Caution: There is strong language, mental instability of a couple characters, and violence. Note: The premise is to be like a manga/comic book style story. In a world full of fighters with super soldier abilities that they attain by using an energy called eco, there are several groups lurking in the shadows with all sorts of different intentions. There are empires and government alliances that will be briefly mentioned throughout this narrative. There are characters named Carter and Emily who are two Bellators that defected from the Bellator Project years ago and are now encountering others who have destructive nefarious intentions. An organization named Virgo has put itself on the map as an intercontinental threat. These two Bellators have encountered a few members of this organization already. Two of which have been Necromancers. These necromancers are extremely dangerous and have various abilities that are a mystery to this world. With the help of Karii, a hyper-intelligent AI program, they have been able to gather intel on these ultra powerful Bellators. From here on, The story will be narrated by a Character who works for one of the Bellator agencies. He acts as a speculator based on Karii's observations: About a year ago, Carter earned his nickname known to many as "The Bull." He took down a renown dictator who planned on enslaving all people of the common species and he wanted to use the Bellators as his primary executive class to accomplish this. Carter fought this man valiantly, but that wasn't the end of his journey. After this, he had several trials and tribulations. The most noteworthy one up to this point was his takedown of one of the mentioned necromancers who went by the name of Darkthorne. This man was ruthless and fought and killed many within Carter and Emily's friend group. Now they are facing off against a much more powerful opponent, known as The Cyclone. He was a member of Virgo, but went awol after going frantically insane. He went on a killing spree of several Bellators and was unstoppable up to this point. They faced off and it became clear that he was literally trying to annihilate all known life that exists. That’s right, the planet, with all of its inhabitants, was hours away from being obliterated by a super psycho maniac who killed dozens of Bellators over the previous week just for fun. Virgo was under the impression he was already dead and the governments across the world had no idea of how powerful he really was. Carter and Emily just got lucky and stumbled across this off-putting character who just wanted a quick fight, at first anyway. After reading the notes from Karii, it appears that when The Cyclone almost killed Emily, Carter flew off the goddamn handle. I mean, he just about lost his shit and you’d think the way Carter was punching that the planet would fall apart just from the astronomical amounts of red eco he was releasing from his punches. The Cyclone enjoyed this, he liked to see others go on a frenzy. He protected himself with two different shields, a seemingly impenetrable sphere of mysterious heavy rock and ice-filled thunderclouds, which were somehow reinforced with all forms of eco. The other one consisted of pure eco of all forms and instead of a sphere surrounding his perimeter, it protected his physical body tightly. The Cyclone had an odd liking for Carter. He looked at him and asked, “Carter the Bull.. Why not end it all?! Look at what they did to us! The people of this world, the people of this universe have created nothing but suffering. You and I have suffered enough. But there’s a way to start over, a way to destroy this timeline of disgusting people and start anew. As the ancient sayings go, ‘the day of reckoning will fall upon all of us. Only those who are wise and good-natured will breathe the air of life.’ Don’t you get it, Bull? The ‘air of life’ is eco. We have a duty to recreate this universe.” Carter responded with, “This universe? This universe has become its own thing long before we did anything to it! Forget about all of that Royalist crap! You have to decide for yourself what to hang on to and not. Nobody is going to create something perfect for you and hold your hand through it all.” The Cyclone, with a seemingly distasteful look on his face, pointed his palm at Carter and said: “I will guide the hands of the newborn lifeblood. We live in a perfect universe, full of imperfect creatures! I will rid this plane of the existence of our species. I will serve as the catalyst to our new existence! I am the real Osh, all of the Boundations of creation the Royalists speak of, they are about me!” It's pretty obvious that The Cyclone lost his marbles. But what do our heroes do now? Carter and Emily were immediately engaged by this maniac and his attacks were on astronomical levels. They tried just about everything they had in their playbook. Emily used various assassination techniques that she combines with her ability to levitate and Carter used his headstrong red eco attacks that have devastating effects, but nothing worked. After exchanging blows back and forth, The Cyclone overpowered Carter and Emily and tossed them around in a destructive sphere of dashing eco that ripped in and out of their bodies. He flung them around and slammed them into the ground. As they got up, they were assisted by one of their friends named Hikari Haru who has very impressive healing abilities. He was accompanied by their friend Barron, who is mostly their intelligence gatherer. After being beaten up by this super psycho maniac, it seemed like all hope was lost. The Cyclone floated above this group of friends who all went awol from the Bellator Project and agreed to an alliance to be-rid the world of its evil Bellators. The Cyclone states, "Foolish children. Each and every one of you. You have no idea what this world has done to me. I will compress and expand all of space time and will eliminate everything before us." After this, they begin to panic, but try to remain calm on the surface.. Except for Carter. He lets it all out. He goes berserk. Frenzies up like a deranged bull. “Enough!” He screams at his limits, scratching his voice with a roaring tone. “You think you’re destined for this?! Destroying all of life?! What kind of whack-job do you have to be?!” Carter yells. “None of this belongs to you! None of it! You're destroying everything!” “Carter, he’s not going to listen.” Emily consoles. “NO! That’s It!” He yells, as he collapses in a controlled manner, his arms glow purple and black, suddenly covered with what looks like a series of strange patterned, unreadable tattoos, and starts to dig into the ground. All of a sudden, a sight never before seen by anyone else, not Karii, not any of Carter’s friends, not even Emily, his own lover, has seen something like this before. He pulls out a body. That is, the living, breathing body of Darkthorne the Necromancer. “What. The. Fuck.” Barron says with sheer astonishment. “Is that?!..” Emily questions with her eyes wide open. “Darkthorne.. The Necromancer.. The man who put us through all of that trouble.” Karii declares. “It appears Carter figured out how to bring him back to life.” “Hey.” Carter says in a low volume. “What do you want?” Darkthorne asks gruffly. “I need to do that thing. You know, the purple ax thing.” “Violet Bladesong.” Darkthorne speaks as he sighs in a rather disappointed tone. “Yeaa.. How does it go again?” Carter cluelessly asks. “WHAT!” Barron comically yells at a distance. “You brought this serial killer back for that? For a demonstration?!” Darkthorne responds, “Think of the weaver’s tale. The power of Rho compelling the-” “Yea, yea the Bastion of hope and the power tower and river of esteem and all that stuff.” Carter interrupts. “How do I summon them by my side?” “Do this.” Darkthorne motions his hands around in an aggressive and somewhat complicated choreographic display and lets out a loud “Hah!” Putting everyone else at alert. Carter does the exact same thing and spawns out two large, purple eco-encapsulated axes and sheathes them into his back. “These are bigger than the last ones.” He says. Darkthorne responds with, “You’re getting better at it and you can control your eco flow more masterfully now, just keep practicing and you’ll be surprised at what you can do.” After hearing this, everyone is at a total loss. Barron’s jaw drops as he cannot even fathom the idea of Darkthorne teaching any of them anything after all those times they recall him trying to murder them with this same technique. “The clock is ticking!” Karii exclaims as she understands that everything is most likely at a total loss at this point. The Cyclone, levitating towards Carter and Darkthorne, says, “Brother! You have returned!” Immediately after that, Darkthorne instantaneously disappears and reappears behind The Cyclone and forces the blade of an ax into his back. This catches everyone except Carter by surprise. He yells in despair and at the next moment Carter is right before him, jolting at a speed that breaks the sound barrier. He swings an ax with relentless force and hits a shield protecting The Cyclone. He looks at Carter and says, “You’re a Necromancer. I should have known. You can control Darkthorne’s actions now.” He throws his arms up and down and lets out a massive wave of air that pushes Carter back down to the ground. “It’s over! Give up! This universe will now reset!” Carter motions a strange hand sign and red and purple eco manifests all over his body. [His entire body? Since when did this happen?] Emily thinks to herself. “Emily! It’s do or die! We need to act now!” Carter yells. “Too late!” The Cyclone screams as the ground shakes and erupts around them. Chunks of the planet now start crumbling from the surface and towards The Cyclone. He frantically laughs and shields himself with an even larger sphere of rock, ice, cloud, and eco. “You will now witness the greatest sight of compression and expansion of space time. The perfect display of mankind’s failures being thrown right back at it!” The rocks start violently flying at them as each of them scramble for a solution. “That’s it! Run like the little ants you are!” He yells. Hikari shoots blazes of yellow eco at him, but is easily dismissed by his powerful shield. The Cyclone hits and grounds Hikari with an easy blow. Then he warps to Barron and throws him violently at Carter. Carter catches him, but they both take a hard hit from the impact. Emily takes a chance at stabbing and slicing at The Cyclone, but it works to no avail. The barrier is too strong and he creates an opportunity to grab her and vigorously swings her around and thrusts her own blade through her leg, then proceeds to throw her into Carter. He catches her too, this time hesitantly as the battle is wearing away at Carter’s will to fight. He stands there.. shaking.. he looks down at Emily, with her in his arms, bleeding out of her uncontrollable, twitching leg. “Damnit.” Carter speaks, then looks up at The Cyclone. “You.. son of a Bitch!” He begins to lash out as he lays her next to Hikari, “Fix that leg with whatever you have left!” Hikari looks at them, with tears in