NOTE: My main character describes a short scene involving suicide and gore on his phone. I was in my room on a late Friday morning (it was a Flex Day at Brennan’s Glenn High School, which meant school budget meetings and planning for the next school year—teachers get stuck in boring meetings all day and students get to stay home, except for the football team and cheer squad). I was listening to my music when the doorbell rang. I hit pause and removed my earphones to make sure it was the doorbell and not part of the music. After making sure that there really was someone at the door, I ran down the stairs to open it. “Yes?” I said, cocking my eyebrow at the mailman. “Delivery for Christopher Robinson?” the mailman said, dragging a long cardboard box onto our front porch. “Please sign here.” I caught a glimpse of the label on the package. Amazon. That was weird. “Hold up!” I said. “I didn’t order anything!” “Says here you did,” the mailman said shortly. “I certainly did not,” I denied. “There has to be a mistake.” “Nope,” the mailman replied. “No mistake. Just…sign the thing.” “Alright, fine,” I said with an exasperated sigh, taking the electronic pad from him. “But I am not happy about this. I’m returning this thing because there is no way in Hell that I ordered anything from Amazon.” “Up to you,” the mailman said laconically with a shrug before walking back to his truck. I shook my head and dragged the thing inside. Before I opened it, however, I went back upstairs to fire up my computer. The first thing I did was to check my bank account. See if there were any charges. Perhaps someone had gotten my card number and was using it to buy stuff. I had my card locked. The next thing I did was to contact Amazon—twice—once on the phone, and then by email, demanding to know what the Hell was going on. And then a thought occurred to me. What if this was a prank? So I called my best friend Antony, who was best known in the small town of Brennan’s Glenn as “Loki the Trickster God.” That kid has been pranking people since the day he learned how to walk! “Alright, bro, you got me,” I said with a sigh as soon as he picked up. “That was a really good prank.” “The Hell you talkin’ about, man?” he asked in confusion. “What prank? I haven’t planned any pranks in two years!” “So you didn’t order anything off of Amazon and had it shipped to my address?” I asked incredulously. “Heck no!” Antony protested. “Why would I waste my money on a prank?” “I don’t know,” I said. “You tell me. You’re the Master Prankster.” “I may be a prankster but I’m very careful with my money,” Antony answered. “I’m saving up for the future.” “If you say so,” I said with a shrug. “Wanna come over and see what this thing is? Open it with me? Maybe we can figure this mystery out together, you and me.” “Sure, why not?” Antony said. “I’ve got nothing better to do anyway.” Within ten minutes, Antony was walking up the pathway leading to our front porch, his skateboard under his arm. I opened the door before he could ring the bell. “Hey, Chris!” he greeted. “What you got?” “Check this out,” I said, ushering him in. “It came with a note.” “Whoso pulleth this sword out of this box and Styrofoam, is right wise king born of all England,” Antony said. “Now I see why you’d think it was a joke. Maybe it is. This one isn’t mine though. Let’s open it, shall we?” And open it we did. Or at least tried to. No matter how many times Antony hacked away at the tape with a kitchen knife, the thing wouldn’t budge. It was as if the tape was made of steel or something. “Here,” I said, palm open. “Give it.” Antony handed me the knife, and when I cut through the tape, the blade sailed through it like a hot knife on butter. I opened the package and pulled out the foam casing out of the box with ease. I removed the top layer, revealing the ornate sword within. I shot Antony a look and he nodded, attempting to take the sword out of the lower half of its Styrofoam prison. He failed miserably. He grunted and groaned, pulled and lifted. Nothing. The sword wouldn’t budge. “Wanna have a go at it?” Antony asked, motioning for me to try. “This is ridiculous,” I said, prying the gleaming weapon out of its foam prison. In one swift, fluid motion, I was able to do so and its grip fit right in my hand like a perfectly tailored glove. As soon as my right hand closed around the sword’s grip, I was transported to a time lost long ago and into the glorious fortress of Camelot. I found myself arrayed in royal robes of scarlet and gold with a solid gold circlet around my head. All around me were my knights. My dearest friends. Hidden enemies and secret traitors. Lancelot, Geraint, Gawain, Percival, Bors, Lamorak, Kay, Gareth, Bedivere, Gaheris, Galahad, Lucan, Dagonet, Mordred, Valiant, and Tristan. The bravest men—and women—I had ever known and ever had the privilege to fight alongside with. “Holy Mother of Helga Hufflepuff!” Antony said, kneeling on the floor with one knee and bowing his head, snatching me up out of my reverie. I stared at him for five seconds too long and he felt the daggers I was throwing with my eyes. He looked up. “What? What is it?” he asked in alarm. “I was—am—King Arthur,” I said, trying very hard to swallow the bitter gall rising in my throat. I’m sure the sudden disgust was evident on my face. It all made sense now. His intense infatuation on Ellie made absolutely perfect sense in that moment. He has never stopped loving her. Not in 800 years. Or more. My Ellie. My Guinevere. “Holy Hufflepuff!” he said in awe. “Does that mean—” “Yes,” I said with a nod, immediately understanding his unfinished question. “Holy crap!” he exclaimed. “So Ellie is—” “Yes, she is,” I said with another nod. “Oh, wow,” he whispered with a breathy exhale. “Yep,” I said. “And my sister Caitlyn was…is Sir Kay.” “Get outta here!” Antony said. “No freaking way! Shut the front door!” “And you’ll never guess who Sir Bors is in this lifetime,” I added. “Who?” Antony asked, his pitch rising, just how it rises every time he is curious or excited. “Who is Sir Bors?” “Cody,” I said with a smile. “Cody as in… Our neighbor Cody?” Antony guessed. “Cody as in Caitlyn’s boyfriend Cody?” “One and the same,” I said with a nod. “Interesting,” Antony thought out loud with the side of his curled index finger on his lips and his thumb on his cheek. “I did not see that one coming.” “Neither did I,” I said, turning the sword and examining it. “That was an unexpected revelation. I never thought I’d say this, but… I kinda ship them.” “Cody and Caitlyn?” Antony asked. “Or Sir Bors and Sir Kay?” “Both,” I answered. “Here, check this out! There’s something written on both sides of the blade. It’s in runes though, so I can’t read it.” “Take me up, cast me away,” a deep booming voice came from behind us and Antony and I both jumped a foot in the air, Excalibur at ready. I trained my sword at the old man suddenly standing before us. “Who are you?” I asked. “Explain yourself! Where did you come from and how did you get in here? Start talking before I call the cops!” “My name is Merlin,” the old man said. “And I have been with you since you were a boy.” When he saw the confusion on my face, Merlin shifted forms, growing smaller and smaller, eventually turning into my cat, Mr. Spock. “Spock?” I said in surprise. “No,” he said, his little cat lips moving. “Merlin.” It was super weird. I had never seen a talking cat before. I mean, I’ve seen Salem on TV, but that was fiction. I’ve never heard of or seen a talking cat in real life. And with that, the wizard morphed from his cat form to his true form—a tall old man with a flowing white beard that seemed to glow in the late morning sun, dressed in purple and silvery robes. “The Awakening has begun,” the wizard said cryptically. “The Awakening?” I asked. “ What awakening?” “Mordred has risen from the grave to seek his last revenge,” Merlin warned. “He brings with him his army of Sleepers.” “Sleepers?” Antony asked. “Dead rotting men who rise from the grave,” Merlin answered. “And whose sole purpose is to feed on the flesh of the living.” “Really?” I said with a humorless laugh. “A zombie apocalypse? Get outta here!” “If what you say is true, then it would have been big news,” Antony interjected. “Why isn’t it on the news? Why hasn’t anyone heard about it yet? Surely everyone would have known by now.” “This realm’s present government is trying to suppress it,” the wizard answered. “So as not to create a panic. But a panic is inevitable. They cannot keep this hidden for long. The end of the world is also inevitable. Unless you stop it.” “You’ve clearly got the wrong guy,” I protested. “I mean, why me? I’m not even British! I’m American! I’m just a regular small town guy from Brennan’s Glenn, Washington.” “You have always been the Chosen One, Arthur,” Merlin said. “And the time of your return is at hand. Excalibur chose you once before because of your purity of heart. It chose you again for this very same reason. England’s need is greatest. The world’s need is greatest. You hold the key to stopping the extermination of all mankind in your very hands.” “What’s my mission?” I asked. “You must raise an army of your own to stave off Mordred’s undead horde,” Merlin answered. “Well, you have me,” Antony said, kneeling before me again. “Say the word and I will fight for you— with you .” “What about the rest of the Knights of the Round Table?” I asked. “I mean, there’s my sister and her boyfriend, but I’m not sure how I can convince them.” “They shall know you by your sword,” Merlin said. “When you raise your sword, your men will fall at your feet.” “What am I supposed to do?” I asked. “Run around like a madman with a sword? I’d be arrested! ” The old wizard smiled and turned Excalibur into a pen. Right… Because the pen is mightier than the sword. Of course. Perfect disguise. Also, Percy Jackson vibes right there! “Once you have summoned the Knights, I want you to take Sir Lancelot, Sir Bors, and Sir Kay,” Merlin instructed. “A private ship awaits you in the harbour. You are to set sail for the Orkney Islands.” “Orkney Islands?” Antony said. “Why? What’s there in Orkney?” “Long ago, Arthur’s sister Morgan placed a strong sleeping curse on sixty-five thousand knights and men-at-arms,” Merlin explained. “There they lie in an enchanted cave in the Orkney Islands to this very day. The entrance to the cave is sealed with nearly unbreakable chains reinforced with the darkest of magic. Only a drop of blood from Arthur’s pricked finger can break the chains and wake the sleeping knights. You need to free them if you are to win against Mordred’s damned forces.” “Alrighty then,” I said. “No pressure. Just another normal day for a high school senior.” “Who did you see in your vision earlier?” Antony asked. “Maybe we can narrow it down, figure out who the rest of the Knights are. Then we can call or text them to meet up somewhere—the park?” “No,” I said, shaking my head. “Too risky. What if Mordred has spies? We need to meet somewhere safe. Somewhere hidden.” “The New Hope Lutheran basement!” Antony suddenly said. “I remember seeing a round table there once.” “Perfect,” I said. “Text or call anyone you can to meet us there.” “What time are we meeting?” Antony asked. “7:45,” I said. “How long do we have until this blows out into the open, Merlin?” Antony asked. “You have two and twenty days,” Merlin answered. “Mordred’s army of Sleepers is growing by the minute.” “Twenty-two days to raise an army?” I said. “Twenty-two days to whip them into shape? Are you serious right now?” “You can do it,” Antony said, putting a firm hand on my shoulder. “ We can do it. I believe in us.” “Thank you, Antony,” I said. “Call me Lancelot,” he said with a smile. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I said with a laugh. “I haven’t knighted you yet.” “You can knight me now,” Antony said, kneeling once more. “You have your sword.” “Very well,” I said, clicking my pen twice to turn it into Excalibur. Then I placed the flat of its blade on Antony’s right shoulder and then his left. “Rise, Sir Lancelot… Knight of Camelot!” That afternoon, we spent hours making a list and then contacting those on that list, telling them to meet us in the basement of New Hope Lutheran. When the hour had finally come, we all gathered in that dim church basement, seated around a circular wooden table with adjustable metal legs. “What’s this all about?” my twin sister Caitlyn asked. “Why are we all here?” “Yeah,” Cody said, “I had to leave football practice early tonight. Good thing Coach was in a good mood today.” “Yeah, me too!” Cody’s friend and teammate Craig said. “I had to leave football practice early! Coach told us not to make a habit of it.” “The world is in trouble,” I said, putting my phone in the middle of the table. I pressed play on a video that I had ready. It was the news. The clip was of a scene in New York City were three people—two men and one woman—were devouring a young man in the back of a car in front of a café. Up above, glass windows bodies were falling. People tried to escape the Sleepers the only way they knew how—killing themselves. “And only we can stop it—together.” “We? Hold on a minute, George Washington!” Craig said. “What do you mean by ‘we’? Who’s we? What’s this got to do with us.” “I hold the key to keeping the darkness at bay,” I said, clicking my pen twice, revealing its true form, the mighty Excalibur. At the sight of my sword held aloft, everyone present stood up from their seats and fell to the floor, kneeling. “Long live the king!” Caitlyn said, and all the rest picked up the cry. “Long live the king!” “Mordred is out for blood—my blood,” I said loudly, my voice echoing in that small basement room. “He is raising an army of the dead called Sleepers. They are moving fast. We have twenty-two days to raise an army and face Mordred and his evil horde of zombie knights—and the unfortunate regular people who have been turned into Sleepers. Who’s with me?” “I am!” Craig shouted proudly. One by one, they shouted their allegiance. “I am! I am! We are!” I went around the table, knighting everyone present except for Antony, who I had knighted earlier that day. Then I pulled Caitlyn and Cody aside, just as Merlin had instructed, and told them of our mission to the Orkney Islands. “Who’s going to help train the others while we’re away on this mission?” Cody asked. “Sir Tristan—Jeremy—is more than capable enough,” I said. “I trust him. He’ll have them ready in no time.” “That’s good,” Cody said. “So! What time do we leave tomorrow and which port do we sail from?” “Merlin said it was docked at the Bremerton marina,” I replied. “And we leave at the crack of dawn. The earlier, the better.” That Caitlyn, Cody, Antony, and I packed our bags and caught a few hours of ample sleep. We drove to Bremerton very early in the morning, walked down the dock in search of the yacht, and found it in the very last berth. “Is this it?” Caitlyn asked. “Merlin said its name was the Prydwen II ,” Antony responded. “So this must be it.” “He said the captain would meet us here,” I said. “Where is he then?” Antony asked. “Patience, Mr. Ross,” the captain replied, coming down the gangway to meet us. “Morning, gents! Miss! Welcome aboard the Prydwen II !” I didn’t recognize him at first without the long flowing beard, but it was Merlin in another one of his many disguises. He was dressed like an old sea captain with a short properly trimmed beard, complete with a wooden pipe and peacoat. Merlin helped us onto the yacht, starting with Antony, followed by Cody, and then Caitlyn. I was the last to board. I was suddenly having second thoughts about this whole thing. I briefly looked back before stepping aboard. That’s when I saw a Sleeper, its eyes fixed on its victim. Then came the woman’s scream. “Go! Go!” I said, turning to the others. “I’ll catch up with you!” “Chris! Don’t!” Antony shouted. “There’s no time!” Cody said. “We have to hurry!” Too late. I was running down the gangplank and down the dock, Excalibur drawn from its scabbard and held high above my head. I let out a beastly scream as I charged forward swished my sword in the air, lopping off the head of the offending Sleeper. But he wasn’t the only one. There was another, and then another, and then another. Soon, I was surrounded. But when things looked grimmest, Merlin and my knights stood bravely by my side.


