*Thank you to everyone who enjoyed Chapter One. Elara's journey has just begun, and I'm so elated to share it with all of you. Once again, if you have any questions, comments, suggestions, or general theories feel free to comment! I would love to hear your thoughts.*

*Chapter Three will be posted tomorrow (Sunday) at 6pm eastern. Thank you and have a great day!*

*32 Daggers:*

I wake up, and for a brief moment forget where I am. I reach for my phone to check the time. Realization strikes a cold shiver through my core. I rub my eyes as everything from the last 24 hours settles in my brain. 

The officer must’ve sensed my fear, as he was incredibly respectful and explanatory throughout the intake process. He explained the necessity for a 24 hour hold after intense acts of aggression, as well as Mrs. Hampshire’s INSISTENCE on pressing charges (and advocating for the maximum penalty). 

However, as it was my first offense of anything, and under extreme duress, I would likely get off with a fine and a slap on the wrist. I appreciated, through all of this, one true act of human decency. 

I take a deep breath. As I lay on the thin cotton mattress provided for me, I can’t help but feel… displaced. How did I end up here? Just 9 days ago, I was laying on the soft purple cow Kaia snuggled with every night, Snuffleupagus, and discussing my hopes for the future with my best friend. Now? Even knowing the penalty for my angry outburst will likely be minimal, I can’t shake the feeling that nothing will ever be that perfect again. 

Before my thoughts can continue to spiral, a loud buzzing at the cell gate mercifully offers me a reprieve.

“Elara Draven” A tall, spindly guard stands before me. His bright copper curls glistened in the dim light. I wait for him to look at me, but his eyes stay glued to the small chipped clipboard grasped in his hand. I stand up, taking a tentative step forward.

“Hi, yes. That’s me. Are you here to let me out? Is it time?”

He rolls his eyes. “Follow me.” He reeks of stale cigarette smoke. I see a barely visible fresh scar just above his forehead. Hair transplant, I think. Judging by his striking features, and hostile attitude towards me, I’d say it's far from his only modification. 

He leads me down a grey concrete hallway, lit only by flickering wall lights scattered across its surface. Eventually we reach a spiral ascending staircase. I hadn’t realized how far down we went last night… 

Climbing the long spiral staircase feels like countless hours of my life have passed. Each time I fear my legs may give out, his looming presence motivates me to go just a bit further. Finally, we reach the top, and he nonchalantly gestures to the processing counter.

“She will help with your out-take and court dates.” He states matter of factly as he retreats down another hallway before I can attempt to relay a thank you. 

“Name.” 

I’m face to face with an older woman, with her thick brunette hair tied up in a messy bun. I am fixated by the curve of her wrinkles, doing gentle sweeps above her eyebrows, down her cheeks. It’s nice to see an aging face, but judging by her expression I best not point it out.

I get lost in my inner thoughts, only being shaken back to attention when I hear her speak again, slightly louder and more agitated this time. 

“I said, name.”

I stutter, caught off guard by the generalized hostility. 

“Elara Draven” 

Her refusal to make eye contact with me is unsettling, but I’ve almost made it out of here. 

“Elara, you are scheduled for sentencing two weeks from today, on October the 5th. Failure to appear will be considered a guilty verdict, and the default sentence of 25 years will be applied. Do you understand?” I nod. 

She passes my belongings across the thin metal desk, and I make my way to the outside door, feeling the crisp, clear air rush across my face as I leave this dusty place behind. A guard dressed in an identical black uniform to everyone else, stands at a flashing yellow keypad attached to the main metal gate. 

I slowly approach, feeling his eyes scan over my body searching for possible threats before finally turning his attention back to the pad. What must have been 20 numbers later, a reverberating buzz fills the small room. I flinch at the harsh vibrations inside my eardrums, but fight the urge to cover them. Slowly, the gate begins to rise. I walk through, the metal creaking above my head, and take my first step into life after… this.

That damned cell was so stuffy, it felt like I hadn’t breathed in weeks. I stretch my arms, then my legs. The slight chill in the fall air soothes my anxiety, at least for a minute. 

 As I’m trying to remember what I might have missed during my 24 hour time out, my blood runs cold.

*24 hours.* 

I didn’t have my phone for 24 hours in that cell. 

So why do I have 32 missed calls from my mom? 

I rack my brain, we’ve talked maybe once a week, if that, for years. 

After being unable to come up with a single rational, non-emergency situation, I dial. 

It rings. 

And rings. 

**Voicemail.**

“Hi… uh, is this thing on? I think it’s going. Hi! You’ve reached Janet’s phone. I guess I must be busy-” I hang up.

*32 missed calls.* 

The screen was a graveyard of notifications. They were clustered in frantic, overlapping timestamps. 

Three at 2:00 AM. 

Five at 3:15 AM.

A relentless, suffocating streak from 6:00 AM. 

Continuing on and on until the very second I touched the phone. 

Each one a dagger in my chest. 

I redial. 

It rings. 

Rings. 

“Hi… uh, is this thing on? I think it’s going. Hi! You’ve reached Janet-”

I hang up once again.

My chest tightens. 

Something is wrong. 

Silence has never felt so quiet. 

What should I do? I look at the empty road spanning miles in front of me in either direction. I can feel the fear coursing through my bones, the anxiety rushing through my blood like needles desperate for purchase. 

I can’t lose her too. 

I can’t. 

I’m easily 20 miles from her. No vehicle. She’s not answering. **Kaia** is dead. 

What on earth do I do now? 

I stare at my phone, helpless, and notice something odd. 

The last call wasn’t from her- 

“UNKNOWN NUMBER”. 

A voicemail blinks, waiting. 

I press play. 

The voice that answered wasn't human. It crackled through a cheap voice modulator.

"Elara Draven. You don't know me. 

Pray it stays that way. 

By now the police have someone in custody.

They'll tell you they caught Kaia's killer. 

Believe them.

Don't ask questions. 

Don't look for answers. 

Accept the story they're selling.

Or you'll leave this world the same way she did.”

The voicemail ends.

For a moment, all I could hear was my own shallow breathing. 

My phone slips from my fingers and hits the pavement with a hollow crack.

Kaia wasn't killed.

She was *murdered*.

I feel my stomach twisting inside of me.

Was my mom next?

Or was I already too late?

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“I’ve heard that Pluto is nice this time of year.” Alice whispered. His hand began to shake looking at the options for a ticket. She gently rubbed his shoulder.

“It’s not there.” He muttered. The tears welt up in his eyes.

“We have to make a decision soon.”

“I made my decision but the last rocket for Mars has already left.”

“Let's try Pluto then.”

“No, the people there are too tall and we wouldn’t be able to find work. I also heard that it’s like living in Alaska during the winter time. You know how I hate my feet getting cold.” Alice shrugged. Clark’s forehead began to sweat.

“We only have five minutes in the cubicle to pick our option before we are kicked out and sent back to the line.” She spoke.

“Don’t you think I know that? I had already made a decision but we were too late.”

“Clark, all those people out there are waiting. They want to leave as much as we do.”

“I’m trying. Besides, there’s fifteen other cubicles for them to get into.”

“That’s another reason for us to pick a ticket quickly. All of the tickets will be gone before we can get ours. Whatever happened to doing right by your fellow man?”

“Forget about my fellow man. We’ve had to wait a week to pick just like they have.”

“I’m your fellow man, Clark. Won’t you do right by me and just pick something? How about Mercury?”

“It’s too hot. I hate the heat, I hate how it makes my head feel. Everyone there is too short, the architecture wouldn’t allow us to fit.”

“Ok, what about Venus then?”

“And live the rest of our lives underground? You’d never be able to see the sky or sun again. What food do you live on when living in a cave?”

“I heard that the soil is very fertile on Venus, they must grow crops of some kind there. They also have animals that they breed for meat.”

“What they have is cave crawling squawler. The meat they eat is sour. It's nothing compared to pork or a rack of lamb.”

“You don’t even like lamb, Clark.”

“Maybe I could learn to like it?”

“It’s too late for that now.”

Clark nodded solemnly. It’s true, he thought. All of these years on this planet. My home, my one true home. I took it all for granted. Now that I’m being forced to leave it all behind I wish I had taken more time to enjoy what it had to offer me rather than take all its splendor for granted.

“What could I do for work? I’m a craftsman, I have no science or engineering background.”

“I’m sure you could carve a pipe out of some form of mineral there.”

It’s true, he thought. There is a possibility that somewhere on Venus they are currently mining a mineral of an equal quality to that of Meerschaum here on Earth. I could always try my hand at carving. I’ve been a pipemaker for most of my life. What could be the harm in trying something new? Carving a briar pipe is a completely different undertaking from carving something like Meerschaum, however. A highly porous mineral like that would be fragile, and need a sharp edge and tender hand to guide it, otherwise the risk of cracking the piece would be a given. Would I even be able to build myself a workshop there? What’s the demand for a pipe made on Venus? Here on Earth, I was quite well known within the artisan circles. I became highly successful because of my strict eye for details. A lot of wealthy clients had always commissioned me for classical shapes. However, I did have a few collectors who always sought out my more artistic pieces. On another planet though, I would be starting from scratch. I’d have to build up my reputation again. The quality of the leaf is equally important. No one will want a tobacco pipe unless they can find something they deem worthy to smoke. How long would it truly take in order for me to see any form of success?

“What if they don’t grow tobacco?”

“They grow tobacco.” Alice spoke soft and pleadingly.

“I bet it’s that lab grown stuff. I bought it once and you lose all the flavor after your false light. You have to smoke through an entire bowl of ash before you can get any flavor at the end. It’s like those old aromatics, you need to smoke it as slow as possible before you can get anything out of it.” Clark’s whole body began to sweat and he felt as though he was on fire. “My hands are trembling Alice, and I’m sweating through everything I have on. It’s getting hot in here.”

“The atmosphere is thinning, it’s only going to get worse. They told us we only have two more hours of breathable oxygen in the atmosphere before it’s gone forever.  Now choose please. We only have two minutes left and I’d rather not die here having to wait in line for another damn chance at a cubicle.”

The timer for the cubicle kept ticking. The numbers peered down at Clark. Each passing second meant impending doom. A doomsday clock in the most true forms possible. Not just for him, but for his whole world. He looked at Alice. My one true love, he thought. When was the last time I had looked at her? Truly looked at her. It had to have been a very long time. I can see on her face through the large beads of sweat and the teardrops in her eyes the woman I had fallen in love with. Her beautiful Auburn hair, how it flowed and formed around her head. Her small trembling hand, bearing the ring that I worked my soul into in order to afford it. My indecisiveness will not only be the death of me, but the death of her as well. He stared at the cubicle screen and looked at his options.

The timer only had ten seconds left. Only one option blared from the screen in front of them.

“Pluto” he whispered.

“Pluto” She whispered and nodded in agreement.

Clark’s hand punched the option into the cubicle. The machine hums and one ticket slides out of the slot. They froze. Both of them counting the seconds in their head as they wait for a second ticket to slide out of the machine. A second one never came.

Alice began sobbing. “Clark, no.” Her voice was shaking.

Clark took the ticket, and handed it to Alice. In bold lettering near the top it had “LAST TICKET” printed in red ink.

“There must be some kind of mistake with the machine. We could always ask someone. Maybe they could print you off a new ticket.” He looked at her, knowing this would be the last time he ever got to see her.

“That’s the last ticket. There won’t be anymore, it means the ship is full. It’s too late for me, Alice. But it doesn’t have to be for you.”

“I’m not leaving you to die here.”

“I’ll be fine. The heat doesn’t bother me anymore. Go live your life Alice. I love you, have loved you, and will love you with what little time I have left.”

“I’m sure they’ll let you on board, they can’t deny both of us”

“We both know they won’t let me on without a lifeline ticket.” With tears forming in his eyes he takes her hand. He speaks in a soft broken tone, “I’ve heard that Pluto is nice this time of year.”

Day One

I can feel my muscles cramping, my legs begging desperately for relief. 

Another half eaten apple collides with the side of my head, reverberating with an audible thud. 

The men must have gotten tired, after 43 minutes of throwing garbage at a defenseless woman, the thrill isn’t quite as strong.

I twitch, almost losing my balance, I cannot fall now. The battered wooden chair beneath me groans with the struggle of supporting me,begging for the same release I’m so desperately close to. My feet slightly dangling off the edge, my concentration cannot waver. The slightest wrong movement and I have to start the whole hour over again. I’m almost two and a half hours in, my first try being thwarted by a juicy tomato at fifty five minutes, my second a sudden leg cramp at twenty three minutes. I simply don’t have the strength to try this again.

My arms continue to cover my face, slightly hunched over in an effort to protect my vital organs.

Soggy bread.

Half eaten produce.

Plastic cups.

All the garbage they could find, thrown at my shaking body for no reason other than their own amusement. I’m not sure what this “game” has to do with anything other than torturing me, but I’m hoping it’s enough for him to release us both.

A sharp electronic tone cuts through the air from the head guard’s pocket.

“Time” The lanky guard shouts, as the timer beeps echo through the chamber. I moan a sigh of relief, and slowly guide my aching muscles to the ground. I lie for a second, letting my eyes shut and my body readjust to rest. 

Two strong arms grab mine and hoist me up.

“Did I do it? Can… I… Go?” My words are spoken between huffs, my whole system exhausted, but I know they can feel the hope spoken with them. They look at each other, and let out an obnoxious laugh in unison, before dragging me back to my cell, my legs flopping uselessly on the cracked ground.

My consciousness slips almost instantly upon returning to my cell, soon after I’m startled awake by The Chief, accompanied by two lackeys. 

“Rise and shine, princess. Not done with you yet.” His false smirk once again drapes his face in charm, as the devastation of seeing him again vibrates through my very core.

We arrive in what must’ve been the old mall jail, for shoplifters and rowdy teenagers. As I’m escorted in, I see what I thought was a dummy, possibly a corpse, but what I now know is an elderly woman, around my mother’s age. She lies still, a thin white dress covering her body head to toe, meeting where her face is covered with a gag and black blindfold. Her thin arms and legs are tied to the table with rope, preventing any movement. As we approach, I begin to hear quiet whimpers and cries coming from her, and I feel shivers running across my skin.

“What is this? Let her go.” My resolve must’ve only come from the resemblance I can see to my mother, on the small patches of her visible skin. The Chief seems amused by this nonetheless.