his eyes, the moment is here, they are about to die, all of them. Carter charges up with everything he has left, “Thorne! Let's go!” “Right.” Darkthorne affirms as they both lunge into the air. The Cyclone quickly stops this advance as he smacks Carter around at a speed simply just too fast for him to keep up with. Darkthorne is then wrestled into the ground, his deformed and powerless body goes limp as The Cyclone grabs the back of his head and shoves it into a rock. Darkthorne dissipates and a flow of eco rushes through the air, straight to Carter. The Cyclone turns around and Carter bounces with twirling blue, orange, and red eco, through the air, a technique copied straight from the Megalachorin special forces. Carter hits one of the rocks in the barrier out of place “AHHHH,” then another one “AHHHH,” then another one “AHHHH,” until The Cyclone gets fed up and sends out another push of force. Carter stops himself, forming a barrier behind him as he hits it with intensity, harming himself, but bouncing right back into action. He lets out a roar, “You will not win!” He thrashes and dashes, what looks like a fluid stirring of fireworks in the air surrounding the perimeter of where The Cyclone is levitating. The Cyclone grabs Carter’s right arm and winds up a lethal blow that should finish the job.. but Carter tears his own arm off, flinging and twirling in a wildly unpredictable fashion that catches The Cyclone off guard. He misses a kick, misses another kick, then swings his head as hard as possible and headbutts the Cyclone’s shield, sending shivers down every observer within the vicinity. Carter screams, “Your limbs are next! I will tear every fiber of your being into shreds!” Lashing out with a chaotic, unidentifiable face, one that would force a demon to check under his bed at night for this psychotic Bull. “What is going on?” Hikari asks. “He lost his marbles.” Barron responds. “Which one?” “Does it matter anymore? It’s over.” “He’s a monster.” Hikari states. “I see a psychopath.” Barron rebuttals. “Karii, what do you see?..” “I see..” Karii pauses for a moment then says.. “Determination.” She describes as she and the rest of their group stand there watching the helpless Carter fight for everything he and all living beings have ever wanted to be and known to have been. Carter roars and throws himself down onto a large, still standing piece of ground. He breathes aggressively and black steam comes out of his nose. He loudly and painfully sheds a layer of Necromancing Eco from his body and another arm disgustingly grows out. Carter claps his palms together and interlocks his fingers. He speaks in a strange language then separates his hands and strongly digs them into the ground, now incoherently saying, “Emily.. I love you,” with nobody able to understand or even hear. “HAAAAAAA!” He yells as he pulls an entire Utanic imperial mausoleum straight out of the ground and The Cyclone looks at him saying, “What could you possibly do now? I have to admit, I have never seen anyone as dedicated as you in trying to take me down, but come on, it’s hopeless.” Carter grips his mysterious purple lanyard tightly with one hand and with the other hand he bursts open the gravesite structure. A moment later, a long dead first-gen Utanic General walks out. He’s one of History's most dangerous Bellators and known to be the Utanic Empire’s most skilled Vanguard. “What is this?” The revived General Okyrin asks. “I need you to move me at the speed of light.” Carter says. “What? I’m not listening to a foolish child!” “Your legacy dies here if you don’t. This man before us, he’s about to destroy everything.” Carter establishes as the revived General looks up and sees a faint, yet unsettling resemblance of the very apocalyptic nightmare he once feared. Something that would have happened in his lifetime had the Utanic Empire not been as ‘glorious’ as it was. “What is that?” He asks. “That.. is a planet. It’s about to destroy all of the things we have created. Everything, including your glorious empire, will be destroyed in just a few minutes.” “Everything? Where are my Warrior Saints?” “No time for that! We need to act! Give me what you got!” “Fine!!! Look at this! A kid! Giving me orders!” General Okeryn crosses his arms as the particles around him accelerate at intense speeds. This is important as this somehow allows Okeryn to give Carter the abilities of an elemental Bellator. He places his hand on Carter’s upper back and siphons vast amounts of eco into Carter’s body. “You must have incredible strength for a young man. All used up like this and you’re still fighting.” Carter doesn’t waste time. A flash of light is seen stringing around The Cyclone as Carter throws a fiery fist into the shield, then a rock-covered punch, then a strike of lightning, which penetrates and destructively annihilates the spherical shield surrounding the Cyclone. The Cyclone begins to react and Carter dashes behind him and swipes an open handed slice that cuts through his body shield. Carter used an advanced necromancing technique that Darkthorne taught him weeks ago. The Cyclone lets out a rush of madness and Carter says, "Lockpoint! Shadow Containment!" And The Cyclone implodes and warps out of sight. Carter used an advanced necromancing technique that Darkthorne taught him weeks ago. They had no idea Carter’s been training under a former necromancing master by somehow inheriting his abilities and bringing him back to life. Apparently, the necromancing masters pass on their abilities to those who defeat them and it just so happened that Carter the Bull managed to defeat Darkthorne and, when he realized he inherited the necromancing powers, he trained with them in secrecy. The world is at peace.. for now. Carter the Bull managed to defeat The Cyclone and convinced him to undo the destructive process he originally initiated to destroy the solar system and all of its inhabitants.


I am, since my earliest memory, blessed with the ability to enter the wondrous world of dreams. That fact never changed even as I grew up. People lamented about their suffering from terrible nightmares as life left its scars on them. But not I. The world of dreams was a second home to me. A safe haven. A place of learning. I spent so much time in my sweet realm of the impossible that I started to learn how to control it. Delighted about this new ability I shaped the dreamland after my desire. I built cities and let them decay. I created forests and wandered in ancient ruins. I flew above the clouds to touch the stars and swam in a lake of lava. And the more I enjoyed my dreams the more I evolved in my waking life. It was on a late night when the moon bathed my room in its light. That I fell asleep instantaneously. And there in my dreamworld a new sensation befell me. I turned to where the sun used to be in the sky of my inner world. There it was. A creature of heavenly beauty. The light it emanated was beyond any words the human language knows. Purity and power had become one in it. I marvelled at the figure high up and far away in the sky. I wanted to go closer but somehow no matter how far I walked or flew, the figure remained out of reach. Discouraged, I turned my attention towards something else. I created a vast ocean and filled by the awe for the godly figure. I gave birth to the most colourful coral reef ever seen by the human eye. Once I woke up, the inspiration did not end. The world seemed brighter, livelier. People’s smiles grew when I passed them, the divine light still residing in my memory. When I entered my realm of dreams the next night. I noticed at once how the distant figure had moved closer towards me. Now I could make out the four legs and six great wings. The long tail and crystal eyes. The dragon did not move. It stared at me with those empty and yet warm eyes. Its scales bathed in the various, indescribable colours of the cosmos showed a faint glow from beneath. With force, I tore away my gaze to tend to the creation of yet another wonder, born from the well of endless imagination. All the while, the dragon’s radiant beams made my skin prickle in a comfortable way. Giving rise to the wild force of unknown creativity. My life continued to be pleasant. Yet I noticed, the more distinct the crystal dragon became, the more difficult it became for me to not just stare at it. The creature was now close enough for me to almost touch it. The crystalline skin reflected the sun’s light, colouring the sky in the same spectre of nameless shades. On its back the six wings moved gracefully and smoothly like the ones of a seraphim. Apart from that, it never moved, it never spoke. The unconditional love of its eyes was enough however. It caused my very being to vibrate with joy. There is no term to describe what I saw or felt when being in the embodiment of divine inspiration. My mind filled with the overwhelming presence, threatened to become paralyzed. The sheer number of ideas that flooded my mind seemed too much. Like a system jammed by the uncontrolled flow of information, leading to an overload. And after a few days of struggle, I finally gave in. Too magnificent was its beauty to be ignored. Too gratifying its light to turn away. And in my mind a firm thought took shape. The ambition to never let go of it, buried its gnarly roots in the deepest parts of my soul. After bathing in the dragon’s glory all night, my mind felt strangely empty the next morning. The urge to brighten the world driven by the sun of my dreams, I was lacking it. For the first time in decades. How could that be? As I fell asleep in the evening, I concluded with shock how the distance between the creature and me had grown again. Its light had faintly lost its shine. And the eyes seemed colder, harder. But I was too taken by the loss. Too focused on keeping my source of light close. That I forgot to use it. To share it. Trying to get it back I encouraged myself to create like before. But the more I forced the more distant the dragon grew. Fragile and fierce. Beckoning me to go ever forward. To not let it die. My ambition grew, until it turned into greed. It let the realm of dreams grow colder and colder. And as if reflecting my soul, the waking world turned grey and dull. One night as I looked up into the grey sky harbouring a black sun. I could neither see nor feel the diving presence of my soul. It had withered away. As had my ability to create wonder. Slowly, my dreamworld turned into a desert as I failed to reignite the spark my ambition had snuffed out. After a lifetime of trying, I gave up. I tread the paths of my dreamland nevermore. And as a consequence, my waking world was covered in black. Not the hummingbird nor the blue sky could wake the essence of my soul from its deathly slumber. My sleep was heavy and dreamless. My life without colour. It is the reason for me writing it all down. For I have lost the will to go on. And I have lost the will to find the crystal dragon. The memory of this unnameable creation haunted my mind for years. It kept me alive as it fed my mind with the imagination I now lacked. But the memory is fading now and with it my will and hope to live.


