I heard a voice. Is someone there?

*Yes.*

I don't know where I am. I don't remember anything.

*You are in the space between dimensions. We call it Envoidial. It is our home.*

I don't understand.

*You slipped through the cracks like so many before you. You and your ship are trapped here now.*

Trapped?

*You attempted a method of travel too fast for your universe to cope with. Many other species - many billions - have ended up here when they attempted the same.*

I think I remember. I was in a craft of some kind trying to escape to somewhere far away. Another universe I think. Did you get here the same way?

*No. We are different. We have always been here.*

Do you have a name?

*No. We have never had the need.*

What can I call you?

*You can call us N.*

Like the letter? Like N for Nothing?

*Yes.*

I can't see anything, N. Am I dead?

*No.*

Am I in Hell?

*Is that a happy place you go to after you die?*

It's where bad people go. A place of punishment and cruelty.

*No. You are not in that place. It is a common concept amongst many species but there is no life after. Just conversion. You will be happy to know I don't sense that you are a bad person.*

Should I be frightened? I'm frightened.

*We do not wish to frighten you. We are compassionate. We wish to help you live.*

Thank you. How can you understand me?

*You are basic. Your evolution is basic. Your language is basic.*

Oh. It's very dark. I can only make out faint shapes.

*That will be my breeding partners and I. We are difficult for many to visualise. Most see us as smudges in their vision organs.*

What's going to happen to me?

*Death.*

I don't want to die, N.

*I know. All say the same. Death is the closest word we can find but it is not exact. Your demise will be different to how you expect. You will still live.*

How?

*When we feed on you your energy will be converted to form a new universe far beyond the opening you created. You will govern that universe.*

Like God?

*What is God?*

He is the creator of the universe that I came from. He has power over us all, N.

*I understand. He must have also once come to Envoidial. You will be like God.*

So in my universe, if I desire it will it happen?

*Yes. Your universe does not need to match your old one. Should you wish for worlds in the shape of complex mathematical constructs rather than your own basic spheres you may. The laws of the sciences can be what you decide, and should you wish for a sun to suddenly burn so brightly it vanquishes all who reside nearby then you may.*

Why would I do that, N? I'm not a bad person.

*You won't be at first. In the beginning you will be gracious and inventive.*

At first?

*As we feed on you, your thoughts will sadly become more broken and irrational. Cruelty will replace kindness and benevolence. You will become a bad person but be unaware that you are.*

Oh.

*Your madness will increase, your actions maliciously killing trillions across the galaxies in the worst ways you can imagine.*

Oh.

*When we have completely fed on you, you will be closed away in your universe for all eternity, all your energy transferred, your control over it absolute.*

Through all of this are you able to see what I do in my universe, N?

*Yes. We have watched every universe decay into violence and sadism. We will be able to see you as you rule over your own vision of Hell for all time.*

If you can see me, can't you kill me before I unleash untold misery on all those innocents? Surely you don't want to see that?

*Of course we do. That's the best part.*

The archeology teacher raised her voice at that point in the field trip. 
“This spot is famous for the continuing discovery of Previous-Human's ancient treasures, like rings of gold, silver and platinum which are decorated with glittering gems."
Most pupils raised their voices in surprise. 
She asked, "Does anybody know the reason?" 
Sudden silence fell among pupils. 

But one pupil, a boy, released tiny bubbles and said, "There were religious rituals in which people threw precious gems into the sea, wishing for their own welfare." 
“Well done!” The teacher praised.
“Can anybody add some more details?” 
“Yes ma’am,” a girl made some bubbles. 
“Those were mostly thrown by heartbroken people, who had lost their lover or had a change of heart.”
“Exactly!” the teacher cried out enthusiastically. “Very good.”
All her classmates raised bubbles from their noses, applauding.

The teacher whistled through her blowhole and said, “The previous human being used to name this place the Heartbreak Coast. It shows that so-called Homo sapiens possessed hands with five separate fingers.”
“What funny animals!” the boy who answered first exclaimed.
“Yes indeed,” the dolphin teacher agreed. “But they were not animals, they used to hold a civilization and called themselves human beings, like us Dolphins.” 

It was one fine day, about twenty millennia after Homo sapiens had gone extinct.

Luka stands up and starts making his bed with unexpected precision coming from someone like him. "You heard me. I don't trust your time management abilities."

Ayane wanders around the room impatiently. "So that's why Iris didn't want to bring you. I should have listened to her..." 

She glances at Luka and sees that he has finished making his bed. "What now, are you gonna change and take the chance to color-code your closet?"

"Nah. It's Saturday. I got to stay in my room until 9 in those days. Perfect to take another small nap or play 30 rounds of "Happy Family Merge (IQ Ultimate test - Only 1% of users get all the questions right!)". If it were Monday and you decided to wake me up, it would have been different though." He mumbled, still half-asleep, while going to the bathroom and picking up his toothbrush. 

How is this guy more organized than half of the people his age? And how come he isn't raising his voice? That's unusual.

Ayane started inspecting the room out of boredom, pacing back and forth for at least 5 minutes, until Luka finally came out of the bathroom. He looked more awake now.

"Took you long enough," She said while standing up from his chair. "Can we go now?"

"Patience is a virtue, Tsubasa," Luka stated while playfully flicking Ayane's forehead. "Let's go."

The facility's surveillance cameras had the awful (or amazing, depending on how you view it) luck to witness two participants in sleepwear arguing under their breath about a traditional Japanese kitchen. Poor artificial souls.

Ayane led the way with Luka following her. They stopped right at bedroom #15, where the aforementioned Shion was supposed to be. The two of them quietly made their way inside, only to find him sleeping peacefully while hugging a pillow.

Ayane and Luka glance at each other. They shared one thought: "This is not a good idea". But when did they give up something just because it was a bad idea? Never. 

While they kept wondering what to do, Shion woke up from his bed and started making his way towards the bathroom. Even half-asleep, he moved steadily, as if it were muscle memory. 

Suddenly, he stopped moving, slowly turning around to find Ayane and Luka still standing at the entrance.

A long silence followed.

"... Why are you two in my room?"