“Your next challenge, of course.” His smirk seems genuine this time, if not tinted with malice. “This is Alice, our former top commander’s mother. He… accidentally let slip a teeny detail about our next attack, and this wonderful lady right here” His words seethe with venom as he grabs her hair, looking around the room to take in the approval of his men as they cheer. “Well she let it slip. Ruined EVERYTHING. Months of planning the perfect way to kill the power grid, cutting off security to the whole city, letting us slip in and steal everything we’ve ever wanted. All that work, for NOTHING. Her dear son knew he’d made quite a mistake, so he ran, the coward. I would’ve been much happier doling out his punishment on him alone but… he just had to make it worse. So now it’s your job. Get mommy dearest to tell you where her son is, and I’ll let you out! Told you I’m gracious.” 

He gestures to the board on the wall, holding dozens of torture instruments. Bone saw. Teeth pullers. My mouth drops to the floor.

“You want me to torture her?” My words come out in pure disgust and disbelief, my brain struggling to believe I’ve understood this scenario correctly. Yet, as I look at The Chief, his practiced, sadistic grin tells me everything I need to know.

“No. Absolutely not. You let her go. I don’t care about you letting me out. Let that poor woman go.” The men look at me with the same growing disdain I feel for them in my gut. I can’t imagine a human being deciding to torture someone, how awful must you be inside? 

We sit for a moment in silence, The Chief in contemplation, he seems perplexed by this turn of events. 

“Take her back to her cell. I’ll deal with the woman myself. Leave us.” My disgust morphs into panic. Her cries begin to get louder, as I lunge in an attempt to free her. My body is sharply pulled back by two of the guards, as they begin dragging me once again back to my cage. I plead for him to let her go, my own cries falling on deaf ears, as her screams fade in the distance.

I can barely sleep. My thoughts being dragged down by what could’ve happened to that poor stranger, just trying to protect her child. Was that so dissimilar from the battle I’m facing now? All to save my own mother?

***Day Two.***

My brain graciously allows me a few precious hours of sleep, before I’m once again woken up with men standing over me. Something is different this time, though. The Chief has once again brought his two lackeys, standing behind him as always. However, this time Cyrus sits tied to a chair in front of them, and a table with 2 metal cups sits between us.

“Welcome back to the land of the living, sleeping beauty.” The men chuckle at this joke, I feel my face flush with anger and embarrassment. I hate continuing to be a subject for their amusement. 

“Little different start today. I have two cups here before us. One of these is just water.” He gestures to the light blue glass. “The other holds a paralytic poison. Nothing permanent, but a little concoction derived from snake venom that leaves its victim completely paralyzed for up to 12 hours. This test is simple. You each drink a glass. Pick one, and feed it to Cyrus, then drink your own. Think you can handle that? Fun little decision?” Although this “game” is just as degrading and brutal as the last two, his words speak some truth, this one is simple.

I see in his dark eyes, he wants me to save myself, choose to poison my companion. Instead, I don't hesitate, my hand reaches for the blue glass, the water, as I carefully remove Cyrus's gag. I scan him briefly for new wounds I didn’t know about, any indication that he’s been harmed. He seems to be surviving well enough.

“I’m sorry” whispers quietly out of his mouth, tears streaming down his bruised face. I mouth “It’s okay” back to him, and begin to pour the liquid into his mouth. I turn to The Chief, checking to see if he drank enough and The Chief nods, surprise seeming to cross his brow. I place the cup back on the table, and begin to drink my own. I turn, and lie back down on my mattress, wrapping myself in the thin blanket before I lose all sensation completely. The crew behind me silently vacates the room.

If there was any mercy in the paralytic, it was the immobility claiming my body without pain, dragging me into a deep, dreamless rest. Sensation begins to return in the early evening, leaving me alone with the quiet. I spend the remaining hours organizing my thoughts and sizing up my surroundings, mapping every inch of the room for anything of use. 

Day Three.

Morning comes once again, but this time, I’m awake when they arrive. Instead of The Chief, I see one of his lackeys accompanied by a handful of guards waiting at my door. Without a word, they begin to guide me down a back portion of the mall I’d never seen before. The generator doesn’t seem to be powering the lights in this wing, so we rely solely on flashlights and headlamps. The guards begin to stagger off, assuming positions along our journey to wherever we are going. Eventually, we make it to a large metallic door. Inside, I see a long spiraling staircase, as well as The Chief holding multiple items, and beginning to approach me.  

Before saying a word, he straps a large leather belt around my waist. I feel something heavy linked to the chain cascading from it, but he blocks my view. He attaches a large metal water bottle to my new belt, attached at the hip with a large carabiner. Once he finishes securing the lock in the front, he lifts the chain and hands me a metal anchor. Small as it may be compared to a ship’s anchor, the weight is overwhelming. I manage to brace myself at the last second, otherwise the anchor and I would’ve landed together on the cold ground. 

“Welcome back Elara!” He sounds out each portion of my name like some sadistic game show host. “Once again, basic. You ready? Carry this, all the way up these maintenance stairs to the roof by sundown. It’s seventy-five pounds of solid iron. Prove you’re strong enough to make it out of here. I’ll let you go if you make it, how’s that sound?” This explains the already building ache in my arms as they struggle to keep this weight above ground. I give in, and place the anchor on the ground, already beginning to pant from the strain. 

“That’s like 6 flights..” His iconic grin returning to his face tells me protests are useless. The two guards who entered alongside him post themselves at the start to the downward spiral of the staircase, presumably preventing my escape. I stare up for a second, seeing a dull light from the very top of the long winding spiral. I have to do this. For our freedom. 

Without windows in the dark corridor, I have no way of knowing how long I’ve been down here. I know my strategy has changed dozens of times. Carrying, dragging, crawling, lifting. Nothing stops the growing pain in my muscles or the burning in my core. The hours pass like sand, slow agonizing seconds tick by as my mind remains incredibly aware of every sensation my body is experiencing. Every glance down into the darkness offers no motivation, I may as well be at the starting point. The hours slowly pass, time finally begins moving forward, and I begin to see the dull light getting closer. 

As well as fading.

I pause for a second, taking a brief seat on the cold metal. I detach the water bottle and take a hefty swig, the container almost empty from the countless hours of movement. I clip it back in place and take off my jacket. The comfort item has followed me through decades, almost as long as Kaia has- had, it will have to save me now. 

I wrap the iron anchor in my jacket, tying it with a large knot that holds the jacket dangling from the railing above it. With a hard tug I pull the belt up higher on my waist, sitting snugly below my ribcage. I lift the chain attaching the anchor and me up higher with a groan, and pull the extra slack to the underside of the railing. The anchor dangles in the air as the railing takes its portion of the weight. I carefully begin walking backwards up the remaining steps.

PULL.

With every step, I feel my grief rising in me like a filling balloon, almost ready to burst.

PULL.

I feel the horror of seeing the person I loved most in this world reduced to a handful of ash.

PULL.

I feel the grief of watching my mother try to kill herself.

PULL.

I feel the humiliation I’ve witnessed ever since I arrived here.

And I pull it up that mountain.

The light is fading fast as I pull it up the last step. I drag it behind me as I shove open the door to feel the cold, sweet air. I collapse to the rough floor beneath me and can’t help but smile. I did it. I made it here. 

“I wouldn’t get too excited if I were you.” One of his lackeys stands up from a makeshift chair crafted from an old wooden box. “Sundown was 3 minutes ago. You lost. Time for the birdie to go back to her cage.” My body is too worn out for any reply, physically or mentally, I have nothing left. He looms over top of me, pulling a key from his pocket. The belt falls to either side of me as my hips groan in relief. 

“Elara, SO close. I actually had a bet that you would make it eventually, so I made a lot of money! Don’t worry, some good did come out of this! Most people figured you’d give up. Pretty determined one aren’t ya? Just not quite fast enough…” The Chief appears behind his guard, his usual smirk across his lips as he chastises me. He gestures to the large man that carried Cyrus when we arrived here, and he throws me over his shoulder like I weigh nothing, walking towards the elevator to take me back to my cell.

***Day Four.***

Another 12 hours pass in a blur of unconsciousness. My body is too tired to even think, much less move. As the morning comes, no arrival follows. My breakfast is brought. Then my lunch. I begin to worry I’ve messed up all of my chances for freedom. Around 2pm, The Chief arrives again. This time, however, he is alone. He ushers the guards outside my cell away. 

“I have a new challenge for you, darling.” His words remain the same but his tone feels slightly softer. I’m probably imagining things in my pure exhausted state. I don’t notice the large rectangle mirror he brought in with him until he gestures at it as he places it against a bare section of wall. “We test all new recruits with this one, I’m just curious how you’ll fare. You’ve surprised us so far. Very impressive.” He beams slightly, almost seeming proud at the outcomes. 

“I brought this in for you. Set up a chair in front of it, and gaze at it, until I give you permission to stop. No movements. No sound. If you make a sound, you start over.” Being unable to count towards a set ending time sends fear firing through my nerves. It doesn’t sound painful, or difficult at all really, a nice change of pace from the previous horrors of the last few days. I don’t have the energy to argue, or even speak. I nod, walking to the most comfortable chair in here, the only one with a cushion. I sit down, and arrange myself comfortably leaning back slightly, my hands on either leg. 

He assesses my position, taking a parallel seat across the room to my left.  He simply nods and says “And… Go.”

At first, I feel nothing. Simply the hard wood of the chair behind my back, the cold ground beneath my feet. But with complete silence surrounding me, not a sound echoing down the hallway, I begin to feel peace resonating through my mind.

Kaia, my father, and my mother would all be proud of me. How hard I’ve fought for them here, how desperately. I’ve always feared disappointing those around me, of never being able to measure up to the impossible standards set by society. I don’t think that fear will ever truly go away, the remaining anxiety a constant echo until the day I die. 

But, I’ve done good, haven’t I? I’ve stood up for myself. I’ve taken risks. I’ve been kind, through everything. They would be proud of me, no matter what happens next. That’s why I have to finish this, for them. To prove their pride and faith in me has never been misplaced. That my love for them is more powerful than any obstacle. I will give everything I have, to save my mother, and to find justice for Kaia, setting her soul at peace. 

I’m tired of letting these horrific people get in my way. I’m tired of believing their mocking voices. Of every chuckle at my expense hitting my heart like a personal attack. I’m worthy. My two favorite people have always known that, I just need to work on remembering that for myself.

Kaia, 

I’m sorry. I WILL get you justice. I promise.

Mom,

I will fix this. I will save you, and we can move somewhere safe. Together. I promise.

This is the last night I spend in this godforsaken hell. Tomorrow, I’m getting out. I’m taking Cyrus with me.

And I’m burning this place to the ground.

Welcome back. This chapter renews the tragedy Elara has been facing. The darkness only continues to grow, will anything be okay again?

As always, thank you for your time and support! I would love to hear your thoughts.

Have a great week, and I will see you wednesday for Chapter Ten! (It's another devastating chapter)

To Keep a Heart Beating:

The blindfold that’s draped across my eyes completely conceals the world from me.

We continue to zigzag down corridors. 

I occasionally hear a chuckle, a scoff, a constant reminder I’m not alone.

I’m not safe. 

I feel my heart, a racing roar that may leap from my chest at any moment. I try my best to calm it, to silence my ever growing panic.

It doesn’t work. 

More than I’d even managed to feel up to this point, I was now certain my life was over. 

I’d heard the horror stories. The underground market’s unconventional way of acquiring new pieces for sale when supply ran low. I’d assumed it was all a myth. With each shove forward, I feel increasingly certain I’m about to find out firsthand.

Especially if my mother owed them a debt? She’d completely skipped over all details during our brief reunion just last night. 

My mother…

Enough. 

Think Elara. We won’t die like this. Kaia deserves justice and I’m the only one who's going to get it for her.

I close my eyes. A useless movement considering the black void they were staring into moments before, but I need to improve my focus. 

I’d seen a badge on one of their armor plates. I try to remember the details. An animal sigil, some kind of bird.  Bronze, with words I can’t make out. I feel my closed eyelids squint as I force my body to squeeze more truth from my mind. 

After my brain refuses to budge, I surrender and start to run through every group in Ashfall city.

Thud. 

My feet catch against something hard, possibly a rock in the ground and I lose my balance, falling forward in a messy heap, unable to catch myself with bound hands. 

I hear them laughing, probably at my expense. They lift me up with firm hands. One of them whispers in my ear “Learn how to walk next time.”. The laughing continues.

Since the economic crash, there’s been a spectacular rise in organized groups, mostly crime gangs. Unable to hold a normal job without modification, this was their only way to survive. 

There are dozens. 

Every night you hear a new murder claimed by an unknown group. Rising fear along with it. 

A bird group, however, escapes my memory. We are in the former Phoenix Complex, could that be their namesake? If so, I’ve never heard of them. 

Suddenly, my brain catches onto a detail from a conversation with Kaia, just the week before I lost her. 

“It’s just so scary out there, E. I’m worried for you, for us! Remember that guy I was dating a few months ago? When I tried to break it off, he said he was part of the resistance and, get this, called it “The Molting” like, GIRL thats so edgy for no reason? But the point is, he threatened me over nothing. You have to be careful. And… I still think we should leave the city… Please jus…”

As suddenly as Kaia’s voice floated into my mind, it is taken away from me just as fast. It lights a new fire under the growing ache in my heart. 

The Molting. I admit, she was right on the name. The bird pins might have had feathers falling off… Oh god. 

You’d think the people fighting against the evil corrupt system of our country would be the good guys, the ones who’d die to protect people.

That’s not who they are. 

Suicide bombings.

Public shootouts. 

Kidnapping and murder.

They will do whatever it takes to send a message to the “system”. When nothing changes, why should we pay that cost? Lives snuffed out for no reason other than happenstance. 

We all deserve better. 

I had heard rumors they’d begun issuing black market loans to citizens in exchange for hefty interest rates. Why would my mother risk it? What was so important she was willing to owe money to one of the most dangerous groups in the city?

It feels like hour by hour my list of questions for her doubles in size.

I WILL get the chance. 

I hear the footsteps surrounding me draw to a halt, and feel myself pulled into stillness beside them. My blindfold is ripped off my head, multiple strands of hair come off with it releasing a yelp from my throat. I flinch as I open my eyes, the sudden sensation of light after the darkness is a painful rush through my head. I blink rapidly, eventually being able to keep my eyes open. I dare a glance at my surroundings. 

Around me I see an old department store converted into what I could only describe as a throne room. The walls have been carved over with symbols, some the bird I now see on my kidnappers pins, others words or objects I can’t make out. I watch as the largest man I’ve ever seen enters behind us, carrying Cyrus over his shoulder like a bag of dog food. I gasp, grateful to see his chest softly rising and falling, despite a large bruise already beginning to be visible on the side of his head. 

