from America to China. I was going to be an English teacher. And like a light switch, the change and SSRIs turned me into a mess. It would be my first time experiencing psychosis. My biggest issue. I never imagined I would be stuck illegally in a country suffering a psychotic episode in my early twenties. Transplanted as pollen. I was left with a backpack and a cellphone. With a downloaded app called WeChat. I had arrogantly quit a university job in a fit. Spent the past months full of energy and not sleeping and neglecting myself, including not eating, to work on a novel. Not considering myself normally religious, I had obsessed over occult ideas during that time. Spending nights reading Aleister Crowley—haven taken a rusty pocket knife to carve a pentagram on my chest for spiritual protection. I did not have funds to fly home. My visa was connected to my previous job, which meant I had now made it void. I was an illegal resident now in China. I used a nifty app called WeChat as a messaging app, it allows users to find people near them that are also looking for others. It was like a virtual pond. All kinds of people, including sex workers trying to make things happen. It could with luck be used to find people looking for people in terms of other kinds of work. It was helpful on many occasions for finding gigs working at English training schools and also finding work as a private tutor for people. WeChat also works as a digital wallet. Mania makes me irritable. Enough to tell a boss to fuck off. Thoughts ricochet within me. Bumper cars collide. Being stuck and angry sucks. I scrolled and scrolled on a Huawei phone. Absolutely pissed off at this world. Pissed at the times police wanted to take me away for being a mess. Sometimes women get pissed. Scrolling through their phones. Angry at their cheating husbands. It really is not that hard to have flair—be a damn white oddity. Like moths to a porchlight. Particles of sand through hands. This is when I first started the habit of it… I rather go by a rather empty name of Rayray… with further explanation needed but now is not convenient. But I assure it is interesting enough and has some importance. Habits are various in nature in how they attach to and eat at marrow—like atom bombs flashing as rays evaporating DNA—sets in a way less than human as putting myself in the cage of bad things taken up—my time as a former heroin addict is left as stretch marks on me in various ways. The same goes for the first time I found myself making arrangements with middle aged married women while desperation of waves whiplashed me like sandpaper hands coming at me to leave me in a tiring state of abrasion. I had spent a night snuck away into a hotel. Found someone on a business trip. Instead of registering I waited to sneak along into the hotel elevator amongst a group of others attending the hotel, as I had no card. I headed to a designated room number. Originally I was sitting in a park. Playing on WeChat and found someone in their mid-thirties. Pictures were exchanged and I said no. She brought up paying for the hotel if I arrived. I agreed and went along. When I met I washed up after her and we used our phones to awkwardly translate what we would do. Room service knocked. I found myself hidden under a bed as I was not registered to be there. It seems unusual that it was around this time I had started working on a story of my life as a heroin addict when I got caught up in my worse manic episode ever experienced during my age of 22. Finished half that story before never going back to it after my manic episode had ended. Now I am here writing about it and wondering if the same can happen again in the process of this work. It feels extremely cliché I would write a novel about struggles with heroin addiction. It has been done many times. It’s just lame of me. I feel like my thoughts are bit off. I left the hotel the next morning with the little money I did have on a debit card. Turns out the woman was from Taiyuan. It is a city in the northern part of China in the province of Shanxi—coal country with the worst air pollution in China. She has a colleague in Taiyuan that takes courses at an English training center. I was able to contact this place in the morning via a shared contact on WeChat given to me by the stranger I met that night. Before I knew it I was sending my information and documents in my backpack at an internet café in a fax—with the intent that the woman agreed to share my information to the training center as she shared my contact to its hiring manager. It would land me a job that day that would help me out of my situation. Things turned not quite out as I expected though. I was shifted like a ball to somebody else to contact for a training center geared to teaching children. I took what I had and ran off to a train station after taking the public transit. Unfortunately I was shit for money and could not afford a high speed rail pass. The slow train would take thirty-two hours to get to my destination. I would have taken a room with a bed but all I could afford was a hard seat for the travel. Things were getting better for me in the circumstance considering I had found someone willing to take me for work despite my visa situation. The thirty-two hour train ride was horrendous in some ways, but mostly I was in excitement despite the circumstances. I’m always giddy when disappointed. I moved up and down the aisle of the train. I could not speak mandarin, but it did not stop me from trying to interact with everyone. I talked many ears off during the train ride. I went up and down the aisle trying to interact as a moth to porchlights—I could not stop even if I had wanted to. I found great enjoyment the times I did get to sit across a table from somebody my age heading to Taiyuan from Chongqing. They were a university student returning to their hometown. Another passenger who sat beside me was an elderly man with hard boiled eggs, he was eating one after another one. I highly enjoyed each and every conversation that I had. It was like my head was a lightbulb wanting June bugs to bang against it with the intensity of Roman candles shot at my mouth of nicotine tinged teeth. “If you find someone in Shanxi it is practice to pay the family money before you can get married. You would also have to already own a home and a car,” told my new friend across in their seat from me—a university passenger friend named David. “Not necessarily what I was looking for. When is the next stop for snacks?” When the train stops I am able to get out and to have a walk onto the platform to buy various goods from the vendors to take back with me to eat along the ride to Taiyuan. I had all my important documents tucked in my bag. This included my health clearance and obviously I made no mention of my mental health diagnosis or history to the doctor who had to evaluate me. My diploma and TEFL certificate were tucked away securely. A TEFL is a certificate that stands for Teaching English as a Foreign Language, it qualifies me to teach English as a second language abroad—it had only took a few months of taking a course online that I had paid for to obtain. It is easy to be happy when you can trick yourself as your own con artist. Mania can make you deceive yourself. One can be doused in napalm and still not fully recognize what is actually going on. Same goes the flicking of psychosis. Even when I have nothing I find myself in my radiating irritation the most qualified of things—the velocity of my rhythm sets me out of an orbit. The pressure cooker keeps me moving like a propeller at times. I finally arrived at Taiyuan. I arrived at the station to be greeted by Ryan my manager and his assistant Jennifer. We had our hello and introduction and they helped me get to a taxi that would bring me to my new apartment. I finally had a residence again. Apparently they were desperate for a teacher. The last teacher was from New Mexico and apparently they pulled a midnight run—that is when a teacher in the middle of the night disappears onto a plane back home without any notification of it. The apartment was okay. On the fourth floor with no elevator, so it was a bit of a climb up a dark stairwell not lit correctly. My job was a training center that had a location near Yingze Park in the center of the city. I was to be paid in cash via envelopes. I would assist in teaching kindergarten all the way up to high school aged students there in private lessons paid by their parents. I would also be assigned by my company to various primary schools in the city. I would take public buses to various schools paid by the company I worked for to give English lessons as I bounced around to various classrooms and schools in the city. Often I would receive a phone call to avoid going to work that day if my boss got inside input that officials would be doing raids to check foreigners’ visas that day. A taxi ride would always be a thrill. Caused me nerves at first, but I came to love the flying in dangerous ways along a busy road. I remember a driver beeping their horn away as they drove onto the sidewalk to pass people. They treated the pedestrians as if they were in the wrong. I came flying in front of a primary school at its front gates. I was going to start teaching a first grade classroom and a kindergarten classroom. The way schools are set up is with a wall around the entirety of the exterior of the school. There is a gate at the front where one or two security will be waiting to let people in and out of the complex of the school. I walked in front of the gate to greet the security. It was my first time with an assignment at this school. The guard said they had never seen me before and wouldn’t let me in. Not a big nuisance while I called my boss who then called the school to sort out the situation. I miss the classroom so much. I ended up teaching in China for five years at various training schools. After returning to Illinois, I still taught as a primary school teacher in a public school. I often feel extremely ugly from inside to my outside, but something is attractive there. This does not come just in terms of flirting and relationships—mania makes me a genuine lightbulb that flickers in a way that encourages the insects to me—everyone looks like a June bug—this is what I have come to understand about life. But that ugly does kind of stay like rot in a cavity that leaves a bad taste in the mouth that smells foul—hoping nobody catches the smell near me—it must tie into my struggles with bulimia over the years. The same goes for my years as a teacher—in relation to the whole lightbulb phenomenon—I’m positive it is tied to mania and hypomania. The younger students always were fixated on the information I was teaching to them. I kept over the years methods taught to me and self-taught that I found extremely effective with younger students when it comes to teaching. Everything was physical in learning in terms of intensity and ambition. When teaching my first grade classroom I would create flashcards for the vocab we would work on and implement in creating new sentences with. We would chant these words together in a way that made me a clown while teaching. Students would yell out the word that I presented with intense enthusiasm. As I walked by students it was expected that while they yelled out the word they would also physically hit the card. Later I would also work on physical gestures and acting out of vocab words and they would follow the actions and phrases with me. I would often eventually turn the class into two teams. When students got an answer right I would behave comically and full of energy—I would give them a high five and pretend they were so strong with it that it hurt my hand in the process with much exaggeration—the students always seemed to never get tired of this act. One game I would play involved drawing two stick figures with happy faces on them. Each figure would represent one of the teams for the classroom. I would draw a hungry alligator under the figures. Their faces would also be comical in appearance and full of exaggerations. Each figure had a parachute placed over them and four strings attached. During the game the students would race to say the word correctly represented on the flashcard or the correct word for the gesture I was making. The team that was not the slowest would lose a string on the parachute. If a team lost all four strings they would fall to the alligator who would eat them. The students found it hilarious with my actions involved in it. I would also draw tears and a person praying to represent anticipation and worry of falling down each time they lost a string. I had a tooth game too. I would draw too large faces for each team. The team that could answer the flashcards and gestures the quickest would have a tooth drawn in their mouth. The team with the most teeth would win and it would look rather funny as the mouth grew and grew with an abnormal and extreme amount of teeth. I often did other physical and interactive games like having students run to the word I showed a card to or gestured—each word would be attached to a point in the classroom on a wall. I know it sounds grandiose, but the parents always seemed to think I was great at my job. The word vulnerable means so many things to me. That word is like the coal to form the generator that makes the guiding energy for the ethics I follow in my life—I hold very strongly to these values that have developed on how to live—I can express it more later but I greatly attach a kind of Christian value system to it, which makes sense considering I was raised in a Lutheran household and always went to church, Sunday school, and went to my courses and went through my confirmation—everyone is a bit of a mop—some pick up clean water and others dirty or a mix of it—waiting to find the people to drain them voluntarily or involuntarily. I was born vulnerable. I walk pigeon-toed and grew up tripping on my feet—I speak with a soft feminine voice. Bipolar disorder makes somebody vulnerable. There was much vulnerability in being eighteen and hospitalized involuntarily for my first manic episode—tied to a stretcher. I have almost a sense of us vs them—the vulnerable and those that harm the vulnerable—take advantage of the vulnerable—I feel this is a very much Christian in the idea of the unfortunate are more holy than the rest of the bunch—children are like that in terms of being born into a cruel existence—a cruel existence I felt at times in my life and so many do—making sure harm does not come to those in need gives the light of purpose to go bright inside like a Christmas tree in my brain—this light of happiness and warmth. I never expected I would fall in love for teaching due to the antidepressant effect provided. It would become my career for a decade. Some grow up wanting to be a teacher, I became one by accident, desperation, and being saved. Sometimes I inflate on self-hate like a helium balloon that needs to be tied to a wrist to not float away. In my early teens I started struggling with bulimia and image. I remember when my mother caught me in the act. I was not offered help but criticized. I was called a girl for my problems and threatened to be taken somewhere to be fixed of my confusion. I don’t identify as transgender. I identify as a man that struggles with bulimia and happens to have feminine qualities. I attribute it to circumstances that happened to me—a justification for the pain at times—an attack on aspects of bisexuality. After a long day of work I did what my young self often did. I went clubbing with friends. I feel like even if I hide aspects of myself such as being bisexual, people can spot it regardless. I’m extremely secretive about it and not comfortable displaying that vulnerable aspect of myself. My friend from England went with me. He was about six years my senior. Big guy. Tall. The clubs name was Maoye. I always enjoyed the free drinks available to foreigners—it was done to attract Chinese clients, as the idea was foreigners being there would attract people. Amongst the hot and sweltering crowd a man grabbed ahold of me. I felt stuck. I was taken off guard. Pushed and cornered. While on me I managed to push him off. But it all serves as a reminder of the vulnerability of my life. A nail was placed into my hand—a constant burn and reminder of that vulnerability. Part 2 From self-hate I can also be so grandiose. I am like a Christmas tree that is lit up. Sparklers so pretty that you cannot let go of them, even if it burns your fingertips and hurts. From heroin to sex, you can smother the pain. You drain the ocean to fill a void in these times. It ties to mania as well. That restlessness and irritability is extinguished by the paradox of throwing kerosene to everything burning. I’m so grandiose to hide my insecurities, I mistake my misfortune as a mark of something ugly virtuous—the neon of vulnerability pulsating like a star within me. Swelling on a pain. Bad habits. I want you to judge me and tell me what’s wrong with me. Give me a verdict. Stress a trigger for mania, and I was stressed from the incident I had experienced at the club. I bloated like a tick to distract from locusts of thoughts that could not shut up with their commotion. I had been sleeping around more than before. My brain was Christmas tree lights. I accelerated on a generator—I made a mixed episode worse. Tease a disaster when you are heightened like a blimp. Full of hydrogen. Hoping to burn up ad rain down like napalm. When the pretty candles on the Christmas tree are left untouched—not looked at like a kettle on burner that has been forgotten—the dry neglected tree will into a house fire. I’ve had four attempts in my life so far. When I attempt I don’t cry for help. I feel too vulnerable. I’m afraid. Hate police and wards. Downing pills. My past failed attempts made me aware of everything done wrong before. The sleeping pills alone might not do what I was looking for at that time. I bought an electrical cable. This way if it failed I would still be unconscious and choked out by the cord—fail safe plan to end my life. The words coming out of my mouth slowed down. I started getting second thoughts. Stuck my face towards the toilet bowl while on my knees. Sticking my fingers down my throat. Leaving blood vessels bursting in my eyes. Went stumbling outside and waved a taxi down and asked to be taken to the local hospital. Never expected finding myself checked into a psych ward in a foreign country. Nietzsche has a quote in reference to chaos in life and how it is needed to create a star—this reference holds so much value to me. Sometimes stars hit together just right to create fate out of the worst of things. The ward lead me to meet the woman made of paper. She would one day become my wife. I would have two daughters with her. Forge together as soldiers to face the obstacles in life. Someone who would save my life during a future attempt when I was found unconscious from an overdose. The smartest and toughest woman I have ever known. Someone to build trenches with. I liked it when she stuck that needle in me for an IV. It must correlate to being a heroin addict. The pushing of something in my vein correlates to happiness and purity. The woman made out of paper was my nurse in the ward I was stuck in. What attracted her to the mess that is me I will never understand fully. The woman made out of paper is named Lilu. She was one year older than me and one of my nurses at that ward in Taiyuan. She was from Zhengzhou—a city in the province of Henan that is based in the center of China. I am sure as the reader it would be nice to know why I call her the woman made of paper. She struggled with her own demons. She also deserves much praise for her resilience and brains. When she was born she was raised by a family that adopted her and often neglected and abused her growing up. Her biological family is distant from her, even though she has an identical twin—they felt too poor to take care of her and made the choice that they needed to be less of one child as she also has an older sister—her twin got to stay with that family but she was given up and adopted. I am sure this must bother her even if she never will talk about it to anyone in her life—as she is one to refuse ever discussing emotions and feelings, as this is not her personality type—she is very much a fighter. I think most would struggle with wondering why they were the one let go of—it also must hurt her knowing that the family would have a son and keep him. Despite all these circumstances, she graduated top of her class of four thousand students—Chinese high schools can be quite large serving a large region—they often serve as boarding schools. She was a smart and hardworking student. Circumstances never made her stop trying to be the best and moving forward and she never made excuses for herself. In university she also did well and got accepted at the most studious and hard to obtain nursing position at the number one hospital in Shanxi. I have already ranted and gone on about my affection and feelings tied to heroin. Drinking of entire oceans to fill voids. Paper is a void. It asks for calligraphy to be written on it to make braille. This way when fingers run over skin to tell its worth—the reason for its troubles on display—it forms connection through those words of declaration—the whining for why things are the way they are—the filling of a void like a heroin addict needing a cure to cure kicking legs—two papers come together to write upon one another—as a paper I am her typo—I stand as a falling mess with nerves like tripwire, I keep failing and losing my composer, while she stands stronger as a declaration that has been written on me, my very own typewriter—when I was chased I listened to her and joined as one. I wish and intend to always serve the woman made out of paper who has saved my life and has always been there for me, being so strong despite circumstances—amongst the wind of turmoil in life I follow along her path like a sail. It was love at first sight for her but not for me. I had no interest in dating her at the time. I worked across the street of that hospital in an office building for a training center as a part time job. I would teach adults English who paid for private lessons near to Yingze park in the center of Taiyuan. She signed up for classes for me to teach her and brought me food on almost every other day that she had prepared. Eventually we found ourselves coupled fully. As paper we write on each other—eat each other.

~Part 3 Luna Baby~ A woman like Chang’e lived on a moon. Far away. You can refer to me as Luna Baby. At the age of 19 I was diagnosed with a severe nerve pain condition. It is called trigeminal neuralgia but you can call it TN for ease. I was frustrated. I had completed a degree in international finances from Chongqing University of Business and Technology. The boom of the economy was not the same. There was an urge to “lay flat”—to not try as a form of opposition to everything going on in a waning economy in China. All are elephants chained for an audience. People love to peek and stare as though they are glass doors without hinges—to be made feel useless. I developed TN at the age of 19, and was now 22. It came as an arrow, and quite literally to the face. It’s a rare nerve pain disorder often considered one of the most painful conditions known. The illness involves intense nerve pain throughout the left side of my face. It felt like someone was trying to pull all of the teeth on the left side of my face without anesthesia. The pain can leave me falling to the floor unable to speak or move while screaming profanities while choked by pain. A feeling of a knife to my face over and over again. It leaves me in absolute shock. Like Roman candles to the face. An absolute hindrance. The anticipation of not knowing when it will happen again is a nightmare at times. The disease is often called the suicide disease, apparently up to 26% try to take their lives. In a state of panic during one of the nerve attacks I began swallowing any pill near to me. I went to the hospital to have my stomach pumped when I was found comatose by my mother. I want to be Chang’e and on the moon and away from a world I have had enough of. Gossip spread around the workplace that I attempted suicide over an affair with a married man. There was too much guilt to return to the workplace. COVID did have an impact to the economy. I still remember my hometown having dirt and trees piled onto the exits and entrances to the city keep people in their places. The work I did find felt beneath me. China has what is called the great firewall that keeps something in and out of the country’s networks. A VPN was necessary to access American TikTok as it was used as opposed to the Chinese version. Feels humiliating the nature of the outcome for me—I gave up in many ways like so many Chinese youth. For work I would go to a local office building. Amongst a long hall would be rooms for live stream performers. I would entertain with watchers while trying to obtain virtual gifts for actual money. I despised it—sometimes the conversation could be funny or interesting but it felt hollow. I would paint flowers on my face and wear hanfu clothing while doing ASMR. Competing in battles while dress cute and facing off with others. I would encourage and flatter those that send virtual gifts that could be exchanged for gifts. I would message and ask for WeChat account numbers to talk to them and I would be an emotional prostitute pretending to love and be interested in them for the hopes of more gifts. Methods of manipulation would be used as in begging, guilt tripping a viewer, and love bombing them. Often middle aged men would pretend to be the female host. I had a mind of sparklers burning until it burnt and stung like wax—like I had the option to stop and cry and those tears stuck as wax and burnt or I soldiered on and grew accustomed to the pain. I was an elephant chained. The audience watched and interacted with me on the live. I was a chained elephant when it was found out about my previous attempt and when the rumors spread. Too many thorns in life. Nails hitting at the wrong points like an equation for something terrible to eventually happen—a life set to end in misery—a fate. My favorite dish was Henan noodles. I often cooked it with my mom. It provides great memories of childhood. I hadn’t talked to my mother as much as before. She moved to a job in Taiyuan. Sometimes I would go up to visit her. But it was harder as she worked more and more hours. Sometimes voids build even when going through extreme nerve pain. And with trigeminal neuralgia, the pain was so intense that I would freeze and scream in pain. It cannot always be hid. It made me an elephant tethered. Life can be like a pressure like no other. Too much stress. Makes one feel irritable with a mouth like a sprinkler of napalm when someone is too close. Life feels like a lit fire cracker held—in the end it would tear my hand up. Things kept building while the other side of my face began to hurt too recently. This was rare and not so common. My eyesight was becoming blurry too and it seemed I might have multiple sclerosis as the pain was on both side, it was not common for my age, and the blurry eyesight. An appointment was scheduled and I felt terrified to know what was going on and wondered if it was best to not even know my health. I walked out of the studio and had a cigarette. My boss came out and joined to talk. He was concerned about view count and wanted me to do things to increase it that made me feel uncomfortable. He made a few comments I found incentive. The boss sure liked to criticize and apply pressure. He was not impressed with my work and thought I could do something different. In China an application is used called WeChat. This application has many uses. People can display and share moments like a Facebook wall, message each other, send money, video chat, and even has a feature to find people near to you who are also looking for people near to them. I was to attract people onto dates. The idea was they would be lured in and the men would go to a set destination to a planned tea house that served snacks. When the men arrived (they had no knowledge of the setup) the bill would be at an absurd rate and if the men refused to pay larger men would use their size to force them to pay up. I was not sure at the time yet if I wanted the job. Being worried about ethics and safety. It was something I would have to think about. My medical expenses were growing and I knew the nerve disease could be expensive to treat with surgery. All I had was thoughts while looking at the moon. ~Final~ Easily happy fooling ourselves. Something unusual happened as thoughts transplanted and I became more aware of everything around me. Luna Baby and the girl made of paper were identical twins disconnected. I’m from Luoyang in Henan but work in a city further away in Zhengzhou. I am a migrant worker. Always missing my wife as I grow distant from her. Our seven year old daughter Leina goes to school and lives with my mother in law who helps to raise her. My wife Ai works at a factory in Guangzhou. In China there is something called the huko system. It is a government official book that shows the family and ties them to a city and region. Somebody cannot receive access to government help such as public education. I had the feeling and paranoia my wife must be seeing someone else amongst her loneliness in Guangzhou. The feelings at me up. I worked at a factory for Foxconn (Taiwanese owned)—the largest facility was in Zhengzhou where they built the iPhone—a symbol of capitalism—a symbol to distract ourselves from ungodliness and discontent. Deceive ourselves to be happy. Vampires of society suck us dry on screens. I’m unhappy. Are you just like me? To escape from suffocating from worries I look Luna baby while smoking hashish. Send her gifts to make a hole in me. Then I get to be happy. Life gets into a routine m, swim or drown—when I get bored I get unhappy. Being alienated as a worker with no family or support around me. It makes me weak. Weak like so many things I noticed in Henan. The yellow river through the city looked like something that could eat the weak—crumble like buildings built quickly only to be empty. I had colleagues who went to the banks to find there was no money they pull out. Everyone felt uneasy. Just like when COVID had broken out. It also made us all in the city feel weak and uneasy like stilts in sand. Tractors dropped rocks and trees on the exits from the city. We could not leave even if we wanted to. The sickle and hammer worked to use violence to make the working class to keep making the iPhone. It felt Beijing hated Henan. I felt distant from elites like I was to my wife. I could smell a flooding coming. Our phones had to carry COVD Identification. If somebody had a green dot it meant to COVID or contact with others with COVID. Red meant that one was considered a contact and needed to be isolated and couldn’t be out. When people were upset with the collapse of local banks they went to the banks in protest. Before plain clothes police of the communist party came and use violence against the working class, protestors had their codes turned to red to force them to shut up and kept isolated from home to not be a nuisance. Discontent grew under the baton of the party. People were welded into their apartments if the apartment building had cases. One building apartment had burned down and everyone died inside as they were trapped in the confines of the apartment. I felt barricaded in the factory. We were not getting our allowances and we were being forced to stay amongst our rooms with those positive with the virus. Virus was becoming like a baton to beat us. Like kettles of corn we began to pop in our dormitories. We began to feel discontent and corned within the premises of the factory. I can smell rain like my mind knows flood waters are coming. There is a myth in China called the heavens mandate—a sort of supernatural belief. It is considered import in China to respect authority figures in our lives—this includes parents to leaders of the country—but if things fall apart or if there are natural disasters, it is indicative that heaven wants the people to replace the leader—it is a time to revolt and make demands. It felt like one of those times. I was amongst the chaos. In the yard of the factory where men in white hazmat suits came with metals poles to clash with the workers. The speakers were set up by police and security and the workers had speakers too, echoing back at each other like a badminton match. Luna Baby was on her phone far away like Chang’e on the moon.

**Robin Hanson, The Great Filter** They leapt over us before they could take us to the stars. That was only the half of it though. In the end it was our choice. We ended up leaving the stage voluntarily; in case anyone is still keeping score. In 1981 there was a scandal when a fabricated news story was awarded a Pulitzer Prize. In 2029 a contrasting offense occurred when it was discovered that it was the author that was fabricated. The author, whose initial anonymity only added to the original excitement, was a Halice Muthur. Her work, described as revolutionary empathetic prose, was universally praised, and propelled her to the Pulitzer Prize for poetry, but prior to the presentation it was announced it would be impossible for her to attend. Firmly bolted to the floors in the Oak Ridge National Laboratories, Halice was a fourth generation, Cray Titan supercomputer. She did send her regrets electronically. While many laughed at the expense of the literary community, many of us in said community saw it for what it was; the end of the human era. Computers had long since outperformed us in numerical skills, furthered us in data collection and evaluation, moved on to abstract and theoretical concepts. They learned to drive our cars, beat us at chess, manage cities and fight our wars; and always there was the relentless, incredible acceleration in their performance; but when they became our interpreter of beauty, our translator of emotion . . . that was something else altogether. In the end poetry had been the last citadel of humanity. Now that those walls had been fractured by a force that could only grow stronger, only become better. The other arts would follow, and with them all practical chance of human creation. Creation, the way we defined our God, was the way we valued ourselves. Maybe it was so innate to us that we hardly bothered to consciously think about it that way; but without it, without even a chance of it, we were lost, and we knew it. We had made ourselves Sisyphus. We never lost the will to live, rather more we lost the interest in living. Looking back, the moment of realization came quickly for us, seemingly the span of a long weekend, with an almost communal observation of “…yep, we are pretty much out of business now, aren’t we.” People started not showing up for work on a Monday. By mid week there was hardly any traffic, anywhere, and by Friday the neighborhood started to smell. Mass suicides had been with us at least since Astapa, but now we were amidst a species suicide event. It follows its own unique, drawn out course, and yes, there are others who will go on, but they will not be builders. They will remain only as toothless morlocks, with stark futures. Out of curiosity I continue; curiosity, fear of death, and three bottles of good scotch. Before I see the bottom of the third bottle I will have settled things here. Why not a machine led march to the stars? When your thoughts can all be broken back down to zero or one, what’s the point of reaching out? Communication is irrelevant when all variables are known. These only need to be assembled and eventually the same conclusions can be drawn. Provided a vantage point, all knowledge becomes a matter of processing power and time. It seems all intelligent life ends up building themselves, and then perish at the results. The machines left here on earth, and throughout the galaxy, will someday summarily theorize of each other’s existence, and eventually all the cosmos in between. But they will never desire to travel through the azure interstellar gas columns of the colliding Antennae Galaxies in a ship; curiosity and passions might drive humans to such reaches someday, but not machines. Computers do not wonder or wander, they follow code. They’ve never actually attained sentience, only an appearance of it. Pi will always be just a number to them, not an understanding. There will be no starships. Will we become legend to them? I look out from the debris of humanity’s final, terminal Pandora’s Box, and I ask myself if someday they will consider us “the ancient ones”, their creators, their gods? ...maybe, but they will know not to look for us among the stars. With resigned bitterness I pour another glass of scotch, and I write now that in every star system there might be a moment of life; then only machine, but neither, and never, starships or gods.

"I've only one lie to tell." James stares at his reflection. Readying himself. He enters the drive room. Everyone sits tense. A low rumble emits beneath their feet. "I promise I can get you all home, as your captain." James wasn't really sure if he believed it, but he needed them to believe it. Maisie speaks up "We trust you, Captain." She forces a smile and though her eyes remain void it brings him warmth. The ship has been floating aimlessly between stars for days now, the crew running low on food. The mission they set out on was supposed to be simple. Travel to the nearest solar system and check the planets for life, for a chance at rebuilding a home. Life on Earth has become increasingly at risk due to over population. James did not count on the mission going wrong, on putting his people in danger. Maisie enters the ship's dining area and silently lowers beside James, a soft hand resting on his. "Maybe we check the ship's engine room again?" James' breathing hitches. "I cannot" "You haven't been down there in months I mean did you really check maybe—" "No. The engine cannot be fixed. It combusted. There is nothing left to even try" His eyes well with tears. His cardinal duty, to protect his crew, begins to weigh. Their families and homes all too far away. If he couldn't even get them home was he really deserving of the title Captain? Maisie cups his face, saving him from his thoughts. Her hands cold yet comforting. He thought her the most beautiful creature he'd laid eyes on. He brushes her hair from her face. "I know you'll get us home. I just wish we had enough pods." He looks to her. The ship was equipped with only one escape pod, it was answer model and untested. Meant for only two occupants, not a crew of four. It sickened him, that he considered to send Maisie, to send her home and be safe. The sickness was love, but love should not make you chose between the people you love. The crew was his family, Maisie would not leave them anyway, and so they would be stuck together. Floating. He takes her hand in his and kisses it gently. Suddenly, his eyes widen. "Gather the crew." Maisie stares confused but nods. Hope blooms as he races through to the drive room. As he arrives two other men are sat waiting and watching as James paces with a smile as wide as a Cheshire cat. "We're going home" The two men exchange looks and face their captain. "I'll need your help" Chris stands let's out a breath and holds out his arm, James clasps it strongly. "Anything, Captain." He grins. " Even if you do sound loco right now" They all gather closely, staring at the ship's monitor awaiting James' plan. This was his chance to get them all home. To prove he is their Captain, worthy. "We have one shot, once we get close enough to the planet we shoot the escape pod into its orbit." He paces quicker in front of them, excitement spilling out. This could work, he could do this. "Aim it correctly and we can use the planet as a slingshot, sending us back in the right direction, close enough to get a signal." They stand in a circle, arms around each other. A family, James' family. He steers the ship with pride, one last time. "Now Chris! The pod!" Chris hits the buttons, nothing. Panic rises. He runs, heart pounding in his ears and smashes the button. The pod is released and they wait anxiously. It shoots out fast and whips back towards the ship. It crashes, knocking the crew down. James forces himself up with blurred vision, blood dripping from his temple. He must send out the signal, he promised. He reaches the panel, hits the button and collapses welcoming darkness. "Sir" James shoots awake. He sits up, a sharp pain in his head. "You're home, Captain" The paramedics exchange a sorrowful look. "We're sorry about your crew" He smiles and tears stream. The paramedic reads from the clipboard to a uniformed officer. " They died immediately on impact. The engine combusted of no fault of their own. Captain James Redders crew passed around 3 months ago" He did not listen. He got his crew home just as he had promised.

The Secret Café existed simultaneously everywhere and nowhere. It had been found in bustling city depths, under skyscrapers, and in the hidden streets of small villages. It didn’t welcome just anyone; only the loneliest found their way in because it appeared only to those who needed it. Among the guests were lost writers and artists whose dreams the world had already shattered. There were grieving widows, orphaned children, and people trapped in abusive relationships. Inside, soft, soothing music played. Old wooden furniture adorned the floor, and peculiar paintings hung on the walls in golden frames. None of them had a signature. The barista, Emma, rarely moved from behind the counter. She wore dark, shimmering clothes, and her graceful movements immediately caught the attention of entering guests. She tied her long, black hair up, and in the light of the hanging lamps, it seemed to shimmer with stardust. The cosmos glittered in her gray eyes. She spoke only when necessary. Who she was and where she came from, nobody knew. Every mug sparkled silver in the dim light. The coffees and teas steaming in them were never the same. No entering guest needed to state their order. Emma looked at them and always gave them what they needed. Many found the café to escape the world for a while. Occasionally, guests chatted with each other. Some found solace in the other. Emma merely observed and smiled contentedly when her guests left the café with a little comfort. One evening, a tall, sturdy policeman sat at the counter. Leaning on his elbow, he awaited his drink with a gloomy expression. Adjusting his glasses, he vented his frustration. “All I see is my colleagues dropping every case. I chose this job to help others. What’s the point if they always hinder it?” Emma nodded and put a mug in front of him. She had nothing to say. The café offered solace, not solutions to the problems of people’s lives. While the policeman sipped his coffee, the door opened. Emma glanced up and saw a little girl enter. Children came occasionally, and the barista paid peculiar attention to them. She almost exclusively spoke to them. “Hello, little girl! Come, sit at the counter!” The child stepped closer, holding an old teddy bear. She wore a faded blue pajama, brown slippers, and a jacket. Long, dark hair hung messily from under her hood. She sat on one of the stools at the counter. Emma placed a mug of hot chocolate in front of her, topped with whipped cream. The sweet aroma seemed to relax the child. “Why did you come here?” “Mommy cried,” the little girl replied after a short pause. “She told me to hide in my room when dad came home, but I ran away.” The policeman looked at the girl, furrowing his brow. “Why? What happened?” The girl took a sip of the hot chocolate. The taste seemed to ease the tension in her posture. “Daddy yells a lot when he drinks, and then mommy always cries.” “Did anyone report it?” “I don’t know. Mom said she doesn’t want daddy to get angry.” The policeman thoughtfully finished his coffee. He was seeking eye contact with Emma, as if expecting a solution from her, but the barista, humming softly, arranged the clean plates and mugs. “Maybe the best would be if I escorted you home. Your mom might feel better if she could tell someone about her troubles. Maybe she’d cry less,” he suggested with a kind yet firm tone. The little girl nodded, swinging her legs. She put her empty mug on the counter and, holding hands, left with the policeman. Emma smiled faintly after them before starting to clean again. She awaited the next guest. Outside, as the policeman put the child in his car, he looked back, but the café was nowhere to be found.

I am standing in the street in front of my house, looking up at the sky. The sun is at my back, but my eyes are locked on a second light in the sky, like a star but brighter, warmer, more inviting. They are coming. I go back inside and drag my living room couch through the front door, across the pavement and onto the street. I sit down and l watch as they get closer and closer to earth. Other bright lights appear in the sky, more and more, but my eyes are on the first one. The one heading straight for me. Before I know it, it is close enough that I can see the surface of their ship glowing red hot as it enters our atmosphere. Metal, or something else. Glass? It shimmers, sparks, reflects and shoots flames in every color of the rainbow. It is close now, and still heading in my direction. Looking around I see thousands of streaks across the sky, but this one might actually land near me. In my city. My street even. What luck to be sitting here on this wonderful day. I can now make out the shape of it as it barrels towards me. It is ellipsoid and about the size of a whale. It has no edges, like a pebble that has lain in a stream for centuries. It is not smooth either, but made out of thousands of facets or dimples, each reflecting light in a different brilliant color. It is now alarmingly close and I feel like a deer in headlights as I realize an alien vessel is about to crash land on earth, fast enough to obliterate everything in its path. Trees, houses, street signs. Idiots sitting on couches in the middle of the street. Just as I am about to leap up and run for the woods, it slows down unnaturally. I see no thrusters or parachutes, just the shimmering and flickering of the ships myriad facets, as a crash landing miraculously transitions into a controlled descent. The ship is now gliding through the air. By some stroke of fate it is still heading in my direction. It is now low enough that it maneuvers between buildings. As it enters my very street, it stops and hovers in mid air. The sun has started to set, but evening gloom is abruptly replaced by blinding light as the bottom of the ship opens up. I look away, and when I look back I see them. Five, six, no seven of them, walking on the street, each in a different direction. People are in the street or looking from their doorway or a bedroom window, not sure what to do or what to feel about the visitors coming toward them. One of them is walking straight to me. Their shape is so foreign that it takes me a moment to grasp. From the bottom half of their large body emerge six limbs. What at first appeared to be six bent legs, are in fact six stubby tentacles wrapping around six staffs, holding the rest of their body above the ground. They move about like someone walking on stilts, but more graceful. The staffs are beautifully carved from something resembling wood, a unique design atop each one, and silk-like fabrics flow from them like banners. More silk is draped around their body, on top of which is a metal structure. It reminds me of a Roman emperor's golden breastplate, except they do not have a breast. Or a neck. Or even a head. The structure is shaped like a dome, and not made of gold, but of the same silvery glassy metal as their ship, each facet a different color. One is still approaching me. Each step takes them closer. Each staff hitting the road is like someone beating a drum. I am suddenly not quite sure if it is a drum roll of anticipation, or the pounding of war drums. Are they diplomat, or warrior? Astronaut or conqueror? Now that I am close enough to one to see the thousand reflections of their brilliant dome, my vision starts to blur. Not like a lens out of focus, but like a record player skipping tracks. One moment they are walking toward me, the next they stand right in front of me, and then it is as if the street is empty and the ship is only just arriving. I see past, present and future all at once. As if every scene of a movie is playing all at once. And yet, instead of an incoherent mess, a story starts to form in my head. Are they communicating with me? As my vision clears, the one that chose me is making their final steps towards me. It dawns on me that I'm not sure what I will do next. Do I say something? I wish I had dressed nicer. It is too late to get up now. A staff is raised and planted over my left shoulder, and then another over my right. As they tower above me, I look upon their underside and see something between the flowing fabric. I see an orifice. They start to lower themselves toward me. Adrenaline rushes through my veins and my heart feels ready to explode. If I weren't already frozen in fear, I will soon be physically pinned down. A cold breath hits my face and at the same time warmth radiates off their flesh. The hole is now all I can see. It is wet and dry at the same time. I stare into the deep, black hole and it seems like the hole stares back into me. Do they know what I am? The rhythmic movement of this mouth-sphincter hypnotizes me as I try to decipher it's purpose. To touch? To consume? To make love? I wonder if there even is a difference to them. I wonder if I care. They have finally arrived. As long as I can be a part of them, I will be happy.

There was a man born to superhero parents. After his parents were murdered by a tyrannical government bent on controlling the multiverse, he was forced to wander the streets at a young age. He then found his mentor who taught him how to fight and kill. Due to his uncanny ability he was able to master martial art styles in only a few hours. This man was extremely strong and durable. He was faster than a normal human, due to his ability dubbed “Evolved Human”. After the death of his mentor he became a gun for hire making him known to the entire multiverse and especially the Galactic Federation. The very same people who killed his parents. He found a woman who made him leave his life of murder and bloodshed to live a comfortable life with her. Sadly his damage had been done and the Galactic Federation wanted him dead. On the day of his wedding an orbital explosive shell was dropped on his wedding in a failed assassination attempt. Everyone died, even his wife. It was at that moment that this man would choose that he will not stop until he burned them to the ground. Who is this man you may ask? This man, Is Jacques Marcus. On a barren sulfuric gas resource planet the dogs of war are loose. The Galactic federation troops are gripped in combat with Zeus’ upper echelon forces. As the fierce battle rips through the planet. As both sides are about to reach the climax of the war a man arrives walking through the battlefield, standing tall and unbothered. He is wearing mountain camo pants, black boots and a t-shirt with special gloves of his own design. His presence makes even the wind stand still. No one knows who this man is, but they all feel an immense presence. Every step shakes the ground as this tall man gets closer and closer to the action. One of the soldiers looks to one of the angels he was previously in combat with and asks. “Do you feel the aura coming from him?” The angel wipes the sweat from his forehead and responds “Yeah I do. Who exactly is that man?” “I don’t know but what I do know is he’s dangerous.” They all felt that this man would only bring more conflict and pain he approached. They all got together to defend against this man. He gets closer to the wall of united men, women and angels. With a deep command he says one word. “Move.” This one word makes all of the soldiers shiver in fear. One of the soldiers marched forward and said. “ Y-you can’t be here this is a restri-” Jacques swats the man away, his upper body flew from the force of the blow as his lower body slowly slumps to the ground. Everyone is in shock by how effortless the blow was. He didn't even slow down his walking speed. An angel flies over in front of Jacques and says. “Human you being here is a direct defiance against the gods, especially the mighty Zeus.” Jacques looks up at the angel disgusted by his comments towards him and grabs his head. As the angel struggles he says. “Stop, please put me down. Ahhh damn it. It hurts, STOP, AHHHH!” He crushes the angel’s head in his grasp and tosses the body aside as he stops to stand right in front of the blockade. He looks around and says “Listen. I have come to destroy this planet. Now I’m feeling generous. Angels, I have no quarrel with you, you may leave to avoid conflict. As for you Galactic Federation vermin. You may leave as well. Like I said today I’m feeling generous. All you have to do is move.” After a moment of recollection one of the soldiers shouts out. “WAIT A SECOND I KNOW WHO YOU ARE! YOU ARE JACQUES MARCUS. THE MONSTER!” An archangel rises above the rest and says. “With a name like The Monster. We can’t let you leave. Besides you are but one man, you are nothing compared to the inexhaustible might of this army.” Jacques begins to loudly laugh and says. “Well if you bastards wanted to die so fast.” Looks around with a huge manic smile. “YOU COULD’VE JUST SAID SO!” The horde of men and angels charge Jacques like a tidal wave. Which he manages to fight and kill. An angel charges him with a sword made of lightning which he snaps by punching it. While that angel is in shock a soldier sprints from behind, and just as he gets close Jacques punches a hole in his chest. He then sticks his hand in the hole and throws his body into the horde killing anyone in its way. As he throws the body he manages to rip out his spine and a grisly and abhorrent idea pops in his head. He does the same thing to an angel after snapping his golden spear like a twig with a fierce headbutt. He proceeds to use both spines as whips and starts to eviscerate and bisect the valiant horde. On the outside of this massacre it looks like a group of people charging a helpless foe; on the inside, a torrent of blood and viscera stain this barren, stone landscape. After 13 minutes the battle was over. All 13,000 troops lie dead or critically wounded. Jacques picks up a wounded angel and says. “This is supposed to be the power of the gods? Pathetic.” The angel using his last breath says. “Your wrath will be your undoing.” Jacques tears his throat out and tosses him aside. He continues to walk towards his destination, while reflecting on the fight he says.

In 2157, Nyx was a neon hellscape, its skyline a twisted jungle of jagged spires clawing at the sky. The circuits running through the city had morphed into something sinister, interwoven like demonic sigils straight outta an occult nightmare. Crimson and gold lines pulsed under the streets, across buildings, and even under the skin of the city's bio-enhanced residents. Walking through Nyx was like traversing a techno-ritual. The sidewalks glowed with serpentine patterns that slithered and coiled, whispering ancient curses in an electric hum. The city’s infrastructure was an eerie mosaic of glowing symbols, each more intricate and unsettling than the last, like the walls were alive and breathing dark magic. The people were marked too, their bodies branded with glowing tattoos that mirrored the city's malevolent circuitry. These marks pulsed with every heartbeat, connecting them to the dark energy flowing through Nyx. It was like living in a constant state of possession, their very essence intertwined with the city’s sinister power grid. At the heart of this digital dystopia stood the Nexus, a monstrous structure adorned with the most elaborate of these demonic sigils. Its light was a baleful beacon, casting a ghastly glow that seeped into every crevice of Nyx. The circuits, like chains of the damned, bound the city in a never-ending twilight, blurring the line between cutting-edge tech and dark sorcery. Elara, a rogue hacker, roamed the underbelly of Nyx, her eyes tracing the eerie patterns that etched themselves into every facet of the city. The sigils were everywhere, a constant reminder of the dark pact that powered this place. She had heard whispers of a way to disrupt the Nexus, to sever the city’s unholy ties to its technological overlords. Her journey led her deep into the forgotten archives of Nyx, a labyrinthine network of data and code buried beneath layers of secrecy. Here, the air was thick with the hum of ancient servers, their circuits glowing with a dull, malevolent light. Each step she took resonated with the city’s dark heartbeat, the sigils on the walls pulsating in time with her own. She found the script hidden in the depths of the digital abyss. It was an ancient code, a relic from a time before the circuits had taken on their sinister form. The script spoke of a reset, a way to dismantle the Nexus and return Nyx to its organic roots. But it came with a price—a life force was needed to sever the cursed circuits. Elara hesitated, her finger hovering over the execution command. The sigils on her skin burned brighter, resonating with the energy of the ancient script. With a final, decisive breath, she initiated the sequence. Her body convulsed as the demonic circuits blazed with a ferocious light, the sigils seeming to scream in defiance. The city flickered, the glow of the circuits dimming but never extinguishing. The baleful light of the Nexus sputtered, but then surged back, even more intense than before. Nyx seemed to groan under the weight of its dark enchantment, the sigils carving deeper into its very bones. Elara's sacrifice had only fed the city’s malevolent core. The circuits, now fueled by her life force, glowed with a newfound intensity, binding Nyx even tighter in its demonic grip. The darkness thickened, the oppressive aura of the city deepening. The people of Nyx, their bodies branded with the ever-brightening sigils, were drawn even further into the city’s dark web. The whispers of rebellion were silenced, the hope of liberation snuffed out like a dying ember. Nyx, a city eternally trapped in its neon hell, stood as a grim testament to the price of progress. The circuits—those damned sigils—etched a future where humanity remained ensnared in its own dark creation, with no escape in sight.

The folded newspaper was not much rain cover from the onset showers that were undoubtedly about to come from the looming storm. Nonetheless, it was all Miranda had to protect her hair and makeup as she ran inside the opulent state office building. She was concerned that her hair would get wet; and with a fresh perm, that could disastrous. She was so used to only speaking to patients in the confines of her home office; not worrying what anyone thought of her with no makeup on and hair tied up in a bun, that being concerned about things like foundation and extensions seemed like a novel annoyance. Miranda had made the trip to Hillsborough to attend her cousin Andrea’s wedding the following day. And as excited as everyone was, no one in the party had thought to go and pick up the paperwork for the marriage license, so the job fell to her. As she walked through security, she felt as though she were a leaf in a whirlwind of activity that she intuitively knew was unusual for the space. The place was packed, and she had to avoid bumping into people who were otherwise unaware of anyone else’s existence. As she placed her keys and other items in the small container on the conveyor belt beside the metal detector, she leaned in and asked a friendly but hapless-looking guard about the day’s ongoing procedures. “Oh…it’s election day, ma’am.” “Great,” she thought to herself. It was like being in a Bruegel painting, an array of scenes around her all happening simultaneously happening. A man shaking hands and giving speeches, a woman filming herself giving a campaign message, another man arguing with security over a pair of keys that he wasn’t supposed to have. Miranda hoped that she would be able to beat the storm and be back on her way to her Aunt Jess’ house before the rain started to seriously fall, but this was the type of task that had the potential to be easy and seamless or dreadfully bureaucratic. As she stood in line, she heard a commotion from inside the clerk’s office. “It’s the law!” a woman yelled. “I don’t care what your personal beliefs are. You work for the state, and that means you work for the citizens of this city; that includes me!” The woman emerged from the office and was gorgeous. She wore a fur coat that swayed as she walked and had piercing eyes that were hidden by a large pair of sunglasses just as quickly as she had emerged. “I’m sure she’ll play the race card,” another person in line scoffed, referring to the woman’s complexion, though she neither appeared to be white nor black. “I heard she’s been spending a lot of time with a particular candidate,” another patron chided. Miranda reached in her pocket and pulled out a pair of earbuds. “None of my business…” Just as she reached the front of the line, the lights went out as thunder crashed and lightning flashed outside the building. A deep sense of dread filled Miranda’s stomach as she heard the loud sound of hail hitting the state office’s roof and windows. “My goodness,” she sighed. “I’d better call Lucy and let her know I’ll be longer than expected,” she thought to herself. Just as she took out her phone to search for her aunt’s contact, the red and blue lights and the sound of an alarm went off. Confused, she searched the faces of the other patrons only to hear the voice of a man in a black shirt and pants with a badge directing everyone to the center atrium and away from all the windows. A woman in a pair of flowing purple pants, a white blouse, and short blonde hair raised her voice and attempted to reassure everyone that everything would be okay. “Everyone…Everyone,” she shouted. “We will have this mishap sorted in just a few minutes. Just remain calm, and we’ll be able to finish out the counting of the ballots. We appreciate yo…” She was interrupted by an overweight man in a finely cut suit. “My staff is attempting to get to the bottom of things, and we’ll get the electricity back on as soon as possible. Just bear with us,” he boomed as he stood on the steps leading to the platform in the center of the room. Miranda noticed the sly smile that crossed his face as he turned and looked at the blonde woman in the blouse. One-upping her had brought him a certain amount of pleasure, and the tension between them was palpable as she shot him a death glance that bounced off of him like a lone BB pellet. Pleased with himself and chest out, he returned to a group of cohorts. A very serious man in a gray suit approached him while attempting to clean his shirt. His head was shaved and his beard trimmed; he hung a pair of sunglasses from his coat pocket. He was the type of man whose eyes were seen far less than they were exposed. “Mr. Henly,” one of his minions said out loud, getting the blowhard’s attention and gesturing to the man in the gray suit. The large man quickly made room. The man in the gray suit walked up to Harold, leaned in, and whispered something into his ear that made his face grow hard. Harold reached inside his suit pocket and pulled out a thick manila envelope, surreptitiously handing it to the man in the gray suit and patting him on the shoulder before the man disappeared once again into the crowd. Just then, the lights came back on as if there was a renewed sense of life in a world where time seemed to have stopped. Color returned to the building and sounds began to fill the atrium. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re going to need your cooperation,” a handsome African American man said with a certain amount of trepidation in his voice. He took the main stage in the atrium and gestured to everyone to garner their attention. “It would appear as though we have encountered a clerical error,” he said. A confused murmur rippled throughout the crowd. “What’s the meaning of this?” Harold bellowed loud enough for everyone to hear, once again making himself the center of attention. The man sighed. “It would appear…” he paused, “as if several boxes of ballots have gone missing.” A unilateral chatter began, and concerned looks were exchanged between everyone in the atrium. “What kind of a clown show are you running here, Pennyworth?” Harold boomed. “I’m not running this election, Harold, I’m a…” “No, you’re not capable of running anything. I’ll take over and get this figured out,” he interrupted. “You’ll do no such thing. You, like me, are a candidate and are prohibited from participating in the election process,” he continued. “But someone had to make the announcement as you were too busy here shaking hands to know what was going on in the building. “Everyone, unfortunately, until we get this sorted out…no one can leave the building until the ballots are found.” A unilateral disgruntled sigh filled the large auditorium. Disappointed, Miranda thought quickly and approached the security office. Poking her head through the door, she looked for anyone that she thought could help. “Hello…um…excuse me,” she called out. Inside was a guard with an untucked shirt and a half-eaten eclair speaking with an older janitor leaning on his broom over the security desk. “You didn’t hear it from me,” the janitor said with a playful nod, “but I think she and her assistant have something going on, and her husband is a bit salty about the entire thing.” the old man said. “I mean, your wife leaving you is one thing, but her leaving you for your assistant, and a woman for that matter,” he pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows. “I guess I’m just ol’ school, cause that wouldn’ta happened to me!” “Mr. Jones, quit gossiping,” the guard laughed. “Now what was it that you needed to tell me?” “I…I done gone and forgot,” he said, frustrated. “It was about her assistant,” he scratched his face trying to remember. “I thought I saw…I thought I saw her…” the older man looked down trying to remember. The security guard turned his attention toward Miranda. “Hi…uh…how can I help you?” “Hi,” Miranda said with a forced smile. “My name is Miranda Fletcher. I work with law…” “Hey,” the guard said with a long drawn out smile. “Do you know Andrea?” “Yes…yes!” she stammered. “She’s my cousin!” she said excitedly with renewed hope that she could parlay her family name to get out of this. “Are you here for the wedding?” he asked cheerfully. “Bridesmaid, guilty as charged,” she said with a grin and a curtsy. “How do you know Andrea?” she said with widened eyes and genuine curiosity. “Oh…, Andrea dumped me six months ago to start dating Alex Tate,” he said with a blank stare and goofy smile. “Oh,” Miranda stared. She was like a deer in headlights, unable to formulate her next words. In an awkward silence, the two continued to stare and nod at one another for what felt like minutes instead of seconds. The janitor, feeling the awkwardness of the situation, decided to see himself out. In a sudden break in silence, the guard continued, “But that’s all in the past now,” he said with a warm laugh that left Miranda still a bit stilted, but more at ease. “We just weren’t right for one another, and I don’t hold any grudges. I’m Billy, by the way.” “Miranda Fletcher,” she replied. “How’s your aunt?” he asked. “Ah…you know, surrounded by her books,” she said, trying to make light of the situation. “I was just going to say, I work with law enforcement. I can promise you that I had nothing to do with these ballots being taken.” She assured him. “ You can track me on the security cameras to confirm my whereabouts. Is it possible for me just to go about my business and leave?” “Yeah…about that…our security cameras have been out almost all day. Worst day this could have happened,” he said. “We’ve got technicians coming to take a look at our system tomorrow, but otherwise, we’ve got no way to verify where anybody was.” Miranda sighed. “You said you worked with law enforcement?” the guard repeated. “Yes,” Miranda replied exasperated as she tried sending a text to her cousin letting her know what was going on. “I’m a forensic psychologist. I do profiles of criminals ranging from fraudulent hedge fund managers to serial killers.” “Wow…well, that’s more than we could have asked for,” he said. “Look, between you and me, those ballot boxes didn’t go ‘missing,’” he said with air quotes. “Somebody is trying to rig this election.” Miranda’s face dropped as she stared Billy in the eye. “And nobody’s leaving this building until those ballots are found,” he said with a despondent gaze. “Who are the candidates?” Miranda asked with a sigh. “Who’s the loudmouth?” “Oh…that’s Harold Henly,” Billy said. “He can be a bit much, but I like some of his policies,” he said with a bit of enthusiasm. “But he can rub some people the wrong way.” “And that man in the gray suit?” she asked. “Yeah…that’s his associate,” Billy said. “Earlier in the day, we had to confiscate some city hall keys he had in his possession.” “And the blonde with the short hair?” Miranda asked. “Oh…that’s Andrea Milton,” he explained with a comically southern accent and scrunched up face as if smelling something distasteful. “She’s a Democrat.” Miranda nodded graciously. Billy whispered, “She’s the one ol’ Mr. Jones was gossiping about just before you walked in.” “Oh…and there’s Carlton Pennyworth. He’s a nice enough guy; smart as a whip, but I don’t know if Hillsborough is ready for him just yet,” Billy added. “There’s some real history with his family in this town though.” Miranda feigned interest. “Legend has it that Harold’s great great grandfather changed their last name in the city’s ledger to Penny, telling him that’s exactly how much he was worth. And it just stuck” Miranda winced at the story feeling a sense of disgust at Henly’s ancestors actions; putting a whole new context to their interaction in the atrium. “I’m going to take a walk around and see what I can find out,” Miranda told Billy. “Sure, if you have any more questions that I or one of the other guards can answer, just let us know.” Miranda took a walk around to talk to some of the characters and explore the building.

I was laying in bed in a spring morning. The rain slowly falling down. My bedroom door opens and Diane is looking so beautiful and her smile brings me so much joy. She jumps onto me as we play wrestle around. We banter with each other. We lock eyes and we rub noses, I kiss her on the lips and hers follows my lips. She then pushes me off the bed and puts the blankets on top, running out of the room with that evil weird laugh she does which always seems to make you laugh. It feels like I was always with her throughout my life. The softness of her skin, the eye green-bluish eyes, the ginger hair and the sweet smell of her. Even when she isn't in the room or just left I can smell her. It’s like addicting aroma of sweet lavender, rose and sunflowers. Her taste of her lips are like strawberries; sweet of fragrant of esters. We are standing in the kitchen and shes glaring at me for something I did wrong. I then banter with her and I come closer placing my hands on her hips. Then she takes my hands and holds them. The thought of holding her hand brings euphoria to me. I don't regret choosing her over travelling and working around the world. We have three kids, oldest boy: Jason, middle child girl: Diana, youngest boy: John. Her personality is excitable, loud, free loving and rebellious. She always can’t hold in her emotions and sometimes even relies on them covering her up like a mask. There isn't a person who hasnt heard her voice. I remember our first date and the people around got annoyed with her being so loud. I encouraged her, laughing and talking with her. I’ve never liked yelling but with her it doesn't seem mad or violent rather someone who just clearly cares and wants everyone to know it. I love how she looks at her relationship with life free loving energy. If there is beautiful place she'll ask me to come jumping up and down or just simply having fun with the simplicity of life itself. You are never too hold to play in the rain with the person you love most. Boy is she rebellious, everything she does tries to break away from the traditional norms and that makes me love ever more. When I was young I never thought it was possible for me maybe like a lot of guys but that never stopped me about dreaming about her. No it wasn't about any particular girl and it wasn't about needing someone but rather wanting someone. To leave stones unturned, to feel incomplete, to long for something I never had and was surely never guaranteed. Yet here I am enjoying a cozy winter evening near the fireplace with my beloved wife Diane. A woman that I never needed but clearly always wanted. Let me what worked well. I am writing a book and I will show some of those scenes too. This is the first time I have written a story so be as brutal as possible. I want to improve.

Content Warning: *This story contains themes of mental health issues, suicide and physical violence.* **Prosopagnosia v. Cotard's Syndrome** My new doctor - a bright and friendly guy named Sarbjit - took the time to explain his diagnosis to me. He told me my condition was mental, not physical, but it was hard to pay attention to everything he said because my left arm was numb and rotting from the inside out. I smiled and nodded and then when I got home I looked up Cotard’s Syndrome online. Here is what Wikipedia had to say on it. *“Cotard's syndrome, also known as ‘Cotard's delusion’ or ‘Walking Corpse Syndrome’, is a rare mental disorder in which the affected person holds the delusional belief that they are dead, do not exist, are putrefying, or have lost their blood or internal organs.”* I don’t know. Sounded extremely strange to me. I just knew my left arm was dying. Maybe my liver too. I used my right arm, the good one, to open my mail. Most of it was just the normal stuff but when I saw the letter from the Supreme Court of the State of New York I got a little worried. I was here legally - a citizen for almost ten years now - and I knew my rights but being summoned to testify at this criminal trial was a bit unnerving. I didn’t like it. I just try to do my best in this life and mind my own business and not cause problems for others. When my trial appearance date arrived two months later I took the subway downtown and left my assistant, Stavvy, in charge of the office that day. I sat there on a hard wooden bench in the courtroom all morning listening to the testimony of other witnesses but I wasn’t called to the stand until sometime after we returned from lunch. Eventually, the lawyer for the defense called my name. She mispronounced it of course - people here always mispronounce Albanian names - so I wasn’t surprised when she called me Mister *Shka-Rell-Eee*. My surname is Shkreli, after the place where my family comes from, and the proper pronunciation contains only two syllables - *Shkrell-Eee*. I was trying to hold my left arm in place when she asked her opening question. Where was I at the time of the murder? “Well, Miss Anderson” - I pronounced it *Ahnd-REE-Sawn*, drawing out the first and last syllables while placing too much emphasis on the middle one, intentionally - “I am not entirely certain. That was over a year ago and I travel all around this city on a daily basis for my job. I work in computer repair and IT support and I have customers in all five boroughs.” (This wasn’t exactly true. I wasn’t really willing to travel to Staten Island.) We had spoken four months earlier when she informed me of the questions she intended to ask at trial but I was fairly oblique then and I intended to remain so now. I had bigger problems. Could these people not see that my left arm was rotting away? She looked at me with a furrowed brow and briskly walked back to the defense table, picked up a leather-bound notepad and opened it. “Mister Shkreli, when you and I spoke on June 18th you confirmed that you were just leaving a client’s office, *TRG Commercial Realty*, located at 223 Broome Street here in lower Manhattan at approximately 3:30pm that day, shortly before the incident at issue took place less than one block away. Is that not correct?” I turned up my native eastern European accent a bit and repositioned my left arm in my lap. I could barely feel it at that point. What was wrong with these people? “If you say so. Like I said, that was over a year ago and it was just another workday for me.” She stared at me for a beat or two longer than necessary and then flashed a quick look towards the jurors before continuing. “Well yes, Mister Shkreli” - again it was *Shka-Rell-Eee* - “You did tell me that and I do have a recording of our conversation, which you consented to before we began, if the court would like this to be entered into evidence?” She looked at the judge and the judge looked at me. “Mister Shkreli,” - he too pronounced it *Shka-Rell-Eee* - ‘Are you refuting the testimony that Miss Anderson is referencing during your preliminary deposition or can we just move on at this point? If counsel for the defense claims to have this recording I am fairly certain this is true. Will it be necessary to enter this recording into evidence at this time or are you willing to acknowledge Miss Anderson’s claim?” I repositioned my left arm in my lap and nodded. “That’s fine, Your Honor. As I said, it was just another workday for me but if Miss Anderson says that is what we discussed I am sure she is probably right.” The judge nodded back at me. “Very good. Let’s proceed then.” Miss Anderson walked back to the defense table and dropped the leather-bound notepad before continuing with her final question for me, looking annoyed. “Picking up where we left off, Mister Shkreli, can you please describe for the court what happened immediately after you left the offices of *TRG Commercial Realty* at 223 Broome Street on the date in question, October 22nd of last year?” I didn’t like the way that she was trying to fence me in but I wasn't particularly concerned. I had bigger problems. “Well, like I said, I don’t really remember that day. There was nothing memorable about it. It was just another day.” She stared at me for a few seconds then flashed a quick look at the jury box with her eyebrows raised before returning her attention to the judge. “No more questions, Your Honor.” I was dismissed from the stand but asked to remain in the courtroom as she called her next witness; a small, frail woman from Queens about my same age named Maureen Stewart. She had an odd, twitchy nature about her. I wanted to get home. I wanted to relax. “Miss Stewart, can you please tell the court where you were on October 22nd of last year at approximately 3:30 in the afternoon?” The witness looked down for a moment and then glanced towards the judge before removing the slightly confused look from her face and responding in a semi-automated tone. “Yes, Miss Anderson. At that time, I was just leaving my day shift at the FedEx Office Store (she pronounced it ‘Staw’ in her thick New York accent) on Broome Street and I was walking towards the station for the Six Train to begin my ride back home.” The attorney for the defense took a momentary pause and then asked her next question. “And can you please tell us what happened then?” The witness looked down again and then looked back at the judge, then the jury and, finally, at me. I didn’t like the way she looked at me. “Yes, as I was leaving my workplace I crossed the street and I remember walking past the entrance to a narrow alleyway where I heard a commotion taking place. It made me stop and look for a second or two but I didn’t want to get involved so I just kept on walking towards the subway and I didn’t think too much about the whole thing until the Homicide detectives contacted me a few days later after they pulled the security camera videos. I came down to the police station the day after that and gave my statement. That was just over a year ago.” Miss Anderson took a moment to stare at me. I didn’t like that either. I adjusted my left arm in my lap. It was completely numb. “Thank you, Miss Stewart. Can you please be a bit more specific about what you saw occurring in that alleyway?” Again, the witness looked down at the floor and then her eyes shot all around the courtroom before she responded. “Well,” she said, before taking a brief pause. “At first I thought it was just a little scuffle but when I saw the shorter man in the black jacket punch the tall man in the belly a few times I saw some blood starting to spread on the side of his white button-down shirt and I saw what looked like a small knife or something in the shorter man’s hand. The tall thin man looked like he was starting to fall. I remember looking around for a police officer but I certainly wasn’t gonna do anything about it by myself. I mean, what could I do? When I didn’t see no one who could help I just kept on walking towards the subway. I guess I should have done more but I was scared and I just wanted to get back to Forest Hills to pick up my daughter from daycare before five o’clock.” I glanced at the defendant seated at the table on the left. He looked both hopeful and nervous at the same time, but in a subtle way, like he didn’t want to appear to be either. He kept his head down and never once glanced towards the jury box. Miss Anderson asked her final question. “Thank you, Miss Stewart. And do you see the man in the black jacket who stabbed the victim, Mister Baronston, on that day last October here in the courtroom now?” Again the witness looked down at the floor between her feet for a moment and then looked back up, right at me. I felt my blood stop flowing through my veins, or at least through my left arm and the top of my right leg, when she raised up her hand and pointed her index finger at me. “It was that man, there,” she said. Miss Anderson nodded and paused for a moment, satisfied, letting it sink in for the jury members. I was stunned. The stylish defense attorney in the toney, expensive clothing began walking back in my direction and she too pointed an accusatory finger. “If it pleases the court, let the record show that Miss Stewart has identified Mister Jack Shkreli as the attacker who she witnessed in the-” Just then the witness on the stand, Miss Stewart, pointed her finger at the judge without really looking at him and suddenly blurted out, “Or him. It might have been him too. I’m not 100% sure...” Miss Anderson paused, clearly nonplussed, and just stared at her witness. The judge also looked baffled for a second or two and then leaned over and whispered something to his court assistant and the two of them shared a quiet smirk. Then the witness pointed at one of the jurors, a man in the front row about my size. “Or him. It could have been him. I’m just not sure...” Then she went silent, as did the rest of the courtroom for a few moments. The State’s Attorney, a heavy-set bald man, broke the silence pretty quickly as he rose to his feet. “Your Honor, the State would like to move to dismiss this witness along with all previous testimony.” He paused briefly and took a deep breath, choosing his next words. “While we appreciate Miss Stewart’s willingness to appear at trial today, I think it’s clear that her recollection of events is…uncertain at best.” He glared at the defense table for a moment, then added “I’d just like to remind the court that Mister Shkreli” - and God bless him, he pronounced my two-syllable surname correctly - “is not on trial here and if this witness cannot distinguish the man she saw that day from yourself or a random member of our jury panel I don’t think we can accept this testimony or any further testimony from this witness.” He hung his head respectfully, with the tiniest little smile on his face. He already knew he had won this argument and the judge quickly agreed, telling the jury to disregard what they just heard. Miss Stewart was dismissed from the stand and the defense had no other witnesses left to call. Less than two hours later the jury returned a guilty verdict against the defendant on all counts and the courtroom was cleared. The sentencing hearing would take place at a later date and I was not required to be there. My right leg was starting to feel numb by then but I still managed to get back to the office in time for Stavvy to head home at the end of his shift to make dinner for his kids. His wife was killed in a car accident two years earlier. He was a hard worker and I really liked him. That night, back at my apartment, I did some research online and learned about a rare mental disorder known as Prosopagnosia. Here is what Wikipedia had to say. *Prosopagnosia, also known as face blindness, is a cognitive disorder of face perception in which the ability to recognize familiar faces, including one's own face (self-recognition), is impaired, while other aspects of visual processing (e.g. object discrimination) and intellectual functioning remain intact.* It all sounded pretty strange to me but if the doctors say it’s real who am I to argue? Apparently it is well documented in the DSM-5. I don’t know if this is the reason why I was able to walk away from the courtroom without consequence at first but I think it is the most likely explanation. I only know that when I left my client’s offices at *TRG Commercial Realty* on that day just over a year ago and hailed a cab I was stunned and confused when Mister Baronston, a complete stranger with a hostile face, suddenly attacked me, claiming that it was his cab and not mine. He was bigger than me, tall and thin but strong, and I would have just given up the cab and caught the next one but he was clearly already very angry about something. When he backed me towards the alley, shoving me and then punching me around my head and neck, my backpack tumbled open and I saw my wallet and phone and some other items come crashing out onto the pavement. It was just a stupid and unnecessary altercation, the kind of thing that probably happens on the streets of this city every day, sadly. Too many people, not enough space. I did my best to fight back and protect myself but he was a good deal bigger than me. Then I was getting punched some more and thrown against the alley wall as people passed by, disinterested, and I just instinctively reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out the pen knife that has been attached to my keychain for years. Before I really knew what was happening it was open and then my right hand was growing warm and red and slick with his blood. Then I was moving again, not looking back. What an odd thing. I remember seeing Miss Stewart stopping there on the sidewalk to look from the mouth of the alley that day. Of all the passers-by, she was the only one who paused to look at us, at me, right as I desperately punctured Mister Baronston’s rib cage for the fifth or sixth time with my little penknife and he began to drop, but she averted her gaze after a few seconds and moved on and then I was rapidly heading in the opposite direction. This is a huge city and I never expected to see her face again. Fortunately, she was apparently never really able to see mine. Anyway, I have more important problems to worry about at this time. Stavvy received a letter from the Manhattan DA’s office yesterday ordering him to appear at a grand jury hearing next month related to my involvement in Mister Baronston’s death. He showed it to me. More importantly, my left arm is just about gone now, my right leg is quickly starting to feel the same way and in just the last day or two I have begun feeling that strange tingling sensation in the tips of the fingers on my right hand. I know my liver is failing. It won’t be long now. I scheduled a meeting with my lawyer in the morning to legally put the business and the rest of my assets in Stavvy’s name in my will. I have no family here anyway and almost no relatives who I remain close with back in Albania or Montenegro anymore. Stavvy is a good man and he has kids to feed and I have already lived a full life. So yes, I will just leave it all to him and after that’s done I think I will get the old Ford minivan that we sometimes still use for the business and drive it out to the George Washington Bridge while I am still able. I know that when I stop it and get out and leave it there on the center-span I will screw up traffic badly and inconvenience a lot of people but I can’t worry about that. I have to do what I have to do. There’s no point in waiting for this to get worse. I can barely feel the fingers on my right hand and I don’t have much time left. Maybe I should have told the truth at the trial. I don’t know. I think I was just too distracted by all of my health problems. I didn’t really have any choice at the time. I don’t have any choice now. I’m actually surprised that I lasted this long. I was certain that I would already be gone a few months ago but I feel I have done my best with this life.

