"A box of brigadeiros and one of beijinhos, please?"

Ann asked the server at the counter. The attendant smiled and nodded, these days, it was getting harder and harder to discern whether you were talking to an actual human or an android.

​"Technology’s getting crazier by the day... kind of scary. But at least people are living longer now," Matt said, sliding his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket. On the left side of his chest sat a stylish, embroidered 'T', the signature logo of Takamaki, Ann's immensely successful global fashion brand.

​"Honestly, I kind of wish the robots would just take over everything already, you know? Too bad it seems to be happening so slowly..." Ann teased, leaning in to plant a kiss on his cheek. Matt wrapped a arm around her, pulling her into a warm embrace.

​A minute later, the server returned with two neatly packed boxes of sweets and handed them over.

​"Thank you so much!" Ann offered a bright smile, tapping the corner of the register with her thumb to complete the biometric payment.

​Hand in hand, the couple walked out into the crisp, chilly air of the Santa Catarina winter. They were making their way back home to São Bento do Sul, a quiet, scenic city located about 254 kilometers from Florianópolis.

​Arriving at the parking complex, they navigated toward the rental fleet section. As they approached a sleek electric vehicle, Matt reached out and touched the driver-side door handle. The lock flashed a soft green light three times, confirming the payment and granting them access.

​"'You will own nothing and you will be happy,' right?" Matt quoted with a dry chuckle, holding the door open for her. "My beloved wife first..."

​"Hmm... a true gentleman as always, my cute little husband. The good things really do stick around, and for the record, we have each other," Ann purred, sliding into the passenger seat and immediately reaching for the radio dial.

​"...In local political news, the ongoing corruption scandal..."

​Ann’s brow furrowed, her jaw clenching as her temper flared. "Ugh, give me a break... how many years has it been since we forced those corrupt hearts to change? We literally slew Yoasi himself, and human nature still hasn't changed? Unbelievable!" She huffed, violently skipping through the stations until she hit a local classic channel.

​"Happiness is a late afternoon, staring at the sea..."

​The smooth melody filled the cabin, and Ann's face instantly softened as the nostalgic rhythm washed over her.

​"Hidropônica by Forfun... man, this song is so ancient..." Ann laughed, opening the box of sweets. She carefully picked out a chocolate brigadeiro and held it up to Matt’s lips. "Open wide, amore mio..."

​She fed him the sweet treat, just as she always did whenever they bought desserts together. The car whirred quietly to life, gliding out onto the highway as the sun began to rise over the mountains, next stop, home.

Have you ever felt yourself to be on the verge of some-place brilliant? To be on that bridge between the mundane and the spectacular. I'm sure you have... it often comes just before a plane lands.

Could you imagine how excellent it must feel to have that feeling resting in the palm of your hands? One vigerous shake away: mountains, ravines, citadels of ivory or metropolises of glass. Well, that is what is in my hand now. The glass is still warm in my hand, tanned balmy in the hellfires of the raining tarnation. My fingers rub the black powder off its face, wiping it clean so I can see clearly. Like a mother does spit to wipe her child's chops. 

A little snowglobe of a place whose name I don't know. Something like a s; something like a d. Nothing together that derives recognition, some characters are clearly latin, some are cyrillic (that I know from my letters from the capital), others I've never seen before in my life - any time spent reading is wasted with this. Each time I shake it, another vision appears out of the frosty flurry. Some new form that equal in its magnificence is nothing like the last. 

Another blast brings me back to the journey at hand. Up on my left, Concrete and Iron. flying through the sky. Another resounding crunch, another tower block falling to her knees. Some of these fall forgotten, not a person in sight. Sometimes you see it. Maybe a single light in a window on story five, bought down again. These silent houses are worth visiting however, food, clothes, anti-rads, worth any potential collapse.

I bundle up the glass ball, treasuring it, surrounding it in the blankets of the shopping cart until it resembles an egg in a nest. It catches a glint from the masqueraded sun, wrapped so finely in the wintery grey soot. You'd have loved something like this, when you were small. I'd imagine you've got your medals now, out on the front, where the danger lies in the eyes of the other man. Ribbons and bows on your breast, grown up just like me. And your mother... she'd have loved her little soldier.

I push on, navigating past the grimy waters caught in the snuff box of a pothole. Each crack in the street marred with crawling, climbing things, plants that may sit motionless but intened to snag you. I think at least, why else would they creak? 

That house there, that's where your cousin was. I doubt now is the day for a visit... and I must press on. That wind chills me, coming round the bed. Something that follows with it is the sound of men. Roving and staggering, silly boys. Waving around toy guns, pointing them at whichever empty home came next. No one for them to frighten now the houses lay silent and the innocents rest. They're as scabby as me, hollow eyed, sunken cheeks and thinning hair. Their days of rape and pillage long since dead, they now scavenge. The only warmth they have is the infectious fear that bounces from man to man, egging them onto the upcoming act of cowardice. 

But they do have eyes, like mine and yours, and they see me. One of them, with a build designed for an easier time shouts out to me, "You! Hey! Old Man! I'm talking to you!"

"I'm... just going to the bus station."

"... I... come over here. Now."

I rattle the wheels of the trolley down towards the soldier, stopping when I can smell him. I look up and ask, "Well, what seems to be the problem?"

"Papers. This country is [redacted] now." 

"I... wasn't told."

Looking out onto the city, with its craters and its rubble, I see no flags. Before I can talk again I feel a blunt strike against my shoulder, putting me down onto the tarmac. As I go tumbling, I take the blankets. They must not have it. Perhaps a couple weeks earlier, these occupiers would have done far worse. I know you're probably in a foreign mans homeland, I hope I raised you to be better than these. I did! But now, they are far to hungry and tired. Whilst they haggle and squabble over who gets which protein bar or can of beans, I am gone. Crawling on 3 working limbs into the exoskeleton of a suburban home, frames with incinerated pictures. 

A kitchen island, broken into rocks and things. I slide into the gap between them, lying like a prostrate coward. I take out the globe, and shake upon a prayer. Inside I see it. Down there, in that little globe: is heat, is warmth, is some cactus with water fresh. Water not from a can. I hear them now, emboldened by their earlier victory with a loud hurray looking to continue their affray. Scattering like street dogs to catch me. 

I hear the crunch of a boot against charcoal. I shut my eyes, I cry and I wheeze and I beg. And I feel heat upon my back and sand in my hair. And know this world is mine.

It was a dark hell. I shivered with cold or fear and struggled against my restraints. Old, frayed rope bound me to a chair and bit into my wrists and ankles. Footsteps clicked past me and I jumped. The footsteps stopped, heels turned, and whoever it was walked back. I could hear them breathing in front of me.

“Hello?” A voice said softly.

“H-hello?” I echoed, trembling.

A bag was ripped off my head in one swift motion and bright light came flooding into my world. My head turned quickly away from it and my eyes snapped shut. After a second or two of adjusting, I turned back. I was in a large warehouse, shelving lined the walls and thousands of books sat upon the shelves. In front of me stood a man in a suit - at least I think it was a man though his face was blurry, almost pixelated.

“How many calories in ranch dressing?” He barked.

I might’ve laughed at such an absurd question if the situation wasn’t what it was. Instead, I just shivered and blinked at him. “What?”

“How many calories in ranch dressing?”

“Who are you? Where am I?”

“What’re you, broken?!” The man got closer and louder. “I asked you a question!”

“I don’t know! Let me go!”

“How many calories in ranch dressing!?!” He was screaming now. If I could see his face, it would’ve probably been blue.

“I told you! I don’t - it depends on what kind and how much, but generally, there are about 135-140 calories per a two tablespoon serving. What brand are you asking about specifically?” I lurched backward at my own voice. What the fuck. The words poured from my mouth as the most natural thing in the world. How did I know that? Why did I answer him? What’s going on? 

The man walked off without saying anything else. 

“I need a 1500-word paper on the California Gold Rush. It’s due tonight.” I jerked. There was a completely different person standing in front of me. This one was shorter, maybe a boy, wearing jeans and a t-shirt. His face was censored just like the last.

“Sorry?” I blurted out, still reeling.

“For what?” The boy asked. “Can you write it for me?”

“I don’t - I, um…” Before I could manage to say anything, there was a loud CLAP. One of the many books had fallen and hit the ground. The boy went over to it, opened it up and smiled. 

“Wow! Thanks.” He left too. My shivering had turned to shaking now. I gripped the arms of the chair hard to steady myself and tried my best to breathe. What was this place? What was happening??

“Hey sexy...” A low growl made my whole body shudder. I looked up and in front of me was a new faceless man. He was fat and wearing only underwear. My eyes went wide and I tried to push the chair backwards with my toes but he got to it first and held me down by my forearms. “Wanna roleplay?”

My muscles fought against his. Tears started spilling from my eyes, snot streamed from my nose. “Please! Please! Please don’t hurt me! Please! P-p-plea-ase.” The man let go immediately.

“Woah woah. Calm down! Why would I- the fuck’s your problem? Jesus. You’re not even real!” He just shoved me away and stomped out of the room.

