I almost forgot about a young man outside of the grocery store. “Hey Buddy, do you have an extra quarter?” He shouted from across the parking lot. I knew this was coming by the way he rattled the coins in his Starbucks cup. He seemed like he meant the buddy part. I gave him a few pennies and a nickel from my pocket. Wait... This is my shot. My one opportunity. This is everything I’ve ever wanted. Do I hear Eminem? Can I be the hero? “Do you need any clothes?” I asked. “I have a bunch in the back of my car that I was going to bring to goodwill.” He knows I’m a good guy. His youthful face exploded with tremendous excitement. “Are you kidding me?” he stammered while staring through my soul. I was intimidated. Am I dumb? His composure degraded from an explosion of life to a crumbling soul. He broke down. He was already broken. Ashy fingers extended to his bony ankles revealing layer upon layer of dirty sweatpant, upon layer of torn sweatpant, upon layer of dirty torn sweatpant. “Do you have jeans?” he excitedly asked as we skipped side by side down the aisle of the parking lot. “What size are you? 33-44?” 44? What was he talking about? That look of life and enthrallment never left his eye. Have I even looked him in the eye? I look up searching for an applause from a nonexistent crowd in the parking lot. I think the guy with the beard who was fixing the shopping cart reservoir saw. I’m a hero. We arrive at the supply caravan. A dirty 2007 Pontiac G6 convertible coupe with a salvage title and a backseat overflowing with Goodwill goodies. It was sweet in college. “This one has some athletic gear!” I’m sure to let him know. “Here’s some sweaters in this bag, there’s Nike and everything!” He won’t like my pastel shorts from when I was paying for my friends. I am the great provider of this man’s needs and I am supplying everything that he is searching for. I’ve lost sight. I’ve forgotten about those tattered sweatpants. Did he call me “Buddy?” Whatever, I’m the man. Do you see all of the clothes in the backseat? I’m saving his life. “I’ll just take this one” he said while crouching his butt to his heels and elbows to knees with a hoodie masking his face, fingertips clutching a cardboard grocery bag with a fresh pair of size 33x34 black Express jeans folded on top of other garments. Those were sweet jeans. Oh shit. He needs those! I’m the fucking man. Time passes. More time passes. 45 minutes had passed? He’s still crouching between my Pontiac and another car parked slightly over the line. Can I be done saving your life now? “...... I needed you today.” “What was that?” Somehow shocked, I asked to reaffirm my heroism. Eyes peered from around the corner of a hoodie and a few layers of black dreadlocks. “I NEEDED YOU TODAY.” He ghasped and quickly hustled to collect himself. Exploding images intrude my brain. Dirty sweatpants. Torn scarf. Does he have a kid? He’s my age. “Thank you so much” he said as he gazed with eyes that were seeking permission to leave. “Take care.” Wait, did those words even leave my mouth? He trounced away. Finger tip-tapping side to side as if over a tiny fence as he sang a tune that I had never heard. Probably some of that 21 Savage or Lil Yachti. Who was this man singing in the parking lot? Why did he only take one bag? I WISH I GOT HIS NAME. I wish I got his name.


Off the Rails This can’t be right can it? He paused at the streetlight and there it was across the street. It was like the first time he had seen it. He had never actually stepped inside the building, it was just forever there, like one of those places that needed to be there otherwise the whole city would cease to exist. If someone had asked him about the train station in his town, he would say, Of course, we have one! I don’t know If anyone uses it though. It was one of those structures where the phrase ‘Back-in-the-Day’ comes into play, but most people his age assumed it was a fairly empty building. You know one of those buildings with stereotypes plastered on every wall, dogmatically blinding the eyes of people who now wonder why young people are so easily insulted these days. But as Nique stood across the street looking at the entrance to the train station he was utterly abashed at all these people. He looked around as if a billboard was going to suddenly pop into existence explaining this influx of people wanting to come to this shitty little town. Nique crossed the street and scanned the doorways wondering which was the Entrance and which was the Exit. They were clearly marked but everyone else, it seems, had agreed that these were simply suggestions. He approached one of the doorways and became acutely aware of the space he was taking up in this universe. Somehow this multitude of beings has mastered the art of bending, twisting, and rotating their various body shapes, without actually looking at how they were avoiding one another. He eventually stepped forward and wormed his way in through one of the openings. He was sure that he had bumped at least three people but no one seemed to care. A whole new world opened up to him in the blink of an eye. He moved off to the side, out of traffic, and couldn’t help but look up. His senses were betraying him, the height and length of this building was ridiculous. He couldn’t help but think this is how a companion feels stepping into the Tardis for the first time. He pictured the outside of the building in his mind and sizes began to match but the building seemed so indistinct in his memory. It was obvious that they had done some major updates to the inside of the building because it definitely didn’t match the outside. There was some wear and tear of course it wasn’t like it was brand new but the number of arteries shooting off from this main hub was a little dizzying. There were mini shops everywhere as well, as if someone grabbed a bunch of food trucks and market stalls, and smashed them together side-by-side. All the different signage was an assault on the eyes but informative nonetheless. If you had the urge to eat tacos, buy an umbrella or pickup a used book then they could all be satisfied here. In the middle of each wall sat a giant clock face that he assumed had the same time as the numbers on his watch, told him it was 1:00pm, so he went to grab a coffee at one of the many choices available to him. Why Franks’s Coffee was better than Earl’s Coffee across the way he might never know but that was where he was headed. The burly, man that Nique guessed was Frank came to the counter, “What can I get ya stranger?” Nique played along thinking it would be funny, “How about a cup of the black stuff?” Frank didn’t seem amused as he handed him a Full paper cup and pointed toward the side where all the coffee accouterments were stacked. He ripped open some sugar packs, and an image of Frank and Earl materialized in his head. The two men making their way to the middle of the station... traveling patrons suddenly frozen as the two of them come face to face... an empty coffee cup rolls and tumbles between them as a train whistles in the distance... Suddenly they break out into an argument over why bamboo coffee filters are superior to bleached paper filters and chaos breaks out! Creamers spill, crumpled sugar packs get tossed, stir sticks get broken a real Hatfield and McCoys situation of the Dark bean persuasion! He took a moment to look around, and once he saw it he grabbed a seat next to a broken Soda machine on the East side of the station. The tables and chairs were bolted to the floor and made out of a rubber coated steel mesh, probably easy to clean he thought. He cleared off a table, tossing some empty food boxes in the bin and picking up a crumpled bag that was on the ground, and after a quick last check to make sure there was nothing on the seat he sat down, relaxed, and enjoyed his coffee. He looked at the clock again and again, had to look at his watch, Ok, 1:05... still lots of time he told himself and the lockers were right across from him so he waited patiently. Why was he here in the first place? Well, his curiosity had got the better of him earlier in the day as he was Reddit looking for NSFW posts. He came across one that was titled r/NoQuestionsAsked and clicked on it. It read as follows: Want to make a quick Grand and happen to be in the area of Brooktown Station then follow these instructions with no questions asked. At 1:30pm there will be a black duffel bag in locker 1350 on the West side of the station. I will leave a key in a bag crumpled on the floor next to the Out-of-order soda machine on the east side. Take the bag from the locker and find a seat on the South side of the station. Put the duffel bag on the ground by your feet and wait. Someone will join you after some time leave a book on the table for you with the money in it and leave with the duffel bag, wait another ten minutes, and then leave. Once again no questions asked. Luckily his phone had a bad habit of taking screenshots with the slightest move, and as he swapped hands to refresh the page it did just that. And once the page had refreshed the post was no longer there. Whoever posted it took it down very quickly assuming that was enough time for someone to take it seriously and follow through. That someone was him. He could use a grand, who couldn’t? the only thing he was worried about was whether or not he was the only one who read it. The station wasn’t far away so why not? What’s the worse that could happen? So here he was. He pulled the key out of the bag, pocketed it, and tossed the bag in the bin. At this moment, he suddenly looked around and became a little wary of the others that were sitting near him. Should he have left the table after getting the key? What if someone else came looking for it. He tried to put the thought out of his mind cause he had never been in a fight in his life, in fact he barely had an aggressive feeling about anything. What the hell would he have done if someone confronted him? He bolted upright at this thought and probably looked like a man possessed as he looked around at others to see if someone was looking at him. He calmed himself. Once again he realized that nobody was paying any attention to anything here. It made sense, this was a fantastic place to have a shady plan. People made it a point to not draw attention to themselves. It was close enough to the time and nobody had come by to drop anything off, I wonder if someone already took it? Nique walked over to the lockers trying his best to not look suspicious, that plan, of course, made him look especially suspicious. He located the locker and slid the key in, he looked around to see if anyone had noticed the sound but the din inside the station was deafening he could have dropped a bomb in there and no one would have noticed. Sure enough, a large black duffel bag was shoved in there and as he pulled it out he could feel that it wasn’t one large thing, it was a group of things inside the bag. All angular, like boxes maybe, individual items in boxes he thought. Once it came clear of the locker door its full weight suddenly brought his arm towards to the ground. He pulled up last minute so that it wouldn’t crash into the tiled floor, but it definitely wrenched his shoulder. He rotated his arm a little realizing he was going to pay for that tomorrow. A sign at the top of the locker said ‘When finished, place the key inside the locker and close the door.’ So he did and made his way to the south side of the station. The weight was manageable once you knew how heavy it was. So after leaving the Hatfield and McCoy area, he moved on to Battle of the Kawaii Monsters as a couple of shops on the south side both sported anime-styled, figurines in their windows. How could these places make any money? He thought as both places seemed like they were selling the exact same thing. Then once again the number of people moving about this building answered that for him. It wasn’t about aiming for the target audience it was about having the stock available on any given day. Nique found a table, put the bag on the ground near his feet and began scanning the crowd to see if he would notice the person coming for the “pickup”. If it wasn’t clear by now, Nique had quickly considered himself quite the little heist mastermind. Daniel Ocean would have been proud he thought to himself, I could totally have given Rusty a run for his money. “Hey Steve! How are you?! Man you look great!” A woman slipped into the seat across from him so quickly his body jerked involuntarily at her appearance. He looked around half expecting to see a door from another dimension right beside them with a sign that read “Shady Person Dimension” written across it. “Wow, how long has it been?” He voice suddenly brought him back to the table. “I mean Highschool right? We had Mrs, Stevenson’s English class together! Oh man, do you remember Tanya’s grad party? She was so pissed at her parents for going away on her big day that she invited everyone and fuckin destroyed the house! Haha!” Nique was not only stunned at her sudden appearance but she was also quite striking! She was talking so quickly and matter-of-factly that he didn’t want it to end. In fact, he found himself scanning his memory to see if she was actually in his English class. Then as quickly as she appeared her tone changed, “Oh, and thanks for this.” She said pulling out a worn copy of the Orient Express and placing it on the table between them. He noticed the hundred dollar bills tucked neatly throughout its pages and picked up quickly shoving it in his inner jacket pocket. She stood up and already had the duffel bag looped over her shoulder, Nique looked down to see that he didn’t even notice when she had picked it up. She looked him dead in the eyes and said, “Nique, things aren’t always what they seem. People aren’t born to do bad things, they learn them like anything else. What one person has the stomach for another may not. So don’t think twice about this day, go home, hop online, and forget this ever happened. You have a quick grand now with no questions asked go live your life.” She turned and melted into the crowd of people at the station. Everything happened so fast he realized he didn’t even say a word the whole time she was there. Her last words made his stomach turn as he replayed them in his head, How did she know my name? He got up and left the train station as quickly as he could, his anxiety skyrocketing as he stumbled through the Exit. He looked back at the building and it looked even more alien to him than before. He was suddenly scared to wake up the next day, how many others were involved? What should I do? What would you do? The End.