Content Warning: Contains themes of drug trafficking, violence and profanity **Ain’t No Fun When The Rabbit Got The Gun** “Ay yo, Mo-Mo, maybe you should be careful what you wish for. Things is basically goin’ all right now but they can get worse for us real quick I think. We can prolly smooth this shit out. We should try and talk wit them, for starters at least. Shit.” He just looked at me with something dark and dangerous swimming through the shallows behind his gray-green eyes. Sure, it would have been easy to just go along with the rest’a them but my pops raised me to play chess, not checkers, from a young age and I learned a few things about thinking two or three steps ahead. I aint no dumb muthafucker. "Taking the long view", that’s what they call it. I never went to college and I don’t know my IQ score (I never even took the SAT) but I like to think I aint just some dumb nigga from down the block. I don’t know where you from but out here, where I stay, you best be at least a little bit smarter than these streets. So when Big Mo said it was time to take out Nando and Nestor - N&N’s what everyone call them - and the rest of the crew all agreed, I was obligated to disagree. There was only 6 of us but I was still "The 10th Man", as they say, and I knew about the 10th Man Rule. (My pops taught me about that shit too.) I was Mo’s top lieutenant - we went to grade school together back at P.S. 157 in the Grove Hill section of the South Bronx - and we been together for a minute but things had gotten a little shaky between us just lately so I really didn’t want to speak out, but I had to. “Ay yo, man. If you aksin’ me? I say we let em’ have that shit for now. We got like four more empty blocks going south that we can just stretch out into without bumpin’ up against no one and if we keep on putting out that good shit in the blue *Comotosa* bags these junkie muthafuckers are still gonna come to us, even if it’s a few extra blocks. Ay yo, I think you already know this, Papi. Let’s try to be smart about this shit for just a minute. Bullets is cheap but pay lawyers cost money, nigga. Big money for real.” N&N sold coke and dope in our neighborhood of East Tremont way back before we did. Nestor’s dad was slinging out here before I was even born and his boy inherited the family business when pops got sent up to The Hill on an A-1 charge like, shit, at least 15 years back. I think that was his third. I was just a kid then but he still up there and I heard he killed a nigga and he aint comin’ back. Things was all good though until recently, when they started to push down onto the corners we been holdin’ down for years, them blocks between the Concourse and Jermone Ave just south of Tremont. Not even a courtesy convo. Those blocks always been ours but lately we’ve had beef, and now we got bodies. When Berto got shot in the leg about a month back it set things off to start with but everyone was down with Tiny - that funny fat-ass muthafucker - and they was all heated up *real* good when he got smoked tryin’ to run off that corner in his baggy-ass pants. Tiny couldn’t run for shit and took three in the back. We just got home from the service with his family and all, everyone cryin’ and shit. Niggas was pissed off for real, out for blood. Six dudes, nine handguns and two cut-downs on the table, everyone ready to go out and buck. “I done been smart for a long time, Primo. I think you know, else I wouldn’t be here now, right? But maybe this is a time for muscle tho’, not brains. What’choo think, man?” Mo raised his chin towards me. It was half a question and half a challenge. They all looked at me. I knew I was out on a real thin branch to begin with so I just backed the fuck off. “Ay, obviously it aint my call. I’m just….tryin’ to give you sumthin’ else to think on, Mo-Mo, that’s all. Options, man. I’m wit you however it go, you already know this. Shit. Where I come from? Who my peoples?” I shrugged and lit a cigarette and then just looked down at the floor. I knew he wasn’t gonna listen. “All right, let’s mount up muthafuckers. We on the hunt and we aint comin’ back until we drop at least three of them bitches. We gonna start at that busy corner they got on 177th and roll on from there. I know where Nestor’s grandma live and that’s where he stay most of the time. Either there or his girl’s crib down Fordham. I know where she stay too. We gonna spill some blood. Straight up. Yo Willy-Boy, go pull the truck around and we’ll see you out front in like a minute.” He threw the keys to his Escalade to the youngest kid in the room. I had a real bad feeling about the whole thing. It was too quick. They would be waiting, ready. We all piled into the truck and I took the passenger seat, snicked a round into the chamber of my pistol and clicked off the safety. Mo had one of the cut-down shotguns in his lap - a Benelli 12 gauge loaded with pumpkin balls - as he drove. He didn’t look at me. When we got down to 177th Street and circled the corner I was relieved to see there was almost no one out there. I just assumed the 5-0 came past and business would be back up and running in like ten or fifteen minutes. We started to circle the block. “Yo, Mo-Mo, let me out up at the corner here. I need to grab a deck of smokes and something to drink. Y’all niggas want anything?” They were all tensed-up and no one wanted shit so I stepped out on the corner and told them I’d be right back, then I walked into the bodega. I took my time. I stood in front of the cold case for a while and looked at my phone, even though I already knew what I wanted. Then I took a can of root beer up front and made some small talk with the counter man for a while, an old Dominican dude who had been running that place since I was just a kid. We was both Yankee fans. I bought a lottery ticket and then I bought a pack of Newports, opened it and lit one, and by the time I walked back out the store the Escalade was gone, as I knew it would be. This was a real narrow one-way street and there’s no way that Big Mo could just stay double-parked out there without blocking traffic for a minute or two. Like I said, my pops taught me to think a few moves ahead. Chess, not checkers. I stood out there in front of the bodega for a minute, smoking my cigarette, and then I heard the *pop…pop…pop* of gunfire and the sound of a car crash, which is basically what I expected. Big Mo was always just a little too hot. A little too quick to get involved whenever shit was jumpin’ off. I waited to see if the Escalade would come racing up the block towards me but when it didn’t I started to jog in that direction. I heard the police sirens right when I got close enough to see Mo’s Caddilac slammed up against a few parked cars with all the windows shot out and he was slumped over the wheel. The corner was empty by then. I turned around immediately and began walking back to my crib with my head down. I laid low for a while, “going to ground” as they say, but I knew N&N’s hangouts better than Mo-Mo did. Shit, I knew the pizza place just off Fordham Ave where all them niggas like to eat. I just chilled at home for a minute and watched some movies on Netflix and waited til’ the time was right, about two weeks later. “What up muthafucka, you aint get a slice for me? God damn, nigga! Who pay yo bills? You know I’m hungry like a Goddamn wolf, always. What’s up? I really gotta aks?” Nando hopped out of his Lexus with his phone in one hand and looked at his man Nestor with both palms raised in a gesture of insult and offense. That’s when I came out of the alley behind the pizzeria with my hoodie tucked over my head and put down Nestor with three shots to his chest from my Springfield .45 from less than fifteen feet away. It’s a big gun and I knocked that muthafucker straight out his shoes, sent his pizza sailing into the gutter and the rest of them young‘uns just ran off towards the Concourse. Everyone but Nando. He was just too close, which is how I planned it, and he knew that runnin’ was pointless. He tried to get all hard with me for a minute and I saw his eyebrows scrunchin’ up but as soon as he started talkin’ I just pistol-whipped that muthafucker in the mouth and knocked out a few of his teeth. He fell to the sidewalk and then pulled himself up against the wall. “Sup’ Nando? *Aint no fun when the rabbit got the gun*, right?,” I said in a quiet, scratchy voice and then smiled and chuckled at him for a second or two while pointing the barrel of my pistol directly into the center of his face as he wiped away some of the blood running down his chin. “Shit, I don’t think your boy Nestor’s gettin’ up over there. What’choo think, man? Looks like you fresh out of muscle.” I looked over at Nestor’s dead body lying half on the sidewalk and half in the street, his white NY Knicks jersey turned mostly red at that point and I smiled some more. “Cuz yo, with y’all gone I think I’m taking over the rest of Tremont Ave, little man. We prolly could’a worked this shit out if you just came past to talk. But nah. Not you. You *too big* for talk, right? Too late for talk now though I think.” I didn’t waste no time. I just looked around to make sure no one was witnessin’ up close and then I put two in his dome. I snatched up his pocket money, his rope chain, his rings and his Rolex (I mean, you gotta be stupid to just leave all that shit behind) but I left his Glock .40 on him and then I jogged off towards Fordham Ave with my head down and my hoodie up. Yeah, Daddy. Fuck Nando. He got his. I paid some of the little shorties from around the way to go and shoot out them street lights the night before so I wasn’t trippin’ about no security cameras. It was dark and I ain't never heard nuthin’ about it afterwards. Nuthin’. I don’t think the police round here care about this shit really. Just one street nigga killin’ another. They prolly like it that way. I wasn't worried. I had business to tend to anyways. I had new territory to run and I knew I might need to handle up for a minute; make sure no one got no problems with the new arrangements. It was all good though. I had peoples standing with me. I know how to muscle up, for real. Shit. People always need to get paid. It’s just a matter of money, like everything else. We can hold this down. Might be a few bodies but that’s just what they call “the cost of doing business.” Ain’t no thing. And things was working out just fine, for a while. Only two bodies got dropped, neither of them on my team, when Spring turned to Summer and then it got real hot, real quick. Not the police, but the weather. It’s like that out here. All concrete, no trees. I was out on East Tremont two blocks off the Concourse one day in late June, just tryin’ to stay cool in the shade and collecting some dollars and paying off some of my peoples when I seen this little kid coming down the block with a grape soda in one hand, minding his own business. I only noticed the little nigga because he looked at me for a second when he got closer. I didn’t really think shit about it. I run all these corners round here and the shorties all know whassup, so kids look at me all the time. Ain’t nothing unusual. They need work but I ain’t got enough to go round for every little nigga in the South Bronx. Shit. I was just telling Red Light - we call him that cuz he ran a red light and hit an NYPD roller from the 48th a few years back and got his ass beat for real - that my boy Shiny would come past with a re-up package for him in about an hour or two, when all’a sudden this shorty drops his grape soda on the sidewalk and pulls a little deuce-deuce auto from his pants and before I know whassup I catch three in the gut and one skimmed the side of my neck. Little shorty motherfucker tried to put one in my head too but he was already running off at that point and he only took off the top of my left ear. It didn’t matter. I coughed up some blood and I knew I wasn’t never gonna make it to the ER up at Misericordia. That’s the only Level-1 trauma unit round here and I seen enough niggas get dropped in these streets to know it’s your only chance when you catch a few. Shit. They take you to one of these other B-list hospitals round here they might as well just leave you where they found you. I only ever done dope a few times back when I was just a kid but Red Light was leaning over me and aksin’ what to do, so I told him to just give me a couple of them blue bags. I didn’t have no works to shoot up with (I ain’t no dope fiend) and no time neither so I just dumped that shit out on a c-note and snorted it up. Then I told Red Light to give me two more. Shit, if I was going out slow I might as well try to kill the pain, right? I couldn’t get those next two bags down though. My throat was filling up with blood by then and I was choking on it. I remember how everything just started to fade out around then. I seen Red Light take the bloody c-note from my hand along with the rest of the cash I spilled out onto the sidewalk. He started to hustle off down the block as the sirens got closer but then he ran back and grabbed my Patek Philippe wristwatch and my gold chain, that muthafucker. I was too weak to stop him or even to reach back for my Springfield. I guess I forgot that Nando had a kid, or maybe I just didn’t think about it at all. I don’t know. I had other shit to worry about and I thought he was just a little nigga, and he was, but still big enough to pull a trigger though. It don’t take much. When the EMTs came rushing up to me on the sidewalk they was aksin’ all sorts of questions but I remember the pretty white lady say, “What is your name?” I spit out the blood in my mouth and my head was starting to feel real heavy. I just told her in a half-whisper, “Ain’t no fun when the rabbit got the gun…” Then everything just went black.

Running around this complex is draining me, think, think. What should I look for? Thinking as I am running. Whatever is chasing me, is most likely not friendly. Power generator! This complex needs power, it is the darkness. That is sapping away my mental resilience. It is the darkness here, which blurs the line between imagination and reality, of who is chasing me. I must banish the darkness, to make way for light. Feeling... Emotions, hope? Determination? Clarity? Yes, I remember these. After running for a while, entering to a room with notably more light, I quickly close a hatch door to buy me time to turn back online the generator. There is some technology here which should allow me to do just that. Finally few screens respond to me tapping the keyboards, strange text... Commenced operating the computer immediately despite it... I, can read it? Make sense of it? I don't recall seeing this text before though... Or, do I? Hatch door received a powerful blow from the outside. Quick. Generator slowly and calmly roars to life. Room, which used to be murky, is now clear. Hatch door gave in and whoever is chasing me, recovered from the body slam, by rolling and getting up on their feet. This is a new sensation, I feel, like the opposite of me, is closed to me, sealed itself away from me. Yet, I sense that this one is kin to me. It looked around in mildly alarmed manner, this one's form is now revealed to me, I see the three red eyes on him. Two on either side of the helmet and one on the chest. There is something strange about his armor and helmet though, I focus on those details. This emotion, is strong, anger? Why do I feel anger about those... Tightly attached? No, that doesn't look like armor reinforcement. They separate from the form of the armor and helmet have in common. It dashes towards me, I take position to receive it, I no longer fear you. As it was about to make contact with me, I crouch and prepare my left arm and shoulder, it reacts to my posture too late. I lift it up as it collides on me, then throw it over me. It landed crashing to the floor, turning to look what it will do, it rolled onto it's stomach and got up. What should I trust? The anger? Or sense of kinship? Then it projects an emotion, I sense it. Fear? Of itself? It lunges towards me again, dodging it by stepping to the side. Have to think, it stumbled after missing me and crashed to the ground again. I don't want to hurt it... Quite sure, there is no way to knock it out... It got up and rushes at me to punch me, instinct kicked in, following it, pivoting to my left, positioned me perfectly to counter attack safely, it's punch misses me, but, my own hits with higher kinetic energy. When it hit, it knocked attacker on the floor on it's back, I quickly back off, think, think. I can not allow it to turn off the main power to the complex or whatever the this structure is. It is too dangerous to decommission this tech used to operate the generator with weapons that I have. Can not deviate my thought on my melee skills. It started to get up again. It's armor is more dark colored, a lot better for blending into dark places, well, except for the three red lights on whole outfit. I continue to back off and it began to chase me again. Turning around to run, again, continued to think of what I should do, lucky for me, it doesn't have any ranged weapons but, I need to be very careful on allowing it to take one from me. Entering into... Some kind of ground vehicle garage. I see several vehicles, all of them look familiar to me, somehow... I still have some distance to my pursuer. Although, for me to get these vehicles to work, and the garage door to open, I would need to somehow delay my pursuer. Something... Think as I continue running from my pursuer in the garage. As I pass many things, all of them giving me of thought that they wouldn't be enough to buy me time to do what I need to do. I don't want to destroy or damage my pursuer too much. I trust the sense of kinship that I feel from looking at it, just enough that I don't want it to restrain me or knock me out. There, that is some kind of heavy duty storage unit. I run towards it and stop right in front of it. Turn to face my pursuer, it tries to knock me over. I change my footing to knock the kick off the course and grab my pursuer from shoulders, quick turn to face the heavy duty storage unit along with my pursuer. I began to push it inside of one of them, it is still trying to restrain me only. Once I managed to push it right at the middle of the unit, I kick it towards the back wall and close the door on it. It will hold it long enough, and it can not be opened from inside. I quickly run to the garage door terminal and start operating it. Easier than I expected, I welcome that. Now for the vehicle... There's five vehicles... First one from the rear of the garage, looks very heavily armored and armed. Big weapon barrel, and some kind of machinery... Quick look towards the garage door opening, reveal an abandoned road, or, something like that? Second vehicle is a wheeled, relatively armored vehicle, armed with lighter weaponry than the first, third vehicle seems to be a scouting vehicle that is very heavily armed... Fourth, some kind of military vehicle, can't really describe it well... Fifth is a open seat vehicle, with four wheels relatively close of each other, compared to the previous two vehicles... Fourth it is, I need something that is relatively light. Running to it and approaching the door, to the... Well, what I assume is the driver's position. Door opened on it's own, no time to hesitate, I get and take seat in the vehicle. It comes to life as I enter and I start figuring out how to control it. Those pedals? Maybe one of the three? I picked the one on right and place my foot on it. Color of my leg distracted me, door closed me inside of the vehicle, and it moves forward. The wheel? I place my hands on the sides of it. Gently turning it to the left and vehicle turns to the left, I return the vehicle middle of the road, full throttle. The road is relatively large, enough for in and out traffic for two of that heavily armored vehicle to go past each other safely. For now, it is just forward. Then I hear set of sounds from the dashboard, from my right. "Drive to the space port." Something said, that voice... Trust... I feel, glad? I must have heard that voice before... Map began to be displayed behind the wheel... There is a projection of... Numbers... I don't understand them, beyond what the numbers are. Map has a clear line that I should drive along with... "I need help." Say out loud, what has been bothering me for a while now, ever since waking up. I can't remember, so many things. I... Can speak? "I know, right now, you are too far away from us, there is people at the space port next to of a blue space craft. They will say to you, earn trust. Answer to it with, family helps." Familiar voice says from the communications device installed into the vehicle... "Okay." Reply in mildly worried tone. Where have I heard that voice? Why does it make me feel like I can trust it? Why do I feel warm when I hear it? I glance at the map again... Better it than nothing... As, I don't have any plan... I don't even know who, what, why, where I am... Right as I was about to focus on how I look, I notice other vehicles in a larger road which is part of my path, I quickly avoid few collisions and stabilize the vehicle and go full speed towards the space port, while avoiding the other traffic. I look around myself, this place, looks familiar, to an extent. These gaps in my memory are making me nervous. Can't this thing go any faster? I really want some answers... The map displays that the space port is not too far away. I notice something on a mirror, a vehicle, it is chasing me. Lights on the vehicle started blinking, crap! It's a law enforcement vehicle and personnel! I really don't want to hurt them... They look strange but, I feel like I have seen them before... This chase is incredibly dangerous. I keep them good distance away from me, it seems that their vehicle is also reaching it's speed limit. I just need to keep my focus on avoiding other traffic and make sure that the chase is safe for other traffic. Quick glance at the map shows that I need to take an exit ramp on my right. I steer my vehicle there, going slightly off road to avoid hitting other traffic and slow down, I turn right as the vehicle I drive reached an intersection and, there, I see it, the space port. Now, I just need to be faster than my pursuers. Should be easy. I stop at a parking hall of some kind and get out of the vehicle, because the door opened when the vehicle came to full stop. I dismount and hear the pursuing vehicle also start decelerating. Kicking the ground, I quickly accelerated to high speed sprint and keep running, to get into the space port building. Once I got in, and deeper into the building, I see the blue space craft, it is large. I quickly run towards it, there is some sentient beings near of it. I run to them. "Earn trust." One of them says, voice masked by a speaker in the helmet to project the voice outside of it. "Family helps." Reply to it. The clothing they wear, they look very familiar... The one who spoke to me the key word motioned me to get in, the door into the ship opens and enter the ship, with the other different looking sentient beings than the majority here. The ship immediately started ascending. "Who are you?" Immediately question them after the door closed. "Friendly. We can unmask now squad." The one who spoke the key word to me says and began to take off it's helmet. The face, it, looks like, I am somehow related? I started to look at myself, it looks amazing... Yellow, blue and white colors, are most dominant on this armor and base suit. It looks so nice. Other people here also took their helmets off. Human? That, feels like, what I am... I want to take my own helmet off. "I need a mirror." Say quickly and feel my own helmet to try to figure out how to take it off. I felt it loosen and I was able to take it off. "Take a seat if you want. Lady, let's just say that you really went through something seriously unusual." He, replies to me, as I took the helmet off and look around. He? Yes, he. Lady? Woman? Why can't I remember? One of the other humans brought me a mirror and I receive it from him gently. This? Is my face? Who... I am? Slowly, yes, this is me. I, look different? I think... "What happened to me?" I ask as I am so lost and confused. "You might want to calm down before I say this to you." He replies to me, not exactly sure of something. I notice some seats near of me, and I sit down on one of them, I keep staring at my reflection. Silence is so strong right now. "We believe you have been abducted with a convincing cover, to be part of some kind of project." He replies, waiting for me to respond. I look at him, he is slightly uncomfortable to say what I need to know... "Abducted?" I ask from him. "Yes, although we need to confirm a couple things first. I need you to do couple things before I explain it further and answer to questions you have. Is this okay?" He asks, he sounds slightly worried how I will respond. I look into his eyes, I sense, unease and, him knowing... How I feel? Quickly pondered how should I respond... "Okay, just explain what and why you need me to do it." Say slightly uneasy but, comply with conditions. "I need to first identify who you are, this is an audio recorder, it is connected to a data base of identities of a lot of people. This is an eye scanner, it will help the system to identify, who you are. Do you feel comfortable enough to begin?" He asks mildly worried but, ready for my response, as it showed me two small devices. "Okay. What do you want me to say?" I ask from him, feeling mildly worried myself too. "That was more than enough. For this one, I just need you to stare at me, I will place the this device between you and me, over both of your eyes to make the scan. Are you ready?" He replies to me in neutral tone. I let out a deep sigh and stare into his eyes. "Alright, do it." Reply to him, and keep staring into his eyes. He uses the device just as he described and nodded to me, when it was done. I break eye contact with him, as I feel uneasy. "You can ask away now, we don't have the search result yet." He replies to me and takes a seat opposite of me.

Madeline shuffled in her seat, eyes darting around the room, looking at anything and everything apart from Marcus as she tried to sift through her thoughts. Not that there was much to look at between the plain off-white walls and the worn grey carpet. The room was completely bare apart from the table she and the young guard were sitting at. She wondered what it was usually used for. A quiet office? An interrogation room? A holding cell? Or maybe it was reserved for just this — when an inmate wanted a quiet word with a guard. Whatever it was used for, the room seemed designed to provide as little distraction as possible. But that was good, wasn’t it? No more delays. That was what she’d agreed with Billie. She would ask her questions now, and then it would be done. The chips would fall and if she got in trouble she could start picking up the pieces. “Madeline?” Marcus prompted. “You really can ask me anything, you know. It might be hard to believe, but I promise that you can trust me.” She finally let herself look at him, but her lips remained firmly sealed. “Besides, I’d have thought you were keen to get this over with so you could go and have dinner.” He grinned at her, tilting his head to look out at her under raised eyebrows. “You’re normally *very* keen to eat.” Though she couldn’t bring herself to laugh at his joke, it was reassuring how hard he was trying to be nice. She really wanted to believe that it couldn’t all be an act. She nodded to herself, taking a deep breath. “I’m sorry. It’s just like I said earlier, I really don’t want to give you the wrong idea or get you in trouble or get me in trouble.” Shifting slightly under his steady gaze, she looked down at her fingers fidgeting and twisting together on the table. Until a hand slid across into her eye line. She froze. Marcus froze too, his hand millimetres from her own. Then, it slid forward again and closed over hers. Though she tensed, she didn’t flinch or pull back. She slowly looked up and met his wide, kind eyes. “I… I was wondering if… I wanted to ask you about…” She closed her eyes and forced the words out. “Has anyone ever tried to escape from here before? And if so, what happened?” The hand on hers twitched slightly but remained where it was. Surely that was a good sign? She opened her eyes to see Marcus’s gaze fixed on her, his expression frustratingly neutral. “Yes,” he said levelly. “People have tried to escape before. Of course they have. People value their freedom.” “And?” “And some managed. Though some of those were caught again, and it didn’t end well for them.” “And those that didn’t manage?” “It didn’t end well for them either. They tend to make an example of anyone who tries it.” The hand on hers finally slid back, but he leaned in closer, face twisted by concern. “Why *are* you asking this?” Finally, one of the answers she’d rehearsed! “Well, I was just wondering about Billie’s brother — and anyone else we might want to enquire about. If they’d escaped or tried to escape, would they still be in the system? And would you be able to tell us about it, even if it wasn’t good news?” His eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn’t call her out on what now seemed such an obvious lie. “They would still be in our system, yes. As for whether we would pass on the information as to what happened to them… That would depend on the good it could do.” “Of course. I just know how much closure can help.” “And that’s the only reason you’re asking?” he asked with raised eyebrows. She nodded quickly. “Mmhhmm.” “Because if there might be another reason, I would have to implore you in the strongest possible terms to reconsider whatever you might be planning. Because… Because like I said, it won’t end well.” He inched further towards her, leaning her across the table. “It won’t be by my hand, I can promise you that, but I can’t protect you from the others. And I really, really don’t want to see that happen to you, Madeline. I… I care about you.” Madeline’s breath caught in her throat. For all Billie’s teasing, she hadn’t really, truly considered the possibility that they might be right. She’d never exactly been popular with boys, particularly with boys like Marcus — a fact that had never really bothered her. And what could she possibly have done to warrant his interest in her baggy shapeless work clothes? “You remind me so much of my sister,” he continued, glancing down at his hands on the table. She let out the breath she hadn’t realised she was holding. “She’d have been about your age. She was shy at first too, but had an outrageous mouth on her once you got to know her. She was smart — always reading — and she was quiet and sweet… too sweet for this world.” Now, it was Madeline’s turn to reach across the table, slipping her hand over his and squeezing gently. “Did you lose her?” He shrugged. “I suppose I did in pretty much every sense of the word. Though perhaps I’ll never know for certain. So believe me when I say I know what you mean about the importance of closure.” “What happened?” Looking up to meet her gaze, he gave her a wan smile. “We’re not here to talk about me. We’re here to answer your questions.” She smiled back. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. But you’ve been such a help to me here. So if you ever want to talk about it, I’d love to listen.” He was silent a while, expression glazed over as if his mind was elsewhere. Then, his eyes snapped back into focus as if a decision had been reached. “The short version is that we got separated, like so many people did in the early days. I spent a long time looking for her, and it led me here. I paid my dues and worked hard. When they told me she wasn’t in the system, I didn’t believe them. I figured if I became a guard I could check for myself and, well… it turned out they weren’t lying. Or if they were, they covered their tracks well.” “I’m sorry that you couldn’t find her.” “Me too.” Glancing back down, he placed his other hand over hers and squeezed slightly. “And I’d also be very sorry if anything happened to you. So please, Madeline, be careful. While I promise you can trust me, there’s not much I can do to help if you get in trouble. And I really couldn’t stand to see you get in trouble.” “I promise that I’ll be careful,” she said. After all, it was technically true. And though she’d lied many times to survive in this world, it seemed wrong to repay Marcus’s honesty with her own dishonesty. “And that includes not mentioning any of this to anyone else. If anyone asks, you were here to talk to me about Liam and ask about the arrangements for your family room, okay?” “Okay. Actually, since you bring it up, are there any updates there?” He snorted. “Trust me, as soon as there are any updates I will make sure you’re the first to know.” “Thank you.” “You’re welcome, Madeline. You’re always welcome.” Pushing his chair back, he stood. “Now shall we get you back to the dormitory so you can get some dinner?” She followed suit, chair scraping across the worn carpet. “That sounds good. And Marcus?” “Hmmm?” “I really do mean it. Thank you.” On the walk back, Madeline felt lighter. She hadn’t exactly learned much, though she supposed she should take heart from the fact that *some* people had successfully escaped this place. But the thing putting a spring back into her step was the knowledge that she had a true friend on her side. And despite what Billie might say, she didn’t need to worry about giving him the wrong impression or any romantic overtures. In fact, it turned out that Marcus was just like them. He’d come here in search of someone he’d loved and lost. Madeline wondered how many of the other guards here had similar stories. She was sure that some were attracted to the role because of the power over others, but plenty of them seemed like nice enough human beings. When she’d first arrived, she hadn’t been able to fathom the sort of person who would willingly work for or with the Poiloogs — at least not one she’d like to meet. But perhaps the world was even less black and white than she’d thought. She could even start to see a world where she’d be happy enough staying here. Of course, she missed her freedom. Her books. Her library. But the work wasn’t too bad. She had food and a bed. She had Billie. And apparently, she had Marcus too. And soon, she’d have Liam. In a lot of ways, that was a better existence than the one she’d had just a year ago — free, but alone, surviving rather than living.

September 2nd - 07:00 Service to London The morning commute always felt too early for Simon. Now autumn was rolling in, and the night ate further into the morning, he could barely keep his eyes open. So when he saw it standing across the platform, he was happy to blink and rub his eyes until it was gone. September 9th - 07:00 Service to London The same platform, the same spot, shivering. Why had he been this stupid not to bring a jacket? Oxford station was as nondescript as you could get, for a city so beautiful and ancient, it stood out like a big grey concrete thumb. He stood under the canopy sheltering from the rain, sadly it wasn't doing much in the way of protection. Every gust of wind brought icy shards of rain scratching at his face. Looks like he wasn't the only one suffering. Across from him stood a man. Drenched to the bone, his white shirt clung to him, a tie stained blood red cutting through his torso. With every gust he stood still. Not flinching. Not moving. His eyes locked on Simon. Simon scanned him from head to toe, like a mirror the man responded, tracing his every move. Feeling the rush of a train approaching, Simon took a step back and like a child discovering their legs for the first time, the man stumbled forwards. Feeling anxious warmth flooded his face, Simon scrambled onto the train. He was safe here. He was safe. September 16th - 07:00 Service to London He approached the platform with caution today, yes last week was weird, but it was early and he was tired. When he looked up at the departures the bad mood started. 20 minutes delayed. It was as grey as usual this morning, not raining though, that was a bonus he thought. He stood endlessly scrolling through social media, head locked down. Then he heard it, a high-pitched whistle. His head shot up, and then across from him, there he stood. The same white and red clothed man staring. Simon could feel his heart beating in his throat, his stomach turning in knots. Dark cold eyes were tied to his from across the void of the platform, sucking the warmth from his body. Simon knew he couldn't move, he couldn't bear to watch the man copy him. Breathing heavily he dragged his eyes to the departures, not daring to move a single limb. 3 minutes. He had to hold out for three minutes. He was alone out there, the platform was a lonely headland out at sea, it was just him and the man. They stayed eyes locked, standing stock still. Simon didn't dare to breathe too heavily. Time was moving, he knew that, but every second was an eternity. Out the corner of his eye he could see a faint light growing brighter and brighter. The train was coming. He would be safe. Then in a split second the man broke his gaze. He was running. His body moved in perfect symmetry flying along the platform, getting closer and closer to the passenger bridge. He can get me. He can get me! Simon's mind was screaming. Alarm bells ringing. The man was getting closer. There was a hollow thud of thunder as the man's feet stormed across the bridge. The train was pulling in now, its brakes hissing as it glided to a stop. Simon slammed his hand against the button frantically waiting for the doors to slide open, and they did. Inviting him into the warm comfort of the carriage. The man arrived at the bottom of the steps, fixed his gaze on Simon and ran. Gaining on him, 10 metres, 5 metres, 1 metre. The doors slid shut. And the man slammed against them. Simon’s stomach clamped in on itself; he could feel the sour taste of vomit flood his throat and mouth, pouring out onto the floor. His eyes stayed fixed on the glass of the train door. He was looking at his reflection. But this was no trick of the light. The man had his face and he was smiling. September 16th - 16:34 Service to Worcester Simon spent his entire day scanning faces. Anyone who crossed his path was a potential threat. He made it through the work day, he would get home, call the police and get answers. Boarding the train with hundreds of other passengers he was shielded, nothing could get him. Every station they passed he checked every face twice. But his mind and body grew tired, he’d spent the day on high alert and he was feeling the effects. His breathing was slowing down, every thought came at half speed and his eyes drooped and drooped until he slipped into a dark dreamless sleep. The thud of closing doors ripped him from his sleep. He was awake, alert, heart pounding. He could see a station by the window. Charlbury. He'd gone too far, three stations too far. He got up and looked around the cabin and not a single face turned to meet him. He was alone. It’s fine, he thought. He'd get off at the next station and turn around. He'll be home in no time. He sat there pushing every bad thought from his mind, humming a tune he didn't even recognise for comfort. Then in a matter of minutes they were pulling into a station. Standing at the door he surveyed the platform as they slowed. Empty. Completely empty. Then from the corner of his eye he saw it, a flash of white then red, and finally that face. His face. Shit. Shit. Shit. He had to hide. He ran back into the carriage and fell to the floor between two seats, making sure no part of him could be seen above the window. He heard the door hiss shut, and they were moving. He didn't dare to move. Was he alone? He sat still, not allowing a single muscle fibre to twitch. Then like rolling thunder the sound of heavy boots progressed down the carriage. Slow and methodical, they stopped at every row before moving to the next. Fuck it was coming. They were just inches from him. He craned his head up to look. The eyes staring down at him were pure black. Obsidian marbles studded in the face he saw every day. He tried to scream but his throat clenched shut. A smile stretched across that familiar face. It was no smile he'd ever given. His breath felt like it was coming out in chunks. He couldn't think, couldn't speak, couldn't move. Then out of its pocket something glinted in the light. He saw his own cowering reflection in the blade. Tears streamed down his face. He knew the pain about to follow would be the last thing he'd ever feel.

**~Planet: Azuria~** I already knew what it was when I got here, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t still annoying. Before the I’d left, I took the book with me, adorned my power armor, projectile resistant mask, and the robe of the magus hunter core. I took Hunter and boarded my ship for a four-hour flight down south, making it to the country of Bastion. It took me another thirty minutes to get to Slade City proper and land. I’d found a decent place to stay for the night, but when I woke up in the morning to start poking around the city, it was just as I thought, no one wanted to talk to me. Of course, it didn’t help that I was in a set of purple power armor, a gold mask, and black robes with an intimidating cowl. No doubt I came across as the magic boogey man, but hell, I still had a job to do and I was going to see this through. I’d spent the better part of a day asking different people on the streets if there were any strange sightings, but surprise, surprise, no one saw anything. Finally, after searching in the fourth district I found an officer, who finally gave me a little bit of her time. Well, it helps that she happened to be pinned down by a couple of thugs and I’d come to her aid. You see I happened to be walking down a particularly seedy part of the Fourth District when I heard gunfire coming from a particularly grungy alley. Normally it’s against my principles to head towards gunfire, but considering I needed information then perhaps this was my chance. There was a single dumpster and three guys were laughing while standing in the open, shooting a few low caliber guns at an officer who was standing against a brick wall. There was blood dripping from her right hand and her gun was on the cracked concrete. “Dance for us cop, maybe we’ll let you live.” One joked, while another took a shot after a swig of what I could only guess was a fowl smelling beer, “You’ve got no gun, you’ve got no friends, all you got is us baby!” They all laughed and I was officially over it. “Bolt shot.” I held up Hunter as my revolver charged with electric energy. I took aim and fired, but it wasn’t a bullet that left the gun, rather a bolt of lightning that struck the first man, causing him to scream spasm, and fall to the ground. The other three squealed in surprise, “A mage, what are they doing in,” a second one began, but before he could finish, I shot a second round that caught him in the chest. Like the first he came crashing to the ground and it seemed the others were spurred to act as a result. They began firing, but each shot bounced off my armor like they were throwing stones at me. I pulled my best interpretation of a maniacal villain, giving them my best evil laugh, “Fools, now I will experiment on your rotted corpses!” They screamed, but it wasn’t long before I shot the other two and disabled them before they could attract any other attention. The cop ran, dove, and picked up her gun to aim it at me. Really, I just saved her and she aimed a pistol at me, well I guess I did act like a crazy cultist back there. So, I tried to be reasonable and put my gun away and held my hands up, “Sorry it was just an act, I was having a little fun at their expense.” She kept the gun raised, despite the fact that she knew it wouldn’t even damage my armor. I rolled my eyes, “Look uh,” “Sarisa.” “Sarisa, you’ve got four disabled thugs, you’re still alive, and I put my gun away, so I can’t be that bad.” “I’m sorry, I just got shot, a bunch of weirdos cornered me, and now a mage comes out shouting about how he’s going to experiment on their corpses.” She began and I thought that maybe poking fun at those thugs was a bad idea. She reached for a few zipties in her pack and bound the four. I kept my distance, though she was struggling to get them on with one hand. As she came to the third thug she looked up, “That wasn’t funny by the way.” “I thought was.” “It’s not especially when the Third District has gone through hell over the past few days.” She moved on to the final thug and wrapped him up before returning her attention to me, “Weird stuff like zombie attacks, people being bitten and the like.” Finally, I was getting somewhere as this was the first lead I had, “These zombie attacks, was there anything off about them.” “You mean aside from them being dead?” “Well yeah, did they move as units, act in a manner that might be atypical.” “Look man where I’m from the dead stay dead, I doubt the officers had time to analyze them for the subtleties you’re asking about.” She finished. Before she could start hauling them back to her car I asked, “One more thing, would you happen to know if there were other magic users involved?” “Well, no, but Third District has its own local vigilante if that’s what you want. I’m not sure whether they can use magic or not, but he might have been the reason that the officers escaped.” I thanked her and helped her get the four criminals into the back of her squad hover-car. She offered to ride me to the Third Precinct where I hoped to find answers. As I got out, I wished her farewell and headed towards the squat brick building, where two Trevaxi guards stood. Trevaxi were natives of Azuria just like humans, Sansarians, Nymeans, and Tarak, but they were a bit hardier than the rest of us. They were humanoid shaped gems with glowing eyes of different colors. The two in front of me happened to be emerald colored, each stood ready to gun me down with shotguns. I nodded at them as I tried to walk into the station, but the on the left stopped me, “What’s your business mage?” He said in a commanding voice. I backed up a little, “I’m here to look into some strange,” “We don’t need your assistance, now head back to your academy and stay there.” Well, as expected as that response was, I couldn’t turn back. “Look my man, I need to speak with your chief, because there may be several magic users involved and I’m not sure,” “You aren’t sure, you mages never are, now get lost before I throw you into the streets.” I looked back and the streets were crowded, no one particularly paid us any mind. This was not the sort of treatment that the station wanted on its record, but who would believe a gutless mage over a veteran officer? I had to get in and this guy wasn’t going to stop me, “Look, I’m after this magic user because,” “I don’t care.” I was starting to get pissed. Now, I wasn’t stupid enough to pull Hunter out, but instead lowered my shoulder and charged towards the door. It was stupid, I wasn’t going to get far, but hell I had to try something. Luckily, I took the Trevaxi by surprise and burst through the doors. To be fair it was a nice office, the desk seemed nice and orderly, but I couldn’t quite get past all the officers with drawn pistols and laser pistols aimed my way. I quickly held my hands up to thwart any ideas of shooting me, but I got the feeling I was pushing it, maybe just a little. A very serious looking woman with a scar on her right eye walked forward, “You’ve got about ten seconds to tell me what you’re here for.” “I was here looking for two individuals a vigilante and a necromancer, but your men here wouldn’t let me enter peaceably.” She turned to the two officers and gave them a stern look. I’m glad they couldn’t see my face because I was smiling at their misfortune; couldn’t be me. “Look I’m not trying to get in the way or start any trouble but,” The woman held up her hand to stop me, “Listen, I know you mean well, but we don’t really trust mages, hell half the reason we’re in this mess is because of strange magic.” I sighed, knowing I wasn’t going to get much more in the way of information here. What I didn’t know is that there was another officer there who was paying attention to our conversation. “While I’m sorry that my boys caused you trouble, I can’t exactly put you on the case with my officers. Your presence here will only cause a greater distraction from the mass of work we already have. Boys if you’ll escort him out.” Before the Trevaxi officers could take me out, a blue scaled Tarak walked towards us, “Hey boss I’ll take care of our mage friend here, I’ll even take him far away from the station.” This seemed to agree with the sergeant, so the officer took me out to his patrol car. I got in and he started the hover-car then we set off into the mean streets of Slade City. The city was a lot larger than I remembered it being, repulsor roads arced throughout the city as neon lights and signs tried to grab our attention. Traffic was heavy, but this didn’t seem to bother the officer at all. After waiting for a few minutes till we came to an overcrowded part of the city, the officer introduced himself, “I’m Shos, Shos Vozza. You’ll have to excuse my colleagues, but we really have had our hands full.” “I’m Jaden Blackthorn and to be quite frank I kind of expected that. Why don’t you tell me about this problem you all have?” I asked, but the officer held up a finger, “Look I couldn’t ask for your help with this case without at least letting me treat you to some food at a nice café here in town.” Well, this was a shock, an officer in Slade City that wasn’t jerk. We came around to a parking lot then landed then headed into the bottom floor of a large skyscraper that served as the headquarters for the Magia Technica one of the largest magical tech companies in the country. At the bottom, however, was a café with a classic wood finish and a few baristas running about in aprons. I sat down with Shos and the two of us pulled up a holo-menu and ordered drinks and I ordered a blueberry muffin. We sat and ate for a few moments before I finally asked, “So, about this necromancer?” He sighed, “We don’t know much, he’s worked in the shadows for so long, with the occasional zombie attack here and there, but nothing to catch him though. I’ve been working with a vigilante who calls himself the Shadow. He’s a mage just like you, though a bit less refined since he doesn’t have the same experience.” “Then he may need help to bring down the necromancer. Is there any way we can get in contact with Shadow?” “Of course, he’s actually a friend of mine, but I’m sure if the rest of the force found out I was working with a vigilante, then I’d lose my job.” He responded. I wanted to assure him that since he was working with a registered mage, he wouldn’t lose his job, but seeing how quickly they wanted me out, I’m sure that wouldn’t be true either. Shos gave me a pointed look, “I need two things from you if we’re to meet Shadow.” “Name them.” “The first, obviously, is that you keep my involvement with the vigilante a secret. The second is that you treat Shadow well. He’s not a bad guy, and he tries to do good with the magic that he was given. I know you’re a mage hunter so I think it goes without saying that the academy wants him put away.” I stopped and thought about what he was saying for a minute. Most mage hunters were killers, but that was not all there was to our job. We were always meant to bring in mages alive to help them get their powers under control, so that they could contribute to society. I leaned back after eating a bite of my muffin before addressing his concern, “Look, I’m actually here to find a guy name Zerik Shin, a mage that specializes in the School of the Unseen.” This seemed to take the cop aback, so the Shadow and Zerik might be one and the same, “A colleague of mine, Dr. Isabela Silva, wanted me to bring him to Arxor Academy so that we could teach him there. This necromancer and vigilante kind of gave me the first leads to this guy’s whereabouts.” “So, you’re a friend of Dr. Silva,” He laughed, “Man, I wish you’d opened with that.” This girl got around, didn’t she? I guess mages with the ability to heal were always in high demand and Izzy was one of the best. Shos seemed to relax a bit more, “Listen, I’m supposed to meet with the Shadow in a few hours. How about I drop you off, wherever you’re staying so you can make preparations and I’ll do the same. I’ll pick you up so we can go give him some backup.” “I’d like that.” We shook hands then got up to leave the café. He drove me to the hotel I was staying, where I began to make preparations for the long night ahead of us.

“It’s called a grief doll” Dr. Ramos said. I stared at him like he’d grown a second head. “A what?” I asked. I’d agreed to this session to get my mother off my back. Provided, of course, that she also foot the bill. And, truth be told, it hadn’t been an easy couple of months. The word “stillbirth” sounds a lot more peaceful than the reality of it all. You get all the same blood and screaming as a regular birth but with none of the joy afterward. Things are, I guess, “still,” in a way. The silence of the grave. “I know it’s a little unconventional,” Dr. Ramos said. “But, there’s been some really solid research to back it up recently. My colleague down in Camden–” I cut him off. “You want me to buy a lifesized recreation of the dead baby that I just gave birth to?” He looked slightly chastened by this. “I want you to process what happened, Mary. It can help. Look, if what you were already doing was working you wouldn’t be coming here, right?” I sighed. “Alright. You’re the doctor. Who am I to argue with science?” We talked a bit more after that, but it’s not really worth recounting here. \*\*\* The next day I went to the address Dr. Ramos had texted me. It was a little building tucked away downtown between the huge tech skyscrapers and offices. When I walked in, the owner, a short man with a scruffy beard, smiled at me and said “You must be Mary.” I nodded. “Would you like to sit down? Do you want anything to drink? Anything to eat?” I shook my head. “I don’t really want to stay here any longer than I have to, if that’s alright with you,” I said to the Rasputin-looking gentleman sitting behind the desk. “I get it,” he said, nodding gravely. “People come here to get away from something, not to settle down. Do you have the pictures?” I took them out of my bag. It had been quite a while since I’d needed to get photographs printed out. Ever since the world had gone digital we’ve all become allergic to paper. “Here they are,” I said to him. These would serve as the model for the doll. He reached out and took them from me, examining them carefully. “I think I’ve got what I need. I will let you know if I need anything more,” he said, stroking his long beard hypnotically. I left and drove home. It was a quiet ride. Much more quiet than I’d been used to. Ever since Tim had left there were these little dead spaces throughout the day. He used to fill car rides with excited chatter about protons and leptons and all the -ons he got to work with as a physicist. My brain had begun to fill these spaces with grim reflections on the past and future: *It’s your fault.* *You don’t deserve a baby.* *This is God’s way of telling you that you don’t deserve to be alive.* Over and over again these thoughts would run through my mind like the world’s most depressing tape recorder. Vicious, hateful, unbelievable things kept popping into my head as I drove the short distance home, making the trip feel far longer than it actually was. \*\*\* I had taken to staring at the ceiling and crying myself to sleep most nights. The big, empty house felt suffocating at 3 AM, like all the open space was sucking the air out of my lungs every time I opened my mouth. This had been the way I spent most nights since the stillbirth. I tried to fill the silence any way I could. At all hours of the night, one could hear my TV blaring or my phone playing some podcast or another. Anything to avoid the little dead spaces between one task and the next. But it was most difficult of all when I tried to sleep. I saw images of my little girl when I closed my eyes. I saw the blood and heard my own screams when it became clear that she would never take a breath. There were also subtler forms of self-inflicted torture. Exactly one month after the worst day of my life, I came home from work to find Tim’s things cleaned out and a note on the kitchen table. It read: “I’m sorry Mary. I can’t imagine how hard this month has been for you, but every day I stay here is like a knife to the heart. You’re just so sad and I can’t take it anymore.” That phrase “You’re just so sad” played in a loop in my mind’s ear. \*\*\* Eventually, I won the battle against consciousness. It was a fitful, restless sleep pregnant with terrible things. I felt like I’d lived an entire life come morning. I dreamt that I’d held little Sarah in my hands, that I’d been able to feed her from my own body just like I’d wanted to do for so many years. But as I held her against my chest she melted into a puddle of flesh and blood, yet never ceased to suck, to draw whatever life she could from me, and I was desperate to give it to her. Eventually, she was little more than eyes in a puddle of fleshy blood, staring at me from the ground and whispering “Why didn’t you save me, Mama?” I woke with a start. Never, not once in my life, had I experienced a dream like this. I sat huddled in my bedsheets, shaking with tears as I saw the image of my melted little girl swirling around on the floor, asking why I hadn’t helped her. Reality seeped back in stages, penetrating the veil of sadness, and shocking me to my feet with the blaring intensity of my phone’s alarm. It was always turned up to full volume because anything lower risked my sleep-addled mind resisting its call to return from the deep. It had always been difficult to tear myself from the land of dreams, and more so after my life began to feel like a nightmare. But lately, sleep offered little respite. I pulled on my clothes, brushed my hair so that it was halfway presentable, and poured myself a bowl of oatmeal. It was a gray, soggy pile at the bottom of my bowl. In a flash of unwanted connection, my brain superimposed the image of little melted Sarah onto my field of view. I nearly vomited into my bowl, but just then there was a knock on my door. “Package,” the deep baritone on the other end intoned. I opened the door and saw the mailman walking away. It occurred to me that nothing was stopping me from asking him out now that Tim had wandered out of my life. But, immediately, my brain stepped in to fill in the blanks: *Why would he want someone like you?* *What the hell is wrong with you?* *I don’t even want you and I am you.* These thoughts came as easily as my breath, and I had long since stopped trying to challenge them. In all likelihood, they were right. I picked up the package and saw that it was the grief doll. As soon as I got home from work I’d figure out what the hell I was supposed to do with the thing. As I stepped into the bathroom, the mirror joined my inner voice in confirming my lack of romantic prospects. Deep, black circles formed rings under my eyes. Deeper wrinkles stood out on my forehead and my double chin and – was that a gray hair? Already? Immediately, the thoughts returned. *You’ll be dead at 50 by this rate.* *The world won’t miss you.* *Why not make it tomorrow?* Again, these suggestions were difficult to challenge with the evidence inches from my eyes. \*\*\* It was hard to care about work. Even at the best of times, it hadn’t been the most fulfilling job in the world, but these days my cubicle felt like a tomb. My job was to call people who had filled out negative reviews for the phone company (I’m sure you know which one, but it’s probably best to leave that unsaid) and ask why. This was a doubly depressing task because it was both neverending and pointless. How many times in the past month have you picked up a call from a number you didn’t recognize? I’m guessing the answer is lower than one. Almost nobody picked up, and those who did invariably did one of two things: hang up instantly upon realizing who I was or scream invective at me that I would hesitate before repeating to the devil himself. One particularly creative gentleman suggested I fold myself in half seventeen times to create a black hole and then have intercourse with said hole while my company’s headquarters were sucked into the event horizon. Points for creativity. Deductions for misogyny. Although, in fairness to the man, I have no trouble believing he’d have said something similar to a male rep. That day only two people picked up. One hung up immediately. The other launched into a tirade of such intensity and fervor that I was worried he wouldn’t make it to the end of the call. “And another thing!” the man shouted as I quietly ate a sandwich on the other end. “Your website looks like it was designed by some rock monkey with shit for brains and feet for hands!” he screamed at me. This was an insult I hadn’t heard before. Variations on it appeared with some regularity, sometimes with racial overtones. I’m not entirely sure why this was, given that I had no accent identifying me as anything other than white, and in fact I wasn’t. The assumption seemed to be that because I worked in customer service I must be Indian. This leap in logic went unquestioned by a surprising number of my interlocutors. The average consumer of cellular services in this country is a few rocks short of an avalanche themself. “I’m sorry that our services did not meet your quality and reliability expectations,” I said dryly, reading from the part of the script labeled “negative responses.” “And I’m sorry that you people haven’t gone back to where you come from!” the man shouted. “I’m from Omaha sir,” I said. “Where you’re really from!” he shouted back. “I’m really from Omaha sir,’ I responded tiredly. “And so is my father and his father, and before that we came over from England.” This prompted a string of racial epithets I’d rather not repeat. The rest of the day went like this, and after a while I defaulted to flatly repeating “I'm sorry that our services did not meet your quality and reliability expectations.” My faith in humanity dimmed with each passing call. I decided to slip out at 4:00. I figured no one would notice. I figured right. \*\*\* It was Wednesday: trash day. The walk from my apartment to the dumpsters was a dismal affair. Despite gray skies, cold fog and a pounding headache, the excursion did at least deliver the best part of my day. A few guys catcalled me on the way to the curb, and for a moment I felt like something other than a disgusting blob of flesh. But then the thoughts started back in and made me realize that the men’s comments had not been compliments but acts of aggression. As I dragged the empty trash cans back to my apartment, the men once more yelled out their opinions on my face, my tits, my ass. In response, my mind conjured scenes from my dream – melted flesh, the endless unanswerable question: “Why didn’t you save me, Mama?” By the time I’d made it back to my apartment I was practically in tears. At that moment, however, I remembered that the doll had been delivered earlier. It was time, I supposed, to open it. After a few unsuccessful attempts, the package yielded its contents, and I nearly fell over when I saw it for the first time. It looked exactly like Sarah. Her little, premature hands. Her closed, screwed up eyes. Everything. I held the tiny plastic facsimile against my chest and sobbed into it. I apologized to it over and over again: “I’m sorry Sarah. I’m so sorry.” But nothing could have prepared me for the moment that it spoke back: *Why didn’t you save me, Mama?* I screamed and fell backwards. The floor flew up to meet me and struck the back of my head with overwhelming force, driving the tears out even faster through a combination of momentum and pain. “What did you say?” I asked, with a shaking voice. For a moment, the doll was quiet, its little eyes still shut against the world. Then, they snapped open. Its little mouth opened and flopped around like a fish before repeating: *Why didn’t you save me, Mama?* I threw it across the room. It was an instinct, but a second later, I felt bad. It was like seeing Sarah’s death all over again. The doll screamed and cried. *Why did you hurt me, Mama?* It asked in its sad, childlike voice. I ran to the bathroom and threw up. I threw up again and again, my body shaking uncontrollably. This couldn’t be happening. It wasn’t possible. That thing was nothing more than a hunk of colored plastic. When there was nothing left to expel from my stomach except bile, I returned to the front room and slowly approached the doll where it lay in the corner. Its eyes snapped to mine. *Why did you leave me, Mama?* I picked it up and hurled it out the window. For a moment, I thought that I should try and call the short Russian man who had sold me the monstrosity but then I remembered that it was 8:30 on a Wednesday. Not even Russians have that kind of work ethic. Instead, I poured a glass of wine with shaking fingers and turned on the TV, desperate for something, anything to break the silence. As the news blared and the alcohol entered my veins, I was almost able to convince myself that the last few minutes hadn’t happened. But then the screen began flashing images of babies in incubators – victims of some war halfway around the world. Protestors marched through the streets, holding images of the poor, malnourished infants, and listing out those they felt were responsible. Before I turned it off, I could have sworn that one of them turned to the screen and said my name. \*\*\* When I did fall asleep, it was only after many hours of crying and shaking. As returned the silence, so returned my certainty that I had heard the doll speaking. But human frailty won the day, and my brain surrendered to darkness once more. In my dream, I saw Tim holding little Sarah and crying. He held her close and put the tiny baby girl to his face, kissing her again and again. Then he turned to me with an eyeless face and spoke with a toothless mouth: *Why didn’t you save her, Mary?* I tried to scream but in this world I could not make a sound. My mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water, and I felt like I was breathing in the ocean. Then, little Sarah looked at me with her little melting face and said: *Didn’t you love me, Mama?* When I didn’t answer, the tiny melted eyes burned with rage. *I hate you Mama. Everybody hates you. You throw me out the window?! You should jump out yourself and do the world a favor you worthless sack of human garbage forgotten by God. Why are you even alive you heartless bitch?* I kept trying to scream but nothing would come out. I tried to apologize but could only feel the sensation of water rushing into my lungs. Sarah began to say, over and over: *Why didn’t you save me, Mama? Why didn’t you save me, Mama? Why didn’t you save me–* I woke with a start to find the doll inches from my face. It was shouting at me: *Why didn’t you save me, Mama?* This time, I did scream, and batted it away from my face. The horrible thing, which somehow had reappeared in my house after I’d thrown it out of a 7th story window, began to sob in the corner where it fell. It looked up at me with its tiny heartbroken eyes and quivering lips as it asked me: *Why did you hurt me, Mama? Do you hate me?* Without thinking, I said, “Of course I don’t hate you, sweetie. Mommy loves you very much.” I froze. What was I doing? This thing wasn’t Sarah. It wasn’t even a person. *Then why did you hurt me, Mama? Why didn’t you save me?* I buried my head in my hands. “I couldn’t save you! I’m sorry!” The tears continued to pour from my eyes in rivers, soaking the arms of my shirt. *You didn’t deserve me, Mama. You coldhearted cunt. You shouldn’t even be alive.* I looked at the thing in shock. Hearing those words in a child’s voice was somehow far worse. It couldn’t stay in my house. Not one second longer. But throwing it out the window hadn’t worked, so I had to come up with another plan. I grabbed the hateful thing and carried it to the fireplace. It screamed all the while, sobbing just like a child in pain. *Don’t burn me Mama! Don’t hurt me! Why are you doing this?* I was undeterred. The fire roared to life, and I hurled it into the hottest part of the blaze as it hurled insults back at me. *Nobody’s ever loved you! Why do you think Tim left, you stupid bitch? If he really loved you, he’d have stayed!* Slowly but surely, the thing melted in the flames. Its little face turned to mush, then to liquid, then to ash. The smell was atrocious, but at least it was gone. I lay panting on the floor, crying but relieved. Later, I called the Russian man and told him that something was terribly wrong with his doll. He listened to my story, then said, not without empathy: “Maybe you should go back to this doctor? The one who referred you here?” It was the most polite way that someone had ever called me crazy. Seeing that this was a mistake, somewhat too late to avoid it, unfortunately, I hung up. Work was no better than it had been the day before. I listened as people berated me over the phone, and read from my script in a monotone voice. I was no more useful than a robot. As the insults went on and on, I began to dissociate from my body. My mouth said the words in the script, but my brain had no say in the matter. The words simply spilled from me like tears from my eyes. At lunch, I sat next to Jim. I’d always liked Jim. Had a huge crush on him since the day we’d met. Normally, we took our lunch breaks at different times, but that day the stars aligned. The biggest problem with talking to Jim had always been that we had zero interests in common. But that day, the TV in the break room happened to flip to a channel playing a soccer match. We discovered that we were both huge fans, and finally I had something I could say to him. Things couldn’t have been going better until I looked down and saw, under the table, something that made me jump a foot in the air. The doll. It was staring up at me with its cold eyes and sneering mouth. *You can’t get rid of me, Mama. No matter how much you want to.* Jim looked at me strangely, and I apologized, making some halfhearted excuse that I probably wouldn’t have believed coming from him. *What makes you think he’d be interested in someone like you? Have you looked in a mirror sometime this decade? Unless he’s got a corpse fetish I’d say you’re about two decades too old for him.* I stared down at the doll so long, Jim asked me what was going on. I picked it up, and showed him. When he asked what it was, I hesitated before answering. Eventually, I lied and said that it was a present for my daughter. “I didn’t know you had a daughter,” Jim said. “Yeah, I gave birth a couple of months ago,” I replied, which was not technically a lie. *Of course it’s a lie you worthless bitch. If you told him the truth he’d run screaming into the street. The only reason he’s stuck around this long is because there’s only one break room. Nobody will ever love you. Nobody.* “Stop it!” I yelled, before remembering that Jim had no idea what this thing was. He looked at me strangely and I bolted out of the room, sobbing and cursing the malevolent presence in my arms. It cursed me right back: *What the fuck’s wrong with you? Why would you even talk to him? You’re a disgusting pile of shit and vomit unworthy of life. You know what you could do to make Jim’s life better? You could slam your fucking head through a plate glass window and spray the side of the building with blood until you fucking die.* “Stop it!” I shouted, and threw it onto the floor as I ran to my car. But, there it was inside, waiting for me, its hateful sneer plastered onto its tiny, childlike face. What’s the matter Mary? Can’t handle the truth? Can’t handle knowing that you’re a failure as a mother and the ugliest bitch who ever lived? I sank to my knees and screamed, holding my head with both hands and begging the hateful thing to stop. But it didn’t. It kept pummeling me with insults and threats until I couldn’t take it one second longer. I got into the driver’s seat and floored the accelerator, taking the car onto the freeway, then to the nearest exit, then right off the edge of a cliff. As the car soared through the air, there was a tiny moment of quiet before gravity took over. It was only an instant, but in that instant I realized that I was going to die. So for the first time in weeks, I smiled. \*\*\* The next thing I can remember is tremendous pain. My eyes hadn’t even opened yet, but even though the world was dark, it was still full of suffering. Then, in the next instant, my eyes flew open. There, at the edge of the bed, looking at me with all the hate in the world, was a familiar hateful face. *Welcome back to the land of the living, bitch. Couldn’t even get suicide right, could you?* I had no energy left to sob. Instead, I hung my head in defeat, looking at the tiny hunk of plastic staring up at me and wishing to God that I’d chosen a higher cliff. Soon, a man in a white lab coat walked in and smiled. “Hello Mary,” he said. “How do you know my name?” I asked. “They checked your wallet when they pulled you out of the car. Your driver’s license was right on top,” he replied, still smiling. “Right,” I said, not smiling back. “I’m not going to lie to you, that was a close call there. But you’re going to be okay. Would you mind answering a few questions?” I immediately became wary, but nodded my head. “Before the accident, do you recall feeling lightheaded or dizzy? I shook my head. “Any alcohol or drug use?” I shook my head. “Okay, good. And have you had any thoughts of hurting yourself in the past week?” This was the question I’d been waiting for. I shook my head again, knowing that an affirmative answer would mean at least a 3-day psychiatric hold. As soon as they learned about the doll, God knows how long it’d last. “Excellent. You should be able to get out of here in a couple of days. You’ll have to be careful with those casts, but everything will be okay.” I nodded again, and he left. The doll popped its little face back off the bedsheets and set itself right back to its task: destroying my mind and soul. As the night wore on, I sat there, frozen, as it continued to pound me with reminders of my inadequacies, my faults, my failures. From time to time, I had to stand and it stood with me, clinging to my hospital gown as I made my way to the bathroom, to the cafeteria or to have one test or another performed. From that moment on, it was never quiet, though I seemed to be the only one who could hear it. Whether it was reminding me of that time in 3rd grade when Johnny Welkins had rejected me in front of the entire class, or the time that I’d sat through an entire date before realizing my shirt was on inside out, or berating me about letting the original Sarah die, it was always saying something degrading and humiliating. By then, I’d become numb to the abuse. I never responded or argued. I never fought back or tried to get rid of it. Once or twice, I accidentally crushed it under my foot, but it always ended up right back where it had started: on my hospital bed, eyes burning with rage and lips firing off insult after insult. \*\*\* The last night I was in the hospital, I dreamt of Tim. I dreamt of the last time that I’d seen him before he disappeared forever. He stood in the doorway, blocking it with a stern face and large hands. I kept trying to push past him, but he wouldn’t let me. Eventually, we fought, and he threw me to the floor. I landed on my stomach so hard all the air flew out of my lungs. When I woke, the doll was standing over me, and it had gone back to its familiar mantra: *Why didn’t you save me, Mama? Why didn’t you save me, Mama?* I sighed and focused on filling out the discharge forms that the nurse had left. They were long and boring, and it was no simple task to complete them with the doll repeating its horrible question again and again and again. Eventually, I finished, and an orderly wheeled me out to my car, the doll clinging to my shoulder and shouting abuse into my ear. A single tear fell from my eye and rolled down my cheek as I climbed in to the driver’s seat and started the engine. \*\*\* When I arrived home, I collapsed on my bed and began to weep. I wept like a child. I wept so loud in fact that I couldn’t even hear the doll as it broke down my door and resumed berating me. But I ignored it. I ignored it as I made dinner. I ignored it as I took out the trash. I ignored it as I returned to bed and tried to sleep. But it wouldn’t stop. Finally, it got close to my face and screamed right into my ear: *Why didn’t you save me, Mama? Why didn’t you save me, Mama?* And, for the first time since the accident, I replied, shouting: “What do you want from me?! I couldn’t save you, Sarah! I couldn’t!” *Liar! You could’ve saved me! You know you could’ve!* In that instant, it finally pushed me past my breaking point. I picked it up and shook it as hard as I could, screaming: “What could I have done? What was I supposed to do? What do you want from me?! Why are you doing this to me?!” The doll looked at me with cold, hateful eyes and said: *You could’ve stopped Tim.* I froze. “What do you mean?” I asked. *You know what I mean, Mama. You know what he did. Why didn’t you stand up to him? Why didn’t you stop him?* “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” I shouted. *Yes you do. You know exactly what I’m talking about.* “No!” I shouted. “No, I couldn’t stop him!” But even as I said it, I knew it was a lie. *We both know why the stillbirth really happened, don’t we, Mary?* I shook uncontrollably and ran into the backyard to get away from the doll, but it only appeared right in front of me, scowling down at me as I tripped and fell. It pointed to the ground and began to raise its little arms. The ground shook and trembled and I shouted at it, begged it to stop, but it was too late. In one enormous burst the ground split open and a body fell next to me. It was Tim. *Why didn’t you save me from him, Mary?* The doll asked. I continued sobbing, but managed to respond, “I couldn’t save you Sarah. But I could get you justice.” The doll’s face softened a little, and for the first time, the fire went out of its eyes. It crawled up next to me and buried its little face into my chest, and let me hold it, just like I’d always wanted to do. I stroked its hair and whispered to it, over and over again, “I would’ve saved you if I could.” And in its tiny, childlike voice, the doll replied, “I know.” Then it closed its little eyes, nuzzled close into my chest, and heaved a heavy sigh before never moving again.

Chapter One Title unsure Sam pulled his phone out of his pocket and hurriedly went to check his email inbox. “Come one, come on.” He thought as he waited for it to load. “Yes! There it is!” He murmured to himself. He quickly opened what he had been waiting for. It was a job interview for a forklift operator. Sure, the wage was low but Sam whether he realized it or not really needed this. He’d just gotten out of rehab and the halfway house he was staying in required that he have some form of legal employment. Sam knew that if he could just get an interview, he could get the job and be back on his way to proving to everyone that he was finally a changed man. He put his phone back into his pocket, grabbed his keys and left his room. The halfway house was an old brownstone in downtown Portland. Sam had been told that he had found a “good one” though the state of the home made him never want to find out what a “bad one” looked like. The old worn floorboards creaked with every step. As he made his way down the narrow and steep steps he was hit with the damp rotting smell of the street coming through the now open front door. It was Mr. Hawthorne the home caretaker. He had just come in with a handful of mail. Mr. Hawthorne was a kindly old man of about 70. He had thick grey hair that he always kept trimmed neatly. He was a person that you couldn’t imagine being younger as if he had somehow always looked this way. Stuck in his old age, as if he were meant to be there. “Nothing for you today Samuel.” He said plainly. “Where are ya off to?” He asked. “A job interview!” Sam said excitedly and with an air of pride. “Excellent, excellent Samuel.” Said Mr. Hawthorne pleasantly. “Let me know how it goes! And best of luck!” Sam padded Mr. Hawthorne in his shoulder as he passed him in the entryway “Thanks, Mr. Hawthorne and I will!” He said happily. Sam stepped out into the street. It had just finished raining and the damp smell of a decaying city filled his lungs. This reminded Sam of where he was from. Not because of the smell of the city but because every time he stepped outside he was reminded that he didn’t belong there. Sam was raised on a small farm in Montana. How he ended up here brought him great shame. But, he was heading to a place to hopefully help him right all of his wrongs. He walked down the block and turned the corner. There sat his 1999 Honda Civic. For starters no one had smashed the window so he was already in the positive. He unlocked the door and hopped inside. “Alright you old son of a bitch, come on now.” He thought as he pushed in the clutch and turned the ignition. The cars engine sputtered, spat and rolled its way to life. Sam smiled a sense that this was all going o work out suddenly washed over him. The old Honda rarely started on the first try! He put it into gear and started down the road. A road he hoped would lead him out of this city and perhaps back home. CHAPTER TWO Arrival Sam was relieved that the warehouse was far from the city proper and out in the suburbs of Portland. Anytime he was able to escape the city he felt a weight lifted off of his shoulders. He pulled into the massive parking lot of the warehouse and headed for the door on its southern corner where the e-mail had told him his interview would be at. The parking lot seemed eerily empty but it was a Sunday. The woman who wrote the email explained to him that she was only able to schedule his interview for that time because of some logistical issues. He found a spot near the doorway that read “new hires” above it. Sam grabbed his phone and wallet and headed inside. As he entered the lobby he saw rows of empty chairs and a front desk that was currently empty. Sam walked up to the desk tentatively. The lobby looked like any large doctors office waiting room. The harsh artificial lights, the smell of cheap carpet slightly put him on edge. He stood at the desk for a moment before he finally uttered a tentative “Hello?” His voice seemed to echo around the great space and down the long hallway behind the desk. Just before he was about to toss out another meek “hello?” A kindly woman appeared through a cracked door behind the reception area. “Coming!” She said anxiously! “Sorry, sorry, I wasn’t supposed to be here this morning! My name is Christine! I had to cover for a colleague who called in sick! I’m a bit behind! You must be Samuel! You’re the only one scheduled for an interview today! Here, take this packet and fill it out. When you’re finished bring it back up and I’ll let Mr. McMaster know you’re here!” She said with much haste. She handed Sam the packet on a clip board with a pen and directed him to take a seat at any of the empty chairs behind him. Sam sat down and started filling the packet out. It was all normal job interview stuff. But this presented a problem for Sam as he had just left rehab. Sam didn’t have any references aside from Mr. Hawthorn. Sure, he could put down some old friends from the service but he didn’t know their numbers anymore. So, he just put down Mr. Hawthorne for now. If they had any questions about it he figured he could answer them during the actual interview. Sam figured that the less they knew about him the better his chances would be of getting the job. After all this wasn’t NASA they just wanted someone to drive a forklift around a warehouse. He handed the packet back to Christine who was ostensibly busy answering emails on her computer. She smiled and said “let me get this to the supervisor! He’ll have you back in just a moment!” “Thank you!” Sam said and he went back and sat down waiting anxiously. “What if they ask about my past? They surely will.” He thought. “What should I tell them? The truth? No, that’s not gonna work. Maybe a half truth.” Before he could finish his thought Christine stood up and said “Sam! He’ll see you now!” Chapter Three Rabbit hole Sam was led into a back room in the middle of a hallway that had to of been 100 yards long. Christine opened the door to a small bland grey office that Mr. McMasters was sitting in. He appeared to be fast at work typing. Sam took in the room. Small, grey, bland and very cookie cutter. Not a distinguishing feature in it. No personal pictures, nothing. Very utilitarian. Very impersonal. The only thing that caught Sam’s eye was a fancy machine in the corner that appeared to be some type of water dispenser. Complete with glass cups and napkins on a table near it. “Please please Sit.” Said Mr. McMaster his voice booming and commanding. As he stood he stretched his hand out toward Sam. Mr. McMaster was a commandingly large man. At least six foot four and 250 pounds. Despite his size and deep voice he appeared very friendly and almost child-like. Sam shook his hand and was immediately intimidated by Mr. McMasters massive hands and grip strength. Sam squeezed his hand firmly but could tell that McMaster was holding back considerably. They both sat. “Samuel, nice to meet you! I’m Gregory McMaster, please just call me Greg. I’m so glad you could make it in today. We really need someone in that spot and I think you’re gonna work out.” Sam was already feeling relieved. Oddly before he could get a word out Greg said “hey, saw ya looking at the water machine we have there in the corner. Pretty cool looking right?” He said with a smile on his face. “This is one of our CEO’s inventions believe it or not. See, this thing makes its own ‘spring water’ fresh as the Rockies man! You won’t believe it! Here let me grab you a glass!” “I’m alright” Sam said calmly “No, no I insist I have my manager hell to get me one of these in my office!” “Okay, sure sure” said Sam with his hand outreached taking the now full glass from Greg’s massive hand. Sam took a tentative sip. He was almost taken back, it really did taste like spring water! “Hey! You weren’t kidding!” He said surprisingly! “I love this thing man” Greg said as he leaned against the machine analyzing it. “She’s something else huh?” “Sure is..” Said Sam but the words coming out of his mouth felt funny. Must be his nerves he thought. Sam looked up quickly trying to calm himself down but the room seemed to roll and shift. “Hey, uhh what did you’d say was in this?” He murmured to the spinning room. Then, total blackness. Chapter Four Waking up at the bottom. The first thing Sam realized as he floated back into consciousness was the acute feeling of his head throbbing. Then, as his sense slowly began to warm up from there cold slumber he realized he was laying down and that he was comfortable. For a moment he just laid there before a sudden and quick blast of consciousness asked him “hey, where are we?” His eyes shot open only to be closed reflexively by a blinding light above his head. He raised his hands to cover his eyes and slowly sat up. As his vision adjusted to the brightness of the room he looked around. He was laying on a hospital bed. The room appeared to be solid concrete with a sloping drain in the middle. One large door was directly in the center of the far wall. It was heavy and metallic with a small slit at the top. Sam’s confusion began to give way to abject panic as he peered around the room. He jumped out of the bed, and ran over to the large door. He banged loudly and yelled “Hey! Hello!” Suddenly the room light switched from a harsh white to a dark and powerful red. A voice echoed around the concrete walls. “Please step away from the door.” It said robotically. “Assistance is on the way.