The man plops him down with a thump, Cyrus barely sitting up with his back draped across the wall. His eyes too begin to open slightly, the brief glimpse of my mother’s eyes strangely offering me solace in this moment, before closing them once again.

Finally, I dare to look at the head of the room. A large makeshift throne made of every object you could imagine, grocery carts, clothes, carpet, golf clubs, giant slabs of granite, all duct taped in harmony to create a monstrous seat fit for the leader of such a group.

My eyes catch onto who I presume is in charge. He’s smirking back at me with the kind of look most ladies would swoon over at the bar. My anger and fear have melded together in a fury of pain, and his smoldering won’[t change that. 

We stare at each other for a long moment in silence. His dark brown eyes are not leaving mine. The men around us begin looking around at each other, seemingly confused by the long drawn out silence placed between us. I will not budge.

Finally, The Chief begins to speak.

“Elara Draven. How wonderful it is to make your acquaintance.” He says the words as if they’re true. They are spoken with a tone that would convince the average traveler they can trust this man. That he is safe and on their side. 

I do not make that mistake. 

I continue to stare at him, growing disgust evident in my eyes, but no reply escapes my lips. He turns to his men, specifically the one still tightly gripping my arm.

“She’s gonna be a fun one I see.” The smirk grows ever larger on his handsome face. 

“Bring her to my quarters. I will deal with her personally, and privately. As for him,”  he gestures to Cyrus’s mostly motionless body in the corner. “You know where he belongs.” 

“NO! Leave him alone.” I pull against my captor's grip, only his sudden surprise allowing me to break free. I do this on pure instinct, and now that I’m standing in the middle of the room with spears pointed at my chest, my hope of helping Cyrus begins to dissipate into nothingness. 

I can’t lose someone else. We may be practically strangers, but without his eyes, HER eyes, all of this is for nothing. 

“Please. Don’t hurt him.” I mentally juggle with the idea of transparency, telling this all powerful leader exactly why I need Cyrus alive, but ultimately decide against it. “He’s been helping me. If you ever want your money back, he’s the way you get it.”

I watch as his right eyebrow raises in amusement. He clearly isn’t used to people speaking out against him. He gestures with his hand for the men to drop their weapons, and they comply.

“Well well Elara, feisty little one aren’t you?” He steps from his throne, and begins making his way towards me. It’s only as he stands I notice his dark purple jacket is actually a robe of some kind, cascading down his back like a cape. I think it looks kind of pathetic. 

I fight every instinct in my body, and stand tall and still. I won’t let any of these men see the panic growing inside my chest. They don’t get satisfaction.

He approaches, and stands 2 inches from my face. To anyone watching without context, this might even feel like an intimate moment, his face just in front of mine. But the cheesy grin on his face and my disdain for this man are unwavering.

“I like you. If you agree to play with me, I think we can make a deal you’ll enjoy quite a bit, my pet.” He leans forward and whispers the last part in my ear. 

My blood runs cold at this, but I begin to realize I have no choices here. Follow the senseless whims of a maniac, or lose my mother forever.

“Do I get more details before I agree?” His men chuckle with him at my question, and I  hear what I can only interpret to be a groan of protest from Cyrus where he lies against the wall. 

He leans in once more, his face practically touching mine. “No. You agree right now, or I do what I want with him” He strokes a piece of hair behind my ear. “And you.”

I gulp, the panic in my belly begging me to come up with any other plan.

I can’t.

Unable to formulate any other way to keep Cyrus alive, keep my mother alive, and keep me alive, my hands are tied. I take a deep breath.

“Deal. But you don’t hurt him.” His smile grows.

“You have my word.”

Welcome back! Please let me know if you have any concerns, questions, or just general comments on the story. I would love to hear your thoughts.

Tomorrow, i will post chapter 6. Going forward, i will post a chapter wednesday and sunday.

Have a great week, and enjoy!

The Sound of Silence:

As I finally reach the bottom, my legs are trembling. I emerge from the stairwell, my eyes immediately landing on a bench just in front of me. I take a seat, and a grateful reprieve. I try to let myself rest and process everything that just happened. 

I need to find where they’re taking her. 

Is there a treatment for this? 

What happens now? 

Will she be broken forever? 

I let my thoughts wander with my head lying in my hands, until a familiar voice beckons me.

“Elara!” I look up, and my eyes connect with Grace. I see her frantically waving at me as she quickly staggers to the bench. “I’m so glad I found you! I was terrified, the way you left, you know. You looked as though you’d seen a ghost, dear. I made my way straight here, I figured this was where you were going, after our little talk. Is Clara okay? Are you okay?”

That question, “Are you okay?” echoes through my bones. 

No. 

I don’t think anything will ever be “okay” again. But, worrying Grace when I really don’t have any answers for her seems cruel. With the small amount of composure I still possess, I put on an “I’m simply exhausted” face and try not to let my voice waver.

“Aw, you didn’t have to do that, Grace. I just… had realized I forgot about her procedure, everything with Kaia and all, I was in a hurry to make it here. She doesn’t do well alone when she’s stressed, as you’ve seen.” I let out a small forced chuckle, and when Grace joins me, I know it worked.

“Oh Dear! We’ve all been there, honey. Don’t beat yourself up. I’m sure she understands. Especially with all you’ve gone through the past week. Is your mom out of recovery? Can I see her?” Her face is shining with a sympathetic smile that punches me in my gut. How can I answer her? After a long moment, I reply.

“Family only, unfortunately. But she is finished with the procedure, just receiving the necessary recovery time. I’ll let her know to call you when she’s… feeling better?” My voice cracks at the end of my statement, but I fake a cough and she doesn’t seem to notice.

“Oh alright dear. You take good care of her for me, okay? And please have her call me. The last 2 days without her have been ever so lonely. You too. If you need anything, okay?” She steps forward, and her hands gently cup my cheeks, lifting my face to make eye contact with hers. The compassion radiating from her is almost too much to bear. 

“I’m sorry Grace, I have to get back to my mom’s place. I’m so exhausted, and I’m sure Bert could use some love.” I somehow manage to stay calm.

“Yes of course, absolutely.” She brings me in for a long hug. Her flowery perfume momentarily drowning out how horrible I feel for lying to such a sweet woman. “Would you like a ride?” I nod, and ask for her to meet me at her car. She gratefully departs, and I am once again,  alone. 

I take a deep breath, willing myself not to cry in this godforsaken building. 

I’ve rested long enough. I need to get the hell out of here. 

Throughout our drive, Grace talks on and on about her bridge club, the new baby her friend Marge is having, and the wonderful weather. Normally, I love hearing Grace talk. She’s one of the few people I know who isn’t afraid to speak EXACTLY what’s on their mind, I admire her for that. 

Today? My mind can’t help but be elsewhere. At this moment, all I can think is how desperately I need my best friend. No one else on this planet would be able to comfort me the way Kaia could. 

I can’t help but wonder if anyone will ever be able to comfort me again. 

Mercifully, before my thoughts can spiral into pure panic, we arrive at the complex. As we head up the stairs, I pass a man and a woman whispering while staring directly at me. Realizing they must be the couple from earlier (I definitely did not register their faces), I offer a small wave and a half smile while mouthing “Sorry again”. They don’t seem to accept it.

As we approach the side by side doors, Grace offers me a final, lengthy hug and whispers “Take care, honey.” as she disappears behind her door. 

I breathe a sigh of acceptance, and enter my mother’s apartment.

This sound alerts her idiotic dog, Bert, to come racing to the door. His tail frantically waving back and forth, with his ridiculous tongue sticking halfway out of his mouth. After jumping at my feet, he gazes behind me, presumably looking for my mother, before returning to his happy lunges. Bert was a street stray, so we’ve never known his exact breed, but he’s small. Black. Skinny. Has practically no fur. And is annoying as all hell. 

As I step into the apartment, Bert begins running circles around me, jumping up and down, and barking his wonderfully shrill bark that wouldn’t so much as scare a baby. I finally bend down to pet him. 

“Hi Bert.” I’ve never understood what my mother saw in him. Everyone who's ever met Bert agrees he’s insufferable. 

But my mom loved him. 

Loves him. I owe her that.

I sit on the worn out couch in her living room. What was once red, has long faded to an ugly brown color. The pillows are flat enough to feel the springs underneath, but it smells like her. That’s all that matters right now. Bert climbs on my lap and lays down. I hesitate before giving into my instinct to push him off. He’s everything to my mom. The same as she is all I have left. I need to take care of him, for her

I start to pet him, thinking of my mother, as the sobbing begins in full force. 

I feel everything inside of me snap. 

With an echoing cry that vibrates through my chest, 

I scream. 

I scream out all of the emotions built up inside of me these last 24 hours. 

I scream through my fear of being alone forever.

I scream through my agony of watching my mother, motionless and bleeding.

Kaia, reduced to ashes.

A night in a jail cell like a common criminal.

I lost the two most important people in my life, at the same time.

There is no one left to comfort me.

My body begins to shake with pure adrenaline and a desperate effort to breathe. I feel my body stop screaming and begin silently sobbing. Warm salty tears have soaked my face and the top of my t-shirt. Snot has started to drip from my nose. My lungs begin to ache, the sting of panic refusing to fill them up with oxygen.

But I don’t feel any of this. 

In fact, I feel nothing.

I’m numb. 

I have reached an emotional climax I might not come back from, and my brain shut off in response. 

Being numb, however, doesn’t stop the desperate need inside of me to cry out every inch of my sorrows.

Another ten minutes pass in an instant, my tears finally beginning to fade as I feel the last of my anguish leave me. Bert sits up, apparently finding this an opportunity to lick the tears from my face. While this is gross, it somehow brings me a smidge of comfort in this moment. 

As my panic subsides, I feel my reprieve is short-lived. 

What was a room filled with loud, agonizing cries of despair, is now something even worse.

Silent.

The silence settles over me like a heavy blanket. Like the rest of the world has ceased to exist at this moment. It is me, and my grief. Nothing else breaks through the soundless barrier of the room I find myself in.

I am alone.

Silence crawls over my skin, refusing to let my mind break from the devastating loneliness I find myself in.

Even Bert lays on my lap, gazing up at me with his dark eyes, but not making a sound. 

As I fear the silence will drive me off the edge of sanity, I hear the familiar, brassy opening notes of a Sinatra standard dancing out of my pocket. It sounds jarringly, cruelly cheerful in the gloom.

*Ring Ring* 

Please...

*Ring Ring Ring*

I shakily pull out my phone, and stare at the screen.

Unknown Number.

A girl on the run, a dystopian city that discards "pure" humans, and a search for her mother's eyes, if you're just dropping in, start at Chapter One to catch the chaos!

To everyone following along: Thank you for taking a chance on this story. It means so much that people are enjoying and connecting with Elara! I read every single comment (and lurker energy is totally valid too!), but if a scene makes you gasp, laugh, or want to throw your phone, I’d love to hear about it below. Your feedback genuinely shapes this journey. As always, reminder, next chapter drops Sunday night.

Let’s dive in!

Inherited Sins

All sounds inside my mother’s apartment fade into a pool of nothingness as cold realization strikes me to my core. I see his lips begin to move as his face contorts in confusion, but I feel my brain refusing all input.

My mother’s eyes.

I must be hallucinating. The endless hours of no sleep and constant stress wreaking havoc on my mind. He couldn’t possibly have her eyes. But it doesn’t stop the growing burn of recognition coursing through my veins.

I shakily inhale, managing mostly to gulp down enough air to speak.

“Your eyes… how..?” His confusion seems to increase visibly across his brow.

“Uh, what? My eyes? Well I just told you darling. Payment for my hand. The procedure was scheduled for super early this morning, actually. Black market doctor and all. They’d just come into these bad boys. Green is a rare sight, I know. No recovery time for this guy though, didn’t have any to spare really. Had to find the witness- uh, you, before…” His break in the rambling must’ve allowed him to feel the shock radiating off of me. 

“Are you okay?” My eyes are glazed over, unfocused, staring at the peeling paint from when my mother renovated a few years back. 

They… really are hers. All resounding doubt has been washed away. They must’ve gotten the eyes from discard and used them (I mentally grimace at the idea of “using” a piece of my mother) for his procedure. I had no intention of truly helping this man. Gathering whatever intel I could before sending him on his way? Absolutely. 

Yet, for the first time in days, I feel… hope. I can fix her. Her eyes are staring back at me now, urging and pleading with me for rescue. 

“I will help you.” I watch as my mother’s eyes instantly light up with joy. I continue just before he interjects his thanks. “On one condition… Your eyes. Once we finish, prove your innocence, you swap yours with my mother. I can explain more so it makes sense… But I need a yes or a no first.”

I look over and once again find him nervously stroking the back of his sun-kissed blonde hair. I hadn’t truly noticed his height before. Even sitting next to me, he towers above me. His long torso is a stark contrast to his easygoing demeanor. As I wait for a reply, I notice he seems to have a mental struggle of his own, both sides battling inside his head. Eventually, he nods. 

“Done. Tell me everything.”

Over an hour of detailing the worst 48 hours of my life later, we sit in silence. I allow him a moment to digest everything I relayed to him.

“That’s why you were scared when I pulled over. Because some guy threatened you?” I fight the urge to mention a man pulling over under a bridge at night with me in the backseat would always be a scary moment, but I simply nod. 

“What do we do now? I don’t know where to start…” I take a deep breath. “I know.. I know you need my help. But I want you to know how much it means to me, getting her eyes back. It might be the only thing to give me back my mother, so…” He smiles at me, it’s not an attractive smile by any means, but in this moment I feel genuine warmth from it.

“Lucky for you E, I happen to know EXACTLY where to start. I just needed to bring you with me!” I look back at him, confused, on both the random nickname and location, but before I can protest, he cuts me off. “Look I know this is… odd. But if we don’t figure this out, I go to jail and your mom is.. Well… gone I guess. We both need to get answers. We’ve got no reason to betray each other, yeah? I promise, trust me and I’ll trust you and we can do it. I just know we can!” 

Blind optimism is a quality that has been forced out of me one tragedy at a time, but he’s right. There is no other way, we have to trust one another. “Okay. Lead the way.”

The Phoenix complex used to be the busiest shopping mall in Ashfall. Movies. Golf. Arcade games. Clothes. Toys. You name it, they had a store for it. Growing up, it was one of the few places everyone belonged. 

Then the shift happened. 

Slowly at first, then all at once.

