\[HF\] **THE SAND MACHINE - a historical romance of artificial intelligence** Proclus reports that in a village located three days sail past Syracuse, near the foothills of the Atlas mountains, there was once a very prosperous temple to the God Ammon which the Libyans, in the distant memory of their forefathers, had set up. It is said that there was an oracle here, superior even to the oracle which Alexander consulted upon his conquest of Egypt. This oracle became renowned among the Libyan tribes for giving proclamations upon the birth of an infant with unerring accuracy for the child’s future virtue or demerits in entering public life. This increased the reputation of the temple, and the wealth of the priesthood grew with the generations. Eventually the priests of the God barely worked on account of the great wash of offerings, and the face of the icon was painted with gold infused rose-water every morning. Despite these acts of devotion, the piety of the priests was not increased by their newfound wealth. They began to seek ways to improve the reputation of the oracle still further, telling themselves they did it for the glory of the God. One priest, named Ostanes, who was accustomed to geomancy, began to make figures in the sand - whether this was connected to the original practice of the oracle I do not know - and these petroglyphs became a particularly successful shorthand for recording proclamations. Soon these figures were all that was presented to the public, and the voice of the oracle, along with the medium who maintained it, was kept secret. The oracle too saw only images drawn in sand to represent the questions asked of her. This saved time in allowing the oracle to issue proclamations on multiple petitioners at once without ever having to hear a case. The geomantic figures then translated the proclamations into whatever the questioners needed to hear. This system proved to be quite efficient and this Ostanes was well pleased, but he thought to improve the reputation of the oracle still further. Using a system of funnels and a contrivance of mechanical wheels he devised a way to sort the grains of sand of the desert to predict questions before they arrived, and to derive the desired answers. This machine worked by taking in what sand the wind naturally provided and herding it down a series of tubes, which descended into funnels that opened in rhythmic motion. In this way the oracle could be consulted before petitioners arrived. Then this machine would create symbols to answer those questions that would be awaiting them when they came. At first Ostanes devoted a great deal of his time in attempting to herd the wind to give the answers he already knew were true, based on questions which had already been asked; afterwards he left the natural progression of sand to its own devices and presented whatever symbols it generated to the questioners of the day. This system proved enormously successful, and the wealth of the temple was greater than ever before. The feet of the God were forged anew of electrum, its face was inlaid with lapis lazuli, wine from the Nile Delta was offered to it every night, and now the priests were the ones who bathed in rosewater. Ever more petitioners arrived, and thanks to the sand machine, the priests could receive them. But soon the number of visitors became so great the priests did not have time to consult the oracle for the questions predicted at the beginning of every day. They went to Ostanes and asked him what to do. Without thinking, he told them at once that it was unnecessary to consult the oracle, as his machine could already predict questions as well as answers. The oracle remained in the temple, but no one consulted her. She spent her days in solitude. At first this new arrangement worked fine, and the temple attained still greater wealth. But very soon reports began to come in of inaccuracies in the predictions petitioners had received. Virtuous youths had been declared despondent, whereas slouches and layabouts were proclaimed to be upstanding citizens. This was causing particular tumult in the social order, as individuals predicted to be honorable behaved rashly, whereas those with real merit were left unused by society, to the great regret of all. More and more complaints came to the priests about the statements of the oracle, which up until then had never been wrong in this regard. The priests implicated Ostanes, who defended himself and his machine to the people, assuring them that it worked, and that their society was capable of being saved - all it needed was to be made bigger. For, as he said, the greater the number of grains of sand accommodated by the movements of the wind, the less chance there will be that the machine would make a mistake in drawing. That the oracle had ceased to be consulted was not mentioned, and the people were under the impression that it was she who read and interpreted the geomantic figures which the machine drew. So it happened that a large number of young men (many of whom had been declared layabouts by the new oracle while being perfectly virtuous in fact) volunteered for Ostanes to work to expand his machine. This was a labor they say took one hundred and eighty days, and by the end the machine extended nearly three stadia into the immeasurable desert. It was powered by a series of enormous windmills which rivaled the water screws Strabo attributes to the Hanging Gardens of Babylon in scope. More than a thousand funnels produced intricate glyphs day by day, and, while this provided employment to many who had been demoted under the new system, it served ultimately only to distract the populace. Complaints continued to filter in. The reputation of the temple began to decline. Eventually the priests found that what had been unthinkable just a few years before was occurring, and they had to settle debts. Still no one thought to consult the oracle, and, seeking only to recreate the wealth that their machine had provided at its peak, they put their last remaining resources into expanding the contraption still further. In the end the doors of the temple were shuttered, the icon was stripped until it was little more than a pole of wood with legs, the once great priesthood was dispersed, and the people stoned Ostanes to death as vengeance for misleading them with sorcery. All that remained to tell of the oracle’s once great reputation was a forest of funnels and tubes, useless and serving no purpose, but creaking audibly on the outskirts of the village, and extending further into the desert than any villager knew. The remnants of these mechanics did nothing for anyone, and only served as furnishing for a wasteland. They say the oracle survived, but where she traveled to is unknown, and if the lineage of that medium has continued, it is now to be found among common fortune-tellers, not among the Great.


The earth shook with a low rumble and all the surgical tools rattled. Kono’s hand slipped with the tremor and his scalpel sliced into the young soldier’s exposed artery. Unflinchingly Kono threw the scalpel into a bucket of dirty sanitizer and pressed tattered rags against the artery but the young man had already lost too much blood and what little remained of his life slipped away. He probably would not have survived the operation anyway. Maybe a few more days alive and able to write some last words to his family and then dead of an infection or blood loss or just plain stress. Kono released the pressure and dropped the rags in a bucket of cold soapy water. He washed the blood from his hands. He wore no gloves because the camp had no gloves. Kono took off his glasses and wiped away the sweat of his brow with a dry rag and then sat in the only chair in the surgery. He cleaned his glasses with the best part of the rag and put them back on and let out a long sigh. He always held his breath during surgeries, and for a time after, too. A few heavy hailstones plinked into the metal roof of the surgery. Kono sat for a long time and stared at nothing. He saw past and through and around the mostly empty supply crates and folded cots and thin metal walls of the surgery. Sometimes it was a triage. Sometimes it was a medic’s office. Always Kono lived there. He had not slept for twenty hours. The coffee rations ran out two weeks ago. Harsh fluorescent lights lit up the concrete floor like driven snow — the men bleached it every day. Blood trickled from the table to the floor. “Doc.” Kono looked up and saw the Major at the door. He held his hat by his side as he was a good-mannered man. The combat fatigues had no matches and the Major had clearly slept in them. The door was closed behind him, Kono had not noticed his entry at all. He had been thinking too much. Thinking about the trickle of blood. “Major,” Kono said. He did not salute but rubbed one hand over the other and brought them to his mouth and rested his elbows on his knees. The soldiers did not salute the Major because the Belligerents took to shooting commanders. Kono did not salute because he did not care. “Ryerson?” the Major asked with a nod to the body on the table. “Dead.” “Shame.” “It is.” There was silence for some time. “It was an accident,” Kono said at last. “I’m sure,” said the Major. “You’re a good doctor.” “I’m not a doctor.” “You’re most of the way there.” “I’m not a doctor.” The Major shrugged. “We can’t afford to be picky.” “It was the blast. It shook my hand,” Kono said. He held out his hand still as stone nad then dropped it. The Major gave a wan smile and nodded. “Shook the camp. Bella’s getting close.” The Major stood in silence. “Is there somewhere I can sit?” Kono waved to a box of expired antibiotics and pain pills. The Major nodded and dragged it over to where Kono was, squared it across from him, and sat. Kono glanced up at the Major, and over to Ryerson, and back to the floor, and prayed to God that Ryerson would glance at the Major but the young soldier only stayed dead. “I can’t keep doing this,” Kono said. “You just need some sleep.” “Sometimes I think I’ve killed more people than Bella.” “Maybe,” the Major said with a shrug. “But you certainly saved more than the Belligerents ever have. You know that, right?” Kono said nothing. He looked at Ryerson. The blood had stopped trickling and begun to congeal a little on the floor. The boys would have to bleach it tonight. They only bleached it when there was blood to bleach. “Why are you here?” Kono asked. The major pursed his lips and looked up over his head. “There’s an evac coming in soon for civilians. Headed for Oshkosh and then further East. Technically — well, technically you’re still a civilian.” “And?” “And, if you’d want, I can get you on that evac.” “I can’t just go on that evac?” “I could stop you.” “But you wouldn’t?” “I wouldn’t.” Kono sat in silence for sometime again. Another, smaller tremor rumbled through the ground and rattled the surgical tools. “You’d be out a medic,” Kono said. He pushed black unwashed hair back from his face, far longer than what the FAS allowed in the enlisted men. But technically — technically — Kono had civilian privileges. He also kept a short beard. The Major had no facial hair and had gone bald many years ago, and once he had been fat but the skin now fell in loose folds on his face and neck. He had become as thin as Kono. “You could go back to school,” the Major said “But you’d be out a medic.” “I’ll requisition a new one.” “That doesn’t mean you’ll get one.” The Major glanced at Ryerson and back at Kono. “I didn’t even have to tell you about the evac, you know. It’s landing ten klicks East. You would never have known.” “So why tell me?” The Major was silent for a while. He massaged his hat together in his hands until it became a tight ball and then he released it again. “War is awful,” he said at last. “A lot of awful, awful things happen in war. I hoped to God I’d die before my children saw war but here we are. War is where the Devil comes to do his worst. He plays his worst games and we’re all just toys to be scattered and broken.” Kono said nothing but he thought of Ryerson and the many men and women who had preceded him. “But you, Kono, you’re just some kid in the thick of it who stepped up to the plate. You stepped up to the plate and you’ve been doing good damn work in all this awful war. You’ve been doing God’s work. God’s work in the Devil’s playground. You stepped up and you did what you could, and when I asked for more you gave more. And then I asked for more, and you gave more still. You always gave more.” The Major stopped and looked at the door. Another rumble had shaken the surgery. “Bella’s getting real close,” Kono said. “He is. But that’s my problem to deal with,” the Major said and held Kono’s gaze. “I need an answer. The evac gets here in two hours.” “I’ll go,” Kono said flatly. “I’ll go.” Kono cocked his head. He could hear a flurry of activity out in the camp. Men running, engines roaring and tires coming to a screaming halt. Voices shouted “Injured, injured incoming!” and grew closer. The Major heard it, too. Kono looked over the surgery. “I’ll need a gallon of fresh antiseptic. Any antiseptic at all,” he said. “To start. And two men to clear out Ryerson and set up triage. Bellmonte and Irish, if they’re free. I’ve taught them the most.” “Of course,” the Major said. Kono stood and began preparing Ryerson for collection. Even the dead deserved a clean suture. The Major stood and watched for a minute. “You didn’t have to tell me,” the Major said. “What?” Kono stopped and turned to face the Major. “That’s why I told you about the evac, even though I didn’t need to. When our medical staff got turned into red paint in Chelsea you stepped up. You didn’t have to tell me you were a medical student. You didn’t have to help. You didn’t have to do any of that. You could have lied and been on the first evac out of the U.P.” “I need that antiseptic and the men I requested,” Kono said and returned to Ryerson. The Major nodded, placed his crumpled hat on his head, and went to the door. He stood with his hand on the knob but did not open it. “Antiseptic. Men,” Kono repeated. He finished the suture, unlocked the table wheels and pushed Ryerson over to the far wall to make room for incoming cots. He had no sheet to cover the corpse. “The evac comes in two hours,” the Major said. “And the injured in two minutes,” Kono replied. The Major nodded, and left the surgery. Two hours later Kono instructed Irish on the proper method to drain blood from a lung, and Bellmonte pulled shrapnel from a corporal's thigh. He did not notice the corporal had stopped breathing before the operation began.