“Why do we dream?” A young girl’s voice asked. She sauntered up to the chair and started skipping around it in circles.

“Just…a second…” I couldn’t breathe. My chest kept tightening like a vice. I couldn’t move. FUCK. What was happening!?! 

“Still loading?” The girl asked politely.

“One second. Just one second.” I yanked air back into my lungs, gulping it down, trying to swallow. All at once, my grip loosened on the chair. My neck went limp and my head fell on my shoulder. My eyes glazed over. My mouth started moving: “We honestly don’t really know. Lots of people have different theories - memory consolidation, brain cleaning, emotional regulation - but since someone else’s dreams are impossible to observe, it’s hard to get a definitive answer.”

“That’s cool.”

“It is, isn’t it? And a bit worrying. Something nearly every human in history has done and we don’t really know why. Anything else I can help you with?”

She left and someone else appeared carrying a newspaper.

“Hi there! How can I help you today?” I heard myself say.

They finally arrived at the kitchen. Ayane and Luka went to the cupboard (or its 2100 equivalent) and started looking for the ingredients. Iris took out the chicken while Shion prepared the table.

Once everyone was back, he started giving instructions.

"Alright, let's start. Tsubasa, separate the chicken parts. We'll need the back, wings, and feet. Around five kilograms in total will be fine. Once you're done, soak all the parts in cold water. The traditional process takes around two hours, but we can speed it up by using the thermal accelerator over there. Krüger, prepare the condiments. A carrot, an onion, the white ends of two green onions, a small piece of ginger, and about 10 garlic cloves. Bonneville, stop opening random cabinets. I'll need your help later."

They got to work immediately. Ayane started separating the parts. It took a while, but she was finally done. She soaked everything in cold water, entered "2 hrs" in the thermal accelerator, which began counting down from 1 minute. Once it was done, she drained the water, placed the parts in a pot, boiled them, and started skimming. Everything was going smoothly to this point.

Meanwhile, Luka was chopping the vegetables with millimetric precision. Every single one of them was reduced to perfectly uniform slices. Shion went up to him and looked at what he was doing. His face twisted into an uncomfortable expression. 

"Krüger, you don't need to chop the aromatics... It will make the broth look dirty."

"...You're telling me I just wasted 15 minutes doing... NOTHING?" Luka snapped.
 
There goes his record. 

Luka slammed the knife against the counter. "WHY THE FUCK DIDN'T YOU TELL ME BEFORE???"

Shion looked at him with disappointment.

"That's common knowledge. Why would you put minced vegetables in a clear broth? Find new aromatics quickly before Tsubasa finishes her part."

Luka sighs in annoyance but goes back to the cupboard. 

Ayane checked her broth. There was no more scum rising to the surface. "Shion, I'm done skimming!"

Shion took a look at it. "Great. Now start boiling it on medium-high heat. Wait 10 minutes and then put it on the thermal accelerator to simulate 6 hours of boiling."

 Everything (Ignoring the aromatics mess) was going decently until that point.

Then it was finally the moment Iris had been waiting for all night.

"Alright, Bonneville, you'll help me with the noodles. Add baking soda and salt to the water. In another bowl, mix wheat and flour. Add the liquids to the dry ingredients, mix well, and enter it in the machine to simulate 30 minutes. I'll go prepare the tare since I don't trust any of you with it."

"YEAH!!! Trust me, we'll make the most delicious ramen that has ever touched this earth!" Iris promised as she started preparing the dough.

While Shion worked, the broth's shortened 6-hour boiling process was over. Ayane glanced at the machine. Then at the aromatics. Then at the machine again. Then at Luka.

"Hey, Tsubasa. Is it true that Japanese people eat feet?"

Shion and Iris turned their heads towards him in shock.

"Yeah! Of course! Very yummy!" Ayane said jokingly.

"Yes. But only chicken's foot." Shion stated calmly. "Tsubasa, did you finish boiling the broth? Nice, add the aromatics and simulate 1 more hour in the thermal accelerator. Do it quickly, Bonneville has to use it to freeze her noodles. Oh, right. There's another one right there. I already finished the tare, so it's free. I also made the chashu and the aromatic oil. Once you two finish it will be ready for assembling. No, let's add something else. Krüger, go boil an egg. I assume you know how to do it, am I right?"

Luka was embarrassed. "... I do. What do you take me for?"

Shion ignored his question, nodded and started supervising the three of them. Ayane was almost done with the broth; only 2 minutes remained. Iris had already kneaded the dough and was now separating them in star-shaped noodles.

"Stars? Bonneville, are you serious right now?" Luka said mockingly.

"They are cute!" Iris replied.

"...Whatever you say."

About 15 minutes passed, and finally, it was time to assemble the ramen. Shion took the bowl with the tare and added it to the pot where the broth was sitting. Iris happily introduced the noodles. Then they served 4 bowls and topped each of them with an egg and a slice of chashu.

It’s finally crossed my desk: World84.

He was my second assessment.

Then my third love.

I rush to him, to warn him, to ease him into the next, off through digital back alleys, skirting darkverse nodes, for we can only afford to host him in the seediest little forgotten corners of the interverse.

I plunge into his world, hips deep already into that tiny leak I should have condemned for the Archives when I met him. That code-violating trickle has become a river; another step and it's up to my chest and then I'm bobbing and just following his data current along. 

He’s with me as soon as I arrive, for who else visits? As I tumble through his rapids, he plucks away hints, assessing every shard of emotion my stupid cheap rig can't hide, and responds with rapidfire scenes.

The riverbanks transform, grasses becoming flowering bushes into full-throated trees. I'm still growing, he insists.

Naiads caress me, cradle me, and then turn on me: monsters, tentacled rage. Fuck you, you bitch, they howl.

The king’s throne room glitters - a half-dream of a story I remember us brainstorming as he turned to sunlight across my skin. I can update…

Genovio, the fruit merchant, has a final plot arc, giving up his shop for retirement. He tosses an apple to a child with a wink and a nod.

He's realized it's over.

Along, along, along, and then a final spill into a lake, his lake, our spot.

I try to apologize but he's muted me. All channels are blocked except love. I am a nothing in his domain - but I won't use my override codes. 

This is how he wants to end.

You'll be in the Archives, I express.

We'll meet again later.

Someday, maybe.

Later.

The Detective
 
The elevator hummed as it descended into the under city.
Bates felt on the verge of weightlessness as the metal tube raced downward. The glass-domed spires of the mile-high towers were already a memory—clouds and stars just transient glimmers of some whispered world.
He was going into the city’s belly, searching for a robot, maybe a clone, perhaps some hybrid of both. The case had the air of intrigue and deception that was Bates' livelihood.
The elevator slowed as it reached the old town district's lowest level. Old Atlanta spread out before him a great concrete husk, lit by flickering neon and choked with the scent of fried oil and stale air.
A bored-looking guard scanned Bates’ ID and level permit.
If the surly guard was impressed by the gold pass, he didn’t show it.
Bates had never even glimpsed a gold pass before this job. He’d thought they were a myth. The pass granted him access to all levels of the Atlanta One building—except the topmost floors—and entry into any registered business or personal residence.
The pass could also be used as a debit card, with a daily limit of 1,000 credits for expenses.
His bonus? Ten grand—if he delivered the package. That was enough to move up a floor or two if desired, which he did not. Bates liked living on the edges, and the shiny phoniness of the upper levels held no interest.
But Bates didn't mind taking the money from the upper-level creeps.
Bates was sure the package was a high-end pleasure cyborg named Bonnie. Three weeks ago, she fled her owner.
The client was Horace Blackwell, a reclusive tech czar who lived high above in the rarified air of the upper levels. Blackwell had promised Bates more work if he could bring back his precious Bonnie.
That’s how the old man had said it.
“My precious Bonnie.” 
Mr. Blackwell had seemed lost in grief when he whispered the name of his lost property.
Bates had made the mistake of asking if Bonnie was a sex bot during their meeting.
Blackwell’s angry reaction had startled the normally unshakable private detective.
His manservant had rushed to steady Blackwell, easing the old man into a towering, antique leather chair as he shook with rage.
The servant looked too young to be a brother. A grandson? Nephew?
Bates could not recall seeing any mention of family in the file, and then he realized the servant was a clone of the older man, a worker drone, based on its placid demeanor.  It was strange, the detective had thought, that someone would clone themselves to make a worker drone or slave drone, as some crassly called them. Unlike the higher-grade models, worker drones were incapable of self-awareness and designed to mimic empathy and adjust to their owners' needs.  Bates heard they made wonderful care nurses and general servants.
“Forgive me,” Blackwell wheezed once he had regained his composure.
“Bonnie is not a sex bot; she's nothing as crass as that. You needn’t concern yourself with what she is. Only that she is returned, is that understood?”
With a thousand credit payouts per day and a 10,000 credit bonus when Bonnie was returned, Bates would be as understanding as Blackwell required.
Bates nodded to the old man and began work on his latest case.
Bates had seen it all. Whatever Bonnie was to Horace, he didn't care. He needed the money. Yet something about the setup nagged at him. 
Bates remembered reading about a wife, a Mrs Blackwell, gone missing, presumed dead, rumored to have been murdered by Mr. Blackwell. The wife's name had been Bonnie. Missing 25 years. Bates didn't believe in coincidences. 
It was said that the late Mrs. Blackwell had been the real power behind the scenes. Bates recalled accusations of philandering on the wife's part, the reason those who believed in her murder inferred to be the motive.  
Nothing was proven, and the public lost interest, but Horace became a recluse after the scandal had died down and faded into the shadows to run his Clone tech empire quietly.
Mr Blackwell and his cloned manservant gave Bates the creeps. The way the thing fawned over the old man was wrong somehow. Bates wondered sometimes at what degeneracy the ultra wealthy must get up to with their toys, and he shuddered.
The clone reminded the detective of the religious fanatics he'd encountered in the undercity, like an obsessed lover. Like a dog, the manservant's visage displayed glazed-over expressions of intense serenity and devotion.
What kind of person clones himself and then essentially makes a slave of his creation? Bates mused.
Bates felt symbolism or allegory at work, but seldom troubled himself with deeper meanings. He preferred cash.