We always knew the end would come. *Sirens* That we would have to take what we could and run. *”This is not a drill! Commence evacuation procedures immediately. This is not a drill...”* But even the expected may come as a shock. Like a terminal patient awaiting the certain hour of his death, who--when mercifully it arrives--greets it not with confidence but with a gasp: *Is this it?* My life is quiet now. I am content in my solitude. I am seventy-two years old, in good health and the company has dutifully fulfilled its end of the bargain, so I do not want for anything. If I lack luxury it is by choice. I do not speak much. Instead I write and think, and if I have any ritual it is to take my tea just as night falls. Sometimes the evening light hits at a certain angle, and when I take my first sip, I close my eyes and think of Mendeleev-1. Instinctively my fingers slip onto my forearm where the wound will never heal, and I remember... #**Mendeleev-1** *...mining colony. mineral-rich. cognosher-positive. cognosher-dormant. safe for temporary habitation. slated for eventual destruction...* On Earth my husband and I had nothing. On Mendeleev-1 we had hope: “Build a homestead. Mine. As long as the planet stays inactive, you remain Vectorien employees. The moment it awakens, you have forty-eight hours to get to the evacuation pods. When you do: *Congratulations on your retirement. Enjoy your pension!*” No one knew for how long the planet would sleep. Everyone knew about the *cognoshers*: interdimensional alien beasts that sensed and feasted upon human fear. Under that shadow we lived. Time passed. It was a simple life, hard but predictable, the rhythms of the day magnified by the monotony of the weather and the changing of imagined seasons... The cycles unfolded, one after the other in coldness and desolation. I gave birth to Oan, then Erubi. Then a mine shaft collapsed, killing my husband. Vectorien paid out a small sum and paid for his burial, but their lawyers maintained that the contract we had signed was still binding. My husband and I had made separate agreements. As Mendeleev-1 had not yet awoken and I was still alive, I remained a Vectorien employee, with all the mining obligations that entailed. I tried to endure alone, but I knew that with two young children and output requirements to meet, I could not succeed. “Mendeleev-1 is not for the faint of heart or for single mothers,” a Vectorien representative told me. “Chemicals have always been available upon request.” I put out a notice for help. That is how I encountered Arkady. He was a decade older than I, a tough man hardened by experiences he never shared. In fact, he shared almost nothing and could not speak at all, which perhaps is what bound us together. Although he was a bachelor, it was not like that between us. He built a cabin for himself next to the homestead, and we lived in harmony. For months, we lived-- #***Sirens*** I was washing clothes when the time came. The sound was deafening. Erubi was crying-- I left the wash and ran to him with water dripping from the tips of my fingers. *A single drop, like an atomic bomb.* I tried to comfort him, to speak to him, but this life is never one of comfort, and he would not cease his wailing so I let him be. There was not much to pack, but time was of the essence. We had forty-eight hours to reach the evacuation pods-- *”This is not a drill! Commence evacuation procedures immediately. This is not a drill...”* Oan was outside, hands over his ears-- Arkady had exited his cabin--leather boots polished, rifle slung over a shoulder, pistol stuck into his belt, coming toward me with a screen-map in his hands. He unfurled it: The familiar terrain of Mendeleev-1, a geography I was intimately familiar with, but now with areas lighting up red, like blotches on a sick man’s skin. I knew immediately what they meant. Arkady pointed at the two nearest evacuation points-- “Oan, get your brother! Now!” --the *only two* we could reach in forty-eight hours, and between us and those points: the sickening red of the planet awakening: vengeance for years of exploitation: the cognosher fields. Arkady looked at me. Oan had disappeared into the homestead. *Sirens* We had no clear path. Every route took us through the red. Arkady slid his finger across the screen-map, tracing a route that I understood would lead us from here to there within forty-eight hours, but just barely. It was a path of least risk, which meant *of some risk*, and although the thin strip of evolving red may have looked small on the screen-map, I knew it was at least ten kilometres on the ground. Ten kilometres across cognosher terrain. There’s a saying about the cognosher fields: “Cross fearlessly--or not at all.” I nodded my approval. Arkady furled the screen-map. Oan came to me, cradling Erubi in his arms, and in both their eyes I saw the very emotion I dreaded. “It will be OK,” I said, taking Erubi from his older brother. “We talked about this. We prepared for it. We’ve been *waiting* for it. In two days we’ll be on our way to Earth.” *Earth*: I said it to mean *home*, but it was my home. To my sons it was nothing but a story. Arkady had already turned away, and when he began walking we followed. It would be a lie to say I did not look back at the homestead with some fondness--it had been our nest--but what I felt most was grief. What I felt most was the absence of my husband. How we had planned! It should have been us walking away: walking *toward* the evacuation pods after so much toil and expectation. *”This is not a drill! Commence evacuation procedures immediately. This is not a drill...”* I held Erubi closely, and when Oan offered his hand I took it and did not let go. Perhaps the future no longer held the same happiness I had dreamed about, but it held happiness still. Only a journey separated us. After a time, the sirens turned off. All on Mendeleev-1 were now evacuating-- All but the beasts. #**The Cognosher Fields** We slept for four hours, drank water and walked again. We ate little. The way was dull and flat because the planet was dull and flat, sparsely spotted with tree-like plants like overgrown cauliflowers, and practised calmness. *Be empty like the landscape*. When Oan was little, my husband and I had done refocussing drills with him: substituting one thought for another, one emotion for another emotion. But Erubi was too young for that. In my arms he looked doe-eyed and calm, but who knew what was happening in that emergent mind of his. When we neared the cognosher fields, Arkady unfurled the screen-map. When we were at the boundary he bade us stop. He showed me the map-- *The red blotches were swollen and more numerous.* --and I knew the time had come. Everything condensed to this: cross the fields and a good life on Earth awaits. Or die. “Remember what we talked about,” I told Oan. “Focus on something. Imagine it and keep it in your mind. In three hours it should all be over.” “They feast on fear,” he said, repeating words from a storybook my husband had read to him. “Yes.” Arkady tapped his finger on his wrist. We had to go. Arkady entered first. After a brief hesitation, I followed, carrying Erubi with one arm, holding Oan's hand with the other. In a single step we had changed the physical reality around us. What was once barren became--by the power of our minds--pregnant with danger. Although I had no doubt cognoshers were real, it was unreal to feel that they were *somewhere out there*, awoken and hungry... The initial seconds fell softly away to nothingness. My heart beat quicker and Oan gripped my hand more tightly, but everything persisted as before. Arkady's broad back and long strides provided a familiar comfort. I would not have wanted to be in the lead, anticipating the future. Seconds accumulated to minutes, which ticked away, footfall following footfall. My focus was my grief. I let it drape me, shielding all thoughts that could possibly evolve into fear. Erubi fell in and out of sleep against my body. Oan whispered stories to himself. In the distance-- Arkady's hands travelled to his rifle, which he unslung. I had seen it too: a kind of flitting of the air itself. "No matter what, we must not stop," I said. We walked. Arkady scanning the horizon, sweat developing between Oan's hand and mine, Erubi opening his eyes, beginning slowly to whimper. Another distant fluttering-- Unmistakeable. All of us had seen it. The enveloping silence descended into a low hiss. "Is it..." "Shh." Arkady raised his rifle. Cognoshers could be shot and killed, but it was difficult and exceedingly rare, for they only truly existed--in our understanding of that term: engaged with our dimension of reality--when they were scenting or feasting. Only then were they vulnerable. Another flicker. *Closer.* And a third-- Followed in quick succession by a fourth and fifth. We were maybe halfway through the cognosher fields and they were all around us. I had to remind myself that brief twinges of fear were insufficient. They felt it but not for long enough to localise the source. I thought of a memory--any memory--and started recollecting it aloud. "Remember when your father..." *They came!* It was as if reality had torn open--its very substance--rushing at us! What happened next happened so quickly I struggle to make sequential sense of it, but in the years that have passed I have arranged and rearranged the remembered parts so many times I have settled on the following: Arkady fired two shots into the ether. Oan let go of my hand. He stopped. Arkady spun to face us and loosed another shot. Oan stared at me--at *us*: --as I heard a horrible shriek that felt ripped out of my very being. I felt my body stiffen and the hissing of the silence melded with the sound of blood pulsing through my veins. I felt gazed upon and vulnerable, as the beasts of irreality were swooping down on us and as I tried to understand what was happening I understood that the shrieking was Erubi--that it was *all* Erubi--and I shall never forget the wonder and terror and love in his beautiful brown eyes as Arkady ripped him from his cradle in my arms, held him in one outstretched hand and shot him in the head with his pistol: his tiny body falling to that hideous ground, folding so unnaturally-- I screamed. But the rushing had subsided. It was not fear I was feeling but rage--and all at once I leapt at Arkady and for what remained of my son. I fell face first on the ground, tasting the alien sands, and crawled forward, crawling desperately toward-- Arkady rolled the corpse away with his boot. He grabbed me by the clothes on my back, lifted me to my feet, then pushed me toward the evacuation pods. "I'll kill you," I growled. When I looked at Oan, tears were rolling down his face. His eyes were pink. He wanted to pick Erubi up, but Arkady shook his head. I hated him, but I knew he was right. They would not allow us to bring a corpse onto the evacuation pods, and we did not have the time for a burial. Erubi's body would lie here, on the only home planet he had ever known, until he and the planet were together obliterated. "Leave him,” I croaked. I cannot describe how much my body shook. How hard it was to leave. Arkady walked with the same strides as always, the same wide back, the rifle slung again over his shoulder and the pistol tucked into his belt. I was glad, because I could not have borne the sight of his face. I walked in wordless contemplation, with hatred having replaced grief as my protector, though the two could have coexisted. Oan walked beside me, no longer holding my hand or reciting his stories. He had stopped crying, and his eyes had acquired the quality of numbness. Every few minutes he would look up at me with an expression I could not read, then down at his feet, which shuffled obediently along. Suddenly Arkady stopped. He glanced back at me, looking me in the eyes as always, looking at me *as if nothing had happened*, and motioned for me to stay. He took the pistol from behind his belt and handed it to me. I did not want to take it. I did not want to touch its cold steel. Arkady placed it on the ground before me, then turned and walked away from us. For what reason I did not know. What I knew was that if I didn't have such revulsion at the existence of that pistol, I would have picked it up and shot him in the back. How could he walk away so calmly--*how he could trust me?