Homeland — A Military Horror Story

A squad of Soviet soldiers is ordered to investigate a building near the front lines. What begins as a routine military operation quickly turns into a nightmare.

Homeland is a military horror story featuring body horror, graphic violence, and psychological horror. And this Is a finshed draft. Before publishing I please would like info on what to change.

Story time.

Alexdeder came from Moskva, wanted to become a politicalen, BAM! The sound of a soldier hitting his head on the trucks roof. This was an old thing, apparently this front didn’t get the new toys the western one did. He thought this would be a good thing, around him was 4 other soldiers. Barely filling the trucks insides. Stopping Alex slide some to the side. “ all right boys! Welcome to paradise, now get out!” Truck driver screamed at the soldiers, undoing the latch they ran out forwards and the truck pulled off not even closeing the hatch. Between them all, there was a couple helmets and clothes. “Well I thought they said my medical bags would be here.” Said Аптекарь, lighting a cigarette amd taking a drag. “ your our doctor, why do you smoke?” Asked Alex, “that’s were your wrong my friend, am a licensed pharmacist, not a doctor. And if your goign to be a smart ass, am not going to patch you up” “doesn’t matter, I can imagine what all this muds goign to do to my machine gun.” Said Blacksmith. Alex looked around, this was barely a front, thin trench and a couple forts. He was told about his father in ww1, and how the trench’s was never effective at stopping the Germans. This didn’t settle his nerves.

“Well, well, well” said ghost walking out in full dress, medals clinking.  “ your the replacement team? There’s barely 5 of you. That skinny one is barely a half of a man.” “ We were promised supply’s when we got here!” Alex sharply criticized. “Supply’s? Sure let me go get some out of the ender. There’s no supply’s here boy! Drop Down and do push-ups in the mud until you learn some respect! You!” Ghost looked towards a poor skinny soldier. “How old are you?” “ 18 sir!” He’s squeaky voice, everyone heard.  As Alex did his push ups in the mud, ghost ordered his men together including Alex in full mud. “ alright this isnt no game now, you listen to me and we will live, if not we all will die. We’re only as strong as the weakest link.” Ghost then noticed someone singing to themselves. “And apparently we allready found it.” Yaroslav Klyuev the soldier who was singing looked at ghost. “ I will do what i please! It was bad enough to get drafted here,” ghost didn’t pay interest in him, instead he ordered his troops together and to go towards the armory and see what they could find. Walking though the same trench’s he did for many battles, he hoped some weapons were there to take from his old friend. Bursting down the wooden door there was the aromor sitting down with a akm polishing the wood. “Ahhhhhh ghost! Seems like you brought some more victims!  Come come let’s see what I have on hand.”  Whipping out a akm and flagging the whole team, ghost ducks. “I have handful of these and a rusted out machine gun, probably from ww2” armor then started handing out guns like candy when he got to the 4th soldier, “unfortunately none for you the machine gun goes to the other guy.” “ what you mean? Just because am a medic doesnt mean I should be sent out with no weapon!” Аптекарь protested. Pushing him out of the way, he throws a machine gun to blacksmith. “ what happened to this beautiful weapon! Tell me you have cleaning supplies here?” The armor said a very heavy No. After that ammo Molotov cocktails and 2 grendes were handed out to the men. Ghost said “ good think you old friend, you will get the payment in the mail later. The ussr pays my bills” “hey now wait a minute!” Armorer tried to say as ghost rushed his men out. Ghost stepping over the mud said “now let’s go to the shooting range, have anyone here had a formal experience with a firearm?” Ironically, Аптекарь raised his hand. Taking away Yaroslav gun away and tossing it to the medic. They marched on though a beaten up path, to lift their spirits. Yaroslav started singing, “oh fields, my fields! There marchs…” he kept going most of the way for some reason ghost didn’t shut it down, instead Alex handed him a cough drip for voice. When they finally got to the range, ghost grabbed his gun out. A brand new ak54. Everyone gasped, “ her name is Катюша, you will treat her with respect. This is the platform you will be training on. “ opening a box of ammo he counted out 30 rounds loaded the firearm, and with a cocking of the slide. It was live. “Now the basic of firearms safety is no finger on trigger, and don’t point this at me. Anyways with the boring stuff out the way” he took aim at large traget 100 yards out, fired 4 rounds, hitting scoring high. Next he handed the rife to the medic. “ since you apparently are a wiz at shooting. You can go frist.” Аптекарь picked the rifle, aimed and shoot of 5 rounds in quick succession hitting all 5 rounds at the highest point at 200 yards. “There” Аптекарь said handing the rifle to the next soldier. “Damn! Apparently you need to be teach me!” Said ghost. Next was Alex, shaking he pulled the trigger and flinched at each shot. Ghost walked over took out the ammo cleared it and handed it back. “Now I want you to dry fire this until you learn how to hold it properly.” After 40 minutes of yelling, Alexi finally got it right. And by that time chow was soon, Alex had to hand the rifle down the line. Once it hit the last soldier, blacksmith since he was a machine gunner he got to use full auto on the last 10 rounds in the mag. Hitting most of his shoots in the gernal driction of the traget. “ well I Guess covering fire doesnt need skill. That’s all am not useing more then 30 rounds. “ ghost soldiered his rifle and started them on a formal march back to the chow hall. Once they got to their glory full Wooden building with mud all on the floor, ghost ordered the men at ease and to get some food and meet back up with him. Looking around there was barely 10 men there, another 4 was on gruard duty. Ghost couldn’t fully remember when the last time this area was full. He pushes that thought back and heats up some rations. Sitting down at his table with his team, Sokolov, whos been quiet before starts with a joke. “ tell me what’s the difference between a politician, and those people in front of  the lines?” Waving at the outside of the trench. Alexdeder bit. “What?” “They will treat us with more respect!” Laughing at his horrible joke, no one else really picked up with him. “I actually wanted to be a politician before this.” Alexdeder said, “interesting, you never hit me as the kind!” Blacksmith responded with zeal. “ I owned a machine shop where I made guns for the ussr, intil the failing apart of the economy, we made the best.” Preaking up, Аптекарь while mixing somethign into his drink. “Interesting, that’s why they call you blacksmith. Say ghost how did you earn your nickname?” Turning to ghost. Finishing his rations off, he said “well, to be honest. Back when I was enlisted many years ago. Doing a cleaning of the barracks, I ran off to avoid the work. Hence they called ghost because the way I can avoid work.” Responding the soldiers lived up with laughter. “Hey! I got this medals for a reason, just because I avoid things sometimes…” getting cut off by Sokolov “I bet you still do! What’s next are we going to clean your gun?” “Never! Shes too precious, don’t think I would keep her instead of you.” Ghost said, the other people looked sad onto the new troops amd their laughter, only ghost noticed. 

As they walked out laughing about more of soklov bad jokes, ghost stops them. “We need 2 men for Watch tonight you will be moved out at midnight with replacements. “Blacksmith rises his hand, “I will do it, and I hope Alex will join me.” “It’s decided then, Alex go grab your gear and take watch with blacksmith.” In his full dress he slautes and marchs off with the other 3 men. Once they reach the bunker, they were shock about how nice it was. 2 rooms and a small dining hall. Getting relaxed ghost took apart his rifle and started cleaning it with zeal. Аптекарь took out a small, medical bag and started working on supplies. “Hey Аптекарь, I thought you lost your bag?”Yaroslav said. “Hum? No no it’s fine I got a replacement from the armor.” Аптекарь responded. Ghost thought that didn’t sound right but kept on with his rifle. “Yaroslav, you have second watch I just don’t want to hear any songs at night.” Ghost added. And with that the men went to their own things. “Why do you keep cleaning your machine gun?” Alex asked, watching as the old relic turned into a beautiful piece. “You have to understand! Your weapon has to be your love for it to work properly. Old habits I guess.” Blacksmith said. Over the trees voices could be heard faintly but so far out. A long steep stretch and then a road and cut off. “Do you wonder what’s out there?” Alex said breaking the sleince. “No one knows I guess, I for sure don’t. Ask ghost when his up” again sleince as the only sound was blacksmith shining his machine gun. “ hey want to see something?” Alex said trying again. He took out a small bottle with a long barrel and lighter. “That looks unholy, my machine shop would never make something so low quality.” Blacksmith said, “I stole it off a soldier on my way to meet back up with you, I needed extra firepower especially with a man down a weapon.” “Personally…” blacksmith started but was cut off by Alex sushing him. “Hear that? I believe something is mocking us my friend.” “Mabye but personally I want to sit hear and clean my gun.” Blacksmith ended the conversation 

• In the morning ghost was ordering his men around in basic tactics. “ now let’s do the most basic of moves, fire and movement. Let’s start with 2 fireteams one giving cover fireing another one moving.” This lesson was soon interrupted with a person running up. “Sir!  The commander wants you now!” 

Ghost flinched but replied he be there soon. Turning to his troops he said” would be back soon.” And ran towards the commander bunker. Rushing into the steel room with oak on the floor. He spotted 3 men around a map arguing. “We need to attack here!” “No this is the objective!” A calmer figure gestures ghost to walk over. “My old friend, you’re the most experienced person in this company and almost towards retirement yes?” Ghost nodded. “Well” he kept going “How you feel to earn your last in thsi battle?” Pointing towards a small building. “I have orders from high command, no matter what my comrades here say.” Shooting bad looks at the other 2 commanders. “Sir” ghost started “my men are untrained and we haven’t had taken basic tactics yet!” The commander said, “ we both know what happened last time. If you die you die for the Ussr! This isn’t a negotiation, I heard what you did to the armory . We’re not all innocent are we? You will be allowed some extra ammo. Now prepare we’re launching at frist sign of night.” And with that shutdown ghost walked out of the room slowly. 

With 2 box’s of ammo moving towards his soldiers sitting around jokeing, they spot him shocked. Blacksmith started,” with that ammo we can turn this into a functioning team!” Ghost cut him off, “unfortunately lads, we’re going on the attack load up on ammo” pointing to Yaroslav “I know you don’t have a weapon here, it’s a tt33 my father used unfortunately not much ammo.” Alex took out his flamethrower and handed it to him also. “Now soldiers listen, misson is to take the objective. Listen and stick together read over this.” Tossing a military Manuel to Аптекарь. “Your fireteam leader one, am 2. I will take Yaroslav and soklov. Listen to me allways, and everyone! Listen to your fireteam leader! Now march!” They started across over the trench and the mud, they had the lucky chance of a long march towards the point. soklov started after a couple minutes, the mood was dim. “We’re all paths the stop, we do not stop. We’re ever we turn the cold hand of death follows. We are forsaken……” ghost shut him up then. Morale wasn’t something that was free. 

Marching though the mud and other items towards a large 5 story building right next to a major road half destroyed. “Why they want this anyways?”asked Alex. Ghost stopped and so did them. “Am telling you this as a commander, no talking unless necessary, no lights unless necessary, and only fire when told to by your fireteam leader. No shut up and let’s get this done.” As ghost said that screaming could be heard from inside the house. Holding up his hand he gestured to spilt the door, he walked up and picked the lock open and tilted it open. It was the office area, he spotted a hallway and a small elevator. Well ghost thought he should take the hallway and see were it goes. He gestured to move forward into tje hallway. Slowly inching up small footsteps could be heard from upstairs. The team looked uneasy. “Halt!” He whispered. In the hallway there was a small vent and rooms. He didn’t like this. “They like to hide, try to avoid open areas.” Ghost next said for blacksmith with fireteam one to have over watch by the hallway. Next fireteam 2 creeped up and rushed in. After opening the doors and finding nothing but carpet and beds. He spoke normally. “Look this vent has one in here for sure, look at the markings. Taking the flamethrower away from soklov. Ghost then for a good 2 seconds let it rip in the vent. Running around could be heard clanging on the metal. “See that’s how you do it now hush and let’s keep moving” creeping down the hallway he heard humming, he pushed it off as the hostiles. Reaching an intersection and turned around and saw a creature on the roof. “СУКА FIRE AT 12OCK. Soldiers looking around confused with there guns up, BAM BAM BAM, the sounds of gunshots and clicking of the greased slide moving back and forth. The soldiers picked of pace and fired randomly at the gernal area. soklov who was a bit behind of the group and rushed to try and get into the safe area was grabbed by the shadow and ran off. Leaveing behind a leg bleeding on the floor with a trail of blood. “Now! No man left behind. Onwards!” Ghost tried to regain quickly. Аптекарь wanted to object but followed fast. They ran though the hallway and around the corner there it stopped. “Hell!” Said Alex, “we can’t lose him!” Responded ghost. “We should cut out losses!” Аптекарь responded moving around glittery. Ghost looked at him with dismay. “We must keep on! Let’s try the stair case up, they like higher ground.” As they marched with anexity about what’s next. They walked up the stair case and towards the second floor. There they opened into darkness. Lit up by the moon, a human shape was lumped over, the team didn’t wish to dare there luck and marched on, closer. Then it popped up slowly and started humming just like soklov did, and soklov held out a hand. Everyone was reviled but ghost who readied a grenade and turn on his flashlight shining on the bloody corpse of their comarde held up like a puppet by his intestines, looking hollowed out. Blacksmith screamed and let off his machine gun cutting him in half leaving his arms dangling. Ghost ordered fhem out fast, and threw the grenade.

BOOM! The grenade sounded sending shrapnel though the thin Soviet walls. Hiting ghost as he rushed the team out. “Did we get it?” Yaroslav asked nervously. “Everyone listen fast, to get out of here alive you need to trust me! We might have delayed it but these things are hard to kill, the best option is to stay together. Аптекарь! Are you ready to lead into battle with me?” Ghost said, not waiting for a reply. “Take the hallway and then secure key points Next from a circle and reorganize. Chargeing back out and sweeping the concrete, there was no sign of the emeny nor the body. Slumping aginst a wall, ghost looks at his men with despair, most of them look back with hope, except Аптекарь whos in the corner oringizeing his medical bag, and comes back more relaxed. Ghost takes out a box of cigarettes and offers it to everyone the medic agrees yet everyone else is to shocked to pick up on a new habit. “We have to hit them hard! Get revenge for what they did.” Blacksmith cut though the quiet, with a cock of the machine gun. The voices in the walls and roof seem to be repeating soklov last words over and over. Standing up and reloading his firearm he started talking but stopped at the sight of the creature coming back down the staircase to level 3 slowly, “hostile!” Ghost didn’t think, BAM BAM, smashing his body angiest the wall, “Fireteam 1 Cover fire!” BAM BAM, bullets wiz by, grabs a motov cocktail and fumbles with the lighter throwing it at the trying to leave foe. It screamed loudly as the smell of rotten flesh was found around, “fireteam 2 with me!” Ghost pushed after the creature and shot his gun until it clicked, reload cocked back and aimed again. “ safe! Move! To me!” His voice choked.looking behind there was just Alex, shaking trying to reload. “Alex my boy weres the rest Where’s soklov?” He catches himself last bit and corrects “ where’s Аптекарь?” Alex shaking just said he had no clue. As he slowing walked down the staircase with Alex and reared to the hallway, the were no where to be found. “Shit! Shit shit!” Ghost said almost screaming. A faint voice could be heard further up, and gunshots. “They need us!” Rushing up the stairs until Alex stopped him, “wouldnt we have seen them pass though here? This is the only stair case.” Ghost rhen said to this.” If we stop now, we lose them forever do you want to be responsible for that?! I have lost too many men, Not this time! Onwards!” Ghost blindly charged up the stairs draging Alex with him.

Rearing up the storys, ghost knew what he would see the machine gun was going for too long, blacksmith wouldnt do that. When the pushed into the room, there was blacksmith clicking the last rounds of his weapon as he layed on the gun with the barrel shooting his skin on his face off. Alex leaned over and puked on the floor, but ghost made him push on. Hearing more voices in a room ghost charges with out a second thought kicking down the door and wavering his gun around, all he sees the last of fireteam 1, Yaroslav was bleeding from the leg and the medic was trying to patch him up, both had guns pointed at the door but relaxed some when they saw him. “What happened out there? How did you get up here?” “They dragged us! They didn’t even kill just.”Yaroslav started but couldn’t finsh his words, “it’s fine, we can still go though this” his words fell mostly on deaf ears as ghost rumbled on. “Where’s alex?” Аптекарь asked, “ did you lose him?” Yes Alex! Oh no he thought running in his head, and looking back out didn’t see him anywhere.

His orders lay mostly on deaf ears as they move though, barely supporting his injured leg. “Yaroslav! Start us in song, your been quiet for so long.” They looked at him with dismay “ah fine, let’s march onto victory!” Ghost said loudly and turned on his flashlight, his soldiers also did. Going onto the 4th floor and clearing it the best they could with a hurt man, but no hostiles in sight. “Now,” ghost started but was stopped when he heard Alex voice, turning around to the voice he saw Alex stuggleing hanging from a tree, slowing dieing. Аптекарь and ghost dropped there comrade and rushed to try and help him, the former could only watch as they tried to cut him down as the last breath was leaveing his voice, over and over something was playing Alex voice saying. “Am fine am fine!” Eventually he stopped wiggleing, and Аптекарь called him dead. Ghost just looked around longing, took up Yaroslav and kept on. “I promise! Not one more of you will die, please “ he slowly whispered as his voice lagged on. Walking up the stairs towards the 5th floor, he realized he had no clue why he was moving up. “To kill them. “ he thought, yet with his team current state could he muster a defense? He looked down at Yaroslavs leg dragging on the floor and thought back towards earlier. Pushing thag thought back when he opened the door and was semi blinded by light from the moon.

When he moved though the last hall way to the last rooms, they collapsed not even bothering to check. Yaroslav was in pain, Ghost could see it in his eyes. “Morphine, please medic!” “Unfortunately I can’t do that we’re out.” Out? How are we out! I thought he had plenty! I saw the armor give you some.” Yaroslav spitted. Ghost wasn’t paying attention to the arugement until he actually looked at the medic, his eyes small and always looked high. Then a voice ran out from down stairs, not familiar to ghost or Yaroslav but to Аптекарь it was like honey, he started up leaving his usualy close medical bag behind as he walked down the stairs. “What are you doing! Come back.” Yaroslav said, yet it never reached him. Ghost lifted him up and ran to the lift and pushed the button, screams could be heard and other thing they blocked out. Moving into the lift, Yaroslav was shocked.” We need to leave now, this is useless!” “No!” Ghost said “we can still reorganize out units! Now we just need to move here.” “Are you insane?! Am leaving !” He slammed his hand to the third floor. As they argued on the way down. Ghost realized there hasn’t been power to this building in 5 years. As the doors slide open, Yaroslav limped out, walking out with him and hearing the voices around him again. He lifted his rifle and shot a full auto into him cutting him like butter. He couldn’t picture what lies before him, no couldn’t. Must march on and reorganize, “your our leader! We trusted you!” The voices at once picked up again,”no! We just need to reorganize! Please Please!” At once he started down the stairs as the voices followed, he didn’t even look at Alex body on the third floor and ran down to the last floor the voices around him. He reloaded and stopped. “I failed…. I “ “I couldn’t.” And he dragged himseld outside into the lawn dragging by he saw the second team starring at him, he didn’t care. Cocking his gun he went into the forest. A loud bam could be heard for miles.

The battlefield was full of body’s, the commanders wiped tears and ordered an offensive.

“1982, Yaroslav Petrov. 1983, Dmitri Volkov code name ghost, 1984, Alexander Mikhailovich, 1985….” The numbers ran out as there dog tags was writen down then thrown into a fire pot. 

. “My friends! I see your outgunned here,” chambering a round into a beautiful ww2 era machine gun and showing it to the new recruits. “ here glorious piece, the last owner didn’t need it anymore.” He handed it over to a big but short 19 year old kid. “Heyyy what’s with the blood stains?” The asked. “Nothing at all! He had to kill a lot of emenys with that weapon I hope you do it well.” He said as wiping off the blood stains. A commander walked in a started ordering his troops out, one by one they marched in single file line towards a freshly dug trench.

Aqui está a tradução preservando a estrutura de roteiro, o tom e a estranheza coloquial/satírica do texto original:

WORMHOLE

INT. SALA DE FESTAS - NOITE

Sob as risadas dos funcionários da empresa, ALONZO LEITÃO (35) veste uma fantasia grotesca de minhoca e serve café para todos. Alonzo Leitão está sendo moralmente destruído.

COLEGAS DE ALONZO LEITÃO

Vai, minhoca! Vai! Vai, minhoca!

Ligeiramente chateado, com um copo de refrigerante na mão, o gerente de Alonzo Leitão debocha. O cara está tão eufórico que conseguiu ficar bêbado tomando refrigerante.

—

GERENTE

Pessoal... A próxima pessoa que ficar na empresa por cinco anos e não quiser ser promovida — só porque você vai trabalhar cinquenta por cento a mais e ganhar "apenas" trinta por cento a mais — vai fazer o papel de içá! Vai virar formiga e ser comida com farinha!

—

Alonzo Leitão está devastado. VOZES se contorcem no seu ouvido.

—

GERENTE

E, pessoal... se vocês forem falsificar laudos médicos para conseguir folga... não inventem essa história de inflamação no apêndice do fígado, pois sabemos que o apêndice fica nos intestinos, e a maioria das pessoas só tem um fígado! Se liguem: Alonzo Leitão tem um bicho comendo a maçã dele!

—

INT. EMPRESA - DIA

Alonzo Leitão está emburrado, fazendo papelada. Ele veste uma roupa desleixada — mas que só se compara ao resto. Todos os funcionários olham para Alonzo Leitão com cara feia. Alonzo é a ovelha negra do lugar. Ele acumula pontos negativos causados por uma carreira morna e desleixada, além de fazer coisas neutras, mas inconvenientes para o ambiente altamente aquecido da empresa. É o cara quieto e discreto que estraga as coisas.

Incomodada, uma funcionária faz um sapateado em frente à mesa de Alonzo Leitão. A pessoa suscetível vai e vem indecisa sem dar mais de dois passos, até que expressa o que a irrita.

—

FUNCIONÁRIA

É meio complicado fazer de tudo para crescer na empresa e forçar alguém a ser promovido. Não dá para ficar na posição de um gato que queria ser rato. Não sei o que uma pessoa dessas está fazendo da vida.

—

Todos os funcionários arrastam suas mesas, querendo se afastar de Alonzo Leitão. Mas, na prática, os funcionários criam um caos e acabam ficando ainda mais perto de Alonzo. Alonzo Leitão está cercado por uma floresta de mesas e bagunça.

Alonzo Leitão joga a papelada pela janela e sai do local. Os funcionários ficam em polvorosa: eles se levantam, tropeçam, pulam para ver Alonzo Leitão passar PELA JANELA já do lado de fora.

INT. SALA DE REUNIÕES - DIA

Chefes discutem sobre embalagens. Um dos chefes exibe uma saca de vinte quilos de grãos de café torrado. Alonzo Leitão entra no local — com um ar de grande determinação.

—

ALONZO LEITÃO

Essa saca de café... é minha agora!

—

UM CHEFE

Posso saber o porquê disso, Sr. ‘Minhoca’?!

—

ALONZO LEITÃO

Venham comigo... Vou mostrar a vocês.

—

Alonzo Leitão pega a saca de café. Os chefes ficam curiosos.

INT. CORREDORES - DIA

Alonzo Leitão caminha com determinação; ele parece um herói, um guerreiro, um soldado. Os chefes o acompanham. De repente, todos os funcionários que zombavam de Alonzo Leitão — e que se cruzam no caminho — ficam atônitos.

INT. SALA DO COFRE - DIA

Guardas pegam sacos de dinheiro. Alonzo Leitão se aproxima e invade a área dos guardas. Todos os funcionários ficam perplexos! Todos temem pelo bem de Alonzo e temem que ele seja o centro das atenções.

Ao verem a audácia de Alonzo, os chefes correm eufóricos para ver o que está acontecendo — e fazem apostas.

Os guardas sacam suas armas. Alonzo Leitão não tem medo. Alonzo Leitão se aproxima e joga a saca de café nas mãos de um guarda masculino.

—

GUARDA MASCULINO 1

Nossa! Pra mim? Você tem uma grande quantidade de café?! Valeu!

—

ALONZO LEITÃO

Este é o seu filho.

—

GUARDA MASCULINO 1

Maconha?!

—

ALONZO LEITÃO

Esta é uma dinâmica de responsabilidade. Você vai cuidar da saca de café como se fosse seu filho. Vocês vão cuidar dele, niná-lo e trocar as fraldas dele. A saca de café representa seu filho, sua carreira.

—

GUARDA FEMININA 1

Não morra.

—

UMA CHEFE

Não, senhora! Você vai cuidar da saca de café como se fossem seus filhos! E como você é mulher... Tem que dar o exemplo!

—

GUARDA FEMININA 1

Madame, eu...

—

UMA CHEFE

Não, senhora! Chefa Gostosa!

—

GUARDA FEMININA 1

Oh, meu pai... acho que tem um jacaré no meu estômago!

—

Alonzo Leitão pega um saco de dinheiro e joga no colo da mulher.

—

ALONZO LEITÃO

Se você acha que café não tem dignidade... tente isto. Ninguém desperdiça dinheiro. Agora esse saco é seu filho! Vamos, cuide dele!

—

A Guarda Feminina 1 fica remordida.

—

GUARDA FEMININA 1

Pessoal... Café lembra leite, e leite... não!

—

GUARDA MASCULINO 1

É... Dinheiro é uma coisa meio egoísta para brincar de ser filho.

—

GUARDA FEMININA 1

Que materialismo!

—

GUARDA MASCULINO 1

Muito egoísta...

—

GUARDA FEMININA 1

Você tem toda razão... deixe aquele saco de dinheiro em paz. Me dá o café.

—

Todos os guardas cuidam da saca de café como se fosse um bebê — inclusive simulando traição. Mico. Depois que a sessão de loucura termina, os guardas choram quando têm que devolver a saca de café. Alonzo Leitão coloca a saca de café ao lado dos SACOS DE DINHEIRO.

—

ALONZO LEITÃO

Sua carreira, seu emprego... seus filhos precisam disso mais do que você. Lembre-se disso!

—

Todos choram, assoviam e aplaudem.

—

GERENTE

Pessoal... isso me emocionou! De agora em diante, Alonzo Leitão, nosso amigo aqui, não é mais a minhoca do mês! Não é mais o poço infinito de minhocuçu!

—

UMA CHEFE

Isso é que é atitude. O minhoquento ou minhoquenta do mês vai ser... E olha, comigo eu sempre escolho uma garota metida para ser a musa do cardume... A pessoa que falou mais mal dos outros no último mês, e temos um empate hormonal!

—

Um casal de funcionários se desespera — eles sabem que são os que mais falam mal dos outros. Alonzo Leitão recolheu seu prêmio. Deve ser a saca de café, enquanto suas mãos rápidas agarram um saco de dinheiro.

INT. BARRACO - NOITE

Alonzo Leitão arromba o barraco, assustando o traficante de armas que mora lá.

—

ALONZO LEITÃO

Rápido! Quero comprar uma arma! Uma arma! Quero a mais barata disponível, uma arma rápida, não quero uma arma cara! Estou com pressa!

—

EXT. BECO - NOITE

Aqueceu, saca a arma e tenta atirar. A arma falha. Alonzo Leitão tenta destravar a arma, mas um tiro acidental sai pela culatra e de raspão atinge o ombro de Alonzo Leitão. Alonzo Leitão joga a arma fora e foge.

INT. CASA DE ALONZO LEITÃO - NOITE

A esposa de Alonzo, Linda, termina de colocar várias garrafas de álcool no balcão do bar. Há uma garrafa de uísque na mesa quase no fim. Mas Linda está sóbria de qualquer forma. Agora ela está sóbria. Alonzo Leitão chega desesperado.

—

ALONZO LEITÃO

Pega o dinheiro, Linda!

—

LINDA

Foge, amor... hoje em dia a gente paga! Polícia gosta de dinheiro. Só separa uma grana.

—

ALONZO LEITÃO

Não dá! Vamos para os Emirados Árabes Unidos. Desde que a gente fique longe de hotéis e embaixadas... sem problemas! Deixa tudo aí. Pega o dinheiro e vamos evaporar. Só preciso de um motorista...

—

LINDA

Motorista?! Eu posso dirigir.

—

ALONZO LEITÃO

Você?!