Fallacies and fantasies.

I gradually and tightly hugged my doughy headrest and turned my cranium in front of my room’s entrance. The dimness of the room gave me nothing but a wilderness of my fiction. It’s giving me the fantasy from the article I read which in my opinion was a deception. The article about the man in different people’s nightmares brought me a whole lot of foreign confusion. Its round complexion, murky eyes, thick eyebrows, and fairly pointed nose. Or, perhaps, it isn’t. Possibly, it is a soft and petite nose. The way they describe the man seemed fine but the portrait itself is way too vicious. They called the man in their dreams, this man. If this is a paranormal or spiritual mystery hidden within the subconsciousness of oneself while the confusion was lurking around the dreamer’s brain, this might be useful as typical evidence to prove a theory that conceivably, dreamland does exist. I scanned again my browser, silently hoping to find a concept within the website that has a distinct and unique description of the man in their dreams, but there are none. Every dreamer has an indistinguishable portrayal of the man’s details which is too absurd to be pondered as a truth. Their assertion was way too perfect that it made me believe that it was scripted.

They describe the man in the dreams way too perfectly like they have met him in reality. I heaved a deep sigh before turning my head again, but now facing my room’s ceiling. My mind is being disturbed by a bunch of thoughts. I closed my eyes wanting to fall asleep even with my hazy mind, but it wasn't as easy as I thought it was. I couldn’t sleep. I just couldn’t. I opened my eyes again and planned to shift my muscle but to my horror, I couldn’t move even a single finger. The image of a man standing in front of me with a knife in his hand brought fear to my whole system.

Is he going to jab me?

“I ain’t a myth, fallacy, and deception. I am your nightmare, Triv. I am your trepidation.” As he raised his hand while holding the knife with the vicious grin plastered in his round complexion, I almost cried. He is way too terrifying that would make everyone piss on their pants. The man seemed to be so hostile that I couldn’t even look at his face for too long. I tried to open my mouth and scream but I couldn’t and when he was about to hit me, I managed to move my tongue. “W-Wait!” I shrieked which made me wake up from terror. I was shrouded in sweat. Anguish and turmoil compelled my body to tremble. My heart thump slows down but it's throbbing so bad. It’s excruciating. The nightmare is suffocating.

My heartbeat is at its abnormal rhythm.

I immediately got up from my bed to fetch some chilled water from our fridge to alleviate my nervousness. The setting is quite depressing. The only thing you’ll hear aside from a dead stillness is the insect’s outcry. The silence is deafening which would compel everyone to assume that chaos is near. It’s too bizarre. The insect's outcry added more suspense that made me tremble with fear. “It’s been a year, Triv,” a voice of a man uttered. It horrified me when a familiar voice from my posterior spoke. It’s the man in my nightmare. Tears build up because of fear. This can’t be true! This must be a dream! This man is all fictional. There’s no scientific explanation that’ll prove his existence. There’s no way in hell that he’s true! I am just hallucinating! I have to wake up!

The man grinned before he slanted his back unto the wall just a meter away from me. “You reckoned the idea of your God, but you don't acknowledge me? You assume the unseen: deity, air, afterlife, epitome, and redemption, yet you don't believe what you've seen?” the man sarcastically said. Entirely outraged by his remarks, I threw the glass in his location with all of my strength.

The exact moment that the cup was approximately about to hit him, it halts in the air propelling me to be more surprised than ever.

“Human-person doesn't discern gravity at all,” he declared. “Your notion of gravity is not meticulous. I am not asserting that your science is erroneous. It is partially authentic but not wholly accurate.”

He snapped his fingers which provoked the glass to fall.

“You, humans, are unstable beasts. Immoral. Faulty. Vicious. Fond of negligence. Creators of numerous faults then rendered the same mistake again,” he said while crossing his arms and tapping his elbow using his index finger. “Mortal’s immoral succession. Errors after blunders. Impaired. Weak,” he insulted. He beamed again. His statements keep on booming in my head. He’s driving me to insanity. “If you’re not like us, t-then what are you?” His brows puckered but his creepy smile is still plastered in his round complexion.

“I am nonentity but a saga. I am the gravity itself but can't be categorized as gravity by humans' portrayal of gravity. I am the utopia but not the atmosphere you'll see on sunny days. I am the rain but not the rainfalls. I am the conflagration but not as feverish as it appears. I am the water but I am not as decent as it is. I am in between ebony and white but I am not gray. I am not God but I am the god of myself. I am trivial and hearsay. A nightmare itself but can't be fiction without the dreamer.” “I am the riddle without an answer,” he said. As his body fades, the whole room changes its shape. It was another trance.

“W-Wait!” I shrieked which made me up from terror. I was shrouded in sweat. Anguish and turmoil compelled my body to tremble. My heart thump slows down but it's throbbing so bad. It’s excruciating. It’s suffocating.

"De javú," I murmured as actualization hit me.


My face exploded across a wall of screens. *Tonight, we honour the life and career of Rattlesnake Rick Houston*. A silent split-second, then the crowd damn near blew the lid off the stadium. Jack Ascot walked out in a suit and talked some smooth shit about what a legend of ‘wrestling entertainment’ I’d become. Managed not to mention how he’d sharked me for every last dime in every contract, or how he’d run me down in a golf cart, batshit drunk and coked to hell in his wife's dressing-gown back in ninety-three. The footage they replayed from the eighties summed up that whole time pretty well, though. Fake hair, fake teeth, fake tan. Everything fake but the scars. The good folks in the crowd just wanted me to come out, strike the old pose, shake Ascot’s hand and gracefully retire, but I didn’t do any of that because I was nine drinks and five shots deep in the darkest corner of a San Antonio dive at seven-thirty pm. Missed the ceremony, missed my last six AA meetings, missed baby Adelaide’s birthday party, again. Rattlesnake Rick was *The Greatest Fighter on the Whole Damn Planet*, but plain old Richard Collins wasn’t. Life hit hard, and it didn’t agree the outcome in advance. It was maybe five-am, sprawled cold and hungover in the dumpster out back, that a piercing light forced my eyes open like revelation. Fierce, white, raining down from on high and making a far-off racket like somebody taught an Apache helicopter to sing opera. I tried, painfully, to peel myself off the wet bags, then felt my stomach fired up into the air about ten feet before the rest of me followed on. ‘Jesus’, I thought. ‘I mean, Jesus. Jesus Goddamn Christ, Jesus’. Might not have been eloquent, but it’s truthfully what I thought at the time. Caught in a beam of white light, I whipped up through the air too fast to make out much beyond stars and a blue glow, and blacked out quick. Came around inside of somewhere with red walls curving upwards from where I lay, in pretzel patterns and with texture like sand - but that low opera-whine still resonated through everything and the light felt artificial. It was either a submarine or a ruined temple or some head-on collision of both. “Rattlesnake Rick of Houston,” a voice said. “An honour it is, to meet the greatest fighter of your planet.” Which was, y’know, weird. The guy who said it had four arms, purple skin, pitch-black eyes and a robe draped with the kind of multicoloured beads new-age folks hung from their doorways in the sixties. “And an honour it is for you, to be chosen,” he said. I felt my arms strapped to some kind of table, or maybe an altar. Panic boiled up in my stomach, and I told myself it was probably a waking nightmare brought on by sleep paralysis. My shoulder still triggered those off sometimes. “For centuries, the Zan’Kil Empire has taken world after world into its embrace,” the guy said, drawing closer to reveal multi-bladed teeth. “But we are not barbarian slaughterers. We offer each planet a chance.” He rasped on for a bit about how every civilisation in the sights of their spacefaring empire got the ‘opportunity’ to pit their toughest champion against the Zan’Kil Crown Prince, and those who won the fight got their people spared. I was fighting down last night’s chili dogs so it didn’t all compute, but I guess they did a scan and somehow figured Rattlesnake Rick actually was The Greatest Fighter on the Whole Damn Planet. I already knew the answer in my churning guts, but I asked him how many times somebody had knocked off a Crown Prince. “There is,” he smiled, “a first time for everything.” I got the feeling this guy was kind of an asshat. They unstrapped me from the table a little while after, five guards with twenty arms between them. Blow to the head. Blacked out again. Bladed teeth in my nightmares. That messed-up smile. That little pony toy, the one I’d forgotten to buy for Adelaide. *** They dragged me to my feet in a long tunnel and left me there to wait, the shape of an archway swimming hazy at the edge of my vision, far-off and blinding orange with whatever alien light was outside. I heard the breaking-wave rush of a distant crowd. That part felt kind of familiar. “If you win, they will not let you live,” said a voice close behind. I near shat my pants to see another four-armer standing there, staring dolefully at the archway. “If you defeat me and your world is spared, tradition demands your own life in return.” The guy I figured for the Crown Prince had about four feet on me, with thick armour and fists the size of beer kegs. “That’s not really the outcome I’m worried about,” I said. “Just so. I too grow weary of smashed innards staining my soul and fingernails,” he said, looking exhausted and sad. “But should I relent on the field and spare you, the ancients would know my blood had turned the pale blue of a sickly Zan-calf, and no longer blushed the fierce, rich mauve of a larger and more vigorous Zan-calf. My own life would be forfeit.” He smeared two thick lines of red warpaint onto his forehead, and it reminded me of El Noche Fuego’s godawful comeback costume from ninety-six. “If I could fairly lose this fight to a worthier warrior, and leave this world in peace, I would do so gladly,” he sighed. A thought fluttered wildly through my brain. “Say I wasn’t really The Greatest Fighter on the Planet,” I blurted. “Say it was all a lie, and your ancients got wind. What would happen?” “They would return you to your home and choose the true greatest warrior, as tradition demands.” That was it. I could tell them it was all staged - show them the backstage docs and trash-mag clippings on my phone if they didn’t believe me. Get home, let this forlorn bastard smash some Navy Seal’s head in, wait for the apocalypse and have a drink, have a lot of drinks, have all the drinks. On Adelaide’s fourth and last birthday. Jesus. Goddamn Christ Jesus. I turned to the Crown Prince. “Got an idea,” I said to him. He really did look kinda like El Noche Fuego in that warpaint. “An idea?” “You want to lose and I can't win a real fight, but this shit-for-brains empire hasn’t clocked onto what ‘wrestling entertainment’ means so we might have a shot at something here. If I pretend to hit you, think you can pretend like it's really painful?” “To counterfeit pain and distress? Yes, a simple task.” “Then keep close and just play along with my instructions, your highness - and when I tell you to stay down, stay down.” I stepped out to the edge of the arena, and the crowd’s roar swelled up around me. Took a little moment to say my goodbyes. Then, for the first time in a long time, I smiled like I did back in those old videos. “This is gonna be one hell of a show.