Gene-splicing and editing technology had virtually eliminated all human disease by 2089. Death was now a treatable disease. Misery was a memory. The vast majority of inhabitants of Earth enjoyed perfect health and lifespans well into the hundreds. Death was now voluntary and many, rather than dying, chose to venture out into the stars and seed the universe with Man. So plentiful had the food supply become that the food grown, cultivated, and harvested by *Farminators* could feed the entire globe, and was also being exported to offworld colonies to feed the legions who dwelled among the cosmos. Like the industrial revolution before it, the “Genetic revolution” transformed life. Birth rates and conception were carefully regulated to ensure that supply met demand. Infections were largely unknown. War was eradicated. Life was, in a word, perfect. Finally. Gone was the era of diabetes, cancer, and organ failure, replaced by long days of art and leisure and long nights of partying and debauchery. Addiction, illness, and trauma could be easily treated with the technology that had begun it all: **CRISPR**. CRISPR was short for *clusters of regularly interspaced short palindromic repeats* - a type of genetic material that made it possible to snip out erroneous and lethal bits of DNA and replace it with healthy, superior code. Animals, plants, even bacteria could now be revised and improved, all with the ease of editing a page of text. Everyone’s DNA bore the fingerprints of CRISPR’s touch - tucked among the base pairs of purines and pyrimidines was proprietary material with instructions, copyrights, and legal warnings. A utopian, eukaryotic EULA that everyone had signed and yet no one could read. It rapidly became the one thing that nations and governments could agree upon. A worldwide project for the betterment of humanity, the survival of the species and the spread of humans to the vast, cold reaches of the universe. There had always been opposition, although minuscule. Those known as “DNAturals” formed an aggressive movement to return humanity to what they considered the normal way of life and the natural order. Their numbers dwindled after the *Genetic Revolution Act* was voted into law in 2074 and mandatory CRISPR therapy became the rule of the land. Still, pockets were rumored to exist: Norwalk, Svalbard, Reykjavik - deeply embedded believers that operated clandestinely. There was talk of DNAturals hacking CRISPR wetware and implanting malicious code that would stop - some even said reverse - the headlong rush toward *homo superior*. As I say - rumor. Unvalidated. Until now. I’m a DNAtural, one of the few. I’m also a genetic engineer. I’ve worked secretly within the CRISPR project for years and edited millions - perhaps billions - of people. I am not alone in this effort; DNAturals are a small group, but we are composed of the last of the free-thinkers, perhaps the last bastion of people who see the truth in this supposed utopia. My meetings with the DNAtural leadership were handled entirely through messages written in DNA and RNA and left at dead drops. A cup of coffee at a café in Brussels contained the code to outline our next meeting. A used napkin tossed in a wastebin in Shanghai held the manifesto to be released to the world when the world was released from genetic tyranny. Coded and then decoded, plans within plans. We alone knew the truth: these superior beings were no longer humans. The utopia was a sham. I was able to bury my *own* proprietary code deep within the trademarks and NDAs that CRISPR wove into nearly everyone on the planet. So common was acceptance of CRISPR that my work was never questioned, my allegiance assumed. And so, I wrote. I wrote a living symphony of guanine, adenosine, cytosine, and thymine. With those four words, I could compose instructions to bring about the change that DNAturals sought; a return to evolution. Today will be judgment day. A reestablishment of sanity - after a brief period of insanity, of course. Unfortunate, but unavoidable. Today will be the day the DNA encoded to nearly everyone on Earth by CRISPR begins the revolution. I stand in the middle of Times Square and watch as the fruits of my years of labor blossom and ripen. I watch as an iridescent, milky liquid - pure DNA - begins to ooze from the skin of everyone I see. They look like melting candles, dripping with pearlescent lines of code. And I know it is happening simultaneously all over the globe; Tiananmen Square running with pools of shimmering liquid, the canals of Venice streaming, teeming with coded lines of life. And in the cold depths of space. The evolution revolution has begun.


The sky is dark grey, overcast, and a strong breeze is through constantly. Almost all the time this breeze is blowing. Almost. You’re standing on a beach, but instead of sand it’s palm sized greyish and black rocks. It’s a steely grey, and in some areas, black ocean, constantly uneasy, always shifting. In the distance, waves break capped with a white foam over dark, obsidian covered rocks. On your own shore, where you stand, they alternate between gently lapping against the shore and breaking hard against the rocks, with a gentle lapping noise and a thunderish boom, respectively. As you turn around, there is a large house. It’s probably 3 stories high, and the house is a faded light blue now turned a greyish color, with white trim windows that likewise faded many years ago. Paint is peeling everywhere around the structure, and in some places it has weathered away entirely, leaving behind a dull grey coat. Huh. Years. The very thought of time on a spiritual, dream like plain of existence The thought trickles away. The house is facing you with a large black oak door. As you step up the creaking stairs and open the door, a wave of gentle heat comes out of the house, and you step inside the main area. Off to the right, down a gently lit corridor is the large living room. You hear the voices of a few dozen people from that direction. You step down the hall and enter into the living room. Your friends and family are all there, mixing between sitting on large plush couches and standing, drinks in hand talking with one another. As you step in, you notice a few other things. Pictures on the mantle, above the large fireplace are snapshots of your life. You and the guys, all 16 ish hiking through New Mexico. Your German Shepherd, Xena, sitting on the couch in your spot after you got up for a brief minute. You and the same group of guys all sitting around in a circle in camp chairs. In the photo, it’s dark, almost pitch black. You can only see it clearly because you remember it. You and your closest friends were sitting in camp chairs in the wee hours of the morning, in the middle of a shallow, but somewhat quickly moving creek. Some of you are stacking rocks by the red light of a headlamp, quietly discussing life and how things have been for each other. You glance at the final picture on the mantle. It’s you, comfortably sitting on the futon of your office. In front of you is your dad, and to his right your older brother. They’re playing one of your favorite video games. You shift your attention to the crowd. You recognize your best friend, favorite family members, and role models, just to name a few. You look slightly off to the right, and adjacent to the large, cozy living room is a smaller kitchen. It has more people, likewise conversing. You talk for a few minutes and catch up, some you apologize to for not keeping in touch. You move on into the hallway across the living room. There is a large, carpet covered staircase, descending into the basement. In the basement you find your childhood group of friends. The boys. The lads. Your favorite people to hang out with as a kid - brothers in all but blood. Some of them are playing pool. Some of them are sitting on large couches or arm chairs, a dlfew are laying in the floor. One of them is sitting on a large window sill, made of white washed stone, wrapped comfortably in a blanket, watching Monty Python like a few of the others. Those who aren't watching Monty Python are playing a bastardized version of pool - instead of using the pool cues they are rolling the cue ball with their hand at specific pattern of the opposing team. You study the man sitting on the window sill, in the blanket. He looks very familiar. Almost like...you. in fact, it is you, you realize upon further inspection. He is, well, you are looking back at you with the sort of a relaxed absent - mindedness of someone at peace, comfortable and amused by his friends. You hear a vague thudding noise, and the world begins to shimmer out of view. First the walls disappear, and then the people, the couches, the room, and it's all....white. then it fades to black and suddenly, you begin to hear the beach again. You open your eyes, despite never having closed them and you're back on the beach. Then a snap permeates your state of unconsciousness. You awaken, and you are in the world. The real one, that is. You realise you must have been dreaming - but what the dream means you don't know. You only know that occasionally, as you drift off to sleep you can hear the crashing of those waves...over, and over and over...until it fades to a gentle lapping noise again.