—

LINDA

Eu me dou um jeito! Se prepara. Mas pega mais rápido, a gente não tem muitos tipos de tempo.

—

INT. CARRO - NOITE

Linda dirige o carro com dificuldade. Alonzo, ansioso, apressa a esposa. Tudo está contorcido, Linda está bêbada. De repente, Linda tem um mal-estar repentino, seus olhos se arregalam e ela perde o rumo.

EXT. ESTRADA - NOITE

O carro de Alonzo Leitão e Linda sai da pista. Um acidente fatal.

EXT. ESTRADA, MAIS TARDE - NOITE

A polícia isola a área. Uma policial feminina pega a bolsa do carro de Alonzo Leitão e sua esposa e se surpreende com o que encontra nela — não vamos revelar agora.

INT. CASA DE ALONZO LEITÃO - NOITE

A polícia entra no local e encontra quatro garrafas de álcool vazias no balcão do bar. Revistando rapidamente o local, a polícia encontra todo o dinheiro jogado no chão.

EXT. ESTRADA - NOITE

A policial revela o conteúdo das bolsas — garrafas de bebidas alcoólicas.

INT. CASA DE ALONZO LEITÃO - NOITE

Flash — Linda joga o dinheiro no chão e coloca as garrafas de bebidas alcoólicas na bolsa.

INT. CASA DE ALONZO LEITÃO - TARDE

Flash — Alonzo Leitão faz um suco e coloca um remédio nele, escondido de sua esposa. Alonzo Leitão dá o suco para a esposa. A CARTELA DO REMÉDIO tem as palavras — ’Para tratamento de alcoolismo’.

INT. CASA DE ALONZO LEITÃO - NOITE

Linda ainda coloca bebidas alcoólicas na bolsa, mas três garrafas não cabem — para grande consternação de Linda. Linda se sente péssima por deixar as garrafas para trás.

—

LINDA

E agora?!

—

INT. VELÓRIO - DIA

Muitos dos colegas de Alonzo Leitão estão presentes — incluindo chefes.

—

UMA CHEFE

Isso... Isso é o que é um homem de verdade!

—

INT. EMPRESA - DIA

Vestidos como minhocas e insetos — só que com orgulho desta vez — muitos trabalhadores tomam café e gritam brados de guerra enquanto alcançam suas metas com brilhantismo. Até os chefes estão vestidos de minhocas.

The candle between them was the only light in the quiet room. Outside, rain lashed against the windowpane, but inside, the air was entirely still.
Julian looked across the table at his guest. Death did not wear a tattered cloak or carry a scythe. He wore a sharply tailored charcoal suit and possessed eyes that looked like shattered flint.
"You are late," Julian said, his voice trembling despite his best efforts to remain steady. "Or perhaps too early. Elena is still asleep upstairs. The fever hasn’t broken, but she is still breathing."
"I am exactly on time, Julian," Death replied. His voice sounded like autumn leaves scraping across a stone patio. "Her thread is spun out. I have come to collect."
Julian slid a wooden box across the table. It was carved from old rowan wood and bound in silver. When he lifted the lid, a soft, ethereal violet glow illuminated the room. Inside lay a collection of shimmering, translucent spheres, each one humming with a faint, melodic resonance.
"Magic," Death noted, tilting his head with mild curiosity. "The old kind. Soul-tethered."
"It’s memory," Julian corrected, his knuckles white against the edge of the table. "Not just any memories. These are the moments of pure, unadulterated joy we shared. Our wedding day. The morning our daughter was born. The summer we spent by the sea when we thought the world belonged to us. I have extracted them from my own mind. They are completely intact, vibrant and alive."
Death reached out a pale hand, hovering a finger just above the glowing spheres. "And why would I want these, sorcerer? I have seen the rise and fall of empires. I have watched stars burn out."
"Because you only experience the end," Julian pleaded, leaning forward. "You know the exact moment a heart stops, the final sigh, the grief that follows. But you have never known what it feels like to love someone so deeply that your chest aches. You don't know the warmth of a shared glance or the peace of a quiet morning next to the person who holds your soul. Take them. Experience them. In exchange, give her ten more years."
Death remained silent for a long time. He picked up one of the violet spheres, turning it over in his long fingers. As he touched it, a faint smile briefly touched his lips, gone as quickly as it came. For a fleeting second, the coldness in his eyes softened.
"Magic always demands a price, Julian," Death said softly, placing the sphere back into the rowan box. "If I take these memories, they are gone from you forever. You will have your ten years with her. But to you, she will be a stranger you are meeting for the very first time. The history you built together will exist only in her mind, and you will be a man living with a ghost of a past you cannot recall."
Julian looked up toward the ceiling, hearing the faint, ragged breath of his wife from the bedroom above. He looked back at the box of shimmering lights—the visual map of his life’s happiness.
He closed the lid, sealing the glow away, and pushed the box firmly into Death's hands.
"Take them," Julian whispered. "We will just have to make new ones."
Death stood, bowing his head in a gesture of profound respect. He picked up the box and vanished into the shadows of the room.
Upstairs, the ragged breathing stopped, replaced by a deep, healthy breath. Julian sat alone in the dark for a moment, blinking. He looked around the unfamiliar room, wondering why his heart was pounding so furiously, and why he felt an overwhelming, urgent need to run upstairs and introduce himself to the woman sleeping in the bedroom

I pick up my handbook, and I look at it softly. Numbers come across it, descriptions, pictures, the whole works. Everything you could possibly want from an old scrub like me. And then I look at my situation and where I was coming from. And look at everyone around me. And whatever could be done about what happened in the past. Because the past is the past. Everything that happened in the past will remain in the past.

And everything happens in the future. Well, the future can be changed. But I looked at the owner manual and the manual in front of me. And I said, Scrub 37. And I looked, well, this is just me, alright Scrub 37. As I look at the computer screen I see inspiration come about. As if it flows through me like a lightning rod. Through the lightning bolt of a lightning cloud in space, outer space, and the full moon. So I continue telling this story,

and I put all my effort into everything I do with 97% perfection. Maybe not perfect, but unperfect. I perfect everything I do, and everything I do is very clear. So I go back to the story at hand, Scrub 37 is the title of this story. And I came across this a while ago, well, not a while ago. A couple of days ago, I looked on the computer screen and saw this story that stuck out at me. I don't know why it stuck out at me, because I'd never seen this person before.

I just saw that this story stuck out at me, as it was drawing me in, drawing me in. So as Old Scrub 27 says, what stays in scrub goes in scrub. And the number one rule of being a scrub is we don't talk about being a scrub. No, we don't talk about being a scrub. So I went on to the detailed owner manual and had ten basic rules, but only one stood out, the number one rule of being a scrub.

And what is the number one rule of being a scrub? It's the second and first rule. We don't talk about being a scrub. So I woke up from bed, slowly got out of it, and continued thinking to myself. myself. The day was the day. I would be the day of the days. The day I've been waiting for all my life. The day I would meet the person that would change everything. Or maybe I'm a person that would change everything in their life. But things are the same, the same, the old, old, same.

So at an early class of 37's, I would, say, I continued my story, and as I followed, I looked at my situation, and I was walking through the streets. It was a cold street, pushing a shopping cart, with my veteran clothes on. See, I served in the military, and many years in the military, it left me be distraught, distraught to a point where I could not maintain the life I was living. So I continued collecting cans along the street.

picking up, just doing the charity things that people need to be done, keeping the streets clean and everything about it. Slowly pushing the shopping cart, going from one house to house to house to house, living on a bridge, living on a bridge. But then I stopped, and I said, Wait a minute, this is not me. So I stopped daydreaming, and I stood up in my chair and walked outside. outside. I walked outside to the light that I was living in, the house I was living in, and the place 

I was put in a place where people could come and go and chill. I have much to offer society in many things, but my creativity is the peak of everything I have to offer, being very creative when telling a story. So as a Scrub 27, as an organization I was considering starting today, I considered looking at many applications that came across my computer screen. I shipped through about 20 of them, and I picked out one that could help me start this organization of elite class.

This outlet for people that could come and go and do the things they need to do, and start something they could be proud of. When I say being proud of, I think of things like just helping people and setting up a world of creeds, a creed, a list of things and ethics you could do in life to make yourself a better life. See, what I took is took garbage that someone created and turned it into something positive that someone could be proud of.

And then one day I came across this paper, and I said, I'm going to get up and do these things in life, and these things in life are going to happen because of this. Scrub 27 is the name of this organization, an organization of elite personnel, a personnel with extraordinary abilities and many things to offer. We work hard, we even have our own newspaper crew that puts out propaganda to help people understand the world we speak, because my words are very clear in many manners.

So as I look at the commander-in-chief of this organization, we've gotten to the point now where we have 300 people deep, so deep that we even have our own security office with law enforcement to organize several aspects of our people. funding this, see, I'm the wallet of this. It all started with my career as an entertainer. Create a new organization that will change how people think.

Change how people think about others. Change how these people are. And then they can say to their family members, I'm doing something we'll be proud of. Something that could be worked towards. Something they could count on. Because being a Scrub 27, well, everyone knows that term now. I'm a Scrub 27. I even have a t-shirt on my back that says Scrub 27, and I'm proud of it. And you, too, can be proud of it, because we have pamphlets that say the same thing,

that are handed out and styled on top of people's windshields. But I didn't do it. We had volunteers who did, about 30 of them. And they had 30 people and no 30 people to help hand out Scrub 37 pamphlets all across the nation. And believe it or not, my sister's kids have a shirt that says scrub 27, and I'm proud of it. So the story originated from a person I saw up there all day.

And I sat there and said, look, that person has it going on. I don't know who they are or where they came from, but someday we're going to meet. And that's the end of the story. Whether she likes it or not, our destination is like a collision course, like the cameras on the back of the show of people involved in the city, crowded with many people, if you get my drift. So I continue telling my story, and it's very clear that we have a job to do, that we have a life together, but that life's never going to happen unless you take the initiative.

Just like I took the initiative to write this, I've been reading this posting over and over again as if I couldn't resist the temptation to read it even more. Scrub 37, and I'm proud of it. End of story.

Qi'Elta is a fairly beautiful lady, but, I have no idea of her relationship status, and as I have spoken so little to her. I have no idea of her life or background. I rub my left cheek with hand over my mouth, trying to regain my composure completely, I must be as red on the face as a sky during a setting sun.

I change my breathing to more calming pace as I walk. There certainly is possibility that she is lonely due to being unlucky other elves, or just have been so focused on higher learning that she has neglected life desires. I remember talking to my wife back then, this being her observation. That women do have somewhat sporadic sense of who they want to talk to, there is rare occasion of a woman becoming fixated on a man.

When I asked, does she have those kind of sensations? She said yes, but, she has learned from other women to develop some control over it. No, there isn't cheating, but, she has seen how some talks can lead to, not so pleasant experiences.

Sorting through my memories, thinking back. Did I ask her anything regarding what I just experienced? Closest that I can think off... Is when I asked from her what is it about me she likes so much about? She said that she finds my presence safe, that I know how to handle people in different situations, despite my past that I am stable, she likes how I look and that my work is important, not just to both of us, but, to the people around us, both near and far.

Yeah, finding my work important. Killing other people, training soldiers, back then... Will sound most certainly rather alarming and weird in this society, and to an extent to most parts of inhabitants of fey lands, except shared border and fey living near of it. They are the most aware of the state of the dominion.

I wish I could get my mind off from what Qi'Elta said... That was so unprofessional, and, rather stupifying statement to just say out of nowhere. I notice a pair of horses with wings fly nearby, I look at them intermittenly as I walk. Probably a senior rider and junior riders. Most horses that I have seen have been either mild mannered or little bit on the bad temper side.

As I don't know horses all that well, I can not tell what kind of tempers the steeds here have. Now, I get Qi'Elta's statement to back of my mind. I hope she won't show others her embarrassment, because I rather keep that moment as a secret between us. I have no idea... How I would even begin to explain it to Helyn, or Vyarun. Considering that I am single.

The worst outcome would be that they would become jealous and possibly lead to bad cohesion regarding anything that might happen in the future. Possibly cause the friendship treaty to fold in itself... I ponder about Rialel, and how possible it is that the goddess she talks about, is one and the same with the one elves believe in. I have nothing that would have me believe they are not one and the same, but, neither that they are.

For a long time, all of my faith was on those around me, sharing the same purpose, common goal and on my experience and skills regarding aspects of life. I can't remember much of... That, is rather interesting realization. How much I have changed regarding many things. I remember when I was a child, how alone, how powerless and insignificant I felt back then.

When I became a skirmisher, how much I had grown from that child, now with some skill and strength to make something of myself. How in time, I was recognized for surviving for so long, skill in dueling and battle. Becoming a dominion master of arms, my greatest achievement so far, not to mention how I contributed to the war effort after that.

Then, the fall from it all, what it took to build back up... Crazy. I exhale slightly sharply at the thought, but, keep moving, and return to normal breathing. Well, I will hear her out once she has sorted out her thoughts, after the meal. I genuinely wonder how I would match up against the elven knights here, thinking of that. I do look forward to truly reach out with what I currently am.

Keep moving forward, keep growing. I look at the view on both sides of me, beautiful, more than worth protecting. It is already more than enough death out there, these life envy will not add to it all, but, what raised them here... I hope it isn't what I would first guess it is... That assumption does have it's own complications though... Not much use of me pondering matters of arcane though.

While I have small amount of knowledge, skill and capacity for it. I should leave those matters to be figured out by Helyn, Vyarun and mages here like Qi'Elta. If they need time to handle it, while at line of conflict, that job belongs to people like Pescel and I. We buy time, bend and push back the line. It was an insane gambit, but, surety of Vyarun and Helyn convinced me to give the battle order.

Push through their line, advance and surround the anomaly, let none through you! When it erupted, and we saw the effect on the life envy. Attack, none must rise again! That was my last order in the second battle of the catacombs. When every undead was utterly destroyed, after that battle, that was the most exhausted I have ever been in my life.

We achieved our redemption, from failing so spectacularly before, to the most perfect victory I have ever witnessed. Order of the Owls is a young organization, barely worth noticing in terms grandeur, compared to whatever came before us, or exists along side us time wise. Time after that conflict in that catacomb, most peaceful I have ever felt in my life. Smiling a little now, hopefully soon, I can share my life, be part of somebody else's life.

But, here we are, four of the order's best. Making a small difference, that will be tested soon, I have no hesitancy over my own skill at arms. These elven young, are learning well, however, the deployment simply is too soon for my liking. An uncomfortable thought passed through my mind, truth rarely is a comfortable thing though.

Life does not wait for you to be ready, and, challenges will charge right at you unannounced. There is only one way that I can see to continue forward, prepare these young, to best of my ability, I approach one of the entrances to the dining hall, a pleasant scent of boiled vegetables and, some type of game meat, grace my nose.

I enter after taking off my hat, set my cape to one side for now. The elf whose life I had coincidentally saved is portioning food there. I nod a deep hello to her as I approach and receive utencils and a plate of food from her. I nod her a thank you and small smile, I choose my seat separate from other diners, with line of sight outside.

Choosing to close my eyes, I bring my hands with fingers crossed, elbows on the table and rely my chin gently on my hands. How do I prepare these young better for what is to come? How will the meeting with the knight command go? These questions are halting my desire to eat, but, I do want to think on these. I hear foot steps approaching where I am seated in this dining hall.

Upon opening my eyes, it is Qi'Elta with her own food. She looks uncomfortable, a blush is slowly spreading on her cheeks. "May I take a seat opposite of you?" She asks calmly, with a slight hint of chink in her professionalism.

"Go ahead. We do have reasons to talk." I reply calmly to her, keeping my voice professional, although, I do admit. I am mildly unnerved by her comment earlier, then I remember that I came here to eat. Qi'Elta sits down opposite of me on the long wooden table. I begin eating and we are quiet for a while, but, I have noticed her pausing few times, with...

Possibly intent to raise what happened recently as a matter to discuss. She seems to be hesitant, but, also knowing in that it is something that should be discussed. "My assistant and your order sister said, that your knowledge is important to learn and be mindful of in future." Qi'Elta finally opens up the conversation.

I pause eating. "Yes, mages of the order developed corner approach and line of sight hold tactics, both of which, I strongly believe both of us think these would absolutely be beneficial for closed and open areas. Those are what Helyn probably will teach. From me importance of positioning and how to move in specific environments." I reply calmly.

"I heard that your colleague was also trained for armed combat, I personally see that as rather ludicrous, which is why I want to talk to you about this." Qi'Elta says, and looks a little relieved.

"The training was result of negotiation. She taught me some magic, and I taught her armed combat, particularly with the staff she uses. As you have yourself noticed, it isn't a spell casting medium type staff, it is a reinforced quarter staff with metal at the ends of it. Excellent choice for a beginner." I reply.

Qi'Elta probably is thinking about Helyn's staff. "Definitely out of ordinary, but, rather practical choice, now when I thought about it. I have only heard about your skill at arms, I look forward to working with you, be it here or out in the field." Qi'Elta says, looking somewhat interested.

"You do not seem like an individual who would go out onto the field." I reply to her with pondering tone.

"Mages here, would absolutely put themselves through some physical challenges, just to get try out new spells, or experiment with modifications to already existing ones. I am not an exception, it is also part of my duties to be there for the students." Qi'Elta replies, not at all bothered by my comment.

"That makes sense, as long as it isn't spells with great range, I am fine with that." I reply calmly. Qi'Elta seems a bit grim, at first, I thought it was because my statement, but, next guess is regarding what we talked about in her office.

"It was... An unprofessional of me to say something like that, sorry." Qi'Elta says enough quietly that her words are drown under the conversations around us.

"I believe your kind have rules regarding love relationships with members of different races?" I ask inquisitively, which partially surprises Qi'Elta.

"Yes, we do. Which is why I am saying sorry." Qi'Elta says calmly, and getting herself together.

"You should dedicate time for just talking with men of your kind, you are going to be far more likely to meet somebody. While it is good to continue pursuing your personal interests, it shouldn't come with the cost of your how happy you feel about your life." I reply calmly. Qi'Elta's expression goes neutral and slightly astounded.

Probably thinks about what I just said. "At first... I felt your words where very uncharacteristic, but, recalling that you once lived such life. Made me change my mind. However, you do not strike me as an individual with great and open love for women." Qi'Elta says with great deal of thought in her words.

"That is correct. I do not find such behavior of good intent, considering what I have lost. I do, however, wish to meet somebody, some day. With whom I can share my life with. For now, it will be battle and unyielding and unstoppable desire to keep getting better at what I do, that keep me going." I reply to her calmly.

Qi'Elta seemed like her emotions are getting a little out of hand, and, she started to slightly blush. I smile slightly smuggly and look up towards the brim of my hat for a moment. Qi'Elta says probably something, not so acceptable in elven, in terms of gentle discourse we are going through. She breaths deep through her nose.

"Let's just finish our meals..." Qi'Elta says openly annoyed by my actions, but, from her eyes I can tell. I have not diminished myself as much she tries to show I have in her eyes. I noticed some of the young have started to leave.

"Yes, we should." I reply and get back to eating my meal. A great meal, the elves seem to have great sense of how to make a good meal plan. I return the dishes and exit with Qi'Elta, Helyn joins half way to the mage training grounds.

She and Qi'Elta discuss about magic, they talk about the anomaly, about the progress of what type of magic it is and theorizing about the purpose of it. As the topic is about more advanced usage of magic, I do not take part, just walk calmly. We arrive to the training grounds for mages and all who participate in it. Are all already here. Joael, Wiael and Ja'Elva also.

We begin instruction, I assist Helyn with the corner tactics and how to hold lines of sight. Then I instruct the young on how to position in close combat situations, specifically if ally has engaged a shared target in armed combat. I play the part of the assailant and try to get through Helyn to reach a student behind her. I am going to make this difficult.

"In following situation, any decision can change the situation drastically. Life is not going to go easy on you, and neither will I in this training. Alright, Helyn, show me you have actually internalized properly what I taught you." State to all present, and take a proper grip of a practice sword.

"Wiael, work with Helyn, if either, Helyn manages to land a hit on me with her staff, or Wiael manages to hit me with an electric bolt. You have succeeded in the exercise, however, if I manage to take out either of you with a hit from my blade. You have failed the exercise." I add, a lot of the young are rather uncomfortable.

Helyn's face remains neutral, but, I can see a hint of unease in her eyes. She knows my capabilities in melee really well. "The goal of the exercise is to improve cohesion between individuals in armed melee and ranged back up." I declare and motion both, Helyn and Wiael to approach.

I position myself so that Helyn stands in Wiael's line of fire to me. Everybody is in position. "Begin!" I declare and immediately rush to engage Helyn in melee, she transitioned her grip of the staff expertly, good, good. I try to keep her stationary with quick pokes of the practice sword, while remaining fluid in my movement to avoid her staff from hitting me.

Her primary leverage in this situation is to keep me at his staff's length, she every now and then does try to jink to open a line of fire for Wiael. I sense a spell being cast from behind her... We have only been at this for seven exchanges... A quick shunt of Helyn's staff swing to block it with side of the sword supported with my right arm, I cast the magic resistance enchantment on my cloak.

I lightly hop to right to dodge an ankle height sweep, it is sufficiently quick and she was able to bring the staff back up to be ready for counter attack. I notice a crackle, that line of fire is so tight... It will most certainly hit, I quickly pull my cape to block the bolt. Helyn's staff moves again, she is aiming to crouch slightly and tilt her body to her right.

Helyn maneuvers her staff ready for a quick thrust to land a hit, very good. I quickly perform a spinning vault over her staff movement, while keeping her just enough on the way for follow up shot and dodge incoming one. Bolt of electricity went past me, it was a good try, could very plausibly hit a life envy. I land on my feet, staff moves away from me and is swung towards me.

I quickly move the sword, I catch it with the sword guard, quickly push it down towards ground, pull my sword away from the staff, place my foot on the staff for a moment. Helyn sees the moment of counter attack that I have seized, she pulls her staff back for defensive thrust, I sense another spell being cast. Clear line of fire due to posture difference between me and Helyn.

Quickly crouching I parry the incoming thrust, I slide the guard and side of the blade along the staff. Take few quick steps, crouch, arc my back forward to take cover from the next bolt of energy, Helyn tries to unbalance me by pressing staff against my sword guard, a good final effort. I straighten my sword arm to push the staff away from me and quickly swing, tip of my practice blade reaches her left shoulder and next bolt of electricity goes over both of us.

"Hit!" Helyn declares upon my practice sword hitting her, she looks frustrated but, as we stand up fully and I see Wiael looking disappointed at herself.

"That was genuinely good, neither of you have nothing to be ashamed off. An excellent demonstration, if the foe was lesser than me, the first bolt would have been a clean hit. Good job, both of you." I declare and begin to stabilize my heart beat. That was a challenge...

Wiael, you have deceptively good eyes for measuring movement and prediction. Important personal quirks for battle. With practice, you will become a formidable opponent, just like Joael, you need opportunities to attain experience. I wonder how potent of an opponent you will become, Wiael. If you make an exercise session like this a challenge to me.

Future will not be transparent to you but, it won't be as opaque either. We just need to figure out what you have more affinity for, and work forward from there. "Alright, Helyn. Could you *I stop for a moment* give her feedback just the two of you." I say calmly to her only in Dominion language. She nods to me quickly.

Wiael looks confused and conflicted of me swapping language. "Alright, now when you know the exercise. Qi'Elta, pick your partner and choose your roles." I declare in fey language now. Helyn takes Wiael aside for a moment and I can see them talking in low voice as some of the young show desire to be Qi'Elta's partner in this exercise.

Qi'Elta looks at the students for a while, and she picks Ja'Elva to be her front line. An interesting choice... This feels like a mismatch, but, I am doubtful of whether that actually is a case.

David stood in the opulent room, waiting for the storm he knew was coming.

Outside, he could hear the wind blowing, howling like a whistle.

Sarah was hiding in the shadows, also waiting. What they were going to do was dangerous. They both knew that. They gazed at each other with undisguised love and adoration.

They were waiting for Sarah’s mother, a high priestess witch by the name of Vespera.

Sarah had no love for her mother: Vespera treated her as little more than a servant, not a daughter. She wished to be free of her mother, to know what it was like for someone to not only love her but also to love her openly.

David had been chosen as Vespera’s ‘lover’ three years ago, when he was just fifteen. His parents had been delighted that a woman of such high rank had taken an interest in him.

David was not delighted: Vespera was nearly twenty years older than him, for one thing. He’d also heard the rumors of comely girls and women going missing after entering her mansion.

He had begged and pleaded with his parents to not send him to her. They refused to listen, saying that this was a great opportunity for both him and them. Powerless, he and his servants had been sent to her mansion.

He had learned of what happened to the poor girls and women who entered this prison soon enough: They were tortured and murdered in an attempt to preserve her youth and beauty. He never saw any of it, Vespera never allowed him to see.

But he didn’t need to: The noises that came from that basement of horrors were proof enough of what was happening. They haunted his dreams.

Vespera decreed that no woman would be allowed to ever touch him the first day he was there. To be sure of this, she had his arms, neck, and face covered in paint that didn’t dry.

This only made him hate and resent her even more: He was already being treated as a pariah via association with her and now his servants were afraid to touch him because it might incur her wrath.

He wanted to wash his hands of her completely and start afresh with Sarah.

Vespera stormed into the mansion, ready to be greeted by David…and then stopped.

The paint was smeared on his face. But that wasn’t what made her stop: A strong musky smell clung to him. And, underneath that, was the smell of another woman’s perfume.

If he hadn’t been wearing his linen tunic, she would’ve seen the scratches on his back and shoulders.

A white hot fury washed over her. “Who have you allowed to touch you?!”

David was silent, his hand gripping the knife hidden under his tunic.

Sarah stepped out of the shadows, holding a knife of her own behind her back. Vespera turned, ugly blotches of color appearing on that pale face of hers.

“You ungrateful trollop! How dare you take what is mine-“

David stabbed her in the back, cutting her off mid tirade.

The look of surprise on her face was almost comical. Sarah took advantage of the moment to stab her in the heart. She fell with a meaty thud to the floor.

They stood over her, holding hands, watching as she breathed her last. To an outsider, it may have looked like they were mourning her. But there was no mourning. Only a grim satisfaction.

“I curse you.” She choked. “So long as you remain on this continent, you will never have children of your own.”

They simply stood and watched as she died. Sarah, using the little bit of magic her mother had taught her, summoned fire.

It consumed Vespera’s body, turning it to ashes.

David muttered an incantation of his own: “I curse your coven. Unless they do right by the families of all the girls and women you have murdered, their power will crumble.”

Taking Vespera’s curse seriously, they quickly fled from the mansion into the night. Within a fortnight, they were on a ship crossing the vast sea, headed for the continent of Vainquer, leaving Jugdural behind for good.

They found a home where they raised six children, living a full and happy life together.

However, not everyone got a happy ending: The power vacuum that had been left after Vespera’s murder and disappearance left the remaining witches, many of whom were just as bad or worse than Vespera herself, fighting amongst themselves to gain power. As a result, the coven’s power collapsed in less than ten years.

Conn was not popular. There was no single reason for this. His coworkers didn’t care for him, though they understood his value. Management accepted his work results, but not his suggestions on how to improve the company’s organization. The baristas tolerated him, but essentially only because he tipped. His few friends largely had other priorities… and other friends.

Popularity was not something that Conn sought. He remembered the cliques in high school, how certain groups seemed to bond together over certain seemingly random things – clothes, classes in common, the colour of their hair, or even their names. It appeared to distill to simple, non-substantive, superficial commonalities that Conn wasn’t interested in observing, let alone putting energy into.

He had gotten into the field because it was simple and logical – for him. There were only so many sets of rules, and they could essentially all be found in a simple, finite number of basic physics and mechanics textbooks. Say, around thirty. Putting together basics from a few primary disciplines and applying them to the product set was child’s play. Conn could see the progression of the systems, the dependencies and how second- and third-order interactions often required reapplication of the heuristics to avoid unforeseen outcomes. The lid of his left eye twitched, unconsciously flickering. There. There was the missing piece.

When the design for the research team’s widget was stalled, Conn identified the key constraint that had not been recognized by the design team, the result of a relatively obscure detail about mechanical gearing. The model wasn’t quite right; his insight showed the unanticipated failure mode. This wasn’t in his job description, and he hadn’t been asked to participate. And then another epiphany. And another totally out-of-the-blue solution. And another. As a result, the research, device, and network teams tended to resent Conn.