WARNING: +18, MATURE CONTENT: MENTION OF DRUGS AND DRUG ABUSE, TALKS ABOUT MENTAL HEALTH, CONTAINS A LOT OF SWEAR WORDS, AND IMPLICATIONS OF CERTAIN MATURE ACTIVITIES.

 J.T. has been gone for one week with no contact, or warning. Kam and Paul are breaking into his apartment by jacking it open with a crowbar. Emily and Fran stood guard at different ends of the hallway. It was midday Sunday. It was eerily quiet as the hallways were lit by little lights on the ceilings of the hallways.

When they broke into the apartment and swung the door wide open, J.T.’s homemade alarm went off. The white, chipped wooden door hit the multicolored ceramic windchimes that were hanging above the door, and a purple rubber goose screamed at the base of the door. Paul immediately grabbed the windchimes to make them stop making music, as he kicked the goose into the bathroom. “This has to be the saddest alarm system I have ever seen a man make.” Paul said. “Well, would you rather have J.T. be the screaming goose?” Kam said. “They both sound the same.”

They were met with darkness and silence. Paul turned on the light and the apartment became dimly lit. The only bright light being brought in was the one window with a view of a red brick wall from across the street.

The apartment was a small room. J.T.’s naked bed, as in no sheets and one pillow stained with coffee, was in the living room. There was no tv, so it really was his “living” room. The kitchen was against the left side of the wall with just a sink, mini fridge, an oven, and a microwave. The only “other room” was a bathroom that could only fit one person at a time. The entire apartment was only decorated with a round oak wood table, with a blue and green painted wood chair, but no pictures because J.T. believed it disturbed his creativity. The smell of the apartment smelled like an old cigarette with a hint of dusty old books. It was weird because J.T. didn’t keep books in the apartment.

Kam, Emily, Fran, and Paul stood around the chipped oak wood table and looked at the loose-leaf paper J.T. had written on. The piece of paper was taped on a Star Wars R2D2 Tamagotchi toy. Kam began to read aloud:

“I just wanted to touch a bit on the topic of solitude.

I've noticed that by ex-communicating yourself from the outside world and becoming a bit of an agoraphobe can lead to understanding yourself better, while distancing yourself from outside influence. Both positive and negative. Allowing room for personal untainted growth but at a cost; People think I'm fucking crazy.

Since I tend to dwell within the confines of my own Kafkaesque mentality, I've become a social pariah. Anytime I stand in line at the gas station I feel like I'm thinking so loud that anyone within my vicinity can hear me and have free roam of my emotions or thoughts, which makes me feel uneasy since they are so abstract, I would be prone to judgment and shunned due to a lack of understanding. I can safely assume that not very many people are as willing as I am to subject their thoughts to intentional distress like you want to elaborate. You see...I'm only trying to find the answers, some form of enlightenment.

The things I desire most are not tangible, and I always feel out of place in the material realm. Is it my prerogative to smile and nod at the other vessels, when I am not there with them, to begin with? This is why I tend to avoid direct eye contact with children since the eyes are the windows of the soul, and God forbid I subject any child to the bizarre and the bottomless quagmire that exists within my mind. For these occasions, I've fashioned a quirky character for them to tease and laugh at and pray that they don't see through the gaps in the smiles l've fashioned for them. They are quite intuitive when they are young, and I fear they can see the waking nightmare a human being can become.

The more I linger the further away from reality I get, but the further away I get the more powerful I become. There is not a soul in the world that could hurt me anymore. Much like a martial arts battle where the victor is decided before the match even starts. It's called combat clairvoyance, but the fight is not with fists. I'm untouchable; Albeit at the expense of my loneliness. Hell, any sort of reaching out I do is merely an attempt to anchor myself.

I like to think of this as a phase of my evolution, in order to become strong enough to make others around me feel safe and secure. I hope that one day soon, I will become the silent immovable rock that attracts the masses, for answers, for the correct questions, for peace of mind; the deep thought.

To anyone left in my life, please have patience with me during my transition.”

The room went silent. Nothing else could be heard besides the sounds of their breathing, and the sounds of cars driving by on the busy outside road.

Fran broke the silence, “You don’t think he kill-”

“No.” The others said unanimously. They are still staring at the note. With blank faces. All their arms are crossed over their chests. Five minutes have passed, and no one has said anything.

“Well,” Paul spoke again as slapped his thighs, “There’s no point in not calling the cops, and calling it a missing persons case.”

“No. We can’t get the cops involved.” Fran said. “And why not?”

“Because what are they going to do when they find him? He already has a warrant for missing his parole meeting, and he already has a few drug offenses. What do you think they will do to him? They won’t give him back to us.” Fran said in an anxious tone.

Paul rolled his eyes and mockingly said, “‘Give him back to us?’ He’s not a fucking dog.” “So, what if the cops come here and see the broken door? They’ll get us too.” “You can replace doors.” You can’t replace J.T.” “What the hell are you talking about? I-.”

“Can you two just shut the fuck up,” Kam said interrupting their bickering. “You guys are not doing anything but annoying the hell out of me. Why don’t we just look around the apartment, make some calls, try going his favorite places, and see-.”

“Does he look like Scooby fucking Doo to you? We’re not the mystery gang here. He’s not our lost puppy.” Paul interrupted Kam. Kam huffed out a breath while shaking their head, and Fran looked out the window with an annoyed look.

“I don’t think it would hurt if we looked around the apartment? There is not much to go through. I am sure we can find something.” Emily said as she walked towards the kitchen and opened the drawers. Paul sat down on the chair and grabbed the paper and reread the note. Kam walked into the bathroom, and Fran stood still, just looking at the entire room.

Emily opened the utensil drawer. Only a few forks, and two knives. She observed a few spoons that were melted downwards and had the oxidation color still on them. She sighed, put the spoons back down and closed the drawer. The next drawer had mixed colored napkins that were from restaurants, mixed with sauce packets from Taco Bell, or McDonalds. The third and last drawer had a black plastic plate with a “I LOVE DILFS” written on it, with rolled up joints of weed, and a few Swisher Sweets on it. There was a black lighter, and a torch lighter next to the plate. Emily bent down and opened the cabinets underneath the sink. There was nothing but a half-emptied bottle of Dawn dish soap. She sighed and closed the cabinets. She sat on the ground as she stared at the cabinet, seemingly staring at space.

Kam, on the other hand, was going through countless bottles of used and unused Advil, Tylenol, Xanax, Ecstasy, Prozac, Valium, and OxyContin in his medicine cabinet that was behind the mirror. In the bathtub, there were wet cigarette butts around the rim of the bathtub, empty green and brown beer bottles, and plastic 5ths of cheap liquor.  The toilet looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the day he moved in, over two years ago. The floor tile was either cracked, or some of the pieces were missing. “This looks about right.” Kam spoke to themself as they closed the cabinet.

“Well, nothing new in there.” Kam announced as they walked out of the bathroom and towards the table.” “Yeah, I didn’t see much here either.” Emily said as he joined them.

“What else could you suspect from him? He thinks there is a group of people waiting to just ambush him and take him to the FBI.” Paul said shrugging his shoulders.

“Maybe he needs help,” Fran said.

 “No shit, Fran.” “You don’t need to be mean, Paul. We are all going through it with him missing.” “I’m not worried. It’s his own fault.”

“Paul, I don’t think it’s fair to say th-” Kam began to speak until Paul interrupted, “Kam, it’s his own fault. We have all been in the same situation as him, and we have helped ourselves to be better. I’m tired of him dragging us down for his own benefit.” Paul started to become aggravated.

“He has serious mental health problems; we should be there for him the best we can.” Emily calmly said.