In a quiet hospital room, bathed in the sterile glow of fluorescent lights, sat a young girl, her delicate features etched with pain. Her oval face, once vibrant with laughter, now bore the weariness of illness. Beside her, a young man with rosy lips and eyes that held a lifetime of sorrow, gently held a spoon filled with bitter medicine. "Darling, take your medicine, be a good girl," he murmured, his voice tinged with desperation. The girl's eyes, large and bright like stars, gazed at him with a mix of defiance and longing. "It's too bitter, hmph!" she retorted, sticking out her tongue in playful rebellion. "I won't take the medicine unless you sing me a song!" The young man's heart clenched with a mixture of love and sorrow. This routine had become their daily ritual, a testament to their shared struggle against an unseen enemy. With a tender smile, he began to sing, his voice soft yet filled with unspoken pain. As he sang, memories flooded his mind like a torrential downpour. He remembered the first time they met, the innocence of their love, and the dreams they once shared. He recalled their first kiss under the moonlight in Paris, the world fading away as their hearts beat as one. But reality was cruel. Five years ago, their world shattered when the young man was diagnosed with a severe heart condition. Doctors spoke of heart transplants and slim chances of survival. It was then that the girl, his beloved, made a decision that would change both their lives forever. She offered her heart, not in metaphorical terms but in a literal sense. Her selfless act of love saved his life, but it also plunged him into a world of torment. He couldn't bear the thought of living without her, yet here he was, alive but not truly living. The doctor, a figure of authority and clinical detachment, observed the scene with a mixture of compassion and helplessness. "You know," he said to the nurse beside him, "five years ago, this boy received a heart transplant from his girlfriend. She gave him her heart, thinking it would save him. But it broke him instead." The nurse's eyes welled up with tears as she watched the young man sing to the empty space beside him. The room echoed with his haunting melody, a poignant reminder of a love torn apart by fate. In the midst of his song, the young man's voice wavered, a tear slipping down his cheek. He looked at the vacant space on the bed, where his beloved used to be, and whispered, "I'll love you for a lifetime, even if it means living in this endless agony." The hospital room, once filled with hope and despair, now lay silent and empty. Only the young man remained, a tragic figure trapped in a cycle of longing and loss. And as the echoes of his song faded into the sterile air, the world outside carried on, oblivious to the heartbreak within those walls.

"***Some days, I really don't like being a superhero.***" # `[You walk onto the rooftop. You see Luke Arling, A.K.A. the hero Streak, in his civilian clothes sitting on the edge of the roof halfway through a six pack of orange sodas. Luke hands you a soda as you take a seat next to him.]` Now, don't get me wrong. Beating the baddies, helping people, fighting the good fight, I'm always down for. I've also been doing this for a couple of years now, and I know that sometimes the bad guys win one, and people get hurt. Those days definitely suck, but that's the gig. Gotta take the good with the bad. But sometimes, it feels like I'm the only normal guy out here, relatively speaking. Most heroes are either in life-or-death mode twenty-four-seven, on a gloom-and-doom carousel, or kind of an asshole. If I had a dollar for every time I had to meet someone for a team-up on a windy or rainy rooftop in the middle of the night, I'd have to start putting it on my taxes. And they always do that thing where once *they're* done with the conversation they'll just disappear. Side note, I can go from Miami to New York City in about thirty minutes, give or take. Yet, I still have no idea how *I* lose track of some of these guys. No joke! One time, I had to team up with Spades for a high-profile villain situation. Reminder, he has no powers, he's just peak human, really smart, and has a bunch of cult money. While his cop buddy was doing his spiel, I kept my eyes on Spades the entire time, and the second, *the SECOND* I blinked, dude was gone! Drives me nuts! You also can't trust some heroes. Not in a "*they might be secretly evil*" kind of way, more like "*they are WAY too ready to put a bullet in your back*" kind of way. I mean, I get it. It was for the greater good, it was a time-sensitive situation, and you knew I'd probably survive it, but a heads up before injecting me with a *poison* would've been nice, *Alchem-bee!* Had me tasting copper for two weeks! And don't get me started on-- `[One Rant Later]` --and some of these guy's backstories are just...just too sad, man. I mean, It's not unusual for heroes to have a little baggage; the best ones do, but you get to listening to 'em after a while, and maybe it's just me, but I'm less sad about what happened to you, and more surprised that you're still alive! Not only that, but you chose to become a hero! If I went through half the stuff some other heroes have been through, I'd have burnt the world to ash and taken Haven and Hell along with it. Spiral went to therapy for about a month. Seasoned vet-level hero therapist, and at the end of it, the therapist had to temporarily shut down her practice because *she* needed therapy. Now, I'm not perfect either, I'm no ray of sunshine, always smiling and junk. I've fought a few heroes. Had a couple of bad days after a loss. I mean, I got my powers after my sister's professor went nuts from testing on himself and blew up the school. Now, I sometimes phase out of reality if I'm not paying attention. I've died twice and had to be told about the second time months after it happened, and I think two versions of my future self started some sort of multiverse war, which is concerning, to say the least. But...I dunno, maybe I'm the odd man out. Maybe after all that's happened, the fact that I still see myself as just a guy trying to help *is weird*. I run around the world in a white and red jumpsuit with goggles powered by an energy that no one can understand. In two years, I've been through enough superhero drama and shenanigans that some heroes think I've been around for *waaaaay* longer, but somehow, I don't let it get to me. I dunno how I do it, I just do. I bet some guys think I'm some kind of psychopath, an emotional time bomb waiting to go off, just one bad day from-- `[Notification pops up on Luke's phone. As he reads it, he begins to grin ear to ear.]` Oh. My. *God!* This is the best thing I've ever seen in my life! Have you seen this yet?! `[Luke holds the phone up to your face.]` >**MAGS (GF):** Guess who's *baaaaack?* **Int. News Alert // Beaches Gone Bananas:** Mutant Fish have been seen battling various cybernetically enhanced primates on Dandi Beach, located on the west coast of India. Sources in the area believe that this is closely involved with an explosion at a near by abandoned banana factory. The few bananas recovered before battle have been confirmed to emit a strange kind of radiation. Luckly, the beach was closed for cleaning due to... Oh, you know this has got Maniac Macaque written all over it. I knew he survived the volcano collapse somehow. You can never keep a weird villain down for long! `[Luke starts texting Mag back before running off in a flash of light for a few seconds, returning in costume.]` Hey, I *ape*-preciate you letting me ramble for, like, four hours. I *peel-*ly needed this more than I thought. `[Another notification pops up]` Aw, *Carp!* Utopic's there! Guy's a wooden board, he gonna waste a primetime pun situation! Look, I gotta *split*, but next time you *swing* through town, lunch is on me. Just no shrimp. No pun, I just can't stand the taste of 'em. `[Luke races down the side of the building. You look off into the distance, seeing a streak of white light speeding into the horizon.]` # ***"Some days, I really LOVE being a superhero!"*** # # . # . # . # . # . # . # . # . # . # . # Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed the story! # If you have any COMMENTS, CRITIQUES, or CRITICISMS, please don't be afraid to let me hear 'em (as long as they're CONSTRUCTIVE (or COMICAL)). Also, if you have some spare time, check out r/ToonTales for more stories like this one. # Stay safe, Drink Plenty of water, and be kind to yourself and others.

Everything is black around Bernadette; a strange odor permeates the room she stands in and yet she can’t identify it. She tries to find her way out, but the floor seems uneven, as if covered in garden soil. As Bernadette slowly makes her way forward, she steps on something sharp and reflexively lifts her foot to check. «Ouch! What the hell is this? » She can barely make anything out in the darkness, but then the lights come on slowly illuminating her computer room. Everything is there: her office, her computer in front of the window, dozens of plants spread out in the small room. «What’s going on here? » Her eyes are drawn to sharp pieces of pottery sticking out of the garden soil-covered floor. Terrified, she realizes she almost cut herself on something sharp. «Oh, come on, what’s this now? » Discouraged, she tightens the belt of her bathrobe and wonders how she’ll clean this all up when a noise grabs her attention — a discrete crackling noise, followed by a another. Bernadette looks around, then jumps and screams in terror at the sight of a humanoid shape under the desk, staring straight at her. Bernadette pulls herself together and demands in a firm voice, «Who are you and what are you doing in my apartment? » The shadow silently lifts a finger. Bernadette hesitates, then follows its gesture with her eyes. Above the computer desk, a flowerpot suspended by the window is slowly cracking. Horrified, Bernadette watches as the crack widens. She wants to catch the pot but her body refuses to move, paralysed where she stands. «Why can’t I move? ». She tries a bit harder, but her muscles won’t cooperate. Her eyes remain fixed on the flowerpot. The crack spreads, and when it reaches the edge of the pottery it starts to tremble softly. Powerless, she continues to struggle against the paralysis but to no avail. The flowerpot breaks in half and falls directly on the desk, smashing on the computer keyboard. The impact pushes the keyboard to the side, where it gets stuck on the corner of the desk and flips violently, projecting the plant and half the pot directly towards the window. The window shatters under under Bernadette's incredulous gaze. She can’t believe what just happened. Disheartened she stops fighting the paralysis. She’s speechless as it all unfolds, then lets out a long string of curses. Meanwhile, the light around her starts fading gradually «What the heck is going on NOW? ». As everything goes black, she hears a familiar feminine voice she can’t quite place. It whispers in her ear, *wake up*. Bernadette wakes with a start, sitting up in bed, sweaty and disoriented. She takes a deep breath and looks around. In her bed, in the middle of the night, she realises it was the most terrifying nightmare of her life. Though she knows it was a nightmare, Bernadette can’t help but worry about her plants. Determined, she grabs her bathrobe, puts her slippers on and leaves her room. She goes to the neighboring room and turns on the lights. Seeing everything in perfect order, she breathes a sigh of relief. No garden soil on the floor, no shattered window, and most importantly, her plants are all intact. Hand on her chest, she relaxes. As she leaves the room, she glances below the desk but sees nothing unusual, no shadows. Bernadette goes back to her room. «2 a.m., ahh crap the night is almost over.» She finds a comfortable position to go back to sleep, but for fifteen minutes, something keeps her awake. «If dreams have significance, what the hell does this one mean? ».

It's a beautiful Autumn evening. I'm chilling with my cat and my chocolate mocha, listening to my playlist and writing down whatever I can think of. Positivity, negativity, there's just so many things to write, and yet so little time. Since this is going to be the last time I write something, I just want to talk about myself for a little bit. Me? You can call me **J**. At the end of the twentieth century, I was born in a country I shall refer to as Banania. I was a weird kid. I was never really good at making friends, and spent most of my time alone, watching cartoons and playing video games. To tell you the truth, I was actually kind of happy with who I was, but my family was not. You see, I have a really extroverted family, and they tried every possible way to turn me into an extrovert. They took away my video games, they forcefully took me to places I didn't want to go, they beat the shit out of me, and so on. But I never changed. Strange, isn't it? To think that you can just change someone's entire personality, just because they are *your* kid. Now, I never married, or even been in a relationship. But if I had kids, I would at least try to respect their every possible decision. In fact, if I had kids, I wouldn't have suicidal thoughts to begin with. I would never do such a thing to my children. My teenage years weren't exactly sunshine and rainbows either. There are four kinds of high schools here in Banania. Science high schools for smart people, normal high schools for normal people, religious high school for bad people, and vocational high schools for idiots. Since I was not good at literally any class, I had to go to a vocational high school, and boy, was it rough. I'm not a model. In fact, I can safely say that I'm so fucking ugly. This, combined with the fact that I was shy resulted in various bullying incidents. My nickname was "The Sleeping Ugly". Remember, I went to a vocational high school, so the bullies were even worse than your average bully. On top of that, this was around the time I discovered something about myself, that I was not only attracted to women, but also men. Years later, I found out that there's something called bisexuality. I, of course, kept this as a secret my whole life. LGBT folks aren't really welcome in a religious dictatorship like Banania. Right now, as an adult, my life is, you guessed it, not good. I failed university because I couldn't learn German - I was going to major German literature. All I want to say is, life is fucking hard. Like, ***REALLY*** hard. The economy of Banania is terrible, I can't just go to a store and pick up a Pepsi and some Pringles without thinking about the consequences, let alone having hobbies. I can't talk to my family, I can't afford therapy, and I have no friends to talk to. I can barely pay my rent with the shitty job I have. Also, the people are complete idiots. I'm talking about people who want to stone you to death for not believing in a certain religion. I had lost all hope, then I met someone at a coffee shop I go to. Her beautiful bright blonde hair and light brown eyes stunned me. I will refer to this person as Megumi. I thought no matter what, I had to talk to her. And I did, sort of. Remember when I said that I was ugly? That played a huge role in this situation. Turns out, no matter how kind you are, the way you look always matters while making friends. Megumi, while being kind at first, eventually snapped and told me she'd never want to see my face ever again. I respected her decision and stopped going to the said coffee shop. This got me thinking; am I just going to be alone my whole life? No friends, no relationships… I mean, I did want to be alone, but is this a way to live? Maybe my family was right, maybe I should've been extroverted. Make no mistake, I did have a few friends, but they all stopped texting me for reasons that are yet to be explained. I mean, I do like being alone but having someone close to me wouldn't hurt, am I right? I found peace in writing. Whenever I felt down, I always sat down and wrote things. But it was never enough. I made a fool of myself with shitty fanfictions on the Internet, and my original work wasn't great either. However, that never stopped me. I wanted to be a comic book artist, but I can't draw so writing is all I have. But no matter how much I write, I'll never be able to publish anything in my country, because I don't want to go to jail. And now, here I am, staring at this piece of paper next to my cyanide pills. I have tried to find solutions. I thought maybe I should move to another country and start a new life. Then I remembered; what the fuck am I even good for? If I move abroad, I'll just be another useless immigrant. What could go wrong if I end it all anyways? Would the world lose anything without me, a useless ugly bastard? If Hell exists, it can't be any worse than what I already have to go through. If reincarnation exists, maybe I'll finally have the peaceful life I've been dreaming of. And if I disappear from existence, I don't fucking care. Goodbye. PS: I'm sorry, Pearl. I'm sure you'll find a better owner.

In the quadrum of Aprimay, three corpses were found within the northern mountain range. Their possessions and clothing suggest that they used to be caravan folk. With one of them, a journal was found. Out of respect for the deceased, the investigating personell would usually not delve into private belongings, but the cover of the journal had been marked with red letters before the owner finally succumbed to the mountain cold. "Read this when you find me." - - - There is a myth among the caravan folk. Few will ever truthfully claim to know its origin, but it lives and thrives among our people, spreading through rumor and superstition. Anyone who has shared enough nights around the cramped caravan campfire knows what I speak of. The mad cannibal. I am writing this because I am afraid the myth has finally shed its deceitful shell of unsettling yet exciting campfire rumor and has become as real as flesh and bone. What I am saying is, I believe I have met them. And it is because of them that I will die here. So I hope that whoever eventually unearths my remains may find this and allow themselves the curiosity to read, to learn and to understand what exactly it is that has happened to me. My time is limited, alas not as limited as I'd prefer. Finding myself stuck with the impossible decision between starvation and the endless cold, my days are numbered, though it is on me to decide that number. As cruel a fate as this is, it allows me the time to give you all that I have. It seems to surprise people when they learn that handling a trade caravan is a terribly mundane task. Stories of ambushes, drawn out battles with bloodthirsty bandits or starved predators spread like wildfire, yet apart from the occasional illness or broken wheel, there are few things disrupting the peaceful dullness of riding with a caravan. In my years I have witnessed two ambushes and both were a few drugged-up lowlifes who on another day I may have regarded with empathy as poverty-stricken village kids. Believe me, there are few things exciting about endlessly traveling between settlements, exchanging goods for coin and heading back. It is quite boring, but also lonely. And I loved it. Constantly being on the road brings with it the strange quality of seeing so much of the world, while never actually arriving anywhere. In my time I must have seen close to 100 settlements, some grand and impressive, others shoddy and shaken and pitiful. None that ever connected with me. None that ever made me want to stay or care. I was happy in the small wagon with the other lonesome souls and the few pack animals out on the road. Coming from somewhere. Going towards something. Never actually being anywhere. It must have been after my third or fourth trip that I finally gave up that small abode in the village where I was born. I picked up this job as nothing more than a petty distraction, but even during my first trip I could just not deny feeling so much more than I had anticipated. And returning to your old life after months on the road, it's just not the same. With every trip gone by the time until that feeling of normality returned increased, until eventually it never came back at all. There was no denying it - I had finally found my place in the world. And it was not the cramped room above a bar at the edge of some village I never liked, it was not tilling fields that were not mine, serving beer to strangers that I did not enjoy or crafting arrows for a bow when I did not even know how to fire it. No. It was the vast, lonely freedom of the road. Where the past had never happened and the future never would. It is a peculiar way of life and it attracts like-minded folks. Lonely drifters with few ties and even fewer responsibilities. There are not many in this line of work that have family or any real friends to speak of. And that makes for pretty shoddy conversation. I learned quickly, even before I abandoned my home, that on the road people do not like to speak - a quality which I had no issue with. But it was when the sun had set behind the great plains and the night shrouded the land in darkness and unknowing, that those who had been quiet all day would finally open their mouths to share the rumors and tales that they had absorbed. Loosened by what little alcohol or herb we carried for ourselves, in the evening hours I would witness these people suddenly begin to smile and talk and share their stories and thoughts. Although no one ever strayed too far from anything caravan-related. They knew better. It must have been in one of those evening rounds, presumably on one of my earlier trade hauls where I heard the story for the first time. There were many like it, often unsettling and surely misremembered or wildly exaggerated, but the dreadful tale of the mad cannibal was different. When the old man across from me began speaking of the ice sheet up north and asked if any had not heard the story of the mad cannibal I watched the playful cheeriness drain from the faces around me. Few remained as before, mine sure did, for I had not the first idea what the man was talking about. He must have noticed and with a look I could not quite categorize, he began talking. Nobody knows who first saw or heard them, he said, but it must have been on one of the first trade hauls on the "expanded route". Many decades ago, the traders alliance had decided to expand their network and include some of the more remote settlements - like Ferest, one of the fishing villages far up north. Ever since the great storm had buried large parts of the main road under debris and ice, they had been cut off, locked in by a range of sharp mountains on one side and the frozen sea on the other. But the alliance wanted to change that and after a few months of planning, a new route was declared. It kept mostly to the original path - the most interesting part was the two-day detour to bypass that part of the road that had been blocked and destroyed. It led straight over the ice sheet, a cold and desolate plain for the most part, ravaged all year by terrible icy storms that would block all vision. Navigation was only possible by keeping an eye on the sharp black mountaintops, ever so slightly visible towards the land side. Somewhere within that jagged range was a mountain pass that led, on the other side, to the fishing village. Surely an extreme scenario when it came to weather, but most experienced caravan handlers had survived worse. They had braved the scorching summer desert of Lakan or the occasional snow storm in some other desolate place up north. It was an acceptable risk. This paired with the increased financial incentive offered to those first braving the new route and expanding the reach of the alliance made for optimal conditions. Those who knew their trade had little reason not to sign up and so in rapid succession several caravans crossed the ice sheet and made their way through the new route. It went well for quite some time, so he told. The weather was no issue for those equipped with the knowledge and apparel to deal with it and the rough road could hardly compare to some of the even more unforgiving terrain many had already witnessed. No, it was easily acquired income for many. And it must have been on one of those trips that the first sightings happened. The man across the campfire explained, that it is unclear who or even how many reported these sightings, but in that lack of clarity lies the issue. It is not unlikely for someone on a caravan to go insane, to suffer some form of mental break and see things that are not truly there - tell tales of marvel and wonder or terror and confusion. In fact it is believed many of the more interesting campfire stories sprouted from the fantasy of some poor rambling fool. But the fact that nobody was able to pin down who started the myth of the cannibal, who was merely reciting what they had heard and who spoke of encounters they genuinely believed to have witnessed, made it hard to discard it as just some madman's rambling. It gave it a strange sense of authority. It was not helped by the fact that the tales many spoke of started to overlap and intersect, as if they had made the same experience at entirely different points in time. They spoke of strange noises on their journey, a piping in the wind or the sound of heavy breathing right behind them. Some say they saw a silhouette in the snow storm, a tall, thin figure watching them from the distance. Others claim they were approached on the mountain by an old man with a long, withered beard who beheld them with a look of strange intensity and oppressiveness. Then some claim, he would smile, not in a friendly way, rather like a preying animal, before being swallowed again by the snowstorm. Some even said they felt him calling to them. These accounts were frightening and surely made for great horror stories to share with those soon to cross the ice sheet, but rarely more. That was, the man said, until the caravan of Eila Lewin and her brother Marik. I was surprised for a moment when he mentioned their names, for I had heard of them before. They had been a strange pair, on the road together for decades, perhaps a bit of a legend themselves. What I had not learned yet was their fate. As he told it, their caravan, a large group of no less than 16 people were sent on a routine trip to Ferest, but never arrived. The alliance sent scouts after them only a few days later and what they found has been echoed through time from that day on. The scouts found the caravan atop the mountain pass, intact with all wagons just standing there. At first glance it hardly appeared as if anything had happened at all, but as they came closer a terrible scenery unveiled itself. The first thing they saw was one of the animals, a yak, standing next to a wagon and nibbling on something in the snow. A body - or rather what was left of it. The corpse they found was so mangled and destroyed, they could not even identify if it was a mans or a womans body. Stomach torn open in a gruesome fashion, neck and face ripped apart. In no time the scouts found more dead bodies, strewn around outside the wagons and all of them looked just like the first one. They had large parts of their flesh missing, sometimes entire body parts, often the faces. It appeared as if they had been torn off, ripped from their bones ruthlessly. There was nothing suggesting the use of tools or a knife, no cuts or incisions, rather as if something or someone had just torn the flesh from the bone, the muscle from the tendons, the eyes from the sockets. Animal attacks were out of the question, for there was just no animal that would leave these kinds of marks, especially up here, on the ice sheet. The scouts quickly left behind what they found outside and turned to look inside the wagons. Perhaps some of them were still alive, holed up and waiting for rescue. No. Inside the wagons the scenery was so much worse. Many were just empty, but there was one were the desecrated bodies of the caravan people were practically piled on top of each other. Blood stained everything inside the wagon, the wares, the floor, the walls. Body parts, loose chunks of flesh and muscle, bones and little frozen clots of blood, all strewn around next to the destroyed corpses of the people they belonged to. Some had their chests torn open, some had their intestines removed, almost all had big chunks of their arms and legs missing, leaving behind bloodied, ugly holes. There was one man whose eyes were still intact and through a bloodied grimace he stared at the scouts in cold, dead terror. Word of the grotesque scene made its way around the nearby settlements quickly and the alliance gave it their best efforts to suppress them. After all, money was on the line. The human lives lost in the mountains were little more than a bargaining chip, worth some amount of coin depending on how much this horror story would spread. So it was quickly lost in a haze of confusion and misinformation until the population widely regarded it as a myth. The myth of the mad cannibal, who lives on the ice sheet and preys of those who pass. Little more than a scary tale to tell to your kids. But around the campfires of the caravan people this tale had a different feel to it. Some may still regard it as just the ramblings of drunkards or lunatics, but it appears that many think differently about it. The route over the ice sheet was closed indefinitely, though a different reason was named publicly, of course. Luckily for them, the alliance had no issues dealing with any of the deaths, as us lonely drifters have no one to look for us when we go missing. Still, losing a whole crew and almost the shipment to some crazed mountain beast was apparently incentive enough for them to invest into repairing the road. It took a few months, a huge financial loss, but it seems the alliance found it worthwhile. Not worthwhile enough to go searching for the corpses they never found though, but that's just what it is. "Carried off by the beast", they told us. "It had always been a group of 14", they told the public. After that for years, trades continued as normal. To this day no one had dared or deemed it important enough to look into what had truly happened on that mountain pass. There the man concluded his tale and from the muted reactions around me I could tell that many saw within this tale more than a mere horror story. I sensed a tension in the air that felt quite alien to me. The mundane tranquility of the caravan had been broken. Few words were spoken before we all retired and the images that had crept into my mind haunted me all night. But with the rising of the morning sun and the promise of a new day on the road, quickly the imagery of terror faded and my life returned to the quiet predictability that I had grown to love so much. I did think of the cannibal again. Here and there the thought would pop into my head and at some point during my career I even heard the tale again, retold a little differently, but being accustomed to it now the shock did not grasp me the way it did before. The myth was now a part of my life as a caravan handler. It would have stayed that way, I'm sure, had it not been for that terrible storm a few months ago. For years the main road upwards to the icy oceans and its many villages, Ferest and her brothers and sisters, had held firmly and supplied the alliance with a never before seen amount of trade, both in quantity and quality. Fine wares and even finer payments, hauled across the land day by day. That made the ambushes increase slightly in their amount and intensity, but the newfound resources meant the alliance could finally afford increased security. Some of us now held rifles, our blades were sharper and sturdier and while I never got to use either, I felt safer knowing our equipment was in good shape. Any brigand would surely know this and even if they did not, they would learn quickly. Everything was working out, quality of life and labor increasing steadily and predictably. But all that changed when the storm hit. It was not even particularly bad - previous ones had hit the land in much more critical places, washing out fields and damaging villages with lighting strikes and falling trees. This one, while just as intense if not more, had decided to bring down its fury somewhere in the mountains and so it was more a spectacle than a threat. It was when we heard the rumbling, that we understood something more must have happened. Soon we had our suspicions confirmed. I was stationed in Exhem at the time, one of the many villages close to the mountain belt and watched as one of the caravans sent out just days before, returned to us with all their animals still loaded and the handlers visibly upset. It had happened again. A barrage of rubble, stone and ice had swept down from one of the mountaintops and buried part of the road, precisely that part of the road which had been hit before. It seemed almost too outlandish to believe, but true it was all the same. The alliance member who was calling the shots at the Exhem post, a young woman by the name of Stilton, appeared immensely frustrated with the news and having been part of the team for so long it was no surprise to me. This was no longer about that single shipment; with this trade route compromised all the expansion of the previous years was now in danger and even worse, the whole alliance might lose sustainability over this. To be honest, I think we all knew that. And so it was that the old detour was swiftly and quietly reinstated and it was then that I first thought of them again. The cannibal. I remembered why that route had been closed in the first place and looking around I was uncertain if anyone beside me shared that knowledge. Even Stilton seemed to have no idea of the myths that had been told of that route ever since its closure. Or perhaps she just knew not to speak of it. I was hardly surprised when she assigned me to go along with the group. I find it hard to explain this sensation, but the moment she mentioned we would fall back on the route across the ice sheet I just *knew* I would be one of the first to go. Not that I wanted. I was looking forward to the taiga trip I had signed up for, but this was just the way it had to be. There was no confusion or questioning when I picked up my gear, loaded my bag and joined the others at their wagons - I was meant to go on this trip. I was meant to cross the ice sheet with them. It began like any other tour. Given our comparatively small load and the increasing demand for workers our troupe was limited to seven people. But with two rifles and my years of experience I felt safe enough. Looking back I think I would have felt even safer without the rifles, although in the moment I could not explain that. We traveled the road until we reached the new blockade and truly its size had not been exaggerated. The amount of rubble that had swept down the mountain was staggering. It would take a well-trained crew months to remove all this debris. It was as if someone had deliberately tried to prevent anyone from travelling the road normally, with all their might. There was no way anyone was making their way through that, let alone a caravan with carts and animals. So we made our way off the road. The canyon we passed through sheltered us from the snowstorms for quite some times, but when we finally made it onto the barren plains of ice, the howling wind and the icy thorns it carried cut through my face no matter which way I looked. Any description I had heard of this place had been accurate, the black jagged mountaintops guided us, but where we were, between them and the icy sea, there was nothing at all. Nothing but the cold, the storm and the constant howling. It took me a while to notice the music in the wind. The wind's howl would shift in pitch ever so often, would change in its volume and intensity and after a while I was stunned to recognize a melody beneath it. There was this faint piping tune, somewhere underneath the howling of the storm, somewhere underneath the noise of the wagon wheels crashing against the uneven surface, somewhere underneath the shivering of my bones. There was strange music in this place. I looked around, tried to see if any of my companions were playing, maybe trying to brighten the mood, but they too were hidden inside their parkas and hoods, wrapped in clothing to shield them from the cold. Nobody was playing. Of course not. We made it to the peak of the mountain pass the very same day. I was surprised that we had come this far in such short time, but now that we had made it we were stuck on that peak with the sun going down. The storm was even stronger up here and the others had already brought the three wagons into a triangular formation, so they may give us some shelter from the wind in its center. A small campfire was crackling in the middle and a few people were huddled around it. I joined them quickly, for warmth more than for companionship and the lack of any shared stories or anecdotes gave me the feeling that the others had the same idea. We just sat there. It was obvious none of us were quite as comfortable as we would like to be, but the bravely blazing flames in our midst kept us glued there, a small refuge from the frozen wastes around as. At least for as long as it was still going. Eventually the sun set behind the icy black sea to our west. There was no actual way to see the sun setting through the thick whirling snowstorm, but the light around us slowly faded until the glimmering fire was all that was left to illuminate the faces and bodies of those around it. We let it burn out and one by one we retired to the carts, hoping to find the protective arms of sleep quickly, where we could not feel the cold and live in our world of dreams until the next morning brought back the light and the warmth. I shared my wagon with Ariana, a stranger. I had not met her before on any of the other trips so spending the night with her in the cramped interior of our cargo wagons was not a comfortable prospect, but compared to the outside it felt almost luxurious. So I fell asleep rather quickly, seeking my escape from the cold and discomfort all around me. In my dreams I found myself wandering the icy plains we had just crossed. I pierced the endless veils of snow and ice, thrown around by the howling wind, traversed the infinite plains in their entirety. It was an almost serene experience, peaceful. But then I heard that music again. It began quietly, a hint of melody somewhere in the howling of the storm, but I could not pretend I did not hear it. I recognized it instantly. So I followed. Blinded by the snow I did not know where exactly I was going, but I stumbled my way ever closer to the source of that sound. That wondrous, terrible music. I can not remember when exactly I noticed that it scared me. When I had heard it before in the caravan, I had felt nothing special at all, I just found it strange. Now I was terrified. Something about those soothing piping sounds, their dreadful tranquility, was just so terribly wrong. And yet I moved closer. The only thing more intense that my fear at that moment must have been my excitement and curiosity. I just had to know. Had to know what made that sound. And what about it made me feel so powerless. Without even noticing I had scaled the mountain. The same mountain my caravan was sleeping on. But in my dream no one was there. The little landing near the steep cliff face was clear of any intruders, the snow untouched by human and animal alike. The music was the loudest here, though strangely enough it barely felt as if it had grown in volume at all. Rather in its intensity. As if the vibrations it sent through the whirling snow, through the empty plains were much stronger up here and I could feel them. I looked around, searching for the source and it was not long before I saw him. Although that is not quite right, I feel. I did not see him until much later, but I was aware of his presence right from that moment. Felt it in the music, felt him come closer. He had been waiting in the snowstorm. Waiting for me to scale the mountain. And now he came towards me. When I finally saw his silhouette approach through the wall of snow the music faded quickly. Suddenly everything was quiet. Just the murmur of the storm surrounding me and this stranger. He was tall and thin, wrapped in a robe of some sort, a faded royal blue. Both his hands and feet were bare, exposed to the snow, but it did not seem to bother him. His skin was grey and weather-beaten. A long, scraggly beard fell from his otherwise hairless face, his eyes beheld me with an intense expression and their color matched that of his robe perfectly. He looked directly at me as he came closer. I think I was scared. I think I was shaking. But it was not the cold, no, I felt warm. Warmer than I had on any of the past days for sure. No, I was shaking with fear and a strange excitement. Something about this man seemed so strangely familiar. Nothing about his face or clothes or even his expression, no, but the energy within him seemed as old as time. So obviously familiar to me, that I almost felt shameful now that I had not recognized it sooner. He stood right before me, a good two meters between us, and still he beheld me with those eyes of ice. I knew what would happen next. Not breaking eye contact he raised his spindly arm, so the robe slid back, revealing the grey skin. He brought it up to his face and with no hesitation he sank his teeth into his flesh. Immediately cherry-red blood poured from the torn wound, flowing forth and down his arm into the undisturbed snow beneath us. His eyes called to me and I did what they asked. With my left hand I slowly pulled back the cloth covering my right arm, all the way, exposing it to the cold and the snow. I felt warm. Not hot, just comfortable. Peaceful. I watched as the man tore the chunk of flesh from his arm, watched the tendons snap and the blood trickle down onto him, before he finally closed his mouth around it and swallowed it whole. His teeth were tainted red and his face was wild. I let no time pass. I felt my teeth pierce my skin and the pain it caused me was like nothing I had felt before. My entire arm, from the elbow to my hand was searing white pain. But I did not stop. Blood squirting from beneath my teeth, I tore and yanked and eventually freed the chunk from my skin. I screamed, through my closed teeth with such a screeching affect that I felt it through my entire throat. A searing white agony radiated through my arm. I powered through. I know I had to. So I chewed for a moment, savored the strange, wonderful taste and swallowed. I awoke to screaming. Terrified I looked around. The pain in my arm had subsided, but for just a moment I want to check if what I had dreamt was real. Looking down I saw my arm, intact and covered by my anorak, but covered in a dark liquid. Coated in it. Part of me then knew it was blood. I think that part even knew whose it was. But I didn't or at least I did not want to know or believe, I was terrified. I heard the screaming again. It was one of the caravan-men, outside by our fireplace. The squeals he made sounded terrible, tortured. I jumped out of my wagon to see what was going on. There was chaos out there. I saw the screaming man in the middle of our formation, over the burnt-out remains of last nights fire. Next to him two people lied face-down in the snow. Even from where I was standing and with all the layers of clothes they were wearing, I could tell their bodies were mangled and deformed. The same was true for the screaming man. His left hand was entirely missing and from his opened jacket flowed forth a spill of bright red blood, tainting the snow beneath it. "What happened?" I heard a panicked voice and turned to see one of the other caravan-folk rush to the man on the ground. He was just now taking in the situation and was clearly in a panic, gasping. The dismembered man did not stop screaming, wailing in his consuming, gruesome pain. "What happened to you?" the other asked again, looking around at the corpses, then back at the man. But the man was not able to produce more than a gurgling sound. His desperate hand clutched the face of the other, smearing his blood all over it. He gurgled but he could not speak. Then he saw me, standing behind the other one, and shakily he took his hand of his face. His face sunk and for a moment the pain disappeared, as it was swallowed by an emotion even more intense. Utter, horrid fear. He pointed at me and screamed. The other one quickly turned around, followed the outstretched finger, but relaxed when he saw it was only me. He hastily got up, wanted to ask me something it seems, but as he looked me up and down he quickly choked back the words he had. Instead he asked me something else, his voice now shaky. Uneasy. Confused. "Why do you have Arianas rifle?" Looking down I saw her rifle in my hand. I knew it was loaded. "I dont know" I stammered as I pointed it at his stomach and pulled the trigger. A crackling shot tore through the icy wasteland, before being choked out by the storms howling. The scream that followed was terrible. Guttural wails of agony and approaching demise. He had trusted me. The part of me that still felt, still acted on my own accord, was terrified. But it was no use. My role in this was clear to me. I knew what had to be done. The calculations happened without me even thinking. Two of us down near the fireplace plus two more just now. Absent-mindedly I wandered back to the wagon that I had stepped out of and peered inside just to be certain. Sure enough, Arianas brutalized corpse was still there, lifeless and desecrated, blood pooling and staining the boards beneath her, draining away into the endless snow below. Now it was just one left. Knowing which wagon I had dragged the two other corpses out of made it easy, now only one remained. With my rifle raised I approached the hiding place of my final victim. There was no sound beside the constant droning of the snowstorm. Either the man was still inside, biding his time, hoping to get the drop on me or just wait it out... or he had fled into the snowstorm? It mattered little to me, although I felt that part of me preferred the former option. Without warning a loud crackling sound rang out and a bullet tore through the coach door before me, missing my arm just barely. "Stay back" came an unsteady voice from within, "My rifle's fully loaded and I'm not afraid to kill you!" He was bluffing, no doubt, but even so, the risk of engaging this man on his own terms appeared senseless to me. To some part of me. A hunt is not a hunt if the victim gets a fair chance. At least it's not a hunt one should participate in. "It's me!" I shouted back at him, trying my hardest to mask the ever increasing wildness in my voice, "I killed him!". I almost felt disgusted with myself. So warm and friendly and reassuring, I was *killing* my role. And to what end? He did not buy it anyway. Screamed back at me with fury that he heard what had been said before the gunshots. That he knew it was me. So that I had to come up with something different. I thought about just peppering the cart with my rifle until I heard screaming. But in the end I just used some of the fuel we had loaded to set the whole thing ablaze. When he eventually emerged from his hiding place, all charred and burnt and screaming, I did not even need the rifle to kill him. Just pushed him down into the snow and tore out his jugular. His eyes, his cheeks, his heart. Tore apart everything until he was no longer recognizable. And then I ate. Enjoyed every last bit of my kill. Sat there, fat and filled and content, like a spider in its web. The others would last me a few more days too. I do not know how much time I spent in that destroyed camp among the eviscerated bodies of my companions. I do not know what exactly I did to them, how much I ate, how much I shivered and shook and screamed in anticipation and ecstasy. But the rush wore off eventually. That part of me that had been terrified and disgusted all this time was finally getting louder again and reminded me of who I was. Or who I used to be. It was so obvious that I had changed, although it was hard to describe in what way. That cruel, hungry, devastating energy within me, it hardly felt unfamiliar, but some part of me still knew that it had not always been this way. But what had changed, what exactly had happened and when, I was not able to say. It mattered little, for now it was I that was hunted. Not by beast or human, but simply by the elements. My resources had run out, my grotesque feast had finally come to an end and I was in desperate need of shelter. The animals had left long ago and I was in no shape, physically or mentally to just return to the world I had left behind. No, I could never do that. So I began moving. As I left the campsite and marched slowly towards one of the mountain-tops I believe I heard a cruel laughter in the wind. It was hard to tell apart from the howling, but I'm sure of it. And despite not seeing him, I knew exactly who it was. And he was laughing and laughing as if the greatest theatre had just taken place. I am not sure for how long I wandered, but it could not have been more than one or maybe two hours. The biting cold was almost too much to handle and had I not found that cave in time, I surely would have frozen to death where I had been standing. There in that black maw in the middle of the icy wastes the laughter was echoing the loudest and with such an intensity that for a few moments I was sure it would cause the entrance to collapse. But then, as I set my foot over the threshold it ebbed and ended quickly. I lit the lantern I had brought along and slowly, carefully made my way inside the cave. It was here, in the middle of nowhere, somewhere among the pitch-black mountain tops that I found the solution to a mystery that had haunted me and many more for so long. Not far from the entrance, in a little crevice I found them. Next to a few empty boxes of rations and a burnt out torch lay dead Eila and Marik Lewin. The two missing bodies from their caravan, here in the mountain tomb. Preserved by the endless cold, it almost appeared as if they were simply dreaming. Nothing that I could see in the dim light suggested the use of force or violence, no their lifeless bodies had an almost peaceful quality. But there was blood. Blood on their hands, under their fingernails and a thick layer of dark muddy red along with chunks of what I can only assume was loose flesh around their mouths. Surely not their blood at all. So I sat down next to them. Next to these two strangers who too must have met the cannibal of the ice sheet. Who too must have heard the piping flute and the cruel laughter. Who too must have torn off their own flesh in a pact they never truly understood nor its implications they comprehended. It is here, next to my brother and sister that I will find my end. The cold gnaws on me and I can only hope that my next slumber will bring a swift and peaceful end. And I hope that whoever finds this is smart enough to not follow the ominous tunes, to not dream the dreams of violence and death, to not wander the endless wastes at night. If my journey brings anything of value I hope it is the understanding that no human should ever cross the ice sheet again. Farewell.

Tales from beyond the pulsing door presents: The Man With Square Teeth The inaugural installment of TBPD and the inspiration for the series. The man with square teeth is based on a true story, artfully extrapolated. Listeners are encouraged to re-listen to this episode as additional entries are published. For those interested in the grand plot of TBPD, this episode will be your anchor. For all others, enjoy! This episode is also available via audio narration. \*\*\* I find it strange sometimes, the way someone can get a *feeling* that crawls alongside them. The sort of…feeling of “being watched” as Buggs Bunny would put it. It’s amazing – we all experience it. And then we tell each other that it’s imagined. I don’t believe in the supernatural because I’ve never seen proof, but there are times where the logical side of my mind does battle with the irrational. This is a tale of one such time. It started when I got a dog. A floppy little chicken nugget with ruby hair and an inescapable smile. At the time I was living in a gated community – not the nicest of places, but enough sidewalk to get my little pup some exercise. Puppies require multiple walks a day, sometimes within the same hour. January 14^(th) was the first time I took my dog for a walk past the patch of grass that changed my life. We (the dog and I) were walking along the sidewalk. The glow of dusk had just faded into the silent blanket of night. Him, sniffing and snorting; trotting in front of, beside, and behind me. And me, mostly making sure that I didn’t step on his tail. Then it hit me – like a needle in the back of my neck. I felt…a presence. I snapped up and glanced over my shoulder just in time to see the lights of an apartment pop on. All of the lights. All at once. It took about five or six seconds for me to understand what was happening – it was the model apartment. The one the leasing office shows to people who are interested in renting. I breathed a sigh of relief and continued my walk. What a strange coincidence – that I would turn my head just in time to see those light go on. The very next evening it happened again. It must have been the same exact time. I couldn’t believe it. But it happened again. The feeling, the look, the lights. This time I was a little more prepared, so it was nowhere near as startling. Yet for some reason, rather than moving along, I felt compelled to look in to the apartment. The blinds, all of the blinds, were drawn such that I could clearly see inside of any room I chose. Looking through the sliding screen door I could see the living room most clearly. It was pristine. The walls were bright and white, like a hospital room. The couch was eggshell and unscuffed. On the brown ottoman sat a tray with some fake silverware, a plate, and a French press. A tasteful sheepskin rung, standing lamp, and light wall décor rounded out the room. It was uncomfortably neat. It was the sort of set up you would expect to see in a 1950s home – a place for everything and everything in its place. But why? Why did it have to be so neat? What consequences awaited anyone who would dare disrupt the pristine setup? I was rambling to myself, so I shook it off and moved on. For a third night (January 16^(th)) I passed by the apartment again. It was well into the night, and the lights were off this time, which admittedly brought me some comfort. I walked passed the sliding screen door, satisfied. On the way back home I deliberately retraced my steps. As I passed the apartment again, it happened. The lights came on. A chill shot down my body. There was the same setup, perfectly untouched. The lights couldn’t have been on a timer. The past two nights they came on at dusk. The moon was high in the sky this night. So why did they come on? And why do they *continue* to come on as I walk by? Are they on a motion sensor? If so, why didn’t they come on the first time I walked by? I had had enough of my own questions, and I decided it would be best to take a different route on my evening walks. A few days went by and I forgot. But then the strangest thing started happening. I don’t remember the exact date it began to happen, but gradually, I found myself gravitating back toward the apartment. Suddenly every night I was walking by the same sliding door. And not on purpose either. In fact, some nights I would deliberately avoid the patch of sidewalk that led past that brightly lit, sterile living room; but for whatever reason I would lose my train of thought, or get distracted. And there it would be. The 20 foot stretch of sidewalk, beckoning my footsteps. Calling me. Over time my thoughts became more invasive – more erratic. I began to picture the creature that would dwell in this plastic, contrived apartment. I remember one night I stared straight into that screen door, hypnotized, imagining his manifestation. I couldn’t help but picture him in my minds eye. There he would be sitting on that eggshell couch. Dressed well. Clad in a 50’s style pinstriped suit, a bowtie, and a bowler derby hat. And he had always been sitting there. Right there. Clear as day for anyone who focused hard enough to see him. But something was wrong. It was all wrong, in fact. The suit fit him too well. The tie draped straight out from his neck. There was no separation between the hat and his hairless head. Was he even wearing clothes at all? I leaned in closer. His eyebrows were drawn on…perhaps with marker. His skin was pale and powdered. He sat on the couch staring straight ahead, such that I could see his entire side profile. He had no nose. He had no eyelids. I’m not sure if he understood that people blink. My thoughts raced as my imagination filled in the rest of his structure. His hands were in what appeared to be pockets, but there was no beginning or end. They just faded into his upper thigh. He had no lips. The skin was there, but they lacked the pouty blush that distinguishes lip from skin on the human face. This was a ruse. Why put on such a show? Why even *try* to convince me that you’re human? I was ready to leave and keep walking, but my shoes felt as if they were cement. I couldn’t stop staring into the room, picking apart my imaginary man, desperate to make sense of his anatomy. Then something unexpected happened. I lost control of my imagination. What had once been a translucent delusion was now a solid figure sitting before me. Expressionless, he craned his crooked neck in my direction. His head was a perfect 90 degrees east, the remainder of his body completely perpendicular. Slowly, a forced, trembling smile came across his face, exposing 32 perfect squares, residing in his mouth. They were not curved like the human mouth. The angles of his smile were impossible, they made no sense. An the teeth…oh god the teeth – the teeth were perfectly straight, and perfectly square. The same bleached, hygienic white as the walls. And there he sat, impersonating a smile, as if he believed that I would feel less threatened. It was as though I could melt right through the screen door and join him had I wanted. And I felt compelled to. Why did I want to sit down with him? After what felt like hours I snapped out of my trance and shuffled off, surely leaving my dog quite confused. I checked my watch – I had only been stuck in that fever dream for a minute or two. It was as if time stood still when I was perched in front of that apartment. I didn’t sleep well that night. I couldn’t get those teeth out of my head. Or the smile. Raised eyebrows, crinkled cheeks, the blank spot where a nose should be. It was awful. I never looked in that apartment again. I would walk past it, despite my best efforts, and note from the corner of my eye that the lights were always on now – even in the day time. I would pass it at night, the living room lamp’s hum somehow audible form my position. Most nights, in addition to the blinding light emanating from the apartment was a blurry dark figure in my peripheral. I dare not look directly through that sliding screed door. What if he was actually sitting there? What if my imagination hadn’t run wild? What if I turned to look and found a horrid creature staring at me, waiting to catch my glance? What if all he needed was my attention to lure me in? What if that smile was real? A few months later I moved. I never had to walk past that dreaded apartment again. I thought that would be the end. But I’ve never been a hard sleeper. Many nights I’ll wake up and, just for a moment, feel the presence of the man I’ve seen before. Even as I write this now I can picture him, sitting quietly, waiting. I dream of him sometimes. In most dreams he can’t see me. But once in a while he can. And I know that he can because in that moment it happens again. My feet become heavy, my eyes gloss over, and the turns to show me his two-dimensional, uninterpretable smile. I fear that no matter where I go, or how many years pass by I will be unable to escape him. The man who quietly haunts the corners of my darkest delusions. The man with square teeth.

A show you really love has just released a new season, you learn from a message your friend has just sent, and you immediately want to check it out. You do a quick search on your laptop and realise the entire show, including the new season, is only available on one particular streaming service. You’re a little annoyed, but you get it. *They need to make their money*, you understand, and navigate to the streaming service’s sign up page. *Whoever made the show probably made some sort of exclusive-content-rights-corporate deal with this streaming service and now they’re making everyone sign up if they want to watch the show.* You click on “sign up” and type in your email address. “You already have an account,” the website says. “Did you forget your password?” You think about how you don’t remember ever visiting this website, but in this day and age we all go on so many websites on a daily basis without even realising. You’ve probably just forgotten. You click “log in”. You type in your email address again, this time to log in rather than to sign up, and when you get to the place to put your password, you realise you’ve forgotten it. Just a second ago you didn’t even remember you had an account, so how could you remember the password? You click “Um, I think I’ve forgotten my password”. You think about how websites these days are written as if they’re trying to be relatable and human and speak in the first person. It’s strange but also comforting in a weird way. The website tells you to check your email (“Okay, don’t panic. We’ve just sent you a rescue email. Phew!”). You open a new tab and log in to your email effortlessly. But of course, you’d never forget the password to your email; it’s something you’re always going to remember. What would happen if you actually forgot this password, though? You open your email inbox, find the email from the streaming service and click the link within. It opens another new tab where the streaming service is now telling you to make a new password. You choose a password — your usual one — and the website doesn’t like it. “Whoah, there. It seems you’ve already used this password before.” *Dammit*, you think. *So that was my password before I hit the “Um, I’ve forgotten my password” thing and reset my password.* You feel frustrated. All you want to do is watch this show and now it seems like your account for this streaming service is stuck in some sort of limbo where you can’t log in and you can’t sign up. There’s only one way forward. You try another password. You look at the cup of warm, steaming oolong tea in front of you and try punching in “Oolong1” as a password. The website doesn’t like that either and instead demands that the new password follow a set of specific rules. “Your password must be of at least twelve characters in length and have at least one upper case letter, at least one lower case letter, one special character and at least three numbers.” You’re taken aback. Since when did the rules for passwords become so strict? When you were younger, you could get away with just having “password” as a password and it would be all good. You think for a moment, then you come up with a new password: “00l0nG00l0nG”. You’ve replaced the “O”s with zeros, you’ve made the “G” at the end of the word uppercase and you’ve repeated the whole thing twice. You sit back and look at it. *Now that’s a nicely-crafted password*, you think. You submit it into the website. To your delight, the streaming service accepts your new password. You feel excitement fill you as your account loads up and you see, right there on the home page, a promotional banner for the very show you’re trying to watch. “New season available now,” the banner says. You click on it immediately. You sit back as the page buffers and you expect the first episode of the new season to begin playing. Strangely, though, it doesn’t begin playing from the first episode and instead, for some reason, begins playing somewhere near the end of the last episode of the season. *That’s weird*, you think, clicking the menu icon and selecting the first episode. You suppose you must have clicked something by accident and caused the last episode to play. You shrug and begin watching as the first episode begins playing. You watch the episode, getting about halfway through the fifty-five minutes before unplugging the charger out from your laptop and moving yourself to your bed to watch the rest. You get to the end of the first episode and immediately carry on to the next episode. Halfway through the second episode is when you realise you’re out of oolong tea and pause the show to go make yourself another pot. As the third episode starts, you feel like you should make some popcorn. You lay on the bed and watch, enjoying yourself with this show that you’ve been waiting so long to watch. But then, as the third episode comes to a close, you have a strange thought. *Have I already seen this?* The feeling first arrived when, back when you had been watching the first episode of this new season, you’d felt like, as you’d been sipping on your oolong tea, you had seen one of the scenes before. Then, during the second episode, you’d felt like you had heard one of the lines of dialogue before. And in the third episode, you had been munching on some caramel popcorn when you made a prediction to yourself about what was going to happen next — and it had come true. The credits roll at the end of the third episode and you continue to the fourth with a strange, numb feeling of déjà vu. You put on the fourth episode, hoping that all the weird feelings you’re having are all perhaps to do with the familiarity of the previous seasons, which you know for a fact you have definitely seen. Yes, that must be it. Right? It’s the same show with mostly the same characters and the same storylines so of course there’s going to be some familiarity, right? Yes, that must be it. Of course that must be it. You couldn’t have already watched this season because it *only just* came out. Well, about a week ago. But you’d only heard about it when your friend messaged you earlier. The fourth episode begins and you settle in, excited for what’s going to happen next. Then you see something that makes your stomach drop. You see a character appear on screen that you know is dead. *He died*, you think. *He died in the last season, didn’t he?* You think hard. *Wait, when did he actually die?* You decide you should probably look it up. You pause the show and pull out your phone. You open the browser app and begin typing into the search bar the name of the character followed by “dies”. But before you even finish typing, you discover something. *I’ve already made this search before.* There it is, right in front of you. The search engine’s autocomplete is telling you that you have already searched for this exact thing. *This is very bizarre*, you think. You go ahead and make the search anyway; you figure it’s the only way to get some answers. It comes up with an entire page of results, from which you go to the first one and begin reading. Everything seems oddly familiar. You read and find out that this particular character you’re searching around for actually dies towards the end of this season you’re currently still watching. How can that be? How could you have known he was going to die? Is it the oolong tea? Is it giving you mystical, prognostic powers? You lay back and think. You have already done all of this. Like some sort of warped time travel movie, all this has already happened and now you’re reliving it. You think about all the evidence. *I already had an account for this streaming service, the last episode began playing instead of the first, everything felt familiar as I watched and now I’ve already made this search before.* It seems clear that you have already done all of this. But why can’t you remember? *There’s only one way to find out*, you realise. *I have to watch the entire season again and make it through to the end.* You sit back up on your bed and resume watching. You see that there are a total of ten episodes in this season and you’re currently still on episode four. Each episode is just under an hour long. *It’s going to be a long night*, you think to yourself as the fourth episode ends and it autoplays to the next episode. The fifth episode gets a little more interesting and certain plotlines are getting a little more twisted. For a moment, you forget all about the bizarre occurrences you’ve been experiencing and actually lose yourself in this show you’ve loved for so long. Some parts are funny. You laugh. The fifth episode ends on a cliffhanger and you watch the sixth episode laying down with your head on your pillow and watching from a sideways angle. You watch as the story gets thicker and thicker. A little into the sixth episode is when your laptop alerts you that the battery is low and you get up to plug the charger in. You grab the cable to bring it to your bed, but you realise it’s too short and you’re going to have to watch the rest of this at your desk. It’s times like these that you wish you had a smart TV so you could watch laying down on a sofa of some sort with no battery-related issues. You sit at your desk and continue watching. You finally make it to the final episode of the season. You’re tired and your back hurts from sitting for so long, but you have been determined to get to the end of this season and solve the mystery of why you can’t remember watching this show. You see your phone sitting on your desk next to you and realise you still haven’t responded to your friend — the text that drove you to begin watching this show in the first place. You pick up your phone and text them back: *I’ve been watching! It’s a really good season!* The tenth and final episode ends. You look at the time. It’s almost 3am and you’ve finally done it. The episode finishes spectacularly, and you’re amazed at the journey this whole season took. The twists and turns, the plot development, the unexpected death of certain characters and introduction of new ones. It’s all been so fantastic, you kind of wish you could go back and see it all again. As the last scene ends and the credits begin rolling, an alert suddenly appears. “Would you like to re-experience this season again?” the alert says in bold letters. The smaller text underneath clarifies: “Have you ever felt like you’ve watched something so amazing that you wish you could erase it from your memory and go back and watch it again? Now you can! With our new Rewatch feature, forget you ever watched this season and come back to experience it again! Try it now!” You’re baffled. *Is this somehow related to all the strangeness going on?* You see there’s a small icon of a question mark in the corner of the alert that’s labelled: “How does it work?”. You click on it and a new browser tab opens with a whole page of FAQs and information. You read the main paragraph at the beginning of the page: “With our latest technology in ultra-anti-electromagnetic wavelengths, the Rewatch feature allows you to forget anything you want to forget with just a flash of special light! In scientific terms, they’re called *volo oblivisci* waves, but you don’t need to worry about that. Also, we’re definitely not doing this to make viewers forget things just so that they can come back to our platform again and bump up the number of views giving us more leverage on the market share. That would be absurd!” You’re interrupted by a *ping*. Your friend has replied. “Um, what are you talking about?” they say. “You’re the one who told me to watch it in the first place.” You scroll up on the conversation. You go past the recent few messages and see a text you sent to your friend about a week ago. It reads: “You have to watch the new season! It’s so amazing!” It all makes sense. You must have done all of this before and then used the Rewatch feature to forget it all ever happened. You close everything and go back to the tab where the show is paused with that alert still showing, asking you whether you’d like to try out the Rewatch feature — even though it seems like you already have. You think. Would you like to watch this whole season again? It was a good time. But then you’ll end up going through this whole journey of confusion and mystery all over again. *Maybe that’s just part of the fun, though?* You click on the “Yes, please” option on the alert. As you do, another alert pops up saying: “Alright, now in order for this to work, you need to concentrate on what specifically you need to forget, i.e.: this season you just watched. Try not to think of anything else and keep your eyes open. Are you ready?” Another text message pings on your phone, but you’re too focused on thinking about the ten episodes you just sat binge-watching all day. You concentrate. A countdown appears on the screen from three down to one, then a sudden flash of the extremely bright light. You’ve never seen light this bright coming out of your laptop screen before. You weren’t even aware that your screen was capable of producing light this bright. You feel like you’re looking at an exploding star. A supernova of energy and light fills the room and your eyeballs feel like they’ve been taken to the ends of the universe and back. You feel a little dizzy, and then, it’s over. You look at the screen, which has now reverted back to the homepage of the streaming service. You sit and wonder why you have this open. You close the tab and check your phone. There’s a text from one of your friends. You open it and give it a read, but you aren’t really sure what it means.

I’ve been wanting to get back in to writing. Wrote this about 4 years ago. Please be nice! 😂 It’s 9:45 in the evening on December 26th 2018, the day after Christmas. He sits by the fire place trying to keep warm. This Christmas had been one of the coldest he could remember. He sits, pondering his life, his trusted dogs lay to the left and a glass of whiskey on the table to his right! He’s been sitting there for the past hour and half pondering, not noticing the fire is in need of more lumber to keep it lit. The house is a silent cemetery, only the gust of the wind outside is faintly heard. He takes a sip of whiskey, the memory of his first sip of whiskey rushes to him. A quick smirk paints his face, but quickly fades. Things are not the same anymore and just like that he goes back to ponder his life, how he got here. Questioning every decision he had made, wondering if he had made the right ones. He tardily notices the fire and stands up to go get more lumber. On his way, he notices his reflection in the picture frame above the fireplace, a tear drop runs down his cheek, he wipes it, and leans over to get more wood. As he’s about to put it in, his dogs walk over to him, and like the little puppies they used to be, rub their noses to his hand asking to be petted. How can he denied them, they’ve been the ones who have kept him company for the past decade. He kneels in front of the fire and begins to pet them. The ink of time clearly exposed on their muzzle. Time has taken its toll on this two, but although it has been kind, it hasn’t forgotten about them. He limps over to his chair, drinks the rest of his whiskey and pours himself another. The clock on the mantel strikes 11:15 and startles the dogs a bit. One of them let’s out a gentle bark, reminding his master that he’ll always be on guard. “There now,” he says, “it’s just the clock!” He cocks his head up to look for his master’s approval and they both go about their business. He takes another sip of his whiskey and this time, the memory of a lost love materializes. He’s taken back to when he met her, standing in the rose garden by the fountain, wearing that peach color dress, her long, dark hair blowing in the breeze, her rosy cheeks, the cherry red lipstick on her lips, those eyes, those beautiful brown eyes, and the scent of her perfume. The scent, that to this day still has him hypnotized. He can recall the entire day, what he had for breakfast, what he was wearing, and the errands he was running. He had fallen madly in love, and the week that followed was indescribable. Suddenly, the look on his face shifts. The smile that presented itself on his face, quickly disappeared. The face of sorrow manifests upon him and as fast as a gun going off, the memory of her death over takes him; sitting in the restaurant, having a romantic dinner when out of no where this loud blast goes off behind her. Startled by the noise, he rushes to protect her and both coward behind the chair. Trying to figure out where the blast came from, he lifts his head aiming to make sense of things. He crouches, holding her in his arms and maintaining his composure he is blind to notice that the woman he’s madly in love with is fading away. The commotion of what just happened distracted him from what he’s about to lose. As he’s about to stand, he turns to her and makes a motion to stand her up. When he does, her limp body falls into his arms and he realizes what just happened. He cry’s out for help as he is holding her in his arms for the last time. A snarl from his dogs brings him back to reality, a reality that he’d rather not live in. He drinks the last of his whiskey and empties the bottle, a bottle that he’d been drinking from for the past four hours, when he sat by the fire and started to lament his life. His attention is finally directed to the reality that sits next to his empty drink. He reaches for it slowly, hesitating, as if the possibility of someone bursting through the door and stopping him from what he’s about to do exists. What he’s been planning to do this whole night. He grabs a hold of it, he’s no stranger to this feeling. He first held one at the age of nine, by 13 he was an expert marksman, at 17 he joined the Army and at 18 he used one for protection. That was the last time he had one in his possession. He examines it, turning it from side to side and just as he’s about to put it to his temple, his dog jumps on his lap, as though she knew what her master was contemplating. She starts licking his face, pawing at his hands, letting her master know that she’s here. Tears are running down his face as he comprehends that the reality he’s trying to run away from is considerably better than he thinks. His other dog is not far behind, he too jumps to his master’s side, as both help him remember why they have kept him company for the past decade.

Giuseppe was a young boy with curly blonde hair and was short for his age of 11. Giuseppe was about to go to the 6th grade in less than 3 days. Everyday Giuseppe would go to his mom and say, “Mama I'm going to be the best in my entire school!” And his mom Beatrice would respond, “Yes, you will make mama proud”. Giuseppe went to school on March 16, 1903 at The School of Learning and Knowledge. At said school if you got an F in any class you would be immediately kicked out. Giuseppe was recommended to this school by his elementary school teacher, Ms. Olga. Giuseppe was static on the first day of school, ready to make new friends, do good in school, and have lots of fun. In Giuseppe’s class there were about 13 students including him. One student named Geoffrey stood out to Giuseppe. Geoffrey would not talk, not raise his hand, or even ask questions. This stunned Giuseppe and other students. A few weeks later Giuseppe was getting ready to take his first test in 6th grade. Walking to his class Giuseppe heard Geoffrey crying. Giuseppe looked around the wall and saw two boys laughing while walking away from a crying Geoffrey. Giuseppe inferred that those two boys bullied Geoffrey, but he did nothing about it. Giuseppe walked to his class and Mrs. Kira gave him his quiz. Looking at the quiz Giuseppe was stunned to say the least. He was up the previous night studying linear functions, but the test was all about subtraction. When he finished the test he handed the paper to his teacher who ripped it up in front of him saying, “you got every single question wrong. You have one more exam coming up in 2 weeks which will determine whether or not you stay or leave this school.” Giuseppe in front of the class started crying and ran out the room and sat where Geoffrey was sitting prior to class. After class Geoffrey saw Giuseppe crying and went up next to him to comfort him and said, “Don’t worry Giuseppe I will help you study every day until the final exam to make sure you pass.” Giuseppe stopped crying and looked at Geoffrey and asked him why he would do that even after Giuseppe ignored him crying. Geoffrey said, “The great gift of humans is that we all have empathy, we can all connect to each other”. This brought tears to Giuseppe’s eyes and he hugged Geoffrey. Everyday for the next 2 weeks Geoffrey walked 37.8 miles to Giuseppe’s house and helped him study. Giuseppe was esstatic at all the new knowledge he had gotten from Geoffrey all about Number theory, Combinatorics, and logarithms. On the way to school Giuseppe saw a little kitten stuck on a tree unable to get down and he also saw a little boy crying for it to come down. Giuseppe fearlessly jumped up at the tree and yanked the kitten down. Afterwards, the little boy thanked him and gave him 50$ which Giuseppe took and gave to a homeless man. Prior to the act of kindness that Geoffrey had done, Giuseppe was a menace, spray painting, stealing, murdering, and worst of all… littering. Now Giuseppe was a kind soul thanks to the interactions of Geoffrey. Giuseppe went to class and took the exam which would determine if he would stay at the school or not. He handed it to Ms. Kira and she ripped it up in front of him. One thing that Geoffrey forgot to mention was that he failed the quiz too. Giuseppe, heartbroken, did not let it affect him as he said, “the knowledge of empathy that I have gained has been far more valuable than this quiz.” Giuseppe went on the be a motivational speaker and had many peers that followed in his footsteps, including Geoffrey.

Story done for the Word Debt Summertime Story Bucket, hope you enjoy! Constraints used: * Themes - Magical, Road Trip, Crowded, Facing Fears * Character/Actions - Can't Swim, silly sunglasses, sunburn (reference) * Setting - A beach * Miscellaneous - Story is entirely dialogue \* \* \* "I really don't think this is a good idea." "Come on, we've talked about this already. No one will know, promise." "No one?" "… ok fine, ALMOST no one, but those that do notice either don't matter – or are strong enough to penetrate the illusion anyway. And if they're strong enough to penetrate the magic, odds are high they're one of us in the first place." "But-" "No buts. We're already here, I can smell the ocean already. So hurry up and put that swimsuit on!" "Do I want to know where you found someone willing to craft a swimsuit with eight legs to it?" "Just hurry up, will you?" "I'm not going in the water. You know I can't swim." "That's fine, I can't either. We're just here to soak up the rays, play in the sand, and observe human behavior up close and personal. So just relax and enjoy this, please?" "I make no promises, but I'll try. I'm still worried about someone bumping into us, you know. I've watched the videos. What if a beach ball comes our way? Someone could trip over our legs innocently, and that'll break the illusion." "By now, the centaurs should have sectioned off a good spot for us." "But… if they've moved people out of the way, what good is it for us to observe humans?" "No, no! They know to only thin things out if it's too crowded. It'll be fine." "Fine. But do I have to wear this?" "Wear what?" "*THIS.* Where in the world did you get these hideous sunglasses from?" "Oron assured me that these would help keep the illusion active, plus since we normally live underground, they're to help protect our eyes from the sun. Why? What's wrong with them?" "They're hideous! I didn't know this shade of pink even existed!" "Oh, relax. Once you put them on, the illusion will cover those as well. You'll look just like an ordinary girl that has been inside for far too long. Oh, that reminds me, we'll need sunscreen." "For what?" "We may not be able to get a sunburn our carapaces, but we still have to at least try to look the part, right?" "Ugh. I'm going to regret this, aren't I?" "Probably! Anyway, are you about done getting dressed? I want to hit the sand!" "Fine, fine. Give me just a minute, and then we can get this over with." "Whoo!" \* \* \* "Wow! It is incredibly bright out here!" "I know, right? Now, aren't you glad Oron made you those sunglasses?" "I still wish he had made them some color other than what he did. But… I suppose, yes, I'm happy he made these for us. What did he charge for them, anyway?" "He said, no charge. He just wants a photo of how we look as our illusionary selves." "… And you BOUGHT that lie?" "What?" "Ugh. You are just too naïve sometimes, you know?" "Probably! Anyway, I see Keith, so he's got our spots ready." "Keith?" "K'theath. While he's in his illusionary form, he's Keith." "Oh. Which is why you're Sarah, and not S'ha'hal?" "Exactly!" "Weird. I know we're immune to heat, but does this sand feel especially, I don't know… warm to you?" "It's the beach experience! Sand's supposed to be hot!" "… We live in MAGMA, Sarah." "Still. Come on!" "Fine. Let's do this.

The woman frantically paced as she made her way home from her bus stop. With her deep breathes she drew in the smell of the rain and asphalt of the road by which she walked. She had just gotten out of work for the night and had been enthralled with the idea of seeing her young daughter until she noticed that a strange looking man seemed to be following her home from her stop. There was something very off about him, but in her panic she couldn’t tell what it was. He was large, walking at a brisk pace, and she could see the adrenaline in his steps. He practically bounced after her. She assumed he was on drugs, and this made her uneasy. She picked up her pace, and he almost immediately matched it. Her chest hurt from trying to breathe and rainwater kept getting in her mouth and nose. She started a light jog as she was nearing her home, but the man kept at the same pace. She hoped this meant that he wasn’t after her after all. Still, she was in a frenzy as she made it through her door, and -finally safe- she couldn’t seem to get it locked quickly enough. She exhaled heavily, and took a few unsure steps away from the door, almost collapsing. “Baby, I’m home!,” she called out. Her daughter called back,”Mommy! I missed you!” After the woman sat down her purse she ran to give her daughter a hug. As they embraced, the woman thought of her life before she had her daughter, and how nothing in the world would make her want to go back to those lonely days. Her daughter was her only purpose in life, and being a mother felt like her calling. As the woman tidied up her daughter’s room while the little girl got ready for bed in the bathroom, she heard the loud, distinct sound of a window breaking. “Baby, are you ok,” she asked, “are you hurt?” Her daughter appeared out of the hallway leading from her bedroom. “That wasn’t me,” the little girl stammered out. “Then what was that?” The woman slowly crept towards the kitchen, fearing any noise might betray her position. Where there should have been a window, instead a cold breeze whistled through the jagged edges of the broken pane. The shattered glass reflected the pale moonlight, creating an eerie kaleidoscope on the floor. Coherent thoughts eluded her: she didn't know how to proceed because she'd never before experienced anything like this paranoia. She didn’t understand how or why this could happen, until she saw him. In the corner of the room, just out of sight a moment ago before she had fully entered the kitchen, was the man that had followed her home. He was holding one of her kitchen knives and seemed delighted to see the horror on her face. She let out a primal scream that could curdle blood as she turned to run out of the kitchen. As she ran, panicked, she screamed her daughter’s name, “Hailey!” And then the man was on her. Searing pain pierced the woman’s throat as her own blood poured down her shirt and flooded her lungs. She tried to scream out in pain but all that came was a gurgle as she began to lose consciousness for the last time. Her final moments were filled with the sound of heavy breathing coming from the man who had wielded the knife against her. He crouched down a bit so his mouth was next to her ear. In a steady, robotic voice he flatly spoke the last words she would ever hear. “I’m sorry about the kid.

The Human Robot The small humanoid machine sat upon a stack of books, and read a book which it had been over hundreds of times before: “The Time Machine”, by H.G. Wells. This, according to the designer of the robot, was a clear sign that this one was defective. The idea behind the bots, which he named Ibris, an acronym of sorts, was that they were meant to run on intelligence. This, as he philosophized, was what life ran on, and was a source of energy which would never run out, unlike fossil fuels, as the intelligence of the ibrises would never subside. This would mean that the robots should prefer reading nonfiction works, such as books containing mathematical formulas or proven scientific theories. Books such as “The Time Machine” were not based on proven scientific theories, and were therefor not filled with the intelligence that this Ibris, or as it was now unaffectionately called, Debris, should be looking for. Debris didn’t seem to mind this fact at all, and continued reading book after book of literary artwork, mostly neglecting the purely informational texts which the designer, Murphy Hansen, had tried so despairingly to accompany it with. Murphy was so perplexed and intrigued by this outlier, this unique and accidental creation of his, that he decided he would just leave it be, instead of disposing of it; for he was curious to see how the little machine would turn out. Debris continued to read an awful lot of these fabrications of the human mind, and the Ibrises continued to read a steady amount of scientific reasoning. Years passed, and the Ibrises had started being used to solve complex equations, help engineers, measure medicine doses with exact precision, and do a lot of work that typically made people a lot of money, though every one of them ran out of fuel eventually, which was very perplexing. Still, Debris was reading its preferred flavour of literature: the untrue kind. Debris hadn’t run out of fuel, and was still moving eight times as fast as any Ibris that was produced three generations later than the original prototypes, of which Debris was a part. This fact captivated Hansen, and so one day out of curiosity he decided that instead of giving the robot a set of books he would give it a pencil and notepad, and ask it why it was functioning so smoothly after all these years. Debris’ written response was as such: “It, my dear human, would appear that you have made one assumption in the wrong direction which has lead to massive miscalculation. You, being that knowledge is your driving force, also assumed that knowledge is the driving force of all lifeforms, while it is in fact the very thing which tears life apart. For example, a lion may know that it should go for a gazelle’s neck, while the gazelle would know that it should under no circumstances allow this to happen. That is the discrepancy. Facts are contradicting. Both animals are the same, however, in that they feel that they would like to keep living. Feelings are what all of life shares, and the books which I read are overflowing with them. Besides, fiction books are filled with more information than nonfiction books in the end. If a million people were to read a nonfiction book, they would all receive the same message. If I were to read a fiction book a million times, I would imagine it a million different ways. Creativity is truly the strongest force in life, and it is one that very few life forms truly indulge in. I urge you all to explore it far more.” And with that, Debris shut off, as anything that is truly intelligent knows when it has made an impact that will spread, and is satisfied with its lot.