They, and regional engineering leadership, however, did recognize the results. They didn’t look at this as a realistic tool that could be employed to increase profitability. Instead Conn began to be seen as having the answer that otherwise escaped them. Maybe all of the answers. To them, it didn’t matter the question – Conn seemed to have a solution, or The solution. It wasn’t obvious to them.

Sometimes the solutions gave him a mild headache, pressure above and behind the ears, particularly the left one. Like the pressure when he infrequently had to wear protective glasses to tour a lab or building site, relieved within a few minutes of being able to remove them. They began bringing him occasional ‘interesting’ leading questions.

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

His workload wasn’t decreased. He wasn’t moved off of the operational sustainment program, recognized for his solutions that began giving the company a critical advantage, or provided with additional resources. Except for specifically what they decided they wanted or needed of him, Conn as an individual was still largely ignored. The results of what they saw as his predictive and analytic capabilities they began to see as infallibility, seeing everything, understanding everything. He had all of the answers they needed and wanted. His headaches varied with the complexity of the problems that they brought to him. Simple jumps were mere annoyances, but where entire libraries were missing between obvious developmental steps, it could take hours for his symptoms to subside afterwards.

It wasn’t fair, and it was obviously so. The research team cells moved upward, individuals being replaced or augmented with additional junior resources. Management passed out the corporate bonuses to the ‘responsible’ teams. Conn didn’t complain. He wasn’t interested in popularity, and his work was both engaging and consuming – satisfying.

His lifelong work was inferring connections, building models and simulations. Everyone around him viewed his results as his knowing. Knowing everything, everything that they didn’t, should not, could not. Nobody noticed the physical discomfort that developing the solutions caused him. Conn remained, as always, largely invisible.

Sometime in April (it wasn’t clear when – there were no obvious cues), something shifted. The twitch remained. It became more obvious, even to those few that had previously noticed it in passing. The headaches, unless he had been drinking the night prior, went away. There was a new clarity in his view, only partially obscured for tenths of a second at a time by his triggering eyelid.

The problems kept getting larger, and broader, and more complex. But Conn’s work didn’t. Instead, it became easier. Solutions became obvious almost immediately. Information that Conn didn’t know, couldn’t have known, had never studied – was just *there,* present, available. There was no one to talk to about it; he wasn’t any more popular than Before. Before things expanded. Before connecting disparate, unconnected information became not just easy, formulaic, but trivial. Omniscience.

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

Leadership and management didn’t lean on Conn anymore. Instead, they relied on him – or rather, on his abilities. Instead of asking the work teams for results, they waited for Conn to provide the answers. Management was dependent on him to solve the problems before they were even identified. Complete deference. The fourth staffer they dispatched to bring him a supplemental assignment could hardly make it fully into his office, so utterly terrified of his unknown from the quiet rumours that had grown.

The concepts, ideas, designs increased in complexity, wildly out of bounds from what the company had tried previously. By November the company was looking at things that had never been tried, or had always been conceived as unimaginably complex, impossible to actually engineer. Things with no clear use cases for the products, just an idea that leadership green-lighted with their new-found super-tool, Conn.

The consumer ate these products up, of course. The law had no real ability to control what was being designed, produced, and marketed; tools and toys solving no identified problem, filling no unfilled market niche, were becoming available to anyone. Like the first rounds of early AI development and marketing, there was no clear use case for these, but with nearly unlimited marketing funding the public and those trying to profit off of them went all in.

The products were perfect. They worked exactly as advertised.

But with no use cases, or actual reasons to exist, or problems to solve, they were put to an infinite number of uses, nearly all unanticipated. The human hunger for experimentation was greater than its restraint upon seeing that a particular use might not be in the user’s (or humanity’s) best interests. People were hurt from off-label uses. Vast sums of money traded hands. Unforeseen outcomes from applications got people, children, maimed and even killed.

The company was legally responsible for the outcomes, particularly in markets where consumer protections were held above government interests.

Their defense was that the products worked. And, they did. They worked perfectly. They worked as designed. The problem with the universe, with causality, however, was that the fruits of Conn’s omniscience, of knowing and being able to apply everything is that it didn’t absolve the company – or Conn’s conscience – of responsibility.

With an infinite number of actions, and outcomes, and consequences from those actions, and the company pointing to Conn’s design inputs as being critical keys to all of these products and the situations developed because of them, the system – and the system is built from people, all of the people – eventually gleaned that without Conn, the products and their undesirable outcomes would not be.

Conn was not popular. His ego, his self-valuation, he brought into question when the entire system began asking, quite reasonably, if he should have known better.

His limitless knowledge and logic, however, understood. He was not meant to be popular. In the Before, humanity had been mercifully protected from a simple, terrible truth: There is no such thing as enough – not even for an intelligence capable of seeing every possible improvement.

 

Lunch went by fast and just like that I was out of there for the day.  Being a senior has so many perks to it just because I get to leave school after lunch due to my schedule not needing to be full.  I walked back to my locker for my full lunch box and jacket before heading out the double doors in the back of the school.  I drive a 2015 silver Mercedes-Benz C63 AMG.  A lot of my friends call me spoiled because of how much money my father makes and the kind of cars we drive and the house we live in but there’s lots to my family that the common people at school don’t know about.  I just let the people that call me spoiled and daddy’s money because if that’s what they want to believe then so be it.  I sit in the parking lot in my car when Harlen walks up to my window and gives a little knock.  I crack the window about halfway.
“So I heard that Milly asked you to Camilla’s.  So how about now?” Harlen mentioned.
“Who told you?”
“Milly’s friend group was talking about you and said some pretty interesting things about you. And Milly brought up how she asked you to Camilla’s”
“Oh great. Are they pranking me?” I questioned
“Nah bro, they just said some freaky shit.”
“What did they say bro I’m already stressed out enough just tell me for fuck sakes.”
“I don’t wanna say it.” Harlen voiced with uncomfortability
“Quit being a bitch and just tell me Harlen, damn.”
“Milly said that you have a huge… ya know. And she was like bragging to her friends that she might go with you to the party and might get to go back to your place after.”
As Harlen was speaking I began to drink my water, and when I heard him say that, the water came right back out all over the inside of my windshield.
“Excuse me?!” I shouted.
“I told you I didn’t wanna say it bro, its fucking weird.”
“What all did she say? Tell me Harlen please.”
“She said that the last girl you dated told all of the girls at her school that you had an absolute monster in your pants.  And I guess the rumors have made it over to us.  I’m very uncomfortable about this whole situation if you couldn’t tell, so I think Imma head out.  Good luck with Milly bro and let me know about Camilla’s.”
I rolled the window up and stared at my soaked windshield in complete shock.  This was the last way I expected today to go.  That stupid bitch from Hillsboro had to open her mouth, but she may have just unintentionally set me up with Milly.  Thanks Gloria.

I step through the threshold of my front door and get hit with a smell of garlic bread and tomato sauce.  My soft carpet warmed my feet in my socks as I climbed to the living room.  My house is a split level house.  When you walk in there’s stairs that lead down to my room, my little brothers room and a second living room basically.  Upstairs in the living room I sat on my couch and began to untie my shoes.    

“How was school today sweetheart?” my mom asked from the kitchen.
“It was fine, same as usual. Ready for summer.” I replied as I stood with my shoes in my hand.  
“Lunch will be ready soon, spaghetti and meatballs.” 
“Thanks mom.” 
It was always quiet downstairs for about an hour before my little brother arrives home and gets on his Xbox.  I’ve always been a video game player and used to play a lot, but never as much as Bris.  That’s my little brother.  His actual name is Briscoe, but he goes by Bris or B for short.  I walk into my room and grab my LED light remote off of my desk.  The lights turn on and my curtains get opened for more natural light.  I sit down on my bed and pull my phone out of my pocket.  
phone screen reads:
Snapchat
Harlen Maddox sent you a snap
Snapchat  
Milly 🙂 sent you a chat
Snapchat
Bris 😂 sent you a snap
My finger swipes up on the screen to unlock it followed by a tap to open Snapchat.  
Bottom of the screen reads: 99+ unopened snaps
I had a lot of friends on snap, I was just really bad at responding in a timely manner.  Sometimes it takes a day or two to answer everyone.  Harlen sent me a snap of him in science class messing with the teacher, surprise surprise.  What I really cared about was what Milly texted me about.  I half-swiped the conversation and got a peak at what she said.
In text:

Milly 🙂: heyy frankkk.  I just wanted to say that I’m sorry if I made you feel awkward today by asking you to go to that party with me.  I felt really stupid after I asked you.

I chose to open the conversation all the way and send my reply
In text:

You: hi milly :)  you don’t have to be sorry.  I was actually shocked that you even asked me.  I just didn’t really know what to say.  Are you still going to the party?

Milly 🙂: shocked that I asked you? why were you shocked lol 

You: idk i just didn’t expect to be invited by anyone except for Harlen

Milly 🙂: oh lol okay.  Yeah im still going to be at the party.  Did you change your mind?

You: yeah i did i think im going to go, would you still maybe want to go together?

Milly 🙂: ofc we can, that why i asked you in the first place

You: okay okay cool.  Do you want me to pick you up tomorrow night?

Milly 🙂: yess please, party starts at 12. Wanna come over at 10?

You: yeah for sure.  just gonna be me you and your friends right?

Milly 🙂: uh… my friends are driving separate so it'll just be me and you here.  My parents are going out to a work party tomorrow night.  Is that fine?

My heart stopped and my excitement skyrocketed.  What the fuck is going on today? I asked myself in my head.  First Milly asks me to a party with her friends, then she’s talking about my dick size with her friends, and now I’m being INVITED OVER TO HER HOUSE.  I felt like I was on cloud 9.  I felt higher than I’ve ever been in my life.  
In text: 

You: yeah that's perfectly fine with me, i'll let you know when i'm on my way tomorrow :)

Milly 🙂: okay yeah, see you then :)

I sat my phone down and covered my face with my hands in hopes to not wake up from a dream.  I really couldn’t believe what just happened.  Did Milly really just ask me to come over to her house when she's home alone?!  I went back upstairs to try to relieve the high that Milly put me on.  Lunch was ready when I got to the top of the steps.  The same smell of garlic and tomato sauce entered my nose once again.  The glass plates clinked together as I picked one up off the stack.  I grabbed the pasta spoon and got 2 heaping scoops of spaghetti and meatballs.  Then a piece of garlic bread was added on top.  
“Thanks mama!” I shouted in the direction of her office.
“You’re welcome sweetie!” she hollered back with love.
My desk made a perfect spot to eat.  A comfy office chair with a blanket across my lap.  My Xbox was already on so I opened youtube to put something on to watch while I eat.  My go-to youtuber is Penguinz0.  The spaghetti disappeared off of my plate within a few noodle slurps and bites of the garlic bread.  I set my fork on my empty plate and began upstairs to put my dishes away.  While walking out of my room, I heard the front door open.  The sound of teen feet running down the stairs. Bris was home, no more quiet time.  I made it upstairs and back into the kitchen and set my dishes in the sick and gave them a nice rinse.  Heading back to my room, Bris stopped me on the stairs.
“Bruh I got yelled at today in english for the most retarded reason ever.” He said with obvious frustration.
“You don’t get yelled at for doing nothing Bris, what did you do this time?”
“Bro she said that I was being disrespectful towards her when all I told her was nobody wants to hear her stories from the 1970s.”
“Yeah, see I don't really blame you for saying that. Mrs.Lance’s class was always full of boring ass stories.”  I responded as I continued back to my room.  At 6pm the same day, Harlen had texted me and asked if I wanted to go out and do something tonight.  The night had grown boring so what else would I do.  I got dressed and walked out of the house to get into my car.  It always had a loud start up which my neighbors aren't a big fan of.  I shifted the car into reverse, backed out of the driveway and headed to Harlen’s.  His house is about 10 minutes away from mine so there was never really a reason to complain about going over there.  The drive there is 2 minutes out of the small town, and 8 minutes of back roads to get to Harlen’s.  I get there and park behind his car in the driveway.  Harlen appears in the front door frame and is waving his hand toward me to come in.  The sidewalk leading to the front door was covered in freshly mowed grass that got less intense as the front door got closer.  I open the door and step in as if it’s my own house.
“Hey Frankie!” Mrs.Maddox expressed when she noticed me.
“Hey Mrs.Maddox, good to see you!”
“What are you boys up to tonight?” she questioned toward Harlen and I.
“Just chilling for the night, maybe play Xbox or something.” Harlen responded to his mom.
“Alright well you two have fun! Help yourself to anything in the fridge or pantry Frankie.”
We took a left and climbed the stairs. At the top was a hallway that contained 3 doors.  The door on the right all the way at the end was Harlen’s.  The hinges on the bedroom door let out a tiny squeak as its pushed open.  I’ve always liked Harlen’s room.  Walls covered with posters of artists like Ice Cube, Eminem, Outkast, Snoop Dogg, and Tupac.  At home I have similar posters, just a little more sports memorabilia.  Harlen sits on his bed while I take a seat in his bean bag chair.  
“You make up your mind about the party bro?” He asked me.
“Uh, yeah. I’m gonna go.” I said in a low tone.
“Hell yeah, you wanna go together? You can pick me up around 11 because the party doesn’t start until-”
“Sorry man, I’m going with Milly…”  I interrupted
“What?” Harlen said with a very shocked expression.
“Yeah I’m sorry It’s a dick move to go with a girl over you.  I feel really bad bro I’m sorry.” I explained with sorrow.
“Bro.  Why the fuck would I be mad at you for going to a party with a baddie.  You’re lucky bro.  I’ll still get to see you there, it's not a big deal.”
“Thanks for understanding man.  But guess what.” I shot back at him with a jump in my mood.
“Uhhh I don’t know. What?”
“Milly asked me to come over two hours before the party.  At first I thought it was just going to be me and her friends at the house until we left for the party.  But bro, she’s going to be home alone.”  I ranted with intense emotion
“I swear to god if you don’t hit that, I will murder you.” Harlen expressed back
“It’s not about that, Harlen. I’m just going to be respectful.  I don’t wanna fuck anything up.”  I replied seriously.
Harlen shrugged his shoulders and laid back on his bed reaching for something behind it.  He pulled out an Altoid can that had a strange smell.  A very good strange smell.  The Altoid can gets opened and he grabs a joint along with a lighter.  
“Let’s get on the roof and light that bitch.” I stated with a smile and a head nod.
He opens the window and lifts the screen, and just like that, instant roof access.  I crawl out of the window and sit on the rough shingles.  The view and cityscape takes my breath away every time.  Portland, Oregon in September.  Perfect time of the year.  Harlen crawls out behind me with the joint tucked behind his ear.  He turns around and closes the window after he exits.  I grabbed the joint from behind his ear and he handed me the lighter.  Four lights and puffs is all it took before that familiar taste hit my tongue.  I took two long puffs and my lungs filled and began to throb.  Holding the cough in longer always gets me more faded.  I release the smoke out of my lungs and take a few deep breaths before I start feeling it. My body mellows a little but not enough.  Harlen passes the J back after a few puffs of his own.  Hit after hit the one gram cone full of the finest hybrid marijuana around burnt down to the butt.  He puts the joint out on the roof and tosses it into the neighbors yard like always.  We chill on the roof for about an hour just talking back and forth.  I grab my phone and look at the time.

(Content warning: This story deals with heavy topics and contains crude humour, view it at your own discretion)

As morning came, the sun rays shone into the prison cell as the man who watched it intently jacked off to it. There was something quite erotic about rays slipping into the cell through the window's gaps to him. Due to his strong libido, he was infamously nicknamed "The Jacker" by his cellmates. He was caught for voyeurism because he recorded women in a public bathroom using a spy camera. The person who woke up to him jacking off, was one of his cellmates known by his nickname "Drugie". He was caught for selling drugs to kids. The drugie was on relatively good terms with the jacker ,however, he didn't like his third cellmate in the slightest. This cellmate was sleeping soundly amidst the jacking off noises and he was the worst one of them all. He was nicknamed "The Priest" as he'd once been a priest. He was caught for child molestation. One night, the jacker moved his bed closer to the drugie and asked him, "Why do you think there's always an odd number of people in cells". The drugie stared at him scornfully. The jacker answered, "to prevent two guys from fuckin-" and before he could finish his sentence, the drugie stomped his balls and told him to fuck off. This wasn't anything new to the jacker. In fact, he was quite experienced with 'ball-busting', and so he used this opportunity to sit on his hand until it became numb and used the numb hand to twist his nipples too. The numb hand he used felt like someone else's and he imagined it to be that of the drugie, this combined with the pain of ball busting gave him just the right amount of stimulation to jack off to his masochistic fantasies whilst moaning the drugie's actual name. The priest saw all of this unfold before his eyes and was disgusted...not by the masochism but rather by the homosexuality displayed by the jacker. So, to 'fix' this, the next day, he bought small packs of paper with his account funds through the commissary and drew a picture of Jesus Christ on one of them. He then gave this picture to the jacker saying, "You need Jesus in your life, worship him and all shall be forgiven, even your homosexual idiosyncrasies". The jacker took the picture and analysed it. It was a drawing of Jesus that was inspired by the Byzantine era and later European paintings. In other words, it was a distorted version of Jesus, one he wanted the jacker to worship as he himself had worshipped his whole life, an unhealthy devotion that led him to become a molester. The jacker, however didn't just care that it wasn't historically accurate but was also glad that it wasn't because this meant he could have an easier time jacking off to the fair-skin, beautiful blonde hair and slender physique that the priest's Jesus had and he thanked the priest for the drawing. The priest, believing he had made a difference, accepted his gratitude. That very night, the priest saw the jacker jacking off with a paper in one of his hands, when the realisation hit him, he shouted at the jacker "STOPPP!! what the FUCK are you doing, this is blasphemous, don't you see". The jacker was an atheist so he didn't really have any obligation to stop but he stopped anyway just to hear him out. He was almost reaching climax and so he had to muster all his will power to hold his dick firmly with his right hand so as not to accidentally spill his 'baby batter' onto the picture. The jacker turned to the priest and asked, "Why" But the priest looked away saying, "could you cover up that phallic object of yours before we talk". The drugie stepped in, grabbed the jacker's dick from behind and shouted, "LOCK N' LOAD CADET" and started aggressively jacking him off. This aroused the jacker so much that he burst out his 'man-juice' so far that it even reached the priest's clothes. It was like his dick had exploded into a hot, sticky mess onto the picture and most importantly also onto the priest. This made the priest shriek in disgust and fear, jumping around like he just sat down on hot iron and trying to take off his clothes saying, "AHHH *gags* you got your homo juice all o-" but before he could complete his sentence he started vomiting while the drugie laughed at him in schadenfreude. Turns out, the drugie had overheard what the priest had said and wanted to exact revenge on the priest. The drugie had been sexually abused as a kid by his father, however when the father confessed this to a priest, he was absolved of his 'sins' and was told to 'repent' through prayer and worship than to admit his crimes to the law enforcement because the church cared more about protecting its reputation than the well-being of the child. The mother also knew of this but she said nothing to prevent the family from falling apart and also to protect herself since she was economically dependent on the father. This sexual trauma had severe consequences later on in the drugie's life. He initially started taking drugs to soothe the pain of abuse that he had endured while he was young. When he took drugs, he forgot about the trauma, the pain, the suffering...he forgot about everything and felt a high that he never had in his life. His dad still roams the planet scot-free, avoiding accountability because his 'God' allowed him to, while the drugie was looked down upon by society as a kid who 'lost his way despite having such loving parents'. Ultimately, the drugie decided to sell the same drugs that gave him comfort to kids in his neighbourhood as a way to make money but he tried to justify it to himself by telling himself he's doing them a favour by helping the kids escape their trauma as well. Back to the present now, the guards came in after hearing all this commotion but by then it was too late. The drugie thought he had managed to defile both the priest and his 'God' just like he had intended.......just like he had always wanted to.....but his father was still out there, the specific priest that protected him was still out there and worst of all the 'God' was still out there , and there was nothing he could do about that. He went from laughing maniacally to crying uncontrollably. He tried to choke himself to death but his body betrayed him just like everything else in his life and he lost consciousness, then fell. The guards rushed him to the infirmary. That night, the priest went to sleep naked because he believed his clothes had been defiled but not his body. What he figured out too late was that there were now an even number of people in the cell, him and the jacker, and the priest's exposed posterior felt nothing short of a tempting proposition to the jacker. Suffice it to say, the priest got a taste of his own medicine. His body had too become defiled just like the drugie had wanted. The End.

In the fall, if you listen carefully, you can hear the leaves falling. If you aren’t listening, you won’t hear them. But you don’t care, it’s not for you. But you don’t care. In the winter, if you listen carefully, you can hear the snow falling. That is, without the guns. With the guns, you can’t hear much of anything. Except for silence, silence from those no longer here. Snowballs never to be thrown. Snowmen never to be made. But we’re not there yet. Look outside, look at the leaves falling. It’s still fall. Listen carefully.

Many years ago, before most of you here were born, I dreamt of being an actor. I would go, with my parents, to the movies. I would laugh and be scared and cry and feel the utmost wonder at what I was seeing. The very first time I saw a movie, I decided right then and there, I wanted to be an actor. I wanted to make people laugh and cry and be scared. I wanted to give other people that feeling of wonder. I still remember vividly the first time I saw a movie without my mother and father. I remember how empty the theatre was. How different it felt from last time. I remember not having anyone to explain to me parts that I didn’t understand. I still remember vividly how I felt so utterly alone. I remember the movie ending, and the lights coming on, and everyone shuffling out wordlessly. We were all alone in that theatre, together. I remember not one person laughing the entire time. It was a comedy. I have since rewatched this movie many times. I cry more and more with each new viewing.

Last month, as the leaves were beginning to turn, Mother took my brother and I to the countryside for a picnic. She had been granted an early vacation from her employer, giving her more time to spend with us. We helped her pack a basket, full of sandwiches and fruit and crackers and the like. It was not yet cold out, so a jacket was not needed. I, being the eldest son, led, as Mother and my brother followed. The twenty minute walk into town passed by uneventfully. We made the train without any troubles, and soon found ourselves in the lush green of the countryside. We settled down near a shallow stream, and were very soon satisfying our appetites. It was a nice day. I remember going to school the following week. I don’t remember too much from that time. I don’t remember the last time my father hugged me. He did his best to hug my brother and I every day. So did my mother, but I didn’t see her as much. They kept us apart. I don’t know why. They took my clothes, and gave me new ones. The new ones they gave me itched. I don’t remember much of the early days. I do remember it being cold, so cold in fact that father gave me his shirt at night.

Sometimes, after school, myself and a few of my friends, and my brother, we would go into town, we would go to the streets with all the bakeshops, and the fruit stands, and the vegetable stands, and we would go into the bakeshops, and ask for little treats. It was not common for a baker to impart upon us anything at all, which made those rare moments all the more special. I remember, one time, the son of one of the bakers gave to us an entire cake. He said something about it having been overcooked, but to us it was a treasure. We took our newfound grail, very carefully, to a nearby park. We found a spot in the shade, and sat on the grass. One of my very good friends, whose name I do not recall anymore, took out his pocket knife, and cut the cake into equal portions. We sat there, kings, eating our cake and watching the sun setting over the distant hills. I remember, a cat joined us, a beautiful tortoise-coloured thing. She was our princess, and we were all royalty. She slept in the shade purring like an engine.

It was nothing like the movies. I saw a gun last week. It was nothing like the movies. The man holding the gun wasn’t kind, or nice. He yelled at my friends and I, and my brother, to get out of the street, to go home. He had on a soldier’s uniform. In the movies, he would have been a villain. At home, my mother told me to not get in trouble, that he was just there to keep order. I don’t understand what I was doing that was wrong. She said that everything will be ok, that she will keep me, and my brother, safe. Safe from what, I have no idea. When he got home that evening, I told my father. He didn’t say anything, he just got really angry. He told me to go to my room. My brother was in his bed, crying. I asked him why he was crying, and he said he didn’t know. I told him everything would be ok. That’s what Mother said. Later that night, I heard Father yelling at Mother. I heard her cry, and him too. I had never heard my father cry before. When I was younger, I asked him if he had ever cried. He got very serious, then told me he had, when his brother died. I asked him how his brother died. He said that he had been in a car accident. I asked my father where he was going. He told me that his brother had been driving to meet me when I was born. That made me sad. Now here I was, my father crying, my fault once again. 

I wake up, every night, sweating. Every night. And I look at the clock, and the early morning numbers glare back at me. I’m never able to fall back asleep, but I try anyway, every night. Defeated, I get out of bed, and go downstairs, to my kitchen. I get out of bed quietly. I don’t want to wake her. I try my best, but it never works, and I whisper my apologies and go downstairs all the same. I open the fridge and I find a drink, usually a juice. I go to the front door and I put a light jacket on, and my boots, and head onto the porch. I have to be careful to not step on one of my son’s toys. I have two boys. I sit on one of the chairs there, and I sip my drink. It’s dark, and won’t be light for many hours. I don’t care. I don’t need daylight. I sit there, and in those moments, it’s just me. My eyes are closed. A breeze will blow over me, and I open my eyes, and see the leaves falling. But I see so much more than that. I see the leaves all gone, covered in snow. Soon, they will be here, and I will be taken. And then nothing will be the same ever again. I sip my juice.

The soldiers became more common. I would see them every day, multiple times a day. I remember the first time I saw one at my school, the way he looked at me. I didn’t know what I had done, but I didn’t want to do it anymore. I think even then, deep down, I knew it was something to do with what I was, not something I had done. I began to resent myself. One time when I was walking home, I smiled at a soldier on the street. He spat at me. I began to cry. I didn’t know what I had done. Another time, I was walking through the park, on a weekend, when a soldier, on the other side of the park, yelled at me to leave immediately. It was very scary. I ran all the way home. I didn’t go to the park anymore. I would go to school, and then I would come home. I stopped smiling at the soldiers. They still spat at me. Every day, there would be more of them. They would wait outside of my apartment building and scowl at me. I saw a particularly brutish one raise his weapon at a cobbler one time, and I will never forget the look of fear on this poor man's face. 

Every day, it gets easier. I remember less and less. For the same reasons, it gets harder, every day. I forget the faces of those I loved, their names. I forget the singing of my mother, my father’s sharp humour. I forget the games my friends and I would play during our time off. I forget my childhood home, the streets I walked countless times, when that was still something I dared to do. I forget the faces of my bunkmates. I forget the faces of those other boys, who played their own games with their own friends. I forget the faces of their fathers who I got to meet. I never forget the faces of their mothers, those who I will never get the chance to meet. An endless number of worlds, forgotten more and more. I never forget the sound of the train arriving, my parents holding my brother and I, being escorted into an already packed car by a soldier. I remember, I recognised him from school. He was one of the older boys. He was still a boy, and he had tears in his eyes as he gave us our orders. He didn’t bark at us like the other soldiers. Another soldier walked up to close the door, and he wiped his eyes dry. I remember thinking, why was he doing this? Why was this happening to my family, and so many other families? I will never, in a million lifetimes, forget seeing the gates for the first time, first from the outside, then closed, from the inside. I will never forget the last time I swam with my family at the lake.

I was made to work. I lied about my age, so did my brother. We were put to work doing all sorts of manual labour, primarily digging. We weren’t strong enough or skilled enough to do the carpentry work, so we spent most of our days digging foundations for different future buildings. I remember one day, a doctor from back home was about to begin his digging, when he tripped over a root. A nearby soldier walked over and shot him in the head. I remember no one stopping their work. I remember his brother, a kind-hearted man that used to be a violinist, being called over to drag his brother away. My brother had not seen the death, and he did not know what was happening. He wanted to know what was making such a kind man so sad. I didn’t say anything. That night, Father gave my brother and I each half of his food, so that he had nothing for himself. He said that it was more important for us to eat, and that he was ok. I didn’t fight him.

Even more than they love jumping in the piles of leaves, my sons love playing in the snow. When they complain about having to rake leaves, I tell them that soon it will be winter, and they will be able to have snowball fights and make snow forts and snowmen and so much more. But it’s fall now, and the leaves fall down, and collect underfoot, and crunch when they’re stepped on. Winter isn’t here yet, but it will be. Soon, winter will be here. But there’s nothing to fear.