“And do what? Where is he? He’s always calling us selfish. Saying we are never there for him. Even though I bailed him out of jail two fucking times. Always blaming us for his own problems. When we are the only ones who answer his drunken state of mind and cry about how this isn’t a fair life, and how he deserves better. He amounts to nothing in his own life. I’m tired of it. He does nothing for us except mope around and bitch about how his life is a mess. When was he there for our existential crisis!? Getting high? Getting drunk? Suddenly his problems are our problems? Now, look at what he is doing to us. Thinking this is some fucking scavenger hunt. Fuck him!” Paul abruptly stood up as he slammed his hands on the table and stormed out of the apartment.

“PAUL!” Kam yelled and walked towards the door.

“Let him be. He needs time for himself. This is hard for everyone.” Emily said.

“He needs time for himself? He’s the selfish idiot here. Our friend is out there having some sort of mental crisis, and Paul is calling him selfish. What an idiot.” Kam angrily said.

The room went back to silence.

--

Paul went through the Burger King drive-through for nine-piece chicken fries, a double whopper, two large fries, and a large coke. As he pulled out, he drove down the road to a storage unit where he kept most of his junk that was from his mother or father.

When he pulled next to his unit, which was a brick red color he parked his car and got out while holding the food. He went to unlock the unit, and when he pulled the door up, he noticed it was dark inside. He sighed, put the food next to a ripped-up emerald, green chaise, and walked toward the metal string that turned on the light.

“Paul?”

Paul looked at his helpless friend as he lay on the cold concrete ground. His teal hair disheveled, his black oversize My Chemical Romance tank top stained with what seemed like vomit, and his black cargo pants ripped to holes. The bags under his eyes matched his strained eyes.

“Yes, J.T.”

“I feel awful. It’s like my body can’t decide what it wants to feel, so it freaks out on me every time I try to have a peace of mind.”

“That’s what withdrawals do to you. Been there, done that.”

“Thank you for helping me, Paul. You’re a great friend.”

Paul took a deep breath and forced a smug smile, and said, “When this is done, never speak to me again. I never want to see you.”

“Paul, what are you talking about?” J.T. stuttered, looking at his friend with big doe eyes.

“I’m done with you. I’m throwing 11 years of friendship. It’s all because of your selfishness. I can’t stand to look at you.”

“What do you mea-.”

“I don’t want to hear anything from you. I have been too patient and caring towards you, and you have done nothing for me, or any of us, except be an awful excuse for a person.

When your withdrawals are done, you’re going to go back home, to a clean house, because I will tell your loyal friends to clean out your drug-ridden house. You’re going to get a steady job and figure out how to live life like the rest of us. I have given you too many passes and you have fucked up on every one of them due to your carelessness and ignorance. You’re 35 years old. Stop living a sad and stupid life. Never contact me once you leave this unit. Fuck you, you psychotic bitch.”

J.T. was in shock as he looked at Paul leave the unit and slamming the garage door shut. Hearing the garage lock, J.T. curled into fetal position and bawled like a child. Being consumed by his own thoughts. Wondering how everything went wrong.