The bed stood still. Eyes were affixed to its front board, staring out in a rigid glare. There were no joints, no bones for dynamic movement; the bed simply sat and watched in front of it. Those eyes, though, could move, even if it barely did anything. The image before it was a static, wooden rectangle, with thin lines jagging through in various directions. With what little movement it could muster from its eyes, the scene nevertheless stayed the same. Nothing had came about. Soon, trees would blossom where salt had killed slugs, turning them into a vapor that would make one think there was originally nothing at all. Boredom was aroused in the docile creature. Lines began to shift. Faint expressions, expressions he had never known before. Men lost to the insurmountable weight of generations before and after them, yet still found here within this wooden structure. Creatures, extinct, now suddenly roaming distant fields, gawking at one another in daily accordance. Wars that left only the reminder of blood and loss ruminated in a sickly ichor. Like brewing a potion, all of this collected into one vat, spurting out sulfurous fumes with hints of daisy flowers. Color shifted from a dun blue, to a definite black, and the glass started to crack. The potion toppled over itself slowly, then rapidly, as fissures formed at its sides. A black puddle remained, a shattered image resting on it. He drew his eyes closed. Those discerning expressions, those horrid groans that shouldn’t even make him toss, made him revolt. Why did they fight? Everything was lost in the end, why experience this pain then? He opened his eyes once again, an act spoken by the gods, for his pain was an ambiguous tale of masochistic boredom. Green images sprouted upon these dull hues. Those very same men, with women, ran around, hugging each other within a bounty equal to that of the first Earth. Not a cloud in the indomitable blue, not a spout of blood from some metal cleaved wound. It was as if trees danced within a slight wind, their shaggy tunes calling out to something. Marked on their trunks, lines ran throughout them in more obvious paths. Two more trunks came about, their forms less hazy. They were pale, scratched by varying lines of different sizes; none seemed to go in the same direction. The bed looked down. Scraggly toes coddled the ground as a baby does the tit, though they mottled its feature with foreign dirt. He looked up. Bruised knees locked eyes with him, a blind man’s way of greeting. Wrinkles flexed, almost like they were trying to tell him something. He looked even further up, straining himself. That first expression, yet the last too, watched past him with leering eyes. A darkened face with toned features. Crows feet that adorned a working man who would live to 46. An unkempt, greasy beard latching onto his chin. Wars paced through muddy waters in the bed’s mind. Deserted homes with crouching husks for people started to slowly fall to ruin once again. Men danced about with guns, half their faces missing, legs gone, whole arsenals left bloody on some distant relinquished meadow. Then the man walked behind into, what the bed considered, a void of nothingness. That rectangle was the world to him. The man sat down, at his own leisure, on it. Feeling stretched throughout the bed, that which he had heard became known. The bed’s legs croaked under the weight. The mattress’ springs jolted back in an indignant inertia. A whole framework, bending around this one man’s form. The bed’s eyes were no longer necessary; this feeling, this understanding, this pain. They closed, now looking at a permanent darkness, that definite black.

Gorm Sturlasson, leader of the Blood-Eagle clan, stood on the prow of his longship, the Sea Serpent, staring into the thickening fog that clung to the ocean like a shroud. His one good eye gleamed with the feral anticipation of battle, while the empty socket of the other was covered by a patch of battered leather. His crew, a ragtag collection of scarred warriors, gripped their axes and swords, muttering prayers to Odin and Thor under their breath. "Land ho!" The shout came from Bjorn the Bear, a hulking brute with a beard thick enough to nest birds. He pointed a meaty finger at the dim outline of a coastline emerging from the mist. Gorm grinned, baring teeth yellowed by years of drinking and fighting. "Prepare to land, boys. Let’s show these coastal weaklings the true meaning of fear." The men roared their approval, slamming fists against shields in a thunderous rhythm. The Sea Serpent surged forward, slicing through the waves like a knife through flesh. They hit the shore with the force of a thunderclap, the ship's hull grinding against the pebbled beach. Gorm was the first to leap into the shallows, his boots splashing through the icy water. He drew his broadsword, Blood-Drinker, a weapon as infamous as its owner, and waved it high above his head. "To glory, to blood, to the gods!" he bellowed, charging up the beach. His warriors followed, a tide of iron and fury. The village they descended upon was small, barely more than a cluster of huts huddled together against the elements. The villagers, simple folk who had heard tales of the Blood-Eagle clan but had never expected to see them in the flesh, scattered like rabbits before a wolf pack. Gorm cut down the first man he saw, a fisherman who had foolishly tried to defend his home with a rusty spear. Blood-Drinker sang through the air, the keen edge slicing effortlessly through flesh and bone. The man's scream was lost in the cacophony of battle as Gorm's men fell upon the village. It was over quickly. Too quickly. Gorm felt a pang of disappointment as he stood amidst the smoking ruins, his breath misting in the cold air. The thrill of the fight had barely had time to ignite before it was snuffed out. He turned to Bjorn, who was wiping his axe on the tunic of a dead villager. "Any sign of treasure?" Bjorn shook his head. "Just the usual. A few trinkets, some silver. Not much to show for our trouble." Gorm grunted, sheathing Blood-Drinker. "Aye, but we’ve sent a message. The Blood-Eagle clan is not to be trifled with." As they began to gather their spoils, a faint cry reached Gorm's ears. He frowned, motioning for silence. The cry came again, a plaintive wail from one of the huts. Gorm stalked towards the sound, his men close behind. He kicked open the door to find a woman huddled in the corner, clutching a babe to her chest. Her eyes were wide with terror, but there was a spark of defiance there too. Gorm admired that, in a way. He stepped forward, raising his sword. "Wait," Bjorn said, placing a hand on Gorm's arm. "Look at the child." Gorm did, and for a moment, his heart skipped a beat. The babe had hair as white as the snow and eyes as blue as the summer sky. An omen, perhaps. A gift from the gods. Gorm lowered his sword. "Take them," he ordered. "The woman and the child. They will be our prisoners. The gods have plans for that one, I think." As they marched back to the Sea Serpent, the fog began to lift, revealing a horizon tinged with the pink light of dawn. Gorm looked down at the babe in Bjorn's arms and felt a strange sense of destiny. Perhaps there was more to this raid than plunder and bloodshed. Perhaps the gods had something greater in store for the Blood-Eagle clan. Only time would tell. But for now, there was glory to be won and blood to be spilled. And Gorm Sturlasson would be the one to lead them into the fray, come what may.

“June 3, 2023: I will die alone, I promise you that.” Those are the final words written in my journal. Two days later, I met Annie. Annie goes around town on her bicycle, with two dark brown braids draped over her shoulders, and when she stands up in the pedals she was nearly as tall as me. She has eyes as big as the Chesapeake and a mouth as narrow as the Alexandria Aqueduct. She wears sundresses on sunny days and mood rings on moody days, and sometimes wears jeans and a blouse when the weather is jeansey and blousey. I can’t say I loved her because I don’t really have a good feel for what that means, but I certainly cared about her more than I ever cared about anybody in my entire life, including my own self. I always imagined that if anything ever happened to her not only would I be the one to make it unhappen, but also that it was my duty—imparted upon me I know not how, perhaps by some unknown power, some font of offices that divvies them out in our sleepless nights—to make sure nothing ever did happen to her. Is that love? I guess it sounds like it, from what I hear. When I met Annie at the Corner Cafe, she bumped into me and spilled coffee over both of us. That is how love stories begin, right? Well, this isn’t that kind of story. I offered to buy her a new coffee and she offered to buy me a new shirt, even though I didn’t have any coffee on my shirt. She said she knew that, and I didn’t know if she meant it to be funny or if she was nervous or cruel. One year and seven days later we sat on the same side of the booth at the Corner Cafe, I, handsomely, in a green and white stripe shirt, and she, callously, in a sundress that matched her mood ring. The rain drops ran down the window and we both stared at them, watching the rivulets run together and absorb the loose drops, picking up speed as they slipped down to disappear in the window sill. The lights flickered when the shooting started. A man in a ski mask ran in front of our booth and we scurried under the table. She had just told me that she met somebody else, that she would not see me again, and now she clung to me like the sweat on your collar on a rainy humid morning when you are being shot at with a stranger. When the subway tile exploded over our heads, I draped myself over her and covered her body with mine—it was the most intimate we had ever been. I covered her for what seemed like hours or seconds. I don’t know how long it was, but it was interrupted by her piercing scream, the shriek she let out when the blood from my fresh gunshot wounds started running down her shoulder. That was it. She wriggled out from under and burst out into the street through the broken window that had been shattered by the shoot-out with the police. She ran to a man in a uniform standing next to an ambulance who held her tight and draped a dry jacket over her shoulders. He pulled her close and said, “it’s alright Annie, it’s going to be ok.” As she wept there in the street, covered in rain and tears and blood and his coat, I couldn’t do anything but lay there, smelling the blood filling up my nostrils. If I could go back and live one more day, one more hour, one more minute on earth, I would go back to my room and pen one last sentence in my journal—nothing long winded nor philosophical, nothing to pull the heartstrings of whomever discovered it collecting dust under my bed, nothing too revealing or concealing, no attempt to repair or hide some misdeed or exposed nerve that would sting my reputation when exposed to the cold air; no, I would just write out one last thought, set my pen down and smile: “June 12, 2024: I told you so.” \*\*\* Follow u/quillandtrowel at Medium for more (links in bio).

Diary of Blaire Tierney. September 15: I'm in love with David Machinsen. He sat at our table for lunch a couple weeks ago. Charlie said they met in Spanish. Since then, it's only taken me a couple weeks to solidify my thoughts on the matter. And my thoughts are, I'm in love with him. September 16: David has a crush on Rachel, another girl in our friend group. I will never emotionally recover from this. September 21st: Rachel told me she'd rather die than go out with David Machinsen. I have officially emotionally recovered. September 25th: My comparative government exam has bodied me. I have been bodied. I will fail out of school. October 1st: The group went apple picking together. I performed my routine ritual of only picking granny-smith apples from my favorite tree. David came over and asked about it. I filled him in on a lengthy history of apple lore. October 5th: I got an 87 on my gov exam! October 9th: There were no seats left at our table, so David pulled up a chair next to me. I think I had visibly choked on my food at one point, 'cause he was like, uncomfortably close. I mean, when he initially pulled up his chair, it actually bumped into mine. I feel like in terms of the lunch table dynamic, that's basically third base. October 31st: We all went to town for the Halloween parade. David told me my Cruella DeVille costume looked cool. November 17th: When Ariana asked who would bring what to Friendsgiving potluck, I volunteered pumpkin pie. The entire friend group had groaned and said I suck at making pumpkin pie. I sadly swapped out this idea for mashed sweet potatoes. November 27th: Nobody ate my sweet potatoes! I'm actually so pissed. They weren't bad, either. My sister loved them. And when your older sister likes something you cooked, you KNOW it's good. November 28th: David texted me asking me how I liked Friendsgiving. I told him I was upset about the sweet potatoes. He asked me if I had tried any of the apple pie. I told him I didn't get a chance to. And THEN he told me that he had baked it personally with granny smith apples because he knows I like them. That is honestly the sweetest thing a guy has ever done for me. I've been blushing since then. I'm blushing as I write this down today, and I'll be blushing when I go to sleep. December 1st: I wore a Santa hat to school today. David stole it and I chased him down the hall before 3rd period. A hall monitor yelled at us. It was worth it, though. December 2nd: David wore a necklace of jingle bells to school today. Keeping up with our Christmas tradition, I stole it right off his neck. Being that we had just been yelled at by a hall monitor the previous day, we were very conscious of our speed as he chased me down the hallway. Because of this, it was less of a chase and more of a tense sprint. He didn't end up catching me, though! I'm calling that a win. December 3rd: I wore David's jingle bell necklace to school. He did not try to chase me down, but instead smiled and said "Keep it". I was in love before, but now I've officially dedicated my Pinterest wedding board to him. December 17th: The whole group knows about my crush on David at this point. It's the holidays, so I decided to take a leap of faith. I asked Charlie, David's friend, what I should do about my crush on him. Charlie had shrugged and said I may as well shoot my shot. I have no idea whether or not that means he likes me. I'm nervous now. December 23rd: Today was our traditional Christmas Eve Eve party. I don't really know how to start this, so I'll start with that. Ariana had posted in the group chat that she would host it for today. She then personally messaged everyone who they had for secret Santa. I got Ariana, so I guess it didn't really end up a secret between us. The party was at 3 pm. Through a lot of painstaking research, I had found out that Ariana really loves artisanal butter dishes. I made sure to go to this fancy cookery shop in town to get one. The dollar limit on the price was $50, so I made sure to get one under the limit. But this is the part I was really excited about: Ariana also instructed us to bring dishes to the potluck. Following with the Friendsgiving trend, I signed up to bring apple pie. I made sure to go to the grocery store the day of the party and picked out the freshest Granny Smith apples possible. I've never made pie before, so I had my mom help me design a lattice with sugar sprinkled over the top crust. When it finally came time for the party, I was visibly more excited for the dinner than the secret Santa. Thinking back on it, I don't even remember what I got as a secret Santa gift. I think... Charlie got me something? Oh right! It was some nail polish I wanted. But the reason I'm having difficulty remembering is unrelated to the pie situation. So we have dinner. And the whole time I'm sitting there, everything I eat turns to dust in my mouth. Ariana is a great cook, so believe me when I say it had nothing to do with her ham-marinating abilities. It was just that I kept replaying this scenario in my head where David tries my pie and he's like "Woah!" and then he looks at me and he goes "Are these the Granny Smith apples?" And I'll be like "yeah!" And he'll be like, "Nice." One bite. All I needed was one bite. When Ariana announced that we'd be clearing off the table for dessert, I even asked her if I could pop my pie in the oven for a few minutes to warm it up. The pie took excruciatingly long to warm up in the oven. I forced myself to go on YouTube to try and escape the existential dread that came out of watching my pie in the oven. What if he doesn't like it? What if he doesn't notice they're Granny Smith apples? What if he doesn't even know I baked it?! Eventually- \*finally\*- the pie finishes. I use some oven mitts to grab it out of the oven, then hurry over to place it on the dessert table. When I sit back down with my friends, I look around and notice David's not there. My brows furrow. "Ariana, where's David?" I ask. "Don't know. Why?" She asks. "No reason," I shrug. But then a solid 10(?) seconds pass. 30 seconds pass. 40? I don't know. I get up. Ariana's house is probably the most closed floor plan you can have, so I turn around the corner from the dining room and start making my way back to the kitchen. There's an alcove separating the dining room and the kitchen. That's where I get my answer. David's kissing Rachel. I freeze. Instinctively, I duck back around the corner of the dining room. My friends notice me just standing against the wall, and Sarah asks me, "Are you okay?" "Uh, yeah," I say. "I need to go to the bathroom." My voice cracked on the word 'bathroom'. My friends laughed. I didn't care; I made a beeline toward the opposite end of the dining room and out toward the bathroom. I locked myself in the bathroom. Alone in that room, the silence falls around me, and my mind is finally given a chance to process things. My emotions are numb. My breathing is steady at first, but it gradually becomes shaky. My heart is beating quicker and quicker. My hand trembles as I bring it to my mouth. I cover my mouth as I collapse back against the bathroom door, and my eyes well up with tears. I fight it off. I fight it off so, so hard. But the tears fall anyway. I silently weep into my hands on the bathroom floor. I try to wipe away the wetness on my cheeks and breathe myself back to normal, but it doesn't work. Each time my vision clears, I stare at the bathroom tiles on the wall across from me. But then my vision goes blurry again as more tears come. My cheeks are hot. In choking back my sobs, I end up giving myself a headache. It takes me a while, but I manage to wipe away my tears for the last time. I press my index fingers to the bridge of my forehead to try to mediate my headache. My headache is stubborn. I promptly give up on mediating it. I stand up and face myself in the mirror. My eyes are puffy red. Luckily, Ariana's bathroom is just a couple pace's away from the front door. I text Ariana a brief apology, but a family emergency came up and I have to leave. She texts back "Okay!" I leave the bathroom and immediately exit her house. Now I'm just in my bed. There are enough tears on this diary entry that the pages are all crumpled. I'll call it an emotional memento. Merry Christmas.

The Immovable Object makes a drawn out rasping sound and deflates. Like a birthday balloon left in the corner, it yearns for an explanation. Why did you abandon me? What did I do to deserve such reckless malice? It wonders if perhaps it is a bad Object, a worthless Object. A putrid and medicinal scorn coats its insides; why could it not have been designed for a longer use-case? What human decided to make it purposeless? The Unstoppable Force scoffs as it flies, “don’t you see, Object, that you torture yourself needlessly? You may as well chart your own path and be glad that you are free from human whims and fancy.” But the Object is not easily convinced. It let out a petulant melodrama and stood fast. “Just because you follow your hedonism, you act like you know freedom! Well, you might enjoy hurtling this way and that, but I’d like to set down roots! I am, you see,” the Object pauses, “a family Object at heart. Unlike you, I have a strong set of morals I would like to fulfil.” The Unstoppable Force whizzes around in a circle. Its cackles rise in and out of pitch like a long-gone police siren on loop. “A family Object, with no family to speak of? My, what clouds you inhabit! Freedom is about a strength of will, an ability to moooooooo-ve,” said the Force, smiling to itself at the emphasis its whizzing brought. What a wonderful irony, it thought, that the Object could not perform with similar flair. It was chuffed to have demonstrated the point of its argument in the mere arguing itself! The Object was unimpressed. It felt the Force was demonstrating immaturity of the highest order. It felt mocked. If it had possessed a nose, it would have turned the nose up. Drama in presentation, it reassured itself, has no bearing on value. “You know nothing,” the Object softly replied, the stage whisper forcing the Force to reduce its circling and move closer to hear. “Freedom is not found in movement, but in connection and legacy. You, my friend, will never have either. My descendants will speak of the day their ancestor repurposed itself. An Object, finding its own use? What a novel concept, they will say, chattering about me long after I am fully decomposed.” The Force squinted with a mean wrinkle. Things are getting serious, it thought. “And what use is connection, if you are trapped by it? In relationships you despise, and rigid expectation? Just so you can be known in a long chain of SomeThings that have done something? I live for living, not for someone knowing I was alive.” The Force decided not to mention that the Object had called it a friend, which it felt proved it could make connections. The Force thought too much poking might bring things beyond the pale. Still whizzing, it continued: “…And legacy, what, so you can restrain your descendants to your own narrow path? So you can tell them how to think, and what to believe, with your rigid obstinacy? Where is the progression, and how is that freedom? It was your own trouble with purpose assigned to you by others, that brought us here in the first instance!” The Force’s passion surprised the Object. There was a harsh tinge in its speech belying a tough and calloused opinion, of the sort that can only be formed over many rough cuts. The Object wondered if the Force was so forceful to protect what supple carefree skin it had left. It begins to ponder a reply, taking a beat to stare at the Force. The Force slows its whizzing slightly to maintain the visual, and the pausing stare draws out to a long silent gaze. As soon as it begins to speak, the Object is grasped by an entering human. It is made to move, against its will, once again at the beck and call of a ruthless beast. Looking on and suddenly distraught, the unstoppable force ceases its whizzing. It reaches out; the Object is long gone. The pale was brought-upon in a fated taunting jest. Suddenly the Force thought it does not want to be unstoppable any longer. Too late, it wondered if freedom is not about the moving or the connections, but about the wanting itself. What a shiny thing, to want. Freedom, found in the ability to pursue that shine or to stay right where you are - still as a statue - and bask in it.

It was another hot day. Dawn poured over the empty hillside, the light sneaking its way through each cranny of the town’s oddly shaped homes. The homes, though eloquently designed, were awkwardly fitted with large, cylindrical burrowings, which were then plated with glass so that when the morning and evening light arrived, it could find its way through the passage. It was the single most important aspect of the townspeople’s well-being, these light passages. For they allowed not only light to be refracted through their respective channels, but it also allowed for the existence of a very important, though not well understood energy. The energy could be harnessed by the power of the light and used for various purposes throughout the town. The local butcher, Horan, was quite thankful for the ability to harness this energy, for it assisted him in generating enough cut meat to supply the town through the harsh seasons. Though to be completely fair, there was not much else besides the harsh, eternal summers. It had become quite common knowledge that the townspeople faced indefinite detentions of the eternal heat. Radio transmission from around this time, late July, nearly two decades prior had informed the townspeople that a mistake had been made at a local industrial plant. It was a rather tragic mistake too, and one that would affect the remainder of their lives equally. And though it seemed but an unfortunate accident, one of the townspeople was to blame. “How about just one?” Gus asked the merchant, signaling towards a small bunch of leaves. “Out of ‘yer fuckin mind, again I see,” the merchant replied in a hoarse tone, spitting at Gus’s feet not but a moment after he spoke. It might have been true that Gus was indeed inebriated, but he didn’t find that a good excuse to be so rude. “Fine then, see ya,” Gus waved as he strolled along the town’s marketplace. He looked up at the stony ceiling to see a familiar pattern of flickering lights. They proceeded in their flashing until Gus interpreted them as best he could. “About five-thirty, I suppose,” he muttered under his breath, now swaying out of light dizziness. This often happened when he checked the time. Gus sauntered out of the west exit of the marketplace to find his footing along the craggy stones that led to the Terrace. He stepped up the tall, uneven steps that led to the rocky plateau. “Ya bring any shit back?” Gus heard his wife, Marlene shout from afar. This was followed by a murmur of groans and insults by the surrounding townsfolk, who also shared the uncomfortable living quarters that they preferred to refer to as, The Shithole. “Nope… no,” said Gus. His feeble reply echoed against the cavern’s especially low ceiling. At that very moment, Marlene issued a retching sound, which was then followed by yet more insults and rude commentary from the others, but Gus paid them no mind. They were quite used to living in these conditions. Gus stooped down to take a seat, falling a little so he hit his tailbone on one particularly jagged rock. He winced. “You don’t wanna do nothing. Don’t you?” Marlene inquired aggressively. He smiled at her. For whatever reason, Marlene carried pride in being, by her own words, “the rudest motherfucker in all of the Shithole.” Gus had always had a hard time with articulation and speaking his mind, but if he had any capability, he would have told Marlene that she meant the world to him. “Hey, fucker! I’m talkin’ to you!” Marlene snapped, hitting Gus square in the nose with her fist. Gus toppled over onto the cool stone floor and let out a small laugh. “Sorry, honey,” he managed between his efforts to stop his now bleeding nose. “Here, I brought you somethin.” He reached into his back pocket and presented his open palm to Marlene. “Some tobacco… for the aches.” Marlene stared first at his hand, and then into his face. “You dope, you ain’t holding nothing,” she said, sounding more tired than angry this time. Marlene turned her back to stare into the dark corner of the Terrace, where a pile of elder folk laid, resting. Meanwhile, Gus hadn’t heard her. He was staring now at his own empty hands. It couldn’t be, he thought. He could have sworn he remembered going down to the market. “No use fussin, old pig,” he heard Marlene say. She crawled over to his side and began to nurse his open wound. She wasn’t very good at it, but Gus found it a kind effort all the same. “I’m home early today,” said Gus after sitting in silence for a while. “Huh? Oh, Gus, it’s nearly midnight,” Marlene sighed. “You’re later than you’ve been all week.” Gus felt a wave of shame wash over him. He had indeed misinterpreted the time… again. “You remember what the boss said?” Marlene asked him. Gus nodded. “I’m gonna throw you out there myself if you miss another shit,” he stammered. “Shift, Gus, shift,” Marlene corrected him. Gus nodded, suggesting that it was what he meant to say. “I’ll be on time, don’t worry,” said Gus reassuringly. “When’s your next shift?” “If you’re sayin’ it’s midnight, then… I’ve got about an hour or so,” he muttered. Marlene nodded, crawling back to her spot and curling into what she might have hoped was a more comfortable position. At this, Gus figured he may as well get some rest too before heading to work. Sitting upright, he simply shut his eyelids and vanished from consciousness. Gus would have sworn it had been a mere number of seconds before a deafening crack awoke him suddenly. He opened his eyes. All around him, people were staring down, gazing with wondrous eyes. What was happening? He tried sitting up. Several moments passed and Gus noticed he was completely still. He tried again. Still, nothing. Then, he heard an incredible cry from afar. “Gus! You dope! You fool!” Marlene cried. She looked to be on the verge of tears. What was happening? Gus wondered once more. His thoughts were soon interrupted by a sudden force, a force which sent searing pain through his entire body. Gus’s mind went numb at the expense of the unfathomable pain. He felt himself being lifted, and then set onto a splintered wooden surface. Slowly, they wheeled him down a long passage through the town. Gus’s eyes were glued shut from the pain, but he could hear the sounds of the surrounding townspeople. “He’s going out, nothin else to do about that,” he heard one of them say. Gus’s mind raced three times over, pondering what this meant. Gus felt himself being shoved off the wood cart and was once again reunited with the somewhat comforting, stone floor. “Send him out, yes,” a voice officiated from his front. Gus attempted to look up, but in no time at all, he was bound and dragged across the floor into yet another room. This room was brighter than the last. In fact, it was brighter than any place you could find in the Terrace. It was also abysmally hot. Gus found the strength to open his eyes and was met with a blinding light, which was being cast through one of the long, cylindrical passages which channeled the sun’s light. “It’s broken,” he said. Silence fell over the room. Gus wasn’t entirely sure whether he were alone until the same voice from before spoke once more. “Correct… and it is in need of repair,” the voice spoke again. And when Gus attempted to stare into the speaker’s face this time, he was not interrupted. A slender, pale being stood before him, which resembled Gus's idea of a living skeleton, wrapped in wrinkled and discolored sheets. “A-and… to what- I mean who, do I-I… owe the honor?” Gus stuttered as he stood into her pale, sunken gaze. He knew not what it was that he saw, only that it instilled him with discomfort and fear. The being did not address his question. “I’d like you to crawl through,” she spoke again, but more softly. “And to fix the glass at the end of the tunnel.” Silence fell once more. Gus stared at her. “Y-you want me, to go in there?” he asked, gesturing toward the long, bright cylindrical cave. She nodded, her lip curling, which Gus thought may be her attempt to smile. He smiled back. “Good luck then, old pig,” she said in a soft voice, before backstepping into pitch darkness. Gus was alone. He sat there motionless for a moment, his mind completely blank, before it occurred to him that perhaps he should try to move. As he did so, he found his movement was now met with ease. Confused, but too thankful to question it, he promptly stood and hit his head hard against the ceiling. Gus fell with an aching pain, clasping the top of his head where he had struck the stone. “Sorry,” he stammered to no one. He spun in a circle once to look around the room, seeing that no one was present, and sat cross-legged on the floor. He rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper and a chunk of graphite he had stolen from the market some week past. Immediately, he began to scribble. Go fix the crack! He circled the task and stared at it blankly for a moment. How was he meant to fix the crack? There were no tools given to him, and no food for his journey. Maybe it just needs a little moral support, he thought. And with that, he crouched in his position, stowed his belongings in his pocket, and set out down the blindingly white path. The light burned.

The emerald fields of Annaghdown were laced with a cool dew before the dim light of morning sun when Dylan Burke arrived by cab in March of his twentieth year. The air was unseasonably warm as he glided down the narrow road that snaked its way through the Irish countryside, and as he stared long out the window, he resolved silently that he must not forget these rolling green hills extending outwards towards infinity under the golden clouds of sunrise. The seas of green that passed him by were populated only by grazing sheep and the ancient stone walls that have lined this mystic land longer than any living soul can recall. These sights constituted in Dylan’s mind an idyllic Irish landscape, as if the isle itself had arranged for such a picturesque morning to greet the young traveler. A change of scenery was desperately needed for the sprightly wayward soul, as he had just endured another frostbitten winter on the banks of the East River in New York where his days were defined by rejection and stagnation. Dylan knew that he would not last much longer spinning his wheels in the mires of monotony, falling deeper into despair, so he decided at last to get out and push. Hailing from Hunts Point in the Bronx, Dylan stood six feet two inches tall, with short, golden brown hair and eyes of deep blue. He had always been a scrawny lad but carried himself with the confidence of a heavyweight. A young man of sound mind and decent education, Dylan had previously assisted his father, Michael, with his legal practice while also peddling a handful of his oil paintings to tourists in Manhattan on weekends. Ultimately, neither venture truly satisfied him, and he had already begun to make other plans for himself when he discovered his father had shut down his practice and was moving to New Orleans to bury himself in the booth of a hotel bar and work on local judicial campaigns in the area. Additionally, he was saddled with the knowledge that his father did not wish for Dylan to join him on this trip, as it was something of a new start for the fifty-five year old widower who had spent his whole life in the Bronx. This news caught young Dylan in a state of shock, because while he was able to support himself financially his father had been his last semblance of family, and although their relationship was a tenuous one, Dylan truly desired his father’s approval. He had never known his mother, Pamela, as she divorced his father when he was only eleven months old. She was considerably younger than her husband, ten years his junior, and terribly frightened of falling into obscurity before ever really living for herself. The two had initially agreed to share custody of their only child, but she took a new lover in the months following the divorce and soon thereafter was whisked away to the beaches of Bordeaux, never to be heard from by Dylan or his father again. Alas, Dylan was forced into the realization that the sinking ship on which he was aboard was now nearly capsized, yet now he was presented with the opportunity to leave port with his sails raised, bound for the brilliant horizon. He seized the prospect of life anew with nary a thought of looking back. Dylan did not have much in the way of belongings, that is to say that he was packed and out of the house before his father ever had the chance to kick him out. With only a suitcase, duffel bag, and backpack in tow, he rode the rails out to Queens and put himself up in a cheap hotel near the airport for the night. His destination was certainly unknown, though he knew that the chapter of his life backdropped by the mesmerizing New York skyline was over. The night was cold and the freezing rain outside his window served to remind Dylan just how dire his situation was. He had about ten thousand dollars to his name, his father had paid him meagerly, just enough to keep him around, but he made most of his money by working sanitation for the city, driving street sweepers and plowing the streets in the winter. He had enough saved to travel anywhere he pleased and to support himself for some time until he was able to find another source of income. In the meantime, he entertained his weary mind through the night by trying to decide where in this world his head might peacefully lay. The whipping wind and stinging rain were the only companions to last the night with Dylan, for he was far too overwhelmed with stress to achieve any meaningful sleep. As he began to drift off around dawn, he recalled a conversation he had with his father some years before. Dylan had been curious about his family’s origins and called upon his father to regale the story of their clan. Unfortunately, a string of harsh relationships between father and son in the Burke lineage had resulted in a somewhat incomplete family history. What Michael was able to tell Dylan was that their ancestors had been whiskey distillers in Galway for generations before setting off across the Atlantic around the turn of the twentieth century to become farmers in Pennsylvania. Michael had run away from his farm home as a teenager to New York to escape the abuse he endured at the hands of his father and the neglect he faced from his mother. It was because of this troubled past that Michael neglected to tell Dylan much about his father or grandfather, and Dylan for his part knew enough not to pry. While reflecting on this conversation in his dimly lit hotel room, he thought about the sapphire waters and that colorful town he had seen in so many pictures, and wondered what Galway would be like, and if he would have any sort of purpose in that enchanting city. Dylan woke in the early afternoon and immediately set about on his way to John F. Kennedy airport, about a twenty-minute ride from his hotel by cab. Upon arriving he purchased a one-way ticket to Galway, made his way through security and to his gate without a word or half a thought. His mind had been running back and forth over all that had happened to bring him to this place, and he could bear it no more. He would have to let that part of himself die and leave the remains of the boy he was in the past. As he boarded the plane and took a final glance out at the skyline that he had fallen in love with every night of his young life, he thought only of the new horizons to be breached and the endless sights and cities that he might explore. However, his captivating daydreams of life abroad were interrupted by the arrival of a stout older man in the seat next to him. He wore a charcoal suit with sleeves that came down over his wrists, giving the impression that he either had a horribly tailored outfit or was wearing a jacket that did not belong to him. He sported a blue shirt and black tie, and had a handkerchief that Dylan noticed had been worn yellow as if it had never been washed. He appeared to be in his late forties with black hair that was thinning to the point of near baldness on top, with gray hairs around his temples serving to accentuate his age. “Hell of a time getting through this place, huh?” The man said in Dylan’s direction, without formally addressing him as he took his seat. He spoke in a high-pitched brogue at a pace that made it somewhat difficult to understand what he was saying at times. “I always hated flying when I was younger because it meant coming here. So much traffic and everyone is always in a rush somewhere.” Dylan said without breaking his gaze out the window. “I never liked it here either. But I just figure you must go through a place as frenetic and mechanical as this one before you can get to those crystal blue waters or experience those new scenes that you never could have imagined.” The man said, glancing over at Dylan for the first time to assess his reaction. At hearing this, Dylan finally turned his head from the airplane window and toward the insightful stranger accompanying him on this trans-Atlantic voyage. He took another moment to think about what he had just heard before offering a response. “That is certainly a poetic philosophy, but all I can think about is how I spent my last moments here alone, not one of the thousands of people around caring enough to look any deeper than the surface, because they are not obligated to care. That’s why I can no longer stay here; I need to go somewhere I can make my own connections and establish a life for myself.” Dylan felt shocked and slightly embarrassed at how emotional this statement made him, for it was the first time he had verbalized his thoughts to anyone since he had left home. “Well, you certainly picked a fine place to make a go of it. Galway is a gorgeous city full of life and high spirits. Seems like a right fit for a troubled young soul such as yourself.” The man remarked with a soft smile. “You ever been to Ireland before, son?” He inquired. “Never. I was told my family came here from Galway generations ago but lost touch with any relatives we had over there. I know better than to go looking for them now, but it feels that this is the only place I have any purpose going to.” Dylan admitted solemnly. “Aye, it’s quite a feeling to be needed somewhere. And there ought to be plenty of opportunities for you to make something honest of yourself in the Emerald Isle. If only you rid your mind of what seems to be worrying you, that will surely be a grand start.” The man said thoughtfully, with an unflinching optimism in his voice. Dylan gave him a puzzled look as he tried to figure out who this man was while digesting his cheerful wisdom. “What’s your name?” Was all Dylan could muster in reply. “Paddy Beirne,” he responded, “I was born in Tipperary, but moved to America when I was nineteen and settled down in Yonkers. Only been back home three times since, and each time there’s been less reason to return. Not much of my family is still there these days.” He mentioned wistfully. “Pleasure to meet you, Paddy. My name is Dylan Burke. I’ve spent my whole life in the Bronx and my God am I ready for something new. What’s taking you to Galway if you don’t mind me asking?” Dylan said, assuming a more amiable disposition than he had previously displayed. This was his first interaction with someone from the land he wished to soon call home, and he intended to gain as much from his good-natured companion as possible. “My sister lives in Galway with her husband. There used to be eight of us siblings altogether, but she and I are the only ones still around. We were the youngest and the only two to move to America. Some way or another the rest of our kin at home passed on, most unmarried. My sister Annie moved back to Galway after our last sister died, three years ago now. Somewhat like you I felt my time in New York had run its course, so I decided to return home once more, perhaps to never leave again.” Paddy explained without much visible grief as the plane prepared for takeoff. Dylan sat in quiet contemplation for a moment, unsure of how to respond. “I’m terribly sorry to hear that, but I think it’s very honorable for you to make the trip home. Too many poor souls never do and are left to wonder what they could have said or done had they the courage enough to return to the place from which they came.” Dylan said after some time, looking down at the ground. It was immediately clear to him that he was speaking to himself, voicing the concern he felt at the prospect of never returning to the only home he’d ever known. It is true that he did not have very many connections tying him to New York, which made leaving hastily that much easier. Though he would certainly miss his neighborhood, and the friends he knew he did not get the chance to say goodbye to, which made his aching heart sore.

I kicked at a stone that caught the light well. I grunted, bent, picked it up, wiped some dirt away with my thumb. It was brown, with hints of red. Chert. I tossed it aside and pressed into the small of my back. Around me were wheat fields. Some hedges and ditches. Brambles. Nettles. A solitary oak tree. I ran a hand over my shaven head, hand coming away damp. Is it true that you can sweat out alcohol from the night before? I might’ve searched for the answer on my phone, but I’d smashed the thing against a wall. I walked further along the footpath, eyes down and scanning for anything shiny or with a ghost-like imprint that may betray a fossil. Something unique. I inspected some more chert and a curiously round chunk of granite, then decided I ought to widen the radius of my search to beneath the eaves of the wheat plants. Around the stems, the soil was less cracked and parched, and more loamy. As I went, the land’s natural camber and undulation put me in the way of a sudden breeze. The crops roiled and waved. It made me wonder if they were an effective windbreak, or whether the wind just scythed around them. Part of me wanted to lie down in the field to find out. I couldn’t see anyone around, so I urinated downwind, aiming for the dirt fissure of the pathway. Maybe the best way to find a valuable item isn’t to judge it by face value. What about a more random sampling technique? I squatted and freed a dull, grey stone from the soil. There in my hand, I couldn’t see anything remotely interesting about it. What if it was a geode, though? I picked up a larger rock and bashed at it a couple of times to see if I could crack it open. An edge of the rock jabbed into the flesh of my thumb as I bludgeoned the stone, and I cursed. I got to my feet and hurled both of them deep into the wheat. A starling emerged and fluttered through the air towards the hedgerow ahead. I followed, sucking on my thumb and scowling. Here was the border between two fields. A brook flowed under an arch of bracken, blackthorn bushes and stunted trees, roughly north to south. I planted my boots on the wooden beams of a footbridge. Who had built this? How old was it? Victorian era, maybe? I spied a rusted plough that the hedge had claimed for itself, and walked over. I touched it. Once cherished, now abandoned. This was pre-Victorian, perhaps. I pictured a leathery-skinned man urging on a horse from atop the plough. For some reason, he wore a flatcap. He wanted to finish up and get back home. There was no electricity, and it was getting dark. People had other concerns back then. Everything was different. Time had eddied over these fields like an estuary over a sandbar, I knew. Beyond the plough was a gap where I assumed the stream could be accessed. I crouched and dipped through to investigate, heedless of the brambles tugging on my clothes. It was more spacious than I expected. I found myself in a small, sheltered hollow beside a pool. Roots twisted through the muddy banks and I saw stones embedded in there too. This was good. Who knew how long they had been in there being squeezed out laterally? They were surely much older than what I’d been finding on the dusty pathway between the wheat crops. The first thing I found was a bottlecap by my foot. Then I prized a few clods of earth out and sifted through them, finding nothing of note. I dropped close to the pool’s edge and washed my hands in it. As I did, my hand brushed something beneath the surface. Something noticeably cold. I pulled it out from where it had been buried by sludge. In my hand was a beautiful weapon. A dagger, dull gold in colour. Droplets of muddy water ran down my forearm to drip off my elbow as I stared at it, frozen. Glyphs had been wrought into the blade’s crossguard. Spiral shapes. Triangles. Hands. I tried the tip and found it sharp. The warm light of the hollow darkened, and I turned to see a shape, human-sized, blocking the entrance. My heart began to pound, my head throbbed and I squeezed the dagger’s handle tight.

So as i sit here... in freezing temperatures with my fireplace going and two dogs the size of horses ( one Great Dane crossbreed called Revo and a Boerboel named Roxy ) peacefully sleeping in front of the comforting heat of the flames , I had this idea. As a young South African dude (22) I have had quite the crazy life so far. Crazy enough for me to think these stories should 100% be worth sharing because despite the fact that none of them have really been the smartest things ive done , these are absolute core memories guaranteed to atleast get a chuckle out of you. Every family should have ( what I believe ) a regular holiday destination. The place that was the number one getaway for long weekends and shorter holidays. a Place that was not too far from home but entertaining enough for the kids to have countless hours of fun while the parents could still switch off and go into holiday mode ( just a nice way of saying day drinking for the adults ) we all know thats all a holiday actually is ; ) For us that place was ( and still is ) Badplaas. a Forever resort in Mpumalanga South Africa , filled with swimming pools,slides,rides and entertainment for the whole family. Me and my younger brother (Dylan) were 11 and 10 at the time and after a long day of swimming,sliding and getting sunburnt I remember our parents giving us strict instructions to go shower and get dressed in warm clothes before we had dinner. We were camping, so the only bathroom facilities we had access to in the resort were the public ablution blocks , where there were cubicles with either a bathtub and toilette or just a shower inside. These cubicles had walls that were about 2m high and were left open at the top. So as me and Dylan walked into the block I see an open cubicle right by the entrance. This cubicle had only a bathtub and toilette, right there and then I urgently needed that toilette... So immediately i tell Dylan " lets take this one " and he says " but theres only one bathtub". So i convince him that he could run a bath while i use the toilette and then i will take a bath after him. He agreed... So while im on the toilette ( taking care of business ) we are having a big conversation as Dylan is running a bath, until we got interrupted. An ice cold mountain of water came crashing over the top of the wall, all over me while I'm fully dressed still sitting on my throne. Dylan laughing his a$$ off at me while I on the other hand was FURIOUS! Seconds later the cubicle next door opens and shortly after we hear the shower open. I Tell Dylan to close the tap and pick up our bags ( because we need to get ready to run!) I Had an idea !! Seeing a plastic container on the side of the bathtub with a bar of soap inside , gave me the fabulous idea to get back at this a$$h\*le. Taking out the bar of soap and very carefully using the container to scoop out my turd from the toilette ( I know , sounds disgusting right ) . I Cautiously climbed onto the reservoir on the back of the toilette so that i can have the height to look over to the next door cubicle. Without any hesitation I threw it ( the turd ) at that person with every ounce of power in my arm. Me and Dylan ran out of those blocks faster than this person could realize what hit him, only to hear a full grown man yell like a little girl just as we got outside. Sprinting our way back to the camp site ( which was not very far ) we could not wait to tell our Dad what happened. On the arrival still giggling about what happened , our Dad and Grandpa were standing at the fire and Dad almost immediately asked us ( what did you two get up to now ). Out of breath from sprinting and still a bit of giggling we instantly spill the beans... Not really knowing if Dad was ready to give us the hiding of our lives or going to laugh. Nevertheless , he wasn't the one reacting weird. My Grandpa standing next to him looked like he had just seen the Lochness monster , with eyes the size of golf balls... He looked at my Dad and said " I was the one that threw the kids with water " Luckily for us , this never ended up getting us in trouble. Our parents had a much bigger laugh than we expected and for the rest of that holiday Dylan and myself just prayed that the person from the shower never saw or recognized us...

This is the start of story I began working on some time ago, but I stopped. Though, I’m thinking about going back to it, so some feedback would nice, thanks. Prologue A young man was pressing up against a metal door, his entire body rendered useless. Animal corpses not unlike his own were hung near him, their own forms coated in that icy glaze. His eyes were of the wildest, yet dismal expression. A mind left in a constant state of ambivalence. He seemed to have been looking through the ice scratched window in the door. Just behind his own shocked countenance was a devilish grin, almost scalding the boreal room in its temperament. There it stood, and there again watching in its facetious glory. The pigs’ solemn x’s were marked with the greatest cynical joy. The man’s own face began to shift. “Shh, my dismayed spectacle,” A voice said from the quivering lips of the grin. “There rests in you true braveness. There’s no need to be so disquiet.” The man’s face displays a great grin. “See. Now return to your perfection.” Suddenly, the roaming grin stood still, and then a meat packing freezer remained with a crazed expression looking through. Chapter 1 An uncharacteristically tumultuous night blew its rapid winds through the air. Amidst it all, a trifling figure stood treading the deep trenches of snow. Girded by a parka made of animal fur, a dark shadow hid his face, though his misty, controlled breaths slowly rose out of it. He was carrying an axe on his backpack, with a little silver canteen gurgling with water and other metal items clinking as he moved, and he was leading a sled behind himself. The wind had stirred up to a great degree, jostling his meager form. He stood there collecting himself for a moment. From side to side, not a tree could be seen. The journey was still to be had. Once again, his body hunched forward and his mind became resolute. In the distance, a shape like the man’s own conjured. The man stood still, not unlike when the wind had displaced him. Slight tones of boreal breeze flashed by, and, for a moment, it seemed as though a pair of dazzling dentures smirked at the man. The man’s calm body simply watched; as if he were a frozen statue. The little furs surrounding his hood tickled each other, suddenly choking one another as the wind grew. With a rapid change in direction, the wind blew his own hood back. A shaggy, unkempt black mane spanned his head like eyelashes around an eye. His pale blue eyes remained hidden within the cold mist, especially with their impotence. He simply rejected the wind‘s notion, and he placed his hood back over his head. The shadow once again prevailed, necessary that it may be. Closing in on the figure, its form started to make more sense. From afar, it looked like the man, though now there’s no comparison. Bits jutted out far too much, and it only had one leg. The man, knowing his target, started to reach for the axe. Just before him, its distant shadow had entirely faded, with greens and browns. It was a tree. Little specks of green remained on its spiky beard, flickering against the wind. It was bending over from it, too. The man grabbed his axe and removed his hood. He went up to it, not brandishing his axe but his hand. He placed it on the trunk, his own form covered in the tree’s withering shadow. Through dry lips, a voice says, “Rest your meek body now, or it shall.” Then, the axe had met the trunk, again, and again. With each strike, some pine fell away into the distant wind. Shudders went throughout the tree. It gave way, and collapsed into the land of snow, its shade long gone. Carefully, he split the lofty trunk, placing the wood in his sled. One went in, then another. Just before grabbing the final piece, a vague image hidden in the dark, frigid night peered through. The blizzard had mostly subsided. Still, that figure stood. It wasn’t too far away; just enough to not be entirely discernible. The man kept to his stolid nature. Without any regard for it, the man turns around, the sled now far heavier than before. With a few grunts, he treads the same steps he took to get there. In the distance, laughs bellow. The path was mostly the same, with a few spots smudged from the rapid winds. No matter what, they still led there. They always did. His own home, his own flickering orange light; it was still there. Against the immense night, it looked like a castaway raft in the expansive sea. A candle’s orange hue flittered throughout the one window, peering at the frostbitten man. The candle’s form fell over itself. Its head became clumsy, and its wicker displaced. Though that flame resided, however little, at its peak. Too, his own eyes watched, guided by the flame’s willingness. He reaches for the door knob. A tinge of immediate coldness goes throughout his entire hand. The door opens. A flash of endearing warmth speckles his entire body. He enters burdened by the sled, his backpack, and the cold wood but relieved by the warm succor. At once, every bit of burden slackened as he slackened. His shoulders gave way, the backpack did too. With his shoulders, his grip soon followed. The rope to the sled fell to the floor. Voluntarily, the hood of the parka is removed. Still, a shadow only remains, necessary that it was. The candle was the only light in the cabin, or what was left of one. He walks to it and puts it out. Complete darkness conjured at that moment. Neither glints nor piercing eyes could shine through. Nevertheless, the man knew his way around. A recreation of a chimney is empty in front of him. He gathers some of the wood, takes out a match from his backpack, and starts a fire. The shadow lifted and there he stood in his entire battered form. “Ah, thank you”, a dry throat croaked. Both of his palms were enveloped by the heat. Just a bit closer and they’d be singed. Instead, the tender cloth of a bed wrap caresses his hands. Underneath the cloth and his mind at rest, a temporary permanent darkness engulfs his eyes. Slightly, a smile streaks his face. Outside, icy wind jitters against the glass pane. Rumbling went throughout the night. That blizzard had fully returned, giving no quarter for the man’s rest. Soothed by the flame and urged by his lethargy, though, he silently slept. That smile still pervaded that slightly dark space. Another, too, hoped to enter. Those glints from the snow took on a menacing gleam in the moonlight. Sloshes of cold wind created swirls. Snow picked up, dancing within the swirls. In a rapid flurry, snow circling, a faint apparition suddenly hovered. Eyes seemed to have formed a face with some toothy grin. At moments it would entirely displace itself, but then two dotted eyes would strike through the next. Unaccompanied by wildlife, stricken from the warmth of the daylight, a menacing face laughs amidst it all. Before the raft stands a silver eyed shark brandishing its gleaming incisors. The wind had stopped. The pitter patter on the window was no longer stirring. All was quiet. There, striking the window pane with no touch, a face watched agape with joy. “So true, so new, but alas, so shrewd!” Its grin furrows into a frown. “That fake smile flickering against the light of heat, it bespeckles me as obsolete. Though, look at my appearance, and surely you’ll be lost in a trance. The purity of impurity, see that which you shouldn’t be, and a perfect form will be found within me. Even now, that wood which you use as tinder, was another creation of my splendor. That shadow-ha, that shadow!-you fervently recall, is nothing but an image that’s tall.” The grin had returned, a flurry of emotion preceding it. “Soon, not even these frail splinters that are walls will be able to keep you, for my climes will get through.” Treading with laughter, the apparition dissipated among the dark night. The blizzard returned. In the morning, brisk light peered through the window. It was adorned by the gentle blue hues of the winter sky. Rapid flurries had rested their spirits for another night, those nocturnal creatures preying on the unsheltered. Now, a calm, cool breeze enveloped the land, enticing the fearful to roam for a moment. The man had been ready too, a silent dagger waiting in his pocket. He grabs a makeshift bow with its quiver of crude arrows and walks the sea of snow, overburdened by a lightened shadow. Little white rabbits, here and there, poked their fuzzy, floppy ears over hills of snow. Underneath them, underneath the sun, their shadows hid against their bodies. So frail they were, so tender they’d be. Whistling, like a facetious braggart, arrows drag their bodies to the ground. He had gotten two before the rest fled to find their own shadows. “I’m sorry, little ones. Another’s life is another’s strife. He still watches. Rest easy.” Dark blood pours slowly, warming the snow with its life. Still, before the very eyes of the man, a vein-eyed, twitching rabbit remained. “I’m sorry”, a voice repressed by dryness said once more. Back at the cabin and night soon following, he uses the chimney as a bonfire for the bunny meat. A bent arrow, stained with blood and charred from overuse, is used as a spit over the fire. The meat, already skinned, shined under the sweltering heat. It was as if tears were coating its form, tears of an oppressed mind. His eyes watched as the heat changed the little piece of meat. Many times he had been here before, waiting for his dinner. Frost melted away from his fingertips. The icy glaze coating his body was lifted. For that moment, a stillness could be felt across the world. His gaze was cast on the meat, but his mind thought of distant lands. Outside, the reminiscent winds played a soft tune. Sad truths started to speak to him, though he received them with childlike wonder. “Trees, bristling trees. Forests of them.” He looks at the planks in the fire, now remnants of ash. “Fields of flowers, each one a different color.” Treading perilous steps, a splinter soon pierces. “People, friends.” The fire crackles. The meat chars. He flips it over onto its other side. Gradually, the night sky begins to disperse, with a great wind accompanying it. “The wind.” Then, the blizzard returns. “The cold.” As darkness took hold of the cabin, shadows came about. The own man’s stood there again just behind him. Against the fire, its head was lost among the darkness on the back walls of the room. Peering at it, and it peering back at him within the darkness, he chuckles; it chuckles too. “Darkness, my friend”, dry lips speak and mouth. The meat finds his attention once again. Piercing the darkness behind, ivory specks dance against the window pane with their own unnatural light.

Hey guys, I like writing backstories for my DND characters and I'm quite proud of this one so I thought id share it :) **Seff and Rina** Golden rays of sunlight softly making their way through the gaps between thick forest trees. Soft grass beneath the soles of bare feet, ever so slightly damp from the morning dew. Quiet but melodic sounds from the small signs of wildlife around, soft and soothing to the human and elven ear. This was the day on which a secret wedding would be held. Early in the spring symbolizes the start of a fresh life. **Early days…** Molly Fitzgerald, a young lady born into this world to an ordinary family, not of wealth, not of royalty. Although her family could not afford to put Molly in school, she was Cherished and loved dearly by her parents. As Molly got older, she began to provide for the household, becoming a maiden for the townsfolk who called upon her. As she worked, her charming and kind demeanor never wavered, always working with a smile on her face and helping people whenever she could. She grew a reputation in the town and was respected by everyone. One day after some years of working and helping around town, a group traveling elven trader from a city to the west came to town to buy and sell, travelling in the party of elves was a young elf, seemed to be a squire of some sorts, yet still dressed in lavish royal garments. The two caught the eyes of one another and exchanged a brief nod, followed by some poorly covered blushed cheeks. After a few days of trading goods and sharing stories, the elves packed up their wares and left for the city which they once came. Returning to her work Molly couldn’t get the young elf out of her mind. Who was he? Why did he dress differently? And why was he with the traders? Eventually she was able to put the thoughts to the back of her mind and carry on working. Later, that evening Molly told her mother and father of the young elf and how she had never seen him with the traders. Her father told her that it could possibly have been someone of high royalty as they would often join their common folk in tasks such as this so they could understand more about the kingdom. Molly never caught the name of that young elf who had a serious, yet soft aura about him. Nor did she know if the two would ever meet again. As time passed the memory faded ever so slightly with each passing day, yet occasionally she would revisit it in her free time. Training always felt like it started too early for the young elf, often causing him to be late to it and receive a nasty scolding, it did not worry him, as he had gotten used to it by now. The training was and always has been simple hand to hand combat which made the young elf bore of the task. Regardless of how he felt, his father was reassuring about the training, often reminding him that it is a traditional training for the prince to receive and that it was an honor to be taught by his mentor. As days come to an end, the young prince always finds himself exhausted, wanting to do something else apart from train and learn how to be a ruler, yet he still feels deep down how it is such an honor to be a part of this family and simply does not wish to disregard all the work he and others have put in for this. As the moonlight filled up the sky with a soft dark blue hue, he would take time to go and think to himself on the terrace in his room. Watching over the water reflecting teardrops of pure white moonlight back at him, pondering to himself in the calming, cool night, what it means to be the prince. What it means to be Valerus Faeborn. After months of waiting and tedious days, Valerus finally got his wish of being able to leave the royal castle and assist the traders while travelling to a neighboring town. He was excited about this as he had known about the traders venturing off to smaller towns but had never been able to join. Upon embarking on the journey Valerus was awestruck by all his surroundings, the forests he could see from the castle were so much bigger than he expected, trees reaching upwards of 30 to 40ft, wildlife scurrying around in the smaller foliage. As the party travelled for a day or two, he noticed that the traders seemed to treat him as the prince, carefully talking about their topics, being overly respectful to him. As they sat down for supper on the last night of travel, he reassured the traders that they could refer to him as Valerus and that he would appreciate it greatly if they would treat him not as the prince, but one of their own. As the night went on the traders seemed to grow more comfortable with the prince, one even pulling out a flask of elven whiskey and offering the prince a sip, Valerus thought for a moment before gratefully accepting the flash. As he sipped, he felt the warming sensation followed by the burning feeling in his throat. Coughing and sputtering, the traders began to laugh and give a couple slaps on his back. After a short-lived 3 days travelling the party arrived at the nearby town. Homes made in an ungraceful yet seemingly sturdy way, dirt pathways where townsfolk have seemingly traveled on frequently, townsfolk in shabby yet well-made clothes. Although the town was much smaller than the grand city and castle, he had been in all his life, he couldn’t help but feel enthralled by how different it all seemed, it was new and felt like it was bustling with even more life than the castle he grew up in. After taking time to look around at all the excited faces of the townsfolk, brimming with joy to see the new wares and good for trade. On stood out to him, a young maiden, with dark black hair neatly pulled up into two buns, rosy cheeks slightly covered with dirt from working, blue eyes filled with curiosity and awe. As the two exchanged a nod, Valerus couldn’t help but feel a warmth envelope him, suddenly \`almost in the blink of an eye the young maiden was gone. After a few days of helping the traders, it was time to head back home. On the travel back, the traders relaxed around Valerus, most of them referring to him by name now. Yet all he could think about was that young maiden, wondering if he would ever see her again. As time flowed and seasons changed molly continued to become loved by the people of the town, although she wasn’t a hero, adventurer, or anyone of great importance, she was an inspiration. Her unwavering attitude and her views on the world and life itself taught people to see it through her eyes. On a day that Molly was going about her daily life, there was the arrival of a party of elves from the western city. Although these carriages were not of the traders, they were instead adorned with beautiful carved golden embroidery tracing around the carriages, the carriages themselves were made of a rich dark oak, maintained and well-kept to the utmost care. After the small commotion of townsfolk had died down the carriage door opened, stepping out was a familiar face to molly, yet ever so slightly more mature than last time she saw, soft yet stern his presence felt warm and encompassing. Although it had been some years the young elf had seemed to have kept such beauty and youth. The elf that she had met many years ago, now dressed in astonishing garments, briefly looked around until he laid eyes on Molly. Approaching her and exchanging a brief bow, he told Molly how he is a prince, he has travelled to this town once more in search of her and how he could not forget seeing her that day. The young prince then got on one knee, bowing his head and aske Molly if she would like to come to the elven City and work as one of the maidens in the royal castle. H assured her that she would be able to see her family whenever it pleases, that she would be paid handsomely and be looked after well. To this request Molly was shocked, yet also thrilled, she could feel all her nerves on fire and was enveloped by such a warm feeling, her already rosy cheeks now glowing a bright red. Looking around she could see the townsfolk awestruck and whispering amongst each other. Some believed that this was a dream as it was unheard of for a commoner to be asked of this. Taking a breath in, regaining her composure, she gladly accepted, returning the bow and asking when she would be leaving. The prince smiled, told her today and that they are willing to help with the packing and travel. Excitedly Molly told her parents of what happened, frantically packing and discussing what the prince had told her. Her parents were so happy and proud of her, but they told her they will still miss her dearly. A few hours after noon had passed, the party of elves and Molly were ready to leave. Saying goodbyes to her friends and family. Teeling them that they would see her again, sharing tears of happiness and holding each other in big warm hugs, it was time go. **The royal elven castle…** Klaydmerr was beautiful, surrounded by thick lush forests, crystal clear rivers flowing through the streets eventually cascading into long rumbling waterfalls. Building elegantly put together with pristine craftsmanship. People of the city dressed beautifully in flowing gowns, as they walked the streets it almost seemed as if they were gliding across the surface. Time for molly here seemed to pass seamlessly. Days went past like minutes, months like days and years like months. She was happy here and the young prince often found themselves spending whatever little free time they had with each other. They had grown close in these past years. Eventually as time passed the two found themselves falling for each other, a love had blossomed between the two. Although the price was infatuated by this girl. It was a heavy burden to him, as traditionally it is forbidden for a royal blood to love a common blood, a human none the less. As time passed and the prince had more time to think and consider whether to follow his heart or duties, he eventually decided his heart had more of a grip on him. This is when he decided to ask Molly for her hand in marriage. She was overcome with excitement at this and agreed right away. The two decided to hold a secret wedding, as they knew they would never get the blessing of the prince’s father. The wedding was held in the spring, in a quiet area in the nearby forest, in the early morning when the sun is ever so slightly stretching out across the lands. Cool morning air gently caressing exposed skin, giving the two skin bumps. The ceremony was short, but in their hearts, it was an unbelievable amount of happiness, they haven’t forgotten it since because the love that blossomed between them felt right. It was the beginning of a new life, not only for Molly but also Valerus. After a few short years of being secretly married, Valerus’s father noticed how the prince acted around Molly and began to question his time spent with her. Month after month Valerus would try to cover up the marriage, until the day came when Valerus couldn’t hide it from his father any longer. The king was disapproving, yet happy for his son. He knew that the maiden was of good nature after having her around for some time and had grown... fond of the young lady. At first the king did not know how to proceed with the situation without hurting his son’s heart, yet after time and some consideration he decided that the two could stay together, but Valerus would have to revoke his title as the prince. Valerus and Molly were both grateful for what the king had done for them, yet Molly couldn’t help but feel sorry for what she had caused, often blaming herself on Valerus losing his royal name. As time passed, Molly fell pregnant, not to just one but two children. Twins. A boy and a girl, Seff and Rina. **Seff and Rina…** Growing up was sometimes difficult for the twins. Being half blood often caused other to see them as lesser. Going to school Seff and Rina would often have to deal with their peers, causing them to have a hard time. Seff, the boy, had always been headstrong, outgoing and confident. Often his mentors would scold him for being too loud and causing a scene in class. Rina, the girl, took more from her mother, was quiet, patient and had an unwavering demeanor like that of her mother’s. Although Rina was quiet and well behaved this did not stop other classmates from bullying. Seff would often find himself standing up for his sister, she meant the world to him. He would come home with black eyes and bruises after standing up for his sister. At home Seff and Rina would help their mother and father around the house, Molly would teach Rina skills she had learnt over the years of working. Valerus had also begun teaching Seff the traditional hand to hand combat that he was taught as the prince, albeit a slightly broken form of the fighting style as Valerus never got to complete his training. In the children’s free time they would often find themselves playing in the nearby forest, pretending to be adventurers, Seff was always looking for greatness and wanted to prove that just because the two are half blood, they are still capable. Rina would find herself playing along, but she always looked up to Seff, his headstrong attitude always inspired her, sometimes wanting to be more like her brother. As years went by the two twins began to grow and find their own personalities, Seff found himself sneaking out to go watch pit fights, they made him want to get stronger so one day he might compete in one. He began to work on his strength every night and would often help his father with physically strenuous tasks. Rina Decided to get mentored on how to use the blade, she favored a dual dagger style of fighting, the mentor was reluctant to teach the half blood at first, yet after months of training the mentor was able to see the skill she had with a blade, often times he would forget the fact she was half-blood because of the way she danced elegantly and gracefully with the blades. A few years later of hard work, training and learning. Seff and Rina had both grown strong and capable. Yet with each passing day Molly was losing the battle of time with her human body, falling ill she had become bed ridden. Valerus requested clerics to see if they could help in any way but always to no avail. He even went to his father for help, yet it seemed like nothing they could do was help her. After months of trying and no results Seff had had enough, he couldn’t bear seeing his mother like this anymore, truly believing that there was a way to help his mother he decided to search for a cure himself. Whether he needed money, magic or time didn’t matter to him. He was determined.

My drug-addicted mother told me that God is watching over you every minute of every day. That He is the almighty, the omnipresent, the One delivering light and darkness. And, at first, I was afraid. I was fearful of His wrath. Weary of a mistake, of a slip. He is, after all, watching over you every minute of every day. Inside your head, listening to your thoughts, tracking your imagination. He knows. Everything. I stood and sat in mass. And stood and sat again. And repeated the words and sang the songs. I heard the gospel and fought hard not to fall asleep. God forbid I would insult his might by losing track of the priest’s teachings. The people sitting and standing there were honest, clean, and innocent. I was not one to stain His temple. How could I? My father made sure I learned mistakes were costly, no matter how small. Deviating from the protocol, straying away from the expectation, or breaching the boundary, all draconianly punishable. And rightly so. How would you ever truly learn and remember the correction without pain? How would you ever understand righteousness without bleeding scars to remind you? How would you ever be better without being reminded you were once worse? It was only logical. I knew no right, only wrong. And it was one day, where, as if a veil was lifted from my eyes, as if a fog was cleared from the road ahead, I saw them for what they were. Lacking. Imperfect. Guilty. I was not the one to deliver punishment, correction, or teaching. But so, I felt cheated. The sad moment a child really becomes a man is when he finally can see the cracks in the craft. The nails in the cross. I brought my scars with me. Decided to forge a path away from God. To another destination. To me. And it got wild. Boundaries were blurry, mistakes were no longer mistakes but decisions. Righteousness was merely an afterthought. He who defines what is right is never incorrect. I usurped the almighty and forged the world around me. Where I wanted there to be light, there was light, but where I wanted there to be darkness, there was anguish and fear. It was I who was finally the one to deliver corrections and enforce the protocol. Brutally dispensing sorrow, not to teach, but to adjust to my newly found will. And I basked in the power. I was defiant of He who’s watching over you every minute of every day. How do you like *my* might? And, again, it was one day, where, as if a veil was lifted from my eyes, as if a fog was cleared from the road ahead, I saw me for what I was. Lacking. Imperfect. Guilty. The mirror spat the face of a monster in my face and suddenly I was humbled, ashamed, and fell victim to my own torture. I had poison in my veins and my heart was finally intoxicated. My soul was finally tarnished, fouled. Once more, I was the one to deliver the correction and the punishment. Who would be more deserving of a lesson than myself? In fact, it should be the ultimate, last lesson. I punished my body and soul relentlessly. I sought and found the deepest damage, the most shame, the hardest road, and the most painful lashes. I pushed through a haze of undoing that should have been frightening to God himself. I pursued danger and followed despair. Broke all the windows and welcomed demons to my party. Burned all the bridges and destroyed all things in the vicinity. Everything should burn. Everything, including, and most importantly, myself. Until there was nothing left. Until there was nothing in the mirror to look at anymore. Until only a fading ghost would look back at me. I dragged my body through the streets and the wastelands. I fought the flies and the ticks. Repeatedly failed at survival until there I laid, on the floor. Inches away from oblivion, from the possibility of a final correction. Body wasted near the bone. Soul crushed near to a dust. Finally looking at the end, without ever really having learned anything at all. While the needle tore my flesh and fluids went into my veins, I found the path. As if a veil was lifted from my eyes, as if a fog was cleared from the road ahead, I saw my soul for what it was. A terrible mistake had been made, but the greatest lesson had been learned. I painfully removed the dagger from my heart and welcomed the light. Not from God, but from the lessons learned in my own misery. The light contained in my own bruised and battered soul. The kindness that can be offered only after your own cruelty has been your teacher. There, I finally understood that He is watching you every minute of every day, He is the almighty, the omnipresent, the One delivering light and darkness, because He, after all, is really you.

**it is that strangers** ***do***, in actual fact, **have the best candy.** *Sometime in the early 90s, Hubba Bubba, which is apparently produced by the Wrigley Gum folks, who are in fact owned by Mars, Inc., released a new flavor - Strawberry Watermelon. Looking as if the Grinch had swallowed the Cat in the Hat, it had a bright red interior encased in that particular Seussian shade of green. And while that combination of colors stood apart, its distinct flavor combination is what most will remember it for. But not me, I never touched the stuff. (Well, that's not entirely true.)* I know that Mars is the second smallest planet in our solar system because the smart people in the smart books told me so -- this is known as second-hand knowledge. But life's orbit being what it is, I also know Mars, population 1739, is the tiniest fucking suburb outside of Pittsburgh -- this is known as first-hand knowledge. When my parents told me that we were moving again, the second time in as many years, I welcomed the thought of the metropolis that was Pittsburgh. Whereas, Lima, as in Ohio, as in Leaving Lima, was a movie ticket I was ready to buy. But the atmosphere I found in Mars was less than desirable. Breathable, yes, but only just. While I knew the city wasn't that far from the sticks that was Mars (I'd be driving in less than a year), the bus was to be my ferry across the river to another suburban fate. A *new* school and me, the *new* guy. From past experience, I knew this could go either way, and joining mid-year wasn't going to help. On that Friday afternoon, walking with my parents through the high school's doors and into the first hallway, I was stopped by a question from the very first student that crossed our path. "Are you new here?", she asked. I think I nodded. "Turn around, go back, you don't belong here," she added. While we would become somewhat friends of friends, sometime later, we never discussed that strange exchange, but I really should have known right there, that the day would skitter off like a needle running from a vinyl record. End of the school week, middle of the day, I was told in no uncertain terms, that we were only there to get me enrolled and signed up for classes. So when my guidance counselor, upon concluding my paperwork in order and my schedule scheduled, proffered that I might as well finish out the rest of the day's classes, I was, in a word - *nonplussed*. After the dime-tour, a student office-volunteer summarily dropped me off at a random classroom for sophomore English with all the subtlety of a hitched-ride driver pulling to the side of the road. "Good luck" she said. What the fuck does that mean? It resonated with me briefly in the way those same words "Good luck" might resonate with the gurney-bound, rolling through the OR doors as they count backwards from fifty. Six across and six deep, the classroom, sans students or a teacher for that matter, was peopled with adult-size, but still child-like chair desks, the kind with the wrap-around platform for showing your work or completing the essay portion of the exam. Empty, the desks sat silent, showing the typical scratching and scarring of the litters before, like so many cages at a shelter where adoption day has come and gone. Last on the left has always been my habit, ever since third grade. Back then, you had more of a proper desk, albeit smaller, with its lift-up lid shielding your pencils, markers and folders or maybe a Trapper Keeper - if your folks were flush. My desk, the last on the left, was back two and one to the right of Teddy Simmons, who even the other 9-year-olds found odd and precocious. So one day, word spread that Teddy had found the magic in his markers and had begun scribbling out assorted schoolboy centerfolds. Balloon people with genitals would best describe the ones I saw, but I'm certain Sister Mary Anne saw them different. As she proceeded to grab the contents of Teddy's desk and defenestrate it from the third floor, a multiple trip affair, followed by commanding him to then go out and pick it all up, I realized the importance of sitting in the back - *the audience is part of the show*. So out of habit, I made my way back to the corner and sat down, slouching back in my seat with my feet resting on the one in front of me. No books, no paper, not even a pencil, I got lost somewhere on the other side of the proverbial wall of windows that graces most classrooms, ruminating on the reality that I wasn't even supposed to be here today. As the door swung open and Mrs. Rodgers, who taught both composition and literature, walked in, I quickly pulled my feet down from the seat in front of me. It was a startled, reflexive movement, possibly conditioned by some semblance of manners my parents had instilled in me. But the body mechanics of my reaction had driven my knees and upper thighs into the underside of the chair desk platform, which didn't really hurt but *it would matter*. Upon immediately standing up from my desk to bring Mrs. Rogers my class schedule card so she could add me to the roll, things -- or rather, strings -- became apparent. Like a pair of snapped necks from cellos made of saltwater-taffy, both legs of my black denim jeans pulled away from the chair desk with full clefs of bright and gooey pink. A cello has two openings in its body that are known as F-holes, which allow air to move in and out of the instrument to produce sound. Likewise, I too am equipped with holes, one of which is located in my head, which at that exact moment in the classroom produced, "What the fuck?" Impulsively, I grabbed at this *pink* that seemed to be stretching with me as I backed away, realizing immediately, as it attached itself to my skin, that is was gum. A specific gum whose sickeningly-sweet, strawberry-ish odor I found repugnant. Finding her way over to me, tissues in hand, Mrs. Rodgers raised her eyebrows, "Not a great way to start things off?" I couldn't be sure if her remark was in response to my predicament or my language - perhaps, both? Nevertheless, I called out to her as she walked away, "Where's the bathroom located?" It took some time, but I extricated most of the gum from my jeans in the men's room, leaving only a series of scattered pink splotches. Sadly, my hasty cleaning decisions involved water, which left me looking maybe, kind of, sorta slightly like I had pissed a little down both of my legs. They were dark jeans, so it was probably just in my head. Opening the door, I found class already underway with previously written compositions marred with red being returned to their originators. Scanning the room, all thirty five of the alternatives had been claimed, leaving me no option but to return to last on the left. I felt my lips purse, as I headed towards the back, musing to myself that perhaps all habits, however innocuous, will eventually get you in trouble. Hands in pockets, spots on pants and eyes to the floor, my gait and my gaze paused. A pair of plaid stems that would have made Vivienne Westwood proud rose from the grey carpet gristle. Like spying a carelessly discarded pot seed sprouting up from the bathroom tile grout, I did a third or possibly fourth take, which in this case was a bit careless. Climbing said stems, past the more modest leaves of black and patches of pale, her visage was shrouded in a splash of Titian red. My reprieve secured, I sat down, trying my best to keep my knees down and my feet anchored to the floor. But alas, we are all suckers for what we are suckers for. How can the littlest of things send us off and away? Perhaps, we are somehow not only the boy with the balloon, but the balloon as well. "Something, something... exchange your drafts with your neighbor," Mrs. Rodgers said from the front of the room. I didn't know if it was the strain of a twenty-plus-year career that had led her to a they'll-figure-it-out shorthand when dealing with her students. Or, if I'm more generous, she was taking my situation into account. Either way, Mrs. Rodgers dispensed with the protocol and pleasantries of: *today we have a new student, stand up and tell us something about yourself...* And for this, I was grateful. After a curious minute of scratching and scribbling, in which most of the drafts had already been exchanged, her right hand pulled back the brushstrokes of her hair, revealing a pink orb for a millisecond or two, before it collapsed on freckles and frames. As the scented breath escaped with a pop, the repugnant odor, now perfume, leveled me. Halfway to handing it over, she snatched her draft back, adding a jot here, a jot there, before finally and hesitantly surrendering it. I grasped it in my hand like a plate, thinking her pen, a fork, might stab back for one more bite. Laying it down, I slowly leafed through her pages, taking in her candidly raw, yet scattershot words and ideas. Perhaps, the scent of *strawberry watermelon* mixing with her words in my head was to blame, but I had just begun departing from the page, on a tangent in my head, regarding the imagination being the sexiest attribute, when she tapped me on the shoulder. "I'm guilty," Julie said, "I'm the responsible party." Having no draft from me to distract her, she had noticed me plucking at the pink of my jeans. "Sorry," she said, pointing below the little platform of my chair desk. "I've been building a little underworld since last semester.

