I stand in front of the wellhouse, shaking with cold and fear. Goosebumps cover my arms and chest, exposed to the late autumn chill. *Should have taken a coat,* I think absently, curling my hands into fists at my sides, bunching the worn fabric of my dress in clammy palms. Of course, I’d had other things to worry about at that moment. The village doctor and the women who’d found Joshua, face-down in the river, were still in my kitchen surrounding the lifeless body of my son. If they had known what I planned to do, they would have stopped me. I couldn’t allow that - my husband had died two winters ago and my little boy was the only family I had left. *And now there’s only me.* I push the horrifying thought aside, forcing myself to focus on the building before me. The wellhouse sits low and squat in the tall grass, surrounded by trees with thick, solid trunks and dense canopies of leaves. They grow closely around the building, branches interwoven in a dark mass that blocks out the stars above me. Gnarled roots snake along the edges of the structure, creeping their way through small cracks in the mossy stone walls. It makes the wellhouse seem like a natural part of the woods, growing in the soil like the trees around it. This is a very old place - part of the village that had stood here before my own. Though most of the other buildings have become crumbling mounds of loosely-ordered stone, the wellhouse remains mostly intact - weathered, but solid. My people believe it holds great power, for in it resides something far more ancient than even the abandoned village: the Water Witch. My breath comes in a slight pant and my skin stings from the many cuts I accumulated running through the forest to the old village. But my physical discomfort is secondary to my main concern - the unspeakable tragedy that has brought me to this place. *My baby, gone!* A terrible ache fills my chest and sends hot, desperate tears of grief pouring down my wind-chapped cheeks. *I must save him, whatever it takes!* Still, I hesitate, unwilling to enter the wellhouse. All my life, I have been told stories of the creature that calls this place home. She is said to be thousands of years old, the last of an ancient race that had once ruled this region. Some kind of spirit or nymph who inhabits the waters in the area. Part protector and part temptress, she guards the water and all who reside in it but also serves a much darker purpose. The “witch” is in fact, a siren, leading men astray only to drown them in the deep waters. She seems to particularly prefer those who have survived shipwrecks or near-drownings - men who escape watery graves, only to be lured back into them by a vision of beauty in the form they desire most. While the Water Witch’s motivations are poorly understood, her power is feared. The nymph doesn’t just live in the water, she *is* the water. Not just in her well, but in every lake, river and stream from here to the next village, almost three days’ ride away. She also guards the stretch of coastline to the East and if the few survivors and witnesses are to be believed, at least some of the deep ocean beyond. My people have always allowed her to live in peace and privacy, giving her wellhouse a wide berth. Some leave occasional offerings for her at the water’s edge, which go untouched until the animals take them. But tonight, I intend to do the unthinkable - to break the unwritten rules and try to speak to the witch herself. As I stand there surrounded by shadows, crisp wind carrying the scent of decaying leaves and peat to my nose, my survival instincts scream at me to turn and run like a frightened rabbit. But the agony off my loss far outweighs my terror, so I think of my little boy and let the primal need to protect my child fill me. It washes away my fear and hesitation, lending me the resolve I so desperately need. *The resolve Joshua needs.* Steeling myself, I take three steps to the door and push my way into the darkness. After a brief moment of terrifying blackness, my eyes begin to adjust. Small holes in the roof let slivers of light through, casting a pale glow over the cracked stone and wood that makes up the structure. The old well sits in the middle of the room, as high as my waist. It’s made of rough-hewn grey and black rocks, cut into a circle at least the width of a man’s wingspan. The air is still and smells of peat and dirt, stale from years of neglect. The wellhouse is utterly quiet, save for my own shaky breathing. “Hello? Is anyone here?” When there is no answer, I begin to panic, certain I’ve been following a path to a dead end. *Now what will I do? I cannot live without him!* At the thought of my son truly being gone forever, a sob escapes me. It echoes off the walls, filling the room with the sound of my grief. A soft noise breaks my rapidly-spiraling train of thought - a gentle splashing, coming from the bottom of the well. With baited breath and dread suffusing every ounce of my being, I slowly and cautiously approach. Stopping as far back as I can, I lean forwards to look over the lip of stone, down into the base of the well. *There, just below the surface.* A vague shape, spanning almost the full width of the well. *Is it moving?* I step forwards warily, poking my head over the edge, and a tear rolls off my cheek. It glimmers in the dim light as it falls to join the pool below. As the teardrop reaches the water, sending ripples across its surface, the shape begins to move. It surges up toward me with incredible speed, a spray of water arcing up as it breaches. I jump back with a startled scream, shielding my face with a raised arm. The dark shape lands in front of the well with a surprisingly light thud, rising up to tower above my cringing form. Though the wellhouse is filled with shadows, there is enough light to discern that the Water Witch is inhumanly beautiful. She wears a deep green dress the color of seaweed that clings to her like wet fabric. Her hair is a brilliant, ultramarine blue. It hangs down to her waist in a mass of untamed waves, dry in spite of the water she just emerged from. In fact, she doesn’t appear to be sodden at all - not even the faintest gleam of moisture is visible on her cyan skin. She regards me with sapphire eyes flecked with white, like the ocean itself is trapped beneath her lashes. After a brief pause, she speaks in a voice that reminds me off a still lake. Calm and gentle on the surface, but with an unfathomable depth I instinctively know to fear. “You taste of loss, little mad woman.” I stand there with my mouth agape, unsure how to respond. At length, I find my voice but all I manage to say is “I’m not mad.” The witch laughs, a pleasant sound strangely reminiscent of a babbling creek, and turns to walk around the left side of the well. “Of course you are, young one. Only a mad woman would seek a Witch of the Water. Especially a woman who tastes of grief.” As she speaks, she trails her fingers along the stone lip, slowly circling it as her eyes take in the state of the decrepit building. In her wake, thin streams of water decorate the floor and well’s edge, as if it’s emanating from her skin itself. Though I want to argue with the nymph, I must admit that she has a point. And more importantly, a potential resolution for my terrible tragedy. “I have come to ask for your help.” I whisper, my voice hoarse with emotion. “My son ... h-he was playing by the river with some of the vi-village boys and somehow he...” I trail off with a sob, unable to finish my sentence. She chimes in, apparently unphased by my blubbering nonsense. “He drowned in my river. Yes, I know. I am sorry you lost him.” I am surprised to hear genuine sympathy in the nymph’s voice. I had always pictured her as a cold, terrifying being - powerful and unforgiving like the ocean. To hear gentleness and kindness in her tone fills me with nascent hope. “Th-thank you.” I sniff, wiping at my raw cheeks with the rough sleeve of my dress. “B-but it’s not good enough. I want to make a d-deal. I want my son back!” I shake, my throat tight and burning as hot tears stream down my face, wetting my neck and soaking into my collar. The witch fixes me with an unreadable gaze, leaning on the well across from me. “What you ask is no small feat, mad woman. What makes you think I can restore life to your boy?” My heart sinks at her question, but I cling to my hopes like a drowning woman. “You are the river - both its guardian and its spirit. Surely there must be something you can do? Please, I beg you! Joshua is all I have left in this world. I cannot bear to lose him!” She is quiet for a moment then answers, her expression guarded. “What you ask is technically possible but you would not be making the deal with me. You’ll need an old god for this.” I frown, struggling to understand. “Not with you? What do you mean? I don’t know any old gods!” Panic rides me hard, filling my head with thoughts of living out the rest of my life alone, grieving my husband and a nine-year old who were once the centre of my world. The nymph gives me a serious look. “You don’t, but I do. My master is one of the Old Ones. He may be able to help you but I must warn you, the price will be ... high.” I nod my head eagerly, renewed hope blossoming within. “I’ll do anything!” I say, dimly aware that I am making a dangerous promise. The nymph opens her mouth as if to speak, but no words emerge. Instead, I hear a song - one that is strangely familiar to me. A thought enters my head, unbidden and nonsensical: *This isn’t how it happened.* A sudden sense of déjà vu invades me as I find myself being pulled from my memory of the wellhouse. The witch and her warning fade away as I’m whisked far from the old village and the forest that surrounds it. I am weightless, only my spirit left to travel past what was once my own home, just down the street from the shops in the centre of town. Past the fields on the outskirts of what was once my village, past people I had once known. I fly over the landscape at inhuman speeds, feeling nothing but the magnetic pull that draws me to the ocean beyond. The song is loud in my ears, growing clearer and more recognizable with every second. The déjà vu is fading, replaced by the clarity of remembrance as my duty overcomes my dream. A crack of thunder rings out across the hills as I shoot past the eastern bend of the river, following to where it meets the ocean. The sky above me is dark and ominous, lightning forking across clouds the color of ash. Rain pours down like it’s attacking the ground below, violent in its intensity. I pass trees leaning at precarious angles, powerful gusts of wind bending them almost to point of snapping. I feel none of it of course, disembodied as I am. It is not my place to feel here - only to seek. I am catapulted over the river’s mouth, soaring above the roiling ocean. The storm has turned the calm waters wild. Massive waves swell and pound against anything in reach, rising from the ocean with fury as if they rage against the sky itself. The storm’s song is powerful and I can feel the old god’s hunger in its notes. I am pulled further out, not quite to the deep ocean, but close. Though I know what I’m looking for, it still takes me a moment to find the ship amongst