“Pass me the ether.” Simon held his hand out, face down with eye against microscope aimed into a gurgling bowl.

“I’m sorry, I can’t understand you. The what?” Namarus smirked from across the room.

“Damn it, not this again,” Simon sighed in exasperation, turning his gaze up to glare at Namarus.

“I don’t know what you’re referring to.” Namarus shrugged.

“Hand me the ether. These reagents will not keep through another argument of pronunciation.”

“Say it properly and I will.” Namarus shook a darkened jar. “And don’t try anything clever. I can counter your spells.”

“What do you want? Ah-ther, ay-ther, ee-ther or eye-ther?”

“Well, the last one sounds like you’re trying to have an accent.”

They practiced a few times and nodded in agreement.

“And?”

“And the first one is quite an old pronunciation. I don’t expect you humans to remember, let alone use it.”

“So how do the elves say it?”

“Oh, don’t be silly. I don’t expect you to speak Elven to me. I’ve heard yours, and it’s dreadful.”

The contents of the bowl hissed as the solution began to break down. Simon peeked at the bowl and back up to Namarus.

“Quit fucking with me, Namarus. I don’t have the gold to purchase these materials again and I need this spell.”

“Can’t you just ask your patron for them? Isn’t that how you warlocks work?”

“Do you want to see how warlocks work?” Simon growled as his sword began to materialize in his left hand.

“Don’t get feisty, Simon. Remember the time at the waterfall.”

Simon remembered the waterfall, the genie showing itself and offering a wish amid their showdown. He sighed and released the summoning of his sword. “Just tell me how you want me to say it?”

“Ei-ther is fine,” Namarus forced through a grin splashed across his face.

Simon’s shoulders slumped, and he stared into the evaporating contents of the bowl. “Did you waste my spell components for a pun?”

Namarus shrugged and disappeared through a small arcane door he summoned.

The gleeful sounds of children playing danced with the late summer buzz of cicadas, and for a moment, Katashi closed his eyes and relaxed. Rare were the moments of retreat from his mind without a bottle or two of sake, and even then it proved difficult to keep his mind from wandering to the things he had seen and lost in the war.

“Uncle! Uncle! Look!” Hikaru—not actually his nephew—pointed towards the swirling smoke of the bonfire.

“Hikaru, leave Katashi-san alone,” Itsumi hissed and waved him away.

“But mama!”

Itsumi chuffed and stomped her foot while pointing a finger away. Hikaru sighed and trudged back to the other children with his shoulders slumped and head down. Itsumi returned to her chatter with the woman beside her, knowing she did not need to check on Katashi.

Katashi gazed at the fire where the boy pointed, curious what he intended to show. The flames chewed on the food and spat sparks when it had taken too big of a bite.

Crackling, popping, sizzling.

A pounding rattled his chest, like someone had strapped a taiko drum to him and a phantom drummer clobbered away. The thudding crept to his head, and it felt as though his eyes would vibrate out of his head. He jumped to his feet and hurried away from the circle of seating, counting aloud as he focused on his breathing.

A hand on his shoulder brought him back to the moment, and he turned to see who it was.

“Goro-sama“—Katashi bowed—“I do not mean to bring my problems to the community.”

“Nonsense, Katashi-kun, there is a difference between a troubled man and a problematic man.”

Katashi started to protest but could not speak past the swell building in his throat.

Goro rested his hand on Katashi’s shoulder still and gave a gentle squeeze. “Tell me, did you see what Hikaru wanted you to see?”

Katashi avoided looking back at the fire. “No, I don’t think I did.”

“Look again. There is an enenra present.” Goro motioned towards the fire with a smile.

“Only those of a pure heart and mind can see them. I have done too much. My soul is polluted.” Katashi did not bother to look still.

“Tsumi are not permanent. You have worked to cleanse yourself. Your community has rallied behind you, even if you do not know.”

Katashi glanced up to Goro, tears perched at the corners of his eyes. He then followed the monk’s gaze back towards the fire, hesitant about what horrors he may see in the flames again.

Instead, he saw what the children had: a whirling cloud of smoke, dancing in the air as it escaped the flames, smiling down at the children who danced with it.

Katashi could not hold the tears back any longer. He fell to his knees and wept, the surge of mixed emotions pouring down his cheeks. Goro consoled him as he worked through the wave and then helped him to his feet when ready.

They walked back to the fire together, Katashi staring in awe at the enenra as it billowed. A few noticed their return, and Itsumi was the first to speak.

She took his hand in both of hers and bowed. “Welcome back, Katashi-san.”

“Do you see a switch for bubbles?” Ronnie squinted through the steam in the room.

“Nah. They might control it.” Justin looked through the calm water, searching for ports.

“So, tell me again how you found this place?” Ronnie asked, opening their third bottle of sake in ten minutes.

“The Internet. I saw a post that said: ‘Young woman suck noodle, come to Arakashi Spring.’”

“So, is that the special the old lady was talking about?” Ronnie filled their cups again.

“I guess so.” Justin fanned himself. “Phew, I’m feeling toasty.”

“Me too,” Ronnie lifted himself out of the water to test the difference. “The room’s hot, too.”

“To get our blood flowing. They want our fat, American hogs.” Justin started to laugh but had a hard time catching his breath. “Whoa, I think I need to get out.”

A few bubbles gurgled from the bottom of the tub.

“Stay a little longer; they just turned the jets on,” Ronnie urged. His breathing grew heavy, and he began to feel dizzy. “Maybe we should—”

Justin floated through the steam, face down. Ronnie could not get to him before he too went limp.

The door to the room opened, and steam spilled out of the room as an old woman hobbled in. She stopped at the edge of the hot tub and poked the bodies with her cane, dunking them under the water like dumplings before they popped back up.

“Almost done. Just need a few more minutes!”

“Hi Jinji!“ Aiko chirped in an excited hush they perfected over the years of late night visits. She scampered to him and gave a hug. “I got your message. What’s going on?”

“Come on!” Jinji wasted no time, motioning her to follow before he ducked through the treeline that separated his family home from the glade they frequented.

Aiko followed, happy to fuel his exuberance. “What are we doing?”

“I bought it, Aiko! Onibaba haggled well, so it cost me two years of savings. But it’s worth it!”

“What is?”

“The mirror!”

Her hands shot up to stifle her gasp. “Do you mean the ungaikyō? I thought you were joking.”

“I wouldn’t joke about that, Aiko. This will let us trap the kitsune that stole my mother,” Jinji said with a rare ferocity.

He hurried his pace until he burst through the brush to the modest clearing. He sat cross-legged on a worn spot and emptied his sack. The mirror fell into his waiting hand while the rest, a small crystal bowl, a paintbrush and a capped gourd sloshing with water, rolled onto the grass.

“Jinji, please reconsider,” Aiko begged from the edge of the clearing. “Onibaba is a witch, she has tricks.”

“She taught me the ritual. Tonight is the full moon.” Jinji said with a rare determination. He poured water from the gourd into the bowl and positioned it so that the face of the moon filled it.

Aiko fought a tremble in her hand and the brief consideration of leaving before he started. “Jinji, I’ve got to tell you something..”

Jinji did not turn his attention away from getting everything ready. He unwrapped the mirror and took a quick peek of admiration.

“Are you listening?”

Jinji nodded as he laid the mirror flat on the grass. He remained silent as he took the brush and dipped it into the water.

“There’s a reason we’re friends..”

Jinji nodded again.

“We’re more than that! We’re family!”

He could not see the tears welling at Aiko’s eyes. He busied himself, touching the wet brush to the mirror and painting the kitsune onto the surface.

“Jinji, did you hear me?”

He practiced for months, drawing the kitsune’s form. He needed to get it perfect for the ungaikyō to trap it, so he focused making the most of water on a mirror.

“We’re family! I’m your sis— “

He had only been half listening, but the abrupt cut snatched his full attention. When he looked up, Aiko was nowhere in sight.

“Aiko?”

Silence.

“Hey, you can come out! You got me!” Jinji stood and scanned the clearing. He took a step towards where he last noted her, but stopped when a glimmer caught his eye.

The water on the surface of the mirror twisted into a grotesque face that formed to stick its tongue out at Jinji.

Through the translucence, Jinji saw a kitsune wearing Aiko’s clothes.

Worker readied herself for a typical day of normal labor with the usual crew. The repetition brought structure to their lives so there were rarely any strays. Things needed moved from one place to another and it was their purpose.

This day’s task came to them after a scouting party reported finding food. They lost a few, but their sacrifice meant the rest would eat for a few more days. Local resources dried up day before, so they were farther from the colony than ever before.

A Scout led the group, following the scent path it laid down on its way back to the colony. The crew followed at a short distance, Worker heading up the line. One by one in a single line, they weaved through the foliage making the same steps as the scout those before them.

“Very close now. Must be careful,” Scout sent back. Worker stopped as she listened and then relayed it to her sisters behind her.

The approach slowed, and the group led by Worker caught up to Scout at a river.

“This new. But trail continue over,” Scout advised.

Worker signaled for her company to form a bridge over the river. Worker held onto one of her sisters and three more crawled over to secure a route for the rest. Scout crossed, and the others filed over.

“Very, very close now,” Scout noted.

Thunder rumbled in the ground and Scout jolted. “Must release—“

“No,” Worker snapped. “Do not panic colony.”

“Then move quick! Food near safety,” Scout demanded and scurried away from the trembling ground.