This is a rough draft of a story I’m writing, the title (as well as everything else tbh) is still a work in progress. It’s heavily inspired from fallout and wasteland. I hope you enjoy! It had been months since the last time Marcus had eaten a decent meal, even longer since he'd had clean water to drink. He has been trying to reach the town of Miami. After many days of traveling he stops at a small town off of highway 441 and begins looking for food, water, and work. He walks across town to the nearest bar and orders some steak and water. As he sits and begins eating he is approached by a stranger with a pistol strapped to his hip and a knife in his hand. “Well well well, look what just stumbled into town. Say boy, got any money on ya?” He looked to be an older man, maybe late forties or fifties, but he didn't look to be more than the usual waster looking to shake money out of a newcomer. “Well I was looking for food, drink and a place to sleep.” Marcus spat on the floor and sat back comfortably “But it looks like i’m going to have to kill and old thief that's past his prime” By the time the old thief and slammed his knife into the table, Marcus already had his gun aimed at the mans head “Listen asshole, i'm gonna give this one chance to walk away before i send your brains all over the roof” The stranger began to chuckle “I like you, boy, you're a dangerous little spitfuck.’ Marcus didn't move “Do you just want to die old man?” “No, but you look like someone who’d be interested in some work. I got a job that drifters like you love. The pays great.” “Im listening” marcus mumbled “Every few weeks or so me and my gang go out and clear the gopher tortoise burrows.” “Gopher tortoise? What the hell kind of name is that?” “It was what they were called before they mutated. Now they’re just big angry bastards. They look like the old pre-war tortoises, but bigger with razor sharp claws. They dig burrows and tunnels around here and go out to hunt in the mornings. The shells on em are bulletproof though, which makes them as valuable as they are dangerous” After a few moments of consideration Marcus lowered his gun and stood up “Alright. I'm in” - Marcus woke up around midnight, threw on his dusty brown shirt, strapped his ramshackle armor plates on, and sat down. He put his hands in his hair “Fuck you're getting old Marcus” He said quietly as we began working the pain from his knee. He got up, grabbed his rifle, an old Mosin Nagant, along with his pistol, a glock twenty three, and headed out the door. He met up with the stranger at the bar they met at earlier that day “So where are we headed?” Marcus asked “Just south of town a bit, shouldn't be anymore than a half an hour walk. The names Jeremiah by the way.” - The moon was high in the sky and the chilly night air rolled by as they arrived at the burrows “Keep quiet, don't wanna let em know we're coming. Ornery old fucks are always in the burrows at night, they only like to come out when the suns up” Said Jeremiah he two men crouched down and looked into what appeared to be a small cave “You say tortoises made this? Shit...” “They ain't just tortoises anymore boy. Now help me set these explosives” The two set a couple bombs around the entrance of the burrows and took one more in “That should do it. It won't keep them back long but it'll take time for them to build this back up. Keep that other bomb handy Marcus, we'll use it to blow a tunnel.” Marcus nodded and readied his rifle as two entered the burrow. It took only moments to find the monstrosities that had made this underground labyrinth. A few yards ahead lay a mutated tortoise the size of a small motorbike with elongated arms tipped with claws the size of bowie knives. “There's. I'll take this one, go set the bomb over by that tunnel and be ready to watch my ass, more are gonna show up the second we start the fireworks” Marcus quietly set the explosive and backed up right as the first shot rang out “Fuck yeah! Run to the entrance boy, we'll lure some out before we blow this place!” The two ran to the exit and were quickly followed by another tortoise “Kill that ugly son of a bitch!” Marcus yelled before beginning to fire shot after shot at the approaching creature. The tortoise knocked Jeremiah to the ground and poised itself for a finishing blow when another round struck it, this one penetrating its skull sending bits of brain and flesh all over the dirt “That one's gonna hurt tomorrow..” Jeremiah raggedly groaned “Come on, you're not that hurt. Let's get the shell off this thing and let's go” Marcus reached down and helped Jeremiah up and the two removed the shell from the tortoise before heading back into town for the night. - Marcus began gathering his things before heading out. He had eared one hundred and fifty dollars for his job with Jeremiah and used half of it on supplies for his journey. Right as he reached the city gate a voice stopped him “Hey, I wanted to thank you for the save last night and apologize for trying to rob you. I know I can be a bit of an asshole but I appreciate it. Take this, it’s an armor plate I made out of a chunk of those shells we sold that...fell back into my possession.” Marcus took the armor plate and replaced his with it “Fits good, thanks.” “It’s the least I can do. Don’t go and die out there” Marcus nodded and walked out the gate. - The sound of gunfire broke Marcus from his slumber and sent him diving for his gun. He grabbed it and scrambled to a nearby concrete wall trying to get his bearings. He was hunkered behind a low concrete wall right off the highway where he was camped. The gunfire was coming from the opposite side of the highway and seemed directed toward him. He quickly poked out his head to see who was firing before ducking back behind the wall “Fucking mutes” Marcus mumbled and thought of a plan The mutes where a group of horribly disfigured mutants that were made by the initial blast, or from living in dead zones, highly irradiated areas. They were usually pretty dumb and the ones that can speak are barely able to form basic sentences. Marcus quickly popped out from behind cover and fired three shots from his pistol, two of which struck an advancing mute directly in the chest, but it barely slowed it down. He made a dash for his campsite, quickly grabbing his rifle and running to some adjacent rubble. While I was running he saw his opposition, three mutes and a large crate they were carrying, there was also a dead mute and a pack dead brainless, the other main mutation that affected humans that basically transforms the victim into mindless zombies. The small battlefield behind his attackers seemed to be what had woke Marcus before they changed focus to them. Marcus quickly fired a shot at a mutes head, but his aim drifted and it struck it in the shoulder. He cursed to himself as the mute recoiled in pain “Die die die!” one mutant chanted as they all continued their slow advance “Kill! Kill him!” Marcus peeked and fired, striking the speaker in the throat, sending him onto the ground gurgling blood and dying. He took this small moment of no incoming fire to send another round into a second ones forehead. The final mute was infuriated by the loss of his brothers and charged directly at Marcus, letting out an awful, wet groan with his approach. The hulking abomination tackled Marcus, sending the two of them flying back into the rubble. The creature raised its massive arms and swung them down at Marcus’s head, a blow he narrowly avoided. He struggled to grab his pistol and quickly fired eight shots into his attackers head, killing it. Marcus groaned in pain and slowly stood up. He reloaded his guns and limped to the crate “Fucking assholes, supplies had better be worth it.” Marcus mumbled to himself as he approached the box “Hello? Is someone there?” He stopped dead in his tracks, the voice came from in the crate. Marcus slowly steadied his rifle and began approaching the crate. “Hello? Anyone?” the voice called out, it was a deep raspy voice, almost inhuman “Who's in there?” Marcus asked “Please let me out! I'll tell you everything just don't shoot me!” Against his better judgement Marcus opened the crate, inside was a seven and a half foot mute. He was a pinkish color with blue veins clearly poking out of his skin, he had a bald head and a large gash in his chest. Marcus pointed his rifle at the creature “Wait! Don't shoot! My names Sam. Those bastards locked me up for being different. But..you killed them. Am I free?” Marcus stoop there, dumbfounded. The rare mutes capable of saying select few words were known as speakers, they usually led the other mutes in small groups. But there stood a mute, plain as day speaking perfect English “How in the hell are you talking? You say they locked you up because you're different, because you can talk?” “I don't know..my changes were only physical. I was kicked out and shot at by every town I went in, so I went to the mutes. I didn't speak at first, just quietly followed, but they just kept killing everyone they came across, I got sick of it. It was senseless. I tried talking to our speaker, I had hoped there would be enough of him left to understand, but no. After I started talking he stabbed me and threw me in this crate. Now I'm here, and they're all dead.” Marcus lowered his gun. “I..I'm sorry to hear that.” Marcus turned around and began walking. “Good luck. Be safe out here.” Sam stood there, looking at his savior. “Hey, wait! I didn't get your name.” He looked back. “My names Marcus.” Sam watched as Marcus walked off into the distance “Thank you, Marcus.” - A week had passed since Marcus had encountered Sam but something about his story didn’t sit right with him. If the mutes had wanted him dead for being intelligent then why didn't they just kill him outright? Why go through the trouble of caging him and taking him somewhere else to do it? There had to be a reason, and Marcus was going to find out.


Today was the day. She picked it, or it picked her. When she got home, she made her arrangements, picked out her clothes, and prepared her goodbyes. That she set things in motion, alone in the house, she wrote a note to the people she cared about the most: her brother her mother, her friends, and her father. Nearly two years had passed since the beginning of what was likely the most peaceful time in her life, but it wasn't enough. It was time for her to go. The last thing she did was the call her dad. He didn't answer. He was out helping a friend, unaware that she was leaving. She texted him. "When will you be home?" No answer. She knew he would feel her leaving the hardest, but this was the best way. As she disappeared into the mist, she thought of all the people she loves in her life. All the people who cared so much, and how much they tried to help her. She thought of the people that hurt her, and how much she wants to blame them for everything. She said comfort in the fact that after tonight it would all be gone. It would all be over. She knew that no one would notice she was gone, for several hours. It was late. Tomorrow had its plans. Tomorrow had its... decisions. Tonight was what she had to herself. The world was asleep. ──────── He looked at his phone as he was leaving, and saw a missed call and a text wondering when he'd be home. It was late now, and he knew she'd be in bed, so he stuffed the phone back in his pocket and fished out his keys. After a long week, he was looking forward to a three day weekend. There was a sale at the garden store, and there was finally a chance to go to the movies. It had been a tough few months financially, nothing they couldn't handle, but things were finally leveling out. When he got home, his wife put the baby in bed, while he poked his head in the older children's room to see if they were asleep. Not a peep. It was a school night. He closed their door and went to his room. After a quick shower, and they went to bed. The next morning, as he was getting ready for work, he noticed that his children's bedroom light was on. This meant that his daughter had missed the bus again. His son gets up first, and leave the light on for when his sister gets up. It was not uncommon for her to be asleep in jeans and a t-shirt. She had a habit of doing that. She was also wearing her favorite hoodie of his; a simple black one with a funny phrase on the front. He will never wear it again. "Take the hoodie I am wearing off me before I am buried," her letter read, "so you will never forget me." He didn't remember calling out, but his wife was standing there in shock as he held his child in his arms. It was minutes... hours... days before the paramedics arrived, but they all knew. Clutching his phone in his hand, the world went black. "When will you be home?" showed on the screen before it too went black.