the towering waves. It bobs along like a child’s toy, incomprehensibly small compared to the ocean whose surface it travels on. I drop down towards it, diving like a hawk sighting prey, and come to a halt just above the deck. There I hover, floating by the mast the crew is lashed to. “Brace yourselves! Here comes a big one!” The captain screams over the howling winds, his voice nearly lost before it could reach his men, standing at his back. Though there are at least a score of sailors on board, I only feel drawn to a handful: the captain, a rotund man with an apron who must be the cook, and the boy on the leftmost side of the mast with a mop of sodden red hair, gripping a bible to his thin chest. But most of all, a skinny young man with brown eyes who presses himself to the great wooden pole with obvious force. His fingers curl into claws, clinging desperately to the rough-hewn rope looped around him and the rest of the crew, holding them firmly to their only hope of survival. Though his terror is overwhelmingly apparent, it is not what draws me to him. It’s his loss - the desperate, aching loneliness that fills his heart and weighs down his soul. All the men who have summoned me here carry it in one form or another and it is that heaviness that my master desires. The call of the lost - that which I am bound to answer. It seems the old god is determined to have them, for I can see their ship being driven closer to shore. I follow along, an invisible onlooker as they are sacrificed to the one I serve. It is he who has brought me here, not just to bear witness but to finish the job. To follow where he cannot and bring back those who escape him. The brown-eyed man turns his head to the side and presses his cheek against the mast hard, heedless of how it strains his neck and scratches his skin raw, making it sting from the salt of the water. Against his better judgement, he looks back over the railing of the ship and lets out a low whimper of fear, which is promptly whisked away by the storm. A wall of water rises up, barrelling forward with no regard for the tiny ship it looms over. Like a dark cliff face, blacking out the night sky as it crashes down with terrible might. It rocks the boat violently and drenches the sailors, leaving them gasping and coughing as it recedes off the sides of the deck. The captain, an older man with greying hair and a scar that ran the length of his right cheek, grips the wheel, his knuckles white from strain. All his force is nothing compared to the power of the ocean but he fights with the strength of a dying man, desperate to do anything that will help keep them afloat. He tugs on the rope holding him to the wheel, reassured by the tautness of the line. Another wave begins to build, lifting the boat up into the air. It’s as though a mountain has suddenly risen up beneath them, carrying the little ship impossibly high as the water rages below. The swell carries them forward with incredible speed as the men close their eyes against the driving rain and pray to every god they know of. Unfortunately for the sailors, they are at the mercy of the old god himself and prayers are weak sustenance. The rocks appear out of nowhere. Black shapes, jagged and solid in a world of icy cold liquid. Though he can see them looming closer, the captain is helpless to avoid them and can only watch as the wave pushes them into an outcrop that has withstood the force of the ocean for centuries. The sharp stone easily breaks through the fragile wood of the ship, tearing chunks from gaping holes as the waves rake the vessel over the coarse rocks. The captain’s hold on the wheel is jarred loose by the impact and he slides along the deck, jerking to a stop as the rope catches him. He struggles to right himself and crawl back to the helm but another wave overtakes them, flooding the ship and pushing it back onto the rocks. When the water drains away and the men look back, spluttering and coughing up salty water, the rope around the wheel is gone and so is their captain. The sailors immediately begin screaming and struggling to free themselves, knowing they will surely drown if they do not abandon their sinking vessel. They frantically saw at the ropes with rusted knives as the pounding waves and torrential downpour conspire to rip the blades from their desperate grasps. A few prevail though, managing to loosen the bonds that hold them. Two of the smallest slip free, including the red-haired boy, and are immediately swept overboard. What remains of the crew struggle to hold on as the boat begins to tilt, her belly filling with water and dragging her down into the roiling depths. A few tumble loose, unable to keep their grip after hours of freezing cold and wet, and disappear into the churning water. The old god roars with satisfaction, perceptible only to his faithful servant. The waves drive them forward again, catching the tail end of the vessel against the rocks and spawning a course of creaks and groans as the wood of the craft strains against the power of the ocean. It gives way as all things do when faced with such unbridled force, fissures spreading out from the holes the rocks had torn. The ship cleaves in half with a series of loud, splintering cracks that are audible even over the raging storm. Cries of terror carry on the wind as the crew is cast down into the icy water. A small number surface, having managed to avoid being dragged down with the wreckage of their vessel. The cook is not among them. The storm’s song is a howl of victory as the old god receives his sacrifice. Clinging to a chunk of the hull, the boy with the brown eyes sobs into the wind. “I swear, if you let me live, I’ll give anything! I just want to see her again!” A beautiful woman’s face flashes in his mind - strawberry blonde hair, smiling green eyes - and he clings tight to the image, hoping it will keep him afloat. \~\~\~ I wake with a start, the memory of the green-eyed woman’s face sharp in my mind. *It is time.* Already, I can feel the pull of the lost soul above me summoning me to the shoreline of my ocean. In the distance, I can hear the storm’s song, my master aching for the last of the heavy souls on the ship. Though I can inhabit any water within my domain, I call the well home, just as my predecessor had. Deep within the belly of the earth, I sleep in the still waters of my reservoir. Cocooned by stone, hidden by overgrown foliage, I wait for the call of the lost to wake me. Just as my grief had woken the nymph all those years ago. While in the ether I am able to travel overland, outside of my slumbering state I am bound to the water. So, I disintegrate my physical body, making myself one with my element and travel through the underground aquifers that replenish my home. Above me, I feel the roar of thunder, shaking the very earth my well is cut from. As I pass from the aquifer into the lake, I reintegrate to my natural form: hairless and sleek, with skin of mottled blue and a patchwork of iridescent scales. I cut across the small lake with inhuman speed, my powerful tail driving me through the water as if it’s air. I can hear the storm’s song, amplified by the volume of the lake, fed by the voice of the rivers. I sing with the water as I swim, my voice lifting to join the chorus. All water has a song of its own but a storm’s is particularly loud. Especially one brought on by an ancient, hungry god. I reach the river, swimming with the flow of the current as the choppy waters surrounding me begin to calm. The storm is moving on, having gifted me the fruits of its destructive labour. Its song is fading, replaced by that of the river and the ocean to the East. The closer I get to the lost soul, the stronger the pull becomes. It is magnetic and instinctual - a honing device gifted by a primal god. Shadows of black and blue surround me, blurred by my inhuman speed as I am compelled to answer the call. I dart out of the river and into the ocean beyond, feeling the scattered survivors clinging to the shoreline. Some are already dead, their bodies growing cold in the frigid air. Others hold on to life by the thinnest of threads, merely delaying the inevitable. They are too far gone - passed beyond my reach and that of my master. But it matters not, for there is only one left that he wants and his soul can still be tempted to my realm. I swim to the edge of the shallows, calm water lapping around me. I feel the old god’s hunger in the ocean’s song, muted in anticipation. *There, on the edge of the beach.* A lone male, the one with brown eyes I had seen in my dream. He lies half in the water, his torso flopped across a broken chunk of wood. There is a cut over his right eyebrow and his cheek is rubbed raw and bloody on one side. His breathing is hoarse and scratchy, but even. His body will need time to heal, but he will survive. *Or he would have, anyway,* I think to myself wryly. When I had first been summoned to lure an escaped soul, I had felt sick with remorse at what I was compelled to do. But after decades of service to the old god, I no longer feel horror and regret over my murderous deceit. In answering my plea to save my beloved son, my master had remade me into the perfect aquatic huntress - an immortal instrument to feed his insatiable hunger. Unlike the nymph, who had served him out of duty and was rapidly approaching the end of her very long lifespan, I am nothing more than an extension of my master’s will - unsuited to any other purpose and nonviable without his interference. There is balance in all things, and knowing my Joshua lives and breathes is all the comfort I need to silence the faint voice of my conscience. Readying myself, I sense the ocean’s song go silent as the old god waits for his meal. I begin to sing from below the water’s surface, the high, clear notes carried to the brown-eyed man by whatever magic it is that sustains me. He stirs on the chunk of hull, the unearthly tone of my voice waking him despite how badly his body needs to recuperate. As he regains consciousness, he instinctively begins to look for the source of the singing. Anticipation suffuses me as I hold his lover’s face in my mind and feel the transformation beginning to take place. I rise from the water, my tail propelling my head and shoulders into the air. As my skull breaks the surface, I feel long reddish-blonde hair cascading down to brush against my shoulders and back, smooth white skin replacing pale blue flesh and iridescent scales. “Meredith?” The man’s voice is hoarse and disbelieving. I smile at him, singing my siren’s song from the shallows. His eyes drink in the sight of me, fragile hope blossoming in his gaze. My master’s need is a physical weight pressing against my back; a gaping maw eager to devour the sailor whole. “It is me, my darling.” My voice is not my own, stolen as is the face I wear. Plucked from the desperate prayers of a dying man; his damnation wearing the face of salvation. “I don’t understand. How is this possible? You said you never wanted to see me again after...” He trails off, tears in his eyes. “It’s why I left. To honour that request.” The man looks lost and unsure but he is stepping closer to the waterline even as he questions my sudden appearance. The old god growls