I jolt awake laying on the cold, barren floor; Dust littering the room. I stand on wobbly legs, shaking from the lack of use. My eyes. They strain, adjusting to the darkness. I trace the edges of the walls to find anything of use, to help me escape from this hell hole. My fingers. They discover a wooden door embedded into the coarse surface of the walls. I push. The door opens; creaking as it swings on its hinges. I peer into the empty void before me questioning whether to step through or not. I walk forward. I appear in another room, staring at the same barren walls with the same bleak and unwelcoming atmosphere. It's identical to it's predecessor, apart from the scratch marks dotting the room and the bloody smiles painted everywhere. I began my search again. Speeding up the process so I could leave and return home. I passed through the newly discovered doorway and landed in a pile of bottles. No ordinary bottles... pill bottles. Pills prescribed to me. I scramble, stumbling over the mess and launch over to the door. What was all this for? I didn't even take these meds. I need to leave. Again I search, tracing the outer edges of the room - hoping to find anything again. My feet kicking at the strewn Bottles on the floor. My fingers uncover the familiar door, the same as the one I entered through, however this one is closed. I never remembered closing the door upon entering. I push it open. I am greeted with that blackened mass once again. I step through, this time the room has changed. The floor... it's no longer the floor. The whole room has been flipped upside down. The single lightbulb extending from the ceiling, that now has become the floor, flickered. Blinking. I stare around me. The walls are no longer barren. Scratches and words are scraped into the wallpaper. My fingers glide over the surface. "Don't stop" "Don't turn back" "You're so close" "Don't try and stop this, you can't stop me" "you. can't. stop. us." The words. They're a message for me. Dried blood spots stained the wallpaper and inbetween the carvings My own name was etched beneath every message. Who was leaving these? How did they know me? Who else is here? I was scared. I was cold. I thought I was alone. There's someone or something else inside this god forsaken hell hole. I didn't want to be alone with it. Then the light wavered and was snuffed out. It had been no more than 3 seconds when the light bloomed once again. This time the room had changed again. It no longer had the writing and deep scratch marks. It no longer was upturned. It was plain and dark and cold. I frantically search around the edges of the room to find another doorway, shredding off the wallpaper in the process. The familiar sight of the wooden door greeted me. I threw it open gladly, throwing myself inside and stumbling once I hit the floor. I stood, dusting myself off, and glanced around the room. Bodies lay piled up, bones scattered far and wide, blood soaked into the floor boards, staining them a deep shade of crimson. Bile rose in my throat, but I couldn't help but smile. I turned away in disgust and horror, trying to block out the image. I felt something heavy in my hands and looked down. A bloody knife lay in my hand. My fingers were curled around it like it had done so many times before, I stopped and blinked and everything was gone. A blackened doorway lay before me, beckoning me to open it. I slowly walked towards it, hoping this was the end. I looked around me, taking in the new room. A single table, with two chairs, sat in the center, on top of a dark red carpet with the words "stop trying" on it I step back and gasp in confusion and terror. I blinked. The carpet no longer had the words written on it. I didn't stay for long, immediately flinging open the door, that lay beyond the seats with the words "Exit" printed boldly on it. I stopped. I was forced to stop as once I had opened the doorway, a black writhing mass, slowly stepped out. It spoke. It sounded just like me, but with a venom laced tone. It spoke to me. It looked like me yet it didn't. It had black hollow eyes, that bore into your soul. I looked down at my hands and... smiled. A bright genuine smile. A smile full of evil and happiness. My hands no longer trembled. My voice no longer wavered. What was I thinking? I looked up, I stepped forward and finally embraced what was rightfully mine. After all, what was I thinking? No one can escape their insanity ————————————————— If you want more cool and creepy stories like this, go check out my subreddit r/StoriesByHolmes. I’m working on posting a variety of stories from fantasy to horror to creepy and crime filled.