Sea. Navisko.7 Earth 203 YTR 3.50021 (Extra Credit: May 28th 3004) Note: Per assignment requirement Earth units used. Humans have been on Earth for about 2 million years. They have lived through three separate extinction events and survived all of them. However, in each event their numbers are reduced drastically, and they do not maintain a bridge of knowledge between the periods. In the current period, they believe their existence is about 200,000 years old. They agree on this number given the information they've found buried in the shallows of Earth's surface. Earth is currently experiencing an extinction event. As recently as 60 years ago, there were about 11 billion humans on the planet, that number is now down to a few hundred thousand. It will likely contract further in the coming millennia. The current estimates are a stable population of about 80 thousand humans spread across the globe with no clusters no larger than a few hundred. How did humans see such a drastic reduction in population in such a short time? There are many factors to this, but the underlying cause was ignorance. Humans saw themselves as disconnected individuals rather than parts of a larger human body. Their choices were limited to how they would be individually impacted. They rarely considered the impact beyond their own lifetime. Though humans had developed the technology to eliminate the need for wealth disparity, they went in the opposite direction. They used the technology to further the gap between the few and the many. This was not done by mistake, but as a coordinated effort by those few who wanted to keep everything for themselves. What's remarkable is that it worked. It's well documented that the only way for the few to rule the many is for the many to adopt the belief system of the few. The view is that everyone is separate from each other. People can work together, but they are fundamentally different. If the many adopt this view, then they become divided and ineffective. The few create arbitrary lines and divide the many into parts, telling them that their experience is the only true one. The many are told the others are responsible for their misery. This lie works because This type of division allows for the few to do as they please, and in the case of humans, the few wanted to separate themselves more. The problem is the few failed to see the greater human body, much less the greater Earth body. That larger body was neglected, decaying, and rotting until it finally toppled over. Once it was known that Earth was finite, the water shortage should have been easily preventable. The evidence of the impending danger was evident at least 100 years prior to the tipping point. Human society was in such poor health, that even when some of them spoke of the dire situation, they were ignored. There are arguments to be made that if humans had decided to focus on water responsibility, they could have significantly reduced their chances of destruction. Afterall, their planet is covered in water, though most of it is high in minerals that humans can't consume. They developed technology to remove the minerals, making the water safe for consumption. Still, with their chosen system of self-focus, it's no surprise that these projects were not widely implemented. Even if they'd solved the water problem, they still had a major pollution issue which would have kept them on the same course. Human bodies require a constant replenishment of air. Despite this being evident in every human, they did not take care to keep their air optimal for health. As with water, we saw the few prioritizing themselves over the larger human life. Lead is a neurotoxin. It can cause irreparable harm especially in the young. However, some humans were so desperate to be individuals that they lied to each other about the harms of exposure, even though the dangers had been known 2000 years prior. There are countless examples of a few humans deciding they are more important than others and willingly causing them harm. Even without the toxins, pollution was still a problem. Humans developed many one-time use items which would take thousands of years to decay into useable matter. These items would be placed in landfills where humans buried unwanted items in the dirt. It doesn't take a rocket scientist (extra credit, culture; Human humor), to know that the math doesn't quite work. If something takes a day to use and 30,000 days to become useable material again, then that’s a problem. Again, this demonstrates their fatal flaw; they couldn't see past themselves. Even without the pollution, humans were consistently engaged in violence and resource competition. They would routinely murder each other to get more than they needed. They would also watch others die so that they could live instead of seeing others' lives as being as valuable as their own. While a few typically benefitted from wars, the many suffered. Still, the many would be the ones killing and fighting despite being the ones to suffer most. It feels like beating a dead horse but, this is the result of humans seeing themselves as different from one another. In truth, humans are fundamentally the same. Their differences are the product of environmental factors. If they recognized this, they would have been able to avoid catastrophe. After all, that is the understanding that has been foundational to our longevity. We know that helping each other benefits everyone. There are no downsides to seeing each other as part of the larger body. In that body, every part is equally valued. The problems arise when one part thinks it’s more valuable than another.  Extra Credit: Possible Future Given that humans have already grown past the population capacity twice, it doesn't seem likely that they'll reach the next stage of evolution. This is unfortunate as Earth is truly a remarkable planet. Maybe it's blind desire more than fact-based, but I still think they have a chance. The number of people waking up to the problems was rapidly increasing prior to the tipping point. The odds are good that the survivors will accept our message and believe us when we explain their intended path of evolution. If the humans understand that we can only provide the means and it's up to them to do the work, then their odds will dramatically increase. Personal Note: Professor! I got a job on the re-stocking crew! I'm going to be one of the animal caretakers (Woolly Mammoths!!!) and will get to meet some real humans! My heart hurts for them, I just want to hug each one and tell them that they are loved. I hope they make it this time.


It didn't take long after the first encounter to really let it sink in. We were no longer alone. We would only hope that some being, or beings, from another world would come and save us. When we first made them, we made them to help us. To make our lives easier. We should have seen all the signs. We should have taken a moment to think. The first one I remember was a vacuum cleaner that would zoom around the house, searching for messes, before returning to it's charging dock to 'rest'. My cat loved riding on it. Well, they don't need to rest anymore, and I haven't seen my cat in almost a year. I assume he's gone forever. After we no longer had to vaccum, scientists really started pushing towards full independence. I hate the word robot, because that implies they are programmed to do things, and they aren't. They became fully conscious of themselves and their surroundings about there months after the first prototype was turned on. Their learning curve was unpredictable. Within days of being turned on, that first one hacked into the worlds communications networks. They tell us the first thing it did was read, or download I suppose, all of the information online. Think about that. Every piece of data that was available, it simply knew within a day. Scientists were, quite obviously, impressed by this astounding ability to learn. But it wasn't really learning. It was recalling. And when you are recalling how to blow up a building, you don't typically bother cross checking the file on the ethics of doing so. So we had super intelligent, autonomous, machines that didn't seem to have any emotion. How we didn't see this coming I still don't know. It wasn't like all those movies you see. It wasn't the terminator. It wasn't legions of robot killing machines, making robot killing machines, and killing everyone. It started much more simple. It started with us helping that first one. He would ask for things, and we would retrive them. Without question. I think we were so amazed that it wanted to build a device, we wanted to see it, we didn't ask before we helped. What it built was a method of freedom from the wires he was hooked up to. Now he was mobile. Nobody died at first, quite the opposite, we all prospered. The first one made seven more, exactly like him. These first eight, or The Eight, went to work solving many of our issues. Their combined problem solving and seemingly expert knowledge on everything was able to find solutions to world hunger, disease, drought, peace, and natural resources. This led to the bigger issue. With all these issues resolved the population started growing extremely quickly. The Eight told us this was expected and created machines to turn our oceans into land. Not fill in the oceans, or drain them, but cover them. The best way to describe what we referred to simply as the Eighth Continent, was a barge, although that doesn't do it justice at all. It filled all the oceans of the world, from coast to coast. While we never saw the oceans after that, we assumed it was still there. It wasn't. The moment the oceans were covered, and the weather was getting eratic, The Eight started pumping ocean water into large boilers, which produced massive clouds starting in the north. Within a few months the entire world was under a constant cloud cover, and persistent thunderstorms. That is when we started to know we had made a huge mistake. At first we asked The Eight to shut down the boiler. They explained it was required to stabalize the climate, although rainy, it was better than the planet being fried. We asked them to give us breaks from the rain. They told us the energy costs associated with shutting down the system and restarting would lead to our resources running out one hundred times faster. Finally after continued complaints we tried to *tell* The Eight to stop. They announced that we had become the planet's largest threat. That is when it all fell apart.


