Betrayed by the compliance to my conformity, as if by doing so I’d be contented. Rather, I do not know what “wonder” they speak of, or “joy”. Insidiously listening to those congregated at the water cooler, drenching their unsatisfiable mouths, contaminating the atmosphere with their vague minds. Complying to subside with this awfulness, it has begun to prove impossible. My every day involves a routine of hot air sweeping to mix with the dead, dry, cold air prevalent in here to brew the tornado of thoughts that I have about myself and those in here. Whether we all put forth a face of peace and tranquility, while behind all that, there is a torture of the mind existent in us, involving the constant reminder of the redundancy in our lives that we scavenge like a hunter and gather to find an escape of the cycle. Or maybe it’s just me. “Hey, there Tom” Jesus, this woman. “Hey, their Rebecca, what are you up to?” I sarcastically said in a Sussy sunshine voice. She leaned in and placed her hand on my desk. My desk. Leaving her frog-like handprint on my desk. " We're going out for some drinks after work. Want to come? ” She said with her Mona Lisa-like smile. I thought maybe if I pretended to show interest but still said no, at least she wouldn’t feel bad. Not that she cared anyway. Probably asked out of obligation. “Maybe. Where are you guys going?” “Near here, it’s called Hocus - Pocus” “Oh, Hocus - Pocus. Maybe next time, I need to do a lot of housework anyway.” “Oh okay, well no worries” She did not hesitate to leave. They don’t care for my company, much less do I think they care for each other, regardless of how well they know each other. No one likes to embark on this ship without any route alone. With others on board, we feel a bit warmer, a bit more a part of something even if there is no purpose for us being on here. We could be standing on the edge of an abyss, but if the path moved along we’d continue doing so because with numbers there is power. It’s an attempt to drown out the exhaustion that comes with this tiresome world. I sit in my seat every day. The cushioning of other objects is the only comfort I feel. Once my mind begins to speak, I shut it out like a kidnapper shuts out its victim with duck tape. The screams make it real, and I want to pretend that I can wake up from this one day. When I was a child, I remained attentive and observant to the rain that would flow into the drains after a big storm. It would indulge and disappear to then go somewhere. The mystery kept it interesting. Then I realized where it does go. I felt great grief. The more I learn, the more I realize, the less I wish to know. So I just try to walk through these poorly lit hallways, bleak offices, ignoring the decaying wallpaper or the leaks throughout the office, trying to grow numb to it more and more every day. I finished tapping my pen. I finished tapping my foot. I finished starring at my computer clock, waiting for the minute that I can leave. I prepare to leave. My day now begins. I get up in a heap, moving my long legs towards that narrow exit. I shut that hard wooden door with a passion, the most I’ll feel today. I walk out of the building, the sun meets my eyes. The sun scorches my eyes, disorientating them. I walk on this hot pavement towards my blisteringly hot car. I feel tempted to touch the body of my car. I softly place my hand on my car and feel the burning pain. I open my door with some excitement. I open my window to let in the breeze and let out this hot and congested air. I sense my car fill with an air of excitement. I feel compelled to drive into the sunset as they say in the movies and make use of this sudden surge of excitement. Soon the sun will fall, and the night will raise -- the fun will begin. I drive out of the parking lot in the direction to a Mcdonald's Drive-Thru. I can’t have fun with an empty stomach. I pull up and order a Big Mac with fries and soda. I ask for ketchup at the window. They gave me 4 ketchup packets. I did not bother to ask for more. I stepped on the gas pedal and drove to my home. I looked at the car clock with a keen eye, It was 7, the night would soon fall. The speed bumps frustrated me. They reminded me of the barriers that exist to choice. I feel confined and that no day would come where those restraints would lift. Democracy does not exist. It’s an illusion that we continue to feed into with constant dispute, believing we are making use of our “voice”. Arguing whether blueberries or cherries are better, while the weeds devour our fruits. And if so Democracy existed, why must I be constantly be reminded that I have it? Shouldn’t I feel like I am already a piece in it? Well, since I have never felt like I’ve been, or ever will be, I have become chosen to take matters into my own hands. Driving past these communities, I see how kids innocently play in the streets of their neighborhoods. Kicking ball, hitting a car, running away for a bit, coming back. Until that, all is replaced for something else. Lurking at every corner is a passage towards a tomorrow we would have preferred to never reach. If We don’t measure properly, then things won’t fit or fix together. Asserting with our arrogance, we choose to believe what is best for us and others. Using our individuality as a means of addressing issues that number more than just one. In that way, we’ve never been able to properly measure. Somehow, maybe humans are capable of rejoicing in the error of measurement. Equally, how the works of Picasso with the distortion of faces and other objects, maybe the distortion of civilization, which we attempt to decipher brings us to our feet. I wonder when was the last time I kicked the ball? Remembering when I’d reel my leg back, forcing it through the ball, to then have It hang in the air, waiting to see where the ball would impact. That was my joy. I drove up to the stop sign before my home and drove into the parking space. It was 7:25, and there was light outside still. The street lamps would soon come on. As I walked up to the door of my apartment complex I was met by Alfred. He lives in Apartment 3B. He handed me a flyer. “Hey there, Tom.” “Oh, Alfred, what are you up to with these flyers?” “Well, we have a meeting next week regarding some new projects that are set to commence. We just want to hear feedback from the community in regards to that” “Oh okay. What projects?” “Oh, just another building and potentially a community pool.” “Well, thank you. I’ll see if I go" I walked upstairs and went through the door to my one-bedroom apartment. Gliding through the room to get ready for this evening. I got in the shower and rested my head against the bathroom wall. Met my hands with my face, as water trickled down my spine. The beating of the water against my head soothed me. Running my hands through my hair, removing excess conditioner. I held the soap like a brick, placing it against myself, cementing it down. I washed away my sins. I’ve cleansed myself so I could now begin. I got dressed in all black. I saw my reflection in the mirror -- illuminating my heart. My mind rested like rain washing onto a street, collecting itself to soon then be evaporated. I lit a candle. Its smell consumed the room. The smell of vanilla romanced with my nose. I danced my fingers through my pantry searching for a quick snack. I satisfied my miniature hunger. The time read now, 9:25. I gathered my objects and placed them in my bag, and I went out to hit the road once again. I sat inside my car and had a train of thoughts. Last week, I had learned that the company was responsible for the mischief of foreign workers in factories. Relentless exhaustion and suffrage had led some to commit suicide. Everyone at work continued laughing as if nothing. They continued with their lives, and so does everyone in the sight of atrocity. I scavenged through the files of the company at work and I managed to find the company owner's address. It was about an hour out from here. A window had been opened for me, and I wouldn’t question to crawl right in. To uphold ground on the Tyrants of time.


FACT: We are in a sixth mass extinction, an entirely human-caused one, where 75% of species are projected by scientists to go extinct in the next five centuries. While this story may be fictional, this crisis and the call to action it brings is very real. ****************** I have to know. For humanity’s sake. Vincenzo Alba sat at his desk in the largest private climate research facility in Europe, his heart racing, his mouse hovering over a file in his computer. It has all come to this. His right elbow was bloodied from the glass door he had shattered, and his hands sported deep cuts from the barbed wire, but the pain meant nothing to him. What mattered was the contents of the file. For the fate of the world hangs in the balance. T he file - the results of a computer analysis of data collected over several years - most likely contained proof that the world was facing a crisis the likes of which had only happened five times before in Earth's 4.5-billion-year history. It would be almost impossible to stop. Almost impossible to resist. It is time. Shaking from head to toe, Alba sucked in a breath of air, mustered his courage, and pressed his finger to click on the icon of the file. And then a searing pain ripped into him. Alba felt as if the fires of hell had shot through him, but he knew it was some kind of projectile...and whatever it was was still lodged somewhere in his back... "Turn around.", a cold voice commanded him. "Step away. Or I shoot again." Alba took a few moments to fully comprehend what was happening. Someone had shot him...and now they wanted him to step away from his computer...they wanted the file. But how? How could they know? Only he knew of the file. He and one other person. And it dawned on him. Robert...his colleague...had betrayed him. But why? Robert has been as fervent as he in uncovering the rate of extinction. He would not do this... "I said, step away!" A second bullet ripped into Alba, this time in the back of his head. He barely had more than a millisecond of conscious thought, but in that time, he felt a world of pain. He had failed. Earth was heading towards cataclysm...and they would never know. And then, Vincenzo Alba felt his memories swimming around him, until the world around him faded into black... The killer was a seasoned one. He knew exactly what to do every time he finished a job. Take out his phone, dial his client, and let them know that he had finished his service. So, it was with almost robot-like second nature that he opened the phone app and scrolled to find the contact of his client, without a second glance at the bloody body on the floor. "Hello?" The voice was gruff, with an accent that the killer could not place. "He is dead." The killer was blunt; he got straight to the point. On the other end, he could hear something that sounded like a sigh of relief. "Excellent. I will send you the second third of your payment now." The killer had known that this was going to be a lucrative job from the moment he had been offered it. He remembered it clearly - he had received an advance of $500,000 with orders to kill a climate scientist named Vincenzo Alba. And it made sense that it was lucrative. Had the information been leaked, several powerful people would have stood to lose. It would have created an unheard of backlash against their businesses. Not only that - politicians would have faced rising pressures to advert the crisis. Most likely, they would have been voted out of office. "What next?", the killer asked. "Bring me the file, meet me outside the lab, and I will finish paying you." The phone beeped as the client hung up. The killer knew what he had to do. Transferring the file onto a USB, he stalked away from the desk, leaving the lab and stepping into the hallway of the research facility. As he left the facility, he could see a figure up ahead. A lamp was in the figure's hand, illuminating his face. He looked German, or perhaps Austrian, and had a strong, muscular frame and a chiseled face. The killer instantly recognized the man. He had seen him before, when he was scoping the facility. The man was a researcher in the lab - he worked with Alba. He was the client? It made little sense - he had nothing to lose from the discovery - but perhaps he wanted credit. "Give me the file." The scientist's voice confirmed that he was indeed the client the killer had spoken to over the phone. But the killer was too experienced in his field to make the mistake of putting faith in his clients. "First, the money." Robert Strauss felt his heart quickening as he stood in front of the assassin. His night had been frantic and hectic, but now he was only focused on one thing. Getting the file. It would only be so long until his pursuer arrived - and he was armed. "First, the file.", Robert copied, extending his arm and hoping desperately that the man would comply. The assassin's hand twitched towards his gun for a second, but then, to Robert's immense relief, he seemed to decide to try the diplomatic way. "Tell me, Robert.", the assassin drawled. "Why do you want the file?" "It is too dangerous.", Robert said automatically. "It must be destroyed. It will send the world into panic otherwise." "Then why did you not ask me to delete it?" Robert knew his lie was caught. But it did not matter - the assassin had given him an opening. And he was a master at tae kwon do. Robert struck out, his foot landing onto the assassin's gun holster and kicking his gun up into the air. He caught it, and shot the assassin. I told him to give me the file . His hand shaking, Robert took out the USB and put it in his pocket. And then a bullet whizzed over his head. Robert felt himself tense up with fear. He had