The scuffing, thudding boots echo up the corridor, then stop at my cell door. That sound is the only sense of time I have in solitary. 15 days down, 350 more to go. With a creaking clank, the rusty serving hatch is forced open, and the breakfast tray is slapped down with even more gusto and disdain than usual. Patting rough hemp blankets and the cold metal bed frame, I feel my way into position before the cell door, then reach out with my good arm and find the little shelf. I whip the tray away as best I can one-handed. Then the hatch is shut with a violent metal clang that rings around the room and reverberates through my forehead, making me wince in pain. That obnoxious din is getting ever more unbearable as my hearing sharpens in the otherwise endless silence. No-one says a word, as usual. Neither the shitty food nor service deserves a “hello” or “thank you”. My crew have shunned and betrayed me, so the thought of being further rejected or bullied by my silent jailer is too much to bear. I pace five equal steps straight back from the hatch then stop. The smell of the watery gruel-like porridge makes my famished stomach grumble, though from experience, my taste buds are not so enthusiastic. Turning ninety degrees to my left, I walk two careful paces backwards until my increasingly skinny arse just nudges the back of the chair. I learned early into my sentence that walking forwards results in knocking my knees and spilling the contents of the tray. Licking spilt water and gruel off a lunarcrete floor is not the best way to start anyone’s day. Even days as monumentally hopeless and despairing as mine. Turning around one-eighty, I lean over and place the tray on the small steel table in front of me. Relieved, I sit down to eat. The water tastes of iron and chlorine, but it’s good for washing down the unidentifiable lumpy bits that make me gag. I dream of oranges. The vibrant citrus colour, the deep green leaves and clear blue skies of my early years fill my mind. I can almost smell the zesty tang as I imagine splitting open a freshly picked fruit from our tree. That was when southern England was the “New Mediterranean”, because the old Mediterranean was the new Sahara desert. Greedily gulping down my first grim mouthful, the heavy boots interrupt my meal again, accompanied by the high-pitched clip-clapping of Dr Ross’s headmaster shoes. He’s early, or maybe breakfast is late. With a slight pneumatic hiss, the cell door slides open. “Good morning Harper, how are you today?” asks Dr Ross. The door shuts, those infernal boots fade away, and we are alone. “Hungry.” He scraps a spare chair up to my table. “Yes, I’m sorry to disturb your breakfast. But I’m needed up top today, on a special visit to the drill site.” “Right,” I say, noting the excitement in his voice. He sounds in his late sixties and was born on Earth for sure, his melting pot accent ranging anywhere between Glasgow and California. This could be his first time on an EVA outside of the lunar colony, and its artificial Earth-like gravity. In normal circumstances, I wouldn’t have begrudged his eager tone at all. “Wouldn’t you like to know why?” he asks. There’s only one scenario which requires Dr Ross’s medical expertise down the mines, and it’s not good. After a few moments’ silence, he gets the hint. “How are you bearing up?” I just shrug my one good shoulder and play with the porridge, letting it drip off the spoon and plop back into the bowl with a satisfying splat. “Turn to face me, Harper,” says the doctor. “Yes, your cheekbone is healing nicely and your lip is almost back to normal. Can you eat okay?” “Once you bugger off I can.” “Good, sense of humour still intact, that’s good! Go on, take a few mouthfuls.” He doesn’t need to ask twice. I put a spoonful to my lips, then wretch at the inexplicable smell of rotten cabbage. Gulping hard, the reconstituted oat-water slides down my throat. “You must be starving on these meagre rations. I will complain, again! ” says Dr Ross, raising his voice for the benefit of my jailor, or whoever’s listening to the video feed. “So there’s still considerable bruising around your right eye socket, but it’s on the mend. Now, let’s have a look at how that shoulder’s doing.” He gently unties my sling and bandages and my dead arm rests on my lap. His breathing is faster than normal and he reeks of body odour, which is unusual for him. “Okay, good. Raise your arm for me, as high as you can now.” Straining, I lift the unwilling limb two inches, before crying out in agony as severe pain shoots through my upper arm and collarbone. “Okay Harper, please rest,” says Dr Ross. Then he slips something small and square into my sling. My back masks his actions from the video camera angle. “Shush.”

“What’s that?” I whisper back. “Chocolate.”

A single tear streams down my battered left cheek. Cocoa beans and sugar are amongst the most lucrative export crops from the lunar farms. But both these plants require plenty of precious water daily, constant heat and during the long lunar nights, fourteen days of synthetic light. So chocolate remains an expensive and luxury item. “Sorry I couldn’t sneak in more,” says Dr Ross in a hushed, breathless tone, whilst pretending to continue working on the dressings. Without further ado, I reach inside the sling with my good hand and carefully unwrap the toilet paper surrounding the contraband. Shaking, I lift the treat to my bruised lips, flooding my senses with its rich caramel aroma. “Suck it slowly, so they can’t hear you chew, and keep your back to the camera.” “You risk too much, doctor. Thank you.” As he rises to gather his things, I pop the precious prize in whole. The velvety dark chocolate melts in my mouth, flooding my mind with endorphins. A pleasure hit to lift both body and soul. “Right, almost done here, back in three days,” he says, placing something sounding like a pile of paperwork on the table. “Here’s something to keep that brilliant mind of yours occupied in the meantime.” “What about my sight?” I ask.

He sighs. “I have only the same answer as yesterday, and the days before that. I’m sorry.” I nod my head in solemn acceptance and a heavy feeling comes over me. “Don’t go in, doctor. The tunnel. Do not go in .” He places a hand on my good shoulder, and gently squeezes it for just a moment, then walks away. The sudden sound of him banging a fist on the cell door makes me gasp. “Ready!” he calls to the jailor, then softens as his voice turns back in my direction. “Sorry, too loud?” “Just a bit,” I say. “I could hear a mouse fart these days.” The good doctor chuckles. “Hang in there kiddo, and enjoy the book.” Then he’s gone and I’m alone again. Pushing my foul meal aside, I pick up the thick wodge of paper. It’s ring-bound and almost twice the height and width of a regular paperback book. I run my fingers over the first page, tracing some mesh of tiny embossed bumps. The bumps are convex on the front side of the page, and concave on the reverse. Then it hits me – Braille, the doctor wants me to learn to read Braille! I can’t imagine how I’m meant to do this without some form of a guide. I should focus on my limited exercise routine and then get back to thinking up an escape plan. But I just can’t put the papers down. A gut instinct, a sixth sense almost, tells me that this is important somehow. I place the papers to my nose and breathe in deep. The paper smells new, synthetic. Not like the musty, old Earth books in the little crew zone library. Like all of them, the first page is full of bumps – no dots. Somehow I know that dots is the right term. Guessing the first line is the book title and the short second line is the author’s name, I have to know what they are now. I’ve always loved puzzles. It will be a challenge to decipher the Braille alphabet. I’ll just work out the book title and author, then stop. Assuming the book’s language is English, and you read Braille left-to-right, I run my fingers over the first line. There are smaller spaces between some of the dot clusters, to distinguish different words, and a thinner separation between each… cell, they’re called cells, representing different letters or symbols. I touch more cells and find that each one has zero to six dots arranged on a two-by-three matrix. Each dot space has only two possibilities: either flat or raised, so two to the power of six means the Braille alphabet has 64 characters max. By feeling the whole page, it’s clear from the line breaks when each new paragraph starts, and each one begins with the same character – a single lower-right raised dot. Each line wouldn’t start with the same letter, so this symbol either indicates a new sentence, or capitalisation of the first letter. Then it’s simple to work out the symbol for full stop. Next I find the letter ‘a’, which can be the only single character word commonly found in the middle of a sentence, then learn both capital ‘I’ and lowercase ‘i’. Now I look for the common two-letter words beginning with ‘a’ or ‘i’. Then I work out ‘if’, which leads me to ‘of’ and the letter ‘o’. A minute later, I can also recognise the letters ‘r’, ‘h’, ‘n’, ‘s’ and ‘t’. Then, by applying my known letters to the three-character words, I have now learnt all the vowels and common consonants. I retrace the first two lines: To -ill a Moc-ingbird. Harper Lee. Harper – that can’t be a coincidence — it’s a message for me. But what is it and why? Now I’m hooked. I consider the title of the book. ‘Kill’ seems relevant these days for sure, as the authorities have blamed me for the murder of those two poor miners. The memory of the actual culprit, in the depths of that mineshaft, sends a chilling shudder through my entire body. Or does it mean someone’s coming to kill me? Perhaps Dr Ross is an unwitting postman, and the message and its sender are not friendly. ‘Mockingbird’ doesn’t seem to fit with my situation. Canaries perhaps, as an antiquated mining reference, but not mockingbirds. I imagine all species are extinct by now. Most birds who could not live and breed year-round in the polar regions where the air was still breathable, had perished several years ago in the methane smog. I studied this classic novel in school. The key themes of prejudice and miscarriage of justice each carry some relevance to lesser and greater extents. But I can’t see a clear, direct message. Perhaps I’ll find it within the text... By the end of the first chapter, I can interpret all the Braille characters, even the shorthand symbols representing compound sounds and common words, with enough fluency to make reading a pleasurable experience. For the first time since my incarceration, I smile. I’m loving both the logical efficiency of the Braille system, and the story itself. This new skill gives me some hope, and a welcome break from bleak thoughts. My darkness is now lit up with imaginary characters and settings. Halfway through the book, I find a typo, an extra random letter in the middle of a word. A printing or editing error, perhaps? There’s another one! An extra space a few lines below. Is there a coded message in these typos? I read on. There are hundreds of these extra characters in total, found across nine chapters. Memorising the characters in order of appearance, I read them both forwards and backwards, and they make no sense in either direction. So I try various classical substitution and transposition cipher methods. Decoding these methods relies on finding the right pattern or keyword in order to either replace the letters or read them in the correct sequence. But these known methods are no good. I’m definitely dealing with a custom cipher here. There must be some logic in the particular characters chosen, and perhaps their position in each line. The additional spaces appear at random in the text. But the extra letters only come from the first thirteen of the alphabet, A to M. And they only appear in the first thirteen characters of each new line. If I add – no multiply, there’s no possibility of equalling 1 for ‘A’ with addition. If I multiply the position number of each extra letter in the alphabet by its line position number, then at a glance, it looks like I’ll never get more than the 26 letters in the alphabet. My heart pounds in my chest and I shake a fist. Yes, I’ve cracked it! Okay, so first extra letter is ‘a’ at line position 9, so that makes ‘i’. Then a space. Then ‘a’, ’m’, space, ‘j’, ... Then I have it, the first sentence, and I know who sent the message. Bloody hell! I can’t believe who it is. I calm my nerves and decipher the next page. Okay, so each new page represents the start of a new sentence. I decode the entire message without delay: “I am jailor. Sorry no more food. Being watched. People know truth. You are still child. Not without innocence. But innocent of murder. Our loved ones work mines. Stop your machines. Seal up horror below. Now follow instructions…” An escape plan, an escape plan! I jump up from the chair with excitement and fist bump the air. Then my numb legs give way, knocking my knee against the metal table edge, and I hit the deck hard.