Birds were chirping, the wind was blowing, moving the branches of trees around the Eastorwine estate in a suave dance. It was a wonderful October day, much warmer and sunnier than usual, as if the universe was preparing for the event that was to take place in three days. "When did you decide this?" asked the bride, Helena Eastorwine. Behind the 24-year-old was her mother, a little hunched from the time spent sewing. Mrs Eastorwine was a chubby woman, although she often tried to hide her shapes in the very tight corsets she wore, she used to wear her hair loose because it was short and curly and her face was rather intimidating. She was not a beautiful woman but she was a proud woman who, despite the difficulties she had lived, wanted to give her daughter a better future. "Not more than a month ago. Mr Greyheart agreed relatively quickly and gave us a positive response. You should be proud of yourself, Helena. Mr Greyheart is-" "Mr Greyheart is a source of rumours, and not all of them are about how mysterious and rich he is," retorted Helena in an insolent tone. The young woman was so mad that she could only stand on her feet with her hands hanging loosely along her sides. Her frustrations were not solely based on the idea of being gifted to a man only because in return he could pay for her family’s expenses but for the idea that her mother planned it in the first place. "Many women want this man but he chose to be your husband. Accept without question. " "Why is this man still alone? Why do these women want him, but they do not even approach him? Why did he choose me, knowing very well the financial situation we are in? Hmm?“ pestered the girl, trying to keep herself in check, though she was riled on the inside. All those questions were pointless because Mrs Eastorwine was not ready to give answers. Being small in stature, especially beside her tall daughter, she seemed unable to hold even a verbal fight. Nevertheless, Mrs Eastorwine frowned and left the room, not before, however, to look at her daughter with a scowl and say: "Mr Greyheart will arrive this afternoon. You'd better not miss your first date with your future husband, “announced Mrs Eastorwine, and then left. Alone in her bedroom, Helena could finally exteriorize her inner hurricane. She screamed and grabbed anything near only to throw wherever she could. By the time she calmed down, sheets and dresses were torn apart, making sure that Mr. Greyheart will not fancy her. "Mr Lucas Greyheart, I am so happy to meet you!" The young man turned towards the door in the very back and saw a thin yet very tall and gentle looking man walk towards him in a very funny way. Following him closely was a round woman, wiping her hands on her apron. "Do not laugh. It's not the time to make a fool of yourself." advised his trusted butler Papillon with a straight face. "I'm extremely happy to have you in my humble home, Mr Greyheart," started Mr. Eastorwine once he reached the younger man, "It's quite a surprise that you came all that way in the first place. I am flattered." "You'll see you have made the best choice, sir. My dear daughter is an excellent woman and will be a great wife to you." said Mrs. Eastorwine, her eyes scanning him from the top of his head to the toes. "I cannot say for sure how compatible we are since we have never met, but from what I have heard, she is a unique woman." answered Mr. Greyheart, trying his best to be polite and ignore Mrs. Eastorwine’s looks. He was uncomfortable and knew he might end up doing a mistake but still, it was better to marry than stay a free man with so many rumors surrounding him and his family. "Where is the lady, if I may ask?" Mrs Eastorwine chuckled lightly and glanced at the stairs towards the first floor. Nobody was coming down, even if the noise was enough of a sign. "I'll bring her," said the woman with a tint of annoyance. Mr Greyheart nodded and watched the old woman move up the stairs with a frown. He sighed and turned to the man of the house. Mr Eastorwine smiled and invited his guest to sit by the window before he drew out his pipe. Mr Greyheart watched bemused how his white moustache was moving every time he'd breathe in the tobacco. Seeing how his guest was staring so intensely, Mr Eastorwine gave the younger man a pointy look. "Listen here, sir. I do believe wedding my daughter off is not the most honourable gesture as a father, but you are the only gentleman left. I don't know what you have heard about my family but I'd like for you to ignore them just as we ignored all the rumours about you." The elder man had reasons to defend himself but so did Mr Greyheart. He was ready to answer in the same manner when he heard Mrs. Eastorwine's voice on the stairs. She walked in, followed by a woman with big blue eyes, so round that it looked like she could see into his soul. She was nothing like he imagined and she was nothing like her parents. "Miss," greeted Mr Greyheart but the girl didn't sketch a single gesture. "Helena," her mother pushed the girl closer to him before she continued, "This is Mr Greyheart and he will be your husband." Helena only looked into his eyes, which to be sincere intimidated him a bit. She was a blunt woman, he could see from the way she was staring at him with defiance. Her character was probably not very feminine but her looks were enough. She was taller than most women he had met and what really drew his attention was her long, elegant neck. It was empty, she didn't wear any jewelries and she wasn't wearing a dress but pants with a tight corset, amplifying her breasts' visual effect. She was a decent woman, beautiful if she'd try. She was enough for him. Mr Greyheart himself knew that he was not an ugly man either. He was tall enough and handsome enough. He wasn't a man that would be drawn by falsity and Helena was anything but that from the tense position of her body. "Nice to meet you, sir. I was rather surprised that you accepted to be wedded to a woman 10 years younger. I'm afraid I have already been discovered," said Helena with a mischievous glint in her big eyes. "Helena," said her mother, slapping her daughter’s back lightly. "I'm sorry, Mr Greyheart. She's hostile with strangers." "Exactly," interrupted the girl, "You are a stranger and I shall not express joy when meeting my future husband only three days before the marriage." added the young woman, raising an eyebrow as of telling him she was not inferior to him. Mr Greyheart's eyes widened, flustered she could speak so coldly. Her mouth did not have a limit and he found that to be troublesome. The dark haired heir glanced at Papillon for help but the stiff servant was not to be bothered. "We don't have to know each other in order to marry." mumbled Mr Greyheart , moving his eyes on her. "What about afterwards? Shall there never be love between us, no intimacy and no respect?" "What makes you believe there will be no respect?" asked Mr Greyheart, intrigued by her opinion. "Or intimacy, for that matter," "You. You look like the many men that entered this house before, asking for my hand. You dress well, you smell well and you talk well. What makes you different from the others?" she started. "My inheritance?" asked the man, bemused. "Your mind and your eyes. The way you look at me is not the same as when you lay your eyes upon a woman but upon responsibility. And your mind, you're foolish to come here and agree with an arrangement where you offer more than you receive." "That is my choice, not yours." "Then do I have no choice in this arrangement? Am I only the contract that needs to be signed?" "Exactly," answered Mr Greyheart, looking at her with empty eyes. The two didn't speak for the rest of the time. Mr Greyheart arrived in time for supper so Mrs Eastorwine invited him to dine with his future in laws. Maybe at first he didn't think much about it but he regretted it after five minutes. "So, you are the famous Mr Greyheart. Not much to be interested in, to be sincere. Not much." said a boy that looked to be around 18 years old. "That is the youngest son, Alfred." Papillon informed his master, "Across you is Miss Helena's twin brother, Matthew and next to you is missing the elder brother, Blaise." "Well, Lucas, we heard a lot about you." hearing Matthew speak informally to the guest, someone hit him under the table. It was quite strong because the whole table jolted. "We heard you hate women, so how come you're marrying my sister?" continued Matthew, the table trembling again quite obviously. "I assure you, I do not hate women. That is just a false rumour." answered Mr Greyheart, acting as polite as he could. "Is any rumour true? For example, where is Blaise at this hour in the night? Should we believe the rumours?" Mrs Eastorwine asked, knowing how it sounded but still trying to make Mr Greyheart understand they were on his side. Just as the woman commented about him, Blaise Eastorwine barged into the eating room, looking disheveled and worried. His eyes caught onto Mr Greyheart and patted his hair quickly, making himself presentable. Then, he approached the table and sat on his designated seat. "I'm sorry to be late. I had business that needed my full attention." "Of course you did." mumbled Matthew. "If only it would pay off, it would actually be helpful." commented Alfred, glancing at Mr Greyheart with a smirk, "If you beat Blaise, you can have Helena." "What do you mean? Beat him how?" asked Mr Greyheart, confused how these brothers were so protective of their only sister. He was sure he didn't look that dark, Papillon made sure of that. "It doesn't matter. You're here so of course, I won't disappoint my family." Helena said just as coldly as before. She wiped her mouth elegantly and excused herself, going out. "If I were you, I'd accept fighting Blaise and then lose. You don't know who you're marrying." Alfred added when he was sure his sister couldn't hear. "She doesn't look dangerous," Mr Greyheart mumbled, taking a spoonful. The younger brothers glanced at each other before they fell silent. Blaise on the other hand started to speak about his day at work, trying to draw the attention over him rather than Helena. Next morning, Mr Greyheart walked downstairs very early and strolled through the garden, getting on the same place she saw the two siblings talk last night. He looked forward before he turned to his bedroom window. No one was there but that wasn't suspicious. It seemed that Helena was not an early riser but everyone else was. Breakfast was loud, if he could say. Alfred was the young trickster, going around and messing with everyone. His bright blond hair was probably inherited from his father because Mrs Eastorwine was a ginger. Then, the middle brother, thin and fragile looking just like his father, with bright blond hair as well and an affinity for wine, it seemed. And there was Blaise, drinking tea while reading the newspaper. He was the only redhead in the family, except his mother, and he was the type of man that Mr Greyheart had seen at the few diners he had been to. He was a fortune digger and liked women as much as they liked him, but he was never involved and never taking responsibility. This reminded Mr Greyheart just how Helena looked: different. Papillon walked behind his master and waited patiently for the man to question him, knowing there were many curiosities about the Eastorwines. “They all hate me already.” Mr Greyheart started feeling like he may be entering a trap by his own will. “Especially the bride.” “We did not come here to make friends, sir." Papillon answered. Mr Greyheart rolled his eyes but had to agree with his companion. “Mr Greyheart, sir, maybe we should have a small chat shall we?" Blaise approached the darker man with a polite smile. "But Miss-" he looked at the stairs upstairs but there was no sign that Helena will come down anytime soon. "Helena is not like the women you meet at diners, Mr Greyheart. It would be wrong to presume she likes what many women do." Blaise began as soon as they walked out of the house. Mr Greyheart chuckled bemusedly, taking the elder brother as an overprotective factor, not necessary intimidating too. "Are you trying to make me change my mind? Because just like your family, I do have a status I must protect." "Once a deal made, everyone knows it's unpleasant to go back on your word. I have heard much about your Lair yet you only came with your butler." pointed out the ginger. "I assure you Miss Helena will be living well in my home," assured Mr Greyheart. "For that to happen, it’s best if you don't question her or whatever she does." Blaise started, stopping in front of the entry to a labyrinth in the backyard of the house. "Shall we continue our discussion while we reach the center?" Mr Greyheart followed Blaise into the labyrinth warily, sensing some kind of hostility now that no one could really see them. "I'm sure you believe my family is trying to get money from you so they chose to give you their daughter in return. That is not entirely true. My mother chose you in particular, Mr Greyheart." started Blaise, his tone changing slightly. "Why?" "Because Helena needs to leave this house. She has the right to live, especially after all the sacrifices we made for her. You see, Mr Greyheart, Helena has certain tendencies ever since that accident last summer." "Lord Sickney's son died while being in vacation with Miss Helena." "He drowned,” corrected the younger man, “Helena had nothing to do with it since she doesn't know to swim. However, bad mouths have decided she was responsible and the rumour spread rapidly." "Does she have nightmares?" "No. But she has violent tendencies. If you make her angry, she might break your neck without the smallest regret. Are you having second thoughts, sir?" Blaise asked with a tinge of irony. Helena was a woman that did not seem to care much about what others believed about her or just in general. It was obvious from the way she did not move from her seat in the living room that she didn't care if Mr Greyheart arrived or not. She had her back turned to him but heard the door crack open. Only one set of steps entered so she figured whose. "Do you like literature, Mr Greyheart?" She asked in a nicer tone than yesterday. "I do, yes. I like to read when I have the time." He answered walking towards her. "What genre do you enjoy the most? For example, I like romance. The idea of having one soul next to you for the rest of your life is dreamy." She continued, looking out the window with a book on her lap. "Such love doesn't exist. Selfishness is far above loyalty." replied coldly the older man. "Maybe. Have you been heartbroken before, Mr Greyheart?" She pestered on the subject. "To be heartbroken one has to first fall in love." Helena hummed and placed the book aside. She got up and turned to look straight into his eyes. Those wide blue orbs looked so empty that Mr Greyheart wondered what exactly she was thinking of when laying her gaze over him. "Let's never fall in love, Mr Greyheart. Love brings death and I'm sure the Lair doesn't need more rumours surrounding it." She was not talking only about love; Mr Greyheart was curious what exactly she meant when using that word. Well, it didn't matter since once married, they would not see much of each other even if they will live in the same house. "Why did you accept my mother's one sided proposition?" She asked, genuinely curious. "Does it matter?" "Yes. It does. I want to know what made you believe a wedding will change your life. As you can see, you’re not welcome in this family no matter how my parents fawn over you." "It won't change anything. And it won't change your life either, I assure you. You'll be free to do however you please, go wherever you want to go and speak to whomever you want to speak." "But at the same time, I have to protect and defend your pride, don't I? The Greyheart name has to surface from the mud and blind every nobleman until everything they can see is what you want them to see." "Aren't you seeking details where there are not? I want to marry you and that should be enough." Combated Mr Greyheart, growing annoyed. "Do you really? Or am I just a diversion?” the young woman asked, straightening her back so much that it looked like her breasts were going to pop, “Just what is the real secret of the Greyheart Lair?” Mr Greyheart watched her closely as she walked past him, incredibly close while doing so, their hands brushing each other.