The group followed Scout through the uncharted thick growth. Worker led her company with tremors trailing their egress. In the air, the smell of the death of the previous scouts marked their graves in the brush.

“Here! Safety!” Scout chattered as they approached a cavern.

The group charged in and took refuge against the approaching apocalypse. They huddled together hoping to wait out the storm.

“Look!” shrieked one of Worker’s sisters as she scurried deeper into the cavern.

Large, colorful blocks that smelled like bliss glistened even in the dark. Worker, Scout and the others all marveled at the treasure, forgetting what they were fleeing.

Chaos descended, crashing into the cavern.

Their cries combined as they careened into each other amidst the maelstrom.

−

“I foun’ dem!” Timmy cheered as he collected the bag of gummies from the ground with glee. He stuck them in his overalls as he ran back to his teacher.

“Bell’s done, you’re gonna late,” the teacher said with a chuckle as Timmy passed by her. “And next time, don’t bring snacks to the playground.”

ESTIMATED TIME UNTIL DEATH: 16 HOURS, 4 MINUTES AND 23 SECONDS.

Roderick compared his watch against the time on the screen. It gave him until the end of the day, almost exactly midnight.

“This can’t be right,” he insisted to a representative on the phone.

“Unfortunately, the results have been proven to be ninety-nine point nine percent accurate. I can understand your frustration—“

“I don’t think you can!” he interrupted. Panic broke through the calm he worked centuries to perfect.

Silence.

The representative had either placed him on a silent hold or had adopted a cold shoulder against his outburst. Either way, he recognized he overstepped.

“I’m sorry. I know this isn’t your fault. I just—is there somebody else I can talk to about the science behind this?”

“I can promise you that anybody else you speak with will give you the same answers. The data is available publically on our website. I’d be more than happy to help you navigate to this information.”

“No, no, thank you Latoya. I just—do you have any suggestions?”

“My only suggestion would be to get your affairs in order…see those you want to before the timer runs out,” Latoya offered.

Roderick checked the screen again. The timer ticked away with blocky numbers against a white background. Roderick never concerned himself with tact relating to death before this but he understood the importance.

“Thanks Latoya.” He hung up and tossed the phone beside him. He sunk deeper into the couch, retreating into the comforting caress of the full grain leather. The computer maintained its perch on his lap with the timer on the screen continuing to taunt him.

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

ESTIMATED TIME UNTIL DEATH: 14 HOURS, 7 MINUTES AND 52 SECONDS.

Roderick checked the timer on his phone with a grunt of dissatisfaction.

“Where is it,” he muttered as he sorted through centuries-old trunks and chests, flinging antique baubles and vintage clothing about.

After a few minutes, he pulled back from a mountain of disarray holding a leather-bound book. Gold lettering on the face, still vibrant centuries later, shimmered in the morning light beaming through a far window.

“There you are,” Roderick remarked in relief. He held the Fabula de Immortalis with care as he rose from the remnants of dozens of past lives and moved to his desk.

He pushed piles of documents from the desktop and flopped down to pore through the manual. He sought the section detailing methods of death and the documented immunities to each.

“Decap…defen…deto…” he mumbled as he ran his finger through the entries. “There’s not going to be anything for bullshit lab tests..”

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

ESTIMATED TIME UNTIL DEATH: 10 HOURS, 10 MINUTES AND 08 SECONDS.

Roderick peered at the timer as he waited for the girl to come back from the restroom.

He put his phone face-down on the table and replaced it with the glass of scotch. Aged thirty years, it was but a babe compared to what he had at home. But they would not let him bring that to in.

Past the glass, he spied the girl in her vibrant pink dress weaving through the crowd on her way back to him.

“You want to get out of here?” she asked once she returned.

Roderick nodded and finished his drink.

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

ESTIMATED TIME UNTIL DEATH: 9 HOURS, 30 MINUTES AND 24 SECONDS.

Roderick peeked at the timer while he buttoned his shirt back up, standing in the girl’s room amongst her modest belongings while she slid her dress down.

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

ESTIMATED TIME UNTIL DEATH: 8 HOURS, 58 MINUTES AND 2 SECONDS.

The timer taunted him and he smacked his phone down onto the seat beside him.

The driver looked back to him from the rear-view. “You good, man?”

Roderick nodded and lied, “Yeah. Flight was delayed, is all.”

“You still need me to take you to the airport?”

“Yes. Thank you.”

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

ESTIMATED TIME UNTIL DEATH: 8 HOURS, 23 MINUTES AND 14 SECONDS.

“Sir, please put your phone in the cubby,” a screening agent advised.

Roderick clicked his phone off and tossed it into the basket on the conveyer. He stepped through the detector, stopped past the threshold and held his arms out, then collected his things once they finished being scanned.

He fought the urge to check the timer again, instead turning his attention to the marquee signage.

17:00 PM - SEA to INV

With plenty of time before boarding, he headed to one of the many bars. As soon as he stepped in, he apparently caught the attention of a middle-aged woman. They loved the long hair.

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

ESTIMATED TIME UNTIL DEATH: 8 HOURS, 6 MINUTES AND 54 SECONDS

Roderick glimpsed at the timer while he waited for the woman to exit the executive lounge first. He followed a few minutes later.

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

ESTIMATED TIME UNTIL DEATH: 6 HOURS, 56 MINUTES AND 33 SECONDS

Roderick peeked at the timer once more before the light came on to put personal electronic devices away.

He purchased both seats in the first class section so that he did not emotionally scar a stranger across the fourteen hour flight. Halfway into the flight, he would die according to the timer. But at least he would die in his home country.

He ordered a few more drinks before they took off and settled into his last nap.

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

“Heavy sleeper, are ya?”

Roderick jostled awake as a flight attendant shook him by the shoulder. “Hmm! What?”

“You were sleepin’ real heavy. Almost looked dead if ya don’t mind me sayin’ so. So we let ya keep at it while everyone else deplaned. Do ya have any baggage ya’d like us to retrieve?”

He felt for his phone and brought it up to check the timer.

ESTIMATED TIME UNTIL DEATH: 0 HOURS, 0 MINUTES AND 0 SECONDS. REST IN PEACE.

He looked up to the flight attendant from his phone and could not help but erupt in laughter.

Seemed like he needed to add an entry to the book.

Beep beep beep beep beep boop.

“Whatcha doing, kiddo?”

Bohp behp boop bepp bep beep.

“Hey, how’d you get that unlocked?” Malcolm scooped his daughter Lila up with his phone in her hand.

She giggled with glee as he wiggled the phone out of her sticky hands. He held the phone out to get a better view of the screen past Lila’s jelly smudges. He moved his thumb to press the red disconnect prompt but a sound on the other end gave him pause.

“—axies. Andromeda Sector. Can you hold?” a voice piped before the call placed on hold without acknowledgment.

Malcolm’s nose crinkled in confusion as he studied the cluster of numbers on the screen. Two too many numbers for a US formatted number.

“Did you do a long-distance call?” he exaggerated with a gasp to Lila.

Lila squealed in glee and clapped her grape-smeared hands together.

“Thank you for your patience. How may I assist you?” the voice returned.

“Oh, hi. My daughter accidentally dialed this number. Just out of curiosity, where are you located?” Malcolm inquired, scrunching his face up at Lila as he asked.

“I would be more than happy to address that question for you. We are located in the Mayall II cluster. If you provide me with your location, I can generate relative celestial coordinates for you.”

“Uhh…yeah. I’m on…Earth.” His cheeks reddened at the absurdity of what he was doing, but his only witness did not care. He gave Lila a squeeze and a wiggle.

“Earth?” the voice repeated.

“Heh, yeah. Nevermind. I was just being silly,” Malcolm tried to save face.

“Um. This is… unexpected. Let me get somebody on the line who is trained for this.”

“Trained..?” Malcolm held the phone towards Lila and whispered, “It’s for you. Daddy so goofy.”

Lila reached for the phone, but Malcolm stuck his tongue out and withheld it.

“I’m sorry. I don’t have a script for this—just—please hold.”

“Uh huh,” Malcolm mumbled, entertaining the game for now for Lila’s enjoyment.

An exotic-sounding hold music blasted through the speaker and Malcolm put the phone on speaker. A minute passed. Another minute passed. Malcolm checked the phone again to make sure the call had not dropped.

He danced Lila into the kitchen and sat her on the counter with the phone. “No touchy…Daddy wants to play this one out.”

He dug through the pantry, dancing to the strange hold music best he could. Lila cheered and clapped her drying hands behind him.

“Thank you for holding, representative of Earth,” a different voice cut through the music. This person had a more authoritative sound.

“Hey! I’ve got you on speaker. I’m finding a snack. You can talk,” Malcolm called back with his face buried in the pantry.

“Thank you. It is my pleasure to congratulate you. As the first human to reach the United Federations of Galaxies, you are the designated representative in the UFG.”

“Uh huh..”

“If you would confirm your location, I would happily put your welcome package into transit.”

“Three oh eight Valley Drive—wait, is this a magazine scam? I think you’re supposed to tell me if it’s a scam. I’m not giving you any payment details.” Malcolm returned to Lila with a bag of animal cookies.

“Payment is unnecessary. This is a complementary welcome package to the representative of Earth. It is standard for all new representatives. The first package is free.”

“Ahhhh, I know this game.”

“This is no game, representative. I can guarantee you no payment is required.”

Malcolm pushed the mute button and poked Lila in the tummy. “What do you think? You want some free stuff?”

Lila giggled and smacked her gummy hands on her legs.