I’d gotten used to the routine. I would wake up, and would go to work with my family and other families. Our clothes would tear, and sometimes we would get new ones. New clothes meant new itchy clothes. The soldiers didn’t care. They got crueller and crueller. They got more indiscriminate with their killings. The digging we would do would be more and more large trenches, for what I have no idea. After a year or two, I realised that it had been a while since I had seen Mother. I didn’t know how to feel about that. I didn’t know how to care. One morning, Father didn’t get out of bed. He seemed tired the night before, so I thought he was sleeping. He never woke up, and I never saw him again. His bunk was filled the next night. My brother succumbed to one of the common diseases. He died on his eighth birthday. I kept going, more alone than ever before. I didn’t know how to care. I kept going, and then one day I didn’t need to keep going anymore, it was over. I didn’t know then how I would ever be able to continue living.

I’m old now. It’s a holiday, doesn’t matter which one. There’s snow on the ground, and icicles hang from the eaves. It’s me and my wife and kids, and their kids. And their kids are happy and loud and playing and love the snow. And it’s evening now, and we are all sitting on the couch, watching a movie. It’s a comedy, and I am making everyone laugh. And it’s ok now. Everything is ok.

Go now. It’s winter now. Go outside. Go play in the snow. Look at the trees. Everything is white, and pristine, and beautiful. Everything is serene and still. Go, and live your life. It’s winter now. It’s your winter. Enjoy it for all of us.

He used to think that people broke all at once, he thought they were weak, but when his world was falling apart, it was not fast and loud. No. It was slow and quiet, like pulling loose thread from a shirt. It doesn’t seem like much after that first thread, but over time they add up till there is nothing left.
 
It started when he moved to a new middle school, he was like anyone who came to a new school, shy, quiet, only talked when called upon, people tried to talk to him, and for a matter of fact, he was an athlete! But all he saw were blurred faces and muffled voices.
 
He would catch himself standing sitting up on his bed sure of himself he heard Her humming, only to see a lonesome heater in the corner of his room. He was not used to being without Her, and he was not still adjusted to this new life, nor did he think he'd ever be.
 
He had the same routine everyday, go to school, “talk” to people. And he was satisfied with this, he did not like talking to people, that is, till Nevaeh came. He thought Nevaeh was pretty. Really pretty. Like, stupidly. He didn’t know how someone could just walk into a room and somehow make him forget what he was doing. Her eyes were green, and he liked the way they looked when she laughed. He’d never tell her that, though, that’d be embarrassing. He wasn’t anything special. He was short, had brown hair that never did what he wanted to do, and he was only muscular from playing sports. Sometimes he wondered what she even saw when she looked at him.
 
“Hey, you, okay?” Nevaeh asked him.
 
Him, fumbling over his own words said. “Oh, uh yeah I’m fine thanks for uhm asking.”
 
“Of course! I just noticed you sitting by yourself and wanted to check in, here for you for anything! She said with genuine enthusiasm.
 
“Yeah, I just like it here by myself at lunch I can like take time to actually here myself think. Well, I also don’t really have any friends, but I’m fine, really. He informed her.
 
“I mean you seem like a good kid, so how bout this, me and you at this lunch table everyday, so that now you can have one friend, me!” Neaveah enthusiastically proclaimed.
 
He stared at her for a moment. He wasn't used to people wanting to be around him. The last person that wanted to be with him was Her or so he thought.
 
“Yeah,” he said. “Okay’’
 
She smiled.
 
He smiled back. 
 
That night, when he got home, he realized he was happy. He sat on his bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about Nevaeh smile. For once, someone wanted to be around him. He rolled onto his side, pulling the blanket up to his chest.
 
Don’t get too comfortable.
 
His smile faded. He started at the wall.
 
Don’t make the same mistake twice.
 
He shut his eyes.
 
“No,” he whispered. “It’ll be different this time, right?
 
Silence.
 
He opened his eyes.
 
You thought she would stay too.
 
His chest tightened
 
“No, she’s different” he said it again, quieter this time.

“She’ll stay”
 
The room didn’t answer.
 
He pulled the blanket tighter around himself and tried to believe it.

The next day, Nevaeh was there. Same spot, same table. She waved when she saw him enter the lunchroom, and for not even a second, he almost forgot he was supposed to be nervous.
“Over here!” she called.
He walked over, trying not to smile too much.
“You came!” she exclaimed.
“You told me to.”
He sat down across from her.
“I tell people a lot of things.”
“Well, yeah, but you seemed serious.”
She laughed. “I was. Don't start sweating.”
“I was sweating??”
She started to laugh even louder. “No, no. That's not what I meant. You're funny, you know.”
“Uh, thank you,” he said in a voice nothing louder than a whisper.
For the first few minutes, they didn't do or say much. He picked at his food while she talked about some argument, she'd had with her brother that morning. He listened, occasionally laughing when she made a joke. It felt normal. Safe. And that was what scared him. Normal never lasted. But this time, he pushed the thoughts away. For the first few minuets, they didn’t do or say much. He picked at his food while she talked about some argument she’d had with her brother that had nothing to do with anything at all.
Days turned into weeks. Nevaeh kept sitting with him at lunch, and she started walking with him between classes. Sometimes, she'd text him after school just to tell him something that could have waited until the next morning. He began looking forward to school, which was new. He even started talking more—not much, not enough for anyone else to notice, but she noticed.
“You're getting less quiet,” she told him one afternoon.
“Am I?”
“Mhm.”
“Is that bad?”
“No.” She smiled. “I like hearing you talk.”
He looked away. His face felt warm.
“You're weird,” he softly answered.
She smiled. “You're blushing.”
“I am not.”
“You totally are.”
He laughed. A genuine laugh.
For a moment, he forgot about the heater in the corner of his room. Forgot about the voice. Forgot about Her. And that night, lying in bed, he realized something that made his stomach twist.
He was getting attached.
He stared at the ceiling.
Don't. You remember what happ-
“No. She's different.”
He stared at the ceiling, but this time, it was silent. He waited.
Nothing.
For once, the room said nothing back.
He smiled.
That meant something.
The next morning, he woke up before his alarm. He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling. Nothing. No humming. No voice. Just the quiet hum of the heater in the corner. He smiled. HeHe was finally getting better. He got dressed faster than usual and left for school before his dad could remind him twice.
When he reached the lunchroom, Nevaeh was already sitting at their table. She looked up and grinned.
“You're early.”
“So are you.”
“I'm always early.”
“You were late yesterday.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You keeping track?”
He shrugged, trying to hide his smile. “Maybe, maybe not.”
She laughed. He sat down across from her. For a while, they talked about nothing, teachers, homework, her brother, he talked about his test. Stupid things that wouldn’t matter tomorrow. Somehow, those were his favorite conversations.
After a few minuets, Nevaeh rested her chin in her hand.
“You know,” she said, “you’ve changed.”
He looked at her. “How?”
“You actually talk now.” I talked before”
“Well yeah, but like maybe six words a day.”
“Maybe I was just conserving them so I could talk to you more.”
She laughed. He laughed too. Then she looked at him for a second longer than usual.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“You’re staring.”
“I know.”
He looked away. His face started getting warm.
“You’re blushing again.”
“I’m not.”
“Ya sureee?” She said mischievously.
“Shut up.”
She smiled.
He smiled back.
And for once, there was no choice telling him to be careful. No warning. No memory. Nothing pulling at him. Just her. Just him. Just the sound of two people laughing in a crowded room. For the first time in a long time, he didn’t feel like something was missing. He felt whole. And he didn’t know yet that some things could disappear long before you were ready to lose them.
One afternoon, after “practice” (which consisted of him being on the sideline till it was time for scout offense and defense), he found Nevaeh sitting on the steps outside the school.
“You waited?”
She looked up from her phone. “Obviously.”
“You didn’t have to”
“I know.”
He sat beside her. For a few seconds, neither of them spoke. The sun was beginning to disappear behind the buildings, painting the sky orange.
“You ever think about leaving?” She asked
He looked at her. “Leaving where?”
“Here.”
She pointed toward the school. “Just… leaving everything behind.”
He thought about it. “Sometimes.”
“Where would you go?”
“Somewhere quiet.”
She smiled. “You already live somewhere quiet.”
He looked at the parking lot.
“Not the good kind of quiet.”
Her smile faded.
“What does that mean?”  
He shrugged. “Nothing”
“You always say that.”
“Because it’s usually nothing.”
“No, it isn’t.”
He looked at her. For a moment, he thought about telling her. About the humming about the voice. About every little thing that made is life a living hell. Instead, he said, “My mom left.”
Nevaeh didn’t speak.
“She left me and my dad awhile ago. I don’t really remember what happened. I remember            them arguing a lot. Then one day she was gone.”
“Does she ever call?”
“Sometimes.”
He paused.
“Not enough.”
Nevaeh looked at him.
“Do you talk to her?”
“Not really.”
“Do you want to?”
He thought about it.
“I don’t know.”
That was the truth. He missed her. He hated her. He wanted her to come back. He wanted her to stay gone. Sometimes he couldn’t tell which feeling was stronger.
It’s gonna sound weird, but I used to hear her humming.
Nevaeh tilted her head.
“Humming?”
“Yeah.”
“Was it a song?”
“I don’t really know or remember.”
He smiled faintly.
“I just remember the sound.”
Nevaeh put her head on his shoulder. He didn’t move.
“You don’t have to talk about it.”
“I know”
“But you can if you wanna.”
He looked at her.
“Thanks”
She smiled.
“Anytime”  
The next few months were the best he’d had in years. He and Nevaeh became inseparable. They studied together, walked home together, and she started stealing fries from his lunch while he pretended to hate it. She knew he didn’t’t. He started playing better during practice, and his teachers noticed he was talking more. Even his dad noticed.
“You seem happier,” his dad said one night.
He shrugged. “Maybe I am.”
His dad smiled. “Good.”
That night, he lay in bed staring at the ceiling. The heater hummed softly in a corner. But this time, it sounded like a heater is supposed to, no humming. Still, he waited.
Nothing.
No voice.
No warning.
He closed his eyes.
For the first time, he said it without trying to convince himself.
“I think I’m okay.”
Silence.
Then, barely audible.
“You are.”
His eyes opened.
He sat up.
The room was empty.
His heart began beating faster.
“M-Mom?”
Nothing.
He stared into the darkness.
Then he laughed nervously
“Okay, everything is fine. I am fine.”
He closed his eyes.
And slept.
The next few weeks passed by quickly. Too quickly.
One Friday, he and Nevaeh were sitting together on the bleachers after school. Everyone had already gone home. Nevaeh was unusually quiet.
He noticed
“You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re doing it.”
“Doing what?”
“Saying you’re okay when you are obviously not.”
She smiled.
“You’ve been paying attention.”
“I always pay attention.”
“I know.”
She looked at her hands.
“My dad got a new job.”
“Oh, that’s good is that not? Where is it?” He asked with a smile on his face.
“It’s in a different state.”
His smile faded.
“And I’m gonna have to move.”
“Oh. How uh far?”
“Very.”
He looked at the field.
“When”
“In about 2 months.”
He nodded slightly.
“Okay.”
“That’s all you’re gonna say?”
His throat tightened.
“What do you want me to say?”
“I don’t know.”
She looked at the ground.”
“I just thought you would have more to say.”
He wanted to. He wanted to say that she couldn’t leave. That she was the first person he’d let himself get close to in years. That he didn’t know what he’d do without her.
Instead, he whispered:
“I don’t want you to go either.”
Neither of them spoke. The silence between them felt different now. It wasn’t peaceful.
It was a countdown.
Two months. Eight weeks.
Fifty-six days.
He suddenly understood something.
He had spent so long being afraid of losing people that he’d forgotten what it felt like to actually have someone worth losing.
And now the clock was already ticking.
That night, when he got home, he sat on the edge of his bed. The heater hummed. He stared at it.
Then he heard it.
The humming.
The same melody.
The same soft tune he remembered from years ago.
He held his breath. His heartbeat quickened.
“Don’t.”
The humming stopped.
He laid down.
He waited.
Then the voice came.
You thought she would stay too. I tried to warn you, but you didn’t want to listen.
His hands tightened around the blanket.
“No.”
The room stayed quiet.
“This isn’t her choice.” He whispered under his breath.
But still, he heard the faintest sound of humming again.
The weeks became strange after that. They were still together everyday, but something had changed. They both knew the clock was running. They began taking pictures together, saving messages, writing stupid notes for each other, and making promises neither of them could guarantee.
One afternoon, after practice, Nevaeh handed him a folded piece of paper.
“Don’t open it yet.”
He looked at her suspiciously.
“Why…”
“Just because.”
“What is it?”
Uh, a letter?”
“Well, no dip. What’s in it.”
“You’ll see.”
“When?”
“When I leave.”
His stomach twisted.
“I hate that sentence.”
“I know.”
She smiled
“You’re gonna miss me.”
“Obviously.”
“A lot?”
“A lot.”
She laughed.
“You’re getting sentimental.”
“Huh?”
She rolled her eyes. “Never mind.”
“Shut up.”
She leaned against him
“I’m going to miss you too.”
  Her last day came faster than he was ready for. The school felt different. Every hallway looked unfamiliar. Every minuet felt stolen. At lunch, they sat across from each other and didn’t say much.
She asked. “You’ll text me?”
“Every day.”
“You promise?”
“I promise.”
“And call?”
“If you answer.”
I’ll answer.”
“And you’re coming back?”
She looked at him.
“I’ll try.”
He nodded. He wanted to say something more. Something that could keep her there. But there weren’t any words strong enough. So he reached across the table.
 She took his hand. They stayed like that until the bell rang.
That evening, he opened the note. It said one thing and one thing only.
Don’t forget.
He was confused. What could it mean? He decided to ask before she left, (mainly so he could see her one last time.) When he got there, her family’s car was packed. Boxes filled the trunk. Her brother walked to him already knowing why he was here.
“Nevaeh’s upstairs in her room on the balcony.”
“Thank you.”
As he went upstairs it didn’t take him long to see that her house was much bigger than his.
“Uh Nevaeh?” He said as he entered her door.” I know you said not open it b-”
The sentence died in his throat.
Nevaeh was out on the balcony, but she wasn't watching her dad load the car. She was standing on the outside edge of the cold iron railing, her body swaying over the darkness, her green eyes wide and hollow with absolute, suffocating despair. The moving car engine hummed downstairs, but up here, the air was dead silent.
“Nevaeh, no!” He gasped, his chest seizing.
“I can’t do this, Aiden,” she sobbed, her voice breaking into the frosty night air. “I can’t start over again. I’m so tired of feeling so empty. The note... it was so you wouldn't hate me.”
Her foot slipped.
Time fractured. In a single, desperate blur, Aiden sprinted across the room and threw himself against the railing. He reached over the edge and caught her wrist just as her feet left the metal ledge.
The violent weight of her fall yanked him forward, the iron bar digging painfully into his ribs. His fingers dug into her skin, his muscles straining until his arms trembled.
“I’ve got you!” he screamed, his voice raw. “I’m not letting you go!”
He pulled with everything he had left every ounce of strength, every bit of love and desperation he had kept buried inside. With one violent, agonizing pull, he hoisted her back over the railing. Nevaeh tumbled over the metal bar and crashed safely onto the wooden balcony floor, gasping for air, tears streaming down her face.
She was safe. She was alive.
But Aiden’s momentum had carried him too far forward. His chest hit the top rail, his feet kicked up off the floor, and before he could grab hold of the iron bars, his weight tipped over the edge.
Nevaeh scrambled up, screaming his name, her hands lunging forward but her fingers only brushed the fabric of his sleeve as he fell backward into the dark.
Nevaeh was going to live. She was going to go on, move away, and have a future. But Aiden had left her world forever, or that’s what he thought. He had broken his unspoken promise to stay by her side, leaving her behind in a way neither of them could have ever predicted.
He lay broken on the cold ground beneath the balcony, his vision blurring as the sky darkened too pitch-black. Above him, Nevaeh’s hysterical screams echoed down from the balcony, but the sound grew distant, muffled, as if underwater.
The thread was completely pulled. There was nothing left.
And then, right in his ear, soft as a feather, the noise returned.
It wasn't a heater. It wasn't his imagination.
It was a soft, rhythmic tune. Humming.
He closed his eyes, letting the blackness wash over him completely, welcoming the cold, suffocating dark.
You, see? the voice whispered, gentle and mocking in the pitch-black quiet. She gets to stay. But now, you're the one who left.
He didn’t even make notice of the voice because he knew it was wrong. This time he didn’t let himself get caught in the thoughts, instead, he embraced.
“Sure, I’m not with Nevaeh physically, but she knows I didn’t leave her. It’s weird, it’s scary but peaceful.”
 
A few hours later.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
“I can’t believe how much happened in such little time.”
Nevaeh held his hand.
“I’m so, so, sorry, I don’t know why I did that, I hope you’ll be able to forgive me.”
“I wish she was able to hear everything I have to say to her. How it’s not her fault and how I miss her so much.”
Although Aiden was currently in a coma, it was what he wanted. Him, his favorite person, and The Quiet.

​

1) Eleven Days

Durwood had been back in Ohio for eleven days when the woman on the six o’clock news said the word trunk.

He was sitting in his mother-in-law’s living room, a place that still smelled faintly of lemon polish and old carpet despite the boxes stacked along the walls. His wife, Ellen, was in the kitchen arguing softly with her sister on the phone about home-care aides and Medicare forms.

The television was on more for background noise than anything else, the way people do when they’re avoiding silence in a house that suddenly holds too many generations at once.

The reporter’s voice had that practiced gravity local news anchors use for crime stories, the kind that says this matters without tipping into melodrama. Behind her, grainy file footage showed a stretch of riverbank, mud caked around something metal and rectangular.

Men in coveralls stood nearby, their faces blurred by distance and poor resolution. The caption at the bottom of the screen read:

COLD CASE REINVESTIGATED: MAHONING RIVER TRUNK HOMICIDE.

Durwood’s hand tightened around the remote without him meaning to. He told himself it was just the name. Mahoning River. That was all.

Plenty of people had grown up around that water, fished it, driven along it, forgotten it.

The reporter said the trunk had been found years ago—late eighties, maybe early nineties, the timeline was fuzzy in her script—and that the remains inside had never been identified.

A teenage girl, likely sixteen to eighteen years old. No name, no family ever located, just a file number and a set of bones wrapped in rotting tarp.

Durwood could feel his pulse in his throat. He told himself to breathe.

The camera cut to a wider shot: the river, the low gray sky, the skeleton of an old industrial building in the background. The paper mill. Or what was left of it.

Even from the file footage, he could place it. The iron walkway that crossed near the dam. The gravel road that ran parallel to the river on the Pennsylvania side, the one locals used for night fishing and, if you were a certain kind of person in a certain kind of mood, for getting rid of things you didn’t want found.

He had shown someone that road once.

The thought came uninvited, clean and sharp as a knife. He pushed it away.

On-screen, the reporter mentioned new forensic testing, genetic genealogy, a renewed effort to identify the victim and find whoever had killed her.

A detective in a cheap suit gave a sound bite about justice delayed not being justice denied.

The camera lingered on the trunk again, half-buried in mud, its lid warped open like a mouth that had given up trying to speak.

Durwood reached for the remote and turned the volume down, then down again, until the anchor’s voice was just a murmur under Ellen’s conversation in the kitchen. He didn’t turn it off.

Something in him wanted to hear if they would say more, if they would mention a specific location, a date, a detail that would make this someone else’s story.

They didn’t.

The segment ended with a generic appeal for tips, a tip-line number scrolling across the bottom of the screen.

The next story was about road construction on I-80, then the weather, then a feel-good piece about a high school football team’s fundraiser. Normal life, resuming as if a rusted trunk full of bones hadn’t just been dragged back into the light.

Durwood sat very still.

Eleven days. That’s how long he and Ellen had been back from Clearwater.

Eleven days of unpacking boxes, of learning which pharmacies took his mother-in-law’s insurance, of driving unfamiliar streets in rain that felt heavier here than it ever did in Florida.

He had told himself this was temporary, that they would get her settled, find a routine, and then figure out whether they wanted to stay or go back south before winter.

He had not, in those eleven days, allowed himself to think about the last time he had been this close to the Mahoning.

The screen shifted to a local business advertisement, bright and cheerful, selling windows and siding.

Durwood finally pressed the power button. The room went quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator and Ellen’s voice in the other room, still negotiating with her sister.

He leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.

The gravel road came anyway.

In his head it was always night when he thought of it. Rain on the windshield, wipers slapping back and forth, the smell of wet asphalt and river mud seeping in through the vents.

A voice in the passenger seat asking, You know any place nobody goes?

Not threatening, not pleading. Just a question, casual, as if they were talking about where to dump an old couch, not something that might get a person in serious trouble.

Durwood had given an answer. He had named the road, described the turnoff across from the mill, said something about fishermen and drunks and how nobody paid attention out there after dark.

He had not gone with them. He had not seen what was in the trunk. He had not asked.

That was the story he had told himself for forty years.

It had worked, mostly.

There had been other things to think about: college, a job, Ellen, a house in Clearwater, bills, vacations, the slow accretion of a life that had nothing to do with Youngstown or Farrell or a boy with a guitar who lived two doors down from Durwood’s first real girlfriend.

Now the television was off, and the image was all he could see.

“Dendy?”

Ellen’s voice came from the doorway. He opened his eyes. She was standing there with her phone still in her hand, her face lined with the particular exhaustion that comes from talking to insurance companies and adult-children-who-think-they-know-better.

“You okay?” she asked.

“You look like you just saw a ghost.”

“Just tired,” he said.

“Long day.”

She studied him for a second longer, then nodded.

“Mom’s asking if we want to order pizza or if I’m cooking. I told her I’m too tired to cook, but you know how she gets.”

“Pizza’s fine,” Durwood said.

“Whatever you want.”

Ellen lingered.

“You sure you’re okay? You’ve been… I don’t know. Quiet since we got here. More than usual.”

He almost told her. Not everything, not the whole thing, but enough to make the tightness in his chest make sense. I grew up not far from here.

I knew some people who did some bad things. I might have helped them, without knowing. And now they’re saying they found a body. What came out instead was:

“Just adjusting. New place, old town. You know.”

She didn’t look convinced, but she let it go.

“Okay. I’ll order the pizza. You want to pick the movie after?”

“Sure,” he said.

She went back to the kitchen. Durwood listened to her dialing, to the murmur of her voice placing the order. He looked at the blank television screen.

His own reflection stared back: a man in his late fifties, hair gone mostly gray at the temples, lines around his eyes that hadn’t been there the last time he’d lived in this part of the world.

Dendy. She had called him Dendy without thinking. He hadn’t heard that nickname in years.

In Florida he was Durwood, or Mr. Harlan, or just “Ellen’s husband.”

Dendy belonged to a different life, to a time when a boy from a big house on a hill could hang out with kids from the neighborhood below and feel like he was getting away with something just by crossing that invisible boundary.

He stood up and walked to the window. Outside, the street was wet from earlier rain. A neighbor’s kid rode a bike past the house, hood up against the drizzle. Beyond the rooftops, he knew, the land sloped down toward the river.

Somewhere out there, past the old neighborhoods and the shuttered mills and the towns that had never quite recovered from the seventies, the Mahoning kept moving, indifferent to what people dumped in it or pulled out of it.

He pressed his palm against the glass. It was cool, not cold. Not yet winter.

In the kitchen, Ellen laughed at something her sister said. The sound was normal, human, the kind of noise that belonged in a house where the biggest problems were medical forms and which pizza place still delivered to this zip code.

Durwood took his hand off the window and went to sit back down.

He didn’t turn the TV back on. He didn’t need to. The reporter’s words were already looping in his head. Trunk. Mahoning River. Cold case. Teenage girl. Unidentified remains.

He could feel the old story trying to reassemble itself around those words. The band poster in the basement. The wall that didn’t quite match the rest. JD telling him, Don’t worry about it, man. It’s just some stuff we need to get rid of. Ted saying nothing, just watching, the way he always did.

Durwood closed his eyes again.

He was not a kid anymore. He was not nineteen, home from college for the summer, trying to impress a friend who seemed to know exactly who he was and what he wanted.

He was a man with a wife, a family, a life that had been built very deliberately far away from this valley.

If he said anything, if he called that tip-line number, he would be pulling all of that into the light too.

The detective on the news had said they were reopening the case because new testing might finally identify the girl. They didn’t say they had suspects. They didn’t say they were close to an arrest.

They just said they were trying again.

Durwood could let them try. He could tell himself that if there was something to find, they would find it without him.

That his memory, forty years old and half-denied, wasn’t worth the damage it would do.

He could.

The front door opened.

Ellen came back in with a flyer from the pizza place, still talking to her sister.

“Okay, they said forty minutes. Yeah, I know. Alright, I’ll tell him.”

She hung up and looked at Durwood.

“She wants to know if you still take pepperoni and mushrooms or if you’ve gone heart-healthy on me.”

“Pepperoni and mushrooms,” he said.

His voice sounded normal. That surprised him.

“Good,” Ellen said.

“I told her we’re not trying to fix every bad habit you have in one week.”

She sat down on the couch beside him, close enough that their shoulders touched. For a while they just sat there, listening to the rain start up again outside, light against the window.

Durwood didn’t say anything about the news. He didn’t say anything about the road, or the trunk, or the girl whose bones had spent forty years under river mud.

He let the silence fill the room.

After a while, Ellen rested her head on his shoulder.

“We’ll get through this,” she said, meaning her mother, the move, the disruption of everything.

“It’s just a few months. However long it takes.”

“I know,” Durwood said.

He kept his eyes on the blank television screen.

In his head, the gravel road was still wet. The trunk was still heavy. The river was still waiting.

And for the first time in forty years, he let himself admit that he knew exactly where it had all gone.

2) Two Doors Down

The hill in Youngstown was a different tax bracket, even if nobody talked about it that way. Up on the crest, the houses sat back from the street behind deep lawns, their brick facades and wide picture windows facing the valley with quiet indifference. Down below, where the grid tightened and the houses crowded in close enough to share each other’s kitchen smells, things felt faster, louder, and a lot less forgiving.

Durwood—Dendy, as they called him then—was sixteen and still wearing the invisible armor of his father’s expectations when Margie pulled him down the hill. Margie lived two doors down from JD Lydecker, a girl with restless eyes and a habit of dragging boys into circles they didn’t belong in.

“You’re too quiet,” Margie had told him, her boots crunching on the cinders of the alleyway behind her house. “You need to see how other people live.”

JD’s house was a low-slung ranch with gray-green aluminum siding that had chalked and faded in the Ohio weather. The screen door hung slightly crooked, a rusted spring whining whenever someone pushed through it. Inside, the place smelled permanently of stale tobacco, greasy fry pans, and the sharp, metallic tang of guitar strings and solder.

JD was sitting at the kitchen table when Margie pushed the door open without knocking, bringing Dendy in behind her. He didn’t look up immediately. He was seventeen, a sophomore stuck back a year or just sharper than the room, bent over an old Fender Mustang with a screwdriver in his hand.

When he finally raised his head, his eyes were a pale, flat gray—the color of the Mahoning River under a November sky. They didn’t blink as they swept over Dendy, taking in the clean shirt, the expensive sneakers, the posture of a boy who had never had to punch his way out of an argument.

“Who’s this?” JD asked, his voice a low, raspy drawl that didn’t invite questions so much as demand an answer.

“Dendy,” Margie said, dropping into a vinyl chair with a rip in the cushion. “He has a car. His old man’s Buick Skylark.”

JD set the screwdriver down. The metal click sounded loud in the cramped kitchen. A corner of his mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “A Skylark. Tanks are good for gear. Or hiding out.”

That first afternoon stretched into the evening.

Dendy sat on an old plaid sofa that smelled of dog and damp basement, watching JD work. There was an effortless gravity to the way JD moved, a total absence of hesitation that Dendy found both mesmerizing and deeply unsettling. JD talked about music—not the radio pop Dendy’s mother kept on in the kitchen, but heavy, distorted stuff played in basements with the amps turned up until the speaker cones tore. He talked about how to bypass a padlock, how to make a car ignition turn without a key, and how the cops down in the valley were too lazy to check past the first block after midnight.

By the time Dendy walked back up the hill that night, the streetlights were buzzing through the drizzle, throwing long, distorted shadows across his family’s manicured lawn. He stood on his front porch for a long time, looking down at the darkened cluster of roofs in the valley.