Dazed, I find myself crumpled face first against one wall of my tiny cell. I reach for my knee and howl in pain. Stupid girl! I’d sat in the same spot, in my poor condition, for hours. At least I was lucky enough to not land on my broken shoulder. Oh Harper, what were you thinking, getting your hopes up like that? I can’t do this. I’m blind, broken, and starving. I can’t escape a prison, in an alien city on the Moon. Even with help, they’ll catch me, won’t they? They’ll catch me, and then they’ll… Curled up on the floor, I sob into my knees. And stay like this for a long, long time. Then those echoing, thudding boots approach again. The jailor, he’s coming to rescue me! Oh no, I’m not ready, I’m not ready. But something inside of me overrides both logic and emotion. So I get up, and dive into bed. Clank! The hatch is open. Smack! Dinner is served. I cover my ringing ears with the rough bed sheets and wait. Nothing. Be patient. I count sixty seconds, but it feels like an hour passes. “Come get your food,” says a grizzled male voice with a thick colony accent. The stench of stale cigarette smoke seeps in through the hatch. As instructed, I say nothing, yet. My blanket quivers. What if this is a test? What if he hurts me? He grunts. “You gone deaf too?” My throat is in my mouth. I can’t breathe. Then there’s the hiss, and the cell door slides open. The boots approach the bed, then swivel, and the jailor places the tray down on my table. That’s my cue. Here goes nothing… “No, p-please, please b-bring it here,” I say, shaking to my core. “Bloody butler am I?” says the jailor, but he picks my meal off the table anyway. I find the strength to sit up, and he places the tray in my lap. The scent of brown rice and beans wafts towards me, same as every other dinner in this place. But I won’t miss this meal. I launch the tray’s hot contents up towards where I imagine the jailor’s face to be, then lash out with my new plastic weapon. The jailor shouts and swears at me, but somehow I launch to my feet and push him away with every last ounce of strength I have. There’s crashing and cursing as he trips over the chair, and I leap towards the door. It’s gone to plan so far. Feeling the frame, I step out into the corridor then turn left towards where the sound of the boots begins each mealtime. Towards where my next rescuer awaits, I hope. The brave jailor groans back in the cell. My heart’s galloping like a hundred horses and I’m drenched in cold sweat. I gasp and wince as piercing alarms scream all around. So I run! I crash into one wall and then spin into the other, but suck up the pain and just keep running. Not because it’s fair or makes sense, but because I must. It’s do or die, innocent or not. I’m Tom Robinson now. I am the mockingbird.


After a quick glance at the wall clock Abby re-read the flyer. A bolt from the blue it’d been the last thing she’d expected in the mail. ‘By now ‘ she mused ‘they’ll be packing out the hall of Barrett High the old alma mater and I wonder having hand addressed the envelope will Margaret aka Maggie be expecting it to have borne fruit? In the form of me ‘answering the royal summons.?’ Barrett High School Reunion Class of 86 We want you.....to join us for a weekend of fun and reminiscing. Culminating in a Saturday night ball. Followed of course by the usual dates, times, housekeeping and contacts. It was predictable that Maggie’s name would feature. As head of the organising committee no less. Except way back when you didn’t call her that. ” My proper name is Margaret. Maggie sounds so common.” Abby could still see Margaret Prince her newly assigned desk mate. A willowy six year old already with model looks. So prim, proper and with that hint of a plum in her voice as she laid down the rules of social engagement. Then turning to Abby after the teacher called their attention hastened to add. “Except I’ll let you use it, because we’re best friends. Only in private but....” Their friendship had been of the accidental variety. The kind that arose from mums socialising at playgroup and their kids (baby goats according to an older Margaret) being forced together. In their case Margaret had been the dominant one, with Abby content to follow in her wake. All the same they’d been happy years, the two families enjoying shared outings, their daughters close as sisters. Yet Margaret could be cruel, nitpicking in a way that eroded Abby’s confidence. Her own form of Chinese water torture...drip, drip...drip. ”0h look your dress has a rip.” ”Must you say eh? It sounds common.” ”Don’t say yuck. It sounds babyish.” Even as a child certain words were verboten and there were proper wayS to address people. Like Mother and Father for parents. Even her mum had to chuckle at that one. The recollection gave rise to a chuckle, as tick, tick around went the clock. Like the dancers at Barrett High’s Ball minus one. Sharing a bag of mixed lollies during a park outing Abby had chosen a sour one. ”Ooh yuck.”, she exclaimed spitting into her handkerchief. “Looks like you won’t be choosing that kind again.”, chuckled Margaret’s mum. Followed hot on the heels by a disdainful exclamation. “For goodness sake we’re eleven years old. Only babies say words like yuck and it’s not even correct English.” Her mum an English import had laughed. “Oh fiddlesticks to you too Maggie. I didn’t raise a toffee nose.” ”Muuuum”, a whine far more babyish than a thousand yucks. “You know I don’t like being called that in public. It’s common, and correct English isn’t toffee nosed.” ”Well I am English and no one back home put on airs and graces.” ”Oh muuum, you’re not being fair.” Then Mrs Prince laughed it off, in denial that by inaction they were raising a snob. Because getting her own way became the story of Margaret’s life. While her peers acquiesced for the sake of peace, Mr and Mrs Prince considered her their miracle, to be indulged and excused because of that. After their grown up birthdays or turning thirteen Margaret had confided that her mum had been advised to never get pregnant. “But she did and they had me.” The unspoken rider being that she was special, and in her eyes therefore entitled. Abby pictured Margaret (now Mrs Max Brent) sighing as she searched the gathering for Abby, the best friend who’d railroaded her plans. “I know”, she exclaimed now to the clock “how selfish of my dad to die in our final year.” They’d planned a future involving university and the obligatory Big O.E. Margaret had started working on an itinerary, and plans for their ‘uni wardrobe.’ There was a certain ‘Look’ they needed to achieve, impressions to be made. After prize giving she’d set aside a full day to come and give Abby a hand,” “Like I couldn’t even dress myself.” Then her father’s sudden death from a heart attack put paid to all that. With no life insurance her mother’s part time job in a cake shop didn’t cover all expenses. So Abby sacrificed her dreams, taking a job with the local greengrocer. It was an immediate start and though she hid her disappointment Margaret’s were worn on her sleeve. It still hurt to recall that conversation, ”A greengrocer’s, but you could do so much better. You were meant to come to uni with me.” ”I’m sorry but mum needs me. I have to help.” ”We were going overseas too. I even started our itinerary.” ”You’ll have to do it for both of us. Then you can send postcards and give me all the details when you come back.” ”That’s not the same. It’s just too bad your dad never had Life Insurance.”Q Even before Abby’s hand came up she knew she’d gone too far. The slap took both girls by surprise, but when Margaret stormed off Abby let her go. After all she’d come by to apologise and sit beside her at the funeral. They were best friends after all. Except the apology never came, and in the new year Margaret left for university. ’To have a life’, she told anyone who’d listen, after which her story floated back in bits and pieces. Mrs Prince shopped at the greengrocer’s, so Abby heard regular updates. Her new ‘cultured’ set of friends, an Arts Degree and eventually that Big O.E. with different travelling companions.. She’d met Art Dealer Max Brent on the U.S. leg. When he popped the question Mrs Prince held off the announcement until plans were underway. ”Just think”, Abby overheard her telling another assistant (following the slap she‘d pointedly avoided Abby) “if she hadn’t gone to that exhibition they wouldn’t have met. He’s a nice young man and the family simply love Maggie. The wedding’s in New York. Their Autumn not Spring would you believe?” Which hurt even second hand, The realisation that in Margaret’s eyes she no lomger even warranted a small note of the “Guess what? I’m engaged.” variety. Never mind an invitation to be chief bridesmaid. No doubt a humble greengrocer’s assistant didn’t cut the mustard in New York’s arty circles. Instead from where Abby sat she’d chosen four total strangers. No doubt all fly-by-nighters more concerned with image than the bride.As to the lovely boy and his family how could Mrs Prince be so confident when they’d never met? As to the present, Margaret‘s current prominence on the Barrett High Ball Organising Committee was thanks to local arty head hunters. By some recruiting miracle they’d succeeded in persuading Max to head a new Oceania Arts Commission. For Margaret the social come down would’ve been been compensated by the chance to lord it over local plebs. Like her committee ’drones’ who must’ve been in seventh heaven at acquiring a real New York socialite. Abby imagined that she would’ve eventually bored the pants off them with exaggerated ‘fairytales of New York.’ With apologies to the Pogues whose version she loved. Not to mention it being far more honest. As to the culture shock for Margaret when first confronted with trading New York for Auckland that would’ve been a definite ‘fairytale of New York.’ From the dark side. She imagined the tanty. It would’ve been priceless, though not for Max. It must have come as a shock to realise what a high maintenance wife he’d chosen. Yet she’d have given in for appearance’s sake. Divorce after all would hurt her image, especially back in good old En Zed. Abby imagined her pouting throughout the entire flight. Suspicions confirmed at a later date by Mrs Prince. Apparently on landing Margaret had insisted that he start house hunting right away, Insisting on the best possible address she’d agreed to a ‘nice place’ on a tree lined Parnell Street. One where ‘nice place‘ was a polite way of saying mansion. Max Brent deserved every sympathy. What a shock for the poor guy to discover just how literally his Kiwi dream girl took that line of the wedding vows that said . ’.......with all my worldly goods I thee endow’ Worldly goods a far cry from this run down but comfy flat above a shop. Yet Abby was content, for while it’d been delayed in her case happiness had come. The handwritten envelope had arrived earlier in the week. A departure from the usual bills and junk mail it’d caught her eye. Mainly because personal messages these days tended to be in email form. On closer inspection the familiar, flowing cursive had compelled her to read it. What contact she still had with girls from high school was through passing encounters or increasingly through this new online platform. Yet despite knowing her address Margaret aka Maggie had chosen not to visit. No doubt her present address didn’t measure up, like Abby’s husband Rob. A bookshop owner he’d been working for his grandparents when they met. She’d become a regular, graduating to wife when he inherited the shop. “Because now I’m in a better position to provide for a wife.” Which was nice in an old fashioned way but quite unnecessary. Before saying yes Abby made it clear that she intended to work in the business. The greengrocer was retiring, freeing her to come on board as an equal partner, by which time also her mother had rallied. Enough to manage her life, give her daughter away and hint at grandchildren every chance she got. Instead Abby took charge of expanding their online presence and coming up with fresh ideas to help keep the physical bookshop relevant. Like a series of Authors & Experts events. Perhaps she shock the socks off Margaret aka Maggie one of these days, adding Max Brent to that list. After all if they were thinking of expanding their Art selection didn’t it make sense to bring in an expert? For now though she was just content to be at home. Downstairs Rob would be locking up after late night. Then he’d climb the stairs, freshen up and they’d pop along to the Kebab shop for their usual Friday night treat. Which was far preferable to answering the royal summons. Besides which she mused binning the flyer Margaret aka Maggie was no longer the only one with a life. ‘By now the ball will be ‘pumping, but search in vain Maggie because you won’t find me there. I’ve got better things to do. Like eating kebabs with a gorgeous man, and maybe talking about starting a family.”