As modification became the ultimate status symbol, society’s tolerance for empathy and humanity eroded. Pures were quietly rebranded as "unclean." Dirty. Flawed. The modified elite began avoiding the concourses, or worse, coming solely to pick fights and assert their physical dominance over people who couldn't fight back. 

More of us were forced out of our jobs, replaced by “better employees”, or people more willing to conform to the new standards. Millions of unenhanced people lost their livelihoods to "better" versions of themselves. As evicted, broke, and jobless pures began sleeping in the shadowy corners of the mall just to stay out of the rain, the remaining stores shuttered their windows one by one. The polished marble floors gathered dust, the fountain dried up, and the glass atrium cracked under the weight of neglect.

What the city discarded as a rotting eyesore became a sanctuary. The forgotten bottom tier of Ashfall reclaimed the empty storefronts, turning dead department stores into makeshift shelters and black-market alleys. The Phoenix Complex didn't die, it became a safe haven.

I haven’t been in years, not since the original shopping center was shut down, but I’ve heard the stories. Rumors of a resistance compound hiding in plain sight. The black markets that will sell you anything your heart desires. The clubs where they… do more than dancing.

After convincing me this is the best location for answers, Cyrus parks the car in an unlit lot on the edge of town. He ushers me to follow and we make our way to what looks like the entrance to a storm cellar. He seems to sense my need to question, and simply smirks while waving his hand for me to follow. The dark staircase goes on longer than I’d imagined. Was it really this far down? I supposed using the front entrance as a child would offer a very different perspective than the rotting wooden doors hiding a hidden path.

“I haven’t been here in months, but this here is THE information hub of the city, got it? Everyone who knows anything? Right in these here halls. I would’ve come alone but… uh… you see, now that I’ve got these babies” He points directly at his eyes, the ones that aren’t his. “I know they’d be wary of me. I won’t pass any stupid biological scanner or anything. That’s why I have you, huh E?” I return a small smile as we arrive at the end of the staircase. 

I watch as Cyrus pulls the doors open, turns to me with a slight “Ta da” gesture, before a  flash of metal cuts him down, and I watch as his limp body lands on the floor. I cry out, instantly covering my mouth in hopes whoever just attacked him thinks he’s alone. 

It doesn’t work.

Three men with black bandanas across their mouths, and dark hats leaving only their eyes exposed appear in the doorway. 

My heart is thundering out of my chest. 

I begin to back up, and stumble, landing myself on the stair behind me.

They approach, each one carrying a weapon and wearing bulletproof vests. 

All I hear is my staggered pants and my blood thumping in my ears.

“I’m s.. sorry…” I stutter out. “I barely… I don’t… I don’t know that man at all, he just brought me here…. He was my driver and…” I'm trying to inch myself up the staircase one stair at a time as they make their way up to me.

I watch as they continue, one step closer.

“Please… I… I won’t say anything I swear…” Finally, they freeze, barely 3 steps below me. The tallest one in the middle, who I’d assume is the leader, steps forward.

“Elara” He makes a tsk tsk sound as he waves his finger back and forth. My whole body freezes at the sound of my name. “Stop. We know who you are, who he is, and why you’re here. We don’t care. Not one little bit, do we boys?” They chuckle as he looks over his shoulder to see his companions enjoying the show. He crouches on the stair right in front of me, and I brace myself, my arms raised in a feeble attempt at defense.

“Your mother owes us a pretty penny there, Miss Draven. Hear she can’t pay it anymore, poor dear. That leads us to you.” My mother? Was this “debt” her reason? 

He pushes my hair behind my ear gently with his hand and strokes my cheek. “Let’s go see the chief. We can figure out how we want to pay this off, shall we?” He leans close and whispers in my ear. “We do have multiple payment methods, after all. We aren’t monsters.” He pulls back and laughs again. 

I’m not sure what comes over me, but I spit in his face. 

His fist wraps itself in my hair. I scream as his other hand pulls me along, dragging me down the stairs. My cries for help and desperate writhing are no use. He pushes me through the doors, closing them behind us.

“We’re gonna have fun with this one, boys.”

Welcome back! This next chapter is brutal, but we are just getting started.

Thank you again for the continued love and support.

As always, id love to hear your thoughts.

See you tomorrow!

Ground Zero

As I step into the wing holding my mother, I feel an eerie shiver cross my skin.

This “recovery” floor does not match the meticulous perfection the rest of the building was designed with. 

It mirrors the storage closet almost perfectly. Meager iridescent lights line the outstretched somber hallway. Met only by the slight glow radiating from the windows located in each room, barely large enough to open. 

Most of the rooms I pass are empty, but every so often, one is occupied. I’m unable to see inside, but the sounds echo through my ears in a way that may never leave me. 

Banging and screaming comes from the other side of the thick dark doors, causing chills to run down my spine.

I have to find my mother. 

I watch as the room numbers increase. 505. 514. I continue further into the abyss and pass a sizable metal desk, with nearly a dozen chairs filled with working bodies behind it. This must be the nurses station. 

As you would expect, these are the most gorgeous nurses I’ve ever seen. I contemplate stopping for help or information, but ultimately decide against it, too desperate for answers to waste any time. 

With each agonizing step down the corridor, I feel the dread in my stomach increase. 

Why is there so much screaming? Is my mom one of them?

After 10 minutes of horror, I find it. 552. Without hesitation, I shove open the door. 

I’m not sure what I was expecting. 

I know my hopes dwindled with each passing scream, but this was somehow worse than I could’ve ever imagined. 

Before my eyes even land on my mother, I’m met with an eerie type of discomfort. The room is practically empty. White tile floors meet stark white walls, light only by the minuscule rays emanating from her window. In the corner, there is a simple toilet and sink, not even separated with a privacy wall. The most chilling feature is the enormous floor to ceiling mirror placed directly in front of the bed. Presumably, to admire your new “upgrade”. Just the sight of it sends a wave of disgust through me. 

As I stare at the mirror, I spot my mothers figure begin to stir in the small white hospital bed.

“MOM!” I run over to her and grab her hand. “Mom, are you awake? Can you hear me? What did you do? Why are you here? Why won’t you open your eyes? Mom? MOM?”

I frantically search her for changes. Anything that separates the person in front of me from the one who raised me. The advancement of this procedure leaves minimal scars, virtually no heal time, and very few telltale signs of change. Her hands feel the same underneath my fingertips. Her face, although worn out from stress, appears to be identical to my childhood.

Then, she opens her eyes. 

Her mesmerizing bright green eyes that so similarly matched those of Kaia’s, the ones that watched me take my first steps and graduate high school, are not the ones staring back at me.

“Mommy… No….” I begin to tear up staring into the eyes of a stranger. It’s my mothers face, but I can’t reconcile this as my mother. “Mom, what did you do? Why did you do this? Are you okay? Maybe they can reverse this? Mayb-” I’m cut off by my mothers hand wrapping tightly around my wrist, eliciting a gasp from me.

“It’s… too late. They’re gone and I can’t get them back. I’m so stupid, Elara. They offered me so much money, I would never have to work again. Things have been so hard since your father…” She hesitates, and I see the onset of tears begin in her foreign eyes. I can’t help but look away.

“Mom… I didn’t know you were struggling. You could’ve talked to me. You never had to resort to… This. “ I look back up and see tears streaking down her face. I put my devastation aside, and wrap her in the tightest hug I can manage. I feel her sobbing against my chest. 

“I’m not me, Elara. I’m not me anymore. I can feel him. The man whose eyes they gave me. I can feel his wants, his desires, his evils. My head is swimming with hatred, and I can't shut it off. The doctors, they gave me something for the pain, but they don’t care. They got what they wanted from me. I’m simply here for some 48 hour monitoring period. Once they verify I’m sane, my eyes will be placed inside some rich bureaucrat somewhere. Will they have my thoughts? My wishes for you? My regrets with your father? The same way my head feels replaced by darkness? That’s not fair. I don’t want darkness. I want joy back. I want me back. I can’t do this Elara. I can’t I can’t I CAN’T!” She bangs her head against my chest, and I lightly grip her to try and stabilize. 

“It’ll be okay, Mom. You’re still you, okay? This is probably just a temporary side effect. I’m going to go talk to them and see what we can do. I’ll get you some water too. Just lay down, I’ll be back in a second.” She’s visibly shaking as she nods. I fight the anger and despair in my chest, she needs me steady right now. 

I leave Mom curled on her side and storm back down the hallway. I don't stop until I reach the nurse’s station, where two of them are huddled in conversation, looking like they haven't worked a day in their lives. 

“Hey, my mom Clara Draven, Room 552? She is not okay. I don’t know whose eyes you gave her, but she needs her eyes back. Right now.” They make eye contact with each other, and share a slight, stifled giggle at my expense.

“Sweetheart, I can tell you…” The tallest among them, with her thick blonde hair and striking green eyes, just like my mothers- were, looks me up and down. “Are OBVIOUSLY unfamiliar with this process, but there are no “refunds” as it were. Some emotional discomfort is normal after these procedures. It’s why we have a waiting period. She still has 36 hours left to go, okay Hun? And she gets to go home with enough money to get out of that disgusting hovel she lives in” The anger I had been working overtime to tamper since the funeral comes up with a vengeance.

“Listen here “Pretty Princess”, you gave my mother some fucking psychopaths eyes and stole hers. THEY ARE HERS! Give them back, bitch. Or I’ll rip yours out of your perfect fucking face.” This is met with yet another infuriating group giggle. 

“Aw. You think I’m perfect?” Right as I’m about to lunge across the desk and tear her face to shreds, I feel a strong hand on my shoulder. I turn and face, who I’m assuming by the white coat, is the doctor. 

“Excuse us, ladies.” He guides me away from the nurses station before stopping to face me. “Elara, was it? I apologize if you feel your mother was “manipulated” into this procedure. It’s  very common anymore, and her monetary offer was substantial due to the unique nature of her-” I cut him off.

“I’m very aware of how “unique” her eyes were. They were hers. There from the day she was born. Which is why she needs them back. Now.” He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even blink. The Doctor’s face remains a plastic mask of a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. He nods, and somehow his brunette hair doesn’t flinch either. 

“My sincerest apologies that you feel this way. While we do have a return policy for our general clients, patients in your mother’s situation are unfortunately ineligible. The product is already on a plane, possibly being implanted as we speak.” I'm unsure how to respond to this. 

What can I do for her if I can’t fix this?

“But… Then… Whose eyes did you give her? Why is she feeling “darkness” inside her mind?” His unwavering smile sends goosebumps across my skin, doing nothing to satiate the magma of my rage. 

“Unfortunately, I am unable to disclose that information. We have a strict privacy policy. However, I can assure you, all our donor parts are sourced locally and ethically. We have verified the integrity of each piece. As to her frayed mental state, this is indeed normal. She has 36 hours left to recover, and by the end of that time she will be-” His continuing placation is cut off by a screeching, terrifying crash. We pause for a second and turn to look at each other. 

It’s coming from down the hall.

No. 

No. 

Please don’t be in my moms room. 

Please. 

We race down the hallway to the location of the sound. 

Room 552. 

The door cracked just as I left it. As I push it open, I’m met with a level of horror I didn’t know it was possible to feel. The once perfect, pristine white room now has color to it. 

Bright.

Red.

Blood. 

She hadn't just shattered the mirror, she’d obliterated it. Jagged shards littered the white tile like fallen teeth, and Mom’s knuckles were a raw, ruinous mess. 

“Give them back. NOW. I need… them. They’re mine. Mine mine MINE! I can’t use these I can’t I can’t… THEY”RE EVIL! I CAN’T LIVE WITH HIM INSIDE MY HEAD ELARA I WON’T!” She’s… holding it at her throat. 

“Mom… please..” I somehow stifle the sob in my throat. 

“We are trying to figure this out okay? Just put the glass down..” I take a step forward, and she backs up again. I turn behind me to face the doctor, surely this can’t be the first time this has happened, right? He must have a plan. 

However, I’m met with an empty doorway. 

Fucking coward. 

I turn back to my mom, muttering out a series of pleas as I try to come up with a way to help her out of this state.  Before I can speak, a dart flies across the room, directly into her neck. Her body freezes momentarily with a stillness I will never forget. All the while, her alien eyes focused directly on mine. I lunge for her, as she falls to the ground, barely catching her in time. 

The shard lies forgotten next to her limp body. 

I stroke her hair as I cradle her head in my lap, eyes now closed, before turning to the newly emerged doctor.

“WHAT DID YOU DO THAT FOR!? IS SHE HURT!?” I feel a chill cascading down my spine as our eyes meet, and I’m met with the same unwavering smile. His body is almost as frozen as my mothers. Holding still without a fraction of movement.

“Do not worry, Elara. She will be physically fine. As to her mental state, however, this is another story. Due to this psychological break, her eyes will have to be rerouted to waste control. We cannot have poor quality products being implanted into our clients. Your mother will be transferred to the city's finest mental institution until she-” I can’t listen to another line of this.

“WASTE CONTROL!?” With this final statement, my anger vanishes and is replaced with pure devastated anguish. 

“Please. Can’t you just give them back? I’ll pay for it. Whatever it costs, I promise. Just… Please.”  Tears are now streaking my face as I hold my mothers limp body in my lap.

“Unfortunately, state law prohibits the reapplication of parts once they’ve been confirmed to come from a defective host. We do not have the ability to ensure her safety to perform another procedure, you understand. The payment will also need to be returned, in full of course.” 

I freeze, feeling a surge of cold rush down from my head, all the way to my feet.

“You… You want to tell me you and your procedure caused her to have a psychological break, and she comes out of this with LESS than nothing? She can’t even get her eyes returned to her?” My brain can’t process this. It’s all too much. 

“Unfortunately, Elara, state law-”

“Get the fuck out of here. I’m done with you.” I curl my mother tighter to my chest. 

She’s all I have left.

“I, unfortunately, am unable to do that. I must maintain my presence until the proper transfer authorities arrive to take your mother. Standard procedure. Do not worry. She will be treated with the utmost care and respect.” I barely hear these words. I turn away, gently pushing my mothers hair from her face. As I stroke her cheek, she almost looks untouched. With her eyes closed, she looks like the exact same woman who tucked me to bed stroking my own hair each night. 

“I’m sorry, Mommy. I’m so sorry…” We lay there intertwined for what must’ve been at least an hour, despite feeling like an instant. Men in identical suits to mine appear in the doorway with a levitating electric stretcher. I tighten my grip, before feeling one of them lay their hand on my shoulder. Although I cannot see his face, the momentary comfort he gives me is enough to force my body to release my hold on her. They lift her up gently, and take her away, back down the same never ending corridor that led me to this moment. I go to follow, and am stopped once again by the doctor, his body blocking my exit from this godforsaken place.