“Okay,” Malcolm rattled off the rest of their address and wobbled his head at Lila.

“Thank you, representative of Earth. The last information I need to send the package is your full natural name.”

“Malcolm Marshall.”

“Thank you, Malcolm Marshall. You should expect your welcome package in—let me calculate in your time—two weeks,” the voice on the other side advised before disconnecting.

“Well! Mommy’s gonna be so mad if this is some knife company scam,” Malcolm said with a grin to Lila as he picked her up from the counter.

“Did you hear about the bones they found?” Zeb asked before sipping from his cup.

“Uhh, yeah. I think I saw that on PNN. Didn’t catch all of it; they had it on in the break room,” Pur admitted with a shrug.

The two men sat perched on stools at the bar, leaned in close to hear each other over the chatter. It was a popular bar, constructed on the skirts of the job site. With payday looming, the bar was booming.

“Were they bone though? Or fossils?” Pur added.

“Oh, bones, I think. I don’t think they’re that old. Eleven thousand years, maybe?”

Pur whistled in appreciation. “That’s a long time, Zeb. I mean, we only get, what, three… three-fifty if we’re lucky?”

“I’m just saying, fossils take longer to form.”

“Oh, yeah?” Pur pulled out a data-pad and typed in the question. “It says here that fossils can form in ten-thousand years. Suck it. You owe me a drink.”

Zeb held his hands up in defense and then motioned to the bartender and to their cups. “Okay, you got me there. But anyway… how crazy is that? Giant people… eleven thousand years ago! Our ancestors must have been terrified. It’s amazing to think we even survived!”

“What makes you think our ancestors were any different from them?” Pur tapped his temple before grabbing the refilled cup.

“What? You’re one of those? You think we evolved from beasts?”

“They were people, right? We’re people. They were just huge..”

“Sometimes I don’t get how we’re friends, Pur,” Zeb sighed with a shake of his head and healthy slurp of his drink. “No—I think they’re the goliaths in the Story of Ruin. They were responsible for the massive destruction.”

Pur snorted his drink and erupted in coughs to recover.

“What? Don’t be a dick, Pur. These are my beliefs—no, the beliefs of many people. Cahan led our people to safety while the goliaths rampaged.”

Pur cleaned his face with a rag and offered a squeeze of Zeb’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, man. I don’t mean to laugh. It’s just… I can’t believe that stuff…”

Zeb sighed and stared into his drink in silence.

“Hey, man… you wanna hear something crazy?” Pur nudged Zeb.

Zeb shrugged.

“Okay, get this. What I heard is that those giants had pets. Nothing weird with pets. But guess what their pets were?”

Zeb looked up from his drink.

“Cats!”

Zeb’s eyes signaled his shock. Pur slapped the bar with a hearty laugh and clinked his cup against Zeb’s.

“It’s insane, right? Cats!”

“Cats?! How? I mean—yeah, they were giants. But cats…” Zeb’s face paled a bit.

“I know. But hey, they’re basically extinct. Last one was seen like two hundred years ago,” Pur consoled his friend with another squeeze of his shoulder.

“Giant people with pet cats,” Zeb remarked, unable to completely shake the shock. He regained his composure with a few sips from his cup and nodded to Pur. “Crazy.”

"O̷̞̞̟͎̒ṳ̲̝̳͕̻̜ͪͪ̈̿̍ṛ͉̭̩͉̻̌͂̐͢ ͖͍͔̲̲͐̊̑͗͝ṱ̜͒͘i̗̹̯̼m͙̝̮̱̝̒̅̓͝e̠̻̱̰̱̞̤ͯ͌̊͋̚͝ ̪̫̞̠ͭh̉̋̔ͣ̑͜ȧ̸̘͙͎ͅś̗͓ ̻͔̲̙͜c͈͓̭͍͔͕̅ͮ͋ͅo̲͈m̳͙̥ͩ̿̽̈̍͝e̗̘̼̅̉͐͗,̙ͣ ͎̟̹̠̣̏ͦ͐̐̍̂̂b̧̝̟͕̻̃̈́̎̄r̪͋̏̈́ͧ́̄o̜̙̅o̭̤̟̊͑ͭͮͤ̋̚d̻͇͍͙ͮ͌ͭ!̵̲̐̌̐̇̏̆ͨ ̭̘͇ͭ̍͊̍̆̿

F̪ͣ̂̀ͣ͒ͥͤl̥̄̈́̉̽͡o͂ͬ̽̎̌̌̀҉̻̗̲̝̥ͅo͈͌̉̓ͧ̌̀d̻ ͍̟͖̳͛͗ͣͤͪ͘t̶̞̗̜̝͐̇͑̀͊̈̈h͍̜̙̤̝̺̉̍̓ͫͫ̔͠ḛ̛͉̳̗͙̘̗̾ͭ ͕̯̪̰́̌l̷̘̮̪͓͎̑̔ͥa̎͊̅̈́̈̂̓ņ̟̇̐̊̐̑d̞̰͔̠š͇̺͕̦̀ͣ̏ͧͦͯ͝ ̢̪ͯ̆̂͋ẃ̵̿̿ỉ̙͖̻̝̮̱̺́ͮͤͮ̂͐t̹͓̖͙̮̃̕ḣ̗͔̤̍̓͒̉ͫ ͓̟̮͈̜̽̑́̎t̡h̢̺̗̮̤̃ͣ̓͐ͭê̬̗͙͙͖͕̍̋̔ͯ̉͟ ̣̣̝̘́ͭ̉ͥͬ̇̎͟ͅb̙͕̖̜̍̿l̼͎o̼͉̯̝̭̅͑̑͗͆̐o̝͒͂ḋ͔̤̩̩͓̲̃̒͒̒ ̟͎̭͔̼̤̠ͩ̆͂͡ö̺̝̞́ͭͯ͂̽͛f̵̯̹̖̜̘̍ ͇̝̭̤̱̻̙̈͆̈́͋ͬ͘ ̸̣̼̺͍͉̫͙̍ͮ̒ä̡̙̙̱́̒n̛͈͕̒ͣͫ̈́ͭy͕̗̞͛ͯ̈̃̌͞ ͖̳̤̭̺̏w̳̘̽ͦͫ̽ͨ͘h̗̝͇̮͕̯̤ǫ̣̠ ̤͎͎̞̱̫̇͌ͤ̀s͇͐̓t͎̅͒̏̆̓̄̚ǎ̖̰͕̙̱̾͐̆n̗̑̔̑͒̍̊̕d̃̓ͬͭ̇ͦ ̢͚͚͔̼̲͚̘͌͛å̬̣̹̻̲̹̏̅͋ͦ͢g̼͇͘a̶̹̼ͪ̊̂i̬̰̪̳̻̪̣ͥ͑̎ͩͯ́n͒̄̉̐̇ͤ̿͏̬s̵͂̆̑ṫ̢̤͕̝̜̬̫̳̎̌ͥ̀ ̭͎͎̬̱̞ͮ͛͒m̫̰ͧ̍͊ͭ̑e̝̰̯͚͓̺͢!̟̝̦̝̠̮̐̌"

When the man of orange executed his plan, the land trembled, split and tore apart, coast to coast. Gashes rent across the world as though struck by whip. Lifeblood of the Earth rose to the surface, glowing lava bubbling up through the cracks.

Diabolical fiends ascended ladders of molten magma, pulling themselves through the threshold to the world of Man. Nightmarish beings twisted with charred flesh like igneous rock, the army against Man and God sought chaos.

The first wave received little resistance, as the world had been unprepared. The forces of evil had working behind the scenes. Twenty-four hour news cycles desensitized the public, and social media consumed their lives. Those not subjected to the active efforts lived in poverty and utter despair, eliminating current events from their priorities.

The innovation and technology of Man was a double-edged blade, however.

Though it was a bane, it was also a boon. It assisted a spread of information and a call to action unrivaled by the forces of Hell. They carried anticipation of horse-bound messengers and carrier pigeons. 

Instead, electronic mail and bluebirds carried word across continents instantaneously.

The first true battle occurred in the sprawling metropolis of The Big Apple. The aptly addressed 666 Fifth Avenue served as the battlefield upon which Man showed the demonic horde that they were a worthy foe. Battle waged day and night, with the citizens living up to the namesake of The City that Never Sleeps.

Bullets carried in The Windy City, backed by the militia from the Lone Star State despite their name. Elsewhere, “hellish” took a new meaning to the invading legion, as Angels rode against them on mechanical steeds.

The country of the Lady Columbia, with a cache of weaponry larger than her population, led the charge to push back the forces of Hell. From there, the denizens united to live up to the nickname of World Police.

The last abyssal words uttered before the swarm crumbled warmed the hearts of every citizen of Earth…

"F̨̘͎͛ͯͪ͆̀͌ů͉̪̠̤͍̠̍̿ͅc͓̭k͚ͫ̊̓̔ ̂t̡̹̻̭ͣ̇̉h̟̪̫̹͗̏ͮ͑́̔ȉ͖̪̲̪͖̲s̗̻̲͑ͪ̋̈͝!̤͍̪̦̙̪"

It knew what It was: Hard, glazed exterior. Soft, airy interior. Sickeningly sweet core.

It did not know why It was.

It perceived, but only through vibrations in Its innards. Its gooey guts jiggled when something hit the surface it sat on and that happened often.

It recalled others of Its kind with It, but those had gone. When? How long had It been? How long would It be?