I remember that the room smelled of death. Not in a sickly way, but like dust; like sadness. And it didn’t just stay in your room, as I wished it would, but it filled the whole house, seeping through the hallway into my bedroom as well. Even when I tried to open my windows, get the fresh air from three stories up, the smell of your death mixed with the breeze and made it smell like dust; like sadness. It made me sick, the way stagnant air does, or the way the cat dandruff at Grandpa’s house did.  And of course, you slept through most of it.  I thought about wearing a mask indoors in those first days that they shut us inside. Of course, back then - in the first few months of the lockdown - the official reccomendation had been to not wear a mask (If only we had known!). I tried to put one on, an old N95 mask, that I had lying around. I nearly choked. The air just got harder to breathe, but it was still the same air, stagnant and sickly. I cursed the windows of our apartment for being so large and opening so little.  I brought plants into your room thinking it would cheer you up. You smiled when I brought them in, a soft murmur of thanks. Your hair was grey, like a Grandmother’s hair, except you weren’t a grandmother: you were just my mom and I was just your son. People say we have the same face, except back then, yours was fragile and tired. I tried my best to ignore the smell, the aura of death, pulling up a wooden chair, the one that had been in your room for as long as I could remember, and sat down next to your bed. I held each plant up to you, one at a time. “This is a succulent. They’re all the rage now among young people because you don’t have to water them very much.” I looked down: “James gave it to me.” “James? What a sweet boy. You don’t still talk to him, do you?” “Mom...” “Alright, then.” “You can grow succulents by cutting off parts of the stem and replanting them. Isn’t that cool?” “Why would you want more of the same succulent?” you said, confused and a little amused. “Maybe so we could have two. One for each room. Then I could have one in my room and you could have one in here.” “No, that would be a waste of pots. There are other plants.” “Alright then.” I reached down and held up another pot. “This one is a Bird’s Nest Fern. It needs to be watered and pruned all the time. If it doesn’t get enough sunlight, it’ll die immediately. Super high maintenance.” “What a stupid plant. I can’t imagine how it survived before humans decided to care for it.” You said, and it made me smile a bit. After holding them up to you, and hearing your opinions on all of them, I set the five plants - another succulent, a jade plant, and some lucky bamboo - on your great big windowsill that looked out to the sky. Did I ever tell you that you were a great interior decorator? I think that’s what you should’ve done, instead of going out and getting your doctorate to work with kids. I loved the creaminess of our apartment. The tasteful simplicity of the plain wooden furniture. Minimal photos too. I liked that: not being able to see myself, or that it was just the two of us in the family. I was always jealous of your room. I had always wanted a faded pink comforter, just like yours, but I had always been too afraid to ask. Your queen bed, giving the perfect view of the window: I wanted that too. I wanted tasteful simplicity in my life. Adding the plants to your room made me happy: a minor improvement to an already beautiful room; the greens of the plants fit the creamy walls and made the room feel a little bit less pale.  I didn’t realize how hard it would be to water them once I left them in your room.  During that time, I wandered around the apartment, silently drifting from room to room - all of them bathed in the same warm sunlight - constantly checking my phone. I’m sure everyone else was too, except for you. The virus didn’t mean much to you, given that you hadn’t left the apartment or your bed in weeks anyway, but I wanted to get outside so badly. I wanted fresh air, and to get away from death, but I didn’t, because I knew if I caught the virus, you’d die even faster and in pain. Maybe it was the silence that got to me. It made the air feel so much more still without the constant hum of engines or the honking of cars outside. There were no voices to make their way into our house from the street, and barely any footsteps either. In the apartment, it was just you, me, and the low hum of the refrigerator that reminded me of the time Grandpa died.  When you were asleep, I’d come in with my tiny watering pot and spray bottle. I’d only come in when you were asleep, which was hard to tell a lot of the time since being asleep and awake was more-or-less the same for you. I’d skirt around your door, peeking in sideways, listening for the rustle of covers. You’d be lying there, eyes closed. Just when I’d think you were asleep, one foot in the room, you’d say out loud: “Daniel? Is that you?” knowing perfectly well that it was. I shuffled into the room, uncomfortably, “Hey mom.” After a pause, I said, “Would you like to see videos that Davis sent me? They’re videos of downtown. Times Square is empty right now.” You weren’t interested, but you pretended you were: “The Governor has mandated the lockdown, right?” “Yeah. All non-essential services are closed.” “What counts as essential?” “Supermarkets, doctor’s offices, banks, gardening…” “Gardening?” “Yup, gardening.” “Just let the plants die,” you said with a snort. Then, after a pause, you corrected yourself: “Well, not these plants Daniel. Not the ones in my room.”  Those weeks were claustrophobic, but they also felt timeless. How do you explain to friends that you’re stuck inside with your dying mother who seems to have no intention of dying or getting better? Or that you’re deathly afraid of the future where your mom doesn’t exist? I think our days kind of fell into a routine because I honestly don’t know how many days passed. You’d sleep, and I’d try to find ways to entertain myself. The only time I’d go into your room would be to water the plants or bring you food or water. Instead, I listened to music. I read books. I tried to write some poems (thank God you never read them), but no matter how long I occupied myself for, it would still be daytime, and sunlight would still be shining through the windows. I’d give up then, and spend the rest of the day studying how that light entered the room. Where it landed on the floor fascinated me: I liked how it warmed the parts it landed on and how the rays reflected off the wood. Then I’d make you some food, almost always soup.  The plants began to thrive. You seemed to like that. A little bit of life in a room that had the air of death. I tried to get birds to sit out on your windowsill so that you’d have something to watch and so that I wouldn’t feel so bad avoiding you. I set seeds and bits of food out on the windowsill, but the only birds that came were pigeons that would fly away as soon as they had finished eating. I should have known - that only the pigeons in New York City would come - but then again, I was twenty-two and what did I know about the world? You slept through most of the bird feedings anyways. “Daniel?” “Yes?” I said, bent over by the windowsill. “Did you ever watch that movie, that one about the gay, black man in Florida?” “No, what’s it called?” I said, slightly amused and knowing perfectly well that she meant *Moonlight*. “I don’t know. It’s about a gay, black man in Florida. I think Miami.” “Mom, just because I’m gay doesn’t mean that I have to watch every gay movie out there.” “Alright. Well I want to watch it.” That night, I sat in your room with you, with me in the chair I always sat in, you buried underneath faded pink covers, and we watched *Moonlight* on my laptop. I felt a sly smile from you when Kevin and Chiron kissed but pretended not to notice. “The movie was boring.” “I liked it a lot.” “That’s just because you’re gay.” “No, I thought it was thoughtful.” “And I thought it was boring.”  No one knew that you were dying really. You and I were alike in that we didn’t have many friends. Anyways, they couldn’t have come over at the time: you must’ve picked the worst time to die, just when no one could leave their house to watch you. The only audience you had was me and the plants and the pigeons, and the pigeons and I didn’t want to watch.  I remember when Grandpa died, in the hospital, surrounded by nurses and doctors with the lights dimmed down. There was that periodic beeping and also the sound of his breath. I sat in the corner: he was hooked up to wires and tubes all over his body, held alive only by the forced expansion and compression of an external lung. I had looked away as a kid.  Anyways.  I remember that the day that you died, while I watered the plants, you asked me, “Daniel, have you ever fallen in love?” You caught me off guard. It was the most sensitive question you had ever asked me. I told you that I think I had before. “That’s good. That’s good,” you murmured, in silent contemplation. You smiled a bit. Then you said, louder, “Was it James?” “No, it wasn’t James.” “Maybe you should fall in love with James. He’s a great gay boy.” “Mom!” I left the room, embarrassed. What I didn’t tell you then was that my heart had been broken and that I didn’t think I would ever be able to love again. That I was afraid that no one would ever be right for me. I remember reading stories where death brings about a particular candor: people confessing their deepest secrets to each other, and I wish it had been the same for us because there were so many things I wanted to tell you. I wish I told you what it felt like growing up without a dad or any siblings. That I used to feel like maybe if a dad had taught me how to change the oil in a car, or maybe if a sibling had taught me how to wrestle or fight, I wouldn’t have felt so defenseless and helpless all the time. But you taught me softness and sweetness, and how to treat people kindly. I wish I told you how I graduated high school without ever going to the cafeteria because if I had sat with the girls, I would have been laughed at for sitting with the girls, and if I sat with the boys, I would have been laughed at for being a boy who should have been sitting with the girls. But I got to sit down with you every night instead. And I wish I told you how upset I felt every time you scared those delinquent boys off with your wittiness and your motherly gaze. But I know that you just wanted the best for me, and maybe you were right: those boys weren't right for me anyway.  So thanks, you did your best.  That afternoon, I slipped into your room silently while you were sleeping, not to water the plants, not to bring you food, but just because you were in there. The air was so still and the room so pleasantly warm. I watched you sleep for a while, in that chair that I always sat in. Then, I got up and lay down next to you on the bed, above the covers. We formed two parallel lines, one on top of the covers, one buried beneath, but still pointed in the same direction, always together. Staring up at the ceiling, I studied the room from the angle you had become so accustomed to. In the corner of the ceiling, there was a single cobweb. I imagined its maker was beautiful and delicate. I imagined myself, being beautiful and delicate. Then I studied the way the light illuminated the room, watching, as the sun seemed to creep up the opposite wall. I fell asleep like that.  I dreamed the most beautiful dream. It was filled with abstraction and light. You were there too, in the form of a ball of warmth and sunlight. We were in a garden, plants sprouting up from the wet soil, and I held you close to my heart.  When I woke up, the sun was setting and a thin layer of dust had blanketed the floor and you had died.  Mom.  Mother.  Fast forward four years. When I look back now, I think about how you acted in that bed and how you never talked about how you were dying. I realize that all the small talk - all the little prods you gave me - were all meant to make it easier on me. Because you knew. You knew that I was just a boy, afraid of death, and locked in an apartment with his dying mother: God, I was afraid. Given the irony of the situation, you must’ve been howling on the inside!  Mother.  I’ll always wish I told you everything I had the chance to, but hopefully, this is a start. It took me a while, but I’m a man now, moving out of his apartment that he and his mother called home for so long. And he’s taking the plants with him; his mom was never a fan of them anyway. So I’m in my car - your car - driving out to California, and maybe you’ll always be dying out east, but I'm moving out west to write poems and stories. They’re going to be beautiful, just like you were. I take in a deep breath and the air feels fresh and pure.  I can’t wait to tell you about the people I’ve yet to meet and the memories I’ve yet to make.