* But he was right. I left the pistol undisturbed upon the ground and watched him disappear. "Where's he going?" Oan asked. "I don't know." We sat and remembered Erubi without speaking. Before Arkady returned, we saw again flickering on the horizon and a chill passed through us both. The cognoshers were near. Oan rocked back and forth, trying to keep calm, and I watched him, wondering how it was possible to feel a contradiction: to want never to see Arkady again, and to need his presence. I craved the protective comfort of Earthfire. "I don't think I can make it," Oan said. "You can." "It feels like... inside--" "Refocus." "--like I'm cracking, like it's all breaking apart." He rocked more and more quickly, his eyes twitching from point to point, until finally I grabbed his hand and pulled him up. "We're going," I said. "No," he said. I pulled him by the arm but he stayed in place. *Anchored*. We both saw the fluttering sky. "You go," he said. "I'll stay. I--I don't think I can... Maybe I'll see Erubi. Maybe we'll--" I tugged harder but he didn't budge. "Come on!" A blur passed across the horizon. There were so many of them now, waiting, unfolding. I wanted Arkady to be back. I wanted Oan to move. "I'm scared," he said. And for a moment the numbness in his eyes was gone, replaced by the brightness I had always associated with my son. But then that brightness too diminished, darkened by a kind of fear I have never seen again. *They came for him.* I backed away--back to where the pistol lay--picked it up and waved it madly at the nothingness rippling and hissing around us: the liquid distortions in the congealing mists of abnormality, but I didn't know at what to pull the trigger. Oan sat. I stumbled through a haze of fear: *afraid for him*, trying to be more afraid *than him*, to lure the beasts away, to offer them myself in exchange. I didn't want to live anyway. *I was already dead.* But I could not will myself into a more frenzied state of phobia. Oan’s lips curved into a smile. "Go," he whispered. Then his smile became a terrible grin as his body stiffened and his neck bent backwards, and materializing behind him was a human-sized caterpillar--a unfathomable string of succulent translucent spheres braided into interconnectedness by oscillatory worms, all lined with a million undulating tentacles--topped with a glowing sphere-head of a mirrored eyes and one swollen ring of lips, which attached itself with ravenous intentions to Oan's face, devouring it and starting to suck his essence from within him and into itself. I pointed the pistol at the cognosher and pulled the trigger-- The bullet slid through it. Those wretched sucking sounds, *like bloody gargled marbles, like wind rushing across a plain in reverse...* I knew what I had to do but could not do it. I could not kill my son. Even for this: out of mercy for him--for humanity itself. *A shot*--fired: Oan slumping to the ground-- The cognosher atomizing back into its own unknowable dimension-- The pistol still in my shaking outstretched hand, cold and dead, and silhouetted in the distance against the unforgiving sky: Arkady, lowering his rifle. Those long strides. The world rotated and Arkady stood on the wall of it, looking down at me. I wanted to stay; he wanted me to go. It took me several moments to realize I had collapsed, perhaps lost consciousness for a few seconds. Perhaps that even saved me. When Arkady yanked my arm and made the world upright, I knew that what I felt was neither fear nor rage but agony. I tried to look at my son, but Arkady caught my face in his hand. He shook his head. He tried to pull me forward, away from the agony and toward the evacuation pods, but now it was my time to stay anchored. He held out his hand and with two fingers showed we had not far to go: only an insignificant space. I wailed. He would not let go of my face. He pressed so hard my jaw bones hurt. Through bleary eyes I perceived him. I bit my tongue until I tasted blood and spat at him. He backed away and wiped his face with the back of his hand. The same hand with which he’d just caused me so much pain-- And smacked me with it. I fell back, gathered my strength and threw myself at him with everything I had. Our bodies collided. Again I ended up on the ground, but this time on my back. He picked up his pistol, checked the bullets and motioned for me to follow. Again he made the gesture with his two fingers (*only an insignificant space*) and followed up by pointing to his wrist. “Fuck you! I don’t care anymore,” I said. He stepped toward me, grabbed me by the throat and lifted me off the ground. Held me like an hour ago he had held Erubi--except I fought. I swung my arms and pounded his body with my fists. I kicked out at his shins. Eventually he tossed me aside, and started walking away. I ran after him and grabbed him from behind. He spun, throwing me down with a thud that made my brain rattle in my skull. He walked. “That’s right. You leave,” I yelled after him. “You leave me, you motherfucker!” Then I got up and charged at him. This time I attached myself to his back, locking my arms under his armpits like a human backpack, trying furiously to force the both of us to overturn: to wind up like a beetle, belly-up and dying... He pressed forward, stride after gargantuan stride until we had travelled that way for maybe a hundred paces and I saw--lying like discarded refuse, two *deflated people*: skins still fresh but their entire beings flattened into sheets maybe an inch thick. They looked like humanoid rubber. Victims of the cognosher. I let go of Arkady’s back and felt ground under my boots again. I forced down the bile rising into my throat. “It’s horrible,” I said. Arkady nodded. His eyes sparkled. I smiled at him-- And in that moment of manufactured vulnerability, when for the first time in my life I saw his hardness soften, I aimed a tackle into his mid-section that sent him sprawling. The pistol spilled from his hand and tumbled into the sand. Before he could react, I pounced on it. Then with him in its sights I backed away until I felt far enough away to kneel and put the pistol into my own mouth. *This is the way it must end*. He approached me anyway. I took the pistol out of my mouth and pointed it at him. “One more step,” I warned. He didn’t stop. “I fucking swear it!” I screamed at him. He took *one more step*. I fired. The bullet whizzed by his head. “I’ll fucking kill you.” Another step. This time the bullet tore into his shoulder, twisting his body. He held up a single finger. There was one bullet left, and if I wanted to-- As I scrambled to put the pistol back into my mouth, he covered the space between us and grabbed me by the arm. I pressed the trigger. The pistol fired, but instead of shutting off my brain, the bullet lodged itself into my forearm. He had bent my arm back at the last instant. I felt an immensity of pain, followed by a flow of warmth and the sound of ripping cloth. I felt a tightness surround my wounded limb, and my sight returned just as Arkady was tying the torn material below my elbow. His own shoulder was patchy with blood. He picked me up like I was but a piece of lumber and carried me forward. I had no strength left. The only thing I felt was pain. After a while he set me down and sat down himself. He pulled out the screen-map and pointed at it, showing me what I already knew: We had crossed the cognosher fields. #**Destruction** The pods lifted off, leaving dissipating lines upon the sky and carrying their human cargo toward the fleet of Vectorien transporters waiting in orbit around Mendeleev-1. In all, Vectorien estimated that 81% of its employees successfully reached the evacuation points. The return journey by transporter lasted forty-one Earth years, most of which we spent in cryosleep. They did, however, allow us to remain awake for the destruction of Mendeleev-1 itself, and so we huddled in the galleries watching through small windows as a single ship launched a single bomb toward its surface. It fell like a water drop, after which there was a delay--and the planet was no more: first condensed, then dispersed as a cosmic rain of star stuff. We disembarked in Florida. At least that's what the signs said, because to me it was unrecognizable. I saw Arkady on the lower deck of the starport. There was no one waiting for him, just as there was no one waiting for me. The press had focussed on other arrivals. We walked one after the other down the tunnel, just as we had walked from the homestead to the evacuation pods forty-one years ago, in silence. When we got close to the doors leading outside, I stopped--needing to gather myself before greeting the new world awaiting me. He walked on. When he reached them, the doors slid open and he walked through without glancing back, and disappeared into the bustle outside. #**Mercy** I lived for thirty years without seeing Arkady. We did not keep in touch. I moved on. I grieved, then found a house beyond the city, bought it outright and made a new life. I never remarried and I did not have a third child, but I learned not to dwell on the past. When I was ready, I bought a cemetery plot near where my husband and I had lived before Mendeleev-1 and buried three empty caskets, leaving space for one more. The cemetery gave me a discount on account of my "background." The people on Earth were like that: treating us kindly but with a certain distance. They referred to us as the Vectoriens. One day, a young woman arrived at my house. She asked my name, and when I gave it said she had come on behalf of someone asking for my presence. "An elderly man," she said, "who doesn't speak." I knew at once. Arkady was a patient in a decrepit hospital in Costa Rica, located on the outskirts of San Jose. The staff were kind, but it was clear the institution lacked funding, and provided care mainly for the poor. When I entered his room I barely knew him: still a large man, but now bloated and flaccid, bald, with glassy skin and languid motions, even of the face, he did not appear to acknowledge my presence. It was only when I bent forward over him that a brightness came over his eyes!--but briefly, like the final flicker of a dying flame, followed by a diminishment to darkness. I don't know what I felt toward him. "He's a Vectorien," a nurse told me outside his room. "It's a miracle he's lasted this long. We used to see a lot of them after they came back, the ones who couldn't adjust to the world. Crime, drugs, any form of self-destruction. But that was in the months and years after. Here we have decades. I can't imagine what he's been doing all this time." She put her hand on my arm. "But all of a sudden he remembered you, I guess. It's good for him to have a visitor." I stepped away from her. "Do you know where I can find a grocery store. Maybe something with household goods?" "There's a plaza nearby. What is it that--" I was already outside. In the heat. I bought what I needed and returned, as I had promised him. I asked the nurse for a kettle. When the water boiled, I steeped a tea and poured one cup. Then I asked the nurse for privacy. When she had gone, I added the other ingredient, and gave the tea to Arkady. He took it in his large, calloused hands and tried to drink. I helped him. When he had finished, I sat beside him and held his hand, watching the remnants of his life evaporate, peacefully, like summer rain from asphalt. He died without a gasp.