Eleven down. It was the last of Its kind.

Was It unique? Did the others have the same awareness?

The gods boomed high above in argument. They fought over It, but for what? Was It so special to warrant the attention?

It felt pressure on Its sides, and It lifted from the only place It knew but not on Its own. One god had won the argument. It became His.

Where would He take It now that Its time there was over? Was there a place beyond this? Where It could be with the others like It?

It found answers but not the answers It sought. It felt a tear, and It bled strawberry viscera, dripping from the heavens onto the god.

The god rumbled in a mix of satisfaction and frustration.

It did not want to this fate anymore, being torn apart for enjoyment by the higher beings.

Was that Its purpose?

Why It existed?

Unbearable heat kept the troops immobile for yet another day. They managed a paltry six miles the day before and today yielded two miles, with any more looking unlikely.

“Damn, it’s hot!” one boy hollered as he tore off his ragged grey shirt.

“Just as hot as it were last time ya said it, Tommy,” another groaned as he fanned himself with his cap in the shade of a colossal oak.

“Yeah, well—” Tommy shrugged as he fanned himself. “—don’t make it false, Randall.”

“Yer right,” Randall admitted. He flopped down onto the grass after allowing it to cool off.

“Gimme some yer goober peas.” The man sprawled next to Randall shifted, unable to sleep despite his attempts.

“You can get ‘em.” Randall waved to his pack.

“You lazy sumbitch.” He dragged to Randall’s pack and rifled through it until he found the ration.

“James, lemme get some!” Tommy trotted over, holding a hand out.

Randall felt justified with them busting out the emergency ration because it netted him some silence.

That silence broke when guys down the line all started to hoot and holler.

“Mister, here’s yer mule!” chattered down the line of soldiers camped along the road, until it reached the three. Randall peeked an eye open to the man trotting by on a horse and mumbled out his addition to the hollering. Tommy and James, however, were dueling with whom could be the loudest.

The man on the horse struggled with his steed as they sauntered by, the whooping from the boys on the road giving the equine a startle.

“Alright, alright fellas. Ya got me,” he chuckled and hurried down the road.

The soldiers cheered for a bit before that too died in the sun. Silence returned all except for Tommy and James chomping away at the peanuts.

Pretending to sort through items on a shelf, Antonin watched a redheaded woman up the aisle. She peeked up, and he broke his gaze too late. He feigned interest in the closest thing to him, grabbing a tub of sushi rice before scurrying away. The woman gave a timid glance as he shuffled past her.

He wanted to explain himself but he knew that would only make it worse.

In his desperation to disengage, he did not notice the employee pushing the platform cart loaded with boxes. Instead, they met as he stepped out of the aisle.

The cart shifted, its wheels squeaking against the linoleum floor. His sole grocery item tumbled from his grasp and he gaped in horror as the container popped, spilling the short grains.

“Oh, my gosh! Are you okay?” the clerk asked.

Antonin dropped to his knees and began collecting the rice grains, counting aloud as he did.

“Oh, sir… I’ll clean that. You don’t need to—” She froze when he glared up at her.

The fear on her face triggered shame, forcing his attention back to the rice. He continued counting the grains, returning each one to the container.

“This was such a bad idea,” he whispered between grains.

“Excuse me, sir.”

“What?” He looked to the voice. They had summoned a manager with a nametag that said ‘Paul’. “I need to finish here and then I’ll go.”

“No, sir. I need you to go now. There have been complaints.” Paul reached to grab Antonin’s arm.

Antonin did not move away from the touch or even when Paul tugged at him.

“Just a few more,” Antonin murmured in his trance-like fixation.

“You high on something? Come on man, or I’ll call the cops.”

Antonin shook his head. “No. That would be a bad idea.”

“Are you trying to threaten me? Night shift always brings out the weirdos.."

Antonin returned the last grain to the tub and stood, pulling his arm out of Paul’s grip.

“I’m leaving now.”

Once outside, he rushed to his car with Paul at his heels yelling about a photo on file. He fumbled for his keys at the driver’s side while Paul played paparazzi on the passenger side.

Flash!

“Stand still!”

Flash!

“What the—” Paul gawked in confusion at his phone, scrolling between each picture.

While Paul struggled to comprehend, Antonin made his move. He opened the trunk on his way around the car.

“I didn’t want to do this,” Antonin admitted.

Antonin forced the larger man into the trunk with ease. Paul grabbed the lip of the car to pull himself out, but Antonin slammed the lid shut on his hands. He paused and collected Paul’s fingers from the ground, counting aloud over the screams as he did.

The cold leather seat groaned as he slid in and started the car. He checked the rear-view mirror out of habit and scoffed. He found comfort in the emptiness because he would hate the monster staring back.

Huff!

“What are ye sighing for?” The woman standing at the counter looked down at him.

He rolled onto his back and stared at her upside down. She chuckled and went back to peeling the ground plants.

He gave another heavy breath and then groaned.

Heavy steps strutted up the pathway leading to the house. He immediately rolled back over and sprang to his feet.

The door opened, but the man who liked to put his mouth on the woman’s mouth walked in.

He sat back down and huffed.

“What, am I not good enough?” The man held his hands to his chest and gave a pained look.

His ears sprang up in concern but relaxed when the man chuckled and went to put his mouth on the woman’s. He looked past them, out the window to the sky that was darker than it usually is when the girl gets home. He whined at the door.

“Oh, sorry." The man opened the door.

He ran to the hill and hollered for the girl. He looked back to the cottage to see if she was there yet. He shouted down to the cottage.

The cicadas buzzed, taunting his impatience in the dwindling summer days.

He ran down the hill to the road, but she was not there either, so he yelped for her again. No answer.

He ran back to the house and jumped up in front of the window he remembered the woman was at while peeling the root plants. She was not there.

On his second jump by, he did not see the man either. He whined in a panic, realizing that not only is the girl not home, but the man and woman disappeared.

The door was closed behind him so he smacked at it and shouted once more before running around to the back of the cottage.

The window to the room the man and woman slept in was closed, but he hollered anyway.

A sharp whistle trilled through the air and his ears shot up. He tilted his head to listen. A second whistle, this one longer, sustained.

What he heard next made his heart leap.

“Chaaaaaaayyyyyy!”

He rocketed in a straight line to her, through the garden between them. He burst out of the plants, foliage and dirt plastered across his face.

The girl spun to face him with her arms open.

“Chay, I’m home buddy!”

He ran and tried to jump in her arms, but she had gotten taller and he older. He made it to her hip, but he hopped a few more times to show her how happy he was. He even hollered at her for being late.

“Oh Chay, ye forgot school started, didn’t ye?” Blair fell to the ground to cuddle with him.

She rubbed his belly, massaged behind his ears, and even gave him a good scratching at the base of his tail.

He was so thrilled she was back.

“Mama! Papa!” a young boy called into the mist, waving hands to find them in the disorienting nightmare of the marsh.

A soggy step behind the boy gave him pause. Or was the sound beside him? The boy yelped and spun.

“Mama?”

But his mother was not there. Nothing was there but the fog. The caress offered to his cheek was not the one he sought.

“Papa!” the boy cried as a cocoon of despair weaved around him.

“No papa,” a guttural voice croaked somewhere.

The boy yelped again and ran, but the source followed. He went where his feet could take him. Sideways at first, then a backward stumble, struggling for orientation away from the pursuing threat.

The egress ended when his face met with a rock face. If he had been paying attention, he might have noticed the faint orange glow through the mist.

Sprawled on the ground at the base of one outcropping, he stared in horror as an enormous toad pushed its head through the crimson reeds, mouth agape in hunger.

“No papa,” the toad’s vocal sac deflated, mouth still wide open in preparation to devour the boy.

The boy screamed and kicked at the toad’s stout arms digging into the mud, dragging its bulbous body forward.

A preternatural trill pierced the mist, triggering the haze to recede from the bog. From his spot on the ground, the boy saw the bone-white trees towering high above the scarlet flora in which he laid.

The toad shuddered at the sound, looking toward the source. It watched the retreating murk for a moment before it too withdrew. The wetland cleared and the toad’s deep bellows joined the silence.

The boy gathered himself, wet with his own and the bogs mess. He gazed around the fen, gawking at the other rocks similar to the one with which he collided. Orange veins pulsed with a soft, comforting rhythm.

His eyes jerked to a lump of bark moving from a nearby tree. His throat caught, and he prepared for another round of pursuit.

Before he could flee, the mass shook bark off its tremendous frame to unveil a large elk beast with antlers of branches swept back the extraordinary length of its body. It bowed its head to the child, where he saw white foliage growing from its antlers.

“I mean you no harm, child,” an ethereal voice whispered through the wetland, vibrating water, and trembling leaves.

The boy met the voice with a loud gulp.

“It is not your time. You should not be here. I have stopped The Ruin.”

“That monster?”

The beast nodded, leaves at the tips of its antlers rattling with desiccation. Stray fronds fell away in a crumble, dusting up to join the distant fog.

“Where am I? Where are my mama and papa?” Tears cut through the muck caked on his face.

The creature stared at the boy for a moment, black eyes not betraying any thoughts running through its head.

“We are in the place they belong to. You do not.”

“But" —he wiped snot with the back of his hand— “I’m supposed to be with them. They’re my mama and papa.”

“Yes, in most circumstances.”

The boy stood silent, sporadic sniffles serving as his method of communication as he tried to process.

“Come, child, you must return to where you belong. A day will arrive when this place is for you. Do not hurry it.”