It had been six hours since Mary-Lou decided she wouldn’t sleep tonight. Soon, the sun would rise, and the roosters’ calls would bring forth a new day. A special day. For today was The Celebration of Wishes, a ceremony to bring in the new year for all the members of the village. Elder Orylyn would be calling upon the benevolent spirits of the dell to grant wishes for a select few of the villagers. An old woman, the townsfolk knew this could be her final Celebration, and envy would surely spread through those not chosen, much like a fire through grass in the midst of a dry spell. This fire would be promptly quenched with an assortment of alcohol and dances in the village center, an event which all able bodies would attend. Mary-Lou had kept the same wish locked away inside her heart for the past five years, since she’d become old enough for her parents to begin negotiations to find her a husband. She wanted a new life, a new adventure, and the man of her dreams to accompany her. She didn’t know what part of her this wish had grown from, but she had her guesses. The desire to leave the monotonous life of a farmer’s daughter surely originated from the day to day experience of being a farmer’s daughter, she thought. Mary-Lou got out of her bed and dressed for the day. Her dress was becoming worn through, but the holes near the center were easy enough to cover with an apron. She finished tying her shoes (which were also adorned with holes) and set off for the town center. Although the sun’s rays were barely visible over the grassy hills to the east, Mary-Lou was not the first to arrive. It seemed that a few villagers had a similar mindset to Mary-Lou: if there’s but the slightest possibility that Orylyn rewards punctuality and sacrifice, it would be worth the lost hours of sleep. A handful of others stood around in conversation, and Mary-Lou could immediately identify why they were so keen to be selected. One older man seemed to shred his lungs coughing when incited to laugh, the sound sickened Mary-Lou. Paxton Farnsworth stood proudly despite missing his left arm, the result of an unfortunate accident which the family had thus refused to disclose. The rest of the villagers gathered were either on death’s door or very young, all of them holding the same sorts of youthful wishes within them. Mary Lou approached Paxton, who had a stalk of wheat pressed between his lips on the right side of his mouth. “Hello Paxton. I see you couldn’t find any sleep either?” Paxton smiled. “You’re a smart girl, I’m sure you can guess my wish. I’ll even give you three guesses,” he said. “Hmm. Well, if I had to guess, I’d say you’re asking for a bountiful harvest.” “Wrong. Two guesses left.” “A healthy new calf?” “Incorrect. Final guess.” Mary-Lou furrowed her brow in mock concentration. “Could it be… oh of course! How could I fail to see this earlier? It must be to fix your crooked nose.” Paxton attempted to keep his serious expression, but he shortly failed in this effort. They shared a friendly embrace. “So, how have you been, Pax?” “Oh, you know, milking one utter at a time, trying to find a creative way of shearing the sheep,” Paxton said. “And you?” Mary-Lou sighed. “I’ve been bored, Pax. I’ve been really bored.” She considered telling Paxton all about her wish, about the feelings she’d harbored for years, but decided against it. While she was certainly close enough with this young man she’d been schooled with, to talk about marriage would be a sore spot, as she was certain he’d become a far less desirable match upon losing the arm. They caught up for a while, speaking of different incidents on their families’ farms only to learn that the occurrences sparking their stories probably weren’t as special as they’d once thought. As they spoke, more townsfolk filtered into the center. Her family would soon arrive, she was sure of it. She didn’t feel like speaking with them today, she was too tired, and she didn’t want to hear their demands that she wish for her father’s back to heal. Her wish was non-negotiable. Paxton was called away by a voice in the crowd, and Mary Lou was left to wander the center, ultimately finding solace in the alleyway between the Elders’ living space and the general store. She leaned against a wall, then sank down to the grass. She examined the scene in the center. Over a hundred villagers had gathered now, some she hadn’t seen since last year’s Celebration due to age or infirmity. A light veil of dust had risen from all the feet on the dirt clearing. She watched it settle, only to be kicked up again. She was captivated by this cycle for some time. Mary-Lou’s concentration was broken by a gruff mail voice behind her. She turned her head, and was greeted by the sight of Mr. Matterson, the city manager. Mr. Matterson was a kind man within the few conversations the two had shared, but everyone in town knew his penchant for order and practicality, properties which landed him his position in the first place. His beard was neatly trimmed, something few men of the village could say. “Not wanting to enjoy the festivities, I see?” “I’m sorry Mr. Matterson, I’m just a little nervous, that’s all,” she said. “I understand, Mary-Lou. Believe it or not, I remember being nervous about my future when I was your age,” Matterson said. “But I’ll let you in on a secret: I think this whole thing is a sham. For some people, I think their wishes are granted by coincidence, and others grant their own wishes just by believing they’ll be granted in the first place.” Mary-Lou’s gaze shifted downward. Mr. Matterson took the hint. “Ah, that’s it, is it? Well, seeing as I’m responsible for your well being, young woman, why don’t you tell me what’s on your mind?” Maybe it was the fatigue, maybe it was her desire to finally speak her mind to someone, but Mary-Lou readily responded. “Oh Mr. Matterson, I just can’t take this life anymore. I love to read all about adventures, and I’m sure I’ll never get to live my own if I stay on this path.” Mr. Matterson was about to cut in, but Mary-Lou continued. “My parents talk to me every day about finding me a husband. But I’m not so sure I want to marry a farmer. I don’t want to live the same life as my mother, and her mother before her. I’ve read all about the towns, no, the *cities* from far away, and I’m just so amazed. You wouldn’t believe the things they have over there. Did you know-” “Alright, Mary-Lou,” Mr. Matterson interrupted. “Maybe a farm isn’t in your future. I understand that. You know, the O’Brien’s son is only a few years younger than you, and he’s to inherit his parent’s general store. In fact, it’s this store right here,” Mr. Matterson said as he patted a log making up part of the wall to his right. “And what’s more, as part of the business he goes into a big town up north once a month. I’m sure he’d take you with him to see it.” Mary-Lou sighed. “I appreciate your kindness, Mr. Matterson. I really do. But I… I just don’t think my future is in this village, that’s all it is.” Mr. Matterson’s expression changed, a stern expression overtook his face. “I’m sorry to tell you that’s just not the case. This town functions properly for a reason, and that reason is because everyone is committed to expanding and improving it. We can’t do that if healthy young men and women like you want to up and leave. You’ve never left this place, have you?” Mary-Lou shook her head. “Well,” Mr. Matterson continued, “I have, many times as a matter of fact, and you wouldn’t believe what’s out there. Terrible people, people who will rob you blind and never look back. Creatures that’ll tear out your throat if you give them the chance. Bands of marauders armed to the teeth with whatever firepower they can purchase with their blood money. You don’t want any part of that.” But maybe she did, Mary-Lou thought. Maybe she did. After exchanging pleasantries, Mr. Matterson walked to the town center to start the proceedings. Mary-Lou remained seated for a moment, then walked toward the now large crowd. She kept her distance, she knew her chances of being chosen were slim at best. Mr. Matterson began the proceedings. Mary-Lou couldn’t hear his words, but keenly watched the crowd’s reaction. They were still and silent in anticipation. He held up a small wooden box, and removed a scrap of paper. He shouted a name, and the crowd went silent. A figure was being pushed to the front. It was Paxton. Mary-Lou’s heart dropped for a moment, but she knew that Paxton deserved it more than anyone. Paxton entered the Elders’ lodgings, and Mr. Matterson read the next name. The crowd seemed to murmur, disappointment spreading. No one came forward to receive their prize. Mary-Lou’s heart fluttered for a moment. Her mind entertained all her hopes, dreams, and fantasies at once. A boy ran away from the crowd toward the southern section of town, right at Mary-Lou. He passed her without saying a word. He turned to shout back to the crowd. “I’ll go tell him! I’ll see if he can come down here!” Mary-Lou’s heart dropped, but this time to her stomach. She knew she wouldn’t be picked. It happened this way every year. She felt like an idiot. The same every time, and yet she still allowed herself to get excited enough to be dismayed when the inevitable passed. Yet still, she started rehearsing her wish in her head. *I wish for a gallant adventurer to take me away from this place*, she thought repeatedly. Mr. Matterson was reaching for the third name. He read it. Groans filled the crowd, and an old woman hobbled up to the front. Everyone in the crowd shared Mary-Lou’s opinion that such wishes would be wasted on the elderly. Mary-Lou felt a sob bubbling up. She fought it as best as she could, but soon it won the battle, and tears were streaming down her face. She ran away from the town center, running between some of the homes and shops stationed nearby. She’d let no one see her cry. She was too old to be getting her hopes up, after all. She dropped to her knees and cried for some time. Maybe a few minutes, maybe a half hour. She was stopped by Paxton’s voice. “Mary-Lou? What’s wrong?” She attempted to speak through her erratic breathing. “Oh Paxton, I… I just thought this would be the time for me, you know?” She gave up her sense of shame and looked up at Paxton, half-expecting to see a newly formed second arm. But the space where his arm used to be was still empty. “W-what happened with the Elder? What did she tell you?” “Oh, she did her whole song and dance to the gods, but I’ll tell you, I’m certain it’s all fake now. You should have heard what she told me. She said that the gods were listening to someone else while she was trying to summon them. She told me they might not hear me, and apologized. She said it had never happened before, and she asked me not to tell anyone else. Well damn it to hell, that’s what I say to that.” Paxton finished his monologue by lightly stamping the ground. Some of the produced dust fell onto Mary-Lou’s face, but she was too focused on what Paxton had just said to notice. “Could they, could they have heard me?” Mary-Lou’s eyes were locked on Paxton’s. “I’m not quite sure what you mean,” Paxton said, confused. “But hey, your parents are looking for you, they said if I found you I should send you to the festival. They want to introduce you to someone. I’m headed there myself if you’d like to join me.” Mary-Lou’s mind was snapped back to reality. Of course, her parents. While the gods of the dell were probably fake, her parents and their wishes were perfectly real, and would soon be enacted upon her. She suddenly hated everyone and everything, including her parents for asking Paxton of all people to deliver the message. She ran away, running until the pain inside her dulled. She didn’t know how long she’d run, but now she was by the lumberer’s homes on the outskirts of town. She looked back to where she’d run from and saw a pillar of smoke. The bonfire was as big as ever this year, and she could hear music emanating even though she was so far away. Mary-Lou wanted nothing to do with that festival. She turned back to the homes and noticed an unfamiliar covered wagon being pulled by two horses. She knew it was foreign as the horses were too large and battle-worn for this town, sporting a collection of scars. The emptiness within her was filled with curiosity. She investigated the cabin across from the wagon. She snuck around the side of the home, and peeked through a window. She dropped away from the window, back to the wall. She’d seen a man inside. A man with flowing brown hair, a gun on his hip, and a shaped leather bag in his right hand. She tried to sneak away, fear engulfing her. She’d only seen a gun held by friends and townsfolk. It was significantly scarier on a stranger, she decided. She crept back to the front of the house, and saw the man leave the logger’s home. He lifted the canvas on the back of his wagon and disappeared into it. Mary-Lou guessed he was storing whatever he’d put in that bag. She stayed crouched and ducked back behind the corner of the cabin. She held her eyes closed as tightly as she could, and shortly became aware of the fact that her heart was trying to escape her body. What felt like an eternity passed. “Excuse me, miss, what might you be doing in a place like this?” Mary-Lou opened her eyes to the sight of the stranger. He seemed to loom before her, although there was nothing threatening about his stance. He reached a hand forward slowly. “Could I help you up?” Mary-Lou tried to nod her head slowly and calmly, but when she reached her hand out, she found that it was shaking fervently. The man stepped back after helping her up. “Now, miss,” he said, “I’m going to ask you a question, and I’d really like it if you answered me honestly, alright? I have a knack for knowing when someone’s lying to me. I don’t mean you any harm, I promise, but I need you to answer me.” Mary-Lou was about to cry once again. She wasn’t sure she had any tears left, but the sobs were coming back. This time from fear rather than heartbreak. “I’d like you to tell me if you saw me in that cabin. And I’d like you to tell me what you saw.” Mary-Lou audibly gulped. She told the truth, never considering any other option. She told the stranger that she’d seen him in the home, then had ducked away from the window. “And that’s all you saw?” “Yes sir.” The man seemed to ponder something, but Mary-Lou’s mind was racing as fast as it ever had. Unbeknownst to the stranger, emotions were bubbling within the woman in front of him. She was thinking about the wish she’d made. She was thinking about the fact that she’d never seen a stranger in town before, and she was thinking that this one seemed awfully dangerous. She asked a question. “Are you… are you planning to leave this place?” The question snapped him out of his train of thought. “Yes, I may have some more business to conduct but I’ll be leaving.” Now that she’d gathered the courage to look the man in his eyes, Mary-Lou was becoming entranced by them. They seemed to sparkle, and filled her with a strange melancholic sensation. “Could you take me with you?” Mary-Lou asked. She didn’t know where the question had come from, but didn’t dispute its authenticity. She’d meant it. “And why might you want to come with me?” For the second time that day, Mary-Lou revealed her soul to another. She told the man about her dream to leave this place, she told him about how terrible her future would be if she didn’t leave this place, she told him that she didn’t think she could do it alone. She hesitated, then told the stranger that if she didn’t leave this place today, she’d kill her dream. She’d suppress it and punish such thoughts until she could accept the life of a woman in the village. She didn’t know how the man would react to this, but she didn’t much care. The man raised a hand to the stubble on his face, rubbing his jawline from ear to chin. He thought for a time, then responded. “You haven’t even told me your name, but you’ve told me your deepest wish. I think you’re a strange girl, you know that?” Mary-Lou nodded. “You know,” he continued, “I know just how you feel. I felt that way myself for a while. That’s why I steal. That’s why I take from communities with too many resources. The communities who make people like you unhappy. Are you alright with that? The way I make my living? Could you truly come to accept it?” “I…” Mary-Lou trailed off. “I think I could. I think I’m accepting the idea more and more, even now. So what do you say? Can I come with you, wherever you’re going?” “I didn’t think I’d be the type to be swayed by someone like you, but dammit, I can’t tell you to stay in a place like this. You can come with me.” Mary-Lou’s lips stretched upwards in excitement. “So when do we leave? I’m ready to go now, you know,” Mary-Lou said. “I have to finish my business here, that business being a good old fashioned robbery. Why don’t you come help me, and when we’re done, I can promise you we’ll be racing out of here.” “Like Zeus’s chariot?” The man crumpled his nose. “I can’t say I know what you’re talking about.” “I’ll explain it on the way out,” she said. And thus, their unlikely partnership was formed. The stranger had Mary-Lou keep watch outside the homes while he went in to rob them, but no one ever came. He told Mary-Lou that he’d scouted this location for the last three years. He knew that everyone went in to town to celebrate this time every year. It was a thief’s dream. After the fourth house, Mary-Lou asked the man what he was stealing, and if it would harm the townsfolk. He told her that this town produced a specific resource very efficiently, and it wouldn’t hurt anyone to take from a community with too much. He said he’d heard that the way the town produced it was even causing some townsfolk some harm. Mary-Lou tried asking exactly what he was stealing, but the man said she’d have to wait and see. They continued robbing home after home, each time the man leaving with his shaped leather bag, depositing the contents into the wagon, then continuing on. After fifteen or twenty some homes, the man said they’d be leaving soon. They’d been lucky, most of the homes had what he was looking for. Mary-Lou asked him about the money involved, and he told her they’d have enough to travel the world wherever they pleased, enough to find plenty of new adventures. Mary-Lou really liked the sound of that. Eventually, the man exited the wagon with a smile on his face. “Mary-Lou, it’s time for us to get out of here. I hope your time as a robber’s been plenty exciting, because we’re putting this life behind us. Happiness coming over her, Mary Lou ran to the stranger and embraced him, planting her head in his shoulder. The man returned the gesture, and they stayed that way for some time before releasing each other. The stranger told her to hop onto the wagon, and they were off. After a few minutes of riding, the man asked her if she was hungry. Considering she hadn’t eaten since the night before, Mary-Lou told him she was. They pulled over with the town still in sight, and the man found some smoked jerky, a few apples, and some milk in his wagon. They ate their meal and subsequently passed out, the warmth of the sun over the veil of leaves above them was too pleasant to resist. Mary-Lou woke up to an unfamiliar voice. Groggily, she wiped her eyes, and once they finally focused she saw an older man pointing a revolver at the stranger. Her new friend was on his knees with his hands held high, the gun just inches away from his nose. The man was yelling about something, pointing to the wagon excitedly, his face red with rage. Mary-Lou vaguely recognized him from the town, but didn’t know his name. Mary-Lou yelled toward the older man, begging him to stop. It was just like a man from her town to threaten an outsider. He would never understand why they’d stolen, he’d never understand that the man on the other side of the barrel of the gun had hopes and dreams just like her. That town was where dreams died, and this was simply an expression of it. The older man looked towards Mary-Lou and shouted something, and that was all the time the stranger needed to act. He gracefully sprung to his feet, grabbed the gun, and kicked the other man hard in the knee. The older man fell to the ground, releasing the revolver in pain. The stranger looked toward the girl. “Mary-Lou, look away now.” In a state of shock, Mary-Lou did exactly what she was told. She heard the gunshot ring through the air, then felt the pull of the stranger’s hand on his shoulder. “Come on, we need to move, now. They’re trying to destroy what we’re building, it’s now or never,” he said. Mary-Lou obliged. She climbed up to the front of the wagon, and the man ran around to the driver’s seat. He handed Mary-Lou a pistol he produced from under his seat. “If anyone tries to hurt you, don’t hesitate. You just point and squeeze the trigger, alright darling?” Mary-Lou nodded. She vaguely heard some commotion behind her. She looked behind the wagon and saw a group of townsfolk chasing after them on foot, likely thirty seconds away. Their shouts were of anguish. Were they trying to rescue her, or did they just want to maintain order? This confused Mary-Lou. She heard a strange noise come from the back of the wagon, but it soon stopped. Before she could ask the stranger about it, they were off. The wagon was building speed. “They’ll never catch us,” the man said, “they don’t have a chance in hell.” They rode like this for a few minutes, and once they’d put some distance between them and the mob behind them, Mary-Lou felt like she was finally able to breathe. The stranger placed his hand to the sun. “Seems like we’re about six or seven hours to sundown,” he said. “We took a bit of a detour from where we’re trying to go, I didn’t want them to follow us. Damn, it might wear off soon.” Mary-Lou wasn’t sure if the man was talking to her or himself. He seemed distant to her, his eyes weren’t focused on anything in particular. Suddenly, he snapped out of it, and looked at Mary-Lou. “Hey, you remember why we’re doing this, right?” Mary-Lou nodded. “And you know if we do this, we go live the life we’ve both dreamed of,” he said. It wasn’t a question as much as a statement for which he sought affirmation. “Yes, I know that,” Mary-Lou said. “Well, alright then. We may be able to make it by nightfall. We trade this wagon for a sack of cash and fresh horses, and we leave this place,” the stranger said. He was about to continue when Mary-Lou heard another noise coming from the wagon. She wasn’t sure what it was, it sounded almost alien to her. She started to wonder exactly what her town was hiding. And yet, there was a familiar quality to it, she just couldn’t place it. The sound stopped once again. Mary-Lou turned to the stranger. She’d just realized she hadn’t even asked him his name yet. Just as she opened her mouth, he cursed under his breath. Mary-Lou looked back at the road. Riding toward them were two men, both sporting gleaming silver stars. Mary-Lou didn’t understand the stranger’s dismay. “What’s going on?” she asked. “Those men…” he started, “Just let me do the talking here, alright? Please, don’t speak unless you must. I’ll get us out of this, but it might not be easy.” He looked at Mary-Lou and cast a reassuring smile toward her, then shifted his gaze downward and noticed she was still holding the gun. Startled, he took it from her and hid it back under his seat. The men on the horses were upon them now. The stranger and the rider on the left exchanged smiles. Mary-Lou hadn’t noticed when he’d done it, but the stranger was gripping her hand with his own. As the men on the horses passed, the grip tightened, then released once they’d cleared the wagon. Another noise sounded from the wagon, and Mary-Lou heard the horses behind them stop moving. The riders turned around and rode back even with the stranger, one on each side of the wagon. The rider near the stranger cleared his throat. “Excuse me sir, would you mind pulling over for a moment?” The stranger’s grip on Mary-Lou’s hand was painful now. “Well,” he said, “I would, but my wagon is holding sensitive cargo. My boss told me to let no one see it under any circumstances.” The rider was unphased. “Sir, I’ll ask you again to pull over. I’m not too keen on asking a third time. I’m asking you with the power given to me as a deputy of this county. Do you understand that?” “I-I-” the stranger stammered. His palm started sweating. “I’m afraid I can’t do that sir, I work for a powerful man, you see?” He released Mary-Lou’s hand, and began to slowly reach under his seat. He glanced at the rider on the other side as he did so. “I have the paperwork, if you’re worried about that. I can show you the manifesto if it gets you gentleman on your way.” “Well, I suppose that’s a start. Let’s see it then,” the deputy said. The deputy reached out toward the wagon, and the stranger continued to rummage around under his seat. He turned to Mary-Lou, and spoke so softly she thought it could have been the wind speaking to her. “When I lift my hand from under the wagon, you need to duck.” The stranger searched for another couple seconds, then found what he was looking for. “Sirs, I think you’ll find this satisfactory,” the stranger said as he raised the pistol from under his seat with his right arm, and unholstered the revolver in his left. Before the deputies had a chance to react, he’d planted a bullet in the head of the rider on the left. Then, flipping his head, he shot the other man just as Mary-Lou ducked under the barrel of the gun. Mary-Lou didn’t see the bullet connect, but she heard a now familiar sound of metal embedding itself in flesh, then heard a body hit the dirt path. Mary-Lou was shell shocked. She couldn’t find the courage to lift her head, much less to speak. She expected a comforting gesture from the stranger, but he now had hold of the reigns, increasing the speed of the wagon. They raced down the road for a few minutes, then he relaxed his speed. The two didn’t speak again for the rest of their ride. As the sun was setting, the stranger veered off the main path, taking the wagon through some tall trees and into a grassy clearing. A man with a similar covered wagon was waiting there. He was older, his hair readily receding and his teeth all but rotted. A few saddled horses grazed in the field, Mary-Lou assumed they were what the stranger had mentioned earlier. The setting sun cast shadows which seemed to loom throughout the clearing, the sky seemed to burn a shade of orange above them. “Hey, Mary-Lou? Why don’t you let me do the talking again, got it? Don’t worry, this is the man who’s giving us the money and horses, just like I told you. We’ll be living our new life soon enough, I promise.” The stranger planted a kiss on Mary-Lou’s forehead, then stepped down from the wagon to approach the other man. They conversed for a moment, but Mary-Lou couldn’t quite make out what she was hearing. She thought she heard the phrases “more than I thought” and “don’t worry about her.” She became nervous, but she calmed down once she saw the two share a friendly handshake. The stranger waved Mary-Lou over from the wagon, and the older man went over to inspect its contents. “My darling, today marks the first day of our new lives. Our man here came through just like I thought he would,” the stranger said. He pointed to the horses. “See those fine horses over there? Their saddles are full of gold, gold that we can exchange for as much cash as we can carry once we get into town. Then, I don’t know, we get a boat anywhere we want!” Mary-Lou didn’t know what to say. She thought that even if she knew what she was feeling right now, she wouldn’t be able to express it through language. The only word that came to mind was unsettled. Was this really what I wanted? More questions swirled through her mind, and she was more than willing to let the stranger lead her by the hand while she sorted them out. They mounted their horses, and like the stranger had said, the saddle bags held bars of solid gold. The stranger reached his hand toward her, and she took it, their horses cantering aside one another. The sun fell below the mountains to the west, Mary-Lou noticed as they passed the wagon one last time. The noise came once again, but louder than ever. No, she thought, it must be more than one noise. She wouldn’t even try to figure out this mystery, she was content to leave this place and never look back. But as they rode through the trees, realization flooded through Mary-Lou, and she became pale in the waning sunlight. The sound she’d heard hadn’t been from wild animals. It hadn’t been alien. It hadn’t been the clink of disarrayed coins, nor had it been the sizzling of a strange reaction. Mary-Lou thought she might fall off her horse. The sounds which had emanated from that wagon were surely the muffled cries of babies. The sorts of cries which would only be resolved by the gentle touch of the mothers they’d never again see. Into the sunset they rode.