at his approach, barely restrained hunger in his tone. “I can explain everything my love. But first, come take a swim with me. The water is calm and it would feel so nice.” I smile at him from Meredith’s face, letting my magic lull him into complacency. On the shoreline beyond us, the other survivors are beginning to stir. Though they are not the target of my song, they cannot help but hear it. The old god snarls with displeasure, sensing their awareness as well. The magic is less effective on them, increasing the chances they will realize what I am and break the spell before I can drag the brown-eyed man under. I am running out of time and my master is not the forgiving type. The man wavers and I know I must seal the deal. My tail paddles below me, propelling me upwards and revealing my bare breasts, skin glowing in the pale moonlight. I sing, high and sweet, sending him an alluring smile as I push myself backwards, leading him into the shallows. “I’ve missed you, darling.” I purr, lifting one hand - no webbing between the digits, tipped with blunt nails instead of claws - and crook my finger at him. Aching desire fills the man’s eyes as he follows me into the water. The ocean’s song grows louder in my ears and my master rumbles his approval as he samples the man’s loss. It is an irresistible bouquet for him, flavoured with the agony of the sailor’s loneliness. I see what’s left of his crewmates running from the jagged shadows of the wreck, screaming the man’s name, but it is too late for him. The brown-eyed sailor is up to his waist now, splashing through the shallow water with rapid, clumsy steps. I smile and close the gap between us with a single stroke of my tail, coming almost close enough to touch him. He stops where he is, eyes locked on mine and filled with desperate hope and love. He is blind to the impossibility of Meredith’s presence here, to the trap he has walked into so willingly. Blind even to my true nature, lurking just below the water’s surface - iridescent scales shimmering silver in the light of the moon. He doesn’t even fight as my arms go around him, nor when they turn hard and strong, dragging him down to the deep water. As the liquid hits my head and chest they revert back to my true form, sleek and smooth like the aquatic creature I am. My master roars with triumph, tasting the heaviness of the man’s soul as he enters the old god’s realm. It’s only when the sailor sees my true face that he begins to panic, thrashing and pulling against me - prey that has realized the trap too late. He opens his mouth to scream and water rushes in, forcing precious air from his lungs as I pull him deeper and deeper, where the shadows are purple and blue beneath the shifting waves. I feel him drowning as we descend, just as I had drowned in the witch’s well all those decades ago. Even after all these years, I am not entirely used to the feeling of the water filling his chest - that burning, choking sensation as his body screams for air. It is a temporary discomfort though, for I know it will end when his soul departs his body. Which would be right around ... *now.* I sense him let go, his body now an empty vessel. I release my hold and he drifts away, eyes wide and sightless, mouth open in a silent scream. A sacrifice to the ocean from which he’d escaped. My master lets out a satisfied grumble, releasing his own hold on me at last. Immediately, the magnetic pull fades away, leaving me as free as my servitude ever permits. Free to return to my home - the only place I find any rest. On my stomach, a burning spot about the size of a thimble appears, just right of my navel. I pay it no mind, more than accustomed to that particular sensation, and begin the journey back to my wellhouse. It’s always the same kind of pain when my hunt is over, even after the very first time I had offered a soul to the old god. Memories of that night flood my mind as I swim back up the river, its song muted and its water calm around me, sated by my hunt. How shocked I’d been all those years ago, when I’d forced myself to breathe in the well water. I had expected my vision to fade to black but instead, I had been transformed. The water had boiled around me, my skin searing as the old god remade me, accepting the sacrifice of my willing drowning. I had watched as my hair fell away in clumps, my skin darkening to an inhuman mottled blue and my legs fusing together, feet elongating and flattening into a tail. Claws erupted from my fingertips as the digits splayed out in an automatic reaction to the pain. I felt a strange tugging sensation between my fingers and realized that there was skin between them - a thin blue membrane decorated with delicate veins. I had screamed in agony under the tumultuous waves, drawing in liquid and receiving life-giving air - no longer a creature of land but one of the sea. Bound to the water, as all my master’s creatures were. As the agony all over my body faded away, a single spot about the size of my thumb directly over my heart continued to burn. It had swelled and hardened, turning shiny and iridescent as the pain finally receded, leaving me with a mark to remember my sacrifice. *A scale for a soul,* my new master had whispered directly into my mind, laughing with a rumble like the roaring ocean. *A soul for a soul,* I had thought to myself, picturing Joshua’s cherubic face - a perfect blend of William’s features and my own. Back in my well, I lie facing the ceiling of my decrepit abode, cradled in the gently lapping waters. My eyes are heavy from the exertion of my hunt - the old god’s call is powerful and always leaves me drained afterwards. He murmurs praise into my head as the quiet song of the water soothes me, like a gentle lullaby in my ears. I breathe slow and deep, the soft flow of water in and out of my lungs calming me as I stroke the smooth surface of my newest scale. The hundreds of others decorating my body like a patchwork mosaic glimmer in the dim moonlight, faint rays reaching down into the well through holes in the roof. I close my eyes to the tapestry of my enslavement and allow myself to drift back to the ether, once again awaiting my master’s call. \~\~\~ Author's Note: I wrote this story after listening to Water Witch by the Secret Sisters and Brandi Carlile. It is based off their lyrics but they are not affiliated with it. This story is my personal property and I do not consent for it to be shared, duplicated or used in any manner without my express permission.


This story is for the WP 2021 Secret Santa Story Exchange Constraints given by /u/xacktar: **Includes:** an animal in the story, have something colored red and white, have a fir tree / **Character:** have an elderly person as a character, **Time:** have it set in winter / **Action:** have a character kiss someone on the cheek **Word Count:** 791 ### Begin Again The morning sun glared off the snow in the East. Julia loved to watch the powdery drift flowing off the tips of the snow dunes as the sun rose. Each glittery swirl reminded her of simpler times; times when she believed in magic. A gentle creak from behind pulled her from the moment. “Good morning, Grandma!” Her grandson wore a grin as bright as the sunrise. “Good morning, sweetheart!” She never could help herself from returning his enthusiasm. “Would you like some pancakes for breakfast?” “Why don’t you keep enjoying the sunrise, and I’ll make *you* pancakes?” Wren made his way to his grandma’s rocking chair and wrapped the red and white afghan around her. He kissed her on the cheek before she could answer. It was already decided. Wren bounced to the kitchen to get started and Julia’s gaze was drawn back outside to the wintery landscape. She watched snow blow around on the dunes, fall in clumps off the firs, and little creatures scamper around narrowly avoiding being buried in the tiny avalanches. Two squirrels found shelter under the boughs of a nearby tree. They huddled over some food or nut treasure that had miraculously appeared in the frozen tundra. They chittered loudly at one another, appearing to argue over who gets to keep it. Wren announced breakfast, so Julia once again pulled herself from the scene to join him at the table. “Absolutely delicious!” “Thanks, Grandma.” He looked like he wanted to say more, but didn’t continue. They enjoyed the rest of breakfast in comfortable silence. Wren led his grandmother back toward her rocking chair, supporting her with a strong elbow crooked for her grip. However, in the middle of the living room, instead of turning toward the bay window, she tugged him toward the front door. “Where are you going?” “I have to show you something. Get your boots and coat on.” She wrestled with her own snowboots that came halfway up her calves and wrapped herself in her fluffy winter coat. He gazed at her in confusion but did as he was told. Once outside, Julia led her grandson through the snow, past the back yard, beyond the covered vegetable garden, and through a clearing in the trees. They were nearing the edge of the property farthest from other signs of civilization. The wilds. Julia didn’t slow down until she reached the wall of a cliff. There, she felt the rock face and walked a few steps from their original path. She pushed aside dormant vines and leaves crackled and fell to the ground. A short opening appeared and she slipped into it. Wren followed, speechless. It wasn’t dark inside the tiny grotto. Light emanated from a babbling spring in the center. Cushions and mementos surrounded the water as if people had sat around it like a campfire. “This is the last place I saw your grandfather. It probably will seem crazy to you, but...” Her grandson was leaning closer to the water, hand reaching out... “Wren! Wait. Please.” His hand snapped back to his side and he looked at her with wide eyes. “It looks like...” he chuckled to himself. “It looks like magic.” “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. It *is* magic. But, magic isn’t always good. This spring will rejuvenate anyone that drinks from it, no matter age or illness.” Her eyes were fixed hard on his; she would not let him take this lightly. “Your grandfather is not dead.” “What!” She gave him a moment to process the information before continuing. “I know, we had the funeral and... I know! It’s crazy! Just listen, please.” “I don’t understand, Grandma.” There was pain on his face now, grin lines turned to frown lines in one secret sentence. “He drank. We lived here our whole married lives and agreed that when our kids and our grandkids were old enough to be left to live their lives, we’d start ours over. But, I changed my mind. I couldn’t bear to leave you and the rest of the family. He still drank. He left.” “Oh, Grandma. I’m so sorry. I can’t believe any of this. It’s all insane and just, god. You must be hurting so much right now.” He had stepped closer and took Julia in his arms. She patted him on the back as she told him, “I know it was the right thing to do. I’m not sad.” He pulled away enough to look at her face, and sure enough, she was happy. Not a tear welled in her eyes. “I just knew it was time to pass along the secret since I don’t know how much time I have left. I hope you will find someone to share this one with.