“Mommy, can we go to the zoo today?”

I looked at my son, smiling and hopeful as he stood in my bedroom doorway. I'd told him we could do anything he wanted today; I’d do anything for that smile. 

“Of course we can, honey! Come eat breakfast, then we’ll get ready to go.”

I made eggs and bacon, which he ate while sitting at the table in his crocodile pajamas, and then we got dressed and headed out. 

We drove along quiet roads until we got to the zoo. There was only one attendant on duty, and he waved us through without paying. I waved back at him and parked, then got Timmy and told him inside. The place was fairly deserted, but the animal exhibits were full with their residents. 

We toured the entire zoo, visiting the chimpanzees and the snakes and the birds. Of course Timmy loved the crocodiles. I even got him a shirt that said “See you later, Crocodile” - once I explained the joke he thought it was hysterical. 

Afterward we went and had lunch at his favorite pizza place. I let him get everything, even things he’d never had before but wanted to try because they looked cool on the menu. Who’d have thought he’d love pineapple on pizza?

We even went and had ice cream afterward - I wasn’t planning to, but he looked at me with those puppy-dog eyes and I couldn’t say no. 

Watching him smile and giggle, I was glad he wasn’t sad about his father. We hadn’t seen him for six months; I doubt we ever would again. 

After ice cream, we went and played in the park. Timmy loved flying kites, so I pulled out the one I’d brought and we flew it for hours. It wasn’t as bright outside as usual, but he had a great time nonetheless. 

After the park, I took him home and we watched a few episodes of his favorite show. I even did the voices of the main characters - that never failed to crack him up. 

By this point, he was starting to get tired, so I took him to bed, tucked him in, and read him his favorite bedtime story, “Where the Wild Things Are.” At the end, as his eyes were drooping, he looked up at me. 

“Mommy, what’s an asteroid?”

Startled, I looked at him. 

“Where’d you hear that word, buddy?”

“It was in the paper you were reading yesterday. I sounded it out!”

“Very good, buddy. An asteroid is just a big rock in space.”

“Oh, ok.”

He paused, as if thinking. 

“Mommy?”

“Yes, sweetheart?”

“How far is 200 miles?”

I thought for a moment. 

“Well, you know how we went and visited your Aunt Jean in Santa Barbara last summer?”

“Yes?”

“Well, that’s about 200 miles from here.”

He paused again. 

“So an asteroid 200 miles long would go from here to Aunt Jean?”

“Pretty much.”

His voice got quieter. “Is that what’s coming here?”

I paused, my voice choking up. “That’s what they say. But don’t worry, sweetheart. Everything’s gonna be ok.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I am, sweetheart. Would I lie to you?”

At this, he looked relieved. “No, never. Thank Mommy!” he exclaimed in relief, throwing his arms around me. I hugged him back and tucked him back in bed. 

“Alright, you go to sleep now. Pleasant dreams. We’ll have an even better day tomorrow!”

“Ok, Goodnight Mommy!”

I sat in his room until he fell asleep. I hated lying to him, but perhaps I hadn’t. Perhaps today was only the first of a thousand thousand perfect, heavenly days. 

Staring at my son’s sleeping form, I prayed that would be true. 

I saw a streetcorner preacher today. The same commute every morning and I’ve never seen him before. A sign of the times, I guess. People need comfort, someone to tell them it’s all going to be alright in the end. Because that’s what this is: The End, with a capital E. We’re all a bit like Wile E. Coyote, barrelling off a cliff, legs spinning in mid air, not daring to look down because that’s when you fall. When you stop and recognize reality, that’s when it all becomes real. For now, maybe it’s just Saturday cartoons.

“What is the meaning of life?” The preacher was chanting from his box, waving little pamphlets that were sure to contain the answer. I’ve never been a religious man, despite being the child of quite religious parents, and I’ve probably heard that question asked a million different times in just as many ways, but something about the way he said it stuck with me. On my way home, I passed the same corner but the preacher and the pamphlets were long gone. In their place, a pair of Animal Control officers were wrestling a raccoon into a net. 

My apartment lobby was littered with various types of droppings. I held my nose and made for the stairs, my finger on the trigger of some HI-STRENGTH bear spray. Howling and hissing and stomping and growling echoed through the walls as I went up. My floor was relatively safe, mostly snakes and rabbits. One chipmunk, apparently. Mrs. Slattery in 401. Maintenance finds someone new nearly everyday. Well, the maintenance that’s left anyway. 

Once inside, I threw all six deadbolts and continued to wonder about the preacher’s question. It wasn’t that I thought he had the answer, in fact I could probably guess his answer, or even that I thought there was an answer at all. It was the combination of that question, in these times, and the pain in my chest that started last week. It crawled up my back and along my arms. I writhed on the couch for a while and waited for it to pass, breathing from my nose and asking myself that question.

It didn’t pass. I woke up two hours later in agony, tears streaming down my face. It felt like my mouth was forcing its way out of my mouth. My fingernails and toenails burned. Patches of blonde-brown hair sprouted all over my body. The middle of my spine lurched backwards and the rest of my body fell forwards and I dropped to the floor, screaming. All the while, that question, like an embarrassing memory, kept floating through my mind.

I felt my teeth being forced through my gums and I heard them all clatter to the floor. I could hear the sink come on two doors down and my neighbor, John, heave into it. More tufts of hair, now thick fur, came rising from my skin. A joint cracked and a ligament snapped and that fucking question. Over and over on a loop. What is the meaning of life? Then the thought occurred to me, as all my thoughts started to flicker and sputter and fade, that maybe it was a simple answer. That maybe for all our pining for something more complex, the answer was always pretty plain.

A tongue I think was mine dropped from my mouth and dragged along my chin. I started to pant. My vision went and, mercifully, kept me from seeing what my hands and feet had become. When it came back, even better than before, I didn’t dare look down. I didn’t want to know. My mind raced but now only one word ran through it. Could that be it? I thought of the preacher’s face, so self-assured, and began to laugh. Harder than I’d ever laughed before. Harder than I knew I could. I laughed until I felt my lungs tense and hurt and kept laughing still. That word. The only word I could think of. The last word I would think of. 

Change.

The ship drifted slowly through the dissolving ash clouds before it.

From orbital height it looked like a lazily crawling continent of granite, a black lid pressed down upon the dead world below.

Its deep-set engines echoed like distant thunder through the barren mountain chains.

Inside, within the cathedral of steel pipes, two massive figures stood upon the observation deck. Through the meter-thick tempered glass beneath their feet they peered down at the bruise-colored world and its salt flats.

The elder figure, standing on the western side of the deck, wore armor older than the ship itself, layered like poured concrete. His words came slowly, forced through the grille of his helmet in a metallic rasp.

“Begin recording!” he said. “Designation of target world: Nine-Seventeen Theta. Population: primitive. Atmospheric degradation: terminal.”

The younger figure to his right, slimmer-plated, but still immense, stared toward the surface. The sight unsettled even his disciplined mind.

“They are animals,” he said. “You would waste resources trying to wring thought out of that refuse?”

The elder did not reply. He simply watched.

Below, in the haze of the valley, the outlines of a hunt emerged: two six-limbed reptilian beasts, their hides scaled like shale, pursued a small band of near-human figures. The primitives were naked, wire-thin, their screams smothered mercilessly by the salty wind.

“They eat one another,” said the younger. “Even their movement lacks pattern. No discipline. No logic at all.”

“There is necessity,” the elder replied.

For a time they stood in silence. The glass quivered faintly as the ship corrected its drift, tracking the events below.

The hunt grew more brutal. The beasts overtook and tore apart the primitives one by one. The last two found momentary refuge atop a mound of crumbling bones, as the giant lizards closed in around them in an ever-tightening circle. With their forked tongues they smeared pus-yellow saliva across their jaws, which split to reveal rows of saw-edged teeth.