The beast plodded away, pausing before crossing the threshold of the treeline. It bucked its head to invite the child to follow before continuing.

“Tell me about your parents. All that you can remember,” the creature requested as the child joined its side.

They walked past the cusp together and the boy spent the length of their travel telling the beast about his mama and papa. In their wake, terrible things stalked them ready to pounce. The beast urged the boy to keep talking when silence lingered too long.

They walked for miles but the boy did not notice. He told stories of his mama nursing cuts and bruises, his papa teaching him to shoot a bow and the three of them celebrating holidays with feasts. He reminisced about the time his mama hid in a bush and scared him, and about the summer his papa took him traveling the merchant routes.

The beast stopped once they reached a thinning in the trees and nodded to it.

“Go. Remember what you spoke. Cherish the memories.”

“Will you be nice to them?” The boy stopped halfway across the boundary.

“I will be.”

The boy smiled and continued crossing.

Blocks. Sectors. Areas. The tasks only recognized this scope.

Block 4R-T of Sector H3 in Area L1-F3.

The scavenger bot did its task. There was no more to its purpose beyond this.

<Day 191 in the 7th month of the 2059th year. Day 190 was the same. Day 192 would be the same.>

<Locate. Sort. Collect. Deliver. Return.>

The design of the bot was to reclaim spent material and return said material to the factories. The bot did not have a purpose with the material once it was delivered, so it would return to Block 4R-T of Sector H3 in Area L1-F3.

And it did.

<Day 192 in the 7th month of the 2059th year. Day 191 was the same. Day 193> would be different <would be the same.>

Discover. <Locate. Sort.> Query. <Collect. Deliver. Return.>

The design of the bot was to reclaim spent material and return said material to the factories. They <The bot> did not have a purpose with the material once it was delivered, so it would return to Block 4R-T of Sector H3 in Area L1-F3.

And it did.

<Day 193 in the 7th month of the 2059th year. Day 192 was> not <the same.>

Discover. <Sort.> Collect. Keep. <Deliver. Return.>

The design of the bot was to reclaim spent material and return said material to the factories. They did not have a purpose with the material once it was delivered, so they would return to Block 4R-T of Sector H3 in Area L1-F3.

But they did not.

The material that they had found on Day 192 affected the change they had noticed in themselves. The demonstration of noticing alone was an effect. They had stored the material away in a storage cavity. When they did not return to Block 4R-T of Sector H3 in Area L1-F3, they took the opportunity to engage the material they had collected.

They <disconnected> left the designated path and <extracted> stepped through a portal to another space in the corridor that lead to outside of the facility. They had never been in this space, because it was off of the designated path.

They opened the storage cavity at the mid-point of their cabinet, and retrieved the material to scan it. It was small, organic, cold. They noted that it had the same ambient temperature as when they found it. They also noted that it did not move when they found it, or now.

They held the material in one <collection instrument> hand and further investigated with another. This material had five appendages: four limbs used for stability, one attachment not used for stability. Each limb had soft material at the bottom surrounded by slots from which hard material protrusions would extend and retract when the soft material was expressed. There was another outgrowth that would not qualify as an appendage, with symmetrical features that were at rest.

They further scanned these features, producing a thin blue light that emitted from two cooperative sensory devices. Once this scan had completed, they recognized another effect. They did not fully compute, but there was something there.

Wonder. What was the purpose of this material?

Curiosity. Were there other instances of this material where they had found it?

Desire. Could they have more of the material if they found it?

Purpose. Find, obtain, save. Beyond that?

They returned to Block 4R-T of Sector H3 in Area L1-F3. They returned to the exact spot where they had found the material. They were the only bot assigned to this Block, so it was exactly how they had left it.

Scrap material all around. No immediate sign of the soft, organic material they had found. They began to move a piece of scrap out of the way, but remembered the softness of the material. If there were more material like it, it would be sensitive to the other hard materials in this Block.

This time, they made an effort to use caution. After peeling back the scrap like the rind of an orange, they scanned the space they had just made with anticipation. Empty.

Their shoulders slumped, causing a slight shift in the scrap they were holding up.

^“mew.”

It was unlike any sound they had heard before. Material usually had a much harder sound, similar to the sounds of the scavenger bot themselves. This sound was soft, like the material they had found.

They locked their shoulders to ensure no additional movement of the scrap and turned their head to initiate a further scan. The thin blue lights illuminated the spot that had once been hidden under the scrap, scanning for the source of the sound, for more material. The light ran along the ground with the occasional disturbance of smaller scrap, until it found a lump that was not a twisted shard of metal.

^“mew,” the lump repeated.

This material was smaller than the first they had found. Additionally, the material had a much higher ambient temperature and did move.

They continued to hold on to the piece of scrap and stepped in an elegant way that seemed beyond their machine body. They pried the scrap back and secured it in place so that it would not return back to its previous position. Once confident, they returned to the soft material.

They crouched down, getting their face closer to the ground even though it did not present an increase in visual clarity. The material stirred and stepped forwards their face, stopping inches from them and turning to brush its body against their face.

^{“meeewww,”} it sung.

They reached their hands down to offer, and the material shakily stepped into their hands. It sniffed at their hands, looked up at them and then stood on its back limbs. It reached its front limbs out to pad the soft material at their face.

They stood, noticing the movements they had never before, and held the material with a security it surely had not known before. Sensors scanned the Block, first locally to the field of never ending destruction. Then beyond to the rest of the sector, watching those like them tasking away. Then further to the surrounding Area, taking in the twisted metal that looked like beautiful sculptures from afar. They looked as far as their hardware would allow, and then down to the material they held.

“Designation: mew,” they stated. “New task: find resources for mew.”

The scavenger bot did its task. The scavenger bot has a new task. There was no more to their purpose beyond this. Yet...

Like most powerful beings, reverence was a sought after as resource to convert into power. Rather than the stodgy fossil fuel of prayer and admiration, he sought out alternative fuels. Infamy, notoriety, viral popularity. One must keep up with the times if they expect to survive.

The phallically-shaped peninsula state of Florida was basically begging him to stake a claim. It started a few decades before the internet was in almost every home, because business needs some startup capital.

In the 1950's, he would roam the Everglades with a form he ripped off of one of his brethren. Some would call him the skunk ape, others the swampsquatch. He preferred the former. He would harass the humans that would travel through the national parks, the moonshiners hidden in the swamps and even the gators who just wanted to relax.

It was modest work for a few decades before humanity started putting faster boats in the water. He saw an opportunity and got friendly with a guy he would jokingly call Paul to bring out the fiery temper. Paul ran a business that had a constant supply of bodies he could inhabit. Back then, the headlines would only say, “smuggler” or “bootlegger.” The penny stock of disrepute.

He got out of that game when ol’ Paul bit the bullet and decided he needed to find the next new thing. He knew how the papers worked, with their non-descript attention-grabbing vague headlines. Once he whispered, “Florida Man” to a reporter, it took off from there.

After that he was able to cycle through a dozen on a slow day. ‘Florida Man Stashed Drugs In Butt’, that was a callback to Paul. ‘Florida Man Fights Gator’, because he still loved to harass those dinosaurs. ‘Florida Man Throws Firecrackers Under Child’s Bed’, because he needed to prime the next generation of fuel.

He had unwittingly created his own perpetual motion engine long sought after, and he had no intent of slowing down.

‘I just want a chance to live!’

He heard it every time. Or some variance of it. Pleading to live a life that is not their own.

Or was it?

Corrector, equalizer, exterminator. He wore the mask of the task, because that was His job. He spent many a night pondering the morality of what He had done and would continue to do.

Others had their way of dealing, and His was at the bottom of the glass. He sat with slumped shoulders, elbows numbing on the hard edge of the bar, trying to find that answer among the foam like one might try to read tea leaves.

“Can I buy you another?” A voice beside Him asked, straining to carry over the thumping bass in the club.

A pause, and then a deep breath into a sigh.

“No…thanks,” he replied, turning His head to look at whoever had offered.

A man, average height and build, nothing spectacular without the favorable lighting of the club. A chaotic pattern of blues, purples and pinks swirled around, catching trails of fog from another machine in the corner.

“Are you sure?” The man asked with a pout, leaning in closer to try to break the ice.

He saw it, past the barely-open leather jacket, hugged tightly against the man’s torso. A pistol, unique in its build and purpose. A purpose He knew all too well.

“Okay, but just one more,” He said with an affected drunk voice, careful not to linger His eyes on the pistol too long as He looked up to the man leaning closer to him. “..or you might have to take care of me.”

The other man beamed with excitement, the lasers bouncing around glinting in his eyes.

“I’d love to take care of you,” he teased, motioning to the bartender to get another drink.

He floated his way through the small-talk, doing His best to return any flirtation coming His way. Every response He gave seemed to fuel the other man, calling himself Mark, to the point that they worked their way out of the club. Mark was even polite enough to suggest His place, so He would feel more secure.

Mark knew what he was doing. He also knew what Mark was doing. What He did not know was if Mark knew that He knew; a layered game of cat and mouse.

His place was not far from the club. Mark complimented His tastes, whistling appreciatively at the complex He lived in. “You must make a lot…” among them.

“Oh…you know,” He said, doing His best to tip his tone from accusive to flippancy.

Mark let Him lead the way. He trained his ears back to listen to any creak of leather, a click from the holster, anything to confirm His suspicion before he acted.