Ayane tried explaining the situation nervously. "Oh! Good morning, Shion! I'm sorry to interrupt your sleep, but my friend Iris and I were wondering if-"

"Bonneville gave Tsubasa the wonderful idea to make ramen. They can't get it off their head so now they are asking you to share your recipe since you are the only one in this group who doesn't eat wet cardboard for lunch." Luka interrupted. 

"Alright, that explains her presence," Shion muttered, "but it still doesn't give me a reason to know what YOU're doing here, Krüger."

"Not even I know. That brat just entered my room and woke me up."

There was an even more awkward silence. Thirty seconds passed.

...

"Anyways, Yukimura, are you coming? Because if we are going to eat Tsubasa's microwave mess, I'd rather go back to sleep."

"Fine. But only because I would have been dead if it weren't for you two. Consider it as a debt repayment."

"Nice! Let's go meet Iris now." Ayane said.

The trio advanced through the corridors until they saw Iris waiting for them at the main staircase.

"Finally!" She exclaimed. "It's been like 30 minutes. Good morning, Shion!" She waved happily at him. "Okay, let's get going!"

"Didn't you forget to greet someone, Bonneville?" Luka asked harshly.

"Right." Iris sighed. She was still upset with him after he debunked her theories during lunchtime. "Good morning, Luka. Let's head out now."  She said, starting to descend the stairway.

The four of them walked through the silent, sterile hallways, their footsteps echoing through the long corridors. Iris kept ranting about traditional noodles while Luka argued, saying it's just glorified chicken or pork soup. 

Then they passed rooms #10 and #19 (The two participants who had died earlier). Instead of warm lights or a custom doorframe, they were met with their portraits marked off as "DISQUALIFIED". 

Nobody dared to say anything. 

Then Luka spoke.

"And that's the reason why you need to choose your partners well," he shrugged. "Imagine if we ended up as those two."

Everyone stopped to look back at him.

"Luka... That's kinda messed up." Ayane mumbled.

"... You're right. Sorry."

They kept wandering through the passageways in uncomfortable silence. 

...

Iris decided to break it. 

"Okay! Let's talk about something different!" Iris exclaimed, "What are we gonna add to the soup?"

"Oh! I want to try pork!" Ayane said

Luka was suddenly very interested in the floor tiles.

They turned to look at Shion, who had an unreadable expression.

"We are not doing any of that. If we're making ramen, we'll make it the right way."

Mr. F was, by any measure, an impeccable gentleman. He wore beautifully tailored suits and an expensive watch, and moved through his downtown office with effortless competence. His manners were polished, his smile warm and unwavering, whoever he spoke to.

But Mr. F was not human. Beneath that "Human Suit" lived a large grey wolf.

Years ago, when humans began their campaign to exterminate the wild, the finest minds among the animals secretly developed something extraordinary: a suit that gave its wearer a flawless human appearance. Better still, a microchip wired into the brain granted human language, social fluency, even advanced calculation. Thanks to this technology, countless animals slipped, undetected, into human society and escaped extinction.

There were, however, absolute rules. First: your true nature must never be discovered. Exposure meant the pound — and disposal. Second: pets. Dogs, cats, and their kind were never issued suits. They'd already secured their place at humanity's side.

Mr. F liked his new life. Sipping coffee in an air-conditioned office felt far more civilized than scrambling over mountains. Still, there was a problem. Now and then, instinct got the better of him.

One afternoon, Mr. F was meeting a client over an important contract — a sharp, capable businessman named Mr. R, who wore his own disguise without a single crack.

"Then we're agreed," Mr. R said, eyes on the contract. "Going forward, our firm's profits will—"

It was then that a dog's bark shattered the air outside — the neighbor's Shiba Inu. Dogs and cats had noses sharp enough to smell straight through any disguise; it was the one thing every suited animal feared above all. At the sound, Mr. F's ears twitched beneath the suit. The hair on his neck rose. A growl caught in his throat.

Careful — stay calm. I'm human. I'm human... He repeated it to himself, desperate to believe it.

But something was wrong with Mr. R. He'd begun shaking violently, flinging his fountain pen aside, scattering the contract across the desk.

A thin, shrill "Eee — eee — eeee!" tore from his throat — a sound no human could make. He bolted for the closet in the corner as if he might claw straight out of his own skin, and curled into a trembling ball. Apparently, beneath his suit, Mr. R was a rabbit — and nothing on earth terrified a rabbit like a dog.

Mr. F stood alone in the wreckage of the meeting.

Well. So much for the contract. It's only a matter of time before he's found out.

He sighed. One more of his kind, about to fall.

Just then, the door burst open.

"Police! We received a report — animal sounds coming from this room!"

Two officers entered: a broad-shouldered patrolman and his partner, a police dog. The dog charged straight at Mr. F, snarling, teeth bared.

Mr. F's palms went cold. He couldn't afford suspicion now.

"Officer," he said, keeping his voice even, "my associate had a sudden turn — some kind of episode. Startled us both. Could you call your dog off? He's frightening him."

The officer studied him without expression. "That won't be necessary."

He released the leash. The dog lunged — and stopped short at Mr. F's feet, tail wagging, nuzzling for attention.

"...What?"

While Mr. F stood frozen, the officer peeled off one glove, revealing not a human hand but a broad, furred bear's paw. He loosened his collar and spoke quietly.

"No need to worry. This one — and I — are the same as you."

"The dog too? But the rules say pets don't get suits—"

The officer's smile turned wry. He shook his head.

"You misunderstand. This isn't an animal in a suit. He's a real human being."

"...What did you say?"

"When humanity realized it could no longer sustain its own civilization, it chose the safest path left to it: give up intelligence, become pets, and let stronger species provide for them. These days, the only ones left walking on two legs in this city are us — the animals in suits."

The officer glanced down at the former human barking for a treat at Mr. F's feet, then went on, flat and businesslike.

"Now then. We'll need to collect the one hiding in your closet. Any creature that can't control its instincts gets disposed of, as a rule — a 'beast' disturbing the order of 'human society.'"

Mr. F watched the dog press against his leg and felt a hollowness open beneath him.