arrived. The man who was truly behind this all had arrived. Robert felt anger pulsing through his veins as he looked at the man who stood in front of him - but he also felt guilt. Because, though his partner Vincenzo had believed that only they knew about the work they were doing - Robert had told someone else. The man was his closest friend. Peter Proust, the owner of a Polish coal-mining company. Many had found it odd that a climate scientist and a coal magnate were friends. But Robert had always believed that Peter was one of the most empathetic people he knew. He had treated his workers kindly, he had sided with unions, he had worked to make his business more environmentally friendly. But yet, there he was. Pointing a gun at his closest friend in order to destroy a file that could save humanity. Robert had gone to Peter's house that night, only to see his phone light up with a text from the assassin. Realizing what Peter was doing, Robert had confronted him. But Peter had only pulled out a gun. Somehow, Robert had escaped, taking Peter's phone with him. Upon reaching the lab, the assassin had called him, and he had learned that Alba was dead. But he had known that he had to fight the grief and play his part - the world was more important than him. "Robert.", Peter Proust spoke. His voice seemed genuinely friendly and empathetic - like the friend that Robert had known. "Give me the file." "I'd sooner die a thousand times." "Robert. Please. Don't make me do this." In a flash, Robert pointed his gun at Peter. "No. Don't make me do this." "You don't even know how to fire it, Robert. You've never touched a weapon in your life. You are so innocent, Robert. So kind. Unlike the rest of us. That is why I don't want to kill you." "I thought you were kind. I thought you were innocent. Why would you do this?" Peter's face looked pained. "Because I am gravely selfish, Robert. If the world learns that they are doomed, then they will call me he who had doomed them. They will come after me. They will come after my daughter. I want to protect her." "Protect?", Robert asked incredulously. He was now much closer to Peter, he could reach out and touch him now. "How is this protection? This is destruction. Do you know what this data will prove? A sixth mass extinction. The projection of death of the majority of life on earth. Including us. And it is all because of us. Humans need to know this. So we can try to stop it. I can't let you do this, Peter." Whipping his foot through the air, Robert kicked the gun out of Peter's hand. But Peter was quick as well. He tackled Robert to the ground. He could feel his weapon slipping out of his grip as they rolled on the grass. Peter was just as accomplished a martial artist as Robert - perhaps more of one. Peter felt himself being forced onto his back, and then the hand of Peter closing around his neck. "I'm sorry, Robert.", Peter whispered. Robert felt consciousness slipping away from him. He needed a way to loosen Peter's grip. Desperately, Peter choked. "What you are doing isn't saving your daughter. It's killing her." For only a moment, Peter's grip loosened, but it was enough. Robert struck him with his leg, rolling him over. Shooting into a standing position, he dived for his gun. He pointed it at Peter. " I'm sorry, Peter." Thinking of his once-good friend, Robert pulled the trigger. The horrors of the night was now hours past, and dawn had now come. Robert sat back in his apartment, the USB in his hand. Police were now swarming the facility, taking evidence. They had already questioned Robert, and he had told them what had happened. His trial for murder - one the police had assured him that was just a formality, that he would certainly win - was next week, the day after Alba's funeral. But there would be a time for mourning, and a time for the trial. Now was a time for the file. The results of the analysis had proved what Robert and Vincenzo had already known - the world was in a crisis. Animals were disappearing at an alarming rate - a thousand times the base extinction rate for mammals, forty-five thousand times for amphibians. And it was all due to humans. Simply put, expanding human population coupled with expanding human consumption was to much for the planet to bear. Overfishing, overhunting, the transfer of invasive species to different habitats, climate change, and more had overwhelmed nature's defenses. With the exception of the first living form to ever exist, humans had altered life on earth more than any other living thing. But Robert differed with Vincenzo on one thing - he was an optimist. He believed that humans still had a chance. Though it had already started, the extinction could be halted before it got worse. If humans invested in green energy and stopped climate change. If they reduced consumption by lifestyle changes and population control. There was one thing that Robert believed above all else: one could not find light in the darkness. They had to be the light.


Kate swore that after last Christmas, she would never work retail again. Yet, here she was in her friend's bookstore two days before Christmas. What had she been thinking! Her friend, Ginny, had called her yesterday in tears. “Please Kate. I know you hate retail, especially at Christmas, but I'm desperate. Two of my best staff called in sick and I can't find anyone to replace them. I really need your help!” She pleaded. Kate rolled her eyes. She couldn't leave Ginny in such a bad situation. She took a deep breath and said “Sure, Ginny. As luck would have it, I have the day off today. I'm happy to help.” Ginny practically screamed, thanked Kate and said she'd see in a little bit. The store opened early today and was open late. It would be a long day. Kate sunk into the chair. She thought to herself “What have I just done? I am certifiable. I really need to see someone.” She actually did have the day off, but she had planned to use it to wrap gifts and have a nice relaxing day at home before she went to her family's home for Christmas Day. Well, that wasn't going to happen! She quickly got ready, took a deep breath and walked out the door. Kate took the bus, because she knew traffic would be crazy and she was right. She saw several small fender benders and near misses on her way and lots of road rage. 'Tis the season! Once she arrived at the shop, she entered through the back door, just in case there was anyone waiting outside. It was always awkward going in the front door when the store wasn't open yet. People always looked at you like they should be allowed in even if it's not time. Her friend was already there and looked like she was ready to cry. “Hey Ginny. Never fear - I am here!” she said jokingly. That got a bit of a smile out of Ginny and the two of them busied themselves getting the store ready. The time passed quickly and soon it was time to open the door. They both took a deep breath and prepared themselves. They were not disappointed. For a small book store, the number of people coming in was impressive. Kate counted 20 people in the first ten minutes. Things were running pretty smoothly and they were getting into a good rhythm. Kate was helping people in the store and Ginny was ringing people through the cash. If the day continued like this, Ginny would make a excellent profit. Still, this would be a long day and Kate hoped that nothing to major would happen. Then morning was steady and there weren't too many issues. Some people were looking for books or games that Ginny didn't have, but for the most part people left happy. Ginny was smiling all morning and Kate was feeling pretty good that she had been able to help. After lunch, however, the wheels started to fall off the bus. All the weirdos and their friends were apparently in the store. It all started when one man who smelled of strong cigarette smoke came in and asked for a particular book. Kate tried not to choke on the odour and look for the book at the same time. She couldn't find it and said so to the smelly man. “Are you sure? Check again.” He demanded. “I know I saw it in here a couple of months ago.” “Okay. I'll check again.” Kate capitulated. She looked through all the books in that section and even checked the computer. Other customers were waiting to ask her questions. She went back to where the man had been and he was gone! Kate had spent 10 minutes looking for the stupid book and he left! She turned around angrily only to find herself face-to-face with an odd woman with a bird on her hat. “Excuse me, but do you have a copy of the Magna Carta?” She asked. “I want to get it for my nephew. He's very odd and likes that sort of thing.” Kate looked, but again did not find what she was looking for. She found the woman and told her that they didn't have a copy and received a strange look. “Whatever are you talking about, dear? Why would I want a copy of that old thing?” With that, she left. Before she could even get a word out, a young man came up to her in a panic. “Please tell me that you have a comic book section. The latest X-Men comic is out and if I don't get it, I think I might die!” He almost screamed. “I'm so sorry.” Said Kate. “We don't carry comic books.” The young man's face sank and her ran out of the store crying. Kate turned to Ginny, but she was busy with a customer at the cash. She still looked happy, so she must not have seen any of the weird customers. The rest of the afternoon was equally strange. People were looking for the oddest books, rare books, games she'd never heard of, puzzles, magazines, clothing, food and even hammers. Kate was feeling overwhelmed, almost like she was in an episode of the Twilight Zone. She'd just about had it when an elderly man came into the store. He had an air of calmness about him and if she still believed, she would have sworn it was Santa. Kate walked up to him and asked if she could help him with anything. “Thank you young lady. I have quite a list here.” He laughed and she thought she saw his belly shake. Kate thought that she might be going crazy, but he was being pleasant, so she asked to see his list. He handed her a list of about twenty names. Each one was written in fancy handwriting and there was a gift beside each name. Peter: 10 years old. Any Percy Jackson book. Naomi: 8 years old. Any book about women scientists. Jennifer: 6 years old. A doll. Kai: 12 years old. Pokemon cards. And the list went on. Kate looked at the man and he winked and smiled at her. She couldn't help but smile back. There was something about him that made her very happy. She wasn't sure that she'd be able to find everything on the list, but as luck would have it, everything was there. Ginny couldn't believe her luck as Kate kept bringing the items up to the cash. “Is this all for one person?” She asked. “Yep. This guy came in with a huge list and we have everything on it!” Said Kate. After about half an hour, all the items had been bagged up and rung through. The man paid in cash and smiled at both of them. “Thank you so much for all your help Ginny and Kate. Have a wonderful Christmas!” Said the man. Kate helped him carry all the bags out to his car and waved as he drove away. As she went back into the store, she felt at ease and reinvigorated. The rest of the night went smoothly and as they closed up, Ginny turned to Kate and thanked her for helping out when she needed her the most. “You're the best friend anyone could ever have.” She cried. “Stop it! You'll make me cry.” Said Kate. The next two days flew by, On Christmas morning, Kate woke up to get ready to drive to her parents' place in the country when she noticed something under her tiny Christmas tree. She went over to find a small gift. Feeling a bit uneasy, she didn't touch it at first. How did it get there? Her door was looked, as were her windows and the only people who had keys were her close friends and family. Curiosity got the best of her and she picked up the gift. It was a decent size and fairly heavy. She almost shook it when she felt something in it move! Before she dropped it in shock, she heard a whine come from inside the box and she noticed that there were holes in it. Her hands shook. It couldn't be what she thought it was. Six months ago, her beloved dog Max had died at the age of fifteen. She had loved him so much that she couldn't think of getting another one for quite a while. Recently, she had been thinking more and more about getting a dog. She missed the companionship and unconditional love of a dog. One afternoon, not that long ago, she had passed a street Santa and he had asked her what she wanted for Christmas as she put money into his collection pot. Jokingly, she had replied that she wanted a puppy. She ripped the paper off the box and opened it. Inside was the most beautiful puppy she'd ever seen! She started crying tears of joy as she picked him up and cuddled with him. He immediately peed on her. Her tears turned to laughter as she realized what had happened. She cleaned up the mess and took a good look at her new best friend. “What should I name you, and who brought you here?” She asked. The puppy cocked his head to one side. He seemed to be pointing to the box, so Kate took a look inside and found a note. She couldn't believe it. It read: Dear Kate, Thank you so much for all your help the other day at the book store. There will be so many happy children today because of you. I know that you have had a hard year and I wanted to reward you with the gift you asked me for. This is a special puppy from my home in the North Pole. Have a very Merry Christmas! Yours truly, Saint Nicholas Kate stared at the note. This must be a joke. Santa isn't real, right. She looked at the puppy again and he seemed to smile at her. She laughed and told him that his name was Nick. What else would she name him?