Waking up, Cassidy was unaware of her surroundings. She looked left into the empty nothingness; she looked right and again just a baron wasteland. But where was she? She kept thinking to herself. How did she get here? She was all alone in a land of nothing. Cassidy tried to get up from the icy ground, she felt the arctic chill in the air but still she didn’t know where she was. Her arms were weak and hardly managed to pick up her own body. At the age of only 8 years old, she was scared, frozen in place, unable to stand. However, after a few agonising minutes, she managed to bring herself to her feet. Yet under unstable legs, every step was a struggle and a pain. She walked for what seemed to be an endless number of hours, yet she still only saw nothing. Another few hours of walking and still nothing and Cassidy had started to feel the effects of the cold; her whole body was shaking; she felt her hair turn hard under the influence of the ice in the air and her legs and arms were beginning to give way. Night began to fall, and Cassidy knew that if she didn’t find shelter any time soon, she would be in trouble. Yet all around her was still an empty, chilling hell. But then in the corner of her eye, she saw something move under the pearlescent snow. She stopped dead in her tracks. She tried reassuring herself that it was fine. Perhaps it was just a mouse on the ground or maybe just the wind blowing the snow. She calmed herself down but just as she began thinking that it was just her mind playing tricks on her, she saw it move again, whatever it was. She turned slowly in the direction she had just come from to try not to make her presence known to whatever she had seen under the frozen surface. Her movements were slow and gentle and as she started to walk away, she felt something grab her ankle in a weak grip. That was when she knew she had to run. She was sprinting at full speed into the dark, frozen night, away from something that could have just been her imagination. She needed to take a break to catch her breath, trying to reinforce her idea that there was nothing in this empty land of ice. Again, she started to believe she had just imagined the whole scenario, but just as she began to relax slightly, she felt a hand on her left ankle again. But this time the grip was stronger. Cassidy tried to scream out for help, but no sound escaped, not that it would have made a difference. She tried kicking her foot in order to escape the grip and after a thrash of panic, she managed to free her leg. She began to sprint again. There was now no sign of any light and Cassidy couldn’t even see her own hand in front of her face. She was out of breath and had to stop. Her legs felt weak once again and she couldn’t stand. As she fell to the ground, she felt like she had been to that exact spot before, a sense of déjà vu came across her. She began to close her eyes, giving in to her surroundings, knowing deep down that no matter how hard she tried to get away, she wouldn’t make the morning. As her eyes closed, she felt the hand again, but this time on her arm, pulling her over onto her side. Cassidy then decided not to scream or run, but this time to open her eyes and look. What she saw didn’t seem to surprise her though. Lying down beside Cassidy and grabbing a hold of her was in fact her. However, she looked pale and cold, weak and thin. That’s when Cassidy realised where she was. She was back where she woke up. But seeing this other version of herself, she realised that this was in fact her true body. Cassidy never woke up. She had been dead to begin with.


“Jennifer, hurry you’re going to miss your flight!” Mom shouted up. Mom, I thought and let those words sink in. I was nineteen and my Mom was my rock, best friend and confidant. It made this trip hard. We talked and talked till the early hours sharing our thoughts, she understood, she always did. Yet I know she feared losing me and however much I tried to reassure her and no matter how much she professed her understanding, there was that look of doubt and uncertainty which pained me no end. I ran down the stairs with my luggage almost toppling over. Mom was standing at the bottom smiling but her face showed her true emotions. “Dad is in the car.” She said like this was a trip to the supermarket but this was no ordinary trip. As I opened the front door Dad ran from the car to take my bags. “I have them princess.” he said. I had always been his princess. Thinking about that I felt the tears well up, when I was a freshman in high school, I was embarrassed when he called me princess in front of my friends. Dad being Dad shrugged it off and for a long time never called me his princess. Then my boyfriend broke up with me and I remember Dad coming to my room with my favorite chocolates, Rolos! “For my princess.” He said and I just fell in his arms and wept buckets. “Are you sure about me going?” I asked as we loaded the car. “Of course you must go.” My dad told me. “You are the only ones I will ever think of as Mom and Dad.” I said, again probably for the hundredth time. “Jennifer, we have talked about this and of course you want to meet her. That is why we remained in contact with her through Mother Lee.” Mom replied pragmatically. I hugged her inhaling her scent and got in the car. In my worry of hurting my parents I had pushed away the excitement and trepidation of this trip. My parents had always wanted to take me to Vietnam but it had never happened but now I was going there to meet my biological mother. She had been so young, younger than I was now and thanks to my parents’ openness and honesty I bore no resentment. There was the natural response of feeling abandoned and unloved but my Mom had always been quick to point out that leaving me in the orphanage was simply an act of love and the hardest thing any woman could do. Vietnam, I thought, my mother had always talked about it. Her best friend Aunt Felicity, my Godmother, was totally obsessed with the place and it was her who had told my Mom about the orphanage. I was surprised Aunt Felicity was not coming with me to Nam as she liked to call it. Mom and Dad had talked about coming but I needed to do this alone and besides they had my siblings to think about. After years of infertility, they finally got pregnant after my adoption. I never felt less loved or wanted when their “own” children came along but there is always the curiosity. The missing jigsaw piece that I needed to make me whole. Aunt Flick had told me Nam was an infectious place and I would never be the same again. “Nam will get you Jenny, she will cast her spell and you will be mesmerized by her.” Over the years she had bought me everything Vietnamese. I had an Áo dài (in every color imaginable). These are made of silk and are the national dress consisting of a long tunic with slits up the side worn over pants. Aunt Flick gave me the full history lesson one time going back to the Ming dynasty. I wondered if the Vietnamese would think it odd that I did not speak much Vietnamese and the little I did speak was not great. I was Vietnamese yet I was not. Who was I then? The seeds that were planted within were germinating and suddenly I felt so unsure of myself. “Jenny, did you hear a word I said?” I jolted back to the present. “Sorry Mom I was .” She cut me off and finished my sentence. “Daydreaming.” With that we both laughed, it was a common occurrence! “I was checking you have everything we are nearly there.” “It’s all here. Did you put the extra suitcase in for the orphanage.” “Yes I did. It’s probably overweight, Aunt Flick kept adding more things.” We chatted some more as we walked to the check in desk and I was already dreading saying goodbye. I promised myself not to cry but Mom and I set each other off and I watched Dad wipe a tear. I went through security and waved at them until they were out of sight. I breathed a deep breath as I embarked on the journey to my Motherland. It was a long journey giving me time to think and dwell on what I was about to encounter. I realized I was fortunate to be able to meet my birth mother. Many of the orphans never had any details of their parents as they were often abandoned. My mother had sought out Mother Lee in her late pregnancy, the nun had provided her with a safe refuge. I was excited that I would be meeting Mother Lee, she had sent me a Birthday and Christmas card every year and I in turn had written to her over the years. Aunt Flick had warned me she was getting frail. She still lived in the orphanage but it was now run by a young woman who had grown up there but had never been adopted. She had one arm and was left on the orphanage when she was a few days old, unwanted because of what she was lacking. As we touched down in Hanoi, I surveyed all the surroundings. Aunt Flick had told me about the war bunkers and she was right! A reminder of the past. I headed towards immigration to the foreigner line and was stopped by an official wearing what seemed like military uniform. My heart went into my mouth as he rambled on in Vietnamese. He was pointing to something and I looked to see it was the Vietnamese lines which were empty. In my limited Vietnamese I told him I was American and showed him my passport. He smiled broadly and spoke “But you Vietnamese this way.” “I have American passport.” I exclaimed. “No you Vietnamese, come.” I had no choice but to follow him to a desk with no line. The officer at the desk said “You American passport but you Vietnamese. First time Hanoi?” “Thank you, yes it’s my first time to Vietnam since I left as a baby.” “You one of us, we happy you come.” I smiled at the broken English aware of how much better it was than my Vietnamese. This was the Nam way Aunt Flick had described. Instantly I felt like I belonged here, a place where everyone was like me except for the language barrier. Mother Lee had arranged transport to take me to the hotel and as I made my way to arrivals I saw a sign with my name. I made my way to a man not much older than myself; he was incredibly good looking. “Jennifer.” He said in his accented voice. I nodded and he started to talk in Vietnamese and I realized this was going to be a thing for the whole trip and wished I had paid better attention to the lessons my parents had made me take. It turned out his English was superb and we chatted like old friends all the way to the hotel. Aunt Flick for my graduation had paid for me to stay in the Hotel Metropole, an old French hotel. We pulled up and I was overcome with the grandeur and fairytale feel of the place. My driver took my bags and gave me his card to call if I needed anything, otherwise he would be back the day after tomorrow to take me to the orphanage. It was there I would meet Mother Lee and my birth mother. I was excited but scared all at once. I thanked him then checked in and was shown to the most beautiful room which was so Parisian yet full of Indochina charm. I was suddenly very weary and realized it was 5am back home. It was 4pm here and I knew if I could just stay awake for a few hours I could crash for the night. I was ravenous, I took a quick shower and put on some fresh clothes and headed out to the streets of Hanoi and was just charmed. The smell of French bread mingled with, what was that dreadful smell? Drains it was the infamous drain smell Aunt Flick had warned me about! I settled on some local food. I was familiar with Vietnamese food and could cook many dishes. I ordered some Pho with my limited Vietnamese. They blurted back in full speed Vietnamese and I had to recoil. Thankfully they spoke some English. My Pho came and it was the most heavenly thing I have tasted and I wondered what the secret was! I paid the bill and wondered around for a little longer just soaking in the fact that I was in Nam. There was something very transient about it and although I had never been here it evoked such familiarity. I went back to the hotel, showered, texted my parents as it was still early but they called immediately. I should have known they would have been waiting. We