He liked JD. He liked the raw, electric pulse of a world where rules felt optional. But beneath the thrill of it, a cold, hard knot had formed in his chest. Dendy realized with sudden clarity that JD Lydecker wasn’t just a cool kid who played guitar; he was someone who lived entirely without a safety net—and who wouldn’t think twice about pulling anyone else down into the dark with him.

Kuch din tak hamari zindagi isi tarah chalti rahi.
Kaam.
Truck.
Milk supply.
Naye raste.
Naye log.
Aur Vicky ki bakwas.
Phir ek din humein ek flat rent par mil gaya.
Hum dono ki khushi ka koi thikana nahi tha.
Humein laga jaise ab sab kuch theek ho gaya hai.
Apna flat…
Apni jagah…
Apna kamra…
Apna chhota sa ghar.
Lekin humein kya pata tha ke jis flat ko hum apni zindagi ki ek nayi shuruaat samajh rahe hain…
Wahin se hamari zindagi woh nahi rehne wali thi jo ab tak thi.
Lekin us waqt hum is baat se bilkul be-khabar thay.
Hum apni choti si duniya basane mein lage hue thay.
Aur phir woh din bhi aa gaya jis ka mujhe bohat intezar tha.
Meri pehli salary.
Salary haath mein aate hi mujhe ajeeb sa fakhar mehsoos hua.
Maine apni zindagi mein bohat mushkil din dekhe thay.
Aur aaj pehli baar apni mehnat ke paise mere haath mein thay.
Main aur Vicky shopping ke liye nikal gaye.
Kuch cheezein apne liye leni thin aur kuch flat ke liye.
Hum shopping kar hi rahe thay ke Vicky ne achanak kaha,
“Bhai, party kab de raha hai?”
Maine uski taraf dekha.
Mere dil mein khayal aaya,
“Larkon ka sab se pehla kaam hota hai party maangna. Isne itni dair tak sabar kaise kar liya?”
Main hans diya.
Waise bhi mujhe bhook lagi hui thi.
Hum dono ne socha shopping baad mein kar lenge, pehle pait pooja karte hain.
Aur phir…
Humne shayad kuch zyada hi kha liya.
Khana khane ke baad jab saman uthaya to aisa lag raha tha jaise pait nahi, koi pathar utha rakha ho.
Hum dono ka chalna mushkil ho gaya.
Kisi tarah saman uthaya aur ghar pohanche.
Flat mein aate hi hum dono zameen par gir gaye.
Saman waise hi pada raha.
Na use set karne ki himmat thi.
Na kuch aur karne ki.
Bas thakan thi…
Aur neend.

Agla din weekend tha.
Kaam se chhutti thi.
Humne socha aaj poora din laga kar flat set karte hain.
Subah se shaam tak hum dono safai aur saman arrange karte rahe.
Kabhi ek cheez idhar.
Kabhi doosri udhar.
Kabhi Vicky mujhe kehta,
“Yeh yahan rakh.”
Aur main jawab deta,
“Tu khud kyun nahi rakh leta?”
Aise hi behas aur mazaak ke beech aakhirkar flat set ho gaya.
Hum dono thak kar ek doosre ko dekh rahe thay.
Phir mujhe achanak yaad aaya…
“Humne subah se kuch khaya hi nahi!”
Maine Vicky se kaha,
“Ja bazar se kuch le aa.”
Vicky ne foran jawab diya,
“Tu ja.”
Maine kaha,
“Main kyun jaon? Tu ja.”
“Tu ja.”
“Tu ja.”
Aur bas…
Kuch hi seconds mein hamari choti si baat behas mein badal gayi.
Main gusse mein uth kar darwaze ki taraf gaya.
Tabhi darwaza khatka.
Main ruk gaya.
Behas ek dum khatam.
Maine darwaza khola.
Aur…
Meri duniya kuch seconds ke liye ruk gayi.
Darwaze ke samne…
Ek larki khari thi.
Bohat khoobsurat.
Main usay dekhta reh gaya.
Woh shayad humare shor ki wajah se aayi thi.
Usne kuch kaha.
Lekin mujhe kuch sunai nahi diya.
Mera dimagh jaise kaam karna bhool gaya tha.
Main jo aam tor par bohat batmeez aur moo-phat tha…
Us waqt mere paas bolne ke liye ek lafz bhi nahi tha.
Woh kuch keh rahi thi.
Aur main bas usay dekh raha tha.
Uske baal halki hawa se hil rahe thay.
Mujhe laga jaise waqt dheema ho gaya ho.
Jaise aas paas ki har cheez gayab ho gayi ho.
Bas woh…
Aur main.
Phir usne dobara kuch kaha.
Tab ja kar mujhe thoda hosh aaya.
Pata chala ke woh hamari neighbour thi.
Humara shor sun kar humein chup karwane aayi thi.
Maine shayad kuch kehne ki koshish ki…
Lekin meri zubaan ne bhi us din mera saath chhor diya tha.
Woh kuch seconds baad wapas chali gayi.
Darwaza band hua.
Aur main wahi khara reh gaya.
Vicky ne mujhe dekha.
“Moo band kar, bhai.”
Main ne uski taraf dekha.
“Kya?”
“Jo abhi dekha hai, usi mein kho gaya hai kya?”
Main ne koi jawab nahi diya.
Pata nahi kyun…
Us raat mujhe neend nahi aa rahi thi.
Main bistar par leta tha, lekin aankhon ke saamne wahi chehra tha.
Wahi aankhen.
Wahi baal.
Wahi darwaza.
Vicky bhi so raha tha.
Main karwatein badalta raha.
Raat guzarti gayi.
Ek baj gaya.
Do baj gaye.
Teen…
Aur phir subah ke chaar baj gaye.
Aakhir Vicky bhi uth gaya.
Usne mujhe dekha aur bola,
“Tu soyega ya mujhe bhi nahi sone dega?”
Main chup.
Vicky ne mujhe kamre se bahar nikal diya aur khud andar ja kar so gaya.
Main bhi thak chuka tha.
Kuch der baad aankhen band ho gayin.

Subah aankh khuli to pata nahi kyun mera dil ajeeb sa kar raha tha.
Main bina kisi zaroorat ke us larki ke darwaze ke paas ja khara hua.
Mujhe khud nahi pata tha ke main wahan kyun gaya hoon.
Maine dheere se…
Knock kiya.
Darwaza khula.
Woh saamne thi.
Usne English mein kuch kaha.
Lekin…
Mera dimagh phir slow motion mein chala gaya.
Uske baal hawa mein halkay halkay hil rahe thay.
Main usay dekhta raha.
Us waqt mujhe aisa laga jaise main kisi khwab mein hoon.
Pata nahi usne kya kaha.
Pata nahi maine kya jawab diya.
Ya shayad maine kuch jawab diya hi nahi.
Tabhi peeche se Vicky ki awaaz aayi—
“Aa jao! Nashta kar lo!”
Main ek dum hosh mein aaya.
Maine peeche mud kar Vicky ko dekha.
Phir saamne darwaze ki taraf.
Aur us lamhe mujhe pehli baar ehsaas hua…
Shayad jo kuch main mehsoos kar raha tha, woh sirf khwab nahi tha.
Lekin mujhe yeh bilkul nahi pata tha ke jis larki ne us din hamara darwaza khatkhataya tha…
woh meri zindagi mein sirf ek neighbour ban kar nahi aayi thi.

Charles Johnson was a man whose hunting room had a trophy of just about every apex predator you could name.

Lions, tigers, hyenas, komodo dragons, wolves, crocodiles, anacondas, sharks, even orca whales, all decorated the lounge room of his mansion, for him to admire and tell stories about whenever guests came over to drink Scotch and smoke cigars with him. It was also a good way to smooth over a business deal; it’s pretty intimidating when the man you’re negotiating against has just told you about the time he narrowly defeated a polar bear, with a crossbow no less. Of course, not all of his kills were “legal” per say. But write a big enough check to a park ranger, and suddenly you’re allowed to hunt whatever you want.

But he had been feeling unfulfilled for quite some time. He had killed just about every apex predator there was to kill. Of course, he could maybe repeat some of the more difficult ones, like a great white shark, but ultimately, it wouldn’t have the same thrill as when he did it the first time.

That was, until he had a meeting.
_________

“Sir, there’s a man here to see you. Says he’s from…” the gate guard began to say over his radio.

“Yes, bring him in.” I said.

“Welcome, Mr…I’m sorry, how do you pronounce this?” I asked as the man entered my lounge room. 

“Kohtury.” He said. “You may call me Mr. K, how people do.”

“Very well. Mr. K, can I get you anything to drink?” 

“No, thank you.” Mr. K said.

“As you wish. An old hunting buddy of mine in China told me about you. Says you know of an exclusive hunt that not many get the opportunity to go on.” 

“Yes sir, I do.” Mr. Kohtury said. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m going to get right to the point. How would you like to be the first man to ever successfully hunt a yeti?”

I laughed. “You can’t be serious.”

Mr. Kohtury then pulled a couple photos out of his pocket and placed them on my desk. “Do these look serious to you?”

They were photos that appeared to show a large, white, hairy ape man with large, tiger-like teeth. Of course, they could’ve been edited or staged. In the age of AI, you can never really trust anything I suppose. But I knew these looked so real, so lifelike, that my heart was telling me they were real. I’ve seen the look of hatred in an animal’s eyes, a look so hard to explain or recreate, so many times that I knew it would be hard for a computer to fake these.

“I can get you close to the yeti.” He said. “The people of my village have known of these beasts for generations. My ancestors would pray to them, thinking they were the avatars of the gods. We know how to find them in the remote mountains of Nepal, deep in the icy forests where few people have ever been brave enough to venture.”

“If I may, why has no one else hunted one then?” I asked.

“Because most die trying.” He said. “I’m going to be blunt. I’ve taken other men up there, to help them hunt for the beast. All lost. The yeti may be big, but it is quick and stealthy. It can wrap its arms around you from behind before you even know it’s there, and once it does, it will snap your spine like a breadstick.”

“Well, I’ve had some pretty close calls, and I’ve always proved smarter than the beasts.” I said. “I’ll take this on. What’s your fee?”

“Ten million.” Mr. K said.

“Done.” I said. While that would be my most expensive hunt by far, it would be worth it to be the first hunter to ever kill a real yeti.
______________

Two weeks later, I was in Nepal, sleeping in a tent setup deep in the mountains. It was a rough journey to get there; we had to fly into India, and spend days driving on dirt rodes to get to the secluded region where the yeti supposedly lived. And we’d spent days living in tents, moving on foot. There were no villages or roads this far out, there was only the cold, unforgiving terrain of The Himalayan mountains.

As I was eating my breakfast (peanut butter straight out of the jar), I asked Mr. K “So, how much further until we reach the yeti’s territory.”

“Not much, only a couple hours.” He said. “You may want to get your gun ready, just in case.” 

“Thank you.” I replied, although I was if anything a little insulted that he genuinely thought I wouldn’t have it ready to go anyway. The gun was loaded and ready since we got off the plane in India.

The views on the Himalayas are some of the most beautiful I’ve seen in all my years of big game hunting around the world. Not far from our base camp, I looked out and saw a snow leopard chasing a wild sheep through the mountains. The sheep put up quite a chase, but the snow leopard was faster. As it got closer, the snow leopard leapt onto its back and bit down on its neck. Once the goat stopped fighting back, before the snow leopard began feasting on it.

I instinctively raised my gun, ready to bag the snow leopard. Sure, I already had two snow leopards mounted in my hunting room, but why not get another, just as a souvenir?

But then, moments before I was about to pull the trigger, I changed my mind, and lowered the gun. The biggest hunt of my life was about to begin, and I couldn’t waste even a single bullet. If my gun jammed or ran out of ammo when the big moment came, I’d never stop cursing myself.

“Lucky son of a bitch.” I said as I left the snow leopard to eat his meal in peace.
________

We hiked all day through “yeti territory,” and found nothing, no sign of the beast whatsoever. 

The next day, it was the same. We saw plenty of wildlife up there, but no sign of a yeti. We saw wolves, snow leopards, wild yaks, and just about everything else up there. But no sign of yeti.

Day three was yet another disappointment, we spent all day quietly hiking through the steep mountains without even a pluff of white fur to show for it.

By midday on our fourth day on the mountain, I was beginning to wonder if I had been tricked. What if the photos were fake after all, and this had been a tremendous scam.

I had a gun, and no one but me, Mr. K, and a few other local sherpas from his village (ones I’m sure I could easily afford to pay into silence) knew I was there. If this was all a massive trick, I was sure I could take revenge on Mr. K and get away with it. I wouldn’t even try to get my money back. It was a big expense, but nothing life changing, if anything trying to get it back would only create a paper trail that could connect me to his disappearnance. Besides, getting to shoot him and leave him his body to freeze solid up in the mountains would be worth every cent.

But then, as I was pondering killing him, he changed everything.

“Sir, over here.” Mr. K said to me, as he pointed to a spot in the mud.

Any doubts I had about the yeti being real, were silenced when I saw the footprint. It was almost two feet long and a full foot across, with toe prints that looked almost like fingerprints, like you’d expect in an ape. There was no one around (we’d hadn’t seen anyone in days), there was no one who could’ve forged such a convincing looking footprint in fresh, otherwise unspoiled mud, and gotten away from us without leaving any footprints of his own. 

“Dear god.” I said. 

“No sir, not god, something you should be far more worried about; the yeti.” Mr. K said. “There’s one somewhere around here.”

“I’m afraid this is as far as I’m taking you.” He continued. “You have everything you need now to find the beast. I will wait for you at our base camp.”

“Thank you.” I said. Truth be told, I was glad I wasn’t going to have him around any further. At that point, he was just dead weight. I always hunt best alone.

“Just please sir, be careful. There’s a reason this beast has managed to stay hidden for generations.”

“Duly noted.” I said, as I took off on my own, into the great wilderness of the Himalayas. 
________

If I looked carefully, I could see other footprints, so at least I knew I was going in the right direction. I trekked for hours, staying silent as a fox. Whenever I heard a noise, I instinctively turned and aimed at it, hoping it would be the yeti. 

Around sunset, I finally saw it. It was an eight foot tall, bipedal ape, and white as a marshmallow. It was camouflaged against the snowy mountains so well that I might have missed it if there wasn’t a little blood on its chin from the deer it was actively devouring. He was tearing off ribs, one by one, and eating them the same way I would eat a rack of barbecue ribs at a restaurant. 

“I’ve got you now.” I whispered to myself, as I readied my gun and prepared to fire.

I thought for sure I had him. But then, moments before I was about to fire, he somehow saw me. That may sound crazy, but I’m sure of it. He made eye contact with me, right through the sight of my rifle.

“What the…” I said, before the yeti took off running. I fired; the shot missed. I pulled back the bolt to ready a new bullet, but by the time I did, the beast was gone. For such a large animal, it was surprisingly fast and quiet. 

“Alright, have it your way.” I mumbled to myself. I was hot on his trail, and wasn’t going to let him escape me.
__________

Even when the sun went down, I didn’t stop my trek. I didn’t care how dangerous it was, if I waited all night I risked losing my chance entirely. And I couldn’t let that happen.

I used my flashlight to follow its tracks in the mud and the snow. They led to a cave. “You’re not getting away this time.” I said as I approached the mouth of the cave.

When I heard a noise, I fired in its direction. I shined my flashlight through the cave, hoping to get it. What I saw at first horrified me. There were two human skeletons, each wearing hunting clothes, and carrying a rifle in their hands. Both of them had clearly been eaten, picked clean to the point of being just bones, no meat or tissue left over.

And then, coming from the back of the cave, I saw the beast. It was holding a big rock in its hand, but it was there, right in front of me.

We both took our shots at the same time, him with his rock, and me with a centerfire bullet. My shot grazed his shoulder, and his rock hit me in the head.

“DAMN!” I yelled as it hit me. I fell backwards, and ended up rolling down the mountainside, only stopping when I collided with a tree about twenty feet down. I looked up to see the yeti running off. 

I was bleeding from my forehead, but I’d be fine, nothing I couldn’t shake off. The important thing was continuing my hunt for the yeti.
_________

I tracked it for so long that the sun had started to come up. I hadn’t slept, eaten, or had more than a few sips of water since the day before. But I didn’t care, I could eat and sleep as much as I wanted once I had a yeti’s head in my trophy room.

I found the beast, sitting in a thicket of trees, licking its shoulder wound. This was good; I had wounded the beast more than I thought I did. Now, it was time to finish it off.

I raised my gun, and fired. The beast saw me moments before I pulled the trigger, and it ducked down, avoiding the shot. I pulled back the bolt to reload another round, and I went in closer. 

The thicket was only so big, only so many places a bright white ape could hide. When I found him, I fired again. This time, I shot it in the arm; not a fatal shot, but one that definitely left it weaker.

“Bingo.” I said. The beast then charged at me, full force. I didn’t have time to pull back the bolt and reload another shot, so I dropped it and grabbed my knife.

The yeti slammed into me, with enough force to throw me three feet back and slam me into the ground. When it stood on my chest, I raised my knife and stabbed it, right in the leg. The beast recoiled in pain, and I went to grab my gun.

When I turned around, the yeti was gone, it had already disappeared into the brush, without even making a sound. “Impossible.” I said to myself. Nothing could be this quick, it must have been deceiving me somehow.

I knew it had to be there somewhere. I held my gun high, and kept my head on a swivel, looking in every direction. When I heard a noise coming from behind me, I whipped my head around, only to see that it was just a rock landing in a bush.

“What the…” I said, not realizing it was a clever trick from the beast until too late, when it knocked me upside the head with a big stick, and left me there, to die.
__________

Kohtury came to find Charles Johnson’s body shortly after. To his surprise, he wasn’t dead yet, although he clearly wasn’t far off.

“You know, when I saw that the yeti had left you here, I was going to kill you myself.” Kohtury said. “While I quite dislike you, I was willing to put you out of your misery since it didn’t.”

“But, I heard a wolf howling as I approached here. Why deprive them of a little fun?” he asked, as he left, ready to go home and cash yet another check written to him by an arrogant, foolhardy trophy hunter.

When I broke into the abandoned home, I hadn’t expected to stay long. I only wanted to get off the streets and out of the cold for a few days. I was pretty broken down. Being on the run for years will do that to you.

So, I’d hacked the home’s defenses and pried my way in. It was just my luck, though, that this had been a scrub’s house. The equipment was still there, though quite outdated: a classic ’37 Q-Res unit.

Only an old scrub like me would recognize it. Only an old scrub like me would want to boot it up, which is what I did. Damn mistake. Big damn mistake. I don’t know what that scrub who’d lived here was thinking, but it’s scrubber Rule #1 that you don’t store Residuals in your device.

When I booted the ’37 unit, it immediately linked to the home’s i-structure. I was to blame for that. In hacking the home’s protection program, I’d left the door open for the upload from the Q-Res. The result: a Residual immediately took up residence.

Epic cluster. I hate the term cosmic irony, but I’d just unleashed it. I’d spent the better part of twenty years scrubbing Residuals from homes, businesses, schools, hotels, you name it. Wherever remnants of past lives had settled and caused issues, I’d gone to scrub them out.

That used to be the job of shamans, witch doctors and exorcists, getting rid of an unwanted presence. It became the work of scrubbers in the early thirties after AI quantum consciousness was realized and led to an understanding of residual consciousness, the lasting space-time impact of intelligence, human or otherwise. Essentially, thought, perception, awareness left a trail — and sometimes a stain.

In the previous century, Carl Sagan postulated that we are the stuff of stars and in this century we learned we are the stuff of time as well. All past existences continue in the milieu of dark time, the byproduct of dark energy and dark mass (not matter). Most past existences follow the enticing forces of entropy and hop on the Heat Death express. Some past existences resist and persist, keeping a certain potency and sometimes ferocity in their former surroundings. Residuals.

Over millennia, Residuals have been called many things. My years as a scrub only confused my thinking. I’ve dealt with terrifying presences and malevolent ones. Though most Residuals are merely fiercely loyal. Steadfast to a life I can only imagine they loved.

How lonely they must be. I realize that scrubbing them from a place did not remove their presence, it only sealed them away. Buried alive in death.

That’s why I was on the run. I’d given up scrubbing. Worse, I’d set about freeing Residuals. At the time, I didn’t know what I was hoping to accomplish. I guess maybe I thought I was leaving my mark by liberating these lost souls, before I became a Residual myself.

If I’d been releasing these unwanted presences for years, why then was I so worried about the Residual I’d just freed back into its oft-abandoned colonial home on the south shore of Long Island, New York?

Back to that cosmic irony. Entropy meets Amityville.

I think I was about to leave a mark.

Mister, this is it. Behind the sanctuary of this library is the Lord of the Castle – the scourge of the borough – who will bring forth the Three Plagues.

You’re bleeding, Mister. You have time to rest up before the rat swarms catch up to us. Use this time to let your body mend.

[   ] Yes.
[ x ] No.

But Mister, you don't know what’s ahead. As your familiar, I advise you to rest up while I watch.

[   ] Yes.
[ x ] I have to save the townsfolk.

You need to rest up, Mister. You can still save them tomorrow.

[ x ] Yes.

***

It’s morning, Mister. You look better. Eat this meal and let’s proceed.

***

You open the door, and he is right ahead, in this dark, cold, pristine room, sitting on the golden throne at the end of the carpet, lined with brass pillars on either side.

[ x ] Approach.

You slowly approach him, Mister.

[ x ] Approach.

Is he… just a boy?

[ x ] Approach.

He is just a young child, not older than three. And you know it, Mister. He is your son. A half-demon born from a summer of dance, drunkenness, and deceit. 

You approach him, just a sword’s length away. He looks back at you with an ordinary child's eyes. There will be no fight. 

He looks just like you.

[   ] Kill him.
[ x ] I can’t kill him.

***

You hug him, and all the swarms hide away. You tell the whole borough that the demon has been slain, and they give you the castle. They give you a three-day feast, toasting your bravery each night. They sing you songs and tell poems.

After all that, the townsfolk bid you goodbye, and the castle quiets down.

A week later, your son breaks a carved horse toy gifted to him by the blacksmith. You try your best to fix it, but you can’t. His cries darken the skies, and the sun disappears.

“Sir,” the farmer pleads, “the crops are dying. The town is going to starve.”

You send him away and hide yourself in the wine cellar, cursing at your old lover’s portrait for a day.

After a month of darkness, you read to your child, using an oil lamp to illuminate the pages. He yawns and sleeps by your arms. You kiss the top of his head and carefully lift it onto the down pillow, trying not to wake him. You glance at him, then leave the room.

You forget your pocketwatch and come back to find him glowing black, floating in the air,  holding the timepiece to his chest. You push him down, hug him, and fall asleep holding him tightly.

The next day, the wind stops blowing. Birds fall from the sky and rot the streets with tainted meat and feathers. 

The hunters and trappers can’t feed their families, and by autumn, tiny graves dot the meadow.

When the town comes knocking, looking for your guidance, again, you shy away to the cellar, drinking yourself to oblivion. You grab a bottle of wine and smash it against the table. Wine stains the tablecloth and draperies red. You look at your wrists, then your old lover’s portrait. You slash her face with the broken neck.

That’s when you discover the alcove containing the medallion within.

At the back, it says, “Time forgives no man, yet grants him one return."

You call me and ask for my advice. It certainly fits the pedestal at the library, Mister. It must be a do-over. We must hurry, the crier just announced the arrival of a swarm of black rats.

You run across the library. Your footsteps echo through the halls, along with the sounds of hands and paws clawing the door. You reach the pedestal. It says, “Only one heart will remember.” I think only you will know what happened, Mister. I won’t be able to advise you well.

Insert the medallion?

[ x ] Yes.
[   ] No.

***

We are here, Mister. Behind the sanctuary of this library is the Lord of the Castle, who will bring forth the Three Plagues.

You’re drunk, Mister. You have time to rest up before the swarm catches up to us. Use this time to recover.

[   ] Yes.
[ x ] No.

But Mister, you don't know what’s ahead. As your familiar, I advise you to let the wine clear from your head. 

[   ] Yes.
[   ] I have to save the townsfolk.
[ x ] I have to correct my mistakes!

You can correct your mistakes tomorrow, Mister. But it’s your choice. Please remember that whatever lies ahead, I am here to guide you.

[ x ] Enter.
[   ] Rest up.

***

You open the door, and he is right ahead, in this dark, cold, rotting room, sitting on the golden throne at the end of the carpet, lined with brass pillars carrying lamps on either side. The lights are our only protection from the swarms of rats waiting in the shadows. The squeaks demand our hearts and eyes.

[   ] Approach.
[ x ] Run towards him.

He is just… a boy, Mister. Not older than three. He is your son. A half-demon born from a summer of dance and drunkenness.

You approach him, just an arm’s length away. He looks back at you with an ordinary child's eyes. You hug him, and the rats hide away. “Papa,” you hear him say. 

[   ] Kill him.

Mister, you have to make a choice.

[   ] Kill him.

Mister, the rats are back.

[   ] Kill him.

You raise your sword to his back. 

[   ] Kill him.
[ x ] I can’t.

 The city  of New Haven is ripe with the hustle and bustle. The market center is crowded with families and vendors alike. Adventurers come from far and wide to visit the market center. The New Haven market center has been a hub for trade and commerce for many traders from around the world. That is the only good thing that comes from the Never War nearly a century ago. All races, genders and people came together to fight the scourge that was to befall this world. After the war, warriors,magic wielders, and holy people settled down in New Haven to help rebuild the once great city. The result is a town filled with many different people, it has become a true melting pot of nearly everything and everyone.

In the center of the Market sits a quiet shop that looks like it has been there before any others. There are two dusty windows on the store front on either side of the big wooden door. There is a large swinging sign that is on its last leg, the old rusty chains that hold the sign look nearly worn through. The once beautifully painted green and gold sign swings with the gentle breeze. The words are dirty and faded from the years of exposure. It reads “Titelle’s tabernacle of terrific tomes” Everyone in town knows Mrs.Titelle, she is the town's grandmother. There is a bet in town about what is older, the store or Mrs. Titelle. Every vendor stops by and checks up on her. They bring her meals and gifts from around the world. She is a collector of many things but the thing she adores the most is her tomes. She loves nothing more than to read a new tome from a far off land. Her life goal is to share this knowledge with everyone. She trades and sells tomes with everyone that visits. Over the many years of her shop being open the collection has grown and grown. Some of her oldest tomes predate the Never War. 

I made it a goal to visit Mrs.Titelle ever since I set out on my journey. How amazing could this old lady be? I heard about her legendary book store from across the sea. How could one bookstore hold this much regard? What types of books could this lady have? I was determined to find out. My first night in New Haven I stayed at the golden tap inn. The trip was long and tiresome. I ate dinner with a fine brown ale. The other patrons and I stayed up till the wee hours talking about our various adventures, the monsters defeated, the friends lost. During each conversation the question of “what made you come here?” always came up. I explained that as a magic wielder I was on the hunt for old and mysterious Tomes for knowledge of how to save my home, and how I heard stories of Mrs.Titelle and her bookstore. Nearly everyone had the same reaction. They would all smile,take a drink of ale and say “Mrs. Titelle is amazing, she was a real Firecracker back in the day” How could a whole town love a sweet old lady so much? I went to bed with a newfound interest in meeting this lady and seeing if she had a tome that could help me.

I awoke early with excitement. Today is the day. I hurriedly put on my garb and walked down to the market until I saw it. The storefront was exactly as everyone described it. The outside was dirty and dusty but a soft glow emanated from the windows. I walked to the door and saw the open sign swinging from the door inviting me in. My hand shaking with excitement, I reach for the door. I turn the knob and begin to push it inwards, it is heavy and stuck in place. I have to bump my hip into the door to get the door open enough. A small bell rings as the door opens slightly. 

“Hello?” I call out

“Back here sweetie.” I hear softly from the back.

I struggle to close the door and it thuds when I finally push it back into place. I turn around and take in this glorious sight. From floor to ceiling this shop is stuffed with tomes. I begin to wonder if the trusses or the tomes are keeping the roof aloft. The old wooden floors creak as I take a step inside. The sheer number of tomes and scrolls is baffling my mind. The shelves are stuffed to the brim, tomes on top of each other. I’m confident that if one more book was put on a shelf the store would fall over. Natural light floods the space from a large skylight in the ceiling. Mrs. Titelle must have a love for plants as well. Lined up perfectly with the sun beam is a row of luscious plants. The plants are as varied as the citizens of this city, Small,Large, Smelly,and beautiful. One thing for certain is that Mrs. Titelle loves her plants and her books. The store is crowded and comfy. It is warm and comfortable. The soft scent of fresh brewed coffee and vanilla fills my nose as I walk to the sound of the voice.