Amara walked to the mirror on her wall. She was the same girl-- violet headphones, messy blue hair, a white-with-salmon-stripes men’s t-shirt that she was wearing as a tunic with jeggings, high-tops on her feet. The only sign of the adventure was the green symbol on the underside of her wrist-- a longsword, or some kind of fantasy-looking sword drawn in a few minimalist lines.

Amara sighed and ran her fingers through her hair.

She knew that if she told her mom, she would think she was crazy and take her to a doctor.

If she told the government about supernaturals they wouldn’t believe her.

It was just her and Sarah.

Amara slid her headphones over her ears. The whoosh of her breath and the beating of her heart were calming to her.

In. Out. Ba-bump. Ba-bump.

“Did you take my lipstick?” Ashwin’s voice came through the thin, white door.

“NO! Why would I want your lipstick? It isn’t green!” “You want… green lipstick?” Amara didn’t really want that. “No reason!” “Well, fine. Let me know if you see it.” Ashwin opened the door, gave a teenage glare, and slammed it.

Ashwin was seventeen and had dressed only in black lace tank tops since her boyfriend broke up with her. She had long, brown hair, unlike Amara’s fluffy blue. Her eyes were an icy color, and her lips were dyed red from lipstick. She watched anime in her room all day, snacking, but always worried about her weight. Ashwin was weird. Amara looked at her reflection for so long without breathing or blinking that her vision grew blurry and her head began to spin. Amara fell backwards, banging her head on the footboard of her bed. The pain in her head from the bump made the room blur out of her eyes with tears, and she slumped to the floor, a green haze floating around her face… Oh, yay, I’m a Celestial again, she thought before blacking out.

Ashwin. “Amara?” Ashwin asked, a thump sounding from her sister’s room. “Did you fall down or something?” She pushed the door open and screamed.

A rainbow, marbled hole stretched through the wall, and Amara was lying on the ground, unconscious, a green aura floating around her. A glowing shape was on her left wrist, and her hair turned from blue to green; her skin took on a mint hue. From the hole came what looked like an anime character, glowing pink, with long rose-colored hair. An aura floated around her body. She yelped and snapped her fingers.

The door slammed shut, an indigo glow circling its white frame. The soft, beige rug below Ashwin’s bare feet felt as soft as a cloud.

The anime girl stepped out of the rainbow hole like she was exiting a pool. She called something in another language, chittering and chirping, waving at someone in the hole who hadn't yet crossed into Amara’s room.

“Carri chi-chen nall Luke! Ahan chi Amara che sa!” She said Amara. And she called for someone named Luke, Ashwin thought.

She banged on the door, trying to open it, but the indigo seal locked it tighter than any lock could.

“Help!” Ashwin shrieked as she banged on the door. No one came.

Two figures emerged from the hole-- one with a deep blue aura, dark blue hair, and eyes like the sea, one, a silver-eyed teen with a long, lilac cloak covering his body and a deep hood covering his face.

The silver-eyed one said something like “Chi ral hek, Thunder?” and the blue-aura’d girl hissed “kals dal-len raeka sarr-suum.”

“Ka-ri, du ka mer chilc teha,” the pink-anime girl said. They all looked pretty anime, though, especially the blue-aura’d girl. “AAAGH! OPEN UP! OPEN UP! COME ON!” Ashwin shouted, uselessly hitting the door.

The blue-aura’d girl spun what looked like specks of light between her fingers until it had the consistency of slime.

She pulled it back like it was a slingshot and let it fly from between her fingers. It launched at Ashwin, who whipped around, not sure what to do, the sticky stuff warping into what looked like a long ribbon of light. It wrapped around Ashwin’s chest and arms, pinning them to her sides. “Hey!” she shouted. Let me go!” They went from warm and kind of stretchy to silk-soft and cool.

Ashwin yelped and tried to run away toward the door, not sure how she’d escape, when the the blue-aura’d girl tugged the cord so hard she fell over, flat on her face.

“Ta ras ki samm,” the blue aura’d girl said. She gave the string a yank, pulling Ashwin backwards across the floor.

“Stop! I have a date tonight and I can’t miss it because some glowing people tied me up and pulled me through their portal!” Ashwin kept yelling. But either Mom couldn’t hear her, or the seal on the door was soundproof, because no help came.

Ashwin lashed out with her legs, but he blue aura’d girl threw another warm, stretchy ribbon of light at her, tying them together as they cooled. She was pulled back towards the hole, the other two figures vanishing into the wall with Amara. “Oh, you do not walk off with MY sister and get away with it!” Ashwin yelled. “Ara ko!” the blue aura’d girl shouted into the hol.e a young male voice replied “Kli tsi ra se-che-cla,” and the girl yanked her strings pulling Ashwin to her knees, her back to her. The girl pulled the strings again, and Ashwin was dragged to the food of the portal-- yes, it was no hole, but a portal leading to another world, probably.

“I’ll-- hm!” Darkness closed Ashwin’s eyes, starting off warm and kind of sticky-stretchy, then becoming cool and silky.

The blue-aura’d girl had thrown her ribbons around Ashwin’s eyes and mouth, pulling her into the portal. Ashwin didn’t struggle any more.

It was pointless.

Amara. Amara groaned, waking up. A green aura clung to her hands when she looked at them. She was back with the Celestials.

She wondered if there were any mirrors in wherever she was-- it wasn’t a tent like before, but a huge royal bedroom, like something a king or queen would sleep in. The walls were marbled with warm colors, pink and red and gold, swirled with blue. Amara was lying in a giant, pure-white bed, a green chandelier above it. The light was really bright though…

The walls dimmed to black streaked with purple and blue, and the chandelier dimmed, making it look like she was in space.

It was like the room knew what she needed. A mirror, Amara thought, closing her eyes.

When she looked up, the wall across from her was reflective. She stepped out of the bed, not held down with starstring this time, and approached it. Her face had taken on a greenish color, as had her hair, but not in a creepy way; she looked like an elf from Dreamfate: War of the Halfbloods, the video game she spent most of her time playing. Her jaw was pointier, but not too pointy, and she blushed the color of grass. Her hair was less messy-and-wild, and more messy-on-purpose, like the character in her favorite show. Her eyes were wider and elfin, and blue, and her aura was green and gold-flecked, like the shiny golden freckles on her cheeks.

Her ears were pointed, like an elf's, and she had an outline like Chihiro and Olive and the others. Her eyes weren’t only wide, but outlined and looked like they’d been drawn by an artist who could bring things to life. Her aura was behind her, and it wasn’t clinging to her eyelashes the way it had the day before. She was dressed in a silken sort of pajama top in a shade of mint, with a white collar and a white skirt. It looked like something you’d wear while playing tennis.

“Amara, we have a… situation,” a small, quavering voice said. Amara turned her head, and saw a small, orange-aura’d girl of some kind, with red hair and… horns?

“Do you know Ashwin? She appeared to have tried to… interfere with your traveling through the portal, and she’s all-human, so…” the girl shook her head. “Nevermind, we’ll show you.” Amara followed her out of the room, the walls shifting to white as she left. They walked through corridors made of some sleek stone that shifted in color as they moved. When they got outside, they walked across a dusty, lilac surface of a different world. The other one was flat with a rainbow, shiny ground, but this one looked more like a weird earth. It was day, so sunlight poured down, making the desertlike ground shine white.

Strange purple pods, like bubbles on the surface of water, studded the surface of the world, scattered 200 feet apart.

“I’m Emilinda,” the horn-girl said, smiling. Her smile faded as she walked across the dusty surface of the world and over to a bubble 200 feet away. Amara followed.