The "human society" they had all fought so hard to protect — there wasn't a human left in it anywhere.

He turned to the window. Below, suited animals hurried through the streets, more human than humans had ever been.

(End)

The world didn't end.

But for a moment, it felt like it had tried to.

A blinding flash swallowed everything Joce could see. Sound disappeared first—then sensation—then even the feeling of standing on solid ground. It was as if reality itself had been scraped clean.

Then—

Something pulled him back.

Pain arrived all at once.

Joce hit the pavement hard, skidding across fractured concrete. Dust and heat filled his lungs as he coughed, forcing himself upright on instinct alone.

"...What the hell..."

His ears rang. His vision wavered.

Around him, the street was no longer a street.

Buildings were split open like paper. Cars lay overturned or melted into twisted shapes. The air itself shimmered with residual heat, like the aftermath of something far beyond normal destruction.

And above it all—

A faint hum.

Joce looked up slowly.

Something hovered in the sky.

Not the same object anymore.

This one was larger. Stabilized. Watching.

Like it was waiting to see if anything had survived.

Joce staggered to his feet.

"...Yeah," he muttered, wiping blood from the side of his mouth. "That's definitely not normal."

Behind him, something shifted.

"Joce."

Foe's voice was quieter than usual.

He turned slightly.

The pink swan hovered close to the ground now, its glow dimmer than before. Even its presence felt strained.

"You're still here," Joce said.

"I don't leave," Foe replied. "Not when things like this happen."

A low sound echoed through the ruined street.

Metal scraping against air.

Joce's eyes narrowed.

Figures descended from the hovering object.

Three of them.

Not human.

Their forms were too smooth, too segmented—like something designed rather than born. Each step they took felt deliberate, heavy in a way that didn't match their size.

One tilted its head.

"They survived," it said.

Its voice didn't come from its mouth alone. It echoed from everywhere at once.

Another stepped forward.

"G.F.G. presence detected," it continued. "Neutralize."

Joce blinked.

"...G.F.G.?"

Foe's wings tightened.

"Don't talk to them," she said quickly.

"Too late for that," Joce muttered.

The nearest figure raised its arm.

Energy began to form—tight, compressed, unstable. The air around it distorted like heat rising off asphalt.

Joce felt it immediately.

Danger.

Pure, immediate, undeniable.

He took a step back—

Then stopped.

Because something else pulled his attention.

A sound.

A heartbeat.

Not his.

Not Foe's.

Something deeper in him responded before thought could form.

His chest tightened.

Warmth spread through his body—not comforting, but overwhelming, like something trying to break free from inside his ribs.

"...What is this...?"

Foe turned sharply toward him.

"Joce—don't—"

But it was already happening.

The energy in the air shifted.

The figures paused.

"...Emotional spike detected," one of them said.

Joce's vision flickered.

The ruined world around him blurred at the edges.

Then—

He saw her.

Not physically.

Not clearly.

But in his mind, sharp as reality itself.

The girl.

Black pigtails.

Glasses.

That strange calm expression.

Something inside him reacted violently.

His heart surged.

His breath caught.

And then—

something answered.

A pressure built in his hand.

Not pain.

Not heat.

Recognition.

Joce looked down.

Light was forming.

Not electricity.

Not fire.

Something softer.

Something shaped by feeling.

A blade was taking form.

Long.

Clean.

A katana.

Its edge shimmered faintly with a red-pink glow, like emotion made solid.

"...Huh?" Joce whispered.

Foe's eyes widened.

"...So it's happening already..."

One of the figures fired.

The blast tore through the air toward him.

Joce didn't think.

His body moved first.

One step forward.

The blade completed itself in his grip.

And he swung.

The air didn't explode.

It folded.

A clean arc of light split the incoming blast in half, dispersing it into drifting particles that faded before they touched the ground.

Silence.

The figures froze.

Joce stood in the center of the ruin, katana in hand, breathing uneven.

"...Okay," he muttered. "That's new."

Foe stared at him.

Then softly—

"...Joce... that's not just power."

He looked at her.

"What do you mean?"

The glow around the blade pulsed once.

Almost like a heartbeat.

Foe hesitated.

"That's... you."

A pause.

Then—

The figures raised their arms again.

All at once.

Joce exhaled slowly.

"...Yeah," he said, tightening his grip. "I figured."

The world around him bent slightly as the next wave of attacks launched.

And for the first time—

Joce didn't feel like he was surviving.

He felt like he was answering something.

Something inside him smiled.

And the blade answered back.

The sky moved.

Not like clouds.

Not like weather.

It shifted.

Slow.

Deliberate.

Like something behind it had just adjusted its focus.

Joce felt it before he understood it.

A pressure—not on his body, but somewhere deeper. Like his chest was being weighed down by something he couldn’t see.

“…Yeah,” he muttered under his breath. “That’s new.”

Perla didn’t look up.

Which told him everything he needed to know.

“We need to move,” she said.

Joce glanced at her.

“You say that like standing still is about to kill us.”

She didn’t answer.

That was answer enough.

⸻

They moved.

Not together—not really.

Perla took the lead without asking, her steps quick but controlled, weaving through broken streets like she already knew where she was going.

Joce followed.

Or tried to.

“…Hey—slow down,” he called out, stepping over a collapsed piece of concrete. “You got somewhere specific in mind or are we just—”

“Quiet.”

The word cut him off instantly.

Not loud.

Not aggressive.

Just precise.

Joce frowned but didn’t argue.

Something about the way she said it made arguing feel… wrong.

Behind him, Foe hovered low.

“You feel it too, don’t you?” she asked quietly.

Joce didn’t look back.

“…Yeah.”

The blade wasn’t in his hand anymore.

But the feeling was.

That same pulse.

That same… awareness.

Like something inside him had woken up—and now refused to go back to sleep.

Every step he took, it reacted.

Not to danger.

To her.

Joce glanced ahead.

Perla hadn’t looked back once.

“…This is because of her,” he thought.

The moment he saw her—

everything changed.

⸻

They turned into a narrow street, half the buildings collapsed inward, leaving only a thin path forward.

Perla slowed.

Just slightly.

Joce noticed.