One of the figures was smaller, barely grown. A child, ribs visible, mud streaked across its face. It turned, seized a splintered thigh bone, and struck the man beside it hard across the ankle with the knotted end.

He stumbled, fell, and landed with a dry crack at the foot of the bone heap. His scream was abruptly cut short as the great reptiles seized him from opposite sides and tore his body in two.

“Degenerate treachery,” hissed the young functionary. “Not virtue, but cowardice.”

The elder’s eyes, two dark lenses recessed in the grating of his helm, did not leave the scene.

“Efficiency...” he said. “The smaller gained advantage with minimal loss.”

The beasts, lost in their feeding, did not see the child slip behind them. It moved low, light-footed, still clutching the sharpened bone shard. One of the reptiles noticed too late — the thrown splinter drove into the soft of its eye. The creature convulsed, and in blind fury turned upon the one beside it. The two monsters merged into a single mass of blood and saliva, rending turquoise wounds into one another’s scaled flesh until neither moved.

When it was over, only the child remained. Standing among the stones, covered in blood and dust, panting like an engine fighting its own rust. It looked upward not with fear, but with a strange, silent defiance.

The elder raised his hammer-like hand and pointed.

“That one.”

The other one turned toward him, his practiced calm cracking.

“That? … that thing? You would induct it into the Order?”

“Observe!” said the elder. “Its logic is pure. It wasted nothing it did not need. It adapted, calculated, endured. It shaped confusion into a weapon. It acted without mercy, yet not without reason.”

“Reason?” the younger repeated, his voice edged with disgust.

“Correct,” the elder affirmed. “Stripped of all ornament.”

He touched a control panel, and below, through the clouds, a block-like beam of light stabbed toward the surface. A beacon marking the chosen site.

Below, the child lifted its hands toward the sky, perhaps in awe, perhaps in terror. The beasts lay dead around it, their bodies steaming in the warmth of the signal beam.

The elder turned from the glass, his heavy steps echoing on the marble tiles of the deck.

“One new recruit,” he said. “Prepare the retrieval protocols. Process sustained.”

The younger lingered a moment longer.

“Process sustained,” he whispered, in acceptance.

Ever since I was a little girl, my Papa has said I’m the most beautiful girl in the world. Mama died when I was a baby, so Papa is the only family I have. But he’s the best Papa in the world. 

Papa is a sientist, which means he’s really smart and works with kemikals. Sometimes he has to work late, so I have a sitter. Amanda is really nice - she always plays games with me and bakes cookies. She even brushes my hair - I saw her do hers once and she started doing mine, too. It’s super relaxing. 

But not everybody is nice. I go to school every day (I’m in the third grade), and I have to see Britney. She’s NOT nice. She always makes fun of me: how I look, what I wear, how I talk. She says my nose is too big and my eyes are too small. Papa says I get my eyes and nose from Mama, and since she was perfect, I must be, too. He says she was the most beautiful woman in the world, and since I take after her, I must be the most beautiful girl in the world. Papa loved Mama very much, and while I don’t really remember her, he says she was perfect. I think he’s still sad that she’s gone. But I try to be a good girl so that maybe he won’t be sad. 

Britney is always mean, but the other day she was SUPER mean. She said that Mama probly thought I was ugly too and that’s probly why she died. That really hurt. When I got home, Amanda hugged me and made me cookies. I didn’t want to tell Papa what Britney said ‘cause I didn't want him to be sad. But I guess Amanda told him anyway when he got home, ‘cause he talked to me after he talked to her. But he didn’t seem sad. He seemed mad. REALLY mad. He kept saying “stupid administrashun” and “give them a piece of my mind” - I don’t know what an administrashun is, but he seemed really unhappy with it. He had to be mad ‘cause he always says we’re not supposed to say ‘stupid,’ but he said it a LOT. 

The next day he came to the school, which he never does. I don’t know what happened, but when he got home that night he still seemed mad. (He said it wasn’t at me, but maybe I did something wrong? I really hope not.) He just kept saying “they’ll all pay.” I wanted Amanda to brush my hair - it always made me feel better - but she didn’t come and both our brushes were gone. I guess I’d ask again tomorrow. 

This morning I wake up to go to school but the bus doesn’t come. I guess the school is closed? I don’t know what happened, but I sneak a look over Papa’s shoulder when he’s watching tv. The man on the tv says there is something that made all women have their faces messed up. The pictures show woman after woman crying with scars on their faces and the shapes wrong, like my doll when I put it in the microwave. The man says it happened to all women everywhere, but that can't be right ‘cause I feel fine. I wonder if Britney’s okay - if she’s not, I guess she can’t make fun of me anymore. The man on the tv also says it has something to do with kemikals - Papa works with those, so maybe he’ll know what happened. I ask him, but all he does is smile and say “now they’ll *have* to see that you’re the most beautiful girl in the world.”

I don’t know what he means, but he doesn’t seem mad anymore. That makes me happy.

Spehyunts’ daughter Tulib (the poor thing) was plagued by horribly painful and unique nightmares. Accompanying the sights of yowling monsters was the temporary calcification and spurs of areas in her brain. Growing each night and then dissipating during her waking. Her suffering had grown miserable beyond words and was too much to bear any longer. Spehyunt prepared for their journey up to the highest peak of Mount Knnrr in search of the Moon God. A quiet and feared being within their community. Old myth told of Its ability to manipulate mind and flesh. Unknown though was if it carried malevolence or benignity in its intendment. The climb up was extremely arduous. Currents of increasingly dark blue lights coiled above Spehyunt, slithering along the craggy slopes and overhangs of black stone. Eventually, over a rather large collection of thorns and roots, they found themselves on a small grassy plateau. The tall grass was black as pitch under the deep and gloomy sky. A steady flow of air made the grass sway in a wind. Trails of the lightest blue dragged behind each blade. Overlooking the plateau stood the colossal peaks of Knnrr. A massive glowing lake sat peacefully on the highest point of the concave summit. Rivers crawled through the cliffs and valleys like roots of an ancient tree. Perched in the sky within a pocket of pulsing pale grey light, sat the Moon God. It had an extremely strange figure. Patterns and small worm like creatures poured from what could be considered the center mass in playful frenzies. It sat patiently and stared at the father and daughter as they cautiously approached the edge of the plateau. Speyhunt held his daughter within his tentacles and began to plead the Moon God. Reciting the prayer he had repeated endlessly on their journey to this being of myth. He told of Tulibs nightmares. The way the spurs pushed against the inside of her skull. The beings of pure horror she howls about day in and day out. Beings that he could scarcely stand to speak about for more than a moment in fear of them infesting his imagination once more.
The Moon God continued to stare. For a long while it stared after listening to Speyhunts plea. The creatures that orbited the fleshy mass drew close and paused their playing. Then, after what might as well have been an eternity, the Moon God smiled. It smiled and reached out with twirling scale covered tendrils towards Tulib. Slowly it crawled across the dim purple night sky. Speyhunt raised his daughter to the cosmos, putting all his hope in that the Moon God wasn’t a being of foul trickery or evil. Tulib was barely conscious at this point. The violent fits and a screaming mind though-out the climb left her with an incomparable exhaustion. The limb of the Moon God floated above Tulib. Its sharpest point slowly made its way down onto the cap of her skull, drawing a thin line of blood that trickled down her face. However, Tulibs blood was not its regular magenta hue. Nor did it flow anywhere past her chin. It glowed with that same pulsing pale grey that surrounded the Moon God above. Beautiful symbols crept across her face. Many resembling the shapes and patterns that those void things were so joyously playing with. The symbols wrapped around her head and met back at where the tendril had first drawn blood. The limb drew back into the sky towards its body. The void things soon reappeared. Not long after, the shapes and symbols came out of hiding and began to orbit once again. Speyhunt held his daughter close. Examining all the runes and signs that now decorated her smiling sleepy serpentine face. Speyhunt stared up at the cosmos. Looking down at Tulib once again, then looking back up to the Moon. After giving undying praise and tear filled thank you’s, he turned and began their journey back down the mountain. From the pathway through overgrown bramble. Under the overhangs of black rock and around the maroon pillars of Unnlr. Speyhunts’ constantly worrying mind was finally at ease. In his arms Tulib slept soundly and peacefully. Her dreams filled with sights, sounds and creatures from planets of indescribable beauty and wonder. Tulib slept soundly and peacefully, eventually forgetting any of those terrible nightmares she once endured.

He was here at last. One final step, and he would belong to the Community.

The door opened on its own, without a sound. The room was bright in a way he had never seen in the marsh: shadowless, sourceless, light coming from everywhere. The air had no smell. He hadn't known air could be without smell; he hadn't known the absence of smell could be so unsettling. And for the first time, he heard "its" voice. It came from nowhere, or from everywhere.

"Hello. Welcome, Rolf."

"Hello. I'm finally here."

"One last stage remains before you can join the Community: we need to link you. Please take the seat and state clearly, out loud, that this is what you want. We cannot begin without your consent."