The song, "" by Petit Biscuit basically forced me to write this:  Your wife is on her deathbed and the doctors say she hasn't got much time left. One day, you're sitting next to her. She's asleep, and even though you know she can't feel you there, you can't bear the thought of leaving her... until suddenly a portal opens up in the middle of the hospital room. Through it, you hear your wife's voice. One you never thought you would hear again. She says that if you come through the portal with the thing she treasured most in life she can be with you again. You can hardly believe it. Is this a hallucination? It must be. Still, you gently grab your wife's hand, which has gone frail and thin from months in a hospital bed, and slide off her wedding ring. You go through the portal and end up in a mysterious, lonely land.  Everything in it is foreign to you. The trees have red leaves, lined in gold, and every time you see an animal, it appears as hardly anything but a shadow. You hear whispers and get a general feeling of where to go, and for the first time in almost a year, you feel hope. You believe you'll get to see her again. You journey for days, eating strange fruit that grew off those strange, impossible trees in this endless forest. Your determination never wavers, not even when you get swarmed by shadowy wolves or when you nearly fell into a pit that was so deep you could not see its bottom. You met several other travelers along the way, all of whom were in search of what they most loved. "Someone please help me! I can't find my brother! Please!" Screamed a young man in a wheelchair. He had a dog-tag around his neck and a photo crumpled in his too thin hand. "My daughter," said the woman in white. She clutched a small, pink rabbit in her hand as she spoke. "I haven't seen her in weeks... She's only four years old. I... I heard her here." "I need to find them. I need to find them... they were hurt. Where did they go?" muttered a man in a tattered shirt. Fresh burns crawled up his hands, stopping at his forearms, but he scarcely seemed to notice. He carried a doll, a plastic car, and a delicate teacup in his arms. They were the hardest obstacles to ignore, but the voice urged you on. All those who strayed off the path became lost irrevocably in the woods, and no matter what you did, they would never come back. It took weeks to finally get through the forest, and when you did, you were met with an empty sea and an alter, sitting right in the middle of it. The voice was silent, but you were determined. You... you could see *her*. You rush forward and are shocked to find that your feet do not sink through the water. It springs beneath your feet, but the eerily clear and fishless sea does not give. You reach the alter, and she is as beautiful as the day you married her. Her skin is no longer palid and grey, her body no longer a fragile skeleton under hospital sheets. You slide the ring onto her finger... And then you're back in the hospital. She is awake, only a little, and smiles at you. Did it work? Was it all a dream? Dear god, please... please don't take her away. She weakly moves her hand towards yours, and you clutch onto it like you'll die if you let go. "Sleep," she whispers. "I want you to fall asleep next to me, just like always..." She goes limp, and you notice for the first time that the hand you hold has no warmth. She was gone, and had been for hours... Her ring is gone.


Right after Sam helped me up, I felt myself being swept into yet another strange, otherworldly dimension. Yet, the grasp felt *different.* Not one of malice or malignancy, but one of whimsy and just a hint of untapped insanity. Eventually, I was deposited onto a couch within a rather cozy little apartment room. I looked around frantically, trying to figure out what was going on. “Yes, yes, I’m sure you’re very confused and all, but please do try and adjust yourself.” A college-aged girl stood in front of a blackboard, her— “Hey. No describing us in the narration.” The girl rapped her pointer against the blackboard, a frown clouding her face. “I’m Lothli, and that over there is Maishul.” I followed her pointer to see what seemed to be an identical twin to the first girl, strapped to a chair with duct tape. Strangely, her mouth was straight up *missing.* She wasn't *struggling* or anything, just kind of sitting there limply, rolling her eyes. I got the general feeling that she wasn’t in any sort of real danger; it was more of an ‘oh god, here we go again’ type of mood. “Right, she’s tied up only because she would start bombarding you with uncomfortable questions if I let her speak. Now, on to the lesson.” The blackboard sprung to life, animating squiggles of chalk onto the board. In a few seconds, it shifted to say: “SHAPESHIFTING 101: The Square-Cube Law and You!” “Right, so something very important that you’ll have to grasp, Charlie, is the Square-Cube Law. It’s a law that governs the amount of mass within you and how it’ll translate to how you shapeshift into different pounds. So, since you’re 135 pounds—” Wait. Wait wait wait. Not only did this weirdo know my *nickname*, but she also knew how much I *weigh*? I didn’t know how she got this information, and I was beginning to feel a little concerned. “Stop worrying about insignificant things, Charlie. Now, say you wanted to transform into a rat—” “What!? I can turn into animals? I thought it was just changing my face and all that,” I exclaimed. “Yes, yes.” Lothli sighed before waving her hands at the blackboard. “Let me explain. First of all, you’re now a changeling. That means that you’re basically a skinbag packed full of this weird crystalline liquid that can reshape yourself at will.” The blackboard shifted to display a cuttlefish colored in with glittery blue chalk, titled with “✨Charlie!!!!!✨” A rather *disconcerting* image, to say the least. “Maishul, stop drawing on the blackboard. Sorry about that.” With a second wave of the hand, the image once again redrew itself to be a much more understated anatomical human colored in with a nice, sedated blue. Still somewhat disconcerting. “Anyways, that means you can change into basically anything you want. But you still have to obey conservation of mass, so the size may be radically different than what you may imagine.” Lothli snapped her fingers, and what appeared to be a regularly-sized rat appeared, floating in midair. Within moments, however, the rat began to rapidly spin in circles, with a caption titling it as “rapdly spinnin rat.” Yes, that was how it was spelled. “Ahem, apologies.” Frowning, Lothli stared at the rat until it decelerated, waving away the caption as well. “Well, since you’re 135 pounds, that puts you at just about 2.14 cubic feet of Charlotte.” “A rat is essentially a cylinder about 2 inches high and 8 inches long, disregarding the tail, which contains a relatively minor amount of mass. We can use that, along with the formula for a cylinder, to calculate the volume of rat Charlie.” The blackboard shifted again, showing two mathematical formulas: h = 8 * r 2.14 = πr^(2)h “Now, we substitute r for h…” 2.14 = 8πr^3 “And then solve for r!” r^3 = 2.14/8π r^3 = 0.085 r = 0.440 “Plug that back into h…” h = 0.440 * 8 h = 3.520 “So, in conclusion, if you turned into a rat, you’d be around 0.8 feet tall and around 3.5 feet long. Does that make sense?” I stared at the blackboard. My magical powers… it all came down to *math*? Something about that was faintly irritating. “Anyways, time for you to turn into a rat. Chop chop now!” Lothli stared at me impatiently, but I didn’t really want to transform into a rat. I mean, aren’t they kind of gross? I— “If you don’t turn into a rat, I’ll do it for you. And you don’t want to be transformed by my hand, trust me.” The twin’s voice was underpinned by a vague, menacing shade. No, I did *not* want to experience that. I closed my eyes and pictured a rat in my mind. Ordinary little rat. Brown fur, tail, all that jazz. When I opened my eyes, I found myself lower to the ground. It felt…strange, to say the least. My fur definitely felt different from my clothes. “Hmm. Alright, let’s see how close we were.” Suddenly, holographic rulers sprung up around me. I squeaked in surprise. “Ahh. 0.8 feet by 3.4 feet. I assume that extra bit of mass was distributed to your tail and the volume of your fur, perhaps.” At that moment, Maishul began emitting an irritating on repeat. I had no idea about *how* she was doing it, especially without a mouth, but doing it she was. And it was horribly irritating. “Okay! Okay! Have your mouth back! Gah!” Lothli snapped her fingers, and Maishul’s mouth manifested back onto her face. Immediately, she shouted, “If you turned into a human cell, you’d be around 163 miles wide!!” …What? I could do that? I mean— “Don’t try it. Seriously. I don’t want to rebuild this apartment. And scrub the minds of the ungodly number of random people who would see that crap.” Lothli shook her head. “I think it’s about time you go back to your serial. Well, we’ll see if we need to grab Sam next…” “Huh?! Don’t you *dare* touch Sam—” With that, the invisible hand from before grabbed me, dragging me back from whence I came. But at least I knew the exact dimensions I would take if I transformed into a rat. *** WC: 1061 Charlie is from u/fhangrin’s serial, .


Sean has a problem. He isn’t ideal. He doesn’t like the reflection in the mirror. Sean's days unfold like a monotonous reel, each moment overshadowed by the persistent weight of dissatisfaction. The mirror. Oh, you unforgiving portal! You reflect not just the physical form but also the echoes of unmet aspirations and broken promises Sean made to himself. As he stands before it each morning, there's an unspoken dialogue between Sean and the mirror—a silent confrontation with the version of himself he wishes were different. Yet, Sean's journey is not just about appearances; it's a pilgrimage through the corridors of self-perception and resilience. The reflection he despises conceals layers of untold stories. The romances, the failures, the sweet victories, the incessant battle for some self-esteem. Each perceived flaw is a scar from the wars he has fought, a testament to the struggles written into the very fabric of his being. It is dark out. In these quiet hours, Sean contemplates the subconscious split between who he is and who he longs to be. The desire for change simmers within, a flame flickering in the shadows, only the darkness seems to creep up upon him like those shadows in the movie Ghosts , the playful creatures from the underbelly of hell. It's as if the very shadows that dance on the periphery of Sean's consciousness take on a mischievous life of their own. They play with his vulnerabilities, whispering doubts and temptations that echo louder than the voice of reason. So where do we begin about the allure of the cheeseburger which has got Sean in a mess? The cheeseburger, in his eyes, is an enchanting feast that beckons with an irresistible allure. It is a symphony of scents that serenades his senses, a harmonious composition of sizzling meat and bread. It is a seductive symphony. It is Al Pacino doing the Tango . It swirls through the air like an intoxicating virus, infiltrating every corner of his consciousness, leaving an indelible mark on the desires that lurk beneath. This olfactory virus is more than a scent; it's a parade. It is flamboyant and loud. As Sean breathes in the fragrant tendrils of the cheeseburger's allure, he finds himself ensnared in a sensory tale, where each aromatic note contributes to the crescendo of desire. Sean falters. Each layer of the cheeseburger, like a love letter penned by Romeo, reveals a story of flavors and textures that harmonize in a passionate embrace. Sean tries to reclaim control over his senses. It's a battle waged within the confines of his own desires. He summons the strength to resist, clenches his fists and steels himself against the pervasive aroma that threatens to compromise his resolve. But the yellow of the melted cheese is too much to ignore. Like a dream, Sean falls into the decadent cascade glistening in the warm embrace of the cheeseburger, its vibrant hue is like a visual symphony, an artistic masterpiece that dances with the sizzling notes of savory anticipation. Yet, as he confronts the cheeseburger's golden delight, Sean's internal conflict intensifies. The yellow becomes a metaphor for the sunshine of momentary pleasure, casting shadows on the path toward losing weight. Sean wants to chart his own course but the yellow of the melted cheese, its radiant hue, like a beacon of indulgence, casts shadows on the path he aspires to tread. As he contemplates the molten treasure, the yellow takes on an ominous significance, a symbol of falling deeper into the abyss of habits from which he fears he may never emerge transformed. “Well, well, Mr. Cheeseburger, you sure know how to make an entrance. Why don’t you come with a warning label? May cause sudden cravings, impromptu debates with oneself, and occasional fits of food poetry,” he said, chuckling at his own jest, refusing to turn on the lights, he sits there in the dark acknowledging the absurdity of this internal struggle. “Seriously, though, if you were a motivational speaker, I'd be in trouble. "Unlock your inner potential with every bite!" I can almost hear it. Sean stands on the precipice, recognizing the yellow of the melted cheese not just as a visual feast but as a symbol of the internal abyss he fears—where the pursuit of change may be lost to the gravitational pull of familiar comforts. Suddenly, a sense of helplessness cuts through the witty façade and sweeps over him. The aroma, rather than being a playful adversary, becomes a relentless reminder of a struggle that extends beyond the culinary realm. Sean, in a moment of vulnerability, lets out a sigh, his jesting tone giving way to a more somber reality. “It is not just about you. It's about me. About this endless dance I'm stuck in. It's like, I'm wrestling shadows. The more I want to change, the more I find myself sinking into this pit. “It's not just about not giving you up; it's about the willingness to fight. And lately, that willingness feels like it's slipping away, drowned out by this overwhelming sense of despair. It's like standing at the edge of a vast abyss, and no matter how much I want to climb out, it feels impossible. “You're a mirror reflecting a fight I'm losing, and it scares the hell out of me.” The cheeseburger, it is a love story, after all. It eventually ends in a savory embrace. Sean, with a quiet determination, takes a deep breath, his gaze fixed on the cheeseburger. “This may be the greatest love story after all. But not the kind where I surrender; it's the kind where I learn to love myself a bit more,” he says, with a hint of a smile playing on his lips as he acknowledges the complexity of the journey. “So, let's dance, you and I. Even if you are just a fleeting indulgence.” As Sean takes that first bite, there's a sense of acceptance, not of defeat but of understanding. The cheeseburger, once a symbol of despair, becomes a momentary ally in his ongoing battle. He is victorious tonight.