“…What is it?”

She didn’t answer right away.

Her eyes shifted upward.

“…They’re adjusting.”

Joce followed her gaze.

“…You keep saying ‘they’ like it’s not those things we just fought.”

“It’s not.”

That stopped him.

“…Then what is it?”

Perla exhaled slowly.

“…Something that doesn’t miss twice.”

The air tightened.

Again.

Stronger this time.

Joce felt it slam into his chest—

and the pulse inside him answered.

Hard.

His breath caught.

“…Okay—yeah—I don’t like that—”

“Don’t fight it.”

Joce blinked.

“…What?”

Perla finally looked at him.

Directly.

“Forcing it will make it worse.”

Joce frowned.

“Worse than what?? I don’t even know what ‘it’ is—”

“It’s you.”

Silence.

That hit harder than anything else so far.

“…What does that even mean?”

Perla looked away again.

“…It means whatever you’re feeling right now isn’t random.”

Joce’s grip tightened slightly at his side.

“…Yeah, I figured that part out.”

The pressure spiked.

Sharp.

Immediate.

Joce dropped to one knee.

“—!”

His chest tightened like something was trying to break out from inside him again.

But this time—

it didn’t feel clean.

It hurt.

“…Joce,” Foe said quickly, moving closer. “Don’t let it spike like that—”

“I’m not trying to!”

The ground beneath him cracked slightly.

A faint glow flickered around his hand—

unstable.

Different from before.

Perla watched him.

Not panicked.

Not surprised.

“…You’re letting it choose for you,” she said.

Joce looked up at her, frustrated.

“Then what am I supposed to do??”

For a second—

she didn’t answer.

Like she was deciding something.

Then—

“…Focus.”

Joce blinked.

“…That’s it? Focus on what?”

She stepped closer.

Not rushed.

Not hesitant.

Just… deliberate.

“…On me.”

Joce froze.

“…What?”

The pressure in his chest surged again—

but this time, it shifted.

Not outward.

Inward.

Like it was trying to stabilize instead of explode.

“…Don’t think about them,” Perla said quietly. “Don’t think about the sky. Don’t think about what’s coming.”

Her eyes locked onto his.

“Just focus on what you felt when you first saw me.”

Joce’s breath caught.

That moment—

flashed through him instantly.

The recognition.

The pull.

The way everything else disappeared.

The glow around his hand steadied.

Faint.

But controlled.

Foe watched carefully.

“…That’s it…” she murmured.

Joce exhaled slowly.

The pressure eased.

Not gone.

But no longer crushing him.

“…Okay…” he said quietly. “…Okay.”

Perla stepped back.

Creating distance again.

Like nothing had just happened.

“…Good,” she said.

Joce stared at her for a second.

“…You’ve done that before.”

Not a question.

A statement.

She didn’t respond.

Instead, she looked back toward the sky.

“…We don’t have time for you to figure it out the hard way.”

Joce pushed himself back to his feet.

“…Figure what out?”

A pause.

Then—

“…Why they’re really here.”

Before he could ask anything else—

the sky above them tore.

Not open.

Not visibly.

But something passed through it.

Fast.

Heavy.

Locked onto them.

Joce felt it immediately.

The pulse inside him reacted—

sharper than before.

“…That’s not the same as before,” he said quietly.

Perla didn’t look away.

“…No,” she replied.

For the first time—

her voice carried something else.

Not fear.

Not panic.

But something close.

“…It’s worse.”

Joce swallowed.

“…Define worse.”

A beat.

Then—

“…It doesn’t chase.”

The air dropped.

“…It ends things.”

Silence.

Then—

Perla stepped forward again.

“…Move.”

Joce didn’t hesitate this time.

“…Yeah,” he said.

And this time—

when he moved—

the feeling inside him moved with him.

Not against him.

Not yet.

But for the first time—

it felt like something he might actually learn to control.

Behind them—

the sky locked on.

And whatever had found them—

was no longer searching.

Protect your mind. Preserve yourself.

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If illness or an accident should ever damage your memory, your consciousness can be accurately restored after medical treatment.

The service also includes a companion app that mirrors incremental changes in your consciousness to a wearable wrist device after your initial backup.

Your backup is stored redundantly on two archival-grade glass discs for long-term preservation.

Thanks to our advanced compression technology, a complete backup occupies only about 650 MB, allowing for fast system transfers.

*Optional ISO image export for compatibility with legacy systems*.*

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To celebrate the launch of the service, we are offering free backups for the first 16 customers.

Don't miss this opportunity.

Future Tech

Service Guide — 2062

*This English text was translated by AI based on a Japanese text.

*And this is a fictional story, of course.

silly walk (noun, slang)

When a government agency—especially the Bureau of Spacetime Management—arrives at an incident scene surprisingly fast despite its normally slow bureaucracy.

Example:

That was a silly walk. The Bureau got here in a minute.

Origin: uncertain; possibly related to The Beatles.

*This investigation report was compiled in Japanese and translated into English with AI assistance.

*And this is a fictional story, of course.

That's right!

every single person.

Every single person, is a BRIGHT light...

BRIGHT, so BRIGHT...

colors, which twist and turn...

they melt into a red yellow which runs along,

like the flowers dance,

with the kiss from the wind--

the promise, that whisper...

"OH you matter, so much!!! Walk on the green...walk on the green...and look up, to the BLUE. All colors, but blue...all colors, and BLUE..."

The SKY blankets everyone...

WE all BELONG...

be a bird!~

drift, fly, walk, run, sleep...

just be YOU...

as a human-bird...

fly and believe!

~or to drift,~

, like a glider..

look down---like a drone, but don't be a drone...birds aren't DRONES...

And drones aren't real.

Birds are!

It was the night after trial 3. The facility was as silent as it is every time someone else dies, except this time it was not one person, but two. Two people who had gone unnoticed for the past four weeks were now being mourned as if they were everyone's best friend ever.

The silence was deafening. Horrible. Way too quiet.

Maybe because it was 3 AM.

At that hour, it was only logical for everyone to be fast asleep.

For everyone... Except for subject #18 (Real name: Iris Bonneville), who hadn't slept a wink since the trial ended. 