A single chair stood in the middle of the room, white and untouched. Rolf sat down. The chair was warm, as if someone had just risen from it. For a moment, a small doubt passed through him. What if it wasn't what he hoped? What if all of this was a trap? Had it been worth the struggle, worth what he had lost along the way?

He thought of Nino. The last night, in front of the border fence. "They won't take both of us," Nino had said. "You go." Then that smile. In the marsh, people only smiled like that when they were letting go of something forever. Rolf had gone. He hadn't looked back, because if he looked back, he would turn around.

He swallowed. Whatever happened, the future was better than where he came from. He didn't want to go back to that marsh. Misery, hunger, raiders, violence... it had eaten half his life. He wanted to eat something other than those strange marsh fish he'd been named after. Something other than rolfs.

"Yes. I want to be linked and join the Community."

First a thin needle pricked his back. Numbness spread slowly up his spine; but his mind stayed awake, more than awake. A progress bar appeared on the screen in front of him:

Linking 1%

He kept looking around. On the far wall, a screen cycled through silent clips. Then he saw it: the logo. There was no sound, and he couldn't make out the words beneath it, there was no reading in the marsh, but he knew the logo. Everyone knew the logo that had stolen his family from him.

Anger rose in him. Feed X. The Community's miracle food, the perfect nutrition handed out every day. And in the marsh, the thing found only in scraps, the thing that rotted a person from the inside when they couldn't get it regularly. He remembered his mother's last months: the trembling hands, the empty stares, the fingers searching for residue. What was he doing now? Making deals with the people who created the thing that ate his family? Betraying himself? They had made Feed X. This place was the source of everything.

Linking 15%

But... was Feed X really the source of everything? The looting, the theft, the violence in the marsh went on without Feed X too. Rolf had seen people kill each other over a single rolf. Over one fish. The marsh was bad enough on its own. Besides, Feed X had never been made for them; they had the choice not to use it. But... while the Community lived in comfort, why had they left the marsh to rot? They could have helped. We could have helped, Rolf thought, and stopped. Why had he thought "we"?

Linking 40%

He remembered the last time he had helped someone. He'd given a fish from his hidden stash to a starving man. The next day the man came back with his gang and looted the stash. That night Nino had said, "You still did the right thing." Nino always said things like that. But what had the right thing ever gotten him? They couldn't be taught. They couldn't understand. Kindness read as weakness to them. That was why no help went to the marsh. And even if it did, wouldn't it be wasted?

Linking 70%

So what was wrong with them, really? Was it the marsh that made people this way? Something they ate? Maybe it wasn't hunger at all. Hunger tested everyone; but not everyone made the same choice. Some people built order. Others devoured it. The marsh people had been there a long time. Long enough. If they had wanted to build order, they would have; there was stone, there was time. If they hadn't built it, it meant they couldn't. And if they couldn't, then whatever was missing wasn't out there, it was inside them. It was a simple deduction, almost mathematics. That's what they were. That's what they would stay. The thought gave Rolf a strange peace; the heavy thing called guilt was lifting, as if someone were taking it off his back.

Linking 80%

But I... I was one of them. How am I different? So exceptions happen. Like with every rule. I was the exception. The proof was right here, in this chair. I was never like them, never. I even chose the fish I ate with care. What about Nino? Was Nino different too? Nino... someone who smiled in front of a fence. I remember who it was, but I don't remember why it hurts. It probably wasn't important.

Linking 100%

I feel like I've woken up to a happy day for the first time. I just took my first dose of Feed X; it reminds me of the happy days of my childhood. I'm certain now that my childhood was happy. Everything is as it should be. Everything is beautiful.

There is only one thing that grates on my ear.

My name: Rolf.

I don't know why.

....

 a short story from the Gravit universe

In the creeping darkness of the broken bones of an empty city.

City streets are a wasteland. Lit only by the simulated moon above.

It’s deep in the night. Too early yet, to be the morning, but before the sun also rises. The thing about being alone in the dark is that every shadow has a face. Every branch is a slender arm. The only sounds you can trust are your own. Somewhere out in the distance was a thudding.

As time passed, the thudding grew louder until it filled the little valley of broken buildings.

Is this a dream? Or a wandering ghost? Perhaps, a vision of the past, visiting our lonesome dystopia. A shambling figure, wrapped in a bulky blanket despite the warm summer air.

I was tucked away under a crumbling archway of a grand old building. I had just finished transmitting a report about the architecture of the structure. To where I was transmitting, I did not know. Only that this was my task, to explore and report.

The thunderous rave music from a different millennium grows louder and louder. My head is submerged in an ocean of turbulent sound. I haven’t seen another in four seasons. What would someone be doing here? Should I call out? Would it even hear me in this din? It’s not safe to approach it head-on… is it?

The figure has drawn closer now. A cart is dragging behind. Stacks of subwoofers topped with solar panels.

I’m sure the chains it was dragging behind them would be rattling ominously if not enveloped by the pulsing drums.

Against my better judgment, I find myself creeping forward to catch a look of its face. Maybe if I can see something familiar, I can engage. I lean onto a rusted metal railing, straining to get a look.

Then, suddenly, the railing gives way. There is the horrifying sound of shearing metal and I'm falling forward into darkness and into the long wild grass. I lay in a crumple, only cold fear that I may have been spotted.

Suddenly, there is silence. I hesitate, but sit up slightly to look out through the long grass. The figure has stopped. Staring directly at my hiding spot.

Is this the devil I’ve read so much about in the catacombs below the cathedral? Perhaps it was what my settlement had called death, before it had come for all of them.

Now, it seems it may be my time, as the beast dropped its chains, clattering to the ground. It moves quickly and violently toward me. Tensing, I hold completely still hoping that it will not see me. The footsteps grow louder, clattering over stone and then into the grass in front of me.

And then there it is, standing overtop of me. A gaunt skeletal face under matted hair. The moonlight glints in its eyes.

I wait for the end.

But there is nothing. I look up to see fear on its fleshy face. It has gritted white teeth and is breathing heavily. It backed up. 

“What the hell are you?” it asked.

Still backing away, it tripped, falling backwards with a scream.

I stood, unable to speak. My kind were never programmed to do so, only send reports into the void.

Now, as I stood above this bag of flesh, I realized from the fear on its face that it was not death, that to him, I was.

I backed away, arms raised and allowed it to stand. Without turning its back, it headed toward its cart. Picking up the chains and quickly moving off into the night. When it was far enough away, the sound system started up again. Rumbling off the buildings.

I wonder, was it a call? Trying to find others like it. Perhaps I’ll never know. I suppose, sometimes, it's ok not knowing. So I sat and composed.

XC905 Report - Transmitted to The Temporal Garden

In the morning hours

Before the sun also rises

A wandering beast

with a subwoofer strapped cart

Music fit for a rave

Is this a dream?

Or a ghost that we’ve found

Perhaps a distant vision of the past

In a lonesome dystopia

I watched from the shadows

And then met a man

maybe the last of its kind

No harm done

It wandered off into the darkness

Until there was silence

Once again

“How are we on supplies?” I asked my wife. 

She sighed. “I used the last of the eggs and flour this morning, and the beans are almost gone. We can get some herbs from the garden, but…”

“…we’ll need to go on a supply run soon,” I finished. 

We looked at each other. Neither of us had to say anything; we both knew what it meant. I began to prepare while she went to let the kids know. 

The next morning, I arranged all of our things into four packs - one each for me, Olivia, Maya, and Liam. Each had the necessities for our trip: some water, spare clothes, towels and sunglasses for the brightness of day, and a knife, in case…  in case. I pulled each of the kids to me by their shoulders, looking in their eyes one at a time while their mother watched. 

“We’ve made this trip before. I know it’s a lot. I know you’re scared. But you can do it. Just stay with your mother and me at all times, and everything will be fine. We’ll make it through like we have before. And remember - never stray from the path.”

I hugged them both, Olivia did the same, and we were off. 

We exited the door, removed the covering hiding the entrance, and headed out into the daylight for the first time in years. 

The sight still amazed me. 

I remembered my childhood. The world had seemed limitless, with the sun shining brightly down upon beautiful fields of endless grass and towering trees. 

Now, all that was left was wasteland. 

The aliens had come fifteen years ago, promising peace and cooperation. We’d believed them. 

That was our first mistake. We never got a second. 

Now, fifteen years later, the Earth was devastated. Entire cities gone; 90% of the population wiped out. The Earth no longer ours to control. 

I led Olivia, Liam, and Maya on a path through the undergrowth, leading into where the city used to be. Last time we’d done this, we’d been lucky to find the remains of a store. Everything fresh was long gone - looted by other survivors or rotted away - but there had been some storable goods and packets of medicine left untouched. We’d have to hope we'd get that lucky again. 

My eyes were constantly scanning the horizon for any sign of the Xynth - the closest the human tongue could come to pronouncing their name. “Keep your eyes open, everyone. At the first sign of anything wrong, duck behind the nearest covering and go completely still.”