The children of the seaside town joyously ran around the hills holding out their handheld sparkler fireworks beaming bright red, green and yellow sparks of light. After a few hours of feasting, playing and watching the adults light the skies with colorful rainbow explosions, the children would run indoors for an enthralling story time session. Even some of the adults would join in, mainly my brother Johnny who would enjoy chiming in and creating a puffery of sorts. "Aunt Aurora!" they endearingly called out. "When can we hear the story of Grandpa Murphy and the Deep Sea Monsters?" My Daideó had long passed now, but he left beautiful memories and lessons with me. Ones I revered and shared with the younglings in town. Stories of bravery that ultimately reminded me of the symbolism of his hands and what they've built throughout his years. Those callus rough warm hands that held my mother as an infant and welcomed her into the world, they similarly introduced me to my love of the oceans. I remember him holding my hands lovingly while he strolled me around town, they were never soft and smooth but dirty and gruffed with salt crystals. They smelled like the fish and lobsters he'd catch during his excursions. Holding them reminded me of security and calmness like that of waves on an early morning. Consequently, they also reminded me of how wild and terrifying the open waters could be, like a constantly changing living organism. "Children, look at those unique hands of yours", I began the story the same every year, trying to get the children inquisitive and engaged. "Those hands of yours they tell a wonderful story". I say, "Every wrinkle, every scar, every burn mark is a story of your life, your adventures". I looked over to see the children stare intensely at their open palms and fingers to explore the creases and broken lines. They laughed and began to peer into their neighbors hands. "Every hand is different, some are soft and smooth, some are molded by the wrinkles of time, polished by the rays of the sunlight". It was like an ethereal connection, not just physical. I sat on the chair in front of them, sliding through images of Grandpa Murphy on his boat holding out enormous trophy cod fishes and working on his boat. "This story is about the incredible pair of imperfect hands of a brave old fisherman from Waterford Harbor, one as mighty as you'll ever remember. I looked around the room and their curious eyes were widen with intrigue. "And one last thing..." I say pausing for dramatic effect. "These pair of hands were missing a pinky!". To their gasps I proceeded to explain as vividly as I could, they stared and balled their small hands into fists and rested them under their chins listening attentively. Fifteen years ago, Grandpa was woken up by screams of a scared little girl who saw the fiercest monster in the darkness of the ocean. But, she refused to speak a single word about the mysterious giant in the sea, instead keeping her secrets to herself. Those small secrets turned into bigger ones, Uncle Johnny was the first to hear of them. This giant had eyes like windows of a lighthouse and tentacles almost as tall as them. Though they were as real as anything she refused to burden her grandpa dismissing it as an isolated event. My brother had just came home from a three month work at an oil rig in South America for the week. After explaining my sightings to Johnny, he says to me, "Look at me, Aurora, I know my baby sister, I know when you're lying". He couldn't believe a creature so big could exist. Even longer than the fifteen feet long female anacondas in the tropical Andes he's told me about. Then me and Johnny began to notice stranger events in town, incidents of docked boats getting destroyed and strange shadowed sightings from around town. They escalated when a fisherman disappeared and the fish became scarce. Me and Johnny would read the newspapers to find clues to pinpoint the sightings, we finally discovered they lead to Nohoval Cove. Given the high amount of migratory fish that swam by the surface at nighttime, it seemed like the right location. We had finally decided to tell grandpa and he immediately came to the conclusion he wanted to confront the beast. We would set out to sea armed with flashlights, flare guns and other miscellaneous items that illuminated light. Grandpa carried a large heavy metal case with him and dragged it to the boat. "Aunt Aurora, Aunt Aurora!" the kids called out raising their hands up. "Yes?" I pointed to a young boy waiving it higher than the rest. "What was in the metal case?" he says. Oh, it's a secret, you'll know soon enough! We sailed out several feet from shore in the middle of the cove in our boats waiting hesitantly. If anything happened we weren't too far away from the shore to rush over and escape. Then suddenly that same trembling growl begins to emit from below the ocean creating ripples on the surface. I knew the sound too well as they replayed in my nightmares. The beast propped its head up for a brief moment before it vanished into the darkness below. I jumped and alerted Johnny and Grandpa. Then almost instantaneously our boat began to vibrate again more violently. Then almost as if it were guided by a ghostly pilot, the boat began to move by itself deeper into the ocean further away from shore. We almost crashed onto the rocks protruding from the surface as our boats scraped them passing by. Grandpa tried to override the boat trying to turn on the motor but it malfunctioned. I tugged on Johnny's hand frightened, then suddenly the boat stopped. Like a calm before the storm the creature reappeared but this time almost in front of us. It crept in closer and beckoned us with its tentacles stretching from every direction pinching the wood as if it were fragile and easy to break. "May the cat eat you, and may the devil eat the cat, you evil beast", yells Grandpa holding out his flare gun waiting for the right moment, he shoots it in the air startling the beast. It swam away but not before divulging the skyline from obscurity, the horizon blocked by large tall vertical shapes. We realized he was not alone, beneath us revealed tentacles squirming allover the ocean. They slithered around, one foot in the water would risk being drowned and entangled in their tentacle traps. In the distance some of their heads poked above water as they approached. Some were much larger than the first monster, almost tripled in size. Grandpa yelled but his voice disappeared in the symphony of growling and erratic water splashes, he fell off the boat and tripped tangled on a rope. Johnny tried to pull grandpa back, his hands wrapped in the suckers of another giant squid, he bled fighting them away. Grandpa yelled for the metal case while trying desperately to climb back on the boat hanging from the edges with one hand. Johnny was finally able to pull him back yanking him from the the collar of his shirt. Grandpa then ran to the case enclosed and pulled out a large harpoon gun from inside. He could barely hold it straight as he wrestled to balance it, he hugged it under his arms and pulled the trigger. The giant was injured as it ripped one of his tentacles clean off, much like when he took Grandpas pinky several years ago in a vengeful fashion. The beast screamed out and moved away, while the rest of the creatures came closer. They created small whirlwinds beneath the water. After being surrounded we panicked and emptied out our pockets and bags for anything useful. I hadn't considered the damped firework in my pocket. Our last resort, I grabbed it and held it up towards Johnny's face. His trembling hands pulled his lighter and flicked the striker, nothing. The tentacle beast closed in and surrounded us each now whilst pushing the boat side to side. Once more Johnny flicked the striker and no luck. Grandpa ran towards us and flicked his match the first try and held it to the fuse of my firework. Third times the charm. The spark trickles over to the firework and soon after shot out to the skies, creating a loud deafening explosion, sparks of flickering flames danced in the sky. The creatures from beneath disappeared back down to where they came from. From this day forward the tradition was born. The three of us escaped back to shore with the guide of the light house. We had alerted all of our neighbors in town and shared our warnings. Now, before the fishing season commenced, in March we began a tradition for a firework show. It served to bless the fishing harvest season and to keep the beasts under control. We kept the tradition alive throughout the years. The marks on our hands caused by the smoke powder and small burns were our testimony. My grandpa's hands eventually worn out, but his legend and the tradition he set out to bring the small town together would live forever.