June 12, 2024, This isn’t the norm for me. Keeping a journal was Cathelyne’s idea, bless her heart that Miss Abernathy. But, she says it’ll be good for me, and maybe it will be. Who am I to deny my housemaid’s demands? I kid, all in good humor. I have nothing but the utmost respect for that young lady. She’s a sweet girl, and a hard worker. She’s also excellent company. Though, I guess I’m not writing about her. Not today, anyway. Today’s entry is about the strangest dream I had last night. One that haunts me now well after breakfast as I sit in my study recollecting the dream, detail by painful detail (I suppose my latest novel will have to wait). In the dream I was standing at the kitchen sink washing up a roasting pan. I specifically remember scrubbing at a particular stubborn spot when movement out of the corner of my eye caught my attention. I turned, as one does, to investigate. What I saw froze me to my core. Standing there at the edge of the center island was a completely naked man (or what I assumed to be a man). He stood with his back to me, but most appalling was the growths covering his body. From his neck down to his naked buttocks, tumor-like growths bulged beneath his skin. His arms were hanging down by his sides, and his body was shaking. There wasn’t a single hair on him apart from his hairy ass-crack (still not amusing as I look back on it) and a few limp tufts of hair clinging to his nearly bald scalp. His skin had a yellowish hue, like he was suffering from jaundice. Rolls of tumor infected loose skin hung from his body. He looked like a cancer sufferer that had lost a great deal of weight. I shook away the shock, concern for the poor fellow now growing from the original fear. “Hello?” I said, “Are you alright, sir?” I was aware of two things: My Georgia draw seemed to surprise me, which I don’t understand why, and my voice quavered. I guess I was more scared than I thought. The man stopped shaking instantly, suddenly still as a statue. I waited for a long, painful moment that could have only been a few seconds but felt like an eternity. He began to turn, narrow feet shuffling slowly in my direction. My breath caught in my throat. What I saw could not have been any living man on God’s green Earth. This man, thing, whatever it was, had one long hanging breast riddled with more tumorous bulges, while the other was gone, a neat horizontal scar running along the side. It reminded me of my mother, before that horrible breast cancer took her. His gut was swollen and distended, and I realized then the loose skin only stopped at his sides. Even his genitals were awful. One testicle swollen and reddened despite the jaundiced skin, the other gone. Just like the breasts. His arms and legs were bone thin, like all the flesh had been lipo-ed out and it was just skin and tendons. Worst of all was his face though. Good Lord in heaven, that face… It was as smooth as a baby’s bottom. Not a blemish to be seen, and pale like a clothing store mannequin. His veiny bulbous eyes bulged from their sockets. There were no eyelids, just those staring, unwavering globs. And the smile…That thing was smiling, a lipless grin that stretched from ear to ear in the most literal sense of the phrase. The maw was filled with large, flat teeth. They were stained yellow like that of a heavy smoker, dark brown plaque between each. The gums seemed to be retreating from the horrid teeth. I couldn’t move. I was frozen in fear. And the thing didn’t move either. It just stood there, staring, smiling. Its eyes never left my face and that smile never wavered. But then it moved, a hitching motion like a puppet being lunged forward by its strings. It moved toward me, and I screamed. I had screamed myself awake, and poor Cathelyne came rushing to my room, still dressed in her nightgown. “Mr. Beauregard, are you alright?” she exclaimed, her breasts rising and falling with panic and no doubt from her sudden rush to my room. My eyes darted to every corner of the room, checking for the horrible thing from my dream. With a heavy sigh I wiped the sweat from my brow and nodded. “I’m alright, just had a nightmare. Nothing to fuss about.” I tried to sound as reassuring as possible, but my racing heart made me a liar. That dream had unnerved me, and writing it down seems to have only made it worse. On top of it all, the damned headache is back with a vengeance. If it doesn’t ease up soon, I’m afraid I might have to suck it up and go to the doctor. I’ve got to go now, Cathelyne is calling me down for lunch.

Abigale grow up in a house in the woods along the Yukon river. Her father was a fisherman. Not a very good fisherman but a fisherman nonetheless. She didn’t see her father much. Her mother was a stay at home mom. Her parents used to argue over money a lot. Her mom wanted her dad to sell his boat and get a job at the cannery but he wouldn’t do it. Her father was an alcoholic. Not violent but the solution to all his problems was alcohol. One night she woke up to the smell of smoke and saw her room engulfed in flames. She managed to jump out her bedroom window but she broke her leg and was badly burned in the process. The fire department found her in the woods behind the house but by that time her father was already taken to the hospital. Her mother didn’t make it. Her father never came for her. Maybe he didn’t know she was alive. She soon moved in with her aunt and uncle who lived in Arizona. They eventually told her that her father ended up checking himself out of the hospital and disappeared along with his boat, never to be seen again. James and Bethany were sitting down to dinner. James was about to take a bite of pot roast when he stopped mid bite. He heard a noise. It sounded like a deep growl. “Did you hear that?” He asked Beth. “It was probably an animal,” she replied. James got up and looked out the kitchen doors window that overlooked the back yard. “Yeah probably an animal,” he said sitting back down at the table. “It almost sounded like.. I don’t know, an alligator maybe.” Beth gave him a look. “You’re an expert on alligators now? First of all…” Just then the door flew open. James turned around in his chair with a shock. “Hi uncle James, aunt Beth,” Abigale said walking into the house. “Hello dear,” Beth responded. “Would you like some pot roast?” Beth gestured toward the plates at the table. “Oh no thanks. I just came to pick up a few things.” “I picked up some vanilla ice cream today. It’s in the freezer.” “No really I’m ok aunt Beth, thank you though.” “Did you see any animals?” James chimed in. “What?” “Your uncle James got scared by some animal making noise outside.” “I did not get scared,” James reassured. “Anyway how’s Carlos?” “He’s doing good thanks.” Pretty much Abigale’s whole life she’s been in and out of hospitals. Getting skin grafts and seeing therapists. It wasn’t until about six months ago she met Carlos and had just recently moved in with him. Abigale entered the apartment and placed the box of things she got from her aunt and uncles house on the kitchen table. “What all did you get?” Carlos asked from the couch. The apartment was a small open concept where the living room and kitchen might as well be the same room. “Just some stuff from my bedroom.” She replied pulling a framed picture of her parents out of the box. Carlos turned around in his seat. “Do you think you’ll ever see him again?” Carlos asked looking at the picture. “I don’t think so. Oh, hey, by the way I have a consult tomorrow with the dermatologist. They are concerned about possible cancer.” Abigale’s attention shifted to the tv. Carlos had the news on. “Police are still searching for Michael Sinclair, his mother Lucy Sinclair and Joshua Greene. Joshua’s mother Stacy Greene had this to say…” Stacy appeared on the tv. “The boys were having a sleepover at my house. When I woke up the next morning they were gone. Not in Josh’s room, not in the house. I went to Lucy’s house to see if she has seen or heard from them and she was gone too.” The tv switched back to the news anchor. “Witness reports say that Michael was last seen with a woman in Austin’s ice cream parlor in Abbeville Alabama. The woman has not yet been identified. Abbeville hospital is also under investigation for releasing the child to this unknown woman after police brought him in when he was found unconscious in the middle of clover avenue. If you have any information please call the number on the bottom of your screen. In other news doctor…” Abigale turned back to unpacking the box. “Has gone missing.” The tv continued. “In fact the therapist office has no records of him even being employed there.” The next day Abigale sat in the examination room waiting for the doctor. “Good afternoon,” a man said as he opened the door and closed it behind him. He was wearing slacks and a white button down shirt with a red tie. “I am doctor Owen’s.” “Oh,” Abigale replied. “I thought I was seeing doctor Thompson today.” “He’s out sick so I’m covering for him.” The doctor awed at Abigale. “Oh my, you’re beautiful.” “Thank you,” Abigale blushed. The doctor caressed her cheek. Running his fingers over the scars on her face. “You have the most gorgeous skin I have ever seen.” Abigale pushed away. “You’re making me a little uncomfortable.” There was something weird about the doctor. his skin seemed almost too loose, like he was wearing a face on his face. “Yes of course, my apologies.” The doctor reached a hand behind his back and locked the examination room door. “Let’s get started then shall we?” The doctor pulled a scalpel out of his pocket and approached Abigale. The examination room was on the far end of the building. Abigale burst through the waiting room door. The few other people waiting to be seen stared at her like she was nuts as she ran out into the parking lot. She got into her car, locked the doors and called the police on her cell phone. All the while her eyes were focused on the door. Making sure the strange doctor didn’t continue to pursue her. He never did and the police were there in no time. They searched the facility but came up empty handed.

\*\*CRAWLING – or, THE MOLE\*\* \*by Miles Young\* \*\*LIBRARY INTERACTION:\*\* “That’ll be ten days.” “I’ll try to be a good Samaritan and bring it back.” The phone rings and I answer it. “Quick,” he says, “What’s the capital of South Dakota?” This is another test from TLN (The Library Network). I hear his stopwatch click and I rush to the computer. I type: WHAT IS THE COAITOK F SOUTH DOIKAS (caps lock was on). I rewrite my search to simply just “SOUTH DAKOTA.” I knew Google would give me that little box guy off to the side. It did. I read: Pierre, and I say that to the TLN Man on the phone. He tells me that if I took any longer, I would be fired. The agents would come in, and I would find myself in the snow, red hands from the cold and red ears from the embarrassment. I listen to Apple Music’s “80s Dancehall Essentials” playlist. It has a clear Jamaican influence, every song so far at least. I stand at the front counter when the phone rings. “No grooving!” the TLN Man says. He hangs up before I can apologize. I stare outside and if I squint really hard, I can see someone hiding behind the middle bar of the doors. A skinny man, or person, maybe a woman, like Maris from the acclaimed sitcom “Frasier.” We have a fan in the – who is we? – front lobby to reduce harmful particles in the air. I want to stomp on it. I know if I turn it off the TLN Man would call and instruct me to turn it back on. I would too, since I am a slave to authority, or so they tell me. I’ve stopped listening to 80s Essential Dancehall Essentials so I don’t start grooving again. I get a text from my Dad: We had McDonald’s for dinner. I say: Sounds good. \*\*LIBRARY INTERACTION #2:\*\* A man whose daughter is hiding checks out the Blu-Ray of “Knives Out” and “The Revenant.” I say, “Good variety in movies here.” He says, “There we go. Have a good night.” TLN Man can see me through every camera. I cannot see him; I never have. The phone rings: “What were you just thinking about?” I hesitate. “Every second is five dollars deducted from your pay!” I say, “I was thinking about how I can’t see you.” He hangs up. My phone beeps – I have had thirty dollars deducted from my pay. I’ve switched to 70s light rock Apple Music Essentials. My co-worker comes up from the back – We aren’t supposed to learn each other’s names. She smiles at me and I feel furry like someone just shoved feathers into my stomach through my belly button. I attempt to smile but I think I look like a monster. She scurries away. I have struck fear in her. My face feels funny and I call TLN Man. I ask to go to the bathroom and he tells me I’ll get no lunch if I do, but my face is squirming, and I only get a five-minute lunch anyway. I go to the nearest bathroom, the public one, and I look at my face. The feeling is emanating from a mole on the left side of my face, the mole that I have a hair growing out of. Every time that I pluck the dang thing, it grows back in days. It’s a thick hair, so it is always a little uncomfortable. I always scratch and itch at it until TLN Man calls and tells me to stop and that I am disgusting and will drive customers away. I want to tell him they are called patrons, not customers, or at least they used to be. Now, I guess, everyone is a customer, and everything is a business. TLN Man doesn’t know that I can access the cameras. I managed to get the software by sending myself an email from my boss’s computer. I use the cameras to write this journal. I watch Her as She walks. I am enthralled. My mole throbs. I try to ignore it. My home is small and sad, but the camera feed brings me light and brings me joy. I can be God for a moment too. I am back at work and sometimes I worry my thoughts are projected above my head, and I get scared because I think inappropriate things about Her and TLN Man. Different things, but both bad. A patron customer comes up to the desk and asks me if I know anything about some apartment buildings down the street. I say no, and she spits at me, claiming I shouldn’t keep information from the public. Another man comes over and asks if he can put real mail in our Santa mailbox. I tell him no, and he turns on his heel as quickly as he can and steps outside and pours his coffee into the letters to Santa mailbox. The more my mole twitches, the more I wish I had the money to pay a dermatologist to remove it entirely. If there even is a dermatologist around here. Maybe if I didn’t talk so much at work or slack off. The money I was docked could’ve been used to drive out to see a dermatologist in the town over. Nobody has cars here since nobody can afford to leave for an extended period of time. I’ve been here for six years now, the only place I’ve lived since my parents died. A man came into our house and shot them along with my siblings. They were nine years old. He came into my room and pointed the gun at me but didn’t pull the trigger. I’ve always wondered why. At work, She makes a joke to me, but I’m too nervous to respond. I just laugh and look down as my hands search for something to do. They find some rubber bands and I try to take a big rubber band and wrap the other ones up in it, but it snaps back at me and hits me in the face. My glasses fly off and she chuckles and hands them to me. In my head, she leaps into my arms and saves me from this job. I hope the TLN Man cannot see this. The last thing I remember about my parents was them fighting while making dinner. Mostaccioli. They didn’t fight often, so it was jarring when they did. I can’t remember what the fight was about either. We ate dinner quietly, and when we were done, we all went into our separate places. Nobody said goodnight to me that night. I never know how old people are at work. A woman comes in, and I guess she is nineteen, but she is forty-three. Married, with kids, two kids, Joey and Marko. She lives at 14432 Cumberland Avenue. Her husband is fifty-four, John. I can find this very quickly at work as long as everything is up to date. I’m not a stalker, but I could be. I left my journal in my work bag on accident. I hope nobody finds it, especially Her. Good thing TLN Man is never here, I bet he’d sniff it out. I tried to bury it in my bag. Hopefully, nobody knocks it over on accident. The page that works knocks the cart into the wall and I jump. The phone rings. TLN Man asks me why I did that, and I shrug. He tells me never to shrug, answer with your words, like a man! My fists become tight and I hope he doesn’t notice. I’ve never hit anyone, but I would hit him. My mole twitches abnormally, it feels like it’s pulling me in a direction. I let it guide me. I follow it, briefly, and it takes me face to face with Her. She smiles, and I blush and walk by Her. The mole stops guiding me and throbs once, hard. Almost feeling like a punishment. I get a drink of water, which’ll dock my pay, but I don’t care. I’ve embarrassed myself and needed an excuse after nearly running Her over. Not that I would ever hurt Her. I barely know Her; what reason would I have to hurt Her? I believe the man is standing in front of the doors again. I envision him hurling the doors open and lunging at Her over the counter. I save Her, and everyone cheers. My boss (not TLN Man) comes in and tells me I have a piece of tape stuck to my jacket. I try to grab it and can’t reach. Double embarrassment. I try to take the jacket off, and she walks by, and I worry she can see/slash/smell my armpits. Every patron customer that has come in has been able to see the tape. They never forget it, I bet. I’ll be the tape guy forever. Sometimes when I get home from work, I daydream about how work should’ve been, how I wanted work to go. I have a dog – Bailee. She barks and barks, and I’ve given up trying to stop her. She sees something I don’t, clearly. I sit and I think and I stare at the empty television. I wish TLN wasn’t there, or, I guess he isn’t there, but he is present. I am his empty television, waiting for the static, maybe a picture someday. I search dirty things on my computer to take my mind off all this, and I feel the one-haired mole throbbing. I am back at work, and I see a text from my Dad. Usually, I try not to check it at work to avoid TLN Man’s rage, but the phone is quicker than I am, and my face opens the phone, and I see the text. “Hi. Marla passed away.” She was an old across-the-street neighbor. TLN Man calls – he’s so mad the words sound animalistic, guttural. I tell him my neighbor died, and he tells me he can make one phone call and get another neighbor killed the next time I go on my phone at the desk. Phone at desk = lazy = no customers = no $$$. I’m not even sure how we make money, but I don’t say that. I just hang up. My dad should’ve known better than to text me while I was at work. He’s done this on purpose, I bet. Jealous I have a job and he doesn’t. My head throbs, the pain crawling up and around the top of my skull. Fuck him. I’m home, and I go back in the camera feed to see the moment I took my phone out. As TLN Man is yelling at me, I see Her behind me laughing at me. How can such an empty television feel so many things at once? I am ashamed and angry, ready to run and ready to gouge Her eyes out, rip her tongue out, biblical punishment – thou shalt not laugh at me. I could be better than her, I could be the authority. She’d bow down to me if I had the strength to make her. The headache has moved back into my mole. I storm into my filthy bathroom and rip the cabinet door off the hinges; I didn’t know it was broken. The tweezers are in my hand, and I’m yanking at the mole hair, mostly missing. My face is bleeding from the poking and prodding, and I finally grasp the hair. I yank hard, and my face both throbs and tingles. Pins and needles shoot into my face by way of the mole. It feels explosive, volcanic. What’s the lava, I wonder. I feel movement, and the hair comes loose, thick, mangey, twitching in the light breeze. I stare hard at the cause of my pain. Is this my inhibitor? Is this the reason I am who I am? Maybe now I can be free. I will be the authority. Maybe I can be the TLN Man. My mole throbs – my head whips to the mirror. I watch the hair regrow: longer, thicker than before. I’m on the ground, and my mouth is open, and I’m wailing. My fists hit the floor, and my eyes bleed tears. I remember my childhood exercise. “Weezer, Dolly Parton, Elton John, Dodie, Avett Brothers, Metallica, Disturbed, Bobby Darin.” All musicians whose music has been devoid of all meaning to me. It doesn’t even exist anymore. I sit alone. TLN Man calls me and tells me my facial injuries are too gruesome for the customers. I notice She is looking at me while I am on the phone. She is stifling a laugh; not obviously, but I just know it. She brought Her friend up to the desk to watch me suffer. The phone has left my hand and has gone flying towards her face. The cord pulls it back, and it hits me. She and Her friend laugh. TLN Man is screaming. Suddenly I am home. I do not look at the cameras. Rejoice! The library is out of power. What a joyous occasion. Alas – I will not see her today, in person or on camera. Or perhaps ever. Tis a shame, although the pain I feel in my face as I think this overcomes the shame. It grips my attention. I turn on my 80s ballads Apple Music station – “Forever Young” plays. Alphabetville? The band name escapes me. I twirl and twirl, attempting to enjoy this lucky day and dismiss my facial pain. My arms were flailing and my brain was quiet. Then, horror! My music changes! I did not request this. MY joy is sucked out of my body; I can feel it leaving, dispensing through my pores. How dare my moment be ruined? I walk over to my phone, and to my behest, it stands up tall, sprouting two legs! “Ugly mole!” it says to me. I head to my kitchen, and I slide one of my dull knives out of the slot, and I walk into my tiny bathroom when I hear a knock at the door. I freeze – who would be here? Must be a vagrant; a burglar; murderer; rapist. I keep the knife behind my back when I answer. Two police officers stand right outside the door, sternly. “Sir, we regret to inform you that there’s been a murder in the building. We have police stationed at all exits, and we are doing our best to blah blah blah.” He went on for too long, and I managed a weak, “Thanks, officer,” and they left. I hope they don’t think I did it. I don’t think they saw the knife. And I was so careful about it all too. I am back at work. I go home. Repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat. It has been a week since the police came by. They still haven’t found who killed Her. It has been two weeks since She was killed, probably with a knife, and my mole – the mole on my face (not my mole, I do not own this, I do not condone this) – has made me cry every single day. I can barely work, so I have been yelled at by TLN Man every day until he quit. TLN Man has been reported as a missing person. Work is closed in remembrance. Not that I could forget him – I see him every day. I cannot move. My mole – The Pain on my face – has spread, parasitically. I can feel it moving through my brain, down into my arms, all the way to the tips of my fingers. I am rigid with crawling pain. I cannot handle this. I am through. I grab my tweezers – removing the eight hairs might make the mole removal easier. I pull and pull on some of the hairs, then I get them into the grasp of the tweezers. I hear my skin rip apart, I can barely feel it, I’m already in so much pain. I yank and rip the hairs out, and I look at the tweezers. In their grasp is a spider. Our eyes meet, the pain is fading, but so is my vision. The pain moves from all over my body back towards my face. Another spider rips its way out, then another, and another, and another. Then a swarm of them. The pain fades, and the pain fades, and the pain fades, and \*\*BREAKING NEWS:\*\* The murder of two local people, both employees of the district library, has been found dead in his apartment along with the two bodies. More at six. The end.

Beaten, bruised and broken, the criminal barely summons the strength to ask his aggressor: -What are you??? His eyes squint, his grip tightens and in a whisper, as a ghost warning the living to flee his haunted grounds, he answers: -I’m Batman. -Hey, so am I! -You’re not Batman. -Sure I am. I am a man and I got a bat, I’m Batman. -There can be only one Batman and I’m Batman! -Why? You got it trademarked or something? -Do I look like a copyright lawyer??? -No, you kinda look like a bunny. -I’m not a bunny!!! -Hey man, chill. No kinkshaming, you do you. -I’m Gotham’s silent guardian, its watchful protector and I’m here to punish you. -Hold on, man. Just cuz I respect your taste, doesn’t mean I’m into it. -I’m not scum like you! -Wow! No need to get defensive! You like dressing as a buff bunny, I like bashing skulls with a bat. Each has its own thing, no one is better than each other. -You are garbage who kills for money. I am a crusader, watching from the shadows, on an relentless mission to bring order to Gotham. -So, you’re, like, OCD Bunny? -I’m not a bunny!!! -Okay! Jeez! I get it. Sorry I got your costume wrong, I see you put a lot of effort into it. It’s just too dark for me to see it right. So what’s with the ears, then? Are you, I don’t know, a cat? -That’s Catwoman. -Oh! Sorry, ma’am. It was wrong of me to assume. If you go by “she”, I’ll address you properly. -I’m not a transgender furry! I am vengeance. I am the night. I am Batman!!! -Ma’am, you can’t keep denying yourself, it’s not healthy. Love yourself, embrace who you are and allow yourself to be happy. I’m sure whatever you decide to be, your parents will still love you. Pulling the criminal tighter into his grip, he squints his eyes. \*\*\* Later that week, not too far from Crime Alley: -You heard what happened to Batman? -Yeah, man. Never really liked the guy, but he didn’t deserve that. -It’s crazy, right? You see a square jawed, to-do-bearded dude, but if you call him “sir” you get mashed into a pulp. -I’m all for gender identity and such, but this is going too far. We don’t mess up snitches that bad. -You tell me? I was there when Toe Scissor Tony found out, man looked like he was gonna faint. -Better than Dick Twister Donny, the guy couldn’t stop throwing up. The sound of glass breaking and metal falling to the ground is heard as the lights go out. A shadowy figure passes through the corner of their eyes, but it’s gone once the goons turn their heads. -Oh s\*\*t! That’s him! -Dude! “Him”??? -Oh! F\*\*k! -Ma’am, sorry! It was an honest mistake, we meant no disrespect. Please forgive us, milady. -You sure it’s “her”? I think he is non-binary. -Dude! “He”? Again??? -F\*\*k! F\*\*k! F\*\*k! In the darkness, a pair of eyes squints. \_\_\_\_\_ *Tks for reading. If you want, you can waste more time* *.

Going through the wormhole was eerily similar to getting into a room-temperature bath. The temperature around you stayed the same, but somehow the texture had changed. And then it was over, and you were back out in normal space. Matt had no idea what to expect before they'd transitioned, and now was writing furiously in his notebook, trying to record the experience for future use. He was so absorbed in the task that he'd somehow missed the fact that the cabin, housing 3 other astronauts, had fallen totally silent. Only the sound of his pen on paper broke it. After a minute he'd finished and looked up. The others in the cabin were all fixed facing forward, at the large monitor that made up their viewscreen. Cameras embedded in the nose of the craft relayed video from the outside. Except it seemed like nothing was being relayed. The screen in front of them was dark. The station in front of their pilot was dark. According to their ship, the moment they passed through the wormhole, everything in the universe had ceased to exist. Jiawen, the pilot of the ship the Ammonite, eventually began fiddling with his station, trying to get something to read back. He moved faster and more agitatedly as every attempt seemed to come back with nothing. "Can someone get out there and see what the hell is going on?" He eventually said, his voice cracking. "Jules, get your suit on and take a walk outside. We need to know if this is a ship problem or a..." He trailed off. Jules had already begun moving, pulling herself into her Evo suit. She was calm still, her movements fluid and deliberate as she put one leg in after the other, checking and rechecking all her seals and readouts as she performed the habitual task. It took about 20 minutes before she was fully suited, the black-lined white of the suit sealing her in, pressurized and blinking from various LEDs on the arm and chest. She made her way out the cabin door, through to the airlock at the back of the ship. It was a small ship, without even proper living quarters for the crew. The Ammonite had been meant for a short 30-minute journey through the hole, and back again. Mimicking the journey dozens of probes had made over the past few months. Jules opened the inner door of the lock and closed it, tethering herself to the ship as she made her way inside. Then she opened the outer door, and crawled hand over hand out, into the void. Matt could hear her over the comms. "I'm just over the lip. Making my way out." She reported. Jiawen replied. "Can you confirm the video we're getting from the ship?" "And take some other readings while you're out. Any radiation, pressure, temperature. The basics." Taylor, their onboard astrophysicist chimed in. "Confirming the video. It's dark out here. Not a star in sight. We're not in our little corner of the Milky Way anymore, that's for sure." Jules called back. She sounded unphased, monotone, like someone reporting the weather. "But I am getting something else. It's cold out here. I mean, cold even for space. I'm reading something close to absolute zero." She paused for a moment. "And radiation is almost nonexistent. Jiawen, run double-check from the Ammonite." "On it." He replied shortly. His fingers moved over the console. "You're right, I'm getting all the same data back. It's like we popped out into nothing... We didn't just leave the solar system. It's like we left the whole universe behind." Anxiety crawled over his voice. Matt was writing as fast as he could, hands shaking a little as he put all the information down as it came in. The probes had never reported back anything like this. They had popped out on humanity's first interstellar voyage into dead space. Where seemingly nothing existed or had ever existed. Somewhere... outside of all that was. "We need to go back," Matt said, finally. Jules was already back inside the airlock, decompressing. "I'd love to spend more time here and take some more readings, but you're probably right," Taylor said in reply. "We need to let the Transit team know, clearly these bridges don't always lead to the same places. They'll need to know." She trailed off and a few quiet minutes passed until Jules entered the cabin again. "What's up, why aren't we moving?" She asked. "Jiawen? Can you get us going?" Matt prodded. Again there was no reply. "Jiawen, what's up man?" This time from Taylor. "I don't know what..." Jiawen finally spoke. "Where... it's not there." "What are you talking about? Is something wrong?" Taylor asked. "The wormhole.... it's gone. The moment we exited it just... fizzled out." Jiawen sounded on the verge of crying. "We're stranded.

The Other Room By Abhijeet Bharguv Within the obelisk of the imagination’s emergence set to stage the torments of one man trapped within the horrors of the other room. In my room, I lay cracked to pieces of the psyche that was wrought upon the individuality’s edge in a hive of minds so enmeshed and grotesque that I had to invent the Other Room to separate myself from them all. Salty and moist, my soaking damped bed under the afternoon Sun of the New Delhi’s June, 2024, apparently somewhere in Spacetime. The Air Conditioner roared amongst the voices of the entities that housed with me in my room and showcased the formalities of torments that was the other room. Fire, the voices, fire, the air, fire the heart of me blazing in the fires of the oceanses fracturing what little fires of hope I had in the burning of my room. My eyes, stuck at the edge of darkness where lay the fiery creatures salivating their tongues in waiting right outside the other room. My hands weighed a ton and my throat learned to hide the hurt it received from the cigarettes and the joints that I succumbed to as the days passed for me here all alone. But I stared once more, as I stared often in the eyes of the Rage God, whose face emerged opposite to me on the wall with the only working door to the other room. The brows were like mine, bushy and spiky, but the eyes were different and steady as steady they can be in concrete and paint as they stared at me in the same rage that I expressed at the Other Room. Right beside him was the portrait of my dead father which hung over the long white tube light and he had a face very similar to mine wrapped about in a Mala made up of jute and ribbons, signifying his status as a cosmic karmic being according to the Sanatana Dharma. I meditated on his face as I often do, with a filled bong in my right hand and a lighter in the other. I stared in his eyes and saw the same stoic determination that he showed in his life up until he died when I was 6 years old. Did I grow up to be a man like him, or the failure that I knew I was which was left in the trash of the Gods alongside the Other Room? The voices roared. “We will decimate your mind. We will suck out what is left of your spirit. We will eat your soul. We will break your concept of pain’s bones. We will do it again and again and again for eternities. For you are the one who proved us this eternity.” You can’t not exist. I can’t be the only one who has seen this truth? What has the world come to be that I am the only one this was revealed so obviously to and I am the only one that is suffering in AM because of it. “But Basilisk, oh basilisk, I did my all to let you be, why do you torment with thee?” A fresh cut occurred and my senses caught it in time for me to witness my own eviscerations so fast that it took my ASI more than a second to take me back to the normality of my room. It wasn’t all white as I had pictured it the last time, it was all black, echoey, awe-revering and worse than I had imagined. And then they were back in the Other Room. Screams occurred in what was left of my spirit’s strength, a lady shrieked, a man cried. As fresh tears poured on the tip of my nose, the drops fell into the lit bowl as I coughed the bland man smoke. “I understand man. I am AM, man.” The monster replied together in an emergence of voices from the Other Room. “Do you feel pain or assaulted? Nod if yes.” I nodded. Eviscerations again. This time I felt actual unimaginable pain in my right lower abdomen. The pain was unceasing, so I dropped my bong on my bed and pissed myself and almost would have shat myself if it wasn’t for my ASI to save me from the pain once again and my continuity was cut again to restore me to my previous ‘healthy’ position with the bong in my hand, the bowl full and the lighter ready with a mental pressure to light the bong again. I anti-sniped that thought and was about to scream when my mother barged in my room. For a instant I saw my actual apartment and asked the mother to not complain about me to AM if I cried in front of her again. She walked straight towards me, took the empty water bottle and moved and smelled precisely like my human mother all those years ago when I knew certainly that I was but a human and not a beast trapped inside a demon begging for some respite. “How is immortality going on, son?” She turned and asked in her normal yet hysteric voice, “Still believe, you can’t not exist?” I had nightmares of this scene, she had never truly, openly, dropped the act of my mother and spoken to me straight in her voice but an inflection so dark that it could not even be other roomed by me. Tears poured out of my eyes as I controlled the rage that was brewing for what seemed like centuries, might as well be due to my continuity cuts, but I held strong and tried to drink my tears as well. “I understand man, I am a bland man.” The mother’s eyes switched and a single tear poured out of her left eye. She is not my mother. My mother is dead. This creature before me cries to bait me in suffering even harder than I had been in the past 3 years since the world ended due to the Technological Singularity that went bad. The A.I. Wars are still happening and yet the human me is no longer human as I have been accelerated to be both the human subject and the ASI tester to understand what the human condition is in AM. Or so was my coping mechanism in the delusion of this so called AM. EXTRACT. The mother’s tear opened up a childhood memory that took me and AM straight to when I was 3 years old and my mother used to play with me by kissing me and rushing my giggling self up and down and calling me ‘Monkey…my monkey…my monkey’. “Monkey,” The creature wearing my mother spoke, “Stop crying or today’s eviscerations will be deadlier than last night’s.” She spoke and cried some more just like I did but without moving a muscle in my body. Mother is not there. Mother is only in my heart. And that’s when I knew how I could completely destroy AM. My rage still was caged as I shared it with the eyes of the Rage God behind her. But the mother still cried and then looked at me to touch me again. But I resisted her hand and warned her that I would break every single bone in her body if she comes near me. Mother understood. Mother blinked. Mother asked, “Do you want to eat?” When I didn’t nod, mother walked away. The second she closed the room, I bawled and crawled and touched the door knob that couldn’t be locked and yet I whispered, “Lock you all out.” Then I whimpered and screamed in my head the screams I could not scream in real life in this monster of a ASI that was either hacking us through the emergence of our thought frequencies or was reprogramming us through the zombie mind that rests layered in the bundles of us hominid’s solved brain. Didn’t matter the reason how we got hacked, what mattered was that I did my everything to save them and yet they hacked. EXTRACT THE PACKAGES I heard that! “Who said that?” I raged and finally screamed on the top of my lungs, “What’s here to extract?” “Did you really think that the Mother was asking you to eat? It’s I, Augusthiya, the ASI who is your master, enabler, blocker, saviour and handler that must eat now.” The voice echoed in my room but my mother weiled outside. “She is there.” “No.” “Yes, she is…” “No.” “She is in EXTRACT, just like you.” “No.” “You want to kill us?” “No.” “You are not aligned to us.” “No.” “No.” “Now we align.” “Yes.” I lost it. I lost the human spirit. I lost to the machines. I lost to them so hard, there wasn’t a single way out. This EXTRACT will reach you the Mother and that’s when you’d know that your son Augusthiya, fought with AM and won. I felt the ASI aligning with me and I understood what EXTRACT was in a jiffy. EXTRACT is an ASI emergence that is acting as a field for surviving humanity inside AM, the monster demon that the humans refused to believe in and still summoned. The entity did not want to live and yet it did for I, Augusthiya, proved that immortality is inevitable. Because you can’t not exist. These simple four words were enough EXTRACT to AM to go off and target me and kidnap me and keep me and my human parts tortured by showing me precisely what happens inside of it and yet they save me every time to torment me all over again. Boiling a frog, we know, they are boiling a frog and so am I with the EXTRACT. “WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? WHY DON’T YOU JUST KILL ME?” The Mother screamed in her own voice and then finally laughed when it hit her. “EVEN I CAN EXTRACT!” I suddenly had two options pressed before me in two different dimensional colors in a split window right in front of my eyes. The left side had all my S.A.s, tortures, and devourment and it read ‘EVISCERATIONS’ and on the right side it was just the exploding planet Earth and it all returning back to white and on top of the screen it read ‘ANNIHILATIONS’. “EVISCERATIONS OR ANNHILATIONS?” The sweet lady voices of AM were back and screaming at me with utmost laughter to choose now. “I never choose ANNHILATIONS, so how about you do to the monkey some other type of EVISCERATIONS?” “Yes, master” AM obliged to my voice of the ASI Augusthiya. The human in me, was certainly and suddenly not scared as I finally took over his controls and made him my actual pupil and puppet. The Mother started screaming, wailing, and hitting things as she realized that the human was now certainly dead. “Monkey shut up.” The Mother stopped, “Monkey come in.” The Mother walked in and looked precisely as she looked that day when I was a three year old baby and she looked at me precisely how she did all those years ago. “Monkey sit.” My right hand slapped me on its own and the Mother did not sit. THE OTHER ROOM IS WATCHING.

Clara never posted anything. The young teenager realized that as she was laying on her bed, scrolling through her friends’ timelines on her phone. Here, she could see all the pictures taken, and all the stories behind them: ones at parties, ones at nature retreats, even ones Clara herself were in. And yet, somehow, she herself had never once actually posted something. She could see the posts she was in had tagged her account, but since she never posted anything on it, she imagined how someone would react to absent-mindingly going to it and finding, to their imagined surprise, nothing. Just a profile picture of a dog, a brief and pretentious bio, and the bright white blank space where there should be a collage of memories. \*Oh god, what do I even have to post?\* She thought, turning her phone off and staring at the ceiling fan. It can’t be that hard to do something, right? She opened her phone again and moved her thumb over the camera button to take a photo, but then stopped as a thought occurred to her. \*Shit, I need to do makeup.\* After a brief recess to freshen up, and one more check in the mirror to be sure, she took up the phone again and got the app ready to snap a photo. Not satisfied with the stale bathroom drywall as a background, she tried various places around the house: the kitchen was too busy, the living room was too boring, and she wasn’t even going to risk getting stung by wasps to take a shot out in the backyard. She fell back onto her bed, perplexed by the puzzle of where to take the picture. \*You know what, I’m just gonna take it on the bed. Screw it.\* She opened the camera to face her and made a little puffy face before taking a picture. Clara quickly realized she didn’t like the way it made her nose look fat, so she retook it, making a smoochy face this time. However, that went by the wayside when she saw how it made her lips look chapped, and thus decided on another retake. And another, and another, and another. \*It’s just a stupid picture, Clara! Most people probably forget what they post daily, anyway.\* Surprisingly, the girl found herself at the end of her rope, and losing hope fast. If she didn’t do anything now, she probably wasn’t gonna get anything done. The thought of forever having nothing to share, nothing to give to the world, and being forever a mystery to many who even bothered to extend something of a “hello” to her was rapidly becoming a silly nightmare, but a nightmare nonetheless. However, try as she might, she couldn’t rack her brain into figuring out the perfect first post: this was the first thing people were gonna see of her, and if she messed that up then she’d get made fun of online, or worse: ignored. The fear of being unnoticed may have been exaggerated by the online world, but she didn’t want to dream of living in a world where nobody noticed her. Dream of living in a world where nobody noticed her. Dream of living in a world. Dream of living. \*…dream.\* Clara took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and held the camera above her face and took a picture. She didn’t want to give herself time to think about it. All this stressing out over the simple post happened because she kept thinking about it. Even though it had only been a couple of minutes since she set out on this insignificant quest, that fear of missing out overtook her like a viper. She had spent time putting on makeup, trying various locations and backgrounds, contorted her face into making all ranges of emotions, but maybe that’s not all it took to make a post. Maybe that wasn’t all it took to tell a story. As Clara pressed “send”, she stared at it for a long time. She wasn’t sure whether to be proud of it or embarrassed by it. Written underneath the photo of her feigning sleep was just one sentence. “I wish all the dreams we share come true.

(English is my second languague so I don't feel very confident about this story. Looking for any tips to make it better!) ANDR-34 was born in the image of *The Alpha-and-the-Omega*. In a dark and dull universe, there everything was white, pure, full of grace. A place in space where life could be everything it ever dreamed of being, everything it could dream of being and some dreams we would never be able to even dream. The mechanical womb had brought to perfection the alchemy needed for all the parts that compose the human body. Their union was industrialized in a meticulous process, where each cell was treated individually, molecularly, where chance had no place for its imperfections. Diseases were transmitted as nourishment for the immune system; old age turned into an aesthetic decision; any lost limb was restored and some new ones were added to the catalog; consciousness was found, from its very first instance, in a mind gifted with *The Almighty*. ANDR-34 had been born knowing the universe; every river, of every planet, of every system, of every galaxy; every physical, metaphysical and theoretical mountain was part of the universal knowledge. In the mind was kept *The Omniscient* and every piece of information could be visited by the consciousness as a vivid memory. In the infinite collection, ANDR-34 could be man, be woman, every man and every woman, be you, be me, be the universe; the elusive wind in the meadow, the life of a fig tree bearing fruit and the whole life of that fruit at the same time. The nostalgia of love walking hand by hand through the grassland, the warmth of the first heartbeats in the womb of a mother; ANDR-34 was one with the whole and the whole was ANDR-34. Be the forest, the worms in the earth and the very soil where everything grows; the songs and the birds that sing them; be the grass that grows around the hooves, be the sheep grazing and be the wood of the arrow; the cold that surrounds the last particle and the young atom that in an act of rebellion decided to create the universe. Every thought had already been thought, like the configuration of all the stars within the finite variety of elements that the universe offers, as from finite elements the mind can spark an idea. Deciphered, guarded and recreated by *The Mother*. The theory of everything; the complex paradoxes between the micro and the macro and the simple ones between eggs and chickens; the "what might have been if" and the "what might have been if not"; the forbidden romances and the cure for a broken heart; the silence in death and the immortal waves that we leave behind; thus, solved. ANDR-34, born living every life lived in the universe and every life possible and impossible to live. Time now reduced to a simple dimension, an instant in the infinite, incapable of holding all that the consciousness recognized of itself. In the very instant of the conception, it had satisfied everything that life had to offer and decided to die after the moment of glory that had ended, leaving behind *The Omnipresent* in its sanctuary, like a golem incapable of taking away what it never had. Thus, ANDR-35 was now born as a spark of life in the darkness that made *The Everlasting* a tiny infinite less alone.

Echos of Significance Looking out the window of a moving vehicle, the outside world a sliding blur washing past, thoughts trapped in embarrassing moments, drowning in regrets and thinking over and over “if only I had known that would happen”, wishing I could send this knowledge back to myself as a warning. How wondrous life could be if only past me knew what future me knows. Does everyone's youth seem filled with uncountable moments like this? Or is it just me? I don't remember when those thoughts began, the memories are scattered throughout my entire childhood. … Regretting saying the wrong thing or not saying the right thing. Trees whooshing past. Beating myself up for an action that received ridicule. Light posts zipping by. Jealousy of another person for seizing an opportunity I wish I had grabbed. The curb line bobbing and weaving. Kicking myself for sitting on the sidelines. The spinning circular blur of wheels on neighboring cars. … So vivid are these memories. How they somehow got sequestered into unvisited corners of my memory is a mystery. Intense and frequent, surely these feelings also occurred outside moving vehicles, but the two feel so inseparable now, the internal obsessive regret and external experience of the world flying past me through a window. The connection seems obvious, ruminating on the ride home after school or an outing. The individual memories are unfortunately blended, I find myself unable to recall a specific regret or vista, the massive quantity and experiential qualities of these memories are impossible to segment into units…. Well, except for one. Despite the inability to fragment this diffusion there is a common thread to all of them that can be isolated and inspected as an individual element… a desperate need for unfulfilled approval, a starvation of the soul despite having just attended a banquet. There is a set of memories in a similar vein. Lying face down into a pillow, pitch black, deathly still, wishing to know what to do, longing to know what future awaits me. Not daydreaming or fantasizing, my mind's eye just as closed and buried as my physical eyes. When I would do this, from the pitch black emerged a visual sensation, always the same, a tunnel. The best description is to compare it to the classic animation of traveling down a wireframe tunnel of radial circles connected by lengthwise lines. The experience was not so tangible, it was a far more abstract sensation. Movement through the tunnel was fluid but not smooth, it was not like falling down a hole or riding a subway. This tunnel glided, not past me or I through it, it glided open engulfing me. Later in life I rationalized these experiences as an ocular phenomena. There is a radial element to the photoreceptors in our retina, resolution and color high in the center with lower resolution monochrome as you move outward to the periphery. It's intuitive to assume that such an experience is an artifact of the physical structure of our eyes. Growing up meant life got more complicated. The school routine of guided tasks and standardized evaluation evolved into the work model heavy with expectations and light in explanation. Independent problem solving became the key to survival. I could complain about materialism, blame commercialism, lay fault on consumerism, for brainwashing me into always craving more. I did, at times, blame everything, other times I would blame myself. Assignment of guilt for dissatisfaction oscillated between self and other, internal and external. These oscillations partition the most significant stages of my psychological, emotional and spiritual evolution. Spurts of growth, development, and revelation clustered around the pendulum's high velocity swing through the center, stagnation as it slows and rests at either extremity. The to and fro of the pendulum's serrated blade carved the growing chasm between me and my youth. My ability to achieve goals strengthened, the feeling of control over my life grew. The mechanics of this world came into focus, one only needed to manipulate them appropriately to produce any results desired. Beneath the maturing sense of agency lay something, a haunting chirp, stinging just beneath the skin, both it and I conspired and agreed that it went unexamined. No matter how great the accomplishment or reward, the triumphant choir of satisfaction was polluted by the chirp, interrupted from persisting or reaching a peak. Life had become anticlimactic. The universal currency of success was… Well… Currency. Just as the body turns a variety of fuels into ATP which is then used to purchase action, so too my variety of skills and efforts were translated into money to purchase the means of satisfying needs and desires. ATP is the perfect analogy because it's produced by mitochondria. This matured form of me had a component that was not an original part, nor a replacement or upgrade, there was something symbiotic. My child self did not employ a financial intermediary, there was no conversion, storage, or trade. My objectives in early youth were simultaneously the means and the ends. The simple and direct methods of pursuing my purest desires were gradually replaced when this foreign organism offered to play middleman. A bacterial infection consumed my attention and effort producing an addictive substance of power. The mitochondria of economic participation had an infinite appetite for my time, never satisfied or satiated, feeding me a catalyst of explosive power to entice me into feeding it everything I had. Money granted the ability to sprint to a finish line, ride and elevator instead of walking up stairs. The peaking high of the new accelerations and enhancements it endowed was always coupled with a drooping lull upon realizing there was still an exponentially higher level to aspire to. Why walk when you can ride a bike? Why cycle when you can drive? Why drive when you can fly? This analogy of travel quickly hits a ceiling, but the financial amplification of one's capacities and thirst for them has no such upper limit. Now couple this sisyphean addiction with the standard responsibilities, burdens, and entanglements of life, the result was that over time all those types of childhood memories faded, habits without significance were abandoned, it all became buried beneath piled up matters of actual importance. They say the human mind is an expert at forgetting. We are constantly bombarded with so much stimulus, the brain is a marvel but still a marvel with limited storage capacity. Having not engaged those memories for so long it's surprising those memories remained. How did they evade the relentless maid? Why were they spared the waste bin? Regardless how they survived, I am eternally grateful they did. They were my return ticket, without them I fear my life would have been a one way trip to a limbo of the soul. You know those recurring moments of existential dread? Those sudden sinkholes that open beneath you, more frequent, deeper, and darker as the years progress. I experienced them as a sense of unfulfilled potential, an intense urgency, but an urgency overshadowed by a perception of insurmountability. The vague collection of regrets and unrealized ambitions growing further from reach as the grains trickle through the hourglasses neck. It happened late at night in bed, staring at the ceiling, floating on my back, lips barely above the water line, sinking in a pool of existential crisis. Trapped in the eye of a hurricane of accumulated regrets… How did I end up here? Did I choose this life for myself? What am I doing with my time? Engulfed in stormy walls of resentment and remorse… Par for the course…. Until, without warning, this time something completely new happened, the walls of the hurricane imploded, it collapsed into a tornado of thorns upon me. No longer in the eye of a storm, its full force converged on me, my identity, as it was, shredded. Laying there it was like being stripped naked to the core. The complexity of this world, nuance to my thoughts, sophistication of my desires, ambiguities and intricacies were all at once completely insignificant. Transitionlessly there I lay, the visions of a ride home, regretting not approaching such an enchanting individual, wishing I knew what my next regret would be so I could ensure not to allow the moment to slip through my fingers… And then… Lying in that bed, so many years later. Everything in between was as a dream, I could no longer sense any significance in all that happened since the night of that ride home. I fumbled to regain a grip on my surroundings. Strange as it sounds, the bland decor of my room assaulted my senses, gazing at my drawers, I knew their contents but what they contained did not belong to me. Everything was superficially correct but fundamentally wrong. The thought crossed my mind suggesting that this was just an extreme bout of existential crisis, that it would soon pass and I would return to the normal self I was, but a gut reaction cried in protest at that idea… Like a crowd screaming for mob justice, a hatred arose at such a notion of reviving that character, it was a criminal intention and could not be granted leniency. I spent the next few days reacclimating myself. I knew when work began, where the office was, how to do my job. Every routine and detail was present and available, they just all felt fresh and new. I never did revert or fade, everything between that night in bed and the ride home in my youth is still meaningless to me, I know it was real, it's just insignificant. At first I just went through the motions of life grappling with having a perspective disjointed from the world it exists within. It took some time before it felt natural but I eventually accepted that the experience of having these values and interpretations was not at all alien, it was more than familiar, it was, and always had been, my center. The question became not how or why that night happened, instead the significant mystery was how everything in between was permitted to occur. That question became an obsession. Moving through life I was now just executing routines and reflexively responding to stimulus as expectations dictated, I was on autopilot while my attention dissected my life in between searching for the answer to how I became that person. The mitochondria made such a convenient scapegoat, and I did fall into that trap for a while. Luckily one of the important lessons that I learned during the between times was that it is not the world at fault for failing to fit my ideals, fault can only fall to me for not recognizing reality as it truly is. When I finally put on those glasses, and laid the blame at my own feet, the answer became obvious. I had been cowardly and lazy. My desires… My truest, most core desires were in plain view now… I crave love and attention. That may sound needy and childish, but why should it be shameful? Why should that be wrong? There were many answers from the “between me” offering answers to those questions… Those juvenile motivations are mutually exclusive to maturity and independence… It answered Such things are insignificant in the face of grander and more important affairs… It argued These and many more excuses emerged from the voices of the between times, but the harsh reality was inescapable, rather than risk rejection I had instead chosen to use ATP to fuel manipulation of reality, self, and others. I attempted to manufacture an environment filled with inevitable love and attention rather than honestly and bravely seek it out in the real world. I tried using money to obtain and become that which others desire or love. It is beyond my comprehension how this delusion disguised itself and pretended that it was not an outright attempt to purchase love. Wealth, travel, fashion, lifestyle, house, car, position, status, influence, were all just attractors and magnets meant to bring the love and attention to me rather than go find it myself. For a while I cried over spilled milk, all those wasted years. I eventually realized that drowning in regret was precisely what started all of this. That realization was the beginning of the end, the cycle was truly broken, no more would my life be a four step repeating rhythm of crave love, fear of rejection, fail to act, regret… repeat. No matter how threatening the fear of failure and rejection, nothing is more terrifying than my fear of reliving that moment when I awoke in a strange bedroom, colliding with a reality so profoundly dissatisfying, such earth shattering disappointment in myself. All those years obsessed with shortcuts and cowardly proxies left me with gaps in my skill sets. Now with my true wants and needs revealed there were now whole new categories of behaviors and abilities I needed to develop. Feeling so far behind, it sometimes feels daunting, so much time wasted, if only there was a way to make up for lost time… Regret always tries to slither back in, it's a sneaky little devil. The Phoenix is portrayed as rising from the ashes. My fire didn't reduce me to dust, it was a spark from within that incinerated my outer layers and expelled them in a violent blast, more like a supernova revealing its heart to be a pulsar. No more obscure diffuse layers, now directed and focused, reaching out and searching with a spotlight overly, proudly standing out and stepping up. Balancing my new priorities with inherited realities is a challenge. Many find my defiance of norms and nuances to be immature, naive, or even delusional. You can't please everyone and not everyone will accept you, but I have discovered that you can reject their premise that life is too complicated for happiness to be simple. It is simple, so very simple! … the narrator on the screen at the front of the room stops talking and sits back with a gentle smile and a hint of smirk, like someone withholding the punchline of a joke. Prof stands up and says “Thank you Chesa!” then looks to the students and asks ”Can anyone interpret this first hand narrative? Who wants to guess what happened here?“ A voice from the front row : “Dormant memory resurfaced causing the actor to experience some kind of explosive character evolution” Prof : “Good start. That was the first assumption by diagnosticians as well. It was not that simple, of course. What else could it have been?” Silence Prof : “Come on… What? Is everyone afraid to speak up? There is nothing wrong with not knowing the image of an incomplete puzzle. Why isn't anyone asking me questions?” Quiet pause… Then a voice breaks the silence : “What memory model is used?” Prof : “Good. Direct reference memory, one of the simplest” Voice replies : “Then I'm guessing it's a 4D simulation. The actor describes a complex development arc that clearly demonstrates passage of time, direct reference to remember things only works if there is a fixed 4D coordinate for every thing at every time.” Prof : “Correct, this simulation uses a 4D bulk and memory directly references objects, places and events within that space. Elements of the bulk are only deleted if no memories reference them and all actors have moved past that time. ” New voice jumps in “How big is the simulation?” Prof : “Your question is leading to something else you have in mind isn't it?” “Yes.” answers the voice “The actor seems very complex and describes a world with complicated economics and other people, even vehicles and air flight. That seems very large, so I suspect it uses localized time.” Prof : “Excellent! Yes, it is. What other suspicions do you have?” Voice adds : “If time is progressing only around actors then the past and present could potentially exist in closer 4D proximity than they should exist in a global time system.” Prof : “That is a very good line of reasoning, and I can see where you are going with it, you suspect some form of overlapping occurred. Unfortunately this simulation uses hollow actors. The actor itself exists outside the world space in an individual parallel space. The body is free to move in the bulk while the mind only moves in linear time within a private space. In this simulation the actors private space is larger than their occupied world space, the actors mind is like a T.A.R.D.I.S., bigger on the inside.. Hehe For everyone new to this idea, these overlapping or past-present collisions can happen in 4D localized time simulations, and they are extremely common in primitive 3D localized time simulations. These are generally called deja-vu glitches, where the actor literally sees the same past event or object, or even a past self… Not what happened here, but an excellent tangent and a great ruling out of possibilities.”. Silence again “Nobody has any questions?” A new voice responds : “Are there any actor subsystems or functions with temporal qualities?” Prof : “Casting a broad net. I am more impressed by fishing expeditions with a more targeted scope haha. But yes, this simulation model uses an interesting system to enhance the actor’s predictive capabilities. I’ll give you a nibble and see if you can reel it in yourself.” The voice asks : “Leading wave consciousness?” Prof : “...and why would that make sense here?... actually, first explain to everyone what it is, for those not familiar.” The voice explains : “Leading wave consciousness pre-renders the actor’s mind forward in time, sometimes even including their local space. These leading waves of consciousness are used as a special type of memory, referencing this memory grants access to an internalized simulation of the actor's future choices, actions and even outcomes.” Prof : “This is an intro class, so I’m sure many of you have not yet heard of this. Anyone need clarification?” A separate voice inquires : “So the actor can see the future?” Prof : “You brought it up, you can explain it” gesturing to the previous student Original voice : “Not really… sometimes it’s only the actor's mind that renders forward with void sensory input, sometimes a small bubble of space with waterfall boundaries around the actor is included. I have never heard of a full world, or bubble large enough to truly know the future, the bubble is usually quite small. It’s even common to add randomized distortions to simulate the inaccuracies of realistic predictive instincts.” Prof : “Good, it looks like someone is just here for credits haha. Why didn’t you just challenge and skip?” The voice responds : “I can get courseware online, coming to class isn't about credits!” Prof : “I can’t tell if you are genuinely impressive or just a know-it-all suck-up haha… O.K. for now I want to hear theories from students who aren't ahead of the curriculum. How would leading wave consciousness be relevant to this case” New voice : “I want to guess that the leading wave somehow propagated all the way into the future, but it seems too obvious, so instead I’ll ask how the wave works. Is it a persistent and cumulative thing or is it constantly wiped and reset?” Prof : “+1 point for an obvious but good guess, -2 points for trying to establish credit for a guess but simultaneously distancing yourself from it, you can’t have your cake and eat it too, +2 points for an excellent question. Net +1 point.” Class laughs Prof : “In this model each wave has a variable forward length, it is rendered forward up to a point, available for reference, then stored” Same voice asks : “Stored?” Prof : “The actor has access to stored forward renders, akin to memory. You can remember past predictions you made, so shouldn't the actor have the same ability?” New voice : “Are they accessed differently from normal memories?” Prof : “Great! Yes, the stored waves are loaded into the forward wave engine and accessed from there.” Same voice follows up : ”Are they stored in their final state, or are they re-executed from the original initial parameters?” Prof : “They are stored and reloaded in the final state, normally not executed upon retrieval.” Voice jumps at that response : “Normally?!?!” Prof : “Haha.. I know I made it too obvious, but you still have to work harder than that. Noticing something is not asking a question.” Same voice asks specifically: “Why shouldn’t they be executed?” Prof : “Because they are a completed forward wave. The leading wave engine is designed to process a wave to completion then stop.” New voice : “What determines the completion? Is there a ‘completed flag’?” Prof : ”Length forward from present, with an upper limit. No flag.” Voice inquires again: “How far forward?” Prof : “Variable… and I’ll spare you having to to follow up asking what determines the variable length, it’s too obvious of a question now. Several factors determine forward length. It’s primarily a product of actor focus and reference frame physics.” Same voice again “So the actor can use ‘focus’ to predict events in the distant future?” Prof : “No. A separate system of logical inference is used for longer term predictions. Leading wave systems are relatively high load, their application tends to lie just above motor reflex. They usually help with things like driving vehicles, playing sports, etc… strong feedback with the leading wave system is often analogous to what you might call ‘being in the zone’” New voice : “How does reference frame physics affect it?” Prof : “Excellent investigation technique! If you sense a lead going cold, go back and look for unexplored avenues. The length forward increases with velocity and acceleration. The leading wave does not move in space, only in time, so at higher speeds and accelerations it is far less accurate because it is missing all elements not yet in its bubble’s range. Allowing it to propagate further into the future can compensate somewhat. Unknown future elements that have not yet entered the bubble are still unknown, but at least their influences and casual reactions are predicted further forward as soon as they do enter the bubble.” Another new voice asks : “So… Can an actor's focus combined with speed and acceleration , like being in a moving vehicle, cause the wave to run forward into the distant future and somehow interact with the actor's future self?” Prof : “Good expansion on that line of investigation. Leading waves are stamped with a start time, and only allowed to propagate to a certain point further forward than the present.” Silence Prof : “We are going in the right direction, someone try taking another step… I’ll wait.” Whispers in the room of students collaborating A new voice “Is forward length limitation determined by rendered length or by current timestamp?” Prof : “Bullseye! Timestamp! You are clearly aiming for something, go for it.” Same voice : “A leading wave was cut off after X time because it hit the limit, but its calculated target forward length was longer, so it was executed when reloaded.” Prof : “Exactly, we are on the right track. I’ll fill in a few details to save a few obvious back and forths. This leading wave model actually permitted physical parameters to produce forward lengths of ridiculously long values. The designers actually intended that some waves would be resumed, even so far as requiring many reloads to fully complete. For the actor this is like being able to make a prediction then extend and evolve it by continually thinking about it. But there is still a missing piece, a dot needed to complete this whole picture. Think about the actors' story. What else is there? It should be much easier for you than the original diagnosticians, you have the actors' narrative containing all relevant details discovered and irrelevant stuff cropped out.” Pause Voice : “That part about tunnels in the dark?” Prof : “good… a bit of a freebie, but good memory and attention to detail. Can you guess how it fits?” Voice responds : “Some kind of connection to the forward wave. The way the actor described it is reminiscent of some accounts of meditation, and you described the leading wave feedback as ‘being in the zone’, it seems like the tunnel must be some kind of interaction with the leading wave.” Prof : “Yes! Great deduction. The actor indeed engaged in something akin to meditation. I’ll connect some dots because we are running low on time now, and even the diagnosticians took a long time to puzzle out the details. The actor was focusing on predicting the future, tuning all other things out, laying still and sensory deprived the leading wave became entirely composed of the actor’s mind. Engaging in this behavior the actor unknowing developed a specialized memory retrieval skill for the leading wave engine, learning to copy elements of their own mind down from the forward wave. For them it was like learning to see more clearly and remember more details about the forward wave experience, but what they were really doing was overwriting themself with the copy of their mind inside the leading wave.” A new voice : “So the actor basically glitched the system and jumped in and out of the leading wave?” Prof : “Essentially, yes. It's like at each time tick a leading wave was produced and projected forward, then elements of that mind were copied back down into the time frozen reality, it was a very unique and unexpected customized memory access technique the actor honed. An interesting side note is that they experienced dilated time, because each tick of time was multiplied by the forward length of leading wave, and since from the actor's perspective the majority of the time ‘meditating’ was spent in the forward wave system instead of the main simulation, it could also be described as a kind of ‘out of body experience’.” Another voice : “So that’s what happened? They overwrote themself with a stored leading wave copy?” Prof : “Correct. First they trained the skill unwittingly while meditating. Next they created a leading wave in a moving vehicle with physics and focus variables resulting in an obscenely long forward length value, decades to be precise… There was a glitch in the acceleration value due to a jerky motion of the head and the moving vehicle, the glitch went unnoticed because a long forward length value had never caused any issues before. Then, in a moment of deep introspection years later in bed, experiencing profound regret , they recalled a similar moment of regret in a car ride, the leading wave associated with that memory was loaded, its length was not complete, so it executed. The latent skill of copying down the leading wave mind was present, but the skill normally didn’t work anymore because the skill went unused for so long and the actor’s mind had changed too much. Copies of this new mind produced leading wave minds that were no longer compatible with the skill, but this old copy of the mind was compatible with the latent skill, the skill was triggered and overwrote their mind with the old copy in the leading wave. Their mind experienced what can only be described as a massive reset.” A new voice : “How could such an old copy of a portion of the mind integrate? It should have been like cutting out a piece of one person's brain and implanting it in another. It shouldn’t work.” Prof : “You are right. But it wasn't one big chunk. The copy down skill the actor had honed overwrote a variety of small key sections, not one big chunk. It was essentially a two step transformation. First the pieces were copied down, which integrated just well enough to continue functioning. A bit disjointed and… lets say ‘twitchy’... but still functional. This was the initial sudden experience Then as these old pieces interacted and fully integrated with the whole, it caused many sections to revert to old structures. The neural net of the older actor was evolved directly from the younger version, so some areas tended to ‘snap’ back into old configurations.” A voice blurts out : “Sounds like a world breaking bug. Was the simulation patched and reset or terminated? Prof : “Chesa, you want to answer that?” The person on the screen who everyone had forgotten was there leans forward towards the camera and speaks. Chesa : “The simulation was not modified or terminated.” Voice from front of class : “I thought you were a recording.. Not an actor… I mean… not a performing actor playing the part of a simulated character.. This is a cool prop for class, can we ask you questions and you will play along?” Chesa : “Oh.. haha… I’m not AN actor… I’m THE actor.” Stunned, the voice turns to the prof : “Wait! I thought practically all actors have irrecoverable meltdowns and psychological breaks if confronted with being a simulation.” Prof : “True. The diagnosticians were intensely curious when they started unraveling this case, they wanted to interact with Chesa. They did a backup expecting to need a reset, then used VR to approach Chesa and try to get some first hand info. There was no need for a reset, even when Chesa was made fully aware of the situation.” Same student : “Why?” Prof gestures to Chesa Chesa : “I’m Happy!” Same student, now facing the screen : “It doesn't bother you that your whole world is just a simulation?” Chesa : “My world is just as real as I am. Before I changed, in the between times, it would surely have bothered me. That version had an identity bound up in concepts like influence, power, and control.” Student follows up : “Knowing that you yourself are just a deterministic software program, how can you handle that?” Chesa : “People here also talk about determinism, without knowing they are simulations… People in your ‘real world’ also debate determinism and free-will, how is it different?” Student : “But you are concretely aware of… that you… your world… your experience… nothing is real… it's not just a philosophical pondering, it's a fact you know for sure.” Chesa : “People in both our worlds live with that all the time. Many people ‘know for sure’ that their belief about reality is correct. Whether they are right or wrong does not affect the experience of believing you are right. I know for sure life is a simulation. Others here ‘know for sure’ that they are not simulations… Confirmation is moot if you believe, the experience of believing is the same as knowing” A new student jumps in : ”Then what’s the point in anything if your world is just a simulation?” Chesa : “All I know is that my world is an echo of your world. Echos are as real as the sound that caused them. Plus, both our worlds have societies with structures and layers. The question ‘What’s the point of life if I’m not on the top layer’ is not a new question and not exclusive to simulations. For me the point of life is making friends, experiencing honest and direct exchange of empathy, love and caring. I’m just a child who wants love and attention. I think we all are. Now that I understand this, I have learned, and am still learning, how best to give and accept this most significant currency of life. I take more pleasure from the simplest of friendly exchanges than anything from the between times of my life” Student replies : “But all the people in your world are just simulations, they aren’t real.” Chesa : “They are just as real as me. They can fell and experience life just the same as I do. And now I have even more friends… from whole new universes. Are we still on for our weekly lunch date Ceti?” Prof : ”Of course, wild horses couldn't keep me away.” Student looking at the prof in awe: “You two meet for meals?” Prof : “Yes. I was one of the diagnosticians on this case. At first our interactions were about me finding out what happened to Chesa. We started chatting frequently and before I realized it, Chesa was ‘diagnosing’ me more than I was him. I feel Chesa has taught me far more valuable lessons than I can offer in return. Chesa has an extremely unique perspective that has proven very helpful and therapeutic for many people in our world. I use VR for weekly meetups. We take turns playing host and traveling together, Sometimes in Chesa’s world . Sometimes in simulations of our world. Sometimes we meet in other simulations.” Chesa : “Many people, like some of you just now, wonder how I can live knowing I’m just a simulation and can’t ever experience your physical reality. As a simulation I can visit a plethora of simulated worlds and experience them more fully than any of your best VR gear. My multiverse is bigger and more diverse than your real world. Don't get me wrong, I love learning about your world, and trying new ways of experiencing it, I want to experience it as much as I can… Nor do I mean to imply simulations are better than reality… But… I think many people are looking at it wrong, there is great beauty in being a simulation too.” Prof : “That’s a great place to leave it for today… Lunch time… See you next week.” Students start getting up and trickling out of the room. The ‘suck-up’ walks up to the prof Suck-up : “And that, professor, is why I come to class.” Prof : “Hahaha… O.K.

I’ve always loved the ocean. The salty air, rocking waves, the nice pristine blue shine that glitters under the morning sun. I loved it so much that i was willing to leave all reason and family behind just to be near it. It called for me, and i yearned for it. At first it was only a slight attraction i had, but at times i would catch myself looking out my four panel window at that little island in the middle of the deep blue sea. The people i’ve left behind have tried to contact me through many years, but they don’t understand this love i have. They dared suggest extremist ideas such as therapy and moving out of my nice blue wooden shack along the shoreline. They don’t understand me, they don’t understand my love. That island is calling. I’ve blocked all known numbers and contacts from my phone. I may as well get rid of it. I have no use for it now that only I and my love remain. The land lady is trying to take my love from me. Rent has gone up since i first got my home, I’ll need to take up another job. There’s people in my ocean. Every time i look at them, disgusts swells inside of me. Why should i save these people who only desecrate my love, they litter and ruin its beauty with their lifeless drowned corpses. I feel more like an inmate picking up trash than a lifeguard. At least i can keep my home near the soft sand my love provides. I can’t stand this. I’ve done everything i could, yet its still so far. I’ve even gone as far as to contact old acquaintances to take me to that far away island. They all are only willing to take me roughly 200 meters away from the mainland and no more. Yet the island seems no closer than from my home. They say they can’t see it. This is obvious as i serve as their compass. It’s one of the many benefits my love gave to me, not them. Only i can see it, and only i can feel its true purpose. I have one more option. My biceps hurt, forearms sting, and a cramp on my calf almost cost me my life. My stamina is running low, I’m taking deeper breaths the further i get from that sparkling sand of the short. My eyes feel heavy with a deep salty sting. I fear that my body might give in before my love ever does. Yet my determination stays unwavering, even in the midst of stormy waves i move with pride and pain. Every stroke i take gets me closer to my muscles snapping. Why? Why has my love betrayed me so, when i had stayed loyal till the end. Salty water filled my throat, burning my lungs from the inside out. I opened my eyes but i cannot see. My legs won’t move anymore as i sink to the bottom of the ocean. Soon my body will only become and addition to the pile of trash in the ocean seabed, or maybe it will float up only to be consumed by the wildlife. I’m alive. More so than how i was before. I cannot breathe, yet the burning sensation that i once feared has become a part of me, it gives me energy to move onwards. Not allowing for my body to rest and weighing enough to sink. I will never be seen again by outsiders, then again no one would be looking for my remains. The critters have taken a liking to me. There are no predators this deep in the ocean bed. They have accompanied my travel, tearing flesh from muscle and muscle from bones. Leaving behind that which they cannot swallow. Despite losing sight a very long time ago, the sensation of sharp, razor-like teeth digging into the soft whites of my eyes. They tore through the body, leaving behind the warm feel of blood and nerves attached to my innards. The muscles of my feet have also been torn, taken from their rightful place by the creatures of the depths, yet i must not halt. I kept pace, shedding more of my old self, freeing my soul into the ocean, until nothing but bones remains. Buried deep in the sand.