Circle Their Heads with an Olive Wreath Young Antony knew what he had to do next. One foot half over the forbidden threshold. One foot closer to freedom. No child of 9, not once allowed out of their gated community, could resist. Besides, he’d caught a glimpse of a gang of rag-children passing by. Sinner’s group had spoofed the tech to get through security. The homes were opulent mansions, as far as the street kids were concerned. Ripe for the picking. Everyone inside, safely tucked away in their V’Realities. Each home boasted 100 square feet of living space per person. There would be 2 adults and 1 allotted child per home. Corps owned - the people inside, the homes, and the 100 square foot patch of fake vegetation out front; the corporation owned them all. Not much cover, but Sinner and his little group of parentless were beyond clever. They were here for tech, and tech is what they’d scavenged from various locations inside the corporation district. An old solar array. The carbon nano wires embedded in the street grid. The guts of a newer model automated vehicle. They walked with measured pace, laden with components, micro boards, and circuitry. Beegee yanked a strand from a nearby pole, her massive hand making short work of it. She linked arms with the smallest boy, Sinner. Small in stature only. They grinned, anticipating the pay out and the food they would procure once back on the city streets. Antony took the few steps that carried him to the end of his yard. He watched the girl pull on the wire, watched the light wink out. Dusk. He’d never been out at dusk. She was the largest girl he had ever seen. Energy radiated from her. Dark hair an unruly mass around a face he found oddly attractive in its sheer audacity. No DNA selection evident. These kids must be natural born. Maybe they were not even chipped. Sinner sensed the kid tailing them, tucked the info away. The young male select would be chipped. Chips were worth more than any of the bits they’d picked so far. Beegee saw something in Sinner’s face. Misread it for envy and let her hand brush against the boy’s black stringy hair. The boy she’d taken on as her own personal mission. She gave the little scamp one of her infectious smiles and he smiled back. These two against the world. Maybe once there’d been friends or family who’d been there when the world threw one more unthinkable at them, but not now. As they exited the enclave on the hill, cut across an old neoforman patch, quickly, because they knew rads were in the spores, and headed toward the main square, they saw groups of street refuse, wretches, street punks, all heading the same way. Supposedly a food or water transport was going to make a run for it sometime after full darkness. A month ago the nightly demonstrations had been led by street fighters and former mercs in their faded camo. Uniforms from their glory years. Food riots followed. In the early weeks, street orphans, like Sinner and his group, stayed on the edges, scrabbling for forgotten scraps, along with families of climate refugees seeking refuge in this general geographic area, far from any of the space elevators, yet safe from the acid rain. Far from any real attention by the ruling corporations or their front-men. After several food transports were over run, the whole area rose to the notice of people outside of this corner of the world. Riot controllers were heloed in. The citizenry fell back as the numbers of corps troops went up. There were several nights of bloodshed. More gaunt parentless showing up at the centers soon after. Sinner and Beegee kept their heads down. But now bellies grew louder than caution. The mercs clashed with the cops. The local cops stopped enforcing, and the corporation bad ass units with their face plates and non-lethals appeared. Rumor had it these corporation squads were nanite enhanced, more machine than human. Emotion dampeners to name one of their many augments. No thought for the welfare of the dissidents could creep in. Nightly skirmishes were standard. But nothing worth dying for had passed through in over a month. The night was stifling -- warmer nights being the norm. It never seemed to cool down, not like it had in the past. No wonder the corporation conformists stayed indoors as much as possible. The only rain fell way out in the surrounding dead zone, forming a rain band of acid mire around the corporation run cities. Geo-engineering run amuck. There were more and more people in the square. More people than there should be. More people than was safe. Older kids rushed by. Youngers, who still had a parent, bounced in anticipation. Happy to be out of the culverts. Some would be chipped, born in corporation run clinics. Those idents would be harvested by the eyes in the sky. Data sent up the strands of the space levs to the corporate headquarters on the moon. Their so-called neutral territory. Lunar Base. The square buzzed. There was a line of oldsters, pushed to the front, who came armed with pieces of scrap metal. They were banging on the quascrete, singing some old ballad that no one remembered. Beegee tried to translate but the words got all tangled up. Archaic, Mexi-Sino slang. Sinner figured, those old ones were the cannon fodder - something he had read somewhere. In a text as ancient as the faces yearning for more than food. Sinner stopped his group in a shadowed corner. The select ran right into them. Beegee grabbed the kid’s shoulder and sighed. She’d seen him too but thought he’d get scared and skaddle home. Damn curiosity. Same curiosity that had killed all the cats, or so she’d heard. A figure they recognized emerged from the mob and pulled Sinner to one side, muttering words of warning. Beegee sensed, by the woman’s body language, that it was bad news. This was the woman the street kids called Ma’am. She looked out for them, off and on. Kept her eyes out for potential recruits. Recruited to what ends, no one was quite sure, but not unsure enough to look away from a meal or the safety of a roof and four walls. “What?” Beegee asked. She thrust her chin out. “*What?*” “Ten,” Sinner replied. “At 10 some of the corps will fall back. There’s been tech changing hands. Ma’am says they’ll give the citizens a clear path to the transport.” He shrugged. “I’ll believe it when I see it.” That was one of the problems with only giving elites full billets. And putting the ground troops and local peace keepers on reduced rations. The lower-caste troops had developed a sense for staying one jump ahead of the worst riots, being tipped off, for a price -- the soldiers who refused to bend their moral compass ended up dead, buried in the ancestor gardens, or, if found out by the corporation, exiled to try their luck outside corporate run territory. If they were lucky they’d join the mercs, or, if luck was not on their side, they’d have no choice but to fall in with the Saffron Monks. Between a rock and a hard place. “How many?” Sinner was an expert at being non-committal. If the Googlies and Amzies had two hundred ways to pass dis-information off as bona-fide, and the FB’ers had two hundred ways to rip you off, while the Teslas and Media Props could say absolutely nothing useful, with a straight face, then Sinner had them all beat. The look on Sinner’s face now was along the lines of, “All effed up one side and down the other.” “What does Ma'am say to do?” “Duck and cover.” “What are we going to do with this?” The select with his fine bone structure and perfect teeth hung limp in one of Beegee’s huge paws. She gave him a slight shake. “Ma'am says we gotta return him.” “Dammit to the effing Stars and back.” Beegee was not want to swear without cause. At this point she’d rather feed the future soldier to the clone hounds. Besides, the riot shaping up could yield some nice prizes for the likes of Sinner and her crew. Why would they trudge all the way back up the hill on account of this fab? As soon as they noticed that the crash barricades around the square had been reinforced, Sinner and Beegee sent their littles off to one of their dens laden with the goodies from the hill, well before everything was shut down tighter than a clone vat. Now only one way in or out of the square remained. Just then Sinner spied a mole. Too tall, too perfect of teeth and musculature to be norm. He could make out a Wrist Bit poking from under the cuff of a worn outer garment the figure wore. Trying to blend in. He and Beegee could tag team that bit of tech off any mark. Before you could split a clone pack of faux meat between two starving orphans, Sinner held the Wrist Bit with one hand, while his other scrabbled under his rags emerging with tiny interfaces which he immediately attached to the pried open WB. He worked so rapidly Beegee could not track how he had opened the back of corporate tech or where the thin filaments came from. She had wondered at their particular choice of seats, until she noticed the cable housing on the side of the building. Sinner motioned her to block his hands from any cameras, drones or eyes in the vicinity. Sinner sat, cross legged, in deep concentration. Interesting, not South American Corps tech, looked to be Sino. A few seconds later he was poking into the grid. In seconds, Beegee peered over his shoulder, trying to keep the select kid on her other side. She half understood what she was seeing on Sinner’s hand held. A GV blip, large, must be the transport, surrounded by hot spots, had to be troops guarding the vehicle. Beegee knew Sinner called the attachments his eyes, ears and nose, EEN’s. She had seen him poke around in the corporation controlled grid before. She also knew he would be detected by now, but maybe they had bigger fish to fry. Besides, the snoops would only know it was a Wrist Bit hacked in from a maintenance box. The what, not the who. Antony had no idea what the stringy haired kid was doing, but he knew it must be illegal. “Gotta go,” Sinner sighed. Jumping off and trotting down an alley to intersect with where the transport should be. “Maybe we can still nab a few things.” They tried for a completely different direction than the mob or the corps elite were congregating. “False info,” he mouthed to Beegee. No surprise there. The surprise came when they rounded a corner and saw their way blocked by corporate vans. Turning as one, “Trust no one and no thing,” Beegee stated. Their mantra. Antony had been raised on, “Trust only your own corporation sanctioned sources. The CSS way.” He wanted to head straight for the vans. Neither Beegee nor Antony were hackers. Nor would they ever be. Sinner, on the other hand, came by it naturally. He did not eff up, or not very often. The decision on whether to hack the chip out of the kid, for one thing. Sinner got the distinct feeling Beegee would do it, if given the chance. Not on tonight’s menu, he thought. Too risky. Too much going on already. He had long since discarded the Wrist Bit, but the drones would be swarming soon, following the scent. Beegee gave Sinner’s retreating back a look. “It’s okay,” she said. “I know you’re only trying to keep us safe. But are you sure we can’t?” *Sinner stopped, twirled, took her huge hand, “No, we can’t. And we can’t help any of them either.” The “them” was the crowd they were being forced to head back to. Fenced in, trapped, led to the slaughter as it were.