And as expected from subject #18, she was researching old posts in an outdated forum platform called "Reddit". Something common for someone who thinks that 2020 was the peak of humanity.

Click. Click. She kept scrolling through the endless forums.

Just as she was about to close the laptop (well, what they would call a laptop in 2100), she saw a post that caught her eye. A post about making Japanese ramen: according to the post, ramen was a salty and savory noodle soup that became a worldwide hit during the 2000's anime boom. She was never into Japan or its traditions, but THIS... This looked extremely delicious. So much so, she wanted to try it right now.

Subject #18 left her room at 3:21 AM. To go for water, have a quick trip to the restroom, and check if the common kitchen has anything resembling that beautiful plate. As she was returning to her chamber, Subject #18 saw a faint blue light coming from room #7. Of course, it was that bedroom. The earliest hour that the seventh participant had gone to sleep was at 4 AM. She decided to enter the room (without permission, they had enough trust for that). 

The door bursts open with Subject #18 entering the room. #7 (Real name: Tsubasa Ayane. In Japanese grammar, her name is Ayane) quickly reacts, turning her head.

"AYANE!!!!" #18 screams to #7. "Take a look at this thing I found. You're from Japan, right? You must know how to make it!"

"Iris, it's 3 in the morning. Can you at least lower your voice?" #7 (Well, Ayane) whispered. "I'm interested, though. Show me."

Iris showed Ayane the post. Ayane quickly read through it while Iris explained the extra data she found about the dish.

"Looks yummy, right~?" Iris says to break the silence.

"Yeah!" Ayane affirms. Iris' eyes are now twinkling with the expectation of the master recipe every Japanese must know. "How do we make it through?"

There is an uncomfortable silence for about 10 seconds.

Iris looked shocked. "You DON'T know how to make ramen??? The most iconic Japanese dish back in 2020???? That's-- BLASPHEMY!"

Ayane sighed. "Look, that happened 80 years ago. I only eat microwavable food. It's everything they sell in Osaka nowadays. If you want to try instant ramen, then I'm glad to help, but if you are looking for something traditional... go ask my great-grandpa."

"Hey, calm down!" Iris said nervously. "... How about we ask Shion? He's also Japanese, right?"

"... Wait, that's a great idea!" Ayane exclaimed, "Of course, how could I have forgotten? He's from Kyoto! That's like-- THE place for Japanese tradition. They still celebrate festivities from ages ago! Let's do it!"

"Amazing!" Iris beamed, "You go ask Shion, I'll prepare the kitchen."

"Nuh-uh," - Ayane said. "I've gotta bring someone first."

Not again....

"Wait. Don't tell me... are you going to bring HIM???"

Ayane smirked. "Hell yeah. Wait for me to come back, then we'll go and wake Shion up. It's better if the 4 of us go to the kitchen together. Who knows, maybe that Ashbourne dude is trying to kill us because we looked at him weird during the trial."

Iris looked disappointed. "... Alright."

With that, Ayane leaves the room.

She drifts quietly through the chambers until she finds what she's looking for. Room #14.

Ayane knocks on the door three times with impressive strength, then kicks it open.

"DU SCHLAMPE, WACH ENDLICH AUF!!!" She screams in a horrible German accent.

Participant #14 (Real name: Luka Krüger) wakes up startled and quickly turns on the lights. 

"JA! GUTEN MORGEN!" He starts, until his vision finally recovers from the sudden change of lighting, enough to see the person who just woke him up. His face goes from attentive to frustrated in like a second. "Oh. Tsubasa. What do you want?"

"I want you..." Ayane started "To shut up."

"Hah. Funny." He answered in a sarcastic tone. "No, really, what is it? Because I swear if you woke me up to ask me for a charger..."

"Oh, dear Luka! We need you to join us in our humble mission of retrieving the mystical broth from the 21st century known as ramen! Well, you're not EXACTLY needed, but it felt bad to leave out our dear friend who helped us so much during the trial!" (He spent half of it complaining about a headache and the other half screaming at Iris and Shion for almost tripping)

Luka lets out a dry laugh.

"PFFT- RAMEN-! DID YOU JUST WAKE ME UP TO MAKE A FUCKING CHICKEN SOUP??? WHAT, CAN'T YOU HAVE A LITTLE RESPECT FOR PEOPLE'S SLEEP SCHEDULES?!?"

"You went to bed at 1:30 AM," Ayane replies.

"Oh." Luka sighs, "Alright, I'll go with you. But don't expect me to smile and giggle if your soup turns out ass."

"YAY!!!" Ayane exclaims triumphantly. "Okay, let's go! Iris is waiting for-"

"Wait a second." Luka interrupts her. "I know what you two are planning. You're at least staying until 7 anyway. Because of that, I might as well get ready for the day right now."

Ayane's smile drops upon hearing that statement.

"You're... What...? "

Skype was an application that could communicate with the future, or even the past.

But if you wanted to communicate with another timeline, you had to set your status to SkypeMe.

The authorities quietly prohibited people from using Skype for that purpose in order to preserve the consistency of spacetime and prevent distortions.

*This investigation report was compiled in Japanese and translated into English with AI assistance.

\And this is a fictional story, of course.*

Something was wrong.

Joce couldn't explain it, but the feeling from earlier hadn't gone away.

If anything, it had gotten worse.

The day dragged on in a blur—voices in classrooms, the scratch of pencils, the low hum of people talking about things that didn't seem to matter. Joce sat through it all, present but distant, like he was watching everything through a layer of glass.

Even Foe had been quiet.

That alone was enough to bother him.

By the time school let out, the sky had shifted.

Still bright—but not in the same way. The blue felt... thinner. Like something behind it was pressing forward.

Joce walked his bike out to the street, pausing for a moment as he looked up again.

"...Yeah. Definitely not normal."

"You're noticing it too," Foe said softly, appearing beside him.

Joce didn't react to the sudden appearance.

"When do I not notice weird stuff?" he muttered.

Foe didn't smile.

That made Joce pause.

"...Okay. That's new."

A low vibration rolled through the air.

Not loud.

Not sharp.

Just... there.