There was another, smaller dome inside the big bubble, only kneehigh and about four feet wide. Oh no, did they make Ashwin tiny? Amara thought. Emilinda tapped the bubble twice, and the violet color faded, revealing a pane of clear glass.

When Amara looked down into it, she gasped. It was way deeper than four feet, and was the top of a large orb-shaped cell, completely round, with Ashwin sitting in the bottom, leaning against the curved wall, tied up with starstring. She looked up, snarling at them silently. There was no sound in the bubble.

“Humans can’t witness a supernatural come out of a portal, or go to any other world with any magic at all, and… we have to make some modifications to them afterward, if they do.” “So you’ll change her memory?” “No, I’m afraid that’s impossible. Instead, we make some... edits,” she sighed. “We let them leave their old lives behind. They become a new person. Their appearance changes, their temperament, their memories…” Ashwin continued to silently screech at them, as if they were weird strangers who hated her even though they never met her.

She doesn’t recognize me, Amara thought.

“The lightbringer will be here soon." “Lightbringer?” “Lightbringer. The one who will help her change.”  “Help? Like, you don’t force her to?” “It’s a traumatic experience. She wants to get rid of it. And lots of people want to start over.” “But--but Ashwin is my sister! She drives me crazy, but loves me!”

“I guess so, but… she might blame you for this.” “I don’t care! I want Ashwin, not some non-sister starting over again!” Amara stormed away, back to the palace on the horizon.

Ashwin. Ashwin stopped trying to escape, and something miraculous happened: the cords vanished! Ashwin jumped, trying to reach the top of the ten-foot-ball she was in. No luck. People with auras or horns had come to stare at her, for some reason, and she wondered if she was in some kind of zoo for otherworldly races.

The top of the ball disappeared, and she stared up at it. What was going on? “Hello, Ashwin,” a calm, silvery voice said.

“How do you know my name?” she asked angrily.

“I was told,” the voice said. A ladder came down, and she cautiously climbed it.

The figure outside may have been a man or may have been a woman, tall and thin and wearing a white hood. They showed no trace of aura, and their white hair fell in fluffy bangs. They did have that outline of all the people who she’d seen here, like they were drawn into this world with a ballpoint pen.

“Who are you?” Ashwin asked. “I am the lightbringer.” “Why are you here?” “To help you change.” “Do I need to change?” “Do you like who you are?” “I…” But the heartaches of life spiraled into Ashwin, and she didn’t want to go back. “...I don’t.” “Then come. You don’t have to change if you change your mind, but you can.” Ashwin followed the strange figure away. Amara. Sitting on the bed in the big room, Amara was messing around with the room, turning it different colors.

“Ashwin can choose for herself whether she wants to change… but she’s gonna want to change, so she’s not going to be my sister anymore… I mean, biologically, she will, but she won’t be the Ashwin I know best.” Amara sighed and opened the door. She’d been given free reign of the palace, however, she wasn’t feeling up to doing anything, not even trying to fly like the other Celestials seemed to be able to do. Amara left the palace and saw something weird: a big, black bubble floating a few feet off the ground, as big as her house, about 300 feet away. She walked towards it, wondering what it possibly could be.

As she got close, a hole opened up in the side and sucked Amara in. Inside, it looked like the character customization room in most video games: not many surfaces, bars with labels on them like “hair” and “colors” and “sword”, and a big glass wall separating the blue, featureless room from the white, circular platform where the character stood. The character was Ashwin. She swiped at something invisible, looked at something Amara couldn’t see, and then tapped the air. Her hair became wavier, and then, as she ran her finger down something else invisible, it went from brown to copper-red.

“I like it,” she said. “How do I get longer bangs?”

“You tap the selection for ‘bangs’ and then choose what you want,” a silvery voice said from somewhere else Amara couldn’t see. This was getting annoying!

“Okay.” Ashwin gaver herself long, copper bangs that fell just above her eyes, then darkened her skin slightly, like she had given herself a tan, and then rounded her face slightly. She gave herself freckles and bright-blue eyes, then changed her lips from red to pink. She hardly looked like the same person. Ashwin made herself a little less stick-thin, so she was taller and curvy, then she changed her black tank into a blue-and-white tunic shirt with puffy sleeves. She changed her black jeggings into a pair of super-short-shorts, then put on pink sneakers. “I like this,” she said.

“Select ‘yes’ and it will stay,” the voice said.

Ashwin did.

The glass lifted away, and she stepped out, meeting a tall, thin person who might be a man and might be a woman, dressed in a white cloak and hood.

“Are you ready?” they asked her.

“Yes.” Ashwin stammered for a second. “But can I keep my name? I like it.” “You can keep whatever you love dearly about yourself.”

“I love my name, it makes me feel strong.” “Do you like feeling strong?” “Yes.” “Then you shall keep it.”

They walked away, down a hallway in the bubble. As they left, their backs to Amara, the lightbringer, if that was who they were, turned their head and stared into Amara’s eyes.

“You may not want to see this, Amara,” they said. Amara shuddered. Then she sat down on the floor and cried electric-green tears.

Ashwin came back out of the bubble; she looked happier, somehow. Like a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

She smiled at Amara. “Hello,” she said in a cheery voice. It sounded like Ashwin, but happier. “Hi, Ashwin,” Amara said.

“Are you the heroine Amara?” Amara saw the blue of her sister’s eyes. It wasn't just brighter than her original coloring...

Her eyes looked like they belonged to an anime character, or a supernatural. She had an outline.

She wasn’t human. Not anymore. She was Ashwin, the supernatural.

Olive entered the room.  “Hi,” Amara said. “I know what it feels like,” Olive breathed.

“What?” “Changing.”    “I changed, too.” Olive said. “I used to be human, but I followed Celeste into a portal-- she used to sneak away into other worlds-- and I kept my younger memories, became a Mage, and… I was darker from my changing. I didn’t like it. So I did horrible things. I became an assassin. But after the war, when peace came to the Celestials… I became Celeste’s bodyguard. I go back to Earth sometimes, to play videogames.” Amara looked at the rough Mage.

She’d been a human before. “Please,” Amara gasped, tears coming to her eyes. “keep Ashwin safe. Tell her about me, even though she doesn’t really know me as anyone other than the heroine. Just… be sure that you keep her safe for me!”

Amara ran from the bubble, wiping away her tears. She crouched by a boulder and sobbed. “I will,” Olive said, standing beside Amara. She sat on the ground as well, and the two looked at the starry sky.

Ashwin.

“Hi, Amara,” Ashwin said, looking at her sister. She’d been human before, but now she was a supernatural. It was confusing. She remembered her favorite animes and foods, and that Amara was her sister. But she had trouble with remembering her ex-boyfriend, her sorrows, and everything else. “Ashwin?” Amara muttered, asleep by that flower-mage-girl that was the princess’s bodyguard. “It’s me! I can’t go back to earth with you, but, for the first time in so long, I feel happy.” Amara.

Amara opened her eyes. When she saw her sister, she smiled. Ashwin looked different, and didn’t seem to remember her old life, but... Ashwin hadn’t smiled in years.

And she was beaming. The two sisters hugged, and Olive watched them approvingly.

“What do I tell Mom?” Amara asked.

“That I’m at a friend’s house. There’s a difference in space-time,s o I can be gone for a while and Mom won’t know!” Ashwin jumped for joy. For so long, Ashwin was grumpy and self-obsessed, an angry older sister. But now, Amara saw that even though she was different, the lightbringer had shown Ashwin happiness.

 Amara hugged her sister, happy gold tears coming to her eyes.


Everly was a sensible young woman, and it was because of that that she was able to accept her imminent death. She sat on a bench at the park near her apartment with a hot cup of tea. The warm mug kept her fingers warm, but her ears were still freezing. She should have worn a hat. It was unfortunate that she wasn’t going to be alive the next morning. Everly would’ve liked to be able to open her Christmas presents. She hoped that her murder wouldn’t ruin Christmas forever for her family and friends. She’d have to include that in her letters to them. “Don’t let my murder ruin your holiday spirit!” But what else could she do? Her assasination would chase her forever, might as well deal with it head on. At least the sunrise was beautiful. Not everything was disappointing today.

The comfortable silence was ruined by a buzzing in her pocket. Everly took her phone out of her jacket pocket, and answered it.

“Hello?” Everly responded, struggling to keep her teeth from chattering.

“Good morning, dear,” It was her mother. “I hope I didn’t wake you up this early in the morning.” “Not at all, I’ve been awake for some time now.” “Oh good. Are you coming to the Christmas party tonight?” “Yes, don’t worry. I’ll be there, Mom.” “Then I’ll see you tonight.” Her mother hung up the phone.

Of course her mother called to nag her about attending the party. Everly couldn’t quite bring herself to be annoyed, though. When you knew that you were about to leave the world forever, you had a sudden appreciation for everything. Like sunrises. Or nagging mothers. Everly’s mother did have a point, though. A couple years before, Everly had been going through a bit of a rebellious stage and didn’t attend the party. Her mother wouldn’t forget it.

Everly left the park reluctantly and headed back to her apartment. Her parents had never understood why she rented such a cheap apartment when she was so rich. She admired the festive wreaths on her neighbors’ doors. If only she had the holiday spirit to do any decorating. A young man knocked on her door as she approached.

“How can I help you?” Everly asked politely.

“Oh!” The man spun around. It was James, the most attractive bachelor of the year. He was wealthy, well-mannered and very sought after. He was also one of Everly’s oldest friends. “There you are!” Everly greeted him with a hug. “Come on in.” James followed her into her apartment. “Looks like you’re quite the grinch, unlike your dear mother.” “I don’t have anything against decorations, I just don’t have time to enjoy them. I’m hardly ever here. Why bother?” James shrugged. “Fair point. Most young, single people don’t have the same holiday experience as they did when they were kids.”

“True. Have you come to visit me with something pressing? Or can you wait a couple minutes?” “I can wait a bit.” James looked a bit nervous, which was odd for him. He was the sort of man that took charge, that was confident.