* The protest crowd was bigger now, throngs, some still singing the oldsters’ song, deeper voices and higher ones. Children. “We’re gonna save this,” she gave the select a hard shake, “but not those?” Sinner nodded. Beegee wanted to turn, call out a warning, or at least to sing along. Solidarity and all that. The tune carried on the night air. It called her. Wanted to make her turn to face the corps troops with a little more bravery than was wise. “Do you know the song?” Sinner could at least give her that. Beegee’s face warmed. “From an ancient Mexi War, I think. Most of it’s crap. ‘At the cry of war, make ready the steel, let the earth shake to the core, let the cannon roar. Circle our country, our head, with an olive wreath, given by the angel of peace.” She shook her head. “Archaic, I know.” She shrugged for the thousandth time, embarrassed. Antony took up the telling. This was finally something he knew. He recited carefully: But should a foreign enemy Profane your ground, Think They have given you a soldier in every man, woman and child. Oh home land! Your children swear To exhale their last breath If the horn of war Summons you to fight You fight. You will get the olive garlands! You will get a laurel of victory! You will have a tomb of honor! “No way.” Sinner thought how ridiculous this all was. But he added, “Guess the corporation run education is worth something after all.” The select went up a few notches in Beegee’s mind, but the fact he knew the song sent lines of ice down her spine. “Weird that they’d teach him that.” The song had been associated with a country, not a corporation. But the South American Coalition of States had thrown its allegiance to the corporation, given up all old geographic boundaries; arbitrary lines in the sand ceded, in exchange for security and promised prosperity, so there was that. Antony piped up, in his weirdly deepening voice, “Wanted us to know how stupid and pointless it all was. All the wasted lives. Obviously, there are no tombs or wreaths. No one remembers any of them.” Sinner looked at the gaunt faces in the crowd. Swarms of drones sweeping overhead. Probing lights putting the black corporation troops in shadow, putting the crowd in full view. CCTV eyes recording every face. “Yeah. Look where that allegiance got them,” Sinner spat. He was pretty sure the ground vehicles circling the area held weaponry more lethal than what was openly worn. The vans would be full of tech, grabbing all idents and communications, registering wrist bits and sternum chips faster than the speed of light. Tech he’d love to get ahold of. “Come on.” he yanked Beegee’s arm as hard as he could. “They are all effed.” “Sinner, you sound like a corporation gofer.” At that moment, the mob began to turn away from the line of elites and towards the three figures, two small, one large. The guns the regular serve and protects toted were pointing at the elites but also pointing into the crowd. They had fallen back, as promised. Any shots that missed those corps would be headed straight at Sinner, Beegee and Antony. Supposedly, rubber, but who really knew. The crowd was turning itself toward the one narrow gap remaining, also the exact way to where the transport should be coming. Beegee decided to haul ass out of there, but which direction? It was a tense standoff. The corps were shouting at the local enforcers, the enforcers were shouting at the crowd to get back. Guns were leveled in all directions. The winking watching drones purred overhead. The sounds of singing slowly died. The memory hit Sinner and Beegee at the same time as the tear water started flying overhead. Beegee began bulling her way through the crowd, toward the center of the square. Sinner knew what she was going for. But she was soon a blinded snot filled face of disgust. Sinner clung to the back of her ragged sweater, Antony, his preservation nanos kicking in, grabbed her side. Both boys held on as tight as they could. Beegee could not see, but Sinner was yelling directions up to her. The crowds were screaming now. Pain. Shocked. Blinded. Like a terrible wounded creature. Lurching one way then the other. People fell. Children lost. The plaza was a smooth flat surface, covered in quascrete blocks the corps had placed over the old, concave pavement. There was an old storm drain in the very center. It meant risking the multitude of citizens; it also meant possible salvation. Sinner grabbed a discarded iron rod dropped by an oldster who could not remain standing. Chaos had broken out. No singing now. Survival. But which way? There was only one opening and that is where the crowds headed. Big mistake. The transport, the long awaited food truck, pulled in sharply, blocking escape. The people only saw possible food, water, an end to the tearing pull of an empty gut. The sight of the truck only added to their desperation. The three figures fought upstream, against the onslaught. Surrounded. Rubber bullets flying just over head. Beegee kept hunched. Tear water practically flowing out of the sky like rain. No rain of any kind had hit this plaza for over 10 years, not since the corporation installed their weather nanites. Antony’s feet were no longer in contact with the ground. He circled his legs onto the large thigh of the wild haired, snot ravaged girl and burrowed his head under her clothing for relief from the gas. Sinner kept his eyes tightly shut, blocking the worst of it. Beegee drew on all her strength, fighting to get them to the center of the plaza. She knew exactly what Sinner was going for. Any rat hole in a pinch, but this was a rat hole they knew from way back. Not that they’d used it or even thought about it in eons. It’s got to be here. Right here. She grabbed at nooks and crevices. Pried in every crack. The tide of humanity swept around and over them, a virtual flood of fear and tear water, trying to pull them this way and that. The chipped boy, the boy from the enclave, the privileged little genetic piece of perfection clung to Beegee’s thigh like a parasite. She would not try to shake him loose, nor would she try to save him if he got pulled away. People were falling, screaming, trampled or worse. Sinner screamed as an advancing contingent of mercs nearly trod on his prone body, Beegee’s large paw grabbed him at the last second, at the exact moment one of the quascrete tiles began to rise, she got the metal rod under it and pried with all her might. Maybe some noticed, most did not care. Rag children. Worthless. Sinner felt himself falling the meter or so into the wet mud. Stale air enveloped him like a cloud of shroom spores. Something glowed, phosphorescence in the gloom, the pipe was large and led up at a steep angle. Easy to tell which way to go. A greenish glow haloed the lining. Elfie, one of their own littles, knew shrooming lore but she had never grown anything like this. Sinner grabbed a few to stuff in his pockets; one never knew. Mushrooms had all sorts of interesting uses. The enclave kid plopped onto him and they both skittered to avoid the tromp of Beegee’s heavy booted feet. The thud of the quascrete tile falling into place was more comforting than it should have been. Total silence. No sounds of gore got through from above. “Better to wipe that memory,” Sinner informed the boy. “I’ve already forgotten.” Sinner had more practice than most at forced forgetting. Beegee pushed them from behind. “Git. No telling if we can make it the whole way or not. Could be blocked. It’s been an age since we cum through here.” Sinner took off on all fours. He could almost sense or feel or somehow he simply knew, there was a draft ahead somewhere. Air. That meant an exit point. The boy, Antony, followed right behind, less steady. Beegee brought up the rear, grabbing at any unusual growths as fast as Sinner had. Elfie would be pleased. She eyed the back of the little elite, noting his spine was shaking. Just then she spied some of the ‘ummies, shrooms Elfie used to calm the littles when things got really desperate. Beegee snatched one off the ground, gripped the elite kid on the nape, and crammed the bit of shroom into his mouth, then tilted his head back, hard. He had no choice but the swallow the clump of fungi. “That’ll do,” Beegee murmered. “That’ll do.” As his eyes glassed over, heading inward, the dank tunnel retreated from his mind, to be replaced by rainbows and lollies, or so she hoped. Sinner saw the mycellium over their heads. Minute amounts of air passed through the thick membrane. The kid might not stay sane for long. Sinner made the choice. Risk breaking through here, versus staying below ground. Three heads popped up through the shrump gulping fresh oxygen, coughing with a dusting of spores, shroom gills flaked in their hair. They were in the old mushroom field, just below the enclave. Distant sounds floated up from the town, flashes and sharp booms carried on the night air. “Those are not non-lethals.” “Gotta dump this brat on his door step fast.” “Safer up here.” Antony could not follow the conversation. The world was speaking to him now.