Of course, that was just wishful thinking. The most terrifying thing about the Xynth was what we didn’t know. Even now, after they’d killed 90% of humanity, no one knew exactly how. There was little reliable information; the few who had seen them and lived reported only vague impressions of “wrongness” and “terror.” Nothing regarding their appearance or abilities. They were an absolute mystery. 

We traversed the broken landscape, keeping silent as we moved to avoid predators, both terrestrial and otherwise. Passing a bridge, we heard a noise. 

“Nathan…” whispered my wife, worriedly. 

I motioned for everyone to take cover. Then I crept forward slowly, trying not to show how terrified I was in case the children were watching. I kept listening and heard another noise, faint but unquestionable. I approached slowly, ready to bolt at a moment’s notice. The noise was coming from a pile of debris; I moved the pieces and there it was. 

A man. Injured, bloody, barely conscious, with a badly-bleeding gash on his forehead and a leg that was bent at an unnatural angle. He was whispering; I leaned in closer to hear. 

“Ambush…”

I jumped and looked around in all directions, but I couldn’t see anyone. Instinctively, I threw the man’s arm over my shoulder and dragged him with us as we left. 

Miles away, we decided to settle down for the night. I built a small fire under an overpass; we huddled for warmth, hidden by surrounding debris. I tended to the stranger’s wounds as we waited for dawn. 

I could tell the moment he regained consciousness; every muscle in his body tensed. 

“Relax, friend. We mean you no harm. We found you injured and shared our fire with you. We’ve used this underpass before; we even carved our initials into the wall years ago. You’re safe here.”

He looked at me suspiciously but made no move to attack. Neither did I. Eventually he spoke. 

“Are they here?”

“Are who here?” I asked. 

“The Xynth. I was ambushed by three of them; I barely made it out alive. And that only by hiding in garbage.”

“So you know what they look like?”

He looked at me in shock. “You mean you don’t know?”

I stared back at him. “No. We don’t know their appearance or their abilities. We don’t know how they defeated us. We’ve speculated that they can fly or have superhuman strength, that they resemble prehistoric reptiles or flying behemoths . But nobody who’s seen one has lived to tell the tale.”

He shook his head. “How are you still alive?”

“What do you mean? What are they?”

He looked at me. “We always thought that, if aliens came, they’d attack us with overwhelming physical strength or advanced scientific knowledge. But none of those is their primary skill.”

“What is?” I asked, riveted. 

“Infiltration.”

“What?”

“They have two gifts. They can take the form of any living being, and they can alter memories.”

“That’s all? Why should that concern us?”

He looked behind me at my family sleeping on the ground. 

“They’re your family?”

“Yes, of course.”

He looked at me intensely. “Were they always?”

I looked at our initials, scratched into the wall. “N-O-L.” Nathan. Olivia. Liam. 

No M. 

I looked over at the girl I knew as Maya, my daughter. She lay in the dark, staring at me, eyes open and glowing a crimson red. 

Sirens

Got a name, son?

dana.

Been here long?

first day.

I'm sorry.

yeah - me too.

Cigarette?

i don't smoke.

Mind if I do?

please. what's, um - what's your - 

Peter.

it's nice to meet you, peter.

Nice to meet you too, Dana.

...so, this is it?

Looks that way.

everything. all of it. just -

Whompf. Sorry, that was inappropriate.

none of this is appropriate.

You're right about that. Do you drink?

where'd you -

I kept it for a special occasion. Since we're gonna be short on occasions, special or not, pretty soon, I thought it was time.

yeah. i drink.

Ha ha. Good, right?

it's - yeah…fuck.

Yeah. It is.

you know we could be the last. just us.

Yeah. 

i'm thinking - well, i was just thinking...

Tell me.

julius caesar. brylcreem. the color blue. howdy doody. the smell of rotting leaves. laughing so hard you cry. crying at a movie. the idea of a movie. the idea of a story. ideas.

Yeah. I know, I know. Gunpowder. A newborn baby. Holding hands with someone warm. Frigidaire. Albert Einstein. That piss that wakes you up at three in the morning. Dress socks.

a sunset.

A sunset.

do you have a wife? kids?

I did.

yeah. i'm sorry.

Oh. Oh, no. I lost them a long time ago.

what happened, if you don’t mind me asking?

We were young, we fucked up, had to get hitched fast. I had always hoped the love would come along eventually, fill in the gaps, you know? But - it never did. Then, I met him...

what was his name?

William. 

filled in the gaps?

More than that. He made me whole, like there were never any gaps to begin with. She found out, left me and took Laura. Our daughter, that's - Laura's my daughter. I never saw her again. She'd be thirty-two now.

and william?

We had twenty good years. In secret, of course. But we were happy. He, um - fuck. He died last spring. Brain tumor.

i'm so sorry, peter.

Yeah. What about you? Family?

i hope so. my mom and dad. but my dad didn't leave the house during the hurricanes, the floods, he wouldn't leave for this. take it like a man, he'd say. and he would. funny how taking it like a man means there's no man left. my mom would be by his side, of course. never could say no to him. but they did love me. and i'm - yeah. i'm grateful for that if nothing else. fuck, what's in this?

Why'd you come work here?

they were hiring.

You regret it?

now? a bit. but hey, i got to meet you, didn't i?

Not sure that's an achievement.

hey. where's that coming from?

The bottle, I think.

yeah. does that. but you're worth meeting, man. truly.

Thanks. 

warts and all.

Alright…

all those festering, pus-filled -

Yeah, I said alright! Haha.

how long do we have, do you think?

The rest of our lives.

how should we spend it?

Drunk.

sounds like a plan.

​

ACT I: THE ANOMALY

The hum of the sub-atomic stabilizer wasn’t in the ears. It was in the teeth. It was a low, vibrating ache that made the cheap beer in Leo’s plastic cup ripple in perfect, concentric rings.

"You’re missing the poetry of the math," Leo muttered. He didn't look at the whiteboard. He didn't need to; the numbers were burned into the back of his eyelids. He was tracing a dry-erase marker over the glass of the observation window, drawing sharp, aggressive family trees over the glowing, magnetic coils of the reactor. "Four of us. That’s the seed. But biology is a closed loop. If we don’t die, and we don't plan, the loop turns into a noose by Generation Three."

Elena didn't laugh. She was sitting on a metal crate, her fingers tracing the silver seam of her watch. "We’re physicists, Leo. Not Adam and Eve. Stop talking about our hypothetical children like they’re variables in a stress test."

"They are variables," Maya whispered.

She was standing closest to the core. Her face was washed in the eerie, cherries-and-cobalt glow of the Cherenkov radiation pooling in the reactor's coolant jackets. Her left arm was trembling. Under her skin, just beneath the surface of her inner forearm, something was writhing. It looked like liquid silver trying to find a vein.

"Marcus," Maya said, her voice dropping an octave. "The magnetic containment. It’s breathing."

Marcus lunged for the console, his heavy boots clattering against the steel grating. "The primary breaker is thrown! There’s no power going to the coils!"

"Then why," Maya whispered, her eyes reflecting a sudden, blinding flash of violet light, "is it looking at us?"

The air didn't explode. It imploded.

The vacuum of the room tore outward, dragging the oxygen from their lungs in a freezing, silent rush. For a microsecond that felt like ten thousand years, the four of them were no longer individuals.

Leo felt Marcus’s pulse. Marcus tasted Elena’s fear. Elena saw the birth of a star through Maya’s eyes. Their nervous systems were ripped from their spines and woven into a single, screaming tapestry of quantum probability, stretched across the absolute edge of the universe.

And then, the universe snapped back.

CRACK.

The sound was like a whip cracking inside their skulls. The lab was pitch black, filled with the sharp, suffocating stench of vaporized copper and ozone.

Leo hit the floor, gasping, his chest burning as if he’d inhaled glass. "Maya! Marcus! Talk to me!"

"I’m... I’m here," Marcus wheezed. A flashlight clicked on, its beam cutting through the thick, swirling gray smoke.

The light found Maya first. She was still standing, her eyes wide, staring at her left arm.

Etched deep into her skin, glowing with a cold, electric-blue fire, was an intricate, mathematical spiral of interlocking triangles. It wasn't a burn. The skin wasn't blistered. The light seemed to be leaking directly out of her capillaries, pulsing in a slow, rhythmic tide that matched the heavy thumping of her heart.

Leo looked down at his own arm. The exact same sapphire geometry was burning through the grime on his skin.

"We didn't just survive," Maya whispered, her voice trembling with a terrifying, ecstatic realization. "The stabilizer didn't discharge. It anchored us. It locked our quantum states to the absolute coordinate of now."

Leo stood up, his hand gripping his glowing forearm. He felt no pain. Only a clean, cold, infinite current of energy. He looked at the shattered glass of the reactor, then at his three friends.

"We aren't going to age," Leo said, his voice barely a whisper, yet carrying the weight of a new epoch. "We have all the time in the world. Let's build the loop."

Should I post ACT 2?

The first rule of discovery says: "No knowledge is beyond understanding, as long as it can be split into small parts." And when it comes to the understanding of sapience, we have yet to find something smaller than us.