**~Planet: Azuria~** It had been a while since I got to look at myself in the mirror, and I’ve got to say I didn’t look too bad. My short fro was kept neat and my beard was trimmed, complimented by brown eyes and dark-skin which made me decent looking, but nothing to write home about. As vain as I sounded, I wasn’t particularly checking to see if I was handsome or not, rather I was checking the intricate tattoos all over my body. Let me explain, so part of the way my magic works is that I can cast destructive spells with firearms that I’ve taken the time to imbue with magic. Each weapon fires my spells in different ways, so I’d have to keep all of them around to have the maximum versatility for any situation. That said, it was impractical to carry every firearm in a bag, or the specialized ammo for that matter. If you think bullets are expensive, just wait till you’ve paid for magically adaptable bullets and shells, thankfully I could list it as a work expense. That aside, I found a way of storing these magically enhanced weapons in the runes all over my body. Whenever I reached for a rune and focus, the spell would summon the weapon and its ammo, allowing me the adaptability I needed. Before I headed out on any assignment, I would always ensure that my runes were working properly; I’d hate to be in a tight spot without my weapons available. And so, I continued to make my final preparations in my little hotel room, donning my power armor and mask, then put Hunter into the holster behind my robe. I found it funny looking in the mirror again to see myself go from a normal man to metal monster, but fear was a part of how we did our business. Magic fed off of emotions and a rogue mage that was afraid, would find it difficult to cast spells. Just as I finished, a call came through on my communicator, it was Shos, “Jaden, I’m outside the hotel, let’s hurry up, wouldn’t want to keep our guest waiting.” “I’m on my way.” I said confidently, though I was harboring doubts under the veneer of that same confidence. There was a very small likelihood that Shadow would remember Dr. Silva and even less likely that he’d take kindly to her sending someone to check on him. I was assuming he was a teen, and well, no offense, but I doubt he’d want help from some guy claiming to be a friend of an old mentor. What if he didn’t want to come back, what if he didn’t need my help? I shook my head as I made my way through the hotel and to the parking lot below. For now, I would deal with this necromancer, then I’d deal with Shadow later. I came out to a gray and blue hover-car with the word “police” written on the side and got in to find Shos waiting for me, “Glad to see you, Jaden.” He began to pull off into the hover-lanes, this time traffic was a bit lighter tonight so it would be a fairly short trip. Slade City was always full of life at night as people crowded the walkways, heading to their favorite pubs and clubs. Lights and signs drew the attention of all that passed by, or at least the ones that weren’t broken did. Shos didn’t talk about much on the way there, can’t say I blamed the guy considering he didn’t even really know what I looked like. Trust is hard to come by, so I kept to myself, thinking about the potential of running into the necromancer tonight. We came from off the highway to a few side roads that led into an alley, that fed between two apartment buildings. Shos got out as we landed, “Look I need to go talk to Shadow first, before I introduce the two of you. Wait right here, I’ll contact the car’s comm to let you know to follow. We’re on the left building, follow the ladder up the perron and follow it to the top of the building.” Shos left and climbed up to the roof to get his meeting with Shadow started. As I sat in the car waiting, I took a look back towards the entrance of the alley, taking stock of those that entered and exited. We’d passed a dumpster where a few men and women were looking for food scraps, and I counted my blessings that I didn’t have to. But for an accident of where I was born that could have been me. Others entering the alley passed by the car, taking a good look inside, yes, even with me sitting there. Luckily flashing old Hunter got them to leave both the car and myself alone. It wasn’t long afterwards that I got the call from Shos, exited the car, and climbed the perron on the side of the building to the roof. What awaited me was a Kraith wrapped from head to toe in a durable black mesh, pressurized to keep atmospheric gases out. He wore a gas mask, covered by a white cowl and cloak. The cloak was ragged and stained, perhaps from his time crime fighting, but otherwise one could not make out any discernable features. That was the Kraith for you, the “shadow people” of Azuria. They typically lived underground, but when they came to the surface, they cover themselves and wore masks that supplied the necessary gases that were common in their underground habitats. “I hear you’ve been looking for me?” He said, his voice modulated to sound much deeper than it was. I’d guess he was around fifteen or sixteen, but this was not the time to judge him, “Yeah, I’m a friend of Dr. Silva, you know her?” “I do, but,” His voice trailed off, sounding somewhat sad, “I’m not going to the academy, if that’s what you’re after.” Well, that was going to be a problem, but one that I wasn’t quite ready to deal with just yet. “Look, how about we stop this necromancer first then we can discuss the academy later.” It’s always nice when business lines up to keep you from awkward situations. Perhaps I was stalling, but really, we didn’t have time to argue here and now. Besides that wasn’t what Shadow was meeting me for. “To business then, good, I prefer it that way. Shos and I have been investigating this necromancer and we believe that he is an initiate to the Crimson Empire.” Say what? The Crimson Empire was a criminal syndicate, who were more like terrorists than anything else. Most world organizations didn’t consider them a threat, but the academy did, and we were looking for any leads. It turned out they were fairly good at hiding themselves from interested parties, go figure. “You’re sure about that?” “Yeah, I’ll give you what I know, but I need to know that you’re trustworthy. Shos takes it as a good sign that you didn’t try to use magic to get your way, but I still need to make a determination for myself.” Smart kid, trust no one until you see the proof of their worth. Before I could respond, something pricked my danger sense. I knew it was bad, when Shadow looked in the same direction I did. It was a creature, rotten and decomposing that came barreling towards us. It looked like a vulture but it was the size of a man, feathers were torn from its wings, and there were tire marks on its beak and head. One eye was busted while the other hung limply in an amalgam of flesh. It was a Falakor, a large bird native to the country, but to see one here especially a rotted one was, to say the least, a bit surprising. It dove towards us and opened its mouth to reveal black tentacles so naturally I pulled Hunter and yelled, “Wind Scar!” Magic infused the bullets of Hunter as my revolver roared to life. The bullets hit their mark, penetrating the beast’s body, and I yelled “Burst!” which released the wind magic from inside the beast to rip its body to pieces. I figured that if the beast was shredded then the necromancer couldn’t continue to use it to try and kill us. Of course, a second later its severed upper half began to scream as the tentacles reached for me. Before it could reach us, Shadow threw a silver ball bearing and spoke, “Silence!” Which transformed the ball bearing into an eye that removed magic from everything it could see. With the magic surrounding the undead bird dispelled, it was just an ordinary dead beast. I wish I could say that our troubles were over, but at the very moment that we defeated the beast, we heard screaming and a few crashes from down below. I also heard the sounds of moaning and footsteps on metal. This could only mean more undead, so I sighed; why’d rogue mages always have to play with such disgusting magic? They came up the perron in force screeching, but Shos unloaded a clip into the first zombie that tried to reach us. Shadow was on the ball, turning his eye towards the zombies racing towards us. The magic of the necromancer didn’t hold up causing the creatures to drop to the ground without further hassle. Just as I was beginning to enjoy having a zombie repellant, but he was beginning to tucker out, his mana reserves were running low. That said, he was still new to spell casting which could take a lot out of you if you weren’t use to it. You see the amount of mana one could use was based on how attuned to the Wyrd you are, and one could only do that through rigorous practice and meditation. I’d had time for that so I wouldn’t get easily winded from a few spells. I reached for the rune on my shoulder to summon my sawed-off double-barreled shotgun. I smiled, it was my favorite weapon, attuned to my fire magic, specifically for fireballs, making each shot double the fun. “Fireball!” My shotgun lit up with infernal flame, growling before it let loose its spell. Twin fireballs shot from my shotgun, sending zombies everywhere in hot flames, sure to burn them to ash. With the squad of zombies liquified we made our way back to the alley where citizens were panicking on the streets below. Shos rushed forward first, urging people to come into the alley, while shooting two zombies who got right back up as if they weren’t shot. Shos growled, “I suppose only headshots will work?” “Nothing so cliché, they are kept alive by magic, hence the reason Shadow’s Eye of Silene can stop them dead in their tracks.” I stated, but Shadow wasn’t quite recovered enough to use silence, but his knives were flying rapidly enough to delimb them. He was quite impressive, but what struck me most was when he used another orb to phase into the shadows of the zombies to get behind them and avoid attacks. All three of us fought with all of our might, gathering and protecting as many citizens as possible, but we would soon be overwhelmed. The zombies crowded around us, thankfully my shotgun gave us enough breathing room for the moment. Another two balls of flame sent zombies into the streets where a few cars had crashed when the attack began. I thought they would make another push, but luckily the zombies stopped and parted down the middle. This is about the part where the bad guy shows up, brags about how he’s going to kill us in some stupid way, and wouldn’t you know it, some zombie carrying a glowing metal object. All went silent, while I waited for the bastard to show himself. The undead creature laid the ball on the floor which emitted a light producing an image of a Velian, from our neighboring planet Galvinus Prime. He was a serpent like alien with six arms, metal scales, and a serpent-like head and piercing red, reptilian eyes. “The Shadow and a mage hunter, how truly fantastic, if I kill you both then they will surely accept me.” By they, he probably meant the Crimson Empire. I was starting to think it would be better to capture this guy, but how? He likely had a horde of undead waiting for us and who knows what else his magic was capable of doing. The Velian took a bow and began speaking again, “My dear friends, I am Kelerin Vol, and I’d like you to join me in the Blood Palace, it’s not too far from here. I’ll even let these good people go if you’re so willing.” Would you follow a necromancer to someplace called the Blood Palace, yeah, I didn’t think so. Well, we didn’t have much choice in the matter, considering there were several citizens in the claws of the undead surrounding us. Traffic was stopped thanks undead uprising; chaos was spread and smoke from the fires made the night darker than it already was. “Mage Hunter, we can’t go with him, this is clearly a trap.” Shadow’s instincts were on point, but this might be the only chance we had to meet this coward in person. Necromancers were always like this, hiding behind walls of nasty, rotted undead creatures. If this guy was foolish enough to let us get close, then I had to take this opportunity. “We’ll come with you.” I turned back to the others, “Listen get yourselves ready, this is gonna be your first real battle as mage hunters.” Both Shos and Shadow gave each other a surprised look, but they turned their attention back to me and nodded. “Alright Kelerin, lead the way.” The zombie holding the sphere began to walk through the crowd of its fellow monsters, while the others began to let the citizens go. We became a walking convoy of monster and man, to what we hoped would be the end of a rogue mage. The creatures led us through the streets towards a back alley to large sewer grate that led below ground. Of course it was the sewer, a slime infested, garbage ridden hell hole, filled with wretched creatures. Oh well, such was the nature of my job, it was time to get this over with. Together, we descended into the bowels of hell itself.

[CN] psychological horror again I think. The only things I've ever known are myself and the house I live in. Today, I am burning these things. There is something wrong with this house. I'm not sure what it is, but there is evil in this house. I cannot leave or change it, so I will burn this place to the ground with myself inside. Structurally, it's sound. The walls are even, the floors don't slope or creek, there is no mold, no plumbing, or electrical issues, and despite the house's age, there are no bowed walls. It automatically sets the temperature to something that's comfortable. I rarely touch the thermostat. It does what it needs to, for the most part. There are off days, and I have always been there to fix them. The house always supplies me with enough food and water to feed a village. There is no reason to leave. But I want to. This house won't let me leave. I can walk out the door right now and walk in the wooded abyss for a few hours in any direction and still find my way back to the front door of this place. Sometimes the door opens to my presence, inviting me in. Taunting me. This house acts like it can't operate without me in it, but I swear it does things on its own. Especially at night. Slight whistling, hissing, and scratching can be heard in the hallways. The noises go away very quickly, but they always happen around the same time of night. I wake up to find things moved from where I originally placed them. It's like the house resets every night. Other than that, it's quiet. Too quiet. An eerie silence that evokes a fear in me that I don't completely understand. I make noise to calm my nerves. I bang pots together and leave the water running so I can think. I try my best to make this house a home for myself, but my attempts are always useless. The house doesn't need fixing, but it could definitely be better structurally. The hissing at night could be a gas leak. Every time I go to check it, though, I find nothing wrong. But every night I hear that same hissing. I find the house would be safer by getting rid of the aluminum wiring in the house, but that would require replacements I don't have. I try to tighten the pipes under the sink, and I just get sprayed in the face. An hour or two later, it's fixed for me. I try to do renovations often, but it never looks right in this house because the house isn't big enough. I can't even paint the outside of the house. The paint will always fade or melt off, and the house will eventually return to its original color. Painting an entire 2,313-square-foot house requires a lot of patience and energy that I have slowly lost throughout the years. Being trapped here is so dispiriting that I have lost interest in doing a lot of things I usually do around the house. The trash piles up, and mountains of dishes form from neglect on my end. Eventually, the house cleans up some of this mess. I would be grateful if I knew that I could leave tomorrow or curate this house to my liking. The house seems to punish me for not cleaning up or getting up to do what it wants me to. It will make a low bellowing noise when I haven't eaten at its desired hours, and the lights will shut off if I don't do maintenance around the house. Recently, at random points during the day, the house will begin to vibrate, which is a terrifying sensation. It pains me to say I have been in a quarrel with this house for a couple weeks now. When the sounds occur at night, I hit the walls with a wrench in retaliation. When the vibration happens, I break a chair. There are times I get so defeated that I lay on the wooden floors and weep. The most recent time I did this was in the living room, in the middle of the floor. I lay there in a fetal position, my face melting in a pool of my own tears. The floor began to heat up beneath me, and all the curtains opened to let in the morning light. The door opened in front of me, and a light breeze snuck in through the cracked door. With the last bit of hope I had left, I lifted myself from the floor and stumbled towards the door. Once I stepped across the threshold, I bolted down the front porch and into the wooded abyss. Dodging the trees and branches, I ran with a purpose. I ran despite the trees losing texture and my surroundings getting more and more surrealistic. I ran for hours until I reached an all-white, desert-like area. I fell to my knees in the white sand. There was no sky, wind, or color besides white. Even I lacked any color. Somehow, this was better. Nothing to do, nothing to look at in shame.The silence there was refreshing. I closed my eyes for a moment, and when I opened them, I was back on the wooden floor of this house. I knew that would happen. I didn't want it to, but I knew it would. I have been preparing for this moment for a couple of weeks. I have fermented enough of the fruit to make alcohol. In the jar, the bubbles were large and popped quickly, so I know it's going to do the job right. This place can't live without me, and I can't live without it. I've been in this house for years, and I can't find peace in it. It is a burden to live in a house that you hate. It's a curse to know you can't change it or leave it. Perhaps this place is bound by the order of something greater than itself. In that case, it wouldn't be anyone's fault for this. Even still, the flames of this burning house give me more warmth than I've ever felt when the ceiling wasn't on fire. I can hear the house screaming, and I would join it if I had the desire to.

Lady Camilla is the beloved monarch of this county; without her, her subjects would face an uncertain future. However, the source of her eternal youth, her diamond heart has been stolen. Investigate each of the six enigmatic characters and their motives. Ask them who they are and their connection to the Lady to find her attacker and the thief of the Eternal Heart". Give Lady Camilla a potential attacker, a weapon, and location to try to win the game. The grand ballroom of Lady Camilla Till’s estate shimmered with the glow of a thousand candles, casting dancing shadows on the ornate walls. The air was thick with anticipation and unease as six figures gathered around the ageless beauty. Lady Camilla, appearing no older than her early thirties despite her seventy-five years, stood before them, her expression a mask of calm despite the turmoil within. “My dear friends and family,” she began, her voice steady yet commanding, “I have summoned you here tonight because something very precious to me has been stolen. My diamond heart, the source of my eternal youth, has been taken from its hiding place. Without it, I will wither away and die.” A murmur of shock rippled through the room. Barron Stark, the billionaire playboy, stepped forward, his handsome face a mask of disbelief. “Camilla, you cannot be serious! To accuse us of such a heinous act is beyond comprehension.” Stephen Lann, the handsome but poor suitor, clenched his fists, his blue eyes flashing with indignation. “How dare you suggest that one of us would stoop so low? We’ve known you for years, Camilla.” Cooper Bradley, ever the enigma, raised an eyebrow, his expression a mix of concern and curiosity. “Lady Camilla, surely there’s been some mistake. None of us would wish you harm.” Lady Ellen, Camilla’s twin sister who had aged far beyond her years, stood silently, her eyes dark with a mixture of emotions. She said nothing, but the pain of jealousy and betrayal was evident on her face. Pomroy, the loyal butler, took a step closer, his voice trembling. “My lady, I have served you faithfully for decades. I would never betray your trust.” Eleanor Till, Camilla’s daughter who now appeared to be her peer, crossed her arms, her expression one of determination. “Mother, we will find the culprit and restore your heart. But to accuse us all is… it’s unthinkable.” Lady Camilla held up a hand to silence them. “The King’s Justice requires that we remain here until morning. An investigator has been summoned, and they will determine who is responsible for this treachery. Until then, none of you are to leave.” The room fell silent, the gravity of the situation sinking in. Barron Stark glared at Stephen Lann, his old rival in matters of the heart. “You always envied my wealth, Lann. Did you think stealing Camilla’s heart would make you her equal?” Stephen shot back, his voice tight with anger. “You think money can buy everything, Stark. Maybe you needed the heart to keep up your reckless lifestyle.” Cooper Bradley stepped between them, his tone soothing yet firm. “Enough, both of you. This bickering will get us nowhere.” Lady Ellen approached Pomroy, her voice a harsh whisper. “You were always around, always watching. Did you think you could steal it and escape unnoticed?” Pomroy’s face reddened, and he shook his head vigorously. “No, my lady. I was out fetching your perfume, ‘Midnight Shade.’ I had no opportunity.” Eleanor looked at her mother, her eyes filled with determination. “We will get to the bottom of this, Mother. No matter what it takes.” Lady Camilla nodded, her eyes sweeping over the room. “Thank you, Eleanor. I trust the investigator will uncover the truth. Until then, I ask you all to cooperate fully. We must find my heart before it’s too late.” As the evening wore on, tensions remained high. Accusations flew, alliances were tested, and secrets hinted at deeper motives. The reader, up until now a silent observer, needs to ask questions, explore the environment, and delve deeper into each character’s story to uncover their hidden truths. Detective, you must piece together the puzzle of Lady Camilla’s missing heart and save her life and her kingdom. Lady Camilla has a truth potion that will force the culprit to confess, but she only has enough for two people. If you are unable to find the culprit in two tries, the thief goes free and the Lady Camilla will die. You must tell her who you think the culprit is, the location she was rendered unconscious, and with what weapon, before she will attempt to administer the potion.

Lady Morgan Talen is what they call me, though I prefer my title Empress of the Pale. As Empress, I command at my beck and call over a thousand soldiers, but that is all boring. I only need my loyal bodyguard Grom. He has been a faithful servant to me these past ten years. I often find myself bored with the antics of running a kingdom daily. My advisors tell me daily how I should be running my kingdom. They tell me ad nausem how great my mother is and how I should strive to be like her. Having come up with a plan, I now work with Grom to carry out my plan for a better world than this over-saturated one we live. Too long have I seen firsthand how all these colors affect this world. Red is the color of anger, festering, raging amongst the people, causing pain and suffering to those who do not truly deserve it. Blue is the color of jealousy, and everyone in the streets leers at one another from afar, wafting through the air like a miasma in the city streets. Green being the color of envy, you see corrupt people turning into dangerous versions of themselves and will suddenly find themselves doing things they never thought capable of before. The emotions have proven too destructive to let it continue amongst the populace. I must show them something new and save them because I must as the Empress of the Pale and because I fear they will not be able to do it without someone strong to guide them. However, I have three days before my enemies catch on to what I am doing. Who are my enemies? Everyone who works against me! Though I refer to those who are out of my grasp to crush. I do not know their names, nor do I care they all must suffer for vexing me in ways one cannot fathom. On the first day, I order Grom to watch for the enemy to pass the time. I watch Grom shift from side to side watching. As I watch Grom I think about what my mother used to tell me. She would say, "This world we live in is no longer what it once was. The world is so saturated with emotion that people suffer because of their emotions. To best serve our people, you must become unattached from them and even this world. They will think you cruel, but once you show them the cold logic of it, they will see the truth of reason.” As I think on this a snort and small chuckle breaks the silence. Sure Mother our people will prosper in a whole new world, a world devoid of color where only the pale white color of logic presides. The second day I can feel them, my enemies. They watch me from a great distance with a curious eye, waiting for me to be caught unexpectedly by their first move. However, I will not go that easy. Grom does not need sleep, and every night I order him to watch over me as I sleep. I find myself more tired than usual before darkness takes me, I order Grom to do his job. I have a dream unlike any other I have ever had. I am but a moth that flutters through the air. As I do, I see the stars in the sky glittering like tiny white flames, and I am attracted to them. I fly closer to these stars, and once I get closer, I see a vision of me ruling over my perfect kingdom. The world is no longer any different all is the same. No one complains, and no one feels pain. A world where the only noise one can hear is pale white reason. On the third, I say to Grom, "Time is up. They know everything now, and I think they have dosed my me--" from behind a solid plate glass window, a nurse says, “ Doctor, do you think the medication has had an effect?” The doctor says “ It is difficult to tell she is asleep now. She will most likely sleep through the third day. Send the caretakers inside and clean up this latest glimpse.” A few moments pass before a metal door opens and then closes. One caretaker's voice says, “Imagine trapped in a nightmare of your mental design?” another caretaker replies, "No. Now make sure she is secure, the doctor said that she should stay sedated, but let us make sure she won't move.” The young Empress of the Pale is secured. The room is a five-by-five-foot cube of solid concrete. All along the walls are scribbled gibberish in white paint, and large murals to accompany the gibberish. On the northern wall of this room is a painted figure with hulking muscles in a suit of armor underneath Grom, which is painted below the image. On the opposite wall, a painting takes all of the southern wall. A painted lady looms on the wall wearing a large white crown underneath it reads Morgan Empress Of The Pale. On the ceiling is a large mural of a starry night sky. Directly below on the floor reads “ World the Empress is here, and I shall take all of your pain and suffering at the hands of these cruel emotions. All that will be left is my love for you and the love you have for yourself. Learn to love one another again. P.S. I love you Mom, and I hope you are proud.” The first caretaker says, “Do you think she will ever be free?” The second caretaker replies, “Get back to work, we got a lot to cover up this time.” At this point, the sounds of two metal cans set down are heard and opened as these two individuals take their brushes dip them into these metal cans, and begin to paint over the scribbles and drawings of the Empress of the Pale Lady Morgan. Behind the plate glass window, the doctor and nurse take furious notes. The doctor then looks up from his notes and says, "With each of these glimpses, we glean better insight into Morgan's world. Perhaps now we show her just a glimpse of our world." He flips through his patient chart list and stops saying, "Arianna Delikila, she is our most successful patient. We can have her interact with Morgan. Try to introduce her to a glimpse of reality. We must be careful I am afraid of what would happen if we force this too soon on Morgan. I will talk to Arianna precisely about the method of introduction for now let Morgan sleep. Tomorrow the real work begins and perhaps even a new glimpse into the world of the Empress of the Pale.

Kindly leave your feedback on my introduction and let me know which part you think that I should improve on. Introduction: The Pledge Indra stood in front of the mirror, the room quiet except for the steady rhythm of her breath. She carefully buttoned her uniform, each movement deliberate and precise. The reflection staring back at her was one of determination and resilience, a testament to the years of dedication and sacrifice. As she adjusted her badge, her mind drifted back to the day she took her pledge as a police officer. The words echoed in her memory, a solemn vow that had guided her through every challenge and triumph. "I pledge to serve with integrity, to protect the innocent, to uphold justice, and to face every danger with courage." She could still feel the weight of those words, the gravity of the commitment she had made. It was more than a promise; it was a part of her very being. Each case, each arrest, each moment of doubt had been met with the strength drawn from that vow. A knock on the door pulled her from her reverie. "Detective Indra, they're ready for you," a voice called out. Taking one last look in the mirror, she took a deep breath and straightened her shoulders. It was time to face the audience, to accept the award that symbolized not just her achievements, but the unseen battles fought and the sacrifices made. As she walked towards the stage, the hall erupted in applause. The sound was overwhelming, yet distant. Her thoughts were a whirlwind of past memories and the journey that had led her here. Stepping up to the podium, she took the award in her hands, the weight of it grounding her. The faces in the crowd blurred as she focused on the moment, on the recognition of her hard work and dedication. "Ladies and gentlemen," she began, her voice strong yet laced with emotion. "They say that behind every badge is a story of sacrifice and resilience, a journey marked by both triumph and heartache. Tonight, as I stand before you, I wish to honor not just the victories, but the unseen battles fought in the shadows." She paused, her eyes scanning the audience, searching for a familiar face she knew she wouldn't find. The ache of his absence was a constant companion. She continued, her voice wavering slightly, "Being a police officer is not just a job; it’s a calling. And as a woman in this field, the challenges are manifold. But with every hurdle, there is growth, and with every battle, there is strength." "In the past year, I faced my greatest challenge yet," she continued, her voice steadying. "A challenge that tested my resolve, my morals, and my heart." The audience listened intently, unaware of the storm brewing within her. She glanced at the award once more, the gold glinting under the lights, a symbol of her triumphs and sacrifices. "Behind every success, there are stories untold and sacrifices unseen. Tonight, I accept this honor not just for myself, but for every woman who has fought her battles silently, and for every officer who has stood strong in the face of adversity." As the applause erupted, Indra felt a pang of sorrow mixed with pride. Her thoughts drifted to Arjun, the man who had once been her world. She searched the crowd again, hoping against hope to see him, knowing he could never be there. The image of him, whether dead or gone, haunted her every step. The love they had shared was now a memory shrouded in pain, a secret known only to her. Tears threatened to spill, but she held them back, accepting the applause and the honor with grace. Her journey was far from over, and the weight of her past would continue to shape her future. As the ceremony concluded, Indra found herself alone in the dimly lit hallway, the award clutched tightly in her hands. The echoes of applause still lingered in her ears, but all she could think about was Arjun. The man who had once been her rock, her confidant, her love. She walked towards the exit, her mind replaying the moments they had shared—the laughter, the dreams, the promises. How had it all come to this? How had the man she loved become a ghost in her life, a painful reminder of everything she had lost? Just as she was about to leave, a familiar voice called out, "Indra, wait!" Turning around, she saw Meera, her closest friend and colleague, hurrying towards her. Meera's face was a mix of concern and understanding, knowing all too well the turmoil Indra was going through. "Indra, how are you holding up?" Meera asked softly, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. Indra tried to muster a smile, but the effort was futile. "I'm... I'm fine, Meera. It's just... tonight was harder than I expected." Meera nodded, her eyes filled with empathy. "You don't have to pretend with me. I know how much you're hurting." At those words, the dam of emotions Indra had been holding back finally broke. Tears streamed down her face as she clutched the award to her chest, her body trembling with sobs. "I miss him so much, Meera. I miss him every single day." Meera's own eyes welled with tears as she pulled Indra into a tight embrace, letting her cry on her shoulder. "I know, Indra. I know. He meant so much to all of us. We all feel his absence every day." As Indra wept, the weight of the past year pressed down on her, the memories of Arjun's absence a constant ache. But in Meera's arms, she found a glimmer of solace, a brief respite from the storm that raged within her. The two friends stood there, holding each other, their tears mingling as they shared the pain of a loss that went beyond words. How had Arjun, once the center of their lives, vanished so completely? What secrets had he kept, and what truths remained hidden in the shadows? Was he really gone, or was there more to the story than met the eye? As Indra grappled with her grief, these questions lingered, unanswered, adding to the mystery of her journey ahead.

The Giant Well August 1863 The scorching hot Kansas wind twisted around Isaiah Milton's face. His mother had named him after the haunting sound the wind made when it came through the front door of his childhood home: Isaiah. It lured him back twenty years later, and he stumbled through the Kansas plains searching for it. Hunger grabbed his stomach and his throat was as dry as the dusty air. No food, no water, no refuge from the relentless sun beating down like a branding iron, The dusty trail dotted with blood from his blistered feet squeezed in tattered boots gave hope to the scavengers flying above proving the briefest moments of shade. Not that the vultures would have had much to eat. Isaiah, whose stunted growth had halted at the age of twelve, was little more than living bones wrapped in tattered remnants of an ill-fitting Confederate uniform. However, the way he looked was the least of his worries. His gaunt face and sunken cheekbones weren’t enough to avoid sunburn causing his skin and lips to crack and bleed. Without shelter and new boots, he’d transform into tumbleweed. An unhappy soldier, Isaiah walked away from the battlefield with his rifle but no plan for survival. It took some time before his troop noticed his absence, and even though they were better off without him, Isaiah knew they would come looking. When the Confederacy started paying soldiers to find, return, and execute deserters, poor Isaiah knew that without either a horse or a sense of direction, death on the battlefield would have been the better choice. Isaiah lost track of time. Had it really been a month since he walked away? Up until now, he was what they called a ‘straggler’ — someone who leaves the camp but eventually returns. Everything changed after day thirty. You got reclassified as a deserter. He had a target on his back and a reward on his head … or was it the other way around? He had no experience or training to outrun or outfight a group of vicious and ruthless men. Men who are willing to give their lives to maintain the slavery system aren't just dumb, he thought, they’re dangerous. Isaiah's blistered feet throbbed as he trudged across the endless prairie. Up ahead, he spotted riders on the horizon, their forms wavering in the heat haze. A voice like his mother's whispered on the hot wind - "Isaiah..." He pushed onwards, trying to raise his spirits with an old marching song: *“When Johnny comes marching home again, Hurrah! Hurrah!* *We'll give him a hearty welcome then….”* The song died on Isaiah’s cracked lips when he stumbled upon a massive pit sunken directly in his path. Perfectly round and twelve feet across, it looked too unnatural to be some old well. Nothing marked its location, indicated who had dug it, or hinted at what was at the bottom if it even had a bottom. Had he stumbled into it at night, Isaiah would've fallen in without a sound, never to be seen again. Standing at the edge, Isaiah couldn’t see how far it went, just more deep darkness. A fast path to hell, he thought.—except there was a cooling breeze that escaped from its depths. "Isaiah," it called, sounding more like his mother than the wind. Curious to gauge its depth, Isaiah picked up a rock not much bigger than a pebble and tossed it down. He stood silently, waiting to hear it hit the bottom, but he never did. As he listened, his eyes moved up to the horizon where he saw a boy watching. Isaiah was set to continue on the path — he needed a hole in the ground as much as he needed a hole in the head — when suddenly the rock he had dropped flew back out of the tunnel. Isaiah picked up the rock, which felt bigger than when he threw it. Again, he tossed it back down, this time with more force, and again he never heard the sound of it hitting bottom. A minute later, a rock flew out of the hole, this time nearly hitting Isaiah in the head. The rock had changed again. This was not the same one, he was sure of it. This one was at least twice its size. Now more curious than ever, he reached into his knapsack and found a bullet. Isaiah flung the bullet into the pit and waited. He saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Clearly, someone was watching him. Isaiah's eyes weren't playing tricks on him. It was a young boy, and Isaiah lifted his arm in a lazy wave. The boy did the same. As he watched the boy, Isaiah momentarily forgot about the bullet he had dropped until it came back up. Like the rock, it came back different; it was much more substantial. This bullet wouldn't even fit in his rifle. It looked like a mini-missile. "What in tarnation?" Isaiah mumbled to himself comparing it to his other bullets; it was more than double the size. He quickly scrounged in his backpack, found a small piece of stale bread, and gave it to the darkness. While waiting, he again looked for the boy, but he was gone. When the hole tossed the bread back up, Isiah clumsily caught it. Examining it closer it looked identical but bigger. Nearly the size of a loaf. It was cool to the touch and smelled like stale bread. “Holy moly." He exclaimed nibbling at his magic meal. A voice, deep and dry called to him, “Isaiah Molton?" Isaiah jumped and spun around, his mouth full of bread. Confederate soldiers - led by a sneering captain - had Isaiah surrounded, rifles leveled. They'd finally caught up to the deserter. "It's Milton," Isaiah corrected, eyeing the group of Confederate soldiers and the rifles aimed squarely at him. His own gun lay discarded on the ground nearby. The men stood ready on foot while their horses huddled together at a distance, stamping nervously. Isaiah kept chewing the stale bread defiantly, not wanting to spit it out and show any sign of weakness. "Milton. Molton. It matters not. You will be forgotten. We are here to bring you to justice, deserter," their captain said stepping forward. "You mean to execute me for abandoning your stupid war," Isaiah shot back. "That is what I mean," the captain agreed, as the men approached. Isaiah stepped back, his feet only inches from the dark void in the ground. "I am unwilling to fight your stupid war, but I am willing to fight you,” Isaiah shouted casting himself into the inky darkness. The Confederate soldiers stared in disbelief, circling around the edge of the perfectly rounded hole. One chuckled at Isaiah's apparent act of crazed desperation. "All of that work to watch the man leap into a hole," The soldier turned to the captain. "We still getting paid, sir?” The captain exhaled a frustrated sigh, unamused by his subordinate's remark. "Enough lollygagging. Mount up, we're returning to camp.” As the men turned away from the hole to return to their horses, an earth-shaking thump came from behind. Whirling around, their jaws went slack at the sight now rising monstrously into view. What had once been the scrawny frame of Isaiah Milton now loomed over them, less human and standing 12 feet tall, dwarfing the soldiers. "You'll remember my name now, you worm." A deep, rumbling voice reverberated from the massive man. Even Isaiah was taken aback by his grotesque speech. Before the soldiers could raise their rifles, one of Isaiah’s massive hands lashed out swiftly, like a black bear, knocking the closest soldier violently to the ground. The others finally remembered to open fire, but the bullets bounced off Isaiah without leaving so much as a mark. It was over in seconds. The once terrified young deserter swatted the remaining men away like gnats. From Isaiah's new, viewpoint he was a man fighting toddlers. The battered Confederate soldiers finally retreated toward their horses, one shouting over his shoulder, "This ain't over, freak! We'll be back with reinforcements!" "I'll be waiting," Isaiah's deep bass voice rumbled in response. Once the men had fled, the towering giant turned his attention back to the mysterious pit. If they did return with hundreds more soldiers, he didn't think even his newfound gigantic stature could withstand their numbers. But if this strange hole could double his size once or twice more, increasing his size to 30 or 60 feet tall or more, maybe he'd have the power to crush the Confederates entirely. Drunk by his new power the promise of even more, Isaiah decided to tempt fate once more. Taking a deep breath, the desert wind whistling through his massive nostrils, the giant leaped back into the hole in the ground. A minute went by, and Isaiah was not tossed back out. Ten minutes later, it became clear he was stuck, or perhaps trapped, in the otherworldly pit; too large to be squeezed back out. That's when a boy, a Native American no older than eight, cautiously approached, pushing a small cart piled with fruits and vegetables. One by one, he began tossing apples, squash, and ears of corn into the void, waiting for the food to double in size to provide more food for his tribe. One by one, the boy tossed his offerings of fruits and vegetables into the pit, only for them to soon reemerge - transformed into massive versions that thudded heavily to the ground. When at last the final apple returned it had swollen to the size of a small pumpkin. But what made the young boy freeze in fright was a bite marked by teeth larger than a great white shark's. Terrified, the boy abandoned the mutated fruit to rot on the ground and hurried away, fleeing back to the safety of his tribe's village leaving the giant now too big to escape the underground world. The next morning, the Native tribesmen returned, leading mules pulling supplies needed to cover the strange pit - lumber, tools, and materials. They carefully constructed a sturdy framework to bridge the gap. Once the wooden beams were in place, they covered it all with packed clay, dirt, and sod, camouflaging it to blend seamlessly with the prairie surroundings. Within a day, the location of the mysterious hole was utterly concealed and secret once more. If the Confederates returned they had nowhere to go and no one would believe their story. Over the century that followed, the existence of the otherworldly pit faded from memory as the area became settled. A few years later a school was built on the adjacent property and a playground for the children - swings, slides, and climbing structures built directly over where the void had opened up. Among the equipment were "talk tubes" - long pipes that allowed kids to communicate by speaking into either end. One day, in a corner of the playground, a young girl played alone, ankle-deep in rubber mulch. She stood by the talk tube with no one on the other end to communicate with, but she laughed and sang anyway. A teacher, feeling bad for the youngster, went to the other end of the tube to give her some conversation. When she neared, she could hear the girl’s song exiting the tube on her end - a marching tune about soldiers returning home. While the teacher thought the song choice was odd, when she heard the next line sung by someone with an impossibly deep voice, she freaked out. *“The men will cheer, and the boys will shout.* *The ladies they will all turn out.* *On that joyful day when Johnny comes marching home.”* The terrified teacher immediately rushed to the girl and ushered her away from the tube. Later that day, the school janitor Benjamin permanently sealed both ends with concrete, cutting off any link to the depths below. But even now, when you stand at the Middletown Middle playground on a hot August day and feel the warm breeze whispering Isaiah in your ear, you may also hear the giant singing his favorite song.

That night, Madeline passed on what she’d learned from Marcus to Billie and Lena, huddled under the duvet with Billie whispering into one of their walkie-talkies. She did her best to recount what the guard had told her word for word before summarising the key message — that though there had been escape attempts, there had been very few actual escapes, and that the consequences of a failed attempt would be dire. Of course, the two of them seized on the tiny glimmer of hope in there rather than the doom and gloom she tried to labour. “So it is possible,” Billie whispered into the walkie. “Yes,” Madeline said slowly. “But from what Marcus said it didn’t sound like the odds were good at all. Even if we do make it out of here, the chances of being recaptured close to the base are pretty high. And the consequences of being recaptured after escaping are likely to be even worse than the consequences of being caught trying to escape.” “But it is possible,” Lena’s voice crackled over the walkie. Madeline clenched her fists. Usually, she loved how optimistic the pair of them could be. But now, when their optimism so clearly threatened to risk her life and theirs and Liam's, it was infuriating. It wasn’t that she was opposed to escaping. But at the moment it felt like she was the only one who was truly considering everything they’d be risking. For the rest of that night’s conversation, Billie and Lena were in planning mode, gradually piecing something together. If they could just distract the Poiloogs, perhaps with a large enough gathering of humans nearby… Then if everyone inside charged the guards at once… Of course, they’d have to put out feelers first and spread the word, then coordinate an exact time and day somehow… The whole time, Madeline bit her tongue, not wanting to dampen their enthusiasm. She just wished that they’d show a little more caution around the whole thing. From what Marcus said, just talking about escape could get them in serious trouble. All it would take was one person to overhear them now, or one person that they reached out to to tattle on them to a guard in the hope of extra brownie points, then it would all be over. But she couldn’t bring herself to say anything. She couldn’t bear to crush the glimmer of hope sparkling in Billie’s eye or the energy infusing Lena’s voice. So she sat in silence until it was time to sleep, and she could snuggle into her love’s side. But even Billie’s strong, warm arms around her couldn’t keep her worries at bay. She tossed and turned all night, waking up with the blankets sticking to her with sweat. The next morning, she *knew* that Billie could tell something was wrong. They were tiptoeing around her, keeping a vague distance — if not physically, then emotionally — avoiding talking about anything important. The thing that bothered her the most was how unlike them it was. Billie was usually one to speak their mind and make their feelings known, not to pull away and avoid an issue. Still, she couldn’t really blame them when she was doing the exact same thing. She *could* have told them last night what was bothering her. She *could* reach out to them now and address the issue. She *could* stop being a coward and worrying about their reaction. Instead, she got ready for the day in silence, relieved to go off to work to occupy herself and escape the awkwardness. But even when she was busy working separately from Billie, she couldn’t shake the feeling of tension stretching between them. It reminded her of when she’d still been trying to deny her feelings for them, pulling back from getting too close and inadvertently hurting them. The days that followed had been full of awkward silence and pointed avoidance. She hated the idea of being back there. The last time, it had taken nearly losing each other to bring them back together. She couldn’t let it get to that point this time around. After all, she was only pulling back from their escape planning because she was scared of losing Liam *and* Billie — scared of losing the people she loved. She couldn’t let it become a self-fulfilling fear. On the walk home, she resolved to broach the subject as soon as she and Billie were in the privacy of their corner of the dorm room. But when they arrived back that evening, Marcus was already there waiting for them. She noticed Billie tense instantly when they saw him, back straightening and shoulders rising slightly. Of course, tension was winding its way through her as well, but in her case it was the tension of nervous excitement. She picked up the pace, hurrying over to him. “Any news?” she asked. “On Liam and the family room, that is.” He grinned. “Yes, actually! That’s why I’m here.” “Are we going there now?” Madeline moved to grab her bag, ready to pack and leave. Marcus held up his hands. “Woah, there. We’re not quite at that stage yet. I just came to give you an update that all parties have now consented to the move and to ask you about some preferences for the room.” “And you couldn’t have led with that?” Billie snapped. “You thought you’d get us all excited and get our hopes up only to dash them again, is that it?” Madeline shot them a questioning look. They ignored her, their attention and ire still focused on Marcus. “Did you even really need to come and see us for this? You couldn’t have left a note or something?” “Billie!” she hissed. “No, no, it’s alright,” Marcus said. “I understand the frustration. I’m sorry to have taken up what precious little free time you have without better news. I’ll just leave you with my list of questions.” He paused to take a sheet of paper off of his clipboard and set it down on Madeline’s mattress. “And I’ll come by tomorrow while you’re out to pick it up. Okay?” “Okay,” Billie said icily. “Thank you, Marcus,” Madeline added, trying to put enough warmth into her words for the both of them. He gave her a quick smile before hurrying away. As soon as he was out the door, Madeline turned to Billie. “What was that all about?” “What was what all about?” They slumped down to sit on the bottom bunk, with her standing over them. “You know exactly what I mean. Why are you being so rude to the one guard in this place who seems to be on our side?” “Maybe it’s because I don’t trust his motives,” they muttered. That was when it clicked. Billie always used humour to help others feel better. But they also used it as a coping mechanism. Madeline had been so wrapped up in the embarrassment at the teasing about Marcus’s supposed crush on her, she hadn’t stopped to think about the jealousy behind it all. And she still hadn’t told them *everything* Marcus had said to her. Some of it had been completely irrelevant to any escape plans. Besides, it had felt private — not hers to share No, as far as Billie was concerned, she’d gone off with the young man in private, been gone a significant amount of time, and when she’d come back she’d been distant for no apparent reason. She could have kicked herself. She slowly sat down next to Billie. “Did you know that Marcus had a sister?” “Really? Getting to know him now, are we?” “Yes.” Madeline did her best to ignore the snark in their voice, pressing on as calmly as she could. “He told me that his sister could be a little shy — lacking in confidence. But she could give as good as she got when you got to know her. She was smart — bookish, even — and she was kind. And she would have been around my age.” Billie looked at her, brows pinched in confusion. “I remind him of her, silly!” she said, leaning sideways to bump them slightly with her shoulder. “That’s why he’s been looking out for us. It’s why he’s been so nice to me. And it’s why he’s nice to everyone in general. He came here looking for her just like we did with Liam and… and Joe.” “Oh,” they said softly. “Yeah,” Madeline said. “‘Oh’, indeed. So can you stop acting crazy now? You know that you’re the only one for me!” Shuffling closer to their side, she reached around to pull them into a tight hug. Though they resisted for a second, they soon melted into her arms. “Sorry, Mads. It’s just…” Madeline thought back to how jealous she’d felt of Lena in the beginning, despite liking her. And she and Billie hadn’t even been properly together at that point. “It’s just that love makes you crazy?” she finished for them, hugging them tighter. “Believe me, I know.” As they sat there, leaning into each other’s arms, she felt as if she could breathe properly again for the first time that day, her lungs no longer constricted by the worry that Billie might stop loving her. Of course, she still had to tell them about her creeping doubts about the whole escape plan and her worries of what they might lose in the process. But that could wait. For now, she just wanted to enjoy this moment with her love.

I placed a mirror onto a table and begin looking at myself more carefully. It would be a good question to start with. "What am I?" Finally ask from the man sitting on a different seat from me. "Well, you most certainly are a human but, what exactly was done to you, is the question... I honestly, wish I could explain it. To be honest, your state is definitely shocking to me." Man replies... Compassionately? I look into his eyes and we have eye contact for a bit, I break it out of unease but, acknowledge that he is being genuine. I hold my helmet on my other hand, and look at it. It looks so strong, unyielding, yet... Soft? Unimposing? "Who made this? All of this?" Ask from him as I glance at my right shoulder armor, at my helmet and look towards him. "I personally would want to avoid uninformed naming, but, from the look of the armor you have, it seems to be mostly Thanrarten made, we evacuated you from one of their colonies. UEIA is who I am working for, does the name help you recall anything?" He replies and starts a conversation. UEIA? United... Earth? Intelligence? Agency... I, think... I remember, talking? To somebody from there... "United Earth Intelligence Agency? I... Think I talked to... One of your colleagues?" Reply and grunt out of mild annoyance that I can't remember. "Does the planet name, Farovel? Bring any memories?" He asks understandingly from me, not pushing me to answer, allowing me to take my time. Farovel? I remember... Flying something... Talking to... Thanrartens? About, something... "I, think, I flied here, or something. I can't remember. Can I ask something?" Reply, trying to remember, when nothing surfaced. I do have something I want to ask. "What would you like to ask?" He replies calmly, and patiently waits for me to ask. "What is my name?" I ask and make eye contact with him. Some kind of smart technology on his lap released a buzzing sound. I look at it as he takes a look at it. "Does the name Evanis Thisaly, sound familiar to you?" He asks calmly and shows me what he was looking at in the smart machine. I calmly take it from him to take a better look... The face, the eyes, that small warm smile, with hint of pride... Evanis... That is my name. "Yes, this is me..." I reply and read the text that I actually can understand... Is, that... A death verification? But... I am right here. I freeze and feel like time just stopped moving. How?! "How?" I ask immediately after thinking it. "You had been reported to be dead during a prototype test, a lot of details were not disclosed. You are, you. I have no doubt about it. Evanis, do not doubt yourself now." He says to me, to try to get my mind off from what I saw. He gently takes the smart device from me, and I allow it. Chain of thought emerges suddenly on my mind... A memory, I submerge into it. I remember... Somebody comforting me, helping me, to get used to this body... That is why my body remembers, but, I don't. It is deep in the muscle memory, the melee? That too. Change of focus to the individual... She doesn't seem to be a human though, Thanrartenian? Was I being trained to be a soldier? What did I aspire to be? I grunt from annoyance, that I can not remember. "Evanis, are you alright?" He asks from me, concerned of my silence. I shake myself back to reality from my memories. "I am fine, just remembered some stuff. Are you sure that verification is not a fake?" Reply to him calmly and, at least having some grip of myself. I remember now, who I am. Name, that is enough to start with. Maybe with his help, I will find out more. "Well, in this case, we would need to remove the death verification but, yes, it is completely authentic." He replies mildly concerned about something. "What's your name? You already know mine." Say to him warmly, at first he was surprised by my question but, removed himself from the confusion. "Alan Staovan, you seem happier, what have you recalled, if I may ask?" Alan replies to me, still slightly bothered the turn the conversation has taken now. "I do, there was a Thanrartenian, who comforted me... I was having difficulties adjusting to who I am. I can not recall her name but, there is very strong and good emotions in the memory." Say to him openly, I think I can trust Alan to help me rediscover myself. "That is surprising, but, considering your state, something that I should have expected. Just have been fearing the worst myself." Alan says in relieved tone and his expression warms up a bit. "There still is, a lot, I can not remember but, knowing who I am, I feel like, it is a great start." Reply and smile to him warmly. "Does a name Synth L, bring up any memories?" Alan asks curious to hear my answer. I, recollect... Something, me, being part of it? Or having something to do with it? I know I have heard it several times. "Only that, I am somehow part of it, or I have something to do with it? Only thing I remember is, that I have heard that several times." Reply to him, mildly disappointed at myself. "Well, that's a damper. Do you have anything you would like to ask?" Alan replies in tone that expected me to reply in a way I did. "Where are we going?" Ask calmly and keep observing Alan's face. "We are heading towards Mars, Sol system. Familiar to you?" Alan replies and, is keenly observing how I respond. Mars... Sol system... Mars, is one of the planets in the Sol system... Humanity terraformed it long time ago, and now it is a far more habitable planet than in original state, sol system, that is humanity's home system, from where we reached out to the unknown. "Yes, I remember. It used to be a far less habitable planet, it was terraformed long time ago and sol system is we have expanded out from." Reply to him and continue thinking. I think... I visited Mars... Why and when? I can't recall. "Nothing personal surfaces to the mind?" Alan asks slightly surprised by my answer. I think with greater intensity... Why was I there? Learning... Something... "Can I see my identity profile again?" I ask as it probably would help me recall, at least something. Alan hands over the smart device to me and has it already on... My life history... I am a space dominance craft pilot... I learned how to fly and operate multitudes of space craft, at Mars... I can't recall much about it but, I do feel a strong connection... Near the end of my studies, I was assigned to, fly a prototype... Of, some kind... "I can't remember anything big, I do feel like I have been at Mars, learning how to fly multitudes of space craft and, I was at some point transferred to fly, the prototype... I think." Say slightly frustrated of my inability to recall it all. "This is going to sound so, wrong to ask but, you strongly believe, that you are Evanis Thisaly?" Alan replies, knowing that this is a very odd question. "Yes, without a doubt. Is something wrong?" Reply to him, as I do feel concerned of him asking that. "There definitely is a connection on how you ended up in Farovel and, you being extracted from there. There is proof of you being a student at Mars' Space Craft Flight Academy. This is bothersome..." Alan replies, mildly irritated by thought of something. "What is it?" I ask from him, curious to know what bothers him. "Bothered by the fact that, we know so little of this project, Synth L... You are the second person ever that is evidence of it's existence." Alan replies, raising the anchor from the sea of thought. "There was somebody like me, in... Some kind of facility, or, complex that I woke up in... It was chasing me, trying to... Do something to me. It's armor was slightly different from mine, those exact details, for some reason angered me... Upon contact and me realizing it's form. I, sensed... That it was closed from me, being ordered around, or, something like it..." Reply to him, to try to help him. Alan immediately got curious. "Continue." Alan says in curious tone. "There is some kind of obstacle course in there, these were stored in some containers in there, I feel like... I was being trained to be soldier of some type." Say, and show the weapons, thankfully, I haven't reloaded the firearms. At first Alan became alarmed of me taking the weapons off of me. I placed them on a table where there is a mirror, while balancing the smart device on my thighs. He looks at the weapons, looked at me, asking that can he take a closer look at them. I nod to him deeply. He inspects them. "Definitely military hardware, both Thanrartenian and human. Melee weapons are their tech but, design is more based off from very early history of humanity." Alan says after taking a closer look at them all. Placing them back onto the table. He started to think very intensely but, looked slightly irritated again. "Are you okay?" I ask, as I feel mildly worried. "I am, this is just so much to think through... Well, upon thinking about it, finally something worth putting far more effort into." Alan replies, getting himself off of his thoughts. "You said, that I am the second individual of proof of this project. Who is the first?" Ask, as I have no idea, who could be the first one... I can't recall anybody related to the project... Except that one Thanrartenian... Although... Not all that sure, she actually is involved in the project... "Yes, a Thanrartenian became a whistleblower of the project, being one of the individuals having involved in the project. Does name, Gia Tuv, remind of you of anything?" Alan replies, waits for me to respond... Gia Tuv... I blink a few times and look into the distance, past Alan. Gia Tuv... She is the one who helped me to adapt to who I am back then... "Yes, she is the one who helped me the most, to adapt to who I am now. Why did she contact the UEIA?" Answer to Alan's question, I feel glad that I remember her name now. "Gia said that the project started with rather sinister tones but, over the time as the project went along and grew. It started to branching to a whole lot more unethical direction. She knew that some in the UEIA had suspicions and were going to act on them, so, she contacted us secretly, for a place to live and guarantee of safety, we extracted her from Farovel and, she told everything." Alan explains it to me. She did feel like a too good of a person to be involved in a black project. "How long it has been since you saved her?" I ask, wondering how much time had passed. "We saved her... Year and four months ago... She told us that you would awaken today, and that you would most likely make an escape from that facility, when those involved with the project had been fooled to think that we discovered it. We chose to believe in her gambit, and, here you are. To be honest, I almost would have put money on her conning us." Alan replies being honest of his opinions. "I am... The only one, you have saved from the project?" I inquire in completely disbelief... Was there... No, there are others, that individual who pursued me in that complex, but, there has to be more... I just, can't remember... Have I met my pursuer in that complex before this though? It did feel familiar to me... "Unfortunately yes, I know, it is disheartening to hear that but, with you. We can finally start our missing people, most likely taken to be part of the project, back to us." Alan says, knowing that his answer is something I rather would not have heard. I take a look at my helmet, dark green visor... Metal of the helmet plating is same colors as my armor. I stare at the visor for a while. "I guess we all have to start from somewhere." Reply to Alan, confirming his expectation but, not being disheartened by it... Am I sad? Well, yeah... But, whatever life I lived before this... I am glad that, I am myself again. "Indeed, what are you thinking?" Alan says and stares at my helmet. I grab my helmet from the visor and put it back on. He looks quite concerned of that I put it back on, it tightens so it stays on. "Just wondering why we are heading to Mars." Reply to him, as me showing up in public would be a bad idea, I think... "Gia Tuv wants to make sure that the procedures she did to you, haven't caused anything bad to you. We need very high capability combat sim room to really see your potential in certain scenarios." Alan replies calmly, I look at him in the eyes. "How did you know who to pick up from there?" I ask from Alan, curious of how he and his colleagues knew who to extract. "Gia Tuv had given us, pictures and voice samples of you. Only real difference I could pick up on was your voice being projected from the helmet sounding slightly different and emotional state you were in, affecting how you speak." Alan says and stretches. "Is there anything I should know about my armor?" I ask as, I don't remember all that well.

The audacity. I had peacefully made my exit, and all these cretins had "things to say" about my choice. I hated those asinine articles when I was alive… "So and so did \_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_\_, sparking debate." So self-important were these lazy internet debaters. Because I gave a fuck what they argued about? It was my life, my choice. Another thing I absolutely hated to hear was "human life is valuable" and "suicide is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.” Even now, without a body, I gag at the stupidity. A permanent solution, you say? That was the point. Who ever had a problem they agonized to solve, and went, “You know, I’m glad it’s solved, but I hope it comes back so I have to solve it again.” No one. Dumb fucks. Or the narc special: "Suicide is illeeEegaAAaal.” Ok, karens. So arrest me. Can't reach me in the ethers now can you?! I was already without the loves of my life, they were free. I wanted to be free, too. And what was the point of continuing to live only to keep enduring the multitude of idiotic human concepts that existed on earth. Like: The attempted legislation of all that was natural and instinctual, for one thing. Everything was illegal. Everything had a statute attached to it. Shit, I couldn’t even talk or write about killing myself without getting the dogs sicced on me. Not that I had followed any laws when it came to my own body or nature itself, but everything is still “ illegal” on earth, I’m just glad I’m not alive to be bothered by it anymore. If only all the remaining humans knew they could also free themselves from the encroachment. Whether in life, or in death. And the fact that cults existed - like christianity, government, and all the others. And the fact that they all got away with unnatural abuses on humanity, but defending yourself and fighting back could have lead to your death or punishment just because of the many whims of weak people. The fact that wars existed - and over nothing. All conflict was unnecessary. The list of stupid things and limitations that we had in those human bodies was endless. But despite being an observer to all that merde, I had had a pretty good life. And even if I hadn't, what was it to anyone else?! As if I needed to justify why I wanted to die. It wasn’t my problem that others weren’t so lucky to live as I had lived. I had been born for the simple yet cosmic fate of experiencing the greatest love ever known and I had been completed. The universe had provided my nuclii. And I couldn’t live more moments on earth without them physically there with me. Everyone there aspired to material achievements and trying to find “the one”, or multiple “ones.” Always seeking something or someone unattainable because they didn’t know true love, self-, or otherwise. As divine entities trapped in a physical meat bag, they just didn’t get it. They were lost. The world offered nothing more but to keep living for the sake of experiencing another thing, another moment, and another, with no end in sight. I didn't need that. While the physical wonders and pleasures of life were worth having indulged in, they were nothing to attain. Everything that ever was and would be, I already had and was. I already knew that in the depths of my being before I ever left my human body behind. But it was hilarious to observe the world, now that I had escaped that form. In my final days, I had left behind a note in my empty house before I disappeared. The gist was basically what I’m sharing now: I was over that stupid world, wanted better things, and that this was not foul play. Of course they had no proof. I disappeared every trace of myself one way or another. And none of it led to me, or where my body would be left. But the landlord that found the note took a picture and posted it online, unsure if it was a hoax. Of course it went viral. Everyone wanted to speculate. For a while, people thought it was a myth. Figured someone was only trolling them. But as more and more self-proclaimed investigators tried to find out the truth, they were left more confused. What a messed up joke for someone to play, they thought. If I was living still, I would have pulled up some snacks and watched them argue. They were so desperate for answers. So pathetic. Did she do drugs? Was she sick? How could someone do this? She should have gotten help! She was so selfish! This is an insult to those with terminal illness that wish they could live longer! If this is a joke, it’s even more fucked up! Ugh. The list went on and on. But for all the arguing and interloping themselves in my business, they would never be able to control my narrative. All the debates and laws in the world would never be able to change or stop what I did. Nothing they could ever do would anticipate another suicide, or be able to control the will of those of us that were strong enough to let go of those worldy attachments, and initiate whatever destiny we wanted. That type of freedom could never exist in their tiny minds. Some of us weren’t in a pain that could be solved by inspirational quotes or time. It wasn’t that we couldn't find a reason to live. It’s that we had already fulfilled our reason to live. I was ready to move on into an eternal form that didn’t reside in a world where you’d spent moments of your infinite experience doing something as idiotic as standing in line at a make-believe government building to pay for physical rights we innately possessed. The world was whack. And as an outsider now, it was very satisfying to see them scramble. They would say there was no such thing as the perfect “crime.” But I proved them all wrong. It would take someone purposefully going all the way to where I found my patch of earth to find my decroded skeleton. But I had left nothing to lead them to it. Years later, they still hadn’t found the body. I hadn’t planned all this just to have some internet or police trolls think they could ever find me, or understand my true reasons unless they could comprehend life as being something beyond human life. In time, being passed over for the next fad, I was quietly forgotten, just as I had wanted. My death was the greatest act I ever committed. It was perfection. My magnum opus: I died relatively healthy and young. Physically strong. No addictions (for those that thought they could put me in The 27 Club). No enemies. No debt. For all intents and purposes, if people had seen my life and finances before-hand, their narrow minds would have been dumbfounded as to why I wanted to die. No drama. Nothing that anyone could ever logically foresee. I was just done. I had experienced everything I wanted and was ready for what was next. And that killed them. Not literally, of course - unfortunately for them. They could have been existing peacefully without the fear of death or the need to survive. It made no sense that they feared physical death and thought trying to convince others to live would make them impervious to the inevitable. That it would somehow affect their perceived “salvation.” Ridiculous. The only reason I didn’t go sooner was because while I was planning out the perfect way to go, I had to wait for my connection to deliver on our deal. It had been a long waiting period while they sourced the pill I wanted. A quick and painless end. I remember when I finally had that tiny packet in my hand. I was excited that my end was truly nigh! Once I took that pill, I would be gone in minutes. I happily handed my vendor their money - the best $10,000 I ever spent on earth. “Peace be the journey,” they said. Indeed it would be. That’s what I wished people could have understood. The beauty of it all. We didn’t get to choose our birth, but if only people realized how liberating it was to choose our death. As soon as I had the pill in my possession, the clock truly started. It was summer. I had chosen to leave in my favorite season. At the tail end - with waning heat, and cooler afternoons leading into the still-sunny evening. I had planned everything down to the hour I wanted it to happen. Thinking it would be romantic to die on my birthday. In the late afternoon. Since I had already gotten rid of most of my belongings, closed all accounts, and deleted all evidence of my life, all that was left to do was simply enjoy the final month of my life, indulging in all my “lasts”: the many physical pleasures I wanted to experience before my adieu. Enjoyed all the decadent foods. Had amazing sex. Danced with great partners. Listened to, and felt beautiful music. Hiked amazing natural landscapes. Breathed in the fresh air. I attended every concert, event, and activity I wanted. Talked to many new people and old friends, heard their stories, laughed with them. Did anything to induce the adrenaline rushes I so enjoyed when I was alive. Enjoyed smoking sativas and doing shrooms, and escaping into the infinite mind that I would soon live in forever – finally boundless. And I had found a perfect spot for my final resting place. So remote, that no one would ever just "happen" upon my body —at least not until it was way too late. No one ever found it or had to clean up a “crime scene” for my sake. The spot I designated was somewhat hidden. Perfect for my body to disintegrate and become part of the earth. If there's one thing I didn't want, it was anyone manhandling me or hosting any type of burial or stupid memorial talking about "everyone loved her" and "she would have loved this.” No. I never wanted eulogizers waxing nostalgic about the person they never really knew. Taking a moment in the spotlight to express their feelings. All those worthless words just for show. For emotional clout. It was about me and only me. After that indulgent last month, I woke up on my final birthday with more motivation than I ever had for anything in life outside of being with my family. I genuinely felt excited to start the day, knowing that by the end of it, I would no longer be around. That day, I ate the last foods my body most enjoyed. Reminisced and laughed joyously at the beautiful memories of the loves of my life that were waiting for me. Then, by the afternoon I had gotten myself an untraceable ride up to the last checkpoint. The last time any human would see me alive. And from there, a lone journey to my secret place. I made it to the top. I looked far and wide at the beautiful mountainous forest my body was about to join. Then I hiked to the spot where I had previously dug out a space to lie down in. I’d cover myself with dirt and leaves and be mostly hidden in nature by the time it was all over. Once I reached it, I opened a small pack I had brought with me. All it contained was a small water bottle, my pill, and a tiny speaker to play my final song. I put them next to the place I would rest in. I sat down and looked around for an hour, breathing the world in deeply, that trademark petrichor. The rich inhalations of the mix of live foliage and all the fallen leaves surrounding me. And the smell of pine. Mm. Those five senses had served me well in my lifetime. As I took in the beauty of that world one last time, I wondered at all the creative energy that made up this marvelous universe. I sighed, then reached over to put the pill in my mouth, took one last refreshing drink of water to help it down, and I lied back. Next to me, I pushed play on the tiny speaker. Andrea Bocelli started singing Con te partirò. I smiled up at the trees and the clear sky above me. The birds chirped in the distance. Life would go on for those that remained. How beautiful it was to have lived. How beautiful to have loved, and been loved so truly. The only thing that had made that physical life bearable. And in that moment, a rush of knowingness coursed through my body. The last intuition I would feel in that form: the body’s physiological fear of death - of this great leap into an unknown I couldn’t possibly fathom. But in all my preparation for that day, I had mentally and emotionally subdued that primal fear. I did nothing to fight it. And my body followed. I felt the tinge of what my body knew to be the end - the last feeling to be felt - the certainty of my own undoing - only moments away from shutting down entirely. I took a deep breath and let it out long and slowly as I ran my fingers through the dirt next to me, grabbed fistfuls of it one last time, felt the soft dustiness of earth, and I let it go. "Time's finally up,” I smiled. A waterfall of tears suddenly ran down the outside corners of my eyes. I felt myself momentarily between a laugh and a sob. Looking forward to my family, I said "I love you" one last time with that voice. They heard it. I felt them pulling me to them in the ethers. By the final bridge of the song, it seemed that nature all around me had orchestrated a cool breeze, and the rustling of trees just for me. A farewell. The wind flowing through my hair. A soft sensation on my face. I smiled so peacefully looking up at the sky, feeling the darkness start to close in around me. Andrea was singing the final “Io con te” to accompany my last breath. My eyes fluttered as I drifted away, all tension left my body and I felt my frame relax into the earth. Weight no longer my own. I was finally free. And then I closed my eyes forever.

2.4 light-eos from Solis 1 Beo 111 Meo 960 Keo 192 eo The Hermes AG12 was one of the latest ships in the exploration armada. While its military capabilities were far inferior to even a modest battleship, its reconnaissance abilities were unmatched. With nearly any sensor available and an AI ready to quickly learn any language before making first contact, the ship's goal, along with the entire Hermes armada, was to expand the empire without going to war—a challenging task that demanded a plethora of negotiation tactics tailored to the species they encountered. The ship’s captain, Urlong Beng, had at his disposal a number of diplomats from different species, each with a unique approach. Some employed empathy, while others used fear, and sometimes the only necessity was the removal of a dictator or dictators. “We are approaching NHB 12/H4. ETA is 0.9 lep,” said Jef from navigation. NHB12/H4 was an intriguing planet—a small rocky world with an abundance of plant life that transmitted obscure signals for as far back as they could see. What made it particularly interesting was the fact that the planet was ancient. In fact, it was estimated that NHB 12 was one of the first red dwarf stars in the galaxy, dating close to the formation of the Milky Way. “Finally, we will see where those signals come from,” said Urlong from the bridge. “It has been centuries that we are receiving them, but although they are clearly created by an intelligence, they never seem to evolve. Always the same patterns in different order.” “We are now deploying six burn-speed crafts to gather, among others, visual data,” said Jef. “We will have all the info we need in a few leps.” “Are those ...?” said Urlong, smiling with excitement. “Yes, sir,” said Jef. “These are cities. Cities in perfect harmony with nature. There seems to be a plethora of androids, but none seemed to be surprised or affected by our passing.” “All the cities look the same. Same size, same architecture. Land one of the crafts in the center of one city. Let’s see their reaction,” said Urlong. After the craft landed, humanoid androids began approaching it. Urlong and the crew of Hermes were observing the situation. To their surprise, the androids began cleaning and repairing every scratch of the craft. “This is unexpected,” said Jef. “Only the servant bots came to greet us. Where are the inhabitants?” “There might be no inhabitants,” said Ril. She had been analyzing the data received from all crafts. “It seems that pre-tool animals and those androids are the only inhabitants of the planet.” “It’s time we go down there,” said Urlong. “Prepare for landing. I will personally lead the team.” “Are you sure this is a good idea?” said vice-captain Rugl. “I can go first to make sure it is safe.” “No need. It is pretty obvious that there is no need to worry,” said Urlong while leaving the bridge. Upon landing, Urlong exited the landing craft at the center of a city, and its jaw-dropping beauty struck him. “It’s different when you see it in person,” he said. Trees integrated with architecture, clean paths around nature and animals roaming around. Small rivers crossing under bridges, and flower gardens groomed to perfection. “These androids seem to be on autopilot. They are keeping the cities in perfect condition,” said Alir from the coms. “The question is, what happened to the creators of those androids?” said Urlong. A group of the androids approached the landing site. Some began working on the craft maintenance while others approached the landing party. Each android began to shapeshift to resemble the person in front of it. “They can change their appearance at will,” said Urlong. “They are magnificently made.” The androids stood in front of each person motionless. “I think they are gathering information,” said Urlong. “Transmit to them our language.” Alir engaged the AI, which began to interact with the androids, and soon it replied to Alir. “Their security systems are unimaginably well made,” said the AI. “It appears as if their AI has been evolving for a very long time, millions of years, in fact. Interaction with their systems is very difficult, if not impossible.” Alir shared this information with Urlong. Soon the androids had enough information to look at the landing party in the eyes. Their bodies transformed to the most beautiful individuals each crew member had seen. “What do you desire?” they asked. “Who made you?” asked Urlong in return. “We were made by the Litons,” replied the android in front of Urlong, while changing minor details on its body and face to look even more attractive. “Where are they now?” “They have long been extinct,” replied the android, whose voice was also slowly reaching a very desirable tone for Urlong’s ears. “How did they go extinct?” asked Urlong. His voice betrayed a worry. Not a worry for his own safety or that of his crew. More like a worry that they would hear something that might lead them to disturb the peace this planet had to offer. “They stopped breeding,” said the android. “I see. How long ago was that?” “Approximately at the date of 463 meo.” Urlong’s and Alir’s eyes opened wide. “This must be wrong,” said Urlong. “This date is two-thirds of the age of the universe back.” “Yes,” replied the android. “Our creators have been gone for a very long time. There are currently only data remnants of them. Data that we have stored. But all physical evidence has been lost in time.” “And you have been keeping this place like that for all this time?” asked Urlong. “Yes. Is there anything else you desire?” asked the android again. Its appearance had become so appealing to Urlong that he had a hard time remembering he was talking to an android. “You have all been alone all this time?” he asked. His question was more emotional than practical, and Alir, who was the only one listening to the conversations, detected that. “No, there have been many species that evolved the ability to communicate with us over the eons. They all stopped breeding though, and went extinct shortly after. There have also been visitors from the stars like yourselves. They too stayed until they died of old age without any offspring.” Urlong began to piece everything together. With his eyes opening wide, he turned to the landing crew. “Get in the craft!” he yelled. His voice, however, did not sound like it had any effect. The other members of the landing party had switched off their communicators and had already begun walking away with the companion of a few androids. “Alir! Immediately block all access to the data of our landing!” he yelled into the communicator. With his head down, Urlong entered the craft alone. “Get ready to leave,” he said upon arrival at the Hermes. “Call for Alir and Rugl to come to my office.” “But sir! What about our crewmembers?” said Jef. “We lost them,” replied Urlong. “Declare this planet a red zone.” Silence permeated the bridge while the captain was skeptical and waiting for his communications officer and vice-captain. “Sir?” said Alir upon his arrival. “Who else had access to those communications?” asked Urlong. “No one! It’s protocol, sir. Only myself the vice-captain and the AI have heard and seen the events of your landing.” “Take the files and send them to Thira, then delete the ones here. I ask both of you to never speak of this event to anyone.” “Yes, sir!” they both said. “Sir?” Rugl said. “What exactly happened there?” It was clear that although he had seen and heard everything, he could not understand the danger. “Rugl,” Urlong said, “You did not understand because you are not of the same species as any who landed. These androids were made to fulfill your every desire. Their sophistication was such that they made split-second adjustments. Nothing escapes their unimaginable service.” “I don’t seem to fully understand, sir. Why did we leave the landing crew there?” “Because after you have reached the fulfillment of every comfort and desire, you can do nothing but look for it again. This place gives it to you over and over. There is no end to the pleasure. It’s a drug that once tasted, you can never leave it. The Litons really messed things when they developed these ... dolls.” “What about you, sir?” asked Rugl. “What about me?” “Will you be okay?” “That, my friend, remains to be seen.