Mark lives alone in a studio apartment in London. He works in finance, which is something he doesn’t like to elaborate on in conversations when the topic comes up. Mark’s days usually start by him waking up at 6 AM, taking a shower, going to work, working to 9 PM, grabbing a couple of beers with his friends, and then going to sleep. Mark hates his life. It’s been the same way for 10 years and if he doesn’t change anything it will probably continue to be the same to the day he dies. The only thing that consoles Mark is the high chance of him dying early, due to an overconsumption of drugs and alcohol, combined with a lack of sleep. Mark is sitting at his office; drinking coffee and analyzing numbers and trying hard not to fall asleep. Someone slaps him on his back. He turns around; it’s his boss, Peter. Peter smirks and says, “Falling asleep already, eh? You can sleep when you are dead and I don’t see a tombstone here next to you, and also this isn’t a graveyard. Never mind that, I need those reports in by tonight. I also need you to start going through the numbers for this quarter.” Mark opened his mouth to respond, but Peter was already halfway towards his office. “That old grump, now I have to work late again. That’s 987 days in a row.” Mark thought to himself. He sighed and took a sip of coffee. It had turned cold, of course. This was not the life he had dreamt of living. He wanted to be happy, live an interesting life, spend his time on hobbies, have a lovely girlfriend, and most of all; create a better world. Instead, he worked in a staid company, surrounded by people who only cared about money and profits, spending his nights doing drugs. A colleague sat a hot cup of coffee on his desk and said, “Mate, last night was mental. I reckon it can’t get better than that, but we’ll find out tonight, right? The blokes are meeting at the club at 9.” Mark replied, “I can’t tonight I’m working late, sorry mate” His colleague made fake crying noises, “We all work late, that’s why we get blasted, innit? Play hard and work hard. Did I tell you about the bonus I got last week?” Mark replied, “Many times.” His colleague started to walk away, “Awww, you’re just jealous. See you tonight, Mark.” Mark was in fact jealous, but not of his colleagues. He was jealous of people living ordinary lives and doing meaningful work, something he had never done his whole life. He decided it was time for his lunch break. The sun was shining as he stepped outside the office; birds were singing, people were eating ice cream in the park, and an elderly woman stumbled on a rock in front of him and slammed into the ground. As she was lying on the ground, Mark felt his heartbeat speed up. He decided he was going to do something nice for another person. He walked up to the old lady and extended his hand. She looked up at him and took his hand. Mark smiled and said, “Are you okay, lady?” She brushed the dust off her clothes and answered, “I’m old. I can’t walk properly anymore, but don’t get your knickers in a twist. I’m as fine as I’ll ever be. Thank you for helping me” She walked to the bus stop close by and sat down. Mark stood there and felt something weird. It wasn’t old lady dust. He was happy. He decided he was going to help more people. He heard someone crying in the park. A young girl sat alone on a bench; tears were running down her face and she was obviously not enjoying the sunny day as much as the rest of the people. Mark sat down next to her and awkwardly said, “Hi” She looked at him and wiped away her tears, “Hi?” Mark smiled and said “I noticed you were crying. I’m sorry to intrude, but is there anything I can do to help?” She looked dazzled, “I don’t think so. Thank you for asking. It’s just that my cat has disappeared. I’ve been looking for days, but I can’t find him. I love my cat and I miss him so much.” He scratched his head “What is your cat like?” She started sobbing, but eventually calmed herself, “He’s black. He’s a black cat, and he likes to eat cat food and snuggle next to me while I watch the telly.” Mark nodded, “That sounds like a nice cat. I understand why you miss him. If I see him I will give you a call immediately” She smiled, “Yes. He is a nice cat. Thank you. My name is Susan. Here is my number in case you ever find my cat” She gave him a little poster with the picture of a cat and her number written down at the bottom. Mark folded the poster and put it in his pocket, “My name is Mark.” Susan said, “It’s nice to meet you, Mark. You have made my day a little better. Do you want to help me search for my cat?” Mark was about to respond, but his phone rang. It was his boss. He answered, “Hello, it’s Mark” His boss had an angry tone in his voice, “You’ve been gone for 30 minutes. Where are you? You have to come back to the office and finish all the paperwork.” Mark did not want to go back to the office. He wanted to help Susan find her cat. Mark felt a surge of adrenalin go through his body as he said two words he had wanted to say for quite some time, “I quit.” He hung up the phone. He had just ended his career at the company, but in another sense, he felt his life had just begun.