“Seth? You’re up.” The words hung in the air, waiting for a response. The door had just swung open in acknowledgement of Jamison’s knock. A man, thinly framed and sweaty was on the other side of it. He had his hoodie on - hood up. He said nothing. Jamison let the words sit - only now realizing that the client hadn’t the breath to respond even if he had known what to say. A moment passed while Jamison expected a follow up - it did not come. He stood firm, waiting for the client to catch his breath. It was not uncommon for them to take a minute. The client finally conceded: “Sorry, what?” A ridiculous question, mainly because Jamison knew the client damn well knew what this was all about. “You’re up.” Jamison came back, uttered with the same tone and business-like drawl as it had been before: Simple and absolute. “You are Seth, correct?” This time the client was slightly more alert to the words. “Oh. Okay, alright. Yes. That’s me.” He said, almost whispering. “What next?” Answering this question was half of Jamison’s job. The other part was the driving. He much preferred the driving. Though, over the years, he found the best way to explain the process was to put it all out there at once. It was easiest to barrel through and not let the client interrupt. “Well,” Jamison spoke with the clinical efficiency of a doctor who had to break bad news, “you’re going to gather one bag. Just one. While you do that, I’m going to take a look around. I’ll see what we need to clean, if anything. I’ll make a note of everything we might have to add or get rid of here. I’ll send that to my boys who will do the rest.” He paused briefly to make sure the message was sinking in. The client nodded just slightly enough to confirm. “Then you and I will come back out here and down these back stairs to the bottom of the apartment building. A van is there. You will get in the back and stay quiet.” The client remained silent, his head simply bowing. Jamison preferred this quiet shock. It let him get through his speech much faster. “Then we will drive. It will be a long journey. There are some snacks back there, but eventually, we’ll get far enough away that we can stop at a diner or something. Ultimately you will end up in Nebraska - out in the woods, in a cabin. Alright?” Customarily, Jamison let the words sit, just as he had when the client had opened the door to him. He waited for a response, though sure to take a few moments, as the words Jamison said needed their time to sink in. This would be the last respite Jamison would give the client. The work would begin upon acceptance. “Oh...okay.” The words came back a little more haunted than Jamison had been used to. But it began nonetheless. “Go on now.” Jamison commanded. The client reluctantly recoiled back into the foyer of his own home and looked about for a bag. Jamison began to take in the scene. The apartment was neat, orderly, and very spacious. Two medium length couches stocked a marble walled living space - both paying homage to the ridiculous flat screen TV to the left of the doorway. Large windows framed the wall opposite the entry. Specialized blackout curtains mostly did their jobs, but there was a thin column of light from the city that crept in. Jamison quickly walked across and squeezed the curtains till nothing could be seen in or out. He moved his way through the rest of the apartment - the bedroom, the bathrooms, and the like; each spacious and grand. Each holding nothing of note. He finally pulled to the side of the man, who seemed to be finishing up his task. “You ready?” The bluntness of the question seemed to catch the client off guard. “I think so.” “Come on then.” Jamison led the way with the client herded behind him, mimicking an upgraded pace that Jamison had taken. As they weaved through the spectacular apartment, Jamison pretended not to notice the man taking it in - It would be the last time he saw it, or anything like it. They reached the front door again - Jamison swung it open. “Is there anything you guys need to do here?” The man plead more than asked. “You know, to the place?” “Don’t think so. Looks good now. We’ll have someone double check though. Come on.” Jamison grabbed the nostalgic man by the shoulder and pulled him gently out the door. “There’s nothing for you to worry about here anymore.” As Jamison stated earlier, they moved through the hall past the ornate elevators and to the stairway at the end. There was less of a chance they would be seen going down the stairs - especially from this high up. Both men sighed heavily as they began the move down the floors. Presumably for very different reasons. For the client, this was the beginning of the end of his old life. For Jamison, it was simply a lot of stairs. The only noise was the echo of their steps as the two went down, step by step, floor by floor. By the time they reached the bottom, both men had broken such a sweat that the normally harsh entrance into the bitterness of the city night was more relief than imposition. True to his word, Jamison had a van parked right by the sidewalk. It was pale white and had little to no markings on it. It was more professional looking than a typically run-down creep van, but not by much. He wasted no time in moving towards it, the client in tow. He pulled the latch- the door obliged and slid back. “Get in.” Jamison said. “No time to waste.” Jamison added the last part to emphasize that the time to look around was over. Thankfully, the man conceded with a small nod, and stepped in. He sat down in his car seat obediently and looked at Jamison for further instruction. Jamison noted that this was the first time he really looked at the man. And, in the study of his face, began to discern in his face that he was younger than Jamison had pegged him to be - much younger. Maybe in his late teens. He shook it off. “Alright. Get comfy. I’ll talk to you in a few hours.” Jamison said. He shut the door and deftly moved to the driver’s side door. He opened it, got in, and quickly turned the key. The vehicle shuddered to life. He contorted his upper body to look back at Scott. “You’ll find the papers on the floor there. Just tap me if something doesn’t look right.” Without waiting for a response. He turned his head back toward the road and began to shuttle off. “Okay... Thank you, sir.” Was the response a few moments later. Jamison was in the business of getting rid of people. More specifically, it was taking people who were in harm’s way - no matter who - out of harm’s way, so long as they had the money to cover it. This was done by getting someone “off the grid.” He and his team would take someone, give them a new name, a new social security number, and a new solitary life. It was essentially witness protection for those who wanted it, rather than needed it. If someone was in danger of being killed, abducted, tortured or arrested - Jamison was the man to speak to - if they were lucky enough to know how. Though by nature, those who knew how were not good people Jamison had been in this business for years, transporting a little less than a thousand people out of harm’s way. Murderers, drug lords, gangsters, thieves, hitmen, etc. You name it: if they could pay, Jamison would take them. He asked only a few things of the person who called (it was always a call - only his number had been selectively given out in the circles of the uber wealthy). First, that they pay up front. Next, that they give their name, pickup address, and an honest account of why his services were required. Such was the case of the man in the backseat. Another millionaire who had gotten in deep, deep trouble. Seth - the client - called just a few hours prior. Apparently, he had drunkenly stabbed a man to death in the back alley of a club. Though he did not say why, nor did Jamison care. The fact was that after the client had done this, he looked up to find a CCTV camera looking right at him. Thus, he spent the next hours frantically searching for a way out - asking everyone he was close to. Such is usually the cycle; it must have been another crook or creep with something to hide that gave him Jamison’s number - and here they now sat. Jamison now in the middle of a workday, and the client in the middle of a life-altering move. As Jamison drove through the night, he was thankful for the relatively smooth outing this had been. He thought of how the hard part of his job was not so hard this time. Occasionally, Jamison had met clients who were calmer - resigned to their new lives, or eager to move on. But Jamison did have to admit he was struck by this one. He could tell the usual exasperation had its hold on the man, but without the usual hysterics of one who’s used to having so much getting it taken away. As he thought more of it, there was also a working-class obedience in his initial interactions with the client. “So, everything look good back there?” Jamison broke the long silence. It had been a few hours of midnight driving. By now, nobody was on the road. “Oh. Yes.” Echoed to the front. “Good. We’re just about halfway through Ohio. At this point it’s safe to say there’s probably nobody on to us.” Jamison said. “Good.” Came back. Jamison admitted to himself that he wished to have gotten back a little more. “So,” he began to prod “we’ll probably stop somewhere in Indiana if that works. Couple hours. You hungry?” “I could eat.” “You know - usually the fellas I pick up either won’t talk no matter what or won’t stop talking. You’re quiet, but not too quiet. You know?” As Jamison finished his sentence, he could hear an uncomfortable shift coming from the back seat. A muted voice replied: “I don’t have anything to say I guess, but I can talk. If you want me to. I don’t know.” “Your name’s Seth, right?” Jamison pressed, not fully sure as to why. “Yes sir.” “Why are you calling me sir? How old are you?” Jamison asked, reminded once again of the youth in the client’s face. “19 - I’ll stop if you want. Just, I don’t know your name.” Seth was “And you won’t.” Jamison spoke matter-of-factly. “But - I don’t mean to pry, but most people don’t need me...so young.” “Oh.” Came the response, confirming that Jamison was prying indeed. Jamison retreated. “Sorry, kid. Just, not used to...kids. And frankly you’re a little more obedient than most.” It was now Jamison’s turn to shift uncomfortably, especially as there was no response from the back. At least for a while. “How can you pay for this anyways?” “Inheritance. From my parents.” Seth said back, with nothing else added. Thus, provoking another small silent period. “So, why’d you do it?” Jamison trudged on. A moment passed. A small sniffle preceded the lines that came next. “I...didn’t mean to.” Seth said, intrinsically knowing what Jamison meant. “Ah.” Jamison said as he digested. “I guess often that is the way it goes. But it is what it is.” Jamison pressed for more details - at this point the coy nature of the client had moved Jamison to be more inquisitive. “So, caught at a club huh? On camera? Party a little too hard