What happens in the shadows, stays in the shadows. Insomnia is a harsh mistress. Don't get me wrong; I'm not complaining, she suits my lifestyle. Vigilante work requires a certain amount of...anonymity, and not being able to sleep keeps me on my toes while I'm taking out the city's trash. Brent is my partner in crime. Brent Cassidy, Attorney at Law , according to his business card. What people don't realize is that he's just the charismatic face of our discreet operation. I do the heavy lifting; I get all the real action; I prefer to remain nameless, and he gets the spotlight. Win-win. Last week, Brent took a real scumbag to trial who ended up being acquitted of all charges brought against him. It wasn't due to Brent's lack of fervor in the courtroom, it was for lack of evidence. Eddie the scumbag went on a car-jacking spree that put some bystanders in the hospital. Serious injuries--I heard they might not make it. Real piece of work, that sleaze-ball. At one point during the trial, through the tall courtroom windows, the sun illuminated the back of Brent's six-foot frame, limning his silhouette in golden flame. His shadow extended from the tips of his Oxfords, across the courtroom floor and up the wall behind the witness stand. Eddie sat there on the stand, enshrouded within Brent's dark veil of justice. I had a front row seat as my senses took in his ruddy features, while my partner roasted him on the witness stand. There was a glorious moment of anguish on ol' Eddie's face as he pondered the possibility of being behind bars. However, the mood eventually shifted in his favor as he walked out of the courthouse a free man. Brent has contacts, and without them, I wouldn't be able to finish the jobs that my partner can't handle by himself. I call what I do shadowboxing. Only others like me are able do it. But just because we can shadowbox doesn't mean that all of us choose to. Some of us are content to be their partner's permanent silent supporter. Early on, I chose the path to shadowboxing, back when Brent was just a boy. Now, my job requires a unique set of skills, one that I'm damn good at. Tonight, I aim to employ that skill set with great vigor. Later That Night When Brent retires for the night and his head hits the pillow, I clock in for the graveyard shift. Before bed, he turned off all the apartment lights and unscrewed the porch bulb--the one that's on a timer--per his usual routine. I slide from under his sleeping form and spread myself along the darkened bedroom floor, then press underneath the front door to mingle with the midnight gloom. Wafting through the cracks between the bricks in the alleyway behind our high-rise, I repeat to myself the address to O'Malley's Pub, the local haunt that my quarry has been known to frequent. Brent was tipped off after the trial by one of his contacts who informed him where he might find the car-jacker named Eddie. And being that I'm with my partner every day, I know what he knows. As I slink along a path of darkened sidewalk cast by a streetlamp, a wayward beam from a car's headlight abruptly severs the dark narrow line, and me along with it. No problem; I gather myself together as quickly as the flash disappears and I continue my pursuit. The way I'm using the connecting arteries of shadows spread across the city like nocturnal circuitry reminds me of the child's game, Hot Lava. As a boy, Brent would hop from one piece of furniture to another, across the living room, collecting shoes, books and other items along the way to use for connecting paths. The front of O'Malley's is a dazzling beacon to the city's thirsty denizens, with patrons filtering in and out through its doorway like minnows in a narrow creek. The shifting patterns of painted light around the front of the pub create a barrier I'm unable to navigate so I meander to the rear of the building. Tucked between the rear wall and a dumpster is a man lying prone, apparently sleeping off his poor nightly choices. If I'm lucky, he's a local--a hub of information gathering. I approach slowly until I'm within sense-range of the man's shadow that remains motionless beneath him. It's invisible as it melds with the surrounding darkness, but I sense it; this is a thing we do--an aspect of shadowboxing. As soon as I feel it sensing me, I extend a thin, inky tendril toward the other. It extends likewise, and we mesh at the tip like two strange, blackened anemones. Silent invisible energies transfer in the dark--information exchange. I describe Eddie to it and it confirms that others like us have seen him hanging around the pub tonight. The energy from the shadow is sluggish and bereft of vitality. Shadowboxing--some of us are more skilled at it than others. This one seems like a novice at best and has most likely never ventured away from its partner. Not much real-world experience, if any. Crisp lines of demarcation separate the light from the darkness on either side of the building, drawing out from the front corners at obtuse angles into the parking lot and beyond. I flatten into the murky crease of a curb near the light's edge and play the waiting game. It doesn't take long until my ruddy-faced target steps from around the corner of the building, the sharp knife edge of neon light seeming to slice him in two as he pauses between worlds to light a cigarette. He stumbles through the parking lot to a quiet area of gloom near the back of the building. It's just scumbag Eddie, dumpster guy, and me. I watch scumbag Eddie scan the surroundings then produce a small pouch from somewhere inside his jacket. He pops some pills from the pouch, chases them with a beer, then resumes smoking. I skulk silently toward him until I'm within sense-range of his shadowy counterpart-- his partner in crime. It acknowledges my presence, but I'm not concerned. I doubt it can do the things that I'm about to to its partner. It's show time. From beneath me issue crackles of electrical static as dark energy separates from the black pavement, and my form peels up from the paved surface near Eddie's feet. His eyes begin to bulge from his ruddy face as I rise to my full six-foot height. The shadowy blob above my shoulders labors to form two small holes and a wide slit below them. I attempt to smile but something gets lost in the translation. Eddie makes a terrible gasping sound and stiffens in place. His mouth moves as if he's having a conversation, but there's no sound except for his beer bottle dropping to the ground. My form sways like the ghost of a king cobra haunting its prey. Now for the newest trick in my toolbox--my pièce de résistance : I test the night air, converse with it, and ask it to breathe. Our silent exchange is heard by only those others who can sense it too--others like me--other shadowboxers. I'm persuasive enough that the air cooperates. It bends to my will and lets me begin shaping its molecules into vibrating ripples. Tiny bursts of constrained currents waft in front of me until I feel in control. Puff...puff...puff . I learn its rhythm. Puff...puff...puff . Like I’m breathing. With an effort that nearly breaks my focus, I direct a wavering pattern of air currents at the man still frozen in front of me. The result is the equivalent of a thin, sandpapery murmur, " Eddiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeee ..." A slow buildup of panic sets in, starting with Eddie's feet. They seem to have minds of their own as they inch backward in a strange spasmodic shuffle. His eyes flutter and he finally remembers to breathe; a restricted intake of air fills the bellows in his chest. The sound that leaks from between his clenched teeth begins as a rattle in his throat, increasing in volume and pitch until it becomes the wail of a banshee. He takes a second breath, a long inhale and then nothing but high-pitched babble. His legs wake up and he tries to turn around and run. His feet don’t cooperate, and he goes down on all fours. Hands and feet scrape on the concrete as he scrambles away from me like a crazed animal. He's scared--terrified. My job description says to scare them straight when the law isn't able to. I might be due for a raise after tonight. " Nooooo...escaaape for waaat...youuu did...Eddiiiiieeeee ..." the air that becomes my voice sounds like two rocks being rubbed together. Like a phantom I float after him, trailing static sounds in my wake. He veers into the dark alley behind the pub and slams against a sturdy chain link fence barring his escape. Fueled by desperation and whatever else he's jacked into his system tonight, Eddie manages to scramble to the top of the twelve foot high fence just below the loops of barbed wire. He glances back with wide saucer-eyes. His shadow--his partner--obediently sticks to him; clearly not a threat to my goal. I decide that Eddie has had enough, so I withdraw and melt down onto the black asphalt. I disappear, no longer a threat. I always make sure to bring them close to the edge but then I back off; it's usually enough to pull them back onto the straight-and-narrow, or at least get them to rethink their poor life choices. But Eddie keeps climbing. What is he doing! He swings his left foot up through the jagged metal wire. Please don't do this. The laces of his shoe hook into the barbs and he's hanging nearly upside down. Don't do it, Eddie . His hands let go of the fence and grope up toward his entangled foot, as he performs an inverted sit up twelve feet from the ground. I can only watch as... He screams on the way down to the pavement. The sound of neck bones splintering under a hundred-sixty pounds of flesh will haunt me for eternity. A crumpled body deflates as its tendons and muscles relax. The toe of a solitary shoe, suspended in twisted wire, points down to a dead man, in a mockery of memoriam. I don't sense Eddie's shadow, but I assume it's just lying there under his mass. I stay where I am to avoid its sense-range, out of concern, and out of respect. I realize that I took things too far again. It's never supposed to end this way. The dirtbags I deal with are just people, ones who happen to drive on the wrong side of Moral Street, sometimes by no fault of their own; but they're still just people. I should always clock out sooner than I intend to. Shadowboxing is a knife edge that requires sharpening, otherwise, the shadow is likely to get cut. As I trace my path back home, I rehearse the language I'll use to break the news to Brent. The clock hands on top of the city bank read 1:14 am as I pass. It's still several hours before my partner wakes; time to myself. Brent and I both realize that our little endeavor lacks long-term sustainability. What is the allowable number of scumbags who can turn up missing or drop dead before the finger-pointing starts? Sooner or later people will begin to connect the dots. We both agree that, for now, the risks are worth the rewards. Presently, what happens in the shadows, stays in the shadows.