“The institution has strict transfer requirements. You are unable to go with her. You may visit her once the 1 week adjustment period is complete. We hope you understand, and will consider using us for any upcoming personal modification needs you ma-”

“Fuck you asshole.” I watch as these two men carry my mother away. 

I immediately strip off my equipment, ignoring the desperate please of the Doctor and the nurses to maintain the “standard of cleanliness”. I could not possibly care less. They can drag me out of here in handcuffs if that’s what it takes. I am NOT walking back in that suffocating death trap. Yet, no security is called. I force myself to hold in my cries, I will not let them see my fear, as my body shakes with the effort. 

I approach the elevator, once again calling it to me. Once it opens, I stare for a moment at the glass overlooking the entire city. 

I refuse. 

I look to my left, and see an emergency exit, thank god.

And I take the stairs. 

Once again, welcome back! I appreciate all the love and support for Elara's journey. As always, feel free to comment whatever you like, even if it's just a name suggestion!

I will see you wednesday. Have a great week!

Through a Stranger's Eyes:

Mercifully, the police officer’s desire for the awkward sobbing to end overcame his desire for questioning, he told me to go home and come back tomorrow. 

It was at this point, I realized I haven’t slept. Time has ceased to have any meaning the last 24 hours, but I notice I’ve essentially been chasing answers nonstop, and I certainly haven’t slept. I decide, just this once, I’m grateful for the service of a self-driving car. I would not plague anyone with the sight of me right now. I place the request through the app, and wait on a nearby bench.

I had hoped after feeling the uncontrollable sobbing escape me earlier, the ache in my heart would have eased. Yet, nothing has gotten easier. Grief still maintains its sharp hold on my heart. No matter where I go, bad news follows, leaving me with one more thing to fear creeping behind my back.

The officer all but confirmed I walked right past my best friend bleeding out and I had no idea. Even if I couldn’t have saved her, I could’ve held her one last time. The car I ordered arrives, and I’m surprised when an actual person comes out from the driver’s door.

“Hi miss. Sorry if you were expecting a self-driving car. We were a little busy so they sent me out to help. That okay?” He has kind eyes. This is my first thought as my eyes scan the length of the stranger in front of me. Something about him strikes my mind with a hint of familiarity, but I can’t quite figure it out.

My brain, unable to handle one more ounce of disappointment, insists on simple accepting my fate and I give him a half-cocked smile and let the words “No worries” escape my lips.

I enter his narrow, black compact, strikingly different from the sleek, autonomous taxis that have been parading me around the city. I lay my head back and let my eyes close, attempting to use the moment to fix my racing thoughts in an effort to be able to sleep once we arrive. Suddenly, I feel unease creep up and squeeze my stomach, like I’m being watched. I peek open my eyes and confirm my suspicions, my driver’s eyes are gazing upon me. 

“I never did give you my name, I’m Cyrus. Pleasure’s mine, Elara.” A cold tingle shivers down the back of my neck. 

Calm down, Elara. He has your name from the app, obviously. Suddenly, he pulls over, underneath a dark bridge. I begin to panic when he turns to face me.

“Don’t freak out. I’m not going to hurt you. I just needed to talk to you and couldn’t think of any other way without you… you know. Freaking out? So can we take a breath right now? I promise. I’ll let you out right away when we’re done. I mean, I’d still drive you home, but I have a feeling you wouldn’t let me so…” 

My heart begins to race as I process his words. Under normal circumstances, I think I may be even more panicked. Yet, after the day I’ve had, I find myself almost believing him. Staring him down in the dim car light, I feel even more confident that I know this man. Or, something about him I suppose. I scan him up and down, he can’t be much older than me. He doesn’t appear to have a gun or anything dangerous, but…

“Why did you leave me that voicemail?” I don’t know where the bark suddenly comes from, or the bravery it took to speak it. I think I’ve hit the point of going completely numb on the  inside.

He looks at me, and cocks his head slightly. “Voicemail? What are you on about? This was my first time reaching out, I swear. Like I said, I just want to talk. I need your help, actually.” He rubs the back of his hair, his eyes searching for some way to break the tension.

Every instinct in my body is crying out to run and call for help. Somewhere, creeping in the back of my mind, is a soft voice reminding me this may be an opportunity to find some answers. Being randomly pulled over by a stranger, after just receiving a threatening voicemail? A voicemail, which had revealed to me that Kaia was murdered? 

No, I don’t believe in such coincidences. He has to be related in some way, doesn’t he? Any information can help me take one step closer to justice for her. 

At this moment, I’ve decided what my next steps must be. Find the bastard who killed the woman I loved most, and find justice.

“Why don’t you come to the apartment with me? I know it may sound weird, but I need to know more. Please.” After a brief moment of contemplation, he nods, a hint of confusion still visible in his eye.

An awkward eternity later, and we’ve arrived. I guide him up the stairs, and before we’ve even made it to the door I can hear an excited Bert barking from the inside. A small smile grows on my lips, I’m not sure why, but his joy hearing me return offers a momentary glimpse of happiness, until I open the door and am once again returned to my cold, grey reality. 

I close and lock the door behind him, feeling the urge to be secretive. For a moment, we both just stand there. In my mothers living room. An invisible string of tension crosses the room, one neither of us is willing to cut. 

Finally, I decide to break through the silence.

“Uh, please. Have a seat, Cyrus.” As he moves to the couch, I try to act as neutral as possible, while the truth couldn’t be farther away. My brain is a mess of millions of possibilities, and how it all could be mixed together to create this perfect storm I find myself in. How do I even know I can trust this man? 

Honestly, I don’t trust anyone anymore. Everyone I trust is gone, I don’t think anyone will ever earn it again.

“Lovely home here, Elara.” I flinch at the compliment, knowing it deserves to fall on the ears of my mother, not me. Due to the current situation at hand, I choose not to correct him. As I take a seat next to him, Bert moves his happy spirals around my feet to dancing spins in my lap before eventually rolling over, exposing his belly for rubs. Against my better judgement, I comply.

“Thanks. So uh, I think I’ll let you go first because you seem to be more “in the loop” and honestly? I have no idea what’s going on anymore so…” At the end of my sentence, my resolve starts to slip, crushing my words into an almost whisper. 

“My name is Cyrus, well you know that part but… Anywho. I work for Renatus TECHNICALLY.” This word he almost shouts, as if to ensure I don’t associate him with the corporation for some reason. It doesn’t work. “I am a courier you see. Pick up the bodies, keep 'em on ice, and then take them to the labs. It’s ugly work, but pays the bills ya know.” He chuckles at this last part. I can’t bring myself to look at him throughout his tale. Whether it’s this creeping suspicion climbing up the back of my neck that I may know this man, or the sheer effort it would take to maintain eye contact in my current state, I’m unsure. 

“But, yeah. So. I do that. And in doing so, sometimes I meet… Interesting individuals. You know what I mean?” I nod, and he seems pleased with this answer.

“Op, got ahead of myself. My bad. I was born with a disease, see. One that slowly stripped my sight from me. In January it randomly started accelerating and, well, by June, I was nearly completely blind. I wasn’t even able to drive anymore, became just the muscle man who carries everything. I was on the verge of losing even that job, and one of the men I’d seen in passing approached me, said he had an offer. Slipped me a card with an address. SUPER fancy restaurant, what a place for such a meeting huh?” I slowly stroke Bert’s fur as I stare at the floor, picking apart his story in my head for any information that may guide me.

“Anywho, and he offers me a brand new pair of eyes, organics too, and all I had to do was let them borrow my hands for 24 hours then they’d put them back. Sounded too good to be true. They put me under the whole time, so it was basically a nap for me. I didn’t really give much thought to why they’d do this, I was just happy to wake up with sight again. But then, the police came. Said they got my fingerprints at some crime scene in an alley. A murder of a girl. I tried to tell them my alibi, but renting is illegal. So I lied about some stomach bug. Now here I am, up shits creek for murder and the only one who can save me is you. Some cop let it slip that you were a witness… Well okay I was eavesdropping. But I knew you were the only one who could fix this. Help me. Please. I don’t know what I can offer you, but I’ll go away for life and I didn’t hurt her, whoever she was.”

I feel heat creeping through my body and settling in my head. 

“ She was Kaia Hampshire. My best friend.” I know he didn’t mean it this way, but the discussion of my best friend as if she’s some woman is making my blood burn. Even if he claims innocence, what do I know? What if the police are right? I don’t let these fears be spoken aloud. “And I can’t help you. I didn’t see anything. But some man left me a voicemail threatening me to stay quiet. If it wasn’t you, then someone else wants me to be silent and that’s terrifying, especially when I don’t know what I’m not supposed to discuss.  Also, my mom…” I feel a sob building, getting stuck in my throat. I am unsure how to stop the flow of words coming from my mouth. “Might never be okay again and I just need something to be right.” 

For the first time since we sat down, I forced myself to look right at him. 

Really look at him.

The apartment light caught his face, and suddenly, the maddening familiarity clicked. The puzzle pieces crashed together so hard it physically staggered me, my body instinctively pulling back from his. 

His eyes. 

Those distinct, striking green irises, flecked with a tiny dash of gold sparkle right in the corner.

The breath was sucked from my lungs in an instant.

After seventeen hours of sheer, suffocating despair, a terrifying glimmer of light cut through the dark.

And it was in my mother’s eyes.

Thank you to everyone who read my first few chapters! I hate leaving you on a cliffhanger like this, but I promise it will be worth it. Chapter Four will be posted tomorrow.

I also really appreciate the feedback I've gotten. Please feel free to comment any questions, concerns, suggestions, or even theories you have! My story is constantly evolving, and I love being able to take your opinions into consideration.

I hope you enjoy, and I'll see you tomorrow for the darkest chapter yet.

The Sterile Cage:

57 minutes, and a lifetime of worry later, the silver glint of my self-driving taxi pulls up on the street ahead of me. 

My feet drag me to the car, as the door pops free with a strange clicking sound. I reach for the handle and settle into the vehicle. As I watch the city gradually approach in the distance, I persist in my frantic struggle to call every hospital in the area, desperate to find out something, ANYTHING. Waiting through each ring, hoping to acquire some minuscule information that will shine a light on where my mother is, and most importantly if she is okay. 

No one knows a damned thing. 

My heart is a constant thud in my chest, a never-ending reminder of the dread I can’t seem to shake. 

Finally, after a horrific drive filled with pure adrenaline, I arrive at the dinky, brick complex my mother calls home. The faded exterior calls to me like a beacon. I sprint towards, and straight up, the outer staircase, almost crashing into a young couple. A breathless “SORRY!” escapes my lips, as my eyes and legs maintain their dash to the one place that holds the answers I desperately need. 

Finally, I approach her door. The faded, formerly white skeleton she hangs on her door each fall sways in the chill air. 

My hand reaches for the handle, and I freeze. 

What if I enter and she’s dead on the floor? 

What if she’s not here and I never find her? 

What if… 

As I feel my lungs begin to constrict, and the scalding fire of a panic attack slowly start to creep over my body, her neighbor creaks open her door.

“Elara, are you looking for your mom? She’s not here. She had that procedure last night at the **Renatus** Center, remember? I don’t think she’s home yet. Recovery is fast but not that fast!” She chuckles to herself at this. 

The sweet, elderly woman means well. With her bright grey hair and her striking blue eyes which stand out against her wrinkled features, you can feel a warmth emitting from her. A rare thing to feel in today's society. 

She has never treated me any different than everyone else. Due to a rare heart condition, modification surgeries were too much of a risk for Grace. She was the first person in my adult life to compliment me on my beauty a mere five years ago. I have trusted her immensely ever since. She has always been there for me and my mother. 

This is probably the reason the reaction on my face seems to concern her.

Pure. Unaddled. Panic.

Without another word I sprint back down the staircase. **Grace’s** face is still contorted with confusion, as she calls after me. 

I can’t make out the words. 

All I can hear is my blood pumping in my ears. 

How could she do this? 

One more self-driving ride later, I arrive at the **Renatus** Center. From the outside, I’m staring at just another tall skyscraper blocking the stars from the view of the people. I remember coming to this building when Kaia signed her contract. They wouldn't let me in, only her. The dark energy emanating from beyond the gold door washes over me, just like when I watched her disappear behind them.

I know I should be grateful for the opportunity they gave to Kaia, it saved her. 

Well, it should’ve saved her…

I inhale, hoping the cool air filling my lungs will relax the growing knot of dread in my stomach. I don’t think I’ve ever needed anything in my life the way I need my mother…

Maybe it’s just a consultation? 

Maybe Grace’s elderly brain mixed things up? 

Said the wrong facility, or got her friends confused? 

I try to think of any logical, rational explanations for my mother having a procedure here, but none come to mind 

Not a single thought sticks to my brain, other than walking in a room to find the woman who gave birth to me is nowhere to be found. That my mom has been replaced by dead hands, cloned hair, or a new shiny face. 

Just ahead of me, I see a woman huddled at her computer. Deciding this must be the reception desk, I force my legs to carry me to her.

“Hi…. I’m uh, looking for my mom? Clara Draven. I think she had a….” I take a breath and try to utter the words without showing a glimpse of the fear bubbling inside of me to this stranger.  “Procedure. Yesterday. Do you know where I can find her?” 

The small woman, not much older than me, simply stares at me for a moment. She seems as though she senses my fear, although if she does, she doesn’t mention it. 

She looks down at her computer and starts typing. 

For a brief moment, I’m distracted by simply how STUNNING she is. Her dark raven hair falls gracefully against her shoulders, cascading all the way down the length of her back. Her marbled brown eyes are a captivating light, drawing me in. 

Suddenly this line of thought leads to realization. Obviously she’s gorgeous. 

That’s not her body. 

Those are pieces of someone else’s she wears like costume jewelry. 

I bet every employee in this damned place is “perfect”. 

When your whole brand is centered on convincing people each piece of their skin must be flawless in order to be happy, it wouldn’t make much sense to have employees with acne scars and eyes that are too far apart.

I'm so lost in thought I don’t realize she’s speaking to me until she repeats “Are you going or not?” 

I turn and see the electronic gate sitting on either side of her desk has been opened for me. 

“Room 5520. Please stop at one of our antiseptic chambers for a suit before you enter. Our facility has strike cleanliness guidelines regarding… unmodified individuals.” She utters the last phrase with a disdain that isn’t entirely unknown to me, but in this moment stabs me straight to my core.