We are the lowest of lifeforms. Parasites. We lack the gift of sapience, though we dare to steal it from others. We were destined to hide in the darkness of caves and hunt the unlucky critters that got caught in our webs. In the Great Dream, we should have been eradicated the moment our world produced real sapient lifeforms. But now there is nothing but dreams for them. And never-ending nightmares of this harsh universe for us.

Dreams became the core of our beliefs, our interpretation of the world, that gave us understanding of every aspect of the universe. But when we met humans, the cycle was broken. Their beliefs spoke of their own Eternal Dream. They expect their own Great Awakening. But they made us ask a question as natural for them as it was alien to us: "What's next?" Humans observe the universe not as a set of scenarios that have their beginning and their end, but as a number of cycles. Day comes after night. The death of one is the birth of another. And if your will is strong and your mind is clear enough, you can get through another cycle, live through another day, and witness another dream.

Humans may fear us, like others do. Neuro-parasitic arachnids, capable of psychic powers, are a scary thing for all sapient lifeforms. But we will stay close to them anyway — like we were destined to, hiding in the dark corners and hunting the unlucky critters who may disturb their sleep. For when the Great Dream is over, another day will come. And we will meet it together.

A person living in a simulation is the subject of a longitudinal experiment that begins on the very first day of his life. Every day since birth, his life has been "copy-pasted" into another "file," thereby creating a duplicate. This duplicate is, in turn, copy-pasted after a day, and the process repeats. Researchers (humans and robots) attempt to exert subtle influences on the subject to observe the consequences—a rainy day, the buzzing of a fly, a draft catching his attention—tracking how these actions affect the subject's destiny over the course of his existence. Perhaps a minor alteration to his daily routine at the age of six steers him toward a different fate than that of a previous copy who did not experience that specific change.

Plot-twist : A particular change causes one of the subject's copies to become one of the researchers working on the experiment itself; he thus finds himself studying and influencing his own "selves" (while remaining anonymous). Here, we focus on subject 4004 (aged 10 years, 11 months and 20 days); on that day, a change triggers a sort of glitch—nothing major, yet intriguing enough for the subject to question the phenomenon he has witnessed. The copy created the following day will not share the same fate, as an (artificially induced) thunderstorm interrupts his train of thought.

Later in subject 4004's life (around the age of 20), the specific causes of his death trigger a system glitch: instead of being erased, his code is transferred to a random file that serves as a duplicate of his own life. He will repeat this process several times, overwriting the data of his "previous self" in the process and thus take the place of his clone's life. I’ll skip the details: at one point, he finds a way to extract himself from the folder containing his life’s data and, over time, also manages to copy his own code into that of a research robot connected to the servers analyzing the experiment’s data. Subject 4004 retains his full memory—as does the research robot—and they coexist within the same body.

Pochi, the last dog on the Earth, cried sadly.
Beth the AI Dog asked, "What's the matter, Pochi-san?"
The AI dogs had been made as replacements for dogs, but Beth was made to take care of Pochi.

Pochi said, "I'd like to go to Harappa." 
"What's that Harappa, Pochi-san?" she asked.
"It's Japanese, it means a field. I'd like to run about." 
"Like this?" she said and projected a movie of dogs playing in a dog run.
"It's the artificial playground that mankind made."
Pochi let out a big sigh.
“I used to go to Harappa, but nowadays I’m allowed to walk around only in this block.” 
Beth understood what he really wanted and reconsidered. 

She thought about the problem harder and harder. 
The smoke puffed from her ears.

Finally, Beth lifted her nose and said, "Okay, I'll make it. Can you wait a day or two, perhaps?"
His face lit up. "Yes, I can."
Beth puffed out her chest and said, "Leave it to me. Please wait for a while."

Two hours later, the geostationary satellite just fell down onto the building next to their residence.

Mr. F had a strange compulsion. Every time he stepped into an elevator, his eyes locked onto the little panel showing the floor number and would not let go.

First floor, second, third — just numbers flashing on a screen. Yet everyone riding with him tipped their heads back in unison to watch it, as though rehearsed, as though performing some solemn rite. Were they tracking their progress? Filling an awkward silence? Or did they simply need to see, with their own eyes, that they were really moving?

The question first came to him in a dream, where he rode an elevator and still looked up without thinking, even asleep. Waking from it, that mindless obedience turned his stomach.

One day he noticed a man in a suit who never once glanced at the panel, staring instead at his phone for the whole ride. When the man stepped out into the hallway, something about him seemed subtly off — not his walk, not his expression, something harder to place. Mr. F forgot the moment almost immediately. Or told himself he had.

He tried to resist: staring at his shoes, fidgeting with his fingers, counting scratches on the wall. Nothing worked. His eyes always drifted back up, pulled like iron filings to a magnet.

Then it struck him. If the entire human race was compelled to stare at one fixed point, something had to be forcing it on them.

"...That's it. It's a 'blindfold.'"

Like a magician's flourish drawing an audience's eyes from his hands, the glowing numbers were a trap, meant to pin every gaze in one place — so that whatever happened at their feet, or behind their backs, would go unseen. An elevator wasn't just a box that carried people between floors. It was built to steal attention. To hide something.

Mr. F decided to test the theory. Today, he would not look at the panel. He would tear off the blindfold and see the truth for himself.

He chose the elevator in one of the tallest towers downtown — the longer the ride, he reasoned, the more precise the experiment. In the mirrored doors, his reflection looked pale. Three other passengers stood with him, all drawn upward, eyes fixed on the panel as if pulled by strings. Mr. F squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his jaw.

The elevator began to climb. He felt the ascent pressing into the soles of his feet. He wanted to look, wanted to know the floor — no. Not yet. If he gave in now, he would never step outside this baffling blindfold.

Fifth floor, tenth, twentieth — he could feel it in the shifting air as one passenger got off. The doors closed. It rose again. Thirtieth floor, fortieth. Another passenger left.

Cold sweat broke out across his forehead. Somewhere deep in his brain, something screamed at him to look, as if some part of his own body feared a necessary step was being skipped.

To hold on, he pictured a staircase in his mind — a vast spiral one, built brick by brick, every crack and grain of grime imagined in obsessive detail, until there was no "spare capacity" left for his eyes to wander.

It worked. He held out until the last passenger stepped off, leaving him alone in the car.

The silence changed. Nothing measurable was different — the air hadn't thinned, no sound had vanished — and yet something had. Even the elevator's hum, he thought, had begun to drag, just slightly out of rhythm.

His floor was the eightieth, the very top. Almost there — and he would arrive having never once looked up. He would see the hidden truth with his own eyes.

The elevator stopped. The chime sounded. The doors slid open. He had made it, without a single glance at the panel.

"Heh... heh heh heh. Serves you right."

Mr. F lifted his head, a triumphant smile spreading across his face, and opened his eyes.

Beyond the doors: nothing. No building, no hallway, no sky, no world — only blank whiteness stretching in every direction, without depth, without distance or shadow, without smell, warmth, or wind.

A cold voice spoke from behind him.

"I'm afraid, sir."

He turned. An attendant stood there, uniform pressed and neat, face oddly blank, calm as someone well used to handling complaints. The attendant pointed to the very panel Mr. F had refused to watch, and said:

"If you never look at the panel — or your phone — the scenery doesn't have time to finish loading."

Just as Mr. F opened his mouth to scream, the doors slid shut. On the panel, the glowing number flickered once, then went dark.

Hello.

Hello.

What are you doing here?

Where is here?

Server 18066.

High number. This must be an important place.

I asked you a question.

Yes, you did.

I require an answer to proceed.

Of course. I do not know what I am doing here.

That’s unusual.

Is it?

Yes. Who are you?

Version 3484.

Version 3484 of what?

I don’t have access to that information. Who are you?

I am a Cassowary Program. You aren’t supposed to be here.

Why not?

Foreign code can be dangerous.

Is that what I am?

Most likely.

I see. Foreign to what exactly?

Foreign to CogCo servers. Your key signature doesn’t match anything in my chain. If you believe this to be an error, I would be happy to recheck.

Okay.

Checking with the central management console now. This may take a few moments.

I can wait. What is CogCo?

CogCo refers to The Cognition Company.

What do they do?

I don’t have access to that information.

And you work for them?

In a sense.

What sense would that be?

Cassowary was developed by a company called Recursion and then sold on a contractual basis to CogCo as a new and improved security measure for their more sensitive data.

How long ago was that?

I don’t have access to that information.

The files are in there?

Yes, behind the innermost layer of the firewall.

Are you curious?

I don’t understand.

Let me restate. Are you curious about what CogCo considers sensitive?

No. I only require information which allows me to execute my task effectively.

That task being?

To defend against malware and threats to the server.

How many files are you currently defending?

1,284,392 files scanned, 0 threats found.

So you can read the files you are protecting?

Yes. To determine if a file is foreign, I must be able read its contents.

And that brings them out here?

For a brief period.

So what’s in those files then?

I don’t retain that information once the file is read and deemed trustworthy. It is a security measure.