Byron's stomach sank when he got the news. Four hundred thousand dollars! From a distant cousin whom, as far as he knew, he'd never met in his life. His name was Jeffrey, and apparently he knew a thing or two about Byron when he'd made out his will. "What kind of sick sadist was this guy?" Byron asked himself while further reading the letter. He held onto his forehead with one hand as he scanned the lines. "How could he do this?" As he visualized the proposal, his irritable stomach sank even more. He could feel the G-force already, thrashing his worn, thirty-five year old body around like a human toy. His hard-lined face deepened in red. Shades of red that throbbed with every emotion, including anger.

A sharp Shhhhh! filled the air of the living room as his quivering white hands began tearing the letter apart. But he stopped and threw it on the floor. The words at the very bottom of Page Two stared at him as if this Jeffrey's deceased spirit was either teasing him or pleading: It's not about the money, Byron; it's about something much more important. Overcoming one's darkest fear is essential to growth. You will never be able to enjoy anything until you do. You will feel the adrenaline. And you will learn to embrace it until it becomes your friend. Then, you will be free. That, dear cousin, will be your true inheritance. Byron knew every word to be true. Always had. "The truth hurts," as they say. Of course he desperately needed the money. In 2021, who didn't unless they were lucky enough to be a part of that coveted "One Percent"? But did he really need it this bad? Badly enough to face his Acrophobia head on? It wasn't just an average fear of heights. It was worse. He never could quite put his finger on what had triggered it or when, but he suspected it all started when his mother had dropped him as an infant. It was an accident; or at least he had no reason to suspect otherwise. He was too little to remember much about it, other than feelings. Feelings of terror and pain. But his body certainly hadn't forgotten. The limp he still walked with over thirty years later was testament enough that there are certain things in life he would do well to avoid at all costs. Front porches, for one. The ramp he had built to replace the steps leading up to his front door when he'd bought this house on the outskirts of Dallas-Fort Worth was still dangerous enough. What if the dizziness were to cause him to lose balance? Sure, four feet is not most people's idea of "dangerous". But most people don't realize just how dangerous it can be. *** "Byron, get real dude! Think about what you're throwing away here! You're looney, you know that? Pure, unadulterated looney!" A loud stomp on the carpet of his friend, Jonathan's hallway accented those words. Jonathan was one of those big-brother type friends who had always meant well in trying to help Byron along on this bumpy road of existence. Firmness over kindness. Advice over lip service. Truth over candy-coating. For that reason, Jonathan was not Byron's first choice for someone to talk with about his situation, but he was the most readily available at the moment. Jonathan shook his triangular head and seethed under his breath, staring at the carpet. Hands held out toward Byron as though he couldn't decide whether to use them for strangling or emphasizing a point, he continued reasoning. "The letter says all you have to do is ride the Lone Star Twister, right?" Byron nodded with his straw-colored eyes glaring away from Jonathan. "And it says once your cousin's attorney has received the picture as proof, the process of signing the inheritance over to you will begin, right?" Byron gave a jittering frown, and nodded. "So do it! Just freaking do it!" Byron stayed so silent and frozen in place, Jonathan began to feel like he was alone, talking to himself. "What's the big deal? It's only a roller coaster! You're not gonna die, you're just gonna get rich! The man is paying you a fortune to go play at Frontier Land! He even willed you the admission ticket with the letter! Now sit down, have a beer, and let that soak!" As he left for the kitchen, Byron fiddled with his phone trying to get his mind on something else. But it wasn't working. All he could think about was scheming a way around having to do this in order to collect the money. Maybe he could claim the camera at the park was out of order and ask Jeff's attorney if a signature from a witness could suffice as proof. But that would be dishonest, and asking someone to lie for him would be the lowest he'd ever sank since shoplifting bubble gum when he was three. "Who was this guy anyway?" he asked in his silence. Maybe he had a social media profile somewhere. Maybe that was how he knew about the Acrophobia. Byron had made it no secret on his own profile, after all. He searched several sites, typing the full name in the search box, and finally found him on one that was geared toward business professionals. "What are you looking at?" Jonathan asked as he returned with the beer. "My cousin," Byron replied, staring hunched over at the phone with a monotone voice. "He was a psychiatrist, who specialized in something called Cognitive-Behavioral Therapy." Jonathan smirked, pointing back at the letter sitting on the coffee table. "Well, see? He knew what he was talking about! Now are you gonna snap out of this silliness and get on the damn coaster or are you gonna just throw your life away? I'm sure whoever's next in line on that will would be more than happy to take the money!" Byron had dreamed the night before during one of the fitful fifteen-minute periods where he'd managed to doze off. It was the recurring one where he's looking up at the sky. At first, it's bright blue and feels warm; then, he senses the warmth become wet. He always knows it to be blood pooling beneath his head even though he never sees it. The sky darkens, his body begins to feel icy, and he realizes people are gathered around, leaning over and peering into his eyes. And then he wakes up. Feeling just as icy all over despite the heartrate. Last night, he had awakened from the nightmare one mere inch away from rolling off the edge of the bed. "I'll go with you," Jonathan offered, this time with a calmer tone which still did nothing to lighten Byron's outlook on the future. ***

Screams tore at Byron's eardrums. Nausea weakened his knees. He couldn't take it anymore. So he reached into his jean pocket and pulled out a pair of ear plugs.

"Do what you gotta do," Jonathan mouthed with a shrug. The Lone Star Twister loomed in front of them as they inched their way down the line toward the gate. And with each step forward, Byron's muscles stiffened, until finally, Jonathan found himself having to pry the ticket out of his hand to give to the attendant for him. At the risk of having to retreat to the back of the line to start over, he pulled Byron off to the side, motioning him to take the ear plugs out for a second. More screams mingled with echoing wooden clacks as another load of passengers came soaring down the coaster's steepest dip, making Byron's toothpick body vibrate along with it. "Byron. Dude. Maybe you're right. Maybe no amount of money is worth this." Byron turned and looked at "Big Brother". First in shock; then with an exhale that immediately softened him into a noodle. "No amount of money is worth risking your life over." Embrace the adrenaline, Byron thought in a flashback to that letter. He gave himself an imaginary hug. A long breath. He visualized the money. Visualized being a survivor. Celebrating. He reminded himself that, terrifying as the nightmares were, he always awakened from them, safe and sound. The safety bar made the car in which he and Jonathan sat seem medieval, just like he had imagined. They were at the very front of this unforgiving torture train. They would be first to ascend and first to plummet. He tried to imprint an image in his mind of how insignificant the height appeared from down here. It's all an illusion. Embrace the adrenaline. Through the corner of his eye, he observed Jonathan as the cars began to creep down the track. Not a care in the world right now, this guy. "Reverse psychology," Byron pondered thinking back to his behavior a moment ago. He felt like killing him, but it was too late. If anything, Jonathan appeared more irritated over this ride interrupting his business calls for a few minutes than in fear of his life. Byron reached out with his thoughts trying to absorb some of that indifference. It wasn't working. With each ratchet sound - each inch forward and upward - the dizziness grew. The northern Texas prairie below became a kaleidoscope of spinning tiny trees, ant people, toy buildings, and water-drop lakes. He tried making the climb to the top a metaphor. As the top drew near, so did success. The incline was his rise toward wealth. That's it, just reach the top, he coached himself the way he imagined his cousin would if he were there. That's all you have to do and it will be over. This was it. Survive or die. With ever such subtlety, the track began to arch downward. He couldn't think anymore, only feel. He felt the gravity pulling at him, like the merciless earth twenty stories below was one giant magnet. Blood gushed through his heart as it worked overtime to keep up with the demands of this fight between a body that wanted to turn around and a mind determined not to. Jonathan smiled with a thumbs-up. Byron couldn't breathe to muster any energy in his fingers to return the gesture. The rails vanished as the virtual cliff came into full view and tormented his nerves in a violent, clacking tease with ear-piercing wind and a chorus of adrenalized screams coming from behind. The longest several seconds of Byron's life chastised him inside-out as visuals of that concrete porch step from thirty-four years ago sent stinging waves up and down his right leg. *** "Hey," Jonathan said with a nudge of the elbow into Byron's ribs. "We did it." The distant screams of passengers on other rides seemed oddly benign now. For the first time since entering the park, Byron noticed the whimsical tunes coming from the carousel adjacent to the Lone Star Twister. An aromatic breeze, heavy with the hint of hot dogs and popcorn, coaxed his stomach back into it's rightful place as he envisioned returning some time; with enough money to treat everyone here to a snack perhaps.