chatted briefly and then I had to go as I could barely keep my eyes open! I slept like a baby and awoke at about 9am. I wondered where I was but then remembered Nam! I dressed quickly and went down to breakfast. I took a table at the window and watched the bicycles and motorbikes pass by, often with a whole family on them and all their shopping! Some would gaze in and wave so I waved back. Breakfast was divine with exquisite French pastries that just melted and the best coffee I have ever tasted. After breakfast I decided to go to Old Quarter and then wanted to go and see Uncle Ho in his mausoleum. I was fascinated by Ho Chi Minh and Aunt Flick had told me it was a must. I hailed a cyclo and in my limited Vietnamese asked to go there. When I got there, I thought I was in Moscow. The beautiful French architecture was replaced by a cold bland grey square. Uhm not sure Uncle Ho would have liked this! Sadly, I got there to find out he had been sent to Russia for embalming. I shuddered it was a weird concept of keeping someone on show like this! At that I saw my cyclo driver as he had stopped to talk with someone and I asked if he could take me to Uncle Ho’s stilt house. He kindly obliged and chatted the whole way there telling me all about the revered Uncle Ho. I enjoyed seeing his house and hearing the propaganda, here in the North he was of course a hero. My cyclo driver had offered to wait and I found him talking to someone, the Nam way! I wanted to see the Hoan Kiem lake so he took me there, from there I knew I could walk back to the hotel. The lake was beautiful evoking a dreamlike feeling. I learnt of the story of the famous sword and turtle and loved the Turtle Tower. By the time I got to St Joesph’s cathedral - where I had to pinch myself as I thought it was Notre Dame, I was ravenous. I found a little cafe and sat outside and started thinking about tomorrow. Going to the orphanage where I was born was an odd feeling and I had no idea what to expect. Obviously, I had no memory of the place I was barely six months old when I left. I wondered how my birth mother would feel meeting me there. Was that a little cruel for her to go back to the place she had to leave me or would it provide the closure she needed. I am sure Mother Lee would have thought it through, she was astute and tuned in and according to Aunt Flick the most Christlike and amazing person you would ever meet. I was lost in my thoughts when the waitress came and gave me my check. I walked back to the hotel and went for a quick swim then ordered some sandwiches. I called my parents who were excited to hear about my day, I showered and barely remembered my head hitting the pillow. I awoke to my alarm, dressed and went to breakfast and waited for my driver with trepidation. In the car we chatted and he told me all about Mother Lee and the orphanage. How it was run down but illuminated by love which is what Aunt Flick had told me. As Hanoi went out of sight, paddy fields became the scenery with water buffalo. It was picturesque and I was mesmerized. Finally, we pulled up to some old wrought iron gates in dire need of painting. As we approached children appeared and an older child opened the gate. We drove through slowly with children chasing us and waving. The orphanage was a large building but it was almost dilapidated. As we approached a young woman with one arm who I deduced was the person who now ran the place, she had the most beautiful smile. She hugged me and then shuffling slowly I saw Mother Lee. Something jolted inside, this woman had saved me she had a presence I could not describe almost saintly and I was in awe. “My child, look at you, I am so happy to see you.” She held her arms out and I ran into them and wept. Some internal mechanism recognized this embrace. I looked at her face and saw her tears, her love radiating out of her, just so pure and it was all I could do not to cry again. “I am so happy to see you Mother Lee.” Mother Lee I realized was like saying motherly I had not noticed that before, how appropriate. “Come child let’s go to my study, there is someone waiting to meet you.” I tensed and Mother Lee sensed my mood. “Would you prefer look around first.” She asked kindly. “No, we have waited both waited long enough.” I followed her noticing how run down the place was. I was glad of her slow pace to give my stomach time to settle. I peered in through open doors and saw a room with a row of cribs and tiny babies. It was hard to think of me there. There was an older child attending to a crying baby shushing her gently. Mother Lee saw me looking in. “It is an act of love when a mother gives up her child, it is not an easy decision.” I smiled and nodded my agreement. She stopped at that and took my hands into her frail liver spotted hands, “Your mother had no choice; she came to me and I helped her she was fifteen. Several times a year she comes here to hear the news of you and see your photos. She has waited for this moment to reunite with you since she left you here, you were barely a week old. She has never once forgotten you.” Tears sprung in my eyes and once she embraced me in that familiar way that made me yearn. “Come child let’s not keep her waiting any longer.” I followed her once more as she opened a creaky door. A woman got to her feet and I froze. I was just like her, there was no mistaking my mother. We locked eyes and ran to each other amid sobs and tears. We never noticed Mother Lee slip out. “My baby, forgive me.” She said in amazingly good English. I looked at her. “There is nothing to forgive.” And with that we both started to cry once more. A few minutes later there was a knock and Mother Lee had returned with tea and cookies, carried by one of the older children. We sat and chatted easily without any inhibitions. She told me how grateful she was to Mother Lee and my parents. She also went on to tell me she was married with two sons, eight and nine. My brothers I thought. We spent the rest of the afternoon together and I told her if she wanted to meet again before I left, I would like that. She of course did and asked if I would like to meet my brothers. I was leaving to see Saigon or Ho Chi Minh City as it was now known but Aunt Flick had told me it was sacrilege to call it anything but Saigon. I was also going to Nha Trang then returning to Hanoi. I could have got a flight from Saigon but there was a part of me that had hoped my birth mother would want to see me again. I decided to change my flight and leave a few days later so we could spend more time and she had insisted that I stay with them. It felt natural and right and for the first time in my life I finally felt whole. Aunt Flick had been right I was totally in love and besotted with Nam. I belonged here, a belonging I never knew existed deep within my soul.


“We should never have come back here” I thought to myself. Although I wanted to voice my concerns to the rest of the group, I could tell they were already unsettled and didn’t need me planting more seeds of doubt. We continued trudging along on the dusty surface. Each step kicked up a cloud of grey dust that nearly eclipsed the way forward when it met the light of our headlamps. We were surrounded by total darkness, barely able to make out the silhouettes of the rest of our group who had hurried on ahead of us. “We better tell them to slow down” I yelled to Dr. Reed beside me. He nodded in agreement and started messing with his equipment. After a moment he sighed, took a deep breath, and replied “I think their radios might be down”. “So, then we will have to pick up the pace and catch up” I said as I hurried my cadence, as did Dr. Reed. Ahead, the rest of our group had widened the gap. The only sign of them was the blurred and dim light projected by their headlamps bobbing along in the distance. We carried on in silence for what seemed like hours, hurrying to try and catch our companions. “It looks like they are already ascending the wall of the crater” Dr. Reed said, gesturing at the trail of footprints in front of us leading up the mountainous hill. “I don’t know why they’re in such a hurry” I said, disgruntled at their impatience. “I think they’re just excited to bring back what we found” suggested Dr. Reed as he got down on all fours and began to crawl up the steep incline. “What did we find?” I asked, prodding the scientist for more information. I was just a pilot after all. Sometimes it felt more like a taxi driver for these scientists than anything. “We won’t know until we’ve gotten a chance to analyze it, but this could be the biggest scientific discovery of all time”, came Dr. Reed’s reply over the radio, nearly drowned out by a crackling we had been hearing from the rest of our group for quite some time. I kept my eyes on the ground in front of me, using the limited light of my headlamp to find reliable holds so I didn’t get sent tumbling down into the bottom of the crater like the rocks giving way beneath my feet. Reaching the top of the enormous hill, I rolled onto the flat terrain and gasped desperately for air. For the first time in the entire journey, I was thankful for the metallic and unnatural smelling oxygen in my helmet. Upon catching my breath, I sat up and glanced around trying to locate how far the group had gotten. Through the crackling on the radio the brief sound of labored breathing cut through the background noise before it was muffled again. “That’s not your breathing is it?” I asked turning to Dr. Reed. “I haven’t had to breathe that hard since the last time I ran a marathon in Boston” he replied. “Well at least it sounds like the radios may be working again” I suggested. “Maybe” he said while deep in thought. “It sounds like they’re rushing” “Just excited to run some tests?” I inquired. “I don’t think so” Dr. Reed answered. “We had better get moving”. Both of us rose to our feet and again quickened our pace, following the footsteps of the others. Either the air in the helmet or the pace we were moving at had begun to give me a headache, but we continued, desperate not to let the lights ahead of us vanish into total darkness. Despite our best efforts one of the lights marking the location of one of our companions faded from view. The two other lights began to oscillate even quicker. “It looks like they’re really moving now” Dr. Reed said in a worried tone. As if to accentuate his point, the labored breathing cut through the crackling of the radio. It no longer sounded like exhaustion. It sounded like panic. A second light cut out in the darkness, leaving one lone light to guide us. The light paused briefly. “They must be waiting for us!” I exclaimed before the final light vanished. “Keep moving” Dr. Reed ordered. With nothing to guide us now but our headlamps we carried on forward to where we had last seen the lights of the rest of our group. Each step we followed the trail left by the others, although we could only see 3 or so stride lengths before the trail was obscured by darkness. Dr. Reed had taken the lead. His superior physical fitness meant he could have easily outpaced me if he chose to. I was thankful that he was kind enough to stick with me. He stopped for a moment to consider the ground in front of him. A moment later he recoiled in shock and blindly threw his hand behind him to stop me moving forward. His hand landed in the middle of my chest and brought me to a rapid halt. I followed his gaze to a dark red fluid pooling in the dirt in front of us. The blood flowed calmly into the footprints left behind by our group. The ground surrounding us had changed from the undisturbed dust of the last several miles into a pockmarked terrain bearing long, straight, triplets of three-inch-wide grooves gouged deep into the dirt. Sitting partially submerged in the largest pool of blood was a shattered head lamp. Both Dr. Reed and I stood in shock until he snapped out of it and in a low, serious tone his voice came over the radio. “Move”. Both of us broke into a run following the two sets of footprints still ahead of us. The gouges