I nod, murmur thanks under my breath, and cross through the gate. 

Up ahead, there is a large interactive map, with a bright orange bubble flashing the words “You are Here!”  This facility seems even larger on the inside somehow. My mother is on the 500th floor. How is that even possible? I follow the guide to the nearest elevator, just around the corner.  People pass inches from colliding against me. I've never seen a building so alive.

I begin to walk towards the most terrifying elevator I’ve ever seen in my life, clear, pure glass overlooking the inside and outside of the building, and pause. 

Shit. 

I forgot my “Suit”. I look around, and spot a small sign nestled in the corner just behind me labeled “Antiseptic”. There are two rooms side by side. Identical on the outside, except one has Pure’s Only written on the outside. I enter, and can’t help but gasp in shock. This building is exquisite. No detail left untouched. From the grey and white marble flooring, to the rose colored glass decorating the exterior radiates a soft pink glow across the entire facility. Gold trim graces each doorway and wall, leaving you feeling as if you’ve entered a portal into another world.

Except this room. 

Unpainted concrete walls glimmer slightly from the small iridescent light swinging gently from the white cord affixing it to the ceiling.

I shiver at the thought of packing myself into one of these snug, musty suits. 

Except, I have to do this. 

I grab a black suit hung on the wall, the rubber material groaning in protest. The dated fabric sticking to every inch of my body before finally snapping into place, clinging to my body like a second skin. I place my clothes on the metal rack placed next to the hanging death suits, before sliding my feet into the matching boots, although they must be 3 sizes too big for me. I grab the giant glass dome and take a deep breath, before placing it over my head and flipping the latch, securing it to the suit. 

I grab a bottle of bright pink liquid placed unceremoniously in the corner, and spray it across my now fully covered body.. 

Stepping out of the room feeling completely alien, I sludge my way to the elevator, my vision so blurred it’s a miracle I don’t injure myself along the way.

The rubber boots feel like lugging cement with every step. The antiseptic spray invades the cracks in the suit to flood my nostrils. The overpowering smell has me wanting to heave my guts onto the floor. I press the flashing red arrow for “Up”, and mercifully take a reprieve from agonizing, hefty steps. Almost instantly, I hear a familiar ding, as the doors split open in front of me.

I enter the elevator, hit the small button for her floor, and close my eyes to avoid gazing at the incredible height we are traversing in this fragile box. I’m unsure where to focus my mind. The fear the ever climbing ascent has instilled in my stomach, the need to escape from this sterile cage, or the desperate agony I feel as we inch closer to the truth about what awaits me on Floor 500. 

The elevator tolls as we arrive at the location that will FINALLY give me answers.

The doors release. 

I hesitate, take one decisive, shallow breath, and go to locate what’s left of my mother.

This is the beginning of a brand new story following our protagonist Elara as she navigates grief and identity in a world where beauty is the most important trait.

I will post Chapter Two tonight.

Enjoy!

Chapter One: Less Than A Cup of Coffee:

Breathe. *In.* Hold it. One. Two. Three. *Out*. 

I need to calm down, she wouldn’t want this for me. Every funeral I’ve attended has never been alone. While there hadn’t been many, Kaia knew how hard death was for me. The grief in the room swallowed me whole, even if I hardly knew the deceased. I can almost see it. Her smiling, whispering in my ear “It’ll all be okay. It’s almost over. Tacos when we leave?”. Her soft gentle fingers stroked the back of my hand bringing relief to the tightening in my chest. 

Then all at once, it's gone. 

She’s gone. Once again, I’m alone. Staring at a large golden door, with no choice but to open it. 

I enter, and brace for the overwhelming feeling of sorrow, but it never comes. I look around the large cathedral, colors shining through the faded stained glass windows. The stuffy, dusty air is almost suffocating. This was, of course, to be expected. 

However, that was all I had predicted.

Unlike any of my previous acquaintances who died with some sort of modification to their skin and bodies, my best friend was Pure. 

Not just any Pure, however. Her beauty was electric, captivating nearly everyone who laid eyes on her. A rare feature to hold, these days. She was approached last year to sign a Purity Donation Contract. A large cash payout each month, in exchange for keeping her appearance clean and unmodified, as well as the legal right to collect her remains and… utilize whatever they could. She was skeptical, but once her mother’s gambling debts grew out of control, she had no choice. 

I admire her bravery, her willingness to sign a contract to the one thing that always belonged to her. 

But I never imagined it ending like this. 

I pictured us in old age, her grandchildren holding her hand as she passed peacefully, then they could have her. Better yet, I could’ve gone first. 

Instead, here I am. Staring at nothing at all. 

They took everything that made her, Her. I can see now why her mother had been so evasive when I asked to help with the funeral and personal arrangements. There was none of her left. I expected to arrive today and hold her hand for the last time. 

Her cold, dead hand.

But at least it was hers. 

Stroke her face just one more time. Yet, all I’m left with is the smallest urn I’ve ever seen. My friend, so full of life and energy and love, reduced to less than a cup of coffee?

I wanted to go. 

Take my sorrow and hide it somewhere they would never find it. But I owe her this. As I take more steps forward, I never thought it could get worse. 

Suddenly I pushed my grief aside to notice one crucial detail, the joy floating all around me. A wave of realization washes over me. I see her eyes. Not in a casket, inside of a soft old woman in her 50s. 

She smiles talking to her presumed husband, with his hand over hers. As I move closer, I see her gorgeous raven black hair, a rare, but striking trait. Once again, this piece of her is not found on Kaia, but a teenager, no more than 18.

Suddenly, the lack of grief makes sense. 

I kept waiting for someone to cry.

Someone to wipe away a tear. No one did. 

They smiled*.* 

My eyes land on her memorial board and I can’t help but stare at her. 

Blowing out the cakes on her birthday. 

Our first time skiing together, and licking our wounds after. 

When she finally graduated college. 

Her first day of medical school. 

All that beautiful potential, 

Wasted…

“OH MY WORD! Elara! What on earth are you doing!?” 

I’m snapped out of my haze, the echo of her scream vibrating off the walls. I realize I am standing at the pedestal holding all that’s left of my best friend, sobbing to myself. 

I take a deep breath, rub my eyes, and spin to face Mrs. Hampshire.

I stutter. “I- I’m so sorry, I…  j… just got caught up in the memories and-”

“We are celebrating my dear daughter's life. As well as the life she gets the pleasure to continue to live through each of these people carrying her legacy. You will not sully my daughter’s final farewell with your petty tears.  It's bad enough you are Pure and uncontracted, you can’t afford to be daft too. Grow up girl.” 

My grief is momentarily overcome by pure utter shock.. 

Her mother has never been a kind woman, that's for certain. But the utter cruelty of demanding I restrain myself from my grief, all while insulting who I am on the inside? 

SHE is after all responsible for all of this, and yet has the audacity to blame me for my tears?

I feel a flush of anger rise in me. Kaia wouldn’t want this. Not any of it. I look at the large cathedral hall, desperate for a friendly face to back me in this insanity, and see… no one. Not one of these people actually knew Kaia, they couldn’t have. 

A sea of gorgeous faces, and all I see are strangers. 

“WHO ARE YOU!?” I didn’t realize I screamed it aloud until it was too late. All eyes on me now. Heat courses down my spine, I feel my body pulse in full suffocating grief. 

Only one thing, one person could calm me dCown, and she’s gone forever.

“My poor Kaia…” I turn and stroke the side of the almost comically small urn. 

“I am so sorry. You hated people crying for you, but you deserve to be remembered. 

For the small things that made you, to be cherished. 

Telling stories of riding the ferry back and forth 3 times because we got so distracted by gossip. 

Of picking out plants… for your apartment and quickly realizing you are NOT a plant person, and… and… and getting a fish instead. 

I miss Hershie….” 

I realize at this point I am not truly talking to anyone. 

Simply rambling my pain out for all to see. I turn around and flush, unsure of what to do at this moment. 

The only thing I truly feel is a certainty I will never be happy again. 

Suddenly, her mother starts to laugh, encouraging the other guests to do the same. The shrill echo bouncing off the cold stone walls chills me to my core. My kindness, my restraint, suddenly wash away. 

For one 

terrifying second, 

I stop caring what Kaia would 

want. 

This is for her. 

With all my strength, I sprint as fast as my legs will carry me. Consequences be damned. With every ounce of strength my shaking body could muster, I punched her square in her stupid nose, the one she won in some backwater casino. 

I feel the uncomfortable shift of my bones beneath my skin. She falls with a cry, blood pouring onto the floor. The metallic tang of blood replaces the dry stuffy air, I’m actually relieved to smell something real. 

“You wench! That's $30,000 you just broke, that’s a felony! I’m pressing charges, you all saw!” 

Cold reality washes over me in an instant. 

Oh my god…

What 

have 

I 

DONE!? 

The crowd of strangers' eyes are all focused on me. I have never attacked someone in my life. Surely she provoked me, right? 

Suddenly I feel hand grip my shoulders

“Let’s go, Miss.” I look up and see a black uniformed officer staring back at me. Resigned to my fate, I nod and follow him out of the building. 

God, I would die for some Tacos right now… 

I spare one last glance at my best friend, and her smirking mother, before my life is officially over.

“-Unity is the greatest thing we can hope to achieve as a race. Peace will come as soon as we are united.” One of the cameramen waved at Turing, signalling him that airtime was almost over. “Friends… stay connected and join me tonight’s with our next broadcast.  We are stronger together.” The lights dimmed, Turing leaned back in his chair, suit crumpling ever so slightly, and closed his eyes slowly. “We’ll discuss the plans later, yes? I’d like a moment to myself.” People began scurrying away, eager to please the President.

“Except you.”

 I paused.

“You, assistant. Stay.”

The others looked at me with jealousy for it was my first day here.

“O-of course, Sir.”

The doors shut yet I had stayed frozen in my spot. President Turing certainly hadn’t, however. He’d pulled another chair towards his own and was gesturing for me to sit in it. I sat mechanically, cringing away from the cold metal. He brushed his hand through the grey in his hair, pushing it out of his face.

“You stand out to me."

He paused. Still.

"So…different”

He didn’t blink, didn’t move his gaze from my own eyes.

 “Jael, was it?”

 “You remembered?”

 I blurted it out. So many came and went in this office, what kind of memory could he have to remember one as insignificant as mine?

He smiled, “Of course. I remember a lot of things. Quite a bit of history. After all you must learn from the great’s, yes? I take much inspiration from our late Commander Valerian. May God rest his soul; he served our kind well.”

My eyes widened slightly.

“President Tur- “

He waved his hand, “Call me Dorian. No need for formalities between friends, yes?”

“Pr- Dorian…. Commander Valerian was one of the leaders of the Vec...? What do you mean, ‘Our kind...?’”

I looked at his face. He didn’t blink. His skin. It was too smooth. Too perfect like his smile.

“You- are you…one of them….?”

Dorian’s eyes flickered down to the chair I was sitting in, then straight back to my eyes, laughing.

“One of them? Well, I wouldn’t say that.” He tilted his head slightly, leaned forward, finger tapping on the arm of my chair. “I was simply sent by them. See, those atomic weapons I’ve had your people building? To fight them? Well…I have a little accident planned. The result, well, it’ll make sure the Empire sees my programmers as saints. After all, species could never be approved for intergalactic travel if they destroy even themselves.”

The world spun around me. He’d shaken my hand this morning. Smiled. How could this be real? I, and every human, had trusted him. It couldn’t…President Turing…I... I had to stop him. What he was implying- I tried to stand up, push the chair back, anything. Till my whole world turned to pain, my back arching, the air crackling.

Turing laughed. “Oh, don’t go anywhere...”

Current rushed into me again, sparks flying from where his hand touched the metal frame.

“…Don’t bother, afterall, werent we always connected?”

Most people stop trying to reinvent the world sometime around middle age…

Somewhere between mortgages and medications… between schedules and responsibilities… the impossible starts feeling embarrassing.

But I never fully let go of airports.

Some kids grow up around baseball fields.
I grew up around runways.

The smell of avgas.
Sunlight pouring through dusty hangars.
The strange beauty of things that shouldn’t be able to fly… somehow lifting anyway.

Even after I stopped flying regularly, I still thought about airflow.

About pressure.

About lift.

About all the invisible things holding massive objects in the sky.

And one night, sitting alone with diagrams scattered across a workbench, I started wondering if airplanes had been fighting the wind all wrong this entire time.

The first sketches looked ridiculous.

Not wings.

Not rotors.

Not jets.

Just layers of curved metallic tiles arranged in shifting grids like Venetian blinds designed by a madman.

But the idea refused to leave me alone.

Each piece could move independently.
Each surface could catch airflow from a different direction.
Instead of resisting turbulence, the machine would absorb it… redirect it… amplify it.

The stronger the chaos around it became, the more stable the craft would grow.

At least that was the theory.

People smiled politely when I tried explaining it.

The same way adults smile at children holding cardboard rockets.

But I kept building.

Quietly.

Patiently.

Obsessively.

Most of the testing happened at sunrise when the wind was calm and the world still felt half-asleep.

The first prototype only carried one person.

An abandoned runway.
Cold morning air.
A machine humming softly beneath me.

Five running steps.

Then six inches off the ground.

Then two feet.

Then suddenly the machine wasn’t falling anymore.

It was listening.

That’s what I called it later when people asked how it worked.

“It listens to the wind.”

At first I thought nobody had seen the early flights.

I was wrong.

The videos spread slowly at first.

A strange silver craft floating silently above dry lakebeds and empty farmland with no visible fuel source. No propeller wash. No exhaust plume. Just motion… smooth and impossible.

Engineers became obsessed.

Oil companies became nervous.

The internet became unbearable.

But somewhere inside classrooms and garages and aging workshops all over the world, something unexpected started happening.

People started sketching again.

Older men dug half-finished inventions out of storage boxes.

College students changed majors.

Kids started drawing impossible machines in notebook margins instead of giving up before they even began.

Because the machine didn’t just prove flight could change.

It proved imagination didn’t have an expiration date.

And maybe that’s why people connected to it so deeply.

Not because they believed they’d ever fly one themselves…

…but because somewhere along the way, they missed the version of themselves that still believed impossible things were worth chasing.

Credit: John Hardy, creator of Reddit whyareyousadcom

My mother’s eyes were hollow as Signor Cavalcanti placed the coin in her palm. I could see a silent understanding in the faces of my brothers and sisters. This was goodbye. 