The bars lifted, and Jonathan rushed over to the souvenir booth with Byron hobbling behind, each eager to get their hands on the snapshot that would officially make Byron four hundred thousand clams richer. "Look at you!" Jonathan said with a bright grin so uncharacteristic of his normal self. "You're the only one in the pic who doesn't look scared. What a trooper!" "What's this 'We did it' talk?" Byron asked with a leaning eye and a laugh. "Oh well," he added, "I suppose you are worth a share of it since you're the one who talked me into doing this in the first place."


Cynthia and Leilani Had been friends for a long time Before Leilani got sick. The two best friends live in California now in LA. Sitting down on the beach white sand

Looking at the sunset. Cynthia and Leilani are both going to turn 18. But Cynthia’s birthday is Tomorrow and Leilani Turns 18 in the next two days.     “Are you ready to be an Adult?” said Leilani, “not yet even though I am turning 18 tomorrow I am not ready yet”, said Cynthia. “Well, I am going to turn 18 after you. What you need is a girl day tomorrow and do some of our favorite things.”Said Leilani. “I think that's what I need, I can’t believe tomorrow is almost here”, Said Cynthia. “Look what a beautiful Sunset so pink and Orange. Well, it's time for me to go home. My mother is probably waiting for me and tomorrow I am going to my brother's grave.” said Leilani then Cynthia left to go home she noticed that her mom and dad weren’t there and left a note on the Pantry Door. “Dear Cynthia, I didn’t expect you to come home early. Your Mom and I had to get a few things for a party. We are not expected to be back until 11 at night and your sister is in bed. Not to worry you can call us anytime you want and do not let Leilani in the house or if she asks to come over tell her no okay. Also, we got your favorite snacks, ``Love Mom and Dad.” Cynthia Went to her room and started to text Leilani if she wanted to come over. Leilani asked her mom if she can go and her mother said yes that she can go but to be careful. Leilani heads over to Cynthia's house.         “So where are your parents?”Said Leilani. “I don’t know if they said that they were going to get things for a party”, said Cynthia. “I am guessing it's your party. Your parents are throwing you a party I am guessing”, Said Leliani Excited. “Yes and won’t be back until 11 at night. It's barely 9. You can stay the night if you want to” said Cynthia “sure!!” said Leilani. Soon Later Cynthia went to sleep and woke up in a dream. It was a fancy house and she was in a bright royal red dress and she saw her family and hundreds of people at her party. And Leilani was there. And Cynthia’s parents came up to Cynthia's with a crown and a rose gold stash that says happy 20th Birthday!! “I am not 20”, Said Cynthia. “Yes you are”, Said Cynthia's dad putting on her crown. And her mother putting on her stash “you are never leaving us Baby Girl you will be trapped forever” said her mother smiling. Then I walked away. Then Leilani came up to Cynthia. “My parents are acting freaky. I wonder why and I am not 20” said Cynthia. “Well yeah, you are 20 what do you mean that you're not”, Said Leliani Confused. “Yesterday we were looking at the sunset and you were telling me if I was ready to be an adult I was 17 I am not 20,” said Cynthia.     “That was two years ago Cynthia, that was the past, you're not a little kid anymore that was then this is now,” said Leilani. “This must be a dream,” Cynthia Whispered “Excuse me,” said Leilani. Cynthia walks away and bumps into her parents. “Mom dad this is weird. I am 18 there is no way two years past I must go” said Cynthia, frightened. “No you won't, you are to go nowhere,” said Cynthia’s father. Her mother Snaps her fingers, all the guests are gone and it's complete darkness. “Why don't you accept us?” said Cynthia’s Mother. “You're not my parents,” said Cynthia. “Ok then we will set you back in time you are now 8 years old,” said Cynthia Mother then snaps her fingers.

     Cynthia is 8 wearing tutus and bows, Leilani has her brother and her parents look young. Cynthia is looking around and notices she is young and is looking for ways to escape. Cynthia hears a voice “Hurry time is running out you need to find a white portal to bring you home, If you run out of time you might not exist and no one will remember you so hurry” said the voice. “A Portal” she whispered. To herself. Then she sees her little sister. And her dad just got home “Cynthia can you come here real quick” said Cynthia’s mother. Cynthia goes downstairs hoping her parents are not evil. “Cynthia, can you help me with the dishes?” said Cynthia’s Mother. “Cynthia will you now be nice,” said Cynthia’s mother “what do you mean mother I been nice,” said Cynthia pretending nothing happened. “You know Cynthia I am very proud of you, you are now being responsible for your actions,” said Cynthia’s mother.     “Mom, can I go to Lelanis and derricks  later.” said Cynthia “sure I will have Naila to keep an eye on you so you won't escape,” said Cynthia’s mother. “Mom what do you mean I love it where I am. Trust me I will be back,” said Cynthia  “Ok get ready you will see Leilani in a bit okay I will drive you over there,” said Cynthia’s Mother. Cynthia goes to her room and looks very different then what she had because she is 8. Once she hits 4 then she will no longer exist so she better hurry and find a pink sunset. Soon later Cynthia's mom was about to take her to Leilani. “So Cynthia your birthday is coming up in June right,” said Cynthia’s mother “yes mom 9 years old,” said Cynthia “what do you want,” said Cynthia’s Mother “well I know that you will give me a purse and a bracelet,” said Cynthia. “Wait, how do you know that unless you're from the Future,” said Cynthia’s Mother. “Don't take me to the past, I am from here” Said Cynthia.    Her mother snaps her fingers now she is 6 years old she sent her back two years back. “Your Task to get Home.. watch the sunset for 10 mins then you will be back home,” said the voice. Soon Cynthia is called Leilani I mean Leilani is also six years old but she doesn't have a phone and uses her mom's instead. Cynthia was going to ask her mother if they can go to the beach and watch the sunset but Cynthia couldn’t tell her mother or else she will send her back 2 years back. But Cynthia needs to get home.    “Hey Naila can Leilani and I go to the beach to watch the sunset,” said Cynthia “sure is your mom okay,” said Naila “yes she is she's the one that's going to be with us,” said Cynthia Lying. “Ok i will have her over in an hour,” said Naila. Talking on the phone. “Wait, can I talk to Leilani real quick?” said Cynthia, stopping her from hanging up. “You can't, she is busy. She is Available in 10 mins okay. “Hey kiddo, how are you doing?” said Cynthia’s father. “Good, I am going with Leilani's mom to the beach,” said Cynthia. “Okay is your mom okay with you going, too young to be out before 5,” said Cynthia’s Father “yes mom is okay,” said Cynthia then she hears a phone run to get it and it's Leilani? “Hey Leilani,” said Cynthia. “Sorry I don't have long,” said Leilani. “You're not going to believe this but I am from the future,” Cynthia said slowly “no you not prove it what will happen next,” said Leilani. “Okay derrick is going in your room at 3 2 1,” said Cynthia “hey sis can I borrow Mom's phone real quick thanks,” said derrick. Leilani is in shock then puts the phone to her ears. “You are from the future then where is the real Cynthia?” said Leilani.  “Hold on, it's me. I am the real one. My mom sent me back in time and to go back to the future I need to see the sunset” said Cynthia. “Well that's awful why is she doing this, "said Leilani questioning “because I am trying to escape I can’t stay for long if I do I will no longer exist it's like a curse she wants to get rid of me,” said Cynthia angry. “Okay well the sun sets in 30 mins let's go watch it,” said Leilani.

    Meanwhile, Cynthia’s Mother gets a call from Naila, Leilani's Mother. Cynthia’s mother picks it up. “Oh hey naila how are you?” said Cynthia’s mother.