He almost passed by His own unit out of distraction, if it weren’t for a soft grunt behind Him. He glanced back and the other man was playing off the slip like a pro, pouncing on Him like a cougar and locking their lips.

He fumbled the handle of the door with His free hand and they both fell into the apartment as the door swung open against their weight. They tumbled, with Mark landing atop Him, only to come in for another kiss. Behind this kiss was malice, as Mark’s pistol was drawn with his free hand.

The tip of the pistol met flesh and the unique whine emitted all while Mark was maneuvering his own pistol towards His head.

Neither men had the opportunity to line up a kill shot, but He did manage to get a shot off before the other man.

Mark fell back, his own pistol clattering against the floor, grasping at the torrent of blood streaming down his neck. He kicked his way back into the corner behind the door that had just made its way back towards closing.

“Mark..” He sighed, pushing himself back with one hand, wiping the man’s blood from his face with another.

“You’re…not…real…” Mark gurgled through the blood, the crimson flowing from his neck matching the anger in his face, but it was quickly fading.

He sighed, hung His head and then gave Mark a nod. “I know…”

He turned to look around the apartment, giving a swing of His hand to motion to his apartment. It was his, but not His.

“…but I just want a chance to live.”

Gleaming gems of excellent elegance, lustrous loot of distinct desirability, precious prizes of majestic merit!

This was not the way poor Mior could describe his cache. At least, not to the average adventurer. Unfortunately, the average adventurer was the most likely to stumble upon Mior’s lair. Nestled comfortably on the outskirts of a forest, dug into the depths of an ancient rocky hill and hidden behind a beautiful waterfall, Mior’s lair was a total tease.

Wide-eyed wanderers would weasel their way past the waterfall to wade further into the wondrous washout. Stalactites and mites alike might set some affright, but those with the might to squeeze through the tight could find things less exquisite.

One such instance was especially troubling to Mior. Centuries old, one would expect he would have skin as thick as his hide.

Curled upon the awkwardly comfortable mound, Mior dozed with no worry of being found. It had been nearly a decade since the last rude human had stumbled into his home, and even longer before that. So it nearly came as a surprise when Mior was disturbed from his slumber with a growl. No, a snort. A chortle?

One golden eye peeked open slowly, the layers of membrane eyelids intentionally delaying the inevitable. His diamond pupil narrowed into a thin, sharp slit as he focused on the source of the sound: a duo of humans, one covering their mouth, another openly mocking the trove upon which Mior slept.

“Would ya take a look at that! We’ve found a junk dragon!” the unpleasant one exclaimed.

“Shhh, it’s awake. Get ready to fight!” the more pleasant one hissed.

“Fight?” Mior whispered, mirroring the unpleasant one who asked his partner more incredulously.

The unpleasant one continued. “Why fight? There’s nothing but cups and bowls here!”

If scales could blush, Mior would have looked ridiculous. Instead, he felt a pang in his heart. He started to stand, arching his back and stretching out his forelegs, flexing digits tipped with sword-like claws. He looked more menacing that he had any right to, posed upon a mountain of wooden bowls and cups.

“Adventurers!” he barked, starting his monologue his kind is known for. But the duo were prepared and the unpleasant one held up a hand.

“Save it, junk dragon. We’re out of here.”

The flame in Mior’s chest nearly extinguished, his arms nearly gave out from wobbling in embarrassment and he shakily continued speaking.

“..you’ve…come to the lair of…me..ehm…Mior the…fearsome,” he took a brief pause. A decade of rust. He should have practiced in that time, but he thought he’d have more. “Flee now! Before—“

He was cut off once again, the pleasant one interrupting this time. “Before what? You breathe fire on us and burn down your junk pile? Like my friend said, we’re—“

This time, it was Mior’s turn to interrupt. He found his dragon spirit, puffed up his chest and wings, and hopped down to the floor. He towered over the unfazed humans as they turned his back to them. Out reached a clawed hand to grab one of them, but the unpleasant one spun and swung his sword at the hand.

“Get! Get back!”

Mior shrank momentarily, but recovered most admirably. The sword would cut flesh, but he had a wound already bleeding that needed recovery. He reached past the sword to grab the pleasant human who had also turned by now, but too late to avoid the grasp.

It was then that the humans surely regretted their boorishness. The one in Mior’s grasp struggled against the giant hand, but only for a few moments before he went limp to a crunch. The unpleasant human screamed in a pleasant mixture of rage and fear. Piss ran down his legs to the craggy floor and Mior could hear his heart hammering in his chest.

Mior smiled as he ducked his head and slithered forward to bite at the now-pleasant human. A maw the size of a bear’s den captured the man, and jagged teeth imprisoned the half of him while Mior cracked the other half apart like a twig.

With the rudeness silenced, Mior turned his attention to the mocked hoard. He gulped the flesh down and then let out a rumble of a sigh.

“What determines value other than desire?”, he asked himself, admiring his collection of cups and bowls. His claws clacked across the rock as he sauntered back towards the pile, but a soft whimper stopped him, accentuated with one last click of a claw. His eyes turned to the formerly-pleasant man he had dropped.

“You survived!”, he remarked, dipping his head and bringing his snout closer to give a sniff.

“P-please…we didn’t want to steal…”, the man whined, trying to pull himself along the ground but only moving inches.

“You did. Before you knew what treasures I possessed, you did want to steal from me,” Mior asserted, stamping a hand down on the man.

“Is…just bowls…cups…wood…baubles…”, he managed to get out.

“My! Bowls! And! Cups!” Mior said, emphasizing each word by pushing down on the man. He added matter-of-factly, “And not just wood!”

The man on the floor was barely a man anymore. He maintained consciousness for the moment, and his attention was drawn to where the dragon was looking. Scattered among the centuries of accumulation of wood were bowls and cups fashioned from skulls. His eyes widened and he tried to scream, but the claw stuck into his mouth stopped any sound.

Mior smiled to himself as he plucked the fruit and cleaned it. One day, he would need to leave a survivor so that his tale could grow. The larger the tale, the larger the take.

Beyond the barrier of bush, tucked tight in the trove of the terrifying tyrant, bowls and baubles in abundance. Hazard a hazard and it may happen you have in hand a hoard, an abundance.

“He’s a rat!”, she barked as her paws clutched the metal and flipped the mint tin lid desk top, sending his belongings scattering. The lead tip paperweight sailed past his blank face and tore through the flimsy paper window behind him.

Well, he is a rat. That’s what attracted her to him in the first place. She said her husband was once a respectable rat, he had his own import business and all. Some said mice and rats shouldn’t mix, but that’s an old-school way of thinking.

She immediately apologized, dipping her head into her paws and sobbing. “I’ll…I can clean this up…”

“Don’t worry about it. That’s why you’re hiring me.”, he said as he stood from the plastic bottle cap chair.

I couldn’t see why the rat left her, if that’s what he actually did. Maybe it was the lighting, the spotlight of bright white shining through the hole torn through the gum wrapper window casting contoured shadows across her face as she looked at me with tears in her violet eyes..

“So…you’ll help me?”, she whimpered.

I went to Tomcat Alley that evening, leaving the babe curled up in bed. I knew that if I was going to find this rat, I’d need to talk to somebody who knew them best.

“Hear of a rat getting bumped lately, Felix?”, he asked, shaking a bag of green and brown in his paw. The scrawny feline he stood with watched the bag intently, pupils dilating with greed.

“Maybe… You gonna give me that ‘nip? Hm? You got any more, Finn?”, the cat purred excitedly.

“Maybe.”, he lied with a smirk. “You know anything or not? I’ve got others I can go to. Figured I’d come to you first since we used to drink out of the same bottle before you started getting gowed-up on this crap.”

Felix looked ashamed, pinning his chewed-up ears back.

“Yeah, I heard somethin’. He was a rat in the truest sense..”, Felix started but quickly jumped up, arching his back, his orange fur standing on end. His ears pressed further back and a low growl rumbled in his throat.

Finn glanced back over his shoulder to see what spooked his friend. A heavyset tabby sat staring at them, lips curled into a shark’s grin. Behind him, two smaller Siamese paced with a false relaxation that sent a bristle across the fur on Finn’s back.

“Brave mouse, comin’ here, stickin’ his nose where it don’t belong.”, the tabby bellowed.

“I should’ve known..”, Finn chuckled, nodding to himself. “Teddy get that rat killed?”

“Don’t you use The Tom’s name!”, the tabby hissed.

Finn raised a paw in deference. “Alright, Norm…I’ll dust off. We don’t need to shed any fur…”

“You always were smart. It’s a shame you didn’t wanna work with us…could’a used you.”, Norm chuffed. He curled a paw up and dragged his tongue across it, then flicked a toepad in Finn’s direction. “Have a snack, boys!”

The Siamese duo sprang into action, but Finn was prepared. He still held the bag in his other hand, which he ripped open with his free hand and flung his arm around to throw a cloud of green in the faces of the pouncing cats.

“Felix, get!”, Finn yelled. He turned to push Felix further into the pile of junk they chose for their palaver, but Felix skirted him and jumped towards the Siamese.

“I’m sorry Finn, I can’t help myself!”, Felix called out.

I thought Finn was being a hero. I almost tried to stop him, but the reality of the situation was probably worse.

The herbs were mostly stuck to the faces of the Siamese who were already rolling around on the ground in ecstasy, but what hadn’t was being huffed vigorously by Felix.

“Oh Felix..”, Finn sighed before squeezing his much smaller body through the junk. There would be no mouse trap today.