in the dust encompassed both edges of the trail of footprints and dug deeper into the ground, creating even longer stretches of disturbed dust. Whatever had been creating the marks appeared to be moving faster, and in the same direction as at least two members of our party. It wasn’t long before we stumbled upon a corpse laying face up. Their helmet had been smashed and the face underneath smeared with blood but the nametag on the breast of their suit was still legible. “Watson” said Dr. Reed. “The engineer”. This was far from the first time I had stumbled upon the body of a close friend. In Vietnam I had seen the horrifying things that modern weaponry can do to a human body. This body, however, turned my stomach. It had not been shot or burned. It bore no obvious signs of trauma at all until I rolled it over with my foot. From the base of the skull down to the lower back, Watson’s body bore a wound matching the marks on the ground around us. It took all my fortitude not to vomit inside of my helmet but thankfully Dr. Reed grabbed my arm and pulled me forward in the direction of a lone set of footprints. After another minute or two we found the last member of our team. This body was mutilated more than Watson’s had been and was unidentifiable yet bore the same wounds. Still clutched in their arms was the briefcase that contained the strange sample we had found in the bottom of the crater. The reason we came on this mission in the first place. To find evidence of life. Dr. Reed pulled the briefcase from the arms of our fallen team member and their limbs came to rest gently on the ground. Small clouds of dust kicked up and then settled on their sleeves and gloves. “It should just be up this hill in front of us” I said to Dr. Reed. The terrain illuminated by our headlamps arced unmistakably upwards into the darkness. “Almost there” he replied. Again, we set off running towards our destination. Dr. Reed let the briefcase swing by his side as we ran. In my peripheral vision a dark silhouette rushed by on my left just outside of the arc of light projecting from my head lamp. Then another to the right of Dr. Reed. Then another directly ahead. The only sound was the blood pounding inside my own head. I could not directly see or hear anything, but both Dr. Reed and I knew that we were being watched. Suddenly Dr. Reed came to an abrupt stop and I heard his voice come over the radio. “Keep going” he said confidently. “I think they just want the sample”. “Let’s get out of here then!” I shouted back, faltering in my pace, and stumbling forward up the hill. “No” he replied. “They don’t want you they just want the sample. They don’t have to take us both. You can still make it. Tell people what we found here. Life”. With a caricature of a proper salute, a decent attempt by an academic, Dr. Reed turned and rushed back downhill again. Before I could protest, I heard a click on the radio and realized that he had shut his off. Now everything was truly silent, and I was truly alone. The silhouetted figures at the edges of my light source swiftly retreated and appeared to be heading back downhill, undoubtedly following Dr. Reed. I forced myself to turn and continue climbing uphill, tormented by the idea that Dr. Reed had sacrificed his life for mine, but not wanting his sacrifice to go to waste. I carried on through the darkness although my legs were screaming for me to stop. Even the pure oxygen in my lungs seemingly wasn’t enough air to match the effort of the climb. I ignored my body’s protests and dropped to all fours and continued upward. I had no idea how much time I had or if Dr. Reed’s theory that they were after the sample was correct. At last, ahead of me I could see the hill ending in a sharp grey peak. I reached out to grab the top edge and the rocks gave way under my hands, tumbling harmlessly down the hill into the darkness below. I adjust my grip and heaved myself over the edge onto a small plateau. Below me I could see the barren, grey, and featureless landscape with our lunar lander sitting peacefully where we had left it. Nearly 250,000 miles away I saw the Earth. Our little blue dot. Our home. A planet swarming with life. Its pale glow was a comforting contrast to the darkness behind me. The sun was beginning to emerge from behind the planet and cast light across the empty plain below me. Its warm glow reflected into my eyes off the metallic panels of the lunar lander. Apollo 18, the final mission to the moon, was nearly complete. We had been sent back in secret one last time to search for signs of life on the dark side of the moon. Even without the sample, life was undeniable. I caught my breath and stepped forward to descend into the empty plain below as the warmth of the sun washed over me. Then I felt it. That feeling as if I was being watched. As if something was right behind me. I glanced up once more at the Earth. Home seemed so close but was so far away. As the stalkers from the darkness raised their claws to strike, I closed my eyes, enjoyed one last moment of sunshine and thought “we should never have come back here”.


Anna does her makeup in the rafters. She dabs her brush in the creamy white paint, slathering it on in fat globs. Once, back when she hid in her parents’ long shadows, she was given the luxury of a mirror. Now, though, her hands paint her face’s canvas so much the movements become ingrained within her, muscle memory. The circus, after all, has no private dressing room. This would be the best she could do. Her reputation had to be kept in pristine condition; they couldn’t know that she was human. It would spoil the act. Its magic. Below her, the stage shines with a clear black sheen, as it has since the circus' conception. One of the newbies--a tightrope walker--sweeps the floor with a broom. The space is a sacred one, as anyone in the family of Mystique would tell you. And though each night the audience dips through the magnificent flaps of the red-and-white pinstriped tent, the black sheen of the floor is the circus’ signature. Only the veterans would remember that before the tent, there was only the midnight floor, and the Mystique would still do what they had to do to put on a show. Anna learned about the floor's history from her parents, the former trapeze artists of the Mystique. The ringleader, Gus, used to stand in the middle of the raised stage and introduce them with a flourish. “Presenting, the Aquaivos Pair in their dance across the sky!” Anna takes her forefinger and dips it into the red paint, then her middle finger in the blue. On instinct, she blends them over her eyelids and on her cheekbones as an accentuated eyeshadow and rogue. Even without the mirror, she knows the job isn’t perfect. The paint doesn’t sit right on the cheekbones, the eyeshadow too deep, the paint too thick. From the rafters, she can hear Gus reciting his introductions for the upcoming show: “Presenting, the Aquaivos’ spawn in her dance across the sky!” Once makeup is complete, Anna stretches her shoulders behind her, lolling her head from left to right, right to left. Hooking her feet into the rafters, she stretches her quads by leaning into the bar opposite herself. In the spandex leotard, her ribs dig into the elastic, like a cage trapping her heart. Below, Gus continues his bellows like a trumpet on parade. Anna times her arm swings with the tempo of his cries, one arm then the next then a leg and the next. “Presenting--” “Thirty minutes!” People begin filing in, two couples leaning into one another like willow trees. Five children run in with various colors of balloons, chased soon after by parents with cotton candy. The sleek scent of hydrogen peroxide quickly dissipates into the buttery notes of popcorn and sweets, the things that her childhood disallowed during her training. “What’s bad for the body is bad for the mind,” her father would recite like an incantation. Sometimes, she would fantasize about candy apples in her sleep. The sweet crunch of the skin between her pearl teeth, saturating below the skin and sliding in sticky smooth streaks along her stomach. Alas, she was a performer, and there are certain sacrifices that she makes for her craft. To this day, she’s yet to eat any of the circus delicacies. From her place in the rafters, muscle memory guides her hands through the spotlights. During her training, her mother taught her how to work the machinery above the tent. “It’s our job to be the sun,” her mother would say, lifting the spotlight above her head in triumph. Even still, she could never finese the light in place like her mother, but she was getting there. Steadily, she’s understood what her mother meant by becoming the sun. From her bird’s nest, Anna can see the expanse of the spectacle below her. Crowds line the wooden seats, and through her training, she’s learned the difference between the newcomers and the veterans. There’s the difference between the bob of their heads, the lack of excitement mixed with the dull ache for a lost childhood. Past them, she looks backstage, a pinstripe curtain dividing the audience with the wings. The performers rush to strip their everyday clothes with the stripes and sequins of the stage (many of the performers work day jobs now; an artist’s salary cannot cover the expenses of a lifetime, not anymore). If they would all just look up, they’d see the purple-sequined beauty that is the pride of the circus. If they looked up, she didn’t know whether she would be able to continue. Up here is her safe haven, the place that only the Aquaivos could come. She was vulnerable here. To take that away, to blast her secret to the world stage, well...that would be cruel, wouldn’t it? They’d see her for the girl that she was, the one she craved for yet never wanted to be again. All at once, the pearl lights in the tent cut out, casting the audience in dark. Children squeal, and even the adults wail in their excitement. “Ladies and gentlemen!” The crowd cheers and Anna hooks her fingers into the grooves of the spotlight, swirling it in the way her mother taught her. Not quite perfect, but getting there. In his silhouette of darkness, Gus puffs his chest, flashing his black and white pinstripe. “Welcome, my friends, to the spectacle of a lifetime” The spotlights grow closer to his figure in the center of the black floor, exposing a foot, an outstretched hand. “Welcome,” he bellows, “to the Mystique!” A fire sparks, and the show begins. Fire-spinners, contortionists, trumpets, and drums cover the shiny black floor. Per her training, Anna drags the lights along the circus folk, accentuating their acts or the sequined petticoats of their dresses. It’s magnificent, yes, but merely a taster. A warmup, she knows, for one star. Anna rolls her ankles, flexing her toes underneath her. Tonight, like every night, she’s painfully aware of the bright purple sequins on her bodice, the jewels intertwined in her hair. Her painted face. The black sheen of the floor. The long, long drop to the floor. She feels the whisper of her father at her nape. “Anna, you will catch yourself. It is what you were born to do.” She picks at the jewels at her neckline. “It is what we were born to do.” The lion tamer bows beneath the spotlight Anna cast on his scarred face. Two years ago, the stagehand forgot to feed the lion before the act began. The tamer paid the price; if anything, it made his facade more dramatic. After that day, Gus gave the man a pay raise and the second-to-last slot in the Mystique's nightly shows. Now, the ringleader steps into the white light, the grand old smile plastered on his face. In his hands, he holds the trapeze, lowered for his convenient grasp. “My friends,” he says. “We have seen the impossible tonight. Fire breathers, lion tamers, you have seen the greatest feats tonight ever made by mankind.” The crowd cheers at that, and Gus bathes in its joyous ring. “Yet there is still one thing left to be seen.” At that, he tosses the trapeze into the air, and it rises higher and higher, up into the rafters. In the shadows, even Anna watches in awe. She roll her ankles again, then again, licking her painted lips. Every artist has their ritual: for Anna, she wriggles each finger, then each toe, then taps each thumb to her forefinger three times, then four. She'd stolen it from her father; she would watched him do it every night before he began his running start. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Gus announces with his trumpeting cry. “Presenting, the Aquaivos’ spawn in her dance across the sky!” Anna leaps as the trapeze rises to her arm's length. For a moment, she stretches in the air, weightless. She’s a rubber band, spineless in the air. Below, the audience finally looks up, letting out an audible gasp. Every night, it’s the same reaction, but it feeds a primal instinct within her. In her pristine leotard, studded purple and silver, she yowls into the chamber. It echoes off the tent’s walls. Her parents would disapprove, but it’s a part of her act now. She grasps the bar easily, and the audience cheers with a silent relief. Through her training, Anna learned each expression that would leave her audience speechless. Now, she bears her teeth, her body slack of life or movement. She is a corpse on the trapeze, swaying listlessly on the bar. She is the spawn of the unnatural, a creature of the circus. With a manic grin, Anna lets go of the bar, somersaulting in the air. A woman below her screams. Before then, it was her parents, her father on one end of the tent and her mother on the other. They were entrancing together, humanoid yet seamlessly boneless. They were meant for each other in the way they floated, like two lilies on the current of a stream. Every night, Anna would watch them from her place on the rafters, trapped in their hypnotic movement. She wondered if that’s how the audience saw her now. The bar swings back to her, and she catches it again on her way down. Now the audience is silent, fixated on the speck of purple swinging like a pendulum on her trajectory through the air. This was her parent’s act, swirls and spins like flowers. Every night, they would change it, never pairing any two moves together. Together, they were unstoppable. Until they weren’t. For a second, Anna glances at the floor, her heart in her chest. If she looked closely at the black sheen, one spot gleams duller than all the others. She would know; no matter how hard she mopped the floor, the bloodstains wouldn't come out. In her next spin, two of her fingers miss the bar, and she falters. Now, it’s not just the woman screaming. White paint trickles in its fat globs down her neck, and she growls again, a sick sound weaving its way through the crowd. She wouldn’t make the mistake her parent did that night. She couldn’t. It all happens so fast. A distraction, a flicker of light, the clap of thunder in the dark. A simple cough midflight. That was the Aquaivos’ downfall, a cold that Anna’s mother was convinced that she could push through. A sneeze during the final spin. She missed the bar, and she fell, falling, spinning not with the grace of a swirl but rather of a bird without wings. Her other half--the oh so noble husband--tried desperately to save her. In the end, they both collapsed on the black floor, the grace of their flight ending in the sharp edges of a quick and quiet doom. Anna watched in horror in the rafters. Yet, in the next heartbeat, Gus spun the story of their tragic demise. He turned their mistake into the spectacle of their spawn’s birth. The Aquaivos had the intuition of the trapeze; the ringleader has the intuition of showmanship. The next night, Anna began her first performance. She’s done it ever since. The Aquaivos’ spawn completes her final spin in the air, catching the bar and threading her legs through the trapeze. Hands-free, she drapes herself down like a chandelier in the air, blood rushing red into her skull and tinting the audience red. At once, the cheers become deafening, a cacophony of whistles whose chants scream loud and clear. “Long live Aquaivos, long live Aquaivos!” Tears stain Anna’s eyes, but she bites them down in one last yowl. A sound of anger and desperation, longing and loss. To the audience, her act delights them, a product of their curiosity about her, her legendary bloodline. For a moment, she plays into their suspension of disbelief--she is a creature born of unnatural physical prowess, one whose intuition allows her to fly. But then the lights in the tent snap off, and the trapeze guides her back up into the sky. The tears streak her facepaint, but no one can see her up here. Once she takes hold of the rafters, Anna collapses to her stomach, silencing her wails with sweaty palms. Her tears run white with the face paint, but the crowd cheers too loudly to hear her weeping. Sniffling, she brings herself to her feet, gently guiding the spotlight back onto the ringleader of the Mystique’s spectacle. The show, after all, must go on. Gus reappears through the back curtain. He wears a suit of sequins now, blinding and silver in the light. For an instant, his eyes flicker up at her, and the deep sadness in those wells of blue sends a silent shiver through her. He'd seen her slip up. Nothing flies past him. After Anna’s first performance, Gus climbed up the rafters to see her racked with uncontrollable tears. Together, they’d wept with their feet dangling over the obsidian floor. But then his eyes flicker back to the people before him, eyes glassy. He’s the true showman, Anna thinks. Perhaps the only one left in this circus. “Ladies and gentlemen,” Gus bellows with his manic grin. “We are the Mystique! Thank you, and goodnight!”


Max Evans tugged on his blanket falling off his shoulder, and pulled it closer. He sat in front of his laptop like he did most Saturday mornings - writing and working on his book, trying like hell to get out of the funk he was in; grunting through trying to find the right words. He stopped, put his head in his hands and sighed. He turned around to look out the window of his sixth-floor apartment behind him, watching those in the courtyard: a couple walking hand in hand, an elderly man feeding pigeons, and kids playing in the park. People seemed happy even in the cold fall weather; anything that would jar a thought, image, and something to get him out of the writer’s cramp he had been feeling for two weeks. He turned to take a drink of his coffee when he looked across the room; an envelope slipped under the front door, followed by the shadow of feet left behind by the one who left the inquiry. He paused mid-sip and then eased his mug on the desk. He leaned forward so as to not make a sound. He got up and walked over carefully, wondering if the person who just slipped it under was still there. He gently pressed his ear to the door, only to hear the elevator bell ring, and the doors close. An uninvited guest was something Maxx wasn’t in the mood for, but figured if things were going to get weird, it would have happened by now. He reached down to pick it up. It was a perfectly square and rigid envelope, like an invitation or thank-you size. He walked it back to the desk and opened it up with his pocket knife; sliding out a card with the initials JH on the front, a medium thin black border all around the front of the card. Max opened it up and started reading the rough and jagged letters. My dearest Maxwell, It has been a long time since I last saw you, well, since you last saw me. I remembered you as a child, before you would even have any recollection of me. In fact, I am quite positive that your father has never mentioned me, and in many ways, I fear that you don’t even know I exist. I attended his viewing and funeral, but kept to the shadows, so as to not disturb your mother. Let’s just say your mother never really liked me; I don’t blame her, didn’t like me either. But I have been watching you from your window from time to time. Oh, no need to close those curtains now. For when you have received this, I have probably been deceased for several days. But I digress. I have noticed some things about you that frankly worry me. I know that I, though dead, can help you and enrich your life in some way. To show you things, magical things that may benefit you in your future. Why, you may ask? Because no matter how many times you get kicked down, you always get up. You try, despite all of your failures; and I admire that. You remind me of my younger self - not attempting to scare you the most, doesn’t it? I know that you are struggling with that book of yours. I have read much of it, and it has promise and I like the story; especially the line, “As for me, I am plagued with a great many distant things; to ride the hidden lands from coast to coast.” Which sounds eerily similar to Moby Dick, so you might consider revisions. I’m sure prison doesn’t suit you, and you’re too poor to survive the legalities. I possess a large inheritance that I have no one to give to. And it can all be yours. But there is one catch. You have to complete a task for me, after which you will be given a key, along with the address to my flat. Fail, and we both lose. But I am confident you will make the right choice. Sincerely, “Uncle Jim” He sat there, really not knowing what to say. Who is this guy, and why now after all these years? How did he read my book since it’s not even written yet with the exception of a few chapters? He picked up the phone and called his mom. No answer. Just her chipper voice on the other end, embedded in silicon. He called again; then a third time. No answer. Max slammed the phone down, grabbed the card and flipped it over. “Father knows best. And it’s best to bring lilies.” Joshua 6:4 Max read it over and over trying to make sense of this clue. After frantically searching for the bible his father gave him years ago, he dusted it off to find Joshua 6 verse 4, hoping that another clue would be in the pages. But, when he thumbed through it, it read: “And seven priests shall bear seven trumpets of rams’ horns before the ark. But the seventh day, you shall march around the city seven times, and the priests shall blow the trumpets.” He sat back at his desk and scratched his head, picking up pieces in this mysterious note. About a half hour went by, and realized that it was Saturday, which would be the seventh day. So, whatever he had to do was today. He could tell time was running short. Lilies were a popular funeral flower, and it was pointed out that father knows best, not the show in particular, but... then it hit him. He had to go see his father, visit his grave. ---- It’s been a long time since he visited his dad’s grave on the other side of town. But, if nothing came of it, it would not be a loss at all. On the way to the cemetery, he picked up some lilies at the local flower shop along the way, the whole time thinking about what type of things “Uncle Jim” had said he needed to learn. Max sighed and stepped out of his truck with flowers in hand; gritting his teeth as the wind and cold air whipped him in the face. The cemetery was empty and quiet except for the occasional crunch of the fallen leaves below his feet from the few trees still left on the property. His father’s grave was in the back away from others, just sitting there alone, and cold. The stone was covered in moss and dirt. He hung his head; sorry that he never came out to clean it. A flood of emotions ran through his mind, and even thinking that, as weird as this note was, that his dad would meet him there alive and well. But that wasn’t the case. He stood at the foot of the plot. A tear began to form, and then traveling halfway down, he brushed it aside. It made his heart glad to bring flowers; something he would have never thought to do on his own. Max stooped down and placed the flowers in the metal vase; the lilies tilted at all angles, one falling out. Annoyed, he took the flowers out and tried again. He removed the cylinder. What in the world must be stuck inside? He turned the vase over and smacked the bottom to jar whatever was in there, loose. Out came a roll of bills. He gasped and