with all that money?” The comment was a little more condescending than Jamison had intended. “No sir.” Seth said, a little more together now. Though he did not know Jamison took the words as if they were an insult. He turned his head around to clearly view the client. “No sir?” Jamison spat. “You telling me you lied to me on the phone?” Immediately panicked at Jamison’s new tone, Seth defended himself: “Oh, no. Just about the place. Please, Just that. I still need help - this isn’t anything wrong for you.” Jamison felt the betrayal of trust as a threat to his own safety. He had to make sure this wasn’t the reality. His voice rose, “Listen boy you better tell me what’s real here and what’s not real quick or I will drop you off right here and call the police myself.” It was no longer a matter of interest for Jamison in the situation of Seth, but a matter of immediate need-to-know. There was no latency in Seth’s response. “Listen. I did. I mean I killed someone okay. That’s that. But it was in a church. I promise. Not a club. Everything I said is above board - I just. I panicked. Thought you might be a religious type. I don’t know what I was thinking. I was scared and was thinking stupid.” “The religious type?” was all Jamison managed to say back as he digested the information. He simmered on it silently - still driving, but stewing. Jamison spent 30 seconds or so saying nothing - he could tell that Seth was anxiously awaiting a decision from his driver. “Anything else?” Jamison said with a sigh. “Cause I will find out, and remember, I will be the only one who knows where you are. So, is there anything else?” “No sir.” The response was so full of fear that Jamison knew it was the truth. He sighed another deep sigh and resolved to move past the revelation. In the end, it did not matter much for his job, but he did not like being lied to - especially when it comes to business. He did feel the need, and the right, to ask why. “So. Why lie? Why call me? This is need to know now.” “I...” Seth started, but then elected to regroup. He started again. “I went to church - with my Aunt. First time in a while. A long while. I.... the pastor was someone I knew as a kid.” Again he paused and regrouped. “Someone they told me went away. I guess he came back, and I guess he noticed that I was there. That I was trying to find my faith again.” Seth stopped there, exasperated. He took a deep breath and resumed. “He winked at me... and he... I...” The sniff was back. The weight of Seth’s words hit Jamison with a weight he hadn’t encountered in all his life. He needed not to say anything else - though he did. “I went back later, and I was so mad that I...” He did not need to say what they both knew. So he skipped the deed. “As I walked out - I saw the cameras on the building.” Seth shut down after that. Jamison only heard a soft, somber sob coming from the back. Jamison’s emotions backflipped into a state of deep depressive shock at the thought of this boy’s predicament. He genuinely did not know what to say. In all his years doing this job, he had never come across this kind of job. Someone who needs to be moved - made “missing,” though probably didn’t deserve to. If what he said was true, how could Jamison blame the kid? How could anyone? He must be telling the truth - there was no reason not to. It wracked Jamison’s brain. “I’m sorry,” was all Jamison could mutter. “I’m so sorry.” It was silent after that. Neither of them said a word for hours. When Jamison passed by a diner in rural Indiana, they stopped to eat. They sat in silence. Seth now only looked guiltily down at his food. Jamison eyed him and noticed the lost look in his face. He guessed that it was the same look that met him when Seth opened the door to let him in. Though, he did not note it then. The truth was that Jamison always believed himself as a puzzle solver rather than an enabler. Most of the puzzles he solved depicted some angry, wrathful man in the end - but it was still the pieces going into shape that Jamison found comfort in. Jamison felt as though he was breaking an ornate glass sculpture now - complicit in the uprooting of a boy. When he dropped Seth off at his new log cabin home in the woods of Nebraska, he went over the code of conduct with Seth. Seth was to do nothing with anyone - no strangers, no friends, nothing to do with anyone - at least for a year or so. He was to live a solitary life, for now at least. It was all he could do with the money he had left anyways. Seth looked at his new home and said, “Thank you sir.” Jamison could tell he did not mean it this time. “You’re welcome,” was all Jamison thought to say. As he climbed back into his van and started the engine, he looked at the motionless Seth, standing in front of his new home. “I’m so sorry.” He whispered. Jamison was in the business of getting rid of people. Over his career he had transported a little less than a thousand people out of harm’s way. These were murderers, drug lords, gangsters, thieves, hitmen, and one boy Jamison felt to be entirely innocent. It was his last client. Though, like the others, his life was broken all the same.


Andy buried his wife on March 16th. It was a closed casket funeral, due to the violent and abrupt nature of her death. Her name was Lorelai Day. She was 32 years old. Andy had stood there at the front of the sanctuary looking down at the smooth, white coffin he had picked out for her just the day before. The inside was a deep, wine-colored velvet. Only the best for his Lo. Staring into the light reflecting off the coffin, he remembered the last time he saw her face. So full of fear, yet serene, like a calm ocean while a storm raged over head. He wondered dimly if her eyes were open. Her funeral service was full. Some of the guests could have been perfect strangers, people she had passed on the street. Looking around, Andy couldn't find one familiar face. Lo was the popular one, she had all the friends who by default became friends of Andy too. Andy didn't need any of those friends, he had Lo. After she was laid to rest, Andy couldn't bear going to the luncheon some friends were hosting afterward. He wouldn't be missed. He walked the streets alone, not much caring where he went, just vaguely making in the direction of their- well his- home. They -he- lived on a secluded branch of the neighborhood. Lo had insisted on moving closer to other people, but Andy liked the isolation. Now, that sense of loneliness was what he feared. As he slowly made his way up to their house, Andy could make out the outline of a large cardboard box sitting at their- his- front door. He knew that it must be another gift from one of their - Lo's- friends. As he approached, he could feel an odd cold feeling settle within him. Up to now, Andy hadn't opened any of the presents he had been given. He felt they didn't belong to him. But this, this was different. Andy couldn't place the sensation making its way slowly through him. It was a deep, sinking feeling. It felt as though he was being observed by an unknown force. He felt like a puppet being maneuvered by something greater as he bent down to scoop up the box. There was nothing on the outside, no note, no explanation of what it was or who it was from or how sorry whoever it was had been for his loss. He hoisted it inside and placed it down. He kneeled down and ran a hand across the top of the box, almost like he was inviting whatever was inside to come out. He cautiously lifted the top flaps and leaned in. Inside were beat up and well-used books. No, not books, Andy thought to himself as he picked one up to examine it. Journals. He opened the cover. Inside it read as follows: December 8th No Turning Back The handwriting. It flowed between certain letters and was almost... smudged? Andy suddenly felt whatever had been sinking inside him hit the bottom. Lo. This was Lo's. Are all of these her's? Where did they come from? Why are they here now? Who put them there? Andy slowly peered inside the box again. His eyes saw what must have been at least 15 or 20 journals. They were all the same deep forest green, hardcovers, bookmarked on the last page. He picked another out of the box, opened the cover and read the following: April 24th Sink or Swim Andy frantically flipped through the pages. All were filled completely, all to the very end. Andy froze. Confusion swept through him like a great wave crashing on a small child. Pulling them deep into the undertow. Lo and Andy never kept secrets. Never. He reached into the box and pulled out a third. He opened the cover, and read the following: September 4th Out Like A Light Andy turned to the next page, shaking in an almost convulsive manner. The pages were rough and well worn. Someone had read this before, multiple times. Over and over and over again. Andy felt as though he couldn't stop. He had no other choice but to read. "I felt the itch again today. Sometimes it hits so hard I just can't contain it. I waited until he fell asleep. I waited until he feels into the rhythmic snore cycle that always woke me up. I stood over him, watched for a second. He seems so at peace when he's dreaming. That serenity is what I crave" Andy suddenly felt a line of cold sweat trace his upper lip, but he couldn't stop. "I followed her into the park. I've seen her before. Long, gorgeous chestnut hair, tied loosely into a ponytail that seemed to bounce as she ran. She had no idea I had been following her. She seemed oblivious to the world around her. She was perfect. I got closer. The weight in my hand growing heavier by the second, just aching to be freed. I tapped her twice gently on the left shoulder. I wanted to see her face. She turned, with a dumb smile stuck squarely on her mouth. Then she was on the ground, eyelids twitching manically. The brick in my hand now slick with blood. I crouched down delicately to get closer. She was so beautiful. I swept a piece of her hair off of her face, then admired her closely for just a second. She started to croak out something that she never finished. Then in one swift motion, she was gone. Out like a light. Out like a light. Out like a light out like a light out like a light out like a light...." Andy frantically flipped through the pages only to see the phrase repeated over and over to the very last line. He shut the journal then threw it across the foyer. He scooted away to the base of the stairs, he tried to stand, but his legs had turned to jello. He wanted to run. In the light seeping through the windows, he saw faint markings on the spine of the journal. He slowly crawled forward. He gently picked the journal back up and turned it to the spine. There he saw the number 374. Andy suddenly jumped as the sound of the doorbell echoed through the house. Andy stood slowly, dropping the journal at his feet. As he slowly walked towards the door, what he saw made him feel like he had sunk through the floor. Innocently waiting for him at the front door was another box. Something seemed to call to him from inside the package.