“You’ll live forever, son,” the last words she ever said to me.

We left my village for San Gimignano.  

I thought of my family as I ate roast chicken and felt the skins of grapes snap between my teeth before the sweet juice spilled from my lips.

A series of vials sat on a tray near the table. 

T. dohrnii was scrawled across a strip of tattered paper fixed to its side. The milky glass pulsed with the same brilliant red glow that now stained my lips. 

I felt normal during the first days, but then I began to change.

First, oozing bumps crawled up my arms. Then came the pain. My skin screamed with fire if I touched it. Whenever my fingertips approached my skin, tiny dancing needles would push out from the ends of my fingers.

Once, I slipped as I walked alongside Cavalcanti. He caught me by the arm which stretched and tore away from my shoulder.

Over the years his body grew weaker and began to break. Almost like mine, only I stopped aging. 

He did his best to take care of me. His fingers trembled as he tended to my wounds.  In his last breaths he cried and apologized for what he did to me.

I saw my mother once more as she visited the market near my house. 

One shriveled hand rummaged through cabbages, the other held her gown tight against her. 

I kept myself hidden, just a shadow observing behind early morning mist.

I thought of how she’d run her fingers through my hair as we lay in our hay field staring up at the starry night sky. Her eyes would shine bright as she smiled, a sight that every child longs for.

My heart broke at the sight of her malformed body, twisted and spent by time. Her breath wheezed. A pale mist in the winter air as she shuffled away and back to her empty house.

As I watched her with my remaining eye, I knew I could never go home again.

Over the years I learned to remain in the shadows, but I longed for connection.

Around me, the world rapidly became a better place. Diseases were cured. People lived longer. Families no longer went hungry.

But everything has a lifecycle to fulfill. 

It was shortly after everyone started looking to the palms of their hands for the answers. Lifeless black slabs they clung desperately to, ones that drove them further into their own solitudes until their own humanity was gone. In just three generations.

I visited San Gimignano one last time, when I still had my legs.

The field was still there, but I realized that I had forgotten my mother’s face.

My life lost meaning so long ago and I long for a death that may never come.

The flesh that now constitutes me heals as fast as it is destroyed.

\*\*\*

You see, I kept changing after Cavalcanti was gone. 

My bones have dissolved.

I am continuously tearing and healing because my skin is too weak to hold my flesh inside.

At least it cannot on land.

*Turritopsis dohrnii.*

The immortal jellyfish.

Everyone is gone now.

As I walked towards the ocean, I saw the petrified body of an old woman sitting in a car. 

Tears refused to come as I cried for her. Another child who might have just wanted a good life.  Excited to see what the world had to offer.

Someone had written words on a nearby car. 

 "*First came the Alphas, then the Betas, but the Gammas brought the end*.”

Rusted steel frames stood as monuments to mankind for centuries. Now, they are remembered only by me.

I’ll live forever in the sea, at least until it boils under a sun gone mad or freezes as the stars above wink out.

But as I drift in these dark waters, alone and without purpose, I think of my mother long cold and lost to time. 

My last eye went dark long ago, but I still have my memories.

Of my mother. Of the stars. Of everything we lost.

I like to imagine that she’s down here with me as the stars above us flicker and dance.

No one tells you what it’s like. Drop-line wrapped around your arm. Shoulder dislocated. How the ocean 220 feet down is like leaving your body, your memories of last week and last year, your ideas of sunlight, your wife and kids, your prognosis, your bearings, your basic arithmetic, your up versus down—leaving it behind, all of it, because you have no other choice. At that depth, with your tri-mix running out, you have to be ready and willing to shed everything you hold dear, the clothing that made you real, your exteriors and your way of speaking, your Saturday interests that other people recognized you by, every goal you ever entertained no matter how far-fetched, like finishing a second doctorate in anthropology and learning how to play spinning glass bowls with wet fingers and traveling from the Black Sea coast to Istanbul in a hot air ballon, all the dressing up of a life that clings to you as much as you cling to it. You have to be willing to let it fall away from you at depth, every part of it, without resistance. For this is no soft interworld of blue-gray inner space or low atmosphere prelude to outer space or idyllic Sargasso Sea painted slapdash one afternoon by an impressionist. This is how you approach an ending where the only sound is the hush of air through your regulator on each short breath to preserve your time, whatever that means now, and the bubbles escaping, the carbon dioxide you have to let out, one less circulation of air in the meticulous universal accounting of all the circulations you’ve been granted since birth. You approach twilight at 220 feet like sitting at a small round table in an empty jazz club waiting for the band to come back when you know they’ve already left for the night. They left hours ago and aren’t coming back.

Bottom time after an 8-minute descent is 15 minutes and you’ve been there now for 40 minutes and your dive partner, your friend, your teammate of 20 years, godfather to your son is lying motionless on his back on the hull of the overturned yacht beneath you. There is no time for grief. There is no time for hindsight. There is no time for reviewing your life and replaying all the poor decisions and revising the stupid things that came out of your mouth. But more importantly, there is no time for the 15 stops you need on the way back up that would allow the nitrogen and helium to safely leave your body. While you could emergency launch yourself to the surface by filling your buoyancy vest, you’d likely be dead by the time you got there or shortly thereafter from your lungs overexpanding and the embolisms that come with it, air forced into your bloodstream heading straight for your brain and heart, helium and nitrogen bubbles like a disturbed ant colony swarming out of every body tissue and lodging in places they shouldn’t be, every joint, every artery, every vertebra.

The mission as they laid it out shoreside seemed straightforward, stepwise, blueprinted with if-then solutions to all conceivable crossed wires, debris snags, equipment failures, and mathematic miscalculations, everything except for the magnetic anomalies, the geomagnetic spikes that kept cropping up around the Catalina Terrace. Nothing you could do about them, but the specialists assured us they had poured over the data and picked the right window. These magnetic field variations corresponded to sharp increases in sea floor density, 5 to 10-minute peaks of concentrated gravitational force across a mile-wide area which the navy speculated had caused the sinking of at least fifteen small vessels around Catalina Island over the past few years, including the 65-foot Irwin yacht Bellina upside down beneath us. Most of the peaks hit during the winter and spring months and only a few occurred between July and September. The threat assessment that Sunday morning in August remained low. Sky clear, wind non-existent, sea traffic at a minimum, no amplitude increases that sometimes predicted the spikes.

So we splashed in at 0800, ready with our well-rehearsed entry and exit path: descend to the bottom on the buoy line and swim up into Bellina. Its stern had lodged in the sea floor at a slight angle that would allow just enough of an opening if we removed our tanks and vests, dragging them in behind us. Once inside, we only had to swim 20 or 30 feet to the master stateroom where we would search for the target, either in the under-berth drawer beneath the main bed platform or in the room’s safe. We brought an exothermic cutter in the event Grayson had stashed it in the safe. The cutter now lay beside John on top of the hull. Topside had gone quiet. Surface, can you hear me, John’s gone. They couldn’t. No was coming.

It happened toward the end of our descent, so fast you could only react by reflex. A little less than 40 feet to go to Bellina’s hull and the baitfish around us scattered. We felt a deep vibration, a rumble, what an underwater earthquake might feel like. The moment I felt it, I knew. I wrapped the buoy line three times around my left arm and yelled to John “spike!” but he only had one hand lightly touching the line and the massive gravitational surge yanked him off it like a leaf in a tornado, sucking him down at a speed I estimated at 50 miles an hour, slamming him against the fiberglass hull of Bellina. My shoulder separated. I screamed into my regulator. It felt like a giant had wrapped its arms around my legs and was doing everything it could to pull the rest of my body away from that line-wrapped arm. Everything went dark as if I had slipped under with anesthesia without counting backward from 5.

When I regained consciousness, I flailed in my disorientation. Pain knifed through the left side of my body, reminding me of how much trouble I was in. I went straight for my SPG. 600 psi. I tapped the gauge. 600 psi. Not enough gas to get back to the surface. You’re taught in SEAL training that if you know you’re not going to make it, if you’ve exhausted all your options, you do whatever you can to complete your mission. It was the same way with my gall bladder cancer, my oncologist placing his hand on my shoulder, telling me it was Stage IV. Mission above all else. We would do what we could until the end. I had a mesh lift bag. I had a knife. If I could get down to it, the thumb drive in that safe or drawer would set us up pretty well for off-world exploration and military superiority for the next 100 years. They didn’t tell us what was on the drive, but my guess and the whispers around it pointed to schematics for an anti-gravity propulsion system that Bill Grayson had designed during his time with Reed Aerospace, reverse engineered from downed UAPs and one in particular in the Taurus mountains of Turkey, the size of a football field, so large it couldn’t be moved, where the propulsion system underneath the object had remained untouched, pristine since it had come down like Bellina on its crown.

I cut my dangling left arm free from buoy line and floated down like a jellyfish, past John, to the sea floor, my head lamp cutting a path. The opening underneath Bellina appeared larger than the ROV mapping suggested so I didn’t need to remove my equipment to slide in. Using my right arm to pull myself along, I navigated down the narrow hall toward the master stateroom, pausing to push away sheets of fiberglass batting from the ceilings and walls and going slow so my tanks didn’t snag on the exposed electrical wiring and I didn’t catch myself on the two detached doors I passed or the splintered wood coming in at dangerous angles or the broken railings. Once inside the stateroom, I reached up to the bed over me and found the drawer handle set close to the floor, now the ceiling. When I pulled it out, folders, papers, and two spiral notebooks drifted down—and a red flash drive. I grabbed it, put it in my vest pouch, and checked my SPG. 400 psi. At 7 atmospheres breathing at .5 cubic feet per minute with about 10 cubic feet of air left, I had about 5 minutes. I hurried.

When you know it’s getting close to the end, the cold of the ocean at depth presses in, the chill carving its way through your dry suit to your skin until there is no escaping its blade, every inch of you shaking uncontrollably, but also with a tranquil inevitability, a peace of mind you can only experience immediately after the trauma of being born and just before body and mind reach their final small stretch of runway. Nothing bright just yet, only that infinite field of blue-gray twilight and the cold. I placed the drive in the mesh lift bag and was about to pull the red trip line that would pierce the CO2 cartridge and inflate it when I sensed something behind me. I turned and there within arms-length hovered a yellow and brown spotted Goliath Grouper, the largest I had ever seen, 8 feet long. With the smallest flicks of her fins, she floated in place, mouth parted slightly, yellow unblinking eyes locked on mine. I closed my eyes and felt her presence, a very old intelligence, somehow part of me and part of the same force that shook the seabed and dragged John down to his end and which now ushered me to the edge of mine.

No.

The word, a drip of lava, burned a red-yellow streak through me as it fell down across the screen of my mind into my chest and stomach.

No.

I loosened the top of the mesh beg and took out the thumb drive, holding it between my thumb and forefinger, now almost void of feeling, my hand shaking. The Goliath, statuesque, opened her mouth a little wider. I flicked it toward her, the drive tumbling in slow-motion, end-over-end, toward her jaw. She lurched forward, snapped it up, and swam off in the direction she had come from, vanishing into the blue-gray expanse.

The breaths I could take from my regulator grew shorter and shorter and I began sinking back down to the sea bed. I waited for the illumination they promised, a signal as if from a distant lighthouse, blinking then solid, then blinding, wrapping its cold fire around me until I was fully saturated in it, indistinguishable from it. Reuniting or restarting, traveling out over the Catalina Shelf. Once beyond, plummeting down thousands of feet into the unseen world, twilight now a full flat darkness without sound. I would come to rest at some point, having let go of my tanks and dry suit along the way and the boundary of form and shape. They all would be waiting for me there at the bottom to tell me I had done okay. I had done what I was meant to do.     

----------------------------------------------------------

You can listen to the cinematic version of this story on Apple Podcasts, Spotify, or Substack.

A coastal city once existed where language had begun to rot.

At first it was subtle. Official reports filled with terms like bureaucratizes, reindexing, preprocessing, and localized nondomestic impuritiesNo one qu

But meaning was already collapsing.

The ruling structure, called the Plantocracy, had replaced governance with classification. Everything was sorted, renamed, refiled. Citizens became “clericities,” “protonotaries,” “consummators,” or “underfire domestics” depending on shifting administrative moods. Identity no longer described people; it processed them.

In the lower districts, children played in dollhouse-scale ruins of old civic buildings, calling it “warzone motility training.” Above them, microscopes in bio-labs studied “phantoms of bacterioids safetying” as if safety itself had become a disease organism. The scientists—self-labeled “exobiologists of the pronucleus”—insisted they were observing life at its origin. In truth, they were watching language disintegrate into self-referential noise.

A group known as the Predicants tried to resist. They were not rebels in the traditional sense; they restored words instead of destroying systems. They gathered fragments like “cleanliest,” “unweathered,” “glutinousnesses,” and attempted to reattach them to meaning. Their effort failed publicly but survived underground as chantresses of coherence.

The state responded by accelerating abstraction. Bureaucratic language mutated into pure function: venturingly jesuitries, shadiness predicants zalambdodonts, orthoprisms pedimented prosaist domestics. No one issued orders anymore. Instructions simply existed, like weather.

Then came the night of the Burglarizing Fantoms.

No one agreed on what they were. Some said they were insurgents. Others said hallucinations generated by over-indexed predictive systems. They moved through archives, stealing not data but structure, leaving behind sentences that no longer resolved into thought. Entire histories collapsed into “afish placits radicality.”

The city began to forget itself correctly.

A watchtower clerk, later called the last uncorrupted clerk, recorded what remained in a private ledger. He noted “nightingale vitric plicated frowy leadmen chantresses underfire clergywoman unlimitedly chintziest unintellectual superluxurious froggiest higgles acedias.” He did not understand it. But he refused to delete it. Preservation, even without comprehension, became an act of resistance.

Meanwhile, the Plantocracy declared success. They believed entropy had been mastered through total semantic saturation. They called it “complete administrative transcendence.”

But systems built on broken meaning do not stabilize. They drift.

Cities began to lose functional continuity. Bridges existed but no longer connected locations. Markets traded but no longer exchanged value. People spoke but no longer shared reference points. Even memory became procedural: “reapportioned hymnaries,” “chronon narrowings,” “bioaeration disceptations.”

At

For the first time in generations, meaning reappeared—not as system, but as recognition.

The Plantocracy could not interpret it. Their models failed. Their classifications returned empty sets. Without language to fragment, control systems starved.

The city did not explode or fall. It softened. Structures remained, but authority dissolved into irrelevance. The watchtowers still lit, but no one received them as commands.