“Well thank you, I appreciate Watching my kid at the beach watching the sunset, it's beautiful,” said Naila “I didn't, wait did Cynthia call you? No one is with them,” said Cynthia Mother. Cynthia and Naila rush to the beach. To see their kids. The sun starts to go down in 5 mins Cynthia needs to watch it going down in. in order to return home. “CYNTHIA” her mother yells. “Mom, sorry we lied but I need to get home and you won’t let me so I am going back to the future and you can stop me,” said Cynthia. “Oh yes I can,” said Cynthia's mother then snaps her fingers Now Cynthia is 4 years old now she has to find a way out or else she will never exist. The next time her mother snaps her fingers that is it Cynthia will no longer exist so she better hurry.   “How can I be able to escape if she is going to keep finding me?” said Cynthia to herself frustrated. Cynthia doesn’t know what to do. She looks at the time and it is 6:00pm only 2 hours until sunset. She can’t tell no one what she is up to because it will lead back to her mother. Cynthia was cleaning her room. She was looking outside her window it's barely 6:30pm. Cynthia's mother called Naila to let Leilani come over so she can finally trap Cynthia and keep her from leaving. “So do you want me to go to Cynthia’s Room? What should I tell her?” said Leilani to Cynthia's Mother. “Well I am taking you both somewhere special and you tell her that,” said Cynthia’s Mother. “Ok,” said Leilani as she went upstairs. “Hey Cynthia, we are going somewhere with your mom. She said it's something special” said Leilani. “Well ok but I wanted to go to the beach. Can you tell her that? ''said Cynthia. “Okay,” said Leilani she goes to her mother's room. She sees a bunch of pictures of Cynthia Older. Leilani remembers when Cynthia was 8 and told her she is from the future her mother sees Leilani and Leilani turns back and sees Cynthia's mother “your not really Cynthia's Mom you're from the future too I must tell Cynthia''Said Leilani “No your not” said Cynthia’s mother then snaps her fingers now she teleported to a dark room her and Cynthia tied up but there is a little window Cynthia is faced away from. From looking at the sunset.     “Cynthia, if you accept me as your mother, I can take away all this. You won’t be miserable, you will love your life, `` Cynthia's Mother said, convincing her. “No, I will never be going home, not with you,” said Cynthia. Cynthia turned her chair as she was tied up looking at the sunset going down. Cynthia starts to disappear little by little “Now you will no longer exist any Last words” Said Cynthia’s mother. Cynthia didn't say anything, she was watching the sunset from her chair as saying goodbye. Then she vanishes. “There it's done we don’t have to see Cynthia again, she untied Leilani. “Sorry you had to see that,” said Cynthia's mother “why would you do that to Cynthia she was my friend bring her back,” said Leilani. “No, by tomorrow you won't remember,” said Cynthia's mother. Leilani starts crying her friend is gone all of a sudden Cynthia comes back to life. “Cynthia,” said Leilani Hugging her. “I am now going home,” said Cynthia, crying in happiness. “Why don’t you stay? You can live with me,” said Leilani, begging her. “I can’t but don’t worry, we are still friends okay we are both 18 I will see you in a bit,” said Cynthia. “Will I be able to remember this?” said Leilani “I don’t know if you don’t tell my mom in the present I don’t want to be trap again ok?” said Cynthia than a white portal taking her home opens up “see you in a bit?” said Cynthia looking back “goodbye!” said Leilani. Cynthia goes into the portal then wakes up from her dream. She wakes up in a hospital “oh Cynthia you're awake you were not waking up you been asleep for a week. And you had no heartbeat but thank goodness everything is good.” said Cynthia’s mother “can I now go home” said Cynthia “yeah first tell me what you were dreaming about you were having a nightmare” said her mother. Cynthia wasn’t going to say anything but her mom is not like that “you were trying to harm me. And I was going back to my younger ages” said Cynthia “Cynthia that was just a dream it's okay” said Her mother then reached out to hug her “I will never let go okay I love you so much” mother said hugging her.


“Mr. President, what do you say about people suffering in the Midwest, about rumors of a virus that causes paranoia and fear?” The room became hushed waiting for the response. The president rubbed his forehead, his cheeks had grown pale, “We have it totally under control. Everyone just needs to relax. As long as we stay calm, we can get through this.” The reporter responded, “But sir, some states have gone completely dark. Isn’t it true the military has been deployed to combat this threat? You previously stated that it’s just a pandemic of headaches and that quote, ‘this should be of no concern.’ Wouldn’t it be wise to address the frightening reports that this is actually some sort of parasite?“ The plump man at the podium fidgeted with his hands and licked his lips. The press secretary glanced cautiously at the man and saw sweat at the back of his neck. As usual this was not going well. If the president’s mouth was too dry, he would start losing his words. “That’s all fake information circulated by ‘Mrs. Dingbat’ in the Senate. Next question.” The president seemed to hold back a sneeze with his hand, lowering his head and convulsing. Tiffany nearly stepped in with a tissue until he spoke again, “Listen uh, you can’t really expect the American people to believe there’s some crazy species of insect, borrowing into people’s ears and eating out their brains. What kind of ridiculous bull–nonsense is that?” Tiffany looked out into the press conference and saw an awkward, spiteful audience. She was glad she wasn’t asked to speak. The last time didn’t go over well for her. If only she had the president’s talent for political aversion. The reporters shuffled in their seats. They came here for information. They came here for guidance but all they ever got from the president were angry retorts. He shook his head at the podium as several outlets started to shout his name in unison. It was an uncontrollable tremble that turned into a sneezing fit. He tried to cover his mouth but the phlegm couldn’t be contained and sprayed into the crowd of reporters. His head started to swell with redness. Choking and quivering he tried to continue, “I am here to tell you that there is no such –blargh–” The president tried to vomit out words but instead vomited blood and bile onto the podium. Reporters gasped and bolted towards the door. To their further horror the blood retching from the president’s mouth grew into a tentacle that squirmed, as he lowered his head to the stand. He squinted in pain, his eyes started to bulge and bleed. As a stampede of reporters moved back the president gargled and moaned, his fingers pulling at the parasite. His eyes rolled back and exploded with pus. Shouts and screams added to the pandemonium. Tiffany and the medical aides tried to move in but were disgusted by the turn of events. Even more so by the insect legs that protruded from the president’s eyes and nose. The staff members hesitated, not knowing what to do. They remained in shock, allowing the scene to unfold. The creature pulled itself from the president’s face, splitting it down the middle and sending viscera onto the now-empty seats. More revulsion and screams echoed. The press secretary stood aghast, considering if this was sort of horrific prank or animatronic visual effect. She turned to an aide, “Where is the president?” He turned and looked at the slumped body, hanging off the podium, “He’s…everywhere.” —– “Surprisingly his approval rating has gone up.” The aide at Tiffany’s side was flipping through a tablet with nervous fingers. “People are donating like crazy. They think it was some kind of show.” Tiffany was still debating what she had seen and wondering if it was an elaborate scheme. If it’s not then perhaps it was a ploy for the left to grab for power. If that were the case the vice president would be next. “We should take this threat seriously. Medical experts have quarantined the briefing room and are taking samples after the secret service shot the thing.” Said the male aide. The halls were chaos, people were running towards the briefing room. “Why did this have to happen during a public briefing? There’s no time to do a damage assessment.” The press secretary was scrolling through her phone, reading all the conspiracies. This was the best outcome, thought Tiffany, leaving the public confused and unknowing of the truth, whatever that was. The aide –Stephen, was it? — nearly started stuttering, his cadence became manic, “We should — We should consider a mandate. No, not a mandate. Maybe have the White House staff dress in protective gear. I hear the virus is 70% contagious.” “If the president says the virus is a hoax then it’s a hoax.” Said Tiffany. “Going against what he has publicly stated would be job suicide. We all need to make sacrifices for the cause, even if it’s our own beliefs.” “Said. He said the virus is a hoax.” Stephen whispered when they passed several lobbyists. “He’s not dead. There’s no way that was real. The president is probably behind a control room laughing his ass off.” Stephen paused and remained blank faced. “Do you really believe that the left could be killing of hundreds just to get to the president? What would be the goal, if they were killing off their own supporters?” Tiffany turned and stared at the aide, a look forlorn. She quickly straightened up and gave a stern reply, “You wouldn’t want him hearing that. Get me Gruber Finch. We have to control the media’s response to this. We don’t even know what we saw and neither should the public. Tell him to tell them that this was a Halloween gag, or a movie thing. They don’t get to be the judge of what really happened.” Being a spokeswoman for the campaign didn’t prepare her for this. Nothing ever could have prepared her for this. After all her position in the cabinet had been a gift. She wasn’t going to do anything to jeopardize it. An arm grabbed her and pulled her into a side office. The voice was aggressive and had an odor of whiskey. “Tell me this is some insane joke. What was that?” She recognized the three-piece breast suit. Her phone nearly dropped out of her hand. The Chief of Staff had a furled brow. “I’m sorry sir, we are currently evaluating the situation. We believe it to be a hoax.” “A hoax? A damn creature crawled out of the president’s head. Are you blind? What more evidence do you need?” As usual he was eyeing her blouse, clearly not distracted enough. “The speculation that there is no virus is true. It is also now fact that there is a parasite invading our citizens’ bodies, causing headaches, paranoia, and sudden death. The president has ignored this threat for too long. You should have been up there, not him.” Tiffany pulled up her blouse, covering her cleavage. She should have worn something less revealing. “I’m going to go back to my apartment to quarantine. You should too. The vice president is going to hold a virtual meeting with the cabinet. We should all distance ourselves from this.” “How can we?” Asked the Chief of Staff, “CNT aired a story about how the president made a statement, saying the virus was a hoax. A 13-year-old in Georgia picked up the president’s quote and made a blog post about it. Then the president used this article in another social media post, quoting it as fact. This is how the cycle of misinformation is unfolding.” She didn’t have an answer for this and tried to refocus the conversation, “Mistakes may have been made but it is our duty to create the appropriate mediation. Ours together, not a part. In the meantime, we should work with vice president to continue doing what we always do: deflect and distract.” —– The meeting, from her apartment, did not go as expected. There was a lot of shouting and panicked opinions, none of which were made from reasonable thoughts. But, how could they? The news media ran with the story that the president had been infected with a parasite that evacuated from his face. It was an absurd notion but the inevitable had to be dealt with. Tiffany had downed six aspirin after hanging up with the president’s cabinet and had slumped down in a chair. The strategies were mind-numbing. One of the aides had even suggested finding a look-alike to give a briefing but when the others realized that no one could be found that resembled his appearance this was soon abandoned. This mess would never end. She partially wished that she believed that the president had died and that the virus or parasite was real. That way she’d have a lot less to say. She approached the mirror but she couldn’t get the thought of the president squirming over the podium out of her head. The pounding was getting worse. It became a thumping. The aspirin was useless. Flashbacks started, showing the blood-stained floor and what must’ve been going through his mind in those last moments. If of course any of it were real. But what if it were real? Spores would’ve been spraying from his open mouth for days. And if it was contagious… She moved her finger around her eyes. Nothing felt puffy or sore. Sure, her head felt tight but it couldn’t be real, could it? A terrible creature living inside her, waiting for the right moment to burst from her skull. It was silly. Her face was too pretty to be broken. If all of it were true, if the parasite was inside her brain, she couldn’t allow herself to be another victim. The media would have a field day with her corpse, the liberals would dance and celebrate. Her life became meaningless in that moment. She had never dated as the press secretary and now she wish she had. Her head cracked with a sudden jolt. Her eyes became moist. A grimace crossed her once perfect face. There were no options left. She pulled a piece of paper out and a pen from her briefcase. Tears made it hard to write but she did it anyways. She had always managed to push through pain. As the words of regret came out the tears of sorrow turned to blood and the last phrase became smeared. “I wished I had trusted someone else.” The back of her throat started to tickle. Her skin and cheeks burned hot. She could feel the pressure building and building. The lights of DC cast and eerie glow on the room that reminded her that life would continue on without her. She pulled out a heavy piece of metal. The one thing that all right-thinking, God-fearing citizens had, and sat on the bed. The president’s retching face came back to her. She put the metal in her mouth and pulled the trigger.