Everly pointed to the kitchen. “Make me breakfast while I take a shower.” It wasn’t a question, but an order.

James stuttered, but Everly was already heading to the bathroom. Everly heard him sigh, but then started to rummage through the kitchen. Everly smiled to herself. She could always manage to get away with telling James what to do.

Everly had tied up her golden hair in a messy bun, but her hair would need to look a lot better at the party. But maybe if she had messy hair her mother would forget about her “magical green eyes” and scold her instead. Her cousin laughed about her mother’s obsession over Everly’s green eyes, and she tried to ignore it. She had never gotten over the embarrassment.

Everly took a quick shower as to not keep James waiting too long. Everly didn’t wonder that much about why he had come to visit her. She didn’t dwell on things like that. She got dressed and brushed out her hair so it would dry neatly.

“What feast have you prepared for me?” she asked James. Everly sat down on one of her two total chairs. She didn’t get that many visitors.

James, the excellent cook he was, made her ramen. She grinned. This was the sort of meal Everly reserved for emergencies, like late nights or extra-busy mornings.

“Sorry, I’m not much of a cook.” James looked a bit sheepish.

“No worries. Anyways, what was it you wanted to ask me?” Everly started to eat the noodles, expertly using her chopsticks. She went through a phase where she only ate with chopsticks, much to her parents dismay. They weren’t pleased with her when the meal was soup.

“Will you marry me?”

She choked on her noodles, accidentally inhaling some of them. She stood and made her way to grab a glass of water. She chased her food down with a full glass. Normally she would have thought that James was merely fooling around, messing with her, but he had seemed especially nervous. It was the type of situation that if she had been drinking a beverage, she would’ve accidentally spat it all in his face.

“What?” Not the most eloquent response, but it was all she could manage. Her soon-to-be murder lingered in the back of her mind. She couldn’t possibly say yes and then go and get herself killed, now could she? “Oh not like that. See… I hate asking this of you. We’ve run into some financial troubles…” James trailed off, embarrassed. She suddenly understood what he was asking her. They had never gone down a romantic path, so that motivator wouldn’t have made sense. “Never mind, it’s stupid really…”

“Though I am unable to accept your gracious offer, I’ll try to think of something to help you.” Everly would have to secure a contract or two on his behalf or something of the sort. She had plenty of money, and could likely leave behind some money for him as well.

James was still blushing, but was significantly less fidgety. He stood, thanked her and let himself out.

When she was younger she and her cousin always thought that Christmastime was the most romantic time of the year. They had always dreamed of being proposed to nearing or on the holiday, but now that it actually happened, it all felt bittersweet. Everly would see her cousin, May, later at the party. She would be one of Everly’s biggest regrets. They had always been incredibly close, and leaving her behind, victim to a harsh world, didn’t have her excited. May was a bit younger than her, but too innocent for her age. She was the sort of person that expected goodness out of everyone and would be upset when it didn’t work out that way. Everly could only hope that her death wouldn’t break her.

Everly went and blow dried her hair the rest of the way, and curled it. She would have to do something a bit more elaborate for tonight, but for the moment it was good enough. She stuffed a bin of bobby pins into her backpack-purse and went off. Her single jacket wasn’t keeping her all that warm, but it was most certainly stylish. Everly noted the rose petals that were on the ground, and wondered why they were there. Maybe some florist had walked by, dropping petals as they went along. But too many were on the ground. It was like a trail, the very same path that she took every day. She glanced up, and saw a middle-aged man on one knee, hand out, almost as if he was beckoning to her.

“Everly, my love!” The man shouted. “Finally, you have arrived!”

What was going on? Everly had never seen the man before in her life. She stopped, confused.

“Marry me!” The man said quite forcefully. This was the second marriage proposal this morning. Certainly there was a law against such a thing.

“Do I know you?” Everly asked politely, very obviously bewildered.

“No, but I have loved you from afar for a long time…” The man continued on, but Everly stopped listening. The problem with having a strong social media presence was that you ended up attracting creepy stalkers. It was chilling, realizing that this man must have found out where she lived and made note of her daily route. “Please, I beg you, marry me!” “No, thanks.” Everly continued walking, dodging the many rose petals. The man wasn’t deterred. He stepped closer to her, and attempted to grab her hand. Everly never had time for things like this, and most certainly not today. “This is your last warning, sir. Leave me alone.” “Everly!” The man got even closer.

With razor sharp precision, Everly whipped out her pepper spray and sprayed the man. He cried out in pain. “I did warn you,” She said unapologetically.

Everly continued on her path, ignoring the people who had pulled out their phones to record the incident. It would undoubtedly be a big story on the internet in five minutes. She wondered if she’d be painted as the villain or victim. There wasn’t really any true way to tell.

The walk to the tall, looming building where she worked, wasn’t long.

Everly had a brunch meeting with her assistant, Varrick. All the female employees at the office giggled endlessly whenever he was around, but Everly had never seen the appeal. Sure, the man was attractive, but he still wasn’t her type.

“Morning, Miss Winston,” Varrick greeted respectfully. “It’s the coffee you like today.” Thank goodness for that. Everly wasn’t sure what she would do if she would end up dying without good coffee that morning. To face one’s permanent end without it would be truly horrifying. Varrick had already set out all of the papers that she needed to sign today. Everly wondered how her assistant would take her death. She didn’t think he resented having her as a boss, but would he be at all disturbed that she met her end?

“There was something that I wanted to ask you, Everly.” This was new. Her assistant had never addressed her with her first name before. Since she didn’t respond, he continued. “Everly, I’ve loved you for a very long time. I’ve been your assistant for three years now, and I’ve loved every minute of it. I don’t have any family or close friends, but you have always been a bright spot in my life.” This was quite all of a sudden. Everly immediately felt shame, shame because she didn’t know the first thing about Varrick. She had never bothered to get to know him, talk to him about anything that wasn’t work related.

“Will you, Everly Winston, marry a fool like me?” He got down on one knee. Another marriage proposal? This was beginning to become quite a nuisance.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to say no.” It was clear that Everly’s words hurt Varrick more than her pepper spray had hurt the previous proposer. “I am flattered, and I hope you find love. I wish you all the best, Varrick.” With that, she left. Everly had finished putting all her affairs in order at the office, it was just unfortunate that she hadn’t managed to avoid the third marriage proposal that morning. At least her question had been answered. Varrick, her wonderfully reliable assistant, would mourn her death. Everly truly hoped that he would find love and happiness. She’d have to leave behind a letter for him as well. Thanking him, for the brilliant job he did. Everly still had several things to accomplish before attending her mother’s Christmas party.

She checked her phone, only to find a multitude of notifications. What had happened? It was yet another marriage proposal. Everly sifted through it all on the taxi ride to a lunch with her aunt and an important client. Apparently, she had caught a famous star’s attention. Enough attention for him to propose to her over the internet. At first she thought that it was another account, pretending to be him, but that unfortunately wasn’t the case. There was a video of the star making a rather lengthy speech, asking for her hand in marriage. It was as if the entire internet exploded, talking about Everly Winston and the two marriage proposals in one day.

They didn’t even know half of that. Quite literally.

Refusing to give the media any more attention, Everly got out of the car and tipped the driver generously. She didn’t doubt that he knew who she was, but hadn’t said anything about it. Hadn’t asked her view on the multiple proposals. If he had, it was quite possible that she would have throttled him. People who minded their own business earned Everly’s generosity. She wasn’t feeling well, so Everly was especially grateful for his silence. Food at fancy restaurants was constantly disappointing. She could cook much better food at home, and it would cost significantly less. Her company was equally disappointing. Her aunt-- May’s mother-- wasn’t the sort of woman Everly would ever want to sit down and chat with. The client was a tubbly, elderly man that had already said multiple sexist, racist, homophobic things. He came across off as the wealthy, entitled, evil politician type. Everly debated just leaving. Surely she couldn’t expect herself to deal with such a scumbag on her last day that she had to live.

“Winston. Your aunt has so graciously offered to arrange this meeting so I could ask you something.” Everly hated the way the man’s eyes scanned her, objectifying her.

“Yes?” She forced herself to plaster on a smile, but she didn’t succeed at making it look convincing.

The man didn’t seem to notice or care about Everly’s obvious grimace. “I’d like to marry you. It would be mutually beneficial.” This time Everly had been sipping soda. This time she managed to spit it all over him. She probably took too much amusement from the man’s horrified expression. Everly didn’t even bother to reply. A fifth marriage proposal. It was like the universe knew that since Everly was working with limited time. She gave a dirty look to her aunt, and just looked at the man with utter disgust. If she had agreed she’d likely be his third or fourth wife.

Everly left the restaurant, not paying her share for the meal and soda that she had spat all over the slimy man. Five marriage proposals . If she didn’t already know that she was about to lose her life, she’d go take the time to file some restraining orders. If she had more time, maybe she’d take the time to make fun of the star who had proposed to her as a media stunt. Maybe she’d have time to say yes to him, to revel in the whole drama of it. But time wasn’t a luxury she had anymore. Whether she liked it or not, she was dying.

✹✹✹ The party was boring. Per usual. It didn’t help that Everly could feel her body deteriorating. She felt better, though, when she caught sight of Jemma.

Jemma. She was the sort of woman that intimidated everyone, the sort of woman that felt like danger. And Everly loved her.

“Jemma!” Everly was thankful that she hadn’t worn tall heels. She caught up to Jemma. “Will you come out to the gardens with me? There is something I want to ask you.” They walked to the gardens, perhaps a bit slower than Everly would’ve liked. “The poison in my system, is really taking effect now is it?” Everly said conversationally.

Jemma froze.

“Ah, don’t worry. I don’t blame you. Honestly, it’s easier to come to terms with having your killer be someone that you love and understand.” Everly had known for a long time. Had accepted the poison-spiked drink Jemma had given her the day before.