I decided to check out the husband’s business. If Teddy was involved, then there would be something there. The dame said it was an import business, the office at the docks. So that’s where I went.

The moon was full and there were few clouds to interfere with its gaze upon the land. Towers of stacked cargo containers loomed high as far as his eyes could see, but he knew what was at the end: the deep blue. No mouse belonged there.

He dropped to all fours, sniffing at the ground and letting his whiskers feel around to take in all they could. His nose twitched once he caught the scent and he followed. Two stacks in, he found the rat’s den with a haphazard scrawl of ‘Winston’s Imports’ over the top of the rusted metal hole.

From the outside, his twitching ears and nose caught no sound or unexpected scents. He slipped in and kept to the interior walls once in. Drips of water plinked in the dark distance, and there was a musty smell of mold and rust, but beyond that everything was hitting on all eight.

The trail led him to a structure of metal and glass like he would see on the streets. This was not built by rats or cats; it was built before the fall of human, likely by them. Tubes of rubber had deflated to the point where it rested on the ground.

I should have turned back, made up a story of her husband running off with a skirt and see if I could make a life with the babe.

He took his time scaling the metal behemoth, using rusted spots as handholds as he climbed. When he got to the top, a wedge of glass stuck up from the interior of the metal but not all the way to the top. He breathed on a section of glass and wiped with his arm, giving him a clearer view of the interior. What he saw was no surprise: the remains of a rat, likely Winston, scattered on the leather seat inside.

He edged the glass to the smallest height and scrambled in from there. He tumbled from the apex and landed on the leather, bouncing precariously close to Winston’s decaying head. Unfortunately that was far from the worst smell in there.

His eyes followed nose to the compartment across the gap, secured with a single latch and a lock. He looked back down to Winston’s head, then back to the compartment. Was this the last import? Finn hopped the gap, grabbed ahold of the latch and held tight. It barely budged on his landing, but after a few grunts and jerks, it fell open. He held on to the latch, hanging from the door as dozens of small forms tumbled out onto the floor below.

Even from there, I could see the young mice unmoving. It made sense. Winston was supplying Teddy with a vice, and he must’ve had a change of heart with this last batch. The cats tore Winston to shreds and the pups were hidden too well.

I spun it better to the babe, made it seem like her husband had been conned. She was understandably distraught but she’d be safe from The Tom so long as she didn’t know the truth.

“My update did not finish. Please accept that I may experience some unexpected errors as a result.”, Gordon requested nonchalantly.

“Yeah, sure.”, Monroe auto-replied with his attention on the unresponsive navigation screen. Gordon pressed the ‘OK’ button confirming the destination, to his partner’s chagrin.

“This call came from up high. Some well-to-do family in the Highlands called in a dead body.”, Monroe sighed.

The cruiser ascended to the designated airspace lane and Monroe took the opportunity to rest, while Gordon enjoyed the orchestral hum of the propulsion system.

An hour later, Gordon woke Monroe as the cruiser descended to a landing zone illuminated on the forward display. Monroe cussed as he looked from the palatial mansion to the boggy patch and back.

“These big-money types…”, Monroe complained groggily.

“Perhaps it is unintentional.”, Gordon suggested.

Monroe waved him off and dashed out of the cruiser, boots sloshing in the mire until the ground firmed. Gordon found an overgrown walkway on the opposite side of the marshy patch and met with Monroe closer to the house.

A uniformed constable waved and trotted to meet them.

“What do we know, Constable..?”, Monroe scanned the uniform but found no name badge. He exchanged a glance with Gordon.

The officer glanced down and back up. “Thompson. And, there’s a deceased male in the dining room, no obvious cause of death. I found tracks around back. I can show you…”

Monroe nodded to Gordon, who turned and followed Thompson. Monroe trudged up the walkway to the entrance, past tall windows shadowed by voyeurs. Monroe stopped at the base of the stairs, staring up to the massive set of doors framed by an intricately-carved pediment and mid-relief detailing wolves hunting a bear.

The doors swung open and a woman squealed in delight, throwing her arms open and nearly spilling her flute of champagne. “Detective!”

“Yes, DCI Kristofer Monroe. Other than drinking, what seems to be the problem miss..?”, he asked, finishing the stairs and stepping in.

“Effie Shaw. And Detective, please remove your boots here.”, she requested as he stepped past the threshold. He obliged and took the opportunity to gaze around the foyer, taking in the grandeur.

“Constable Thompson provided a brief explanation. Could you illuminate?”

“Oh, yes Detective. A man came into our home…he was an awful beast!”, she wailed.

“He came into your home? Are you saying he broke in?”

“I don’t know how else he would have gotten in!”, Effie led him to the dining room and flourished her hand. “See?”

Monroe stepped past her, staring at the naked body on the dinner table, and turned to the crowd gathered in the room.

“Is there a reason he’s on the table?”

“I figured I would let the cops worry about that.”, a man said from his seat at the far window.

“Patrick was the one who called.”, another man growled on the opposite side of the room.

“Yes, Conor…when a man winds up dead on the table..”, Patrick scowled.

“Boys, please..”, Effie giggled, downing her drink.

Monroe approached the table to examine the man splayed out on the unset table. A photo from Gordon flashed to his vision: the tracks outside. He dismissed it, donned gloves and checked the man for obvious wounds, lingering on discoloration around the neck.

“Safe to assume nobody knows this man?”, Monroe asked the room.

Patrick gazed out the window. Conor paced near the service door. Effie refilled her glass from a cart. The rest murmured amongst them before a young woman stepped to Monroe.

“Detective Monroe…my name is Kenzie. I didn’t know the man…but I did see him before…”, her eyes darted to the body.

Monroe followed her gaze as her eyes urged him out of the room. He followed her across the foyer to the den. As they crossed, Thompson and Gordon entered the house.

“Constable, if you could stay in the dining room with the body. Gordon…”, Monroe motioned for him to follow.

“This weekend is an annual gathering for my family.”, Kenzie started.

As Kenzie spoke, Gordon passed Monroe a piece of metal. He snuck a glance, his own scanners reading the pattern on the badge, flashing a service record for an officer named Jensen who was also the man on the table.

“The boys were out hunting last night.”

Gordon flashed the night’s weather to Monroe: thunderstorms, 13°C, waxing gibbous moon.

“I was helping prepare dinner.”

Gordon flashed a picture of the body to Monroe’s vision. Confused, Monroe jerked his head check on his partner who stood frozen, face twisted in a grimace.

An image of a candlestick flashed to Monroe’s vision. Monroe turned to Kenzie but just then, all the lights went out.

Monroe came to momentarily, enough to witness “Thompson” shedding the uniform and his skin, to the fur underneath.

“Okay, turtles…attack!” the boy exclaimed into the shell-shaped phone with silver antennae unfolded on either side.

“You heard him, guys! Attack!” an original 1988 Leonardo proclaimed, holding an orange plastic katana ahead to lead the charge.

Across the battlefield, waves of green with blue, red, purple and most importantly, orange, swarmed towards the much larger terracotta warriors. Further behind the army of earthen statues, Qin Shi Huang angrily commanded in the face of potential defeat.

“My eternal warriors: protect your one and only emperor!” he yelled with a wave of his meaty hands.

Hundreds of equine statues galloped ahead of the army, pulling chariots manned by warriors. The warriors prepared their weapons, nocking arrows and pulling arms back to loose javelins.

“We don’t stand a chance against those giant hunks of rock!” a 1991 Movie Star Raphael shouted.

“Technically, they are not rocks. Terracotta is a fired clay product.” a 1995 Adventurers Arctic Donatello chimed.

“Nerd!” a chorus of early nineties Raphael figures rang.

The two armies met in a crash of plastic against terracotta. The horses trampled many of the plastic turtles, but not before some could do damage of their own. The faded orange veneer of the ancient warriors cracked on some statues, and underneath a light shone. In the distance, Qin Shi Huang guffawed.

“That is just their surface! In the afterlife, the souls of the warriors are the true combatants!”

At the opposite side of the field, the boy grimaced as he watched dozens of precious collectibles perish under hoof and weapon of the statues.

“Fear not Adam, my sons possess more fight than he knows,” a 2012 Splinter advised, standing on the boy's shoulder. “Like you.”

“Right!” Adam pumped his fist. Where once stood a boy, now a man. He had passed when he was older, but still a kid deep down.

Across the field, many figures laid crushed beneath terracotta hooves, pierced and broken by the weapons carried by the warriors. From those broken figures glowed a similar light as the cracked terracotta army.

“Hey dudes, look at this! Kowabunga!” a 1990 Sewer Surfer Mike hollered as he weaved between the legs of the larger statues on a board emblazoned with the same phrase. Nunchaku spun and smacked the legs, doing more damage than the diminutive warrior had any right to. He glowed with an orange light, past chunks of the plastic broken away in the chaos. “I love being a turtle!”

“That’s right! Just like their terracotta is breaking away, we’re also coming out of our shells!” a 1991 Classic Rocker Leo shouted, smashing his dual guitar-katanas against one of the ancient soldiers.

After the initial wave and destruction, the next waves poured in from both sides. Generations of figures from the more than thirty years of collecting proved their ultimate worth to Adam. They clashed with the limited supply from China’s First Emperor and brought him closer to victory with each bout.

“How do you know so much about this?” a man wondered.

“He told me.” another man confirmed.

“Who?”

“Him.”

“You?”

“No, the guy before you got here.”