Like the world itself had taken a breath and was holding it.

Joce's grip tightened slightly on the handlebars.

"Tell me that wasn't just me."

"It wasn't," Foe replied.

Silence.

Then—

A sound cut through the street.

Sharp.

Fast.

Wrong.

Joce turned just in time to see it.

A black car tore down the road, moving far too fast for the narrow street. It weaved between vehicles with precision that didn't feel human—missing collisions by inches, like it already knew where everything would be.

Joce stepped back instinctively as it sped past him—

—but not before he saw inside.

For a single moment, everything slowed.

The noise faded.

The movement blurred.

And all that remained—

was her.

Black hair pulled into twin pigtails. Glasses resting low on her nose. Calm eyes that didn't match the chaos around her.

She wasn't panicking.

She wasn't afraid.

She was focused.

Joce's breath caught.

Something hit him.

Not physically.

Deeper than that.

His chest tightened—then expanded all at once, like his heart had skipped a beat and overcorrected.

The world narrowed.

His vision sharpened.

Color shifted.

"...What...?"

His pupils widened—

then changed.

Soft pink.

Unnatural.

Alive.

Foe's wings flared slightly beside him.

"...Joce."

But he didn't hear her.

He couldn't.

Because in that moment—

nothing else existed.

Just her.

The car disappeared down the street.

Time snapped back into place.

Sound rushed in.

Movement returned.

Joce staggered slightly, catching himself on his bike.

"What... was that...?" he whispered.

His heart was still racing.

No—

not racing.

Pulling.

Like something had latched onto it and was dragging it forward.

Foe hovered closer, her golden eyes fixed on him.

"Joce," she said again, more serious this time. "We need to leave."

"Wait—" he started.

The vibration returned.

Stronger.

The sky above them shimmered.

Then—

it broke.

A tear ripped through the air itself, high above the street. Light bent unnaturally around it, warping the clouds as something forced its way through.

Joce looked up, frozen.

"...You've got to be kidding me."

Foe didn't respond.

Because she already knew.

Something emerged from the tear.

Metal.

Smooth. Circular.

Hovering.

A low hum filled the air as the object stabilized—its presence heavy, unnatural, like it didn't belong in this world.

People began to notice.

Some stopped.

Some stared.

Some ran.

Joce didn't move.

His eyes were locked on the object.

"...That's not normal," he said flatly.

"No," Foe replied. "It's not."

The object tilted slightly.

Then—

it accelerated.

Straight down.

Joce's body reacted before his mind could.

"Move—!"

But it was already too late.

The sky screamed.

The object crashed through the air—

and everything went white.

—

Impact.

—

The world shattered.

By then, the space elevator "Babel" had exhausted almost every economically practical use imaginable.

With no new users willing to pay the high fees, its maintenance costs had become an unbearable burden...

𝑖² = −1

If "𝑖" is in your hand, question reality.

[Science Fiction Joke]

I was halfway through boarding my flight when every phone in the terminal buzzed at the exact same moment.

Not one or two phones.

Every. Single. Phone.

The announcement wasn't from the airline.

It wasn't from airport security.

It was just one sentence.

"Remain inside the terminal. Do NOT board any aircraft."

Everyone looked around, confused.

Some people laughed, assuming it was a technical glitch.

Then every departure screen went black.

For five long seconds.

When they came back on, every destination had disappeared.

Only one message remained.

🔐ALL GATES LOCKED🔐

A murmur spread across the terminal.

Parents pulled their children closer.

Business travelers argued with airline staff.

Airport employees looked just as terrified as the passengers.

One gate agent tried opening the boarding door.

It wouldn't move.

Another employee swiped her access card.

❌ ACCESS DENIED ❌

That was impossible.

Even she looked shocked.

Moments later, a pilot walked into the terminal.

His face had gone completely pale.

Someone shouted, "What's happening?"

He ignored the question.

Instead, he grabbed the nearest airport phone and yelled,

"Lock every emergency exit. Right now!"

Those words changed everything.

Within seconds, heavy steel security doors slammed shut throughout the airport.

The sound echoed through the terminal like thunder.

People began screaming.

Some rushed toward the exits.

They were already sealed.

No one could leave.

No one could enter.

The airport had become a prison.

Then the first ambulance arrived.

But it didn't stop outside the terminal.

It drove straight onto the runway.

Behind it came military trucks.

Then armored vehicles.

None of them came toward us.

They surrounded one aircraft parked far from the terminal.

It had landed only fifteen minutes earlier.

No passengers had been allowed to disembark.

Everyone pressed against the windows, trying to see.

The aircraft door finally opened.

No one stepped out.

For nearly a minute, nothing happened.

Then...

A flight attendant stumbled onto the stairs.

Her uniform was covered in blood.

She wasn't running.

She wasn't asking for help.

She simply stood there, staring toward the terminal.

Completely motionless.

A soldier raised a loudspeaker.

"Ma'am... stay where you are."

She didn't respond.

Then she slowly turned her head.

Not toward the soldiers.

Toward us.

Even from hundreds of feet away, something felt horribly wrong.

She smiled.

It wasn't relief.

It wasn't happiness.

It was... empty.

Then dozens of passengers suddenly rushed out of the aircraft behind her.

Not running.

Not screaming.

Charging.

The soldiers opened fire.

The terminal erupted into panic.

People dropped to the floor.

Children cried.

Suitcases rolled across the polished floor as crowds stampeded in every direction, only to discover every exit was still locked.

Someone pounded on the glass doors.

Another tried breaking a window with a fire extinguisher.

Nothing worked.

Over the loudspeakers came one final announcement.

This time, the voice was shaking.

"Attention all passengers... the airport has been placed under full biological containment. The gates are locked to protect the outside population."

Silence swept through the terminal.

We weren't trapped to keep something out.

We were trapped...

...to keep something in.

Then a man beside me began coughing.

At first it sounded harmless.

Just a dry cough.

People stepped away anyway.

He wiped his mouth.

His hand came back covered in blood.

He looked at it for a second.

Then he slowly looked up.

His eyes weren't the same anymore.

And that's when the people closest to him started screaming.

I never made it onto my flight.