Jemma looked sick. “They were going to kill my baby sisters…” She trailed off, not looking like her usual, fearless self. Everly already knew that Jemma had been forced into an impossible position. Her family would suffer if she failed to end Everly’s life.

“I know.” Everly looked content. “I tried to figure out a way to save them, you know.” Jemma looked like she was going to cry. “Everly,” She choked out.

Everly sat down on a stone bench, unable to keep on standing. Her legs were shaking now, incapable to sustain her weight. “This must be very hard for you, isn’t it?” Jemma stood, and started to turn away. Everly grabbed her hand, and pulled her close. “You love me, and were forced to kill me. The least you could do is stay.” Her voice sounded like rocks scraping together, nothing like the calm demeanor she’d managed all day. “I don’t want to die.” Tears were already falling down Jemma’s face. “I’m sorry,” Her voice was shaky. “Please, Jemma, marry me.” Everly finally made a marriage proposal of her own. “Don’t say yes unless you’d actually marry me. If I wasn’t about to die.” Jemma said yes. Everly pulled out rings, and struggled to put one on Jemma’s finger. Her hands were shaking now.

The women kissed, both of their faces wet with tears.

✹✹✹ Everly’s funeral was grand. It was very clear that she was aware that she was going to soon meet her end. She had prepared for her own death very well. Many people attended and mourned the magnificent woman. She had been proposed to five times on the day of her death, but as far as anyone could tell, she had declined all of them. But that didn’t explain the ring on Everly’s finger, declaring her engagement to someone.

No one saw the gaunt woman lurking in the shadows, neither did they see the matching ring on her finger.


Long before the dinosaurs roamed the earth, there was but the earth herself. And there were the gods and goddesses that used the universe as their playground. They would play with the little planets and shape them to their will. They fought with each other over them as though they were just toys at a preschool. The ones that fought the most with each other were the ones of opposites. Fire would fight with water, darkness with light, good with bad and so on for all the many gods and goddesses that we can not even comprehend. Fire had recently won a battle against water for a planet that now remains forever red. In his sulking he fled to the next one closer to the sun. It was only mud and rock, but once he stepped upon the surface he felt a pulse. There was a goddess within all the mud and rock. Water started his work to carve her out. First he called the moisture from the sky but it would not stay. He needed help and there was only one that he could trust. He sent word for the silver warrior that could help him control the atmosphere and she came to him in no time at all. She did as he bid and held the water from the sky. He used the water to cut away the stone and soon his goddess began to take shape. At first it was just her head. Her hair was rivers of mud that flowed endlessly down. Her eyes a brilliant warm topaz that could melt even the coldest heart. Her jaw was hard and her neck swooped like the sides of a mountain. Her skin was ruset like rich clay. The hills of her breast were perfectly round but water didn’t get much further in freeing her when fire started to rain down from the sky. The earth goddess screamed as she felt every impact. The silver warrior could deflect a few with her mighty sword but she was no match for fire. Water was his only match and so he would leave earth to go fight him. He left the silver warrior to do what she could and she did try until silver dripped off of her skin and was soaked into the land. The earth cheered her on and the more time that passed with it just being the two of them on the planet, the closer they grew until the silver warrior fell in love with the earth and she in return. Water was not able to hold fire off forever. Fire wanted to consume the planet like he had so many others, leaving nothing behind. Water was fighting more than he ever had because he too was in love with the earth. They tangled as they fell back towards the surface and splashed into the water that had accumulated there. They fell to the center of the world. This hurt the earth, to have such great powers fighting within her, so she separated them with stone. The stone closest to fire turned to magma and the stone closest to water turned solid. Fire was so mad that he started spinning circles trying to throw water from the planet. Water was so distracted by fire that he didn’t realize that the tidal wave that their impact had created was heading for the earth goddess herself. If it hit her she would surely drown and be lost, forever worn away. The silver warrior had also been thrown from the planet during the impact on a large piece of rock. She watched from so far away helpless to help her love. She howled with such might that the wave ebbed back before it could destroy the earth goddess. When she stopped it crept forward again. It was clear to her that she would be forever stuck away from her love to keep her alive. Controlling the ebb and flow of the water while water himself was distracted by the swirling fury of fire at the center of the world. She looked down at the earth goddess with longing and sorrow. Down on the surface the earth goddess looked up knowing that her love and protector was up there. She had no voice to howl back to the silver warrior. All she had left was the sweat the silver warrior had left behind. She pushed it from the ground and asked life to give it shape. It turned into all different kinds of creatures but the earth goddess’s favorite was the ones that looked up to the moon and howled for her. She could hear them call to her silver warrior every night with their howling song of love and loss. They said for her what she could not and the silver warrior brightened. She would stay forever there to protect her love.