It wasn’t that long ago I looked upon Wanderers with disgust. They had been the scum of the earth. Rejects. Scavengers. Ultimate leeches of our world. And now that I saw them again I couldn’t even muster half a teaspoon of hate. I was invaded by an overall sense of weariness. I saw my neighbour, a tall large man yell at them, face contorted out of human shape. He had mastered the hate. And he looked ridiculous for it. I wanted to get out of here. I didn’t care about those sad parades of men and women in chains. I couldn’t join the euphoria of the crowd. The woman on my other side spat at them. I shrugged and pulled my scarf closer to my neck. It hadn’t been my intention to be here at all. I’d been caught by the tide and had no way of going against the general flow. Why would you exhibit people like that? Strip them of their humanity, and then execute them in front of the angry, hateful crowd. There were three executioners on stage. Each one of them had a speciality. Each one of them had a nickname. There was the Axe, the Flute, and Iron Hand. All were dressed in uniform black robes, face hidden by the traditional hood. They were only differentiated by a personal insignia printed chest level. Everyone knew that the job of executioner was passed down from generation to generation. The families kept their anonymity, but were given an emblem. Some people wondered if executioners were human at all. The unconscious collective fear being that they were eternal monsters always there to take human lives. Masses were so gullible. The streams of captives were Wanderers. Not even real criminals. Wanderers’ only wrongdoing was of adhering to different ideals to ours. I would have been publicly stoned for saying such a blasphemy. Well, only if I hadn’t been untouchable. The crowd started to chant for their hero: the Carver. Except he wasn’t here. This was no surprise. He specialised in violent criminals. He was feared and revered at the same time. His name enough to delightfully chill a crowd. They were terrorised by the shear idea of ending up in his tender care, and at the same time they relished in the blood he spilled. Because he was no ordinary executioner. In fact executioners were rarely ordinary. The Flute had a beautiful talent. All his family had had the gift of music. He could possess people with his instruments. Make them dance until they died of exhaustion. He transformed human tragedy into an ultimate artistic sacrifice. His dances were extravagant, captivating and ultimately very deadly. Iron Hand was an obtuse brut next to him. But that butcher was a real crowd pleaser. He had the power of strength. His delicate attentions consisted in pulverising captives and unashamedly spraying the crowd. Nothing much ever remained after he had taken care of it. The Axe was more traditional. Not all executioner blood lines were consistent in power. Axe chopped heads, not always managing the clean one strike decapitation. But that was part of the thrill. People took odds. Exchanging money on whether he would or wouldn’t this time. Only then did I realise I would have to watch the whole show. I grimaced. What a waste of time! Today was my first day off after five months of training and work. It had taken me three hours to get down here. I hadn’t intended to spend my time like that. I’d wanted to go back home. See my mother, brother and sisters again. I only had a few hours to spare. After that I had to go back to the castle. I sighed. This promised to be excruciating. Unless I could spot a member of my family. Then, at least, their company would support me through this ordeal. But it was packed and hard to see any individuals. I massaged my head. I could feel the headache rising. Then I saw a glimpse of white. Across from me, on the other side of the fenced prisoner passage, was someone wearing a scarf matching mine. I didn’t have to see it from close up to know it was the same wool. This had to be my younger sister. She had sent that one for me during my absence, telling me she was wearing its twin. Only my family made wool so fine. Except she was on the other side. And I’d probably changed since the last time she’d seen me. I’d grown thinner, taller, whiter, hollower. In a way the crowd wasn’t too bad. They kept us warm, heat rising off them like a good herd. I raised myself on my toes, making ridiculously large arm movements. I didn’t care if people stared. It would only increase my chances of Illiotrope seeing me. Finally, I caught her eye. She had been mesmerised by the execution scene. Three men had already lost their heads, five women were dancing and something was in the process of being turned into crimson mush. But amongst the butchery, someone had been kind enough to let her know a young man was trying to get her attention. She squinted at first. I must have changed more than I thought. But then her face opened in a smile. She waved at me and got closer to the barrier. We looked at each other from across the fence for a while. This was absurd. I was so close! A burst of bloodshed slashed my mind. It was a violent thought bubble. The big man next to me trembled and an enchanted smile settled on his lips, he didn’t realise a bloody slash had opened on his face. The other people huddled against me shivered. We had all felt it. I saw the ripple of anticipation run through the crowd. They started to yell out for the Carver again. They had recognised his touch. He had to be somewhere around here. They wanted him on stage. After his absence from the scene they were elated by his recent return and wanted him everywhere. The Carver was ferocious. He peeled his victim’s minds apart, projecting the visions of carnage he found in their heads to the whole crowd. As the visions occurred the prisoner would find himself covered with the wounds he had once inflicted on others. Without touching the perpetrator, the Carver managed to hurt them more profoundly then any meaningless violence would have. But Wanderers were innocents. The Carver couldn’t do anything to them. I finally decided to jump the fence. Another stupid law I saw no reason to obey, I wasn’t a parked sheep. And I believed I had a fair chance of being overlooked anyway, people were too absorbed in the action, law apprehenders just as enthralled. I got my first leg over the barrier. Illiotrope gaped. She backed up a little and shook her head. She didn’t want me to risk my freedom for something so... so brainless. I swang the second leg over and started crossing. Suddenly a big hand dropped on my shoulder. I turned. It belonged to a massive sheriff. He was enormous in every way and direction. His face was lumpy, as if he’d been hit many times. A smaller official came to my other side. He wore a nasty smile. My face was blank. I let him pull my sleeves up so as to cuff my hands with a magic deadener, just in case. I watched his face grow grey before he even pulled the deadener out of his pocket, as he recognised the symbol on my wrist. I watched him back away from me. The big one understood fast. He swallowed noisily, but grabbed me by the collar of my coat and lifted me over the last fence. He dropped me exactly where I wanted to be. Illiotrope stared. ‘How did you get away?’ She yelled so I would hear over the crowd. ‘They recognised I worked for the king.’ I shrugged. ‘I’m so happy to see you!’ She finally exclaimed, before throwing herself in my arms. ‘Let’s go home.’ She nodded. And strangely enough we were able to walk away. People mustn’t have been as oblivious as I thought, or perhaps they were just street wise. They parted like the seas for prophets. The streets were smaller than I remembered, darker too. Perhaps spending most of my time in small enclosed spaces had made me unrealistically brighten my previous life. Once we passed the crowd, the streets were deserted. Everyone always went to executions. They were free entertainment and they occurred once a week in this part of town. The sound of whatever Illiotrope had on her feet reverberated happily against the uneven pavement. The fabric of her skirts sighed. Her coat clapped in the wind. And her breathing was loud. As noisy as she was, I made no sound. ‘Don’t you talk anymore?’ She asked. I forced myself to smile. ‘You look like father.’ She said with a grimace, ‘you sound like father.’ She added, ‘Is it the archives which turn men into sad shadows?’ ‘You should not foul mouth the dead.’ When our father had died six month ago a message had been sent from the court. It read that I was duty bound to inherit my father’s position by the king’s side. I would be trained, and I would become a Guardian of the Arcane. My mother had cried - a second separation was painful. My sisters had been proud; the position was well remunerated and had a special social status. My younger brother, Ernst, had felt relieved. He had always been afraid he would inherit that intellectual role because I was so little interested in old paper. Everyone believed the arcane to be the king’s secret archives. But it was me they wanted, not him. Ernst was now free to become the merchant he had always wanted to be. And I was officially a Guardian, proudly wearing the emblems of the position on my wrist. We arrived in Glory Street. Our house was the twelfth on the left. Like the others it was made of dark stones, unlike the others it had a shop front advertising the softest wool. We walked through the door and the bell chimed. Delellia, my elder sister, tentatively came down the stairs to look after the prospective customer. Her eyes opened wide when she saw me. ‘Lelio!’ She cried out before running to me herself, ‘You’ve become so pale.’ Delellia had the gift of dream-weaving and a fertile imagination. As such she worked for a number of rich merchants. She would send them lovely illusions and forbidden fantasies during their nights, awake all that time. She was so good, a number of courtesans had already asked for her services. Soon she would move closer to the castle and work for a more sophisticated audience. Because of this exhausting profession, she was usually relieved from shop duty, it was Illiotrope’s responsibility. Illiotrope, like my mother, was exceedingly good at needlework. But this was her day off, execution day was an institution. ‘Lelio’s home!’ Illiotrope called out to my mother upstairs. I heard shuffling. And then there was the distinct sound of two people getting down the stairs. My mother appeared first, her hair whiter than I remembered. Behind her was Ernst. Like me he’d grown, but while I’d become pale, he now bore a dark tan. In the last missive I’d received, I’d been informed he was conducting all the trade for our family shop, travelling the countryside in search of wool and pigments. ‘How’s the arcane?’ My brother asked. ‘Still as secretive, and I’m still under the same imperatives of silence.’ ‘Just like your father.’ My mother said, ‘God rest his soul.’ She took my head in her hands and kissed my forehead. ‘You look tired my son.’ I was exhausted. It would be lunchtime soon. My mother and Illiotrope disappeared towards the kitchen. I sat heavily at the head of the table. Delellia sat next to me. She had blue shadows under her eyes and an ethereal air about herself... growing into a creature of the night. Ernst settled himself down opposite from me. ‘What good are your powers for the archives?’ Delellia asked. She had always been able to tell when I used my gift, part of her second sight. ‘You are straining yourself.’ ‘I’m training, I’m getting better everyday.’ ‘But surely you do not need them for reading!’ Ernst cut in. This was another reason why he thought he, rather than I, would be going to the king. It was considered criminal to waste powers, and I had shown great potential very early. ‘The arcane might not be what everyone thinks it is.’ I answered. Ernst’s brow shot up. I realised I might have made a mistake. Delellia didn’t blink. The question Ernst was going to ask was prevented by the exuberant appearance of Illiotrope. Mother followed and lunch was brought in by the kitchen hand. From then on we avoided talking about my work. We talked about my brother’s and sisters’ lives, the latest rumours at court, the latest news in town... The afternoon slipped away and soon night’s belly stretched above our heads. I got up. I had to go. I would be required at dawn. My mother’s smile wilted as I kissed her goodbye. I promised that had been my longest absence. I was now fully trained, but I belonged to a low rank - I was still new. I was allowed a free day a week from now on though. I would therefore come back next week. She nodded. In a few years I wouldn’t be at the beck and call of the ministers and then I would be able to settle in my own house away from the castle. ‘Why didn’t you come on a horse?’ Illiotrope asked. ‘I did.’ ‘Where is it? Why didn’t you show me!’ ‘There were too many people. I left it at the Inn up the furthest stoop. They have a stable.’ I said. ‘I’ll walk you.’ Delellia announced. I looked at her, surprised. ‘It is not safe for a woman to walk those parts of town without an escort.’ I reminded her. ‘I’ll only be alone on the way back.’ She said. ‘And you’d have to be insane to attack a dream-weaver!’ Ernst interrupted. ‘Imagine the nightmares you’d get.’ He shuddered. ‘It’s not written on her forehead what she is.’ I said. ‘I’ll take my chances.’ She shrugged, pulling on a coat looking too heavy for her fragile frame. I’d heard the determination. ‘I’ve got to talk to you.’ She added. She wanted to talk... I’d known she would not be as blind as the others. I held the door open for her to follow me into darkness. We took our first steps in silence. I looked at the ink sky. Full moon. Delellia would be busy tonight. ‘Are you happy Lelio?’ She asked. I hadn’t expected the question. I wasn’t sure how to answer it. But she continued. ‘I never told anyone about it,’ she said, ‘but once, I walked into one of father’s dreams. I was young then. I didn’t have much control.’ My blood went cold. I wrapped my coat closer to me. But its warmth wasn’t enough anymore. ‘I believe I know what you do at the arcane.’ She said. I turned to look at her. She was probably the person I was closest to. I had been so afraid of her discovering, of her judging me. And here she knew. Would she hate me? Would she reject me? Would she be disappointed or frightened? But she held no judgment, no accusation. Not even curiosity. She knew. I suppressed a shudder. We had arrived at the inn. We waited in the stable while the boy saddled my horse. I found it hard to hold Delellia’s gaze. She saw me for what I was: a slave to my powers. I had hoped for a trace of admiration. This was discounting the fact she did not have the barbaric taste of our fellow men. And the fact that she knew what it was to be overworked and thrown against your will into terrifying universes. I clenched my teeth. I was getting ready to swing on my horse and leave but she hugged me. I was breathing again. ‘You do a good job.’ She whispered and I heard she was crying. ‘Don’t you ever feel our lives would be so much easier if we didn’t have power?’ She asked. ‘Perhaps for you,’ I smiled, ‘You would spend your day in the shop with mother and Illiotrope. You wouldn’t have to witness other’s nightmares. But I would still have been called to the king. And I would have had to learn to use an axe.’ She paled. ‘At least now I have a kind of notoriety.’ I said. ‘The Carver.’ She murmured so low I almost didn’t hear. This time I did mount my horse. Delellia took a step back. She would be fine tonight. I’d discreetly payed the boy to make sure she got home safe. I’d made certain he saw my wrist. ‘I’ll be back soon.’ I told her. She knew. She waved, even exhausted, as I galloped away. Away to the under castle and the donjons. Away to the prisoners. Away to the condemned. But ultimately not that far. She knew I came back regularly under my black robes and hood. She knew that each time the Carver was on stage she would see me - be closer to me. And she alone shared my secret.  THE END  Thank you for reading it until the end. I'd love to know what you think about it. This short story unexpectedly gave me an idea for a whole novel, but I'm not sure if anyone but me want to see more of Lelio and Delellia.