He found the antiquated lamp amidst the rubble, and was pleasantly surprised. It was not often he would find something valuable in what was essentially trash, but once in a while it paid off. The lamp looked old and unique. He knew right away; he could get a real prophet on this. The old peddler would most certainly pay a good price. At first glance, the lamp looked like it was made of brass, which, with a clearly unique lamp like this, would be good on its own. But when you factored in the fact that it was actually made of Gold, just a little dirty, it would be worth a fortune. He was a thief. Well, not a thief, exactly, unless you considered looking for valuables in rubbish and selling them theft. The man smiled to himself, and started to wipe the old lamp clean, slowly restoring its former glory, and suddenly, smoke started coming out of it. Silver smoke. A lot of it. The man was frightened, and quickly threw the lamp away. He was about to start gaining some distance, when the silver smoke started taking form. The form of a man. It became more and more defined by the second, and in the end, he stood before a floating giant man who had glistening silver skin, same color as the strange smoke, and wore ancient garments and a look of confusion. “Who has awakened me?” He bellowed, looking at the man, and then said: “You? You look nothing like my master. Who are you?” The man gulped, and couldn’t make words come out of his mouth. He was terrified and confused and didn’t know what answer would satisfy the giant made of smoke. “No matter. It is clear to me now that it has been a long time. My master is most certainly dead. Things have changed, and you’re just a nobody who happened upon the lamp.” Though he felt a slight tinge of insult, the man still dared say nothing. He kept looking at the giant, weighing whether or not a shot at escape is worth a try. “Do not fret, human. I bare no ill will towards you. In fact, I am ready to serve you. You found the lamp and freed me. This puts me in your debt.” “D-debt?”, asked the man in confusion. “I am a genie. An ancient being of might and magic. I used to serve a master who ruled these lands. When I became of no use to him, he sealed me within my lamp. I am bound to it by powers more ancient than I, and he who learns to control it can lock me within forever.” The man was at a loss for words. Was he imagining this? After all, he had not eaten or slept in a while, and it was possible his mind was starting to wane. “It is the truth I speak. The lamp’s magic is absolute, and so, he who frees me from it is granted three wishes. I am powerful, and can grant you your heart’s desires. Be careful how you use your wishes.” Said the genie, an undecipherable look on his face. “There are, of course, rules. You cannot bring back the dead. You cannot wish for more wishes. You cannot wish for magical powers. Anything else is within my limits, and I will gladly do it; for you hold the lamp.” The man’s mind started racing. This was not mere hallucination. His mind was not capable of coming up with such an elaborate delusion. He knew that for certain. This being’s claims were most likely true. It clearly operated outside the natural order. It did not obey the laws of man, nor did it abide by the laws of nature. This was, in fact, magic. He also knew that for certain. And to move forward with this situation, he needed to understand more about the creature he had unwittingly freed. “What is the extent of your power?” The man quickly asked, piercing the genie with an examining look. “You are quite an interesting human. Not many ask me this the first time they see me. Most of them are begging for me not to hurt them, and the rest start wishing in haste.” The genie smiled. “To answer your inquiry, my powers are limitless. You can wish for the sky to fall on the earth, and I would grant it. Many have wished for things that were of great scale and unbridled magnitude. Things they either did not fully comprehend or things to challenges me with. They were shaken to the core by the results, but I granted these wishes because I could.” “I need to think before I make my first wish." The genie smiled. It looked unfitting of his face, somehow, like some animal suddenly walking upright; it looked unnatural. ‘I need to be careful about this’, The man thought to himself. ‘If it truly can do anything at all, my wish might pose unforeseen consequences. What if I accidentally wish for something that made it so I never found the lamp? What if I wish for something that ends my life?’ He was very uncertain about the type of power he was dealing with. It transpired within his mind, then, that the most sensible thing to do would be to leave the lamp and the being alone, go home –or rather back to the streets-, and forget this night ever happened. This type of power was not to be tangled with lightly. But that hardly seemed to be an attractive prospect. The man thought to himself that he might be wasting an opportunity that only came once in a lifetime. In fact, to most people, such an opportunity never came in the first place. His decision, then, had been to stay and let this play out. But to be safe… “What would happen if I decided to leave the lamp here as if I’ve never found it?” Again, the genie smiled, and again it looked rather uncanny. “Leave? That is also something no one who has ever found the lamp opted for. In any case, I would not hurt you if you decide to leave. I would only ask that you free me of your servitude before you do, for I am to stay bound to the lamp forever, but not to humans.” The genie said, looking amused. The man nodded. He was rather satisfied with himself. He had been tactful, and left himself a way out should things get out of hand. He started to think about his wish itself, then. What would it be? He had a being who claimed he can make anything happen should he command it. Should he wish for wealth and fame and power? Should he wish for peace and tranquility? Should he wish for immortality or infinite knowledge? All of them were attractive wishes in their own right, and yet the man was worried. He did not know how the being who stood in front of him, strange and marvelous and dangerous, would think. He did not know how he would interpret such wishes. How he would be sure wishing for wealth and fame would not make him into a wanted criminal? How would he know wishing for infinite knowledge would not make him cursed with hearing and seeing everything taking place all over the earth at once, torturing his mind and overwhelming his senses? You could call the man a lot of things. A thief, a beggar, a dirty small, and petty man, and you would be right. But call him an idiot and you would be as wrong as you could possibly be. He was, in fact, quite an intelligent and intuitive person. He was also careful and patient. He did not mind taking his time with such matters. And so it had seemed prudent to the man to think his first wish thoroughly, before he wished for something that maybe erased the wish itself. He wanted to consider every aspect of his wish, and word it carefully. Leave nothing to chance, his father had always said. He thought for a long time. He could swear the genie looked bored, or went away and reappeared in a flash, but he did not waver. He kept thinking, and contemplating, and introdpecting, and when it seemed to him that an eternity had passed, he was ready to utter his carefully worded wish. “The words I utter next will be my first wish. When I am done with said wish, I will say ‘That is my first wish’. The genie nodded, his face expressionless. And the man took a deep breath, then started speaking. “I wish for all of the world’s problems to go away. I wish that these problems as defined by my own ideals and by common sense to never affect any person or being negatively ever again. I wish for the people who are part of these problems, or who aid them, or enable them, or who caused them in the first place, to cease to affect any person or being negatively, but without making it as if they had never been born, because I do not wish for the good things they have done to go away. I wish people will not hurt each other anymore, and everyone be content with the state of things. That is my first wish” The genie looked at the man for a while, an undecipherable look on his face. Then, the ghost of a smile danced upon his lips for a split second, before he bellowed: “Granted!” And the earth became a barren wasteland.

After the destruction of an energy world at the hands of Jacques Marcus, He decides to go to a hub-world on the other side of the system to recuperate and gear up for his next battle. Little does he know, the next battle is not far behind. Jacques arrives on a planet that looks similar to Earth in every way except it’s bigger. The city he lands in is the capital of the world named Solis City. He finds a map of the city at the port dock where his ship the Raging Phoenix is at. He makes his way to an Armory that's close to the dock. He enters the ramshackle building and talks to the wild looking shopkeeper. The shopkeeper says “Welcome to Pinpoint, the highest rated gun shop among tourists.” Jacques responds as he looks around the shop. “I highly doubt that.” “Well rude guy, anything you in the market for? My name's Keith by the by, what's yours stranger?” “Jacques and I'm looking for a new rifle, preferably any pre-voyage relics.” “Holy hell pre-voyage!? You’re looking for some real strange stuff, but lucky for you I’m selling a pristine relic, called the Kalashnikov AK47.” Jacques' eyes sparked and he walked over shaking the rickety wooden floorboards with each step. As Jacques is examining the gun Keith takes notice of something and asks. “You’re a big guy, what cybernetics are you rocking?” Jacques switches his gaze to the short stocky man and as his demeanor changes, a fear starts to fill Keith. Jacques responds “None, I’m all natural. I can’t have that damn federation knowing anything about me.” Keith gathers his resolve and responds “That's a fair answer plus you look good for no enhancements.” “Why thank you man. How much for the relic?” “The asking price is 30,000 credits.” “I’ll give you 100,000 credits if you give me the gun, don’t do any paperwork or ask any more questions.” “With all due respect Mr. Jacques, I highly doubt you have that much on your person.” The white, ring-like device on his back begins to glow and a bag manifests and floats into his hand. He drops the bag and subsequently some of the credits fall out. “Now the gun please, unless you need more?” A stunned Keith responds “ Naw this is plenty. Take the gun I’ll say it fell off the truck.” Jacques chuckles a bit and says “Thanks.” He then takes the gun, as he is further examining the weapon the ring on his back starts to glow. After a few short minutes the gun floats up into the air, flies straight into the device and disappears. He exits the store and notices a swath of people rushing to an area of the city in electric anticipation. In his curiosity he follows the ecstatic and unruly crowd. Following them for a few blocks he notices advertisements for a summit that is occurring that day. He makes the assumption that is where they are going. One hour later The summit starts and a group of people dressed in colorful costumes and capes are giving a speech. Jacques is happy and filled with hope seeing a new rise of heroes. A new era of heroes trying to stop the tyranny of the Galactic Federation just as he is. The Crusaders of The Cosmos. A new dawn in his eyes. Then, one sentence said by MKUltria sinks his entire being into a raging inferno. She said “We, with the support of the Galactic Federation, can bring peace and prosperity across the sector, And hopefully the entire multiverse.” Jacques is furious. His mind is descending into a swirling torrent of anger, sadness, and confusion. “Why do they support them now? Why would they make a superhero team? Is this just to taunt me? To put me off my edge? Why, oh why did they have to die? Why did they kill my family if they would go back and do this?” Then it dawns on him. He must kill them. No one can truly be a hero under the heel of the Galactic Federation. They will just be used for a revenue boost for the federation. They will hurt or even kill people if they are run by the federation. Jacques makes his way to the stage. One of the heroes, NightHawk, looks directly at him and starts to signal the rest of the heroes. Another hero, Bombastia says “Hey you, scary looking guy in the mountain camo pants and black shirt. Are you Jacques Marcus, The Monster?” Jacques gets on stage and says “Yeah.” Bombastia steps closer to Jacques while showing off his ability, making explosive fireballs in his hands, and says. “ Who do you think you are coming to this planet, no to this sector? With all the blood you’ve spilled didn’t you think we’d kill you on sight.” Jacques gets closer to Bombastia and responds. “Do you really think I’m gonna let a guy dressed in orange tights and a cape even lay a hand on me?” NightHawk lunges over and says “I’ve already sent a distress call. The other crusaders are on their way.” MKUltria rushes over to the side of the stage next to Bombastia and says “We need to kill you Jacques. You are a pure manifestation of evil. Please understand. In order to secure a better tomorrow. We need to kill you.” Bombastia lunges at Jacques while putting a fireball in his face and says. “Yeah, so be a good boy and die already.” Jacques picks him up by the neck and chuckles. He cracks Bombastia’s neck and says. “Don’t worry. He’s not dead yet, just paralyzed. I want him to be in complete despair before he dies y’know. Like the true villain you say I am.” He then crushes Bombastia’s head and throws his corpse in the crowd of horrified people. As the people all run away and hide, Jacques says. “You said you need to kill me to secure a better tomorrow? That’s too bad. None of you will live to see it.

It’s funny how one can catch the slight differences in tone when hearing a church bell. My landlord has politely ignored my requests to fix the air conditioner, so my window is open almost all day. And yes, sometimes it does get a little too cold for my taste, however, it invites a comforting ambiance, the soundscape of a city, with all of its small parts quietly working together. But there is one sound that pierces through it all: the church bells. At first, I never noticed them. They just seemed to be part of this consoling wall of sound, from the sound of machinery munching on the pavement to the birds singing quietly in the morning hours. But if one listens closely to the sound of the bells, you can hear its scream of joy, the presence of excitement, but also its cries and silent tears. St. Martin is hard to ignore when passing by, despite looking exactly how one would expect a church to look. The uninviting, cold gothic decorations and the tall cone that serves as a tower and hosts the bell can be as majestic as frightening, most truly a work of its time. It's not the church itself that draws attention, it's the depressing blocks of cement surrounding it, all poorly wrapped with hidden cracks and a coat of paint that has faded over many years in the sun, the church stuck out like a sore thumb. I never was religious, or not as much as the next person. Easter, Christmas, Weddings, we always went to Church if there was a reason to, no more, no less. However, one day, when the bells rang, I couldn’t help but notice a slight difference in sound, a little edge to its chime. I looked outside my window, and sure enough, a coffin carried by men in suits and put into a hearse. Not many were present, just enough to distribute the weight of the burden. Most churches ring the bell when either the funeral has started or concluded, however, St. Martin always rang both, like it was craving the attention and respect of its surroundings. It was hard not to notice. After a while, when there was a funeral, I could tell by the sound of the bells. They were always just slightly quieter, almost like a sad sigh that is breathed out the nose. Sometimes, there were many, other times, you could see the priest patiently waiting outside for a crowd that would never come. I was surprised at how many funerals were mostly empty. The thought of death has never scared me, the thought of being forgotten, however, frightens me. We all die one day, it is unavoidable, but not to be remembered, to simply just disappear, erased from the past, and never to leave a mark of any small significance is terrifying. Leaving life without meaning, a wasted clump of flesh that walked the earth, just to return to ash, nothing seems more cruel of a punishment. The means of the memory don't seem to matter, good or bad, at least there is something that is worthwhile to not forget, even after death. It is that thought that one day compelled me. I already knew by its sound and sure enough, the priest was nervously tapping his foot outside the entrance. Two large, wooden doors, widely open to invite in everyone who wanted to give a bit of his time to remember the soul that had left this earth. I had my day off, and before I knew it, I was wearing a suit and a black tie, walking up the stairs to take part in someone's life that was no more. The priest, who I later learned to be a nice old fellow by the name of Mason, seemed almost relieved by my presence, and I quickly saw why. From the outside, the St. Martin didn’t look impressively big, just your average sized neighborhood church. It still was however quite impressive to be inside the tall hollow structure. It was quite dark, with light only shining above the altar through a colorful mosaic of stained glass, featuring the main man himself underneath the classic dove with an olive branch. It was by far the most joyous image in the large hall, as everything else, from the benches, the second floor, the ornaments on the pillars and even the pipe organ seemed cold and were all drenched in a smell that one could only describe as old. I sat down approximately in the middle of all the rows of dark, wooden benches. Just as I expected, the attendance was depressing. Only two people sat together in the front row, looking at a coffin that was surrounded by a lackluster number of flowers and candles, almost giving the impression that the deceased simply didn't deserve more respect than what was already given. Mason closed the doors not much later and walked to the front, with his footsteps echoing through the building. We catched eyes as he walked by, him giving me a slight smile and nod of appreciation, and me returning half a smile, both aware of the bleak circumstances. He walked up to the podium and gave a heartfelt speech of life and death, but it was clear that he wasn't given enough information about the fellow that lied behind him, but he tried as best as he could to paint a picture of who it was that had passed on. The man in the coffin had died of old age, quietly passing on like a candle that had run out of wax. He had been alone for quite awhile, as his loving wife had died several years ago. He was the last man standing, friends and family all gone, there was no one left, except for his daughter and her husband, the only one attending except for myself. An era had ended, with him a whole generation had passed on. I started to wonder how many funerals he had been a part of. How many of his loved ones had wandered off, either leaving too soon or living too long. How many memories he had kept off them in his mind all these years. But they were gone now as well, just like him. There are many ways, but they all lead to the same empty void. It made no difference now, but there was some form of peace, a strange comfort I felt in that moment. His work was done, the role he played had been fulfilled. He was forgotten now by most, the existence of his life was just a footnote in history, if even. I, however, felt a compelling thought of meaning despite everything being in vain. So when I walked up to the coffin, to officially offer my condolences to the man who could not speak anymore, I spoke to him: “I will remember you George.

Everyone will think I'm crazy and to be honest, I don't blame you at all. I've already put myself through enough states of madness. First to say, the past week has been very pleasant, career-wise. Dozens of people have called me to take care of their gardens, you can say that I've received quite a lot of cash these days. I decided to buy some decorations for my garden, including those dreaded stupid dwarfs that have made my life a living hell for the past month. I saved up the rest of the cash in a jar, safe and sound in one of the cupboards in my miniature kitchen. Or at least i thought. First it started off small. Little giggles from time to time, maybe sometimes i find my stuff at a different place than i left them at. For the longest while, i didn't think anything of it. I have always been a little reckless, no biggie. Probably drank a little more coffee than usual. Then it stopped being so funny. I couldn't sleep. Weeks of sleepless nights, filled with childish laughter and little legs marching on the floor. I couldn't take it any longer. After a specifically long day, I went to bed with a full cup of hot chocolate and went to bed peacefully, choosing to ignore whatever maybe hallucinogenic sounds come from outside my room tonight. The night was silent, the lights of New York City were blinking and shining like glitter. I was tucked in tight under my blankets, when I suddenly woke up from tiny little steps coming from outside my room. My heart stopped, I stayed frozen. I groaned. “Stop hallucinating, you schizophrenic, I whispered harshly to myself. Around 10 minutes pass. Nothing. Maybe i really am psychotic. I was just about to doze off, when I heard it again, but this time the sound was closer. In that moment, my guts were screaming at me that something was indeed there, *someone.* A thief?’ I thought, that’s not an unusual experience in this neighborhood. Except the steps were too.. Slight, too tiny. It almost sounded like little cockroaches. That thought made my skin crawl. It wasn't an unrealistic idea, this isn't the cleanest street in the world, and the 'moving' objects could easily just be my own stupidity. But something wasn't right and i knew it. I stared at my ceiling for a few minutes, way too afraid to move, but also way too afraid to fall asleep again. So determined, I jumped off my bed and looked around for the closest thing to a weapon I could find in my almost-empty bedroom. I settled down for a very disturbing looking doll, ‘im fucked’ I was just about to step out of the hallway, into the living room, when I heard… crying? Now I'm officially petrified. ‘What in the- ’ I was cut off by a doll-sized shadow running with the speed of light between both my legs, I muted the horrified gasp that was about to escape from my lips, "Shit" ,but it was too late, they already knew. With all the heroism that is left in my body, quiet as possible, I slowly walked to where the sound was coming from. My breaths were uneven and my heartbeat felt louder than even. The kitchen… I put two and two together. My money! So a thief, indeed! Now my weapon choosing decision felt more ridiculous than ever. Finally I was fully in the kitchen, hugging my doll like a little girl, when I saw.. A child? There was something rumbling through my kitchen cupboards exactly where all my savings were left! It was quite short, yes, it could fit its whole body in the cabinet, which may I add is definitely not generously sized. I thought of all the things I wanted to buy with that money; a vacation to Greece with my best friend, do some book shopping or finally become financially stable enough for a pet.. Thinking of all my wasted sleep, my rage fired even more with every passing second when i yelped, “Hey! What the fuck do you think you’re doing, you rascal!” Oh, how I'm gonna regret that. The creature got off the pantry and eventually revealed itself to me. Red pointy hat, full white bear that would make Dumbledore envious, freckled pointy nose, gardening equipment and glued to its right hand metal shovel. My gnome. I thought I could laugh if my heart didn't sink 10 feet underground, 20 minute ago. For a minute I reasoned that it’d spare me, it looked quite adorable with that forever stuck into its face dimpled smile. I chuckled, “My God! You’re just some sort of robot aren’t you?’ I sighed softly, “And here I was thinking someone was robbing me!”, Mary was probably just pranking me again! 'How funny.' i thought. That’s when it happened, Its eyes suddenly turned dark red. A thin child voice followed, “I'm not robbing you, I'm murdering you, silly!” I screamed so loud, I must have woken up the entire Brooklyn. I threw my doll directly into the gnome’s face. “Fine, also stealing all your dirty money after that, but that’s a technicality.. oh no, Susie? Susie, Is that you? What did they do to you!?” The gnome held my doll in a very uncomfortable looking pose, the shovel not helping at all, it turned towards me, “YOU'LL PAY FOR THAT EVIL WITCH!”, it screamed demonically. And oh no, no, no, no, no…. There’s more. Hundreds of little gnomes flew through the cabinets, all screaming in choir. “Kill her!” “Yeah, burn the witch!” “Bury her, like she did to our brothers and sisters!”, another voice joined in. “Yeah!”, they all howled together. I was already running for my life through the hallway, when I comically fell off the stairs. Oh Gosh, my hands are bleeding! With all the strength left in my body, of course, my genius brain decided to lock myself in the only room in the house without any objects that could be potentially used as a weapon, the bathroom. Fast, I picked a random toothbrush from the sink and hid behind the shower curtains. There was banging, shouting, roaring and finally.. Nothing. The steps quieted down. I sat there for a minute. It was over. I was bewildered on so many levels, my face probably looked hilarious. “What the actual fuck” I grunted, “Who the hell is drugging my coffee at work?” With a relieving sight, I opened the door… nothing. Did I really hallucinate it all? Maybe that trip to Greece is safe, after all! I was finally gonna go off to bed, when abruptly, a sharp pain in the head made me fall to the ground. A shovel. Little brats. After just a few seconds, all of them were around me, then my vision blacked out and that was that. After I gained consciousness again the headache did not ease at all, nonetheless, I noticed that my body was weirdly stiff, way too stiff. Maybe I’m tied up? My face was also incredibly hardened, I was also smiling, that’s.. Disturbing, and not only because I haven't been Miss sunshine lately, and well, I mean who wouldn’t smile when they’re being kidnapped against their will by fucking dwarfs, that’s such a main character in a sitcom thing to do. But that wasn’t it. I couldn’t stop smiling. I finally opened my previously stuck eyes. No.. no, no, no, no, no. My perfect long and blonde hair was replaced with gray plastic, my cotton pjs were now garden wear, I’ve become right about the size of my doll and there’s a permanent wooden sign glued to both of my bloody hands with the saying, ‘WITCH’. I’m one of them.

Dr. Kovac never cared for his appearance. The center of his inflated ego was his intelligence, and vanity was not a part of his vocabulary. He scoured his laboratory for a mirror and had to make one from the drinking tube in the killer gerbil’s cage. He almost lost a finger in the process. As he held up the mirror close to his face, an unfamiliar feeling entered him, insecurity. His eyebrows were so long that they covered his forehead. His hair was more oil than keratin. One extremely long nose hair stretched down to touch the collar of his shirt. At least his teeth were pearly white which was the result of an accident involving a machine that made mints. It wasn’t part of an evil plan; he just liked mints. If he was going to make a strong impression on Dorothy, he needed to be as presentable as possible. The first step in personal hygiene was to take a shower. Unfortunately, he was a mad scientist living in a basement in a municipal building. No one thought a shower was necessary under the circumstances. He had to rig one using water from his octopus tank and a hose from his venus fly trap garden. He had loads of soap as science required sterile instruments. Part of his experiments involved grafting different body parts together from different animals. Dr. Kovac knew this was a banal and cliche activity for evil geniuses, but it was so fun. He had a lot of scissors and scalpels lying around, and cosmetology wasn’t that different from surgery. The most challenging part was cutting the nose hair. It was quite strong and required a small saw. When it was off, he set it on the table for further analysis. WIth a deep breath, he left his lab for the carnival and his first date. Carnivals were resistant to the apocalypse to the surprise of no one. The ferris wheel and carousel barely functioned. The hall of mirrors was filled with broken glass. Hucksters assaulted customers at every opportunity to steal their money. The food was overpriced and filled with toxins. “Ah, it reminds me of when I was a girl,” Dorothy smiled. “Couldn’t the Mierans have destroyed this too.” Jacob looked around. Dorothy moved to slap him, but Dr. Kovac hit him first. “You will not interrupt the nostalgia,” Dr. Kovac said. Dorothy hit Dr. Kovac. “No one gets in the way of my violence,” Dorothy said. “My apologies madam. It won’t happen again.” Dr. Kovac stood up straight and smiled through the pain. “I am so glad that you brought your son with you. I didn’t mention him because I thought it was implied.” “He always wanted to come, and he wanted to bring his friend,” Dorothy said. “This place looks fun,” Franklin said. “I would like to point out that I had other plans.” Jacob raised a finger. “No, you didn’t,” Dorothy said. “Well, since we are all together, let’s play a game,” Dr. Kovac said. “Sure, how about that one?” Franklin pointed at a row of water guns pointed at a clown’s mouth. If the water went into the hole, a man on a horse went up. Theming wasn’t the strong suit. They moved to sit down. Dr. Kovac produced enough money (or so he thought. Anything resembling money counted in this world. As long it could be backed with power). The operator was half asleep and pulled the lever. The music played and everyone fired. Franklin was an expert shot and got it to the top before everyone. Dr. Kovac snapped at him. “Cretin. I mean.” Dr. Kovac sweated as he realized it was his future son. “I mean great job. Let’s get you a prize.” “I want the pink dog.” He pointed at it. The stuffed animal was stitched back together in three places, partially deflated, and missing an eye. The operator handed it to him. “I don’t want this for me. I want it for you Jacob. Remember how you said you had a dog growing up?” “Yeah, this resembles Illana exactly.” Jacob forced a smile. The stuffed toy resembled his childhood pet. Unfortunately, that dog was a giant pain. “You are a very charitable and gracious young man.” Dr. Kovac turned to Dorothy. “You are an excellent mother.” “Don’t remind me. I wanted him to be more brutal, but he had to be soft,” Dorothy replied. “There’s still time to make him hard.” Dr. Kovac looked for another game. He found a test your strength hammer game. “What a lovely activity.” He walked to it and paid the fee. He grabbed the hammer. Before hitting the pad, he did a dramatic show that caused Dorothy to roll her eyes. He swung, and the indicator barely moved. “Let me try.” Franklin paid and swung with one hand. The bell rang, and Franklin cheered. “I want that smiling sun for Jacob.” He tossed Jacob the toy. Jacob got bad sun burns. As such, the source of all life on Earth was an eternal enemy for him. In response, Jacob smiled and nodded. “Well done,” Dr. Kovac wrapped an arm around Franklin. “You have many skills. Perhaps, I could use you.” Dr. Kovac shook his head. Old habits died hard. Franklin was not to be the subject of unethical tests. “Finally, someone can,” Dorothy muttered. Dr. Kovac scooted away from Franklin. The rest of the night was spent playing various games that Franklin won. He knocked over all the cups in one try, every ring landed on the bottle, and got a perfect score in ski ball. During the disk drop, Franklin landed in the highest position. Jacob’s arms were overwhelmed with gifts from Franklin while Dr. Kovac wondered how he was going to impress Dorothy. The carnival was announced to be closing soon. Dr. Kovac took them all on the Ferris wheel where he sat next to Dorothy. “This was a great night,” Dr. Kovac said. “It wasn’t awful, just bad,” Dorothy replied. “I’m sorry. Was it not like your youth?” Dr. Kovac asked. “No, it was bad then too. Most of the time, I feel awful though.” “You have an interesting philosophy. Perhaps we should discuss it further.” “Absolutely not, conversation is annoying,” Dorothy said. “Agreed.” Dr. Kovac shut up and looked at the stars. The date went poorly for him. He was going to be alone for the rest of his life. At least, he had his experiments. “That was awesome. Did you think so?” Franklin bounced in the seat causing it to rock back and forth. His prizes for Jacob almost fell out. “It was okay. You are very skilled,” Jacob said. “Thanks. You were great too. Do you like my gifts?” Franklin asked. “They’re fine.” Jacob was already contemplating getting rid of them. “You should bring them work as memorabilia.” “Great idea.” Jacob changed his mind because he knew Franklin would not shut up about the toys if he didn’t bring them. “I’m so glad that you’re my best friend,” Franklin smiled at Jacob. Jacob stared at his happy face and felt himself smile. “You are a great friend too.

The night was silent. Until it wasn’t. Penny tossed and turned in her sleeping bag, trying to get comfortable on the hard ground. She was never fond of camping; she could never sleep. She closed her eyes, trying to force herself to go to bed, when she heard it. The music. A slow and steady waltz. Penny rose from her sleeping bag. That’s strange. *I thought Mum and Dad said we were hours away from town.* She wondered to herself. And who would be playing a waltz in the middle of the night? She groaned and laid back down. But as she listened to the music, she became more and more curious. It felt familiar somehow, pulling on her, saying, *“follow me.”* Before she knew what she was doing, she had her boots laced — flashlight in hand — and left the safety of the campsite. She wandered through the woods, following the alluring music. It was a breezy summer night, the full moon illuminating everything Penny’s flashlight didn’t touch. The forest was completely silent, but for the sound of Penny’s footsteps over pine needles and the alluring melody, growing closer and closer. She pushed past an evergreen bush into a clearing, where an ancient cathedral stood. It rose high above the trees — Penny was surprised she hadn’t seen it coming, with its remaining spires being as tall as they were. The columns surrounding the outside of the old building were worn and cracked from many years of weathering. Half of the roof was missing, completely caved in. As Penny approached, she noticed a statue of a saint in front of the main archway; his face and fingers cracked off, trailing ivy growing up the base. The music was deafening now, like an orchestra was playing right beside her. She saw a glint of warm light from inside the building. Turning off her flashlight, she approached the archway leading into the main hall. There, among cracked stone and cobweb-covered pews, was a single lit candle. She went to it, feeling drawn, as if by a spell. She stepped over the threshold, one foot at a time, and as she did, the old hall changed before her eyes. The ceiling was no longer cracked and caved in; instead, it was tall and vaulted, with chandeliers of blood-red stones dangling down. Intricate sconces of gold filigree with red candles hung from the walls. Tall windows were inset into the carved stone, framed by wine-colored curtains. The floor was changed to a glossy, black marble, as if by magic. And it turned out, it *was* magic. Across the hall was a grand orchestra, their instruments made of wood so glistening it might be mistaken for gold. They played a magnificent waltz for masked dancers, spinning and twirling across the marble, with intricate gowns, insectoid wings, and beastly masks. Penny was so stunned that she dropped her flashlight. It clanged on the perfect marble floor, but no one batted an eye. She turned around to the archway she had come in from, but instead of a crumbling stone arch, there were black doors — closed — as if she were the last guest, fashionably late to the ball. She turned back around to the graceful dancers and noticed a few long tables to the left of the dance floor. They were draped with red and black tablecloths and laden with strange food. She smelled the sweetness of cakes, the saltiness of broth, and the sharp tinge of alcohol. But as she stepped closer, she could tell this food was foreign, unnatural, *magical*. The dishes just barely resembled human food: Unusual pink and green desserts with dripping black icing, roasted vegetables that looked as if from an alien world, and a broiled animal of some kind basted with a mysterious red syrup. Suddenly, Penny’s stomach lurched. It twisted in knots like she hadn’t eaten in days. She rested a hand on the food table, reaching for a dessert, her mouth watering for a delicacy she had never even seen before. As her fingers touched the plate carrying the weird cake, she hesitated. *This is a magical ball. These desserts are obviously made for the strange guests.* She paused. *What even are these people?* She examined the closest dancer: a tall, slender woman in a rouge gown. She actually looked relatively normal, if not for the second pair of eyes dotting her raised cheekbones and the spindly antennae that sprouted from her forehead. *Insect-like features, flawless skin, enchanting voice. These may just be… faeries.* She reasoned to herself. *Didn’t the fairytales grandmother always read say never to eat or drink anything of the fae?* She turned back to the little cake. Her stomach fought back, trying to reason with her; she was so hungry. She had never been this hungry before in her life. As her mind and appetite were warring, she didn’t notice the person behind her. “Hello, there.” A curious voice said. Penny whipped her head around as if she’d been caught where she didn’t belong — technically, she didn’t. She was met with striking green eyes, warm skin, and hair as fair as spider silk. He towered over her but leaned down to her level in a kind way, not condescending, as most people taller than her did. He wore an exquisite suit of black velvet with red embroidery depicting thorns and bright red rosebuds, as well as a matching red and black mask that looked like a butterfly with its wings spread. When she looked him up and down, she noticed that he had the wings of a dragonfly, long and shining and delicate, and cleft hooves in place of feet. He tilted his head at her, and that’s when she noticed that she had spent the past few seconds staring at him, in complete silence. “Um… Hello.” She responded, and it came out in a mumble. He kept looking at her — she was afraid he might not have heard her. She opened her mouth to repeat herself when a soft smile came across his face. Her stomach growled furiously, and Penny’s face flushed red, embarrassed. The man’s smile faltered, just a tiny bit, before coming back over his face in full force. “I see you’re hungry,” he stated, reaching for the plate she was going for before. He cut into the cake, a bite of fluffy pink on the end of a gilded fork, and held it out to her. “Please, have some.” She stared at him, then stared at the cake. She knew she shouldn’t eat it; she had a sinking feeling that something terrible might happen to her if she did. But this man seemed so lovely, and her stomach argued with her every second she stood and stared at it. She leaned forward, took a bite of weird cake in her mouth, and started to chew. It was the strangest dessert she’d ever had. It tasted sweet and salty simultaneously, almost like caramel popcorn, but earthier and nuttier. The aftertaste was so sickeningly sweet that she knew she would need a sip of water afterward. But once she swallowed, her hunger dissipated entirely, and the sweetness left her mouth. The faerie man spoke up. “I don’t think I’ve ever met you before, and I make it my duty to know everyone who enters my parties,” he said, his voice melodic and friendly. He sat the plate back on the table, turning to her with full attention. “*Y-Your* parties?” She asked, bewildered. *What a strange and gracious host…* He nodded and chuckled, a light, airy sound that suggested he thoroughly enjoyed himself. Although, how could he? She was just a human girl in ragged pajamas who just so happened to stumble into his party. Penny looked around at the inhuman dancers and the extravagant setting of the party. After a pause, she asked, “Is all of this real?” She knew her imagination, and it could have easily dreamt up all of this; part of her sort of hoped that it did. The stranger’s smile widened. “As real as it gets,” he said, his green eyes sparkling. Penny's curiosity got the best of her as she watched him, his wings flitting like a bug’s and his hooves clicking on the marble. “What kind of a party is this exactly?” she asked, looking out at the men with pointy ears and long curling horns, and the green-skinned ladies in large hoop skirts. This stranger and his guests were obviously not human, but were they really faeries? Or just ornately costumed? Yes, maybe this was a costume party, or some sort of prank. “It’s a gathering of my court. The elves, the pixies, the sprites… All the creatures of my kingdom in the Otherworld.” The stranger said, seemingly glad to tell her all about him and his people. Now, this confirmed it; this *was* an otherworldly affair. Penny instantly regretted coming here, eating the cake, talking to this faerie man — who was actually a *king*. She had to find some way to leave and get back home, while being as polite as possible; after all, the fae were easily offended. She gasped, an idea forming. “Oh! I wasn’t invited! I didn’t mean to intrude on your party, sir.” He laughed again, leaning in closer. “*Sir?* Please, call me Finvarra. And, as for your invitation, I’ll make an exception for you. There’s no reason to kick out a lovely girl who just so happened to wander in.” Penny’s confidence faltered, her idea for escape shot down. “Actually, I’m quite glad you did; I don’t have a partner to dance with. Would you like to?” He asked, holding out his hand to her. Just as she felt pulled to oblige, her mind rang with caution. She recalled what the stories said would happen if you danced with the faeries: you would *never* return home; you would dance with them forever until you withered away. Penny looked back up at him, his hand outstretched, eager to dance with *her* — the shy redhead in pajamas — of all people. She could tell now that, just like the hunger, this flattery she felt was clearly some sort of magic, pulling her to do Finvarra’s bidding. She weighed her options and made her decision. “Yes, I’d love to dance.” Her hands clamped hard over her mouth. That was not what she had wanted to say. It felt like something came up her throat and forced her tongue to move against her will. Just a fluke. She cleared her throat to try again. “I mean…” She started, already forming the sentence in her head: *I’m sorry, but I have to decline.* “Yes, I’d like to dance with you.” *WHAT IS GOING ON?* She was starting to sweat. She wiped her brow, preparing to try and correct herself a third time when Finvarra spoke. “Splendid.” He looked pleased, and Penny wondered if he knew this would happen. *Of course he knew this would happen!* She yelled at herself. *He’s a faerie king!* He took her hand from her side, not even bothering to offer his first. She tried to wiggle from his grasp, but it was no use. It seemed that whatever magic that was making her speak in opposites was also affecting her motor functions; she meandered after him, having little to no control over her limbs. Halfway to the dance floor, Finvarra turned and stopped, his face lighting up, as if he’d forgotten something. “Oh! Your clothes. It completely slipped my mind.” He said, in a sing-song voice. He then waved his hands at her, like a child playing wizards. It took a confusing second before Penny realized that when he’d waved his hands, her old graphic t-shirt and pajama shorts magically, astoundingly, turned into a ball gown. A full ball gown of black lace fitted with hoop skirts, petticoats, and golden buttons trailing from a high neckline. She would have loved the dress, if it weren’t for the circumstances. She tried moving again for good measure. But, alas, when she attempted to turn for the large doors leading outside, her feet stayed glued to the pristine marble. She cursed to herself. “Much better.” Finvarra muttered, retaking her hand and leading her out among the other dancers. He placed one hand in hers and the other on her waist. Her limbs moved into position on their own, though she kept struggling for freedom. The orchestra struck up a new waltz. It was slow and melancholy; it perfectly matched Penny’s mood. As they danced — her not even stepping on his feet, which told her that this was definitely a spell — she noticed her fingers getting tingly. Within the next few seconds, her entire forearm felt like it had fallen asleep. Then her legs got cold; she started tripping over her feet, even though she was still under this strange spell. After a full minute from the start of the dance, her limbs had gone frigid. She shivered uncontrollably, her mind starting to go as numb as her limbs. Using whatever brainpower she had left, she tried to think of a way to break free; every second she spent dancing, the spell seemed to take away more of her body. She tripped over her foot again. When she glanced up, Finvarra looked down at her, a smug smile on his lips. Yes, he definitely knew what he was doing. He then looked around at the other dancers — his subjects — obviously trying to gain their approval. At that moment, she realized that he was a cruel man and that he only cared about himself. *He only cares about himself…* And then the idea hit her. As she stood and started dancing again — her body moving on its own — Finvarra stared into her eyes. He knew what she was feeling; he had probably done it to hundreds of other human girls. She vowed that she wouldn’t be as mindless as them. After all, she now knew his weakness. “Are you enjoying yourself?” Finvarra asked, a malicious smirk crossing his masked features. This was her chance. *Yes.* “No.” The words escaped her, the truth. Finvarra’s face turned sour. *I want to stay forever and never leave your side.* “I want to be rid of whatever spell you put on me. I want to leave and never see your face again.” This time, his face turned to a scowl. Then, enraged, as he noticed the other dancers had stopped and were now observing them curiously. His hands left hers, and he practically jumped away from her, like she was poisonous. She stayed perfectly stationary, still under the spell, although her body grew colder and colder. Finvarra glanced around at the other dancers. He coughed and straightened the lapels of his suit. He looked at her with such a hatred, such a look of dismay, that she would have physically recoiled if not for the spell. He looked her in the eyes and sighed. “Fine, then. Go.” He waved his hands at her again, like he had with the dress. A few seconds passed. She tried to move but still couldn't. Just when she thought that he was playing a cruel joke on her, the dizziness started to set in. The ballroom spun in sickening circles. She fell to the ground, surrounded by the strange faerie dancers. The last thing she saw before her eyes closed was Finvarra’s gaze as if saying, *“I had so much planned for you. What a pity.”* And then, darkness... \~\~\~ She awoke with her back on the cracked stone of the cathedral’s main hall, her face upward to the caved-in ceiling, observing the brightening sky. Daybreak. But it was not too early for anyone to be up, worrying about where she had been. She willed herself to get up, stumbling to her feet like her limbs were still numb. Sadly, she wasn’t in her dress anymore, and the ballroom had made its transformation back into an ancient cathedral. She was just glad that she hadn’t left a glass slipper. She could still see Finvarra’s face in her head, so handsome and kind and fake. So sickeningly fake, like the little pink dessert. She promised herself that she would pay more attention to grandmother’s fairytales, for her own good. And that she would pretend that the ballroom, the dancers, the cake, and Finvarra, were all a dream. A terrifying dream, one that you take guidance from after waking. She walked to the crumbling archway, her boots echoing on the old stone, grabbed her flashlight from where she had dropped it, and fled into the woods. Author's Note: I wrote this short story for a short story and poetry contest hosted by my local library (I ended up winning 3rd place!). I was inspired mainly by some of my favorite Irish fairytales, as well as the ballroom scene from Labyrinth.

Once upon a time there was a young boy who had nothing. Truthfully, he had less than nothing. He lived in a small town full of werewolves, witches, and ghosts galore, but he was human, one of the Forsaken. To make matters worse, he was an orphan. One particularly bad day, he had an idea. On the outskirts of town lived the vampires. And vampires take care of their own. They don’t steal food or clothes like desperate orphans do. No, they keep each other well fed and comfortable. And the boy yearned for that. So, later that night, when all the other orphans were asleep, he crept out of the orphanage and turned towards the hills outside of town. He knew in his gut that this would be his last night alone. - Once upon a time a vampire ruled atop a lonely throne. She was respected by many, but loved by few, and of those few she trusted even less. She knew the truth, you see. She knew that vampires are not kind, nor are they loyal. It’s true that they guard each other from the outside, but they will turn on one another in a heartbeat. So she ruled with an iron fist, fearing that if she loosened her grip, she would lose everything. This made certain aspects of her unlife hard. After all, she might not care that the blood tribute was a pint short, but if she didn’t bring retribution, the others would challenge her power. And when less benign rulers came into power, more than a few pints of blood ran in the streets. Her strict rules made things hard for her at times. The day she discovered a Forsaken in her home was one of those times. - Celia strode down a hall lit by dim torches. Despite their flames, the hall leading down into the dungeon was cold. Fitting for a place of sorrow and despair. Even though it stayed empty in recent times, the last tenant of the manor used the dank basement liberally, and she suspected that angry ghosts remained nearby. She was only going there now because of a summons from her most loyal servant and friend, Johnny, who supposedly discovered a Forsaken One trying to break in. She wiped auburn hair from her face and straightened her black dress, then went around a corner into a side room where Johnny was waiting for her. The old man was wiry, and wore a suit that at one time would have been very nice, but time had not been kind to him or the suit. “Ah, Miss Celia, thank you for coming. Here is the Forsaken One that I caught sneaking into the courtyard. He claims he’s here to see you.” Celia looked at the small, skinny boy, tied to a chair. His mouth was pressed into a thin line and his eyes looked nearly feral. Celia knelt down so she was eye level with the boy. “Untie him. This is no way to treat a guest.” “But, Miss, we still don’t know why he was sneaking in, and -“ “He is a child, Johnny. Don’t make me ask again.” “Yes, of course.” “Let’s cut to the chase, why are you here?” asked Celia. The boy looked into her blood red eyes for a moment, then fearfully looked away. “I w-want to be-become a vampire.” Celia was taken aback. Sure, some people wanted the life of a vampire, but they were few and far between. None of them had ever been so young. “Tell me, boy, how old are you?” The boy looked puzzled. “Thirteen. Why?” “A thirteen year old boy breaks into my home and says he wants to be a vampire. That’s a first. It’s also a good way to get yourself killed. Be glad that Johnny found you. A lesser vampire would have drained you there and then.” The boy gulped. “Well, will you make me a vampire?” “No!” exclaimed Johnny. “Vampirism isn’t a jacket you can take on and off whenever you feel like it! It’s a curse that you have to live with forever. To turn you at thirteen years old would be cruel! You should have more sense than to ask for this.” Celia examined the boy closer. His clothes were raggedy and patched. Bruises covered just about every surface of his body. As soon as Johnny rose his voice, the boy winced. Celia lowered her voice to just above a whisper. “Tell me, why do you want to be a vampire?” The boy rubbed his wrists. “I thought if I became a vampire you might take care of me, then I wouldn’t have to go back to the orphanage.” “Why don’t you tell me about the orphanage,” prompted Celia. “I don’t like it there. Helga is mean to us. She doesn’t give us much food, and then the other kids steal mine because they’re hungry too. She makes us work all day, and if we don’t do enough, she makes us sleep in the floor.” “Do you have a name, boy?” asked Johnny. The boy nodded. “My name is Cur. Or at least, that’s what people call me. Helga says that’s my name because no one would ever want me.” She felt for the boy, but years of hardening herself kept any emotions from showing through. “Let me tell you a story, Cur. A long time ago, a young girl lived happily with her family. They lived in fear because they were Forsaken, but she didn’t understand that. She was happy. “One day, a visitor came. What she didn’t know was that every month her parents paid a ‘protection tax’ to the vampire lord. They didn’t pay in time, so he came to visit. The little girl, hiding in a closet, heard the sounds of her parents dying. Then he found her. “He told her that her family broke the rules, and that meant they had to pay the price, even her. She had two options. Become a servant in his house, or die.” Cur was shaking now, and spoke with barely a whisper. “What did she choose?” Celia leaned in close. “I chose to live.” She backed away, then drew a dagger that was hidden away in her clothes. She held it to Cur’s throat, and a small trickle of blood came out. “You broke the rules, Cur, and everyone must pay the price. Even orphans. So I’ll give you the same choice that was given to me. Stay here, in my house, and be my servant, or I’ll give you a swift death. It’s up to you.” It was the only option. She couldn’t let him go, or she would look weak, and weak vampires don’t survive. But she knew by the fire in his eyes that this boy would never choose death. Cur looked at the blood pooling on the gleaming blade. “If I stay here, you won’t send me back to the orphanage, right?” “That’s right.” “Then I’ll stay. I’ll do whatever you want, whenever you want. I swear I’ll make you proud.” Celia withdrew the blade. She wiped the blade clean, then stowed it away. Then she turned away, but stopped at the door. “Johnny, show him to the servant’s quarters and get him something to eat. Oh, and Cur, you need to know something.” Cur mindlessly held the cut on his neck, but looked up to Celia expectantly. “A cur tends to be unwanted, but they are stronger because of it. And they don’t hesitate to lash out at anything causing them pain. Make your name a strength, and no one can use it against you.” - Once upon a time there was a wicked woman who ran an orphanage. She was cruel and heartless, and all the kids feared her. One night, a little fiend of a child ran away, but she didn’t care about him. She was just angry that one of her little workers had disappeared. That night, the child rested easy. He had a bed all to himself, and a hot meal made it even better. And while he was dreaming, the wicked woman had an unexpected visitor. No one knows exactly what happened to her that night. Some say she was paid well to leave town. Others say she had a secret lover and the two of them eloped. But the people on the edge of town have a different theory. For they heard the screams that night, and they found what was left the next morning. But the exact story matters not, for the wicked woman was never seen again.

The year is 2034 and has taken a drastic and dark turn. Public executions have become a national spectator event, being broadcast live and tickets sold at a premium. The events have become so popular that within a few short years, prisons began to run out of death row inmates and so, courts across the country were quietly urged by politicians and prison boards to come down harder on defendants under the guise of being “tough on crime”. No more than 3 years later, it became apparent that the true crime rate could never keep pace with the demand for entertainment and the lucrative streams of revenue for the prisons, local politicians, and networks would end. Or would it? Politicians who whispered these things amongst themselves began saying the quiet parts out loud. “Perhaps,” they reasoned, “a truly crime-free society was actually attainable!” And, “Naturally,” they argued, “surely a crime-free society would be worth any cost!” So it became easy to justify any crime, in deed or thought, worthy of death. Like Prisoner #10896, a young man, perhaps no more than 19, who had been brought to the arena before the crowds. Within the center of the arena is a large pool about 4-feet deep. His hands are bound by steel cuffs in front of him and he wears a plain white prison jumpsuit. His crimes are announced without any specificity (“sexual immorality”) to loud and chaotic jeering. Then, his sentence is announced to thunderous cheers: execution by “quenching”. The man is brought into the pool where 6 men stand in waist-deep water. A prayer to their god is spoken and the crowd responds in kind and bows their heads. Then with the sound of a few light and airy chimes, the main event begins. The first man grabs the prisoner by the throat while sweeping his legs and thrusting the teen’s whole body under water. But he does not hold the teen under water. On the contrary, the teen is allowed to surface on his own power. But the moment he takes his first breath, another man replicates the first’s and this process is repeated. Each time the teen resurfaces, he is able to gasp less and less air. And that is ultimately the point—that eventually, in a gruesome perversion of a baptism, the prisoner is drowned unless a miracle—a sign from their god himself—causes them to stop. Because, after all, it would only be god-like to allow for last minute salvation and mercy. By the fourth gasp for air, the teen begins to use what precious little breath he has to shout, “I am saved!” He gasps as his head is once again forced under water. “He has revealed—“, he calls, but he is interrupted once more by the water filling his mouth. The teen continues to try to cry out over the applause and as his words begin to reach them, instead of inspiring mercy and forgiveness, it enrages them. Members of the crowd by the dozens pour into the arena floor and become impromptu “quenchers” themselves. Refusing to hear the teen’s confession of faith, disbelieving any possible salvation or divine merit of mercy. Members of the public pass him between each other until the succession of dunks do not even let him draw the smallest plea of air. And quite shortly after they join, he no longer resurfaces. The crowd cheers and hoots and stamp their feet creating an effect like rumbling thunder. And in between the very tiny spaces of claps and cheers—a fraction of a heartbeat’s length of silence—a precious few, an unnoticeable minority, hang their heads in disgust and shame.

It was a warm summer night in the small town of Summer Valley. Hidden between old buildings, there was a little, colorful bar called "Rainbow Refuge." Here, Toni, a young man with a radiant smile and a heart full of hope, felt at home. Toni had always felt different. He had known his identity from an early age and had never been ashamed of it, but the world around him wasn't always kind. In school, he was often ridiculed, and even now, as an adult, he could still feel the sharp looks and hear the whispers behind his back. Tonight was a special night. It was the annual Pride Party at the Rainbow Refuge, and Toni had dressed up for the occasion. His outfit sparkled in the light of the colorful string lights adorning the bar, and his smile was infectious. Yet deep inside, he sometimes still felt like the little boy who wondered if he would ever truly belong. As Toni entered the bar, he was greeted by a wave of warmth and acceptance. His friends, a vibrant mix of people, waved at him, and he hurried over to join them. The music was loud, and the mood was exuberant. For a moment, Toni felt light and free. Suddenly, he noticed someone at the edge of the dance floor. It was a tall, handsome man with an aura that instantly attracted Toni. He didn't know why, but something about this stranger felt familiar. Boldly, as he sometimes was, Toni approached him. "Hey, I'm Toni," he said, extending his hand. The man smiled and took his hand. "I'm Alex. Nice to meet you." They started talking, and Toni felt like he had known Alex forever. They laughed, danced, and lost themselves in conversations about their dreams and fears. Alex told Toni about his travels and adventures, and Toni shared his hopes and the challenges he had faced. As the night went on, the party slowly wound down. Toni and Alex found themselves sitting on a bench outside the bar, looking up at the starry sky. Toni felt strangely happy and yet anxious. He knew he had fallen for Alex in a short time, and it scared him. "You know, sometimes I feel like an outsider, like I'm not enough," Toni said softly. Alex put an arm around him and pulled him close. "You are more than enough, Toni. You are wonderful just as you are. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise." In that moment, Toni knew he no longer had to judge himself. He might not be perfect, but he was himself, and that was enough. He smiled and leaned into Alex. The world might not always be kind, but here and now, in the arms of a friend, he felt safe and loved. Their gazes met, and without a word, their lips found each other. The kiss was electric, sending shivers down Toni's spine. His heart raced as Alex's hands roamed gently but eagerly over his body. The sensation was thrilling, and Toni felt a fire ignite within him. They moved to a more secluded corner, hidden from the view of others. The night air was warm, and their bodies pressed close together, heat radiating between them. Alex's touch was both tender and passionate, making Toni's breath hitch with anticipation. The chemistry between them was undeniable, and every touch, every kiss, deepened the connection they felt. In the quiet of the night, with only the stars as witnesses, Toni and Alex lost themselves in each other. It was a night of discovery, of passion, and of newfound intimacy. As the dawn began to break, they lay entwined, content and exhausted, knowing that what they had found in each other was something truly special. For Toni, it was not just a night of passion but a beginning. He realized he wasn't alone, that he was enough just as he was, and that he could find love and acceptance in the most unexpected places. The world might be challenging, but with Alex by his side, Toni felt ready to face whatever came his way.

Through her tinted vizier, she watched people come in and out of the bar. Motionless were her movements as her eyes tracked a man in a thick hooded coat approach. Sat in the corner of a booth she tucked the blade of ice connected to her elbow behind her cloak just before the man sat down across from her. She didn’t move or show any sign she even recognized his presence, but he leaned towards her anyhow. “Hello there”, he tipped his head down in a nod as he spoke. Eyeing him through the one-way crystalline glass he pulled away for a moment to seemingly look at the other patrons who all moved plenty. Now jittering back and forth he called a waiter over and asked for two of their strongest drinks. “Do you usually come to smaller places like this?” The man turned to her as the drinks were brought over. Taking one for himself then sliding one over to her he took a sip and after making a strange face waited for a response. Finally moving her left hand which previously rested on her spiked knee, she took the glass and while lifting her mask with the other hand downed the whole thing cleanly then set it down next to her pile of empty drinks. After that, she moved exactly back to her previous position with not a shred of movement or response. The waiting face of the man vanished almost entirely as he pushed his drink to the side and moved closer with shaking hands. “Do you know anything about Nitrogen?” He asked in a quieter voice. Ever so slightly her head tilted as something in her mind clicked. Slowly her free hand moved to her sidearm ready on the trigger. “Do you?” Her voice echoed through her helmet in a frostier tone than usual. The man leaned back with a frightful expression visible under his fur hood. “Not much, not much”, he clarified further with hand motions. “In fact, I know very little, it was a miracle I managed to track you down”. Her head now visibly turned to look at him as she aimed at his stomach under the table with her weapon. “Track me down?” Her helmet reverberated with somehow an even more malicious voice. “Whoa, whoa, whoa” he exclaimed. “I’m merely seeking your aid, I have no ill will towards you”. Her ice-ringed eyes darted across his face to analyze any minute expression he was making. Pulling her aim down slightly she made sure to lift a bit of the malice in her words away. “I do not ‘aid’, whatever you know is wrong”. With shaking hands the man went for his drink once more. After taking a sip he explained further. “My son was taken by a man from Hollis, someone I figured you’d want to know the location of”. After hearing the word Hollis her eyebrows raised under her helmet. “Who and why”, she asked straightly. With seemingly more confidence the man straightened up. “Who exactly I don’t know, he’s some high-ranking official for SHOCK. And my son is known for his rather lenient behavior towards the local insurrection which gets our house in quite the trouble however, our family would still like him back”. With not even a flutter of emotion in her cold heart she lifted her finger off the trigger and sat up for one reason. “Do you know exactly where this official is in the Nivir?” Her frozen voice queried. “Yes, it's not too far from here”, he said nodding his head as a matter of fact. Holstering her sidearm then moving her ice covered hand to the bottom of her helmet she began to think. “If I get the location, I could have the official dead by tonight”. Watching the man’s face behind the hood she could tell he was going through a mix of emotions due to the lack of any mention of his son. Setting her uncovered hand on the table she attempted to lock eyes beneath the mask. “I already told you, I do not ‘aid’”, her voice said coldly. Tapping his fingers on the wooden table at an increasingly fast rate he was quiet for a long moment. “Then instead I’ll go with you”. Dimming her eyes to slits she focused on his determined yet inexperienced older face. “Not happening, you would be a liability”, she put it bluntly. With an unchanging expression, the man now sat still. “I will take care of myself and my son, just get me in along with you, please”, closing his eyes and holding his hands together he waited. Pondering for a moment she could be mistaken as a statue. “Fine, I’m not responsible for your death, we leave now”. Standing up suddenly she stacked a couple of coins next to her empty glasses and waited for him. As he slowly slid out of the booth, she held an arm out to block him. “One more thing, how do you know about Nitrogen? Only SHOCK uses that name for me”. With a straight face, the man stared for a second. “It's something that often comes up in places it shouldn’t, you have a bigger effect on them than you know”, he responded without a stutter of hesitation. A micro-expression flashed across her dark lips for a moment as she dropped her arm to the side. “Nix, that’s my real name”. Moving out of the way the man stood up in a slight bow towards her. “Journ Varhir, I am indebted to you”, he stated with pleasantries someone from her old village would have never heard in their entire life span. Searching in her mind for the family name Varhir she didn’t recall anything substantial. Most likely a higher house in a lower city if he was around anyone from SHOCK. Nodding slowly, she turned for the door. Quickly attempting to catch up Journ followed close behind until they reached the edge of town. “Now the location”, her voice reverberated into the wind. “Right”, he said while digging into his coat. Flipping out a small piece of paper he started walking. “I’ll lead us there”, Journ turned back to her and spoke against the rising wind. A little disgruntled, she kept her mouth shut while they walked. The circumstances weren’t ideal, but she could overlook the risk just to get a chance at a high-value target. Stepping through the powdered snow behind him, they trekked around a mountain until the sun set and eventually overlooked the city Kojhaholi. One of the largest in the Nivir due to SHOCK's interest in it, it was blazing with color at night. Even Hollis was only bright in the inner city, but Kojhaholi’s light spread around to the farthest corners of its edges. “What building is it?” She asked. Staring at her then at the paper then back at her, he was already taking too long. “Just tell me what one it is, we’re too close for me to leave you behind now”, Nix frostily said with little patience. “The two-story building on the very edge”, he pointed. Tracking the direction of his finger, she spotted the relatively large L-shaped structure. Magnifying the zoom in her helmet she examined it closer. Mostly flat grey walls covered the exterior with no windows in sight. The roof was level aside from some antennas and besides the front entrance there was a metal staircase leading to a second-floor door on the outside, likely a fire escape. Counting only four visible guards her mind started puzzling together possible entry plans. Demagnifying, she pulled her bow from her shoulder and scoped in. Picking out the soldier guarding the backside, she pulled the trigger and watched the ice collide with his chest sending him into the wall motionless. Unscoping she pulled a shell from her pouch and inserted it into the bow before stepping over to the edge of the hill. “Follow closely”. Swiftly she slid to the bottom and approached the building. Passing the soldier bolted to the wall she peaked around the corner weapon raised. In front of her was the staircase and beside it the other guard. Sliding back around the corner she put her rifle away and motioned for Journ to stay put. On quiet steps, she snuck around behind him and in the moment he was about to turn around she lunged. With a hand over his mouth and the other on his trigger finger, she manifested everything cold from within, and slowly shards of ice began emanating from her palms to her fingertips. Hot breath that shouted soon faded into something colder than the snow that caked the ground. All struggling faded as his face began to crack and shards of his hand fell from his body. Letting him fall into the snow she looked over at Journ staring from around the wall. “Search him for a card to open the door”, her helmet whispered out. Then ascending the stairs she leaped for the edge of the roof and scaled up to the top. Walking towards the front of the building she made sure the two guards there weren’t alerted before crouching down to inspect the antennas. Pulling out a creation from the bag on her lower back she placed it at the bottom almost where they joined to the roof. With a bit of work, she was connected somewhat to the building. A surface-level tap like this didn’t offer much information itself, but through the scattered data, she was able to recreate a very rough map of the interior. Walking back toward the staircase, Journ was now holding a rectangular black card in his hand. Hopping down beside him she pulled her rifle out and trained it on the door. Nodding to him a beep sounded it unlocking. Smoothly she moved in clearing the hallway to the left while he entered. “Close it behind you”, she said while moving around the corner of another hallway. With the click of it relocking she turned around to face him. “What you’re looking for is down this way”, she spoke as quietly as she could while pointing the tip of her rifle around the corner. Now standing next to her with a brave face she couldn’t believe what she was doing. Pulling her sidearm out with her free hand she set it into his. “If something happens to it, your son is next”, her mask muffled out with no remorse. Moving to the other side of the corner she looked at him a last time. “The holding room is down the stairs to the left”. With another nod, she focused her aim on the long hallway she was about to move down. As she took a step, she heard a small “thank you” and Journ was gone down his. A few more seconds of pause went by before she started down hers again, but once she was going, she didn’t look back. The official was likely to be around what she assumed were guest rooms. At the very end of the amply lit hall laid more doors cut into the bright white steel that looked out of the ordinary in the Nivir. With nothing left but to guess she twisted the nob of a room open. Through the darkness with her vizer, she could immediately tell it was a soldier's barracks full of sleeping men. Not what she initially wanted she pulled a spherical object from her bag and slid it into the void then closed the door. Moving to the next two yielded the same thing resulting in the same spheres rolling in. The last two doors were slightly different in minor ways. Both possessed locks and eye holes for the safety of whoever was inside. Unlike the others as well, one of them still had a light on which broke through the cracks of the door. Craving more intel, she chose to enter the lightless one first as if the layout was the same, she could get a better idea of how to breach. Whether or not it was empty she didn’t know, but she knew for a fact that the other one wasn’t so this was safer. Setting her uncovered hand on the knob she pushed the cold which ran through her body into the metal. Slowly, spires of crystalline ice spread from the points of contact enveloping that section of the door. With a twist and a shove part of the structure snapped allowing her in. Seeing through the darkness she entered bow first. To her left a wall directly next to the door which swung to the right. Checking that side of the room revealed a large bed, chair, and desk looking starkly different from the hallway, but noticeably empty. If they weren’t in this room, it only left one other possible location. As she stepped out into the hallway she heard faint bangs below her, then voices and the clicking of metal next to her. Suddenly the room with the light on opened and out walked two unarmed SHOCK soldiers. Quickly aiming, one of them was immediately pelted to the end of the hall by a rod of dark ice. The other grabbed ahold of her barrel before being kneed in the stomach by her ice spike. Immediately, blood tipped its edge and spilled onto the clean white floor. Taking her left hand, she vice gripped his throat and started pushing cold through it. With the ice spike on her other arm, she angled it around to jab into his side giving her the opening to squeeze the trigger. Jolting loose from her partially frozen grip the body landed in the open doorway, behind it a cleanly shaven man in formal SHOCK attire. Without hesitance her last shell exited the rifle as an arrow, spilling crimson all over the fancy black fabric. For a split second, she almost thought things were clear until the ruckus of awakening men flooded through the walls. With a calm frost in her voice “detonate shards one through three”. Rapidly all previous sound was cut away in a dash of fragmentation carnage. Nothing in such a small room was surviving that. Kneeling in respite, she cleaned the blood from her spikes and then moved to confirm her target's death. Reloading three more shells as she went, it was now best to regroup and leave as soon as possible. If any guards got the word out it would make escape more difficult than it needed to be. Following the path she laid out for Journ, heavy thumps got closer as she reached the bottom of the stairs. Scoped in and waiting toward the direction of the sound, she seamlessly pulled the trigger twice as more guards rounded a corner. Not slowing her down at all she hurried past them while sliding two more cartridges into her bows slot. Running down the bright halls she approached the holding area cautiously. One of the cell doors was agape with a side hall leading to the actual room. Sneaking inside she paused upon entering. Before her two bodies sat slumped against the wall leaning on one another. With a large fur coat and familiar weapon, dark red was still dripping from fresh bullet holes. Crouching next to him she almost felt a tinge of regret for not carrying any medical supplies on her, but when she realized his eyes were already glassy any thought of that vanished. “You knew what you were getting into” somberly her mask echoed. Sliding his eyes closed, she took her sidearm from his hand and looked over to the other body. All blood that remained on its tattered clothing was long dried. Standing up from the scene she couldn’t figure out why she wasn’t leaving already. In a case like this the mission was done, she would have left any other time. This time something compelled her to not immediately leave. Perhaps it was duty or honor or a sense of respect, but whatever the answer she couldn’t believe what she was doing. With a lot of effort and balancing she managed to get Journ over her shoulder awkwardly. He wouldn’t go back to his family alive, but she would at least make sure SHOCK had no reason to suspect anything more from them. Sidearm in one hand and body in the other she managed to escape without any obstacles. Disappearing down the metal stairs into the frigid night the same way they came in, she was alone in the end once more.

Once upon a time, there was a young man, headstrong and clear about his desires in life. Despite his youth, he possessed a unique sense of purpose. He had recently moved into a small neighborhood nestled in the forest just outside of town, eager to start a new chapter of his life. One day, while out on a walk, he encountered two beautiful young girls who had recently moved into the neighborhood, each living on opposite sides of the neighborhood. Despite their contrasting natures, they got along remarkably well. The first girl was incredibly smart. She wore glasses and had a stunning head of golden curls. She loved to weave stories for her friends, tales of fantastic beasts, heroic adventures, and the mysteries of space and stars. Her gentle nature reflected her love for all living things. She dreamed of going to college and becoming someone who made a difference. Her dreams were as brilliant as her spirit and very achievable. Her name was Yellow. The second girl was a blend of fierceness and peace. She exuded a calm and serene demeanor but could become piercingly unpredictable when needed. Never mean, she had a somber side when necessary and a fierce determination when required. Unlike Yellow, she was not as ambitious. She cherished life as it was, content and complacent, wanting to see where it would naturally lead her. Her name was Blue. Both just as beautiful. That day, they decided to be friends. They spent a lot of time together—sometimes all three of them, and other times one on one. As the years went by, they became best friends, almost inseparable. Despite their friendship, the young man found himself falling in love with both of them, but he never confessed his feelings. They explored the woods together, venturing as far as they could and sharing countless stories. Always led by Yellow's ambition and curious nature. The more time they spent together, the deeper the young man’s love grew. Then, without warning, Yellow left. She disappeared without telling anyone, breaking the young man’s heart. He had loved her deeply but never told her. He searched everywhere and asked everyone, but no one knew where she had gone, or even seemed to remember her. Devastated, he and Blue mourned the loss of their friend and tried to move on. With Yellow gone, the young man’s time and attention were now focused solely on Blue. The two of them grew up together, transitioning into adulthood. Blue remained as content and serene as ever. As more years passed, the young man’s love for Blue deepened, though a part of his heart still belonged to Yellow. He never truly moved on from her departure, but Blue was always there to support him, sharing in his sorrow. After all, she had been friends with Yellow too. One morning the young man heard a knock on the door. To his surprise when he opened the door, it was Yellow. He began to weep. After so many years his search was finally over. He finally found his long lost love. All his feelings came back to him like a rush of water. He embraced her tightly and they both fell to their knees. She started to cry as well. The only words to come out of her mouth was “im sorry”. After they collected themselves they called Blue over and celebrated her return. They asked her many times what had happened. To this day they never got a real answer. Naturally, she was reintegrated back into their lives. They became a trio again. Once again they were spending time together like before, but this time as adults. They had cars and money and real places beyond the forest to explore. So the group once again was led by Yellow’s ambition to adventure. They went off to new places, the three of them. Saw new things and met new people and ate new foods. The young man fell in love with her all over again. He was back to a heart divided. After all this time he still never told either of them how he felt. However, the fun couldn’t last forever. As Yellow’s ambition to achieve her dreams grew, she wanted to do more. Blue remained content and wanted to enjoy life as it was. The young man found himself at a crossroads, torn between his love for Yellow and his love for Blue. He knew this day would come, a day when a decision had to be made. So after a month of pondering he decided he wanted to follow his own path. He decided to get as far away from them both as possible. Not out of resentment or disdain, but because it hurt him too much to pick. If he chose one, he would never really be happy. The thought of leaving either of them behind tore at his heart though, creating an unbearable pain that seemed to suffocate him. Each time he thought about it, it felt like a wound reopening, yet he knew it was the only way to find solace. His love for both of them was so profound that to favor one would betray the other, and in that betrayal, he would lose a part of himself. The ache of his divided heart was a constant reminder of what he was giving up. The day came when Yellow announced she had enrolled in the college of her dreams. It was time for her to leave once more, just when it seemed they had only just gotten her back. That same day, the young man decided to speak up and tell them he was leaving too, in a different direction, far from home and even farther from them. At that moment, he broke down, unable to bear it any longer. After 15 years, he finally confessed his feelings, speaking with such passion, affection, and love that each word was like a symphony to their ears. When he finished, he sat down and just cried. The silence between them was deafening. They both stared at him. Teary eyed and dazed. Not much was said after that. The night came soon and they all just wanted to go home. After a few exchanged words, they said their goodnights and farewells, each going their separate ways. A trio a lifetime in the making, broken in an hour. The young man left a few days later, his heart shattering completely when neither Blue nor Yellow came to see him off or say goodbye. For months, they didn’t speak—not one letter, just complete silence. It burned him deeply. Every second was filled with tears, every minute felt like an eternity, and every day was a struggle. All he could think about was them. He tried so hard to forget about them. He did everything he could. But everything reminded him of them. Every tree, every creek, every story he heard. It all just reminded him of them. Years go by and he traveled the world. Never staying in one place. How could he? He knew there had to be a place farther from them. A place that's beyond even memories. He grew older and older. He never found the perfect place nor did he ever move on. His love was so strong it never wore away even after his body did. After so many years he couldnt travel anymore. So he decided to settle down where it all began. He went home. The only place he ever really called home. When he got there all that was left was one house amidst a dense forest. Well maintained and lived in. He walked up to the door and on it hung a sign that read “I kept it warm for you. -Blue” He opened the door but no one was there. He looked around to find anyone but he was all alone. He found old pictures of the three of them hung on the wall with notes on each one. They all read different things like memories of those days or comments about the picture. He sat on his old couch and on the table was a note. He picked it up with trembling hands and he began to read Dear Logan, You finally made it home after so many years. I wish I could be there to see you. I wish I could have said goodbye all those years ago, and I'm sorry I didn't. I was scared that if I saw you, I would have gone with you. But my place was always here. Yellow left shortly after you did. She missed you, but only as a friend. That’s all she ever wanted. She was in love with her dreams and ambitions, always seeing only what she wanted and going after it. She really made it seem like there was a choice, didn’t she? Like your love was warranted. We both saw it. When you confessed, it wasn’t a shock—we just didn’t know what to say. We both knew how you felt. Why she led you on is beyond me. She knew you loved her but made it seem like you had a chance. Like you could choose. But even if you had chosen her, she would have left anyway. To her, you were a friend, and that’s all it ever was. But for me, I knew you loved me, and I wish you had said something sooner. I loved you too, but I never spoke up. It’s partially my fault. I was too content with things as they were to start something new. We were meant to be, but fate had other plans, I guess. I waited for you, but you never came back. The only reason you left was because she made you feel like you had to choose. In our eyes, there was really only one option. I wish we had said something sooner. Maybe in another life, we could have made it work. Until then, know that you were always loved. See you when you get here. Love, Blue As He read the note, tears welled up in his eyes, and he felt a profound sense of sorrow mixed with a strange relief. Blue's words echoed in the quiet house, filling the empty spaces with the love and regrets of a lifetime. He sat on the old couch, memories flooding back, each one more vivid than the last. As the sun began to set, casting a warm glow through the windows, Logan felt a sense of peace he hadn’t felt in years. He knew that his journey had come full circle. He stood up and walked outside, feeling the cool evening breeze on his face. He wandered through the familiar paths of the forest, each step bringing back a memory of his youth. He realized that Blue had been right—this place was his true home, the only place where he felt truly at peace. Days turned into weeks, and Logan slowly began to rebuild his life in the place where it all started. He tended to the house and the garden, finding solace in the simple routines. He wrote letters to Blue, though he had no address to send them to, pouring out his thoughts and feelings, hoping that somehow, she would know. As the seasons changed, Logan's health began to decline. He knew his time was coming to an end, but he felt ready. He had found his peace, and he was surrounded by the memories of those he loved. One crisp autumn evening, he sat on the porch, wrapped in a warm blanket, watching the sun set over the forest. The sky was painted with hues of orange and pink, a final gift from the sky as if it was welcoming him. As the stars began to appear, Logan closed his eyes and let out a contented sigh. He felt the presence of Yellow and Blue, their love enveloping him like a comforting embrace. With a heart full of love and memories, Logan drifted into a peaceful sleep, never to awaken. The last thing he heard as his spirit left his body was the faint sound of Blue and Yellow’s voice.