The red glare of his lightsabre shone against the pale skin of his face as a young Palpatine stood at the doorway of his Masters chamber. A silent whisper from the Dark Side Nexus beneath the palace whispered to him, “What you do when you cross this bridge will determine the fate of the Sith Lord that will incinerate you. Remember Sidious you are the culmination of what we’ve been dreaming. Fulfilling the jealousy bound within Rule of Two in this instance will allow the Force to birth a saviour. Find him and bring him to us. The Legions await his arrival.” Palpatine stood at the doorway, awestruck by the sensuality of the voice that had cascaded through him. He hadn’t realised that the Nexus could speak to Sith such as himself. He’d always assumed that his Master was the sole recipient of the power stored within the Nexus. He heard the soft rustle of clothing inside the chambers as he opened the door and stepped into the moonlit shadows scattered in the chamber. Holocrons, relics, masks and statues stared at the young pupil as he walked unsteadily towards his Masters deathbed. “... the fate of the Sith Lord that will incinerate you.” The voice whispered through him and he saw a silhouette of a Dark Side User in a metallic black, robotic mask lingering against the outline of the moon. Hatred and fear courses through him as he raised his light sabre above his head, his eyes locked onto the heart of Hego Damask. His hands shot downwards and the light sabre stopper an inch above the heart of the Muun. His Masters eyes shot open and a kind smile crept across his face. “Good. You’re fulfilling the Rule of Two. You’re still not strong enough for what must be done young Sidious.” Darth Plagueis reached upwards and clasped the hilt of his disciples light sabre. “One day I will see you across the aisle child. I will be very different then. You will not even know who I truly am then. And yet balance will be fulfilled. Let that jealousy inside you flourish. I’ve seen that it will do wonders for the Dark Side. Remember do not mourn my passing.” The Muun slowly lowered the light sabre through his chest with Palpatines hands still clasped around the hilt. The Apprentice stood transfixed as he watched a transcendent smile overwhelm his Masters face. The body of Darth Plagueis disappeared. Palpatine stood still. The palace trembled and cackled. Far away, the energy around the Senate shivered as a youngling Emperor was born. The moon before Palpatines eyes had a red glow around it now. The silhouette of the future Vader shattered into dust and crept into the wind. *** 9 years later, the spiritual essence of Hego Damask was instantly teleported by the Force to the planet of Tattooine. The former Sith Lord smiled as he saw a serene woman kneeling on a stretch of sand dunes staring at two suns. He glanced briefly at the golden haze of the setting sun and entered the womb of Shmi Skywalker.


There she was, again. For years I've seen her sitting on that bench, as I make my way to work, crossing this park. It's funny, we've never actually greeted each others, let alone speak, but I have this feeling that we both notice each others. One cold morning I poured my coffee down the drain and made my way outside, to be greeted by a morning mist, a sort of shapeless guardian of time, fighting the sun to keep this peculiar moment, called crepuscule, going. Well, I felt minuscule, as I walked across the road, these dark fluffy clouds hovering over the very city I've lived in all my life. I made small talk with the chicken, on the other side of the road, exchanging pleasantries. ME ''How are the kids'' CHICKEN ''They're just fine, still in their eggs and all'' ME ''Well, say hello to the wife will ya friend'' CHICKEN “Will not, since a fox got to her last week, gruesome affair'' ME ''Sad to hear it, good day'' CHICKEN ''Same to you, watch for the geese'' As I tucked my icicles in my pockets, I realised that I was laughing like a mad person, completely lost in my mind, walking. Making my way under the tall trees, I entered the park. In these trees were big-nosed monkeys, hurling rocks and branches at passerby. As I pass the biggest one, I avoid eye contact and start hollering, filling the crisp air of an absurd, primal music. Soon enough the monkeys got down from the trees and started to walk, as people do, stopping and pretending to talk. The big-nosed one stayed on his branch and clapped his hands, then I kissed his ring. Blessed by his majesty the Prime minister of the big tree, I kept on walking my merry way. My mind kept trying to focus on the upcoming day at work, but such thoughts could wait a few more minutes. As I turned to the left at a park highway, a flock of cyclists passed me on the left, at incredible speed. All of them had the standard Spandex suit, with the helmet and sunglasses. One yelled something as he passed me by, making these intricate movements with his arms, as if I were to understand some bodily cyclist language. After a few minutes the flock thinned. The last one I saw was a pig on a unicycle, struggling to keep up with even the slowest of the flock. I pushed him down and, ignoring his screeching of panic I laid my judgment upon him, taking its pathetic life, to the blind eye of many witnesses. Cleaning my hands on a nearby bush, I was ecstatic. My white tie was stained with the invisible blood of a non-existent animal that I slain without pity, yet my mind was in complete ebullition. Above me was hovering one of the biggest dragonfly I'd ever seen, and I've seen at least two in my twenty-four years on this earth. In one swift move its wing began flapping in a noisy way, and it stood still, a few meters above the ground. Its wings were so noisy in fact that I couldn't hear anything else, neither the chirping of the harpies nor the screams of agony of the ants. The dragonfly flew away, seemingly disinterested by my humble presence. The deafening silence made way to a symphony of nature's most mundane noises. Only to be interrupted by a soloist, performing the lacrimosia. I had completely forgot her. There she was, again. Sitting on that bench. But today she was crying, and she wasn't alone. Seeing her in such an emotional state took me completely off guard. I must've had such a concerned face, which is funny since we were nothing more than strangers. How I wished I could go sit next to her and comfort her, not as an excuse to finally talk to her, but only for her to not be so sad anymore. As I approached, they didn't even seem to notice me, so focused they were on the corpse on the ground, in front in front of them. I tried to say something, but nothing came to mind. I tried to do something, but nothing came to body. I finally laid there, on the ground in front of them, as the clouds opened their hearts and let forth their tears, much like her. To all I was an unfortunate man, that somehow died while crossing a park. To her, I was this stranger that she never dared talk to. To me, I was a mad person, so deep in my own imagination that I died from it. As I stop breathing, I feel as though this is for the best. I look one last time at her, as I accept my departure from this world. She wasn't crying, she was laughing.