(Un)deadly Force I’d never meant to end up in this position, but hell, sometimes even the dead have unfinished business. More often than you’d think. And I wasn’t complaining about the job security it offered. And it gave me the variety I so craved. I’d decided before I was out of high school that I would blow my brains out before becoming a puppet for the corporate establishment, so even though it was beyond weird, I relished my job, and usually got paid for it well. My current job was to knock off some mafia hitmen; my client had been dumped in a river, becoming fish food before he’d even gotten to say goodbye to his family. He wanted me to snuff out the men’s lives, but the kicker was the boss. Easily one of the most feared men in the city of Hydra, Cain Faulkner was someone who preferred to hire others to do his dirty work, and that alone made me hate him. If you were going to go to all the trouble to kill someone, why wouldn’t you do it yourself? It didn’t make sense to me. I didn’t have an exactly functional moral compass, but that was crossing the line to me. I was following the pair of men down the street, keeping to the shadows, and the ghost hovered right over my shoulder, murmuring incessantly, though I couldn’t understand most of it. Once you were dead for a certain amount of time, there was little left of you to remain on the earthly plane. What remained was you’d left unfinished, whatever emotions you hadn’t had a chance to face before your death. The spirit gnashed his invisible teeth, and I could hear the sound as a screeching inside the walls of my skull. “Don’t worry,” I said quietly. “I’ll make this right for you. I promise.” With that reassurance, its wispy form vanished, but I could still feel its presence, weighing heavy on my mind. It wasn’t going to let me go until I’d held up my end of the bargain. The men took no notice of me, or of the wrath that lingered around them like an oily, spicy-sweet perfume. They were too absorbed in one another, focused on their next task, likely of killing. “Boss Faulkner says he coulda seen the guy’s face when I stabbed him through the heart,” One of them was saying, and I winced, feeling the spirit batter my mind full-force now. “It was almost like the poor mook couldn’t see it coming.” “We sure showed him, Ernie,” His cohort replied, chuckling into a cupped hand. “That’ll teach his family and everyone else in the neighborhood that Cain Faulkner isn’t one to be crossed.” I allowed the two of them to carry on for a few minutes more, and then I opened my mouth. The ghost slipped in, gentle and so quick I barely felt it. This was the true secret to my line of work: I let the spirits use my body to do what they needed to. Sure, it was a bit instrusive and personal, but a girl’s gotta pay her bills somehow. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that, gentlemen,” The ghost said through me, smirking widely. With a crash, I moved, and shoved one man against the wall, hands wrapped around his throat. “You were saying?” I turned to the other man, and I smirked naturally when I saw his face pale.


The crystal wind chimes swayed on the small wooden porch, shooting rainbows through the screen door. The bursts of color danced in the natural light, jumping with each clink. The summer breeze traveled a great distance to find this home, making a final stop at the lilac bushes lining the yard before coming inside. Johanna basked in the rays steaming through the massive french-windows. She sat motionless-- slumped into the uncomfortable wood couch with her legs and arms dangling over the sides. She was in a trance with the dripping glass of ice water on the coffee table. Johanna’s total consumption by the water wasn't rooted in appreciation, peace, drugs or any other pleasant place. Her preoccupation with the minutiae of reality was an elected numbness. She wasn't feeling anything in particular. If she had the awareness to look at herself, she’d probably say she felt like she was watching condensation on a glass of water. Chatter in the kitchen picked up a couple notches. The awkward cackles nudging Johanna’s bubble of solitude. So she added some spice to the spectacle of condensation, treating the falling drops as competitors in a race. She picked winners, made hypothetical bets, and even began naming some of the contestants. The level of creativity increased proportionally with the probability of one of those distant voices coming into the room to check on her. She’s changed so much since her mom died and she’s the only one who can’t see it. Some losses are just too much. Johanna expected the world to stop when she lost her mom and broke when it didn’t. Favorite foods became normal food. Family and friends became people she knows. Waking up became a hassle, and so did falling asleep. Johanna came to see life as a requirement, not a gift. The only recognizable trait in Johanna was the will to escape. She used to run away from being alone, but now she runs away to find solitude. All of the energy she used to spend loving, caring, listening, and wondering is boxed up. The glass of water is what she has now. When nothing except that cup existed in her mind, that’s when it happened. The prisms of color from the chimes froze, the ringing cut off, and the action on the glass disappeared. Time came to a halt, and even then, it took Johanna a few seconds to notice. At that moment everything went dark. # Johanna opened her eyes to find herself seated in a middle-school sized desk. Facing the dried-gum laden desk was a box TV strapped to a dirty brown metal cart. The scent of pencil shavings and rubber eraser circulated the room. A hint of chalk-eraser particles stung Johanna’s throat. She dropped her eyelids and tilted back, filling her lungs for a bothered sigh. “It’s always something,” Johanna mumbled, treating the experience as if it was a normal occurrence. When everything seems like shit it just kind of all blends together. She pulled herself up to look around when a VHS clicked into the VCR, a man popping onto the low-resolution screen. “Well hello there,” the man said with an upbeat tone, “Welcome to the Temporal Temp Agency tutorial video. I’m Luke and I’ll be showing you around the joint. Let’s get rolling.” Luke looked like a mid-80s aerobics instructor professionally fitted for a funeral tuxedo. Johanna squinted her eyes and leaned forward with intrigued disgust. To her own surprise, his cheesy smile and demeanor was able to elicit an actual emotion. She jerked around in the desk to scan the room before settling back into the screen. “Now, I’m sure you have a million questions,” Luke said approaching the camera, “so let me clear the air on a few that pop up the most.” “You are not dead, this is not a dream, and for those free spirits out there, you are not tripping face. You have, however,” raising his index finger with a smile, “been selected for a position at the TTA and are now in the interview stage. Congratulations.” Johanna peeked at her hand, digging her nail into her palm. Yup, she could feel it. “Interview?” Johanna asked as she searched for cameras. The room collapsed to a cage as she not only failed to find a camera, but any type of exit. No doors, windows, or vents. The possibility of flight removed, an urge to bash somebody jolted around Johanna’s body, but who could she get her hands on? The nostalgic fumes of pencil shavings and rubber grew thick, Johanna now pushing and pulling each breath. The anger gave her a bit of life. “Anddd-- probably the most important thing to you at this exact moment,” Luke said, “You are not a prisoner. Despite the lack of exit points.” “Who is this wide-eyed, buck toothed underbite having loser with that haircut?,” Johanna yelled to the empty room, “Is this torture? I mean come on, that’s a face even a mother would need to learn to love.” The TV cut off. The tiny red power light fading black. “About time,” Johanna said, “Come show your face.” She pushed herself from the desk, screeching it across the wood as she powered toward the cart. As she lifted her leg to deliver a big boot to the TV, the screen came alive with a sharp static and an unnecessarily close shot of Luke smiling. “Will you continue or would you like to return home? Please use the provided remote to make your choice now.” Johanna’s eyes darted around the room, rushing back to her desk where a metallic silver remote was now sitting in the pencil holder. She comes to a halt after snatching it up in a hurry, realizing it only contains two unlabeled buttons. Who even put this here? Panic crept up and tightened Johanna’s stomach. “You have ten seconds- please make a selection now.” Did she want to continue? Did she really care about going back home? “Well shhhh,” Johanna said as she pressed a button without looking. “So you want to continue, huh? Love that choice,” Luke said, “Let’s get into what we’re all about here at TTA.” # Johanna felt a tinge of relief as she wasn’t particularly enthused about returning to her reality. “Here at the TTA our mission is simple; encourage progress and ensure the survival of humanity. We achieve this through the monitoring and adjusting of the timeline.” Johanna inhaled a massive amount of chalky air for a deep sigh. Luke seemed to pause. “Don’t think of TTA as a small, privileged group of manipulators. We are a tool for humanity created and controlled by the people.” “Well I wasn’t thinking that until you said it,” Johanna mumbled. “As every movie involving time travel has told you,” Luke continued, “the smallest interaction can have serious consequences, so timeline adjustments are few and far between. Practically all the work we do here is research, observation, simulation, and identification.” Out of nowhere, Luke exploded with emotion, jumping into a squatting position, “Which is why your selection as adjustment agent, the one who actually alters the timeline, is so frickin’ awesome.” But like a zero-turn mower, Luke turned on a dime, throwing his lips back and cheeks up for a forced transition to a