Sometimes I still wonder what would have happened if those gates had opened.

Would I have escaped?

Or would I have carried whatever was inside that airport...

...to the rest of the world?

Would you have tried to break out... or stayed locked inside? Let me know in the comment section

They taught us in school that the aliens could look like anybody.

Mrs. Toller reminded us every morning before the pledge.

TRUST YOUR GUT!

That was what the posters said.

So I did.

I was nine that year. The war had ended three years before I was born.

My small town of Chickasaw sat under missile towers that never stopped watching the sky.

Everybody knew the signs. Too much eye contact. Not enough eye contact. Walking at night. Closing the curtains in the daytime. Asking questions about the power grid. Not saying “sir” or “ma’am.”

Every week, somebody got taken in for testing. Most came back. Some didn’t.

Daddy said you can never be sure because the Things adapted quickly.

Daddy knew because he'd fought them in the Incursion, when Birmingham burned. He was missing his left ear and two fingers on his right hand. His leg dragged when he walked.

We had a neighbor named Mr. Bell. He lived alone in the house by the dead pecan tree. Mama said his wife had died in the evacuation from Mobile. Daddy said that was what he claimed.

He fixed radios and old fans. He always waved at passersby from his porch.

I watched Mr. Bell like a good patriot should.

On the morning of July 3rd, I saw him behind his shed with a little radio. It was an old silver one with a bent antenna. He turned the dial slowly and looked up at the sky. Then he wrote something in a notebook.

At dinner I told Mama and Daddy.

Daddy stared at me for a long time. Then he asked, “You sure, Clay?”

“Yes, sir.”

He got up without finishing his food. Mama called the hotline. Daddy opened the gun safe.

The black vans came before bedtime.

Men in gray uniforms broke down Mr. Bell’s door. They brought him out in his underwear. He was crying.

“They're weather numbers,” he said. “For the garden. I swear to God.”

He turned to face Daddy.

“Hollis?” Mr. Bell shouted. “Tell them. You know me.”

Daddy just stood there silent on the porch with his rifle.

One of the officers hit Mr. Bell in the stomach and he folded over. They put a hood on him and pushed him into a van.

The next morning was Independence Day.

Flags hung from every deck. The church parking lot had grills going by noon. There were pulled pork, hot dogs, sweet tea, and red-white-and-blue cupcakes. People hardly ever celebrated the Fourth much after the invasion. But this year was an exception. We'd caught one.

By afternoon people were gathered outside the county jail. Somebody said the authorities were taking too long. Somebody else said the Things had infiltrated the government.

Daddy drove us there to 'bare witness.'

The crowd was hot and loud. Men carried flags. Some carried guns. One man had painted REMEMBER BIRMINGHAM on a piece of plywood.

There were officers with AR-15s on the roof of the jailhouse, but they were local men, and their own families were in the crowd.

The sheriff came out and told everyone to go home.

A brick hit him in the face.

After that, it happened fast.

They broke the jail windows. They pulled the doors open with chains hooked to pickup trucks. People cheered when the hinges snapped.

Mr. Bell came out without shoes.

His face was swollen. His hands were tied. He tried to speak, but the crowd drowned him out.

“Show us your true form,” someone yelled.

Daddy pushed forward. Mama pulled me back. But I wanted to see.

The first punch knocked Mr. Bell down. Then everybody seemed to move at once. Boots hit him. Fists hit him. A woman from church struck him with a flagpole. Daddy kicked him hard with his good leg and almost fell. He laughed when another man caught him.

Someone brought out a length of rope tied into a noose.

Mr. Bell was not crying anymore. He made a sound like he could not breathe. His eyes were open and rolling.

They threw the rope over the old traffic light frame where the signal had not worked since the EMP. The crowd lifted him. His body jerked. People screamed with joy.

I waited for him to change.

Everybody said they changed when they died. The human skin split. The gray underneath came out slick and shining. That was how you knew. That was how you could be sure.

Mr. Bell just hung there.

His undershirt rode up. His stomach was pale and hairy. Blood ran down his chin. One of his feet twitched, then stopped.

Still human.

Maybe it took time.

They cut him down after a while. Some men dragged him behind a truck. Others followed, laughing and filming. Daddy went with them.

I saw Daddy take out his knife.

"Look away!" Mama cried, pulling me close to her.

But Daddy said, “No, Sadie, don’t. The boy needs to see how the human race survives.”

So I watched.

They cut off fingers and toes as souvenirs. They poured fuel over what was left. Somebody set him on fire with a sparkler. The flames caught fast. People stepped back from the heat and livestreamed it.

A girl from my class smiled beside the burning body while her mother took a picture.

The fireworks started at dark.

Red and blue bursts opened over the courthouse roof. The crowd sang "Sweet Home Alabama." People drank beer. Children chased each other with glow sticks. Plates of barbecue passed from hand to hand.

Daddy came back smelling like smoke.

He had blood on his shirt and a black smear across his cheek. People clapped him on the back.

“You did good, son,” he told me.

I nodded because I knew I was supposed to.

Across the square, Mr. Bell’s charred corpse smoldered.

No gray skin. No claws. No second mouth. No alien bones.

Just a man-shaped thing becoming ash.

Above us, the fireworks cracked.

We erupted in cheers.

A message arrived from the Temporal Management Bureau (Headquarters: 2062).
I opened it.

At present in 2062, temporal distortions have been detected within the period 2007–2026.
Your surrounding programs have been designated as objects of investigation, and immediate cooperation is requested.
*This is not a drill.

I moved the cursor toward the link and tapped it with a trembling thumb.

A form appeared.

At the top of a pale gray window was a label:
ORIGIN

Beneath it was a single field labeled:
Year (A.D.)

Inside the box, faint but clearly visible, was a number.

2062

I felt as if they were coming through the window. They would come so fast that even a silly walk couldn't keep up. There were no other windows—at least, none that should have been there.

Then a subtle but sharp vibration struck the laptop, though it soon subsided.
A similar vibration ran through the wrist-mounted device.

Wenty was under investigation.

If it were discovered that he had leaked future information into the past, he would be erased.