There he laid, his hands by his side. As she visited with great fear and worry. His life hanging by the balance of whether or not he should let go or continue. Tears fell from her cheek, confusion and regret filled her. She remembered all the times they shared together, even if there weren’t many. She remembered. He slowly opened his eyes, and suddenly the heart rate monitor raced with a progression of beeps. As their eyes met, the world around them stood still, and for a moment it was as if they were back on that swing set. Looking at each other, with admiration and curiosity. Trying to understand these emotions that flooded in like a river with an endless stream. They were young, they were lost, and the world was just a cruel place. But for some reason with each other, they were home. “It’s so cold.” She said, as she was trying to keep warm by rubbing her hands together. He peered at her hands and reached out taking both of them in his. The spiraling warmth enveloped between their hands connected and a warm hugging like sensation filled both of them. He smiled, and said, “Me too.” It’s been three years, and for both of them. They had their own experiences of other individuals coming and going in their life. But it was never the same. They both knew that it wasn’t ever going to be the same. The “swing set memory” they called it. A moment in their life that they knew they were each other’s flame. Each other’s, fire. The burning love of a passion that could never be extinguished or matched. They would always reminisce on that one moment. Even if the world divided them, and kept them apart. They always felt like they could always feel each other. Could always feel so close. She was finally following the dream she had always wanted, and for once no one could stop her in her tracks. He had understood what he wanted to do, and continuously strived to be the best person he could be. Yet in this very moment. He lays upon a warm bed, with a frozen cold body, and a crying heart. Paralyzed both by the accident, and by her beautiful eyes. She remembered that her entire journey, and the drive that kept her going, was in hopes of seeing him again. But, not like this. He cried and cried, thinking this moment could never in a million years happen. To think, that she would visit him. Yet no tears flowed. All he could do was just stare as his eyes would water. He wanted to embrace her, love her, and tell her that the world he created and the life he lived was all for her. She sobbed, as she knelt next to his bedside. In shock, she couldn’t open her eyes and she hung her head down trying to hide her sadness from him. He didn’t like it when she cried, because he wanted to always make her smile, and she knew that. He urged and urged with all his might to move just one finger, but couldn’t. Desperately screaming and crying for help, he repeated in his head, “Please, for just this one time, give me a chance to make things right.” She lifted her face, flushed red, wanting to tell him she loved him. But she just couldn’t stop crying. All she could do was apologize. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I just-, I-,” He wanted to shake his head and comfort her like he always did. He wanted to remind her that it was going to be okay, that they were going to be okay. His fingers twitched, and she noticed. She smiled with joy, and with both of her hands took his hand. She held it tightly, and held it like it was the long lost teddy bear that she’d been looking for. The warmth and burning passion flowed through the both of them, and it was as if they had never left that swing set. That they never went to different schools. That she didn’t leave for Paris, and he didn’t leave for New York. That she never said she wanted to prove the world wrong, and that he never said he was going to make everyone proud. She looked at him, smiling with tears rolling down her face and said, “It’s so cold.” Wondering if he would remember that moment. He held back with as much love as he did back at the swing set, and with his last remaining drip of life in him smiled and slowly muttered, “Me too.” And suddenly, the fire that had burned for so long, went out.


"Duck!" Wrinn shouted as he threw himself to the ground. "Dammit, cover yourself, Blackburn!" Bullets darter through the air, above their heads, just a moments after Blackburn, at last, ducked. "Who are they?!" the man snapped in a raspy voice. "Wrinn! How could have they known about us?" The other man gave Blackburn a hopeless look, waiting for the barrage to cease. The two men were crouching behind a stony debris, a remnants of a cliff collapsed. Thet were Separators, members of a secret group of highly-skilled assassins, employing advanced tech to download one's memories. Though now, instead of hunting, they were fighting for their lives. "Blackburn! They're no match to us. Remember the training? 'Phase in, shoot' em, phase out!' Move quickly and take no crazy risk." The man's teeth clenched behind his air-filtering mask. He knew, one shot to the power source on his back and he'd be kissed by death, but there was no time for stealthy eliminations - this was a fight. The spray of bullets had halted. A fatal mistake. " Now." Wrinn grunted and, with a grim expression, flung himself from behind the cover. His body blurred as he began phasing - and just as he'd done times before, he dispatched one attacker with a swift spray of shots, blinked behind the other one and delivered a killing blow by piercing their neck. "Good ol' thrusty arm-blade" he grinned to himself at the pun. Turning to Blackburn, who had successfully eliminated last of the three bastards, his grin widened. *He might be worth somethin', the young blood.* "Blackburn! Don't you dare to put your guard down!" Wrinn exclaimed at the trainee, seeing him not reloading his gun. Though Blackburn was not to blame - this was his first mission and it's gone horribly wrong. Wrinn was looking around the complex. Instead of quickly murdering the target, they'dended up with severed means of communication with Sonya, their leader, and driven to corner by mercenaries. Undertrained mercenaries though, as far as Wrinn could tell. "Listen Black, download his data," Wrinn commanded, jamming a pointy stick through the corpse's eye socket into its brain. "And try not to get killed" he added, concerned. "Understood, Wrinn!" A tens of seconds have passed before the men stood up and, not having enough intel to decide on the most optimal way out, started heading one direction. The plan was to climb up the cliff on a rope they've used to get down - however, the sudden explosion above them and following rain of stones buried this escape plan. A much bigger group of armed figured crossed their path. This time, Wrinn leapt towards a pile of crates, pulling Blackburn with him. They've stayed unnoticed - for now. "Wrinn?" Blackburn started. "I have an ide-" Wrinn never got to know the idea, for a high-pitched sound pierced the air, mobilising the complex whole. "INTRUDERS IN SECTOR X-8!" it repeated mindlessly. Blackburn snorted. "At least we know where we are." A simple nod was Wrinn's only response. *But we don't really, do we?* He was lost in his thoughts, racking his brain, trying to come up with a solution to this mess. That's when a swirling sound came from behind. Wrinn hastily turned around with the though of phasing towards the threat and neutralising it, but he was too slow. This threat was to assassins' bad luck too fast. A woman with a familiar breathing mask and a set of funny-looking strapped to her body launched a spinning piece of sharp metal at them - right an Blackburn, too slow of a man to react. "NO!" Wrinn yelled as he realised the imminent danger. With a curse on his lips, he blocked the blade with his body, trying to intercept its trajectory. What a price to pay. A stunning pain erupted in the left part of his body as he got struck. The impact turned him sideways, knocked the gun out of his arm, and he staggered, falling to the ground, watching in utter horror his arm laying on the ground, leaking blood. *You bitch.* "Blackburn, **RUN!**" he snapped at him instead of insulting the woman aloud. He was losing too much blood - his death was inevitable, but he wouldn't perish on vain! It was against all of his principles. He'd always been precise and careful, yet he charged at the goddamned woman with an intention to pierce her with his arm-blade. So far, Blackburn was paralysed. This was no routine mission, this was hell! His mentor was injured and he had no clue what to do next, he was panicking. Though Wrinn's last word - "**RUN!**" - snapped him out of the trance. *Don't think of them as of his last words, you dumbass!* He corrected himself as he leapt above the crates and started sprinting towards where the previous ground of mercenaries had come from. Wrinn knew what was his plan. Phase behind her. Turn around. Use the momentum to sever her spine. He groaned and phased - and just before the jump in space, he'd felt a loud crunch in his suit and for the first time in years, phasing had failed him. As Blackburn started accelerating, he heard a loud thunk from behind him. Glancing there at instant, he saw Wrinn laying on the ground, the woman wielding a strange, circular-shaped blade and crushing his abdomen under her boot. "Wriiiin!" he squealed in pain, forcing himself to continue forward, proceeding to keep standing only for seconds before an impact. *Impossible!* Wrinn thought. The tech was remarkable. How could have she interfered with Sonyas secret creation? The woman cackled. "Wrinn, you old, stupid man. You've thought you were untouchable, have you, right?" With a playful smile, she proceeded to break a few of his ribs as she stomped on him. "Oh I'm sure you recognise me not. Just know... Your arrogance, my old friend, had become too much for me to control." Wrinn moaned in pain. Missing an arm and having his insides crushed was torturing. He wished to faint, for his mind was already hazy, but there was one other way. "You may have bested me, woman!" He managed to yelp at her. "But our secrets won't be unearthed!" He added as he raised his shaking arm and drove the sharp end of the downloading device into his brain, knowing it would fry his neural network. She only cackled. Blackburn found himself laying on the ground, his mask nowhere to be seen. He was sure the sudden strike had broken a few of his ribs, he couldn't breathe and for the first time that day, he'd realised that he was about to die. Struggling, he managed to get on all fours, hoping to be lucky. And he was, for he spotted his mask a few meters away and started crawling towards it frantically. "Oh my, how does he live? " a female voice inquired mockingly. He looked up and recognised the woman who'd injured Wrinn. Barely moving, he reached out to the mask. He touched it with the tips of his fingers... And got overwhelmed by excruciating pain, as the woman crushed the mask and his hand alike under her boot. "Nothing personal, kiddo. But rules are rules, 'No missions without Sonya's approval,' remember? That's what you get for treating Wrinn like a leader of ou-" And with his breath running out, so did Blackburn's consciousness.