Sweat gleamed on the back of the dirty hand as it ripped down another bright yellow sign with black lettering. **No Trespassing.** A jagged row of them vanished into forested obscurity. That wise-ass Beeler woman thought little sheets of paper would spook a real man? If so, she wasn’t as smart as she pretended to be. Overkill like this reinforced what Randy Stall had already figured from their first encounter; she was scared and alone in the trailer. Even sober he wasn’t much for counting, but add all these to the ones he’d seen back at the service road and it was a ton of damn signs.... a ton of useless damn signs. Stall’s black t-shirt was damp in the early summer heat and clung to his lean frame. White threads dangled where he’d scissored the jeans into jorts. Sunglasses and a low-brimmed cap concealed dark intentions. The knife at his belt was sheathed, for now. A whirring sound drew his attention. At the next tree, a thick black wasp with pale yellow stripes flew slowly back and forth, interested in something he couldn’t see. It was as long as his middle finger. Almost hornet-sized. His lips stretched over gaps of missing teeth as he grinned and crumpled the paper into a ball. He drew back like the high school pitcher he’d once been, then threw heat. The paper ball knocked the wasp from sight, and it let out an angry buzz. Stall laughed. “Take that, bitch!” The wasp reappeared. It circled him twice, wings scolding loudly, threatening. Then it almost seemed to glance away as a ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-CH! rose from the next tree. The cicada mantra was instantly familiar and far louder than any cricket chirp. The wasp zipped over, landed on the trunk and raced like a tiny assault vehicle toward a groove between bark nuggets. The chitter was replaced by scraping and buzzing as the two large flyers battled. The wasp hooked its leg claws into the larger insect and hauled it from the groove, turned it so they were belly-to-belly, then arched its body to sink the curved stinger into its prey. The cicada fell silent and went rigid. Clutching it tightly, the wasp flew with it through the remaining woods to a brighter area ... the front yard of Stall’s prey. Though motionless, he knew the cicada wasn’t dead. Female Cicada Killers were bigger and stronger than the non-venomous males. The females had the stingers and toxin—but not for killing outright. Shitty way to die, Stall thought, through a chuckle. He made his way through the last of the woods. He was maybe a dozen feet from her porch when the front door swung wide. A gloved hand moved the goggles to her forehead and pulled the face mask down. Her temples glistened in the sunlight. The white lab coat gleamed. She wiped the perspiration from her mocha-toned face with a cloth, then leaned forward on the rail. “Lose your truck somewhere, Mister Substitute Delivery Man?” she said, peering down at him. Her narrow brows arched over the glasses. “Your pupils were dilated then, too, never mind the sunshine. Here’s your chance to live. Go away now and get off the drugs.” “Uh, what?” “Go now and live.” Stall laughed and shook his head. “But I got a special delivery!” “Yeah, you delivered yourself just fine.” She made a crooning sound. “Hell you say?” Shannon Beeler smiled as a deep and angry buzzing sounded from just inside the woods. “No flyin’ camera is gonna save your ass!” As the first stair squeaked under Cobb’s boot, a shadow loomed in the corner of his eye. The sound that came with it rattled his eardrums and drummed in his chest. He started to look over his shoulder when thin hairy legs ensnared him. Pain flashed. The beast spun him. Stall gazed into the compound eyes of a monster. Independently moving antenna as long as his arms protruded from her head. Above the black exoskeleton blurred red-orange wings that doused him in a death wind. Chomping and clacking mandibles completed a tapered head larger than his own. Leg hooks tore into Stall and held him in a face-to-face grip. The curved stinger thrust between his legs and pierced a disk between his lumbar vertebra. Liquid fire paralyzed him. The beast pinned him to her thorax and flew him to her underground nest, where she laid an egg inside his thigh. The next day the larvae hatched and began to consume its paralyzed food. For over a week Stall remained alive, mouth agape with a silent scream.  \* \* \*  A delivery truck turned off State Road 334 and onto the white sandy pathways of Shannon Beeler’s driveway. Grass grew high enough between the trails to brush the truck axles. Crepe myrtles passed on either side of the opened cab, and tiny white blossoms like snow flurries drifted onto the broad windshield and inside the vehicle. Dark shapes mixed with the white as Wes Cobb navigated the driveway’s familiar curves. Shannon Beeler appeared on the front porch almost as soon as the truck halted. She touched up her hair, pushed the glasses to her head, parted the lab coat and smoothed her t-shirt and shorts. Cicada Killers buzzed back and forth around her. She almost seemed to glide down the porch steps. She halted at the driver’s side and put a hand on her hip. “Now where you been hidin’, Wesley Cobb?” He grinned. “Seen Shannon Beeler around?” “You hittin’ the ghange? I’m right here.” “Well, you look a little like her, but the Beeler I knew was a bit, uh, shall we say ...” Beeler cocked her head and smiled. “Mmm?” “... fuller!” Cobb leaned on the steering wheel and laughed, stomping the floorboards for emphasis. She laughed, pulled back the lab coat and looked down. The t-shirt hung loosely below her bosom and the shorts didn’t pinch her skin at the waist. “Been busy. Too distracted and too tired to make big meals.” “Shouldn’t go an’ starve, now,” Cobb warned. “And damn, girl, it’s summer break! Only got a couple weeks until Session Eight. Take a breath already!” The wasps accompanied them as they walked. A majority of them floated around her alone, he saw. She slowly waved her arms and the insects eased back a bit. “What the hell,” Cobb said. “You the wasp whisperer?” “They like my little ranch here,” she said. He handed her a few boxes and held the computer pad out for her to sign. He turned at a sudden deep buzzing sound, scanned the woods for the source, and when he looked back Shannon was shaking her head at something, then quickly recovered. Wasp wings made the only sound for a moment. “Come take a peek at what I got out back.” She walked to the side of the trailer. Cobb paused at the front of the truck and swiped at a couple wasps that easily dodged. “Nah, I’m late already, girl. But what’s up with all the Cicada Killers?” “Come on back and I’ll tell you. Those other deliveries can wait ten minutes, can’t they? It’s just a peek at my hobby when I’m not exterminating bugs or in the classroom.” “Okay, Beeler. Let’s see what you got cookin’. Hopefully it ain’t meth!” She smiled as he fell in step behind her. Again he swung his arm slowly back and forth at the wasps. “Never seen ‘em this thick! They’re supposed to be solitary. What are ya,doin’, breeding the damn things?” She laughed over her shoulder. She seemed lighter somehow. And not just physically, though she almost seemed to glide before him. They turned the corner of her trailer and the back yard opened wide. It was a grassy peninsula surrounded on three sides by woods of pine, sweet gum and live oak. At the center of the yard was a large wooden shed with double doors wide open, ceiling fans turning at moderate speed and overhead lights showering white light down upon several picnic tables. Under other circumstances, this might serve as the outdoor kitchen and eating area. Now the tables were laden with beakers, petri dishes, bubbling graduated cylinders, flames heating Erlenmeyer flasks with rubber stoppers and clear hoses snaking from them to a network of other containers. Cobb whistled. “Wow, Beeler. Quite a set up. And you’re not cookin’ meth ...?” “Science is the drug, Wes.” Beeler smiled, set her boxes down on the closest bench seat. Straightening, she held her arms out to the side. A dozen Cicada wasps landed and milled about on her lab coat. The dark forms scurried in separate directions, black chaos on a white canvas. They did not venture inside the coat, or on her neck or head. “Watch it, there’s females!” Cobb stepped close with his hand raised, ready to swat. “No, no! They’re just saying hello to Momma.” The finger-sized wasps continued to mill about on Beeler’s body. They paused, rose a few inches with a collective buzz of red-orange wings, landed again on her arms and shoulders, face and legs. Cobb blanched. “Some people are fine with a dog or cat.” She gently shook them off. Some vanished, some remained to dart back and forth. From the surrounding woods came several deep droning sounds, just shy of chain saw level. Shannon sang something Cobb couldn’t discern. A dark shape broke from the woods out of the corner of his eye. The volume quickly grew. Whatever it was, it was coming fast. Cobb lunged for a rake propped against one of the doors. “What the hell!” “Step inside the shed a little, Wes,” she said, calmly. The shadow appeared on the lawn first. Then a creature straight out of insanity dropped down and hovered, large as a German Shepherd. Its wickedly angular head was covered in translucent hair. Long antenna moved back and forth above huge eyes and jaws. Red-orange wings were swept back from the body and blurring. The wind from them stirred the dust from a bare spot, and dislodged dandelion seeds that drifted surreally away in a thin white stream as if fleeing the abomination. A moment more and it landed. Suddenly the droning was gone. It stood on its six thin legs before Beeler and Cobb, twitching and clacking its mandibles like wooden knockers. Then its head moved, seemingly to focus its faceted eyes from Beeler to Cobb. It took a quick step forward. Cobb stiffened and jabbed the end of the rake out. Inadequate, but better than nothing. “No, no, no,” Shannon Beeler cooed to the beast. She held her arm out and the monster wasp’s antenna reached for her hand. It’s entire body quivered, as if in ecstasy at the contact. Its mandibles knocked softly. “Can’t be real!” Cobb said, through a constricted throat. “Don’t worry—she still only eats tree sap and nectar from flowers.” “Nothing gets this big on sap and nectar!” “Well, mainly,” Beeler amended. “See the ingredient ratio on the sprayer?” She gestured with her free hand toward an egg-shaped pressure sprayer with a black wand protruding through the handle gap. Black bold lettering stood starkly out on white paper, secured by clear packing tape. 80% H2O 15% PTTH 5% Boric Acid Shannon Beeler caressed the wasp’s forehead as if she were stroking a dog. She looked at Cobb. “A little bit of the acid helps dissolve the PTTH into their exoskeletons. Too much and they hate it, but just enough and it penetrates to trigger the hormone for molting. They get slow and docile for a while, then molt from their old shells into their new bigger ones. Do you want to pet her?” “Hell no, I don’t!” She watched him carefully for a moment, evaluating. She turned to the beast, as its thick exoskeleton gleamed in the sun while fine hairs were caught in translucent display. She clapped her hands and the wings sprang to life, along with the deep droning. The creature rose a few feet in front of Shannon, then drifted toward Cobb. “Shannonnn ...?” The droning increased to buzz-saw decibel. The thorax curled forward, and for the first time Cobb’s gaze found the wickedly curved stinger. Beeler leaped between them, waving her arms. “NO!” The beast hovered as if uncertain. The antennae worked back and forth while the mandibles clacked a menacing tune. Finally it righted itself and vanished, droning receding behind it. Cobb’s pulse pounded in his throat. Given the strength to size ratio of insects, the thing had to be three four times as strong as it appeared. The wind blasts had been substantial. For a long moment he could only grip the rake and stare at Beeler. Finally he found his voice. “God! That was real? Not a drone? It was a real goddamn wasp?” “Oh, they’re real, all right.” She laughed, but then it died down as she saw the fear on his face. “It’s okay, Wes. I’ve got ‘em handled. Somehow my voice and scent become imprinted on them along with the formula ... maybe because I talk and sing a lot back here by myself. Maybe next time when you visit I’ll be in one of them snooty mansions where I used to spray for bugs.” Cobb wanted to shout in alarm but could only stare. He looked at the space her aberration had occupied, then back to its creator. Finally he swallowed and formed words. “I don’t get how ...” was all he managed. “How trailer trash altered the growth patterns of Cicada Killers?” she said, a little breathlessly. “I’d like to say pure brilliance, but it was a lot of reading entomology journals, hunch and experimentation, mainly with Prothoracicotropic hormone (PTTH) as an internal hormone trigger and boric acid as a delivery mechanism to get the PTTH to soften and seep through the exoskeletons. They’ll drink a little from nectarized sweet water that draws them in initially, but misting with just enough acid to seep into the delicate wings is effective. At first I was so happy when the first ones grew as long as two middle fingers—ha, how precise is that?” Cobb strained to hear the buzz of those obscene wings. Shannon Beeler spoke a bit longer, but later he couldn’t recall what she said, exactly. He watched her dark eyes and moving lips and then his gaze fell upon the lab table, where his hand could wrap around the neck of an Erlenmeyer flask. Its thick base could serve as a useful blunt object. His mind went into a loop, urging him to take her out right here and now with one massive blow to the temple and then run like hell for the truck before any more of the beasts appeared. But she hadn’t threatened him, and he wasn’t a murderer. He strode from the shed. “Wes, wait ...” Back in the truck, he slammed the cab doors shut and started it. He opened the driver’s side a little. “You need to stop with wasp shit, Shannon. It ain’t natural.” “Is it natural to use growth hormones on cows, turkeys and chicken?” “Barnyard animals don’t want to kill me. That wasp did. Stop this shit now, before it goes too far!” In the side view