somber, serious demeanor. “The TTA maintains the upper echelon of integrity through a simple practice; voluntary participation and absolutely zero personal benefit. This means while your time here at TTA will be the most significant moments of your life, you’ll have no memory or records of your sacrifice.” “What the hell does he mean sacrifice ?” Johanna asked herself. “I mean the ultimate sacrifice, Johanna,” Luke said as he popped out of the TV and appeared six inches from her face. Johanna threw an instinctive left hook aimed directly at Luke’s jaw, but he cracked his neck fully horizontal for the dodge before taking a step back and raising both hands armed with the peace symbol. Johanna froze with helplessness and a realization she didn’t really care what was going on. She decided to let the scene unfold. “Now, I know what you’re thinking,” Luke said walking slowly like a teacher, “Time travel isn’t possible-- can’t be. And well, that is technically correct.” “Isn’t time travel-- I don’t know,” Johanna started, “Like your whole thing here? You said I’m not dreaming or hallucinating, so how are we here?” “So, you’re not dreaming right now, but you did fall asleep and that’s where TTA exists. When you dream, your brain manufactures scenarios to help you make sense of your consciousness. What has, could, and will happen get all jumbled together. But did you know there’s a requirement necessary to dream, Johanna?” “A requirement?” Johanna asked, “Everybody dreams all the time. What the hell are you even talking about?” “How do you know everybody dreams, Johanna?” Luke snapped, “Did you read it somewhere? Did you actually seem somebody physically dream? No-- you didn’t. You just assume that’s the case.” Luke and Johanna, both equally annoyed, just glared until Luke seemed to remember he was at his job. “The requirement of dreaming, Johanna,” Luke said, “Is a sufficient desire to process life. If the brain lacks the inclination to understand what’s going on around it, you end up here--TTA headquarters. It’s not like we recruited you here-- you showed up at the doorstep and we’re just here to guide you.” “Sounds like a creative way to describe dreaming,” Johanna said, “But let’s say you are just relaying facts. How do I know this isn’t a dream? And how could TTA change anything if it can only exist in sleep?” “To answer your first question, it doesn’t matter what you think. To answer your second question, dreams influence reality. Known here at TTA as an obvious truth, we call it DIR-- like the phrase “no der.” “Fu--,” Johanna started. “We don’t assassinate villains, sabotage nukes, or force a person to turn left instead of right. Instead, we identify the dream cycles of certain individuals at particular points and influence trajectory. We use dreams, of both good and bad people, to help their unconscious brain gravitate toward a desired outcome.” “Okay, I’ve heard enough,” Johanna said, “Send me--.” “Johanna, if you want to leave, leave,” Luke said as he raised an open hand toward a new door labeled “Home.” “The reason you’re here is because you want to escape your reality,” Luke said, “In the few moments you’re not zoned out in la-la land, you constantly try to manifest time to come to a halt. Well, time has come to a halt, literally.” Johanna pulled her stare away from Luke and directed it at the door. She contemplated the specific aspects of what it would mean to go home, turning back to Luke with a more accepting gaze. “Let me be blunt,” Luke said, “You waste the time you have on Earth. And here at TTA, we know you’ll continue to waste that time.” “I do not,” Johanna snapped. She wanted to follow up with an example, but couldn’t push anything out. Luke stared with true empathy in his eyes. “So what’s the ultimate sacrifice and why do you think I would even want to join this type of thing?” Johanna asked. “The ultimate sacrifice is your time,” Luke said, “Your time assisting with the progress of humanity at the TTA is deducted from your time allowed on Earth.” Luke provided a long pause for her to absorb the agreement proposed. “I’d also like to point out the same goes for me,” Luke said, “So I’d greatly appreciate you not wasting my sacrifice.” “That’s just crazy,” Johanna said, “I don’t want to end my life- or take years off my existence. I admit I’ve been disillusioned with, well everything lately, but I don’t want to die. There’s a million things I still want to do.” Luke smiled and said, “There’s a reason why the good always die young, Johanna. They are people exactly like you; full of beautiful intentions, intense emotions, and world-class abilities. But more often than not, those gifts become a curse when they lose somebody or something early in life. The inherent ability to make the world a better place is locked away, trapped in everlasting depression and unrelenting sadness. Here, we can remove those feelings and let you reach your potential.” Johanna clenched her jaw to stop the tears from falling. “Your mom was a lovely woman and she loved you more than anything in existence. She wouldn’t want you wasting your life.” Johanna burst into tears-- a full on stream. The tension that pulled her shoulders and neck since her mom’s first cancer diagnosis released, her body melting into the desk. “You were chosen because you can change the world and unlike most people, you don’t want recognition,” Luke said, “Altruism can’t be learned so when it is available, it can’t be wasted. If you were vain, you’d at least care about something, but you’re lost Johanna. You belong here.” Johanna’s vision, blurred by the bout of tears, cleared as she wiped her eyes and rose to her feet. “I’m done trying to escape. I’m done wasting my life,” Johanna said. “I’m glad you’re joining the team. I think you’ll love--“ “No,” Johanna said, “I’m going home. You were right about my Mom not wanting me to waste my life, but you didn’t know her. If she was here she would break your neck for trying to manipulate me when I’m this low. I don’t know what game you want me to play, but I’m out.” Johanna walked through the door and back into her reality, opening her eyes to find a glass of water on a hot summer day. She chugged it down and got up. # The instant Johanna walked through the door, a man dressed in an identical tuxedo to Luke swung it back open. “You truly are the master, Luke. The numbers are in and you’ve done it again. Humanity’s timeline extended 3.7%.” Luke manifested a clipboard out of thin air and broke it over his knee with jubilation. The other guy grabbed a child’s shirt out of his tuxedo. He put it on and preceded to hunch over and flex to rip it in half. The two performed a well-rehearsed hand shake and dance routine before Luke conjured a door labeled “Main Office.” They wrapped their arms around one another and walked on through. Operation #53: Final Progress Report “The JJ Special” Earth Time : 4:35 PM CST Earth Date: July 13th, 1997 Location of Adjustment: TTA Meeting Room “F” Individuals present: Agent Luke and Johanna Jackson AKA “JJ Special" Methods: Agent Luke created, organized, and completed operation “The JJ Special.” The agent staged a fake TTA interview for the subject, summoning her at a particularly vulnerable moment, shortly after the death of her mother. Agent utilized nostalgic smells and visuals within the environment to mimic the location where the subject first learned of her mother’s impending death. Agent instituted measures eliciting fear and helplessness in order for the subject to achieve an emotional breakthrough, thus avoiding a mediocre and ineffectual existence. Agent intentionally provided a lackluster performance and sales pitch to ensure the subject would not attempt to join TTA. Agent selected the emotion of anger as a primary motivator for subject moving forward. Subject departed TTA Meeting Room “F.” Agent removed visual and auditory memory of the subject per TTA protocol, but left emotional and subconscious memory intact to ensure the subject’s progress toward the designated TTA goal. Upon her return to consciousness, the subject’s preference for solitude and inaction diminished significantly. While the subject had lost desire to live by the time of intervention, the anger sparked during the session with the Agent became a place holder. Subject was subsequently radicalized by a number of TTA adjustment agents in relation to animal welfare and ethical responsibility at future vulnerable dates. Agents identified animal welfare and ethical responsibility as areas of opportunity based on the death of the subject’s mother (cancer related to factory farms). Actions by other TTA agents were undertaken with the intent of amplifying the magnitude of the subject’s actions on Earth and are not included in this report. Summary of Results: The subject is classified as a Category 1 super-influencer, single-handedly producing the largest positive impact in TTA history. Without intervention, it is estimated she would have left no lasting impact on humanity, likely succumbing to suicide by age 30. Subject achieved the Category 1 level of influence by disrupting current civilization’s dependence on the industrialized slaughter/consumption of animals. Subject terminated life functions for a total of 83 cattle farmers, 4 CEOs, and 2 politicians over the span of 43 years. The subject remained anonymous, even following her death. The subject’s actions did result in a brief period of increased political conflict, financial turmoil, and a number of false imprisonments, but all collateral damage was negligible. Initial report indicates 3.7% extension of the humanity timeline with a significant improvement in quality of life for all animals on Earth. Further reports should clarify the source of progress for extension, as TTA typically utilizes prevention measures and this operation had unexpected and wide-ranging implications. Unbeknownst to the agents at the start of the operation, the intervention led to drastic changes in climate control, ethical evolution, interplanetary travel, and technological progress.