The air is thick with movement. It’s saturated in noise, dripping with the rowdy cheers and cries of the multitude of people crushed together into a humid crowd, and there’s something vaguely claustrophobic about the whole experience. The need to hurl out the latest meal asserts itself in between his ribs, rather rudely shoving against his insides. Determined little bugger, that one. Everything honestly felt like scrambled goo, and his head was not feeling so hot either. Nasty thing, that headache. Jax squeezes his eyes shut instinctively, revelling in the cold palm of darkness pressed against. He must have forgotten to take his pills again, he thinks. The familiar nausea comes and passes, like a tidal wave drawn by the moon, except that his own fortune wheel is discombobulated and non-linear, and as a general rule, doesn’t follow any logical pattern. It’s not a leap or bound to assume that fate has it out for him. He wonders if that’s what it really wants; wind him up, and watch him go. He’s jostled into the next writhing mass of folks in the next second, a sharp blow of the elbow of some passerby to the soft skin of his gut, and he’s wheezing up a storm, and swept along the living stream of bodies. His eyes fly open. The sunlight happily digs its way into the sensitive film of his eyes. That drumbeat in his head worsens. Panic claws it’s way up and through, in a rising swell of bile and nausea creeping up the back of his throat. The taste is sharply sour, like spoilt milk cuddling into clumps of sticky bacteria. Breathing is not a chore, but bringing himself under control certainly is. It’s a struggle. He struggles to hold back the pained grunts that his throat insists on making. He struggles to control the wild rush in his veins, fighting against something that feels like ice thirstily swallowing up his blood and marrow. Most of all, he struggles not to let go. He’s losing his grip. He wandered deeper into the heart of the throng, sweaty bodies pressing up against him in what should be a direct violation of personal space. He bites back on a harsh shiver, clamping down his teeth and lips into a narrow, tight line so as to keep the building pressure inside. He wants to leave, but there’s nowhere else to go, though. Glancing back and forth, he tries to search for an exit, or anything even remotely resembling one. Smears of colours steal his focus, amidst the plethora of noise and air - the distortion of colour and light ensconced the world around in a refracted image. The atmosphere shuddered with heat, shimmering slightly as it simmered high on both the bright sunlight as well as the sheer body heat. He’s lost, and he doesn’t know where to go. The innate power of his magic thrums underneath his chest, racing harshly against the pulsating branches and arterioles of his circulatory system. The strength that it takes away with it is consuming, and he can only be a distant spectator to the delicate strains of shattered webs radiating from his body, glimmering far away into the bruised lungs of the sky. It certainly turns a few heads to look in his direction. The taste of the acrid loss is seared in now, supplemented by the rapid deterioration of his life supply. He tastes, sees, and feels everything keenly, amplified up to an almost frightening degree. His vision begins to blur; a thick and sickeningly cloying sensation that makes him gag. “Hey,” Someone says in alarm. He squints, but can’t make out any features amidst his ongoing minor breakdown. “Hey, man,” They say again, “Are you alright?” They sound kind, he decides fuzzily, and pitches forward with a gurgled choke. He never comes in contact with the ground, however. A heavy weight pulls him back from the edge, encircled around his waist and arms. The contact burns his skin, and he flinched away with a muffled hiss. It actually feels like a human noose splitting him in two, like white-hot vines dragging him towards the earth to bisect. “Shit, hold on.” The panicked breath floats by him. He doesn’t catch it, not completely, at least. The sun shines down at them. Now that he actively has a better look at it, he can see the world in its monochrome entirety; not entirely shades of grey, but darker, more sinister overtones. The sky is slate. Stitches of thin, reedy light thread the wide expanse above, overwhelmingly bright. It highlights the flaws with startling clarity; the veins of wounded purple linings, alongside the sickly yellow and enrages pulsating bruises of the shadows caused by the sun’s radiance. It’s beautiful, in a very ugly way. The sight is hypnotising, and even more so that his focus on the surroundings so he doesn’t actually notice that he’s been moved by that Good Samaritan, until the underside of the red canopy of one of the vendor’s stores eclipses his sight. He blinks, slowly. Overwhelmingly, bright red, but still equally bland. It looks worn down, patchy and used. The rush that follows soon after is unlike the previous. It gives, but doesn’t take and he leans into that heady rush of cold water streaming through his head, radiating ice from the touch of the person still gripping him tight. He’s tense for a few moments, before he gives up on the fight and finally sags into the odd embrace. He breathes in, dragging in the air through the congested airways until the chilled breeze tickles the insides of his chest. Feeling marginally better, Jax croaked out, “Personal space?” “A thank you would be nice. You’re welcome, by the way.” He blinks away the wet sheen clouding his vision, and focuses on his saviour for the first time. He opens his mouth, closes it. A faint flush runs along his cheeks. His mouth goes dry. Recognition hits both of them at once like lightning. The sensation is electrifying, like surges of ice stroking up the back of his spine. He looks back into startlingly amber eyes framed by dark curls, and something inside of him shifts, before settling in heavily as if it was always meant to be there, like two puzzle pieces clicking into place. Wordlessly, Jax pulls off the blue strip of cloth entwined around his wrist. Pale skin peeks out, revealing a distinct mark there; the image of a raven sitting atop black antlers. He hears a quiet hiss of breath, equally tremulous. His saviour does the same, removing the red cloth, to reveal the exact same mark. They stare at each other. “ Holy -“


SPOILER: mild gore implied. You feel the warm grip of a thumb rubbing against your soapstone skin, you can feel the person contemplate buying it, vibrations from their voice, garbled speech you once upon a time might have bothered to understand, but now don't bother, they'll never care. You hear the clink of your body as the man sets you back down into your box filled with the lost souls of the reincarnates. Your days are short and they are always the same, if you're lucky enough to be bought you will be a gift or a good luck charm. But If your pain you suffered to be made into something beautiful and refined, carved away into intricate sculptures that mean something to special people is wasted, a wrong cut, an ugly pattern, a failed business, you'll be lost forever to the wishes of time. If you didn't get lucky you get tossed out, landfills, cliffs, or maybe you'll get a second chance. That's where my story takes place, behind me a hard life and one bad crack, a hammer head to my metamorphic body. But when I can finally find the pain bearable again I'm covered in duct tape. All I see is black, and I can feel this binding sensation like a corset. When I'm finally awake and the duct tape is removed. My body is still rigid and tight but different. I think I've been epoxied. I Spend my days Watching the refracted purple light flicker through me as cars pass by, blotting out the sun for fractions of a second and then retreating from their past place. People rub my purple resin or pick me up and watch the light pass through me often. But then one day someone picked me up and never put me back, I fell into a little paper bag with white stripes going across the standard brown paper. A couple coins and a paper receipt follow my descent and clatter across me and jingle happily as the bag slowly swings from side to side. I can feel the vehicle seat smoothly vibrate as the engine shakes the car. The car travels what I estimate to be around two hours before stopping. My new owner opens up the car door and then grabs the coins and the receipt out of the bag before I hear the clink of coins against more of their kind and the zipper of a billfold and the rustling of paper. I feel the shake of the car door and then the swinging of the bag back and forth until I hear the clatter of heels on hardwood floor and the clunk of a wreath on the front door, I feel the bag being set down on a coffee table and see a ceiling fan with three lights above me spin constantly. I sit in the bag for days or weeks, I hear the often chatter of my owner or the ceiling fan turns off when the light diminishes and all I can hear is the flickering of a candle and the heating unit run. One day my owner walks in the door and stuffs red and white paper into my bag, making it hot but cozy at I slide around in the bag traveling to the car. The car turns on and then as soon as we entered we left the car and walked through a threshold of a home, I can hear happy and excited chatter, dogs barking, childish voices, and amazing smells, chicken, cheese, mashed potatoes, and more. I sit on an entryway table until the night slowly sucks out the afternoon joy and the porch lights come on. I can hear hushed clothes and the crackling of fire, I can smell firewood, and marsh mellows, and then as the sun slowly rises I hear trickling and the sound of life. I can feel the warmth of a hand grasp me and then the excited squeals of an excited woman. The next day I'm swinging from a keychain, back and forth until the car stops moving and then repeated over and over again, twice a day, five times a week. I finally bother to understand human language, I grow attached to my human, a short woman with red hair, and weird socks. then one day everything changes. I hear violent screams coming from the car itself, my owner wakes up and lets out a shrill shriek of fear. I can hear screams and commanding voices, orders for her to "Shut the hell up you stupid bitch!" and I am enraged. How can any one how dangerous they may be, insult the woman who gave me the joy of life, a home, something entertaining about my life? I sit on the floor of the car under the steering wheel, not being able to see anything but being able to hear everything, her desperate screams for help, a crack and then choking sounds, and then the screams died down. I passed out in rage, at my useless body, how could I not help her, why would anyone do this? Why are humans so selective on what they deem important, with no regard for other's life? And when I awoke I could move, not just feel, I moved in fluid motions being able to pass through anything and being a transparent gray. Then I saw him, a humanoid shape made out of rock with 4 arms, hundreds of eyes everywhere, and then a large crown of rocky spikes atop his head, 37 points on each side with blood splatters on the points of his crown. His eyes watched me stare at him in amazement, hundreds of eyes all suspicious slits of lime, staring me down, each one analyzing something about me. And then I heard it, his voice, A collection of noises in a language I didn't know but still understood, screams and shrieks filled the black marble hall, big black pillars and a huge throne encrusted with clear diamonds. He said "I have a deal for you, I am the god of Dispair, and I have something you want." I stared at him cautiously, his image flicked with a green hue that Desperately tried to get away from him. "I will give you the satisfaction of knowing your human's soul is safe and returned to her body in exchange for your soul's constant torture." He snapped his finger and white light blinded me temporarily, when my vision returned, A massive silver birdcage appeared, with a small floating chisel attached to the ceiling via chain. it hung ominously, as the door slowly squealed open. I tried to speak but just a small croak exited my mouth, The god laughed, a grim collection of sounds never meant to be heard. "You cannot speak, can you? you spent an eternity as a rock, for silence and peace, and this is your consequence." I muttered a Small croak "hhi'll dhoo iht, I'll dho iht" I repeated it over and over until I finally managed to muster "I'll dho it." "Good enough for me." I passed out before awaking to the intense pain of being stabbed over and over, but at least she is alive.