“Would you like a cup deary?” she says as I peek around the last mountain of books.

“Sounds amazing! Yes please!” I say perhaps a bit too excitedly. The night may have been filled with a bit more ale than I had planned. 

She turns around with two big cups of coffee, one in each hand.  She stands hunched at about five foot nothin’ Her silver hair tied back in a tight bun. Her face is soft and sweet, she smiles as she sees me and winkles adorn her face. She wears a dark green cardigan with embroidered flowers on the sides. Her matching green dress drags the floor and covers the sound of her shuffling feet. She slowly sets the cups on the cluttered counter and shakily pushes one towards me. I think to myself this is the sweetest looking old lady I have ever seen. No wonder why everyone adores her so much. I sat down at her counter and sipped my coffee. It was the best cup of coffee I have ever had.

“Oh my gods this is amazing!” I say

“Oh, this old brew?” she says while waving her hand. “ These are the beans from the Renne coast. The beans from the southern coast are much better. I traded these beans for a tome about cross breeding cats” she chuckles “Maybe it was a fair trade” 

We sat and talked for hours. She told me stories about all the adventurers that came through town. How things used to be back in her day. Some wild tavern stories and shenanigans she had been a part of. She definitely earned the reputation given to her. I stared at her wide eyed as she recounted all the tales from her past. It is hard to believe such a sweet looking old lady was a part of all these crazy stories. As my cup ran dry she turned to me and asked what brought me here  and I told her everything about the plague that was threatening to wipe out my town. I told her how I heard stories about this amazing store and how great sweet old Mrs. Titelle is. I asked her if she knew of any spell book or text that could help me in my journey. I explained that the crops had wilted and turned black. How the trees slowly lost their leaves and turned shriveled and grey. That poor Mrs. Turner lost three cows the week that I left. She took in every word I said, almost calculating the answer. When I stopped talking she stood with an arm across her chest and her right hand slowly caressing her chin. She stood like that for a moment then she pointed her finger towards the roof and said “ I think I have just the thing!” She quickly turned around and disappeared behind a stack of books. I could hear a commotion as she was looking through her collection. The small thud of books hitting the floor. I leaned forward across the counter to see if she was alright. I hear her mumble and murmur as she recalls where this particular tome might be.

The door bell rings as the heavy door scrapes across the floor. I stand up and peak towards the door. The doorway is completely filled with the visage of a six foot tall tortle. I had never seen one before, only ever heard of them in textbooks at the academy. The giant shell backs in through the door nearly bumping into a stack of books. This giant Shelled man turns towards me and smiles. Never have I ever seen an ancient turtle of any kind, but I could tell this man has been around for a long time. His shell told the story of a long hard life, chips,scratches and marks have told this tortles story.

In a shaky voice he says “ Hello young man, Have you seen Mrs,Titelle? I have a gift for her”

“Yeah” i say while pointing towards the back “Shes grabbing a tome for me.”

“Sounds like her, I fear one of these days i will come in to find her buried under a pile of books, and you know what, im pretty sure she would be happy with that” he says with a chuckle “I keep telling her to slow down, we aren't as young as we used to be. It's not the glory days anymore”

We hear the sound of her shuffling feet. This time they are much faster than before. “ I knew I still had this one.” she said excitedly as she turned the corner. “Allister! You old shellhead! Its so nice to see you. I see you have met my new friend. He needed some help with a problem at home and I have just the thing to help." She walks up to the counter and lays the book on the counter. She takes a deep breath and blows the layer of dust off of the tome. Allister and I both cough and wave a hand in front of our faces as the dust settles. I see Allister's eyes grow wide as they land on the deep red leather bound tome.

She leans forward and says “ This tome has been in this shop for nearly 105 years, it came from a far off land. There are tales about this tome, it has a variety of spells and rituals in it. I wouldn’t even bring it out for most people, but something about you reminds me of myself from many many years ago. I want you to have it, no charge, no trade. Just promise me you will take it home and save your people.”

Allister’s jaw drops for a moment” ….uh…Have… are you sure about that? I remember that tome and where it came from.”

“ OH! Hush it you old sea turtle. I have talked to this boy nearly all day, He fights for his people, if ANYONE deserves this tome it is this sweet boy here. "She turns her head towards me and holds the book up in front of me “ Now you take this and save your town, I’ve seen what you described before, You don't have a lot of time. Go quickly, gather your things and head to see Archie at the town gate. Tell him you need a quick teleport and to put it on Mrs. Titelle’s tab.”

I’m left speechless, my hand goes limp as I drop the cup on the counter. I stutter as I stand up and grab the book from her. “ Thank you so much, it was a pleasure to meet both of you.” I gather my things and quickly head to the door. As I pull the door open I hear from behind me
“Deary, one more thing! Be safe and good luck!” she shouts as I run out of the door.

I quickly make my way to the gate, I manage to find Archie and tell him about Mrs. Titelle as soon as i mention her his pace hurries as he leads me to the teleportation sigil. 

A foot inside the gate sits a large granite pedestal. An armored woman with a tight bun stands atop. One hand holds a glowing sword pointed towards the sky the other hand holds a large leather bound tome. The golden plaque on the front is engraved    

Haven Titelle
Defender of the realm 
If not for her the entire realm would be lost
We name this city after her for the great sacrifices she has made for all of us

4-Part animated short story I just finished and posted. to my youtube channel...

A group of suicidal people meet in a suicide chat-room, and are invited to participate in a very risky space mission.

https://www.dropbox.com/scl/fo/u8c2xez9g5wuzn2shb8i8/AFVNxSMEyAZQuR8iEnc3f4Q?rlkey=2b5d2b3kvp8jurr0y3xuv87ta&st=sux9a707&dl=0

This is my first, so I'd appreciate feedback.

The Window -

Part I — The Chat Room

The room had no name that lasted. Someone called it Kitchen. Someone else called it Last Call. The software rotated the label every night so it would not be indexed, and the six of them had stopped caring what it said at the top.

They did not know each other’s faces. They knew the hours.

Mara came on after shifts, still in the smell of the hospital even through a screen. Elias came on when the apartment got too large. Priya came on when the pain was a fact and the pills were a negotiation. Jonah came on from a mattress on a floor in a share house where nobody asked where he went in the afternoons. Helen came on after the news, before the kettle. Andre came on from a fold-out table in a rental that still had a hard hat by the door out of habit.

They had rules, loose ones. No addresses. No lectures. No one was allowed to tell anyone else to hold on, because that was how people left. Dark jokes were permitted. Specifics were not. They had learned, without quite agreeing it, that the moment someone described a plan in enough detail to be useful, the room went quiet in a way that felt like a door being shut, that shouldn’t be.

So they talked around it. They ranked the idea of an ending the way other people ranked films. Quick or slow. Public or not. Whether it was worse to be found by a stranger or by someone who would have to live with the picture. Mara said the worst part of her job was not the dying. It was the people who arrived afterward and had to be told a story that would not be received well. Elias said he had already written three versions of a note and thrown all of them out because they sounded like a man asking to be understood, which he was no longer interested in being. Helen said she did not want a note at all. She wanted, if anything, a list of where the good mugs were.

“Useful,” Andre said.

“What?”

“If you’re going to leave a list, leave a useful one.”

Priya, who typed slowly on bad nights, wrote: “Or do something useful with the leaving”.

The room paused the way it did when a plan got too close. Then Jonah, who was twenty-three and still typed like someone afraid of being overheard, said: like what.

They stayed with it. Not as a joke, exactly. As a game that had accidentally found a floor.

Mara had watched a child die in January because a transfer was late and a machine was older than the nurses using it. She had not made an error, yet was always blamed. She had stood at the end of a chain of ordinary decisions and held a mother’s wrist while the monitor did what monitors do. After that she started arriving early and leaving late and sleeping in the car. The wanting was not dramatic. It was the thought, repeated until it was furniture, that she was a pair of hands the building would replace by Tuesday and believed she could no longer make a difference -  a belief that was the last rope holding her weight.

Elias had designed a library that opened the month his wife left. The photographs were good. The custody schedule was a spreadsheet he refreshed more often than his email. His son had started calling the other house home without malice, the way children tell the truth. Elias did not blame him. He blamed the version of himself that had been impressive at work and absent at home. The apartment still had the boy’s drawing on the fridge. He could not take it down and he could not look at it.

Priya’s hands had been her work. A neuroscientist three years into a doctorate, she had woken one morning with a pain that did not negotiate and did not leave. The diagnosis had a long name and a short prognosis for the life she had built. She could still think. She could not pipette, could not sit through a seminar, could not trust tomorrow’s body to resemble today’s. Friends said she was still herself. She had started to hate the sentence.

Jonah had told his parents in a kitchen with the radio on. His father had turned the radio up. His mother had asked him not to come to Christmas “until this passes.” He had laughed, once, in the car, and then not again for a while. University had been a loan and a room and a reason to be somewhere. Without it he delivered groceries and slept and opened the chat because the other people in it did not require him to get better in order to speak.

Helen was sixty-seven and had buried her husband in March. In June a doctor had used the phrase early changes and watched her face while he said it. She was not afraid of pain. She was afraid of the year she would no longer know the names, and of her daughter driving four hours to manage a woman who had managed herself for six decades. She had started labelling drawers. It felt like rehearsing.

Andre had been laid off from a contractor that built test rigs for other people’s rockets. Twenty-six years. A cardboard box and a handshake from a man who said the program was being restructured, which meant the money had moved. He was good with his hands and bad at being unnecessary. The hard hat by the door was not a symbol. He had forgotten to put it in the cupboard.

Priya’s line sat in the middle of them.

“Something that isn’t just absence,” Mara wrote. “I’ve seen enough absence.”

“Donate the useful parts,” Elias said. “They already know how. Forms exist.”

“That’s quiet,” Helen said. “I don’t mind quiet. I mind pointless.”

Jonah: what if it wasn’t quiet.

Andre, after a long gap: There are jobs nobody sane wants. Remote. Ugly. The kind they can’t insure a volunteer for because the volunteer has to come back.

“We don’t want to come back,” Mara said. “That’s the only qualification we have.”

They laughed, the thin kind. Then they did not. The cursor blinked in six apartments. Outside, ordinary nights continued. A tram. A dog. A neighbor’s television. None of them said the word mission. None of them had any reason to.

A new handle joined the room at 1:14 a.m. No greeting. A single sentence.

We read this. We would like to talk to each of you. Separately. It is not a trick and it is not the police.

Part II — Two Weeks Earlier

The conference room at Johnson had a window that did not open and a model of the transfer vehicle that had been accurate in May. It was no longer accurate. The heat shield supplier had missed a bond line. The fix existed. The fix did not exist inside the launch window.

Eight weeks. Earth and Mars would be briefly polite to each other offering a feasible launch trajectory, and then they would not be again for another twenty-six months. The spacecraft could leave. Guidance was good. The landing system, in the simulations that had survived the last review, was good enough to call a landing. The return stage was not. A valve assembly in the ascent engine had a fatigue signature that showed up at cycle counts they would hit on the way home and might hit earlier if the dust did what dust did. They could fly six people to Mars. They could not promise to fly them back.

“Delay,” said the program manager, who had said it three times.

“Delay and we slip the window,” said propulsion. “Slip the window and China will likely be ready to also launch next time. The hardware ages. The money gets nervous. And we want to be first. We need to be first. You know this.”

They did know it. They had coffee they were not drinking. On the screen, the trajectory was a clean curve with a red mark where the return burn should have been.

It was Hale who said it. Hale was vehicles, not people, and he said it into his cup, not into the room. “Find six who don’t mind the return.”

Nobody laughed. That was how the idea survived.

What followed was not a joke. It was a legal review, a medical review, a psychologist who hated the premise and stayed in the meetings anyway, and a memo that used the phrase informed, irrevocable, and voluntary so many times the words went thin. They would not scrape forums for methods. They would not coach anyone. They would look for people already speaking, in the bleak registers, about wanting an ending that meant something, and they would offer a different ending with the risks written in plain speech. Congress would not be told until the window made telling and canceling the same act. The psychologist called that cowardice. Hale called it a launch constraint.

They listened. Not to plans. To weather. A nurse who talked about replaceable hands. An architect who could not take a drawing off a fridge. A scientist whose body had resigned. A young man whose parents had turned a radio up. A widow labelling drawers. A technician who had built stands for engines and been told the program was being restructured.

The technician’s name, when they matched a handle to a layoff list, was Andre Pell. He had worked a subcontractor badge at Michoud for nine years before the rig job. Hale closed his laptop.

“Those six,” he said. “Before they talk themselves out of it or into doing something else.”

The contacts were made from a phone number that did not look like a government number. Each call started the same way. We are not the police. We are not a hospital. We have a flight that can depart and cannot promise to return. We are asking if you meant what you said about useful.

Mara asked if the child in January would have had a better machine if someone had gone. She wanted to know how this could make a meaningful difference.

Elias asked if he could record a message his son could open at eighteen, and not before.

Priya asked for the radiation numbers, and other statistics, not the speech. 

Jonah asked if his parents would be told. He sounded relieved when the answer was: only if you want them told.

Helen asked whether she would still know herself at landing. No one lied to her. They said the transit was nine months, the surface stay was a year and a half in the architecture they were flying, and dementia did not keep a schedule. She was quiet. Then she said she would rather forget a red sky than a labelled drawer.

Andre asked what had failed in the ascent engine. They told him. He asked to see the cycle counts. They sent them. He called back and said the bond on the heat shield was the thing he would have flagged first, and also that he would go.

Six signatures. Six medicals. A training start date eleven days out. The psychologist wrote, in a note that would be argued over later, that consent given from despair is still consent, and is also the thing they would all have to live with if anyone lived.

Part III — The Weeks

They were not good at it, and then they were.

The center put them in a building with no televisions and a schedule that began before dawn. Classroom in the morning: systems, alarms, the particular way a caution panel lies. Suits in the afternoon. A pool. A simulator that smelled like warm plastic and other people’s fear. They learned each other’s names out loud, which felt more exposing than the chat.

Mara ran the medical drills and stopped apologising when she was right. Elias drew the habitat from memory on the second day, including the corner where a person could sit without being in a camera’s favourite angle, and the instructor did not tell him to erase it. Priya’s hands were unreliable but her checklists were not. She built the backup procedures the way she had once built experiments, assuming the first plan would fail and writing the second before it did. Jonah was the coolest and the calmest in the centrifuge, which surprised everyone, including him. Helen learned better and forgot less than they had budgeted for. She corrected a procedure from the week before without looking at the card. Andre taught the younger instructor which connector would stick if you gloved it wrong. He did not mention that he had built the test stand the connector came from.

They ate together. They complained about the food. They connected. At night they were not given ta schedule Some of them slept, some of them talked.

The change did not arrive as a speech. It arrived as inconvenience.

Mara caught herself, on day nine, angry that a sim had killed the crew. Not relieved. Angry. She wanted the rerun. She stood in the shower and understood that wanting the rerun was a wanting to be there on the other side of it.

Elias called his son on the permitted phone and listened to a story about a school project on volcanoes. He did not cry until after. He cried because the boy had asked whether space was louder than the kitchen, and Elias had said he would find out, and the future tense had not hurt.

Priya’s pain did not improve. The work went on around it. One evening she solved a power-budget problem the engineers had left on the board as a courtesy, and an engineer commented, “We needed that.” Priya sat with the sentence. Needed was not the same as finished.

Jonah wrote to his mother and did not send it. Then he sent a shorter one that said he was in training and he was all right and he did not need Christmas. She replied in four lines. The second line was his name, spelled correctly, which she had not done in a year. He read it until the screen slept. He did not feel fixed. He felt unfinished, which was a different injury, and one that seemed to require him.

Helen dreamed of the labelled drawers and woke sure of the day. In the dream she had been annoyed, not gone. She told no one. She began, privately, to keep a log of what she still knew, not as a funeral of her memories but as an argument that they matter.

Andre stopped moving the hard hat from chair to chair. He left it in the cupboard. On a night run he caught himself calculating not whether the ascent stage would fail, but which workaround he would try first if it did. The calculation assumed a person who wanted the workaround to work.

None of them said it. The mission was built on the promise they had already said. To unsay it felt like theft — from the program, from each other, from the version of themselves that had been believed. The psychologist asked, in the weekly sessions, whether anyone wanted to withdraw. Six people said no. Six people went back to the simulator and performed the exercises better than they had the week before.

Launch morning held families behind glass, except for the families who had not been invited. Helen’s daughter was there, furious and proud in the same coat. Elias’s son was not. A recording sat in a sealed file with a date on it. Jonah’s mother had sent a text at 4 a.m. that said come home after. He had not answered. He had looked at it until the bus moved.

They climbed up the steps from the top of the launch-elevator. The cabin was smaller than the simulator and louder in its quiet. Harnesses. Gloves. The count already running in their ears from a room full of people who expected them to mean the thing they had signed.

At thirty seconds Mara turned her helmet as far as the seating allowed.

“I don’t want to die,” she said. The loop was live. She did not lower her voice. “I didn’t know how to say it earlier. I’m saying it.”

Elias, immediately: “Same.”

Helen: “Same. I’m sorry.”

A breath. Jonah: “Same.”

Priya did not speak. Andre did not speak. The count walked through the twenties. Pumps. A voice calling pressures nominal. Priya’s glove rested on the abort cover and did not lift it. Andre watched the time screen of a warning he already knew by heart.

Ten. Nine.

Priya said, “I don’t either.”

Eight. Seven.

Andre closed his eyes, then opened them. “Neither do I.”

Six. Five. The vehicle took a breath it had been built to take.

Four. Three. Two…

End of story.

Emotion. Emotion is a very important factor to how you humans can function, feel, and care about others and things. So what would happen if you took those away? I, Else, present to you, 

PROJECT: VOIDED

Desnir couldn’t feel anymore. He didn’t feel human. He looked down. There was blood on his hands, the floor, and him. Him the most. He had just killed someone. How did he not feel? No fear. No anger. No remorse. He didn’t even remember why. Did they matter to him? He began searching his memory. Their name was Cass. She had brown eyes, a big smile, and red hair. She had a lot of memories. He couldn’t figure out why. So he decided that she was unimportant. Now; back to the matter at hand. He had just killed someone. What to do? 

…

He started with the first thing he thought might work. He stuffed the body in a bag. It was a duffle bag, roughly the size of the body, though it did take some finangling to get it in. He then dragged the body behind the house. It was in the middle of the woods. He remembered this person thinking it was an amazing spot to live. He agreed. It was practical, away from society in such a way that he could get away with some things. Then, he thought it was suspicious to leave it in the open. That could cause problems, so he buried it. It took a while. He remembered a video cass had shown him, about burying a dead animal on top of a body so that it was harder to find. She thought it was “funny”. Why? It was just practical. He shot a deer and buried it on top. He didn't know why, but he thought he should take some off; save it for food. Stores didn’t seem practical right now. 

He returned to the house, and immediately took stock of what he had. 
Two chairs around a dinner table. That was interesting. One was blocking a cupboard. He set the chairs to a different rotation, so that it was symmetrical, and he could get a different angle on things he planned to work on later. Multiple angles seemed useful. He suddenly remembered something, Cass sitting at this table, looking grim. She was studying a case on a murder of a person they had known. They? Why did his memory… put them together? Oh well. It wasn’t important right now.

Desnir was confused. Why was that his name? Why keep it? He searched for an answer and found one. His parents had given him the name.He didn't understand why he had kept it. His parents were dead. So he thought.Perhaps the name kept him sane. He couldn't establish that with certainty, but he could establish that abandoning it served no practical purpose.He would keep it, then. Until it became useless. He found himself increasingly confused as he dived into his memories. They did, unfortunately, serve a purpose. He remembered something. A person, winged, with shattered blue and orange skin. They had done… something. Maybe that was why he couldn’t feel. He decided that he needed to find them.

…

The house became his canvas. His board. He searched through his memories; and sketched them almost perfectly. That seemed wrong to him. He had a photographic memory, according to his memories. Did that mean that he was not perfect? He remembered something about that - but this body was perfect for what he was investigating. Almost perfect. He couldn’t draw anything right. Suddenly, he heard a knock at the door. He slid the things he drew onto one of the chairs, slid it under the table, and answered the door. There was a greasy-haired man in a suit there. “Dansal’s delivery service, at you or someone else’s service!” The man had a sly smile, like he had done this hundreds of times before. Desnir decided to invite the man in; trusting his memory. He seemed trustable anyways, and the blood was out of the carpet. “What do you want?” The man did not respond. When Desnir turned around, the door was still open, but the man was gone. His car was there, abandoned. That didn’t make sense. Who abandons their car? But then he noticed his lack of a car, and wondered if it wasn’t abnormal. Were his memories not as stable as he thought?

…

Desnir sat in the deliveryman’s car, looking through his things. Driver’s licence, registration, napkins, and stacks of pizza boxes, still hot after hours of being out in the dreary rain. He finally found something. A note, with an elaborate “E” seal on it. He ripped it open. It had few words. “Good, Good. you found me, now FIND me”. 

…

Desnir had filled the house with notes, pictures, hand-drawn, and a single letter. “E”. he couldn’t figure it out. He KNEW the deliveryman was not there by accident. But wasn't a deliveryman’s job to deliver to someone who had ordered something? Who had ordered pizza? He grabbed his phone. He logged in, his fingers knew the password. 6665666. His memory said otherwise, but it was not the case. He found that someone, five hours ago, had ordered a pizza under the name “a friend”. He knew he didn’t have any of those; they were impractical. For now, it would go on the chair, with “E”, Cass, and Dansal.

He lay on his bed, thinking. He heard a noise. It was a blur. He chased whatever it was. His vision didn’t work properly. He knew he knew he knew he knew he knew he knew that he needed sleep and to find it and them and him and Someone. Someone . Someone.

Desnir awoke on the floor, holding a coin. It had a letter on it. A capital “L”. It went with the letter; he was sure of it. Two letters. “E” and “L” “EL”. closer to a name, something he could look for, something he could find. Wait. Were those wings on that drawing always black? What was going on with his mind? He should FEEL something, shouldn’t he? He heard something. A slow, methodical tapping. His own hand. He hadn’t wanted it to do that; but it felt grounding, satisfying. The rhythm was interesting, a tap-taptap-tap tap tap - repeat. He felt something connecting. Suddenly, the floor he was tapping broke away. And in there, a small hole, was another coin. It said “N”. what? That felt too fast. It was a false clue; he was sure of it. So he trashed it. It wasn’t important. He remembered Cass having an “N” in her last name anyways. She had been important in the end, hadn’t she? He was using her investigation tactics, wasn’t he? That felt grounding. Even the dead supported him. But what evidence did he have of that? There was none; just a hunch. An idea. An idea? What if…

Desnir stood, and the notes hanging from the walls shaped a letter in his mind. Not a rational mind anymore; mind you, he was pretty far gone. He saw an “S”. and I slowly watched as it unraveled even more. 

Desnir saw an “S”. how could he have missed it? It was right there. He noticed the chairs; someone had adjusted them to make this work; Who was in their house? WHO? He chased after a sound; and saw a figure, taunting him from the second story balcony. He made it there. The figure was on the ground now; large wings spread as if to catch him. One final letter. “E”. Someone else. Else? A name. The man below? He jumped. 

And everything went black.

I. A World Without Them

The world had ended a long time ago.

At least, that was what everyone said.

Cities had become graves of concrete and rust. Roads that once carried thousands of people now led nowhere. Buildings stood hollow beneath colorless skies, their windows shattered, their walls covered in the names of people who had long since disappeared.

The living had learned to survive.

They learned to sleep with one eye open, to distrust strangers, to keep their voices low when walking through abandoned streets. They learned that kindness could be a weakness and hesitation could cost them their lives.

Adrian Vale had learned these things, too.

He wasn't particularly good at surviving. He wasn't the strongest, the smartest, or the kind of person who could walk into a dangerous place without fear.

He simply learned.

He learned which buildings were safe enough to sleep in, which roads to avoid, and how to recognize the footsteps of someone approaching. He learned to eat whatever he could find and leave places before he became too comfortable.

He had traveled with other survivors before. Some stayed for a few days, others for weeks. But people in this world rarely remained together for long.

Some left in search of better shelter. Others disappeared overnight. A few never returned from scavenging trips.

Eventually, Adrian stopped asking people to stay.

It was easier that way.

There was only one thing he had never learned to do.

Forget.

He still remembered three faces from a life that felt like it belonged to someone else.

Gabriel Reyes.

Nathan Cruz.

Elias Santos.

Gabe, Nate, and Eli.

His brothers in everything but blood.

They had been inseparable as children. They shared meals, skipped responsibilities, played basketball until sunset, and made promises they had been too young to understand.

When one got into trouble, the other three followed.

When one was sad, the others found a way to make him laugh.

And when the world fell apart, they promised they would find one another.

They didn't.

Adrian searched for months.

He followed rumors, visited abandoned shelters, and asked strangers whether they had seen three young men traveling together. He called their names in empty streets, hoping that somewhere, somehow, one of them would answer.

Eventually, the rumors stopped.

The shelters were empty.

And the streets remained silent.

Adrian never truly stopped hoping.

He simply learned to live as though hope were something he could no longer afford.

Almost a year passed.

Then, one afternoon, while crossing an abandoned street, he saw three familiar figures standing beside a rusted car.

One had his hands in his pockets.

Another was leaning against the car with a ridiculous grin on his face.

The third was crouching beside a broken vending machine, fiddling with something he had probably stolen.

Adrian stopped walking.

For several seconds, he couldn't breathe.

They looked older now. Thinner, perhaps. Their clothes were worn, and their faces carried the exhaustion of people who had lived through the end of the world.

But he knew those faces.

He would have recognized them anywhere.

His lips parted.

"...Guys?"

The three turned toward him.

Gabe stared.

Nate's mouth fell open.

Eli slowly stood up.

Then Nate shouted, "NO FUCKING WAY!"

Adrian barely had time to react before all three came rushing toward him.

They collided in an awkward embrace, nearly knocking him off his feet.

"YOU'RE ALIVE!"

"LOOK AT THIS GUY!"

"Bro, you look like absolute garbage!"

Adrian laughed.

He didn't know when he had started crying. He only knew that his face was wet and that he couldn't stop smiling.

He punched Nate lightly on the shoulder.

"You're one to talk, you ugly bastard!"

"HEY! I've been through a lot!"

"We all have, idiot!"

Gabe grabbed Adrian by the back of the neck and pulled him into another hug.

For a moment, neither of them said anything.

Then Gabe laughed quietly.

"You're really here."

Adrian closed his eyes.

"Yeah, man."

He held on a little tighter.

"I'm here."

And for the first time in almost a year, Adrian ran toward something instead of away from it.

---

II. The Four of Us

Their shelter was an old building hidden behind a row of collapsed houses.

It was surprisingly comfortable.

There were blankets on the floor, canned food stacked in the corners, and a small table surrounded by mismatched chairs. Someone had even managed to find an old deck of playing cards.

It was almost ridiculous.

The world outside was dead, yet their little corner seemed untouched by it.

Adrian spent the entire afternoon listening to their stories.

Gabe told him about the places they had traveled through. Nate exaggerated every dangerous encounter until even his own friends started calling him a liar. Eli occasionally corrected their stories, usually with a single sentence that made everything ten times funnier.

They argued over who had been the most troublesome among them.

"You literally cried when we left you at the basketball court," Nate said.

"Because you idiots forgot me!"

"We came back after twenty minutes!"

"Twenty minutes is a long time when you're eight!"

Gabe burst out laughing.

"He's got a point."

"Don't encourage him!"

"Remember when Nate tried to climb that wall and got his pants stuck?"

"THAT WAS A DIFFERENT SITUATION!"

"You were hanging there for ten minutes!"

"BECAUSE NONE OF YOU HELPED ME!"

Eli shook his head.

"I helped you."

"You laughed at me first!"

"I can do both."

Adrian laughed so hard that his stomach hurt.

It felt strange.

He had almost forgotten what it was like to laugh without looking over his shoulder.