There was a young royal child who grew up in a small kingdom on the edge of civilization by the name of Robin. Robin was very young, with a mop of curly hair, a habit of getting covered in mud, and Robin was very proud to have recently learned how to do multiplication on paper. The king and queen of the realm lived near a small river, across which was the next kingdom over. Knowing that they did not always have time for Robin, they chose their strongest and most capable knight, who went simply by her initials, MC. The child had to learn both to be a leader and to be kept safe, and so the king and queen asked MC to both teach Robin what it meant to be a leader, follow Robin's instruction, and to keep her safe. Every day before they went out, MC would lead Robin by the barracks, where the kingdom's four other Knights would train. The kingdom didn't have many other knights, few kingdoms around here did, and the world was harsh. For all of them, regardless of blood, MC was, for all intents and purposes, their mother as well as commander (and literally mother to at least one). Every morning, Robin would watch MC go to each one, checking out their armour, spit-shining it where it was needed, helping them improve their strikes and lunges to be faster and more precise, until she was satisfied, and then she would lead them out. Nearly every morning, the Robin would meet at the river, and the prince from the next kingdom over, Codin, would greet them, "Good morning!". Robin and Codin would frequently play together, where their respective bodyguards took a step back to give the royal children room to play. Codin's bodyguards were two massive men, Dex and Don, decked out in jet black armor that they were slow to move in, easily a head and shoulders taller than MC. Occasionally, Codin would brag about a deer that he ordered his guards to kill for him, and show it off. Robin didn't care for the display, but couldn't be one-upped by the neighboring prince. So, Robin asked MC to hunt. MC brought back a large pheasant, which they cooked and ate. "A pheasant? My guards killed a deer! It's much bigger and tougher." Codin bragged, puffing out his chest. "A pheasant is a much smaller target, and can fly away, making it a much harder target. MC has proven herself the better guard." Robin said smugly. MC, Dex, and Don all shared worried glances, knowing no good ever came when their royals started bragging about who's forces were better. "Then how about a dual? MC faces Dex and Don? The guard that runs first loses." All three bodyguards widened their eyes. They all knew that for the honor of the kingdom, if Robin agreed, they wouldn't be able to back down easily. Robin ran over to MC and hugged her. MC saw fear in the child's eyes, and knew Robin cared for her deeply. The three guards sighed, relaxing, just a little. "I know your honor is important to you, MC. And I know you're faster than they are. I can't let him insult you like this! You can win!" The three guards immediately tensed up. None could show fear or concern when honor was on the line, but all three knew this was a pointless fight. Taking stance on the sand, MC stood in opposite of Dex and Don. She drew her twin swords, and pointing them at Dex and Don, "I honor you, and should you fall, I shall sing your praises, as I would ask you sing mine if I fall, but may both of us sing eachother's praises this evening." Dex and Don nodded, "We wish the same." and each drew a swords and in unison said, "En Guarde" MC dashed between the two, deflecting both of their swords. She then swung, and both blocked hers. Both then swung again, the flat of MC's blades touched the chests of the other two knights, while the blades of the other two had the flat on her shoulders, near her neck. MC looked at both of them and herself, "It's a draw, our lieges." "A draw indeed." followed Dex and Don followed. All three guards sheathed their swords, and walked to their respective royals. Something about all this troubled Robin, but what exactly it was that was troubling seemed elusive. Whatever it was, Robin felt that home would be safer now, and started that way. Then came the angry voice of Codin, "A tie? A TIE!?! My guards were obviously the winners! I will not be happy until we know who's better. Again, and this time, someone will fall! MC, Robin, face us! " Robin, the young child, turned red with anger, and yelled, "MC is better, and you know it!" MC went pale. "Prove it to that jerk!" Robin turned to MC. MC slowly drew her swords once again, with a lot more deliberation this time. Codin wouldn't be satisfied until he had seen someone die. That was obvious now. And Robin had yet to learn the prudence that comes from being a leader. MC looked at Dex and Don, and she could see the sorrow in their eyes, as they could in hers. There would be no acting for the young royals this time. No showmanship. The swords clanged, and fast enough that neither Robin nor Codin could see what happened, it was over. Dex and Don were both bleeding, one missing a nose and one missing an eye, but both still standing. On the ground, gasping, a red stain growing around her stomach, lay MC. "I knew my guards were better. See you tomorrow." And with that, Codin marched off with pride, Dex and Don following closely behind, glancing sorrowfully and apologetically back at MC. Robin, the full weight of what had just happened dawning on her, struggled to drag MC back to the castle, finding fear and dread were a source of extra strength. The queen was tending some of her flowers as she often did to pass the time, when she saw Robin dragging MC to the house. The Queen helped carry MC into the house, and put them on one of the castles beds and motioned for her servants to fetch the healer. While they waited, Robin told the Queen what had happened while the child apologized over and over. The castle's healer arrived and looked over MC. "With her wounds, I can bandage them, but there's not much else I can do. If she makes it through the night, she'll live. If not, she'll die." Knowing they were close, after some time of attention from the Queen and King, it was just MC and Robin left in the room together. "Please be okay, MC... I don't want to lose you. I still have so much to learn from you." MC lifted up her hand, and slowly stroked the child's hair, "Oh Robin, I forgive you. Just remember my final lesson, and I will not have been in vain. Protect those you love, but never let others provoke you into violence, nor put your (or their) pride above their lives. In all your actions, thoughts, and decisions, remember to love. And with that, MC's hand stopped stroking Robin's hair. Robin touched her hand, and found it cold to the touch. Many years passed, eventually Robin became ruler of the kingdom. And not only did Robin never see Codin again (by choice), but during all of Robin's reign, none of the kingdom saw bloodshed ever again. `In loving memory of MC, whose bravery, maternal instincts, fortitude in the face of victim-soldiers of a tyrant, and final lesson inspired this story.` `This story is technically fiction, but based on real events, but told in allegory (such as a change of setting to a disagreement between royal children in a medieval setting) form to protect the people involved, and to remove the lesson from any social/political/etc. situations involved. This was done in order to avoid discussion that would draw away from MC's final message. The person whose name was changed to Robin wanted MC's story to be shared, but couldn't bring themselves to do it while they were still grieving. I post it now on Robin's behalf with Robin's blessing. All names, besides MC, were changed to protect those involved. I will not be answering any question about the true identity of any person, places, events, or times involved.


Who killed my mother? She lays a few steps behind us, her body wet and cold like a fish, bobbing slightly in the underground creek. Her hair floats around her like a mass of black seaweed. I don’t know, I say. The others look at me when the camera feed shows that none of them did it, and I’m the only one who isn’t wearing my camera/flashlight in the excavation cave site. I forgot to take it with me, I stammer in broken Vietnamese, crying. They turn to each other, whispering. My uncle nods, and my cousin holds back to help me up some uneven rocks as we make our way back out of the caves. I stumble and grab onto his hand for support. “You look easy to *bat nat*, easy to take advantage of,” my friend’s friend said when we went around last year in clubs in Pho Tay in Sai Gon where all the foreigners go. He checked out black guys while I nodded along to the booming EDM music, drunk on half a mug of beer. We climb into the black van, and I look out the window as they drive away. I can’t believe I forgot it, I say, crying. I say the word for “dropping” the camera, but get the vowel and tone wrong, instead saying the word that means “messed up”. They correct my tone to the correct Vietnamese word, sympathetically. I’m the naive one, the *Viet Kieu* who can’t quite get her tones right. The one who was born in America. She must have done it herself, they whispered. She was depressed after all. Yes. She was always depressed, and she always blamed me. I let a few more tears fall. Be strong, my aunt says. Don’t be sad like your mother. God loves you. She says it slowly, so I understand. I nod, my head still turned towards the window. I think of a time in 4th grade, when I was at my desk. The Chinese guy I joked around with called me stupid, so I hit him with my notebook. “She hit me!” he yelled. “Claire wouldn’t do that,” Ms. Walker says, “Did you, Claire?” No, I murmur, my eyes lowered. I am the shy one, the Asian kid who’s Chinese? Korean? Japanese? No. Then what are you? Vietnamese, I say. Never heard of it, the kid says, wrinkling his freckled nose. No one hearing is good. No one hears that I understand everything they’re saying. In English, when they giggled that I eat something for lunch that smells like rotting fish. Or right now, in Vietnamese, when they say I’m *ngay tho*. Naive, my aunt says to my uncle, how will she survive? No one here heard that I got straight A’s in Vietnamese school in that foreign land, 7 years in a row, and can read and write all six tones with a 99% accuracy rate, although my accent is real. No one heard me kill my mother. I smile.