mirrors she watched him leave. He gripped the wheel hard to try and stave off the shudders. \* \* \*  Detectives showed up with questions about Stall's disappearance. Cicada Killer wasps ended the interview, though not in a manner the cops had anticipated. “Here this, people,” Beeler said, into one of their police radios. “You’re not welcome in the land of Sphecius speciosus. Queen Bee, out!” She hurled the radio over the shed. She sang even louder now. The insects flooded in and danced through the air. They emerged from burrowed nests, the surrounding woods, and beneath Beeler’s trailer. The decibel level doubled and tripled as they closed in from the surroundings, including scores of the large ones. Beeler skipped and twirled while spraying them with her formula. She got the keys to the exterminator truck and pulled it around back. She would have liked to keep the reservoir containers but they had bug poison in them and even after draining it would contaminate her recipe. She kicked them off the back of the truck, replaced them with many nests, jugs of formula, sprayers and lab equipment. She didn’t bother packing personal items or food. The mansion overlooking the Fear River had everything—including an underground bunker. The first sirens started beyond the woods. “Time to move to Beverly, children,” she said, laughing. The dark cloud followed her three miles to the gated community. The owner and workers of the mansion became nest nutrition. As did the neighbors. Soon the entire gated community was emptied of residents. Passing motorists had their doors torn off and occupants plucked away. Often the car was still moving when the driver was ripped out, leaving the vehicle to crash. Those of the township who could flee did so. If they didn’t leave fast enough, the wasps took them. Soon only one human could walk freely in the land of mansions on the Fear River. Shannon Beeler. The police made raid after raid. Most of the time Beeler waited in the underground bunker theater for the gunfire to stop. One cop even had a chance to speak through a bullhorn before he too, was taken. Eventually they had enough firepower to bring down a few of the dog-sized wasps, but then bear-sized ones took their place and tore apart every group sent against them. Mandibles cut limbs and heads from bodies. Remains that were not consumed were dropped into the broad feeder creek, where they made an island of human flotsam. Bull sharks, alligators and vultures feasted. Until they, too, were plucked up. Police snipers were snatched from the landscape, as were entire squadrons. The Coast Guard cutter stationed in Wilmington was summoned. Shannon’s swarm rose from the forests and hillsides as a vengeful storm and intercepted the ship as it sliced the river. Booming rounds went out from the 25 mm chain gun at the bow. They ripped into the cliff face and blew holes into the sides of the mansion. Glass had no chance of remaining intact. Coasties on deck tore into the swarm with automatic rifle fire. The insects closed on them in a thousand directions at once. The vessel, unmanned, ultimately rammed the sands of a nameless river beach. Next to try were special forces. Some made it back alive, none unscathed. The more they sent, the more powerful the swarm became. Politicians kept the larger military at bay. They cited the ancient Roman axiom that you don’t let an army operate en mass inside your borders, unless it’s a civil war. Were it permitted to do so, the Air Force could drop a bunker buster, but there were networking tunnels now and many houses in which to evade death. The wasp swarm could darken the skies like the Persian arrows at the Battle of Thermopylae. The large ones had large offspring. Beeler did not necessarily have to create more, but she did anyway. Small aircraft no longer flew low. Military drones fared no better. Shannon Beeler made the FBI’s Most Wanted List. They cut her power but the bunker had its own power supply, and there were generators everywhere in this neighborhood. Civilian activity thinned. The Fear River area became a kill zone. The wasps spread farther and farther out, owning the day and remaining alert but largely hidden at night. Those that succumbed to bullets and grenades were soon replaced. Signposts went up along area roads. They featured a black outline of a wasp against neon yellow, over which was painted in jagged red letters: Welcome to Shannonsland \* \* \*  An army colonel and police captain stood before Wes Cobb on a narrow river beach. The three were surrounded by a squadron of cops and soldiers with rifles ready. A few guarded the rear and flanks, but most faced across the Fear River. Small waves lapped the sand and sides of Cobb’s kayak. A warm breeze diced the surface water, creating a glittering path toward the beach and pock-marked cliff at the opposite shore. Cobb grabbed his backpack tank and electric sprayer from where they had deposited them on the sand. He hefted them into the middle of the kayak as the two commanders spoke of tides, current and wind. Cobb kneeled and adjusted the fit of the prosthetic leg. “The current’s still headed toward Beeler’s beach, but it won’t be if you keep my ass here much longer.” “Our raids were done from fast-moving boats,” the colonel said, breaking off his conversation to fix Cobb with weary stare. “You putz over in that toothpick and the bugs’ll fly out and snatch you from the middle. Too easy.” “Have you seen ‘em fly at night?” Cobb replied. “... because I haven’t.” The police captain’s face contorted in the moonlight. “Tell that to the cops and soldiers we lost on half a dozen night raids!” “Were the boats in the water when the bugs struck, or on shore?” Silence told Cobb he was right. “Five weeks ago they crawled into my neighborhood after dark. Busted through doors and windows like wrapping paper. One clamped onto my leg and slammed me against the wall while another ... took my wife away. I didn’t even get a goddamn shot in.” “Sorry,” the top cop said, her expression softening a bit. “You did what you could do.”“No,” Cobb said. “But I am now.” “A properly motivated fighter can rain hell on the enemy,” the colonel said. “But that acid in your tank is an inferior weapon. No range, son. Even if you did manage to drop one, it’d just fall and pin your ass down.” Cobb shook his head. “They hate this concentrated shit, and the melted bugs piled up around my house prove it. They come flying in by day, and crawling by night. Looks like she hasn’t bred them into night flyers.” The sloshing stopped as he stood before the soldier holding his paddle. “... yet.” The colonel grunted. “I could still arrest you,” the cop said. “For kayaking at night?” Cobb said. “Why do it? We’ll get Beeler eventually. Yeah, the bugs are fast and strong. In the end, though, we’ll win.” “Hasn’t happened so far. None of this shit scares her. She figures she’s due and it’s all Shannon’s land now.” The boric acid sloshed in the tank as he pushed the kayak onto the dark waters and slid in. The others fell silently away as Cobb paddled across the broad creek. He paused beneath the overhead canopy of stars, took out a cigarette pack and tapped it against the heel of his hand. Two cancer sticks flew into the river, but he pulled a third out with his lips. He exchanged the pack for a lighter. Tremors made the flame dance. Finally he lit the cancer stick. New, short-lived habit. Didn't matter much without Brenda. He took several deep pulls then started again, keeping his gaze on the strip of pale beach where corpses of both human and insect had washed up. With the red-tipped cigarette bobbing from the corner of his mouth, Cobb kept the kayak’s prow centered on the steep but not vertical cliffs, well aware that each stroke brought death that much closer. You have to know where the killers are, and where they are likely to be. Draw them to you and you know where they are. Buzzing started here and there from the nest holes in the cliff sides, beyond the cris-crossed trunks of Loblolly pines fractured by bombs and .50 caliber bullets. A distant voice sounded, female, crooning something unintelligible but mellifluous. “Shut up, Shannon,” Cobb said. He took a final drag and flicked the cigarette. The white stem and red glowing tip tumbled and then struck the shallows with a hiss. He put clear safety glasses on. Acid mist plays hell on naked eyeballs. As the prow of the kayak slid softly into the sand, he stepped out, spray rifle ready. Tensed for battle and receiving none, he doused the gaps between the fallen trees for good measure. He pushed the kayak out and watched it drift away a moment. Then he started toward the cliff trail that wound up the cliff. Sounds from above responded to his steps. He negotiated the fallen trees, the wasp carcasses, human remains and fractured rock before arriving at the start of the trail. Moonlight gleamed off the face. In the many holes in the cliff, protruding antennae slowly moved back and forth. Mandibles knocked and clicked, along with bursts of deep buzzing and the scraping of leg hooks against stone. A broken trail of stone steps zig-zagged upward. He sprayed every thirty feet before him and shot into the nearest holes, forcing the antennae to vanish deeper inside. He climbed up, higher and higher, boric acid sloshing in the tank on his back. He went down a few times, but not beneath hooked legs and snapping jaws, just trips. He wasn’t all that used to the prosthetic. Gasping, he finally cleared the trail and stood in the ruins of a huge flagstone patio; toppled stone walls, splintered columns of what had probably been a pergola, and what was either the remnants of a large fire pit, or the calling card of a mortar or grenade. He glimpsed the bugs in the shadows of the trees and the ruins of the house, some half exposed in the moonlight. His streams of boric acid gave rise to a mist that lingered before slowly dissipating. He’d done this enough to know that given the numbers of bugs concentrated here, something else persuaded them to stay beyond reach. “Wesley Cobb.” She stepped from behind a broken column. The black sleeveless mini-dress clung to her reduced form and the high heels gleamed in the moonlight. Like himself, gone were ten or fifteen pounds of extra weight. Large dark eyes dominated her lean face. The perpetual dark rimmed glasses were gone. One arm was across her midsection, with the elbow of the other propped upon it, pistol aimed at night sky. “Murder agrees with you,” Cobb said. “Wes, don’t ... I … thought you might like this.” He responded with a bitter laugh. “My swarm doesn’t like your formula!” she said. “I don’t like it either.” “To hell with you and your swarm,” Cobb snarled. He squeezed a couple bursts at her and the dark forms that inched closer from the perimeter. Beeler ducked behind the column and the bugs scurried back. “Stop, Wes!” she cried. “Please, I don’t want to shoot you!” Her arm and partial profile appeared with a flash and bang. The bullet tore into the stone tile at his feet, sending shards into his good leg and sparks off the steel rod of his prosthetic. He groaned but did not go down. She reappeared, smoking barrel raised to the stars once again. “I didn’t want them to go after you or Brenda! I – I didn’t have to come out for this. There’s enough moonlight for normal binoculars. I see them across the river, and that it was you in the kayak. I had my swarm hold back so you could get here.” Cobb lowered the rifle tip and took a couple steps closer. She lowered the pistol, hammer clicking forward beneath her thumb. “Was it worth it?” he said. “Most of it, yes. But not this. Not with you.” “Ain’t your world to burn, Shannon Beeler.” “It’s take or get taken!” “Which nest is Brenda’s body in?” Her eyes welled with tears. “Wes, it’s been ... too long.” “Yeah, thanks for that.” He raised the rifle and squeezed the trigger. “Wes, no ..!” Her bullets tore through his acid stream. She screamed and her rounds dropped him. The bugs closed in, mandibles slicing into his body and taking his hands. Within the torrent of agony and fading consciousness, Cobb glimpsed a sudden light in the darkness. It grew exponentially brighter in seconds. The rush drowned out the screams and the bugs tearing him apart. Then the world exploded. Back on the far shore, the colonel and police captain watched through binoculars. “Shannon Beeler is no longer a queen bee,” said the colonel. “We took our guy out too,” said the top cop. “Cobb was a dead man when he left in that kayak,” the colonel said. “You saw the bugs swarm after Beeler’s rounds hit him. We did him a favor.” A radioman stepped forward. “Sir! Command wants to know about a second drone strike.” “Why the hell not?” said the colonel. “Cobb was right. The bugs don’t fly at night. Let’s pound her headquarters and all those damn nests to the molecular level.” As he uttered the words, loud buzzing started across the waters. It built exponentially as more and more joined from other directions. Dark shapes streamed forth from the cliff sides, woods, and forsaken mansions and took to the night sky. Moonlight glowed dully upon the hard exoskeletons of thousands of monster Cicada Killers, and lit a cloud of semi-translucent wings. As Death's shadow they raced across the waters toward them. Shouts rang out, along with the click and clatter of readying weapons and bursts of gunfire. “Retreat!” the colonel cried, firing his .45 into the swarm. A black shape swooped. His gun splashed into the river and he was laid out on the sand with a bleeding scalp. He started to get back up when a wasp the size of a bear clamped onto him. The police captain drew her sidearm and fired into the beast’s eyes, then kicked it away. She stood over the fallen colonel. Flashes from her rounds lit the area. “Looks like with proper motivation they can fly at night!” the top cop snarled, an instant before a passing hooked claw severed her arm. The gunfire faded. Screams punctuated the bass drone of powerful wings. The others were dead or dying or becoming paralyzed provisions. Blood spurts from the police captain splattered the water. With her remaining hand she pulled a .357 revolver from her ankle holster. She fired three shots into the eyes of the closest beasts. Another ended colonel’s scream as a stinger sank into his back. The final round tore through her temple.