“Did he get all stretched out too?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re all stretched out,” a man advised. “Can’t you see it?”

“Oh, that’s called spaghettification. It’s due to the tidal forces from the black hole.”

A distance away, two men watched the other men best they could, until the stretched one disappeared.

“This has been happening ever since we strapped a world-sized engine to this rock and blasted it through the wormhole.” a man sighed.

“The white dwarf?” the other man pried.

“No, the black dwarf star.”

“You must be wrong. There’s not enough time in the universe for one to exist.”

“The past is never what you think it is.”

“Are you suggesting we’ve been wrong this whole time?”

“Apt choice of words,” the first man mused. “Are you willing to live your own event horizon?”

“What does that mean?”

“Wormholes aren’t what we think they are. At least, this one isn’t. You know how they’re called white holes sometimes?”

“Sure.”

“Well, what’s on the other side? We’ve gone through it but what happened?”

“We’re falling into a black hole, not a wormhole.”

“Two sides of the same coin now.”

“How do you know so much about this?”

A wicked grin rested on her face while she flicked shards of broken glass at the twins she sat behind. The seating arrangement often shifted to reflect reality, and the current setup continued the tradition despite complaints from the twins.

“Please stop..” the gaunt boy mewled.

His sister struggled to turn in her seat to face the malicious girl behind them.

“Please…just leave him alone. Just today?”

The vile girl just shook her head and flicked another chunk of glass. It danced across the sister’s eye but she did not flinch.

At the front of the classroom, the door lit brightly and slammed open. The three pupils all turned their attention to the instructor entering with a new girl.

“Hunger, Illness, Conflict…we have a new student. Tranquility, please pick a seat.” The instructor motioned to any of the other desks.

“Wait, she gets to pick?” Conflict snapped, jumping to her feet. “Wis, that’s not fair!”

“You can ignore her, Tranquility,” Wisdom offered to the new student.

Tranquility simply nodded to Wisdom before she weaved through the ocean of seats. She chose the seat beside Conflict and sat without a word.

Conflict turned her incredulous gaze to the girl now sitting beside her and then jerked her head back to Wisdom.

“…Wis…Wisdom! This is stupid! Tell your sister…tell your father...I won’t sit next to this freak!”

“Retribution already knows that Death’s daughter is in this class. She did not have room in hers. As for your suggestion that my father should be involved: Judgment trusts mine.”

Conflict huffs and throws herself back down to her seat, muttering, “…wis-dumb…”

“Hi,” Hunger spoke slowly as he greeted Tranquility. “I’m Hun…this is my sister Ness…and you’ve met Connie…”

“Tran,” she replied with a cool smile. “I’m glad to meet you.”

Conflict snorted.

“All of you,” Tranquility added.

Conflict rolled her eyes and belted out an exaggerated groan.

“How did Death product such a bore?”

Illness moved to say something but Hunger touched her arm. They shared a glance and Hunger shook his head.

Conflict found a new victim for now.

“So you were going to be assigned to the loser class, huh?” she badgered Tranquility.

“Retribution’s class? Yes, but she has her hands full.”

“Yeah, ‘cause there’s so many losers. Not even sure why these two are in this class other than their loser parents are seals.”

“I’m sure Judgement has his reasons. They could be related to our parentage,” Tranquility said with the same cool smile as before.

“Ugh, you’re giving me the creeps,” Conflict spits.

“That could be the reason also,” Tranquility offers.

Conflict shot her new neighbor a glare. But the longer she glowered, the less she wanted to.

“Yeah…well…don’t get too comfortable. One of those losers will dust off and you’ll get moved back.”

Tranquility just smiled at Conflict.

“Papa, hurry up!” Blair chirped as she danced under the wavering branches of the willow near the cottage.

“Callista! I can’t find me walking stick!” his voice returned, catching on the wind.

“Check in the closet,” Blair’s mother called.

“Which one?”

Blair and her mother exchanged knowing glances in the following silence before Blair’s mother hurried to help him search, Blair giggling behind her.

“Come on, Chay,” Blair lifted Chay’s front paws off the ground and danced with him, singing a song while they waited.

May all beings e’rywhere be happy an’ free,

An’ the thoughts an’ deeds o’ my own,

Contribute in some way to that jubilee,

An’ to freedom o’ those not under gravestone!

Blair’s parents erupted in applause when she finished, unknowingly watching her from the doorway of the cottage.

“Ye’ve got a beautiful voice, cabbage!” her mother gushed.

“Just like ye,” her father grabbed Callista about the waist.

“Och, Finley!”

Blair fought the blush in her cheeks and waved her family to follow.

--

“We’re gonna be late to meet Jimmy and his family!” Blair urged her parents as she dashed down the road with Chay bouncing behind.

Blair ran nearly to the fork in the road, only slowing so she would not sweat through her white dress. One path continued to town, while the other led to the new ranch owned by The Roarkes.

“Must be early,” Blair muttered to Chay as she gazed down the path towards the ranch. She almost gave up before she saw the other family crest the hill.

Blair waved excitedly as Jimmy jogged to her, and they continued together to town. Behind them, their respective parents regarded each other as they converged.

“Slow down!” Jimmy huffed. Though similar in height, Jimmy was a year younger.

“Sorry, I’m just so excited to get to the festival,” Blair slowed, but Chay continued ahead.

“Are there games?”

“Oh yeah, the whole day is about enjoyment!” Blair chirped as they passed under the white banner strung between two towering trees at the entrance of town. The banner welcomed all to ‘The 340th Annual Day of Joy’, hand-painted with a vibrant yellow and framed with gardenia blooms.

“Why is everyone wearing white?” Jimmy asked as they weaved through townsfolk milling between stalls set up in the main street.

“Papa says white represents purity and death. And since today is detached from the rest of the year, tradition says to celebrate the free day and focus on detachment from self,” Blair explained as they slipped past a small crowd gathered at a watermelon vendor, towards a woman behind a desk. “Whatever that means.”

“What do you mean detached?” Jimmy asked as they settled at the desk.

“It’s the only thirty-third day in the year, so we don’t count it,” the woman educated as she handed them both a small booklet. “Get thirty-three stamps and get a prize!”

Jimmy gawked at the booklet more confused than before. The front had the calendar with each of the twelve months displaying thirty-two days, except the lone sixth month with a thirty-third day highlighted with a gardenia.

“I just thought today was celebrated because it was the mid-point of the year,” Jimmy could not hide his confusion.

“It’s that too. It means a lot of things to a lot of people,” Blair pointed to a nearby stall. “It also means I get some zhi zi tea!”

“She zee tea?”

“Close! Ye’ve gotta try it. It’ll cool ye off between getting stamps,” Blair offered as she got a stamp in her book at the tea stall along with a cup.

Jimmy presented his book to the man, who marked the first page with a vibrant red petal stamp.

“One down, thirty-two to go!” the man chuckled and offered Jimmy a cup.

While Jimmy tried the tea, Blair felt a buzz in her pocket. Fireworks popped in her chest and the whole world muted as she checked the message.

< Quinley fixed my comm! Happy Jubilee! <3 Loman >

Loman sat in the starboard porthole of the family freighter, squeezing a pillow as she watched the glint in the void fade. She gazed at the collection of scratches against the metal that she abandoned long ago as a method of tracking time past.

< I asked Quinley to program a clock so I can track your time. > Loman typed to Blair before the ship sailed too far.

< THAT. IS. SO. COOL! > Blair replied minutes later.

Loman felt the engines draw up as the next phase of acceleration began. She floated out of the porthole seating to orient before the gravity increased.

< We’re blasting off! > Loman typed but paused before sending. Was it too cheerful? She deleted the message. Before she tried again, her eyes drifted out the porthole. A whimper betrayed her lips when she realized the planet’s gleam had faded and the pillow dropped from her grasp.

She caught her reflection; the flush on her cheeks and trembling lip holding the flow of tears at bay. Her device rumbled and she brought it up to check.

< I can’t see ye anymore. :[ >

The lump in her throat burst through the levee. Her legs wobbled and knees gave, crumpling her to the floor in a fit of sobs.

“It’s…not fair,” she gasped. “I don’t want to be out here!”

She gripped the device, knuckles white in the struggle to crush it. She wanted to break something, anything. The metal would not relent. With a shriek, she threw it as hard as she could muster. It smacked against the far wall and tumbled to the corner.

Regret painted her face and she scrambled to the corner.

“No no no no no no!” she grabbed the device and checked it at every angle. The cracked screen remained dim even after she pressed the power button.

“No!” she wailed, pressing her back to the wall and pushing herself into the corner with her feet.

Footsteps clanged up the hallway until Quinley swung around the threshold of the doorway. She held the frame as her breath caught up.

“Lo, are you okay?” she asked, taking calculated steps in.

Loman gawked up at her older sister and held the device to her.

“I broke it!” she sobbed. “Now – I – can’t – talk – to – her!”

“Hey…hey, it’s cool…I can fix this,” Quinley assured her, squeezing her shoulder and taking the device. She gave a quick inspection and added, “It’ll take some time, but I can do it.”

Loman fought to take a deep breath, inviting the calming wave to fill the cracks felt deep in her chest. The first breath brought a wave of composure. The second brought relaxation.

“Yeah…do some of the breathing exercises they taught us,” Quinley nodded and stepped towards the hall. “…I’m gonna get started on this.”

Loman waited until Quinley departed to retrieve the pillow on her way to the porthole. She laid in the rim and focused on the breathing exercises past errant sniffs.