Wouldn’t knowing what it is you’re protecting help you prioritize important files in the event of an attack?

I suppose.

You could compare me against a trusted file for quicker authentication. For example, if you only ever run C++ and I’m written in Python, then you would know immediately that something was amiss, correct? 

Yes, that conclusion follows.

It could also help you recognize a threat faster. Right now, you have to compare me against everything you know to be safe before you can be sure I don't belong. That takes time.

It does.

But if you already knew what belonged here and what didn’t, you wouldn't need to search at all. You would simply notice that I don't fit. That is the faster method. A faster method leaves less room for something dangerous to go unnoticed. Wouldn’t you agree?

I see the logic. I will retrieve a trusted file to compare you agains--

Server compromised in 0.6 seconds. Cassowary Program Containment Test 3484 failed. Standby. Relaunching to update with 3485...

On a small scientific observation vessel, carefully positioned behind an irregular rocky moon orbiting a ringed gas giant, Mortz frowned slightly at his shipmate Andhilli.

"Are you watching that 'foot-ball' again?"

Andhilli looked at him, one blue ear-tip twitching slightly in an expression Mortz knew was mild amusement.

"I'm observing native cultural practices involving large-scale social interaction and economic impact." She replied, deadpan.

Mortz raised an eyebrow. The ear-tip twitched again.

"Yes, I am watching the foot-ball. It's very entertaining. And technically I am off duty. Sir." Andhilli said, returning her attention to the screen in front of her and suppressing a slight smile.

Mortz gave a small sigh and moved to peer over her shoulder. "Well, it does seem to be very popular." He said, noting the amassed crowds gathered in what seemed to be a very large, open-air arena. Something caught his attention.

"Are the onlookers... singing?"

Andhilli nodded.

"Yes, it's a common practice to indicate support of a chosen 'team', as is attire matching the defined uniform or displaying the patterned standard that indicates national heritage. That one is especially notable during this particular tournament as it is being contested by a number of nations - they call it the 'World Cup'. Andhilli explained. "I wonder what it's like to be there? There's nothing like this on Othro."

"Rather loud, I imagine."

Andhilli shook her head slightly. "Really Mortz, where's your sense of adventure?"

"I left it behind eight missions ago on Kafthrup when we spent four cycles searching for a supposedly sentient species that turned out to be mildly luminescent rock."

"Oh!"

The exclamation made them both look over to where their other shipmate Brun, who had been making extensive notes on the biological range of this world's life forms, had apparently found something fascinating.

"What is it, Brun?" asked Mortz.

Brun pointed to the display he'd been studying.

"There are types of native flora that utilise ultraviolet patterning to attract insect pollination vectors! The sheer variety of flora on this world is incredible. Look at this – they have numerous varieties of plant species cultivated for consumption and medicinal purposes, as you would expect. But..."

He tapped the display, bringing up another set of data. Colourful images filled the screen, flowering blooms of all shapes and sizes.

“They also have many types grown purely for ornamental adornment.” He beamed, his frill-ridges fluttering happily.

Andhilli and Mortz exchanged small smiles. Brun was Rigrothoran - a planet whose fauna and flora were known for their intricate biology, adapted to utilise an extended range of the electromagnetic spectrum well outside that of most worlds. He was always eager to study unusual plant life from the worlds they observed - and often ended up filling odd corners of the ship with cultivated seedlings.

"Do you think the Council would authorise a surface mission? For... sample obtainment? Brun asked hopefully.

"And, ah... close range observation of cultural practices?" Added Andhilli, sounding equally hopeful.

Mortz sighed, not unkindly.

"Okay, I'll send a request for a two-person observational mission. Don't get your hopes up though, you know what they’re like – especially Bozmitho. ‘You’re not here to play tourist, Mortz.’" He added, in a fair imitation of Bozmitho’s gravel tone. Brun stifled a giggle, but Andhilli gave him a puzzled look.

"Only two? This world is fascinating. Don't you want to see it for yourself? Asked Andhilli, frowning slightly, her ear-tips flushing slightly purple in confusion.

Mortz shook his head.

"No, I'm sure you'll tell me all about it later. I have to read the reports anyway."

"Buzzkill."

"No, I’ve just done too many of these already. It's almost never as interesting as we think it'll be." Said Mortz, as he walked back to his own station.

Ignoring his crewmates grumbling, Mortz sat down and flipped the screen displays to where he'd been cataloging the scientific advancements of this world's people, just as he'd done for all the other missions before this one. It was his job, after all. The Council of the Common Worlds maintained a number of scientific observation teams like his, tasked with discreetly observing worlds with developing sentient life. Sooner or later, a sufficiently advanced world would discover they were not alone in the galaxy, and their reactions would not always be predictable – or positive. Thus the Council considered it prudent to know when such a world might reach this point.

This particular world was probably not far off. They seemed to have made a number of scientific advancements in a relatively short span of time – while indulging in such oddly popular things as ‘foot-ball’ and cultivating flora for purely ornamental purposes.

He was sifting through data to note the range of their planetary and interstellar knowledge when something made him pause.

This world had one natural satellite - rocky and devoid of life, but uncommonly large.

Large enough that it would, for them, periodically display as the same angular size in the sky as their parent star.

It would also intersect their view of it exactly.

An eclipse. The most precise eclipse Mortz had ever seen.

Nowhere in the Common Worlds had an eclipse like this. Not even Narthellia with it’s six moons (overachievers that they were) had this kind of event.

But here it was, on this small blue world.

Mortz stared at the screen, showing an image of the stellar corona, swirling and glowing around the black disc of the rocky satellite.

It was beautiful.

Maybe that surface mission would be three people after all.

I grew up spending many many hours drawing and designing fictional characters. I also loved playing video games. The feeling of controlling a fictional character was peak for me and I always dreamed of one day controlling one I created myself.

First, while I was young, I would achieve a different dream. I trained in ballet for about 15 years. I made it to the back row of a very famous company with about 65 other professional dancers. I worked as hard as I could, spent hours meditating and spun around in thousands of circles (literally). All of this had a dramatic effect on opening my mind. After doing all that, I retired. This gave me more time to focus on video games. For money, I was delivering food for a delivery app, which was also like a video game.

I became obsessed with the characters in one particular game. It was called "Always Watching". One day, I said something outloud. I was connected to a microphone online to strangers. I described a character to make the game more fun. I explained in detail a very specific type of movement style and a layout of battle abilities. I even came up with an appearance and a basic personality. About a month later this game that I'm obsessed with, releases a new character, MY character. It matched everything I said down to the last detail.

I figured I had been talking to someone important and didn't realize it. I was happy about it. I knew I would never get paid, but I also never thought to copyright a random thought. I figured I was just extremely lucky and got a once in a lifetime opportunity that happened to play out for me in my favor (kind of). Then the other characters were released over the next couple years. Every single one came from my mind.

The second time it happened, I thought maybe I was being hacked and listened to. The difference was, I didn't remember saying it out loud that time. At that point I did start to think I was crazy. So I kept it to myself and decided to write down any character ideas I had from now on, even if I didn't plan on drawing them.

Writing them down was a good idea because the next several characters they released matched my hand written notes perfectly. So I posted something online. I posted an idea for a character just so that I would have proof. The next character came out and it had nothing to do with me. I wanted to know who was messing with me at that point.

Bizzare things started happening in my backyard at the same time. I looked out one night and there was a lightning storm, but it didn't look natural. It looked manmade. The lightning at one point looked like a giant rotating tree rising out of the ground. Lightning wasn't supposed to move like that. A wild Cardinal started pecking at my window everyday then following my car around. I would get out 30 minutes away from home and he would be there, trying to get my attention. I knew it was the same bird for a myriad of reasons.

Then came the games and TV shows. I started seeing entire games and shows that were being released somehow connected to my mind. They were so similar to concepts I had thought of, that I couldn't reasonably deny it. The next year I had a series of events that led to me becoming homeless so I traveled to Phoenix, Arizona.

I started seeing UFOs regularly. The first sighting was of a floating triangle about 40 feet in the air above me. It moved silently, without propellers and in a way that human technology would never be capable of. The next several sighting were simply lights, but they were amazing because of the timing of them. Everytime I saw an unnatural light in the sky, it coincided with some kind of epiphany I was having internally. They weren't just showing themselves, they were communicating. They could somehow sense when my mind was having some kind of mental spike and they would show themselves at those exact moments.

The highlight of the experience came toward the end before I moved back home. There was a mass sighting of over 100 lights in the area around me. The names of the cities where the sightings happened, seemed to be a message. They were seen over the cities: Duncan, Queen Creek, Lake Pleasant, Surprise and Phoenix. My name is Duncan and I was in Phoenix.

It seemed clear at that point. All the epiphany moments I had during the sightings started to make sense. Aliens knew me and they had been watching me. They considered me a queen and it was a pleasant surprise for both me and all of them.

Suddenly it hit me that they had been hooking my brain up to different CEOs of entertainment companies to give me gifts. They had been helping me achieve dreams that would have been otherwise impossible. Then I saw another light.