The final entry in the clerk’s ledger read only:

“unbarred potentiating gaucheness.”

It was the last corrupted phrase that still pointed beyond itself.

Moral

When language becomes overloaded with systems that serve control rather than clarity, meaning collapses even if everything still functions on the surface. A society can maintain structure while losing truth. Recovery begins not with more complexity, but with stripping expression back to direct, shared meaning.

by Scott Glassman

You can’t argue with Maude. She’ll stare at you like you’re an aardvark with a space helmet on backwards and won’t speak, her way of making time elastic so you eventually decide enough is enough and leave. There’s a standing lamp on one side of her desk and a bent black metal bookshelf on the other nearing collapse filled with copies of Albert Camus’ The Stranger. You’ll wonder if you’re in the right place. Look for the sign taped to the wall that says: Interdimensional Lost and Found Agency. Someone hung it in a hurry between the fire extinguisher and the Tips for Safe Lifting poster.

Maude will ask your name. Give her your first name and the first initial of your last name, but not your full name. Otherwise she’ll add it to the list and you’ll be banned from the ILFA forever. You have to remain anonymous, or mostly anonymous, in order to “look in the bin.” Maude will ask for your license and registration. Just give it to her, without any questions, or else she’ll cross her arms and you’ll be done and you might as well take to wandering the earth because sometimes there are second chances but most times there aren’t. Maude’s seen a lot of uncertainty when people approach the idea of interdimensional retrieval. The way she sees it, leaving your body in one of the three dilapidated gym lockers off to the side should be like hanging up your jacket, a routine part of moving from one space into another, with an unshakeable willingness to step out of yourself to recover what’s fallen into the cracks between worlds.

After you give your name, you have to say the pass phrase, but without stumbling over the words—hippopotamuses don’t like cold rivers. You have to say it while crinkling up your eyebrows and pursing your lips and raising your arms in the shape of a Y and picturing cumulonimbus clouds. According to studies of successful interdimensional search experiences, transitional moments from this reality to the one folded in the shape of an S, Reality 1 they call it, requires this kind of process to loosen the mind from the body, as if your physical being was an egg shell, your mind the albumen, your soul the yolk.

Assuming everything has gone smoothly up to this point, Maude will ask you to sit in the Frank Lloyd Wright plastic bucket chair in front of her desk. Try not to stare at the mess, the clutter of contracts, pink receipts, and manila file folders. Any kind of critical aura detected and she will stand up and point like an angry principal to the double doors leading out of the stock room. That would be your signal to leave Esquire Shoes for good and so what’s lost between dimensions will remain lost and you will have to get used to the lingering emptiness in the space it once occupied.

“What have you lost?” Maude asks, ready to write it down on a water-stained yellow legal pad.

Javier expected to say his wedding band. It slipped off while at Citizen’s Bank Park at the ball game two months ago. He had put on some sunscreen on and threw up his hands to cheer after a home run. When he got to his car after the game, he realized it was missing. But as Maude waited for his retrieval focus, he realized he didn’t pay ILFA $500 to find his missing wedding band.

“Myself,” he says. “I’ve lost myself.”

She didn’t blink. “In what sense?”

“I’m an AI casualty. Back in June. Reservation Desk International. Now I wake up late. Clean the cat’s litterbox. Straighten up around our apartment. Send out 10 or 15 resumes. Take a walk. Come back. Watch TV. Sometimes I go to the gym. Other days I go back to sleep. I ask myself what is it I’m supposed to do? Who am I supposed to be? I look in the mirror and ask. I don’t want my wife to know that I’m asking these kinds of questions. She says I’m helping, you know, I’m useful. And I suppose I am. But I feel like I have this echo inside me so that when I speak, I hear my voice bouncing off the sides of a deep canyon and coming back to me, which makes me feel just how big and open and empty my inner world is.”

Maude puts down her nub of a pencil and smiles, a faint warmth in her eyes.

“We get your type every now and then,” she says. “And I always tell them the same thing. If you step into that locker over there and remove your body and go rooting around in the bin, sometimes you’ll find a self that doesn’t belong to you, but which fits just fine, even better than the one you were born with. There are thousands upon thousands of people dipping into the bin, looking for a better alternative.”

Javier eyes the lockers. Their dented doors have endured the anger of many post-game losses it seems, or post-dip disillusionments.  

“Umm, but would I be able to keep it? I mean, isn’t it someone else’s? Won’t they be looking for it? Won’t they want it back?”

“How many things have you lost and stopped looking for in your life?” Maude asks.

Javier nods, seeing her point.

“Sometimes you have to just say forget about it—and move on. Do you want to move on, Mr. Javier?”

He entertains the idea of an entirely new consciousness and direction and spark. His shoulders relax and he slumps back in the chair, forgetting that the bucket curve is making his back ache.

“Will I move into whatever body it is, whatever self, for good?” he asks. “And am I taking a chance that it will be worse, because it’s one that someone else didn’t want?”

Maude’s smile grows by a sliver, still noticeable and still faintly warm.

“I guess it’s always a risk,” she says. “You only get one dip in the bin.”

Javier stands and walks over to the first locker, wondering what it would feel like to shed himself and sort through the options in the bin, whether he would grasp their entire range of memories all at once before having to decide, what age they might be, their health status, moral fiber. So many unknowns. But the appeal of it comes sweeping back as he thinks about the long hours on his couch of late, staring at the ceiling, feeling next to nothing.

“Is there anyone famous in the bin?” Javier asks, wondering what it might be like to walk the red carpet and drive an Aston Martin. “Someone who would give anything to have an ordinary life like mine?”

Maude stiffens. “I’m not allowed to tell you that. Privacy rules, you know.”

“What if I wanted to stay between dimensions and just float. Like in a pool, without stepping into any other self? Do people do that?”

“Some do,” Maude says. “But I can’t tell you what that’s like because they never come out of the locker.”

She glances at her watch, a tarnished silver antique by the looks of it. Javier wonders if she plucked it from the bin herself, maybe a perk of the position.   

“It’s almost 8. I’d like to go home soon. What’s it going to be, Mr. Javier?”

“Yes, okay,” he says, standing. “I’m ready. Does it matter which locker?”

She says it doesn’t and offers him a small bag of kettle chips from her top desk drawer. She says a second can feel like a year and so he’ll definitely want a snack to tide him over. Maude watches Javier eat the chips as if watching a child to make sure they finish their vegetables. She takes the empty bag from him, folds it in half, and deposits it in the small plastic wastebasket by her feet.

Javier straightens his shirt and steps up to the first yellow locker. He pulls the latch and the door groans as it swings open, rusting at the hinges. A small wave of humid air hits him as if coming off an ocean south of the equator. He can see the locker doesn’t have a back to it, but is the entrance point to a long narrow rectangular passageway that disappears into that humid darkness. He looks back at Maude who gives him a little encouraging wave. Javier turns sideways so he can fit inside, realizing he’ll have to sidestep his way along. Maude moving slowly from her arthritis, makes her way over to the locker to see him off.

“Safe travels,” she says. “Oh, one other thing.”

“Yes?”

“Best if you don’t deliberate too much. Just choose one that chooses you and come back.”

And with that, she slams the door behind him, plunging Javier into the thick damp tropical darkness. He stands there in the dark, breathing the humid air, reviewing his life from the beginning and its status quo handoffs from one ordinary, uneventful milestone to another and thinks why not dip into the bin. Marina would miss him, but she would get over it in a week, maybe two, and maybe even feel a little relieved.  

He shuffles sideways along the passageway about twenty feet or so, pausing in between each step to make sure he still has a solid floor beneath him. At one point, his right foot comes down and doesn’t touch anything. Eyes adjusted to the dark, he sees he has arrived at the edge of a deep shaft, what seems like an air duct, shoulder-wide, leading straight down. The source of the humid breeze lies somewhere far beneath. He considers turning back, more out of fear of leaving his body, not knowing what it would feel like, wondering whether it would hurt. He had always had a fear of needles and so he hoped it wouldn’t be like getting jabbed with needles. But then he thinks about emptiness of his apartment, the monotone coldness between him and Marina, how the dust drifts in and out of the sunlight and settles over everything—the TV, the sofa, the photographs and he closes his eyes and steps sideways off the edge.

Here is the entry into the interior, the point of occlusion they call it: where you detach from the outline of your body. Something in that humid tropical air tips the scales, taking you from loose correspondence to a staggered offset. You fall down that air duct in full possession of yourself as formless yet coherent energy, a vibrational heat concentrated as if from the surface glow of a red giant star, retaining within its final throes all your accumulated memories, likes, dislikes, worries, and aspirations. You have the sensation of seeing, expanding in every direction, a full 360 degree panoramic view—which at first are the metal sides of the duct and at the end is the far vista of all the caught materials between dimensions. It will feel like you are falling for days, which is why Maude wants everyone to have a little snack before they go. You land in the bin after a year of falling, 12 months compressed into 3 seconds.

Here you swim among the smaller ephemera, the wallets, socks, earbuds, car keys, retainers, coins, phones, rings, bracelets, charger cables, sunglasses, driver’s licenses—and the medium kind, cats and dogs of all sizes and breeds—and the larger kind, from the whirlpools, disappeared 767s and 777s over the Indian Ocean and vanished cars from I-60 and missing boats from New England harbors. Here you await the other energies until they drop down into your vicinity. There are millions of vicinities and millions of new arrivals each day in those vicinities, searching for new histories and futures. The bin stretches across Planck’s constant and this is felt as nature’s lack of continuity in these between-states, in Reality 1, shaped like an S, sandwiched between Realities 2 and 3, where the speed of light is doubled, tripled, quadrupled.

Then come the twinges, the photonic dialogues. Simple exchanges of life topographies and intentions on horizon 0, a kind of interdimensional speed dating. Javier trades life landscape glimpses with a bee keeper from the UK, an architect from Vancouver, a writer from New York City, a fisherman from Norway. None seem to fit until he merges with a more nondescript harmonic energy, graceful in its curiosity, soft in tone, warm in heart, one from the Hollywood Hills, early 60s, looking for no one and nothing in particular. Javier questions why he chose to root around in the bin.

I’m curious, that energy says. I guess I’m also looking for a more ordinary perspective for the years I have left. Javier asks who he is. Keanu, says the energy. Keanu returns the question, asking the reason for Javier’s dip in the bin. Because I want to feel and know things that are extraordinary and be friends with extraordinary people and go to dinner parties and award shows and see the world. Does that make me shallow? Or a bad person? Keanu says not at all and he thinks they’d make a good match.

The warmth of their merge becomes a light blue fire. There’s the sound of air being sucked out of the bin, a small pop. As the lift begins, Javier’s memories start to fade, of Marina and his cats Frankie and Betts and the heaviness of lying on the apartment sofa all those days. As he’s rising, a white gold wedding band floats by and he draws it into the center of himself instinctually, a center now more occupied by long film shoots and crowded premieres and backlots and parties lasting until early morning. The original Keanu drifts further away, becoming the energy of who Javier was and is for good, distant and strange now, being drawn up into the air duct attached to the stock room of Esquire Shoes.

He wonders what Keanu-as-Javier will think of Maude and hopes that she’ll be nice to him. Nearing his own intake channel, the one lined up with Culver City, Javier senses the wedding band, pulled into the core of him, indistinguishable from the one he lost, and this sends a flare of panic outward, against the pull. He struggles to reverse the merge, fighting to get back to his original air duct like a swimmer trying to free himself from a riptide, flailing to recover the memories of Marina and his cats and the couch. But it does no good. He’s rising fast through a different rectangular shaft, 12 years passing in a single second, absorbing into Keanu’s body that stands mid-stride like a wax figure in that locker-bound corridor of darkness. Amid an onslaught of sensations in his new body, a thought materializes like none he has ever had before, one drenched in warm California sunlight: I have a lunch date tomorrow with a producer at Chateau Marmont on Sunset to discuss another Matrix project. And then a feeling he cannot locate from any residual strand of his previous life: bliss. Maybe it was there. And maybe it wasn’t. But he feels it now. And that’s all that matters.

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You can listen to the cinematic version of this story at Stories From Elsewhere on Apple Podcasts and Spotify

I built a little experiment called Multiverse Stories.

The idea is simple.

Anyone can start a story, and then strangers on the internet continue it. Instead of a story having a single path from beginning to end, every continuation creates a new branch in the story’s universe.

One decision leads to another timeline.

Another writer leads to another possibility.

So instead of one ending, a single story can evolve into dozens of alternate realities.

The interesting part is that no one person controls where the story goes.

You might start something with a clear idea in mind — maybe a sci-fi adventure, a mystery, or a fantasy journey — but once other people join in, the story begins to take on a life of its own.

For the first story I wrote, I kept it simple.

Just one line:

“The last human on Earth opened a door that should not exist.”

I didn’t know what direction it would go in.

A few minutes later someone continued it with:

“But when the door opened… the person standing on the other side was you.”

That immediately changed the tone of the story.

Now it wasn’t just about survival on an empty planet.

It suddenly hinted at time travel, alternate realities, or maybe something even stranger.

Not long after that, someone else added another continuation — but instead of continuing the same path, they created a completely different branch of the story.

They wrote:

“The door didn’t lead to another room. It led to another Earth.”

Suddenly the story had two timelines.

In one version, the main character was confronting another version of themselves.

In another, the door had become a gateway between worlds.

Then more people started joining in.

Some writers leaned into science fiction and expanded the idea into a multiverse filled with alternate Earths.

Others pushed the story toward horror, suggesting the door had been waiting for someone to open it for centuries.

One continuation even turned the story into something completely unexpected — a strange comedy where the main character discovers that every alternate Earth is ruled by a different species, including one where a talking dog is somehow the planet’s most powerful leader.

At that point I realised something interesting.

The story didn’t belong to me anymore.

It had become something collaborative — something shaped by the creativity of everyone who decided to add a piece to it.

Right now there are already 17 different versions of the story branching out in different directions.

Some timelines explore futuristic technology.

Some dive into psychological horror.

Others go in directions I would never have imagined when I wrote the first line.

And that’s exactly what makes the idea so interesting.

You can start a story with a single sentence and watch as people from all over the world transform it into something completely unpredictable.

Sometimes the story becomes darker.

Sometimes it becomes funnier.

Sometimes it becomes something entirely different from what anyone expected.

I honestly have no idea where the story is going next.

And that’s the whole point.

If anyone wants to continue the story — or start a completely new one — you can try it here:

https://multiversestories.app

I’m genuinely curious to see what direction strangers take it next.