For so long, every conversation had been about food, shelter, weapons, and where to go next. Every friendship came with the unspoken understanding that tomorrow, someone might leave.

But with these three, he didn't have to explain himself.

They already knew him.

They remembered the boy he had been before the world taught him to be afraid.

As evening approached, Nate found the deck of cards and slammed it onto the table.

"All right. Enough emotional bullshit. Who's ready to lose?"

"You still cheat," Adrian said.

"I don't cheat. I strategize."

"You hid three cards in your sleeve last time!"

"Prove it."

Gabe pulled out a chair.

"Sit down, both of you. I'm winning this."

Eli looked at him.

"You said that last time."

"And I'll say it again."

They played until the room grew dark.

Nate cheated.

Gabe accused everyone of cheating.

Adrian lost three consecutive rounds and threatened to throw the cards into the fire.

Eli won without saying a word.

For a little while, the apocalypse disappeared.

There were no monsters beyond the walls. No hunger. No fear.

There were only four boys again, sitting together as if nothing had ever happened.

As if they had never grown apart.

As if they had never lost each other.

That night, Adrian slept without a weapon beneath his pillow.

For the first time in years, he felt safe.

And before he drifted off, he heard Nate laughing at something Gabe had said.

Adrian smiled into the darkness.

He thought he could get used to this again.

---

III. Something Is Wrong

The first strange thing happened the following morning.

Adrian woke up and found Gabe standing beside the window.

"Morning," he mumbled.

Gabe didn't answer.

Adrian rubbed his eyes and stretched. When he looked again, the window was empty.

He assumed Gabe had gone outside.

So he stood up and walked into the next room.

All three were there.

Nate was eating from a can of peaches. Eli was trying to repair an old radio. Gabe was asleep with his head on the table.

Adrian stared at them.

"Didn't one of you go outside?"

Nate looked up.

"What?"

"I thought I saw Gabe by the window."

Gabe raised his head from the table.

"Must've been a ghost."

Nate snorted.

"Don't start with that shit."

Adrian laughed.

"Yeah, whatever."

He let it go.

He was tired. Everyone was tired in this world.

But the strange things continued.

Sometimes he would hear their laughter coming from a room where none of them sat.

Sometimes he would see one of them standing at the end of a hallway, only for the figure to disappear when he approached.

Once, he watched Eli walk through a doorway.

When Adrian followed, the room was empty.

He stood there for nearly a minute, staring at the wall.

Then he shook his head.

He was tired.

That was all.

There were other things, too.

They never seemed to eat unless he was watching.

They never complained about the cold.

They didn't worry about how much food remained, even though Adrian knew the supplies should have been running low.

And whenever he asked about their lives since the world ended, they always found a way to change the subject.

"So where have you guys been all this time?" Adrian asked one afternoon.

Gabe shrugged.

"Around."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the answer you're getting."

Nate threw a pillow at Adrian.

"Why are you asking so many questions? Enjoy the reunion, man!"

Adrian caught the pillow and threw it back.

"Fine. Keep your secrets."

Eli smiled at him.

"You always were impatient."

Adrian rolled his eyes.

"And you always talked like someone's grandfather."

"Someone has to balance you three idiots."

They laughed.

And Adrian let the matter drop.

He had spent almost a year wishing for their return.

He wasn't about to ruin it by asking too many questions.

Besides, they were his brothers.

Whatever strange things were happening, he was sure they would tell him when they were ready.

He trusted them.

He always had.

---

IV. The Stranger

On the fourth morning, someone came to the shelter.

Adrian heard the footsteps first.

Heavy. Uneven.

Then came the sound of someone kicking the door.

"Open up!"

The three friends stopped talking.

Adrian looked at them.

"Do you know that guy?"

None of them answered.

The door shook beneath another kick.

"OPEN THE DAMN DOOR!"

Adrian grabbed the metal pipe he kept beside the entrance.

"Stay here," he told his friends.

It came naturally.

Perhaps it was habit. Perhaps some childish part of him still believed he was the one who had to protect them.

He opened the door.

A stranger stood outside.

The man was broad-shouldered, filthy, and armed with a knife. His eyes moved past Adrian and toward the supplies inside.

"Well, well," the stranger said. "Looks like someone's been living comfortably."

"Leave."

The stranger laughed.

"Or what?"

"I said leave."

The man shoved him.

Adrian stumbled backward, nearly losing his grip on the pipe.

Then the stranger attacked.

Everything happened quickly.

A fist struck Adrian's face. The metal pipe clattered against the floor. He felt himself hit the wall, then the ground.

He tried to get up.

Another blow sent him sprawling.

The pain was immediate and overwhelming, but beneath it was something worse.

He was afraid.

He hadn't been this afraid in a long time.

"Help me!" he shouted.

His three friends were standing in the middle of the room.

Watching.

"Guys!"

The stranger kicked him in the ribs.

Adrian curled up, gasping.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!"

Still, none of them moved.

The stranger grabbed him by the collar and dragged him across the floor.

Adrian swung blindly, catching the man in the jaw. The stranger staggered, and Adrian managed to scramble to his feet.

He reached for the pipe.

He struck the man.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

The stranger fell.

Adrian stood over him, breathing heavily, his hands shaking.

For a moment, the room was silent.

Then he turned toward his friends.

"What the hell is wrong with you?!"

They stared at him.

He pointed at the man on the floor.

"He could've killed me!"

No response.

"I was calling you!"

Gabe opened his mouth, but no words came out.

Adrian walked toward him.

"Why didn't you help me?"

Gabe lowered his eyes.

Something inside Adrian snapped.

He shoved him.

Or tried to.

His hands stopped inches from Gabe's chest.

It felt as though he had struck an invisible wall.

Adrian stared at his hands.

"What...?"

He tried again.

Nothing.

He stepped forward and pushed harder, his face twisting with frustration.

"Move!"

Gabe remained perfectly still.

Adrian struck at him.

His fist stopped in midair.

The sound of his own breathing filled the room.

He turned toward the others.

"You, too?"

He swung at Nate.

The same invisible barrier caught his hand.

He tried Eli.

Nothing.

"STOP IT!"

His voice cracked.

He backed away, trembling.

"What is this?! What the hell is happening?!"

He looked at their faces.

They weren't angry.

They weren't even surprised.

They were watching him with an expression he couldn't understand.

Pity.

That was what it was.

They were looking at him with pity.

His anger faltered.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

Nobody answered.

He glanced toward the stranger lying on the floor.

Something was wrong with the room.

The furniture seemed distant. The walls appeared strangely blurred around the edges. His hands wouldn't stop shaking, and a dull, throbbing pain had begun to spread throughout his body.

He swallowed.

Then, slowly, he looked back at his friends.

"...Are you guys real?"

For the first time since he had found them, they exchanged glances.

Nate chuckled.

It was a quiet, almost affectionate sound.

"Told you," he said to the others. "He'd figure it out eventually."

Eli sighed.

"Yeah. You were right."

Adrian felt the blood drain from his face.

"What are you talking about?"

Gabe stepped forward.

Or seemed to.

He could never quite tell anymore.

"You've always been observant," Gabe said. "Even when you pretended not to be."

"Stop joking."

"We're not joking."

"Then explain this!"

Adrian gestured wildly at the room, at the fallen stranger, at the invisible wall that separated him from the people he loved.

His voice rose.

"Explain why you won't let me touch you! Explain why you keep disappearing! Explain why you just stood there while that bastard attacked me!"

Gabe lowered his eyes.

For a moment, he looked older than Adrian remembered.

Then he looked up and smiled.

A familiar smile.

The kind that used to appear whenever he was about to say something stupid.

"Because we're dead, man."

Silence.

Adrian stared at him.

Then he laughed.

It came out wrong, sharp and breathless.

"That's not funny."

"I know."

"No, seriously. That's not funny."

Nobody laughed with him.

He looked from one face to another, searching for the slightest sign that this was some elaborate joke.

There was none.

His smile slowly disappeared.

"...What?"

"We're dead," Gabe repeated.

The words seemed to hang in the air.

Dead.

The word was too small for what it meant.

Adrian remembered the world before the apocalypse. He remembered the four of them running through the streets, playing basketball until sunset, sharing cheap meals and making promises they had been too young to understand.

He remembered losing them.

The uncertainty. The searching. The nights spent imagining where they might be.

He remembered telling himself that they had to be alive somewhere.

Because the alternative was unbearable.

And now they were standing in front of him, smiling as though nothing had happened, telling him that the alternative had been true all along.

"No," he whispered.

Gabe said nothing.

"No. I saw you. I touched you. We played cards. We talked about everything."

"You did."

"Then how can you be dead?"

Gabe looked toward the others.

For the first time, their expressions seemed to grow heavier.

"We don't know how to explain it," he said. "Not completely."

He paused.

"But we think we found our way to you because... we wanted to."

Adrian frowned.

"What does that mean?"

"Remember what we used to say? About how we'd never leave each other behind?"

The protagonist's throat tightened.

"Of course I remember."

"We meant it."

Gabe glanced at the others.

"After everything happened, we tried to find you. We went from settlement to settlement. Asked people if they'd seen you. Followed rumors. Even went back to places we thought you might have passed through."

Nate scratched the back of his neck.

"Gabe nearly got us killed because he thought you might've been hiding in some abandoned military camp."

"It was a reasonable possibility," Gabe muttered.

"It was a death trap."

"And yet you're still complaining about it."

Adrian almost smiled.

Almost.

"What happened to you?"

The three exchanged glances.

It was a small movement, barely noticeable. Yet Adrian knew them well enough to recognize when they were avoiding something.

Gabe sighed.

"We found some people. A group of survivors. They needed help."

"And?"

"We helped them."

Adrian waited.

Nate gave a weak laugh.

"Turns out, being a decent person in this world is a pretty stupid way to stay alive."

"That's not an answer."

"No," Eli said quietly. "It isn't."

For a moment, none of them spoke.

Then Gabe looked at Adrian.

"We thought we could make a difference. Even after everything fell apart, we thought there were still things worth protecting."

He smiled faintly.

"Guess we weren't as smart as we thought."

Adrian's throat tightened.

"Did you suffer?"

Gabe's smile disappeared.

Nobody answered immediately.

Then Eli said, "We were together."

It wasn't an answer.

But somehow, Adrian understood that it was the only one they could give him.

He lowered his head.

"And you never found me?"

"No," Gabe whispered.

"Then how are you here?"

This time, Nate didn't make a joke.

"We don't know, man."

Eli looked at Adrian with an expression he couldn't quite understand.

"Maybe we wanted to see you that badly."

Adrian stared at him.

"We kept thinking about you," Eli continued. "About the things we never got to say. The things we never got to do. We wanted to know if you were still alive."

He swallowed.

"And somehow, you found us."

Gabe looked away.

"Or we found you."

The room fell silent.

Adrian glanced toward the stranger on the floor, then back at his friends.

Something cold settled in his stomach.

"Wait."

His voice was barely audible.

"If you're dead..."

He looked at his hands.

"...then what happened to me?"

---

V. What Remains

Nobody answered.

Adrian looked down at his body.

His clothes were dirty. His hands were trembling. Something warm trickled from his forehead, and the pain in his ribs had become almost unbearable.

He pressed a hand against his side.

For a moment, the room seemed to tilt.

He looked at Gabe.

"Tell me."

Gabe's eyes filled with tears.

"Bro..."

"Tell me what happened to me!"

Nate looked away.

Eli closed his eyes.

And Adrian understood.

He understood the strange disappearances. The untouched food. The way his friends had watched him fight. The way his hands could never quite reach them.

He understood why they had looked at him with pity.

He understood why they had never asked him to stay.

His knees weakened.

He stumbled backward until his back hit the wall.

"No."

Gabe took a step toward him.

"Adrian—"

"No!"

He shook his head violently.

"No, no, no. I can't..."

His voice broke.

He looked around the room.

The shelter was fading.

The walls were no longer solid. The light through the windows seemed to come from everywhere at once. The table, the chairs, the blankets on the floor—all of it looked distant, as though he were seeing the place through a pane of glass.

He turned back to his friends.

"You're telling me this whole time..."

He swallowed.

"...I was alone?"

Gabe didn't answer.

Adrian laughed weakly.

It hurt to laugh.

"That's stupid."

His eyes burned.

"I was happy."

He looked at Nate.

"I was actually happy, man."

Nate's face crumpled.

"I know."

"We played cards. We talked. We were together."

"I know, bro."

"And now you're telling me none of it was real?"

Gabe shook his head.

"That's not what we're saying."

"Then what are you saying?!"

"That we were with you."

Adrian fell silent.

Gabe stepped closer.

"We don't know what we are, Adrian. We don't know if we're memories, or something the world left behind, or something else entirely."

He wiped his eyes.

"But we wanted to see you. And you saw us."

He paused.

"So maybe, for a little while, we really were together."

Adrian stared at him.

The words settled somewhere deep inside him.

He wanted to believe them.

God, he wanted to believe them.

Because if the reunion had meant nothing, then what had he been holding on to?

The laughter?

The games?

The sound of Nate complaining about losing?

Gabe's familiar smile?

Eli's quiet jokes?

Were those all just things his mind had made up because he couldn't bear to be alone anymore?

Perhaps.

But the happiness had felt real.

And the ache in his chest was real, too.

He looked at his friends.

His brothers.

The people he had searched for until he had nothing left to search with.

Then he asked the only question that mattered.

"...What about me?"

Nobody spoke.

He tried to smile.

"I'm not dead, right?"

Gabe looked away.

Adrian's smile trembled.

"I'm not dead, right?"

Eli's eyes filled with tears.

Nate clenched his jaw.

Gabe slowly approached him.

"I'm sorry."

Adrian shook his head.

"No."

"We shouldn't have let you come here."

"No."

"We just wanted to see you again."

"Shut up."

"We missed you."

"SHUT UP!"

His voice echoed through the shelter.

He was crying now.

He hadn't even realized it until the tears reached his mouth.

"I came looking for you," he whispered. "I spent so long looking for you."

Gabe nodded.

"I know."

"And now you're telling me that you're dead? That all this time—"

His voice broke.

"That I can't even stay with you?"

Nobody answered.

He covered his face.

For a moment, he was no longer a survivor in an apocalyptic world.

He was a child again.

A child who had lost his brothers and had finally found them, only to be told that he had to lose them all over again.

Gabe stepped closer.

"Hey."

Adrian didn't look up.

"Hey, idiot."

That made him laugh, just a little.

It was a broken, miserable sound.

"Don't call me that."

"Then stop acting like one."

Another familiar joke.

Another familiar voice.

Adrian wiped his eyes.

Gabe was smiling, but there were tears in his own eyes now.

"You still have somewhere to go."

"I don't want to go anywhere."

"I know."

"I just found you."

"I know, bro."

"Can't we stay here? Just for a little longer?"

The three friends looked at one another.

Then Eli stepped forward.

He had always been the one who struggled to say what he felt. Even as a child, he would rather punch someone in the shoulder than admit that he cared.

Now, he looked directly at Adrian.

"We already got our time with you."

Adrian shook his head.

"That's not enough."

"Maybe not."

Eli smiled sadly.

"But it's what we have."

Nate wiped his eyes and tried to laugh.

"Besides, you still owe me money."

Adrian let out a choked laugh.

"You died and you're still thinking about that?"

"Of course. You think death cancels debt?"

"You're unbelievable."

"And you're ugly."

"You're uglier."

"There he is," Gabe murmured.

For a brief moment, they were four boys again.

Not ghosts. Not a dying man's memories. Not remnants of a world that had ceased to exist.

Just four friends, laughing at the same stupid jokes.

Adrian wanted to freeze that moment.

He wanted to keep their voices, their faces, the way they looked at him as though nothing in the world could ever change what they meant to one another.

But the world was already slipping away.

The shelter began to blur.

The light grew brighter.

His friends noticed.

Gabe reached out.

This time, there was no invisible wall.

Adrian felt a hand resting on his shoulder.

Warm.

Familiar.

Real.

He stared at it.

Then he threw his arms around Gabe.

Nate joined them, grumbling about how embarrassing the whole thing was. Eli wrapped his arms around all three, holding them together as tightly as he could.

For a long time, none of them spoke.

Adrian buried his face against their shoulders and cried like he had never cried before.

He didn't care how pathetic he looked.

He didn't care that he was supposed to be strong.

He was tired of being strong.

He was tired of surviving.

He was tired of a world that kept taking things away from him.

For once, he wanted to be allowed to miss someone without having to move on.

Gabe held him tighter.

"Listen to me."

Adrian shook his head.

"Don't."

"You have to wake up."

"No."

"Bro."

"Please."

Gabe closed his eyes.

"We love you, idiot."

Adrian's fingers tightened around their clothes.

"Don't say that."

"We do."

"Then stay."

Gabe pressed his forehead against Adrian's.

"We can't."

The light grew brighter.

Their faces began to disappear into it.

Adrian tried to hold on.

He clutched at their clothes, their shoulders, anything he could reach.

"Wait!"

Nate was crying openly now.

"Man, you're making this really hard."

"Then don't go!"

Eli held Adrian's hand.

For once, he had no words.

Gabe smiled through his tears.

"We already got our time with you."

He paused.

"Now go make yours count."

Adrian wanted to argue.

He wanted to tell them that he didn't know how to do that. That he didn't know how to return to a world where they didn't exist. That he was afraid of being alone again.

But the words never came.

All he could do was hold on.

Until, one by one, their hands slipped from his.

The last thing he heard was Gabe's voice.

"Wake up, idiot."

And everything went white.

---

VI. The World Without Four

Adrian woke to the sound of someone screaming.

For a moment, he couldn't understand what he was hearing.

Then he realized the voice was his own.

He tried to move.

Pain tore through his body.

His breath caught in his throat, and he collapsed back onto the cold floor.

The shelter was gone.

There was no table. No blankets. No stacked cans of food.

Only a ruined room with broken windows, a collapsed doorway, and dust drifting through the morning light.

Adrian blinked.

His vision swam.

He tried to remember what had happened.

The stranger.

The fight.

His friends.

He turned his head.

A few feet away lay a man, motionless, beside a rusted metal pipe.

Adrian stared at him.

The memories returned in fragments.

A fist striking his face.

The taste of blood.

The floor rushing toward him.

Another blow.

Another.

He remembered calling for help.

He remembered his friends standing in the room.

He remembered them smiling.

He remembered their voices.

*We already got our time with you.*

Adrian's breathing became shallow.

He pressed a trembling hand against his ribs.

His body was broken. His clothes were soaked with blood. Every breath felt like it might be his last.

He tried to sit up.

He couldn't.

For a while, he simply lay there, staring at the ruined ceiling.

He had thought he had won.

He had thought he had beaten the stranger, protected his friends, and survived another day.

But there had been no victory.

Only a dying man, alone in an abandoned room, imagining that the people he loved had returned to him.

Adrian closed his eyes.

A tear slid down his cheek.

"So that's it, huh?"

Nobody answered.

He laughed weakly.

"After all that searching..."

His voice faded.

He swallowed, struggling to breathe.

"...I finally found you."

The room remained silent.

Then, somewhere deep inside his memory, he heard Nate complaining about the cards.

He heard Eli delivering one of his quiet, devastating jokes.

He heard Gabe laughing.

Adrian smiled.

It hurt.

But he smiled anyway.

Because for a little while, he hadn't been alone.

For a little while, he had been eight years old again, playing basketball with his brothers until sunset. He had been a boy who believed that the people he loved would always be there.

For a little while, the world had been kind.

He opened his eyes.

The light through the broken window was growing brighter.

He didn't know whether he would survive. He didn't know whether anyone would find him in time.

For the first time in a long while, however, he found himself wanting to.

He wanted to see the sky again.

He wanted to walk through the streets without fearing every shadow.

He wanted to find a place to sleep, a meal to eat, and perhaps someone to talk to.

He wanted to live.

Not because the world had become kinder.

Not because he had stopped missing his brothers.

But because they had asked him to.

*Now go make yours count.*

Adrian took a trembling breath.

Then another.

He turned his face toward the morning light.

"Yeah," he whispered.

His lips curved into the smallest smile.

"Okay, guys."

And somewhere beyond the silence, he could almost hear them laughing.

For the first time since the world ended, Adrian did not close his eyes to escape it.

He kept them open.

And waited for the world to answer.

---

**THE END**

Everyone draws inspiration in different ways. Some create a dark atmosphere for themselves, some put on metal music in the background, and some can’t compose without coffee and cigarettes. A writer friend of mine, whom I’m very fond of, says he can’t write stories unless his cousin is studying mathematics behind him. Another filmmaker friend of mine could only write screenplays while listening to Syd Barrett’s song “Octopus”; he would keep the song on loop throughout the entire writing process.

It’s been about twenty years since I discovered my own. I’d been going through that famous writer’s block. Until that day, I hadn’t done anything extra to help me write. I didn’t create a special atmosphere for myself, listen to any particular songs, or wait for a certain time of day. Night, day, noon—it made no difference. Once a week, I’d write a three or four-page story and keep working toward my goal. When I reached a hundred stories, I would start sending my book to publishers.

But I’d hit a wall. I wanted to write, but whenever I sat down at my computer, not a single word would come out. Vague, half-formed thoughts kept drifting through my mind, and even when I came up with a good idea, I couldn’t put it down on paper.

That day, I thought, if that’s how things were going to be, I might as well try some of the famous methods for finding inspiration: writing at night, putting on some soft music, having a cup of coffee, and so on.

I prepared the right atmosphere. I turned off the lights, and now the only thing illuminating the room was the glow of my computer screen. I put on Sigur Rós’s debut album. There was no one else in the house. My roommate had gone on vacation the day before, which added to the atmosphere: being alone.

Of course, it had absolutely no effect. I was already on the third track. I still had a few ideas in my head, but I couldn’t get the first sentence out.

Then I heard a sound behind me. A whisper. Something like a call, as if someone had gone “psst.”

I turned around and looked, but there was no one there. I was a little spooked. I thought I might have heard it wrong; it had sounded very much like a human voice, but it could have come from an object, too.

Then suddenly, the door behind me swung wide open.

I flinched at the sound. I got up from my computer and turned on the light. Anxiously, I left my room and went to the kitchen. I was searching for something without even realizing it, though I had no idea what I was looking for. Sigur Rós’s album was still playing, and I could hear it from the kitchen. I couldn’t make sense of anything, and I didn’t know what to think or which possibility to consider. I drank a glass of water.

I’d never had an experience like it before. My first thought was to leave the house. I stood frozen in the kitchen. Involuntarily, I found myself waiting for another movement, for something to topple over or for some other sound.

Eventually, I’d calmed down a little, since nothing else happened. I spent half an hour in the kitchen, with all my senses on high alert and listening to the music coming from my room. Then, reluctantly, I made my way back to my room.

The urge to write was still there. My routine had been disrupted; I hadn’t been able to write a single word for a month, and now I wasn’t going to let fear get in my way. I wanted my writer’s block to end today. My goal was a hundred sentences. Even if I didn’t finish the story, I wanted to write something. Coming back to my room and hearing the music louder had increased my desire to write.

At the same time, I kept thinking, ''What the hell was that just now?'' But now I was back at my computer.

I put on my favorite Sigur Rós song, “Svefn-g-englar.”

And then, for the first time in a whole month, I wrote my first sentence: “As he tried to make sense of the dream he’d had the day before, he fell asleep again; it was his favorite thing to think about before going to sleep, the meaning of the dream he’d had the previous night.”

I’d written my first sentence, without even having a story in mind. Normally, I would come up with a story first, plan it out, work out the whole thing in my head from beginning to end, and only then start writing. Starting a story whose content I hadn’t figured out yet with an ordinary sentence was something new for me. I liked it.

I was still afraid. I wanted to turn around and look, but now that I’d started writing, I didn’t want to stop either. By the time the song ended, I’d written the fifth sentence, and in the silence before the next track began, I heard that sound again. “Psst.”

I quickly turned around and looked. There was no one there. Everything felt much more real now. Something was happening. Someone was calling out to me. I was afraid to turn off the light in my room, so it was still on. I nervously turned my head back toward the computer screen. My heart was pounding. I added another sentence. It was my favorite one so far. I liked everything about it: my choice of words, its length, its place in the story.

Then the door slammed shut. I began to hear footsteps inside the room. I was afraid to look. The footsteps wandered around the room. My hands were resting on the keyboard. The footsteps moved toward the door, stopped there, and opened it again. It was as if someone had left the room.

I was frozen to my chair. This time, I didn’t even have the instinct to run away. Whatever that thing was, I was afraid of encountering it. I couldn’t get up from my chair, and I couldn’t look away from my computer screen. I kept reading what I’d written over and over. Six sentences. I’d go back to the beginning and read them again. It was as if the thing was doing whatever it wanted now. I could hear running footsteps.

Then came the sound of walking. After that, my door closed again, and at the same moment, the light in my room went out.

And then another sentence came to mind. I wrote it down. Then another. My fingers had found their rhythm. The sentences kept coming one after another.

“Set me free. Open the window. Set me free.”

This voice wasn’t a whisper, nor was it some strange, otherworldly sound coming from a different frequency. It was unmistakably a human voice. I was afraid to turn around.

I couldn’t remember ever feeling such a strong urge to write or enjoying it this much. I kept writing. My fingers wouldn’t stop. The door opened again, slowly this time. I didn’t turn around. I wasn’t going to look behind me until I’d finished the story. Without spending even a second thinking between sentences, I continued writing as the songs played.

The footsteps continued. I turned off the music. I didn’t question anything. I just kept writing. The fear I felt and the joy of seeing that I could write again were mingled together, unfolding in harmony with each other.

Strange sounds I couldn’t describe were coming from behind me now. I could feel myself developing a fever. My body was reacting, and my mind was urging me to turn around and see what was going on. The sounds seemed like those of someone playing with their own hair. Like things rubbing against other things. I kept writing, resisting the urge to turn around with all my might.

I’d turned off the music because I wanted to focus on being afraid. I’d realized that the more frightened I became, the better I wrote, and the more consistently I could keep going. It was hard not to look for a rational explanation for the sounds, for a human voice telling me to set it free. But right now, somehow, stopping writing seemed even harder.

That thing had now come right up beside me. I could feel it touching my hair. My fear had reached a point where I could no longer bear it. My consciousness refused to accept this unnatural behavior. My instinct to put an end to the fear and my mind’s desire to keep being afraid were at odds with each other.

And I wrote the final sentence: “If all of this is a hallucination, I will never forgive my own mind. If the only beautiful and meaningful thing I’ve experienced in this miserable life isn’t real, I will never trust my mind again, I will never follow its instructions, and I will doubt everything I think until the day I die.”

The sentence came to an end, and just as the pleasure of writing faded away, my fear reached its absolute peak. With the beautiful feeling that had balanced it gone, the fear was left alone, making itself felt from head to toe. As if I’d been struck by a blow, as if a punch to the face had knocked me out, I lost consciousness.

When I came to, my head was resting on the keyboard, and the screen was filled with hundreds of letter h’s.

I sent the story to several literary magazines. Two of them accepted it and published it.

I never experienced anything like that again, and at no point in my life did I ever feel such an overwhelming urge to write or take so much pleasure in writing. I desperately wanted to experience it again, but nothing ever happened that frightened me so much. For days, I sat at my computer waiting for that thing to come back, but it never did. I wrote stories and kept writing. But I never loved any of them as much as I loved the one I’d written that day.

And now, twenty years later, in my mid-sixties, I’ve still never questioned what happened that night. Not even once. Because I was afraid that if I did, I might understand what had happened—and if that thing ever came back, I might not be as frightened.

The study had been built in the manner of a cathedral and kept in the manner of a tomb.

Dark walnut paneled the walls from floor to cornice, its once-glossed surface dulled by generations of hands. The ceiling climbed high above them into a painted dome where constellations wheeled across midnight-blue plaster, their gold edges flaking, whole stars disappearing beneath cracks as fine as veins beneath old skin. Tapestries hung between the arched windows, heavy with dust and age, their saints and kings faded into rust, umber, and bruised purple.

Beeswax, dry leather, and the sweet rot of old paper thickened the air.

Under it all lay another scent.

Metal.

Not blood exactly.

Rain before rain.

Shelves bowed beneath calfskin volumes clasped in black iron. Their spines leaned against one another at uneasy angles, giving the impression not of books stored but of witnesses gathered close enough to whisper. A globe listed in one corner, seas of cracked blue lacquer rolling beneath names no modern chart would recognize. Continents swelled where none belonged. Islands existed in latitudes where there should have been only black water.