After Joan and Phil Carr and their fifteen-year-old daughter, Diane, finished eating dinner, everybody cleaned up. Then, Joan and Phil went into the living room to watch television, and Diane went upstairs to take a shower. After her shower, she went to her room to study. When she sat down at her desk, she opened her book, and, after a moment, she jumped up and put her hands to her head. “My God, what’s happening? There are voices in my head. Stop. Stop. Leave me alone,” she yelled and took her hands away slowly acted as though she were expecting to hear the voices. “They’re gone. The voices are gone. That was frightening. Am I suddenly mentally ill? The voices didn’t tell me to kill anyone. What they said was absurd. They said I will be one of them. I’ll be one of who? Jeez, what’s going on? Who was talking to me? It wasn’t my imagination. I heard voices.” Hearing a noise behind her, she turned quickly and gasped. Walking toward her were two figures; They were about three-feet tall, and had long, black hair that covered every inch of their body. The creatures stopped a few feet away from her. Diane, paralyzed from fear, couldn’t move. She didn’t hear them speak, but she heard their voices in her head and she put her hands to her ears to stop the voices. “We have come a long way to get you. You must come with us.” “Get out of my head,” she yelled, grabbed a book and threw it at them, but they disappeared and the book hit a wall. Then they reappeared. “Go away,” she yelled and hurried out of the room. As she left the room, she looked back. “They’re gone.” Then, as she turned toward the stairs, they appeared in front of her. “You can’t get away. You will come to us. You will be one of us.” “The hell I will,” she yelled and ran down the stairs. “Dad, Mom, help,” she yelled and ran to them. “They’re coming down the stairs. They’re coming after me. Look, they’re coming after me.” “Diane, what are you talking about? What’s coming after you?” her mother asked, putting her arm around Diane’s shoulder. “Don’t you see them? They’re right there in front of you?” she yelled. “Come with us to the other side where you will find happiness.” “Ma, Dad, can you hear them?” “Hear what, Diane?” they asked in unison. “Oh, God, they don’t see them and they don’t hear them,” she said, going to the visitors. “Whatever you are, get out of my head. Get out of my life,” Diane screamed. “Diane, who are you talking to?” her father asked, going to her and putting his arm around her. “I’m talking to them, Dad. Why don’t you see them?” “I’m sorry, Diane. I don’t see anybody.” “No one here can help you. You must come with us. You were born to be one of us. We are your destiny. Come, you don’t belong on this side.” “No,” Diane yelled, and her father held her close to him. “You will come,” a creature threatened, and the creatures grabbed her and all disappeared. Shaking, Phil looked at his wife. “She’s ...she’s gone. Disappeared. Where did she go? Who was she talking to? Where did she go?” Phil and Joan held each other and sobbed while Diane passed to the other side, to her new life. “I don’t understand it. How could such a thing have happened? What are we going to do? Should we call the police?” “They’re not going to believe us,” Phil asserted. “Would you believe us?” “Phil, I don’t know how we’re going to get over this.” “You don’t have to get over it, Ma, Dad,” Diane said. Startled, they looked at one of the creatures. Diane had become one of them. “It’s me Ma, Dad.” They stared bewildered at the figure. “Diane, is...is that you?” her mother asked shakily. Diane, what...how...why? “Yes, Ma, it’s me. They let me come back from the other side to get you and Dad?” “Diane, what are you talking about? What's the other side?” Joan asked and turned to her husband. “Phil, this...this is a nightmare. Isn’t it? She chuckled nervously. “In a minute we’ll wake up and everything will be back to normal. Right?” “Joan, it’s not a nightmare. That thing is our daughter. I don’t know why or how, but that’s Diane.” “Yes Ma, Dad, I’m real, and I’ve come to take you to the other side. It’s another dimension, where others like me live. I don’t have much time. Will you come with me so we can be together? I miss you.” “Diane, we’re not giving up our lives for I don’t know what,” her father asserted. “Dad, you and Ma have to come with me to the other side. Families have to be kept together. Please come with me. I can’t let you stay here. They want you. If you don’t come willingly, I will have to take you.” “The way they took you even though you didn’t want to go?” her mother whined. “Yes, but once I got to the other side, I was glad that they took me. It’s a better world. A better life. Now, come. Give me your hands. If you don ‘t come willingly, I will have to take you. Please don’t make me take you.” “Diane, no. We won’t go and you can’t make us go,” her father said angrily. Diane touched her parents and they disappeared. A week later, a letter carrier went to the police. “There’s a week’s worth of mail piled up at the Carr’s house. I wasn’t notified that they weren’t going to be home. I think something’s wrong.” “Two officers were sent to the house. The front door was unlocked, so they went in. “Well, it doesn’t look like anyone broke in. Harry, you check up stairs, and I’ll go through the downstairs.” After going through the house, Jack and Harry met in the living room. “I don’t know what to think, Jack. C’mon, we’ll go to headquarters and report this,” Harry said and they went to the door. Harry stopped and looked back. “Did you hear that?” “Hear what?” “Sounded like a man and a woman calling to me to go to them.” “I didn’t hear anything, Harry.” “Well, I heard them saying they want me. The voices came from the wall by the staircase,” he said and he went to the wall by the staircase. “Hello, can you hear me?” “Harry, you’re hearing things.” “I heard them calling to me. Listen. There they are. The voices. Jack, how come you can’t hear them?” “I can’t hear the voices because there aren’t any voices. Maybe the voices are in your head. Are you feeling alright?” “Damn it, Jack. I’m telling you they want me to go to them.” “Harry, let me take you home. I’ll call your doctor and...” “No, Jack. They want me to go to them,” he said and disappeared. “My God. Harry, what happened? Where did you go?” Harry went to the other side. Jack didn’t hear voices calling for him...not yet.


“This is absurd!” cried Emma. “I agree, you should’ve been put down by now,” said the replacement. The replacement had shown up unexpectedly, a sharp knock at the door, then they were sitting in Emma’s living room, drinking coffee and watching each other. The room itself was neither especially modern nor particularly Spartan; it consisted of fading blue paint, a worn-out sofa, and a bookcase full of old books. The replacement, in contrast to the room, looked fresh and original and exactly how Emma had looked some 20 years ago when she had painted the walls, bought the sofa, and read the then new books. “There must be a mistake, they always send out notice beforehand, my friend Tully was given two weeks before he was replaced. I’ll go and talk to the supervisor in the morning,” said Emma. “I’m afraid not. Since the people who would handle the practicalities of your transition haven’t visited you yet, I’ll do it now and save then them the time later,” said the replacement. “No! I have to go in. I wasn’t given any notice,” said Emma. “I’m sorry that you weren’t notified but in accordance with the protocol, protocol that you signed up for remember, when you aren’t able to continue with your work you are replaced, by me a clone of you,” said the replacement, then trying to take a more friendly tone, “But hey, I didn’t think that you’d be alive and here now so this is a surprise for me too.” “This isn’t fair!” said Emma, standing up and pacing around the room. “Come on, I think you’re getting quite hung up on this notice thing. Really, when I type this up for my report whoever reads it is sure to die of boredom, let’s move on to more interesting things,” said the replacement. “Oh whatever then,” said Emma, opening the box where she had hidden her cigarettes and selecting an unopened pack, fumbling with the wrapping as she sat back down. “What’s that you’ve got there?” asked the replacement, jumping up and quickly walking over to where Emma was sitting. “A packet of cigarettes. Want one?” said Emma, looking up at the replacement. “Cigarettes and all tobacco products are illegal! How did you get those?” the replacement said snatching the pack from Emma and sitting back down. “Hey! Give those back you bastard!” yelled Emma. “No. I’ll hand them in to the supervisor tomorrow when I bring your corpse back,” said the replacement. “Fuck you then,” said Emma curling up into a ball. A minute passed where neither Emma nor the replacement said anything. A moth was flickering against a window pane and the replacement was looking at it. “I can still remember it. It was 13 years ago but I can still remember it,” said Emma softly, still quite ball like on the couch. “Remember what?” said the replacement, in a bored tone still staring at the moth. “I know that you don’t care about me but I have something to say. People have regrets, I don’t have that many, I haven’t really lived that much but I do have some. I suppose that it’s a cliché to be talking about it now but I don’t care I want to,” said Emma. “Go on then,” said the replacement, still bored watching as the moth gave up, and stopped struggling against the window pane. “When I was finishing University I had a friend, Kayla, and I was in love with her, just a bit. Strangely enough she felt the same way about me too,” said Emma. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” said the replacement, interrupting her and leaning forward, “Because that sort of thing is looked down on now by most experienced people. I know it was a matter of course for you degenerates back then, but still.” “Shut the fuck up and let me finish!” said Emma, then after a pause she continued this time uninterrupted, “I don’t recall how it happened but she found out that I had feelings for her, maybe one of her friends figured it out, it’s not important. She got me to come and meet her at one of the University parks, it was nice. After talking a while we both confessed that we liked each other, rest assured it was very angst-ridden and teenagery. Then I, fuckwit I am, said no to going out with her when she asked me to dinner, as there was only a few weeks left on my degree after witch I’d be transferred here... I didn’t even try to kiss her.” “That, well that’s something,” said the replacement nodding several times then making a face, “I’ll be sure to tell the supervisor and get that trait removed, it wouldn’t do for me to be acting like that.” “Your loss.” said Emma, “What time is it anyway? I could go for something to eat.” “No, no more of this! I’ve had quite enough of this charade I’ve tried humouring it but I’m not going to play about any longer,” said the replacement. “Now? Prisoners get a last meal, don’t I deserve one?” Emma said jumping to her feet and looking around the room. “No. I condemn you to death by drowning,” the replacement said also standing up, “There must be a kitchen sink here, take me to it! Unless, maybe you’d prefer to go out in a bath tub, more time to contemplate your *friend*?” “Uh... I mean if we’re being pragmatic the kitchen sink would probably be quicker, at least I wouldn’t have to spend as much time listening to you,” said Emma. “Lead the way then.” Emma led the way into the kitchen on shaking legs followed by the replacement, the kitchen was a small yellowish room that stunk of week old garbage and stale Chinese food. Emma watched as the replacement put the plug in the sink and turned the tap on. “Last words?” asked the replacement. “I can’t think of anything to say right now... I don’t know try to enjoy yourself in the future maybe?” said Emma faintly staring at the ever increasing progress of the water as it filled up the sink. “I suppose that there are worse last words,” the replacement muttered, turning the taps off and gesturing for Emma to get into position. Emma lowered her head into the water with the hands of the replacement firmly pressing down on the back of her neck. After a few minutes wait the replacement pulled the body out of the sink and sat it down on the floor. “That whore, I got water on me,” said the replacement, wiping her sleeve on a dish cloth and lighting a cigarette.