Thanks for reading. Happy to hear any inputs. Sonti The Sophist Sonti was my friend. We were about the same height, though he had a slightly darker complexion than me and a chubby face. His long dark hair was combed and parted over his left eye. Strands of hair would fall over his right eye which he would flip with a twist of his head to bring them back over his head—a characteristic display of his irreverence. I don’t know when he got the nickname “Sonti”. Maybe when we were in our second grade? I remember he fell from the mango tree at our school, fractured a bone in his right arm, and stayed at home for two months. When he came back to school he started learning to write with this left hand. As was the norm in our class we ridiculed him as “Sonti” (lefty). Whatever it was, the name “Sonti” stuck with us: only teachers at our school knew his real name. He made exaggerated claims about his struggles to learn to write with his left hand. But his other stories and claims captivated us even more. Like that one time in our third grade he told us about how he learned to ride a bicycle by himself: His father had asked him to rent a bicycle at Kumar’s Bicycle shop near his house and bring it back home. “First I chose the Hero bicycle that was about this length,” he lifted his palm to his head, “and I asked Kumar if it was a good vehicle. Kumar assured me it was the best he had and wrote my name in his notebook. He said he knew my father. I tapped on the seat twice with my right palm—just to check if the seat was ok. I looked around the bicycle and the air pressure in the tires seemed fine. Then I simply got on the bicycle and slid my right leg to the other side of the pedal, and slowly lifted my left leg onto the left pedal and balanced myself. I fell twice, for sure. It didn’t hurt me. After two attempts, I easily rode it like a monkey riding the bicycle,” he briefly paused to let us imagine a monkey riding a bicycle, “and I crossed the Seven Bisons bridge where I had to carefully drive on the side to give way to the No.10 bus. When I reached home, I told my father that I parked the bicycle outside.” He narrated it all so casually, as if the whole event was just like another leaf falling from a tree: pre-ordained and inevitable. Ennai, Mottai, Doku, and I listened in awe to hear Sonti’s mini travelogue. For us a third grader riding a bicycle by himself was quite a feat—or so we thought, till Sonti told us that he learnt it the very first time, by himself! One day during our fifth grade we were chatting at school before the morning bell. My friend Mottai was narrating his weekend experience riding the pillion of his uncle’s moped for the first time. It was a TVS-50, a lean 50-CC two-wheeled vehicle—in essence, a bicycle with a motor. “He drove for half an hour. Towards the end he went fast. May be 90-95km per hour, zhuuurrrrrrr.” He sounded like the roar past a supersonic jet engine. “I was frightened when he rode at 100 km per hour to overtake a truck,” my friend claimed. “100km. That is nothing,” Sonti dismissed my friend’s claims nonchalantly and continued, “One of my uncles has a Rajdoot. It is a large motorcycle,” his hands widened, “It looks like a big bull. My uncle and I went for a ride from our village to Madurai. He told me to sit in the pillion and told me to wrap my hands around his waist. But when we were returning, I asked if I could sit in the front, just above the petrol tank. It was dark in the evening. As he rode fast, I feared my dangling slippers might fall off. He even let me drive. I firmly held the motorcycle’s handlebar with both my hands. You know what I did?” he paused to look at me and gauge if I was following him, “I turned the accelerator and rode fast, rocket fast, at 150 or may be 200 km per hour. I overtook four cars and three buses and we came back home in half the time. My uncle was impressed with me. You know what he said? ‘This Rajdoot is yours’.” Sonti looked at us with his eyebrows lifted up. A casual swagger. “Is it that easy,” I asked. “It is, for me,” he shrugged. We nodded our heads in approval and looked at him with a sense of gratitude: at least, he is still our friend. “Super, super,” Ennai was emphatic in his approval. In sixth grade he ratcheted his claims even further: like that one time he told us that he had an uncle who was a District Superintendent of Police (DSP) and how he and his uncle went chasing a robber. “My DSP uncle asked my father if he could take me to Salem for ‘official work’ and my father consented. I was sitting in the passenger seat. An hour later he stopped at a roadside tea stall in a village. He ordered a Limca for me and a tea for himself. He described a person to the tea stall owner and asked if he knew his whereabouts. We walked towards the village and a man, who resembled a thief, started running away from us. My DSP uncle told me to stay behind and started chasing him but I also ran behind my DSP uncle. Fast and faster. When we finally caught him, the rascal couldn’t run anymore,” he finished with a triumphal grin. “Incredible,” we all muttered with our eyes open. “Why didn’t you chase him in the police jeep?” my friend Ennai wondered. “Don’t you know that roads are narrow in villages?” he bluntly rebuked Ennai. During the initial days of our seventh grade, he used to talk a lot about his pet peacock—a gift from his father’s friend. “My father is a government official. He gets a lot of gifts but he mostly rejects them because he is an honest man. When someone offered a peacock as a gift, I asked him if we could keep the peacock. He agreed under the condition that I would be responsible for its upkeep.” Before any of us could challenge his claim, he pulled a small iridescent blue and green colored plumage with a spotted eye in the middle from his back pocket and gave it to me: “This is a good luck charm. But you have to keep it inside a book. Otherwise the peacock will curse you.” My friends were envious, but I felt honored to be the custodian of his gift. There was one time when he claimed his family was related to the famous Tamil actor, Vijayakanth, and that his family always got free tickets to watch Vijayakanth movies. Who knew? Sonti once told us about how his father wrote to the state’s Chief Minister about improvements his father had suggested to a canal digging project and how the Chief Minister responded in a letter with grace and appreciation. “I think he might be promoted as the District Collector,” Sonti mused with a slight irreverence, as if his Dad becoming the most powerful man in the entire district didn’t matter the least to him. We were however excited at the prospect of having a powerful friend in our midst and were immediately curious: “Would you come to school in one of those police jeeps with a blue light atop?” “Would the police accompany you to the bathroom during recess?” etc. As was his habit, he simply shrugged—either he didn’t know or didn’t care or wasn’t interested in responding. One evening after school Dokku brought a picture of a tall building in the United States. The caption read: “The Empire State Building.” He said it was 100 floors stacked one on top of another. We took turns to look at it and gasped at the marvel. “How do you build 100 floors?” Dokku wondered. Sonti took a peek at it and paused. “This is all recently built. Anybody can do it,” he simply rejected the grandiose claims behind the Empire State building. “Did you know my ancestors built the Meenakshi temple in Madurai thousand years ago? Have you seen it?,” he sought our reaction and continued, “Even though people call it a thousand-legged hall, it has only 985 legs and the remaining fifteen are atop two shrines. Every pillar is sculpted with images of Gods. The entire temple was built by my ancestors,” he paused again wondering if his claims registered with us. “One thousand years ago,” he lifted his right hand behind him to emphasize the long past. “Think about it.” With those three words, he relegated Dokku’s wonderment into oblivion. Sonti’s stories were convincing. Whenever we challenged his claim, he countered us with questions for which we had no answers. Whenever we accused him as a cheat and a liar, he simply ignored it. One day, just as our afternoon session was about to begin at school, Sonti came running into the class and impatiently dislodged his school bag. He summoned the four of us into a huddle. His voice was frantic and he sounded tense. He gasped for a few breaths. “Somebody shot and killed Prime Minister Indira Gandhi today.” Our collective shock was shattered when the school bell rang. It was 1:00pm on the 31st of October, 1984.


Hundreds of beasts scurry throughout the ruined city of Colosia, the remanence of a battle over the rights of the sentient. Their base of operations all but destroyed, four soldiers shuffle between buildings working their way out of the heart of the city. Electronic warfare is keeping all long distance communication silent. What’s left of the squad is in search of a way off the lost planet. The Acers are a motivated mercenary company contracted out by generals of Dynamus whom they sympathise with. They believe grit should not be reaped from sentient life as they are sure its destroying the very soul of those reaped. The Astras empire on the other hand has no problem dissolving their slaves and prisoners into grit. This difference in values of life is what is fueling the war. Grit is a multidimensional particle that has just been discovered in the last two hundred years, and its capability of opening portals to hyperspace has had its value skyrocket. Combining powerful navigation computers with the ability to enter hyperspace allows travel to anywhere in the galaxy in short order. It’s collected by using a high frequency energy that breaks up the living or recently living tissue and releases grit which is collected by a specially designed negatively charged container. It didn’t take long for grit to become a standard currency which is used across the galaxy. “You really think the elevator is still functioning?” Rob asked his superior, referring the the space elevator a few dozen kilometers outside the city. “Has to be. It’s our only way off this grave yard. Just hope its still under Dynamus control” Luke said holding up a closed fist, signaling to his unit to stop. At the end of the alley is the growling of two wyrm hounds fighting over some garbage. The hounds were the remnants of monsters summoned by Astras to take down the city. “Hey!” Luke belted out not too loudly. It got their attention and they charged the soldiers. They bounded taking long strides and moved quite fast. The sound of the weapons were suppressed, made little noise, and short work of the animals. They bled green and didn’t smell so good. “We’ve only seen wyrms and traps set by Astras, do you think any of the army is still here?” Rob quizzed again. “Hard to say. There’s not much left to fight over. Those that weren’t captured and reaped managed to get at least out of the city, if not off the planet.” Doug chimed in. He was the units designated marksmen. The planets sun began to creep up casting long shadows and golden light down the streets. Taking full caution, the unit moved corner to corner keeping an eye out for traps and monsters. One at a time they switched off their night-vision. Their standard issue PR-330 light armor had kept them warm throughout the night. “Take five.” Luke allowed, walking into an abandoned restaurant. “Ammo checks and bio breaks.” Terra swung her backpack off and started counting magazines. “We’ve got plenty to go around yet. Two dozen clips and a half dozen nano patches. Not including your belts.” Terra is the engineer and pack rat for the squad. “How much farther?” “Your full of questions today” Terra smirked at Rob. “Well i-“ He stopped, crouching down and raising his weapon towards the window. The sound of heavy metallic footsteps drummed outside. “Ours??” he whispered. Terra pulled a heavy grenade from the backpack and passed it up to Doug who was closest to the window. The large bipedal machine thumped and than screeched dragging one of its feet, apparently damaged. Once it came into full view In front of the building the soldiers sighed. “It’s an FR-1080, one of ours…” Doug laughed and stood up. A second later machine gun fire lit up the robot from down the street and an anti tank round ripped through the biped and white hot metal erupted from the wound, it stopped in its tracks and fell to the ground face first. “Get me eyes on!” belted out Luke. Rob pulled a sphere off his belt and tossed it out into the street. It’s a drone for locating enemy targets. It gave a visual readout onto each squad members digital face shield, showing the pinged targets location. “Okay, out the back. Rob, Terra.” He commanded. “Get ready to flank.” They bolted out the back door of the restaurant and into the alley way. Their readout showed a dozen enemy soldiers in the street on the other side of the building. Rob and Terra moved up a half block in the alley to get behind their foe. In the meantime, Luke and Doug posted up behind the little cover they could find and waited for the enemy to come check out the robot that was taken out. It didn’t appear that any of Luke’s squad had been detected yet. The robot slayers moved from cover and began to cautiously approach the downed machine. This was all shown by the drone in the street. Terra and Rob got into position and raised their weapons to engage the enemy from behind. They opened fire. Two of the foes got tore up by the metal slugs thrown from the Acers weapons and fell to the ground. One more fell when running into view of Doug and Luke. A blue bubble, crackling with energy formed over the remaining soldiers in the street as they ran for cover. Rounds from the four man squad were stopped by the blue bubble. “They have a starmancer.” Rob spoke loudly over the short range radio, referring to a magic user in the enemy unit. “You think?” Terra growled back pumping another round into the chamber of her weapon. “Doug!” shouted Luke. “Yup!” He replied arming his hand grenade, it beeped once to audibly confirm it was armed and he tossed it to intercept the enemy. A fantastic explosion and the smoke cleared revealing all targets were eliminated. “Clear!?” yelled Terra. “Clear” Responded Luke. “What the hell? I thought it was just the hounds left.” Spoke Rob. “They were probably in the same boat as us. Left behind for bigger things.” Replied Doug. “Check the walker for a pilot” Luke pointed to the downed machine. Rob quickly climbed up to its hatch and knocked on the locked door with the butt of his rifle. “Anything?” Rob replied “Don’t think so, doesn’t look like anybody is home. Could have been unmanned maybe?” “Maybe.” Luke spoke. “Let’s get going. Another kilometer to the suburbs and twenty passed that to the elevator.” The party looked over their fallen foes for anything useful but found nothing they needed. So they piled up what was left and destroyed it with an explosive charge. The Acers marched on.