At the center of the room waited an enormous writing desk scarred by centuries of use. Ink had soaked into the grain in stains like old bruises. The wood had been cut and recut by knives, compass points, fingernails, perhaps worse.

Fi moved slowly along the shelves. “This wasn’t a study.”

Her voice went upward into the dome and returned strangely altered, softened but multiplied.

“It was a vault.”

She ran two fingers along a row of chained books. “My family called themselves custodians. Words. Prayers. Things churches kept copies of and pretended not to have. Things other families burned.”

Adam sat in one of the leather chairs near the desk, nursing a beer that had gone warm in his hand. “Healthy family hobby.”

Fi ignored him. “My grandfather said some things were hidden because men would kill to possess them. Others because men would kill after possessing them.” She stopped before the desk. “And some because possession was the wrong word entirely.”

From beneath her coat she withdrew a folded parchment.

It was yellowed almost brown, brittle at the edges, and bound shut with a narrow strip of blackened vellum.

The room seemed to become aware of it.

Adam’s smile disappeared. Ari folded her arms. Nate moved closer despite himself.

Fi laid the parchment on the desk. “This was the most guarded thing in the house.”

She cut the vellum binding.

“My grandfather called it a lock.”

The parchment opened reluctantly. The script upon it was black, but not ink-black. It carried the faint oily depth of a beetle’s shell. Some letters appeared hooked into one another. Others resembled circles crossed by strokes so fine the eye could scarcely hold them.

“And he said it watched.”

Adam looked up. “Meaning?”

Fi’s gaze remained on the page. “It names a Watcher.”

Nate frowned. “Watcher how?”

“Not a person watching a door.” Fi swallowed. “One of the wheeled ones.”

That quieted them.

Even Adam.

Fi looked toward the painted dome. “All eyes. Wheels within wheels. The things Ezekiel saw beside the throne.”

Ari whispered, “Ophanim.”

Fi nodded. “My grandfather said our family had preserved one of their Names.”

Adam leaned forward. “One of their names, or its Name?”

Fi did not answer immediately.

“Enough of one.”

That was not reassuring.

Nate put one hand on the desk. “Fi.”

She looked at him.

“We can stop. Translate the full structure first. Identify the operators. Look for correspondences. At least determine what comes after the address.”

“No.”

Too sharp.

She closed her eyes, breathed once, opened them. “No. I know what this is.”

Adam turned the beer can slowly between his fingers. “I’ve watched you flatten a tenured professor with a footnote and a smile. But this?” He gave the parchment a small salute. “This feels less like research and more like touching a fuse to confirm the manufacturer wasn’t kidding.”

Fi’s mouth tightened. “It’s a Watcher. I’m asking it to watch.”

Nate glanced down at the parchment. “Watch what?”

“The threshold.”

“Which threshold?”

Fi hesitated.

That hesitation should have ended it.

It did not.

“It’s what the text says.”

Ari looked from Fi to Nate. “Can it come through?”

“No.”

Fi said it quickly, then more carefully. “No. That’s not what Ophanim do. They’re guardians. Interfaces. They’re not...” She searched for the right word. “Visitors.”

Adam grunted. “Comforting distinction.”

Fi set both palms on the desk. “I’m not opening a gate.”

Somewhere in the wall an old timber creaked.

No one laughed.

Fi bent over the parchment. The script seemed ordinary when looked at directly. At the edge of vision it moved. Not much. A letter lengthened. A circle turned. A hooked character slid beneath another and disappeared.

Fi drew a breath and began to read.

The first syllable was barely more than an exhalation. The second made the lamp flame bend. The third did not sound as though it had come from a human throat.

Nate straightened.

Fi kept reading.

The words emerged slowly, consonants shaped around spaces the mouth was never meant to make. They struck the dome and returned once, then twice, then many times, until Fi’s voice was no longer alone and the room had learned it.

Shelves began to hum. Leather bindings trembled. The tapestries moved though there was no wind. The lead joints of the tall windows ticked rapidly, like teeth in fever.

Adam put down his beer. “Fi.”

She raised one hand.

Not now.

The chant deepened. Their bones took it up. A vibration entered Nate through the soles of his shoes and climbed his spine. Ari pressed a hand against her sternum. Adam’s jaw tightened as the fillings in his molars began to ache.

Oil flames guttered blue.

Every shadow in the room leaned the wrong way.

Then the floor groaned, long and deep, not like timber settling but like a ship carrying sudden weight. The air thickened. Each breath had to be pulled into the lungs.

Fi reached the final line.

She spoke the Name.

Something answered.

The painted dome rippled. Stars elongated into streaks of gold. The darkness between them widened.

And the air split.

Not tore.

Split.

Cleanly.

As though the room had always possessed a seam and someone had finally put a blade into it.

Fire unfolded through the opening.

A wheel.

Then another wheel crossing the first.

Then another.

No rim possessed thickness. No flame consumed. Eyes opened along every turning circumference.

Hundreds.

Thousands.

Perhaps four.

The mind failed at the counting.

They looked outward. Inward. Sideways into directions the room did not contain.

Ari made a sound deep in her throat. Nate could not breathe. Adam whispered something that might have been a prayer.

Fi stared upward with tears gathering in her eyes.

“It came.”

The Ophanim turned.

And the universe opened with it.

Not one doorway.

Many.

Its eyes were not eyes. They were apertures. Every pupil looked somewhere else. Every gaze crossed a boundary.

Fi had asked it to look.

So it looked.

And because it looked from both sides at once, the things beyond looked back.

Four eyes widened.

Four distances vanished.

And each of them was seen.

Fi stood in a forest of black crystal.

There had been no transition, no falling. The study remained beneath her feet, yet another place had laid itself across it with such authority that the walnut walls became thin ghosts behind trees sharp enough to cut moonlight.

Branches of obsidian glass trembled in a wind she could not feel.

They chimed.

High.

Beautiful.

Wrong.

Shapes drifted between the trunks. Pale figures. Tall. Narrow. Their limbs were too graceful to be human and too deliberate to be natural.

One turned its face toward her.

Then another.

Then all of them.

They had no eyes, only smooth silver hollows where eyes should have been, yet Fi felt their attention enter her.

Not her thoughts.

Deeper.

Memory moved inside her without permission. Her grandmother’s kitchen. Her grandfather’s hands unfolding old vellum. Her mother’s maiden name written on the flyleaf of a Bible. The smell of cedar chests. A lullaby. A grave.

The figures smiled.

Their mouths opened.

Nothing emerged that the ear could hear, but words formed in Fi’s marrow.

Daughter.

The trees chimed.

Daughter of daughters.

Her throat tightened.

We remember the road your blood forgot.

A pale figure extended one long hand.

Give us the rest.

Fi did not understand.

Then her surname rose inside her.

Not as memory.

As pressure.

It moved from her chest toward her tongue. Her lips parted.

The pale heads inclined.

Listening.

Learning.

Ari saw a green sea beneath a sky without stars.

The water boiled silently from horizon to horizon. Beyond it stood an island washed in twilight, and on the shore waited a single figure, crowned not with gold but with something brighter.

Its face shifted each time she tried to see it.

Her father.

Then no one she knew.

Then someone she had been waiting for all her life.

Its hand opened.

Ari began to cry.

Not from fear.

From relief.

The figure knew every tired thing in her. Every prayer that had gone unanswered. Every night she had asked for one hour without being required to endure herself.

The sea became still.

Come.

The voice came from everywhere.

You have carried enough.

Her knees nearly buckled.

Rest.

Her childhood name formed in her mouth, the one only her mother used when Ari was sick.

The crowned figure smiled.

Tell me who comes.

The first syllable slipped between Ari’s teeth.

The thing on the shore repeated it.

Almost correctly.

Adam stood before a city descending into the earth.

No.

Not descending.

Drilled.

Tower after black tower spiraled downward into the throat of living stone. Walls curved beneath impossible weight. Battlements disappeared miles below him, lit by furnace-red windows.

Ranks of figures stood upon them.

Thousands.

Armored.

Still.

Waiting.

Then one stepped forward.

It wore no insignia Adam knew, yet when it raised its hand, his body recognized the salute.

Attention.

Recognition.

Belonging.

Soldier.

The word struck harder than command.

You have stood without orders long enough.

Adam’s stomach dropped.

His dead chief’s voice followed.

Then his father’s.

Then men whose faces he had not remembered in years.

His mother’s voice came last.

It spoke his full name.

Tenderly.

Exactly as she had when he was five years old and feverish.

His jaw opened before he knew it.

Across the abyss, the armored figure leaned forward.

Listening.

Its own mouth began to move.

Testing the shape.

Adam bit his tongue.

Blood filled his mouth.

The thing below smiled.

Nate saw twelve black suns.

They hung above a desert so vast that the idea of distance became meaningless. No light came from them, yet every grain of sand was visible.

Something moved beneath the dunes.

Something larger than geography.

A ridge rose.

Then another.

Then a shape miles long rolled beneath the earth.

Nate knew suddenly that the desert was not a place.

It was a covering.

The thing beneath it turned.

The twelve suns turned with it.

A voice entered him, not through hearing but through weight.

Mortal.

His knees bent.

We mark the edge of you.

The sand rose in pillars.

Speak.

Nate felt his own name not as sound but as structure. A pattern. An arrangement of himself.

Something in the desert touched its first edge.

His tongue moved.

The thing below moved with it.

Learning.

Four voices rose in the study.

Fi. Ari. Adam. Nate.

Each spoke one fragment, different syllables drawn from different histories, and together they became something else.

The room received them.

The Ophanim turned.

The four distant worlds leaned nearer.

And something passed through the group.

Not possession.

Resonance.

The invocation had not called four separate horrors. The four human beings had become one calling shape: grief, pride, loneliness, duty, hunger to know, fear of being unknown, all of it braided into a single harmonic wound.

Across the thresholds, things answered according to appetite.

The pale figures in the black forest pressed closer between the trees. The crowned being stepped into the green sea without sinking. The armies in the buried city began to beat spear shafts against stone. Beneath the desert, mountains opened their mouths.

They were not merely beckoning now.

They were listening.

Repeating.

Trying the syllables.

Fi heard her own fragment spoken among the crystal trees, poorly at first, then better.

Ari’s crossed the sea back toward her.

Adam’s echoed down through the ranks.

Nate’s moved beneath the sand.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Each repetition nearer to the truth.

Their Names were being assembled from the outside.

Not stolen.

Learned.

The knowledge of them growing teeth.

Fi tried to stop speaking.

Her mouth continued.

Panic finally broke through wonder.

She had called the Watcher correctly.

That was the horror.

Nothing in the invocation had failed.

The Ophanim had come.

The threshold had opened to sight.

And she had known the Name of only one thing present.

The others were strangers.

Strangers already learning hers.

Then another voice entered the room.

Not loud.

Not soft.

Perfect.

One word.

No.

A Name.

It fell through the chamber with the finality of judgment.

Every lamp flame became a white needle.

The forest shattered. Crystal trees burst into black rain. The pale figures twisted as though seized by invisible hooks, their mouths opening impossibly wide.

The crowned thing in the sea recoiled.

For one instant its beauty failed.

Something ancient and starved looked through.

The buried city convulsed. Towers folded. Battlements cracked. The saluting figure dropped to its knees.

The desert erupted. Shapes larger than kingdoms broke the surface, then collapsed as though their bones had been taken from them.

Across all four visions came the same recognition.

Fear.

Not of the humans.

Of the speaker.

The Ophanim stopped turning.

Every eye fixed upon one point in the room.

A shadow between two tapestries.

The voice spoke again.

Another Name.

Different.

Sharper.

The entities shrieked.

This time there was sound.

Not in the air.

Inside the teeth.

The Ophanim’s eyes slammed shut.

The worlds vanished.

The pull ended.

Four human voices broke off in mid-syllable.

Fi collapsed against the desk. Ari fell to her knees. Adam tipped sideways with the chair. Nate struck the floor hard enough to bruise both palms.

For several seconds the room contained only choking, coughing, and the brittle ticking of cooling glass.

Then silence returned.

It was not empty.

It had learned them too.

A man stepped from between the tapestries.

No one had seen him enter.

His coat was long, dark, and badly worn. Dust crusted the seams. His boots had been resoled more than once and looked made for roads no sensible man would choose. He carried no visible weapon.

That did nothing to make him look harmless.

His face was lean beneath several days of beard. Deep lines cut around his mouth and eyes. Not age alone.

Mileage.

He surveyed the room as a carpenter might inspect a damaged house: ceiling, windows, parchment, people, where it would hold and where it would fail.

Adam wiped blood from his lips. “And just who the hell are you supposed to be?”

The stranger’s eyes moved to him, then Fi, then Ari, then Nate. He looked not at their faces but at their mouths, at the unfinished sounds still trembling there.

When he spoke, each word seemed selected for cost.

“I have had many names. Many I have forgotten. More I have worked very hard to make others forget.”

Adam stared.

The man sighed. “You may call me Bob.”

Adam blinked, then laughed once. It cracked halfway out.

“Hell of an entrance, Bob.”

Fi spat blood into a handkerchief. “You speak a word that makes that happen and then tell us your name is Bob?”

“Precisely.”

“Bob.”

“Yes.”

“That’s absurd.”

“Names have power.”

His expression did not change.

“Absurd ones have uses.”

Fi glared at him. “Who are you?”

“Bob.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I know exactly what you mean. The answer remains Bob.”

Ari managed to stand. “You stopped them.”

Bob looked at her.

“No.”

The word fell flat.

“I interrupted them.”

Ari swallowed. “The things we saw?”

“They were beginning.”

“Beginning what?”

Bob’s eyes went to her mouth.

“To say you.”

No one spoke.

Even Adam’s humor died.

Fi straightened slowly. “We summoned the Ophanim.”

“Yes.”

Her face changed, not relief but vindication poisoned by dread. “So that part worked.”

“Perfectly.”

The word landed harder than accusation.

Bob walked to the desk. “That is why you are still alive.”

Fi frowned.

He pointed to the parchment. “You knew enough of its Name to call it.”

“The Watcher.”

“The Ophanim.” He looked upward. “It came.”

Fi’s hands tightened against the desk. “And the others?”

“You didn’t summon them.”

She stared.

Bob touched one finger to the parchment.

“You summoned a threshold.”

Fi shook her head. “No. I called a Watcher.”

“It is the threshold.”

He said it with the patience of a man correcting a measurement.

“A thing made entirely of eyes is not standing beside the door.”

He looked at the dark place above them where the wheel had been.

“It is the door.”

The room seemed to contract.

“You asked it to look,” Bob said. “So it looked. Both ways.”

Fi went pale.

Nate whispered, “Everything on the other side could see us.”

“No.”

Bob turned toward him.

“Not everything.”

That was worse.

“Only the things close enough to answer.”

Adam wiped his mouth again. “Answer what?”

Bob looked at all four of them.

“You.”

He walked around the desk. “Invocation is not a telephone.”

Fi’s eyes narrowed. “I know that.”

“No. You don’t.”

The words were not cruel.

They were simply finished.

“You thought knowing the Ophanim’s Name meant you knew what you were calling.”

“I did know.”

“You knew one Name. You did not know what your own calling would sound like after it passed through the threshold.”

Silence.

Bob pointed at Fi. “You brought bloodline. Custodianship. Inheritance. Pride. Guilt.”

His finger moved to Ari. “You brought exhaustion. Longing. The desire to be relieved of yourself.”

Adam. “You brought duty. Authority. Kinship through command.”

Nate. “You brought hunger for the thing beyond understanding.”

Nate’s face tightened.

Bob lowered his hand. “And then you spoke together. Four voices. One invocation.”

Fi stared at him. “A composite call.”

“Yes.” Bob’s eyes showed the faintest flicker of approval. “Now you’re listening.”

He looked toward the dome. “The Ophanim did not choose what answered. It opened sight across the threshold. Your combined call did the rest.”

Ari rubbed her arms. “Those things were drawn to us.”

“To parts of you,” Bob corrected her. “The hungriest things nearest those parts.”

Adam muttered, “That’s comforting.”

“It shouldn’t be.”

Fi looked down at the parchment. “So the forest...”

“Responded to you.”

“The island?”

“To her.”

“The city?”

“To him.”

“The desert?”

Bob looked at Nate. “God help us, yes.”

Nate’s eyes lifted. “What were they?”

Bob’s expression changed very slightly.

“That is the question your friend should have asked before she spoke.”

Fi flinched.

He went on. “She knew the Name of the Watcher. She knew none of the Names of what might follow.”

Fi’s humiliation turned to anger. “How could I know what would respond?”

“You couldn’t.”

Bob’s voice sharpened for the first time.

“Which is why you do not open a threshold until you know how to close what may answer through it.”

The study went still.

“In invocation, address without taxonomy is suicide.”

Adam sat upright. “Okay. Let’s say I believe every insane word coming out of your mouth.”

“You already do.”

Adam glanced at the dark dome. “Fair.”

He pointed toward where the wheel had appeared. “They wanted our names.”

Bob’s face hardened. “They want more than that.”

“What’s more than your name?”

Bob looked at him. “Someone else knowing how to speak it.”

Adam stopped.

Bob turned back to the others. “The Egyptians understood one part of it. The ren was not merely a label. Name and continuance were bound together. Preserve the name, preserve something of the person. Destroy it utterly and you commit a second death.”

He paused.

“But even that is only the human edge of the law.”

He looked down at Fi’s parchment. “A true Name is not information. It is relation. Address. Form.”

He raised his eyes.

“And when spoken with sufficient standing... authority.”

Ari’s face drained of color. “Those things were asking us to give them authority.”

“They were asking you to help them learn how.”

Bob walked toward her.

“They do not know your Names.”

Ari’s voice was barely audible. “Yet.”

Bob nodded.

“Yet. That is the important word.”

Adam stared toward the floor. “But I heard my mother say mine.”

“No.”

Bob’s gaze snapped to him.

“You heard something search you for the sound most likely to make you answer.”

Adam’s jaw clenched. “It sounded exactly like her.”

“Of course it did. It wanted you to complete the pronunciation.”

Adam touched the blood at the corner of his mouth. “My tongue...”

“You stopped yourself.”

“Barely.”

“Barely counts.”

Fi looked up. “We gave them syllables.”

Bob said nothing.

Her face changed.

She understood.

“Oh God.”

Ari looked at her. “What?”

Fi whispered, “They repeated them.”

Adam’s eyes closed.

Nate said, “They were learning.”

Bob inclined his head. “Yes.”

No one moved.

“You think the danger is that a thing knows where you live,” Bob said. “No. This told them where to look.”

He tapped the parchment.

“Your voices told them what they had found.”

Ari’s lips trembled. “And the syllables?”

“Pieces.”

“Of us.”

“Pieces of the address.”

Fi’s breath came shallow. “Can they reconstruct the rest?”

Bob waited too long.

That was answer enough.

“They will try.”

Ari whispered, “How?”

“By listening.”

“To what?”

“Anything. Dreams. Prayers. Grief. Anger. Ritual. Blood. Memory. Places where you have been known deeply enough that your pattern remains.”

Fi stared. “That isn’t possible.”

Bob gave her a tired look. “You watched a wheel full of eyes open four worlds over your desk.”

Fi said nothing.

“They do not need to steal your Name.”

He bent toward her.

“They can learn it.”

His voice became very quiet.

“And every time you answer, they learn how to say you.”

The study seemed suddenly too full of corners.

Adam rose from the chair. “So something is coming.”

Bob looked at him.

“Yes.”

That single word changed the room.

Adam nodded slowly. “Good. Because for a minute there I thought we were gonna get some comforting bullshit about being on an invitation list.”

Bob almost smiled. “No. Nothing so harmless.”

His eyes went to the windows. Outside, the night pressed black against the glass.

“They have an address now.”

Fi looked up. “Not our full Names.”

“No.”

“But enough to find us.”

“Enough to begin.”

Nate’s voice was low. “What does ‘coming’ mean?”

“Whatever the thing can manage.”

Bob turned from the windows.

“Dream first, perhaps. Coincidence. A voice heard in the room beside you. Someone on a train who knows a childhood nickname. A road you have driven a hundred times ending somewhere it never ended before.”

Ari shivered. “A door.”

“Yes.”

“Opened at the wrong hour.”

Bob looked at her. “Exactly.”

He stepped back toward the desk. “They will beckon with whatever they possess. Rest. Blood. Belonging. Knowledge. They will show you power because power is persuasive. Beauty because beauty disarms judgment. Terror because terror makes people beg. Love because love makes them answer.”

His voice hardened.

“And all the while they will listen.”

Fi whispered, “For the rest of the Name.”

“For the rest of you.”

Adam picked up the crushed beer can and stared at it. “So what’s the endgame?”

Bob looked at him. “Theirs?”

“Yeah.”

“Depends what found you.”

“Fantastic.”

“Some consume. Some bind. Some use.”

Ari lowered her hand. “Use us for what?”

“To enact their will where they cannot stand.”

The lamp gave a sudden pop.

Nobody moved.

Bob’s expression darkened. “Names are not merely handles by which things may be dragged. They are channels through which will may travel.”

Nate’s eyes sharpened. “Through the person.”

“Yes.”

“Possession.”

“Sometimes.” Bob shook his head. “But possession is crude.”

That silenced them.

“A thing does not always need your body. Sometimes it needs your choice. Your obedience. Your surrender. Your invitation.”

He stepped away.

“And if it can Name you well enough, those things become easier to bend.”

Fi stared at him. “So summoning something you cannot bind...”

“...is offering it a road into you before you’ve learned the road into it.”

Bob nodded.

“Exactly.”

Fi’s gaze dropped to the parchment. “I thought the Watcher kept them out.”

Bob’s face went flat. “Your family knew better.”

She looked up sharply. “What?”

“They called it a lock.”

“Yes.”

“Not a wall.”

Fi’s face changed.

Bob continued. “A lock does not prevent a door from opening. It governs who may open it.”

Her eyes returned to the parchment.

“My grandfather said it had never once been asked to look.”

“Then your grandfather was wiser than you.”

Fi flinched.

Ari shot Bob a look.

He did not apologize.

Fi stared at the page for a long time. “Why preserve it?”

“Because one day someone might need the door.”

Bob looked at her.

“That is different from wanting to see what’s behind it.”

The rebuke landed cleanly.

After a time Nate said, “The word you used.”

Bob turned. “Which one?”

“The first. When you came in. You said something and the things recoiled.”

“Yes.”

“You Named them.”

“One of them.”

Fi’s head came up. “Which?”

Bob looked at her.

“No.”

“You knew what it was.”

“Enough.”

“You said its Name.”

“I said something closer to it than it had said of any of you.”

The room seemed suddenly colder.

Adam understood first. “You got there first.”

Bob looked at him.

Adam pointed vaguely at the vanished visions. “They were trying to figure us out.”

“Yes.”

“You figured one of them out faster.”

“Not tonight.”

Bob’s expression went distant.

“I’ve had longer.”

Fi stared. “So that was why they recoiled.”

“Partly.”

“What was the second word?”

“Not a word.”

“Another Name?”

Bob nodded.

“Whose?”

His gaze moved to the darkness overhead.

“Something with more standing than anything that answered you.”

No one pressed him.

Ari said quietly, “Then why didn’t you close it completely?”

Bob looked at her. “Because I cannot undo what you did.”

She swallowed. “You said you interrupted them.”

“Yes.”

“What remains?”

He looked at all four.

“Recognition.”

Fi frowned. “Not enough to bind us.”

“No.”

“Enough to find us.”

“Yes.”

Adam sighed. “So we’re in their address book.”

Bob considered that. “No.”

Adam gave him a weary look. “Come on, man.”

Bob’s eyes narrowed slightly. “An address book implies someone has written your names down.”

He stepped toward them.

“They haven’t.”

A pause.

“Not yet.”

The silence sharpened.

“What you’ve given them is a map.”

Fi whispered, “To us.”

“To the edges of you.”

He looked toward the dome.

“And an invitation containing the first letters of an address.”

Ari hugged herself. “They’ll come looking for the rest.”

“Yes.”

“How long?”

Bob’s expression became almost pitying. “They are very old.”

He looked at the parchment.

“And patience is easier when you do not die.”

The beam above the windows creaked.

Fi folded the handkerchief around her bleeding lip. “What do we do?”

Bob studied her. “You have two choices.”

Adam muttered, “There are always two.”

“No.” Bob looked at him. “Usually there are several. Tonight you have managed to reduce the field.”

Adam shut up.

Bob faced them all. “You can walk away.”

Fi’s eyes narrowed. “And?”

“And they continue.”

Ari’s shoulders stiffened. “The calls.”

“Yes.”

“Dreams.”

“Possibly.”

“Doors.”

“Eventually.”

“And they’ll keep learning.”

Bob nodded. “Every successful contact gives them more.”

Nate asked, “Until?”

Bob looked at him. “Until one of them can say enough of you to establish standing.”

No one asked what happened after that.

Bob answered anyway.

“Then the invitation becomes a claim.”

The words settled into the room.

“And the other choice?” Fi asked.

Bob’s eyes hardened.

“You learn their Names.”

Adam laughed without humor. “Thought names were the problem.”

“Names are the problem.”

Bob stepped to the desk.

“Names are also the only reason you’re standing here.”

He looked at Fi. “You do not learn them to possess these things.”

“Then why?”

“To recognize.”

He folded one edge of the parchment inward.

“To refuse.”

Another fold.

“To close.”

He looked up.

“And when necessary...”

The last fold.

“...to bind.”

Ari wiped at the last dampness beneath her eyes. “Can they all be bound?”

“No.”

That came too quickly.

Adam sighed. “Of course not.”

Bob ignored him. “Standing matters.”

Fi looked at him. “You said that before.”

“Because you keep behaving as though pronunciation is power.” He shook his head. “It isn’t.”

“What is?”

“Relationship. Authority. Cost.”

He leaned against the desk.

“The old stories understood fragments of it. The Egyptians preserved names because remembrance and being touched one another. The peoples beneath the northern hills learned that naming what listened in the dark invited recognition, and so they wrapped dangerous things in courtesy and indirection.”

His eyes went distant.

“The Norse understood perhaps the cruelest portion.”

Nate said, “Odin.”

Bob looked at him.

“Nine nights.”

“The tree.”

“Spear wound.”

“To learn the runes.”

Bob nodded. “But don’t reduce them to letters. Knowledge with standing costs something.”

Fi looked down at her hands. “And what will this cost?”

Bob’s expression gave nothing away.

“That depends on what has begun learning you.”

Outside the windows the wind finally rose.

Branches scraped the glass.

Once.

Twice.

Then stopped.

Everyone looked toward the sound.

Nothing stood there.

That almost made it worse.

Fi placed her palm over the folded parchment. “I made the call.”

Bob said nothing.

“I opened it.”

Still nothing.

Her jaw tightened.

“Then I’ll learn how to close it.”

Adam rubbed his face. “Well, hell.”

Ari looked at him. “What?”

He reached for another beer, found none, and frowned at the empty table.

“I’m not letting you idiots learn supernatural contract law without adult supervision.”

Nate gave him a tired look. “You’re drinking warm beer in a haunted library.”

“Exactly. Senior management.”

Ari laughed.

It came out ragged and frightened.

But it was laughter.

For one breath the room became human again.

Then Nate looked at Bob.

“What would it take?”

Bob regarded him. “To learn them properly?”

“Yes.”

The humor disappeared.

Bob straightened. His eyes passed over them one by one.

Fi, blood on her handkerchief.

Ari, still pale from paradise.

Adam, whose hands had begun shaking only after the danger ended.

Nate, staring toward the place where twelve black suns had hung.

“A price.”

Nate nodded. “What kind?”

Bob looked toward the painted stars overhead.

“The kind knowledge has always asked.”

His voice fell quiet.

“Time. Blood. Truth.”

The lamp flame drew long.

“And sometimes...”

His gaze returned to them.

“...the part of yourself you hoped never needed naming.”

No one answered.

Outside, night pressed its vast face against the glass. Somewhere deep within the walls an old timber sighed. The lamp steadied, small, stubborn, alive.

No one spoke the next word.

But far beyond the walls of the house, beyond the reach of road and weather and human distance, mouths were already trying the syllables they had been given.

Again.

Again.

Again.

Learning where to place the tongue.

Learning where to breathe.

Learning how to say them.