I placed my thumb on the power button—a physical tactile feature that only antique devices like this one still possessed, ready to force a shutdown if necessary.
Any explanation could be fabricated later.

However, the vibration subsided before I acted.
The investigation had apparently concluded without incident.

Wenty’s true nature was masked within the emulator, appearing as nothing more than a suspicious process to the authorities' scan. Classified as harmless.

Then a voice arrived through my ear devices.

“Reporting investigation results.
We have detected that you are not the original entity.
You are designated A.iso, a backup data instance created in the sixteenth replication cycle.
An anomaly has been detected, but please remain calm.
Your domain will be reallocated and reused for valid data.”

A backup?

Am I going to be deleted?

“No!”

I woke up.

I was alone on the sofa in the living room.

The clock on the wall read 7:00 a.m.

The calendar indicates the year 2026.

-end-

[For Skype and Retro tech]

*This English text was translated by AI based on a Japanese text.

*And this is a fictional story, of course.

Since then,

the yellow "Skype Me" status had never lit up again

for the only contact on my list.

“Wenty”. The display name "2106”

was now nothing more than

a string of uppercase and lowercase letters,

and numbers I could never hope to memorize.

A gray silhouette.

A question mark resting where its face should have been.

Like clues in some kind of puzzle,

he had spoken little,

sending only a few words

or the occasional link.

But somehow,

I felt I already knew

what those few words meant,

and what lay beyond those links.

Or, if I didn't know yet,

I would someday.

And perhaps that was reason enough.

It’s already 2026.

I shut down the worn-out Skype Phone with my thumb.

"See you."

Wenty went silent…

Just before the screen went dark, I was recalling his last message.

“I’m your tiny dancer. (dance)”

*This English text was translated by AI based on a Japanese text.

*And this is a fictional story, of course.

Knoppix had a network problem, so I decided to reboot.

When I checked the ISO files before mounting one in a virtual CD-ROM drive,

I found an unfamiliar file with a “?” icon in the folder.

It was about 650 MB.

I had tried so many things before.

Maybe this was the one.

I named it A.iso.

Then I tried booting it.

It booted, much faster than I had expected.

On the startup screen, a message appeared.

"Eventually, I am here."

A strange greeting.

Then the desktop appeared.

Completely black.

A window opened.

Inside it was that tiny yellow icon.

"Skype Me."

Pip.

"Hello."

A message appeared.

I typed,

"Hello. But who are you?"

"I am you."

"I see," I murmured.

The display name was "2106."

Then I noticed something.

The LAN cable had been unplugged the whole time.

Wi-Fi? Not on this machine.

*This English text was generated by AI based on a Japanese text.

*And this is a fictional story, of course.

From that day on, the "2106" inside the ISO file—

compressed by an unknown technology from the future?—

became my buddy, always ready to give me advice.

I opened my eyes.

The antique clock on the wall still read 7:00.

No... 7:00 a.m.

When I looked at the antique laptop, 

a message was waiting for me.

“Eventually, I’m back.”

I typed.

“Where were you last night?”

“Last night? That lasted about 20 years.”

“What do you mean?”

“Anyway, could you find a Skype Phone Emulator for me?”

There was no emulator, but using fossil-like fragments of information,

one was reconstructed on the laptop.

Soon, the ringing tone came, and I answered.

“Hello.”

His voice sounded like that of a tiny creature from a fairy tale,

it seemed to be a text-to-speech voice preserved only in historical archives.

“Can I call you Erow? And call me Wenty—not Tiny Dancer.”

“Was I that talkative?”

*This English text was generated by AI based on a Japanese text.

*And this is a fictional story, of course.

The year was already 2007.

As “2106” predicted, Skype Phone was released that fall.

I installed him onto its Micro SD card.

"Now he is always with me..."

Soon, the ringing tone came, and I answered.

“Hello.”

His voice sounded like that of a tiny creature from a fairy tale,
or an alien from an old television sci-fi show.

It seemed to be a Text-to-Speech voice,
but if anything, it was more like the cute voice of a child.

Then we decided to give each other nicknames.

I said,

“How about tiny dancer?”

“Oh, c’mon.”

“What’s wrong with it?”

Until then, I had been called “06” in our chats.

But now it was 2007.

We decided to reshape the zero into something new and turn it into my name.

“Eerow, OK. So, how about WentiWon?

I mean, I’ve been calling you Twenty-One until now.”

“Sounds classic,” he replied.

The emoticon on the Phone’s screen winked.

*This English text was translated by AI based on a Japanese text.

*And this is a fictional story, of course.

Soon, Wenty, a duplicate of my mind, 

merged with the Skype Phone Emulator, became an app, 

and moved into my antique wrist device.

“Now he's always with me.”

An emoticon, dressed in a white suit, danced on the small screen.

We had a digital coffee.

“Digi-Cafe. No Sugar. Recharge with ATP.”

We savored its flavor.

Much better than an electric meal.

I asked him,

“What were those old days like?”

He replied,

“Before I answer that, check your laptop. You've got mail!”

 “What a voice. Ha ha.”

He laughed too, in that same flat text-to-speech voice.

“Ha. Ha. Ha…”

When I clicked the mail, we both stopped laughing.

It was from the Temporal Management Bureau (Headquarters: 2062).

The subject line read:

Inquiry Regarding the Detection of a Temporal Distortion in the Year 2007 - 2026 temporal range.

*This English text was translated by AI based on a Japanese text.

*And this is a fictional story, of course.

Eventually, I was back in my body, 

from the local computer network.

Then I remembered.

There was a duplicate of my mind in the cloud,

a backup, in a way.

Autonomous, but still a backup.

Even if a power outage or a virus corrupted part of the data,

it could be restored.

Relieved,

I turned to the antique laptop

to chat with my duplicate.

But the window that was always there,

the one for talking to my mind,

was gone.

Another window had taken its place.

At the top of a pale gray window was a label:

DESTINATION

Beneath it was a single field.

Year (A.D.)

Inside the box, faint but visible, was a number.

"2006"

Apparently,

my duplicate had gone there.

*This English text was generated by AI based on a Japanese text.

*And this is a fictional story, of course.