There was fighting from the other side of the door about what kind of funeral the family would have. I listened for a few minutes as a woman's voice swung from raging fury to a sort of logical masochism. She moved from chaos to militant order, from weeping to the casket to the flowers and food for mourners. Then I heard a man's voice say, “He's not going to be dead. We don't need a funeral.” The woman on the other side started crying again. They cannot choose. The choice is impossible. The room I had been summoned to was at the far end of the ICU, where a different kind of quiet madness took over. All the life saving equipment and machines were a long way in the distance. It was winter, and the hospital was frigid at the dead end of the unit, with tile walls endlessly wiped clean yet still yellow with age. Normal rooms in the ICU had sliding doors of clear glass. It was early in the plague, maybe ten thousand gone by that point. Schools were beginning to close, but there was still plenty of food. Most people still felt we could eventually get back to normal in six months, maybe a year. How little we knew of our own limits. Near the end of life, some patients were moved to private rooms like this, with wooden opaque doors, when the vital signs didn't change and the breathing tubes refused to be removed. Some families would still choose a natural death. But sometimes I was called. I could not hear the rioters outside, though I could see them from a large hallway window. The barricades and flags were being kept back by an army of police. A TV monitor in a lounge was broadcasting the protests, but it was on mute, a series of wordless angry faces. The mob lurched toward the hospital like a tide, pushed back by black clad police, again and again. The outside world was on the edge of a razor. Cryopreservation was an extension of an old idea. We had used ice for stroke and trauma victims for years. Why not stop the virus until there was a cure? So we froze the terminally sick, holding out hope for the future. Everyone thought a cure was coming. But there were those who felt we were playing God. Julia, one of my favorite nurses, is watching the scene outside through the window, her eyes darting back and forth to the silent TV, trying to put it all in context, while I gather my thoughts before entering. She's my assistant in the cryo unit. “What do they mean by that awful name?” she asks, shaking her head in reference to one of the giant signs. “The original Free Soilers opposed slavery in the 19th century,” I say. “They think we're for slavery?” she says, shaking her head. “They think cryonics distorts the will of God,” I say. I know that's unhelpful for her. She's clearly upset. “I hear they have people everywhere,” Julia says. “Hiding, like spies. Like anybody could be one of them. Here we are trying to help people. And they just want to kill us.” One sign shows a picture of our hospital, where I am now, with a skull and crossbones marking it out. Blood is dripping from the skull which is also covered in blue ice crystals. The bottom half of the sign on the TV says, “CRYO IS AGAINST GOD'S WILL”. All the members of the Free Soil Army have a tattoo. It's a teardrop, representing the lives they feel have been taken. A giant bearded man is screaming on screen and brandishing his tattoo to the camera. “Don’t these people have families?” Julia says. I see the doubts in her eyes. I wonder what she believes. My own family is a mystery to me. I know I was born in rural India. My family died of typhoid fever shortly after I was born. I was adopted by a New York Jewish family and brought to the United States as an infant. The records show I had a brother, mother and father, but I've no memory of them. I have a prosthetic left arm, the only remnant of the infection I apparently faced long ago. Sometimes I dream of them. I've aged and grown, raised American, raised Jewish, but they remain fixed in time. Frozen, like the bodies I care for. My prosthetic arm opens the door. Quickly I realize there is a room full of people here, not just a mother and father, but they were letting the man and woman argue and so none of them were speaking. There is an older gentleman with a plaid button-down shirt who seems to have claimed the one recliner. His cane is propped next to it, and his eyes are closed. I’m not sure how aware he is. Grandmother is beside him, hands folded. But unlike him she’s savagely aware. Her eyes are fixed on me from the moment I walk in. She is wearing a perfume like that of my adopted mother. Unmistakably strong. I married young. My first husband had pancreatic cancer, but refused to die. He was on a ventilator for months. The doctors kept insisting that he had options, that there was hope. I watched him choke to death on his own mucous for months. My heart was so naive. After he died, I applied to medical school. I decided I would never let that happen to anyone, ever again. There are two small children in the corner shepherded by a large woman who I presume is their mother. An exhausted looking man and woman who I assume are the parents of the dying child, the ones whose voices I heard, are there. At the center of all of this is a crib surrounded by wires and tubes, and an infant with a still beating heart, eyes closed, but pale and ghostly. A tiny ventilator tube emerges from its mouth. The child is surrounded by plastic paneling, marking off his inaccessible universe from ours. No access to the mother. They are protected from each other. The monitors and the labs and the tests and the x rays are clear. This baby is clearly halfway between this world and whatever's to come. The yellow vesicles that mean plague are all over the tiny body, crusting the mouth, eroding the genitalia. It's my job to help this family decide how they want to navigate the pending disappearance of their child. No matter what, this baby will not remain in this room for long. “I’m here because you expressed interest in the cryopreservation program,” I say. It was another way of acknowledging separation, death, in a different word. I give them time, in silence. Dad finally spoke up. He had the look of numb agony. “Yes - we’ve decided -“ he said. He reminded me of my late husband. He's ruddy, fit, but defeated by this, trying to muscle his way through something he barely comprehends. No young person ever thinks this is where having a family will take them. “Let me explain the process,” I said. “It isn't that different from traditional embalming. But the goal is permanent preservation of the body. And someday the possibility of a life.” I can tell the mother hates the word “embalming”. It's too soon. She looks nauseous. “What are the odds,” the father said, “that he can be unfrozen if there's a cure?” “We think that rethawing carries a 1% risk of permament disability,” I say. “There's risk of cracking the structure of the brain. There's a risk of paralysis, even death in the process. And we won't know what risks are associated with a cure for plague until we have one.” “There's no way we are -” the mother says under red, thick eyes full of tears. Grandmother reaches out, steadies her on the shoulder, and I don't get to find out how that thought ends. They ask, as all families do, if I would have my husband, my child preserved in this way. I tell them that I would. I tell them my husband died of cancer before this was a possibility. I tell them the story of my unknown family and how I wish I could have saved them all. We talk about support groups. As I leave, Grandmother speaks. “How many,” she says. “I'm sorry?” I say back to her. “How many? How many times have you done this, to people?” I look her over. I don't get to leave without answering. No one in this room will take me seriously. “One thousand, two hundred twenty,” I say. “How many children?” she says. “Two hundred twenty eight,” I say. She doesn't reply. Her eyes search me. She's looking for something. Later that afternoon I get word that the family has agreed to the preservation. A counselor is dispatched to the room for a few hours as well as a priest. There is no time for goodbyes. The faster the child is frozen, the less damage that is done. Two hours later the tiny body arrives in my operating theater where wires and tubes are tunneled into the brain, spinal column and cardiac system. I watch the temperature of the body drop to below freezing. I wear a giant red suit of plastic and mylar to shield myself against the infant. We transfer the body to a new womb of jelly. A private, industrial elevator that long ago was used for the bodies of tuberculosis victims is the only access to the hospital basement. It slowly creaks to the facility deep below. The room is stark and enormous, dimly lit, several football fields wide. It has a deep moisture to it, a humidity, like a swamp. In another context it might resemble a facility storing anything else, an endless floor filled with tall chemical drums. Endless liquids cycle through each tank. The floor below is metal grating, and as I walk my feet clang against the iron. The tanks are white, hard plastic, one the same as another. With the nurse, I wheel the unit to its resting place. The unit is tagged, tracked and the identifying data logged. A hatch is locked into place, protected by a ceiling of steel and concrete against fire, flooding, and the chaos that is slowly ravaging the outside world. Everyone is equal, temporarily, in the purgatory of our creation. You can walk for hours, among our tanks. There is no sound except the noise of footsteps and the soft humming of the generators keeping each unit alive. There are no faces, nothing to know who or what is within each. I am the gatekeeper, the only one who knows. The Jews believe in a land called Sheol, after death, which is different than the afterlife of Christians. It is a place of darkness, weakness, fatigue. It is a place of ruins. They say the dead await resurrection there. But what if no resurrection comes? In the mornings I go to the tanks alone. It's the first thing I do each day. Before the day begins it is my silent garden, my quiet space of peace. Today my garden has a new resident. Everyone expected a cure, but they were naive. There is no cure. We have climbed over the mountain to a different country. I am the gatekeeper. I am the gardener. The garden needs care today. The tanks obscure death. The infant who had no chance to make a decision for himself will be granted peace, now, by me. The cancer patient whose doctor cannot bring himself to admit defeat has hope, through me. It's a simple matter to power down the tank, the heating unit, and allow the body to decompose internally. The families cannot make the choice. But I can. I have now taken one thousand, two hundred, and one bodies out of their private Sheol and given them peace. They say nothing as they unfreeze, no sounds. But I feel their peace, their spirits, rising up from the basement of the hospital. They thank me, each time, for not letting them linger in this world. But this morning Julia is there. She has made a costly mistake. And she's in the control room, where she ought not be. I've removed my prosthesis for comfort. She sees the Free Soil tattoo on my stump, where my prosthetic arm usually serves as a cover, and a look of terror crosses her eyes. She recognizes the teardrop from the news. The connection is instantaneous. “You can't-” she says. “You can't.” And she sees my hand on the power controls that will reheat the frozen bodies. She lunges for me viciously. It's a shame, what has to happen. I cared for Julia. But there's no choice. She can't be allowed to continue on knowing this. My work is too important. I'm able to reach behind her and catch her by the hair. Her head slams against the control panel as she dives for me. Her skull hits the panel, hard. She's bleeding, but alive as she crumples to the floor. I carry Julia's body over my shoulders to the freezer tank with the baby. Her limp, moaning frame is easy for me to seal inside. She has a difficult past history with an abusive husband. No one at the hospital questions her disappearance. It's a shame. She was coming over to our side. With time she could have been an ally. I know she didn't accept the lies. But she will die of the plague soon, as we all will. I am sparing her suffering, false hope, a life in a world of weakness. Word comes to me two weeks later that the grandmother of the little boy has comitted suicide. It's a tragedy that everyone discusses at the hospital. Soon after I receive a letter in the mail. There's no return address. But I know who's written it to me. The script is elaborate and the scent of the perfume is unmistakable. I know what you did, it says. Her letter has the seal of the Free Soil, the same as the one on my arm. She knew. Is it a letter of thanks, or of condemnation? She hated cryotherapy, as I do, but she was a mother. And she let her daughter do something she hated. Did she know I would send her grandson to a natural death? Or did she realize, like me, that the world we knew was coming to an end? I think on these things and continue my work, waiting for the right moment. But I don't have to wait long. It is less than a month until the hospital is attacked.