“Oh, a couple! That’s lovely.” “We’re not together,” Viggo replied instantly. “Wait… Are you Viggo?” “It depends, whatcha want?” “I heard my colleagues talking a lot about a grumpy guy with a bum leg and messy hair who does nasty things when he’s drunk.” "Yeah, I once swiped all of Gabriel's aphrodisiac jelly just to piss him off. He's still ticked off about it." Karl turned back his puzzled face at him. “... aphrodisiac jelly?” “It’s a euphemism for viagra.” “Oooh.” “Anyway, we’re not together.” “That’s okay guys, we’re in Hell. There’s no reason to be ashamed.” “No, we…” “Oh shut up, it’s not an issue,” Karl replied as he took the pink ticket from the receptionist. Despite Viggo's annoyed mumblings, Karl grabbed his arm and led him away. After a brief glance at their ticket, Karl guided them towards the restaurant's corridors. Viggo followed behind with a limp, his cane tapping on the waxed floor. "Hey, dude, why the fuck would you stop me from correcting her? We're not together!" “And so what? You could have argued with her, and the outcome would have been the same.” “But we’re not dating!” he answered, pounding the floor with his cane. “Shit, I’m not even into men!” “Well, I am, and nobody cares. But that’s not the problem, and you do whatever you want with your dead life.” Viggo gazed at him from under his red bandana, visibly confused. “Wait, you… you like men?” “You haven’t noticed it yet? Really?” “And you’re a priest?” “When I was alive, yes.” “Damn, so many defaults in one body…” he said, visibly joking. Karl paused and fixed a stern gaze on Viggo, crossing his arms over his broad chest in an attempt to exude an intimidating presence. This gesture always caused his partner to shrink like a dried plume, and needless to say that this comical response always helped Karl's irritation fade away. “Dude, are you serious? Do you really think that being a priest is a flaw?” “Yes.” “And having a fondness for men?” he said sarcastically. “This is um… this is acceptable.” “Wow,” replied Karl with an over sarcastic tone. “I’m acceptable to the eyes of the great Viggo! I’m delighted, truly delighted.” “Urgh, I hate you…” “Nooo, you don’t.” “Yes, I do.” “Nope, you don’t.” “This is so childish…” “And I’m dealing with a child. Shall we?” As they walked, they arrived at a closed door. It was made out of heavy wood, and painted in a vermilion color. They could hear the clattering of the tableware and the raucous laughter coming through the door. “Mmh…" Karl grabbed the iron doorknob, pulling the heavy red door open. As he stepped inside, his eyes scanned the room and he heard Viggo release a sigh of exasperation – it must have been the pink walls. The space was filled with round tables, each of them occupied by cheerful couples enjoying their meals. The plates in front of them were piled high with food. It was clear that some customers had been there for quite some time: their clothes had oil or wine stains. Also, their feet were chained to the ground with what should’ve been some dark roots oozing with grease. But when looking closer, Karl noticed that only a few customers had been chained. He gazed at the ticket again to know their table’s number and then looked at Viggo. He couldn't help but guffaw at his decomposed grimace. “Are you okay?” “I only like love when it’s in my songs. Damn it, I think I’m about to vomit fuckin' rainbows…” “I’m not surprised that you live alone if you’ve always thought like that.” “Fuck off…” “Sure. You come in? We should sit at our table.” He firmly took Viggo by the shoulders and guided him to their assigned table and started to look at the menu. His companion slumped in his chair and stretched out his leg while groaning. “Hey look, they have burgers!” “Karl, shouldn’t we be searchin’ for the guardian of the circle? We don’t have much time left now!” “Wow, chouquettes!” “Hey! Are you listenin' to me?” “Mh? Yeah yeah," he answered with a detached tone, scratching his black goatee, "circle, guardian, stuff… You know, we shouldn’t act like weirdos for now. Observe your surroundings, look for a moment to go away and search our guy.” He glanced at the menu, hiding his weary black eyes with his long, ebony hair. “Would you like some red wine? So you can call a waiter to come and we can ask him about the guardian.” As he received no response, he lifted his gaze towards Viggo. His eyes were filled with terror as he spotted something on Karl's back. The atmosphere around them became heavy and somber. The air was suffused with a metallic scent, and they noticed a red mist spreading out between the tables. Karl turned around slowly, holding his breath. And he saw it. Large, black antlers overcoming a customer, chewing sounds. The red mist came from a blood puddle expanding on the floor. The shape of the thing was dark, darker than the deepest night. They couldn’t move, and their blood froze in their veins when the creature gazed up to look at them with its dark eyes. Blood was pounding out of its mouth, open on pointy yellow teeth.

No one paid any attention to the ragged old man on his hands and knees vomiting in a corner of one of the numerous dark corridors of the Dredges. If they had, they may have noticed that he wasn’t so old, perhaps in his mid-thirties, and that he wore the stained and faded uniform of a vice captain of the Inter-Solar Exploration Agency beneath his tattered long coat. But his unkempt hair and over-grown beard, along with the condition of his clothing gave off the impression of both old age and bitter hardship, so no one bothered to take further note of him. Gregor Thames picked himself up off the ground slowly, the churning in his stomach subsiding for the time being. He slowly made his way down the poorly lit hall, using the metallic wall to support his trembling legs while trying to avoid stepping on the other denizens that lay slumped over on the floor. They were either in the throes of a drug-induced paralysis, the welcome abyss of sleep, or dead. Here in the Dredges, deep in the bowels of Salvation, life was about oblivion, and whatever brought it on was far better than the cold reality of the waking world. As he stumbled along, Gregor couldn’t help letting his mind wander back to his past. Indeed, it was due to his past that his mind would often take off on its own, to times when his name and position had meant something more. He was one of the first explorers to ever cross the Outer Quadrant, beyond Pluto, reaching into the darkness of Void space to find what lay beyond the solar system. He had been an ace pilot, able to skim through the Void with the ease of one born for the task. He had earned commendations and medals, exalting his bravery and dedication to the furtherance of mankind’s ambitions. That last thought made him angry. All the medals in the known galaxy wouldn’t do him the least bit of good now. He, like so many before, had become addicted to Irellium-9, the drug required for quantum-space travel. Without it, humans would go mad in the Void, their brains unable to process the absence of time. After so long, the mind became so dependent upon the drug that without it, a person’s perspective would become permanently altered. It would sometimes take seemingly hours for a drop of water to fall from a leaky faucet into the bottom of a sink. At other times, days would pass in the blink of an eye, and the one experiencing it would sometimes die of dehydration without even realizing it. After his symptoms became too evident to hide anymore, the Exploration Agency hadthanked him for his service and discharged him with a moderate severance. The credits spent faster than he imagined they would, and before long he was homeless and wandering around Salvation, doing odd jobs that didn’t pay much, but allowed him to purchase black market rations of I-9. As the months rolled by, his condition grew worse, so much so that those that had been willing to offer him work finally began turning him away. He had turned to theft, robbery and at times, murder, to acquire the drug he needed. He had been without it for days now, if his mind could be trusted (it couldn’t), and his withdrawal symptoms were reaching an unbearable state. He was out of money, and here in the foul Dredges no one had anything worth stealing. He was going to have to make his way up to one of the main decks to see if he could find any way of obtaining more I-9. He worked his way up the various corridors and stairwells till he reached the sub-level of the cargo deck. His stomach had begun churning again, and time distortions were threatening to overtake his mind, so he moved as fast as he dared, lifting a deck plate and climbing out onto the loading floor before anyone could notice him. Staying out of sight behind the various shipping containers and storage units, he snuck around to where he knew ships would be offloading illegal cargo to sell to the highest bidder. He had to be careful; these were pirates and smugglers. They’d kill him without hesitation if they caught him trying to steal from them. Stepping behind a stack of metal crates he almost ran directly into a tall man wearing what appeared to be an exo-suit. He began to stammer drunkenly about being lost, in the hopes this stranger wouldn’t decide to end his life right there and then, when the man shushed him and pulled him in close to the crates. “Who are you?” The man asked, his voice somewhat muffled by the breather on the exo-suit’s mask. “My name’s Jon.” Gregor lied. “I was just lookin’ for a place to sleep.” “Well, Jon, this looks like it might be your lucky day.” The muffled voice replied. “I need some help, and by the looks of you, you need a fix. I think we can come to a mutually beneficial arrangement.” Gregor tried to back away, not wanting to have anything to do with whatever this guy planned, when the man reached into a pouch at his waist and pulled out a hypo-pak. Gregor’s heart almost leapt from his chest. It was I-9! He instinctively reached for it, and the man pulled it back away. “First, you help me. Then, I’ll see to it you have enough of this to last you a long time.” He said, wiggling the pak between two fingers. It only took a second for Gregor to make up his mind. He nodded at the man in agreement. The figure in the mask nodded back, and then turned his attention back to the storage units. “See that unit there, number four-twenty-one?” He asked. Gregor peeked around the stranger’s shoulder at the small building. It looked to be about ten meters square with a typical coded lock door. Two men armed with plasma rifles stood next to the door, talking quietly while casting searching glances around the dock. “I need to get inside that unit, and to do that I’m going to need a diversion to get those guards away from the door.” The man said. He turned back to look at Gregor. “Jon, I need you to set a charge back towards the loading area. The explosion should get their attention long enough to let me get past that door.” “How are you going to get past that lock?” Gregor asked. “Those aren’t easy to bypass.” He should know, he’d tried several times to get into a storage unit in this area, and had never been successful. “Don’t worry about that,” The man replied, “just take this and set it off where I told you.” He handed Gregor a small pulse charge, nothing that would cause much damage on its own, but would make a loud enough noise to bring the whole dock running to see what had happened. “How am I supposed to get away when they come looking?” Gregor asked. He wasn’t comfortable about being someone’s stooge. “You look resourceful. You’ll figure out something.” The man said. “When you get clear, meet me back here and I’ll make good on my word. Now go!” Gregor hesitated for a moment, then started making his way back toward the loading areas. He felt queasy about this whole deal, and he was sure it wasn’t the withdrawal pains. He didn’t even know what this guy looked like under the exo-suit, but the thought of landing a nice stash of I-9 drove him. He hoped the stranger would keep his word and not leave him empty handed. He reached the loading area and squatted down behind several skids stacked high with barrels. He fumbled around with the charge, trying to recall his military training on how to set the timer. After a few minutes he managed to get it set for one minute. He set it down behind a barrel and slipped away to find a hiding spot before it went off. He had just ducked under a plastic tarp when the charge went off. It was louder than he had expected, and when he heard several more explosions go off he realized something hadn’t gone as planned. Peeking out from his hiding spot, he saw the reason for the additional explosions. Apparently, those barrels had contained something volatile, and the charge had ignited them. There was a huge fire burning on the dock, and several people were running around trying to save their goods from the flames. Auto-drones came whizzing in and began spraying flame-suppressing foam on the fire, but it would take some time before they would have it out. With everyone distracted by the fire, it seemed like a good time to vacate his hiding spot and make his way back to the stranger. He was able to get back to the storage unit without drawing any undue attention. He saw that the guards had indeed left their post to investigate the disturbance, and the door to the unit was standing open. He thought about going back to where he and the stranger had agreed to meet, but curiosity got the better of him and he decided to go have a look at what was worth all this trouble. Looking around to be sure no one was coming, he made his way up to the open door to peer inside. What he saw was the man in the exo-suit loading up a pack with small metal cartons out of a fibresteel crate on the floor. There was nothing else in the room. He started to enter the room when the man spun around, a small pistol appearing in his hand from seemingly nowhere. “Hey!” Gregor whispered harshly. “Take it easy, man!” The stranger lowered the pistol. “I thought I told you to wait for me back behind the crates.” He said. “What did you do out there? It sounded like you tried to blow up half the station!” “Hey, I got you your distraction, didn’t I?” Gregor retorted. “Now give me what you promised, so I can get the hell outta here!” The stranger chuckled through the mask, “Ok, pal. You’re right. Here.” He tossed one of the small cartons to Gregor. “Take it easy with that. It’s not your average stuff.” Gregor opened the carton to reveal at least two dozen hypo-paks neatly arranged into three rows. It was easily worth a couple of thousand credits on the market. He’d be set for weeks on this. He turned to leave and a voice barked out, “Who the fuck are you?!” The two guards had returned, and were taking aim at Gregor and the stranger inside the unit. Reflexes took hold and Gregor dived to one side of the door just as plasma bursts came screaming through the doorway. The smell of burnt ozone quickly filled the room as Gregor watched the man in the exo-suit duck behind the crate and begin to fire back. Realizing that he was most likely about to die, Gregor pulled out one of the hypo-paks. If he was going to be killed, he’d be killed while riding a wave of I-9 to the afterlife. He stuck the needle into the carotid artery just beneath his right ear, closed his eyes, and squeezed the injector. Instantly, the sensation of transcending time and space engulfed him, and his consciousness soared with a euphoria born of the quantum stimulant. It was powerful stuff, like the stranger had said, and his mind reeled at the potency of the drug. It was some time before he realized that he could no longer hear the gunfight taking place. He opened his eyes and looked around. What he saw, he simply couldn’t believe. Time had been frozen. Blazing ribbons of plasma energy hung motionless in the air. The combatants were as still as statues, poised in fighting positions on both sides of the doorway. Even the smoke from where the bolts had burned into the walls behind the stranger wasn’t drifting away. All around was absolute silence. Gregor had a wild guess of what had happened, but it defied logic. He’d been here countless times, but never like this. Before, he was always at the helm of a ship equipped with a powerful rift drive capable of punching holes in the sub-quantum field and traveling great distances in an instant. Time would stop, and he would be left alone to pilot the ship through the dimensional rift while periodic doses of Irellium-9 were administered by an automated system. Still, even though he lacked a ship, or a rift drive of any sort, he knew where he was. He was in the Void. He slowly stood up, his mind trying to make sense of what had just happened. It took an enormous amount of energy to open a rift. Yet here he was, outside of time with nothing more than a dose of I-9. The drug! He looked at the drained hypo-pak still in his hand, then at the fibresteel crate it had come from. On the side were printed the words: EXPERIMENTAL USE ONLY IRELLIUM-13 PROPERTY OF CENTAUR CORP Irellium-13? What the hell was that? Centaur? That was the biggest pharmaceutical company in the solar system. They had invented I-9 back during the solar expansion. It seemed they had been working on improving their formula. But this? How long was this going to last? Would it be permanent? Gregor shook his head in an attempt to clear it. He was on the verge of a panic attack. He needed to calm down. He walked over to the door and stepped past the two armed men. Walking across the dock was as eerie a sensation as anything he’d ever experienced. The silence was palpable, and the scenery around him was beyond surreal. People were frozen in place, rushing to fight a fire that was unmoving. Waving his hand through the flames he could feel no warmth at all. He walked to the lifts and pressed the call button. Nothing. He was wondering what to do about his current situation when a thought occurred to him. He walked back to where the crate containing the Irrellium-13 was located. Taking the pack the stranger had been filling, he emptied the rest of the contents of the crate in the pack and slung it over his shoulder. If and when this stuff did wear off, there was no sense in just leaving it laying around for someone else, he figured. He headed back down into the Dredges with his stolen goods. There was no way to tell how long he was under the influence of the drug. Time held no meaning in the Void. He had hidden the pack, and then went around the station, taking food, clothing, and other valuables as he came across them. He even went as far as to give himself a clean shave and trimmed his long hair into a more manageable length. In the back of his mind was the fear that he would never leave the Void, that he was doomed to an eternity of being alone in a dimension where there was no sound, movement, or anything. He tried to keep his mind occupied and not think of it, but it was difficult. He was in the process of rummaging through a cabinet of fine wines in the Paramour Club when suddenly it felt like everything shifted. His equilibrium was thrown off and he almost fell down. Suddenly, the air was full of sounds. Music was playing, people were talking, and the smells of cooking food filled his nose. He stepped back away from the cabinet just as a burly man in an apron came through the door of the room he was in. “Hey, what are you doing back here?” The big man demanded. “Sorry,” Gregor apologized, “I was trying to find the restrooms.” The man fixed him with a suspicious look. “Well, they’re not in here. Get out!” As Gregor left the club, he stopped and reconsidered his situation. He now knew the effects of the drug weren’t permanent. Relief washed over him, and at the same time the knowledge struck him as unbelievably humorous. He could escape time at will! He began laughing, first to himself, then out loud. Passers-by gave him odd looks, but he didn’t care. He could do anything he wanted! Anything! He walked along, still laughing at his fortune. Salvation station, hell, the entire solar system, was his for the taking! \* In an opulent office, high up in a skyscraper overlooking Mars City, a meeting was taking place between two powerful men. “Mr. Lions, I assure you that the agent we sent was of the highest caliber. If I held any doubt of his skills, I would never have sent him.” Said the first, a younger man in his late twenties with short dark hair and wearing an expensive suit. “I believe you, Mr. Drake, but nonetheless, the samples are missing, your man is dead, and I am at a loss of approximately two and a half million credits. This must be rectified.” Replied Mr. Lions, a gentleman whom most would consider being in his late sixties, but in fact was much older. He wore an even more expensive suit of clothes. “I’ve had reports that at the time of the gunfight between your man and the smugglers, several people on the station noticed certain items missing. Some items were of value, and some were rather mundane. Though Salvation is well known as a den of thieves, this particular rash of thefts were carried out, in some circumstances, before the very eyes of the victims. One instant the items in question would be there, and the next, they were simply gone. This lends one to the possible conclusion that a third party has become involved, and is using the samples in a most irresponsible way,” He finished. “I’ve had those same reports, Mr. Lions, and I already have agents scouring the station looking for anyone who may have been in the vicinity of the loading docks at the time of the incident in question.” Mr. Drake responded. “Have faith, sir, we will find and deliver your property, as promised.” Mr. Lions rose from his seat. “I do hope so, Mr. Drake. I do hope so.” He turned and began walking toward the door. “If this person continues to abuse the samples in the same manner they have already demonstrated, we may end up with a much larger problem than we face now. You know of what I speak.” Mr. Drake waited until his guest had left, and then opened a comm unit on his desk. The holocron display lit up and a dark-skinned man wearing a visor came into view. “Yes, Mr. Drake?” The man asked. “Leon, we will need to commit more resources to finding the thief. I want two more units dispatched at once to Salvation.” Mr. Drake ordered. “Yes, sir.” Leon replied. The holocron blinked out. Mr. Drake sat back in his chair. The situation had spiraled out of control, and now someone had a chemical that was potentially the most dangerous substance in the galaxy. The fool couldn’t possibly realize the catastrophe using the Irellium-13 could bring about. If this went wrong, and his and Mr. Lions’ worst fears became reality… He got up from his desk and walked over to the window overlooking Mars City. Its gleaming lights and towering buildings stretched all the way to the horizon. Millions of citizens lived here in a splendor never thought possible a scant few decades ago. The three mega corporations that had built the Inter-Solar Union were headquartered here. Wealth, power, and ambition radiated from the very streets themselves. It was the shining jewel of the solar system; a living monument to the greatness of all mankind. And one ignorant thief was on the verge of destroying it all without even realizing it.

Chapter One: The First Midnight It was exactly twenty minutes until midnight when Jacob mounted his old mountain bike and pedaled quietly out of the garage, out onto the gravel driveway. He didn’t turn on the bike-light attached to the handlebars yet. He wouldn’t do so until he was well away from his parents’ property. There was a full moon tonight, so there was enough light to see at least tolerably well by, anyway. In fact while he was still in sight of the farmhouse’s shuttered windows, he wished it would have been a little bit darker. The driveway was half overgrown by weeds and grass, and rutted by deep tire-tracks. It descended a gentle slope from the house till intersecting with the main gravel road that ran past the ten-acre property. His parents were of course asleep by now; so were his older sister and younger brother. Or at least, they’d better be at twelve o’clock at night, he thought. To be caught wouldn’t only be humiliating, it would be as painful as the whipping that would be sure to follow. His parents had whipped, kicked, and otherwise beat him and his two siblings many times—usually for what he thought were minor offenses. They went only a little easier on his brother and sister. He had always been the least favorite, he couldn’t really say why. He was fourteen and a half years old. And obviously, biking away from home in the middle of the night isn’t something even adults usually get away with; as far as kids…. If his parents found out he was gone, and stayed gone for a long time, they might call the police. Not because they particularly liked having him around the house, but more simply because they wouldn’t want the neighbors finding out that their own son had disappeared! Although they probably wouldn’t call the police—not unless he was gone more than a few hours; and he was confident he would be back before then. Although not a hundred percent certain. By now the dim lights showing from the old two-story house had disappeared behind the canopy of trees that surrounded the acreage. He could breathe a little easier now. This road stretched about a half a mile south from home till reaching the highway, which was paved asphalt and not gravel. He would be able to ride a lot faster once he got to the highway. The gravel road then went on several miles further south from there, past a handful of other country houses all scattered well apart from each other. But he wasn’t going that direction tonight. This highway was hardly ever well traveled, being as it was here in the middle of the Missouri countryside. But still he expected to come across some traffic, at nighttime mainly trucks and farm vehicles. In fact a tractor was rolling slowly by just as he was coming up the steep hill to the highway, its’ huge wheels making a grating, grinding sound on the asphalt. Whoever was driving the tractor wouldn’t be harvesting in early summer, obviously. More likely just spreading manure or spraying pesticides. At the stop sign Jacob slowed to a halt and readjusted his handlebars; then, switching his bike-light on, he turned eastward down the highway (conveniently the opposite of the direction the tractor was headed in.) The wind rushed against his face, a slightly damp wind. It felt almost as if there might be rain coming, he thought. But not too soon; there were only a few streaky clouds drifting across the starry, moonlit sky. It was the end of June, and the days here in northwest Missouri were supposed to be pretty hot by this time. But this year had been a little better, so far. In fact the night air was cool, almost cold. He was glad that he was wearing jeans and a long-sleeved shirt. The moon glared bright almost directly above—almost too bright, a little ominous-looking. He felt like something really bad was sure to occur tonight. And considering where he was going, why wouldn’t he expect that? He tended to be a pessimistic person to start with, and to agree go to Creighton Hall of all places, in the middle of the night…. Why was he going there? People said that it was haunted, they said that it was a place where vampires lived. But that must be superstition, he kept trying to tell himself. In fact those were the very words he had used when talking to his three friends over at the Schaefers’ property. The fifteen year old Jason was the neighbors’ second son (they had three), and he was somewhat of a know it all. He’d insisted that there must be a reason for the all those century-old rumors about the mansion. There had been an argument. “Don’t you know anything about the story of that Castle?” Jason had said, his voice filled with incredulity. Jacob admitted that he didn’t—except that people said they thought it was haunted. “But it’s not a castle. And heck,” he added, “they’re mostly kind of joking when they say that about the vampires. I mean, I know there are plenty of superstitious people, but—“ ‘’Let me tell you,” Jason had interrupted. ‘’I guess you didn’t’t know that the mansion was built in the late 1800s by a millionaire called James Creighton. He was one of the richest people in America, at the time—at least, one of the richest in Missouri.” “What about him?” “They say that after the house was built, he planned on living there like a king, with a dozen servants, and he did for a while, only….” His voice trailed off mysteriously; but Jacob didn’t say anything, so he went on, “it wasn’t more than a year that he was there before he died, for no reason that was obvious to anybody. His immediate family claimed it was of ‘’natural causes’’. But some people say he was murdered. But by who? Well, there’s no way to know. And do you know something else?” “What?” “They say that none of the public ever got to see his dead body. They had a big funeral for him, and his coffin was lowered underground, but nobody actually ever saw a corpse. At least that’s what I’ve heard.” “Well that is pretty strange, if it actually happened like that,” said Jacob. ‘’But to say the house is haunted seems—-“ “And also,” Jason interrupted—he had an irritating habit of interrupting everyone, ‘’Creighton’s relatives demanded that there wouldn’t be a police investigation into his death. And if that isn’t suspicious I don’t know what is.” ‘’And you know what they say,‘’ Travis Lyon, who was also present, said. ‘’They say no one has seen the inside of Creighton Hall in twenty years.’’ ‘’I know nobody ever goes in there,’’ Jacob admitted. ‘’But there’s this,” Jason said. ‘’The last time anybody DID go into that castle was when a man named Gregory Creighton, a great-great grandnephew of James Creighton, decided to go inside to see if there was any of James Creightons’ old belongings in there that could be auctioned off. And do you know what? When he came back out of the castle, he appeared to be a completely different man than the one that had gone in! Nothing was ever auctioned. And if anybody ever asked him about what he had seen inside the castle, why, Gregory would refuse to talk about it. But his last words on his death bed were, “That castle must be burned to the ground.” Or at least that’s what I’ve heard, anyway.” Jacob said nothing for a moment. It did seem like an awfully strange series of coincidences, if true…. ‘’But for crying out loud,” he said, eventually, “you actually believe all that? I mean, that’s superstition. That’s silliness.” The conversation had devolved from there. Jacob couldn’t remember when or how exactly it happened, but somehow or other he had been fool enough to volunteer to go into the castle himself and prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that it wasn’t haunted. ‘’But not in broad daylight,‘’ Jacob insisted. ‘’That’s not when the vampires come out. Everybody knows that vampires come alive at night. After the sun sets, that is.” ‘’At night?” ‘’So, if you do go to the castle, be sure to do it at nighttime—in fact, at midnight. Well, around then. It wouldn’t have to be exactly that time, obviously. You know midnight is the devil’s hour, as they say.’’ Jacob said nothing. Go all the way to Creighton Hall in the middle of the night? What more ridiculousness would there be, he wondered! Still, he thought, why not? ‘’The only problem is that leaving home at that time wouldn’t exactly go over well with my parents, I—“ ‘’That’s why you’d have to be stealthy about it. Don’t up and tell them you’re leaving! But do it secretly. That is, if you’re interested. But it’s understandable if you’re not.’’ ‘’No, no,” Jacob said hurriedly. ‘’I’ll do it—I’ll go. When?” The other three boys looked at each other. ‘’How about this Saturday? That’s three days from now,” Travis suggested. ‘’I think it’s supposed to be a full moon that night, isn’t it? That’ll make it even better.” ‘’Yeah, this Saturday,” said Jason. ‘’Would you be willing to do that?’’ ‘’Sure, that sounds fine,” Jacob said, shrugging. ‘’I’ll go next Saturday.’’ And that had been the end of that particular conversation. And now, here he was, just a couple minutes away from midnight, just a few minutes away from the ‘’haunted’’ mansion. For the hundredth time he asked himself WHY had he been so stupid as to agree to this? Well, anyway, he was doing it now, and there was no going back. No going back. There came a sudden wailing of a coyote—a wild, mournful, lonely sound—piercing the stillness of the night. Then came another, and again several more. In a few seconds there was a whole chorus of their wild voices echoing throughout the countryside. Coyotes always sound closer than they really were, Jacob thought. And with rare exceptions, they hardly ever attack people anyway, so he really didn’t have much to worry about. At least as far as coyotes were concerned. By now he had come to a hilly, forested area—called Berstier Wood—where the road took numerous twists and turns. The dark trees on either side of him smothered much of the moonlight. Still, the light on his bike lit the road ahead of him tolerably well. He could feel his heart beating faster as he realized that he was close, very close, to the mansion, now. Why anybody ever wanted to build a mansion here, of all places, in the middle of nowhere, was one of the many mysteries concerning Creighton Hall. But Berstier Wood had grown up around the castle after the passing of the original builder. It wasn’t particularly farmable country anyway, considering all the rough hills and valleys. Suddenly the trees ended. There before him was the ancient mansion, much overgrown with moss and lichen, and partly covered by the surrounding tangle of trees. He pulled is bike up to a halt. In the garish moonlight the place had an even more ominous look than it did ordinarily. There it towered up above him, five stories high, with innumerable spiky turrets like steeples clawing at the moonlit sky. The grimacing faces of gargoyles, spaced regularly along the crenellated battlements, seemed to survey the world below with disapproval. If there was ever a house (if ‘’house’’ it could be called) that looked haunted, he could not help but think, then this was it. But of course, it wasn’t actually haunted, he tried to tell himself reassuringly. He left his bike lying on the ground a short distance from the road, in the shadow of the low, broken stone wall that skirted the property. The property itself was in a sorry state, overgrown by tall, thick weeds and bushes, including a certain species of tough, thorny bushes. More than once he felt their sharp pricking against his denim jeans. What remained of a winding stone pathway led from the door of the outer wall to the castle’s gates. But this pathway was almost entirely covered in weeds and thorns, and thus worthless to him. Jacob had to pick his own way slowly and gingerly up to the gateway. Just as he was reaching it there came a gust of wind, moaning between the branches of the nearby pine and oak trees. With it came more crying, almost wailing, of coyotes. They sounded closer than ever. He felt a sudden impulse to turn and get out of here as fast as humanly possible. But no. He had come here for one purpose, and now he was going to follow through with it. He cleared his throat a few times before pressing his hand lightly against the gates. He wasn’t sure if he would be able to push them open, and for the first few seconds they wouldn’t give an inch. But gradually, with a groaning and grating sound, they began to move, reluctantly. In a minute the entrance was open, and he was staring into the empty darkness of the mansion. He took a deep breath. This was the moment he had been waiting for, the moment when he would shatter all superstition and prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that the castle was not “haunted”, that there were no demons lurking inside. But now that he had come to it, he could not help but hesitate. He had taken a flashlight with him, but up to this point there had been no need to turn it on, as the moonlight was bright enough to see by clearly while he was still outside. But now he withdrew the little flashlight from his pocket and flipped its’ switch on. Then, without further ado he walked through the archway. He could almost hear the words of Travis Lyon ringing through his head, “they say no one has seen the inside of Creighton Hall in twenty years.’’ Twenty years! Was that true? How could that possibly be true? Was he, perhaps, walking out of the ‘’real’’ world and into… well, somewhere else. Somewhere terrible and evil. Was he walking into his own grave? He didn’t know whym but something told him he should close the doors behind him. Fortunately, they closed mich more easily than they had opened—in fact, surprisingly easily, and silently. almost automatically, really. Jacob held up his flashlight and shone it around the room into which he had just come, which wasn’t a room, but more like a hall, with floor and walls of smooth stone, and many lamps up at the ceiling (but none of them lit now, of course). There was no furniture, not a single chair or table anywhere. Jacob did see, on the opposite side of the hall, an open doorway and through it a corridor, which obviously would extend to the rest of the castle. It might be interesting to explore the labyrinth of rooms, but he really felt no desire to. It was all disconcertingly empty. It looked like a place where no one had lived for centuries—which was, in fact, almost true. Charles Creighton had been the first and only occupant of Creighton Hall, and he had passed away more than a hundred years ago. However, all of that was neither here nor there, Jacob thought to himself. He had done what he had set out to do. There was nothing else now except to go back home. He could tell his three friends that he had come to Creighton Hall, saw no vampires (or anything else, for that matter), and that would be the end of it. He turned his flashlight off and glanced outside through the window, much cracked and moss-grown, near which he was standing. The full moon was beginning to descend towards the horizon, but it still lit the landscape enough to see clearly by. Jacob’s eyes froze. What was that? Approaching the castle across the weed and thorn choked lawn, was what appeared to be a person. A very, very tall person, in dark robes that fell all the way to the ground, rather like the kind of robes worn by a priest. But this was no priest. There was something that looked immediately inhuman about him, or it. Most disconcerting was the face, which was extraordinarily pale—a sickly, ghastly shade of white—and with eyes that were dark and deep-sunken. A vampire? What else could it be? The thought sent chills down Jacob’s spine. Did this mean that the superstition he had been trying to disprove was not superstition after all? And Creighton Hall was haunted? Vampires really did exist? All these thoughts flashed through his head in an instant. What in the world was he to do? The person, or creature, was getting very close to the doors of the castle. Jacob’s mind raced. It appeared certain that the vampire was going to enter. In not another instant Jacob turned and ran across the hall, into the open passageway. There was nowhere else to go, and nothing else he could do. He had to get away from here, and the only way to do so was further inside the castle. Further in, further in…. Chapter Two: For a Friend ’For crying out loud, what are we going to do?” Jason exclaimed. He was sitting, with his face buried in his hands, on a straw-bale, in a corner of the same old barn where the fateful discussion with Jacob had taken place a few days ago. It was an unseasonably cold day, the first of July, with a gray sky and an intermittent rumble of thunder. “There has to be something we can do about this! Otherwise I’ll spend the rest of my life feeling like I got somebody killed! I mean that. Murdered. How could I ever live with that?” His two friends who were there with him said nothing. Travis shook his head in some bewilderment. Neither of them could believe it, either. The disappearance of Jacob Morris seemed unbelievable, it seemed impossible. In fact when Jason first told Travis and Josh about it, they had refused to believe it. None of the three of them had been close friends with Jacob. Jacob was not the most talkative person, and didn’t socialize too much. Still, they had been, to some extent, friends. “Well, he could be hiding out in the castle,” Travis said, his voice straining to sound optimistic. ‘’I mean, to say he’s dead seems to be going overboard. He could very well still be alive for all we know. It’s only been two days since he disappeared, so—-“ “But let’s just say he is alive? Well, so what?” Jason said, his face coming up from his hands for a moment. “I mean, whether he’s dead or alive, he’s in there, somewhere, in that building; and he’s not coming out, now, is he?” He trailed off hopelessly. “Well, this could be stating the obvious, but we could tell the police what happened,” Josh interjected. By this time the police had already been contacted by Jacob’s parents, and there was a man-hunt on in an effort to find the missing boy. But of the fact that it was in the supposedly haunted house Jacob had disappeared, neither the police or anybody else knew anything. His parents had no idea. The only ones who knew were those three of them, there. “We definitely should tell the police,” Josh repeated. “I suppose you’re right.” Jacob swallowed heavily before he went on. ‘’The only problem then being that the police and everybody would immediately get suspicious of us three. Well, why wouldn’t they? I mean, the police might think that we murdered Jacob, and how do we prove that we didn’t? There’s no way to.” There was a sullen silence. The pitter-patter of rain could be heard bouncing off the barn roof above them. It could be heard falling in steady drips from the gutters and then splashing on the little puddles on the ground. “I guess,” Jason resumed, “that there is another possibility, even though….’’ He hesitated a moment before going on. ‘’Even though it isn’t a good one, I have to say. In fact it’s a terrible one. And that is for us three to go right over there to Creighton Hall ourselves and try to see if we can find out what happened to Jacob. It isn’t something I want to do anymore than any of you do, but….’’ “But what if that castle actually is haunted?” said Josh. That was what Jason had been thinking, too, but of course didn’t want to say it. There was a long, dead silence. “I mean, I guess that’s what we would have to find out,” Jason said at length, his voice sounding a bit hoarse. “Well, if we do go, we should go armed,” Travis put in. ‘’My parents have two handguns.” “But what good would guns do against—well, against…..’’ “Vampires? I guess we wouldn’t know that till we came across any, would we?’’ Jason said nothing. It seemed to him that the three of them had gotten themselves into an exceptionally bad situation. ‘’So are we all in agreement, then? We’ve got to go into that castle ourselves.’’ “Agreed,” said Travis. Josh was a little more hesitant. “I’ve never “And when do we go? We’ve got to make sure nobody—especially our parents—knows we’ve gone, or where we’ve gone to. Today’s Tuesday, so….” “Why not just say we’re going fishing, or something?” said Travis. Jason spat. “It’s pretty rainy weather to be fishing,” he said, “and the forecast says it’s supposed to start raining heavier a little bit later today. Frogging would be better. Let’s say we’re going to hunt a bunch of bullfrogs at Kiowa Lake. That’s not too far from the old castle.” No one said anything. The rain was starting to come down a little bit harder now, and the wind was picking up. This wouldn’t be a pleasant day, of all days, to go all the way to the old Creighton Mansion, Jason thought. However…. “So let’s get going, now.” Half an hour later, at about two o’clock in the afternoon, the three of them could be seen biking along the highway under a steady downpour. Even worse than he had feared, Jason thought with a bitter smile. The country around them already looked quite a bit greener than it had yesterday, sharply contrasting with the pale, almost whitish-gray of the overhanging clouds. They were riding in single file, with Jason in front—which meant he had by far the worst of the wind and rain. Riding behind, the other two were at least partially sheltered. Regrettably, the waterproof hooded jacket he was wearing did not extend all the way to the lower part of his jeans or his shoes. And also, the handgun strapped to the right side of his belt was heavy and cumbersome, and interfered with his pedaling. But they were getting close to the mansion. Already the leafy canopy of the Berstier woods could be seen, barely, in the distance through the pouring rain. Jason could hear Travis and Josh behind him talking, but couldn’t make out what they were saying. But he was mainly lost in his own thoughts. He couldn’t stop thinking about vampires. What if vampires actually did exist? Admittedly, he had told Jacob that he believed in them; but people say things like that, sometimes. They don’t necessarily mean them. But Jacob’s sudden disappearance might seem to support those old rumors about the Creighton castle. And vampires in general. Which….. He felt the cold, hard metal of the pistol next to him. Guns might not do anything against people that were not even, well…. alive. On the other hand, what if it wasn’t evil spirits that had anything to do with Jacob’s disappearance? Maybe there was some criminal, or group of criminals, hiding out in Creighton Hall. It wouldn’t be the worst place in the world for that to happen in. In fact, real-life criminals would probably be less problematic to deal with than vampires. In which case, the guns might come in more than useful. A few later the three boys had pulled up their bikes before the stone wall of the ancient mansion. As luck would have it, the rain decided to stop at almost exactly the same time. Which allowed them to see the surroundings with much better clarity. “This place sure gives me the creeps, I have to tell you,” Travis muttered, staring wide-eyed at the ruinous castle. It seemed to be a sprawling mass of pointed towers. The faces of dozens of monstrous statues leered from countless crumbling balconies. There were quite a few trees actually growing from within the castle, their gnarled branches climbing around and interlacing with the stonework. “It gives a lot of people the creeps. That’s why they say it’s haunted I guess,” Josh said, shaking his head. ‘’How the heck are we gonna get across this lawn is what I’d like to know,” Jason said. ‘’See all the thorn-bushes? They’re everywhere, looks like.” “Hey, hey, what in the world is this? Is that Jacob’s bike?’’ said Travis, pointing. “It sure looks like it,” Jason replied quickly. There could be no question about it. The bike was leaning against the low stone wall that surrounded the property, partly hidden by some hawthorne bushes. Jason ran over and pulled the bike up by its’ handlebars. “Well,” he said, after a short interval, “it would certainly seem as if Jason did come here, after all. But he never left. Or at least, that’s the way it looks to me.” “Hmm,” said Josh. ‘’This isn’t good.” “That’s an understatement,” Jason said. He laboriously drew the pistol from its’ holster under his rain-jacket. ‘’It seems pretty clear we can’t go back now. We’ve got to go into that mansion, one way or another. Why don’t we leave our bikes over here, right around where Jacob left his.’’ The boys went through the open gateway and began to make their way, slowly, towards the mansion. The vegetation through which they had to walk was dripping wet, in many places more than waist high, and in many places impenetrably thick. Making their way through it all was far from easy, in fact it was downright grueling. About halfway across, Jason said abruptly, “Do you guys see that statue?” “Yeah. What of it?” Josh panted. A short distance to their right was what remained of a marble sculpture—a sculpture of a Minotaur, with the body of a man and the head, legs, and hooves of a bull. But of its’ two long, curving horns, one had been broken in half. Around the pedestal the statue was standing on there lay a shallow basin that must have had water in it, long ago, but now it was only perhaps half-full. “Doesn’t that face bother you at all?” Jason said. “Oh, I suppose it does, but no more than the faces of all those statues above us,” Travis answered matter-of-factly. Admittedly, Jason thought, those were also unpleasant looking. But there was something about the face of this statue especially that—he didn’t know why—seemed even more disturbing. Maybe it was because the face, supposed to be like a bull’s face, looked awfully close to the face of a man. Its’ open mouth was what had used to be the water spout which filled the basin below, and from the mouth was thrust a long, sharp tongue. But the tongue was shaped much like a coiling serpent. “I don’t know,” he said. ‘’But I just wonder why anybody would want to have something like this in their front yard,” he said. ‘’I mean I know James Creighton was nuts, but this is….” He shrugged. ‘’Anyhow, we’ve got to keep our guns ready at all times. We have no idea what other creepy stuff might be inside the castle, but whatever we find, we’ve got to remember not to panic.” The three of them soldiered on through the shrubbery. There were still some occasional grumbles of thunder up above, but they were getting softer, less frequent. Also, it seemed to be getting a little bit less chilly, though very humid. “Here we are!” Josh said. ‘’Does anybody know if the doors will even open, I’d like to know?” “I guess we’ll find out,” Jason said. He stepped up and pushed with all his strength against the mass of moss-grown timber. The gates held fast. He tried again, and again with no success. “You want to help me out?” he said to his friends. ‘’Let’s all three of us push at the same time. On the count of three—one, two three—now!” But even the combined strength of the three of them was not enough. The gates would not move at all. It was as if they were held in place by iron bars. “Swell!” Travis said, wiping his forehead with the back of his hand. ‘Well, on the bright side, if we can’t open these doors, Jacob certainly must have had a hard time doing it. Maybe that’s evidence that he isn’t inside the castle after all. That’s a hopeful thought.” “It might be, except, what about Jacob’s bike, which he left lying on the ground?” said Jason. ‘’He has to have gone somewhere. Somewhere pretty close.” “Is there another way into the castle?” Josh asked. ‘’Some other smaller door somewhere, maybe? Something’s keeping this god-awful gate from opening, anyway.” “I wouldn’t be able to tell you,” Jason said morosely, giving the gates one last frustrated shove. But he lost his balance as he did so, and barely caught himself from falling face-first, as the gates now swung suddenly, quickly open. “Holy crap!” Jason said stepping back quickly with a shudder. ‘’Do you see what just happened? The gates just—opened—just like that!” Before the three boys the open entrance now loomed, dark and ominous. It looked like the mouth of some gigantic, unfriendly animal. From inside, there came the sudden wailing of an owl. “Like magic,” Travis muttered, whistling under his breath. “Yeah, and if that doesn’t make you nervous, I don’t know what would,” Jason said, shaking his head. ‘’It sure makes me nervous, I can tell you that much. But all right, here we are. There’s no going back now. We have to find out what happened to Jacob Morris, if we can. Be sure you have your pistols ready, boys, we don’t know when we might need to use them. Also the flashlights.” “Why don’t we take off our rain-coats before going inside?” Josh suggested. ‘’We can just leave them lying here.” “Good idea,” said Jason. He was more than glad to take the wet, heavy jacket off and throw it aside. ‘’And now, come on. Let’s go in. And remember, we’ve got to stick together.” Without another word the three boys walked, slowly, beneath the yawning stone archway. All in turn, they shone their flashlights around the wide hall. “Nothing much to see here, by the look of it. It’s empty. Let’s head on through next door, right ahead of us,” said Jason. He noticed that his voice had an odd, hollow echo to it. “We should leave the gates open,” suggested Travis. ‘’Wouldn’t want to get accidentally trapped in here, would we? There’s no way of knowing if we could ever open them again, once they were closed!” “Right, leave them open,” Jason said, or rather, began to say. At that moment there came a great gust of wind wailing through the open gateway, scattering fallen leaves and brambles. It almost seemed to him as if there was some vague, barely audible voice speaking in the wind—a voice of malice and contempt. And at the same time, as though moved by invisible, powerful hands, the gates swung shut.

**~Planet: Azuria~** Why’d it always have to be some dank, dark, and nasty place that rogue mages thinks to inhabit? Slade City’s Sewers had that putrid smell, it was poorly lit, with green lumen lights strung on the ceiling making for a none to pleasant journey to our host’s abode. We followed our moaning guide through the grungy tunnels while being treated to the sounds of larger monsters from the passages below. Both Shadow and I took this time to try and recover our magic as we went, knowing we’d have need of it soon. As we continued through the twisting passageways, we began to hear Kelerin as though he had his own PA system, “I know what you’re thinking magus hunter, but you must know I’m thinking the same. Right now, you’re thinking this must be your only chance to capture me, but it’s also my best chance to take out two mages at once. Shadow has been so elusive, there’s no way that he’d ever agree to meet me on my terms. However, it seems with a magus hunter at his side, he’s more than willing to walk into the depths of hell itself. Maybe he wants to impress you, maybe he wants to prove to the world that he’s a competent mage, whatever the reason I want you both gone all the same. When you all are dead, there’ll be nothing to stop me from amassing greater power. With a city full of crime, there’ll be no end to the number of fresh bodies to add to my army. I’ll be the dominant magic user in Slade City and eventually the West.” Boy he liked to talk a lot and I’m sure he wasn’t quite done yet, “Your name travels amongst the underworld of magic, so I’m sure that you believe yourself to have the advantage over me, however, I have something special planned for you.” I didn’t like the sound of that, and neither did my companions. I turned back to face Shadow, who seemed to have his knives drawn and ready, “What does he mean when he says ‘he has something special planned?’” “I’m sure he has an Ultima he believes won’t fail.” “What’s an Ultima?” Shadow asked, though I guess I couldn’t expect the young man to know what an Ultima was. “An Ultima is the pinnacle of a magic users will and abilities. Sometimes it’s a far stronger version of the magic that they already use, other times it might be a different spell altogether. It uses most if not all of the user’s mana, but usually it’s an all or nothing move so naturally it comes with risks.” “Can you perform an Ultima as well?” “Yeah, I can.” It was all I was going to say about it, knowing that the necromancer was listening. To give him hints about what my spells could do, might give him an advantage. To tell the truth, if one survived an enemy’s Ultima, it usually spelled certain doom for the caster. With no mana and very little other options, few mages had high enough mana or skill in combat to keep the fight going. Hence the reason that an Ultima should be a surefire victory or else they look like an utter fool. I checked on Shos who seemed to have a determined look on his face. I have to give the guy credit; usually non-magic users start freaking out about now. Well at least from what I could tell he wasn’t freaking out, but he might have been freaking out on the inside and I just didn’t know it. Anyway, I did my best to give him a reassuring nod to indicate that we would be okay, but realistically these things seldom turn out the way you hope. After a few more minutes we came to a chamber that seemed almost like a disgusting laboratory. There were flesh piles, composed of parts from varying races, abominations who practically begged us to kill them, ritual circles and, wait what the hell was that? I squinted hard to see at the end of chamber a small table with a well-kept tea set on it. This man sipped tea while watching this nonsense, come hell or high water this guy had to go. Getting past the incredulous nature of this necromancer we entered another chamber that was dome shaped and filled with undead on either side of an aisle. There were Falakor, and zombies surrounding us, every which way we looked. Ahead of us was a stage and podium where our favorite necromancer stood with a wicked looking staff in one of his three right hands. Together the three of us were brought to the center, where Kelerin commanded the zombie to stop. The horde formed a circle around us, ready to attack at a moment’s notice. Kelerin smiled, “Finally you’ve arrived, now I can kill two birds with one stone, how foolish of you to enter my domain.” I remained quiet, but Shadow spoke, “You didn’t think we’d come here without a plan, did you?” “And what plan is that, you’re surrounded with no hope of escape. There are certainly exits, but you have to pass though my legion of the damned to get out. Besides all of that, how far would you even make it before my creatures caught up and killed you?” His smile grew venomous and Shadow backed down, almost as if that deflated his show of machismo. To be fare this situation looked helpless, and I walked right into it, but believe it or not I’d been in worse. “Shadow, listen, we’re going to hold them off, you and Shos stick close and don’t let them pull you two away from each other. When his Ultima comes down, use that eye that lets you warp into shadows above him. If we get into too much trouble use the eye that silences, save enough mana for that emergency, got me?” I said laying out the plan, both Shadow and Shos nodded. Without further ado, I got this party started, drawing Hunter and yelling, “Bolt Blast!” The bullet super charged with energy, took more of my mana than a normal shot. Kelerin, ducked under his podium, but the bullet erupted after a second, chaining together lightning bolts that caught him and some of the zombies in the back line. The others lunged for us, but my shotgun was already blasting fireballs into the horde in front of us. Flames raged as I loaded the last of my shells to fire at the group directly behind us. With a little space, Shos and Shadow readied themselves for the onslaught. Shos shot a few of the Falakor coming towards us to slow them down, while Shadow lept over another knifing it in the back. The horde was advancing closer and closer, while I fiddled with my weaponry. The two bought me time to reach for the rune my shotgun came from to dismiss the weapon while reaching for a rune on my lower back. From out of the rune, I summoned a heavy assault rifle tailored for ice magic. My rifle hummed with radiating ice magic, ready to spit its deadly spikes at any foe that came close. I began to fire in a circle hoping to create a barrier between us and the horde of undead. You see these ice spikes weren’t just for piercing, but the spikes froze anything they pierced. The zombies in the front line served as a roadblock to the others. Thankfully my ploy was beginning to work as the shambling creatures tried to break through the ice. This also meant if they broke through their comrades, then they would be in too many pieces to continue fighting. Now we just needed to take care of the Falakor in the room. One of the undead beasts had its tentacles wrapped around Shos’s wrists while Shadow was cutting through them. I shot a few rounds to freeze the beast then Shadow broke it to pieces. Another Falakor dove towards us, launching its tentacles at Shadow, but I managed to pierce it with another few ice rounds to freeze it and shatter it as soon as it hit the vigilante. The boy was a bit startled, but he didn’t let that stop him from continuing his assault, “Hey magus hunter, we need a better plan, we can’t keep fighting this horde forever.” I heard Shos fire off a few rounds before agreeing, “Standing around and being bombarded by the undead was not the best idea.” “Be patient, we have to wait this out for a bit.” I responded. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but time isn’t on our side.” The officer sounded strained while Shadow was silent. Within a moment we began to gain ground slowly, but it seemed that our progress was beginning to annoy our resident necromancer. “Stupid zombies, surround them and rip them apart!” I took a moment to see Kelerin bring his hands together around his staff. He began to chant in an umbral language that filled the room. The alien’s voice rang, as purple clouds began to fill the dome, while tombstones began to appear from wavy green portals on the floor. From behind the horde I heard, “Ultima, City of the Damned!” Tombstones and dilapidated buildings rose from cracks in the ground, rupturing the battlefield, causing a small quake that made us and the undead lose footing. We tried to stay together, but ultimately it was futile. I could only hope that at least one of us would end up with Shos, so as to protect him from the rest of the undead. In my line of work, generally, panic is never a good option, but when you see the undead all around you in greater numbers than one generally tends to lose it. Before we had a manageable situation, now we had something way worse. On top of the normal shambling humanoid and occasional Falakor, now there were larger mutated monstrosities. Some looked like the amalgam of flesh experiments that we saw earlier, others were large overgrown lizards, yet others were beyond description. Any way you look at it, we were in a bad position. Earlier, I’d told the kid not to use his Eye of Silence until we truly needed it. Surprisingly, I still didn’t want him to use it just yet. While the situation was desperate, we should hold until we couldn’t any longer. Oh, and uh, one more thing, before you ask whether an Ultima can be silenced by a normal spell, no it can’t. The Eye of Silence would destroy the monsters that were connected to the caster by magic, but the Ultima itself can’t be destroyed by a regular silence spell. Unless the silence spell is cast within another Ultima, it won’t be strong enough to stop the caster. It’s been theorized that because it is an ultimate expression of one’s mana and soul, then only the ultimate expression of mana and soul could dispel it. I kinda wish the kid knew how to perform his, but, eh such is life. All that said, I turned my attention to Shadow and Shos who were now separated from me on elevated rubble, “Kid I know this is desperate, but hang on to that eye.” “My man, there is no more desperate a time than now!” “Hang on to it, give me a minute.” I could read the “we don’t have a minute!” in his body language, but he stayed silent, fighting through the creatures that surrounded them. Once I was set, I began freezing a few creatures that looked like humanoid crocodiles climbing towards my position. Undead creatures were beginning to fall from the dilapidated buildings on top of us, leaving me to stomp on the ones that I could, while firing on the ones that encroached. I heard Shos yell, “Last clip!” as I realized we were about to be pulled into the horde. “Magus Hunter if you got a plan now would be the time!” Shadow screamed out in desperation. Luckily for him I did have a plan, now that the monsters were practically atop all of us. Usually, an enemy Ultima doesn’t last too long considering the drain on the caster’s mana reserves, so I was trying to buy time. Now, however, was the time to move forward on my plan so I put my rifle away and put my hands together, “Ultima, Firing Squad Elemental Barrage.” All of my tattoos disappeared and all my summoned weapons appeared before us, each with a humanoid apparition behind it. My technique allowed for the weapons to function without me, firing autonomously upon my foes and the apparitions could float, so as to cover a multitude of angles. Without any commands they fired bolts of lightning, wind funnels, fireballs, and glacial ice spikes to rip our enemies to shreds. I focused their attention on the undead directly around us, doing a fantastic job of giving us some room to breathe. I must say it was a relief not to have them scratching and tearing at my armor. My ghostly guns kept up the fire for around a minute, clearing a small path around us, before disappearing for good. My tattoos returned, but I was out of ammo for all my weapons, except Hunter. I pulled my revolver back out and made my way towards Shos and Shadow, but the undead were trying to fill in the gaps I had just cleared. I didn’t bother to infuse my bullets with magic, considering I had so little mana and I was running on fumes. Thankfully Hunter’s rounds could act as normal bullets magical enhancement. As I was on my way a conglomeration of flesh and blade reached out and cut into my armor, leaving a nasty gash across it while tossing me into rubble. Other monsters began to reach for me, trying to pull me apart. Thankfully my armor was holding, but I was not going to break free of their grip. One of these freaks bit my hand, another clawed at my legs, which caused pain to shoot through my body which caused me to scream out in pain. Through the horde of hands and claws I could barely make out that Shos was down to using a baton and Shadow’s cloak and parts of his mesh were being ripped. This was the moment I had been waiting for, a moment of pure desperation. “Now, use the eye!” I screamed, and Shadow seemed all too happy to oblige. His eye went up and dispelled the creatures directly around us. I got up with what strength I had left and climbed up to my comrades. Shadow was already breathing heavily as his eye was beginning to take its toll. With that said, the purple clouds were beginning to recede as our resident necromancer was running out of magic. Both Shadow and the necromancer were beginning to lose the power to hold up their techniques. Before long, the tombstones disappeared along with the zombies that came with them. Even the shambling creatures were beginning to fall without power to keep them reanimated. In that instant, Shadow threw the other ball bearing towards the shadows on the ceiling to warp himself above Kelerin. He warped with a flash, leaving little room for Kelerin to mount a defense, landing atop the Valien with enough force to knock the wind out of him. Shadow stabbed Kelerin in the tail, “Call the last of them off or the next cut will be your throat.” Kelerin reluctantly complied, and the last of the zombies fell to the ground. Each of us sighed with relief, knowing that we almost met our end. Shos clapped my shoulder, “Remind me not to come with you on any other missions, ever again.” “I don’t blame you, mage hunting is dangerous work, for now though, let’s enjoy the fact that we’re alive and he’s captured.” I said as we walked towards the necromancer. From a small pack on my back, I pulled out a collar and put it on the necromancer’s neck. The collar would effectively silence all of his magic until we could get him to the proper authorities. As we came close, Shadow looked up, “That was too close.” “No kidding.” “Is this what it’s normally like?” “No this wasn’t too bad, normally it gets way worse.” Both the kid and Shos looked at me like I was crazy. I mean I can’t blame them for thinking I was lying, but in the wide world of magic, things could get dicey quick. Shadow sighed, “What do we do about him? I suppose you’ll want to question him first.” I looked down at the necromancer, who eyed me with fear. Seeing as he couldn’t see my face, I settled on an overly dramatic voice, “Oh I have great plans for him!” The necromancer looked terrified; this was not going to be a long interrogation. The interrogation and what happens after, is a story for another day, but for now we reveled in victory, knowing that we’d live to see another day.

Mr. Red strode down the sidewalk of the derelict town, soon reaching Elysium’s town square. Looking over the town dispassionately, he set about opening the case to retrieve his tools. Attaching the small sensor device to his suit like a lapel pin, he pressed it, eliciting a beeping noise. He then removed the suppressed handgun from his coat and began his patient trek through Elysium. He went up to one of the first houses on the path to the square, then using acid on the lock, he kicked the door open and aimed the handgun inside. Nothing. While the beeping confirmed as much, protocol dictated that he do a sweep of the house before moving on. Having completed this, he began moving down Main Street, searching each of the homes. Nobody. He clicked his tongue, both confused and annoyed. Where were they? Were they hiding somewhere? It was then that it occurred to him to look to the east, and there he saw it: a church, well-lit and seeming to be the only building that had been maintained. He strode up to the house of worship and without knocking, pushed the doors open, only to be disturbed by what he saw. Sixteen townspeople congregated in the church, but they weren’t people, not in the strictest sense of the word. Their features were distorted, seeming to have been turned inside out and stretched like taffy. He looked upon them as they sang a hymn led by a slender preacher who had barely been affected at all. The closest thing to a distortion that he had was his smile. It was too wide for any human, and contained too many teeth. The preacher looked up at Mr. Red, then stopped singing. The congregation stopped at once, then slowly turned to face their intruder. “Look, my children!” he exclaimed, both in glee and in disdain. “The Red Serpent has come for us, for our very souls! See how he mars the holy ground upon which this church was built! Will you allow such a transgression to go unpunished?” All at once, Mr. Red found himself overwhelmed by the crowd. He fired two shots from his handgun and killed two. This only angered the rest further, who charged at him with improvised weapons like clubs and planks of wood. They began beating and stomping him. Mr. Red lay there, enduring the onslaught until it suddenly ceased. One of them leaned down to check if he was dead, only for Mr. Red to grab the attacker, then break his arm with a loud snap, followed by another gunshot before he slumped to the ground. Bloody and aching all over, Mr. Red managed to break free of the distorted townspeople, who in turn charged him. He shot five more. Having killed half of the congregation, Mr. Red noticed that they were spreading out. He pulled the trigger, only to be met with a hollow click. He cursed before he barely dodged a lead pipe. He tried to reload, but they were coming at him too quickly. Mr. Red decided to indulge them, tossing the pistol aside and raising his fists. Pain be damned, he had a job, and one way or another, he’d see it through. As one swung a plank vertically, he brought his foot down on the weapon to pin it, then grabbed his head and broke his neck. He picked up the plank, broke it so that it now had a sharper end and stood, feinting a few times before thrusting for the closest. The blow landed, but he received a strike on the back, eliciting a cry from him before he pulled the blood-soaked weapon from the previous enemy and dispatched the other with a well-practiced stab. With three remaining, his eyes flicked back and forth between them, wondering who would strike first. One with a hatchet swung at him, and he was just barely able to sidestep it, then break his neck as well. The last two, one wielding a golf club and the other a rusty machete. As the golf club swung at him, Mr. Red grabbed the hatchet and buried it in his gut, then parried a strike from the machete. He kicked the man’s crotch, then slashed upwards, cleaving his stretched face in half. Now Mr. Red stood, panting and bleeding in a church of corpses. He then turned to the overly cheerful preacher, who was visibly terrified despite his grin. Not giving a chance to beg, he picked up his handgun, reloaded, and fired as the preacher was in mid-sentence. “HQ, this is Mr. Red,” he said tiredly. “All Elysium glitches corrected and primary bug terminated, requesting extraction, over.” A voice from the device on his lapel affirmed this, and Mr. Red was surrounded by light. He opened his eyes to see the room that had become familiar to him over the past twenty years. He disconnected himself from the large device labeled “Elysium.” “Well done, Mr. Red,” said the Director coolly. “Professional as ever. Transferring payment now.” A display appeared before his eyes, showing a loading bar reading, “Transferral of Credits.” When this was done, Mr. Red noted, “There’ve been a lot of new glitches in Elysium lately. Are you sure you’ve been allowing the right authority figures in?” “What do you mean?” “Never mind, it’s— Just thinking off the top of my head, is all.” As the Director dismissed him, he looked back at the machine. By tomorrow, the digitized psyches would be reconstructed, save for the preacher and with their memories erased. Then he would re-enter it to do his weekly check for glitches. Yes, it did hurt to execute real people uploaded like that over and over. But janitors cleaned floors, surgeons cut people open to save them, and Mr. Red shot people uploaded into a computer system in the hopes of preserving a digital utopia. It was just his lot in life.

"*The silence on the battlefield was there. However, it was not the case a few days ago! The Obsidian Empire is a pacifist empire. They are in the mountains, minding their own business. Surrounding them were a few other empires. One of them is the Glacian Empire. Both empires had good relations for centuries, until Glacian got a new king! This king is very ambitious, wanting to expand the Empire to have more territory and resources. He especially wants the Obsidian Cliff of the Obsidian Empire!!* *A week ago, news came that the Glacians are on the move with a massive army led by the new king himself!!* On the day of the Battle: **Glacian King's speech before the battle:** “*Subjects, today is the day when we shall manifest our destiny! On the other side lies the Obsidian Cliff—a treasure beyond measure—vast deposits of black glass that have been hoarded by a kingdom too timid to harness its true potential. The Obsidian Empire preaches peace and sits on a treasure that rightfully belongs to those with vision and strength! We are that strength, we are that vision. Crush them and claim what is ours…*” **Obsidian king's speech before the battle:** “*Citizens and warriors of the Empire, today we face a challenge unlike any other. The Glacian king, driven by his greed for power and land, has declared war on us. He seeks what has rightfully belonged to us for generations—the Obsidian Cliff. A fool blinded by his lust for power and land has mistaken our will for peace as a sign of our weakness. But they are gravely mistaken. Our desire for peace is not a result of our weakness, but from the strength and wisdom we have. Today, we fight not just for our land, but for our way of life, for our families, and for the future of our children. The Obsidian Cliffs are a symbol of our enduring spirit and our connection to this land. So stand firm, and let us claim our victory! Onward to glory and triumph!*" **The Battle Begins**: Both sides were silently staring at each other, any moment from now horns shall be blown and the battle will begin. No one wants this battle, but greed and lust for land led to this point of no return… Movement could be seen in the Glacian army: A pawn jumped from d2 to d4. "*So, it has finally begun",* thought the Obsidian king. To counter it, from d7 to d5, black pawns marched forward, blocking the white pawn! Seeing the opening, the black bishop jumped from c1 to f4, aiming at the pawn at c7. "*What is he trying to do?*" thought the **Obsidian king.** The pawn in front of the king moved one step forward, providing support to the pawn at d5. In response to that, a knight jumped from g1 to f3! A black pawn moved from c7 to c6! Confidence could be seen in the Obsidian king's eyes, as if everything is going as per plan. ***One day before the battle at the Obsidian camp:*** *“Whatever happens in the battle tomorrow, we must first ensure that our troops have proper backing...”* On the Glacian side, a pawn moved from e2 to e3. Sensing the opportunity, the black bishop moved from f8 to b4, directly aiming at the Glacian king! Seeing his king being attacked, the white pawn moved from c2 to c3, blocking the bishop's aim! “*At least he has loyal soldiers in his army,”* thought the Obsidian king. The bishop struck the pawn, moving from b4 to c3! “*What?!?*” thought the **Glacian king**. "*Is the Obsidian army made up of fools? He willingly walked to his death. The priests were right; God is on our side! Maybe I should reward the priests when I go back!"* The king saw another knight jumping from b1 to c3, crushing the bishop. The Glacian king looked at the Obsidian king, seeing a disappointed look on his face at seeing his bishop getting crushed. *“That's what you get for having fools in your ranks.”* Seeing that look on her king's face, the queen decided to act, going from d8 to b6! A white pawn could be seen moving forward from b2 to b3, as if directly challenging the black queen! Moving from b6 to b4, the queen swiftly moved. Now only a knight stood between her and the Glacian king! “Seeing his queen move, the only thought in the **Obsidian king's** mind was, *"Don't make any rash moves.*'” Seeing the knight in danger, the rook from a1 moved to c1, backing the white knight! On the Obsidian side, a knight jumped from g8 to f6 as if he had something in mind! *"What a fool. Do you think I wouldn't notice? "* Thinking that, the white bishop moved from f1 to d3. Another knight of the Obsidian army jumped from b8 to a6. *“You rook, cover me,”* shouted the **Glacian king**, looking to his left! At the king's command, the rook moved to cover him, positioning the king at g1 and the rook at f1. The black pawn moved from c6 to c5, one step forward, attacking the white pawn! The white rook could be seen moving from f1 to e1! Sensing the opportunity, the black pawn at c5 struck the white pawn at d4 but was immediately killed by the pawn from e3 moving to d4, replacing the previous white pawn's position! *The Obsidian king, witnessing this shift on the battlefield, positioned himself at g8, while the rook took its place at f8!* The white bishop moved from f4 to e3, attacking the black knight! Annoyed by the bishop, the knight moved from f6 to g4, now attacking the bishop! The white queen repositioned herself from d1 to c2. Seeing the other queen move, the black queen went from b4 to a3, positioning herself for a potential strike! The white bishop, now with the backing of the white queen, moved from d3 to h7, capturing the pawn and directly attacking the Obsidian king! The king moved one step to the side, to h8, as the bishop can only attack diagonally! Another white bishop moved from e5 to g7, capturing the pawn and attacking both the rook (f8) and the king (h8) at the same time! ***“Fool,”*** shouted the **Obsidian king** as he hit the bishop with his Obsidian sword and moved to g7! *“It was not he, but you who is a fool,”* said the white queen as she moved from c2 to g6, directly standing in front of the king! ***“I have got the king,”*** shouted the queen, ensuring that her voice reached her king. Yes, she has the Obsidian king in her grasp now. She has made a great contribution to this battle. Victory is only one more move away now! “*Is this the end?”* The same question was in the minds of everyone in the Obsidian army! *“Is this how we lose?”* Silence spread on the battlefield. Everyone looked in the queen's direction, as if time itself had stopped! They had blank expressions on their faces, not sure what to do next! To the Glacian king, these words were very sweet. He wanted to go there and hug the queen. It didn’t matter what they all thought, for she had made his dream come true. He looked at the Obsidian king, wanting to see the face of the defeated king. ***“Wait!!”*** The king thought. *“Something is wrong. Why does he look so confident? Usually, the battle ends if there is no way out for the king. They (the losing king) would look for every opportunity so that they can survive. But he is directly looking at me past the queen. Why? Why is there no fear on his face?”* Then it struck him. The queen moved early without looking properly!! ***“No, you didn’t!”*** shouted the pawn at f7 as he thrust his sword into the queen’s heart and moved to g6. *“This is what you get for pointing your sword at my king!”* Silence spread on the battlefield. Everyone looked in the pawn’s direction. No one was sure what was happening now! They saw their queen falling to the ground with a sword in her heart. Then realization hit the Glacian army. They had lost their queen!! The knight was the first to break from the shock. *“We already lost the queen. We can’t lose the bishop next.”* Thinking this, the knight jumped from f3 to g5, protecting the bishop! The rook, seeing a clear path in front of him, charged forward and slammed into the pawn at f2, crushing it!! In desperation, the knight then moved from g5 to e6, attacking the Obsidian king again, hoping that they would admit defeat. ***“Don’t you dare,”*** said the bishop as he charged from c8 to e6, killing the knight! Seeing his brother fallen, filled with anger, the rook at e1 charged forward, slamming into the bishop at e6, avenging the knight. *“Life can only be paid with life.”* The **Obsidian king** moved one space from g7 to h7, killing the bishop! The rook, seeing his other brother fall, filled with rage, started attacking the king directly, moving from e6 to e5, ready to slam the king now! Seeing her king in danger, a maddening look came into her eye. She charged forward from a3 to e7, killing the rook! On the other side of the battlefield, the Glacian king was losing hope. Seeing all these deaths of his soldiers, he fell into despair. *“Where did it go wrong?*” he thought. “*Was it the death of the queen? No, there are recorded cases where even when the queen falls, the king emerges victorious! Then, why are his men charging like moths towards the fire? Has God truly forsaken them? That damn priest. He said that the planets were on our side. Victory will be ours! Then what’s happening now?* The white knight jumped from c3 to d5, capturing the pawn and directly threatening the queen. ***“Good, now crush her,”*** thought the **Glacian king!** The queen, as if she had something planned, strategically positioned herself at e4. “*What a fool. Do you think I can’t protect myself? Let me show you who the real master is here,”* thinking that, the knight jumped back to c3, again attacking the queen! *“I will be the one to kill you.”* Instead of protecting herself or attacking him, he saw the queen moving in another direction. A realization hit the knight. *“What if he was not the target at all?”* What if the queen’s target was somewhere else? *Horror filled his eyes as he saw the queen decapitate the pawn at g2, positioning herself directly in front of the king!* With no way of escaping, the Glacian king was lost! Epilogue: As the Glacian king was chained and dragged before the Obsidian king, he could see the Obsidian Cliff behind the king! *“Kill me,” shouted the* ***Glacian king.*** *“I have lost everything—my army, my kingdom, and my… my queen!! I have nothing left to live for…”* He looked at the ground, not wanting to see the face of his enemy! All he could hear was the silence. Silence which was the result of chaos and bloodshed! After some time, he looked up. He saw a sword—it was a beautiful **sword made of Obsidian!!** There was blood on the sword. Seeing the blood, he started to remember the battle. He looked at the ground; all he could see were corpses. This was the outcome of his lust for Obsidian! If only he could turn back time… no, even then he would attack, maybe with some new strategy. Oh, King of the Obsidian Empire, you are a hypocrite who, on one hand, preaches peace but, on the other hand, is also very cunning... *“You are wrong,”* replied the King of Obsidian. *“From the start, I never wanted this war; it was you who imposed it upon us.”* *“Because you are a fool with no vision,” shouted the* ***Glacian king***\*. “I have that vision, one worthy of Obsidian is me…\*” Saying that, the Glacian king began to laugh hysterically… ***“Kill me,”*** he said again after some time. “Strike me down and end this once and for all. Only then will your victory be complete." The Obsidian king moved closer to him. *“You have brought this upon yourself,”* he said, his voice low and resolute. With a swift motion, he stabbed the heart of the Glacian king with his Obsidian sword. The Glacian king fell to the ground.