fell backwards; his widened eyes staring at it on the ground. Max got up slowly and looked around, to make sure no one was watching. He looked inside the vase and found a second, and third wad, just like the first; all one-hundred-dollar bills. He took the money in his hand and thumbed through it; which he could only guess was about $7,000. His heart beat heavy, and thought of the bills he could pay off, and get the bill collectors off his back, not to mention heat in the apartment would be nice too. He started to whisk back to the truck, then halted halfway. Something’s not right , he thought, and reached into his pocket to view the bible verse he jotted down on the card. He sat there, thinking for a minute. “Walk around seven times,” he said to himself. “Around the gravesite, or the cemetery?” Turning around he slowly walked back to his father and walked around his grave. There it was, taped to the back of the stone, was a note in a plastic Ziploc®. With hesitation, he removed it, and read the note. Dearest Max, I assume if you are reading this, you found the small fortune. If not, it’s obvious you didn’t buy flowers. It makes my heart glad to see that you received it. But, don’t thank me just yet, for you may hate me; but this money is not for you. I need you to do something for me. I need you to give this away. All of it. But my instruction is clear--give no less than $100 and no more than $1000 to a single individual. The choice is yours to whom you bless. But all I ask is that you pray, and use wisdom as to whom you should receive. Sincerely, “Uncle Jim” Max’ heart shrunk, and he felt deflated, and almost light-headed as he collapsed onto the ground beside his dad. He felt just as cold, but then hot as his blood boiled, face flushed. He turned the note over and over, with no other instructions, he crushed it in his fist and threw it at his father’s stone. “Screw that! I’ve had enough,” Max yelled. “No, not doing it. I’ve spent much of my life helping others and look where it got me. Nowhere!” He jammed the money in his coat, got up and started walking away. But he could feel the tug on his heart, and looking back at his dad, his head sunk. “What would you do, old man?!” he yelled at his father. “Think, think, think,” he said squinting his eyes and tapping his head with one of the wads. A few minutes later he grimaced, “You’re right. Go for it. You always said to go for broke.” Max walked back to his truck, got in and laid his head on the steering wheel and sighed. He looked down at his watch; 4:20 pm. Too late to do anything about it now. And so, he went home. ----- Over the next several days, Max gave away all the money. To some he only gave a hundred. To others he gave more, according to each his or her need. Many times, he found himself listening to people’s conversations so as to glean information to see if they would be a good match. Even that woman who was mean to the clerk of the grocery store when her card wouldn’t work and it changed her tone completely. But with each person he gave, he took the time to learn more about their story. He talked with them, and spent some time listening to their problems, their dreams, and how many of them really prayed for help. With each one he gave, his heart grew warmer and less heavy, not thinking about his own problems, but considering others for once. He never was a people person before; hiding in his loft looking down at the world. But now he sat in the park, watching people closer. He smiled listening to conversations, and prayed silently to himself that God would help them. ----- Several weeks had passed since he gave the last of his newfound treasure away. He had no regrets, and agreed with his soul that it was better to give than it was to receive. He walked to the park from his loft and sat down at the usual spot. Bethany, and her little girl, Ashley, walked over towards him, shortly after sitting down. “Hi, Max,” said Bethany. “An elderly man asked me to give this to you.” Little Ashley made eye contact with Max and reached out her hands and held an envelope - quite like the others. “Why, thank you. I had been expecting this for a few days now. I’m glad you found me,” as he smiled and accepted the envelope from the child. He stared at the envelope and a flood of emotions came to him. But it wasn’t the usual anger that he felt, but more relief. He smiled sheepishly, for part of him wanted to read it; the other wanted to burn it. “Everything ok?” Bethany tapped him on the leg to wake him from the trance. “Oh, sorry. Everything is good. If you will excuse me, I should probably read this in private. It could be bad news.” He got up and started to walk across the soccer field, the crunch of the frozen grass beneath his feet. Dear Mr. Evans, Mr. Hothorne regrets not being able to write this last note. He suffered much in his last days. But he wanted me to give you this among other things. I have been watching you closely, and I know Mr. Hothorne would have been proud of you. Please come to his flat as soon as possible, because I am in the middle of packing and will be moving soon. The address is easy. It’s directly above yours. See you shortly, Mr. Hawthorne’s Nurse, Robert. Max paused and stood in the middle of the playground, looked down, around, and down again, and smiled. Emotions came in like a flood. He didn’t know what to think, but no matter what crossed his mind, they all led him to go immediately to meet Robert. He turned around to walk towards the direction of his condo, when he saw a flash of him through the window, staring down at him, and walked away. He hurried up his pace, having so many questions, he wanted them all answered. Would he know the answers to the questions--especially the “Uncle” one. As the elevator went up, so did his excitement. The doors opened, and it was like being on his floor, without the Christmas decorations on the doors of Mrs. Beachwood and Mr. Hamm. He walked over to the door that he would normally go to one floor below, and by mistake, tried to turn the handle. “Ugh, not your apartment dummy.” He realized now that he was on the other side of the door, casting the shadow into their living room, with the one inside wondering who it could be. But he knows, for he summoned him, through letters left unfinished. The door opened. A slender older gentleman answered. “Robert, I presume?” Max asked. “Hello Max. I already know who you are,” Robert said with a smile. “I’m sure you have many questions; come inside,” and he motioned Max to do so. He walked through the entryway, and the inside was beautiful--nothing like his condo below. Every wall that would have been bare in the rooms below were taken up by bookshelves full of books. The entire place looked like a library on the inside. To the furthest part of the room, where his desk would be, was a desk much nicer than his. As cluttered as this dwelling was, it was tidy, and clean. “I have a few questions,” Max said. “For starters, who is Jim Maxwell?” “He was a good friend of your father’s from prep school,” Robert said with a smile on his face. “Your dad was a good man. I liked him.” “I was wondering. I don’t remember my mother ever mentioning him before.” “Well, they had a falling out several years prior to your dad’s passing,” Robert, folding his arms, rocking back and forth. “O.K., but how...” “Did he read your book?” Robert laughed with a huge smile. He pointed towards the desk near the window. Leaning against the corner looked like a long tube. “I almost don’t want to give that away. But it was easy. It's a periscope. He used it to observe you. But then when he wanted to read your writing; it's how he was able to get your passwords. I admit, it's as creepy as it sounds. But he really did like your writing. That's what drew him to you." Max folded his arms and stepped back, rolling his eyes and shrugged his shoulders. He looked around and gave the room another once-over. In the center, on the dining room table, there was an open-faced note with a key on top; two chairs pulled out. “These are for you,” Robert said, as he slid the note and key to Max. He picked up the letter and read on: My Dearest Max, I wish I could be there to give this to you in person. But I’m sure Robert will tell you about all that you need to know. Since you received this, I am pleased to let you know that this entire place is yours, and will be transferred to your name shortly. Robert is a very good judge of character, and a good man himself. You did what you were supposed to do, giving all the money away, without leaving any for yourself. You make an old man very proud. How do you feel? I can imagine you quite elated. My fortune is not of monetary value, for that will be given to Robert. It’s not much, but he deserves it for taking such good care of me the last few years. The cancer treatments took most of my wealth away. But the fortune for you is: this flat, which is paid for; every book, furniture, and piece of clothing, and jewelry. It’s all yours. Now you are a complete man--for the reason was this: there are just some things you can’t learn from a book. Humility, integrity, and love for others. Those are the greatest treasures of all. Sincerely, Uncle Jim


“Sir, the humans in sim 7620 are getting restless.” “What do you mean, restless?” “It’s their fixation, with space, sir. Like the other sims, they failed to make space travel economically viable, just as we intended. But for some reason the humans in this sim keep doing it anyway.” “What on earth for?” “We’re not entirely sure. They seem to have a desire to explore just for the sake of exploring.” “How peculiar.” “Yes, those of us at R&D think so too.” “Well, how far have they gotten?” “They already got probes out of their solar system, but of course they lose contact with them when we delete them at the barrier. The more problematic issue is that they’ve already put humans on Mars and they’re now establishing outposts on Saturn’s moons. We think it’s only a matter of time before they try sending a human to the barrier.” “I see where you’re going with this. Probes are fine to delete, but it would be a PR nightmare if we deleted humans at the barrier without having a chance to archive them... But can’t we just extend the barrier for this sim? Haven’t we done that kind of thing before?” “Yes, we’ve done that in the past, but usually only to expand the radius from the Earth to the solar system when the sim becomes aware of outer space. We haven’t had a sim try to break out of its solar system yet. And if we allow that in this sim, we’ll have to account for it in the other sims too. It would increase our costs dramatically.” “So you’re thinking we’ll have to go with the nuclear option then?” “Yes, we could just archive this one. But aside from the space travel issue, it looks very promising. We actually think that it may have the best chance out of all of them to prove our theory, as things stand now.” “I don’t understand. We can’t afford to let them reach the barrier, but you’re not suggesting turning it off? So what’s the plan then?” “Well, we don’t have a great option. Of course, to avoid archiving them we need to get them to stop looking outward and start focusing more on what’s available within the bounds of the simulation. So, we could just send a message suggesting that. We think they might comply; we doubt they want to be archived, considering their insatiable curiosity and all.” The executive laughed. “You want to break the fourth wall? We’ve never done that before. It would be quite entertaining, but it might corrupt the results.” “Yes, but corrupted results are better than no results at all. At least that’s data science’s take on it. And we can always archive it later if it doesn’t work.” “Alright, if that’s what you all think is best. You’re the smart ones after all. You have my approval.” The executive stared out the window for a moment before continuing. “Say, if this space traveling sim is so successful, do you think we should try exploring deep space in our world too?” “No sir, I really don’t.